Rosalind's POV

The shock was immediate. All the Capitol kids knew Jay Hawthorne's name. In kindergarten (at least the starving gets educated before they die!) we literally drew bloody pictures of him for the teacher and then made up a story. It involved his head on a stick.

Point is-Jay Hawthorne was on the hit list of four year olds. There was no way anyone was going to stick him in an arena with 23 fully armed and dangerous Capitol children, most older than him-not purposely, anyway, which meant they were probably going to send someone else. I leaned back, waiting for the redrawing.

"What does he look like?" I asked Darren. (I said we drew him. I never actually saw him. Because, you know, I'm blind.)

"A scrawny pushover-you could beat him with your eyes closed." He replied, chuckling at his (bad) joke.

"No, never heard THAT one before" I said sarcastically. He knocked my knee to let me know he was kidding, and then all of a sudden dragged me out of my seat shouting! People's feet were running everywhere; I couldn't hear anything but what sounded like a stampede.

My ears are my best defense. I can't see anything but black all the time, so my hearing is sensitive…but it's more than that-it's that my hearing keeps me alive. Talking even irritates me sometimes and this was what sounded like hundreds upon hundreds of people screaming and running and all I could do was turn my head wildly in all directions because I had no idea what was happening!

I couldn't help, I couldn't run, I couldn't fight, I had no idea what to fight, and I was utterly helpless. That's the worst feeling in the world, when you are at someone else's mercy, deadweight, incompetent, pointless. Someone who's, in all reality, was a dead body, only one that took up vital resources from other people.

"NO!" was the word I heard most, what I could make out from the noise.

"SILENCE, NOW!" President Gale Hawthorne roared. "The rules are the rules. Jay Hawthorne is the 24th tribute to the Hunger Games. Thank you and good night."

Meanwhile I was shaking my head in confusion, he couldn't be a tribute. I mean, it hadn't really sunk in yet that I was a tribute, but this, Jay Hawthorne, this was our death sentence. They couldn't possibly be serious! If he went in to the Games….that would mean the President would make him come home.

There was only one way to come home from the Hunger Games-as a victor. And they had just picked their victor, which seriously, seriously sucked for us.

"This way tributes." a ladies' voice said to us. "This is the way to the train." Darren grabbed my hand; I could tell it was his from the indents of his brand. It's a thief's brand because he stole food, most people have one so that the branders got bored and individualized them-Darren's had a number on it. Its 5178, which in the District's mind means 'good for nothing'; in mine, it means 'brother' even though we aren't related.

The walk to the train was uneventful, I only tripped twice. But then I found my room. And I don't usually swear, but damn. An attendant showed me the features, and they really go all out on slaughter trains. I have pillows everywhere, my bed is SO soft, and I literally sink every time I trip or lay down. I have a scented shower, and a computer…they probably shouldn't have given me the computer because now its blasting out country music as loud as possible. And OH MY GOD the sound system…Pure heaven.

And then I found the menu system. The one thing all Capitol people are…is hungry. All the time, so hungry the ache is permanent, it never goes away. You try to ignore it and get on with your life, but it always eats back at you, making your stomach seem emptier with every step. So this, this meant life; and my floor was soon covered in plates of the stuff.

"Keep it down in there!" I heard an unfamiliar voice yell through my door. I turned down the music, and said "it's open." I heard the door click and knew whoever it was came in.

I went through my voice evaluation. It was a guy, about 13 or 14, but what really got me was his accent…it wasn't Capitol. There was only one tribute who didn't have a Capitol accent and that meant…

"Jay Hawthorne?" I asked, well only to be polite…I knew it had to be Jay. Everyone else on the slaughter train was Capitol.

"How did you…? I mean…of course…ummm…err." he said (very articulately, too).

"Accent, District boy… let's put it this way. You sound rich." I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh. Umm wow. That's a lot of food to go to waste." he asked me. It made me madder than words. He'd been fed his whole life. He'd had a big family. He'd had a big house and a warm bed. He didn't have to watch his friends die every year. And he wasn't going to die now, so what right did he have to tell me that it was too much food.

"Dude. If I wasn't saving you for the arena, it would be you on those plates." I told him.

"I didn't mean-"he replied.

"Just get out. Just get out."

Jay Hawthorne's POV

I looked at Rosalind. I really looked at her, and I thought back to the other tributes. And here's the problem:

I can't kill them; I don't have the guts. And looking at her face contort with what looked like hatred after I said something about food…well, they seem ready to kill me.

I was walking back to my room when I heard my name.

"Hawthorne needs to die. Somehow. Or the United's going to lose everything we've worked for; namely weapons and planning space, mainly leaders and mascots to keep people's spirits up." I heard Chack Charles say.

"Not to mention courage, hope, and members." Sand Sareaux added. I peaked in and swore under my breath, because everyone was there. I heard a clamor of voices, all saying "ME! I'll do it! Except for Rosalind, who spoke next.

"Here's the problem you're all forgetting. He's the President's grandson. That means he's untouchable-the Gamemakers will make sure of that. And even if we do kill him, it will mean war. They'll kill the Gamemakers and their families, then the tributes and our families, then the victors, then the rest of the Capitol! The United won't have a chance!" she whisper-yelled.

"So what do we do then, Rose? 'Cuz if we can't kill him and we can't let him win, how exactly do you plan on winning this thing?"

Rosalind didn't know. I don't know either.