A/N- The following character was submitted by Nice Career. He also marks the halfway point for the reapings. Yay!


…and it won't be enough energy to start the reaction. But if you use a really effective catalyst, then maybe-

"Neon!" my mother crows from the next room. I jump a little, banging my head against the hanging model of an engine. I rub my head in annoyance. I put that up when I was much younger, and I've grown since then. It's high time I shortened the cord. Maybe I'll get around to it tomorrow. I doubt it. I'm in the grips of creation and not in any hurry to distract my attention from my work.

"Yes?" I call back, trying to hide my annoyance.

"Don't you want any breakfast?" my mother asks in a sing-song voice. It's not an offer to cook, she just expects me to be as absent-minded as my father. Really, I'm not the sort to forget to eat. Well, usually. Maybe I would have… put it off indefinitely at the moment, but I wouldn't have starved myself. I'm smarter than that.

"No, I'm busy," I call back. "I'll eat after… after the Reaping,"

Assuming, of course, that there is an after. It's always possible there won't be. I'd like to dismiss the slight possibility of my being reaped, but it's impossible to do so. Quite frankly, I know I could die horribly in less than a week.

Great. Now I highly doubt I'll be able to focus on my inventions. I push my chair back and sigh, massaging my temples. Back to the facts. Always the facts.

There aren't a lot of people in District 6. It's always been one of the smallest. Despite this, there are hundreds of kids up for the reaping today, and about two thirds them have been entered for every reaping, making three entries. There are thousands of slips to be drawn. Only three of them have my name on them. Statistically, it is possible but not likely that I will be the taken boy.

Going quickly through the numbers makes me feel a little better, but the spell of invention has been broken; and that crumb of doubt has been lodged, buzzing, in my brain. I'll never be able to focus now, and I don't want to make some silly math error and throw off all my careful calculations. I sigh and stand, shoving my worn chair back and almost knocking it over. I slink away fro my desk, dreading the moment I'll step off my worn rug and onto the cold concrete. Or at least, onto something that's not as warm and soft. The side of my room devoted to being a small workshop is cluttered with everything that might come in handy as I tinker, so it's possible I'll step on a coil of wire or sheet of metal instead of the floor. No nails, though. I learned not to leave those lying around the painful way.

The workshop side of my room, with its mess and confusion, is in stark contrast to the half I live in, which is impeccably neat and almost entirely without frills. I guess my room is a reflection of me. I'm usually very put-together and straightforward, but when I get working my mind sort of… grows branches. I can never stick to one thought, and making my mind up on any one plan tends to open up about two more decisions to make. It's a bad habit, but I can't help it. There are too many processes to test, inventions to be made, new things to be discovered. It never ceases to amaze me how far the human race still has to go. But I think it's a good thing that we're still in the process of discovering. Who wants to live in a stagnated world?

I walk from my bedroom and workspace into the main room of my house. It functions as kitchen, living room, and dining room, and only having to furnish one room instead of three has allowed us to do so simply but nicely.

I slump to the cupboard, taking down a tin of coffee. I put a pot of water on the stove to boil and slump into a chair at the table. Now that my mind has been so rudely pulled out of my experiments, I'm beginning to crash. I stayed up far too late last night drawing out schematics, and then woke up at the usual time this morning to tinker some more. Bad idea on my part, but I can't say I wish I'd slept in.

After a few minutes the kettle begins to whistle, and I switch the stove off. I make a pot of coffee and pour myself a cup, leaving the rest on the counter for my parents. I'm tempted to add some milk and sugar, but decide against it. The stuff is like gold. Only tastier.

A minute or two later, someone raps on the front door. I peek out the window before opening the door, seeing Argon shuffling his feet out on the porch. My parents always joked that, since he spent so much time over at our house and was named after an element like me, he was their long-lost second son. Really, it's not much of a laughing matter. Argon's family have never been the best, and I'm pretty sure his father hits him sometimes. So Argon shows up at my house as often as not, and my parents make jokes to help them deal with the grim reality. Even if their jokes are a little insensitive. I think I inherited my own inappropriate sense of humor from my parents.

I pull the door open. "Morning, Argon."

"G' Morning. It okay if I just wait around at your house?" he asks, a little tentatively. Most people spend the day with their close friends, on the off chance that one of them is taken for the Hunger Games, but it's clear he still feels a little uncomfortable butting in on my family time.

"Sure, no problem. You know my parents'll put up with you," I say, waving my arm grandly and welcoming him in.

"What about you?" he teases.

I sniff haughtily. "I'll grace you with my presence, if you mind your manners."

"Yessir," he agrees, laughing.

"Want something to eat?" I ask, hoping he says no. We're not starving, but we still don't have too much extra to go around. But Argon brightens and nods happily. I wonder if he had anything at home before he came to my place. It wouldn't surprise me if he didn't.

"Okay. Well, we've got leftover stew from last night. It's cold, but..."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'll be great. Thanks," he says, sitting on the kitchen table.

I scoop the stew out into a bowl and put it down in front of him. He attacks it almost before I hand him a spoon, and it's a little mesmerizing to watch him eat. I don't know how he can swallow at the rate he's shoveling stew into his mouth, much less chew it at all. I sit down in a chair on the opposite side of the table and finish off my coffee.

"So, you going to-" he begins, but my mother swoops down before he can say anything and scolds him.

"Argon Flannery, you get your back end off my table now. People have to eat off that, you know!" she exclaims, brandishing a hairbrush warningly. Argon jumps off the table so quickly he almost drops the bowl.

"Sorry!" he yelps, and he stands in awkward silence for a minute, until my mother's face breaks into a grin.

"Now, welcome. It's nice to see you, dear," she chirps, giving him a one-armed hug around the stew bowl. He smiles back and returns her hug. He knew she wouldn't stay mad for long. She never does. It's sort of a game they play, though. She pretending to be stern and he pretending to be afraid of her. Their record is about two minutes.

"I see Neon fed you already?" she says, scooping the bowl out of his hands and carrying it to the counter.

"Yeah. It was really good. Thanks," he says, sitting down again. My mother takes a quick glance out of the corner of her eye to ascertain that he's on a chair instead of the table this time and turns back to our cheap sink, satisfied.

"Oh, don't thank me. Zinc does the cooking around here. I'm just the looks of this whole 'housekeeping' business," she sniffs breezily. Argon and I laugh, because we know that's not true. She does just as much around the house as my dad, although it's true we (for our own safety) don't let her cook. And no offense to my mom, but she's not really 'the looks' of anything. She's always a little wrinkled and mussed, like she just took a nap and forgot to brush up afterwards.

"Okay. Well, I'll have to thank him too, then. Later," he says. My mother takes a backwards glance down the hall.

"Yes. Well, he should be up. I just went and woke him. What is taking that man so long? Zinc? Zinc?" my mother says, whirling on her heel and marching back to my parents' room. I resist the urge to point out to her that it's been maybe a minute since she got here. My mother's very go-go-go. She's got enough energy for all three of us, and my father knew that when he married her. He got himself into that mess, and he can deal with the consequences.

"What were you gonna ask me?" I say to Argon.

"Hm?"

"Earlier. You were asking me if I was going to do something, and then Mom barged in."

"Oh. Huh. I don't remember anymore," he says, frowning.

"Oh, well. It was probably stupid anyway, knowing you," I taunt.

"Hey," he says mildly, knowing me well enough not to be offended.

"I only speak the truth, Argie," I say, lacing my fingers behind my head.

"Don't call me that," he orders, a little tiredly. I know it bugs him, which is exactly why I do it.

"What? You're not even going to fight back? Boring! I'm disappointed in you," I scold, clucking my tongue.

"Ugh. It's way too early in the morning for banter," he grumbles, and I laugh. Victory goes to me, then.

We sit in silence for another moment. Normally Argon and I are more than familiar enough to comfortably say nothing for a lot longer than this, but the inherent tension of today makes it awkward for once. I clear my throat.

"How'd you do on the chemistry test?" I prompt. Argon winces.

"Not as well as you did, that's for sure," he sighs. "I barely passed. Chemistry... isn't my strong subject. Too many fiddly little numbers."

"But that's the best part! The threat that one little miscalculation will throw the experiment off and your whole house will go up and in flames and you'll be blown to smithereens? Best thrill there is! What's fun without a little risk?" I protest.

"Yeah. Sure, whatever you say," Argon replies, eyebrow raised; obviously unable to tell whether or not I'm joking.

"Only kidding. Calm down," I say. Argon rolls his eyes.

We go on in much the same fashion for another hour or so, before heading off to the reaping. Argon is a year younger than I am, so he's in another section and I don't see him again before the ceremony starts. Which turns out to be a bad thing.

"Euliptia Grenniale!"

Kids begin whipping their heads around, trying to locate the unlucky victim. Some people look in the complete wrong direction, but I immediately seek out the seventeen-year-olds' section. I know Euliptia, vaguely. Her sister dated a friend of mine a while back. To be honest, it's almost hard to feel sorry for her. She's so awful to everyone. Well, not quite everyone. She seemed pretty close to her sister the few times I saw them together. Other than that, she seems nasty.

What can I say? I'm not one to sugarcoat things. But I soon get over any guilt for my rudeness to Euliptia, because karma finds a way to get me back almost immediately.

"Neon Bing!"

To be honest, my first reaction is a string of un-repeatable swear words. The second is the sudden realization that I don't have any sort of plan for this. I'd always just run through the numbers and shoved the possibility of being reaped out of my head. I try to settle on one in the moments I have before everyone's eyes are on me, but I can't decide how to present myself. This year, it's going to matter, too. It's not just your own skill that will make you win or lose. The Gamemakers will be pulling strings, too. If you present yourself wrong, you're dead.

That sends up a whole new level of panic, so I do the only thing I think will keep me under control: I try to shut down entirely. I can decide on a strategy for my public appearances later. Right now I just have to keep myself from bursting into tears or wetting myself or doing something else just as embarrassing.

Lee Lee, our new "escort", gestures toward Euliptia and me, announcing that we are the tributes of District 6.

Really, if anybody missed that, they haven't been paying enough attention.

The ceremony ends, and almost immediately people begin to disband. I can't blame them; last year and the year before I didn't stick around any longer than I absolutely had to, either. The sense of foreboding is thick and sickening. It's a smothering place right after the reaping.

"This way, please," a Peacekeeper barks, gesturing off the stage. Euliptia marches right past him, her nose in the air, stomping on his foot as she goes. I'm sure it's on purpose. Two or three more shadow her as she heads down to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. I follow directions more tentatively, making my way down the raised platform. I probably ought to hurry, so that I can have as long with my friends and family as possible. But then again, I don't even know how long I'm supposed to get. Do I have an hour, total? That's what I'd always expected. But maybe not. Maybe each visitor will only get five minutes, or something like that.

I eventually reach the room provided and sit down in the cushy armchair. It's probably the nicest chair in District 6, outside of Victors' Village. Too bad it's a throne for the condemned.

There's a short period of time before guests enter, and I wonder what the holdup is. Finally, my parents are admitted. My mother's usual energy is eaten up by shock and grief, and she moves like her entire body has turned to lead. My father's eyes, always set on some indistinct goal or complex new experiment, are unusually focused. He's been robbed of his dreamy vacancy, to be plunged into icy cold reality. It twists the sparking panic in my stomach into a constant roar, making me nauseous.

"You'll come home," my mother murmurs faintly. "You have to."

That does it. I fling myself at my parents, wrapping my arms around their necks. I can't stop shaking, but luckily I'm just barely able to bite back tears. Tears will be no ally in the arena.

In the arena.

Oh. Oh, no. I think I'm going to be sick.

And I am. I push my parents away and empty the contents of my stomach all over the thick carpet. I moan miserably. Really, whoever designed humans to throw up in cases of extreme nerves should be fed to mutts. Stupid idea, in my opinion.

Someone's rubbing my back, whispering comfortingly to me. My father. It helps a little. I feel like a little kid again, and my childhood years weren't like this. Sad, maybe. Hard, sure. But even during the war District 6 escaped the worst of the fighting, and I never felt this clear threat of death hanging over my neck like a butcher's knife.

I wonder if any of the tributes this year will know how to handle a butcher's knife and almost get sick all over again.

My father pulls me up and holds me against him, not shrinking away from the vomit on my breath. "You'll win, Neon. You're smarter than them. All of them!"

"You don't know that," I whisper hoarsely.

"You have to be!" he exclaims. "You're smarter - you are - but you're not stronger. Don't try to best them with strength. You've got to outthink them!"

I wonder if he realizes that it's not as easy as all that. That I can't just wish really hard to be smart enough to murder twenty-three other kids. I guess not, because he's filled with a fierce, desperate intensity as he whispers instructions. It's my guess he's as much trying to convince himself as he is me. Well, all the pep talks in the world won't make me smarter enough to survive a slit throat or an acid spray. The arena is not a place for the smart. It is a place for primal violence.

"Okay. Okay, Dad," I whisper. "Yeah. I'll win. For… for you."

He nods, like this really decides anything. I feel guilty immediately. I'm not usually the sort to make and break promises, and I don't know if I can keep this one.

"Botany?" my father says, turning to my mother. She smiles vacantly and drifts toward me like a ghost. She kisses my cheek gently, still off in her own world.

"Goodbye, Argon. I love you. Have… fun, okay?" she croons, a dreamy smile floating across her face. Suddenly I'm worried about her. Being stunned is one thing, but this absent cheerfulness is somehow much more frightening. Is there something wrong with my mother?

I don't get to find out, because my father takes her by the arm and tows her out, shaking slightly. The door doesn't quite close behind him. A Peacekeeper catches it right before it closes and marches in crisply. "Visitors from this point on will be let inside in groups of five," he drones.

I take this to mean everyone in my extended group of friends has decided to visit. A lot of the time, more casual friends will hang back to give someone privacy with their family and closer friends, but I'm glad this isn't going to be the case for me. I want to give every one of my friends a last hug and a goodbye, just in case. It's not like only one or two of them matter to me.

My friends filter through. I manage not to cry once, although I get too close for my liking. People say a lot of the same things. That they love me. That they won't forget me if the worst happens. That I'm sure to win. That they'll kill me if I don't. Soon enough they begin to sort of blur together. I feel immediately guilty when I realize I don't remember exactly what each one of them said.

On the fifth group of assorted friends, only three people are let in, so I assume they're the last. I'm surprised to see Euliptia's sister as well as two of my friends named Rhit and Merrigan.

I give my two friends a gruff hug and turn to Eutopia. She smiles weakly and shakes my hand.

"Neon, you haven't given up, right? I mean, I've seen some of the other reapings; and some of those kids are scary, but it doesn't matter. Nothing's final 'til you're dead. So you don't get to decide ahead of time that there's no way you'll win, you get it?" Merrigan begins.

"Well, yeah, but-" I begin, but he continues.

"I know you're going to try to count yourself out, Neon. But you can't. The moment you do, there's no chance. You're a fast enough guy. You're smart. And don't try and tell me that doesn't matter. Look at last year! Eewyn was way smaller than that other guy. She'd hardly even used that knife before. But she won, because she tricked him. He let his guard down. It can work, Neon! You can win!"

He breathes heavily when he's through with his speech, like it was somehow exhausting. I guess it could have been. Expending a lot of emotion can get your heart pounding just like expending a lot of energy.

"Okay. Okay, I won't. Give up, that is," I say, and he nods seriously.

"I'm- I'm gonna go," he says, clearing his throat.

"Alright. Bye, Merrigan," I say, and we give each other one more quick hug.

He darts out the door and the doorman peeks in. "They're not done yet," I say, and he pulls backs.

"Wow. Um, I don't really know what to say," Rhit begins. I consider teasing her about her not-exactly-eloquent opening, but decide not to. It could be the last time I ever see Rhit. I don't need to be a jerk now.

"I bet everything's been pretty much covered by now," she continues, laughing breathily. "But… I still don't want to let you go without saying something, y'know? So, I guess… just remember you're my friend. Remember you're all of our friend. Merrigan's and Argon's and Laceine's, and… everybody's friend. We're all going to be rooting for you, and we'll all be cheering you on. If you win, we're all going to be here to welcome you back. So, no matter what happens, know we love you."

"Didn't need to tell me that, Rhit," I say gently. "I know that."

"Ha, yeah," she says weakly, rubbing at her watering eyes. "Still I just wanted to… get that out there."

I give Rhit another hug and she sniffles loudly. She doesn't leave like Merrigan did, but takes a seat on the armchair, eying the vomit on the floor suspiciously before turning back to watch Eutopia and me.

"So… Eutopia. I'm kind of surprised to see you here, honestly," I say. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but I don't really know you all that well."

"No. No, I know you don't. Actually, Neon, it's about my sister."

"Euliptia? What about her?" I ask, considering telling her I'm sorry her sister was reaped, but decide in my position I'm not exactly obligated to offer sympathy.

"She's… not the nicest girl around," Eutopia begins slowly. That's certainly the truth, but I can't imagine where she's going with this. "She's not the sort who makes friends easily or keeps them easily."

"If you're asking me to ally with her… I don't know, Eutopia. I 'm not sure if I want any allies at all. And besides, I doubt she'd-"

"No, I'm not asking you to ally with Euliptia," she says, shuffling her feet. "It's just… don't be the one to kill her."

"What?" I ask.

"Just don't kill her. I couldn't stand it if she died and I had to look the person who murdered her in the face every day. Please, I-"

"How dare you?" growls Rhit from behind me. I'm a little surprised by Eutopia's request-asking me not to kill Euliptia is a little like asking me to put her life ahead of my own-but Rhit looks positively murderous.

"How dare you barge in here, while he's being sent off to the Hunger Games, and tell him he needs to give special treatment to your sister? She's not the only person who has people who care about her, you know. Just because she's an utter bi-"

"Rhit!" I chide.

"-jerk," she amends. "And has alienated everyone enough that I bet half the people in this District want her dead doesn't mean you get to tell him he should die just so you can sleep easier at night.

"Get out of here. You should be ashamed of yourself," she hisses. Eutopia looks taken aback, but draws herself up to her full height to glare at Rhit. The two girls stand for a moment, and I swear they look like they're about to take each other on right here in the goodbye room, but then Eutopia whirls to me.

"Think on it," she says tersely, and marches away.

I do. I think on it as Rhit is led away by Peacekeepers and I'm taken to the train. I think on it as reporters snap pictures of Euliptia and me. I think on it as she barges past me to get onto the train, knocking me hard against the metal door.

By the time the train sets off I've thought on it enough, and reached a sickening decision.

If the time comes, I will kill Euliptia Grenniale. If the time comes, I will kill all of them.

Does that make me evil?

I decide I'll have to think on it.