A/N: Well, here it is. I've been wanting to do a Brittana-centric Hunger Games fic since I read the first book, and I finally have gotten around to it. While I am going to follow the HG storyline for basic stuff, I'm sure you'll find a lot that I've changed up or altered to better fit what I want to happen (lol). I have no idea how long this will be. I have a basic idea of where I want it to go and how it's going to end, but other than that, it's still a blank slate (which means leave me ideas and suggestions for stuff you wanna see ;D).. The way this is going to work is each chapter will alternate between Santana and Brittany's POVs. It should be pretty interesting. Give it a shot. I hope you enjoy. And remember, reviews are a writer's best friend :)

Be sure to check out the friggin awesome "Glee Plays the Hunger Games" fanart that gave me a base to start out on. Seriously. They're awesome.
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For anyone who doesn't know what the original Hunger Games book is about, here is a quick briefing of the storyline. If you already know all of this, then skip the rest of this a/n:

The Hunger Games is a young adult novel written by Suzanne Collins. It is written in first person and introduces sixteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen, who lives in a post-apocalyptic world in the country of Panem where the countries of North America once existed. The Capitol, a highly advanced metropolis, holds absolute power over the rest of the nation. The Hunger Games are an annual event in which one boy and one girl aged 12 to 18 from each of the 12 districts surrounding the Capitol are selected by lottery to compete in a televised battle in which only one person can survive. (wikipedia)

Santana

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The steady drops of water hitting the aluminum roof was what drew me from my less-than-comfortable slumber. Though I was fully awake, I continued to lay on my back with my eyes closed, willing myself back to unconsciousness. After a few unsuccessful minutes of this, I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyelids and let out a long, slow exhale, accepting the fact that it was a losing battle.

I sat up and raised my arms above my head, yawning as I stretched. Even if the remnants of last night's weather hitting my shed hadn't woke me up, the thick, musky smell of the air and the stiffness in my muscles and joints would've told me it had rained all night.

My body ached as I stood up off of my miserable-looking makeshift bed of hay and old sheets and stretched again. My shoulders cracked, followed by what I think was my lower back, and I instantly felt substantially better. Not completely, but the way I figure, any relief in this life was better than none.

I brushed away the rogue straws of hay stuck to my ass and pulled my boots on, tucking in the bottom of my pant legs. I wasn't even outside yet and the humidity was already making my hair stick to my forehead and back of my neck. Running my fingers through my thick, dark locks, and internally envying for the millionth time girls with thin, manageable hair, I piled the tangled mess into a bun the best I could and secured it with a rubber band. Judging by the light peeking through the spaces between the deteriorating boards that made up the walls of my sleeping quarters, I estimated that it had to be nearly 7:30am. Wonderful.

The fresh June air was refreshing against my sweaty skin as I opened the door and stepped out into the light. I squinted while my eyes worked to adjust to the sudden burst of sunlight and stepped down off the small brick ledge. The previous night's rain left the ground slick and for a second I lost my footing, my left foot slipping forward and almost throwing me backwards into the mud. Luckily my killer reflexes kicked in and I grabbed the door frame, regaining my balance and glancing around to see if anyone had witnessed my little episode.

"Fucking cows," I muttered to myself as I started walking to the feed shed, sloshing through the mixture of mud and cow shit. The smell was rank on a regular day, but after a night of rain followed just a few hours later by direct sunlight and extreme heat, the humidity made the smell almost unbearable. I'd been doing this kind of work for years now, but the smell of these animals is just one thing I cannot get used to.

"Nice." The deep voice broke through my thoughts, and I spun around to face the direction it had come from. "Your grace is just one of the many things I admire about you, Lopez." Noah walked towards me, a big grin spread across his face.

"Go to hell, Puckerman," I snorted at him in mock disgust, but I couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. "I learned from the best, you know."

"Better believe it. What would you do without me?"

I smirked and raised an eye brown at him. "Whatever."

Truth is though, I have no idea where I'd be without him. Probably still living in that hellhole, more acceptably known as the "community children's shelter". Seven years of that bullshit was seven years too many, if you ask me. At nine years old, I already would have rather lived on the streets than under their roof. Nothing was more depressing and emotionally draining than spending every day confined to a building with one multipurpose room full of screaming children of all ages, probably more than half of which were traumatized from witnessing their moms and dads murdered right in front of them for whatever reason.

I lost my mother when I was two. I never had a father. Well, I mean, I guess I had one at some point. Never knew him though, and he never cared to know me. Assuming that he even knows I exist, that is. From what I heard growing up, my mom didn't have a very pretty reputation. Which is what landed me in that fucking place after she died. She did her fair share of sleeping around, got pregnant and had me at sixteen, was completely disowned by her family, and then died when she was 18. Even as barely more than an infant, no one had any sympathy for me. I was her bastard child that shamed the family's name. When my mother died, District 5's mayor took me to the shelter because no one from my so-called family wanted me. My story really isn't incredibly unique to any of the other snot-nosed screaming brats I grew up with.

The only thing that really set me aside from all the rest is that while most of them lost their parents to street murders and public executions for committing crimes, I lost my mother to the Hunger Games.

When I was nine, I slipped out the back door of the shelter about an hour or two after everyone had been put to bed. I spent the next week sleeping in alleys and digging through trash to find anything, and I mean anything, edible that I could survive on. I had on more than one occasion considered trying to steal a bit of bread or a piece of fruit from one of the stands in the market downtown, but I dismissed these thoughts as quickly as I had them. Stealing in my District was punishable by death, and the law here took no age into consideration. The way they looked at it, once a thief, always a thief.

I've always been independent and, honestly, a bit stubborn. Alright, a lot stubborn. So for me, even at nine, to admit defeat was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. But by my seventeenth day on the streets, I knew I couldn't survive at the rate I was going. I was going to starve to death. After one last failed attempt at finding food behind a corner store, I hung my head and started the several mile hike back towards the community shelter.

About halfway back to my destination, I started to get a cramp from walking. I stopped and sat down in the grass on the side of the dirt road, leaning against a wooden fence post. I closed my eyes tight and bit my bottom lip, taking a deep breath to fight the frustrated tears I felt welling behind my eyelids.

I'd only been sitting there feeling sorry for myself for about two minutes when a soft melody interrupted my self-pity party. I leaned to the right and turned to look behind the post I'd been leaning on to inquire from where exactly the sound was coming. Not too far away I saw a boy, who couldn't be much older than me, whistling to himself as he threw barrels of hay into a large wagon. A horse that was connected to the wagon grazed lazily as it waited to be led to the next pile of hay cubes. I got to my feet and leaned against the fence, watching the boy intently. After he loaded all the barrels into the wagon, he took the horse by a rope hanging from the side of its mouth and tugged gently to get his attention before proceeding towards me, stopping only about 10 yards from where I was standing.

I could hear him much more clearly now. He'd traded whistling for humming, but it sounded to me like the same tune. I didn't recognize it as any song I'd ever heard before, but I liked it. I stood and observed quietly for a minute or so when suddenly the boy stopped humming and turned around to look at me.

"So what exactly are you doing," he asked me.

I was caught off guard. Until now, I thought he hadn't seen me. "I uh," I swallowed and stood up straighter, embarrassed I'd be caught staring. "Nothing," I sputtered.

"Well, if you're gonna stand there and do nothing, maybe you should make yourself useful and help me." He turned back to his pile of hay squares and continued to pick them up and heave them into the back of the wagon.

I was astonished, to say the least, at his bluntness. Astonished, but intrigued at the same time. I only hesitated for a second before I leaned over and slipped between the wooden boards of the fence. I walked up to where the boy was standing and crossed my arms, unsure of what exactly was expected of me.

"What are you doing," I asked him.

"Collecting hay to feed the animals, what does it look like," he huffed at me without even looking up. "Just pick up whatever you can and throw it in there."

I looked around at all of the hay cubes. I made my way to the closest one and bent down to pick it up, grabbing it by the frayed rope that was holding it together. As I lifted, a grunt escaped from my throat. It was a lot heavier than it looked. I let the whole thing drop back down to the ground and reevaluated my course of action. I bend down again, at the knees this time, grabbed the rope, and lifted once more, this time using the strength in my legs. I half shuffled, half stumbled to the wagon and used my whole body to shove the cube onto the wagon bed.

"How do you do that," I asked the boy as he came up next to me and swung a barrel that was almost twice the size of the one I'd picked up in to the wagon with ease.

"Comes with time." He brushed his hands together and wiped them down the front of his shirt. "And lots of practice. Years worth." He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. "You look familiar. What grade are you in?"

"None. I mean, I'm not." I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to straighten out my thoughts. I opened my eyes and tried again. "I don't go to school. You don't know me. Not from school, at least."

"Lucky," he mumbled. "How'd you manage that?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I'm supposed to go. All the kids at the shelter are supposed to go. But I haven't gone in over a year and no one has said anything to me. So, I just don't go. I never liked it there."

"Yeah it sucks." The boy scoffed and kicked his battered looking boot at a patch of dry dirt on the ground. He looked at me again. "So you live at the shelter, huh? What's your name?"

"Santana. What's yours?"

"Noah." He gave me a questioning look. "What are you doing all the way out here? The shelter is miles away."

"I ran away," I answered simply. "I hate it there. The old ladies are mean and the other kids are so annoying." I looked down at the dried out, dying grass and sighed. "I'm going back though. I can't find enough food and I'm starving," I muttered.

"Oh. Well, my dad is making sandwiches for lunch. You can probably have one if you want. I'm 'bout to go back now if you wanna come."

My head snapped back up at Noah's invitation. "Really?" I blurted and I felt my eyes go wide. I was literally starving and my stomach rumbled at just the mere thought of food.

"Yeah, sure. Let's go." Noah grabbed the horse's rope and started to lead the giant animal pulling the wagon back towards home.

When we got back, Noah took what felt like centuries to unhook the horse from his leads and feed him an apple before setting him free to roam. We walked down a hill towards a small house. There were steps leading up to the entrance and a little porch with a rocking chair to the right of the door. I eagerly followed Noah up the steps and into the house, my mouth watering with the anticipation of food.

We entered the kitchen where a man with a dark beard sat at the table slicing bread to make sandwiches. He looked up and stopped what he was doing when he saw us standing there. "Who's this," he questioned Noah.

"Dad, this is Santana. She was helping me with the hay and I told her she could come have a sandwich."

The man raised his eye brows, taking this in. "Helping you with the hay, huh? Well alright, why don't you two wash your hands and have a seat," he said and went back to cutting his bread.

I followed Noah through the house and through another door back outside. He dropped a bucket into a well and pulled it back up, filled with water. He let me go first since his hands were far dirtier than mine. After we were both acceptably clean, we went back in and were met at the table by two ham sandwiches with cheese, lettuce, and tomato on freshly sliced bread.

As I sat down in my chair, I was sure I'd never witnessed anything as beautiful as this simple meal in front of me that I was about to devour.

The three of us ate in silence as I did my best to control myself and not inhale my food like an uncivilized banshee. I gratefully accepted when Noah's dad offered to make me a second sandwich, and I thanked him no less than ten times as he prepared it and brought it over to the table along with a glass of iced tea. I'd never had iced tea before. It was sweet and cold and absolutely delicious.

After we had all eaten, Noah's dad put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and rested his chin on them. "So, Santana. Where are you from, kid?"

I thought for a second. "I'm not really from anywhere. The community shelter, I guess, if I had to say somewhere."

The man raised his brows again and it was then I noticed how worn his features looked. "Oh?" he asked. "The shelter? How long have you lived there?"

"Seven years," I told him.

"What are you doing all the way out here? Long way from home, aren't you?"

I told him what I'd told Noah earlier. I told him how I hated the shelter, how I'd been there since my mom died when I was a baby, how I ran away and planned to just live on my own but my plan had failed when I couldn't find enough to eat. How I was on my way back until I'd seen Noah and decided to help him with the hay.

Noah and his dad both listened to my story without interruption. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds when I had finished. His dad looked like he was thinking.

"Ya know, dad," Noah broke the silence. "Maybe she could just stay here. Since you fell off that ladder and hurt your back, I could use the help doing some of the harder stuff around here that you can't do anymore. She wasn't too bad at lifting the hay."

I looked at Noah, eyes wide with disbelief at his suggestion. I'd never even considered staying here. I assumed after I was done eating, they were going to send me on my way and that would be the end of it.

Noah's dad was silent for a few more moments as he gazed out the window at the clear blue sky. Finally he looked at me and asked, "What is your last name, Santana?"

It seemed like an odd question, but I answered it anyway. "Lopez."

The man knitted his eyebrows for a second and shifted his eyes to the ceiling as if he was searching his brain for some old, buried information. Suddenly his expression changed, softened, and he looked back at me.

"Lopez," he whispered. "Lopez, as in.." His expression was one of realization. Realization of what, I wasn't quite sure. It wouldn't be until years later that I'd find out he'd recognized me as the young, unwanted child orphaned by the Games seven years ago.

He cleared his throat and stood, walking towards the doorway that led into the hallway. He turned back to us before leaving the room and spoke. "Yeah, that's fine with me." He nodded. "If you'd like to stay, Santana, you are welcome to. Noah will teach you the routine around here. You'll catch on quickly, I'm sure. Noah, set the girl up a place to sleep, would ya?" And with that, he turned and walked down the hallway. I heard a door open and quietly click shut a few seconds later.

I looked at Noah, still in shock. He smiled. "Let's go. I'll teach you how to milk the cows," he said and wiggled his eyebrows. I couldn't help but giggle at his suggestive tone.

Noah slapped my butt as he walked past me. "Let's do it, Lopez. This bacon ain't gonna feed itself."

We made our way through the sloppy mess of the pig pen and dumped two large buckets of the nastiest looking shit ever into their food trough. We spent the next few hours spreading seed for the chickens to eat, cleaning out the hen houses, collecting eggs, and milking the cows and goats. It was well after 11 o'clock before we went back to the house to get something to eat.

I opened the fridge and surveyed what it had to offer. I took out six eggs, a slab of bacon cuts, the tub of butter, the milk container, and a jar of strawberry jam. I set it all on the counter and found two skillets to fry the eggs and bacon in. Noah came into the kitchen as I was cracking the eggs and dropping them into the pan. "You think Mark wants lunch," I asked over my shoulder.

Noah looked in the direction of his dad's bedroom. A month or so before I had started living with the Puckermans, Mark had an accident while repairing a leak in their roof. He was coming down the ladder, lost his footing, and fell from nearly the top. He was lucky he didn't break his neck. He did however hurt his back pretty bad, and it's never been the same since. He was never able to do much physical labor after that, and since it was just the two of them after Noah's mother and baby sister died during childbirth when Noah was five, all the farm's responsibilities fell on Noah. At the tender age of eight, the weight of carrying on the farms business to support the family was a hell of a burden. When you think about it, me showing up when I did was a blessing in disguise. For all of us.

"I don't know, I think he is still asleep," Noah sighed. The last year and a half, his father's condition had worsened to the point where he didn't get out of bed until late afternoon sometimes. On top of his physical ailments, Mark seemed to acquire a pretty severe case of depression. He'd expressed on numerous occasions that he felt useless because he couldn't help take care of the farm anymore. That, along with the loneliness that never subdued since his wife died, he wasn't doing well. I tried to keep him busy to make him feel important, asking him if he'd do things like make us lunch or sort and package eggs for us to take to the market. But even with my small busy-work jobs, I was worried about him.

I turned to face Noah. His face was solemn and worry lines plagued his forehead. "Hey," I asked, concerned. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Just worried about dad, I guess. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I answered. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You ready for the reaping tomorrow?" He finally brought it up, the subject I'd been trying to avoid for the last few weeks. We all knew it was coming, summer was here, but I didn't see why we had to talk about it.

I turned back around and poked at the eggs frying in the pan. "I guess."

"Worried?" I heard from behind me.

I shrugged. Was I worried? I don't know, I guess I was. I mean, who wasn't worried? I was sixteen years old this reaping, so my name was in there four times. District 5 was one of the smaller districts in this country, but there had to be at least three thousand other girls' names in that bowl, most of them more than once. Now I haven't had much schooling in my life, and when I did go, math was never my best subject, but I'm pretty sure that meant the chances of my name getting pulled were fairly slim.

Then again, my mother had probably thought the same thing.

"No. I'm not worried." I took the pan off the flame and dumped even portions onto two plates. I spread jam onto two slices of bread and stuck one on each plate. I carried them over to the table, set one in front of Noah and the other where I would sit. I went back for the milk, poured two glasses, put the rest back in the fridge, and sat down at the table.

"We really need to get down to the market though, I can't believe how late it got," I said, trying to change the subject. Normally we are down there by noon and have all our product laid out ready for sale by 12:30. Our late start and frequent breaks because of the heat had set us back a bit.

Noah nodded in agreement as he shoveled another heaping spoonful of eggs into his mouth. We finished our meals and went back outside to pack up the wagon for the two mile hike into town.

The first stop everyday was the train station where we turned in our daily required donations to the Capitol. I think I hated this more than anything else. The Capitol had technology, power, modern medicines, and more food than it knew what to do with, yet they still made sure every district pitched in and donated some of their specialized product instead of being able to sell it. The Capitol didn't need it. They probably didn't even want it. I bet they throw it all away as soon as it gets there. But they still insist that we donate, with dire consequences if you fail or are unable to give their required amount. Just another giant middle finger in our direction, that's all it really was.

Afterwards, we carried on to our storefront and set up shop. After just a few hours our sales for the day were still well over quota, despite our late arrival. We sold forty some gallons of milk, eleven pounds of butter, all the meat we brought, and all but one dozen of our eggs. Satisfied with the daily earnings, we packed up at 5pm, stopped at the bakery for bread and the medicine shop for pain medicine for Mark, and headed home. Noah and I both took quick showers and then he and Mark prepared dinner while I was getting dressed. There was a mandatory viewing tonight on behalf of the reaping we'd all have to attend tomorrow.

Less than five minutes after we'd all sat in front of the television, Mark was snoring in his chair. We decided to let him sleep; we could fill him in on anything important later. The program started at 8pm sharp. There was a five minute clip of different scenes from previous Games, some in slow motion, all spliced together and accompanied by a terrible, almost patronizing, trumpet anthem. Like the people in these Games had been honored to die for the Capitol, like they went in for some greater good, some worthy cause. Like their deaths weren't all meaningless, juvenile games bestowed on them by power-hungry Capitol officials who thought more of the dirt stuck to the bottom of their shoes than they did of the lives of those living in the Districts.

The Hunger Games. They couldn't have possibly come up with a more appropriate name, I thought to myself bitterly.

Just as that was passing through my mind, a scene flashed across the screen that derailed my entire train of thought. It wasn't more than five seconds long, but when it was over, I felt like I'd just held my breath underwater for an hour. A thin, tall girl, eighteen years old, running through the forest, blood staining her torn shirt, terror in her eyes. Her dark hair flowed behind her as she ran, and her tan skin, the same tone as my own, glistened with sweat.

My mother. I'd only had one picture of her in my entire life, and it was lost years and years ago at the shelter. But even if I'd never seen what she looked like, I would have known it was her. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought I just saw a clip of myself. I was a spitting image.

"San?" I blinked twice and my vision refocused. I turned to Noah, and the look on his face told me he'd seen it, too. "Was that..?"

"My mom." My voice was hoarse and I wasn't even sure I'd said it loud enough for him to hear. Even if he hadn't, he still got it. I looked back to the TV, but I could feel his eyes still on me.

We watched the rest of the program in silence. Or, well, more like I stared blankly at the television screen for an hour like a vegetable. I couldn't believe what I had seen. How long had it been since I even thought about my mother, and then suddenly I'm slapped in the face with a motion clip of her in the Games, probably only hours, if not minutes, before she was killed. It was surreal. It made my stomach turn in ways I can't begin to explain. Until now, she had only been a story, told to me from someone else's memory.

But now, for the first time since I was a baby, she was a real person to me.

I was starting to come back down to earth just as the last segment of the program was coming on. Every year, President Figgins gave a speech about how excited everyone in the Capitol was for the upcoming Games, how they couldn't wait to meet everyone new this year, and how proud he was of all the Districts' tributes. The pretentious tone in his voice made me want to throw up. I was so disgusted by the entire thing that I couldn't even appreciate his fatass cat laying on his desk, lazily batting its fatass arm at the wire hanging from the microphone, unbeknownst to Figgins. Under normal conditions, the way it got up and waddled off the screen would have been hilarious to me, but right now, I hardly even acknowledged it.

When Figgins was done and the screen cut back to static fuzz, Noah got up and shut off the power. He stood with his back to me for a few seconds before he finally asked, "Are you okay?"

I stared at the wall. Okay? Not really. Upset? Not really that either. What was I then?

"I don't know what I am," I answered him honestly."I mean, I just… it's not like I knew her or anything. It's just… it was weird, I guess."

My mind suddenly flashed back to shortly after I'd moved into the Puckerman residence. Noah and I had been lying outside one warm summer night, looking at the stars. I'd spent all my life living in town where there were lights on 24/7 that drown out the night sky, and that was the first time I'd ever seen how bright the stars actually shined. That was the night that Noah asked me what happened to my parents, and then told me what happened to his mother and sister.

Suddenly my heart ached for him. If I felt this way thinking about my mother who I'd never really known, how must he feel after losing a mom that he actually remembers?

"Do you miss her?" The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"What?" He turned to look at me, his eyes confused. "Do I miss who?"

"Your mom," I whispered.

Noah looked at the floor and shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah, I miss her sometimes." He lifted his eyes and looked back at me. "It gets easier though, ya know. With time. It never goes away, but it hurts less, I guess."

I just nodded. I didn't know what to say. Never in my life had I been so lost for words. He shot me a sad half-smile and walked out of the room. I heard him climb the ladder to the loft and walk across the creaky floor to his bed.

I woke Mark up and helped him stand up before sending him off to bed. I was about to walk out the front door to go to my shed when I heard Noah call my name. I walked to the end of the hallway and looked up the ladder to his bedroom loft. "Yeah?"

"If you wanna sleep up here, you can. It still gets hot, but I don't think it's quite as bad as your castle out there." I knew he was trying for a joking tone, but all I could hear was deflation in his voice.

Since the day I'd come to live here, Mark made it clear that the rule was Noah and I were never to share a bedroom. As I got older, I understood why, though I never felt that kind of way about Noah at all. He was like a brother to me. And I was pretty certain the feeling was mutual. However, rules were rules, and we never had any reason to share a room anyway, so I made myself a bedroom outside in the shed a few yards from the house and never once had a problem with it. It was hot and stuffy in the summer, and it could get a little cold sometimes at night during the winter months, but I was grateful more than anything else to have a place of my own. I didn't spend much time out there unless I was sleeping anyway.

But somehow, tonight, I didn't think Mark would mind.

I climbed the ladder to the loft and stood at the edge of Noah's bed. Though it was bigger, it really didn't look a whole lot more comfortable than my own. He was lying on his stomach facing the wall. I climbed across the bed as quietly as I could and lay on my stomach as well, using my arms as my pillow and facing the opposite wall. It didn't take long before I felt sleep starting to encompass me and my thoughts started to wander into an almost dreamlike state. Just as I was about to slip away, I felt Noah shift across the bed and then his hand come down to rest on the small of my back. I opened my eyes but I didn't move.

"I'm sorry." His voice was so low that I almost missed it in my near unconscious haze. I let my eyes fall closed again as a ghost of a smile splayed across my lips.

"I know," I returned, as quietly as he had spoken. "I am too."

His thumb brushed against the fabric of my shirt. I was only seconds after he took his hand away and rolled back over to face the wall that I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Santana."

I awoke the next morning to Noah shaking me lightly. I groaned when I saw that it wasn't even light out yet.

"I know, San, but we have to be in the square for the reaping by 10. So we have to get started early today."

Memories of last night flooded back into my memory and I suddenly felt very awake. Noah got up and went downstairs, and I followed him shortly after. We ate quickly and made our rounds across the farm, taking care of the essential things that couldn't wait until later this afternoon after we got back from the reaping.

Around 8:30am, we went back to the house to get ready to go into town. I decided against showering. No point in getting all cleaned up; I was just going to pick up where I'd left off in a few hours. I did change my clothes though. I put on a loose-fitting white shirt and a blue and white skirt (I'd bought it just a few weeks ago from the baker's wife) that hung just below my knees. I wet my brush and combed my hair back out of my face, securing it with a metal clip.

"Aw, look at you," Noah teased when I came back in the house. "You look like a girl."

I punched his shoulder playfully. "I am a girl, you jerk."

We went outside together and prepared a horse for Mark to ride into the town. With his back as bad as it was, he would be sore after a horseback ride. Walking wasn't even an option.

Once we finally made it, I could see that the Capitol had been busy. There were streamers and banners hanging from every building and post, many of which displayed the words "74th Annual Hunger Games", and a huge platform had been constructed in front of the courthouse. There were already thousands of people there, most of them standing in the "general crowd" area. But then off to each side of the stage, all the children of District 5, between the ages of 12-18 were split into two separate groups. Boys on one side, girls on the other.

"See you when this shit-fest is over," Noah muttered loud enough that only I could hear, just in case they decided to bug the area. It was a harmless comment, but we all know Capitol officials love to make something out of nothing.

We went our separate ways, and I joined the girls group on the right side of the stage. There were groups within the group, separated by age. I found my section and stood awkwardly with my arms folded, watching all the girls around me, wondering whose name was going to be pulled. Looking around, I realized I recognized quite a few of the girls standing here with me. Most of their names I couldn't remember to save my own life, but I definitely recognized them. A few from the shelter, most from selling food to their family, and even one or two from back when I went to school.

"Testing, testing," the mayor's voice rang out through the speakers surrounding the market square. Instantly the crowd fell so quiet you could hear a pin drop. "Good morning, everyone. Thank you for organizing yourselves so quickly. Please welcome District Five's Capitol representative, Sue Sylvester."

About a quarter of the crowd clapped. It was less of an applause and more of... a bunch of people flapping their hands together with as little effort as they could manage without not actually lifting their arms. We were all very aware that the president was watching our every move. I was surprised more people didn't attempt to look like they were excited welcoming of the Capitol's minion. I guess after 74 years of this shit and still going strong, some people don't even bother anymore.

Sue Sylvester stepped up to the microphone and chuckled sarcastically. "Well now District 5, that wasn't very enthusiastic, was it? Let's hope that your tributes are a little livelier than all the rest of you. Or else they'll be… dead, won't they?"

Her tasteless joke made my stomach turn. The uncomfortable tension in the air was so thick I could cut it with a knife.

"Let's cut right to the chase, kiddos. I want to see which two of you I'm going to have the pleasure of spending the next few weeks with." Sue raised her arm and flicked her wrist, signaling the mayor to wheel a table onto the stage. Sitting on the table was a giant glass bowl filled with thousands of little strips of paper. Five of those strips belonged to me.

"Ladies first," Sue singsonged as she dipped her hand into the bowl. She slowly scanned the group of young girls, all of which had eyes the size of dinner plates, praying to some higher power that their name wasn't pulled, as she stirred the papers around and around and around.

I should have been nervous. I should have been scared that my name was going to be pulled. My heart should have been racing and my palms should have been sweating. But for some reason, I wasn't. My chances of being pulled were miniscule. I knew I had nothing to worry about, I knew Sue wasn't going to pull my name.

Maybe I should have gone to school and paid attention in math when they talked about probabilities and statistics. Because maybe then I would have known better. And maybe the shock would have been less severe.

"Mm," Sue hummed as she unfolded the paper and saw the name before her. "Ladies and gentlemen, your first 74th Annual Hunger Games tribute is… Santana Lopez!"

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I think my heart literally stopped beating for a few seconds. All the air rushed from my lungs and everything went dark and fuzzy and tingly like when you stand up too fast. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't walk, I couldn't move. Time stood still.

"Santana, come on up here," Sue called into the microphone. Her voice coming from the speakers seemed to be amplified a hundred times more than it was just seconds before, and it bounced around and echoed inside of my head, making me feel dizzy. Somehow my brain managed to coerce my legs into carrying me forward, and I found myself walking up the stage steps to take my place standing next to Sue Sylvester. Sue reached out her hand to shake mine, and though I saw her lips moving, I will never know what she said. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears seemed to drown everything around me out.

The screech of microphone feedback broke through the pounding in my ears and I could hear again just in time to catch Sue announcing that she was about to pull the second tribute. A male. She dipped her hand into a new bowl, one that must have replaced the old one while I was lost in my momentary delirium, and fished around, trusting her fingers to find me the perfect match.

"And your second tribute chosen to compete in the 74th Annual Hunger Games is…" As she pulled the strip of paper out and unfolded it, I caught a glimpse over her shoulder. I saw who it was before she even made the announcement. The color drained from my vision and my blood ran cold. I let out a choked sob as my lungs completely deflated for the second time in less than five minutes. Every ounce of strength left in my body was aiding in keeping my legs from collapsing underneath me.

The second tribute was Noah Puckerman.

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