I.

Faye Ackerman, 12
Applicant #7

"This is bullshit!"

"Esma, language!"

Faye couldn't help it - the smile that grew on her face in that moment was so large she expected it to split her cheeks in two. Her sister's voice had carried all the way up the stairs and into her room, door cracked open. Waiting.

Her name on the television caused a reaction downstairs, and less so in her own room. Here she lies, lounging like she just woke up, hands propped behind her head, smiling. On-screen Pandora Quinn moves onto the next name but she can't wipe the stupid, satisfied smile off her face as Esma continues crowing downstairs like she was just handed the world's largest injustice on a silver platter.

Her sister: tall, beautiful, eighteen year old Esma, has just been wronged.

There's a crash as her door bounces off the wall behind it and she finally allows her smile to fall away. Nicolette frames herself in the doorway, hands on hips. Nolan is towering behind her and Tobias, she predicts, must be waiting just on the stairs.

"How the hell did you get picked and not any of us?" Nicolette asks incredulously.

"I'm sure there's still a chance one of you got picked as well—"

"A fat fucking chance," Nolan scoffs. "Like they're going to let two people from the same family go. That seems a little unfair."

"Unfair how?" Nicolette asks. "It's not the Hunger Games. This isn't something siblings can help each other with."

And it won't be, her brain whispers as the announcement finishes up. No more Ackerman's to be found on the list it seems. She's the only one. As it would be. Nolan's probably right - there would be some level of unfairness in all of this, if two of them had gone. Unfairness to the rest of the hundreds of kids out there who had applied, anyway. Not that she cares much.

Nicolette departs with a roll of the eyes and Nolan follows suit without so much of a goodbye, muttering something under his breath. No doubt off to conspire with Esma about how to switch places with her before the day actually arrives. She waits, patiently, until Tobias throws himself on the bed beside her, sending her rocking about. She pushes her glasses back up to their proper spot.

"Congrats, sis," he says, though she suspects even with him there's some sort of underlying jealously. "Have some fun for the rest of us poor souls stuck here with mom and dad."

Being stuck with mom and dad isn't a bad thing she knows, but there's only so many opportunities here. They're all at the top of their respective classes, or at least close to it in Esma's case, but besides their parents work there isn't much to get excited about in Stratford. Chances are all five of them will end up spread out across Panem in adulthood, doing the most they can. The Program was a chance at something bigger than they are finally. A chance to make their mark.

"Thank-you," she answers. "I'm glad at least one person is happy for me."

"Oh, dad is plenty happy," he says. "But I think he's stuck dealing with Esma for the moment. Mom too. Dinner tonight is going to be a disaster. Talk about an elephant in the room."

Inch by inch the smile returns. She knows Tobias is right - if she even breathes a word of her success across the dinner table she'll get a handful of mashed potatoes tossed at her by someone, let it be Esma or not. Maybe that would make anyone falter, but of all the awkwardness festering inside her when it comes to her family she's grown used to it. In this household you adapt or you get left in the dust.

"Seriously, thank-you," she repeats. "I know you wanted to go too."

He shrugs. "Eh. At least one of us is going. Better than none. Just make sure to remember every little thing that happens so you can entertain me when you get back. I'll probably need it."

She'll probably need a novel to remember the things she's going to experience over those several days, but for Tobias, the only person who seems to care in this moment, she'll have no problem doing that. It'll be something for her to hold onto in the future for herself too, something to look back on when she finally moves to adulthood. Something to tell people about when their eyes grow large with curiosity.

She hears the footsteps tromping up the stairs over the sounds of the broadcast finally fading away. Mom would be much quieter and Dad would announce his presence; there's only one person it could possibly be, and they both know it. Tobias turns towards her, mock terror in the way his mouth falls open, and she stifles a giggle. A second later Esma stops in the hall outside her door. Not blocking it the way Nicolette had. Not making a go at getting closer.

Her sister stares for a very long moment, one that gets more awkward by the second.

"Problem?" Tobias asks.

This time she does giggle, no hope at hiding it, and Esma's face turns sour.

"God, wipe that smile off your face, troll. It's not funny. No one's laughing."

"Haha," Tobias says exaggeratedly, which sends her into a fit of laughter. She flops back into pillows, hand over her mouth, but the damage is done. Esma opens her mouth several times only to grind her teeth back together, stomping off down the hall like she's got a vendetta against the floor.

Tobias pokes her in the ribs. "You're an idiot, you know that, right?"

In front of her, Pandora announces two different names, both with the same surname, but she's laughing too hard to hear her.

And she very well may be an idiot, but at least she's the idiot that got into the Program when none of her other siblings did.

At least she's the idiot on top.

Percius Marigold, 17
Applicant #2

There's really only one major issue with him being an early riser, and it's the aspect of being quiet.

Any other morning and it wouldn't matter much, but he knows Saturday is one of the few days that his moms actually get to sleep in without disturbance from work or something else. Who cares if the word quiet doesn't make many rotations around his vocabulary; he can learn.

Besides, the official announcement is eight in the morning sharp, on practically every news channel in existence, and like hell he's going to miss that because of sleep. Who really needs it, anyway?

It would come as a surprise to no one to see him perched on the edge of the coffee table fifteen minutes to, unsure of what else to do. The only noise save for the faint murmur of the television is the coffee steadily brewing in the kitchen, not nearly fast enough. He needed it preferably an hour ago, but hyping himself up that much before six probably wasn't the solution.

He's going to start getting jittery regardless of what he drinks, anyway.

"Oh, that's today?"

He's not surprised to see one of his mom's already awake, despite the day off. She looks bleary-eyed, more than he ever feels, but alert enough that she clearly recognizes his stance in front of the television as something important.

"Obviously," he responds. "Why do you think I'm awake so early?"

"You're always awake this early, sweetheart," she reminds him. "Sit on the couch, please. You're going to strain your eyes."

He gets up, albeit reluctantly, and places himself on the couch at her request. She slides a mug full of coffee into his nervous, jittery hands, already stirring at her own. Every time the spoon clinks against the edge of her cup he wants to pull it out of her hands and throw it across the room. The noise is so distracting he almost can't hear the television, and if he doesn't hear it—

"You're going to a summer program, not becoming the President," she says.

"You don't know I'm going," he fires back, and finally pulls the spoon out of her hands, rolling it anxiously in his palm. After a moment she pulls it back from him, shaking her head.

"Positive thinking."

If only she knew. He finds he doesn't care much about her knowing when the official banner of the Federation flashes on the screen. He knew it was going to be Pandora Quinn presenting the names to the public, but seeing her step onto the stage ratchets everything up tenfold. He's going to know any second now, and doesn't know whether to be sick or to scream. Scream, usually. Loudly, and often, at everyone and everything.

Pandora Quinn doesn't even announce a name from the Capitol until halfway through, and he nearly gives up.

"From the Capitol..."

"Told you," his mom says.

"Percius Marigold."

"How?" he asks incredulously. "How did you—"

"Mother's intuition," she answers simply. "Congrats, sweetheart."

Congratulations, absolutely, but it's not his name he cared about hearing. There's no point in hearing his name at all if he doesn't hear another one. It's not like he ever even really cared about the Games; no one in this household ever had. Maybe that's blasphemy, or something awful. But it's the truth.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. No Capitol names that ring like the one he wants to hear.

"From the Capitol... Nicator Selton."

He nearly does scream but manages to wrangle it back in, and all that comes up is a strangled squeak. He claps his hand over his mouth even as it escapes, and his mother turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. A skill he hasn't quite figured out himself.

"You know him?"

"No," he answers quickly.

The look on her face doesn't change. "Hm. Sure you don't."

She takes a very exaggerated sip of her coffee, and he's sure it burns but she doesn't even flinch. She also won't stop looking him in the eyes, either, and if she really does have mother's intuition than she's figuring all of this out rather quickly. Quicker than he wanted her to, at any rate. He knows it doesn't matter, that she wouldn't care, but it's the principle of her knowing. She probably wouldn't be so quick to congratulate him if she really knew. Of course they've always been supportive, more supportive than a lot of parents would be. From the second he was born, to the day they drove him down to the registration office to get his name officially changed, to this moment right now - nothing would really matter to them.

"I heard a very odd noise," his other mom says, making it down the last of the stairs as if on cue.

"That was just our son finding out he's going to be spending a few days with the boy he likes at the Program."

"Mother," he forces out. He doesn't go red, not ever, but the tips of his ears are burning. The two of them both look like they want to clap excitedly, no surprise there, identical grins on their faces, and God does he love them and their support but it's too early for all of this.

"Aw, I'm very happy for you love," she says, coming up behind the couch and kissing at the top of his head. "Is he nice?"

"Of course he's nice," he insists. Too nice, if you asked Percy. So nice that he couldn't help it, that he probably would never be able to put up with Percy's bullshit, not ever. So nice that Percy had a big, stupid fat crush on him and had just signed a few days of his life away for it regardless of the chances he really had.

But that didn't matter now. He was going. He didn't care about anyone else there.

He hadn't applied for everyone else, after all.

Arwen Paoul, 18
Applicant #1

There is only one thing Arwen loathes more than a girl that wastes her time, and that was a boy that wastes her time.

It was one thing if they were at least slightly interesting, but Penbrook was not. She was only calling him Penbrook in the first place because he had introduced himself an hour ago, and it had went in one ear and out the other. It was Mishal, or Magnus, or Mellan. Something that started with an M, that much she was certain of.

But it looks good to be wandering around on the arm of the Mayor's son when her father was so important to the office itself; that was the only reason she even knew his last name. At least Mayor Penbrook was a memorable sort of fellow, unlike his son. They had to be from one of the outer Districts, judging by the things he was whispering to her. Not that she could remember that either.

There was not nearly enough champagne in her mimosa to get her through the morning.

"I think we should go out after this," Mishal says, low enough that she's the only one that can hear in the midst of the bustling front hall.

"We'll see," she answers, and takes a huge gulp of orange juice to wash down the creeps. "If I get picked, I don't think I'll have the time."

"I'll just have to hope you don't get picked, then. What's a girl like you want to do with the Games, anyway?"

She nearly kicks him in the shin, even as he turns away to Mr. Bertucci as he went breezing by with his newest wife. "Getting away from you would be reason enough."

"What?" he asks, turning back to her, and she shakes her head, keeping silent in order to take another gulp.

Arwen hadn't caught sight of one her friends in a while, and was beginning to grow nauseous. If Mellan said one more vaguely suggestive thing to her before noon she was going to toss the leftover pulp of her mimosa at his face. The last time they had come downstairs Cahira had snorted into her own drink at the look on Arwen's face, and last she had seen Uri they had been just off the kitchen, but both of them had disappeared. Traitorous bitches, the whole lot of them.

The announcement had to be soon, at least. Magnus had to let go of her at some point, or lead her to the room with the biggest television in it.

Or maybe he wouldn't, consider how badly he apparently wanted to go out with her.

She wouldn't lie; it was nice to have someone focus this much attention on her. But God, why did it have to be him? She would have preferred anyone else, no matter age or gender. Hell, she was about tempted to go running off in search of one of her parents. At least that way she could be certain of what was about to come out of one or both of their mouths.

"Would you go get me another drink?" she asks him. He eyes her half-full glass, so she downs the rest of it as quickly as she can. He quickly uncurls his arm from hers and disappears into the thickest of the crowd. At this point she wasn't even sure where a television was, or why she had agreed to enter into this hell-scape in the first place.

To be honest, she wasn't even sure what time it was. Chances are Penbrook had made her miss it anyway.

She glances behind her, where the idiot had headed off, and starts in the opposite direction. She finds a drink tray in less than ten seconds, quickly scooping up another and walking off with it before anyone could tell her not to. If someone was supposed to be monitoring the underage drinking at whatever event the Mayor was even supposed to be having, they were doing a miserable job of it.

Someone shouts just behind her and then takes one of her hands. She nearly yanks away, thinking that Penbrook had grown awfully ballsy in their short time apart, but quickly stops.

"Sorry, dearest Winnie," Karamo says. "Fuckers are getting awfully pushy in here. Where did you get that from?"

She had already lost track of the tray, so she took a sip and then handed it to him. No one else would be getting it, but Karamo seemed to have special privileges that way. Either she gave it to him, or he'd take it from her hands. No one else would dare.

"I can't believe you all left me alone with Penbrook."

"Who?" he asks, wincing at the drink. "Fuck, I forgot how bad orange juice tasted. Are you talking about Marquis?"

"Is that his name?" she asks incredulously, and her friend snorts. Well, at least she had been right about the M. She hadn't been right about much else, apparently.

"C'mon, he's not that bad," Karamo insists. "He could be uglier."

"He could be better-looking too."

"Touché."

It's not like it matters, anyway. She wasn't planning on talking to him ever again. To be honest, she wouldn't have been talking to him in the first place, if his sister was the single one wandering around. Sometimes things just didn't work out perfectly.

"Winnie!" someone shouts. "Winnie, Winnie!"

She knew the voice almost instantly, but it took a very long moment full of shoving before Evora came stumbling out of the crowd, sloshing orange juice everywhere. "They just said your name on the television!"

Karamo took a very exaggerated sip of her drink, despite his initial disgust. Well, that could mean only one thing then, couldn't it? There were more people than just Evora looking at her. Someone else must have heard the news. That, or Evora's shouting. She was by far the loudest one in the vicinity. If they had said her name on the television, then she knew exactly what it had been for.

"Congrats on the summer vacation, Win," Karamo says. "Did you want this back?"

She rolls her eyes. Evora was laughing - laughing and laughing and laughing, like it had been her name announced. A few people in the vicinity were clapping like she had just been awarded the Presidency. Karamo, for his part, didn't seem to care much. That was their thing, though. There was little point in caring about more than a few things at once.

He didn't look surprised, either. She didn't feel it. It was like she had been waiting for weeks now to hear her name called, like she heard it whispered in her sleep.

There was never any doubt. They were going to announce her.

And now they had.

Kidava Vaud, 15
Applicant #19

If Kidava could have framed the acceptance letter, she would have.

She doesn't think any of the teachers at Ridgeview High would appreciate her bringing something considered a blunt weapon to the school, least of all Mr. Ungaro, who gives her a look the second she walks into the classroom.

There's still seven minutes to the bell, a fact she knows all too well. School is out next week, though, and no one cares what time it is anymore. There's a handful of teenagers already milling around the classroom, talking about their weekend plans. Their summer plans.

And she's got her first one in her hand.

She unfolds the letter and slaps it down on the desk of one Antonia Amaury-Frey, who had already been eyeballing her from the start.

"So, I guess that dare worked out in my favor, huh?"

"Or mine," she fires back. "Considering I won't have to deal with you the last week of school now."

She couldn't remember what exactly Antonia had said all those weeks ago, after weeks of Kidava trying to explain to her just what her Uncle Antonius did wrong in the Games. A trained Career from Two, six foot three two hundred pounds, dead when the scrawny, underfed pair from Six ambushed him and slit his throat ten minutes after the bloodbath.

The hundred and forty-third had been a mess from the start.

Antonius Frey was a large cause of that. She just wanted to make sure Antonia knew it, too.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Kidava?" Laela Moakler asks, leaning around Antonia's shoulder. "Like fuck off back to the Capitol for a week or so?"

"Oh, I will be," Kidava answers. "I just thought everyone should know first."

"We knew," Antonia insists. "You can go away now."

Kidava flops down into the seat next to hers instead, picking her acceptance letter back up. It's not her seat, but whoever it belongs to doesn't appear to be here yet. If they are, they're wisely choosing to stay away from it. If they bother showing up at all she'd be surprised. If she didn't have this letter to rub in Antonia's face, she probably wouldn't have showed up either. She's got packing to do, after all.

There needs to be room left in her bags, though. There's always a chance she finds something off on her trip that she hasn't seen before, something her grandmother hasn't been able to provide her. Secret footage from one of the Games, a history textbook banned elsewhere around the Districts.

There has to be something worthwhile hiding away there.

"Do you think I'll have as wonderful of a time away as your Uncle did?" she asks.

Antonia's hands tighten around the edges of her desk, but she keeps her mouth shut. It's Laela who's looking angrier by the second, but anger can only do so much. She's short. Thin. Wouldn't have a chance in any sort of situation where she had to stand up to anyone, let alone fight.

She doesn't have the strategies.

"God, I can't wait until you're gone," Laela mutters under her breath.

"Neither can I," she replies and kicks back in her chair, flattening the letter out. It really is nothing special, not upon reading it. It's the secret meaning behind it all that gets her going. That makes her truly wonder what the world has in store for her outside of Two.

Don't get her wrong - Two isn't the worst of places to live. But it's barren of anything she wants. The training Academy's are closed. They tore down what was left of the Victor's Village years ago.

She's got nothing but the tapes her grandmother seemingly produces out of nowhere and the old, outdated history textbooks Mr. Ungaro won't let them take home. What point is there to that, when their history classes are short enough as is?

Slowly more and more people are beginning to trickle into the classroom as the clock ticks closer to eight-thirty, right on the dot. She scoops up her bag and lets the letter brush against the flyaways of Antonia's hair as she heads to her own desk, right near the back corner. Laela scowls and mutters something else, a few obscenities that grow quieter as Mr. Ungaro takes to his feet, preparing to start the day.

No one seems near as thrilled as she feels. No one even seems to care.

She plops down in her seat and tucks the letter away for safe-keeping. Framed or not she doesn't plan on letting it go anytime soon. There has to be someone, somewhere, that wants to see it. That wants to drink in the details of it like she had when she had torn the envelope open with her teeth.

Kidava looks to her right. "Are you as excited as I am to go?"

Sabre Hennedige doesn't look up from his notebook. "No one could be as excited as you."

The bell rings. She smiles regardless.

Woo, first intros!

I decided to do all of this nonsense in third-person, different to everything else I've written, so I hope that goes over well. It's just easier, at this point. I'm doing the pre-Games layout pretty similar to my other three stories with some obviously big changes as this isn't a traditional Hunger Games. Six chapters of basic introductions before we move into what would traditionally be the chariots to the launch portion of the story. Updates will (hopefully) come every Saturday, approximately 12pm EST. If I can't update then I'll probably let you know the week before.

And then I toad wheelie meme my way to the bloodbath because I'm impatient and like Merder.

Until next time.