(A/N) Hey all, we're back with our latest update, this time featuring our District Ten tributes, written by Gumby1011 – who has been involved in several of our other fics – and DarknessSeeps – who, like myself and JGrayzz, also was involved in 24tributes24authors' Bring Them to Their Knees.

Created to Write: Glad that you're enjoying the fic so far, and looking forward to seeing what you make of the rest of the tributes! Sorry about the swearing, but then again, this is rated T for a reason, and there'll be a little of it here and there, largely depending on who's writing the chapter. While there'll probably be a lot of characters used over the course of this fic, Wikipedia's always there if you want to learn more about them. Buck Chisholm, for example, is our version of the villain Trick Shot. As for the District Two mentors, while they weren't featured in the Reaping chapter, I'm sure you'll get to meet them when we reach the Capitol!

Anyway, I've held you all up long enough. Enjoy!

Chapter Ten – Criminal Minds

District Ten Reaping

Written by Gumby1011 & DarknessSeeps

Prisoner Seventy-Two of District Ten

Written by Gumby1011

"What my research told me is that a psychopath cannot change. You're born like that."

– Jeff Lindsay

It was a prison cell. But it wasn't just any prison cell. It was his prison cell. Prisoner Number Seventy-Two. He had a name, that's true, but the guards only ever called him Prisoner Seventy-Two. They didn't like using his real name. Maybe it was the way he'd always flaunted it in the guard's faces with some imaginary air of entitlement. But then again, his name didn't entitle him to anything. He'd always been some no-name orphan. Even now, while his name was known, they just called him by his number.

'Number Seventy-Two, go to your cell. Number Seventy-Two, eat your slop. Number Seventy-Two, stop brutalizing Prisoner White!'

All day, every day, Seventy-Two was told what to do. And it drove him mad. Or at the very least, it exacerbated the circumstances. But this, this was his cell. It was his world. It was his womb. And in it, he prepared for the eventuality of his glorious future! They didn't let him out anymore. That was how he liked it, in a way. There were no distractions. And it fostered hunger. Such glorious, untameable hunger. For the rush. For a true test. For blood. One day he'd be able to try and sate his hunger. If that were even possible. It had always been there, and now, it only grew.

But for now, Prisoner Seventy-Two was left to his own devices. At one time, the cell had been padded with white, sterilized, protective cushions. Seventy-Two would only hurt himself, they said. Seventy-Two couldn't be trusted with a cellmate, they said. In a way, they were right. Prisoner Seventy-Two needed to train. To prepare! And such a soft springy tomb would prepare him for nothing of the outside world, where life was cold, and hard, and unrelenting and vicious. He'd begun growing his claws. Honing them with his teeth as they grew. They'd tried to cut his 'fingernails' once. But they'd stopped after he nearly took a gash out of his handler's jugular with his glorious, lethal claws.

Then they'd grown long enough that he'd been able to dismantle the soft. Slowly, he'd painstakingly torn apart the walls of his cell. Scraped patches off the walls, and the floor, until he revealed the cold, hard, beautiful bones of his prison. He'd even tried to eat the meat, but it had been bland and tasteless. He'd then taken to testing his strength against the bones. He knew he could never best them. But that was okay. His foes would never be able to best them either. So if he came close to them, he would only break his enemies. Seventy-Two decided that while he was in the womb, his number would become his identity. Every day, he'd punch the bones of his home seventy-two times with each fist. Every day he would bash the bones with each knee seventy-two times. Every day he did seventy-two push ups. Every day he did seventy-two sit-ups.

And every once in a while, his body would give out with his mind screaming at it. It was then he'd rest for what felt like seventy-two hours. And he could feel it working. Soon, he felt no pain when he struck the bones. Next to no exertion from his exercises. He could feel it. He'd reached his pinnacle. He was ready. He paced in his cell now. He was a caged animal. He was ready to be let loose. He hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Months, maybe. True, they fed him, but his last meal had been before he'd been placed in the womb. His last taste of blood. But yet they didn't kill him. They knew. They knew it couldn't be done. They knew that he'd only ever come back. Until one day…One day…

There was a knock at the door. Prisoner Seventy-Two paused, in the midst of his newest exercise. He'd developed a genius method of dual-training: he was doing push ups, the end of which consisted of him bashing his forehead into a wound on the floor, bringing his forehead to the bone with a solid thunk. He eventually decided that until he'd reached the next pinnacle, the distractions were not important. Thunk. Whatever it was, it could wait. Thunk. Nothing important happened here. Thunk. Except of course for Seventy-Two's imminent perfection. Thunk.

A man opened the door to his cell. It hadn't bothered to gas him. Thunk. Or taze him. Or stick him with a sleepy needle. Thunk. That was weird. The man currently bashing his forehead against the floor repeatedly found it weird. Thunk. Prisoner Seventy-Two looked up. It… it was him. Why ever would it be him? The blood ran over his eyes, but there was no mistaking him. He was blond. He was balding. His green-eyed gaze was cold and emotionless as he looked dead into Seventy-Two's eyes. Seventy-Two immediately ceased his training. This might actually be worth listening to after all.

Prisoner Seventy-Two looked for all the world like a child possessed. In a way, he was. His obsessive training coupled with lack-lustre nourishment had hardened him into the appearance of a miniature adult with teen-scaled bones. There was no baby-fat. No fair skin. It was impossible for fat and unmarked skin to exist under the circumstances he'd forced upon his own body. His knuckles were scarred, his fingernails honed to sharpened points and spattered in red. His own blood-red in fact. Prisoner Seventy-Two was funny like that. His muscles were well-defined for their early stage of development, and his slim frame combined with that made him look altogether an eerie paradox. Like some kind of feral animal. A demon child in a white prison uniform.

His forehead was large, and currently dripping further blood from a brutal gash on the forehead. His hair was fiery red and curled. It had been maintained by the occasional padded-suit handler to be relatively tame as it twisted chaotically away from Seventy-Two's skull. His ears were slightly small, and seemed to be pressed back against his head. In fact his entire face was kind of long, and tapered down altogether until it reached the tip of his pointy chin. And his eyes. Yes, his eyes…they were searing, dark-green things, with tiny pinpricks for pupils, typically. They were the eyes of a young man who searched endlessly for the darkness in which the fears of others lay, that he may better embody that primal blackness. Eyes that constricted to unnatural tiny points at anything even slightly brighter than the dark they'd grown accustomed to. And his teeth…they were perfectly straight. You'd expect them to be all bent out of shape, the way Seventy-Two always used them. They were white. Or at least they might have been, were it not for the crusted blood. And the lips framing them twisted into a horribly gleeful smile before finally speaking.

"He-o ther, Wad'n!"

There was a moment of silence before the blonde man raised an eyebrow. "You wanna try that again?"

Prisoner Seventy-Two rolled the syllables around in his mouth. He decided to actually, truly focus on the conversation, considering how long it had been since he'd last spoken to an actual person. He tried again. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Warden Brock?"

The Warden's nosed wrinkled at this. It was almost as if the cosmos were mocking him by having Seventy-Two even feign cooperation. As if it were welcoming him to resort to this, his last chance. He cleared his throat before beginning. "You owe this visit to circumstances I'm not at liberty to discuss in detail with anyone, especially you." He never broke eye contact with the maniac. To do so would be to invite a flurry of violence against him. And while it was true that this child would need an inordinate amount of luck to overcome him – a fully grown man. It was in Seventy-Two's nature to develop a lucky streak at the worst possible time.

He was responsible for the death of one guard and the hospitalization of five more since his incarceration two years ago. And that was almost all before he was transferred to solitary six months in. Before he'd trained.

"Oh, now that ain't no way to treat somebody you're asking a favour of!" Seventy-Two grinned as he stood up straight. He only came up to the warden's chest, yet he still somehow seemed to loom over the room. "C'mon, Brocky boo! Spit it out! Whaddya need from good-ol Seventy-Two, eh?" He giggled in the back of his throat. "You got a guard to sic me on? Or maybe some prisoner you wanna see dead, eh? Eh?" He sidled over to the warden "C'mooooon, man, don't leave me in the dark, spit it out!"

Warden Carl Brock took a single step away from the criminal. "Tomorrow is the Reaping, you know."

Seventy-Two froze in his tracks. "As a matter of fact… I didn't." The convict stomped his feet into the ground, a low growl breaking out of his lungs and transforming into an anguished howl. "So that's it, then!?" he bellowed. "You're just here to mock me, then! To remind ol' Seventy-Two – 'Hey, guess what you little bastard, you're not goin' to the Games 'cause we won't let you volunteer'is that it!?"

"Nonsense." The Warden wiped the spittle from his face with one hand. "I want you to volunteer as tribute."

"THAT'S-" Seventy-Two cut himself off. This was a little far-fetched, but… If there was a chance… any chance that he could get into the Games… He grinned for a moment. "That's..." The moment expended, the grin fled. "That's funny, Warden, real funny." He huffed. "You know as well as I that those Capitol pricks don't let us inmates in! That would go against their whole 'Survival of the fittest innocent young man or lady' bullshit!" He folded his arms, lightly pushing his claws into them to relieve some of the tension.

The warden put up a single finger, like a teacher scolding a student. "Yes…" he trailed off, evidently feeling uncomfortable about something, and Cletus' eyes narrowed. "Perhaps I hadn't been entirely truthful when I told you that. I arranged it so that you were removed from the Reaping pool – I didn't want someone like you souring the Capitol against our district. However, things have changed."

There was a singular moment of silence. "What?"

The Warden smiled internally. He had the maniac on the hook. Now all he had to do was tug on the line. "I have it under good authority that the lottery tomorrow is going to be rigged."

Seventy-Two's grip on his arms intensified. "Come again?" This was unacceptable! Flawed though they were, the Games were the closest thing this pitiful world had to being a contest of the truth! That survival of the fittest was the only real law in this world! In his indignation, he even forgot that the Warden had lied to him, and deliberately kept him from his destiny.

"And there's no use in lying to you, I am partially to blame." The Warden shrugged. "I'm in a bad way with worse folk, and I fear the lottery for District Ten males may indeed be rigged so that my son Edward is picked."

It was then that Prisoner Seventy-Two grinned again, in earnest this time. "So… That's what you want of me, then? You want me to save your brat's life?" This wasn't a lie at all! All of the warden's bullshit had actually been the truth! He was going to finally get his chance! "Alright, boss. I'll have to move some things around, but I can make time for that." He grinned in unrestrained glee.

The Warden nodded. The dirty deed had been done. "Excellent. I will arrange for you to be deposited two blocks from the Justice Building shortly before the proceedings. You are to be cleaned before then-" Seventy-Two took a deep breath to protest. "Worry not, your claws will be left quite intact. We just need you to blend in more. So we'll need to get most of that blood off of you."

Seventy-Two moaned at this, dejected slightly. But as soon as the Warden left, he felt a grin come across his face. He was going! He was really, truly going to the child who had been known as Prisoner Seventy-Two let a blood-curdling howl up into the air. Fate had finally revealed his hand! Nothing in hell or on earth could stop him now!

Seventy-Two was quite uncomfortable. He wasn't in his prison uniform anymore. He was dressed quite normally in fact: in boots, jeans and a short-sleeve plaid button-up shirt. His claws and teeth were depressingly smooth and clean, and the gash on his forehead had been stitched shut. There were three men in the car with him. They were all in that ever-familiar purple-and-blue uniform of the Sentinels. The car was silent, save for the purr of the engines and Seventy-Two's humming to himself. That said…the silence was so dreadfully boring…

"Hey. Hey guys. Why are we in a normal car?" the prisoner finally ventured. Nothing but silence rewarded his curiosity. "Is it because we're breaking the law?" The engine whirred onwards as they hit a pothole. "I think it's because we're breaking the law." The driver sighed, his grip on the wheel tightening. Seventy-Two grinned. "You know that this car is unusual, right? Unless we've gotten richer since I went away." He looked out the window and saw the cobbled-together nature of the buildings they passed by. "Yeah, we're still dirt-broke." The man in the passenger seat coughed. "I guess that's why the windows are tinted, huh?" The car was silent again. "... You guys are no fun."

Seventy-two finally gave up, riding in silence until they reached a street seemingly inseparable from any other in District Ten, save for the fact that it was actually paved. This was towards the centre of the district. The car slowly pulled over.

The driver finally spoke up. "Get out."

Prisoner Seventy-Two grinned, and was about to open the door before he paused for a moment. Every person in the car tensed at this. But the prisoner had remembered something. Something important. "Hey, guys…" He looked around the cars slowly. "How…How old am I?" This inquiry was greeted with silence or a moment, before the driver finally spoke up.

"Um…You're…You're fourteen or fifteen, I think, kid."

Prisoner Seventy-Two chuckled before stepping out of the car. "Thanks, man." He didn't even look back as he heard the engine rev up and the car pull away. The ginger boy grinned to himself as he meandered up and down the street, humming to himself. "Happy birthday to me…" He paused outside the window of a butcher's shop and licked his lips. "Happy birthday to me…" He hauled back and nearly sent a fist through the window after a particularly enticing cut, only to realize that there was a man inside the shop giving him a funny look, as were several other people further down the road. Prisoner Seventy-Two gritted his teeth and began trudging down the street. "Happy birthday…dear…"

Then off in the distance, he heard the herd moving. It was a dull roar, like a sedated earthquake, punctuated with the shouts of the herders moving the cattle along. He looked up the road… And they came. Thousands of them. Thousands of heads of delicious, succulent meat being herded to the slaughter. Red dust filled the air behind them. They were the best specimens. The two-legged ones that wore their false skins. A skin he now wore. Young, likely tender. And oh-so-easy to catch. But that was not to be their role. Not today. Seventy-Two stood on the edge of the road, eyes flitting from face to face as the children slogged past. For a few agonizing minutes, he wondered if he missed his mark…Then…there!

Seventy-two sidled into the crowd, wearing the grin of the wolf infiltrating the flock. And he already had his lamb all singled out. Short blonde hair. A jaw already going square like his father's. A spark of coldness beneath the terror in his eyes, the same terror in the eyes of the entire flock in fact. Except for Prisoner Seventy-Two. He slid between members of the crowd, drawing close to his mark untill directly behind him. Then he reached out with his claws and… Put a hand on the boy's shoulder like he was an old comrade. "Hello…Friend."

Edward Brock felt a cold tingle run up his spine. Then he looked down at the grotesquely long, pointed fingernails on his shoulder. He felt the urge to bolt, but he dared not to in the chaos of the reaping procession. "Who…Who are you?"

Prisoner Seventy-Two walked up alongside the boy, a smug grin twisting around his teeth. "Me? Oh, I wouldn't worry about me, Eddie. Today is all about you!" He somehow managed to whisper this in a tone that seared into Eddie's mind like a hot iron, straight to the 'fucking run' portion of his brain.

"What – What do you mean by that?" Eddie was scared of the answer, but at the same time he could sense that the boy expected the question. That, and that it would be best to not disappoint.

A knowing claw tapped on Seventy-Two's nose. "Why, Eddie, it's because today you're going to have your name drawn, of course! And then I'm going to be the bigger man and volunteer for you."

A knot of terror formed in the pit of Eddie's stomach. There was some kind of spell woven by the creep's words, and it melded into the fear surging through the air in anticipation of the reaping. The child took the maniac's words as objective facts. The boys said nothing for a while. Then the herd rounded a corner. They could see the Justice Building. Seventy-Two sniggered. "Here we are, Eddie. The site of my sacrifice for you, friend…Say, how old are you, chum?"

The child stuttered. Something about Seventy-two tended to do that to people. "F-F-Fourteen."

"Well, idn't that a regular coe-ink-ee-dink!" the ginger smiled. "So am I." The herd broke off into groups now, roped off by age. The Sentinels stood guard over the yard as the staggering populace of District Ten filed into its slaughter pens. The yard was massive. But the bulk of the humanity of this district crammed into every nook and cranny. The crowd had grown mostly silent now. Someone out there was going on the chopping block, and every soul was praying it wasn't them. Three was a stage set up under the eaves of the Justice Building. And on it stood several sentinels around a man behind a podium. Off to the left were to giant glass orbs positively overflowing with little paper slips. These orbs emanated some kind of intrinsic evil. And Seventy-Two absolutely loved it.

He couldn't help but think that the man behind the podium seemed a little odd for a Capitol Snob. His face was hard, his black hair with greying sides cut to a short buzzcut. He was chewing on a smouldering cigar, and Seventy-Two took this as a sign that the smile on the teeth clenching the cigar was very forced. But as the children filed into place, eventually the sound of shuffling feet hushed down and then only the assembled bodies and the dust hung in the air was left in evidence of the titanic exodus. Then, Cigar spoke up. "Good morning, District Ten!"

There was but silence in reply. It wasn't a good morning to anybody but Prisoner Seventy-Two. Slowly, over the course of several minutes, Cigar's smile turned to an irritated frown. He turned from the microphone for a moment and coughed before facing the crowd again, smile renewed. Seventy-Two chuckled to himself. Amateur. "My name is John Jonah Jameson," Cigar continued. "And it's my honor and pleasure to be conducting this, the District Ten reaping for the twenty-fourth annual Avenger Games!"

Jameson continued along with his little speech. He'd correctly assumed he'd get little to no fanfare from this crowd. "Today is a very special day, as we will be selecting who should represent your noble district," This word was spat with no small amount of veiled contempt, "in this year's games! But let's not mince words here, people, your tributes are going to have an awful lot on their plates, it'd be best to not keep them, eh?"

He reached over to the left and hovered his hand over one of the bowls. "First up, the girls!"

Seventy-two nearly smacked himself in the head. Of course… My partner. He hadn't forgotten. Not entirely, anyways. But he was so excited to get his chance that it had simply slipped his mind! Anyways, Jameson had put his hand in the bowl, now. After a few moments of dramatic tension it came out holding a paper slip that the man quickly opened up. "Raven Darkholme!" he called out.

For a moment there was silence. "Raven? Come on out now, you've had a calling- Ah, there you are!" He pointed over towards the sixteen-year-old partition of the girl's side, where a tall, red-haired girl strode out into the aisle. She quickly walked up to the stage and climbed up it until she was standing next to Jameson.

Raven was tall, and oddly well-muscled. Seventy-Two smirked to himself. She'd be useful, that much was certain. Cletus didn't really pay much attention as Jameson made the traditional small-talk with the tribute. In fact, his mind only snapped back to reality as Jameson called out: "And now, for the boys!"

Seventy-Two chuckled to himself. "You ready for this, Eddie?"

"Shut up."

Jameson's hand dove into the bowl.

"Gonna call your name, Eddie."

"You don't know that!" came the frantic whisper.

"Edward Brock!"

There was silence. Slowly, the other fourteen-year-olds backed away. There was soon a vacant ring, and only Eddie Brock and Prisoner Seventy-Two stood in the middle. "Ah!" Jameson called out. "And which of you strapping young lads is Edward?"

Seventy-Two waved cheerfully. "Hello there, Jimmy! I got your boy right here!" He tapped a claw on Eddie's forehead. "But hey, he looks like he doesn't wanna go, doesn't he, why just look at that mug, eh?" And indeed, Eddie looked like he was about to pass out. "How about I take him off your hands for ya?" At this point, Seventy-Two leaped in the air repeatedly like the child he really was. "Me! Pick me! Pick me! I VOLUNTEERAH, AS TAH-RIBUTAH!"

The smile had vanished from Jameson's face. He – as well as a good chunk of the crowd- had gone slack-jawed. The Sentinels that had been about to retrieve Edward simply stood aside as Seventy-Two literally skipped between them and up to the stage. "Hey, Jimmy! HiJimmypleasuredoingbusinesswithya!" he rambled as he took his spot next to Raven.

After a moment spent reassuring himself that yes, that had just happened, Jameson found his voice. "So, uh…" You could have heard a pin drop. "What's…What's your name?"

Prisoner Seventy-Two grabbed the microphone and bellowed into it. "MY NAME IS CLETUS! KASADY! Remember it, Jimmy, 'cause I'm going places!"

Raven Darkholme of District Ten

Written by DarknessSeeps

"Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Don't let the bastards grind you down."

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

The bare, dry ground was scorching hot, burning the tips of Raven's calloused fingertips as she lowered herself to the ground, hands laid firmly on the hot soil, poised to jump into action. She was in the garden of some stranger who lived in the richer area of District Ten, the house cream-white, large and towering like a beautiful palace to the sixteen-year-old Raven. She was dressed in a worn white t-shirt and black jeans, very casual for this sort of event.

A sharp sound of a door slamming open, bashing against the wall harshly as a thunder of footsteps marched into the sitting room.

"Sit down," hissed a gravelly voice from inside the opened window. Raven's ears perked up immediately at the sound. After the long moment of waiting, it was time. Time to eavesdrop on the conversation the Sentinels said would occur.

Then she was going report back to them, resulting in a warm reward of a hot chocolate before she attended the annual Reaping.

She silently pressed herself up to the wall just below the window, shielding herself from greedy old Bolivar Trask's view. Now, who was Dr Trask? Dr Trask was the rich owner of this grand property in which Raven was trespassing, and he ran a large business consisting of several ranches in the district, doctoring the animals himself, which had gained him the title 'Doctor; and the wealth of a poor Capitolite. It was unusual that the Sentinels had asked Raven to keep an eye on him for any signs of something shady, given that he had contributed a lot of money to the poorer people in the district with his loans, but work was work, and she would take what she could get.

"So, what's the news?" Dr Trask demanded, his tone sounded furious, as if he was expecting the worse.

"The Davis family are refusing to pay, sir," a much quieter voice replied. At this voice, Raven had to lean closer to the window to hear it.

A smashing sound of a glass hitting a hard surface resonates in Raven's ears. Dr Trask's voice rose to an angry roar. "They haven't paid?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but they refuse to."

"They are dead." Raven makes out the sound of Dr Trask getting up and pacing the floor. "You hear me, they're dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Go back to them tomorrow morning, and tell them if they still refuse to pay me my money back, they will have the fate the Sirkes family faced," snapped Dr Trask. "You know I hate peasants already, but I had to at least try and help them to see if they could be nearly as civilised as the richer citizens. And they're clearly not."

Raven stifled back a gasp. The Sirkes? That was one of the families living on a ranch far out from the town; she didn't know them, but heard they died in a tragic fire accident. She sat there for a moment, dread filling her as she realised the meaning of Dr Trask's words. The Davis family, whoever they were, were refusing to repay the loan they borrowed from this egotistical man, and he was going to kill them like he did to one of the Sirkes. She had to find the Sentinels immediately and repeat to them what Trask said.

As Raven pushed up into a sitting poise, ready to run, Dr Trask's voice echoed from the window. "Toad, I need you to get that little girl outside before she escapes."

Surprise rippled throughout Raven's veins as she listened to his words. She leapt to her feet just when Dr Trask suddenly appeared at the window.

She stared in shock at the man. The first thing she noticed about him was that he was a dwarf with shaggy brown hair. He wasn't what she expected to see, but she recognised his face from the pictures in newspaper she found in dustbins amongst the streets. It was Dr Trask with short, stubby arms and a small torso.

As the shock diminished down to small embers in her stomach, Raven swirled around on her heel, her blazing red hair spinning out behind her as she darted across the lawn like a little bird fleeing to freedom. She was ever so nimble and quick on her feet from years of experience of running away from people. In the distance she heard Dr Trask bellow, "Get her!"

A chorus of barking followed Raven, and she craned her neck in time to catch glimpse of three large rottweilers bounding down the lawn after her, with a skinny frame of an ugly man dashing behind. The man had a greasy face and wore dark green clothes, and he was fast.

In desperation, Raven urged herself forward even quicker, her legs shooting out in front of her without a second thought; if she could just run a little bit faster, she could hide herself in the hedges around the corner. She was thin and small for her age, but her red hair and blue tattoos were easy to spot even in long distance.

The barking drew nearer.

Her heart hammered hard in her ribcage, like a bird fluttering frantically within its cage.

From nowhere, the green man jumped at her back. She fell to the ground with a hard impact, grazing her palms when she defensively put out her hands on instinct.

"Hah!" The man climbed onto her back and forcibly pushed her face into the gravel hard. "I got you!"

Raven swore outwardly in frustration, struggling within his tight grasp.

"Up you get," he said in a cheery voice, yanking the redhead to her feet. Raven glanced around for a place to escape to. "No, no, no, don't even think of trying to escape. You're going nowhere."

"How did you get me?" snapped Raven. Nobody ever caught her in a chase, not until this strange man, at least.

He chuckled, his tongue slivering through his teeth. Raven stared in horror at his tongue. It was a shade of sickly green, like it was infected with a bad disease or something. When he noticed her staring at his mouth, his lips split into a Cheshire grin, all yellow teeth like a shark's teeth, and he stuck out his tongue. She flinched at the sight of it, slimy dark green against his greasy skin.

Raven struggled wildly in his arms as he dragged her down the road, the dogs following their heels, no longer aggressive and violent but obedient and well-behaved. There was no way she was getting caught, never.

There has to be a way out…

She was dragged into the large mansion, her worn trainers filthy from being dragged across the gravel and dirt. Glancing around frantically, the girl spotted Dr Trask waiting in a chair in the middle of the hall, a smug smile plastered across his face as Raven was tossed to his feet like a helpless victim.

But no, she refused to be a helpless victim.

Leaping into action, Raven got to her feet and slapped Dr Trask. A red mark appeared on his cheek, and his hand instantly went to it.

"Well, well, you like to put up a fight," Trask muttered.

"Screw you," Raven spat. "You're not touching me at all."

"Let's get to the facts, why are you here?" the dwarf inquired firmly. His brown eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

The girl crossed her arms, blue tattoos swirling along the lengths of them. At the sight of the tattoos, Dr Trask raised his eyebrows; his eyes studiously examined her whole figure from the toes to the head.

"You're a little bit too young and poor to afford tattoos…" he observed shrewdly." By the looks of your ratty clothes and uncut, greasy hair, you probably live on the streets. So that means someone particular pays you…for information?"

Raven kept her face expressionless to avoid revealing any evidence of her agitated thoughts. How could he guess that straight away?

Trask's eyes narrowed in suspicion at the girl. "Tell me your name."

The corner of her lip quirked up in amusement. "My name is Mystique." She never ever told anyone she encountered her true name. They had no right to knowing her real name.

"Interesting name," the dwarf murmured. "Mystique, what were you doing here?"

Raven pushed herself up on to her feet, hissing at Toad when he reached over to hold her arms behind her back. "Okay…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you…" she muttered, mimicking a tone of embarrassment as she cleanly lied through her teeth. "I was only here to, um, steal some of your food and possessions. Please forgive me, as you know, I'm poor, Dr Trask."

Dr Trask frowned at her pleading but glanced down at his feet. He was known for being generous to people, so he automatically knew he had to spare Mystique, or he would get judged for it. He liked to be called 'The Nice Rich Man', due to his arrogance. But Raven knew what kind of a man he truly was…

"But how could you afford your tattoos?" Trask commented suspiciously, his eyes following the lengths of her arms and shoulders, studying the blue tattoos.

Raven let out a giggle, as she proudly looked at her tattoos. "Men like them…you know…and I use their money they give me for them." She often hated pretending to be this type of a girl—a slutty prostitute—but it was the only way she could escape.

The dwarf looked disgusted as he realised what she meant. "Ah. So, Mystique, did you hear anything we were talking about?"

"What do you mean?" Raven replied innocently.

"Did you hear what I was saying when you were waiting outside?" Dr Trask asked impatiently and yet a little bit nervous.

The redhead scrunched up her face in confusion. "I didn't hear anything, so I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

The man stared at her for a long moment, as if he's trying to not believe her, but she convinced him so well he was left pondering what to do. As he contemplated, Raven's eyes wondered around the room as if she was bored when actually, in fact, she was examining the area. It was a hallway with polished wooden floorboards gleaming under their shoes, white walls with a dozen of paintings of pretty landscapes and a large framed photograph of Dr Trask shaking hands with President Thanos, the leader of Marvel. The president had dyed purple skin, his face split into a cruel smile, wearing a long blue cloak that he seemed to always wear, at least when in the public eye.

Raven often wondered what it was like to be in the Capitol and to encounter President Thanos face-to-face, thinking of how his large size would make her appear tiny. She thought of the things she would love to say and throw into Thanos' face. However, from the rumours she heard, the President was invincible and terrifying – he had the strength of a god and a cruel heart to match.

"I'll let you go…if only you do what I say," Trask's voice interrupted her thoughts. He walked toward her and looked up in a stern way. "Do not steal ever again. It's morally wrong. You must stop it or you would get punished horribly…I'm trying to help you here." A gentle, kind smile plastered across his face.

Why is he being so kind now? Raven thought hostilely. Don't get fooled by him, he doesn't care for poor people like you, Raven.

"I promise," Raven lied effortlessly. Her smile was as bright as her glistening amber eyes and her fiery red hair. "I won't do it again."

Trask sighed gravelly and in relief. "Thank you. Now if I let Toad release you, you won't do anything, will you?"

She nodded in response, eager to no longer feel Toad's sweaty hands on her back.

The small man nodded at Toad who obediently released her. Raven stretched out her stiff arms, looking curiously at the photograph of President Thanos and Dr Trask.

"May I ask, what is the president like?" she asked in a sweet, prying tone.

Following her stare, the dwarf glanced at the photograph with a slightly severe look in the pits of his dark eyes. Momentarily, he stared at the photograph, as if reflecting back on a chilling trauma in his life, his facial expression heavy with ceaseless dread. That look of dread vanished into the thin air when he turned to Mystique, a gracious smile flickering across his cheeks. "He is a marvellous man. I was lucky to meet him."

In that tone of false gratitude, Raven could see a scar in his existence, a scar slowly mending itself from the visit to the Capitol. She wondered why the mental scar was there…

"You are lucky to meet him. I would love to meet him," replied Raven, and she wasn't lying. She would love to meet the president. It was her wish to visit the Capitol and see the city through her own eyes, to see place that ruined her life from a young age. And to ruin the Capitolites if she got the chance.

She smiled pleasantly and turned to leave, hearing Toad complaining to the dwarf for releasing the 'thief' when he was making a grave mistake. A self-satisfied smile split out on Raven's face, knowing Toad was correct; they were making a grave mistake…

The second Raven Darkholme departed from the street and from Dr Trask's eye-sight, she flew down the streets in a thrill of exhilaration. She got out successfully with her lies. It was like this every time she almost got caught and it felt like a drug to her, addictive, dangerous and thrilling.

Skipping along the street, she smiled brightly as she caught sight of a Sentinel. Once she gave the information to the Prime Sentinel, she would save the family Dr Trask was threatening, get Dr Trask arrested and, more importantly, she would get a treat.

"Hi!" she shouted out as she slowed down, approaching the tall Sentinel. The guy was dressed in purple and blue from head to toe, with a helmet over his head so she couldn't see the face of the man. "I'm Mystique and I've got some information."

The Sentinel glanced at her once and automatically recognised her. "Follow me."

Raven walked after the tall, lean man, heading in the direction for the square. It was the Reaping Day, so there were several people already grouping up and following in throngs of thick crowds toward the square. Raven watched the grave faces of parents as they comforted their nervous children with loving gestures of hugs and smiles – the sight of it all just increased the thickness of Raven's jealousy for children with parents who were still alive. They were all so lucky and not grateful enough for it, whilst other kids like Raven were orphaned and living on the streets or in horrible conditions of old orphanages. Those poor kids were frail without their parents' love – No, those kids are strong and brave.

Raven was one of those braves one, as she liked to think so.

As the Sentinel strode, his heavy boots thudding loudly against the hard ground, the crowds of terrified families parted and allowed the perilous Sentinel to walk through with little Raven right behind. There were curious glances at the petite girl who sauntered through the crowd like she had no care for the world.

The butchers along the streets were shutting up their windows; the small shops closing and locking their doors, and the shutters on the windows were being closed. There was tension hanging in the atmosphere as the families left their homes and headed in the direction of the square, silence lapsing in the air like a sad funeral.

Raven was vastly intrigued by it all, by how humanity acted so helpless and weak in the face of inevitable death without putting up a protest and trying to defend their children.

In the faces of other children, Mystique saw the look of immense trepidation and fear for themselves. She could see their clocks turning inside their heads: Will my name get picked? Would one of my siblings or friends get reaped? What will happen if I get reaped? Will I die?

The narrow street of District Ten slowly opened up into the wide span of the square, clamour and voices filling up the air. The grey stone Justice Building stood at the front, sturdy and as hard as granite, and a temporary stage was set up in front of the building. Currently, the mayor stood on the stage, his face weathered and aging with years of stress, trying to keep his district living after the Civil War which Raven would never remember considering she was born several years after it ended. He looked so exhausted, as if he was about to break down at any second.

Raven's thoughts got penetrated by the low, coarse voice of the Prime Sentinel.

Her eyelids fluttered as her gaze landed on the broad-shouldered Sentinel. He towered over her at an intimidating height of six feet, in one of his hands was an electric stick, used to shock and beat up people at the same time.

"Hello, Mystique," the words were muffled by the helmet he wore. "Got any news?"

Raven nodded. "Very interesting information for you, if you give me the prize of a meal," she replied in a sly tone. Never trust a Sentinel until they show you can trust them.

The Head Sentinel exhaled a sigh of frustration. "Is this about Dr Trask?"

"Yes, you asked me to keep an eye on him two days ago, and now I have some information."

He slipped the electric stick into his belt and rubbed his hands, surveying the square. "Well, this will have to wait until after the Reaping. I have to keep the Sentinels in check, so don't go anywhere after the Reaping finishes."

Raven smirked cynically. "I'm going nowhere."

The Prime Sentinel nodded sagely and in thought as he pivoted on his heel and marched off, leaving Raven alone. Glancing around, she caught sight of the mentors getting onto the stage.

Clad in a black suit and carried in his wheelchair was the Avenger Games' third ever victor, Charles Xavier. He was a lot older than she was when he won his victory through luck, after almost being killed by another tribute called Azazel, who cut through his spinal cord, forever crippling the poor boy. To his luck, Azazel was viciously killed by a horrendous mutt, while Charles survived long enough to become the new victor. With his disability, his hairless, bald head, and his kind eyes surrounded by crinkles in the skin, you wouldn't ever feel threatened by Charles – who had been given the name Professor X for his preaching for peace among the districts, encouraging them to not to fight but to protest in a peaceful manner.

Raven gained a lot of respect for him after eavesdropping on one of his speeches two years ago. She was so moved by how beautifully descriptive Charles was with words in explaining their sad situation in the country Marvel. He had an appealing way with words to really make you think in a way that you had never thought before.

Professor X was being pushed aside by a much newer victor, Hank McCoy, nicknamed the 'Beast'. This thin, shy genius intrigued Raven a lot with his victory of strength in the arena, which brought him the name Beast. When Raven a lot younger she watched a repeat of Hank's Games and was so shocked by the transformation he made in the arena compared to the quiet, intelligent self he usually was whenever she saw him. From the rumours she heard, a lot of people said he reminded them of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde—whatever that was, Raven never knew—and believed he had a drug that helped him in the arena.

The mentors took their places on the stage, Hank sitting down with Charles next to him. Hank had a look of dread in his eyes for the approaching days to come, but Charles looked full of anticipation, ready to take mentoring on a full stride. There was a sense of aura surrounding him that indicated he always wanted to help people out, he cared so much for others.

A Sentinel came across Raven's vision, blocking out the mentors from her sight. She temporarily forgot the victors and registered herself – having to put down her real name – on a clipboard the Sentinel was carrying. After being given the thumb to where she was to be placed from the Sentinel, Raven made her way over to the sixteen-year-old section, where a crowd of frightened girls her age stood, some crying and some with stony faces.

Mystique prayed for the Reaping to be finished quickly, because she hated it every year, having to watch helpless victims crawl themselves up the stairs, sobbing and wailing as they were marched off to their deaths. In District Ten, you never got a volunteer, ever. They were all reaped, unlucky enough to be killed off like animals in the arena.

Time was slow as it ticked away on the large clock mounted on the face of the Justice Building. It all began to feel suffocating to Raven as she watched the parents wave goodbye to their kids. She never got the chance to say goodbye to her parents.

Never.

Eventually, the square began to fill up to the brim until everyone was there for the horrendous Reaping. Sentinels took up their posts, stoic and motionless amongst the frightened families and children.

The mayor stood up and strode to the microphone, his voice booming down the end of it. "Greetings, District Ten," he said in a slightly sad tone. He then proceeded to the speech which was always annually recited every year, announcing the reason why they were all living in poverty and watching their children die because of the Districts rebelling against President Thanos' rule during the Dark Days.

A mixture of anger and fear filled Raven's head, the thoughts circling the walls of her skull, endlessly reminding her of how harsh the world is. She longed to scream, 'It's not the kids' fault!'

Gradually, the mayor concluded his speech with a "Good luck." He walked back to his seat just when the escort strode onto the stage.

There was a loud echo of J. Jonah Jameson trotting onto the stage with a gleeful smile gracing his taut face. His hair was shortly cropped and greying, his suit grey and pinstriped, and his eyes were fixated on the audience. As he leaned into the microphone, his accent was clipped and pompous, full of bold arrogance.

"Greetings ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, spreading his arms wide open. His thick eyebrows furrowed together in question, focused entirely on the cameras. "Shall we see if we can get a victor this time?!"

There was a weak response from the audience, and Raven chuckled in amusement at all of this silly nonsense Jameson was exaggerating.

"Right, ladies first, right?" Jameson spoke down the microphone, loud and haughty. He clapped his hands firmly together, as if preparing himself for a big turn of events. Turning around and reaching his hand into the females' glass bowl, his hand swirled and suddenly dipped, plucking a slip of paper out.

He unrolled it and shouted out the name. "Raven Darkholme!"

…What?!

Oh shit.

Raven Darkholme stared straight ahead in shock.

Kids were glancing around in confusion, murmurs of relieved, curious voices filling the air. Nobody knew who she was.

Eventually the Sentinels would make sense of who she was and drag her to the stage, putting her in a position of embarrassment and humiliation and she didn't want that.

Grunting in bitter anger, the girl everybody knew as Mystique started her way through the crowd. Stay calm. Stay calm. She urged herself to retain a neutral expression on her face. The murmurs increased as the kids studied her as if they never saw her before.

She knew what she must look like to them. A thin, petite girl with flaming scarlet hair the colour of blood, with amber-coloured eyes shaped cat-like, with stark pale skin covered almost entirely in blue, swirling tattoos. She must have looked daring, brave and tough with an irritable pout on her full-lips above her long chin.

Well, she hoped she looked daring, brave and tough…

"So, you're the beautiful Raven Darkholme?" Jameson inquired as the girl sauntered up the stairs, her eyes full of bitter rage.

"Yes," she replied, not attempting to conceal her furious tone.

Jameson grinned broad; flashing white teeth blinded her, and shook her hand. His flesh was full of warmth, his veins pulsing with energy, whilst Raven's hand was cold like she was already empty and dead.

Jameson yelled out, "And now, for the boys!"

He went off to the male glass bowl, completely ignoring Raven for now. The girl stood there on the stage, glaring out at the audience. She was full of scorn for the lucky kids who had everything in their lives: families, friends, education, food, shelter and simply a future to live. Whilst Raven had nothing left.

Staring out at the audience, at the faces of relieved girls her age had left Raven wanting to scream out and punch the Gods for this horrendous fate of hers. What did she do to deserve this? Why wasn't she given the freedom to enjoy life like others her age? Why did the Capitol have to do this to her?

Her thoughts were cut off by Jameson's bold voice echoing out: "Edward Brock!"

Raven glanced out at the crowd. All she needed to do now was to study her district partner, and see if he was worthy enough to an ally. She would have to be on guard all the time now; there was nothing for her to do but to fight for her freedom and survival even more than before.

There was silence in the square, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The fourteen years old section split apart to form a circle around two boys.

"Ah!" Jameson called out. "And which of you strapping young lads is Edward?"

The redhead one of the boys waved in the air, an ecstatic grin on his face. "Hello there, Jimmy! I got your boy right here!" He tapped a finger on the other, frightened boy's head. "But hey, he looks like he doesn't wanna go, doesn't he, why just look at that mug, eh? How about I take him off your hands for ya?"

To Raven's surprise, this boy with vivid red, dishevelled hair jumped into the air like an excited little kid receiving candy. "Me! Pick me! Pick me! I VOLUNTEERAH, AS TAH-RIBUTAH!"

Jameson's jaw dropped in shock, his eyes glazing over in wonder. This was the first time in decades they had a volunteer from District Ten. Raven's eyebrows shot up as she watched the lean and slightly muscular boy skipped up the stairs and bounding onto the stage, a grin plastered across his face. There was something very disturbing about the boy; his grin and eyes looked maniac and insane, the shine in his eyes resembling a shark's hunger.

"Hey, Jimmy! HiJimmypleasuredoingbusinesswithya!" the volunteer gushed in a stream of words cascading from his lips. He strode up and stood next to Raven.

Jameson momentarily stared at the new Tribute, his mouth wide open. He blinked and found his voice, spluttering, "So, uh…What's… What's your name?" Raven couldn't help herself but roll her eyes. Get a grip, man and carry on.

The redhead leaned toward Jameson, grabbing the microphone and bellowing into it. "MY NAME IS CLETUS KASSADY! Remember it, Jimmy, 'cause I'm going places!"

Raven rolled her amber eyes. I guess I'm definitely not pairing up with this lunatic who will probably stab himself in the eye.

Jameson gulped and grabbed their hands to shake together. Raven glared into the insane eyes of Cletus Kassady. For now, she was stuck with this strange dude, until she can kill him off in mercy…

She was going to have kill people like Cletus in order to survive. She had nothing left to lose, except for her life.