Tales of Monsters and Mentors Chapter 2: Isaac: Nice Never Lasts, a hunger games fanfic

Been a while since I've updated this! Sorry, this chapter really got away from me :) Violence warning for the end of this chapter. Also, sorry this is rather depressing. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this, just kind of did. Hope it's still somewhat enjoyable though!

Also, for anyone who doesn't know, there is a victor's blog now! Link's on my profile. If there are any victors you'd like to feature in the next one shot, just let me know through a review or PM and I'll see what I can do :)

Isaac Lume

District 8

Victor of the 36th Hunger Games

A month before the 28th Games . . .

Miss Fervendough is a terrible woman, harsh and cruel and all around awful, so usually, the hall outside her office is avoided completely. Today, though, it seems like almost every kid in The Lume is waiting by her door, all whispering to each other in their various groups. I've found a nice spot hidden almost completely by a large, decorative plant, which means that, should Miss Fervendough come out yelling about the noisiness, I should be able to escape notice. And the sting of her cane. Just the thought of it makes the fresh wounds on my back start to throb again. So I accidentally spilled some water last night at dinner – crazy old lady.

I was going to avoid her for as long as I could after that, but today something happened that made me change my mind. After all, it isn't every day we get a Surnamer. Usually, all the kids in The Lume Orphanage are found as babies on the doorstep, or else they eventually wander in from the streets – and all of them are just given the last lame Lume. Today, though, today we're being joined by one Mattrick Ellisson. "Ellisson," I whisper to myself, testing the name on my tongue. Sounds like a pretty fancy last name. "Isaac Ellisson." Oh, that sounds nice. I file it away mentally to remember for later, still murmuring it under my breath. Every time we get a Surnamer, I like to try and test their last name with my first. I stopped doing it real loud after Harith found out and made fun of me for it, but at night sometimes, when it's been a bad day, I still like to lie in bed and whisper all the nice-sounding last names to myself. Isaac Fulheimer. Isaac Bronx. Isaac Dairiny. Anything is better than Lume.

Suddenly, the hall gets real quiet real fast, and Miss Fervendough's office door starts to open. I hunch down behind the plant, glad, for the first time in my life, that I'm small for a seven-year-old. It doesn't help with Harith and his band of jerks, but I bet they're wishing they were a lot more like me now. Harith is standing in the middle of the hall like an idiot, trying to figure out what place might be able to hide his hulking, eleven-year-old frame. I smile to myself; wish I had one of those fancy Capitol cameras that can take instant pictures. Harith wouldn't be so full of himself if I showed him a photo of the terrified expression he wears now.

But Miss Fervendough isn't swinging her cane around when she comes out. She's not alone either. I didn't manage to catch a glimpse of Mattrick Ellisson when he first arrived here this morning and he's been shut in Miss Fervendough's office ever since, but now, I can only assume the pale, dark-haired boy trailing behind the orphanage manager is our newest charge.

"Sleeping rooms down that way," Miss Fervendough says to the boy, jerking her finger down one of the halls. "Girls on the left, boys on the right. Ain't no beds or assigned areas, just pick a spot on the floor and don't start fights over the blankets or you'll be sorry. Bathrooms are further down the hall, meal room's in the opposite direction and like I said, you eat at six in the morning and four in the evening. Miss those times and there'll be more for the rest." Miss Fervendough stops to take a breath, and only then does she seem to realise how confused Mattrick looks as he peers down the hall, his green eyes wide and curious. The woman groans. "Ask one of these varmints if you still can't figure it out," she says, gesturing to the crowd of children watching quietly. "I've got some important paperwork to take care of. Which means I'll need QUIET!" The last word is a shout that makes everyone flinch back a step; even me and I'm safe behind my plant. Miss Fervendough glares suspiciously around at all of us one more time before stepping back into her office and slamming the door shut, leaving Mattrick Ellisson alone with the mob of orphans. I wish I could sink further behind my potted plant; this isn't going to end well.

"Hi," he says, much too cheerily for a seven-year-old who was just dropped off at The Lume. "My name's Mattrick Ellisson. Just Matt, if you want. Could someone maybe show me where I can drop off my stuff?"

I nearly groan out loud as Mattrick raises the suitcase he holds for everyone to see. Sure, maybe it's a bit worn and not in the best of shape, but still, he brought stuff to The Lume. An orphanage isn't a place for personal items; you can bet it'll all be stolen within a week.

Or sooner – Harith is eyeing the bag with an all-too-familiar smirk on his face, but he'd never try anything here. Not with Miss Fervendough so close and wanting quiet. "Hey, Matt," he says, striding forward, and behind him, his minions giggle. "Name's Harith. Harith Lume, but there's too many Lumes around here for that to really matter." He grins good-naturedly and I grit my teeth; that grin always comes right before someone gets punched in the gut. "I can show you to the sleeping rooms."

After seven years of putting up with it, this friendly act seems so phony in my eyes I figure even an idiot could see through Harith and his lies. But Mattrick just beams at him. "Thanks, Harith! Nice to meet you."

"You too, Matt." Harith claps Mattrick on the back, winking back at his cronies as he does so. Oh, come on! You had to see that! But no, the newcomer just keeps smiling, allowing the biggest jerk in The Lume to lead him to his doom. He doesn't even get suspicious when Harith's gang of goons peel away from the wall to follow them, as do about three quarters of the other kids. Harith pretending to be friendly always means someone's going to get beat up, and most of the younger ones usually stick around to watch – 'bout the only source of entertainment to be had in The Lume. The older kids have their own battles, and while sometimes they find it funny when us "little ones" get into scrapes, most of them grow bored rather quickly. But almost everyone enjoys watching a prissy Surnamer get introduced to the harsh life of The Lume. Sometimes the older kids even pitch in.

I slip out from behind the pot and follow behind the rest of the kids. No, no, no, this is definitely not going to be good.

Everyone files into the sleeping rooms, which is a fancy way of saying a gigantic, empty space with a hard wooden floor and a few ragged blankets scattered around. We used to have a couple of pillows too, but Miss Fervendough confiscated them once she realised fighting over 'em made them tear and litter stuffing all over the place. Still, the barren sight doesn't seem to discourage Mattrick in the slightest, and he happily plops his suitcase down in the middle of the room.

I slip into one of the dark corners nearest to the door. Nobody likes a snitch, but we haven't had a Surnamer here in a while and things might get ugly. The last one was a fat rich boy whose parents died in a factory accident, and he had three broken ribs and a completely bashed-in face by the time everyone finished with him. I was only five then, too stupid to know what to do. I even cried when they started the hitting, but one of Harith's jerks shut me up pretty quick. It was an embarrassment, he'd said between blows, that a Lume who had been at the orphanage for his whole life was crying during a fight. Man up, he'd shouted. Because this is what real life is like.

I don't cry anymore, obviously. But I still don't like it when the fighting starts.

"So, you're a Surnamer," Harith says as Mattrick gets on his knees to unpack his stuff – where he's planning on putting it after that, I have no idea.

"Sorry, a what?" the new boy asks politely, pulling a nicely-folded shirt out of his suitcase.

"A Sur-nay-mer," Harith says slowly, sounding out the syllables like he's talking to a baby, which, of course, sends his minions into hysterics. Finally, Mattrick appears to realise something's not quite right; he slowly stops what he's doing and rises to his feet, keeping his gaze on Harith. Not good, I think from the corner. Not good to stand. The closer you are to the ground, the less distance you have to fall.

A lesson the new boy will soon learn as Harith advances on him, giving him a forceful shove. "A Surnamer," he says as Mattrick stumbles back, "is our word for prissy, rich kids who think they're too good for The Lume."

Mattrick puts his hands out, but it's not a defensive position – or if it is, it's a really bad one. No, he looks almost like he's trying to . . . pacify Harith. "Please, I'm sorry if I insulted you, but I really didn't mean it."

"I heard," Harith continues, giving Mattrick another shove – this time the boy does fall back to floor with a painful thud, "That your parents didn't even die. I heard Miss Fervendough say you'd been removed from your parents' for "safety reasons"." Harith lets out a humorless laugh as angry whispers start to buzz through the crowd of kids, and I admit, even I feel a little mad. Mattrick Ellisson still has parents out there in the district and yet he chose to come here? That's stupid. He's stupid.

Or maybe I'm just trying to make myself more okay with what's coming next. I don't have a good view of the new boy now that he's on the floor, and the rest of the kids have started to close in, but I can imagine what's going to happen. And, soon enough, I hear it too. The same sort of sounds you hear when you have kitchen duty with Cook and he slams raw meat down on the cutting board. Only these sounds make me cringe ten times harder. Everyone seems to be a part of it now, all yelling and clapping and encourage Harith and anyone else who's now attacking the fallen Surnamer. Funny though – I don't hear a single cry from Mattrick. See, they're not hurting him too bad, I try to reason, though I don't know exactly why I'm trying to convince myself everything's all right. You don't need to get Miss Fervendough. She probably wouldn't care anyways. And nobody likes a snitch. If you got her, Harith would go after you next. First rule of The Lume, Isaac, remember: everyone fends for themselves.

"Everyone fends for themselves," I repeat in a whisper, trying to drown out the fighting sounds with my own words. "Everyone fends for themselves, everyone fends for themselves, everyone fends for themselves." I can still hear every punch being thrown – this isn't working too well. "Everyone fends for themselves, everyone fends for themselves, everyone fends for themselves."

But the words don't help and I'm painfully aware of every agonising minute that passes before finally, finally the others start to let up. Once the older kids start to leave, claiming they have better things to do, the younger ones stop cheering as loudly. Harith, realising everyone's beginning to lose interest and always wanting to be the one to give orders, looks down at where I'm assuming the Surnamer lies on the floor and laughs. "All right, we're done here. Let's go before Fervendough comes and starts asking questions."

With that, Harith marches through the crowd to lead everyone out the door. I notice as he passes that he's carrying Mattrick's suitcase under his arm. Jerk. Jerk, jerk, jerk.

Slowly, the sleeping room empties out, everyone heading off to find something else to do. No one wants to be found in here when Miss Fervendough comes looking for the new kid. I need to leave too and soon, but I decide to wait in my corner until the last person has left. When possible, I like to stay as far from everyone else as I can.

But this one time, it was a mistake to wait. A big mistake, because now I'm alone in the sleeping room with the Mattrick Ellisson. Don't look! I shout to myself, trying to resist the urge to turn my head. Don't look! Don't-

I gasp. See, see? I knew this wouldn't end well. The Surnamer is lying face down, splayed out on the ground, his shirt torn almost completely in two, and almost everywhere you can see skin is coloured purple or blue or green with bruises. Blood's trickling down from somewhere and pooling near his head, but the worst injury by far is his leg. I don't think bones are supposed to twist that way.

Without really thinking, I scramble up from my spot and head for the door, my eyes on the new boy the whole time. Just leave, I keep thinking, my hand outstretching to grab the doorknob. Just leave.

I nearly make it – until Mattrick moves and I practically jump out of my skin. I almost thought he was dead, or at the very least, unconscious, but now he seems to be struggling to get himself up on all fours. The boy doesn't seem to realise the full extent of his leg injury until he tries shifting some of his weight onto it, and with a sharp gasp, he collapses back to the floor. My hand's still fumbling for the doorknob, unable to gain purchase on it thanks to the sweat that coats my palms.

And then he looks up. Still lying on the ground, Mattrick lifts his head, as though checking to see if anyone else is still around, and his eyes land on me, freezing me in place. For a while, the two of us just stare at each other; he doesn't even ask for help. Doesn't say anything at all – just stares. What? I want to shout. What do you want? I don't know why, but his gaze is making me feel really uncomfortable. It gives me the same feeling I had when I was five and didn't do anything to stop that other boy from getting hurt and I hate that feeling. So, without a word, I whip the door open and practically run out of the sleeping room.

I don't stop until I get to Miss Fervendough's office hall, which is now thankfully empty of any other kids. It's a dangerous place to be, especially since she explicitly said she wants quiet, but I need to catch my breath a bit. Once a year, the district doctor comes to check us out, and he told me a while ago that I shouldn't do a lot of running because I have some disease thing called asthma. I don't completely understand what he meant, and for a while I was terrified that I had something like the plague and was gonna die, but now I know it has something to do with the tightness in my chest and the way my breath doesn't come as easily as it does for most kids.

So I lean against the wall and try to fill my lungs with as much air as I can manage. But this isn't good; I should be doing something, or I won't be able to distract myself from the thought of that Mattrick kid lying in the sleeping room and bleeding on the floor. Don't think about it! I scold myself sharply. He's a stupid, prissy Surnamer anyways and he still has parents. Man up, Isaac.

And yet I still find myself unable to continue down the hall without stopping in front of Miss Fervendough's door. Don't do it, my brain screams, don't do it! But for some reason, I can't stop myself from lifting a hand and knocking on the door.

A loud curse comes from inside and almost, almost makes me run away. But the door opens to fast, and I don't even see the slap coming until it's gone, leaving a red welt behind on my cheek.

"Didn't I say I needed quiet?" Miss Fervendough hisses at me, sticking her face right close to mine. I take a few panicked steps back, but like an idiot, don't run immediately. "Whatever you're here for, it better bloody well be important!"

"The new boy's in the sleeping room and he's hurt real bad," I stammer out as quick as I can before she has the chance to hit me again.

Thankfully, my words stay her hand. "What?"

"The new boy's in the sleeping room and he's hurt real bad," I repeat, slower this time so she can understand me.

Miss Fervendough frowns, but she crosses her arms, which is a good sign. It's basically the equivalent of a Peacekeeper holstering a gun. "What happened to him?"

Saying Harith and the others beat Mattrick up would be signing my death warrant – they'd definitely come for me next – so I use the same excuse every kid uses whenever anyone becomes so inclined to ask about our bruises. "He fell."

Miss Fervendough snorts. "Really? I swear, all you orphans are ridiculously uncoordinated." Of course, she knows that's never what actually happens, but if I said Harith did it, she knows she'd have to do the adult thing and punish him, which is just more trouble than it's worth for everyone involved. Pretending Mattrick fell and somehow managed to get that beaten up is a much better solution. "All right, I'll get him. And since I'll be busy and won't have time to do my work, you can take over the cleaning shift for tonight . . ." She frowns at me, like she's trying to remember my name; she probably doesn't even realise I was the one she beat last night. "Whichever one you are. The halls are a mess, sweep them up."

I thought your work was with papers, not cleaning, I want to say, but obviously I'm smart enough not to. Miss Fervendough shoulders her way past me and heads down the hall to the sleeping rooms, leaving me alone in front of her office. Well, there, I think bitterly to myself, heading towards the closet where all the brooms are kept. I got the stupid Surnamer some dumb help. And got punished for it. Stupid, stupid new kid.

". . . I heard he got hit so hard, his face is all messed up, like his nose is on his forehead now . . ."

". . . maybe he's just too embarrassed to show his prissy Surnamer face around here . . ."

". . . I heard he died . . ."

Mattrick Ellisson is still the talk of The Lume even now, the morning after he arrived – I guess it's 'cause no one's really seen him since. After I got Miss Fervendough, she moved Mattrick to the injury room, which must have meant he was hurt real bad; usually, she just tells us to walk it off. I heard they even had to get the doctor to come in to look at his leg, but I can't be sure if that's true. I sure didn't stick around long enough to see what happened – I wanted to leave that dumb Surnamer behind as fast as I could.

I'm still mad now, mad at him for making me risk my own skin to help him. And what makes me even madder is the fact that he didn't really force me – I just did it, and that's ten times worse. Nice people are stupid, Harith always says, and stupid people are weak. And he just loves to target weaklings. I haven't had any trouble yet, but it's impossible to ignore the glances he keeps sending my way from across the dining room. He knows I did it, got Mattrick help. And while he wouldn't dare start anything now, what with Miss Fervendough and the other staff all present at their table, I know, sooner or later, I'm gonna get it.

I grit my teeth and slouch further down. One of the only things The Lume has in excess (besides dirt, stains and jerks) is tables and benches, so kids can spread themselves out nicely during meal times. Being here for as long as I have, I've established a spot on the far right of the dining hall, close to the door, with the nearest kids about halfway down the table from my position. Some of the little ones used to try and sit with me, but I scared them off pretty quick. Being a bigger kid and sitting with the younger ones would practically be asking Harith to beat me up. Besides, I like being alone.

All at once, the chatter in the hall dies immediately, just like it did outside Miss Fervendough's office yesterday afternoon. It's for the exact same reason too, I discover as, along with everyone else, I turn my head towards the door: Mattrick Ellisson has just made an appearance.

Well, it looks like some of the kids weren't lying, at least. Miss Fervendough must have got a doctor because Mattrick's leg is bandaged up real professional-like, and he even has a stick to lean on as he walks. If anything though, it's just made his situation worse; Harith says doctors are for wimps and he once fixed his own broken arm by himself. I don't know if I believe that, but everyone else seems to, so now the fighting's even worse because you're not allowed to get help if you get hurt, according to the rules of The Lume. Luckily I haven't broken anything yet, 'cause I'd have no idea what to do – every time I ask a teacher in class about it, all I get is a disturbed look.

For a while, Mattrick doesn't move from the doorway; just stands there looking around the room with his big green eyes. I move my gaze down to my plate before he gets to me; no way do I wanna be looking at him again. It's already gotten me into enough trouble.

Slowly, the room begins to fill with voices as people return to their conversations, and you can bet they're all whispering about the same thing. I scrape the sides of my porridge bowl with my spoon, idly wondering where, after he gets his food, the new boy will sit. Then I realise I don't care. None of my business anyways, I think, shoving the last dregs of porridge into my mouth. Idiot's probably going to be all cheery and happy anyways, maybe even try and make friends with some unsuspecting-

"Hi! Is this seat taken?"

The spoon falls from my lips and clatters onto the table. I refuse to move my eyes from the bowl in front of me, but I can still see the plain, grey shirt and the tray held by two bruised hands. He's here! What is he doing here?

"Excuse me? Sorry, I was just wondering if I could sit with you."

I still refuse to say anything, determinedly glaring down at the table as though ignoring the new boy will make him go away. But instead, after another few seconds of silence, he sits down. Oh, this is not good, this is not good. Surnamer's are a hated species within The Lume, attacked verbally and physically on a regular basis – the same goes for anyone who shows signs of being a Surnamer's friend. So yell at him, my brain tells me desperately. Tell him to go away! If he keeps up with this silly polite act, then it should work. But I find I can't even get the words out, and silence continues to reign over the table.

All across the rest of the dining room though, whispers are spreading. And, just like before, there's no doubting what everyone's talking about.

Both meals. For both meals today, Mattrick Ellisson came and sat at my table. I ignored him for the entire length of breakfast, didn't even see him at all during the day, but by dinnertime, he was back. Apparently, he didn't care if I was silent throughout the entire meal, refusing even to look at him. Everyone else was watching the Surnamer though, including Harith. I ate as fast as I could and rushed out of the dining hall minutes after Mattrick sat down with me, but I still caught the grin Harith sent my way. Stupid, stupid new kid – Harith thinks we're friends now. So sooner or later, he'll-

"Sneaking around, Isaac? It never really helped you before."

I flinch behind my potted plant, the very same one outside Miss Fervendough's office. Through the leaves, I can make out Harith, who, having spotted my moment of weakness, is now laughing uproariously with his surrounding goons. My cheeks grow hot, reddening with both embarrassment and anger. "I wasn't sneaking," I say loudly, though I refuse to move from behind my potted plant. I'm not that dumb.

"Really?" Harith stops chuckling and puts his face right up close to the plant until all that separates us is a couple of flimsy stems and leaves. "'Cause that's sure what it looks like. Who're you hiding from, Isaac? Me?" He smiles. "Or your new little Surnamer friend?"

"He's not my friend!" The words came out louder than I meant them to, but in hindsight, I realise it's probably best to make as much noise as I can. I'd rather Miss Fervendough overhear and come beat me for being noisy than leave my fate up to Harith. "He's a dumb new kid and I hate him and he's not my friend!"

"Tell that to the Surnamer, 'cause he seems to think you're all chummy. And you know what?" Harith takes a step back and gestures to his minions. "I think so too."

There's big eleven-year-olds on both sides of me, nowhere to run – but I try anyways. And I almost, almost make it, dodging under the first boy's reaching arm and sprinting around the second one that comes at me. But then, out of nowhere, Harith sticks his leg straight into my path and I trip, sprawling on the hard wooden floor. No, no! I roll over immediately, ready to spring to my feet, but a heavy shoe stomps down on my chest, effectively pinning me to the ground and knocking all the air out of my lungs.

"Tut, tut, Isaac," Harith says, pressing harder against me with his foot and watching me gasp. "Don't you remember what the doctor said? Physical exertion is not a good idea for you with that asthma. Why don't you just lie there and let us do all the work."

"Miss Fervendough . . ." I pant, "is gonna . . . hear you . . ." At least, I hope she does. My skinny arms are useless when it comes to trying to shove Harith's foot away, and if this fight isn't interrupted, I don't see how else I'm gonna get out of this.

"Actually, she's gone," Harith says, smiling down at me. "Went to go pick up the monthly tesserae shipment." He steps off of me so fast I barely even notice, and before I have a chance to run, his goons are grabbing my arms and yanking me into a standing position, holding me before Harith. The bully smiles, hands forming into fists. "No one's coming for you, little Isaac."

Riiiiiiiip.

Pain. Everything, everywhere hurts. I groan, keeping my eyes shut tight, wanting to lose myself in that infinite darkness again, sink back into blissful unconsciousness. Besides, who knows if Harith is still around?

Riiiiiiiip.

Ugh, what is that? It's barely audible over the deafening throb of my bruises, but it's definitely there. Or am I imagining it?

Riiiiiiiip.

Honestly though, I can't find it in myself to care too much, and am perfectly happy to ignore it and go back to sleep – but then something cold and wet lands on my forehead.

I jerk back into complete consciousness, eyes flying open as I try to scramble back from whatever just touched me. But my attempted retreat ends pretty soon as I start to put weight on my right hand; pain jolts through my arm like a lightning bolt and I can't help but cry out, falling back to the ground with a thunk.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Just take it easy – your wrist is pretty badly sprained."

It's at that moment that my blurry vision finally focuses, but even then, I don't need to see to know exactly who's here with me.

Mattrick Ellisson may be holding his hands out in a gesture of peace, but that still doesn't stop me from trying to scoot away from him. "What are you-" My words break off sharply as I gasp, another wave of pain enveloping me and causing me to double over. But I manage to push past as soon as Mattrick tries to approach me, concern written all over his face. "Stay away from me," I snap at him.

"Please, I just want to help," he says, shuffling awkwardly on the floor thanks to the cast around his leg. "You're hurt really bad."

"I don't need your help!" Oh, this is bad, this is bad. When Harith hears I was getting help, when any kid in The Lume hears, I'll be labeled as a weakling, and be dead meat. It's a miracle none of them are around now.

Only then do I realise where Mattrick has brought me. We're in the boy's bathroom, on the first floor of the orphanage, and, judging by the darkness seen through the tiny window in the wall, it's the middle of the night. Well, at least he's not entirely stupid. No one would use this bathroom right now when there are more convenient ones closer to the sleeping rooms.

Still doesn't make up for everything though. "I said, stay away from me," I growl as he tries to come closer again, holding a wet rag in his hand which he must have torn from his own clothes. That must have been what I felt on my forehead when I first woke up. A few other strips of cloth are in his hands and some, I realise with horror, are already on me, tied around the worst of my cuts. He must have done it while I was unconscious.

Snarling in disgust, I yank off as many of the bandages as I can. The thought of him babying me like that while I was asleep makes me want to puke.

Mattrick puts out a hand, as though to stop me, but I flinch back before he can make contact. "Hey, it's all right," he says, trying to calm me down. It only makes me hate him more. "Look, I know how to deal with these kinds of things and I just want to make sure your cuts don't get infected. The one on your forehead is pretty deep." I glare at him, but, sure enough, I can feel the steady trickle of something warm running down the side of my head. Ignore it, I order myself, resisting the urge to wipe it away. If this dumb new kid sees that it doesn't bother me, maybe he'll leave.

But he doesn't. Instead, he sighs. "You know," he says as the blood starts to drip off my chin. "You don't have to be so stubborn. I just want to help and I owe you that much anyways."

Oh, no. No, this talk of "owing me" and "helping me" and having anything to do with me has to stop or I will be the biggest target in The Lume. "No, you don't," I say, continuing to inch away from him until my back hits the opposite wall, eliciting a small wince from me. Luckily Mattrick doesn't catch it. "Now leave me alone."

"But I do owe you." He's got this way too persistent look in his eyes. "You helped me out, and the least I can do is return the favour."

"I didn't help you."

Mattrick frowns. "Yes, you did. I saw you – you were the last kid that left and the one that got Miss Fervendough for me."

I grit my teeth and glare at him. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. I saw the look on your face when you saw me. You felt bad and wanted to help. No other kid would have done that." He scoots closer and I tense, but there's nowhere left for me to retreat. "Why do you keep saying you didn't?"

"Because it's true," I say forcefully, trying to throw as much conviction as I can into the words. Miss Fervendough and various teachers are always calling me a horrible liar, but I'm hoping Mattrick is easier to fool. The only thing worse than him helping me is me helping him. "Everyone fends for themselves in The Lume. That's our rule. Nice people are stupid and stupid people are weak and weak people are easy targets. You better learn that quick or you're gonna get much worse than a broken leg."

When Mattrick doesn't respond immediately, I take that as my cue to leave. Which proves to be harder than I originally thought – my wrist may have been the thing that was sprained, but my legs aren't doing too well either when it comes to holding me up. Turning away from Mattrick, I use the wall to try and brace myself, slowly rising into a standing position. But one bad move and suddenly my left knee is flaring up in agony, unable to hold me up. My legs buckle and I wince, ready for the jarring pain of the fall – but it doesn't come.

Mattrick makes sure I'm able to lean against the wall without falling again before he lets go of my arms. For a kid with a broken leg, he can still move remarkably fast – I didn't even see him get off the floor. "Like I said, I just want to help," he says. I glare at him, trying to do that same fear-inducing look Miss Fervendough is so good at, but he just keeps staring at me, unconvinced. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Do what?"

"Pretend to be all tough and mean like that Harith guy and his friends. I won't tell anyone the truth about you if you want to keep acting like all the other kids here. But I'm not going to pretend you're one of them either."

For the second time, I can feel anger flooding my cheeks with red. "I am one of them. I've lived in The Lume my whole life. And you're just some dumb new kid." I try to push him out of my way, but even my good hand is rather limp and pathetic – I might as well have been patting him on the shoulder. Still, Mattrick takes the hint and backs up a step, giving me room to slip around him and head for the bathroom door. "Now leave me alone."

He doesn't speak again as a hobble away, doesn't even follow me back to the sleeping rooms. But I can't help but shake the annoying feeling that that was far from my last conversation with Mattrick Ellisson.

Four days into the 28th Games . . .

"If I was in the Games, that would be me," Harith says loudly, pointing at the District 1 boy onscreen. "Except I wouldn't have wasted my time going on and on about killing that girl. I would have just done it. Now look at the mess he's gotten himself into, giving her time to grab a weapon."

"Oi, up front! Shut it!" I smile to myself as Harith's mouth snaps shut immediately – he may almost be twelve, but the sound of a fifteen-year-old's voice still cows him easily enough. I myself am enjoying the perks of now being eight, having had my birthday three weeks before the Games. Of course, I haven't grown yet, but that'll come – in the meantime, I get more respect from the little ones and a better seat in the television room.

Though that last one I like more for the title than the actual thing itself. District 8 may not be a Career district, but most kids in The Lume watch the Games even when it's not a mandatory showing like a feast or the bloodbath – what else do we have for entertainment? I don't really like them, but if you zone out enough, you can ignore the screaming and the blood and just let your mind wander while making it look like you're watching the TV. That way, Harith won't label you as a daydreamer and go after you for being lame.

Besides, the Hunger Games do give us one good thing – everyone's satisfied watching the fights on TV, so no one is starting any around The Lume for fun.

The District 5 girl, Juna Dowers, dodges the Career boy's hammer and gets in a good slice with one of her twin daggers, but you can tell it's over for her either way. The camera keeps cutting back to the boy from 1's allies, all running to his aid, and the girl from 4 is pretty close. Even if Juna manages to kill the Career boy, one of the others is going to get her.

"Isaac." I jump, almost convinced the whisper came from the TV. But no, it's much too young a voice for the sixteen-year-old girl onscreen. "Isaac."

I look to my left and nearly groan. Kaidy Lume is tiptoeing her way towards me, trying unsuccessfully to not disturb the dozens of kids lying on the floor watching the TV. What is she doing?

Drawing a lot of unwanted attention to herself, that's what. Sooner or later, Harith or one of his goons is going to notice her and then she'll be sorry. And, of course, I'll be roped into the trouble too since it's my name she's calling.

Deciding this needs to stop now, I rise swiftly from my spot on the floor and, without a word, grab her arm, dragging her out of the room. There's a few complaints as we step around everyone, but no one gives us any trouble. Still, I hold my breath until the door is completely shut behind us. Then I round on Kaidy.

"What do you think you're doing? Didn't I warn you and the others not to draw attention to yourselves?" Honestly, Kaidy is seven, less than a year younger than me. She should know better than to crash around in the TV room making noise where Harith and everyone else is around to hear.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry!" Her wide, blue eyes begin to tear up but she stops short at my skeptical glare. This may have been a stupid move, but Kaidy is a relatively smart kid, and after realising that her little blonde pigtails and delicate frame marked her as one of the cutest orphans in The Lume, she started using it to her advantage. The fake crying is a skill she's recently mastered, and one that's bound to get her adopted sooner or later, but there's no way it's gonna fool me. "But I need you, Isaac! Devon needs you! He scraped his knee and he's crying real bad!"

"How many times have I told you to deal with your own problems?" I hiss back. "Tell Devon to suck it up."

"But you helped last time." Kaidy's lips draw into a pout and she tugs anxiously on one of her blonde locks – oh, she's good.

I sigh, double-check to make sure no one else is around to listen, and turn back to her. "Okay, yeah, I did, but I specifically said last time that it was the last time, remember? You guys can't keep coming to me for stuff like this!"

"But Isaac, you're the only one that'll help! And if Miss Fervendough hears him crying . . ."

"All right, all right, I get it." If there's one thing we all know Miss Fervendough hates, it's the grating sound of crying children. She'll beat Devon for sure, and he's only five. "Fine. I'll go and bandage it up or whatever.

So, reluctantly, I allow Kaidy to lead me away from the television room and down the hall towards the sleeping quarters. Every step I take, I think about turning back – helping the little ones has never gotten me anywhere before and if Harith or one of the others were to find out . . . well, I'd be screwed. And yet, for some unknown reason, every time Kaidy or any of the others come running, I feel obliged to follow them.

Kaidy swings the door open and runs into the sleeping room with me close behind, though I stop short as soon as I cross the threshold. Devon Lume is an excitable, clumsy little kid who's come to me with many a bruise or a scrape, and he's easily recognisable with his bright red hair. But there's no sign of Devon in the room. Kaidy and I are, however, not alone.

The young girl never misses a beat, continuing to skip right across the room to where Mattrick Ellisson stands. "I got Isaac!" she trills happily. "So no more sweeping for me! Remember, you have to do it every Tuesday night now, or Miss Fervendough will still take it out on me."

"Of course," Mattrick says, giving her a grin. "Now, Kaidy, do you mind giving us a bit of time alone?"

"Sure!" Kaidy turns on her heel and runs right back to the door, where I'm still standing, too shocked to move. What the heck is going on here? "Wait!" Maybe it's my expression, but something makes Kaidy turn back to Mattrick, her little hands on her hips. "Are you going to beat him up?"

Mattrick's green eyes widen in surprise. "What? No, no, of course not."

"'Kay. 'Cause Isaac would totally kick your ass." And with that, she skips merrily out the door.

For a moment, Mattrick is stunned into silence, and I'm still unsure as to whether or not I should run out after Kaidy. But the girl's right – Mattrick's leg still hasn't completely healed from his arrival a month back, and besides, I've got eight years of life at The Lume on him. You can't simulate that kind of experience. Makes me feel a bit better knowing I can take him, but not enough so to actually move closer and start a conversation – this situation is still too weird and confusing.

Suddenly, Mattrick laughs. "So weird hearing words like that from a girl like Kaidy. Although," he continues, looking down at his still bandaged leg, "I guess she's right, huh?"

"How do you know her?" I haven't really seen Mattrick Ellisson in a month besides moments when we all have to gather together in the same room, like for sleeping or eating or the bloodbath viewing a couple days back. And yeah, part of that is because I've been trying to avoid him, but he never tried to make contact and stopped sitting with me after his failed attempt to patch up my bruises. I thought I was done with this weirdo new kid. Strange to think all this time he was getting to know kids I know, learning who they are and what they're like and calling them by their first name. It annoys me, for some reason – Mattrick Ellisson hasn't been here long enough to start acting like one of us.

"I know a lot of the little kids," Mattrick answers, slowly hobbling forward. "They're pretty much the only ones who talk to me, anyways." He smiles. "Well, them and . . ."

"If you say me, I will punch you in the gut and run. I told you I don't want anything to do with some dumb Surnamer."

"I heard that's why Harith went after you," Mattrick says, completely disregarding the insult I just threw in his face. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea just sitting with you would cause that much trouble."

"Yeah, well, it did." I glare at him, trying to feel the same anger I felt a month ago towards this kid so I can turn on my heel and storm out – I don't know what he wants, but the little voice of reason is telling me to get out of here and have no part in it. Still, I can't help but ask one of the questions that's been preying on my mind for a month. "Why did you anyway? Sit with me that first day?"

"It's not obvious?"

"If it was, I wouldn't be asking."

Mattrick grins. "True. Well, honestly, it was because you were the only person who I felt wouldn't beat me up if I went near them. And don't say you would have just to preserve this silly "tough orphan" act," he continues as I open my mouth angrily to object, "Because I know you wouldn't have. You're a nice guy. And that's not me calling you stupid, that's me complimenting you, Isaac." He chuckles. "Weird that I had to find out your name through a bunch of little kids instead of just asking you."

"You were talking to the little kids about me?" Okay, time to leave, that little voice of reason says hurriedly. This is too strange. You shouldn't even be talking to this guy, Isaac! What if Harith sees?

"Not really – well, not at first. I didn't even mention you. See, Devon did scrape his knee, a few months back, and I was going to help, but Kaidy kept saying I couldn't be trusted, I was a weird new kid, and so on. She said she wanted to get Isaac. I wound up helping anyways though, and after a while, she and the others started to trust me."

Things had been awfully quiet this month. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was relieved the little kids had finally stopped bugging me about their problems, but I'd assumed it was because they'd taken my advice to heart and had learned to solve their own issues. Surprisingly, the thought that Mattrick Ellisson had taken over my reluctant role as the helper of the younger ones makes me angrier than anything else he's done. Hey, I may not like the job, but it's still my job.

"Anyways, a couple days later, I asked her who she'd meant when she'd said Isaac, and she pointed you out in the dining hall." Mattrick raises an eyebrow, smiling all too knowingly for me to not want to punch him in the face. "Interesting that the boy who told me "everyone fends for themselves" and "nice people are stupid" was known as a hero to the little kids."

"That's not true-"

"Seventeen kids I talked to," Mattrick continues over me, "And each one mentioned your name at some point, so I knew it wasn't a fluke. But I wanted to test it myself, just to make sure. So I took Kaidy's sweeping chores for a month in order to get you here."

My eyes narrow. "And why did you want me here?"

"It's not so much having you here as what it took to get you here. Kaidy said there was a kid in need and you came running." Mattrick smiles, closing the distance between us with a few hobbling steps. "I wanted to prove a point. To myself and to you."

"What point?" Although I already have a sneaking suspicion that this is going to be a repeat or our conversation a month ago. Leave, my brain tells me, leave, Isaac, it's for the best.

"That you are a nice person. One of the few kids our age who don't always follow the so-called "rules" of this orphanage. Especially after what I've seen this past month, that's pretty amazing, Isaac. And I think we could be good friends."

"That's why you wanted me here?" Of course. "I get it – Harith giving you more trouble, huh?"

"What?" Mattrick shakes his head, brown knitting in confusion. "I don't-"

"You want a protector, someone who knows The Lume and can watch your back. Don't try and lie, I know exactly what being "friends" means."

"That's the Lume definition of friends," Mattrick replies. "I mean actual friends. Ones you don't to worry will betray each other for bigger portions at meals or a free pass from chores. Friends who are friends just because they like each other."

"But I don't like you."

"Don't like me or don't like that I'm right about you?"

I glare at him. "Don't. Like. You. Now, stay away from me, for real this time, or I will punch you."

With that, I turn on my heel and reach for the door. It slams loudly against the wall as I fling it open, but over the crash, I still catch Mattrick's words. "No you won't."

I know I shouldn't acknowledge him, shouldn't rise to the bait, but I can't help it. "Yes, I will."

"I guess we'll see then. I'll be sitting at your table tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. I can be very persistent when I want to be. So we'll see what happens first – either you beat me up and prove me wrong, or you realise that you aren't like the other kids here and you don't need to follow their rules to survive. We make our own rules, Isaac."

I'm not facing him, but I hear him move, and suddenly there's a hand on my shoulder. I jump at the contact and smack him away, turning around and hoping my expression is as terrifying as I want it to be. "We are not going to be friends. Ever," I snarl.

He doesn't have a chance to argue; I storm out of the room immediately, never looking back.

Three weeks before the 33rd Hunger Games . . .

The sleeping room is empty when I enter, thank goodness. I groan and collapse by the nearest blanket, closing my eyes and hoping to snag a short nap. It's only four o'clock and already I've worked for thirteen hours – I swear, Fervendough must hate me to get me a job like this. Though I guess I'll admit, I'm not the easiest person to place in a work environment. Everyone at The Lume has to get a job, starting at age ten, but usually it's at one of the clothing factories sewing all the fine designs for the Capitol. Children have sharp eyes and nimble fingers, apparently. Well, after the dove I was supposed to be making out of pearls on a long white dress came out looking more like a winged potato, it was decided that was not the job for me. I've been through six since, and am currently stuck hauling heavy boxes off shelves and into trucks at ridiculously early times for ridiculously long hours with ridiculously low pay.

I groan again, trying not to feel the aches and pains that scream from every muscle in my body. I hate my life.

"Pitying yourself again, Isaac?"

"I thought I told you to stop doing that," I say, keeping my eyes closed. "It's creepy how quiet you are."

"I figured you were asleep. Then I heard you moaning to yourself."

"Yeah, well, if you had my job instead of your cushy little sewing one, you'd be moaning too." I hear a laugh from somewhere above me and open my eyes to see Mattrick Ellisson standing over me, smiling with his hands in his pockets. "Where were you today, anyways?"

"At my cushy little sewing job."

It's agonising to push myself up off the floor, but I manage to get into a sitting position just as Matt drops down beside me. "Why?" I ask, stifling a yawn. "I thought you got Sundays off." It's a ridiculously cushy job.

"I do. Officially."

I raise an eyebrow. "And unofficially?"

Mattrick smiles, withdrawing a small object from his pocket. "Happy birthday, Isaac."

He holds the package out to me, a square thing wrapped in what looks like the extra scraps of coloured material that always get thrown out in the factories at the end of day. I stare at in shock. I mean, yeah, I guess I am twelve today – at least, according to the birthdate I chose for myself – but . . . "How did you know?"

"Well, Miss Fervendough goes to you on your birthday when you turn ten to make sure you get set up with a job, right? That's when I found out. Then I was going to give you something last year, but that was when the whole orphanage got that nasty flu and we were bedridden for a week so it kind of fell by the wayside. So, this year, I swore I'd finally get you something."

"But I never got you anything." My insides twist with guilt, an occupational hazard of being friends with the guy who's always running around helping people and spreading compliments and doing all sorts of other mushy things. I even know Matt's birthday too – it was a few months ago.

"Isaac, the whole point of a gift is that I give it and you take it without feeling bad about it." He places the parcel in my palm and nods at it. "Go on."

I still feel bad, but seeing as it'd probably be ruder to return the present, I feel obliged to open it. So my fingers fumble with the strings that tie the whole package together until they're loose enough to slide off. The wrapping fabric is easy enough to tear away, leaving me with a green square of cloth. I glance at Matt and he nods again. "Unfold it."

The material is thin and delicate, and I hold my breath as I take it in my hands, worried I might tear the fabric. But it holds strong as I set about unfolding it until I have a cloth square roughly the size of my palm before me. There are designs all down the front, little pictures so small and fine I have to squint to get a good look at them, but once I realise what they are, I freeze.

"I know it's smaller than most," Matt says, watching me carefully. "Sorry about that. But I figured a pocketsize one might be more convenient. If you don't like it . . ."

"Just stop for a second." I don't want him worrying my silence is a bad sign, but at the same time, I can't think of the words I need to express my thoughts. This is . . . this is . . .

District 8 loves its history, thinks it's super important in influencing how we live as a society today. So one of the things people do to keep the past close is make family trees. I've heard about the extravagant ones some people have – most of the Lume kids are forced to sew them at various factories. Huge tapestries, they are, wall to wall, with pictures of every family member that can be remembered; some go back to days even before Panem. Even the poorest of families in the district have some sort of family tree, whether it's an old, ragged tapestry or just names written in charcoal on the wall. It's a District 8 tradition I never figured I'd be a part of.

But now I hold in my hands a miniature version of those tapestries. My picture has been sewn on in tiny detail with my name written in gold underneath. Beside it is Matt's. Kaidy's on here too, and Devon and all the little kids we've taken to helping out. Everyone I know and like in The Lume is on here. It's . . .

". . . bad, isn't it? Sorry, I was pretty rushed at work, but I should have found time to-"

"I thought I told you to stop worrying." It's difficult, but I manage to tear my gaze away from the tapestry and look Matt in the eye. "It's incredible, Matt. Amazing. Seriously."

Not the most eloquent thank you I could have made, but Matt's face lights up all the same. "Thanks."

"Thank you. It's just . . . are you sure it's allowed?" I love it, don't get me wrong, but I'm worried there's some sort of unspoken rule that orphans aren't allowed family trees. Fervendough's always ranting when she gets mad about how nobody loves us and we're just kids off the street and blah, blah, blah, and while it's easy to laugh and brush it off on the outside, it always plants this nagging seed of doubt in my mind. I don't really have a family.

"Isaac, there are no rules when it comes to this kind of thing. We make our own rules, remember?" Matt grins. "Besides, we are your family. You, if anything, have one of the most wonderful, extensive family trees out of anyone in 8. I just couldn't fit every Lume on there."

"I'm glad you couldn't. Otherwise, you would have had to stick Harith on here."

We both laugh at that. Harith was one of my biggest worries for the longest time at The Lume, and one of the reasons I was so reluctant to become friends with Matt. But Matt was right, on that night four years ago. He could be very persistent. Though I threatened to beat him up every day, he just kept on coming back to my table to eat. And after days and days of scaring him and telling him I'd hurt him without ever actually doing anything, as much as I hate to admit it, I started to see his point. So one day, the threats stopped and I began to grudgingly accept the fact that he would always be there at my table. I was planning on finding another seat anyways, but it just never happened. Instead, well, Matt somehow got exactly what he'd predicted: a friend.

As for Harith, yeah, he bothered me for a bit about it. But by the time the next reapings rolled around, he'd turned twelve, which set him and quite a few of his cronies up to be eligible for the Hunger Games. Especially considering their tesserae situation. The Lume isn't exactly rolling in cash, so every year, Fervendough counts up the amount of tesserae we'll need to supply as many orphans as we have, and then she asks the kids of reaping age to volunteer to take tesserae. It's almost like a mini reaping, seeing as agreeing to take enough tesserae to supply the entire orphanage almost guarantees you a place in the Games. As a result, I don't think anyone's ever volunteered, so Fervendough usually winds up splitting the tesserae evenly amongst every kid of eligible age. Harith stopped acting like such a jerk after one of his minions got reaped. I guess fighting loses its appeal after you watch your friend get beaten to death. He still throws around a lot of insults, but those, I can deal with.

I glance at Matt out of the corner of my eye. All this thought about the reapings and tesserae has reminded me – that's us this year. "So," I say, trying to sound casual as I tuck the little quilt away in my pocket for safe keeping. "We're both twelve now, huh? Pretty big year."

Matt nods. "Yeah, I guess so."

He suddenly becomes fascinated with a dust bunny on the ground, and that's when I know he knows what I'm getting at. "You're not going to do anything stupid, right?"

"Your definition of stupid or my definition of stupid?"

It's not a "no" – the first clue that indicates I should be worried. And yes, Matt may have reformed my idea on the definition of "nice", but there are still some gestures of kindness that just shouldn't be done. Which is why I'm so anxious. "You're not going to volunteer for tesserae, are you?" The meeting's in a few days, a week before the reapings, and Matt hasn't given me any indication as to what he plans to do. But I know him too well, can read his expression like an open book. The refusal to make eye contact, biting his lip, avoiding the question. "Matt. Answer me."

"You know I'm always honest with you, Isaac." He's still refusing to look at me. "But I also don't like telling you things you don't want to hear."

Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. This is actually happening, he's actually doing this. "Then don't." The words barely make it through my gritted teeth, all harsh and clipped as I try desperately to keep calm. "Don't lie to me and tell me exactly what I want to hear. That you're not going to volunteer for tesserae, and that you and I and every other eligible kid will have to take the same amount and no one is guaranteed to enter the arena. Tell me that."

He doesn't say a word. Just looks at me with those big, green eyes, and what's worse is I can see all the determination within. He's not even worried, not even scared to do this. It's going to happen and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

"I can be very persistent when I want to be."

No. No, not today, Matt, there's no way you are volunteering to take all that tesserae for the kids, that's suicide. "Matt. Matt." I try to make the words sound forceful, so commanding he has to obey, but the order comes out more as a beg. Still, nothing changes within his determined gaze.

God, why does he have to be like this? If I knew, knew why he so stupidly puts his life on the line for others, then maybe I might be able to figure out what persuasive tactics might actually work on him. But I have no idea – though not for lack of trying. And I'm on to the truth, I know I am; years and years of asking co-workers if they knew what happened with the incident involving the Ellisson family five years ago. The hard part is sorting the rumours from the facts.

"Matt," I say one more time, though it comes out as barely more than a whisper. "Please. You can't."

Somehow, I convince myself that if I wish for it hard enough, Matt will come to his senses. So when he opens his mouth to speak, my heart leaps in my chest at the thought that it actually worked. He's going to tell me he was being stupid, and of course he's not volunteering for tesserae. Because then he might be reaped. And he'd go into the arena. And I'd be all alone again.

Matt holds my gaze for a second longer before looking down at the ground. "I should go – I'm supposed to help in the kitchens with dinner tonight." He rises, still refusing to meet my eyes, and heads determinedly for the door. The last thing I hear is a quiet, murmured "Happy birthday, Isaac" before he exits.

Two weeks before the 33rd Hunger Games . . .

Silence: it's the first thing I notice when I walk into the dining hall. Normally, the whole place is alive with noises – the clatter of forks and knives on plate, the constant chatter of kids, even the occasional laugh if people are in particularly good spirits. Right now, however, you could hear a pin drop.

"Short ones at the front, make sure everyone can see! Come on now, most of you have done this at least once already, now move it!"

The rather tall fifteen-year-old in front of us finally notices me and Matt standing behind her. "Twelve-year-olds up front," she hisses, stepping to the side. "Hurry up or you'll be sorry."

Without a word, Matt steps around her and begins weaving his way towards the front with me following close behind. I haven't made eye contact with him once since we woke up this morning; he's been making sure of it.

It's making me nervous.

"Come on, all you twelve year olds get up here, move it!" Miss Fervendough's shouts grow louder and louder as we move towards the back of the dining hall. She's standing on the staff table, a ragged cloth beneath her feet, and in one hand, she holds a small, slim notebook. The other holds a pen, which she uses to point out annoyances in the crowd.

"Oi, you lazy group of teenagers! Yes, you boys! Make way for the young ones, will you?"

The group of four seventeen-year-olds, who were blocking the path of myself, Matt and some of our other peers, slouch off to the side, allowing us through. Miss Fervendough continues to yell, but slowly, everyone gets into their rows and finds a table to sit down at. Being the youngest, we're up front, and I can feel the little droplets of spit raining down on us with each of our matron's shouts. I've never been this close to the staff table – it's not a great place to sit – and it's rather intimidating being right under Miss Fervendough's nose.

"Right then," she says finally, once she's sufficiently pleased with the seating arrangement. "You all know what this is, even if none of you have ever done it before. I have here in my hand," she waves the notebook around, "the statistics for this year's children count. So . . ." Holding the notebook before her, she narrows her eyes and begins to read. "The Lume currently holds ninety-eight orphans-"

The group of seventeen-year-olds who were in the way earlier cheer from their table. "Less than last year!" one shouts.

"And the number of children available for the reapings is thirty-five," Miss Fervendough's continues, glaring at the rowdy boys. "Also less than last year, imbeciles."

The teenagers quiet down pretty quickly. Looks like their hopes for less chances of being reaped aren't going to come true.

My eyes dart to Matt, sitting beside me and keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Miss Fervendough. Unless . . . no, no he wouldn't. He can't.

"That means this year, everyone will be required to apply for three helpings of tesserae. That should cover our food supply. Unless of course, anyone is willing to volunteer for the others to take more tesserae."

A few grim chuckles rise up from various tables at those last words. Of course, no one would ever volunteer to take all that tesserae by themselves. It's suicide. It's-

Beside me, Matt rises in his chair. And my heart stops.

"I will," he says clearly, ignoring the looks of utter shock plastered on the face of every kid in the hall. They all look like they just took an unexpected punch to the face; but me, I can feel the punch, feel the blow resonating through me, tensing my muscles, causing nausea to stir in my stomach. No, no, no, he wasn't actually supposed to, he wasn't actually going to go through with it! "Mattrick Ellison," he continues, so Miss Fervendough can take note. "I'll take the tesserae."

Miss Fervendough, to her credit, hides her surprise well under a mask of skepticism. "Really?"

"Yes."

"No!" Normally I'm not one for drawing attention to myself, but that doesn't stop me from shouting and practically leaping out of my chair and to Matt's side. "No, he won't."

"Isaac," Mattrick murmurs, looking at me for the first time today, but this time, I ignore him, focusing completely on Miss Fervendough.

"He's twelve, he's being silly, he doesn't know what he's doing. He's not actually serious about taking the tesserae."

"Yes, I am."

"No, he's not."

"Hey!" someone calls behind me. "Don't stop him, idiot!"

I'm about to protest again but Miss Fervendough silences us all with one of her signature death glares. I wait for her to address me, but instead, her eyes focus on Mattrick. "You want to take all the tesserae? Is that your final decision? I don't want any whining about it tomorrow when we all go to sign up. You have to be sure."

Matt straightens. "I'm sure."

No, no, no! I feel like my life is suddenly spiralling out of control, everything unravelling at the seams while I sit by, helpless to do anything but watch. Any further objections have frozen in my throat, which feels like it's collapsing in on itself. Miss Fervendough lifts her pen, ready to sign Matt's life away with a little note in her book, and that's what shocks me back into reality. "Wait!"

Everyone's either staring or glaring at me at this point, but I don't care. "Wait, please, I-" Nothing's coming into my head, nothing I could say that would stop Matt from doing this. He's going to have dozens of slips in the reaping bowl and he's going to be picked and he's going to die.

And then it comes to me: the only way to lower my best friend's chances of dying within a month's time. I blurt it out before I even have a chance to think it over. "I'll volunteer too!"

Beside me, I can feel Matt tense. He starts to mumble something to me, but I don't hear it, too focused on Miss Fervendough. She's watching me with two eyebrows raised. "What?"

"I volunteer too. We'll split the load. Fifty fifty."

"Isaac . . ." comes a voice beside me, but I ignore Mattrick and continue to stare up at the orphanage's head.

"You will?" she asks, frowning. "What's your name?"

"Isaac Lume."

"And you'll take tesserae for-"

"Yes, yes, for sure. I'll do it."

"Well. Well." She pauses, then, shrugging, brings her pen to her notebook. No one else interrupts her writing. "Well then. All right, that's done. I suppose I'll only have to make sure two of you sign up for tesserae. Makes my job easier, in any case. As for the rest of you, all you'll have to do tomorrow is write your name on one slip of paper."

There's silence, for a moment. And then, unexpectedly, the boys at the back of the hall start to cheer. All the older kids start too as well, and soon even the twelve-year-olds are clapping, even though they haven't experienced a reaping yet to fully understand how much of a relief it is to have three less slips in the bowl. But Mattrick and I, we're going to have . . . what, fifty slips apiece? Oh jeez . . .

Having finished her little note, Miss Fervendough dismisses us and I practically bolt out of the hall, ignoring Mattrick's call of "Isaac!" behind me. I don't want to talk to him, don't want to think about what he just did – what I just did. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no . . .

"Oh my gosh, thank you!"

"Epic twelve-year-olds right here."

"Why aren't all the younger kids like this?"

"Thank you. Thank you."

I just wanted to leave the room fast, but everywhere, there's people in my way, clapping me on the back, trying to shake my hand. I've lived in The Lume for twelve years and never one seen a hint of niceness on the faces of the older kids, but now they're all trying to thank me for saving them the extra tesserae this year. But behind the politeness, the happiness and the relief lie hidden thoughts that I can see all too clearly in their eyes. They know we're going to die. One of us, either me or Mattrick, is practically guaranteed to be reaped this year and, being one of the youngest competitors in the Games, will most likely die a terrible death. Whichever one of us is spared will probably only be postponing their fate by another year.

It's a struggle to get through the crowd, but I am ruthless as I shoulder my way around people, determinedly heading for the doors. My breath is coming in ragged pants, and vaguely, I remember the district doctor telling me I should always take the time to stop and try to control my breathing if I ever begin to gasp for air. But I can't stop; even once I reach the doors and head out of the hall, there are still kids everywhere around me. It's a Saturday, no one's in school, so the young ones are trying to entertain themselves all around The Lume. Originally, my plan was to retreat to the sleeping room, but there's no way that'll be empty, so instead I take a left and let my feet lead me out the doors of the orphanage.

After numerous incidences about fifteen years ago with orphans getting into trouble with the Peacekeepers, Miss Fervendough declared that no one was allowed to leave the building without her permission. But I don't care, don't care, and continue to stride away from the orphanage and down the street, ignoring the stares of people out and about as they watch a solitary twelve-year-old storm past them. I just need somewhere to be alone, somewhere to . . .

"Isaac." A hand comes down on my shoulder, but I shake it off and keep walking forward. "Isaac-"

"Leave me alone, Matt." My voice comes out more choked then I had planned, and I blink furiously at the sudden stinging in my eyes. No way; no way. I am not going to cry for the whole district to see.

Surprisingly, Matt does stop talking, though another hand on my arm leads me gently away from the street and down an alley between an abandoned store and an old library. For a moment, I debate running away from Matt, but this place is probably the most secluded I'm going to get, and I don't think I can handle any more people staring at me.

Instead, I walk further down the alley, stopping by the grey, concrete wall of one of the adjacent buildings and keeping my gaze firmly fixed away from Mattrick. My arms are crossed so tightly against my chest I feel like I'm going to squeeze myself to death and my breath is still coming in ragged pants – quiet ones, though. No point in letting Mattrick hear me being weak.

As the silence stretches on, I begin to wonder if he left me in the alley by myself. But then a voice speaks up from behind me. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

I don't trust myself to talk yet, so all I give is a harsh laugh. It's better than sobbing.

"I'm serious, Isaac. That was my decision. I didn't want you to throw your life away too."

That gets to me. Without warning, I whirl around and give him a solid shove with one hand, forcing him to stumble back a step. "So you admit it?" I say, glaring furiously at him. "You admit its "throwing your life away"?"

"Well, the odds aren't good-"

"Then why did you do it?!" I can't keep my voice level anymore, and the deadly tone I'd been aiming for comes out more as a hysterical cry. "We're twelve, Matt! And one of us is most definitely going to get reaped! And then they'll . . . oh god, oh god . . ."

"That's why I didn't want you to do this." He takes a step forward, but I back up just as quickly. "I didn't want you to risk it."

"Stop avoiding the question! Why did you do it when it was obviously the stupidest thing you could have ever done!"

He doesn't answer. It's like this all the time; he's all polite and nice, but as soon as we start talking about him . . .

I can feel the anger bubbling up inside of me, threatening to boil over at any second. Even though a part of me would really, really like to punch Matt right now, a small voice in the back of my mind is telling me I shouldn't. So, with a shout of rage, I whirl around and drive my fist straight into the wall behind me.

I don't feel the pain, not even as I hit the building with my other hand, then the first one again, back and forth and back and forth. At some point, small streaks of red begin to appear across the grey wall, but I barely register that it's due to my blood, still don't feel the throbbing in my knuckles. At first, Mattrick tried to stop me, but after shaking him off again and again, he lapses into silence. I can't even tell if I'm still angry, or if I'm punching the wall out of sadness or fear – I just keep thinking that I have to continue hitting, have to because, in two weeks, I might not be alive to do this, to do anything. The pain I'm starting to feel in my hands, it's telling me I'm still alive. For now, for now, for now . . .

"All right, Isaac. Isaac, stop, please, look at your hands."

I don't know how long I've been hitting the wall, but finally, I'm out of breath enough to stop. My chest is heaving once again, and my hands are throbbing, knuckles blue, black and bleeding. Every second the adrenaline dissipates, the more pain I register, and soon I'm grimacing and gasping as Matt gently takes one of my hands in his.

"It's badly hurt – you might have even broken something." Matt sighs. "I'm sorry."

I pull away, cringing as agony races through my hand. "Wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was. It all comes back to-"

"No." I don't want to hear it. Punching the wall helped filter out my anger, fear and sadness, and those aren't emotions I'm willing to feel again. I need to avoid thinking about the consequences of our actions, pretend they don't exist, pretend, "It's going to be fine. We're going to be fine. We're going to go to the reapings next week and hear that dumb O'Cleon guy call out two random kids' names, then we're going to go back to The Lume and keep living."

The look in Matt's eyes is far too sad. "Isaac . . ."

"No, Matt. Say it. Say we're going to be fine."

He holds my gaze for a moment and in that second, I worry he's not going to answer. But I need this, need to hear someone other than me say we'll be fine. Even if he doesn't believe it, hearing it from Matt might help delude me. "Matt. Please."

He sighs. Then his brow unfurrows and he tries for his most genuine smile. "Of course. We're going to be fine."

One week before the 33rd Hunger Games . . .

"This can't be happening. This can't be happening."

"Isaac-"

"I should have volunteered. Why didn't I volunteer? Crap! Crap, crap, crap!"

"Isaac-"

"I froze! He called your name and I completely froze! Idiot, I should have moved, should have interrupted him, should have-"

"Isaac. Stop."

The Justice Building is one of the nicest buildings I've ever seen; Matt's room is complete with a plush sofa, beautiful wall decorations and a large, intricately embroidered carpet, which I've now created a furrow in thanks to my continuous pacing. The Peacekeepers only let me in like, thirty seconds ago too.

"But this just . . ." I turn to Matt, who's sitting comfortably on the couch, looking way too calm for someone in his position. "Just," I continue stammering, "Just can't be happening."

"We knew there was a chance. A likely chance."

I tried to delude myself. Every day leading up to the reapings, I forced the thought of how many slips Matt and I had out of my head. I thought if I ignored it then maybe, maybe . . . we would have been all right.

"But I should have-"

"You should have done exactly what you did."

"But-"

"No, Isaac. I don't want you giving up your life for me too."

I'm about to protest again – even though at this point it's futile – but something Matt said stops me short. "Too?"

"What?"

"You said, "I don't want you giving up your life for me too." Who-?"

"Don't let Harith bother you, all right? He might go back to bugging you if you're alone, but don't let him get under your skin. And take care of Kaidy and the others. I know you would anyway, but just . . . look after them extra hard, okay?"

The not-so-subtle change in topic isn't lost on me, but I can't focus on my earlier question with Matt giving me what sounds very much like a final goodbye. "Hey" I say sharply, pulling up one of the delicate, wooden chairs near the couch and sitting down to face Matt. "Don't say that. You are coming back, Matt."

"Isaac-"

"You are coming back."

"Isaac." He's patting me on the shoulder, comforting me, like I'm the one being sent off to die. "Isaac, I might not. And you have to be ready for that."

No. NO. "You want me to make promises? Fine. I'll ignore Harith, and look after Kaidy and the others." He nods and relaxes back into the couch, but I grab his wrist. "Now you promise me something."

"What?"

"Don't be yourself. In training, in the arena. Forget about the nice, polite, self-sacrificing Mattrick Ellison you used to be and fight. You can be yourself again once you come back to Eight, but until then, be ruthless. I don't care what you have to do. Just . . . Just come home."

I'm squeezing his wrist so tightly between my fingers I'm probably hurting him, but he doesn't say anything to stop me. He doesn't say anything at all.

From behind me, I hear the door open, followed by a Peacekeeper's curt voice. "Your time is up."

All at once, it's like my body has gone into overdrive. Everything starts shaking, vibrating with anxiety – I can't hold Matt's wrist any longer, my fingers are trembling too much. "Matt," I stammer out, ignoring the shaking that's wormed its way into my voice as well. "Matt. Say it. Say you promise. Please."

"Kid, you need to leave."

"Matt!" I don't mean to shout, but my words don't seem to be reaching him and maybe, maybe if I talk a little louder, I'll be able to make him understand that he can't do what he's thinking, he can't die in the arena. "Matt, please, promise!"

"Thank you so much for everything you've done for me over the past four years." Matt smiles, but there's still sadness present in his eyes. "You were the best friend I've ever had, Isaac. But you've got to go now, I don't want you getting in trouble."

"No. No, no, no, I'm not leaving, not until you promise, Matt. Promise you'll win, promise you'll come home." Unbidden, his words from our conversation two weeks ago come back to me. "You know I'm always honest with you, Isaac. But I also don't like telling you things you don't want to hear." He's still not saying anything. "Matt!"

There's a white-gloved hand on my arm now, pulling me out of the chair and towards the door. I've always hated the Peacekeepers, but now I fight this one tooth and nail, still shouting Matt's name over and over again. He's saying my name too, standing on his feet and approaching with his hands out, trying to get me to calm down, but the Peacekeeper barks at him to stay back. She whistles sharply, still trying to restrain me, and suddenly there's another Peacekeeper running in and grabbing my arms, dragging me out towards the door.

"Matt, come home! Please, please!"

I'm wrestled out the door and it slams before Matt can say anything in response. There's another Peacekeeper in the hall, looking on in concern.

"Need any help?" he asks.

"Yeah," the Peacekeeper holding my left arm says. "Damn, I hate when we get a crazy visitor. Grab his feet, will you?"

"Why bother?" says the one on my other side. "This is so much easier."

My right arm is trapped beneath the powerful grip of her hands, but she lets go with one and I manage to wrench free. The other Peacekeeper gives a shout, trying to hold me all by himself, but I thrash desperately against him, trying to get back to Matt, needing to get back to him. Needing to make him understand that he has to come home.

For one brief, glorious second, I manage to kick my way out of the Peacekeeper's grip and, now free, I lunge towards the door to Matt's room. But then the other Peacekeeper gets her baton out of her belt and the last thing I feel is a burst of pain on the back of my head before everything goes black.

The first day of the 33rd Hunger Games . . .

"Welcome, Panem, to the 33rd annual Hunger Games! How excited are you? The tributes are being prepped as we speak! Any moment now they'll step on their platforms, and then you'll finally get your first glance and this year's arena!"

The unseen audience cheers as, onscreen, Caesar Flickerman prances back and forth across the stage, giving more details about what makes this particular Hunger Games so special. He did an interview with the Head Gamemaker a while back, and she said this particular arena was designed to remind the districts why the Hunger Games were created and why we deserved to be punished. It's information everyone knows so it's pointless for Caesar to restate it now, yet he does, and the TV's speakers nearly explode with the cheers of the Capitol audience as he does so.

I tune all that out. The noise, the audience, Caesar – none of that matters. All I'm waiting for – and yet, at the same time, dreading – is the start of the 33rd Hunger Games.

Let it be a forest. Please, please. Or a mountain range, or an oversized arena like there was last year. Just please have lots of places to hide. There's more often a chance of a twelve-year-old winning if they can sneak away and avoid all the main fights.

"And, while we're waiting, how about that Career Pack this year, folks? Excited to see them in action?"

Oh god, the Career Pack. Thankfully, they seem to be on the younger side of things this year – only one of them is eighteen. The District 4 tributes also decided not to be a part of it this time around, so it's only the pair from 1, 2 and the girl from 7. Hopefully they'll focus on the biggest threats first, leaving the younger, smaller tributes to slip under the radar. And make it home. Please, please, make it home.

The girl beside me shifts restlessly as Caesar continues to drone on; somewhere closer to the back of the auditorium, someone is crying. We're all supposed to be in class right now, but of course, with the Hunger Games starting, all the students at our school have been shoved into the little, makeshift auditorium we have, forced to watch the bloodbath. It's the same with the rest of the schools all over the district, but I've heard they at least get chairs to sit in, whereas we're stuck on the floor. Being a Lume kid, I go to the poorest, most rundown school in 8, since it's the closest to the orphanage.

"Ah!" Caesar presses a finger to his ear, where a small, shiny device sits. "I'm hearing that the tributes are ready! What about you guys, are you?"

More cheers. In the auditorium, someone else starts to cry as well.

"All right! Then let's cut to live footage of the beginning of the 33rd annual Hunger Games!"

The cheers are so loud, it feels like they'll blow the roof right off the school. A few of my classmates around me plug their ears and make faces. But I ignore them, just like I ignore everyone and everything around me. The TV holds all my focus.

"Get ready for the first sight of the arena in five! . . . four! . . . three! . . . two! . . ."

The audience shouts the last number so loudly, it's incomprehensible. Then Caesar gives a short wave and, suddenly, the screen cuts to a different camera.

The entire auditorium goes silent. Even the criers stop sobbing momentarily, to shocked and horrified to make a sound.

No. No, no, no. This can't be it, this can't be right, this is a joke! The Games will be over in seconds! And . . . and . . . no.

What the TV now shows is a single room. No doors in sight. There isn't even a Cornucopia. Just four, bare, concrete walls.

Still, I can recognise it. After all, I was pulled out of my History of Panem class for this. The room, plain as it is, is unmistakeably the same one where Gregorio Deutschten and seventeen other Capitol soldiers were held during the war. The room were the rebels told the Capitol men and women that for every day they didn't give up the secrets they knew, one of them would be killed. The last person left alive would be sent back to the Capitol as a reminder the rebels meant business.

That was the room where Vaunnia Hungernim, one of the Capitol soldiers, got the idea in her head that she could secure her safety if she got rid of her comrades, making sure she was the last one standing. And once she killed the first man, all hell had broken loose.

That's exactly what the Capitol is hoping will happen now. There's no way to escape the room, and worse, no weapons. There won't be any quick deaths in these Games. The tributes are going to have to kill each other with their hands. Matt . . .

He can do it, I think furiously to myself, my fists clenched so tightly my nails are drawing blood from my palms. He can, he can. Never mind the fact that he didn't promise me he was coming home. He just has to. I can't even think about a world where he doesn't make it.

Onscreen, the tribute platforms rise into place and twenty-four children gawk at the room around them, varying levels of horror displayed on their faces. Of course, some of the Careers are smiling, but behind the confidence, there's doubt in each of their eyes. With all their fancy training facilities and weapons available to them, they probably didn't spend much time learning hand-to-hand combat. And, just for a moment, I allow my heart to leap hopefully. Sure, Matt, being how he is, was never involved in many fights around The Lume, but still, the orphanage is probably one of the best places to learn about these kind of free-for-all fights. He must have at least picked up some tips about defending himself, after all those beatings Harith used to give him. He can do this. He can do this.

Matt is in between the girl from 9 and the girl from 3; a fourteen-year-old and another twelve-year-old, thank goodness. The Careers are all on the opposite side of the circle, and while they aren't separated by a lot of space (if all the tributes stretched out their arms, they could almost hold hands, their so close together), the trained tributes' full attention is on the pair from 4, who are glaring right back. I guess deserting the Career Pack tends to rank you as number one on their "to-kill" list. Good: they'll ignore Matt that way. He can do this.

The sixty second countdown has begun, and during that time, the camera jumps from tribute to tribute, showing each of their faces, their reactions – some for the last time. Matt is third last before the gong's about to ring, and I feel a sickening tug in my gut as his face fills the screen. I thought this felt real when they showed him in the chariot rides, wearing a ridiculous thimble costume; I thought this felt real when they announced his training score, a five; I thought this felt real when his interview played. But it's only now that I finally wrap my head around the truth.

My best friend is in the Hunger Games.

Bonnnnngggggg.

The gong sounds and, strangely enough, there's still a moment where everyone freezes. I can hear a few kids in the auditorium chuckling, simply because the situation is so ridiculous. The kids onscreen have nowhere to run, and no weapons to run to. For a moment, they all collectively hesitate; it seems no one quite knows what to do.

Then all hell breaks loose.

I try to keep my eyes on Matt, desperate to keep him in sight. The camera, however, has other ideas; it follows the Careers as they lunge towards the pair from 4 and Mattrick disappears completely from view. My knuckles turn white as I squeeze my fingers harder together, wanting to shout at the TV to go back to Matt, to make sure he's all right. My yell wouldn't even be heard – not over the sounds coming from the screen.

The girl from 1, the eighteen-year-old, tackles the boy from 4 and they go tumbling to the ground. Beside them, their district partners at the girl from 7 engage each other in a brutal fistfight. The pair from 2, twins and the youngest in the Pack, look on, unsure exactly how to help out without getting in the way. In the end, the girl tries to help out 1's female, while the boy goes in search of a new target. Suddenly, the TV divides up into a split screen, with four separate sections to watch. The two Career fights are shown, and the boy from 2, and another punching match between the two tributes from 10. I guess there's too much action going on so quickly that the Capitol can't capture it all with just the one screen.

In the upper left corner of the television, the boy from 2's gaze lands on the girl from 9, cowering in a corner. She doesn't even see his first punch coming until it drives right into her stomach. With a cry, she collapses and he goes in for another hit before freezing, fist halfway to her face. His sister is shouting his name, calling for help while attempting to dodge the punches from the 4 boy; behind him, the lifeless body of the District 1 girl lies prostrate on the ground. Around her throat, a gleaming, silver necklace is twisted tightly. Her own token was used to strangle her.

The boy from 2 leaves his victim and runs to help his sister, leaving the 9 girl keeled over in a corner. Someone backs into her and nearly trips over her huddled body, and I almost jerk out of my chair as the newcomer whirls around; it's Mattrick. He's been staying on the edge of the fray, avoiding all the fights. Thank goodness. But now what?

The girl from 9 looks up at him, seemingly frozen, her hands still clutching her stomach. Mattrick gazes down at her and for a moment, a brief, brief moment, I can see the hesitation in his eyes, the mental debate of what to do with the girl. He would have called it a lapse in judgement, a terrible crime he'd committed, to pause and actually consider killing this defenceless child in front of him. I would have said it was reason finally entering his head.

But then the fleeting moment of indecision disappears. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispers soothingly, like he's oblivious to the chaos around him.

"No," I whisper, leaning towards the screen. As though getting closer to the television will help Matt hear me. "No."

He offers the girl a hand, which she refuses, still staring at him with dark eyes filled with fear. But then 10's male tribute – who's not standing five metres from Matt – catches his district partner's arm and twists until an audible crack! is heard. The girl's screams ring loud through the tiny arena, and the girl from 9 flinches as they reach her ears then winces immediately afterwards, fingers tenderly probing her stomach.

"No," I continue to murmur. I know that look, the look on Matt's face as he watches the girl. "No."

"He got you pretty bad, huh?" Matt kneels down beside the girl and outstretches an arm. "Here, let me help."

He reaches out a hand and takes her wrist, just to pull her arm back, out of the way so he can inspect the injury; I've seen him do it countless times with little kids around the orphanage before. But this time, he's not dealing with a little kid; he's dealing with a fourteen-year-old girl, a girl whose eyes shoot wide open as soon as his fingers brush against her skin and who lets loose a shriek louder than any cry of pain. "NO!"

And she lunges at Matt.

She's taller than he is, and bigger too; probably from a relatively well-off family back in her district. It's the easiest thing for her to pin him to the ground, and once she's on him, she attacks. Not with punches, but claws; Caesar pointed out during her interview that she'd grown her nails out a lot longer than was the norm in the districts, and she replied distractedly that she needed a way to defend herself, always.

Now, those nails scrape against Matt's flesh, leaving bright red lines in places and trails of blood in others. His hands fly up, trying to defend himself without hurting her, as though she's the one he needs to worry about getting injured. She bats his arms away like they're nothing but minor distractions, the pain in her stomach completely forgotten as she continues to tear at his arms and his chest, all while shouting, "No, no, no, no!"

She bats his hands away once again and, this time, goes for his face, her nails digging into his cheeks, clawing at his nose and then resting right above his eyes. With a single, guttural shriek, she stabs her fingers straight down.

That's when Matt finally begins to cry out. But I barely hear it; it feels like my whole body is shutting down, eyes, ears, lungs, heart. Everything is blacking out. Not quickly enough, though.

Matt has been blinded, his face a mess of torn flesh, by the time the girl from 9 pins his arms down and, with one, last, hysterical "NO!", plunges her teeth into his throat.

I don't register anything for another four hours. At that point, it's only the girl from 9 and the girl from 6 left; the former wandering around, raving, with blood dripping from her nails and her teeth, the latter pretending to be a dead body among the mass of corpses so she might by herself more time. The Peacekeepers decide we can return to class since nothing immediate is happening in the Games, but when everyone gets up to file out of the auditorium, my teacher finds me still sitting on the floor, frozen in place, whispering, "Mattrick, Mattrick, Mattrick," to myself over and over again. Any attempts to get me to move or respond are futile.

She takes me to the district doctor, who still can't get a reaction from me. It's only the next day, twenty-six hours after the Games begun, that the insane girl finally finds her last opponent. The room was rigged to steadily fill with bright red "blood" over the course of the Games, and the girl from 6 couldn't pretend to be dead anymore without drowning herself. Their fight was brutal and bloody, I'm told, but I never saw it, even though I sat with the doctor as he watched the finale. By the end of it, he sat back and sighed. "Looks like 9's the lucky district this time around."

That's when I remember how different the outcome was supposed to be. Matt's bloody, punctured face comes back to me and I finally show signs of life by vomiting all over the floor.

Harith teased me, when I finally was sent back to The Lume. Now that I was alone again, I guess he saw me as less of a threat, or an easier target. He insulted me, said I was weak for needing a doctor, said I was a crybaby due to the redness of my eyes and the wet tracks down my face. Then he said Mattrick was pathetic for allowing himself to be killed off so easily. Harith said he'd been worthless.

I punched him in the jaw and got three months of sweeping chores and a beating from Miss Fervendough for it. Without even thinking about it, I'd broken my first promise to Matt.

Eventually I went back to school and work, around the same time Matt's body was sent back to 8, alongside the female tribute, whose name I'd never bothered to learn. It was then, at their double funeral, that I finally learned the full story of Mattrick Ellison.

He was the second child in a family of well-off merchants from the richer part of the district; why I never saw him at school or around before he came to The Lume. His sister had been four years older, and had lived a good life with her parents up until Matt was born. His mother had died in the process and left behind a husband who was not equipped to deal with the grief. He drank – a lot. And blamed his wife's "murder" on his young son. Matt had never known kindness from his father, but as he'd grown older, the beatings had only gotten more and more ruthless. So the rumours go, it was because Matt, with his dark hair and bright green eyes, was growing into the exact, male version of his mother. His father couldn't stand it, thought it was an abomination that the child who killed his wife should take on her appearance.

Matt loved his sister, Alia, dearly though, and she him, though she worried for him constantly. Her father still loved her dearly, at least, so she could usually calm him down when he was in one of his rages. But her control over him lessened every day Matt grew older.

One day, the Ellison children came home from school to find their father more drunk than he'd even been. Alia, at that point, had known that if her father got ahold of her brother in the state he was in now, something terrible would happen. So she'd sent Matt to hide upstairs while she tried to distract their father and calm him, just like she always did.

But this time, her father lacked the control he'd usually had with her. All it took was one good shove when she was standing in front of the basement stairs. She lost her balance, fell, and broke her neck on the fall. The sight of his daughter lying cold and still brought their father closer to his usual sense, and, in a panic, he'd run out and called for someone, anyone to help his favourite child. No one could do anything, though. But they did find Matt, hiding in Alia's bedroom, and that was when the decision was made that it was not safe for Matt to remain in his father's care.

Mattrick Ellison had always been an optimistic, happy child, despite the hand life had dealt him. But when his sister died, he'd upped all that to almost insane levels. With that had come this ridiculous desire to help everyone in the world, even if it was detrimental to his own well-being, and he always made sure never to let others put him before themselves. I think, behind that smile and confidence and cheeriness, he was terrified the events of his sister's death would reoccur if someone tried to help him. He'd spent seven years being told his life meant nothing by a father who had never loved him; I guess, to a certain degree, he'd taken that to heart.

It's only reinforced my original opinion that nice people are stupid. Because this world is vicious and cruel and others will take whatever advantages they can get, walking all over selfless people in order to achieve their own goals. Every time I think about doing something to please others, Matt's corpse floats before my eyes and I stop. Look where it got him.

He was the best friend I'd ever had. I would have done anything, anything for him to be more selfish. Then he might still have been around today.

So when a year passes and my next reaping comes, I don't volunteer to take on all the tesserae. The whole time Miss Fervendough does her little speech, I sit in the dining hall and try to ignore the dead face that floats before my vision. Everyone still looks hopefully at me anyways, but I remain silent.

That year, Harith Lume is reaped. What goes around comes around.

Kaidy Lume is reaped alongside him. She'd just turned twelve.

Because I didn't take tesserae, Kaidy'd had extra slips in the bowl, and one of those sealed her fate. She made it all the way to eleventh place though and my hopes were soaring, until she was stabbed by the District 1 girl. I'd failed my second promise to Matt.

But, once again, what goes around comes around. Two years after Kaidy bled out on the floor of a space station arena, three years after the nicest, most generous, selfless, incredible kid I'd ever known was brutally murdered, it was my name the escort was calling out for all of Panem to hear.