A/N (Glossy): Alright, thinks are just starting up and it's going to be great to get a chapter up. We still need a few more authors so check it out if you want to participate. Elim9 is a great author and has written many excellent SYOTs. I would recommend reading them. Yellint22 is also a wonderful author so you should check out their stories too.

Raphael Hume, 17 (written by Elim9)

District Ten Male

Look down.

I keep my eyes on the ground as we trudge forward through the mud. I don't want to look at them. And they don't want to look at me. But a few of them are watching me, anyway. They can't help looking. They can't help staring.

Just get through this.

Just a quick reaping. Two names. Two names, and I can go back home. Back to my parents. Back where no one cares about the scars, because they're simply happy that I'm still alive.

It's been three years now. Three years since they almost lost me. Three years since Puck and Lincoln died.

No, not died. 'Died' sounds too peaceful. Too natural. Three years since my older brothers were killed. Executed. Murdered.

But they left me alive. A lesson. A reminder. A warning to anyone who might think about trying to escape.

That was all we were guilty of, in the end – the three of us. Trying to escape to a better life. It was Puck's idea to make a break for it on the day of the reaping, right after the ceremony. Everyone would be distracted. The Peacekeepers would be busy with the new tributes. There would be so many people, he reasoned, they wouldn't notice if the three of us snuck away.

He was wrong.

We made it past the fences. Barely. The Peacekeepers came out of nowhere. I never found out how they caught us so quickly. Maybe someone saw us leave and tipped them off in hope of a reward. Maybe we tripped some sort of alarm. Maybe they just happened to be patrolling the area. I suppose it doesn't matter now.

They bound our hands and paraded us through the streets and back to the square, still set up for the reaping. They dragged Puck up onstage, took the rope that bound his hands, and threw the other end over a beam that had been erected above our heads. Then they pulled the rope taut, hoisting him up until his feet were lifted off the stage. They tied the rope off and left him hanging there while they did the same to Lincoln, then strung me up on the end beside him.

For a moment, we simply hung there. Waiting. My gaze turned to the crowd, my eyes frightened. Begging. Pleading.

I don't know what I expected. These were the same people who, only an hour before, had stood by while two of their children were taken away to fight to the death. They hadn't stepped in then. And they wouldn't step in now. Not because they were cruel. Not because they didn't care. But simply because they were scared. My parents pushed their way forward to the front of the crowd, but friends and neighbors held them back, knowing that to interfere would mean their deaths.

One of the Peacekeepers raised a whip – an ugly, nine-lashed whip with tiny bits of metal on the ends, designed to tear into the flesh. He struck Puck first, and my brother cried out in pain. Blood seeped through his shirt as the Peacekeeper moved on to Lincoln. I looked away as Lincoln's cries echoed through the square. I knew I was next.

I braced myself, but it did no good. Nothing could have prepared me for the pain, sudden and sharp and tearing. Slicing. Ripping. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, but that did nothing to dull the pain as the whip struck again. Blow after blow. My arms started to go numb from the strain of bearing my weight. I was getting dizzy from loss of blood. Finally, I realized what I should have known all along:

I was going to die.

They were going to kill us. Three boys who had only been trying to get away.

Suddenly, a shot rang out to my right. My eyes flew open, my head jerking suddenly to the side. That was a mistake. In that moment, the whip caught me in the face, the nine lashes digging deep into my flesh. The pain was sudden. Blinding. I blacked out.

When I came to, I was still hanging there, but the crowd had dispersed. All except my parents, still standing there, weeping, as well as a Peacekeeper who stood guard over the three of us. It wasn't long before I realized that "the three of us" now meant myself and the dead bodies of my brothers.

Only later did I learn what had happened. Bloody, broken, and weak, Puck had done the unthinkable. With the last of his strength, he had reached out his leg and tripped one of the Peacekeepers as he passed by. A shot to the head had killed my brother instantly.

With Puck dead and me unconscious, the Peacekeepers had turned their attention to Lincoln. They tore his back to shreds with their whips until he died on the spot. Convinced the same fate awaited me once they realized I was awake again, I closed my eyes and hung as limply as I could, feigning unconsciousness.

It wasn't until later that I pieced together the truth: They'd never had any intention of killing me. Killing people serves as an example, yes, but leaving one of us alive, mutilated, condemned to live in agony and scorn, would serve as an even more chilling example of what they were truly capable of.

So I hung there on display for the district. Barely alive. Drifting in and out of consciousness. Blood dripping to the ground. My arms completely numb, my shoulders aching, my back and my face torn and bloody.

The sun rose higher, then sank again. People came and went. They tried not to look, but they couldn't help themselves. Still my parents stayed, but still the Peacekeeper wouldn't let them near.

It was evening by the time he cut me down. I crumpled into a heap on the stage, broken and bloody and too weak even to cry. My parents took me home. Nursed me back to health. Buried Puck and Lincoln.

Since then, we've tried to pick up the pieces of our old life. But it's been hard. They had to sell most of their flock just to buy the medicine to keep me alive. Puck and Lincoln had always done more than their share; now we were left with the three of us, and, for a long time, I was too weak to help at all.

I've tried to make it up to them. I pull my own weight. I've stayed out of trouble. I've never given the Peacekeepers an excuse to finish what they started. And maybe they don't want to. Maybe they'd rather have it this way.

I don't know which way I'd rather have it. There have been times – times when people's stares became too much, times when the memory of the pain is still too fresh, times when I just want to see my brothers again – when I've thought about ending it. But the thought of my parents stops me every time. I could never do that to them. They've already lost too much.

They won't lose me, too.

"Next."

I hold out my hand obediently and let her draw some blood. I keep my eyes down. I keep moving forward. Nothing that would upset anyone. Nothing that would draw attention.

They stare, anyway.

It's almost funny – in a sick, twisted sort of way. Their lives are in danger. Any one of them could be reaped. They could be on their way to the Capitol in a few hours. And yet they still find the time to point and stare.

A few of them whisper. Maybe they know. Maybe they remember. Or maybe not. Whippings aren't all that uncommon. Except to me and my parents, my beating wasn't anything particularly memorable. Just another criminal, they're probably thinking. Just another pour soul who had the misfortune of upsetting the wrong people.

Maybe that's exactly what I am.

Keep moving.

Quietly, keeping to the edge of the section, I take my place by the other seventeen-year-olds. The mud is starting to seep through the bottoms of my shoes. I haven't worn them in a long time, anyway – not since last reaping. Out in the fields, I don't need them, and it saves wear and tear. The less money we spend on new shoes, the more we can spend on food.

Which is also why I'm still wearing the same old, stained brown outfit that I wore to the last reaping. And the one before it. It used to be Puck's, but I've finally grown into it. Not that much of an accomplishment, maybe; Puck was never very big. Not like Lincoln, who always towered over both of us despite being three years younger than Puck. Still, it's one of the few things of his that I have left, and it feels good to be wearing it.

Other than my outfit – which I can't help – I suppose I look fairly presentable. The usual coating of mud has been scrubbed from my hands and face, beneath which my skin is quite tan. My hair, short and dark, is combed back as neatly as I could get it.

Why bother?

All they see are the scars. The whip left hideous scars across half my face, leaving my right eye almost blind. And that's all people ever see.

Maybe it's for the best. Maybe it's for their own good that they stay away from me. Some avoid me out of disgust, some out of fear. No one wants to associate with someone who's so obviously been severely punished by the Peacekeepers. It doesn't matter what I did; I'm someone who might put them and their families in danger.

So they stay away. Even packed together closely at the reaping, they give me space. It doesn't matter. They don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. We're all just trying to get through it. All just hoping to survive.

The rain beats down harder as the wind grows sharper. A bitter, deadly cold. A few groups huddle closer together for warmth. None of them invite me to join them. So I wrap my arms around my chest until my fingers brush the scars on my back. I bite back a cry of pain as the mayor stands up to begin a short speech before the video from the Capitol.

No one wants to hear it. He probably doesn't want to give it. But here we are, anyway, so we might as well get through it as quickly as possible. The sooner he starts, the sooner he can be done. The sooner we can all go home.

All except two.

I'm not kidding myself, of course. I'm as scared as anyone else. There's always a chance, after all, that it'll be me. I'm seventeen. I take tesserae. But not as much as I could when Puck and Lincoln were alive. Those are the rules: You can take tesserae once each year for yourself, and once for every member of your family. That, along with the increase in slips for each year of age, can add up to some hefty numbers for people with large families.

I no longer have a large family. My name is in the reaping bowl thirty times today. More than some. Less than others. Less than I would have if Puck and Lincoln were still alive.

But I would enter my name a hundred times if it would bring them back.

Stop thinking like that.

There's nothing I can do, of course. Nothing that will bring them back. The only thing I can do for them is live. For them. For my parents.

Maybe even for myself.

Finally, the video finishes, and Claudina steps up to the microphone. She's about as unenthusiastic as the mayor was. Everyone knows she can't stand District Ten. She's still smiling a little, but it's very forced. Maybe she's hoping that if she acts well enough, they'll bump her back up a district or two. District Nine would still be a far cry from her old job in One, but at least they have two victors. We don't have any.

Yet. We don't have any yet. It's only a matter of time, even in the poorest districts, before someone manages to break that pattern. That's what the Games hinge on, after all – an element of chance. The moment they start to become too predictable is the moment people lose interest. And the Capitol won't stand for that. So we have to keep believing that even here, even in District Ten, we have a chance.

Claudina doesn't look like she believes it, though.

She draws a name quickly. No show. No fuss. She wants this over with as badly as we do. "Rachel Summers."

The thirteen-year-old section stirs, but before the girl can begin to walk to the stage, a quiet voice interrupts her. "I volunteer."

Even I snap my head up to look. Volunteers have been more common recently, but not here. Not in District Ten. There was one volunteer – a boy – three years ago. Matt something, I think, but I'm not even sure of that. I spent those weeks lying in bed, trying not to move, in too much pain to take any notice of what was going on in the Games. But, obviously, he didn't win. And no one else has followed his example. Until now.

The girl who emerges from the fifteen-year-old section doesn't seem eager as she repeats the words for any who may not have heard her the first time. If anything, she looks a bit distant. Regretful.

I watch curiously as she takes the stage. She's a few inches shorter than me and very petite, but quite fit. She's lightly tanned, with her brown hair tucked up in a bun, dressed in a knee-length black dress and black boots. The sort of girl who would turn and walk the other way if she saw me on the street.

Not the sort you would expect to volunteer, but I suppose fools come in all shapes and sizes.

Claudina's just surprised as the rest of us and asks for the girl's name, to which she replies that it's Paige Kraft. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. Paige's voice is strong, but she's not looking at Claudina. I follow her gaze through the crowd and find a beautifully-dressed woman with long, brown hair. The woman is smiling – a smile that could almost be described as smug.

Don't stare.

I look away. Back down at the mud. Claudina, too, realizing she's not going to get any more information out of the girl, quickly returns to business and draws another name. She unfolds it carefully, blinks for a moment, unsure, and then gives it a try. "Ray-fee-el Hume?"

She pronounced it wrong.

At first, that's the only thought in my head. Annoyance that she pronounced my name wrong. It's Rah-fie-el.

Then it hits me. She pronounced my name wrong.

My name.

Run.

For a moment, that's my only thought. Run. Get out. Get away.

But I already know it's useless. Running didn't help last time, and I had Puck and Lincoln with me then. It won't do any good now.

Then start walking.

And, at last, I do. The crowd parts for me, my footsteps shuffling and slow. After a few steps, the Peacekeepers decide I'm not moving quickly enough. One of them grabs my right arm, catching me off-guard on my blind side. Another takes hold of my left arm, and, together, they haul me to the stage.

I don't struggle. Not even when they dump me onstage, giving me a shove so that I land, face-down, at Paige's feet. I clench my fists tighter, but I still don't say anything. Not because I'm afraid of what they'll do to me. I was just handed a death sentence; it's not as if they can do anything that'll make that worse. But I'm not about to give them an excuse to hurt my parents.

For a moment, I simply lie there onstage, catching my breath, trying not to cry out as one of them gives me a kick in the side. Trying not to remember the last time I was lying helpless on this stage. Maybe the Peacekeeper recognizes me. Or maybe he's just cruel. Or maybe he's just enjoying having a moment in the spotlight.

Get up.

Slowly, I force myself to my feet. It's too late – much too late – to make a good first impression, but I can at least salvage whatever dignity I have left. I brush myself off and try to turn so that my left side is facing the cameras nearest me. But I still keep my eyes down. I can't look at the crowd. At my parents. If I do, I know I'll break down. Better to get this over with quickly.

I offer Paige my hand, and, as I do, my eyes wander enough to see that her hair, which appeared brown from my position in the audience, is actually tipped with blue at the ends. Most of the strands are tucked neatly into her bun, but a few hang free, out of place. My eyes meet hers for a moment.

To her credit, she doesn't look away. Her curious blue eyes take it all in – the scars, the tattered clothes, the skinny form beneath them. She looks a bit disappointed, but I suppose I can't really blame her for that. I'm not anyone's idea of an ideal district partner.

Not that it matters. District partner or not, she wouldn't want me as an ally, anyway. And I probably wouldn't want her, either. I'm certainly not about to trust anyone who volunteered for this. Either she knows what she's doing and is already three steps ahead of me, or she's just insane and has no idea what she's getting into.

Neither of those things makes for a good ally.

So we shake hands, but that's it. We go our separate ways. We've already accepted what everyone knows about the Games in the end.

Only one of us can come home.


It doesn't take long before the three of us are crying.

I told myself I wouldn't. I told myself I'd be strong for them. They probably told themselves the same thing: to keep it together for my sake. But all of that crumbled the moment they walked in the door. Because, suddenly, it was real.

I'm a tribute.

I'll soon be on my way to the Capitol.

And I'm probably going to die.

I keep trying to tell myself that I have a chance. A one-in-twenty-four chance, but still a chance. But we all know that's not true. Maybe it was true fifteen years ago, at the start of the Games. But, ever since the Ninth Games, every victor but one has been a Career.

Maybe there's still a chance, but it's a lot smaller than one in twenty-four.

So we hold each other, comfort each other, for what we all know is probably the last time. None of us says it, but we all know it.

"I love you," my mother whispers, holding my face in her hands, brushing her fingers over the scars. Normally, this would bother me, but it doesn't matter now. Scars or not, this is probably the last time she'll see me in person.

"We both do," my father echoes, wrapping an arm gently around my shoulders. I swallow hard, trying – and failing – to hold back tears. Through everything, that's the one thing I've never doubted: that they love me. And I love them. I would do anything – anything – if it meant coming back to them.

And I will. It's not as if I'm going to stand back and let someone kill me. But in a fair fight, what chance does someone like me really have?

So make sure it's not a fair fight.

I hold them both a little tighter. "I love you, too."

And I do. Enough to fight. Enough to kill. Enough to win? I don't know. But I do know now – maybe I've always known – that I'll do whatever it takes.

Whatever it takes.

Paige Kraft, 15 (written by yellint22)

District 10 Female

Rain batters down onto the muddy field which we all troop through, our shoes hit the mud and making indents just like the rain. Only the rain can dribble and run away, it can run into the ground and disappear, we can't. I am surrounded by girls and boys all in the same situation as me, or at least they think they are. What they don't know was that all the girls are safe, that all the mother pawning over their darling girls, in their best dresses- some which make you pity them for that very fact- who think that they might never see their girl alive again after this day don't know they have nothing to worry about, that pig have already been sent to slaughter by the woman who was stands in front of me, trying desperately to shove the rebellious piece of my brown hair dipped in blue at the end into the uniform bun at the back of my head which is doing a good job of imprisoning all the other pieces of the out-of-place blue strands, only letting the normal brown shine through.

"Go away you stupid thing" she mutters as she tries relentlessly to imprison my hair.

"You talking to me or the hair mother?" I question, wanting her to hear the sarcasm in my voice, to know I don't want to be her perfect volunteer. To know I don't want to face the same fate as Matt just so she could have her desired life.

"The hair silly, of course I want you back sweetie" she cooes, looking at me sweetly. Not the kind of sweetness you would find in the sweets that were not expensive for most kids but my mum thinks I want for my birthday, which I don't. No, this the sickly kind of sweet, the kind you know all too well is artificial and fake. I don't respond. It isn't that I don't want to. No, in fact I want the exact opposite, I want to sink my fist into her face, to prove to her that I have learned to fight. That I haven't just be wasting my time in basement, that just because I don't want to use the expensive machines she have conned into her ownership don't mean I wasn't working out. That a punching bag really is a good exercise tool.

But I still don't react, she doesn't need to know I hate her, actually she already knows that. No, the reason was down to what I need. I need no media attention, no stories, no rumours. Just to be able to into that arena die, that would be the punch to the face my mother needed, my survival would only make her happier.

"Off you go honey, good luck my sweet, I know you'll do me proud" she told me as she patted my head and sent me off like an animal to slaughter.

"Bye Karen" I replied, a small smile forming as her's drops at my use of her first name she before quickly resumes it.

"Bye my beautiful Paige" she says in her fake sweetness. As I walks away my smile grew, knowing that under all that falseness she was scowling. As my heavy boots hit the mud I know it was like a stamp on her pride. Mud splashes my black dress that once belonged to her and was now covered with the mud I love and she hates. I know I am hurting her by letting the strands of my dip dyed hair fall out of the bun to show the blue at the end of the straight brown hair strand, and I love it.

I allowed my body to be herded into the 15 year old pen along with the other girls of my age, most of whom I know from school and hated me, a feeling I reciprocated. That don't matter any more though, I know they would all fake a liking for me after I die and I know that no one would believe it. We all watch- like the servants of the Capital that we all are- the customary video, as it states lie after lie in a constant attempt to produce more people like my parents, willing to believe every capitol lie they spout. I am not my parents though and I can sense every lie in the wretched video.

As the lie train grounds to a halt our district's escort, Claudina, stepped out to the microphone, her black roots clearly showing, offering a stark contrast between her dyed platinum bland hair and the black roots. The stench of nicotine can be smelt throughout the field as it leaches off her clothing and into the once fresh air. Everyone knows she smokes now so she doesn't bother trying to mask the stench now, instead she just lets it waft up our noses and stay there like the knowledge that she is washed up stayed in our brains. She was once the escort of District 1, the best thing an escort could hope for but she has since been shoved off her perch and relegated to District 10 with us, people she clearly views as scum and beneath her.

"Welcome everyone to the reaping of the 15th Annual Hunger Games Today we will pick two contestants to take part in our well-known games" she explains, her body struggling to maintain its posture and poise, instead she sways slightly as she speaks, taking little care over her pronunciation of each word. "Girls then" she mumbles, her mutter being is picked up by the microphone and as a result is carried to our ears by the speakers that have been haphazardly constructed around us. They are probably a major health risk but the peace keepers don't care so they just stay there as looming death threats. Her hand, that is adorned with a rusting gold ring and chipped red nail polish to match her fading red dress, dips into the bowl, snatching the first piece of paper it rests on. Unfolding it proves a small challenge for Claudina's well-worn hands, her stubby, bitten nails find it difficult to lock into the crease in the paper. When she finally manages it she reads out the name with a remarkable about of volume for her.

"Rachael Summers" was the name that explodes out through the speakers, I see a small red-head break down in the 13's pen at this, her hands shaking. This is it, no putting it off any longer.

"I volunteer" I call, causing the red heads cries to stop and everyone stare at me, some in confusion, these were the ones who don't know me, and others in happiness, the ones who know me.

"Excuse me?" Claudina calls out, her ears obviously not registering the second volunteer of District 10's cry.

"I volunteer" I repeat, my teeth grinding the words as if I can make them disappear. I walk out of the pen with those words, brushing past the crowds of confused residents and stone cold peacekeepers as I make my way to the stage.

There is a heavy clunk when each of my heavy boots hit the wooden stairs up to the stage, drawing every eye that isn't already on me to my form. I take my place next to Claudina as I had seen many girls before me, staring out into the sea of people, my gaze rests on my mothers gleaming face.

"What's your name?" Claudina asks, shoving the microphone way to close to my face as she looks off at the clock next the stage.

"Paige Kraft" I tell her, my voice strong and proud, my name being the one of the few things in my life that no one has tried to use against me, one the thing I can still call my own. My mother sense of pride was to overflowing as she looks at me that I divert my eyes from her smiling face to my heavy brown boots that are giving a little much-needed height to my 5'4'' frame.

"Okay, Boys then" she says, showing her clear lack of interest in what I have to say. No one really cares about me and I have come to accept this so this doesn't bother me. Her hand dips into the bowl, grabbing the piece of paper that has been pressed up to the side, exposed like a nerve.

"Ray-fee-el Hume?" she reads out, sounding unsure of herself. My eyes scan to audience for a reaction, all I see was a glimmer of recognition in a man and a woman as they cling to each other with tear filled eyes, his parents I presume. I know I should feel sorry for him and his parents but not matter how much I search through my mind all I find was jealousy that his parents truly care. A boy of about average height steps out of the 17 pen. He looked pretty normal at first, he was of a tan complexion with matching brown hair and eyes, he is very skinny but nothing odd about that, it isn't like food is plentiful around here. He is clothed in brown clothes that consist of a shirt and pants with well-worn shoes, his hair is combed back in an effort to make him look respectable.

As soon as he turns to face the stage I see why he isn't a normal boy though, the right side of his face is badly scarred, one running through his eye to the level of severity where I am sure he can't see very well out of it. His walking is of a frustratingly slow pace that I almost feel thankful when the peacekeepers grab him. He is dragged to the stage, showing no resistance other than his tightly clenched fists- the entire journey even when they shove him face down onto the stage before they land a swift kick in his side when he dosn't get up. He I can see his is trying not to cry. While he still looks ready to give up he pulls himself to to his feet and extends his hand for me to shake. I rake my eyes over his thin frame, taking in his well-worn clothing and scarred face before shaking his hand, my eyes still scan his body as we engage in handshake. His grip is weak and reflects his frame. I don't have to look to the audience to see my mother's reaction to him, I know what she thinks.

She is thinking how great it was that I am a bit closer to winning, the exact opposite of my feelings on my weak district partner who meant that for me convincingly die there was one less likely candidate to carry out the act. Now I have to hope that the other tributes would be up to scratch.

"People of District 10" Claudina begins as we take our places at her side, my posture strong and his weak, we can tell she means 'scum of District 10' but no one says anything. "Please applaud your tributes for the 15th Annual Hunger Games; Paige Kraft and Raphael Hume" she continues, signalling the joyous eruption from the crowd that celebrates it wasn't them or their child going into the games as we are led away into the town hall, an old brown building that looms behind the stage.

The room felt cold with only me in it. I don't expect anyone else to come see me while I am here so why are they even making me stay? Just send me off to die already, I don't care. I pull my arms closer to my body, trying to maintain body heat, trying to stop it doing what I want to, escape. I have long abandoned the old wooden chairs that sat in the centre of the room, instead opting to stand facing the window, my back to the door as I replay events to what might be my last ever conversation with my mother:

"Remember, get what you can at the cornucopia then run, make sure you get a weapon. Find a hiding place and a source of water, if you see a tribute, kill it" she told me, her recommendations only cementing the fact that she doesn't know me one bit. I don't need a weapon, I have boxed since I was eight and that has served me fine so far, hell, the only weapon I know how to use was a gun, most types too. I have no clue how to fight with a knife other than the fencing lessons I have taken as a kid, though I am sure I wasn't getting a sword in the games. And I can't just kill a tribute, maybe if they attack me but not unprovoked, it has taken me years to even want to watch the animals being slaughtered and still I can only execute them with a gun from a distance.

"Sure" I agreed, nodding my head. My death would have more of an effect if she wasn't expecting it.

"Just win my love" she added as she hugged me with a strength that felt more like she was trying to squeeze of my willingness to try out of me than to restore it. I nodded as she pulled away. She left before I had a chance to add anything else.

The conversation just made me hate her more, making me hate my fellow tribute even more for having people who cared about him. I have no friends to come see me and my dad was bedridden, having sent me out the house this morning with only the demand that I win. It is that collection of facts that make me jump when I hear the door open behind me.

I turn to see the red-headed girl from the reaping. Rachael I think is her name.

"Hello" she squeaks, standing awkwardly in the door. Words can't get out of my mouth before she speaks again. "I know you don't know me but I know you and I know people don't like you here but I do and I am so grateful you are going into the games and not me, I don't stand a chance but you do so thank you and I will always be thankful" she stammers as she speaks, the words following out of her mouth in one endless stream that makes it hard to tell one word from another.

"No problem, I was going to anyway" I explain, touched by the fact that she was here. I have done nothing for her, only to escape my parents. Yet she still feels the need to come in here anyway. Her words thaw away slightly at my heart in a warm sensation I haven't felt since Matt's death.

"That's what I don't get, why volunteer after your brother died?" she asks, her eyes looking to the ceiling as if for encouragement. There is no need to be scared, I know why she was wondering why the sister of deceased tribute would volunteer. Who wouldn't?

"My parents want a victor" I answer shortly, shrugging my shoulders as I do.

"Okay" she replies as she moves to go, her face is ashen with my description of my parents wishes. Before she leaves though she turns and adds; "please don't die because of them. You're my hero and I like my hero alive".

"I will try to win" I promise her, it as empty as my life have been since his death. But the ice that has been knocked off my heart exposes the part of me that makes me want to keep my promise, to win for her.

"Thank you" she says quietly as she leaves the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more, though not for long.

"Miss Kraft, time to go" Claudina tells me, holding the door open for me to leave. My feet guide me out the door. This is it. Time to die, though I have told myself for years that was a good thing a part of me now just doesn't agree.

Who did you like better? Have you seen the victor's blog yet? There is a link on my profile. Which of the victor's really stood out? Please review!