Author's Notes:

I'd also like to thank everyone who submitted, and everyone who reviewed (special thanks to 3rdbase101, who caught an embarrassing spelling mistake in my last chapter). I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I love all of your feedback! These two tributes are possibly some of my favorites, I think their dynamic is going to be fabulous. Enjoy!

Chapter 3: District 2 Reaping

In District 2, Ares Vector had been up long before the sun rose. In fact, he could barely remember if he'd slept at all that night. This was it, this was the year he was going to volunteer for the games, and he would be the next victor at all costs. A slow smile spread over his face as he sat alone in the training center. He had been preparing for this for years – the whole game was nothing but a routine training exercise to him at this point. Reaping, chariot, training, interview. Balance, position, parry, thrust. Careers, Cornucopia, final 8, victor. Sidestep, block, turn, kill stroke. The intricate strategy he would employ to keep himself strong, healthy, and alive once he was in the arena. He knew the footwork by heart.

The tall boy pulled himself to his feet and stretched leisurely. There was time for one more workout before the Reaping, one more chance to hone his skills in his home environment. Brushing his shaggy black hair out of his amber eyes, he selected a lethal looking spear and began his ritualistic exercises. They were almost soothing, in a way. A chance to think. No one else was in the training center this early, so it provided a lone moment of solace.

As he tightened his grip on the shaft of the spear, Ares knew that volunteering was the right move for him this year. An only child, he had no family other than his parents – no one to shame if, by some unthinkable turn of events, he lost. His parents were absorbed by their work. Training was the only comfort left to the eighteen year old, and this room, with the cracked mirrors and the barely cushioning floor mats, felt more like a home than his own bedroom. Honor and pride, he reminded himself with a particularly complicated maneuver, you will win to bring honor and pride to your family, your mentor, and your District.

Twenty minutes later, he finished the routine by hurtling the spear the entire length of the room, the force of the throw so hard it buried the spear head in the practice dummy. His mouth barely curved into a small smile before he buried that sense of confidence deep within himself. Conceit and self assurance are dangerous, he reminded himself as he began his cool down regimen. Training every day for most of his life had turned him into a machine – an eighteen year old, six foot tall, vicious killing machine.

After trying to pry the spear head out of the dummy for several minutes, he realized that it was hopeless. Ares needed to get home, shower, and change before the reaping. His final reaping. The thought brought a flash of light into his eyes as he left the spear embedded in the dummy, packed his things, and left the training center at an even jog.

Several miles away from the training center, Varice Hall was bored. Incredibly, exceptional, unequivocally bored. The petite seventeen year old jabbed at her porridge with a spoon, narrowing her eyes as if it were a worthy opponent. The district was boring! Training day in, day out – she never really got to apply it. Honestly, if she had to waste another breath practicing by shooting at a dummy, she would just kill herself right now. Sighing dramatically, the seventeen year old shoved her bowl further away on the rough table. "Why can't I volunteer this year?" she snapped at her father, a hint of a whine resonating in her voice. "I'm the best in my year, and better than all of the eighteen year olds!"

Her father shoved her porridge back towards her with a steely glare. Varice returned it, but eventually dropped her gaze and resumed her attempt to spear the mush on the end of her spoon. Dropping into the chair across from her, her father responded, "you are not to volunteer until you are of age," and ended the discussion.

The breakfast ordeal finally completed, Varice stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to her room. She prowled over to the mirror, and bared her teeth in a horrible grimace. "Why won't he let me volunteer! If I went to the Games, we would absolutely have a victor again, and he knows it! Hasn't he been training me for this my whole life?" Her bright blue eyes glared ferociously at her own reflection, as if she could somehow change her father's mind from upstairs. After muttering a few unpleasant words under her breath, she stormed over to the closet and grabbed the first dress she touched. Fashion was hardly her concern, especially since she was not going to participate this year.

Her temper only built as she brushed her dark hair away from her face and pinned it into a simple bun at the back of her head. Varice already had her strategy worked out for the games! She knew she wasn't a natural beauty, at least not one that was good looking enough to have sponsors falling all over her. She would win through determination, manipulation, and skill. Recalling her last archery lesson brought a smug grin to her face – she knew she was a force to be reckoned with, but her father always seemed to disagree.

The dress she had randomly selected was a simple pale blue one that made her icy eyes stand out from her pale face. Stuffing her feet into her one pair of uncomfortable dress shoes, Varice readied herself for another year of disappointment. She stomped down the stairs, only to find that her father had already left, leaving his only daughter alone in the small, shabby home. Narrowing her eyes, Varice balled her hands into fists, and straightened her back. She was tired of practice, of being under her father's thumb, of being the little girl in a room full of adults. She wanted the real thing, the fighting, the games, and most of all, the respect. If that's how he feels about me, then fine, she sneered as though her father were directly in front of her, let's see how he treats me when I'm the victor of this year's games. Everyone will respect me then!

With that, she was out the door, and on the way to the town square.

Tripp Willet was sprawled in his chair onstage, waiting for the boredom to end so he could get on with the excitement. This was his first year mentoring, and he wanted something decent to work with. There were so many District 2 victors that individually, they barely got a chance to go to the Capitol. The woman, Liya, had only mentored once before, and she had been a victor for quite some time. Trip frowned slightly as he surveyed the boys, already selecting which ones would be absolutely useless. There were those that took the brute strength method, which was such a bore. To be a victor, one needed a combination of ruthlessness, stamina, and intelligence. Leaning back in his chair, Tripp mentally sighed. There was a good chance he was going to get a mindless brute. That was the majority of the District 2 males, and the odds were not in his favor. Was it so wrong that he just wanted someone interesting to mentor? He was so tired of seeing the same old "ruthless killing machine" spiel during interviews that he might eat his own shoe if he had to watch it one more time.

"Colton Brawn!" The escort finally announced, and Tripp rolled his eyes. Colton was the perfect soldier – young, strong, obedient, and absolutely brainless. What a wash out. What's that? A sudden movement from the crowd caught his attention, and Tripp leaned forward slightly. It appeared that all the men were moving away from a single bow in the back. Colton didn't even move, he just turned to stare at this one man.

"I volunteer as tribute," the boy stated clearly, before calmly walking towards the stage. His bright amber eyes appeared interested and intelligent, but his face showed none of the typical emotions on a tribute. No fear, no bloodlust, no excitement – just a calm, controlled, almost scientific curiosity about the proceedings. Extending his hand for the microphone, he gave a small boy of his head to the escort as a thank you, then stated evenly, "My name is Ares Vector."

Tripp raised his eyebrows slightly, and settled back into his chair. No proclamations of certainty of victory, no challenges to the other districts, no attempt to show off of any sort. Not to mention the way all the boys of District 2 appeared to respect him, even revere him as a leader. A vicious smile spread across the mentor's face as he eyed his new tribute. This year might not be such a bust after all.

The escort had already moved on to the women, and pulled out a single slip of paper. "Varice Hall!" Out in the crowd, Varice gave a sulky huff, and began her stormy walk towards the stage. She was livid! Her one chance to rebel against her father and this insane idea that only eighteen year olds were worthy volunteers and the Capitol had taken even that away from her. Of course she was going to compete this year, but why couldn't they have let her volunteer herself? Weren't volunteers better for ratings anyway?

Varice was so caught up in her irritable thoughts that she almost missed the girl to her left. "I vol—" Baring her teeth in anger, Varice brought her foot down as hard as she could in the girl's inseam. This other girl yelped in pain, possibly due to her now broken foot, but didn't continue her sentence. Without even an attempt to hide the disdain for her fallen competitor on her face, Varice stomped up to the stage and thrust out her hand towards her district partner. He solemnly accepted her extended hand, before the two of them were hustled into the Justice Building to say their goodbyes.

No one came for Ares. He meditated in the small room, knowing that his parents had probably gone straight to work after the Reaping. The tall eighteen year old tried to remember if he had told his parents he was volunteering this year. He must have at some point. With a slight shrug, he put them out of his mind. What he needed to focus on was the games ahead.

Tripp was a peculiar selection for the male mentor. He had won his games by outright defying the Career alliance, or any alliance for that matter. He was clever, a thief, and probably all sorts of other despicable things, but he was smart, and Ares knew better than to discount the mental aspect of the Hunger Games. Drumming his finger tips on the arm of the chair, Ares wondered what Tripp might bring to his in game strategy, or how Varice might affect it.

She was a bit of a mystery to him, to be honest. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen her in the training center for years, she had a real talent for some of the weapons, but she was tiny and a total hothead. How useful would she be really, given that she was only five feet tall and weighed barely anything. If his memory served him right, and it usually did, she had a real problem with authority, and that could be dangerous for an alliance. A slight frown formed on his face, causing small wrinkles to form in between his eyebrows. He ruffled his hair thoughtfully, a bad habit that drove his mother crazy when he was younger. Training days would be very informative, he needed to know where she stood: with the Careers, or against them.

It was all Varice could do to avoid rolling her eyes at her father's speech. How dare he lecture her on what to do once she was in the Capitol. Of course she was going to try to win sponsors, of course she was going to show off her skills to the gamemakers, and of course she was going to take the best supplies for herself at the Cornucopia. Varice propped her chin on her hand and tried not to sulk. When is this hour going to be up already, can't we just get out of here? Even her thoughts sounded irritable.

Varice abruptly realized that she had been absently nodding, but her father had stopped talking for some amount of time. Rapidly jerking her head to a stop, she didn't even have the decency to look ashamed at her blatant disregard for what could be her last conversation with her father. The older man gazed as his daughter with an expression she couldn't understand – it looked almost sad. Helpless. The Peacekeepers were opening the door, and as he rose silently from his chair, he took one last look back at his daughter. "You look so much like your mother," and then he was gone.

Up until this point, Varice could remember only three times that she had been caught off guard. Once was during her first fist fight at school, before she realized that anything was fair when struggling to survive. The second time was when her mother had abruptly divorced her father, and run off with a Peacekeeper to another district. The third was when her name was called at the Reaping. In a few moments, her scowl was back, but the feeling of unease stuck with her as she passed by the camera flashes and onto the train. She disliked being surprised, and she disliked the way her father was looking at her even less. Like she was something precious… like she was something he didn't want to lose.