Once again, I'm not revealing everything about your character in this Reaping. Particularly Patch, Nickel and Aela since they have very meaty backstories...

Wow, a lot of people who have read Battle Royale seem to be submitting characters. Since I am currently obsessed with it (especially Shogo, Kazuo and Mitsuko!) I started noticing a lot of similarities between the characters in that and some of the tributes. Particularly Lukas, and Nickel from this chapter.

Enjoy the chapter, and disregard any mistakes. I'm tired and have flu.

DISTRICT 7

Charlie Zion plants a fist into her opponents face, with a loud, sharp battle cry. She bites it off quickly, composing herself in order to keep the girl beneath her pressed to the ground. If she can only keep her down for a few more seconds, she'll have won the match. As far as Charlie can hear, the crowd are loving it; shrieking her name, screaming for her not to give up, etcetera... She's heard it all before, but it's nice, all the same.

"Time!" The referee shouts, and Charlie quickly relinquishes her hold. She's covered in sweat, and probably doesn't look good at all, but gets to her feet anyway, and holds up both fists in her victory. She is faced with mixed shouts of abuse and cheers: the majority of the crowd hates her. Her light brown hair, up in a badly done ponytail, is too girlish. Her relatively unmarred teeth and lack of facial injury irritates them. Her small stature that, although masked with carefully sculpted muscles, is far too slight for their liking.

"Leave it to the boys, you dyke!" One crowd member suddenly shouts out, sending a spike of anger through her. Her breath hitches in her throat, and her face contorts into a grotesque expression of fury, but she feels a hand on her arm, and turns around. It's her brother, Marino.

Annoying as hell, but I love him to hell and back.

He squeezes her arm reassuringly. "Don't worry. They're just jealous. 'Sides, I'm sure nobody would mind if you kicked his crotch in after hours. Just don't get yourself disqualified now."

For a second, Charlie considers his words. Then, she nods. "I know. I wasn't going to do anything anyway." She bluffs. Then, she grins. "Can't believe they still think I'm a lesbian. It's ridiculous, right? You can't be a female into wrestling, or you're evidently gay." Charlie follows Marino to the ropes set up around the ring, and nimbly hops over them. She pushes her way through the crowd. "I'd like some of the boys from around here to go and take a look at the Career Districts. They'd be dead in seconds."

Marino chuckles. "I don't know," he teases. "Most of the girls in town who do things like you turn out gay. Maybe if we cut your hair and gave you platform shoes..."

Charlie reaches up, wraps an arm around his neck, and pulls him to her level with a feral smirk. He's laughing, but holds up his hands in a plea for mercy when she tightens her grip around his thick neck. "Peace, I beg you!" Marino mocks, making Charlie laugh harder.

Marcus Delavega smiles to himself, as he sits with his younger sister Tracey on his lap. She's sound asleep, her tiny hand balled around a lock of his short, spiky brown hair. Since it is Reaping morning, he's glad that at least one person in the household is relaxed. His closest friends, Dan and Adam, sit across from him. All in all, it seems like a rather usual morning with him.

Go to the lumber camp. Grab an axe. Cut some trees down. So... fucking... simple...

Getting to his feet, his younger sister still held firmly in his muscular arms, he taps one foot on the ground, glancing at the wooden door of his family's cabin. The clock is ticking down the time until the Reaping begins. He nuzzles his mouth into his baby sister's curls, before almost reverently laying her down on the wooden chair, and turning to his friends.

"Y'all ready to go?" Marcus asks, his low voice breaking slightly, and they nod back at him. At seventeen years old, he makes a rather intimidating figure: his icy blue eyes seem somewhat harsh, and his shoulders and slim waist gave him the look of a warrior. However, in contrast to the rest of him, his gentle demeanour and somewhat girlish features proclaim no demon.

The three boys head to the door. Marcus had has pulled on his beat-up canvas jacket, when he is stopped by a large, calloused hand landing on his shoulder. He freezes momentarily, like a rabbit in the headlights, but his heart slows down the moment he claps eyes upon his father.

His father is grizzled and scarred, and tough as bear, with looks to match. He bears little comparison to the slightly more girlish looking Marcus, but Marcus hopes that he will resemble him, one day. "Just thought I'd say goodbye, boy," He murmurs. He pats Marcus' arm in some form of affection, before letting go. He admires his son. Then, taking a step closer, so that his bearded face is inches from Marcus' ear, he whispers, "Remember what I say, son. If someone hits you, hit 'em back twice as hard. If someone don't touch you, don't touch them. That's how it works. G'luck."

Marcus nods, quickly embraces his father- who seems a little surprised by the sentimental gesture- before following his friends out of the door.

Charlie waits amongst the other eighteen year olds. It's her last Reaping this year, and she's both relieved and nervous about this fact. After this, she will no longer be a child. How long will her parents continue finding her wrestling acceptable? She doesn't think it's likely that they'll allow her to continue for very long. They'll want to set her up with some boy, and she'll have to live her life out as a housewife...

So, as the District Escort ponces about onstage, Charlie clenches her jaw. She's half hoping that she'll be picked, simply to escape this certain future. Not that she wants to die; nobody wants to die, right? And people will... people will do bad things, in order to survive?

It's odd really. Because she's comforted, shocked, and confused when her name is called. "Charlie Zion!"

Marcus watches the girl go up to the stage, frowning. She doesn't look particularly frightened: her face is a strange mixture of emotions, like she's about to both smile and cry. She remains stoic. Marcus pities her silently. The fear that must be going through her, to make her look like that...

The District Escort is about to call for the boys, and Marcus hitches up his canvas jacket nervously, wiping his sweaty palms on the sleeves. His heart pounds against his chest, and his lips part.

"Marcus Delavega!"

DISTRICT 8

Aela Cureton walks through the streets of District 8, a few minutes after dawn. It's scarcely even light, but this doesn't bother her. She's in one of those periods where she doesn't want to speak to anyone, or even think; sometimes, she just likes to float along in literal and mental silence. It's almost like being dead, which- for some reason she can't quite discern- fascinates her.

A light sparks up to her left, and she almost jumps out of her own skin, green eyes widening in fear at the suddenness of it. There's a man, standing a few inches away from her, with a cigarette held to his mouth, and a lighter in his other hand. He is staring at her, a grin playing on his thin lips.

Aela scowls childishly. Her tangled red hair falls in her face, and she pushes it out of the way somewhat violently, her eyes never leaving the lighter he has in his hand. He is flicking continuously, the fire appearing and disappearing with the suddenness that only flames can have... Aela almost shudders.

"Alright, Fire Crotch?" The man asks, leering down at her. Despite the lecherous way she knows his words were intended, Aela can't help but shudder at the word "fire"... A sudden, feral gleam comes into her eyes, and she curls her lip. Her previously blank face is twisted into a mask, her expression resembling a wolf about to tear apart its prey.

The man's only reaction, is to take a step towards her and, with his lighter free hand, grope at her breasts. He misses almost entirely- Aela presumes that he is drunk- and his thick-set hand lands on her shoulder instead. He keeps it there, pretending that it was where he had tried to have it all along.

Aela freezes up, fear running through her, and her whole body stiffens at the touch. She violently shrugs it off and leaps backwards, as if electrocuted, her red hair standing on end.

"Leave me alone!" She snarls, showing her teeth. "Go and fuck a sheep, or your sister, or yourself!"

And with that, trying not to admit the horror that has come from this simple, rather generic encounter, she runs for her life.

Mason Maverick blows out deeply, his face red and flushed. He holds himself up with his arms, still in press-up position, and tries to keep himself there. It's not all that difficult, but he only woke up a few minutes ago, and he's already beginning his vigorous training routine. It's something that he does every morning, in order to make up for the lack of Career Training.

For if his father hadn't been promoted to the Head Peacekeeper of District 8 when he was fourteen- a full two years ago- he would have been training for the honour of the Hunger Games every single day, all day. His mother used to be a Trainer there, after all, and Mason rarely gets a break. But, as his mother tells him, it would be far more rigorous if he was still in District 2.

He lowers his head, and pushes himself down into another set of press-ups. He tries to keep his mind blank, as his mother has always told him to do whilst doing his work outs, but his thoughts are running wild without his permission. All of his life, he has trained until his muscles ached, until sweat poured down his face like blood, and... for what?

Getting to his feet, Mason walks into his private bathroom, strips, and steps into the shower. He washes away the morning's toils, and walks back into his room in order to get dressed.

When he re-enters his room, he discovers that it is currently occupied, and rolls his eyes in slight amusement. His younger sister Macy is lying on his bed, her head tilted back against the pillows, her blonde hair strewn all over her face. At seven years old, Mason predicts that she'll be the district beauty when she grows older. He looks at her proudly, and, reaching down, picks her up into his strong arms and throws her into the air.

"Mason!" She caws in delight, letting out a wild laugh when he catches her at the last possible second. Mason throws her up one more time, before lowering her gently to the ground, and standing up straight, half-smiling. "Make me breakfast." Macy orders, satiated but hungry, and begins sashaying towards the door.

"No!" Mason calls after her, and she turns around. Her gaze is remarkably serious, for a seven year old, and she has the look of a predator about her. Under that stare, anyone but Mason would have flinched and done exactly what she said. "You can get it yourself. And, while you're at it, make me some."

"That's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, sweetheart," He murmurs, and walks straight past her into the hallway. Their house is large and rather distasteful- especially compared to the tenements and hovels that make up the rest of the district. Mason is faintly aware of this, but it doesn't really bother him. His father is the most important man in the district, barring the mayor.

Which makes him important, too.

Aela wanders into the fifteen year olds section, bang on time for the Reaping to begin. She never arrives early, nor does she bother to attempt to make a statement by arriving late (since nobody would notice if she did, so it would be more of a personal statement than anything else).

She listens to the District Escort harping on, and catches her aunt's eye in the audience, and nods at her. She's lived with her aunt and uncle ever since the incident.

The District Escort approaches the girls' Reaping bowl, and Aela holds her breath. She digs her ragged fingernails into her palms hard enough to draw blood.

"Aela Cureton!"

Mason stands next to his closest male friend, Weft, in the sixteen year olds section. Over on the other side of the square stands Lace, one of his only female friends, who is completely alone. He wonders to himself if he should approach her after the Reaping. Maybe ask her out. He's never been out with a girl before, and he's been interested in her in a while.

He watches the District Escort with careful eyes. His parents want him to volunteer when he's eighteen, since it is inevitablethat he will make a name for himself somewhere, so why not in the Games? This is their philosophy, anyway.

"Mason Maverick!"

Mason lets out an audible gasp, and everyone turns to look at him. His entire body has stiffened.

Not now! Not now! Not now!

DISTRICT 9

Hiroko Ren crouches on the roof of the Peacekeeper's Barracks, trying her best to stifle a laugh. A group of ragtag children hang around as inconspicuously as possible on the ground, pretending to play a game involving several pine cones and wooden marbles; just previously, they'd snuck into the building in order to steal the tax documents that the Peacekeepers were collecting. Hiroko hadn't done that part herself- her best friend Marigold had adamantly refused to let her do so, since she had an irritating habit of laughing whenever they attempted anything like that- but she was nimble, and had managed to get onto the roof.

She is currently trying to find a place to hide said tax documents, without getting caught and put in the stocks, as had happened quite a few times. Last time it happened, her friends had formed a protective wall around her, to stop people throwing things; people didn't usually, but her friends were a protective bunch, particularly Marigold.

When they'd first met, on their first day at school, Hiroko had been rather self-conscious. Since she was the only kid of Asian heritage she'd ever met- aside from her younger brother Yuri- she'd attracted rather a lot of attention. Most of it was positive, but she'd had her fair share of racism too. That had gradually disappeared, as she gained a reputation as a pleasant person, but she still gets some odd looks.

"Hiroko, hurry up!" Somebody shouts from below, and Hiroko hears the sound of somebody slapping a hand over their mouth, and rolls her eyes. Some of her friends don't get that you have to be careful with a delicate procedure like this.

Quickly, she finds an air vent, and slips the tax documents into it, before making her way back towards her friends. Hiroko jumps back to the ground, knee connecting with Marigold's shoulder as she hits the ground. Marigold topples backwards with a squeak, shocked by the sudden impact.

"Mari!" Hiroko murmurs, and crawls over where to Marigold lies on the ground, clutching her shoulder with a look of pain on her pale-skinned face. Upon closer inspection, Marigold appeared perfectly fine, although Hiroko still feels rather nervous. Pushing a strand of silky hair out of her face, she watches her friend with fearful eyes. The rest of the group crowd around them.

"She dead?" Someone says, somewhat stupidly, and is met with a small frown on Hiroko's part.

It takes a few minutes of Hiroko's fussing, and several more rather unintelligent comments, but Marigold is quickly up on her feet once more, and they are able to laugh about the incident. They all head home to get ready for the Reaping, happy with the morning's endeavours. As they walk down the street, Hiroko wraps a rather protective arm around Marigold's shoulders.

Reel Autin swings the scythe carefully, his body carefully angled to the right, his arms straight and strong. His calloused hands grip the rough wooden handle carefully, as he moves slowly forward, hacking at the countless rows of wheat. Beside him, with a distance of about four metres, works his closest friend Omri. Although it's Reaping Day, and nobody works on Reaping Day, Reel's mother owns this particular field, as well as several others. He volunteered to keep the harvest going, since she always complains about what a waste it is to not work on the Reaping.

After all, it's only one person who dies...

"Hey, Reel," Omri calls over, as Reel sends the scythe swishing across his path. He pauses, picking up the wheat stalks, and dropping them in the basket resting on his shoulder. There's not really much point in this, since there's only so much only two men can do, but Reel quite likes the work. He certainly prefers it to sitting indoors and wasting his time away. "Do you think I should wear that denim shirt to the Reaping?" When Reel turns to look at his friend, he realises that Omri's cheeks are pink.

"Why?" He asks suspiciously, easing up on the mowing, and leaning on his scythe.

"You know Rosa?" Omri pauses for a second, before a bashful smile appears on his face. Reel smiles too; it's rare to see his friend smile. Omri was brought up immensely underprivileged and, since Reel is part of one of the richest families in the district, he sometimes wonders what Omri has to smile about. Either way, Reel loves it when he does so, although he'd never admit that. "I like her. And I want to look good, because she'll definitely be at the Reaping, right?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. Good luck, Omri." Reel smiles back. "But don't wear the denim shirt. It makes you look fat. I can lend you something, if you want."

Omri frowns, unsure if he is being insulted, but picks up his scythe again and keeps going. He knows Reel well enough to know that he is simply a blunt person: he's goodhearted, sure, but certainly doesn't have anything even resembling a filter.

"Reckon we should head back?" Reel says suddenly, after their baskets are both full, and the scythe blades are dulled from use. "It's getting near to... you know... Reaping time." Both boys suppress shivers. In District 9, Reapings are something to be feared, unlike in Career districts.

The boys begin heading back towards the town, shouldering their scythes.

Hiroko Ren stands next to Marigold amongst the other seventeen year olds. She is proudly beautiful, despite the all-consuming fear on her face, and grips onto Marigold's hand so hard that her knuckles appear to be popping.

The District Escort is dangling her hand in the girls' Reaping Bowl, her finely manicured pink nails brushing over slips of paper that could have Hiroko's name on... She swallows, her eyes wide, as the District Escort pulls out a slip and opens it, clearing her throat in order to speak.

"This is an odd name... Hiroko Ren!"

Reel Autin watches curiously as the strange looking girl walks up to the stage. He's never seen anyone like her before- she looks almost alien, to his eye. Pretty, sure, but certainly alien. He quickly loses interest, however, and turns to look back at the District Escort, who is about to call the name of the male tribute.

He's not worried. It's not like he took any tessera; there would be no need for him to do so, since his family has enough money as it is. They don't need meagre grain rations. They have full fields of it. Better that somebody who really needs it gets it.

He won't be Reaped. It won't happen.

"Reel Autin!"

But then again, it does happen.

DISTRICT 9

Finley Quill smacks headfirst into the Baker's Shop wall. It's a shock when it happens, and is rather painful, but it's more the sudden confusion that makes her let out a sharp squeal and collapse to the ground. She quickly scrambles to her feet, shooting bashful smiles at started onlookers, and shoots a death glare in the direction of the laughing boy a few metres to her left.

Theo has been her best friend ever since she was thirteen; two long years. He's handsome, somewhat obnoxious, and very much full of himself. Perhaps that's what she likes best about him. Point is, while in all of the time she's thought of herself as very much alone, he's been a little candle shining in the corner of her life.

Finley hops towards him, using one hand to stifle the blood pouring from her nostrils. Theo is still doubled over laughing, and she finds herself giggling a little too. She finds it difficult to stay angry at anyone, least of all Theo. "Who put that wall there?" Finley grins, and Theo's laughter doubles in intensity.

They'd been running. They weren't running for a real reason: Theo has a competitive streak, and Finley is the one who often bears the brunt of it. She doesn't mind it at all, since it has vastly improved her skill when it comes to running- which is often useful. She and Theo live with foster parents along with another girl, Brynn, who is a complete nightmare. Her foster parents, both in their mid-twenties and immensely irresponsible, only fostered the three of them for the money they are paid for doing so.

And neither Brynn or the Venderights are at all pleasant. Which is why the running skill comes in handy.

Finley reaches her hand behind her head, and awkwardly ruffles her dark brown hair. "Have I got a nosebleed?"

"Yeah, you really do... C'mere." Theo pulls a rag out of the pocket of his jeans, and awkwardly pats her nose dry. It continues to bleed, and she pulls the rag out of his hand, holding it to her nose. "Mrs Venderight will flip if you get blood on the carpet."

"Shoot..." Finley purses her lips, and continues mopping at her nose.

Patchouli "Patch" Kevi stands in the back-alley, his expression deadpan, his hands trembling a little, as they always do in these situations. Although it has been years since he was first forced into affliation with the gang, it still makes him somewhat nervous to be doing deals like this.

He shifts from foot, the bag in his mouth making his cheeks puff out rather embarrassingly. Patch wouldn't usually bother doing anything like this, but the Peacekeepers make him extremely nervous. He's seen too many people get shot for dealing drugs; most nights, he cries himself to sleep, out of simple fear for the days ahead. Permanent black rings are in place around his bloodshot copper eyes.

A tall man in a shabby trenchcoat walks down the alley, and Patch holds his breath. He desperately wants to run, but waits until the customer is in sight, before spitting the plastic bag out of his mouth. He dries it off on the sleeve of his coat, biting his lip. It's coloured, and not transparent, so he can't see the white powder that he knows is inside. Although most of the powder is flour, there's some of the drug in there, too. In truth, the flour makes him even more uncomfortable than the drug.

Without saying a word, Patch hands over the drugs- trying to stop his hands shaking- and does not return the somewhat lecherous smile the man shoots him. Once, a long time ago, he would have smiled back, and possibly even shaken the man's grubby hand. Now, he knows exactly what that smile means, and what would happen if he smiled back.

"Where's the money?" Patch says coolly. Although he can't help but shake on days like this, when Peacekeepers are everywhere, he's no weakling. He's been doing this long enough to know that people are untrustworthy. Trust a person, you get stabbed in the back. And he's been doing this long enough to know that getting stabbed in the back is definitely not a good thing.

"Just coming. Keep your pants on, kid... Or then again, don't." The man smirks, before chuckling, and rifling through his pockets.

Every day, Patch hates all of this. Hates what it has done to his family; killed them, destroyed them.

Patch waits for his money. His heart aches.

Finley watches the District Escort onstage, her heart thudding. She doesn't know many other fifteen year olds, as she mostly manages to evade school, and it feels very much like she is about to be herded to her death amongst complete strangers.

The woman on the stage has picked out a slip of paper. Across the square, Finley catches Theo's gaze, and shoots an imploring look at him. He purses his lips back at her, before turning back to the front. The air is rife with anticipation.

"Finley Quill!"

Finley's eyes widen, and she lets out a low gasp. Everyone's gaze shifts around to her, and she panics momentarily, eyes popping. For a moment, she is completely still. Then, she ascends the steps to the stage.

Patch bows his head, his short, rust coloured hair falling forward a little way over his forehead. He takes a deep breath in, and breathes out again. He has been thinking about this for a while: an escape, from his life as it is. And this, the Reaping, is his escape. The only way to get out of this life of crime; a way to get away from the gang.

Like when he was first forced to join... He shakes his head slightly, gaining himself an odd look from a neighbour. He is fifteen, and has seen and done things most adults have not...

So, when the time is right, he lets the words spill from a place deep in his gut. "I volunteer as tribute."

So get me the fuck out of here...

DISTRICT 11

Rose-Mary Telesco lies back in the field, resting her head against the trunk of a tree. It's scorching hot, and she's somewhat uncomfortable with the back of her head scraping against the tough bark, but she's blissfully happy. It cannot last, but that does not really bother her at this stage.

She imagines a cat running around her feet; a white cat, with... with fairy wings sticking out of its back. And a red heart on it. Sometimes, she likes to imagine things like that. In a world full of colours, sometimes things just seem far too black and white for her liking. So Rose-Mary imagines things: fields full of paper flowers, purple skies, cats with wings... Never to the stage that she truly loses touch with reality. But sometimes, she gets close.

"Hey!" Somebody yells, and Rose-Mary is jolted from her alternate reality. She realises that a person is walking towards her, and quickly recognises it to be her sister, Dahlia. Pushing her blonde hair behind her ears, Rose-Mary smiles cheerfully. Dahlia does not look nearly as cheerful.

"Morning, Dahlia!" She says cheerfully, and lets out a squeak of shock when she is pushed backwards, her dark green eyes widening in fright. "Hey, why'd you do that?"

Dahlia's eyes, a softer green than Rose-Mary's own, are blazing with fury. She stands over Rose-Mary, who is still in shock at the sudden attack. "You missed our private training with Mr. Barley, again! Mother is gonna kill you!"

Their mother is the mayor's assistant, giving them various connections. One of them- probably the most important one anyhow- is Mr. Barley (neither of the girls know his first name), one of the only ex-victors from District 11. He's ageing, but still deadly, and has been training the two girls since they were quite young. They don't know how to do anything aside from grip a knife properly, and they are aware of the right points to stab, but Rose-Mary isn't sure she'd actually be able to kill someone in a real life situation. It seems plainly evil to kill somebody, to end a life. Well... unless she really had to.

"Oh... I was just here... Uh, I mean," Rose-Mary realises a moment too late that it might be wiser to lie. "I was attacked by a wild boar. Seriously, I could have died! You should be glad I'm not dead, I mean, I was just lying here... I mean, I was just walking in the woods. And then, all of a sudden, this boar..." She hates lying, particularly to her sister. Not to mention how appalling she is at it.

Dahlia sighs. "Save it. Come on, we're going home."

Nickel Peppersmith absentmindedly stares into space, his pale blond hair falling in his eyes. A cigarette hangs out of the corner of his mouth, a liquor bottle lying to his right, his shirt abandoned and hanging off the doorknob, clad only in a pair of denim pants. He somehow hopes that his mother will walk in on him like this, although he knows that this is not entirely likely to happen. Because she is, after all, dead. She's been dead for fifteen years, actually. The liquor has not been consumed, the cigarette is not lit, and his shirt... Well, there's less of an explanation for that one. In fact, the explanation lies to the left of him, passed out on the ground.

A middle-aged, somewhat homely woman, whose husband is out in the fields. Sometimes its women, sometimes its men. Either way, it's how Nickel makes a living. He doesn't really have a preference; being touched, and touching himself, is all he really gains satisfaction doing. Of course, he is perfectly good at claiming he enjoys everything. Like how he dumped the liquor out of the window and, when the woman awakes, will claim he drank it.

"Mmph..." The woman begins to wake up, and Nickel glances down at her. Taking a glance at the switchblade handle sticking out of his pocket, he wonders if he could possibly slit her throat. Would that bring him satisfaction? He's heard about psychopaths before, those who feel no emotion, and gain feeling out of killing. To quench the numbness inside them.

"Up." Nickel says, and gets to his feet. He turns his electric blue eyes towards her, as he reaches for his shirt, and pulls it over his head. A wide smile finds its way onto his lips, and the woman, just opening her eyes, recoils. He does not have a pleasant smile; his teeth are far too sharp, and his gums are bloody red, and his eyes are completely dead. "You should leave."

The woman is quick to dress, and skirts passed him, apparently embarrassed. The smile on his face quickly disappears, and he waits for a few seconds, before following her. Nickel has barely taken three steps out of the room, before crashing headlong into his uncle, who is fingering the leather of a purse, a smirk on his face.

The man claps a sweaty arm around his shoudlers. "Nickel, you're the best yet! Everyone who is anyone around here wants a piece of that," He winks, and slaps Nickel's behind. The blonde boy does not even react, except to relish the feeling of physical contact.

Physical contact is all that he can feel, aside from pain.

Rose-Mary immerses herself amongst the other thirteen year olds, trying to escape Dahlia. It's Dahlia's first Reaping, and she'd been clinging onto Rose-Mary's arm like a limpet, until the ineveitable separation when they'd been pushed into age divisions. Although she tries to get along with her sister, she was extremely grateful to be allowed a distance.

Heart pumping against her ribcage, Rose-Mary watches the District Escort fish around in the bowl for the females. Her whole body is tense, and her legs feel like they might collapse from under her; ever since her first Reaping, last year, she has had this reaction. It's like being lined up for slaughter, and having the whole thing glamourised.

"Rose-Mary Telesco!"

It only takes those words for her whole body to seize up, and her legs to collapse from under her.

Nickel watches as the young, skinny looking girl is supposed up to the stage. He knows he should be pitying her, and attempts to do so; he thinks about all of the painful ways she might die in the Arena, before realising that he should feel guilty for doing that too.

I don't think I want her to die. But I can't seem to summon up emotion.

He mentally notes that down, before turning back to the stage. There is no fear in his body, not even boredom. He feels a vague disatisfaction, almost wanting to experience the terror that his peers are experiencing. Amongst the eighteen year olds, he cuts an almost impressive figure: beautiful, and completely blank. He resembles a ghost.

"Nickel Peppersmith!"

Once again, this does not even bother him. Nickel registers his name, registers that everyone is looking at him, and knows that he must walk up to the stage. He feigns a look of horror, looks around frantically for help, before cutting his expression off completely and walking up to the stage.

No point in prolonging anything, right?

DISTRICT 12

Rowan Woods leans against the wall of Mellark's Bakery, her head tipped back, her eyes shut. She is surrounded by people, but likes to imagine that she is alone; it's not like she knows any of them, anyway. They're the townies, the ones with parents who can afford food and luxuries, and all of that. She doesn't like them, and she's pretty sure they only like her pretty face. But then again, that's better than nothing, right?

If they like her pretty face, it's certain that they'll want to feed her, so she can maintain that pretty face. Some could call Rowan stupid, and perhaps she is. Simple. But that doesn't mean she's not manipulative, and doesn't know how to get what she wants, when she needs it. If she needs something, she'll do whatever she needs to to get it.

And she certainly needs food.

"Hey, Rowan, are you hungry?" Exactly like that. Yes, little boy, give me your lunch...

The son of the man who owns the sweet-shop, Lokir, is holding out a half-eaten bar of chocolate in her direction. There is a proud smile on his face, as if he knows that he's doing good by giving the underprivileged his food. This would, perhaps, bother a more proud and honourable person. But Rowan, being neither of these things, smiles shyly at him, and accepts the chocolate. She takes a large, lavicious bite, licking the chocolate away from her lips with her pink, pointed tongue.

"It's good." Rowan simpers, batting her eyelashes in Lokir's direction, smirking to herself at the sight of his gaping mouth. She's gotten good at this over the years and, although some may refer to her as a "stupid slut", that doesn't change the fact that she has dinner and they don't. That's all that matters, right? Survival. If you want to get anywhere, you have to live. And Rowan certainly intends to get somewhere. She just has to change a few things about her current life, first.

And she'd found like-minded folks, too. They weren't even in her head, either! Nyx, Tanberry, Hale, and Anil. Kids at the orphanage, who knew that, in order to survive, one would have to do bad things. Like stealing from Peacekeepers, or seducing and manipulating the weak. If it had to be done, it had to be done.

Licking her lips again, Rowan took another bite out of the chocolate, and savoured the sweet taste in her mouth. Sweet like, she imagined, Lokir might taste. He would do, from all of the sweets she presumed he ate.

Hmmph, reckon he can get me any?

Nelson Mann is slumped against the wall, a pot of cold stew in his lap, his eyes somewhat glazed as he stares at the wall. His mind is relaxed, for once, and he feels somewhat sleepy; although it is the morning of the Reaping, he feels more at ease than he has in a long while. There is a small, half-formed smile on his handsome face, and although he should be eating the stew that one of his younger sisters cooked specially, he cannot quite summon up the energy to move a muscle. Emerson is equally relaxed, her dark hair pulled back into a high bun, her second-hand blue dress falling around her ankles. Hailey is fast asleep on the mattress that is placed on the floor.

Perhaps this is good. Since Emerson had been so nervous about the Games only an hour or so previously, and is now so comfortable with the world and herself, this could be called a good thing. After all, he practically lives to take care of his sisters. Without them, really, his life would have very little purpose. So almost everything that Nelson does is, in some way, used to help her and Hailey.

Used to be, that he was funny, witty, and always up for a laugh. That was before their family's house was burned down in a fire, and their parents- who were already neglectful enough- stole away into the night and left their children to deal with the mess. So Nelson had come into his own, and taken on the job of parent and guardian. And now, at seventeen years old, he is more like an old man than an adolescent boy.

But this is the way that things should be. How they have to be.

Taking hold of the cold, now congealed stew on his chest, Nelson gets to his feet and forces it into Hailey's hands. "Eat. Be quick; the Reaping's in half an hour." He murmurs, before heading towards the door, and pulling his coat off the stand. They live in a shack on the edge of town, that Nelson had managed to negotiate for them, and it's unpleasant and somewhat unsuitable for three children to be living in on their own.

Once again, though, that is the way that things must be.

The world isn't a joke, he thought to himself, as he watched his younger sisters finish their stew, and helped them into their own coats. The world is something that must be faced. And that is how it will be. How it always will be.

Rowan stands in the crowd of seventeen year olds, eyeing the District Escort dubiously. He is unpleasant looking, and she doesn't like the sight of him. He's too colourful, amongst the greys and blacks of District 12, and should be gotten rid of. She's too busy mentally picking him apart to think about the fact that she might be getting pulled into a survival competition.

As he picks a name out the Reaping Bowl, she is suddenly pulled from her thoughts, just in time to hear a name called. Just in time to feel a shockwave of fear, a shockwave of terror that runs through her body as if she'd been electrocuted.

"Rowan Woods!"

Nelson watches his sisters carefully, barely paying attention to the attractive girl making her way up to the stage. He can see Hailey in a group of her young friends, in the viewing quarters, and lets out a small sigh of relief when he observes one of their mothers watching the young children carefully.

Now he is sure that Hailey is safe, he turns back towards the stage.

"Nelson Mann!"

Everything in his system grinds to a halt. There are two matching shrieks from the crowd, and Nelson feels all of the blood rush to his head. This can't be happening to me... What will they- Fuck, what will I do?!

Favourite tributes from this chapter, and favourite tributes overall? Thank you so much for the reviews, they really motivate me to keep going, and I am extremely grateful that you guys are taking the time. Thank you so much, and apologies for the downhill spiral of quality towards the end, it's past midnight over here and I'm shattered!