A/N Welcome to my first fanfiction! I'm new to this, so I would appreciate any tips, criticism, or suggestions.

Chapter 1: The Reaping for the 74th Annual Hunger Games - District 10

I wake up and glance at the clock. 10:30. Darn, I overslept. In District Ten, the reaping starts at 11AM, so I barely have any time. Not to mention my bad foot. I was born with it, so I'm used to it. After all, I've had to cope with it for 17 years. I can get around without a crutch, but I'm still annoyingly slow. I try to estimate how long it will take me to change into better clothes, which the stupid, moronic, idiotic Capitol makes us do, eat a quick breakfast, and get to the square. Thankfully, we don't live in the far corners of the district, so I'll make it if I don't get distracted. Talking about being distracted...

Too late for that. I'm two minutes into the day and my mind has already wandered off. I sigh. Some things never change, including the fact that my family is relatively poor, I might never get a decent job because of my crippled foot, and that this is all the Capitol's fault. If the Capitol just thought of us for once, life would be so much easier. I wish I could give those ridiculous self-centered fools a taste of their own medicine.

Calm down, I tell myself, I have a lot to do. I look at the digital clock, one of our most precious possessions, which is plugged into the only reliable electrical outlet in the house. We're pretty lucky to have one of those. The clock reads 10:35. Darn. Another 5 minutes lost. I climb out of bed and hobble over to the old chest where the clothes are, and I take out a blue plaid shirt and my best pair of jeans, put them on, and hobble to the kitchen, one of four rooms in the house. The other three are the bathroom, my parents' bedroom, and my room, where my older brother, who is now married, used to sleep too. My mother is eating at the table, and I see an untouched bowl of grits sitting in front of an empty chair. I'm assuming it's mine, because my father always goes into the fields the morning of the Reaping. He says that it's relaxing, but we all know that he does it to sort out his emotions. I sit down. We eat in silence, because no one is in the mood to joke or talk about happy things, and the alternative is worse. My family was never very talkative in the first place.

I hurry, hoping I'm not late for the reaping. At least I don't eat slowly. I quickly finish and head out. The streets are pretty quiet, but I need the head start. As I pass my best friend Clay's house, he comes out to meet me.

"Hey, wait up!" he calls, even though he knows as well as I do that he'll have no trouble catching up to me. I keep moving. In a few seconds, he's beside me.

"What do you want?" I ask him gruffly. He also knows that I'm usually in a bad mood on reaping day.

He pretends to be hurt, then says, "I just didn't want to walk to the reaping alone."

I understand him. He's eighteen, and he has 34 entries this year. Not the most; I know people with fifty-something entries, but it only takes one slip of paper to ruin his life. In a way, the Capitol has made life into a huge survival game. We take tesserae, but we run a higher risk of being called at the reaping. In other words, by trying to live, we run a higher chance of dying. I feel anger burning my insides. I don't know what I would do to gain the privilege of killing Snow, that evil, white-bearded . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Uh, I don't know what he is, or even if there are words bad enough to describe him. Anyway, Clay took out four tesserae for the first six years, one for him, one for each of his parents, and one for his younger brother Weston, who would be twelve this year. Weston died of disease last year, so Clay only took out three tesserae this year. His family is a lot poorer than mine; one tesserae per year is enough for my family. My brother turned nineteen when I turned fifteen, so I've been taking out one tesserae every year for the past three years. I have nine entries this year. I walk the final stretch silently while Clay tries to start a conversation, making a lot of awkward jokes in the process.

After we reach the square, we sign in. Because of how slowly I walk, the square is almost full, despite my early start. Before I head toward the seventeen-year-old section, Clay tells me to meet him at our usual meeting spot, an old barn near our section of the district. I nod and hobble toward the area where the seventeen-year-olds stand, and I reach it just as Justus, the escort for District 10, a chubby man with orange and yellow hair, walks on the stage. The routine is the same, with the reading of the Treaty of Treason and all that trash, although it passes all too quickly.

The previous victors are introduced. District Ten has had four victors, but only three are still alive. The first one of the three is Wyatt Gresham. His games were so long ago that no one really remembers them. Apparently, he won because of his strength, and he is still very strong for a sixty year old man. The next one was Cheyenne Studd. Her father was a butcher, so she had plenty of experience with knives. The youngest one is Austin Orford. He won twenty or so years ago, but people still talk about his games. He was good with a whip, and he won after his sponsors gave enough money for him to have one.

Before I realize it, the girl's slip of paper is being pulled out. I don't really care, since after everyone teased me about my being crippled, and I responded with ignoring everyone, I don't really know anyone that well, with the exception of Clay, his dead brother Weston, and my family, of which I am the only person still eligible for the reaping. So, I really don't care what girl goes to die.

"Meadow Fairbanks."

I see a sixteen year old girl, her face contorted by panic, shakily make her way up the stage. I clearly remember her, because I don't forget my torturers. She was one of the worst at school, even though she eventually gave up when I started ignoring her. Still, she was on me for four long years. I look in shock at her face. She looks so different from the mean, sarcastic girl I remember. Maybe I do care, just a little. All too soon, the boy's name is being picked out.

"Buck Hardwick."

No, this can't be. But it's true. My name just came out of the bowl. Then I realize that my reaction isn't much better than Meadow's. I harden my face like I used to do and hobble up to the stage. While I do this, I hear gasps among the crowd. Ugh, I hate pity. More determined, I pick up my pace and hold my head straight, refusing to look down. I stumble over a branch. More gasps. Not now! I feel my cheeks burning red. I'm trying to avoid pity, but I get more the harder I try to avoid it. I sigh and continue toward the stage. Thankfully, Justus comes over and helps me up the stairs. I don't think I would've made it up without tripping if I tried by myself. He asks for volunteers, but I already know that no one will. No one from ten ever volunteers.

I shake Meadow's hand, as I am required to do, and we head into the Justice building.