Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Thank you to Burning Stars, Music Rules the World, nuttmeg, and MornieGalad Baggins for Elani, Pan, Philus, and Shale, respectively.

District Eleven
Chance

Tamsin Lane, 31
Victor of the 27th Hunger Games

She wished they had listened.

Tamsin slammed the phone down, still shaking her head. "Damn it. I knew that wouldn't be the end of it. I knew it! But they didn't listen."

Marion abandoned her breakfast and joined Tamsin on the couch. "What happened?"

Tamsin shook her head. "That was Nicodemus. They're choosing extra tributes this year – two extra for every tribute who joined the rebels last year."

"So two extra boys," Marion concluded. "To replace Harris."

Tamsin nodded. Harris had been only fourteen years old. An orphan. No siblings, no family, and nothing to lose. Or so he had believed.

Marion slipped an arm around Tamsin's shoulders. "You did your best. You tried to tell him. And you had your own tribute to worry about. Harris was Elijah's responsibility."

"Fat lot of help he was. He's got no one to lose, Tamsin. It's his own life to risk." She shook her head. "That damn idealism of his is going to get your brother killed one day."

Marion chuckled a little. "You're a fine one to talk."

Tamsin smirked. "That wasn't idealism. That was pragmatism. I had a better chance than you in the Games, and we both knew it."

Marion shrugged. "A lot of people would've had a better chance than me. But only you volunteered. That wasn't pragmatism; it was love."

"Fine; it was love," Tamsin conceded. She leaned in closer to Marion, their lips locking for a moment before Tamsin pulled away. "But still not idealism."

Marion chuckled. "Have it your way."

Tamsin shook her head. "I risked my life, sure. But I risked it for you. Whether I lived or died in the Games, you were safe. Harris risked his life – no, threw away his life – for … what?"

"For a chance at something better," Marion offered.

"But they never had a chance! That's what no one seems to understand. What did they think was going to happen? Did they really believe the Capitol would just let them all go?" For a moment, there was silence. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"I know. It's Maurice."

Tamsin looked away. She had grown up on the streets, just like Harris, too old to be taken in by a community home that was already overflowing with younger children who had no chance of fending for themselves. Maurice had been old even when she was a child; by the time Harris entered the Games, he must have been eighty, at least. He ran a small trinket shop on the edge of the district, and always paid orphans and other street urchins like herself more than a fair price for anything they managed to turn up.

Maurice had been the only one the Peacekeepers had been able to find who had any connection to Harris. The boy had known – as most orphans did – that he could count on Maurice for a drink of water or a crust of bread if the day had been rough. As far as Tamsin knew, neither Harris nor Maurice had been particularly fond of the other. But they had known each other in passing, and that was enough for the Peacekeepers.

Enough to cost Maurice his life.

Compared to the flamboyancy of the other districts, Maurice's execution was simple. Maybe the Peacekeepers were tired of the excessive bloodshed. Maybe they knew that, at Maurice's age, he wouldn't hold up long under any sort of torture. Or maybe they simply weren't feeling particularly creative.

Whatever the case, the Peacekeepers led the old man to a tall tree on the edge of the orchard. Then they tied his hands together, flung the other end of the rope over a branch, and hoisted him up as high as they could. Then they simply tied off the rope and left him there to die.

That could have been the end of it. It was terrible, of course. Unfair, certainly. But Maurice was an old man. How much longer would he really have lived? It sounded heartless, but Tamsin knew her old friend wouldn't have wanted what had happened next. He would never have wanted anyone else to die on his account.

But they did. That night, three men, four women, and five teenagers with clubs and torches attacked and killed the Peacekeeper who was guarding Maurice. As they hurried to cut the old man down, Maurice begged them to run, to save themselves, but it was too late. The other Peacekeepers arrived in time to subdue them. All twelve were beaten, whipped, and strung up to die in nearby trees.

The next night, there was no interference. One by one, all thirteen of them died, their bodies left hanging from the trees as a reminder.

And what had they been hoping to accomplish? Even if they had managed to free Maurice and get away safely … then what? Were they hoping to hide him somewhere? Where could they go? Had they been planning to flee the district altogether?

Chances were, of course, they hadn't had a plan at all. They hadn't really thought it through. They were angry – and rightfully so – but they had let that anger control them. They hadn't thought – hadn't thought of their own families, their own loved ones. Fortunately, the Peacekeepers hadn't sought out the families of those involved and executed them, as well … but they could have.

Or maybe they realized that it was crueler not to. Because where were those families now? Their fathers, mothers, siblings … all dead. Tamsin had no doubt that there were children starving somewhere on the streets because their parents and older siblings had let their anger cloud their good judgment.

"We can't tell Elijah," Marion said at last, breaking the silence.

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. "They're choosing the extra tributes at the reaping. It's not exactly going to be a secret."

"I mean until the reaping. If we tell him now, he'll want to tell the rest of the district. People will be angry. They might do something…"

"Something stupid," Tamsin finished. Marion was right, of course. There was a reason Nicodemus had called her rather than Elijah, despite his three-year seniority as a mentor. He recognized that the mentors had a right to know, but he also trusted her to do what was best for her district. And, right now, that meant not getting anyone else killed.

Anyone more than necessary, of course. Two extra tributes were going into the Games, regardless of how anyone reacted at the reaping. Two extra tributes were going to die. But that would be all. Only three or four deaths – all of them in the Games. No one else in the district would die.

That would be her victory this year.

So, for the next few hours, they kept their secret. The two of them kept mostly to themselves as the rest of the Whitaker family – Marion's brother Elijah, their parents, and their six brothers and sisters, the oldest of whom had families of their own – prepared for the reaping. No one seemed to notice that they were keeping their distance. All attention was on Tamsin's oldest nephew, Cooper, who was twelve this year.

With his name only in the reaping bowl once, he was as safe as he could be. No one in the Whitaker family had taken tesserae since Elijah's victory. But that hadn't stopped Marion from being reaped only three years after her brother. And with two extra male tributes…

Stop it. There was nothing to be done about it, anyway. Tamsin gripped Marion's hand tightly as their family headed for the square. Ivy joined them on the way, pausing to smooth out Cooper's suit. Tamsin couldn't hide a smile. Her own victory had lifted a burden from Ivy's shoulders; after more than two decades of mentoring – most of them alone – she could finally retire. Since then, she'd mellowed a bit, doting on the youngest of the Whitaker family with grandmotherly affection.

But she had never lost her spark. Ivy was a volunteer, herself, after all – the Hunger Games' very first volunteer – and that gave the two of them a special bond. Ivy's reasons had been different, of course. Orphaned in the war, she'd wanted to take control of her own life. An orphan herself, Marion knew she understood that in a way most people wouldn't. The desire for independence but also for stability – she understood that.

As they reached the square, the family exchanged hugs, and the three victors took the stage together. After a short speech by Mayor Haimish, District Eleven's escort, Audrina Varley, made her way to the first reaping bowl, reached in, and drew a slip of paper. "Elani Ingram!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a well-worn, dark purple dress and white sandals. Staring, the girl took a hesitant step forward. Then backwards. Another girl reached out to help steady her as she kept swaying, but, by that time, the Peacekeepers were making their way towards her. She stumbled along dizzily as they dragged her to the stage, staring at everything – the escort, the mayor, the victors, the crowd – in disbelief.

She was about average height and thin, with dark skin and dark brown eyes. Her curly, dark hair was pulled back with a faded purple hair band. For a moment, as she looked out at the crowd, she seemed like she might faint, but she managed to keep herself upright as Audrina made her way to the boys' bowl.

Tamsin's gaze found Cooper in the twelve-year-old section as Audrina dipped her hand into the bowl. She tried to smile. A little. It'll be all right. She won't pick you.

"Philus Polaine!"

The thirteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a faded blue tunic, loose-fitting, patched brown pants, and brown leather sandals. As the boy stared, dumbfounded, one of the boys behind him gave him a shove. The boy stumbled forward, but then kept moving. Through the crowd. Towards the stage.

He was dark-skinned, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was an inch or two taller than Elani – or would have been, had he managed to stay upright. As it was, as the boy took his place beside her, he let out a horribly guttural sob, his arms curling around his slender body to try to stop himself from shaking. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as Elani instinctively put her arms around him. "It's okay. It's okay. It'll be okay."

"Don't bother," Mayor Haimish shrugged. "The boy's obviously deaf."

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. It hadn't been obvious to her, but, now that the mayor mentioned it, she could see that the boy wasn't responding at all to Elani's words. "At least turn the cameras off," Ivy muttered.

"Nope. Reaping's not done," the mayor remarked.

Ivy looked about ready to throttle the mayor, but, of course, he was right. Audrina hadn't moved from her place by the boy's reaping bowl, and, as Tamsin turned to watch her, she removed another slip of paper. "As the first replacement for Harris Olmstead … Pan Soya!"

The twelve-year-old section parted near where Cooper was standing, but not for him. They were making way for a small boy in a well-worn brown shirt and faded black trousers. But the boy didn't move – not unless breathing counted. As the crowd watched, his breathing became more rapid, more desperate, his chest heaving violently up and down as the Peacekeepers scooped him up and carried him to the stage, dumping him roughly beside the others.

By then, Philus had calmed down at least enough to stand on his own, leaving Elani free to help the other boy up. "Tell him to hold his breath," the mayor muttered. Elani turned, surprised, but did as he said. The boy held his breath for a few seconds before letting go. The next time, he held it longer. Then a little longer. Soon, he was breathing regularly, though still crying uncontrollably.

He was shorter than both of the others and just as skinny, with dark skin, short black hair, and brown eyes. For a moment, the three of them stood there, huddled together. Tamsin glanced up at Audrina, who was watching them with disappointment. Finally, she turned back to the reaping bowl and chose one last slip. "As the second replacement for Harris Olmstead … Asher Avenheim!"

Tamsin tried to hide a sigh of relief. It wasn't Cooper. None of the names had been Cooper. Instead, the fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy who was looking around frantically. Desperately. For a moment, Tamsin thought he might have a panic attack, as well, but, suddenly, a voice interrupted. "I volunteer!"

Immediately, the boy – and another boy beside him – rushed forward, objecting. But the boy who stepped forward from the eighteen-year-old section would have none of it. "I volunteer," he repeated, urging them back to their own section before turning towards the stage. Slowly, calmly, he made his way up the stairs and took his place beside his three district partners.

He was easily at least a head taller than all three of them, dark-haired, dark-skinned and well-muscled beneath his black suit. His dark brown eyes scanned the crowd, finally coming to rest on the fifteen-year-old section. The boy managed a smile as he nodded towards the two boys who had tried to stop him.

Audrina, for her part, seemed much more pleased with him than with the first three prospects. "And what's your name, Dearie?"

The boy was clearly not pleased with being called 'Dearie' but knew better than to make a fuss about it. "Shale Avenheim," he answered, then turned towards his district partners, who were watching him curiously.

At last, Elani disentangled herself from Pan and Philus and held out her hand to Shale, who shook it briefly before turning to each of the boys in turn, shaking their hands as quickly and formally as possible. There was a cold politeness to his expression that left no doubt in Tamsin's mind; the boy wanted nothing to do with his younger, more vulnerable district partners.

The four of them were quickly herded off the stage. At last, Ivy sighed. "I'll—"

"No, you won't," Tamsin interrupted. "I'll take the three younger ones. Elijah, you can have Shale. We've got this, Ivy. Stay home."

Ivy blinked, surprised by her quick reaction. "You knew."

Mayor Haimish sighed. "Well, of course she knew. We're the second-to-last district to have our reaping today, and this has been going on since District Three. Old news. I'm surprised everyone didn't know."

Ivy glared. "Not everyone has time to watch ten other reapings, Mycr."

The mayor shrugged. "I didn't 'watch.' I saw. But never mind that." He turned to Tamsin. "You made the right call taking the three little ones. You're exactly what they need."

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. "You think I can help one of them win?"

Mycr almost laughed. "No, of course not. But I think you can keep them from getting their families killed out of sheer stupidity. I think you can persuade them to go down fighting."

"And Shale?" Elijah asked.

Mycr shrugged dismissively. "I don't think there's any harm you can do this year. He's already willing to fight. And he would never do anything that might endanger his family. That's what'll get him killed."

Ivy sighed as Mycr left. "Don't mind him; he's been predicting District Eleven's losses for more than thirty years. He didn't think either of you was going to win, either."

"So he's been wrong twice," Tamsin observed. "Not a bad record."

"Three times," Ivy corrected. "He was wrong during the Ninth Games. But never mind that. You two have a train to catch."

Elijah nodded. "Take care of the rest of the family."

The rest of the family. Tamsin finally smiled a little as she and Elijah headed for the train. Family was the one thing she hadn't had until her Games, and now family was her best chance at getting her three younger tributes to play theirs. Sometimes the ones who were too timid or too frightened to fight for themselves would fight for their families, or for each other. It was a small chance, but it was a chance.

And a chance was all they needed.

Pan Soya, 12

He'd never had a chance.

Pan buried his face in his mother's shirt as his three-year-old brother and sister huddled close to them both. He had thought it was over. The Capitol had already taken his father and his older sister, both of whom had been part of the group who had tried to free old Maurice. He had watched them die – but only from a distance. The Peacekeepers had kept a heavy guard on the trees after one of them had been killed the first night. He had seen his sister die. Then his father.

Wasn't that enough?

But the Capitol wasn't done with them. It wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. After losing her husband and daughter, his mother had flatly refused to let him take any tesserae. He'd had only one slip. One.

But they'd picked him, anyway.

Picked him to replace Harris. Harris, who had probably thought that he thought he had nothing to lose by joining the rebels. That he wouldn't be hurting anyone but himself.

Pan held Skye and Kane close. For the last year, his mother had left them with him while she'd worked in the fields, pulling extra hours just to earn enough to feed the four of them. Without him…

Pan swallowed hard. He had to make it back. He had to find a way.

But, in the back of his mind, the thought wouldn't go away. There was no chance. Not if they'd chosen him on purpose. Not if the Capitol wanted him dead. Not if he was truly playing not against the other tributes, but against the Capitol itself.

The Capitol always won.

Pan held his family close, trying not to cry. Trying to be brave – for their sakes, if not for his own. Trying to be strong.

But he didn't want to be brave. He didn't want to be strong. He wanted to be safe. He wanted to wake up and realize that it had all been a dream – the reaping, his sister and father's death, the Games last year. Maybe his whole life.

But it wasn't. He wasn't going to wake up. He was going to the Capitol. He was going to die.

And they would have to move on.

Pan squeezed his mother tightly one last time as the Peacekeepers opened the door. "Look after them," he said quietly, hoping she understood. Look after them, because I won't be able to anymore. Look after them, because I won't be coming back.

Look after them, because I don't have a chance.

Philus Polaine, 13

He didn't have a chance.

Philus took a deep breath as the Peacekeepers opened the door, the signal that it was time for his family to leave. They'd probably said something, as well, but Philus didn't bother to look. He didn't want to waste the little time he had left with his family staring at a Peacekeeper's mouth to figure out what he already knew the man was saying – that it was time for his family to go.

And soon it would be time for him to go.

Philus' mother wrapped her arms around him one last time, then gently slipped something into his hand. One of the Peacekeepers began to pull her away. Her lips were moving. Probably screaming. But Philus kept his gaze on her eyes. He didn't have to watch her lips to know what she was saying: I love you.

And, wordlessly, he said it back. One hand over his chest, the other held out to her, palm up. One of the first signs they had worked out as a family. The only thing that mattered anymore. Tears filled his mother's eyes as she returned the sign.

Then the door closed.

It was the last time he would see them; he knew it, deep down. They would see him, of course – on the screen in front of all of Panem. In a chariot. At the interviews. And then in the Games. Fighting. Bleeding. Dying.

It wasn't that he wanted to die. But what chance did he have? He was thirteen. Small. Skinny.

And deaf.

Philus closed his eyes, shutting out the world. Being deaf had never been a problem – not with his family. It was just the way things were. Other people spoke. He used signs to communicate. Signs that his family knew.

But the other tributes wouldn't. He could understand them well enough, but understanding him would take effort. Effort they might not be willing to give. Who would want him as an ally when they could have someone else? Someone they could communicate with quickly and easily?

Philus wrapped his arms across his chest. Maybe the girl. The girl at the reaping. She had tried to help him. Tried to comfort him. She had been kind, when she'd had every reason not to be. Maybe…

Philus opened his eyes, glancing down at the object his mother had slipped into his hand. A small coin, with an "11" engraved on one side and an intricately carved sunset on the other.

Or maybe a sunrise. But a sunset seemed more appropriate. Because even if he found an ally or two – even if there was someone who was willing to work with a young, deaf tribute – what chance did he really have, in the end? When it came down to his life or theirs, was there anyone who would choose to help him?

What chance did he really have?

Elani Ingram, 14

What chance did she really have?

Elani sat staring at the door. The door that had closed behind her parents, her brother, her friends. The door that wouldn't open again until the Peacekeepers came to take her to the train. The train that would take her to the Capitol. The Capitol that would send her to the arena.

The arena that would mean her death.

Elani buried her face in her hands. That was what the Games meant, in the end: She was going to die. What chance did she really have? With extra tributes. Older, stronger tributes. Faster tributes. Smarter tributes. Trained tributes. Tributes who wouldn't hesitate to kill any of them.

Them. Elani wiped a few tears from her eyes. Was that what they already were – her, Philus, and Pan? The three little ones? The ones no one thought could win? The three little tributes from District Eleven whom no one would be betting on?

Elani closed her eyes. Clenched her fists. Maybe. Maybe they were. And maybe that was the way it should be. Maybe with three of them…

But only one person came out of the Games alive. Only two years ago, three younger tributes – the boys from Three, Six, and Eight – had made it to the final three. For days, the Gamemakers left them alone in that abandoned library arena, until, finally, frightened by something lurking in the shadows or perhaps by his own imagination, the boy from Eight had killed the other two.

He'd berated himself for it during the Victory Tour, Elani remembered, but there had been no way around it. Two of them had to die. Only one person could win the Games.

And even if they worked together, even if the three of them made it far, even if they made it all the way to the end … If she wanted to live, Philus and Pan would have to die.

Elani clenched her fists. Would she be able to do it, if it came down to that? Would she be able to kill them? Would any of them be able to kill her?

Or would it be best not to work with them in the first place? Not to get to know them? Not to get attached?

Elani shook her head. She wasn't fooling anyone – especially herself. She was already attached. They were already a team – in everyone else's mind, certainly. And even her own.

Maybe, together, they had a chance.

Shale Avenheim, 18

He wouldn't have had a chance.

Shale clenched his fists as Karinth continued his tirade. If things didn't go his way in the Games, he didn't want the last thing the youngest ones remembered about him to be an argument between their two oldest brothers. They had to stick together. They had to stay a family. And, whether Karinth recognized it or not, that had meant volunteering for Asher.

Because, as soon as Asher's name had been called, he had known. Asher wouldn't have stood a chance. Not necessarily because of his physical capabilities. Asher was as strong as any other child in District Eleven who had spent most of their life in the fields. He wasn't physically remarkable, but he was capable.

But he never would have survived his district partners.

Three little children. Young. Vulnerable. In need of someone to protect them. Asher wouldn't have been able to resist. He would have befriended them in a heartbeat, and they would have been the death of him.

But Shale could do what his little brother couldn't. He could say no.

"How could you do this to us?" Karinth finished at last, still breathing hard, his face red. There was silence for a moment. "Are you just going to sit there? Aren't you going to say anything?"

Shale took a deep breath. "Are you finished?"

Karinth glared, red-faced. "What?"

Shale glared. "Are. You. Finished?"

Karinth gritted his teeth. "Yes."

Shale nodded. "Good. Because we don't have a lot of time. And if I don't make it back … then you're in charge. You're seventeen now. You're not a child anymore. You have to take care of them, if I can't."

Karinth nodded, but Shale knew he didn't understand. Not really. Ever since their parents died, Karinth had been distant. He had pulled away. Would he be able to hold the family together if…?

Maybe. Maybe not. The best thing he could do now was make sure they would never have to find out. The best thing he could do for them was to make it home.

If only it was that easy.

Shale took a deep breath as the door opened. One by one, his brothers left. Last of all, Asher and Raver lingered. Shale held the twins close one last time. "Look after your brothers," he said at last. "And each other."

Asher nodded, trying not to cry. "Just … come back."

"I'll do my best," Shale promised as the Peacekeepers dragged them away. And he would. But would his best be enough? With so many other tributes…

Shale shook the thought from his head. He had a chance. Maybe not a large chance, but a chance. And better than some. It certainly wouldn't be easy, but it was possible. It had to be.

He had to have a chance.

"This is our best chance."

"There's no chance. Really. I mean, look where we are."