"We are our choices."

~ Jean-Paul Sartre

They are shouting my name, but I don't turn. I keep running. I have to keep running. My feet pound on the road. Paved stone has given way to dirt. Dust sprays behind me, and I allow myself the fleeting hope that it will slow them down. It won't. I know that, but for some reason I keep telling myself it otherwise. I have to. The alternative is being caught. Or death.

Houses flash by on my left, but they soon disappear, replaced by gentle hills. To the right, the land levels out, extending in a flat plain as far as I can see. I spare a glance over my shoulder and have to stifle a gasp. They're gaining ground.

Somehow I manage to push myself even faster, making a desperate bid for the trees in the distance. They're still so far away. I feel my feet start to slip, and before I know it I'm on the ground and I can't move. The Peacekeepers are closing in on me. One of them extends his arm, holding out a needle –

My screams are quickly muted by the hand over my mouth. I don't realize I'm shaking until a second hand closes over my shoulder. They're strong hands, rough and scarred from work in the forests of District Seven. The face that matches them is equally strong, marred only by a long scar along the jaw line. I briefly wonder what Rowan is doing on this side of the quarters.

His eyes meet mine, green and dark gray. I can't seem to look away. He reaches out to brush his hand across my cheek, then pulls away. Something is glistening on his hand. Tears. I hadn't realized I was crying.

Not for the first time, I want to speak, to say something, but I can't. Rowan is already slipping out the door, closing it behind him and leaving my room in darkness again. I'm suddenly exhausted, but I know sleep won't come for a long time. I've had this nightmare more times than I can count. It's always the same, replaying those last few minutes in my head. At least I always wake before the end. I don't have to relive the needle jabbing into my arm or the cold, clinical operating room.

Eventually sleep finds me, and I don't dream. I am glad. The nightmares exhaust me as well as terrify me. I wake up to the morning bell echoing through the halls. Footsteps sound outside my door, heading for breakfast. Those hours of dreamless sleep will do me no good if I'm late for work, so I'm dressed and out the door in minutes. I might have even beaten my own record.

Even though I eat quickly, I'm one of the last ones in the dining hall. After dropping my tray off for the kitchen workers to clean, I hurry down the halls that have somehow become familiar in the last ten months. They are all stone, because our quarters are in some of the oldest Capitol buildings, and I wonder if that's why it didn't take me long to feel at home here.

Two. Of all the districts they could have given me, I am placed in the only one I don't want. Still, as unhappy as I am about my assignment, a part of me dares to hope that he'll walk through those doors.

I try my best to keep my mind on my work as I'm supposed to, but it's difficult. I'm surprised I don't get the typical silent reproach from Phaedra, especially when we all know that in a few short hours it will begin and all our efforts will be put on display.

I don't know much about Phaedra except that she was raised in the Capitol, and even that I only really know because no self-respecting district citizen would give their child that name. It's the same with all of them. I know how they will react to certain situations, I know their personalities. But I don't know their pasts, who they were before they were condemned to this life.

We're still working when the reaping starts, making beds and dusting furniture. I catch glimpses of the District One tributes as I pass by the television room on my way to get the supplies to wash the large windows in the dining room. On my way back, something flashes red in the corner of my eye. I stop in the doorway, unable to look away as the fiery letters spell out District Two.

Before I have time to turn around, the camera pans over the familiar square: the stone buildings, the roped off enclosures that are filling with children. I think I see a flash of dark hair in the crowd, but quickly disregard it. Dark hair is not uncommon in District Two, and I have to stop looking for him everywhere.

The speeches and introductions pass in a blur, my mind reeling. I scroll through faces and names, trying to predict who will be standing up on that stage in a few short moments.

Our escort, Daphne, wobbles over to one of the bowls, swaying in her impossibly high heels. The bowls are overflowing, so some papers fall out when she sticks her hand in. After flapping around for a while, her fingers close over one and she plucks it out.

The name she reads off is not familiar to me, but the girl who volunteers I do know. Sage Crivaro. I should have expected that. A small, angry-looking brunette climbs the stairs to the stage, glaring at the crowd as if daring them to question her.

The boy's name that is announced is equally unfamiliar, but my breath catches in my throat at the voice that speaks up.

"I volunteer!"

Two words that I've heard my entire life, but it's not the words that matter. I would recognize that voice anywhere, but I'm still surprised when the tall, dark-haired boy joins Sage on the stage. He looks different, harder, but I still recognize him.

When Daphne asks him for his name, I know what's coming before he speaks.

Corin Salvati.

So here it is! I hope you like it. We'll see more of Corin and Sage in chapter three when they arrive in the Capitol. You might have noticed that my narrator still doesn't have a name - that will come in chapter three, too. Probably. :)