Summary: Absinthe is a highly intelligent boy from district 3. Chosen as tribute on his seventeenth birthday, he swears to himself that he will survive, in order to care for his young siblings. Thrust into a world of violence and deceit, will Absinthe retain his sanity while possibly finding something more?

Warning: Romance, darlings! The first few chapters will be dull when it comes to the emotional aspect of it, but they are quite necessary to proceed with the story. Beware! This will include blood, gore, and torture, a little bit of sadism, mature themes and language.

Might be a slash. Most likely will be. Maybe not.

AN: sorry for filling the top of the page with bold! Anyways, here is the prologue to my new story 'Never in Your Favor'. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Also, if you want to add a small side character to the plot feel free to. Post them in a review and I'll do what I can to involve them somehow. They won't have a big part though. I'm just lazy and don't want to come up with 24 tributes.

A BIG THANK YOU to Alice for editing this for me. I'm really a bad speller. She's like... amazing. I mean, if she didn't edit this yu wud b readin tis da hole way. Okay... maybe not that bad but... you get what I mean. She's amazing. But she keeps saying no when I ask her to marry me. I even promised to pay the airfare when we fly to new york. Ugh, she's horrid.

Review please. I reply to all of them privately, unless it's a question I think other people might want to know the answer to. I'm nice, and I don;t bite. I pinky promise. PleaI don't want to seem like one of those desperate authors, but I really do love constructive criticism. I'm not perfect. Far from it. I need criticism to get back. I love flames. They're fun to read. But they make me sad. Limit them, por favor. Anyways, I'm rambling. Adios. amigos. Hope you enjoy my story!

∞l-Chapter one- Reaping-l∞

A chilling wind blows past, whispering a sorrowful melody to all who wish to listen. It howls with cries of a mourning dove, cooing in ears like the breath of a lover's whisper. Today, everyone will celebrate. They will eat their finest food, dress in their most refined clothes, and spend time with family in hopes there will be much more of it to fritter. On this day, the day the entire nation celebrates, they will rejoice over the proclamation of 23 lives soon to be lost. The districts, on all other days united as one, will separate into families. There will be no smiles until after the names are called. And even then two families will shed tears for the children they will lose. Even as they send them away with hope gleaming in their eyes, mothers and fathers already know the last time they will see their children alive will be on the big screen in the center of town, where it starts and ends. Men and women will skirt the edge of the square, clasping their hands and praying to unseen forces that their children will be spared. They will laugh with joy when they hear the name of a kid who isn't their own.

And they will not feel bad that they did.

The Capital says it is all a game of luck, but the people know better. The entrants will be glorified and satire to be perfect ladies and gentlemen, even though come several hours later all humanity will be lost in the vanity of an unstoppable and inexplicably sadistic battle royal. It is an industry designed for the entertainment of others. It is a game where children, innocent and young, must grow up earlier than humanly possible, and come to grips with their death and the fact that they will kill others. It is a sport designed to make monsters out of the youth that could have been, but never will.

It is the Hunger Games.

.

Reaping day was the only day the smoke stopped, leaving only the eternal smell of ash as proof of the fires that always seemed to burn. Our torches were put aside and our wires were coiled up, allowed to rest as we faced the possibility of slaughter. We all exited the dark factories in unison, like the toy soldiers the mayor's son played with on his porch some temperate nights. I squinted in the burning sunlight, my green eyes constricting painfully as I tried to ignore the pressure building in my head. It seemed a whole year without direct exposure to the sun did horrors to your eyesight.

I looked around; the barren landscape of district three appeared even more filthy and destitute than in the dead of night, when I usually returned home. The path from work to my shack was a short one; although the constant emptiness made it seem longer than it really was. The dead trees on either side of me looked as if they were reaching out to encompass me in their spiny branches, a sight that would terrify any other to the bone. The twins would have loved them.

I walked along the dirt trail for a half hour until the rusty roof of my 'home' came into view. Home is too personal. The shelter was about twenty feet in each direction. Short thin metal shutters lined the moldy wooden walls, covering the numerous little holes that grew more and more plentiful every day. The roof was tin, thin and heat reflecting. One of the only reasons I'm glad it never rains here.

I entered, the door nothing but an old wooden crate reassembled and toed in place with frayed rope. Looking around, I noticed I was the last one to arrive. My brothers had left the hut a mess, their work clothes strewn across the floor as they hurried to change and make their way to the town square. With a tired sigh, I bathed, stepping into the filthy water my six brothers had previously used –though it did little to clean the oil from my pale skin.

There are 630 males ages twelve to eighteen in district three.

I slid into a pair of black slacks, the same pants I wore to every reaping since I was eight. They finally fit me. I had borrowed a shirt from a friend of mine, though 'acquaintance' would have been a better term. Our classes were different and even if he lived only a couple miles from me, it was enough to show our financial situations were worlds apart –to put it gently. Poor and poorer basically. The top was a little tight on my arms and torso, but it didn't look unusual. I brainlessly combed through my untamable hair, letting my fingers tease the locks out of their stubborn mats of sandy brown. The damp waves hung around my ears and forehead limply, waiting for the water weighing them down to evaporate, so they could spring back into their wild shape. No matter what I did, the licks and curls never ceased to spring free, like daisies popping up after a long –rough, grueling, icy- winter.

Using the capitols population trends and the most recent census, I have been able to calculate that there are approximately 2,514 names in the bowl. Assuming about 40% of the district withdraws a tessera for each of their family members, disconcerting outliers and using the average family of four, there is an additional 1,020 names, leaving 3,534 slips of paper within.

I exited the shack and walk along the road, reveling in the comforting and familiar sound of gravel crunching beneath my toes. It was a bit more crowded now, with people rushing to get checked in. On the edge of the crowd, a pair of anxious parents held their thirteen-year-olds' hands tightly, giving way to their obvious anxiety. The children winced, eyes crinkling with what looked like distaste, but I knew they secretly felt comforted by it. Perhaps it was due to losing my parents at such a young age –having to essentially become one myself- I was sure I would never understand how a hand could comfort you.

My name is in the bowl exactly 60 times.

The line was small when I arrived at the town square, registering the dilapidated statue towards the center. I looked around, searching for my brothers in the crowd. They were all where they needed to be, thankfully. The youngest, Beau, was bouncing on his heels anxiously, his bright green eyes looking around, searching for someone he knew. Finding a family that we lived by, he settled himself next to them, obviously less anxious. For that, I was grateful.

Simplifying the ratio 60:3,474 to 1:58 (or 1.724%), I can conclude that the odds of me being reaped for the 115th annual hunger games is higher than average, but still unlikely.

The tapping of a microphone snapped me out of my mathematical daze. I brought my gaze up and caught sight of a bumblebee. With yellow skin and black hair she was the definition of hideous. Was that was they thought was attractive? If so, I would have loved to educate them. Watching their painted and crudely sculpted faces twist in agony would have been lovely too. Capitol people disgusted me. They were vain and gluttonous, eating more in a meal than we did in a year. How they did it, I would never know. Noticing the mayor had already sat down, a sigh escaped my lips. Had I missed the glorious speech I looked forward to all year? Shame.

"Good afternoon citizens of District Three! Happy hunger games and may the odds be ever in your favor! Now, as always, I would like to start with the ladies," the bumblebee announced, her voice stinging my ears as much as the sun had marred my eyes earlier. She reached in and pulled out a single piece of paper, sickly hands standing out just superbly against the white of the red-colored fingernails snagged a ballot, not even bothering to mix the names around for a little bit of suspense. Sucks. "And the tribute-" she began, her voice now reminding me of a cat panting in heat, "-will be Ambrosia Hearte!" she exclaimed, looking around.

Moments passed before there was a quiet shuffling of feet, and a small girl emerged from the thirteen-year-old section. I chortled, earning dirty looks from the boys next to me. Wow. The small girl looked around, her dark eyes clouded with fear. She tripped on her way to the stage, making a few boys chuckle under their breaths. Damn hypocrites. Otherwise, it was quiet. She received no congratulations once on stage, only an overly exaggerated pat on the head, ruffling her curtain-like flat hair.

The bumblebee walked over to the other bowl and I followed her with my gaze, watching as she pulled the name closest to the top. Walking back to the microphone, she cleared her throat, the feedback making my ears ring.

"And the male tribute for the 115th annual Hunger Games will be Absinthe Hennely!" she squalled, her eyes searching the crowd.

My heart skipped a beat.

And then it was beating so rapidly I thought I was going to drop dead right there. Forget the bloodbath, or the careers, or the muttations!

Anyone but me. I can't leave my brothers. I can't leave Beau. They'll take him to the shops. They'll starve. My heart raced and I had to force myself to stop trembling. Brave face, you can do this. Just think about it, you can win this, right?

My hands shook with such a force I felt them rattling against my thighs. Clenching them roughly, my knuckles faded into a pale hue, nails etching crescents into my palms. There was a low-pitched wail from somewhere in the crowd. Beau. God, I couldn't even imagine what would happen to my family. They needed me, survived because of the income and sacrifice I made. If I wasn't around anymore, how the hell would they live? Calm down, Absinthe. Think. That's what your good at.

There are twenty-four tributes in every game, save for the 50th quarter quell, where there was forty eight.

Nodding to myself, I swiped a quivering hand across my sweat-laden forehead. Pushing past the mumbling seventeen-year-olds, my body brutally shoved past them riding on withheld anger and helplessness. They turned their heads, watching with their beady eyes that blinked on the edge of absolute relief. I would have done the same thing. Two rows down, I locked eyes with Markus, standing amongst the fifteen-year-olds. His chiseled jaw was taut with stress, amber orbs shining with vulnerability that was foreign on his normally relaxed face. They were translated a message. Don't worry about us. Worry about the present right now. Unable to take his stare, I continued forward, advancing quickly –with a purpose- toward the stage where I would take my final bow.

2,784 children have competed, 115 have won.

Powerless against my traitorous neck, I swiveled my head to where Beau was standing. Damnit. He was clutching pitifully to our neighbor's skirt, staining tears into the violet-colored fabric. Green clashed with green, and we could not look away. I tried to convey all of my feelings into that one look. Don't cry. Big boys don't cry. I'm not dead yet. Cry when it happens, but not now, when I'm still breathing.

The winning ratio is 1:2.2086. The losing ratio is 1:2668.

Climbing the stairs one-by-one, my boots produced loud creaking sounds that echoed through the silence. The solitary winner of the games for district three sat alone, head bowed. We met eyes through her veil of corkscrew hair, only for her to quickly dart them away. She reminded me of a squirrel, hastily scurrying away at the slightest sound. Coward. I'll die if she's my mentor. Her fingers picked at the frayed ends of her long sleeve shirt, drawing the hanging strings out further and further so that more of the blouse unraveled. It was perfect, considering what she had done to win her Games. She'll probably tell us to hide, cower at the strength of the careers. Pathetic.

The average career had an 83:32 chance of winning. 72.1734%.That lowers my chance to 27.826%

In wonder what'll happen when I die. I heard you go to a place where food is plentiful and water never runs grey; where the grass is greener –or so they say. Like most things, I was sure to be disappointed. Nothing ever worked out for someone like me.

Only one tribute from district three have won in the history of the games.

I should have given up right then. Stopped caring. Stopped thinking. Stopped living. It would have been easier, right? Would I be able to kill twenty-three other kids –like Beau and the twins- in order to come home? I could –no, I would. My death spelled the imminent fatality of my family. Like hell, I'll let that happen.

I have a 1:31 chance of winning. Approximately .87%.I have a 99.23 chance of losing.

The bumblebee grumbled a low, "Take your bloody time." Her face lit up once more, thick lips curving high, accentuating the creases around her coal-colored eyes. "Now, let the tributes shake hands!"

With this data I can conclude that the odds will never be in my favor.

The little girl –Ambrosia- turned to me, having to look up because of our great height difference. I raised my hand, vaguely aware of the calluses and blisters peppering the skin there. Hesitantly, as if she didn't know why I had done such a thing, she put her hand in mine. I would have to kill this girl if I didn't want to die. Kill her. Was it worth it if the odds said I didn't even have a slim chance?

I narrowed my eyes and shook her hand once, abruptly dropping it shortly afterward.

Fuck the odds.

Criticism is always wanted! Please tell me what I can do to make this story better. It's short, I know, but it's just the prologue. Things will get longer, soon. I have the majority of this story planned, but I do take requests. Not for characters, but specific plot with me please!