No rights to The Hunger Games.


Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seneca turn his attentions elsewhere, as if he's seen all he wants to. I grab another arrow and send it at the target, and this time, it lands almost perfectly on target, right in the heart. I look up to Seneca hopefully, but his attention is diverted. He doesn't even notice.

I mutter something nonsensical, but frustrated, under my breath. I thrust the arrow into the chest of the tribute behind me waiting for me to finish up and start stalking around in search of Gale.

I've just stalked past the knife station, where a brunette is really excelling. "Decent job, Clove," I hear faintly. I make a point to try and not to run into Clove during the Games. Or the blonde, muscular boy who seems to think her work is merely "decent."

My stalking changes to meandering as I continue to search for Gale. I step over strewn weapons and supplies, trying not to step on anything sharp. I try to step over a particular large pile, feeling myself step on a rope on the other side.

The rope is the thick, and my foot slides off of it. Or rather, into it. I discover that there is a loop of rope, and it tightens around my ankle. Suddenly, I'm falling onto the pile of weapons.

I don't scream or anything. It doesn't feel appropriate. This isn't even the Games yet. What right to I have to scream now?

"Whoa!" I hear a familiar voice say rather calmly, and suddenly, Gale's arms catch my, one arm behind my back, the other grabbing me by the waist.

"Gale?" I gasp, as he props me upright.

"Hey," he brushes me off patronizingly. "I told you I'd figure something out." He launches into a riveting trap story. "I figured that if I could set the ropes to do that, especially under some leaves or something and also hide weapons nearby, I could take out plenty of tributes without even confronting them. And if they have bear traps or actual snares, I could just disguise those, too."

"Gale," I say disinterestedly. "You almost killed me."

"I caught you," he defends himself.

I slapped him on the arm. "You made me look like a fool in front of Seneca!" I reprimand. "Think of what that will do to my score."

"Seneca kept watching me," Gale shrugged. "You must have lost his interest."

"Don't remind me," I say, bending down to untie the rope from my ankle.

"Here," Gale offers, proving he has some sort of gentlemanlike capability in him. He bends down in front of me and starts loosening the rope from my ankle.

"So who here looks threatening to you?" he asks as he pulls on the rope.

"The brunette with knives, Clove," I reply, "and the blonde with her."

"That's Cato," he informs me. "He kept giving me weird looks."

"He's probably trying to hide his attraction for you," I suggest. "You look smashing in your training uniform."

Gale smiles down at the ropes. "Well, you look okay. But there's this one girl, Glimmer, over by the sword station. Let's just say you've got some stiff competition."

"Are we competing for your affections now?" I smirk.

"What do you think these Games are even for?" he sneers.

"Whatever," I scoff.

He chuckles to himself. "Hey," he says, "what do you think of that girl you were at the bow station with? The twelve-year-old?"

"Rue?" I contemplate for a moment. "I think we don't have half of a clue what she's capable of."


"How'd it go?" Effie asks excitedly when she, Haymitch, and Cinna clamber into our apartment to watch the scores being announced. Training was a couple days ago, and the other tribute's trials were yesterday.

"Okay," I mumble from the couch beside Gale.

"That bad?" Haymitch sees right through me, and takes a seat in an armchair. Cinna takes a seat beside me and Effie stays perched up on her pointy shoes.

"I choked," I shrugged, "but Gale did alright. Great, actually. He nearly killed me."

"And then saved you," he reminds me.

Effie pushes a button on a remote, and Caesar Flickerman's smiling face pops up in front of us mid-sentence. He's currently explaining the scoring system. Tributes are ranked from one to twelve based on their performance and potential. Higher scores usually result in more sponsors, a comfort should a tribute find themself in a troubling situation.

"Let's start with District 1," he begins.

The first tribute listed is named Marvel. I remember him spending time showing off at the spear station. The judges at the trials would like that. He receives a nine.

Glimmer, the girl whose attractive features Gale had pointed out, receives an eight. I don't remember her being particularly good at any station, but she was District 1, so she should have some skill in her.

Next comes District 2, and I discover it is Cato's district, so I assume it's Clove's, too.

"Cato's score is . . ." Caesar pauses dramatically, and I resist rolling my eyes, "ten!"

"Whoa," I murmur.

"Potential alliance?" Gale questions. It is not even a question of whether or not we will be allied to each other.

"I don't think so," I shake my head. "He seems too . . . ruthless. You two might quarrel a time or two and he could rip your head off."

"You don't think I could defend myself?" Gale pouts.

"I suppose you can run off and walk him right into one of your traps," I shrug.

"Shh, I can't hear!" Effie waggles her hand at us.

Their on District 4, one of the Career districts. Both tributes get nines. The scores start becoming less intimidating from there, particularly from the District 5 redhead whose face resembles that of a fox. I don't recall her being any good at anything in the training room. She receives a seven. She probably demonstrated quickness or knowledge of herbs and plants or something else not very exciting, but undervalued in its usefulness.

When District 11 tributes are shown, I learn that it is Rue's district. Her tribute partner is hulking and I never saw him crack a smile in the training room or when we were being introduced. He receives an eight. Rue receives a seven.

"Alliance?" Gale asks again, recalling my exchange with her in the training room.

"I don't think so," I shake my head.

"I . . . I'm not really here to make friends," I say.

"I'm not talking about friendship, I mean as far as alliances go—"

"Gale," I cut him off abruptly. "No, okay? Drop it."

He looks at me quizzically, but drops the issue, leaning back against the couch as his face pops up on screen.

"Gale Hawthorne," Caesar begins, "received a score of . . ." he does the dramatic pause thing again. I now see why he does it. When you actually care about the end of the sentence, waiting for it makes an emotional impact. Suddenly, I don't like the deed even more. " . . . eleven!" he concludes.

"What?" I exclaim before I can help myself.

"I didn't think the trap was that intricate," Gale frowns. "Isn't the point of the punishment supposed to be—"

"Shh!" Effie demands.

"And Katniss's score is," Caesar continues, then eyes the camera mischeviously.

That pause strategy could seriously kill someone if the conclusion of the statement was important enough. That could be someone's arena strategy. Start a bunch of important sentences and not finish until everyone drops dead with anticipation.

Momentarily captivated in my trivial thoughts, I barely hear Caesar announce that I've received an eleven, too.