Hey guys! Don't have much to say except I hope you enjoy the Reapings chapter! We'll have met pretty much half our tributes after this chapter is done. Yay!

Tucker Marque, 12
District Six Male

Tucker reached for the bowl of oatmeal and slid it across the table so that the contents sloshed over the sides. As he ladled oatmeal into his dish, he screwed up his face and glanced over at his mother. "Hey, Mom," he said. "I think I'm gonna volunteer for the Hunger Games."

She had been sitting slouched in her chair, stirring her breakfast listlessly with her spoon. At his words she straightened up. A look of alarm stole across her face. "Tucker," she said, "I know you're not serious."

"No, Mom, listen." He scooped a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. Mom's oatmeal is good, he thought, Wish she made it more often. "So, I volunteer for the Games. Then, I win."

"Tucker," she said.

"Then, I'm a star on Victor's Village, and also I'm the youngest Victor ever. Nobody's ever been younger than fourteen I'm pretty sure. I'd be super famous, super rich, super popular in the Capitol. Basically a Career, but younger and more exciting and fresh. Trust me, the Capitol would be all about it. It's practically a done deal!" He shoveled a few more scoops of oatmeal into his mouth. "This is really good, by the way," he said.

"You're joking, right?" said his mother warily. "Please, Tucker, today of all days this isn't funny."

"No, it is really good!" Her expression tightened, and he held up both hands and said, "Sorry, sorry. But think about it, Mom. You wouldn't need to work so hard anymore. You could relax a bit!" He leaned across the table and, on an impulse, squeezed his mother's hand. "And it would get me the hell out of District Six for a little while. It would be like an adventure."

"You've watched the Games, haven't you?" said his mother. She was frowning, although she squeezed his hand back. "Don't you remember last year, Tucker? With Vascula?"

"Sure!" said Tucker. He remembered Vascula very well. Short, small, impassive. "When I win the Games I'm gonna ask her to marry me. Think she'll say yes?"

"She killed ten people," said his mother. "She killed both tributes from District Six." His mother was frowning, as she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. "For all we know, another Vascula will volunteer this year. Or an Allen Morphol, or an Enver Marrington, or a Marr Garcia. You don't want to be anywhere near those kinds of people, honey. They play to win."

There was a knock on the door. Tucker leaped to his feet. "That's my friends!" he said, tearing his hand free. He leaned across the table to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Don't worry, Mom," he said, "If it wigs you out so much I guess I could postpone my plans. What do you think about next year?"

"Never, Tucker," she said. But she was smiling, relieved.

On the train ride to the reapings square, Tucker found himself crammed between his three best friends, elbows and knees pressing into him from all sides, hot breath flowing over any exposed skin as the dozens of other children in the train car grappled their nerves. "When I volunteer next year I'll definitely win," he was saying, leaning on one of the walls for balance. "Plus I'll be the youngest Victor ever."

"In your dreams, brainless," said Bentley, rolling his eyes. "You couldn't kill a fly. You definitely couldn't kill another kid."

"No, I could," said Tucker, thinking of Vascula, of the cold dead nothing in her eyes when she fed her sword into the soft parts of her enemies. Her victims. "I'm Victor material," he said, shaking his head, shaking away the image. "I could do it."

"Hmm," said Dakota. "I don't know, Tucker." She grinned, gap-toothed. "If you're confident, why not try this year?"

"Oh, I totally would," said Tucker. "But my mom is too worried. I can't freak her out like that, even if it's only for a few weeks while I'm busy winning."

"Well if mommy's worried," Bentley sniggered, and the group erupted with laughter.

By the time the tide of District Six children had carried them to the square, the laughter had mostly died out. Tucker's palms were sweating, which he told himself was strange, because he wasn't afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of, he told himself, as they followed the crushing throngs of other twelve-year olds down the narrow street that led to the reapings square. Either I get reaped or I don't. Either way I'm fine. His gut clenched. I'm fine.

The reapings square was hemmed in on all sides by tall grey buildings and poorly-maintained browning hedges. The sections for each gender and age had been sectioned off with plush velvet rope. Tucker followed Bentley and Nash to the twelve year old boy's section. It was more crowded than the train. Bodies crushed around him, and he grimaced and tossed a few elbows to get himself more comfortable. Immediately a volley of elbows from other uncomfortable boys came jabbing into his sides and back, and he decided to keep still and try not to touch anyone.

As they waited for the reapings to start, Tucker eyed the stage. The mayor was flanked by District Six's most recent Victors, Reuben Eyre and Beatrice Hunt. Beatrice was, as usual, sitting hunched in her chair with discomfort twisting her features, glancing periodically at Reuben as if to model her actions on his. Where Tucker was standing it wasn't as easy to see the scar tissue and distorted flesh that crawled across Reuben's face and neck, but Tucker didn't have to see it to know it was there. Every year they replayed the burning of Reuben Eyre. It made for good television, by Capitol standards.

"Psst, you guys, it's starting," said Tucker, when he spotted District Six's escort trotting onto the stage. The crowd went from a dull roar to a murmur to a trickle of sound, and then to nothing. Talking over Fervor Aquamilion was not a good idea. Man could get loud.

Fervor snatched at the microphone that stood between the two bulging glass bowls filled to the brim with slips. "District Six!" he said. "It's good to see y'all again!" There was a faint cheer that came from somewhere in the eighteen female section. Fervor, with his flat stomach and thick rockstar hair, had something of a following.

"After last year," said Fervor, staring down at the crowd from his place on the stage, "I'm gonna need to pull two excellent tributes for y'all to have any chance at all. Are you ready?" There was another perfunctory cheer. Tucker clenched his fists. Not that it matters, he thought. I won't get picked anyway, so who cares?

Fervor approached the ball on the right, which was traditionally male. "District Six!" he said, plunging a hand into the reaping ball. "Your tribute…" He pulled out a fistful of little white slips and let them slip through the gaps in his fingers until one remained, fluttering in the wind like the wing of a moth. "Is…" He brought the slip to his face, and he read the name.

"Tucker Marque!"

That's me, thought Tucker. That's me.

His legs collapsed from under him. It ended up taking him eight full minutes to reach the stage, on account of that.

Techeela Selyck, 17
District Three Male

He could hear the crowd before he could see it. As Techeela paused on the corner of Main and 7th, he slapped his hands on his knees and sucked in a few huge gasps of air. All the while he could hear the rumble of the crowd, like the dull roar of an impending earthquake, coming from somewhere a few blocks away. "The main square," he muttered, casting a quick glance behind him. The street was still empty. But they were coming.

His legs and chest burned, and his dark skin was slick with sweat, but he took off again. His feet were numb. Every footfall thudded somewhere in his stomach. The snapped end of the chain that dangled from the manacle on his wrist brushed against his hand with every step. It was a physical reminder.

As he ran the rumble of the crowd increased to an almost tangible roar. The vibrations of a hundred thousand voices shivered up from the asphalt and through the soles of his bare feet. Big crowd, he thought. What would everyone in District Three be in the main square for?

Well, of course. Actually, he was surprised they hadn't forced him to come to this. Did they think the odds of his being reaped were so negligible that he wasn't worth the security risk? Or was there no chance of his being reaped at all?

It was strange, if he wasn't in the pool. Techeela would be a very popular tribute. He knew how they thought in the Capitol well enough to know that.

He flew down the street, heart pounding in his slender chest. The urge to toss a glance over his shoulder was drowned by the voice in his head that said if the Peacekeepers were behind him he didn't want to know, because they would either catch him or kill him and he couldn't face those options. Better just kill me, he thought, whipping around a corner fast enough to scrape away some of the skin on the soles of his feet. Better that than a cell.

The thought of his cell, silent, damp, waiting, was enough to spur his tired limbs. He felt like a wounded animal, trailing through the woods with blood on its flank, stumbling and crawling away from a bigger, hungrier thing. Can't catch me, he thought. I won't go back there. Not for something I didn't do. I won't, I can't, I won't.

He turned another corner. There was the square.

Ringed by Peacekeepers, and packed wall to wall with trembling children, the square was an imposing sight. The stage must have been two hundred meters from where Techeela stood, but it felt as though miles of shivering bodies stood between them. The square had gone silent, now, and the only speaking voice was amplified a hundred times from the stage. His head hummed with adrenaline. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears. Nothing else but the roar in his skull.

And a shout. "He's here! The square!"

"Fuck," said Techeela. He pushed past the Peacekeepers guarding the square, and dove into the throng.

As he'd expected, the crowd parted like water as he shouldered through. He was an unknown element, a scarred boy in a jumpsuit so orange it burned to look at, with one wrist manacled. And he was running from something. On every side people fell away from him, bumping into one another in an effort to avoid brushing up against the fabric of his jumpsuit. No one would meet his eyes.

Is it because you've heard of me? thought Techeela, Or because I'm frightening either way? He wanted to say it. He also wanted to say, I didn't do it, my mother did, but there wasn't enough time for either.

He pushed farther into the crowd. Onstage, a gaudy Capitol someone was attempting to drum up some excitement by gesturing at the boy she'd pulled onstage. He's been reaped, then, thought Techeela, If the crying is anything to go by. "Volunteers?" It was the first word he'd heard her say. "I know that's not super normfor District Three, but- "

He was not so very far from the stage now. And he could hear his former guards shouting behind him, surmised that the Capitol woman had stopped speaking because she wanted to figure out what was behind the commotion. "Me!" he said.

The Capitol woman stiffened. "What?" she said, glancing down at him, blue eyes gigantic. "You?" She pointed a manicured finger in his direction. "Are you volunteering?"

He skidded to a stop. He could feel blood welling under his injured feet. Suddenly he felt very, very tired.

"Yes," he said. "Yes." And then, quieter, "I won't go back."

The Capitol woman clapped her hands together. "Oh my gosh," she said, so quickly that it sounded like one word. "District Three, I'm shocked and so proud, get uphere, volunteer!" Techeela blinked, headed for the stage. His head felt stuffed with cloth. His eyes burned. The Hunger Games, he thought, Capitol, there might've been a better way. But when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the prison guards glaring and snarling in the crowd, there was a brief moment of vindication. They would've beaten me, he thought, Thrown me into solitary, hurt me more than I've ever been hurt, if they'd caught me. They're so angry. I humiliated them in front of the whole prison, and they're stupid and brutal, and they would have done it. This is better. Anything is better than that place.

He mounted the steps in a daze and stood next to the Capitol woman and stared out at a sea of faces that must have been heavily populated by people who thought he'd helped his mother to do what she did. The Capitol woman was talking, asking him questions, and he took the microphone from her and said, "My name is Techeela Selyck, and some of you hate me for crimes I didn't commit. My mother did what she did to her patients on her own. I wasn't involved. I'm sorry it happened."

He handed the microphone back to the Capitol woman, who blinked up at him. "Very exciting, she said. "An innocent prisoner! I love this! We'll just reap a female tribute real quick and then we can get back to talking with Techeela Selyck, District Three's first volunteer! I'm so happy!" She giggled into the microphone, and her tinkling laugh echoed in the silence. "Okay," she said, trotting to one of the reaping bowls and snatching out a single slip. "Let's give it up for our female tribute… Deltaaaaa Gigabyte!"

There was a slight commotion in one of the sections, and then a slender girl stepped away from the crowd and walked to the stage. The cold blank glare on her face and the stiff way she carried herself were familiar to Techeela. I've seen her, he thought. She's been in prison several times before. Never for very long. But she knows what it's like. She understands. Her brown eyes were heavy-lidded and free of tears. As she mounted the steps, she looked Techeela in the face and her expression did not change. A mask, he thought. She's pretending that she doesn't feel. I'll talk to her later. I'll figure her out. It was a chance to talk to someone new. He thrilled at it.

He thrilled at everything. As he stood on the stage next to Delta, he felt the panic settling down to something manageable. He stared at the guards and smiled, and thought, I'm not going back, not to my cell, I'm either going to end up in the ground or the Victor's Village. He clutched at the broken chain dangling from his wrist. I'm safe, he thought, knowing that, as he thought it, the Capitol watched him on screen and bayed for his blood. I'm safe.

Starla Rippleen, 16
District Four Female

As Seiko Manda strolled across the stage to the male reaping bowl, Starla glared and pouted and crossed her arms over her chest. Jackson Brooks, she thought. It's Jackson Brooks. Everyone in the goddamn district knows it's Jackson goddamn Brooks.

Nevertheless, the crowd jittered with excited energy. The screens onstage displayed Seiko's lizard face as he paused in front of the male bowl and wriggled his fingers. Ooh, Starla thought, Oh boy, the anticipation is just killing me, what could possibly happen next I just don't know. She picked at a loose thread on her black sweater, which was hanging from her slender frame. Again she glanced at the clock on the Justice Building, which displayed the time as 11:50. Hurry up, she thought. Her palms were sweating. I told Mom I'd be there by 12:30. Why the hell is this taking so long?

Onstage, Seiko had reached into the bowl and was drawing out a slip. "Well, District Four," he said, unfurling the folded piece of paper. "While it seems unlikely that this slip has the name of your male tribute on it, I give you… Marius Hernandez!" The girls around Starla began to clap, smiling when it seemed likely that the cameras might end up on them. Bronzed blonde goddesses. Starla shook her head of jet-black curls so that the streaks she'd dyed her hair were more visible. I'm so Capitol now, she thought, twisting one purple strand around her finger. Ooh, look at me, I love fashion and watching kids die. Ha ha ha, I'm the best.

Marius Hernandez had mounted the steps and was waving at the audience solemnly, while Seiko's hooded eyes scanned the crowd. "Alright, Four," he said. "It's time for who you've really been waiting for. Will the chosen volunteer please step forward?"

A beat. Then, from the male seventeens section, a crimson-haired boy pushed himself out of the crowd, already raising a hand to wave. He passed Marius on the stairs and took his place next to Seiko, still waving, smiling a bit. "Heyoo, District Four!" he said, leaning in to the microphone Seiko was holding. "Some of you might know me, but in case you don't I'm Jax Brooks and this year I'm headed in! Hopefully I'll do you all proud and everything." A faint blush rose to his cheekbones.

The corners of Seiko's thin lips turned up. "Welcome, Jax," he said. "The Capitol and your district are both very proud of you."

"Oh man," said Jax, waving his hand as if to disperse any praise. "It's really nothing big. Just your average trained killer!" Then he twitched, and shook his head, very slightly. "Er, yeah. Excited for those Games!"

The girls around Starla began to clap and whistle, grinning like animals baring their teeth. Starla's eyes rolled so far into the back of her skull that they ached. She checked the clock. 11:59. Ugh, she thought, drumming her fingers against her forearms, Hurry up, if I don't get to the hospital by 12:30 Mom will be worried. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and ground her back teeth together so that she could hear the enamel squealing. Her head had begun to ache. Hurry up, she thought again, Let Lilac volunteer so I can get the hell out of here.

Then she rolled her eyes, even as the pit of her stomach twisted with nausea. Perfect Lilac, she thought, Hunger Games volunteer and everybody loves her. Maybe she'll die. It was so vicious a thought that she blinked, and for a moment the resentment coiling in her gut was tainted with remorse. I shouldn't feel bad, though, she thought. If I were the one volunteering she'd hope that I died. She hates me. So much for the bond between cousins. Her head was really aching now, and the sweat on her palms was beginning to drip. I think I'm going to throw up, she thought. Capitol, get me out of here.

As Jackson Brooks smiled for the cameras, Seiko recovered the microphone and took center stage. His black hair shivered in the breeze like the rippling tide of a river. "For the second time," he said, "We reap someone who will quickly be replaced by a tribute with a greater propensity for violence." He approached the second reaping bowl and studied the slips inside before plucking one of the papers on top. He read the name, nodded, and said "Starla Rippleen, your fifteen minutes of fame have begun."

"Oh, for Capitol's sake," said Starla, aloud. "You're kidding me."

A ripple of confused laughter bubbled up from the girls around her, who were moving to the side to create a clear pathway to the stage. "Uggggh," she moaned, weaving her way through cheering teens, trudging up the steps to the stage with leaden feet. She could see the clock better from the stage. 12:05. This is gonna make me late, she thought, resisting the urge to growl about timeliness on live television for all of Panem. For Capitol's fucking sake, why is this happening to me today?

"Welcome, Starla," said Seiko. "Do you have anything you'd like to say to your volunteer?"

She ground her back teeth so hard she thought she might taste blood. "Just come up here and get your eternal glory or whatever, Lilac," she snapped into the microphone. "We've all got places to be."

Seiko raised perfectly-manicured eyebrows and said, "Testy, aren't we?"

"'Lil bit," said Starla.

His black eyes flickered skyward. "Well," he said, "If our volunteer has this much fire, we should be in for a bloody year." He scanned the crowd. "Will District Four's chosen volunteer please come forth?" he said. "We've got a show to put on."

Silence.

Hurry up, Lilac, Starla thought, glaring at the eighteens section. Is this because I said I had places to be? Making me late is just shitty. She tapped her foot and drummed her fingers. She was grinding her back teeth so viciously that she could absolutely taste iron in the back of her throat now. Come on, she thought, squinting at the crowd with as much interest as Seiko had been. All the faces were blurred, indistinct. But she could sense the confusion.

Dread crawled up from her stomach. Sweeping dread that bled into her veins. Her headache had a pitch, now, a high ringing buzz that drowned out all other sound. Lilac hates me, she thought. The words drilled into her brain. She felt as though someone had driven a buzzsaw in between her eyes. Lilac hates me. She hates me. So why would she volunteer to save me? Why?

"Oh, fuck you," she whispered. The words carried in the silence. "Lilac? Fuck. You."

And she heard it, from the eighteens. Maybe Seiko didn't notice. But she did. A short sharp laugh, almost incredulous in its giddy excitement. She's there, thought Starla. She's there right now. She's not volunteering. Oh Capitol. Oh Capitol. The buzz roared in her mind. She saw Seiko's thin lips moving as he spoke into the microphone, saw Jax glancing over at her with raised eyebrows and a confused shrug. But all she could hear was the roar. Her chest felt constricted, her limbs heavy, she couldn't breathe.

She looked at the clock. 12:10.

Mom won't be able to see me, she thought. She's in the hospital. She can't come see me. I can't go see her. Oh Capitol, oh Capitol, oh Capitol.

Her blood pounded in her ears. Her stomach wrung itself into bloody knots. Her palms dripped sweat. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe.

It didn't surprise her when she bent double at the waist and vomited on live television. Actually, she would tell herself later, it was a classic Starla move. Show them what you think of them, and all that.

She could do that sort of thing now. Since she was certainly, absolutely going to die.

Kobe Engle, 16
District Ten Male

"Don't forget," said Rouna Lackam, who seemed tinier than ever in her oversized jacket and boots. "District Ten fought against the Capitol in both rebellions. When I read this name out loud, it's in response to the thousands of lives that District Ten wasted by joining the fight." She held a slip of paper aloft in front of her. "Whoever this tribute is," said Rouna, "She's doing penance for District Ten's heinous actions in this war and the last."

Small as she was, the stage was dominated by Rouna's presence. The sun hung fat and golden in the sky and Kobe found that the back of his neck was drenched with sweat, but District Ten's escort did not seem to be suffering. The mentors, Katar and Coulter, both seemed slightly uncomfortable. But Rouna was pale and perfect, a shadow or a wisp in her too-large clothing. More of an idea of a person than a person in her own right. It was only when she spoke that she surged to life, with a powerful low voice that Kobe thought meant she should have been a singer.

She glanced at the slip, and narrowed her blue eyes. "Elanor Marshall," she said. "You've been chosen to pay District Ten's price. Come up to the stage."

As the little girl came stumbling out from the twelves, Kobe frowned in the direction of the escort. District Ten's price? he thought. Little self-righteous there, aren't we? The second rebellion happened almost eighty damn years ago. He crossed thick arms over his chest. Oh, Capitol, this is unbelievable. Look at this kid! They think she's gonna last a second against a Career?

Elanor Marshall, who stood trembling on the stage, was not going to last a second against anyone. Where Rouna was small, Elanor was tiny, with limbs so slender she reminded Kobe of one of the starving goats he'd seen during last year's food shortage. All bone, skin stretched so tight over hollow spaces it could rip at the slightest brush of fingertips. Tears had begun to course down Elanor's pale cheeks. Her dress fluttered and snapped in the wind.

"Volunteers?" Rouna asked, and silence was her answer. Right, like we're all chomping at the bit to volunteer for a death match where one out of twenty-four wins, Kobe thought. Excuse me, lady, you're thinking of District Two! We're a bit more civilized up here. He rubbed a hand through his unruly brown hair, and his fingertips came away stinking of sweat. Hot, he thought, flapping the collar of his flannel. The sky was so blue that looking at it made his eyes sting. It was an incredible day. Too bad that he was here, in this square, surrounded by terrified teenagers and Capitol cameramen.

"No volunteers," said Rouna, "Unsurprising, considering which district this is." Elanor had begun to sob quietly, little hitching sobs that forced her scrawny shoulders up almost to her ears when she inhaled. "Safe to assume you don't have anything to say," said Rouna. "Let's see if your district partner has more spirit."

The tableau would make a good sketch, Kobe decided. The escort in her too-large army gear, the crying skeletal girl in the background, and behind them both the mentors that sat like silent impassive specters of death. If he wanted to, he could make them death, give them hooded cowls or wings or scythes. But I've never been good at that sort of thing, thought Kobe, watching Rouna march to the second reaping bowl. Realist, that's me. His calloused hands twitched. He itched to have a pencil between his fingers.

"Alright," said Rouna, retrieving a slip from the male bowl. "Your male tribute will be no less important in representing District Ten's penance for its part in the first and second rebellions. Even if he wins. His life belongs to the Capitol now." She unfurled the slip. "Kobe Engle," she said. "Approach the stage."

He heard his own name and reared back for a moment. That's me, he thought. Surprise wiped his heart-shaped face clear of any subtlety. He stared up at Rouna and thought, I've been reaped. Capitol, I'm done. I'm finished.

Kobe sighed.

Oh, man. And it was such a joy to be alive.

The crowd was silent. As Kobe pushed his way to the front, he felt gentle pats on his shoulders, heard whispers of encouragement. He took them all and wanted to smile, but his face felt numb. He was sure that they understood, anyway.

He reached the stage and walked up the steps and stood next to Rouna and Elanor. "Well," said Rouna, "Here we have Kobe Engle. Are there any volunteers?"

Kobe stared out into the sea of faces. They were the familiar, broad, honest District Ten faces he knew. He did not expect anyone to volunteer and was unsurprised by the silence. "That's it, then," said Rouna. "You are our male tribute, Mister Engle."

"Dream come true," said Kobe.

Rouna blinked. "I hope you're taking this seriously," she said. "The Games were set in place to remind each district of where they belong in society. They are not to be taken lightly."

"Oh no," said Kobe, "Don't worry, I'm not making fun of your Games. Believe me, I get how serious they are. Dead serious."

Rouna glared. "Very funny," she said. Her tone was stiff. "District Ten," she said, turning away from both children, "I give you your tributes." She gestured with one sweep of her arm. "Elanor Marshall and Kobe Engle. May they represent District Ten as well as they can." She looked back over her shoulder. "Tributes, shake hands," she said.

Kobe turned to Elanor. She was still weeping, trying to swipe the tears away with the backs of her hands. The hems of her sleeves were damp. When she looked up at him, her lower lip wobbled and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. It's not right, he thought, extending his hand. It's not right. He shuddered, just for a moment. And I'll be going in there with her. We shouldn't have to. Goddamn, it's not right.

She hesitated. Then she reached out and took his hand. He could feel spots of dampness on her skin, where the tears had soaked in.

"Very good," said Rouna. "All of you will watch their progress on television, I'm sure." She clapped her hands together. "Happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."

As she said it, the Peacekeepers at the bottom of the stage began to approach, ushering Kobe and Elanor towards the Justice Building. Elanor squeaked and dropped Kobe's hand. He could see her blue eyes searching for a way out. No way out, kiddo, he thought, as his forearms were seized and he was gently but firmly pulled in the direction of the Justice Building. We're in this one for the long haul, I'm afraid.

His hands trembled again. I need a pencil, he thought, I need to sketch this. I think I'll call it: The Capitol is a Bunch of Goddamn Psychopaths and a Little Girl and I Shouldn't Have to Die For Them to Satisfy their Lunatic Bloodlust. Part One.

Where he was going, he had a feeling he was going to be able to make something of a series out of that one.

Elanor "Ellie" Marshall, 12
District Ten Female

They pushed her into a small room decorated with dried flowers and bleached cattle skulls. She stood in the very center, doing her best to stem the flow of tears that cascaded from her blue eyes. So far she wasn't very successful. The odds, she thought, Are 1 in 24. That's… around four percent. That isn't a good number.

So she continued to cry. She could feel her lids swelling, and the back of her throat hurt from vocalizations she was doing her best to mute. She was still crying when the door clattered open and her father bolted into the room. He had her by the shoulders in seconds, squeezing so hard she thought her bones would snap under the pressure.

"It's my fault," he said, staring at her with wild amber eyes. "This is my fault. I'm a Victor. This wasn't an accident, it was my fault." She could feel his hands trembling on her skin.

"No, Dad," she choked. The tears were slowing now. "It was an accident, I don't think they rig the reapings. That wouldn't be fair."

He winced, looked away from her, and said, "Oh, Ellie…" His face, when he looked back at her, was hard. "You've got to remember," he said, "The Capitol is your enemy. It hates you and it wants you to die."

She winced. Fresh tears dripped from her lower lashes. "Me?" she said. "Or everybody?"

"All of them. Every tribute." He paused. "Maybe not One, Two and Four. But every outer district tribute, they want to see them die. You can't give them what they want."

"Oh, Ellie!" It was her mother's voice. Ellie broke away from her father with a wordless cry, and buried herself in the warm soft embrace of her mother. "Oh, sweetheart," her mother crooned, petting through Ellie's blonde hair. "My honey. You've got to be tough, Ellie. You've got to be. Can you do that?"

Ellie nodded against her mother's chest. "I… I think so," she said. But I don't know. The thought rose, unbidden, and lodged itself in her mind. I don't know if I can. I just want to go home.

She shivered as her mother pulled away. "Listen to Daddy," her mother said. "He won his Games. He has lots of advice."

"Here's what you do," her father said, taking her hand. "Coulter will be your district partner's mentor. But you listen to him; he'll help you just as much as he'll help Kobe." He rubbed his thumb in circles on her skin. "I mentored him," he said, "So he has just as much of my advice as I do. When it comes down to it, you trust Coulter. I don't know that Katar can give you much help, on account of…" He gestured at his throat. "But your district partner won't begrudge Coulter working with you both. And if he does, I don't give a damn." His eyes flashed. "We're Victors," he said. "We stick together."

There was a knock on the door. "Out! We've got more visitors."

"Oh, Capitol!" Ellie's mother buried her in her arms again. "I love you, sweetheart," she murmured. "Oh my baby, I love you so much."

Her father pressed a kiss to her temple. "I love you, Ellie," he whispered. "You can do this. You can win."

The door opened. Casting wobbling glances over their shoulders, her parents stepped through the threshold and were gone. Maybe forever, she thought numbly. Her tears had begun to dry. She felt as though someone had carved out the parts of her with feeling.

Into the room came Tawny, who was trembling and white-faced with fury. "Fuck!" she said, jabbing at the air with her fist. "Fuck this, fuck the Games." She darted to Ellie's side and wrapped her in a strong hug. "You've gotta win," she whispered. "I won't be able to stand it if you don't win."

They separated. "I'll do my best," said Ellie, fidgeting. Her pink dress twirled around her ankles. "I… What if I can't win, Tawny? The odds are really bad."

"Bull. You have your dad's friend, right? The other Victor?"

"Coulter Mignon," said Ellie. "He and Dad are pretty close. Dad thinks he'll help me out."

"Right. So you've got extra help. Plus, you're tougher than you look. Don't count yourself out, kid." Tawny reached into the pocket of her woolen skirt and pulled out a tiny wooden dog, which she thrust in front of herself. "Here," she said. "I was saving this for after we both got through our first reaping…" She paused to wipe at her eyes. "Just take it," she snapped. "It's a little dog. He can be your token."

"Oh, Tawny…" Ellie picked up the dog, which weighed almost nothing. "I love him." She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Tawny's torso. "Thank you," she whispered. "For being my best friend."

"Anytime," said Tawny, her voice muffled by Ellie's thick hair. "You've gotta win this, Ellie. For all of us."

When the guard knocked on the door to summon Tawny, she was already slipping through the threshold, swiping furiously at her eyes. Ellie walked the little dog across her palm, stroking his smooth wooden head. He's great, she thought, Just like Bingo. A sob tore free. Oh no, I won't be able to see him before I go… He'll miss me. He won't get what happened. She sniffled. It's not fair. He didn't do anything wrong.

The door opened. Ellie hiccuped and hid the little dog in her fist and stared up at the man who'd come into the room. That's Coulter, she thought, Dad's friend. The one he mentored. "Mister Mignon," she said. She could feel the dog's tiny head digging into her palm.

"Hello, Ellie," said Coulter. He was a tall man, his features arranged in a way that did not lend themselves to handsomeness but made his face an interesting one to look at. His blue eyes glimmered under thick eyebrows. "I came as soon as I could get off the stage." His voice was soft, gentle, like the voice of an animal tamer. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you."

Ellie nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. I will not cry, she told herself. Not anymore. Not in front of this man I don't know. I will not.

"I want you to know," said Coulter, "That I will do everything in my power to help you get through the arena." He lowered his eyes. "My first priority is to take care of your district partner, Kobe," he said. "I can't abandon my duty to him. But I will spend as much time working with you as with him. I won't sleep, if I have to." He clasped his hands in front of him. "Your mentor will be Katar Veteri," he said. "She can't speak. I often help the female tributes from Ten for that reason, so there will be no raised eyebrows regarding my involvement."

He extended a hand. "I'll do my best to help you, Ellie," he said. "I hope that we can get through this together."

She looked at his hand for a moment. Then she reached out and took it. "Thanks," she whispered. He'll help me, she thought. I'll have two mentors, almost. So my odds maybe aren't so bad. His hand was smooth and warm in hers. I can do it, maybe, she thought. I could. I could win.

And still she found herself fighting the urge to sob, to collapse, to scream. No matter what she did, the number remained in her head, taunting. Four percent, she thought, as Coulter took his leave of the room. Four percent, four percent, four percent…