Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: As you have probably noticed, since this is one of the earlier Games, not all districts have a victor yet. From the stories I've read, it seems to be standard practice for districts that don't have a mentor yet to be assigned one by the Capitol. So that's what I'm going with. Here's the first one...

Thank you to Munamana and LunarLionHeart for Tracer and Lina, respectively.

District Three Reaping
A Stout Heart

Mayberry Florence
Mentor, District Three

It was nearly impossible to breathe.

That was the one thing Mayberry always remembered about her trips to District Three. The air was thick with smoke from the factories, clouding the skies even when the sun should have been shining. She coughed violently, wondering what had possessed her eight years ago when she had volunteered to mentor this district.

Only a few years, they had told her. Only until the district had a victor of its own. Then they would take over her position. But, after eight years, no tribute from District Three had even come close to victory. And how could they, after living in these conditions?

No, she would be here a long time. Looking out through the smoky air at the sickly, tired-looking crowd, Mayberry sighed. She had already watched the reapings from the first two districts. Their tributes had looked strong, or, at the very least, healthy. Here? The best she could hope for was that they wouldn't be bawling their eyes out like last year's tributes.

At last, the mayor finished his speech, and District Three's escort, Rickell Maston, stood. Mayberry at least forced a smile, but Rickell, as usual, was all business. He wasted no time; he simply reached into the bowl and snatched the first piece of paper he saw at the top of the pile. "Rosalina Leto!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted to reveal a young girl who was everything Mayberry had come to expect from this district: grey. She wore a grey blouse, a darker grey skirt, and grey ballet pumps that had probably once been black. But they, like everything in this district, had faded. Her skin was pale and sickly, and, though she looked a bit more well-fed that some of the previous tributes, she was still a far cry from the healthy young boys and girls in the well-off districts.

The girl walked quietly to the stage, her short chestnut hair hiding most of her face. As she took the stage, however, Mayberry could see that her eyes, unlike the rest of her, were bright – a bright sky blue. But not bright with tears. Mayberry tried not to sigh. "Confident" was too much to hope for, so "emotionless" was about as good as she was going to get.

Rickell moved on to the boys' bowl. Just as quickly as before, he reached in, chose a slip of paper, and unfolded it. "Tracer Norren!"

The eighteen-year-old section made way for a taller boy in grey work clothes. Mayberry held back a sniff of distaste. The boy could at least bother trying to look appropriate. Didn't he know the entire Capitol was watching?

Aside from that, however, the boy looked like he might be among the more promising tributes she had mentored. He was tall and lean, not as frail as she'd come to expect from this district. His skin was darker than the girl's – not exactly tan, but far from pale and sickly. Conflicting emotions flashed across his face as he made his way to the stage, but, by the time he took his place next to the girl, his fear was under control, and his pale blue eyes were trying to give off a casual look.

It wasn't quite working, but it was still better than crying.

Rickell hadn't even told them to shake hands yet when the girl held out her hand. Mayberry smiled a little. There was something to be said for tributes who didn't have to be told to be polite. But politeness wouldn't save her in the arena. And although these two were certainly better than last year's pair, neither one really looked like they would stand a chance against the healthier, stronger tributes in other districts.

Mayberry sighed and resigned herself to the fact that she would be returning to District Three the next year.

Lina Leto
District Three Female

It had finally happened.

Lina held her older brother, Kraden, close as her two younger brothers, Elijah and Yadon, clung to her waist. When Kraden had made it safely through seven years of the reaping, she had begun to hope that maybe they had been overlooked. Maybe her family would be spared.

But now they were paying the price. Because it wasn't merely chance. It couldn't be. For years now, there had been whispers. Rumors that the reapings were rigged, that children of rebels were more likely to be picked. Lina had always wondered if that could be true. It seemed cruel, but, really, was it any more cruel than forcing twenty-four children to fight to the death in the first place?

Her parents hadn't been involved in the rebellion; they'd had children to think of, after all. But her uncle Viribius had been one of the rebel leaders in District Three. He was long gone, of course; he had "disappeared" in the aftermath of the rebellion. But the Capitol wouldn't be content to merely punish him.

Yes. Yes, that had to be it. And they'd been so clever, too – waiting until Kraden was safe, ensuring that he couldn't volunteer in the hopes of protecting her. They'd arranged it all. Just to punish her family for something her uncle had already paid for himself.

Lina looked down at the ring her parents had given her – her mother's wedding ring. Two roses twisted around the outside, and an inscription inside read, "My dearest Diana, may this ring always protect you even if I can't. Percy."

Lina slipped the ring on her finger. It wouldn't protect her. It couldn't. The Capitol had already marked her for death. Hand-picked her for the arena.

She would try her hardest to survive, of course, just like anyone would. But if they truly wanted her dead, what hope did she have?

Tracer Norren
District Three Male

"They have no idea why you really wanted the watch, do they."

Tracer shook his head. His mother and older brother Marx had already left, and now Enrik had come to say goodbye to his apprentice.

"I figured it was better not to tell them," Tracer admitted. Better not to admit to his family that the reason he'd asked for his father's old pocket watch was because he thought it might be useful for spare parts in the arena.

But Enrik understood. They had always seen eye to eye, ever since Enrik had caught Tracer loitering outside his workshop and offered to let him help with a little soldering he didn't have time to do himself. Enrik had a bit of a reputation for oddness, but, by that time, Tracer had been willing to take any work he could get.

As it had turned out, he had a knack for taking things apart, putting them back together, and understanding how to get them to work – even if he didn't always understand why they worked that way. "Why" was somebody else's job. His was to make it work, to get the job done by whatever means he could. And that's what he would have to do now.

His father would have understood. Would have wanted his son to come home to his family by any means – even if it meant taking apart an old watch. And maybe it wouldn't be any help, in the end, but it was one more tool he could work with. One more option he had, in a pinch. One more thing that might save his life. And he needed all the help he could get.

But he still wondered if it would be enough.

"You have a stout heart … but that will not save you."