Tully Pettigrew stared at the matchstick in his hand.

Ordinarily, you would've seen it in his mouth, but everything was different today.

Today was Reaping day.

At the moment, he was thinking about whether or not the matchstick was worth saving, as he did all the others. A sleepless night, followed by a restless early morning had nearly shredded the matchstick. Since waste in District 12, of any kind, was akin to heresy he'd always been in the habit of saving all his matchsticks once they were 'chewed out' as he termed it. The wood had a pleasant pine flavour, although too much chewing would erase it. But he kept the things in his mouth for much more than their flavour. The sensation of chewing, plus the bits of wood that fell off often fooled his mind and stomach into thinking he was eating something.

When hunger was a constant scourge, you would use anything to trick yourself out of it.

And matchsticks were Tully's way of tricking the squeezing hand of starvation.

"Tully!" a voice called. With a jolt, he was brought back to his surroundings. He was on the tiny porch of the equally tiny home he shared with his mom and seven siblings. The sun was up now, hot and blazing, and in less than two hours the entire population of District 12 would be gathered in the village square for the Reaping. There would be just enough time to clean and dress everyone appropriately and make the hike to the square.

Tully stood up from his spot, and entered the house.

It would be a hike, because their house was about as far as you could get from the main part of the village. And for good reason. A family had lived in it not so long ago, and then died from a deadly, infectious disease. Everyone avoided the house, but it was the only place Tully's family could afford. None of them had gotten sick, surprisingly enough.

Or maybe not so surprising. After all, they brewed illegal liquor to sell so that the family wouldn't starve to death, and maybe the fumes from the stuff kept infection at bay. Tully never drank any, and wouldn't allow any of his siblings to either. The drink was sold at the also-illegal black market – the Hob – by his mom, Ripper. Of course, that wasn't her real name, but for as long as he could remember, it's what people had called her and he didn't even know what she was really called.

"Tully?"

"I'm here," he said, breaking into the small, cramped kitchen. Already a tub was on the floor, warm water swishing around in it. Since his mom only had one arm – the result of a mine accident, where she was the only one to make it out alive – she needed his help even more than most mothers with several children. He didn't mind. It was still two years before he'd be old enough to work in the mines and bring in real money, so he helped in every other way he could.

Like the tessera.

By putting his name in the Reaping bowl multiple times to provide grain and oil for each family member, there were now about sixty pieces of paper with 'Tully Pettigrew' written on them. He tried not to think about it, but the fact remained. If he hadn't taken out tessera every year, his family – and himself – would've been dead long ago. And despite the fact that it lessened the amount of odds in his favour, he wouldn't have done it any other way. If he wasn't reaped this year, he'd continue to do it.

Tully knelt to the floor and pulled the youngest boy – Amos, a baby less than two years old – over to him and carefully lowered him into the tub. Amos slapped the water with his hands and giggled. He repeated the gesture dozens of times during the next two minutes while Tully struggled to clean him up without getting drenched – a useless endeavour at best. By the end of the bath, Tully's shirt and hair were soaking wet.

He shrugged and pulled Amos out of the bath.

Ripper was already there with a kettle of hot water for the tub, since it had both cooled off and depleted after Amos' turn. Then, she took Amos from Tully's arms and set about dressing him. Tully also helped bathe Jake, the five year old member of the family, but the rest were old enough to do it themselves.

With a groan of cramped muscles, Tully stood up from his kneeling position. It would be a while before he could take a bath, anyway, and there were always things to do. Might as well do them now, since he had no guarantee he'd be back this evening. Tidy the living room, check to see that all the wires and apparatus for making the white liquor were clean, neat, and hidden, and hold Amos when he started to squall.

"That's alright," Ripper said, taking Amos back. "I can hold him."

"I might not get another chance," Tully said softly.

He hadn't meant to make her cry, but her face twisted in an expression of grief he could only remember seeing a few times. Once, when she found out that her husband had been killed in the same mine blast that took her arm. And at his first Reaping. But that was all. Now, with two children eligible for the Reaping, and the very real fear that Tully – or one of the others – might not make it back that night, her calm demeanour had cracked again.

With Amos between them, it was difficult to give her a hug, but Tully did it anyway.

Amos squirmed between them in protest, but neither of them paid him any heed. Ripper cried and Tully's eyes stung as well, but he pushed his own grief and fear to the very back of his heart, locked it, and hid the key. He couldn't let go enough to throw it away, but at least it was out of sight. Seeing his mom cry scared him, since she was ordinarily so strong, but if she was emotional, he couldn't afford to be. Someone needed to see the family through to the end of today, and if it wasn't her, then it would be him.

"It'll be okay, Mom," he said. From where he stood, he could see several of his siblings grouped around the living room entranceway, and he shooed them away with a glance. Now was not the time. "None of the others have taken out tessera. You know I wouldn't let them. Alice only has her name in there once. If they pick anyone-"

He didn't finish the thought, but she knew what he would've said anyway.

If they pick anyone from this family, it'll be me.

The hot sun had given way to cloud cover and the threat of rain hovering over all their heads by the time everyone was at the town square. The change in atmosphere felt ominous, and Tully had forgotten to bring a matchstick, which made him feel vulnerable. It was silly, of course, since a matchstick couldn't protect him and he certainly didn't view the things as good luck talismans, but he missed the comfort of having something between his teeth.

If I get reaped, I'll probably have a knife between my teeth soon.

The family had to split up now. Those eligible for the Reaping would go into their different age groups – twelve, thirteen, and so on – and the rest would mill around in the section for family members and those who had no family and just came to the Reaping to lay bets and joke around. Some of them were there even now, and Tully's jaw tightened. For the families who had an invested interest in the Reaping, this was no joke, and no matter their excuse, it was poor taste to laugh at other people's anguish.

From what he could see, most everyone from District 12 was gathered in the square, which was good because from the sun's position, it was almost two o'clock. Sure enough, the moment the mayor stepped out onto the platform, along with the delegate from the Capitol – a young woman, whose name Tully couldn't remember – and several Peacekeepers guarding both of them.

The mayor launched into a long-winded speech about the rebellion, the new districts, and the Capitol's generosity, but instead of tuning it as he'd done every year before, Tully focused on the words – if not their meaning – because if he didn't, all he could think about was the sixty entries and what it would mean for his family if he was reaped. And too many of those thoughts would drive him insane in no time.

Still, the speech had to end sometime, and when it did...

The real event of the day, the Reaping, had come.

As soon as the Capitol delegate took the stage, there was a difference in the crowd. Uncomfortable shifting, then a tense silence that seeped into every crack of the square. If the young woman was disconcerted by the death-like silence, she didn't show it. Her smile was firmly fixed on her whiter-than-chalk face, the absence of colour set off even more by her bright green hair and eyebrows.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she piped out cheerily. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

Tully's throat clenched up.

"Ladies first," she continued, tripping merrily along the platform to the huge glass bowl that held thousands of papers with hundreds of different names on them. There was one scrap that had 'Alice Pettigrew' on it, but Tully refused to think about it. The chances of her being reaped were so slim, he refused to think about it.

"The female tribute from District 12 is...Livia Wate."

There was a faint scream from the fourteens' section, but Tully hardly heard it. Relief was rushing over him in such gigantic amounts that he could hardly breath. It wasn't Alice. It wasn't Alice. He didn't even know who the girl who'd been reaped was. Whoever she was, he felt sorry for her family, but his regret was mostly overshadowed by his relief. Of course, Alice had never been at much risk to begin with, but there'd still been a chance.

There was always a chance, for good or bad.

Livia Wate came up to the platform, and then the delegate pranced over to the boy's bowl.

Tully stood up straighter, his eyes fixed on the bowl, the delegate, and the piece of paper she selected. His breathing remained even, but inside his heart sped faster and faster. On the outside, he was calm. On the inside, he was in danger of falling apart.

Just read it. Please.

And, finally, after a dramatic pause, she did.

"And the male tribute from District 12 is...Tully Pettigrew."

That was that, then.

Inside, he was breaking into a million pieces.

Outside, he walked slowly up to the platform. The steps seemed to take hours to climb, and once he was on the platform, he felt dizzy from the height and the thoughts churning inside his brain. All through the few closing remarks and his handshake with Livia, only two thoughts revolved through his mind.

Who will take care of my family?

I don't have a mentor.

Ripper could sell the liquor and bring in money that way, but the mines were off limits for all of them, and without him taking out tessera, they would starve. Unless Alice took out tessera just as he had. He hated the thought, since that was almost certainly what had gotten him reaped, but there was no other way. Perhaps if he had more than a few minutes to say goodbye, he could think of something, but that wasn't possible.

Tully gritted his teeth together.

He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't beg or scream or curse as he'd seen other tributes do over the years.

If he was going into the arena, he'd be calm. He'd be strong. And he would dredge up whatever bravery he felt possible and go into the Games with the aim of-of what? Of winning? There had only been one District 12 winner in the sixty years, or so, of the Hunger Games, and she was long dead. Then, if he wasn't going into win, he would aim to die with dignity.

Not pleading and begging and sniveling.

Dignity.

:::::

District 1's Reaping was the last one of Reaping day. It was the wealthiest and most powerful district, and President Snow always liked to make as big a splash as possible among the Capitol people, so he saved the best for last. Unlike most of the other districts, District 1 was a treat for the eyes, and the mad-cap volunteering that always came at each Reaping made the district the most entertaining one to watch. Every year there were at least twenty volunteers, and fights always broke out over who would be allowed to go to the Games.

And Mark Hitchcock was debating on whether or not he would be part of that particular entertainment this year.

His mother's thoughts were as clear as she could possibly make them.

"You're not going to volunteer like those other hooligans," Gema Hitchcock told him just that morning as she straightened his tie with her fake, manicured nails. "There are only ten or so entries in the boy's bowl for you. You won't get Reaped, and you're not going to volunteer, either." With a sniff, she pulled his tie a little tighter and patted it into place.

Hitch had kept his thoughts to himself, but now, on his way to the town square in his mother's high-class car, he allowed them to slip through the cracks of his mother's constant flow of chatter.

Out of all the boys in District 1, he would probably have one of the best chances of winning. His father the mayor – who wasn't with them, since he was already at the Justice Building, probably sweating over the speech he'd have to make – had enrolled him in the finest school District 1 had to offer. Besides teaching the usual subjects, it also gave an excellent education in fighting and weaponry. In secret, though, and only if you were willing to pay a pretty penny.

He'd often wondered why his father would go to so much trouble and expense to educate him and turn him into a Career tribute, and then not protest when Gema had told Hitch time and time again not to volunteer. Perhaps he was under Gema's thumb, just as Hitch was.

Hitch stared out the window, watching the passing scenery go by without giving it any thought.

At first it had been easy not to volunteer, simply because he didn't want to. He'd been terrified his first year, nearly stiff with fear that his name would be selected. But when nothing happened and he'd been sent to school, he'd relaxed a little. In a few months, he could hit the target right in the heart every single time with both arrows and knives, although he was better with the former.

The Victory Tour when he was thirteen had also helped change his mind around from terror to interest, since that was the year one of District 1's own had won. He watched the party – attended it, too – the speech, and the delirious joy coming from the crowd and envied the victor for just a moment. Of course, he had no delusions about what the arena would be like. Killing people wasn't the way he wanted things to go, but if he was Reaped – or if he volunteered – that would be a part of the victory too.

And now, at fifteen, he felt he was ready.

"Nearly there," Gema said, breaking into his thoughts.

She reached over and took his hand.

"Remember, Mark. Don't do anything foolish."

Rebellion welled up inside him. All the boys at school called him a 'mama's boy' and other choice insults – even if he was the mayor's son – and it was starting to get under his skin. At first he'd let the words slide off, but after thinking long and hard about it, he began to realize that he was a mama's boy. He loved his mother, but even he had to admit that she could be overpowering and overbearing more often than not.

Winning the Games was the only way he could think of to prove himself.

And to win them, he'd have to be Reaped.

He now wished desperately that his name wouldn't be selected, because if it was, entry to the Games would be snatched away from him in a moment. Volunteering was his only chance. He glanced over at Gema. Her eyes were on the Victory Square, now only a minute or so away. Her face was calm. She had no doubts that he would disobey her, and why would he? He'd never done it before, so why would he start now?

Hitch swallowed hard, and riffled through his pockets for a stick of gum.

"Oh, Mark, put that disgusting thing away!"

Hitch dropped the gum back into his pocket and glared at his reflection in the glass. He couldn't very well make at that face at his mother, so he contented himself with contorting his features in the smooth reflective surface. His taste buds ached for a strip of wild berry gum, but he told himself to wait. Once he was in the holding area with the other fifteen-year-olds, he could break out a pack.

The car drew to a smooth halt, and Gema was already out the door. "Come, come! Hurry!"

Hitch opened his side and folded himself up and out, stretching his cramped legs. Even a ten minute drive in the low-slung luxury vehicle could block off his circulation for a few moments. He just hoped that his legs wouldn't tremble when he went forward to volunteer. He didn't want anyone to think he was nervous or afraid. Because he wasn't, and showing it would be the first step toward proof.

Crackle.

Already his hand was in his pocket, searching for a stick of gum.

His mother didn't like it because once, when he'd blown one of his bubbles, it had exploded outwards and splattered all over the expensive evening dress she'd been wearing. It had never come fully out, and she'd had to trash the dress. Hitch had apologized, but she'd banned gum chewing for the longest time. It had only been recently that she'd allowed him to start up again – but never in her presence.

With an appreciative sigh as the berry flavour exploded in his mouth, Hitch melted into the growing crowd of fifteen-year-olds and was swallowed up. He spotted Dex a few feet away, and tried to go in the other direction, but the crowd was too thick. It was much easier to get in than to get out. In a moment, Dex spotted him – it was almost as if he'd been looking specifically for Hitch – and wormed his way over. Hitch clenched his teeth on the gum and waited.

Even though Hitch was no shrimp, Dex towered over him, something he never let Hitch forget.

With a mocking touch, he reached over and ruffled Hitch's blond hair, as though Hitch was some little adorable baby. Hitch slapped the hand away and chewed his gum for all he was worth. He'd long since learned that a little bit of gum helped him keep his temper, since the violent chewing motions gave his anger some sense of outlet. Still, Dex tried even the gum's patience.

"Can't believe mama's boy is even allowed in here," Dex said loudly, showing off for his friends. "I mean, why would that mama of his let him associate with the likes of us? He might get..."-he poked Hitch in the side, hard-"...hurt." A burst of laughter met both his words and action.

Hitch chewed harder.

"Your mom let you chew gum again? Isn't that sweet?"

A thought darted through Hitch's mind and he acted on it immediately.

With a little effort and some air, he blew a bubble, all the while staring levelly at Dex. He opened his mouth, drew the gum in again, and blew another one. For about fifteen seconds he kept doing this, until Dex got the idea that it could possibly be some kind of insult. He drew in closer to Hitch, anger showing red on his face. "Listen, you little-"

Gum exploded all over Dex's face, and Hitch forced his way into the crowd.

He couldn't keep the grin off his face as he ran. Sure, he'd lost his gum, but who cared when you could get revenge like that? Dex was taller and faster than him, though, so he was relieved when the settling of the crowd an instant later indicated that his father had taken to the platform. He twisted around and found a spot where he could watch the proceedings, even if he was uncomfortably wedged between two people.

At least he was close to the platform.

Close enough to be the first one up there as a volunteer.

The girl tribute had been reaped, and duly replaced by a volunteer – Hitch couldn't even remember who had finally carried off the honour – and now the Capitol delegate was clicking her way in impossibly high heels across the platform toward the boy's bowl. She looked a little more bizarre – with bright orange skin and pink hair - than most people from the Capitol, but Hitch didn't really care either way, since many of the rich in District 1 adopted the Capitol fashions as well.

In a trice, she had the slip of paper in her hand and was going back to the microphone.

Hitch popped a bubble, his way of keeping calm at the moment.

He wouldn't have been at all surprised if his mother had quietly arranged to keep his name out of the Reaping bowl – there were rumours of such things happening in the richer districts – but he couldn't keep his heart from speeding up and adrenaline filling him.

"The male tribute from District 1 is...Dexter Gold."

Before Dex was even on the platform, Hitch was off running, not even giving his choice a second thought.

"I volunteer as tribute! I volunteer as tribute!"

Dex beat him up to the platform by only a couple steps and as Hitch brushed past him to make a formal request to his father – since he was the mayor – he noticed that Dex hadn't been able to get all the gum off. It was a small victory. If he could get his request in first, he'd have achieved two victories.

But already a surge of young people were making their way up to the platform.

Hitch put on a burst of speed, and reached his father a second before another boy did.

"I volunteer as tribute, in the place of Dexter Gold," he said loudly.

His father winced. Hitch wasn't sure if it was from the volume, or the fact that he was volunteering, but he felt a twinge of remorse. He didn't even try to find his mother in the crowd. Seeing her face would probably loosen his resolve and he'd enter the Capitol in an agony of remorse, instead of the confidence he would need to win.

The mayor shook his head at the other boy who'd arrived a second too late and held up Hitch's hand.

"Mark Hitchcock has volunteered to enter the Hunger Games in Dexter Gold's place."

There was a wild bout of applause, full of cheers and whistles. It was always like that in District 1, but Hitch felt a rush of pride fill him. He shook the girl tribute's hand, and then entered the familiar territory of the Justice Building. As he stepped through the door, a vague thought entered his head that he might never see the Justice Building again, but he brushed it aside.

He'd volunteered to win, not to lose.

:::::

In District 6, every family who was fortunate enough to have one was glued to their telephone.

Those who didn't tremblingly awaited a special visit from the Peacekeepers.

Hans Dietrich's family was one of the luckier ones who didn't have to sit around in the deafening silence, waiting all night for a sharp knock on the door that indicated their child had been reaped. The Reaping was tomorrow, at two o'clock, but because of the size of District 6, name drawings were made the night before. That way, the city could ensure that the new tribute was in the crowd of people in the square when his name was called.

The mayor would sit in his comfortable home, and randomly select two slips of paper – one with a boy's name and one with a girl's name. Of course there were witnesses to make sure everything was done decently, but throughout the year, people still tried to keep on the mayor's good side. Witnesses could be bribed, after all. After the selection had been made, the 'lucky' new tribute's families would receive a phone call or, if they weren't rich enough to own one, a visit from the Peacekeepers.

By common consent, the Dietrich family sat together in the kitchen.

Dietrich's mother, Ilsa Dietrich, chewed her fingernails in silence.

Albert Dietrich, Hans' step-father, watched the phone with a stare that was more of a glare.

The two littlest children, Rudy and Lisbeth, were asleep upstairs. They were in no danger of being reaped. Only Dietrich, at seventeen, was under that threat. He sat quietly in one of the hard, straight backed chairs gathered around the kitchen table. His thumb ran mindlessly around and around a bit of knotted wood grain on the table, but his thoughts were far away from the kitchen.

There were dozens of other things he could be doing at the moment – tethering down the mayor's hovercraft, as he did every night, checking the inventory of nuts and bolts in the shed outside, also something he did every night, or stay up late working over the faulty trucks that had been sent to his father just this morning – but, no. He was sitting in the kitchen, playing to the Capitol's anthem once again.

It was pathetic, really.

He liked Albert well enough, though he would never do anything to replace his real father who'd lost both legs and consequently his life in an accident with a truck, but the man was too much of a wimp to ever do any real good. He followed whatever the Capitol said and never questioned them. Dietrich dug his thumb nail into the rough wood and shook his head. Comparing that to his father, who had rebelled against the Capitol in a hundred different ways, he found little respect inside him for Albert.

Even if that rebellion had gotten his father killed. The official report had said a truck accident, but Dietrich knew the Capitol well enough – had known it well enough even back then – to guess that the accident hadn't really been an accident at all. His father's latest 'crime' had been scouting around District 6, finding any stray animals that had somehow gotten over the fence, killing them, and distributing them to poorer neighbours. Any attempt at self sustenance was severely punished by the Capitol, but Dietrich couldn't blame his father for doing so.

If only the people in the Capitol could see what he saw on a daily basis.

Children, wandering around in the streets, with no parents and no food.

Men, dead on a regular basis because they didn't have the proper tools to repair a truck or hovercraft.

Women, sitting at home, listless and unable to do any work while their children begged them for food.

No, he didn't blame his father for what he'd done.

Dietrich shifted in his seat, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable spot. He sighed heavily, more from his thoughts than the hardness of the chair or the Reaping looming over all their heads. There were probably about twenty entries with his name on them. He'd taken out tessera for his family a few weeks after his father's death, but once Ilsa had married Albert, they had no need to do that anymore. Still, his name was in there extra times and they all knew it.

The phone jangled. Ilso flinched and burst into tears.

Albert stared at it dumbly.

Dietrich's blood froze, but he picked up the phone anyway. If he didn't, no-one would, and reprisals would be harsh. He glared hard at the phone for a moment, letting it ring once more, and then answered it. "Yes?"

"This is the Dietrich household?"

They knew it was.

"Yes."

"We are pleased to inform you that your son, Hans Dietrich, has been selected through a random draw overseen by the mayor to be the next male tribute to represent District 6." The voice was female, hard and cold, without a touch of sympathy. "Make sure that he is in the town square at two o'clock sharp, tomorrow. That is all." A click sounded from the other end of the line and a buzzing sound filled his ear.

That's it. That's the end of it all.

Dietrich cleared his throat. Both Ilsa and Albert were looking at him.

"It's me," he said, voice devoid of any emotion. He couldn't feel anything.

"Oh, Hans-" Ilsa began, but he stood up and left the room. Now his entire body trembled and he didn't know where to go. Unless-Dietrich stopped in the middle of the entranceway, hand on his jacket. He knew for a fact that more than one tribute slip was selected, just in case one of them failed to show up or-or-took his or her life.

For a moment, he entertained the thought, and then shook his head.

Forget it, he told himself fiercely. Do you really want to bring the Games on some other boy's head?

No, of course not.

Or did he?

Dietrich shook his head. He was too confused to do anything at the moment, except what he knew best. And that was fixing truck engines until they ran like molten gold. At least until a couple weeks ago when he'd started to slightly tamper with any vehicle he could get his hand on. There had always been a team of workers working on the trucks or hovercrafts, and the damages had been slight – only minor inconveniences at most – but it still filled Dietrich with a small sense of pride.

And what better way to deal with Reaping news than to destroy some more Capitol property?

"And the male tribute from District 6 is...Hans Dietrich."

Sympathetic glances from his friends surrounded him, but Dietrich ignored them all. He gritted his teeth and walked up to the platform, shook hands with the female tribute, and left for the Justice Building and then the train station beyond.

As he walked, his thoughts were not on the various trappings that would attend the Hunger Games.

They were on the games themselves.

This was surprising, since most tributes tried to forget where they were headed, and just enjoy the luxurious meals, clothes, and heaps of attention they all got. But Dietrich wasn't interested in any of that. He wanted to reach the arena as fast as possible, because once there, he could work at really rebelling against the Capitol. Maybe even inducing the other districts to rise up. If he was going to die anyway, at least he could do something meaningful with the last few weeks of life he had left.

Starting with the trucks, and going forward.