Disclaimer: I think you know what I'm going to say. I don't own anything you recognize. Sorry.

Author's Note: So yeah. The problem with writing Reapings is that they are so amazingly easy to make unbearably boring and actually quite difficult to make different or interesting. Why? Because there are only so many realistic reactions to being Reaped and they've all been done in a million other fan fictions. So, to keep the amount of hair being torn out to a minimum, I tried to add something different.

My eyes close.

My emotions shut off, but my brain takes flight and zooms through the complications of the situation. Already an intense, yet not quite recognized, worry is eating at me from the inside. Frill. My father. Tesserae. Alcohol. Around me, I dimly register the staring eyes of everyone surrounding me. Walk, my brain screams at my body. Walk. Through the crowd, to the stage. Step. Step. No. Step.

I don't, though. I cannot find the will within me to step. I remain stationary and dumbly stare up at the stage. No, I think. Beetee doesn't exist. Beetee Ainsley never existed. Leave me alone. Choose another name.

Unfortunately, that futile hope to which I cling is brutally crushed when the teenagers around me almost subconsciously shift away from me, rippling the crowd and creating an epicenter in the sea of faces. Me. Please, no, please. Please. It soon becomes obvious, however, that accepting my fate is unavoidable.

Gyana's searching stare shifts until it's fixed on my eyes and I find myself cornered, like an unpleasant rat eyed by a posse of starving cats. She impatiently beckons to me. We haven't got all day, dear, her gaze seems to chastise.

In a daze, I infinitesimally nod to her and my legs slowly trudge the way to the stage as if the brick streets have suddenly become pools of not-yet-dry concrete. My limbs feel like lead. Each and every pair of eyes seem to turn to me, then quickly flit away as if simply looking at me like I'm still a human being is a major discourtesy. As if I'm already in a coffin.

As if I'm already in a coffin. The sentence echoes in my foggy head until I'm nearly up the steps to the stage. And suddenly, the reality hits me. I'm a corpse.

I stumble and trip onto the stage, my knobby knees scraping against the tasseled wooden boards, my glasses skittering across the platform. Gyana shrieks and the audience rumbles sympathetically with, I think bitterly, an edge of cruel amusement. The heat rushes to my face in embarrassment as I hastily heave myself upward on to my trembling feet. I don't think that my tenuous—no, nonexistent—reputation could stand it if I scramble about of the floor frantically searching for my glasses, and any chances of sponsorship much less. Oh, shoot. Sponsors. So I forget the glasses, straighten myself up with what little dignity I can muster, and lift my shoulders until my permanent slouch matures slightly.

I blankly stare at the crowd, knowing that I should probably come up with some sort of reaction. Give the audience some sort of taste of my personality; supply them with a reason to sponsor Beetee Ainsley. After all, this first impression that I leave is crucial. I could become a fearless, battle-hungry warrior during my time at the Capitol, but if they first view me as… well, as me, it may not matter. But I'm simply unable to create an effective angle without humiliating myself immensely. This, I reason, is currently the least of my worries.

I continue to stare at the crowd, and I find myself rubbing my eyes. Stupid vision impairment.

Before Gyana prances to retrieve the damned glasses, I hear a frantic panting made of wild gasps and my head instinctively turns. Though I can hardly see, I can make out a small girl dashing past the Peacekeepers and making her way toward the stage with more raw energy in her eyes than I've ever seen before. Frill. She shoves the shocked spectators away and they make way for her, giving her space to weave around her pursuers. As she bats off the monstrous security with her fragile little arms, she screams. "No! Beetee, NO!"

She desperately comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs to the platform and makes the ascent as fast as her legs are capable. The Peacekeepers finally catch up to her, though she's warding them off with all of the strength she possesses. My vision is a bleary interpretation, based off of color and light, but I can see that there's a fire in her eyes, and I know that it's not going to lead to anything particularly beneficial. She's thrashing about, and a Peacekeeper in a thick white coat bends down to grip her wrists. Before he gets a hold on her, she punches him.

Hard. Square in the jaw. My mouth gapes and I scream out. "Get your hands off her!"

She dashes out of the Peacekeeper's grasp and breathlessly sprints to me, wrapping her arms around my abdomen. "No, Beetee, don't go! I'll volunteer!" Tears spring to my stinging eyes and I rapidly blink them back and my throat feels full of pebbles. I open my mouth, but find myself unable to speak, unable to reply. I want to express my gratitude that even though she's only ten years old she's so willing to sacrifice her life for me. The Peacekeepers come to grab her and drag her away by force. In my emotional trance, I pry her arms off of me and simply let her go, staring after her with a blank expression. Until I see the bruise.

Not hers, no. The Peacekeeper that she struck has a dark purple splotch spreading along his cheek and his eyes have a dreadful fury in them. It hits me, the implications of what Frill has done. The Capitol's wrath for disrespect of the Peacekeeping force is brutal, especially in such a large district as Three. She's jeopardized her life in that small, instinctive moment, and I begin to tremble even more violently, looking obviously weak and cowardly. But sponsors suddenly don't matter. Yes, humiliating myself is definitely the least of my worries.

Gyana is gasping and Thryce, the girl tribute, simply has an astonished expression painted on her face. The mentors, who I've barely taken notice of and have no desire to begin now, look visibly upset. As I turn to the crowd, faces blurring in my lack of spectacles, I realize that all I can hear are Frill's fading sobs as she's dragged away. There's no sound from the audience, not a single whisper, not one ounce of gossip. No. No, no, no! "Frill," I barely manage to choke out, audible to no one but Thryce, who stands directly beside me. She flashes a sympathetic glance at me, which I barely register.

As if trying to pacify the stunned crowd, the audio systems abruptly begin to blare the first few notes of the national anthem. I attempt to breathe regularly, but I end up inhaling and exhaling at an alarming rate, not even trying to conceal the horror on my face. I don't need the Capitol audiences to see me like this. I hide my emotions behind a thin veil by burying my face in my hands and grasping the roots of my mousy hair in uncontainable frustration.

At best, she'll be publicly whipped. The thought sends chills through my skin, makes my teeth chatter. I wince as a vision runs through my mind, Frill dressed in rags and shrieking hysterically as the merciless, brutal whip lands on her flesh with a sickening crack and the blood flows from her wound. Desperately, I try to rid my mind of the dreadful image, fighting the urge to collapse in hopelessness. That's the best case scenario. At worst…

No. No, I need to stop thinking of that. She didn't kill a Peacekeeper, after all, merely bruised him. And she's so small! They wouldn't dare. No. I shake my head furiously, as if to force the thought away from my subconscious, to prevent it from picking at my mind.

As the last note of the anthem plays and the symphony of digitalized instruments goes quiet, a strong, meaty hand grips my shoulder with little gentleness. Then another one. I raise my head from my hands, losing my moment of temporary privacy. I glance to Thryce, and see that identical hands are doing the same to her. With stiff, short steps down the miniature flight of stairs, we're led through the staring crowd.

As we walk through the crowd slowly, I find that everyone's character is suddenly crystal clear. The semi-decent spectators, the ones who care that at least one of us is most certainly going to die, look away with pain in their eyes, unable to meet our gazes. Of course this makes me feel exactly like a pig going to the slaughterhouse, but it's more bearable to watch people look away than to watch the others, the gamblers, the ones that gaze at us with fascinated glances as though already weighing how low we're going to last. Most of them look at me, and I know that they must already be entertained by me. By Frill's dangerous show of dedication. It's amazing how interestingly dramatic your life becomes when you're condemned to death, I absently realize. My main focus is on keeping the anguish wiped clean from my face.

We walk through the streets of District Three, and I simply stare straight ahead. You can wait until you're in private to break down, I tell myself inwardly. My face is blank and expressionless, my eyes uncaring. Thryce, I can tell, glances at me periodically and opens her mouth as if wanting to say something, but I ignore her with cold contempt apparent in my silence. Vaguely, a prick of guilt registers in the back of my mind, but I angrily suppress it. I no longer feel like the patient and empathetic teenager that had pitied this girl at the Reaping. I now feel a fury at the Peacekeepers, at myself, at my oblivious father, and even at Frill.

After we've entered the Justice Building, we're separated and I'm practically thrown into a luxurious, colorful room. The doors promptly slam behind me, giving me a strange feeling of confinement and security. I remain standing near the doorway, staring at nothing with an icy look on my face. It takes me a minute to numbly sit down on the soft, bright violet sofa and clutch my chest, staring ahead with dry eyes. Pathetically, I begin to rock myself back and forth, back and forth, as I did when I was a child still dealing with my mother's death. Surprisingly, I don't feel to differently right now.

It's gone. It's all gone. My brief realization that I was practically a corpse shocked me into reality, but now it seems irrelevant. It's not the fact that I'm headed to my execution that makes me feel like collapsing on the floor. It's the fact that I'm no longer able to protect my sister, at this crucial moment. My entire world is crashing down on me, shattering like delicate glass and raining from the sky. It's all going to crush me, kill me from the inside. The worst part is that Frill, innocent and sweet, is trapped in the shards, in the most danger that she's ever been in.

It's all my fault, isn't it?

I bury my face in my hands once more, feeling immensely weak and easily defeated. I'm going to die. Frill is going to suffer. And I'm sitting in solitude, alone in a room, weeping. I don't have the will or the strength to take any action. The numbness that I felt just a few moments ago now subsides, leaving me to the starving beast that is my tangle of emotion.

Fear. Frustration. Sorrow. Regret. Guilt. Hopelessness. And an overpowering, all-consuming emotion that completely washes over me, wiping away all reason. A mind-numbing anger. I cry out, reach for an ornate ceramic lamp sitting on a small wooden table, and take it by its neck. My grip tightens, and I draw my arm back. It quickly snaps forward, letting the lamp ram into the sound-proof walls and shatter at the impact. I slump against the wall and a monosyllable rips from my throat, killing the rage and leaving the sorrow. I simply curl up in the corner of the room and stay there.

Frill doesn't come, only confirming my horrible fears. I know that nothing short of being arrested would prevent her from coming to provide a comforting farewell. She must be at the very same Justice Building, her fate being decided. My eyes shut tightly, still unable to truly expel the image of Frill being whipped. Before I let emotion was over me once more, the door tentatively opens.

My tear-stained face rises and my eyes, utterly incapable and rather confused, take in the stranger as best as they can. He has the same build and demeanor, I realize immediately, as Thryce, and the same rare chocolate skin. A relative of hers, surely. He looks at me for a moment, so pathetic and vulnerable, curled in the corner, and pity softens his face. I tilt my head like a distressed and curious child.

His hand stretches forward, offering me something. I peer at them, my eyes straining in effort. When I finally identify them, my expression almost imperceptibly brightens. Gratefully, I reach out and grab the item, shoving them on my face. My eyes seem to sigh in relief as the entire world returns to its former clarity. My glasses. "Thank you," I say, still slightly puzzled.

He nods. His voice is rich and deep, very quiet, yet strong. How I imagined Thryce to speak. "My sister, she picked them up on the stage. Wanted me to give them to you." I feel guilt gnaw at my stomach, since I had pointedly ignored her as she tried to give them to me on the walk to the Justice Building. He stares at me, in my position on the floor, and tries to express something through his eyes. He can't seem to find the words.

"Well," I reply, breaking the silence with my slightly shaky voice, "tell her I said thank you." Immediately, I revise. "When she gets back."

He nods meaningfully and with unsure, awkward steps walks over and bends down, patting my shoulder in what is obviously meant to be a comforting gesture. I look up at him when he straightens. "Good luck," he says hesitantly. Obviously, he knows what it will mean for him if the odds are in my favor. He opens his mouth, as if to say more, and then shakes his head. He turns away, leaving the room with a single slam of the door.

I sit, puzzling over Thryce's concern. For some reason, I don't feel so alone. I'm still worried to the point of insanity by Frill, about the fact that in the arena, I'll never know whether she's injured or safe or in pain or being publicly tortured. I'm still selfishly frightened for myself, for my own upcoming public execution. And I'm still shocked by the overall ordeal of today.

But for some reason, I'm comforted by the fact that I'm not... completely alone.

It's actually quite pathetic.

Author's Note: Satisfied? Dissatisfied? I'd love to know; you figure out how to make that happen. *Hint, hint*