TRIGGER WARNING: Morty's requested scene involves self-harm.

Oberon Murdoch, District Nine male- 17

Across the room, the Careers were laughing. Nero and Nailah were having a face-off with bolos, a weapon that clearly neither of them had any experience, while the others were shouted guessed strategies and rooting for one or the other. Ceto let out a whoop as Nailah fumbled her toss and managed to wrap the bolo around her own wrist.

It must be nice. I thought. I wasn't even being sarcastic. I'd never begrudged other people's happiness just because my own life was difficult. I always thought it was great to see someone rich and prosperous. As long as I didn't think they got it from cheating people or something like that, I loved to see people having nice lives.

It must be nice to have time and energy to play. The Careers were carrying on like a bunch of kids. We WERE all a bunch of kids, really. The oldest of us were only eighteen. We should have been kids, anyway. I hadn't felt like a kid in a long time. I'd worked so hard to let Regan stay a kid but I think that ended when I was hauled away. I was ten years old when we lost our family and my childhood ended. After everything I did, Regan's ended at nine.

I didn't begrudge the Careers but I didn't understand them. They all came from such privileged lives. Not to say they didn't have any troubles, but they had money, and families, and luxuries. If I had a life like that, I'd just sit around and enjoy it. I'd run around in my warm cozy house and sit on a soft bed with a real frame instead of just a mattress on the ground and every day I would eat bread with butter instead of margarine. It didn't make any sense to me that someone so blessed would turn their back on all of that and go into the Games.

The Careers were so confident and blessed that they had time to mess around and have fun during our training time. For the rest of us, these few days were our single chance to desperately try to learn something that might save our lives. The rest of us didn't have time to laugh. I'd spent the entire day staring at plants trying to burn them into my head so I'd know what I could eat in the Arena. I knew I had to do that because I'd gone hungry before in my life. The Careers didn't think about that. They'd never gone without food and knew they wouldn't in the Arena either.

I spent the second training day learning stealth from one of the instructors. I knew that to live, not only would I have to keep myself alive, I'd have to keep myself away from everyone who was trying to kill me. I barely even saw the Careers that day. They didn't have to learn to hide. The only reason they practiced staying quiet was to sneak up on other people.

On the last day of training I learned how to use a dagger. At last that was one thing I had in common with the Careers. The Careers didn't have to worry about finding food for themselves. They didn't have to worry about running for their lives. But we both knew that in order to live we would have to kill.

Omar Beatriz-Calvert- District Ten male (15)

Swords seemed very different in the books. When I read about knights or warriors in storybooks, I always imagined their swords to be shiny and sleek and almost alive with magic and myth. What I found in the training room was just a piece of metal. It had a dull, undecorated blade and a simple round grip like an everyday steak knife. It didn't seem at all like it would deserve a legendary name like Excalibur or Sikanda or a dozen other swords I'd read about.

I swung the sword in an experimental curve. I didn't feel the sudden discovery of power or long-forgotten noble ancestry I guess all kids hope they'll someday unlock. It felt like I was swinging a very large knife. The blade was sharp, but not as sharp as I'd expected. I would really have to put force behind the swing to do any damage. It grossed me out to think of putting that much energy into swinging a sword at someone. I'd really have to want to do it. I'd have to be committed to trying to kill someone.

I don't even know where to start. I looked around and found the sword instructor hovering near the table. I hesitated a moment, not even knowing what I didn't know, and finally swallowed my pride and asked "Excuse me, how do you use a sword?"

"Oh my gosh, I thought YOU were the instructor," the woman said, then smiled. "Just kidding. I do that every year. New people every time so it never gets old!"

She got into a fighting stance- I didn't know much about fighting stances but it was clear from the way she squared herself and crouched down just a bit. "Good news and bad news. The bad news is all the really cool-looking stuff takes forever to learn. The good news is that like 90 percent of swordfighting is the same basic two moves."

She took her sword and held it diagonally across her chest. "This is a parry," she said. "Basically you just use the sword to cover your vital spots and get in your enemy's way." She jabbed the sword out. "And this is a thrust. Basically you... thrust."

"What about when you smack swords together with the other guy?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Oh, no. That's just in the movies. Real swords aren't made for hitting hard things like other swords. They'll just get damaged and can even shatter."

"You just stab at each other?" I asked.

"Pretty much," she said.

I guess it gets the job done. I'd always been more of a student than a fighter. It was good to know that in theory fighting was a lot easier than the books made it sound.

Culter Spring, District Eleven male (17)

I already knew a couple of edible plants. Nothing special, just stuff anyone who didn't grow up in the city would know. Clover, dandelion greens, yucca, that sort of thing. It would just come down to what sort of Arena it was. Another advantage of my home District was that I was used to less-than-sanitary water. In Eleven kids drank out of rivers all the time. I had a lifetime of built-up tolerance for milder water bugs and germs. And of course I could climb a tree like a squirrel. Which, incidentally, I had eaten in the past. I hadn't trapped them myself, unfortunately, but at least I knew how to butcher one.

That left weapons. Truth be told, I wanted to learn to use the weapons. I was angry. I was angry at the Games and that I had to fight for my life. I wasn't angry at any particular Tribute, except the Careers o course. It made me even angrier that the only ones I was actually mad at, I couldn't even fight. I was mad and I was stubborn, but I wasn't dumb enough to fight a Career. But then, the decision probably wouldn't be mine. They were going to come for me whether or not I wanted a fight, so I had to be ready.

Before I settled on any one weapon I wanted to give them all a try to see which one I liked. I started with the sword- simple, classic, iconic. It felt okay but not really like anything special. It was kind of heavy and hard to move gracefully. It probably took more practice than I was going to be able to get. The shortswords and daggers were easier and would probably be what I ended up settling on. For anyone without ten years of training, a dagger is pretty much the only way to go.

The mace felt very satisfying to hold. I set up a mannequin and ran at it. It felt savagely freeing to charge at a pretend enemy. I swung the mace like a bat and the mannequin- which was designed for maces and therefore had a plastic body- cracked all up its chest. Looks fatal to me, I thought as I imagined how the damage would look on an actual person. Since it WASN'T an actual person, just a piece of plastic, I let my more violent impulses come out and smacked the mannequin a few more times until it cracked badly enough a chip flew out. Better to vent my anger on a mannequin than a real human.

The spear and the javelin were both okay. I liked how far the javelin went but the spear was much more solid and better for up-close fighting, since I could also use it like a staff. It felt safer than the javelin since it was so much longer and I could keep my enemy farther away. I was just worried that I'd throw it and not be able to find it again. Or I'd miss and the other guy would pick it up and use it against me. If I was fighting a Career, which was the only type of Tribute I saw myself fighitng, they probably wouldn't miss.

I surprised myself when I took my first shaky shot with the bow and actually hit the target. Not even the very edge of the target either- I was a whole ring away from the outside. The assistant came over and gave me a few pointers and after a few flubs I hit the target every time.

"You're a natural!" the assistant said. Not bad, I thought. It was nothing amazing- I wasn't hitting the bullseye or anything- but a lot better than I expected for my first time. I was starting to rethink my initial plans to use a dagger. But then, there might not be a bow in the Cornucopia. Even if there was, the Careers would probably take it. I'd probably be in the Arena with nothing but a dagger. Probably not even that.

Morty Sonym, District Twelve male (17)

There was a face in the mirror. I guess it had to be mine. I didn't recognize it. I saw the eyes and the nose and the mouth. It all made SENSE as a face. It just wasn't MY face. It wasn't so much that it wasn't my face. It was that I didn't feel like I had a face. I felt like... a cloud. Just a shapeless cloud drifting around and not really touching anything. When I ate I didn't really taste it. When I slept I didn't get refreshed. It must be what it felt like to be a ghost. Or like watching a movie. It was like watching a movie of what everyone called "me" when really there was no "me". Just a ghost.

We'd been in the Capitol for three days. It might have been four- it was hard to remember. I had a faint feeling of time circling a drain as I drew nearer to what would certainly be my death. I guess I would know I was alive when someone killed me. Not to be dramatic or depressing. I just wouldn't know for sure that I was alive until getting killed proved it. It sure didn't feel like life.

I kept staring into the face in the mirror. I hoped if I kept staring then eventually it would look like me, or at least look like something. The eyes in the glass moved along with mine. I could see the little jiggles and darts eyes made even when you weren't moving them on purpose. It started to creep me out, knowing there was a face in the mirror but not thinking it was myself. Who was it, then? It made me think of the spooky stories we'd tell each other as kids, about monsters that lived in mirrors and came out if you did some ritual. It always sounded like the dumbest idea to me. So a horrible ghost comes out of the mirror if you say "bloody Mary" three times? Hmm, I think I'll NOT SAY "BLOODY MARY". But I got the feeling it didn't matter if I said it or not.

I don't know what I was thinking when I felt my arm move. Or really, I wasn't thinking anything at all. I brought up my arm and smashed my fist into the mirror. Pain exploded in my hand as I more or less punched a solid wall. At first it was the dull pain of smacking into something hard but right away the glass spiderwebbed into cracks. Little flecks embedded themselves into my skin, and larger chunks peeled away from the mirror backing and fell onto the floor. I knelt down beside them and looked at the little pieces of glass. I could see myself all chopped up and distorted in the shards. It felt less alien than seeing a face that didn't make sense. At least this had a reason to not make sense.

I picked up one of the shards and held it to my palm. I felt a familiar feeling as the glass pressed my skin in, threatening to break it if I pressed any harder. It was a road I'd been down before. I didn't even remember stopping, until I held the glass again. I'd just gotten so tired and so empty that I didn't even have the energy to anymore. But it was coming back to me now, as I held a shard of glass to my palm on a bathroom floor.

I pricked through the skin and felt the old sharp pain. I held the glass there for a minute, unsure whether to go further. But I didn't see any need to. It used to be when I cut it felt like I had all my pain hidden inside me and letting it out was a relief. I didn't feel that relief anymore. I didn't feel too much pain anymore either. I must have let it all out by now, so that all that was left was emptiness. I watched a single bead of blood on the edge of the broken glass for a second. Then I stood up, washed my arm and wound a bandage around it.