Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games franchise, unfortunately.

Sass Says: I would love to thank my lovely, amazing beta: StayingAlive223. I would be totally...blah without her. 3


My eyes flutter between open and closed as my mother sits down on the corner of my mat. She moved the rags that were helping to cover up our makeshift window, causing the sunlight and all its irony to spill through onto my face. It shouldn't be so bright on a day like this. I groan and turn onto my side, pulling my thin sheet over my head to shield myself from the ever present day.

"Rosalie," my mother says, placing her frail hand gently on my shoulder and pulling the blanket away from me once and for all. "Rosey, get up. I've let you sleep in too long."

"Is Thatcher awake?" I grumble, not wanting to be the first one up on such a dreary day, despite the radiance of the sunlight refusing to remove itself from my warm skin.

A deep laugh from the other side of our crowded room confirms my suspicions, "Yes."

"I am too, so don't try to use me as an excuse, either." That would be Rosetta, although I don't know why she's even awake. Today, everyone has off from work and school. If I was her, I would have stayed in bed all day.

Or, perhaps not. I don't know if I'd have been able to sleep when my two younger siblings were thrown into the Reaping. Either way, I don't want to get up. Not today. Any other day, I would have gotten up, albeit begrudgingly, to get ready for work. I've been working since the day I turned twelve, when I noticed I was being slowly weaned off of school so that our precious Capitol could eat.

Now, while the Capitol lavishly devours our tedious labor, I receive only a mere hour of education from noon to one. Even so, I usually skip it to take an extra shift of work.

Mother didn't like when I abandoned my books for the calluses and blisters on my scarred hands. But each passing hour presents to me a few more sad coins that are added to my family's small collection. I still work up in the trees with some of the younger children. If I don't get reaped this year, I'll be getting my own place in the fields or the factory with my mother and sister. Thatcher, my older brother, was moved to the farms when he was fourteen, where his tall, muscular build was much needed.

He's eighteen this year, his last year to participate in the Reaping. If he doesn't get drawn, my parents have managed what few others have – two children safe; two children who weren't forced to compete in a killing competition for the entertainment of the Capitol. Then, they only have to wait three more years for their youngest to be safe, too.

At only fifteen, I'm already counting down the days until my last Reaping; until I'll be safe for good.

But, I don't have a good feeling about today. That's why I want to stay here; on my mat bought from the tessaraes that Rosetta, Thatcher, and I have taken.

"I'm dressed, too, if you were wondering." Thatcher's laughing again. I open my eyes to peer at him through my dark lashes and see his cheeky grin. "And Rolex is waiting on us, so I'd hurry up if I were you."

Rolex is our long-time neighbor and Thatcher's best friend. Lola, Rolex's sister, is a year older than I am, but we've been friends for years. She works in the fields already, and is part of the reason I want to head there as well.

"Seriously, Rosalie. The Peacekeepers won't like us being late."

I find it amusing that he tells me this because Thatcher is the one who's always at odds with the Peacekeepers. They don't like him because he's sullen around them, and he's always smarting off at them. He's been trying to tone it down—particularly because he knows what his public whippings to do mother—but he and Rolex hate them with a passion they sometimes can't seem to subdue. It's because of the Peacekeepers that neither Rolex nor Lola has parents, and it's because of them that we no longer have Aunt Rosemarie anymore.

Aunt Rosemarie used to take care of us when we were younger. She was unable to work, so my parents left us with her while they went off—a babysitter, of sorts. She played games with Thatcher and me, but she was also the one who taught Rosetta how to read when the instructors called her incapable. She taught me how to sing and whistle so that, when I was put in the trees, I would be able to relay the message that work was done.

Now, my sister works in packaging, my mother there alongside her. Mother's the one in charge of making sure that all the boxes are labeled properly so that we—the outer Districts-don't get more supplies than the Capitol.

My father works out on the farms with Thatcher and Rolex. They do all the heavy lifting because the Capitol won't allow us to have machines after "The Incident" happened lo those years ago.

"The Incident": A group of workers who ran the machines rebelled against the Peacekeepers after a young girl was executed. Using the equipment to their advantage, the workers managed to off three Peacekeepers before they were caught and executed themselves.

No machines have been allowed since then, forcing back-breaking work upon the men in the District. I still hold my place in the trees, but everyone assumes that I'll end up working with the rest of my family in packing.

I'd rather be out on the field with Lola and like Aunt Rosemarie, though. They get to work near the fields where my father and Thatcher labor, and I've decided that pulling and planting vegetables isn't too hard of a job. I would rather be outside letting the sun soak my skin than inside the factory with its white walls and artificial light. Inside, the temptation to give the Capitol spoiled goods is strong, and the temptation to give the outer Districts more food almost overpowering.

It'd be better for both my family and me if I worked out in the fields.

I usher Thatcher out of the room and slide into a worn, patchy green dress. It used to belong to my mother, but she passed it on to Rosetta, who passed it on to me, when she was free from the Reaping. My mother has altered it so that it doesn't fall off my skinny shoulders.

Normally, I braid my hair out of the way for work, but, as today is special, I leave it loose. As I pull on my stockings, my mother brushed through my tangles until it falls in loose waves over my shoulders. I can feel her hands shaking as she works, causing the butterflies in my stomach to flutter yet more violently.

We all leave our shack of a house and walk silently with Rolex and Lola. I can feel Lola's hand shaking in mine the closer we get to the center of the town. I squeeze it to let her know that everything's going to be okay, but Rolex has already beaten me to it. He throws his arm over her and smiles when Thatcher does the same to me.

"You don't have that many tessarae yet, so don't worry, Rosey," Thatcher's just as tense as I am, even if he won't admit it to me or even himself. "What are the chances of either of us getting picked?" I almost snort. What are the chances?

"Don't jinx yourself," Father snaps, but none of us read too much into it. My father has the tendency to worry, but he always calms down as soon as our names aren't drawn, still safe in the glass bowl with thousands of others. He has been worrying about his children getting reaped from the moment Rosetta turned eleven nine long years ago. It had been especially bad when all three of us were of age. "Wait until after the Reaping's over to joke around."

He says things like that every year, but the truth is that no one jokes or celebrates after the Reaping because, inevitably, one boy and one girl are always chosen. The entire District mourns for them, and we all try to help the families for as long as we can, which isn't really saying much. The entire town seemed to die on the inside during the Second Quell four years ago. My mother had been particularly on edge. Then, with forty-eight tributes, Rosetta and I both could have been drawn in for the girls, and Thatcher might have been picked for the boys. To our surprise and luck, none of us were chosen for what seemed like the bloodiest Games in history.

No one got to watch much of those Games, though. The only broadcast happened to be in the square, where everyone was encouraged to watch, but few were so lucky. We all had jobs that needed to be done. They rigged it to where there were radios playing the voice-overs of the infamous announcers Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman. We got to hear Haymitch Abernathy crowned victor, but we didn't get to see how he won until much later. I remember the immense celebrations of the outer Districts. It's rare for us to win the Games.

They say he turned to drinking, though, like Chaff had. And a shame, too. He was handsome for a sixteen year-old—dark curly hair that hung low over his steely grey eyes, lean and muscular with a mischievous smirk on his mouth. It's hard to think of him as an alcoholic, at only twenty years old. But that's what the pressures of the Games do to you, I suppose.

"Good luck, darling. I love you." Mother hugged me first, whispering words of encouragement through my hair and into my ear, her breath warm on my neck. She turned to Lola next while father talked to Thatcher and Rolex. I wait until he's done before letting him pull me away to tell me the same. They both place a kiss on all of our anxious heads.

None of us are the best off, but we have each other. My parents hadn't been legally allowed to take in the two orphans, but they basically live with us anyway, sharing what little they have with what little we have. It's a mutual agreement that seems set in stone after so many years.

As we wait in line to have our fingers pricked, I can't resist the urge to turn towards my brother with an accusatory look crossing my face. "How many times?"

He told my mother that he only took three tessarae over this past year, but even I knew that he was a liar and that it had been much more than that. Lola turned towards Rolex with the same look crossing over her features.

"How many times is your name going to be put in that bowl?"

Thatcher shared a glance with his best friend before they both shrugged their shoulders at us. I didn't have it in me to be too angry with either of them, especially because I know that both of us had lied to our mother.

We're a poor District, and it is frightening to think about what would have happened if we didn't get what miniscule bit our family couldn't to provide for us. Rosetta had been somewhat of a miracle. Even my parents were shocked when she finally admitted to them how many times her name had been entered by her last year – 84.

"I'm at 80, even," my brother finally answers when the Peacekeeper forcibly takes his hand and pricks his finger, as if bringing him to this horrible reality. A drop of blood later, I know my brother's chances of being taken to the Capitol and forced to play killer are much higher than my liking.

"I'm somewhere around 70, give or take," Rolex adds nonchalantly, like his life isn't on the line. His finger takes several pricks to get through the buildup of calluses from years of overwork.

Lola gives a strangled noise in her throat as she moves up in line. I know that she's not ready to answer him, so I smile at the two of them as if this day allows even the slightest bit of happiness. I'm younger than both my siblings, so neither of them really let me take any until last year. I tried to make up for it, especially because I'll be taking in more next year when we only have Lola and I to enter our names into the games.

"27."

I ignore Thatcher's sharp intake of breath because I'm pulled towards the front of the line. Both the boys are forced away from the line and are shepherded to where the other 18 years-olds wait. Lola's hand curls around mine once again as we're filed in with the rest of the girls our age. We're all scrawny and malnourished; it's a wonder any of us can stand on our feet for long, let alone work. I crane my neck to see where our siblings end up, but they're both lost in the crowd of familiar faces.

Genie, our escort, struts onto the stage in this ridiculous blue get-up that sparkles as if it's filled with tiny diamonds, which it probably is. The fantastic color takes me by surprise against the dreary mood and the grey backdrop of the Justice Building. It's train flows behind her, waving in the dry wind of District 11. I instantly hate her for wearing something so ravishing when she's in a District that's starving.

I'm too busy loathing her and raging war against her in my mind that I don't bother to listen to the speech she gives about everything being a privilege, and how she is oh so honoredt o be here. Neither do I pay any sort of attention to the video that tells us why we're all here. I let Seesy, the girl who works in the trees beside me, grab my free hand. Her thin frame trembles so terribly you would think it was 20 degrees out here. Her aunt, Seeder, is standing up on stage with her fellow victor and mentor, Chaff, beside her. Seeder's already in her forties – she won her Games years ago. She hates having a big house and nothing to do, so she works in the factory with my mother when she isn't training tributes.

"Ladies first!" Genie beams at all of us and suddenly I wish I had paid attention to her laughable spiel—it would have made time go slower. In her ridiculously high heels, she saunters towards the large bowl that holds my name 27 times. The bowl that holds Lola's name 43 times.

I can feel the tension in the air around me, buzzing in the silence that fills my ears. A collective breath is taken by everyone who stands among the crowd in the crammed square, all praying and hoping that it's not their name on that card.

Luckily for them, it's not.

"Rosalie Trosse!" My body stiffens from the roots of my teeth to the ends of my toes because it's my name on that card, and I really don't want to go up to that stage with Genie and her diamond dress that's still flowing flawlessly in the stupid sunlight.

The relieved looks that flash over the faces of my friends nearly destroys me, but in a second I can see the guilt they wear on their sleeves. Seesy lets go of my hand almost immediately as she backs up. Lola squeezes it before she does and there are tears already dripping down her face as the harsh reality of the situation hits her.

I feel the blood drain from my face, but I fold my hands carefully in front of me and make my way forward to the front, one agonizing step at a time. Genie smells like perfume – like too much perfume; I've never owned any, but I never want to after it assaults my nostrils and imbeds itself into my mind.

When she smiles at me, I manage some sort of grimace back at her before taking my place in front of Seeder. Genie continues to speak, as if my mother wasn't screaming and begging for someone to volunteer in my place, but we all know no one's going to.

It might be an honor to volunteer to enter the Games in the Career districts, but here in 11 no one is willing to take that chance.

Eventually, Rosetta manages to shut mom up, because the crowd around us becomes quiet once more. I try not to so much as glance at the rest of my family, because, so far, I'm managing to keep my cool. I know I'll crack if I so much as peek in their direction. My eyes, however, decide to land on my brother, who's maybe an inch away from falling apart completely. Rolex's hand steadies him on his shoulder, but does little for the broken look in his eyes as they bore into mine with such intensity I feel like fire could erupt from them at any second.

"Now, for the gentlemen."

I'm trying to convey to him that I'll be fine – that nothing bad is going to happen to me because I'll do anything to get back to them—that I almost don't here Genie falter with the name she's reading. When I glance at her, I know something awful just happened if she was giving me such an apologetic face. My heart drops to my stomach.

"Thatcher Trosse!"

Sympathy is a hard thing to come by now days, but I swear it's in the look Genie gives me as she glances between Thatcher and myself.

If my mother was sobbing before hand, there isn't a word to compare it to what she is doing now. I see a pair of Peacekeepers break away from the crowd of would-be tributes to make their way over to her. Father and Rosetta try desperately to get her to stop, but she's collapsed, every last fragile string holding her together broken beyond repair.

The boys around Thatcher start to make a sort of aisle to the stage, the implication urging him forward. His lips have turned into a frown, making me miss already the easy-go-lucky boy I woke up to with a laugh on his breath and a light in his eyes. He heads towards me with a heartbroken, but determined look set upon his features.

He breaks away from the crowd and marches towards me until he's just on the other side, barely an arm's length away. I try not to picture how marvelous he's going to do in the Games. He stands at 6 feet even, his shoulders broad and set firm as he stands stiff-backed in front of the crowd. This is the boy who used to walk me to school; the boy who used to walk me to work. This is the boy who slept next to me in that shack we called a home and defended me even when I was just a child.

I know the Career pack will want him, but I know they won't want me. That doesn't make me feel any better, but I can't help thinking about my short future.

Genie puts a hand on both of our shoulders and thanks our family. Thanks them! Thanks them for their children who will die at the hands of the Capitol, for their children who are about to be forced to kill for fame and fortune. It disgusts me and I can see Thatcher's doing everything in his power to hold back a deriding comment.

The cameras shut off, and the Peacekeepers grab us both by our upper arms, dragging us into the Justice Building none too gently. The last thing we hear is our mother screaming our names.

And then a gun shot. The doors of the Justice Building keep my eyes from lingering, from finding that unfortunate soul.

Seeder and Chaff aren't too far behind us, but they're just as wary of the Peacekeepers as Thatcher and myself. We're both thrown into one room. Thatcher helps me to my feet when Chaff slams the door behind him. Neither Seeder or Chaff can seem to contain the worn look rooted firmly on their faces as they lead us to the couch in the corner of the room.

"I'm sure it was just a warning shot." Seeder tries to be comforting, laying one of her hands on my thigh and the other on Thatcher's forearm. "You're going to get to say goodbye to..."

"To the rest of your family." Chaff finishes, plopping down in a chair and pulling a flask from his inside pocket.

Out of public eye, I let my poorly masked façade break and tears spill down my cheeks as I try to ease the stabbing pain in my chest. Thatcher's arms wrap protectively around me, and I know he's struggling not to let the river break through the leaks in his walls.


A/N: For those of you just tuning in, you'll find that this chapter is utterly amazing. (Not because of me, but view what Sass says, ha.) For those of you looking back, not much has changed, but you'll notice that it's more polished. New or old, let me know what you're thinking. 3 I very much value your opinions.