I do not own the Hunger Games! Wish I did. Some plot twists in the story. Part one of a four parter series. First fanfiction I've ever done.

I open my eyes to sunlight. Groaning, my body shifted over in the covers, my back now facing the front door of my house. I heard a slight trickling above my head, and tilting back to look at the hole in our roof, a raindrop falls and splashes in my eyes. I winced at the morning greeting, feeling the warmth hit my face as the sun dried the raindrop quickly. My stomach growled in hunger - oh the usual woes of a citizen in Panem, like any other I suppose - and I swung my legs over the bed, waiting for the cramps to ensure, the moaning that would escape my lips. But, nothing happens, it must be my fear. Everyone in Panem knows what today is, and we know what happens when try not thinking about it.

Bad things happen, with a fool's hope attached to it.

I slipped out of my bed, wanting to leave before the highest hour of noon arrived which would turn my adventures into something obsolete and all for naught. Hung on a coat rack was my hunting gear - a simple mahogany colored jacket, black undershirt, black pants, and my hunting shoes. My bow and quiver full of arrows were hidden in a bookshelf on the other side of my bed. I stepped off the threshold - which was nothing more than my bed slightly raised higher off the ground than the rest of my house - wincing slightly at the creaking of the floorboards. Over in the far right corner, out of my eye, someone stirred. I stood frozen, hoping it wasn't my mother. My body relaxed when the generally bright flash of luminescent hair of my brother, Lucas, came into view.

Shifting over as quiet as I could manage, I stirred my brother awake. He grumbled something to himself, milling around in his bed sheets before slowly opening his eyes to look up at me. He gave me a quick one-over, a gaze showing me full and well he knew where I was headed, and full and well on what was going to be happening today. It's his first reaping. It's my fifth.

"Where are you going Jon?" Lucas asked. I smiled back at him, looking down with a gentleness that resonated in my heart. He was to innocent and pure for such a tainted world, he doesn't deserve to grow up in a place that vies him for a crown in a desolate wasteland with bodies milling the place.

"I'm going to see Bailey, Lucas. I'll be back for the reaping in time. Don't worry about me," I said gently, leaning down and kissing him on the forehead.

Lucas nodded and goes back to sleep. Today was the reaping, a day of solemn and sadness. Though I feel like the process itself is drawn out, I constantly mull over all the details. A long time ago, well a little over perhaps a hundred years ago we were a nation called America. Reading about it in the history books in school seem to hype up our past - we were gorgeous and powerful, fifty separate entities under one banner that had their differences - and it all came crashing down in an instant. It was as if someone had snapped their fingers and reversed everything my ancestors built and fought and died for. We had a period of disasters: avalanches, volcano eruptions, tornadoes, hurricanes, etc., etc. and out of that supposedly came a new nation called Panem; almost as if it had been advertised as a brighter and cleaner America.

Panem was designed as thus, thirteen districts surrounding a city called the Capitol, the districts to bow mercifully at the Capitol's knees. Once again, sourcing the history books, there was thirteen colonies to a mother country across an ocean that I've never seen, and we've replicated it. If there's a thing I learned so far in my short life is that us humans don't like dictators and being directed on what to do twenty-four seven. And although this was way before my time, everyone in Panem, good or evil, knows the story. The districts didn't like that - the system of having to breathe life to one single place and be cut out as some sort of middle man - and we revolted. It went swimmingly. Not.

District Thirteen was destroyed, and after our little insurrection had passed, the brilliant minds of Panem came up with the thing called the Hunger Games. I am not a religious person, but it is safe to say that a new form of the devil was born. Here, in the games, each district was to send in a boy and girl, ages twelve to eighteen to participate in a fight to the death. Every year there was something called a reaping, where a freaky person from the Capitol would come to our district and pick the person by reaching into a large glass ball and pick a name. Obviously people could volunteer, which would be to take the place of one of the persons drawn in the lottery like system, but that is a different story with usually the same tragic ending. Today my name is in the reaping ball twelve times, the name entered twice every year. The year is 3099, the 99th Hunger Games. My brother, as I mentioned, is now twelve. He is what the district calls eligible. A scary word - I cannot think of a different adjective for it, personally - and my greatest fear is that should I survive six years of never getting picked, my brother is taken from me instead.

I gently shut the door to my house, and breathed in the fresh air. My corner of the district, which was District 12, did not have the soot and smell of the coal mines lingering above us like the chokehold of death. I only had a few hours to go and live like the teenager I wanted to be, and with the reaping creeping up like some psychopathic stalker, there was daylight burning the more I stood and took it all in. Over by the outskirts of District 12 was a fenced off sector; it led to the great and vast beyond of Panem. Like much of our esteemed country, this area was off limits and entering it would be punishable by death. However... as I've heard through the grapevine from others years and years older than me, there was a way around this and created a loophole. Hunters, such as myself and the person I was going to go meet, had special access for gathering game and other collectables out in the wild for trade and bartering. Seeing as I wasn't going to do any hunting purely just standing around in the same place, I began to jog my way to the area of rendezvous.

In my joyous twenty minute run, I passed the same old drab gray of District 12, with its stalwart storminess or the depressed faces of its inhabitants. A few times I was met with the glaring whiteness of a Peacekeeper's uniform - a Peacekeeper being one to technically 'keep' the peace, in actuality there were ruthless bullies of the innocent - which would cause me to go down another path entirely. Being seen with a weapon wouldn't exactly boost my favoritism with some of the old geezers. After my run was coming to its close, the emerald lined treetops of the wild beyond the fence came into view. The sound of birds chirping reached my ears, and nothing would sound better than it, I decided. I reached the outskirts of District 12, in what felt like forever, there was all woods with the occasional sound of a Capitol train rustling by. I reached for my bow off my back, keeping an arrow strung for good measure. Ducking in between one of the holes, inwards I went.

It wouldn't take long to get to where I needed to be, the rendezvous spot my hunting partner and I normally agreed on only was about half a mile into the forest. Even from here I could hear her marking on this world flowing through the trees. Her name was Bailey Resel, one of my longtime friends from school. She has had quite the tragic past with her family insofar as the Hunger Games have been concerned, and there was always something at stake the longer time went on. To get her mind off of things on Reaping day - which was ironic as our conversations generally drifted in that direction regardless - she'd take her father's harmonica and play it out in the woods. Bailey Resel does not have a single musical bone in her entire body, and thus any sound that comes from that dastard machine is like an ear-grating noise I'd rather drown in mud to escape hearing.

I entered the clearing, which was the meet up point. A vast circle where sunlight poured down from above on a turned over log that she and I made our camping spot. Her and I would clean game in this spot, sometimes grow food in the ground if the seasons and climate looked about right, but most importantly her and I would just talk. Standing still for a moment, I looked around, my eyes lighting up when I saw her. Bailey Resel. There she was, perched on that bent over log, humming to herself. She froze, sensing someone else's presence, and turned around warily. She relaxed a little upon realizing it was me, waving me over. I tried, as I walked up, to see any differences with her from the last time I saw her. Bailey's dark, onyx black hair was in a ponytail today - usually she liked to wear it down - that coupled her fair and easy smile that gleamed white. There was always a sparkle in eye her, keying me in that she normally had a secret. When I sat down, she hugged me. Though it'd probably sound horribly cliché, I could never dream of what life would be like without her at times.

"Jonathan," she greeted. I still sometimes get the chills up my arm hearing her same my full name, as the nickname for Jonathan usually is Jon. She gave me a quick one-over. "Did you sleep in your hunting gear? It's wrinkled," Bailey jested.

"No, I didn't. I tripped on the way back from our last meeting. I'd figure you'd be here," I said sheepishly, the blood rising in my cheeks. Something about how she would play my strings just right, tugging on the fiddle of emotions like some sick, twisted jester's game.

Bailey pulled out her harmonica - my mind screamed that castration would be better - and played a dreadful tune. It sounded like the mix between a dark operetta and the worst witch crackling voice in all of human history. I sat there and nodded my head along to the whimsical beat, that although it being probably horribly executed - I don't know the first thing about musical composition, I'll be honest - sounded like quite an earworm. When she finished, I clapped dutifully, her cheeks tinting red. She placed the harmonica back in her pocket, running a hand down her leg.

"So who do you think is getting reaped today?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea; I'm just hoping it's not me or Lucas, or you obviously." I shuddered. It is a fool's hope to say that you hope someone does or someone doesn't get reaped, because there is a Hunger Games god that goes by the name of our current president, and I'm sure he'd kill all of us if we had given him the chance. Or the excuse.

Bailey's face darkened. "Well, I'm the only one in my family that's left. I hope it isn't me. I- I don't think my family could do it."

I hugged Bailey after those words. Her even mentioning her family and the tragedy that befell them was something that'd curdle my stomach in seven ways till Sunday. She was right, unfortunately, and there was no way I could possibly spin it. Ten years ago, the middle brother of the three she had was picked, then her youngest brother was picked two years after that, and then finally her oldest brother got selected only two years ago. Out of four children she was the only one left. The other three were dead. Her three brothers died in an eight year span. She's a breadwinner of the family, when looking at it from a certain angle.

"You won't get picked I promise."

"You can't promise anything Jon. Not here," Bailey whispered.

"I know. But it feels right to do so."

"Optimism only gets you so far in this world," she shuddered.

"Hiding in the back only gets you so far," I pointed out. "Sometimes that's how you get picked off. You think you're hiding in the most perfect of manners and then all of a sudden, life hits you like a side sweeping truck."

Silence passed over us for a moment, the thought of her brothers bringing sadness up to the forefront of our conversation again. I looked at her, as she sat and stared up at the azure sky. Sometimes I wondered if living in the Capitol would feel as boring and horrible as this, by being in the districts. If there were voices that were being drowned out because the masses wanted to watch murder, would that citizen be left like the third wheel? Thoughts like those would entertain me when dialogue failed.

"Could you do it?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Kill."

Bailey frowned, rubbing her chin. "We kill animals all the time. Squirrels, moose, deer, turkeys and birds. Those animals are innocent most of the time and they aren't trying to kill us," she took a deep breath at the next sentence. "Sometimes the animals charge us and try to kill us, and we fight back in self-defense. I think that the Hunger Games is no different than real life at times... where a regular murder out of self-defense happens here in the districts. Even if we were to be in the games, that innocent twelve year-old could try killing us at the very end too, and we retaliate in simple self-defense. I don't see much of a difference."

Her words sunk into my brain, making my arms suddenly quite chilly as if a gelid breeze blew through in the middle of a bright, blazing sunny day. I rubbed my arms innocuously. "I'd much rather prefer not getting picked at all..."

She nodded again. "That'd be for the best. Otherwise we wouldn't be confronted with the decision."

"I'd probably be scared shitless if some Career or even a twelve year-old came charging at me," I giggled. A wise man once said that the humor directed at yourself would be able to become the best kind of humor. "You'd be frightened too."

"Would not!"

"Would too!"

Bailey laughed, turning away from me. "All right scardey pants. I'll see you later. Wear something presentable at the reaping for me. If either one of us is going to die, I'd like to be picked in something not entirely hideous."

I slugged Bailey in the arm, smirking all the while. I threw my arms around her in a goodbye hug. She squeezed me back, whispering that she'd linger for a few more minutes before heading back to town. Although I did not have a watch on, with the estimate location of the sun in the sky, the reaping would only be a few hours away and a good half of it would be spent by me getting ready and getting back home. Saying goodbye, I waved and walked off, running back the way I came and through the hole in the fence. Taking the scenic route back to my house, something felt wrong, a settlement on the air that smelled of sour milk and the iron coppery taste of blood like a fresh scab being peeled off. I couldn't quite place the apprehension in the sky, but whatever it was, I did not feel welcomed by it.

When I got home, I heard from the outside that Lucas was complaining about the outfit he was wearing. Walking in through the front door, the pungent smell of cologne filled my nostrils. Lucas was in the bathroom, his hair combed neatly and he was wearing my old sky blue polo that still had the rip in the forearm. I smiled endearingly, remembering almost with a bitterness about my first reaping. Bailey and I were both twelve, did not do any hunting, and had zero luck at making friends. My mother brushed past me - I got my dark hair from my father, and Lucas got his bright hair from my mother - her eyes a puffy red and tears spilling down her face. Sometimes I wish I had the gall to scoff at her and wonder why she was crying, but then it'd hit me that survived going through all these reapings herself as a child and didn't want to see her own kids suffer. It's excusable, because if I managed to live long and have a prosperous life, with kids at that, I'd be crying too when the time came. She was worried, she was worried about her loved ones. And that was perfectly okay.

"I laid out something for you," my mother whispered to me, refusing to look me in the eyes. She couldn't bear it. Not after the day my father left. She couldn't bear to look at me some days, saying I reminded her way too much of him.

I nodded silently, walking into our makeshift bathroom - nothing more than a drawn curtain and bed sheet to hide the tub from the other occupants of the house - and minutes later I was clean, having dipped myself into the bath. My hair smelled nothing more than the usual musk of the District 12 air, or the hickory taste of the trees. I read once that the Capitol would bathe in coconut oil. Imagine the grime I could wipe from my face with that. I was dressed in my father's suit - my mother didn't like when I reminded me of father, yet she gave me everything that was his that he left behind, surprised it was even fitting me, even if the length did crumple together at the bottom. My shoes were shined and my hair was combed back neatly, gelled on this oh so special occasion. My father would be proud if he saw me now, I could feel it. My mother hugged me tight once I was finished, and I felt the years of her life wane through me, the sadness, the fear, the brief spite of happiness, and all of her love. I altered my waiting time between staring at Lucas who wouldn't say a word to me and looking out the window, wanting to go back to the clearing with Bailey, till it was time to go. When the bells at the town square started to ring, Lucas hid in the corner. Bells rang for weddings. They rang for funerals. They rang for reapings.

The bells would never ring once for anything of the good and kind sort.

"Lucas, we need to go," I tugged on his arm. My brother shook his head back and forth, his eyes darkening with every shake.

"Darling, go with your brother..." my mother exhaled from her spot, sighing.

He refused, and I did the unthinkable. Standing up, I grabbed my brother by the side and carried him out of the house. My mom would slowly join us in the square, taking time to reassemble our beds and belongings should we never come back. Between Lucas kicking and screaming the whole way against me on the trip, and my mother giving lamentations away at our bedrooms, I didn't know what was more depressing.

When we get to the square, I'm drenched in sweat, and Lucas is exhausted. The air is hot and muggy, the sun beating down on my clothes with so much dead weight I could fly away and never come back to this horrendous place. Lucas, surprisingly, does fairly well at staying stalwart and not flinching when the Peacekeeper grabs his finger and pricks it for the blood DNA sample. I am after him, but I can't help wincing as it is a sharpness that lingers with me for days on end. I want to give Lucas one last confident say goodbye, but Lucas is out of my hands before I can call out. I'm roped off with the other sixteen year-old males from District 12 and my brother is stuck in the back. I swallowed my fear as Bailey looks over at me, directly across in a straight line her eyes blank, and her face expressionless. It's show time. The doors to Justice Building open, a groan flew from my throat, and I'm staring at the unbearable Georgia Heffer, this manically upbeat woman from the Capitol, an iridescent olive green wig sitting atop her pale and powdered face.

She's our escort, the lady who reaps us and stupidly thinks that she's better than everyone else.

I really, really don't like her.

"Welcome everyone to the 99th Annual Hunger Games!" shouted Georgia from the microphone, clapping crazily. To the credit of our district, no one claps back with her, and I cannot help but flash a grin. Georgia noticed the silence, stirring up on her heels awkwardly. "Well, gentleman first..." she trailed off after a minute of no one talking. Normally the train of thought is to announce the ladies first, but I guess her being thrown off balance is to now announce us men first. She trotted over to the boys bowl and reached in for a slip of paper, the dangerous hand of the viper hissing as it selected its victim. She's back to the podium in a flash, unfurling the paper.

I closed my eyes. "Don't be Lucas. Don't be Lucas. Don't be Lucas..." I repeated over and over again in my head.

"And the male tribute is, Jonathan Crimson!"

I was so worried about my own brother that I didn't even consider myself.

Shit.

It seems like Jonathan needs to rely more on just A Fool's Hope now, as him relying on such an idiotic grasping for straws now leads him down a road of misery and death. Uh-oh for him, huh?

~ Paradigm