Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Thank you to stellaslomp, Lt Fedora, ImmyRose, and twistedservice for India, Horatio, Aleron, and Evander, respectfully.

District Three
Okay

Miriam Valence, 41
Victor of the 15th Hunger Games

"Are you sure about this?"

Miriam nodded emphatically. "It's the only way, Percival. We can't just leave Avery here alone. And she's certainly not ready to mentor. One of us should stay with her. I'm the more experienced mentor; I'm the obvious choice to go."

"And you're sure you can handle both of them by yourself?"

Miriam smiled a little. Percival was only trying to help, of course, but he sometimes forgot that she had mentored on her own for sixteen years. As much as she appreciated the company during the Games, Avery needed him even more than she did.

Miriam glanced over at the empty chair where Avery usually sat for breakfast. So far this morning, she had refused to come to the table, or even get out of bed. Sooner or later, she and Percival would have to get Avery ready for the reaping. Miriam was dreading it, but Avery had even more reason to want to crawl under her covers and hide all day.

Miriam wished she could let her.

Part of her wished she could join her.

But hiding wouldn't help anyone. Hiding wouldn't bring back the eleven tributes who had died at Avery's blade the year before. Hiding wouldn't bring back Avery's family, all of whom had been publicly whipped and executed on President Snow's orders as soon as the twelve tributes had refused to fight. Her parents. Her grandfather. Her seven-year-old brother. Chained up in the square, whipped nearly to the point of death, then left to die of exposure, dehydration, and blood loss. Their executions – and those of the other tributes' families – had been broadcast throughout the districts, replayed over and over again long after the Games had ended.

But hiding wouldn't bring them back.

And hiding wouldn't protect any of them from what the Capitol had planned for this year – whatever it might be. She couldn't shield Avery from the consequences of the last Games.

But she could protect her from mentoring. And she could make sure she didn't have to spend the Games alone. "I'm sure," Miriam repeated after she finished the last of her breakfast. "Take care of Avery. You don't need to worry about me."

"All right, then," Percival agreed. "Let's go get her."

They found Avery curled up under her covers, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing silently. Miriam wrapped her arms around her gently, wishing she didn't have to do this. "Avery? We have to go now – to the reaping. Once it's over, you can come right back here, but you have to get up. Just for a little while."

"I can't," Avery whispered through tears. "I don't want to see them. It's my fault. It's my fault."

Miriam held Avery close. "It's not your fault," she whispered soothingly, over and over again. "It's not your fault."

And it wasn't. Not really. Anders' plan had sounded so convincing, Miriam had almost believed it herself. She had wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that if people simply stood firm, the Games would stop. The Capitol would be forced to let them go.

And if she had wanted to believe it could happen, how could she blame a fourteen-year-old girl for being swayed? For wanting to believe that she and the others could make a difference. For wanting to stop the Games. How could she blame anyone for that?

And it had been Avery's decision to join the rebels – not her later actions – that had sealed her family's fate. By the time the Gamemakers offered their deal, the executions had already been carried out. As for agreeing to the Capitol's terms, Avery had simply been the first to cave under their torture. If she hadn't, someone else would have. Two of the others, in fact, had later cried out that they would take the deal. But by then it was too late. Avery had acted first.

She was alive.

"It's not your fault," Miriam repeated as she held Avery close, rocking her gently back and forth. Finally, Miriam managed to get her out of bed and dressed, and the three of them headed for the square.

There were no cheers. No shouts. Not even any whispers. There was only silence. Terrible, fearful silence. Children shuffled quietly into place, most not even daring to look up.

She would have done the same thing in their place.

But she wasn't in their place. She was a victor. And she could be strong – for them. For the two tributes who were about to be called to the stage. They would be frightened. Alone. So she would be strong, for their sakes. She would be brave.

She could be brave for them.

Miriam swallowed hard as District Three's escort, Richmond Elmore, gave her a sympathetic smile before taking his place by the first reaping bowl. She could do this. She had mentored alone before. She could do it again.

Richmond reached into the first bowl and drew a name. "India Telle!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a girl in a knee-length, peach-colored dress. For a moment, shock covered the girl's face, but it quickly faded, giving way to a hard, cold expression as she began to make her way towards the stage.

She was about average height, with dark skin and long, brown hair that was darker at the roots but grew lighter at the ends. Her eyes were brown, warm and deep, and, as she took the stage, Miriam was relieved to see that they held no tears. The girl's expression remained hard – almost angry – as she silently took her place facing the crowd.

Nodding a little, Richmond made his way to the second reaping bowl, reached in, and quickly drew a name. "Horatio Connors!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black pants. But the boy didn't move. Couldn't move, perhaps, out of sheer shock. After a long pause, one of the boys beside him gave his shoulder a shake, pointing at the Peacekeepers who were making their way towards the boy. That seemed to be enough to snap him out of it, and he finally took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, he made his way to the stage.

The boy was taller than his district partner and a bit more muscular, with dark skin and short, black hair. His dark brown eyes met his district partner's with as much confidence as he could muster, and they quickly shook hands.

By that time, however, Richmond had reached into the bowl once more. The whole crowd went silent as the escort drew another name. "As the first replacement for Anders Levine … Aleron Blanchet!"

It took Miriam a moment to process what was happening. A replacement. A substitute. As if last year's tribute had been defective in some way. A mistake. So they had decided to try again…

Only then did Miriam fully realize that he had called another name. Another tribute. Another child who would enter the Games.

The fifteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a boy in a brightly checkered, green-and-blue shirt and brown pants. One of the pant legs had been ripped off at the knee, and his brightly-colored shoes were mismatched. For a moment, he simply stared – at the crowd around him, at the escort, at the two tributes already onstage. Then he shook his head, turning his attention back to the crowd, motionless, perhaps unable to process what had just happened.

Even as the Peacekeepers came to get him, the boy seemed to be in a daze. He stumbled into one Peacekeeper, then another, on his way to the stage, and was still shaking his head as he took his place beside Horatio. He was smaller and less muscular than the other boy, with pale skin, long light brown hair, and hazel eyes. He kept shaking his head, swaying gently from side to side, as Richmond reached into the bowl again.

"As the second replacement for Anders Levine … Evander Mercado!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a black, long-sleeved, button-down shirt, black dress slacks, and black shoes. Immediately, the boy took a step backwards, staring, eyes brimming with tears as a boy beside him whispered something in his ear. The boy blinked rapidly, trying to keep from crying as he took a few hesitant steps towards the stage. Then a few more.

The boy was almost six feet tall, thin and lanky, with olive skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes that were still full of tears. As he took his place beside Aleron, a few spilled onto his cheeks. Then a few more. Shakily, he tried to wipe them away, swallowing hard, trying to pull himself together.

Beside Miriam, Avery was doing the same. Sobbing, her face buried in her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Percival met Miriam's gaze as she wrapped Avery in her arms. "Miriam…"

She knew what he was about to say. Two tributes, she could handle alone. But four? She had mentored three once, during the Twenty-Fifth Games. Could she mentor four? How many more would there be?

But that was all. Richmond stepped away from the reaping bowl. Two extra tributes. "It's my fault," Avery cried softly.

"It's not your fault," said a voice. A quiet, gentle voice – and one that wasn't her own. Miriam looked up to see the fourth tribute – Evander – kneeling beside Avery. "It's not your fault. Think it through. We're up here to replace Anders, not you. If you'd died, too, there would be two more of us. You saved two lives."

Avery looked up, shocked, as the boy placed a comforting hand on her arm. "Really?"

Evander nodded. "Yeah. And now you can have the chance to save another. Will you … Will you be my mentor?"

Miriam almost stepped in and said no. No, of course she wouldn't. Avery was still recovering from her own Games. She was in no condition to mentor anyone.

But then she saw Avery smile.

It was the first time Miriam had seen her smile since she'd left the arena. And that one smile was almost worth whatever tears would follow later if she wasn't able to save Evander's life. Maybe it wasn't the smart decision – on anyone's part – but, for a moment, there was hope in Avery's eyes. And that was enough for her.

"Yes," Avery whispered. "Of course I will."

As the tributes were led away, Percival wrapped an arm around Avery's shoulder. "The three of us, then?"

Miriam nodded. "I can still take two, if—"

Percival shook his head. "No, I'll take the other two boys. You can have the girl and help Avery with Evander."

"Thank you," Miriam agreed, silently hoping the extra tributes were the only surprise the Capitol had in store.

But she was already starting to doubt that.

India Telle, 17

It wasn't fair.

As soon as the Peacekeepers left her alone, India picked up one of the chairs and hurled it against the wall. It felt good – being able to release all the anger she had held in check at the reaping. It wasn't fair. Things were just starting to work out. She had finally managed to escape her overcrowded family when a teacher had taken her in a few years ago. She was excelling in school. She had finally begun to think that maybe – just maybe – there was more in store for her than a life in the slums of District Three.

And now this.

India slammed the chair against the wall again, breaking off one of the legs. Then another. Just as she was about to take another swing, the door opened.

India whirled around, half-expecting her whole family to descend on her. But, instead, only two of her older brothers – Elder and Pierce – stood in the doorway. Elder glanced around, surveying the damage she'd already done. "Good practice, I suppose," he concluded. "But maybe you should save it for the arena."

India couldn't help smiling a little. But only a little. She didn't want to think about the arena. Because tributes in the arena weren't simply going to stand there and let her smash a chair over their heads. Tributes could fight back.

Tributes could kill.

"I … I brought this for you," Pierce said quietly, holding out something in his hand. India held out her palm, and Pierce dropped a necklace into it. A necklace with a white star pendant.

India stared. The necklace had been hers once – a long time ago, when she had simply been the youngest of the Telle children, bullied mercilessly by most of her older siblings. She had lost the necklace years ago; she had been sure one of the others had taken it. "Where did you find it?" she whispered.

Pierce shrugged noncommittally, but Elder didn't mind supplying an answer. "Nymph took it. Sold it to one of the traders in the marketplace. Pierce found it, and we bought it back." He shook his head. "We've been meaning to give it back to you, but we never see you anymore, not since…"

Not since Mrs. Houzer had taken her in. Swept her away from the dull, dreary life that had once been hers. She'd never really given much thought to what she had left behind. Never really missed it. Never thought they would miss her.

But they had missed her – at least these two. Maybe one or two of the others. India swallowed hard as she gave them one last hug before they had to go. Why was it that no one ever realized what they had until it was gone?

It just wasn't fair.

Horatio Connors, 15

It wasn't that bad.

Horatio shook his head as the door closed behind his parents. Slowly, he got up and began to pace the length of the room again. Of course it was bad. He was a tribute. A tribute in the Hunger Games. And not just during any year, but during a year with extra tributes.

How many extra?

Horatio took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Trying to work it out. Two tributes to replace Anders from last year. But was that simply because he had refused to fight, or because he had been one of the instigators of the plan? Would the Capitol make a distinction between the two? One for the non-fighters, perhaps, and two for the masterminds?

Or were they all the same in the Capitol's eyes?

Either way, the numbers added up quickly. Twelve tributes had refused to fight. If there were two for each of them – or even two for most of them – that meant nearly double the usual number of tributes.

And half the usual chances.

Stop thinking about the odds.

No. No, the Games weren't about the odds. Not really. Nothing in the Games was really up to chance. It was all strategy. Decisions. Plans and schemes, gambits and risks. Just like a giant game of chess.

Horatio fingered the chess piece in his hand. One of the pawns from his very first chess set, old and worn from years of playing. And he was good. He would have been head of the chess club next year.

Would have been.

Stop it. It was unnerving how quickly he'd started thinking in the past tense. He couldn't just give up. Couldn't just forfeit the game.

Because that was all it was, in the end – just another game. A deadlier game, to be sure, but the same principles held true for both. Play it safe or take a risk. Win or lose.

Live or die.

Except there were only two players in chess. He could anticipate the moves of another player. Read their expressions, predict what they might do next. But dozens? How could he hope to know what each of them would do? And how could he plan if he couldn't predict? He needed more information.

Horatio sat down quietly, turning the pawn over and over in his hands. He still had time. Time to get that information. Time to plan. Time to think. Time to reason his way out of this dilemma, as he had so many others.

Maybe it wasn't that bad.

Aleron Blanchet, 15

It wasn't real.

Aleron sat cross-legged on the floor in a corner of the room. This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A joke. Yes, that's what it was. A joke.

And whoever was behind it had incredibly bad taste.

They couldn't do this. The rules of the Games were clear. Two tributes from each district. One male, one female. As soon as someone realized there had been a mistake, they would let him go. They couldn't do this.

And yet everyone else had gone along with it. The other tributes. The mentors. The whole district. No one had said anything. No one had spoken out. No one had done a thing to stop this. They were afraid.

Of course, he hadn't done anything, either. But that wasn't because he was afraid. No, he wasn't afraid. He was … waiting. Yes. Yes, that was it. He was waiting. Waiting for the right moment to voice his outrage. To inform the Capitol that they had made a terrible mistake.

He wasn't supposed to die.

Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing his parents and his sister, Francesca. His mother quickly knelt by his side, followed by his father. Francesca lingered a little ways away.

"We brought your diary," his father offered, holding out the small notebook and a pen. "In case you want it as your … your token."

Aleron nodded. "Might as well. Really, though, I won't need it for long. This is all wrong – someone will fix it. They have to."

That was enough to set Francesca off. "Wake up, Aleron! Just this once, listen! This is for real. No one's coming to save you. You'll have to—" The words caught in her throat. She swallowed hard, then finished. "You'll have to save yourself."

Aleron shrugged. So he would save himself, then. Not a problem. Either way, he would be back here in no time.

Soon, his family was gone, and the Peacekeepers came to take him to the train. One of them eyed his diary. "What's that?"

Aleron smirked. "My token." They wouldn't take it. It wasn't a weapon. It wasn't big enough to hurt anyone with. It was just a diary.

"Only one token allowed – not two," one of the other Peacekeepers growled irritably. "Either the diary or the pen."

Aleron blinked. Stared at the items for a moment, deciding. Then he tossed the pen across the room. The diary was better, anyway. Even if he couldn't write anything else in it, he could always reread what he had already written. That would be plenty.

The Peacekeepers marched him off to the train, but Aleron stumbled behind, lost in thought. Someone would do something. Someone would stop them. Someone.

This couldn't be real.

Evander Mercado, 16

It wasn't right.

Evander wrapped his arms around his parents, wishing he didn't have to let go. Beside him, his younger siblings, Cora and Asher, were crying, their arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Evander held them all close. He didn't want them to cry. He didn't want to see them upset.

"That was very kind of you," his father said at last, "asking her to be your mentor. I hope it … doesn't end up hurting your chances."

Evander looked away. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't really thought about what it might mean for him once he was in the Games. He had simply been trying to cheer her up. To say something kind.

He'd meant it, of course – the part about it not being her fault. What could she have done? Turned on the rebels sooner? He would still be sitting here – punishment for what Anders had done. She couldn't have changed a thing.

And part of him knew that he would have done the same thing in her place. He – like so many in District Three – had been silently hoping that the rebels would succeed. Hoping their plan would work, that they would have enough support. And, at first, it had seemed that they might win.

Then the executions began.

Evander swallowed hard, trying to imagine what that must have been like for her. What it would be like to see his own family executed, murdered because of him. Tears came to his eyes as he held his family tighter. He wouldn't let that happen. No matter what happened to him in the Games, he wouldn't let them die because of it.

Which meant he would have to cooperate. He would have to play by their rules. He would have to fight.

He would have to kill.

And that was what was so terribly wrong about the whole thing. In order to keep his family safe from retaliation, he would have to kill. Take one life in order to save another. It wasn't fair. It didn't make sense. It was all backwards and upside-down.

It wasn't right.

But it was the way things were. And it was the way things would stay. Last year had proved that much, at least. The Capitol wouldn't break the rules – or even bend them. And anyone who wouldn't play by the rules was an enemy.

He couldn't afford to make himself an enemy.

After only a few minutes, the Peacekeepers came to take his family away. Evander struggled to keep his tears from falling, but, once the others were gone, he buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want any of this.

It was all wrong.

"Even if there's a 99 percent probability that they're utterly, hopelessly screwed, folks are much more inclined to hear that 1 percent chance that things are going to be okay."