Okay, everyone, I've finally finished the first chapter! Took some time, and I apologize for the wait. I thought I would have it done a lot sooner, but I guess not.

Thank you so much to everyone who entered a tribute! You guys are amazing. And thanks to those who are entering arena designs, too. I've gotten lots of them, and you are still able to enter some ideas if you want. I'm not sure when I will have the arena decided, but I will let you all know when I close the submitting.

And I've decided to let you guys enter stylists, too! Well, actually, I got the idea from another fanfictioner who wanted to enter a stylist… Thank you, Demon Rider 14! So, if you want, you are able to submit a stylist for a district of your choice if there is room in that district. And, just to warn you, I will probably end up asking you nonstop about the costumes the district will wear for all events, so be prepared if you enter one. And I think you should just enter one. If I have a lot of empty spots, though, I'll let you guys know, and then you'll be able to enter more.

Along with stylists you can do mentors and prep teams for the district you pick!

So, anyway, here goes Chapter One!

(DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I am not Suzanne Collins so therefore I don't own any part of The Hunger Games, in case you guys didn't know that already.)

Chapter One - A Day Full of Firsts

-Rowena Hemlock, District 1-

I am the daughter of a champion. My father is a person who people respect and – at some occasional times – fear. I remember what that fear had felt like before, although it wasn't my father that I had feared, but what was to become of him. I remember lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and just wishing, wishing, that I could do anything to help him. And I tried. I tried, to the best of my ability, to assist him, but I could only do so much then.

It is with these thoughts hanging in the back of my mind that I dream of that terrible day when everything changed.

It tastes terrible, the tinge that rests and prickles on my tongue. I never thought overwhelming sadness could have a taste.

I lightly squeeze my mother's hand that I have been clenching for I-don't-know-how long and finally lift my eyes to meet hers. What I see there brings me to tears. No. No crying. It will only make it worse. I struggle to keep the tears away, convince myself that there is no need to cry. It doesn't work. Of course I need to cry. Mom is dying.

I blink furiously and use my available hand to wipe the teardrops that start to fall down my cheeks. I glance around the room and wonder how it came to this. How could it have gotten this far? This isn't supposed to happen. My mom is always supposed to be here for me. She has to be!

My eyes work their way back to Mom, lying on the bed in front of where I kneel. Her face is pale, withdrawn looking. Her cheeks and eyes cave inwards slightly, her skin pulled tight across her cheekbones. Seeing her like this suddenly makes me infuriated. Why must the Capitol be so cruel and keep the cure for cancer away from her? She's never done anything to defy them, to give them any reason not to.

Today was the day of the reaping. My father and I already went to watch the drawings, thankful when nobody we knew was selected. This year two people volunteered for the girls' and boys' spots unsurprisingly, also people we didn't recognize. Mom didn't have to go to the reaping because she was sick and needed to stay in bed. It was agony to have to leave her alone for the time we were gone. When we returned, I felt even worse.

Since Dad and I got back little over three hours ago, I have been stooping on my knees by her bedside. I have only moved once, to go to the bathroom for a minute.

Right now, Dad is in the kitchen pulling together something for us to eat since none of us have had anything all day.

"Rowena," Mom whispers.

I force a small smile to my lips. "Yeah?"

She gazes at me, her tawny eyes tender. "You are strong. I know how strong you are, and you can catch whatever is thrown at you. Don't let this weaken you."

"I… It won't. I promise it won't." I watch her shaky breaths and will her to keep breathing, to make it through this so that I know I can keep my promise.

Her lips curve up at the ends. "Good," she breathes. "You are such a beautiful girl; you always will be. I am so proud of you. Take care of your father for me when I'm gone."

Now I can't help but whimper, and my eyesight goes blurry again. "Don't say that," I respond with conviction. "You will be okay."

Mom's lips twitch at this. She knows that I'm aware this is her last day, that I just won't admit it to her or myself. Gradually, her eyelids begin to close. Her breathing slows even more, and for a long moment she doesn't seem to move.

My hands start to shake. "Mom? Mom!" I say. I can't prevent the anxiousness I feel from seeping into my voice.

Her eyes open again, and I exhale in relief.

"Honey, baby…" Her voice trails off, and she reaches up to the necklace around her throat. "Take… this."

I immediately reach, letting go of her hand, to unclasp the golden chain. I pull it away and cup it in between my hands to stare at it. Hanging from it is a little red jewel. My mom has worn it every day of her life for as long as I can remember. I don't know what to say, how to reply. It is unbelievable that she is giving this to me.

My eyes flickered back at Mom. Her eyes are closed again, but her mouth opened. "Baby… I love you and… always… will…" she utters. Her voice fades as her sentence comes to an end.

"I love you, too, Mom." My voice comes out thick with emotion.

As I'm watching my mother's chest rise and fall, Dad silently comes in. When he sees Mom, he abandons the apples and peanut butter to come sit in the chair by her bed across from me. He grabs the hand that is in front of him and gently messages it with his thumb and forefinger. I place the necklace in my left hand and go back to holding her other hand with my right.

I'm not sure how long it is that Dad and I continue to sit and stare, but I know it is quite some time later when Mom is finally gone. I'm weeping uncontrollably. I press my lips together, but I can't stop quick bursts of sound from escaping them. The hand I still hold has become cold and dry where my tears have not touched it. Dad looks like he is in shock and gets out of the chair at a snail's pace, his eyes in some distant place. He comes around the bed to pick me up, swinging me into his arms the way he has always held me since I was a toddler and carries me out of the room.

I wake up with sweat coating the back of my neck and my breath coming out in quick gasps. I can't stop myself from remembering that day after Mom died when I found my dad taking morphling for the first time, a sight I would find common for the following six months until his supply was cut off. I remember how I had been searching for him throughout our grand house nestled in the Victor's Village and being frightened when he wasn't there. I finally went down into the basement and found him huddled there. That day was the first time we had ever yelled at each other.

I sit up and look at the faintly glowing red numbers of the clock on my dresser. 5:23am. I might as well get up now. I have somewhere to be at eight thirty. Today is exactly a year after my mom's death, the day of the reaping, and I cannot be late.

I reach over and turn on the floor lamp on the side of my bed opposite the dresser.

Looking around at my white, empty walls, I sigh. This house has been like a cage to me for a year now.

I get out of bed and open my closet door. Inside I search for the perfect outfit I could wear to my first ever reaping where there is a chance I could be selected for the Games now that I am twelve. I finally decide on a simple, flowing white dress that ends right above my knees. I grab a pair of matching white lace flats and head to the bathroom for a shower.

It takes me a total of two hours to get ready. Not because I'd obsessed with appearing perfect, but because I want to drag it out as long as possible given that I have quite a bit of time to waste.

I walk over to the floor length mirror that stands in the corner of my giant room and gaze at my reflection.

I have pulled back my extremely long black hair up into its usual ponytail and thrown it over one shoulder. I have to admit, the white contrasts with my dark-toned skin well. Then I smile. I don't look half bad.

Fiddling with my fingers, I leave my room and stride down the stairs to the dining room. I'm surprised to see that my father is already up and eating. He lifts his head at my approach and points his fork to a plate sitting at the table in my usual spot. He is wearing a pressed button-up shirt and khaki pants composed of only straight angles.

"Hey, Dad," I say. "You probably should tuck in that shirt and wear a belt. Since you are a Victor you will have to go up on stage, remember?" I grin teasingly, but the look on his face tells me my attempt to lighten the mood has fallen flat.

"Oh, right." One corner of his mouth pulls up but his eyes still look just as gloomy.

Mutely, I sit down at the chair and pick up my fork. Suddenly the eggs and ham don't look quite as good as they normally do. I pick at the food, my stomach groaning. Not for the food, but quite the reverse. My hands feel clammy and nerves cause them to shake. Today will be my first real reaping.

I sit for a few minutes staring at the plate until a moan escapes me, and I push the food as far from me as I can along the chestnut wood table.

Dad looks at me but doesn't say a word. He hasn't been as talkative as he once was before the morphling. He would have joked around with me before. Instead, he just goes back to his food as I leave the room.

I sit on the plush couch in the living room and pull at my hair. This will be the first time I could actually be chosen for the Games. But I can't be chosen! I just… can't. I'm not ready, not prepared, and I need to take care of my father. And what about Alder? Alder, the guy who I'd been going out with for a little over a year. The guy who stood by my side even when my dad wouldn't and my mom couldn't anymore. The guy who can continue to make me smile when I cry and get me to look forward to tomorrow. What would happen if…? But no. No, that won't happen. It just… won't.

As I sit, I strive to convince myself everything will be fine. I won't be picked and everything will continue to go on as it has.

"Rowena?" My dad calls me as he walks over to the front door. He turns to see me and states that we must leave now.

I nod and rise from the chair. My hand goes to my neck to grasp Mom's necklace for reassurance while I make my way to the door. I turn my head upwards to see Dad's face.

"I'm ready," I exclaim as confidently as I can. "Let's go."

-Knox Marquis, District 1-

Why am I doing this?

Standing a bit apart from the other sixteen year olds, it seems all too unreal. Like this is just a dream and that soon I will wake up and everything will be exactly the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Like I will be heading back to training tomorrow as I have since I was nine. But I know that after today that won't be the case.

My thoughts return to the present as I watch my father walk up to the podium situated on a platform in front of the mass that is District 1. He is the mayor, and I hardly know him. He never acknowledges me. Wonder what he will think of my volunteering; this should be interesting.

I stop paying any attention as my dad begins to speak; there is no need to hear the same speech he makes over and over again every year. I could recite it from memory by now.

Instead, I last minutely question the sanity of choosing to volunteer. Is it really worth it? I think of my 'father' abandoning us, my mother and I, and the pain he put her through. Causing her pregnancy and then deciding to have nothing to do with her or myself. Even though I was extremely young, the shock of not knowing what was going on or what was going to come about later still pierces my thoughts. I think of how he continues to refuse to recognize us in any way, how I have never known him. How he left us to fend for ourselves without any of his help. How he denies all inquiries of his relation to us, and I realize I must do this. If I win, he will finally have to pay attention to us. He will see me as a worthy son and finally confirm the questions everyone keeps asking. That, or I will die and never again be troubled by my memories and get to escape it all. I'll take either, but the former would be my preference.

Then my mind wanders to Caris.

I can't leave her; how did I ever think I could?

Because she doesn't feel the same way, a cruel voice in the back of my head whispers. Does she? I've known her for a long time and loved her since the beginning. But she hasn't ever admitted if it's the same for her. Maybe, though, just maybe –

Before I get the chance to ponder anymore, Maryx Row, the escort of District 1, steps up to the microphone, taking the place of the mayor.

"Well, now is the time we have all been waiting for!" she exclaims as if it is the most exciting thing in the world.

I watch her curly silver hair spring as she moves over to the girls' ball full of names. Her heels seem way too tall, like miniature stilts, and as she walks she slips. A former Victor sitting in one of the chairs on the platform catches her arm to keep her from falling on her face. She recovers quickly and reaches the ball with her cheeks only slightly pink. She then reaches her arm in and wiggles around up to her elbow in paper slips.

Finally, Maryx pulls out a slip, makes her way back to the podium, and reads out the name. "Rowena Hemlock," she calls. Distantly, I hear a soft cry from the podium. It came from Lance Hemlock, the same person who caught Maryx, the father of this unlucky girl.

-Rowena Hemlock, District 1-

A buzzing like the swarm of bees fills my ears. It can't be me! My legs lock and I can't move. When it becomes obvious that I am not going up, some of the other twelve-year-olds pull and push me out in the direction of the stage.

How could this happen? This is only my first year; it makes no sense… And then I realize that of course I was picked for the Games. I am the daughter of a former Victor, after all. My father knew this was likely, so he trained me. I knew it, too. I just never thought that today would be the day that it would come in effect.

My toe catches on someone's shoe, and I stumble a bit. When I regain my footing, I find a familiar face in the crowd. Alder.

His face is all scrunched up making weird wrinkles around his nose. His eyes are narrowed in pain.

I see him looking at me and I try to smile. I figure out how to maneuver my legs again and make an effort to add a little bounce in my step while I go up the stairs. Look calm and in control, yet excited, I tell myself.

I catch a glimpse of Dad when I get on stage; his face is slightly green. I turn around to stand next to the escort, Maryx, and do my best facial imitation of a child getting exactly what they want for their birthday. Maryx gleams back at me and asks the audience, "Are there any volunteers?"

Please, please, please, let someone, anyone, volunteer—

But no one steps up, letting a heavy bubble of silence settle over the crowd and making me lose my grip on my last bit of hope. Unbelievably, nobody wants to take my place. This hardly ever happens, and yet today is the day everyone suddenly decides that they'd rather not risk their life to look cool. I can't believe it. Today is just full of firsts, isn't it?

"Well, what a surprise? Anyway, now is the guys' turn," says Maryx and she returns to the glass balls to select a boy's name.

I can't help but think of Mom. The similar numbness I felt when I first found out she had cancer begins to crawl through my body, disabling all of my mechanical functions. I can't wrap my head around any of it. Why must I be the one chosen? And just a year after Mom passed away, too? An even more disturbing thought crosses my mind. What's Dad going to do? I pray that he can't get into any more morphling.

I startle when Maryx reads out the boys' name. "Zayden Merk."

A short boy, who looks to be about twelve with spiked starch-white hair, comes out from the fourteens and silently walks up to the stage where I am able to see that his hands are shaking. "Any volunteers?" Maryx repeats. Zayden looks like he might throw up, right before a voice calls, "I will."

The shout comes from a sixteen-year-old forcing his way to the front. "I'll volunteer," he says again. He skips up the steps to stand in front of Zayden, shaking his hand and nodding at him with stone eyes. Zayden only stares for a moment and clumsily leaves the stage, his face ashen. When Zayden goes, I see the other boy send a hard look at the mayor sitting in a chair at the back of the stage. Wait. The mayor? Huh. I wonder…

Maryx seems pleased and asks him, "Ah, and what might your name be?" She smiles brightly at him, showing all of her teeth that are too white to be natural, but only gets a stiff look in return before the boy says, "Knox Marquis."

A small gasp rises through the crowd as some people recognize his name. Hushed whispers fill the air as the informed hurriedly explain to the clueless.

"It's him!"

"Who?"

"You know, remember that story that was circling just a few years ago?"

"Which one?"

"The one about the mayor and a… mistress of his. A certain incident between the two. If you know what I mean."

"Oh, that story. Wait, that's him?"

"Seems to be. Same name."

"But I thought it was just a rumor. That's what the mayor had said."

"But is it?"

My mouth forms a silent 'oh.' So that must explain the look he gave the mayor if what they say is true. I suddenly can't help but feel sorry for him. I never paid much attention to the story, though I hadn't been able to help but notice the publicity it had gotten. That must have been hard for him. I try to send a sympathetic face to let him know I am sorry for what he has had to go through, but he isn't paying any attention to me. His face is turned straight ahead and is staring out at nothing in particular.

Maryx's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Well, okay then, Knox. Now here's the mayor with the Treaty of Treason." Her face is so contorted from her wide smile that I think it might crumble from the strain.

The mayor now goes into the long and dreary reading of the treaty. It is repeated every year, as is required by law.

When he finishes reading, Knox and I shake hands. I look him straight in the eye and am surprised at what I find there. They are a soft gray color and seem to be outright saying, "Good luck," but in their depths betray him as feeling unsure and lost. I realize that that is parallel to the emotions I am currently experiencing. Only difference being that I didn't ask for this, I didn't chose to bring it on myself, yet he had. And just like that, the pity I had felt for him vanished. He's just another one of their pawns, playing for the king and hoping for some reward, no matter the cost. Anger takes its place. Anger at Knox, at the Capitol, for being so terrible as to willingly take the life of anyone standing in the way of what they want. Anger at my mom for not staying until the time when I need her most – now. Anger at my father for using morphling as a bandage rather than actually working to heal the wound like he left me to do on my own. The Capitol doesn't own me though, I think venomously, and I will not work for them. I will play the Games my way… whatever my way is.

Well, that's it for now.

Let me know what you thought! Did you like it? Did I mess up a lot on writing present tense (I normally write in past tense, so I think I might have made some mistakes, unfortunately)? Was anything confusing? I tried to clarify some points, but I'm not super positive it worked the way I wanted it to. Did you like the way I wrote it, how the point of view picks up kind of where the other person left off? I can't guarantee it will be like this exactly every time, though. I might end up overlapping some things if it seems really necessary, 'specially if you guys don't like the way I just wrote this paragraph. I'm just not a big fan of when people write the same thing twice with a different thought angle for the other tribute. Oh, and the two people who submitted these two tributes, please let me know if I did a good job portraying them! I'd hate to have written something that you look at and go, "What? He/she never would have thought/done that!"

Pretty please, with sugar on top, review and don't forget to enter arena, stylist, mentor, and prep team ideas if you have any!

So now I say, "Peace, love, and coffee-flavored ice cream from a fellow human of the Write!"

-heatsoul-