Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Thank you to YesmyLordCiel, upsettomcat42, kopycat101, nevergone4ever, Emi96, and Greybeard mmmmmm3 for Gadget, Adelia, Ivira, Baylor, Louis, and Jediah, respectively.

District Eight
Something

Carolina Katzung, 50
Victor of the 10th Hunger Games

"We have to bring him with us."

Carolina shook her head as she and Lander sat on the edge of the bed. They'd had this discussion several times over the course of the last few days, and were no closer to a solution. Kit was a mess. He hadn't said a word since Carolina and Lander had returned from the 41st Games. He was traumatized. He was terrified. He was certainly in no condition to serves as a mentor.

He blamed himself, Carolina knew, for what had happened during the Games. After his own Games had ended in tragedy, Kit had spent most of his own Victory tour rambling about how he and his two young allies – the boys from Three and Six – would never have turned on each other. How the Capitol would have been forced to allow all of them to live. If only he had been stronger. If only he hadn't panicked after three days with no deaths, frightened by the shadows in the haunting, deserted library. He'd killed his allies – his only remaining competition – in a moment of panic.

But what if he hadn't?

Carolina shook her head. They had only been three little boys, alone, in a terrifying arena. One of them was bound to crack under the pressure. Sooner or later, something had to give. Kit had panicked first. If he hadn't, someone else would have.

But there was no convincing him. During the Victory Tour, his rambling had grown so persistent that Carolina had feared what effect they might have. In an effort to draw attention away from Kit, she had proposed to Lander on the spot in the middle of their visit to District Five. Harakuise, happy to help with anything that might detract from Kit's rather anti-Capitol sentiments, threw them a splendid impromptu party. From that point, their wedding, not Kit's victory, was the focus of the tour, and, once they reached the Capitol, they were wed, with President Snow himself presiding.

Both of them teased each other about the extremely short engagement – and about the silliness of the name "Katzung," which had been a compromise – but the truth was that they'd considered each other family for years. After Carolina's own Victory Tour, she'd taken in Mabel, her district partner's little sister, and she and Lander had practically raised the little girl. Then, following the 25th Games, they'd added a fourth member: Davy, one of Janardan Fletcher's accomplices, released from Capitol custody to honor a deal he had made with Silas Grisom.

And now Kit. Kit, who could seldom be convinced to leave his room even for a short walk around the house. Kit, who believed the rebels in the 41st Games had been following his advice. Kit, who blamed himself for the deaths of the rebels in the Games, and for the executions of their families.

After the family of the rebels in District Six committed suicide, the Peacekeepers in District Eight, perhaps fearing the same thing would happen, immediately took the tributes' families into custody, holding them until the first prisoners in District Seven had died.

Only then did they bring the prisoners forth, parading them on foot up and down streets, zigzagging their way through the district. The prisoners were barefoot, chained hand and foot, linked together by chains around their necks. Their heads had been shaved, and each was clad in a loose-fitting, shapeless, patchwork robe, reminiscent of something a rag doll might wear.

All the while, the prisoners were silent. There were nearly two dozen of them – from a girl few years younger than Kit to a man old enough to be his grandfather – but they marched along without complaint, though their feet soon began to bleed from the rough streets, and they began to stumble. Whips forced them along, past the district square, where the crowd had assumed they would stop.

Instead, the Peacekeepers herded both the prisoners and the onlooking crowd to a high barbed wire fence at the edge of the district. The wires ran diagonally in both directions, crisscrossing each other from the ground to the top of the fence, high over their heads. Several ladders were positioned along the fence, allowing the Peacekeepers to reach the upper wires.

There they stopped and unchained the first prisoner, the mother of one of the tributes. Peacekeepers climbed two of the ladders while the woman was lifted onto a third, positioned between them with her back to the fence. The Peacekeeper on the left stretched the woman's arm out against the fence, careful to position it along as many barbs as possible. The barbs tore into her flesh as he pressed harder, then bound her wrist in place with a rope.

After the other Peacekeeper had done the same, they bound her shoulders in place, as well. Then the ladder was removed, and she hung there for a moment before her ankles, too, were secured. Blood seeped through the rag dress as the barbs pierced deeper into her flesh. Still, she was silent.

One by one, the others were strung up the same way. Some were placed at eye level, some higher along the fence. Some upright, some askew, a few sideways, and one nearly upside-down. Some with their limbs outstretched, some with their arms pinned close to their sides. In the end, it looked like someone had simply flung a collection of rag dolls at a fence and left them wherever they landed.

Which was the intention, she knew. To show that, in the end, they were merely toys to be thrown about by the Capitol. To be played with when they were interesting and discarded when they began to show signs of wear.

Which was why the executions had to be so brutal. So cruel. It wasn't enough for the Capitol to line up a few families and shoot them in the head. It would have been more efficient, certainly, but it wouldn't have invoked the same terror. Wouldn't have caused the same humiliation, the same loss of dignity. And it wouldn't have carried the same message: that, no matter who might say otherwise, anyone in the districts was simply a plaything to the Capitol.

Leaving people to die like that – helpless, hanging there in agony, waiting to die of starvation and thirst while the rest of the district watched – it was cruel. Brutal. Inhuman.

But it was effective.

And she hated that she understood why the Capitol considered it necessary.

And, most of all, she couldn't bear to see Kit blaming himself. For the part he had played in inciting the rebellion. For simply standing by and watching them die. For not stepping in and doing something.

And now she and Lander had to find some way to tell him that there would be four extra tributes this year. Replacements for the two rebels. Punishment for the rebellion he believed he had inspired.

"Care?" Lander's voice shook her from her thoughts as he slipped his hand into hers. "We can't just leave him here."

No. No, they couldn't. They had left him last year, not knowing what would happen. Not knowing that he would be forced to watch the terrible executions alone. Not knowing that the Games would end in the brutal torture and execution of the rebels who had volunteered for his sake. Who could say what might happen this year? Whatever it was, they couldn't let him face it alone.

And neither of them could stay here with him. It was a possibility they had considered before. Both of them had mentored two tributes before – Carolina during the 25th Games, Lander for four years before bringing Carolina home. Only sending one mentor may have been a possibility with two tributes … but not six. The tributes would need them both.

So Kit would have to come.

Carolina nodded. "All right. Kit comes. We make him a mentor in name only, pick a tribute who'll work with him—"

"Never said he had to mentor," Lander pointed out. "Vernon comes every year and never does a damn thing. Tobiah's the same way. Just bring him along. No one'll care."

"He'll care," Carolina pointed out. "If he's not mentoring, he'll think we're bringing him along out of pity."

Lander shrugged. "We are."

He was right, of course. But the last thing Kit needed right now was to feel powerless. Mentoring was a burden, certainly, but if they could do something – anything – to make Kit feel like he was helping the tributes rather than bringing them more hardship…

"Let's just wait and see," Carolina decided. "If there's someone who'll work with him, fine. If not … we'll figure it out."

Lander nodded easily. "Fair enough. If we get a bunch like last year's, it won't matter much who their mentor is. The poor fools didn't listen to a word we said, anyway."

Carolina cringed. It felt wrong talking about them like that, but, unfortunately, he was right. The rebels – Sabrina and Calem – had seemed not to hear anything she and Lander had said. About the Capitol. About their families. About what might happen if they went through with their plan.

But even she hadn't expected the Capitol to condemn twenty-three people to a slow, lingering death along the district's fences. Even she hadn't expected to see a fellow victor – a man she considered a friend – beaten nearly to death on their screens, in front of all of Panem. And even she hadn't expected Silas – a man she had come to respect during the 25th Games, a man she had hoped would be more merciful than his predecessor – to punish not one, but two extra tributes for each of the rebels.

"We should get ready," Lander sighed, giving Carolina's hand a squeeze. Reluctantly, Carolina nodded, and the two of them quickly dressed for the reaping. Carolina chose a long, black dress and a dark grey sweater, Lander a matching grey shirt and black suit. Perfect for a funeral.

For a funeral it was, or might as well be. Once they stepped onstage, at least five of those six tributes would be dead. They just didn't know it yet.

Stop it.

Carolina pushed the thought from her head as she and Lander headed for Kit's room. The boy said nothing as they entered. He was already dressed – black shirt, black pants, black shoes. He didn't argue. Didn't fuss. He simply stood up meekly as they approached and followed them out the door.

Lander wrapped an arm around Kit's shoulders. "Kit, there's … There's something you should know. Nicodemus called."

Kit glanced up immediately, startled. "Don't worry; he's fine," Carolina insisted. It was a lie, of course. Pain and exhaustion had been clear in Nicodemus' voice by the time he had called her. But Kit didn't need to know that. "He wanted to warn us. This year's going to be … different. Instead of two tributes, District Eight is sending six."

There was no easy way to say it. She had thought it would be kinder not to beat around the bush. But, even so, Kit stopped in his tracks, halfway through the kitchen.

"It's not your fault," Carolina insisted, but Kit was already shaking his head, convinced that it was. Carolina glanced at Lander, who nodded. "Kit," she said softly. "We need you to do something for us."

Kit looked up, tears in his eyes, surprised. "We need you to come with us," Lander continued. "There are going to be six tributes. We need as many of us as possible. I know it's not fair to ask you so soon after your own Games, but will you—"

That was all he'd needed to say. Kit was already nodding, grateful for anything he could do to help. Lander and Carolina exchanged a glance, and the three of them headed for the square.

Mabel and Davy met them on the way, both greeting Kit warmly, both managing to smile a little as they reached the square. The three victors took their places onstage, Carolina and Lander on either side of Kit, as if by surrounding him they could somehow shield him from what was coming.

But there was no way to stop what was about to happen.

Samarin Lanair, District Eight's escort, smiled almost apologetically at the three of them as he took his place onstage. After a short speech from the mayor, Samarin dipped a hand into the first reaping bowl and drew a slip of paper. "Gadget Test!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a grey blouse, red hooded jacket, and a faded yellow skirt. The girl looked around for a moment, shocked, but started to make her way slowly towards the stage. As she got closer, however, a little boy outside the reaping section started crying out. "Leave her alone!"

Immediately, an older man – probably his father – clapped a hand over his mouth. The girl turned towards the two of them, watching the boy for a moment, then held up her hands, crossing her thumbs so that her hands formed a bird or a butterfly. With tears in his eyes, the boy mirrored the gesture. The girl nodded, then quickly made her way to the stage.

She was tall – easily six feet and surprisingly muscular. Her long, dark blonde hair hung long down her back, her crystal blue eyes scanning the crowd until she found the boy again. For a moment, tears brimmed in her eyes, but then she looked up and almost smiled a little. Carolina glanced up in time to see an eagle flying overhead, in search of its next meal.

"Baylor Alanis!"

Samarin's voice pulled her back to the moment as the fourteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a white tunic, black jeans, brown shoes, and a brown, braided necklace. Immediately, the boy surged forward through the crowd and, taking the stairs two at a time, charged up to the stage.

He was about average height and build, but he still looked small next to Gadget, who was about a head taller and certainly more muscular. He was well-tanned, with warm, hazel eyes and light brown hair. Once onstage, he hurried to the microphone and whispered, "I hope to return here as soon as I can." Then he held out his hand to Gadget, who hesitated a moment but then shook it.

But, unbeknownst to both of them, the reaping wasn't over. Samarin headed back to the girls' reaping bowl, reached in, and drew another slip. "As the first replacement for Sabrina Hazenberg … Adelia Luciano!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted again, this time for a girl in a stained blue blouse and a skirt that had probably been white at one point. For a moment, the girl simply stood there, confused. Waiting. Waiting for an explanation, perhaps – one that wasn't coming.

But, as the Peacekeepers began to stir, the girl regained her composure and began walking towards the stage, her lips pursed tightly, her fists clenched at her side. Once she reached the stage, though, she hesitated – perhaps confused about where she was supposed to stand. After a moment, she chose a place between her two district partners.

Taller than Baylor but shorter than Gadget, the girl was fairly average in height and build. She was tan, with dark brown eyes and dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her hands were dirty, but that didn't stop Baylor from extending a hand and a smile, which the girl returned gratefully as Samarin reached into the bowl once more.

"As the second replacement for Sabrina Hazenberg … Ivira Spielreyn!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted a third time, this time for a girl in a white knit shirt, loose black skirt, and well-worn black boots. She took a few steps towards the stage, a grin slowly spreading across her face. As she got closer, her steps became quicker, more confident. She was almost running by the time she reached the stage.

The girl was tan, with straight black hair and deep brown eyes. High cheekbones, thin lips, and sharp eyebrows gave her face a lean and hungry look. She was nearly as tall as Gadget but quite thin and frail, out of breath from even the short run to the stage. Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she turned to Kit and gave him a sarcastic smile. "Thanks a lot, kid."

The response was immediate. The tears that had been brimming in Kit's eyes started to spill. Carolina wrapped an arm around her fellow victor, whispering over and over again that it wasn't his fault. She didn't have time to stop Lander, who was already on his feet. One punch to the girl's jaw knocked her to the stage before the Peacekeepers stepped in to restrain him.

But the girl was laughing as she got to her feet. She winked at Kit, who, mercifully, wasn't looking in her direction. Lander was grumbling, swatting the Peacekeepers' hands away as they herded him back to his seat. Carolina reached over and laid a hand on his arm, catching his eye and mouthing silently, I'll take her.

Lander nodded gratefully as Samarin glanced from one victor to another, waiting. "Go on, Sam," Lander muttered. "Get it over with."

Samarin nodded, dipping his hand in the boys' bowl. "As the first replacement for Calem Edley … Bryson … Bow-veer? Boo-vie-er? Aw, hell, I'm getting too old for this. B-o-u-v-i-e-r. Come on up, kid."

Carolina cringed as only Ivira giggled. Maybe Samarin was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn't working. The eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey shirt and pants. Before he took more than a few steps, however, a voice interrupted. "Wait! I volunteer! I volunteer!"

Carolina's mind raced. A volunteer. Another rebel? After what had happened last year, she doubted it. Besides, if he'd simply wanted to be in the Games, he could have volunteered sooner. Sure enough, the boy who burst out of the fifteen-year-old section didn't look eager. He looked desperate. He rushed forward, not stopping until he reached the stage, shaking his head at the boy Samarin had called, silently pleading with him not to object.

For a moment, the other boy looked like he might. But then he nodded a little and slipped back into the eighteen-year-old section. The boy onstage breathed a sigh of relief as Samarin beckoned him towards the microphone. "What's your name, son?"

"Jediah. And it's pronounced Boo-vee-air." He smirked a little as he shook Baylor's outstretched hand, then claimed a spot next to Ivira. He was almost as tall as Gadget and about as muscular, with pale skin, medium brown hair and dark brown eyes.

Bouvier. So they were brothers, then. While it wasn't unheard of for a sibling to volunteer for another, usually it was the other way around: the older one volunteering for the younger. In fact, she'd only seen a younger sibling volunteer one time before…

Maeren. Her own ally. The ally she had betrayed – pushed down in the path of mutts as they were running for their lives. The ally who had been found by Alicante, then flayed alive.

Carolina felt a hand on her shoulder. Lander. She looked up, and he nodded, mouthing something silently. I'll take him. Carolina nodded gratefully and turned her attention back to Samarin, who had chosen one last slip of paper. "As the second replacement for Calem Edley … Louis Soren!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dirty grey shirt, a pair of torn, badly stained pants, and mismatched shoes – one brown, one black. The boy glanced around for a moment, surprised, but, as he stepped forward, his gaze dropped. He kept his eyes on the ground as shuffled forward, step by step, his hands in his pockets.

He was about average height, though he looked a little older than fourteen. He was pale, with curly blonde hair that swung every which way as he walked. When he finally made it to the stage, his blue eyes glanced up at his district partners, then out at the crowd. The boy ran his hand through his hair, shaking Baylor's hand quickly before glancing away, chewing nervously on the end of his thumb.

The Peacekeepers quickly stepped forward to lead the tributes away. Carolina glanced over at Lander, who nodded silently. Carolina quickly rose, whispered, "I'll take the three girls," and hurried after one of the tributes.

There was something she needed to do.

Baylor Alanis, 14

"Can you do something for me?"

Baylor looked up curiously at his unexpected guest. Carolina Katzung. Victor of the Tenth Hunger Games. One of only three victors in District Eight's history. And she wanted his help? Baylor cocked an eyebrow. "What can I do?"

"I need help with Kit. With six tributes, we can't just leave him here. But if he's coming with us, he should be mentoring. Otherwise, he'll just feel like—"

"Extra baggage," Baylor nodded. "How can I help?"

"I want you to ask him to be your mentor. It won't put you at a disadvantage – Lander and I usually mentor together. With so many tributes, it makes sense to work together – at least at first."

"Why do you need me to ask him?"

"Because if this comes from Lander or me, he might think – or he might think that you think – that he's getting the leftovers. The tributes we didn't want. But if you ask him…"

"Then he feels needed," Baylor agreed. "Of course I will." He hesitated. "But if you don't mind my asking … Why me?"

Carolina sat down across from him, her left eye glowing red. Baylor tried not to stare, but he couldn't help it. He knew the story. Another tribute had torn out her eye, and she'd kept on fighting. Baylor shuddered a little, wondering if he would have been that brave.

Carolina smiled faintly. "Because you didn't shake Ivira's hand."

"What?"

"When you came up to the stage, you shook Gadget's hand – no questions asked. Adelia. Jediah. Louis. But not Ivira."

Baylor looked away. "Because of what she said to Kit."

"Exactly."

"I didn't think anyone had noticed," Baylor admitted.

Carolina chuckled softly. "First lesson of the Hunger Games, then, Baylor. People notice. They notice everything. From now on, you're under constant scrutiny. Everyone's watching you. Your mentors. Your district partners. The other tributes. The Gamemakers. The audience. Sponsors. The president. Everyone. They're going to see everything." She leaned forward a little. "So make it count."

Baylor nodded. "Thank you. I … I will."

Soon, Carolina was gone, and the door opened for his family. For a while, they talked, hugged, cried … everything he had expected. Except he didn't cry as much as he had thought he would. Because there was a part of him that was already gone. A part of him that was already playing the Game.

And he had something important to do.

Gadget Test, 16

She had something important to do.

Gadget stared at the door long after her parents, sister, and four younger brothers had left. Or maybe they hadn't left. Maybe she had left. Maybe she was already gone. Maybe a part of her was already in the Games.

And there was something she had to do there.

She didn't know what it was yet. But there must have been a reason. A reason she was here. A reason why she, of all people, had been chosen for the Games. She was meant to do something. Something important. Something that would show her who she really was.

Because that was what the Games did, in the end. They showed who people truly were, beneath the lies and the smiles and deceptions of daily life. In the Games, there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere for people to run from themselves – from who they really were.

And, while it was there for all of Panem to see, it was amazing how few people truly saw it. The Careers saw only an opportunity for glory. The others saw only a punishment for the rebellion. None of them saw the Games for what they really were: a mirror.

Looking through that mirror, she probably knew more about the Games' victors than they knew about each other. Because, from the inside looking out, they missed the moments. Not the big moments that won the Games, but the little moments.

Lander's moment had been after the nineteenth cannon in the arena sounded, signaling the final five. He and his district partner – and only ally – had to make a choice: whether to run from the other three tributes or face them head-on. They had chosen to run. Lander was still running. He would always be running.

Carolina had plenty of bigger moments. Abandoning her ally. Her first kill. When she decided to stand and fight a tribute rather than run. When she lost her eye. The finale. But none of those were her moment. Her moment had come much sooner than that – during the bloodbath. She had reached not for a weapon, but for a map. She had been looking for direction.

She was still looking for direction – for a way to make up for what she had done. She had taken in Mabel. Davy. Kit. But none of them had been able to fill the void left by the Games. By what she had done.

And Kit … She hadn't decided what his moment was yet. She hadn't watched enough replays of the Games. Now, maybe she never would. Instead, she would be living them. Finding her own moment.

And that was more important.

Jediah Bouvier, 15

There was something more important.

Jediah looked up as Bryson, Rogelio, and Nerissa entered. For their sakes, he forced a smile, trying not to look nervous. Trying not to look afraid.

Of course, he was nervous. He was afraid. Terrified, in fact. He wasn't kidding himself. There were five other tributes in District Eight alone. There was no telling how many there might be in all. His chances were slim. But there was something more important than that.

They were more important than that.

Bryson was all they had. After their mother's death, it had fallen to Bryson to raise his younger siblings. They all depended on Bryson. They needed Bryson.

More than they needed him.

This way, Bryson was safe. This had been his last year. Jediah had assumed he was safe after the first two tributes' names had been called. He should have been safe. He would have been safe.

If not for the extra tributes, they would both have been safe.

But if one of them had to go into the Games, it should be him. Bryson was older, but Jediah had always been stronger. He had a better chance. He might make it home.

But if he didn't…

If he didn't, at least his family would be safe. They would still have Bryson to provide for them. Bryson would have spent the Games worrying about coming home to take care of his siblings. It would have been distracting. He would have had too much to worry about.

All Jediah had to worry about was himself.

For once, the four of them simply sat in silence. No one seemed to know what to say. At last, the door opened, and the Peacekeepers came to take the others away. But Bryson lingered for a moment.

"Why?" he asked at last.

Jediah nodded. Maybe that was the only question that mattered, in the end. He could have been safe. He could be spending the Games at home, watching his brother on the screen, wondering whether he would live or die.

That would have been worse.

At least this way, there was something he could do. He wouldn't be sitting helplessly at home, hoping and wishing for his brother to come back. He would be the one working, fighting, killing for the chance to come home.

Neither option was good. But it was better this way.

Jediah wrapped his brother in a hug. "Because I made a choice." And he had. It had been his choice. And he was more convinced than ever now.

He had done the right thing.

Louis Soren, 14

He must have done something wrong.

Louis drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, trying to think. Trying to think of what he might have done to upset the Peacekeepers. The Capitol. Maybe the mayor. Anyone in authority. Was there a reason he had been reaped? Was there a reason they had chosen him?

Or was it simply dumb luck?

Louis ran his fingers through his hair, hoping it had simply been luck. Hoping they didn't have a reason to go after him.

He'd never given them a reason, of course. Not really. Sure, he took part in the game that some of the others his age played. Well, they called it a game, at least. Really, it was just a fight. Usually a fight between a poorer kid and a richer kid. Usually with the richer kid's lunch as a wager. Officially, the Peacekeepers – and most of the parents – disapproved. But, as long as no one was seriously hurt and it didn't cause a disturbance, they didn't really care.

They had bigger things to worry about.

Bigger things. Louis began to chew nervously on the end of his thumb. A week before the reaping last year, he had fought an older boy. He'd never landed a punch, but the boy had given up half his lunch, anyway, saying that Louis probably needed it more. And, as much as Louis hated the looks of pity he sometimes got, the boy was right; he'd really needed the food.

A week later, the older boy, Calem, volunteered for the Games.

Louis had been as surprised as anyone else – volunteers were rare in Eight – but had started to think that maybe the boy could win. Maybe District Eight would become the second district with back-to-back victors.

Then, to his surprise, the rebels had banded together, refusing to fight, quickly eliminating anyone who was intent on killing. Louis had been surprised, but still hopeful. Hopeful that maybe they would succeed. Maybe the Capitol would have to give in. Maybe the Games would end.

But, of course, they hadn't. And now he was here. A replacement for Calem.

A replacement. But he wouldn't be a copy. He wouldn't make the same mistakes. He wouldn't die the same way. He wouldn't let his family die the same way.

Louis tucked his knees to his chest, hoping the Peacekeepers didn't know. Hoping they couldn't tell how much he had secretly admired Calem. How much he wished the rebels' plan had worked.

Because if they knew, he was already dead.

Adelia Luciano, 16

Something inside her was already dead.

Adelia held her little sister Sarai close as their parents sat down beside them. When the had called her name, she had been confused. Terrified. But now she simply felt numb. As if all of this was happening to someone else, somewhere else – somewhere far away. As if this wasn't – couldn't possibly be – happening to her.

But it was. And she knew it was – at least on some level. She was leaving District Eight. Maybe forever. She might be going to her death.

Maybe she was already dead.

Adelia shook her head, holding Sarai even closer. This was still real. She was still here. With her family. In District Eight.

But not for much longer.

Adelia took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't so bad. Not really. It wasn't as if there was anything wonderful about District Eight, anyway. Especially not recently. Ever since the last Games, ever since the executions, there had been a tension – a heaviness – throughout the district. People could feel it, even if they couldn't describe it. The entire district was sinking lower and lower.

Maybe it was better to abandon ship.

Her family wouldn't see it that way, she knew. Despite its faults, her parents still loved District Eight. Still believed that all it took to make things better was the right attitude and a little hard work. Or maybe a lot of hard work. After all, hard work had taken her father from a menial job in the district factories to owning his own small repair shop.

But that was a far cry from making a major change in the district.

Her father would say that major changes weren't necessary. That enough small changes would eventually add up to a big one. And there was a time when she would have believed him. But now … now it was hard to believe that things would ever get better.

But if she won the Games…

Then what? It wasn't as if their victors had it any better. The reaping was the first time anyone had seen Kit in almost a year. Lander and Carolina certainly seemed happy – most of the time – but it was clear the Games had changed them. Damaged them. Did she really want that?

Maybe not, but it was certainly a better option than dying.

Adelia shook her head. There was no happy ending. There were no good choices.

But, in the end, she would still have to choose.

Ivira Spielreyn, 16

It was nice to have something to do.

Ivira leaned back in her chair as her parents left. Smiling, she fingered the thick necklace she wore. Her parents had offered her a few other trinkets, but she had decided on this, in the end. In a pinch, she might be able to use it as a weapon.

But she already had the best weapon she could ask for.

It was one thing to be able to wield a sword or a club. To have perfect aim with a bow or a throwing knife. To be able to build a perfect trap or prepare the perfect poison. But she already had the perfect weapon.

In fact, she had five of them.

The fun part would be figuring out how to use them. Finding out what made each of them tick, figuring out how to motivate them, how to frighten them, how to inspire them. It would take time, of course, but, sooner or later, everyone was an open book.

Five district partners. Three mentors. Between the eight of them, the amount of information she could gather before they even reached the Capitol was substantial. And, once they were there, the possibilities were endless. She would have all the tools she needed.

And she would have the perfect environment, too. People were always much more interesting in the Games than they were back in the districts. In District Eight, people were frightened, but it was almost always a distant fear. Everything in the Games was so intense. So real. Fear wasn't distant and abstract; it was immediate. Tangible.

And that was easier to control. To mold. To use.

Everyone was afraid of the unknown. The abstract. But that sort of fear was hard to pinpoint, to manipulate. But fear was different in the Games. A vague fear of death was transformed into the very real fear of the tribute waiting around the corner, stalking the hall, prowling in the forest. Fear of some future pain was transmuted into the immediate pain of a wound, a burn, a plucked-out eye.

That sort of pain, that sort of fear – it was easier to use. But it was rare in District Eight.

Or, at least, it had been. Everything had changed in the last year. The executions had brought that tangible fear home to District Eight. Most people dreaded it. But Ivira had learned to use it. To appreciate it.

The Capitol was right about one thing, at least: they were all simply toys. Moldable, bendable, and, in the end, very, very breakable.

And it was time to play.

"[He] is here because he has to do something. He can't be told what it is; he's got to find it himself."