Okay, a warning. I HAVE NO BETA. This is just me and spellcheck, so may god help me. Let me know if you see any grammar/spelling errors. R&R, go nuts with the SYO thing, love you guys.

Lyre

Rain is pelting down on me in sheets, and I think it's only through sheer force of will that my fleece jacket keeps me dry. My brown hair springs into curls due to the moisture, and drips like our leaky tap at home, a steady rhythm, one two… one two. This fact is detached from me, like the buildings which race past my vision or the puddles which I bound through in my blind rush.

I'm running, where to, I don't know. Where I'm running from though, that's important. To most people, who have no idea what's going on tomorrow, I appear to be a typical teenager, trying to run away from home. I am, to an extent. But home isn't the problem. It's what waits for me there, tomorrow.

I do this every year. Why? Because I'm afraid. Why do I come back? Because I'm afraid. No matter what, I'm afraid of what will happen. If I run, I die. If I stay here, I could die. That's what keeps me here. The running away is just a way for me to act out my own frustration, it never amounts to anything.

But this year, I am really going to run. I can't take the constant fear anymore. What if it's me? What if, this year, it's me?

I always stayed behind, because I have to take care of my family. But no more. No more. I can't take this anymore. My responsibilities threaten to choke me, and the fear threatens to beat me over the head until I'm out cold. And the restlessness and insomnia drive me to do something stupid and reckless. Running away, for example.

Far from dragging me down, my lack of sleep gives me an extra spring to my step. Soon, I reach my first obstacle. The Wall, not a single hole or a tear in it's entirety. The only way in or out is the gate, which is always kept under armed guard, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.

Normally, this is where I turn back. Not this year, not again. No more poverty, no more fear and no more responsibilities beyond this wall. I'm getting out.

That begs the question of how. I hadn't come up with anything so far, and I had kind of been hoping something would come to me in the heat of the moment. That, I realise, had been a mistake.

I could climb up one of the buildings and jump down from there. But all the buildings at the cities edge here were ramshackle, and either too tall or not tall enough. I would break my ankle or miss it completely.

There is no freaking way I can get underneath, and I realise why I stopped every year. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that this is hopeless. They have us caged like a tame little bird. We have no hope. We just have this, the fear and the responsibilities.

Frustrated, I kick at a piece of concrete that had fallen free of one of the buildings. It bounces off the wall harmlessly, jumping back to my feet. I kick it again, and it soars over the wall, landing amongst the trees which I have never been able to get to. How I envy it, finally free of this place. It's pathetic; a piece of concrete has more freedom than I do.

I feel tears sting behind my eyes. Right now, I want to curl up and die, because the fear of dying is worse than dying itself, at least in my mind. Somehow I drag myself into one of the derelict buildings and huddle myself in a corner. I know I should be going home, my parents and older brother will kill me. But right now, I don't care. There's no way I'm going home tonight. I need to get away from them.

I huddle myself deeper into the scoop neck collar, the dark blue fleece a familiar comfort to me. My fingers retreat into my fingerless gloves, pulling and stretching the fabric to accommodate my entire hand. Pulling my legs in, I wrap my arms around them, trying to keep in the warmth which the cold night tries to steal from me.

Morning comes too soon. I have to go home and get ready, all nicely dressed up like a doll. The fruits of the Reaping must be in pristine condition.

My sleep was fitful and plagued with nightmares. I've never felt more awake in my life.

My muscles are sore from sleeping against the concrete walls. I'm not used to it at all. Most houses in the District 8 are made of metal, only the older ones at the edges are concrete.

District 8 is a lovely little part of the country which we called Panem. Apparently, the country is to be run by a "democracy" when it was called "America", which is a process where everyone votes for the leader of their country. Most of the students scoffed at the idea. I didn't. The idea that we could all have a say was, although novel, good. It was hopeful. Ordinarily, the idea would have cheered me up. Not this morning, where everyone here was reminded how pitiful and disposable we are.

I shove myself off the floor and manage to steady myself. I'd gotten up so quickly that I'd made my head spin. Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for the spinning feeling to go away. No good, it's just getting worse. I stagger towards the wall, sticking out a hand to steady myself. I don't reach it before I'm falling towards the ground, my eyes still shut.

And suddenly I stop. No splitting pain as my head hits the hard, concrete ground. Slowly, I open my eyes. For a moment, I'm confused, until I hear the voice. "Watch where you're falling, princess, wouldn't want you to break that crown, would we?" That sly, familiar voice, there was no doubt about it. Thane.

"Get your hands off me, thief," I tease, held up by his arms.I remember a time where I would have yelled at him for calling me princess. He, also, would have yelled at me for calling him thief.

"Liberator, please, princess," he insists, pushing me upright again. Luckily, I could now manage something as simple as standing.

"Fine, mister 'liberator'," I sigh, "I really don't have the energy to care, you know. I have to go home and wait for the world as I know it to end."

"Aren't you being a bit melodramatic there, Lyre?" he asks me. No, that wasn't some messed up nickname he'd given me, my name was actually Lyre. What my parents had been thinking when I was born, I don't know. My older brother is Whit, a bit strange but otherwise good. My adorable little sister's Violet, cute and an actual name. Why on earth would you name your daughter Lyre?

"No," I say with a pout. I sounded like a petulant child. "What if they pick me this year?"

"What are the chances of them actually picking you, Lyre? Your name's only entered fivetimes. Besides, you wouldn't provide much entertainment," he attempts to comfort me. At any other time, I might have been insulted. But right now, the backhanded assurance was welcome and I cling to it like a life raft.

But I can't help but get the last word in. "That's four times more than what I'd like. Besides, you don't understand. You don't have to worry about the harvest."

Thane's gaze turns steely. "No, I wouldn't. I don't exist, remember?" he says coolly. I'd stepped on a landmine. Thane's a street child. No parents, no relatives, he's an outcast. There are no records of him. He doesn't exist on paper. So he gets overlooked when it comes to the Hunger Games. But he gets overlooked by everyone.

We met during winter. Snow had been falling heavily for the past week, and my family had been running low on food. Whit, Father and Mother were all working in the textiles factory, so the task had fallen to me. At age ten, I had been nervous about going in to town by myself. But everyone had been so kind to me, Sniper Sid who's a local hunter – one of the few allowed into the forest which rested beyond the fence – had even given me two rabbits, in spite of the fact I'd only given him just enough money for one.

I was walking home in the snow, the streets being quiet but not deserted. A boy of twelve –who I later learnt was Thane – bumped into me, muttering an apology. I'd accepted and continued home, until I realised that my bag, full of cheese, meat, fruit and vegetables, was lighter than it had been. I dropped the bag and spotted the small tear in the back. Right where the rabbits had been packed.

I chased after the boy who I was sure had stolen the food. I hadn't even thought anyone would steal the bag; my thoughts were entirely on chasing the thief. Though, after five minutes of running, I had given up, dejected, and unwilling to stray to far from the bag.

When I got back, there was Thane, pillaging whatever he wanted from the bag. I told him to put everything back in the bag or else. He'd openly laughed at me, and had the gal to actually dare me to "do my worst". I'd twisted his arm behind his back and almost broken it before he'd yielded.

For the next year, he'd followed me around like my own personal shadow, trying to prove that he was better than me. His ego had been wounded after being bested by a ten year old. Somewhere along the line, we'd become friends, and ended up in this still antagonistic friendship.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"It's okay," he says, stifling the anger that had flared up. He was always touchy about it. I couldn't blame him, if I didn't have my family, I couldn't imagine the amount of loneliness that I'd feel. "I'll walk you home." Thane manages a sarcastic smile. "After all, we can't have you banging yourself up before you meet your admiring public, eh, princess?"

I smack him in the shoulder but allow myself to walk with him. We walk in silence, and I have time to observe things. As we get back towards civilisation, I see families preparing for the Reaping. Mothers weeping to children, fathers giving their children pointers with a solemn face, and the kids, some crying, some angry, all dressed in their finest clothes. Soon, I would be amongst them.

At eighteen years old, Thane would have had his name in eight times, and no matter how much I complained that he didn't understand what I was going through, I was glad that he didn't have the Hunger Games as well as everything else. He didn't deserve that too. At sixteen, I was entered a total of, coincidence of coincidences, sixteen times.

Looking away from the windows which afforded me the occasional glimpse of the tearful families, I try to focus on something else, anything else. That's when I feel Thane's eyes trained on me. I see him staring down, which is partly due to the fact he's over six feet tall – I mean, he's a street kid, that doesn't make sense, they're all shorties.

I have the feeling that, although he's got the District 8 accent, he's from the Capitol. His hair is dyed a peculiar shade of blue-black, though he never remembers doing it himself. Also, his eyes have the shade of blue you find in the best quality metal, the colour which Whit so proudly points out to me in his shears. The eyes weren't a common trait in the District 8, and dying your child's hair was an extravagance they loved to practice in the Capitol.

Lots of the girls at school had seen him from a distance, and constantly fawned over "the cute street guy", but none of them were as bold as to go and, say, talk to him. Personally, I couldn't understand it; to me he would always be that thief boy who tried to steal my rabbits. One of the reasons I'd become friends with Thane was that I just couldn't relate to the girls, or guys for that matter, at my school. This was a harsh world, and people in the District 8 were separated into the wealthy merchants and the poor workers. I, like my entire family, were at a halfway point, to poor for the wealthy people and too wealthy for the poor people.

I observe Thane out of the corner of my eye, trying not to let him know I was looking at him. He looked down at me and I know I'm busted. I expect him to tease me, but he just smiles in that easy way of his. When he smiles at me like that, I can understand why the girls at school call him cute. When he smiles, it's not goofy or overzealous like some people, it's just him. Quiet, soft-spoken, sarcastic and cynical all at the same time. No matter how much I convince myself that he's just Thane – and believe me, I do a good job at that – I can't help but blush when he looks at me like that. I feel… special.

"You're home," he says flatly. I look up, and I see the familiar iron walls of home. A two story affair, it has simple glass windows and was probably older than anyone who lived in it. I knew Violet would already be ready, as well as Whit, Mother and Father.

I can hear Whit hollering from the inside, bellowing loud enough to wake the dead. Whit isn't happy. I'm late, and the reaping starts in starts in… I look up at the sun to try and gauge the time, a skill Thane taught me… half an hour.

"Yeah," I say in the same flat voice he'd used, unwilling to actually enter the building. If I just stay here, maybe the Harvest won't come. I know it's impossible, but childish hope still makes me think. "You'll be there in the Square, right?"

"Always," he smiles at me. There's a moment of awkward parting, me unwilling to leave and him unwilling to leave me. I know he despises these games more than I fear them. He calls them "barbarous" and "monstrous", and no matter how much he plays it down for my sake, I know he's petrified for me. He does a good job at concealing it, but there are tells on his face, things like the tight set of his jaw.

Thane never surprises me. I never surprise him. We both know each other too well. But now, he manages to catch me off guard and astonishes me.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a hug. After a moment of quiet shock, I return it, standing up on the tips of my toes so he doesn't have to bend down so far. We stand like that for a while, just a couple of seconds, before I pushed him away.

"I've got to go and get ready," I mumble.

As I walk up to the door and open the door, he whispers into my ear sarcastically, "Wear something beautiful, princess." I prickle, but refuse to give him the satisfaction of yelling at him. Just ignore him; he's trying to get you to bite.

As soon as I shut the door, I sneak up to my room, quietly. The whole house is eerily silent, an effect of the Reaping. But Whit, who had been yelling just a moment ago, is also silent. Crap, he'd heard me some in. I glance around furtively, trying to spot my elusive brother. It shouldn't be hard, he's taller than Thane – how we're related beats me – and there aren't exactly a million places for someone to hide in this house.

Shutting my door with a click that sounded far too loud in the Reaping silence, I take in my room, just to bring me down to earth. Everything is made out of iron, really old but no spots of rust. Dresser, desk, end table and a lumpy mattress on a twisted bed frame. Everything is familiar. But there is something foreign invading my sanctuary. A dress, sitting on the top of my bed.

I pick up the offending piece of clothing. This isn't mine. There's no way. Everything that I wore stuck to a colour pallet of blues, blacks and whites. This piece of satin is ivory, with cap sleeves and layers of different coloured fabric at the bottom, different shades of red, orange and yellows, all artfully torn and feathered.

This isn't mine. I've never seen it before in my life, so why is it in my room?

"Hurry up and get that dress on! Mom and Dad are waiting in the square," Whit yells at me from the other side of the door. So he's responsible for this.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your head on," I tell him impatiently. As I pull off my fleece jacket I ask him something that's been bugging me about the piece of clothing. "Where'd you get it?"

"It was Mom's," he sighs. "It was the only nice looking piece of girl's clothing that would fit you."

"Are you saying my clothes aren't nice?" I ask him, feigning hurt and barely suppressing my laughter.

"That is exactly what I am saying," he replies in a monotone voice.

"Well aren't you a lovely brother," I complain, slipping the dress over my head. When I finally get the infernal thing on, it fits like a glove.

"You done? We've got to go."

Grabbing a brush from the dresser, I yank it through my hair quickly as I hurry out of my room. My brother – ridiculously tall, thin like a bean pole and with brown-blonde hair that always flops in front of his face – stands by the door frame and taps his foot impatiently. For me, it's always peculiar to see Whit dressed up. Right now, he's in a dress shirt – the same ivory colour of my dress – and a pair of black pants, actually washed and ironed. For him, that's a lot of effort.

Whit hurries Violet and me out of the house, and I just had enough time to toss the brush inside, somewhere behind the shop counter. As we rush towards the Square, I look at Violet. She was eleven, not old enough to even take part in the Hunger Games, thank god, but Whit insisted she get used to dressing up. Or, to quote him from last night, "Violet, you're dressing up to be a tool of the media tomorrow like your older sister." He's not exactly fond of the Hunger Games for one particular reason.

He was in them.

Violet is in a white dress shirt, with ruffles up near the neck which made her look shorter than she actually is, and a pleated tartan skirt. Her hair is dead straight, the same brown as the rest of the family, and her skin lacks the slight tan that Whit and I have. Right now, she was an adorable porcelain doll, and next year, she would have to face the Hunger Games. The world was just cruel.

Mother, Father, Whit and Violet stand on the edges amongst the crowd, while the I'm sorted into my age group. Before I know it, I'm surrounded by faces that are all familiar but no names come to mind. Someone comes up onto the stage, which has been in the Square for as long as I can remember.

Enter the overzealous hosts. Each District received a host for their drawing, and would mentor the two "winners" for the duration of the Hunger Games. Traditionally, it was just one, but we in District eight were lucky enough to get to, one male and one female host. We had to deal with the terrible twins Emmy and Emend Starr each year. They were actually twins, but the amount of alteration they'd inflicted on their own bodies eradicated any family resemblance they'd once had.

Emmy's hair seems to change every year. One year she had a green pixie cut, the next her hair was lilac and reached to the floor. This year, she's gone for a bob, shoulder length and teased in an unnatural hue of bright orange, meant to represent fire but failing dismally.

Even from the thirty or so metres back I am, I can see the fake, plastic nails which jut out an inch or so from the tip of her finger, the same freakish shade as her hair. I don't get what makes plastic beautiful. Beauty was something that couldn't have a price tag, Whit always said. I saw beauty in the swooping, wrought iron buildings and the small things that Father helped Violet embroider. Those were things that, to me, didn't have a price.

All of the alterations Emmy had made to her body probably cost more than all the food I'd eaten in my life.

Her lips are like fat grubs, some unearthly shade of red, and her eyelashes are three inches too long, protruding past her face and curling around themselves.

I find her to be a grotesque figure. You can see how have inflated her chest and hips while shrinking down her waist, legs and arms underneath the floor length, cherry sequined red dress, ruffled collar rising about a foot above her head. She's some Frankenstein monster, made out of bits and pieces that weren't meant to go together.

Emend's a bit better than Emmy. A bit. It's as if they've just vacuumed all the muscle and fat off his body and now he's just a skeleton with skin stretched over it. He doesn't attempt to his the fact either, with a sequined yellow suit which shows every contour that isn't meant to be there.

His hair's meant to be complementary to Emmy's, but it's a shade of blood red which doesn't blend with the fluorescent orange.

What Emend and Emmy have committed here today is a fashion crime. They have slaughtered everything we in district eight hold dear. Those fabrics are not meant to bend that way in Emmy's ruffled collar, and I'm sure that hidden underneath that fabric, there's enough metal to make a small house.

Overall, the two made a misshapen, ugly pair.

"Hel-lo District 8!" Emmy warbles excitedly, leaning forward and waving her hand in the air. The reaction is much less enthusiastic, a clap which was off-beat and tired, and cheering which isn't cheerful in the least. But I'm sure they will edit The whole entire thing is being televised, and you can see the camera's mounted everywhere, even a pair of hovercrafts float above my head. "It's time for the seventieth Hunger Games to be-gin!"

The usual jargon involving the Mayor and something along the lines of "how lucky we are to sacrifice our children so you can be entertained and remind us how pitiful we are" ensue. Okay, not exactly that, but it's the gist. I'm basically stand there in the midst of an anxiety attack, so a lot of the words bounce off of me. What if when Emmy picks out the girls name, it's mine? I'm no fighter, my survival skills are basic.

I. Will. Not. Make. It.

I. Will. Die.

They read out the list of past victors. I don't recognise many, but the one from two and twenty-three years ago are unmistakable. "The winner of the forty-seventh Hunger Games, Mira Morrigan." I also know her as Mother. I don't know how she'd won the Hunger Games, it was before my time, but I'd heard the words "brilliant" and "genius" in the vague allusions to her I'd heard on the rare occasion that I watched television.

Mother had refused the house in the victor's village saying that it brought back too many bad memories. She seemed to want to erase any memory of the Hunger Games from her. When she'd married my father, Jared Evans, she'd taken his last name. As soon as she got the chance, she cut and died her hair from the family colours to a stark, brooding black. She never talked about her time in the Hunger Games, and no one ever asked. We were just happy she wasn't drug addicted, comatose, insane or drunk – as was the case with the victor from District 12 three years after that. That poor man.

"The winner of the sixty-eighth Hunger Games, Whit Evans." Aka, smart-ass older brother. Oh my stellar sarcastic wit, you have not left me yet.

Whit had been in the Hunger Games only two years ago. He'd gone as far as to forbid Violet and I from watching. I, of course, hadn't obeyed the order completely. I snuck out of the house every night to check wether or not Whit's picture was blazing in the sky. When he'd come home, everyone had cried, even my stoic mother. But to this day, I didn't know how he did it. If I was lucky, I'd never have to know. But our family had earned a reputation. Two winners out of two contestants, the "Morrigan magic" they called it. And everyone in the capitol was itching for me to be in the Hunger Games and see if the Morrigan family gets a three win streak.

Somehow, I doubt that will happen.

"Okay District 8," Emend announces in his deepest voice, which isn't all that deep. "Time to draw out the tributes!"

Fear boils in the pit of my stomach, threatening to make me throw up what little food I've eaten in the past twenty-four hours. I try to calm it down with logic, but it doesn't help in the slightest. Okay, how many slips do I have in there? Five. I have never had to take a tesserae because my brother and mother had enough food for the entire family from their victories. There were quite literally thousands of slips in there without my name on them. Why would Emmy pick one of mine?

"Okay," she warbles, "ladies first!"

Emmy strolls over to the glass ball full of the girls' names and my stomach somersaults, twisting and making every effort to make me lose my dinner. The square is packed with so many people I can't even move, so throwing up isn't the best idea. But I don't think I'm going to get much of a choice in the matter.

She shoves her hand in, digging around for half a minute before choosing; all the while my throat is closing in on itself. I can breathe, but barely.

I stare at the piece of paper she pulls out as if that might make it so I can see the name written on the other side. She opens her huge lips to take a breath and the suspense may be literally killing me. Hurry up, the name, tell us the name!

Emmy announces the name in a clear voice which cuts through the thick silence. The world suddenly seems a bit darker, the sunlight just a shade of its former self. The crowd parts to allow the Tribute to walk through. Numbly, I begin the walk to the stage.

Because the name she called was Lyre Evans.

I don't wrack my brain trying to think of how this is possible, because there's nothing there. My head is completely hollow. This is what they call "shock".

The stairs creak as I take my place near Emmy. She reeks of… what is that? I need to figure it out. What is it? Roses? Jasmine? Lilies? Is it even a flower?

Somehow, this trivial thing brings me closer to earth. But it's all I can think about. What is that smell?

I look over the crowd, as if this will somehow help me to figure it out. And then I see it. My little sister, tears in her eyes, shoulders shaking and hands bunched up at her sides. Violets. That what it is.

As Emend goes to draw the next name, I try and find familiar faces in the sea of people before me. I saw Violet. The rest of my family was with her. Whit… if looks could kill, I think Emmy would be a puddle of plastic ooze on the floor. I can feel the fury radiating off him from here. Mother looks like she's about to cry, and I beg silently that she doesn't as tears sting at the back of my eyes. If cries, so will I.

Father is in about the same state as Whit. I'm sure that he's going over the chances of it in my head, trying to figure out if Emmy cheated. He'd be figuring out my chances too. I bet they were slimmer than Whit.

And now I look for Thane. His blue-black hair should stick out amongst the crowd, but I see… nothing. He's nowhere to be seen.

Thane had left me.

The tears really did try to get out, but I wouldn't let them. Thane had left me, betrayed me, and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I wasn't going to give the Capitol the satisfaction. I'll play the Hunger Games, but I'll play it by my own rules. Not theirs, not anyone else's. I'll do this my way. And I'll win. Just so I can get back here and hurt Thane. How I'll do that, I don't know. Maybe I'll break his arm.

"The male tribute for District 8 is," Emend announces, pausing for a moment to build the anticipation. Hurry the flick up and tell me. Get it over with.

"Nolan Cook."

Oh no. Out of everyone in District 8, why on Panem did it have to be Nolan Cook?

Nolan Cook moves the fabrics from the trucks into the factory. As such, he's huge, average height, heavily muscled and, quite frankly, ugly, at least in my own opinion. His nose is badly broken from when a crate fell off the pile and hit him in the face. Some insisted it gave him a "swashbuckling air". I just thought it made him look like his face had been squished up on one side. His hair was dark brown and scruffy, and even his reaping clothes were covered in wrinkles. I think I even saw a stain. I was by no means a fan of the Hunger Games, but really. If you're going to attempt to look presentable, do a good job. This is District 8, the producer of fabric. You should look after your clothes.

Nolan's a crate carrier, and they're even looked down upon by the poorest of workers. They carry the crates because they aren't good at anything else, they can't weave and they can't sew. Generally, they're big, dumb and burly. Nolan isn't an exception.

What I'm worried about, however, are personal quarrels. I have never talked to or even interacted with Nolan in my life, but Thane has. They get in fights all the time. There's no love lost between the pair, they basically hate each other. And, since I'm – I was – friends with Thane, I'm hated by association. Looking at the brawny crate carrier, I begin to worry. He could crush me in that giant paw he calls a hand.

"So," Emmy calls, "do we have any volunteers?"

Not a single hand goes up.

"Oh, boo you too," I hear Emmy mutter, which, luckily, doesn't get picked up by the mike. She doesn't seem to get that every district except 1, 2 and 4 dread the Reaping. "Congratulations Lyre and Nolan!"

"You're going to the seventieth Hunger Games!" Emend and Emmy announce simultaneously. "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

Somehow, I can imagine them practicing that in front of a mirror the night before.

Nolan and I are taken to the place where all District 8 Tributes go after they've been chosen: a lovely room in the mayor's estate. We get put in separate rooms, which I'm thankful for. I don't think I can take another minute of Nolan's murderous-slash-angry glare.

The room is lovely, not made out of the cheap metal that most other houses in the district are made from. It's stone, cold, hard and marble from the looks of it. There are chairs with soft, velvet cushions for me to sit on, but I choose to lie on the floor, which shines with polish. I lean my flushed face against it, trying to calm down and get the red out of my face, because even though I haven't, I look like I've been crying. I'm just going to the Hunger Games and odds are I'll die. What could I possibly have to cry about?

Around half an hour after I got in here, the door opens to admit my family. They look shocked, tearful, and Whit… well, Whit's looking at me like I've lost it. I'm not sure I haven't.

"Do you have a problem, Whit?" I ask him, spitting the last word out.

"You're an idiot," he laughs. He picks me up of the floor, lifting me about half a foot off the ground. I look deadpan at him for a moment, making him laugh again, before he plonks me down on a chair.

"Whit, I'm sixteen. I'm only four years younger than you. Why do you insist on treating me like a child?" I pout at him.

"Well, pouting like Violet doesn't help," he replies smoothly, causing Violet to protest.

"I do not pout!" she cries, her bottom lip subconsciously sticking out. Wow, she looks like I did when I was eleven. Maybe Whit is, dare I say it, right.

"Right, right. I'm sorry," he says to her placating.

She immediately perks up. "It's okay Whit, I forgive you. You're my goofy older brother after all."

"Goofy," he laughs. "Am I goofy?" Looking over at me, opening my mouth to answer, he adds, "You know what? Don't answer that."

Mother and Father take a seat in the other two chairs while Whit and Violet stand. There's a moment of heavy silence as realisation sinks in again, all the messing around done. My throat begins to hurt, a familiar sign that I'm holding back tears subconsciously. Now I try and make a conscious effort. The red and pink blotches will stick around for hours, and I can't have the cameras seeing signs of my weakness.

"Momma," I begin, using the name I called her when I was five. "What am I going to do? I… I don't want to die."

"You're not, sweetheart," she tells me soothingly. "Whit will teach you everything we know."

"You're going to be my mentor?" I ask him quietly. "Is that allowed? You're family after all."

"Mom mentored me," he says. "I don't see why I can't mentor you."

"Will you mentor Nolan?" I ask Mother.

"No, that would be seen as a conflict of interest. They'd think I'd try and sabotage him," She laughed. "I probably would, you know. I think Woof will probably mentor."

Woof was Mother's mentor back when she was in the Hunger Games, apparently. He visited occasionally, and the two seemed to be really close friends. It was one of the memories that she hadn't tried to get rid of.

"Come back Lyre," Father says softly. He's a man of very few words at the best of times. He's lovely to Mother, Whit, Violet and I, but he's often not direct, and we usually have to take a very circuitous route to find out what he means. But this time, the meaning is clear. He's worried about me, and he's encouraging me. Do your best.

"I'll try father," I tell him.

"Don't hold back big sis," Violet says fiercely, a huge grin splitting across her face. I know that underneath she's worried about me. Whenever she's worried or scared, she covers it up with pep and verve, and more often than not, you can't tell. That's what's best about her. She's a caring little livewire, although, I admit, outside the family, she'd got a violent streak. She got in trouble at school for beating up another kid when they kicked over her "dirt castle". Violet was a little rabble rouser, not as girly as her reaping outfit would have you think.

Ruffling her hair fondly, I smile at the young face. I see so much of myself in her. "Don't worry, I won't."

Silence again descends on the room. I know that, apart from Whit, I will more than likely never see my family again. "Have you thought about what you would like to take for your token?" Mother asks eventually.

"Huh?" I completely forgot about tokens. "I don't know, I haven't thought about it."

"Wait a minute," Whit digs around in his pocket. He produces a small trinket, one which I've never seen before. It looks like some kind of key ring or something, just a long, silver chain which you would attach to a bag, or maybe even a belt loop. The piece of silver chain is adorned with small, silver trinkets; clovers, moons, stars, pentacles and other such things are amongst them. He tosses it into my lap. "Hope it looks after you."

"What is it?" I ask, playing around with the surprisingly heavy piece. There are some symbols that I've never seen on it, one is made out of three swirls, all coming out of a central point and ending at equidistant points.

"It's a good luck charm," Mother replies. "It was given to me by a friend before I went off to my Hunger Games. I then gave it to Whit when he was picked as a Tribute. It's kept Whit and myself safe, lets hope it does the same for you, sweetheart."

"Thankyou," I whisper, looking at the token with awe. This was actual silver. This is something fit in quality for a Capitol woman. Mother's friend had given her something special indeed.

There's a knock on the door, and I know my family's time is up. They head to the door, and I drink in their sight one last time. My father, tall, wiry, brown-blonde hair tousled but not unkempt and his face grizzled beyond his years. My mother, short, thin, pale, hair died black and a perfect heart shaped face with smiling lips. Violet, small, slight and perfect, with the same hair as Father and the same face as Mother, and Whit, tall, lean, floppy hair and a thin face. This is my family, all looking at me now with grey-green eyes that mirror my own.

When they leave, I don't expect another nock on the door. My family was all I have. So, when the brief knock sounds which signals the arrival of another guest, I'm surprised.

But when the door opens to admit someone with blue hair, I'm furious.

I try to appear as calm as possible, casually reaching across the desk. He can sense something's off though as my hand reaches something, which happens to be a marble statuette. "Whoa, Lyre, calm down a moment," he says with a slight bit of panic in his voice, his hands raised in a gesture that is meant to be conciliatory.

I seize the piece of marble and hurl it at him with all the strength I have. He dodges smoothly, and the thing shatters against the wall, leaving a small crater in it. "You have the nerve to come here?" I yell at him. "After you abandoned me in the square you think everything will just be forgiven since you've come to visit me here?"

"Please just let me explain!" he implored.

"Never!" I search for something else to throw at him, but he seizes my arms, holding me face-to-face with him so I can't ignore him.

"Just listen for a moment!" he yells, trying to pound some sense into my head. But I stubbornly refuse to listen to his story. Thane lies as easily as he breathes.

"Why should I?" I hear footsteps in the hallway. That must be the Peacekeepers, come to take the disturbance away. Hurry up, I think feverishly.

"Because I didn't mean to break my promise. Things… came up," he finishes lamely.

"Really?" I laugh incredulously. "Things came up? You expect me to by that."

"Because it's true."

"Then tell me what happened." The Peacekeepers are at the door now, and Thane knows it. He lets go of my and jams himself against the doorframe, stopping the them from getting in. I don't stop him. I want to know what happened.

"I was trying to get in the square when the Peacekeepers saw me. I wasn't 'in my line' so they were going to imprison me. You know what they do."

I knew too well. A lashing was a common punishment for kids who weren't in their lines. That was one of the kinder options. No matter the betrayal I felt, I knew that logically he did the right thing.

I don't hesitate a moment after that. I wrapped my arms around him, my best friend and my thief in his shining jean-and-a-shirt-combo. He let go of the doorframe just long enough for the Peacekeepers to get through the small opening they created.

They pull at him, and for a moment there's a kind of a game of tug-o-war between them and me. Thane actually tries to shake me off. Why is he trying to shake me off?

Eventually they manage to pry me off him, and I'm left alone in the room again, with the shattered remains of the marble statuette.

Boredom begins to set in, and I spy a bookcase over at the opposite wall. I flick through the books. Not much interesting. All of them were history about how "the day the Capitol took over was like the second coming of Jesus" and "the Dark Days were when Lucifer himself walked the Earth. Again, not in those exact words. I couldn't see how any of these were useful anything except kindling.

Huffing, I sat back down in the chair. I hadn't thought when I was picked as a Tribute it would involve so much waiting.

My bored eyes almost missed the small thing that was left on the ground by the door. A small, leather-bound book. Where had that come from?

I opened the front cover, and there was a note, in scrawled, familiar handwriting.

Thought you could use this, so I "liberated" it from a travelling merchant when I found out about what happened. Stay alive Lyre, and remember what I've taught you.

Thane

A small smile crept onto my lips. Thane, my little thief, you've got to be careful while I'm gone, I think to myself.

I'm in the train now, and the day seems to have gone past extremely quickly. I'd flicked through the book that Thane had given to me. It was a guide a basic survival guide, detailing edible plants and animals, with hand-drawn pictures and long, detailed entries. I'd spent the entire afternoon studying the book and, though I certainly hadn't memorised every page, I felt that I had memorised enough to at least stop me dying from poisonous food.

The train car is decorated lavishly, and I'm still in my Reaping dress. I've put on my blue sweater over the top, which Whit had brought from home, because even though it's fairly warm to anyone else, I was freezing without it. I don't deal well with cold. At all. If they put us in a tundra environment, I would surely perish.

My room is decorated with expensive looking furniture. The bed, the frame made of smooth wood and lavishly embroidered silken bed sheets, is soft and plush, too different from my one at home for me to even consider it comfortable. Everything in this train is too soft and polished.

There's a television mounted into the wall, which I decide to turn on. They're repeating the Reapings, and I tune in at District 4. The emcee, someone I don't recognise, is pulling a name out of the ball. The name is announced, and it's one I recognise.

Leonis "Leo" Belholme, son of a merchant, mother deceased, no siblings, and no tesserae. At seventeen, he would only have six entries. The chance that we would both end up in the same Hunger Games is infinitesimally small, yet there he was. I'm silently praying that a Career will take his place as I see him mount the stage. If you were walking in a street, you probably wouldn't notice Leo. He's pale, he's average height, and he's toned but not strong like Nolan. Black hair and brown, almost black eyes. He has a stern appearance, and a stern personality.

I didn't even pay attention to the girl tribute who was already standing there; I just wanted someone to rush out and volunteer for him. Please. But no. Under Leo's steely gaze, no one dared to volunteer.

I turn off the television in a fit of frustration.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Next we'll be swapping to Leonis' character, and findind out what connection he has with Lyre.

R&R. Hugs. Peace.