Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: My updating schedule has been thrown off a little due to real-life events such as parent-teacher conferences eating up what would have been free time this week. I'd apologize, but that would be silly. That's part of my job; this is a hobby.

District Nine will probably be up sometime between Sunday and Tuesday. So ... maybe Monday. I'll aim for Monday.

Thank you to bobothebear and torystory93 for Zione and Nicoline, respectively.

Distric Eight Reaping
Generous Deed

Lander
Mentor, District Eight

In a sick, twisted way, Lander actually enjoyed the reaping.

It was a strange, terrible privilege to be part of it – to witness the tributes' final moments as children. Because as soon as they stepped onto that stage, they were dead. Already dead. Even if they survived. Even if they won. Dead. Empty. And certainly no longer children.

So he was smiling as he took his seat beside the mayor. He knew his smile unnerved the crowd. Good. They should be uneasy. Two of their children were about to be condemned to death – or worse.

Samarin Lanair, District Eight's escort, plunged his hand into the first bowl. Lander watched intently. Samarin's skin was a dark red. Fitting, Lander thought – he could practically see the blood on the man's hands as he drew out a slip of paper. Paper that should be dripping, gushing red. Red with the blood of—

"Nicoline Peters!" Samarin announced, shaking Lander from his thoughts. Lander cringed in spite of himself. He knew the name. He knew this girl. She had brought him eggs earlier this morning…

Sure enough, as the thirteen-year-old section parted, Lander saw his maid, straightening her ratty green dress and trying her best not to look terrified as she took small, slow steps toward the stage. Instead, she simply looked young – short and thin, her brown hair pulled back in her usual bun, her grey eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to look out at the crowd for fear of losing her composure.

Then she stepped onstage, a child no longer, a victim simply waiting to die. Lander looked away. Away from the little girl who had looked at him with such fear earlier. Back at Samarin, who was approaching the second bowl. He reached in, and drew a name. "Shaw Peters!"

What little color was left in the girl's face drained in an instant, and all thought of remaining calm for the sake of the crowd was abandoned. The little girl burst into tears as a boy who could only have been her brother made his way from the sixteen-year-old section to the stage. He was taller and stronger than his sister, but had the same brown hair and grey eyes, and he was trying desperately not to cry as he took his place beside her.

"Well, isn't that a stroke of luck!" Samarin declared. "Two tributes from the same family! But I do have to ask – Are there any volunteers?"

"I volunteer." A boy stepped forward out of the eighteen-year-old section and approached the stage. Lander watched as he stepped up next to the siblings. He was tall and strong, with brown hair and deep brown eyes.

Shaw looked up, startled. Then relieved. Then furious – not at the older boy for taking his place, but that no one was willing to do the same for his sister. The emotions flashed across his face in an instant. Unable to contain his anger, he lashed out at the nearest person, slamming his fist into the older boy's chest.

The boy stepped back, startled, but caught the second punch with his left hand and placed his right firmly on the younger boy's shoulder. "Go home, Shaw," he said in a lowered voice. Angry tears flowed down Shaw's face, but, after one more glance at his sister, he obeyed.

Samarin grinned, ecstatic. "That's the spirit of the Games! Unpredictability! What's your name, young man?"

"Zione Carlin," the boy answered, his voice steady. Calm.

"And do you know these two? Friend of the family?" Lander knew he was fishing. Looking for the answer to the question in everyone's mind: What had prompted the boy to volunteer? If he'd planned to volunteer, surely he would have worn something more impressive than a ragged t-shirt and jeans. But there had been no recognition in the siblings' expressions. The boy was a stranger.

Zione shook his head, his eyes on the camera. "No. I've never met them before in my life. But no one should have to face their family in the arena."

Lander grimaced. The boy had no idea what he was saying. When the little girl died in the arena, it wouldn't matter if her brother was by her side. All the boy had accomplished was that two families would be mourning instead of one.

But then Zione turned back to Nicoline, a look of grim pity on his face. Silently, he did the only thing he could do to comfort her; he held out his hand.

But, instead of shaking it, the little girl threw her arms around the boy's waist and, through tears, whispered, "Thank you."

Nicoline Peters
District Eight Female

It was odd not to feel scared.

Nicoline knew she should. She should be terrified. Should be dreading what was to come in the arena. And there would be plenty of time for that later, she had no doubt. But, instead, as she sat next to her brother, holding her ten-year-old sister Mabel close, her parents on either side of them, all she could feel was relief. Relief that Shaw would not be going into the arena with her.

Shaw didn't agree. "I should have said no. I shouldn't have let him. I should be going with you. Maybe I'd be able to protect you. Maybe—"

"No," Nicoline said quietly. "No, this is better. If we both went in, at least one of us would die. This way … at least one of us gets to live."

"And maybe both," Mabel added hopefully. "Maybe you'll win."

Nicoline let her tears fall gently onto her little sister's hair. Was that even a possibility? Even if it wasn't, she could pretend. For a moment, they could all pretend that this goodbye wasn't forever. That they would all be together again.

The moment was over too soon. The Peacekeepers came for her family, and Nicoline was left with only her thoughts and a small shilling ring. But that was enough. She was alone, and she would be going into the arena alone. Most likely, she would not be coming back, and there would be an empty place in their house. An empty spot on the floor where they all slept. An empty stool at their little table.

But only one.

Zione
District Eight Male

It had all gone perfectly. Even better than he had expected.

He had planned every detail. Every move. Every word. Volunteering had to look like an impulsive decision on his part, or they might suspect.

Zione knew he had to be careful, but that was nothing new. He had spent the last nine years being cautious, keeping a careful distance.

And it showed. His only visitor had been his elderly landlady, Polaknia. She had been near tears as she had given him a token – a needle that had belonged to her only son. He was so brave, she had said, volunteering for that boy. Risking his life to save a complete stranger. He hadn't had the heart to tell her it was all a lie.

But it was a necessary lie – his performance. He had planned it all this morning, after watching District Two's reaping.

He always watched the reapings. It was a sort of ritual now – watching them and silently apologizing to each of the young boys and girls. Apologizing for the fact that they had lost. That they hadn't been strong enough. That they had let the Capitol win.

It was a depressing routine, but now he was grateful for it. Because if he hadn't been watching, then he wouldn't have seen her – not until it was too late.

Zione Brink smiled, bitterly aware of the fact that he had condemned himself to the same fate from which he had spared the boy – facing his family in the arena. Maybe it was foolish. But it was done.

He would see her again. What was left of their family would be together one last time. Then, inevitably, at least one of them would die. And maybe both.

But it would be worth it.

"I do not know what put it into your head, or your heart, to do that. But it was well done. I did not hinder it, for generous deed should not be checked by cold counsel."