Disclaimer: The Hunger Games isn't mine.

Note: Thank you to Aspect of One, Jakeb19, kkfanatic22, and twistedservice for Aleyn, Arabel, Emmett, and Ronan, respectively.

District Four
Worst

Mags Pharos, 57
Victor of the 8th Hunger Games

Things could always be worse.

Mags braced herself as she knocked on Naomi's door. It was a moment before Naomi answered, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes despite the late hour. She was dressed – which was something, at least – but shook her head as Mags took a step into the house. "Is it time already?"

Mags shrugged. "Almost. Will be by the time we've collected everyone. Sure you won't join us this year?"

Naomi simply shook her head, which wasn't really a surprise. Naomi had avoided mentoring ever since the 42nd Games. Ever since Misha had burned the training center to the ground, prompting the Peacekeepers to shoot him in the process. Naomi had built the Career system in District Four from the ground up, and Misha had been her first Career Victor. Now they were both gone and Naomi … she had never quite recovered.

Technically, of course, the Careers weren't completely gone. But despite Kalypso and Imalia's efforts to keep training new recruits, she doubted the Career system in Four would ever be what it once was. The other Careers tended to be distrustful of Four's volunteers, and not entirely without reason. It was Misha, after all, who had masterminded the rebellion in the 41st Games. That wasn't exactly common knowledge, and how, exactly, he had managed it, Mags wasn't sure. Maybe she would never know.

But even if the other districts – apart from the Victors – didn't know about the part Misha had played, they certainly knew District Four's tributes had been involved. They had been the only Career district to betray the Capitol, and they had paid the price. They'd sent six tributes to the 42nd Games, and four every year since then.

Naomi sighed. "I'll pass. You four have fun."

Mags nodded. There were enough of them to mentor this year, and, after the Quell, President Grisom had promised that the number of tributes would be reduced to the normal two per district. As long as there were no further incidents.

She could only hope there wouldn't be. This year, of all years, they couldn't afford to make trouble. They couldn't afford any mistakes. She was certain of the other mentors. Kalypso, Bierce, Imalia – they wouldn't cause trouble. They knew the stakes. But their tributes…

They would just have to hope their tributes had the same sense, Mags decided as she and Naomi headed for Kalypso's house, where Kalypso and Bierce were waiting. "District Three's reapings just finished," Kalypso explained. "Nothing exciting there, but it looks like the Career pack has some … options."

The Career pack. Mags nodded, not about to contradict her fellow mentor until they actually knew who their tributes would be. But the chances of there actually being a normal Career pack this year were slim, at best. During the last Quell…

Of course, she couldn't make assumptions based on what had happened during the last Quell, either. Last time, every district had sent three tributes. This year, there would be more from Career districts, since they had more Victors. Five tributes from District Two. Four each from One, Four, and Five. Quite a pack, if it weren't for the rule forbidding volunteers.

But without volunteers, how much of a pack would there be? Kalypso was still thinking like a Career, planning like a Career, but the chances of any of their tributes having even a meager amount of training were slim. Maybe in One and Two, where the academies were popular places to hang out even for those who weren't serious about volunteering. Maybe in Five, where enthusiasm for the Career system was growing. But in Four…

Without a training center, interest in the Games had plummeted. Careers in Four were no longer enthusiastic; they were desperate. Desperate for something better than working in the shipyards or the fisheries for the rest of their lives. The fun was gone. The excitement, the glory, the glamour of the Games.

And maybe that was for the best. The volunteers they could scrape together no longer went into the Games with any delusions about how easy it would be. They knew their chances, and they knew the risks. But that also meant that there weren't always enough volunteers to fill all four spots. This year, the chances of one of those few actually being chosen were slim.

But Mags held her tongue. Better to wait until after the reaping. Once they knew who their tributes were, they wouldn't need to speculate. So Mags nodded along as Kalypso filled Naomi in on the tributes from One and Two, glossing over a 'clumsy girl' and a 'crying boy' from District Three.

As they approached Imalia's house, District Four's youngest Victor hurried out to meet them, with her parents close behind. Mags smiled, waiting for them by the road. She'd never been in Imalia's house, and couldn't remember any of the others being invited, either. Maybe it was simply a desire to keep her life as a Victor separate from her family life. If so, she could certainly respect that. It was a difficult balance, and some Victors lost touch with their families all together. And some…

Mags nodded to Imalia as they all turned and headed for the square. Her own parents had passed away years ago, but they had never really been close – even before her Games. Her fellow Victors were her family now, and Imalia was a welcome addition. "Ready?" Mags asked gently.

Imalia shrugged. "Ready as I can be. Last year with extra tributes, right?"

"Right," Mags agreed readily. Imalia was clearly upset about the lack of volunteers – as were all the Career Victors – but it wouldn't do them any good to dwell on that.

The rest of the district, on the other hand, didn't seem so optimistic. A hush fell over the crowd as the five of them arrived. Five Victors. Well, five living Victors. After nearly fifty years, they had the distinction of being the first – and so far only – district where a Victor had died.

Not exactly a milestone they wanted.

The five of them took their seats as District Four's escort, Lydia Sherwin, took the stage. The crowd applauded politely, but the enthusiasm of previous years was long gone. Reapings these days were riddled with anxiety, as not even the trainers always knew whether their chosen volunteers would really go through with volunteering. And this year…

This year, there would be no volunteers. No one to save whoever was unfortunate enough to have their name picked. There were a few who had planned to volunteer, who actually wanted to be chosen, but most of the teenagers in front of her looked nervous. Frightened. Just like she had been, all those years ago. She had never wanted to be on this stage.

But she had survived. Without training, without allies, without any real talent to set her apart. She had beaten the odds. And maybe, just maybe, one of their tributes this year would do the same.

Mags took a deep breath, doing her best to smile out at the crowd as Lydia reached into the reaping bowl, swirling the papers around for a moment, as if reluctant to choose one. Maybe she was. Any other year, tributes could at least hope that someone would step forward to take their place. This year, that hope was gone. Whoever she chose would be going into the Games.

"Ronan Callaway!"

Near the stage, the eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue button-down shirt and black dress pants. He was tall and solidly built, with olive skin and dark brown hair. But the name didn't sound familiar, and none of the other mentors gave any sign of recognition as he took a step forward. One boy nearby gave him a quick pat on the back, another a one-armed hug around his shoulders. But none of them could do anything to really help him as he made his way forward, squaring his shoulders and doing his best to smile.

Mags smiled back – the only thing she could do to help – as he made his way up the stairs, taking each step slowly, as if by doing so he could avoid the inevitable. But, of course, he couldn't, and soon he was standing onstage, his smile beginning to fade, giving way to the fear that already filled his dark brown eyes. Mags quickly nodded to Lydia to keep going. It was better to keep things moving. Better if they didn't have time to think…

"Aleyn Tillens!"

The fifteen-year-old section slowly parted around a girl in a blue-grey dress and black flats. She was a little taller than average for her age and slender, with caramel skin and waist-length brown hair. One moment passed, then another. Still, the girl didn't move. She simply stared up at the stage, her green eyes wide with fright, as if she wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to do.

The Peacekeepers weren't about to wait for her to figure it out. Two of them headed towards her, but the girl still didn't budge. "Come on," Imalia muttered quietly. "You can do it." But, apparently, she couldn't. Only when one of the Peacekeepers took her by the arm did she finally seem to register what was going on. She pulled away, but the Peacekeeper gripped her tighter, and the two of them dragged her towards the stage.

By the time they reached the stage, the girl's face was red from the effort of struggling against the Peacekeepers, and there were tears in her eyes. "No," she pleaded. "No, please, please, I can't. I can't."

She buried her face in her hands as Ronan slid an arm awkwardly around her shoulders. "It's okay. It'll be okay." But he couldn't hide how empty the words were. It wouldn't be okay, and they both knew it.

"Arabel Ford!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted again, this time around a girl in a short, faded pink dress. She was about Aleyn's height but even skinnier and paler-skinned, with a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pair of pigtails, her piercing blue eyes darting back and forth from the stage to the people beside her. One of the girls standing beside her took her hand encouragingly, helping her take her first few steps towards the stage.

The Peacekeepers quickly shooed her friends away, but the girl kept moving towards the stage, quicker than before. Maybe she didn't want to end up being dragged up, like the girl before her. Either way, she kept moving, keeping her eyes down as she headed up the stairs, glancing quickly at the audience before taking her place beside her district partners, her eyes wide with fright.

It'll be over soon. Mags glanced over at Lydia, who dipped her hand into the bowl one last time, then pulled out one more slip of paper. "Emmett Darsier!"

She heard the laughter before the eighteen-year-old section even parted, revealing a boy in a dark brown suit and pants. He was a little taller than Ronan but not as muscular, with pale skin and short, slightly spiked dirty blonde hair. For a moment, the boy simply stood there, laughing, showing no sign of moving towards the stage.

Then he saw the Peacekeepers headed towards him, and laughter quickly turned to shouting. "No! I'm not ready!" he yelled, but the Peacekeepers kept advancing. The boy reached into his pocket, gripping something tightly, glaring at the Peacekeepers. Mags tensed. What did he have? A weapon? Please don't do anything stupid.

To her relief, he didn't. His shouting stopped as he headed for the stage, his hand still in his pocket. "Well, well, that was exciting!" Lydia beamed as he took his place onstage, his dark green eyes now fixed on the crowd. "District Four, your tributes! Ronan, Aleyn, Arabel, and Emmett!"

The crowd cheered, but more out of habit than genuine excitement. "Shake hands, then!" Lydia grinned, and Emmett finally slipped his hand out of his pocket long enough to exchange a few handshakes before the four of them were herded towards the Justice Building.

Mags turned to Imalia. The four of them – Mags, Kalypso, Bierce, and Imalia – had all been mentoring together for seven years now. It had become tradition for the least experienced mentors to get first pick. Imalia nodded a little. "I'll take Ronan."

Kalypso raised an eyebrow. "Thought you might want Emmett. He has spirit."

"He has no self control. There's a difference."

Bierce shrugged. "At least he didn't pull out that knife and actually stab somebody."

Imalia shook her head. "All that proves is he's not a complete idiot."

Kalypso smiled. "Good enough for me. If Bierce doesn't want him, I'll take him."

Bierce shook his head. "He's all yours. I want Aleyn."

Kalypso scoffed. "Why?"

"I like a challenge. Guess that means Arabel's yours, Mags."

Mags nodded. "Sounds good."

It didn't. None of it sounded good. In a few weeks, at least three of their tributes – three of these children – would be dead. Maybe all four. None of this was good. But it was what they had to do. It was the way things were.

And it could always be worse.

Aleyn Tillens, 15

She hadn't thought the Games could get any worse.

Aleyn took a deep breath, trying her best to dry her tears before her parents arrived. She didn't want their last memories of her to be a crying mess. And she didn't want her last memories of them to be clouded with tears. Not that she wanted these to be her last memories of them at all. But she wasn't kidding herself. She wasn't ready for the Games.

She was never ready when the Hunger Games came around. The Games always seemed to tear a rift in her family – a rift that wasn't there the rest of the year. Her mother despised the Games, calling them cruel and callous. Her father considered them the only worthwhile entertainment that Panem had to offer. She'd grown up hearing both sides of the argument, which had only made her hate the Games more.

But she'd never hated them more than now. Now they were about to tear her away from her family. Aleyn rushed into her parents' arms as the door swung open, and was immediately enveloped in a hug. "I'm so sorry," her mother whispered, running her fingers through Aleyn's hair. "Honey, I'm so sorry."

It wasn't her fault. Her mother had forbidden her from taking tesserae, even when it might have helped them have a little more to get by. Even with volunteers most years in Four, there was no guarantee that someone would have taken her place any other year. It was better, she had said, not to take the chance. They'd always protected her as much as they could; her name had only been in the bowl the usual four times for a fifteen-year-old.

But it hadn't mattered. Nothing seemed to matter right now. Nothing except the feel of her parents' arms around her. "I'll be watching you," her mother whispered. "We'll be waiting for you to come back."

Aleyn swallowed hard. I'll be watching you. Her mother never watched the Games. But this year … she wasn't about to give up what might be her last chance to see her daughter. "Thank you," Aleyn managed through her tears. What else was she supposed to say?

Her father reached into his pocket, removing a small ball of fabric that she had made for her cats, Ginger and Pleiades. "I couldn't think of anything else. I thought maybe since you play games with the cats … and this is a game…" He trailed off, looking away. "Doesn't seem much like a game anymore."

Aleyn threw her arms around her father. "It's perfect," she assured him, tucking the ball in her pocket. He was right. The Games had never seemed like a game to her, but the fact that he wouldn't find them entertaining this year…

Her mother was watching the Games. Her father wouldn't be enjoying the Games. And she would be in the Games. Everything seemed to be upside-down. Aleyn took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I'll miss you. I…" She could feel her tears welling up once more. "I love you."

"We love you, too." Maybe it wasn't much, but what else was there to say? They wrapped her in one more hug before the Peacekeepers came to take them away, leaving her alone once more. But, finally, she didn't feel quite so alone.

Maybe things weren't as bad as she'd thought.

Ronan Callaway, 18

The more he thought about it, the worse it seemed.

Ronan held his half-sister Brynn close as the others – his mother, step-father, and sister Kendra – sat nearby. Brynn was only four – too young to really understand what was going on – but he could see it gradually sinking in on the others' faces. The look on his face, of course, was probably much the same. The more he thought about going into the Games, the worse it all seemed.

Not that the Games had ever seemed good. He'd never been much of a Hunger Games enthusiast, even before the Career system in District Four had started to decline. The Games were there, but they'd never had a huge impact on his life one way or the other, aside from the yearly ritual of hoping he wouldn't end up in them.

But now there was no more hoping. He was going into the Games, and there was no way to stop it. "It's not fair," his mother muttered. "It was your last year. Your name was only in the bowl seven times."

Except that wasn't true. Hadn't been true for a while. For years, he'd been taking tesserae behind their backs. Not the maximum amount he could – just enough to make life a little bit easier, to help put a little more food on the table for his younger siblings. None of them knew it, but his name had been in the bowl twenty-three times. But it had never seemed like much of a risk. He'd always figured someone else would volunteer.

Ronan ran his fingers gently through Kendra's hair. "Hey, at least it wasn't both of us, right? It could've happened. Both of the girls are your age."

Wrong thing to say. Kendra immediately shook her head. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that – start comparing them to me. Then you'll want to help them, like you did onstage earlier."

Ronan shook his head. Was she talking about how he had comforted the first girl who had been reaped? That hadn't meant anything. "I was just trying to—"

"To make her feel better," Kendra finished. "Don't. You can't. You have to focus on what's going to help you survive."

Ronan looked away. She was right, and that was the worst part. His little sister was already thinking of the other tributes as competition, where he had seen a young girl who needed his help. "Don't help them," Kendra repeated. "You can't afford to."

"She's right," his father agreed reluctantly. "We want you back. Do what you have to do."

What you have to do. His family was giving him permission to … what? To play the Game the way the Capitol wanted? To kill without mercy, without compassion, without a second thought? They were already forgiving him, already trying to relieve his guilt over what would have to happen if he wanted to see them again.

Brynn nodded a little. "Come back," she agreed, and Ronan could feel his eyes filling with tears. She didn't understand what he would have to do. And maybe that was for the best. But they couldn't hide it from her forever. If he came home, his baby sister would eventually have to find out what he'd done in order to survive.

And that made it even worse.

Arabel Ford, 15

At least things couldn't get much worse.

Arabel closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the door closed behind her family. This was what she had been afraid of for years – ever since it had become clear that the Career system in District Four was beginning to decline. That there wouldn't always be volunteers to step in and save whoever happened to be reaped.

Three years ago, during her first reaping, she had been terrified. She and her friends had even started practicing with whatever weapons they could borrow, steal, or make – just in case they were unlucky enough to be chosen. But their first reaping had passed without incident. When the second passed, as well, they started to relax, and, as they all became busier, their little training sessions became fewer and farther between. It had been months – maybe even a year – since she'd held one of the pieces of wood they'd fashioned to look like swords.

She just hoped she remembered some of what she'd learned.

Arabel's eyes flew open again as the door creaked, revealing Mercedes, Henley, and Ally. Arabel could feel tears in her eyes once more as her friends wrapped her in a hug. "It'll be okay," they whispered. "You'll be fine. You can do this."

And maybe she could. But it was easy for them to be confident. They weren't the ones going into the Games. And maybe that was a good thing – or, at least, it was good that none of them would be in the arena together. That they wouldn't have to fight each other, kill each other. "I hope I…" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing back her tears. "I hope I'll see you again."

Even the words felt strange. I hope. She knew it wasn't what they wanted to hear. They wanted to hear that she was certain, that she knew she would be the one coming home. Tributes from Career districts were supposed to be confident in their skills. Certain that they had what it took.

But Four was barely a Career district anymore, and she certainly wasn't what anyone would be looking for in a Career. But maybe that was good. Maybe they would underestimate her. Maybe that would be enough to keep her safe for a while.

For a while. But not forever. After last year, the other tributes would know better than to write off even the youngest and weakest tributes. She would have to do more than hide and hope that the others would ignore her. Eventually, she would have to fight.

"You can do this," Ally insisted. "You were always the best at training. Remember how good you used to be with a bow?"

The best of the four of them. Good for a twelve-year-old. It had been more than a year since she'd even held one of the small, makeshift bows the four of them had managed to fashion. How well would those skills hold up against…

Against what? Against Careers? There weren't really likely to be any, were there? She hadn't seen any of the other tributes training. Not that training was really as public as it once was, ever since the training center burned down. But she would still occasionally see older teens running along the shoreline, or sparring with one of the trainers. And she hadn't seen any of the others practicing.

Arabel shook her head. She couldn't afford to assume that. Couldn't afford to underestimate them – not when that was exactly what she was hoping they would do. She couldn't make the same mistake.

That would only make things worse.

Emmett Darsier, 18

"Just don't make things any worse."

Emmett looked up, surprised. He hadn't been expecting anyone else to visit after his parents and brother left. Certainly there was no one else in the district who would miss him. When he saw who it was, he raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't sure you'd recognized me."

Kalypso smiled a little. "You're a hard one to forget."

That was probably true. The last day he'd trained with her – nearly four years ago – he'd almost killed his opponent. He'd sworn off training after that – not because he felt guilty, but because he'd actually enjoyed it. The things he could do when he was angry … they frightened him.

"And how am I supposed to avoid making things worse?" Emmett scoffed.

Kalypso held out her hand. "Giving me that knife would be a good place to start."

"What knife?"

"Oh, please. The one you have in your pocket. I'm glad you managed not to do something stupid at the reaping, but you know they won't let you take it in the arena. So you might as well give it to me now. I'll see you get it back after the Games."

Emmett shook his head. "Already assuming I'll win, huh?"

Kalypso shrugged. "Hope for the best, you know."

The best. It had been a while since 'the best' had happened to him. After all, he was here in the Games, after deciding to quit training before he got in too deep. Maybe this was retribution for what had happened to his partner. Or maybe it was punishment for what had happened to his sister only a few months ago.

No. No, there was no one who knew the truth about that. No one who could know. His brother Tylen had helped him cover up the truth. Made it look like suicide. No one would ever know what really happened. What could really happen when he lost it.

Except … now they would have to. If he was going to survive the Games, all of Panem would have to find out what he was capable of. If he wanted to win, he would have to show all of them what was really inside him.

Was he ready for that?

Emmett slowly removed the knife from his pocket and handed it over to Kalypso. "You really think I can do this?"

Kalypso nodded. "The boy who quit training four years ago could. If he's still in there somewhere … then yes. You have a chance."

Emmett clenched his fists. If he's still in there somewhere. As if he could really have changed in the four years since he'd trained with Kalypso. As if people really could change. No. People didn't change. People never changed. He would never change.

And maybe that would save him.

"Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward to what they were before."