A/N: oh boy, oh boy, it has been a while. I hope everything's been going well…it's been like 2 years since I've updated my other story and, I'm sure this is heartbreaking, but I will not be continuing that story. I think it's pretty apparent why not. I had no motivation for that story and honestly it has no plot, I had nothing to say with that story, but I have something to say with this one. I've been planning this story since I started to question different aspects of the Hunger Games, since I began poking at loopholes and ever since I realized how well the characters of Percy Jackson fit into it. This fic has been stewing in my mind too long and I just have to get it out, and I need a hobby. Now, if I am to get everything out the way I'm planning…this will be made up of three pretty long parts. And to save myself from writing three literal books, I'm trusting you've either read or watched the Hunger Games before reading this, you don't need much background knowledge of PJO to understand anything.

Disclaimer: I do not any part of the world/plot/characters of either PJO or HG. 3

My blood drips and is quickly enveloped by dust, rolling around and forming a dirty paste.

Just my luck.

As I lay my daggers into a freshly dug hole, I fumble and the sharpened edge slips easily through my finger, from which the blood still drips. I grab a dirty rag and tightly wrap it around my finger, hands shaking. Not from the pain of the cut or the fear of my dirty rag infecting it, none of that matters today; today is reaping day.

Today, I will die.

I use my teeth to rip a strip of clean-ish fabric and wound it tight round my finger. I rummage through my meager bag of clothes and gently unfold my reaping-day dress. Running my hands along its soft fabric, I reminisce. I think of the first time I had worn it, how bittersweet that memory is. A beautiful dress, a clear sky, shaking smiles and kind words. Luke and Thalia had ventured deep into the woods past the fence to find good prey, risking themselves for this light purple dress with little flowers and a lacy hem and collar. Once pristine white they were now tattered and dirty. Still, I shimmy into it. It barely reaches my mid-thigh.

Patting the hole hiding my daggers one more time, I look around my shack. Honestly, even 'shack' glorifies it too much. Perhaps lean-to or even a shanty. That had a musical ring to it. A sheet of tin propped up by wooden sticks, resting on the fence bordering the woods and District 12. Dusty, dirty, decrepit District 12. I glance in the shard of mirror resting on my singular pot and hesitate before leaving. I feel like I am running, fleeing, quitting. Annabeth Chase is many things, but I am not a quitter. I go back to the hole a few steps away and dig. Gray dirt cementing under my fingernails. I pull out the oldest dagger, a point of bronze the size of my forearm. Using a worn piece of leather, I strap it around my hips, the tip barely concealed by my hem.

Now I am a soldier off to battle, not a scared little girl. Maybe I am a scared little soldier.

The streets are quiet as I make my way through the impoverished 'Seam' to the Justice Hall. Families huddle in their houses together to subtly say goodbyes, refusing to admit the very real chance that one of their members will be murdered today.

Although only one family needs to grieve. And they will, I can do nothing for that.

I wander the Justice Hall for a little while, the courtyard in front of the Justice Building where the reaping would happen. Such a painfully ironic place for the reaping to be held, I giggle a little hysterically as I paced the perimeter of the courtyard. How dare the Capitol herd us into this slaughterhouse in the name of justice. We'd seen a few tributes from District 1 and 2 named that. Justice, I mean. They're the Districts most excited by and involved in the Hunger Games, although I hear District 4 has a surprising number of volunteers. What could possess people into sacrificing themselves like that? A hero's complex, a superiority complex, a god complex? Complex. I perch myself on a ledge and watch as people trickle in.

Soon enough, District 12 is gathered for the executions. All teenagers, and 12-year-olds, are packed in the center of the square. Separated by barricades of rope. The oldest at the front gradating to the youngest children at the back. I take my place in the center group on the girls' side of the Hall. The 15s sector. Everyone around me shifts nervously, best friends grip hands and tears slip down more than a few faces. I can't keep a mental scoff, if you're going to die, don't you want to do it with dry eyes?

I tuck my shaking hands under my arms.

Up on the stage all the important members of District 12 sit. A handful of seats. Mayor Undersee makes his way to the microphone front and center of the stage. Behind him sits shining Milos Glamour, District 12's capitol representative and tribute escort, he's been going through his pink and green phase for a few years now. His hair shorn short and dyed pale green with pink stipes through it, like a confused tiger. He also loves a sharp shoulder, and his current hot pink suit did not disappoint, his shoulders appear to shoot off in diagonal daggers before twisting back to point towards his head, like arrows gesturing to his latest haircut. The rest of his outfit consists of varying shades of pink and green, just to mix it up a bit. He's been 12's escort for as long as I can remember, staring out at the sea of bland faces and washed-out color with his warm smile and bright eyes. To Milos' right sit the mayor's family, and to his left, a hunched form I'm assuming is Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the 50th Hunger Games, the 2nd Quarter Quell.

The mayor starts to speak, and I think I'm the only one listening.

"Welcome," his voice booms but I hear the fear underneath, one small misstep in the next few sentences and he might not live to see who wins this Hunger Games, "to the 72nd annual Reaping, and the start to the 72nd Hunger Games!"

He continues to speak of the unification Hunger Games provides and how it reminds us of the great losses of war, but how we don't have to fear or feel those losses anymore. Touching stuff. No one here believes any of it, except for Milos, but the mayor gestures and smiles as if we're all so happy to be here. Who can blame the man? Everyone's got a way to stay alive, his is lying to my face

"May the odds ever be in your favor," Undersee finishes his speech and Milos struts up to the microphone.

"Thank you Mayor Undersee," he gushes, "that was truly an inspiring speech. And thank all of you," he swings his arms as wide as he can in his constricting suit, "for being here on this glorious day!"

Those who aren't at the reaping are dying slowly in their homes or are already dead, their blood staining Peacekeeper boots.

"Now we move on to the main event," Milos continues as two workers shuffle forward, pushing the stands supporting two giant glass bowls, "selecting the tributes to represent District 12 proudly at this celebration of the 72nd annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd rises and stills as breaths are held. My lungs tighten but I relax them, one exhale in a sea of bated breath.

"Ladies first…" Milos searches and digs through the bowl, his pink and green nails scraping on the glass. A paper is selected. He lifts it high and swings it down to his eye level. He peers at it through his golden spectacles like it holds an interesting story.

"Cove Dahlia,"

Everyone finally breathes and there is shuffling behind me. No one from the groups in front of me moves towards the stage. She must be younger than me. Lucky girl. I've strategically placed myself on the edge, so I won't have to awkwardly move to the edge of my group. The girl comes into my peripheral view as she makes her way to the stage, dragging her feet. I step around the rope securing the 15-year-olds and place my hand on her shoulder.

She jumps like my touch burns, maybe she thinks I'm here to hurt her. She looks up at me with shiny eyes, her body frozen beneath my hand. I hear the thunder of boots as Peacekeepers run up to detain me. I hear whispers and shuffles.

I walk to the stage, pushing the girl behind me

Milos raises his hand to stop the Peacekeepers, he's curious, they all are. A young girl in a too-small dress walking up the steps of the Justice Hall.

"Is something wrong my dear?" Milos drags his calculating eyes over me.

I had meant to step out from behind the rope before the girl walked past and proclaim what I had to say proudly, but apparently, I was too afraid. I'm here now though, there's no going back.

I shrug, "I volunteer as tribute."

A/N: next chapter should be actually pretty soon, the next couple of days. I really want to embrace the fact that Annabeth is just a child, and I know that she is the toughest person we know but she is still young, and I want to show her fear, so be afraid with her and for her.

Leave a review and boost the story in whatever way you want, I've been off this site for a while so I don't really understand why/how everything is in groups (?) but yeah I'm excited to be back in the Percy Jackson and the Olympians FanFiction community.

ALSO, I JUST WENT TO POST THIS AND CHECKED ON MY OTHER STORY AND I WROTE 12 CHAPTERS? 28K WORDS? WHEN DID I DO THAT, I DON'T REMEMBER ANY OF THAT I THINK I BLACKED OUT?

xoxo