So here's something I'm just kind of throwing out there... An intro for a story idea that's been in my head for a while but that I haven't fully developed or outlined yet. It's the first HG story I've begun posting without having the ending outlined which means I can't promise I'll actually finish the story. At this point I don't know how I want it to end.

If you're still interested, read on and let me know what you think!

It's uncommonly cold for late May. 15 degrees centigrade and a cold wind blowing. The girls gathered in front of the justice building are freezing in their dresses, most of which are short-sleeved and/or knee length. The boys fare a little better since many of them are wearing shirts and full-length pants but the majority of them seem to be shivering too. I myself am dressed in weather appropriate clothing decided for me by Lasha, the stylist assigned to us District Twelve mentors seven years ago. That doesn't make me any more comfortable than the children standing there waiting to see which two among them will be sentenced to death today but at least it makes me less cold on the outside.

It's my seventeenth year as mentor. Sixteen previous times have I stood up here and thirty-two children have walked up and joined Haymitch, Peeta and me on the stage. None of them have won their games. I remember each and every one of their faces, each voice and each personality. I can tell you what score they got, how many gifts they received from sponsors and the exact moment when they died. It's all burned into my mind and on a regular basis they come to haunt me in my sleep, blaming their deaths on my inability to protect them.

The back of my hand brushes against the back of Peeta's. I can feel the cold metal of his wedding ring. I put it on his finger in a lavish, ostentatious ceremony sixteen years ago and in return he put a ring on my finger. We never wear the rings except for formal occasions. The marriage was never our own choice, though it was I who suggested it. We had as little say in the matter as all those children standing there waiting for the reaping to begin. And yet we were the lucky ones. Both Peeta and I were considered attractive, desirable, and had a large number of rich Capitol citizens lusting after us. But star-crossed lovers are a matched set and President Snow had no way of selling our bodies the way he does with so many desirable victors without ruining the saga of Katniss and Peeta, the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve who got their happy ending. He still took from us the right to choose our own partner and to create our own futures but I know we got off much easier than most.

I can't really complain. Peeta and I have grown together, become a true team. He's my best friend and I care about him so much more than he will ever understand. Together with him I have been able to make life bearable and together with him I have found ways to avoid some of the horrors Snow has had in mind by way of means to control us.

Most importantly, together with Peeta I have figured out a way to be able to stand here today and not have a child of my own out there in the crowds. Sixteen years of marriage and no children as a result. It's not because we never sleep together. The Capitol has ways of making sure that we do. Peeta and I have found other ways of protecting ourselves from pregnancy. They're not one hundred percent safe and we both know there's always the risk of conception but we've been able to guard ourselves as best as we can. So far it's worked.

Today there are 312 girls and 292 boys whose parents were not so lucky. Two families are about to lose a child and I strongly suspect that those parents will grow to hate Peeta, Haymitch and me. They always do. Most of them are able to hide it but with some it is written plainly in their faces when they look at us. And why shouldn't they feel that way? We live while their children died. We get to enjoy the benefits of being victors, which to those not in the know seems like a life full of money, food and fancy parties in the Capitol. We were the only ones who could help their children in the arena and we weren't able to help them enough. The fact that each year every mentor is guaranteed to lose at least one tribute doesn't seem to make a difference. Grief rarely follows logic.

Emalda Mills, the woman who took over Effie Trinket's job ten years ago, steps up to the microphone and begins the festivities. Even though she's been the District Twelve escort for a decade and I've spent a lot more time with her than with Effie Trinket I feel like I don't know her half as well as I ever did Effie. Emalda started out being in awe of her glorious position in life and seemed to feel she was doing her family proud by being a part of the Hunger Games. It took six years and then the shine was definitely off the apple. Nowadays she is a bitter woman who avoids the tributes at all costs. Once it became real to her that the children she was responsible for were individuals and she got to know them she wasn't able to deal with watching them die. I know it's been eating away at her and that she hates her part in all of it but there's not much she can do about it. Nobody quits the Hunger Games. If you do you might find yourself another victim of Snow and his regime. Emalda is quite the actress and always manages to seem just the right amount of upbeat and excited whenever a camera is on her face but in private it's a different matter. I think she and I could have bonded, or at least that it would have helped her immensely to get to talk about it all with me or one of my co-mentors but there is always somebody listening and she can't take that chance. Three years ago she turned to drinking and now she's Haymitch's drinking buddy when we're in the Capitol. That doesn't do much to help the tributes.

My face remains emotionless as the girl tribute is drawn. Sally Masters, a Seam girl who looks about fourteen. Tears are falling down her face as she is ushered to the stage. When she shakes hands with us mentors I see in her eyes that she views us as her only shot at survival. The look I give her in return is cold and hard. I don't want her to connect any form of hope with me. I will do everything in my power to help her but ultimately it is up to her. God only knows what the arena will be like, what the gamemakers will come up with to spice up the show and what kind of children will be reaped in other districts.

Sally is led to stand next to Emalda who holds a one minute interview with her that amounts to nothing of interest. The girl is so shocked and the very notion of being able to get a good interview response out of someone in a situation like this is absurd to me. It's almost a relief when Emalda walks over to the boys' reaping bowl and sticks her hand inside. Soon the worst part of the reaping will be over. Once the boy tribute has been called everybody else can relax and I always try my hardest to think of all the families who can celebrate tonight rather than the families who will be mourning.

Emalda's fingers find a slip of paper and she lifts it up, opening the seal and studying it for a second before reading the name in a loud, clear voice.

"Thomas Mellark."

Thomas Mellark. The oldest son of Peeta's youngest brother.

"No" I think. "Not him."

My basic plan for this story is to have every other chapter being set in "present day" and every other chapter going back in time starting around the time of the wedding, detailing the things that have happend in-between the 74th and 91st Games. Ideally those chapters would eventually catch up to the first chapter.
I've got about half a dozen bits of chapters sitting on my computer though no real outline, meaning updates might be rather infrequent.
Feedback is of course much appreciated.