A/N (Glossy): I did not expect people to start getting their Reapings in so quickly. I love how enthusiastic you all are.

Felix Hayward, 16 (written by LoxFox)

District 3 Male

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap craaap.

Now, it may come as a surprise, but, contrary to popular opinion, I do have more than one word in the breadth of my vocabulary. This one just manages to quite adequately summarise my current state of being.

Hurrying, I splash water over my face, dragging my callused palms over my cheeks. God, I'm tired; I've spent last night in a cell (again), and it's only the all-encompassing jurisdiction of reaping day getting me out of trouble. Suffice to say, I haven't slept well.

Cracks spiderwebbing across the mirror, the reflection stares back at me, eyes slightly bloodshot, and the shadows under my eyes shaded blue-black in the light. Blinking above me, the bulb flickers, the dim half-light casts unearthly shadows across my face, which appears skeletal and haggard, distorted by the fissures in the glass. Oh, and as for the extensive expanses of mould that patches in the corners of the mirror- I wouldn't be surprised if it gained sentience, crawled off the wall, and got a mortgage and voting rights.

Spitting in the sink, I rinse the muck off my face and the debris out of my eyes, then pick up my jacket and tags from off the floor of the cell, where I'd used the former as a pillow, balling it up to protect my head from the concrete floor that reeks of urine and sweat. Sprawled over the floor, the dog tags lie, radiating their semblance of rugged militarism. These things have value; Dad was a peacekeeper, saw bad stuff going down, didn't come out the same at the other end. He lost it big-time after he completed his tour of duty, but I nicked the tags, two silver disks emblazoned with his name and serial number. Keep 'em on me all the time. Not sentimental or anything, they're just kinda cool.

'Sides, Dad was gone, spending his days locked up and yammering, eyes wide, at the non-existent voices. Couldn't even tell me who my mother was. Probably some harlot he screwed while out in another district. My uncle reckons I have her hair; the almost-white hue that brings with it a lot of unwanted attention is rare in this district, though they burnt all the records from before the Treaty of the Treason was drawn up, so I can't really check the branches of my family tree.

Blossoming over the left side of my face, the angry indigo sheen of bruising has started to flourish; it hurts like anything, sending spirals of pain through my temple, but, on the upside, I haven't split the skin, so it'll be gone within a week. From the way the peacekeepers took me down, tackling me to the ground, I'm thankful for the fact that I've still got a full set of teeth.

I run my hands through this wiry mess of hair that I'd recently hacked short, trying to make myself presentable for the reaping. I'm preparing for the worst- my name is in that effing goldfish bowl forty-five times. It's not the tesserae, we don't need the cash, but it's part of the punishment for being caught outside the fence, and after curfew to boot. From above me, a claxon sounds, and the automated machinery on the door unlocks, the old-fashioned mechanism at odds to the sophisticated technology used to keep us restrained. That's my cue to get outta here.

Squeezing my eyes together to try and relieve the pressure of the migraine in my skull-probably the inevitable result of sleeping on the floor, paired with the purple blood-blister that's taking up residence on my face- I grab my stuff and go to sign out.

Self-assured, I stalk down the corridor, past holding cells full of guys screaming bloody murder, and overworked desk jockeys, hunched over in their own blatant self-effaciveness. 'Wait here for release,' one of the girls behind the counter informs me, all prim and proper, ceremonious almost. Staring me down, the clock on the wall counts down the minutes until the reaping. 'Name? I need your surname first, then first and second names and so on. If you would-'

'Hayward, Felix John.' Dammit, I'm gonna be late if this useless secretary doesn't get my paperwork out in time, and from the looks of things, she's pretty illiterate. 'John with an H,' I repeat, tapping my boots in an impatient rhythm on the floor, as if it's going to alert her to the fact that a) I needed to be signed back into the reaping thirty seconds ago, and b) I'm not the most patient person in the world, and if she takes any longer- well, to put it bluntly, I'm gonna put a fist in her face.

'Ah, Felix. Excellent. Are you excited for this year's games?' She asks, absentminded, as she processes the forms. From the monitor perched above the counter, I can see the escort- that purple Capitol thing- and the mayor, suited up in faceless grey, parading about onstage, reading out some obviously dictated speech about unity and righting past wrongs; all absolute bull, the drivel that pours, spewing from his mouth like the Capitol's artificial waterfall. It's all the same, every year without fail. Processed, packaged, parcel received. Accepting, the people stand to attention, rapt with their dead eyes staring at nothing, as if they've never heard it before. Tired, I zone out. It's. So. Dull.

'Excuse me there, Felix –sorry, I may call you Felix, yes?- well, thing is, we do seem to be having some troubles with the processing of your request, and I'm going to have to do- well, do this manually, so you'll be waiting for, what, ten minutes, maybe less if I-'

Ugh. It's farcical. I'm sick of it already.

So I hit the computer. Hard.

_system reboot active_ flashes across the screen where they're faffing about with my papers, and before I wait for any of the same unconditional response, I'm storming out of the foyer. Rushing open, the reinforced steel in the doors resists as I shove it open with a brutish determination, yet her question still rings in my mind. 'Are you excited for the systematic slaughter of twenty-three kids, dressing them up and preening them, tweezing out the imperfections until they're manufactured pets fit for televised murder?'

Nah, I'm not uneasy, as such. So sure, there's a coupla butterflies squirming in the pit of my stomach, but they don't count. That's adrenaline, not nervousness. I know the snaking rush of the adrenaline pretty well; only two days ago, I was stuck between the concrete facelessness of the outer wall of Three, and slavering jowls of the watchdogs that patrol like shadows across the borders.

There was this guy, I dunno who the hell he was, but the uniform kinda makes me think he was one of the guys in the forces out on patrol. I was just doing my job, y'know, uncle's orders. He's got me as a runner, pretty decent rates; you need someone fast, clever, quick-thinking. Someone able to outmatch the peacekeepers and watchdogs, someone who don't mind putting their life on the line to get the goods across. Guess who fits that description.

Oh yeah, and it may or may not entail the transportation of Spark, the latest designer drug doing the dizzying rounds in the Capitol. Costs a vast amount of money, see, so the idea is to cash in on the popularity while people are still off their faces hallucinating and shagging the bejeezus out of each other.

Mainly, the job involves passing on the stuff, running it between districts, learning the timings of the forces and the patrols, smuggling the drugs between checkpoints and other runners. It's a clandestine network of drug dealers, distillers and addicts, and I'm the one in the middle. Beats getting cancer from the arid cloy of the smoke in the factories. Means I'm not stuck by the restraint that whoever's in charge in here shackles us with.

Also means that I'm in trouble more often than not, but that's pretty irrelevant. Actually, it's completely relevant- this peacekeeper's decided he don't like the look of me, and he drew out this baton, the sort we manufacture en masse. It's about a foot long, black and crackling with electricity, and he'd gotten himself this glint in his eye that says 'I'm gonna taser your filthy classwar, and feed your guts to the dogs out here.'

Catching in the dying light, his uniform was as white as the freshly fallen snow, though his boots were caked in mud and his helmet was dented. The Capitol doesn't bother with deploying the best peacekeepers in Three. They all think we're obedient, humble, keep our heads down and never do anything vaguely suspicious. Still doesn't stop them from keeping the guards here, just in case. Punishable by death, it is, to be discovered outside the walls. Chain link fences and barbed wire signify the edge of the district, but if you're clever enough, you can find the places where we've bolt-cuttered it open, hellholes to sneak past the keen eyes of the 'keeps to get our merchandise through.

So this bloke, he don't like me, and thus he'd got this weapon out, trying to intimidate me. Ain't working; see, I knew this drill. He came straight at me, baton zipping with a current enough to knock me out cold, but I ducked, weaved, dodging the zip of electricity to plant my elbow squarely to the back of his head. With the impact, he went down onto one knee, the exposed area at the back of his neck open to attack, and I rammed his head against the concrete. Lights out. I've gotten pretty good over the years, made my reputation as a bit of a brawler. I do this sorta thing a lot.

Thing is, he was out, but while he's been dealing with me, he's had enough leeway to call out backup. Long story short, and I'm smacked in the face a coupla times, and then arrested for trespassing, harbouring unlawful substances, and being out after curfew. Again. Hence the prison cell.

It's a risky life, the one I lead; rich with rewards, fraught with danger. But that's the way I like it. It's that or choking to death in factories.

See, kids in Three ain't clever. They know their way around tech, yeah- but if I tell you to copy this circuit a hundred times a day, does it make you clever? No. It don't. It makes you stupid and compliant and complacent, but able to put the copper tracks on a green board, so everyone gets the impression that you're some sort of bloody genius. See, I don't buy into that bull. Already making more cash than most of the mindless slaves to the ticking city districts that are twice my age, and the oppressed in the humdrum thrumming of the factories' endless toils: now that's clever.

An' yeah, maybe it's just a bit illegal. But it pays well, and I've only had ten weeks in juvey to show for it.

I begin to run. If I'm gonna be late, I don't wanna make too much of an entrance. I'm hoping that I can get there before that bloody escort reads out the girls; that way, I can be in, finger pricked and settled in time, and not end up with more reason for the authorities to despise the dirt under the fingernails that I am to their holier-than-thou arrogance. Yup, that's me. Guilty as charged. Filth.

Heavy, treading on the asphalt, my boots trug out a rhythm on the road below. Overnight, they've erected a public speaker system, which is now blasting an almost solid wall of sound into the deserted streets. Gotta make sure everyone is watching; that everyone can do their homework on who's going to be murdered this year. Over the system, I hear the escort proclaiming to the heavens about how she's our 'mistress of ceremonies,' and it's this snootiness, and this delusion that she's got innumerable reasons to flaunt her own superiority- it's this that makes me want to slap her. More so than usual.

Crap. I'm so going to be late. For once, not actually my fault. Even so, she's reading out the girl's name. I'm not listening, but the name 'Rubio' clicks with something in my mind, and I'm suddenly on full alert. I don't know about the mayor, only that he's been on my back, trying to get me doing community service; and that he was the one that put me behind those bars. Almost guiltily, I take pleasure in the knowledge that he was going to suffer for this. His little pampered sprog was going in. And, most likely, not coming out.

There's a bit of time wasted while whoever-she-is dallies along. Probably throwing a tantrum, or demanding that someone else takes her place. Because my effing Daddy loves me, and my effing Daddy earns more in a week than what ten of you earn in a year, and because my effing Daddy has said that I'm more important than you. Because I'm a special fucking snowflake and deserve to be exempt from the rules that everyone else has to play by. And so on. 'Come on up, dearie, come on,' I hear- the speakers practically ram the broadcast down my eardrums- and am thoroughly unimpressed. So what, she's a 'dearie' now? Oh wait, I forgot- because she's the mayor's kid, she gets to be treated like a goddess, because 'dearie' has lots of money and her Daddy gets to buy out whoever stands in his way.

I can't help but curse now, seeing as I'm still three blocks away, and they'll be drawing my name out any minute now, with all the pomp and circumstance of some harmless fiasco. The closer I get to the square, the more speakers and screens there are, and I can feel the heavily made-up eyes of the escort on me, the accusatory glare of her clown-faced grin boring into my back from virtually every angle. A few people on the streets are giving me venomous glimpses that deflect off my jacket with only minimal singeing, though a few of the inherently more prodigious clock the fact that I'm all-out sprinting and realise that I'm not just skiving off.

Colliding with someone as they amble out of a doorway, I turn to nod at them, but don't say sorry, only sending them a bit of an apologetic glance to try and nullify the scrambling on the floor and the spillage from a bottle that now lies forlornly in shattered fragments on the tarmac.

Past the quaint little shops, I dash through the streets, barely paying attention to the sighing of 'ah yes, Constantine Rubio, ladies and gentlemen,' from across the square, and as I round the corner, the last few hundred metres stretching out before me, I start to sprint, pushing, willing myself to move faster. I've done it before. I just require a few more seconds of messing about, or fussing with the chairs at the side, and then I can get logged in and not be thrown in the deep end-

'Felix Hayward.'

Well, so much for not being thrown in the deep end.

Above me, the sky clouds. Over and over, the declamation reverberates, shaking like a rattlesnake around the square, echoing off the uniform grey concrete that constitutes our buildings. I'm not scared, shocked, whatever; I'm not stupid, either, and I know that some piece of scum with nearly half a cent of entries deserves to be condemned. Suppose it's all the dealing and law-breaking catching up to me. Bad Karma, huh.

Only the tiniest fraction of a moment, one of sombre realisation, manages to permeate my thoughts, and although I am quick to banish treacherous thoughts of weakness, I do have an instant, a fleeting instant, of self-doubt. But I swallow, and rush in. 'That's me, hold up,' I try to yell, but my voice has been weakened by the running, and between panting breaths, I once again try to flag their attention. 'That's me,' I call, as I arrive in a flurry of sweat and anger: I'm a little pissed off, at myself; at the Capitol, with their power games and slaughter; at the woman who thinks she can cover herself with stripes, whiskers and purple body paint and still be treated like a human being; but no, I'm mostly pissed off at the girl on the desk who can't read an effing file.

'I'm assuming you're Felix! In that case, how nice of you to join us!'

Okay, not funny! Note the exclamation marks! This woman really needs to know when to shut the eff up!

Irritated, while a corridor of peacekeepers flank both of my sides to try and stop me from escaping (I'll bet good money that Rubio didn't get a military supervision), I mouth to the escort a snarky remark, and resist the urge to hurl a glob of spit into the atrocity of her wig. 'Well ain't you ever-so perceptive, freak.' In response, she seems a little taken aback, but it's probably nothing she hasn't seen before. Makes you wonder if they go through training: Lesson #27 today, seminar on how to deal with bitchy kids mugging you off.

As I get up on stage, I snarl at the mayor. It's probably his doing- I know he detests me with every manicured fibre of his living being- and flip him a gratuitous shot of my middle finger, as a way of thanking him for such a lavish opportunity. Discreetly, I scope out my partner for this year. So, this is the kid, huh? I would have imagined her to be fatter. And more confident. She's easily six inches shorter than me, but the way she holds herself, draws her arms in and hunches over slightly; it makes her seem shorter, more timid, as if the weight of the sky was a colossal force pressing down on her shoulders. Almost painfully thin, she smears away the riverbed of tears on her face, and rubs her eyes as if she's trying not to be noticed. Nah, this kid don't look like much.

Of course, it's only when she peeks a pair of clear, almost amber eyes, out from underneath the curtain of her hair and the frowning confusion of her furrowed brow, that I realise that this girl is gonna have people flocking to her like moths to a flame- or wasps to a honey pot. Not sponsors. Not stylists. Not anyone with her best interests at heart. See, back in the run-down manufacturing district of the Hood where I grew up, now framed in notorious infamy, girls like this are preyed upon by the men. People see this quiet submission as an invitation to do whatever the hell they want with their pretty little faces, and when a drunk or dangerous man's got his eye on something, he ain't taking his eye off his prize until he has reaped the spoils of war. She ain't gonna last five minutes in the games- if another tribute don't get her, then her own insecurities will, nagging away, eating her from the inside out like termites, hollowing her out until she's just a vacant structure swaying in the wind.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, your tributes for the 22nd Annual Hunger Games, Felix Hayward and Constantine Rubio,' I stare out into the crowd; there's a coupla people that I would vaguely recognise, but nobody steps up to volunteer. Three ain't like the Career Districts, in the aspect that we have the common sense not to send our offspring off to an abattoir.

'Shake hands now, you're both comrades in the game that will make mill-i-on-aires-' she gestures wildly, flourishing her claws in our faces, and simpers, all squishy dimples, '-of the victorious!' We turn, in unison, like clockwork robots, and I grasp Rubio's hand with something that I hope is affirming and assertive. I misjudge, and compact the dainty bones in her hand, and though it initially crosses my mind to slacken my grip, I keep up the pressure. Spoilt rich kid, with a dress that looks like it costs half of most people's salary; I'm sure in that I'm gonna make her life miserable, so her father knows the hell that everyone else has to go through. Taking it out on her ain't gonna make me feel better, no; but if it causes this overpaid pig to realise that he's the same as the rest of us lowlifes, then it'll be worth it.

The sins of the father are the sins of the son, after all.

With an esteemed finality, the doors of exotic, panelled mahogany slam shut behind us, and I skulk into a softly-furnished private room to await anyone that wants to see me. Nobody turns up, and I end up staring out of the window for a while, inspecting the dirt that's clouding the edges, rot seeping into the panelling. For all their trials and tribulations, the Capitol cannot control the spread of grime.

'Two minutes,' I hear, barked from outside the door, and it's only then that Brynd sweeps in, all self-importance and an aura that quite plainly says 'don't mess with me, or you'll be wearing concrete shoes and taking a one-way trip into the canals.'

My uncle's a bit of a bastard like that. He'll only arrive once you're out of time, then he'll make you wait while he helps himself to a glass of water or checks his cufflinks. Nice little strategy there; shows your opponent that your time is more important than theirs, and thus that you're infinitely better than them. He doesn't try that today, instead handing me a box, about the size of a cigarette pack, richly decorated with the lacquer inlaid and varnished to perfection. Nodding, he acknowledges me, then grabs me by the denim lapels of my jacket. 'You ain't gonna win,' he stares me down, 'so when ya go out, bring 'em down with you, yeah?'

Thanks mate. Both helpful and reassuring. Who gave you the awards for 'most inspirational advice', 'best father figure', and 'relative most likely to beat you to death while stoned'?

I nod in response. 'You're gonna need a new runner for checkpoints delta to theta. I'd recommend Cast, he's pretty clever and would easily outsmart the 'keeps, then either Juniper or Aila, if you want someone who's quick.' I gnaw on my bottom lip, tilt my head from side to side as I weigh up my options for replacement. 'Jury, that's the Merrans' kid, if you were after the best of both.'

Snickering, Brynd slaps me on the shoulder. 'Calm it, Felix, it's all under control, kay? Now try not to embarrass yerself.' Pausing, he motions to the box. 'Keep them. They'll be useful, y'know.' Cautious, I inspect the contents.

Unsure how to reply, I try not to piss him off. 'They won't let me keep these. What d'ya want me to do with 'em? I can't take them in,' I state, careful where I tread. Always a minefield with this guy- you never know if and when he's going to snap.

'You get forbidden stuff in all the time, y'know. Just do yer thing,' Brynd calls back as he leaves, nonchalant, as if he couldn't give a toss if he tried. His coat swishes out behind him, but not before he bestows a final, heartfelt parting statement.

'Shove 'em up yer arse, for all I care.'

Constantine "Connie" Rubio, 15 (written by TheOnlyPotato)

District 3 Female

"Today is the reaping," a familiar voice sighs, their silhouette casting a shadow over the spot where I sit. The tall figure sits next to me and pats my knee in an attempt at comfort. Looking up from the people milling about our polluted District, I turn my attention to my father, who is staring at me with sad eyes that match my own in a shade that can only be described as cognac.

I may choose to be mute, but I am not deaf. I know of the reaping, it was mentioned in every show I watched on the television and people were already betting about the District that would prevail during these Games. This years reaping will be the last under the infamous Head Gamemaker Danus, and the first under our new President Coriolanus Snow, so they're sure to be all the rage.

"Are you scared?" My father's baritone voice asks. I shake my head in response. I am not lying, I have nothing to be scared of. My entire life has been fed to me on a silver spoon, which meant my chances were zero to none.

"Chrysanthemum sent you a new dress," Dully, I note that he's trying to make conversation with a girl that refuses to speak, and mentally laugh. My father was the smartest man I knew - which said something, considering our District - yet he was still sometimes so foolish. I turn my attention back on that of the District and the dark greasy clouds that fill our skies and shudder, repulsed. District 3 air was so dirty, I wouldn't be surprised if we all died of lung cancer before sixty. "It's on your bed. She spent days on end creating a dress for you and I believe it's quite beautiful."

"I'm so nervous for you. I do not mean to fret so much; I simply worry for my little princess," he quakes when I still do not answer, pulling me into a hug. We went through this every year - he made himself sick worrying for my safety and then riled himself up over nothing. My father was quite the worrier.

I pat his knee and we sit together in silence for a bit. Eventually, however, my mental alarm clock begins to tick, and looking at the city clock I notice the time. Standing, I brush off my day dress. "You must prepare for the reaping?" He inquires, noticing my actions. I nod and he smiles gently. "Off you go." I nod again and enter the house, the manor like place bustling with activity..

My nanny, Elvira – who we no longer have use for, but I refuse to allow father to fire her – is in my room tidying up when I enter. I scowl at the fact that she's in my room without permission, but cannot stay angry with the sweet, elderly woman. She turns when she hears me and beams, opening her arms and hugging me. "Connie, my sweet girl," she breathes into my hair. Elvira was always a bit too emotional on reaping days – more so since I'm eligible. Her own son was reaped and killed, so her feelings were not unnecessary, I just wish she would shower Iblis with them instead of me. Then again I don't, because Elvira is my nanny and I am quite possessive.

"Oh, my precious girl. I set out your outfit, including that dress your lovely aunt made for you. Is there anything else I can do for you?" She asks, offering the notepad. I refused to speak, but occasionally I would communicate with pen and paper. Only to my mother, Elvira and my father, however. Iblis and my step-mother never got the honor of glancing upon my only means of communication.

I shake my head and she nods before leaving me to prepare for the reaping.

As I ready myself for my shower, I start to slip into my thoughts like I usually do when bathing. Sometimes I think about trivial things, like the impending test that I had in my personal studies or the color of my face when looking at a boy that I rather liked. Others I thought about much more deeper and important things, such as the meaning of life or how our country had let one man have absolute power and throw us into a situation such as the Hunger Games

Today, while I shower, I think about my complete silence and how I, the once bubbly and bright eyed little girl, had come the quiet observant who had no friends and only her own loneliness to accompany her through the night.

I can't help but think of all the tea parties I had with the other little girls before I fell off the bandwagon and decided my speech was worthless if my parents wouldn't listen to it. I remember the following years I spent glaring my parents down when they weren't looking and terrorizing my father's new baby. And I also remember breaking that oath to silence when I was around ten.

The day was actually warm and dry, considering the rain clouds that threatened our skies. Maybe they were just factory smoke, the memory is a bit hazy. I was being forced out of my house with my step-mother and her daughter – Iblis, who at the time was four – when I saw a group of girls playing on a make-shift course in their backyard. They did all sorts of extraordinary flips and twists, jumps and kicks that awed me. I decided that I would learn to do that, and eagerly jumped their yard fence in effort to join them. I remember practically begging them to teach me, my words tumbling from my mouth while I pleaded for their instruction.

Of course, they obliged as long as I paid for my lessons, which my father was more than happy to do. With a little more money paid to them, the girls also taught me the arts of dance. Long story short, they saved my life, and to this day I still deliver small pouches of money to their doorsteps to help feed their families whenever I could. As the mayor's and the sweetshop owner's daughter, I always had more than enough money to spare, and I owed them at least that.

I'm reminiscing on the days I spent on that faux crash course when the soap I had been washing with clatters to the floor and sends me crashing back into reality. I notice the water has run cold and I turn it off before grabbing my towel and stepping out. My good memories were always interrupted. When I go to retrieve my dress, I am greeted by my step-mother waiting for me by my bed.

"Connie," Everest chimes, smoothing out the dark purple dress that lays contrast against the black comforter of my bed. "I thought that maybe, we could talk while I brushed your hair." I'm sure my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. Everest liked to spend most of her time blowing my fathers penchant on fancy dresses for Iblis and herself or going into town to flaunt her money to her poor factory working family. She didn't do very much talking, and never forced me to communicate with her unless I absolutely wanted to, which I never did. It was the only reason I tolerated her.

As if reading my mind, Everest sighs and sits on my bed. "I wanted to speak with you about something," she begins. "I know it is uncommon for me to want to talk with you, since conversations with you are of a moot point. But I wanted to address you about your beauty... or lack thereof," she jokes, but her laugh falls short when she sees my frowning. Why were my looks a matter of concern? Now that I'm curious, I'm willing to humor her and oblige. I move my finger in a circular motion, asking her to turn around. When she does, I quickly towel off and put on my undergarments before clearing my throat and offering her my brush.

She nods and accepts, crossing the space from my bed to my vanity and taking the brush from my fingers. She is rough as she works out the wet kinks and tangles of my hair and I hiss in pain. But I do not pull away, because I know that this is a subject she desperately wishes to speak with me on, otherwise she would not be here. "This may seem sudden but I needed to get it off my chest, it's been weighing heavily on me ever since you've started to grow into a respectable young woman. As I'm sure you know, incest is not uncommon in your family." So that's what this is about.

Of course I know that incest isn't something uncommon, not only in my family but in the entirety of District 3. Some eight generations ago, father and daughter Franklin and Cassidy Rubio slept together on a whim, thus creating one of the most beautiful children anyone had ever laid eyes upon. They realized that by sleeping with someone of their own blood, they made extraordinary children. It was no secret that my mother and father were first cousins, and that their mothers and fathers had been brothers and sisters and such. The practice was taught throughout the District, but only a few families live by it. It was even rumored that if someone of one bloodline were to lay with someone of another house, the child would be one of the most hideous. Iblis was a perfect example of this, with her gangly legs, bucked, yellowed crooked teeth, and greasy thin red hair even though both Everest and my father were somewhat eye-candy.

"So of course, when you come of age you will be married off to either your father's brother, or one of his sons. And, if you're unfortunate, your own father," Everest grits out the last words, pulling a particularly thick kink out. I let out a small yelp, but still do not move away. Plugging in the curling iron, Everest takes a deep breath before continuing.

"You mustn't take your father from me. I love him more than anything in the world, and you must not allow your family traditions to steal him away. Promise me that when time comes, you will not take him from me." Sighing, I shake my head. I do not wish to have my father, and I want her to understand her fears in me are misplaced.

Everest breathes a sigh of relief and her touches become softer as she curls my hair and styles it into the elegant up-do I wear every reaping day. A strange emotion, something akin to guilt, crosses her expression before she is smiling again. "Thank you, Connie. I know this seems forward and sudden but I've just been watching you blossom and you catch everyone's eyes as you walk past so I thought... nevermind." She sets down my iron, shaking her head.

"Please excuse my foolish questions. Garrett is a good man, and Corrine is a good woman. They would never allow you to lay with your father - he loves you but not in that way. I have been asinine, I apologize." I wave her off, dismissing it. It wasn't very foolish at all, I could see as my family history would lead her to her doubts. Everest kisses the top of my head, before glancing at the clock that hangs above my vanity.

"I'm afraid that if you don't hurry, you won't be able to make it to the sweetshop this year," she states. I nearly jump out of my seat when I notice what she means. There had been two hours to the reaping when I came upstairs to dress. I had been wasting my time, and now there was only thirty minutes left. I could not afford to tarnish my fathers commendable reputation by being late. Quickly, I shoo Everest from my room and rush to get ready, finishing my hair by myself and going to slip the dress on.

My reaping dresses are always simple, even though I could get any dress I want with the amount of money flow my father receives from the Capitol. It's made of the softest velvet, with sleeves that come to my elbows and a skirt that moves like water around my legs. The hem stops around my thighs - much to my dismay - and the bodice isn't tight but it's held together enough so my breasts don't look sagged. The dress is of a deep red color this year, and the ribbon around the waist is black. I tie the ribbon in the back before putting on the small black heels that Elvira had chosen for me to wear.

I turn off my light and lock my bedroom door - no one, not even the maids or butlers, were allowed in my room when I was not around - before taking the stairs two at a time. Elvira is already downstairs, with Iblis between her knees as she tries to wrangle my half-sister's thin red hair into something presentable. The nine-year-old's chartreuse eyes glare holes in the back of my head as I bolt out of our house, hoping to make it to the sweetshop on time.

Unfortunately, when I arrive the shop is already closed down for the day, meaning my mum is already at the reaping. Anxiety finding it's way into my veins, I begin the dreaded walk towards the square. I usually spend my remaining time at the sweetshop with my mother on Reaping days, and then we walk to the reaping together. Next year, then.

Since I have no friends, I have no one my age to express my nerves with. Mostly because I prefer my silence, and most girls in my District are much too smart and loud for me. Not that I mind very much, but maybe Elvira is right when she says some company is overdue.

I sign in and go to stand next to a random girl. Instantly, her and her friends start their yearly staring. Not many people knew what happened, why my parents divorce had shaken me up so much. When I quit school, a few kids came around to check on me but apparently heard my screaming from when my parents were restraining me to get me to eat during my little private rebellion. They think I'm insane, or that there is a problem with me mentally. Their whispers are always harder to ignore during reapings.

I'm grateful when the monotone voice announces that the ceremonies will begin. My father gives his annual speech that kicks off the event and reads the treaty before playing the new video that our new President says is mandatory to display at every reaping from here on out. Everyone claps, but no one really listens to the words. It's nothing personal against my father, it's just that the process leading up to the choosing is a bit tedious. After the video finishes droning on - it's nothing different from our old one, just a different voice with different wording - our bright sunshine ray of an escort takes stage.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome, to the reaping of the 22nd Annual Hunger Games!" Our escorts Capitol accent rings throughout the square. I roll my eyes at Aeliana's color obsession this year. Everything she wears, from her too curly hair down to her too high heels is purple, including her tiger striped skin. I know Aeliana personally, she's been in my home an abundance of times. She has a nasty reputation of bedding one of our house workers every time she visits, and she even attempted to sleep with my father on one occasion. She's a lewd woman in the privacy of closed doors with a horrible personality when called out on her BS. I dislike her with passion, and I am secretly glad that her and my father were already at the square by the time I had finished dressing. Personal run-ins with her were not pleasant.

"As you all know, I'm your escort, Aeliana Rhode and I am the mistress of ceremonies. Now, we shall begin with the ladies!" Aeliana beams at us before clicking in her obnoxious heels towards the female ball. I roll my eyes for what will probably be the umpteenth time today. God, I hate that woman.

I am calm as she draws a name, the chances of me being reaped slim to none. I've never had to take tessarae, and I don't have any friends that I would take any for. All my distant family is wealthy - no one in our family has any chances of being reaped. There was nothing to worry about. Aeliana opens the slip, and her smile falters before fixing itself.

"Constantine Rubio," she announces, turning to look at my father and step-mother behind her. My father stands on stage, his mouth open in protest while Everest places her hand on his shoulder, in attempt to comfort him.

My heart seems to slam into my ribcage and then to stop with time. I curse my arrogance. Surely, there must be a mispronunciation or an error somewhere! The probability that I would be chosen wanes in comparison to the poor of our District!

My hands are trembling as they fly to cover my mouth and it feels as if my knees are rubber when I attempt to make my way onto the stage. I can feel my heart leaping out of my chest and my breathing is becoming ragged with anxiety. Fear is settling itself into my veins and taking over my emotions as I make the seemingly endless trip to my demise.

"Come on up, dearie. Come on," Aeliana cooes. Even though I'm moving at snails pace, the peacekeepers remain at ease. They know better than to rough house me because if they did my father would have their jobs in an instant. Whimpering like a pig going to slaughter, I force myself on the stage with what little functioning thought process I have left. I am careful not to trip over my feet, seeing as I don't want to make a fool of my District on national television.

"Ah yes, Constantine Rubio, ladies and gentlemen." Looking into the crowd, I spot my mother, clutching the ropes that separate her from the stage so tightly that her knuckles pale. Silent tears streak down her cheeks as she mouths my name in horror. When I look onto the screens, I realize that I too am crying, but I do not attempt to wipe my tears. I am too paralyzed in my fear to do much with my hands except leave them clasped to my mouth.

"And now, for our gentleman." Our frivolous escort clears her throat and announces before reaching one perfectly manicured hand into the boys ball and extracting one slip. Silently, I pray that my counterpart knows how to fight or is remarkably intelligent. I have neither of those talents, so maybe he can bring a victory back to District 3.

"Felix Hayward!" In the boys section, countless boys part in search of this 'Felix'. I know that we have several Felix's in our District, but only two of them are eligible for the Games. One of them is twelve. I rake my brain for an image of a 'Hayward' but I can think of nothing, so I can only pray it's not the twelve-year-old. "Felix Hayward, show yourself this instant!" Aeliana demands, her voice becoming shrill with annoyance. Peacekeepers all place their hands on their batons, prepared to drag my fellow sheep on stage by force. I can't help but note how they would treat someone they don't know with less respect that they treated me, and marvel at the hold my father has over the District enforcements.

At this exact moment, a disheveled looking boy with whitish hair and eyes dark with anger stumbles into the square, and all cameras are on him. I take this opportunity to pry my hands from my face, swipe the tears that had begun to tickle at me and give a glance back to my father and Everest - my step-mother in which mouths something along the lines of 'I'm sorry'. I flash them a small sad smile before turning back to face the crowd.

"I'm assuming you're Felix! In that case, how nice of you to join us!" Aeliana clips at the boy. He grumbles something to Aeliana that makes her scoff and flips my father an offensive finger at him before he takes stage. There is minimal laughter at the gesture. Now that I have a face to put with the name, I recognize him as one of the boys my father is always having phone calls to deal with and trying to convince to 'conform'. It was usually after conversations with him that he told me he was glad I was a good girl. Felix is a troublemaker, one of the drug peddlers from the darkness of our District, and I instantly feel relief. He knows how to fight and to survive. Whereas our District has no chance with me, they have a chance with him.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you your tributes for the 22nd Annual Hunger Games, Felix Hayward and Constantine Rubio." When it comes time for us to shake hands, I can't help but notice his grip is a little too tight and his mouth forms a sneer at me. And so I take on the boys personal vendetta against my father.

Everest is in first, and she comes alone. I notice her make-up is running along with her nose, and my being reaped is taking a larger toll on her than I thought. She pulls me into a tight embrace and holds me there, her snot dribbling onto my shoulder.

"I'm... s-s-sorry... I-I-I d-d-didn't t-t-think t-t-that t-t-they-" I cut her off by pulling away and shaking her shoulders angrily. I was coming to terms with my imminent death, but seeing her so broken over it would just make me start crying again. Everest nods her head, before taking a handkerchief and blowing her nose loudly.

"I have committed the unforgivable. I noticed that your father and mother had been spending more time together, and that you and your father are closer than before. I thought that... I thought you all were planning..." She trails off, that look of guilt she'd been staring at me with all day filling her eyes once more.

"In a moment of blind fury, I hacked the database for the reaping slips and put your name on every single one that was to be printed. I tried to changed it, but the slips were already printed and in the bowl by then. There was no way you could have gotten out of that reaping and gone home." It takes a moment for her words to settle in, because I honestly can't believe it. That look of guilt when she was brushing my hair, the 'I'm sorry' after I was reaped. Everest set me up to die as one last 'screw you' to my mum. My own step-mother sent me to my slaughter.

Rage begins to boil in my veins, and I slap Everest with every bit of strength I have. She stumbles back, clutching her cheek in pain as I advance on her. I try to speak, to tell her how I feel, but my tongue is heavy. I don't want to waste my first words in five years on the woman that killed me anyways.

"Please, can you beseech your heart for forgiveness?" She asks, her eyes wide with sorrow, regret and shame. This woman that had told me she loved me when I ate breakfast this morning and I had trusted with my most intimate and personal secrets... had simply betrayed me. This woman who I - though at first, grudgingly - came to accept as a second mother... had rigged me to die as if it was as simple as painting her nails.

I'm sure my face is red with anger as I swing open the door and drag her out of my goodbye room by her hair. Everest begins screaming when I dump her on the floor of the hallway. I prepared to pounce on her, to kill her if I could - it would only be one of the deaths that would fall upon my hands, so why not get practice - but Peacekeepers notice the exchange and drag her away from me before I can do damage.

Breathing hard, I turn to go back inside and attempt to cool off but someone grabs my arm and spins me around into a strong embrace. The smell of expensive cologne fills my nostrils and I desperately hold on to the comfort my father brings. Another pair of arms wrap around me and they smell of peppermint.

My parents pain ricochets off mine and my heart clenches, attempting to ward off its inner turmoil. This is the most hurt I've felt in years, I almost forgot what it felt like. Foolish of me, I should have known better than to think that somehow adults wouldn't cause anymore agony. The ones that lack the most innocence bring the worst of sorrow.

"Oh my sweet girl," my father cooes, pulling away from me eventually and sitting like standing another moment would surely break him. "I'm so sorry your fate has come of this. I didn't think... I did everything I could to make sure you weren't reaped. I even rigged the reaping last year when my intuition was nagging at me." I am baffled at this information. Who's right was it to decide my fate? Twice that I know of, people have dabbled in whether or not my downfall will be quick or prolonged into old age. How many times has my ending been changed by the whimsy of another? Frequently, it seems, by my father's power. I didn't even know Mayors had that much leeway, to simply do as they please. I am, quite frankly, disgusted.

"I am offended that you have treated me as fragile," I say finally. Both my parents look up, shocked. I realize that I have broken what seemed to be a five-year-silence in minutes. Shrugging a bit, I continue. "I'm afraid I can't appreciate the gesture."

"Oh baby doll!" My father stands again, kissing the top of my head as well and holding both my mother and myself to his chest. They sob again, but I do not shed a tear more. My tears have been shed, my fate accepted. So I remain squished between them, a frown on my face. Physical contact was not my forte.

Eventually they gather themselves to speak. "Wouldn't you have a slur? Wouldn't your words be choked and difficult? I do not follow, my sweet." My mother cooes. I smile wistfully.

"I have broken my silence many times while alone. I cannot write without speaking aloud, mother. It affects my ability to write coherent words. I speak in my sleep, often. I speak to my stuffed animals even, when the silence is deafening. I am only silent where there is none." There. My secret is out.

I expect rage and frustration, that I put them through hell like that, worrying sick over my mental health. But they look at me in adoration and love. The silence is deafening, so I twirl my fingers awkwardly. My parents had learned that I still possess the mental capacity to form words. If I do - by some off miracle - come home, will they expect me to speak all the time? I like my speechlessness. It's what seperates me from the other rich girls of our District. It makes me... me.

"My dear, we thought our songbird had lost her voice. Even in this moment that should be of sorrow and morning, I am happy," he says eventually, dabbing at his eyes. "I suppose you'll need a token." My father thinks before he removes his wedding ring and my mother's wedding ring that they both still wear and places them on the chain of my charm necklace - a necklace given to the babies of our family so that they can grow in grace, beauty, love and health.

"I never thought you would get reaped, so I never thought of a token for you. This should be a symbol of our families never ending love whilst you are in the arena. I'm so sorry, princess. I love you."

"I love you too, Constantine," my mother croaks, her voice hoarse from tears. Looking at both them, with fresh tears shining in their eyes and sad but loving smiles on their lips, I nod. I don't need to say it back. They already know that I love them.

After that, I lapse back into my silent thoughts and my parents leave with knowing smiles.