A/N: First of all, I would like to apologize. I feel as if I did not bring the characters of Nero and Cassia to life in the fullest, and I would like to make it known that it is quite difficult to expound upon Cassia's hatred of Nero in a location that isn't the Capitol. The plot line between the two of them will develop, I promise. Furthermore, I was disappointed in the amount of reads and reviews with last chapter, because those are truly what keep writers writing. So please read and review, it means the world to us authors. Enough of this talk however, for here is…the District Three Reaping!

Leo Ventras

District Three- Male

Courtesy of Theboyfrom3

Living on a farm on the outskirts of a little town which is not far from a big town in District Three has its perks. Being an only son and the only man around after my father was mustered to the capitol plants a sense of duty in a boy. My mother runs the farm; she bore me and still possesses the time to practice her theologies of reason and logic. Believing my father to not survive the rebellion in six, lost to the wild and barbarous manners of the rebels, she prepared herself daily for meeting him in what she called the beyond. It was well she did, for my father died in that rebellion; his blood stained the cobblestones of the path and left its ephemeral mark on the boots of his murderer.

Grief is a funny thing; it is so powerful, yet so indescribably beautiful. Grief will pull the true designs of a heart to the front and display the inner workings for all to see. Well, only for those who are around to see it. I was the only one to watch my mother squirm in the dirt and mourn my late father. She became a shell of her former state, breathing whispers into the dust, asking for her love to return. It was only proper for I to run the farm from this point on, and it was well I did, just as well as my mother had prepared herself for the death of my father, if not more.

My aching muscles flexed back into their resting places as I set down the heavy buckets of grain. The cows dip their heads in a quiet thanking, and greedily lick up the contents of the pail with their long and pink tongues. My arms ache, my feet ache, my head aches. I ache.

It sounds weird, to work on a farm in District Three. However, we don't really live in district three, my mother and I. We live on the outskirts of a little town which is not far from a big town in District Three. So, you could say we live in District Nine, because we live on the edge that borders the long waves of grain that make up Nine's economy. Living in no parallel to the electronic factories that populate Three make life simple, its grandeur the stillness of the fields and its solace the rafters of the barn. I like it, for the most part.

My mother Ophelia is something of a devil- unhinged by the death of my father, Atlas. Wild blood began to course through her veins in the wake of my father's departure; she made her labors undesirable and uncouth, her faculties disoriented and sloppy. She enjoyed her hickory stick, never letting it leave her cold grip. She drank, and gambled with her sisters, feeding our money directly to the belly of poverty. That wasn't the worst part though.

Returning from my duties in the barn, I attempt to open the screen door as quietly as possible, but the winds of fortune are not in my favor, as a heavy gale blows the knob from my hand and the door crashes into the wall on the other side. Disturbing my mother's worship of the bottle, she carries herself into the front of the house with a mean visage, ready to spit her venom like a snake.

When my father entered the beyond, my mother looked for a new god. She found it in vengeance. Her god was not a kind one, but as it turns out-neither was she. She blamed her conditioning on dreams she had while my father was away, telling her all sorts of blasphemies and wickedness. Her new god was an expert in punishment, and he demanded of her a sacrifice.

"Boy," she spoke with a leveled leer, "I am no fool."

The supposition of deceit was her favorite fallback. She was skeptical of my dealings, if I said I was in the barn, I was shooting skeet with my dog, if I was shooting skeet with my dog, I was in the barn. She rubbed her fingers up and down the cusp of the hickory stick, never taking her eyes off of her sacrifice.

"Am I a fool to you?"

"No ma'am," I stutter.

"Den' why was you in de' fields?"

"I wasn't in the fields, ma'am."

The stick, as quick as death, comes across my face like a fly does a horse's tail. There one second and gone the next. Not the pain though, the pain stays. I let out a whimper, a small one, but loud enough for her sharp ears to pick up on it. Despite all her dealings in drink, her senses have not dulled a bit.

"You was in the fields," she corrects me.

"Why was you in the fields?" She questions quickly, not offering me time to challenge her.

"I was in the fields because I am bad," I state with solid indifference.

Again, this time slower, but still fast as a hare, the hickory stick meets my knee. I falter, and stumble I do, to the ground in anguish. I look up at my mother, a lonely tear in my eye.

"Why is you cryin?"

I meet her gaze, a triumphant evil dancing in her black as night pupils.

"Because I am a bad boy," I choke out.

"That's right," she smiles.

Rage was in her voice, and I felt the creeping fear: but she knew she had a moment left before the reaping. Too many times had she seen the destructive machine that chopped down anything in its way. Rage came first and then a coldness, a possession, noncommittal eyes and a pleased smile and no voice at all, only a whisper. When that happened, murder was on the way, but cool, deft murder, and hands that worked precisely, delicately. I swallowed my saliva to dampen my dry throat. I think of nothing to say that could be heard, for once in her rage, my mother will not listen, will not even hear. She bulks darkly in front on me, shorter, wider, thicker, but still not crouched. In the light of the morning sun my mother's lips shine with wetness.

I begin to back away, but carefully, as one backs away from a snake. Then, with speed and accuracy together, I feel the strikes on my temples, cheeks, eyes. I feel my lip split and tatter over my teeth, but the stick is thickened and dull, as though it were encased in heavy rubber. Dully, my mother wonders why I did not cry out, why unconsciousness did not come to me. The beating continues eternally. I can hear my mother panting with the quick explosive breath of a sledgehammer, and in the sick sunlit morning I could see my mother from the tear-watered blood that cascaded from my eyes. I see the innocent, noncommittal eyes, the small smile on her wet lips, and as I saw these things-the world flashed between light and darkness.

Consciousness came, like a leaf in the wind, still and unprecedented, but appreciated all the same. I attempt to rise, but my muscles betray me, leaving my control as I slump to the ground once more. I hear them, footsteps, creeping closer and closer, like the calm before the storm. In a half-hearted attempt to shield myself, I raise my hands above my mid-section and brace for the coming torture.

"Get up boy," the callous growl of my mother commands me.

I struggle, I almost fall, but I don't. She steadies me, offering me false help in the cool morning air. I steady, as much as I can, and wonder why she doesn't call forth her evil again. She brushes off my shoulder, not in comfort, but in an effort to wipe off the dust that sits on my shoulders. She leans on her stick, the same stick that shattered my ribs and broke my cheek. I cannot look at that stick, I cannot look at her.

"The reaping," she says as if it were something standing in the room with us. Some physical deity as opposed to the emotional devil it actually is. The drive to the center of town is long; living on the outskirts of a little town that is close to a big town in District Three has its flaws.

When we get there, I am weak, slipping between reality and unconsciousness. I creep out of the battered pick-up truck and stand. My hurts are stiffening and the blood is dried in a crust on my face. I think I will stand here until I am moved by someone else, but that doesn't happen. Sending a look of sincere austerity my way, my mother wraps her wiry fingers around the edges of the stick again, very akin to the way she had only an hour ago. It seems like in another world she caused my suffering, but the aches in my bones remind me otherwise.

I feel as though I cannot answer any questions, for I do not know any answers, and trying to find one is harsh to my battered mind. My mother asks me if I will stand there all though, and as nice as that would, I succumb to her severity, this time dragging my feet along the dirt and brick. Dizziness edged with blue lights comes fringing into my vision and the sense of fainting comes and fleets, like a thundercloud that has another place to rain on in its agenda.

I shuffle slowly up the road with wide-spread legs. At the stoop of the hill leading to the district square, I look up. The Peacekeeper manning the entrance to the event gives no impression of noticing my bloodied face. I don't wince as my blood is drawn for the record books, I don't even feel it. Numbness secretes into my veins and I can't even focus. The boy next to me in the fifteen-year-old section gives me a look that is puzzled and wondering. He wipes his fingers on his pants, the beads of sweat forming on his open palm.

The mayor, a stout man with a hearty bead walks to the center of the stage. He walks fine, no limp, no bruises, like a normal man. His face is jolly, his lips curl into a smile. His name is Woolworth, a man of genius and kindness. I wouldn't know what that is though, I'm never here.

He recites his speech, detailing the rebellion and the dark days with pride, speaking of how it formed the wonderful collage of a nation we have today. It sickens me, almost as much as my mother does. I would look for her face, but my neck doesn't agree to move, so I let my head hang in fake attentiveness. Woolworth concludes his speech and our district escort, a man I do not know the name of, his face painted a gaudy green and his nails painted like a woman. A festive hat sits on his head, and a brilliant suit is what he wears. His shoes click together, like men shaking hands, and he delivers a bright and satisfying introduction to the film arranged by the capitol.

I do not watch, for I would have to crane my neck.

The escort stands in front of the bowl, laughing delightedly at the prospect of sending children to their death. It sounds inviting, to leave this district and spend a few days in the capitol, I could do without the bloodshed, my family's blood has been spilled enough. When the man stumps out to the podium, slip in hand, filled with a bubbling anxiety as to who it will be, a thought clicks into my brain, so unwonted due to the disarray of my senses.

His lips, unfurling into a genuine sense of confusion, mispronounce the name on the card.

The confusion is general, and one of the previous victors rushes to his side. Opus is her name, and she snatches the card from the escort impatiently, reciting the name with her own voice.

"Roran Dubois!"

It has always seemed strange to me that is usually boys like Roran who are forced to do the soldiering. A small boy, ill-equipped to fight, and far from learning how to. I possess repulsion for violence that increases by the day, strengthening with each blow of the hickory stick. Something I learned from my tenure as sole protector of the farm was how to chop wood, how to chop it with speed and precision. An axe in my hand is as deadly as the hickory stick in the hand of my mother, the stacks of wood that rest on the panels of our house can attest to that. I am strong, as an ox, I live on the outskirts of a little town that is close to a big town in District Three.

I am something the rest of the boys in District Three are not.

"I volunteer!" I whisper, hoarse and delicate, unheard by Opus and the escort.

"I volunteer!" My voice picks up wind, and it is heard.

"A volunteer?" the escort shrieks in surprise, those words rarely escaping his throat. I shuffle up to the stage, my feet like chains. I am weary, I am broken, but I am doing Roran a service. A silent look of thanks is on his face, and I bow my head in understanding. The escort takes my hand and he is delicate with his touch. His gloved hand is soothing on my shark like skin and he gives me a warm look. Roran descends the stairs, uniting with the relieved and shaken arms of his mother. I am hero in this moment, but the feeling evades me after a moment and I return to my state of despair. I do not hear the girl's name, nor do I see her. I do not need to, she is my enemy. The words of the escort drown in the cavernous waters of my ear, sinking like a ship made of steel. I am taken into the confines of the Justice Building, and there I sit.

"You are a bad boy," my mother scolds as I cower on the floor of the Justice Building, her hickory stick running along the edges of my bruised face.

"A very bad boy," she reiterates.

"Do you think you can escape me?" her voice is laced with poison.

I spit on her shoe, leaving a shiny mark on the front of her boot as it trickles down the side. She looks at me, and laughs. It sounds awful, like a devil's orchestra, filled with crescendos of deceit. She removes the stick from my face, to my surprise.

"Your body is a callous," she informs me. I look up, unsure of her next movement, her game of cloak and dagger continues.

"Win this game, and return to me, my son," she instructs, but with a different tone, warm and gentle, caring and sure. Her voice is like an acidic honey, it sickens me. There is something wrong; the hint of unfinished business is in her eyes. I feel as if she will hit me again, as her hand returns to the top of the hickory stick, rubbing it with earnest. She taps my side, inflaming my hurts. My mind rolls in a painful mist as she begins to elaborate on what she truly means.

"You are aware of something most boys from three are not, pain," the words strike me like a whip but I know they are true and I wince in agreement as she continues her speech, "You are strong, defiant, and clever, you are everything that an insurgent needs to be."

"What's an insurgent?" I dare to question.

"A rebel," she answers without striking me for once.

Confusion warps my thoughts; I don't understand what she means. She delicately places a worn hand on my battered cheekbone, and I flinch, but she means no harm. The instinctive fear and fierceness of a rat comes over me, I push myself onto my knees and drag myself across the room.

"I don't understand," I mutter.

"Finish what I could not, your father's death was the fault of the capitol, they dragged him from me, they made me a monster!" Her voice rises, which is unfamiliar to me because she always keeps a frigid tone. Her hands are moving, working quickly in the air, displaying her emotions in a painting of thought.

"Show the capitol, that we do not belong to them," she concludes.

The Peacekeeper who stood at the top of the hill comes to get her, he does not drag her, she complies, willing and determined. My mother has steel for bones, her actions are preconceived. The door shuts on me, and I think about what it was my mother had actually meant. Ophelia Ventras is not a woman of wasted words, when she speaks, she has reason, her theologies never left her, but simply adapted to a new host. I know she wants me to rebel, but not openly, that would sign my death warrant. I do not know why I will fulfill her plea, why I will satiate the thirsts of the woman who beat me into a servant instead of a son. Maybe it's because she's the only person I have left, or maybe it's because despite the want to flee life, one must have a purpose.

I feel the necklace around my neck, the only reminder of my father, and I approach the train with content. I am not sad I am leaving, nor am I happy. I am walking to my own funeral, it is an odd feeling, I cannot describe it, but when one is aware that death is imminent, you go towards it with a resolute decisiveness, you are not angry or sad.

I do not see my district partner's face as we board the train to the capitol, I do not see her tears or her pleas, I do not hear her. I still limp; my blood is still hardened onto my face, the beating from this morning obvious on my skin. The black and blue that decorates my body is a symbol of where I come from, my token from District Three. I am the boy who lived on the outskirts of a little that is not far from a big town. I am fulfilling my mother's last wish. I am going into the Hunger Games.

Maud Perrin

District Three- Female

Courtesy of pr1ncess1

District Three is a gem surrounded by all sorts of rough terrains. Bordered by District Two's "The Nut", it is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the rivers wind and twist up the center of the district until they fall into the seas of District 4. Just outside the outskirts of the smallest town, the grain fields of nine run for miles, but we are only bordered by them for a small stretch. This is what I am told however, because I don't get out much.

I pull, careful not to damage any sinew, threading the final workings of the tiny dress I hold in my hand. Satisfied with my creation, and turn and fit it onto the doll that waits to be clothed. Smiling to myself, I am pleased with my work, but not as pleased as I could be. If only I could do it so effortlessly, like my grandmother. Her bony hands weave tiny doll clothes quickly, like how a hot knife cuts butter. She spoils me rotten, I know it, but I can't help but enjoy it, she is my only family member. As if on a parallel with my thoughts, my grandmother, Geraldine, appears in my doorway.

"Maud," she fusses, "What are you doing? The reaping is today and you need to focus on what you'll be wearing and not what that doll is. After all, you are going to the reaping and not her."

I smile weakly, I love my grandmother to death, I do, but she is just so nagging. Everything must be perfect, the sheets must be creased a certain way and the curtains must be drawn at a certain length. Everything is an art to my grandmother; she prides herself in her decorum. I reluctantly set down my doll and rise, carrying myself past my grandmother and towards the shower. I'm not dirty, I never am, but I shower nonetheless. It is soothing, and keeps me in my clean state, which I never leave. I know I am pampered, but I revel in it, it is a blessing and I am grateful for it. My parent's death may have been inconvenient, but they were factory workers, and I am much better off than I would be with them.

My parents died in a factory fire, the only escape had been through a window and my parents hadn't been able to make it out in time. The story includes the part of my father gallantly shielding my mother from the flames, but they both burned to a crisp in the end. I was young, too young. I don't remember their faces. The only face I know is my grandmother.

And Cynthia, I know Cynthia's face. Cynthia Stalbert is a girl much like me; she keeps to herself and minds her manners, knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. We are like stone guardians, Cynthia and I, we do what we are told and keep a civil tongue. However, when no one is looking, we sneak an extra dinner roll or pull faces. We enjoy our dashes of furtive fun, it's our only excitement.

The steaming water trickles down my back, it envelops me, and it feels great. The steam clouds the mirror, fogging it and I can't see my reflection when I step out. My faded figure bends to and fro, as I dry my body with a silken towel laid out for me. The mirror's fog begins to recede and slowly I can see my petite frame come into view. I am young and light at thirteen years old, like a ballerina or a gymnast. My figure is lithe, I can sneak and my footsteps are silent. I don't think about the Games much, but when I do, I think about how my only hope could be my unrivaled ability to go unnoticed.

After my shower, I find myself staring at a sparkling periwinkle dress, it matches my eyes perfectly. My dark brown hair falls to my shoulders and I do a little twirl in front of the mirror. I giggle as the dress spins around my ankles, for my figure, I look pretty good.

I hear feet making their way up the stairs and my grandmother appears once again.

"Look at you," she marvels with a gasp, "Just like your mother."

I thank her for the comment, and notice the tears welling in her eyes. My mother had been her daughter, and although my grandmother was strong, the pain never quite left her eyes. And in spite of this, in all the years she had cared for me, she never mentioned my uncanny resemblance to my mother. My grandmother places her hands on her hips and purses her lips.

"It needs something," she determines.

She darts out the room and I hear her shuffling around in her room. Moments later she returns, a ring with a crimson stone in her hand. Slipping it onto my left ring finger with tender care, she lets out a breath of startling happiness. She takes a few steps back to admire me, and comments, "The red offsets the blue nicely."

That is her judgment, and it is law. When my grandmother figures something, she is wooden-headed about it. She carries her preconceived notions with her through fire and brimstone and does not halt to reflect on facts. Geraldine is not a woman of contemplation.

When she is done being enamored by my looks, the doorbell rings. Descending the stairs, she opens the door and welcomes in Cynthia, who looks good in her yellow sundress. I say good, because I don't want her to look better than me. Her arrival and her appearance make the horrors of the Hunger Games dance in my mind. We only exchange brief comments about the impending possibility of being reaped before we depart. My grandmother grabs her umbrella, claiming sunlight spoils the skin, and we all saunter out into the square.

"Be good dearie, see you when it's over," my grandmother says with a wink. Her charm makes me happy, and the Games leave my mind until the blood is drawn from my finger with the mechanical sound of the pinprick. It stings and my face contorts, Cynthia does the same behind me. I should have brought an umbrella, because being in the sun makes my skin crawl. Cynthia and I warily position ourselves amongst the other thirteen-year-old girls and await the arrival of the mayor. We never talk during reapings, too afraid of the danger of going into the games. We are silent, even when the cheering erupts at the sight of the mayor.

"Welcome!" Mayor Woolworth booms. "Welcome all, to the 49th annual reaping for those who will represent district three in the Hunger Games!"

The revelry continues, half genuine, half falsely constructed by the will of the Peacekeepers.

I listen to every word of the Mayor's speech, noting the treachery of the rebellion, the poverty of the Dark Days and the generosity of the Treaty of Treason. I am attentive to fine detail and hope the mayor won't probe me for questions on what he said, he never does, but I still think he will. When Woolworth is finished, our district escort walks to the podium from his seat by our past victors. We have three.

The first is Opus, who won five years ago. Opus is young, bright and savage. She is a perfect mixture of barbarism and class, intellect and brutality. Her olive skin shines in the morning sun and she smiles brightly, making her skin seem darker than it is. The next victor is Lug, a middle-aged man with round spectacles and thinning grey hair. He nervously rubs his hands on his pants and his dart all around. Lug is something of a mad scientist and is only here because he has to be, he graciously bowed out of the mentoring process when Opus won her games. The third victor is the other mentor, his name is Tesla. Tesla is older than most, but his wits increase with his age. Tesla literally rewired his mines on the podium and blew up the tributes nearest to him before the games began. He was plagued by the President for some time because of that stunt, and his family suffered. However, Tesla won his freedom with the invention of the Peacekeeper suit, making it mobile, light, and virtually indestructible. Tesla still mentors tributes, believing that it is his duty to make sure that those with great ideas aren't swallowed by the hunger games.

Our district escort's name is Jubilee Carson. Jubilee is too excited, and I yawn as he carries on about his enthrallment with district three. The only thing he does to attract my attention is question the volunteer status of a young man.

"A volunteer?" Jubilee asks.

The boy onstage almost jumps for joy, and returns to the wide arms of his mother. He was saved, I missed his initial reaping, but he was saved. I look at my nails, the faint blue is beginning to chip. The boy who volunteered looks like he was hit by a train. Dried blood cakes his face and he walks with a gait. His arms and legs are peppered with black and blue bruises and he looks dead on the inside. Jubilee notices this as well, and almost looks frightened by the boy's presence.

I can hear Cynthia praying beside me, she whispers her mutterings almost inaudibly, but my ears can pick up on most things. It's part of my stealthy and small personality.

"For the girls!" Jubilee hisses in delight.

He reaches into the bowl, and I am in denial. It is impossible for me to be picked. My name is only in the bowl twice, there is seriously no way I could be reaped.

"Maud Perrin!"

I was wrong. Dead wrong it appears. Cynthia's mouth drops open and mine does as well. I am stunned, and my body refuses to leave its standing place. The Peacekeepers herd me onto the stage, letting Jubilee's powdered fingers intertwine with mine. He holds my hand high, and does the same for the boy, Leo.

"Ladies and gentleman, I give you your District Three tributes!"

I can't find my grandmother in the crowd, but I can already feel her pain. First her daughter and son-in-law, and now the only one she has left, me.

She finds me in the Justice Building, and sobs into my shoulder.

"I am reverent, I am devout, I do not decry the Lord and I do not take his blessings for granted," my grandmother cries.

"I'll be fine," I lie.

"Maud, my dear Maud, taken from me like my daughter was taken," she moans.

I stroke her hair, and comfort her. It should be the other way around, but I can understand her pain.

"That ring," she changes the subject.

I study it; the crimson jewel shines in what little light soaks the room. It is splendid and I wonder what she will say of it.

"It belonged to your mother, but keep it, as a reminder," she tells me.

Our eyes lock and I understand, she can't be reminded any more.

"I love you," her voice breaks.

"I love you too."

The peacekeepers drag her old bones out the door and I cry out after her, but instead of getting my grandmother back, I get Cynthia.

"I'll miss you," my best friend states.

"I'll miss you too."

She can't bear it and breaks down, once again I comfort. I should be sobbing, I should be uncontrollably moaning. I have to tend to everyone else first. When Cynthia leaves, the Peacekeeper comes and gets me, and I begin to feel the full force of my fate. I am pampered, rich and spoiled, no training, never held a weapon, more or less seen one. I am helpless, and I am walking into an arena filled with bloodthirsty savages.

Before I board the train that will whisk me away to the capitol, I study the crimson color once more. There is something odd about the design, the jewels do not line up on the bottom of the encrusting. I run my fingers over it and suddenly, the jewel flips open, not being a jewel at all. I stare into the complex workings and notice that a small powder the color red fills up the basin left over.

A thought creeps into my head, I am not out of this yet, if I can use this to its full extent, I could come home. I smile, because in my head I know they'll all count me out from the start, and it pleases because as they underestimate me, they are disregarding the girl from 3, who has an asset none of them have.

It is Nuclear Fire, a powder developed by thirteen before its demise. It is used for poisoning; one drop will turn either a crumb of bread or a whole river into an acidic terror. I close the ring shut and board the train, confidence in my stride and determination in my step.

I am coming home.

A/N: I have to thank Theboyfrom3 and pr1ncess1 for these wonderful tributes. I loved writing this one and hope I did a much better job painting a picture of these tributes then last time. Please Review, Favorite and Follow, it would mean the world to me! Writing these chapters takes a lot of my time up, so what pushes me to continue is all those comments and subscriptions. Thank You to all my readers, and those who submitted, because the SYOT is closed! I can't believe that happened by the third reaping. That's amazing! So thanks again, and may the odds be ever in your favor.