Hello guys and welcome to the last "reapings" chapter, in which you are introduced to the last eight tributes! Whee, I'm very excited to finally get past the introductions stage, so we can head to the Capitol... I'm telling you right now, I have a fairly large amount of Capitol chapters planned, because I want everyone to get to know these characters before I start brutally killing them.

The Bloodbath is going to be awful! :)

Hope you enjoy this chapter, happy reading!

Goodbyes

Petal Rowe, 16

District Nine

For a moment there, after that dumb bastard Loder called my name, I didn't react. I didn't think, "well shit, he just called me," because at the moment, I wasn't Petal Rowe at all.

Who was I? Can't remember the name exactly. I think it was "Naira" or something retarded. Heh. I smile a bit, licking my lips nervously. Naira Murexes, I remember now.

So, who was Naira Murexes? Just an average 16 year old girl, reaping age (unfortunately). Naira never stood out in a crowd. Naira was small, thin, and fast. And most importantly, Naira could rob the shit out of the people standing around her, and if she was caught… Well. How could Naira's thievery affect Petal Rowe? Two totally different people, right?

I should've disguised myself anyway, I think ruefully, rubbing my tanned arm. Maybe if I really sold the "Naira" act I could've gotten away with it. I could've disappeared into the district and nobody would have found me.

But I didn't disguise myself, didn't feel the need to. So when Loder shouted "Petal Rowe" into the quiet air I had nothing to fall back on. All of my stolen identities were stripped away until it was only me standing vulnerable in the crowd.

Damn. I really should have disguised myself.

I stand up, mussing my short brown hair with slender fingers. My hair is always messy anyway, so it's gotten to the point where I screw it up on purpose, just because I can. Why not? I'm not pretty. I'm just tiny little Petal Rowe, who could maybe be delicate if she tried. But I'm never going to try.

District Nine's Justice Building is a cavernous old building, not often used. The Mayor's office is in here somewhere… as was my father's, once. Before he retired. As such, I recognize this room, the one where they stuff the female tribute so she can say goodbye. It clearly wasn't meant for this purpose; it is a cavernous, dusty place, with dim light filtered in from strips that dangle from the ceiling. It's kinda creepy. If I hadn't been here before I'd probably be nervous as hell.

I glance towards the door when I hear the unmistakable sound of my father's angry voice. "This is bullshit!" he rages, and the door bangs open, shuddering in its frame. When he catches sight of me, the expression on his face cools down a bit, but he's still roaring mad.

"I've never agreed with you more," I exclaim, leaning against the solitary chair sitting in the center of the room.

Behind my father, my mother and brother file into the room. Both of them have been crying; when she catches sight of me, Mom gives a choked sob and rushes forward to envelop me in her arms. I squirm uncomfortably, slipping up one hand to pat her on the back. I've never been one for hugging.

She lets me go finally, and stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. Her mouth half opens, as if she wants to say something, but she shuts it again. Mom and I have never really gotten on. It isn't as though we fight a lot or anything. We just don't know what to say to each other. It's Dad and I that fight.

Thorn looks at me uncomfortably. He understands that I don't want to be hugged, so he doesn't offer, choosing instead to stuff his hands in his pockets. "Petal…" he says miserably. "I'm sorry."

I figure that a normal kid, like my district partner Kaiden, would be gushy in this situation. I should run over to my brother and apologize for all the times I called him a goody-two-shoes (even though he is a goody-two-shoes.) But he knows me well enough to see right through any act I put on. Instead, I just shrug. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, me too."

"This is bullshit," Dad growls again, glaring around the room as though President Pericles is right there, ready for throttling. "Twenty-three years I was Head Peacekeeper, and for what?! For my own daughter to get reaped?!" He swivels and kicks the wall in a rage.

Mom and Thorn are silent, watching him with wide eyes. It's not like he's abusive or anything, but both of them get all pussy-quiet when he starts raging. I'm the only one who can rage back.

But right now, I'm just as mad as him, and for the same reason. "Damn right it's bullshit," I snap. "I'm fucked." Dad looks at me and starts to speak, but I cut him off. "Oh, don't try and tell me like I'm not. We all know how this is gonna go."

"Don't say that," mumbles Thorn.

"Why not? It's true. There are gonna be trained Careers in this Game. What the hell do I have?"

Dad gives me a look. "You run around with those friends of yours," he remarks drily. "Those… misfits. You've gotten into enough trouble with them."

That's true, actually. I've been in enough fights to know how to whack a person. But what's my experience versus the experience of some beefed-up muscle man from District Two with a sword as long as I am tall? Not fucking much.

Someone raps on the door. "Time's up." Dad turns to glare dangerously at the door, and I realize that the Peacekeeper on the other side is in for some serious browbeating.

Dad storms off, balling his hands into fists. He yanks open the door and almost immediately begins roaring at the unfortunate Peacekeeper, who I can hear vainly trying to defend herself. Mom and Thorn exchange glances and hurry out.

That's that, I guess. Bye Mom, bye Dad, bye Thorn. See you when I see you.

A few moments pass before my next visitor strolls in. I'm a bit surprised by her presence, and raise my eyebrows. "Oh," I exclaim, feeling suddenly awkward. "Hey there, Gina."

She glares at me. The affect is mostly ruined by her huge belly, swollen with eight months' worth of baby, but she's still got one hell of a glare. "You said you were a nobody," she says softly. "You said you were just another poor little district kid."

"Well, I lied. Does it matter?"

"Does it matter?!" Her whole body quivers. "All this time, you've been—you've been Tag Rowe's daughter! You probably had all the food and money you needed!" Her voice lowers dangerously. "The Underground was just a game for you, wasn't it?"

Yes, I think. "No," I say. At her unconvinced look, I hasten to explain. "The Underground was… was a family to me, Gina. Please. You have to understand."

She snorts. "No I don't, rich girl."

The thing is, she's right. The Underground, a group of misfits, losers, and poor idiots in general, is a haven to those of lesser means. For me, it was a diversion from my boring fucking life and my boring fucking family. I've been on adventures with these people that Petal Rowe could only dream of. Because I wasn't Petal when I was with them, of course. I was Naira, or Toxic, or Seraphim, or whoever the hell I wanted to be.

And now they all know who I really am. Every single one of them. I can only be thankful that our leader isn't here. He sent his pregnant girlfriend instead, I think drily. Cainan, you ungrateful bastard. After all the money I made you and everything.

Speaking of which… I reach into my back pocket and produce a tangle of bracelets, rings, and one necklace. "Here," I say, shoving them towards Gina. "Don't really need them where I'm going."

She accepts the treasures with an odd expression. It isn't quite forgiveness, more like acceptance. She backs towards the door and nods suddenly. "I'm sorry." And then she's gone.

I doubt many more people will be coming. So when the Peacekeeper from earlier announces that my final visitors are here to see me, I'm unsurprised. Carthage bursts through the door in mere seconds, his younger sister Antigone trailing behind him. Her wide blue eyes are filled with tears. Nice kid, not a part of the Underground (she's much too young.) Carthage is, though. He's the only one who knew about my real name, my real family. He was always damn good about it too.

"Hey, Petal," he says. "It's a bit different to call you your real name. What the hell was the last one? Naira? Fucking retarded."

Good old Carthage. He's not going to get caught up in prissy baby stuff like crying. Antigone is still sniffling, but she is a baby, so I'm not gonna judge.

"Hey," I say, dropping suddenly into the chair. "I'm fucked, huh?"

"By who?" asks Carthage. "You're too ugly to fuck."

"Man, screw you. Life is fucking me."

"Life doesn't have any class," Carthage decides, settling down on the arm of the chair. Antigone wobbles over and leans against my knees. Absently, my fingers find a strand of her long blonde hair and I begin to curl it. She whimpers softly and presses further into my knees.

"Are you gonna try to win, Auntie?"

"Not your aunt, kid," I remind her. Carthage told her I was her aunt once, and she never forgot. It's the only thing she calls me anymore, because she can never remember my new names. "But don't worry. I'm gonna try to win."

"Okay," says Antigone. She still sounds nervous. Well, we all know it's gonna be fucking hard for me to win, so why pretend any differently?

Carthage clears his throat. "I just want you to know that… you're a good friend, Petal. It's been fun. And I know that's sappy, but I'm not taking it back."

"Good," I respond. "Proof that you're my bitch. I always wanted it."

"Goddammit," Carthage mutters. "C'mon kiddo, we're going." He takes Antigone's hand and pulls her to her feet, dragging her to the door when she starts to whine. "Hey, Petal?" he calls, simultaneously opening the door and shoving a squealing Antigone outside. "If you don't win, when I die I'm going to find you, wherever the fuck you are, and beat the living piss out of you. Okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer, choosing instead to slip past the rapidly closing door.

"I guess I'll have to win, then," I say, but the room is empty and there's nobody left to hear.

Anna Yarin, 18

District Six

There are so many reasons to be afraid that I can't even think of them all. The Hunger Games, I think. Dying horribly. Not getting any sponsors. Looking like an idiot in the chariots. Dying horribly. Mutts. Gamemaker traps. The arena, the Bloodbath. Dying horribly.

It always seems to come back to "dying horribly."

My teeth begin to chatter, despite the fact that the air inside the Justice Building is hot and oppressive. Every breath I take feels forced, as though I'm breathing through a film wrapped around my nose and mouth. The room is so cramped that there's barely enough space for the chair and the desk that I sit behind. As I wait, I absently open one of the drawers and pull out a slim notebook I find inside. But when I open it, I discover that the pages are all blank. Disappointed, I toss it onto the desk.

"First visitors for Anna Yarin." I glance up, and my bottom lip begins to tremble. I managed not to cry when my name was called, although it was difficult. You won't get any sponsors if you cry, I told myself firmly, as I tiptoed towards the stage. And you'll stand out.

If I stand out, I'm lost. The Careers always hunt after the people they can remember. Everyone else they'll leave alone until their alliance falls apart or loses most of its members. If I can be so unforgettable that no one comes after me, I'll still have a shot. And I did alright with that during the reaping, I tell myself. I didn't cry and I didn't say anything interesting. I'll bet the Capitolians have already forgotten about me, and the Careers will take one look at me and label me a non-threat. Okay, that's good. That's what I want.

The door opens with an awkwardly loud squeal. "Dad!" I shout, as he pokes his head into the room, and I launch myself at him. He's barely able to put his arms out before I'm curled around him with my face in his chest. Soothingly, he pats my back.

"Hey there, Banana," he says. "Hey."

His gentle voice and tone make it so much harder for me not to cry. To my horror, I can feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes, and I hastily move away in order to compose myself. As I do I realize that my brother Chase has entered the room as well and is currently waiting patiently for a hug. "Chase!" I whimper, and crash into him. He's stronger than Dad and squeezes me tightly. Now the tears come, hot and fast. I sniffle miserably and bury my face in the crook of my brother's neck.

I can feel him swallowing, and his shoulders rise and fall erratically. "Anna…" he whispers, and I realize that he's crying too. I've never seen Chase cry, not ever. But I don't cry very often either. There's a first time for everything, I think, and grit my teeth. Because the time for me to try new things is severely limited now, isn't it?

Dad moves over and for a few minutes the three of us stand together. None of us are dry-eyed, although I am the only one flat-out sobbing. But the presence of my father and my older brother is so much better than being alone, and the tears eventually dry. Red-faced, I rub at my puffy eyes and try to swallow the mucus that has accumulated in my throat.

"D-don't worry, guys," I manage. "I'm gonna… I'm gonna try to fade into the background. Maybe they won't go after me if they can't remember who I am."

Chase nods rapidly. "Yeah. Yeah, Anna. That's a good plan. Don't do anything interesting, be boring, don't excel. Do an average job in training; show them the stuff they don't care about, like edible plants. Don't ally."

Dad coughs, and Chase turns to look at him. "It's just that Anna's mentor might know more than you, Chase," he says apologetically. "You don't know anything, son. No offense."

Somehow, this casual and loving insult brings a faint smile to my face. They'll be alright, I realize. Even if I… if I die. They'll make it.

"Shut up," Chase mumbles. I can see a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips too, but it doesn't quite make it and his face lapses back into depression. If this is the last time I see my father and brother, I don't want to remember them looking like this.

"Hey," I say. My voice is still choked and the word comes out as a whisper, so I'm forced to repeat myself. "Hey," I say again, and this time it's louder. "Smile for me, brother?"

He tries, although the smile doesn't quite reach his brown eyes. Chase inherited Mom's eyes (at least, this is what Dad tells me, as I don't remember what Mom's eyes looked like) while I got a mix of Mom's brown and Dad's green. I like that. It's as if a little piece of both my parents is always with me.

We move in for another hug, and after that there's nothing more to say. If they prolong this it'll only hurt more, so I move them towards the door, tugging on my necklace all the while. I don't usually wear jewelry, but this is different, special. It was my mother's. Besides, it's nothing fancy: a small golden heart on a black cord. I suppose it will be my token, if nobody brings me anything else.

I return to my seat while I wait for my next visitor. He's not long in coming. After a few minutes of silence, the door squeaks open again, and Rick slips into the room. He, like Chase, immediately opens his arms, and I get up and practically fall into them.

Rick is my best friend. I have other friends from school as well (mostly boys) who I imagine might come to visit as a group. But if they don't, that's alright. I understand that it might be uncomfortable to see me like this. Rick is the only one I'm particularly close to.

After a few moments of hugging, we pull apart. "I'm so sorry," he says immediately. I thought I was done crying, but the simple statement has me tearing up again. Wisely, Rick doesn't say anything else, choosing instead to let the tears slip down my cheeks. After a moment, he reaches up and wipes a few away with his thumb.

"T-thanks," I mutter, brusquely dealing with the rest by wiping them on my forearm. "I'm glad you came. I'm scared."

"You can do it," Rick promises. "You're smart, Anna. And you're tall, just as tall as I am. That's gotta count for something."

"Maybe," I concede. "I guess it gives me an advantage…" My breath hitches in my throat. "Over little kids. I'm going to have to kill children to get out of this. I don't want… I could never…"

Rick's expression is heartbreaking. "I know, I know," he soothes, hugging me close as a new round of tears starts. "It's wrong," he breathes into my ear. "It's wrong and I hate it. But somebody has to win the Games, Anna. It would be better if it were you. Not someone who volunteered to kill other kids. You." He pulls away and stares me in the eyes. "I'm not going to make you promise to win, Anna," he says. "That's too much to ask. But… please… please try. Please don't give up. I need you."

Despite myself, I feel a faint blush creeping up my cheeks. Our faces are awfully close; I can feel Rick's warm breath on my lips. His expression shifts, and his eyes begin to shine… Abruptly he looks away. "Right," he says, voice unsteady. "Right."

Something almost happened there, I think, and grab Rick's hand. "I'll try," I tell him. "As long as I've got a chance, I'll try."

He looks at me with those glowing eyes and tries to smile. "You've always got a chance, Anna."

I've always got a chance? I hope so, Rick. I hope so.

Gander Gleam, 18

District One

Someone put a poster of me up on the wall. The stupid thing doesn't do me justice, not really, but it feels good to know that I'm finally getting the recognition I deserve. I've been the chosen volunteer for months; it's about time somebody made the stupid posters. Every tribute gets one, and they're distributed in said tribute's home district (and sold in the Capitol.) Looks like someone got a head start on mine.

Smirking a bit, I examine it more closely. My hair sweeps across my forehead, looking like spun gold. The poster's got nice lighting, at least. My green eyes are dancing with excitement and my bronze skin is just flushed enough that I look perfectly healthy, robust even. Not that I don't always look like that, of course, but photographs never make me look right. I know what I look like, and I look damn good. This poster is a pretty accurate representation, but the real me is better.

"Gander Gleam!" is written across the top in bold white letters. To be honest, it looks fucking dumb. When I win they'll be making better posters, I think, but that doesn't actually excuse anything. How are the Capitol girls supposed to fawn over this if my name looks retarded? They'll fawn over me anyway, but it's only fair that they get a better poster for better fawning. My smirk grows as I imagine my likeness plastered in the bedrooms of every Capitolian girl who watches the Games. And if there are any girls who aren't interested at first, they will be once I've won.

The door opens while I'm still looking at the poster. I consider glancing up, but whoever it is should probably know better to interrupt me when I'm in the middle of something important. However, when I hear a sharp "Gander!" I realize that my dad probably doesn't care whether I'm in the middle of something. He can be a huge ass sometimes.

Mom and Dad have entered the room and are currently looking me over, nodding to themselves. "Yeah," says Dad finally. "No doubt about it. We've got ourselves a winner right here." He shoulders Mom, and she chuckles.

"He'd better win," she remarks. "I've got good money on this boy right here."

"Of course I'm going to win!" I snap, stung. "How the hell could I not win?"

"He's right," Dad says. "This is a Gleam we're talking about, Silva. You were a Marchand before you married into this family, so your standards might be a bit lower than our norm, but he's a Gleam. He'll win."

Mom's smile is chilly. "I know he'll win, Jet," she replies. "He's my son."

"And mine," Dad says quickly. "Look at him. He's practically a carbon copy of me!"

"Oh, he might look like you, but he has my spirit in him," says Mom. "He's a fighter."

I can tell that this conversation is going to devolve into an argument if I don't intervene. And normally I wouldn't intervene, because it's interesting to listen to my parents arguing over who I take after, but we have a limited amount of time here, and it isn't their time, it's mine. "Hello," I say, clapping my hands to get their attention. They both turn to look at me, and I smile. "There we go," I say. "Enough of that. Where's my token?"

Dad smiles. "For the best tribute, the best token." He reaches into his pocket and reveals a small black box. I open it to find a silver cufflink nestled inside black fabric, polished and gleaming. I decide not to smudge it by picking it up, and close the box.

"It'll be a waste if we don't have long sleeves in the arena," I comment, "but I'm sure it will be better than the crap the outer district kids always bring." I chuckle as I remember the token that the boy from Nine last year had, some kind of woven bracelet. What's the point of jewelry if you make it out of fucking wheat? When the idiot died in the Bloodbath, I was cheering loudest.

"Of course it'll be better," Mom says smoothly. "Those brats from the outer districts always have embarrassing tokens."

"I guess that's everything, then!" says Dad cheerfully, clapping me on the back. "See you in a few weeks, son."

"We'll be watching," Mom promises, smiling proudly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes (of course she'll be watching, honestly) and manage to smile through a round of hugs. It is only once both of them are gone that I can finally laugh to myself. So overbearing, I think. I'm the one going into the Games. I'm getting the fame, I'm getting the glory, and I'm going to be Victor. Not them.

I'm still thinking about this when Flash walks into the room. He has his trademark grin on his face, but I know how insanely jealous he must be. He's eighteen, just as I am, but was he chosen to be District One's male tribute? That honor went to me, I'm afraid. I don't know what he was expecting, honestly. There isn't a single field in which I don't excel, and there is nothing Flash can do that I can't do better.

"Hey, buddy," says Flash. "Going to the Games, huh? Must be… pretty cool, I guess."

"Yep," I say, nodding. "How does it feel to be looking at the next Victor, Flash?"

He grins, although it looks a bit forced. Hah, I knew he was jealous. "It's awesome," he drawls. "Just great. Although we can't be sure you'll win yet."

It's an offhand comment, but it strikes a nerve. "Yes we can. We can be very sure that I'm going to win," I say dangerously. "Who else is going to win? Ivory? That bitch isn't anywhere near as skilled as I am."

"I don't know," says Flash, shrugging. "I wouldn't underestimate Ivory."

That does it. I lunge forward, grabbing my so-called friend by the collar. He lets out an involuntary frightened squeak as I clench a fistful of fabric between my fingers, his collar cutting into his throat. "I don't know," I mock. "It almost sounds like you're underestimating me, Flash. And that," I growl, twisting the fabric tighter, "would be a stupid fucking idea. Whatever you have in your head about Ivory being some kind of competition is horse shit, Flash. She might be a Career, but when the time comes I will crush her. I'll crush everybody in that goddamn arena. And if you don't shut the fuck up about me being weak, once I win I'll come back here and I'll crush you too."

Flash gapes at me wordlessly. "You look like a fucking fish," I spit, releasing my tight grip on his shirt. He flops to the ground, massaging his throat and gasping for air, staring up at me with this wounded look on his face. "Oh, don't give me that," I snap. "You had it coming. What the hell's gotten into you, man? It's like you don't want me to win." He's jealous, I remember. Bastard. What a shitty friend.

Flash manages to stumble to his feet. His eyes are bright with unshed tears (what a pussy) and he backs away from me slowly. "You attacked me," he manages finally.

I shrug. "And? If you don't remember, you were talking shit about me."

For a moment he seems tempted to deny it; then he realizes the idiocy of that choice and looks at his feet. "Bye, Gander," he manages finally, mumbling the words as though he feels obligated to say them. That's really not the kind of attitude my best friend should have on this auspicious day. I try to tell him, but he lunges for the door and vanishes before I can open my mouth.

I stare at his vacated space, incredulous. Then my skin darkens. "You fucker," I manage. "You little bitch!" That does it. When I get back home, the first thing I'll do is teach Flash a lesson about respecting his betters.

Trying to screw up this day for me. Well, fuck him. I am Gander Gleam and I don't give a shit about his stupid problems and his stupid jealousy, because I'm going to win. No matter what…

Ashia Curore, 18

District Five

I probably shouldn't have done this, I think, leaning back in the chair. It's a screechy old metal thing, and the chair legs squeal when I rub them against the floor. The room for goodbyes is narrow and the walls are lined with mirrors, so I can see the lanky girl leaning back in her chair, making it squeal. Strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back into a single braid that is currently pooling up on her neck, and her eyes… Well, I know my eyes are hazel, but they're too small for me to see properly, even when I squint.

Poor vision, I think absently, tipping the chair back a little further. How can I win with poor vision? Not easily, huh. I should've thought of that when I stepped forward. But I wasn't really thinking about the Games when I volunteered. Nope, don't really care about them, to be honest. It's the Capitol I'm thinking about. Even now, the idea that I will be in the Capitol in less than a day fills me with anticipation. The old Ashia, the boring one who thought things out and would never have volunteered in her long and mundane life, she wouldn't have particularly cared about the Capitol. But the real me, the fun-loving impulsive me, is about ready to explode with excitement.

"See, Wyatt?" I murmur, staring into the mirror. And it's almost as if I can see my ex-boyfriend standing behind me with that disdainful look on his face. "See?" I say again. "Who's boring now, Wyatt? Who's cold and boring and serious now?" I grin, red lips parting to reveal clean white teeth. "Certainly not me."

The door bursts open without any warning. The smile on my face withers and dies. Mom and Dad, I think. I was hoping they wouldn't come. Always pushing, always reminding me that I'm not good enough, always wishing that the old, boring me would come back… Half the reason I want to see the Capitol so much is because theyaren't there.

Both of them are wearing the same expression. Mom's eyes are huge and brimming with horror and Dad is pale and trembling. "Ashia," he says finally. "What have you done?"

I shrug. "Nobody ever volunteers from District Five," I point out. "We haven't had a volunteer in years! I'm just shaking things up a bit!"

Mom's expression twists. "Shaking things up a bit?" she repeats, pointing a trembling hand in my direction. "Have you gone insane?! Have you completely lost your mind?!"

"I hope not," I exclaim. "Half the tributes go nuts. I wanna be special." I grin crazily, flipping my braid and twirling it around one of my fingers. My tanned skin glows in the dim light and my teeth look like square pearls embedded in my gums. Besides, this wasn't some slapdash decision, I remind myself. I've been thinking about this all year, ever since Wyatt told me what a boring bitch I was. I mean, I didn't think about the Games part, but it'll be fine. No worries.

Mom and Dad don't seem to share that mentality. "Ashia," says Mom. Her voice is trembling. "You are going to die."

I blink. "Ouch. Thanks for the vote of confidence." Then I yelp when she grabs my shoulders, her bony fingers digging into my skin. "Oww, Mom! Let go!"

Her eyes are filled with tears. "What is wrong with you!" she shouts. "Ever since that fucking boyfriend of yours broke up with you you've been nuts, fucking nuts! He was just a boy, Ashia; you could've had a dozen others if you hadn't done this!"

I manage to squirm away from her hands and move behind the chair to defend myself. "Stop talking about Wyatt," I say, coldly. All the playfulness has vanished from my tone. "He has nothing to do with this."

"He does," spits Mom. "I'm going to murder him."

"Fine," I exclaim softly. "The world would be better off."

Dad is breathing heavily. "Ashia," he says quietly. "How could you say something like that? Is that why you volunteered? Do you want to kill people?"

Now that the conversation has moved away from Wyatt, I feel more comfortable. "Depends. Maybe if they get really annoying…" I chuckle at my parents' expressions. "Oh, come on guys, lighten up! I'm only joking…"

"You are joking about murder," says Dad wonderingly. He looks at Mom. "Our daughter is joking about killing other people."

My mother looks at me with wide, disturbed eyes. "Do you want to die?" she asks me.

"Only if there's an afterlife. I hear the parfaits up there are excellent."

Dad lets out a choked whimper and covers his face with his hands, stumbling out of the room. I grimace slightly. It isn't as if I'm worried or anything, and he immediately goes and starts crying. He's scared for me. He should just try not to think about it. Makes it easier.

Now Mom is the only one left. "I don't know what to say to you," she admits. "I would never have expected you to do something like this. Never."

"That's kinda sad. You are my mom."

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "The girl you used to be, she was my daughter. You… I have nothing to do with you." She turns and walks off before I can formulate a reply.

The thing is, she's right. The girl I used to be, the boring chilly girl from before, the girl that Wyatt laughed at and cheated on… That was her daughter. The new better me doesn't want anything to do with that old girl's mom anyway. So that's fine.

I consider sitting down in the chair but decide against it. I glance up as the door opens and a Peacekeeper pokes his head in. "That's all for you," he says.

"No other visitors? Damn. Nobody likes me." I pull a sad face, and he chuckles, although his laughter is slightly uneasy. All the Peacekeepers have been on edge recently, ever since the protest a few weeks back. I think one of them got killed or something. I wasn't involved in it, but there was a mandatory lockdown for three days after. And ever since they've been a lot harsher, and the newer ones like this guy have been jumpy as anything.

"You'll have to wait for the rest of the hour, I'm afraid," he says, with an apologetic shrug. "Your district partner has quite a few people to see him."

"Okay." The Peacekeeper pulls back and closes the door with a click, leaving me alone in the mirrored room. But I'm not really alone; all the reflections of me are smiling behind the glass. They look confident and happy, and that's how I feel. I'm confident, I'm happy, I'm excited, and I'm ready to go. This is going to be a blast, and I doubt I can wait five minutes for it, let alone a full hour... "I'm coming, Capitol," I whisper to myself, and I twitch a bit. "I'm coming."

Lana Ermine, 17

District Eight

Calm. Deep breaths. This is fine, everything is fine, I can get past this. I can work with this. I just… need… calm.

Slowly, I wipe my moist palms on my soft yellow sundress. The fabric is smooth and pleasant to the touch. I remember when I was younger, when my parents were still alive, these kinds of dresses were the norm for me. But my parents are dead, and with them went their money.

I swallow shakily, balling my hands into fists. First they take my parents, and then they take me. I hunch over in the plush chair and grab a fistful of yellow fabric. No. Calm. Deep breaths.

The room I'm sheltered in is quite a bit cozier than I expected, with soft colors and posters of Mason Quaite, District Eight's only Victor, plastered everywhere. The chair is soft and I have already burrowed into is as far as I can go. My legs are crossed and I tap out a beat on my shin with my forefinger while I think.

I need a plan. This situation is wholly out of my control, but if I can map out a plan for it I won't be completely lost. The reapings were alright, so I have a point in my favor there. I was wild-eyed but I kept my composure. My district partner, though… I swallow a bit, thinking about what happened there. He was confused. He didn't want to come up to the stage and he tried to bolt. In the end the Peacekeepers had to drag him up the steps. He howled and fought them the entire way. Stitchell Hemmingway, I think. From the looks of him, he's probably retarded. I grimace slightly. Poor bastard. I'd love to get inside his head, to understand the way he thinks. It must be very different than the way I think, but I can't know for sure until I get a chance to talk to him.

Of course, there's the chance that he won't want to speak to me because of my reputation alone. When my parents were still alive, when I was young and rich… I was a troubled child, I suppose. A snob. A brat. A spoiled little prick. And then they died and Grandpa Flax took me in, and I'd like to think that I've changed. But the others don't seem to see it. "Don't talk to Lana," they whisper. "Rich bitch, thinks she's better than everybody else."

I haven't seen Stitchell in school, which would suggest that he doesn't know about my reputation. Perhaps there's a chance with him. I'd only like to talk, after all. And I'm not usually one for talking; I prefer to let others fill the silence. But he interests me in spite of myself.

Right now I can't say where Stitchell fits into my (currently non-existent) plan, so I push him out of my head. Only one can win, I remind myself, and it has to be me. I'm not going to give up, not ever. In that vein of thinking, I need a strategy. What role will I play in these Games? It seems that the Victor of the Games always has some sort of niche. Vitus Sherrer, the twelve year old boy from District Two that won last year, was the excitable sweet little fellow who talked over whatever was being said and was everyone's friend. That didn't stop him from slaughtering his competition, though. His eyes were watering as he cut down his District Four ally in the final fight.

I, Lana Ermine, am neither excitable nor sweet. What does that leave me? I am observant, I suppose, but that is hardly an angle. I can be imaginative, but that's no angle either (or at least not a Victor's angle.) I suppose that I can be boring, I think. Uninteresting. It won't gain me any sponsors, but it might just keep me alive for a while.

That's an interesting thought that I should work on, but it seems that I have a visitor now. I look up, somehow releasing my stranglehold on my dress. The door opens, and a moment later my grandfather is limping into the room. I automatically get out of the chair and take his hand, leading him to the seat. Grandpa can't stand for very long, as he was injured in some kind of factory accident long before I was born. He never goes into detail about the accident, but it has left his right leg a burnt, twisted mass of scar tissue.

He collapses into the chair with a huff of air. "Lana, my dear," he croaks, with eyes that are brimming with sadness. "My poor dear little girl."

I lean over and hug him, pressing my face into his wrinkled neck. "Grandpa," I whimper, feeling very small. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

We separate, and he nods gravely. It's odd to see my grandfather like this. He is a hardworking man, but he is always cheerful and calm. Now, though… His expression is as sad as I've ever seen it. He was never close with my mother, but now he is going to lose me as he lost her.

At least he'll know what happened to me, I think, rather bitter. I won't just disappear like they did. One evening they went for a stroll, and it appears that they strolled all the way to the afterlife, because they never did come home again. I know it was them, I think. The Capitol. My parents helped them take control in the Third Rebellion, but they knew too much, they must have. So the Capitol watched and waited, and when the time was right they struck.

It's only a theory. But it makes far too much sense to be wrong.

"You'll have to win, my Lana," says Grandpa. "I can't… I can't watch you… die." He says the word tentatively, as though if he brings it to life it will become my reality. Die. No, he's right; I can't allow myself to die.

"I'll have to win," I agree, ignoring the clenched knot in my belly. "I can win. I can win." I say it twice to make it true. I can win.

He nods, and I can hear his breath rasping in and out of his mouth. "It won't be easy," he warns me. "But I've made a hardworking girl out of you. You have the spirit to win, and the stubbornness." He smiles briefly. "You won't give up."

"No, I won't." I pace back and forth, heels clicking on the hard floor.

Grandpa reaches out and catches at my wrist. "Lana," he says, and I stop walking. "I have something for you." Reverently, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bracelet of woven threads. "I was saving it for your eighteenth birthday," he admits, "but now is as good a time as any, I suppose."

Quietly, I take it. The threads must not have cost him very much, but I can see that hours went into the weaving of this bracelet. When I was younger, I might have laughed, or tossed it back at him. "I have bracelets made of real gold." I can hear my younger self saying that.

Now it is a treasure. Carefully, I slip it onto my wrist. It fits as though it has always been there. I look up at my grandfather and I swallow harshly. "Thank you," I tell him. "I love it."

He smiles a bit. "Hug me, child," he says, and I do. Pressed into his warmth, I close my eyes and breathe as deeply as he's breathing. Deep breaths, in and out. Calm.

I can win. I can win. I can win.

Cian Typhon, 17

District Two

He was supposed to volunteer. Creighton Atlas was supposed to volunteer. He was supposed to be District Two's male tribute for the 123rd Hunger Games. He was to bring honor and glory to District Two. He was supposed to win.

I stare at the poster hanging on the wall. Creighton grins down at me, his boyish face alight with excitement. My chest feels tight and I ball my hands into fists. Why didn't you volunteer? You were supposed to volunteer! More to the point, why didn't anyone else volunteer? Why, why, why…?

When the escort called my name, I was completely unconcerned. Creighton will volunteer. Three words that floated through my mind as easy as blinking, and calmed me. And I waited. Even when I found myself standing onstage, I waited. Even when there was dead silence after volunteers were asked for, I was patient. He'll volunteer, I told myself, and when he didn't, well, somebody will.

Nobody did.

I let out a pained noise and slam my fist into the wooden chair's arm. The pain in my fingers is immediate and crushing and brings tears to my eyes. This is not right. I am not what District Two is looking for in a tribute. Why. Didn't. Someone. Volunteer?

I looked for Creighton in the crowd when I realized that he wasn't coming. Somehow I managed to spot him, just before they led us off the stage. His eyes were wide and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. I enjoy looking at people and guessing what's going through their minds from their expressions alone, so I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to figure out why he did it. I think he's happy, I decided, looking at his face. He's happy that I'm going to die. But that doesn't make much sense, because I've never spoken to Creighton Atlas in my life. Maybe he knows that I've never trained (he would never have seen me at the Center, I suppose.) Maybe that's it. Or maybe he wasn't even happy at all. Maybe I'm just a hopeless guesser. It's definitely possible.

I pull my injured hand towards my chest and cradle it in my other arm like a wounded bird. As my head tips down, tendrils of my dark brown hair immediately flop into my eyes. Mom is always telling me that my hair is too long, that I should cut it. Guiltily, I rub a long strand of hair between my thumb and forefinger. I don't want to cut it. I like it the way it is.

My hair is perhaps the only thing I'll stand up for myself about. In addition to berating me about my hair, Mom is constantly reminding me that being a complete pushover is never going to help me in life. I guess she's right, but I can't help myself. It's the way I am.

Miserably, I hunch over in the chair. My eyes are stinging but I'm not going to cry. I don't want to venture in sight of the cameras with red eyes. I caught a glimpse of myself on one of the screens during the reapings and I was shocked to realize how impressive I looked. With my arms folded across my chest and my blue eyes narrowed into slits, I looked… well, I suppose that I looked rather imposing. I wasn't trying to. In fact, I was trying to look as neutral as possible. Do I really always look like that? It might explain why people avoid me at school. Interesting thought.

I don't realize that the door has opened until my family has crowded into the room. Mom, of course, is not present. She's been bedridden for two years, ravaged by a disease that none of us can understand, let alone treat.

The rest of the family, however, has come to see me off. To see me off to die, I think, and shiver. The once quiet room immediately explodes as everyone begins talking at once. Kane is spitting out curses and wildly waving his arms; my older brother has never been good at expressing himself. Alena, my fourteen year old sister, is half crying and half cursing like Kane. Silas' eyes are filled with tears. My youngest brother immediately goes for my lap, and I open my arms and hold him against my chest. "Ci-Ci," he whimpers.

Dad claps his hands together loudly and yells something, but I can't hear him over the noise everybody else is making. He sighs, grimaces, and takes a deep breath. "CHILDREN!" he roars, and Kane's mouth snaps shut, Alena is cut off mid-sniffle, and Silas gives a little sigh and presses his nose farther into my neck.

"Okay," says Dad quietly. "One at a time. You first, Kane." My brother looks decidedly uncomfortable about being singled out, and for a moment doesn't say anything. Then he glances down at his wrist, at the twisted metal bracelet he made once on a whim.

"Uh," he says. "Here, little bro." Awkwardly, he peels off the bracelet and hands it to me. "For your token," he says. His expression is dark, almost murderous, but Kane always looks that way. Silas too. And if anything can be said for my expression during the reapings, it might be that I always look that way as well.

I slip the bracelet onto my own wrist. It's a bit big, so I shove it down my arm until it finally catches. "Thanks, Kane." My brother was never good with his words, but I think I know what he's trying to say. He loves this bracelet; I've never seen him without it. If he's giving it to me, he must love me a lot. Kane would never say something like that, but now I know.

"Alright," says Dad, sounding choked up. "Your turn, Alena."

Alena has been quietly crying this entire time. She opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "It's just not fair!" she explodes, stomping her foot. "Creighton Atlas was supposed to volunteer! He was supposed to! He can't just do that to everybody!" She begins to pace in a circle. "And you don't know anything, Cian! You haven't trained. The Careers will never let you in!" She begins to sob again, futilely wiping at the tears trailing down her cheeks.

"That's alright," I tell her. "I don't want to be a Career."

She looks at Dad helplessly. "He doesn't want to be a Career!" she sobs. "He's going to die!"

"Alena!" Dad snaps, looking at her with huge eyes. "You can't say that! You have to have faith!"

Alena grimaces and doesn't respond. After a moment, she pads over and wraps her arms around me (and Silas, who is still resting in my lap.) "I—I love you, big brother," she mumbles.

"I love you too," I tell her.

When she pulls away, Silas takes it upon himself to start talking without any cue from Dad. "You're gonna try to win, right? Right, Ci-Ci?"

I try to smile. He hasn't called me Ci-Ci since he was five. "Yes," I promise him. "I'll try."

"Good." He curls back into my embrace, pressing his cheek against my chest and closing his eyes. I can feel his breath on my forearm, and I cradle my younger brother close.

Now Dad is the only one left with things to say. He takes a step closer to me and claps me on the shoulder. "You're a good boy," he tells me. "And I love you, son. No matter… no matter what happens in the arena… whatever you do, son, I'll always love you. You'll do what you have to so you can come back home, I know you will."

"Right," I exclaim, nodding slowly.

I suppose that there isn't anything more to say. I feel my heart drop as I ease Silas out of my arms and put him on the ground. He promptly begins to cry, blue eyes welling up with water. Alena takes his hand.

The four of them move towards the door, each of them stopping at least once to call over their shoulder. But they are gone soon enough. And I didn't even get to see Mom, I reflect. I didn't say goodbye to Mom. My eyes are stinging again, and I look at my hands curled up in my lap. I can feel the warmth of Silas' little body, but it is already fading. Soon it will be cold.

Alder Stain, 17

District Seven

I can hear them talking outside the door. A man and a woman, clothed in the white uniforms that delineate their chosen profession. They are Peacekeepers, and they are guarding me. If I open that door they will force me back inside, beating me down if necessary.

It's fine, I try to tell myself, but I hear one of them chuckling and I feel slightly queasy. They have guns. They could kill me, just like they killed Will. I grind my back teeth together, and I think about my poor, stupid, dead older brother. Willow, you idiot, why did you kill a Peacekeeper? Why would you do that?

He never got the chance to tell me why. I remember the night he came home with dark stains on his clothing and suggested we go out to play in the woods. I remember being particularly petulant ("that's not allowed, big brother") but he insisted, showing me the gap under the fence.

"We'll play hide and seek," he told me. "You hide, and I'll come find you." So I hid, buried myself in the leafy confines of a blackberry bush. And I waited, hearing his footsteps receding into the distance.

It was the last time I saw him alive. By the time I realized he wasn't going to come find me, he'd been shot so many times that he was barely anything more than a lump of man-shaped meat, and my parents had been whipped into unconsciousness, both of them. All because my brother's knife found its way into some Peacekeeper's jugular.

Sometimes I think about the Peacekeeper. What could he have done to incite my brother so? I'll never know, but sometimes I worry that Willow killed the man simply because he was a Peacekeeper. That would be the final cruel blow, because then… Then the people that killed Will would have been justified in doing it. My brother would have been wrong, and the people that shot him to pieces would have been in the right.

And now there are two of those people standing outside my door, chatting idly with each other. I highly doubt that either of these Peacekeepers had anything to do with my brother's death, but ever since that night… They make me nervous. The sight of those white uniforms makes me nauseous. I don't believe I've ever spoken to a Peacekeeper, preferring instead to get away before having to make conversation.

Still, they won't come in as long as I don't try to get out. So I remain in the intricately carved wooden chair, tapping my foot against the hardwood floor. I'm wearing my sandals, as usual; despite the fact that we're supposed to get dressed up for the reapings, I don't own anything better. But what does it matter? I've been reaped, and I have a hell of a lot more to worry about than my footwear.

There is a tap on the door. I sit straight up, suddenly tense. Peacekeeper…? The door begins to open, and my green eyes widen marginally. No… no…

My father steps into the room, and the tension melts from my body. My mother follows a moment later, and I feel a fierce pride for both of them. They both had the skin whipped off their backs following Willow's murder, but they were strong enough to brave the Peacekeepers in order to see me.

"Mom! Dad!" I launch myself at my mother, who is closer, and wrap my arms around her. She smells like baking bread and old pine needles, and I inhale the scent gratefully. Who knows if I'll ever smell it again?

I'm unsurprised to see tears dripping down my mother's tanned cheeks, her skin so similar in hue to my own. "Alder," she croons, rocking back and forth with me in her arms. "My baby. My baby boy."

I don't register when Dad joins the hug, but soon the three of us are wrapped into one embrace. Both of my parents are crying, and it's all I can do to prevent myself from crying as well. If I start crying now, I'm lost, I tell myself firmly.

Dad pulls away first. Awkwardly, he attempts to mop up the tears trickling down his cheeks, and when he realizes that the flow can't be checked he lets his arm fall limply to his side. "I… I want you to know that I love you, son."

I manage a smile. "I love you too, Dad." Other kids my age might be embarrassed saying things like that, but I've never been ashamed to make it very clear how much I adore my parents. "I love you both so much." I reach over and take my mom's hand. "No matter what happens…" My voice wavers and then breaks, and I take a moment to steel my resolve before continuing. "No matter what happens, you two have to keep going."

Mom squeezes my scarred hand tightly. "Oh, baby," she whimpers. "Please… Not like Willow…"

She can't articulate the rest of the sentence, and devolves back into a whimpering shell of a woman. Dad immediately moves to her side and puts his arm around her shoulder, rubbing soothing circles onto her back. "Shh, Thalia," he says gently. "Shh. It's okay."

She shakes her head but leans in to him, allowing him to comfort her. Watching the two of them, I can feel my heart breaking. My eyes sting and I begin to take shallow little breaths, practically panting. I look at my shoes and for a moment the room seems to spin. This can't be happening, I think, numb. This… this can't…

"Time's up!" I jump at the voice; for a moment I'd forgotten that the Peacekeepers are lurking outside. My parents look at each other and then at me, and pull me in for another soothing hug. No words are spoken; there's nothing left that needs to be said.

"I love you." The three words slip from my mouth as they are walking out the door. Mom somehow manages a smile through her tears, and Dad gives me a nod and a wave. And then they are gone.

There is a moment of fear when I imagine that the Peacekeepers will come to collect me, but it is short-lived. The door opens, but instead of Peacekeepers it is my best friends that are piling into the room. The four of them practically trip over each other in their haste to get to me. Rowan, Dinah, Pine, and Sarai. Four of the best people I've ever known.

It seems like they're expecting me to talk first, so I manage to make a smile for them. "Hey, guys," I say, leaning against the wooden chair. "I guess this is it, huh?"

At that, Sarai grabs me around the middle, hugging me tightly. "This can't be happening," she sobs. "This is just—this is the worst, Alder. Why does it have to be you?"

I grab her chin and tilt her face towards mine. "Better me than you," I tell her sincerely, and tap her on the nose lightly with my forefinger. "Don't cry. It breaks my heart."

"Oh, hell," says Pine miserably, and a moment later he crashes into the two of us, enclosing us both in his strong arms. He doesn't say anything, and I lean my head on his warm shoulder and close my eyes for a moment.

"This sucks," says Rowan miserably from behind him, rubbing his black hair with his hand. "I don't… I don't know if I can handle this. I can't watch you… die…"

"He's not going to die!" Sarai snaps, breaking free of our embrace and turning to glare at Rowan with fire in her dark eyes. "Shut the hell up, Rowan! You don't know anything!"

I put a hand on her shoulder as Pine releases me. "Don't," I tell her. "He's right." I rub the back of my neck, feeling suddenly awkward. "I… I probably am going to die…"

Sarai begins to cry again, staring at me and looking lost. Pine is crying too, so I pull him in for another hug and pat him lightly on the back. "It's okay," I tell him softly. Dinah is crying too, silently, so I let go of Pine and pull her in for a hug as well. Out of all my friends, Dinah is the one I've known for the longest. She's not one for hugs, but she leans into this one gratefully.

"You're my best friend," she whispers through her curtain of dark hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," I respond, and press my lips against the bridge of her nose. She closes her blue eyes and tries to smile through the tears.

Rowan is the only one who isn't crying, but I don't even know if he can cry. I've never seen him do it. Regardless, he looks as miserable as I've ever seen him. We've never hugged and I don't think now is the best time to start, so I clap him on the back instead. "Take care of yourself, man," I tell him. "Don't forget about me, hey?"

He looks up at me. "Sarai's right," he says decisively. "I'm not going to count you out. You're not dead 'till you're dead." He grabs my wrist suddenly and pulls my arm to eye-level. "You've got the scars," he says. "They'll make you look tough, right?"

"Those are from axe-throwing competitions, Rowan."

"That's good," Dinah says. "Throwing axes is a real skill. It'll help you… in the arena…"

We all go silent, as I work out what they're saying. I have a chance… It's not like what the Careers will have, but it's something. I'm not completely devoid of skills; I can throw, and I'll be able to wield an axe better than anyone else in that arena. It might not be perfect, but I'll be going in at least somewhat prepared.

The Peacekeeper knocks on the door again, making me flinch. "It's time," I say quietly. "You guys… my friends… You have no idea how much I care about you. You've been there for me throughout all the crazy shit that's happened. Thanks for sticking with me."

They crowd around me, making similar declarations, until one by one they peel away and exit, walking to the freedom that is now denied to me. Dinah is the last one in the room. "Don't die," she whispers, before she walks towards the open door.

"That's a tall order, love!" I call after her, and before the door clicks shut behind her I swear I can see her smile.

Waverly Breeze, 18

District Four

When I glance over at the fish tank set up against the wall, I realize that I can see my reflection in the glass. Pleased, I wander over and try to get a good look at myself. I can just about make out the blonde curls that cascade down to my shoulders, and my tanned skin is positively glowing today, but my emerald eyes look murky and brown. "Gross," I mutter, attempting to angle my face so that my eyes return to their natural color, but the grimy old fish tank just won't reflect them properly. Pouting, I give up and return to my seat.

I tap my manicured nails on the arm of the chair while I wait for my family to come wish me well. The reapings went perfectly, I decide, smiling a bit as I remember. Everybody was cheering for me, and the Capitol definitely adored me. I mean, how could they not? I'm about three times as pretty as anybody else from District Four. They'll be falling over themselves to sponsor me.

Humming tunelessly, I cross my legs and lean back in the chair. My district partner's so funny and awkward, I think happily. Bain was blushing just looking at me! And it was definitely me he was looking at, not Ceylon. That escort bitch isn't anywhere near as pretty as I am.

"Visitors for Waverly Breeze!" The door bangs open almost immediately, and my mother sweeps into the room. When she catches sight of me, she smiles brightly and envelops me in a hug.

"You looked beautiful up there, darling!" she sings. "Your hair was just right—and we spent hours working on that, didn't we?—and your dress… Perfect." She pulls back and smiles at me fondly, reaching out and pulling lightly on one of my curls in order to put it back in its proper place.

"I know!" I gush. "Did you see me on the screens? I looked amazing."

"Better than amazing!" Dad cuts in, giving me a hug as well. "You looked stunning, Waverly. Those Capitolians will sell their jewels to get you whatever you want in the arena!"

"And you'll be sponsoring me too. Right, Daddy?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you need, we'll buy it for you," he promises, grey eyes shining in excitement. "I'm so proud of you, honey. You're going to do so well."

My younger sister Sapphire is practically quivering with awe. "Oh, Waves," she says, hugging me fiercely. "You really did look great up there. I was standing next to Derrick and he said you were a catch." She winks at me, which makes me chuckle. Sapphire and I are very close, and she is the only person who will ever get away with calling me "Waves."

"Thanks, Sapph," I respond, ruffling her hair. "Maybe in a few years it'll be your turn, little sis! If we're lucky and no other District Four girls win between now and then, I'll even be your mentor!"

Sapphire grins excitedly. "That would be so cool."

"I know, right?"

Mom clears her throat. "We have to be going soon, Waverly. We need to get working on your image, and I want to start cleaning out the house for the final eight interviews. Have fun in the Capitol, sweetie! We'll see you in a month or so." She kisses me on the cheek, being careful not to mess up my hair or leave lipstick on my cheek. She's good about stuff like that.

"Good luck, Waverly," says Dad, "not that you need it!" He lets out a booming laugh as he hugs me, perhaps too tightly, but I'll allow it just this once. "I'll see you in a month."

"See you, Daddy!" I exclaim brightly, beaming at him. I'm not usually one for this sappy stuff with my parents, but I don't want to hurt Dad's feelings right before I go away to the Games. He's going to be my main sponsor, after all!

Sapphire leans in and gives me another hug. "I have something for you," she tells me, and reaches into her pocket. "Look, Waverly. It's sapphire!" She drops a simple ring into my palm. The band, I realize, is made of sapphires that shimmer in the light. I turn it back and forth and watch as it catches the light and reflects it.

"It's beautiful, little sis," I tell her sincerely, slipping it onto my ring finger. "I'm going to have the best token by far!" Sapphire giggles at that and gives me another hug.

I smile and wave until my mom and dad are out the door, and blow Sapphire a special kiss. While I wait for my next visitor, I admire the ring on my finger. It really is very special; I wonder where Sapphire got it. I'll have to give her a token like this when it's her turn to volunteer, I decide.

There is a knock on the door. "Come in!" I call, and smile as my best friend Coral steps into the room. Coral has blonde hair like mine (but it's nowhere near as voluminous) and freckles which she tries to hide with powder. Poor girl. I often find myself feeling bad for her; after all, she's always hanging around with me, and I'm so much better-looking in comparison.

"Oh my gosh, Waverly," Coral says immediately. "You know your district partner? Bain Arnon? I found out that he like never trains. Apparently he prefers art or something lame. Plus, he's adopted." She steps closer to me and gushes on. "Apparently his dad left his mom so she left Bain, and then some guy found him and took him in. Isn't that crazy?"

"Yeah, sure," I say. "But why are we talking about Bain right now, Coral? He doesn't matter, remember? This is my big day."

"I know, but… Bain's kinda cute," Coral admits, blushing.

"Coral, you think every guy is cute. Come on; let's stop talking about him now."

"Fine." She looks put out for a moment, but then she recovers. "So apparently most of the gamblers voted on you instead of Bain! I think like eighty percent of them think you'll last longer than him! And thirty percent think you're going to win!"

"Only thirty percent?" I am disgusted. "What the hell?! Who else is going to win?"

"The others just don't want to put down money because they don't know you'll win yet," Coral assures me. "When the competition starts dying, they'll start betting. On you."

"I guess," I say, but I'm still wounded. Honestly, only thirty percent? Those are terrible odds! "Yeah, they'll see," I say aloud. "Once I get down to the final eight there won't be a single person in any of the districts betting against me."

"Exactly!" says Coral happily. "It'll all work out fine in the end." She looks a little sad. "I hope Bain doesn't die too early, though. I like him."

I roll my eyes. "He dies when he dies, Coral. I mean, he is going to die, so you shouldn't get too attached."

"Mm," she says, still looking mournful. Then she glances at her watch. "Oh shit, gotta go! I'm meeting Tarsi in like five minutes!" She rushes forward and gives me a fleeting hug before bolting out the door.

I roll my eyes again and lean back in the chair. I'm still fuming about the "thirty percent" thing. Thirty percent, I think to myself, fingernails digging into my palm. Well, I'll show them. I'll show the seventy percent who don't think I can do it. Because I'm going to win. I, Waverly Breeze, am going to be the Victor of the 123rd Hunger Games.

Screw their odds. I have this in the bag already.

What's this? An author's note at the end of a chapter?! Goodness!

This note is to let you guys know that there is now a poll on my profile, asking you which tributes you'd like to see survive the Bloodbath. I will take the poll into account when deciding deaths (although this is certainly not the only thing I'm basing death decisions on, so don't be too concerned.) Now that we've met all the characters, I think it's fair to have the poll up. However, I'd suggest waiting on voting in it until you've seen more of the characters and know more about them. However, if you think you already know your favorites, feel free to vote :) I promise I'll give you ample time to vote before I close the poll, and I'll tell you when I close it, so don't vote in a rush because you're worried about missing it.

Why was this at the end of the chapter? I wanted to make sure you read about the last eight tributes before voting, so as to be perfectly fair. I am an honorable author. :3

Ciao for now!