Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games in any shape or form.

Enter Name Here

The rules are simple. Just look down the list of names. Pick the person you want. Take your voting card (with your name on, so there's no way to cheat the system) and on the dotted line, write the name down. Then repeat for the other gender. It won't take long. Just a simple process of pick and write. It's like those multiple choice tests I did in school – if I didn't know an answer, I just made it up. No problem whatsoever.

I look again at the list of names. I only know some of them. Stork Zayan. Henry Jessop. Ana Lewis. People from the class below me. One or two from work. But compared to the hundreds I could pick, hardly any.

So I won't pick the ones I know. That's simple enough. That narrows down the choice, slightly.

Now who do I pick? A relation of someone I don't like? Or should I be strategic and go for someone who has a chance?

Maybe I could look at the names. Some names mean they're like me. Some mean they're posh. Surely the rich deserve to suffer the way we do?

I could send an adult. An eighteen year old. They've lived for some time. Or a twelve year old – they won't have to suffer the way the rest of us do because their life's barely begun.

I look again at the list. I need to make a decision now. Who can I pick? What will it matter anyway? The chances of someone else picking the same name I do, is low. It must be. But maybe everyone will think the same way I do. Can I really send someone off to die, so casually?

Enter Name Here:

I look at the list of boys. I need a name. Now. Who should I choose?

Patrio Cole

One done. Now for the girl.

Enter Name Here:

Decision time again.

Daisy Branford

I drop the cards into the box and leave the booth. The next guy walks up.

"That was quick," he says.

I nod. I don't know what else to say.

It's the day of the Reaping, when they announce who we voted to take part in the Quarter Quell. I stand in the Square and wait. Everyone is quiet. The kids don't want to find out who their District hated. The adults don't want to discuss who they sent to die.

The escort doesn't have her usual bowls. Instead she has two, golden envelopes. She announces that she's going to do the boys first. No one is very responsive so she just goes ahead.

"Aneurin Olef."

A stocky eighteen year old makes his way onto the stage, looking shocked. I recognise him, vaguely. I wonder how many people picked him. I wonder why they picked him.

There is no volunteering this year so the escort moves straight on to the female tribute. I hold my breath.

"Daisy Branford."

A limping fifteen year old makes her way onto the stage, her face matching that of Aneurin's. I clench my fists together.

What have I done?

This wasn't meant to happen. I don't know Daisy Branford. She was just a name. A name picked at random. Patrio Cole was a considered choice – the son of a wealthy shopkeeper and the brother of Emitai Cole, a guy from my old class. Daisy was no one to me. The odds should have been against it.

I thought if Patrio was picked, I wouldn't feel bad because his family would know how we feel and his brother would have payback. I thought if Daisy was picked, it wouldn't be too bad because I picked at random and felt nothing for her.

I thought if Patrio was picked, I would feel terrible because I'd let my hatred of his family kill him. I thought if Daisy was picked, I would feel terrible because I'd killed her for no reason other than needing to write something down.

Well, I was right about feeling bad about sending Daisy Branford to her death. It doesn't feel better than the idea of sending Patrio to the Games. And it doesn't feel worse.

The rules were so simple. Pick a person and write their name down. Doing it was so simple. Just write down the first name you see or the brother of the guy you hate. Just like the Games. One rule, one action. It always surprised me how that one kid could win. But now I know how they did it. It's not hard at all.

Murder is surprisingly simple.