A/N: blah blah blah, reapings reapings reapings, I JUST WANT TO WRITE THE GAMES OKAY I HAVE ~pLaNs.~ Btw, it may not be obvious, but Finlay was reaped. She didn't volunteer, despite her dreams of escape.

Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female, 14 years old

My small hands dig deep into the chunks of firm, jagged bark, pulling out loose splinters of wood not strong enough to hang on to the tree. I pull myself up. After two years of working in the fields, my muscles only issue a slight complaint. My feet scrape the rough bark as I scramble, monkey-like, to the top, where the largest and most luscious fruits thrive.

I pause to let the amber rays of 11's latest spectacular sunset wash over me, the honey gold light spilling over my shoulders and creating an aura of sloppy pink and gold around my slim frame. A brief wave of possibilities crashes down atop me, unbalancing me and getting me drunk on potential. Escape. A quick dash through the fields, into the blazing sun, and.. what?

I shake away the thoughts, and, frustrated with myself, I scramble up, putting myself in reach of the perfectly rounded fruits, ripe from weeks of blossoming and plumping.

Sometimes I think there's something wrong with me.

Those thoughts have always been in my head, buzzing, burrowing into the crevices of my brain. I can't get rid of them.

It's DNA.

My mother longed for escape just as I do now. However, her desperate need to find something new, to escape the calculated, burning gaze of the Capitol was stronger then mine. She left.

Or at least, she tried to.

She only got five feet from the fence before the peacekeepers were after her, their masks glinting in the harsh sunlight, their heavy boots trampling our carefully grown wheat fields. Her haunting scream as they unloaded their bullets into her head echoes in my mind to this day.

I try and pretend that my handicap, my inability to stay content even though I'm not dead, and Avox, or a tribute, plagues me less then it did my mother. But we both had and have the same lust for life, for escape, for the beyond.

She was just braver.

I dig my nails into the stem of a plump pear, pulling the green, lumpy fruit into my lap. I repeat the action, and pull down another. And another. Until my lap is full of delicious fruit that I've never tasted and never will be able to taste.

A powerful longing rushes through me- a spark of defiance, electrifying my veins. I cast a guilty glance down, confirming that no one can see me, and dig my teeth into the forbidden fruit.

A blast of flavor fills my mouth as the green bits of peel come away in my teeth. I stifle a moan of delight at the delicious taste swirling on my tongue. I devour the fruit, and then stare at the stem.

There must be no evidence that I've broken the law. Eleven is a stern district. I could be lashed until my back becomes a canvas of red- or worse.

I shut my eyes, gather my courage, and eat the stem, bit by bit.

Finally, the odious stem is gone, and so is any proof that I succumbed to my rebellious thoughts.

"You almost done up there?"

A raspy voice floating from beneath the canopy of leaves interrupts my shattered thoughts. "Yeah." I mumble, attempting to project my soft voice. I hear a rustle and spot a flash of golden-brown weave and supple pillows hand-sewn, to better protect fragile fruit. A basket.

I drop the first pear, and it plummets like a stone. The rest come soon after.

After the pairs have been exhausted, I flip my body over and press my body against a not of trunk and branches. My long nails, perfect for climbing steep trees, slip between the grooves and my feet instinctively search out the groves in the bark. I gently slide down, my hands and feet hopping from branch to branch with the elegance of a dancer. I jump and land lightly on the ground, my feet nearly noiseless.

"Long day, huh?" Nunya laughs, his meaty hands wrapped around the golden basket. I nod, staying silent. "Well, it's time to hit the hay. You know how to get home, right?"

We repeat these motions every day. It's always a long day. I always know how to get home.

"Uh-huh." I mumble, and stalk lightly across the grass to the cluster of sloppy concrete buildings.

This isn't a bad life. As long as you don't cause trouble, there's no reason to look outside the borders.

I am content.

I am content.

Maybe if I repeat these words for long enough, they'll become true.

Richard Sherman, District 11 Male, 15 years old

"We can't thank you enough, Amara, but it might be too late for Penny.."

What a scene we form. My mother, an angry woman with gray-streaked hair and scratched skin, spoon-feeding an emaciated child with hollow eyes, jabbing ribs, and twisted limbs. A desperately sad young woman, thin and bleak, watching her starving daughter's feeding. A boy- me- with dark skin and a haunted expression, arms clinging, vicelike, to a terrified little boy watching his neighbor and playmate die. All of us silhouetted against an ash-gray home wrecked from the effort of sustaining six children.

"We must be optimists whenever faced with strife." My mother mutters absently, slipping the apricot-coated spoon between Penny's thin lips. Penny moans and convulses on the bed as soon as my mother pulls back. Flecks of spittle and apricot chunks fly from her gaping mouth.

Kiya- Penny's mother- blinks away tears as she watches her baby girl.

My grip on Ben tightens, his squirmy, thankfully healthy body warm on my chest.

I thank my lucky stars that Ben isn't the one on that bed.

I instantly feel guilty. I can't even begin to fathom the pain Kiya's feeling- just because Penny and I aren't related doesn't mean I should view her as less worthy of life. No one should be lying, starving and malnourished, on our pitiful cot.

Nobody is rich in Eleven. But our family is as close as it gets. We have hot water, food every day, and our every spare moment doesn't need to be filled with scrounging for grub or collecting firewood. In the minds of the poor, we live like royalty.

We have extra food, sometimes. An extremely rare occurrence for everyone else in Eleven, but for us, it happens quite often- once every two weeks, perhaps. When we have food to spare, we spend it all on sickly Penny and other children in similar or even worse states then she.

My thoughts shatter as Penny lets out a pitiful moaning sound and begins to kick out, scrawny, pale limbs cutting into the air. Her shadowed eyes are full of pain and too late do we realize what's happening.

Bile explodes from the madly twitching Penny, food at first, but then blood and chunks of organ. Froth bubbles up at her lips. And then, all a sudden, she stops moving.

She lets out a tiny groan, relaxes in the pool of puke and blood, and falls still.

Kiya screams and rushes to her side, thin fingers fluttering over her daughter's tiny body. A haunting wail erupts from her throat, yet again, and she sinks to the floor and cries, pulling Penny's body down with her to hug and cry into.

I let go of Ben then, pelting down the hallway, out the door, and into the cold air. I plop down onto the grass, disbelieving. A cold breeze chills my lungs as Penny's final spasms play over and over in my head on repeat.

"How do we live like this?" I wonder aloud.

But of course, no answer comes.