A/N: I hope you enjoy Maewyn. It was fun going behind the scenes with her, so you may see her again as the tributes get closer and closer to the Capitol, the arena, and Death.

And I guess it's time for another disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all characters associated with such are not mine and instead belong to Suzanne Collins.

On on, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

CHAPTER ELEVEN – PULLING STRINGS

Maewyn Meriwether, District 10 Escort

Oh, tut. I do wish people would stop trying to get me to switch districts. I know District 10 isn't exactly glamorous, but I've grown quite fond of it over the years. I've been with these people for over 40 years, you know. Of course, you wouldn't know as I consider myself very well-preserved. This was my second assignment (I was in District 12 for three dismal years… that really was awful), and I asked to keep it even when they wanted to move me. Escorts have to work their way up the ladder, you know. Everyone starts in 12, and then your next assignment is based off how well you do there. Effie Trinket, the girl who did 12 last year, she's in District 5 now! That's practically unheard of! 5's one of the best that's not a Career district.

About 30 years ago, after my first Victor, I was offered District 7. But I turned it down. For some escorts, 10 years without a Victor makes them bitter and hate their district. But I grew to love it here. The way the green hills grow gradually rolling away. All the livestock roaming the pastures, their fur glossy and their low mooing. Apparently District 10 was once known as the "Midwest" and was considered the heart of what was then North America. I understand.

Being an escort is super fun. I get to know about all the behind-the-scenes things that go on in the Hunger Games. I fell in love with the Hunger Games way back at the first Quarter Quell, when I was 10. I mean, I must have watched the Games before then, but this is when they really got me. That was the Quell where the districts had to choose their own tributes. Watching the voting process (there was a running total for each District, so you could see each potential tribute when they got more than 10 votes) was so exciting! And when we finally got to see the tributes, it was fun to try to decipher each district's thought process. The Career districts basically held auditions, with a skills demonstration, and citizens voted for the boy and girl they thought would win. District 3 put in two delinquent kids (the boy almost won—he was frightening and also exciting to watch). For some districts, it seemed almost random—the tributes might as well have just been reaped for all the sense they made. District 10 put in their mayor's daughter. Maybe that's when I fell in love with them. She was so beautiful and strong. Apparently she campaigned to get votes because she wanted to save the poorer kids who usually get chosen. So brave. Everyone was in love with her in pre-Games events.

Of course, she was killed in the bloodbath by the girl from 3. But still, it was a great story, almost as great as last year's star-crossed lovers. I have to admit, I'm kind of jealous of Effie. But, I really do love my district.

Anyway, after that year's Games, all I wanted to do was be an escort—they've always got the latest fashions, they know everything about everything about the Games, and they attend the coolest parties and know all the best people. And so when I turned 18 I applied, interviewed, slept with the interviewer, and got the job! Easy. And totally worth it—I would never, never give up this job.

Okay, sometimes it's not so great. Sometimes a few days before the reaping, you'll get a call from the Gamemakers to come see them. That's never good. It almost always means that they want someone specific to be reaped. Sometimes it's a punishment—someone or someone's parents have been saying something indiscreet, perhaps. I know one of the jobs of the Mayor is to monitor his citizens' behavior. Sometimes the Gamemakers want a Victor's kid in the arena. Sometimes they want a 12-year-old for a more emotional reaping, or to try to goad another tribute into volunteering (apparently volunteers do better in the arena because it gives them something to win for. That's what the Gamemakers say, anyway).

Not all of the reapings are rigged. About every other year I'll get an assignment for one of the tributes. It's never both of them. I guess that would be unfair.

This year was one of those years. I got the call only two hours before I was supposed to get on the train for District 10. My hair was done, but only one eye was made up. I'd hoped I wouldn't get an assignment this year, but I guess you can't always get what you want.

When the Gamemakers call you, you come immediately, no matter what. So even though I had only half my face done, I headed to their offices. Luckily, all I had to do was ride the elevator up ten floors (escorts may share a building with Gamemakers, but we know where we are in the hierarchy).

I knocked on the door to the Head Gamemaker's office, and Tallulah, his secretary, buzzes me in.

"Yes?" she said in a lilting Irishian accent. Accents are the newest craze in the Capitol, but only those who are really high up can afford them at this point. When the datacrunchers down in the City get them, that's when you know it's over. Right now it's still really new and expensive and dangerous (the best kind of craze!): the doctor cuts open your throat and implants a device in your voicebox to give you whichever accent you choose (Tallulah has to be sleeping with one of the Gamemakers There's no way she could afford an accent without help). Irishian is really popular. Alabamian is really big too, it makes you sound like the folks in District 11. Francish is very fancy sounding, that's what President Snow's daughter has. Anyway, I'm hoping after the Quarter Quell, if my tributes do well, I can get a big enough bonus to get a Bostonican accent. I think it'll make me sound tough.

"Crane called for me," I tell Tallulah. I'm important enough to drop the Mr., but only Career escorts get to call the Head Gamemaker Seneca.

"Go on in," she said, shaking out her ivory curls, "He's expecting you."

I opened the giant bronze door and entered the sanctum of the Head Gamemaker.

"Maewyn," he said, just as cool as always, "Excellent. Here are the tributes that are to be reaped."

"Tributes?" I asked. I've always had at least one reaping that really is left up to chance.

"Tributes," Seneca confirmed. "As you know, Maewyn, this is the Quarter Quell, and that demands a show. And every great Game needs its players. The boy is young, his parents have been talking about rebellion, and his brother escaped to—" He didn't finish the thought. Escaped to where? Where is there to escape? "Anyway, reaping the boy should teach his family a lesson." He smiled coldly and moved some papers around.

"The girl though, she's… something. I've got a very special surprise planned for her in the launch room."

He handed two slips of paper to me.

"Memorize these. Don't let anyone know these tributes weren't fairly reaped. Try to discourage volunteers—not that you'll get them in District 10 anyway. If the boy makes it through the bloodbath, try to discourage sponsors. You know the drill. You may leave." There goes my bonus and my accent. Darn.

Obediently, I took the two slips of paper, put them in my pocket and walked out. In a dream, I got myself ready, packed my suitcase, and got on the train. Two tributes! If I've got two, how many of the rest of the reapings are rigged. I know 1, 2, and 4 can't be—the Careers volunteering makes that impossible. How many others?

I sat with the rest of the escorts. None of us are supposed to talk about the orders we may or may not have received. One year a new escort tried to tell us, but after that year's Games we never saw her again. Being an escort is one of the best careers you can have, but a key part of the job is know when to keep quiet.

And now it's the moment of truth. Time for the reaping.

"Hello everybody and happy Hunger Games!" I trill. Silence. Normally I get at least some sort of reaction. The people of District 10 may not really like me all that much, but they've gotten used to me. They know I like them, and they know I'm on their side, that I'll try to get their tributes through. Or at least they think they know that. The two names I've memorized are burning holes in my brain.

"All right, since this is a very special Games this year, let's mix it up a little bit! Gentlemen first!" I make a big production about reaching into the reaping bowl and pull out a slip. I quickly peek at it; Congratulations, Markus Spendwell, you've escaped the Hunger Games.

"Frederick Dyer!"

A little boy of maybe 10 holds back tears as he climbs onto the podium. I've seen a lot of tears over my years as escort, and I've gotten pretty good at knowing which ones are fake and which are real. This is the real deal. This boy is terrified. My heart breaks a little, but even so I follow Crane's instructions and look closely at the crowd, ready to hustle the proceedings along if anyone looks like they want to volunteer. No one does. I let out a sigh. Good. One down, one to go.

"Okay, ladies, your turn!" The key is to be kind, but always enthusiastic. Into the reaping ball again. I glance at the slip to see who was spared. Interesting. I read out the name on the slip, which is the same as the name I was given to memorize:

"Carissa Martin!"

Actually reaping her makes me feel better. It doesn't matter that Crane made me pull strings to get her here; she never stood a chance at all. She comes up to the stage, one of those gawky teenage girls who's not done growing yet. She smiles nervously at me, but doesn't seem like she's going to cry. I don't know what's so special about her, why Seneca Crane wants her in these Games so badly, but I guess we'll find out.