A/N: I'm back! Here's to the start of the arguably worst (is anyone going to argue about this, though?) part of an SYOT! Unfortunately, it's also the longest. Yippee.

Thanks to Guesttwelve for Clash and AnnaBanana for Fragrance!

Anywho, enjoy.

Chapter 3 – Dreaming With Open Eyes

Clash Winston, 18, District 1

"Your mind is your greatest weapon, but it doesn't hurt to be able to swing a sword."

Three Months Before The Reapings

Valor thrusts the spear forward, narrowly missing my torso, but even if it had hit, it's not like it would have hurt. It's a fake spear, made for sparring, meaning it's obviously not going to actually stab me or draw blood. It might bruise a little, but it won't leave any lasting impression.

My spear meets his, clanging together as if we are sword fighting, and I pull mine back first. I swing it out, purposefully missing Valor by a mile, leaving it stuck into the sparring mat. I give it a tug, trying to pull it out as Valor counter-attacks, throwing his spear right into my shoulder. I release my hands, easily dodging Valor's weapon, pivoting on my feet and yanking the spear out of the mat.

I shove my shoulder into Valor's back, sending him toppling toward the ground, and I place my foot lightly on his chest, putting the tip of my spear against his forehead.

The trainer on the other side of the mat counts to five, blowing his whistle as I let Valor up.

"Hey, good job," Valor says, but I can't help but notice the slight bitter edge in his voice. Everything we do for the next few months, up until the Reaping, could change the course of our lives. Losing a sparring match, even as little as this one, could change the minds of the Volunteering Committee. It almost makes me feel bad—but Valor is hard to beat. It's rare that someone does. And that makes me proud.

Could this mean that I will be chosen as the volunteer? I mean, the trainers do look pretty impressed. Could I get the chance to go into the Games?

I sigh as I put my spear back on the rack. No, I don't think I will. It's so unlikely that there's not even a point to hoping, is there? It will probably be someone like Valor. He worlds better than I could ever be, right?

As an idea comes to my head, my Victory swirling through my head, I duck into the main office. I spot the secretary, who's name is something like Violetta, I think—I would think I would remember names better, since I like to use them so much when I write, but names always evade me—sitting at the front desk, writing something down.

The light scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch of her pen against the paper is the only sound in the office as I slink through the rows of filing cabinets behind her. I walk lightly, careful to keep my footsteps silent, finally spotting what I'm looking for: a large stack of lined paper, sitting dormant on a table behind Violetta.

I crouch behind one of the filing cabinets as Violetta looks at her watch and swears. "Damnit, I'm late for that meeting…" She trails off, gathering up her papers and hurrying out of the office.

Yes! I run out from behind the cabinets, trying to stay low so I'm not visible through the windows, and I grab a few papers off the stack. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough that I can get my thoughts down without running out of room to write.

I tuck them into my jacket, trying to hide them from view. I pass a couple of other trainees in the hallway, waving and exchanging pleasantries with them as we walk by each other. As soon as I make it out the front doors, I breathe a sigh of relief, my tense muscles relaxing.

As I pass through the glittering streets of 1, I run into my older brother, Cattler. He won the Hunger Games a while back, but is estranged from our family. He took his pregnant wife to the Victors' Village with him instead of us, opening a rift between us.

"Hello, Clash," he says cordially.

I nod to him. "Hi, Cattler. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm alright," Cattler says tiredly. "Cyndalia is supposed to go into labor any day now, and I've got to be home when she does so I can get her to the hospital."

"Why are you out now, then?" I ask. I cross my arms across my chest, silently making sure I haven't lost my papers. They're still there.

He lifts the plastic bag in his hand. "Cravings," he says as an explanation.

"Ah," I say.

He checks his watch. "Well, I best be going. It was nice to see you, Clash."

"I'll see you later, Cattler," I reply as we walk past each other. It's weird to me, our relationship. Ever since he won the Games, we haven't been like siblings at all. I have a better relationship with the trainees as the academy. Hell, I have a better relationship with my cat!

When I reach my house, I pull out my key and unlock the door. I enter the foyer, hoping to duck upstairs before Tella, my younger sister, or Jake, my younger brother, can start attacking me and prohibiting me from writing.

Of course, I am not so lucky.

"Claaaaash!" Tella cries excitedly, running full force through the kitchen and jumping toward me. She wraps her arms around my neck, babbling excitedly about her day. "You've been gone for too long! I missed you!" She continues telling me about her day, how she played with her friends and did makeovers with Mom, how she took a nap with my cat, all sorts of things that nine-year-olds do in District 1.

I hope all this hugging hasn't crumpled by papers. "Hey, Tella!" I laugh as she lets me go, dropping back to the ground as her hair whips around her. "I can tell you've had a busy day."

"I have," Tella agrees. "Have you?"

"I beat Valor Hudson in a sparring match today," I say, trying to peel her off and get her to leave me alone. Don't get me wrong, I love Tella. She's just… clingy, and never stops talking.

"Cool!" she exclaims.

"Clash, is that you?" Mom yells from the kitchen.

"Yeah," I say loudly, trying to talk over Tella's chatter.

"There's a letter for you on the table."

A letter? Letters only carry important things. People never just write letters to friends. After all, what's the point when you can just walk over to them and say it in person? I head into the kitchen, finally losing Tella, and I grab the letter off the table.

To Clash Winston

District 1

Huh. I head up the stairs, walking into my room once I reach the landing. I throw the letter onto my bed and sit down at my desk to get writing.

Once I fill up my new papers and staple them into the book I've been working on for literal years—it's a work in progress. I can only get paper every once in a while, so new ideas come quick but can't be written down. It's almost two-hundred pages now, and I really can't wait to finish it. I'm not sure if anyone will ever read it. After all, all the papers are stolen from the academy. It's not exactly illegal, but not really legal either—I return to the letter.

I use a pencil to open the envelope, pulling out the letter inside.

To Clash Winston,

Congratulations. You have been chosen as the male volunteer for District 1 in the 151st Annual Hunger Games. We trust you will do everything in your power to be the best of District 1 and strive to become a Victor in these coming Games.

Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor,

Trainers of the Court Academy

I read the letter two or three more times before it actually starts making sense. I've been chosen to go into the Hunger Games. I'm going into the Hunger Games. I'm going into the Hunger Games! If I win—no, once I win, yes, once I win—I can get my book published! And if I have to pay a fine for the paper, who cares? I have enough money to pay it twenty times over!

"Mom! Dad!" I yell, holding onto the letter tightly. I was wrong. It's not Valor Hudson. It's not anyone else. It's me! As I pound down the stairs, one thought goes through my head,

I have to win. And I will.

Fragrance Emst, 16, District 1

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm also not afraid to kick your ass."

Six Months Before the Reapings

"Waina! Slow down!" Coral yells, stumbling over her chubby toddler legs.

"Nuh-uh!" I say in reply. "What's the point of playin' tag if I don' run fast?"

Her little foot catches on a rock in the grass, sending her flying through the air. "Coral!" I cry, running to catch her. She slams into the grass, sending patches of dirt and green sailing into the air.

She immediately starts crying, and I kneel beside her. "What hurts?" I ask worriedly. Her chin looks red—is that… is that blood? It can't be blood! Coral can't bleed! Coral can't be hurt! She has to be okay! "I go get Gwandma," I say hurriedly, jumping to my feet and running as fast I can across the yard. I pound up the steps of the porch, yanking open the backyard and running into the house.

"Gwandma!" I yell. "Gwandpa! Coral fell—her face is red!"

I approach the stairs, looking up the steps and steeling myself to start up them. "Gwandma!" I shout again, clinging to the stair railing. "Gwandpa! Coral hurt!"

Mommy and Daddy are out at a party, I think. Grandma and Grandpa are here to 'babysit' us. I think that's kind of stupid. I'm not a baby! I'm three years old. I don't need a babysitter. At least Grandma and Grandpa are cool. Grandma makes the best lemonade!

I reach the top of the stairs, padding across the wooden floor.

"No!"

I hear the voice echo out from Mommy's bedroom. It sounds like Grandma. Is she okay? Is her face red too?

"Gwandma?" I ask uncertainly, gently pushing the door open.

Grandpa sits on Mommy's bed, one hand to her mouth as she chokes back a sob, tears running down her old face. She has a phone to her ear, and I can hear the weird, muffled voice coming out from it. "Gwandma?" I say again, coming deeper into the room.

"We'll be there—we'll be there right away," Grandma says. She takes the phone away from her ear, looking up at me. "Come here, Raina."

I cock my head to the side, walking up to her. She wraps an arm around my shoulder. "Honey, will you go get your sister? We need to—we need to go to the hospital."

"For Coral?" I ask. Grandma looks at me oddly. "She tripped," I explain. "Her face is all wet and red."

"…yes," Grandma says eventually. "that's why we're going. For Coral. Now go get your sister, alright?"

"Okay!" I say brightly, skipping out of the room and wondering why Grandma is crying if she didn't even know that Coral was injured. Grandma's just smart like that. She knows things before I even tell her! She's the best. I love her almost as much as I love Mommy and Daddy.

I wake in a cold sweat. I don't have those sorts of dreams often—and that's all they are. Dreams. My name was never Raina. My only sister is named Beauty. My grandparents have been dead for years.

I rarely ever stay in that dream long enough to actually reach the hospital. Whenever I do, I find my parents—who look nothing like my actual parents—laying under sheets in a morgue, completely and totally dead. The grandma-woman tells me that it was a big car crash, that Mommy and Daddy won't be coming home.

I've never figured out where these dreams come from. If I ever ask Mom or Dad about them, they tell me that they're just dreams. My name is Fragrance Emst. My sister is named Beauty, not Coral. My parents most certainly are not dead. Even now, I can hear them talking downstairs.

Only once have I ever wished I could stay in that dream land. It was almost three years ago now—I had stayed in that dream for so long, so long I even began to think it was real. I went home, I met my aunt and uncle—who were eerily similar to my parents—and they were demanding that I come to live with them. I didn't want to go with them, in my dream. But I didn't have a choice.

But sometimes, I wish I could have stayed.

"Fragrance! Are you up yet?" Mother yells from downstairs.

"Yes!" I shout back, swinging my legs out of bed. I should have known not to stay in bed for so long—once my alarm goes off, I'm expected downstairs, perfectly polished and ready for the day in fifteen minutes. It's ridiculous—with how made up my parents expect me to be, they expect me to be done in fifteen minutes! It makes my blood boil.

I throw on some clothes—I don't bother even looking at what they are, they're always gold or pink, it will go—and dive into the bathroom. I hurriedly get ready before throwing myself downstairs in a whirlwind of blonde hair and makeup.

I almost run right into my little sister, Beauty. "Oops," I say, stumbling back and trying to regain my balance. "Hey, Beauty."

"Hi, Fragrance," she says timidly with a small wave. "How are you today?"

I shrug. "I'm fine. I'd be better if I got a bit more time to get ready every morning." I say it in a joking tone, but I mean it, and Beauty knows that. We're united in our hatred for our conceited parents—the very same people who sit in the next room and treat their own daughter like she's their maid.

"You should get going," Beauty says.

I pull her into a quick hug and dash into the next room. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay," Beauty replies before we go our separate ways.

Beauty means the world to me. Without her, I wouldn't want to keep living this life beneath my narcissistic parents. But without me, I don't think Beauty would want to live, either.

A/N: Well, I did it. The first Reaping is over. What do you think of Clash? Of Fragrance? Who do you prefer? Who do you think will make it further?

I'm not sure when District 2 will be out. Sometime soon, hopefully.

-Amanda