Fun Fact of the Chapter: This tribute was created by my brother. Yes, my real-life brother. And if he keeps annoying me all summer, Link goes in the bloodbath! Got it, Nate? Okay, then.

...

Link Anderson, District Three

I'm completely deaf in my right ear and my left leg is a prosthetic. Because of this, you might think that I have no chance winning the Hunger Games, or even surviving the bloodbath.

Maybe you'd be right. After all, who knows what could happen in that arena? And physical adeptness is certainly a big part of it.

But trust me, I've spent hours in front of the TV, watching, calculating, weighing the odds. Half the tributes that go in there are underfed and helpless. Others get plucked off by the Careers early on because they're threats. And arenas are generally pretty big, so the chances of me running into any tribute who isn't hunting me are relatively low. As for the arena itself, as long as I can find water and some edible plants I should be fine.

My disabilities might get me some pity sponsors. If I present myself as unusually intelligent, I might get even more. I've heard from my dad that there seems to be come "D3 Fan Club" in the Capitol. Oh yes, and my dad's privileged position as a District Representative in the Capitol might help.

So, depending on how things go, I have a pretty decent chance of making it in the arena. On top of that, the odds of my name being picked out of the thousands of District Three youth, many of whom take tesserae, are slim to none.

So why am I so scared? Why are my hands trembling as I sign in and walk over to the 15-year-olds' section? Why can't I bring myself to focus on anything but the fact that four slips in that glass bowl can send me to my doom?

Okay, relax, buddy. Things are going to be just fine. No need to panic. Pull yourself together. That is not going to be your—

"Thalia Trinket and Link Anderson!"

Yeah, who am I kidding?

I start forward, knowing that every expression counts. I try to keep my face neutral, to remain stoic. Maybe it'll even come off as calculating. I have a death grip on the old flash drive in my palm, which is now going to be my district token.

The girl, Thalia, takes even longer than me to get up to the stage, mostly because she was wrapped up in her own thoughts and apparently didn't hear it at first when her name was called. Absentminded. But I think I've heard my dad mention her a couple of times—something about trying to reprogram the machines? Is she a troublemaker?

Thalia gives me a glance that is hard to read—sympathy, perhaps? Worry? We shake hands as the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, a rather long list of the rights and rules of district citizens, and then we're escorted by Peacekeepers to the Justice Building, followed by cameras.

It'd be best to present myself as the underdog, of course, but I can't help being a little cocky and smiling for the cameras. It wins you sponsors early, and didn't I just calculate that my odds in the arena will be ever in my favor, as the escorts say?

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.

I'm directed to a small room somewhere in the back of the building, a room not unlike my father's own office. He, of course, is the first to come in for a visit.

"Link!" He embraces me for a minute, and, despite my firm intentions to stay calm, I find myself shedding a few tears. "It shouldn't have come to this, I thought you were safe, I thought—with all those other kids taking tesserae—"

"Dad." I pull myself out of his big bear hug and look him in the eye. "I'm gonna fight, okay? I'll come home, I promise."

He frowns. "Oh, son, do you know how many tributes say that each year—"

"But I"m not the other tributes," I tell him. "I'm the underdog. And I'm smart. I'm the perfect balance of overlooked-by-competition and admired-by-sponsors. I've got this all planned out."

Dad chokes back some sound—a sob?—and hugs me again. As the Peacekeepers tell him his time is up, he nods and reassures me, "I'll try and get some of my Capitol colleagues to sponsor you, and I'll spend all my money. Hopefully luck will be on your side, my boy."

I suppose a good dose of luck wouldn't hurt my chances, either.

I have no other visitors—I've always been kind of a loner, anyway—so I just fiddle with my old flash drive and run over my plans in my head. I've got a few strategies for the interviews and training and the bloodbath and whatnot, prepared just for this very situation. Then the Peacekeepers come and collect Thalia and me and we walk to the train, ready to take us to the Capitol.

It's a luxury express that makes both my home—which isn't too bad, as far as district homes go—and the Justice Building look like wrecks. It's hard to see with the incessant flashing of cameras, but eventually we pull out of the station.

The escort, Octavia Bubbles, a woman who I can only describe as... bubbly, spends a good ten minutes gushing about how we're the best tributes she's worked with in a while and she hopes we'll give her a good show. Of course. Because we're only entertainment to these people.

Thalia seems rather lost in her own world, so it surprises me when she speaks. "Do you have paper and a pencil?"

Octavia's confused. "What?"

"Lots of paper," she says. "And a pencil. Or two, one might break..."

The escort smiles and rummages in her bag, pulling out a sparkly pink mini notebook and a matching pen. "This good enough for you, hon?" Thalia nods and sits down at the table. "Writing goodbye letters?"

I'm sure she meant it innocently, but it feels unnecessarily hurtful. I exchange a glance with Thalia, who shrugs after a moment and says, "Of a sort."

Has she already accepted her own death? Or is she trying to throw me off? I sit down in the chair next to her and peer over her shoulder. She's writing down a sequence of equations, some kind of mathematic proof involving oil and energy. The formulas for reprogramming the machines, perhaps?

Tributes in alliances, statistically, go farther in the games. Also, tributes who ally with their district partners have a distinctly higher probability of not being betrayed by said allies. It would have been a part of my plan anyway, but Thalia seems like the perfect fit for me. Competent, but trustworthy. Pretty naïve-seeming, people-wise, anyway.

"Want to be allies?"

She looks up at me, studying me for a moment before her face breaks into this wide grin. "Sure."

Step One: Complete.