So there are the original three prologues, now let's get on to the stuff to reupload and let's get you acquainted to our lovely tributes!

Thanks to Sophia, cloudy5, Tom, Cloe, Sarah, writer12122121, KittyMae98, Jake, Jms2, AnnabethTheTributeThatLived, xxbookwormmockingjayxx, Remus98, 20, MidnightRaven323, Littletimmy223, JGrayzz, Metallic Shadow10, Alec, and the Guests for your reviews. You're all incredible people, and thanks for all of the kind comments! I'm really sorry if I missed one or two replies, I'll make sure to cover all of my reviews this chapter.

Also, I just want to thank you all for all the favourites and follows too! It shows that you're really invested in the story (which makes meh happeh :D). Obviously, faves and follows doesn't mean people aren't interested but yeah…take my compliments and thankfulness and all of that stuff ;)

TRIGGER WARNING: Expect some triggering stuff as the story goes on. This includes mentions of child abuse, insensitivity to death, and child molestation, among other themes. I'll try to remain vague, but I do tend to get involved with some characters a bit, so I apologise if it gets too much - I will adjust the rating to M accordingly based on the feedback you give me. I honestly don't want anyone to get offended, so do remember that this is a fictional story and that no offence is intended; I'm just doing my best to make the characters as realistic as possible.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any way, shape or form. I only own the arena I've created.

"Another day, another destiny." ~Alain Boublil

Austin Ogara, Eighteen, District One Male

The front door of my house slams shut behind me, the door rattling slightly in its frame. From inside, I can hear the muffled slurs of my father, yelling at me as usual. I don't let him get to me anymore.

I'm something that he can no longer touch.

Get to fuck, you dirty little shit!

My father's voice echoes in my ears, and I rub my temples, desperately trying to evade the words that continue to haunt me. He's treated me like this ever since Mom died. She was lost in childbirth, the light in her eyes fading like stars in the morning sky. I was born, but I was left with nothing but an angry Father. As a young child, there wasn't much I could do to stop him from hitting me and yelling in my face.

Hurry up, you lazy fucker! Now, or I'll kick your ass into next week!

I roll my shoulders involuntarily, an uncomfortable feeling weighing down on my neck. The soft fabric of my shirt rubs gently against the scarred skin underneath, forever marked with the imprint of a hot pan. I remember that night. Dad had gone so far as to hit me with the saucepan, the hot metal burning my skin and branding me forever.

D-dad, n-no, stop! OW, Dad that hurts, please! Stop! STOOOOOP!

I wince at the memories that whisper in my ears. They're always there, like the burn on my back, and they will never go away. I can't erase them like one would a drawing; instead, I have to hoard them and take them with me wherever I go. Whenever I see a child in pain, I feel it too, for their pain is reflected in my own heart. They're defenceless, afraid, and vulnerable. I was once the same thing.

In many ways I still am.

I try and focus on something else, something to get these troubling thoughts out of my head. Of course, my go-to thought is tomorrow. My last reaping. I'm going to volunteer for the Hunger Games. I doubt it came as much of a shock to anyone really. I've trained hard and I've worked overtime to get here. I had to get here. I had to. I must escape my Father's house, and become the free man I've dreamed of for so long.

But there are more reasons to this than my Father, some that even I hate to acknowledge. Part of it is the feeling of pride, of happiness…of victory. That feeling - I can't imagine it to be any sweeter than what it will be when I stand alone, the victor of the Eighty-first Hunger Games. This year is my year. However, as much as I'm confident, I'm also afraid. If I'm not careful, any of the careers could stab me in the back. I won't be surprised if they try to. I'm a threat to them, but they're also a threat to me. This game isn't supposed to give you any friends. This is a game where you fight, and you die.

And I don't want to die.

Which is why I'm going to try and win.

"Morning, Austin!"

My icy blue gaze darts up to see my best friend, Colette.

"Hey," I say tunelessly. "You ready for today?"

"Only if you are," she replies with a small frown. "It sounds like your Dad's got you down again. Is everything okay?"

I check the surrounding area for any eavesdroppers. I've never really told anyone about Dad, except for Colette, of course. I don't really want anyone to find out. They'd doubt my skills, and who knows what would happen to my chances of volunteering? Colette has sworn to secrecy, but I can't help but worry if anyone will overhear us.

"Just the usual," I reply smoothly. "I'm fine."

"It doesn't look like it to me," Colette answers, placing a gentle hand on my arm. "You know I'm here if you need anything, right?"

She hugs me, and after a moment, I return her embrace. She senses the pain I feel inside of me. I know she understands, and to me, her understanding is an anchor to stop me from going insane. She cares about my wellbeing, and it warms my heart to know that she feels this way. In many ways, she's my rock, and I know she'll stand by me for as long as she can to get me through this.

"Thanks," I reply, grateful. "I know, and you've done a lot for me already, just by being here."

"Aw, who knew that you of all people could get soppy?" Colette laughs ruffling my brown curls.

"I'm not soppy." I pout.

"Aw, don't cry!" she teases.

"I'm not crying." I snap defensively, and Colette sighs used to how I can get when I'm riled up.

"Hey, hey, it was just a joke," Colette says, nudging me. "C'mon, let's get a move on. You've still got a day's training ahead of you before you go to the Capitol. I wanna piss you off as much as I can before you leave."

"Shut up!" I reply, more playful now. Colette only laughs, dodging my friendly punch and sticking her tongue out at me. Fighting a smile, I follow her into the academy. You can't stay unhappy for long around Colette.

Colette practically bounds over to grab a weapon, and I'm left to follow her slowly, my arms crossed against my chest and my eyes staring forward. I see several of my classmates turn to look at me, some in awe, jealousy, and even a few with lust. I'm wasn't planning on impressing anyone, but their attention fills me with a strange feeling of appreciation. It's a nice feeling, one that I'd love to get used to.

"Hey, you."

A girl stands in front of me, blonde curls framing her face and voluptuous body, with dark blue eyes that shimmer like diamonds. She's fucking hot.

"Why, hello there," I reply with a sultry grin. "How are you doing, beautiful?"

"Not bad," she sighs. "But I was hoping you could help me with some sword practice."

"Well, maybe I'll teach you a bit more when you're not in that suit of yours, eh?" I smirk.

"Ooh, I like you," she winks. "I know how to hold a man's sword pretty nicely. Give me a heads up when you'll be around?"

"We'll get to my head later." I wink. "I'll be knocking."

She answers me with a small giggle before walking off, her perfect hips sashaying side to side as she regroups with her friends. I smile to myself. There's my hook up for the night. I try and stop myself from drooling. There are so many beautiful women around here that even I haven't slept with all of them.

I return to Colette's side.

"Another date tonight?" she remarks, seemingly innocent.

Colette knows about my nightlife as well. Yes, even those one night stands. What can I say? I'm a handsome man. I have to do more with my time than stay and deal with my Dad. It's just another way of getting out of there, even if it is for a few hours at most.

"You bet," I wink. "She'll be the last one for a while."

"Austin?" Colette asks, sounding worried.

"Yeah?"

"Promise you'll come back. Promise me."

Her request is very sudden as if she needed to throw it at me before she forgot. Her concern touches my heart…she's always cared and fussed over me. I know that if it's anyone I must come back to, then it's her.

"Of course," I reply, nodding. "I'll come back, and we can live our lives as normal."

My memories jump back two years as Royce Fendi, District One's newest mentor, was crowned the victor of the Seventy-Ninth Hunger Games. I could be like him. I could win and come back home, forever praised as a hero. I could escape my Father forever, with Colette by my side and endless days of calamity stretching ahead of me.

There's something within me that reminds me that this is the easiest leg of my journey. Everything I've experienced…nothing will come close to what I might be facing in the next couple of weeks. I must be careful. I must be watchful. I must make no errors.

I can't afford to lose.

Parker Lidell, Seventeen, District Three Male

Eight.

Eight, eight, eight.

Eight percent.

Of course! That makes a lot more sense.

I stare down at the calculator in front of me, paper scrunched up in my fist and a blunt pencil in my hand. I've finally found the marginal possibility for technological hazards within our workplace here at the factory. As the manager of this place, I have to make sure that all possibilities are explored and covered, and that includes health and safety. In District Three, there's no room for error, otherwise, someone's going to get hurt; especially when you're working twelve-hour shifts in a stuffy factory.

My hand trembles slightly as I stencil a figure of eight in my handbook. I've managed to figure out that the factory's danger to its workforce has decreased by eight percent from last month. I have a feeling it's because we've managed to invest in some new technology to make this place run a little more smoothly. I mean sure, a few people lost their jobs, but that was a necessary loss for my Father. All he cares about is doing what's needed, for both his God and his family.

I used to care.

I used to be the same as Mom and Dad, worshipping God to my heart's content. Dad always told me that I was the Lord's gift; that my mind could get me far in life if I studied and prayed to him. So that's exactly what I did. I studied, and then I prayed, every day for years and years on end. What my parents don't know, is that I've deviated from that path. What kind of a life am I living if it's spent in a factory like this, studying and praying and doing nothing else in my life? What kind of life is this if my freedom is restricted by my Father's wishes? It's not freedom at all. It's slavery.

And I'm their slave.

Setting down my papers, I gaze out of the window, bored. This is something I usually find myself doing these days. There's only so much a manager can do, and with nothing to do at the moment, I'm trapped in the realm of my own boredom. The windows are large, but they're incredibly dusty, leaving the sunlight to paint the room in an orange hue, setting it on fire. Filing cabinets are stacked side by side against the wall, with a large observatory peering over the edge of a balcony to the workers below. The room I'm in is silent, except for the buzzing of a small fly.

I check my watch and smile to myself. Of course, a lunch break is in order. I press the button for the lunchtime bell, almost hearing the workers below me sigh in relief. Half of their day is over, but they still have so long until they head back home. I snatch a walkie talkie from the corner of my large desk (which is drowned in pieces of paper and various broken pencils), muttering at my Vice Manager to keep things in order while I'm gone for the lunch hour.

Three flights of stairs, six doors, and a few minutes later, I find myself outside, feeling the cool wind upon my face. It gets so stuffy in the factory that there are days that I can barely stand it. It takes every cell in my body for me to stop myself from running away, from getting out of here. Letting out a small sigh, I loosen my tie and shrug off my blazer. My brown eyes search the street.

With a single exhale, and the smell of cigarette smoke, I find what I'm looking for. My friend, Dominic, casually leans against the side of an alleyway, blowing neat smoke rings before lazily breaking them with his finger.

"Hey, Dom!" I cheer, striding up to him, my shirt hanging off my thin frame. If I wasn't dressed so smartly, I could have been mistaken for a homeless boy in the slums.

"What's up, Parker?" my tall friend asks, handing me a cigarette and lighting it for me.

I hum in approval as the smoke burns my lungs. If my parents knew what I was doing right now…they'd shout at me, condemn me to hell. To them, living by the word of the Lord is something so sacred that nobody should disobey it, lest they feel God's wrath upon them. But I haven't got time for that. All I've ever done is live by God's word, and what has that ever done for me? It cost me friends, happy memories…it cost me my childhood. Fuck religion. I've been cooped up in a room for most of my life writing down numbers. In many respects, I'm still stuck there, being shaped into who my Father wants me to be.

I hate it, I really do. So, about a year ago, I began to sin. I smoke now. I drink now. I disobey God's word. And for once, I feel good. It's good to feel that spark of adventure in my life, something that I've missed for so long and experienced so little of. It's good to be a little rebellious from time to time.

"Guess what!" I say. "Today I calculated the marginal possibility of technological hazards in the factory, and I found that it had decreased by exactly eight percent! That's great news."

My speech is a mish-mash of words, each one piled up next to the other and pronounced swiftly. Dominic is unfazed by this. He's so used to my rapid speech that he can catch on to anything I say nowadays.

"Indeed, it is," Dominic answers, pushing a hand through his shaggy dark hair.

I lift a hand to my own head to feel the copper strands there, slicked back and greasy from filthiness and bathless nights. I stare down at the cigarette between my fingers.

"You know, it's weird…" I say, smirking at the floor. "How something so small can have such a big consequence, y'know? Like this cigarette here…it's made out of what, paper, some tobacco, a filter and that's just about it. I wonder how this is made. Cigarettes are pretty expensive, right? I mean, would you say tobacco was grown or manufactured? That must have cost a decent amount to make. Unless of course, they have a factory, in which it would reduce the making of each and every cigarette quite considerably. If you take a packet of twenty cigarettes and smoke them, some people are saying that it's really bad for you, and it's damaging for all of your alveoli and your bronchi. We all know that's true, because it tar forms in the lungs, liver, and various other organs, causing massive health deficits, yet they make something like this so expensive…"

"Well, why are you smoking cigarettes then?" Dominic questions.

I bring the cigarette up to my lips, taking a long drag and thinking deeply. I shrug.

"Why not, right?" I smirk.

Why not sin some more? This is the only freedom I have anyway.

"Why not." He echoes, smoke billowing out of his mouth in grey spirals.

For a few seconds, silence falls between us, as quiet and deadly as the smoke in my lungs.

"You don't seem worried about tomorrow." Dominic comments, raising his eyebrow in slight amusement. He's always found me hilarious, although I've never asked him why. I doubt he cares most of the time. I mean, this friendship started simply because I'd bumped into him on the street and asked for a cigarette. He'd laughed me, back then. But he didn't realise how serious I was. He didn't understand how bad the urge was to sin.

I shrug.

"Any combined possibility from the slips of paper with my name on them would be hypothetically low in terms of actually getting reaped for the Hunger Games. Even if I was reaped, then I'd be happier. Either way, I win."

Dominic chokes on his smoke and coughs violently.

"You don't care about dying?" he splutters.

"I do, in some respects," I say. "I mean, getting sacrificed to a Martian is why the Hunger Games happens right? So either way, I'll be doing a lot of other people a massive favour. Someone could save someone else's life, just because I was reaped to go into the Hunger Games instead of them. The butterfly effect, right?"

"Right." Dominic sighs, shaking his head slightly.

I don't push him any further. He knows that I have controversial beliefs and wild theories about the Hunger Games. I mean, people just choose to be ignorant about the Martian above us, who we surrender twenty-four children to. But at the same time, I do understand that he doesn't care, and I respect that. I'm jealous of him, really.

To my parents, I'm a wonder child, a genius, a human-computer of sorts. But to the world, I'm a sacrifice, an offering, a tribute. I don't want to be reaped, but I don't think I'd care too much about it. It won't happen, and if it does, I'll probably laugh at the irony of it all. They'd be giving me more freedom than I have already.

Freedom that I will gladly accept.

Nova Lupin, Sixteen, District Seven Female

I wrench my axe from the side of a tree, licking my chapped lips and blowing a blonde strand of hair out of my eyes. The sharp weapon in my hands leaves yellowish splinters on the floor, still damp from tree sap. Chopping the small tree down, I take a breather.

I'm in my Dad's small lumber yard, where we occasionally chop down trees to sell in town. It's a small plot of land, covered in small green trees that are vibrant and full of life. Underfoot, it's less appealing, with each footfall sending up small clouds of brown dust from the dry cracked earth. Like the wrinkled face of an old woman, the floor itself seems to have been sucked dry by the burning embrace of the sun, taking all the water it possibly can before running away with it.

I can see a storm brewing, dark clouds in both the sky and my heart. My mind is conflicted, confused even, and I feel like I want to scream, to yell so loud that I'd rip my own vocal cords. As horrific as it sounds, I still wouldn't care. I try not to. There's nothing in the world that can undo the lingering ties of the past, and I'm an emotional wreck because of it.

I suck in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. Calming the rising sea of panic in my chest is no easy feat, but I've done it a hundred times before. I shrug off the ache in my shoulder. I've been swinging this axe for far too long. Impaling the axe into a tree trunk and leaving it there, I take off my Dad's protective gloves and goggles, dumping them on the ground, and making my way over to the back door of our house.

The back door leads straight into the kitchen, where I can see my Mother stirring some stew in a pot. Steam rises calmly from the stew as she adds more and more ingredients. I shake my head slightly, allowing the corners of my lips to twist a little. Trust Mom to make too much stew as usual. I silently pass her without a word, walking down the hall towards the stairs. I'm about to make my escape when I hear voices approaching from outside. Slowly and quietly, I creak open the front door of our house, only to see Dad and Lucille, my best friend, talking.

Dad's sweaty as usual, a light sheen that covers his tan complexion and his defined muscles. Brown hair peppered with white, he's getting old now, but that doesn't stop him from working hard every day to bring in some money for the family. He sees me at the front door and flashes me a smile, to which I reply with a cold glare.

I hate him.

It was his mistake that left me with these emotional scars, and I hate him for it. He's a careless man, and he doesn't understand how much he's hurt me. I don't think he ever will.

"Hi, Nova," he says warmly. "How are you?"

Every day, he asks me the same question, as if he thinks he can get through to me or something. But he's only trying to cover up the sheer guilt that he must feel. I revel in his guilt. He deserves that burden on his shoulders.

"Hi." I spit stiffly.

That's the most he ever gets out of me. A hiss, an icy sound that feels nothing yet shouts help. But he doesn't pick up on that. He just goes on his way, heading towards the kitchen to find Mom.

Lucille follows my Dad through the front door and closes it respectfully behind her.

"Hey, Nova!" she smiles.

At the sound of her voice, my shoulders relax and I feel lighter and less uptight. Lucille's the only one I'm at ease around.

"Lucille…" I answer, and I pull her into my embrace, hugging her tightly as I do every day.

Normally, I wouldn't let anyone touch me; not even for a hug, but Lucille is the exception. See, that's exactly what happened to me all those years ago. Dad went into a shop to buy something, and young innocent me walked over to the sweet shop. I was suddenly pulled into an alley, into the darkness of the shadows and touched. Rough, calloused hands ran up and down my skin, explored every inch of me. I was eleven. When they found me, it was too late. My spirit had already been broken. Despite being two years older than me, Lucille never gave up, not even after the incident. I used to be a carefree child, but after I shut myself away, she was the only one who came to me every single day, to make sure I was alright. Even when I pushed her away, she kept on bouncing back.

"You never miss a day, do you? You might as well live here!"

A casual, joking tone emanates from the stairs, and I turn my icy gaze on my older brother Nero. We're not close (I'm not close to many people), but I respect him. He's always trying to be there for me, and I guess you could call him a protective brother. That, and he just so happens to have this massive crush on Lucille. I bet all of the girls in District Seven would hate to hear that. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin…my brother is someone the girls drool over. It's almost sweet that he only has eyes for Lucille. He's made me swear to remain silent - for now.

"Nero," Lucille announces, mock scolding him. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere? I don't know, maybe outside? In the bin?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," I remark. "I bet he's late for something, as usual."

At these words, Nero's eyes widen as he splutters and retreats upstairs to his room, obviously having remembered somewhere he needed to be. Lucille laughs, and I allow myself a small smile. Leading Lucille upstairs, we enter my room and sit down on my bed.

"So, how was today?" Lucille asks, twirling a strand of brown hair around her finger, before getting to work on messing around with mine.

"It's been fine," I shrug. "I chopped down a couple of trees, and I've prepared myself for the reapings tomorrow."

"Ew," Lucille comments wrinkling her nose. "I'm not looking forward to those."

"But…it's your last reaping, Luce," I explain. "If anything, you should be happy."

"It doesn't make me feel any better about it, Nova," Lucille sighs, braiding my hair now. "I have a higher chance of being reaped than I ever have before. All these years of escaping that reaping bowl will be pointless if I get reaped tomorrow."

"Well, if the impossible happens, then make sure to kick someone's ass for me," I smirk.

Lucille chuckles.

"You can bet on that, Nova," she promises me. "You can bet on that."

A genuine smile breaks out on my face as I stare outside the window, far away into the pine forest. In the distance, trees fall down one by one. In a way, they're tributes in their own right, fighting to survive. None of them can escape the woodcutter's axe.

And if I'm reaped tomorrow?

They won't escape me.

Lenore Van Duren, Fifteen, District Ten Female

Nobody can escape death.

It comes for you in the end, as it does to everyone. It's the one thing that we can't hide from and the one thing that many fear. It doesn't scare me, although there aren't many things that do.

The water splashes onto the petals of the flowerbeds in the graveyard. I'm always finding myself tending to the flowers here when I need some time to think. It's therapeutic in some ways, but it does need to be done. Someone has to do it, and that someone is me.

Looking past several rows of aged, chipped gravestones, I see someone standing at a grave with their head bowed. It's one of our newest graves this month, and it's hit the family quite hard. I would walk over to console the person mourning, but when the pain of loss is still as raw as this, it's best to leave someone to their own thoughts.

Not only that, but people tend to be quiet wary of me. Being the Undertakers daughter leaves me with a certain reputation, not to mention the fact that I'm shrouded in mystery. People know who I am; they're just a little too creeped out to come over and strike up a conversation with me. That doesn't mean I don't have friends, it's just that it's harder to make them. People look at you and see the death of their loved one. In a way, you're sort of tied to them, so staying away is often seen as the best option to take, especially when mourning.

There are citizens in this District that are far more open, however. These are the kinds of people that frequent our graveyard often. There are some visitors that come several times a week, and many times I've talked with them, offering a few words of condolence. By having the confidence to make connections, I've gained a few friends as a result of it.

I finish off watering the flowers and work on removing the dead ones from the various graves. There's a lot of graves, but less than you'd expect in District Ten. Many live in poverty here, but somehow, their families stay afloat, just so much that few of them starve to death. Surprisingly, one of the largest killers in the District is blunt force trauma, alongside disease, violence and disobeying Peacekeepers. As a District that watches over livestock, there are a lot of cases where people, most commonly children and teenagers, are killed when handling cows and horses. I've heard the animals here are quite restless. We've had fourteen deaths from livestock in the past month, which might not sound like a lot, but it's more than you'd expect.

I finish my graveyard duties, and I retreat back inside of our house. The District's graveyard is pretty much our back garden, a constant reminder of what my family is, and what we'll forever be. When Dad dies, I'll become the District's undertaker, and my children will have the same role as me when they grow up.

"Dad?" I call, shutting the door behind me.

"Down here!"

A muffled voice yells from the basement.

The basement is where my Dad spends a lot of his time. As well as taking the bodies, he also embalms them before the funeral. I often help him out these days, but I remember that when I was younger he used to try and hide death from me, especially when someone had been murdered or shot in the head. He used to use silver bells to distract me, all tied together on a piece of string. Dad says it's to ward off the evil spirits, and as much as I'm sceptical, I don't question him.

I shuffle down the cold stone steps that spiral down to the cool basement, where the smell of death and sweet smells meets my senses. I'm used to the smell of rotting flesh that I don't even wrinkle my nose at the smell anymore. My Dad is rubbing some kind of incense into the skin of the dead person on the table, who appears to be a young woman. I remember her; she was shot in the head by a Peacekeeper for stealing three chickens to feed her family. As much as it's morbid, I'm expecting her children to end up on our table in the next few weeks. It's a saddening thought, but that's life for you. It's not fair to anyone.

"Hey Dad," I say, walking over to the dead body, moving some delicately balanced glass bottles out of the way. We don't want to be dropping our embalming fluids over the floor; that stuff is expensive, and we only get a limited supply from the Mayor every month.

"Hey, Lenore," My Dad smiles. "Is everything done in the graveyard?"

"Yeah," I reply. "It's all sorted. I'm guessing you need some help with this one?"

"I'd appreciate it," Dad nods. "I mean, your Mother can't just climb out of her grave and help us, can she?"

"Oh, I don't know," I sigh, a small smile on my lips. "She said she was popping round for tea."

"She'll be hungry I guess, not eating for fourteen years." Dad answers.

"I expect she'd be all skin and bone now," I comment.

"Well, maybe just bone." Dad chuckles, and I chortle along with him.

We've always shared a sense of dark humour, Dad and I. Mom died when I was a child. She received a disease from one of her patients and died shortly after she gave birth to me. She used to be a healer of sorts, but her presence was soon snuffed out when death came for her. It might seem harsh to others that Dad and I laugh about her death together, but I'm around death so much that the idea of grief is something I can't comprehend. I still miss my Mom in some ways, and it would be nice to have her around, but she's dead. She's dead and buried six feet under, and there's not much I can do about it.

I've gotten over it.

I've moved on.

"Dad, how much alcohol did you add to the solution?" I question. "What's the concentration?"

"It's about twelve percent," Dad says. "It's a little weaker than usual, but I'm being frugal before our supply comes in next week."

"I think we might be a bit low on formaldehyde too, so we'll have to be careful about that." I muse calmly.

"I'll make sure to keep an eye on it." He acknowledges.

I move over to the table, where the smell of myrrh is strong and pungent. The woman on the table looks to be about thirty, with a gunshot wound straight between the eyes. Her skull has probably sustained multiple fractures from the bullet, but nobody will see that. We're embalming her for the children's sake. Dad and I might not be affected by death, but those children are probably devastated that their Mother is dead.

It seems that the embalming process is almost over. It's a process that can take hours and even days for some patients. We're just sorting out the surface of the woman's corpse and preserving her skin, so it doesn't rot before the funeral.

"I'm heading out to meet up with my friends," I inform my Dad. "I'll be gone for a few hours if that's okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Dad says. "But wait! I'll be working all day tomorrow on another patient, so I won't be able to go to the reapings with you."

"Oh…that's okay Dad, I understand." I nod.

"Remember to take one of those bells, tomorrow." he reminds me, nodding towards his silver bells hanging from the shelf.

I smile at that. Every year, I take one of those bells with me to the reapings. It's my token in case I ever get reaped.

"I will!" I assure him, and I take my leave.

The walk out of my house and down the street is a short one. I live on the edge of town, so meeting up with the others in the fields doesn't take me long. I weave my way past barns and farmhouses, through ranches and paddocks, and by tool-sheds and various townspeople, most of whom shrink away from me.

Finally, I arrive in a field, where my friends are grouped next to a large oak tree.

"Hiya Mac!" Theodore crows, his tanned smile beaming at me.

"Miss Mary Mac," Abigail states, her red hair bright and fiery against the blue sky. "You're here!"

"What's up, Mac?" Emmet smiles, readjusting his trademark cowboy hat.

I should explain my nickname. Theodore hates the name "Lenore", seen as it's loosely based off the idea of death. And so, he nicknamed me "Mackenzie" or "Mac" for short. Abigail and Emmet followed the suit. I met Theodore and Abigail when they visited the graveyard; Theodore for his brother, who died in the Games four years ago, and Abigail, for her Grandmother. I met Emmet through Theodore because they work together.

"I'm good," I reply simply. "How are you?"

"I'm ready for a round of storytelling," Emmet smirks cheekily.

"I've won every time!" I exclaim. "Your stories aren't scary enough."

"Then you can start, and Theo and Abi here can be the judges."

Sighing, I shake my head, sitting down with the others.

"Fine," I give in. "I'll start."

Emmet smiles at my defeat, ready and waiting for today's story. I'm quite the storyteller, especially when it comes to eerie stories. I tend to base them off of my own experiences of death, like with the dead that pass through our house. They make for some good stories, and I can work myself into such a frenzy that I'll even creep myself out sometimes.

"Are you sitting comfortably?" I ask.

The others laugh as they settle down to listen to my tale.

"Then I will begin…" I tell them.

As the sun begins to set, a ghostly smile forms on my lips as I begin my story, speaking of the horrors from beyond the grave.

Because of course, everyone has a tale to tell.

So I'll tell the tales of the Dead.

Pre-reapings! We have another one of these, before we have our two reapings, and our two train rides.

So, drop me a chart! Who did you love/like/feel neutral to/dislike in this chapter? How did you react to Austin's abuse? What do you think about Parker's rebellious ideas concerning his parents and their religion? How do you think Nova is going to cope with the emotional stress of the Games? How did you find Lenore's lifestyle and character? And finally, to the authors of these tributes, did I write your tributes well enough? Is there anything I can improve on? I plan on covering more details of your characters in future POV's :D

I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and hopefully, we'll be seeing each other soon enough!

Over and out!
~Mental