~Chapter Two: The Odds~

"Every adult grew from a kid who beat the odds. But at different times, in different places, the odds have been appallingly steep." ― M.R. Carey, The Girl with All the Gifts

I look awful, was my first thought as I sat in a rickety rocking chair in the bedroom the next morning. I mutinously surveyed my reflection in the single, cracked mirror sitting on the wooden dresser.

It was early—about 7am—much earlier than we usually needed to get up on Reaping Day. Though the Reaping itself didn't start until two in the afternoon, the Capitol was requiring everyone to arrive at the town square by ten this morning. They needed a lot more time this year to process all of the citizens eligible for the Reaping, and to find a way to herd and organize us for the event. Like livestock, headed to the slaughter. A fitting analogy, I thought.

I frowned at my reflection. I looked pale. I normally had a light tan from walking outside so often and from spending my free time outdoors. But this morning, I looked unusually pallid, likely due to the lack of sleep and nerves. The light band of freckles across my nose and cheeks stood out more visibly than usual. There were bags under my eyes, which were slightly bloodshot. My nerves were laid bare in my harrowed expression. I had slept horribly, and it was blatantly obvious.

I ran a brush through my long hair, freshly clean from my barely-lukewarm bath a few minutes ago. There was a slight natural wave to it, but not enough to look like I'd put a lot of effort in. It clearly wasn't going to cooperate, so with a scowl I pulled it back in a low ponytail, tied with a small black ribbon, to at least get it out of my face.

I looked down at my attire. I was wearing my best dress, though that wasn't saying too much. It was soft, though, and comfortable, falling down to my knees. I thumbed the soft fabric; the shade of forest green was fitting for a girl from District 7. It was short-sleeved, and slightly gathered at the waist. The neckline dipped down in a V, which would probably be more appealing on someone with a curvier figure. On me, it hung a bit loose in places, but I didn't mind. It had been my mother's.

I felt pressure behind my eyes, and I blinked rapidly. My mother had died nearly ten years ago, but sometimes the emotion still crept up on me. She had been sick for years. It wasn't a shock when she passed. Over the years I'd learned to cherish the time I did spend with her instead of focusing on the negatives.

She had wanted me to have this dress—before she died, she had told me it would look beautiful on me, and that I should wear it to Reaping Day once I got old enough for it to fit. My mother had been short and smaller-built like me, so for the most part the dress looked like it was bought just for me. It was a bit baggy in places due to my mother's slightly curvier figure, but I didn't care. It could've been a paper bag, and I would have still worn it if she wanted me to.

I sighed, glancing back up at the mirror and trying to push the memories of her from my mind. This was the worst time to get sentimental. I didn't have enough space in my brain to think about anything except the upcoming event.

Even wearing this nice dress though, my hair pulled back from my face, I still looked like I was half dead already. I had weeks of poor sleep to thank for that. Fitting.

This is the last time you'll ever have to worry about a Reaping, I tried to encourage myself as I stood up.

That is, unless they do the same thing for the next Quarter Quell.

I swallowed thickly at the morose thought, and slid into my shoes. They were plain, black, and simple, but nicer than my well-worn boots and comfortable enough for the walk to the town square.

I strode into the kitchen to see my brother just finishing up breakfast. By District 7 standards, we had a very fanccy breakfast on the morning of every Reaping – a couple of fresh rolls, eggs, and even some lean pork on the side. I knew that every year, my father saved money specifically to make sure we ate well the day of the event.

I sat down opposite my brother at the table. He looked even worse than I did.

"You talked in your sleep last night," was his greeting as I sat down.

"Did I say anything interesting?" I responded, trying to seem light-hearted but failing.

"No." He wasn't in the mood for humor.

"Sorry if I kept you awake." I was known to talk in my sleep occasionally, though usually it was just a jumble of nonsense, according to my brother.

"Not like I was gonna sleep well anyway," he responded.

I had nothing to say like that, so I quickly loaded a plate up with food as my father entered the kitchen. I wasn't hungry, not even a little. My stomach was in knots. I felt nauseated, as if forcing food down would only make me sick. I knew I didn't have a choice, though. We'd be walking quite a way to the town square by the Justice Building, then standing outside for who knows how long. I begrudgingly forced a roll in my mouth, knowing that my father had spent good money on this food.

My father wasn't in the talkative mood, either, sitting down slowly in the chair next to me with a solemn look on his face. He had already eaten before I came into the kitchen; my father was an early riser, nearly always awake by 6am. It was nice because on the days he didn't have to work, he'd go out of his way to have breakfast ready. Of course. he never had to work on Reaping Day, so it was our tradition that we would treat it almost like any other day off, where he'd make breakfast and then we'd sit together around the table.

After a moment of silence where I forcibly shoveled some eggs in my mouth, chewing almost woodenly and swallowing without even really tasting them, I spoke.

"Dad…" I began. He looked at me tiredly. The frown lines on his forehead seemed even more etched in his skin than normal. I wasn't even sure what I wanted to say. I knew he didn't want to be patronized, but realistically, I knew that his odds of being chosen were far less than my brother's and mine. In the months since the Quarter Quell announcement, we'd learned that every citizen between the ages of nineteen and sixty would only have their name in one single time. And I knew he wasn't even nervous about his own name being picked as much as he was nervous about ours. Despite the fact that we were only entered in the drawing the minimum number of times for our age, it was still the most entries Rowan and I had ever had.

It was just jarring to think that his name would be in there at all, as would my aunt's and my uncle's.

My father seemed to read the thoughts on my face, plain as day, because he reached out and squeezed my hand gently. He was not the overly talkative type, but his gestures spoke louder than words could.

I felt the same pressure behind my eyes again, that told me I would cry if I continued this train of thought for too long. I squeezed my father's hand back then released it. I briefly met my brother's eyes, trying to convey my thoughts in my expression. I think he understood.

I looked down then, re-focusing on my food. The rest of the meal passed in relative silence.

…

The sun was climbing in the sky as we made our way to the Justice Building and town square, not a cloud visible. There was a light breeze that pulled a couple of shorter strands of hair out of my loose ponytail, wisping around my face.

It promised to be a perfectly beautiful day for sending innocent people to fight to their death.

We met Glenn, Brooke, and my aunt and uncle just outside so we could all walk together. Glenn quickly fell in stride next to me, Brooke on his other side.

"Wanna take a guess about which ridiculous getup our dear escort is wearing this year?" Glenn asked with a smirk.

I knew what he was doing, trying to lighten the mood; it was oppressively tense among all of the families walking solemnly towards the place where none of us wanted to go. I appreciated his efforts.

"Sure. That's easy. It always has pink in it," I responded.

"Obviously. Anyone could guess that. You've gotta give details."

I pretended to think on it. "She'll wear something obnoxious on her head."

"That's a given."

"There will be some sort of tacky pattern of an exotic animal none of us have ever seen."

Glenn snorted at that. "You're not even trying to be that creative."

I rolled my eyes. "Sorry, I'm a little distracted," I said sarcastically, then gestured at his shirt. It was a baby blue color, not a shade people in District 7 often wore.

"Maybe you'll match her with that lovely shirt you're wearing. It looks like a color she'd wear."

I heard Brooke laugh softly from his other side.

Glenn scowled, glancing down at his shirt, then back up at me, the scowl morphing into a slight smirk as he observed me from the corner of his eye.

"At least I don't look like I haven't slept in ten years."

Knowing he was right, I tossed him a glare. His smirk widened as he continued.

"You know June, if you get picked…maybe you can glare all the other tributes to death."

"If you get picked, all you'll have to do is stand near them. The stench will knock them out," I shot back. Brooke laughed slightly louder at that.

He wasn't phased. "Touchy, touchy. You're going to get wrinkles early if you keep frowning like that. Then how will you attract a husband one day?"

"Oh, I don't know. By learning how to cook better. Showing off my womanly charm. Pretending I'm not related to you."

"If that's what you call womanly charm, he'll run into the woods one day and never come back."

"Good. Hopefully he'll take you with him."

Glenn's face morphed into a big grin, and even my brother was smirking now. The distraction was helpful.

My father was giving me a warning look, though, as were starting to join up with more and more people headed towards the Reaping, and there were more Peacekeepers about.

After that, we were mostly silent during the rest of the long trek. Glenn and I occasionally traded jibes to try to keep the mood light, but it was mostly unsuccessful.

We were still a decent distance from the square when we could see the large throng of people milling about in confusion up ahead, more or less forming a few large groups, too uncoordinated to stand in a neat line, though Peacekeepers were certainly trying to get them in order. The Peacekeepers were numerous and strode through the crowd, barking orders and trying to make sure everyone stayed organized. For so many people around, it was relatively quiet; most people kept their voices just slightly above murmurs. The tension was palpable. Peacekeeper voices cut through the thick air as they ordered people where to go in order to get their fingers pricked prior to the Reaping. Occasionally, the sound of a child's muffled crying could be heard, adding to the unease.

We approached the back of the crowd to see Peacekeepers standing near where the groups were forming, pointing people in different directions based on age – the standard tributes (children aged twelve to eighteen) were one group, those ages nineteen to thirty were the next, thirty-one to forty-five were the third, and "everybody else" was the last. We were told by one of the Peacekeepers that further up ahead, near where the town square actually started, we would be further broken down into groups based on age before the standard finger prick at the check-in point. We were supposed to head towards the square, but stay on the far left side of the throngs of people clustering around.

My father turned to Rowan and myself then, stooping down and enveloping me first in a warm, nearly-crushing hug. I breathed in slowly and hugged him back as tightly as I could. He smelled like the dust from the sawmill, soap, the logs we burned in the fireplace at home, and pine all rolled into one.

"I'll see you soon," he said calmly. I nodded but didn't trust myself to speak, releasing him reluctantly.

As he turned to hug Rowan my aunt and uncle each gave me a quick hug as well, quickly saying they would see me soon. A Peacekeeper nearby snapped at us to hurry it up, that we didn't have time to waste. My father turned and gave me one last, long look—trying his hardest to keep the worry out of his eyes—before the adults then turned to head towards their age grouping.

My cousins, Rowan and I headed towards the left side of the crowd. As we walked further, it became a bit less chaotic, with people sticking with their appropriate age group. Peacekeepers, of course, were everywhere, ready to pounce on a noncompliant citizen at a moment's notice. They flanked us to our left to ensure that we were headed properly towards the entrance to the square. I was sure they flanked the far right side as well, where the older citizens were walking. A girl that can't have been older than twelve or thirteen, a few people ahead of us, was grabbed by the arm and roughly yanked back in line when she started crying and trying to wander towards wherever her mother's age group was. She started crying even louder before an older girl near her hurried to her side, trying to quiet her.

I grimaced, but looked down. This was the sad reality of living in District 7. Innocent children got pushed around by men with guns, could barely afford to eat enough to stay healthy, and got whipped in public if they misbehaved.

It was ironic, I thought, that the Peacekeepers wore all-white uniforms, given the emptiness of their souls.

Once we were pretty close to the square, even more Peacekeepers strode around, directing us.

"Keep moving forward, quickly! Look for the sign for your age group, and find the line near the sign," a grizzled man with a beard barked at us, roughly gesturing in the right direction with his gun.

We were ushered forward, and just a couple moments later I saw a screen with a big "18" ahead, with a line of other eighteen-year-olds stringing along far behind it. There was confusion and commotion in the crowd as people located and made their way towards the sign for their age group. The lines were about ten feet apart, and since the "17" line was to the left of the one for my age, I could hopefully stay relatively close to my brother during the check-in process.

Rowan turned to me as we got close, gripping my hands in his calloused ones. "We'll be okay," he said softly, though his clenched jaw gave away the nervousness he was feeling. I looked up, meeting his hazel eyes, and nodded, before releasing his hands and pulling him into a tight hug. My brother was a couple of inches over six feet tall, an entire foot taller than me, but I wrapped my arms around his neck like I had my father's and squeezed him like my life depended on it. I felt a surge of protective, older sister instinct.

"I'll see you soon," I whispered.

"I'll see you soon," he responded quietly.

I held him for a second longer, knowing the Peacekeepers would force us apart if we wasted too much time, before reluctantly releasing him and turning to hug Glenn and Brooke tightly as well. My cousins were a couple years younger than me, so our lines weren't as close to each other. Other people in the crowd were saying goodbye near us as well, and I saw plenty of teary eyes and crushing handshakes as they resigned themselves to the possibility—however small—that their loved one could be Reaped.

Then I was striding forward towards the line for the other eighteen-year-olds, a Peacekeeper snapping at me to "get a move on," as my brother moved towards the line to my left.

I glanced ahead – the line was long and winding and it would be several moments before I reached the check-in station. The finger prick didn't hurt, but it always grossed me out thinking about the Capitol drawing my blood and smearing it on a book with all the others my age in some sort of sick attendance-keeping policy.

Of course, this way they also knew if someone was hiding from the Reaping, or trying to escape it somehow. My father said a boy in his age group did that once, when they were seventeen or eighteen. He'd taken a lot of tesserae and knew he had a high chance of being picked. He and his father didn't show up for the Reaping. The Capitol, of course, noted the lack of attendance. Apparently, they raided his house a couple days later.

The two were never seen again. There was no getting away from this, unfortunately.

I felt my stomach churn again, though it had never really stopped. I shifted from foot to foot as I stood in line, trying to think of anything to distract myself and failing miserably.

Last year. Only seven entries. Only seven.

I glanced over at my brother, who was peering over the heads of the kids in front of him. There were plenty of tall boys in District 7, but the few in front of him happened to be noticeably shorter than him, so he could actually see a distance ahead. I noticed a frown on his face.

"See anything interesting?" I asked him, raising my voice a bit. It was still relatively quiet for how many people were gathered around, but the murmurs and whispers were relentless as the nerves built.

Rowan turned to look at me, looking puzzled. "They're doing something else after the finger prick. I can't see what it is," he replied.

"Ritual blood sacrifice?" I asked sarcastically. My nerves were getting to me.

My brother looked at me sharply, disapprovingly. I could feel a nearby Peacekeeper's gaze fixed on me. He probably didn't appreciate my comment.

"It's some sort of device, I can't-" my brother started to say quickly, before the Peacekeeper cut him off.

"Silence you two. Eyes ahead."

I scowled, but turned back to face the front of the line, not like I could see much with the girls in front of me—most of whom were at least a couple of inches taller than me—blocking my view.

My brother and I continued to exchange glances at each other out of the corner of our eyes, but we were mostly silent as the minutes ticked by and we approached the front of the line.

It was the turn of the girl in front of me. She extended her arm forward, towards the older, sour-faced woman sitting at the table at the front of the line. The woman asked the girl her name, grabbed the girl's finger and pricked it with some sort of small Capitol tool, quickly, then pushed the bleeding finger down in the appropriate spot under the girl's name on the book. She scanned the blood with some sort of other piece of Capitol technology, and the scanner beeped approvingly.

I assumed it was my turn next, but as the girl moved to walk past the table, the Capitol woman stopped her. "Not yet. Hold still, and look at this."

The older woman raised an unfamiliar slender black device that I didn't recognize, and held it pretty close to the girl's face. The girl stood still, there was some sort of tiny whirring noise, and then she was allowed to leave.

Then it was my turn.

"Name?"

"Juniper Ainsley."

She shuffled to find the page with my name on it in the book in front of her.

"Hand." It was an order.

Trying to keep my face perfectly blank and bored, I held my hand out. The scowling woman grabbed my finger, her bony fingers concealed by black gloves, and there was a small flare of my pain in my fingertip as she broke the skin. A tiny drop of blood welled up on my finger. My eyes honed in on it. I'd never loved the sight of blood. I could stomach it, it wasn't like I immediately got queasy or fainted when someone got hurt, but the rare injury at the papermill always just made me slightly uneasy. Years of being forced to watch the Hunger Games had built up at least some immunity to watching violence, but I always tried to mentally disconnect from what was broadcast on the big screen so that it wouldn't unsettle me too much. There was definitely a difference between seeing violence in person versus the televised Capitol entertainment. That was the point, though. The Capitolites would never be able to stomach violence if they saw it in person. They could only be entertained by the Hunger Games because it wasn't real, we weren't real people to them, we were just faces and stories and sources of entertainment.

The woman pushed my finger down on the page below my name. She then released it and I pulled my hand away as the woman grabbed a different Capitol device next to her, the scanner, and aimed it at the fresh blood smeared on the page. It beeped and flashed green, indicating my blood matched the identity I had provided.

I wondered if anyone had ever lied about their name before at check-in.

That thought was cut short as I moved to walk past the table and, like the girl before me, the Capitol woman stopped me, holding up a finger. "Stand still and look at this," she ordered, raising the slender black device from earlier that I didn't recognize.

"What is that?" I blurt out before I could help myself. Her scowl deepened, and she gave me a severe look.

"I said, stand still."

Gritting my teeth, I did as she asked, my eyes flicking to the device. She held it out in front of my face until it was only about two feet away, maybe less. I stared at it defiantly as it made some sort of internal clicking and then a whirring noise.

"Now go," the woman demanded, pulling the device away from my face again.

I tried not to glare at her as I strode away, rubbing my finger aimlessly.

We were now at the entrance to the town square. It stretched out very far ahead of me and on either side, and thousands of people already strode around as Peacekeepers directed them. I glanced around, eyes wide. The Capitol had outdone themselves this year. Usually there were only the giant screens near the very front of the square, near the Justice Building. This year, though, there were a couple extra on each side. I wasn't sure if they wanted to make it more dramatic, or if they just wanted to ensure that every single person saw every single thing happening, especially given the different Reaping rules this year.

I strode forward, and was pleasantly surprised to see that Rowan had already finished his check-in and was waiting on me. We didn't usually get another chance to talk after check-in, though this year was more chaotic than usual. We'd likely have to part again soon, but we could walk together towards wherever we were supposed to stand. Historically that was in the very front of the square. I wasn't sure if it was different this year.

"What was that thing?" I asked my brother as I approached.

He shrugged, clearly not caring what that black device was, glancing around the crowd. "A Peacekeeper told me we're in the front as usual. The others are organized by age, behind and around us, all the way to the back of the square here."

Sure enough, I saw a sign that said "55-60" nearby. Older citizens were already crowding around near it.

Rowan and I began the trek towards the front of the square. I sought for anything to talk about to distract myself from the nervousness continuously creeping up my spine. There were so many more Peacekeepers than usual—I assumed even some of the units that normally patrolled the district had been temporarily assigned here, in addition to more units sent out from the Capitol. They really didn't want us trying to pull anything today.

In addition to the extra screens set up around the town square and on either side of the Justice Building, there were plenty of watchtowers—those that had been constructed in the last year, and a couple of newer temporary ones—positioned on the very fringes of the square. A couple of Peacekeepers stood at each, surveying the crowd imperiously, holding their weapons close to their chests. I had no doubt that they wouldn't hesitate to fire if the situation arose. I'd heard the rumors of how they'd quickly suppressed a few open attempts at insurrections in other districts. One in particular I'd heard had happened in 11 during the Victory Tour, and the perpetrators had been immediately shot.

There were also plenty of cameras. They were everywhere. There were way more than usual. Nothing we did would truly go unnoticed. The Capitol was clearly very excited…or very on edge.

I shook the thought off.

"That wonderful enlightening video they always show us. Think they'll have updated it for the Quarter Quell?" I asked, thinking of that stupid propaganda speech we had to hear at the beginning of each Reaping Day.

"No."

"Have it memorized yet?"

"No."

"And why not? It's terribly important."

"No." He was not amused.

"Well, you only have one more year after this, so you'd better-"

"June." He glanced at me, exasperated.

I took a deep breath, knowing he wasn't fully enjoying the way I was trying to relieve the tension. I decided to make an attempt at maturity, and change the subject. "Where's Dad's group?"

My brother glanced around, trying to see over the large crowd of people wandering about in only somewhat-organized fashion. "I think I see the screen with his age group over there," He jerked his head in the opposite direction from where we were heading, but naturally, I couldn't hardly see over anyone amidst the chaos.

We didn't run into Glenn and Brooke again as, after several more minutes, we finally neared the Justice Building. I glanced around, and thought I got a glimpse of Brooke's long braided hair a ways over before my vision was obscured by a cluster of burly boys in the sixteen-year-old section. Up at the front, they had the twelve through eighteen age range broken up by year and gender, as they always did. I supposed the first half of the Reaping was occurring the same way as usual, so it made some sort of sense. From what I had seen, nearly every other age group over eighteen were clustered in five-year or six-year age ranges, more or less, and they didn't seem to be broken up by gender. The nineteen through twenty-four age group was nearby. I glanced over their faces, all fraught with nerves, and I felt a pang of sympathy.

They had been out. They had been safe. And now, they had a chance to be Reaped again, some of them just one year after they'd thought they were free from all of this.

A hand on my arm stopped my train of thought, and I looked up into Rowan's serious face again. It was time for him to go to the section of seventeen-year-olds. Immediately I stepped forward, and once again reached up as far as I could to throw my arms around his neck, as he shifted down to hug me back. We didn't speak any more words this time. We'd said what we needed to say.

After the Reaping, when we were all safe and sound, we'd return home and enjoy a nice dinner with our father, aunt, uncle, and cousins. Then we'd watch the Reapings recap on the screen at home, relieved at the fact that none of us had been selected, yet feeling great sorrow for the people in our district who had…since usually, they wouldn't make it.

It would be okay.

I tossed him one more look, his eyes meeting mine in understanding, before turning and making my way to the eighteen-year-old girls' section. My eyes immediately scanned the crowd, looking for my only female friend that would be standing in this group, Ivy. Her family was usually pretty early to Reaping Day (to everything really), so I figured she would be here already.

For several seconds I wandered through the throng of people approaching this section, feeling my worry increase as I couldn't see her anywhere. Then, finally, I spotted her – her reddish curls stood out, since most people in District 7 had darker hair.

Her eyes met mine an instant later, and a clear expression of relief crossed her features as she rushed towards me, pulling me into a tight hug. I hugged her just as tightly until she pulled away.

Ivy had the kindest green eyes of anyone I'd ever seen. Like me she had a tendency to wear every emotion on her face, though she was much gentler than I was, and a sensitive soul. She was the apprentice to one of the healers in town. It was the perfect job for her, I thought. Ivy had so much sympathy in her heart for anyone and anything. She was, unsurprisingly, even worse than Brooke at throwing axes.

I didn't even want to think about what would happen to her if she was chosen for the Hunger Games.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't make it last night," Ivy said quietly, referring to our Reaping Eve tradition. "My parents…" she trailed off, eyes going sad.

I waved her off. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad I found you now. You're my favorite hand to hold during this thing."

A smile lit up her pretty face then, and she grabbed my hand in hers, giving it a squeeze reminiscent of how my father had squeezed my hand at the breakfast table this morning.

Moments later, it seemed like nearly everyone had gathered. I had spent a couple of minutes bragging about my accomplishments in the axe-throwing competition the night before—mainly to distract both of us than anything—and teasing Ivy for the way she blushed when Brett spotted us and waved from the eighteen-year-old boys' section.

All of us had noticed the small smiles and lingering looks between them for months now. It was wholesome, and I fervently hoped it would work out for them. The reddening of her cheeks anytime she was teased about it (like right now) was endearing.

Unfortunately, I didn't get much longer to think about anything besides Reaping Day. There had been plenty of quiet talking and murmuring in the crowd; taut with nervousness, people sought anything to distract themselves from what was about to occur.

Suddenly, though, a hush fell over everyone, starting with the crowd in the front center, right in front of the Justice Building. The silence rippled to the sides and backwards, the Peacekeepers sharply gesturing at everyone to keep still. The murmuring trailed off into an uncomfortable stillness.

I looked up to the left side of the platform (more like stage for some type of morbid show) set up in front of the Justice Building, where the previous Victors sat in stony silence. There were only two living Victors of District 7. There had been more in the past; an elder Victor had passed away just a couple of years ago. My father had told me there were two other Victors alive when he was of Reaping age.

Blight looked half asleep, blinking blearily into the sunlight. Probably hungover. He didn't have a reputation for being a complete alcoholic like the mentor and Victor from District 12, Haymitch, but I knew he liked to drink a lot. Particularly at these types of events. Johanna Mason, as usual, had an angry scowl on her face, her dark eyes darting this way and that as she slumped in her chair, surveying the crowd. She was only a few years older than me, but her mere presence was so intimidating that others rarely approached her.

I rubbed my hands on my dress nervously, as they suddenly felt clammy. It was time.

I glanced over at Ivy to my right. Her hand slipped into mine. I idly noticed how much more calloused my hands were than hers.

It had become deathly quiet, minus the clacking of high heels across the stage.

Our district escort, Minodora Luxa (how could that possibly be her real name, I'd always thought), tottered her way (on absolutely ridiculous shoes) over to the microphone set in the center of the stage (because of course she had to be the center of attention).

Part of me secretly hoped she'd trip and fall. Now that would be a memorable Reaping.

Minodora quickly tapped the microphone – the echo resounded across the town square and the gathered district citizens in jarring fashion.

She was wearing an ensemble that could only be described as hideous, by my estimation. Her long-sleeved, bright green dress fell above the knee, and was skin tight, except at the shoulders where it was puffy. There was some sort of massive bow-shaped contraption affixed to it below the center of her collar, made of mottled green and pink feathers in various shades (I felt a tiny smirk grow on my face as I saw the pink shades, remembering how I'd guessed she'd be wearing that color in some capacity). Similar tufts of feathers were attached to the top of her shoes. Various rings adorned her fingers. Her hair was an obviously fake shade of a weird color I could only describe as an orangish-peach, and some of the pink and green feathers were interwoven into the top and sides of her hair.

She had enough makeup painted on that her features were nearly unrecognizable – she wore a shade of vibrant lipstick that matched one of the pink shades of the feathers, and pink-hued eyelashes that were so long I wasn't sure how she could even blink comfortably.

I would never understand Capitol fashion. She looked like some sort of giant, exotic bird. I pictured her, perched in a tree in the forest, feathers sticking out in every direction. I snorted quietly under my breath. Ivy tossed me a questioning look.

"Welcome, to all!" Minodora said in a chipper, grating, high-pitched voice. "Happy Hunger Games, and happy 3rd Quarter Quell!" She sounded all too cheery, and the lilting Capitol accent was like sandpaper on my eardrums.

She glanced around at the crowd, almost expecting someone to cheer; as if that ever happened.

Clearing her throat, she continued, "Before we select the four wonderful tributes who will represent District 7 this year, it is time to watch a very special film, from your friends at the Capitol!"

I rolled my eyes, not caring if anyone saw me do it. "Some friends," I muttered quietly under my breath to where nobody more than a foot or two from me could hear it. Ivy's hand tightened around mine ever so slightly.

The screens all around the town square lit up in unison as the familiar background music began to play; Snow's voice emanated over the speakers. "War, terrible war…" the video began, and I almost immediately tuned out.

Apparently, the Capitol hadn't seen fit to record a new video for the Quarter Quell. They probably spent their entire budget on the increased Peacekeeper presence.

Snow's voice droned on and on about the rebellion against the Capitol and the ungrateful districts, harping about how "brother turning on brother until nothing remained," then bragging about the supposed "peace" that followed afterwards. I was barely listening, glancing around at the crowd. Most of the other kids looked as disinterested as I did.

Surely nobody—besides the people of the Capitol—actually believed this crap?

Soon enough it was over. Minodora had a bright smile on her face as she turned to us when it ended, as if she thought we were all just in rapture from the absolutely captivating film.

I'd rather watch grass grow.

After waiting a second or two, again for some type of applause that would definitely never happen, Minodora spoke again. "Well then! Now it is time, to select those wonderful and brave men and women for the honor of a lifetime: the opportunity to represent this great District in the 75th annual Hunger Games—and to bring pride to all of us during the 3rd Quarter Quell!"

My stomach dropped, and my hand tightened around Ivy's. Our hands were gripped firmly now; I wondered if she noticed how clammy my palms were. I subtly wiped my other hand on my dress again.

"Of course, it is ladies first!" She added with another bright grin, then stepped away from the microphone.

As usual, there were two glass bowls packed full of small folded paper slips, and each stood on a pedestal that made it easy for the escort to dip her hand inside the bowl and select a name. They must have been brought up on stage during the very interesting Capitol propaganda video, as I hadn't noticed them previously like I usually did.

It was then that I noticed, for the first time, how strange it was that there were only two glass bowls on stage instead of four. They were choosing four tributes; but where were the names going to be pulled from for the last two? It made sense that they probably couldn't find a bowl big enough to fit the many thousands of names for the vast majority of the citizens in the district. I hadn't really contemplated it until now.

My contemplations were cut short by the clack clack of high heels, though, as Minodora made her way over to the bowl on the left. Right now, it didn't really matter where the last two names would be pulled from.

This was it. She was picking one name from the ages of twelve to eighteen. I only had seven entries, of the thousands of tiny slips packed in the massive bowl. If she didn't pick my name now, I was safe. It would be over.

It was almost over.

Minodora waggled her fingers as her hand hovered over the bowl, as if she just couldn't wait to get her hands on the perfect slip with the perfect name.

Then she shoved her hand in, reaching deep down into the bowl, until her arm was almost immersed by all the paper slips. Another grin appeared on her face as her hand closed on something, and she pulled out a single tiny slip.

She clack clacked back over to the microphone, clutching the slip in her hand.

My hand squeezed Ivy's even tighter, and I no longer cared if she noticed how clammy I was. She squeezed my hand right back. In the absolute stillness that was settling on the crowd, I could hear her shallow breathing to my right. I was almost sure she could hear my heartbeat.

My stomach churned. My mouth was dry.

Slowly, meticulously, Minodora opened the folded slip of white paper. Her grin widened again, teeth flashing out behind the pink lipstick.

It was almost over. I was almost safe.

I felt a trickle of sweat down my back.

Minodora's voice rang out, loud and clear, across the hushed crowd as she read the name.

"Juniper Ainsley!"

...

A/N: Next up, a glimpse at some of the other tributes during the rest of the Reaping! And Juniper says goodbye to her family. I have already written the next two chapters in their entirety, and part of the following one. I just have to edit them. They should be up this week. Feel free to review if you're enjoying! Follows are also appreciated.