So... Finally, finally, we have the Reaping. It's been a while, hasn't it?

Wondering who the tributes are? I won't delay your reading any longer! May the odds be ever in our characters' favor.

Chapter Ten – Kai

I've never guessed how many people live in the Complex, but at Reapings and other gatherings one can get a good sense of the multitude who thrive under Borg's control. Tens of thousands of citizens rush into the Auditorium, claiming seats quietly and quickly. The entire process is silent, though, never a word of greeting spoken, never a shout of recognition. The horror of events to occur momentarily lay over the crowd like a smothering blanket. The Fire tribute-aged students are not entirely subdued, though, squirming around and poking each other and making faces. When the moment comes, however, they will be dead still. They will sit attentively and watch as the hand of Pixal dips into their glass bowl and pray that it's not them. Their prayers seem fruitless, I think. Even if anyone is listening it's not like they've ever done anything worthy of them being spared. It's hard to here, where there is no true right and wrong, good and evil, except for the lines drawn in heavy pencil by Borg Enterprises. The skeletons are the bad guys. Stick to your element. Don't talk out of turn. Rules, lines not to cross, morals to learn by – a carefully crafted civilization drawn from the civilizations before it. When the time comes the Fire tributes will pray. And nobody will listen.

Up until yesterday I hadn't thought I was worth sparing either. My small rebellion seemed worthless, as it was something I enjoyed and could gain from. Trading would be no reason to be spared, even if it was illegal. Up until yesterday I had never truly done anything good. Anything worthwhile. Anything truly rebellious.

The girl, Ming, had been talking, that I remember. It was foolish of her to say something, to publicly act out against Borg, but her words were truthful. Others surely thought so too. The gang of Metals behaved curiously when confronted with the words she said, though. They felt the need to act out against the rebel. They felt the need to punish her. That kind of instinct surely can't be bred or instilled easily. Which poses the question: What did Borg do to them to make them think that way? And why did he not do the same to the girl, Ming, or me? Maybe that's his plan, to give us a false sense of security by thinking we're separate, that we can stand alone, and then he takes us all over by means of some weapon or something. It seems far-fetched, but with Borg's influence and power and his freedom from limitations, anything could, quite possibly, be possible.

Nya is sitting a few rows behind me, glancing around the Auditorium as if trying to pick out who her competition will be if she is picked. Neither of us has taken tesserae, as I can get all the food I want from trading, so we're even with the richer kids name-wise. I can't imagine Nya in the Games, fighting for her life, having to kill boys and girls no older than her. It's always hard to imagine the girls in the Games – until they go on rampage and kill everyone. Girl victors are no more common than boys.

I wonder if the fifteen minutes has passed and look to the entryways just in time to see them close with a hiss, locked and impassible. There is no escape. The Auditorium has, quite literally, become the Arena. The doors are usually guarded, too, by the guards in black and red, the Hunger Games guards. But this year there are no guards. The doors remain alone. A feeling of dread fills me as I search for the guards who stand to usher the tributes onto the stage. They are nowhere to be seen.

What has Borg planned for us today?

Instead of Borg entering on his rising platform like he always does, nine individual screens lower from the ceiling like the overhead screens I saw during my brief period of time at school. Each one faces a different element. At the same time the clip plays and a loud, impressive voice announces, "A Message from Borg Enterprises!" The symbol for the company illuminates the screens. Slowly the symbol fades into blackness and is replaced by images of school police and the patrolmen at the Earth Market. "For decades our society has been protected by brave and valuable servicemen that have kept our world in union and peace." More like brainwashed Borg enthusiasts, I think. "Yet in the modern ages we call more a more uniform and flawless method of distribution of justice. We need the security of the most elite soldiers, the best detectives, and the most courageous policemen." A man in camouflage, a well-dressed taller woman in a long coat, and a school policeman with a baton wave at the crowd from the screens. "So here in Borg enterprises we have created the ultimate justice machine. We call it the Nindroid." Nindroid. Ninja droid. Ninja. Like it or not, Borg has just confirmed the existence of ninja to the populous. Maybe the name is just a clever use of words, a coincidence. But it's something to go off of. Do the others realize it?

The faces of the crowd are tinted blue from the glow of the screens, now displaying blueprints of the new Nindroid. These blueprints are peeled away to reveal the finished product. The Nindroid is black, with a purple robe-looking cloak over it trimmed with red, fitted like a robe would be. Half of its face is a solid plate of steel, and one of its eyes is obscured by a strange technological-looking monocle of sorts. It wears a curious mask that covers half of its face, from the bottom of its mouth to its chin. The only feature that makes it look remotely like a policeman is its belt, which contains a baton and a Taser and some other nasty-looking devices. Clips of the Nindroid in action are displayed next, one of it smashing a bunch of cinder blocks and a few of it breaking boards and things. "The Nindroid is a fully operational policeman that will be deployed today to monitor and supervise the everyday actions of our people. A Nindroid stands next to the school building while helping a little girl tie her shoes. Even the girl in the picture looks apprehensive, though. There is no look of care in the Nindroid's eyes, the enhanced one or not. "From today onward the Nindroids will protect us from harm in the Complex, at work, and in school." The Nindroid pictures cycle to those of them in the factories, watching over the workers with a somewhat malicious look in their eyes. "So I'd like to welcome… the Nindroids!" Applause fills the Auditorium, from where I don't know, because no one in the crowd is clapping. The entryway doors open and four Nindroids march inside, as intimidating as they were on-screen as they are in real life. Two break off at the guard posts and stand there firmly, one arm held rigidly in a salute. The other two stomp up to the stage and stand on either side of the nine staircases, eyes glowing red in the dim light of the post-video-showing. "And without further ado…" The same voice from the Nindroid video rings around the Auditorium. "May I present President Cyrus Borg!" I've learned enough history to know that a president rules over a free population. Borg is no president. He is a dictator.

The screens retract at the same time Borg is elevated from below the stage, waving and smiling. Now the crowd really does clap, but they seem a bit on edge, having been startled by the severe looks of the Nindroids. "Welcome! Welcome all!" Borg cries out to us, his platform revolving slowly, as if we are attending a sporting event and not a ceremony of death sentences. "First off, I'd like to bring notice to my team at Borg Enterprises and congratulate them on the fine work on the Nindroids. I'm sure they'll function well as our new police force!"

And that's when I know the policemen are gone.

"Now, let me refresh the memories of our returning students and enlighten the new ones. Elements will be called in near-alphabetical order, with Air being the first and All-Element being the last." The Air tribute-aged kids shift awkwardly in their seats, now the center of attention. "As you all well know, the tributes chosen today will enter the annual Hunger Games, a fight to the death in an arena where every skill they possess will be tested. Victors gain eternal glory, the chance of a lifetime to show the world what you can do! Volunteers are accepted, of course. Now, if you please…" He rolls his wheelchair down a ramp my left, where the Air slice is. His assistant and name-drawer, Pixal, a robot herself, stands next to him, her droopy robe-cloth swaying delicately in the invisible breeze. Pixal has drawn names for ages and will probably draw them forever, this year no exception. "Ladies first." Her voice is monotonous and without inflection, a feeble attempt at copying the voice of humans. She steps forward and stands directly next to the Air girls' bowl. A collective gasp rises from the Air slice as her hand reaches into the bowl, sifts gently through the name slips, plucks one from the mix, withdraws her hand, and opens the paper, all without expression. She is a robot. She doesn't understand that every year she kills seventeen kids. She doesn't care. Pixal is the robotic embodiment of "president" Borg.

"Aimee Holmes." The Airs all twist and turn in their seats, trying to get a good look at Aimee. She stands shakily, I can see her from my seat in Fire area, and makes her way to the aisle. Aimee is a tall, willowy girl with light brown hair and eyes wide with terror. She walks up to the stage, past the Nindroids that guard her staircase, and stands next to Pixal by her bowl without a sound. The entire Auditorium is silent, almost like we are letting up a prayer of thanks and respect to Aimee. Your life saved many. We are grateful. Pixal marches much like the Nindroids over to the boys' bowl and repeats the name choosing process. "Michael Bedford." Again the Airs look for Michael in the crowd, leaning back in their seats, having survived another year. But one boy does not sigh with relief. He stands and ascends the stairs next to Aimee, visibly shaking. The boy is small, probably fourteen, with fair hair and a slight build. They shake hands at Pixal's instruction and she announces the Air tributes' ages, seventeen for the girl and fourteen for the boy. Then they stand there on the stage, prone and afraid, for all the world to see. Surely the workers in Borg Tower are watching the Reaping live, smiling as the see the frightened pair, inventing clever ways to harm them, envisioning their deaths with relish.

Pixal walks to the next bowls, Darkness, as Borg wheels up onto his platform again. Aimee and Michael watch her with terrified expressions. "Ladies first." She announces, and the Darkness girls can't help but straighten up and listen to her. Even Darkness, the seemingly most "rebellious" of the group, can bow in submission every once and a while. "Ming Mako." I turn sharply to see the girl from school, Ming, stand up. Her face is unreadable, expressions blank, as she walks to the stage to join Pixal and the Air tributes. Her not showing fear gives her an aura of eerie confidence and power. We're supposed to be afraid. Maybe she has a plan to get sponsors like this, but it seems a challenge to Borg. The anomaly. The one who didn't show fear. The rebel. I feel a shock of empathy for Ming, and smile slightly as she looks over the audience. "Zant Eriksson!" The boy Darkness, a sallow-skinned guy with long black hair, joins Ming on stage. He turns an earring absently as they stand there together, appearing cruel and dangerous simply by his looks. Ming and Zant shake hands quickly and turn to the crowd like Aimee and Michael do now. Zant glances over at the Air tributes and his mouth twists into a half-smile.

Earth is the next element to be Reaped, yielding a tall, stocky boy named Cole, with hair similar to Zant's, and a similarly large girl who looks much older than eighteen afterwards. Next, I know, is Fire. I watch Pixal's every step as she moves to the Fire area with our bowls, directly in front of us, eyes cold and blank. Robotic. Emotionless.

I watch with fingers crossed as she dips her hand into the girl's Reaping bowl, every vein-like wire in her arm illuminated by the bright lights that surround the stage. Any of those names could be Nya's. I sit on the edge of my seat as she draws a small slip of paper from the bowl, but it gets caught on a second. With a gentle flick of the wrist the second paper falls into the girl's bowl and settles. A life lost; a life saved. She turns to the Fire area and reads in a clear voice, "Stirling Lightfoot!" Not Nya. Not Nya. I relax ever so slightly, but watch as Stirling stands next to the girls' bowl, tossing her brown hair over her shoulder. Pixal reaches the boys' bowl now, picks a name from about the middle of the pile and reads it aloud.

"Kai Burns."

My name.

I'm not horrified, not exactly surprised, like the horror and pain of the Games are aside for the moment. I stand subconsciously and walk into the aisle, staring up at the stage, my expression as unreadable as Ming's. I begin to walk up to the stage, footsteps ringing loudly in the silence of the Auditorium – and suddenly everything is overly loud, the sound of tunics rustling from the Fire section as they lean back in their seats, the sound of Pixal's steps on the stage, and even the sound of my own heartbeat, like an enormous drum. I walk up the steps to the stage and stand next to the bowl, standing tall. If they're going to kill me, I won't be beaten into submission by fear or anger or pride. I will remain myself, and nothing they can do will change that.

I have been Reaped, and even I can't accept that.

The lights are bright, but I make out Nya's face in the crowd, stark white but impassive, and I feel a jolt of encouragement from her expression. Keep it up, she seems to say. Pixal is Reaping the Ice tributes now, but her voice is a dull buzz to me. Having nothing else to do, I turn my eyes to the Nindroids and begin to evaluate them. Their inner workings follow a similar pattern to other Borg Enterprises products like styluses and the clasps on bookbags. I can assume vaguely what their database must look like, but even with all my experience in trading I can barely grasp a cipher for that. The Nindroids are masterfully crafted, that's for sure. The weapons and Tasers and belt utilities are also hard to read, even more than their database. Wouldn't want the average joe to find out how a gun works.

I focus my attention back on Pixal, who has just Reaped Daphnes Termina and Medli Valloo. The boy, Daphnes, has very long blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. He could be a competitor. Medli similarly has long hair, but hers is brown and tied back in a ponytail. She looks scared and keeps glancing at Daphnes nervously, as if trying to get his attention.

"Jay Walker!" I miss the name of the Lightning girl, a short and rosy-cheeked fifteen year old, and see Jay ascend the steps after her. He keeps fiddling with his hands – running them through his hair, picking at his jacket sleeves, which are a bit too short on him and show his wrists, or biting his nails. The Metals straighten up next, and from their ranks a husky, strong eighteen-years boy is Reaped, Sawyer, looking out impressively over the crowd, and a wiry girl with stringy hair and sly eyes. Both look like contenders. Pixal's voice grows fainter as she walks to the other side of the circular stage, but I see the tributes she Reaps. The Water girl bursts into tears when she is chosen – possibly an act, but I line her data against that of my own and know she's genuinely distraught. The sandy-haired boy following her tosses her a look of disgust and I frown. As much as I want all of the tributes dead, the girl could use some support in a pivotal point in her life. Pixal circles around again to reap the All-Element tributes. The girl I don't recognize, Arden, but the male tribute is an all-too-familiar face.

"Lloyd Garmadon." The kid from school that I played basketball with has been Reaped. I'm surprised, because he's be the least likely to be Reaped, ideally. Ideally. But of course, with Borg, nothing is ideal. For a thirteen-year-old he shows remarkably no reaction to his choosing, just shuffles up to his place next to the girl with hunches shoulders, looking defeated.

I have traded. I have done something right. I have rebelled. He hasn't. Lloyd has been the picturesque student, the perfect rule-follower. He's been cheated.

As for I? This is atonement for what I have done.

Pixal's monotone ends and I turn around with the other tributes to see Borg begin to speak. "Another Reaping here and gone!" I narrow my eyes at him. Darn right. "I'd like to congratulate all of this year's tributes, who you will all see soon on the Hunger Games." At the word congratulate the Light tribute Daphnes gives a sort of disbelieving grunt and I look at him out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he said something and this is their way of disposing of him. Maybe he thinks. Does he know? "Thank you all for attending the Reaping. See you all in exactly one week!" A cold hand claps on my left arm and the Nindroid I was evaluating begins to pull me to a certain point on the stage, then roughly turns me around. I face the crowd again and see Nya. She looks on the verge of tears now, having lost her composure, and raises a hand in farewell. So this is goodbye.

I stare back at her and my message is conveyed. She nods. Then turns away as the floor I stand on descends and I'm encased in blackness.

I was wondering if I should put a list of which tribute is which for which element (that is a grammatically correct sentence, mind)

But you'll be able to keep up with them on your own... The more prominent tributes won't be forgettable!

Our ninja team members are all tributes (Zane is the Ice boy, etc.) but they won't have their own chapters... I have plans for them...

We'll have some Borg Tower chapters, which is where the pre-Games training is hosted, and then off to the Arena!

And just wait for Wu's upcoming chapters...

Zant? Medli? Daphnes? No one? Just me? {no one understands}

Bye for now! :)