Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: A few things now that we're done with the reapings. First, there's a poll on my profile asking which tributes are your favorites. The poll will be up through the end of the train rides, so if you want see the tributes again before voting, that's fine. Vote for as many or as few as you like. As usual, feel free to vote for your own tribute; just let me know who else you like, too.

Second, now that you've met all the tributes, if you have any alliance ideas, please let me know. I've already got some ideas, but, with 46 tributes, there are lots of different possibilities, so whatever input you might have is very helpful. Careers, you're included in this, as the chances of all the Careers being lumped into a single pack are very, very slim. Let me know which other Careers you'd like to see your tribute with.

Last, thank you to Axe Smelling God and Jalen Kun for Eleanor and Barry, respectively.

District Twelve
Choice

Brennan Aldaine, 32
Victor of the 25th Hunger Games

"I wish there was more I could do."

Brennan gripped the phone with his good hand. Two extra tributes for every rebel. But District Twelve…

Brennan took a deep breath. "You've done plenty, Nic. We'll be fine here."

"I hope so," Nicodemus agreed. "You and your tributes had no part in this. But the president…"

The president. President Silas Grisom. It still sounded strange, after all these years of thinking of him as a mentor. The man who had helped him through the 25th Hunger Games. Surely he would realize that he'd had nothing to do with the previous year's rebellion. That District Twelve was innocent.

Innocent. As if the others weren't. As if the rebels had committed some crime by refusing to fight each other. As if the tributes who had been coerced or even threatened into joining them had truly meant to defy the Capitol. As if there had been something good, something right, about persuading his tributes to fight to the death, instead.

But he had. And they had died. They had gone down fighting, back to back, surrounded by the rebels. But their families were still alive. And, somewhere in District twelve, there were four children who were safe. Four children who wouldn't be reaped today, because he had sacrificed two last year.

Did that make their deaths right? Maybe not. But it was better than the alternative.

"We'll be fine," Brennan repeated. "Get yourself to the reaping, Nic. Worry about your own district. I'll see you soon. And Nicodemus?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Brennan."

Brennan gently set the phone down. "Who was that, Mr. Aldaine?" asked a tiny voice.

Brennan glanced down to see a little girl – perhaps seven or eight, certainly too young for the reaping. One of the children who wandered in and out of his shop every day. Reaping day was slower than most, but there had still been a steady trickle of customers throughout the morning.

'Customers' he still called them, although half of them didn't pay. But the other half did, and that was enough to fill the small bucket he left on the counter. Not that he needed the money. Technically, victors weren't even required to work, and the money the Capitol sent him on a monthly basis was more than enough for him to live on – and to purchase the materials he needed for his shop.

His shop. It hadn't started that way. He had started out making small gifts for the families of tributes who had died in the Games. First the tributes from his own Games, and then each of the tributes he had mentored. But, as time passed, he had started making other things – everyday items like plates, cups, and candlesticks, as well as figurines, puppets, dolls, balls, and other sorts of toys. Now the first floor of his house served as his shop, with the yard in the back set up as a workshop.

As for the money he made in the shop, he usually ended up giving it away to anyone who needed it. Beggars, orphans, those who were having difficulty making ends meet. At first, he had done so out of guilt. He had been trying – in any way he could – to make up for what he had done during the Games. Any bit of good he could do – it helped.

That was how it had started. But, eventually, it had become more than that. The children who came into his shop now hadn't even been born when he'd won his Games. They didn't realize the horrors of what he had done. They knew he was a Victor, yes, but the younger ones didn't fully realize what that meant, and the older ones didn't care.

To them, he wasn't a killer. He was the kind shopkeeper who gave out trinkets and bread and occasionally sweets. He was the one who had opened his home to anyone seeking a warm place to rest for the night. And if a few of them took up residence in one of the many empty houses in Victors' Village, well, he was the one who certainly wasn't going to tell the Peacekeepers. That was who he was to them.

And that was who he wanted to be. Who he'd always wanted to be. The Games were part of his life, certainly – a part he would never forget. He had killed five people. Five. Including his district partner and ally, Blythe. But he hadn't killed out of malice or bloodlust. He had killed so that he could come home. So that he could live.

And he meant to do just that.

"That was a friend," Brennan answered at last. "Never mind that right now. What can I do for you, Doria?"

The girl held up a small puppet she had found on one of the shelves. "Is this for sale?"

Brennan nodded, smiling a little. The girl knew as well as anyone else. Only one item in the store wasn't for sale: a pair of candlesticks on the front desk. The candles themselves were nothing special, but the candlesticks…

They had been a gift – one of the first gifts he had made, after his own Games. He'd made them for the family of one of his allies, Grace Sawyer from District Ten. But the next year, his first year as a mentor, Glenn had brought them to the Capitol to return them to Brennan. Grace would've wanted him to have them, Glenn had said, now that her family…

Her family was dead. No fuss. No public execution. One day, they were just … gone. No one in the district talked about it, Glenn said – at least not openly. Privately, there were those who remembered them, but, publicly, they had been forgotten.

But he wouldn't forget. He would never forget. Grace had given her life so that he and Blythe could escape a pack of mutts. The mutts had led her into a trap, where the Gamemakers had burned her alive, incinerated her body until all that remained was a pile of ashes. He wouldn't forget that.

He would never forget that.

Doria dropped a coin in the bucket and scurried out the door. Brennan smiled a little as he watched her go. Grace had given her life for him. Thirty-five tributes had died that year. He had lived. Maybe it wasn't right. But it had happened. And the best way to remember them – the best way to honor them – was to move on.

Brennan turned and headed outside to his workshop.

He spent the next few hours tinkering. Not intending to make anything in particular – just dabbling with a little bit of this and that. He had quickly found that his best work happened when he didn't have a clear goal. When he wasn't sure what he wanted to make, but, instead, simply made what he felt like he needed to make.

A few hours later, he was putting the final touches on a birdhouse.

He was just setting it out to dry when his parents came by. A few years after his victory, they'd moved out of his house in Victors' Village and into the next one over. Officially, the other houses were supposed to remain unoccupied until other Victors came along to claim them. But, as the only Victor in District Twelve, Brennan had managed to convince the Peacekeepers and the mayor that there was no harm in letting his parents live next door, instead.

But they were never far. Sometimes he wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but it was what they needed. They had almost lost him once. If coming over every day to check on him helped them sleep a little better at night … Well, what harm did it do?

He certainly wasn't going to argue, especially when they wouldn't see him for a couple weeks. So he smiled. He let his father straighten his suit five different times. He let his mother hug him for a full twenty seconds before she finally let go. They weren't hurting anything. And they loved him. The rest didn't matter.

"Maybe this year will be better," his mother offered as she handed him a brand new pair of gloves. A new pair every year. Crisp. Fresh. Coal black. She thought it was good luck, and he didn't have the heart to argue.

Nor did he have the heart to tell her that this year certainly wasn't going to be better. Whether he ended up bringing a tribute home or not, the Games would almost certainly be worse. Even if District Twelve was spared the burden of having to send extra tributes, Brennan had no doubt there would be unexpected surprises once the Games began. Having extra tributes wasn't enough…

It hadn't been enough seventeen years ago, either. There had been extra tributes during his Games, but they had also forbidden volunteers. Once they were in the arena – a space station – the lights had prevented them from telling whether it was day or night … or how long they'd been in the arena. Cannons had still sounded, but there had been no faces in the sky at night, leaving them very little idea of who was left, beyond the tributes they had encountered personally. The arena had been Head Gamemaker Helius Florum's crowning achievement.

Florum was gone, living happily and quietly somewhere in the Capitol. Five Head Gamemakers had come and gone since then, none quite living up to his legacy. The sixth, Tamika Ward, was returning for her fourth year. There had been rumors that she might be executed over last year's fiasco, but the president had decided otherwise.

President Grisom.

Brennan shook his head as he and his parents headed for the square. Silas had assumed the presidency almost a year ago, and it still didn't feel real. At first, he had hoped that Silas might be more lenient. And, after President Snow, he had certainly seemed that way at first. But this…

But this was the same Silas Grisom who had sent him a message in the arena. A message that had led him to his former ally, Blythe, after the two had split. The same Silas Grisom who had lured them together so that one of them could kill the other. Who had known that Brennan was armed. That Blythe wasn't. The Silas Grisom who had known what had to be done and had done it without hesitation.

Whatever was in store this year, Brennan had no doubt that Silas thought it was necessary. To keep the peace. To keep the districts in line. To keep the Capitol in power. To prevent what had happened the year before.

It was wrong. It was terrible. It was ruthless.

But it made sense.

As they reached the square, Brennan's parents headed for the adult section, and Brennan took the stage, trying to smile at District Twelve's brand new escort, who couldn't possibly have been more than twenty years old. The boy was grinning like an idiot. A lime-green-haired, pointy-bearded, pink-skinned idiot who had probably never left the Capitol in his life.

But Brennan smiled, anyway. Because that was what was expected. Because the more a mentor seemed to get along with an escort, the more open he seemed towards the Capitol. And being open towards the Capitol could help tributes get sponsors. It was stupid. It was annoying. But if it might help save a tribute's life, it was worth it.

So he smiled as the kid held out his left hand, grinning. "Valentine Sullivan! And you must be Brennan Aldaine!"

Obviously. But at least Valentine had done his homework. Brennan shook his left hand firmly as Mayor Marxs joined them onstage, then took a seat as quickly as possible as Valentine turned his attention to the mayor, instead.

Brennan glanced out at the crowd as the mayor began his speech. After giving a short speech himself, Valentine stepped up to the first reaping bowl and plunged his hand in dramatically. His bright pink fingers swirled the slips of paper until he finally got ahold of one, which he unfolded slowly, carefully. "Eleanor Marxs!"

Mayor Marxs froze as the sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a long, light purple dress, white stockings, and white shoes. The girl looked around, shocked, as the crowd began to whisper. Finally, she took a few steps towards the stage. Then a few more. There were tears in her eyes as she made her way up the stairs, and, when she looked up at her father, a few finally fell.

She was about average height and thin, with almond brown skin and long, black hair. Her brown eyes were wide and frightened as she met her father's gaze. The mayor's hands were shaking, but he knew. Knew that anything he did now would affect his daughter's chances. So he simply nodded towards the crowd. Shaking, Eleanor turned to face the crowd and even managed a small smile.

Valentine, clearly delighted to have picked someone so significant as his very first tribute, took a few moments to make his way to the second bowl. He was practically hopping up and down with excitement as he reached in, swished the papers around a little, and drew a slip. Once again, he took his time unfolding it, as if doing so might have some effect on the name that was written. "Barry Zephir!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a white collared shirt and black dress pants. As soon as Brennan's gaze found him, however, the boy started to back up – slowly, at first, but, as the Peacekeepers started making their way towards him, the boy began to run. The crowd parted for him as he sprinted towards the back, but he had barely made it to the end of the thirteen-year-old section before they caught him and dragged him to the stage. All the while, the boy was kicking. Flailing. Fighting as much as he could.

But it did no good; the Peacekeepers dumped him next to Eleanor. The boy scrambled to his feet, ready to run again, but Brennan sprang up and clamped his good hand firmly around the boy's wrist. "Don't."

The boy whirled around, startled. He was about average height but very thin and wiry. His messy blonde hair was already damp with sweat, his deep blue eyes wide with fright. Brennan knew that look. He was scared – scared enough to ignore the fact that running would do him no good. Fighting would do him no good. Right now, the boy didn't care. He wasn't thinking. He just didn't want to die.

The boy tried to pull away, but Brennan's grip held. "Save it for the arena," he said quietly, hoping that was the right thing to say. The right motivation. Hoping the boy wouldn't simply burst into tears at the thought of the arena.

He didn't. Slowly, hesitantly, the boy straightened up, took a deep breath, and nodded. Brennan let go. The boy stayed put, turning towards his district partner. "Well, shake hands, then!" Valentine beamed.

Brennan sank back into his chair as the two shook hands. The reaping was over. Only two tributes. District Twelve had been spared.

Mayor Marxs, on the other hand, was understandably unrelieved. As soon as the cameras switched off, he turned to Brennan. "You have to bring my daughter back." He had stopped shaking now, and his voice was strong and firm. This wasn't a request. It was an order.

Brennan kept his voice as calm as he could. "Sir, I'll do my best, but—"

"But nothing." The mayor rose immediately to his full height, easily a half a foot taller than Brennan, who quickly stood, as well. "Eleanor comes home. That's it."

"Sir, you know that's not how the Games work. No matter what I do—"

"Oh, I know. But I also know you mentors play favorites. I know how easily it could've been someone else coming home instead of you, if your mentor had played things a little differently. And I saw what you did for that boy just now. That's not how it's going to be, you hear? If that kid comes home instead of my daughter…"

Brennan shook his head. The man had no idea what he was talking about. Blythe hadn't stood a chance, regardless of how Silas had played his part. Silas hadn't played favorites; he had simply recognized his best option. And maybe he wasn't proud of it, but he had been that best option.

And maybe Eleanor was the best option. Or maybe Barry was. More likely than not, it wouldn't matter what he thought, what he did. In the sixteen years he'd mentored, he'd never truly been in a position to choose which tribute to help. Sponsors weren't exactly lining up in droves to support District Twelve. Generally, by the time he could scrape together enough sponsors to send something useful to a tribute, only one of the two was left. And the one time they'd both made it far enough to receive any meaningful help, they were working together, anyway.

But there was no point in telling the mayor that. Any of it. So Brennan took a step forward. "Let me make one thing clear, Sir. I don't work for you. I don't mentor for you. I mentor for District Twelve. Every year, I go out there and try to bring a tribute home. It's not easy. It's not fun. But I am doing the very best that I can. And there's nothing you could possibly say that could make me try any harder. Sixteen years, and I haven't brought a tribute home. If I can bring Eleanor back, I will. If I can bring Barry back, I will. If I can't … I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" the mayor repeated.

Brennan nodded, his expression neutral. "I'm really not sure what else you want me to say. I'll do my best. They'll do theirs. But, so far, that hasn't been enough. So, if this year doesn't go our way, either, then, yes, I'm sorry."

With that, he turned and headed for the train. Only after he was safely aboard did his stony expression drop. "Okay," he muttered to himself. "Okay. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse."

And it could. He only had two tributes. They were both reasonably healthy. They were older – older than last year's tributes, at least. They both had a chance.

He just hoped he didn't have to make a choice.

Elanor Marxs, 16

She finally had a choice.

Eleanor wrung her hands together as she stared at the door. Her family had left. She wasn't really expecting anyone else. Soon enough, the Peacekeepers would come for her. She would be on a train to the Capitol.

And there was nothing her father could do about it.

A small smile found its way to Eleanor's face. Her father meant well, of course. He meant to keep her safe. She was rarely allowed to leave the house, and, even then, he made sure she was accompanied. He didn't know she snuck out at nights. Just to walk around the district. Just to see people, finally, up close. He didn't realize how much it meant to her – to be able to see the people she spent her life dreaming about.

Now he would never know.

Eleanor let out a deep breath. As much as her father tried, he couldn't keep her safe forever. He couldn't protect her from the Games. She knew she should be frightened. Terrified. She should still be crying. The Games weren't safe. She would never be safe again.

But she didn't want to be safe anymore. She was tired of being safe. She had spent her whole life safely within her house's walls – and for what? None of that had protected her from the greatest danger in the districts. There was nothing her father could do. Nothing she could do. She was probably going to die.

But, first, she would live.

And she wanted that, more than anything. She wanted to see the train. She'd never been on a train before, but she'd heard they went wonderfully fast. And then the Capitol. The parade. The crowds. The lights. The show.

She knew she shouldn't be looking forward to it. It felt wrong, somehow, to even think about enjoying it all. But where was the harm? If she was going to die, at least she could enjoy a few days of … maybe not freedom, but certainly more freedom than she'd ever had in her life. She wouldn't be locked up in a little room in the Capitol. She could see the other tributes.

She could talk to them.

Eleanor's heart began to beat faster at the thought. She could finally talk to people – people who weren't her family, people who weren't constantly worried about her safety. People who could help her. People who could kill her. She knew she should be careful, but she was tired of being careful.

She just wanted to live.

Barry Zephir, 15

He hadn't had a choice.

Barry shook his head as he paced the room. Running at the reaping had been stupid. Pointless. But he hadn't had a choice – not really. He'd wanted to do something. He couldn't just go meekly to the stage, like the girl had. He couldn't just let them take him away without a fuss. Without a fight. He didn't want to go.

But he was going.

Barry clenched his fists. Save it for the arena. That was what Brennan had said. And he would know. He'd won not just any Hunger Games, but the first Quarter Quell. Three tributes per district. Thirty-six tributes. And Brennan had still come out on top.

The sound of the door opening shook Barry from his thoughts. He whirled around, confused. His parents had come and gone. Kellen. A few friends from school. Who else would be coming?

When he saw Hazel, though, a grin broke out across his face. Hazel took a hesitant step forward and opened her mouth, but Barry beat her to it and threw his arms around her. "I didn't think you'd be coming!"

Hazel almost never spoke to him. Barely looked at him. Despite his best efforts to be friendly, she had never shown the slightest interest in him. And yet here she was, coming to say goodbye. Maybe that was just common courtesy. Or maybe it meant something more.

Once Barry released her from the hug, Hazel reached up and removed one of her hairpins. "For your district token … if you don't already have one."

Barry shook his head. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He didn't have anything special – nothing he'd want to take into the arena, at least. He took the hairpin and stuck it into his own hair at an angle, messing it up even more.

Hazel almost giggled.

Almost.

So close.

Instead, she took a step closer. "Look at it every now and then, if you're starting to lose hope – and remember what you have to come home to." Then, just like that, she turned and left, leaving Barry staring, open-mouthed, at the closed door.

Girls were confusing.

After a moment, he shook his head. That didn't matter now. But she was right; he had a lot to come home to. A lot to live for. So much that he still hadn't seen. So much that he hadn't done. Now, more than ever, he knew what he wanted.

He just wanted to live.

"Whatever he's told you, I want you to understand one thing: You have a choice."