And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! Well, maybe you haven't been, but here are the six characters whose points of view will narrate most of the story!

XXX

Shimmer Argent, 18, District 1

The knife leaves my hand and slices through the air, hitting the target exactly in the center. I smirk. I hadn't even been paying attention to my throw that time.

"Good," my father shouts from behind me. "But not good enough. You relaxed too soon. The Reaping is less than a week away, Shimmer! You can't let off on the gas now!"

I frown slightly and pick up another knife from the rack next to me. I test its weight and then realign myself with the target. My arm whips backwards, then forwards, and I hear a satisfying thud and a few shocked gasps.

My aim was perfect, as usual. It was even more than perfect. This knife had split the first knife down the center of its hilt, sticking firmly in the blade.

I turn to look at the other teenagers in the gymnasium. None of them are training—or "working out" as it was called, because it's against the rules to "train" for the Hunger Games. All eyes are on me, or on the target. I return their gazes calmly but coldly, and most glance away quickly.

"You are ready," my father says. I nod.

"Shimmer Argent," I say. "Winner of the 47th Hunger Games."

No one contradicts me. No one tells me to not be cocky. They know. I have been preparing for this year my entire life. I will not be denied.

"And if someone else volunteers before you do?" my father prompts.

I walk up to the target and pull the knife from where it was firmly lodged. It doesn't take much effort. Not only can I aim, but I'm also strong.

"Then this little beauty will find its way into her heart," I say, tossing the knife into the air, watching it spin, and catching it again.

A few girls glance at each other fearfully. I grin.

XXX

Carn Hurdy, 18, District 2

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

The cheers of my classmates are loud in my ears as my opponent and I circle each other. I lunge forward, making the first strike and knocking the slightly smaller boy to the ground. He responds by kicking me in the chest. I grunt in discomfort but wrap my arms around his torso and squeeze. His struggles slowly weaken as the air leaves his lungs.

"You give?" I ask. He nods. The small crowd around us cheers as I stand up, letting him slink away.

When it comes to fights, I'm the school favorite. For good reason, too—I have size and strength on my side, and I enjoy the exercise.

"Rockin' as usual, Carn!" my buddy Hal says, coming up for a high five. "That kid never had a chance."

"Yeah," I say, returning the gesture. "You know, sometimes I wonder if there's really any more challenges out there."

"Well, there is one," Hal points out as we head off the schoolyard and down the street towards our houses. "There's always the Games."

"The Hunger Games?" I glance at him in surprise.

"No, the board games. Of course the Hunger Games!" Hal says. "You're the best fighter I know. You volunteer, and you become a legend forever."

"I don't know…" I say. "Almost everyone in the Games dies."

"We're eighteen, Carn!" Hal exclaims, stopping in his tracks and crossing his arms. "This is your last chance for glory. What's next for you here? Working in factories, making weapons that you'll never get to use? Or running around in the mines? You could probably get a job as a Peacekeeper, but do you want that, or eternal glory? Do you want to live the rest of your life as just another guy, or do you want to show the world what you can do?"

I shake my head. "Let me think about it."

"You do that," Hal says. We start walking again.

"You know," he continues. "We've been best buds since the first grade. I know what you're capable of, Carn. And you could be something. You could be something incredible."

"I'm gonna think about it," I say again. But suddenly there's a picture in my head of me standing on the victor's stage, and President Snow putting the crown on my head, and the crowd going wild.

XXX

Ashley Coralis, 14, District 4

I tie a final knot on the net I'm crafting, but my mind isn't on my work. It's on the event that's coming in four days: the Reaping.

Two bowls of paper slips, one of which holds my fate. Three slips of paper, to be exact. The odds seem slim, but I know not to be so confident. Just two years ago, my friend Rachel was selected. We were twelve, with one slip each. Boy volunteers are common in my district, but it isn't so for girls. Rachel died in the bloodbath. It's been two years since I watched her die, a mace buried in her skull, but I'm still afraid. Anything could happen.

What will I do if my name is called? How will I react? I have no idea. The concept of maybe never seeing my mother and father again, of never again making a net or successfully landing a fish, of putting my life on the line for the entertainment of my nation, is completely alien to me.

I fold the net carefully, placing it on my lap and glancing up at the setting sun. The view from the docks is breathtaking. Every evening, the sun makes its descent into the ocean, turning the sky and water vibrant shades of yellow, orange, and red. I fiddle with the blue headband holding my long, auburn hair out of my eyes, wondering what the sunsets are like in the Capitol. There's no way that they could be as beautiful as those here.

Please don't let it be me, I silently beg the setting sun. Oh, please, don't let it be me who has to leave. Don't let it be me who has to die.

The sun makes no response, only sliding below the water's surface and letting darkness fill the space it left behind.

XXX

Landon Meddel, 16, District 8

Three…Two…One…

The foreman blows his whistle, ending the work day right as the minute hand on the clock made contact with the twelve at the top of the circle. I make a final cut on the fabric that will eventually become a Peacekeeper's uniform and set it in the bin for the sewers to handle the next day. Our pockets are checked as we leave to make sure that we aren't sneaking away any scissors or needles, but, as usual, no one is stopped.

I scan the crowd for the face of the girl I haven't seen since lunch break, since she works at the sewing machines. I catch a glimpse of her long, raven-black hair as she undoes the bun she has to keep it in while inside the factory, and my heart leaps. Now, as I hurried to catch up with her, her hair cascades down her back in elegant waves.

"Gabrielle!" I call, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turns around, her mouth widening into a joyful grin as her sky-blue eyes meet my own dark-blue.

"How was work?" she asks, slowing to walk beside me. The fingers of her right hand wiggle invitingly, and I slide my hand down her arm until my fingers fill the spaces between hers.

"Same as usual," I reply, "but McCarthy dropped a box on Yurin's toe, and I think I learned some new vocabulary as a result."

Gabrielle laughs, and I can't help but smile at the merry sound.

I love her so much…

"You got any plans for tonight?" she asks.

"Not really," I say. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," she says. "Just a walk."

"Like we're doing now?"

She shrugs. "Maybe a bit different than what we're doing now."

"You mean like this?" I place my arm around her, pulling her closer to me.

"Yeah, something like that." Gabrielle rests her head on my shoulder.

We walk for a while, "accidentally" making the wrong turn on the way back home.

"You know what the day after tomorrow is," Gabrielle whispers suddenly.

"The Reaping," I say. "You're not worried that you're going to get picked, are you?"

"A bit," she admits. "I'm more worried that…well…that you're going to get picked."

I stop walking.

"Hey, Gabby, look at me," I say. She obeys, her eyes tearing up.

"It's not going to happen, Gabby," I assure her. "I mean, how many times have we each signed up for tesserae? None, that's how many. We each have our names in there five times. Five each out of how many thousand? We're going to be all right, Gabby. I promise."

She nods, but a tear still slides down her cheek. I pull her close and kiss her, putting all of my hope and confidence into that kiss.

XXX

Kayla Rakkor, 15, District 9

Sunlight through the treetops

Glittering, glimmering

Twisting 'round the leaves and

Lightly gracing the grass

I smile to myself as the words come to my mind.

Fliers in the branches

Twittering, flittering

Flapping overhead now

Singing praises sky-high

It's good to have my words, especially when I need to not think about something…today's something being the Hunger Games.

Rainbows in the dewdrops

Sparkling, flickering

Temporary beauty

Wonderfully fragile

Temporary. Fragile. Like everything else is, especially tomorrow morning, when I won't be wandering the woods and making up poetry, but standing among the other fifteens and dreading that my name might be drawn out of a glass ball.

Not that I have any reason to worry, I remind myself as I turned to head back towards the houses, where I know that my mother and father are waiting for me to come home. They respect my need for solitude and thought when I am troubled. There's the Plan. The Plan I've had ready since I was twelve. Even if I get chosen, the odds will be in my favor. They have to be.

XXX

Briar Tussen, 12, District 11

As I drop through the trees, the mockingjays trill and jabber, upset that I am bothering them without much evident purpose. But I'm excited, as I always am at the end of the work day. Today, I am even more so—we get a day off tomorrow because of the Reapings.

Sure, it's my first year actually being eligible to be reaped, but I'm not worried. I have five entries—one for me, and four tesserae, for myself and each of my family members. Plenty of people have more, so why worry? It's always been difficult for me to worry, especially when I'm on my way home.

I hit the ground and hurry to the deposit station, where I quickly hand over my gathering bag. The Peacekeepers search me for smuggled fruit, but I was soon free to go. I take the shortest path I know back through the trees, humming to myself in time with my running footsteps. By the time I reach my house, I'd made up a verse to go along with the notes.

That'll make Anthea laugh, I think as I push the front door open.

"I'm home!" I call. "Mom? Thea?"

"Briar!" my adorable little monkey of a sister squeals, nearly knocking me over with a running hug.

"Hey there, silly! Is Dad home?" I ask.

"Not yet," my mother says as she enters the room to wrap her arms around the two of us. "Come and help me put dinner on the table."

"I've got a song for you, Thea," I say as we get out plates and forks.

"Sing it, Briar! Sing it!" she begs.

"Said the bird to the tree, 'I just swallowed a bee! You can't imagine the sting that's inside of me!' Said the tree to the bird, 'Now, don't you say a word! When you're made up of splinters, that's a sting, so I've heard!"

Anthea laughed so hard she nearly dropped the plates she was holding. My mother shakes her head, but she's smiling.

Just like any other day at home in District 11. Too busy and too happy to worry. I can't see myself anywhere else.