AN: So, I am an impatient sort and have decided to start. There are still spots open, including three PoV slots, so while the story is beginning to roll don't think you've been left out. Open positions are now on my profile. Once again, two tributes per person in now allowed. And don't be discouraged if you weren't picked for a PoV. Foxface didn't have a PoV. Neither did Finnick or Peeta or Haymitch. And I assure you, by the end of this all twenty four tributes will have contributed something important to the plot. Which this story has. JOIN THE SYOT, WE HAVE PLOT! Anyway, time to introduce the lovely Abilee Wilkin.

I like quiet places. Most people I know seem to love the rush of a crowd, but it just gives me a headache. The sounds rattle around my head like drums, and there's no way to be rid of it. I would rather sit by myself, somewhere quiet, where I understand everything and everything understands me.

It's reaping day, and I know that soon enough I am going to have to go out of the quiet, into the noise and bustle and the barely concealed terror. I know exactly how I'm going to act. I will smile, I will stare into the distance and do something to keep me busy. Maybe I'll knit, maybe I'll bring the puzzle box that my grandmother gave me. I won't talk to anyone, I'll keep to myself and try to make my own quiet with my lack of speech. It will not work of course, but I will try. And I will pretend as if the games do not bother me. As if the violence doesn't make my heart feel like a small animal is slowly taking bites out of it.

But that is when I go to the reaping, not now. Right now I am in a quiet spot, knitting. The needles and the faint sound of birds the only noises. I like the rhythm that knitting makes. It's exact, it's familiar. I can chase away the chaos with those two needles of mine. Sometimes I don't even know what I'm knitting, but I do it anyway. Most people call me silly for it. I imagine many people would laugh if they saw me now, hair matted in my eyes, knitting in a tree with my eyes focused skyward. I wouldn't let them know how much it hurt if they did.

I let time slip by me for a while, and it scarcely feels like any has passed when my mother comes to get me. She calls me down from the tree, a look of patience on her face. I do love my mother. She doesn't understand me, of course. But I don't really understand her. Yet me, her, and my father manage to get along all right. We do love each other. I like to think that matters. My mother is dressed rather nicely today, which is appropriate for the reapings. She tells me that I should get ready as well. So I climb down from the tree and enter my room. I don't talk, of course. I'm not a fan of talking.

I choose a simple blue dress and tie a ribbon around the waist to make it look more fancy. I think it looks rather nice. I even try to work with my hair, though it comes out as frizzy and puffs out in a frustrating way. I try to make myself look less like a poodle, and succeed a little bit before heading out to the town square.

It's crowded, as I knew it would be, and I find myself stepping into the routine I use when anything is too noisy. Don't talk, eyes down, keep to yourself. It will pass. It is taking a long time. Greca Hiddleton, district three's capitol escort, appears to have gotten lost despite this being the fourth year of coming here. So we all wait for her. People start talking among themselves and the noise gets louder, until Greca finally appears and the crowd dies down for a few minutes.

I am among the few people who listen to the presentation. It's the same as every year, but I listen anyway. About the rebellion, and district thirteen, and the start of the hunger games. Just like every year, I'm surprised at how clean it sounds. At how they can take all that pain and suffering and make it really boring. They stop talking about death eventually, and for a brief moment Greca looks as if she doesn't remember what she is supposed to be doing. Then she snaps back to herself and heads over to the great glass jar that holds the names of all the girls in district three.

My name is in there, though not very many times. I try not to think about it, but I end up doing it anyway. My name is in there, and as little chance as it is Greca could always pull my name out. Even as I'm thinking this, I'm a bit surprised when she does.

I stand there for a moment, just letting it sink in. Then I walk slowly up to the stage. Meander, really. I'm not in a rush. They can wait for me. I don't say anything, just loop around until I'm finally on the stage. I don't think anyone can tell how scared I am. How full I am of fear and hate and disgust. Perhaps I'm all right with that. I don't really want them to see.

Greca smiles at me, a little kind, a little oblivious, a little lost. Maybe in different circumstances we would have been friends. I know what it's like to never really know where you're going. She asks me my name, and it's the first words I speak all day.

"Abilee Wilkin."

At this moment, my name feels like a death sentence.