I'm coherent enough to sense everybody's eyes flicker across to me. Everything surrounding me is suddenly suspended in an intense silence.

Our escort breaks the silence and her said words ripple through the crowd like a pebble being dropped into still waters. "Well aren't you coming up? Don't be shy!"

I take cautious steps towards the platform, trying to turn my mind to anything other than what belongs ahead. I begin focusing on not scuffing my leather shoes on the gravel. What's the point, though? They're already unbelievably scuffed. I ascend the steps that creak beneath my weight and turn to face the whole of District Five. My red ponytail falls behind my shoulders when I tilt my head upwards in a search for confidence. I don't find any and my shoulders sag. That's when I notice the metal glint on my wrist. Damn, I'm getting lucky today, I think to myself bitterly.

"And now for the gentlemen!"

Our escort hops towards the other identical glass ball, this time holding the boys' slips. To the Capitol, these names on paper mean nothing but potential tributes; but every piece of paper being tossed about in that ball is a real person. A person with friends, a family. A person with an individual life taken away for the Capitol's twisted idea of fun and gambling.

I squeeze my eyes closed, praying to the mountains for Tyde's safety. My best friend. His parents and older brothers work in the Dispatchment, and so he lives in the richer part of town. That's the part of town they show on TV. In the Dispatchment they regulate power flows and distribute it amongst the districts and the Capitol. It doesn't seem much, but it's the Capitol's lifeline. If their electrical supply falters or cuts out, it's those families that get the bullet.

The Industrial part of town is where I live. Surrounded by factories are our little houses, the air around us always thick and hazy with electrical wastes. Tyde's family hate him seeing me, being from the Industrials, so it's always early mornings when we meet.

I don't know when it fell into place, but it's an unspoken agreement that each morning we meet in the old depot, off near the meadow. There's a new depot now, one made not of concrete but of a high-tech Capitol metal. They said it's safer, but I think they were just worried we'd all choke to death on the fumes and their precious little supply would be cut off. That and the dual power plant explosion; power failures are wicked things.

He's always gone before the sun is up, but it's that hour every day that I live for. I don't know what I'd do without him.

When called upon, the male tribute appears. I'm relived it's not Tyde. He looks to be around the same age as me, but that's where the similarities end. He doesn't look like Tyde either, his skin much darker and his stature much stronger. Tyde and I both have pale skin, but his hair is black. Mine's red. He says I'm kissed by fire. I say I'm cursed by it.

This tribute is clearly from the Industrials just by the look of his tattered clothes, although his hair is surprisingly dark for an Industrial kid. His eyes are even darker and shiny with fear, like he's about to burst into tears as he slowly mounts the stage and takes his place beside me.

Our escort clears her throat. "Are there any volunteers?"

The only volunteer is the sudden gust of surprisingly clear air over the mountains. My hair flings into my face. I gag and push it out, annoyed that people probably saw that on TV. I can only pray the camera was on the other tribute's face. Of course, here in the Dispatchment the air is always clearer, but today it is eerily vacant. The factories are always unattended on reaping day.

The cluster of people before us have their heads bowed, as if ashamed for not volunteering. I don't blame them; who would volunteer for a girl they don't even know? My mother is too old, and Tyde can't volunteer for a girl. It's a death wish, anyway.

There are no volunteers, but what else is expected? Nobody in the outlying districts volunteer ever.

"Okay, uh, shake hands." Our escort sounds suddenly awkward. But it's like this every year.

I offer out my hand and he grabs it almost too quickly. It's cold and clammy, probably a replica of my own. I breathe the dry air deeply, inhaling it into my lungs and thinking of how these will probably be my last breaths in District Five. Somehow I know and acknowledge the fact I will not be returning to the hauntingly pale faces of my family, my friends, my people. Unless something bad happens to the Careers, it's likely that it's one of them that will be returning home.

.

My mother sits with me in the silence of the aged Justice Building. Both of her weathered hands are clasped tightly around my own, as if any gesture more than this would be too close for comfort. It feels like a barrier has been placed between us. I allow myself to weep, but somehow I don't quite think she hears me. She doesn't cry.

I wish to close my eyes. I wish I was a child. I wish I was back in the meadow, daisy chain my hand. Was that only a few hours ago? What was Tyde thinking now? Is he sad for me? I don't want him to be; or maybe I do want him to be sad for me? He is all I've got.

I glance around the small room. The seats are thick black leather and the walls are painted a rich golden colour. Although it's an expensive looking room, it's clearly old. On the outside, ivy climbs the cracked stone. Inside, it's musty, as if fresh air is a foreign concept. The golden paint is fading and the leather is cracking under my fingertips. The floorboards creak under every step you take and even the plants in the corner and withering, whether it be lack of sunlight or lack of water. Probably both, knowing the officials here. They are ruthless, unforgiving people whom you should never cross, if you want to live.

I turn back to my own mother, her eyes gaping black holes. Empty. The tears stream soundlessly down my pallid face, sliding from their grip into nothingness. That's when the peacekeepers burst in, demanding my mother to leave. She's emotionless, unmoving, before her gaze breaks and she smiles at me. I practically jump away from her.

She says one sentence as they guide her out of the door. "Keep the bracelet. You're strong. You're quick. Go, I'll be watching you."

"Mom-" I protest, furrowing my eyebrows.

I don't get to finish the sentence because they're ushering Tyde in and I'm starting to cry again.

"Stop," He says, coming over to me. "You need to stop crying."

I stand up at the same time he gets to me and he holds my face in his hands. His hands are warm and comforting, pumping the strength back into me like the current of energy for which he was named.

"Look at you, you're a mess." He mutters, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear. "Listen. You're coming back to me, Finch."

"I'm not." I say, merely a whisper, dropping my gaze. The piece of hair falls back into my eye.

"You can run, I've seen you." He says, walking away from me to kick over an unsuspecting plant from the corner of the room. Dry soil spills out of the broken pot. "You're coming out of that arena alive, you hear?"

He's gone from soft and pleading to angry in a matter of seconds. He's like that. I don't know what to do, as Tyde's usually the one holding me up. He's never the one to break down like this.

Another group of peacekeepers invade the space and order him to leave. He yanks his arm out of their grip, but follows them through the door, pausing in the doorway.

"Don't leave me alone with just my folks," He half-jokes. "I'll go crazy!"

That's the last thing he says to me. I wonder if it's the last thing he'll ever say to me.

More peacekeepers come and I am marched out of the Justice building and through a back door, which leads directly to a waiting car. I follow numbly. What else was I going to do? Throw myself in front of the train? Not a chance in hell. They'd find someone else. And that'd just be a burden to everyone.

Cameramen from the Capitol instantly have their lenses zoomed right in on my face as we break into the outdoors. We group with our escort, our mentor –What was his name again? – and the male tribute. He's still whimpering and wiping his nose on his sleeve. I try and tell myself to avoid him, that he's pathetic, but I can't help but feel bad for him. Our situation is pretty awful.

When I try and smile at him he doesn't notice; but the cameras sure do. My smiling face is plastered all over huge screens, probably broadcasted to the entire nation of Panem right now. My smiling face, ready for the Games. Ready to kill.


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