Caged, a hunger games fanfic

Right, so this is my OC take on the Quarter Quell, the rebellion, and all that other stuff. I love the original books, but I wanted to try something different, so this is what I came up with! I own nothing except the OCs! Reviews are like Finnick Odair in his underwear!

District Twelve. Hell on Earth. Or, perhaps Earth had been permanently relocated to Hell. It'd make sense. District Twelve even had the coal to fuel the flames. Lovely, right? Not really. Of all of the Districts, District Twelve was the worst - other than District Thirteen. But no one talks about that. Ever. There's too much fear. And it wasn't even fear of something palpable, something you could see. Then again, fear of the invisible is the worst possible fear, isn't it? Because that's what the Capitol did to the people, even to an early age - make them fear.

When children and born in District Twelve, immediately, a seed of fear was planted in them. As they grew, the seed was nurtured and cared for, until it slowly blossomed into a creeping vine, crawling through the person's body, wrapping their heart in it's horrible arms, creeping into their brain, taking root there, and even delving into the person's soul, crushing it with the weight of oppression and darkness. Why? Because District Twelve apparently close to rebelling against the Capitol.

Hurrah.

And why did the Capitol think this? Because of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, winners of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Because of their little stunt with the Night lock. Not that I - and the rest of District Twelve - wasn't glad they were alive. Everyone welcomed them back, myself welcoming them a bit more stiffly than the rest. Didn't anyone else realize what this meant? Katniss and Peeta had made fools out of the Capitol. They made the Capitol seem cruel and heartless - which they were, but many chose to overlook this - and the Capitol didn't like that. At all. And so who were they taking it out on?

District Twelve.

The miners had to work twice as hard and twice as long, and injuries abounded. I figured Katniss's mum was glad for that - make more money that they had excesses of. Money that could be donated to the District. Money to help buy food for the starving. Money to help support the weak.
Money they were hoarding. I was making more and more hunting trips into the woods.

My father didn't approve.

From his bed, he would protest, telling her to try some other way of getting food. Anything buy going into the woods. I would shoot him a glare. If I didn't, who the hell would? Besides, loads of other people did - I wasn't the only one. There were many days I would encounter different groups of hunters, each one seemingly noisier than the next, scaring away myprey. My trading was done in the Hob exclusively. I gave none to the Peacemakers - why did they need it? It wasn't as if they couldn't afford to buy it themselves. Why should I give away my hard work to people that can pay? I'd much rather trade in the Hob, where I receive food for my efforts. Granted, sometimes I'm afraid to ask what's in the food, but I've never died from it, nor has my father, so I s'ppose we have a mutual agreement there. I give them good meat, they don't kill me or rat met out. I don't trust them, and they don't trust me, but it keeps us all alive. Isn't that all that matters at the end of the day?

I sure hope so.

It doesn't matter, at the moment, though, because right now, I'm concentrating on my prey, a small white rabbit about five feet from me. Crouched behind a bush, I slowly reach behind me into my small satchel made of deer skin. Not the most conventional, but it works. Withdrawing a shuriken, I carefully prick the tip of my finger on one of the blades. A small drop of blood bubbles up from the small point, and as it slowly trickles down my finger, I can't help the small grin I can feel twisting up the corners of my lips. Sharp as ever. I carefully take aim at the creature, and then whirl the weapon at it.

It dies before it hits the ground.

As I approach the lifeless carcass and pull my shuriken from the body, I examine the rabbit that lies dead before me. It's previously spotless white fur is now matted with a thick patch of crimson liquid that runs down the chest of the creature. Its head is lolled back, almost against its back, the throat slit accurately, I can't help bit widen my grin at my handiwork. But the time for admiration was over.

Quickly, I grabbed the knife from my belt and severed the head from the body. After much contemplation, I skinned it quickly, removing as much meat as I could - you take what you can get, or you starve. I hurriedly skin the rest of the creature, taking the meat I need. I'll sell the organs at the Hob - Greasy Sae, whom I'm surprised hasn't dropped, quite enjoys rabbit entrails. She likes to put the liver in her soup as an 'extra flavouring.' Sometimes, I'm glad I don't have to eat her cooking too often.
After I've finished, I toss the body into a clump of bushes, knowing that tonight, the dogs would eat it. I put the meat in a pouch that hangs by my side, and then clean my weapons.

The knife is one of my most prized possessions. It was my father's, when he worked in the mines. Well, when he was able to work in the mines, anyway. Before the blast that took so many lives caused a pile of rocks to fall on his back, crushing the bottom of his spine, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. That's when I became mother, daughter, caretaker, hunter, and breadwinner. I was the head of the household now. My father could barely use the facilities without my help. I still had to sponge bathe him, to my distaste. But he couldn't help it, could he?

My other weapon was my favourite. It was called a shuriken. I'm told that in previous eras, they were called throwing stars. All I know is that it has helped me out of many a situation and I can kill with it easily. I'm rather good with knives, see? Give me a bow and arrow? I'm absolutely rubbish. Give me weights to lift? I can lift them to an extent. Give me combat? I'm screwed. Give me a knife, and I can kill everyone within a ten yard radius. But I wouldn't. I don't like killing. One of the reasons I hate the Hunger Games. But that doesn't mean I don't have many, many tesserae in along with my name. A fact that made me rather nervous.

Tomorrow was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell, which happened every 25 years. This was the third Quarter Quell, and two tributes would be chosen, just as they would be chosen for the Hunger Games. Even the tesserae will work the same way. Lovely, right? Not really. Along with having my name entered the mandatory six times; I have taken out 5 tesserae a year. Cumulatively, that means I'll have my name in 31 times. Brilliant. But then again, why do I care? The chances of my name being drawn when there are so many more people who I help that are starving to death, and have so many tesserae in that they can't count them all, they're the ones that'll get chosen. Not me, I'm convinced of it. I've never been convinced I'll live long enough to be able to compete. One way or another, I'll probably be going to my grave before I make it to twenty-one. How different can it be to die in the Quarter Quell than to die in District Twelve? One might be more painful than the other - the painful one being District Twelve. The Quell will simply bring about my death quicker.

Oh well. Can't you just tell how badly that upsets me?

But those thoughts are pushed from my mind as I enter the Hob. Lovely place, it is, with its smells of vomit and sweat and blood, it's grimy, grungy surfaces and it's even grimier inhabitants. But a job is a job, food is food, and starving is starving.

I make my way over to Greasy Sae, depositing the entrails and organs on her chopping board. She gives a grunt of acknowledgement and hands me a roll of bread. Organs. Bread. That's as far as our relationship extends. I don't trust anyone enough to develop anything other than a basic agreement. Why should I trust anyone, when most people would rather kill you and take your things than to look you in the eye? How different can this be from the Hunger Games, then? What's the point of the Hunger Games, anyway? Why not just send the tributes to District Twelve. There wouldn't be any winners - they'd all die. More entertainment for the people of the Capitol.

By the time I make it home, it's dark, and the moon is shining high above the trees. In District Twelve, there's a strict curfew - be home before dark. Too bad. I simply take the back roads home, not particularly afraid of being caught. I even kick a few rocks as I grow closer to home. What's the point if I get caught? My father was a rather popular man, and he has many friends from the mines - those that aren't dead, that is. They would take care of him if I died. Many people often wondered how a man like him, so open and trusting, could produce offspring like me, so closed and distrusting. Truth is, he doesn't know.

I don't know how I could have a father like that, when he spent all of his life in District Twelve, and could still trust people. Hell, I don't know how I could have a father that lived his life, and still trusted everyone he met. My only explanation is that he's a fool.

When I reach home, the first thing I see is his worried face.

"Where have you been, love? It's after curfew - you could've been killed if you were caught out!" He says in his rough cadence.

"Good job I didn't get caught then, isn't it?" I said dryly, rolling my eyes. "Be glad I have food."

"But-"

"Would you rather me stop? Stop hunting and stop trading, and let us starve to death? I don't see anyone else who can bring home our food. If I stop, we die."

He shut up quickly after that.

After boiling the meat and making the bread from the rough, gritty tessera grain, we feast on a supper of rabbit and drop bread. Then, I fluff his pillows and tuck him in like a child. In some ways, my father is closely like a child. He's open, trusting, and foolish because of the previously mentioned reasons. After bidding him good night, I start to leave the room, but he stops.

"Love you, kid."

I give a noncommittal grunt as I stalk off to my area of the house, rolling out a threadbare blanket on the floor and lying down, resting my head on a jacket. I close my eyes, and sigh. I've gone to bed in my hunting clothes - a black tank and brown trousers - but I don't feel like changing. I know I should get some sleep - tomorrow is Reaping Day, after all - but it doesn't come.

So that night, I lay awake, staring at the sky through the wooden slats in our roof, and I pray that it's not someone that's starving that's chosen as the tributes. Let it be some of the richer children, children of the Peacekeepers. Let them suffer. Let them feel what hunger is. Let them.

Later, sometime around 3am, I find myself dozing off.

Daylight came far too soon for my liking.

The early morning sunbeams filtered through the slats in the wooden roof, somehow finding a way to hit me right in the face. I didn't want to get up, not really, but I knew I had to do something. Today was the day of the Reaping, the day many people feared and dreading, knowing that for them or their children, it could be the day when they were taken from District Twelve and stuck in the Quarter Quell. More likely than not, the next time we'll see our tributes will be in a wooden box. Everyone feared Reaping Day, and if I were really and truly honest with myself, a small part of me, buried deep down, was afraid of the Reaping too. Not that I'd admit it. To anyone. Ever.

Right now wasn't the time for sitting around and thinking or making revelations to myself.
Now was the time to hunt, possibly for my last time.

I propelled myself up from the hard earth floor, wincing as my muscles screamed in protest. I didn't really care - soreness was a thing I got used to quickly, and anymore, I simply ignored it - what was the point of acknowledging pain when I and everyone else in District Twelve lives with it every day? But there are some who did. People like the baker's wife, who still complains even though she lives in her shiny little palace. She whines every time she gets a blister, or every time her fingers are a bit sore. Well, I've got news for her - I've got more blisters than I can count, and my whole bodyis sore half of the time - its part of life. Then again, it's only part of life in District Twelve - in District One; I'll bet they don't know what soreness is. Or hunger. They don't care, either.

It makes me sick, sometimes, when people who have all the riches anyone could ever need and they hoard it all to themselves, greedily counting their money and stuffing food in their mouths as they watch the rest of us wither and starve, with barely enough to scrape by. Many of us don't. Many families are so poor that when a family member dies, they simply take them to a grassy plane, setting them in the lush carpet of green and letting them wither and decay there. I don't want that.

For a moment, I contemplate what would happen if I died. I certainly wouldn't have any mourners - after all, not many people like me, and I don't like many people. My father would shed a few mandatory tears, and then his friends would take him into their home, feeding him until he was full, giving him all the sympathy they could muster. I'd probably just be left in the planes with the other skeletons. But I'd rather be in the woods. Now, I know I won't be able to see or feel when I'm dead, but I'd love to be buried out in the middle of the woods the surround this miserable place, out where the birds sing and the trees whisper to each other as the wind blows. The sun shines brightly down through the leaves, shedding light on the ground below. A truly beautiful sight. That's where I want to be buried. Not in some field, completely out in the open, devoid of anything but grass and bodies.

I think I might come back and haunt the person who did that.

But haunting and death don't matter at the moment. What matters is I'm out of the house, the thin leather material that are known as shoes firmly on my feet, moulded there from years and years of heavy use. As I walk towards the Hob, I hear the people talking. I hear my name a few times, followed by a few hateful words. Chinese whispers about me. That's what my father calls rumours - Chinese whispers. I asked him one time why he called them that, and he said that's just the way he did things. I didn't ask him any more questions after that. My father and I don't talk much. Sometimes, he glances at me, and he looks like maybe he wants to talk, but I brush him off.

I know I shouldn't blame him for his paralysis, but I do. Every time I look at him, lying in his bed, simply watching as Ido all the work - both his and mine. He watches as I go out to hunt, and come back in, utterly exhausted from the day's activities. He watches as I take on the duties of father, mother, daughter, caretaker, breadwinner, and worker. He just watches. There are many things that he could do to help - he has this contraption called a wheelchair. If I help him in it, he can move around, wheeling himself as means of transportation. But he always declines the offer. He simply watches me do his work. Sometimes I think maybe he hates me. I know he used to. Because of my mother. Because of something I couldn't help at all.

I'm told my mother was an exceedingly beautiful woman, with chestnut brown hair down to her waist, and icy blue eyes that could pierce you to the spot. My father was the exact opposite - the District regular, with black hair and grey eyes. My mother used to work in the Hob, her station the cleanest one. She would sell flowers and herbs, medicinal roots and leaves and roots for eating. My father met her, and immediately they fell in love. He married her, and about a month after they were married, my mother became pregnant. But then something went dreadfully wrong. As she was giving birth nine months later, her heart stopped. The doctors had some fancy name for it, but I couldn't care less. All I know is that because of my, my mother died.

My father blamed me.

Up until the mining blast, whenever he would look at me, he would have this strange look in his eyes, like he wanted to hate me, but he couldn't. I know it wasn't my hair - it was the same black colour as his - but I knew it was my eyes. I have my mother's eyes. He was very cold towards me, very stiff-shouldered. I could tell he didn't like me. But then, after the mining blast, and I had to start taking care of him, he finally warmed up to me.

I wish I could say the same about him.

I glance at the clock fixed above the town centre. It's eleven, which gives me time to swing by the Hob. I have no need to hunt today - I can't find the will. Because I know that today, some poor, weak child is going to be chosen to go to the Hunger Games, and we'd never see them again.

It sent splinters into my wooden heart.

As I entered the Hob, I felt myself stiffening as the stench hit me. Many words sprang to mind. Disgusting. Repulsing.

Survival.

I head over to Greasy Sae's area, trying to force a smile onto my face, but only succeeding in a funny little twitch of the lips.

"What do you need, Smith?" She said her rough cadence almost unfamiliar to my ears - I'm not around her enough to get used to her strange accent. But perhaps we all have that accent? I don't know.

"Soup. Small bowl." I reply, keeping it short and simple - this is our relationship. Not much speech, showing our 'friendship' through our actions.

Entrails, no poisoning/ratting out.

She hands me a wooden bowl of soup with questionable contents. I don't ask, she doesn't tell. She doesn't hand me a spoon, or a utensil - District Twelve considers those a rarity. Eating with our hands and mouth is what matters - after all, when you're starving, the way you get the contents into your stomach doesn't really matter.

I slide two shillings her direction, and she gives me a toothy grin as I quickly down the soup and hand her the bowl back. We don't say goodbye to one another, but she does grab my arm before I can leave. I stiffen immediately, not knowing what her next move would be. It would be a shame to hurt her.

"Good luck, Alyson," She tells me, surprising my by using my first name. I didn't know she knew it.

"Thanks, Sae," I reply, quickly leaving. I don't want to get emotional, now do I?

As soon as I'm freed from the Hob, I break out into a sprint, heading towards the fence that encages us in this horrible place. I find the hole in the fence and slide through easily, coming out on the other side and breaking into a run.

I fly through the forest, my feet barely touching the ground before they come back up. I dance between the trees and leap over the rocks, my only goal speed. I want to get to my lake. Now.
The colours streak by as I run, surrounding me, cloaking me in greens and browns and yellows before the colours are snatched away, only to be replaced by more. My elbow-length hair flies back from my face, streaming behind me like some sort of strange cape as I run. Before long, I break through a screen of bushes and brambles, and I find it.

My lake.

The water is crystalline, and it's cool to the touch. Stripping down to my underclothes, I step into the water, closing my eyes as it washes over me, soothing the stress away as I sink down lower. Quickly washing my hair, I then scrub the dirt and grit from my body before washing my clothes, setting them on a rock as I crawl back onto the back, perching myself on a log. I didn't mind if people saw me - I wasn't particularly attractive, anyway. Within an hour, the clothes - and my hair - were dry, and I put my clothes back on, smoothing them down with one hand as my long fingers raked through my hair, trying to calm the wild mass. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add. Oh well.

It's almost one by now, and I sigh as I get to my feet, running back towards the District. As I re-enter the District, I look back at the fence with contempt. For many, the fence symbolizes safety. To me, it symbolizes a cage. I am a caged animal. Woe unto the Capitol if I'm ever freed.

I take my time as I head to the square, glaring at the banners and the cameras perched on rooftops. As I take my place with the 17-year-olds, I can't help but look at the others. I feel horrible for the twelve-year-olds, who would be murdered before they even got past the famed Cornucopia, where many were killed in the initial struggle. I look away from the twelve-year-olds and focus on the other possible tributes. They're all thin, almost to a point where you could most likely count their ribs. The only ones who weren't thin were the Peacemakers children. They were nice and filled out. They've never known hunger. Never known struggle. A part of me, a dark part of me, wishes they would get picked as tributes. Let them die in the middle of a ring, thousands of miles from home. Let them die while millions watch, cheering that another one's gone. Let them die. Not us. Not the people who work for survival.

Let them die. Let them burn. Not us. But a part of me knows it willbe one of us. Because isn't it always? Even with Katniss and Peeta - they weren't well fed at all. They were poor and starving just like the rest of us. But they survived. Both of them. I can't help the sinking feeling that this year's tributes won't be so lucky.

I'm interrupted from my thoughts by the mayor coming onstage, giving his mandatory Hunger Games speech, telling of how horrible the war was, and how generous the Capitol is.

Lies.

Then, bouncy, happy little Effie Trinket comes up to the stage, giving her sickeningly cheery "Happy Hunger Games!" I almost laugh when she says "And may the odds be ever in your favour." Lies. No one wants the odds to be in our favour. They want to watch us die. The odds are not in our favour. The odds are never in our favour. Why lie to us and say they are.

I see Katniss and Peeta, sitting together, holding hands. It makes me sick. I glare at them, and Katniss meets my gaze. I give her a look of pure hatred, and then I look away, back to where they were drawing out the names for the Games.

A slip of paper is removed. A name is called.

"Alyson Smith."

Oh. Hell.

I'm numb, in a stupor. Alyson Smith. Alyson Smith. Alyson Smith. That's me. I'm the tribute. I'm going to the Hunger Games, because I'm not Primrose Everdeen - no one will volunteer for me. Hell, I expect half of them to cheer when I die. It's me. I'm the tribute. I'm going to die.

It wasn't like death was something I knew was going to occur to me one day. I thought it'd be sooner, to be honest. But now it was real. I was going to the Capitol. I was going to be freed from this cage, just to be put into another one, and I was going to die in that cage.

Forever a caged animal.

I feel hands, pushing at my back, shoving me towards the stairs. Effie is looking at me with a grin on her stupid face. Katniss looks at me with a look I can't describe, almost pity, but I can't believe it would be that. I look away, swallowing hard. I was going to die.

As I take my place on stage, I hear the mandatory clap, and I even hear a cheer from the crowd. I pinpoint their location and give them a grim smile. A smile that said I don't give a damn. But I did give a damn. I didn't want to die. Not yet, anyway. Then again, it wasn't as if I ever expected to get married - who'd be interested in me, honestly? Who could I trust enough to be with? And then there's the topic of children. I would want children, if District Twelve didn't exist. If I was somewhere else. Perhaps if Panem wasn't Panem, and it was back to its ancient state of North America. Perhaps then. But now? I couldn't be that cruel.

And so as I look into the cameras, I give them a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. Instead, I give the cameras a glare. And then a short laugh bubbles up from my throat as I realize I might be a good competitor after all.

I don't have much to live for, after all.

Then, wretched little Effie Trinket draws the name of the boy tribute.

"Mason Gillis!" She calls in her stupid little voice.

For a moment, just one, single moment, I feel sorry for the boy who is coming with me to the Hunger Games. To the Capitol. Then, I forget the pity I took on the boy, and I try with all my might to hate him. Hate him more than I've ever hated anyone else in my pitiful little existence. It works rather well, mainly because I realize that this boy, the one standing next to me - the one with tears in his eyes, looking out into the crown - might just kill me. I might just kill him, too. The though is repulsive to me, and I know that I would never take another human life - willingly, that is. Then again, I've seen the Hunger Games - it's hard not to, when they're projected everywhere in Panem - and I've seen the most piteous, sobbing tributes turn into ruthless monsters once they're in the Arena. Who knows what I will do to this poor boy? Who knows what I am capable of doing to this poor boy? I don't think I want to know. Not now, not ever. It's too late for that, though, because I know in about a week's time, I will be in the Arena, doing who knows what to make it out alive. Or maybe I'll just give up? Maybe I'll not worry about making it out alive, and simply worry about making it as long as I can? Or maybe I'll do something incredibly stupid, like running to the Cornucopia, and I'll be killed within the first few minutes of the Quell? Provided that they still have a Cornucopia. Then again, I'm rather certain they will - they have for every other Quarter Quell. To me, it seemed like the Quarter Quell was just a less-glorified version of the Hunger Games. This was becoming even lovelier by the minute.

My thoughts were pushed away, however, as Effie Trinket started her ending speech. I looked out into the crowd, scanning for signs of my father. He's not there.

Big shock.

I didn't really expect him to come, even though he could get into the wheel chair and come. I didn't think he would. But still, a part of me, that mushy part that I keep buried, felt pain when I didn't see him there. His daughter was about to be shipped out of District Twelve, to the Capitol, to the Arena, and the next time he would see her in person would probably be in a wooden box. Did he not even care enough to come? Apparently not.

I hear a noise coming from the crowd, and I look over to see tow young children, a boy and a girl, who look remarkably like Mason. They must be his siblings. They were crying and the girl's sobs rang out, reaching my ears. The boy cried silently, and I knew that they were hurt deeply. When a child cries out loud, it's because they want attention, or they're upset. When a child cries silently, it's because they just can't stop. When I was younger, I shed a lot of quiet tears.

I know I can't kill this boy. Not after seeing this sight, his siblings crying, and tears misting his own eyes. But then I know when we get in that Arena, anything could happen. Things could change. I might be able to kill him without flinching. I could do anything when we get in that Arena. For once, I'm afraid of myself. What if I killed this boy? What if I killed others? Others with families and friends, and maybe even lovers that are really and truly expecting them to come home? And then I'm jealous of those people, of that boy with the siblings that love him, of those tributes with families and friends that care for them. I'm jealous because I want that. I want people to be sad when I die, not to cheer. Is that too much to ask? Is that too selfish, to want people to miss me when I'm dead, instead of saying finally? Is that too selfish? And I know it's not selfish, because it's something I'll never experience. No one will cry if I perish. No one will weep, and say pretty words. No one will remember me as anything special. I'll be remembered as the angry one, the one with no one. I'd be surprised if I was remembered at all. And I know it's all my doing.

But now is not the time for these thoughts! Because now Effie Trinket has finished her speech, all those pretty words that shield the horror and bloodlust are over, and the people are clapping once again. Then, before I can move, two Peacekeepers grab me, one on each arm, and I'm led away to the town building.

I'm ushered into a lift, a creaky old thing that barely creaks along. I eye the Peacekeepers warily. They stiffly ignore me. I wonder if they'll watch me die too. Wouldn't surprise me. I wonder just how many people will witness my death. I know I won't pull my stunt at the Cornucopia - that'd be like quitting, and I'm not a quitter. I'll definitely compete. Then, as I make my mind up about competing, I realize that I'll probably still die, regardless of my participation. Then, I start wondering how I'll die. Probably not by hunger - I'm a good hunter, and I can sustain myself. I'll probably die from either one of the Game Maker's stunts, or another tribute. I wonder who will kill me. Maybe a Career? Maybe a small child, holding a weapon and looking at what they've done. Maybe the boy named Mason. Maybe he would kill me. Anyone could kill me. I could die. I would die. I might die. I should die. The next time I'll be in District Twelve is in a pine box, waiting to either be burned or chucked out in the field of grass. I wonder if anyone will even bother to bury me.

And then I'm in a room, covered in some sort of cushy soft stuff. The Peacekeepers set me down on a couch and tell me that people will come to say their goodbyes. I don't expect anyone to come.

I'm wrong.

In a few minutes, my attention is drawn back to the door that is slowly creaking open. I expect it to be a Peacekeeper, telling me that I should just go to the tribute train. But it's not. It's Greasy Sae.

"Smith," she says an unidentifiable tone in her voice.

"Sae." I reply, watching as she takes a seat near me.

"I told you to be careful, eh!" She says.

"I didn't really have any say over things." I reply, wondering if she blamed me. I wonder if she'll actually miss me, or miss the entrails. In a minute, the question is answered.

"You be careful out there, Smith. We're rooting for you." She tells me, taking my hand between two of hers. I feel my shoulders slump, and a real smile twists up the corners of my mouth - not a grim smile, or an angry, sarcastic smile. Not an acerbic smile. A true smile. I'm surprised.

I think she is too.

"I'm more worried about the boy named Mason. Root for him - he's got people to take care of."

She didn't say anything. I wonder if she was truly rooting for me, or if they were just kind words for the girl on death row.

"Thank you, for stopping by," I say, surprising myself a little.

"I was glad to." She looks like she's going to get up, but she stops. "Alyson," she says, and I raise my eyebrows, "You can have something from you're district, you know."

"I know." I wonder why she's telling me this. I've had enough of this district - why do I want more? The coal dust on my boots is enough.

"I'd like you to take this, alright? I got it for a tribute, and you need something'' to remind you of home."

I'm surprised as she pulls something from her apron and hands it to me. It's a small wooden carving, something made by District Twelve hands. It takes me a moment to realize it's a rabbit - the creature whose entrails I usually give to Sae. I don't know what to say.

"Thank you, Sae," is what I manage, looking up at her.

"No problem. Now you be careful, alright? We may have two winners again this year!" But those words are strained, and I know she doesn't really mean them. Two winners again? It'd be a miracle, and most likely a curse to District Twelve.

I nod as she leaves. As I turn the little rabbit over in my hands, I realize that was probably my only visitor. My father probably wouldn't visit, would he? Just as I think this, the door creaks open, and for a moment, for one shining moment, I thought he'd actually come.

It was a Peacekeeper. He told me it was time to go to the train, and I followed, slipping the carving into my pocket.

Let the Games begin.

As I was led away, I tried to fix a smile of indifference on my features. Like I didn't care if I lived or died. Why should I care, anyway? I sometimes think that the day I was born was the day my death certificate was signed - now, it's been sealed. I notice footsteps behind me, and I wonder who it is, but then I realize - it's probably Peeta Mellark, coming to the tribute train to get ready to coach us. Well, he'd probably end up coaching the boy. I'd probably be stuck with Katniss. I think the boy's the lucky one.

I must stop calling him the boy - his name is Mason. But if I stop calling him 'the boy' and start calling him Mason, then what good will it do me? It'll make it harder to see him die, which he probably will. I hate that he will die, when he has people to look after. I hate that anyone will die when they have family and friends to care for. Me? I'm not so worried about myself. But the people who have others, why should they have to perish? Because life isn't fair - never has been, never will be.

The cameras flash, the tiny bulbs blinking at me, nearly blinding me with all the lights. People are crowded around the tribute train, loud cries echoing out from those who are either happy for us, or don't want us to go. I can't tell which. I don't smile at the cameras that are flashing at me, and I don't blink at them either. I simply turn my face away, not wanting to be seen. They want to see my face, in the Capitol. They want to see the fear, and the worry, and they want to see that I know that I will most likely die. I'm not giving them that satisfaction. Am I afraid, even though I already know I'll probably die? Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I am rather worried, and slightly afraid. I'd be insane if I weren't though. As I reach the steps leading up to the train compartment, the Peacekeepers let me go, and I slowly climb those three metal steps that seal my fate.

I'm leaving District Twelve. I'm going to the Capitol. I'm going to the Hunger Games.

I think that's when it really hits me, when I'm in that train compartment, Effie Trinket awaits, her stupid little grin on her strange face. She says something in that chirpy little voice of hers, but I don't understand what she's saying. I'm too slow. I could've ran, before the Reaping. I could've ran off into those woods, and kept running, but then where would've I been? Outside of the District with no where to go, just waiting for the Capitol to find me. Where would I go? District Thirteen? I'd have to be insane - which I wasn't - to go there. Not only would the Capitol find me, but I'd probably die from some sort of poisoning. Between hunger, poisoning, and a bullet from the Capitol, I'd choose the bullet - it's quicker.

By the time I realize my feet are moving, I've already reached a door. Effie tells me something, and for once, I actually listen to her.

"Now, if you'll go inside, there's a bathroom where you can have a shower. Then, when you're finished, there is a closet for a change of clothes. Then, come back out, and we'll have a nice dinner and you can meet your coach!" Her voice really was rather irritating, the more I thought about it.

"Alright," I replied, turning the knob and entering the room.

When I enter the room, the door closes behind me, and I'm thankful for that because if it didn't, I don't know if I would've been able to shut it. The room was gorgeous. It was pristine and nice, with the same soft material from the town hall along the seats. I could fit two houses of my size in here. I see a bed in the corner - a luxury I never had before - and I realize that this is mine. This is all mine, until we reach the Capitol, which will take about a day or so. I get all this for about a day.

I'm in shock. But there were things to be done, and I had to do them.

To the side of the room, there's a door, and I assume it's the bathroom. As I walk inside, I realize this is the biggest bathhouse I've ever seen. The shower cubicle seems like it would take up half of my house if it were back home. I quickly strip down and jump inside. They have hot water. We never get hot water - not unless it's boiled. I turn a few knobs, and I'm immediately covered in some sort of thick, sweet smelling glop. It smells almost like honey, with a hint of something akin to lavender. It smells heavenly, and as I scrub it into my skin and wash it off, I'm pleased that the smell lingers. Soon enough, the shower is finished though, and I step out. My body is assaulted by warm air, which dries me quickly - even my hair. I don't know what to do with my hair now - it's never been as silky as it feels now. I simply comb it with my fingers, hoping that will suffice.

As I look in the mirror, I don't recognize myself. Not a trace of dirt remains - the glop washed it away. My hair is nice and shiny, and it actually looks presentable. I'm a completely different person. I'm not sure if I like it.

I scoop up my clothes from the floor, taking care to remove the rabbit carving from the pocket of my trousers, and I toss them into the chute that would take them into the bowels of the ship, to be cleaned, and returned to my room. My room. It felt nice to have a room. I almost felt special.

As I return to my room, I make a beeline for the closet, and I find that there has already been a set of clothes picked out for me, sitting there on the bed. Humph. But as I slide on the underclothes, then my black jumper and black trousers, I realize I don't really mind. It was nice to be taken care of for once, instead of being the caregiver to someone that could easily help themselves, if they just put a little effort into it. This brings me back to thinking about my father. Will he watch the Games? Will he watch as I run around, trying to avoid being killed? Will he laugh as I die? Will he even care?

Then I think about the b- Mason. Will his siblings watch? Will they watch him on screen as he fights to get back to them? Will they watch? Will they be able to?

I don't know. I don't want to think about this anymore - I don't like thinking about this. I lace up my boots and make my way back to the main body of the train, where I find a table tucked away in the corner. I see Effie motion for me to come over, and I slide into the booth, sitting in the corner, away from Effie, who took her seat on the opposite side of the table.

"How is it here?" She asked.

I gave a noncommittal grunt. It was nice, but it wouldn't last.

"Come now, Alyson!" I gave a tiny shudder as she used my name. It didn't sound right coming from her Capitol-accented, chipper voice. It sounded right coming from Greasy Sae, in her rough cadence. It sounded right coming from my father, in his soft tones. It didn't sound right coming from her sharp, bright accent, or her smiling little mouth. It wasn't right.

"Its fine," I reply, cutting her off. I don't want to hear her speak anymore. It reminds me of where I'm going, and where I might not make it back from.

She gave a funny little harrumph, probably peeved that I didn't fawn over my room, and everything. Well, I certainly wasn't going to fawn over it in front of her.

"We'll wait for Mason and your coaches, Katniss and Peeta, and then we'll eat as you talk strategy." It's the last thing Effie says for awhile, and we sit in silence.

Thoughts so far? Opinions? Then drop me a review, eh! Flames shall be used to making s'mores! :)