A/N. Alright so yeah when I was trying to post this chapter, I clicked some wrong buttons and then accidentally deleted the wrong chapter, so sorry about that. Annnnd I'm sorry it took me forever to update this! ~*college life*~ is busy. But I'm definitely going to try to update this sooner from now on! Also thank you everyone who followed/favorited the story because that really means a lot to me. And thank you for the reviews! Misery-Loathes-Company: Yeah, I didn't realize that I switched tenses back when I first posted the chapter, but when I was rereading it the other day, I saw it and made a mental note to fix it. But thank you!

He had fallen asleep in front of the television set again. It started to become a normal occurrence for Abed Nadir. Living in District Three had its perks. Especially if you have enough knowledge of electronics to hack into the Capitol's television broadcasts in order to get sitcoms, dramas and movies streamed to your TV. Abed was a bit of a genius in that sort.

Abed's eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for something. The credits from an episode of a crime drama called "Capitol Punishment' were rolling across the small television screen. Suddenly the image flickered and was replaced by a newscast on the reapings and the twelve districts' preparations for the annual hunger games. Based on the recap of the day's events, Abed determined that the reapings had already begun and finished in seven of the twelve districts, which meant that the reaping in District Three was only a few hours away. His eyes lingered on the television set.

The image on the screen now showed the reaping in the eighth district: textiles. The camera zoomed in on the female tribute, whose big blue eyes gave her the classic "deer in the headlights" look. An unfamiliar pang of sadness wedged itself into the young man's chest. The woman couldn't have been more than a few years younger than him. He watched as her eyes fluttered, but never actually closed, and her lips quivered but not a sound escaped them. A frown crept across his mouth and he cocked his head. It was almost as if he was caught in a trance.

And then she was gone. The image of the brunette was replaced by the bespectacled male tribute from the same district. Abed tore his eyes away from the screen and strode towards his room to get dressed.

Unlike many of those who lived in the Districts, Abed didn't live in squalor. In fact, the small house he lived in with his father was far from the electronic district's ghetto. Although his father didn't hold a job working at the mass production factories, his falafel stand ensured that Abed would never have to sign up for the tesserae supplies. They were never in danger of going hungry like those of the more poverish areas of the district.

Mere minutes later, he emerged from his room, only to prepare to sit back down in front of the television again. Before seating himself on the cotton cushion of the couch, he retrieved a bowl and filled it with his favorite cereal. Once seated, he continued to view the broadcast, taking note of the individuals chosen.

Aside from the girl from the textile district, he saw few other interesting tributes. A dark skinned woman was torn from her children and husband in District Six, while a twenty-something male tribute couldn't have been bothered to put on a shirt for the reaping in District Four. In the same district, the blonde female tribute risked the death penalty by yelling out that the district should rebel. The peacekeepers of the fishing district lowered their weapons when they noticed how little response she had gotten.

After an hour of live reaping coverage and the special on the "Top Ten Best Kills of the Decade", Abed stood up almost robotically and strode towards the door; dropping the empty cereal bowl in the sink without missing a step. The door closed behind him with a soft click of the automatic lock. It wasn't until he had been crowded into a group of young men, watching the annual "Hunger Games Introduction" video, that he realized that he had left without turning off the television.

Abed liked to think of those at the reaping as extras in a television program. They were just there for the effect of having a crowd. But once the names were called and the characters had broken from the crowds, they would become main characters. Their storylines would be the important ones that everyone followed. Abed was still thinking about this idea as the escort began the reaping, ceremoniously calling a woman's name first.

He didn't know the girl, although by the looks of it, it seemed she was quite popular in the district considering the collective gasp that occurred once her name had left the lips of the escort. He studied her as she attempted to keep her head held high, even when the peacekeepers surrounded and accompanied her to the stage.

Abed was still watching the woman when the escort began digging around in the second glass bowl filled with the men's names. The tribute's hands were clasped and he could see the slight movement as she rocked back and forth on her heels. Abed was still watching her when the scrap of paper was finally retrieved from the bowl. The tribute raised a hand to her mouth and nibbled on the bit of nail at the end of her index finger. Abed was still watching her as the scrap of paper was torn open. The tribute delicately pulled the piece of nail out of her mouth and flicked it on the stage. Hearing the escort's voice, he finally turned his attention to the man at the microphone.

"And our male tribute of District Eight is… Abed Nadir!"

Abed's mouth hung open. A second passed. Then another. Bodies shifted in the crowds, looking for where the slender man stood. He had done the calculations. He wasn't supposed to be a tribute. It didn't factor into the equations. It wasn't in his timeline; in his script. He wasn't a main character, but an observer. A fly on the wall. This was all wrong. So very wrong.

The shock of hearing his name sent the young man into a catatonic state. His face became void of emotion, although to be honest there wasn't much there to begin with. Chocolate brown eyes glazed over, staring forward and out of focus. He wasn't aware of the peacekeepers headed his way. His body nearly collapsed onto the gravel when the officer grabbed him by the cardigan and pulled him out of the crowd.

And then his legs began to move; clumsily at first, but then falling into a rhythm. Much like the other tribute, he was then completely surrounded by peacekeepers. Due to his awkwardly long legs, he towered over the officers, head bobbing along as they made their way to the stage.

As he clambered up the stage, he got a better look at the female tribute. She was staring at him, lip quivering and watery eyed. The face reminded him of the other tribute he had seen earlier; the one from District Eight. But somehow it was different. He wasn't mesmerized by this woman.

When the escort asked the two tributes to shake hands, Abed robotically extended his arm to her without making eye contact. Instead, he focused on the way that her fell into slight ringlet curls towards the bottom. He wondered how long it took for her to make her hair like that; and why she even did it in the first place. He was sure she'd look just as good with straight hair. Shifting his eyes to finally meet hers, he realized that they were much wetter than thirty seconds ago when he first climbed onto the stage.

And then it hit him. They were going to have to kill each other.

He had been so detached from the idea because he had always seen the tributes as characters in a movie. They didn't really die to him. It was staged. It had to be. They don't really kill each other. They're just characters. It's just fiction. He doesn't really have to kill the woman standing before them. He doesn't really have to kill the crazy blonde from District Four or the dark skinned mother from Six. He doesn't have to kill the terrified girl from Eight.

Abed was still trying to reason with himself as he was being ushered into the town hall. A peacekeeper led him to a small office-like room, where he found that his dad had already been waiting. Gobi Nadir, a usually stern and stoic man, was sitting on the small sofa on the opposite end of the room. He hand was pressed against his mouth, deep in thought. When he noticed his son was standing before him, he didn't acknowledge it with words. Instead, he simply nodded. A second passed. Then another. The silence was broken by the peacekeeper.

"You know, you two only have three minutes."

The Nadir men turned their stare to the peacekeeper, then back to each other; almost in unison. Gobi opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to choke on the words before they could leave his lips. The peacekeeper spoke again.

"Two minutes."

This time, neither man looked at the authoritative figure. They continued their silent staring contest.

"One minute."

Abed crossed the room to where he stood directly in front of his father, his body now less than two feet away. This time he nodded.

"Thirty seconds."

The younger Nadir searched his fathers eyes. Finally, he spoke two simple words. There was no emotion in his voice, no inflection, no feeling. He said it simply, as if it were just a comment about the weather.

"I'll win."

Instead of receiving a reply, Abed was met with another slight nod. Although this time, he saw the small fleck of moisture in the corner of his father's eye. Again, Gobi's mouth opened to say something, and nothing came. Before he could ask his dad what he was trying to say, Abed felt a firm grip on his arm and he was suddenly being pulled back out of the room and through to the back entrance of the town hall building where a sleek silver bullet train was waiting on the tracks.