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Wick Cresswell
District Eight Male, 17 Years Old
Before Reapings

Standing in line, I patiently wait my turn, stepping forward as the line shifts forward. There's small chatter throughout the line, but I stand there, only really wanting to get the tesserae of the day. Whenever it's Reaping day, the Peacekeepers usually throw some more grain or oil in the package, so we make the most of it.

I don't mind waiting here, either. It's for a good cause, and plus, it's a nice day out. It reminds me of the days where I was a child, running through the fields and forests, chasing after my siblings. From time to time, we still do that, but we usually just walk around. Things are different now, whether I like or not.

I have to deal with it, though, even when things are still continuing to change.

At least Jerald, my brother, is out of the Reaping age. Now, it's just me and Celice, who's fifteen. We've been safe for a few years now, but each year I take more tesserae, my name goes it in a few more times. It's a twisted system; in order to survive, I have to risk my own life.

It's worth it, though.

"Hey, that was mine! Give it back!"

At the head of the line, there's some commotion. I lean to the side, wanting to see what's going on, and in front of the line, the Peacekeepers are ignoring a little brawl that's going on. It's an older man with a younger one, shouting things back and forth at each other. There's spilled grain all over the ground, the older man bending down to try to pick it up.

The younger man goes to kick him, and when he does, the older man lets out a shout. Rolling my eyes, I step out of the line, wanting to walk over there and stop this. This is no way to treat one another, with anger and violence. I realize that tessera is important, but it's nothing to fight over.

"That's enough," I call out, but I'm ignored by both of them. They get up in each other's face, and as I slip my name-card in my back pocket, I put my arms out. The younger man knocks my arm down, and with my force, I reassert myself.

"Don't get yourself involved, kid," he says, trying to get back at the older man. This time, though, I grasp my two hands on both of his shoulders, restricting any more movement from him. He squirms away, and before I know it, he tries to throw a punch at me too.

There's a gasp from the line for the tesserae, yet the Peacekeepers are still doing nothing. I dodge it quick enough, but as I send my own fist up into his jaw, I don't realize what I've done until after. He buckles over, some blood dripping down onto his shirt, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you, boy," the old man says, his package already in his hand.

Shaking my fist, I walk away, not looking back at the mess I just created. It was his fault, though. He started with the old man, so I just dealt with it. That's no way to treat anyone, and even though I had to fix it with violence, mine was justified. Violence wasn't always my way to go, but living in District Eight teaches you a few things; to survive, to stay strong, and to find a way so that no one messes with you.

And maybe growing up in a middle-class home was my way of finding out how. My father always believed in violence, always wanting the Peacekeepers to punish the criminals more. That's where I got it from, and it sure has come in handy. We've been friends ever since, so there's that.

Maybe violence does have some good things that go along with it.

"Next," the Peacekeeper says, his voice deep. Holding out my name card, he presses a stamp down on it, passing me one of the wrapped packages. There's string around the beige cloth, the package seeming heavier than usual. Nodding, I walk away, holding the package under my arm.

I kick a pebble across the street, the rock bouncing along and then sliding into a drain. I smirk, finding another pebble to kick, and play with that. I'm almost home now, seeing as I just entered through the gates that most of the middle-class families live.

When I think about it, District Eight really is atrocious. Maybe I just have gotten used to it all, but there's still so much more I want. In this District, the only way to go is down; with money, or more usually, with death. A lot of people die here from sickness or starvation, and that's just something you get used to.

I ignore it now, but that doesn't make it any better.

This whole District is a mess. One big, poverty-stricken, dirty mess.

"Wick!"

"Gerard," I call out as I turn around, already knowing who it is. He nudges my arm with his hand, a package under his arm too. "Got the tesserae for the day, huh?"

Gerard shrugs, playing with the string around the cloth. "Let's just hope I don't get reaped because of it. I've been getting it more often, and I don't need my name in the bowl more than I already have to."

"Don't worry about it," I say, trying to make him feel better. "I'd volunteer for you if you were to be reaped, naturally."

"Is that so?" He asks, a smirk on his face. "Would you try and volunteer for Celice too?"

I let out a laugh, the thought of Celice being somewhat funny, even if it's morbid. "Everyone's already scared of her, so."

Gerard and I walk back to our homes, some filler-type conversations here and there. We talk about the weather, about the new cloth they put around the packages, and what we'll do after the Reapings. That's if we both make it, though.

You know, I've never really thought about being reaped. It always seemed so distant, as if it was something that would never affect me. But, now after hearing what Gerard is saying, maybe I never saw it in the same way he has.

What if I am reaped?

What if I do have to go into the Hunger Games?

Would I have what it takes?

District Eight might have given me some life lessons, but I'm not sure it'd be enough for the arena.

I'm not sure if I could win.

Atticus Dolle
District Ten Victor, 22 Years Old
Reapings

Leaning back in the chair, I kick my feet up onto the end table, crossing my arms over my chest. I let the four of them chatter among themselves, only picking up a few words here and there. They've been talking about last year's victor – Evadne – and the District Ten tributes for that Game.

Compared to most years, District Ten actually did pretty well – the term being used loosely, of course. The male placed about 8th, while the female placed 6th. They were allies, both being killed by a tribute from District Two. It was tough to watch, especially when I mentored the boy. I grew fond of the girl, too.

She had a certain charm to her. I had my eye on her; besides, she was only seventeen. For some reason, though, mentors aren't supposed to mingle with tributes. I'm sure that hasn't stopped some of the more promiscuous victors; Cashmere, anyone? Gloss?

I'm sure they've had their fair share of alone time with a tribute or two.

"Did you hear that, Atticus?" Wolfram calls over, and as I look up at him, I nod my head. All four of them chuckle, probably making another joke that I'm not in. It's been that way for a while now, but I can't do much about it. They have their own little inner-circle because they've known each other for longer. I only won a few years ago, so I'm still catching up.

I don't think they dislike me or anything, we just don't always get along and they sometimes don't include me. Whatever, I didn't win to spend time with them, did I? I won to come home, not to make friends with other victors. Even if they keep me company and understand me more than anyone else in the District, it's still rather insignificant.

Sitting back up, I let the seat fall back onto the ground, silencing their chatter. They all look at me, and I smirk, making them chuckle. I'll grown up one day and be like Wolfram, or like Asher, all old and wise and stuff. But, for now, I'm young, and I might as well make the most of it.

Mentoring might not be the most heart-warming activity, but it's something to do. Having money and a large house doesn't satisfy me enough in District Ten, so I might as well try something else. It's morbid, sure, but after going through the Games that's what happens.

I don't expect everyone to understand.

"Well," Asher says, pushing himself up from the chair. He places his hand on the end of the table, his arm shaking a little bit. He stands himself up, regaining his balance and begins to walk to the door. See? Old age has hit him pretty hard – he won the Twentieth Hunger Games, and when you think about it, it might not seem like a lot, but really, it's about fifty years. "It's time to get this started."

Following him down the hallway, I look over my shoulder, seeing Devana and Branna making their way as well. Wolfram follows slowly behind them, walking with his hand at a slower pace. He says something to the Peacekeeper, making himself chuckle.

When the doors open up, I step out next to Asher and watch him take the second seat from the door. I take the last seat on the stage, staring out into the crowd. To my side, Devana takes her seat, followed by Branna and then Wolfram on the other side of Asher. We all sit there, and as I cross my legs and place my hands on my lap, I hear Devana whisper something into my ear.

"Don't look so casual," she says, nudging me with her hand. "You look like you enjoy watching this."

"I greet you, District Ten!" The escort cuts Branna off, her voice echoing throughout the Square. She taps on the microphone, as if her voice wasn't already loud enough. She nods her head, the sound of her high-heels tapping on the ground as she walks over to the bowl almost as annoying as her voice.

She dips her hand into the bowl, picking up the first card that her fingers graze. To think, this was once me, standing there, hoping to any supernatural force that my name wouldn't be on that card. But, it was, and now, here I am.

"Veles Ryman!"

The escort looks out into the crowd, seeing a section of the crowd part around one boy. He's a small boy with black hair, thin-framed glasses on his face. When he realizes it's him, his mouth drops open, followed by a deep breath. He starts to walk up to the stage, looking like he's panicking internally. He shuts his mouth, curls his fingers into fists, and rushes up the stairs.

As Veles positions himself on the stage, I watch the escort go to the female's bowl now. Her fingers latch onto the first card they touch, and as she raises her hand, I watch the card slowly. Just one more name, then this is all over. Just one more tribute to pick.

"Taima Larkin!" The escort calls out, a loud gasp coming from the crowd. Quickly, though, the girl, Taima, makes her way into the aisle. When I really see what she looks like, I widen my eyes, appreciating how good-looking she is. I know that the rest of the mentors are probably looking at me, not wanting me to get involved with her.

But, I'm young. I can't help it.

The red-head makes her way up to the stage, standing next to Veles. They exchange a glance, with Taima giving him a sweet smile. Veles doesn't respond, looking right down at the ground. She shoots the crowd a glance, an edge in her eye as she looks at them.

There's something about her.

And no, it's not the way she looks. That's something else.

Usually, I don't have a lot of hope for District Ten. Most of the tributes from here die so quickly, right away in the Bloodbath. But, last year, after the two made it into the Top Ten, my view changed. Maybe tributes from here do have it in them; it just took a few years to really figure it out.

Maybe one of these two will have what it takes.

Maybe one of them will win and join me among the other victors. Then, I'd have someone else that is around my age. I wouldn't have to deal with the rest of them now, all too old for me to get along with.

District Ten might have another victor.

We might have a shot.

Anya Fallow
District Eleven Victor, 29 Years Old
Reapings

Twelve years.

That's how long it's been since District Eleven has claimed another victor. Twelve years of two more tributes dying, leaving the victors back at home with a missing piece in their heart. That's twenty four more dead children from Eleven, and if you want to include my District partner, that's twenty-five.

Isn't there something wrong with that?

Twenty-five dead children and the Capitol doesn't think twice about it?

That's no way to run a country. To exert pressure on the Districts by subjecting them to this cruel Game, making them send in two innocent children to fight for their lives. Even the Careers are innocent; they're only victims of the Capitol. The Capitol has all of this planned out, with one goal in mind; to augment their own power.

They don't care about the Districts.

And I don't think they ever did.

Yet, here I am, already given them what they want. I killed to win, and even though it's not what I wanted, I killed for the Capitol. I gave them the show they intended for, getting blood on my own hands in the process. It's not what I wanted, though; it's what I had to do.

I had too much to get back to. I couldn't just die, could I? I had a family to take care of, and without winning, they would have died without me. I got them the food, I got them the clothes they need. And with all of this money the Capitol gives me now, they never have to think twice about anything, even if it makes me sick to my stomach.

I'm the victor the Capitol wants now; I killed for them, and now, I take the money they give me and keep quiet. I don't speak out, not like some other victors. I keep to myself, but trust me, if I had the chance, I would show my dissent. But, I can't… I have my family to worry about.

The Capitol could hurt them if they wanted to.

They have leverage over me in ways I will never understand.

"Anya?" Hearing my name, I turn away from the window, looking away from the garden. Seeder's already at the door, and as I get the hint that it's time to go, I stand up. Grove and Chaff have already gone out, and as Seeder waits for me, I smile.

"Guess it's time," I say quietly, shutting the door behind me. "Let's just get this over with."

"You get used to it, Anya," Seeder says, her voice low. "Not in the way where it's okay or where you accept it, but you become numb to it all. You swallow your fear and anxiety, pushing it so far down you won't think about it anymore."

Looking at her, I nod my head, taking her words to heart. She's always been there for me, especially when she was mentoring me during the Fifty-Seventh Hunger Games. She had my back then, and she still does. If I had to owe my winning to anyone, it'd be to her. She taught me everything I know and she still does to this day.

"Thank you," I reply, not having much else to say. "I guess you're right."

Once we step out of the doors, I go right to my seat, sitting down next to Chaff. He puts his arm around the back of my chair, giving me a smile that I return him with. He nods his head as the escort begins to talk, welcoming the District Eleven victors and introducing the beginning of the name-calling.

"Now, it's time, District Eleven!" He calls out, waving his arms out in front of him. "It is time for me to pick the tributes that will represent you in the Seventieth Hunger Games!"

Taking a deep breath, I wait anxiously for him to call the names already, just wanting to get this over with. I don't know how much more of this I can handle; every year, we sit here, waiting for two names to be called. It's the same thing every year… Nothing changes.

And I don't think it ever will.

When the escort has his hand on a card from the female's bowl, he opens it up slowly, reading the name aloud. "Daisy Mills will you please come on up!"

When I see who the girl is, I feel my heart break. She's so young, so petite… How could the Capitol do this? The girl just stands there, her skin blanching to a shade of white that is almost sickening, and as the Peacekeepers come to get her, I can't watch anymore. They grab her forcefully, picking her up, and when they plop her down on the stage, she doesn't make a sound.

She stands there, her hands folded in front of her, looking as if she wants to break down and cry. She can be no older than thirteen, could she? Is this what the Capitol wants?

Do they not care at all?

The escort is at the male's bowl now, and when she picks up the next card, I just hope that it's not another young tribute. We already have one, and I know that Daisy the chances of doing well are slim to none. Over the years, I've come to accept things like that; I can't really do much about it.

"Trevor Santos!"

A tall boy steps into the aisle, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyebrows are furrowed, and as he walks down the aisle much more calmly than I've seen most tributes react, something about him stands out. He's bulkier than most, towering over Daisy's small frame. He stands next to her at the stage, his lip twitching.

That's it.

It's all over.

"Here you have it, District Eleven! The tributes that will represent you in the Seventieth Hunger Games," the escort booms into the microphone, holding out his hand to the two of them. "Daisy Mills and Trevor Santos!"

When I look at the two of them standing there, I sink back in my chair, not knowing how much more of this I can handle. It's too much to see two tributes be reaped, knowing that they both probably won't make it out of that arena. That's just a known fact now; that District Eleven are bound to die early on.

It's a shame.

And even if I try my hardest to help them out, it's never enough.

Nothing I do is ever enough.

Lavender Argus
District Twelve Female, 16 Years Old
Goodbyes

"Lavender…."

Curling my fingers into a fist, I place them on top of the table, ignoring the voice behind me. As I turn around from looking out the window, I see that it's my family, all four of them standing there. They look so sad, so scared for me.

They won't the ones in the Games. Fighting for my life, perhaps even killing.

I will.

And I don't want their pity.

"This is bullshit," I spit back, my fists shaking. "It blows my mind that the Capitol still puts up with this. That every year, they're still completely okay with the Hunger Games."

"We understand," my mother says, always being the one to try and calm me down. It won't work this time, no. I'm too angry. I'm too fed up with what the Capitol does – to prove what, anyway? We're more than capable of understanding that they are in charge here.

They're just an abomination.

"No, you don't," I snap, raising my fists from the table, keeping them pinned to my side. "None of you do, but I don't expect you to. I'm not sure I understand it either."

I don't understand the Capitol, the Games. I don't understand how the Capitol can be so content with the way they treat District Twelve, while Districts like One, Two, and Four are all fed and properly clothed. District Twelve might be my home, but what else is there?

Coal. .

Lovely, isn't it? Only if the Capitol knew… Only if they knew what District Twelve is capable of. Then they might be scared to oppress in the ways they do, to shun us, as if we're some caged up animals. If the Capitol wants me to play this little stupid Game, then I will.

I'll show that they don't own me.

They are nothing to me.

The Capitol is filth. They are a problem that has to be dealt with, and even though I can't do much about it, they'll see. They'll see that I – Lavender Argus – won't be pushed around in the ways everyone else in this District. I'm much more than that.

"Please, talk to us," my mother says, snapping me out of my thoughts. "We don't have much longer together."

LeAnne and Samuel are on the ground, looking up at me. As I watch them, I feel the anger in my stomach intensify, their young age making this seem even sicker. How can the Capitol do this, too? Subject my four year old and two year old siblings to watch this, to grow up knowing that their sister went into the Hunger Games. That their sister went into the Games, without any really guarantee that she'd be coming back.

"Whatever," is all I manage to come up with, not knowing what else is there to say. Does she want me to say good-bye? To promise her that I'll come back? Does she want me to kiss my siblings, to wrap them up in my arms and embrace them?

That'll prove nothing.

There's the chance that I still might not come back.

The knock on the doors indicates that our time together is over, and as I look at my family one more time, I think of everything we've been through. Supporting a family of five wasn't easy, but we managed. My parents had enough trouble on their own, so it was up to me to take a leadership role in this family. I did it, though. I helped as best as I could.

And I'm not sure if that was enough.

We survived, though. I can survive a few days longer.

They all usher out of the room silently, no more words being spoken. Before the door closes, my next guest is my friend, Leslie. She's about the same age as me, and we met a while back, but there wasn't much to our relationship. I'm surprised she came to visit me at all, but she was always the optimistic one.

She always sees the brighter side to things.

I wish I could share that view with her.

"Lavender," she says, her voice a little whiney. "Lavender, are you okay? I know it must be a lot for you take it; what about your family? Are they okay too? Please tell me they are…"

"Don't run out of breath," I interject, cutting her off from rambling on and on. "You'll need it if you still want to replace my spot in the Games."

Leslie smiles, but then frowns. "You know I can't do that. I would, though. I would go into the Games for you any day."

Then, maybe she should have volunteered for me. This is exactly why I don't pay much attention to people here. Friends lack value in my life, but I have my family, and that's enough. Leslie was always there, but it's nice of her to come and visit me. Maybe I underestimated her. Maybe I should have cared for her more.

I can't change any of that now, though.

What's done is done

"I'm just," she says, trailing off. "I'm just so sorry."

"Don't be," I reply. "It's not your fault."

"I know, but," she trails off again, and for a moment, I find myself feeling bad for her. That she'll have to watch me in the Games too, but I really shouldn't feel bad for her at all. She'll survive here, but me? I'm going against all odds. When I die, she can either look away or cry for me.

Then she'll get over it.

My family might not, but Leslie will. That doesn't mean that I won't try, though. I will try and I'll make sure to what District Twelve is really like. Allan might not be the oldest or strongest kid here, but he's something, and I'm something.

District Twelve will not be overlooked this year.

We'll make the Capitol pay.

We'll make them all pay.

Author's Note:

There is Reaping: Part Two!

I'm a little late on this one, but at least I got it out before June is here. Reapings can be a drag to do, anyway, but next things start to pick up. Train Rides and Chariot Rides are next (4 POVs).

What do you think of the tributes/mentors shown here?

Who stood out?

And that's about it. Next chapter should be up sometime, but we'll see. I said about this one too, but yeah, look at that; I'm late. Well, have fun reading, yeah?

That's enough from me.