To Marvel at Death

by nightfuries

The 37th Games were a hit with the Capitol audience, but with a rebel for a new victor, the president is not pleased. A revolution looms in Panem's future, one the newly promoted Head Gamemaker must deal with. And there's only one way to stifle rebellion: a gory, devestating set of Games with a memorable theme. Fairytales are so last year - now comic books rule the arena.

3. District 2: A Study in Scarlet

I'M BACK!

And well aware it's been like, six months since I last updated. Guys, I am so, so, so, so, a million times sorry. If you've been reading the updates on my profile page, then you'll know it's been a crazy year from me. I won't go into details, but I FINALLY found the time to finish this chapter, which was also difficult because it's so freaking long. Seriously, I promise, I will never write a 16 000 word reaping chapter again. That's just too long for reapings, sorry

Anywho, in order to make up for my way-too-long period of absence, I have made a victors blog! So, if anyone's interested in getting some facts and stats on the 37 victors from Darrel the Dragon's Universe of Awesome, the link's on my profile page :) Also what should be going up on youtube soon is a trailer I've filmed for A Grimm Set of Games. I know the story's finished, but I had some footage from the summer that I never wound up using, and I figured a little while ago, why not finish it? So that should be getting done this week too.

And finally, I promise, updates will never take this long again. The reason I've been so busy has mostly been post-secondary school applications, but that's all wrapping up now, which means I'll have A LOT more time on my hands to keep up with this story. Once again, sorry for the incredibly long wait and enjoy the chapter!

Also, these tributes are thanks to RandomUserna- MANATEE and ImmyRose!

---

Awnington "Awny" Tarrow

Oh, what a beautiful day, what an amazing, fantastic, wonderful, absolutely beautiful day!

I practically leap out of bed, barely resisting the urge to dance across my room as I fling my window's shutters open. Look at that! The sun is shining, the birds are chirping – it looks like for once, the universe is actually conspiring to help me.

By the time I reach my closet, I'm humming some random, cheerful tune, picking out my best clothes and slipping out of my pajamas to put them on. Sure, maybe my dress pants are still a pair of Dad's hand-me-downs, but the shirt is new! And so is the tie. I look myself up and down in the mirror, trying to smooth out any wrinkles and pat down my messy, brown hair. Do I look good? Yeah, I think so. Yeah! Oh, Lura's going to love it.

Sometimes, I still find it hard to believe I'm dating her, especially after the terrible first impression I made, not long after the 37th Games ended. But for some reason, even after that, she'd still decided to accept my offer and go have lunch with me. Then we went to another lunch. And another, and another, then we're hanging out after school and taking walks and watching sunsets and BAM! Awny Tarrow has a girlfriend. Who just happens to be the most incredibly perfect, beautiful, smart, kind, funny, fantastic girl in the entire world.

And a Hunger Games victor to boot. Honestly, sometimes I have to wonder if she's deaf or blind to actually be willing to go out with me.

But that doesn't matter now. What does matter is that today, she's heading back to the Capitol to mentor two more tributes. Before that, though, she's going to get a visit from yours truly. And I am finally going to kiss her.

God, could this day be any more beautiful?

Nothing's going to ruin this. I've been planning for weeks, preparing and yeah, maybe I tried practicing once or twice with a pillow. I just, well, I need this to be perfect. Lura deserves nothing less. And I haven't . . . exactly . . . ever kissed a girl before. So how do I know if I'm gonna do all right?

No, no, don't doubt yourself, Awny. Eyes on the prize. There is magic in the air, you can feel it, and you're just going to march right over to Lura's house, take her in your arms and kiss her. And it will be perfect. Nothing could possibly screw this u-

Clank! Clank!

Crap. No, no, my parents aren't supposed to be up yet! Come on, it's a holiday, jeez!

The sounds of pots and pans rustling around in the kitchen doesn't go away, forcing me to accept the fact that I'm not hallucinating. Which sucks. I'm positive the moment I walk out my door, my parents are going to call me with some chore to do. It is reaping day after all, and getting all of The Hill's inhabitants together is quite a feat. I mean, it's not that I mind helping my dad out, per se. It's just, well, as of eleven months ago, I've kind of developed other priorities.

Still, no avoiding them now. I groan slightly, watching my reflection in the mirror mimic the gesture, before reluctantly inching my door open. Don't hear, don't hear, don't hear, don't he-

"Awny, is that you?"

Aw, crap.

"Hey, Mom," I call back, reluctantly slipping out of my room and heading down the hall to the kitchen, where, sure enough, both she and Dad are prepping breakfast. They're always the first ones up in the house, I should have guessed nothing would change today. But that's still not going to ruin your date. Not at all.

"Bit early for reaping clothes, isn't it?" Dad asks, balancing a carton of eggs on the frying pan while also trying to grab the milk from the fridge. "Ceremony doesn't start 'til noon."

"Unless he's trying to look fancy for someone else," Mom says, an all-too-knowing grin on her face. Man, I can't hide anything from my parents.

"Yeah, I'm kinda planning on seeing Lura and it's really important so," please, please, please don't have any chores for me to do, "can I go?"

Dad frowns in thought and I bite my lip, crossing all the fingers I can manage without breaking any. Mom, meanwhile, glances from my expression to her husband's before shaking her head. "Oh, let him go, Gareld. After all, she's leaving today, isn't she, Awny?"

"Yep and I sort of need to give her something before she goes, so can I please-?"

"Give her something?" Mom's eyes light up; I've hit her romantic nerve. "Aw, sweetie, did you get her a goodbye gift?"

"Well, it's not so much a gift and more of a . . . I don't know, an action?"

This time it's Mom who frowns in confusion while Dad whips around, eyes narrowing behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "Awnington Tarrow, how many times have your mother and I warned you about premarital se-"

"Ew, god, no! Stop, don't finish . . . don't finish that sentence." An involuntary shudder runs up my spine at the thought of another awkward discussion with my parents on "relationships at the teenage level". "Look, I'm just planning on kissing her, all right? There's none of that . . . business going on."

Dad relaxes visibly as Mom relieves him of the frying pan and eggs. "See, hon?" She smiles, setting the stuff down on the counter. "They're taking it slow. Just like we did."

Mom leans over and . . . no, no, oh god. I turn away, shuddering as she kisses Dad. Seriously, there needs to be some sort of law against parents showing affection in front of their kids. I think I'm going to be sick.

"So, want an egg for breakfast?" Mom asks, finishing her nauseating act and setting to cooking again.

"Yeah, not after that. Also, I'm gonna have breakfast with Lura. Which reminds me . . ." I take a deep breath, knowing that this might be pushing it. I might actually manage to get out of my house without getting roped into chores, on reaping day, of all days. It's a miracle. So I really shouldn't be asking for more, but, "DadcanIpleasetakethebustoLura'spleasepleasepleaseit'ssomuchfasterthanmybikeandIreallyneedthispleasepleaseplease."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." I come from an entire family of speed talkers, but when I get really nervous or unsure about something, I can even outpace my sister in the art of word vomiting. Dad raises his free hand, pouring milk with the other. "Say again."

"Can I please, please, please," How many pleases before it's too much? Eh, one more just in case, "please drive the bus to Lura's? You've been teaching me how and I'm really good and she lives so far and my bike is so slow and I'll get sweaty in my reaping clothes and-"

Up comes his hand again and I stop, biting my lip. I personally think I made a pretty good argument, but my dad's expression makes my heart sink nonetheless. "Awny, you know the mayor only allows us a small quantity of gas each year, enough for shopping trips and reaping day. You can come to town with everyone else, but you'll have to wait a few hours."

At which point Lura will already be heading to the square, getting ready to sit on stage with the rest of District 2's mentors. Darn. Well, at least I anticipated this, and got up nice and early to make the bike ride to her house just in case the bus wasn't free. Still, peddling all the way there only to come all the way back and help my dad organise everyone? I'll only get like, max forty-five minutes with Lura.

But you're going to make them count. Remember, nothing's gonna ruin today.

Right – today is the day. The day. Sure, the bus isn't free, sure, I might show up on Lura's doorstep all sweaty and gross, but that's not going to change anything. Think positive, Awny, think positive.

"Hold on a sec, sweetie." I was just heading for the door, but Mom's voice calls me back. Aw, no, not a chore! Please, not today.

She scoops a cooked egg out of the frying pan, sliding it effortlessly onto a piece of toast before placing more bread on top and sticking the whole thing into a bag. "Can you bring this to Emmy? She's out back with her science group."

"Emmy's up too?" Man, and I thought I was rising early this morning.

"Mmhm. Oh, and don't worry about their club, okay?"

I pause once more, my hand on the door. My little sister adores science; she's the proud co-president of The Hill's little "Foundation of Science and Exploration", and the club members are always up to weird stuff. In our backyard. Last week, I found them dissecting some road kill Dad had hit with the bus while driving into town to pick up groceries. What could possibly be worse than that? "Why, what are they doing?"

"Oh, you'll see."

---

Valence Thereux

"Gloves."

Emmaula kneels down and hands them to me, the others staying as far as they can while still trying to appear interested. Obviously they don't see the scientific opportunities abounding in this case, or their weak stomachs are just too much to handle. Normally, I'd berate them for it, but right now, I'm happier to work on our project myself. Unlike this ragtag group of "science enthusiasts", I actually know what I'm doing.

Gently, I slide the plastic gloves on and lift the matted hair surrounding the man's neck. It's disgustingly long, and he has a dirty beard as well, but eventually I manage to brush enough away to get a clear view of the skin beneath.

"Magnifying glass."

It's in my hand almost as soon as I stretch out my palm, and I swiftly bring it to the man's neck. Rock dust, and lots of it – granite, I'd assume, based on the man's proximity to the struggling mine that keeps The Hill going. My fingers grab for the small brush I keep in my kit and carefully, I wipe away some of the grey covering – hm, no bruises underneath. That rules out strangulation . . .

"Ahh! What the crap?!"

And just like that, my day is ruined. I recognise that voice all too well, and hearing it always brings about powerful feelings of disappointment, frustration and outright annoyance. Of course it had to be today too. The most interesting case we've had to date, and Emmaula Tarrow's idiot brother just has to come along and ruin it. Perfect.

I look up from my examination, an irritated scowl quickly growing across my thin lips. In terms of intelligence, District 2 as a whole is bad enough, but once my family moved to the remote mining town known as "The Hill", I realised just how truly stupid people can be. As a result, I've deemed myself above communicating with them, and leave such tasks to my little "followers".

Thankfully, Emmaula takes the hint from my expression, and the fifteen-year-old quickly turns on her brother. "Awny, go away! We're doing something important!"

"Important?! That's a dead body! Oh my god, you guys killed a man."

"Don't be stupid." Impossible, I want to tell Emmaula. I've only lived here two years, but it's been more than enough time to deduce the unfeasibility of Awnington Tarrow ever not being stupid. "Dad found him when he went to survey the mine early this morning and Valence overheard him telling me and got the corpse for our club."

"Of course Valence would have." I personally take that as a compliment; it demonstrates my initiative, my curiosity, my desire to learn. However, I don't believe this is how Awnington meant his words to be interpreted – which irks me. "Aw . . . is that Old Crow?"

Only a fool wouldn't recognise the man's stunningly scarlet overalls immediately, so it's understandable Awnington took so long. Emmaula's older brother grimaces as he leans in for a closer look. "It is. Man, I liked Old Crow!"

"You never even knew his real name," his sister replies, rolling her eyes. "No one did. He just sat by the mine mumbling to himself and feeding the birds."

"Yeah, but he gave this place character. How many other District 2 towns do you know with a hundred-year-old crazy person?"Awnington glances down once more. "How'd he die anyways?"

I set my brush down – perhaps a bit too forcefully, but alas, even geniuses such as myself cannot always contain our emotions. But feelings, like anything, are a tool, and while I often find no use for them, and as such, banish them from my mind, they can be useful in conveying one's goals to others. Especially when the other in question cannot even begin to comprehend simple English. "Is it not obvious from my perlustration of the cadaver that this is exactly what I am ratiocinating?"

"Uhh . . ." Even with my efforts to dumb down my advanced vocabulary, it appears I've still used a few syllables too many. Honestly, the stupidity of these "townsfolk" never ceases to amaze me. Not that anyone in District 2's main city could keep up with my superior intellect either but at least they weren't complete idiots. "So, you mean, like . . ."

"We're still looking for a cause of death." Thank goodness that sister of his knows when to jump in and take on the burden of dealing with inferior folk. Linnea is always saying how Emmaula should have been my sister instead, the two of us are so much alike. And while the girl's not quite up to my standards, I do occasionally notice the similarities. "Dad said we could keep the body out here for a little while longer, 'til he figures out what to do with it. No one really cares enough to hold a funeral. And this is great for our science group."

"Yeah, you and Valence obviously aren't the only ones enjoying this." He glances towards the other three members present, all standing a good distance away and displaying various degrees of nausea. "Hey, Alysse. Lort. Todd-Timony." Each child nods in turn. "Anyways, Emmy. Breakfast." He shakes a nondescript, brown bag in Emmaula's direction.

She grabs it swiftly, still frowning at him. "Thanks. Now will you please go away?"

"Don't have to ask me twice. I've got a date!" A fatuous, puerile smile has sprung back onto Awnington's lips, triggering the dimples in his cheeks and causing him to look even more ridiculous than usual. I will admit, a small part of my mind has entertained the notion of interviewing Lura Carson, searching for clues as to what a Hunger Games victor like her possibly sees in an idiot from The Hill. Then I realised her taste in company most likely hints at her lack of intelligence, therefore marking her as yet another who would waste my time. "Have fun dissecting a dead guy."

"It's not a dissection, it's an autopsy," his sister calls after him – Emmaula is always one to correct the misguided views of others. "We're using science to determine how he died."

"Yeah, whatever." Awnington turns back towards the bicycle he'd leaned up against the fence. It's old, with a feeble looking red frame and two wheels that barely seem inflated – it's almost laughable to think someone might actually try and ride it. Back in the Forum, District 2's main city, children could often be seen riding heavy-duty bikes, with thick tires and high seats that could take the rider smoothly across the rest of the district's mountainous terrain. It's one of the earliest forms of exercise and physical training children go through in order to prepare themselves for the future. I used to own one, a deep, emerald green bicycle, back before we had to sell everything.

I grab for the magnifying glass, clenching it tightly in my grasp, just as Awnington turns back. "Wait." He has that distinct glimmer in his dark eyes, which his sister calls the Awny-thinks-he's-three-steps-ahead-when-he's-really-four-steps-behind look. "You sure he just didn't get caught in a rock slide?"

My knuckles tighten around the glass's handle, the chapped skin around the bones paling as it's pulled taut. A gesture Emmaula does not fail to notice. "Awny, you're ruining things!" she hisses, shooing him away with flapping hands.

"I'm just saying, if you found him by the mine-"

"Awny, go!"

"Okay, okay, I'm gone."

I choose to keep my gaze focused down on the body, but my keen ears do detect the sounds of footsteps, closely followed by the whirring of gears as the bicycle's wheels are set in motion. Once the sound grows sufficiently distant, I force myself to relax. Deep breath. Exhale slowly. Remember it's not other people's faults that they're stupid.

"You know, he's probably right." My muscles clench once more as Lort's voice penetrates the still air. He always was a lumbering fool. "Emmy's father found the body at the mine entrance, almost half-buried under rocks. There are bruises all over the corpse. Isn't that case closed?"

Emotions tell me to slam the magnifying glass onto the ground to get my point across, but one should never listen to their emotions unless they wish to submit to them. Instead, I carefully set the fragile tool down on the ground before rising and turning, narrowing my wide, green eyes into a condescending glare. "Case closed? Really? You're going to ignore the cadaver and the thousands of possibilities it presents in order to opine his demise? What if he was beaten to death and the murderer was smart enough to cover his tracks? After all, if everyone is just going to speculate on what actually happened . . ."

"B-but who . . ." Shy Todd-Timony attempts to speak up, and though obviously cowed by my intimidating gaze, he manages to finish his sentence all the same. "W-who would . . . would want t-to murder Old C-Crow? I-I-I m-mean, there's n-no point."

I glare down at him. "Is that a fact or merely your own surmisal?"

The confusion in his eyes makes me roll my own in disgust; honestly, by now I'd expect my little followers to at least have the intelligence to keep up with my vocabulary. If they can't even do that, then they're useless. Turning away to emphasise my contempt for Todd-Timony, Lort and all the other idiots who might be around, I return to my examination of the corpse. But not before I hear Alysse whisper to her younger cousin. "Surmisal means guess."

Guess. I suppose, if one must require the term to be dumbed down, then yes, it does mean guess. The largest taboo there is in science. One does not guess in my line of work. After all, if one resorts to guessing, one might be more inclined to hide or fabricate evidence in order to prove their guess right. And after that, you're one step away from accepting bribes to repeat the process. There go your morals, there goes your science – after that, it all becomes a web of greed and deception.

I grasp the magnifying glass once more between my fingers and resume my examination of the body. The Thereux family shall not have two failed investigators in its midst; not if I have anything to say about it.

---

Awnington "Awny" Tarrow

"Six bucks? You've got to be kidding me!"

"Reaping day sale, kid."

"That's not a sale! That's like, twice as expensive as usual!"

"So you gonna buy or not?"

I glare at Moe Yealdy over the counter before letting out a defeated sigh. Don't get me wrong – I love Pastries and Pies. Best bakery in all of District 2, albeit being one that, for a short while, I avoided like the plague. Code's house used to be just down the street from here – still is, I should say. But Code . . . well, for a while, all coming here did was remind me of the times we used to spend here, trying all the different jellies in the doughnuts and laughing when we got cream all over our faces.

After I met Lura though, I knew I had to treat her, and that meant only one thing: Pastries and Pies. Which she had never been to in her life. Even though she used to live like, three blocks away, before she moved into Victor's Village. Needless to say, I was appalled. And took her here as soon as I could. After that, we sort of established a tradition where, every Sunday morning, I'd show up at her house with two cinnamon buns to share for breakfast. I nearly went broke paying for them, but man, was it worth it to see the smile on her face. Today might not be our traditional breakfast-together day, but with the reapings and everything, I figure I should surprise her. I mean, I personally think travelling to the Capitol every year would be awesome – that place sounds so cool – but Lura seems to hate it. Especially since she turned eighteen, for some reason. I've always found it too weird to ask why.

"Oi, you paying or what? 'Cause I've got other customers to attend to."

Such a lie. There's no one else in the shop but me. Still . . . I bite my lip, glancing down at the coins in my hand. Thanks to Moe's stupid "reaping day sale", I've only got enough money for one. Today's getting ruined . . . No, no, it's not. I can still make this work. I'll just, uh, tell Lura I ate mine on the way! Yeah, that works.

"Fine, I'll take one."

Coins change hands and soon I'm exiting through the bakery's stain-glassed door, warm, brown pastry bag in hand. Pastries and Pies is in the heart of the Forum, District 2's centre city, and Victor's Village is only a short walk away. So, rather than try and balance on my bike, steering the handle bars and holding the bag at the same time (not a good idea. Believe me, I've tried it), I walk my bike alongside me on the road to Lura's house. Reaping decorations are already up in the streets: every dead tribute from 2 gets a statue in their memory, honouring their death in pursuit of greatness and glory, but today the torches that surround each one are all lit, creating a sort of fire-lined walkway on either side of the street. Overhead, banners flap in the wind, each one depicting the faces of potential volunteers from various training academies. The logo at the top designates which academy each teen hails from, and of course, there are more silver and gold crossed swords to be found than any other design. Looks like the Coliseum really pulled out all the stops this year.

District 2 has one of the largest populations in Panem, around the same amount as 10, but instead of scattered farms and small collections of ranches like I've heard they have, we have a series of towns all spread out across the mountains. The Forum is the heart of everything though, seeing as it holds the Justice Building, an enormous marketplace and, of course, the Coliseum, which everyone seems to believe is the place to train. The Hill, unfortunately, is on the opposite end of things, literally; the southern portion of our little town is bordered by the big, chain link fence that marks the edges of the district. There used to be tons of tiny mining towns like ours – Dead Canary, Oreston, Rubble Hall – but slowly, their ore began to dry up until they were left with absolutely nothing. After that, our mayor converted them into Peacekeeper bases, and each of the citizens either had to join the training or move to another town. I know my dad's been worried the same thing might wind up happening to The Hill; we haven't been able to make the same quota we used to, and we've recently received a sudden influx of Peacekeepers patrolling the town, almost as though they're scouting the place out and deciding where to put their headquarters. Hopefully our luck will change soon because, man, I do not want to be told I can never marry and then sent off to another district to watch over other people. Not when things are going so well here and now.

I turn off the cobblestone streets of District 2 and onto the beautiful, inlaid stones that mark the sidewalk of Victor's Village. All of the houses looked exactly the same when they were first built, but each victor added something personal to their lawn at some point after their victory, so Lura's is easy to spot. Just follow the path to the birdbath.

Once I reach the door, though, I hesitate. This is it. This. Is. It. You're actually going to do this, Awny. You're going to take her out onto the porch, crack a few jokes while she eats her pastry, and then, before you go, you're going to lean in and . . . and . . . oh god, oh god, I think I'm hyperventilating. No! Calm down. It's time.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Even as my knuckles rap the door for one last knock, the sounds of movement inside the home already reach my ears. Okay, get ready, get ready . . . gah! Why didn't I take the time to smooth down my shirt? Idiot, it's all wrinkled! Okay, okay, that's fine, just smooth it ou-

"Awny?"

I freeze, hands still on my chest, looking for all the world like the biggest idiot in Panem. Especially once I glance up and fully take in the person standing in the doorway.

Seeing as I think about her like, all the time, I don't believe I could ever forget how Lura looks. And yet, every time I see her, I'm stunned into silence. She's curled her hair today, allowing it to fall in loose ringlets past her shoulders. Her dress is strapless, stunningly crimson and hugs her curves so snugly I can't help but let my jaw drop. Okay, don't stare. Awny. Stop staring. Come on, say something. Anything.

"Awny?"

"Uhhh . . . yeah." I give myself a shake and meet her gaze. "I mean, um, happy reaping day . . ." Idiot, she hates the reapings. "No, no, uh, sad day. Um, I mean . . . uhh . . ." Stop, stop talking now. I sigh and shove the pastry bag forward. "I brought breakfast."

There's short moment of silence, during which I find I can't possibly think up enough synonyms for idiot. But then, something amazing happens. Lura smiles. Sure, it's something she does every day, but it still feels miraculous whenever she does it. It's not a sly smile, or a gruff one like what most of 2's citizens tend to wear; Lura's is pure happiness, plain and simple. It's so warm even my awkwardness melts away.

"Awny." She takes a step forward, her arms outstretching slightly, and for a moment, it seems as though she's going to hug me. But something passes over her dark green eyes, almost like a shadow, and she stops short. Whatever's going on, it's been happening a lot lately, starting right after Lura began to make more frequent trips to the Capitol. She's become a lot less touchy-feely, but that doesn't stop her from trying for another smile as she takes the bag. "Thank you."

"Figured I might get you one more, before, you know, your trip." Have to avoid using the word "Capitol"; Lura gets sad when she remembers where she's going.

"My Sunday breakfasts just won't be the same," she says, smiling. But her brow furrows as she opens the bag. "Where's yours?"

"Oh. Um, I had it already. Sorry. I was, uh, really hungry."

"Don't worry about it." She glances behind her. "You want to come in?"

"Actually, I was, uh, hoping we could go outside. On the porch, or maybe for a walk or something?"

Her face lights up at the idea, and as she calls back to let her parents know where she's going, I feel my heart soar. This is it all right. Today is the day. Especially as she takes a step out onto the porch and her free hand intertwines in mine. Thanks to whatever's been bugging her, we haven't really touched at all in weeks. But now my fingers are sliding through hers, fitting together perfectly and it feels like the whole universe is cheering me on.

Brrrring! Brrrrrrring!

I nearly jump, still not completely used to the sound of a telephone. Lura's the only person I know who has one; all the victors do, even though they have a pretty limited range of people they can call. Which is why it's not hard to guess who might be calling Lura.

No. No, no, no, no, no. I tug on her hand, trying not to seem like I'm in a rush to leave while getting her out of here quickly all the same. Maybe she didn't hear it. Maybe we can still-

"Lura? Are you still out there? Isaac is on the phone."

And just like that, my day is ruined.

"Ah, right." Lura bites her lip as her mother reaches the door, holding the cordless phone out towards her daughter. "He said he'd call before the reapings. It's always one of the hardest days and he has no idea how to prepare Janaff for it." Then, remembering my existence, she turns back towards me. "Oh god, I am so sorry Awny, I completely forgot-"

"It's fine," I say, way too quickly. The smile I force onto my lips probably looks as real as it feels. "No worries. It's fine."

"We could still head out after, if you-"

"It's fine. I mean, nah." I don't think I could stand sitting in Lura's house and listening to her talk on the phone to another victor, let alone Isaac Lume, for five minutes, let alone however long they'd take. "I'll just . . . go. It's fine. My dad needs help organising everyone anyways. It's fine."

The skin around Lura's eyes crinkles with concern. "Are you sure? I don't want to turn you away, you just got here-"

"It's fine. It's totally fine. You, uh, have fun and, you know, I'll see you around. In, like, a month."

"Awny-"

"It's fine." I raise my arms, going to hug her, then think better of it and wave instead. "Enjoy your trip."

Lura looks so sad as she watches me walk down the path to where I left my bike and for a moment, I almost, almost turn back. Almost tell her I'd be glad to wait. But I've done it before and I promised myself I'd never sit through her phone calls again. My cheeks just hurt too much from all that fake smiling.

I swing my leg over the bike seat and get ready to go, but I just can't stop myself from looking back one more time. All my eyes find is an empty porch; she's already gone back into the house.

---

Valence Thereux

Oulson Eerly grimaces as the body is dumped in front of him. "The 'ell 'appened t'im?"

"Rock slide by the mine," Mr. Tarrow says, panting slightly from the exertion of carrying the cadaver all the way to The Hill's little graveyard.

"Actually, that was not proven," I cut in, narrowing my gaze at the man. I just told him this earlier. "Extended research would be necessary in order to-"

"I know, Valence, I know. But we couldn't leave him out any longer. He's beginning to smell."

That part is true. The flies have started cropping up as well, and though they were recently disturbed during the corpse's journey from the Tarrow backyard to the cemetery, now that the body has been laid back on the ground, they've returned. Still, such things should never get in the way of science. "Despite the weak stomachs of some," I say pointedly, hoping Mr. Tarrow understands I mean him, "I am quite unaffected by the redolence. If I may be permitted to carry out my examination alone-"

"I'm sorry, Valence, but that was all the time I could give you. Besides, it was beginning to disturb everyone else."

"I should think so," Eerly says, rubbing the back of his neck and glaring at me suspiciously with his tiny eyes. "Kids 'ave no reason t' be playin' with dead things. Just ain't natural."

I would respond to that, but my intelligence would be wasted on a man who can't even bother to pronounce half the letters of the alphabet. Instead, I give him an icy stare before turning back to Mr. Tarrow. "Sir-"

"Valence, I'm sorry, but the matter's closed."

"-as appointed under-mayor of this town, you have a right-"

"Valence, I've made up my mind."

"-to protect the citizens of The Hill from whatever threats may run rampart-"

"There aren't any threats."

"-and if you so easily dismiss what may very well be a murder case, then you have proven yourself to be not only an unworthy under-mayor, but an idiot. Now, may I continue my examination?"

Mr. Tarrow meets my gaze and I am outraged to find amusement in his brown eyes. He finds this situation funny. "No, Valence. That was all the time I could give you. You'll just have to wait until another dead body comes along."

"Don' give 'er any ideas," Eerly says, holding his spade out in front of him in a pathetic attempt at defending himself. "Never know wha' these foreigners will ge' up t' nex'."

Foreigners. As though I've lived in The Hill for two days rather than two years. How I wish that was the case.

Mr. Tarrow claps Eerly on the back. "If you can have the grave done before the bus leaves, that'd be great. I'll try and organise some sort of funeral, see if anyone at all would be willing to speak for him."

"With all the reaping celebrations an' stuff goin' on t'night? Ha, good luck."

"Right. Perhaps we'd best postpone the whole thing until tomorrow. Still, I'd rather him buried today, if you can manage. Thanks, Oulson."

"No problem, Mr. Tarrow. Diggin' graves is wha' I do."

Mr. Tarrow smiles in thanks, then turns right around and heads off, presumably back to his house, completely forgetting that I'm still standing in the cemetery with a plethora of arguments as to why my investigation should continue. How dare he ignore me! Just goes to show how ignorant these country people are. No idea the dangers that threaten the district; I doubt they've even heard of Millent Borkum and the murders he committed a few years ago. Probably don't even know Avaria Splint, the decapitator. All these criminals would have laid waste to places like The Hill if good people in the district's main city hadn't been working to stop them.

Good people. Not exactly the truth, I suppose. Just the thought makes me glower at the space where Mr. Tarrow once stood. Well, it's not doing me any good staying here. Honing my observation skills really will just have to wait until another dead body comes along.

Aware of the suspicious glare Eerly is still giving me even as he begins to dig, I set off on my way home. I'm sure our oh-so-responsible under-mayor will be wanting to gather the town's residents outside his house soon. District 2 is so spread out, the Capitol allowed us quite a few buses for places like The Hill which are usually populated with seniors and small children; it would take them ages to walk to the square on their own. The convenience, however, is far outweighed by the sheer annoyance of taking the bus. People have to squeeze so close together just to fit, and then there's the obnoxious loud people, or the ones who eat on the bus or the one baby that never seems to shut up. Sometimes, I think it might be better just to wake up early and walk.

Should have thought of that last night, I chide myself, rounding the corner onto my street. Always think ahead, Valence. Always think-

I stop short, freezing in my tracks. It took me six minutes and thirty-eight seconds to get from the cemetery to my house; The Hill is tiny and impossible to get lost in.

So why is there a man standing outside my house, glancing from it to a piece of paper he holds in his hand as though double-checking an address?

Hesitant, is the first thing that comes to mind. He's staring at our house too much to mistake it any longer. But he's nervous, shifting his weight from side to side and fidgeting with the paper. Why doesn't he want to approach?

Not finding an immediate answer, my eyes dart to his attire, hoping this might yield more clues. Black shoes, old, plain, meant for indoor use – clearly doesn't get out much. Patches of dirt around his knees – walked here, fell a few times, not used to the mountainous terrain, confirms his tendency towards staying inside. Hmm, and a red circle of skin rubbed raw around his wrist - left by some sort of too-small bracelet, perhaps? No, identical mark on the right. Handcuffs?

It hits me right before the man turns around and I'd curse myself for being slow with my deductions if I wasn't too busy trying to contain my emotions as Obsidian Vailfort ambles over to me.

"Valence? Valence Thereux?" He smiles, looking me up and down. "My god, you've grown! How long has it been?"

"Two years, three days." It's my turn to size him up, and my lip curls in disgust as I do so. "I thought your sentence was supposed to be longer."

He winces, rubbing his wrists unconsciously. Unlike myself, these past couple years have only seemed to shrink my father's closest friend. He's thinner, much thinner, and by the way his shoulders hunch and his tired eyes seem to droop, he appears smaller as well. Perhaps this was the reason I could not conduct my deductions in a swift fashion. Come now, Valence, professionals don't make excuses.

"It was," Obsidian answers after a weary sigh. "But my sister got it knocked down a bit. Helped me pay a fine to chop off some time."

I'd only met Apilite Vailfort on a few brief occasions, but I learned enough then to know she never would have helped to bail her brother out unless it was absolutely necessary. Meaning he had to give up every last cent he owned before she stepped up to the plate. "So now you're penurious."

The man stares at me for a moment, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. "If that means broke, then yes, I am." He tries for an apologetic smile but the new wrinkles on his face make it seem more like a grimace. "Kind of a sorry state to see your uncle in, huh?"

"You're not my uncle nor any other sort of blood relative." Thank goodness. One family failure is all I can tolerate. "Why are you here, Obsidean?"

He wrings his hands nervously. "Valence, come on, I thought I told you to call me Si-"

"Why are you here?"

He sighs, glances up at me, then looks away. "Well, you see, now that I'm broke, I figured I might find out how your father was doing, see if he could help me maybe find a place here and, you know, cope with-"

"You're lying."

He looks up quickly. "What? No, Valence, I-"

"Nervous fidgeting. Dilated pupils. Not making eye contact. Higher voice pitch when speaking." I narrow my eyes. "I'm not fifteen anymore, Obsidian, and I'm no amateur. Why are you really here?"

Under my intense gaze he seems to crumble, and I notice his hands unconsciously reach for his coat pocket. There's a small bulge within the material, I realise now. Some sort of little object, round-ish by the looks of it. What . . .?

"Sid?"

Impeccable timing. Just impeccable, I think, seething as I whip around to face the speaker. Heath Thereux. The man I might have called my father, until two years ago. "It is you! How've you been?" One arm holds a paper bag full of groceries – the reason, I'm assuming, for his being out of the house – but the other wraps around his friend and pulls him into a hug.

I've learned in the past two years that the best way possible to deal with Heath Thereux is to ignore him completely and remain out of his company for as long as I can, so with a huff of disgust in the direction of both men, I turn to go. Only to hear my father say, "I got your letter, wasn't expecting you 'til after the reapings."

"Yeah, about that. Things are moving along a bit faster than I thought. We need to act soon."

"All right, well, come on inside. Peri's cooking breakfast and you look like you could use a few waffles."

"Oh god, that sounds good. You have no idea how awful prison food is."

Heath laughs and turns to lead his friend to our house – only to find me standing firmly in their way. He sighs. "What do you want, Valence?"

Instead of addressing him, I speak to Obsidian, who's looking nervous again now that he's back under my gaze. "No."

Heath rolls his eyes. "No what, Valence?"

I keep my glare focused on Obsidian, trying to ignore the desire to curl my hands into fists. Feelings are tools. Control them – don't let them control you. "No, you are not going to involve Heath Thereux in another one of your schemes."

Heath laughs in disbelief; he always was a good liar (one of the signs of a sociopath, I believe). But Obsidian's wide eyes are all I need to know I've guessed right. "I wouldn't think you'd be so willing to go back to jail, Obsidian," I continue, taking care to keep my voice calm and level. Despite myself, there is a part of me that is ridiculously desperate to stop this, and I can't let it show. "And I'm sure the mayor wouldn't be so willing to give you an easy sentence this time around."

My words are obviously getting to him, but before I can finish him, Heath steps between us. "All right, Valence, you've had your fun. Now, why don't you go find your sister? Linnea said she was going looking for you this morning."

I glare at him, wanting to respond, wanting to yell and shout, but two years of cool indifference would be flushed down the drain, and I can't let him see how easily he gets to me. How easily this whole incident has gotten to me.

Heath Thereux used to be criminal investigator in the entire district. That may not seem like much, especially since so many of 2's residents focus more on brawns than brain, but the man was truly a genius with deduction – a skill he passed on to his oldest daughter. I used to idolise him; I'd follow him to work, listening and learning, all the while thinking how lucky I was to have the best father in the district. We were rich, then, or at least, fairly well-off. My mother worked as a mine supervisor because she enjoyed it and had friends at work – Heath brought in more than enough money for her to quit if she liked. As for Linnea and I, we had everything: access to the best training facilities, admittance to the one prestigious private school in the district.

I suppose, thinking back on it, it really all began with the Saundersons. A gruesome triple murder, that case was: a man and two of his sons found dead – all that remained was the wife. Of course, that made Evina Saunderson the prime suspect. Heath had met her and the rest of her family on a few occasions before the trial, and he had never been so sure that someone was innocent. Evina had loved her husband and children dearly, and they had loved her – the picture of a perfect family. But the murderer had been good. Though Heath analysed the crime scene for weeks and weeks, he couldn't find one shred of evidence that disproved Evina's guilt – except, of course, his own deduction and observation skills when he spoke to her. But the mayor would never accept that as proof. So Heath decided to take matters into his own hands.

It doesn't matter if his first instance of forging evidence was done with good intentions at heart. Evina was found innocent after Heath "found" the fingerprints of an already wanted murderer in the house. After that, he realised that he had the power to decide the verdict for a case. No more worrying about the jury; if he could provide overwhelming evidence, it was case closed.

For a while, he did it only to prove the truth he knew. But people started to figure it out. Not the officials – not, yet, anyways – but shiftier figures wearing hoods and bloodstains, waiting in alleys and offering to pay Heath ridiculous amounts of money to fabricate evidence in their favour. We grew steadily richer, never bothering to question where this new money was coming from. And, of course, as the old saying goes, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Obsidian Vailfort was probably the least dangerous of my father's cliental, but also the least subtle. The officials got to him after he had been proven innocent on charges of fraud, and they found out everything. Obsidian was sentenced to three years in prison (later getting it cut down to two, I suppose), and my father not only lost his job, but was fined a much greater sum than what he earned forging evidence. We were forced to move out of the Forum, to one of the many backwater towns on the outskirts of the district, where thankfully, news of my father's deceit hadn't reached.

He thought that meant he could forget it. Forget the whole incident, ignore his wrongdoings, pretend he was never guilty of anything. But I know better. I'll never forget what he did to our family. Never forget what he did to me. I idolised him. I idolised a fraud.

And now he's heading back to our house with his old pal, talking under their breaths as though they've forgotten all the consequences of their past crimes. It makes my blood boil, makes anger sing in my ears. How I would love to run up to the two of them, to argue and shout and stop this whole mess.

Feelings are tools. Control them – don't let them control you.

I take one deep breath, than another, and turn on my heel. It doesn't matter where I go, as long as it's away from my house and that man. Perhaps I really will find Linnea. Usually, if anyone can slightly dilute the annoyance within me, it's my sister.

---

Awnington "Awny" Tarrow

"Oh, most beautiful, wonderful, incredible, intelligent, fantastic sister in the world!"

Emmy's door opens about an inch and one brown eye appears in the crack, staring at me suspiciously. "What do you want, Awny?"

"Want anything? Do I have to want anything to-"

"Yes."

I sigh. "Fine. Can I come in?"

The door swings open wider and I slip inside my sister's bedroom – probably the weirdest place in the entire house. Skeletons of various birds (fake skeletons. At least that's what she tells me) hang from the ceiling, and shelves line three of the four walls, stuff with models and files and all sorts of other junk. Her bed is hidden away in the corner, a rat's nest of strewn blankets and scattered pillows.

She closes the door behind me. "So, what do you want?"

I collapse onto the bed, shove a diagram of some science thing to the side and lay my face in one of her pillows. Emmy just rolls her eyes. "Come on, Awny. Whatever trouble you had with Lura can't be that bad."

"Whatever trouble I had with Lura?" I sit up and look at her. "How do you . . . ah, you know what, never mind." Over the years, I've just gotten used to the fact that my sister is crazy smart. Or a psychic. "Anyways, it is bad."

Emmy frowns and takes a seat next to me. "What happened?"

"Same thing that happens almost every time we're at her house. Isaac Lume calls." I groan and cover my head with my hands. "Seriously, what does she see in that guy?"

"Well, he's a Hunger Games victor. He's an orphan, and girls seem to go for the whole "tragic past" thing. He's moderately attractive. And there's a certain rebellious air about him that . . ." Emmy stops short, her cheeks flushing a rare shade of red under the influence of my glare. My sister may be some sort of mad genius when it comes to science, but she's such a teenage girl at heart. "Anyways, Lura doesn't see anything in him. She's going out with you, Awny. They're just friends."

"Friends don't constantly call each other on the phone."

"How would you know? You don't have a phone. Or any friends."

It was meant as a joke, I know that. But I can't help looking crestfallen all the same. It's true; I don't really have any friends. The sad part, though, is that I did, this time last year. Even now, I can picture those reapings perfectly, hear the escort shouting as he addressed the crowd. "Citizens of District Two! Your tributes: Rhine Carson and Code Schuyler!"

Emmy stops smiling at her own joke immediately after realising what it must have reminded me of. "Oh god, Awny." She takes my hand. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine." Words I've been saying a few too many times today. I'm also aware of how my voice is when I speak, and quickly try to revert back to my normal tone. "Anyways, about why I'm here."

"Right." Emmy smiles, happy for the change of subject. Both of us are particularly awkward when it comes to the sadness of others. "I was hoping you weren't just here to complain about your love life."

"Hey, they are serious complaints!"

"Oh yes: the eternal love triangle of Awny Tarrow and two Hunger Games victors." She laughs. "So, what do you want?"

I open my mouth to respond, but surprisingly, no words come out. All the way home I thought about this, prepared word for word what I'd say to my sister. But with the memories of Code just freshly brought up . . .

No. I can't think about him right now. What happened to him was terrible, yes, terrible and awful and just . . . impossible to describe, but I have to put it out of my head. One of the reasons District 2 continues to volunteer, even after so many of our tributes have died in the Games. We don't give up. We fight to get what we want, be it fame or fortune or something else that might come from winning the Games. We ignore the consequences and go for it anyways because risk-taking is just a part of life here.

Maybe that's why I've never had a girlfriend before, or even many friends. People want to be close to others who they know could be counted on to fight with and for them. Fides, animus, honor is the motto of the district. Loyalty, courage, honour.

So if I want to hang onto the person I love, I need to become more like a District 2 citizen – the memory of the meeting six months ago only serves to reinforce that fact. With this in mind, I take a deep breath, look my sister in the eye and start talking. "You scientists like hypothetical stuff, right?"

Emmy frowns, confused. "Sure, I guess. Why?"

"Okay, so, say I have a hypothetical question. Say, hypothetically, that there was a boy in the district, at about my level of in-shape-ness. He would be dwarfed by all the Careers here, right? Hypothetically, of course. And say, hypothetically, this boy needed to beat all these big, muscular Careers in a race of sorts. You know, like, say, the one to the stage during the reapings."

Well, I was trying to be subtle, but it's clear from the moment my sister's jaw drops at the word "reapings" that I haven't really succeeded on that front. "Okay, now, before you get all crazy-"

"You're trying to volunteer? Awny, why?!"

"Okay, just let me explain-"

"We are blessed with some of the only parents in the district who aren't pushing their kids to volunteer and you want to throw that all away?!"

"Emmy, listen-"

"I don't believe this! How long have you been planning this? Oh my god, are you insane, Awny? Don't you remember what happened to Code?"

"I know what happened to Code!"

She stops short, watching me with wide, worried eyes. I don't even realise I'm glaring at her until I catch sight of myself in the mirror hanging above her bed. It's an ugly expression; I don't think I've ever looked that angry before.

I sigh, putting a hand to my forehead. "I'm sorry," I mumble, refusing to look my sister in the eye. "I just . . . look, I know what happened to Code. And Rhine. And Flint and Rhya the year before. But at least they . . . I don't know . . ." Jeez, how am I supposed to explain to my fifteen-year-old sister what's going through my mind? It's not that our family is anti-Hunger Games, but we've never felt the need before to become too involved. Emmy won't understand my reasoning, no matter how smart she is.

Still, she deserves better than a simple you're too young to understand. "Look, Lura is my girlfriend, right? Smart, funny, beautiful, and a Hunger Games victor to boot."

"Awny, please tell me you're not planning on volunteering just to impress your girlfriend."

"No! I mean, well . . ." I sigh again; this is harder than I thought. My own mind can't even fully comprehend why I want to do this. "I guess I'm just . . . I don't know, tired? Tired of being Awny Tarrow, the guy with nothing going for him."

Emmy glares at me. "Don't give me any of that self-pity crap. This is serious, Awny, you can't-"

"I'm being serious, Em. This is my last year of school and what happens after that? The Hill's going to be turned into a Peacekeeper base within the next five years, tops, and I don't want to join them. But a life in the mines would suck, and the store business is hard to get into unless you're born into it and I just . . . don't know what to do. But I love Lura, and if proving myself to her, to everyone, means competing in the Games . . . why not give it a shot?"

Silence follows my little speech as Emmy stares at me with a mixture of anger, confusion and sadness. I knew I shouldn't have unloaded all this on her. Sighing, I get off her bed, heading for the door to her room. Probably best if I just left her alone and figured this out for myself.

"Did you ever read Inside the Hunger Games?"

I glance back to see my sister watching me closely. "Uh, no."

"Didn't think so. You must have heard about it though – it was Janaff Skye's book, remember?"

Vague details of a TV special a couple months back swim before my eyes. But why the heck is my sister bringing this up now?"

"Anyways," Emmy begins to swing her legs nervously, perched on the edge of the mattress, "It was banned pretty soon. Turns out it wasn't supposed to be officially published, but there was a mix-up before the president could intervene. All the copies were recalled, but I got ahold of one before that happened. It was a quick read, only a few hundred pages, kinda cobbled together at the last minute – Janaff even said in the introduction that the only reason he wrote it was to appease the Capitol audience, who he'd accidentally misled into thinking his victor's hobby was writing. But still, it's really good. Well, good might not be the right word . . . insightful, I guess."

I'm still waiting in the doorway for a point to all this. "Emmy, what-?"

"Janaff was in the Career Pack at the beginning of the Games, remember?"

My heart sinks as I realise where this is going. Another lecture about Code, about how if the nephew of a victor couldn't win the Games, I never would – I've heard it all before and I'm sick, sick and tired of it. Code deserves to rest in peace; he doesn't need people bringing him up every time someone mentions the Hunger Games. "Emmy-"

"Janaff knew everyone who had volunteered for the Games. Well, except for that Carlisle guy from Nine, and Catherine from Six, but those were extenuating circumstances. What I mean is, he knew everyone who volunteered, not to protect their loved ones, but to win. Well, I guess Perrin Bellerose sort of volunteered for his sister, but-"

"Emmy," I say tiredly. "Reapings are in an hour. Is there a point to all this?" With so many emotions bubbling to the surface after my speech, I feel exhausted. Just want to head back to my room and nap and maybe think about all this. Although, really, there is nothing to think about. I don't know when I became so sure, but for some reason, now I feel as though I can't not volunteer. Every time I bring up the killing and the death about the Hunger Games, my brain just seems to ignore it, forgetting the risks in lieu of the rewards."

"The point, Awny, is that Janaff said humans never truly accept the idea of death until it happens. He said that, at least for the kids in the Games, anyways, there is no such thing as a peaceful death. And he also said that no one ever goes into the arena with one hundred percent belief in the fact that they won't win. Everyone, even the reaped kids, even the youngest ones and the ones with no talents at all, hold a small amount of faith that they might pull through. If they didn't, they'd just take their own lives and pass away a lot less painfully than most do in the arena. But no one is certain they're going to die. No one can truly look at the odds and see them for what they are. Because hope is all we have and all reality does is crush hope."

Emmy's room is completely quiet as she finishes, both of us thinking over the words she just said. Not exactly the most positive outlook on life. "Right little ray of sunshine he is," I mutter and Emmy glares at me.

"The point, Awny, is that everyone deludes themselves into thinking they might be able to win. That's why we and the people in One and Four volunteer – because we ignore the reality."

"So you're saying if I understood the "reality" of the situation, I'd get that I have no chance at winning the Games?"

"No, I just-" She sighs, drawing her legs close to her chest. "I just don't want to lose you."

"You won't." I return to my seat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Look, I know it sounds like I'm ignoring the possibilities of death, but aren't their risks in every job? What if I became a Peacekeeper? With all the riots cropping up in the districts, I could very easily be killed. And what if I went into the mines? Old Crow just died today from a rockslide."

"Most of the time, the odds of death on the job aren't twenty-three out of twenty-four."

"Maybe. But most of the time, the odds of ever becoming rich on a job, or safe from ever having to work again, are non-existent."

Emmy sighs. "You're starting to get smart when you argue. It's worrisome."

"Hey, I learned from the best."

"I've created a monster."

Both of us smile at that, and at least some of the tension dissipates from the room. But Emmy still has that worried look in her eyes, as though I've already volunteered and might drop dead at any moment. "So, there's no talking you out of this?"

"I probably won't get to the stage." Just thinking about all the other volunteers makes me groan. "But – look, I can't fully explain this – but I need to try. I get it though, if you don't want to help. Just thought I'd ask."

Emmy lets me rise from my bed and nearly exit the room before she calls me back. "Awny, wait." I glance over my shoulder to watch her near me. "Look, I still don't think this is right at all – but I suppose . . . if you really want my help getting to that stage first . . . and you really want this . . ."

She doesn't manage to get the rest out; her voice is muffled beyond comprehension as I sweep her up into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," I chant, swinging her around until her fingers tap frantically against my back, a well-known gesture in our house meaning ach, gah, stop, I can't breathe!

After one more breathless "thank you", I put her down. She wobbles a bit, her feet finding purchase on the wooden floor once more, but this lack of balance doesn't throw off the look in her eyes. She's still worried – maybe even more so after seeing how happy I am that she's going to help me volunteer. "Awny . . . are you really sure this is what you want?"

The memories of the meeting a few months ago is still as fresh in my mind as if it had happened yesterday. "Yes," I say emphatically, leaving no room for doubt in my voice. Her face falls slightly, as though she had hoped I'd somehow change my mind. But I can't. I just . . . I need to do this.

After all, if the president thinks it's a good idea, then why not?

---

Valence Thereux

". . . so Garrie was saying the other day . . ."

". . . went right through the wall, can you believe it . . .?"

". . . stolen from a Hunger Games victor, ridiculous . . ."

I slouch further in my seat, rearranging a few dark brown locks of my hair so that they fall over my ears. Not that it helps; my ears are stillfilled with the nagging, loud, infuriating voices of The Hill's entire population. If it wasn't such an uncomfortably hot day, I would have worn earmuffs.

My sister notices my discomfort from her seat beside me and grins apologetically. "Cheer up," she says, practically having to shout in order to be heard over the multitude of others on the bus. "At least it beats walking."

"Debateable," I mutter. Yes, the walk from The Hill to the Forum where the reapings take place is long, and would excruciating in this heat, but I'm beginning to think that torture is preferable to my current situation. Being stuck on a bus with every citizen in town is a torture I've only gone through twice in my life, and was definitely not eager to repeat. I was even considering heading out on foot – good training for endurance – but the unwanted appearance of Heath's old friend drove that idea from my mind. I have to keep an eye on them.

My glare focuses on two heads poking above a seat ahead of us. Heath and Obsidian wasted no time in reforming their friendship, as though the past two years had never happened. Peri, of course, had a fit as soon as she'd caught sight of the man her husband was letting back into their house. For once, we agreed on something: Obsidian Vailfort was not good for the Thereux family. But Heath ignored her, just like he ignored me, and now we're both fuming. Unlike my mother though, I have the mind to do something about it.

"The sooner we get to the Forum, the better," I murmur quietly, my eyes still fixed on the pair of men whispering to each other. On the bus, with every else talking, it's impossible to eavesdrop. But once we're in the open, I should have no trouble figuring out their plan before reporting them both to the authorities.

Was that . . . a twinge of guilt? No, surely not. Not for the man who ruined this family, who selfishly put his needs before ours. Not the man I'll never think of as father again. My eyes close and I take a breath.

Feelings are tools. Control them – don't let them control you.

It doesn't help that, at that moment, the memory of first learning those words from Heath flashes before my eyes. Stop it, I tell myself furiously. Be in control.

For once, the endless, distracting chatter on the bus is actually useful, and for the rest of the ride, I manage to ignore my own thoughts by listening in on the lives of everyone else. By the time the bus pulls up into the Forum parking lot, where all the other small town buses reside, I've heard every bit of gossip in District 2. Three more mining communities put out of business and converted to Peacekeeper bases. Rumours of corruption within one of the training centres. All of it useless, though the whispers I caught about Quenta Lacombe may have interested me if I was in a better mood – apparently District 2's stunning victor lost one of her precious jewels and seems to believe it was stolen. I file the report away mentally for later; might make a good case for Emmy and the rest of the science amateurs.

Everyone rises simultaneously as, one by one, people begin to file off the bus. I try to cut the line, get closer to Obsidian and Heath in order to hear what they're saying, but it makes little difference; the moment I step off the bus, I'm herded along by some very bored-looking officials trying to filter all the adolescents towards the reaping check-in lines. Security is quite lax in District 2 – after all, if we're the ones getting hired to survey the other districts, it's highly unlikely our own people need to be watched – and it wouldn't be difficult to slip past the officers and follow Obsidian and Heath. But, judging by the sun's position in the sky, the reaping ceremony is about to start. And that isn't something I want to be late for.

As if she can read my thoughts, Linnea catches up to me as we head towards the check-in lines. "Valence," she whispers once we stop behind a pair of burly, Coliseum trainees. "Can I talk to you?"

"You already are." I do like my sister, but she had the misfortune of inheriting our mother's simple-mindedness.

Linnea rolls her eyes and nudges me good-naturedly. "That's not what I meant," she says jokingly, but almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, her usual smile disappears, replaced by a serious look my happy-go-lucky sister almost never wears. Immediately, I realise what she wants to talk about. "My mind hasn't changed, Linnea."

"Valence, I really think-"

"Valence Thereux, age seventeen," I say to the now unoccupied official in front of me, completely ignoring my sister's protests. The woman behind the desk types my name into her electronic device, confirming the fact that I do exist and have been checked in. Once the machine beeps, she nods and glances back up at me. "Section six, towards the back. Training centre volunteers at the front, unaffiliated volunteers in the middle and non-volunteers off to sides and the back, please."

It's the same rules every year, and I barely even listen to the rest of her speech – safety measures during the Stage Rampage, when everyone's rushing forwards to volunteer. Already, I'm heading towards my section; even Linnea's desperate cry of "Valence!" doesn't stop me. I know what she's going to say, heard it a thousand times from her before and frankly, I don't want to waste my time listening to her little speech again. Mistake, I think, joining my fellow seventeen-year-olds at the front of my section. Mistake to ever confide your plans in her. Of course she wouldn't have been happy.

"You're never going to make it."

I freeze in place as the words reach my ears. Now there's a voice I haven't heard in a while.

My eyes dart to the left and there she is, standing at the back of the sixteens' section, almost right beside me, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Amity Thorin," I say slowly. "It's been awhile."

"Two years, one month, eighteen days," she answers back. Amity always did have a wonderful mind for numbers; a pity she only ever used it to recite rather disturbing statistics to her peers. "I've been keeping track." The younger girl tilts her head to the side, her wide, grey eyes locked on mine. "Two years, one month and eighteen days since you moved out of the Forum. I never saw you at the reapings during that time because we were both at the backs of our sections." She sizes me up and down, her gaze occasionally darting to those around us. "But now, here you are, in the volunteer section. The training centre volunteer section, no less."

"I was a member of the Coliseum."

"Until your father lost his job." One of the reasons I much preferred Amity's company to that of anyone else's back when I still lived in the Forum: she doesn't tease. Her words about Heath are stated as facts, nothing else. The girl may be blunt, yes, but she's never overly cruel. "I don't believe you still qualify. The others are giving you dirty looks."

Indeed, I have noticed some glares sent my way, and more than a few smirks as well. Apparently people around here still remember me as the daughter of the corrupt detective. The thought makes my hands unconsciously curl into fists.

A gesture Amity does not miss. "Still allowing your emotions to control you?"

I meet her gaze steadily, but out of the corner of my eye, I take in her old clothes, her messy hair, the dirt stains across her cheeks. "Still living on the streets?"

This causes her to pause, and before she can retort, the mayor is rising from his seat on the stage, his welcoming speech barely audible over the whoops and cheers that emanate from the crowd. I can already tell I'm not going to hear a word the man says.

"You're never going to make it." Amity practically has to shout over the excited buzz of the crowd for me to hear her. I keep my eyes carefully focused on the stage – seeing as I can't hear the mayor at all, I'm relying on visual cues to know when our escort will enter – but Amity's words are enough to make my gaze waver.

"In what?" I ask back, alternating between glances at the girl and the mayor. "The stage race or the Games?"

"Both."

"I can't not make it to both. If I don't make it to the stage, I won't be going into the Games."

For a moment, Amity doesn't say anything and something shifts in her stoic grey eyes. It takes me a moment to realise she might be almost . . . disappointed in my decision. When I first met her, Amity was a lonely child living on the street, alienating all her peers and yet desperate for a friend. I suppose I was the first person to ever fulfill that role. Could it be that, like Linnea, she doesn't want me to go?

"Amity." I lock eyes with her once more, just as the mayor prepares to introduce District 2's escort. "Bear in mind, you haven't seen me for two years, one month and eighteen days. Your assessment is based on my skills in the past. I have improved. And I can assure you, it will not take two years, one month and eighteen days for me to see you again."

I wait for some biting remark, some harsh observation I've grown so used to in the company of Amity. But all that reaches my ears are the sounds of the roaring crowd as our escort takes to the stage. My attention is forced away from the sixteen-year-old once more as he shouts out a greeting before striding over to the girls' bowl. It's time.

And then I hear it. Right before the girls around us go wild, Amity turns back to me and nods. "Good luck, Valence."

---

Awnington "Awny" Tarrow

The room in which I sit is lavishly decorated, warm and comforting, yet I am about five seconds away from having a complete meltdown. I was just on my bike, heading back from Lura's when two Peacekeepers stopped me and asked that I accompany them to the Justice Building. Well, asked isn't really the term. It was practically an order.

They're still here now, standing in front of me on either side of the only door to the room. My fingers are rubbing frantically against the surface of the couch I sit on and I have to use all of my willpower to resist the urge to try and escape. I mean, they haven't said I've done anything wrong. Yet.

So why do I feel like I'm in so much trouble?

Finally, after what feels like hours of waiting and awkward, one-sided conversations as I try to get the Peacekeepers to tell me what's going on, the door opens. I can't help but jump in my seat, worried more officials might file into the room, but what actually happens is far, far worse.

Varlios Strombin closes the door gently behind him before turning on me, a big smile on his lips. He claps his hands and one of the two Peacekeepers in the room immediately drag a chair over so he can sit and face me.

I'm in the Justice Building with the president of Panem.

I'm in the Justice Building with the president of Panem.

Oh, crap.

"Awnington Tarrow!" The man, who I'd only ever seen before on TV, is now sitting right in front of me, stretching out his arm for a handshake. Oh my god, oh my god, what do I do? More importantly, what did I do? Oh, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap-

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to meet you," the president continues after a few seconds pass and I make no move to shake his hand. He seems completely oblivious to my state of catatonic shock. "And now the day has finally come! Oh, what a happy time!"

"Whatever it was I didn't do it!" I blurt out.

Silence follows my outburst, and almost immediately, I realise I just interrupted the president of Panem. Oh, double crap! I flinch, waiting for whatever punishment he might have in store for me. Jail, torture – death? Oh god, oh god . . .

I nearly jump out of my seat as Varlios leans towards me; the only thing that keeps me in place is what he does next. The president laughs. Not a maniacal laugh, or a rude one; a laugh like I've just told the funniest joke in the world. I stare at him, not reassured but confused enough to stop freaking out for a moment.

"Oh, Mr. Tarrow," Varlios wipes a tear from his silver eye and grins at me, "I'm not here to punish you! Oh, no, no, no. No, I'm here to congratulate you!"

What?

"Um, . . . excuse me? Sir?" My mind is desperately to make sense of his words, and I'm still not entirely positive I'm out of dangerous waters yet. "Congratulate me for . . . what?"

"Why, your relationship with Lura Carson!" Varlios slaps me on the knee, ignores my cringing reaction and leans in closer. "The two of you have been together for nine months now, isn't that right? I'd say that deserves some congratulations!"

. . . What?

"I-I'm sorry, sir," I say slowly, still trying to wrap my head around the concept. "But you . . . came down to District 2 . . . to congratulate me and Lura?" Something about that doesn't seem right – although, if it is true, that's kind of awesome.

"Well, not just congratulate, unfortunately." Varlios makes a face and snaps his fingers; immediately, a Peacekeeper is at his side, clutching numerous documents and a pen. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, I know this must seem like a waste of time to you, but sadly, there is a bit of paperwork that comes with all civilian-victor situations. Do you have a bit of time?"

Actually, I do: my family was expecting me home a lot later, but I left Lura's early after we were interrupted by another phone call from Isaac Lume. Besides, how could I say no to the president of Panem? "Sure," I say, relaxing back onto the couch now that I know I'm not in trouble. "What do I have to do?"

"Just answer a few questions. Then I'll be out of your hair quick as a wink." He smiles cheerfully and I can't help but give a small grin back. Part of me still can't believe this; I mean, the president seems so regal and imposing when you watch him on TV. But in real life, he's just happy and nice. "Now," Varlios begins again, taking the papers and the pen from the Peacekeeper. "Question one: Is your relationship public knowledge?"

"Yep."

"Question two: Are you happy with your relationship."

"Oh yes." These questions are gonna be a piece of cake.

"Question three: Are you currently having sexual relations with the victor in question?"

What follows is a garbled mess of syllables as I choke on my own saliva. The president waits until I've calmed down enough to weakly ask, "What?"

"I know, I know, it's all very personal and trust me, I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't necessary. It's just, there's so much extra paperwork involved when the possibility of victor's child comes into play."

My eyes grow huge at those last few words. I just . . . I mean . . . we're eighteen. We're shouldn't . . . we shouldn't have to be thinking about that . . . should we?

Varlios pats me on the knee reassuring before returning to the page. "I'll take that as a no, then?" He scribbles down the answer, murmuring to himself, "Yes, I'd assumed so."

Funnily enough, it's that mumbled phrase that snaps me out of my previous shock. "Excuse me, sir?" He assumed so? What the heck does that mean? And, more importantly, why is he doing this now. It just dawned on me that Lura and I have been dating for nine months and not once has the president visited before then. Shouldn't this kind of thing have been taken care of right away? "Sir, why haven't you come earlier with all of this?"

His expression is sympathetic as he looks up from the papers and only serves to further set me on edge. The president sighs. "I'm so sorry for assuming, Mr. Tarrow, really, I am. I just . . . I'm sorry . . . thought it wouldn't last between the two of you. I figured we might be able to save the paperwork if you two broke up soon enough." His pitying look breaks as a wide smiles forms at his lips. "But you're still together! And after nine months – well done, Mr. Tarrow. Shall we continue with the questions?"

"Why did you think Lura and I wouldn't last?"

The words come out weaker than I wanted to, but I can't help it. I mean, I've had the same problem ever since I started dating Lura; all the naysayers and the jealous guys would go on about how we'd break up soon, how no guy like me could ever land a Hunger Games victor, much less a beautiful one like Lura. But to hear the president of Panem say it . . . all those worries and doubts come back.

"Well – and I can assure you, Mr. Tarrow, it's no fault of your own – but when victors engage in relationships, they usually have a certain . . . type. Oftentimes, it's with other victors. Only rarely does a victor go for a civilian, and those sorts of relationships also rarely tend to work. I suppose their partner just doesn't meet the victor's standards."

That was the absolute worst possible way he could have phrased it. Just doesn't meet the victor's standards – ever since I started dating Lura, that worry's been on my mind. I'm less fit, less smart, less brave, less everything. And no matter what I do, I can always hear the ticking of a clock counting down to our relationship's end.

"So, of course, once I realised how often young Isaac Lume was phoning Miss Carson, I assumed were developing a bond and you were being left out of the picture." Varlios chuckles. "Though I suppose even a president can be wrong. The calls must have stopped shortly after we ceased keeping track of them and now you and Lura are still merrily together!"

The joy on his face at the thought or our happy relationship is too much; I just can't lie to this guy. "The calls haven't stopped," I moan, putting my face in my hands. "Oh my god, I'm actually going to lose her to this Isaac guy."

I don't look up, but I can feel Varlio's hand on my knee, patting it reassuringly once more. "There, there, Mr. Tarrow, it's all right. You have plenty of excellent qualities Isaac Lume does not possess."

"But he's a Hunger Games victor!" I realise the president probably has more important things to worry about than my relationship problems, but he seems so willing to listen, and it's just really nice to finally have someone to talk to about this. "How do I compete with that?"

"I know it's not my place to involve myself in your business," Varlios says tenderly. "But . . . well, if you really wanted to prove to Lura you were right for her – though, my dear boy, you're already quite perfect . . . just, if you do need that extra affirmation, the reapings are in a month and a half."

That gets my attention and I jerk my head up to look at the president. Does he actually mean . . . "Are you saying I should volunteer? I wouldn't last five seconds. I'm not trained, I have no skills, I-"

"Don't sell yourself short, Mr. Tarrow." Varlios claps me on the shoulders. "You have plenty of talents. You're charming, funny, likeable – the audience will love you. I think you could do very well. Win, even." He smiles. "And then you'd never have to worry about your relationship with Lura Carson again."

I'm stunned, completely paralysed with shock. All I can think about is the president of Panem thinks I can win the Hunger Games. The president of Panem thinks I can win the Hunger Games.

I smile at the memory, so caught up in it, I barely notice that mad rush from the girls as they all struggle to volunteer. The president of Panem thinks I can win the Hunger Games. And if he thinks I can, then . . . why not? The president probably knows the victors better than anyone in the country and if he thinks he sees a potential one in me, then who am I to argue? He's right, right? I mean, I do have talents; I might as well be my dad's second-in-command when it comes to running The Hill, I've picked up a few smart things thanks to Emmy and as of a month and a half ago, I've been sneaking off to train on an obstacle course I built myself. I can do things. I can win the Games.

And once I do, I'll be equal to Lura. I'll be her "type", as Varlios put it. And we can live out the rest of our days as awesome Hunger Games victors together.

I don't even glance up at the stage once a girl gets there, don't even hear her name announced to the crowd; I'm too focused on giving myself a pep talk. All right, this is it, Awny. Moment of truth. You're gonna have to run like you've never run before. And, you know, hope that Emmy actually helps out. Because if not, you know, you will be screwed . . . no! This is going to happen – this is going to happen.

"And our male tribute is . . . Rurik Peekly!"

BOOM!

Every boy in the crowd stops in their tracks as an enormous explosion sounds over the square. Suddenly, the day gets ten times brighter, as dozens upon dozens of fireworks erupt beneath the clouds. They're the ones we usually save for later tonight, when everyone throws a party in honour of those who got reaped. But why are they going now?

It's Emmy, you idiot! I don't know how, but she must have found a way to set them off. Now go, GO! While everyone's still distracted!

I don't hesitate further. My feet pound furiously as I sprint through the square, dodging and weaving around awestruck kids. A few of them finally realise what I'm doing, and with shouts of rage, they take off for the stage too – but I've got the advantage of a head start and a positively genius sister. No one passes me, and in a few seconds, I'm stumbling up the steps to the stage, nearly tripping over my own feet, I'm going so fast. "I'm here!" I gasp. "I mean, I volunteer!"

The escort, a hard-faced man dressed in his usual military uniform, glares at me. "There is a specific time for you to volunteer!" he shouts, making me flinch back a step. "Is it that . . . oh, forget it." He sends a menacing scowl my way and returns to his microphone. "What this district needs is discipline! Three years in a row, we get rude, impatient . . ."

He continues on lecturing the crowd, but I ignore the speech; I'm not looking in his direction. Behind the tributes are a line of chairs where the victors reside, and the one on the end, closest to me, holds the one person I most want to see right now. Lura, sitting primly in her seat, looks just as beautiful now as she did earlier this morning. Except her expression. She's staring at me, mouth open, eyes wide and brow raised. But it's not a look that says pleasantly surprised. She's looking at me as if I've just committed the most awful, unspeakable crime imaginable.

But . . . but . . . why isn't she happy?

". . . next year you'll learn the rules! Anyways," the escort moves his steely glare back to me and shouts, "what is your name?"

"Um . . ." I say distractedly, my attention still focused on Lura. My eyebrows draw together, silently trying to ask what's up? "Awny Tarrow."

"District 2, your tributes! Awny Tarrow and Valence Thereux!"

Valence Thereux?

Only then do I turn and take in the person who volunteered alongside me. Same short, messy brown hair, same green eyes, same condescending glare being sent my way.

Valence Thereux. Valence Thereux is my district partner.

Oh, crap.

---

Valence Thereux

"Shouldn't you be with your brother?"

Emmaula Tarrow remains silent, keeping her position by the door. After my mother and sister came to say their goodbyes (my father was noticeably absent), I'd assumed I would have one more visit from a young science enthusiast. Even I couldn't have predicted Awnington Tarrow volunteering for the Games, but after he did, it wasn't hard to tell why – the looks he kept sneaking at his victor girlfriend were obvious enough that even an idiot could have caught them. And of course, Awnington being Awnington, his sister would be none too sure of his chances at victory. So here she is.

"The fireworks were a bit extravagant," I add, noting the stains on her knees where she knelt to light them, the fresh burn on her right thumb where she mishandled a match.

She doesn't move, but she does speak. "It achieved the desired result."

"Did it?"

My words sink in, and her stoic façade breaks. Like a curtain pulled from a window, all the fear, sadness and doubt becomes clear in her eyes as she slumps against the closed door. "Valence-"

"You want me to die."

"What? No, I just-"

"You are here to ask me to ensure your brother's safety. You want him home. This means you want me to die."

Emmaula stares at me, eyes wide. "No, of course I don't want you to die, I-"

"So you want your brother to die then?"

"Valence, stop!"

Her shout echoes through the cavernous room, causing me to raise an eyebrow. I thought, throughout our time spent together, that I had taught Emmaula everything to become a successful detective, investigator and analyst, much like myself. Feelings are tools. Control them – don't let them control you. It was ridiculous to ever think this girl could become like me.

Emmaula is still glaring at me now, chest heaving, hands balled into fists. For a moment, all I can hear is her harsh breathing. Then, "It was a mistake to come."

"Undeniably."

She turns on her heel and reaches for the door, but I can tell in the languidness of her movements that she's not quite finished. "Valence?" Her tone is unstable, drifting from high to low pitches – she's near tears. "I don't want my brother to die. I know that doesn't mean anything to you and I know you're fighting for your own survival but . . ." The words stop as she chokes on her suppressed tears before composing herself. "If you have to . . . to . . . kill him . . . please, please don't do it until it's absolutely necessary."

She's gone before I can even open my mouth to respond, a few liquid drops staining the carpet all that remains. Leaving for her brother's room, perhaps, telling him she failed and he must avoid me during the Games. Though, depending on if Awny meets the standards and I don't find the rest too stupid, we most likely will be in the Career Pack together. And then . . . well, I have to come home. Compassion only gets you killed in the Games.

Feelings are tools. Control them – don't let them control you.

Wishing to take my mind off my last goodbye, I gaze around the room, absorbing every inch of my surroundings. Though I've never been in this particular area of the Justice Building, I have walked these halls before, and the memories they bring back aren't the fondest. This was where Heath used to conduct all of his trials, until he was the one given the guilty verdict.

When he didn't show up with the rest of my family, I automatically assumed he was still out with Obsidian. The thought angers me, but I force deep breaths to pass my lips and slowly, my fists relax. As the daughter of a corrupted ex-detective, the Peacekeepers would never listen to me, but as a Hunger Games victor, they'd have no choice. I could have Heath Thereux locked away for good, if I so chose. I just wish I knew what he was planning . . .

The door to my room opens once more, surprising me – then again, perhaps this is just the Peacekeeper telling me it's time to go. I rise from the couch, quite content to leave the Justice Building behind . . . but then the visitor walks in and I stop short.

"I know why you volunteered. I know you want a better reputation for yourself and for our family, and I know you want to money to get us back on our feet. I also know you've been ignoring me for the better part of two years and if you're anything like me, you'll be too stubborn to stop now." Heath strides across the room until he's standing right in front of me. "But I would never forgive myself if you didn't come back and I never got to say this."

I can tell what sort of a job someone does just by their wrist. I can tell where they've been all morning just by the state of their shoes. But I still have no idea what Heath is doing as he reaches out to me. Then he pulls me into a hug and my mind goes blank.

"I love you, Valence," he says, sliding something over my head to rest around my neck. "This will hopefully help you remember."

Then the warmth of his body is gone, and he too is disappearing through the door, leaving me wondering if what just happened was a dream. Heath Thereux has never hugged me before, never told me he loved me, and I liked it that way. Sentimental gestures are meant for those who cannot control their emotions. So why do I feel this glow inside of me?

In an effort to distract myself, I glance down at the object Heath left around my neck. A necklace or some sort: a golden ball attached to a silver chain. When I told Linnea about my plans to volunteer, I specifically asked her not to get me a token – useless items that, more often than not, brought tributes closer to their deaths. Someone could easily strangle me with a necklace like this. And yet, as I finger the golden bauble, I find myself hesitating in my decision to get rid of it.

Hang on; as my thumb slides across the smooth surface of the ball, I feel the tiniest hint of a crack, curving all the way around the orb. Frowning, I take hold of the small sphere and twist – sure enough, something gives. The top of the ball continues to loosen as I unwind it further, wondering if my father knew this necklace opened. Perhaps he meant it as a locket, and placed some sort of family picture within; that was what normal people did for their reaped children, wasn't it?

The top of the ball comes away in my hands and I stare into the small, hollow orb, all good thoughts of my father vanishing. Yes, normal people leave family pictures – but my family is not normal, and will never be. All that drivel about loving me, that comforting hug, giving me a token; it was all a façade. Heath Thereux is as heartless and selfish as he was two years ago.

". . . stolen from a Hunger Games victor, ridiculous . . ."

Within the ball, a small, brilliantly red ruby rests. Quenta Lacombe's missing jewel.