And here's where things start getting weird. Not to spoil anything but District Five is like 90% responsible for the M rating. There's nothing very dark in this chapter, things just get, uh, a lil saucy. If you were here the first time around, enjoy the dramatic irony.

Also, because it's not clear for a while, this is a dude.

Ariel Sevasti, District Five, 17

I love plutonium cores because they're perfectly safe right up until you fuck up, and then nothing can save you. A misplaced reflector. A faded label. Bang. Flash. So much for your intestinal lining.

And you don't have to mess up that badly. You might not even know. The alpha particles can't get through your skin, so you're totally fine unless you accidentally inhale or ingest some of the material. If you do, it soaks into your bones and irradiates your guts for the rest of your life and beyond.

Take polonium, for example. If you dosed a hundred people with one microgram each, fifty of them would die of it. But it looks so innocent, just a dullish, purple-tinged metal. Like you could make a drink coaster out of it. And it goes airborne easily.

I like that about radioactivity. It teaches you respect.

I push off against the wall, sending my rolly chair careening across the control room. Technically I'm not supposed to be alone in here, given that I'm not officially licensed. Technically I'm not supposed to be in here at all, given that I'm not eighteen until the winter. But this is academia; nobody cares about regulations. We care very much about not getting killed horribly, of course, but following every last letter of the law? No. We do what we want.

My shift doesn't end for an hour. I'm bored. I finished my homework within twenty minutes of getting in here, which was three hours ago. I'm not allowed to listen to music or take a nap.

Well, at least I've got my favorite source of entertainment: me.

I pull out my phone and make all sorts of faces at myself in the camera, playing with the lighting and very much enjoying the sight of my own face. Rich green eyes. Brown hair. Perfect lips. Cheekbones like a goddamned angel. How should I do my hair for the Reaping? Sleek and smart? Messy-sexy? Under-the-radar well-behaved?

Ha. No. Never.

I don't usually care quite so much, but today is a big day. I'm getting Reaped. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.

I have this theory that the Reapings aren't random. Even outside the Career Districts, the tributes are always suspiciously strong and smart and attractive. They have weird pasts. They're interesting. They make good entertainment.

And I happen to be the single most interesting thing in District Five. And by "most interesting" I mean "hottest". Reactors included.

Speaking of which…

I glance at the readouts. Twelve hundred degrees Celsius, nice and toasty.

As always, I'm fascinated by how easily it could all go straight to hell. There's a word for it, I think. L'appel du vide, or something like that. The call of the void. Like standing in a high place and having the crazy urge to jump. With a few buttons and codes, I could yank out the control rods, and I and many others would be so, so very dead.

Nothing's computerized. Can't have hackers from the outlying Districts getting in and doing exactly what I'm contemplating doing anyway. And no way did the Capitol devote the money to actually making the containment dome thick enough to hold together in the face of a full meltdown. So there's nothing to stop me. As long as I'm alone in this room, I'm the motherfucking deity of this building.

And I'm dying anyway, probably. The Games and all. So…

But no, that's no fun. And then I'd go down in history, for the few weeks it would take to forget my name, as the idiot who couldn't even run a reactor right. That won't do.

I walk away from the console to remove the temptation, but now I'm bored again. I've never had the attention span for reading more than I have to. I don't see the point of drawing because I'm the only work of art I need, damn it. I spend a few minutes dancing around for the cameras—not exactly stripper-dancing, but not exactly not stripper-dancing, either; I'm sure the guys in security will get a kick out of it—but even that can only amuse me for so long.

I flop back into the rolly chair and spin around idly. Could I be wrong about getting Reaped? Or maybe it'll be next year, when I'm legal. But then I'll look creepy, and I think they'll want to be able to root for me. It'll be fun to see how far I can push that. How awful can I be and still be sponsored by people who want to screw me?

Pretty far, if my life so far is any indication. I talk back to every authority figure I meet just to see how much they'll take. I break rules until the Peacekeepers have to do something about it. And then I find out exactly how much, say, waiving a crime worth weeks in prison or ignoring a risky move at the reactor is worth. The price of all sorts of infractions is often remarkably similar.

At long, long last my shift is over and the next guy comes in. It's Winston, a friend of my mentor. He looks serious.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

Winston throws me off my game. There are people who want me, and people who hate me because I'm beautiful, and people who hate me because I'm awful, and people who are some combination of those. Then there's Winston. He's never shown the barest inkling of noticing that I'm attractive, or that I'm a terrible person who's also a total hussie.

Let it never be said that I'm not self-aware.

"Well, the Reaping," he says in a voice like I'm stupid for not knowing but he can't say that out loud because he has to be nice to me today. He cares, I think, which is weird, but he doesn't know how to be anything other than stern. He's just that kind of nerd. I like him, even though talking to him is the most awkward experience I have on a regular basis, and that's saying a lot for someone who's seen the Mayor naked.

"Oh. Right," I say.

"Good luck."

"I… thanks, Winston."

He frowns. "Fix your hair; you look like you just got out of bed."

I resist the urge to tell him that's the point. "I will. Thanks."

Winston nods. I duck out before he can tell me to straighten up some other aspect of my appearance, although I really don't look that messy aside from my hair. I'm a dress-shirt-and-dark-jeans kind of guy. Just innocent enough at a glance to keep people guessing.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to stop at home, so it's a good thing I dropped my suit in the locker room before my shift. Five or six guys are already there. I could change in the showers, but I don't feel like it. I could also leave my underclothes on, but I don't feel like doing that, either. Let's test some engineers' professionalism. They can't all be that heterosexual.

A-ha. I catch one looking and wink at him. He turns bright red and looks away. I smirk, finish getting dressed, and "accidentally" bump into him on my way out, slipping my number into his back pocket for in case I'm wrong about getting Reaped. He's not even good-looking, but whatever; I don't have to look at his face and I've got no plans for tonight.

The subway to the Square is packed with boys in suits and girls in dresses. I smile at the girl next to me. I don't remember her face, but her chest rings a bell. She wasn't bad, as I recall.

Oh, and what a delightful coincidence: the guy across from me is another old conquest. It's like a high school reunion, except instead of high school it's my pants.

"Ariel!" he says with a grin. The kind of grin that says in his mind, I'm his old conquest. Ha. Good one. I got what I wanted; whatever he got out of it was incidental. I like what I like and I don't appreciate it when people start thinking they've gotten the better of me somehow by doing exactly what I wanted them to do, when and how fast and for how long I told them to do it.

Morons.

I smile back. "Hey."

"You look nice."

"Thanks," I say. I'm going to throw you into a reactor, I think.

"You around tonight?"

I check my phone. Plenty of messages, but nothing from the locker room guy. I don't take it personally; the shy, awkward types flake out on me a lot. I'd be intimidated by me, too. "Looks like I am."

"Meet me after the Reaping?"

"Sure."

I'll be very insulted if I don't get Reaped. So if I am around tonight, I'll be pissed. I have a feeling that I can take it out on this clown if I play my cards right. Consent is key, of course, but it's surprisingly easy to turn things around on the smirking, swaggering, macho type. They can't pass up a challenge. You're not scared of me, are you? Come on, you can deal it out but you can't take it? No? Then prove it.

The station is a clusterfuck getting out and I'm among the last people to the Square. The Mayor has already started talking by the time I reach the Seventeens. Well, fine, I didn't want to hear it anyway. I sense that I'm a little disheveled and worse for the wear after my fight with the crowd, but a quick check in my phone camera assures me that it's in a good way.

Our escort slouches onto the stage, almost tripping on jet black hair that's longer than she is tall. For the first time, I'm nervous. Not about the Games themselves. What if I'm Reaped and I get a terrible stylist? I'm not sure I can handle that.

"Girls first," the escort hisses, baring her teeth at the crowd. Her canines are elongated and filed to points. I get the feeling it's Halloween all year 'round for this chick.

She closes her eyes and plunges her hand into the Reaping Ball like she's about to pull out Excalibur. The crowd goes dead silent.

"Luther Constantine."

Who in the fuck is that? I thought I knew everyone near my age, at least in the Biblical sense.

I can't see her until she appears onstage from the Eighteens. Calm enough. Smiling graciously, in an I-hope-you-all-fall-in-a-hole sort of way. Almost as tall as me and at least as slim, borderline bony in her case. Brown hair like mine, not much longer. Sharp, handsome features. Pale. Aside from her light blue eyes, she could be mistaken for me from a distance.

I had better get Reaped. That's awesome.

"Now… the boys," the escort whispers gravely. What is she, thirteen? It's like she's about to announce a death or something.

Oh. Hah. Right.

"Ariel Sevasti!"

Someone pick up the phone, because I called it.

I keep my face blank and solemn and make my way to the stage. This time the crowd gets out of my way. Goddamn right.

Luther looks me up and down unabashedly, raising a not bad eyebrow. I give her an I know, darling smile.

We shake hands. Hard. Looking each other in the eye, and she doesn't look away, and I'm sure as hell not going to, so we stand there in a silent battle of wills. She's even more interesting up close. Her short hair is messy. There are dark circles under her eyes. She's pale and almost starved-looking, but not in a weak way. More like she might rip me to shreds like a wild animal any second. And she's one of those people who radiate a certain calculating intelligence, like she knows something I don't and she's already planned how to take me down with it.

Why do I get the feeling, just from the name and the look of her and the way she's looking at me, that she might just give me a run for my money? Now that is an interesting thought. A girl who could actually put me on my knees. It's never happened before, not even close, but damn.

Unless, of course, I get her first.

So… yep.