A/N: Here we go! And yes, this will be written in First Person Narrative. It's my default format. Usually I would challenge myself, but this whole "SYOT writing" thing is a challenge. I'm already way outside of my comfort zone, and I do not intend to venture any farther xD. And I'm not writing a lot about the family in the reaping chapters, as I want these to be about getting to know the person. Plus, I lost Mason's form xD. On with the show!

Chablis Brochetto POV, District 1 Female

"Slut." It's a word that I have seen in many different forms. A disapproving frown here, a shocked twitch there. I am used to it. They- the omnipresent they, the lurking, shadowed they- take great fun in expressing it in all manners, though the method they seem to enjoy best is the simplest. Walking up to me and telling me. Spitting at my feet and calling me a filthy little slut. The direct way. It doesn't bother me, but for the sake of my deception, I act like it does. I whimper and whine and let floppy tears fill my bright amber eyes. I put on my game face- my pain face. It's pretty impressive, I think, seeing as whenever this occurs, the inside me is crossing her arms and tilting her head. Whispering dark promises, as sour as the bubbling stomach acid that rises in my stomach whenever I lie. (I ignore it.) Promises of death and blood. Their death, their blood. And yet when they see my tears they assume I am the one dying inside. Who am I to deprive them of their fun? It's a perverse little game we play. Everyone gets to win.

There are worse things to be then a slut.

Serious relationships have never been my forte. I have no deep reason for not engaging in them- no locked-away fears having to do with divorced parents, or an old flame. I just want casual intimacy, but not a relationship. It is not a bad thing. But I don't need to justify my actions.

When Asker calls me a slut though, it hurts. For a second after he says it, I feel a pop inside my skull and I remember last night. But then the pain is gone. I slap on my façade like slapping on a mask. I can practically feel the plastic and grease rubbing up against my cheek. Ew. I let the tears bubble up, fountainlike. My vision blurs and he splits in two.

"Asker…" I whimper, my face twisting. And then I spot the flash of fury in his eyes. He is one of the ones who is not fooled. I'll have to slip into murder mode. Great. "Asker, if you don't let this be, I'll tell everyone you raped me. And I can't tell a lie, Asker!" I spit, ripping my mask off with a simple, fluid movement. His face twitches and I grin, victoriously.

"Chablis Brochetto!"

The square is silent, oddly enough. I am shocked. This wasn't something I predicted, never ever. But I'm not worried. I know I can win. Just keep the mask on, Bliss, and the games will be over soon. I let the tears slide down. My vision fogs again. I make my way up to the stage, purposefully slipping and wailing, my legs sliding as if I have no control over them. I will never have any rest. The arena is full of cameras. My mask will be on all the time.

What a fate.

Mason Dowry POV, District 1 Male

All the times, it's been the games. The Hunger Games will be the climax of my life- everything that happens before or after it will not matter. I'm a hunter. I was born for the job of Victor.

The cobblestones grate against my feet as I stomp to the "18 Male" section. The predatory grin is pasted on my face. It will remain there forever. I'm not losing my chance to get into the games this time. Last year, that asshole Edmyer Conch volunteered before I had a chance to open my mouth. I laughed when the boy from two decapitated him.

Every other boy cowers in front of me and my unshakable determination. These games are mine for the taking. I take my place and stare up at our mayor, Aro Fendellt, as he reads out the history of the games. My lips curl as his protruding stomach wobbles. Pathetic.

He stumbles offstage looking somewhat sick. Yvette Yellstower takes his place, her electric blue lips curling up into a maniac smile. "Time to decide who will have the honor of being our female tribute!" She trills, and dives a satin glove into the large crystal bowl, pulling out a white slip of paper. "Chablis Brochetto!" She simpers. Oddly enough, nobody volunteers. A heaving sob rises from the "17 Female" Section, and a tan blond stumbles up, tears swimming in her amber eyes like minnows. She lets out another heaving wail, and collapses into a desolate pile onto the stage. Yvette blinks and scampers away as if her misery is contagious. I snort. What a weakling. The Careers should be powerful volunteers who dominate the games. She's destined to be a bloodbath.

But I forget that when Yvette thrusts her hand into the boys bowl. I tense. She pulls out a white slip of paper and begins to read out a name that nobody catches, because I instantly yell out my volunteering, and race up to the stage. Yvette stumbles. Chablis sobs. I pump my fist into the air and relish in my victory. I've got this in the bag.

There we go- the district one reapings! I apologize if not everything is correct or I wrote the procedure wrong. This is my first SYOT.

Review!

-SparkHat