I've been working on this chapter for a while, and I'm glad to finally have it up. I hope it was worth the wait. This chapter is a bit different from how the others have been so far… I'd like to know what you guys think of it.

I'd like to make a quick shout out to Kirbetsy! This person submitted a wonderful tribute that I loved, but didn't have room to fit in as a tribute. So, mostly for my own desire to somehow have him a part of the story in some way or another, I snuck in the character in this chapter. (Hint: His name starts with a D.)

DISCLAIMER: I still don't own The Hunger Games. :/

-Prescott Richardson, District 6-

I inch on tiptoe along the concrete wall, my back against the rough surface. The wall of another building stands boldly three feet from my nose. Shadow is cast over the entire alleyway. Sooty air and gray clouds block the sun, too, much to my advantage. My breathing comes easy but soft as I sneak in between the shops. Their windows are barred, dark, and empty. No one bothers opening on the day of the reaping. Only I am here, with the exception of one rat skittering around a stack of empty crates.

After I've maneuvered around the junk and the rat, I spot my destination. It's a set of rungs bolted into the wall running up to the shop's roof. I reach for the bottom rung, but even with a height of over six feet, I'm barely tall enough to grasp it. I haul myself up, scraping the toes of my boots against the concrete. Finally I'm up high enough for my feet to find purchase on the rungs. I begin to scramble up the side of the building.

A little more than halfway up is an open window. It's only cracked open an inch, so I slide it farther up. There is a small ledge that I'm able to put the toe of my boot on to boost myself through the window.

I do a kind of summersault into the room, rolling back onto my feet into a crouch.

It all looks the same as I left it. The same pile of cardboard boxes in the far left corner, the only door jammed shut and blocked by more boxes, and the light fixture hanging from the ceiling missing its light bulb. The tile floor is still covered in dirt and dust, making my footprints easily noticed.

For the past few days, I've used this room for storage. I found it in a quick escape from a Peacekeeper. Luckily, nobody knows about this place. Not even Gregory.

I don't have many things to store, but the few that I have are valuable.

I walk cautiously over to the boxes in the corner, careful to make little sound. This room might be unoccupied, but the floor below me is a different story.

I open the box with the dented corner. Sure enough, inside that box is my treasure: a raggedy backpack, some fruit, and a loaf of stale bread. Without hesitation, I snatch an apple and sink my teeth into its bruised skin. Juice slides out the corner of my lips and leaves a sticky trail down my chin.

Absently wiping the juice away with the back of my hand, my eyes wander, and I notice something.

One of the biggest boxes in the room sits on its side. Two giant flaps of cardboard cover the opening of the box; one of them limply hangs horizontal, while the bottom flap stands stiff.

That's not right…

I crouch to get a better look.

I see a white hand holding up the bottom flap for the briefest moment before I'm knocked backwards. Someone lands on top of me, but he is light enough that I am able to shove him off.

I roll over onto my hands and knees, directly over the guy. He squirms, but I manage to hold down his arms and legs. He isn't very strong, and his skin clings tight over his bones. He's too thin. I know what that means. Homeless. Just like me.

He spits in my face. His pale, clouded eyes stare furiously up at me.

Wait. Pale, clouded eyes.

Ah, [shoot].

I quickly let up and scoot off of him. He shoots up, his fists at the ready, his eyes blankly looking ahead.

Calmly, I stand smoothly and take a step forward, and then he's immediately tackling me again. I trip, and the two of us tumble onto the boxes. Corners jab my sides, and he keeps punching me. I scramble away, setting another stack off balance, and more boxes fall to the floor. They topple over and bury the guy.

He starts shoving at them, and I help to pull them all off. When he is free of the boxes, he continues lying there, his chest quickly rising and falling. His eyes dart around, and his jaw is clenched.

Before he tries to attack me for a third time, I say, "Hey, peace."

He jumps at my voice and starts to scuttle up.

Hastily, I add, "It's all right. I'm one of you."

He stops trying to get up. "What's that mean?" His voice is quiet and weary.

"I live on the streets, too." Slowly, I walk towards him. I start to hold my hand out to help him up, but then I feel stupid when I realize that he can't see it. "Here, let me help you." I go ahead and grab his hand, hauling him off.

One more box falls as he gets to his feet, making a dull thud in the awkward silence. He straightens out his shirt. "Thank—," he starts to say, but abruptly cuts off, head tilted to the side. "[Crud]," he spits out instead.

I hear it too. Heavy, fast footsteps. Several pairs of them, getting steadily louder. Peacekeepers, headed this direction. I blurt a decidedly much worse word than [crud].

I immediately leap for the window opposite the one I entered through. I grunt as I shove it open. "This way," I hiss. "There's an awning." I grab the guy's arm and practically throw him out the window. I've gone out this way before; he should be fine. I jump out after him.

Air whooshes out of me as my back smacks into the taught fabric of the awning, and I feel my weight slide towards the edge. I roll off, landing expertly on my feet. The guy is on his butt beside me, and I help pull him to his feet again.

"You okay?" I ask, grateful that no one else is out at the market today — the reaping takes precedence over the daily grind — because I don't think the owner of this shop would take too kindly to two ragtag people dropping from the sky right in front of it.

"I'm great. Never mind the fact that I won't be able to sit down properly for the next decade," he says, not completely unfriendly.

I bark out a terse laugh, and then glance around nervously. I see the guy's head cock to the side again, and I know he hears the Peacekeepers too. They're climbing up the ladder on the other side of the building into my secret hideout, where my food and backpack are left abandoned. Guess I'm going to have to scavenge some new provisions, I think bitterly. I don't even have my backpack anymore, and I actually bought that thing with hard-earned cash. [Darn].

"So," I begin as I grab the guy's arm again and take off along the side of the store, "I haven't gotten your name yet." Our feet slap the pavement hard as we sprint out of sight of the window the Peacekeepers will no doubt follow us out of, but they don't make too much noise — pro of living on the streets, out of the Peacekeepers' paths.

"You haven't exactly told me yours either." His voice bounces with each step.

I roll my eyes.

Several steps later, when I still haven't said a word, he huffs out a curt, "Danny."

Two more steps. "Prescott," I reply.

The rest of our run is silent, neither of us eager enough to chat with the other that we'd waste our breath. I decide that I like him.

-Jenna Perry, District 6-

I gently twist a lock of hair around my forefinger. Mom tells me that that is the best way to tame my unruly curls. It keeps them together instead of frizzing like the way they want to.

I stare straight into the mirror. It's broken and crooked at the edges. Lips pressed together, I lightly trace the rim of it. Snark broke it about a year ago during one of his drug-crazed fits.

I hate him.

To this day, I still haven't understood why Mom did it. How could she marry such a despicable human being? To be honest, I don't care why. I don't care if it was because he promised her love and riches. I don't care if it was because he promised her the whole [dang] Capitol and the president's head. He is the lowest of low, and Mom doesn't deserve to be punished. He doesn't deserve her, either. It wouldn't surprise me if she married him just because he asked. She's always lived her life for others, though I know she has more backbone than to just let him marry her.

What could he have done to make her take him?

The things that spring to my mind are not pretty.

I hate him, I think with even more venom.

My finger slips on the mirror, and it slices easily through my skin. I gasp and pull my hand quickly back. A single drop of blood beads up out of the cut.

Careful not to get any blood on my plain but precious dress, I rinse my finger under the tap.

It's the only source of running water in the house because it's all we can afford to use. My family has had this house for a long time now, longer than I've been alive. We've had it since before my father died in that wild experiment. We had a lot of money, relatively speaking, then. We could afford to live in a big house. Today, though, the sink and the bathtub in the other bathroom are left unused and lonely, a ghostly reminder of the life I could have had… if it weren't for Snark.

-Prescott Richardson, District 6-

"Well, that was disappointingly simple."

"You consider running across the entire district 'simple'?"

"I've had to make much more complicated maneuvers in the past to escape Peacekeepers. You're lucky that I didn't have us leaping across rooftops. That, I can tell you, gets a bit more tedious." Danny looks at me questioningly. I shrug and then remember that he can't see me.

We've managed to mush ourselves into the growing crowd in the main square. With the churning forest of people, it was difficult to maneuver in, but it required all the cover we needed to get the Peacekeepers off our backs.

We continue to move through the mob toward the seventeens' section; we're both the same age. Danny and I look a lot alike, too. We have similarly grown out ink black hair and pale skin. Danny is bonier and shorter than I am, though. I stand almost a foot taller than him. Our eyes are the biggest difference. Not only do they distinguish the two of us from each other, they separate us from almost everyone else. Danny, with his blue and clouded over eyes. Me, with my golden left eye and turquoise right eye. The two of us make an unsettling pair, I'm sure, slithering through the mass of bodies.

"Prescott."

The statement comes from behind me. I spin around. "Hey, Gregory."

He looks me over. Dirt covers my clothes, and my knee-high work boots that I've had for Lord knows how long are finally starting to fall apart. He wordlessly tosses me an apple. Ha. Another one. "Thanks," I mumble.

"The streets are wearing on you, Scotty."

I grind my teeth. "You have to admit, though," I reply, "I'm taking it better than you ever would."

Gregory chuckles and lightly punches my arm. "So what mess have you gotten yourself in this time?"

"I ran across another of my kind — homeless," I add when he raises his eyebrow. "This guy here—." I look over to where Danny had just been. "The guy who was just standing right here, I mean. He must have slipped away."

"Prescott."

I turn back towards him. "Yeah?"

"My offer still stands."

I bite my cheek and nod. "Thanks, but I'm okay on my own. You never know when my experiences could come in handy."

He nods, and something onstage catches his attention. "Looks like the reapings are starting. Best of luck to you."

"You too."

Gregory pats my back before going back to the eighteens' spot.

Gregory's been my friend for years now. After my parents were killed in a lab explosion, he's been the only person I've continued to keep in touch with. Recently, though, we've become stiff around each other. He keeps offering me a room in his house, but I've always refused. I can take care of myself. I don't want to be anyone's burden.

-Jenna Perry, District 6-

"Today is just the most exciting day of the year, am I right?" The escort's bubbly words are greeted by a positively deathly silence.

"Exciting isn't exactly how I would put it," I mutter to myself.

She plunders on, choosing to be oblivious to the lack of crowd support. "Let's get these Games started!"

The escort looks exactly like a porcelain doll with smooth, almost glossy skin and exaggerated makeup. My mom has a porcelain doll from when she was a young girl. It has been passed through her family for generations. On the day of my first reaping, she gave it to me. Right now it's lying under my bed, seeking refuge from Snark. I know that he would take pleasure in destroying her if she was ever discovered.

The porcelain doll made flesh — I believe her name is actually Porcelaina — waddles in her six-inch heels to the glass ball containing — supposedly — a scrap of paper with every girl's name between twelve and eighteen in the district. A few of those scraps bare my name. I cross my fingers in front of me.

She plucks a name delicately from the bowl and slowly unfolds it. "Congratulations, Jenna Perry!"

My head is an empty chasm, and the words echo against the rock walls. Jenna, Jenna, Jenna, Jenna…. My legs are frozen to the ground.

Only the shrill scream of my mother manages to pull me out of my daze.

"My baby!"

I'm only half there when I walk towards the stage. The other portion of me is consumed by my mother's sobs. "Please! Please, not her!"

When I'm standing by the escort, my attention is completely captured by my brother's shout.

What I see is horrific. The Peacekeepers near Mom have flocked forward, preparing to intervene. She's still hysterically sobbing. A giant of a Peacekeeper surges towards her to shut her up, but Joe thrusts himself in between them. My mouth drops open as he outright punches the Peacekeeper in the jaw. I can only stare as the rest of the Peacekeepers surge like a single wave over Joe. He is blocked from my view, but I know whatever is happening is horrible from the gasps of the people standing near enough to see through the gaps of the Peacekeepers' bodies. I have to resist the urge to run to them and help. Mom has been pulled aside by two Peacekeepers. She is unharmed, but still sniveling and desperately trying to get away. Her body spasms and lurches in the direction of Joe and the other Peacekeepers.

Porcelaina only whispers a soft, "Oh, dear." She is at a loss to do anything else to control the situation.

I have to use all of my self-restraint to keep myself from either going down there and fighting or staying up here and bawling. He's my brother! The last word is a shriek in my head.

A final shout from Joe cuts off eerily. The Peacekeepers disperse to reveal a limp body crumpled in a puddle of red. One of them yanks him aside to the perimeter of the square. Some of the Peacekeepers have broken noses or cut lips or scraped elbows, but none of them can compare to Joe. I can't look at him for more than a second for fear that I could throw up. He is a bloody mess, some of his limbs sticking out at odd angles. From where I stand, I can't tell if he's even still alive.

Now the tears threaten. My throat burns with the fire of despair, and I'm choking on my own breath. But I need to be strong. They're watching me.

Sponsors need to know that I am not a weakling. I may only be fourteen, but I am not frail. I need the sponsors so that I can live. Mom is going to need me, especially after…this. I can't think about what might have happened to Joe. I can't worry about that right now. Right now, I need to focus on getting back, just in case the worst did happen.

I swallow my tears and clench my fists hard enough that my nails pierce the skin of my palm. A different pain to distract me.

Porcelaina is only slightly unsteady as she draws the boy's name. "Prescott Richardson." She's too shaken up to bother with pleasantries this time.

A seventeen-year-old winds through everyone up to the stage, easily spotted do to his incredible height. His face is stone cold. Matched with his height, different colored eyes, and a couple silver bar piercings in his ear cartilage, and he is downright unnerving. At the foot of the steps, he hands an apple over to a grungy twelve-year-old.

Porcelaina sounds deflated as she tells us to shake hands. "The Games are about to begin!" she announces to the crowd as a dismissal.

The blood from my palms smears a bit across Prescott's hand.

No, Porcelaina, I contradict. The Games have already begun.

Well…? Whatcha guys think? It was kind of depressing at the end. :( But I was told that Jenna's brother was to punch a Peacekeeper, and that seemed like the only logical way that it would end up, so… *sniff*.

Please review! Feedback is like candy to me! Only better.

-Tasting Raindrops-