Radiance

by NateDaMartian

In an alternate universe where Coriolanus Snow never became President of Panem, a young man assumes the role of leader for the country after his father's untimely death. Read as characters old and new delve into the stars in a struggle to truly understand themselves before the harsh forces of reality attempt to claim them. Story of the 75th Hunger Games that never was.

2. Bread and Circuses

RADIANCE

~ Chapter II ~

As I was escorted back through the ivory corridors, hordes of people I've never seen before patted my back, shook my hand, and took photos with me. A man with a pea-green face complimented me on my choice of wording and my expressive hand gestures; then he started saying something about my speech being historic and that his radio show would be broadcasting it all throughout the night.

Then I felt this strange sensation, like the world was closing in on me and I had nowhere to run. Bright white and blue flashes from the cameras seemed to only be getting closer, and the hoarse laughter that echoed off the marble walls and the repeated clamor of shrill voices only seemed to get louder. Flashes continued to blind me, going off in my watery eyes. I tried to wipe the tears away quickly with my fist.

Every direction I spun there seemed to be someone waiting. Caterers holding small silver platters beckoned and offered me a drink or a taste of some elegant dish or wine. And I pleasantly declined every single one.

All I really wanted was some more water.

It wasn't long after all the hand-shaking and the compliments before I was herded through the velvet corridors like a prized animal. The bald official got on my case for going three minutes longer than I was supposed to. I didn't bother arguing.

"We're going to have to hurry if you want to watch the Reapings live," he began while steering me into a spacious dark room. "We ordered that each District have their Reapings start a few minutes later than the other this year, rather than at the same time. We just wanted to make things more organized this time around."

I nodded briskly, everything a blur. Avoxes and Guards stood near the entrance as I walked inside the cool, black room. There were dozens of comfy looking seats aligned in rows, with a large dim lit screen in the front of the expanse. It's the first time I've ever seen this room in person. The viewing screen was about ten times bigger than the television I had in my room.

I slowly unbuttoned my suit jacket but then wasn't sure where I wanted to go from there.

"You know, I believe your father liked to sit near the middle—he thought it offered him a better view of the screen," the bald official suggested quietly.

I glanced at the man in the darkness, confused. "Wait…who are you again?"

The man smiled and fumbled with a stack of papers as he offered me his right hand, "Septimus Crowley, sir," He was ordinary looking, jittery and was about a foot shorter than myself, "But please, call me Septim. I will be a...personal adviser so to speak, during the entirety of your presidential reign," he said proudly.

I nodded and walked over to the front row of seats. I collapsed into the soft, compact chair with a sigh, grateful to finally get out of the mess out there. Septim sat a seat away from me, piling his papers and folders onto the seat right next to mine. I stared at the busy man nervously, "Uh…so, I think now would be a good time to tell me what's going on with these Games."

Septim looked up at me from his papers, a little surprised with a sheen of sweat over his pudgy face. "Ah yes, well," he sat up with about as much effort as he could muster and continued on with a breathless tone, "The Games this year were supposed to be a Quell. You see, last year we had that issue as you may know with those two winners from Twelve..."

I nodded slowly; I remember watching those two, dubbed the "Star-struck Lovers" who tried to pull a suicide stunt when the "two-winners" rule was revoked in the end by Seneca. My father didn't actually take their stunt too seriously, unlike many here in the streets of the Capitol who labeled them as rebels and terrorists. I personally thought it was entertaining and didn't see the threat behind their actions. Obviously, me and my father were in the minority. You couldn't walk a mile downtown without overhearing the mutterings and distaste for the "Girl on Fire." I still can't believe it made the headlines for as long as it did.

"Unfortunately, your father's death got in the way of any press conferences concerning the Games or the Quell stipulations," he wiped his brow with a handkerchief and continued, "Which is why we decided to postpone the Quell until next year where you will have total say in it."

I shrugged with indifference. Quell or not, the Games must go on, and what better way to begin them then with a new President? It's rather exciting. "Can't wait", I remark quietly.

An Avox bustles over with another platter of…something. "No, I'm uh, not really hungry. Thanks, though," I decline with my eyes glued to the Capitol symbol frozen on the screen.

Septim snaps his fingers at the Avox, "You! Yes, over here. I'll take one of those..." Septim hums with delight as he bites into something crunchy, "These are just delicious—messy, but delicious. And you won't find these babies anywhere but here in the Capitol."

I nod, because I don't really know what to say and how to say it without sounding obnoxious. I'm sure the food is great, but Capitol dish or not, it's just food. Getting excited over a dish just seems strange to me.

But frankly, everything seems a little bizarre at the moment. I am now officially the president of Panem, and I have made my impact. Now that I've done it in public, I have to act serious behind the scenes until the speech at the Chariots in a couple days. It's overwhelming. Now I'm talking with a bunch of old guys in suits, that months earlier I had only admired from afar.

Now I actually have to do my job.

I run my fingers through my dark hair, "So, these Reapings...Anything I should know ahead of time...?" I ask awkwardly.

Septim, while licking his fingers, shakes his head. "Eh...not really. It's like any other Games you've seen before. You will have a final say in the Arena design, though."

Again, I nod. It is rather troubling that my father died at such a chaotic period of the year. Why couldn't he have died later? It's safe to say Panem survives on these damned Games. Without them, we'd be a bored, rotten bunch of people. Without them, it would be a meek existence indeed. Sometimes I ask myself why I bother watching them anymore. It's the same every year—there is a winner, they go on a tour, make some pretty speeches, and then if they're old and sane enough they get shipped off into prostitution for the rest of their lives, rarely seen or heard from again.

And I thought about it before, one afternoon, looking out the window upon the city of gleaming lights below, what if I could change that? What if there was actually excitement? Something new, something different. That is why I didn't mind too much when there were two Victors last year—I thought it was the most entertaining Games I've ever seen. But what if, somehow, I could trump that?

Could now be my chance?

"Alright, I've just got word that the first Reapings are under way," he said half-mumbling to himself. "Yes...the President is here watching right now…I suggest…Yeah...OK. Got it." If you wouldn't have seen the headset before then it would have looked like he was talking to himself.

---

District One

---

The large projection screen suddenly blares to life, revealing the bejeweled symbol for District One. It lasts several seconds before it switches to a live feed; an aerial shot of One's luxurious town square with the infamous stone fountain set right in the center. Thousands of people clutter the cobblestone streets, some cluster in groups under the bright sun, while others stick to the shade of the alleyways. Hundreds of men in white patrol the perimeter of a giant steel platform; a solitary microphone sits upon it, while some Peacekeepers carry on several fancy chairs and some men in tailored suits wait near the side, shielding their eyes from the light while they chuckle among themselves as if they were attending a party.

A thin velvet carpet leads up to the ominous steps toward the grand stage; a mile-long crimson stretch for the tributes to walk upon. Cords and speakers are placed effectively and skillfully beneath the stage as to not trip anyone while they walk up. A camera crew films a young man in a white suit standing in front of the platform—one of many eventual television reporters that will be scrambling to get the best shot and angle for their news station.

In One, all of this is common. The majority of people at the Reapings are gleeful and rowdy. They enjoy it. This is the only time of the year they get to dress up. To show off their fancy clothes and open their shops.

Thousands of children, young and old, male and female, line up in front of large booths, quickly and efficiently getting their fingers pricked and forcefully pressed onto a screen by irritable looking staff. And still, the children, especially the younger ones, can't help but notice the aerial camera looming above them. One realization that they're on live television and a crowd of hands reach up to the sky in excitement. They are unmistakably delighted.

It resembled some sort of amusement park.

"Ah, District One," Septim sighs and glances at me, "Wonderful place—met my wife there actually. You know, I often call it 'Little Capitol', because at night you can see all these neon lights from the buildings and the lamps and—"

"I get it," I half-mutter, cutting the man off. Oops. Did I really just say that out loud? My face heats up at my bluntness. I hate to be the guy who orders people around like underlings. That was my father's approach to life, after all.

Septim becomes silent immediately. "My apologies, Mr. President."

Jeez...poor guy, he's just trying to be friendly after all. But what am I supposed to do? Apologize back?

Several minutes pass where the crowd gathers in many squared sections, and you realize just how structured this whole thing is. How crazy do we have to be as a nation to the point where we've got this whole thing down? If you were to tell me as a boy that we could effectively organize a global human gambling event every year without incident, I would have looked at you and called you an idiot.

The children aren't roped off like cattle in the richer Districts like One. The kids seem to know their place; additionally, they're more enthusiastic about getting onto the stage. The Peacekeepers don't even bother standing in the aisles anymore, because they know they'd get trampled by all the potential volunteers.

My father knew people who used to bet on which kids would get to the stage first. Bets would go from a measly ten coins to several thousand bills. The idea of kids literally auctioning their lives at first might seem ludicrous, but it's a huge money-maker. People actually earn a living off that stuff. I hear the business is pretty dangerous, though.

I set my hand on my chin as I watch the Escort by the name of…Ari—Alan—I'm not exactly sure—getting her makeup done before she walks up the stage.

District One—I've been there a few times. It's a complete mock-up of the Capitol city. My father used to have shipments of gems exported from there so he could collect them. It was an obsession that lasted until his death.

The Escort is actually quite young and pretty, although rumored to be clinically insane. Supposedly, before she became an Escort she was institutionalized for being borderline psychotic. I've never met her personally, but my father is the man who gave her the job. He loved her eccentricity so much he placed her in District One—the most highly sought out Escort position.

She got such flak in the Capitol for getting to the top so easily. I think my father might have secretly fancied her, although I can't see why anyone would like her or want to be near her. Her hair, fashioned in high pigtails, is an eye-burning blonde and pink with glitter dousing every inch of her body. Her knee high stockings are candy-cane striped and her skirt and suspenders the same neon pink as her highlighted hair. She acts like a small child at a candy store, hopping around and squealing into the microphone. I genuinely feel grateful that I've never had to meet this woman.

"Soooooooo, people of One, are you all excited or what?!" she yells ecstatically. This crowd seems to respond in kindred fashion. A majority of the cheers are coming from the younger sections though, while the older kids are either grim-faced or are bouncing on their heels in anticipation.

The pink-haired woman skips over to the girls' bowl; a trademark of hers. I'm convinced she doesn't know how to walk normally.

It's an unfamiliar sight, these Reapings. I haven't kept up with the Games for years while I was away at school. While I was in my room, growing up without many friends, I watched them religiously. Every week I'd study the tributes—every Victor, and every Mentor. It got to the point where I could even recite to you every tribute who's ever competed. It is quite startling and refreshing to see a new Reapings.

Last year was the first time I've seen a live Games in almost five years. It was mostly because of the hype surrounding that girl from Twelve—who wound up winning with her partner. After she volunteered, the Capitol was all over it. You couldn't walk a single block without seeing the face of Katniss Everdeen plastered on the side of a building.

Behind the Escort sits two adults in those fancy chairs the Peacekeepers carried up earlier, looking to be in their mid 20's at the most. The Mentors. If I am correct, they are the famous sibling Victors, Cashmere and Gloss; the only siblings in history who have both won consecutive Games. They look somewhat regal-like as they sit in their chairs on the stage, as if they were king and queen looking down upon peasants. Watching them makes me bitter.

Once Ari is done talking about what she dreamed of last night, she does the usual by throwing down the glass bowl on the stage, making it shatter into tiny jewels. For some reason, she prefers to throw the bowl down and pick a name from the fallen pile. It baffles me and millions of other people. I have since discarded such habits as side-effects of her insanity. Cashmere and Gloss look at the Escort with incredulous, scrunched up faces while the Mayor snaps his fingers at the cleaning crew waiting on the sides.

After jumping in the pile of names she picks one and reads, or rather shouts the name aloud, "Katy Williams! Ooooh, I like that name! It reminds me of a kitty-cat! Katy the kitty!" She giggles to herself.

The camera zooms in on a petite girl with blonde hair trudging out from the 14 year old area. It only lasts a second, however, before the volunteers come. They don't even have to announce that they're going to be volunteering. The rules have become less stringent over the years for the richer districts, to the point where whomever walks up the steps first is generally the one who'll be going.

Dozens of girls in the older age groups begin kicking and shouting at each other in a violent struggle to make it through the crowd. Hair gets pulled, shoes fly off, fancy dresses get ripped; Peacekeepers idly blow their whistles in a vain attempt to restore order. The fighting only gets better; and here's the best part—Ari begins skipping and giggling around the stage while the cleaning crew scrambles to pick up the fallen names and broken glass with sweepers and bags.

The fighting lasts around 10 seconds or so before a few lucky girls pour into the aisle and begin to sprint to the stage. They're fast, but one girl, who seemingly appeared out of thin air, nimbly speeds past the runners with ease. The girl jumps a few steps and tears the microphone away from the Escort's hands. This one looks good—confident and prepared.

She's barely out of breath. "My name is Aurora. Aurora Fisher. I'm eighteen years old and I'm going to win." And just like that, the wiry brunette, garbed in a simple tank-top and sweat pants, shoves the microphone right back into the glittering paws of Ari, before striding over to shake the hands of her new Mentors.

Ari stands there, baffled at Aurora's attitude. Gloss waves to some exuberant girls in the audience and isn't even paying attention to the tribute, while Cashmere has a sour look on her face when Aurora turns back around. I'm not one to judge, but I would assume the spoiled brat is envious of the volunteer.

I nod with a grin to myself. Aurora's good, real good. If anybody were to win this thing my bets are already on this one, and there's still 23 other kids to be chosen. She definitely left an impression on me.

Septim scrolls his finger through some sort of rectangular mechanical device and beckons me closer, clearing his throat nervously,"Mr. President, sorry to interrupt you, but I've got a file here on the girl if you care to hear the details."

Ah, the wonders of technology. "Please, if you would."

Septim nods enthusiastically, delighted to assist me. "No criminal record here, but she's definitely no push-over. Listen to this; Ms. Fisher has won several dozen qualifying tournaments in the District for mixed martial arts, and has won even more awards in school sports. She's an 11-time gold medalist in both track and field events as well as a reigning champion in combative dueling at the Center; there's numerous articles here written about her momentous success in the past. Looks like we've got a serious contender," Septim grins.

Damn, 11-time gold medalist? This girl means business, and it's no wonder she's so confident up there. She's literally been training for this all her life. I've never heard of anyone with those credentials before.

By the time I glimpse back at the screen, Ari has already smashed the boys' glass ball and picked a slip up. She reads the name quietly to herself first, gives a dazzling smile and a pointless wink to the camera, before saying the name out loud, "Lance Daniels!"

The boys act a bit more professional when it comes to getting on the stage. There had to have been some sort of careful arrangement made between coaches, because it appears as if only a couple young men emerge from their respective age groups. Lance, a stocky, burly kid from the 17 year old group, doesn't seem to take this too well, however. His scarcely concealed grin as he walks through his peers deforms into a scowl as more boys shove past him and protrude into the main aisle.

Ari goes on again with her chortles and giggles, but it isn't as wild this time. I can understand. This just seems too organized—too boring.

All of the sudden, the few boys strolling down the aisle are fronted by a large group of foul-mouthed, raggedy urchins. It happened too fast. They must have been waiting in the audience.

They look like gang-members with scarves and hoods covering their faces and tattoos stretching down their arms. It's impossible to determine where they emerged from. One of the boys is taken down by three of them.

This attack was planned.

What once was an organized cake-walk now looks like a full-blown riot. Peacekeepers arrive on the scene quickly with batons and spray. No longer are there whistles being blown—this obviously wasn't supposed to happen. From the chaotic scuffle in the aisle emerges an angry looking official dragging someone by the hem of their shirt. Upon closer examination, the boy is brash, slightly dark-skinned with spiky hair; looking relatively similar to the rest of the rowdy bunch that just crashed the Reaping.

I don't know why he was chosen. He must have said something.

The boy laughs as he gets shoved up the steps by several Peacekeepers. The cleaning crew doesn't get all the glass, and the boy kicks the glass into the audience, eliciting some whistle blows from the Peacekeepers. Ari hops over to the boy, "OOH this is exciting! I can do that too!"

Ari, the lunatic, starts kicking some glass into the audience as well; the front row shrieks and cowers back. The tan-skinned boy grabs the microphone, eyeing the women on the stage a little too hard. He whistles, "Damn. Got me some fine chicks up in here." Aurora crosses her arms and sternly measures the boy up, while Ari giggles. Gloss and Cashmere look utterly disgusted.

A Peacekeeper with a baton storms up the steps to shout at the boy, "My name? Oh, Emilio. Yeah, Emilio Flores, and that's what's up!" He makes some sort of a symbol with his hands, "Shout-out to my homies who helped me get here. Let's see, we've got...Apollo, I see you, man! Miguel is over there and Pete—"

The Mayor of One, a large, gray-haired, Capitol wannabe yanks the microphone from the deviant's hands, "I'm afraid we're out of time. Eh, thank you very much for your patience." The Mayor gestures for Peacekeepers while he takes out a handkerchief and pats his glossy forehead. "Please, tributes, if you will, shake hands so we can be done with this."

Emilio clicks his tongue and spikes his hair with precise fingers, immediately setting his sights upon his partner, going over to try to not only shake her hand but also to try and kiss it. Aurora sees it coming and shoves him so hard he lands on his ass.

Ari has to be escorted off the stage by some Peacekeepers after she attempts to...jump off the stage and into the crowd. The tributes also have to be separated to avoid any further confrontation. Emilio doesn't look all that upset about his failed advances, though.

"Septim, what can you tell me about this Emilio kid?" I ask curiously.

"Hm, well he's certainly got a long history here. Quite the opposite of his partner. He's been arrested several times for attempted theft but he's somehow managed to evade punishment and imprisonment. He seems to be involved heavily in suspected gang activity, and with that gang-fight incident that occurred a few months ago in the suburbs, I have no doubt he was involved."

"Huh," is all I manage to say. Emilio sounds like trouble, although I can't help but wonder how the kid managed to get involved with a gang. They are uncommon, and if discovered and captured, each member of the gang is often executed or tortured publicly for their crimes. Surely those must have been members of the gang who attacked the boys going up to that stage. It looked very prearranged, and I can guarantee there will be repercussions for their actions. The excitement was a refreshment. Something of that nature hasn't ever happened before. However, as the leader of this country, it puts me in a very precarious position.

On one hand they brought something different to the table, but on the other, it could be considered an embarrassment to the Capitol—a sign of rebellion. I didn't see anything like that. But the more sensitive ones in the Capitol will—the white collar workers or the fashion victims, the other higher-ups like myself.

I must remain impartial. My father was not, and look where it took him.

Then again, District One being as spoiled as it is will probably get a slap on the wrist in the form of "missing supplies shipments". Contrary to popular belief, the President doesn't have the final say on everything in Panem. My father used to tell me that the power presidency entitled you to was never enough to let you make all the decisions. It was a complicated process involving other parties and branches that even he wasn't aware of in the parliament.

Unfortunately, this means I don't have all the power. Not yet.

---

District Two

---

The screen blacks out for a moment before the symbol of the Capitol appears again. It changes into the District Two symbol before going live to the Reapings.

District Two was never as exciting as the previous. Not only is there organized volunteer brackets decided beforehand, but they take volunteering incredibly seriously. I believe it's even shameful to volunteer if you haven't competed in a volunteer-bracket tournament or have attended the Academy there. District Two has had volunteers for decades. It's become their trademark.

I always do like seeing the kids who will volunteer. There's something about them that ensures some sort of victory. It could be their athleticism, their cunning, or just some outstanding, rare skill that enables them farther than the rest. I've also noticed, at least from what I've studied, the kids here aren't as cocky or brash. They don't need to be.

District Two breeds warriors. The largest tribute to ever compete was actually from Two; a volunteer named Atlas who was about 6'8" and over 200 pounds in the 30-something Games. He was also one of the few tributes in history known to have ever received a score of 11. The Head Gamemaker was forced to create a special muttation just to kill that one kid because he kept killing all the rest of them for fun. I always used to get nightmares after watching that one.

The Escort is already on the stage. Thankfully, she is mentally sane. I'm not sure what her name is, but she's clothed in a long light blue gown. Her enthusiasm is so fake it's sickening, but it's not like anyone cares either. The last thing on anyone's mind, especially there, is the Escort's attitude.

The Mentors are physically impressive to behold. A bald, burly man sits next to a dark-skinned woman with a smile that could kill. Literally.

The woman's teeth are like that of an animal's, sharpened to a point. Her name is shrouded in infamy; Enobaria, the girl who won the games with her teeth. Once her sword broke in half, instead of grabbing another, she opted to file her teeth down and chew on her enemies' throats.

The Escort doesn't waste any time with monologues, and pulls the girl's name swiftly and skillfully, "Do we have a Gwendolyn Whitaker?"

There is only one clear response.

But this doesn't deter other girls from leaving the crowd. I couldn't tell which one was Gwendolyn, or whether she even bothered to emerge at all.

The girls race down the aisle, two of them get ahead of the rest, but after one of them tackles the other down by the steps, two more climb past them. I can't tell who reaches the stage first, but the shorter of the two curses and angrily shoves the other girl down the steps.

The short girl snatches the microphone and speaks in an out of breath, flustered voice, "Alright, listen up! You hearing this mom, dad? How about you Flynn? I'm gonna win and show you people who never believed in me that I am not just a pushover! Got it? I'm gonna win and I want you all watching!"

Because she didn't say her name, the Escort has to ask her. The girl, irritable and frustrated, instead shouts it, "Leah! Should I spell it out for you? L. E. A. H. LEAH!"

I shake my head, chuckling under my breath, "Who is this girl? She's got some attitude."

"Sure does," Septim agrees, biting into another cheese bun, "Says here her name is Leah Valenta. A bit of an unknown, but there's some school articles here about her involvement in sports. She did seem to have some behavioral problems; got into a lot of fights, boys mostly."

I laugh, "Boys, huh?" Leah definitely has…spunk. She's silent now, but she's staring into the boys' section quite angrily. Perhaps there's some sibling rivalry. She doesn't look all that pretty, quite average really, with slightly tanned skin and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

The Escort draws another name, "Bradley Stark! Come on down Bradley Stark!"

Again, more than one boy comes out of the audience. As the camera pans in on them, it's fascinating looking at their monstrous physique. Nearly all of them tower in height, with bulging muscles and strong, masculine attitudes. None of them run, but there is some dirty looks exchanged as they jog past each other, as if they were animals embarking on each others' respective territories.

But there is a rift in a spot of the 18's section. The camera isn't focused on it but I can see many boys separating—stepping away and making room for somebody large. My eyes widen as the tallest boy I have ever seen slowly shoves his way into the central aisle with long strides. The boys walking onto the stage hesitate and stop, moving aside for him.

The camera zooms in on the large competitor; he wears plain, almost raggedy clothes stitched together as if they were custom made for his wiry frame. He has a small goatee and sideburns with short, shaggy dark hair and ordinary features, with a tendency to slouch his head as he walks.

The boy on the steps stumbles back in surprise as the gigantic boy saunters past him. Even the Mentors are incredulous as the boy's large hand grips the microphone and leans into it. The Escort, obviously nervous, takes several small steps back, struggling to maintain an affirmative composure.

There's heavy breathing audible, somewhat shaky, but oddly enough, the boy's features are soft, rather distant looking, and his dark eyes look glazed over, "Uh, my name is…Emmett, and I'm going to be your tribute this year. But, uh…dad…I don't…I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm really sorry…" his deep voice rumbles and cracks as he drifts off.

Emmett drops the microphone and places his large hands in his pockets as he stands next to Leah.

Leah, who looks like a toddler compared to him, isn't afraid to grasp his enormous hand. Instead, it almost appears like she's standing her ground, for whatever reason, as if to show she's not afraid of him. Her hand is completely engulfed but she makes no hesitation. She looks angry, while Emmett looks awkward, conflicted about something. The big male Mentor scratches his bald head, while Enobaria licks her lips as the camera focuses on her. I can't help but shudder.

"Who the hell is this kid?" I mutter more to myself than anything.

Septim also appears unsure, "His full name is Emmett Montgomery, he finished school with average grades and was an apprentice to a weapons smith. Not much else is said here besides that he was involved in sports in school and won a few awards."

There are several mutterings in the back of the theater, no doubt about Emmett's size. I think I might have to reconsider my bet on Aurora, Emmett is sure to impress. He said something about his father, but wasn't able to finish. Strange…

---

District Three

---

Sadly, we switch over to District Three quickly—where the annoyed, frustrated Escort stands tapping his boot on the wooden platform impatiently as the crotchety, senile Mayor reads from a crusty looking brown scroll.

District Three is a depressing sight to behold on Reaping days; it's often dark with fog and steam in the streets from all the factory plumes and it's usually raining—as it has on this very day for the past six years. The air is difficult to breathe in and it's known to stick to your skin. It's covered to the brim with factories and warehouses, making the kids there unprepared and thin. It's better off than Twelve, though; some kids from here usually manage to get in good with stronger alliances because of their vast knowledge of working with machinery. They're smart, I'll give you that.

The Escort here is known to be a nuisance to work with. He is always in a foul mood behind the scenes but manages to put a cheesy half-grin on his face for one day a year. It's a little known fact that he wants to get promoted from Three, and my father purposely ignored addressing the issue because watching the guy amused him.

The Mentors are fidgety and frail looking. How they ever managed to win is something of a miracle. It's hard to forget about Beetee, the genius who killed the entire Career pack with a wire. The woman is very much insane, and she never speaks. The only evidence to reaffirm this is her constant rocking and twitching.

"Alright, let's do this." The Escort already has the white slip in his hand, having picked it up before the Mayor even finished talking. "For the girls…erm, Corinne Brooks?"

There's a long moment of silence where gasps of relief can be heard, followed by a sea of heads looking around confusedly.

I knew it would take a while for these kids to get on the stage—they're very emotional when it comes to the Reapings. The girl has to be guided along into the aisle by some Peacekeepers who nudge her occasionally with batons to keep her moving. Her fists are balled up, clenching the bottom of her shirt as she hunches her shoulders stiffly and keeps her head down. Corinne, a short and pale girl, takes her time when climbing the stairs, and it's painful to see the broken look on her face when she finally looks up. The Escort hands her the microphone but she only stares at it with empty, incredulous eyes. She takes a few careful steps near the back of the stage and gently fondles her blonde curly hair.

The Escort gives Corinne a dirty look and shrugs. "Alright, fine," he mutters before going to the other bowl.

I don't mean to underestimate the kid, but obviously she's torn. Nothing about her indicates she's going to make it far. There's only been a few cases where a tribute acted weak as a ploy—with only one instance where the strategy was actually successful; a strategy that belonged to Johanna Mason, the cold-blooded killer from Seven that fooled everyone in Panem.

"Do we have a Trey Livingston? Trey Livingston, come on up."

The boy is much quicker to respond, actually going as far to jog out of the crowd, before casually strolling down the aisle with a hood over his head, making his face difficult to see. Trey skips a few steps on the way up and almost trips on the top, making the Escort shake his head before aiming the microphone in his face, mouthing something to the kid.

"Course' I'm Trey, who else would I be?" the boy says cockily, chewing on some gum and cracking it into the microphone for everyone to hear. Trey hesitates, "You done?"

He puts on a neat show of arrogance compared to Corinne, who cowers near Beetee. Trey gets stopped by a Peacekeeper on the stage, although it's impossible to hear them over the Escort's talking. The exchange ends quickly with Trey taking his hood off, which I'm guessing is what he was confronted about.

Corinne and Trey shake hands and the screen flickers immediately afterward to the black screen with the Capitol symbol again. Septim hasn't said anything about Trey or Corinne, so I'm guessing there's nothing interesting about them. Corinne didn't stick out to me, and Trey seemed pretty careless up there, which is unusual for those kids. It's too bad I can't see them while they're saying their goodbyes, which would be even more interesting.

An Avox taps me on the knee and I have to squint to see what they're trying to give me now. It's embarrassing to be catered to like this as well as annoying. Every five minutes since the moment I woke up they've been trying to shove food my way. I don't eat very much to begin with—you'd think they remembered that after so long. "No, I'm alright. Thanks," I politely decline for seemingly the twentieth time.

Septim, however, gladly takes two more of whatever they're passing around.

---

District Four

---

The District Four skyline is seen for a few seconds before switching to the camera hovering above the Reaping stage, showing the rambunctious Escort giving some sort of odd soliloquy about the beauty of the Games. Then I see that the large television screen used to show the standard Treaty of Treason video is not in working condition. To make matters worse, the Mayor has also been ill for the past week. All morning, Septimus was scrambling through the halls making relentless calls to Four about the issue.

The Escort apparently had the Treaty memorized, although I'm unsure if this is true. She seems a bit...tipsy. Her hair is a fiery orange while her dress looks like some shiny cascading teal waves. The usual attire.

District Four is one of the wealthiest Districts, but it's not as luxurious as One, nor is it as predominantly high-class as Two.

However, it's filled with the only swimmers you'll find in Panem, and the inner city ring is filled with gifted athletes from all walks of life who live in specially-designed housing developments.

Regardless, Four is often overlooked by its preceded Districts. Four is also a District that was universally deemed by my father as being 'unreliable'. Volunteers vary from year to year. Some years, both tributes are volunteers. Other years, only one of them. And historically, District Four didn't have any volunteers whatsoever until the Games entered its fourth decade.

Apparently they have an organized structure system that the prospective volunteers follow at the Academy, similar to Two in nature, but it's seldom enforced and frequently ignored. It's a strange, often unpredictable setup. I've been there only once when I was younger, and if you can stand the smell of fish and seawater, it's a paradise. The homes near the shore offer a scenic view, and the Village is a sight to behold—homes built with the finest architecture I've seen outside the Capitol. It's marvelous, and with the ocean right there...it's certainly peaceful. I'd trade the mansion for a home near open sea any day of the week.

The two Mentors arrive late on the stage, hand in hand, obviously entangled in some sort of relationship. They're a careless duo—unafraid to display their affection. When they sit down she never lets go of his hand. The woman is fair but shy and fidgety, and the man is stunningly handsome, with chiseled features and neatly fixed copper hair. They wave to the cameras as if not a care in the world, then the man proceeds to kiss the woman on her cheek, nuzzling her shoulder.

There was a girl's name called, but I did not hear it.

For such a wealthy District, it's odd that the audience is still. Many of the older children are healthy and in fit condition to compete. The schooling system in Four has in place several strict ordinances to make sure every student is enrolled in some sports or recreational activity. Every single child save the mentally ill, diseased, or obese is required to play a sport for credit.

And yet, not a single soul moves. The nameless girl lets out feverish yelps as Peacekeepers attempt to drag her from the crowd. The horrified screams of her mother fill the silent void. Heads turn—watching in paralyzed fear as the young girl is dragged out by her feet. It is painful to watch. I've seen it every year but it never stops feeling nauseating.

But then, there is a voice. A beacon of hope. A sliver of sunshine.

"I'll volunteer," a gentle voice sings.

A thin, graceful girl emerges from the older section, head held high with a small half-grin on her soft pallor. Her hair is cut to her shoulders and it's a bright blonde like the color of the sand on the shore. She is startlingly beautiful, with the biggest, bluest eyes I've ever seen.

She hops up the steps after the Escort lends a hand to help her up. The girl just completely ignores it, probably out of nervousness. The mysterious volunteer lets out a nervous laugh, tucks her hair behind her right ear and speaks, "My name is Noelle. Noelle Rosetti." Her eyes flicker quickly from left to right—searching for someone in the sea of faces. "I am..." she trails off, stumbling over her words. "I mean...I want to volunteer."

That is a beautiful name. Noelle Rosetti. Delicate, soft, and mysterious. But then, that Escort, the foolish woman, lets out a guffaw and twirls her orange curls like a child, "Oh that's wonderful, child! You're doing fantastic already!"

Fantastic already? What does that even mean?

"Thank you," Noelle adds shyly, spinning on her heel and going to shake the hands of her Mentors; the copper haired stud has his arm around his lover, both clapping softly in appreciation for Noelle's volunteering.

Such a sweet girl, but it doesn't make much sense. She is as frail as a stick. Too frail to imply she is an athlete. Too frail to imply that she has trained all her life for this moment. In any case, she's only wearing slacks and a jacket. Perhaps she has a secret.

Who knows? Maybe it's a strategy—maybe she's just some cunning wolf in sheep's clothing, using her innocence and beauty to her advantage. Yes, perhaps she's a ruthless killer.

Her eyes looked honest…but they were so pretty and...blue that it was hard to tell. I wonder where she came from, and why she wants to go in the Hunger Games. Pretty girls like that shouldn't be playing games.

I'm so deep in thought I only hear the last name of the boy who was picked, "—Pinkman, come on down!"

There was no audible voice, but unlike the girls, a few boys wander out of the audience, and a few of them seem unsure, with one boy even being pushed and goaded on by his friends.

However, only one boy sticks out.

It's easy to tell by the way they walk—how confident they are, how sure of themselves. Only one seems to have that graceful and confident gait, the kind you only see with dancers or people who know exactly where they're headed.

The boy I'm talking about has his hands in his pockets, soft—with handsome features, similar to the male Mentor sitting on the stage. As he walks, the cameras show some girls on the other side leaning out of the aisle to take a better look. He seems to have that effect, but he's used to it.

It's odd, though. His hair is the exact same mop of white-blonde Noelle has. He's unusually composed, with blue eyes the pigment of the sky.

He floats up the steps, hands in sleek, white trouser pockets, azure gaze steadily directed down at the Escort because of his height, and leans in towards the microphone, "Caspian Rosetti," he murmurs, just loud enough for the cameras to pick up, before giving a tort nod and drifting to stand beside his...sister.

I'm not exactly sure how I feel about this now. So they are siblings…twin siblings. There's no mistaking the surname, the hair, and the age. And by the way they stand so comfortably beside one another—it's actually a little disturbing and odd considering there's only going to be one person standing in the end. Who in their right minds would volunteer with their sibling? From an outsider's perspective, it just doesn't seem...normal.

The Escort, surprisingly enough doesn't seem as perplexed, and continues on with yet another irrelevant monologue. Caspian and Noelle don't even bother shaking hands.

Why should they?

They remind me of a young Cashmere and Gloss, the two siblings who won consecutive Games. It's most unfortunate that the possibility of that occurring is impossible. Tradition states there is only one winner. Last year, my father gave the direct order to allow two victors. It was the first time in history it has ever happened. And the last.

Nothing has changed.

After the Mentors rise to leave, Caspian whispers something in his sister's ear, causing her to grin and shake her head. It would be interesting to know what they were talking about, and then again I think it's better to admire them from afar. After all, they are a commodity now. The bets for them will fly off the charts. They'll break the economy. The gasps in the back of the projection room already indicate this.

"Septim, what do you have on these two?" I ask, deep in thought.

Septim shakes his head with a sigh, "I wish I knew, Mr. President. I've looked through their birth records and the records are empty. All it says here is that they were born and raised in Four and graduated from secondary school this past year. Their parents died in an accident while they were young and were raised and had been living with foster parents. A couple weeks ago it says here there was a fire connected to criminal activity which burned down a few homes in a residential neighborhood, apparently their house was one of them and their foster parents didn't make it out in time."

"Jesus…" I whisper; it's no wonder they volunteered. The kids were homeless. Orphans. They had nothing left. I guess it makes sense they try to win to earn some cash. But why would both of them volunteer? It's just odd.

My eyes flicker toward the screen; the camera shows Caspian lending his hand to help his sister down the steps. The two blondes smile at each other, give a wave to the cameras and continue their walk to the trains without any goodbyes.

Noelle walks ahead of him, and I notice how close they really are as Caspian's gaze continues to loom on the small of her back. There is a certain something that I cannot place on the way he looks at Noelle. Protective isn't the word I'm looking for, but it's somewhere along those lines.

It isn't long before the Capitol symbol envelopes the screen, leaving me in the darkness with my thoughts.

---

District Five

---

There's not enough time as District Five's symbol comes up next. I have the slightest feeling that things are going to become less exciting as we go further down the list, especially after the unusual series of events that have been unfolding in the richer Districts thus far. I've never been to Five, largely because there's no reason to be there.

It's a dull, dreary place filled with somber people and forlorn faces. The kids there seem to be pretty damned clever—they have a lot of open land and even have a small recreational center which would explain why they statistically do well in the Games. Take a look at last year with that red-haired girl from Five who made it reasonably far up until she made an error out of desperation.

I'm looking forward to see who comes out of this one. Five is a wild-card.

The Escort is a woman they call Cherry. The only reason I know is because of how long she's been around in the Escort business. She was around before my father was even elected, making her somewhere in her late fifties. She's one of the oldest, but has a better grasp of the rules. She's reportedly a very kind and patient woman. Gentle with the kids, I hear.

The Mentors are faces I do not recognize—the woman is there, but the man is late again. I have reason to believe he's an alcoholic.

"Let's just get on with it then, shall we?" says Cherry before delicately unfolding the slip in her hand. "Isabel Walters!"

There's a low sob but afterward the crowd is dead, no difference there. And yet nobody emerges from any of the age groups. Peacekeepers begin stirring, eyes scanning for the unfortunate victim.

After some time, a girl makes an annoyed sigh before strutting down the aisle. Careless. She occasionally looks down at her feet as she walks, but I'm not sure if it's out of insecurity.

The girl, ghostly pale and dark-haired, is wearing an ancient looking dress the color of midnight. She toys with the silver locket around her neck as she haphazardly tip-toes up the wooden steps and takes the microphone. She's unable to grasp the microphone and it tumbles onto the floor with a screaming wail, "Wow. Seriously?" She laughs to herself before picking it up and sighing.

Cherry gives the brunette a warm smile despite the girl's stoic expression. "Would you be Isabel?" asks Cherry.

The girl rolls her tongue inside her cheek and leans forward, "Nope," she replies nonchalantly.

Cherry gives a small gasp and she looks almost confused before her shiny red lips contort into another warm smile, "Oh! So you're volunteering, then?" Cherry turns her head toward the camera and mouths a surprised and dramatic "wow", as if it were a big deal.

And it is a rather big deal. This girl is the first volunteer from a non-wealthy District.

The girl looks at Cherry with a raised eyebrow and bobs her head forward, "Duh."

Cherry's smile deflates a little after that, and her eyes squint, revealing wrinkles. Cherry may act air-headed, but it's mostly for the cameras. I hear the woman can be hard-headed and vigilant when she needs to be. "Your name, dear?"

The girl smirks and nods, "My name is Willow Blanchett—but it's not like it matters though. I mean, I'll be dead in like a week so—"

Cherry snatches the microphone back and flashes a cheesy smile as she nudges Willow away, "Okay! Isn't she lovely? Alright! Now for the boys!"

It's hilarious how smoothly Cherry manages to sway the subject of discussion. Willow is entertaining. She volunteered, and that has to mean something.

"And it issssss…Zachary Finch!"

This time, it's not a matter of reluctance, but a matter of deliberation. Zachary, which is who I assume is walking down the aisle, has to be the strangest boy I've ever seen.

Zachary is freakishly pale with a few freckles near his nose, but they look to be concealed by a smothering of thick, white makeup. Strong dark circles around his eyes give me the impression he hasn't slept a wink in days.

He walks elegantly, with a slight tip-toe in his step that is somewhat comical. He is cloaked in black, making his pale skin more pronounced, not to mention the greasy, jet black hair falling into his eyes, making him look like one of those hipster wannabes in the Capitol. Most importantly, though, he's covering his eyes with his hand, despite the lack of sun at the moment. And as he walks down the aisle, I can't but help but also notice his mouth moving rapidly, like he's talking to himself.

I'm not sure what he's trying to emulate, but he's dedicated to whatever he's doing. When Zachary finally gets on the stage he looks at the Escort as well as everyone else up there in such a way that he wants to throttle them. His charming, lopsided grin betrays his wide, crazed looking eyes.

He speaks with an obvious false accent, and enunciates his words as if he's trying to prevent stuttering, "I have arrived. While I find my current circumstances to be definitively overwhelming, it is most certainly a…pleasure to be here." He stalks over to Willow and kisses her hand; although Willow actually allows the gesture, she hardly reacts. "Salutations, dark one." Willow just stares at the back of her hand with a raised eyebrow, before wiping it on her dress.

I almost cackle. This is too much for me. 'Dark one'? This boy is on drugs.

Cherry sneakily pries the microphone from Zach's fingers, and his head jolts to examine her. It isn't until seconds later I realize his mouth has been moving the entire time. Willow gives him a strange look as her pale fingers haphazardly toy with her locket. Zachary's head twitches—once—twice—three times and then he gives the cameras another lopsided, almost pained smirk.

Cherry laughs nervously, "Alright…heh, let's just shake hands tributes!"

Zachary begins licking his chapped lips at Willow, which is creepy. She doesn't notice, and before I can see any more, the camera flickers to black. I shake my head and lean over, "Septim, what on earth was wrong with that kid?"

Septim snorts, "I think he's insane. It says here he had to be examined and his mental state could not be determined. He's also home-schooled. It doesn't say much else, but it would be wise once he gets here to separate him from everyone else…for safety reasons. He doesn't look right."

I nod, Zachary is dangerous if this is true—insane or not. It could help him in the Arena if he's so disconnected from reality, but it could also kill him. District Five usually surprises me—and this time it was no different. I can't say that is a good thing though in this case.

---

District Six

---

The symbol for District Six pops up so quickly I miss it. It's not hard to guess judging from the scenery, though, with all the train-yards and warehouses.

This District is one of the few where upper class citizens are allowed to operate their own vehicles provided they have a license. Despite the cars and in rare cases—limousines, it's a rather filthy place filled with abandoned factories and tacky apartments. Go a bit north and you'll see small medical centers selling the most medication you'll ever see outside the Capitol. It's the only District that does it openly.

It's really a sad case, though, because most of those centers are a blatant lie to attract customers. Regardless what you tell the clerk behind the desk, they'll always hand you Morphling. The addiction is what keeps the businesses moving. People even go in caravans just to reach those centers in the north to get their fix. I presume about 50% of this wasteland consist of addicts and dealers.

I came here a few years ago with my father for a convention and the first person I saw was slipping tablets behind his jacket on the corner. It was ridiculous. My father tried to repair this dump but only managed to blow the cover on a couple Morphling dealers and a small-time distributor.

I've heard the miracle stories about people who supposedly went clean without the withdrawals and went back to their merry lives. I think it's all nonsense—once you're hooked, there's no going back.

The tributes from here are usually addicts or mentally insane. Most of the kids head into the factories as soon as they can walk, and others try to smuggle themselves on trains to escape. Peacekeepers have the tightest grip on this place since the big revolt several years ago.

I don't remember any tribute from here ever getting to me—they're mostly fat if they're rich, or twig-thin if they're poor. None of them make it past the first day unless they're psychotic, and even then, they might try to make friends with Mutts and get torn apart.

Every kid in the audience is either in a school uniform, or wearing some work clothes. Needless to say, their hours are terrible.

The Escort is too new for me to know his name. He started a year ago and I guess he managed to stick around despite his blunder last year where he forgot his note-cards. He's obsessed with everything gold and keeps his head a shiny bald. He's spray-painted gold from the neck down as well and his teeth and eyes are coated in gold too, and every step he takes is accompanied by a loud rattling and jingling. It's always quiet, so it's ten times more audible.

The jingling is cringe-worthy, and I have to put my hand over my left ear to block out some of the noise. Thankfully the air conditioners in the theater make some ambiance so it's not all that bad.

The Mayor, who is paralyzed and requires use of a wheelchair, breezes through the Treaty and the Escort wastes no time in going over to the girls' glass bowl. He has a tendency to read things too quickly, so I couldn't tell what her first name was, "…Knight!"

There's a scream of agony that comes from somewhere in the crowd, and then of course, utter silence. There's a huge shift in one of the sections, and a line of girls start getting pushed aside by someone trying to make a run for it.

Quickly, Peacekeepers storm into the crowd to find her. I hear a horrible screech and Peacekeepers begin running after a waif in a hand-me-down dress. They grab her by the hair with such force that some of it gets pulled out in their gloved hands. The brunette screams and wails in protest, viciously clawing at them. Some curses are heard as they drag the poor kid and toss her onto the wooden stage.

The camera zooms in on her wild-eyed expression. Dark circles line her eyes and she looks around like some sort of helpless animal. It's not unusual. Kids, especially from the poor Districts like this one make a fuss all the time. She doesn't look like a young kid, but she looks like a crazy one. The Escort doesn't even bother handing her the microphone.

Something odd happens with the girl where her hair begins to flutter. There's not a single gust of wind outside. It's humid and sunny, and yet her hair keeps flying into her face—moving, dancing in front of her dark blue eyes like the wind itself was concentrated.

One of the dress sleeves looks torn and her shoulder peeks out, revealing some old scars and bruises. Some scratches can be seen on her chest too. And the more her hair flutters the more she begins breathing hard—frightened.

Just get the damned cameras off her face. Some kids just have a bad life. It happens. Some are just camera-shy. Everyone's a little different. But her hair just moving like that without a single gust? I can feel some hair rising along my arm now. Creepy.

Thankfully, the cameras pan away when she's forced to her feet to stand by her Mentors. Speaking of such, the Mentors are just as crazy looking as the girl is. Their eyes are red and dilated, and their skin is scarred and sickly looking. Morphling addicts; it's a common thing for Victors to get hooked on to after they return home. It's illegal but usually not enforced for civilians to be under the influence in public institutions, and if it's a Victor, they practically give out Morphling like candy on the trains.

The golden Escort laughs sheepishly, embarrassed at the girl's antics and ambles towards the boys' bowl. "Um, DowehaveaErykMurray?" He speedily announces as he tears the slip apart. Again, the only person who'll understand the guy is the one who just got called.

Something amazing happens where the boy gets out of the crowd, but stops in his tracks as if to second guess himself. When the camera angles itself, it's to my surprise that another boy emerges from the audience. It's a surprise because…well, there are rarely volunteers for the poor Districts. It's taboo, and that's why the girl from Twelve volunteering last year actually made the headlines for five weeks straight. The lower the District numbers, the less volunteers. It's common sense. Which is why when a kid from the lower class decides to willingly put themselves in the ultimate game of survival, it's kind of a big deal.

Volunteers cost more—they're harder to manage, and some people even argue that they do it out of spite to give us at the Capitol a harder time. The kids from the wealthy Districts generally dislike other volunteers because they steal their spotlight. I hear the big guy from Two last year barked up a storm because of the Twelve girl. Apparently it messed with his mental training and he had to take some sleeping medication. Crazy stuff.

This boy is not only volunteering, but if I'm not mistaken, he looks rather enthusiastic about it. The interesting thing is, he's wearing a suit with a tie, looking much like myself, which is rather flattering. He's even got the whole unkempt hair-crooked tie thing going on. Is my style already becoming, dare I say…a trend?

The kid stumbles over his own feet as he tries to run up the steps—a few younger kids in the audience giggle. The golden Escort targets the kid with a microphone, because without some decent material, there's no way to make the vignettes. When it comes to the cameras, anything will be used.

"And, um, what'syourname?" stammers the golden Escort.

The kid really is a mess once you get a better look, he looks great from afar and I can admire his sharp style, but you can easily tell he's actually been working. Oil stains and old coffee spills are dotted along his murky blue dress-shirt, and there are holes and patchworks in his slacks. His hair is tangled and greasy and he's got a nice 5'o clock shadow going on.

The Escort nods, encouraging the kid to speak up instead of standing there with wide eyes. He takes off his thick glasses and clears his throat before introducing himself, "M—my name is Cedric…Cedric Brown! And I'm…and I'm going to WIN! WOO! YEAH! I'm...I'm gonna freaking win! I WILL!"

I can hardly believe it when Cedric begins jumping and cheering—not only is it unintentionally hilarious, but he's been the most enthusiastic kid all day. Now that's what I want to see, finally a guy who's actually happy to be up there!

Cedric starts swiveling his hands from side to side, wiping them on the back of his pants occasionally as he shuffles around. I respect the guy's courage as he attempts to shake his partner's hand. It's too bad she's been restrained by Peacekeepers, who are now being forced by the tall, bony, gaunt-faced Head Peacekeeper to escort her down the steps before she begins attacking people.

The golden Escort starts laughing—almost sounding like chuckles of disbelief. He looks at the Mayor as he rolls himself to the side, gesturing lightly to Cedric, "This guy is pretty good," he muses. A few adults in the audience laugh too, which is something new.

Septim chuckles to himself as he reads the device, "The girl's name is Dahlia Knight. There's little information here regarding her behavior—she was either having a panic attack or she's insane. It does say here that she threatened suicide a few times in the past. That's about it as far as background goes."

Suicide? I didn't expect any less from that wasteland, but I'm glad there was some humor involved. Neither of the kids look to be addicts, though. I want to think Dahlia was abused or something because of those marks, but I can't explain the hair magically fluttering around her face. Cedric was a riot, and it's hard to tell if he was taking all of this seriously or not. I don't know how to feel about him or Dahlia. They were both kind of weird.

---

District Seven

---

Next up is District Seven. It's probably one of the easiest places to recognize because of all the pine trees. You'd think these people were feral because of their seclusion—but it turns out they're quite the opposite. They're hard workers despite their below average living conditions. Many families build their own homes from logs and lack clean water or electricity, so the kids either learn to work for their money or take their chances with the Games—and they usually get pretty far.

It's a destitute place, but the people here manage. The kids are actually really good—physically of course. All the chopping and cutting down trees every day has helped shape them to become surprisingly strong and agile.

I always wondered how these kids managed to become so lean and chiseled, but after you realize they've been working nearly 15 hour shifts in the woods since the day they could walk…well, it's self-explanatory.

The Escort, Tyson, is a very large, hairy, and intimidating man who likes to wear a leather duster and military boots every year at the Reapings. He's always got this angry look on his face when he's not talking, and a lot of the kids who go up there find his presence overwhelming. Rumors are the guy is actually pretty laid back behind the scenes; my father used to be drinking buddies with him and likened the guy to a giant teddy bear.

Tyson's been in the business awhile. He requested to be sent to Seven nearly a decade ago, which makes him quite the veteran among the modern Escorts. Tyson's a pretty nice guy even from what I've seen—he helps the smaller kids or the girls up the steps once in a while.

Little known fact here; District Seven is currently the only District where the Mayor is a woman. It was a big deal back in the papers when she took office and I suspect the outcry hasn't died down yet. Because of the controversy, she has to be kept under close supervision, especially at the Reapings. She's a tall and dignified looking woman in her mid-40's, making her one of the youngest Mayors as well.

The speech is said quickly without any pause. In the middle of the recital of the Treaty, the male Mentor quietly sidles into his seat with a grumpy look on his face. He's one of the few Mentors who's gone sober recently. I can't imagine it was easy, but he looks in better shape than in years previous. He has this tendency to yawn and appear restless in his seat, so the cameras don't like to focus on him too much.

The chair beside him, is of course, empty. Same as last year and the one before, Johanna is a no-show. I used to get excited at the prospect of seeing the girl on television because she always liked to put up a fuss in public. She only ever attended the Reapings as a Mentor once—and that was the year after her victory.

My father saw her as "expendable" due to her refusal to take on his prostitution offers. I knew she did it just to piss everyone off; she was honest to herself, and I always respected that about her. Father demanded she receive as little recognition as possible, which only served to give her exactly what she wanted. I just don't think he had the heart to kill her or her relatives—any other president would have done it, but for some reason he didn't.

Because of her reluctance to do interviews or travel, you'll only be able to find her behind the scenes. Unfortunately, that's what I'd be forced to do in order to meet Johanna. Regardless, much of Seven's rise to fame can be attributed to Mason's success. Like the girl or not, Seven is regarded as a daunting place now because of her victory.

After a short speech from Tyson, he trudges over to the boys' bowl, "We're going to switch things up a little, folks. Gents' first this time," he states in a rumbling voice.

Because of his large hands, the bowls had to be turned into giant, gold woven baskets. They changed them a few years ago after the Peacekeepers got tired of cleaning up the mess of broken glass when he accidentally cracked the bowls. "And the boy tribute is…Sol McCullough!"

The mist around the District begins taking a chilling effect on the Reapings as a perpetual nothing looms behind the stage. The crowd clears quickly for the Sol kid, who literally only is just a kid—12 years old. Poor guy falls on his knees and has this blank look on his face like he's just seen a ghost. The fog isn't really helping.

The cameras pick up the Peacekeepers cursing and shouting at the boy, "Get up kid!" I hear a few times. They're being awfully rough with the fellow—and it isn't long before things get a little different. Another spot in the crowd opens up off in the older sections—some tall boy with long brown hair and stubble on his face hops over the railing, giving the Peacekeepers a look of disgust. He sort of marches to the stage instead of walking casually.

He keeps his head high and his eyes steady on Tyson—it's almost like he were a Peacekeeper himself. He's got the march thing perfected and the tough demeanor that makes a few take a second look. He's also wearing this heavy looking military jacket which makes him look bigger. When the Escort offers a hand, the older boy waves his hand to decline.

He seizes the microphone and brushes his nose before leaning towards the Escort to hear him. "Yes, sir," he nods and scans the dead audience with narrow hazel eyes, "I go by Flint. Uh, but I'd just wanna' say I'm doing this for ma' little brothers and ma' baby girl," he speaks with a slight accent, although it's different from the Capitol's. It sounds a bit sloppier, but completely natural. I've never heard anything like it.

Flint pauses for a second, and when the camera zooms in on his face, it's obvious he's thinking heavily about something. His hazel eyes are glazed over and focused on a spot beyond the audience. He shakes his head—once—twice, and his mouth quivers as he goes on, "I just—Ma, I know you're watchin' right now, and ah..." Flint clenches his teeth and runs his hand through his shoulder length hair, "Ahm so sorry, Ma," he mutters.

I feel almost uncomfortable as he stares into the cameras with one of the most profound expressions on his face. Tyson whispers something indiscernible into Flint's ear and the guy nods once before giving the audience a rigid salute of some sort and stands near the male Mentor. The Mentor makes the effort to get up and shake Flint's hand. Tyson flashes them a concerned look and walks over to the girls' basket as he strokes his beard.

Man, that's definitely some deep stuff. A lot of kids don't really know what to say while they're up there and just vouch instead to say their name and wave. When a kid is Reaped it's worse by a long-shot because they don't expect it and they're usually pretty worked up. You expect those kids to be emotional, but not the volunteers. The only time something like that's happened was last year with the kid from Twelve. Now there's this guy who obviously regrets volunteering and it's just difficult to imagine the circumstances.

Tyson tries to sound enthusiastic while reading the girl's name. "Let's see now…and we've got…Nikki Walls! Don't be shy, Nikki, come on up!"

Nikki doesn't waste time, although she looks worse off than Flint. She looks young and she's wearing a shirt two sizes too large. Her knees shake as she chews on her sleeve, looking back for anyone who might be following her. There's no one. The chances of two volunteers from a poor District is implausible. It's happened many times before, but not in the last five years.

Turns out I was wrong.

Nikki, still shuddering and nervous, takes her time walking along the dirt path which I think she's doing on purpose. It's a pretty good strategy if you think about it. The slower you walk, the higher the chance there is of someone volunteering in your place. Walk too slowly, though, and the Peacekeepers will come after you. It worked in her favor then, because another girl emerging from a spot in the crowd heads to the steel barrier and leans over—not enough that it indicates she's going up there, but enough to give the hint she's making up her mind.

Then the girl behind the barrier whistles at a Peacekeeper lecturing some rowdy kids—making him hesitate. He says something into a black device and strides over to the short blonde behind the fence. At this point, the Nikki girl walking along the road sees the interaction and freezes mid-step, unsure of what she should do. Tyson looks confused himself and makes some nervous gestures, "Come on, Nikki, you're fine! Don't be scared, just keep moving those feet!"

Except she doesn't listen—she doesn't do anything. The girl behind the steel railing looks as if she's flirting with the Peacekeeper, despite her looking about 14 at the most. It's very strange indeed, and Septim besides me starts muttering into his earpiece again. I catch a "What's going on?" a few times.

Finally, after a long minute of confusion, the Peacekeeper lifts up the girl over the fence and plops her down. She blows the Peacekeeper a kiss and strolls down the path, purposefully getting in Nikki's way and shoving her a bit to the side. The girl makes an obscene gesture and shouts something at poor Nikki, and for no reason whatsoever.

She's petite, with long strawberry-blonde hair and a delicate face. Her clothing choice is quite unusual, especially for her age.

The girl smacks Tyson's large hand away after he offers to lend it. I've never seen anyone touch an Escort before, let alone smack them. Tyson's features become stern and cold after that, much unlike his sweet or concerned features before. Tyson watches the girl closely as she blows a few kisses to the crowd, before slowly walking over to get some material for the telly'.

The girl gives him a glare and grabs the microphone, making a point to place her hand over Tyson's as to keep him from letting go of it. "Iris," she smirks at Tyson with these wide, almost entrancing blue-grey eyes. "My name is Iris, and I want you to remember it." She has this raspy yet enticing voice that sounds somewhat dangerous but reassuring.

Tyson eyes her closely, "So, Iris, you seem pretty confident today—you just volunteered. Is there a reason why?"

Her eyes shoot up for a split second, as if to think dramatically, "Well, I couldn't just let that girl get Reaped. I mean, did you see her? Poor thing was shaking," her head tilts a little while she makes a sad face.

Yes, Iris, we all saw how "poor" she was. That's why you bullied her while going up there too, right? I'll give her props, she's a good actress. But it's all for the cameras, and she knows that. It's the reason she's playing on the emotions of millions of people right now. I've seen it dozens of times before, just not here. Not since Johanna.

Iris lets go and wanders over to Flint's leaning position near the back. He doesn't seem to like the girl, and it's easy to tell with the death glares he's shooting at her. Iris unfortunately doesn't take notice and begins saying some things. He hesitates and looks pretty pissed by the time she walks away. She must have said enough for him to not even bother shaking her hand.

The Mentor taps Flint's leg and tells him something else—Flint shrugs in response, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Iris's exuberant motions. Tyson coughs and gives a few parting words, but he's cut off mid-sentence when the screen flickers to black. I can't tell for sure, but I'm almost positive the reason the screen cut out was because Iris started flipping one of the camera guys off.

I shake my head, "Well isn't she wild?"

Septim nods, "Her name isn't even Iris," he chuckles to himself. "It's Rebecca Chandler."

Judging from her expertise in drama, I would imagine she'd lie about her name. I rub my chin, "You got anything on her?"

Another Avox with a silver platter swoops past to accommodate before Septim can even respond. He carefully chooses a cheese bun from the platter with some leafy greens on the top, "Hmmm, not much here. Lives alone with her uncle—looks like he's a Peacekeeper. She's got some minor misdemeanors here," Septim takes a crunch of the bun, "But it's nothing major."

Septim's appetite is disgusting, but I'm slowly getting used to it. I realize if I don't get used to it now, I probably never will. I'm going to be spending the remainder of my presidency with this man at my side, after all. I call one of the chefs over, and something compels me to taste one of those buns, just to see what all the fuss is about.

An Avox sees my gesture and quickly bustles over with the platter, bowing his head down in greeting when he comes within my proximity. I sigh and choose the bun in the middle. I don't even bother looking at it before I take a bite. As soon as the bread touches my tongue a bitter taste envelopes my entire mouth. Septim eyes me with glee while I slowly chew the bland, almost tasteless crust. The only thing I can place a taste on is the greens, and I never really liked vegetables anyway.

I force a smile at Septim and the Avox but even that's difficult. I have no choice but to swallow the piece. I give the server an incredulous look, "What is in this stuff?"

The Avox stares at me blankly and shrugs. Septim laughs, "It's an acquired taste." I throw the bun behind my seat and lean back. Yeah, sure, Septim. It probably has some addictive qualities added to it to make everyone like the damned stuff so much. I wouldn't doubt if the chefs supplemented the toppings with a few drops of Morphling. I sweep my hair with my fingers and dismiss the Avox, eager to continue the viewings.

I barely get a glimpse in at the screen before I'm interrupted yet again by a tap on my knee. I look up to see a luxuriously dressed man with dark hair and a strangely designed beard staring at me with an outstretched hand. The man grins, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

I smile back instinctively and shake the pale man's hand, "Pleasure to meet you as well. And you must be…?"

The man pauses, a surprised look on his features, "Oh! Forgive me, Mr. President. I'm Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker. I just wanted to introduce myself now, as I won't be able to attend the party later this evening." He gives a shy smile, "My wife is feeling a bit under the weather."

I nod, remembering Seneca from last year. It was this very man who last year decided on allowing two tributes from the same District to win for the first time ever. This spontaneous and controversial decision has facilitated him as somewhat of a legend by Gamemaker standards. In the past, Head Gamemakers are rarely seen or discussed in public, and they often have agents hired to speak for them. Seneca Crane is the first Gamemaker of my knowledge to have ever made this much of an impact on social media.

"I'm very sorry to hear about your father. He was truly a great man. He would be very proud to see you now," he says.

I glance down, remembering my father again. I had almost forgotten about his death, and honestly it's been awhile since I've felt anything about it. It's important to look impacted about it, however.

"Your words are too kind, Seneca. I'm looking forward to working with you, and I'm sure you've got some ideas rolling already," I smile.

Seneca laughs, "Hah! Plenty, Mr. President, plenty indeed. I've already designed a couple blueprints, and perhaps later you could check them out?"

I nod, "Of course, it would be my pleasure."

Seneca watches the screen intensely for a minute, eyeing District Eight's mayor and Escort as they read over the Treaty.

Seneca moved up through the ranks of Gamemaker rather quickly in the Capitol. When he had first applied for Gamemaker many years ago, my father saw something in him that not a lot of other Gamemakers had possessed. I can't remember exactly what he had said, but I believe it was his passion for the Games rather than the need to become wealthy that stuck out.

Seneca was always known for his dry wit and an innate understanding of what people wanted. He possesses a certain intuition, as well as a certain degree of empathy. If it hadn't been for that, he would have never reinstated the two-winner rule last year after it had been revoked by officials. Seneca understood quality and entertainment, but he also cared dearly for the tributes, and rather than seeing them as objects for entertainment, saw them as people with a story to tell. At least, that's how my father described him to me.

Sitting here observing him is somewhat overwhelming because of his fame in recent months. It's odd that now I possess the power to control his fate, and overrule his decisions if need be. Whatever he says goes in the control room, but if I felt like it, I could completely turn the Games in my favor. Such dark thoughts they may be, but it's the truth. If I don't like something, then I have the power to change it now at will. Funny how things work so quickly.

Seneca checks his pocket watch and his lips tighten slightly, "If you'll excuse me, Mr. President. It was an absolute pleasure to meet you, sir." He bows much like the Avox did—but he does it with more control and finesse. He knows his place, but he's still confident.

I wave, "Send Mrs. Crane my regards, will you?"

Crane chuckles and raises a hand without looking back, "That I will, Mr. President!"

My weary eyes flicker over to the screen, where the mayor is finishing the scroll in between frequent bellowing coughs.

---

District Eight

---

District Eight is one of the more boring Districts to watch, not just because of the scenery, but also because most of the tributes here never exactly stick out. A lot have looked promising, indeed; but according to research, it's been shown that many of these kids aren't well equipped to handle the Games. Over 75% of them have died within the first three days for the last decade. With such depressing odds like that, it's hard not to feel bad for them. It's also hard to stay awake while watching as well.

District Eight has a severe overcrowding issue. It was one of my father's biggest mistakes when he demanded more apartments and condos be built to accommodate for the massive spike in birth rates. What he should have done is look towards building parks and gyms for recreational purposes, because sooner or later, there will be too many buildings to build anything there.

A lot of it really can be blamed on rogue Peacekeepers and idiotic teenagers. Apparently the instruction of sexual abstinence or protection was never considered in schools. If one was to look closely at the percentage of pregnancies within the District, there's been a 40% increase in those below the age of 21. Again, the numbers are staggering, but there's nothing else that can be done about it besides administering more protection in educational institutions.

As for the rogue Peacekeepers, it isn't uncommon for men who are Peacekeepers to get severely bored of their jobs. They develop a complex where they believe because they are the law, they can commit whatever deviant act they wish without risk of being told they're criminals. Eventually, down the line, rape gets involved. The rest is obvious.

It's become a dark, grim place filled with textile factories and dingy flats. The working conditions aren't great, and workers are often underpaid, forcing many people to manage two to three jobs in order to maintain a steady income. Couple that with overpriced rent and it leads to hundreds of homeless people living in the east, where it's now been appropriately coined "The Dent" of district Eight.

Technically, the homeless kids aren't exempt from being Reaped, and they are forced like everyone else to put their name in. It's just that many get away with not attending. The Peacekeepers don't even bother trying to seek out and force them anymore. Nevertheless, the prevalence of homelessness is why there's these inexperienced, anorexic, wild-children coming in all the time.

The mayor of Eight is also one of the few in history to be openly homosexual. District-wise, this was a big deal for a while. As for us here in the Capitol, it didn't even make the cover story on the Times. Homosexuality has been a trend here since the Dark Days, and it's become a fashion statement as well. My father once jokingly proposed having transgender tributes placed into the Games along with males and females. I actually didn't think it was a bad idea. Turns out the Districts aren't as open about it as we are, and that it would have been too difficult trying to find transgender kids every year anyway.

The Escort, who has just finished having her costume adjusted by a Peacekeeper, is also rumored to be homosexual. Although, I just think she has a unique style of dress. Her name is Bonnet, a 30 year old enigma who was born and raised in Eight. My father requested she be transported to the Capitol after rumors of her charismatic abilities caught the ears of some traveling agents. He liked her so much she was appointed the new Escort within a week.

This would be her ninth year already, and over the years her style has evolved and become a fad for the teenagers here. Her hair is dark, short, and spiked in a pixie cut with maroon highlights, and she often wears dark, old looking garments with fishnet stockings. Her garb is distinctly different from the rest of the Escorts, making her more memorable. Capitol citizens often try to replicate Bonnet's look, but their attempts pale in comparison.

She's classy, down to earth, and dedicated to her job; she's the only thing that makes this place watchable. She is missing that certain spunk and charisma she used to have when she was starting out—and she's becoming like Tyson, though she does her best to make the kids feel comfortable. The Mentors rarely show up, so I don't even bother looking, plus they stopped setting the chairs down for them a couple years ago.

"Ladies first!" sings Bonnet. Her black leather boots and dark skirt have chains on them, so she walks with a clink and jingle. She has this tendency to drag her feet rather than pick them up—it has become the subject of imitation and teasing within the Capitol. Bonnet mixes and swirls her hand around in the bowl of cards as if it were punch and delicately nabs a slip...only to drop it in again. She's a tease when it comes to the Reapings. But she's a good tease. If it were any other Escort I would have been annoyed already.

With a slice of the wax and a squint of the eyes, Bonnet placidly reads the name, "Celestina Morgan!"

Names have admittedly gotten stranger since the Dark Days—like Thimble or Penny and even Copper. It makes me wonder if these parents just write down whatever comes to mind first. What happened to the classics, like the 'Bills' or the 'Johns'? The most popular names right now in the Capitol are Shimmer and Ebony. Celestina is pretty out there, I've heard worse, though.

The girl struggles to get past all the kids and there aren't any Peacekeepers helping out. When Celestina gets in the main walkway, she doesn't really look all that scared or anything. She's got this twinkle in her eye and she's kind of looking at the ground but her shoulders aren't hunched over as if to suggest she's terrified. The camera zooms in on her and this gum-chewing Peacekeeper lounging on the sides sneaks a peek at her bottom as she saunters past him. It's so obvious it's ridiculous.

Smooth.Real smooth, guy.

Remarkably, the girl looks healthy. There's something exotic about her eyes, but I can't place it. She's got these light hues in her brown hair, almost like dyes. There's a little trick I've learned from my days of watching the Games on repeat; you can tell apart the rich kids in Eight from the poor ones because the rich ones usually have streams of color in their hair. Hair dyes to Eight are like Morphling to Six—they sell like hot-cakes, and can be found in almost every shop. The brighter, more complex the dyes are, the more expensive they were to acquire.

Looking down upon the gigantic sea of faces and hair below, it's easy to see the line separating the color from darkness.

Celestina ignores Bonnet's words of greeting and instead starts speaking to her. The microphone hardly picks up their encounter. Celestina reaches behind Bonnet's right ear and pulls out something shiny. Celestina smiles and Bonnet looks a bit confused, so does the Mayor.

I think I know what's going on here. It appears that Celestina may be one of those stage performers. I've heard of them in the poorer Districts. They travel around in carriages and tents and perform tricks and unbelievable stunts in venues. They get some good money doing it too.

Celestina's eyelids, upon closer examination, appear to be slightly colored by some sort of makeup. Her eyes which are dark, appear to contrast with her pale skin, making her look appealing to the eyes. Her expressions look awfully overdone and fake, and the bowing is getting redundant. She's either full of herself or wants to make light of her circumstances.

I look over at Septim, "You think she's one of those…uh, performing artists or something?"

He nods, scrolling his finger along the tablet screen in his lap, "Possibly. Her father is a renowned artist and performer—so I wouldn't doubt it. There's not much information on her, but she's got a few credits under her belt. Her charisma looks…promising."

It's difficult to focus on the general here with that kid showing off in the background, fortunately Bonnet has already moved on to the next slip, "James Miller!"

It takes a little while for the guy to come out, and this time the Peacekeepers decide to separate the crowd with their batons—unnecessary use of force in my opinion but if it gets the job done...then so be it. James stumbles around the steel barricade and brushes his jacket off, looking a bit flustered and teary-eyed. You can tell he isn't taking it well. Fashion wise, he looks nice, but it's hard to get a good look at his features. His blonde shaggy hair often lands in his face, and the camera operator doesn't seem to know how to work around James's covert strategy.

At least his name is classy. His parents must not have received the "name your children after household items" memo. Poor kid doesn't even see the microphone because he's rubbing his eyes and completely ignores Bonnet. She seems to understand his plight and backs off—something most Escorts should keep in mind.

If a kid looks scared to death and depressed, the last thing you want to do is chase after them with a live microphone. They'll come to it when they're ready or not at all.

James puts on a smile and gives a small wave to the camera. His dress clothes are a couple sizes too tight, and he stands awkwardly near the center of the stage with his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, as if he doesn't know where else to position himself. He's a good looking kid, but good looks don't take you far in the game of death.

He brushes his eyes with a clenched fist and looks down for the remainder of the Reapings, while Celestina starts doing the same once people start paying her little mind.

It takes a great deal of strength for me to keep my eyes open. When I said District Eight was boring, I meant it. I shouldn't blame the tributes themselves—because for one, the kids actually look healthy and well groomed. The personalities could use some touching up, so I guess looks aren't everything, huh?

Septim doesn't say much about James; he looks like a regular kid, so I can't imagine he has anything he needs to prove. James reminds me much of myself, and I think he could go far if he was willing to. Celestina is rather annoying to me. She looks great, but her behavior seems nothing short of vain. Maybe that's just me. Usually I'm proven wrong later.

---

District Nine

---

My eyes shut for longer than I intended them to, as the camera pans toward the stage, I realize it is colored differently and made with a strange material—a combination of cherry wood with sloppily fastened steel reinforcements. Only one District presents this unique blend: Nine.

I've never been to Nine, and in fact, I'm not too sure my father ever did either. I will say that Nine has the best bread in Panem—my father preferred the bread from there and I never knew why until I tried it. It tasted fresh even after being transported through the country. Ever since, I've also insisted on having bread shipped from Nine.

There's been a lot of myth surrounding what Nine actually does. Some guys say they specialize in bread making, hence why the stuff is the best Panem has to offer. I used to believe that for a long time too, until I overheard some officials talking about increasing the grain production. It seemed to make sense seeing as most of the products and dried goods Panem receives are shipped from there.

Then I heard some rumors about Mutt factories and underground science labs where the Capitol did their top secret experiments. People were saying the grain production was all a ploy, and that it served as a cover for factories where mad scientists bred and created Muttations for future Games. The entire thing sounded ridiculous, and the idea of factories housing Mutts was blown out of proportion.

District Nine, according to my knowledge now, contains only a few medical facilities where new antibiotics are being tested and produced. There has been rumors in the past concerning genetic testing on animals and whether it's true or not, I've never seen nor heard of Muttation factories. Besides, if there were any, the only people who would be entitled to that information would be the government and the President himself.

…

Yes...the President...That would be...me. I've almost forgotten. It's still weird to think about it. One would think I've gotten used to it now, but it's actually more difficult than that. I rub my eyes and lean forward on the seat to awaken myself. Perhaps the more awkwardly I sit the more inclined I'll be to pay attention.

Because of the presence of cornfields and other numerous crops, the conditions there are pretty black and white. It's either cold or warm. There is never an in-between. This made it difficult in the past because when the Games were first enacted, most of the Districts were in the middle of winter at the time of the annual Reapings. Nine was one of the most concerning because of the large amounts of snow they had to clear in order to set everything up. It was strenuous enough the Capitol do this every year for Two because of their close proximity to the mountains, where it snows constantly regardless of the month. So President Finn rescheduled it to occur near the beginning of the summer solstice.

To the north, Nine is covered with miles of crops and wheat fields, making population there scarce besides the solitary farmer. The rest of Nine is as crowded and dull as Eight. But good luck trying to find an actual house there—because you won't be seeing one. It's all flats and shoddy condos, with the occasional penthouse for the wealthy. The place isn't as crowded as Eight, though; more space was needed to make room for the factories and mills.

The tributes that come from Nine are often unremarkable—ironically making them reflections of the environment they were raised in. In all my years of watching the Games, I can't remember a time I've ever considered a kid from Nine making it to the end. There's been a few Victors, but their endings were let-downs. There were no fierce maniacs or killers in disguise, no giants or brutes; they've all been relatively normal kids, and it's a wonder my father never managed to sit through this one without shutting his eyes.

There are rumors my father used to order the projector to skip past the Reapings of Districts such as Six, Eight, Nine, and Twelve because of their dull quality. Now I can see why he did. However, because I actually wanted to believe there was hope in those places, I've always kept watching.

The Escort is a lithe, delicate, white-haired woman with silvery eyes named Snowdrop, who made her debut last year. Besides the ever so typical Capitol name, she harbors an odd obsession for the color white, and speaks in a peculiar accent unlike anything I've heard. She's different from the other Escorts in that regard.

There's rumors circulating about that Snowdrop might be French or may be of European background. There are hundreds of European families based in One—mostly of an English background. Whether Snowdrop came from there or not I am uncertain about.

My father told me he was intrigued by her, and was willing to transfer Snowdrop to a richer district. Interestingly enough, she refused. He never actually went into it, but I like to believe the woman just couldn't understand him. It seems funnier that way.

Snowdrop struts toward the girls' bowl, her shiny white boots making a resounding click-clack sound along the wooden panels of the stage. There are no whispers here in Nine. There are no grumblings. Not a soul weeps here; it's been like that for as long as I can remember. If the Reaped ones do want to cry, they tend to save it for the trains. They may be meek—sometimes stubborn, but you have to hand it to the kids, they're damned tough to keep themselves together.

"Hallo, District Nine!" Snowdrop greets the crowd as enthusiastically as possible before the inevitable name dropping. She's most likely aware she won't be eliciting a peep from anyone, but if you can at least make the younger kids smile or laugh, then it's enough for the cameras and microphone to pick up. And that's good enough for television, and as long as it's good for television, then it's good for the Capitol.

Septim leans over in his seat to tap my arm, "Pardon me, Mr. President," he says, before excusing himself. I eye him curiously as he seemingly appears to tip-toe out the dark room.

I'm interrupted in my curious state by the voice of a name shouted through the silence. I missed it again, but it's a girl judging by the sudden rift in the female audience.

The wooden walkway to the stage is relatively clear of cameramen or Peacekeepers save for the solitary soul dragging her feet out of the 16 year old section. There is a lagging to her step, as if the teenager didn't get enough sleep or she was drunk.

She looks lost, very lost. The girl almost goes the opposite way from the stage, but Peacekeepers are on her case immediately, "This way, kid," one barks, grabbing her by the arm and shoving her the correct way.

She's tiny, but has a unique taste in style; her nose is pierced on the left side and she's wearing a maroon colored winter hat. Her t-shirt looks to be custom made, with an image sewn on the white fabric depicting several strange figures.

While it's easy to tell the girl has an artistic flair, you could also tell she was quite lethargic. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and the smile plastered on her face was so lazy it could be mistaken for carelessness. It's often been said that carelessness in a tribute is the sign of either fear or apathy. It's usually hard to tell which from which.

As the girl begins her ascent up the wooden steps, her gray eyes wander to the spot in front of her nose. When she breathes from her mouth, a cool vapor escapes and she laughs to herself at this. She's definitely been taking something. If it wasn't clear before then it is now.

Snowdrop skips the formalities and addresses the girl candidly, "Hallo, you must be Amber, yes?"

Amber, apparently, nods lazily and breathes through her mouth so she can see the cold vapor again. She looks around at the sea of mute, dirty faces for the first time, seemingly taking them all into account.

Amber snags the microphone from Snowdrop's hands before the woman can ask her another question, "Holy crap...Am I really here? Like...whoa..."

She has a cute personality, but if it's a ploy to get fans early, then it's a real good one. I haven't seen many kids who could pull it off as effectively as this one can.

Snowdrop gawks at Amber's bewilderment and gently pulls back the microphone, "Oh yes Amber, you are, and you're doing perfect. Izn't zhe doing great, people of Nine?"

Tisk, tisk, Snowdrop. Trying to get the crowd involved so late into the Reaping is a futile effort on her part. This was her issue last year as well; talking too much about things with so little substance. My father ignored it because she was nice to look at, but to me, it's a real sore spot when it comes to watching this live. I'm sure the production team will edit that part out, because not only is Snowdrop met with utter silence, the Mayor on the side of the stage very obviously taps to his wrist-watch so Snowdrop can speed it up.

Amber laughs inappropriately when both Mentors from Nine slowly walk onto the stage, trying not to make themselves noticed by anyone. It's difficult to remember their names, but their lateness to the Reapings has been going on for years now. The man always looks tired and stressed out, while the woman looks dead inside. I don't believe they're alcoholics or addicts, but they really should be. With faces like that, I think it should be mandatory. It just makes the idea of watching Nine's Reapings all the more depressing.

Amber drags her feet to a seating area by the Mentors and sits down cross-legged on the wooden floor, despite the fact that Snowdrop hadn't finished talking with her. Snowdrop has a slight look of agitation in her silver eyes and strides over to the only glass bowl on the podium. Snowdrop gives the bowl to a Peacekeeper and he walks off with it.

The Boys' bowl, or lack thereof, isn't mentioned at all. It's something even I failed to notice in the beginning. Where is the Boys' bowl?

Snowdrop taps the microphone again but when she speaks, there's no sound. I can't but sigh aloud at this disaster of a Reaping. There's so many errors here it's no wonder my father despised it. Is it really so difficult to draw a name and read it? I can't remember the last time a Reaping went so wrong.

Finally, Snowdrop's microphone flares back to life, "Can you hear me, Nine? Testing! OK!" A Peacekeeper yells something at her and she nods.

What's with the stalling? Why is there no Boys' bowl? What the hell is going on here?

I've frankly seen enough of this nonsense. I get up out of my seat and gesture for an official standing near the wall wearing an earpiece, "Excuse me, where's Septimus?"

The official looks lost for a second himself, "Sorry, Mr. President. Septimus appears to be using the restroom," he explains. "Anything else you require, Mr. President?"

I look back at the screen, annoyed. "Yes, actually. What's going on with Nine? Is there a boy to be Reaped? I demand an answer."

The official looks frightened at my orders, and whispers something furiously into his earpiece before looking at me apologetically, "I'm very sorry Mr. President, they're trying to resolve these issues as we speak. It seems...the boy is a special case this year..." he reveals.

I stare at him with a puzzled expression, rubbing my chin as I stare at the empty walkway on screen, "How do you mean?"

Just then, a gathering of Peacekeepers form at the back of the audience, clustering around a teenage boy wearing standard prisoner garb. I dismiss the official with a wave of my hand and sit back down to watch the madness unfolding on screen. Snowdrop addresses the audience with her strange accent once more, "And now, for ze' Boy tribute!"

It takes a total of six Peacekeepers to escort the tall, slender, dark-haired boy down the walkway to the stage. The walk is slow, as the boy being ushered has chains clad on his wrists and his feet, forcing him to shuffle more than anything. With the cameras offering a better view of the boy and the audience, it's peculiar the silence as well as the looks the boy receives. The Peacekeepers are harsh with him, every time he stalls in step they shove him from behind with their batons.

The audience seem to know the gist of what's going on, because most of every look shone upon him is of disdain and utter hatred. The adults seem to dislike him more than anything, while the majority of the kids whisper among themselves as he's guided through the masses. Some turn away from his dark gaze—a few look afraid of him.

What did he do that was so bad? And why is he so special that he is exempt from the Reaping? Why wasn't I advised about his case?

The boy's eyes are dark, and his eyebrows thick and furrowed. He is pale, with a rigid jawline and unkempt black hair that messily falls in different directions. He looks like your typical high school drop-out or junkie. A boy with no care or remorse in his eyes for whatever he did, but a boy nonetheless younger than what you'd expect to see from the confines of a cell.

There is a smirk on his face, as if to say he doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. Why should he? He's a reject, a trouble-maker, a disruption. I'm not sure what he did that was so horrible he needed to be escorted in chains, but no matter what it was, this boy doesn't seem to care one bit. Not the cameras, not the inhabitants of Nine, and not the world.

Prisoners are mostly adult; with the maximum punishment of a death sentence depending on the severity of the crime committed. Different Districts have different ways of dealing out punishment. The poor ones like Twelve or Three, don't have large enough prisons to sustain a hundred criminals, so only the worst ones get locked away, while the others receive lashings in public by the Head Peacekeeper. This serves to discourage others from following the same path, and also traumatizes or scars the wrong-doer enough that they learn their lesson. If prisons do get full, then Peacekeepers do a yearly "Sweep". If the criminals haven't repented, and or continue to act in immoral ways, then they are hung. Sometimes it doesn't even matter, and randomly picked prisoners are hung regardless.

It's a vicious way of dealing with things, and I don't agree with any of it. But trying to change the crime laws is like trying to abolish the Games. It just isn't happening, nor is it an ideal prospect.

The boy's dark eyes latch on to a burly Peacekeeper standing near the frost-covered steps—one he seems to know personally. The scruffy haired teen sticks his tongue out at a cameraman then, and this gesture seems to resonate the most through the room; I can hear several coughs and bitter grumblings behind me, which is a bad sign indeed for this tribute.

As for my reaction? I smiled a big smile at the boy, because I know this one is special. He's going to stir things up, I can just feel it. My father would have bellowed a hearty laugh and made a wise-crack at the boy's powerlessness under the mighty fist of the Capitol. But I'm different. I know a star when I see one. I've studied the Games long enough to know which tributes have that certain twinkle in their eye. It's that twinkle I've always noticed first before anything else.

The group of six Peacekeepers harshly guide the teen up the steps, he almost trips over his chains but the one that was waiting near the steps catches him by the wrist before he can make the fall. The rebellious boy in the dirty brown jumpsuit gives the man a rather short-lived death stare before the band of Peacekeepers give him an unpleasant shove into a flimsy looking chair, silver chains violently rattling to and fro as he collapses. A frustrated complexion eases across his features as he adjusts his body to find a comfortable fitting in the seat. And then he yawns.

The silence is simply deafening.

Snowdrop waits for the chains to stop rattling before speaking, "I introduce to you, ze' boy who vill' be representing District Nine, Rrrroy Compton!"

I stare at the events unfolding in astonishment. For the first time ever, a tribute has not been Reaped nor volunteered to enter the Games. I am witnessing a change in the air, a change so momentous that this Reapings may very well be one of the most important in history...perhaps surpassing the volunteer from Twelve last year. I am so confused by it all, but enthralled as well. I am just as much in the dark about it all as anyone. Did my father know about this?

"Prisoner 663971. Strange isn't it?" a familiar voice states next to me.

I look at the small man sitting down a seat away, patting his thick glasses with a handkerchief, scrutinizing the glass like an artist would his canvas. "Didn't think it would actually work out this well," he adds.

I give Septim a confounded look, "Wait, you knew about all this?"

"Sure...Well, actually, sort of," Septim gives a sheepish smile, "Your father was the one who permitted it. One of his final decisions actually."

I loosen my tie and collapse back into the soft chair, not quite sure what to make of all this. "It's quite unlike him, really," I mutter.

Septim looks at me curiously, "He admired controversy from afar, but he was never one to mingle in those affairs. Unless he wasn't telling me everything..." I went on.

Septim scratches his temple and his face turns sour, "Perhaps he wanted to protect you, Mr. President. You are his only child after all," he smiles again, "At least it made for a decent surprise, right?"

I roll my eyes a little at that and turn away, focusing back on the large screen. The Mayor of Nine; a short, bony man with a toupee and an affinity for exquisite canes, just finishes signing a crusty looking scroll before rolling it up and stuffing it within his inside suit pocket.

Snowdrop does this thing every year where she raises both the arms of her new tributes after they're on stage, but seeing as Roy is clad in chains, she decides against it. Amber shuffles over to Roy's seat and shakes his pale hand, to which he responds by giving her a long hard look up and down and smiling slightly. He says something to her in her ear, but it doesn't pick up on the microphones. Amber grins and nods but doesn't say anything back, the Peacekeepers sternly push her away to the back.

The Mayor looks annoyed with Snowdrop's deliberation and trudges over to the microphone, "Okay, we're finished here. Thank you all for attending." Peacekeepers give him a strange look and shake their heads, arguing amongst themselves before the camera audio cuts out and Roy is yanked out of his seat and escorted off the side-stage.

The screen cuts to black after that cringe-worthy mess of a Reaping, thankfully. It isn't the first time the Mayor's gotten impatient with an Escort either. For as long as I can remember, he's been hard on every Escort and tribute in an eager attempt to rush through the Reapings. I'm not sure what his issue is, but I'm thankful for it.

I'm fascinated with Roy's history, though. I turn back to Septim, who's already scrolling through some documents on the virtual touch device. "Got anything on Roy?"

Septim nods, "That I do. Apparently brought a loaded assault weapon to the high-school in an attempt to harm other students."

"The hell?" I whisper. No wonder he was a prisoner. But then why was he forced to compete? It makes no sense. "Did he kill anyone?"

Septim purses his lips and scrolls down some, "Hm, I'm not sure. I just know that when the guards got a hold of him, he was nearly beat to death. He was pretty apathetic about it all in the courthouse, too. Didn't even feel regret," he shook his head.

I sigh and run my hands over my face, "Well that's...disturbing."

---

District Ten

---

District Ten's symbol flashes on the screen; a cow's head with crossed knives lying under it. It's appropriate considering their specialty. It's quite ironic, though; Ten is one of the poorest and most malnourished Districts in Panem. I always laughed when my father told me how thin the people there were. I always asked him as a child, "How could they be poor, dad? They make the food!"

It never made sense to me. And he never cared to explain either; only laughed and told me to "think on it". Years later, I finally realized how obvious the answer was. Turns out, while Ten manages the livestock and the butchering and the processing, they hardly get a piece of it themselves. About 90% of all the meat gets shipped out every month to every corner of Panem, including the Capitol, which gets the larger share of the bunch. And for a city that consists mainly of vegetarians, it still doesn't make much sense to me.

Ten is one of the largest Districts by land mass, but one of the smallest in terms of population. Kids here tend to grow up lean, strong, and agile. With all the open land and demanding work they do, you won't find kids like those from Ten anywhere in the world. In the seventy-four years of the Games' existence, there have been eight Victors from District Ten. Not a large number, but not one to forget either. In recent years, though, the kids got less impressive.

They usually tend to stand out because of their size, strength, and speed. But if there's animals in an arena, it isn't uncommon for kids from Ten to use ranching tactics to get horses or other quadrupeds to follow them. There's been a few cases where tributes successfully rode on the backs of horses too.

Living conditions here, aside from the feeding issues, look particularly harsh. It's rarely cold, and the sun beats down upon the backs of farmers all year round. The only breaks kids get is when they go to school, otherwise, their parents push them to work on the farm all year round if they live in the backwoods. If they grow up in the city, then kids are put to work in the butchery and the meat markets. Citizens of Ten strive on work, as it's the only thing they got going for them. It literally puts the only food they're going to get on the table.

I don't like the place. There's nothing appealing about it all. There's no beautiful scenery, no fountains, no pretty lights at night, it's simply a barren brown landscape that reeks of cow dung and sweat. How people manage to grow up there and not go insane is beyond me.

The Escort is a large tanned man that goes by the name of Herbert. He's been here for several years now and has an affinity for cigars. He's nothing special, but I wish he'd wear something that better stands out amongst the plainness. For years he's worn nothing but a black suit and tie and snake-skin cowboy boots. I used to think he was blind because he always wore shaded glasses.

Herbert clears his throat a few times, "Welcome, welcome, my people of Ten to the seventy-fifth Reapings!" he bellows in that rumbling voice. "As y'all know, the Reapings are my favorite day of the year! There's just none other like it!"

What about the Games? What about every day where you're still alive and breathing?

Herbert runs his meaty hands down his pressed suit and after hearing no reaction from the audience, gives a nervous chuckle and proceeds to the boys' bowl. "Now let's see who we've got here," he mutters aloud.

He scrutinizes the white slip, breathing hard out of his mouth while the microphone tucked under his armpit picks it all up. It's a moment of tension for everyone watching—just waiting for the inevitable moment to hear theirs or someone's name they might know. "...William Copeland!"

First, I hear a loud wail coming from the adult's section near the sides, then there's a few groans from several of the boys' sections. And then, complete silence save for the low hum of the microphone.

The only noise from the dead crowd is that of feet shuffling around in the sixteen year olds' section. A chalky boy with short brown hair and sky blue eyes that seem to light up pops out from under the velvet railing. As the camera spots his face, he simpers nervously for a second, but seems to gain some confidence when he smooths out his flannel shirt.

Peacekeepers watch the boy closely as he passes them down the thin carpeted pathway. He has a rather cheery look on his face for someone who just got Reaped. You'd think he was going down to cash a check if it wasn't for the ridiculous amount of armed men in white walking around. As his blue eyes flutter everywhere, he gives the cameras a crooked grin and a small wave—although, patches of dampness lie underneath his underarm area, indicating that although brash, he's just as nervous as any other kid would be.

William stalks up the wooden steps tardily with his hands shoved half-way down his tight-fitted jeans pockets, giving Herbert a quick glance and a polite nod as his foot hits the final step. Herbert grins widely, appreciative of the unlikely courtesy for a tribute to actually smile because their name was drawn. The large man pats Will's back, "Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine!" he hollered.

Will adjusts his collar while he sways side to side, struggling to calm his nerves; must be tough after all to have to stand in front of thousands to say what very well might be his final vows. "Heh, I get that a lot," he jokes. The grin on his face gets smaller as he looks around for a response. His hands squeeze back into his pockets.

Herbert sticks a large unlit cigar into his mouth and chuckles, "So Will, you seem pretty excited to be our tribute this year, any final thoughts before you meet your partner?"

Will's about to say something, but falls short. Then his eyes light up and he gets an idea. "Here, can you hold this for a sec?" Herbert takes the microphone and gives the cameras a shrug.

William diligently searches his pockets for something, mumbling to himself like a madman. Then Will seems to find what he's looking for in his rear pocket—a folded piece of paper. His fingers skillfully go to quickly open the white page, as if this is something he's done a thousand times.

"Sorry bout that. Almost thought I forgot to bring it..." he trails off, scanning the page in his hand for something. It must be really important if he needed to get out a paper for it. Perhaps a poem of some sort? A farewell speech? Last will and testament?

"Alright, here we go," he says, looking up to check if the audience is still there with him. In a way, some are and some aren't. The kids in the front look interested, but as you look further, the ages increase and the looks of utter confusion and boredom become more common. Now that the male tribute has been called up, there's really no need for anyone to pay attention or to give any sort of response. They probably just want to go home.

Herbert continues chewing on his cigar in silence; he tried to light it again last year but the Peacekeepers wouldn't allow it and haven't since three years ago when he dropped one and it set fire to a portion of the stage. The Mayor had to throw his pitcher of water on it as well as his coat to put out the flame. My father almost fired him for that.

Will clears his throat loudly and recites the words from the page, "Alright...'Why did the calf cross the road'?"

So he just wanted to tell jokes? Huh. For some reason I don't feel the wait was worth it. I shift in my seat, massaging my aching temples at the realization that I could have used all that time to take a much needed nap.

Will stalls for a second with a smirk on his face, giving the audience a chance to soak it all in the fact that his goodbyes are nothing more than jokes. Herbert swivels around to look at the Mayor, bewildered. Will's eyes fall back on the page, he seems to chuckle to himself for a second before finishing the joke, "'To get to the udder side'," he laughs.

My hand meets my forehead with a sigh, but Septim finds it hilarious. I look at him from the corner of my eye and his chuckles fall silent.

Some groans come from the audience, while someone snickers loudly from the boys' section. A few of the kids in the front seem to smile, but overall, nobody knows just how to react. "You know, udder as in other, but it's like...well there's cows here and...Uh, okay," Will stammers as his cheeks turn a hue darker.

Will stuffs the paper into his pocket and hands the microphone back to Herbert, who is clapping lightly to show support for Will's feeble attempt to tell a simple joke, "I thought it was good, Will!"

Will nods without making eye contact, his head bowed just enough to see where he's going but low enough so that no one else exists, "Yeah, uh, thanks," he mutters with an embarrassed smile. The Mayor looks at the boy from under his thick speckled glasses disapprovingly, his mouth twisted into a foul grimace. Mayor Helling is a stern one when it comes to the annual festivities. Most notable for his harsh punishments and no-nonsense demeanor, he has been in office for decades. Every year is the same with him, there will be no games, there will be no excitement. For Mayor Helling, the Reapings are to be taken seriously; I remember a Reapings where he publicly called out some boys who were snickering at a tribute when she fainted on stage. He forced them to stand on the stage for the remainder of the hour. I haven't heard any snickering since then, save for today thanks to Panem's new comedian.

Herbert furiously dug through the pile of slips in the bowl as if he were digging through dirt and grime. Some slips managed to fall out, but Herbert didn't notice. Is that even allowed?

After what seems like minutes of rampant digging, Herbert retrieves a slip. Tearing open the wax seal with his large fingers, Herbert calls out the name from the corner of his tobacco-filled mouth. "Alright now...Allison Sharpe, come on down!" He bellows in his charming voice; a few specks of chewed tobacco fly from his mouth, and the camera picks it all up much to my disgust.

When Allison is called, someone heaves a sigh and a breakage appears in the girls' section. Whoever was called, people seem to know exactly who it is.

There's no need for Peacekeepers this time, Allison diligently thrusts her way through the flocks of nervous looking teenagers with an obvious degree of agitation. At first, I assumed she was angry because she was Reaped. It would make sense, most kids from the poor Districts get upset about it. It's a very typical reaction.

But my assumption on her changed when I saw her face. She was fair, with light brown hair and a light complexion. Her face, however, which I presumed would be plastered with a mixture of anger and disbelief, was actually quite molded into something I can only compare to a stone. There was absolutely nothing I could discern from the girl's features, not even some ounce of determination. She was very stiff, really, and her green eyes were practically cold as ice. It told me immediately that she was either very good at hiding her emotions, or apathetic. I'll have to keep an eye on this one.

Allison carefully trudged up the wooden steps, measuring up the comedian to her far left and then looking up and down at the large cigar-chewing man to her close right. Herbert adjusted his sunglasses and let out a small laugh, "You must be Allison, right?"

Allison brushed a strand of loose brown hair behind her right ear and stared at the microphone Herbert was holding. I sensed confusion underneath her poker face. "It's okay, honey. I won't bite!" Herbert teased.

Allison carefully claimed the microphone with both hands, "I'm not scared of you," she retorts with an icy glint in her eyes. "I just...can't believe I'm up here right now," she finishes quietly.

Allison spoke in a monotonous tone, so it was difficult to decide if she was upset about anything at all. "Well, dear, it's nothing to be upset about. A lot of people would just love to be in your place. You know what I think? I think you're lucky," Herbert smiles at her—sort of. It's hard to take the man seriously when he's wearing sunglasses and has a half-chewed cigar in his mouth.

There's a hundred things wrong with his statement, and I'm positive everyone from that District feels perfectly fine that they didn't get Reaped. I almost thought Allison would respond with sarcasm or something, but instead, she does something I never saw coming.

Allison looks the man up and down after his compliment, and then looks down at her green top, "You got tobacco all over my shirt," she says, calmly brushing the shirt off with her fist.

Herbert's backs up a step and chuckles sheepishly, "Sorry about that, hon—"

Allison steps forward and takes the microphone from his palm. "Don't call me honey. You don't know me, sir," Allison's eyes wander up to the cigar in his mouth, "And, you should really stop smoking. You'll die sooner that way," she hands the microphone to a bewildered Herbert and strides to where Will is standing.

Will looks a bit caught off guard by her initiative, and looks at her strangely when she holds out her hand to him. She grabs his wrist for him and shakes it, before quietly waiting with her arms crossed for the Peacekeepers to lead them to the Justice building.

She is definitely a serious looking competitor, but I doubt she has any experience with combat or survival skills coming from Ten. They have enough room for over twenty training centers if they wanted to build them, but the problem is that kids from there are too busy worrying about food and work to concern themselves with training for the dreaded Games.

I lean over to take a peek at Septim's little device, "Got anything on those two, Septim?"

Septim looks up at me, startled for a second, "Oh! Sorry, Mr. President, almost forgot you were there," he stammers.

I nod, "Well, I've been watching—surprisingly. So you got anything on those kids?"

Septim yawns, "Of course. For Allison, there's little here really. No criminal record or academic accolades. Just a...normal kid. Same for Will Jr."

"Normal kid with an attitude," I sigh, sitting back in my chair. Looks like Ten won't be winning this year. Not a surprise really.

I press a switch by accident on the side of the arm-rest, causing the seat to fall back like a relaxer. It actually feels great. If I'm not careful though, I'm destined to fall asleep for the final two Districts.

Septimus laughs at my new relaxed position in the comforter, "You found the switch! I wasn't going to tell you about it, looks like I didn't need to. You know if you press the blue one it actually gives you a massage," he says.

"Really?" I flick a glowing blue switch on and I immediately feel a buzzing vibration in the small of my back. I think it's the most amazing thing I've ever felt since becoming the President.

Septim chuckles, "Just try not to fall asleep," he teases.

Yeah, tell me about it. Hopefully Eleven goes by quickly. Twelve has made the headlines as of late and it's going to be interesting seeing how they can possibly top last year, and if any kids follow the volunteers' lesson from last year.

---

District Eleven

---

The large white symbol of District Eleven flashes across the screen, and then it changes to a view of the endless miles of orchards and fields under the blaring yellow sun. It is by far the greenest of the Districts, and has the most fruit and vegetables you'll ever find outside the Capitol.

In Eleven, there is no cooling down period for the citizens that live there. It is uncomfortably hot year round, and there is little to no water provided at all for families. Food is plentiful, but like Ten, most of it is shipped all over the country while only the scraps of what's left is provided for the citizens.

There's a reason it's considered one of the poorest Districts, and a major contribution to that fact also lies in the housing. The living structures are the most unique of all, but one look at them and you'll find yourself feeling nothing short of miserable. Besides the Victor's Village, the only houses made of brick or stone here belong to the wealthy—which is the Mayor.

Otherwise, homes are created from wood or hardened mud to save on resources. In worst cases, the poorest families make their homes out of sticks, grass, or scrap next to the orchards they work in. It's not a pretty sight.

Probably the most surprising thing about Eleven is not the living conditions, but the kids that come out of that place every year. It's not a constant sight, but District Eleven can and has produced some of the most intimidating and physically gifted children I've seen outside the richer territories. Once I think I've seen all that Eleven has to offer, one jewel comes out of the pile of waste and leaves me stricken.

Take a look at last year, both tributes from Eleven made such an impact in the Games that people haven't stopped talking about them. The boy, a massive and frightening contender named Thresh, had better odds than nearly all the rich kids, killed a Career girl with his bare hands, and almost killed the large boy from Two in one of the most intense duels in Hunger Games history. And the girl, Rue, was a tiny waif; unmistakably an afterthought when she was Reaped. However, she touched more hearts and was such a fan favorite that there have been dolls and children's products created in her image.

Eleven has few Victors, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Eleven now has a certain notoriety in my mind that separates it from the rest of the poor territories. It's caused me to want to pay more attention to it, which is something I did not do before last year. Whether Eleven can live up to everyone's standards is soon to be determined.

The flimsy looking wooden stage comes into view under the blinding sun, and a sea of predominantly dark faces cluster in the thousands in front—waiting for the dreaded microphone to buzz to life. Twin podiums with large glass bowls upon them sit solemnly near the edge, each holding more than a thousand potential victims. For some in Eleven, this is all merely assisted suicide, their deaths aired for the world to witness. For others, it is a blessing in disguise. There are probably many children who wish to experience the lavish life if not for a week before the battle begins. Poor children like this would do anything to taste wine, fresh fruit, and warm meals before they die.

Few children are actually ready or mentally prepared for the experience. Why? Because no sane kid could ever begin to imagine such a vile bloodsport actually exists. I don't even think Thresh could have been ready for it. Not in a million years. While it would be wrong for me to assume to know what it's like to participate in the program, even I know that the Victors—the survivors, had something to grasp on to in their head to keep themselves going. Besides the sadists and the sociopaths, without families to come home to or a loved one to hold on to, without vengeance or the desire to be wealthy, there's no way in hell you'd make it out of there alive without going insane. No way in hell.

Victors are the ones who somehow managed to hold on to that link in their head, no matter how much resistance they faced. Those who couldn't hold on, perished. I think knowing this, even as a boy, has helped me understand just how much these kids go through. People are always ranting about how tributes always make rash and ludicrous decisions that lead to their deaths every year. It upsets me just thinking about it, because really, how can we possibly know what's going through their heads? That technology, unfortunately, doesn't exist. Yes, we can monitor vitals and manipulate the arena as we see fit, but mind reading is impossible, as much as it disappoints me.

Perhaps those kids aren't being stupid, perhaps they knew what they were doing all along. Perhaps that link in their heads split, and they lost the will to fight, and the will to live. Perhaps, ignorance is bliss.

An olive-skinned woman with a chrome dress suddenly appeared on the stage – I've never seen her before. Must be her first year.

She introduces herself as "Molly", and as with all new Escorts, she's extremely happy to be there. The new ones typically are, because they know if they make the slightest slip-up, their only chance at fame and stardom goes down the drain.

"Alright, kids! Shall we begin with the girls, then? Right!" She smiles a plastic looking smile and struts to the first bowl.

It makes me grimace a bit. See, Molly's already made her first mistake of the evening: Never try to address or worse, involve a dead audience. If they're dead silent like they usually are, chances are it's best to do all the talking.

Let's be honest here, District Eleven will always be a dead crowd. I haven't watched a Games in years and even I can't remember the last time a tribute from Eleven actually smiled. Typically, they're either crying or upset and trying to hide it.

Molly draws the slip, "Keira Dunning! Do we have a Keira Dunning in the audience?"

There's the usual pause, and then the Peacekeepers begin their search like a pack of dogs. Out of all the Districts, Eleven always has it the hardest. Tributes are only given five seconds to respond or they're personally escorted up.

A petite dark-skinned girl shoulders her way through the others – one hand is occupied rubbing her eyes, and the other is clamped firmly around the spine of a thick book. Looks like she's been reading quite of a bit of it too.

Despite Keira having no issues walking up herself, the Peacekeepers are practically relentless – it's almost like they want the entire country to know they're doing their jobs correctly.

If you ask me, I'd say they just want to get on TV.

Keira doesn't look too happy to be there—in fact, her face is contorted into a mask of misery and ire. She's not crying, but she's trying pretty damn hard to cover it up.

Slowly, the small girl walks aimlessly up the wooden steps, ignoring the enthusiasm of her escort when she tries to shove the microphone in her face. Keira instead does the only thing she knows how, and buries herself into the fantastical confines of literature.

Keira's knees totter from the anxiety, but I don't believe she even seems to notice at this point. Her brown eyes flit so quickly across the pages, I'm not certain the girl is actually reading more than she is simply looking at the words to comfort herself.

Probably the saddest take-away from this is the fact that Keira knew there wouldn't be someone to volunteer in her place. Much like Twelve, District Eleven hasn't had a volunteer in decades. For these children, they've already died the second their name is called.

Molly draws another slip, "Terrence Young!"

It takes a bit, but there is no doubt as to who's been sent to die. Terrence has no problem making that apparent, because the second the Peacekeepers begin their search, Terrence Young runs for his life.

The older looking dark-skinned boy pushes and shoves his way through the swarm of relieved children, frantically looking for a bare spot to exit into the nearest vineyard. Peacekeepers expected this would happen – because it happened last year as well, and probably the year before that. My father made sure they were prepared for another stint.

The Peacekeepers are older, faster, and experienced. Terrence gets rather far, surprisingly. He almost makes it into a cornfield, but he's tackled to the dirt before it happens. The Peacekeepers aren't hesitating with this one, they handcuff the boy and a team of six roughly escorts him onto the stage.

There is unmistakable hatred in Terrence's dark eyes – from the way his lip curls in disgust as he's thrown on the stage, to the way his muscles are tensed the second Molly tries to interview him.

Nothing good will come of this. I'm just waiting for the curses to come spewing out of his mouth, or the kick in the gut to one of the officials. There is no doubt in my mind, Terrence Young hates us... but more importantly, Terrence Young hates me.

When you have a tribute this angry, restrained, and humiliated on live television, it's best to mute the sound. That's what my father did, but I'm not father. Whatever Terrence needs to say, I will listen.

Septimus looks at me worriedly, "Mr. President?" Septim is not a dumb man, he knows exactly what's bound to happen if the microphone isn't shut off.

But, the show must go on. I am not my father. "I want to hear this, Septimus. I do."

Septim gives me a curious look, and even if he has my word, the man's fingers hover nervously over his earpiece—waiting for something bad to happen. But after what I've seen today, with the gangs, and the prisoner...I don't believe it can get any worse.

Molly looks nervous as she leans in with the microphone, "Terrence, anything you'd like to say?"

He gives her a dark, frantic look, "I'm being detained against my will! Where are my rights, huh? Tell me! Where are my rights, here? I shouldn't be treated like an animal! I'm just like you! I should be treated with respect!"

Molly is intimidated, but she's an amateur. She wouldn't know what to respond with. She doesn't know anything.

Terrence makes a valid argument, and I understand it completely.

Terrence continues his rant, "Why is she not in chains?" Terrence jerks his head in Keira's direction. The girl's brown eyes flicker up from her book for a split second.

"My rights as a citizen of this country are being violated! And you people have nothing to say because you all know I speak the truth—"

The screen cuts to black.

A look of shock befalls my features—but I'm not really surprised.

I'm angry.

They went against my orders.

I turn to Septimus, but he already knows the error he just made. "What the hell was that? Why did you turn it off? I specifically told you I wanted to hear it, did I not?"

Septimus's features are apologetic, "I—I'm sorry Mr. President. The feed went out and...My apologies."

My teeth grind together, but I have nothing else to say to the man. I don't know what to say or do. My father never trained me.

Do I punish him?

Do I forgive him?

Do I lecture him?

I simply don't know. Being angry is all I can do. But it's for good reason.

I was genuinely invested in what Terrence was trying to say. He made some fine points. Why was he being detained? He was no prisoner...he was a commoner. A teenager.

But then the rational part of me says he deserves it. He was trying to escape, and I just can't tolerate that. I sympathize dearly with each and every one of these children, and I always have.

But I respect this system. I respect the Games. It's a broken system, yes. But it's a system that has endured close to a century.

If someone causes a spark, why wouldn't it spread? It always spreads.

I can't have any sparks.

Not now. Not ever.

While I'm angry about being disobeyed, I understand what needed to be done. My father and I had our differences. But he never faltered. He never let people get to him.

Finally, the symbol for the now infamous District Twelve pops on the screen.

---

District Twelve

---

District Twelve.

It's seen fame in the past year for the first time in nearly two decades. I didn't watch last year's Hunger Games, but I heard about what had transpired.

How there were two Victors instead of one, and that the two Victors came from...of all places, District Twelve. Not only that, but one of the Victors, Katniss Everdeen, had volunteered.

When I read it in the papers, I thought I was dreaming.

I couldn't believe it, nobody could. Not in a hundred years did I believe a tribute from Twelve could ever pull it off again.

Understand, they've only ever won twice in the last seventy-five years. Twice.

It's quite sad, really.

From a distance, District Twelve is nearly identical in nature to the smog covered expanses of Three. The only difference being that Twelve isn't covered in factories, and it's ten times smaller.

As far as surface features go, there really isn't much to say. The entire place is one giant sprawling village, bordered by tall mountains and thick forests. The only decent looking part of Twelve is downtown, which is filled with shops and single-story, white houses, that stick out like a sore thumb among the dilapidation of the poorer neighborhood backdrop. Even so, calling downtown "decent" would be generous.

The only halfway decent area of Twelve is the Victors Village – a gated community filled with dozens of empty mansions save three.

Effie Trinket struts on the stage clad in maroon, a giddy bounce in her step, much more pronounced it seems now that she actually managed to get Victors. She grins the entire time she's on the stage, constantly fluffing her wig out of habit.

Effie taps on the microphone with her gloved fingers, and gives a wide smile to an absolutely dead audience, "Welcome, welcome, to the seventy-fifth Hunger Games!"

The only sound to be heard in the air is the solitary clapping of Mayor Undersee, looking mighty proud this year in his pressed suit – a mockingjay pin clipped on his red tie.

After the mandatory reading of the Treaty, a short vignette plays on a projection screen about the recent passing of my father. After his face is shown, then my face replaces his. It's a still from my speech earlier; my hair is slightly disheveled, my gray tie crooked, and my goofy grin pronounced.

It's a strange feeling, seeing yourself in this manner, and once again I feel overwhelmed, and I shift in my seat ever so slightly.

"Ladies first!" Effie Trinket strides over to the first glass bowl, placed on a tall wooden podium. There's a precision to the way Effie draws the slip – sometimes it can be annoying, as my father found it to be. I, however, think it adds just the right amount of suspense to make the Reapings entertaining.

Before Effie reads the name, her eyes flit across the sea of starved, dirty faces. The feeling of dread and fear in the audience is simply palpable, with the way nearly every child closes their eyes, or the way they shift from foot to foot, trying in some way to calm their nerves so they don't collapse over each other like toys.

And yet, Effie finds a reason to smile. "...Samara Hawkins!"

I can't help but feel like perhaps a trend will develop now that Twelve had a volunteer last year. The same effect happened the year after Johanna Mason's victory. For years, District Seven sported an outburst of volunteers, wishing to follow in Johanna's footsteps and use her strategy to pull off some sort of miracle victory.

It wasn't until only a couple years ago that District Seven seemed to calm down. I can only wonder if we'll be seeing the same phenomena occur within District Twelve.

Several seconds seem to pass by, and then the Peacekeepers begin to do their scouting. A girl makes a move at last, coming from one of the older sections. Her eyes are downcast, but I can tell she's fighting back tears. She doesn't look at anyone as she walks – she keeps her head soundly focused in one sole direction.

She is rather beautiful, to be honest. She has a light complexion, and her hair is pitch dark, worn down and pushed behind her ears. Once she gets on the stage, she sneakily peeks a glance at the audience, a flash of realization and anger seems to overtake her for a split second, but it's gone as soon as Effie Trinket shakes her hand.

"Are you Samara, dear?" Effie seems to be delighted.

The girl is surprisingly quite tall, which is rare to see in outside Districts, "...Yeah. Yeah, that's me." Samara doesn't look happy, obviously. Her face is scrunched up like she's smelled something fowl, and it's been like that ever since she stepped on stage.

The only Mentor to be seated on the stage is Peeta Mellark, who has a very vacant look in his blue eyes. The Victor seems unfocused and lethargic. He probably didn't want to be there. Haymitch was suspended from attending the Reapings the moment he showed up drunk on stage last year. It's the seventh time he's been 'suspended' in the past decade.

Samara trudges over to where Peeta sits, crossing her arms and looking down at her feet. Peeta smiles gently at the girl, but doesn't even say a word.

Effie already has the male slip in her hand when the camera focuses back on her, "...Lucas Frost!"

There's a curse in the audience – several, actually. The boy – presumably Lucas, shoves his small frame from one of the younger sections. Lucas's lips are upturned into a snarl, his mouth moving constantly like he's muttering words under his breath. Some children seem to almost recognize the boy, and Peacekeepers do a double-take as he passes them in the aisle.

It's strange – Lucas looks no different than any other boy in the audience. His hair is light brown, slightly long and a bit wavy, and he is skinny, which is typical. As for the looks from the audience...Perhaps he's popular?

Lucas storms up the steps, hands balled into fists. Effie is ignorant of courtesy, apparently, and shoves the microphone in the boy's face, "And you must be Lucas, correct?" She asks with a grin.

Lucas brings his head up, gray eyes glistening and jaw clenched shut, refusing to say a word to the makeup-caked woman.

Effie laughs nervously, "Well, that's alright, then! It's normal to be nervous...after all, you're a tribute! It's just exciting, isn't it?"

Lucas glares at the audience, not moving a single muscle. I didn't recognize it before, but Lucas's hands are wrapped in some...rags? Cloth? They aren't gloves, they look more like something you'd wrap up on your hands if you've been burned or injured.

Lucas toys with the fabric around his hands out of habit, while Effie forces the two tributes to shake hands.

Samara reluctantly walks over to Lucas, an empty expression on her features, and holds out her pale hand. Lucas is much shorter than the girl, and glares up at her, before extending one of his bandaged hands. Samara looks down at the hand with a rather hesitant look, and her eyes flicker up to Lucas's face for a second as if to question the integrity of the boy.

Lucas rolls his eyes and shakes Samara's hand for her, saying something out of the corner of his mouth. The dark haired girl quickly snatches her hand away, and Effie looks rather proud, before she closes the Reapings with an all too familiar expression, "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

And with that, the room lights up once more, and the projection ends. The Reapings have concluded. The tributes for the seventy-fifth Hunger Games are finalized, their names and faces now forever ingrained in history.

I sit there, scratching my chin in the seat with my legs crossed, trying to determine in my head whether or not I was satisfied with today's Reapings.

Septimus flashes me a weary grin, scrambling for his notes and papers, "So, what did you think?"

"Well, they were very...interesting," I said, stretching in my seat with a yawn.

Septim chuckles, flipping through papers, "I think that's putting it lightly, Mr. President. What with all that went on today, I'm just surprised nobody got killed."

I nod, "Of course." Today's Reapings were some of the most interesting I had ever seen. It had its ups and its downs, but there's no mistaking it, this year's bunch of tributes will certainly impress.

As I walked away from the theater, reporters waited near the exit, clamoring for my thoughts with microphones and the bright flashes of cameras. I reacted with fear, covering my face with my arm, only remembering in my surprise that it was inevitable it would happen – I am the President, I should have expected it, honestly.

Thankfully, the Royal Guard ushers them away, "Move along! Move along! The President doesn't have time to answer your questions, now keep moving!"

I'm escorted through the gigantic halls of the palace once more like an animal, and for a moment, I almost forget where I'm going, and where I am. One minute I'm in an elevator, and the next I'm going through hidden, twisting hallways I didn't even know existed.

Finally, we come to a stop, and memories of my childhood in the palace come flooding back to me. We're near my father's study, the place where I would always go to sit and read some of my father's history books, despite having never understood them.

"Through here, Mr. President," one of the Royal Guard beckons me over through a giant stone archway, the familiar ancient phrase 'Panem et Circenses' etched deeply into the stone above the arch.

"Welcome to your main office, Mr. President." An Avox escorts me through the archway with a bow of greeting. The walls were white with golden floral designs, and paintings of old presidents, including one of my father, lined the walls. Tall windows behind my desk offered a stunning view of the entire Capitol city, and the vast mountain ranges of beyond.

"Get comfortable, Mr. President. We'll give you all the time you need," an official said, before closing the grand doors shut, leaving me at last to my lonesome.

The room was simply gigantic, and the view was incredible. I seemed to gasp with every item I touched or looked at. The fact I was here was a thought I could never comprehend...a feeling of nervousness and awe and disbelief all packaged together. I wasn't quite sure what to make of this.

I swept my hand across the giant leather seat behind the desk, chuckling softly, because I just couldn't believe I was here...where my father sat for decades as I grew up watching him with awe.

Truth is, I never wanted to become president – in fact, I ran away from it. As soon as I hit eighteen, despite my father's protests, I decided to live on the edge of the city, in a normal apartment, going to a normal school, and taking the bus like normal people would, instead of the limousine my father always forced me into every morning. I got a normal job, and I kind of liked it too.

I stopped watching the Games, and I wanted nothing to do with them for many years, despite never going a single damned day without hearing about them in the city. I almost considered relocating to one of the Districts...One or Four perhaps. At one point I considered Seven. But, knowing my father's paranoia, he would have tracked me down, and had me dragged back to the palace. It would have made too much of a fuss.

I ran away from my father, and this place, because...I was scared. I was scared of becoming my father, I was scared of the responsibility...of carrying that weight on my shoulders.

But...now here I am. And I feel different now, I feel...I feel less scared than I was before. Now I want to change things – I want to make Panem a better place – something my father was too stubborn to do. He hated change, but I don't. Now that I'm president, changes will come.

I stepped in front of the tall window, clasping my hands behind my back as I observed the world below me.

Thoughts of the strange Reapings flashed through my mind – the boy and his band of thugs from District One, the giant from District Two, the twin siblings from Four, the prisoner from Nine, and the rebellious boy from Eleven... all of them possible Victors...facilitators of change...and with each of them, I could just feel it. Something was going to happen – something that would change the way everyone around here thinks.

Everything would change.

I grinned, the radiance of the mid-day sun shining directly in the pale blue of my eyes. Strangely enough, I didn't flinch.

Not this time.

As I looked into the sun, the doors of the grand office creaked open, and Seneca Crane walked in, smiling, looking flustered and slightly out of breath – holding a thick manila folder under one arm.

"Mr. President?"

I averted my gaze from the window, and swiveled on my feet. "Seneca?" I asked, surprised.

As he approached, he eagerly opened the folder, "Mr. President, I'm sorry for the interruption, but...this couldn't be helped. My original idea for the arena? It's been scrapped."

I raise my eyebrow, "Oh?"

Seneca pulled out a sheet from the folder, an almost crazed look in his eyes, "Because I have a better one. Mr. President, I think you're going to want to see this..."

Chills went up my spine as I looked upon the blueprints, and laughed in disbelief as I knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Hunger Games would change forever.

---

75th Hunger Games Manifest

District One

Male: Emilio Flores, 17

Female: Aurora Fisher, 18

District Two

Male: Emmett Montgomery, 18

Female: Leah Valenta, 16

District Three

Male: Trey Livingston, 17

Female: Corinne Brooks, 16

District Four

Male: Caspian Rosetti, 18

Female: Noelle Rosetti, 18

District Five

Male: Zachary Finch, 17

Female: Willow Blanchett, 16

District Six

Male: Cedric Brown, 18

Female: Dahlia Knight, 17

District Seven

Male: Flint Thompson, 18

Female: Rebecca Lance, 16

District Eight

Male: James Miller, 17

Female: Celestina Morgan, 16

District Nine

Male: Roy Compton, 17

Female: Amber Hughes, 16

District Ten

Male: William Copeland, 16

Female: Allison Sharpe, 18

District Eleven

Male: Terrence Young, 18

Female: Keira Dunning, 13

District Twelve

Male: Lucas Frost, 14

Female: Samara Hawkins, 17

---

*Whew* if ya got this far, then I applaud you. yup yup I'm back after a...*looks at calendar* Only almost 2 years :D

Alright, alright, ya'll deserve a better explanation. Well, all I can say is that writer's block is *not* to be taken lightly. I've had a rough year, but in that time I've been away, I've been planning Radiance diligently - like i'm talking blueprints, maps, outlines, scrolls (okay not scrolls), but yeah, i've been planning the whole works of this story, and I think I know what I wanna do with it. :)

Just want to thank Author of Ice and Fire for the incredibly nice review - my only review, but still a review nonetheless. It made me so happy :')

Hopefully now that I'm going to be writing the characters, updates won't take years (literally) anymore. It all depends on how inspired I am, and how much work I got.