Author's Note: Hi, it's Crystal again (even though I write for neither of these two tributes). Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Violet Summers, District 8 Female- PrimrosesxDandelions

I stand in front the mirror in my room, twirling the end of my navy cotton dress in between my fingers and fighting back the tears.

I thought that working in the same textile factory that my parents were killed in would put me in the most dangerous position I could be in, but it then I remember this day.

Reaping day.

The day I dread every year.

My thoughts are distracted when my grandmother comes in and tells me it's time to go with that same saddened look on her face. I only nod my head.

I look around to the other victims, studying their expressions: grief, sadness, and most of all, strength.

I get to the section where all the 15 year old girls stand.

I guess the only good thing about this is that my little brother and sister are too young to be a part of any of it.

Honestly, I feel numb. I can feel my knees tremblinb beneath me. Barely able to stand.

Especially when I see the District 8 escort, Thalia Petronus, come upon the stage like nothing is wrong, unlike the rest of us.

"Well, well, well, welcome to the 97th Hunger Games, my petals." I guess that's a nickname she's given us.

Then she's continues on about how this is her favorite district and how she expects great things from us.

The she shakes her head and says, "Alright enough of that. It's time for the fun: drawing tributes!"

Then she tiptoes over to the right bowl and tips the edge of it, saying, "Ladies first."

With excitement, she plucks a name out of the bowl.

I squeeze my eyes shut, praying with everything that I have that it isn't me. I find that it's useless when she says the name, my name.

"Violet Summers."

My eyes go from shut to wide open, and once again I feel numb.

I and slowly make my way to the stage, stunned, as Thalia grabs me by the shoulders and places me center stage, gesturing for everyone to applaud, which barely anyone does.

I can't even breathe. I feel like I'm the only person in the world, alone. With no one to come for me.

I'm not even paying attention very much except when she announces the male tribute's name. "Flax Croppes!"

A boy around my age that is as tall as me comes up to the stage.

Thalia makes another short speech along with the mayor after that. Then, Flax and I shake hands before they take us into the Justice Building.

I'm placed into a small room and start pacing back and forth, waiting for my family to arrive.

Suddenly the door flies open and my grandparents and siblings fly into my arms.

They ask me if I was okay. I try to be strong for them but I can't help but break down.

My little sister comes up to me with something in her hand which I instantly know what it is.

"Here. You should have this in there." She extends the token to me.

It's my mothers necklace, the only thing I have left of either of my parents. I look at the silver chain that has a few charms at the end.

I can feel the tears streaming down my face, but I brush them away, taking her and kissing her head.

Then, the doors swing open once again and a flood of Peacekeepers come in, ordering them to leave. We all lock eyes with each other for what might be the last time before the doors close, leaving me alone again.


Flax Croppes, Disrict 8 Male- superneet1214

I wake up from a dreamless sleep, the sound of morning birds and the bright light of dawn urging me to open my eyes and face another dull day. I do so begrudgingly, sitting up and pushing the quilt off of my mostly bare legs. My plain grey t-shirt, which I sleep in most every night, is plastered to my back with sweat. It must have been a humid night- not too unusual for summer.

I'm slightly confused as I glance out the dingy window directly to the left of my bed, which is pressed up against the wall. The pale lighting means it's early morning- too late for me to be awake. One of my triplet sisters, Raschel, usually comes in when it's still dark to wake me up for work at the textile mill. Paisley, the last triplet, usually lets me sleep a bit later than them because I can get ready so quickly, but never this late. It doesn't matter that there is no work today- not even if that's because it's the day of the Reaping.

The Reaping, one of the most anticipated days in Panem; whether that be because of excitement or dread; will be taking place today. A boy and a girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen will be drawn from two bowls, which are filled to the brim with slips of paper bearing names, to be placed in the Hunger Games- punishment for two unsuccessful rebellions among the Districts. My sisters and I are fourteen, turning fifteen very soon. All three of us are eligible for the Reaping, a thought that sends shivers down my spine.

Sliding out of bed, I creep to the door, separating my tiny box of a room from the rest of the house, gently pushing it open and stepping into the hall. I glance at the bathroom, directly across from me- the door's wide open and it's completely black inside. No one in there.

I head to the right, passing my parents' room. The door is shut, meaning my mother and step-father are either asleep or in the process of getting ready. Only a few paces ahead is the room my sisters share. The door is cracked open, and I can hear noise from the inside. It sounds like... Crying?

Inching forward, I'm almost to the doorway when Raschel swings the door open. Her black hair, slightly curly like my own dark caramel-colored locks, is combed and pulled into a ponytail with what had to be our real father, Twist's, hairband, which he had kept on his wrist and used in his hair whenever it grew too long. She always wears it in her hair at the Reapings- to have a part of him with her, I guess.

Her eyes, the same dark shade as mine, are tinted red- her cheeks wet with shed tears. She lets out a choked breath, then covers her face and turns to run. I'm not sure how to react, so I simply watch her bare foot vanish as she turns into the kitchen.

Paisley creeps out of the door, letting out a slight yelp as she almost walks into me. I turn to look closely at her- her light toffee hair, similar to mine, hasn't even been finger-combed. Her bottom lip, chapped and cracking, is bleeding slightly as she gnaws on it.

I glance over towards where Raschel had disappeared, opening my mouth to ask about the tears, but my triplet just shakes her head slowly, grabbing one of my hands and gently pulling me down the hallway. I'm confused, mind muddled by sleep and questions.

The two of us enter the dimly lit kitchen. The counter is covered in bowls, wooden utensils, and an assortment of odd spices and breads. At the island in the center, sitting on one of the splintering stools, is Raschel, head buried in her arms. As soon as she sees her, Paisley lets go of my hand and rushes over to our sister. I awkwardly back away, averting my gaze from the two. Even though Paisley led me here, probably to help to comfort her for whatever reason she was upset, I felt awkward seeing Raschel like this. She was never upset like this- the only familiar thing about this situation was her enraged expression.

I head back to my room, getting dressed in a nice shirt and pants. The clothing is uncomfortable, but I know I'll only be in it until we get back home, where we will shake off the grimness of the day with sweet bread and fruit.

By the time I've returned to the kitchen, Mom and Burton, my step-dad, are both nibbling on slices of bread. Raschel and Paisley have both disappeared- they're probably finishing getting ready. I walk over to the island, plop down onto one of the stools, and grab a slice of bread from the loaf in the center. I slowly gnaw on it, despite its bland flavor. Mom smiles slightly at me, a hand on her swollen belly, but she doesn't say anything.

It seems like an eternity before Raschel and Paisley are both in the kitchen, in simple skirts and tucked shirts, and even longer until the small clock on the counter tells us it is time to head for the town square, where the Hall of Justice is located.

We walk down the dingy concrete sidewalk, careful not to step into the rancid pools of rain that rarely evaporate from the cracks and indentations. The air itself feels stuffy, even though the usually ever-present smoke rising from the factories in the distance is nonexistent today.

When we finally reach the town square, Paisley, who had been holding Raschel's hand the whole walk (Raschel had acted reluctant, but I got the feeling it made her feel better) lets go of her triplet and gives me a quick hug, before doing the same to our parents. The adults simply smile sadly at us, Mom whispering words of luck, before vanishing into the crowds of those who are not eligible for the Reaping.

I gulp down the unease rising in my throat. Every year, it becomes worse- us triplets grow older, the stakes heightening. We don't have to take much tesserae, but we take it, nonetheless, and it makes me uneasy.

I head into my line, coffee eyes following my sisters for a few paces before they disappear like our parents. I shuffle along the group of young, teenage boys, wincing when a Capitol worker grabs me roughly by the arm and pricks my forefinger, gripping it tightly to draw more blood as they press it onto a slip of paper.

They immediately let go, leaving me to lap at the stinging digit as I get pushed into the group of boys near the back. I'm surrounded by people from the factories and school, all muttering. Some sound pained, but most are acting like usual teenage boys, bantering back and forth with friends. They hush up as the clock tower, it's imposing figure closeby, tolls the hour. It's time for the Reaping.

From a set of chairs at the back of the stage, our mayor walks up to the mic. He forces an odd smile, glancing between the numerous cameras set up throughout the wide space, before launching into a speech about the purpose of the Hunger Games, filled with stuttering and nervous coughs. When he's done, he glances down at the cards in his hands, fumbling with them for a moment, before looking back up and grinning at us. As he hurries back to his seat, he nods to the side of the stage, from where our mentors appear, followed my applause from all of us. I can't catch a glimpse of them before the mayor gives an untimely introduction to our escort.

Now, as a citizen of District Eight, I understand apparel. I've seen some CRAZY things. But I can never get over the insanity of the Capitolites, especially our escort.

When Thalia Petronus shuffles up to the front, long strands of blood red hair almost tripping her in her matching stilettos, I can hear some of the adults sniggering. She stops in front of the mic, batting her vibrant eyelashes in their direction, and attempts a slight curtsy in her black fur jacket and billowing skirt.

"Well, well, well- welcome to the 97th Hunger Games, my petals!" I furrow my brow slightly at the odd nickname- she seems to come up with a new one each year. She continues to talk about how much she loves District Eight, as usual, and then claps her gloved hands together.

"Alright, enough of that. It's time for the fun- drawing the tributes!"

At this, everyone starts to pay attention. Thalia chuckles, as if she finds our priorities amusing. She approaches one of the two glass bowls, which were wheeled up to the stage during her ramble. Her black lips curl at the tips, and she taps the edge of the right bowl.

"Ladies first," She purrs, red eyes shining in excitement as she plucks a name from the bowl. She unfolds it as quickly as she had chosen it, but hesitates before reading. Slowly looking up, she says in a sing-song voice, "Violet Summers."

I guiltily let out a relieved breath, my shoulders relaxing as a short girl with lovely ebony hair makes her way to the stage. Another year of safety for Paisley and Raschel. Thalia starts an applause, which we all take part in half-heartedly.

Walking away from the stunned girl, the escort heads to the left bowl. Here, I feel a different type of discomfort. It's not fearing for someone else- it is fearing for myself. I suck in a deep breath as Thalia pulls out another name, unfolding it. I look towards the side for females, and can't help but find my sisters, standing next to each other. They both turn, and Raschel's cheeks are marked by tears again, because just a heartbeat later I hear, "Flax Croppes," called out.

I don't even know what to do. The boys around me back off like I've just contracted some disease. I hold eye contact with my sisters for a moment more, before trying to get to the stage. I can feel hundreds of eyes boring into me. It doesn't feel normal- no one ever even casts me a glance, outside of my family. I'm just another factory worker to them. But now I'm more than that. Now I'm some doomed kid.

Up on the stage, it isn't any better. I'm about as tall as Violet, who I don't even make eye contact with. I can see all the cameras angled towards me, working as the Capitol's beady eyes.

Once again, Thalia leads the crowd in brief celebration. Then the mayor gives a quick ending speech, the anthem starts to play, Violet and I shake hands, and then we're pulled away by Peacekeepers to the inside of the Justice Building.

As I'm shoved into a small room, filled with musty furniture and an alarming amount of dust, the tears start to flow. It's pathetic, I know, but I can't control it. Never again will I see my sisters. I'll never be able to have another awkward conversation with Burton about Raschel. I'll never get to meet my half-brother. I'm about to meet a painful, sad end to an incomplete life, for the sake of someone else who fears the same.

Thin frame rattling with choked sobs, I sit down on one of the narrow couches. I bite down on my fist, trying to force back my heaving breaths before my family will come charging through the door. If they see me crying, then they'll know that there's no chance of me coming back, and I don't think I could bear to do that to them. So I force myself to calm down, promising to let myself cry later on the train, as much as I want. My eyes have just started to feel less swollen when Mom, Burton, and my sisters barge in.

The sight of them almost brings tears back. Raschel is crying again, something that is starting to feel normal already. I hope Paisley will take care of her. Paisley herself is biting her lower lip, face ducked slightly as her shoulders heave. Burton looks on the verge of tears as well as he helps Mom, who looks like she might collapse, over to me. She pulls me onto my feet and into a hug, crushing me against her figure, before letting go and pulling my sisters over. Both cling to me with the same vigor. Everyone is rambling, spewing out words of love, encouragement, and all sorts of pleads.

Suddenly, Raschel rips our father's hairband from her ponytail, leaving her black hair falling around her like a cloak. She shoves the small accessory into my palm, swollen, red eyes meeting my own.

"Your token. So you wo- so you can't forget us."

And before I can nod, or assure her that I would never forget them, the Capitol's Peacekeepers are urging them back out of the door.