Author's Noteh:

Okay, so the tribs for 12 are my characters, but the rest belong to Suzanne Collins. However, if she would like to me, I will accept them with open arms. I don't own the Hunger Games, blah blah blah...

You know what I don't own.

Prologue~ Present

(Effie Haymitch Jackson's POV)

Dad looks me in the eyes. He's kneeling, and his hands are steady on my shoulder. His dark eyes pierce mine.

"Effie, you gotta promise me that you'll listen."

"To what? Did I do something wrong?" I ask, trying to portay the innocent twelve-year-old I know that somewhere inside, I am.

At this he chuckles. I think he looks great when he smiles. He's a great dad. Mom's a great mom. And I'm so confused.

"No. Just the opposite... But..." He drifts off, sighing. "You're mom's gonna hit ya with some pretty hard news. It's okay to cry. I've told you that, right?"

I nod.

"Good. Because it is. And your mom... She might just do that. You have to promise to be strong while you're in there."

I'm so confused. I say nothing.

Dad opens the door to mom's room. She's sitting there, her brown hair in a messy bun on the back of her head, strands everywhere. She's in the rocking chair, rocking little baby Gwen. She's adorable, and her eyes sparkle like mom's.

She's staring at me, a weary smile on her face. She's probably still tired: she's been cleaning all day. She didn't tell us who was coming over: just that someone was.

"Sit," She says, and gestures to the seat across from her. I gulp, and look back at the door. Dad smiles, and nods approvingly, slowly. So I go, and I sit down.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask bluntly.

Mom laughs, just as rich as dad's- but hers in more beautiful and melodic. She sings all the time to us. She's great at it. Really.

"No honey." She laughs. "Now sit, please dear." And so I sit.

She stands, and places baby Gwen in her crib, gulps, and goes to sit back down. "There was once something called the Hunger Games. It was the worst thing that could have ever happened. Twenty-four boys and girls... They were sent somewhere off the maps of Panem: the Capital wasn't always as nice as you know it to be. They were to be a boy and girl, two tributes, from each district." By now the smile has gone off her face. "And they were told to kill each other, until only one was left." She sighed.

"They were the champion." She stares out the window to the left. "I knew a boy and girl that went from district 12."

"Really?" I ask, not thinking.

"Yeah." She smiles sadly. "Lived down the street, you know. Down the street and around the block. I wrote a story about them." She locks eyes with me now.

"And I'm going to read it to you, because you need to know." She grabs the notebook that every night is right there, on the nightstand by her bed.

"And you have to listen." She clears her throat after she says this, and begins to read.