Jasper Bowen

Mentor, District Five

Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games

Plume's the only one that cheers when my name is read; it's shocking that anyone bothered at all, and the Mayor looks up, startled. Allan gets a slightly warmer reception, but to his credit, he's not pleased about it. Sitting next to me, he's never openly pleased about it. I appreciate that. I appreciate Allan.

His arena was the arctic tundra; one of the most brutal, and brief games on record, Allan was crowned three days in. More than half the field was wiped out due to natural causes: some stumbled around and fell down ravines, a couple more dropped all their supplies and ran off nowhere helpful; I think five or more lay down in the snow at varying points and just went to sleep for good.

Allan made a ghillie suit from snow hares he'd snared the first night; lichen and moss were the only scraggly plants growing in that place, so leaves and grass were obviously not an option. All white, he kept to a cave he'd found on the outskirts of the arena. He killed twice, but waited till the feast was over to announce himself to what was left of the Careers. They were weak, and two of the four were wounded. No one here felt bad that he won; no one blamed him for coming back when Helena didn't – she died in the bloodbath. I died when Tephra's baby did. We were going to call her Pyrope.

"Let's start with the ladies, shall we?"

The Mayor must be done already. I look up and try not to show I'm a little weirded out by what I see.

Lysander is wearing a skirt. Ok. I think that's a first; it's made of deep green feathers – that's definitely a first. Feathers must be so now in The Capitol. I grimace, and straighten a little in my chair.

He sweeps over to the big purple bowl full of names belonging to girls eligible in Five, careful all the while not to step on his train. He comes to a graceful stop a foot or so away, smiles his not quite natural smile, and leans forward to – smell the slips?

Oh my god, Lysander.

Allan and I exchange a look before Lysander is done with this year's theatricality. It annoys me to see some kids in the crowd are affected, just like Lysander intended.

"Ampere Ferric!"


Ampere Ferric

Female Tribute, District Five

Well, it's now or never.

I swing as hard as I can and hit Absolute smack bang in the face. That she's crying when I should be is what helps me get through the walk to the stage. The clear path of horrified girls all older than me doesn't hurt either. The fact that Lysander looks ruffled, sweetens the deal.

I'm pretty sure I'm the first to take the news so well; in my case, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me today.

Wiping the blood on my washed out once orange now beige dress, I take a moment to turn, and look back through the crowd, searching for the source of the only sounds anyone can hear right now.

Cornelia is trying to comfort her, but by the looks of things, she isn't having much luck.

It should have been her. It should have been her, and she knows it.

"Well, what a heated start to this year's Reaping!" Lysander gathers himself and extends a hand I'm guessing he's hoping I'll take. That he saw what I just did and is trying this is reason enough for me to humour the guy. I take his hand.

"Anything to say to the crowd, Miss. Ferric?"

"Just that I'm not sorry. Oh, and you should probably root for me. If I don't win, you won't get a Victor this year"

"So much confidence! And before I've even selected our young man, goodness gracious – Ampere Ferric, everyone!"

He lets me go with care and walks over to the untouched purple ball to my right.

I'm going to go for the unbothered look; I let my hands hang beside me, and look out into the middle-distance, at nothing in particular. In the beats leading up to Lysander's digging, I make a game of focusing and un-focusing my gaze.

The moment stretches, then pops.

"Laminar Drift!" cries Lysander; probably hoping this pick will be just as dramatic as the first.


Laminar Drift

Male Tribute, District Five

My ears are ringing. The ringing is all I can hear.

Then I throw up.

Boyle is the first to get to me, but I can't hear what he's saying. He's shoving a handkerchief in my hand and leading me to the stage before the Peacekeepers can get their hands on me. I have to thank him. I have to thank Boyle.

Where did he go?

No time has passed but I'm at the foot of the stairs with my mouth hanging open, clutching a green stained handkerchief for dear life.

Boyle gave it to me.

Where is he?

And why am I here?

I look up, lock eyes with Lysander, and remember. It all comes crashing down, and it's too bad I can't keep my head up because now the Peacekeepers are well and truly fed up. They rush up to sandwich me, one on each side, and carry me the rest of the way, before dumping me at Lysander's feet.

He looks down, and I look up.

I think his mouth is open too; maybe he'll say something.

He probably won't throw up.

His mouth snaps shut again and he turns away from me, back to the cameras.

"The tributes of District Five!"