a/n: On HPFF I bombarded people with Author's notes, but as I'm posting this all at once, this will be the only. I can't think of anything to say really, other than I hope you enjoy the story & please review

Oh, and some of the chapters are very very short, just to warn you, as each chapter is one day and some are less eventful than others.

-0-0-

Disclaimer: I own nothing but what comes from mine own brain cells

-0-0-

Day 1- The Reaping

Life isn't easy in district 8. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't spent most of my life complaining about something, or at least wishing for something more. But right now I'd give anything to go back there, despite the fact that I'm lying in a luxuriously comfortable bed. For the first time in my life I've got hot running water and more food than I can eat within reach. But I just want to be back in the smoggy, freezing district 8, working long shifts in the factory. Why? Because, I, Rory Jordan, have been chosen to participate in the 49th annual Hunger Games. Good food and a comfy bed somehow seem a bit hollow when you've just said goodbye to your family, almost certainly for good.

As I hear Iulia's high pitched voice trying to start up a conversation, noting there doesn't appear to be any reply from Tamla or Woof, my mind drifts back to the events of earlier, reliving them for what is not the first time, and I'm sure won't be the last.

Earlier that day...

The clock in the square edges past four-twenty as Mayor Kendrick prattles on with the usual speech about why the Hunger Games happen, to remind the districts that they are at the mercy of the Capitol. Eventually he finishes and introduces old Woof, as he does every year, and then the district's escort, a Capitol woman called Iulia Chintz. Woof Craffen was district 8's only ever winner, having won years and years ago. He is now in his 60's and has been mentoring district 8 tributes for over 40 years. I suddenly feel queasy as I realise that means he's got to know a good 80 or 90 kids, only for every single one to die on him, and when I say die, I normally mean killed. Suddenly I'm jerked back to reality by Iulia's grating squeaky voice.

"Happy Hunger Games," she squeaks, "and may the odds be ever in your favour. Ladies first!"

I tense rigid as her hand swirls around inside the huge glass ball stuffed with paper name slips. My sister, Kay, out of my sight despite me craning my neck, is about as safe as she could be, but she's thirteen. And there's not a single kid between twelve and eighteen living in district eight right now who isn't at some risk.

I feel horribly guilty as the name Tamla Pretton is read out and my first feeling is relief. I don't recognise the slim, if not skinny girl, of at least average height, as she eventually, shakily, steps forward from the group of 17-year olds and heads up to the podium. She fiddles restlessly with her long dark brown hair as she stands to Iulia's side, not knowing where to look.

"And the boy tribute is…" says Iulia, pausing as she swirls her hand around the selection of papers. I have just enough time for two thoughts to cross my mind as she does so. First is the realisation, re-realisation really, that, at eighteen, if I can just survive this time then I will never be in the reaping again. However, this is immediately followed by the thought that, unlike Kay, I am far from safe. There may be thousands of slips in that sphere, but thirty-five of them are covered in my name.

"Rory Jordan!" Iulia calls out. For a split second I feel anger at her sounding so excited at announcing someone's doom, before it suddenly hits me that she's just called out my name, and everything else is pushed out by utter, mind-numbing fear.

She calls my name again, and it takes a gentle touch on the shoulder, I don't see who from, to jolt me into consciousness, and set me off on the horrific walk up to the stage.

"Do we have any volunteers?" asks Iulia, perfunctorily, once I have reached her side. Not likely, I scoff in my mind, district 8 hasn't had a volunteer in years. "In that case," she continues quickly, "may I introduce our brave tributes- Tamla Pretton and Rory Jordan!"

There is the briefest and most half-hearted of applauses before silence falls again. I hear a sniff from my left and a quick glance reveals that Tamla is struggling to hold back tears. I can hardly blame her, though I do find myself worrying that it won't be doing her any favours if she comes across as a weakling.

The Mayor then reads out the Treaty of Treason, before Tamla and I shake hands with each other and Woof, before the national anthem plays. As I stand rigidly throughout the tune I catch a glimpse of Kay in the crowd, her face pale and tear-streaked, and my own eyes start to burn, but I blink the tears back. I'm not giving up yet. I need to appear strong, so I can get sponsors, allies maybe.

Eventually we are lead away to individual rooms in the justice building and told that we will have an hour to receive visitors, say our goodbyes. As I wait for my family to arrive I realise that all my sympathy and concern for Tamla is misplaced. If I want to get home, and I do, then she has to die. I certainly don't intend on doing it myself, but I can't allow myself to become attached to her. Could I have a chance? I start to seriously doubt it. I can fight a lot better than most of the boys my age in this district or the other more remote districts. My father taught me to fight with a staff, from the age of about ten, whether in preparation for a potential reaping or just so I could defend myself I don't know, and I'm quite big, about a hundred and eighty pounds and over six feet. But I haven't got the survival skills that the kids from district 12, 11, 10, 9 and 7 might well have, living in more rural districts. And that's not even mentioning the careers. I can only remember watching one hunger games in my lifetime that wasn't won by a career, when a kid called Chaff, from district 11 won four years ago. The kids from districts 1, 2 and 4 are all likely to be volunteers, and heavily trained in combat.

I'm interrupted from my thoughts by my family arriving. Kay hurls her arms around my waist and sobs into my chest as my parents both wrap their arms around me too, and I find my own tears finally bursting free. It is a good few minutes before any of us are able to speak. As I wipe my eyes dry I managed to extricate myself from the arms, and turn first to Kay, still sniffling.

"I can't promise I'm coming back Kay," I say to her. "But I promise I'll try my hardest."

"You can win," she says, firmly despite her shaking voice. "You can fight, and you're clever and strong."

"I'll try," I whisper again, but despite her insistent tone her eyes tell another story. She knows it's a one in a hundred chance that I'll be back.

"Just don't give up," says my dad. "There's always a chance. Don't give away that you can use a staff in the training, you'll become a target. Don't go for the Cornucopia, you can use any old branch as a staff, you're not fast enough to get away from the bloodbath." My dad through and through, always practical. I simply nod at him, it's too much to really think about all that right now.

"And don't become someone you're not," chips in my mother, her face pale. "I know you might have to kill, but don't let them change you into a monster."

"I won't, I promise," I say, before pulling her into another hug.

"I love you," she sobs.

I can feel my tears returning as I reply, "I love you too mom."

I share a similar goodbye with Kay, before she pulls away, realising something. "You have to take a token!" she exclaims.

"It's not important," I mutter, but she insistently presses the wooden charm she wears around her neck into my hands.

"Wear it," she says. "Whenever you're feeling down you can use it to remind yourself of family. That you're fighting to come back to us."

This sets my mother off crying again, and I hold her and Kay again, before eventually freeing myself. "You should go," I say. "Let's not drag this out. It'll only make it hurt more."

They seem to understand and leave after a final goodbye. My dad is last to leave, pulling me into a hug in the doorway. "I love you son," he says, his voice cracking a little.

"I love you too dad," I reply. "I'll try to make you proud."

"Just try to come back," he says. Then finally, as the peacekeeper shuts the door behind him. "Good luck Rory."

"I'll need more than luck…" I mutter to myself, fingering my token. It's a simple wooden rectangle, with a beautiful pattern engraved onto it. It's been in my mom's family for years…It'll probably never get back to them, I think, before scolding myself. I don't have to be unrealistically optimistic, but I should at least try and banish those negative thoughts, or I'll be dead before I've even started.

Eventually I'm led away, reunited with Tamla as we are driven to the train station and shown to our luxurious rooms on the train. Woof is nowhere to be seen yet, and we both ignore Iulia's attempts to make conversation, instead hiding in our rooms until he are called for dinner. Despite feeling sick to the pit of my stomach, I can't turn down the food, I need to keep my strength up, and I have to admit it does taste amazing. After an almost silent dinner with Iulia, Tamla and Woof, I excuse myself to my thoughts for a few minutes.

Back in the present...

"So we gonna watch the replays of the reapings?" I say to Tamla as I return to the dining carriage, trying not to sound too friendly.

"I guess," she murmurs. Woof sets the TV up and sits alongside us as we prepare to see our opponents.

I make an effort to try and remember as many names as I can, maybe calling people by their actual names instead of just their district number could unnerve people. Both of the district one tributes are volunteers, and don't appear to have any connection to those originally reaped. They just want the honour of fighting in the games.

First comes a tall girl called Jade, who is beautiful in a classic district one way, but also in a deadly-looking way, with narrow green eyes and pristine long blonde hair. The boy, Silver, is also blonde, marginally shorter than Jade but more powerfully built, though still slim.

In district two a girl named Cleo volunteers first. She grins wickedly as she stands on the stage, looking lithe and, I have to admit, very pretty, with piercing blue eyes and dark brown hair braided around her head. The boy is surprisingly not a volunteer, but as I look at him walking up I imagine that he probably would have been had he not been picked. He is only slightly taller than Cleo, and can't be as tall as either of the district one tributes, but must be 200 pounds, thick-shouldered and dead-eyed. His name is Varro.

Next up is district three, traditionally a district where the tributes either fail miserably, or do very well. They are rarely much fighters, but the skills with engineering and electronics they've obtained in the factories of three sometimes help them. I can't help but feel the two chosen won't be much threat however. Horribly, a tiny girl who can be fourteen at the most, called Coulette, looking like she's about to pass out is called first, followed by an older boy of average height called Alecto, who is skinny, sickly-looking, and terribly nervous.

In district four, the final career district, there are two more volunteers. A girl called Shayla, skinny and red-haired, but with a dangerous glint in her eyes is followed by a powerful, fairly tall, blonde-haired boy called Perrin, smiling and waving to the crowd the whole way.

In district 5 both tributes can only be about 5 and a half foot. A small girl, probably 16 or 17 called Kyla is followed by a boy, Barr, who is more built but barely taller and looks younger, and certainly isn't muscular by the standards of the career districts.

Some drama follows in district six, as Zianna, a slim girl of average height, with pretty red-blonde hair bravely strides up, though I can see her lip quivering, before a young boy starts to head forward only for a booming yell of "I volunteer," to stop him as his older brother, Mitro, strides up. He looks like a slightly fiercer and more powerful version of me, and stands on the stage looking determined.

In district 7, Fern, a slight girl, emerges from a crowd of much taller girls. I assume she must be eighteen, just short. She is very pretty too, with dark blonde hair falling around her shoulders and deep brown eyes, which stare determinedly forward as I find myself admiring her spirit. Her counterpart is another eighteen year-old, a huge boy called Grove who looks even bigger than Varro. I wonder whether it's just standing next to the tiny Fern, but he looks like he must be six and a half feet. He looks resigned and disappointed when called up, but doesn't show any fear.

After initially appearing that the careers would have no opposition the standard looks like it may actually be quite high. I certainly wouldn't want to get in a fight with Mitro or Grove, and there's something about Fern which suggests she's not going to be a pushover for anyone either. Watching the recap of our reaping I am happy that I don't give any emotion away, though I'm feeling less confident about my hand-to-hand fighting skills compared to the other boys.

From district 9 a pampered-looking girl, Clarissa, is called up, and has to be virtually dragged to the stage, in tears. When calm is restored a kid called Jonathan is reaped. He is as tall as Clarissa, but skinnier, and looks much younger, only twelve or thirteen I would guess.

Next is district 10, a little red-haired girl wipes away tears as she bravely strides up, her name is Amelia and she can't be even five foot. She is followed by a strapping eighteen-year old called Carson, with a sad look and lanky, longish, black hair, who must be taller than me, and definitely a good twenty pounds heavier.

In district 11 a tiny dark-skinned girl, though judging from the group she comes from more like fifteen or sixteen than the thirteen or so she looks is called up. Her name is Cinnamon and she looks determinedly down at the stage as a boy called Jeremiah follows. He is another giant, I think despairingly, though much skinnier than Mitro or Carson, with shaved black hair and anger in his eyes, saved for the comforting look he gives Cinnamon.

District 12 rounds the process off, and they don't appear to have gotten lucky. The girl, Daisy, is probably eighteen, skinny, blonde haired and blue-eyed but much plainer-looking than the district one tributes and looks weak and bony, like she hasn't had enough to eat her whole life, which is probably true. The boy, Syme, is only fourteen, I think, and a bit more strongly built, but doesn't look like he'd stand a prayer in a fight with even me, never mind many of the others.

"It's awful, I know," says Woof after a brief silence, "but without wanting to sound too harsh, you've just got to get on with it. You're either going to kill or be killed."

"How do you do this," I ask him, "watch the kids you're mentoring getting killed, year after year?"

"I don't care too much," he replies bluntly. "If I did I'd go insane, so don't expect care or sympathy from me."

"But you will help us?" Tamla asks, her voice shaky.

"I'll try," he grunts. "But history isn't on your side."

Another silence descends over us, and Tamla soon leaves. After it becomes clear Woof isn't going to say anything, and I have no desire to talk to him right now, I decide to follow her. I knock on the door to her compartment, and after a slightly puzzled-sounding "Come in," I enter.

"Oh, it's you," she says neutrally.

"Want to talk?" I ask. When she says nothing, I continue. "Look, I have no intention of killing you. Quite aside from the fact that you don't deserve to die, I figure if I can't win then best you do, for the district."

"I can't win," she says, tears pooling in her eyes. "At least you're strong, I've got nothing to use."

"Please," I scoff, "I thought maybe the careers would be tougher than me, but there were three other giants in there too. Any one of them would murder me in a fight. Besides, they'll have weapons."

"So what's the point then?" she asked, not looking at me.

"That you never know what'll happen in the arena," I say with a shrug. "The careers could all be killed off by a fire, or a flood, or mutts, or each other."

"I couldn't kill anyone," she says, quietly but forcefully.

"I think maybe you could," I say, "if it was you or them. If it was self-defence. Besides, maybe we should concentrate on staying alive first."

"We?" she says quizzically.

"Look," I reply with a sigh, "you're not my friend, I'm not going to lie and say I'll never get over it if you die. But two heads are better than one, and I want you to win if I can't. So I'll do what I can to keep you alive in there."

"What if we were the last two?" she asks. "Would you kill me then?"

"That's so unlikely," I say. "But no. I don't think I could. I guess the Gamemakers would send stuff to kill us, and one of us would fall first."

"So you want to be allies?" she asks, her tears having faded away.

"Yeah, I guess," I reply. "If you want to."

"I think I'd be stupid to turn it down," she says.

A minute or two of silence passes between us, before I ask her, "So how many entries did you have?"

"Twenty-four," she replies. "My parents wouldn't let me take tesserae for them, but I took them for myself and my two little brothers. What about you?"

"Thirty-five," I say, "Myself, my parents and my sister."

She breaks the next silence, by saying "I think we should get some sleep."

"You're right," I agree, heading back to the door. "Goodnight Tamla."

"Goodnight Rory. Thanks for being nice."

I just nod at her and then head back to my own room. Nice. That's a great characteristic for someone to have going into a fight to death. Nevertheless I drift off to a fitful sleep with the underlying feeling that I have done the right thing.