District Nine was just there. It never was one of the Districts that stood out sharply from the others. It wasn't fully obedient towards the Capitol, but at the same time, it wasn't begging for anarchy or even rebellion. While not mistreated like the District Eleven citizens, they labored away in the golden fields of grain even if they desired to walk down a different path most lives would be offered. A few, despite this, would pursue other crafts. This was frowned upon by the Capitol, but they persisted. This was the place where everybody kept some sort of secret, big or small.

"They are the hunters, we are the foxes. And we run."

Jayden Pine, District Nine Male, age 17

I shuffled the tall stack of papers, visible only under the light of a candle. They crunched under even the slight weight of my fingers and were varying degrees of worn out. Some were pale and covered in fresh writing, but others were far darker than the dead grains of winter with barely legible ideas. I picked up a particularly brown sheet and chuckled at the simple prose and cheesy dialogue. I must have been twelve when I wrote what must have been intended to be a script of a play.

I remember when I was a young kid at school and we were assigned to write. What, we asked. The teacher laughed and told us to use our imaginations. Letting our minds or bodies run free was an unfamiliar concept to us. We were the children of slaves, doomed to spend a lifetime laboring in the fields. It was unknown to us why. We just blindly followed whoever led us, and that didn't change with age. Luckily, I was a member of the small "upper class" of the District, so I had an opportunity at getting an education until adulthood. But after my eighteenth birthday, the rest of my life would unfold in the meadows.

I received the highest marks in writing. When I became aware of this, several seconds were spent staring at that little number on the parchment displaying my grades. Most of the time I was mediocre, which I settled for. But this? This was something I was good at. From that point on, that was what I did with every bit of free time I could find. I'd write. I told of fantasies with no Capitol, Peacekeepers, or Hunger Games, bittersweet tragedies in the arena, or anywhere in between. I'd act them out, striving to perfect my secret passion that provided some relief from the pressures of calling an outer District home. But I avoided bloodshed the best I could in my works. It sickened me.

Every once in a while, the time would come when the pile of these scripts would grow too high. Of course, I never did a thing. It was procrastination, really. The words could flow from my quill like a river, but I could never take the steps to keep my works organized. However, if I avoided cleaning up, it would always come back to bite me later.

Once, I had lost an entire novella to the burning embers of the fireplace. I could do nothing but sigh in despair as my work blackened into charcoal. I could have tried to grab it, but that would have most likely resulted in severe burns. Nobody I knew was a good healer and I didn't believe it was worth the risk. That very day, I moved my desk to the other side of the room to make sure it wouldn't happen again. For some reason, it always made me shudder. Silly, I know, especially considering that there were starving children beyond the confines of my home while I was stressed over writing, of all things. But a book I had spent what seemed to be an eternity writing was reduced to ashes in a mere moment. And every year, the same thing happened to two of us at the Reapings.

As a writer, I have always been one to appreciate metaphors of the sort, but among the citizens of Panem, figurative language concerning the Games was all too clichè. Every month I would use my money from work to rush to the market and purchase the books of poetry sold by the numerous authors throughout the District, and there never failed to be several detailing the horror of the Hunger Games. You didn't need to be sent into them to be aware of what went on in there. Every year the arena itself would differ, but the bloodshed was all the same. Every year, twenty-three lives were blown out like candles. Those people would never see or feel or breathe ever again. They would cease to exist. No amount of will could get you past the arena. Twenty-four would promise themselves they'd win, but only one would make it. It must be terrifying not knowing who that lucky winner would be when you're tossed in, and once you died, you'd never know.

I looked out my grimy attic window, distracting myself. The less I thought of the Games, the smaller a shadow the Reapings would cast over me. Fields spread out as far as the eye could see, since this was the time of year when grains would sprout from the ground. The dust caked onto the glass proved itself to be a quality filter, protecting my eyes from the glaring sun. I saw that the meadows were nearly free from workers. Except for one. One boy was out in the fields, bent over and sprinkling glimmering water over the small stalks. I watched him wipe his brow. He turned around, probably checking for Peacekeepers. Once he saw none near him, he carefully uprooted one and nibbled on the stem. I cringed at what that could possibly taste like, and made note of how that seemed to be one of his only options for food.

The bright smile that slowly etched itself onto his face was almost enough to distract from his ribs that still protruded, even when concealed by the fabric of his shirt.

Almost.

It was terrible, how the Capitolites could sit on their asses all day and eat all the fattening foods they wanted while ignoring the thousands of workers it took to create it. They- we- were people, no different.

"Jayden?" My mother called, her footsteps pounding on the stairs. I snapped out of my trance and hastily stacked my papers back up. They were no more organized than they were before I began to clean them, I realized with a sigh. I doubted they ever would be.

I made sure to lean over, blocking the stack of papers with my body angled just right. "Hi Mom, how are you?" I had spent most of the morning isolated in my attic bedroom. I tried to treat it like any other day but that was a difficult task indeed.

"I'm well." She smiled subtly, clutching the wooden railing. "Someone's here to see you."

"Oakley?" I asked, to which she responded with a nod.

"Yup." Her voice was ironically cheerful next to the sorrow atmosphere of the whole District.

Sure enough, Oakley replaced her at the top of the stairs. He was paler than usual. Peaky. Chances were the community home wasn't feeding him well enough. Although we did have plenty of food for him and even a small extra bedroom, he refused our hospitality. I had no clue why. Most orphans in the District were rabid and desperate. He was different for some reason. I hadn't seen him in weeks as it was the middle of the summer holidays, when school was let out so we could work in the fields. We were given a short break from work the week of the Reapings which I usually spent mentally preparing myself.

"Hey." He grinned as he made his way up. "What've you been writing lately?"

"Hey." I replied, smiling a bit. "Not a lot." I was a terrible liar- hours had been spent up to this point spinning a new story. I allowed him exclusively to read and comment on my work, but there were times when I preferred to keep it to only myself.

"C'mon, show me. It's got to be better than that poem you wrote about Justin. 'His eyes are pools in the endless desert, his hair the swirling wind-'" He dramatically put one hand over his heart and outstretched the other, fluttering his eyes in a mockery of my acting.

I stifled a laugh, remembering that phase. Justin was a prick, for sure, but for some reason that I couldn't tell, I was drawn to him. Secretly, I still was, but spilling that would result in too much teasing. I avoided discussing him. "Stop."

Oakley laughed. "Okay, sorry. What's been going on with you, besides?"

"Um," I hesitated, my voice soft, "I've been working on the fields for food, acting out some solo plays, and that's about it." I paused. "What about you?"

"Well, I no longer fear the Hunger Games."

When he saw my widened eyes, Oakley chuckled. "Have you seen the community kids? They might as well be killing each other over food. It's actually," He trailed off and looked at the ground, "kinda sad."

A stereotypical silence lingered over us, a silence that I almost felt. All of a sudden, I became even more frightened of what was to come and spoke impulsively.

"I'm just... struggling with myself. It's hard to describe. I don't want to think about the Reapings, and I know I sound like a twelve-year-old, but I feel like there's something missing in me, like there's a big hole. I don't want to die, but I don't want anyone else to either. I don't know if I'll be Reaped, and I'm scared you'll be, and even though I'm not proud of it I'm scared Justin will be. You have a lot of tesserae, and if any of us are chosen I'll be terrified." I blurted out, on the verge of tears and struggling to keep my breath even.

Oakley tilted his head slightly, and stepped closer towards me. I awkwardly stared at him, expecting an even-more-awkward embrace as he walked past me. Grabbing a piece of parchment and a quill, he said, "Let it out," placing both in my hands.

We were silent, fully realizing the harsh possibility that this time tomorrow one of us would be on his way to the Capitol. With that, I gripped my pen and began to write for what could be one last time.

"They say we are what we are, but we don't have to be."

Teff Hensley, District Nine Female, age 16

"No, no, no." I snapped after seeing my group's feeble excuse for an extra-credit project. Even with my efforts, it fell short of mediocrity. See, we were supposed to create a labelled map of Panem as it was during the Dark Days. Wouldn't that be so simple? Well, apparently it wasn't for this collection of idiots. I anxiously glanced over at the beaming group next to me, with their leader Gwenith Thornburg.

Although their map was half finished, the positions of each District and the data written on the sides were clearer than day. Without trying, Gwenith was always perfect. Brushed hair, gleaming eyes, wide smile. Her group was calm and tamed even without the presence of a teacher. After countless nights of studying, I was able to barely hold my position at the top of the class. Competing with someone like that was next to impossible.

"Look at that." My voice trilled above the steady hum of chatter in the classroom. "Should District Three be that far south? In case you haven't noticed, District Six is supposed to be right below it, and it's a pretty big place. You guys have to actually try. It isn't that hard to examine the statistics-" I held up a crinkled sheet covered in numbers and coordinates and shoved it in the face of a spectacled girl. "And use them to make an accurate map that doesn't resemble one made by a collection of seven-year-olds."

A small boy bitterly glared at me with steely grey eyes. What was his name again? "Teff, we're trying. Okay?"

"We really are."

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah, Teff."

Their murmurs of agreement grew louder and louder as my impatience grew stronger and stronger. I tapped our wooden desk twice out of instinct.

"Enough already." I declared, my voice going up an octave. "If you all aren't going to do anything but whine all day, then who's supposed to be the leader? I did not work all day then come here to have to boss you all around because you're too damn lazy to do a thing. No. I wanted to improve my grades, not do everything for you. Some people here actually care. About their future. I don't know about you, but I intend to do more than just be a farmer my whole life." I began to stutter, growing more awkward by the second. "I want to make my own path." I faltered and stared at the floor.

The whole room fell silent and I felt the gaze of every person in the class focus on me. And of course, they were everything but supportive.

"What?" I said, making eye contact with each and every one of my classmates. "You're just going to do what they tell you to?"

"They", of course, being the rest of the world.

"Teff, I don't think-" Gwenith stuttered. She fell silent when I glared at her and returned to her group. Distraught was written across her face. When was the last time she was denied a voice?

I slung my backpack over my bony shoulder and cringed once I felt the friction between the strap and my sleeve. Running a hand through my brown hair, I took one glance back at the people working with me. "Fine. Figure it out by yourself." I turned around on my worn-out shoe and strode out of the room, feeling the stare of each person pierce my back.

The walk home was a long one indeed. The richer citizens of District Nine all lived in one village in the center that contained all of our schools and markets. How I envied them. They got enough food and they didn't need to send their children to work until eighteen while we were usually sent off at age ten. I was an exception but my siblings were not. We, the poor, were scattered throughout the endless fields and seldom offered any opportunities. For that very reason, I excelled in my studies. Most teenagers partied through the night then were whipped by Peacekeepers through the day. I considered that to be ridiculous. I didn't give up and I dreamed of a better education, a better life. My mother had a job at a filthy grain processing factory, while my father and brothers left to tend to the fields every morning at dawn. The fact that they were simply able to live with that bothered me. Why not push yourself to the limits to get what you've yearned for? Why not make a name from yourself instead of just being a face in the crowd?

However, only one student in the District would be offered a scholarship to continue learning. The richer graduates and the few exceptions from the outer areas, such as myself, competed for this annually. The single most accomplished eighteen-year-old would be given a chance to study with the most acclaimed scholars in District Nine. Many of them would later claim the title of mayor. Some would even become a household name in the Capitol. Regardless, it was a status not far below that of a Victor. Call me selfish, I don't care, but I would kill for this scholarship. My seventeenth birthday was approaching rapidly and every day I would reach further and further to claim the top spot. The only problem was Gwenith.

Both of us were raised without much money to spare, and because of that, we shared the same motivations. We were always neck-to-neck in academics, ever since we were six years old and school began. We both towered over the richer kids with our grades. Our rivalry grew more intense as we matured and became aware of the matters at hand. Half the time I would come out on top, the other half she would. It was split right down the middle. Nobody knew who would receive the scholarship but everyone knew that it would be one of us. She was the only one who wanted it almost as much as I.

My leather bag slung over my shoulder, I continued along the dusty road, lost in these recurring thoughts. Despite being malnourished, this daily journey strengthened my legs greatly. The sun beat down on my back. Thankfully, I was walking east so it wasn't in my face. After passing a mile or two of grain fields, I finally arrived at the small collection of huts where I lived. They were right on the edge, close enough to the road so it wouldn't be a long way up but far enough so the dust wouldn't get all over us when bicycles or horses passed by. Beyond my home, the meadow where my family worked slanted upwards. The stalks reflected the sunlight and we were offered a flawless view of the fiery gold and pink sunset that I couldn't help but admire.

I took several steps up the short road leading to our house. As I swung the door open, the smell of cooked rabbit meat filled my nose.

"You're home early." My father remarked, cutting our dinner up with a dull knife.

I sighed, remembering why. "I'm not going to do that extra-credit project."

He looked up at me with raised eyebrows. "The one you've given up a week of your holidays for?"

I hung my bag up on our flimsy hook and took off my shoes on the stone floor. "I would still be there if it wasn't for Gwenith."

"But isn't she the reason why you're doing that project in the first place?" Him with the questions, as always.

"Yeah, but," I took off my plain brown coat, "I scored five points higher than her on our math exam. That should boost me ahead even without the project."

He furrowed his brow. "How do you know these things?"

"Well," I muttered, "she sat right ahead of me when we got them back, so I snuck a peek." I saw him frown in disapproval, so I retorted, "My nerves were getting the better of me."

My dad nodded and changed the subject. "Your mother is still at work, and your brothers are out. They said they'll be back soon. Meanwhile, dinner is ready for you."

I thanked him and slowly ate my meal, looking around at our family's monochrome photos framed and hung on the wall. In the oldest my grandparents were smiling and carrying my newly-born mother in a blanket in front of buildings I didn't recognize. Everyone was happy in all of these pictures, and I knew it was materialistic of me to think this, but couldn't I be more in my life?

AN: I know it's been forever since I updated, but there's been school, and homework, and I'm a procrastinator, and I had a District Five chapter that I was going to publish but it was crap so I scrapped it, and ugh, I'm just so sorry. Also, Jayden was originally supposed to be a District Seven tribute so that's why his name is District Seven-y. I'm on spring break for a bit over a week and I'll try to update again. Any advice/constructive criticism is welcome, and if there are any errors I missed then please point them out so I can fix them. I hope you liked this chapter!

1. Who did you like more? Why?

2. Survival predictions?