A/N: Oh, my. If I hadn't have been so finicky with picking out fonts every five seconds, this would have been delivered to all of you days ago! But, hey, what can you do? The same two fonts repeating themselves, alternating every once in a while, was infuriatingly maddening. I finally settled with Candara, and as the one I'll switch to when Candara gets old is Helvetica! Yay!

"I love Candara's quotes," says the characters of IWR delightfully. "Now, review, or we'll have to all go die in a hole before the good part, alright? But read the chapter first! Nelly, Jackson, and Vixen would not appreciate you ignoring them."

I only wish you guys could see the quotes…

DISTRICT FOUR! ONE-THIRD OF THE WAY TO THE END OF REAPINGS! WOO-HOO!

D4- 13- (Nelly Carter)

Ryan was my best friend. He was the leader of the group, the one who held the mix of us five together—him, Sam, Jordon, Stacy, and me. We were all kind of screwed up in the head somehow—I am simply insane, as people say; he was totally full of himself but so hilarious at times that you'd have to be a little crazy to be that funny; Jordon's a troublemaker, and from my experience dealing with troublemakers, I know none of them are all right in the head; Stacy is a total drama queen and always off in her own little gossipy world; and Sam enjoys school, and that means he's definitely the most screwed-up one.

But now he's gone. Ryan Melly, my best pal, is gone, killed by some stupid thirteen-year-old with a bow. God, I hate her, even if she is dead. I hate her and her family and her district with all my might, and it almost hurts to much to even think about her, because then I see her bow, and I see her arrow, and I see Ryan's blood and his pain and all that bad luck that contributed to them being there and killing Ryan.

I've finally made terms with the fact that it's real, and I still have the nightmares, still feel that gut wrenching pain that shoots through my stomach like it did the first time I hear he was dead, for I was asleep when the Capitol showed the districts his death. I had to hear from blabbermouth Stacy as she sobbed at my doorstep, saying Ryan's name a million times before finally adding "died" onto the sentence—the worst sentence I ever heard: "Ryan died."

More appropriately, Ryan was killed.

I don't know why I cling to the nightmares. Ryan's screams, his terrified eyes, the raised bow—it's horrifying and wakes me up shivering or screeching out his name softly into the dead of night, waking no one but myself. But I think if they went away, it would hurt ten times more than it already does, and it hurts a lot as it is. It's scary too, to think, after disregarding the thought of being sent into the Games for so many years, of being killed by the Capitol, that it could happen to anyone, even sweet, happy, innocent Ryan.

My best friend.

My bud.

Our Ry.

We write letters to him on days when it especially hurts, mix them up, and draw them. We take home the ones we draw, and we're supposed to read them—"It's a therapeutic method used to help grief. Very effective, or so I've heard," Sam told us—when we get home. They're not our words, so we're detached. I never read them. Not once. Because if I let go, if I let go of the pain—it will only hurt so much more.

Today, I think I'll read one.

I go to my dresser, the shabby piece of wood on my bedroom floor. Opening the drawer that the letters are in, I take a deep breath and allow myself to be scared of what I might read, for some reason. I close my eyes and feel for the notebook paper. When I find them, I pull them out with a sigh and close the door. I open my eyes and go to my bed.

Dear Ryan, the letter reads.

We miss you. We really do. I don't know what else to say. It's really scary. It really scares me how much it has affected Nelly. She's not the same. Help, Ryan, if you can. Please. I need it. Nelly needs it.

Sincerely, your best, best, best friend for life,

Jordon.

I swallow. …how much it has affected Nelly. She's not the same, I think, repeating the words in my head as the whirl around up there. She's not the same.

Do they all feel this way?

Dear Ryan, says another, scrawled in sloppy handwriting, tearstains on the ink, smearing Ryan's name. My face falls short. This is mine. I don't remember at all what I wrote, but there are several pages here.

I am so sick of this. Of being crazy. Of being stupid. Of being underestimated. I'm sick of being scared, you know, Ryan? I'm sick of Sam having to tell some Peacekeeper, "Oh, I'm so sorry, she's not right, sir." I'm sick of being an idiot. I'm sick of being alone, even when I'm not. I'm scared of it, Ryan, and I don't know what to do, and the nightmares are so bad, Ryan, and sometimes I wake up screaming and sometimes it's me who's killed, and, Ryan, I miss you. You don't understand, Ryan. I miss you.

But—Ryan. Oh, how this became such a happy, lighthearted group that turned into some pathetic bunch mourning a tragedy. It's ruined us. I don't even like Sam anymore—he's such a jerk, and I now realize how RUDE he is!

And last night it was Erik—not you—and it was the Careers—not Miracle from Five. And oh, that hurt. I can't…It was so vivid, you know? Like I was actually there witnessing it!

They are staring at me. Right now. I can feel their eyes. I'm—sick—of—it.

I feel so morbid, and cruel, and selfish, but I wish you were here and not Sam.

Oh, I miss you…

It goes on for pages, so I don't read it all, but after a few more paragraphs, I realize just how much pain I was in when he had first just died. I am better now, can cope. I'm back to the old witty, sarcastic Nelly, but a little bit darker and a little sadder. Tears glisten in my eyes, but I hold them back, and jump up, over to my closet, and throw on my reaping clothes: a navy blue shirt and blue jeans.

Because, I mean, why get fancy? I, honestly, don't give a flying spider farm's shit.

I want to own a squirrel-free spider farm when I grow up. No squirrels. No squirrels ever, ever, ever, because squirrels are evil, delusional creatures who plot to take over the world. But I know I'm safe, because if squirrels do take over the world, McLovin will rise from the dead and save us all, and then die again, waiting for the next attack of the squirrels to be bestowed upon him.

My friends all tell me that I am "insane in the most awesome of all ways."

And I smile and say, "I want to hug a giant spider one day," and they laugh, even though it's true, but they'll never know, but Ryan did. I don't want to think about that though.

A spider I have banned from being squashed crawls under my door. All other spiders are allowed to be killed, as I have decreed—but I will never do it; I set them free—but this one isn't. It's like my pet spider, but I don't want to cage it, so I let it wander around the house. Its name is George. "George!" I burst out. "I think I might be getting a Susie to keep you company, George. You always seem so lonely."

And I can almost see the little creature nodding.

"Okay!" I resolve, happy, and skip past George and into the dining, successfully keeping all thoughts of Ryan out of my head.

I move quickly to the dining room and sit down next to my sixteen-year-old brother Erik. He's tall and muscular from working on the docks since age ten, but he's a big stuffed spider, nothing more than a pushover and a great brother.

"How's George?" asks Erik conversationally.

I smile.

"He's doing great," I say. "He needs a Susie."

"Well, one day when you get some silly old spider farm…" He ruffles my hair. "What's the point of a spider farm, anyway?"

"To sell people pet spiders!" I say. "It'll definitely be the new trend in the Capitol—having pet spiders!" I giggle, and Erik smiles, rolling his eyes.

"You're an imaginative one, Nelly," he says. He eats more cinnamon toast, a true delicacy. Even with all the money both Dad and Erik bring in, truly delicious things always come at a price. Either that, or my parents just don't like cinnamon toast so they only get it on occasion for Erik and me. "Are you going to a friend's?"

I shrug. "I don't know, why?"

He also shrugs. "I'm just wondering. That's what you did—last year…"

"I know." I turn away and look deeply at my toast, frowning and taking small bites. There is an unacceptable lack of cinnamon on it, so I ask, "Can we switch toast?"

My brother laughs. "Did you spit on yours or something?"

"No!" I protest. "I'm not that mischievous."

"I doubt that, but sure, whatever." I take his toast and plop mine on his plate. He picks it up and carries it with him, out of the kitchen, into the hall. I watch him open his door, the only door in sight of the kitchen, and step inside his room. He closes the door behind him, and with Mom and Dad wherever, but not right here, I am alone again, eating breakfast, in my shabby clothes, bored. I sigh.

…

I end up at Stacy's house later, when Mom has woken up and told me I could go, after I've taken a nap. I don't like to wake up early unless I have to, but today I did, so I went back to bed after breakfast. Now, sitting on Stacy's bedroom floor as she gossips about something, I sigh, and Stacy looks down at me agitatedly. She hates it when we act like her stories mean nothing, but truly, they never do.

"This story has a point," Stacy hisses rudely.

"Get to it, then," I retort quietly.

"I am trying to!" Stacy growls. She takes a deep breath, calming herself. We've all been a little on-edge lately. "So, then, you'll never guess what he said!" She grumbles something and spits out, "He said, 'That Ryan was such an ass. Why were you friends with him? I'm glad he's dead!' Can you believe that?"

Immediately I am furious, and I need to know who said this. It hits me straight in the gut to insult my dead friend who I still grieve for. Less and less, but I still do, because he was always the life of the group when we were down. He was the leader. I flip back hair out of my eyes, stand up, and clench my fists. Through gritted teeth, I ask, "Who is he?"

"Nelly," Stacy says, as through she is talking to a little child. "We can't just—"

"Who, Stace?" I demand.

"Can we do this after the reaping—maybe even tomorrow?"

I sit back down and nod reluctantly, my fists still clenched. My face is hot and I am fuming, looking around my friend's room for a distraction other than punching the wall, which I am sure no one but me would appreciate, and I'd get in serious trouble for that. I can't get in trouble until after I find the kid who trashed Ryan. Who would be such a sleazebag as to say bad things about a freaking dead person? And a young one too!

I stand up. "You want to go to my house? Or Jordon's?"

"Nah. Want to go to Sam's? I promised him I would," she tells me, and I shake my head vigorously. For some reason, I've held a huge grudge on Sam, and I haven't wanted to be anywhere near him in weeks; in fact, I haven't wanted to be near him since Ryan died, but I have been. I've only been successful at staying at him for the past few weeks, and even so, it has been hard, because Stacy and Jordon love hanging with Sam—he's like the new leader.

I suppose that might be why I am so angry with him. Everyone wants to replace Sam, because it hurts so much, and so they have. Even Sam ahs replaced Ryan with himself, but no one seems to notice what they're doing. Only, I do, and it hurts. I find it really selfish that they are doing this without a care in the world, so many steps closer to forgetting Ryan altogether than they should be. Our world seems to revolve around him a lot, sure, but it's becoming less and less that we write letters, less and less that we group up and say all of our favorite memories we've had with him.

"Why?" Stacy asks.

I decide to come clean, because who really cares?

"I'm furious with Sam," I admit.

"Huh?" asks Stacy.

"You have ears; figure it out," I snap, and Stacy frowns.

"What'd I do? No need to snap at me," she says timidly. I am the feistiest and most stubborn in the group; I know how to win fights and I know how to beat my opponents into the ground with one of my "nicer" insults. It's like a gift, and I cherish it greatly, almost as much as I do spiders. But spiders give me company, and my insults push company away. Sometimes I prefer old George to my friends though. He's nice, and he's a great listener. He only crawls away when I finally stop talking, and he never bites me like he does Erik. Though, sometimes, I have to admit, Erik deserves it.

I roll my eyes. "Go on without me if you promised. I'll go to Jordon's."

"Uh…Nelly?"

"What?" I say. "Is Jordon going over there too?"

She nods.

I groan. "Whatever, then!"

Stacy and I walk out together, but then we part. She heads to the town where Sam's family has an apartment, and I head over to the beach.

The Victors' Village is by the beach. I look at the house that would've been Ryan's. My house is also very close to the beach. Ryan and I would've almost been neighbors. Across from the Victors' Village, behind the pier, are the boat docks, and we live less than an avenue down from the boat dock. I head up to the porch of what might have been Ryan's house and squint, looking past the swimmers at the pier, the empty boat dock—it's reaping day, so no one except Career trainers have to work—and I can almost see my medium-sized red house that sticks out next to all the white ones. I can almost see the awfully-tended law—which is my chore—and I can almost picture myself waving back at Ryan, who I can almost picture right where I am standing, waving back and laughing.

"Come over!" he'd mouth happily.

"What about the others?" I'd mouth back, but I'd already be telling my brother who would be next to me to tell Mom and Dad that I'm going over to Ryan's, and then I'd be coming.

"We can go get them," he'd mouth, and I'd shrug, and then I'd sprint over, and we'd have a good time, and it'd be dark and we still wouldn't have gotten the others. We'd swim and swim, and then we'd go get the others and we'd all swim at eight o'clock at night, and Erik would watch us. Then we'd all sleep over in Ryan's big tent in the backyard and we'd feast on Capitol food, because he would have that. He would be a victor.

The person who won instead was Ryan's ally. I'm glad that, since it couldn't be Ryan, it was Gray Hager. He was amazing to Ryan, and looked like he grieved Ryan a lot too.

Maybe he still is.

A victor from the next house over steps out of her home. She looks over at me. I recognize her as Eloise Charlotte.

"Oh, get out of the Victors' Village, little girl," she says, sounding calm but firm. She's a mother. I can hear her baby crying inside the house. "It's not smart to come here, especially on reaping day. You don't want a Peacekeeper spotting you here, do you?"

"This is my friend's house," I say without thinking, feeling numb.

The victor looks confused. "That house is empty. It's mighty nice, though."

"No…it's my friend's house, and so it's my house too, since he can't have it."

Eloise opens her mouth and lets out a deep sigh, and then a yawn. "Fine, then. Whatever."

She goes back inside.

…

"It's time," says my brother as I enter the house. "We have to go."

"Mm, I know." I run my fingers through my hair quickly and walk out with my parents and my brother. The square is a pretty good-sized walk from where I live, as it's in the center of the district, and we live on the edge so Erik and Dad can have jobs as fisherman. Plus, Mom practically grew up in the water. There was no way she was going to live anywhere but near it, or so she has said, telling Erik and me the story of how our bonehead father and swimmy, lightheaded mother met.

"Oh, you were never, are not, and will never be lightheaded, Windy," Dad will say, butting in.

"But you were, are, and always will be a bonehead, Jeffery," Mom will say, and then she'll smile wryly, and Erik and I will roll our eyes at the same time Dad does, and Mom and Dad will lock eyes. Erik and I will groan as they lean in towards each other if they're next to one another, or as they walk to each other, and kiss for a moment.

"Ugh!" Erik and I will protest. Laughing, my parents will pull away and will finish the story of how the boneheaded boy was out fishing in a homemade, makeshift fishing boat, and the lightheaded girl was diving around.

"So why didn't you stay over at Stacy's longer?" Mom says. "I would have thought you two were going together."

"I thought so too," I say simply, adding no more information. She doesn't ask anything else about it. "What're we having for supper?"

"A feast, of course," says Dad. He smirks. "It's a surprise."

"Noooo!" I groan. "I hate it when either of you try something new! It's always so gross."

"That's why we never tell you," Mom says gently, smiling wryly, which may as well be her trademark smile. And people wonder why I am so sneaky and the runner-up troublemaker in my circle of friends.

We walk in silence for the rest of the way. I keep my head down the whole time, and when we reach the square, my parents go to the audience's section, and Erik and I go to the Peacekeeper's booth where we're to sign in. Erik steps in line before me, and after his turn, he waits for me before slugging over to his age section, and I slug over to mine.

Stacy, Jordon, and Sam find me. They stand by me, and by the way Sam doesn't look at me, I know Stacy has told him that I am angry at him. I knew she would, though, and if I didn't want Sam to know—or, rather, if I cared if he knew—I wouldn't have told her. But I don't care, didn't care, and so I told her.

Sam glances over at me.

"Hi," I say curtly.

He nods at me and turns back around. The mayor steps up, blah, blah, blah, nothing I care about.

Then the escort, Esmeralda Azurite, steps up. Her green-tinted skin and emerald green eyes match her green dress embedded with emeralds. Icky.

"Let's begin, eh?" says Esmeralda. She smiles, her eyes giddy as she digs her hand into the scraps of paper. My name is in there, but only twice, thank goodness. Esmeralda rummages through the papers, picks one, and digs it out. She unfolds it and reads the name. Then she clears her throat and calls out, "Vixen Payne!"

A girl emerges from the crowd and mounts the stage. No one steps forward to take her place. She has olive green eyes; long, thick, curly red hair; and a small face with a button nose, light freckles dotting it. She's maybe five and a half feet.

Esmeralda marvels at Vixen Payne. Vixen only smiles back, almost smirking. "Congratulations," she mumbles excitedly, already digging in for the next name. When she draws one out, I wait before Esmeralda Azurite says quickly, "Nelly Carter!"

It's so simple; it's as simple as breathing. Only, now, it seems like the only easy thing in the world, and even breathing is difficult. My breath catches, I forget how to blink, and I almost, momentarily, forget how to hold myself up. But then I remember, just in time. It's still a struggle to maintain my balance even after that. Walking seems like an unimaginable feat.

Fear. It's the simplest thing in the world.

My eyes get wider as I process this. My mouth hangs agape slightly, and my heart pounds; it's the only noise in the square. I take a step, and then feel like my whole body might burst, compose myself, and take many steps, making my way to the stage, slowly but surely. When I am finally up on the stage, I feel like jelly.

Jelly Nelly.

Fear grips me; sadness washes over me. I am so young; how could I be sent off to die? This is the year after Ryan died, too! It's just not fair. I stare out at the crowd, feeling so many things, and yet not sure what I should feel. I feel empty; I feel numb; I feel scared; I feel brave; and I feel sad. I don't know why I feel brave, but the feeling sits in me, not looking to go away anytime soon.

I listen to the deafening silence. No one, not one Career, volunteers, and I don't understand why, but they don't.

"Jackson Brothel," announces Esmeralda. I keep my head down for a long time. I look up just in time to see an older boy, definitely older than both Vixen Payne and I, walk stoically up to the stage, his brown-black hair tousled, dark eyes grim, skin tan, and his neck scarred on the left side. "And there we have it! The tributes from District Four of the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games! Shake hands, all of you…"

We shake hands, and then we're taken into the Justice Building, all on the same team, and yet, never so much more against each other.

D4- 17- (Vixen Payne)

Daniel, my best friend and neighbor, glares at me, a smirk on his face, shaking his head. Dripping wet, he inches closer to me, his eyebrows raised and eyes mischievous. He tsk-tsks me playfully, and opens his arms wide. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, he is rolling his eyes and another tsk-tsk-tsk escapes him. I hide behind my red hair with a grin and peek out, seeing he's still coming closer, arms open wide.

"You know," says Daniel, "you're such a great friend. Come give me a hug, Vix."

"Oh, but, Daniel, that's so cheesy," I say, shaking my finger at him, returning an tsk-tsk to him. "I think you can come up with something more original, right?"

Daniel and I like to play pranks on each other—a lot. Today, I poured a bucket of water over him at the beach, and he was in his reaping clothes, so it made it worse. Now we're on the opposite of the beach, as he chased me with a bucket, but I tricked him into spilling it on his self. That's how we ended up like this. He charges at me and wraps me in a wet, cold hug. Wind whips at us slightly, and I shiver as the wetness from his hug seeps into my clothing. I squirm, but he holds me tightly.

"Mm, warm," he mumbles, laughing.

"Ooh, cold!" I screech, trying to wriggle my way out of his grasp. Sunshine shines down on our laughter and us. The reaping is who-knows-how-long away. So when I finally fling myself away, I take off, darting quickly across the beach. I kick off my shoes, and the feeling of sand under my toes makes me smile. I find a small, unused boat dock for unofficial fisherman and run across it, too. I wait until Daniel is on the dock too before falling backwards into the ocean.

"Vixen!" he shrieks. I stay under water, kicking until I'm far, far underwater, and then I swim over to under the dock. I silently pop above water and take quiet breaths, wading. "Vixen?"

I restrain a giggle.

He jumps in and I swim out, jumping at him. "Aah!" he squeals, and I laugh so hard I fall underwater. I push myself back up and spit out water I accidentally swallowed, coughing a little. Daniel hits my back, and I finally cough up the last bit of water. I start laughing again, clinging onto Daniel. He glares, and I can't tell if it's a real glare or not, but I continue to laugh anyway. "You little—"

"Too much?" I say.

Daniel rolls his eyes, smiling now. "I know you can swim, Vix, but I had to jump—just in case."

"Just in case what?" I ask.

"In case I want to—" he starts to say, grinning.

But my sister, Charlotte, says, "Ew!" She startles me and I jump out of Daniel's arms, and into the water, but once it registers that it was my sister, I swim back up.

"It's not like that and you know it, Char," I say huffily, and glare at my fourteen-year-old sister as she smirks. Because it might have been. What was he going to say? In case I want to— To what? Kiss me? I will never know, because it's not like I can just ask him what he meant. I have to let it go.

"Well, it's almost time for the reaping," says Charlotte.

"Oh, shit," Daniel mutters, and we swim out of the lake together, hurriedly rushing home together with Charlotte. We depart after a quick "See you" when we get to our houses. He goes right; I go left.

Charlotte and I bounce inside. I run to my room, undress, redress in a strapless light green dress that ends just above my knees, comb through my matted, wet red hair, and sprint out of my room. "I'm ready," I announce, and see my family is too.

Landon, my twelve-year-old little brother, smiles. "You were with Daniel!" he taunts. "Charlotte told me!"

I glare daggers at Charlotte, as if I am actually throwing them. That's one of the weapons that I train with the most in the training center: throwing knives. I also use a trident, which is my main weapon. But you can't glare tridents, or I definitely would. Charlotte knows I don't like when she informs Landon of when I am with Daniel, because he gets crazy, and every day I blush more and more when Landon teases me, because I really like Daniel. I like him more every day. He makes me laugh until I cry, and we are stupid together, and he is amazing—and gorgeous, may I say, with his blue eyes and feathery brown hair.

"Now, Landon," says my mother, who makes fishing nets. "You know not to tease your sister." She winks at me, for she likes Daniel. "Oh, now, Vixen, he is just great; why don't you two ever get over yourselves and start dating?" she'll ask playfully every once in a while when I am telling her what Daniel and I did sometime, whether it was sneaking over to Dad's boat—for he is a fisherman—and pulling a prank on him, or just talking for hours.

Or coming this close to kissing, thank you very much, Charlotte. I can't believe she interrupted! What if he was really going to kiss me? Charlotte might have ruined it for me forever.

We head out to the square. Charlotte, Landon, and I sign in, and then exit to our age sections. I find Daniel and stand next to him. He pulls a string of my hair. I shriek quietly and bat his hand away. "Wet," he mumbles.

"You are so rude!" I protest, giggling.

He smiles. "Am I?" His eyes narrowed, he moves his face inches from mine, moving his smile to form a smirk, and I smirk back, crossing my arms over my chest. "You little fish."

I laugh and pretend that that's what makes my face go red.

D4- 17- (Jackson Brothel)

I close my eyes as a flashback flits through my head. My grandma, collapsed… The Peacekeeper, angry… The staring, unhelping workers… And little ten-year-old me. I had come to walk Grandma home, because she had been sick and I knew she might need assistance after a full day's work. She collapsed , right there in the middle of the big, dark, scary cannery, before finishing her last round of canning the Peacekeeper had ordered her to do.

"Grandma!" I remember shouting.

The Peacekeeper screamed at her, telling her useless ass to get up and finish, but Grandma just moaned. Her eyes fluttered, and she squirmed. I knew she was trying to get up. But the Peacekeeper, eyes dark, had bent down and slapped her anyway. I began crying vigorously, wailing and telling the evil man to stop—that she was sick and if I got her home, she'd be as good as new by next week.

But then he beat her. His fists her like rain, coming so quickly you cannot merely stop it. I sobbed harder, my shoulders racking as I stood, hunched over, trying to catch a breath through all the sobbing. I remember noticing how her chest stopped heaving, how the blood flowing from her nose wasn't the awful but adjustable crimson red, and instead a sticky, clumpy, dark black. I remember her face bruised and black and blue, purple and green, her unbeaten flesh a sickly pale white.

I remember seeing her eyes roll back in her head.

"Grandma!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. Anger, sadness, confusion, terror, and helplessness shot at me, and I felt so awful, because I hadn't even thought of stopping him. Maybe then he would have killed me, and Grandma could have hobbled away, alive. But that's such a silly, childish thought, isn't it?

And then, two years later, my brother Marcus was reaped. He was fourteen.

I clung to him, refusing to leave the Justice Building without my brother. The Peacekeepers drug me out, and one cut me, telling me it was to be a reminder to never disobey like such a nuisance again. And then sickening, gleeful, almost kind look in his eyes still haunts my nightmares to this day, just like the void-like eyes that my grandma's killer had do.

I can't let anyone suffer through such pains again.

"Jackson Brothel!" calls the escort, now, here.

Not even me.

A/N: I am ashamed of Jackson's POV. In his next POV, there will be a real flashback of the goodbyes, and a more in depth view of his personality, history, etc. Forgive me, darlings?