Our old representative succumbed to a nasty bout of flu last year, so they've sent in a new one. She has mousy features, unable to hide despite her many layers of glitter that coat her body, making her glisten in the dim sunlight. She reminds me off the chain on the necklace, twisting and sparkling in an fidgety sort of way. My hand guides to my neck on it's own accord. I clutch the chain, finding the teardrop pendant. Her eyes, strangely big, match it's color.

Pendant twists her hair nervously between her fingers, braiding and unbraiding, over and over. I can tell she is young, despite the glitter. She couldn't be older than thirty.

Our mayor, Mr. Lerner, announces her name on the stage in a falsely cheery voice, which doesn't mask the deep worry lurking underneath. I do not hear what he says.

Pendant grips the podium as if it is her lifeline. Under the sparkles, I'm sure her skin would be a faint green color. She swallows loudly, the sound reverberating through the mic, and speaks in a quivering voice,

"Hello, and welcome to The Reaping off the Ninety eighth Hunger Games. As you know, Mr. Herbert passed away unexpectedly this year, and I will be taking his place." She pauses and glances hopefully at us, only to be met by silence. She swallows again and continues.

"One girl and one boy will be chosen to represent District Twelve, and will have the honor of participating in the Hunger Games." More silence. In District Two they would be cheering at this point.

Pendant looks like she wishes she was there, but she still stumbles on. "So - er - let's choose the names." She turns from the stoic crowd quickly, fumbling around in the girl's bowl. I draw my breath, closing my eyes again. I hear the name light-years before it comes from her lips.

"Philla Ellwood."

I feel nothing as I climb the steps up to the stage. Just utter numbness, my blank brain not even beginning to process what just happened. But fear was there, tearing through my insides, eating up any sense of hope I had.

Only one face stands out in the sea of people. Rome looks at me with heavy eyes, and even from far away, I can just make him mouthing out the words, "I'll protect you."

The first pang of real emotion strikes my heart. Not for myself, but for Rome. He mustn't do what I know he will. He mustn't.

I try not to look as Pendant fumbles around in the other bowl, drawing out a thin scrap of paper that condemned not only Rome, but me.

"Jaring Partridge."

A small boy walks clumsily up the stairs, looking just as blank as I had felt moments before. He takes his place beside me. I can hear his breathing, as quick and startled as prey suspecting death.

With one long look at me, Rome walks forward, until he's looking directly up at Pendant and her podium.

"I volunteer to replace him," he says, no hesitation entering his voice. Our audience breathes in a collective gasp. He passes the boy on his way up, ignoring the wide-eyed stare of relief he gives him.

"Always," he whispers solemnly to me, pressing my ridiculous fish carving into my palm. To anyone else, it would look like we were simply holding hands.

It took me a moment to respond, my thoughts still oddly numb, a slate whipped clean of everything.

But then I undid the clasp of my necklace, sliding the smoothly set rock into his own. "Always," I say back, quietly enough so that no one but us can here.

I can see ourselves replicated on the screen, hands knotted together as if they were permanently set like that, the silver chain of my necklace swinging slowly in between them, looking like a noose hanging from a tree. I let go of his hand, rubbing the stone in between my fingers, losing myself in the feeling of my skin gliding effortlessly on the rock.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Pendant says with some mustered bravado, "your Ninety Eighth Hunger Games Tributes."

No one claps. No one even seems to breath. They knew that Rome and I were a set package, we had talked about it so much, but seeing us up there on the stage in reality, shoulders brushing and faces white, I have a feeling that none of imagined that it would really happen to us, nor did they went to think about it.

I seek out my mother and father's face, unsurprised to see them both sunken in with sorrow, making them look decades older. There hands are clasped around Kona's. He hangs onto them limply, his blue eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. I know that he is too young to understand, but I sensed that he knew the worst was yet to come.

I didn't realize I was crying till a hot tear dripped onto my neck and slithered under my shirt. I told myself to stop, that crying wouldn't solve anything, but they only flowed thicker and faster.

I am strong. I am brave. I can do this.

But I know my words are a lie. It makes me sad to know that the only person I can lie to is myself.

I choke out a sob, and Rome looks down at me and grabs my hand again, not out of ritual, but out of friendship. His eyes show the tenderness that I saw from as far back as I can remember, the kind of unconditional love that he gives to everyone. He is the selfless one. He is the survivor.

And I promise right then that I will do whatever it takes to help Rome win, even if it means not giving up, staying till the end to give him strength until he no longer needs it.

I'll protect you, I think.