Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Okay, I think emails are working again. Here's hoping they stay that way. As you can see, this is District Ten, so if you need to catch up on a few, blame the email notification system.

Thank you to BeeMoo15 and Victoria the Bipolar Tribute for Swiss and Lucretius, respectively.

District Ten
Make Things Better

Glenn Chester, 66
Victor of the 4th Hunger Games

There was nothing he could do to make it better.

Glenn glanced over at Presley and Tess as the three of them made their way towards the square. It was Tess' turn to mentor with him this year, which meant that Presley seemed at least a little more relaxed than usual, but she was still clearly uncomfortable in the crowd. As far as she was concerned, Glenn knew, the reaping couldn't be over soon enough. She would be much happier back home with her sheep.

Tess was a little more comfortable than Presley, at least, but that wasn't saying much. Neither of them really wanted to be here. Neither of them wanted to be mentoring. They saw it as a duty, an obligation, something they did because they would feel too guilty just leaving him to do it on his own, or forcing the other one to go with him every year because they didn't want to.

Not that he wanted to be here, either – not really. He didn't want to watch children die every year. But they were going to die whether he mentored or not, and he was going to see them die whether he mentored in the Capitol or stayed here in District Ten. There wasn't a choice there. The only choice was whether he was going to give them a little comfort before they died.

Or before they didn't, of course. Tess and Presley were proof that their tributes didn't always die. The three of them were still alive. But that was three years out of fifty-four. Three tributes out of more than a hundred. Those weren't good odds, and you didn't last long as a mentor if you were convinced your tributes were going to win every year. And even in the years where one of them did win, there was another tribute who didn't. Presley's district partner Wyatt was dead. Tess' district partner Duncan was dead. His own district partner Tiffany had been dead for more than fifty years now. How many people in the district still remembered her name?

He did. He remembered all of them. And he did his best to make sure that they weren't forgotten. He wrote their stories. Told their histories. At first, people had liked the idea, seen it as a way of remembering their loved ones. But now … now there were so many of them. People didn't want to remember all of their names, all of their stories, because it was too painful to think of just how many children had died. It was easier to forget. Easier to just get through the reaping, hope no one they knew was chosen, and then go on with their lives.

And the worst part was, he couldn't really blame them for wanting to forget, wanting to ignore the Games as much as they could. He'd never had the option. He'd been mentoring for so long, the thought of just ignoring the Games was unthinkable. But for someone who had never known anyone in the Games, it was easier to think of them as something distant, something that happened to other people. Something that would never happen to them.

He wondered if that was why people often seemed so surprised when they were reaped. Of course, there were so many names in the reaping bowl that anyone's individual odds were pretty small, even if they took tesserae. But they had to know it was a possibility. He'd been horrified when his name was drawn. He'd been terrified. But he hadn't been surprised.

Back then, of course, the Games had been new. The danger had seemed so … so real after years of the war. The war had left its mark on all of their lives, so no one had really been surprised when the Games had come along to do the same. But now people had gotten so accustomed to them that they didn't think of them as something personal, something that could come for them.

Glenn gave Tess' hand a squeeze as the three of them took their places onstage. Slowly, the crowd continued to trickle into the square. They arrived in ones and twos, families and small groups of friends arriving together and holding each other close for a moment before taking their places. There were so many of them – more than most of them were probably used to seeing in the same place. Compared to most of the other districts, District Ten sprawled. The farms and ranches stretched out beyond the borders of the main town in a way that most districts didn't. Even in the other more rural districts like Nine and Eleven, most of the district was fields. People worked in the fields, but they didn't live in them.

But people did live on the farms and ranches, out beyond the town. Sheep and cattle and goats and all sorts of other animals needed space. And unlike corn, they needed people there to care for them. To keep an eye on them. A few precautions to keep the rodents out, and corn pretty much did its own thing. Animals didn't.

Of course, there were still people who lived in the town. Leatherworkers and cheesemakers and spinsters and other craftsmen. And people whose work wasn't necessarily district-related but was still necessary. Teachers and janitors and bakers and all sorts of other things that kept the district running. Those weren't necessarily the people the Capitolites thought of when they pictured District Ten, but they were there, nonetheless. Over the last fifty years, his tributes had come from all sorts of different backgrounds. They'd had different skills, different passions, different lives.

Mostly, they'd had very short lives.

Glenn tried to push that thought from his head as their new escort, Maxim Calder, joined them onstage. He looked young – very young. Or maybe he was just getting old. Maxim beamed as he shook each of the Victor's hands in turn. "Delighted to be here! Such an absolute treat to meet you all. Your last escort told me so much about you."

Glenn tried not to smile. Their last escort had only lasted a year. The one before that had stuck around for a few years. Neither of them had really spoken much with any of the Victors. But Capitolites were like that sometimes. They watched the Games, saw the tributes for a few weeks during the worst moments of their lives, and decided that meant they knew everything there was to know about them. It might be funny, if it wasn't so sad.

And not just sad for the tributes whose full stories they would never know. It was sad for the districts as a whole. Because if the average Capitolites watching the Games knew – really knew and understood – what the tributes' lives were like, how alike they really were, the Games would grind to a halt. Because most people – even in the Capitol – weren't actually cruel. Only ignorant. They didn't know any better, and the Capitol as a whole – the structure, not the individuals – benefited from keeping them that way. From keeping them from seeing the people in the districts as their equals.

Instead, they saw them only as players in the Games. Faces on a screen. Numbers on a board. Maybe they felt a little sad when their favorites died, but they never grieved – not like the families in the districts. They moved on and picked a different favorite the next year, and the next, and the next. Sometimes their favorites won. Sometimes they lost. That was how the Games worked.

That was why tributes died.

Glenn leaned forward a little as Maxim made his way to the first reaping bowl and reached in. He swirled the slips of paper around for a moment, taking his time. This was his first reaping, and he certainly seemed like he wanted to savor the moment. Whoever's name he drew, their life would never be the same – if they lived at all. Glenn shuddered, trying to imagine having that sort of power. It wasn't something he'd ever wanted.

And in fact, it was something he'd shied away from during his own Games. Life and death, having some say in who lived and who died – he'd never really had that. He'd spent his own Games hiding out in the swamp. He'd barely even seen another tribute after the Games started. Occasionally, he'd caught a glimpse of one in the distance, but he'd never really thought about actually going after them.

He did sometimes wonder what would have happened if he had – whether he would actually have killed them. And he would probably go on wondering for the rest of his life whether things would have been different, whether he would still have made it out of the Games if he had gone looking for a fight. As it was, he was the only Victor who hadn't killed.

For a while, that had made him feel like an outsider among his fellow Victors, as if he didn't really belong. They all understood a part of the Games that he didn't. They knew what it was like to kill. But the other Victors rarely brought it up, and most of them had always treated him as an equal. Most of them. A few of the Careers would sometimes get a bit stuffy about the fact that he hadn't killed, but if anything, most of the others were jealous. Most of them probably wished they hadn't needed to kill in order to win.

But that was the point of the Games. Killing. Dying. Glenn was shaken back to the present as Maxim finally stopped swirling the slips around and actually drew a name. "Swiss Galloway!"

Slowly, the fourteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a dark green shirt, grey-green jacket, and black dress pants. She quickly took a step back, and then another. But she didn't run. She simply stood there, wide-eyed and shaking, as the Peacekeepers drew closer. Just as one of them reached her, she stepped out of the crowd and started heading for the stage – slowly, shuffling, but at least moving.

Until she reached the foot of the stage. "Wait!" called a voice from the adult section of the crowd, and a man rushed forward to the edge of the crowd. "Wait, please! Someone, please do something!" His gazed turned to Maxim as the girl's composure broke and tears began to flow down her cheeks. "Ask for volunteers! Please!"

Maxim shrugged. He knew what they all knew: District Ten hadn't had a volunteer since the Tenth Games. But he certainly wasn't going to turn down an opportunity for drama. "Certainly, sir! How about it, District Ten? Anybody want to volunteer for the young lady? Anyone out there feeling lucky? Come on, don't be shy. Anyone?"

To Glenn's surprise, someone in the crowd stirred, and a boy started to make his way through the sixteen-year-old section. The girl turned towards him, still crying, and shook her head firmly. He stopped, and Glenn thought he saw the boy mouth the word "but" before the girl shook her head again. After all, whoever the boy was, he couldn't volunteer for her. He could only volunteer to go with her. And she clearly didn't want that.

Slowly, Swiss made her way up the steps, her wide, dark brown eyes still fixed on the crowd, trying to get her tears under control. She was short and thin, with dark skin and black hair piled in a messy half-bun. "No volunteers, then?" Maxim concluded. "All right, let's move on to the boys!" He was a little less showy about shuffling the papers this time, but it still seemed to take forever for him to draw a name. "Lucretius Adams!"

This time, it was the sixteen-year-old section that parted around a boy in a golden yellow jacket, black shirt, and black pants. Slowly, he took a step towards the stage. Then another. A few tears spilled onto his cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away as he made his way up the stairs and took his place beside Swiss. He was nearly a foot taller than her, with dark skin, short black hair, and dark brown eyes.

After a moment, he took a few hesitant steps towards Maxim. "I don't suppose anyone wants to volunteer for me either?" he ventured.

Maxim chuckled. "Well, let's find out, shall we? What do you say, District Ten? Any volunteers for the young lad? Could've sworn I saw someone about to volunteer a moment ago. No? Well, I guess that's it, then. You two are the lucky ones! Shake hands!"

Lucretius held out his hand to Swiss, who quickly shook it. As the pair of them were led away and the cameras clicked off, Maxim shook his head. "We nearly had one there, you know. A volunteer. But I guess they all remember what happened to your last one, huh?"

Glenn didn't take the bait. Whatever the reason why the boy had decided not to volunteer, he was certain it had nothing to do with Maeren. How many people his age would even remember what had happened to her? Probably not many. But he remembered.

But her death – that hadn't had anything to do with the fact that she was a volunteer. The Capitol just had a penchant for seeing patterns wherever they would be more interesting, more dramatic. And so there were rumors that District Six's escort position was cursed ever since the rebellion during the 41st Games because none of their escorts since then had lasted more than a year. There were whispers that District Eleven was secretly training their tributes because they'd had so many volunteers for an outer district. And there were claims that any volunteers in Ten would come to a horrible end like being flayed alive – because that was what had happened to their singlevolunteer more than forty years ago.

The truth was simpler – and a lot less interesting. Escorts didn't last long in Six because no Capitolite wanted to stay in a district with their history of rebellion. Life in Eleven was so unbearable that occasionally someone got it into their head that even the slightest chance of a life of plenty would be better than a lifetime of hard labor in the fields. And Ten hadn't had any volunteers since Maeren because teenagers in Ten had an ounce of common sense. Because they wanted to live.

"Glenn?" Tess asked.

"Hmm?"

"I was just asking which one you wanted."

Glenn nodded. "Sorry, I was just thinking. I'll take Swiss, if that's all right with you."

"That's fine with me." Tess cocked her head. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't let him get to you. He'll probably be gone in a year or two. Maybe our next one will be less of an ass."

Glenn chuckled. She was right, of course. Escorts came and went. But the three of them were still here – and that was what mattered. Maybe after this year, it would be four. Maybe not. But whatever happened, they were the ones the district looked to, the ones who gave them hope that winning was possible.

And maybe that made things a little better.

Swiss Galloway, 14

They couldn't make this any better.

Swiss buried her face in Elouise's shoulder as she and her husband Balfour held Swiss close. Emmaline and Quincey were standing beside them. Emmaline was shaking, while Quincey was fidgeting awkwardly with his hands. "I would've done it, you know," he said quietly. "I would have gone with you."

Swiss shook her head. "No. I'm glad you didn't." She couldn't do that to the Renwicks – not after everything they'd done for her. They'd become a second family to her – a real family – after her biological family had fallen apart.

Fallen apart. That was the easiest way to put it. Her biological father and brother were still alive, but after her mother's death, they had been inconsolable. They had wallowed in grief for months, and the three of them had been starving by the time Swiss had gone into town looking for work. She'd only been eight years old, but what other choice had there been? No one else was going to do anything, and she hadn't wanted to starve.

That was where she'd found Dr. Renwick. He'd given her a job – a simple job, at first, handing him scalpels and needles and things when he needed them. He'd paid her in extra meat trimmings from Elouise's butcher shop, which she'd brought home to the rest of the family, more out of obligation than anything. They were family, after all, and families took care of each other.

But they had never taken care of her. With her biological family, it only went one way. She'd earned the money, cooked the food, and made sure they were taken care of. With the Renwicks, everything went both ways. More responsibility had led to better jobs, and eventually, the family secret: the underground opioid trade. Dr. Renwick was an excellent veterinarian, of course, and Elouise was a talented butcher, but the real money came from the black market.

Real money that she now had a share in. She'd left her biological family and moved in with the Renwicks, along with Emmaline and Quincey, whose home lives had also been in shambles. The five of them were a family now – a real family. A family that took care of each other. A family close enough that Quincey had been ready to volunteer to go into the Hunger Games with her just to make sure she came home.

But she could never let him do that. As it was, their parents might lose one of them. The thought of losing both of them was too much. If she died … well, that was what happened in the Games. Not that she wanted to, of course, but she'd had no choice in whether her name had come out of that reaping bowl. If Quincey had volunteered, however, that would have been his choice. He would have been choosing to die – and probably not even to die for her, but instead to die with her. That wasn't much of a choice at all.

Swiss held her family close, trying to focus on the advice Elouise was giving. "And make sure you listen to your mentor, whichever one of them it ends up being. All three of them know what they're talking about, so don't go mouthing off to them too much."

"I don't need their help. I–" But she stopped herself before she got any farther. She did need their help, and that was their job, after all. It was their job to help her. And refusing help from someone whose actual job – whose only job – was to give you that help was silly. And that was the very thing that had gotten her biological mother killed. She'd been sick – deathly sick – for days, but had refused to get help, stubbornly insisting that she would get over it just like she'd gotten over everything else. And she had always gotten over everything else … until this time.

Swiss took a deep breath. "Okay." She'd almost made the same mistake. She'd loved her mother, but sometimes … well, sometimes the biggest thing people could teach you was what not to do. She had to take this seriously, and she had to take what help she could get. Any help she could get. Swiss held her family close. "Thanks, mom."

Dr. Renwick squeezed her tightly, as if he was afraid to let go. "Just … just come back. Please. I don't know what we'd do if…"

He couldn't finish the sentence. But she could. "If I die, you'll keep going. That's what you'll do. You still have each other. You'll take care of each other – no matter what." She finally managed a smile.

"Because that's what families do."

Lucretius Adams, 16

Even his father couldn't make this better.

Lucretius clenched his fists, trying to keep himself from shaking as his father drew him into a hug. "It'll be all right," his father whispered. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay."

Lucretius' eyes strayed to the large binder of notes his father had brought with him. "Are you sure about that?"

His father shook his head. "You know it doesn't work like that. It's not a magic crystal ball to see the future. It's a tool for predicting. Forecasting. An astrologer who's a hundred percent certain he knows what the future holds is fooling himself most of all. You know that."

Lucretius nodded. He did know. But it was still comforting to hear his father say it – that nothing was completely certain. He had grown up surrounded by his father's work, learning how to read the charts and watch the stars. His father had taught him everything he knew, but neither of them had seen this coming. Today was certain to be a tragic one for the district, but you didn't need even a basic grasp of the art in order to figure out that a reaping day was going to be tragic for someone – and sometimes it was impossible to tell who that someone was.

As it turned out, it was him. Well, him and his district partner. Lucretius took a deep breath as his father opened the binder, poring through page after page of handwritten notes. It was an art that had been passed down through generations of their family – secretly at first, after the rebellion, but now…

In the wake of President Brand's rise to power, all sorts of once-hidden arts had come back out of the shadows. There were rumors that there was a library in Nine now. A library, with books that were more than mere Capitol propaganda. Musicians, poets, painters – all sorts of artists were starting to find their places again. So why not astrologers?

As far as he knew, he and his father were the only ones who practiced their craft in Ten, which made his father all the more popular. After a few bold forecasts before the Games a few years ago, his fame had only grown. People came to him for help, for advice, and it was a service he was happy to provide. Like he'd said, it wasn't a magic crystal ball. What he provided was a forecast, not a prophecy, something he was perfectly upfront about. Lucretius knew he wouldn't be able to tell for sure whether he would survive the Games, but…

But his father was reading something carefully in his notes, then cross-referencing something a few pages back, then nodding. "There is something here for you. Do you want to know?"

Lucretius hesitated. He knew why his father had asked the question. Even knowing about a prediction could change it, because how you reacted to it would affect the future. But since he knew that…

Lucretius nodded. "I want to know."

"Your life is entwined with the life of another who shares your number."

"My number?"

"Yes."

Lucretius nodded. There was one obvious answer, but that was a mistake people made with predictions. They would choose the explanation that was the most obvious – or simply the one they liked best – and act based on that. Then they would wonder where everything had gone wrong.

His number could mean his district partner – the number they shared being their district number. That was the obvious answer. But it could just as easily be someone who shared his age, or maybe his birth month, or maybe even a number he didn't even have yet, like his training score. There was no way to know for certain which it was.

For that matter, 'entwined' could mean any number of things, as well. The obvious explanation was that this person would be his ally, but it could also be an adversary. Someone who was destined to kill him in the Games – or the other way around. Or it could be his mentor, a stylist, a sponsor, or something else entirely.

But he was still glad he knew. Because the purpose of the forecast wasn't to direct you down a certain path; it was to help you keep your eyes open for possibilities. And now he had something to look for. "Thank you," he said softly, feeling a little better now that he had some sort of direction. "I hope I'll see you again." His father wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

And for a moment, things were a little better.

"Things change, doesn't mean they get better. You gotta make things better. You can't just keep talking and hope for the best."