Lyndie Franklin, 12

District 8 Female

To say that Lyndie is afraid would be an understatement. It feels wrong to sit here across from Koren, Travers and her escort, Nikita, when in just a few days, she could be dead. Navarro is locked in his room, and judging by the occasional thumping, is throwing things at the wall. Perhaps it would be amusing if Lyndie wasn't petrified of her District partner.

After all, he did stab someone yesterday, and not even out of self-defense. That's called being crazy, if you ask Lyndie.

Not only is that a mess, but it only gets worse if you give Lyndie a once-over. Sure, she's still the same twelve-year-old girl who was Reaped in District 8, yet you can't help but notice the green cast on her arm. It's not that it hurts or anything; it's the fact that she was already going into the Games with a disadvantage—one of the youngest tributes in the entire competition—and is now even worse off than before. It's certainly not a good feeling. Not at all.

A trio of Avoxes—Avoxes of scarily similar heights to Lyndie herself—serve their dinner. Lyndie pays the food no second thought, instead her gaze lingering on the retreating backs of the Avoxes, wondering what their stories may be. What would get someone so young stuck as a silent servant—no, a silent slave for the rest of time?

Eventually her gaze is torn from their backs and she looks down at their meal. Her eyes tiredly peruse the food; it doesn't feel like home. The table is quiet. None of her brothers are here to have something interesting to say. There's more food on her plate than she could ever hope to eat. She's pretty sure that it's Henry's night to lead their prayer.

Lyndie bows her head over her meal and mouths her own prayer.

"Dear God," she mouths silently. "thank you for this meal that I am about to eat. I know that some of these things are out of even your power, but…if you can, help me in any way possible. Please?" She shuts her eyes for a moment. "Amen."

She picks up her fork and grabs a bite of steak. The piece is halfway to her mouth when Koren says,

"Lyndie? What were you doing?"

Lyndie looks up suddenly. "Nothing, nothing." The words fall out of her mouth too quickly, too loudly—in this case, Lyndie doesn't know who she can trust. She knows what the Capitol thinks of religion of any kind. She doesn't know if she can trust Koren, Travers or Nikita. Nikita is probably a no—Lyndie has heard that most people from the Capitol are loyal to a fault—but Koren and Travers might be…trustworthy? Lyndie isn't quite sure, but she's not exactly in the market to be risking it right now. She's at enough of a disadvantage as is. "Just…zoning out."

Lyndie has never liked lying. She's been raised to always tell the truth, but in this situation…unfortunately, lying could save her life. She also doesn't like hiding a part of her—religion has always been important to Lyndie, despite the fact that she has had to hide her faith for her entire life.

She eats another few bites of steak, staring at her lap all the while.

"Lyndie?" Koren says again.

Lyndie looks up to find all three of the adults at the table staring back at her; her eyes jump back to her food, acting as if her green beans have suddenly become the most interesting in the world. "Yes?"

"You were mouthing things earlier." Koren sets down her fork. "What were you mouthing?"

Lyndie turns bright red and continues staring at her food. The last thing she needs right now is to get in trouble… "I was praying."

"Praying?" Nikita says in her silly, shrill voice. "To what?"

"To God," Lyndie mumbles, her eyes remaining resolutely on her green beans.

"What?" Travers says. Lyndie can't quite tell if he heard her and is horrified, or if he didn't hear her at all…but for a split-second, it doesn't matter. She's been hiding this for her whole life, running from the Capitol with their backwards beliefs, and if she's going to die, she's going to die with no secrets holding her down.

"I was praying to God!" Lyndie cries, her head whipping up. She looks Travers directly in the eyes and clenches her fist. It's not his fault that religion is outlawed. It's not his fault that Lyndie has been hiding. But in this moment, this one, awful moment, Lyndie finds herself unable to care. "Not the Capitol, not the president—I was praying to God. We call it saying grace; ever heard of it? Anyone got a problem with that?"

Travers, Koren and Nikita all seem shocked by Lyndie's outburst. Lyndie herself is surprised by her own anger, but it's slightly deserved, isn't it? She's spent her entire life hiding her beliefs in shadows. Doesn't she deserve to tell someone about it before she dies? Lyndie always thought of herself as an open book; she always told people she had no secrets to hide. Aside from the largest one, the only one she ever had to lie about, she had no secrets to keep.

Without waiting for any of them to speak, Lyndie powers to her feet and stalks out onto the balcony. The evening summer air washes over her as she slams the door shut, leaning moodily on the railing. She rests her chin on her free hand, staring down at the streets of the Capitol, far below her. It must be so nice to be down there, she muses. They don't have to worry about anything. None of them are going to be dead in two days.

It only makes her heart ache for home worse. She finds herself wondering what everyone back in 8 are doing. In the few hours she used to go to school, do her classmates miss her? Do they wonder if they will ever see her again, or are they certain that she is a goner? What of the people from her church? Of her family, her friends?

The world continues to go on around Lyndie. She knows that. She knows that the world back home didn't just stop existing because she came here. The world stops for no man, and Lyndie is no exception. Time has always passed, has always walked all over her. It presses down upon her, weighing on her shoulders, a constant reminder of what she has lost and what she could gain.

Tick, tock.

She straightens her posture, once again clenching her fists. Well, she's done. She's done letting anything push her around. She's ready to take control of things.

The clock is chiming. Time is counting down, slowly ticking away the seconds left that Lyndie has to live. Well, she's having none of it. It doesn't matter if she dies in two days or two decades. She is done with letting the world pass her by.

Tick.

Yet, at the same time, a different voice in her head reasons that there's nothing she can do. What can a twelve-year-old with a broken arm do to win the Hunger Games? It doesn't matter what she does; a tiny twelve-year-old with a broken arm could never win the Hunger Games.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Lyndie shuts her eyes and listens to the sounds of the Capitol. It continues to carry on around her, cars honking in indignation, parties raging all night long, music blaring at all hours. It never ends. It never ends. It never ends.

It never ends, but Lyndie is okay with that.

Well, maybe not quite yet. But she's still got two days to figure it out. She can make amends. She can learn to accept that the world will continue to live on without her. Her family will move on, her friends will make new friends, her classmates will meet new students.

At first that scares her, probably more than should. But…the world has to keep spinning. She may be gone, but the world won't be.

It doesn't scare her anymore.

Tick.

She's ready to fight. She's not afraid. She may die, but that doesn't mean she has to go down without a fight. She doesn't want to take any lives, but that doesn't mean that she has to go down quietly. Her life doesn't have to end like this.

Tock.

She'll still die, but she'll die with dignity.

Everett Reed, 17

District 9 Male

There is always more work. There is always more work. There is always more work.

…until there isn't.

He can't just…just…just sit here! In two days—two days—he'll be in the Games. Hell, he could be dead in that amount of time. Like, dead, dead. Deader than dead. He would just cease to exist and, well…what's left if he's dead?

What's left in the first place?

If he wins, he'll have enough money to put more food on the table than they could ever eat. He'll never have to work again. If he wins, he'll never have to go back to the fields with his judgmental coworkers again. If he wants, he would never have to look upon a field of grain or a scythe ever again. He could just sit around his house in the Victors' Village and do nothing.

There is always more work.

Except when there isn't.

Everett gets to his feet, mentally revising his mantra.

There is never enough work.

It's the truth, isn't it? There's never enough for him to do. There's never enough money, enough food, enough time. Everett, no matter how little he would like to admit it, can only do so much. There are only so many hours in a day, only so many jobs to be completed, only so many commands to be carried out.

Everett's hands dig into his hair as he paces back and forth across his room in the dark, the nearly-see-through curtains pulled down over the windows in the vain attempt to block out the world. The world doesn't need to see this. The world doesn't need to see him. The world doesn't need to know. Nobody does.

By this point, Everett has practically blazed a trail through the short carpet with his vigorous and near-constant pacing. He can't sit down. He can't stop moving. He can barely snatch a few hours of sleep, because every moment he spends in bed is one less moment he has before the Games begin, one less moment he has to learn, one less moment he has to train, to work, to live.

Time is running out, and Everett is hyper aware of that fact. His grip tightens, his nails digging painfully into his scalp as his feet continued to slap against the carpet. Each second that ticks away is one less that he has.

The moment he stops moving, it feels like he's giving up. It feels like, to stop, to sit and think and just breathe and exist, that he's giving up. That he's letting go of everything; of the world, of his life, of his siblings back home, of doing anything to help them.

He yanks open the door and stalks past the empty couch and dining table. He assumes that both Gracyn and Iara have already gone off to bed. Ainsley is nowhere to be seen, but that certainly doesn't bother Everett. He's always had a soft spot for little kids, but Ainsley makes it…difficult.

Everett steps into the elevator and realizes he doesn't know where to go. He can't go into the Training Center. Trust him, he's tried. The doors refuse to open until six a.m. on the Training Floor. He surveys the keypad and decides the best option is the Gamemaking floor. It's midnight. Absolutely nobody will still be working at this late of an hour, right?

He takes a gamble and presses the button.

As the elevator descends the Tribute Center, Everett continues to pace through the tiny carriage, unable to stop moving. If he stops moving, then he's wasting time, and if he's wasting time, he's wasting his life, and if he's wasting his life, he's letting Tricia and Tanner go hungry, and if he lets Tricia and Tanner go hungry, what kind of big brother is he? He's supposed to be there for them. He'll just have to get home to them, and they'll never have to go hungry again…

…and he'll never have to go to work again…

He steps out of the elevator onto the darkened Gamemaking floor. He starts walking down the long corridor, walking past closed door after closed door. Curious, he reads the names emblazoned on the doors, wondering if they managed to misspell those as well.

Angelique Aberdeen, Head of Arena Construction. Aubrianna Wickham, Head of Arena Events. Caius Hearst, Mutt Specialist.

Everett pauses outside Caius's office, which a sliver of light and the drawl of voices is spilling from. He tunes into the conversation, curious as to what a Gamemaker would have to talk about in the middle of the night.

"What is the meaning of this meeting? You told me I was supposed to speak with Mr. Euphemia—"

"Well, you're not. Oh, and have you met my assistant, Sidra?"

"No. I have never seen this woman before in my life."

"Yes, well. Caius, I do believe you are the Mutt Specialist on the Gamemaking team, yes?"

"Of course I am. I just don't see what this has to do with anything."

Everett, confused, cocks his head to side as he takes a step closer to the nearly closed door.

"I'm going to ask a favor of you, Caius. I have big, big plans that are going to be put into action very, very soon, and I need your help with some clean-up. First of all, you know the District 12 male, Mr. Geo Stryker?"

"Yes."

"I need you to ensure that he is dealt the most painful, gruesome death in the past fifty years of Hunger Games."

Everett's eyes widen. This guy is trying to kill one of the tributes? And why the guy from District 12? What's special about him? It's not really that it bothers Everett that it's Geo; he'd just like to know so he can avoid doing something that will piss this guy off. Better Geo than him, right?

"What!?"

"You heard me, Caius. This tribute—this, "Geo Stryker"—was extremely, let's say, rude to me earlier today. I ran into him in the hallway and he…he mistook me for district scum, Caius. He thought I was a tribute."

"Oh, the humanity."

"Do not toy with me, Caius! I have an extensive network of Snow sympathizers and loyalists, and any one of them would love to take out a hit for me!"

Snow sympathizers? Loyalists? What is this guy talking about?

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"I-it will be done. He'll…he'll be dead."

"Good. With my plans coming up, I can't risk someone so disrespectful gaining Victory. Now, onto what else you owe me…"

Everett takes another step forward, casting a shadow over the sliver of light that escapes from office.

"Wait."

Everett freezes, staring at his shoulder.

"There's someone outside the door."

Everett whirls around, pressing himself against the wall. His breaths start to come in quick succession at the thought of if this crazy guy finds him out and tells Caius to give him a gruesome, mutt-based death as well. He can't chance it. He has to run. Now.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart, and takes off running. He reaches the end of the hallway and starts pressing the up button on the elevator, over and over and over again, as the door behind him bursts open.

"Hey! Stop!"

The elevator dings and the doors pull open. Everett all but throws himself inside, pulling his body to the side to hopefully stay mostly out of view, and quickly presses a random button. The doors slide closed and the elevator moves upward at an almost leisurely pace. It's no slower than usual, but to Everett, with adrenaline pumping through his veins, it feels like it's pulling itself through glue.

After a moment, the doors ding again and open on whatever floor Everett pressed. He stumbles into the room, hearing the sounds of people running up the stairs—stairs, why didn't he think of that—leading him to look around, as if waiting for someone to leap out of the couch cushions and shoot him in the chest.

"Come on! They should be up here—"

Everett starts looking around for a different reason: a place to hide. At last he dives under the dining table, hoping the many chair legs will conceal him well enough.

The door to the stairs slams open. Everett watches two pairs of shoes stalk into the living area, searching for something—him—in the dark.

"I can't believe you didn't even lock the door."

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

"You think I'm kidding about the loyalists and sympathizers, don't you?"

"No, sir."

"That's what I thought." The smaller pair of shoes—some kind of combat boots—kicks the side of the couch. "God! I can't believe that someone was there. A tribute, no less! But they must be one of those tributes in there—" Everett assumes that he points at the doors leading to the tributes' rooms. "—so, to kill two birds with one stone, let's just say that neither of them make it out of the bloodbath with their lives, 'kay, Caius?"

"You're insane—!"

"I can kill you in an instant, Caius. I think I'd watch my mouth, if I were you."

"You're bluffing."

"I absolutely am not. You have no idea how much control I have over you, Caius. Need I remind you of…?"

"No! No! We're good here. They'll be dead. Yep. Yep."

"Good. We're done here. Come, let's finish our meeting. Hopefully Sidra will still be there…"

Everett watches the four shoes disappear into the elevator, but remains crouched uncomfortably below the dining table for much, much longer. He feels like he can't move. Is he supposed to do something about this? Is he supposed to tell someone that Caius and Combat Boots are trying to rig the outcome of the Games? And what about those "big, big plans" that Combat Boots mentioned?

Because the way Everett sees it, if Geo is marked for slaughter as well as whatever pair of tributes reside on this floor, that's three less people that Everett has to cut down. And, he doesn't want to get on that Combat Boot's bad side. If he can stay out of dodge, then he will. Simple as that.

Eventually, Everett crawls out from underneath the table and takes the stairs. He doesn't count how many flights he walked up. He doesn't check what floor he left. He just keeps going until he reaches Floor 9.

When he returns to his bedroom, with its stupid misspelled name, sunlight is slowly, slowly peeking through the paper-thin curtains. He takes a deep breath and drops onto his bed, for once, feeling no need to move. He'll probably be up and pacing in ten minutes, but all he needs right now is to know that someone else will take the fallout for his mistakes.

Is it a good feeling? No.

Does he care that someone else will die because of his mistakes?

Also no.

A/N: I'm still not religious, but my mom said that what I had Lyndie praying was okay. So I hope I didn't offend anybody with it, because I promise that was not my intention.

Also, Everett's POV ran long, so I tried to make Lyndie's longer to compensate, so I hope that Lyndie's wasn't really boring or overly wordy.

1. How do you think Lyndie will fare in the Games?

2. Do you think telling Travers and Koren what she was doing was a good idea?

3. What floor do you think Everett hid on?

4. What floor do you hope Everett hid on?

-Amanda