A/N: The rest of this story will be in present tense btw.

𝐞𝐜π₯𝐒𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐝: 𝐝𝐒𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐒𝐜𝐭 𝟏 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐒𝐧𝐠

Ember LaRusso

The sun is barely in the sky as I step into the training academy. Suddenly, the world falls into darkness; there are no artificial light sources available this early in the morning. I'm left to wander through the familiar hallways with one hand trailing the wall. It feels almost cheap, when I know that the academy is more affluent than any other organization I know of. Perhaps this is a signal, some sort of sign that they are slowly but surely running out of supplies.

The room I'm looking for is not far away, and it takes only a few minutes before I'm safely within my comfort zone. I've never been afraid of the dark, but even this room feels different. . . desolate, in a way. Quiet gray shadows lurk against every corner, and I feel the rushing temptation to stomp them away until they are nonexistent. The only sound in the air is the persistent buzz of fireflies, which only serves to bring more tension to my bones.

They should be here by now, I think with a sigh of irritation. Shaking my head, I stride over to the opposite corner and grab my supplies. Since I had been a young child, my hands had always fastened around two particular weapons: the bow and arrow and spear. Nothing had ever captivated me more than the sound of an arrow hitting home. Long-distance had always been my favorite form of combat, especially because I was able to escape twice as quickly.

I was able to get in a couple minutes of practice before my friends appeared. Kash and Kenrich were his closest of friends at the Academy, although they hadn't been able to secure a spot in the Games. They preferred the same methods of combat as me, which was how we had quickly become friends. Now, I'm reminded of that close friendship as I regard them with slightly narrowed eyes.

While Kash is tall and sharp-eyed, Kenrich has a more laid-back personality, with an almost serene disposition that is completely opposite from Kash and I. Nevertheless, we are still great friends and help each other train constantly. My only question is. . . why, exactly, are they late?

Kash runs over to me, panting. Sweat drips off his bow and his short blond hair is unnaturally matted. Frowning, I say softly, "Why are you late? You're never late."

Kash laughs. "Oh, sorry about that. My alarm malfunctioned and I didn't wake up on time." I smile, although I'm still tense.

"Dude, why are you so quiet today?" Kenrich observes.

"I don't know, maybe it's because I'm going into the Hunger Games today?" I snarl, annoyed.

Kenrich laughs easily. "Don't worry, man. You'll do great." He slaps me on the back. The familiar gesture helps me relax, and I quickly lose track of my emotions as I focus on the conversation.

"Thanks," I reply, smiling to let them know that I'm not about to explode. It's a strange and almost maddening feeling, especially since I'm usually very relaxed around my friends. Then again, today is the Reaping, so I hope they at least understand. I'm not about to apologize, thoughβ€”if they know me, they know exactly how I feel right now and there's no reason to offer any sort of explanation.

I wait for my friends to grab their weapons before we begin an intense round of training again. I know that I'm well prepared for the Games, but there's still a sharp feeling within me that refuses to keep quiet. I don't think I'm nervous, exactly. Nerves rarely hit me, and I know that I will do great in the Games, especially in comparison to those in the higher Districts who have relatively no skills whatsoever.

Each arrow that comes from my bow hits a perfect bulls-eye. A smirk curves across my lips as I keep practicing. I have no idea who my opponents will be, but at this rate, they will surely go down easily.

Kash and Kenrich are not as skilled as I am, although I can tell that they try to do their best. Their main motive today is accompanying me so that I feel at ease during the Reaping, which I appreciate. Not many friends will wake up at 6 in the morning to practice shooting an arrow.

We practice for a couple hours until it's time for the Reaping. Sweating feverishly from nonstop practice, I glance over at my friends. They look just as tired, if not more. Despite this, their determination is admirable, even if their skills are not as trained as mine. The academy is silent: I can tell that everyone is aiming for a break on the Reaping day. It creates a chill, serene atmosphere that I enjoy, especially since I have the entire building to myself.

Eventually, it becomes time to leave. I beckon to my friends and together, we leave the academy for what will be the last time in my life. It's a bittersweet farewell since I've been training here for several years, but I'm glad that I was able to have this opportunity.

We arrive early, though the Capitol escort has already arrived. Jorge Monroe, otherwise known as the ugliest man I have ever laid eyes upon, has bleached his teeth yet again. His glowing smile is almost artificial, and it physically hurts me to look at him, with his false grins and ridiculous blue outfit. His gray wig is reminiscent to the dusty carpet in my basement, and his lips are painted the color of blood.

For whatever reason, the girls in District One love him. A cluster of them have already gathered at the foot of the stage and are now tripping over one another to get a better look at him. After all, they only see him once a year, so why not make the most of it? I chuckle darkly, already imagining what a nightmare the District One female will be. Last year's Skyrah Labelle was a surprise, especially since she wasn't the classic blond supermodel that we had seen in the past. In a way, though, I like how different she was from the other tributes.

"Are you nervous for the Reaping?" Kenrich asks with a yawn.

"No," I scoff. "Why would I be nervous? These District One girls are ridiculous."

Kash laughs. "Exactly what I was thinking! She better not be another Monroe worshiper."

"Yeah, I can already see my luck going downhill," I chuckle. "It's so strange that they didn't tell us who the female tribute was this year."

Kenrich nods emphatically. "It's like a complete surprise," he says, "which I guess is good in a way. If some random girl volunteered, the rumor wouldn't be so widespread."

"Didn't that happen last year, too? The District Two male?" Kash recalls.

"Yeah, Felix," I agree. "I guess they don't want a fight to break out again."

"This plan is really flawed, though. . ." Kenrich observes. "They could obviously still fight, everyone just wouldn't know who the designated volunteer was. It would just cause more confusion."

"I know, but it's for the best," I say. "If the girls don't even know who's volunteering, they can't, like, stalk her or prevent her from volunteering in any way."

"It's the same with the guys, too," Kash adds. "I bet they'll all be so surprised."

"I just hope nobody tries to volunteer in my place." I narrow my eyes, a sudden thought striking me. "But it's fine. I'll be first, you can be sure of that."

Kenrich simply smiles, in an almost wistful way that reminds me of all that is at stake. I'll either return a champion. . . or come back on my death bed.

Merlot Adare

When I was a child, the prospect of volunteering as a District One tribute always scared me. I don't know if it was because of the responsibility and pressure, or if I was simply scared of dying. Either way, that fear has left me long ago and I have come to terms with the fact that I can and will win.

The other Districts have nothing compared to me. Their lack of skills and knowledge is one more reason why I would be able to take the win. The Hunger Games is nothing like the brutal fights we have at the academyβ€”it's more like a pack of wolves hunting deer.

Mother tried to steer me away from the prospect of volunteering, but it was obviously to no avail. I don't think I have ever been so determined to win something. Taking home this victory would mean everything to me. I could achieve fame and fortune easily, without the grueling jobs and constant pressure. The possibility of dying is so infinitesimal that it's pointless to dwell on. After all, risks are necessary if I am to succeed and take home a name for myself.

Like always, a pack of girls have arrived early to steal glances at the infamously handsome Jorge Monroe. If I wasn't so careful about my reputation, I'd join them. But things can't get too out of hand. . . flirting with him is one thing, but associating myself with weak-willed, desperate girls is another.

My lips curve in the faintest hint of a smile. Maybe, if I got lucky, I could talk to him on the train ride. . .

The thought of flirtation disappears in a heartbeat as my mind fixes upon the matter at hand. The Reaping has officially commenced, which is Jorge's cue to give a horribly dull speech on the history of Panem. Our many victors are presented, as well as the mayor and other leaders of our District. Finally, we move to the most crucial portion: the Reaping itself.

Two glass bowls are situated on the stage next to Jorge's podium. They're filled with thousands of slips of paper, like little snowflakes in their own uniqueness. On the outside, a type-like script indicates the different genders.

"Ladies first!" Jorge cries out. He grabs a pair of gloves from his podium and pulls them onto his chunky fingers.

Nobody is particular nervous as Jorge chooses a tribute. In District One, there's always the promise of a volunteer, a savior who has dedicated her life to training for these Games.

There is no one who would dare steal my spot, so I wait leisurely and allow him to unfold the slip of paper. Hardly anyone knows that I'm volunteering, anyway, because they decided to change things this year. And besides, the girls at the academy are pathetic. They all know that I could beat them to death in less than ten seconds.

"Aurora Rayne!" Jorge declares.

I smirk as a twelve year stumbles up to the stage. She looks almost embarrassed as she stands before the audience, wearing nothing but a smeared oily dress and cracked leather shoes. For a second, I almost don't want to volunteer, just to see what her reaction will be. Sighing slightly, I step forward and ready myself for the ultimate words.

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" I scream, letting my voice ring out across the entire city square. Everyone's head swivels to stare at me and I gladly bask in the attention. Letting a charming smile spread across my lips, I stride confidently to the stage, taking my spot as the District One female tribute.

I think this is the first time Jorge Monroe has ever seen me. It's an exhilarating feeling, standing before the man who so many have dreamed about. He is not as attractive as his reputation, but all the same, there is a certain appeal to his every word and movement. Combined with his status as escort of the District One tributes, he could become valuable to me.

I shoot him a smile as he asks for my name and age. "Merlot Adare," I answer charmingly. "I'm seventeen and, by the way, I love your outfit."

Jorge smiles in thanks. If anything, he looks amused.

"On to our male tributes!" he exclaims. Once again, his gloved hand wanders through the bowl of paper slips. Crossing my arms and waiting patiently, I watch as he unfolds a single piece of paper.

"Jordan-"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" A loud voice interrupts Jorge's words. The culprit, a red-haired boy with freckles, stands up and slowly makes his way to the stage. Ah. Ember LaRusso. I've seen him before at the academy, although we never trained together because we specialized in different weapons.

I never knew Ember had the potential to become a tribute, though. But a year of hard work and dedication must have paid off.

"What's your name, young man?" Jorge asks.

"Ember LaRusso." The newly crowned District One tribute smirks. "I'm eighteen and I'm ready to win this year's Hunger Games."

"Love the confidence!" Jorge exclaims, smiling widely. "Give it up for this year's District One tributes: Merlot Adare and Ember LaRusso!"

A roar of applause fills my ears and I can't help but genuinely smile. Gazing out over the crowd, I'm filled with a sense of accomplishment that exceeds anything I have ever felt. Frankly, I can't wait for the Games to start.

After the Reaping, we head into a tall domed building to say our goodbyes. Ember and I are led into separate rooms as we wait for our parents to arrive. I sit on the couch and wait, staring into the beautiful framed mirror across from me. It's a lovely room, one that I would most certainly include in my new house once I win the Games. An oversize blue velvet couch lies on one side, while a long mirror covers the opposite wall. A gold and white chandelier sparkles from above, and pictures of past mayors cover the rest of the wall space.

"Hey, Merlot." I turn suddenly and almost hit my face on the couch. My family have finally arrived and, like me, they marvel for a moment at the obvious display of wealth. Finally, my father comes and sits next to me.

A large smile is on his face, although it disappears when my mother sits down next to him. Mother has never approved of my training in the academy, and I doubt she's excited for me about the Games. I roll my eyes. Typical.

Genevieve, my younger sister, follows our parents, completing what should be a picture perfect family. Except. . . I can feel the tension in the air, the tangible silence that refuses to be broken. At last, my father smiles and says, "So, Merlot. Are you. . . excited for the Games?"

Noticing the stormy look on Mother's face, I reply quickly with, "Yes, I. . . I think I could win."

"No, you could not." Mother's face is white as paper. "You don't understand how hard it is to win. It's not some game, Merlot. You could die."

"Don't worry, Mom," I say, exasperated. "I'll be fine."

Mother simply shakes her head. "No. No, you won't be."

Genevieve reaches over and plants a tentative hand on my arm. Smiling gently, she murmurs, "I'm proud of you, Merlot. Go and do your best for these Games, you understand me?"

I nod, a lump rising in my throat. I never knew saying goodbye to my family could become so emotional. I always figured that I would just come home after becoming victor. But now. . . after my mom's disapproval, my confidence wavers.

"Also," Genevieve exclaims, "isn't this furniture so nice? You should totally get this for us when you win." She sighs. "It's so unfair. The Capitol gets everything and we just have their leftovers. I bet it's fantastic there. . . you have to tell me all the details when you come back."

I silently sit there, not really hearing her words. My thoughts keep repeating themselves, and my heartbeat has skyrocketed.

I will win. . . won't I?

A/N: Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter! :) I'm also still in need of tributes, so please submit!