Hi all!

Okay so I now it's been a while and I'm really sorry, you know how it is with the holidays and the finals and December is just a mess!

Anyways, a big thanks to everyone and your support! I love all the reviews I'm getting informing me that I've written people's characters well. I try to capture them as close as I can and it's a real pleasure when my work pays off.

So, here's District 10! I really hope it's okay as I feel I bad chapter after such a long wait would kind of suck!

All credit to SC for her wonderful dystopia and to theali and thesneezyunicorn for your great characters. I hope I did the, justice!

enjoy!

~District 10 Reaping~

~Sable Pelletier 15~

I've heard that in most districts, people take reaping day off. The factories and fields close down and everyone shops and laughs and celebrates to their hearts' desires. I think I would go a little crazy if I lived in one of those places. The idea of having nothing to do the morning of the reaping, of having several hours to think of nothing but the fact that I might be reaped, would only drive me insane every year. Here in District 10, where most of the production comes from privately owned businesses, the people-not the Capitol- get to decide when you take a day off, and when you work with animals you don't take a day off. The cattle can't go a day without food and fresh water, or being milked, and my family can't go a day without income. It's easy to get behind when you teeter so close to the edge of financial crises.

So I wake before the sun, the sky still a dark silky canvas, and scarf down toast and egg without saying a word to my father and brother. There's this unspoken rule that we don't talk to each other until the sun is up. We're not morning people even if we do start our days so early.

Once breakfast is gone, I head out. The sky has begun to lighten, that grey area before dawn, when the fog rolls over the hills and the dew is a great white blanket over the grass. My boots shine with the moisture and grass sticks to the soles, then straw and dirt later when I step into the barn. The cows moo sleepily at me as I make my way down the center row.

I do my work fast, collecting my milk and taking a moment to rub each cows' nose so she does't feel left out. By the time I'm done, Butch has arrived, straw colored hair sticking up at odd angles and sweat glistening on his face. "You get that fence fixed?" I ask him. The cows have been escaping through a half trampled, rotten section in the fence that we discovered yesterday. Today is Butch's day for morning repairs and pasture watch. I'm glad for that. The other thing that may drive me crazy on reaping days is being stuck watching the cows graze and thinking about what could happen today.

"Wouldn't be here if I hadn't," he replies, shrugging.

I smile and clap him on the shoulder. "Well, they're all yours." Then I pick up the last of my haul and carry it to our little cart. I'll take the cart down the road to the Breinly house where they pasteurize it and send it off, part to the Capitol to redistribute as they please, part to come back home with me for use as my family sees fit. Mostly we just sell it off in the market.

Our horse, Gretel, nickers when I load up the last buckets. I make my way up to her, pat her nose, and offer her a handful of oats which she eats greedily. I laugh as she does, her lips tickling my palm. When she's finished, I climb up onto the cart and urge her forward, down the winding road filled with its pot holes and great dips that will topple the cart if I don't move around them.

The rhythm of the drive is comforting, just like everything else. All of the routines that settle my chest and help me forget. Even when I arrive at the Breinlys and the oldest boy, my brother's age and pretty in a bedraggled sort of way, smiles at me and offers, "Happy Reaping Day," as a way of greeting.

"Maybe for you," I reply, hopping down from my cart and moving around to begin unloading. "Being your last and all."

"It does feel pretty great," Toby admits, taking a couple buckets from me. "I'm going to celebrate by pasteurizing milk all night." His grin is infectious. Almost as affective a distraction as my routine. We haul the buckets into the pasteurizing building, and then Toby takes the time to walk me back to my cart. "Good luck today, kid," he tells me, reaching out a hand to shake. His hands are calloused. Rough and hard. Like my father's, like Butch's...like mine.

When I make it back my father meets me outside the barn, his overalls stained from mucking the stables. "She needs a wash," he observes, watching me climb down and begin unhooking Gretel from the cart.

"I'll do it," I offer. "I'll bet I can even finish in time to get ready for the reaping."

"Might be you could," he agrees, pulling off his gloves and patting Gretel's side. "But I'll help you anyhow. Better safe than sorry."

I offer a small smile in return. He would never admit it, he's never been good with expressing how he really feels, but I'm not fool enough to miss the signs. We wash Gretel at regularly scheduled intervals of time and usually it's just a one person job. What he really wants is to spend some time together before the reaping. I'll bet he helped Butch fix the fence, which would explain why my brother got done so fast.

And even though I like my routine, I don't object because I want the time as much as he does. This could be our last morning together after all, even if neither of us wants to think about that.

~Crispin Rolf 14~

"It must be hard being a vegetarian in a District where we specialize in selling animals for slaughter," I tease. My best friend, James, and I are perched on newly repaired wooden fence that encloses the cow pasture of the Pelletiers. James is looking sadly at the grazing cows, as though he wants to rescue them. The cows are unconcerned with their fates, though. They just wander about in the cool morning air and chew the dewy grass, occasionally mooing suspiciously in our direction.

Sometimes it strikes me how much we're like the cows, just wandering about our business, waiting for the day that it's us who gets chosen for slaughter, and hoping that we'll slide under the slaughterer's gaze. We just hope maybe if we eat our grass and give our milk we won't find ourselves in the slaughterhouse.

"If I had a dime for every time someone made that joke," James told him unimpressed, "I wouldn't have my name in that reaping bowl so many damned times."

"Wouldn't that be convenient," I reply, smiling. This year his name is in the bowl Twenty-one times. That's nearly twice my own twelve despite the fact that we're the same age. It's nearly four times what some rich kid with no tesserae will ever have in the bowl.

"Mostly I don't think about it," James tells me suddenly and I look at him, surprised.

"About how many times your name is in the bowl?" I ask, my mind still stuck on my own thoughts.

He laughs. "Well, yeah, that too. But I was actually referring to the animals. The fact that we traffic in animal slaughter here?" I'd forgotten that we had been discussing that but I nod to acknowledge that I'm with him now. He stares hard at the cows as he talks. "It's not hard. That's what we all do, we just don't think about the messed up things. If I don't think about them killing the animals, then it's not happening." If I don't think about the fact that my odds of being reaped are very high, it won't happen, is what he doesn't say. "We have no choice but to ignore it. If we thought about all the fucked up stuff, we'd go crazy."

"You shouldn't curse like that," I tell him vaguely, but I consider what he says long and hard. It reminds me a lot of my baby brother. Eight years old and more sure of himself than me. Every reaping before we separate at the square he hugs me and whispers, "The nightmares never come true."

And just like today, sitting here with James, I don't say what I really think. Because every year the nightmare does come true, for two people and their families and friends at least. And the animals still get slaughtered.

"Hey! Y'all better get down off that fence. Spent a good part of the morning fixin' that spot right there!"

The voice comes from our right, where the one of the Pelletier kids is making his way along the perimeter. The sudden disturbance in the quiet air makes a few of the cows lift there heads and moo indignantly, but mostly the cattle is disinterested. It does make us hop down obligingly however. When Butch comes on us we have to tilt our heads back. He's eighteen and huge; tall and broad shouldered, with a square jaw and hard little eyes that stare at us suspiciously.

"One of these days when a cow goes missin', you two gon' be the first I look for," he tells us flatly. Part of me wishes it was his sister on duty today. Sable is as broad and tall and intimidating, but she's friendlier. Butch is mostly just suspicious and will run you off where Sable might have a conversation with you, so long as you walk the perimeter with her. She does things a certain way and you have to go with it, but she knows her business and I could easily get a job as a cow hand somewhere thanks to taking the time to help her out every once in a while.

That's one thing I like about not living in a landowning family here in District 10. I can wander about and learn whatever I want and talk to whoever I want. I could live my whole life as a hired hand, helping those I see who need it for a little money, and I would be pretty happy, I think.

"We were only sitting and talking," I assure him, giving him my friendliest smile. "No need to worry my diligent fellow." Butch glares suspiciously at me, as though wondering if I'm mocking him. I'm not of course, the Pelletiers are well known throughout the district as a perseverant and diligent family. "Need any help around here? Or company?"

Butch only eyes us a moment longer, then says, "Don't think so. Y'all should be headed on home, I think. Reaping will start in a few hours, and we all should look presentable."

He's not wrong. The sun finally risen over the trees and by the time we trek back home, get ready for the reaping, and walk the long walk back too the district square the signing in would be well under way. So James and I hop back over the fence and start the walk home, waving goodbye to him despite his ignoring us.

When I make it home I am greeted immediately by my brother, who barrels around the corner, his work boots and overalls covered in mud and tackles me with a hug. I laugh and lift him off the ground. "What have you been doing all morning?" I ask, examining the mess covering him.

"Frog huntin'," Mickey tells me over our scrawny old dog Hank, who barks excitedly and runs circles around us. "I caught some nice big ones we could make a whole feast out of!"

I hush him urgently. "Don't talk so loud, okay? Can't let the wrong people hear you." Technically hunting, even for frogs, was illegal. The peacekeepers aren't too hard on the rule, mostly because District 10 is so spread out and hard too manage. Mostly they stay in the market unless someone calls them out to their property. But sometimes they get in a mood, or a zealous new peacekeeper will get to sniffing about. And on reaping day it's even more likely. Capitolites are in town Capitolites always mean trouble for the rest of us.

"I ain't afraid of nobody!" Mickey asserts adamantly, sticking out his chest. I smile despite myself, but warn him again too be quiet and then lead him inside by his hand, once he collects his bucket of frogs.

"We should invite you're friends over to have some too, after the reaping!" Mickey suggests excitedly as we go. "James and his brothers and sisters! And Betty," he says the last name slyly. My second friend, smart and beautiful, who's been around as long as I can remember. It's Mickey's endless pleasure to try and bring us together. My very own little snaggle-toothed wing-man.

"We'll see. There's an entire reaping between then and now," I tell him, ruffling his muddy mop of dirty blond hair. A whole reaping between now and enjoying a celebration dinner with my family and friends. Just a couple hours of anticipation and one hour standing in the square waiting. Still, somehow it seems like a lifetime.

I dress in khakis and an old colored shirt, blue because Betty says it brings out my eyes. Not that I care too much what she thinks, but I do like it when she smiles and compliments me on my good taste.

I flatten my hair in the stained mirror that hangs over our little sink, check my cloths, then meet my parents and Mickey on the doorstep to begin the long walk to the square. We'll meet James and Betty at there as always despite the fact that Mickey asks every year when they will join us, as though the answer ever changes. Today is no exception.

We walk for several miles before we see another family, but eventually we are walking in a great group, Mickey and the other young children chasing each other in circles around us as we walk, laughing and shouting. Mickey falls into a mud puddle, much to my mother's dismay, but jumps right up and flings the mud on his hands in my direction. The people around me scatter, but I laugh, stepping back to avoid the drops. My mother scowls and warns him to stop, so Mickey goes back to his game with the other kids.

When we reach the square I pause beside one of the low market buildings to say goodbye. My mother stoops and begins rubbing fiercely at the now mostly dried mud on Mickey's face, scolding in in a low hissing voice, but Mickey barely hears her. He is searching the crowd for Betty, eager to play match maker.

I spot her and James first, standing at edge of the crowd waiting for me to join them. I kneel and tell Mickey, "Time for me to go."

"So soon?" He pouts.

I laugh, reaching out to pick a glob of dried mud from his hair, and tell him. "It will be okay. I'll be back before you realize I'm gone."

He throws his arm around me in a fierce hug, smearing half-dried mud on my shirt and making my mother utter an exasperated sound. Then, as is tradition, he whispers into my ear, "The nightmares never come true."

When we pull apart I give him a reassuring smile, kiss his forehead, say goodbye to our parents, then stand and head to the place where Betty and James are standing, waiting. We sign in, Betty fussing over the mud on my shirt, and find our spots in the crowd of fourteen-year-olds.

The reaping starts shortly after. The mayor is giddy when he reads off the names of the victors, announcing the newest name more enthusiastically than the others. The crowd erupts, brimming with his excitement. Ezra stands and waves shyly at the urging of the mayor and her fellow Victor, Joseph. Then she sits back down again and the crowd quiets for the continuation of the reaping.

The ceremonies go by fast. The mayor and escort are both still reeling from last year's win so their speeches are fast and short. Then the reaping bows are brought out and before I have time to think about Betty's safety the little Capitol man has damned one of our girls.

"Sable Pelletier!"

She stepped from the crowd in front of me. All the time I've known Sable, I've always found her a little intimidating somewhere in the back of my mind. Tall and broad and square of jaw and face in a way that makes her look angry at first glance. But she doesn't look intimidating or angry now, only shocked. Her mouth is open slightly and she's staring at every face as she passes them, as though seeing it all for the fist time. The crowd, the stage, the cameras that broadcast her emotions to the entire world.

The escort seems pleased despite her shock and pale face. I suppose a strong, surprised girl is better than a crying twelve-year-old. He selects his second name, says into the microphone, "And joining our young Miss Pelletier…" the paper crinkled and it seems as though he takes so much longer this time. Betty is squeezing my hand hard and I try to focus on the discomfort, but all I can focus on is his fingers breaking the seal, the crackling of the paper as his fat little fingers unfold the slip.

"James Maloney!"

No! Not James. Never James. Not James who lives in District 10 but can't stand the thought of killing or eating animals. Not James who takes out tesserae for all of his family and started working extra jobs all over the district to make up for the extra food they would get if he had allowed little Lottie to take out tesserae when she turned twelve this year. James would never win. He would faint at the first sight of blood…or jump in to save some little girl that smiles like his sisters. He would die and then Lottie would have to take out all of his tesserae and someday she would go the same way. I can't let that happen. His family needs him.

I don't realize he's made it to the stage until the escort asks for volunteers. Then my attention snaps back into focus, and I have resolved myself to what I must do. I shout, "I volunteer!"

The crowd turns its head as one to stare at me and the cameras find me easily thanks to them. When my face flashes on the screens as I push my way through the crowd I hear a great, heartbroken scream. I know it, I could never not know my little brother's voice.

I'm sorry, Mickey, but sometimes the nightmares do come true.

James meets me as I mount the stairs, pulls me in close for a hug and whispers in my ear. "Are you sure? You can always turn around and go back."

I pull away so that he can see my reassuring smile. "I don't know if they would let me anyways. I volunteered…" We stare at each other for what feels like a long time, although it can't be. Otherwise the peacekeepers would move in to take James back by force. "Take good care of them…and Mickey too. Take care of Mickey for me." James hugged me again, so hard that I can't breath for a moment, then lets me go and disappears back into the crowd again. Somewhere out there I can still hear Mickey's sobs. I approach the escort.

"And what's you're name?" the escort asks, practically bouncing he is so giddy.

"Crispin Rolf."

"Well that's just excellent!" The escort proclaims cheerfully. "Such a brave young man to represent your district." Brave's not the word I would use. Stupid, maybe is more accurate.

"Thank you."

~Sable Pelletier 15~

I don't expect my brother or dad to say much when they come to say goodbye. We've never been a chatty family. Actions mean more than words and in this case my actions are going to mean everything. Words won't kill the other twenty-three tributes, but my strength from years working the farm might. My endurance might. My actions just might bring me home. Thinking of how excited our escort would be to have two victors in a row almost makes me laugh despite the insanity of what is happening. He was thrilled enough to have a volunteer, even if that volunteer was a thin little fourteen-year-old.

At first we sit in the silence I expected, just piled together on the short couch, saying nothing. My father's lips are a long, thin line across her face. Butch has a dazed expression. I'm thinking of Toby. Of his cheerful "Happy Reaping!" Today was supposed to be a happy reaping, for him at least and for Butch. Butch at least won't get the that...not any more than I ever will.

It's my brother who breaks the silence. "Don't make an alliance with Crispin."

There was a brief moment in which I was to shocked to form a comprehensible response. I stumbled over a few sounds before finally managing, "What?"

"You heard me," he replied flatly. "I know you. You'll probably do it if he asks because you like things familiar." I stare at my feet. What's wrong with liking familiarity? "But it's a bad idea. He's impulsive-clearly since he volunteered for a kid that will probably just get drawn again before he's done. He got enough slips for the whole districf. If Crispin'd do somethin' like that what's to stop him from runnin' into the bloodbath and gettin' himself killed right from the start? Or rushin' into a fight to save some kid he doesn't know because he wants to...I don't know-give them a second chance or somethin'?"

As much as I hate it, I know he's right. Crispin is the kind of guy that offers to help you fix a fence for no charge, or talks to random people on the street to be friendly. If he continues that behavior in the arena he could get into serious trouble, as well as anyone with him. I need an ally that will think things through more. Be more cautious. It's the smart thing to do, even if a great part of me wants exactly what Butch said: something familiar.

"Love is poison. A sweet poison yes, but it will kill you all the same."