Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Just your friendly every-three-chapters-or-so reminder to keep an eye out for potential allies for your tribute(s).

Submitters of Careers, you are not exempt from this. The usual pack mentality isn't set in stone yet, and doesn't really feel natural with the group of "Careers" that we've got here. So, if there's going to be a "pack" of some sort ... Who would you like to see in it?

Since this is one of the earlier Games, pretty much anything goes. (Kids forgetting the reaping, Capitolites volunteering, and other stuff that would never fly by the time the rules are better established.) So please don't hold back a suggestion on account of it being a little unorthodox. I like unorthodox.

Again, I may not be able to accommodate every suggestion, but the more I have to work with, the better.

Thank you to QuietConspiracy and PennytheMonsterBringer for Sterling and Cahra, respectively.

District Seven Reaping
Upon Some Dreadful Brink

Hazel
Mentor, District Seven

Hazel clenched her fists as she settled into her seat beside the mayor. Arthrim Rangel, District Seven's escort, flashed her a reassuring smile. Hazel tried to smile back. Arthrim had been her mentor, and had stayed on as District Seven's escort when their previous escort, Floressa, had been moved to District Four. "This year," Arthrim mouthed. This year would be different.

They wouldn't fail again.

They made a good team – her experience in the arena, his knowledge of the Capitol. But, so far, that hadn't been enough. They'd come close, a few times. Tributes from District Seven usually had the advantage of at least a little experience with axes or knives. Sometimes more than a little. But that hadn't been enough to save them.

But that would change. It had to.

The mayor read Hazel's name. For a moment, she was startled, fearing her name had been drawn again. But, no, he was reading the list of victors. Hazel hated that title. She had won nothing. Nothing but the right to watch other children die, while she remained helpless to stop it.

No. Not this time.

The mayor finished, and Arthrim stood. Approached one of the bowls. Pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. "Cahra Sheed!"

The fourteen-year-old section made way for a petite girl in a white blouse and black skirt. There was no fear on her face. No surprise. It was almost as if she had expected to hear her name. As if they couldn't possibly have called anyone else.

The girl walked slowly to the stage, her fists clenched. The anger in her bright green eyes more than made up for her lack of fear. Her black hair hung in a ponytail, nearly reaching her waist. Her eyes darted from person to person – from Hazel to Arithrim to the mayor, then, at last, to the cameras. She crossed her arms defiantly and glared straight into the cameras. "I'm not afraid of you," she announced flatly.

Hazel smiled a little as Arithrim tried to decide what to make of that. "Good!" he decided at last. "On to the boys!" He drew a name from the second bowl. "Sterling Therms!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted, revealing a boy in a blue flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. Shock crossed his face, but he swallowed hard and made his way to the stage. He was tall, lean but strong, with long, dark, black-brown hair and bright blue eyes that kept glancing back at the crowd. Hazel tried to follow his gaze. Who was he watching?

The boy took his place beside Cahra, who was already sizing him up with her sharp green eyes. He bent down, almost kneeling, and held out his hand. The girl waited a moment before shaking it.

For a moment, Hazel simply watched them. Yes. This was their year. One of the children in front of her would die. But not both. Not this time.

One of these two could win.

Sterling Therms
District Seven Male

"Daddy!"

Sterling looked up as the Peacekeepers finally let Abi and Bailey in. Bailey was squirming in Abi's arms, and ran to him as soon as Abi set her down. "Daddy, what did you win? Why did they call your name?"

Tears came to Sterling's eyes. Bailey was only three – too young to understand that being chosen at the reaping wasn't a prize. What could he say? He looked at Abi. "He won a trip to the Capitol," she offered. "And he has to go away for a while. But he'll be back."

To Sterling's surprise, his sister's voice was sincere. Confident. She truly expected him to come home.

Bailey's eyes were wide with excitement. "Can I come? Can I?"

Sterling scooped his daughter up onto his lap. "No. No, I can't bring you with me. I'll be … very busy."

"Won't you be lonely?"

Of course he would. But Sterling shook his head. "You saw the girl on stage? Cahra? She'll be with me. And there'll be others – two from every district. There'll be lots of people." Lots of people who could kill him. Lots of people he might have to kill.

Would have to kill, in order to come home. The thought made him sick – but not as sick as the thought of Bailey growing up without him. Abi was right. He hadto come back. For her.

"But you won't know any of them," Bailey said stubbornly. She held out her little rag doll. "Take Patches. Then you won't be alone."

Sterling took the little doll in his hands. It was missing an eye, and its shirt was torn. "All right," he said quietly, tucking the doll into his shirt pocket. "I'll make you a deal. I'll look after Patches. You look after your Aunt Abi. And I'll see you both very soon."

As he drew Bailey into a hug, Sterling stole a glance at Abi. He didn't know which was worse – the thought that they might have to watch him die, or that they might have to watch him kill. Silently, while his daughter was looking the other way, Sterling mouthed four words.

"Don't let Bailey watch."

Cahra Sheed
District Seven Female

Cahra stopped pacing long enough to pin her badge on her blouse. A tree with fire behind it. Her two favorite things. As long as she had those, there was no reason to be afraid.

She wasn't afraid, anyway, of course. Anyone else would be shocked. Surprised, at least. But she had known. They had meant to pick her. There probably hadn't even been any other names in the bowl. They wanted her dead. Ever since she had tried to burn down the Justice Building.

She still couldn't figure out why it hadn't worked. Her plan had been perfect. She had placed her torch carefully, watched the flames start to grow around the building before she left. But, the next day, she had walked by to see the fruit of her labor, and there was the Justice Building, completely unharmed. Not even singed.

It must have been her parents. They must have followed her. Put out the fire, hidden the evidence. It was their fault.

They were afraid. Afraid of what might happen. Afraid that she would fight back, and that others would follow. They could pretend they were trying to protect her, but she knew better. She knew they hated her.

In fact, being in the arena was probably safer than being here. At least in the arena, people were willing to admit they were your enemies. Here, her enemies smiled and pretended to care. But they were her enemies, just the same.

They hadn't even come to say goodbye. No one had. They had already given up on her. But she would show them.

She would show them all.

On the other side of the door, a man and a woman stood, hugging each other, weeping. Wondering whether their little girl had even noticed that they had left the room – or that they had been there at all.

On stage, Arithem Rangel tossed two bowls – each containing hundreds of different names – into the trash.

And outside the Justice Building, a janitor found a small stick with several red and orange pieces of ribbon tied to the end.

He shrugged and threw it away.

"I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell."