A/N: Because I'm mean and lousy and have been putting this story on hiatus, I'm now giving you a super long chapter! Beware! The secret person is in it!

I really hope you guys didn't all give up on me. I hope you like and maybe even review the chapter.

TITLE: REPETITION

POV: MARVEL GRATTE

Darkness. It's all I feel. It's all that's in the snaky green eyes of the snake himself as he plots our deaths, teasing us as if we can change any of that in the progress. I want to snarl at him, to tell him that there's nothing that he could do to trick us. That we're smarter than him. That we can get out of any sinister plans he has for us. We did before, didn't we?

And so, when he finally leaves, a threat hanging over our heads, I almost feel blinded by the light coming through the curtains of our fancy painted-glass windows. With and "HGV" being the image on the glass, and many rough images of what is supposedly us. Can you guess what "HGV" means? If not, then go watch the Games sometime.

"He's…" Marissa starts.

"I know, he's going to kill Palentina and Obsidian," I tell her, hopefully soothingly.

"There's… there's nothing we can do! What can we do—go out on an interview and scream at the camera, 'We love the Capitol! Rebellions are so old-school…'?!"

"I know, Mar," I whisper.

"Oh, my God, Marv, I can't imagine a world without Palentina!" she exclaims. "How… how did they manage it when we were in the Games? No, no, no, she can't die, she can't die, she can't die." Marissa shakes her head vigorously. "I have to go talk to Pa— I can't. I can't tell her this… Oh, no…" She continues to mumble incessantly, and even starts to pace. I try to comfort her but she just pushes me off and says, "Marv, I'm trying to help Pal and Obsidian! Unless you want your little brother to die, please, leave me be for a moment…"

"Marissa!" I eventually shout. "Calm down, alright?"

She looks at me, utterly flabbergasted.

I walk over to her and put my arm around her shoulder and take her to our room. I lay her down in bed and tell her to take a rest. She grudgingly nods and drifts off quickly. I go to the living room and shut all the blinds and then throw myself onto the couch, tired from the visit and calming my flame down, and just try and get some rest.

Maybe… maybe it'd all be better if I had never woken up in the arena. Maybe it'll make it all better if I don't wake up now…

PART 2: QUELLING IT UP

TIME-SKIP: THE DAY OF THE REAPING FOR THE QUARTER QUELL

DISTRICT FIVE

POV: MARISSA MARKISON

I remember the day I went completely insane, utterly psycho, and preposterously crazy. It was the day of the Quell announcement. Marvel and I were sitting on the couch, dreading the words that might erase our tributes' fate. Like, say, if it were that only someone from the following districts could win, and neither of those was One or Five.

And then it was something worse. I have the words memorized by mind, but not by heart. By heart might imply that I agree with it or hold it dear. The only reason I hold it at all is because it's terrifying for me, and extremely not illegal, I'm sure. But hey, it's the Capitol. The president. He can change the cards in that little box so that only Marissa Markison and Marvel Gratte can compete in the next Games.

But it was worse. Kind of. No. It wasn't worse. We still have a chance of getting by. But it brought back eternal, endless fear of being chosen. Every year on that fateful—or, maybe, un-fateful—Sunday, there is fear that you'll be reaped. But that fear was gone for me, replaced by something else. Much more. And now that it's back, I can hardly stand living in such terror.

The exact words were: "In order to remember that even the strongest when joined with the weakest can still not overpower the Capitol, for the next five years, victors will be put back in the reaping bowl, eligible for the reaping no matter what age, able to be reaped along with the non-victors who are within the age group."

My name was from then on out put on five slips of paper for the reaping, and Marvel's is on seven. Horror is what I feel every day. Especially not that he's gone, back in District One because he's a technical District One citizen, not District Five, and therefore must participate in their reapings, and, if he's drawn again, play for their district.

I put on the floral dress that Palentina bought for me with money from the factories. It's not particularly great to me, but Palentina spent her hard earned money on it. After that, I brush my long flamingly red locks with a comb because I lost my brush. Then I slip on some flats and leave the house, heading for my family's home—my true home.

Jenson and Serena grimly dress for the reaping. They're eleven and a half now, so, so close to being of age for the reaping. And my sister, who was thankfully not killed after Marvel and I did some damage control with the Capitol and districts, Palentina looks gorgeous in her yellow frock, which I insisted on buying her because she loved it so but couldn't afford it. My father marches into the room, near drunk.

"Hey, Marsa," he says, his words slurring. I don't think I've seen him drunk since after he gave up trying to wash away the pain with alcohol a month after my mother died. He starts to guffaw. "Don't get reeeeped!"

"Dad, go get ready—now," I order sternly.

"You don't order me! You don't even live here! You're barely a part of the family!" he spits out. Drunken words usually equal sober thoughts. That's why it hurts so much after he says this. I restrain from letting myself sink to the floor as Palentina reprimands him.

"He didn't mean it…" she starts.

"Give it a break. I'm the worst sister in history of sisterhood," I hone up to.

Then we all head glumly to the reaping. Or—I take Jensen and Serena to it while Pal rushes their father.

I don't think he wants to be mine anymore, whether he admits it or not.

At the reaping, I have to sign in. The pricking sensation of the little shock is something I thought I'd never have to do again. Then I go stand in the horribly miserable sixteen-year-old section. A girl from my year at school that I knew kind of comes up to me and greets me, a fake smile planted on her face. Her eyes are sad and pitying.

"This must really suck, Marissa," she says quietly as people file into their sections slowly, almost as if one-by-one.

I nod. "It does," I croak out, feeling tears well up in my eyes. It doesn't just suck; it hurts. It hurts so badly. Because all I can feel is the pain of the wounds inflicted on me in the arena. "It hurts," I admit. "A lot."

"Much more than it would for the rest of us." She nods understandingly. I thank her silently for being so friendly and understanding, like we've been best friends for years. Had I realized I had the time to take away from helping my family and actually tried to turn some good acquaintances into friends, she might have actually become my best friend somewhere down the line. Maybe now's a good time to mark that on that line—if we make it past the reaping.

Something I never thought I'd say or think again.

The mayor's speech goes by quickly, and then Ema's words, her eyes scanning the crowd with a sad yet excited look on her face. The victors older than eighteen are in their own group—there are but five, and only two who are in the age level—and that's where her gaze lingers the longest and saddest. But when she sets her eyes on the reaping bowls, she cheers up remarkably.

"This will be a bittersweet year," she declares. "While we may lose some of the victors we've held dear, it'll make for a spectacle, a wonderful Hunger Games. Am I correct?" Her and her impeccably clean and perfect grammar.

"Now, as we always do, I will draw the female tribute first." Ema scampers over to the bowl with pink ribbon wrapped around the top of the reaping bowl. She sticks her hand in gently, and then slowly pulls out a slip in the middle of the bowl. One perfectly white little slip, closed with a little black sticker, waiting to be pulled open, the handwriting waiting to be read.

That person is probably going to die.

Then Ema's mouth opens slightly for a second before she actually announces, "M-Marissa Markison!" I'd like to think Ema and I were closer than most are with their victor-escort/tribute-escort relationship.

Tribute-escort.

My knees almost give in when I take the first step. No one clears for me at first, as if it would make it so I wouldn't have to go and they'd just give up and wouldn't send tributes this year, but then the path clears and I find myself blindly stepping through the crowd. And by that I mean—I can't see. My eyes are either closed or I'm so in shock I looked directly into the sun. You decide. I don't want to open my eyes and see the horrors of approaching the stage again, so I don't. People help me along, make sure I don't fall… wait, no, that's my imagination.

I'm really holding my head up, walking through the crowd that opened a path immediately, looking courageous, like nothing could stop me, even though all these people know I'm insane, much like that of Annie Cresta, or Haymitch Abernathy—he confuses me and I don't think he's just a drunkard, I think he's a bit off the deep end even for a victor, too. The people look at me with a mix of emotions. Sadness. Pity. Triumph that they weren't reaped. Confusion. Accusation. Disbelief. But I feel blinded, like I can't see, like they're all helping me rise to help them all. You know, as if I could.

"Well, let's welcome our victor of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games back onto this stage with a warm round of applause!"

There's a clap or two. Not much. There never is much.

I want to slump down against a wall and cry. No. Better yet, I want to slump down against a wall with Marvel as he mentors me—no competing with me, not again—and cry on his shoulder. A kiss wouldn't hurt. I want to feel his rough, thick, out-of-place blondish hair right now, and hear his calm, soft, amazing voice, and see his handsome, perfect, gorgeous face. I want to be absorbed in his deep, endless black eyes. I want him to hold me and tell me how everything is going to be alright and how great I am, and how much he loves my auburn hair and reddish eyes. I want him, right now, to comfort me.

I want to go home.

Normal tributes wouldn't feel this. I would know that. Terror, stubbornness, hopeless/hopefulness, the utter need, whether you have the determination or not, to get home, no matter what, despite the odds. In some cases, the knowledge that they can't win flashes through.

But no. I just want to be cradled. I know that fear, whereas the rest of the people are clueless and scared. I'm mortified because I know the terrors. I have the nightmares. And right now, what I need is to be coddled, cradled, and told how great and strong and capable I am. How fantastic and pretty and all the other things Marvel says. Most of the time I don't agree, but I don't interrupt. It's nice. Calming.

Before I even realize it, someone I know is approaching the stage. Newly-turned thirteen-year-old Drake Long, known prankster of the district, notorious brother of…

…Zeke Long. My district partner last year.

He blankly is shoved up to the stage. I want to pounce on the man that pushed him. He wobbles up the steps, his light brown hair covering his eyes. He's not actually thirteen yet, but tomorrow will be. What a great two years he's had birthday presents-wise. "Happy birthday! We're sending your brother into a death contest where he's sure to die brutally. Hate, the Capitol." "Happy birthday again! We're sending you into a death contest where there's no doubt you'll horribly die. With blood and your death sentence, the Capitol."

He walks up the steps, aghast. His mouth is drawn wide open and his shoulders are sunk slightly forward, as if he has a slight slouch. But then, the courageous boy he is, he pulls it all together and stand up straight and tall, all so quickly as if it was all an act, his fright and surprise was. Lazily melted over his grass green eyes is a look of confidence, but the laziness does not pay off. I can see it wasn't an act. He's beyond fright; he's so terrifyingly scared that me might just ball up on the floor of the stage.

Oh, wait, that's me. Or maybe it's both of us. I don't know. I don't care. I want to go home. I want to go home. Home. Home. Home! I might save him if it weren't for the untended to relationship I have with my family that I need to mend, or the love I have with Marvel, or the… or the… That's it. All I have is a broken family and an avid lover—the love of my life, to be precise.

Then I'm taken in the Justice Building with a Long, to say my goodbyes before the Hunger Games. Sounds familiar, right?

DISTRICT TWELVE

POV: GALE HAWTHORNE

I'm lost. I've been lost for so long. I don't think anyone can find me. I don't want to be found. I don't want to be, whatsoever. I want to be so lost that I just die. I just up and die. That's all I want. And I want it so badly it hurts; it hurts my heart, my head, my family. They just watch me mope around, trudging, never walking, and not able to get a job in the mines because I'm so messed up. They see me. And they're scared. I know it. They have lost me—forever. Because I'm not finding my way out. I'll die. I'll practically kill myself.

It's what I want.

Why, why, why? is the question. Why do I just sit around, barely ever going anywhere, sometimes unaware of the world around me? Because I lost her. The her that is all I ever thought about since one day when we were fifteen a Peacekeeper told her to kiss him and I just got… uncomfortable. I didn't know why. But it donned on me: I love her. So mu— Wait, let me rephrase that. Loved her.

It hurts so badly.

Rory wakes me from my trance on his, Vick's, and my room, curled up, the blankets strewn across the hard, moldy wooden floor and mine. I was supposed to replace the moldy boards the day she… I won't even say it. As if it'll bring her back. It has to. She has to come back, or I'll come to her. I miss her so much that it's all I can think about. Everything reminds me of her. Before I was too ill to hunt, and when I was teaching Rory to hunt, the woods and the bows reminded me of her. One of them was one of her old ones… And then Rory's first reaction reminded me of her and Prim. And…

I can never stop thinking about her.

"Gale. Gale. Gale!" shouts Rory. "It's reaping day. You have to get up."

I shake my head. "Let them ki—" I stop myself before I tell him that I want them to kill me. I don't want that weight on the poor thirteen-year-old's shoulders.

He drops to his knees and sits next to me silently. For a moment, he just sits there, saying everything that needs to be said in silence as I untangle myself from the blankets on the floor. I crashed out down there last night, drunk, and now I have a raging headache that just doesn't seem to cease. He starts to fidget with a floorboard and then sits down again, his hair askew. He needs to comb it.

"She's safe, you know," he whispers. "Imagine the things worse than death that would have happened to her had she won."

I think about it. Actually, there was always the distant thought when she was alive in the arena that her body would be… sold once she had won. I always put it aside. Figured that they would wait a month or two before that happened, maybe a year. I thought that by then, I could have her as my girlfriend, and maybe even my wife. But… they ruined that. They ruined it forever.

And it still hurts.

And all I can think of is the pain.

"It's…" Then Rory's face goes red. He never had proper time to grieve because everyone has had to help me. Even though he barely knows— knew her, he stats shaking his head. "It's not better this way. It's not fair. You love her, and she was supposed to come back and marry you and you two would have kids and I would have nieces and nephews and you two would be perfect and rich and…"

I almost manage a forced "I didn't want fortune; I wanted her."

POV: MADGE UNDERSEE

The light blue top and the white tights under the blue skirt; the expensive black flats; the Capitol-imported cinnamon perfume that I can only wear on special occasions because we can only afford one bottle a year; the sleek, perfect hair, done by my mother who always has a headache, always pretty grouchy; and the grim sadness spreading round as Dad steps up to the podium.

"You have to work from the inside sometimes, honey," he once told me when we were alone and I was twelve, the day after my first reaping. I was still shaking because of the terror that my name was actually in the reaping bowl. But it's spun from that, and now there's nothing he can do. He permanently works for the Capitol.

He reads the speeches. I fumble with the mockingjay pin the Everdeens gave back when Katniss's coffin was delivered. That was the worst possible day. I remember watching the train zoom away, the white box with her body in it in the middle of the delivery station's open doorway. I remember Primrose coming, too, but she and Gale never saw me. I remember wishing that Gale would come and comfort me. I remember feeling selfish.

I remember seeing his condition spiral from there.

It's sick that my dad has to do this when his own daughter is at risk of being reaped. I shiver at the thought, and then look over at his little roped off section, all alone, so utterly alone. I kind of know him—District Twelve's only victor. We've had one sober conversation and one drunk/sober conversation. Try and guess who was sober. I bet you can't.

I remember the sober one, where we talked about Maysilee, my aunt, his ally and maybe even a girl he might have liked had he not been dating someone back home at the time. He told me that in the drunk one. He's a fickle man, not at all charming whether he's had a swig or so of beer or not. But he sure does have a heart of gold. He cares about a lot of stuff. Never his tributes. I remember he told me it hurt too much when I liked his tributes or cared about them and then they died, so he just stopped liking them, caring for them.

He'll tell this to an eight-year-old if he's drunk, but not to a broken-up-about-the-loss-of-her-only-friend sixteen-year-old if he's not.

"My, my, my!" exclaims Effie Trinket. I've never spoken to her, but I've been in the same room as her. She goes through her little speech and then says, "Ladies first!" I bet you could hear the thumping of my heart—if I cared enough for my heart to thump. But I don't. They never, ever reap me. I'm a daughter of a loyal Capitol worker—why would they feel the need to draw me?

It's all rigged anyway.

"Madga…?"

Was she… was Effie Trinket trying to… pronounce my name? No, no, no, they can't reap me! They can't! But it's all rigged anyway, and I was a friend of the rebellious Katniss Everdeen. I wouldn't be surprised if Gale was reaped next. But the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump comes despite my lack of surprise. Somewhere in me, I saw this coming. So I start to walk through the crowd before she even pronounces my name right. How hard is it to say "Madge," anyway?

"Madge Undersee… Yes, yes, Madge Undersee!" I'm already walking up the steps to the stage. I go to the center of the stage, not looking back at Dad, who's right behind me, probably red-faced and trying with all his might to not seem like he's about to cry. Favor to no tributes.

Effie smiles at me and then says, "The mayor's daughter?" in her perfectly enunciated Capitol accent. I nod numbly, terrified in the realization that if Katniss can't make it out of the Games alive, I can't, without a shadow of a doubt. I start to shake. "Well, let's all give a round of applause before I reap the boy!" No one claps. Of course. Who would? "Well, alright then… Let's move on to the boys!"

I knew Peeta, too. Kind of. I mean, we weren't friends. Not as close as Katniss and I were, and that's not saying anything, since Katniss and I were barely friends. But I talked to Peeta on occasion. I think he considered me a friend, whereas he was just a really nice acquaintance to me. He told me about his crush on Katniss, how it was "more than a crush," how I was the only one who knew, how they "met," about the day he fell in love… In all truth, he really did seem like he loved her. It was sort of cute, both of them.

And when they were both reaped, it killed me a little, and when they both died, it killed me a lot.

"Rory Hawthorne!" exclaims Effie. I watch a little Seam boy walk up to the stage. I haven't quite processed the name yet. My mind's still churning with thought of the Games, and Katniss, and Peeta. And how much all this really kills me even more. So I half-mindedly watch as the little Seam boy crawls up to the stage, frightened. It's just like Prim…

Hawthorne. It starts to click in my head. Hawthorne. Hawthorne. Hawthorne. If it's not Gale…

Rory.

No, no, no, I think frantically. Don't volunteer, Gale… Gale, please don't volunteer… But it's not like if he could actually hear me that anything, even his lost state of mind that the whole district—or the people that know him, at least, or kind of know him—has noticed, could change his mind. So I watch, about ready to go limp at another thing that sucks more than eight million babies with their bottles do in their baby years happening. I have to watch as the boy I really, really like volunteers for his little sibling and comes up onto the stage. I have to kill him if I want to come home.

An "I volunteer!" rips through the crowd as Gale rushes up to the stage, nearly knocking a dazed Rory to the ground.

And that's when I finally get it: They want to recreate the pain and torture among us because we were friends with Katniss and Peeta and because they hinted at rebelliousness, and they must know Gale hunts or else they couldn't tell that they're friends. It's the only time they get—got— to hang out for real, as friends. That I know of. And it'd be a hit in the Capitol. They're recreating the pain to show something to the districts too. I can see right through it. Why? Because I'm part of it.

I'm their new Peeta.

DISTRICT ONE

POV: MARVEL GRATTE

"It feels so great, refreshing, to see you home every day, Marvel boy," says my down-to-earth mother as she tries and succeeds to tame my wild hair, looking deep into my eyes. "Thank you for all the money you've been sending. It really helps. It's more than enough."

"I live on the fortune of two victors. I have more than enough to give you, Mom," I say. "I want you to live in comfort."

My mother rolls her eyes, her blondish hair tied tight in a ponytail, her eyes joyous and proud. She smiles when I mess up my hair again and then straightens my collar, just like she did every reaping day since I turned twelve. Her smile is soft and calm despite the roaring, screaming, thrashing knowledge that I could get reaped again. And I don't think a lot of people in District One—the second-most committed district Career-wise—are going to have the guts to volunteer and go against victors. She's probably just happy to have me home.

"Get your sister, okay? I'll get Ob," she says quietly.

Today I'm leaving her again, and I won't see her for another year. It must eat up her insides, knowing I can't come see her if I want Beryl and Obsidian to live, if I want Mar to, if I want Pal and Jenson and Serena to, if I want Mr. Markison to, if I want my own mother, her, to live. It must be like someone's driving a knife into her heart. I know. I've felt it before when Obsidian's life was threatened.

But I smile anyway and tramp over to Beryl's room. She's lying in her bed, her hair perfect, asleep. I wake her up by yelling, "BERYL!" as loud as I can in her ear and step back to see the results. She jumps out of bed and darts toward the door. Career instincts. I hate that she's been training since I left for the Games, but she's twelve now, eligible for the Games. She needs thee fight, the fire, in her.

"Marvel! Oh, God, get out of my room, will you?" she screeches when she halts and realizes it was me, not afraid at all. We don't get afraid. We go with the flow. Our mom taught us that life's a lot better when you think of other things and let the fear escape you somewhere else. This is my other thing to think of: freaking the hell out of Beryl. "Why did you see the need to scare me like that?" She brushed her white dress until it's free of wrinkles again, and then pats down her golden hair.

"Because it was funny," I say in a voice only big brothers can use after messing with their little sisters. Or the other way around. Either works.

But the thing is, big brothers feel so protective of their little sisters that it's crazy. And that's the way I feel about her. She's an annoying little brat, like all little sisters are, but she's my little sister, and I love to the ends of the earth. I'd do anything to keep her safe. It's a brotherly version of the way I feel about Marissa. But I'm in love with Mar. I love Beryl, the little annoying ball of Beryl-ness she is.

"Marvelllll!" she groans again. "Is it time to go?"

"Yessss," I groan in a mocking way like she did when saying my name.

We head out of her room and tell Mom that we'll see her at the reaping. Then we head out a little earlier than Mom and Obsidian because we have to sign in. The little twelve-year-old walks next to me and fills me in about Career training, and then she almost starts to skip when she starts to talk about some boy in the Academy. Her face goes red and I stare down at her, a mocking grin on my face.

"Oh, come on, tell me," I tease her. "I won't tell Mom."

She rolls her eyes. "If you weren't leaving, you so would," she says, then realizes what she said and looks sad. "I'm sorry. But since you can't tell Mom, it's this guy named Johnny. Or Jonathon. But Lacy told me he only lets his friends and girls he likes call him Jon. And he—"

"Jonathon Milroy? The guy down the street?" I ask.

She nods. "I really, really, really, really, really, really—"

She's such a District One girl.

"Isn't he the one with the—"

"The Mohawk, yeah, yeah… Mom'll hate it… blah, blah, blah. I've heard this all bef—"

"That's why you don't want me to tell Mom. He's a really into-it Career, you know," I inform her of what she already knows. "Mom will not like that."

"Yeah, yeah, I don't care. I mean, Marissa was from District Five, and she thought you were one of the toughest, meanest, most horrible Careers ever, and she fell for you," Beryl says dreamily. I ruffle her pretty curly hair and smile. I love it that she looks up to me, just not that she looks up to what I did that nearly got her killed.

When we reach the square, I tell her what they're going to do when she signs in. Her face contorts and then she smiles and trots along to a line that has one of her friends at the end of it. She begins to chat.

I look ahead to the Peacekeepers as they prick the finger of an angry sixty-year-old victor. Her face is wild with rage as she turns around as soon as they shock her with a cotton ball to keep the blood from flowing and flowing, and marches away towards the older-than-nineteen-year-old-victors area. I wonder if I'll be like that one day, when I'm sixty, forced to mentor or at least watch others mentor. If I'm still alive.

"Next," the monotone Peacekeeper in front of the line I'm in calls. I look up and see that that next she's talking about is me. I creep forward slowly, and then shove out my hand, trying to mater the anger that the woman victor did, but only find longing to just be home, with the Markisons and Grattes all together in one district. I don't care which. Though I love it here, I just want us all together. "Next," says the Peacekeeper again, and I walk away, nearly bumping into Beryl's friend Cynthia as she and Beryl make their way to the twelve-year-old section.

I walk to the seventeen-year-old section. There, my best friend Gleam Sherrelle walks over to me. He high-fives me and then says, "Marvel, man! I haven't seen you since you moved to District Five." He puts a stupid grin on his face. "How's the woman?"

I roll my eyes. "We're all over the news. You should know, man."

He rolls his eyes as the mayor starts. Then he hands it over to the escort… which isn't Amemelia… Well, I always knew it was a matter of time before Miss Downer was fired, but I just kind of hoped it was farther away when I started to actually get close to.

The new escort is someone Mayor Glitter—Gleam and I loved to make fun of his name after we raced our horses on some days—calls Altria Naomi. Altria—it turns out—is probably in her early twenties and sporting some type of outfit that's in between what you could call district garb and Capitol insanity. The in-between of that is called "something like a chariot costume." It's a pink sundress that barely covers her breasts—which I'll not but didn't intentionally notice that have definitely had work done on to… um, enlarge—and reaches just above her knees. Her naturally blond hair—shocker there, all Capitol citizens dye their hair or wear wigs—falls in waves over her shoulders and reach her elbows. Altria's eyes are shimmery and glittery and sparkly and a… um… a nice shade of honey-hazel. Her pale skin with loads of makeup but not the complete mask that normal Capitolites where don't hide her long lashes. She wears a fluffy pink hat which is the only downside. Her pink high heels are high but not insane like usual.

I think—and maybe I'm just guessing—that she's got every male between the ages of ten and twenty-five drooling.

She smiles at the crowd. "Hello! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," she says, her voice crisp and clear and smooth. "Ladies are first."

She walks over to the bowl with pink ribbon and gingerly reaches in, picking the first name on the pile and walking back to the microphone with long-legged strides. She opens the slip and says, clearly, the name of the girl. And Gleam, who is just strong enough to contain an angry me, holds me back. Because immediately I'm furiously calling out her name, lunging for the stage so I can strangle the life out of Atria and get the girl who was reaped away from the stage, screaming for someone to volunteer.

The little twelve-year-old girl steps up to the stage. No victor from One is going to want to take a chance at losing their fame and fortune by going back into the Games. No non-victor is going to want to volunteer to go in with a bunch of victors. Beryl is going into the Games.

"Gleam Sherrelle!" she exclaims. And then I'm bursting with rage. Because so am I.

"I volunteer!" I shout, and run to the stage.

I bet I know who the District Five girl is.

A/N: Hope you like the chapter! I'll try and update soon.