Guuuuys! I'm back with another chapter of Awakening, in pretty much exactly a little over a week, just as I promised. I think this is a pretty good system that I've got goin' here, so chapters will either come out in a little less than a week, exactly a week, or slightly more than a week. They should never take much longer than that, so if they do I'm sick or on vacation or something.

Anyway! This is the first of four Reapings chapters, introducing us to our tributes! Originally I had three chapters planned, but 3 chapters with 8 POVs would be ridiculously long, so I went with this instead. This chapter details the lives of our tributes a month before the Reapings, the next will show them on the morning of the Reapings, the next will deal with the Reapings themselves, and the final chapter will deal with their goodbyes to their friends and families. I hope you are all okay with this system!

Here's the chapter now. Enjoy!

One Month 'til Reapings

Quinn Asciutto, 16

District Ten Female

The canvas is heavy under my bony arm, and it tugs insistently at the sleeve of my sweater as I march resolutely up the hill, paying as little heed as I can to the way my arms ache in protest. It's too hot for wool, but when I was getting ready this morning I decided that I needed the warm comfort of my favorite sweater, and slipped it on despite the beads of sweat that were even then gathering at the nape of my neck.

By the time I've struggled to the top of the hill, I'm slightly out of breath and quite unprepared for the tableau spread out in front of me. The mayor's house is ridiculously opulent. Compared to my own squat abode, his is a towering mansion with a wrought-iron fence and a neatly-trimmed garden. Of course it's like this, I think, glowering. He's rich, isn't he?

I don't want to do this, but that's never stopped me before. I continue down the dusty path to the mansion sprawling across the hill. When I state my name into the speakers on the gate I am admitted straightaway, and halfway down the path the mayor's personal assistant comes hurrying out to help me with the canvas.

I'm a bit flustered, to say the least. The assistant hurries me down the path, talking all the while, and I clutch at my bag with suddenly sweating palms. This is too much, I think, I should go, but I find myself moving forward all the same, and even nodding once or twice to the eager-to-please assistant.

"Mayor Samson is very excited about this," says the assistant, as she opens the door for me. She nearly drops the canvas as she does so, and I lunge to catch it, barely managing to keep hold of it before it clatters onto the steps.

"Be more careful," I admonish, dusting the canvas gently with my right hand. Honestly, I don't much care if the damn thing is covered in dirt by the time it reaches the mayor, but I imagine that he'll care and then this whole enterprise will have been for nothing.

"Sorry," says the assistant, pushing open the great oaken door with her shoulder. "Anyway," she continues, "he's been talking about it for hours." She ushers me into a grand, dimly-lit hallway, filled with portraits of people who I imagine are past mayors of District Ten. I recognize precisely none of them. "Look there," says the assistant, pointing eagerly. "That's where your portrait is going to go."

I consider replying, decide against it, and move past the assistant, who sighs as she closes the door behind me. By the time she catches up, I'm halfway to the stairs, determined to get this thing over and done with as soon as possible, home in time for whatever dinner my mother will concoct for us.

The assistant jogs ahead, trying her best to keep up with my quick pace. She slows down in front of a door almost all the way down the hall. It isn't much different than the others, but she glances at it with a sort of reverence in her eyes. "This is the mayor's office," she exclaims breathlessly. "You can head in straightaway. He's waiting for you."

I nod at her, and, because she doesn't seem like she's going to do it, open the door with my one free hand, desperately clinging to my canvas with the other. I slip into the room and kick it shut behind me with a dirty sneaker. Hah, I think, feeling quite suddenly as though I've won some kind of victory against authority. Take that.

The mayor's office is just as elegant as the rest of his home. He sits behind a polished mahogany desk; a porcine man, indeed, he reminds me so much of one of the pigs that live on my best friend Jeannine's farm that I have to internalize a sudden, surprised laugh. I've seen the mayor in reaping day, of course, and a few places around the district—but he tends to avoid the poorer areas of District Ten. It's a wonder he allowed me to come here at all.

When he spots me, a smile spreads across his face. "Welcome, welcome!" he exclaims, hurrying around from behind his desk to shake my hand. Awkwardly I let him grasp it. His palm is warm and slightly sweaty, and I have to force my lip not to curl. I just can't help it. So this is the man that runs District Ten, I think, decidedly unimpressed. This man here is the reason that I'm slated to work with livestock all my life, because I'm from a section of the district he doesn't like. I squeeze the handle of my bag. Oh, screw him, I decide, but I let none of it appear on my face, not for a moment. I don't think he'd like what I'm thinking, after all.

"So you're the artist!" he exclaims. "I must say, I'm awfully excited about this! I've never had my portrait done before." He smiles at me, and appears to be waiting for a response.

"Neither have I," I tell him.

"Right, right." His laugh is mildly uncomfortable, and at least I can take comfort in the fact that he probably feels as awkward as I do. "Well… Shall we get started?"

"Let's."

He points me towards the center of the room, where an easel has been placed in front of a large wooden chair. "Is this setup alright with you?" he exclaims, wringing his hands together. Beads of sweat glint from his forehead. "The chair, the angle? Everything?"

"It's fine." I busy myself with setting up the canvas, internally relieved that it blocks him from my sight. "You can sit down now," I add, as I yank oil paints and a brush from my bag. Very expensive, oil paints. But I've made sure that the expense is to be included in my fee, and I should still have paint left over when I'm done. I'm not going to use it for my own work—I don't paint for fun. But if I can make this portrait thing into a lucrative business, the extra paint will come in handy.

When I next glance around the canvas, the mayor has settled into the chair and is busily rearranging his hands in his lap. He looks up when he sees me, juts out his chin, and smiles. "How does this look?"

Awful. "Fine," I tell him.

He visibly deflates. "Only fine?" he quips. "Not handsome? Not dashing?"

"Fine," I repeat, a bit louder than before, to get my point across. He takes the hint, and shuts up.

Carefully I dip the tip of the brush into the dark brown paint, in order to accent the unfortunate suit he's managed to cram himself into. I press the brush to the canvas and begin to stroke. In a few short lines I've captured his shoulders and neck. In the interest of monetary gain, I've removed a substantial portion of his weight.

"Miss Quinn?" he asks. "Have you started—?"

"Shh." I'm focused.

"I—what?"

"Shh," I repeat, pausing for a moment. "If you talk, you move, and that spoils it. Just keep smiling." It's the most I've ever said to him, and the most I plan on saying.

His smile returns, although this time it is obviously forced. I can still make this look good, though, I decide, and get back to work. Portraits aren't particularly difficult, if you know what you're doing.

But as I work on the gold bauble attached to his breast pocket, I have to squeeze my brush very tightly to keep my hands from shaking. How did he get where he is today? I think, although it's a mostly rhetorical question. I know how he got where he is. He kissed up to the Capitol, and they rewarded him. That might be a viable option for some, but there's no way in hell I'm going to kneel down and let the Capitol steamroll me, just so I can do something with my life. No, I'm going to get there on my own, however long it takes, whatever I have to do.

Time passes quickly when I'm absorbed in my work. Still, darkness has fallen outside the window by the time I am able to put down my brush. I'm famished, thirsty, and exhausted, but I still take a moment to appreciate how I've made the mayor look like an average human being.

"It's done," I tell him, and he jerks awake with a snort. I hadn't even realized he was sleeping.

"Whazzat?" he mumbles.

"The portrait," I exclaim, jabbing at it with my pointer finger.

"Oh!" He stumbles out of his chair, hurries over to examine it. "Oh my!" he exclaims. "This is fantastic work, just fantastic! I look marvelous!" He claps me on the shoulder, and I grind my teeth together so hard I can hear it.

The mayor observes my non-reaction and clears his throat. "I suppose you'll be wanting your money, then."

"Yeah," I agree placidly, as I toss the paints and the brush back in my bag. I hardly spare a glance for the completed portrait, which will soon occupy an exalted place on the mayor's wall. For whatever reason, I suddenly feel like a sellout. He didn't deserve this portrait, and I didn't want to paint it. I shouldn't have done it.

But as the mayor counts out the bills from his desk drawer and I watch them accumulate, I can't help but appreciate the warm glow of pride in my belly. I take the credits from the mayor, offer up the necessary words of thanks, and leave his office without thinking. I am still in awe of the money now safely tucked in my sweater pocket.

For some, it isn't much. But for me, it's just the beginning. I'll paint portraits, I'll do odd jobs around the district, I'll do what I have to in order to earn enough credits to buy my ticket out of here. I am not going to farm for the rest of my life. That isn't where my talents lie.

This money, I decide, marks the start of my new life. My real life. From this point on, I'm looking towards the future, and nothing is going to get in my way.

Ava Widing, 15

District Twelve Female

The miners have been trapped below the surface for three days now.

I'm no miner, but everybody knows what that means. Three days is a long time to go without seeing the sun. Three days is a long time to go without tasting fresh air.

They're going to die.

Once, when I was a child, I might have held out hope. But we're bringing them food and water! I might have said. We can keep doing that until we dig them out, right?

I'm older now, less naïve. I know how the tunnels shift, and I know how constant darkness beats the will to live out of a person. I know how the dusty air coats the insides of the lungs, and I know that sooner or later those five men will wind up dead.

But when the foreman told me that Hober and I were to be the ones to bring the trapped miners fresh rations, I didn't even think of refusing.

Thus far, we haven't had any trouble. The tunnels leading to the collapsed section of the mines are still intact, and although we've had to avoid a few mine carts here and there, we've been otherwise undisturbed.

Beyond the soft glow of my flashlight, the darkness is inky black and thick, and it seems like my light is hardly affecting it at all. I take a step forward, and then another, and wince at the way my right foot catches in the dust and has to be dragged into the correct position. It is easy to forget about my limp, but not as easy in the cramped confines of the mines, where I got the limp in the first place.

"There's the entry point," says Hober, pointing with his free hand. "Are you gonna go in, Ava, or should I?"

"It should be me," I tell him. "I'm smaller than you; I'll fit better. And you have my back, right?" It's a pointless question, really; I know that Hober has my back. We've been paired up together to do mine work before, and he's never failed me, never even made any mistakes as far as I can remember. He's one of the most reliable people I know. And when I see him in school, he always makes sure to say hello to me. He's a good person, Hober Madison.

"Right," he exclaims. "Still though, you sure?" He gestures at my leg. "I mean, no offense or anything, but that leg's only gonna slow you down."

"It's alright." As I tell him this, I shuffle towards the entry point. It's a small hole in the side of the tunnel; only someone as slight as I am would be able to slip into it without claustrophobia setting in. "It's not so much a problem when I'm crawling, anyway."

"If you say so." He steps up behind me as I get onto the ground, pressing my palms into the dusty earth. "If something happens, just whistle and I'll grab your legs and pull you out."

"Thanks, Hober." I open my teeth and clamp them around the flashlight, discouraging any more small talk. Then, with my belly scraping the ground, I crawl forward and lose myself in the darkness.

The tunnel is so small that all I can smell is the stink of coal dust. It settles in my dark brown hair almost immediately, and I can only be thankful that I always tie my hair back for this very reason. My loose shirt begins to ride up at my stomach, and I can feel the dust pressing against the bronzed skin near my navel. I crawl forward a few inches, ignoring the way my right leg hitches and bumps against the ground. It's alright, I remind myself, if anything happens Hober will pull me out. The tunnel will not collapse. What are the odds of lightning striking in the same place twice?

My flashlight illuminates very little, but I keep my jaws clenched as tightly as I can. I don't want to risk losing it; I really don't want to fall into complete darkness. I'm not particularly afraid of the dark, but I need to see where the collapsed tunnel and my tunnel intersect, or all this work will have been for nothing.

I know I'm close when a slight cough interrupts my thoughts. My hand is shaking with exertion as I reach up and pluck the flashlight from my mouth. I rub the saliva onto my shirt and turn the light to my left. Sure enough, my little tunnel opens into a wider tunnel, from which I can see the faintest of glows. A dying battery, perhaps? The pity washes over me in a wave. These poor men. These poor, doomed men.

They're going to die. There isn't anything I can do about that.

I kick my left leg once, and it thumps solidly against the roof of my tunnel. A cloud of debris immediately rains down on my pants legs, but it was worth it, as Hober has gotten my message. As I lay prone on the ground, he is taking the necessary items of survival out of a basket. Then I hear the whisper of displaced air, and a moment later a bottle of water thuds against my ribs, hard enough to assert its presence but light enough that it doesn't hurt me. Hober has always been good at sending items to me from the end of a tunnel. Suffice it to say he's never broken any of my fingers.

As Hober slings more and more items into the little pile that is now growing at my ribs, I clear my throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Hello?" I whisper, and my voice carries in the silence. "Hello?"

A racking cough explodes from the mostly-collapsed tunnel. "Hello?" A man's voice returns to me, thick with dust. "Are you here to rescue us?"

"I—no, I—I'm here with some food and water," I blurt, picking up the first bottle in my hand. The flashlight I rest next to my jaw, where it won't go rolling away. "I'm going to drop everything down to you, alright?"

"Wait." This is a different man's voice, and it is solemn. "Wait. Reed died last night."

I recoil, palms beginning to sweat. No surprise. Not a surprise. You knew they were going to die.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I know the words won't help, won't accomplish anything but the cementing in their minds that they will be next. "I'm so sorry, I—"

"We need to know what to do with the body," the second voice interjects. He sounds calm, and I realize that he must have some hope left. The thought helps, somehow.

But I'm so out of my depth. This is not my field—I have no idea what to tell them. As if reading my thoughts, a third voice appears from the darkness below. "You're wasting your time, Marsh. She doesn't know." He lets out a bitter sort of snort. "We're fucked, and you won't admit it to yourself."

"You're not helping," says Marsh. "Girl? You still there?"

"Yes," I whisper, past the lump in my throat.

"What's your name?" asks Marsh.

"Ava. Ava Widing."

"Ava," says the first man, with a cough. "What do you think we should do with the body?"

I let out a tiny sneeze. "Is there anywhere you can roll it?" I suggest. "To keep it away from the rest of you?"

"There's hardly enough room for breathing down here," the third voice snarls. "There ain't no place to put him."

"Then I don't know." My voice is small, and faint, and sad. There is no solution; they must have already realized that. "I don't know."

The silence settles on the five of us like a tomb. That's exactly what it is, I think, as I drop the first water bottle into the tunnel. A tomb.

They are disturbingly quiet until I've finished sending them their care package. "That's everything," I announce, doing my best to inject some false cheerfulness into my voice and only partially succeeding. "Someone will come by in the next day or two to bring you some more supplies." I want to add something about them being rescued soon, but that would seem too untrue and I just can't do it.

"Ava?" This is the bitter-sounding third voice speaking.

"Yes?"

"Do you think we're going to die?"

I can hear someone admonishing the bitter man in a harsh whisper. I find myself staring at the waning light through the tiny crack connecting our two tunnels. I know what they want to hear. But I know the truth, too, and I can't stand liars.

"I hope not," I tell them, because it's the only thing I can think of to say.

No one responds, and I wait only a moment before I whistle for Hober to pull me out.

Molex Scrobble, 12

District Three Male

I just can't believe that the stupid bitch actually agreed to come here alone.

I guess she's not really stupid. Fine, Teka is actually the smartest girl in our class, but that doesn't make her intuition-smart, like I am. No, she's fucking stupid when it comes to intuition. Her intuition should have told her to never come to the outskirts of the district all by your lonesome to meet a boy who despises you.

But she thinks she's all-fucking-that, and that I'm just another piece of crap dumbass who doesn't understand how technology works. She thinks that I asked her here in order to beg for her help, just so I can pass our mutual decryption class. As if I give a fuck about classes. My father sent me here in the hopes that I would one day make him proud, but technology isn't for me. No, I've come up with a different way to uphold the family name.

That, however, is in the future. In the here and now, I'm alone by one of the few waterways in District Three. This particular canal is practically green from pollution, and the air stinks so bad that nobody ever comes here. My eyes are stinging from the smell, and I take a moment to scrub at them with the back of my hand.

When I next look up, there she is, marching towards me from a block or two away. I consider waving at her, but don't. She doesn't deserve my recognition.

Instead, I lean against one of the huge obsolete hard drives that have been abandoned here and idly pick at my nails as she approaches. As I wait, I sneak glances at her from underneath my copper fringe. Her long dark hair is, as always, impeccably groomed, and she's wearing a fancy dress that she probably thinks makes her look pretty. Well, it does, but she's got an ugly heart so it doesn't matter what she looks like on the outside.

As soon as I can hear her shoes clicking on the pavement, I stop pretending to pick my nails and straighten to my full height, which admittedly isn't very impressive. Whatever, I think to myself, I might not be 5 feet tall but I've got more muscle than anybody else I know. Unlike the other pussy boys who live in this district, I actually work out. I'm strong, and I'm dangerous, and anybody who thinks otherwise is in for a nasty surprise.

Take Teka here. For weeks now, she's been talking about me behind my back. Apparently she thinks I'm "stupid," "arrogant," and "slowing the pace of the entire class." When I came up to her today at school and asked her to meet me, she smirked and said something like "it's about time, slowpoke."

She's gonna wish she hadn't said that.

Teka yawns and stretches her back until I can hear her vertebrae popping. "Okay, Molex," she exclaims, "let me guess. You want me to tutor you."

I'm so flush with anticipation that I don't answer her, only nod. I know that I won't be able to pull it off if I say anything, I'm so excited.

Luckily, the dumb bitch is so blinded by her sense of self-importance that she pretty much ignores me. "That's what I thought," she exclaims. "That being said, it isn't going to be an easy job because, you know, you're an imbecile." She grins at me, and the moonlight reflects off the lenses of her glasses. "So if you want me to tutor you, there are going to have to be some ground rules.

"One: I know you're rich because your daddy is actually smart, so you're going to be paying me every bit of your allowance until this is over."

I take a step closer to her. She doesn't notice, she's too busy talking.

"Two: you don't tell anyone about this. I don't want my reputation to suffer if people know I'm hanging out with you."

I take another step, and blithely she continues on.

"Three: you're my bitch now. You do what I say, when I say it—"

I clench my right hand into a fist and punch her in the face.

It isn't as if I haven't done this before. Still, the way her nose crunches under my knuckles, the way warmth spurts from her nostrils and splatters onto my bare skin, is intoxicating. She yelps, more surprised than anything, and stumbles to the ground. Her upper lip is covered in red, and her glasses have been knocked askew. She looks up at me with grey eyes suddenly filled with fear. "Molex," she gasps. "Wait—"

I kick her in the stomach.

She gasps again, and curls up onto her side, fingers pressed against her bruised skin. Grinning, I stamp on one of her hands, and she screams as something crunches under my heel. I glance around, but nothing disturbs the stillness. After all, there's nobody here.

Now she's trying to get to her feet. Before she can, I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her over to the massive old hard drive. She tries to brace herself against it, but I slam her head into the side, three times, and her arms go limp. Blood trickles from her scalp and pools in her eye sockets.

"You bitch," I snarl, kicking her again. "You thought you could talk about me, Molex Scrobble, behind my back, and get away with it?" She's sobbing, faintly protesting. Her eyes are wet and snot dribbles from her nostrils along with the blood. I reach into my pocket, and my fingers close around my coup de grâce.

The pocket knife shimmers faintly in the moonlight. When Teka sees it, she actually screams and attempts to scramble away, despite her broken hand and probable concussion. I let her drag herself almost into the canal before I walk to her and kick her onto her back. Her whole body is shaking, and the look in her eyes suggests that she still can't believe I'm doing this. The dumb whore.

"M-M-Molex," she whimpers, "please—"

"Shut up, bitch," I whisper, and I fall into a crouch. I am holding the knife loosely in my fingers. I grasp her by the shirt front, and she wails in fear. "Shut up, I said," I admonish, and jab her in the solar plexus. She sucks in a startled breath of air and pants violently. No more vocalizations are made.

"This," I tell her, waving the knife in front of her grey eyes, "is because you thought you were better than me. Well now you've learnt your lesson. Nobody is better than Molex Scrobble. Nobody."

She tries to scream again, despite her wounded solar plexus, but all she manages is a faint whine. And with that, I drive the knife into her forehead, almost directly between her eyes.

Immediately her eyes fix on some spot far above me and become glassy. A trickle of blood slips down her forehead and drips onto the pavement below. Her tense body goes limp, and she lets out a final sigh.

I look upon the body with satisfaction. "Yeah," I whisper, as I yank the knife from her cooling corpse. A few hard tugs and it comes out, covered in blood and tiny bits of grey matter. "Eat it, bitch."

After a few wipes on Teka's dress, the knife is clean enough to be returned to my pocket. To my right, the canal hisses and bubbles, the fumes as noxious as ever. I take Teka's body in my hands and push, heave, and finally shove it into the canal. It splashes heavily down and I scramble back a few paces to avoid being hit by the backsplash.

In a moment the greenish water sucks her under, and that's it, she's done. You're never going to talk shit about me again, I think, satisfied, as I jam my hands into my jacket pockets. You're finished.

Killing will be harder in the Games, of course. After all, the tributes will know that it's coming, and they'll fight back harder than this bitch did. Some of them I might not even want to kill.

But kill them I will, because I'm going to win the Hunger Games, I have to. I might not be the smartest kid in District Three, but I'm the most dangerous, and I have what it takes to win. I've been waiting for my chance to volunteer for three years now, and I've never been more excited to finally take the plunge.

I'm going to win the Hunger Games, and my father is going to be proud of me for the first time in my life.

Coraline "Cora" Aceane, 17

District Two Female

The gymnasium has been cleared of all equipment, and is empty but for the set of metal bleachers that have been shoved to the very center. This is where we are all sitting, clustered together, arms thrown lazily around each other's shoulders. There is a spirit of camaraderie in the air, which is funny, considering that today is the day that thirty-eight dreams are going to be crushed.

Well, thirty-seven. I already know that I'm not going to be chosen. I've given it some thought, and I'm alright with that. It isn't that I don't want to prove myself (I do, of course I do) but in the end I don't suppose I ever wanted to kill other kids, anyway.

Head Trainer Davenport saw that in me, I think. I try to hide it as best I can, but he must know I'm soft. Perhaps there's something in the way I hold myself, or maybe it's just that I'm not as good as the other girls. No matter. There's always next year, I suppose.

The Head Trainer is standing before the forty of us now, pacing back and forth. His shoes squeak against the gymnasium floor. His hair is nearly grey in the harsh light, but he looks by no means old. He is a wiry, lean man, compact but muscular. He looks like a man who knows how to kill.

Which is ironic, considering that he was never a contestant in the Hunger Games himself. He trained and trained, but in the end he was beaten out by a boy half his age, a boy who would die in the Bloodbath of his Games. I don't think Davenport ever forgave himself for that, and he works us all the harder because of it.

To my right sits Kayana, and she is leaning forward on her bench with her hands balled into fists. Kayana will be furiously disappointed if Davenport doesn't name her the female tribute for the 148th Hunger Games. There's not much I can do in that regard, but I lean over and squeeze her shoulder. She jumps for a moment, and relaxes when she realizes it's only me.

"Don't be nervous," I whisper, in an undertone. "You're going to get this. I'm sure of it."

She smiles back at me, but doesn't seem particularly confident. "What about your sister, Cora? She's deadly with a sword. I can barely lift the damn things."

The both of us turn to glance curiously at my sister, who is brooding on the bottom tier of the bleachers. Truth be told, I think Caroline probably is more qualified to be a contestant in the Hunger Games than Kayana is, but saying so would break my friend's heart. I just smile. "Who, her? She's too much of a grump for Davenport to choose. No, I'm sure it'll be you."

"Definitely," Annaliese pipes up, from the tier below us. "You're the best, Kay! Nobody's in doubt of that."

"I don't know," Damian drawls, from my left. "Caroline is pretty talented."

I shoot him a glare. Damian, despite being my ex-boyfriend, is still a close friend to us all, and the last thing we need right now is him putting a damper on Kayana's spirits. "Damian," I snarl, "would you mind keeping your misguided and false opinions to yourself?"

"Yeah!" exclaims Kayana, suddenly energized. "What the fuck, Damian?"

He just shrugs. "Maybe I want it to be Caroline. After all, I don't want to have to kill you in the arena, Kay."

She snorts. "Pssh. As if you'll be chosen. We all know it's going to be Braden."

Damian is about to work up a reply to that when Davenport clears his throat and the chatter immediately silences. "Trainees," says Davenport, "shut the hell up."

Immediate, dead silence. "That's better." Davenport swivels until he is facing us, his hands folded neatly behind his back. "Now," he says, "another Reaping is nearly upon us. In one month, two of our finest will volunteer as tributes in the 148th Hunger Games." He pauses to take a breath. "As always, I have had to work with forty of this district's laziest, stupidest, and most insolent brats, but I've done the best I could.

"After this announcement, those of you who were not chosen will remain in this training school for the full month until the Reaping. After that, if you are eighteen, I don't want to see your face in here again. If you are seventeen or younger, you have years to go before I'm done with you, so don't you dare fall behind on your training!" He wipes the sweat from his brow with a pallid hand.

"Let's get this over with," he mutters. "This year's female tribute is Caroline Aceane!"

Caroline, from her spot, glances up dully and nods, totally calm, as if she were never in doubt. A flicker of irritation passes over me. She's so arrogant, I grumble to myself. At my side, Kayana has gone stiff. Her eyes are huge and hurt. "Fuck," she whispers.

"And the male tribute is Braden Ranae!"

"Shit!" Damian whispers, while I quickly scan the crowd for Braden. There he is, also nodding his dark-haired head in a bored sort of way. I guess he really is better than Damian, I think, disappointed but not surprised. Both of my friends must be feeling like shit right now. Annaliese and I don't particularly care, but it hurts to know how upset they must be feeling.

"That's all I wanted," says Davenport. "You can get the hell out now. Training over." Immediately, Kayana leaps from the bleachers and storms towards the exit of the gym.

"Kay, wait!" Annaliese cries, leaping up and following her, while Damian marches stiffly after then, muttering to himself.

As much as I want to follow, the least I can do is congratulate my sister on her big day. We aren't close, exactly. Or close at all, in any way. We're just too different, and I've always had the feeling that Caroline resents me, probably because, unlike her, I actually have friends. And it's not that I don't want her to have any, because I do, but she just isn't a likable person.

Gracefully I drop from the bleachers and land in front of her. Trainees are streaming towards the exit, but the two of us are arrested under the harsh lights. "So," I tell her, "you must be excited!" I even manage a big smile that I don't feel.

Caroline doesn't make the same effort. "Not really," she says dully. "I knew I would be picked. I'm better than everyone else. Especially you."

She always has to make it a competition, I think, inwardly wincing. "Whatever," I snap. "I was just trying to tell you that I was happy for you."

Caroline lets out a monotone, joyless laugh. "You should be," she says. "If you were chosen, you'd die in the arena."

I take a step back. "No, I wouldn't, Caroline. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You would," she says casually. "I can tell. You're weak."

She might be right, but there's no way I'm letting her get away with saying that. "Oh, screw you," I growl. "You think you're all that? Believe me, if I'd been picked, I would kick ass in the arena. I'd win easily."

She laughs again. "I'd love to see that," she exclaims. "What the hell, if you were reaped I wouldn't even volunteer. I'd let you go 'kick ass in the arena.' I'm sure you'd do fine." From the expression on her face, she doubts it.

"Bring it on," I growl. "If I get reaped, you'd better not volunteer. I'll show you how it's done." Of course, this is all for show. There's no way I'll get reaped, and even if I do, Caroline won't risk being ostracized for something as silly as a sibling rivalry. I think.

"Fine," Caroline snaps, brushing past me with a toss of her light brown hair, exactly the same as mine. How can we look so similar but be so different? The answer to that question has always eluded me.

I stare at her retreating back, and I have to wonder where everything went so wrong. Is it Caroline's fault, or mine? Is there something I should have done, should have said?

If Caroline dies in that arena, I suppose I'll never find out.

Harley Rennock, 18

District Eight Male

If I remember correctly, the people of District Eight actually protested when this little park was built. It is located almost directly in the middle of the sprawling factory district, and I've heard time and time again that it is situated just so that shipping between the factories becomes nearly impossible. It is a stain on our stained district. Or so they say.

Anyway, I love the place. How could I not love it? On good days I can hear birds singing in the foliage, and I even catch a glimpse of whirling feathers now and again. There are squirrels hiding in the underbrush, and although I have no idea how they migrated all the way from the outskirts of our district to its very center, I am taken with them nonetheless, and sometimes feed them scraps from my lunch when I have a little extra. But most of all, this little park is our special place, where the three of us crawl after a particularly grueling day at school to decompress.

I am sitting with my back pressed against the bark of a tree. The bark tugs at my loose shirt, pulling it just far enough to reveal a strip of pale white stomach. Experimentally, I poke at my skin with my index finger. "I'm too skinny," I announce. "I think I'm too skinny. Oh, no. Oh, no. This is why nobody wants to date me."

Callum lets out a whoosh of air from between pursed lips. "Oh, yeah," he drawls, scratching the back of his neck. "That's the reason, Harley. You've hit the nail on the head this time."

"Not liking the sarcasm," I tell him, dragging my shirt back into place. "Besides, you'd date me."

"If I was gay, sure," says Callum, "but I'm not, and neither are you, so there's no use pining for things that will never be."

"I bet that's the reason that nobody wants to date either of you," remarks Adina thoughtfully. She twirls a strand of blonde hair around her index finger. "Your bromance is too real. Nobody wants to get in the way."

I turn to look at her, suddenly serious. "You don't actually think that?"

She shrugs. "It's possible."

I spring to my feet, suddenly energized. "Well that's that! Callum, I'm breaking up with you!"

He throws a hand to his heart in mock surprise. "What. Oh noooo."

"It's true." I nod gravely, and a lock of light brown hair falls in front of my eyes. Irritated, I flick it away. "The bromance is over. Done. We're going to have to find some female companions to wipe away our heartbreak."

Adina giggles. "I've already told you that there are plenty of girls I know who'd like a taste."

I wave my hand dismissively. "No, but that's not what I mean."

"Oh, no," exclaims Callum suddenly, from behind me. "Don't let him keep talking, Adina, he waxes poetic for hours about his one true love—"

"My one true love," I announce, speaking over him, "is—wait, I don't even have a one true love. I was just going to say that I want a girl who genuinely likes me for me, and doesn't mind the fact that I'm not all that hot and sometimes I say stupid things. And I definitely don't want a girl that's only using me to get into Callum's pants."

"Perish the thought," says Callum, grinning wickedly.

Adina purses her lips. "There are girls like that in the world somewhere," she says. "Maybe not in District Eight, but…" She winks, indicating that she's teasing, but now I'm actually thinking about this and I will not be deterred.

"But what if—no, seriously Callum, hear me out—what if there's someone out there for me, but she's in another district? How will I ever meet her? It's not like I can go visiting every single district whenever I feel like it."

"Volunteer for the Hunger Games," says Callum. "Maybe you'll get lucky and you'll get the chance to kill her on live TV."

I glower at him. "Not funny, man. I'm trying to be serious here."

"Well that's the risk you take when you try to be serious when I'm around."

"Leave him alone, Callum," says Adina, pausing a moment to lever such a ferocious glare in my friend's direction that it's a miracle he doesn't immediately melt into a quaking puddle. "I think it's sweet that you actually think about this," she continues. "Most of the guys in our year are just obsessed with getting some before they graduate."

"So were you, until you got some," says Callum.

"Oh, shut up!" Adina growls, removing her shoe and flinging it at Callum. It hits him on the side of the head and he collapses in the grass with a squeal.

I realize that I've been standing and pacing for nearly ten minutes now, so I collapse back into the grass next to Adina. She is combing her blonde hair with her fingers, and smiles invitingly at me. "Don't listen to Callum," she says. "He's a bitch."

"Oh, I know," I tell her, while Callum faintly protests in the background. "He is my friend, though. He gets some points for that."

"Only some?" exclaims Callum, tossing the shoe back towards Adina. "I'm the only one who'll put up with you!"

"You're also a buzzkill, overly sarcastic, and your temper gets us in trouble at school. Well," I amend, "our tempers get us into trouble at school." There's not one of us that doesn't flare up now and again, especially when we have to deal with some of the knuckleheads that share classes with us. I can only be patient for so long before I have to let it out.

"Thank you for the glowing assessment of my character," says Callum, getting to his feet and stretching. "Can we go, guys? It's getting late."

"Sure," says Adina, and I get to my feet, take her hand in mine, and pull her into a standing position as well.

"School's almost over," I remind them. "And we're all old enough to start work next year. We might not get many more days to do stuff like this."

"Cue the tears," mutters Callum.

"I'm not gonna cry, jackass!" Nonetheless, I do feel a swelling of emotion in my chest. Abruptly I lean in and grab the two of them for an impromptu hug. Neither of them protests; they've been living with me long enough to get used to my random outbursts of emotion.

"I love you guys," I tell them.

"Oh, Harley, I love you too," says Adina, her words fluttering over my cheekbone.

"Bromance is back on," says Callum, triumphant.

My best friends. I'm not being dramatic; I really do love them, as much as if we'd been born together. And I can only hope that work isn't going to come between us, because I wouldn't be able to stand not seeing them every day. They're my family now, and like a family, I want them to be there for me.

But there's no point in saying all this, because they already know. Instead, I stand with them a while longer, as the sky darkens above us.

Rana Alcina, 17

District One Female

What a stupid, stupid novel.

It's insipid, boring, and totally inaccurate, but it is storming so hard outside that training has been cancelled, and so I have nothing better to do. Perhaps I ought to be outside, forcing myself to endure the weather, but I already passed the "survivalist" unit and I have no desire to do so again. I would have gotten the best marks in that unit, too, but Gemma Martain had already been camping in her backyard for a week before the final test, so she had an unfair advantage from the start.

I pause in my reading for a moment and glance over my shoulder to the window, which rattles after every clap of thunder. It is difficult to discern much of anything beyond a maelstrom of grey, but it is enough for me to affirm that I'm making the right choice; that going outside would be insane. If it storms like this during the Games, I think, I will simply take shelter in the Cornucopia, or somewhere else. There's no way I'll go more than a day without shelter, so I shouldn't worry.

Perhaps I am being a bit preemptive, planning for the Games before this year's chosen volunteer has even been announced. As in past years, our trainers wait until the morning of the Reaping to tell us who has been chosen (to hype up drama, I suspect.) But I really have no reason to be concerned. There simply isn't anyone as good as me in the entire training school, and that settles matters.

I turn back to the novel, which is currently nestled in my lap. As I reach for it, my skirt rides up to almost pornographic heights, and I pause for a moment to yank it back into place with my free hand. I have long since learned that short dresses with plunging necklines can help me in so many ways, in so many places. I consider them a staple, and I will be sorely disappointed if the uniform in the arena is something prudishly conservative.

Idly, I flip the book's pages, which smell oddly of perfume. Deep Love, it is called, which honestly sounds more like the kind of filthy magazine half the boys in the district keep under their mattresses than a legitimate romance novel. I suppose I shouldn't expect any better from a Capitolian—at least, with a name like Aelia Fabius, I can only assume she is a Capitolian. The whole lot of them are an egotistical bunch, and not particularly smart to boot.

The thing about Deep Love (again, the name is just ridiculous) is that it depicts love as this magical thing that transforms the main character's life into a beautiful rosy fairytale where everything is perfect and she is always happy. And when the main character and her love interest finally share a night together, it is beautiful and tender and they are so very much in love—

The whole book is trollop, really.

The funniest part is the way this Aelia woman describes the man—honestly, has she ever met one before? The man is clever, intuitive, and caters to the woman's every whim. I actually snorted out loud when I read that part. They must raise men differently in the Capitol, I thought, because those aren't the men I know.

The men I know are only interested in one thing, and once their minds have been set, they don't think at all. They become walking, talking automatons, and if I lean over at just the right angle to give them a preview of what they might just get their hands on if they will only do me a favor—well, the rest is history.

I'm even slightly hypocritical—oftentimes I use men for the same reason they use me. Temporary companionship is, as the name suggests, temporary, but it's better than no companionship at all.

I shake my head very slightly, and my blonde curls bounce gently in a sudden draft. I should be doing something else, I think, but nothing comes to mind. After all, I used up the last of the morphling three weeks ago, and even if I hadn't, the marks on my forearms are beginning to become obvious. I need to tone it down if I want to look my best during the Games.

From one of the rooms down the hall there is a sudden crash. I wince, and my brow begins to furrow. I know that sound, oh, how well I know that sound. I consider getting up and moving, but what are the odds that he'll be sober enough to stand?

A moment later, though, the door to my father's bedroom creaks open. It's too late for me to go scampering off now, so I skip to a random page in the book, bite my lip as if in concentration, and begin to read.

… She fell against his chest, and his warmth was something tangible and comforting. She felt it wrap around her, a blanket in its own right, and she felt safer than she'd felt in a long, long time…

I can hear him shuffling into the hallway, which is where I am sitting curled up in the most comfortable chair in the house, by the old grandfather clock that used to chime on the hour but has long since given up that fight.

"Don't be afraid," said Ajay. "I haven't been there for you in the past, but I swear to you that I'll be there from now until I die. Until I die, Merrin, I'll be there."

My father's shuffling footsteps jerk to an awkward halt. "What the hell are you doin'?" he snaps, his words slurred.

My green eyes flick up from the page. "Reading." I am clutching at the book more tightly than is necessary.

"The fuck aren't you trainin' fer?" He sways unsteadily, but I know that his lack of balance does not mean he is not dangerous. If anything, this is when he is at his worst.

I point towards the window. "They cancelled training. It's raining too hard."

Suspicious, my father squints at the window. "Thas bullshit," he decides finally. His breath stinks of alcohol. "You ged out there righ' now and start trainin'."

My breath catches in my throat. "I'm not going out there," I tell him cautiously. "It's dangerous. I'll get sick."

His nostrils flare, and something sparks in his piggy eyes. "Dangerous? Thas the point of the fuckin' Games, sweetheart, is that it's dangerous." He lurches forward, and before I can wriggle away he has my forearm in a vicelike grip. His fingers grip hard enough to leave bruises. "You think you can just do whatever you want? I said to ged out there and you're gonna ged out there!" With a heave and a grunt, he yanks me out of the chair. As soon as his fingers release my arm I twist away from him and manage to land on my feet, arms splayed for balance. My skin throbs where his nails dug into it.

"Dad," I tell him, "you're being ridiculous. You're drunk."

"Fuck you!" he roars, and I know that whatever I say isn't going to change anything. "That doesn't fucking matter!" He advances, smacking his fist into his palm. "Yer lucky I'm not takin' out the belt, you brat—"

Without warning, he lunges. I dance away, but have forgotten that the door is almost directly behind me. I crack my head against the wood, and stars dance in front of my eyes. By the time the white spots in my vision fade, my father has grasped my shoulder and thrown me to the floor. I cry out as my palms connect with the ground, the skin scraping away.

He glares down at me balefully. "Yer nothin' but a disrespecting bitch," he snarls, and kicks my leg. It's a clumsy kick, and I barely feel it. I want to get up and fight back—but I can't. How can I? I don't know how to fight—I know how to kill. And he's my father.

Father or not, he works up a mouthful of saliva and spits on me. "And ya dress like a whore," he snarls, as a parting blow, before lurching off to the kitchen, probably to find another bottle of tequila.

I stay a moment on the floor, staring after his retreating form. Then I retrieve my book from the corner, wipe the spit from my bare leg, and return to my chair. My shoulder and shin are aching, but I ignore the pain.

After all, I'm used to it.