Okay, so here starts the story and I've made a slight change in character. Instead of Max Keenan playing Haymitch's role, it will be Jack Hodgins. They will all have their Bones names, but I just didn't want to confuse anybody. Also, each chapter will coincide with the events of the actual book chapters, so they will most likely be very long. I hope you all enjoy this.

Part ONE: The Tributes

Chapter One

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch, seeking Angela's warmth, but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course she did. Today is the day of the reaping.

I sit up in the bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, squinting in the dimly lit, dank room. It's barely sunrise, as I can see by the small glimmer of light coming through the cracked window on the opposite side of the room, barely a meter away. I stand up and stretch, my back cracking slightly. The movement brings more relief than pain, as it should. Sleeping on that mattress is almost no better than sleeping on the floor.

I look across the room at my mother's slightly smaller bed. She's curled up in a ball in the middle and Angela curls around her, one arm resting over her waist, while the other hand rests by her cheek.

My sister looks so...fragile. So breakable, as if just touching her would cause her to fall to pieces. That's what makes this day so horrible. I would give up anything to save her from the fear of being reaped, as improbable as it is. To save her from being broken. I would die myself before I let that happen.

Quickly, I swoop over to their side of the room and gently brush a lock of Angela's long, black hair off her forehead, and press a soft kiss to her forehead, scowling at the hiss coming from the end of the bed.

I glare down at Angela's precious cat, Buttercup. I hate that damn thing. And I know for a fact he loathes me just the same, if not more. It was years ago, but I'm he remembers me trying to drown him as a kitten after Angela brought him, a starving, worm-infested kitten, home one day and begged me to keep him as a pet. At first, I was completely against that idea, taking him straight to the sink and plunging him into the soapy water, receiving scratches all up my arms and my sisters tears for my effort.

Angela's tears won out and I let her keep the mangy feline, giving her all the responsibility of feeding him. I wanted nothing to do with him.

That is, until he caught his first mouse and presented it at his girl's feet. Angela was disgusted by that mouse became an appetizer to our less-than-satisfactory dinner that night. I even fed him to entrails as a reward. Since then, he's been catching mice almost every night, and he's stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. Hissing. That's the closest we'll ever come to love. As long as I stay out of his way and he stays out of mine, this is satisfactory.

I cast one more glance at my beloved baby sister and her ungrateful pet and make my way to the tiny cupboard that acts as a closet for the three of us. I pull out one of my father's old plaid button downs, my old ripped jeans, and my hunting boots, that have molded to my feet almost like a second skin.

When I'm dressed, I put my hair into a long, simple braid down my back, grab my father's old hunting jacket and head out for the day. Before I leave, I run into the kitchen to find a ball of goat cheese under a wooden bowl, wrapped in basil leaves. Angela must have left it. I carefully slip the ball into my jacket pocket. I look at the cracked clock on the wall.

I have eight hours until the reaping.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the Meadow and separating that from the woods, closing off all of District 12, in fact, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire. In theory, it's supposed to be electrocuted, twenty four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators in the woods—packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears—that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent. So, without second thought, I lay down on my stomach as slide right under the two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There's several other weak spots in the fence, of course, but this is the closest to home.

As soon as I'm in the woods, I retrieve a bow and a sheath of arrows from a hollow log. The bow is one of my father's, one he carved by hand. He made about a dozen of them before his death. He was in the middle of teaching me to make my own, but I'm useless at it. I tried to get him to sell them once, but he refused, saying that it was too risky. And he's right. Arming the citizens of 12, even with just a handful of bows is just asking for trouble. So I keep them hidden, hoping for a day when they could be used without penalty.

As I make my way into the woods, my favorite arrow slung over my shoulder, my eyes and ears immediately begin scoping out game. Looking for deer tracks in the mud, cracked twigs, animal droppings, anything I could use to help me find some sort of creature worth cooking. As I step further into the woods, I stop by snares and traps I've set up, removing rabbits and squirrels alike, attaching them to my belt. I wonder, briefly, if Greasy Sae will take them off my hands. Perhaps the baker will buy another squirrel. She loves them.

I'm interrupted from my thought by a large crack from behind me. Automatically, my hand reaches back from my bow and I have an arrow loaded before I even take a breath. I turn towards the noise and very nearly shoot my best friend through the eye.

Sully ducks the arrow just in time and I sigh in relief as he falls over backwards, having lost his balance after ducking the arrow.

"What the hell, Temper?" Sully croaks, breathing heavily. "You trying to kill me or something?"

Temper. Short for Temperance, my full name. Like Sully is short for Sullivan, his last name. He came up with the name after he realized what a short fuse I have when it comes to hunting.

I'm patient enough to wait for game to arrive, but I can throw quite a hissy fit when my arrow misses and scares them off.

I cross my arms over my chest, narrow my eyes at him. "Well, you should probably watch where you're stepping. I thought you were a deer."

Sully scoffs. We haven't seen a deer in a long time. Not since we traded a doe to get Angela's goat. That was nearly two years ago.

"Figures that's what I get when I bring you this." he holds a bundle, wrapped in flimsy cloth, out to me, and my nostrils are invaded by a sweet, delectable, smell.

"What's that?" I ask, through my watering mouth. "It smells good."

Sully chuckles and unwraps the bundle. "It ought to. I traded a squirrel for it." the cloth comes away to reveal a large loaf of bread.

At the sight of such a delicious rarity, my stomach lets out a soft roar, that Sully must hear because he smiles at me. "Hungry, Temper?" He teases.

I scowl at him and reach into my pocket for the goat cheese, I hand it to him and he splits the bread in two, lengthwise, spreading the soft cheese and leaves over the bread, generously, before handing me a piece. I immediately take a large bite, moaning in pleasure of finally being fed. I barely ate anything last night after feeding both my mother and Angela a small dinner of squirrels and berries. It was barely enough to satisfy even them.

But the bread goes down smoothly and fills my stomach wonderfully. I sigh and lean back against a tree, sliding down to sit on the ground. I can rest a few moments while the food digests. Sully finishes his bread and sits next to me, his shoulder touching mine as we look up, past the trees, to the blue sky and white, fluffy clouds above.

All is silent for a few precious moments, like there's nothing wrong with the world, like we're just out here for a picnic together, and not trying to feed our families by poaching illegally...

And then he speaks, and it's over.

"You know we could run off together? Go live out in the woods. We could hunt and gather for food, raise a family, and never have to worry about days like this." he doesn't look at me as he says this, but it still pierces my heart with fear at what he's suggesting.

"We couldn't." I say. "I have my sister to think about. You have your mother, your brothers...Posy." Posy is Sully's baby sister. Not really a baby, anymore at five years old, but he has an undeniably soft spot for the little girl, like I have for Angela. He'll never be able to tell her no. He would never abandon her.

"We could bring them with us. Maybe Parker could marry Angela." he suggests.

I scoff. "Right, and maybe Angela will spend more than two seconds in the woods without being spooked by the first creature she sees." We both laugh. Angela is frightened of anything having to do with the forest. She won't even touch a bunny I bring home if she isn't completely sure it's dead.

"Well, we can wait then." he says, not letting it go. "Until they're all grown up, no longer eligible for the reaping, and if they choose to come with us-"

"I can't, Sully," I interrupt him, "I'm sorry. I just...I need to stay here. With Angela. If I leave her here with my mother...they'll starve. Neither of them can hunt."

Sully nods. "Well, I guess I'll just have to find somebody else to raise kids with in the wild." he teases. His words make my heart ache. Not for the reason you think, though. Sully's the best hunting partner I've ever had. Almost as good as my dad. Possibly better.

"I guess so." I respond, softly.

We sit there in uncomfortable silence for a while, until Sully breaks it, once more. This time he stands and brushes himself off. "Come on." he says, helping me up. "We've gotta get these to the Hob before the Peacekeepers, and Daisy Wick, get here."

I grin. Daisy Wick is possibly the most annoying Capitol official I've ever encountered, with her strange, multi-color wigs and dresses and her annoying Captiol accent, and that stupid phrase she uses every year. Not to mention her annoying, ever-lasting excitement over the Hunger Games.

If you don't know what the Hunger Games are, let me fill you in. In the Beginning, after this place, once called North America, fell, a group of survivors started to build their own country from its ashes. They called the country Panem. Panem was originally divided into 13 Districts and one Capitol. The Capitol ruled with an iron fist, until the Rebellion, in which the Districts fought against the Capitol. The Capitol, of course, retaliated, causing destruction and an outlandish amount of casualties in nearly every district and completely demolishing District 13. Now there were 12 districts, and each year, as penance for the Rebellion, one boy and one girl, from ages 12 to 18, from each district are chosen to represent their district in a battle to the death in an arena far from their home. Only one tribute survives. There can only ever be one victor.

For the Districts forced to participate, this is a horrifying event, for which we have to act as if we are excited every year for the cameras. For the Capitol, this is the most exciting and riveting event of the year.

Daisy is the very embodiment of that excitement.

"Happy Hunger Games!" I say, "And may the odds-"

"-be ever in your favor!" Sully finishes, laughing, as we make our way out of the woods, carrying only the game received from the traps and snares set up days ago, and no new game.

We stop so I can discard my bow and arrows in the log and then make our way, under the fence, back into 12, to the Hob, where we'll be able to sell off our meat to Greasy Sae, the cook there, who sells her food to nearly everybody in 12, even the local Peacekeepers.

At the Hob, we sell Greasy Sae three rabbits and a squirrel for some money and a few bowls of her wild dog soup to take home. After that, we visit the butcher and trade another rabbit and a squirrel for a pound of wild turkey.

Then we split up the earnings and head home to get ready for the reaping, wishing each other luck. Sully's name is entered 42 times this year. Mine 20. This is because of the tessarae I need to feed my family. Each year, if you're poor like I am, you're allowed to sign your name is more times than it already is to gain tessarae, which is a meager year's worth of grain for your family. Being from the Seam, both Sully and I are practically required to do this. To keep our family fed. I've forbidden Angela from doing such.

It's just not worth it.

As I arrive home, I'm met by my younger sister standing in front of the front hall mirror, twirling about in a ruffled blouse and one of my old skirts. As she turns, I can see the back of her skirt hanging out in the back. I smile and walk up behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders to keep her from spinning again as I tuck the shirt back in. "Tuck your tail in, little duck." I say, affectionately, squeezing her shoulder. "There, now you look so pretty." She smiles, somewhat sadly, at me in the mirror.

"I have a dress for you, too." My mother's voice floats in from behind me. My eyes flash upwards to meet hers in the mirror.

Since my father died, my relationship hasn't been all that great with my mother. Because, after he died, after the consolatory food we received for the six weeks we were supposed to use to grieve, she was supposed to go out and find a job to support us.

But she didn't. She didn't do anything. For months. I tried to get her out of the house, to go down to the apothecary to work. Where her healing hands would be of great assistance to them. But, she would just brush me off and go back to bed. The only time she would ever leave that goddamn bed is when she had to use the facilities. Otherwise, she just stayed there.

And it was up to me to get food for us. Being only 11 years old at the time, I wasn't old enough to receive tessarae, and it was Winter at the time, so hunting was definitely out of the question. Especially by myself. I was too small, too scared, too weak.

So, I rummaged. Everyday on my way back from school, I rummaged for food in dumpsters behind stores, or I begged for a scrap or two to feed my sister and mother, who had to be kept alive or else they would have taken Angela from me. I almost starved to death so many times.

But that was then, this is now. And recently, I've been trying to make up with my mother by allowing her to help me, either by letting her cook with me or accepting the hand-me-downs she's been offering me for years, since my growth spurt, that I wouldn't accept because I so loathed her for leaving us in those crucial months after Dad's death.

And so that is why, now, when she offers to help me get ready for the reaping, I let her. I allow her to make me a hot bath, to help me scrub every inch of my body until it resembles cleanliness. I allow her to pick out one of her old, powder blue dresses for me to wear today. And, finally, I allow her to do my hair up in an elegant mess off braids that look so simple, yet so beautiful, almost like a masterpiece. And then I thank her and leave the room, without so much as a glance.

In the front hallway, I slip on my shoes and call for Angela, who shuffles out, looking miserable, but trying her best to look as if she's excited, and not scared out of her mind at the prospect of...of what is completely improbable, verging on the impossible. She can't be picked today. She just can't be.

I tuck in her blouse again, and help her into her shoes, allow her to hug our mother goodbye, and then I take her hand and lead her out.

Barely ten feet out the front door, she stops and I turn to her. She looks more frightened than I've ever seen her.

"What's wrong?" I ask, knowing the question is probably the stupidest I've ever asked.

She doesn't comment on the stupidity. She just answers. "What if it's me?" she asks. I can see tears in her eyes.

I shake my head and kneel down to her level. "It's not you. It can't be you. Your name is only in there once. It's one out of thousands. They won't pick you. The odds are literally in your favor this year. Trust me."

Angela nods, not saying anything. This is one of the many things I love about my sister. She trusts me. No questions. No arguments. Just trust. Whole-heartedly trusts me. I smile down at her and squeeze her hand, leading her once more towards the square, where the first bells have just about to ring, signaling the beginning of the reaping.

My heart pounds so hard, I'm afraid it's going to break through my chest.

As we near the square, Angela's breathing gets ragged. I know it's from the pens set up to divide us by age group. Hers is the very back. Age 12's. Mine is closer to the stage. I squeeze her hand to reassure her, leading her straight over to the 12's.

"Name?" the man standing there asks. He's in a white Peacekeeper's uniform. He's not one of ours, though. Else, he would have recognized Angela. All the Peacekeepers were particularly fond of Angela.

"Angela Brennan." My sister squeaks out. The man goes through the list on the clipboard in his hand, finds her name, and nods.

"Go on in, Miss Brennan. And may the odds be ever in your favor." The man says, with a wide, insincere smile.

I let go of Angela's hand, give her one last hug, a whispered, "I love you." in her ear and let her go.

Then I look hard at the Peacekeeper, who smiles, still, back at me. I turn away and roll my eyes, before heading over to the 16's, my age group. A woman Peacekeeper goes through the same thing with me, the same old line, another eye roll, and I find myself standing amongst a group of my classmates, none of which I am particularly fond of, and likewise.

I stay quiet, like the rest of the crowd as, energetic and preppy, Daisy Wick takes to the stage, this year wearing a hot pink wig and matching makeup, caked onto her face, making her look deathly pale. And a lighter pink, pinstriped suit jacket and skirt. The fashion sense in the Capitol really is ridiculous, nowadays.

"Attention! Attention, please!" Daisy says, into the mic, as if we were all making so much noise. "Good day, District 12! And a happy Hunger Games to you all! Such a nice day, isn't it? For this magnificent event!" I roll my eyes. Even she can't be that stupid.

Daisy goes on to talk about the history of the Hunger Games and the rebellion in Panem that is the cause of them, even showing up the same, ridiculous video they do every year. When that's over (Thank GOD!) she smiles at all of us, almost bubbling over with excitement.

"I just love that!" She announces. I swear, if it weren't for the outstanding number of Peacekeepers around, I'm sure she would have been shot dead by now. "And now," she says, "I would like to introduce a past victor of District 12. You may know him from around the square. Please welcome...Jack Hodgins!"

Jack Hodgins. The winner of the 50th Hunger Games, the year in which the number of tributes was doubled. I'm not sure how, but he won against 47 others, and since then, nobody in our District has won a single one. There was one before him, but they're long dead. He's our only Victor now.

He's also a notorious drunk. I've seen him at the Hob, paying in cash for bottles of whiskey and rum. His favorite, though, is red wine. He would buy that by the barrel if he could. He's there almost every single day. Sometimes I wonder whether he's stocking up or if he just polishes off the bottle as soon as he gets it.

Anyway, now, as he walks up on stage, it's obvious he's drunk again. Extremely drunk. I can practically see the whiskey fumes coming off him, can practically smell the noxious poison from here. I cover my nose, as do many of the people around me.

Daisy, now forcing her smile, leans the microphone towards him. "Mr. Hodgins," she says, wincing at the smell of the liquor, "do you have any advice for the young people here today?"

Hodgins gives her an incredulous look and takes a sip from the small, silver flask in his hand. Then he walks to his seat at the back of the stage, next to the Mayor, plops down, and promptly passes out.

He receives a few claps from the jokesters in the crowd, but then all is silent once again.

Daisy, undeterred, smiles at us once more. "I think," she says, choosing to ignore the whole scene with Hodgins, "it's time to choose our tributes. As always, girls first."

All female and male eyes alike zone in on her as she walks, the screen behind her, above the stage, magnifying her for those two far back to see her in person, as she walks to the left side of the stage, where the bowl with all the female names sits. She stops above it, smiles for the cameras, and sticks her hand in, making a show out of randomly selecting one of the many slips of paper in the bowl.

As she does this, my heart pounds harder and harder against my chest and all I can think is, "No, it's impossible. It can't happen. Her name is only in there once. Others, like Sully's, are in there over forty times over. There's no way-"

Daisy picks a piece of paper, finally, and unfolds it in her carefully manicured hands, taking a deep, dramatic breath, before reading out the name on the slip. My heart stops.

It's Angela Brennan.

How is it so far! I've changed a few things and explained more than what was actually in this chapter to begin with. I hope those of you who are diehard fans (like me!) don't mind this. I will include as much of the book as I possibly can! REVIEWSSS please to let me know that I'm doing this right!