Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Thank you to MornieGalad Baggins, The Knife Throwing Expert, and Khloe Grace for Dennar, Asteria, and Radiance, respectively.

District Nine Reaping
Pretending

Tobiah Clement, 24
Victor of the 18th Hunger Games

It was almost noon when Crispin woke him.

Tobiah groaned weakly and rolled over on his side, trying to block out Crispin's voice. It sounded like he was shouting, but that was probably just the hangover. It was hard to imagine Crispin actually shouting. Then again, it was hard to picture him killing other tributes, but apparently he had. He'd won, after all. He must have killed someone.

Tobiah had missed most of that. He'd spent his first year as a mentor in the same state he'd been in since his own Games – either drunk, high, or forgetting his troubles with a pleasurably distracting woman. A woman poor enough and desperate enough that she didn't care if the man she was sleeping with was a drunk, an addict, or a murderer, as long as he paid well.

And he did. He always did. He had more than enough to go around, and it was the least he could do.

"Come on, Tobiah, you'll be late." Again. Crispin didn't say it, but the word was there, on the tip of his tongue. Tobiah sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand. His left one was gone – lost in a fight with his own district partner, Pamela, during the finale of his own Games.

They'd wanted to replace it. Wanted to cover up the scars – scars from the razor-sharp stalks of wheat that had covered his arena. Wanted to wash away the pain, pretend it never happened – and, at the same time, revel in the glory. They wanted the best of both worlds: victory without sacrifice, without pain, without loss.

They were idiots.

He'd refused. Refused treatment, refused a mechanical hand, refused everything. He would've refused the prize money, too, if morphling wasn't so expensive. But, like everything else, it came with a price. And if the Capitol could throw him into a fight to the death for their own entertainment, they could damn well pay for the resulting drug habit, as well.

The drugs. "I need to pack—"

Crispin cut him off. "Already done. You can tune out once we're on the train. Just get through the reaping, okay?"

Reluctantly, Tobiah nodded. He'd never understand how Crispin did it every year – strong, sober, healthy. How could he stand it – leading two kids off to their deaths? How could he not want to crawl inside a bottle and let them fend for themselves? After all, he'd gotten through the Games on his own – Tobiah certainly hadn't been much help. Why not trust that the other tributes could do the same?

Because he needed to feel useful, probably. Ever since Crispin had returned from his own Games, he'd spent every possible moment helping someone. Pitching in with the harvest, helping out at the orphanage, visiting the elderly or the dying – anything. Anything to distract him from his memories, anything to try to make up for what he had done.

That was one way of dealing with it.

Tobiah shook his head. His way was easier.

Crispin helped him to his feet and into a somewhat more presentable outfit, then half-carried him to the square and up onstage. Most of the crowd was already there, but they hadn't actually started yet. They weren't late. Not this year.

Crispin was learning.

Their escort, Maddie Doyle, sighed discontentedly as they took their places. Tobiah ignored her. If being in the first district that could claim back-to-back victors wasn't good enough for her, that was her problem, not his. His biggest problem was getting through the reaping, and that was quite enough for him. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pounding in his head, the pain that shot through his eyes as the sun glared down, the murmurs in the crowd that sounded like thunder rolling across the plains.

The plains. He didn't even look out at the plains. The endless fields of wheat, stretching as far as the eye could see. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to remember.

He just wanted to go home.

But he had to get through the Games first. And to do that, he had to get through the reaping. One thing at a time. Just get through this.

Just get through this.

"Asteria Cordey!"

Tobiah opened his eyes, startled. Had he tuned out the mayor's whole speech? Not that it would have been anything interesting. About as interesting as the girl who stepped out of the sixteen-year-old section, with no sign of surprise other than a raised eyebrow. The girl let out a deep sigh and started walking toward the stage, her cream-colored dress bouncing up and down a little with every step, making Tobiah dizzy.

She was tall and thin, with long, red hair, a round face, and freckles. She smiled a little at Tobiah and Crispin as she took the stage. Tobiah smiled back lazily, almost amused. Already happy about dying. That's good. Certainly better than being miserable about living.

"Radiance Allor!"

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. The name sounded vaguely familiar. And the girl who stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section looked familiar, as well – tall and slender, long-legged, dimpled. Fair skin and long, brown hair. She was wearing a plain grey, wool dress and brown boots – not her usual attire, so it took him a moment to place her. But then she looked up, her chocolate brown eyes brimming with tears, and he recognized her.

If she recognized him, it didn't show. She hadn't known him as Tobiah Clement, District Nine's first Victor. She'd simply known him as a customer – one who happened to be missing a hand but paid extremely well. He'd told her he lost the hand in a factory accident. She'd told him she was nineteen.

Apparently, they were both liars.

She was crying as she took her place next to the other girl, who stood awkwardly beside her but made no move to comfort her. Someone should. Before he knew it, Tobiah was on his feet – but then he was on the ground, too dizzy even to stand properly. Both girls stepped away from him, disgusted.

He couldn't exactly blame them.

Crispin helped him back into his chair as Maddie called out the last name. "Dennar Viesennor!"

No sooner had the name left her lips than a boy in a dark green shirt and khaki pants stepped out of the fourteen-year-old section, wasting no time as he walked briskly to the stage. He was small and skinny, but his dark hair was neatly combed, his face and outfit perfectly clean, his dark brown eyes free of tears.

He took his place onstage, smiling sadly – but at his district partners, not the audience. Without once glancing at the cameras, he whispered something to Radiance, who was still crying, and drew her into a hug. She obliged, and was soon sobbing into his shoulder. He looked startled for a moment but held her tightly nonetheless, only letting go when they were instructed to shake hands and get on with it.

Tobiah watched them leave. He knew he should feel bad. He should feel bad that, in all likelihood, all three of them were going to their deaths. He should feel bad that he was going to be far too drunk to be of much use once they were on the train. He should feel bad that he didn't care.

But he didn't. He didn't feel bad. And he didn't care – not really. They were going to die either way, so what was the point in getting attached, in getting worked up about it? Why bother trying, year after year after year, when it was all for nothing? Even if they made it home, their lives would be miserable.

Why work his heart out for that?

"Want anyone this year?" Crispin asked, more out of habit than out of an expectation that this would be the year Tobiah would pull it together and actually be of any use.

Tobiah shook his head. "You've got this covered, Crispy. Me, I'm just along for the ride."

That was more than enough for him to worry about.

Asteria Cordey, 16

With any luck, they would ignore her.

Asteria smiled, staring off into space, trying to block out what was happening. It usually worked. As long as she appeared blissful and clueless, most people left her alone. Even her mother.

Especially her mother.

After all, why yell at someone who just smiles back? Why take her anger out on someone who would just stand there and take it with a spacey smile, letting the words flow right off her, right over her, but never through her.

Asteria laughed a little, though there was no one there to hear. They had come and gone – her mother and father, her friend Divane, a few others from school. One had said that she would miss her. She'd already given her up for dead.

Maybe she was right. But it wouldn't help to cry about it. She'd learned enough to know that crying only made things worse – only made people more upset, made it harder to think, harder to react. And crying attracted people. It attracted sympathy, sure, but it also attracted predators, as surely as a mouse's whiskers twitching in the fields attracted the hawks from above.

She didn't want to be a mouse.

But then what animal was she? She certainly wasn't one of the hawks. No, a hawk would have taken advantage of the fact that the other girl had been crying, that the boy had tried to comfort her. A hawk would have made an effort to look like the strong one of the batch.

But she wasn't the strong one. She wasn't a predator. And she wasn't the prey. She was somewhere in between. Or in the background. Unnoticed by both. Unseen. Hidden – maybe hidden underground. Like a prairie dog.

Yes. Yes, that was it. She had seen them sometimes – scurrying around the fields, darting into their tunnels when danger was near. Curious. Playful. Frantic.

Yes, she was a prairie dog. Her smile was her tunnel – her protection from the outside world. And it had served her well so far. It had kept her safe.

But how long would that last?

Radiance Allor, 17

With any luck, they would ignore her.

Radiance closed her eyes. Why shouldn't they? Everyone else did. The girls at school, the people on the streets. Even her customers – the ones who were supposed to be enjoying themselves. They were enjoying the pleasure, not her. They ignored her. And she ignored them.

It was better that way.

This was no different. Just another bad night. Another nightmare. Another horror to get through and move on, because there was no other option.

Or maybe because she deserved it.

Radiance wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She did deserve it. It was her fault. She had left the fireplace burning. That was what had started the fire – the fire that had claimed her mother's life, destroyed their house, thrust them all into poverty. And she did her part – her job paid well – but it still wasn't enough to make up for that moment of carelessness.

Nothing would ever be enough.

So she paid the price every night. Because she deserved it. Because her family needed it. Because how else was she supposed to earn money? Her job paid better than working in the fields, better than working in the factories. And what had it cost her?

Only her pride.

A small price to pay. A small price to allow her family to eat. Tears came to her eyes again. What would they do now – now that she would probably never come back?

But if she did…

They would never want for anything again. Her father would never have to work again. She would never have to sell herself again. Her little brother would never know the shame or the despair that she had.

But only if she won.

Radiance buried her face in her hands again. Wishful thinking. What chance did she have, in the end? She wasn't strong, wasn't fast, wasn't skilled. In fact, the only thing she really had going for her was that most people would probably ignore her.

But how long would that last?

Dennar Viesennor, 14

He couldn't just ignore them.

Dennar held Tess' hand a little tighter. The old woman gazed down at him with a sad smile that mirrored his own. "I know it's hard for you, sweetie," she said kindly. "But you can't help them. Not really. You have to help yourself."

Dennar nodded. She was right. It was hard. All his life, he'd tried to help people. Listening to their problems. Helping them through the hard times. Spending time with the elderly or the dying. That was how he had met Tess. She was dying – slowly, painfully – but she never let on. Never complained. He had always admired that about her.

He was trying to do the same. Not complaining. Not fussing. Just carrying on, because that was what they needed. He needed to be strong for them – for his parents, for his sister, for his friends. He had promised them he would try – try to come back.

And he couldn't do that if he was trying to help everyone else.

But how could he just ignore them? And what was the harm in trying to comfort them a little? It wasn't as if he was just going to sit back and let them kill him, but the Games hadn't even started yet. Where was the harm in comforting one of his district partners who wasn't taking it quite so well?

No harm. No harm yet.

He could wait. Later. Later, he would stop – stop caring, stop worrying about how they felt, how he could make them feel better. But not yet. For now, he would care. He would listen. He would help.

Because without that, who was he?

Dennar gave Tess one last hug. Probably the last, either way. She was dying. There was a good chance that he was, too. No sense in lying about it – either of them.

"Take care of yourself," Dennar said quietly, knowing full well that she probably wouldn't. She still worked too hard, still gave everything she could, even though she had so little time left.

And he would do the same. Right up to the end. He would make the best of whatever time he had left. He would make it worth something.

But how long would that last?

"You can't deal with problems by pretending they don't exist."