A/N: My mind is a far from orderly place, so I will try to keep this as concise as possible. This is a crossover (and yes, I know it isn't in the crossovers category. I have been here so long there was a time it never existed, and I prefer to stay set in my ways. Report me if you wish to do so) with Red vs Blue. Now, all you non-RvBers, please don't take this as a cue to run in the other direction. All you need to know is that these characters I am using from RvB are all named for states. Also, any potential mon-RvBer who may see this, I am posting this to a separate site for Red vs Blue fanfic. Many don't know the Hunger Games there, so I am explaining as I go along, in a way that is an interesting as possible. Please bear with me whilst I do so. As a final note, I am aware this chapter is short but the others are not, at least 1k per chapter. Update days are every other Friday (and may increase in frequency) and last but not least I would like to thank my boyfriend, Rane, for being the first person to see the first draft of this, give me some crit, and help me fix it. As well as the lovely ZetaEtaTheta, my HG canon beta, and favorite bitch Queen.

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

-Wilfred Owen

It was her first reaping day, and she could barely stand upright. In her starched purple dress, washed and fitted for the occasion, she stood in the back of the crowd with the other twelve year olds, their whispers only heightening her nerves. She knew exactly what was going to happen—what child in the nation of Panem had not heard of the Hunger Games?

But that didn't make it any easier.

Nor did the knowledge of her parent's sacrifice for her safety; only putting her name in for one ration of oil and tesserae despite the fact that they would go to bed hungry as a result. There were other children in District 11 who had a better chance, but even that small comfort was fleeting as the Mayor reached for the glass bowls stuffed with paper. The name of the girl tribute was beneath his fingertips at that very moment and she could hardly breathe; the bodice of her dress suddenly far too tight and the ground staggering and off kilter.

Only a few seconds more, she reminded herself.

A few seconds more and her first reaping would be done and over with, a different name read and another girl taken from her home to fight to the death under the watchful, brutal gaze of the Capitol. Someone else's pain to be splashed on national television, so very far from her home, her world in the wheat fields of District 11. Starving, yes, but at least together; at least not fighting the unknown.

Or so she thought.

Until her name, Carolina, was read larger than life and she saw herself stagger towards the stage, frail and feeble and numb on the inside. Twelve years old, and her life was over before it had even truly begun.

The son of a coal miner from the Seam would never be good enough. True, Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the 50th Hunger Games, was already the laughingstock of District 12 with his drunken antics but York knew he would barely be considered above Abernathy's level—or so went the vicious gossip that spread across the entire District. It was the secret, hidden tradition of betting over possible candidates for the year's reaping that brought York these pearls of wisdom.

York, the fifteen year old loner who liked to play with locks and keys in his spare time—what a waste! Sure, the girl tribute, South Dakota, had strength, had potential, even without her twin brother. But the lanky, slacker, prideful, good for nothing York? An amateur thief with a hopeless future?

Never.

He had his name submitted too many times to count; his younger sisters, too small for reaping day, were counting on the ration of oil and essential tesserae grain given for each submission of his name in the pot. They had so little as it was that York couldn't bear to say no. All he could do was close his eyes and hope he wasn't picked.

Unfortunately, today luck was far from his side.

With the snatches of overhead gossip running laps in York's mind he bounded up to the stage, turning to his new partner and flashing her a confident, irresistible grin. All for the audience, all for the cameras filming. He took her pale hand in his and shook it, determined to focus on anything but the fate ahead of him. Whether it be life or death (and it was nearly certain to be the latter), York reminded himself to never show his fear.

Never let them see you sweat.

Take care of the girl, outrun the others, and keep pushing, no matter how hard it gets.

Even if it's all a boldfaced lie.