Thanks to all who favourited/alerted, and the one who gave me a review :D It's much appreciated. I would like at least a review per chapter, so as son as somebody does, I shall update.

This chapters a funny one. It drags a lot. I don't like it much myself, to be honest. Just setting the scene, establishing characters that you will hopefully come to love. Especially Thorn and Slam.

Hope you enjoy!

I do something then that I've never done before: Promptly burst into tears.

Seriously. I haven't cried since I don't remember when. But the minute Julius called my name, I burst into noisy, ugly tears. And, like a tree in the forest, I stayed rooted to the spot.
"Well?" barks Julius. "Johanna Mason?"
Dozens of hands push my back, pull my arms, urging me forward. Anything to get themselves out of the games. If I was there, they were not. They're eager for me to go to my death. I cry harder, silently cursing myself. The whole of the Capitol can see me now- scratch that, the whole of Panem- can see what a coward I'm being.

Nice one, Johanna. Smooth.

With trembling legs, I mount the steps to the stage, and stand in front of my district, the alien wet stripes burning my face. I could see everyone roll their eyes, writing me off as another wimpy tribute that'll be slaughtered in the bloodbath. Perhaps they're right. I've made an easy target of myself now. Christie Briggs, the only other female winner, nods at me, tersely, sympathy in her eyes. It's that look, letting me know she's already written me off, that chokes me.
"Would you like to say a few words?" Julius asks. I shake my head, eyes wide. I don't think I could if I tried. Julius nods. "Very well. We shall select our male tribute."

As he plunges his hand into the ball with the boy's names, I notice something I've never seen before: Julius Skylark's hands. Well, not hands. I've never seen hand less human. Scaly, with talons for nails. Hands like birds. Hands that could scratch my eye out with one swoop. I gulp. I was so transfixed by the flaking skin on his fingers, I forgot to hope for the boy whose name would be drawn.

"Our male tribute for District Seven," Julius partially shrieks. "Is…" he unfolds the paper, enjoying the tension mounting in the air. "Thorn Baxon".

Great. As if this day could not get any worse.

I've known Thorn Baxon all my life. Born to young parents, even by Seven's standards, his father was selected for the Games seventeen years ago, when Thorn was nine months old. Did well too, and was the last to die. His mother went insane from grief, and drowned herself. But Thorn is one of the happiest people I know. Always smiling. Over the years, he's been a good friend to both Slam and me.

I flash back to a wedding, two years ago, that I attended only out of politeness. Thorn, with his lazy chestnut curls, brown eyes that seem to dance when they look at you, high cheekbones, and well-muscled body, is considered to be one of the biggest catches of our district, along with my own brother. I remember being sat in the corner for the whole night, watching everyone. I'm not good in social situations. People don't, and never have, warmed to me. Slam says it's because I'm too blunt, too cold. I don't show my emotions often enough, he said. Clearly, he was wrong. I just burst into tears in front of them all, and look where that got me? They were still happy enough to chivvy me off to my murder.

Anyway, I was sat in the corner, brooding, when Thorn appeared out of the crowd.
"Miss Johanna," he bowed, jokily. "Looking beautiful, as ever."
I snorted. For the wedding, I was wearing an old dress my mother had forced me into, green velvet, that clung to my boyish figure, with gold embroidered leaves. I felt like the world's biggest idiot, but had worn it regardless, as my usual tunics don't cut it for weddings.
"I'm serious," Thorn smiled, taking my hand in his and pulling me up out of the chair "It's nice to see you dress like a young lady, for once,"
"I'll have you know, Mr. Baxon, that I can be perfectly ladylike, when it suits me", I imitate his archaic, jokey manner.
"Then you wouldn't mind giving me the honour of this dance?" Thorn shot back. I nodded, but felt nervous as he led me onto the dance floor. Several girls glared at me, with jealousy. Thorn drew me in close, and we began swaying on the spot.

"Weddings are great," he smiled happily. I wrinkle my nose.
"Really? Just an excuse to have kids and get time off work, isn't it."
"No!" Thorn sounded shocked. "It's so much more than that! It's about two people coming together and sharing their love."
"Or finding somebody they don't mind being with, before they are forced to be with any old person."
"Ah, got me there," Thorn said, holding my hand above my head and spinning me around, slowly. "So, you wouldn't ever want to get married?"
"Not ever," I reply. "I just don't want to be forced into it…"
"It's something you'll have to face, Johanna," Thorn said, seriously.
"I know. It's just different for me."
"How?" Thorn asked, curiously.
"Well, look around you. Pretty much every girl here would love to be your wife. You don't have to be stuck with anyone, you can take your pick. I don't even have friends, let alone somebody who wants to be with me."
"Ah! You couldn't be more wrong, Miss Johanna." Thorn grinned.
"Sorry?"
"I don't have a choice. There is only one girl I could ever be with for the rest of my life. I can't take my pick, as there is only one I could ever pick. And not only do you have the best friend in the world," he flicked his hair out of his eyes in mock vanity. "But, he is also the exact same person who wants to be with you."

I ran from him then. He never brought up the subject again, and neither did I, but we never could revert back to the easy, close friendship we had. We'd been strained, stretched, our relationship like a branch, clinging on for almost dear life, but almost completely severed.

And, within a few days, we were going to have to kill each other, or let the other die. Fantastic. Brilliant. It can't get worse, it really can't.

Just as Thorn mounts the stage, a voice rings out, loud and clear, from the back of the town centre. A familiar voice, a voice I love more than any other.

"I volunteer as tribute!" Slam calls.

Note to self: Never say "it can't get worse" again. Because the world will always do it's very best to prove to you that actually, it can.