Hello!

So this took forever. Im not going to lie, it's probably always going to be like this. I'm very busy and sometimes I don't even get a chance to sit down and write for over a week. It sucks but, you know, what's a girl to do?

Also I have received a few more submissions and hopefully updated the lists by the time you're reading this. I'm down to only a couple spots left which is less than I thought I would have to fill myself when this started so I'm so excited! THank everyone so much for your support and your feedback!

I wrote this chapter in a different Point of View than the previous chapters because I've been testing different perspectives and this is the one I personally preferred. Let me know what you think though! If this perspective has a good response I may go back and rewrite the others this way(District Four's reaping at least.)

So here we are! District Two! I own almost nothing.

Enjoy!

~District 2 Reaping~

~Apollo Wells 18~

The basement smells like sweat and dried blood, underlying the overwhelming must of mold and old basement. It's not the best smell in the world, but this is where I started, where I trained for years and it only feels right that this is where I train my last time…Well that and teh training center is closed today, which I find stupid. Why close the place to train for the Hunger Games on the day people are selected for it? This is the day that the younger candidates will be more motivated too go work out. What kid doesn't look at the tributes standing proud on the stage, ready to bring honor to their district, ready to comepete in the most thrilling game ever created, and isn't flooded with a desire to work harder and make it up their themselves?

But maybe that's just me regrettting the lose of the fancy dummies and balanced weapons and much more pleasent smell of the training center. Maybe it's better that my last training session in District 2 isn't in a fancy center. The games aren't going to have pads to land on if you fall or glowing targets to tell you where critical hits are. This is probably closer to what I'll get. And anyways, I know why the center is closed. Technically training is against the rules and there are far too many peacekeepers and capitolites in town to risk people flooding in to train. We couldn't lose the center. What would District 2 be without its careers?

My arm smarts as the edge of my brother's blade slams into it. If it had been an edged sword, I probably would have lost my hand, or at least suffered a brutal injury that would have put it out of commission for the fight. I laugh at the as I parry his next swing and duck my head to roll under his still swinging arm and tag him in the back with the flat of my own blade. If I were really trying to kill him, that would have been the moment it happened. Since I'm not however, he only stumbles forward, huffing as the wind is knocked out of him.

He hits the ground hard, struggling to keep a hold on his sword and I leap into the air, sword held high over my head for a downstrike. He recovers quickly though, and rolls onto his back in time to raise his sword and stop my blow. The swords quiver violently and my hand feels numb from the vibration. That's what I get for using a blade with a poorly wrapped grip. My hand goes numb and I nearly drop the blade. Pierre takes advantage of the resulting hesitation and forces his sword up and out, effectively shoving me away.

I'm smiling broadly as he rolls backwards and away, creating even more distance between us. "Giving yourself more time to evaluate, good tactic," I compliment. He grins. I don't warn him that it also gives me time to evaluate as well. I'm considering jumping on a table to gain high ground when he charges at me.

I parry his swords and use his momentum to knock his foot out from under him with my own, "Lunging," I observe, "less good." I step back to avoid his attempts to sweep my ankles with his sword and he uses the time the distance gives him to kip up. We level our swords at each other, circling like I saw birds do over dead bodies in an arena a few years ago. We're both breathing heavily and sweat pours in fat drops, dripping into my eyes and my mouth. Pierre, whose sandy-blond hair is longer then mine, has to flick the sweat drenched locks constantly out of his eyes, which makes focusing on what I'm doing more difficult. That's why I keep mine fairly short.

I'm about to attack while Pierre is distracted with his hair when the door opens and someone huffs irritably. It's my mother standing on the other side, hands on her hips and scowling. She wears that expression a lot. Where most parents have laugh lines, my mother has scowl lines. She's pretty despite it though, maybe even for it, because it makes her look different, and other than the scowl lines she looks good for her age. Younger than my father at least, despite how close in age they are. "The reapings start in a couple of hours and the two of your are down here making yourself smell like animals!" She accuses.

I push sweat-soaked hair from my forehead, chuckling and Pierre shrugs, replying, "It's his last chance to train."

"There's nothing he can learn this morning that will save him in the games," She asserts stubbornly, and the lines in her face seem to deepen at the mention of my plans. She has never approved of my intentions today. Her and my father are afraid I'll die, but I know better. "Anyways," she continues half-heartedly, "He'll have two full days to train in the Capitol."

"The Capitol training days are only to scare the competition," Pierre scoffs, "It's not as though any Capitolite is ever gonna be able to teach him anything useful."

I had to agree. All of the trainers at the center were trained by/with victors at some point or another. They had experience on their side. What sort of real fighting experience could a Capitolite really have? Maybe a hundred years ago when they had soldiers fresh out of a war, but now all of the Capitolites are just spoiled and pansy. That's why tribute mentors are victors instead of just the escorts.

My mother shakes her head. "Well, you've had your training now. Off with the both of you, I've drawn a bath."

We respect her request and return our swords to their rack. They are old, dull and nicked, even more so now than they were when my brother originally snatched them from those weapons tossed out of the training center once a year. When the training first started that was all it was, a basement and some used swords. The training center's nice and useful I have to admit now that I have been going for a couple of years, but I may never have even joined if not for the fact that I need the trainers approval to volunteer without being shunned by my district and the other careers. Every once in a while it's nice to train here though. It's more authentic, as I mentioned before, and more nostalgic. Like stepping right back into my eleven-year-old body and reliving the moment my brother put the heavy sword in my and and said, "Think fast."

He'd hit me a lot at first, and he didn't hold back. I would go to bed so sore and bruised that I would cry every time I moved. He still got me every now and again, the bruise forming on my wrist now is proof of that, but it was far less frequent and I always get him back, plus some.

Pierre lets me have the first go in the bath so the water is still hot and the heat takes some of the soreness out of my bones. I wash quickly, then I slip into the white shirt and black pants I have chosen for the reaping and get out while the water is still warm. Maybe Pierre's bones will feel as relaxed as mine do.

The kitchen smells like breakfast. Eggs and fresh baked bread and sausage. My mother is standing over the cook fire and my father sits at the table. His hair is stark white from where age had been at it and he wears a patch over one empty socket. He has laugh lines, unlike my mother, but other lines as well. Worry lines. Lines made by stress and strife.

I choose a boiled egg from the pot in the sink. As I'm peeling away the shell my father says from his seat at the table, mopping up yolk with a piece of bread, "Happy reaping day." He doesn't sound as though it's as much a day to celebrate as I feel it is. Only like it's something his has to get through, an obstacle. He is as sceptable about my plan as my mother. I understand, or at least I try to, but it's a real buzz kill when half of the people whose opinions really care about don't think something you've always wanted is a good idea.

But I don't say that. A fight would be worse than the doubt, and besides, they try and that's just as important...right?

I pop the egg in my mouth whole, earning a disapproving sound from my mother, then say goodbye and head out towards the square.

~Silk Guerra 17~

The world outside my window is beautiful. The sun shines, making everything sharper, brighter; like a kids painting. Sweet, innocent. Children run in the streets, District Two banners streaming behind them, dressed in their best, hair done up in beautiful and elaborate styles. They laugh and tease, wrestle in the streets to the great dismay of their mothers when they rise with tussled hair and stained clothes. I can hear my father in the kitchen, preening. He's getting what he always wanted today. His daughter has been the talk of the district for over a week now, ever since she was selected to volunteer for the games.

I think it's curious. In books and stories the weather always reflects a plot. It always tells the story before anything happens. It's a device. But in real life the weather is just the weather. No one has bad feelings. No one really guesses everything is about to change. There are no premonitions; whether by the weather or any other force.

For example, my father has no idea that I'm about to ruin everything. Oh his family will be talked about for sure. We'll be remembered for several years, even if I die. No one ever remembers the selected volunteer that dies, but the girl that stole the Hunger Games right out from under her sister's nose? That they'll remember maybe even for a generation or two. They'll remember my name. But that's not the kind of legacy my father wants to leave.

But that's okay. He never liked me anyways.

I stand from my window seat, setting aside the book I was trying to read. I hoped to finish it this morning, but there was too much to think about. Too much noise, outside and in my head. So instead I change into my reaping dress, beautiful dark blue silk that looks amazing with my tanned skin and dark hair. It's a luxury, but reaping day's a special day, especially this one. Everyone will want to congratulate us when my sister volunteers. Or at least that's what my mom was thinking when she spent the money on it.

My mother will understand why I did it. Jade will tell her and she will understand. At least I hope. My mother's disappointment is what I fear most. She's the most like me out of all of my family, or anyone else I've ever met for that matter. She taught me about cleverness, about how thinking and planning were better than any amount of training. She's the reason I'm brave enough to do this.

I hope she teaches that to Jade's baby if I die. I hope my niece or nephew is smarter than my sister. What sort of fool goes out and makes a baby when she knows she's going to be trying to volunteer for a death match anyways?

I smile sadly thinking about that. No, Jade was never as smart as my mother and I. She always took more after her namesake. Jade was born the last day of the 81st Hunger Games, the year Jade Collins of District 1 won her Hunger Games. My father thought it was a sign. To be sure the reckless, bull-headed victor was a great deal like my sister.

I choose a silver and jade necklace to go with my dress. It's my sister's actually, my mother loved nothing more than symbolism, a silk dress for me and a jade necklace for Jade. But I took it from her room just last night. Having my sister so close would give me strength, I hoped, to do what I had to do today.

I slip out of a back door. I don't want to see them, especially not my mother. I don't want to have to look them in the eye and lie. Not that lying is an issue for me morally. Lies were useful. But lying to people I cared about, and people who knew me really well, was exhausting and best avoided.

Many people call to me as I make my way to the square. I'm well known in our district and not just because I'm Jade's sister. I have my own name, my own reputation. I'm what most of them want to be: beautiful and smart in ways most of them can only dream of being, and charismatic enough to turn what could easily be resentment into love.

And arrogant if you ask my father, like that's not the pot calling the kettle black.

The square is already crowded by the time I sign in and make my way to the section filled with the other seventeen-year-olds. My classmates. My peers. Most of them will hate me after today. All of their smiles and friendly greetings will turn into scowls and accusations. Even if I win I'll just be the victor that shouldn't have gone. But Jade will have her baby, one way or the other, and maybe someday she can live vicariously through him or her... or maybe if I die for her she'll see the truth behind the games and raise her child to respect life, every life.

I want that for my niece or nephew, just as much as I want wisdom.

Closer to time for the reapings to start my sister passes me on the way to her section and hugs me, saying, "We missed you this morning."

I shrug. "I had things to do."

She doesn't press the issue. She fiddles with the necklace, smiling and comments, "It looks better on you." then meanders on towards her own section right in front of mine, greeting her friends in that usual, squealing way girls do. Sometimes I can't believe we're related. Jade is so simple; happy and thoughtless. Convinced that no consequences apply to her. The thought makes me feel a little better about today. Maybe there was a reason this happened when it did. Maybe that kid has saved my sister's life. I mean, could someone with so little grasp of consequences really win the Hunger Games?

I touch the necklace, smiling at the thought as the mayor's voice comes over the speakers. He his a hard man, with sharp features and broad shoulders and a voice with enough authority to make the entire square fall silent and listen. If ever a leader reflected the reputation of his people it was Mayor Ronan. He makes his way through the usual formalities and hands the mic over to the Capitol escort. Her name was Bryony I knew and she was as unextraordinarily Capitolite as one would expect. She chirped through her own formalities as swiftly as the mayor then waited impatiently as the peacekeepers brought the bowls onstage.

"Now," she says as the bowls are finally situated and the peacekeepers make their way off the stage. "Your young lady."

She makes her way to the bowl, plucks out the first name and comes back. She doesn't bother with any sort of suspense tactics. Everyone knws the name she picked doesn't matter anyways. So she rips the paper open and starts to called a name I don't hear. Under other circumstances, a volunteer would wait to be asked for, but I have no time to wait. I have to beat Jade to the punch, so I rush to the stage before whoever was chosen can even move. There are some indignant shouts as I shove through the crowd. Some people realize what's happening and shout at my sister. They advise her to try to beat me, and she moves towards the steps, but I skip that entirely and vault myself right up from the front, then brush off my dress and say calmly to the escort, "I volunteer."

Bryony looks stunned. "Well," she says uncertainly, "Normally volunteers wait to be called on."

"What's the difference in a volunteer now and one in less than a minute?" I ask her reasonably.

She glances uncertainly over at Jade, who scowls for the camera's and the crowd, although I know my sister and I can see the relief behind her eyes. "Well...it's just a little unfair I think."

I almost laugh. Unfair? Since when does fair apply to the Hunger Games? To life in general but especially to a contest that involves shipping twenty-four kids off to fight each other once a year as retribution for a war their parents parents likely don't even remember? I keep the snort down, however, and smile sweetly instead. "If what the other volunteers want is fair they'll be sadly disappointed if they ever make it into the arena."

The crowd was quieter than I ever could have imagined so many people in me place could be. Nobody seems to even breath. Finally, after a long moment of thought-likely seeking a valid argument which she didn't seem to find- Bryony said, "Very well then. And what's your name?"

"Silk Guerra."

There's a great uproar behind me and I turn again to see the peacekeepers forcefully dragging Jade away. She's kicking and screaming and I almost tell them to lay off, but then I realize she's yelling at me. She's putting on a show. I suppose she isn't half as dull-witted as I gave her credit for.

"And now your young man!" Bryony says hastily, trying to defuse the situation. The crowd is getting antsy now, shifting and muttering. A low roar has now enveloped the sea of people. Bryony rushes to the boys' bowl, grabs a name, then hurries back, starting to read the name, but she's interrupted. A boy barrels out of the eighteen-year-old section and takes the steps two at a time, shouting, "I volunteer!" Over and over as though they may not have heard him the first time. I know him, of course. He's in the same year as my sister, tall and with the expected physique of a career. His sandy-blonde hair was likely spiked up at the beginning of the reaping but is now tussled and in disarray. When he finally reaches us he straightens up and grins at Bryony.

"Now really," Bryony scolds, huffing. "There are procedures for a reason people."

"I'm Apollo Wells," he continues as though he hasn't heard her. He only trained at the center for a couple of years, but he had to have been trained elsewhere beforehand because he was already impressive when he started. There had been little doubt who would be selected for the male volunteer, and by the way he's looking at me, I've just made an enemy already. Not that it bothers me. I never wouldn't have wanted Apollo as my ally anyways. I don't trust something in his eyes, in how pleased he is at the idea of the idea of a fight to the death. Where most candidates want glory or riches or honor, he seems to think the games are going to be fun. I don't think I could trust someone so happy at the thought of murdering twenty-three peers, some significantly younger than him.

Bryony huffs. "Well, very well then. Ladies and gentlemen of District 2, your tributes for the 99th Annual Hunger Games: Silk Guerra and Apollo Wells."

When we shake hands, Apollo squeezes mine so tightly that I fear he may break it. Then we are lead away into the Justice Building and into separate rooms to say our final goodbyes.

"What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms... or the memory of a brothers smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."

Thank everyone so much for reading! I hope we all enjoyed!

~IceandFire~