Here it goes! Isn't this exciting? Thank you Azlira for giving me Roy - he really captured my heart. I myself went through a really unhappy period in my life, so Roy really spoke to me.

I hope you enjoy, and I started off on the right foot. Let the Games begin!

Royalty Jacobbson, age 16: District Four

Men aren't supposed to cry.

That's what Dad always says - one of his favorite phrases. It is embedded - whether I like it or not - eternally in my brain. It is only a small contribution to the collection of his "words of wisdom" jammed into my mind, sitting on a shelf right between "Suck it up" and "A mace is your best and only friend."

I watch for a brief second as the razor flashes down, slicing into skin as easily as if I am cutting into butter. As I look away, my peripheral vision catches a light trail of scarlet painting the side of my arm. I don't have to look, not really. The pain is the only thing that matters.

I'm disgusting, a sorry excuse for a human. I'm not supposed to do this - not supposed to cry, not supposed to cut. Certainly not at the same time. But I can't stop - it doesn't matter how hard I try or how much I resist. As long as the pain keeps coming, I'll never be able to.

Well, I could make it stop. But that would require killing my father. And I want to kill him - so, so badly. But I'll never be able to do that. I guess I didn't mention that - I'm a coward too.

I'm everything my father speaks bad about, looks down upon. A pacifist. A dreamer. Someone who just wants to live. But he doesn't know that, and as long as I keep quite, he never will.

I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, deep heavy thuds that belong to my father. Quickly, I put the razor under my bed sheets and strap on my leather bracelet, which covers the cut and most of the blood. For good measure, I tuck my hand - even though its burning like hell - under my blankets too. He won't notice - he never does.

"Roy?" He opens the door without waiting for an answer, peaking his head in. He doesn't look mad - at least, not his normal anger. For some reason, he seems cheerful.

"Reaping's today," he says happily.

Oh. That's why. I had forgotten.

My stomach curls as I think about the Games, but I don't let it break through. I keep it bottled up and tight, not letting any of my discomfort leak through.

"Cool," I say, hopping up off the bed. I sneak a peak at my wrist - the band made the recent damage unnoticeable. But then again, I could be dripping blood from my eyes and my father still wouldn't notice it.

He smiles thinly. "Yeah. Cool," he says it as if it is a foreign word. "Get ready, though. We're leaving in ten minutes." The door was just about to close when he ducked his head back in. "Oh yeah," he says. "I heard Esabell and Reddard might be volunteering today." He chuckled, unmasked bloodlust in his eyes. "That should be an interesting one, eh?"

I nod, keeping my eyes on the carpet.

As he had said, both the boy and girl were top picks to emerge as Victors in the Games, the girl especially. Her name was Esabell, and she was about as mean as you could get. I remember being only six years old, peering through the tall apple tree in my backyard as I watched an eight year old Esabell coax a stray cat into her yard, using her new birthday present - a brand new axe - to split it in half. I still tasted bile in my mouth each time I think about it - there had been so much blood, and it was crying for hours after that until it was finally worn-out enough to die out in the sun.

Frankly, I wouldn't mind if she did volunteer for the Games. Maybe she'd die with an axe in her head. That would be wonderful - karma.

I grab my freshly ironed tux off of its hanger, pulling it on quickly then walking down the steps and into the kitchen.

It's just my father in there - Mom left a few years ago. She was smart - she knew that my father was crazy. I just wish she had taken me with her.

Father looks at me from his coffee. "Good," he grunted, settling back down into his chair and staring at the stacks of paper in his hand.

I already knew what they were - Betting Slips, for when the Games began. He was the chief of betting - and his guesses were usually correct. It was sickening, that gleam he got in his eyes when the Games began, pen in hand and curled over his - and everyone else's - Betting Slips. I usually didn't watch the first part, just to avoid it.

I don't say anything - just pour some juice. I stare down at the chipped glass, rubbing my index finger over the large crack. I realize my hands are shaking.

I always get anxious during Reapings, but this seems different. Different from the sad, different from hurt. Just numbness - a cold defeat.

It's scares me. I set the glass down and clench my hands into fist, taking a deep breath. It'll all be okay, I tell myself.

After a while, Father finishes filling out the preliminary Betting Slips, then yells at me to get out of the house and go. He walks a little ways behind, not wanting to talk. When I get there, he heads into the crowd of anxious parents, smiling slightly.

I head into the sixteen section, passing Esabell as I go. She seems sick - her face is flushed red and she is sitting on the ground, head on her knees. Maybe she won't volunteer after all.

I sit in the middle of the circle, raking my hair back and closing my eyes against the hot afternoon sun. I stay like that for a while - tuning out all the other sounds. It's peaceful and quite in my mind.

"Hey Roy!"

I turn around, opening my eyes to see some girl - she's in my class. Her name is Kemmy, I think.

I force myself to smile, running a hand through my hair and giving a half grin. "Hey Kemmy!" I say, hoping to God that that's really her name.

She grins broadly, and I know I've guessed right. "So…" she looked at me through her thick eyelashes. "You're Volunteering this year, right?"

My façade breaks down for a moment - I'm too shocked to care. I stare at her blankly. "Who told you that?"

She shrugs and smiles sheepishly. "You just look really determined. I thought maybe this was your year."

"Oh…" I trail off, then smile apologetically. "Well, thanks."

She smiled widely, showing off perfect teeth. "No problem."

I turned back around, looking up at the stage. I try to forget what Kammy said, watching as the escort runs her mouth, not really listening. But I can't seem to shake her words: "I thought maybe this was your year."

Maybe it is. Maybe this will finally be the day I take action, the day I finally break free from my father and his stupid dream and my sadness. Sure, I would be running into the arms of death. But somehow, that somehow seems better.

Maybe I'll finally find some happiness.

By the time the boy's name is called, I'm already walking up the steps, saying "I volunteer! I volunteer," over and over again. I don't stop until I'm up on the stage and the heavily makeuped escort is smiling down at me, sickeningly sweet.

"You're supposed to wait til we call for volunteers," she says through her teeth.

I shrug - I don't care.

Some other girl - not Esabell - volunteers in her cousin's place. Her eyes flicker up and down me. Unimpressed.

I turn away from her, closing my eyes once more, not opening them until the escort yells at me to get up, and we are led to the train.

I don't expect anyone to come and see me before the train left. I am already ready to go, listlessly pacing the floor until they could tell me I could leave. I'm ready to get out - to leave this life behind forever.

I am more than surprised when Father stomps in, slamming the door shut behind him and knocking away a chair in his path. He comes right up to me, until I can see the sweat on his forehead. His eyes are bulging and his face is nearly purple. He almost looks comically angry.

"Why?" he hisses through his teeth, taking me by the shoulders. He looks more angry than I have ever seen him. "You're an arrogant little bastard, aren't you? Just wanted the glory before you were ready?"

I don't say anything - just look down at my shoes.

He laughs, high pitched and wheezy. "You were never good enough, you know that? I knew you'd die, even if you'd waited." His face is weirdly twisted.

I look up at him, trying to keep my voice calm. The scabs on my wrist itch and burn, a reminder for why I am doing this. "You're the bastard," I say quietly. "And all I want is to get away from you. I don't care if I win or not."

For a moment, he just looks even more angry, his face growing dangerously near to blue. But then he calms down - weirdly calm. It didn't feel right. He takes a deep breath, sneering.

"Just so you know," he spits, his face only inches from mine. His breath is foul and smells like cigarettes and coffee. "I'm not betting on you."

Without another word, he turns away and storms out.

Question: Catching Fire, what do Katniss and Peeta do during their private session with the Gamemakers?

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