A child's future torn apart by strife,

His hands hewn but only to take a life.

District 6's son will find a new game waiting.

District 6 | The Reaping of Mikkel Oethro

"Ugh," I grunt out as I enter into the world of consciousness.

I feel a beating pain emanating from the right side of my thorax, just above my abdomen. I make a move to wrap my arms around my stomach, but as I try to move them, they are jerked backwards. Confused, I take a deep breath and allow myself to soak in my surroundings.

Oh, figures.

I realize that I'm sitting down, my back against a wooden beam with my hands chained behind it. I sigh and lightly and frustratingly thunk my head against the beam, causing my dark-red, almost black, hair to fly out of my eyes. You were too careless. Too greedy, I scold myself.

My name is Mikkel Oethro, and I am currently a seventeen year-old boy who is in an immense amount of shit.

I was born into a family that was struggling with poverty. My parents and I lived in the slums on the east side of District Six; we were hungry, but not starving. My dad worked as an engineer technologist at a transportation plant and my mom worked in an assembly line at a train transportation factory. When I was several months shy of five, my mom gave birth to my younger sister, Feliece Oethro. During childbirth, my mom was unable to survive - my dad tried, he really did, but two children on one parent's salary was tough. A little bit after my fifth birthday, my dad made a judgment call - he left me and my sister off at South East Six Orphanage (SESO).

Now, he might seem like the stereotypical, lazy father that abandons his children the moment the mother is gone, but that really wasn't the case. From what I have been told, my sister and I would have had a better chance of starving to death if he had kept us. He made the right call. SESO, I would soon learn, is also infamously known as the thieves' orphanage.

SESO is more or less a scouting and training grounds for one of District Six's largest mobs, the South East Saints (or SES for short). Ironically, since SESO is technically an orphanage on paper, it does get funded by the Capitol - so pretty much one of the largest crime organizations was able to pull off having the government fund their recruitment center. The orphans that are brought into SESO are put through various different tests in order to see what talents (if they had any) were. Since my sister was a baby when we first arrived, she was placed in the SESO nursery where they would care for her until she was old enough for training.

Children are small, and they are generally underestimated by the citizens and peacekeepers. The South East Saints use that ignorance to their advantage by using orphans as unassuming spies, thieves, beggars, and even killers. The orphans that are found to have no talents in the aforementioned skills are usually trained to become cooks, cleaners, training helpers, or lookouts. The cooks in training would assist in the large kitchens and would help out by preparing the food and cleaning the kitchen - all of this while they learned how to become chefs.

The 'cleaners' have a very special job, on the other hand.

My sister, although talented in pickpocketing, was (and is) intensively trained to be a cleaner. She's got a keen advantage: she boasts the priceless talent of a photographic memory. Thanks to this, she has an incredible sense of detail and organization. A cleaner's job is to, well, clean…sort of. After a hit goes down, a cleaner or two are called onto the location quickly. They dispose of the body and then they remove any possible, damning evidence from the scene of the crime. This usually includes scrubbing the victim's blood off the ground and surrounding walls. Cleaners are vitally important to the mob as they have the responsibility of keeping the authorities from gathering enough proof of our criminal activities. My now twelve year-old sister excels at this job.

I am a very proud older brother.

Training helpers are the unsung heroes of SESO and the SES, on the other hand. They work hard in keeping the training grounds and rooms clean and operational for us. They hold large foam cushions in front of their bodies while others practice their fighting skills against them and are always giving moral and emotional support to those who need it. They are the behind the scenes people that keep everything operational.

The lookout position is for those who are sneaky and quick on their feet, but they aren't necessarily stealthy with their actions. They are trained to strategically locate in unassuming vantage point where they can see their partner (or partners) while being able to keep an eye out for any unwanted disruptions. It is up to them to use their discretion in determining whether or not a mission is compromised. If they believe it is, they will sound off a predetermined alarm that will alert everyone else into knowing that the mission is no longer salvageable.

The orphans that have been deemed to have absolutely no talent are actually put up for adoption. It's simple business. For the rest of us of use, SESO puts on our public record that we are emotionally and physically not ready to be adopted and assimilated with the outside world. This effectively keeps the promising orphans within the firm clutches of those who run the place.

South East Six Orphanage became my saving grace. After I was fed generously my first week there, I quickly began to learn the art of pickpocketing. The first few months were great, and it all seemed like a game: The instructors would pretend they didn't know I was in the room, and I would try to steal small items from their clothing without alerting them to my presence. The teachers were impressed by the talent I displayed and they made the decision to keep me training as a thief. They called me a prodigy; some said that they had 'never seen a child so young, yet so full of talent.' I was pushed into the streets with full confidence from the mentors from SESO to perform my first ever 'mission.'

Anything and everything having to do with a job for SESO is referred to as a mission. My very first attempt at pickpocketing ended terribly: My thumb had rubbed against the fabric of a coat worn by an older man. As punishment for getting caught, the man kicked me several times while he yelled incoherently at me. When the orphanage mentors found out, I received another beating as motivation to do a better job the next time.

With the ever present 'motivation' from my teachers, I tried my hardest to become a better thief. I soon became comfortable with swiping hand-watches, coins, pouches, and food from the older citizens of District Six. A year after my first pickpocketing attempt, I began stealing from more difficult targets. I got a huge high off of stealing, and the more difficult the target was, the bigger the rush I got. To this day I still get an adrenaline rush that is oh so addictive, to the point that I would still steal even if I wasn't instructed to - I am a kleptomaniac.

Hey, I think it's a good thing that I enjoy my work.

I shake my head as I remind myself that it is in fact my work that had gotten me in this predicament. Getting caught and humiliated like this reminds me of my first time attempting to steal from a peacekeeper. I let the smallest of shudders take its course over my body as I remember the day that would traumatize my body for the rest of my life.

I had been doing well when it came to pickpocketing the civilians of District Six. My beaming-with-happiness instructors decided that it was time that I try my first peacekeeper. They gave me the target and I was expected to complete the mission; I found my mark and stealthily stalked him. I had followed the peacekeeper into an apothecary shop and then waited for him to buy something. I casually walked up behind him as he was pulling out his wallet to pay, and just as his wallet started to slide into his pocket after he made his purchase, I grabbed the wallet with two of my fingers. At this point, I had learned to never use my thumb to do a lift again.

Unfortunately, the shop keeper had just spotted my fingers, and the bastard alerted the peacekeeper to crime in progress. Livid, the peacekeeper grabbed me by my shirt collar and lifted me into the air. He then opened up the package that he had just purchased, and to my horror, he rubbed a powdery substance into my eye.

It burned.

The searing pain in my eyes caused my body to spasm uncontrollably. My screaming must have shocked the shopkeeper because he took me from the peacekeeper (who now looked sick to his stomach - I don't think this was the reaction he was expecting). The proprietor poured an acid-based liquid onto my face to counteract the powerful alkaline powder. When he was satisfied, he then dunked my head into a bucket full of water. At this point, the peacekeeper had since departed, afraid that he would be charged for attacking a small child. I must have passed out in the bucket of water because when I came back to consciousness, I was lying on my back outside behind the apothecary shop. The shop owner must have brought me out there; having a dying child on one's floor isn't exactly the best way to attract customers.

I had a killer headache, and when I tried to open my eyes, I was greeted by stinging pain. After a few attempts at trying to ignore the agony I finally got my eyes to open - and that was all. All I could get my eyes to do was open their eyelids; I was unable to get them to see.

Horror-struck, I desperately tried to figure out why I couldn't see more than light, darkness, and the fuzzy outlining of shapes. I gritted my teeth and forced my body into an upright sitting position. A wave of wooziness crashed down upon my head as I began to sway. Through my confusion, I knew one thing: I had to get back to SESO somehow.

I tried to use my hands to push myself onto my feet, but the condition my head was in wouldn't allow walking. I did the only thing I could get my body to do: I crawled. I crawled blindly towards what I thought was the right direction. In all seventeen years of my life, I don't think I have ever come close to being as scared as I was then - a six year old incapable of standing and blind.

There must be some type of deity that watches over this world - or gets his kicks and amusement from us - because fifteen minutes into my blind crawl, one of the senior orphans of SESO found me on her way back from a mission. She was sixteen at the time; her name was Senra. Senra was one of the senior members that I observed and copied. She was rough around the edges and cussed like nobody's business, but deep down I think she had a soft spot for me.

She died two years ago when a mission she was in for the South East Saints went horribly wrong. I didn't cry at her funeral; she would have laughed at me if I had.

That day, she scooped me right up off of the ground and brought me home. On our way back to SESO, she told me that she was proud I wasn't crying- and I had better be damn sure that any tears that come out of my eyes were from the irritation caused by the powder, and not from pain. She would later tell me that the looks on all the faces of the members of SESO that saw her carry me in were priceless. I, of course, had a hard time distinguishing faces, let alone seeing facial expressions, so I had to take her word for it. Luckily my baby sister was still just a baby; she grew up having no recollection of me having my full capability of sight.

I was rushed to the infirmary within SESO's grounds. Funny thing: SESO's infirmary was actually much more state-of-the-art than the actual, official hospital of District Six. Guess it does pay to be a part of a gang.

I was immediately injected with anesthesia after being laid on a bed of white sheets. I woke up thirty hours later, immediately falling into a small panic attack when I couldn't open my eyes. Once I gained control of my body again, I realized that I had bandages wrapped around my eyes. A doctor came into the room I was staying in, and he told me that I was going to have to leave the bandages on for a week. After a week, he would remove them and replace them with a set of new bandages for another week.

I had to go two weeks of pure darkness.

In my young mind, I had imagined that those two weeks were going to be pure hell, yet some of my instructors jumped at the opportunity. 'A door closes, and another door opens,' they used to tell me.

'Right now you have no eyesight; you're going to need to rely on your other sense to make up for that,' one of them told me.

They were very excited to train me; I was the first to have this predicament. My mentors had me train my hearing by making different noises to focus on. They started out with loud, obvious noises, such as a bell ringing, for me to pinpoint their locations. After I had grown comfortable with finding them based on the ringing noises, they moved to more subtle sounds. This went on and on: I would find them, and they would become quieter. I had been so immersed in this new exercise, I was surprised to find out my two weeks were up.

The bandages were cut off and removed-I was able to open my eyes for the first time in two weeks. I was instantly disappointed. Sure, I could see better than I was able to before I was taken to the infirmary, but in my childish mind I had expected to have my sight fully restored. After the bandages were removed, I was able to make out where colors differed from each other, brightness levels, and the outlines of objects. If I got close enough, and squinted in the right way, I could make out more detailed features on people's faces. Deflated, I hung my head in self-pity.

I wanted to wallow in my misfortune and have everyone give me sympathy, but Senra found me and whipped me into shape. She told me that I was lucky to be alive, and lucky to even have any sort of sight coming from my eyes. She then slapped my back and told me to 'buck up, and prove [my] worth to SESO.' Senra would also later tell me that my originally bright green eye color had been muted to a light, almost translucent green color from the effects of the alkaline powder.

Invigorated, I sought out the instructors that did hearing training with me during my sightless weeks and asked them to continue to train me. Over the next eleven years I was trained to heighten my other senses in order to aid in my 'sight.'

Sight, hearing, feeling, olfaction, and taste are all used to create a mental image. With years of practice, I became able to detect the height of grass based off of the noise the wind made against the blades as the reflection the sun bounced from into my eyes. Almost losing sight kick-started my neglected senses into high gear, all for the sake of survival.

Two years later I had become relatively content with my state of being. It was then decided that I should begin my training with weapons; I needed to be able to defend myself if I got caught again. I had shown promising talent in stealing, so I needed a weapon that wasn't going to hinder my speed and dexterity. Dual daggers were decided to be my companions.

I very much enjoyed learning the art of fighting with a dagger; however, my skill at throwing the daggers was poor, at best. My eyes were just not good enough to direct the snap of my wrist as I released my weapons, and the sound and vibrations alone were not enough to allow me to throw the blades fatally. Sure, I could possibly hit a target, but all I could hope to do was maim it. The target would most likely be perfectly able to attack me, and I would be one (if not both) daggers down. Realistically speaking, it just wasn't worth it.

Once I reached the age of ten I was kept on a strict diet and exercise routine. I was fed mostly lean protein and vegetables so that my body would remain slender and toned. I was trained to make soundless steps, making my skill at sneaking much more effective.

Always land on the balls of my feet; never on the heel.

The pairing of my ability to become soundless and hear the tiniest pinpricks proved a deadly ensemble. I began spy training at the age of eleven, and quickly after that I was on my first spying mission. I was to listen for information on a rival gang about a shipment of Morphling they were expecting. For the first time ever, my first new type of missions were a success thanks to my elevated hearing. I was able to inform SES about the shipment of the narcotic, and they were able to efficiently intercept the packages.

When I turned twelve, my main instructor decided that I was old enough to learn the art of killing. Of course I had kept up the training with my daggers and I could very well kill someone if I had to, but most of the training had been entirely meant for self-defense. I hadn't a clue on how to initiate an attack on someone.

Now, I was going to learn how to carry off an assassination.

I had been drilled and drilled over and over to get my form perfect. My mentor told me that I should remove hesitation from my. Hesitation is what got most killers killed, and I would be a fool to feel pity for my target. Most of my training took place at night; during the night, I would have an advantage. Those who were dependent on eyesight were also dependent on the sunlight. They needed light in order to use their eyes to their full potential. I, on the other hand, didn't need a ray of light.

I could see just fine.

I was thirteen when I was given my first hit mission. I followed the protocol I was taught, quietly stalked the target, and then - once the target was alone in dim light - I snuck a dagger across his throat. I flicked my wrist inward while pulling my arm laterally from my body - without any hesitation.

I had never had so much of another human's blood rain down on me.

I was glad to find myself apathetic to the fact that the (now dead) man's blood covered my face. SESO and SES would be so proud of me.

Drug cartels are everywhere in District Six; we are infamously known as the District of Morphling. No other district comes close to our amount of drug usage. Now I'm no addict nowadays, but part of my training at SESO included taking drugs in order to pinpoint my reactions. This way, if I was ever drugged, I would be able to act accordingly. In addition to knowing my body, the higher-ups in SESO wanted to test our willpower - they wanted to see if we would fall into the despair of addiction.

I was thirteen the first time I found something really great – DiacetylPhine, or DYP. Oh boy, when I injected that in my arm's vein…that was something. My body filled with warmth from the tips of my toes to the hairs on my head. I felt relaxed, secure, safe. I felt as if my mom was snuggling with me like she'd never died.

I loved it. Craved it.

I quickly became addicted to the warmth and soon got sloppy with my missions. When I infiltrated cartels, I picked up a habit of stealing a little extra DYP as I carried out my objectives.

I began trying to get rid of my addiction to DYP, but going cold grouse is nigh impossible. My sudden withdrawal left me clammy and anxious, and pretty soon I was fighting for sleep. Insomnia rendered me in a perpetual zombified state.

Cold sweats opened up across my body, and soon I was compromising every mission I was part of. One of my mentors told me to either get a handle on my body or to enjoy sleeping on the streets. The only quick fix I could think of was shooting up.

I needed to sate my body's desires.

I had collected the necessities to create an injectable batch of DYP, but my shaking hands left me with a hard time cooking it up. I mixed my batch with water and my acid of choice, lemon juice, even as other members of SESO that were in the kitchen glanced over in my direction – still no one bothered me. It wasn't a rare sight to see someone prepare drugs. Once I was content with the smell of my brew – at this point, I would have been happy with anything close to what I needed - I sucked up some of the DYP mixture into my needle and left SESO to inoculate myself.

I knew the perfect place to commit my sin. Recently a new batch of train cars had arrived in District Six for repairs. It all surrounded something about the livestock that the cars had been transporting damaging the wiring within the base of the cars. They weren't going to be operated on in some time and would offer me unparalleled privacy.

I sprinted towards a car and unsteadily jumped into it. In my haste to tie off my left arm, I dropped the syringe that had been clenched between my teeth. After I had a ribbon secured around my upper extremity, I picked the syringe up from the ground and plunged its contents into my vein. In that moment, I felt my body twist with relief as the familiar warmth returned to me. Hours later I made my way back to SESO completely satisfied. I fell onto my bed and enjoyed I nice night full of fuzziness and coziness.

Half a week later, my arm began to sport a new skin lesion. A dark, dry scab showed up right where I had punctured myself. Radiating of away from the scab, a powerful reddening took over my arm. No one in SESO knew what to do with my arm - some of the more ignorant suggested to cut it off.

Chills raked my body a week or so later while a fever ransacked my mind. I became very ill, and some thought I was on death's door. I must really be too entraining to quite kill off because the disease I had contracted wasn't entirely unheard of in District Six. A doctor from the South East Saints came to SESO to see if she could help me.

Cutaneous anthrax, I was informed, had infected me. When I had dropped my syringe on the floor of the livestock train cart, the syringe had picked up some bacterial spores from cow dung. A series of rather unfortunate events progressed that led to my predicament. Luckily, the good doctor was quite skilled in her craft, and she had me better in no time.

Well, that's a lie. I wasn't back to my complete strength for weeks, but I was alive. After that event, I tried my hardest to quite DYP, but this time I was smarter. Instead of quitting entirely, I weaned my body slowly off DYP. I am proud to say that the last time I ever shot up was just before my sixteenth birthday, I have been sober now for over a year.

I woke up yesterday morning in the bedroom that I share with three others, finding a small red letter beside me. The script on the letter was larger and darker than normal script as I opened the red letter, slightly surprised that I was getting a job a day before the Reaping as I read the contents. I was given the assignment to destroy a new shipment of a popular nasal drug, BenzEc, from a local drug cartel that has been causing trouble for the South East Saints.

SES runs several drug rings, but they also offer protection to certain drug cartels. Protection is traded for a cut of the cartel's profits, and according to my little red letter, one of the drug cartels under the protection of the SES was no longer paying its dues. I was given the mission to infiltrate their hideout and set fire to their stash of BenzEc. After carefully reading the letter, I set fire to it. I didn't want to leave any evidence behind.

I put on my black pants and my black short-sleeved shirt and pulled a pair of black boots over my pants. My clothing is fitted, eliminating any issues of my clothing getting in the way of my actions. I looked around the room for a comb, finding one on a large vanity that all we boys share. Taking the comb in my hand, I teased a section of my hair until it got really nice and knotty. I then groped around the wooden drawer of the vanity to find several small metal objects that varied in length and width. I secured and hid the pieces of metal within my knotted hair as insurance in case anything went wrong. I grabbed an extra paperclip so I could swallow it just before I started my mission - you really can never be too careful. I found and took my black leather gloves before leaving for the kitchen.

When I got to the kitchen, I was greeted by my uncharacteristically nervous sister. Red blurs mingled with the skin of her hands, and I guessed it must have been someone's dried blood from a long previous night.

"Morning Feliece," I had greeted her. "Nice hands."

She ignored my last comment and greeted me, "Morning,"

I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was anxious and wound up. I was going to ask her what was wrong, but then I remembered that tomorrow was going to be her first ever Reaping.

"You're going to be fine," I told her. She knew what I was referencing about. "You've been entered once; the chances of you getting picked are slim."

"But what if I beat all of the odds? What if I do get chosen?" I saw the whites of her eyes grow larger.

"Then you kill them all," I replied seriously.

"What if we both get picked," she challenged me.

"Then I kill them all, and then you kill me. Simple."

"I can't kill you!" I wasn't able to tell if she meant she couldn't morally kill me or if she couldn't physically kill me. It didn't really matter to me.

"Sure you can, and if you found yourself unable to that for whatever reasons, I'd just do it myself." Before she was able to question my statement, I had cut her off by saying, "I have to go now. I've got one last mission to do before the Reaping. See you later."

We said our curt goodbyes to each other and I had told her to start practicing with her knives if she was still worried.

I slipped a small knife into a compartment inside of my left boot, strapped on my belt that sheathed my daggers, swallowed the paper clip, and then pulled on my gloves. I was ready to begin.

I spent the entire day sneaking inside the storage building that held all of the BenzEc. Those in charge of the shipment must have been suspecting retaliation from SES for their slight, as guards were everywhere; nonetheless, I was still able to find the room that housed the new shipment. It was close to nightfall when I started to drizzle oil over the bags of finely packed white powder.

My mission had been going so well that I became cocky.

In hindsight, I should have just made a spark with my dagger and lit the whole place up like my mission wanted. But no, instead I grabbed several bags of BenzEc to steal. I wanted the satisfaction of successfully stealing brand new narcotics from right under the noses of the cartel. At the moment I was stuffing the bags into my clothing, an unassuming guard picked that moment to walk into the room.

Here was the problem: The door that he had just walked through was the only way out of the room. Here was an unidentified youth stuffing nose candy down his pants while the rest of the BenzEc was covered in oil waiting to be lit on fire.

He was stunned silent for a few seconds before being able to recollect himself. My dagger wasn't able to slice across his throat before he game out a loud, gargled cry for help. He fell to the ground, grasping at his throat, as more guards came rushing to the scene.

Now, I am a 5'9" youth who weighs 140 pounds. I don't do too well in close quarters combat against multiple people. It's fair to say I went down fast. One guard got a good kick to my stomach which ripped open a bag; BenzEc flew everywhere. Within minutes of them pummeling me, I blacked out.

So here I am, chained, hurt, and slightly woozy on the day of the reaping with BenzEc powder dusted all over my body. Just fucking great. I can only place the blame on myself. I tried to do more than what I was capable of. Now, I have to break out of this cellar just so I can risk the chance of being thrown to my death while the entire country watches. I have to be present for the Reaping - not showing up would be a direct sign of treason to the Capitol.

I can tell that I'm bruised all over and I can taste the dried blood that had oozed out of my split lower lip. I groan slightly as I use my fingers to feel the lock that's keeping the chains in place. I recognize the feel of the lock; it's a standard style no. 3 - it's easy to pick.

Well, it would be easy to pick of I had a paperclip or something similar.

I shake my head as I try to get the metal out of my hair. One wire-like piece springs loose and falls next to my left thigh. Well, damn. Can't really reach that. After several more failed attempts I give up. Time for my plan B.

Plan B sucks.

Once I am through with this, I am going to need a good washing. Essentially gagging myself, I use my tongue to cover my pharynx. With my esophagus closed off, I focus on controlling my epiglottis. I make it wiggle up and down while I rack my body with strong heaves. When I feel the chyme rise up from my stomach, I pull my knees closer to my mouth. Within moments I am spilling the contents of my stomach all over my abdomen and pants. I catch the tell-tale glint of metal in my digested contents that is now soaking into my clothing. Trying to ignore the scent and the texture of the bits of food, I shove my mouth into the vomit in search of the paperclip. It takes me a few attempts at biting at it to finally have the paperclip secured in my mouth.

Using my tongue and teeth, I wiggle the paperclip apart. I place the now-opened paper clip on my left shoulder, allowing it to slide down my arm and into the crook of my elbow, and then, at last, onto the palms of my hands. I make quick, careful work of the lock that is in between me and freedom. I hear footsteps approaching the room that I'm chained up in, so I try to pick the lock faster. I have the lock off just as the door opens. The man is walking over to me, a strand of wire in his hands. I keep my hands behind my back in response: He doesn't know I'm free.

"I'm supposed to dispose of you quickly," he lets me know. "The Reaping is starting in twenty-five minutes."

My only response to him is the glare I send his way. He puts a cigarette in his mouth.

"Goodness, you look and smell like shit!" He remarks at my current appearance as he takes out a box of matches to light his cigarette.

He walks closer to me, and from the shine the wire makes, I can tell that it is covered in glass dust. He lowers his hands as he prepares to wrap the wire around my neck; unfortunately for him, I use this moment to headbutt him, hard.

He stumbles backwards as I grab the wire from his hands and wrap it around his neck. Ignoring the pain caused by the wire cutting into my hands, I tighten it until a good flow of blood rushes out of the man's neck. I lay his body on the ground and take his box of matches before I stealthily exit the room. Outside of my holding cell, I make my way through the hallway looking for the storage room.

I always complete my mission.

I find the room, and I am pleasantly pleased to find out that they haven't been able to wipe all of the oil off of the BenzEc packages. I light a match and quickly throw it upon the oil. Flames erupt, and I am out the door before I can get caught again.

Having no time to get washed up, I run straight to the Reaping. I can hear people gasp as they see this delinquent make his way through the crowd, covered in BenzEc, cuts, bruises, and his own bodily fluids. I must be quite the sight among all the children dressed in their best outfits for the Reaping. I'm convinced that I still have some of my vomit dried on the side of my cheek.

I catch sight of my sister, and I think I can see her eyebrows raised in concerned amusement. I make my way over to the sign-in tables and am ushered over to the seventeen year-old boys section. I swear I can sense some of the boys subtly moving away from me - can't really say I'm surprised. I must look (and I know I smell) awful.

Two minutes after I enter my section, the mayor walks up to the podium to give his speech. I made the Reaping just in time.

The mayor goes on and on about how the Capitol is the shit, and we districts should pretty much suck their toes. He doesn't use that exact wording, but it's implied.

I zone out until District Six's escort, Bruce Wilkins, takes his place behind the podium. He's a tall, well-built man that sports long platinum hair. He looks out at the crowd with such excitement that it looks like he's going to shit happiness.

Nicholas Davidson, District Six's mentor, is seated next to the empty seat that belongs to Wilkins. Davidson infamously went crazy twelve years ago when he could no longer take the pressure of being a Victor. Thankfully, for his health and the health of those around him, he married another Victor two years after his meltdown. The match keeps each other's craziness in check, and the birth of their new son, Percy, has mellowed both out a considerable amount.

Bruce Wilkins taps the microphone.

"Welcome, all!" He starts in the typical Capitol accent. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor." He giggles like a young lady showing off her new boyfriend to her jealous friends.

"Alright, ladies first, hmm?" He sweetly drawls, "Oh I can just feel the excitement!"

Actually, everyone is dead silent.

He shuffles over to the large, glass globe and ducks a hand into the mass of paper slips. Bruce gingerly makes his way back to the podium, unwraps the paper, and reads out the name: "District Six's female tribute is none other than a Miss Reece Astor!"

When I realize the name wasn't my younger sister, I release the breath that I've been holding. I am not the only one that reacts this way: A wave of relieved sighs ripple throughout the crowd of people. The young girl makes her way up onto the stage, her tailored, clean clothing signifying her position in this district – she's rich and comfortable. Judging by her body shape and the mannerism of how she walked on the stage, she looks like she is somewhere between 13 and 15. Once up on the stage, she vulnerably looks around the crowd as if she's searching for someone to hold her hand throughout the ordeal.

Undoubtedly, she must have grown up in a safe and secure environment, with people there to catch her as she fell. I'm skeptical about if she has ever had a scraped knee.

Poor girl. I think without a touch of sympathy. My sister could probably kill her blindfolded.

I proudly believe that if she was the one chosen, my sister would be standing on that stage, chest up, shoulders back, and glaring at the camera. She would show no signs of weakness, inlike this coddled tribute.

The girl gets situated on the stage while Bruce walks over to the glass bowl holding the boys' names. He gives the contents a hearty swish before snatching a piece of paper. He almost skips back over to the podium to announce the fate of who the male tribute will be.

His body is shivering in delight as he reads the slip, "Mikkel Oethro."

The sound of my name echoes throughout the town's square. I've always wondered what it would feel like to be chosen as the tribute, and I have always wondered what my reaction would be if it were me.

Well, my first reaction is confusion.

It doesn't fully register in my mind that I have been chosen, but my body is on auto-pilot - which would explain why I'm walking up the stage. I check my emotions.

Are you scared, Mikkel? Angry? Upset? Is your world crumbling down?

I contemplate these thoughts as my foot makes contact with the first step to the stage. I realize that there is only one word that can answer my own questions.

No.

I don't think I feel anything about my situation. I've been in life or death situations and have come out alive, sometimes thanks to nothing short of a miracle. All I know is that there is only one thing I must do in the upcoming Games.

Survive.

In my mind, the Games aren't here to test the tributes fighting prowess, but to test our skills at staying alive. Survival has been a part of my life, so joining the Hunger Games almost feels like a natural continuation of my life story. Almost.

SESO and the SES will be proud to have one of their own represent them in the Games, but they will also be nervous about my actions. I have no doubt that one of my visitors will be one of my old mentors making sure I don't fuck anything up for them before the cameras.

Nicholas tells us to shake hands with each other once I am situated onstage. I hold my hand out to Reece and she timidly puts hers in mine. She stares at me with a look that wants some sort of assurance, but I grant her no such thing. I look passively down at her, shaking her hand up and down twice.

She will get no sympathy from me.

I'm sitting on a couch inside of a room within District Six's Justice Building. It really is a nice place, and I actually know the layout to this building pretty well. I have stolen from this building before.

I wait for my first visitor to enter. The door creaks open, and I watch my younger sister walk confidently into the room.

"Kill them all, Mikkel," she orders in a curt manner.

"This will be my first time killing before an audience; I might get stage fright," this is my sad excuse for a joke.

My sister and I are cut from the same fabric, however, so she can't help but crack a smile.

"They told me that if you die, they are going to start training me to take your place," Feliece informs me.

"As they should; you would be a great killer. My only regret would be not being able to witness your first kill."

"Come back alive, and that shouldn't be a problem, right?" I think I'm going to miss my sister.

"It's not like I'm going to try to die in the Games," I say with a sense of indignity. "I'll try my hardest to survive. It'll be just like another mission."

"Mikkel, I swear I will be pissed if you die in the Games without killing someone. Actually, scratch that, I will be pissed if you only kill one person, whether or not you live or die."

Saints, I love my sister.

She smiles at me again while she pulls out a plain, silver band. I recognize it immediately - the ring was the first thing that she had ever stolen of value. I had accompanied her on the mission. She had accidentally alerted an older gentleman to her presence; being the protective older brother that I am, I didn't want her first real mission to end poorly. I had tackled the man and tossed one of my daggers to Feliece. I was delighted when I watched instinct take over her as she cut the ring from the man's hand - finger included.

"For your token," she says lightly while she pushes the ring onto my right hand's middle finger.

The peacekeeper knocks on the door and gives us a one minute warning as we stand up and hug each other tightly. She concludes: "Hesitation leads to death, instigation leads to reward."

This is a mantra beaten into every child farmed at SESO.

I watch my little sister leave the room just as one of my mentors, Robin Slaine, enters the room.

"A rather surprising turn of events, eh Mikky?" He says lightheartedly, taking a seat.

"I guess so," I reply nonchalantly

Robin is now close enough to me to smell and see me well. "Saints, Mikkel. Is that vomit?" He questions, motioning to my face and clothing.

I groan in frustration as this morning's events come back to mind.

"I had a difficult time with last night's mission. I woke up chained to a wooden post," I tell him in a joking manner.

"Oh Mikky, you sure love cutting it close," he says with a smile on his face, but then he quickly drops the smile. "You did complete the mission." It's not a question but a statement.

"Of course."

"Good!" His smile is back, and he slaps me playfully on my back before turning serious again. "Mikkel, I want your actions to glorify SESO and the South East Saints. Please keep in mind that your actions will directly reflect back on us."

"I understand," I say. "I'll do everything in my power to make us look good."

"Fantastic!" He's all smiles again. "I must be going, but I want to leave on this note. I have trained you myself; I know what your capabilities are. I believe in you."

He pats me on my back, and then he's gone.

Many people underestimate Robin because of his seemingly carefree manner, but the truth is he could probably kill me in his sleep with his hands tied behind his back. He was chosen by the SES to act as a scout for up and coming talent at SESO. He told me when I was younger that if I was able to survive until I was eighteen, he would induct me into the South East Saints.

A peacekeeper walks into the room and informs me that I don't have any more visitors. He escorts me out of the Justice Building, through a crowd of people and cameras and into a train that was made right here in my home district. The female tribute follows behind us with her own escort. I can't see her, but I can hear the sound of her throat working hard on withholding a sob trying to escape. She was shaken up at the Reaping, but the visit with her family must have clarified the situation for her. She looks like she's one tear away from becoming a mess.

We enter the train, and we wait to be taken to the Capitol.

Writers for this section: Mikkel Oethro written by Sammy'sPeetaBread