I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.

Horton Myles, District Twelve Escort

I stare solemnly at the gray sky, wondering why I'm even here. I signed up to escort for the Hunger Games, expecting to actually get a fun district, like Seven or Four. But no, being the lucky person I am, I get assigned to the poorest, drabbest place in all of Panem. Even District Eleven is more pleasant! And that place is chock-full of poverty and suffering! But District Twelve? It's out in the boondocks, home to all manner of hicks and rednecks who wouldn't know good fashion if it broke into their house and started dancing the cha-cha.

Thinking about my predicament, I realize that it's up to me to make these reapings interesting. Since the people and the place are boring, I, as the escort, must be interesting.

I can't rely on these peasants, which makes me solely responsible for impressing the Capitol.

And impress them, I will.

Charcoal Paxton, District Twelve Female

My fingers fly across the black and white keys, tapping out a trill of delicate notes, then diving deep into a powerful crescendo. I sway with the music, letting the notes fill me to the very brim, and I become something more than I am even if it is only for a moment. The piano pours out the music, and I can hear the vibrations echo through the soft white room, a thousand identical orchestras all playing just for me. It almost feels like magic, buzzing through the air like electricity.

Here, with my music, I don't have to pretend. The façade drops the second I walk into my house, because unlike my friends, I don't need to please my family, and I definitely don't need to please the music. They don't judge. They all accept me for who I am.

They'll never leave me.

I quickly turn the page and manage to keep playing, the sound like one unbroken, fluid train of silk. Down in the streets below, I wonder if the unsuspecting passerby can hear my song? In a way, I hope they do.

According to my music teacher, this song is one of the oldest in existence. Through some miracle it survived the Rebellion, thank goodness, alongside maybe two hundred other pieces of sheet music.

I love playing the piano. If this composition hadn't survived, I don't know what I'd do. It's just so… pretty.

Freezing my hands in place, I let the note fade away into nothing, ending the song on a whim. That's another nice thing about music: I have complete control over what I play. It's a nice feeling, really. When I'm here alone, I don't need to impress anyone. This is all for me.

A small knock on the door draws my attention, and I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway, a thin smile on her face. "Your friends are here, Charlie."

I sigh. Bringing the lid down over the keys, I seal myself off from the music, a slight pang of remorse nudging my heart. Now I have to go hang around my friends, where I must pretend to be someone that I'm not. But I need to be around them, and I need them to like me. The alternative is just… unacceptable.

I flounce down the stairs, where I find Willow and Silvia waiting in the lobby.

"Where's Antebellum?" I ask. Normally she's stuck to Silvia like superglue.

Silvia sighs snottily, and tosses her long, silvery-white hair over her shoulder. "Her dad made her help with today's set-up. You know, what with her being the mayor's daughter and all."

I snicker and walk out into the dusty streets, my friends following closely behind. "Yeah, well. If that's the only downside, I wouldn't mind having her job."

"I suppose." Silvia looks at my simple blue silk dress and raises a finely-trimmed eyebrow. "You're wearing that to the reaping?" Cracking a beautiful smile, she says, "You're brave, Charcoal. I wish I had your courage to wear plebeian clothing out in public."

Even though I know that was the definition of a backhanded compliment, I've gotten used to hearing it from Silvia. She's been like this since she hit puberty and became even more beautiful than she was before. I know that she likes handing out insults, and I also know that she expects me to just take the insult, because I always do. Today is no different. I can't fight back, otherwise Silvia might get offended and end our friendship. There is no shortage of people just waiting to become friends with a girl as popular as she is. So, I will do nearly anything in order to preserve our twelve-year relationship, even if it means putting up with backhanded insults and snotty attitudes. She's the popular one, so she holds the reins of power. Not to mention, she is one of my oldest and only friends. I just… I just want her to like me.

Taun Navarro, District Twelve Male

The dirt glides underneath me, and I can feel the impact of my feet all the way up in my stomach, though the feeling is a familiar one. After all, I am the messenger boy.

For about three years I have been running messages all over District Twelve. Some people say that District Twelve is tiny, but I would like to see them run all over the district and back for an entire week, and then tell me just how small it is. Really, though, I do enjoy running. It's as close to flying as I'll ever get, so it almost feels like freedom. Or at least what I imagine freedom to feel like. Living in Panem, especially outside of the Capitol, there isn't a whole lot of freedom going on.

In my left hand the letter feels heavy, bulging with something that feels like a rock. But who sends a rock in the mail?

Anyways, I can't open the letter to see what's inside. Not only would I betray my client's trust, but it would be wrong. So I can't, even though I really want to.

As I enter the wealthier part of the district, a get a few snobby leers from the richer citizens, but I also get a couple of happy smiles from people who recognize me as their mail-carrier. With my job, I always get to meet a lot of people, which is something that I love. New people means the possibility for new friends. Plus, almost half of the district knows my name, and that's a special feeling.

I flip the letter over in my hand, re-reading the send address, and stop in front of a large manor-type house. Interlocking white stones cover the outside, and the windows are big enough to span the entire height of the house. My shoes squeak against the shiny dark stones that form the walkway, and by the time I reach the top of the hill where the house sits, I can see almost all the way down the block.

Giving the door a quick knock, I stand under the overhang, wondering how much their fancy door cost.

An older woman answers the door, her dark hair pulled back into a braid. "Can I help you, young man?"

I hand the letter over to her. "For you, Mrs. Fae."

She delicately takes the envelope and smiles. "Ah, yes. I was expecting this." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a couple of coins, counts out the correct payment, then pours the small stack into my outstretched hand. "Thank you, young Master Navarro. Keep the change."

Grinning, I say, "Thank you, ma'am! Have a nice day!"

With a subtle smile, she replies, "The same to you, Mr. Navarro."

I skip down the walkway and run back out into the street, where I look at the coins with excitement. She almost paid me double what the delivery was worth! That'll make my parents proud. Almost all of the money I earn goes to pay for food and clothing for my six younger siblings, especially since my father's mining job doesn't pay very well at all, and my mother's seamstress work is just about the lowest-paying job in the entire district. I like to know that I'm helping.

For the first time, I notice the sheer number of kids out on the streets, talking nervously and all headed in the same direction. I rack my brain, trying to think of a reason for everyone to be out on the streets today.

Then I remember: it's reaping day.

"Aw, shoot!" I cry, stuffing the money into my pants pocket. I totally forgot about the reapings, and it's already one thirty.

I sprint off towards the center of town, hoping that they don't charge me for being late.

Charcoal Paxton

Silvia and I stand next to each other in the sixteen-year-old section, both of us wondering how much longer this speech is going to take. Mayor Serrice, Antebellum's mom, has been blabbing away for the past fifteen minutes, and she seems to have no intention of finishing anytime soon.

"And so, in accordance with the Treaty of Treason, two tributes shall be chosen from each of the twelve districts, one male and one female between the ages of twelve and eighteen…"

I sigh and roll my eyes. "This is such a waste of time."

With a scoff, Silvia says, "You can say that again."

A warm feeling blossoms in my chest. I really like when she agrees with me; it means that she appreciates my input, and will be less likely to ditch me.

Up on stage, our lone mentor is nowhere to be found, but I do see our escort. I fight to keep myself from falling into a fit of laughter, because that would be rude. But he just looks so weird! With his bright purple hair swept up into a Mohawk and his golden vest, he looks like someone who got into a fight with a rainbow and lost. As in, unconditional surrender.

A couple minutes later, the escort takes the microphone, and with great flourish, steps forward and announces with a booming voice, "Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games! I am Horton Myles, and I have the honor of escorting two tributes into the fray!" He holds up a orange-gloved fist, and says, "With this very hand, I have the power to alter fate itself!" Oh, so he's one of those escorts. I feel bad for whoever has to go with him. "Shall we see whose life shall be changed forevermore?"

He delicately lowers his hand into the bowl, and withdraws one name from among the hundreds of papers. I'm not worried, really. I mean, I've never even taken out tessarae. Why should I be?

With a flick of his wrist, he opens the paper, and with his booming voice he reads off the name. "Miss Charcoal Paxton, please step forward!"

An involuntary gasp escapes from me as soon as he reads off those two words.

Wh…what?

I feel my jaw go slack, but there isn't much I can do about it. This is… this is… impossible. Completely, horridly impossible.

My own body refuses to respond.

Someone grabs my arm and gently guides me out of the crowd, down the dirt path, and up onto the stage. They whisper something in my ear, either advice or encouragement, but I don't hear it.

The escort tries to speak to me, but the shock has frozen every thought in my mind. The gears are stuck, cemented in place.

I slowly become more aware of my surroundings, so painfully aware. I am on stage, getting ready to be shipped off to the Hunger Games. And I doubt that I gave the Capitol a good first impression.

But, ever the escort, Horton charges on. "And now, time to pick the male!"

Taun Navarro

I stand in line alongside Marcie, but we don't talk very much. We aren't very good friends, mostly because I'm always out delivering mail and rarely have time to spend with her. I wish we could talk more, but the awkwardness gets the best of us.

The man takes a sample of my blood, then a sample of her blood, and sends us on our way. I wave to her, and she waves to me, and we both find our spots in our respective parts of the crowd.

No one is really in the mood to speak, mostly because we're all afraid. After all, one of us is going to the Capitol today against our will, and everyone is hoping that it won't be them, because the Hunger Games are brutal and evil. They turn the tributes into something that they aren't, something so much worse.

Up on the stage, Mayor Serrice takes at least twenty minutes to give a five-minute speech, going off on tangents about random things like the weather and how great Capitol fashion is. And then she takes another five minutes to read the Treaty of Treason, so by the end of it, we're all tired and bored. I look up at the clouds to see if I can pick out any shapes, but it's all a monotonous sheet of gray. Nothing interesting.

Finally, the escort rushes forward, and with a pelvic thrust, he cries, "Welcome to the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games!" He introduces himself as Horton Myles, and gives his own little speech about the awesomeness of the Games.

Then he picks the female. "Charcoal Paxton!"

I feel a little cold pang of fear, because I recognize the name. I've delivered mail to the Paxton home before. They're pretty nice.

A Peacekeeper has to drag her from her spot and take her up to the stage, where her mouth remains open in a near-comical O-shape. The escort tries to talk to her, but she doesn't respond. I don't think she's entirely present at the moment.

The escort keeps up his overly-bright smile, but he shakes his head disapprovingly at her unresponsiveness, the movement almost imperceptible. He then turns back to the audience and snaps his oddly manicured fingers. "And now, time to pick the male!" As he reaches into the bowl, the microphone picks up the sound of rustling papers. I wonder whose name will be drawn.

He looks at the paper and smiles. "Taun Navarro!"

A collective gasp erupts from the audience. After all, at least half of them know me, if not by name then at least by my face.

Surprise is the only emotion I can manage. As if on their own, my feet step forward, breaking free of the crowd and taking me down the dirt pathway, thousands upon thousands of eyes watching me as I go.

Horton looks down at me with a frightening smile, but I somehow manage to smile back at him.

Am I really here? Is this really happening?

Because it doesn't feel real.

None of this feels real.

Charcoal Paxton

My dad sits next to me and places his hand on my shoulder, as if it will make any of this less unbearable. Cade, my older brother, sits on the other side of me, staring at the wall, completely silent. Normally he's loud and obnoxious, but not today.

"This is just so wrong," my mother squeaks, her voice constricted by the tears. She places her hand on her chest and holds her other hand up to her mouth to suppress a sob. "They can't take you, Charlie!"

I look down at the ground and fold my hands. As my throat constricts, I don't entirely trust myself to speak, so I wait for the sensation to pass. When I do speak, though, everything comes tumbling out of my mouth in one big rush of words. "I'm going to need a token. I-I forgot to bring one, so I think it would be really nice to have one and I was wondering if any of you have something that I can take with me into the arena? You know, something nice but no too nice? After all, I might not…" The words taper off into nothingness as I realize what I was about to say. Might not come back.

Silvia shakes her head slowly. She's a lot more quiet than usual, and actually seems sad about my leaving, if only a little bit.

But at the mention of a token, my mother's hands dart to her ears, where they struggle to take off her earrings, the pretty jade ones that used to belong to my grandmother. She clutches them in her fist, and for a moment she holds them close to her chest. Then, holding her hand out, she offers the earrings to me, almost like a sacrifice.

"But they're so nice," I say, the tears creeping up on me. "I shouldn't take them."

"You are taking them, Charcoal," she commands, her voice wavering. "I give you permission." Lowering her voice, she adds, "It's okay, dear."

I wrap my hands around the earrings and look around the room at my loved ones. What if this is the last time I see them?

This can't be happening.

Taun Navarro

I can't leave my family. Not now.

My mother stands next to me, holding my youngest sister in her arms. "Taun, I am so sorry this happened to you," she says through her tears. She leans over to hug me, and I wrap my arms around her neck. "I am so sorry, baby."

Even though I try to hold the tears back, my attempts are in vain, and I let out a sob. "I don't want to go."

My father walks over and joins in on the embrace. "It's okay, Taun."

My five other siblings walk over and wrap their arms around my parents' waists. Annabelle, Laurence, Owen, Pippa, Carlie… I won't be able to take care of them if I'm in the arena.

In my pocket, the white rook weighs heavily. I take it with me everywhere, and I know that it will make the perfect token. Alongside the rook I feel the coins, the payment for my delivery earlier today. Taking the money out, I hand it to my mother. "Here, this is for you."

She looks solemnly at the change, then nods and gives me the only smile she can manage. "Thank you, Taun."

I wish I could give her more. My family needs me.

I don't want to go.

Reapings are finally done, wooo hooo! On to the Capitol!

So, ladies and gentlemen, since the monotonous reapings are over with, I thinks it's time to give you a bit of a heads-up: when determining which tributes to keep alive and which to let go, I take into account which submitters are still following the story, and which submitters aren't. Reviews and PM's are the only way I know whether you are still following the story or not. I just think that it is inconsiderate on my part to kill off the tribute of a loyal reviewer whilst keeping alive the tribute of someone who isn't even following the story anymore. And plus, I like to know what you all are thinking of the character interaction, general writing, etc. Your opinions matter to me!

***That being said, for all of you who have left behind consistent or semi-consistent reviews or PM's: You are lovely. *hug*

And, lastly, I have three questions for you:

Which escort(s) do you like the most?

Which tributes do you like the most so far?

What alliances/rivalries do you think will form as we move into the Capitol?