Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Just your friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies.

Thank you to DeuceExMachina and TheTypeWriter001 for Wulfric and Libby, respectively.

District Ten Reaping
Those Who See the End

Glenn
Mentor, District Ten

Blood.

Glenn winced as he accidentally bit his cheek while chewing the last bite of his sandwich. He was probably the only person in District Ten who didn't have trouble keeping food down before the reaping. He had the courtesy not to bring his snack onstage, but he still had time for a small bite.

Sometimes he felt guilty – especially when so many in District Ten didn't have enough to eat – but he couldn't help it. Two weeks of nearly starving to death in the Games had taken their toll. But he knew he had no right to complain about that, either, when he was the only one to leave that cursed arena alive.

Glenn hurried up to the stage as the mayor rose to give his speech. The crowd gave a small applause – whether for him or the mayor, he wasn't sure. He hoped it was for the mayor. He couldn't stand the way they looked at him on reaping day, like he was some sort of hero because he'd managed to go unnoticed long enough to survive. That was nothing special.

Or maybe it was. Maybe they were aware – in some small way – that they were cheering for the only victor who had never killed. The only one to come out of the arena cold, tired, and very hungry – but with no blood on his hands. And maybe that was something to be proud of.

But it wasn't something that would help the two children who were chosen today. He had no real advice to give. No real experience. No way to reassure them.

Nothing.

The mayor finished his speech, then read Glenn's name. Glenn forced himself to look out at the crowd. A few eyes looked at him with something between warmth and pity. But most eyes were on Maxillum Denrig, District Ten's escort. He smiled as he dipped his hand into a bowl and drew a name. "Elibrium Hall!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a black dress. She was tall for her age and rather large, but none of it was muscle; even her rather shapeless black dress couldn't hide her size. She was tan, with long, dirty-blonde hair streaked with brown.

But Glenn knew the Capitol audience saw none of that. They saw only the fact that she was already sobbing inconsolably – and had probably been crying even before her name had been drawn. "Come on," Glenn whispered, though he wasn't quite sure what he was wishing for: that the girl would work up the nerve to come to the stage on her own, or that someone would miraculously step forward to take her place.

It didn't matter, because neither one happened.

Two Peacekeepers were quickly at the girl's side, but it took four of them, by the end, to half-carry the girl to the stage while she continued weeping hysterically, her brown eyes wide and pleading. Glenn knew the crowd in the Capitol would be laughing, but here, in District Ten, there was only silence. Only pity. But no rescue.

Once onstage, the girl collapsed, and the Peacekeepers simply let her fall. Glenn cursed under his breath, sprang up as quickly as someone of his size could manage, and grabbed the pillow from his chair. The Peacekeepers stepped back, surprised, as he slid the pillow beneath the girl's head, loosened the collar of her dress to allow her to breathe, and checked her pulse. She was fine. For now.

Maxillum ignored them completely, which was something of a relief. The sooner the cameras left the girl, the better. Crying was somewhat usual, but fainting was rather extreme even for District Ten. Glenn barely glanced up as Maxillum approached the second bowl, drew a name, and announced, "Wulfric Harding!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy who was taller than the girl and also large – except that his weight was muscle. His sandy blonde hair hung down to his shoulders. He walked silently to the stage, but paused for a moment, unsure, as he passed Glenn and the girl. Glenn shrugged helplessly; no one seemed sure what to do next.

Except Maxillum. "Shake hands, you two!" he grinned as the girl's eyes fluttered open again. The girl looked around, dazed and confused. Glenn shot Maxillum a glare, then turned to the boy, not sure what to ask him to do.

The boy hesitated a moment, then knelt down beside Glenn and slid an arm under one of the girl's shoulders. Glenn did the same, and, together, they helped the girl to her feet. She was still crying and shaky. Glenn looked around. Someone needed to do something.

Someone.

He didn't even think. He just shot the boy a quick look to make sure he'd be able to support the girl on his own, then dashed over to where Maxillum stood, "accidentally" tripping over his own feet and barreling into the escort. As he struggled to his feet, Glenn grinned at the crowd as stupidly as he could, then grabbed Maxillum's microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, your tributes for the Ninth Annual Hunger Games!" he shouted, and dove into the crowd.

The group of eighteen-year-olds didn't exactly catch him.

By the time Glenn limped back to the stage, the cameras were all on him, and the crowd was dispersing. Through the pain of a few bruises, Glenn glimpsed a lopsided smile on the boy's face. But beneath that smile was a question: How the hell did you make it through the Games alive?

Libby Hall
District Ten Female

Blood.

She could practically smell it already. Her blood, spilled all over the arena, like her tears spilling over her father's shirt as she buried her face in his chest. Her mother stood off to the side, and her brother Javis sat awkwardly nearby, not sure what to say. But Libby held her father close, as if they would never be able to make her let go. As if by clinging to him, she could cling to life just a little bit longer.

"Maybe you'll get lucky," Javis said quietly. That was even worse. Libby knew he was trying to be kind, trying to hope. But knowing that luck was the only way she would make it through the Games – that was even worse. Because nobody was that lucky.

Javis, immediately realizing he'd said the wrong thing, slid over beside Libby and their father and handed her a gold watch – the same one he'd given her for her birthday three years ago, on her first reaping day.

Her birthday present. That reminded her. "Javis? Take care of Floppy, okay?"

Javis nodded, but Libby knew the huge mutt would be devastated, just the same, when she didn't come home. When she never came home.

Stupid. She was going to die, and all she could think about was how sad her dog would be. That just made it worse. Libby sat there, crying into her father's arms, until the Peacekeepers came and dragged her family away.

At last, she tried to slide the watch onto her wrist. But it pinched at her skin. She'd grown in three years. So she tucked it in her pocket, instead, drying her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, still shaking, muttering quietly.

"Happy Birthday, Libby."

Wulfric Harding
District Ten Male

Blood. He could already smell it.

Or maybe he simply hadn't been able to wash it all off his hands after his shift the night before.

Wulfric shook his head. A small part of him wondered if it would smell the same, feel the same, when the blood came from children instead of animals.

They had tried to tell him it would – his friends. His family, really, growing up in the community home. Alec, Leonard, and Jackson all worked with him at the slaughterhouse. They were used to the blood. The smell. Organs and bone and muscle – it was numbing after a while.

A small part of him knew they were probably right. That it couldn't be that much harder to kill a person. That he could do it if he needed to. But he was still disgusted by the thought. He had seen enough death – more than enough. They all had; he and the other orphans had lost everything in the war. Their families. Their friends. Their childhoods.

He had no desire to see more death, let alone be part of it. That's what they wanted – the people who had already taken everything from him. They wanted him to kill. To destroy innocent lives. Or to be killed himself, of course – it really didn't matter to them which one he chose.

Wulfric wrung his hands. There was no choice, once it came down to it. In the end, he knew he could kill. He knew he would. But only then. Only if there was no other way.

Only then.

"Despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not."