"Gamzee, straighten up your tie."

I looked down at my purple tie and saw nothing wrong with it, but I pretended to adjust it. After wrangling with it for a few moments, I let it fall slack and observed my handiwork. It looked more crooked than it was before.

Karkat sighed, the action filled with disdain. I shrugged. He shouldn't have been counting on me to fix anything about my appearance. I tugged at a few loose strands of black hair that bounced on my head in a wild mass of dark curls. It was untamable, and I reminded Karkat every time he tried to comb in into submission.

He never gave up, though.

"I don't see why I have to look pretty, anyway. I thought you agreed with me on that, if anything."

Karkat sighed again. "Yes, of course I do. The reaping is a just the Capitol's way of putting glitter on this sick ritual where they throw kids to the—"

"Whoa, there, buddy." I placed a hand on his shoulder. It was tense. "No need to get worked up."

"Hands off. And stop trying to treat me like you're little brother—I'm not."

"Have I ever told you that you're, like, wicked cute?"

The hand stayed. My other hand played with his dark hair—it was about as messy as mine, much to his chagrin, but not as curly and long. I suspected it was carefully tousled and messy on purpose, but I never brought it up with him.

We were like brothers in more ways than one. Both with dark hair, murky brown eyes, tanned, ashen skin that came with being a resident of District 12, the poorest district in the nation. But I was taller than him by a good head, and our personalities were nothing alike; his expression was pulled into a perpetual frown, and I liked to smile.

Those eligible for reaping were herded into pens based on their age. Both Karkat and I were sixteen, so we trudged to the pen that also held the sixteen-year-old children.

They leered at us as we entered the pen. Karkat kicked gravel at them, and they kept their distance. I chuckled.

"You're never going to have any friends if you keep acting like that."

"I don't want any friends."

I clucked. "Ah, yes, that's right. Because you already have me, right?"

Karkat harrumphed, but I noticed he didn't deny my claims. My grin grew a little wider.

The background buzz of nervous conversation quieted as a tall woman strode onto the stage. She wore her hair in a tight bun, and her apathetic eyes fell upon the crowd of dirty, anxious children that stared back at her. She didn't look like she wanted to be here.

I told Karkat this, who snorted.

The woman's hawk eyes landed on the two of us. Karkat straightened and stared back, but I, with my trademark slouch, grinned and gave a little wave. She frowned.

"Gamzee!" Karkat hissed. I ignored him, and held the lady's gaze, who stared back at me. Although Karkat happened to be more outspoken about his beliefs, I was just as passionate about opposing the Capitol. Perhaps even more so.

I was caught by surprise when her frown curled upward into a twisted smirk. She turned away, stepping up to the microphone, and spoke.

"Hello. My name is Damara Megido, and I'm your newest representative. Cheers for District 12," she said, with a tinge of boredom lining her smooth, steady tone. She was met with intense silence. Undeterred, she continued: "As you know, today marks the beginning of the 100th Hunger Games—and the 4th Quarter Quell."

She paused. District 12 waited.

Damara Megido produced a single card from her breast pocket, and held it in front of her face.

"For the 4th Quarter Quell, the tributes will be hand-picked by the president himself, Lord English."

District 12 continued to stare, but they held their breath. Hand-picked? What did that mean?

"There will be no drawing of names," Damara Megido said, ignoring the silent pleas for an explanation. "I already have the names in my hands. Right. Now." She spoke the last two words with a plucky sort of cadence, somehow managing to sound as though she weren't being mesmerized by a swinging pendulum.

"Ladies first," she declared, and produced a second card with a flourish. She read it without pity. "Nepeta Leijon."

Karkat let out a small gasp, and even I turned my head to the fourteen-year-old pen, where the small girl was standing, isolated. As soon as her name had been called, a tight circle had unconsciously formed around her as the other fourteen-year-olds unconsciously moved away.

I didn't know much about her, other than the fact that she was the mayor's prized daughter and one of the few that Karkat considered a close friend. My gaze followed her as she tried to hold her head up high as she made her way to the stage, but I could see that her eyes were bright with the threat of tears.

Somebody from the audience let out a wretched sob. I wondered who it was. Meulin?

"And for our male," Damara continued once Nepeta stationed herself beside her. She crooned her neck, seeking my face. I knew what she was going to say. She didn't even have to say it.

"Gamzee Makara."