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hiro hamada

We start training a few days after I arrive in the Capitol. Tadashi wants to go around trying everything and find something I'm good at. I think I'll be terrible at everything, since a lot of it is physical, and I'm tiny. I might be good at tying snares or plants or stuff. And I need to find a weapon of choice, one that I can at least defend myself with.

We start with trying to build some muscle. It does not work. I simply can't handle the high-intensity exercises they design for that. I can barely lift the swords. I'm too clumsy to use a dagger. My snares are decent, since I'm good with my hands, and so is my metalwork. It's the rest of my body that's not as coordinated.

"Come on, Hiro," Tadashi says tiredly. "Just archery and camouflage left."

I sigh and pick up a bow. I slide an arrow into the shelf, draw back the string, and shoot.

It pegs the inner ring, inches away from a bullseye.

"Lucky shot," I say softly.

"Super lucky," Tadashi replies. "Try aiming this time."

I glare at him, level the bow, and shoot again. The arrow buries itself halfway to the fletching in the center of the target.

"Lucky?" Tadashi mumbles. "Do it again."

I walk slowly along the range, shooting each target as I go. I don't know why I'm so good at it. It's just instinctive.

"Okay, let's get you away from archery," Tadashi mutters, steering me away from the shooting range.

"Why?" I protest. "I'm really good at it."

"Too good. We can't let the other tributes know your strength. Save it for the Gamemakers."

"Fine," I mumble. "Camouflage it is."

We move on to the camouflage station. Jars of paint and various plants sit on the table, untouched. No one likes the camouflage station.

I'm decent with camouflage. Not amazing, but not bad. I can hide myself if no one's looking for me—anyone just passing by won't know I'm there.

"I'm exhausted," I yawn as I scrub the paint and plant juices from my face. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine," Tadashi says. "You're really that tired?"

"Good enough for me. I'm out."

tadashi hamada

Hiro is going into the arena. Today.

Today my little brother might die.

Hiro is shaking when he emerges from his room, dressed in a leather jacket and cargo pants over a black shirt. He looks tough for a thirteen-year-old, but still scared.

"You ready?" I ask him, clapping him gently on the back.

"As I'll ever be," he mutters, which, judging by his tone, isn't very ready.

I pull him into a hug, aware that it might be the last one I ever give him. I can't say I'm expecting him to survive very long—the young ones never do. Hiro is the smallest tribute in the arena.

"I'll help you when I can, okay?" I mumble into Hiro's hair. "Find an ally. Try for Everdeen. Stay away from the Careers and get a bow as fast as you can. Don't hesitate. And try not to kill anyone."

Hiro looks up at me. "Isn't that the point?"

I pull away and tear a hand through my hair. "You'll rather you'd died than kill anyone. Killing changes you, Hiro. The arena changes you. I don't want you to come out cold and hard. I've seen kids, young ones, who were never the same after the Hunger Games. I changed in that arena."

"But you never killed anyone."

I look away. "No. But it made me want to protect you more than ever."

Hiro hugs me again, squeezing so tight he almost cuts off my air. I take the cap from my head and place it on top of Hiro's mass of hair.

"Keep this," I tell him. "It can be your token. Just remember I'm watching over you."

Hiro nods, squeezes one last time, and walks away. I stare after him, watching as the Peacekeepers lead him through the door that will take him into the arena. Into the Hunger Games.

Into everything I swore I'd protect him from.

hiro hamada

I sit huddled on the couch between Mommy and Daddy, my chin resting on my knees. The TV blares in front of us, broadcasting the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.

The cameras pick up a scream that I instantly recognize as Tadashi's, and I bury my face in Daddy's shoulder. Another peek at the screen catches only a splatter of blood and my brother collapsing to his knees, his quiver of arrows falling to the sand beside him.

"Dashi…"

Daddy pulls me into his lap, hugging me against his chest as more screams fill my ears, some of them belonging to my big brother. Mommy gasps and I sneak a glance at the TV to see Dashi sprinting away from the metal horn, a satchel slung over his shoulder with the bow and quiver. His upper left leg is pouring blood.

The cameras revert to the Cornucopia, focusing in as the tributes battle each other. Now that Dashi has left the scene, all I can do is watch in horror as the other tributes cut each other down.

When all the other tributes are gone or dead, the cameras cut to a shot of a small, dark cave, entirely stone except for the bow and arrows that clatter into the corner. A young boy stumbles into the frame, barely holding himself up.

Tadashi falls to his knees, desperately trying to staunch the blood flow in his leg. He tears open the satchel and empties it onto the cave floor, sifting through its contents.

Muttering to himself, Tadashi pulls off his shirt and wraps it around his bleeding leg. I didn't notice then, but when the Games were over, the girls from Three were all over their handsome victor.

Tadashi raises his head and looks right at the camera.

"Little help here, Thatcher," he half shouts, addressing his mentor.

After a moment, a silver drone touches down in front of Tadashi. He unwraps the drone's contents and pulls out a small medical kit. Inside he finds a spool of sturdy thread and a needle.

My mother gasps as she realizes what the thread is for. Tadashi threads the needle, takes a deep breath, and stabs it through the skin on his leg, right on the edge of the cut. My mother shrieks as he pulls the thread through the skin on the other side of the slash, tears streaming down his face.

Daddy covers my ears as sobs of pain escape Tadashi, droplets splashing onto his fingers as he stitches his leg back together. I don't want to watch, but I can't tear my eyes away from the screen. Daddy tries not to let me hear, but the cameras amplify the sounds, and tears of my own roll down my cheeks as Tadashi sobs in agony. Mommy is crying too, unable to stand seeing her son in so much pain. But the Gamemakers are enjoying this, I can feel it. The Capitol always loves a good show in the Games. I wonder if they told Thatcher not to give him numbing medicine.

Tadashi ties off the makeshift stitches and curls into a ball on the ground, still sobbing in pain. I hide my face in Daddy's jacket again, silently praying that Dashi will make it out of there.

I rub the back of my neck as I stand on my pedestal, waiting for the Games to begin. This is it. This is why they reaped me from District Three and tore me away from my home.

This is when I die.

The sixty-second timer is almost done. Four…three…two…

A cannon blasts, and Claudius Templesmith's voice calls, "Let the Games begin!"

I leap off my pedestal and sprint toward the golden horn. I'm small, but I'm fast. My asthma makes it harder to run long distances, but this forty-yard stretch works to my advantage.

I scan the inside of the Cornucopia and my eyes land on a sleek black bow, accompanied by a sheath of arrows, lying next to a medical kit. I start toward it, but a searing pain in my shoulder and a kick behind my knee sends me to the ground.

I push myself to my feet, clutching my bleeding shoulder, and see Megan Everdeen dart away, the knife in her hand stained with blood. One of the Careers slashes at her gut and she dodges, sweeping the girl's feet out from under her.

I snatch up the bow and arrows, the medical kit, and a small knife just in case and dash away from the Cornucopia into the woods.

I run until I find a small cave near a stream, much like the one Tadashi hid in years ago. It was a place like this—well hidden, rich in greenery, access to water—that saved his life. And his brilliant electrical trap. But he did have a huge geographical advantage.

The cut on my shoulder still burns, so I pull my shirt away from the wound and examine it. It's long, maybe six or seven inches, but it's not deep. No stitches, which is good, because I don't think my medical kit is that advanced. I wrap the injury in gauze and tie it as tightly as I can one-handed.

As I examine the supplies I took from the Cornucopia, I wonder if there are cameras on me. There might not be any, since I think Tadashi would already be sending me drones if he knew where I was, overprotective big brother that he is.

I hide out in the cave for the rest of the day, so alert I'm almost paranoid. Whatever fear I have is well earned, though. Anyone could be trying to kill me. Everyone in this arena is trying to be the last one standing, which means taking me out.

Night falls and the anthem of Panem begins to play. I risk emerging from the cave to see the faces of the dead tributes in the sky.

The girl from One. Both from Two. The boy from Four. Both from Five. Both from Seven too, and the girl from Eight. The girls from Nine and Ten. The boy from Eleven. Both from Twelve. And both from Thirteen. The tributes from Twelve and Thirteen never last long—punishment for the Mockingjay Rebellion. Executing Katniss and Peeta wasn't enough. They had to make their districts' children suffer too.

More than half the tributes are dead. I am one of two districts that still have both tributes.

I have survived the first day of my Hunger Games.