DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Hunger Games nor any of its components. Mags and the idea of the Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.

Part One: The Day of Reaping

Every morning, the sun glistened on the horizon, sparkling gently against the lulling waves. I watched it slowly rise from the waters, beckoning the early workers of the day to come awake.

I loved it.

Each day I would get up an hour or two before sunrise just to see the ball of light make its way through the sky, illuminating the entire world in a soft light of blue. Sitting upright in bed, my knees tucked under my arms with my head slightly tilted to the side, resting on my forearm, I would gaze at the waters unflinchingly, mesmerized by the light before a door slammed, snapping me out of my dreamlike trance and ripping me back into reality. Then, my day would begin.

But on this particular night, I didn't bother even laying down to catch a few hours of sleep. My nerves were far too frayed and disturbing visions would constantly haunt me the moment I closed my eyes... Of course, they would.

Ever since I was five years old, I would see on our old frayed televisions images of gore, terror, and barbarianism. A revolt against the Capitol – which, in my memories as a toddler, was a mess of fire and fear – resulted in failure, which had consequently brought the sadistic leaders of the Capitol to completely obliterate a district. This act shushed all other districts, forcing all of us into quiet submission in order to not provoke any further antagonism from the Capitol for fear of our own homes being destroyed. As if it wasn't enough, the Capitol, as if wanting to rub salt into our wounds, established a new game: The Hunger Games. Each year for eleven years now, a pair of children ranging from ages twelve to eighteen would have to fight to the death in a sickeningly sadistic arena. The brutality and desperation of the children's' "game" would be telecast on every television in Panem – a way for the Capitol to flaunt its power to all of us.

And today was the day of the Reaping: the day in which each child and parent and friend would suffer in silent anxiety while our names were placed into a glass ball and drawn randomly, declaring the probable death of two children. There were no exceptions to any district.

My district, District Four, was a fairly well off community. We thrived on fishing and all other benefits of the sea, thus it is easy to assume that many of us have the prosperous vocation of fishermen. As our community's economy grew over the past decade, so did the Capitol's influence on our District. A few of our people were exempt from such tedious work and were instead sponsored by our district to be trained in a completely different aspect: killing. The idea of raising these "Career Tributes" (as they were called) began a few years ago, first spreading to the more affluent Districts before trickling down to ours this year. As a result, there were only about three or four toddlers right now being trained to be professional killers, which of course did nothing to alleviate us, the potential tributes, from our terror.

When I finally realized the sun was well up from the horizon, I blinked, trying to focus my deep blue eyes. I slowly slid my legs from underneath myself, stretching the stiff joints and muscles before finally stepping out of bed. I adjusted the curtains in front of the window before breathing in the crisp morning air of the sea. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing in a second's serenity before finally making my way to freshen up for the day.

- : -

"Mags," my friend, Arlen, said, giving me a distasteful look over at my appearance. "Today's the only day of the year where we can dress up. Don't you have anything... fancier than that?"

I rolled my eyes at her and replied, "If my father didn't care about what we wear, I don't see why I have to either."

She pursed her full pink lips, raising a carefully sculpted brow in disagreement. She crossed her slender golden arms across her bosom. Arlen, my supercilious friend who was the same age as I, was dressed in a simple but elegant white dress that contrasted against her dark hair and doll-like chocolate eyes, looking like the very image of angelic innocence. Her lovely cascades of hair were pulled back away from her face, revealing a round face with prettily flushed cheeks.

"Whatever," she dismissed, clearly not caring enough to comment further upon my apparel, which consisted of black slacks and a light cotton shirt. She gave me one last look over, clearly disapproving of my mass of messy, curly dark blonde hair before waving her hand and whispering to me, "Who do you think would have a shot at winning among the guys, Mags?"

As we finally reached the mass of people who were crowding around a stage on which a few people were murmuring amongst each other, doing last minute preparations for the Reaping, I thought carefully. "I don't know. No one knows how things'll turn out in these Games." I nearly spat the word I was so disgusted by it.

"That's true," Arlen commented thoughtfully. She shrugged before glancing over at the boys in the group of potential tributes. "I doubt any of them will go down without a fight."

I nodded. That was for sure. From childhood, we were raised in the tough waters of the seas, training our muscles and resourcefulness unintentionally. It was hard to believe that any of our potential tributes were going to die out like a little flame under water.

"But you know, I hope Nereus Eathelin doesn't get picked," Arlen sighed, glancing over at a boy among the eighteen-year-old tributes. Her eyes became all doe-like as she fawned over him. "He's just way too dreamy to get killed."

I raised a brow at her and couldn't help but give a small smile at her amusingly shallow perceptions on what constituted a proper Reaping. When it was clear that her attention was focused on the boy, though, I followed her gaze, seeing a stoic eighteen-year-old. His skin was tanned from days out in the sun like the rest of us and his hair, which was naturally dark, was highlighted slightly with brown. Orbs of hazel were focused on the stage, only flickering to his side as a few of his friends chattered quietly amongst themselves. While he appeared to be calm, I could see the defined muscles in his arms and neck strain slightly and his hand clenched into a tight ball.

I could understand why. It was his last Reaping. Just this one and he would be done with all of this hoopla and could finally work as a free individual. But then again, your eighteenth year was the year when the minimum times your name would be placed in the bowl is seven, unless he had placed his name in more times for tesserae. His odds were clearly at a disadvantage.

"Ahem."

I tore my attention away from the boy as the audience hushed into silence. The man up on stage glanced up at the camera, which was televising everyone live, to make sure it was focused on him before continuing with a wry smile, telling us all about how wonderful this year will be and how great of a pleasure it is of his to come and host the tributes of the great fishing district and all of this other redundant sugarcoating. He introduced himself as Emer Bibelot, our appointed escort who would help the selected tributes throughout the game as both their teacher and their guide as we did not have a previous champion. I tried to pay attention to whatever else he was babbling on about, but all I could do is wonder why he was wearing a bright electric blue suit with a green tie and if anyone thought it to be fashionable. Perhaps it was in the Capitol. God knew how frivolous those people were.

"Now, for the Reaping. We will begin with the gentlemen, if you please," Emer Bibelot said in a gentle, velvet-like voice. The mayor of our town led him to the glass ball of names, paler than any other time of the year as Emer reached in with slender fingers and pulled out a name. He raised a brow at it as everyone else stopped breathing in anxiety. He glanced up at the crowd and announced: "Nereus Eathelin."

Everyone fell into silence before the announced tribute moved, his face masking any show of emotion. I felt a grip on my wrist and saw Arlen with her hand wrapped around it, her eyes showing a myriad of emotions that I felt: Poor, poor Nereus. I can't believe it's him. It's us next, will one of us get picked like him? Will one us be sentenced to death?

"Good man," Emer said, clapping Nereus on his muscled shoulder. He turned to the audience and nodded with a gentle smile. "I assume no one is volunteering? No? Then, please, give a round applause for our male tribute."

As the audience slowly and quietly gave a small clapping in order to appease the Capitol's wishes, I couldn't help but stare at the boy who was standing like a statue, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as his expression fought against any emotions that would give portray him as weak. A rush of admiration came to me as I realized that he was already prepping for the Games. If he showed any sign of weakness, no one would want to sponsor him.

"Thank you," Emer said, hushing the audience. "Now, it is time to pick our female tribute." He turned to the glass ball that held a mass of white papers and reached in, sifting through them as my heart pounded and Arlen's grip tightened, stopping the circulation in my arm. I prayed silently, Please don't pick my name. Don't say my name. Please, please, please.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Emer plucked out a paper and glanced at it, reaching towards the microphone as my heart thudded loudly in my chest.

"Magali Destan."

It was like time had stopped. Blood ran cold in my veins, my heart finally stopping and contracting into a painful ball. I almost let out a cry and let my legs fold under me when I caught the gaze of Nereus who was staring at me passively, daring me to show weakness. Thankfully, Arlen, whose grip on me was like iron, held me up as she gave me an agonized look, tears welling in her eyes.

"Mags," she said in a strangled voice, trying to tell me in so few seconds that she was sorry, that she can't do anything, that she doesn't know what to do to help.

I silenced her by giving her a firm hug and made my way to the stage, my legs, though feeling as if they were made of water, striding forward confidently. I breathed in shallow breaths, trying to calm my nerves as they screamed out to me in agony, begging me to run away, run away from all of this madness.

"Are there any volunteers for Miss Magali?" Emer asked after shaking my hand and leading me up next to Nereus who refused to make eye contact with me. "No? Then I leave the mayor to the Treaty of Treason."

The mayor finally stepped up, gazing at both of us in a sorrow and apology as he began the tedious recitation of the Treaty before telling us to finally shake hands. I turned to Nereus who looked reluctant to make any physical contact with me. I held out my hand and he took it, shaking it slightly before we parted yet again. The anthem of Panem rang out as everyone studied the two children that were sacrificed this year for the good of the people, making silent prayers that we don't suffer too much. To me, though, their gazes were unbearable. Their pitying eyes only amplified the feeling of my probable imminent death. At last, the anthem ended.

As I gave one last look at my district before being led away by a group of Peacekeepers, I gave my last silent goodbye.

I was in the Hunger Games.

A/N: Thank you for reading! This is the re-uploaded and re-edited version of Iridescent after being missing/on hiatus for at least a year. I hope you enjoy. Please read and review, it would be greatly appreciated. :)