Sorry I'm a day late, guys! I'm just getting prepared for Thursday, getting my Madge outfit together. ANYWAY! Enough about my personal life, because it's boring. Enjoy chapter 3!

AVGPH xx

Chapter 3: District 3; Arthur (Artie) Abrams

Nerves. Anticipation. Fear. All of these feelings could be summed up into one event; the reaping. The bane of Artie Abrams' existence, if you were to ask him. However, he wasn't exactly vocal with his' opinion, so one would have to approach him, which didn't exactly happen often. They were scared, terrified of his' outer layer, his wheelchair. His wheelchair had become his identity. They were all scared, was all. But maybe, maybe if they just took their precious time talking and not gawking, they would discover Arthur Abrams, the guy who just wants to be heard, but silenced by the facade of outward.

But, anyway. He had to get himself ready. He sat up in his bed, taking one hand and grabbing his leg and lifting the lifeless ligament, then the other. His numb legs dangled on the edge of the bed, and using all the upper body strength he had gained from the 13 years of being in a wheelchair he placed himself into the wheeled contraption. Vigorously working out by rolling yourself around in a hunk of metal had its benefits.

Why was he in the wheelchair? Why couldn't he just go to the Capitol, get new and better legs? His family was poor. Very poor. Hence, why he was entered in the reaping 23 times. Unfortunately, if it wasn't for all those entries, his family would have to move to a more indigent District.

He was his family's lifeline. And the odds were not in his favor now, but it didn't matter. He closed his eyes, swept away by his imagination. When he opened his eyes, he remembered. The reaping. He had to get ready.

Artie wheeled himself to his small closet, where there were a series of pulley systems he invented himself to help him get to the clothes. He picked out a white undershirt and a plaid sweater vest, along with some suspenders, khaki pants; socks and shoes which he hadn't felt pressed up against his feet in 13 years.

Depressing, right?

He sighed to himself, tying the shoes, and observing himself. Glasses, on. Clothes, yes, shoes, yes, socks, yes. Wheelchair, yes. He was as ready as ever.

Santana Lopez

Heart racing, adrenaline pumping. Sweat glistening, faux support. Santana Lopez felt all of these feelings every reaping, over and over. However, she could hide it. You see, Santana grew up in the ghetto part of town. The part that even the Peacekeepers dare not enter without a gun. Her family was tough. Rough. Terrible, yet wonderful at the end of the day. But, they were barely just surviving.

Which is why Santana's name was entered 36 times. District 3 had a depressingly low economy already, and the average person her age was entered about 15 times. But since Santana had a large family, and most of them were jobless and over 18 years old, Santana had to take the toll. Of course.

This is where the training ground came in handy.

It wasn't exactly a training ground, though. Since her father worked with a lot of knives, her family set up a small "training ground" (which consisted of a piece of paper and scarecrow). From there, Santana became a knife thrower.

And she was good at it, too.

It started out as a hobby. Every other day, she began to train. And then, she began to love it. She would anxiously look at the clock at her school, waiting for the bell to ring, and then she would run though the alleyway to the back yard. To her scarecrow, her knives. Her home.

That's how the reaping became less and less nerve-racking for her. Slowly, she wanted to go. It grew on her. She wanted to showcase her abilities.

She was already ready. Clothes on, everything.

She wanted to go, and yet, she didn't want to. But it didn't matter. What happened would happen.

She set off to the town square, smirking. Watch out, District 3. Here is Santana Lopez.

The Tributes; The Reaping.

The smog of District 3 built up as Emma coughed, her yellow wig shifting to the side. She attempted her signature grin as the people filed in.

Santana stood near the back of all the children, as she scanned around for her family. They were all here. Good. She smiled at all of them, pulling her hair back into a slick ponytail, as her best friend arrived.

"Hi," she said to the girl, as Juanita, a girl of 17 years waved.

She didn't talk back, and there was a reason for that. She was dumb and deaf. No, not as in stupid dumb, she actually couldn't talk. It had been that way since they were children, and they had grown accustomed to it, Juanita learned a bit of sign language, how to read lips. Santana smiled again at her friend, linking her hand in hers.

Artie rolled in, and the entirety of District 3 gaped, or even so much as glanced at the boy. Artie just looked down at his wheels, or ahead, determined to get to his spot. As Emma walked up to the podium, the entire District halted to attention.

Emma smiled. "Um, hello! Happy Hunger Games! Let's hope the odds are in your favor!" she giggled, scoping the lifeless crowd, trying to be as optimistic as she could be. "The Hunger Games are a thrilling time of year!"

Thrilling is one way to put it Artie thought, rolling his eyes.

"Let's get right to it, then! As always, ladies will be drawn first." The walk to the bowl was monotonous and dull as Emma drew the name, clunking back to the podium and the microphones in her yellow stiletto heels.

"The female tribute is Santana Lopez!" She cheered, scoping the crowd.

A cocky smirk grew on Santana's face as she walked out of the crowd.
However, she looked back at Juanita, who gazed at her with an intense, hurt, worrying, and longing look. Santana knew that Juanita couldn't communicate with words, but she sure as hell could communicate through looks. She stood there, breathing heavily, reality striking. Santana continued to stay there until a Peacekeeper barked at her to "GO FORWARD! GO OR ELSE WE'LL MOVE YOU."

She faced the front, walking back up toward the stage, the smirk not leaving her face, and Juanita's expression not evaporating from her thoughts.

The mentors glared at her, and the first thing that went through Santana's head is someone needs an attitude check, as she crossed her arms. Suddenly, the Games weren't games. Her smirk didn't give that away, though. She still thought those thoughts.

Emma looked at the crowd. Today was a wrong day for yellow. Not even her optimism (and neon yellow) could brighten up this situation in this district. She sighed to herself, a smile still plastered on her painted face. "And now, the boys!"

She, again, walked to the notorious boy's bowl, drawing out a name. The tension was felt as she read aloud "Arthur Abrams!"

Artie blinked, looking around. There had to be another Arthur. This had to be a mistake. When no one moved, Artie navigated his wheelchair through the crowd, and a boy's voice shouted out "IS THIS SOME KIND OF A JOKE?", but he ignored the male, wheeling up the ramp to the stage.

"Oh," Emma said, a bit choked up on the boy's behalf. "Ladies and Gentlemen, your District 3 tributes!"

Tributes, Artie thought, like a lamb being put up for a sacrifice. Does it have a choice? No.

The crowd clapped as the mayor stepped up and said, "As you know, the Hunger Games were created 74 years ago, after the rebellion, so that everyone understands that as President Sylvester gibes, she can also take away." The crowd remained silent, as the Mayor read off the Treaty of Treason. When he finished, everyone quickly got home, except for those who wished to say goodbye.

Juanita strolled over to Santana, the face she had worn upon her face when Santana got drawn still there etched eternally. She tried to smile at Santana, bur her eyes said so much. Too much, what she couldn't say. In her eyes resided hurt, pain, anxiousness, distress, dejection. Santana tried to avoid Juanita's intense eyes, but even still Santana could feel her friend's eyes blazing through her. She finally dared to look in her eyes, mouthing "I love you."

Juanita looked at her, turned away, and ran in the other direction.

Artie's mother looked at him, concerned. "Arthur-"

"I told you to call me Artie."

"Artie. Just.. do your best. Okay?"

Artie nodded, sighing. "Maybe, they'll help me."

"Hopefully."

Emma walked up to Artie, smiling. "What an honor to have you here, Mister Abrams."

Artie nodded once again, unlocking the wheels of his wheelchair.

"I'll just go now."

Artie eventually caught up to Santana as they departed to begin their adventure.