Dust rose and fell from the old floorboards as work boots paced back and forth on them. A dark, creaky kind of wood that was generations old was used to floor the entire house, a small three-roomed building next to a tailor's shop. The whitewashed walls peeled, the bunk bed groaned, and the boy of fifteen knitted his overly large eyebrows together. After he finished his pacing routine, the blond boy sat on the bottom bunk, onto a thin mattress made of the same material he wore now. A brown suit with no tie covered his shoulders. It was scuffed and dirty, with old fabric that must have been older than the boy himself. Hands rubbed into his hair, in a stressed pattern that must have been soothing in a way. He looked up as footsteps neared the closed door. A door opened, revealing a much shorter boy wearing a plain white t-shirt with blue pants. His hair was the same pale blond, though his sea-blue eyes were a contrast to his older brother's green ones.

"Arthur, Mum said soup's almost done, then we've got to change. Hey, what's got you so miffed?"

Arthur looked up to the boy, then stood. "Nothing, really, just anxious I suppose. We've got to go through this every year, and yet I'm still nearly trembling. Don't you feel scared, Peter?"

Peter shrugged, his expression slipping. "I don't really know how to feel. It's my first year, I've got low chances. It's what comes after this year that's got me scared. And for you, too, your name is in there, what, a hundred times?"

Arthur gave a noncommittal half-shrug. "It feels like that many. Is the table set?"

Peter didn't need to answer as Arthur saw the bowls and spoons out. A kettle steamed faintly with excess water. Three perfect teacups sat on the counter. One was painted with a rose, another a violet, and the last a tulip. Arthur took his usual cup and set it on the table. His mother, a tall woman who wore a simple dress, had tied dark brown hair and wore dimples on her face. She took a bowl and dished some soup for him and Peter, then sat with her own. They said grace, then began conversing and eating.

"Arthur, your suit still fits, right?" Their mother, Elizabeth, asked.

"Yes, Mum, though I think this is my last year with it," he took a bite of soup then specified, "The sleeves are getting a bit short."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I think I'll be able to modify that for you. Are you alright for this year?"

He nodded, taking a sip of his tea. She turned her head to Peter, who was sloppily eating his soup with the speed of a dog.

"How about you, Peter, your suit fits well enough?"

"Yeah, yeah, you've already asked us ten times, lady!" She waved a hand, a hint of a smile coming to her face.

"Yes, well, you both know how forgetful I am. About your sewing project for school, how is that going, Peter?"

He finished his spoonful and excitedly waved it above his bowl. "It's going well! I'm finally getting the hang of threading my needle on the first or second try. My super-duper teddy bear of Peter Kirkland is coming well! I don't get why we have to send them away once they're finished, though." He pouted like a little kid.

She shook her head a little. "That's just the way it is, I suppose. You could perhaps make a copy of it to sell in the shop, if the fabric is cheap enough."

Peter took the bowl and tipped it to his mouth, slurping loudly. "I don't think so, Mum, it's Capitol material the school uses. I've never felt anything like it, honestly."

Arthur set his cup down on the matching saucer. "I remember doing that project. I made a little green rabbit-like creature with wings. The teachers didn't the unconventional animal, though. I'm not sure if they ended up sending it to the Capitol children or not, come to think of it."

Elizabeth gave a true smile. "Yes, you always had the imagination, Arthur. Horned horses, tiny people with insect wings. I can't imagine where you get such ideas."

Arthur blushed faintly. "The ideas just come, I suppose."

"What are you doing in school now, Arthur?" She used a napkin to wipe her mouth.

"Just the usual history, maths, and language classes. We're still doing the Panem Civil War. How long does that unit last? It's been two years since we started on it."

She sighed. "Until mandatory school ends, I'm afraid. It's a big subject, you know."

"It feels like brainwashing," Arthur growled.

She gave a helpless expression. "I'm sorry, Arthur, it's the curriculum provided by the Capitol. And don't let the Peacekeepers catch you saying that, son, else we've got more to fear."

The two surreptitiously looked to the speaker installed in the corner of the ceiling. Neither mother nor son knew if they recorded voices as well as spoke with them. Peter tipped back the rest of his soup with a gleeful ignorance.

"Well, shall we get changed, then?" She stood, happy to be rid of the subject.

Arthur and Peter cleared the table.

"You're on dish duty, Arthur, I set and helped with breakfast." Peter took off to their room.

"Hey, it's just re-heated soup! Anyway, I'm not sure I'll have time-" he looked at the stack of dishes piled high. "Can I do it after the Reaping, Mum?"

Elizabeth looked over at the dishes, to the clock, then she gave a nod. "Yes, just get changed. It'll be time soon."

Arthur took his leave and walked in on a shirtless Peter.

"Hey!" Peter squeaked, pulling the fresh shirt on, "You should knock first, you know!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and cuffed his head lightly. "Oh, please, Peter, we change in the same room all the time. Also, you've tied your scarf wrong." Peter wore a small sailor's outfit complete with a hat and a scarf. Peter stuck a tongue out at him. Arthur contemplated, then did the same.

Kirkland's Tailor Shop had created the small sailor suit by a numerical error. The client requested a boy-sized suit instead of a man-sized one, so after much grief, their mother had kept it and saved it for Peter. It fit like a glove, and was quite sharp-looking.

The tailor shop, at one time, had been among the top ten in the District for quality. That was in their grandparents' day. Their grandmother, who also happened to be named Elizabeth, was the best seamstress within their sector of the city. Their grandfather had been the best cobbler nearby. Since they had died, the burden was placed on Arthur and Peter's mother's shoulders. Her husband died shortly after Peter's birth of a disease. So she told them, anyway.

Arthur unfolded his best clothing from a drawer by the bunk bed. It was a green suit that had seen better days. The matching dress pants were patched, and one sleeve was discoloured due to a bad batch of dye. This had also been a costly mistake.

Once both Kirkland boys were dressed, they went to the entrance, where Elizabeth was dressed in a neat white dress and a string of pearls. Just as they pushed the squeaky door open, the speakers in their house and outside started. A monotone male voice who sounded like he'd rather be somewhere else boomed from everywhere. He announced that the Reaping was set up, that their Capitol representative Ophelia Swan was ready for them, and that anyone not accounted for by a certain time would be severely punished.

A fluffy white cat crossed their path. Peter delightfully moved to chase after it, but a hand on his shoulder told him not to. Arthur shook his head, and Peter casted his glance from the cat to the beaten dirt ground.

They arrived to the square early, though many people were still gathered ahead of time. The family of three stopped before splitting up. Elizabeth crouched in front of Peter. She whispered something along the lines of "I love you," then straightened a little to Arthur's height. She hugged them both very tightly, so tightly that Arthur did not want her to let go. But she did, and he received a kiss on one cheek, the same as Peter.

"I wish both of you the best of luck, then." She fondly patted Peter's hat, and held one of Arthur's hands. Someone bumped into them as they shuffled into line, so the family wrapped up their pre-Reaping meeting, and Arthur guided Peter to where the twelve-year-olds stood. They stood in the front, and the eighteen-year-olds at the back. They were organized like this so that the representative could easily tell what age group the tribute was from. Arthur nodded once at him, then found his way to the other fifteen-year-olds. He stood in place and looked up at the stage set up in front of them. A black backdrop with the golden bird symbol was Panem's emblem. A large sound system connected to a single microphone set up on a stand. Around fifty white-clad Peacekeepers lined the area, to make sure that nobody got out of line. Ophelia Swan, the woman dressed entirely in white with black eyeshadow and white feathers decorating her everywhere, stood behind a large glass bowl. She was District One's escort. This bowl was the size of a nightstand, and was filled with hundreds of slips of paper. Each paper had a child aged twelve to eighteen on it. There was a catch, though; There was more than one of most people in the bowl. A twelve-year-old had their name in once, like Peter. A thirteen-year-old had it in twice. A fifteen-year-old, like Arthur, had his name mandatorily put in five times. Here was the catch: tessarae was a ration system that could be applied for by children eligible for the HetaGames. One extra name entry meant another year's worth of grain and oil. Arthur had three tessarae: one for him, one for his mother, and one for Peter. He wouldn't let Peter take tessarae. Arthur would rather risk his death over Peter's any day.

The HetaGames. A brutal, bloody war between twenty-four minors or just above. That was what the Reaping was all for. Two tributes from each of the twelve districts would be sent to the Capitol, a rich place that held strange residents like Ophelia Swan. Arthur didn't know much about them, but he did know they had strange tastes and laughed as they broke the backs of the working classes. That was where most of their clothing went. Handmade toys, like the ones he and Peter had made at school, were sent there to the children of the Capitol for free. Fashion designers from the Capitol occasionally came to the districts to explain what fabrics to make in preparation for trends they foresaw. Getting it wrong could be costly, which was why the Kirklands mostly stuck to creating fabrics from raw materials and repairing damaged clothing. When they were at their height, the Kirkland Tailor Shop made hundreds of custom suits for Capitol businessmen. That was back in their grandparents' day. Arthur sighed, idly wondering how the chain of events that lead to their current situation happened.

He was so absorbed in thought, that he didn't even notice who it was that came up beside him.

"Oh, Arthur, I did not even see you there! I haven't seen you in months!"

A familiar accented voice made Arthur turn his head.

"Ah. Francis. Hello. It has been a while, hasn't it?" He made a point of not appearing overly excited about Francis' arrival.

Francis himself wasn't exactly the problem. He was nice enough, and certainly good to look at. It was his effect on everyone else that Arthur loathed. Francis' presence naturally made everyone else feel terrible about themselves. District One was full of poor people, and only a small percentage could afford the kind of clothes that Francis wore. Today he had on a violet cloak with blue pants, and his silky blond hair was tied with a matching ribbon.

"Yes, it feels like it has been forever, no?"

Francis' blue eyes swept over Arthur's less-than-perfect suit. He was sure that they weren't really as judgemental as they felt.

Damn those glittering eyes.

"Don't you have your friends to go chattering to? I was perfectly fine being alone, you know." Arthur sniffed.

Francis seemed hurt. "Ah, come on Arthur, don't be so cold. We used to be such good friends!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. The only thing we've been good at together is fighting. My life has been more peaceful ever since you buggered off!"

Francis paused, as though he were deeply offended by Arthur's words. A sting of regret pierced Arthur's thoughts.

"I see how you feel about me. I felt differently." Francis made a motion as though he were about to leave.

"No, Francey-pants, wait. I'm sorry for being so standoffish. It's just that..." he searched for the words. "Ever since you started hanging out with the mayor's kid and those other snobs, I've been left in the dust."

Francis beamed at the old nickname. "Francey-pants? I haven't heard that in years, Arthur."

"There're more where that came from, snail-slurper, frog, stupid idiot richie-face who escaped the jerk store, stupid bugger-headed dummy... et cetera." Arthur laughed a little at his own insults that he had used against Francis many times. Snails and frogs were considered delicacies to certain people. Personally, Arthur found them disgusting.

"That's my black sheep! You stick out like a sore thumb when we're together, you know? My new friends pointed that out a lot."

Arthur looked away. "How great."

Francis ducked and put his face below Arthur's. "Oh, do not pull that face on me! Don't you want to be friends again?"

"More like enemies with a little more laughter." Arthur grunted.

"Do I have you back?"

"Fine, whatever, frog-face."

"Excellent!"

Their conversation was interrupted by a booming voice projected by the sound system. It was the high-pitched drawl of Ophelia Swan, escort of District One.

"Hello, and welcome to this morning's broadcasting of District One's Reaping!"

That's right, this is being filmed live for the Capitol monkeys.

"It's the seventy-third anniversary of the beginning of the HetaGames! Seventy-three years ago..."

The woman continued droning on about the history of the HetaGames. Arthur waited impatiently for her speech to finish. He just wanted to be over this mandatory gathering and get to work on the denim he had been patching. It was only he and his mother working in the shop, and they were low on money as it was. Peter was busy with much schoolwork at the moment. Age twelve was the year in schooling that began to pile on the history and maths.

Arthur listened idly to Ophelia's familiar voice, just enough to sense a change in tone. Once that happened, she would walk over to the bowl and pluck two unlucky souls to be whisked off, on a train to the Capitol. Arthur didn't know what happened after that. He preferred not to think about it.

Once the change came, he watched her approach the bowl.

Just not someone I know. Please not someone I know.

"And for our first pick..." she reached deeply into the glass bowl. Her arm wasn't even able to reach the bottom.

I hope mine and Peter's are down there.

"Let's see... ah, Arthur Kirkland! Please come up to the stage!"

Arthur's breath hitched in his throat the same moment Francis gasped.

Not even a thought crossed his mind as Arthur stiffly walked down the row of his classmates and down the centre aisle. He held his head high and didn't let his lip tremble the slightest bit. He locked eyes with Ophelia in a steely gaze that didn't waver. He might have lost his freedom, but his dignity would stay until the end.

"A fifteen-year-old, huh? Old enough to fight back but still cute! Let's see who the next representative for District One will be..."

She fumbled around the top layer of slips this time.

"Oooh, this is one of the better-bred ones! I can tell by the accented name. Francis Bonnefoy, you'll be Arthur's competitor and teammate! What's this? Do you know each other? I can see it on your face!"

Arthur lost his edge on facial expression. His mouth hung loosely open, like a door left ajar. Francis didn't come up with the same icy cold he did. His eyes were wet and he shook, his cloak making that all the more visible.

"Look, Francis, I wanted to make amends, but I didn't want this kind of singling out." Arthur whispered.

Francis couldn't answer for fear of breaking down. He just cast his line of sight to the wooden floorboards of the stage. Ophelia continued on about how great of an honour it was for them to compete for their district. He avoiding looking at his mother until the last moment. She looked very nice, with her hair done up and with her string of pearls. She gave him a solemn nod. Then he and Francis were shuffled away, into the government building. The last thing he saw of his district was a Peacekeeper kicking at a woman, likely Francis' mother.