A/N: I'm churning out updates at the speed of light, aren't I? Eheheh. Also, I'm thinking about writing a Warriors story. How does that sound to you guys? Anyways, on with the show!

Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female, 16 years old.

"Ronja, can you come down, please?"

I desperately try to keep the note of fear out of my voice as I speak to my sister. I don't want her to panic, but..

The whipping wind carries only a faint echo of her voice down. "I'm an air spirit, Cajsa! I'm staying up here!" I huff. "How will you eat?" I counter, sure I've trapped her. Her response is quick and to the point, though- "Snow!"

"It's not winter for a while yet. And I don't think snow is all that nourishing." I spit up at her. I instantly regret my tone of voice, though. I know I'm a mother figure to Ronja, despite our minimal age gap of 5 years. Our actual mother died and childbirth, and while our brothers Mattis and Finnley care for Ronja too, I'm the only one patient enough and female enough to be a real mother figure. I don't want to snap at her, fight with her, or belittle her, because I'm trying to be as much like Mom was as possible, and Mom was a gentle soul. Still, it's hard not to be angry with Ronja when she's currently lounging about on the top of a textile factory.

I'm not worried that she'll fall- Ronja is a nimble little monkey. But I am worried that the Peacekeepers will spot her and shoot her on the spot. Rich or poor, old or young, it doesn't matter to them. According to the Peacekeepers, any infraction is punishable by shooting. Shooting solves every problem! Starving six-year-old steals a crust of bread? Shoot 'em! A woman hits a would-be rapist? Shoot both of them! Shoot anything and everything and hey, maybe you'll be promoted! And unfortunately, Ronja is in the category of anything and everything.

A sharp gust of wind blows the tattered hat off my head. I freeze, terror suddenly racing through me veins, as well as a more-then-healthy shot of adrenaline. I'm too far from the top to see Ronja's face, but I'd bet my tesserae that she'd gone snow-white and dropped to all fours.

"Ronja! Right now!" I snap, fear infecting my voice. "O-okay." She whispers shakily, and runs across the top to the ladder.

I watch, heart in throat, as she scrambles down, wind whipping her from side to side. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't think about how sweet and soft she is, how cruel and painful it would be to loose her. I think about loving her, her strength and her oddities, and how strong she is. I think about her coming safely down from that swaying ladder, and launching herself into my arms.

Nine years previously

The child sat, legs swinging, in the painfully grimy hospital waiting area. There was no one, not even a nurse, to watch the girl as she stared fixedly at a white door. She had seen her mother be wheeled through there, but was not nearly brave enough to open it up and see her. The girl was nine years old. Old enough to know when someone is dying.

A shattered scream sounded and a man rushed through the door- her father. His limbs were twisted with grief, his body wracked by sobs. He was utterly, pathetically broken, and she knew it, and what it meant. The two bend over and cried- together, ironically.

Together, united in grief.

Present

I crack open an eye and let out a wild sob as Ronja rushed towards me, dark hair forming a twisted brown halo around her head. I embrace her, body shaking. "I was so scared." I whisper into her hair.

"It's okay, Cajsa." Ronja whispers sweetly. "Everything will be okay."

Ajax Walker, District 8 Male, 15 years old.

"Ajax, you better not mess this up! I have a lot of money riding on your scrappy ass."

I flash Caine a goofy grin, reveling in his anger. If Caine Potterly cares enough about you to lecture you, then you really are something. I didn't need him to confirm my skill- I'm no egotist, but anyone can see I'm not exactly a newbie to the knife business.

According to law, I have one job, and it is that of a textile worker. According to anyone who pays any attention at all to the antics of eight's people, I have two professions- One as a textile worker, and another as an knife-thrower in illegal weaponry contests.

"Don't worry, sir!" I yell back at him. "I'm not planning on it!"

He lets out a groan I can barely hear, and I move past him and through the door.

My heart begins to pound as I scan the targets and the competitors. Every competition has a unique air about them. Most of them have a friendly, non-competitive aura. The targets are chipped, the competitors conferring and laughing.. It's all very casual, usually.

But today is the Final.

No chiming laughter fills the abyss. Every competitor is tense and ready. There's a very official, serious atmosphere. Nobody is doing this as a hobby.

I take my place and gasp as the starting bell chimes. People begin to flood past me, faces pinched and cold, eyes dark with determination and seriousness. Seriousness has never been my strong suit, so I highly doubt I look as intimidating as them. But there's no harm in looking like the strong competitor I know I am, so I let the muscles in my face contort into a grimace of determination. I step in line behind a target. The line slowly thins, and before I know it, it's my turn.

I tremble slightly, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead. I've never been as far as the Finals before. But I force myself to relax and fling the knife towards the target. My muscles flex and burn as the steel blur flies through the air and sinks into the target. My breathing calms. I know, without needing confirmation, that I've made it to the next block. After the people next to me through, a go up towards the knife and pull it out with a grunt, silently wondering how I managed to sink it so deep into the wood. I head to the back, where the finished competitors are, and watch as the rest of the competitors throw. There are some obvious winners, some obvious losers, and some that could go either way. Finally, the last competitor- A skinny, dark woman who more likely then not is going home, grabs her knife and retreats to be with us. The bell chimes again and the intercom crackles. I glance up at the judges.

"We have all the people who will be progressing written down. Shannon Ronona Terence Pence, Mila Auburn.."

I wait for my name to be called, first calmly, then slowly more desperately.

"Mikey Tally, Fae Phelps.. That is all. Over."

I freeze.

My name wasn't called. My name wasn't called.

A young woman next to me bursts into tears, and I instinctively reach out and pat her back, rather awkwardly as I'm grieving for the loss of my own pride while helping her with hers.

I lost.

The pure, simple truth of it.

I lost.

How?

Simple, really. I wasn't good enough.

I won't happen again.

I'll train for it, all the time. Who gives a damn about textiles- my whole life is going to become training to win at this knife-throwing gig.

I will be better.