A/N: District Six Reapings! Halfway through with the Reapings! AAAAH I'M SO EXCITED TO ACTUALLY START WRITING SOMETHING INTERESTING. BTW, I'm publishing two chapters today. You lucky ducklings ;D

On another note (two, actually,) I've decided on the characters who will die in the Bloodbath. WARNING: There will be a- gasp- REALISTIC DEATH COUNT. Which means over six. Remember, in canon, 13 people died in the Bloodbath. The number isn't quite as high here, but it isn't, like, four. Something else- I've noticed that my chapters are kinda short. This is because Reapings are boring. Hopefully I'll have more inspiration when we're done with this painful ordeal! And yeah, I added ages, because I thought it would be useful to know. So, without further ado, District Six, everyone!

Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female, 15 years old

"COOPER!"

"Hi sis! Bye sis!"

I let out a pterodactyl screech and chase Cooper down the stairs, trying- and failing- to not trip over his tuna cans. We don't even have a cat, so don't ask me how he got his hands on them. My foot hits a metallic can stinking of fish and I tumble down, banging into Cooper and sending him down with me. My head bangs the ground, sending a spectacular bolt of pain up my skull. I leap up and let out a gasp of pain as nausea floods me. My vision blurs and splits as I take a few steps towards Cooper. But I ignore it- vengeance will be mine!

"Quinn, Cooper, care to explain why my new shoes are covered in expired tuna?"

The cocky smile melts off of my brothers tan face, replaced with a wide o. "Weren't you supposed to work extra hours today?" He gasps. My dad rises an eyebrow. "No explanation? I guess I'll have to summon the jury." I stifle a laugh. "Quinn, you aren't out of the woods, either!" "Hey!" I protest, indignant. "All I did was trip over his damn tuna!" Dad scowls. "Well, now you're in trouble for cursing. You know we don't use those words in this household." The flare of mischief in Cooper's eyes grow brighter. "Yeah, Quinn, watch your fucking mouth."

"MARCH!"

Six minutes later, I'm sprawled across the table, my head pounding wildly. I've never drunk, but I imagine this is what a hangover feels like. After a severe tongue lashing, Cooper has sobered. Now, if you ask me, he's the one who's probably been drinking. The chew-out lasted a bit longer then it would otherwise. Everyone is on high alert- tomorrow is the day of the Reaping.

Our odds aren't high, but there's always a chance that me, Cooper, or Columbus will go in. We don't like to think about it.

If I'm being honest.. I'm scared.

I'm supposed to be fearless and brave and friendly. The sarcastic, majorly unfunny daredevil from six. Sure, I'm quiet around those I don't know, but my friends and family see me as the brave one. And yeah, being seen as a hero is nice, but everyone is afraid sometimes. And I may or may not be more scared of certain things then people think me to be.

They think I'm brave because I'm oblivious. Whenever Mom, Dad, And Col talk about politics, they usher me and Cooper out of earshot. Cooper is too wild to be the oblivious model of childish bravery. So that leaves me.

When do I get to be afraid? When do I get to be a normal child, not a poster one? I'm fifteen years old. I have my fears, my night terrors, my demons.

I'm scared of being scared.

Preston Oxford, District 6 Male, 18 years old

Two years previously..

Two pairs of wet, bare feet slap the ground as identical boys race across the slippery edge of a river, seemingly oblivious to the raging water. They're an accident waiting to happen.

One of the boys lets out a shaky laugh. "I can't say I'm not nervous, Pres.."

The other boy flashes his twin a goofy smile. "You're the most agile person I know, Mister "Future Trapeze Artist Clint Oxford." Remember how you said that the Capitol would be eating out of your hand?

The other boy- Clint- flecks a moss bit off his shirt. "You're judging my agility by a pipe dream I had when I was ten?" Preston smiles and squishes his toes against the cold rock. "You know it."

Clint shrugs. "Whatever. You only live once, right?"

"Right."

The two boys push forwards, feet slipping and sliding over wet stone, drops of perspiration mixing with the cold water. Clint lets out a freeing laugh- just as his foot slips.

The look on his face morphs instantly from a laughing grin to a soundless gape of horror. He hits the water and blood sprays up, hot and sticky to contrast the cold. Preston screams and it's a terrible sound, a heart-breaking noise that wrenches apart the sky and smothers the sun. Clint bangs into a rock and sinks down. Preston begins to scream, and will do so until his throat is raw and his eyes bug out of his head. Clint is dead, and so is Preston. Dead in a very different way.

Present

A cloak of death and depression muffles the usual noise of our home. Our steps are slow, our movements clumsy. Our eyes are dry, though. We have already cried, long and hard, and at one point we just decided to be done. No more tears. Just a cold, stifling sadness.

"Preston, we're heading over to the grave now," says my little sister, Agatha. She isn't crying either, but her face is openly full of sadness. Seven years old, and with a better grip on her emotions then most adults. I nod, and stand up.

We meet up with Mom and Dad in the living room, and our family of four- formerly five- sets out towards the grave, weaving through streets and taking worn shortcuts. Our footsteps echo, as does our sadness, poisoning the air. Finally, we enter the graveyard, clamping our hands over our noises in an effort to mask the smell of death. The yellow grass crunches against our feet as we walk, despite our efforts to be silent. We reach Clint's weather-worn stone legacy and pause, deathly still. Mom drops a cluster of daisies on the grave and turns away, trembling. No, we have not healed.

"Hi, Clint." I whisper.

"How is death?"

A/N: I didn't want to say this in the beginning, because it was getting long enough, but I changed the arena. The pun in the prologue no longer applies.