Fun Fact of the Chapter: After looking at the name of this tribute, I was nearly ready to dismiss her as a Mary-Sue and kill her off horribly within the first minute of the Games. And then I read the tribute profile and fell in love.

...

Fawn Serenity Emerald Honeycomb, District Two

"Fawn, get up!"

Ugh. Leave it to my parents to pick the stupidest name in the world. "Fawn." What a joke. I much prefer Emerald, thank you very much.

"Fawn, we have to get ready for the reaping! Now!"

Sighing, I sit up and hurl myself off the bed, landing quietly on the bedroom floor. "Coming, Mom."

"Well, hurry up!" she hollers. "We don't have much time! We need to get you there so you'll volunteer in time! Remember what happened when I was late one year? I nearly-"

"I get it, Mom," I grumble, tuning her out. Mom's a nut for the Games. She volunteered every year she was eligible but—surprise, surprise—never made it in. And now that I'm ready, she's been pushing me to enter ever since I was twelve.

She's always been far too bold for my liking. No idea how to wait. That makes us about as different as night and day.

I cock my head and smirk, catching my reflection in the mirror. I've always liked my appearance. Small, slim figure, but strong enough. Pale. Extremely so. White-blond hair. So ridiculously innocent-looking that the cunning, ruthless grin looks wrong on the face. I drop the grin in favor of a cute little pout. There. I'm the poster model for "innocent little girl."

Ha. As if.

But that'll be my angle, you see. They'll underestimate me, think me weak among the Careers. But I have something that half the tributes out there certainly don't: a brain.

A conniving Career with an innocent facade. Combined methods of three legendary victors. Practically foolproof. I hope.

I pull on my baby blue dress—ugh—and arrange my hair in a braid. It's a loathsome appearance, but necessary in order to pull off my angle. Today I'm going to volunteer for the Games. And in a few weeks, I'm going to win.

"Fawn!"

"For the last time, Mom!" I screech, all thoughts of Games-planning momentarily suspended. "Emerald! It's Emerald! If you hadn't given me such a stupid name in the first place, I wouldn't have to change it! God!"

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. "Emmy, please hurry up. Your mother's anxious."

Dad's voice is much less shrill, and he, for one, actually respects my wishes regarding my name and personality. We're a lot alike. Quiet, sly, sneaky. I've even inherited his complexion.

"Hold on, Dad, I'm almost ready." I slip on my blue ballet-flats and open the door to find three faces staring/glaring at me. Mom's poised to yell, Dad's arms are crossed but there's a twinkle in his eye that suggests amusement, and seven-year-old Mint is bouncing up and down with excitement.

Mint, on the other hand, is Mommy's little boy in all aspects. He's always yammering on and on about how he's going to become Two's greatest victor of all time, even though he's just started training and isn't even that good. Besides, that famous victor is going to be me, hands down.

"Fawn—Emerald—you've gotta get up or we'll be late for the reaping and you won't be able to volunteer," he whines, actually looking sorry for me. I let out an indignant snort.

"I'm ready to go," I tell Dad.

"No breakfast?" he asks quietly.

I start down the stairs. "I'll eat on the train to the Capitol." And, with a backward glance towards Mom, adding, "And if I don't make it this year, I'll eat later."

Mom harrumphs and trudges down the stairs, Mint following.

It takes approximately ten minutes for the whole family to sprint to the city square. It actually took me about five, but Mint is slower and Dad doesn't even really try. One difference between us: he was never a Career. He only wanted to teach training classes. Which, admittedly, he does well.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" The lady at the sign-up desk looks up from her clipboard with a sugary smile.

"Fawn Serenity Emerald Honeycomb," I say through gritted teeth. "14 years old."

"Right this way." She starts to get up, presumably to show us where the 14-year-old section is. I cut her off.

"I know where it is," I hiss, deciding to momentarily drop my sweet pretense. "I have been here before. Twice."

The lady shares a loaded look with my mom, who shrugs in reply. Figures.

I stride over to my section, keenly scanning the crowd for possible volunteering competition. I decide that very few people here are threats, not with my quick reflexes, and settle down, calmer. Eventually I feel a tap on my shoulder and whirl around to see Cargo Montgomery standing directly behind me.

He's a boy from school that I know. I can't say that he's my friend; acquaintance would be a better word. Like me, he's mostly quiet and fiercely independent. Unfortunately, he's also impulsive and has no idea how to wait for the perfect opportunity.

"You gonna volunteer?" he asks with a grin.

I lift an eyebrow. "That's the plan, anyway."

"Think you'll be shut out by older ones?" He nods towards the 18-year-old section, where last-year Career hopefuls are flexing their muscles. I snort.

"Yeah right. As if they could be any faster than I am."

He watches me for a moment. "Is it just me, or are you being slightly more cocky than usual?"

I give him a shrug and turn around to face the stage, where the mayor of District Two is approaching the podium. He's an older man, a former victor named Montague who basically made all of the decisions within the Career pack during his Games. Conveniently also one of the mentors for this year.

He addresses District Two and begins reading the customary history of Panem. Everybody tunes it out, since it really doesn't even apply to District Two. The escort, Wilder Cain, a young man with sparkling white hair and eyes, is introduced.

I lean forward a bit, ready to make my move.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" he chirps. They all say that. He sort-of prances over to the reaping bowl on the left, the girls' bowl. "Ladies first!" Again, as always.

He plucks a slip out of the glass bowl and carelessly opens it, knowing that the name inside doesn't really matter. "Sparta Mell-"

"I volunteer!" I spring forward a little, giving off the impression of a too-eager little girl who doesn't really know what she's getting into. I rock back on my heels. Perfect.

"Well, well, well." The escort smirks. Even he thinks that I don't have a chance. "Come on up, missy."

The crowd parts ways and I walk up to the stage with a confident air. "What's your name?"

I'm sure to stare straight at my mother when I say, "Emerald Honeycomb, your female District Two tribute."

"Alrighty then," says Wilder, skipping over to the boys' bowl. I give the cameras a wave and a shy-ish smile—let them figure that one out—as he says, "And now for the gentlemen-"

"Cargo Montgomery!"

Oh, really? This is fun. But no doubt there'll be a—

"I volunteer as the tribute of District Two."

—volunteer.

Naturally.

He comes up to the stage, a 6-foot muscle man with short brown hair and dark brown-black eyes and lots of freckles. Like most of the other Career-boys, not incredibly handsome. He glares at Wilder and then at me in turn. I raise an eyebrow and—remembering my angle—flash a friendly smile, looking him up and down.

A heavy weapons sort of guy, probably a wrestler and rock climber too. Maybe a runner, judging by his leg muscles? Definitely combat-trained, judging by his stance. He doesn't look arrogant, just confident and focused. Not the impulsive type at all. Darn.

Apparently his name is Marius Sheer, he's seventeen years old, and he is now officially my district partner. Montague comes back out again and reads the Treaty of Treason to the crowd while Marius and I stare each other down—his glare cold and serious, mine playful and taunting. We shake hands—he has a firm grip, as expected—and head off to the Justice Building for our goodbyes.

"Oh, honey, this is so wonderful! You're gonna win this thing for sure, dear—just think of all that training you do, with the knives and bows and stuff! This is amazing! I can't believe it! All my dreams are coming true! My wildest dreams!" Poor, poor Mom. I wonder what goes on in her head.

"My big sis the victor! This is so awesome! Wait till I tell all my friends! I'm gonna work extra hard in training so that I can be in the Games too!" Mint. Naïve little Mint. I can see why you'd act like I'd already won, but please try not to make it all about you for once, 'kay?

"Try to keep your head in there, Emmy. And don't lose yourself, no matter what." Thanks, Dad, for that actually useful advice. Though I'm not quite sure what "don't lose yourself" means... well, I'll try not to go insane, like that girl a couple years ago. You never know, though.

Pretty soon, they're whisked away and I'm left alone—apparently Montgomery couldn't bother himself to pay a call—and next thing I know, after a lot of waves and smiling, we're on a train to the Capitol.

Nothing can stop me now.