Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Now that we've made it through the reapings, there's a poll on my profile where you can vote for your favorite tributes. Choose as many as you like, and feel free to vote for your own; just make sure to let me know who else you like, too. (Because if, out of thirty-six tributes, the only one you like is your own, I'm doing something wrong.) This poll will be up until the end of the train rides, so if you'd like to wait until you see a little more of our tributes, that's perfectly fine, as well.

Also, now that you've met all the tributes, if you have any alliances in mind, let me know. I may not be able to accommodate everyone, but I'll try my best, especially if a request is mutual.

Lastly, thank you to Starry Infinities, bobothebear, and Lupus Overkill for Blythe, Brennan, and Francis, respectively.

District Twelve Reaping
Brief

Silas Grisom, 49
Capitol Mentor

No one ever saw their potential.

Silas leaned back in his chair onstage, taking in the sight that would move most people to either pity or disgust, either compassion or contempt. District Twelve. The smallest, poorest, victorless district. And yet so rich – rich in potential, rich in desperation, rich in character.

How could he refuse?

Several other people had, he knew. He hadn't been anyone's first choice for this position. A trial lawyer – however experienced – was hardly qualified to prepare children for a fight to the death. Over the years, they had passed him over – for soldiers, survival experts, strategists.

But he was patient. Now, finally, when all of their other options had failed – most resigning after a year, some lasting two – now they had turned to him.

And he wouldn't fail.

Oh, he might fail this year. Or the next. That was to be expected. In twenty-four years, only two mentors had brought home a tribute their very first year. And the first was a given; someone had to bring a tribute home the first year, and Adonias had been lucky enough to be mentoring Vester, the Capitol favorite. Then there was District Nine, the only district with back-to-back victors. But that had been due to Crispin's cleverness, certainly not Tobiah's mentoring skills.

So of course he would try, but he wasn't really expecting to succeed this year. But that wouldn't drive him away, as it had so many of the others. Silas was no stranger to failure. Winning or losing wasn't the point; the point was to put on a good show. As long as he did that, Silas was confident they would let him mentor District Twelve as long as he had the stomach for it.

And he had a strong stomach.

He had to, with everything he'd seen after the rebellion. The interrogations. The beatings. The torture. All part of the process of 'justice' in the Capitol – at least as far as rebels were concerned. And, at first, that was exactly what most of his clients had been. The trials were mostly for show – if the Capitol wanted someone executed, that's exactly what they would get – but, occasionally, he was able to do some good. Occasionally, the Capitol would agree to pardon the criminals' families – particularly their children – if they would confess their crimes, denounce their actions, perhaps name a few of their associates.

That was how he had saved the Ichihara children all those years ago. A boy and a girl, destined to pay the price for their parents' actions – until he had stepped in, convinced those in power to let him offer a deal. The parents had cracked immediately at the offer of their children's safety, and had given the names of several other key rebels in District Seven. All to save the lives of a girl who had already gone mad from the Capitol's torture and a boy who would meet his fate, anyway, in the Games. He hadn't saved the boy; he had only postponed the inevitable for ten years.

But those were ten years that Kaji Ichihara wouldn't have had without him.

Besides, that was all that anyone was doing, in the end: postponing the inevitable. Even in the Capitol, with all their obsession with youth and good looks, the best surgeons and magicians had yet to find a permanent cure for death. They could delay it. They could make it painless. But, in the end, death always had its say.

Always.

Maybe that was life's greatest lesson, in the end: that, no matter how hard anyone tried – no matter how strong or how intelligent or how brave they were – eventually they lost. The sooner people recognized that, the more they could make of the little, fleeting time they had left. The more they could focus on creating something that would last.

That was why he was here, after all. Why he hadn't been able to turn down the chance to mentor the only victorless district. For the past twenty-five years, he'd made a name for himself as a lawyer who was willing to take any case. Willing to defend anyone, no matter how heinous. He'd lost more cases than he'd won, sacrificed more lives than he'd saved, but he'd been part of history.

And that's what the Games were: a chance to be part of history. To be part of something bigger. To tell a story, put on a show, to change lives forever.

They didn't understand that here in Twelve – or in most of the districts. Didn't understand that it was all about the show. Even in One, Two, and Four, the focus was on training – on weapons and skills and strength. And training was helpful, of course – the last four Games had proven that. But, on its own, it wasn't enough.

It didn't matter that Twelve was the poorest district. It didn't matter that their tributes weren't trained. Didn't matter if they were young, weak, skinny. As long as they put on a good show, they had a chance. And the Capitol had finally realized it. District Twelve didn't need a soldier. They didn't need an expert strategist. They needed a showman.

And now they had him.

The crowd shifted uneasily as District Twelve's escort, Lontae Hesperion, took her place. Silas gave her a smile and a little wave. She glared back. To her, he was just another idiot who thought that he could succeed where everyone else had failed. Another mentor who would be gone in a year or two. Another in a long line of failures.

Silas shrugged and turned his attention back to the crowd. It didn't matter what she thought. Or what any of them thought. The only people in the crowd who mattered were the three tributes whose names he didn't even know yet. The three teenagers who would step forward any moment now, shaking and terrified, into the spotlight. The three children who, after this moment, would no longer be children, but names that would be part of history.

"Blythe Ayers!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted, revealing a girl who looked even younger. She stood there, staring, horrified, helpless in the face of her worst nightmare, come to life. Then she began to cry. One of the girls near her whispered something. She shook her head, frantic, desperate.

Then the Peacekeepers stepped in. One of them made a move to grab her, but, before he could, she took off sprinting – towards the stage. Maybe hoping to earn back some of her lost image by at least making it to the stage under her own power, rather than being dragged to her death. She hurried up the stairs, her face turned away from the cameras, trying to hide her tears.

But she couldn't hide them from him.

But tears were nothing new to him. Nor did it matter to him that she was still shaking, still sobbing despite her efforts to stop. First impressions didn't matter. He was in this for the long run.

So Silas looked past the tears and studied her carefully. She was short – five feet at the most – and thin. Not as thin as some, though she was paler than most. Her wavy, light blonde hair was choppily cut around her shoulders. She was wearing a blouse that had probably been white at one point, but was now stained with the dirt that seemed to coat the district itself. She wore a red and green tartan skirt and brown ankle boots. Her eyes, a soft blue-grey, found his, begging, pleading for him to do something. To save her.

Silas flashed her a smile and nodded towards the cameras. Face the audience. Use the spotlight. The girl turned back towards the crowd, no longer sobbing quite so hard, but her gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Silas turned his own smile towards the cameras, looking as confident as he could in his new tribute as Lontae reached into the bowl again.

"Brennan Aldaine!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy who, for a moment, looked as though he might run. His whole body was tense, his eyes wide, his face pale. But, when he finally took his first trembling step, it was towards the stage, not away form it. One step followed another – shaky and slow, but consistent.

Like the girl, there wasn't anything particularly special about his appearance. Average height, average build, not quite as pale as the girl. Tousled brown hair and gentle brown eyes that were struggling to hold back tears. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and khakis. Looking closer, Silas noticed a watch – an old watch, perhaps a family keepsake. Sentimental.

Not that that's a surprise. Silas watched as the boy took his place by his new district partner, managing a small nod. She stared back at him, terrified, but, in that moment, the terror united them, and he reached for her hand. She gripped it tightly, clinging to it as if it were a lifeline. The two of them glanced over at Lontae, waiting for the third name.

"Francis Cooper!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy who immediately looked much older than his two district partners. There was no hesitation, no shock before he started walking towards the stage. There was fear in his eyes, but no tears. A distant fear of the future rather than the panic of the here and now. Already thinking ahead. Already looking towards what was to come.

He was taller than the other two – a little tall even for his own age, and rather lanky. He was pale, with dark reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes. A strong, angled jaw and a slightly upturned nose. He wore a blue collared shirt, brown dress pants, and a well-worn black jacket.

Instead of stopping beside his district partners, however, the boy hesitantly approached Lontae. "May I…?" he asked, gesturing towards the microphone.

Lontae blinked, confused, but Silas nodded emphatically, and Lontae stepped aside. The boy looked out at the crowd. "I just wanted to say … thank you to our district, for the time we've had here. And we promise that…" his voice faltered, unsure. Promise what? That one of them would come back? That this year, somehow, would be they year that everything changed. The boy glanced at his two district partners, who were watching, as surprised as anyone else.

"That we'll make you proud," the boy decided at last, stepping back from the microphone and shaking the other boy's hand, then the girl's. Last, the two younger tributes shook hands.

Silas nodded, satisfied, as the three of them were led away. They had potential – all three of them. More than their district knew. More than they knew.

"Pretty speech," Lontae commented wryly as she and Silas headed off towards the train. "Won't help them much once they're in the arena."

Silas shrugged. "You'd be surprised. It's amazing what a difference the little things can make. Everyone wants to focus on the big picture – the training, the alliances, the strategy. No one ever pays attention to details. But the big picture is made up of details. You have to be able to see the trees as well as the forest.

Lontae shook her head. "There is no forest. There are no trees. There is no big picture – not here. There's just days, and then hours, and then minutes, until all three of them are dead – and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Silas shrugged. "Who said anything about stopping it? No one can stop it. We've all got years, then days, then hours, then minutes – it's just a matter of how many, and how long we can postpone what's coming for us all, in the end. That's life – and the Games are no different. There's only one winner, and most of the audience has it all wrong. The winner isn't one of the tributes. The winner isn't the person who lives the longest, who survives to face death at some later time." He grinned, clapping Lontae on the back.

"The winner is Death."

Blythe Ayers, 14

They couldn't go yet.

Blythe couldn't hold back another wave of sobbing as the Peacekeeper knocked on the door, signaling that their time was over. At least here, cradled in her parents' arms, with her younger siblings nearby – here, she felt a little safer than she had onstage. There, she had been alone. Exposed. Helpless.

But the truth was that she wasn't any safer here. If anything, those extra minutes only meant that she was that much closer to the inevitable. That much closer to the Games, to the arena.

To death.

Blythe buried her face in her mother's shirt. She didn't want to go. She didn't want them to go. There was so much she hadn't said. So much she hadn't done. This couldn't end yet.

The Peacekeeper knocked again, then opened the door. Several of them stepped in, ready to drag her family away from her. Blythe clung to her mother, but a Peacekeeper's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her away. Another took her mother and father by the arm and yanked them roughly out the door. A third lifted Iona, the youngest, who was clinging to Blythe, and tore her away. The other four – Joran, Milo, Rae, and Kellin – were quickly taken away, as well, leaving Blythe alone, calling for them, calling that she loved them, that she would try to come home, that she wanted nothing more in the world than to see them again, just for a moment.

Still sobbing, Blythe buried her face in her hands, even though there was no one else there to see. Soon, they would all see. The whole Capitol would see her, and what would they see? Another weak, crying girl from District Twelve. Another helpless tribute for the bloodbath. Another quick death.

Blythe finally drew her hands away from her face, her fists clenched. No. She didn't want that. She didn't want to be that. All her life, she had told herself she wouldn't be just another number. Just another poor citizen, struggling from day to day, working half to death just so death wouldn't come from starvation, instead. She'd always wanted to be something more. Something better.

Something greater.

Maybe this was her chance. It was a small chance, but a small chance was better than none. It was something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

Brennan Aldaine, 15

He couldn't go yet.

Brennan took a deep breath, fighting back tears. It had taken all of his control not to fight, not to cry and scream, as the Peacekeepers led his parents away. That wasn't how he wanted them to remember him – as a crying, screaming child. He wanted to be calm. He wanted to be strong.

But how long could it last?

The door opened again, and Olivia stepped in, quiet, hesitant. Brennan bit his lip. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say everything. How frightened he was, how much he wished things could be different, how much he hoped he would see her again. But it was better to let her speak first. Let her get it all out.

Then maybe he could, too.

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. "I'm so sorry," Olivia said at last. "I wish…"

She stopped there. What could they wish for? That his name hadn't been drawn? That they could turn back time, stir the slips again, and the escort would pick someone else? A silly wish. A childish wish. And he didn't want to be remembered as a child.

He'd always wanted to be remembered for something. Something good, something useful, something that would make District Twelve – or even Panem itself – a little better. But how could he do that in the Games? How could he hold onto that dream, when, by definition, the Games made everything – and everyone – worse?

He didn't want to be part of that. He didn't want to be that. He didn't want to be just another tribute, just another life destroyed by the Games. He wanted – he had always wanted – so much more.

"I wish I didn't have to go," he finished for her. That was what it came down to, in the end: He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to leave her, or his family, or the district he loved. But, in the end, he had to. And the only way he was ever going to see them again – the only way he was ever going to come home – was if he accepted that, first, he had to leave.

All too soon, the Peacekeepers came to take Olivia away. But, just before she left, Olivia slipped her locket into his hand. Nodding, he took off his watch – the watch his grandfather had given him before he died three years ago – and handed it to her. "I'll be back for this." It wasn't much of a promise, but it was something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

Francis Cooper, 17

He had to go now.

Francis shook his head as he watched his parents leave. His brother Arnold hung back for a moment, and the two embraced. But then Arnold had to go. And soon he would have to go, too.

But part of him was already gone. Part of him had already left District Twelve, the moment the escort had called his name. Part of his mind was already in the Games, already thinking through scenarios, already considering the worst: that he might not be coming home.

But was that the worst? Was that really the worst that could happen? District Twelve didn't have any victors of its own, but he saw them every year on the screen. So many of them were broken. So many of them were miserable. He didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to be that.

But he did want to live.

There was so much to live for, now that he really thought it through. Maybe District Twelve wasn't the best place to live. Maybe it was the poorest district. The smallest district. Maybe there weren't a lot of opportunities here. But he had his family, his friends, his life here. He wasn't ready to let all of that go.

Francis took a deep breath. There was no reason to let it go just yet. No reason to just give up. He had a chance. Maybe not the best chance, but, with no volunteers from the Career districts, it was a better chance than normal. At least, he hoped it was. Hoped that would be enough to give him a fair chance.

A fair chance at killing. A fair chance at fighting another teenager, at seeing the life drain out of their eyes, at having their blood on his hands. What sort of a chance was that? Was it a chance he could live with?

Francis shook his head. It was a chance he would have to live with, if he was going to come home. Maybe he didn't have to let go of his hope, but there was something he did have to let go of: the foolish idea that victory could come without a price, without memories that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

But it was worth it, because that was the only way he would have the rest of his life. That was the only way he would have something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

"It's all so brief, isn't it? ... It wouldn't be so bad if life didn't take so long to figure out. Seems you just start to get it right, and then … it's over."