Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: First of all, my sincerest apologies for disappearing for so long. Real life decided to throw me a bit of a curveball, and I've spent the last month or so looking for a new job for next year. But now I'm back, and we're nearing the end of the school year, so updates should pick up again. Thank you wholeheartedly for your patience.

Second, just a reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Lastly, thank you to Cashmere67, SomeDays, Lupus Overkill, IndigoStarling, LokiThisIsMadness, and Deuce Ex Machina for Mavina, Kendall, Imalia, Auster, Brevin, and Jarlan, respectively.

District Four
Chosen

Mags Pharos, 49
Victor of the 8th Hunger Games

They had to be ready for anything.

Mags glanced at her fellow victors as the five of them took the stage. Naomi took a seat next to Mags, her gaze cold and hard as always, ready for whatever was about to come. Misha sat beside her – nervous, fidgeting with his hands, trying to ignore the looks he was getting from the crowd. Looks of pity and looks of blame, in equal measure. The more enthusiastic Career supporters blamed him for throwing away District Four's chances last year. But the others…

Mags gave Misha a small smile as he glanced in her direction. She had been one of the others. One of the ones who had hoped that maybe – just maybe – the rebels had a chance of ending the Games once and for all. She hadn't gotten involved directly, but she hadn't exactly tried to stop Misha from carrying out his plan.

His plan. Mags still wasn't sure that it had, in fact, been his plan. But someone had organized the rebels, persuaded five of them to volunteer, in three different districts. That was too much to be coincidence. And Misha had the means. Contacts in the different districts. Other victors. Their friends. Friends of friends. He was the natural suspect, especially after he had persuaded District Four's tributes to join the rebels.

And she had done nothing to stop them, because a small part of her had dared to hope they would succeed. Foolish. Naïve. She should have known better. The Capitol had been prepared.

The Capitol was always prepared.

Still, she'd had hope – faint hope, but hope nonetheless – until the executions began. District Three was broadcast first. After that, it seemed, the Peacekeepers in the following districts saw it as their job to try to outdo the senseless brutality of the executions that had come before. Maybe they were under orders. Maybe they thought the audience would get bored – or, worse, numb – if every execution proceeded the same way.

She could still see them – the families of District Four's tributes. Pleading, begging for mercy as they were led to their deaths. Insisting they'd had no part in the plan, that the tributes had acted alone, that they'd had no idea what the rebels were planning.

And the worst part was, it was probably true. They probably hadn't known. The tributes themselves probably hadn't known what they could be talked into, in the name of even the slightest possibility of peace. Freedom. Rebellion. She wasn't sure what Misha had promised them, but it must have been convincing.

And it had cost the tributes' families their lives.

Peacekeepers dragged them from their homes and through the district, but, instead of stopping in the square – the typical venue for executions, though they were rare in Four – they were herded to the shipyards, where they were forced onto ships that lay anchored in the harbor. They were split up, three or four to a ship. There, they were stripped and bound to the mast with thick, coarse ropes, arms wrapped around the wooden beam as if embracing it.

Only once they were all in place did the whipping begin. Whips tore into their exposed backs, legs, and arms as the Peacekeepers circled the masts, striking one and then another until all were torn and bloody.

After they'd had their fill of bloodshed, oil was poured over both the prisoners and the blood-soaked decks, and the ships were set adrift in the harbor. Once they were safely away from land, one of the Peacekeepers set an arrow to a bow, and another set the end ablaze. As the Peacekeeper fired arrow after arrow, ship after ship burst into flames.

She could still hear them screaming.

And she had done nothing to stop it. Nothing to persuade the tributes not to go along with Misha's plan. A plan that she suspected was doomed. A plan she should have known would lead to nothing but bloodshed.

Did that make it her fault?

Mags shook the thought from her head. No, that was too much guilt to place on any one person. There was more than enough blame to go around. Some was hers. Some was Misha's. Some belonged to the rebels. But most of the guilt, most of the blame – that belonged to the Capitol. To President Snow.

But President Snow was dead, Mags reminded herself. Maybe that meant that the worst was over. Maybe Silas – President Grisom – would be more forgiving.

She knew Silas, after all. Many of the victors did. He had only mentored one year, during the 25th Games, but he had never struck her as bloodthirsty or cruel. Maybe things would be different.

Maybe they would be better.

Beside Misha, Kalypso smiled out at the crowd. Trying to be encouraging. To pretend nothing had happened. Trying to move on. Bierce sat beside her, watching intently as District Four's escort, Lydia Sherwin, took her place by the microphone.

The crowd went quiet. Too quiet. For a moment, it was almost as if they'd forgotten that there were volunteers waiting to step forward as soon as Lydia called a name. Things might be different this year, but Naomi had assured her that her two volunteers would come through. That there was always someone willing, someone desperate enough for the chance to volunteer.

Or perhaps crazy enough.

But Mags kept that to herself, as well. The Career system had served District Four's tributes well. And their victors – especially the younger ones – had been a benefit for the district as a whole. Kalypso focused her Career training on those less fortunate, those looking for a way to improve their lives. Bierce had taken a different route, dedicating his time to helping orphans and poorer children learn a trade, rather than training to kill others for a better life, as he had.

Mags smiled a little. So different, and yet so alike. In the end, both of them simply wanted to make others' lives better. Which was what made the Career system in Four different from One and Two, in the end. It wasn't about the killing or the glory or even the wealth that came with being a victor. It was a means to an end. A way of giving teenagers a chance at something better.

But was that enough to make it right?

Mags turned her attention back to the reaping as Lydia reached into the first bowl and drew a name. "Anastasia Bennett!"

"I volunteer!"

Mags couldn't help a small sigh of relief. Naomi had been right; there were still people willing to volunteer, despite everything that had happened last year. The girl who stepped forward from the seventeen-year-old section, however, wasn't exactly what District Four had come to expect from their volunteers. She was tall, fit, and well-tanned, but also quite thin – almost delicate-looking. She hurried to the stage with a smile on a face and a gleam in her bright grey eyes, her long, dirty blonde hair bouncing behind her.

The girl continued to smile as she took her place next to Lydia. Once there, she took a moment to smooth out her long, silver dress before announcing her name as Mavina Perrot. There were a few murmurs from the crowd, particularly the eighteen-year-old section, where quite a few trainees were clearly annoyed that someone younger had been chosen. Mags glanced at Naomi, who merely shrugged at their disapproving whispers. If she had chosen this particular girl to volunteer, there must have been a reason.

Lydia certainly wasn't fazed at all, and moved on to the boys' bowl without hesitation. "Desmond Callahan!"

Sure enough, once again, a loud, "I volunteer!" split the air, this time coming from the eighteen-year-old section. The crowd quickly made way for a boy in a close-cut black jacket, dark green shirt, dark blue jeans, and black shoes. He was tall and muscular, with tanned skin, spiked dark blonde hair, and cold blue-grey eyes.

This time, there were no murmurs from the crowd, no doubt that the right volunteer had been chosen. The boy took the stage confidently, strutting more than walking, and quickly announced his name as Auster Maverick. He didn't finish with any sort of, "and I'm your next Victor" comment, but it was there in his tone and bearing – the assurance that he would be back here in no time.

But it was never quite that simple.

Mags was so busy watching the two shake hands, she didn't notice that Lydia had returned to the first reaping bowl until she drew a name. "As the first replacement for Camille Hendon … Elysia Spicer!"

It took a moment for the crowd to process what was happening – that another tribute had been chosen – but, as they did, there was a clamor in the eighteen-year-old section, and another volunteer raced forward. She was tall and well-toned, with tanned skin, long brown hair parted to one side, and bright blue eyes. Instead of a dress, she wore an oversized brown leather jacket, white shirt, tight black pants, and black boots.

The girl took the stage confidently, eyeing her district partners with a look of immediate distrust. But she saved a particularly nasty look for Mavina, who simply smiled sweetly back. The girl rolled her eyes in disgust and swiped the microphone from Lydia. "I'm Kendall Rios," she announced, leaving the rest unsaid. Kendall Rios, the girl who should have been chosen to volunteer. Kendall Rios, who would surely be District Four's next Victor.

This time, however, Mags was watching Lydia, who quickly reclaimed the microphone from Kendall and approached the girls' bowl once more. "As the second replacement for Camille Hendon … Renae Yorke!"

This time, there was no pause, no moment to react to the sudden change. Several girls raced forward, all thought of protocol forgotten, but it was a girl from the seventeen-year-old section who made it to the stage first. She was tall and lithe, with olive skin and dark brown eyes. Her wavy, dark brown hair hung loose past her shoulders, and she wore a simple blue-grey blouse and dark blue skirt.

Unlike her district partners, the girl didn't look particularly delighted or self-assured. Instead, she simply looked relieved. Grateful that she had made it to the stage first. She smiled as she stepped up to the microphone. "Imalia Grenier," she announced in a clear, confident voice, "and I'd like to thank you for this opportunity."

Opportunity. Mags had to fight to keep herself from cringing. The Capitol had surely meant this as a punishment, not an opportunity. Punishment for the actions of the tributes last year. But taking a punishment and turning it into an opportunity … Well, maybe that was what District Four was best at. The Games were a punishment, anyways – punishment for the rebellion. But, over the years, District Four, along with the other Career districts, had turned them into something else. Something useful. Maybe that same attitude was exactly what they needed now.

Lydia, meanwhile, had returned to the boys' bowl and drawn another name. "As the first replacement for Ricardo Hamlin … Alvin Rosenfield!"

"I volunteer!" This time, the response was immediate, and the eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black pants. He was tall and muscular, with pale skin, blonde hair, and dark brown eyes.

As the boy took the stage, he gave his district partners a nod, and shook each of their hands in turn as he passed. Mavina smiled back politely, while Kendall simply glared, but eventually shook his hand. The other two shook his hand but remained indifferent as the boy stepped up to the microphone and announced his name as Jarlan DuMorne.

Lydia simply nodded and smiled as she drew one more name. "As the second replacement for Ricardo Hamlin … Nigel Crawford!"

For the sixth time, a familiar cry of, "I volunteer!" rang through the crowd. But this time there was no rush to the stage, no pushing and shoving. Maybe the depth of what was happening was finally starting to sink in. Six tributes. Yes, that meant six chances, but there was still only one victor. Only one of these six could win.

Which meant at least five of them would die.

None of this, however, seemed to bother the sixth and final volunteer, who raced up to the stage from the seventeen-year-old section with a smile on his face. He was tall and lean, with pale skin and dark blue eyes. His dark brown hair was combed neatly to one side, but the rest of his appearance wasn't as well-kept. His light blue button-down shirt was wrinkled, his pants well-worn and stained. Clearly, he hadn't come to the reaping with any intention of volunteering.

And why should he have? He had another year, and the volunteers for this year had already been selected. But, like the others, he'd seen his chance and taken it. The boy flashed a mischievous grin at his district partners before announcing his name as Brevin Tolett.

Mags watched, still a little overwhelmed, as handshakes were exchanged and the tributes were quickly ushered offstage. Misha was quietly muttering something about it all being his fault. "Damn right," Naomi agreed, which wasn't helping.

"I can't go back," Misha insisted frantically as he made the connection: more tributes meant more mentors. "I can't. They'll kill me. They'll kill me this time."

Mags had heard him say the same before, of course. During the 25th Games, Misha had been convinced that returning to the Capitol would mean his death. He'd been wrong then … but now? After what had happened last year, no one would want to risk him influencing the tributes.

But was he truly any safer in District Four? If the Capitol suspected his involvement with the rebellion, was it safe to leave him here alone? But what choice did they have? Mags glanced at her fellow mentors. "Us four, then?"

Naomi nodded crisply, and Kalypso quickly agreed. Bierce hesitated for a moment, but then nodded his consent. He'd never mentored before and had been content to stay as far away from the Games as possible once he'd won, but, experienced or not, they would need all the help they could get.

"I'll take Auster and Kendall," Naomi offered, surprising Mags, who had assumed that she would want both of the tributes she'd originally chosen to volunteer. Maybe she was reconsidering her choice.

"I'll take Imalia, then," Kalypso nodded. One of her students, perhaps.

Mags turned to Bierce. "Do you have a preference? I can take two." She'd mentored two tributes alone, after all, before Naomi's victory.

Bierce thought for a moment. "I'll take Jarlan."

Mags nodded. "I'll take Mavina and Brevin, then. Just one more thing." She turned to Misha. "There's something you can do."

"I'm not going back. Please don't—"

"No, it's not that," Mags insisted. "I need you to call the other Victors – in the districts that haven't had their reapings yet. Let them know what's coming. It's not much of an advance warning, but it's something."

"What if they don't believe me?"

Mags blinked. She hadn't thought of that, but it was a valid concern. Most of the other Victors knew Misha, and that he could be a bit erratic at times. "Nicodemus," she decided at last. "Nicodemus will believe you. Call him first, and ask him to tell the others." Part of her hated to ask anything more of Nicodemus, especially after what had happened last year after he'd returned from the Games, but that was exactly the reason she was sure he would believe Misha. Others might assume that this was too extreme, too cruel, even for the Capitol.

Nicodemus knew better.

"All right," Misha agreed. "I just wish—"

Mags nodded. "I know." But the time for wishing was over. It was too late to stop the storm that was coming. Too late to do anything but buckle down and weather it as best they could.

There was no other choice.

Mavina Perrot, 17

They had chosen her.

Mavina still couldn't quite believe it. Out of all the students at the academy, Naomi had chosen her. She was going to be in the Hunger Games. She was going to be a tribute.

No. Not 'was going to be.' She was a tribute now – she had been the moment she volunteered. In a way, the Games had already begun. She had already met five of her fellow tributes – more than she had expected. Five district partners. District Four could have an alliance all to themselves, if they wanted.

Mavina smiled as the door opened and her family entered. She was getting ahead of herself. It was still a bit too early to think about alliances. She didn't even know how many tributes there would be – not anymore. Everything had changed.

But not her family. Her older sister, Elira, was all smiles as she threw her arms around her sister. "You're going to be amazing," she grinned.

Mavina beamed back. It was thanks to Elira that she had been chosen in the first place. Naomi had originally chosen Elira, but then, to everyone's surprise, Elira had insisted that Mavina was the better choice, that she deserved her chance at the glory and fame. Mavina held her sister close, more grateful than ever. Elira had given up her chance at the spotlight so that Mavina could finally step out of her shadow. "Thank you," Mavina whispered softly.

As her family turned to go, Mavina thought – for only a second – that she saw something flash across Elira's face. Regret – maybe even remorse. Was she second-guessing her decision? Did she wish she had volunteered, instead?

Mavina shook the thought from her head as Elira's smile returned. She was probably just imagining it. Her sister was happy for her – that was all. Why wouldn't she be? And, when she returned, maybe she wouldn't just be Elira's younger sister anymore. Maybe other people would finally see them as equals.

Mavina twirled a ring in her hand – a simple, silver band that Elira had given her. First, she had to win. She had to focus on that. On fighting. On winning.

And she could. She would. She would make them proud. She would prove it to them.

She would prove they had made the right choice.

Auster Maverick, 18

They had chosen him.

Auster paced back and forth as his family left the room. This was supposed to be his day. They had chosen him. This was supposed to be the day the district cheered for him as their next Victor. He was the obvious choice, after all, between him and Mavina, who had only been chosen because her sister had chickened out but didn't want the family name sullied. It was obvious that Naomi had only gone along with it because she was placing her bets on him, anyways.

Now everything had changed. Instead of sharing the spotlight – and his mentors' attention – with one other tribute, now there were five. Five other tributes who would be vying for their mentors' advice, their district's hopes, the sponsors' gifts.

It wasn't fair.

And all because two idiots the year before had decided to join the rebels. They had tipped the balance – those two. If they hadn't left the Careers, the six of them could easily have destroyed the rebels' alliance. If he had only been chosen last year, instead…

But he hadn't been. He was here now. With five other tributes. Tributes who didn't deserve the chance they were being given. He had earned this. He was the best. They … well, they weren't, or else Naomi would have chosen them in the first place.

Auster glanced at the chair, at the two district tokens he had been offered. His father had left his wedding ring, a simple gold band with Auster's parents' names inscribed on the inside. Auster scowled. His father was a businessman, not a fighter. He'd never had the guts to train himself. Why should he think that any reminder of him would be useful during the Games?

The other option was a small bottle of Eva's perfume. Auster opened the bottle his girlfriend had left and gave it a whiff, immediately regretting the decision. The smell was so strong, he could probably spray some in another tribute's face, and they would simply keel over from the stench of it.

Auster shook his head and pocketed the ring. He had no special attachment to his father, but he wouldn't be caught dead with that perfume in the arena. The Games were about strength, not sentiment. He simply had to be strong enough. And he was.

They had made the right choice.

Kendall Rios, 18

They should have chosen her.

Kendall smiled smugly as the door closed behind her parents. Naomi should have chosen her in the first place, not Mavina's cowardly older sister and not the little pretender herself. But now, surely, Naomi would realize her mistake, realize who the stronger contender really was.

And she had always been the strongest contender. She had taken up training at the age of twelve – later than most – but that hadn't stopped her from excelling. At first, it was just for fun, but, after her grandmother's death four years ago, she had thrown herself into training more vigorously. And it felt good – being able to strike back at something – or someone – for the pain she was feeling.

But it was never enough.

No matter how hard she trained, it was never enough. It was never enough to drown out the pain. It was never enough to please herself – or the people around her. It was never enough to make them like her, to make them proud of her, to make her someone whom people would miss if she died in the Games.

Maybe winning the Games would be enough.

Kendall gingerly fingered her necklace – a necklace that held a small, silver coin on the end. It was bent, nearly broken. But it was special. It had been in their family for generations, and it was the last thing her grandmother had given her.

Her grandmother would have been proud. Her grandmother would have cared. Her grandmother had loved her – would still have loved her – whether or not she ever won the Games. But her grandmother was gone, leaving her with only a bent and tattered necklace.

Bent, but not broken.

So she wouldn't break, either. No matter what the Games held, she wouldn't break. She was stronger than that. She was better than that. She would show them. She would show them all.

She should have been their first choice.

Imalia Grenier, 17

They might have never chosen her.

Imalia glanced up as her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Of course we're proud of you. We just weren't quite expecting this, is all. You could have waited until next year."

Imalia nodded. Her mother was right. She could have waited. Hoped that Naomi would pick her next year. But there were no guarantees. No way of knowing that she would have been the one. Her friend Marilla had spent practically her whole life training, but had still come up short of the trainers' expectations this year, and the spot had gone to someone else. As it turned out, getting into the Games was as much of a struggle as the Games themselves. Imalia didn't want to risk the same thing happening to her next year.

She wanted to be here. She wanted this chance. So she had taken it. And now no one – not another trainee, not Naomi, not the system – would take that away from her.

And she had done it without cheating anyone else out of their spot. They still had their chance. And she would have hers. Now it was up to her to prove that she deserved that chance.

"Just be careful," her father warned.

Imalia nodded. Good advice, if not particularly helpful. Especially this year. With extra tributes, she would have to be especially careful. "I will," she assured him.

"I brought this," her mother offered, holding out a small, beaded bracelet. "You made it for me when you were little. I wasn't sure what you would want as a district token, so when I saw it, I—"

"It's perfect." Imalia wrapped her arms around her mother. "Thank you." She hadn't really given the idea of a district token much thought herself, but, now that her mother had brought one, it was perfect. A reminder of the little girl she used to be, of how far she had come.

Imalia held her parents close one last time. "I'm coming back." She didn't know that, of course – no more than any other tribute did – but there was really nothing else to say. So, as her parents left, she repeated the words again, quietly, to herself. "I'm coming back."

She just hoped she had made the right choice.

Brevin Tolett, 17

They might have chosen him next year.

Brevin smiled a little as his parents, brothers, and sister left, closing the door behind them. They meant well, but they didn't really understand why he'd done it, why he had to go and volunteer this year when they probably would have chosen him next year, anyway. He didn't want to hang everything on a 'maybe' or even a 'probably.' He didn't want to rely on the trainers' decisions – not when he could make the choice himself.

And, after all, why shouldn't he volunteer this year? He was as ready as he was ever going to be. Was one more year of training really going to make a difference?

Before he could answer that, the door opened, and Zelina entered with a smile on her face. "Well, that was a surprise."

Brevin could feel the beginnings of a blush on his face. "A good surprise?"

Zelina sank down beside him on the bench and planted a kiss on his cheek. "A very good surprise. It's what you've always wanted."

Brevin nodded. Was it? Maybe. He'd started training because it had looked like fun, not because he'd particularly wanted to be in the Games. It had been something to do, a way to get out of the house and away from his family for a while. Training had given him a freedom he hadn't realized he had longed for.

And, though it had grown from that, that freedom – that fun – remained the heart of why he had kept training. It was a challenge. A game. Training had always come easily – almost effortlessly – to him. Why should the Games be any different?

It's what you've always wanted. Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? Who wouldn't want this opportunity?

Brevin returned Zelina's smile. "Keep an eye on my parents while I'm gone, all right? Don't let them worry too much."

Zelina ran her fingers playfully through his hair, messing up the side-parting he'd worked so hard on. "Of course not. Just hurry back." She plucked one of the butterfly pins from her hair and tucked it in his. "A little something to remind you of home."

Home. That's what he was really leaving – home. Just hurry back. And he would. But, in the meantime, he would enjoy the moment. He would enjoy the choice he'd made, because he was more certain now than ever.

He was certain he'd made the right choice.

Jarlan DuMorne, 18

He had chosen this.

Jarlan leaned back in his chair. That was the way it should be – people choosing the Games, not the other way around. The Career system was useful, but it was flawed. It had grown too big, too complicated, too difficult to navigate. Getting into the Games in a Career district was now as much about politics as it was about skill or a desire to win. Tribute spots didn't always go to the most skilled or ambitious trainees – Mavina was enough proof of that. It was a game – a complex game of impressing the right people at the right time, of saying the right things to get the trainers to notice you at the expense of others, rather than simply working hard and trusting that it would pay off, in the end.

It was a game he wasn't cut out for and had never wanted to play, but, of course, he had done his best to navigate the system. Tried to train with the right people, make a good impression, and hope things would work out for the best.

They hadn't.

Naomi and the other trainers had chosen someone else. He'd seen Auster around the training center, but he had never particularly stood out to Jarlan. He must have done something right, though – at the right moment, in front of the right people. But even then, even after the decision had been made, Jarlan had continued to train, driven by a blind hope that, somehow, things would turn around.

And they had.

Hard work. Patience. They had paid off, in the end, as they always had. Hard work had brought him from the community home to the training center, and now it had brought him here. He was a tribute. And now he had a new goal. Everything he did now, every step he made, every effort he put in, would bring him one step closer to being not a tribute, but a Victor.

Because, in the end, it was that simple. The Games were merely a series of choices. All he had to do was make the right ones, and everything would work out, in the end. After all, it always had before.

This was simply one more choice.

"You'll understand soon enough that there are consequences to being chosen."