I can't pack everything about your character into this one Reaping, so-o-o… It'll be revealed gradually over the story. It'd suck otherwise, right?

The quality of writing kind of decreases… You'll probably be able to tell at about the point I got bored, but kept going because I'm too stubborn to admit I'm fucking tired. Hah, don't worry, the grammar and spelling should be fine. I'm just pretty sure I get less descriptive. Not dramatically so, just a little.

DISTRICT 1

It is a cold morning in District 1. Since the district itself is usually rather warm, some have chosen to take this as a bad omen of kinds; the weather has been unpleasant for weeks, and most are grateful that the fierce thunderstorm that had reigned the night previously has subsided. The weather is unusual, and it frightens some of the more superstitious people.

Audrey Syrian does not count herself amongst these.

Sitting on her overstuffed mattress, she concerns herself only with opening the Reaping present her mother had left by her door. It is not wrapped, merely coming in the box in which it was packed by the store-owner, but Audrey doesn't really care. Her parents would never bother themselves with something such as wrapping a gift. They have better things to do: drinking expensive liquor, bemoaning their respective pasts, and buying extravagant items to fuel their own wretched materialism.

She smirks as she unearths a pair of fine earrings that look- to her well-trained eye- to be sapphire, or some other precious jewel in a deep shade of blue. For a second she admires them, turning them over in her hands, before she tosses them into the corner of her room without a second thought.

They lie abandoned on the thick carpet, in a pile of other objects that would keep a starving family fed for a year. Audrey's previously serene face contorts into a grotesque mask of fury, and she glares at the earrings. Anger, that's one of the only emotions she feels, and she tends to relish it, in a way. When a person is as cold and emotionless as she is, you can only look forward to those rare times where your empty body fills with feeling.

She gets to her feet; pushes her chestnut brown hair out of her eyes, and allows her face to relax back into its usual, cool expression. Audrey takes in a deep breath, before walking out of the lavish room full of abandoned luxuries, and marches downstairs, her blue eyes as cold as they are dead. Even when she spots her mother sitting in a plush armchair, her ridiculously permed hair practically static above her face, she does not pause.

Audrey walks out of the house and into the town, towards the Reaping.

Over on the other side of town, Winner Sinclair is walking towards the square, a wide grin on his face. He does not share the cold demeanour of Audrey Syrian; his thin lips are contorted into a smile that could put a Jack O' Lantern to shame. He is flanked on both sides: a girl with model-attractive looks on his right side, a boy with a similar smirk to Winner's on his left.

"Hey, Jewels, did you know that I'm volunteering today? Pretty impressive, ri-i-ight?" Winner shoots a flirtatious look at the girl beside him, who rolls her eyes good-naturedly. By this point, Jewels has grown relatively used to him, but she sometimes can't help but get irritable with him. Especially when he's in one of those moods. "And everybody loves a Victor. So I ask you again: will you go out with me?"

"Stop it."

All three of them laugh, and continue on their way. Soon enough, however, Winner is waylaid by a pack of attractive females, who are all dressed up for the Reaping. His eyes practically pop out of his skull as he admires their sheer choice of clothing, and he sidles towards them, smoothing back his short brown hair.

"Hey, ladies. You all ready to be r-r-r-Reaped?" Winner rolls the 'R', a cocky smile in place on his face. He observes that they do not seem to be particularly interested in him, coming from their confused facial expressions, and almost rolls his eyes. As they continue walking towards the square, he walks backwards in front of them, practically skipping along. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jewels and Mineral (his two friends) laughing at him, and shoots a smirk in their direction. Then, he switches his attention back to the three girls he is attempting to court. "Not looking too shabby there, Sari Paladino." He winks at Sari, who has dark skin and flowing black hair. She rolls her eyes.

"Winner, I have a boyfriend." She informs him crisply, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Upon being rejected, Winner staggers backwards, dramatically holding onto his heart, a look of immense pain on his face. He lets out a guttural cry.

"Oh but Sari, I love you! You'll never do better than me!" He continues to call after them after they walk away. "You don't want to die old and alone, do you? Guys don't like old, ugly chicks!"

Aubrey waits in the crowd, amongst a pack of other seventeen year olds. Her lips are pursed in disapproval of the wait, and she taps her fine-boned fingers on her leg impatiently. The District Escort will not stop talking. Of course, she loves the Hunger Games. She loves the idea of holding fear over the heads of her peers, instilling pain and horror in their hearts, of being in control…

"Ladies first!"

She tilts her chin upwards, managing to compose herself and keep her usual, cold facial expression. Although she'd never admit it, she's a little excited. Finally, after all these years… And so, before the District Escort even has the chance to call out a name, she lets the immortal words leave her mouth. She has been holding them there for quite a while.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Winner watches the beautiful girl walk up to the stage, and narrows his eyes. Although he usually remains goofy and a little hyperactive, he sometimes knows when to take things seriously. And today is the day that he volunteers; that had, after all, been the source of his previous excitement. But this girl looks… frightening. He doesn't recognise her, and Winner knows everybody.

At least, he thought he did.

When the District Escort calls out the name of a male, he opens his mouth and the words leave his mouth. "I volunteer!" Of course, he isn't sure that it's wise. The predatorial look on the face of his female counterpart is enough to send shivers down his spine, and he swallows. But it's too late.

Winner Sinclair walks towards the stage.

DISTRICT 2

Korina Mawer sits back against the papered wall of her bedroom, a bottle of liquor sat beside her. She doesn't like the taste particularly, nor does she like the burn it leaves as it travels down her throat. The tender flesh of her mouth still tingles, her thin lips numb; she feels a little addled. It's her thing. Not her thing precisely: it's what everyone aged seventeen does, and she doesn't want to be the one exception.

She remembers what day it is, and blinks, a sudden spike of fear running through her, and a harsh gasp coming from the depths of her stomach. Korina's face reddens, and she hastily pans her eyes around the room, in fear that she might have somehow been observed in her expression of fear. Fear is not something she is allowed to feel. Fear is for the lesser people, and is a weakness. Not something she should be feeling.

Suddenly feeling guilty and rather uncomfortable by the open liquor bottle beside her, she reaches over to move it; her fist collides with the glass, and it tips onto the carpet. Foul-smelling alcohol spills all over the floor, and Korina cries out. "Darn- uh, bullshit!"

For a few moments, she attempts to scoop up the alcohol, but eventually grows frustrated, and pulls a blanket off her bed, and spreads it over the growing stain. Korina sits and glares at it for a moment, before becoming distracted and wandering over to her dresser. There's a picture of her on it, and she's surrounded by three other people. A powerfully built girl, who, Korina privately thinks, looks manlier than the two boys in the photograph.

Fortemo, Elliot, and Wario. Her friends and her boyfriend. Only, she's with Wario too, since she's only with Elliot because he's considered the perfect District 2 man. She'll probably grow up and marry him, and they'll have perfect District 2 children, and she'll keep Wario on the side. Because he's strong and boneheaded, and everyone expects her to have two boyfriends.

Shutting her eyes momentarily, Korina swallows, before clenching her jaw and taking a quick look at herself in the mirror. She straightens her stooped posture, and shoots a cocky smile in the direction of her mirror, before heading out of her room. She'll meet her friends on the way to the Reaping.

Damien Wells smiles. Oddly enough, he always smiles. Sometimes, it's more of a smirk than a smile or, sometimes, it's more of a grimace. Either way, even when his cheeks ache and he can feel his teeth digging into his lips, he never stops. Maybe that's why people call him "Mr Glad"; to almost everyone in the district, he brightens up their lives. It's his positive presence, perhaps, that gains him so many friends.

Nobody questions the cheerful, bubbly boy when these friends disappear and are never seen or heard of again.

Damian walks down the street, exchanging pleasantries with most people he passes. He bares his teeth, his light green eyes wide and, in a certain light, almost maniacal. He makes his way towards the warehouse on the edge of the town, which used to contain wheat supplies. In fact, according to the Capitol Officials, it still does. What they don't seem to realise, is that it was cleared out months ago by thieves. And, after all, Damian likes to be able to cover up his tracks, which has to be done in advance. Because when he gets into his stride, he's often too angry to stop and think about the consequences of his actions.

The warehouse is his sanctuary. His "Fortress of Fun", as he has nicknamed it. When he offhandedly mentions it to his followers (friends…), they seem to think it to be one of his strange quirks.

"Good morning, Miss Coppermeld!" He says, waving cheerfully at a young woman with an attractive face, and shoulder length, neat blonde hair. He'd rather like to cut that face off. The idea that she is allowed to be attractive, knowing her unpleasant personality, very nearly makes him frown. A white hot anger begins to build up inside him, and he clenches his fists. His heart pumps hard against his chest.

"Ugh." She replies, shaking her head at him. Another flash of anger runs through him, and he narrows his eyes, the friendly smile never leaving his face. He nods once more at her, before continuing towards the warehouse… He'll spend a few hours there, before heading to the Reaping.

As he climbs the ladder up to the back window, Damian reflects that when he is finished with his current playmate, he'd rather like to persuade Miss Coppermeld to take a trip into his "Fortress of Fun".

Korina waits amongst the other seventeen year olds. Elliot's arm is possessively around her shoulders, and he stands with his chin lifted like some kind of hero. On her other side, Wario has his arm snaked around her rear, his hand resting on her behind like he has some kind of right to her. There is a familiar smirk on his tanned face, and he shoots a wink at her behind Elliot's back. She smiles back at him, but it is remarkably strained.

She is nervous. Why? Because she is about to make the biggest sacrifice possible. The possible sacrifice of her life. She knows it's stupid, that it's plainly ridiculous that she is doing this for the mere respect of her peers… But what if she wins? Nobody would ever be able to doubt her again! Her father would never be able to call her a "Spoiled Brat" and her step-mother would never be able to whine about her…

So, when the time came, she spoke the words that would bind her to her future. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Damian could still feel the blood on his hands. The pitiful screams of his playmates played over and over in his head, like some kind of record on repeat. The cries of pain overshadowed the whiny voice of the District Escort… He wanted more screams. The constant rush of adrenaline to his heart when he was hurting people was enough to keep him going.

Sure, he'd barely trained in the Career Academy… He knew how to kill people, and how to lie and manipulate, and he was certainly strong. And so, Damian made a split second decision.

"I volunteer!"

As he walked up to the stage to join the dark haired girl already standing there, he did not let the grin leave his face. He shot a wink at the girl, who blanched, before he spoke his name into the microphone.

"Damien Wells. Some people call me 'Mr Glad'."

DISTRICT 3

Skylar Onset sits in her back garden, sitting in the crook of one of the only trees in the district. Her arms rest on two branches either side of her, and her face is tilted back in an expression of consummate bliss. It's rare for her to be so relaxed, since she is usually rather hardworking, but it is Reaping day, today. There is no work to be done, and Skylar appreciates the break.

"Hey, Shorty. You're looking relaxed. What's the occasion?" She opens her eyes, and is faced with her brother's teasing face inches away from her own, and lets out a squeak of surprise. Skylar falls backwards, very nearly losing her balance, but she is pulled back into place by strong arms. Terrence has always been protective; he's the best friend she's ever had, and will ever have.

"Don't be dumb." Skylar replies. She hops down from the tree, suddenly made a little nervous by her near fall, and smiles a little. "It's Reaping Day. Weren't you aware?"

He laughs. "Why, of course I was aware. I'm just wondering why you're looking quite so relaxed, considering the fact that you're in that bowl…" Terrence's expression softens. "Seriously, I'm worried about you, sis."

Skylar shrugs, and begins to walk back towards the house. She is dressed for the Reaping already, having gotten dressed earlier that morning. Although she certainly doesn't want to talk about it- not precisely being the best talker in the world- she is remarkably nervous. The sunbathing had been her misguided attempt to clear her mind, although it hadn't really worked. She will be paranoid about relaxing in the tree for a long time to come, now that Terrence has pulled that trick on her.

Swallowing, Skylar glances towards the clock, very nearly winces, and walks over to the front door. She pulls on her canvas shoes, before reaching up to pull the clock off the wall, and flops down onto the stairs. She gazes at it fiercely, watching the second hand ticking away the seconds until she will have to leave the house. Terrence tries to capture her attention again, to distract her, but she is dead-set. She shoots him a brief smile, before returning to her watching of the clock. If she wants to talk to someone, she'll initiate the conversation. She intensely dislikes it when people try to catch her attention.

She sits on the stairs until it is time to go.

Spectre Wishart sits at his computer screen, his head tilted to one side, his thin lips pursed together in concentration. He focuses completely on the formulae he is typing up, his slim fingers a whirlwind on the expensive keyboard, purchased by his mother to keep him out of the way. He can hear screams of anger, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and his older sister's screams as she attempts to keep control; no denying, his family is insane. But is that truly a surprise?

With a mentally unstable Hunger Games victor as a mother, a neglectful man for a father, and enough arguing siblings to drive him to the brink of homicidal behaviour, it is really no surprise that Spectre could be labelled a little… well… odd. Perhaps it is his occasional habit of mumbling to himself, or the reputation his family is labelled with, but people tend to avoid him.

And that, really, is fine with him.

"Spectre, get your ass up, and help me!" Gethen howls. Gethen and Thanas are his younger sisters- twins- and, unlike most pairs of twins, they hate each other with a passion. Right now, they are brawling like street-cats, snarling and scratching at each other with startling ferocity. His eldest sister, Tempest, and his younger brother Crucis stand by, watching the fight.

Without even considering the possibility that one of his siblings might get hurt, Spectre remains in his seat, his eyes glued to the screen. He's used to it, really, the way that they fight. They can do what they want; he couldn't care less. The fact that they think he feels vestige of loyalty or love to either one of them, these people who share a few pints of blood with him, is almost laughable. He has never understood the concept of loyalty. It fascinates him, really. However, it is something to be studied and read about, not felt.

He takes a quick glance at the clock in the corner of the computer screen, rolls his eyes, and shuts the computer down with an almost regretful look. To be honest, he feels more comfortable with his computer than real people. Real people are complex. Machinery is programmed to do whatever you want it to: no complications, no emotions.

Taking one last, longing glance at his computer, Spectre kicks his chair back and begins walking towards the door, scooping up his coat and putting it on. He pulls his hood up to cover long black hair, and narrows his eyes, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the overbearing sunlight.

Skylar stands amongst the other thirteen year olds, rather nervous. She doesn't like being surrounded by these people at the best of times, due to her overbearing shyness, but she manages to stop herself sheltering her face. She even keeps a small, nervous smile on her face, her hands stuffed into her pockets, as she watches the District Escort prancing about onstage. Her heart is beating as hard as a mad drummer, her dark eyes wide and nervous. There is a nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she might vomit up her breakfast at any given moment.

The District Escort pulls a name from the girls' Reaping Bowl, and smiles widely before she says the name. Skylar tenses, digging her fingernails into her palms.

"Skylar Onset!"

Spectre stands uncomfortably with the other fourteen year olds, his hood still up over his hair, despite it being a sunny day. There is a clean metre between him and any of the other adolescents, but he barely even notices it. He doesn't like them, and appreciates that they choose to leave a distance between themselves and him.

The girl onstage looks about twelve or thirteen, and has a haunted expression on her face. She is called Skylar, he realises, and they attend the same school. She is visibly shaking, attempting to shelter her face from the crowd's view. He raises his eyebrows, watching her with his head tilted to one side, as the District Escort pulls a name out of the male's Reaping bowl.

"Spectre Wishart!"

There are a few gasps, although Sceptre does not let one out himself. Despite feeling a small thrill of fear at the first mention of his name, he calms down remarkably quickly, and a small expression of delight comes onto his olive-skinned face. He walks up to the stage at a casual pace, and stands next to Skylar, looking a great deal more threatening than she does.

This, you see, is his breakthrough. Something he had been wondering about, like he wonders about all sorts of things to do with life. Life: something he doesn't understand. Like the feelings that he is supposed to understand… Something like good and evil. Perhaps these Games will reveal to him something that he does not currently understand.

Or perhaps, Sceptre thinks to himself, he is beyond good and evil.

DISTRICT 4

Exotica Scott reclines lazily behind her makeshift desk. Her dark blonde hair falls in front of her green eyes in a way that only someone like her could accomplish; so effortlessly attractive, that she seems frightening. And perhaps it is the expression- bordering maniacal- on her face that prevents her from being alluring, rather than terrifying.

Her "office" is actually a room in the attic of her large house. It is small and rather musty, and the light never works, but Exotica likes to think this works to her advantage. It gives her extreme kicks to be intimidating. Seeing the fearful look on her clients' faces practically gets her off, to the extent that she would insult and frighten them on purpose.

A scuffling comes from the corner of the room, and Exotica turns around just in time to see the trapdoor crashing open. It makes her jump, but she manages to compose her just in time to come face to face with a sweaty, red-faced young man with a look of both fury and horror on his face. His mouth is gaping like a fish out of water, and his unattractive clothes are practically dripping with his sweat. There is a knife clutched in his right hand. Exotica wrinkles her nose.

"Manzo, you're disgusting. Heard of a shower?" She sneers, crossing her arms over her chest. The man looks maddened, practically feral, but she scarcely even registers this. All that Exotica is really concerned with is the fact that he is dripping sweat all over her floor.

Manzo stumbles towards her, and points a finger at her, his teeth bared in an insane snarl. Her lip curls upwards, and she feels a sudden, highly unprofessional stab of fear. Exotica easily suppresses it, however, and simply rolls her eyes at him.

"You said…" Manzo is animated, insane. His words are garbled. "You said you'd get me with Atlantica! Y-you didn't tell me you'd have her boyfriend… k-killed…" He practically sags, dropping his knife to the ground and falling to his knees, his anger replaced by misery. Manzo gazes at her with ginormous eyes, tears dripping down his face. Exotica's heart quickens, and she curls her lip upwards, gazing at him with fervour. This is exactly what she likes. The feeling of being in control, and knowing she can do exactly what she wants. Deals, that's what she likes. Stupid people come to her well-known business, in hope that her "connections" will get them a good deal. And she twists it all around, to make things better for her.

Which is why she wants to go into the Hunger Games: fresh hordes of people to manipulate, and twist to suit her purposes, and insult. She'll win it with ease… Twist people against each other, and make them both hate and desire her.

Unfortunate souls… Everything has a price.

Rio Seymour sits in his family's study, a book on his lap, and a frown on his face. His thick glasses are falling a little way down his nose, but he scarcely notices. He is practically swelling with hate. For him, his foolish… inane… asinine… dim-witted father. Usually, Rio's face is an emotionless mask, his voice low and inexpressive. But yesterday evening, he had done something he would not usually do: he had begged somebody to do something for him. Had humiliated himself.

You see, his father- the half-wit imbecile of a man- is running low on funds. They are very much an aristocratic family gone downhill, which Rio's father tends to remind both of his children on a regular basis. So the idiot had done the only thing possible in his mind: had offered to sell his daughter Viviana (Rio's beautiful, beautiful sister) to one of his friends. For money.

And the only alternative? Rio has to volunteer for the Hunger Games, and hope to high heaven that he wins. Had to beg the half-baked planned volunteer from the Academy to take his place.

Without even thinking about what he is doing, Rio tears the book in half, his eyes blazing with hatred behind his thick-rimmed glasses. For a few moments he fumes, half of the book in either hand, the spine ripped neatly down the middle… Then, he takes a deep breath. It isn't worth him getting worked up. When he gets angry, things tend to go wrong. Badly wrong.

Rio gets up, and sheepishly puts the torn up book back on the shelf, biting his bottom lip. He takes a few seconds to mourn the loss of one of his favourite books, lost to his anger, before he decides to take it as a lesson. When he loses his carefully polished calm demeanour, bad things happen to him. If he's going to go into the Hunger Games, he certainly can't afford to do anything that might endanger his winning. Viviana needs him.

He walks through his library, looking around it for what could be the last time. He runs his hands-calloused from his use of his favourite weapon, knives- over the dusty bookshelves, running his strong fingers over their spines, admiring them all. Over the years, Rio has read almost every single one of them. Literature is his true love, although he enjoys other academic practises, like Maths and Science.

Obviously, he was previously mocked for it. Most knife-throwers in the Academy are female, with the exception of the weaker males- which included him- and with the addition of this to his love of academics, he was an easy target. However, Rio had gotten better over the years. Gotten stronger. He is no longer weak.

With one last look at the beloved room where he had spent most of his childhood, Rio walks out of the door.

Exotica takes her place at the front, surrounded by all of the other eighteen year olds. She is granted with a few wary looks, and answers them with equally unpleasant smirks. It seems like a few of them are getting bolder. Pity; she's been running her little business ever since she was fifteen years old, and is starting to run out of fresh meat. People- meaning Peacekeepers- are starting to suspect. It is probably wise that she escape the district, before she gets hung. Or worse.

The District Escort is already over by the females Reaping Bowl, since Exotica managed to arrive late, and is dangling her horribly manicured hand inside it. She pulls out a slip of paper and reads out a name, her words affected by her plainly ridiculous Capitol accent. And before anyone else can speak, Exotica has shouted out,

"I volunteer!"

She sashays her way up to the stage, ignoring the startled look from the District Escort, and brings the microphone to her lips. Although Exotica likes to imagine that she looks seductive, a few of the onlookers shrink back, fearful of her.

"My name is Exotica Scott. And I'm going to win these Games."

Rio rolls his eyes at the girl onstage. Arrogant, slightly insane looking… Its Exotica, too, one of the most hated people in the entire district. Oh well, she might make a reasonable district partner, if only to bring in the sponsors.

So when the District Escort calls out the next name, Rio is quick to respond with a loud, "I volunteer as tribute!" and practically sprints up to the stage. It only occurs to him when he has run about half way that he should be trying to impress Capitol watchers, if he actually wants sponsors. He considers pausing and doing something impressive, but by the time he has thought of it, it seems to be too late.

So, ignoring the triumphant smirk on Exotica's face, he clambers up beside her. He knows that he makes a rather unimpressive figure next to her, but barely cares. For Viviana, he'd do anything. And just because Exotica is impressive looking, perhaps, she's no match for him. He's sure of it.

DISTRICT 5

Mim Fuze dunks the clothes in the pail of water, her hands wrinkled and tough from years of doing this herself. It is her job in the household: her parents have always been hardworking people, and expect their children to act the same. She does the family laundry and, although she doesn't precisely enjoy it, it's certainly better than doing something more demeaning, like cleaning out the toilet. Mim smirks to herself as she continues scrubbing at the coarse material of her father's trousers, rubbing the soap deep into the material.

She hears footsteps, and turns her head around, to grin at her twin brother. Matrik is her spitting image; dark haired and freckled. Although, personality-wise, he tends to be more optimistic, and less brash. Sometimes she becomes irritated with him for this reason, although she usually lets him off for it. After all, he is her brother.

"What's up, Bitchface?" Mim says cheerfully, shooting a wink in his direction. Matrik's face reddens momentarily, as he tries to grasp whether she is messing with him (she usually is), or is actually being insulting. The look on her face leads him to the impression that she is just high-spirited, for some non-apparent reason. "I'm messing with you. It's all right."

Mim isn't sure why she's really in such a good mood. Sometimes, she just wakes up happy, and can't honestly work out why. She's never been an optimistic person, not like Matrik, but she's usually in a reasonable mood. Never too sociable, especially not with people she doesn't know, but happy enough to blend in. That way, she can observe people. Call it nosiness, but she likes knowing about people.

"Excited for the Reaping? I can practically see the elation in your face." Mim teases, finishing with her father's trousers, and reaching over to the pile of dirty clothes. Her hands scrabble around for a moment, before she pulls out her power-plant uniform. She rolls it over in her hands and, momentarily, her good mood fades. A stain, now faded from red to what looks almost brown, is spattered on the front of it. She balls the material up in her hands.

Perhaps, if she washes it extra hard today, it might finally disappear. Although that seems unlikely, since she's been trying for the last two years or so, and it has done nothing but faded. She shuts her eyes momentarily, attempting to cleanse the image from her mind, before pushing the uniform underwater. Her work at the power-plant has given her plenty of nightmare material. It seems that the Capitol doesn't care enough to replace faulty equipment, or those pointless deaths might have been avoided.

Matrik seems to tense her sudden anxiety, because he leans down and pulls her to her feet by the arm. He smiles at her, trying to brighten the mood. "Come on. Hattie and Rosa will be waiting for you, won't they? We should head out. The Reaping's soon, and we certainly don't want to be late."

Lukas Bright holds a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and allows himself to bathe in the smoke emanating from the end of it. The room is dark and smells like tobacco smoke, but he rather enjoys the smell. It relaxes him, certainly, in a way nothing else can. A few years ago, he would have turned his nose up at the offer of a cigarette; however, ever since he fell into his current company, it'd been one of his only salvations.

He sits on the bottom step of a large, sumptuous looking staircase, and privately hopes that the smoke will stain the luxurious carpet or, even better, the drapes. He loathes everything about his job- particularly his boss- but there is very little he can do. Ever since Mr Arsenio (whom he still occasionally refers to as "Mr Arse") had picked him off the streets as a straggly, lanky orphan, Lukas has worked hard to protect the man with his life. Of course, he doesn't work alone: Arsenio, being one of the most influential underground barons in the district, practically has his own personal army of bodyguards. But Lukas seems to be one of his favourites.

Growing tired of his current cigarette, he tosses it into the corner, and lights another. He sucks in a deep breath, before letting out a low, deep chuckle. His icy blue eyes fixate on a spot in the shadows, and he gets to his feet. Lukas lets the cigarette fall from his lips, and walks towards the spot. At the last moment, his left arm shoots out, and he grabs at the darkness. His thick, calloused fingers come across a cloth collar, and he hears a shout of shock, and then a wild laugh.

"You'll never sneak past me, Nott. My dad was a cat-burglar, I know what I'm saying." Lukas holds the small man in the air for a few more seconds, before dropping him to the floor, and returning to his seat on the stairs. He lights another cigarette, and watches Nott absentmindedly, flicking his lighter on and off with one hand.

Nott approaches him, a small smile on his skinny face. "You can't do everything, Anger-Management," he says, using his old nickname for Lukas. The man in question scowls. "I'll sneak past you some day, and Arsenio will be dead. Just a warning. By the way, my boss sends his regards."

"Mmph. Tell him he needs to hire better people. You suck."

Narrowing his eyes, Nott curls his lip upwards cruelly, before beginning to walk towards the exit. Lukas watches him carefully, although makes a great show of pretending to light another cigarette. His icy blue eyes, although a little unfocused from the cigarette, are fixed firmly on Nott's retreating back. At the last moment, the lackey turns around to face him. There is an unpleasant look on his face. "Hey, you know what? Fuck you, Lukas. I'll bring a gun next time, and blow your brains out."

"Sure."

"You aren't even going to do anything about it? Say anything? Do you have a single vestige of imagination, Lukas, or…"

Lukas stands up. He tilts his chin upwards, and crosses his muscular arms. He spills cigarette ash on the carpet, and dances an inner jig of excitement. However, he manages to contain himself. With a mean glare, he says, "Of course I have no imagination. My father was an accountant."

Mim stands still, surrounded by her friends. Rosa stood a little closer to the front than the other three, her face upturned, and a look of naïve excitement on her slightly chubby-cheeked face. Hattie looks bored, and Matrik looks simply terrified. He watches the District Escort with fearful eyes, but his eyes are gleaming with hope. Mim doesn't feel nearly so hopeful, her full lips twisted nervously.

"First, the girls!" The District Escort plunges his hand deep into the pile of slips of paper, a kind of disturbing anticipation on his painted face. For a few moments he searches around, before he pulls out a slip of paper, holding it up dramatically.

Mim's whole body tenses and she closes her eyes, her whole body turning to jelly as she awaits the words…

"Mim Fuze!"

Her eyes snap open, and she lets out an involuntary gasp of horror.

Lukas watches from amongst a group of other eighteen year olds, his floppy blonde hair falling over his forehead, his shoulders noticeably broader than most of the other academically-influenced people of his age. His stubbled chin rises, as he watches a pretty girl, perhaps a few years younger than himself, walking shakily up to the stage.

After she has been introduced, the District Escort goes to the boy's Reaping Bowl, and rootles around in it like he had with the female's. For a few seconds, his stubby fingers paw around the paper slips, before he pulls out one and reads it.

"Lukas Bright!"

He tenses. His icy blue eyes widen momentarily, before narrowing. People are staring at him, and he doesn't really like being looked at. Searching through the crowd, he finds Mr Arsenio amongst the adults, and they lock eyes momentarily. Lukas looks a little pleading, as if the man could use his influence to help him out of his situation, but is faced with a cold glare.

Squaring his rather prominent jaw, Lukas begins the walk up to the stage.

DISTRICT 6

Isabella Dennis is running down the street. Her dark hair flows out behind her, as she puts one foot in front of the other, and allows the world to whizz by, without allowing herself to pay much attention to it. She finds it extremely difficult to concentrate, and prefers for things to go by in more of a rush. Always on the move, in search of more interesting things to do than live life as a normal District 5 girl. Perhaps, if she keeps running, something interesting will happen that will actually engage her.

Until then, she's good with keeping on the move.

Quickly enough, she reaches her small house, and skids round the corner, almost knocking over the makeshift mailbox as she goes. Bella kicks it with the flat of her foot in an attempt to straighten it out and, when it fails, takes a moment to kneel beside it and attempt to sort it out. After about twenty seconds, she reflects that it seems more bent now than it was when she previously crashed into it, so decides to move on.

Bella shoulders open the front door, and converts her sprint into a quick walk. Her three sisters and mother are sat around the kitchen table, and seem to be eating breakfast; she throws herself into a seat next to her mother, and looks expectantly at her plate. When she realises that there is nothing on it, she rolls her eyes, and reaches over the table towards a platter of bread rolls.

"I hate bread." She says almost conversationally, as she takes a large bite out of the roll. Her mother shoots a weary look in her direction, but chooses to ignore her words. Angeline Dennis is well used to her daughter's odd behaviour, and has almost come to embrace it. Ever since Bella was diagnosed with ADHD at a young age, Angeline has gradually been trying to figure out her daughter. "They taste shitty…"

"Isabella, watch your language!"

Bella rolls her eyes at her mother, tapping her fingers on her well-toned thighs. She takes another bite from the roll, before dropping it back onto her plate, and getting to her feet. She cannot stand to stay seated for too long. Shifting from foot to foot, Bella reaches down and picks up the bread again, and takes a seemingly experimental bite. She rolls it around in her cheeks. Then, she smiles.

"Hey, this bread isn't so bad. I take back what I said. Bread rolls are fucking awesome." Completely ignoring her mother's warning growl, Bella strolls out of the room, suddenly enjoying the taste of the bread. She walks in circles as she eats; she gets a strange tingling in her legs when she doesn't move. Although she knows it might give her indigestion, which bothers her a little bit, that's the future. Bella prefers to live in the moment: if she's going to have to deal with a sore stomach later, after the Reaping, then that's Future-Bella's problem. Not hers.

Bella heads upstairs. She smells like sweat from her run, and wants to take a shower before she heads to the Reaping. Since she'll be surrounded by boys at the Reaping, she doesn't particularly want to smell bad.

Avien Featherling swings his legs over the side of the roof. He is sitting dangerously close to the edge of it, half of his small behind hanging in mid-air with his legs, but this doesn't bother him. He only emotion he feels from this reckless behaviour is excitement, which is how it has always been and, he presumes, how it always will be.

He is surrounded with people, which he also likes. Three of his best friends; they sit together on Reaping morning like they might do on any other morning, gazing over the district from their high vantage point. Of course, all of their parents would murder them if they were caught. But none of them have ever minded about that, nor has it affected their behaviour. Avien, especially, prides himself on being extremely reckless. He bears his bruises like a crown, and makes certain to flash his teeth as often as possible, simply so people can notice the missing canine in his mouth.

Turning to his closest friend Praexie, he grins widely. "Hey, Prax. Reckon I can make that jump right there? I bet I can." He tilts his head towards the large gap between the building on which they are sitting, and a neighbouring building, perhaps a few metres lower.

Praexie grins widely. "Go on, then." She challenges. "You're too small and skinny to get across a gap that massive. You're screwed."

Azrah, whom is the most logical of the group- and Praexie's older sister-, rolls her eyes. She takes an inquisitive look at the gap, and shakes her head. Even with a running start, she is almost certain that Avien would never be able to get over it. The drop, especially from their angle, looks remarkably sheer.

"Do it, Avien," Another voice pipes up. They all turn around, to see Dasher, the fourth member of their party, has stood up. There is a rather manic gleam in his pale grey eyes, and he rolls his shoulders back expectantly, loving the excitement of their lives.

Avien thinks for a second, before shrugging, and getting to his feet. He wobbles precariously, almost falling, and Azrah shrieks loudly and grabs at him. He laughs, pulling himself back up to stability, and marches back a few metres. Pushing himself down into a runner's stance, he focuses his dark blue eyes on the building ahead. He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, adrenaline running through his whole body. And then, with a sudden burst of speed, he sprints towards the gap, and launches himself into the air.

It is like he is suspended in mid-air: he soars through the air over the gap and spreads his arms out like wings, flapping them desperately like some kind of gigantic bird. He began to plummet towards the ground and, feeling a sudden prickling of fear as his stomach left him behind, he throws his arms out. They smack into the concrete of the building he was attempting to reach, and he hangs there for a few moments, suspended in mid-air. Then, with a grunt of exertion, Avien pulls himself up, and flops onto the building.

Although his arms hurt from impact, his whole body is pumping full of energy. Like this, Avien feels like he could face a thousand armies.

Bella stands in place with the other fourteen year olds, patting her hands restlessly on her legs. She wants to jog on the spot, but is aware that she might get odd looks if she does so. Instead, she fixates her attention on the District Escort who is onstage, sifting around in the slips for the females. Oddly, she barely feels any fear; only anticipation. Perhaps she is too self-confident, but it feels impossible that she might be picked.

It's not something that happens to people like her. She watches the tributes die on TV, and mourns. Being chosen is something that happens to other people, not her.

"Isabella Dennis!"

So… so why are they calling her name? Not somebody else's?

Bella's eyes widen, and she stops moving. Her hand stiffens, before falling limply to her side. Her stomach gurgles uncomfortably, as she feels her entire body freeze.

Avien swallows, as he watches the female tribute walking up to the stage. He doesn't recognise her, but she looks completely shell-shocked. He half wishes that he could jump up there and give her a hug, but is aware of how foolhardy he would have to be to do so.

The District Escort is about to call out the male's name, now. He stands up on his tiptoes, trying to see over the heads of the other, far taller sixteen year olds, but can't quite do so. He half considers asking someone if he can sit on their shoulders, but quickly rules that out. Instead, he contents himself with pricking up his ears, pushing back his curly blonde hair in order to listen harder.

"Avien Featherling!"

His deep blue eyes widen. For a second, his heart practically stops, and he feels bile coming up in his throat. All eyes are upon him; he makes a small noise of shock, before standing up further on his tiptoes, and searching for familiar faces in the crowd. But the hulking sixteen year olds surrounding him are blocking out any signs of people he might know. Wrapping his arms around himself, and trying to comfort himself with his own warmth, Avien begins to hesitantly walk towards the stage.

Phew… You have no idea how long that chapter took. One more Reaping, and we're onto the Capitol chapters, which will be a great deal shorter, I promise :D

Five favourite tributes?

The ones who appear most will be given sponsors points. Yeah, you can vote for your own tribute, I don't mind. Next chapter should be out on the weekend.

Astrid.