A shorter one this time. Ah, well.

Warning: This tribute was described by his creator as "uproariously funny". I can't do that, at least not on command. So—just pretend, okay? Thanks.

Fun Fact of the Chapter: Che Botill was submitted by Vividly Visceral, best known around this fandom for her epic The Capitol Games, which is highly regarded as the Almighty Ruler of SYOTs. I am unworthy.

…..

Che Botill, District Seven

"So. I'm thinking about becoming a serial killer today."

I take a long smoke out of my pipe and look over at my friends, grinning mischievously.

Jackson frowns. "Dude. Not funny. Not so close to the Games."

"What? Serial killers are funny on any other day of the week, but not on the reaping? Not so close to the Games?"

"Yes," Nate says flatly, effectively cutting off any form of argument. He limps up to us, face solemn.

"What, did I strike a nerve or something?" I wrinkle my brow and twirl my pipe around.

"Dude. It's reaping day," Jackson says, still frowning. "We're legally obligated to be depressed, in respect for two very unfortunate souls who, in all likelihood, will die horribly."

"Oh," I say. "Sorry. Just trying to, y'know, lighten the mood."

"With casual jokes about serial killers." Nate snorts incredulously. "Really?"

"Hey, gallows humor, right?" I throw my arms up defensively. "And, guess what, everybody's going to die at some point, so I might as well speed it up, eh?" Jackson looks appalled, Nate condescending. "Joke, 'kay?"

"Che?" says Nate after a moment.

"What?"

"Your jokes suck on reaping day," he informs me. "Every other day of the year you're a nice, hilarious guy, but on reaping day, you fail in the most epically pathetic way."

"Gee, thanks," I say with another grin. "That really makes me feel better."

"Don't mention it!" Nate says with a half-hearted laugh. "You needed to know, right?"

Honestly? I'm just really tense, inside. It's my second-to-last year of the reaping and the odds are that I'll never get picked and still I'm tense. Because the odds can change at any moment, and the Hunger Games loom over us all like a threatening cloud of epic doom. But me, I try and laugh it off. It's the only thing that keep me from being scared out of my wits.

And it's not my fault that my best friends find my reaping-day humor inappropriate.

"Here's my section," says Nate as he splits off of the group with my brother Bo'. "Good luck!" I call after them, and settle down in the 17-year-olds section with Jackson. Sean, my other brother, goes to the 18-year-olds section with a smile. Lucky kid, it's his last reaping. The rest of us have got a few more years to wrestle with it.

The mayor goes on with his speeches about history and victors and treaties and such. Nobody really listens, since we've heard it in school every single year since we were six. No, five. Eventually the mayor stops (probably sensed that nobody was listening anyways) and introduces our escort, Aliena Candlewick. I hear she's distantly related to one of the first presidents of Panem, but I could care less.

Aliena seems to be obsessed with giggling, since she inserts one after every single sentence. "Happy Hunger Games, District Seven, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" Giggle. "So, let's pick our lucky girl, shall we?" Giggle. "Briana Geers!"

Oh. I know Bri. She's Kyle's little sister, the one who hunts. I've always wanted to try hunting, but then again, I'm not a rule breaker, no matter how many people disregard that rule.

Bri walks up to the stage, looking surprised yet strong. She cocks her eyebrow at the camera—smart girl, already playing the audience for sponsors—and then turns to the escort, who's heading over to the boys' bowl.

Bri is only twelve years old. She shouldn't be up there, already fighting for her life. It's just not fair.

"Che Botill!"

T-that's me.

That's me.

I stand there, dazed for a moment, and then I break out into a grin and walk up to the stage, looking confident. There's no reason why Bri should be the only one to play the audience.

The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, which is so antiquated it almost doesn't even apply to us anymore, and Bri and I shake hands. She has a firm grip, but so do I. And I'm going to be the one coming home.

We march off to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. My family stands around in an awkward silence before Bo' says, "I guess you were right, Che."

"About what?"

"This morning. You said 'I bet I can get Reaped faster than you.' You were right." Ma and Dad frown, and so do I.

Curse you, irony. I was only trying to make a joke.