The roar of youth becomes a whisper with age.

Teal Arben, District One, Victor of the 89th Hunger Games

Sheen smiles sluggishly as she slurps down yet another pumpkin-colored drink. She's had about five now, and she shows no signs of stopping. Very unprofessional.

"Sheen," I mumble. "You're going to get…"

"Shh," she giggles, thrusting her index finger to my lips in a vain attempt to keep me quiet. "What you don't know can't hurt you, Teal!"

It's only my first year as mentoring, but I'm going to take this seriously. Sheen may have helped me out so, so much last year, but half the time she was the worse for wear, a bottle attached to her hand. It doesn't matter that the sponsor gift rained down at the best time; I'm actually pretty sure that it was Taffeta, Scottie's mentor, that sent it.

Sheen tells me that victors have very different ways of dealing with the pain of becoming a victor. For her, drinks are her way of escaping everything. Taffeta, she says, is lucky enough that she can stand on her own without the help of drinks, morphling, or anything else.

She says it helps with the nightmares.

Me, I think that's rather idiotic. How can something as gross as alcohol help you out with 'nightmares', of all things? I don't experience them at all. Well, that would be lying if I said that, come to think of it. I had one, the night I was announced as a victor. I couldn't help but see that bloodied, beaten-down look on Tetra's face as she slowly slid into the veil of death.

Sheen's always told me that I was just the stereotypical, brutish male who wins without a second thought. She says that they win almost all the time. Take Velour, or Sans, for example, she says.

But inwardly, I know that's not true. I won't be described with just one word— "brutish."

I mean, I know that I don't, like, defy every Career stereotype that there is. But to be honest, I think that I'm just a bit more than the average one. Taffeta, Sheen, Velour, and Dae, they're all so flippant and frankly, somewhat annoying. I hope that I break that stereotype… to some extent, at least.

Without uttering a word to Sheen, I walk out silently to the set of chairs that wait for me on the stage. I grin wildly as I see the crowds, the huge sea of kids that I was in only last year. A couple girls wave flirtatiously to me, and eagerly I respond in like.

Our escort, Musica, floats out on a bed of silver taffeta and bright pink lipstick. What is she supposed to be this year, some sort of alien?

Sheen plops down on the seat next to me, fingers fiddling with her silver flask. Seizing advantage of the one time that her lips aren't practically glued to it, I quickly ask, "So, how do we decide what tributes we want to mentor? Do we get to pick or something?"

Sheen burps unattractively, her eyes flickering between cross-eyedness and regularity. "Um, you can pick if you want," she mutters. "I'll take the runt again. You have the list? Yes? Cool."

I sit back in my chair, basking in the knowledge that I can have the tribute with the better advantage, before I rapidly realize that I was the tribute she mentored last year. She thought I was the runt?! "Hey!"

Sheen only smirks.

I finger the tribute list carefully, eyes flickering over the small slip of paper. Carisa Lenette and Flash Centillion. Both very well-trained tributes, both brutal and ready to get their hands dirty. Perfect.

"Welcome!" shrieks out Musica, thrusting her hand, decked out in bangles, up into the air. "District One, are you ready?"

Most kids stare back at her blankly, but a select few cheer along with her, already pumped up for this year.

"I'll start with the girls, then, as is tradition!" Musica giggles, her talons digging into the giant glass bowl when a howl pierces the air.

"I volunteer!"

Sure enough, Carisa Lenette emerges from the eighteen-year-old section. She's clad in a rather skimpy burgundy dress, but I'm sure not complaining. She tosses her voluptuous brunette hair back with a flick of her head, flashing her pearly whites at everybody around her. She very quickly darts over the sidelines of the eighteen-year-old sector, locks lips with some guy, before treading up. Once she mounts the stage, she announces her name with a musical tone.

Musica beams, strutting over to the male's bowl, when another shriek erupts. But this one isn't Flash's voice…

"I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER! I FRIGGING VOLUNTEER, ALL RIGHT?!"

"No!" Carisa shrieks, her eyes humongous, as she sees who the new tribute is— a lanky boy with sandy-colored hair, definitely not the tanned Flash. "You… you can't! Can you please pick another person? Please? I can't work with him!"

I stand up unconsciously, staring disgustedly at the boy that was not supposed to volunteer, as he tussles with the very same guy that Carisa had just kissed. They roll around on the ground for a moment before Naughty-Boy overpowers him with a strong kick, mounting the stage with little damage done.

Musica frowns, her coral lips turning downward. "Sorry, honey. Your name, boy?"

He grins at Carisa somewhat greedily before voicing, "Soren Valen, at your service."

"I'll take Soren," I murmur to Sheen, who's gulping down the remainder of her flask. "Seems a bit less aloof, to me."

"Joke's on you," smirks Sheen. "The ones who yell are the ones who wind up at the final five."

Hestia Verbana, District Two, Victor of the 80th Hunger Games

Helios sighs heavily with each step that our escort, Madre, takes. Plop. Sigh. Plop. Sigh.

"Would you stop that?" I grumble. "Rather annoying, don't you think?"

He squints at me through the beaming yellow sun. "Guess so," he murmurs.

"Thank you," I exhale, settling back into my seat and smoothing my ruffled navy dress down. The roles really are switched this year; last year, it was Helios who was the parental figure for the tributes, and he was very professional besides. Last year I was the wilder mentor, the one who laughed off anything they said negatively and offered them unhelpful tips. I don't know, perhaps this year is different since I became a mother.

This also was the first year that Helios had to go without his son. Untrue to his name, Viktor volunteered last year under the impression that he was better than all the rest. His arrogance led to his ultimately bloody death at the hands of his own ally, who soon became victor— Teal Arben, District One.

I wiggle into my seat, arms feeling a bit lighter now that the weight of a baby has been lifted off of them. Sandria is going to grow up to be just a regular kid, I'm making sure of that. All talks of volunteering will be thrown out the window. I paid the price, now I should get to have a normal, happy life just like all the rest of the victors.

"Welcome, welcome, to this year's Reaping- or should I say, Volunteering!" Madre smiles sickly, allowing the masses of kids to stare at her deadly. "Wonderful. Anyways…" she struts over to the male's bowl, plucking out a random slip, but before she can even say a word, up comes the boy.

Wraith Elvery. I've worked with him for nearly a year now, scanning over techniques that are formidable for his stocky form. Despite his low stamina, his skills in weaponry are just amazing. His appearance, paler and somewhat more muscular than the common District Two male, is nothing.

"You didn't say the magical words." Madre tilts her head at Wraith, teasing him.

Wraith shrugs, using his hand to sweep a lock of dark brown hair out of his eyes. "Okay. I volunteer, then."

The man of few words. I smirk.

Madre doesn't even have time to flash a witty flirtatious line at him before the female ascends the stairs, her chestnut hair and captivating eyes creating the picture of a perfect Career.

I shake Helios's arm gently. "Helios, it's yours!"

He smiles grimly.

"Eidra Nevett!" she announces in a whimsical tone, winking at Wraith, who looks indifferent. "Your female."

"She's great, isn't she?" Helios murmurs. "So… so vivacious and spirited. Gotta love her." I smile at his toned-down enthusiasm. Even muted praise is the ultimate praise for Helios nowadays.

Eidra catches my eye and gives me a curt wave. Wraith, on the other hand, stares out into the crowd like he's sure he's done the wrong thing.

Helios flicks his head, tossing some sleek black hair askew. "You know what, Hestia?" he mumbles. "I think we might just have a victor on our hands this year. But you never know, right?..."

"Not really, no," I reply.

If Helios is getting back on track, that's all that matters. And if Eidra somehow manages to help him back onto his feet, I myself will personally praise her for as long as her life allows.

Candor Kruise, District Three, Victor of the 78th Hunger Games

Brushing down my cowlick, I turn to Xandra, who simply smirks. "Missed it, hotshot," she murmurs, dutifully patting it down for me.

Some might think it's a bit odd and off-putting that, at twenty, Xandra's romantically interested in me, a thirty-eight year old. I see no problem, though I'm not attracted to her. Poor girl will have to figure that out sometime.

But as long as our mentoring runs smoothly, I just won't tell her.

"Such a shame that our escort's too bigoted to see how amazing we're going to do as mentors," Xandra purrs, nearly throwing herself into my lap. "He doesn't have faith in us, Candor."

I moisten my lips and shrug. "A shame, all right. Maybe if Ping saw with his own two eyes and not those glass ones that he insisted on wearing."

"Those are glass eyes?" Xandra considers this before throwing her head back and laughing, her finger tracing a circle onto my hand— or is it a heart? "No wonder he stumbles every year. I'm surprised he can even read the slip of paper."

"Ah, then they must not be glass, then." Grateful for the slight moment of relief that hating on Ping gives me, I try to slip away. I don't want to be Xandra's lover, can't she see that?

Obviously not. She simply grabs onto the edge of my sweater and giggles mischievously. "Where are you going, Cand?" she asks, the edges of her mouth curving up.

"Um, j-just to fetch a drink," I stammer out.

Xandra raises a dark eyebrow, and I feel nauseous. "Make sure to…. Fetch me one, too." She winks.

Extremely grateful for the distraction, I slip away to the coolers out inside the Justice Building and snag a water from one. Water's good. Water always helps me clear my mind to think. I take a long sip, considering this year and the tributes it will be soon to bring.

I've told Xandra that she can have the more aggressive tribute with the higher odds of winning, because I won my Games out of sheer luck, while she won with weaponry skills and strategy. She completely broke the District Three mold of being nerdy and timid, by being brazen and flippant with wicked talents concerning a crossbow. I was so proud of her. It was like an invention I created, a monster that came to life. Sort of like that fable, Jackenstein or something like that.

Xandra pokes her head out the door. "Hurry, Candor, Ping is just about to announce the female tribute!"

My heart flutters with hope. I grab another water bottle for my fellow mentor and I scamper out, hoping for a decent set of tributes this year.

Ping, the escort with fiery red hair and a black and white suit, clears his throat just as I plop down, handing Xandra the bottle. She giggles and she might have said 'thank you' but I didn't hear her.

"Ellika Mayes!"

There's a slight gasp from a section near me. I search for the cause of it, and my eyes land upon a fiery-haired girl. Her entire appearance is put-together, creating the image of a strong, capable tribute. She mounts the stage with her face void of much emotion, but I can tell that she's on the verge of shouting. Ellika's biting her lip with such force that when she stops biting it, there are visible teeth marks. I cringe. Ouch.

"Anything to say, Ellika?" Ping crams the microphone underneath her chin, but Ellika shakes her head defiantly, nose even turning up at the thought.

"You can call me 'Ell'," she hisses out.

Ping's face spreads into a wide, fuzzy grin as he glances at the girl. "Wonderful!" he proclaims, strolling across the stage to the male's. He grabs a slip off the top, glances at it once, and shouts out, "Griff Forden!"

My eyes fall upon an isolated boy, about fourteen, whom kids are moving away from like he has a terrible disease. Griff turns his small head tiredly, observing this, before mouthing his name and quietly climbing the stairs to the escort, his face contorted in sheer shock. I don't even think he knows what's happening to him anymore.

"Anybody you like in particular?" I say absentmindedly, watching the little boy hop the stairs up onto the stage. I have a feeling I know the answer.

Sure enough, Xandra's lips peel into a toothy grin. "I want Ellika," she replies. "Seems tougher than the boy, on any rate."

I sigh thickly, nodding slowly. "You're right, you know."

"Of course I am."

Nuke Greensburo, District Four, Victor of the 82nd Hunger Games

"We going the same gender, like last year?"

Annie looks up at me, her lips parted slightly. With a short nod, she flips her hair once more, a mask of copper over her soft eyes.

It's like this every single year. Same old song and dance. I ask her who she wants, she doesn't reply, and then I ask her if we should go the same gender, and there's a nod. But once the tributes are announced, Annie's mumbling that she'd like the boy instead. Every. Single. Year.

Maybe this year will be different? Fat chance.

Instead of chatting it up with my next-to-silent fellow mentor, I strike up a conversation with the escort, Sequin, but she's not one to be tampered with at all. If I even try to flirt with her, she'll screech. So predictable.

And I have no doubts that this year will be the same.

As I'm dictating this to Sequin, her incredibly long golden eyelashes fluttering, she suddenly gives a funny hop, and her face falls, like she's hurt. Confused, I ask her what's up.

"Nothing," she says, giggling a bit. "Pregnancy pains."

My eyebrows fly up to meet my hairline. "Really? Awesome, Sequin! How far along are you?"

"Two months. It's so amazing when I feel him- or her- kick." Sequin muffles another giggle and gazes happily down at her rather flat tummy.

"Who's the lucky man?"

Sequin looks up, violet eyes confused. "Lucky man? ... Oh, yes. Not quite sure about the father, yet, but I'm sure that he'll present himself. With all due time, Nuke, all due time!"

I nearly choke on my own saliva. "Wait… so you're so freaking happy about this child, and you have no clue who the dad is? Are you… are you being serious, Sequin?"

She bites her lip. "Um, in Panem it's a joy to have a baby," she says uncertainly.

"Yeah, same with District Four and all the other districts," I wave it off dismissively. "Sequin, that's not exactly something to be flaunting and proud of. That's kind of, like…" I stifle a nervous laugh.

The escort narrows her eyes. "You're just jealous," she sniffs.

"Am not!"

"Yes, you are," she grumbles. "You're upset that your wife has been barren, Nuke. Nothing to be jealous about, though."

"I… But we're not… what?"

"You're twenty-six, Nuke," Sequin says. "With all due respect, I have a feeling you're getting a bit… how do you say… hormonal?"

"HORMONAL?!"

"Yes."

With one last furious glance at the silly Capitolite, I scurry off to the chair next to Annie, my thoughts tangled up like a dish of seaweed.

"Want to bet who volunteers?" Annie asks softly, her butterfly-like eyelashes fluttering.

"Okay," I reply, sounding crabby. "I bet an eighteen-year-old guy and an eighteen-year-old girl. What about you, oh wise one?"

Annie blinks.

Whatever she's about to say is pierced by the raucous shriek of Sequin, who, despite being pregnant, is able to shout quite ferociously. "Welcome, District Four!" she screeches. "To the Reaping of the Ninetieth annual Hunger Games!"

Silence.

Sequin frowns. "Well, I'm sure you'll be much more enthusiastic once you find out who your representatives are, eh?"

Uncomfortable silence. A few women on the sidelines clap pathetically.

Sequin wrinkles her nose, not even bothering to move over to the big glass bowls. "Female…"

"I volunteer!"

A howl shatters the silence and the ocean of females part to make way for a freckled girl, her mouth still outstretched as she runs up to the stage, hand jabbing the air. She darts, very limber and quick, up the stairs to the microphone, her arm still waving frantically. Once the girl calms down, realizing that she made it onto the stage, relief floods over her features and she speaks into the microphone. "Juno Verdet of District Four."

Before Sequin has a chance to whisper "Male" into the microphone, another scream rings out around the square. Two boys run, stride by stride, both of their eyes locked onto the stage. My fists clench- who will make it? The blonde with a clenched jaw or the tall one with flowing brown hair?

Out of nowhere, the blonde's fist jabs out in front of the brunette and the latter falls, allowing the fighter to mount the stage, panting lightly. No smile is evident on his face, either. "Merritt Cordeau," he says solemnly, eyes flickering over the waves of kids.

"Well, Annie? Same gender?" My eyes turn to her, expecting an answer.

In reply, she smiles. There's a nod.

For once, my predictions have been proven wrong, and I couldn't be happier.

Kassidy Flora, District Five, Victor of the 57th Hunger Games

"Ready for this year, Kass?"

I turn wearily over to Scarlett, her everlasting smirk planted on her face happily. "I think that we might have a chance, sure. Is that what you want to hear, Scarlett?"

Her puffy lips pout. "Come on, Kassidy," she whines. "Aren't you even a bit happy? I mean, last year we were so close with Kraft! Final four, remember?"

"Yeah," I manage to spit out. Despite my fifty-first birthday party just last night, I still have a bit of the fire in me from past years. "He was my tribute. I'd be a fool not to remember his name. And what about Ellen? Final twenty-two?"

Scarlett freezes, an answer on the tip of her tongue. Eventually she shakes herself out and replies, "Well, she was just twelve… it was in the stars, Kass. At least she wasn't dead last."

"District Twelve does not count," I sigh. "They're so fragile, they might as well be dead at chariots. That was bound to happen, too."

Scarlett narrows her eyes. "Well," she drawls. "At least in past years, I've gotten four tributes to the final six. Pretty nice, for only about twenty years."

I manage a smile. "And I brought home a victor."

Her lips split to reveal two rows of pearly whites. "You're right," she answers dreamily.

Even though you made absolutely no kills, I think bitterly, my thoughts completely disrupting the moment. Sheer luck that the boy fell off the edge of the cliff. You don't even deserve to be here. He was trained, he fought, and he did everything that you didn't.

I effectively hold back a snarky remark.

The escort, a man named "Lipp" dressed in neon yellow, bursts out from the curtains, his teeth dazzling and shimmering in the bright sunlight. He sashays to the microphone. I wince. Lipp is such a loser.

"Hello, District Five." He gazes around the sea of kids with a look of splendor in his eyes. Happy tears flow freely, and for a moment I can't help but wonder if he's acting or if he actually is supremely happy to send two kids off to their deaths.

"I'll waste no time in selecting your female, first." He smirks, strutting over to the glass bowls. His eyes flicker greedily over them, and he selects a slip. "Hm… Roberta No-"

"I VOLUNTEER!"

The shriek echoes around the town square, and mumbles arise within all of the kids and adults. Who would volunteer for this? In District Five, no less?

"Um, whoever said that, please step up to the stage?" Lipp smiles, eyebrows drawn together in utter confusion.

"I volunteer!" the voice calls out again. "Me! Maya Verone!"

"What?!" A girl, about fifteen or so, whips her head around, looking over the tops of peoples' heads. When she turns back, her face is bright red and very bewildered.

"Come on up, Maya," Lipp speaks into the microphone, gesturing. With ruddy cheeks, the girl slowly starts moving up to the stage, fiddling with the end of her dark brown braid. When she emerges fully, I can't help but shake my head in confusion. Though her appearance is rather dirty- unbathed, tousled hair- her clothes and gorgeous jewelries say otherwise. She's wearing loads of bangles, a few golden necklaces, and her dress looks brand new.

"Who is she?" Scarlett whispers in shock. I can only shake my head once more.

"Onto the males, then." Lipp trembles with happiness, his eyes glowing. He moves swiftly over to the second glass bowl, peering out into the crowd. It's almost like he's expecting another volunteer. When another does not come, he picks out a slip and announces… "Ezra Jefferson!"

It's easy to pick out the dark-haired boy, who's visibly shaking and holding his head in his hands. Cowering, dead to the world, it takes four Peacekeepers to pick the tall boy up and toss him onto the stage. Once on there, his feral eyes stare directly at me as he gets up slowly, body shaking in a frenzy.

That's it, then. Our tributes.

Gingham Cleaver, District Six, Victor of the 66th Hunger Games

As the fog mists gently over the sleepy town square, I can't help but battle back an impending yawn. Morphling withdrawal's been nasty on my sleeping patterns. Not only that, but I'm pretty sure that my fellow mentor, Dalton, has been testing it out as well. Even mad, he has a lick of sense, and I'm sure that in no time he'll be going back to drawing clouds and horses and whatever else he did beforehand.

But for now, it's just a phase.

Or is it? I bite my lip as I glance over at him, his yellowing skin the most apparent thing about him. It closely matches my own, though he can't hide it as well.

"Dalton," I say gently, almost like a mother, "when did you first start morphling?"

"How do you know?" His brown eyes widen in fright.

I place a hand on his small shoulder, and his form convulses. His skin is cold to the touch. "Honey, your skin is yellow, you don't have any more insomnia, your breath has been particularly nasty as of late, and you're more… mellow."

He frowns. "That obvious?"

"Yes, it is."

"Fine," he sighs. "About three months ago."

I cringe to myself. Was I wrong? Is this not just a phase? I feel somewhat motherly over the younger man, though I'd never say it, and his well-being matters to me. I mean, even I'm trying to syphon off of morphling, as well.

"So…" he tries to start a conversation, but it's rather awkward now that I'm a bit confused about him. I smile, attempting to keep the tone of the conversation light and upbeat, but it just doesn't work.

And even Dalton, who has the brains of an eleven-year-old, can tell this.

Flitter, the escort, struts past in a turquoise evening gown. Her glass heels click on the stage, much like a judgmental parent or something, and she nods curtly at both Dalton and I. I respond in like, while Dalton himself trembles under her stern gaze.

"District Six," she speaks airily into the microphone. "We are gathered here today not to suggest death, but for hope of another victor." She pauses, eyeing Dalton and I up. "It has been twenty-three years since District Six has seen a victor, and so I hope one of the tributes this year… finds it within themselves to ultimately win."

Shifting within the crowd. Somebody uncomfortably clears their throat.

"Well, then." Flitter smiles warmly. I like her- she seems to actually care about the well-being of everybody, and she doesn't appear to be self-absorbed like most of the other escorts. "Let's begin with… your male."

She rummages her hand around in the glass fishbowl for a moment, drawing her hand out exaggeratedly. "Halcyon Chae!"

The boy is easily found out as he wastes no time in jogging up to the stage. A grim ghost of a smile is the first thing I see about him, but then I notice his pale hair and beautiful eyes. He's not too shabby-looking. If he finds himself some good allies, he could very well make it to the final five.

"Aria Verselis!"

I'm too busy scrutinizing Halycon to realize that Flitter's chosen another slip, so I look just in time as the said Aria mounts the stage. It took her a while… she must have been stunned, poor girl. A few slick tears streak down her slim cheeks as she tugs at a lovely red scarf, her mournful eyes searching the crowd.

I feel bad for the poor girl, but when push comes to shove, the dominant mentor should go with the dominant tribute, and I just can't have the little, but sweet, Aria clogging up my time.

Obsidian Krane, District Seven, Victor of the 83rd Hunger Games

"Welcome!"

"Does she ever stop?" moans Basil, falling back into his chair. He's not angry, really, simply annoyed. He's like this every year. Easily irked. It was worse when he demanded that he move into my Victor's Village home, even though he had a perfectly good one to himself. When instead of being annoyed, he was the one being annoying.

"I don't think so, brother," I reply smoothly, shrugging. I don't mind our escort, really.

"She's so bright." Basil wrinkles his nose, shuddering at her neon blue ensemble.

"I like that outfit," I reply absent-mindedly, eyes glued to her torso more than anything else.

Basil follows my gaze and snorts. "Dude, you have Birchia. Why are you undressing Enna with your eyes?"

I shrug once more, my stare unwavering. "Birchia's nice, man, but Enna is where it's at."

"You're such a player."

"Said the guy who's been married twice so far," I reply back, my snark still intact. "First Rowanda, now Arlo. Who's the player now, Basil?"

His cheeks flush in anger and, yes, irritation. He gets flustered so easily, honestly. "Rowanda broke it up with me," he snaps. "I had nothing to do with it!"

I roll my eyes. "Au contraire, brother," I murmur under my breath.

The mayor finishes up the speech about Panem's history with a flourish, and the escort comes forth. "Males or females first?" she says teasingly, tapping one of her electric blue nails against her lips.

Everybody knows that no matter what she chooses, a volunteer's voice will pierce through the silence. It's no secret that ever since the failed rebellion some fifteen years ago, families have been gathering privately to try and train like Careers. Axes are easy to get their hands on; as are machetes and hatchets. Trees become targets instead of plastic dummies and red ringed circles.

And yes, we have provided some wonderful victors, namely myself and my brother.

The deal Basil and I made with our parents was that Basil was to volunteer, and then both me and our littler brother, Axel, would be safe. Well, Basil came back, but I was still in the Reapings. Axel was Reaped, yada yada, I volunteered for family's honor, blah blah blah, and somehow I, the younger and less impressive brother, became victor.

I'm sure that some people are still trying to wrap their heads around this fact.

"Males, then?" Enna nods proudly, a smile gracing her bright blue lips. She starts strutting towards the set of glass bowls when out from a front section comes the familiar "I volunteer!"

The boy himself isn't that impressive, but what he lacks in appearance he makes up for in animated personality. Cockily, he tilts his head as he slowly clambers onto the stage, a cheeky smirk plastered onto his mug. "Brux Redragon," he drawls into the microphone, his movements sluggish.

Enna nods once more, her smile stretching from ear to ear. "Wonderful!" she proclaims, wrapping an arm around Brux. He's so tall, it barely reaches up to his armpits. "Brux, do you want to draw the female's slip, then?"

"My pleasure." He flashes a smirk and a nod before reaching into the glass bowl. Unlike Brux's volunteering, the place is dead silent. He forks the paper over to Enna, who promptly hollers out, "Aspen Northwood!"

A very loud gasp comes from one of the closer sections. I easily place the girl, with frightened watery eyes and a pixie cut, as she clutches another girl's hand. The second girl whispers something and, nodding dazedly, the pixie cut slowly makes her way onto the stage, spine locked and rigid.

"Anything to say, Aspen?" Enna beams.

Aspen Northwood shakes her head, eyes still bolted onto the other girl's.

"That's it, District Seven! Your tributes! Brux and Aspen, aren't they just adorable?"

Velour Krum, District Eight, Victor of the 86th Hunger Games

"I can just feel it," hums Velvet as she taps her foot rapidly against the dusty floor of the stage. "This year we'll have a victor for sure."

I frown slightly. "How can you even say that? We might get two twelve-year-old kids who've never touched a needle, for all you know. What makes you so sure that this year is our year?"

Velvet locks eyes with me for a moment before shaking the critical question off with a light laugh. "Déjà vu, I suppose!"

I furrow my brows, hunching back into the chair. I don't know how Velvet does this every single year.

"Hello, District Eight!" the male escort, Gladius, arrives on stage, fluttering his yellowish wings animatedly. "Welcome to the Reapings for the 90th Hunger Games!"

"He's a fairy this year," I mutter, distraught.

"Makes up for it in tone, though." Velvet snorts. "Listen to that. Falsetto all the way."

Velvet's sort of like the sister I never had, despite being a great deal of years older than I. She has a wicked sense of humor and this optimistic sense on everything, including the Hunger Games and mentoring. It was her open nature that got me sponsors in my Games, including the blade that saved my life.

Though yes, there are the differences. Velvet was immediately remorseful in her few kills, while I had no regrets. It's Panem, right? We're forced to do this. It's not like it's on our own free will. Yes, at first I was a bit skeptical, but in the end, having no regrets did pay off.

"You're right. Nice accent this year, better than that cowboy one a few years ago." We shudder in unison, remembering the year of the 'howdy' and the 'y'all'.

Gladius surges forward, his wings bristling, and without wasting any time, withdraws a small white slip. My heart beats rapidly, just like it did the year I was Reaped, and every year before and after that.

"District Eight, your female will be Cayley Torelli!"

There's no movement for a bit- the entire pens seem to be frozen. Then, a general sigh of relief from every girl except Cayley Torelli. And that's when I see it- a head of glossy chestnut hair storming forward, her mouth wavering in between a nervous smile and a giant frown. Her eyes are welling up in tears, but at least she has the good sense not to spill any.

She takes her spot on the stage, quiet as a mouse, while Gladius hurries to pick the male's slip. I examine Cayley, her knees knocking together in fear. She looks decently strong, though she is a bit scrappier than the average tribute.

"District Eight, your male tribute this year is Tethys Acosta!"

There's no sound but the nervous, relieved laughs and sighs like there were for Cayley. Good, we don't have a set of screamers on our hands this year.

He's on the stage before I can see anything else. Devilish, darting eyes that still have their luster in them flicker around the stage, and his attempts to hide his growing smirk are in vain. He's almost laughing, for God's sake.

Why? He's just fourteen! This is like a death prediction come true for him, and he's giggling?

This doesn't go unnoticed on Velvet's part, either, as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "Is the boy insane?" she whispers harshly, eyes trained on his smaller form.

I can only shrug numbly.

Roland Sanders, District Nine, Victor of the 68th Hunger Games

It's here. Just like every year.

The Reapings.

It's so uncomfortable for me and Olivander both, to know that throughout almost twenty years we have not brought home a single victor. I cope with morphling, while Olivander depends on nearly every illegal thing that there is. Alcohol, cigarettes, morphling, you name it, he's on it. Sunken skin, hollow eyes, raspy breath. Everything.

And he hates it. I hate it. I hate this life. I should have just stepped off my plate at the bloodbath, to be honest, just ended my life right then and there.

Anything, really, would have been better than this destiny. The twenty-three whose lives were ended quickly fared much better than me. Or perhaps I should have simply handed the scythe over to Kristine. Let her seal my fate.

I regret so many things. All the things I've done. I should have just….

"Roland."

I look up through a veil of sleepiness. "Hm?"

"I've been asking you to listen to me for the past five minutes." Olivander's dark, raspy voice is creepy. He turns his gaze from me to a lighter, where he then sets aglow a beige cigarette.

"Well, I'm listening now, so get it over with."

He coughs for a moment, eyes screwed in pain. "Should we decide on the tributes we want beforehand, just to avoid bias?"

"Yes," I nod. "I'll go with the guy. I can't stand being around so many young blond girls who remind me of Hydrangea."

Olivander tries to groan, but winds up hacking up a storm again. "Dude, you have to get over her. That's almost twenty-two years ago, man. Lighten up. The past is in the past, right?"

I shoot him a look.

"Just saying." He shrugs.

Rolling my eyes and attempting to go back and wallow in my misery, I turn from him as our escort, Brilliance, saunters onto the stage.

"District Nine," she grins cheesily. "What a pleasure to see you all again, with the addition of a ton of twelve-year-olds!"

My gaze darts to the back, where a load of pale-faced, scrawny young kids stand. One with auburn braids looks like she's about to faint.

"Firstly, let's all thank your wonderful mayor, Mr. Sterling Grader, for a lovely speech about the history of my own home, the Capitol!" Brilliance bounces up and down peppily, like some chirpy high school girl with hot pink and bronze dreadlocks. "It was wonderful, as it was each year, Mr. Grader!"

The mayor, a frail man with greying black hair, nods uncertainly, waving cheerlessly at the crowds.

"To mix things up a bit this year, I thought we'd go with the males first!" Brilliance beams, already at the giant glass bowls. Her silver hand thrusts into one, swishing around dramatically, until one lonely slip in particular becomes the bait for her exaggeratedly long nails.

"Hm… Let's hear it for Braxton Malory!"

My stare, still on the mayor, doesn't fade as he pales, grasping his chair in utter shock. I vaguely know Braxton's name. It's his own grandson. And I'm mentoring him.

I follow the mayor's gaze to a pale boy, who's clutching his stomach in surprise. He rapidly recovers, however, and really hams it up, jogging up the aisle with a sappy smile on his chin, obviously masking his emotions. I have to respect him for that, especially since he doesn't look a day over fourteen.

Brilliance eyes him up eagerly. "We always do like to see a cheery tribute," she giggles, already unfolding the next slip. "Hm, do we have a Maysa Barric here?"

I pick out the girl fairly easily, mainly because she slips out of her age group quickly. Her lovely brown curls are disrupted as she shakes her head, eyes mournfully trained on Brilliance, Olivander and I. I feel guilty, even though I did absolutely nothing to affect her- I'm not even mentoring her.

But as I glance over at Olivander to see his reaction, he's asleep. Doesn't even care anymore.

I really am alone in this effort, then. And I hate it.

Jamie Hills, District Ten, Victor of the 54th Hunger Games

Doggedly, I try to keep pace with the more slender and regal-looking Eagle, but it's difficult to keep up with her long strides. Her cold gaze freezes even Meriweather, who's sheepishly trying to talk with the mayor.

"Just like every year, then?" I ask, panting a bit. I've really been packing on the pounds since my husband died, and the endless supply of cakes and pastries and such being delivered to my home doesn't help at all.

"Correct." She throws her nose into the air again, more aloof than ever.

"So I get the weakling and you get the stronger, more competent tribute," I grumble under my breath, secretly cursing her. At the same time, I can't help but admire her casual attitude, how she can't give a second thought to anything with that airy personality. Almost sixty and still going strong, unlike myself, who's eight years younger.

"District Ten, your mentors, Eagle Hugh and Jamie Hills!"

I force a smile onto my chubby cheeks, raising a hand to the silent masses of children and adults both. No signs of warmth anywhere. Great. Just like last year, again.

I know how much they must have hated me as Alise became the first tribute whose blood splattered onto the ground of the arena. It couldn't have been my fault, though… she wasn't in the right mindset, and she was just fifteen. I still have nightmares about her, brown hair tied up neatly, as she strolled to a rapier dazedly.

How her neck snapped so quickly.

I shake the thought out of my head, remembering that at least Eagle's tribute lasted until the final fifteen. He was somewhat stronger. It's the closest we've been to victory for twenty-some years, anyways. Top fifteen.

Really shows how trained and honorable this district is.

Meriweather quickly hops over to the microphone, her silvery buzz cut glimmering in the late afternoon sun. "A-Ahem. District Ten. Yes, hello." She nods nervously, nodding quickly. She's more jittery than a rabbit on caffeine. "Shall we cut to the chase? Females first, per usual?"

Nobody replies, so Meriweather nervously chuckles and hurries over to the glass bowls.

"Sh-Shael Havern."

For a moment, the crowds are silent. Then, movement. Eagerly I watch as a fairly plain young woman, about eighteen, strides up to the stage briskly, her face pale and her nails digging into her palms. She's almost quivering, but I'm unsure if it's from fear or anger. Her face gives almost nothing away- oh, no, wait… she's biting her lip. Fear, probably. But from a distance, if you saw her, she'd be stoic, almost emotionless. I smile warmly. She's a regular actress!

"Um, the males now?" Meriweather wraps a comforting arm around Shael, pulling her in, and the younger girl stands stiffly, unsure of what to do. I stifle a laugh as Meriweather's voice rings out. "Cade Bennett?"

A young boy's voice cries out, and immediately I know that this is my tribute. Interested, I peer over the tops of tall children, to see a slight scuffle with a short boy and a Peacekeeper. The boy struggles against the older person's strong grip, and is quickly shoved in the direction of the stage. With flushed cheeks and an embarrassed expression, Cade rushes up to the stage, eyes darting nervously.

Eagle snorts. "I've got-"

"Shael," I reply coldly. "Yes, I know. You get the better tribute, and most likely Cade will be a bloodbath and Shael won't get much farther." Eagle's icy façade appears to be shattered as I snap, "It's the same song and dance every year, Eagle, and nobody likes it. We're basically killing their kids. Next year I should just stick you with the freaking bloodbath tribute, see how you like it."

And for the first time in forever, Eagle is tongue-tied.

Hudson Rhine, District Eleven, Victor of the 87th Hunger Games

Alone.

The nagging voice at the back of my mind is repetitive and relentless both, whispering angry words into my ears, filling my mind with curses and hell.

You're just alone, Hudson. You keep failing. Why do you keep failing?

The only way to get them to stop is to answer them- and I must answer truthfully, or else they become darker and angrier than ever.

"I fail because I've lost hope." My whisper is ragged, my breath quivering and tremulous.

It's just your third year, Hudson. You can't already have lost hope.

"You know when you've lost hope." I swallow thickly.

It's only been four tributes. Four tributes, each of them dead at the bloodbath. Some advice you give them, huh?

I grip the handles of my chair, sweat breaking out through my forehead. "I do what I can," I say quietly, on the verge of tears, "but I just can't help the fact that their deaths are unaccounted for."

You're their last hope.

The world before me seems dizzy. I squeeze my eyelids shut, shaking my head a few times to try and clear up any nausea that comes my way. My fingers scrabble in the pocket of my jacket, searching desperately for the sharp tip of the morphling needle, and I have to restrain myself from slamming it into my bluish vein. It takes a while, yes, but I can feel the drug working its way through every part of me to calm myself.

When the escort, Prius, comes around to tell me that he'll be announcing my arrival soon, I'm pretty much prepped, my voices gone. I'm even smiling slightly. I don't see why people say morphling is a bad thing. Taken responsibly, it has wonderful, positive outcomes.

"Welcome to the Reapings, District Eleven! I'd like to welcome your trustworthy, amazing mentor, Hudson Rhine!"

A smile painted humbly over my chin, I stride out to the stage, nodding and trying to keep the tone of the Reaping light, though I know it never will be.

"Shall we start, Hudson?" Prius smiles, and even though every fiber of my body advises against it, I nod dumbly.

A gloved hand. Glass fishbowl. One slip, soon to be thrown to their death.

"Kiera Brennan!" barks out Pruis.

"NOPE!"

With a snap of my head, I whip my gaze over to a redheaded girl, currently screaming like her life is about to end- which it is- and flailing her limbs about. Immediately a troop of Peacekeepers seize her, as she's screaming "It's true, it's true!" and in unison, they thrust her onstage.

I stare at the writhing girl with a sense of agony myself.

She scrambles to her feet, doggedly leaping over to me, panting. "You're Hudson," she shrieks out, eyes wide and feral. "You can save me, I know you can!"

"N-No…" I stammer out, slinking back in my chair from the crazy girl. I'm mentoring her?!

"Yes, you can!" she screams out, slamming her foot onto the stage with a kick of her leg. Peacekeepers rush to the stage again, three of them immediately placing her in a chokehold.

Prius is visibly wavered. "Well," he starts out, his voice faltering. "Let's… um… let's go with the males now. So… well…. Come on up, Cole Tenacity!"

A disruption in the front row is caused by a solemn-looking boy, tall and threatening-looking. He must be better off, since he's stockier than most in the district. His eyes widened, trained on Kiera, he mounts the stage quietly.

So this is it- an insane girl and a reserved guy who, so far, has shown no emotion?

Not exactly victor material, but of course I'll try.

Grey Ray, District Twelve, Victor of the 76th Hunger Games

"District Twelve, I'm just so glad to be escorting for you all this year!" Bubblez bounces up and down, her bright smile somewhat diminished by her loud bubblegum pink lips.

I groan inwardly, shaking my head. Even Prius was better. At least he wasn't the freakish new escort, he was seasoned with three years of work. He was kind, too. He didn't treat the tributes like possessions, like the escorts before did. He knew they were human and even treated them like his own children, rubbing their backs when they were down and trying to cheer them up.

And then there's freakish Bubblez.

I mean, the girl is called Bubblez. She insisted that the 'z' is absolutely necessary and therefore, must also be pronounced with it. 'Bubblezzz'. Like a bumblebee, really.

Plus, she can't be a day over seventeen. She's probably getting special treatment since she's some daughter of a Gamemaker or something. It's not fair at all, but I've learned through twenty-plus years as a mentor that things just aren't fair in life. It doesn't matter how you get there as long as you do, right?

Right. That's how I went from the timid little girl to the brutal killing machine, swinging my swords without mercy.

"Soooooo!" the escort squeals, kicking up a heel. "I'm sure that this year District Twelve will bring home a victor for sure, so why beat around the bush when we can immediately pick the victor, huh?"

Silence. I cough just to make her feel a bit better, since I can almost see her excited orange ponytails droop.

"Let's get on with it, then!" Bubblez offers me a grateful smile, which I don't return immediately. It's only after she turns that the corners of my lips turn up.

The slips rustle in her hand, and the familiar banging of my heart reminds me how nervous I was, and constantly am, whenever the slips are pulled. Just a constant reminder that death is real.

"Haven Faye, come on up!"

A blond girl, rather frail, is quick to storm up. She doesn't cry, a definite bonus. Instead, she marches straight to Bubblez and, with a slight movement, she slaps her forearm. Bubblez is unaffected- she must be made of armor or something – and simply gazes back at Haven with pity.

"I'm sorry that it had to happen, but rules are rules, sweetheart," she says soothingly. My heart gives a funny leap. Maybe I misjudged Bubblez. Maybe she does have a soul.

"I'll be quick… Kinton Machek?"

A strangled cry is let out from the female's side, and emerging from one of the front rows is a baby-faced guy, slightly shorter than the average male. Draped in a black coat, he looks rather odd as he stumbles up to the stage, a few tears dripping out of his darkening brown eyes. His gaze meets mine for a moment and he tries a smile.

My heart officially melts like butter for this poor boy who's basically signed a death wish.

"District Twelve, I leave you with a smile and a 'May the odds be ever in your favor!'"

Not while I'm mentoring, there won't be.

A/N: Like Yesterday by Luke Conard.

Ahhh, I loathe Reapings, so I told myself to just sit down and get them all done. Yeah, they suck, I know… Anyways.

I'm going on vacation soon, two and a half weeks, so if the next update is very late, I won't have wifi. I don't know. Hotels can be sketchy, no?

Anyways, questions.

1. Thoughts on each POV?

2. Favorite escorts/mentors?

3. Which tributes stood out to you?

4. Who are you looking forward to seeing?