Hey guys, having a little issues-my computer bit the dust so I'm using my husband's. Trying to get back in the swing of things-but I had some revisions etc on the other computer. I'm sorry that this is on the late side this evening...but it's rough having to resave everything etc.

Here goes District 5!

-Phoenix

Also, there were some DocX problems going on for the last chapter. A lot of things were left out of Con's bit, and they were just added, so go check them out. c:

-Belle

Bastian Estatika of District 5

By DryBonesKing

"For me, writing is exploration; and most of the time, I'm surprised where the journey takes me."

—Jack Dann

The green, lush forest that filled the land is now lit on fire. The soldiers of darkness lay waste to the land around them, looting the villages within the forest and slaughtering the innocent civilians in their way. In the center of the chaos and destruction, a dark-haired man in a black cloak, covering his whole body, watches the events around him and grins. He holds onto the staff in his hands tightly.

Another man approaches the cloaked figure. Renault, the defender of his village in the southern region of the forest. His once beautiful tanned skin and long blonde hair have been stained with blood and sweat. The man is damaged and appears to be near death, but keeps marching forward toward the cloaked figure, gripping his sword tightly.

"Amos, your reign of terror is over!" Renault screams at the cloaked figure. "You and your minions will regret the day you stepped into this forest! For the lives of all you have slaughtered, I will destroy you!"

The cloaked figure, Amos, laughs in response. His laugh is dark and invokes a feeling of dread. "You think you can stop me? Surely you know nothing about magic or the power that I possess! Renault, you are a fool to challenge me! For that, you shall be burnt to the ground like this wretched forest!"

Rage fills Renault's face. His grip on the sword gets tighter. In mere seconds, the man is charging at Amos, prepared to strike

"Bastian?" A voice calls out to me.

As if on cue, the figures of Amos and Renault fade to dust and vanish. The burning and war-torn forest disappears and is replaced with the dull, gray room that I sleep in. Back to reality it seems…

I set the pencil and notepad I was writing on down and turn to face the source of the voice: my older brother Benjamin.

"I just wanted to tell you that the Reaping starts in an hour…" My brother mumbles, not really looking to me.

Oh yes. The Reaping. Sometimes when I write, I lose track of what's going on in the real world. Things are starting to come back to me now. Today is the day of the Reaping, one of the worst days of the year when you live in one of the Districts. This particular Reaping, however, is the worst of them all. This is the twenty-fifth Hunger Games, the one the Capitol is calling the 'Quarter Quell'. Apparently, these quells have a certain twist to them to remind all of us living in the Districts why we suck. This Quell's twist is that the Districts had to elect who was going into the Hunger Games.

"Thanks for the reminder." I mumble politely as I readjust the glasses on my face.

Might as well just go along with the day. Get it over with…

I groan as I get out of my bed. I pick up a hair tie on my bedside and tie my long brown hair in a ponytail. I pick up the black cloak sitting on my bed and put it on over my clothes. I then grab my notepad, put it in a pocket in my cloak, and start walking out the door. Benjamin moves out of my way when I get to the door and walk out.

As I start to walk down the hallway, I hear a slight noise. I then hear footsteps following me. I turn around immediately and see Benjamin is coming at me with a plastic knife. The second he notices that I've turned, he charges, aiming to stab me in the chest. I'm able to block his attack however, using my left hand to block his arm and his knife from reaching me. I then use my right hand to steal the knife from him and point it at his chest. I can see sweat dripping down his face in nerves.

To others, it may seem odd that one guy tried to stab his younger brother with a knife. That's probably a sign of bad blood or something. However, Benjamin and I do not have a bad relationship whatsoever. As a matter of fact, he is one of the few people that I actually enjoy talking too! No, his attempt to stab me wasn't an act of bad blood. He's just going along with a request I asked of him after the announcement of the Quarter Quell.

The people of District Five have made it no hidden secret to my family that I am getting voted into this year's Games. It's vengeance to them. Five years ago, there was an accident in a power plant. A man, who was tired and weak from being overworked and abused by the power plant owners, accidentally connected a few wires together that weren't supposed to be. Sparks started coming out from the wires and they reacted negatively with the generator in the room. An explosion resulted, completely destroying the power plant. Forty-five workers died in the accident and hundreds of other workers were injured.

That overworked, unlucky worker that caused the explosion was my father, Theodore Estatika. At first, we thought it was a miracle that the peacekeepers didn't punish him for his mistake. Then, we realized the punishment was actually the people of our District. When the people of the District found out that my father caused the accident, they were outraged at my father and, by association, me and the rest of our family. They blamed all of us for the deaths of their family or the injuries. Since then, the people in District Five have done everything they can to make our lives a living hell. They do whatever they can to hurt us, whether it be glaring, refusing to sell merchandise, beatings, stealing from our house, or whatever crap they can come up with.

One thing they can't do is kill us. Murder attempts have been dealt with by the peacekeepers very harshly, so we are safe from that at least. But the peacekeepers can't protect me from one murder attempt: the Quarter Quell. All of District Five went out of their way to vote me into the Hunger Games this year. To them, they are finally getting their vengeance.

"You heard me get out that knife?" Benjamin asks me, interrupting me about my thoughts of the Quell.

"Yep." I reply simply, still pointing the knife at his chest.

Benjamin keeps laughing as he takes the knife back from me. "Your reflexes have definitely improved as well! And you were able to get the knife away from me and turn the tables on me. Impressive! I have to say…you stand a legit chance!"

I'll say I do as well! With the help of Benjamin and his attempts to stab me, I've definitely heightened my senses and improved my reflexes, just as he noted. The people in our District may want me dead but I certainly do not! I've been training myself ever since. I hate coming into something unprepared and I want to make sure I have as great of a shot as coming out as possible. I've worked on my skill with knives and wires in hopes that I can use them in the arena as weapons. I've also worked on improving my physical condition so I could survive a fight.

Yep, I think it's safe to say that I stand a 'legit chance' in the Games this year.

...I hope so. I really, really, really hope so…

Benjamin and I proceed to walk down the hallway in our small little house. We manage to move our way to the front door. My parents are standing there, looking downtrodden. They were obviously waiting for me.

"You going out now Bastian?" My mother asks me sorrowfully, her voice sounding close to tears. She knows it's the last time she'll be able to talk to me before the Games. Heck, there's a strong chance this will be the last time we get to talk to each other!

"Can't be late for my appearance in the Games, right?" I mumble quietly, attempting to make a joke of the situation. No one laughs. No one smiles. Not even me. This really isn't something to laugh about it. This is life or death.

"Bastian…" My father starts to speak, walking towards me. He grabs me and holds me tight against his chest as he tries to think of words. "…you've been preparing ever since this thing has been announced. You stand the best chance I think any District Five tribute has had…please come home. Win this thing."

My father's voice starts to get shakier. I can hear him starting to cry. I don't say anything. I only tighten the embrace between us.

"…I'm sorry Bastian for this…it's all my fault you are going in…but please…I have too much death on my hands already…please don't be one more ghost I have to see…" He is able to speak to me before going back to sobs.

The accident has haunted my father since it happened. The murder attempts only made his sorrow worse. He has changed completely ever since the explosion and has become a weakened, saddened, haunted man. Every few nights, he will wake from his sleep and scream about seeing the ghosts of all who died in the accident. They haunt his dreams. They haunt him (and us) in his daily life in the forms of the people of the District. They haunt him in his conscience. If only the other people from the District could see this. Is this really the heartless murderer you portray him as? He's just a man: a victim of circumstances. A victim of the Capitol.

"Father…if I die, it's not your fault. Don't think that. But I promise: I will come home." I tell him, rubbing his back with my hand. It's a promise I intend on keeping.

We all remain in silence for what feels like forever. Eventually, I pull myself away from my father, who is still sobbing and mumbling incoherently about the accident and his regret.

"Good luck Bastian…come home…" My mother tells me, giving me one last hug before I go off.

"Do it bro. You can do it." Benjamin mumbles, patting my shoulder while I'm hugging mother.

"I will. Thank you all…" I mumble. I pull away from them, walk to the door to our house, and open it. "…I'll make sure I come back. Until then you guys."

I close the door to the house as I walk out. Any desires to run back into the house or look behind are pushed out of my mind. I only put the black hood of my cloak over my head and proceed to walk through the streets of the District, trying to avoid being seen by anyone.

By the time I reach the square of the District, the Reaping is about to start. About five more minutes until it begins. Good thing I left when I did: it would have made this whole process worse for me to show up late to it.

I wait out the remaining time in my own little corner of the Eighteen male section. I make sure with the black cloak and hood over my face that nobody can see who I am. I would rather not have to deal with any snarky comments about my fate in the Games. Then again, I wouldn't really want to talk to anyone in general. I've never been much of a talker, even before the accident at the power plant. I'm awkward in conversation, so I tend to avoid it.

Eventually, it is time for the Reaping. The mayor comes up and gives the same speech he gives each year. I could recite it to him verbatim by now if I was asked to do so, so I zone him out. I spend each second of his speech wishing for him to hurry up already so that way we can get this crappy day over with.

Finally, his speech comes to an end and the escort takes over. Her speech is a little different than usual as she explains the rules of the Quarter Quell. She reminds the people that we voted for District Five's 'champions' this year and that the votes have been counted. She then mentions that ladies go first and she is given a piece of paper with the elected female tribute. I pay close attention to her now. I'm extremely curious on whom the District voted in for the girls and I'm also interested in seeing if she'll be any competition.

"Atalanta Zimmerman!" She reads off.

I don't have much time to register the name as I see a girl start walking forward from the sixteen section. She's thin, slightly muscular, and has red hair. The part about her that really stands out though is her attitude. She's smirking and making no attempts to hide her confidence, which is bordering on arrogance. She walks straight and confident as the District cheers for her a little.

Ah, I see. If I were to judge her off her physical appearance and her attitude, she's probably one of the occasional Careers that from an outlier District. They chose a girl that they think will be able to come home and be a victor.

They chose someone who they think can kill me.

She'll be competition. Just great. I'm going to have to be watching her closely during the Games. She probably can kill me…I just have to make sure she doesn't get the opportunity!

By the time she is on the stage, the escort is given another piece of paper with the elected male tribute. She holds out the name and stalls the process in an attempt to bring suspense. I roll my eyes. I already know it's me. The whole District knows. No need to stall the process…

"Bastian Estatika!" She reads the name.

Knew it.

I can hear the District starting to cheer again at the sound of my name. This cheering is different though. It's not the cheer of good luck and pride like they gave for Atalanta. This is a triumphant cheering, as if they won a war or something. They are cheering, knowing that I am going off to die.

With a sigh, I start walking away from my corner. I pull off the hood of my cloak: no point in trying to hide myself from the people. To my surprise, I don't feel as much sorrow or fear as I did up to this point. I was completely depressed when I heard the Quarter Quell twist. I was nervous during my training sessions prior to the Games. I was anxious last night, unable to sleep. Right now, though, I don't feel sadness. I feel calm, a strong contrast to the cases of paranoia I have on a daily basis. I feel determined. I feel ready to prove these people wrong.

I feel ready to win this year's Games!

I'm able to zone out the noise and the screaming from the crowd of the District. There's no point in trying to understand what the people are saying: it's all probably obscenities and pointless cries of retribution. My mind is focused on the Hunger Games, running hypothetical scenarios of this year's Games with different arenas and different tribute archetypes.

By the time I reach the stage, I'm completely focused on my scenarios. I can only slightly hear the screaming from the crowd. I ignore any attempts at conversation from the escort. I only barely register shaking hands with Atalanta and the theme of the Capitol playing. My mind is running rampant with thoughts of the Games.

Good thing I brought my notepad as my district token. The writer within me is already crafting a story for me to create. It'll be my first published work, the first one an audience shall see, but it'll be the most important piece of my life. It'll determine if I live or not. I am prepared to start writing this masterpiece immediately and making sure that I can come back alive.

I was expecting the time spent in the Justice Building to be quick and quiet. I told my family to not come to the Justice Building after I was chosen, since it might be dangerous for them with the way our District thinks of us. Since they are the only people that I thought would want to see one last time before I was sent off to the Capitol, I thought I would have no visitors. I was proven wrong literally the second visitors were allowed to come in.

The first person to come into my room is a brown-haired woman who looks as if she is thirty or something. The second she is brought into the room, she charges at me. My reflexes kick in and I push her away, preventing her from getting her hands around my neck. She hisses at me and attempts to charge at me again. This time, she is stopped by a peacekeeper that was standing by the door.

"There will be no rough housing of the tributes. If he dies, he will die in the Games. The boy will not be dying before the Games." The peacekeeper tells the woman harshly as he escorts her out.

"Your death will be enjoyed. Your father killed my husband in that factory and now it's his turn to pay! You will die kid! Atalanta will rip your heart out!" The woman hisses at me while the door to my room is closed.

Once again, the accident from five years ago continues to haunt the life of my family. More visitors come to my room, all hissing and screaming at me for the accident. Another woman comes screaming into the room, sounding just like the one who tried to kill me a second ago. One man yells at me for all of the injuries he received in the factory explosion. An older man informs me that he will enjoy watching my father's reaction to my death, for he had lost his son in the accident and he wants to see how my father reacts. After him, even more come…

It seems as if the entirety of District Five has come together at the Justice Building in order to give me a collective 'screw you.'

During each visitor session, I say nothing. I only stare at each visitor with the emotionless, thoughtful expression that I imagined I looked like at the Reaping. It's not in my nature to be confrontational or talk much, so I just zone them out and pretend as if they aren't talking.

Besides, listening to each of them speak only gets me angry. They are all fools, blinded by their sorrow at the accident. My father made a careless mistake in the power plant five years ago, yes, but he did not do it intentionally. He did not murder the forty-five victims of the accident, nor did he want to injure hundreds of workers. My father was among the injured as well! Still, he is treated like a murderer and scum for his actions. So is my mother. So is Benjamin. So am I. That's why I'm here: because the people think my father is a murderer. Even if he was, though, how does that make me responsible? What did I do to cause all of this?

I hate it when people do not think properly: when people make rash decisions or decisions based on ignorance. The people of District Five judge my family harshly on the basis that my father killed the victims in the accident. The deaths were an accident, not on purpose. My father made a mistake as a result of exhaustion and being overworked from the owners of the power plant. If anything, I'd say they are the true murderers! And since the Capitol basically owns the factories, it's very safe to say the Capitol is the true murderer! But no, the Capitol had a scapegoat this time in the form of my father. They've ruined his life in addition to the families of the victims. Just like they've been ruining the lives of every family in the District since the beginning of Panem…

By the time the last angry visitor leaves, I am left alone in silence. Any anger that was developing within me is calming down. Silence has that effect on me. I love it when things are quiet, when there are no sounds. It is in this kind of environment that I can truly think. Where I can let my imagination and my mind work.

I take out the notepad I have as my district token. Sadly, I do not have a pen on me, since I'm only allowed one token. I'm certain I will be able to borrow one on the train and at the Capitol. For now, though, I need to brainstorm. I need to work on this story! I have the perfect ending already planned as well. I'll just fill in the details before it as they come to me. But for now, the ending will do...

Where twenty-four stood, only one remains. The audience watches attentively, waiting to see their champion.

The cameras close in on the sole survivor. The audience erupts in confusion and shock. It is not the dashing young boy from District One, who was the fan favorite from the beginning. It was not the boy from District Eleven, the suspected dark horse tribute. It wasn't even Atalanta, who proved her strength early on in the Games.

All is silent when Bastian Estatika leaves the arena as its sole survivor, its victor.

Atalanta Zimmerman of District 5

By lerontopithecusrosalia

"The more difficulties one has to encounter, within and without, the more significant and the higher in inspiration his life will be."

—Horace Bushnell

Warm, bright rays of sunlight stretch themselves into my bedroom greedily as I wake up. I take a deep breath, blink my eyes, and shakily pull myself out of bed, pushing aside the soft bedspread. Looking out the window, I can see that the sun has just barely risen, surrounded by nothing but the soft blue sky, despite the fact that it is hardly past six. Rubbing the back of my hand against my forehead wipes off some of the sweat that has formed overnight, only to be quickly replaced by more.

I hear birds chirping amongst the trees outside my window, in my backyard. The mood of this is too happy, considering what will happen later on today. In a matter of hours, the entire district will be standing in the town square, waiting to see who will be unlucky enough to be reaped into The Hunger Games. It's this cheerful atmosphere that makes me question whether or not I'm seeing the real sun.

Never mind that, right now I need to be focused. Today is The Reaping, and most likely, I'm the female tribute from District Five. I've trained my entire life for this day, for the moment my name is called, and I step on the stage. It's all about first impressions today, and if I am to make a good one, I'll need to seem amazing, mostly because the Careers are guaranteed to be impossibly tough.

So, instead of trying to calm myself down, I simply exit the room, and head outside. I know exactly what I am doing, having a last minute training session. I'd like to think of myself almost as well trained as the average career. At least I make it seem like I can throw a knife like I was born to do it.

Almost automatically, my hand reaches down to grab the bag of knives, which are always right in front of the door. I hold the sack loosely, letting it move around as I continue to listen to the birds, wondering what the Capitol could possibly have in store for the tributes in the Quell. So far, all I know about it is that people are voted in.

In the Career Districts, people probably campaigned for their spot, just for the fame. Fools. Leave it to them to underestimate the power of the Capitol. I mean, come on, there was a maze in the arena last year, as well as a grave yard. The Game Makers are certainly creative, and with there being a Quell this year, I'm sure there will be no word in the dictionary that could describe their efforts once the arena is unveiled.

In the Career's defense though, I've kind of been advertising to be a tribute, but only subtly. And at least I have a reason. To be alone. They're just doing it for the fame and fortune. Arrogance can be one's worst enemy, and that will prove fatal to the Careers once it gets down to it. And they think they're the only ones fully prepared for this. Well, look at me, I've been training for as long as I can remember, and if a mocking jay flew by, even if it was fifty yards away, I could still nail it without a second thought.

After I'm some distance from my house, I untie the crude string, and my three knives, which have become worn over the years, tumble out in a neat pile. I pick up the one on top, and twirl it around, letting it dance in my hand. For most people, attempting to manipulate it in the way I could would leave them with several bloody wounds. I don't know why I twirl it; it's just a habit I guess, something I do before I throw. It helps me warm up though, and after last night, that's exactly what I need, warming up. After taking a deep breath, I push all my thoughts aside, clearing my mind. Seconds later, I release.

The cold blade is the last thing I feel as the knife propels itself through the air. It lodges into a limb above me, sending the entire branch crashing down, and landing with a heavy thud. The tiny leaves blend in with the ground, leaving only what appears to be a long stick, decorated with bright fruits. I lean down and pull out my knife, causing tiny shavings to spew out from the slit it created. With my free hand, I pluck a ripe apple, glowing red, and wash it with my water container, kept in the same bag as my knives.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," I mutter to no one in particular as I take the first bite. Juice smears against the corners of my mouth, waking up my taste buds. Just one bite of this is enough to keep me up. That's why I train back here; I can go as far into the night as I wish, as long as I have an apple ready, I could really stay awake forever, feel the slight breeze shifting through the trees, look at the brightest star, mushed in with the mix of other balls of light. Just feel free, out of the unintended prison, otherwise known as my bedroom. And it's not just the juice that keeps me awake, but the thrill of it. Seeing the knife hit its target, even in the limited light available.

Everyone has a part of them that no one can take away, and this is mine. Sure, someone can cut down these trees, steal my knives, make me mentally unstable- as if I'm not already—but they can't take away my memories. No, that's something untouched, something that not even most ingenious inventions could wipe away. After a couple more bites, I set the apple back down on my bag.

Now it's time to get serious, this could be my last training session before I'm sent off to the Games. So, I narrow my emerald green eyes, and wipe my long red tresses out of my face, pursing my lips in concentration.

Honestly, the hardest part about training is finding a target. When I first started, it wasn't a problem. I'd just chuck a knife at the tree in front of me, scooting back a little farther each time the blade stuck. Back then I was only five, but now, I'm sixteen, and my goals are much higher than they were then.

Recently, I've taken to slicing apples down from the tree, dangling about sixty feet in the air. My family's better off than most, so I don't sell them, just save them for later. It's a good thing my aim is nearly perfect, because if I missed, it's likely the knife would stick on a branch, and as good of a climber as I am, I wouldn't be too happy about having to get it.

So, I twirl my knife, as always, poised in what I consider perfect position. A snap of the wrist sends the knife flying up, barely avoiding collisions with scattered branches, and, in a neat, professional arch, it sends the apple crashing down. The great thing about this training exercise is that not only am I practicing with a knife, I'm running to catch the falling apple, as well as working with hand eye coordination.

The apple easily lands in my hands, and the knife hits a couple feet away. It's this that proves to me that I'm ready, adrenaline courses through my veins. At this moment, I feel invincible, like nothing's standing in my way. I feel like even if I was sent into the arena, armed through the entire thing with nothing but a slingshot, I would still win. It's short lived though, as my thoughts are interrupted by my mom's hoarse voice. She's been sick lately, skipping work for three days now just because of her throat.

"Atalanta," She crows, opening the back door just enough for her to poke her scrawny head out. Her hair's bright red, just like mine, but she has blue eyes and pale skin. There's barely visible wrinkles on her face, and frown lines that run across her forehead.

She narrows her eyes into focus, trying to differentiate my red head from the trees. I don't know what's disorienting her more, the fact that she's puking at least once an hour, or the time. If my mom had her way, she would still be in bed, but her stomach kept her up for a good part of last night, and most of the morning.

"Atalanta," My mother repeats, looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. I set the apple down on my bag, and lift my head up, staring her straight in the eye.

"Yes," I say in a questioning voice. It's not like I don't know what she's about to tell me. Mom's just been in a mood lately, and it would be wise not to get in her way. So, I pull off the fake tone, which seems almost robotic against my tongue.

"You're going to go over to Avis's to get ready for the Reaping." She says in a dry voice. I nod as she begins to cough into her withering hand.

Mom smiles weakly, catching me off guard. She almost never smiles, in her eyes, everything is serious. Mom doesn't understand jokes, and hates accidents. If you do something stupid in front of her, instead of laughing, she'll simply scold you, pale eyes sharp, mouth curved in a frown. And if someone brings up an instance of that sort in front of her, she'll cough, hinting to change the conversation. It seems like the only time Mom is ever happy is when she is talking about her family. When Dad was promoted, she couldn't stop talking about how proud she was. And she genuinely smiled.

I hear the screen door close, signaling that Mom has left. I finish eating one of the apples, savoring every juicy bit, and just leave the core on the grass for the birds to eat. After putting the other one away, I place the bag back in its spot, pretending that there might be a next time. And then I leave the backyard, opening the fence gate. I hear a loud clash as the wood collides. And for some reason, I smile, sensing the fact that I may never hear the familiar banging of the fence that's been so common in my ears.

Personally, I hate getting ready for the Reaping, everyone is too tense to be able to laugh, much less crack a joke, and any lame attempts at starting a conversation are quickly quashed, because some way or another, they all seem to lead to the reaping after the first few sentences.

But out of all of my friends, Lyric has the most reason to worry, because people could tell her all they want, but she would still know that she was destined to be a bloodbath victim if her name was ever drawn. And I can't help but feel like it's my fault. She wasn't always bedridden, forced to stay in a tiny room without ever seeing the sun. No, before that storm, Lyric could run with Avis, Birgitta, and me. Now, as I walk past the tree stump, the scene replays itself in my head.

I was seven when it happened. School had just let out, and a horrific storm was underway. It seemed as though the clouds were trying to form huge balls of water, and passing them around. But soon afterwards, they found the sphere's too heavy, and decided to throw them all down instead. Lightning could be heard at least every ten seconds, causing Birgitta to cover up her overly sensitive ears as we ran. At the time, the four of us were heading towards my house, the closest one to the school, trying to outrun the thick of the storm. Rain collected itself on the sidewalk, causing my frenzied feet to nearly slip.

For awhile, I thought we were going to make it back uninjured. But I was so wrong. Ten minutes in, a huge bolt came hurtling down, illuminating the otherwise dreary street, and hitting a maple tree. I narrowly avoided the huge trunk, which fell down almost as fast as the lightning that struck it. And while I escaped the situation unscathed, Lyric felt the tree's power full force. It pinned her back down on the thick concrete, dumping her on the ground head first. Lyric's hands started clawing, searching for a rope that simply wasn't there. Her legs thrashed against the soaked ground, scraping them to the point where it left a permanent scar.

Desperately, Birgitta, Avis, and I tried to pull her out, but even our combined efforts proved futile. By the time she got out, Lyric was unconscious, legs splayed in odd, unnatural positions. To this day she is bedridden, unable to move on her own. Getting out of her bed, off of her soothing contraptions, and onto her tiny wheelchair is visibly painful, something she only has to do for Reapings. She might as well stay home, because no one in their right mind would vote her in.

Now, walking by this tree stump, I glare at the permanent reminder of what happened that night. For not holding on, for not clinging to its trunk like it should have. For letting go, and letting Lyric feel the full effect. For killing Lyric, because even though she's still breathing, she's not living. No, in theoretical terms, she's been dead for nine cold years. But what's done is done, and there's really nothing I can do about it. Nothing. And that's why I hate it.

Now nearing Avis's house, I center my slouched position, putting my ears on full alert. As great as Avis is, her family is something I'd rather not deal with, and if sneaking around her house is what it takes to avoid them, that's what I'll do. I slowly open the back door, which is never locked on the Reaping. The woods creeks, making a sound much louder than I'd like. Creeping up the carpeted stairs, I enter the first room on the right- Avis's room.

"Atalanta, where have you been?" Birgitta asks, lowing her eyebrows, which were previously creased in worry.

"Training," I answer simply. She already knows all about that, we've actually tried practicing together, before I discovered that she has two left hands. With a slight nod, Birgitta gestures towards Avis, who has just finished brushing her thick black hair.

"Atalanta," She says happily. "Your mom sent the dress last night." Avis holds up a long, sleeveless green dress with white flats. I take it out of her hands, feeling the long, silky material sooth my hands.

"I'll be right back," I say, and change into my reaping outfit. Coming out, I can tell Avis and Birgitta are trying to smile, rushing compliments about my appearance. But I can tell something's up, this isn't like them.

"You know, there's no reason to be worried." I speak softly. Looking up at them as they start to frown.

"We have every right to be worried." Birgitta starts. "You're our friend, and you know you've probably been voted in."

"So, I can handle myself. Normally there's only a couple tributes to worry about, and this year, I think I'll be one of them." Avis tightens her lips, letting Birgitta do all the talking. It's something she's good at, while she can't throw a knife five feet in front of her, she could convince people that she had.

"You're forgetting something," Birgitta says pointedly. "This isn't like all the other Hunger Games. The tributes are voted in. Do you really think District Five will be the only one to take advantage of that?" She doesn't wait for a response.

"What about the Career pack? They're going to be better than ever, considering that their districts probably had tournaments to see who would get the honor of being voted in. Don't get me wrong, you can handle a lot of really good tributes, but I'm not so sure you can live in an arena with six powerful tributes working together." Not sure of how to respond, I answer with something I quickly regret.

"Let's just save this for the Justice Building." Birgitta looks at me angrily, shocked at what I just said.

"You think this isn't important," She asks, not bothering to hide her hurt. "I may be horrible at throwing, but I don't underestimate, and ignorance can kill just as easily as a lack of defense. You've seen the toughest career tributes crumble down, simply because they were too arrogant to stop idolizing themselves and look at their competition." She snaps.

"Sorry," I say. "It's just that, your speech isn't helping. I realize that there's going to be some especially tough competition this year, but saying that isn't going to change it." Birgitta opens her mouth, about to respond, but is quickly interrupted by Mrs. Aaron's shrilly voice.

"Let's go girls," she sings, acting like we're kids about to be taken to an ice cream shop. I guess she does it to lighten the mood, because although she's naive, she knows I'm one of the most likely tributes to be entering the Games. The three of us file down wordlessly.

After checking in, I enter the roped off section for sixteen year old girls, while Avis and Birgitta head off with the other seventeen year olds. I cast them a solitary glance, trying to tell them that it will be fine, but am interrupted by the mayor, his deep voice echoing against the outlying buildings. He begins to talk about the rebellion, which were followed by the Dark Days, and ultimately caused The Hunger Games, a speech that he gives every year. Really, I've heard it so much that I could be saying it right now, down to the very last word. I can see a few distant gazes, showing that people are zoning him out. But my mind's trained on focusing, and so unlike them, I'm soaking in every detail.

I can see everyone regain consciousness as the escort's bubbly voice takes over. She begins to explain the rules of the Quarter Quell, which is something new, and worth paying attention to. After reminding the people that the tributes were voted in a few weeks ago, and that they have been counted, their voices have been heard. She makes it sound noble, like being voted in is an honor, although in most cases, tribute translates to one word: corpse. Her overly manicured hand unrolls a thin, bright pink slip of paper, which reads the name...

"Atalanta Zimmerman," she shrills.

That's my cue.

I step out through the leeway that has already formed, smirking. Reapings always give reliable first impressions, and if I want a good one, I'll have to act like a career. I hear a low cheer, taking in the fact that the District is proud of me. They think I have a chance at this. And yet I'm the one being called ignorant. I straighten up my back, head held slightly high, in an arrogant position. My pace is even as I carry myself up on the stage. And then the escort's opening the other slip of paper.

"Bastian Estatika," She breathes in an even, measured voice.

Estatika, I recognize that name. A huge roar erupts from the crowd, almost immediately after his name is pulled, but it isn't the same kind of cheer I got. No, this is more malicious, more like a death chant. These people want him to die. And that's when it hits me. His father caused an accident, resulting in the death of forty five people, and injuring hundreds of others.

Normally, I'd put something like this aside, but the happiness is just too much. No one should be celebrating over the death of someone they probably didn't know. Sure, there probably are a couple of people who actually, really understand him, but not the entire district. And, despite hearing the crowd's roaring approval, Bastian somehow manages to keep a normal, undisturbed composure, most likely obtained after years of mistreatment.

It's the overall attitude that angers me the most, and so I react in the only way I know how. I glare. Not at the crowd, not at Bastian, just in the general direction. Even I don't know who my glare is directed at, I just now that it's there. They want me to kill him, but if I have my way, someone will kill him before I have the chance to.

The crowd is still cheering over the probable death sentence as Bastian forces himself up the stairs. His hands seem still, almost limp, as we shake, like he's pretending he isn't here, that there's no one else around him. That may work now, but not in the Games. So here I am, reaped two minutes ago, and already I've found weakness in one of my opponents. I can tell he's zoned out, not caring about what anyone else thinks about him.

And no, I don't have sympathy for him, just anger at my district. How can they call themselves rational, when they're willing to kill an innocent person over a horrible accident that he didn't even cause? They'd fit right in with the Capitol citizens. Cheering over the death of an unfortunate person, like Bastian, and betting on someone who might win, like me. I imagine them all with a variety of wigs, a splash of neon orange on the baker, and hot pink on one of the peace keepers. Neutral colors like black and white mix with turquois and chartreuse forming a secondary rainbow. Swirls of pink and yellow circle their skin, forming complex patterns that join up to create vines or flowers.

But at this point, it doesn't really matter what I think of them, and long lost Capitol citizens or not, they're still from the same district. Right now, all I care about is living, and if I want to live, I'll have to save these thoughts for another time, because I can't afford to be caught zoned out. And if I do win, I expect them to treat me like a hero of sorts, and if I don't want to go crazy about it, I need to get used to their vicious side. So, I smirk, and step off the stage.

I'm ushered towards the Justice Building before I can finish my thoughts, a group of Peacekeepers surrounding me, as if I'd try to escape. No one in their right mind would do that. But then again, no one in their right mind would cheer over the death of someone undeserving of it. So maybe I'm simply in the wrong mind, in a perfectly good way.

I see Birgitta and Avis first. Their solitary, calm figures seem alien to me, as if I've already experienced the Hunger Games.

"I'm sorry," Birgitta says as soon as the doors slam shut. I shake my head.

"It's fine," I say. Birgitta smiles, taking in the fact that I've openly forgiven her right away. This time it's Avis who speaks.

"You have to get your hands on a knife. I know you'll win if you do." I nod, smiling slightly at her confidence in me, committing her comment to memory. I'll probably need to remind myself of it in future pep talk.

"Thanks," I manage.

"You can handle it you know," Birgitta starts absentmindedly. "The Hunger Games. It's just another thing in your way. And think about it this way. The more difficulties you have to encounter, the more inspirational you become."

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Avis echoes. The peacekeepers come in, ready to escort the two out of the room.

"Take care of Lyric for me," I call. And that's it, the doors close, leaving me behind. And then I'm left with only memories of them. That could have been the last time I ever see them. Then Mom and Dad step through the doors, hand in hand. Tears are welling up in Mom's eyes, but Dad doesn't look at all shaken.

"Please come home Atalanta," My mother whimpers. She comes closer, pulling in for a hug, but I avoid it and pat her on the back.

"I'll try," I say calmly. My dad looks at me quizzically.

"And don't feel sorry for yourself. Feeling sorry doesn't get you anywhere, it just drags you down. Stay alert, and you'll be fine."

I nod, smiling at him slightly, and showing him as much courage as I can muster.

"And, I'd prefer it if you got a knife, but a weapon is better than no weapon. Remember your survival lessons, stay light on your feet, and don't bite off more than you can chew. Always know what your opponent is thinking, and don't ally with anyone unless you can trust them without a hint of doubt. Just rely on your knowledge, common sense, and a knife, and I'll expect to see you again in a month." Dad finishes, trying to pour out everything he knows that could be beneficial. As the peacekeepers walk in, Dad pats me on the back and helps my mom up.

I'm quickly led onto the train, giving me time to think. Remembering the Reaping, the conversations in the Justice Building, and then the assurance. The assurance that I can win. Dad and Birgitta are absolutely right. I can win this thing. And I will. I just need a knife. And once I get one, no one, not even the best career, will be able to stop me. No, once I have a knife, I'll be invincible. And so, as I board the train, I'm smirking, but this time, it isn't fake.