Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Yep, it's that part of December where I actually have time to sit down and edit all the stuff I wrote during NaNoWriMo. The rest of the reapings should go fairly quickly.

Thank you to jakey121, goldie031, and DaughterOfTigris for Aven, Barlen, and Triticum, respectively.

District Nine
Forever

Crispin Zephyr, 46
Victor of the 19th Hunger Games

Why was it always District Eight?

Crispin shook his head as he turned the screen off. He'd turned the reapings on just to make sure that nothing had gone wrong, and, sure enough, something had. And of course it was District Eight. Lander would probably be okay, but he and Carolina were lucky. Lucky the bullet hadn't gone farther astray. Lucky the Peacekeepers hadn't actually been aiming for one of them. Lucky they hadn't decided to carry the conflict farther and had instead let the reaping proceed as normal.

Because it could have been a lot worse. The Peacekeepers had already proven that simply being a Victor wouldn't protect anyone. It hadn't stopped Misha from getting himself killed. It hadn't stopped Nicodemus from being beaten within an inch of his life and left to die. And if they'd really wanted to kill Carolina or Lander, it wouldn't have stopped them.

At least Kit had had the sense to stay out of it. He'd learned his lesson the hard way. It had been his Games, after all, that had sparked the rebellion the following year. He had spent his Victory tour rambling about how he and his two allies could have simply refused to fight, how they could all have survived, if only they'd insisted on not killing each other. The rebels had listened, and five volunteers the next year had banded together with the tributes they recruited and attempted to do exactly that – refuse to fight once they'd killed off the other tributes.

It hadn't exactly gone their way. Executions had followed. Torture. Extra tributes sent to the Games from the districts that had participated in the rebellion – which was all of them except One, Two, Five, and Twelve. But President Grisom had promised that things would return to normal after the Quell, as long as there were no further incidents.

Crispin just hoped he wouldn't count this as an 'incident.'

Probably not. President Snow probably would have. But President Grisom had a bit more sense. And Eldred…

Vice President Brand, Crispin reminded himself. He still wasn't used to that. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine Eldred ordering an execution, or announcing that more tributes would be sent into the Games as punishment. And yet that was exactly what he'd done. Not single-handedly, certainly, but he had been the one to read the Quarter Quell card, to inform all of Panem that some districts would be sending extra tributes to the Quell.

But not District Nine. They were sending three tributes, exactly as they had since the 43rd Games. And next year, they would go back to sending two, as long as no one did anything stupid this year. Maybe sending two children to die wasn't something to celebrate, but it was certainly better than sending three or four.

Crispin managed a smile as his oldest daughter, Sierra, emerged from her room in a long, golden-brown dress. She was fifteen now – the same age he'd been when he'd been reaped. The same age Basil had been two years ago, when he'd won. If she was picked…

Stop it. He'd done everything he possibly could to make sure that she wouldn't be. His Victor's earnings ensured that none of his children would ever have to take tesserae, and he'd done his best to stay in line. To avoid giving the Capitol any reason to single out him or his children. He'd never stepped out of line, and neither had they. Maybe that meant they were cooperating with the Capitol, but if that was the price of his children's safety, it was a price he was willing to pay.

Sierra gave him a shaky smile as the five of them left for the reaping. She was the only one old enough for the reaping; her younger sisters Robyn and Cynthia were eleven and eight years old. Next year would be Robyn's first year. It would be a long time – far too long – before they were all safe.

But this year, he only had to worry about Sierra, and that was quite enough for him.

The other Victors were already onstage when he arrived – even Tobiah, who usually wandered in late. Even he knew better than to try anything unusual this year. Not that there would be ramifications for anyone he cared about; Tobiah didn't have any family he was still close to. All of Eloise's siblings were too old for the reaping, and her nephew was too young. And Basil's older brothers had safely turned nineteen a few months ago.

Basil flashed Crispin a smile as he joined the others onstage. "How's Sierra holding up?"

"She's fine," Crispin lied. It wasn't true, of course. None of them would be fine – not until after the reaping. He'd felt the same dread in the pit of his stomach for the last three years. The same feeling he was certain every parent had during the reaping. A deep, wrenching helplessness. If Sierra's name was called, there was nothing he could do. Anything he might try could jeopardize her chances. Just like the old man in District Eight had probably done.

Crispin drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Victors' children had been chosen in the past. Well, one of them had been chosen – Vernon's son Luke. The other two – Harakuise's daughter Camden and Jade and Stellar's son Jasper – had volunteered. The Capitol had been quite partial to them, but how much of that had been because they were Victors' children and how much had been because they were Careers' children, Crispin wasn't sure.

He just knew he didn't want to find out.

But he didn't have any say in the matter. It was all in the hands of District Nine's escort, Gladys Howell, who was grinning and waving at the crowd as she took the stage. No one waved back. No one cheered. Maybe District Nine wasn't as outwardly hostile towards the Capitol as District Eight was, but there certainly weren't any warm feelings towards their escort – or anyone from the Capitol.

Gladys, however, wasn't at all deterred by their lack of enthusiasm. She simply strolled over to the microphone and grabbed it from the stand. "Thank you for the warm welcome, District Nine!" she called, completely oblivious to the fact that they had been anything but warm and welcoming. "Are you ready to see who this year's lucky tributes are?"

No. He wasn't ready. None of them were ready. But that wouldn't stop what was about to happen. Gladys eagerly plunged her hand into the reaping bowl and drew out a slip of paper. "And your first tribute, District Nine, is … Triticum Bulgur!"

Crispin's stomach turned as he saw the fourteen-year-old section part around a boy in a black tuxedo and red bow tie. The younger tributes were always the hardest to watch, and the boy barely looked fourteen. He was about average height for his age, with dark skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. He was lean and fit but still so … so young. He looked around, surprised, as the crowd turned towards him.

But then he took a step forward. Then another. On his own, without the Peacekeepers having to come and get him. That was something. As he drew nearer to the stage, he looked up at Crispin and the other Victors. His eyes were wide, but he managed a wave as he turned towards the crows. "Ti. Call me Ti."

Gladys nodded. "All right, then, Ti. Let's see who else will be joining you this year." She reached into the bowl again. "Our next tribute is … Aven Faraday!"

This time it was the sixteen-year-old section that parted, revealing a girl in a simple burnt orange dress, white stockings, and black shoes. She was a little taller than the boy but quite thin, with pale skin, messy dark brown hair, and light blue eyes. A nervous laugh escaped her lips as a hint of a smile appeared. She swayed a little but finally stepped forward, slowly making her way towards the stage.

One step. Then another. Her smile wavered a little but never fully melted, but her eyes were wide and terrified. As she took the stage slowly, carefully, Crispin could see the tears welling in her eyes. But, for the moment, none of them spilled over. Good. That was something. Maybe not much, but something.

Crispin glanced over at Gladys as she drew one last slip of paper. One last name. One more name, and Sierra would be safe for another year. One more name…

"Barlen Rimmonn!"

Crispin tried to hide a sigh of relief as the thirteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a simple white shirt and khaki slacks. He was small and thin, with medium brown skin, bushy dark brown hair, and big, warm brown eyes. But he didn't move. He simply stood there, glancing this way and that, until one of the other boys near him put a hand on his shoulder and motioned towards the stage.

The boy shrugged and began walking towards the stage, but, halfway there, he turned – not running, just wandering off in the wrong direction. Then back towards the spot where he'd started. He turned this way and that, still looking around, as if confused about why everyone was staring at him.

One of the Peacekeepers started moving towards him, but Basil was faster. He leapt down from the stage and motioned towards the boy. "This way, Barlen," he called, as if he were calling a dog.

A smile broke out on the boy's face. "How'd you know my name?"

"Tell you later – on the train," Basil promised, gently herding the boy up the stairs. "Right now, you just have to shake hands with these other two kids. Okay?"

The boy nodded readily and held out his hand to Ti, who was nearest. After a moment's hesitation, Ti shook it. Barlen turned to Aven with a smile, and she shook his hand, still struggling to hold back her tears. She and Ti quickly shook hands, and the Peacekeepers led the three of them away.

"What's with that last kid?" Tobiah mumbled as the four Victors headed for the train.

"Not sure," Basil admitted. "But I'll take him."

Crispin raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Basil nodded. "Don't get your hopes up, and you won't be disappointed. I reckon I'll be done with mentoring sooner than either of you this year, and then I don't have to care."

Crispin opened his mouth to object, but what was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to pretend that a boy who hadn't even been able to figure out how to get to the stage on his own really had a chance in the Games? Maybe Basil was a bit insensitive, but he wasn't wrong.

"I'll take the other boy," Eloise offered. "As long as that's all right with you, Crispin."

Crispin nodded. Asking him had been a formality only. She knew he did better with the older tributes, that he got too attached to the younger ones. The ones who reminded him of his children…

But Sierra was older now. Almost as old as the girl he would be working with. Crispin took a deep breath. Just one more year. After this year, they would go back to sending two tributes. Which meant they would only have to send two mentors. Maybe then, after more than thirty years of mentoring, they would finally let him stop. Eventually, they would have to let him stop.

He couldn't keep doing this forever.

Aven Faraday, 16

She wouldn't be able to hold her tears back forever.

Aven swallowed hard as the Peacekeepers came to take her parents away, closing the door behind them. Just a little longer. Just a little longer, and she would be able to cry. But not yet. Evelyn was still coming; she was sure of it. And she wasn't about to let her best friend see her break down completely. Not when it might be the last time they saw each other.

Stop thinking like that. Aven clenched her fists tightly. She wanted to come back, of course. She didn't want to die. But simply wanting to live, wanting to get through the Games … that wasn't enough. Every tribute in the arena wanted to live – or certainly most of them did. But only one of them would be coming home. One out of thirty-five. Those were her chances. Not exactly great odds.

So she had to hold it together – just a little longer. Just in case this was the last time she would be able to talk to her friend. Just in case the worst happened. Just in case the likely happened. In case she didn't manage to beat the odds.

Stop it. The door creaked open, and Evelyn stepped in, tears streaming down her face. Aven bit her lip, trying not to cry, but she could already feel a few tears slipping out. "Evelyn, I…"

Evelyn threw her arms around Aven. "Just try to come home. Please. I don't know what I'll do if—"

"You'll be fine," Aven insisted. But was that true? What would either of them really do without the other? They'd grown up together – each like the sister the other had never had. If their positions were reversed, and Evelyn was the one headed for the Games, what would she be saying? Would she really believe that everything would be fine if…

Aven could feel Evelyn's tears seeping through her dress. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing else to say. She would do her best to come home, and Evelyn … she would do her best to keep hoping. Keep believing that her friend would come home. Aven squeezed Evelyn tightly until the Peacekeepers knocked on the door. "Please come back," Evelyn whispered before the Peacekeepers came to drag her away. "Please."

"I'll try," Aven called as the door closed behind her. But the words sounded so hollow. All across Panem, she knew, other tributes were saying the same thing to their loved ones. Promising that they would try their best to come home. Their parents and siblings and friends were all saying the same things Evelyn had – begging them to come home, insisting that even the most hopeless of them had a chance.

But she wasn't the most hopeless. She was sixteen; that made her one of the older ones this year. A year without Careers. And she was already the oldest tribute in District Nine. Her district partners were thirteen and fourteen. As far as age was concerned, she was their district's best chance.

But age wasn't everything. Last year's Victor had been twelve. The year before that, Basil had won at the age of fifteen. Duke had been sixteen. Violet had been eighteen. All outer-district tributes, none of them Careers. None of them – except maybe Duke – tributes that the others had considered a threat at the start of the Games.

Which was good news for her, because the impression that she'd made at the reaping … well, she doubted she'd made one at all. Certainly not a good one. She'd managed not to cry, but, other than that, she hadn't done anything to mark herself as either a threat or a weakling. At least she'd been able to get to the stage on her own. All in all, the Capitol probably considered her rather forgettable right now.

But she wouldn't be able to avoid their attention forever.

Ti Bulgur, 14

He just wished he could stay here forever.

Ti took a deep breath as the door creaked open again. His parents had already come and gone, and this time, it was his friends Hernando and Iliana at the door. The door he wished wouldn't have to open again to let him out to go to the train. Not that he wanted to spend the rest of his life in this room, but it was better than the alternative. Better than the possibility that he might die in the Games.

But, for a moment as his friends stepped into the room, all of that melted away. Hernando immediately clapped him on the back. "You'll be back in no time. You can do this, Titi."

Ti couldn't help a smile. "Thanks, Nanny. I just wish I didn't have to." It was probably the best thing to say. Not that he didn't think he could do this. That he didn't want to. He didn't want to fight and kill other tributes – other kids. But that didn't mean he couldn't, if it came down to it. When push came to shove, the truth was that most of the tributes could kill – or would at least try, when their lives were on the line. No matter how pleasant or kind anyone was in real life, the Games brought out the killer in everyone.

And if he wanted to survive, he would have to become exactly that – a killer. Ti nodded as Iliana gave him a pat on the back, too. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do this."

"Of course you can," Iliana agreed. "I'm just surprised you got picked, because—" She cut herself off, not wanting to be rude. But she was right. He'd been just as surprised as anyone else. His family was quite well-off as far as District Nine was concerned. He'd never had to take tesserae in his life, unlike both of his friends. His name had only been in the bowl the required three times. He'd been more worried about his friends than he'd been about himself.

But it hadn't made a bit of difference. His parents' wealth. His friends' tesserae. None of it had stopped him from being the first one called at the reaping. He was going into the Games, and his friends weren't.

Well, that was something to be grateful for, at least. None of his friends had been chosen alongside him. He was going into the Games, yes, but at least he was going into the Games with strangers. Strangers he might have to kill, in order to come home.

But would he really be able to do that? Ti tried his best to smile confidently as the Peacekeepers came to take his friends away. He didn't want them to see. Didn't want them to know just how nervous he was. Just how uncertain he was that he would actually be able to kill either of his district partners. That he would actually be able to kill anyone. The girl had almost been crying. The other boy hadn't even seemed to realize what was going on. If the arena was full of people like them…

Then that would make it easier. Should make it easier. Ti paced back and forth, wringing his hands and tugging at the sleeves of his tuxedo. Could he really kill someone who was crying, someone who was begging for their life? If he tried hard enough, he could picture himself killing someone in self-defense. Someone who had attacked him first. Someone who was trying their best to kill him. But attacking someone else … that was different.

Ti shook his head. It was something he didn't have to worry about – not yet, at least. Right now, he just had to make it to the train without breaking down completely. Once he was on the train, once he found out who his mentor was, once he knew a little bit more about the other tributes … then he could worry about what came next.

But he wouldn't be able to put it off forever.

Barlen Rimmonn, 13

He would remember this moment forever.

Barlen held his parents and sister Chita tightly as someone knocked on the door. "Time's up!" called a voice. One of the Peacekeepers who had brought him to the Justice Building. Her remembered that. He remembered his family crying. He just wished he could remember why.

Then the Peacekeeper was in the room. Dragging his family away. Barlen held on to his little sister as tightly as he could, but it wasn't any good. The Peacekeepers were too strong, and one of them shoved him to the floor. But they didn't do anything worse – not like they usually did. Usually, when he did something wrong at work, it meant a whip across his back. But not this time. Maybe they were feeling generous. Maybe they simply didn't think it was worth the effort now that he was leaving.

Leaving. That was right. He was leaving. Someone had said something about a train. He wasn't sure who, but it had sounded important. Then he'd shaken hands with two other kids. A boy and a girl. At least, he was pretty sure it had been a boy and a girl. If he could just remember their names…

Suddenly, the door swung open, and there was a boy. A boy at least a few years older than him. He looked familiar from somewhere. "Hi," Barlen offered. "I'm Barlen."

"I know."

"And you're…"

"Basil. Basil Thatch. I'm your mentor."

Mentor. No. No, that wasn't right. Tributes got mentors. Tributes in the Hunger Games. But he'd remember being chosen for something like that. Wouldn't he?

"You don't remember, do you," Basil noted.

Barlen shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't always remember when—"

"Yeah, I got that impression," Basil interrupted. "Why don't you tell me what you do remember."

"If you're my mentor, I'm … I'm a tribute?"

"Yes."

"In the Hunger Games?"

"Good so far."

Barlen could feel his face growing warm. "That's not good! That's terrible."

Basil shook his head. "I meant that it's good that you remember that. Now you'll have to keep remembering it."

"Of course. I wouldn't forget something as important as that."

"Sure."

"Are we going to the train now?"

"Oh, good. You remember the train."

Barlen shrugged. "Sure. I've always wanted to ride a train again."

"Again?"

"Yeah. There was this old woman once, and we went on a train ride together – out past the edge of the district. There were orange flowers, and a strange-looking bird with eyes on its tail. You should've been there."

"Eyes on its tail," Basil repeated. "A bird."

"Yeah."

"What color was the bird?"

Barlen shook his head, confused. "What bird?"

"The bird with eyes on its tail."

Eyes on its tail? What kind of a bird would have eyes on its tail? "What?"

The strange boy shook his head. "Never mind. Let's get to the train."

Barlen's face lit up. A train?

He'd wanted to ride on a train for as long as he could remember.

"Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, which shall possess them with the heaviest sound that ever yet they heard."