~Chapter Three: Condemned~

"The tortures mankind devises for its amusement will surely render the devil redundant." ―Reed King, FKA USA

…

No.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't be me.

It couldn't be me.

The world completely stood still for what felt like minutes—but was probably only a few seconds—as I froze where I stood, blinking. The blood was rushing in my ears as my stomach plummeted so quickly that I thought I was going to be sick.

I stared, unbelievingly, up at the stage without really seeing anything.

It couldn't be me…could it?

My blood felt icy in my veins. I fought back a shudder. Denial, disbelief, anger, and horror all battled in my brain, each threatening to overwhelm me.

I vaguely noticed the other girls shifting beside me, subconsciously moving away from me, trying to put distance between us as if I carried the plague, and it slowly sank in. My eyes snapped down from the stage to focus on the others edging away from me, trying to give me a wide berth. Nobody wanted to be associated with the person selected for death. A couple of them were glancing at me from over their shoulders or the corners of their eyes.

I swallowed heavily, hoping my food from this morning wouldn't come back up.

It was me.

The cameras must have caught the movement from the girls in the crowd around me and focused on my face, but I didn't dare look up at the screens to see whatever look of horror must've been in my expression. My eyes flicked back up towards the stage where I saw that Minodora's beady little eyes had settled on me. There was a fake smile plastered on her face now as she gestured at me, beckoning me up.

It was me. My name was drawn. I was going into the Hunger Games.

Dimly, I was aware of Ivy's small hand clasped in mine. She hadn't let me go or moved away despite the fact that there was now a couple feet of extra space around me in every direction. She was squeezing my hand like her life depended on it; or maybe I was squeezing hers.

It was me. I had to go up there.

I was being sent to my death.

I knew Peacekeepers were probably making their way over to grab me now so I turned towards the nearest aisle, trying to let go of Ivy's hand.

She didn't let me, her fingers still clutching mine. I glanced at her then, not wanting to, but knowing I had to.

There was so much horror, disbelief and sadness in Ivy's green eyes that I almost wanted to just break down and cry right then and there…but I couldn't. I had to push it back. I swallowed again, my mouth feeling dry, attempting to force my face into a neutral expression since in the back of my mind I knew the cameras were all honed in on me. I didn't think my attempted neutral expression was very successful, based on the chaos raging in my mind and the nearly overwhelming nausea in my stomach.

I had been chosen to die. I felt cold.

"June," Ivy whispered softly, beseechingly, holding my hand tightly as if she was going to refuse to let me go.

I held her gaze solidly, not wanting to know what she saw in my eyes, and I shook my head once. She had to let me go. I turned back to face the stage.

At the same time, two Peacekeepers arrived at the aisle just a few feet away, where the other eighteen-year-old girls had parted to give me a path, either avoiding my gaze entirely or staring at me with pitying looks.

"Let go of her before we force you to!" One of the Peacekeepers snapped at Ivy. I met her eyes, one final time. They were beginning to shine with unshed tears, and I couldn't hold her gaze anymore.

She let go of my hand.

I walked woodenly towards the aisle, every muscle in my body rigid. My hands balled subconsciously at my sides as I reached the two Peacekeepers and they began to escort me towards the steps leading up to the stage a short distance away.

I felt a burning behind my eyes –I gritted my teeth, trying to force it back. I couldn't cry now. As much as I didn't want to believe it, as much as I wanted to just sit down and refuse to move, I could sense every eye in the entire damn square on me. I couldn't keep my face entirely emotionless, I knew that, but I could try my hardest to avoid breaking down until the cameras were no longer on me. I stared at the ground, jaw clenched, avoiding looking at anyone in particular.

My legs felt weaker than usual as I approached the steps, ignoring Minodora's cheerful voice telling me to "come on up." I tensed my muscles as much as possible, hoping I wasn't visibly trembling. The walk felt like it took an eternity, but like earlier, I knew it was probably only a handful of seconds.

What was my father thinking right now? What was Rowan thinking? I wanted to find them in the crowd, to desperately reach for any sort of familiarity or comfort, but I knew they had to be distraught and nothing about it would be calming right now.

"Hurry up!" The Peacekeeper snapped as I neared the steps and slowed slightly. I wanted to toss him a glare, anger unfurling in my stomach, but I couldn't find the energy to do anything besides stiffly climb the steps.

When I reached the top of the steps, I did spare a glance towards Johanna and Blight. Blight's expression was still somewhat muddled as if he weren't in the right frame of mind, but I definitely saw a tiny twinge of sympathy there. Johanna's expression was dark, and she only looked at me for a split second before returning her gaze to the crowd.

She's probably thinking I'll just be another victim of the bloodbath, I thought.

She might even be right. I pushed the thought away.

Minodora was still beckoning me over. I wanted to wipe the expression right off of her face.

That was something I could focus on—the anger. I was shocked still, and terrified most of all, and of course the bone-crushing sadness was just behind it, but I definitely had anger simmering underneath. I had never been good at masking my emotions or my thoughts so I knew I wouldn't be one of those tributes who could just stand on stage, convincing everyone they weren't bothered in the least. I didn't think I could pull off an unbothered, blank expression.

I could, however, let them see the anger buried underneath the fear and heartache. I could let that one single emotion show, exhibit it through my posture and body language. At least then, maybe I wouldn't look entirely weak, even though in the back of my mind all I could keep thinking was you're going to die you're going to die you're going to die you're going to die-

"Please stand right here, Juniper!" Minodora said sweetly once I was only a few feet from her, gesturing at a spot on the stage, and I once again had the urge to claw the stupid look off of her face. I didn't try to hold back that anger from showing.

I took a few steps towards the left, a couple of feet behind Minodora, and then turned out, facing the crowd, as Minodora began talking about drawing the male tribute next.

My legs were close to trembling; I could feel it. My whole body wanted to tremble. My teeth ached; probably from clenching my jaw too hard. I didn't want to shake like a leaf on stage, though. That would be even more pathetic than the look of horror that was probably on my face when my name was first called.

I just couldn't believe this was happening. Some distant, dark part of me almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

I locked my knees as I stood on stage, folding my arms across my chest. I felt the burning behind my eyes again. I forced it back, focusing on the anger I felt simmering under the surface. I tried to make my expression as mutinous as possible. I couldn't cry yet, I couldn't show the fear that I felt driving a wrench into my heart over and over again. I couldn't let anyone know that even more sweat was beading on my temple and at the top of my back under my dress, trickling down. It might as well have been blood.

Again, my eyes instinctively wanted to find my brother's; my father's. I let them trail through the crowd for half a second before abruptly snapping them upwards, focusing on a small copse of trees in the distance. If I saw my family now, I wouldn't be able to hold the tears back.

I was going to break down sooner rather than later. I knew that. But it couldn't be now. I just had to hold it together for a few more minutes. I just had to be as stoic as possible, only letting the anger show, for a bit longer. I would be allowed to talk, to cry, to feel, very soon. Just not now. Right now, I had to keep that buried. I could do it. I could hang on by a thread. Just a bit more.

I kept repeating the mantra over and over in my head, my eyes fixed on the trees in the distance, as I blatantly refused to survey the crowd. Seeing faces I knew would just make it worse.

This determination to not look at anyone was broken pretty quickly afterwards, however, as I realized that Minodora had approached the microphone again with the slip containing the first male tribute's name, and was unfurling it.

"Benjamin Thorne!" She called out almost gleefully.

And somehow, this day was getting even worse.

A few seconds later the cameras found him; the crowd around him was edging away from the boy the same way they had edged away from me.

I didn't need the cameras, though. I knew him. Not well; we weren't really friends, but I knew him. Pretty much everyone my age did. I'd had a few classes with him in school.

My heart sank as my eyes fell on him, conflicting emotions warring through me. I tried to keep the anger channeled inside of me so that my expression wouldn't give away anything I was thinking.

Benjamin looked completely dumbstruck for a second or two, and I knew there was some fear flickering in his expression, before he clearly tried to control himself and he stepped towards the aisle to walk up to the stage.

He was handsome. I knew that a lot of the girls our age were quite taken with him. He was quite tall, broad shouldered, and athletic, with a mop of light brown hair and friendly green eyes.

Worst of all, he was likable. He was one of those easygoing people that smiled at everything and seemed to get along with almost everyone. He had a lot of charm, and not just towards the opposite sex (he had a reputation for being quite the flirt at school, I knew; he'd probably broken several hearts already). There was just something endearing about him. It was always so much harder when someone popular was picked. I had my friends and family, but I definitely wasn't as known and liked as Benjamin Thorne.

Watching him move towards the stage, staring up at Minodora with an unreadable expression on his face, made my stomach twist in an unpleasant way. As I observed him, striding forward and climbing the steps much more quickly than I had, I realized exactly why I had such an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The realization made me feel even worse about it.

Benjamin was competition. Major competition.

I tried to keep a stoic face, not wanting the audience to see any sort of reaction I had to his selection.

Some tiny, rational part of my brain had already accepted my predicament, and was sizing him up as another tribute, not just as someone else from my district. As much as I despised this line of thinking, I wasn't stupid. Part of me was already looking at him in a very detached matter, as someone I'd have to go against in the future at some point. This part of my brain had come to some unpleasant conclusions. I hated myself for them.

Benjamin was big, and strong. I knew he worked with the lumberjacks and had for years, so he was likely even more familiar with an axe than I was, even if he hadn't practiced throwing an axe for years like I had (with my luck, though, he probably knew how to do it too). He just had more core strength than I did on principle. He wasn't built like a Career, of course, but he'd probably be in better shape than people from most other districts.

He was good-looking, too. That was a threat in itself. The Capitol just loved good looking tributes. With his size and appearance, he'd probably get some Sponsors out the gate, and as much as I didn't want to think about the future, about getting Sponsors and all that entailed—that tiny rational part of my brain knew that at some point I'd have to. I was comfortable with my own appearance, but Benjamin had always oozed confidence and security in the way he'd held himself.

And he was likable. That was the worst part of all, for multiple reasons. It would lead to even more Sponsors, so it was bad in the competitive sense for me.

But it was also bad in a personal sense. I didn't know him well. I wouldn't call us friends. We'd interacted a handful of times at school, but we were mainly just acquaintances. I'd seen him turn on the charm on some of the girls at school, though he'd never tried it with me. But I found him to be a likable person. And I didn't want to see him die. I didn't want to come across him in the arena. I didn't want to compete with him.

I dimly registered that Benjamin had already gone to stand on Minodora's other side. I guessed we weren't shaking hands until the other two tributes were Reaped.

He turned to glance at me, briefly. I wasn't sure what type of look was on my face. I probably still looked angry. His expression was entirely unreadable, and then he turned back to face the crowd that I still blatantly refused to look at.

"And now, it is time for the very special feature of this year's Quarter Quell – the drawing of two additional tributes!" Minodora looked beyond pleased with herself, as if she practically wanted to clap her hands.

I still had the urge to punch her. I tried to focus on that and let it show on my face. It was better than drowning in the terror that still threatened to overwhelm me.

Peacekeepers were moving about the stage now. They picked up the glass bowls of remaining slips and moved them away, also moving the pedestals beneath them.

Other Peacekeepers then approached the stage; two pairs of them. Each pair carried a large, long glass box with a lid on it. The boxes were several times larger than the glass bowls. They were packed full of tiny white slips of folded paper. Minodora would probably have a field day picking names from these. Some distant part of my brain that was trying its best to detach from the situation wondered why they didn't have a more advanced method than thousands of folder paper slips. Surely there was a way to upgrade the process of drawing a name using Capitol technology. It was an entirely useless train of thought, though, and I brushed it away.

Yet another set of Peacekeepers had brought out a couple of long benches, and set them down on either side of Minodora. The Peacekeepers carrying the large glass boxes gently sat them down on top of the benches for Minodora's ease of reach. The boxes were long, but not tall enough to reach her if they'd been placed directly on the stage.

Too bad. I'd wished they'd set the glass boxes on the ground. It would be comical to see Minodora try to hunch over to pull a name out from the bottom wearing that ridiculous getup and those heels. Maybe I'd push her into the box.

The Peacekeepers removed the lids on the boxes, and I observed Benjamin out of the corner of my eye. His tanned face seemed a bit pale, but he was otherwise stoic. My arms were still folded protectively in front of my chest, my knees locked so that my legs wouldn't tremble on stage. I felt my nails cutting into the skin on my palms. Feeling the pain was better than feeling whatever was bubbling up inside me. I fixated my eyes on Minodora again, welcoming the new surge of anger, the sense of unfairness.

"Very well then, again, we will do ladies first again! Let's find out who the third brave tribute will be for the Quarter Quell!" The Escort's heels clicked over to the box on the left, between myself and her, though I was a couple of feet behind it to where I could get a pretty good view of her reaching for the folded slip listing the name of the next dead tribute.

"Autumn Wells!" was the name she called out after she unfolded the slip. It was a name I did not recognize.

However, my eyes were suddenly caught by one of the giant screens nearby. I had refused to look at the screens when I was called, and I already knew Benjamin so I hadn't paid too much attention. I didn't know Autumn, though, so at first I, too, found myself searching the screens for where this girl was.

On a couple of the screens, a still photo of Autumn was pulled up. Next to the photo the screen displayed her age – twenty-three (I felt my heart sink; she had only recently grown out of Reaping age). At first, I wasn't sure when the picture had been taken. It wasn't a live feed. She was only a foot or two from the person who had taken the photo, the image clearly capturing her nervous gaze. Her face and shoulders took up most of the screen, but you could just barely see the scene behind her, enough for me to realize that this photo had been taken at the check-in point today.

So that's what that tiny black device was, after the finger prick. It was some sort of advanced Capitol camera, set to capture still images instead of a live feed. With so many people eligible for the Reaping this year, it made sense. They could instantly associate a face and age with the name. It would help them locate the tribute more quickly when their name was called. The system immediately pulled the associated photo taken today up on screen, so then the Peacekeepers and Capitol could keep an eye out in case the person was located very far away from the stage.

The video camera found Autumn just seconds later in the nearby nineteen through twenty-four age group. She was a bit taller than me but even more slender; she looked like she didn't have an ounce of muscle on her body. In fact, she looked a bit ill due to her pallor, but maybe that was just the terror from being Reaped. She had wavy, reddish-brown hair that was about shoulder length. She walked unsteadily towards the stage. Near the steps she stumbled a bit, and one of the Peacekeepers harshly grabbed her arm and yanked her upright. I fought back a wince at the callous behavior.

Once she got into position, I saw that she was visibly shaking, and terror was etched into her features. She didn't seem like she cared to hide it. Up close she was even more painfully thin. Her grey dress hung loosely on her bony frame. She had to either be starving, or have some sort of sickness. I quelled the sense of sympathy that threatened to erupt in my stomach. I couldn't bear to feel that right now.

I dragged my eyes back to the front, focusing on the trees again. The trees were safe. Being angry was safe. Looking at my family, or Autumn, or even Benjamin, was not safe. Once again, I tried my hardest to ensure that nothing besides my simmering frustration showed on my face. I was envious of Benjamin's ability to be stoic; there was no way I was keeping a blank face right now.

It was now time for the fourth and final tribute.

"Rudd Fairgrove!"

That one took a long time to find. He was nearly in the back of the square. The giant screens pulled up his photo from today immediately, and displayed his age: fifty-four. He almost looked older than that.

It actually felt like an eternity before I saw him, the Peacekeepers hurrying him along as much as possible. He'd had to walk more than halfway across the square. People had parted to get out of the way, of course. That and the threat of the Peacekeepers jabbing him with a rifle probably made him hurry along.

Still, it took several minutes before he got close to us. It was nearly impossible to stand still while we waited. I wanted to shift from foot to foot; to sprint off stage and into my father's arms. It was getting increasingly difficult to hold it together. I stared resolutely at the trees most the time, trying to drown out everything around me. Trying my best to let nothing but anger show outwardly, to disguise the various other emotions threatening to erupt from underneath. Minodora made a couple of comments into the microphone, clearly uncomfortable with how long it was taking Rudd to get to the stage.

As he finally got closer to the stage I glanced at Autumn; there were tears openly pouring down her face, and her eyes were closed, though she didn't make a sound.

Rudd was of average height, with hair so dark it was nearly black. Though his arms were burly, he had a slight gut that suggested he probably enjoyed liquor a bit too much. A thick, grizzled dark beard adorned his face. There were streaks of grey in his beard and hair. His eyes were dark and somewhat cloudy; I wondered if he was drunk or hungover. There was a defined scar across a good part of Rudd's forehead.

Eventually, he made it on stage. Minodora looked borderline repulsed as he stood near her. I wondered if he smelled of alcohol.

I'd never been drunk, but maybe it would make this easier.

Finally, it was time to shake hands, at Minodora's shrill insistence. The audience watched us completely silently; I could sense how severe and morose their expressions were, though I'd avoided looking at anyone in particular as much as possible.

Autumn's hand was frail and cold. She barely glanced at me as we shook hands.

Rudd looked at me, but I'm not sure he actually saw me. His grip was surprisingly firm. I detected the faint smell of alcohol.

Benjamin's hand was warm, and calloused. His jaw was set, brow slightly furrowed as he met my gaze. I was envious again of his unreadable expression.

I felt the burning behind my eyes again, and released his hand quickly, turning away.

"Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you: The four tributes for the 3rd Quarter Quell! Wish them luck as they head towards the 75th Hunger Games and fight to bring you all glory!" Minodora beamed at the audience, gesturing wildly at the four of us as we stood in a little cluster next to her on the stage, the Capitol anthem beginning to blare out from the speakers around us. It was jarring, and starkly contrasted with the stillness in the air.

There was no round of applause. I thought maybe—in the past—there had been an unenthusiastic, weak attempt at one in previous Reapings after all the tributes were selected, at least when I was younger…but then again, maybe not. Regardless, there was absolute silence now. I did not hear a single clap. I didn't even have to look at the audience to know how sad their faces were, and I refused to look. I was dangerously close to erupting in tears. I felt like internally, I was coming apart at the seams, near collapsing.

Soon after, Peacekeepers surrounded us and forced us to turn around, leading us into the Justice Building.

...

I stood alone in a large room with wood-paneled walls – the nicest room I'd ever been in. There was an ornate table and chairs nearby, with an expensive-looking lamp sitting on top. On the other wall sat a couch that looked comfortable enough to sleep on. There was a similarly fancy, tall lamp sitting next to the couch. Below my feet was a rug plusher than everything I'd ever stood on. Across the room was a bookshelf, crammed full of whatever nonsense was thought fit to store in the Justice Building. The final wall held a large, beautiful painting of what must have been the Capitol.

I turned my back to the painting angrily. I hated it in here. I wanted to be home.

I wanted to see the trees, or some source of familiarity, but there were no windows. That would make it too easy for me to try to escape. The only way out was the heavy door, beyond which two Peacekeepers stood at attention.

It was time for me to say my final goodbyes to my family and friends.

I would probably never see them again.

I wanted to win—of course I wanted to win, to come back and see everyone. I didn't give a shit about bringing "glory" to my district – I just wanted to stay alive. And as devastated as I was, I did not plan on just rolling over and giving up. No matter how unlikely it was, I would at least try. I would fight as hard as I could to come back. I did have a survival instinct, despite everything. And that tiny, rational part of my brain—the same part that already viewed Benjamin as competition—was reminding me that I'd have a partner in the Arena who could help my chances of winning. A partner from a different district.

But I was a realist, I had always been. I wasn't going to carry myself with some false sense of security or expectation of winning. I would try my hardest; but statistically, I had a lot to overcome. I wasn't going to waste these last moments with my family by faking something I didn't feel.

I had never been good at faking my emotions. I chewed on my fingernails absently, full of nervous energy.

There was a commotion outside, and the door opened. Brett and Ivy hurried in before the door slammed behind them and I heard more voices outside. The Peacekeepers wouldn't let everyone in at once, and I knew I only had a couple of minutes with each group.

Ivy's face was streaked with tears, her eyes distraught. Brett looked crushed as well, though he was clearly trying to keep it together.

"Hey, guys," I said weakly, unable to find something to say. Ivy choked out a sob and rushed forward, pulling me in a hug stronger than what I thought she was capable of.

I felt Brett come up to my side and put his arms around both of us. We stayed like that for a moment, the seconds trickling past as I bit my lip hard, trying not to cry. I tried to revel in the human contact, since I wouldn't really be having it for a while.

"June, I'm so so sorry, I'm so-" Ivy began after a period of silence, voice wobbling.

"It's not your fault," I responded, my voice barely a whisper. My eyes were burning again, but I managed to keep the tears at bay.

Ivy released me from the hug, gripping my shoulders and meeting my eyes, as Brett pulled back and stood next to her.

What did I even say? What was I supposed to say?

"Can you make sure my family is ok when I'm gone?" I forced out, and my voice was shaky as well. The waterworks were about to start any second now, as much as I tried to fight them off. I clinched my fists, cutting my fingernails into my palm again, hoping it would distract me from breaking down into giant sobs.

Ivy's expression hardened. "Don't talk like that. You're going to make it back. You're coming back!" her voice broke on the last word.

Brett was nodding, though he didn't speak.

"I'm going to try. Of course I'm going to try," I assured her, though I did not sound remotely convincing. "It's just…there are forty-eight tributes going in," I finished in another whisper.

"And two get to come out this year!" Ivy responded back heatedly. "And you can be one of them!" She said it with conviction.

She truly did believe what she said; I could read it in her gaze.

Brett placed a solid hand over Ivy's, resting on my shoulder. "You and your brother were always the best at throwing axes, remember?" He finally spoke, voice gravelly. "And you've spent half your time out in the trees. You've got a chance."

I nodded woodenly. His words seeped into my mind and I wanted to believe him, I really did. I knew what he was saying had truth in it.

But I wasn't a Career. I hadn't trained for these games. My chances were still pretty miserable. Even Benjamin had a better shot than me.

Ivy threw her arms around me again, pulling me close and stroking my hair almost like a mother would. I finally felt the tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes. With as much strength as I could muster, I tried to hold them back, blinking rapidly so they wouldn't leak out. I had to at least pretend to be strong, for just a couple of moments more.

She held me close for a moment longer, Brett's reassuring hand now positioned on my back as he knew there were no more words they could say that would help me. Far too soon the door had been wrenched open again, the Peacekeepers barking at them to leave. Ivy tossed another grief-stricken look over her shoulder at me and looked like she wanted to speak again, but the Peacekeepers would have none of it and soon the door was shut and I was alone once more.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, fingering the fabric of my soft green dress. My mother's dress. Would I be joining her soon? Would I see her again? I bit my lip. I felt like I was going to just melt in a puddle of anger, fear, and despair.

The door opened again and my aunt and uncle rushed in, followed closely by Glenn and Brooke.

We met in a big huddle of bodies and limbs, all of them trying to hug me at once. My uncle was stoic, very much my father's brother, though his eyes spoke volumes. He gave me a swift, but strong hug. He told me to put on a brave face, and said that I had enough fire in me to have a fighting chance.

My aunt, eyes wet, stroked my hair much the same way Ivy had done, whispering to me how proud she was of me and how she knew everyone had faith in me to come home.

My own eyes filled with tears, and this time they blurred my vision. Finally, I couldn't hold them back. They started to spill when Brooke hugged me. I couldn't stop them. They left wet tracks on my skin as I held her close. She wasn't even trying to hold back her heaving sobs. She could barely get words out to comfort me before it was Glenn's turn and Brooke nearly collapsed against my aunt, who vainly tried to comfort her through her own tears.

Glenn tried to toss me a half-hearted look of reassurance, but failed miserably. He then pulled me into a hug.

"I'll try your trick about glaring the other tributes to death," I whispered over his shoulder as he held me.

Glenn choked out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. It was a miserable attempt by me to lighten the mood with humor.

"It's certainly worth a try," he managed to get out, though his voice was so choked up as to be nearly unrecognizable.

He released me then and I turned to the others. I looked at each of their faces, trying to drink them in as much as possible. Trying to draw comfort from them. I may never get the chance again. My face was wet with the tears still openly trickling down my cheeks, but I didn't care.

"Just remember how it felt to kick my ass at the axe throwing competition—you can use that," Glenn blurted out. I nodded, hating the fact that I was showing this emotional weakness during our last moments, but unable to do anything about it.

The others then began to give me additional words of reassurance as we crowded around each other for a final embrace. I allowed my aunt to brush my hair back from my face, whispering reassurances and trying to thumb away my tears. I let Brooke and Glenn hug me again, holding me close.

All too quickly, though, another minute had passed, the door was thrown open yet again and they were ushered out.

I took a deep breath as the door shut behind them.

This was it. The final time I would see the people who were most important to me in the entire world. I needed to cherish this as much as possible. I needed to memorize every detail of my father and brother's voices, faces, hugs and smiles. I needed to keep them in my mind's eye, as fighting for them was my best chance at coming home. And I was definitely going to fight to come home, no matter how bad the odds were, no matter how sick and hopeless it felt. I would not give up.

I wiped the tears away, using the sleeves of my mother's dress. I didn't want them to see me collapsing in on myself. I didn't want them to see me break down. I would try my best to be stoic and strong during what could be my last ever moment spent with my closest family.

As they entered the room, though, I failed miserably. Any half-assed attempt I was about to make to lighten the mood, to avoid seeing the distraught looks on their faces, to say anything to keep myself from crying, was completely unsuccessful. There would be no deflecting this with humor, or anger. I had to face my grief in its entirety.

I took one look at their faces—both of them weren't openly crying, but my brother was blinking rapidly and my father's eyes were red-rimmed—and finally, after so much effort spent to hold it together since my name was first called, I started sobbing.

I got a bone-crushing hug from Rowan first, and I could feel him trembling with suppressed emotion. After a few seconds, he released me and then my father pulled me against him in a familiar comforting embrace and I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, my entire body heaving as I cried into his chest. For a moment, I was a child again, crying like that time I found an injured baby rabbit in the woods and my father had to put it out of its misery, or the time I severely cut myself and he showed me how to bandage it, or the time he stood next to me at my mother's funeral, my hand clasped in his.

I didn't want to die. I wasn't ready to leave my family. I still had so much life left to live. I still had so much I wanted to do. My chest heaved with the effort to suck in air as the sound of my broken sobs filled the room. My emotion spilled out of me in uncontrollable waves.

"I-I can't-I don't-" I stuttered miserably, blinded by my own tears as my father tried to comfort me. He shushed me gently, holding me tightly for several more seconds as I sobbed, then he pulled away, holding my arms below the shoulders in a gentle grip.

"You have to," he said. Quietly. With finality. There was grief in his voice, and I thought I heard anger too, but he was deathly serious as he met my eyes.

The seriousness of his expression and voice calmed me ever so slightly and I blinked through my tears, momentarily ceasing the heaving sobs. My breath rattled in my chest as I sucked in air in a deep inhale, releasing it shakily. Trying to calm myself enough to speak coherently.

"But I can't-"

"Yes you can," my father cut me off again. Rowan stood next to him, gazing down at me with an equally serious expression.

"How am I-"

"Think, June."

I took another deep, shuddering breath. "I don't want to kill anyone."

There, I said it. I had mostly avoided the topic, mainly thinking of my own death and not the death of the other tributes. But as we stood here and my father was telling me what I had to do, I knew that's what he was referring to. I had to survive. And in order to survive, I would probably have to kill.

"You need to survive, June."

"I don't want to have to kill others to survive," I bit out, a note of hysteria entering my voice.

"You'll do what you have to when the time comes," my father responded quietly.

"How do you know!?" The hysterical tone was more noticeable.

"Because you're smart. You're resourceful. You stand up for yourself, and you have skills that can help you," his brown eyes burned with intensity, staring into my own. His hands had tightened their grip on my upper arms.

Rowan cut in then. "You're good with throwing the axe, and you have some familiarity using one. You can find one somewhere. It's one of the most common weapons. They always leave an axe for 7."

"You want me to fight at the bloodbath?" I demanded incredulously, but Rowan shook his head.

"No, but like Dad said, you're smart and resourceful. If you set your mind to it and you're careful, you can get one."

I opened my mouth but my father cut me off. "Listen. This is important. You know how to be friendly and likable. I know you'll be dealing with Capitol people, but you've got to make them like you."

I wasn't sure how I was supposed to be convincing about that when I hated everyone at the Capitol for doing this to me, but I didn't say that out loud because I knew he was right. I'd have to fake it as much as I could to get Sponsors.

My father continued speaking, seeing that I was absorbing his advice and cataloguing it for later use. His voice had a strong edge to it though, as he knew we were rapidly running out of time. He wanted to get as many words out as possible before the Peacekeepers came back in. "This year is different. You'll have a partner. We don't really know how the partners will be chosen, but if you're able to influence the Gamemakers' decision about who you are partnered with at all in any way…whether during your interview, scoring session, or whatever, do it. You don't want to be stuck with just anyone. Your chances of survival are so much better with a strong partner."

I nodded, though I doubt I looked convincing. I took another shuddering, raspy breath. Then another, then another, trying to ensure the sobs were at bay. Squinting through my tear-streaked vision, I focused on him and Rowan, trying to cling onto this moment for as long as I could until they were gone.

"Don't forget what I taught you about injuries, either. I know it's only basic aid, but it can help, you never know when you might need it," my father added. I nodded yet again. He'd taught me the basics of treating and bandaging minor wounds, and I'd even stitched up a cut all on my own, once. It was years ago, but he was right—it could help me.

"You're quick, June," my brother cut in. "I know some of the other tributes will be faster and stronger than you, but you're more agile. You climb a tree quicker than anyone I know. Find something you can climb. The others won't be able to keep up."

I knew he was right. If I could climb, I had a chance to get away from someone trying to kill me. Surely, I'd have more experience climbing than most of the other tributes.

My father glanced over his shoulder, clearly knowing we were about out of time. He reached into his pocket, grabbed my hand and placed something small firmly in it. I glanced down, and my eyes widened with surprise.

"Dad? This is-"

"Take it. A token. You're allowed one in the games, especially if it's small."

My eyes flooded with tears again. It was my mother's old wedding ring. Even after my mother passed, my father had always kept it. I idly wondered if he brought it to every Reaping Day…for good luck, or to give to us if one of us was Reaped. I shook away the thoughts.

It was a small, hand-made band – we weren't exactly living in luxury, after all. But it was beautiful. It had been carved out of wood here in District 7, and tiny, intricate designs spanned the sides. The craftsmanship was exquisite, given how small it was – the man that carved this was famous in town for his woodcarving technique. On one side of the band were the initials, D.A. On the other, M.A. My parents' initials.

I looked up at him, vision blurry through the newest round of tears. "You're sure?"

He reached out again and closed my fingers around it, nodding.

I quickly slid it on my ring finger—on my right hand, because it felt wrong to put it on my wedding finger—then threw my arms around my father again. "Come back to us," he whispered into my ear, then kissed me on the forehead, holding me as silent tears streamed down my face. I wasn't sure how I had any left. This was more than I'd cried in the last several years combined. Then it was Rowan's turn to pull me into another bone-crushing hug, holding me so tightly that part of me just wanted to collapse in his arms and never leave District 7.

I tried to memorize everything about their hugs. The warmth. The texture of my father's shirt (partially dampened by my tears). The way they both had to stoop down to reach me. The smell of home. The way each of their arms tightened around me protectively. I knew this might be the last time.

Then the door was opened again, the Peacekeepers urging them out. Each of them gave me one last, long look – my father's brown eyes now beginning to shine with unshed tears, my brother's hazel ones full of painful emotion that wasn't often present on his face.

Then they were gone.

And I was alone.

...

A/N: Next chapter we'll finally get a look at the other tributes! Then after that…the real fun begins.