L!A/N: LawlClan Hunger Games fan fiction because why the fuck not? I'm co-authoring this story with Coqui's Song, so that's something (expect quality on her chapters, I bring the quantity). And I'll just tell you now, I write a lot, and in this story I'm trying to keep the chapters shorter than usual (I'm trying to work on this). So with that being said, if you're getting ready to read this story, I suggest you sit your pooper down and grab a couple of snacks. It might be a long read, just look at the word count before each chapter so you know what you're getting yourself into. Any mistakes you see in this chapter are mine.

C!A/N: Actually, the grammatical errors will be very little due to my Grammar Nazi-ness. Gotta love the Coqui, I know.

Warning: AU-ish, OCs, violence, swearing, possible grammatical and spelling errors (however, I am working with a certified Grammar Nazi, so this should be unlikely), mentions of suicide

Disclaimer: We don't own the Hunger Games. I'm not even sure if we really own these characters…meh.

Word Count: 9,990

'Thoughts.'

"Connection dialogue."

I

Paradox

The sun was just sinking behind the looming conifers, long shadows stretching as the evening progressed. To no surprise, the Peacekeepers were already rounding up the last people lingering about, despite the fact that curfew wasn't until a full hour later. With no real authority around—seeing that the Head Peacekeeper of District 12 rarely was in his assigned area—the soldiers were allowed to do whatever they wanted. This was just one of the many unofficial rules they put into place.

Snowflakes descended from the sky turning the dirt paths into slippery mud. A thin sheet of sleet layered over the ground, refracting the last rays of sunlight like a shattered mirror.

From her spot behind a crooked, weathered tree, Nadia could hear the gruff voices of the Peacekeepers as they passed by. The squelching of their boots as they slogged through the muddied trails, their heavy breathing and the clanks of their weapons—all sounds she found far too familiar with at this time.

She dared to peek around the paperbark-maple, but a voice too close for comfort alarmed her. Like a recluse, she withdrew, the frost blooming on the bark melting into her shirt on contact. A couple of heartbeats passed before she poked her head out of her hiding area, scanning the path for any onlookers.

'Clear.'

Nadia slipped out of her hiding spot, securing the flimsy, wool blanket over her narrow shoulders. The jacket she'd gotten for her birthday six years ago was sold for half-a-pound of a runt pig. This was the best her family could do for now.

She tucked her chin closer to her body and pulled her blanket up to her ears, shuffling across the street until she made it between the spaces of two moldering shacks. The pale girl waited again, listening to anything other than the crunch of the snow underneath her tatty moccasins. Aside from the wind whipping the conifers, it was silent. She took a tiny step and bunched up her muscles.

Just as Nadia thrust her body forward, two beams of bright light flared to life. Startled, Nadia staggered back into the darkness. A mechanical rumble droned in her ears and made the earth tremble. It was an assault rover—an industrial-sized, super-jeep that could fit a whole fleet of Peacekeepers inside at once. They only brought them out the night before Reaping Day just in case people tried to escape. How could she forget about those supersized war machines? The few times she saw them in her childhood, she always remembered them sounding like the deep bass of rolling thunder, striking fear into the hearts of the citizens.

'Shit, shit, shit, shit!'

The jeep moved with no haste. Frost and mud sloshed all over her blanket, seeping through the thin material in seconds. She bit back a curse and scrabbled for a hold on the houses to pull her further away from the commotion. She held her breath, waiting until the loud hum of the rover faded into the distance. She stood up, rubbing her shoulders with her hands in hopes that her fingers would return to their normal color. After this night, she wouldn't be surprised if they didn't.

Nadia peeked around the corner, searching for anymore lurking rovers. There wasn't any that she could see, lucky for her, since usually the area was crawling with them around this time.

The rest of her journey was easier than earlier. She didn't run into any more assault rovers (although she swore could always hear a faint rumble in her ears) and slid past the very few Peacekeepers still out. The closer she got to her destination, the barer the "forest" got. A lot of deforestation happened in the previous years. Nearly all of the trees in the Seam had been cleared out to make space for more mines, since the older ones became insufficient and even more dangerous once the resources were tapped out.

The wind picked up and frost bit at her already raw and blistered skin. She squinted, staring into the distance. She could spot the abandoned black market from several yards away. Just the very sight of the dark mass of old wooden planks blocking the entire front entrance made her heart leap with mixed emotions. Fear because what she was doing was reckless, exhilaration because she was possibly deciding the fate of Panem and dread, because it was for this very cause she threw away two years of her life for, knowing that if she was caught her family was doomed.

She slowed down her trot, taking slow steps to the abandoned area. Short pants of air escaped her lips. For a second, she allowed herself to admire the record time she's made it from her house in the Seam all the way to the abandoned Hob. Tonight was a special night, so she needed to be here early. Tonight, they were supposed to be taking action.

The "entrance" to the market was just a bunch of piled up planks of rotten, moldy wood. Years ago, there used to be a lively black market in place of the sullen ruins before her. It used to be bustling with the people living near or in the Seam, filled with folks who weren't lucky enough to have a plate of food on their tables every night, or a father to go down to the mine to make the little money needed to buy clothes. Although she wasn't born when the black market was still there, the elders took joy in telling all the younger children all about it. It was demolished in a poor attempt to create yet another inadequate coal-mine to raise the productivity rate in District 12.

She crept forward, lifting the first slab of wood with rough palms. She placed it aside so it wouldn't break; she'd need it to cover up her path when she left. She grabbed the next plank, and then the other until the hole was big enough for her to crawl in. It was dark inside, but she knew the way by heart. The sounds of rats scurrying across her path didn't scare her the way it used to so many years ago. She took note of this fact every time she saw vigilant, bloodshot eyes staring at her from the gloom.

She turned a corner and stared at the tiny wooden shack. It had the name Greasy Sae with –loradded at the end. There was a red 'x' over title, and "computer room" scrawled underneath. This room had one of the first prototype computers shipped to any district from the Capitol. A thank-you gift—so they called it—for being the most obedient district since Katniss Everdeen tried to start a rebellion 25 years ago.

There were four computers once in this compact building, but the demolition of the Hob destroyed three of them. Since the destruction of the black market, no one returned to check for anything since it was too dangerous to enter at the time. Luckily for her, this meant that she was able to use a computer without going to local ones that was monitored by Peacekeepers from dawn to dusk. There were of course others, but they were way too far away for her to access.

The 16-year old could hear the wind howling through the holes in the old computer room. Snow drifted in, see-sawing to the rotted floors before melting. Dim beacons of moonlight trickled through the collapsed wooden slabs. Darkness obscured every corner in a shadowy curtain, the only thing visible being unblinking, beady, red eyes.

She stumbled over to the bulky machine, dusting woodchips and dirt off of the screen and keyboard. She pressed a button on the back of the monitor, and after several seconds, the computer buzzed to life. The computer screen was dim and barely working, but at least she had this one to herself.

Computers were sent to every District eight years ago, but the prototype she had access of came in before that. It was the Capitol's way of being forgiving, she guessed, since they haven't seemed to do any harm yet. The computers only had two known functions, one function made for the Peacekeepers to communicate with Peacekeepers in other districts, and the second being for the civilians. The civilians—and probably the Peacekeepers, too—used this thing called the Connection. Nearly no one—besides some people in District Three, maybe—really had a clue of how it worked, but somehow the computers allowed people to talk to others in different districts.

When Nadia initially heard of the Connection and computers, she could care less. People still suffered from poverty and famine, children were still shipped off to kill each other in the Arena every year—there was no difference besides some fancy new machine was there to distract people from what was important—fighting back the Capitol. For the first five years, she managed to be the oddball that never used that god damned contraption everyone—young and old—would rave about.

Kids would always come running into the Seam talking about some random person they met through the Connection, or how funny someone from District whatever sounded like. Elders, although much more reluctant to use them than the young, eventually began using the Connection to meet other people on the whole other side of Panem. It was a galling craze that everyone—it seemed—in District 12 was going through. She hoped, like the few past fads, would die out in a couple of months when winter hit. Maybe then they would realize the distractions the computers were causing.

It was near the sixth year of "computer this" and "Connection that" from everyone when she cracked and decided to figure out for herself why everyone had lost their minds over a bulk of metal and lies.

Nadia's experience, to no surprise, wasn't pleasant. The Peacekeeper posted at that computer was impatient and nit-picked her every movement and mistake. The poor girl's tolerance had run thin quickly, as did his it seemed. It was maddening that she couldn't use something that children at the juvenile age of four could operate with ease. It could've been the fault of the argumentative Peacekeeper distracting her, or her inner grudge against the machine causing her to process things slower—whichever reason it was, Nadia took too long. By the time she had finally entered the Connection, her time on the computer was up.

The second day, however, was a notable progression from the last. She was able to access the Connection almost instantly and the Peacekeeper monitoring her computer wasn't nearly as querulous as the other. The usually reserved teen was able to talk to adults and children on the other side of Panem.

Then it was over. That was it. Nadia still wasn't able to figure out why everyone was still praising computers like some type of savior.

That was, until the day she met a very particular group of people. The computers allowed eight to sixteen people (selected at random) to talk at the same time during one session. The people she had gotten paired up with that day years ago changed her life. Her views, her thoughts—they changed everything. They spoke emotive words against the Capitol (surprisingly one of the most spiteful towards the president was a girl in District 2), shared their opinions without being afraid to speak their mind. They all kept in sight the things people have somehow forgotten about over the years—the Capitol is corrupt and no shiny new machine can replace their lack of freedom.

It was best thing she witnessed happen in her existence—people like her that weren't going to be a slave to the Capitol all their life. Something she hasn't seen in a while since every cry of help was oppressed into a whisper.

A girl from District 3—to no surprise—knew something about "special coding" where if the wires were rearranged a specific way, there was an eight out of ten chance that the same people in that day's session would be the exact same people in the next couple of sessions.

So that became it, a group of quietly rebelling teenagers who had yet to do something against the Capitol. This night was the night they decided what they would do.

Big black letters came into view on the screen, reading: Connection Session Starting in 5…

As the numbers ticked down, Nadia bit her lip and stretched her fingers.

…2

…1

Connection Session Joined.

"-onder where the hell Nadia is, goddamn it."

She stopped herself from letting out an indignant snort. Of all the moments to enter Session. Instead, she got down and stood on her knees so she was eye-view with the camera.

"Speak of the devil," Nadia said, rubbing her reddened nose.

"Nadia!"

"About damn time."

She let out a terse, dry chuckle and tucked away a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

"I was pretty sure I was at least ten minutes earlier than usual, Alex, but of course; I'm late by your high standards." The monitor flickered sporadically before returning back to its normal hazy state. She rubbed her hands together. "I had a little bit of friction with some Peacekeepers in an assault rover. I…I don't think they saw me, but I had to slow down since I can barely feel the rest of my body now."

There was a mumble of pity, but Nadia didn't need their sympathy. The only way she'd feel better is if she'd never have to see another rover in her life, and that wouldn't happen until the rebels won.

"I'll catch you up on some of the stuff you missed, Nadi'. Well,"the unofficial leader of the small group—a District 7 teen—started. "James and I've been thinking about what we're going to do to start this rebellion again. We know we're trying to do something low-key; something small, nearly insignificant and keep on growing bigger and bigger until we're an actual problem that the Capitol can't contain any more."

"Just like a wildfire, huh?"

"Just like a wildfire, Nadi'. However, we can't decide what to do. Sabotage their weapons? Find a way to confuse the Peacekeepers' orders? Hijack one of their fancy voice-automated rovers and crash it? We've been undecided on pretty much all the choices. I'm hoping you'd be a tie-breaker."

Nadia unconsciously nodded her head, cold, chapped lips drawing into a thin line as she mapped out the many outcomes of this plan in her head. The session went quiet as they all waited for her response on the matter. Somehow, over a period of time, they've grown to respect her opinions to a point where she'd been expected have and share one with the others every meeting. She didn't have the slightest idea how this happened over time, especially since she never thought her plans or opinions were any good. Hell, sometimes she didn't haveanything to comment on. She was a follower, not a leader, so why was everyone putting so much trust in her?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying hard to visualize which out of those three plans would be safest and easiest to perform. Rovers could be seen parked nearly at every corner, but the Peacekeepers rarely left them unattended since they were always loaded with rifle-beacons and flare-whips. That idea wasn't even remotely safe. The sabotage would require them to break into a Peacekeepers' base, which—surprise, surprise—was bustling with those Capitol scum. If the members from District 3 knew enough about recoding, then maybe it was possible to rewrite the Peacekeepers monthly assignments. Otherwise, there was no way it was happening.

The sound of a rat scurrying across the cracked, clay floor brought her out of her thoughts. Bony elbows dug into thin thighs as Nadia leaned closer to the microphone. She licked her lips.

"The sabotage and destroying rovers are way too dangerous for us to deal without being harmed immediately. If anyone knows how to recode and hack into the Peacekeeper's function, then maybe the last option. I understand that the other two choices would be more affective—but we have only thirty or so people who are participating in our movement. If we lose any of them, we're screwed. I don't think we're at a state where we can risk that, or anything, really."

There was a pause.

"That settles it, then. I guess."

The conversation went dead. It was usually jauntier than this. Not filled with the grim silence that hung around them like a thick fog, suspending any speech from all participants in the session. There was a reason for this oddity, of course. And they all knew it. It was heavy on all of their minds, but yet no one spoke of it.

"I have at least twenty-four entries, what are the chances?"

'Spoke too soon.'

Nadia didn't even have to look at the small, pixilated square at the corner of the screen to see the boy with dirty-blonde hair and trained gray eyes. She didn't have to know his voice all too well to guess who would so bluntly bring up the topic everyone was trying not to. She just knew James—and this was something so…so—for a lack of better words—him.

"I'm thinking a good enough chance. My family's been doing worse than usual lately, so I've been the one throwing in the most entries than out of the kids in my area,"he continued, almost as if someone else was holding a conversation with him. "I mean, I'm not sure if the rest of you guys noticed, but the Reaping Day is tomorrow. Surprise."

"Thanks James, I never would've known," came the sarcastic bite from Felicity.

"Happy to do my job, 'Licity."

"You two, stop." Nadia cut in, knowing where this was going to head. James's sarcasm and Felicity's willingness to take the bait always led to a heated argument. She looked at the screen, giving both teens as much of a serious look as a shivering, emaciated, District 12 girl with muddy hair could. "We're all going through the same things, okay? We're all scared—whether you all want admit or not. Let's just…" she bit her bottom lip, searching for a word. "Let's just…calm down, alright? Let's calm down and figure things out before I die of hypothermia, m'kay?"

James rolled his eyes. Felicity crossed her arms and tilted her nose upwards. She wouldn't apologize—that's just how she is, and despite how stubborn she could be, Nadia wouldn't want a single thing to change about her.

"Thanks Nadi'," Venie said while ruffling her wild, dark brown curls. "But James is right—we can't keep on avoiding this. We need to understand what the chances are of one of us being chosen for the Hunger Games." Venie leaned closer to the screen; her sun-kissed, rounded face zoomed in closest out of all of the panels. "Think about it. One of us gets chosen for the Hunger Games. From that point on, there's no such thing as privacy. They'll interview our families; ask them personal questions about you. Maybe one of them slips some information that seems suspicious? Maybe you lose your mind during the Hunger Games and just can't keep secrets anymore? You'll be watched nearly every second, monitored by hundreds of thousands of people knowing that if you make a wrong move, you can kill us—ruin every chance of fighting back the Capitol, kill your family and friends and everything you love. Just that quickly—" she snapped her fingers."It's all gone."

The words sank in and a chill shot up her spine. Coldness crept into her veins, spreading throughout her body, from her numbed fingertips to her upset stomach and rapid, beating heart. Nadia never owned much in life, but the thought of losing her mother and her stepfather and her cat and—

'Stop. Just stop thinking. Stop, Nadia.'She squeezed her eyes until she saw colorful stars dance beneath her lids. 'Stop, please...'

"Are you okay, Nadia?"This voice was soft and gentle, and despite this girl being on the whole other side of Panem, she could almost feel a delicate, warm hand squeezing her bony shoulder.

Nadia blinked a couple of times, allowing her vision to return and the tears to dry. No point in crying if it couldn't save the world.

"I'm alright, Becca." It was an obvious lie, and both of them knew it. She didn't dare to look Becca in the eyes, because the girl could read her emotions like an open book. Nadia didn't need her emotions to be openly analyzed right now, even though she knew Becca wouldn't say a word.

"Okay guys, I need to know how many entries all of you have turned in."She stopped moving for a second. "I'm not going to be able to remember all of this. Anyone from District One through Four has computers at their houses right?"

Several people nodded.

"Okay, great. Now which one of you all will be able to keep this info?"

"I have a pencil and paper."Becca offered.

"That's documented information, Becca."James intervened, all traces of the silliness displayed earlier replaced by the adulthood he's been forced to endure. "We agreed to not keep anything from these discussions documented on paper. It's basically all the courtroom evidence the Capital needs to have us all executed."

"I have my own camera. I just bought it and I've been dying to try it out all day."

"That's still documented information, Topaz."Venie said with dejection clear in her tone. She sighed. "But I guess that's as good as it's gonna' get. Just…just don't point the camera at us and hide it well, okay?"

"Got'cha."

Nadia watched as Topaz scrambled out of her seat and disappeared from the camera view. Footsteps and the sound of the doors opening and closing barely reached her ears due to the broken speaker. A couple of moments later, she returned with the shiny, silver camera. It looked much different than the ones they used to film the Reaping, but she guessed they had different purposes.

"You ready, Topaz?"

"Yeah. I'll start it when you're ready."

"Alright. We're not going to say names here, just in case. We should be able to recognize each other by our voices."Venie glanced at Topaz. "You can start now. District One, how many entries?"

"Five entries."

"Two entries."

"District Two?"

"Four entries."

"Five entries."

The numbers stayed the around the minimum, ranging from about two to low twenties for the first couple of districts. But the moment they reached District Ten, the numbers skyrocketed from there, the number of entries being thirty-six and forty.

"District Eleven?"

"Thirty-two."

"Thirty-seven."

"District Twelve?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Fifty-six."

There was silence. Silence so prominent, it could've been described as loud. Nadia swallowed and rubbed her nose, blinking.

"It's a family of five, and I'm the only one legible get money from mining and food from rations."

"I thought you had a younger bro—"

"He isnot going to putting in any more entries than he already has to."Dallas left no more room for argument or questioning. He wasn't a serious guy most of the time, actually he was a playful and an optimistic person with a satirical sense of humor—but when it came to matters like this—like his family—they saw the things he would do for them.

It was a long list of things.

Venie pursed her lips together. "Let's call it a day, guys. We'll meet the night after the Reaping. Usual time."

"Let the odds be ever in your favor!"

That was the last thing she heard before shutting off the computer and heading home.

It was times like this when Alex questioned herself. Times where her newly developed insomnia would kick in, and she couldn't go asleep till the break of dawn. So she'd shimmy out of her covers, pull her legs up to her chest and wrap her arms over her knees, waiting for the first beams of sunlight to peek through her curtains.

However, during that stretch, she had time to think. After the first two weeks of dealing with insomnia, she decided having too much alone time was becoming unhealthy.

'What if I get picked?'

Venie's ominous words haunted her thoughts like a wraith. Alex witnessed the horrors the Arena provided nearly every year of her life. Axes being jammed into skulls, charred corpses tumbling to the ground, the eternal look of dread etched onto children's rotting faces—it was sickening.

The first Hunger Games she watched was when she was five. Some asshole employee at a children's clothing store had it playing on the lobby's television, even though District Two restricted the Hunger Games from being shown in public family-friendly places. Alex remembered the moment clear as day. She just picked up a winter coat from the clothes rack across from the lobby. Her mother was up at the counter and she was only a couple of feet away from her. She recalled the toothy smile her mother gave her; the one that always meant "That's beautiful, sweetie."—the same smile she hasn't seen in two years.

Then she heard it. It was the sound of a scream—or what was supposed to be. The screech fell flat, instead replaced by a congested gurgle followed by violent retching. She shouldn't have turned around; the little voice in her head begged her not to, but she did anyways. There was a screwdriver lodged into the throat of a girl. A small boy hovered over her, wheezing and gasping and sobbing. His face was swollen with a slack-jawed mouth, saliva and blood dribbling down his chin. A canon went off, and two names scrolled across the screen. Her eyes were too blurry to properly see the first one, but the second one, Alex knew would follow her to her deathbed. His name was Cecil Mace. She'll remember that name forever because the girl he just killed looked so much like her.

Alex bit down on her lip so hard, she drew blood. She hated this district. She hated everything about it. From the self-entitled cunts that believed the Hunger Games was for the greater good, to the complete garbage excuses for humans who bet on the kids survival at local bars, or at school. They all made her sick.

Soft, stubby fingers gripped the bed sheets in a fit of anger and cast it off her body, the gust making her hair fly over her face. She didn't care to fix it, and instead chose to pull her body closer together. The rapid beat of her heart became her lullaby, and her resentment turned into surety. She didn't know when, but the children who lost their lives in the Arena were going to get their vengeance. That much she knew.

Alex didn't know exactly when she had fallen asleep, but by the time she had arisen, her younger sister was already sitting on the edge of the bed. She would be putting in her first entry today.

Alex yawned and rubbed her glassy eyes. She turned her head—being cautious not give herself a whiplash and start the day with a headache—in the direction of her kin.

"Krystine," her unused voice sounded like nails being scraped against a chalkboard. Krystine craned her neck to look at her older sister, batting her eyelashes. She was already dressed. Her auburn hair was curled into loose tresses that sat just above her shoulders. The satin dress she wore was the color of the sky before a storm and hung off her body like a curtain. It was obviously too big for her.

"Yeah?" Krystine fiddled with her fingers, pretending to be nonchalant. She was never good at acting.

"What are you doing here?" 'And why are you wearing my old dress?'she wanted to add, but held her tongue. That was the same dress she wore her first time participating in the Reaping Day. Alex didn't even know it was still in the house. She thought she had ripped it to shreds that same night when an autistic child was drawn.

'Mom must've gotten it sewn back together behind my back.'

"I'm not afraid."

The redhead was silent.

"I know you think I am, Alex."

Alex ran her fingers through limp, red locks of hair before fussing with it, rubbing the strands against her cheek. Krystine turned fully around to face her older sister, resolve apparent on her round face.

"If I get chosen today and I have to go into the Arena, I want you to know that I'm not af—"

"Shut up, Krystine. You're not going to the damn Arena."

Krystine's narrow shoulders raised and her nostrils flared, indignant because of her swearing.

"But you don't know that, Alex!" she slid off the bed and stamped her foot. "I want you to know this so you won't worry about me when I go! I won't be afraid! I'll win, I know I will!"

Alex's expression twisted into a frustrated scowl. It was far too early for her to be dealing with this shit. She scrambled out of bed and advanced to Krystine, cornering her. Alex slammed her hands on either side of the wall closest to her kin's head. The younger girl shrieked and backed further into the crook.

"Listen to me Krystine. Don't be a fucking idiot! You haven't even seen the rest of the Games because mom won't allow you to. You don't know what goes on in the Arena!" she pulled her sister up by the front of her dress.

"Mom!"

"You think they won't kill you just because you're a child? Do you think they won't harm you just because our family's wealthy? You don't know anything, Krystine! If you go out into the Arena you'd be the first one dead because you're so goddamn ignorant!" Alex put Krystine down on her feet, but clenched the dress in a white-knuckled fist. Her voice was nothing short of a hoarse whisper. "You think the Hunger Games is really a game? Fucking newsflash, it's not. The Capitol throws a bunch of kids into the Arena just to show us how much we can't do about it. To show us that we're going to be obedient and let them rip families apart because they have the power to! Being a damn victor isn't an honor, Krystine! Victors are living proof that the Capitol can do whatever the fuck they want and we're just gonna' play by their rules!"

Alex released Krystine from the corner. Her kin scrambled away, screaming their mother's name. She would've gone after Kristine, but she was winded and already emotionally exhausted. The sun just began to peak over the brim of the city. Fuck.

Alex snatched the towel out of her closet and wrapped it around her shoulders.

It was time to become a ragdoll for the Capitol once again.

Jackie could tell by the way people looked at her that they thought she was materialistic. In District Eleven, there wasn't much luxuries that people could buy or afford—and the case was the exact same for her. She didn't purchase any of the trinkets she had, but she didn't steal them either like many others did. They were all hand-me-downs from friends who died. Most of them didn't have relatives to keep their things, so she did. Simple as that.

More or less.

The boarding house Jackie lived in was bustling with activity from the other children. Most of the time, the children kept to themselves during the day, but at night they would gather on the dirty floor to listen to her tell old folklores. The girls were getting ready upstairs while the boys put on their best clothes downstairs. She and her Grandma helped the younger children with their dresses and shoes.

The chair she sat in was old and wooden. Its legs shook and clattered every time she moved, but she didn't mind too much. Jackie just appreciated that she had one—the other compact-houses next to hers didn't come with a chair, so they often sat on the floor. The girl in front of her waved her bottom from side to side, humming an old tune and drumming her fingers to the beat. The dark-skinned female wanted to tell her to stop moving so much so she could finish braiding her hair, but she decided against it.

This would be Roseanne's first time putting in an entry. For Jackie, this was her thirty-second. She was only fourteen years old, but having a high number of entries at that age wasn't uncommon.

Roseanne stopped humming, letting out a noisy sigh. Jackie rolled her eyes. Roseanne's impatience for everything never failed to irk her nerves. After all, she was braiding Roseanne's hair because she asked her too, not because Jackie felt like it. Rose's hair was long, blonde and littered with knots because she spent nearly every hour of the day knee-deep in mud and grass. So the few times the tanned lassie would ask her for help, she always came to her with hair resembling a rat's nest.

"Are you done yet?" she groaned, folding her arms over her blossoming chest.

"No, I'm not, Rose. Calm down; I'm almos' done." She grabbed the wooden brush from her lap and combed through the last of the tangles before plaiting the end of her hair. The moment she finished, Roseanne ran off to the only bathroom in the boardinghouse to look at herself. Meanwhile, the older teen left her spot from the chair to ready herself for the Reaping.

Jackie had a variety of old hand-me-down dresses—some so old she swore they could date back to the time before Panem—stored away in the cramped corner of the small closet she, her grandmother and brother shared. A lot of them were too big for her lean figure. The few frocks that fit her were too provocative (quite a few of her clothes came from harlots that died without a family) and flamboyant—the last thing she needed was to gain attention from Peacekeepers. She bent down on her knees and began rummaging through the pile of clothes. The different fabrics—ranging from frayed cotton to coarse buckram—rubbed against her fingertips. Clothes were tossed aside in a flurry of colors before she hit the bottom of the pile.

'Damn it, damn it, damn it.'

She didn't have any gray or faded clothes, and all that was left were those ridiculous Capitol fashion-rejects. Jackie sighed, cursing her unorganized, hoarder-like behavior. She crammed the garments into the back of the closet with her foot. She wanted to slam the closet door shut, but the door was broken off years ago. So instead she settled for throwing tiny fists into the air, her arms flailing in spite.

The only option she had now was her mucky, grimy work clothes that reeked of sweat and earth. The ones that let everyone see her banged up, knobby knees full of blisters and sores. There wasn't nearly enough time to clean them. So that's what Jackie wore—a yellowed T-shirt with overalls missing their buttons and a pair of beat-up boots.

'No point in trying to save my looks.' Jackie decided, leaving her poofy hair out. She wrapped her hair-tie—which was actually just a blue ribbon she had sewn herself—around her wrist. Jackie hated to be the only one in her boardinghouse who believed in luck (aside from her grandmother) and spirits, but she needed something to give her assurance today. Even if was all just a big sham she made up in her head.

The boots clunked all the way down the hallway and the creaky wooden stairs with too many steps missing for it to be safe. Waiting at the end of the stairs was the small group of children ready to go to the Reaping. Roseanne was chatting away with her brother, James, while the oldest boy in the house, Harley, stood next to them, silent and unfocused. Harley's best friend was picked for the Hunger Games last year. He was killed two minutes after the games started. She's seen him press his shaving blade against his wrist too many times this year. Everyone knew he was on the edge. They just didn't know when he'd jump.

Her grandmother talked to the children who were being left behind—this district didn't need the ineligible to attend the Reaping, they got their census every time people checked-in to work—before turning around, facing the rest of the group.

"C'mon, youngin's." She whistled, fixing her threadbare shawl around her thin, wrinkled neck. "We outta' leave before the 'Keepers do rounds and drag us out."

Grandma shuffled over to where the door used to be—in place there was now just a blanket to protect them from the terrors in the night—and pulled it back with the four fingers she had left on her right hand. Jackie grasped Harley's fingers and tugged him along. Oftentimes he wouldn't move unless someone made him. Roseanne piped down. James clung to their grandmother's arm like a burr in the breeze. While they all filed out the house, Grandma poked her head back inside.

"Richey, Donald! If someone comes in…you know what to do."

They had a gun. An old, assault rifle that they guessed was made around the time of Katniss Everdeen's rebellion. It only had two bullets, and ever since the day they found it buried deep underneath old fields, they've preserved those two bullets. Grandma wasn't a violent person, but it was impossible to be a pacifist in this fight-or-die milieu.

The sun was so hot outside. Sweat trickled down from her forehead to the crook of her neck. The heat made the dusty earth in the distance distort into waves. The same way it did when a building was set on fire, invisible wiggles would rise from the wood. Grandma said it was demons trying to block her sight of her future past the ashes. Harley said it was some science thing that she wouldn't understand. Either way, she was confused.

The masses of poor children trudging to the only local station made their journey slow and agonizing. So like what Grandma would always do when she was unhappy and doing busywork, she bunched her lips together and whistled a tune. Her whistling was no longer as good as it used to be a couple of years back. Maybe because back then, she still had her front teeth. They didn't fall out because of her age; they were missing because their house was marauded by thieves. It was the same reason why her nose was crooked, and her finger was missing and the door was broken. The same for why Jackie's toes were maimed and she walked with a limp. The same for why Richey and Donald were always told to keep the assault rifle close and trust no one.

Roseanne hummed the tune in synch with Grandma's whistling, her voice squeaking when the notes got too high or low. Jackie, in her lowest tone, sang the lyrics. She didn't have a beautiful singing voice and didn't do the song nearly enough justice as it deserved, but she continued.

"The blackbird will fly, the tears our sun shall dry. In darkness there's light, no matter our plight. Lift up your head, our hope's not yet dead. The blackbird will fly, the blackbird will fly."

The song alternated between extreme high notes and lows and repeated itself three times. She heard it plenty from her Grandma's more talented friends. She always thought it was a beautiful song, and always wanted to share it with the other rebels, but never did.

The melody stopped short the moment they reached within earshot of four guarding Peacekeepers at the mouth of the train station. Jackie spared a quick glance, averting her eyes when the guard shifted his weight. On the usually white, bulky, metallic armor, laid two vertical red stripes on his right shoulder. That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

That was one of the few signs of an Elite, a new brand of enforcements the Capital has pushed through since Katniss Everdeen's failed rebellion. They weren't like regular Peacekeepers. They weren't here simply to keep the District in check and make sure the citizens abided by their unfair laws. They were specially trained to kill masses in mere minutes. She didn't see them often; they only seemed to appear during the Reaping Day in small amounts. She had no idea what they could really do and something about that absence of information unnerved her.

Her eyes were glued to the ground, staring at the rotting planks as if they were the only things that could gain her interest. Jackie slid closer to her grandmother as she passed the stiff guards, the curly hairs at the back of her neck standing straight.

Grandma paid admission with the little money they've saved and loaded up into the cramped train. To little surprise, there were Peacekeepers and Elites every few rows down. They stood up in a spot between two, since all the rest of the areas were taken up by crying children and parents trying to soothe their child into believing that there wasn't a chance they would be chosen. To the left of them, a mother stroked her child's hair, a tight expression on her face. The right, a lone boy sat emotionless and rigid, his dark brown eyes glassy and distant. Next to the boy was an Elite with a glowing beacon-rifle.

The train jolted to a start and the doors closed in unison. The floor rumbled and shook as the train accelerated on the tracks. The trees and structures outside of the dirty windows melded into one as they picked up speed. Jackie's callous fingers curled around the warm iron pole. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

It seemed all too fast when the rickety train pulled to a rough stop near the other train station. When the doors reopened, it was her grandmother that nudged Jackie to her senses, telling her to get moving before an Elite did it for her.

Noise and loud chatter spilled from nearly every direction in the district's square. She loathed it here…no; loathe's not a good word to describe it. She hated it.

The square was nothing but a big, ethereal façade. It was always well maintained, decorated with freshly cut hedge bushes and wildflower gardens. A marble fountain sat smack-dab in the middle of it with crystal clear water that you couldn't find anywhere else in this hellhole. When the Capital wanted their men to film clips of District Eleven, they brought them here. That way, people outside of District Eleven were deceived to believe that this place wasn't a laborious, tyrannical, purgatory filled with murderers, rapists and thieves. Like people here were actually living in happiness and peace, pleased with their surroundings. Hell, they couldn't even get a decent meal every now and then.

Cameras posted at every arch on the rooftops, recording every little movement they made. A giant screen showed different shots of the event, while the Capitol's crew finished up fixing the stage.

Peacekeepers divided the people, splitting up the possible tributes by age groups. Her grandmother was put with the rest of the ineligible while she took a stand along with the other fifteen year olds. Fortunately for her, the gap between fifteen year-olds and the ineligible was small. Jackie stood at the very edge of her section, her arm reaching across the barrier to grasp her grandmother's wrinkled fingers.

"Stop!"

The fifteen year old drew her arm back to her body and kept her head down low. Damn Peacekeepers.

The area filled up quickly and she soon found herself pinning her arms to her sides to make space for others. She didn't care though. As long as she had sight of her Grandma, nothing else mattered.

The stage was set up a couple of minutes in. Two glass balls stood at either side of the temporary stage. One was for girls and the other for boys. A polished, spruce wood podium was in the middle with a microphone and papers on it. District Eleven's last winner, Silas Burke, sat still in his seat with his hands folded together. His body language and ambience resembled Harley's.

Jackie looked to right of Silas. The district's escort, Aurora Babbitt, held a wide, toothy beam. Everything about her looked fake. Her smile, her hair, her lips, her eyes—she looked like every other product of the Capital dressed up in the usual eyesore garb. She couldn't even tell what age Babbitt was. The pounds of makeup on her face made her look like she had some numbers to hide, but her tight, peach skin and bright green eyes—surely too bright to be real—gave off an air of youth and livelihood.

The mayor, Adam Smith, walked up to the podium. He cleared his throat and began the usual, tedious speech that he repeated every year. His sermon always started about the time before Panem, where he would cover the whole subject in a few vague sentences. After that, he would drone on about the terrors of the Dark Days and how "lucky" they were to not have been around in that time, although Jackie could ensure him that nobody in this district could consider themselves fortunate.

After another ten minutes, Mayor Smith finally finished talking about the history of Panem. He went over the names of the previous District Eleven victors, all five of them, in his usual monotonous manner that would've put the young girl to sleep hadn't she been so high-strung already.

Once he indicated he was finished talking, the crowd applauded him. Not, that anyone wanted to anyways, they didn't have choice. If they made a fool of their district by not doing so, the assault rovers and Elites would stay in District Eleven for an extra two days. Mayor Smith made that clear the day before since the same situation happened a year ago.

"And to introduce our district's very own escort, Aurora Babbitt." The mayor stepped aside and let the pampered Capitol woman prance up to the podium. She toyed with the mic a bit before flashing another award-winning smile.

"Hello, District Eleven!" Her enthusiasm for the reaping sickened her already. For fuck's sake, she was going to choose two people to go out there and die for the Capitol's entertainment! How could she be happy? "As you already know, I am Aurora Babbitt and I am honored to lead your district's tributes to victory for the 100th Annual Hunger Games and the 4th Quarter Quell! I'm glad I was selected to be in this district out of them all; it will be such a new and different experience for me, this year." She batted her eyes and smiled again. It seemed like it was the only thing she knew how to do.

She grabbed a small device from the podium and cradled it between her two dainty hands.

'I bet she hasn't lifted a finger all her life.'

"Since it is the Quarter Quell, we have a live broadcast of our gracious president announcing this year's instructions."

There was a beat were it was completely silent in the crowd. A half-second later, the crowd erupted into a loud applause. Babbitt, already proving herself to be a complete halfwit, thought they were clapping for her speech for she did a curtsey and blew imaginary kisses into the crowd. No one cared for her blasé oration, it was either they clapped or they would be seeing assault rovers at every corner for another two days.

Jackie didn't really know much about Babbitt until today. She knew that for the past three years Aurora's been an escort—for District Two, Three and Four—and has yet to lead a tribute to victory. That didn't sound good to her.

Babbitt turned around and clicked on the device. The screen flashed to life.

The camera panned around the sides of the Capital's executive building. Banners with their emblem imprinted on it hung from nearly every wall or ledge possible. Wide disks sat on the white dividers with fires blazing in them. A group of men dressed in black sat on seats embedded into wall in the background. Meanwhile, the president, Iridan Vinter, rose up to the same golden podium President Snow did exactly twenty-five years ago.

Vinter's shadowy hair fell around the frame of his defined face. He, as usual, held a calm, even expression as if he didn't realize he was going to read the fashion in which twenty-three kids would die. His dull gray eyes held no passageway into his soul—if he had one—as her grandma had said they did. His lips, tight and wrinkleless, hinted at a smile. He was pleased. In the few appearances he made live—despite being born and raised from the Capitol—Vinter didn't wear any of the Capitol fashion ordinaries. It was always dull or dark colored clothing, just like the boring attire he wore now.

"Welcome, Districts of Panem." President Vinter began. "I can truly say is a privilege to finally be able to announce my first Quarter Quell. I've worked alongside Coriolanus Snow during his last couple of years alive, and to be able to call myself the new head executive of the Annual Hunger Games in such short time is astounding." He smiled. "I apologize for droning, but I believe that this 100th Game is something special. We should all take the time embrace it. Let's start from the 75th."

Jackie's heart almost stopped beating. No political figure has ever publically addressed the 75th Hunger Games since that year, she heard. The Capitol tried to drown it in the sea of history for so many years, hoping that people would eventually forget the Capitol's biggest mistake in existence; underestimating the yearn for liberation. President Vinter was elected only three years ago, surely someone told him about the 3rd Quarter Quell in his short span of dictatorship.

"The 75th Annual Hunger Games, as many of us remember, was a time of misguided and erroneous decisions for the higher districts. Sadly enough, some of our Capitol natives were lured into this lunacy and revolted against their own for a corrupt and unethical cause, The Ash Rebellion. Gladly enough, before we ended up with an unreasonable repeat of history, our heroic Peacekeepers put an end to Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark's reign of terror after they conquered District Nine.

"After they were found and captured, they were rightfully executed for their attempt to bring us all into the Dark Days once again. We later discovered the hiding places of the aiding terrorists and put them to justice.

"Since the Ash Rebellion, the Capitol was left no choice other than to put districts Nine through Twelve under Elite supervision and 45% increased labor for 20 years. What does this all have to do with the 100th Annual Hunger Games? This is a reminder of the point of the Hunger Games and the retelling of the Dark Days every year. We do not have Hunger Games intact to hurt the masses—it's just the most efficient way to go about keeping our districts in line. To those who are not convinced, think of it from our perspective; would you rather have 23 people die each year from the Annual Hunger Games, or have thousands murdered whenever someone decides they want to rebel?" President Vinter folded his hands over one another. "No more delays for what you are all tuned in for. Gamemaker Hollan, retrieve the box."

It was almost time for the drawing. It was almost time to see if her thirty-two entries would be the death of her. Or her brother's and Roseanne's one. What about Harley's thirty-seven entries? And how was everyone else going to do? Their numbers were fairly low, surely they couldn't be one! But what happened if one of them did become a tribute? What if Dallas gets chosen? What if Venie gets chosen? What would they do then without their leader?

President Vinter opened the small box. He pulled out the yellow envelope. He slipped his finger into the side of the envelope and peeled the flap open. The note was in his palms in a second.

"'As a friendly reminder that a traitor comes in any sex—the one male and female rule is removed for the 4th Quarter Quell.' Thank you all for tuning in."

The screen went blank. Babbitt turned around and faced the crowd again.

"Well, looks like we're going to have to make some minor adjustments!" she said, speaking into the mic. The Capitol aristocrat waved her hand at the set managers, urging them to hurry up and mix the entry bowls together.

It wasn't until now that she realized how much she missed out on with her family. Yesterday night she spent her entire day ducking Elites and Peacekeepers to use the Connection. That same night, her household finally racked up enough money to have a proper dinner. It was all gone by the time she'd gotten back. A week before that, Harley reached out to her for the first time in months, but she brushed him off so she could go to the rebel meeting. A month ago, she learned that every night she left for hours, her brother would cry, thinking that she'd ran away or that the Peacekeepers found her and killed her for being out past curfew. Was all of this worth it? Was hurting the people around her for the rebels worth it? As of now, it wasn't. But she hoped—prayed, yearned and wished—that in the long run it would be. That one day her brother wouldn't have to cry anymore. That one day her grandmother wouldn't have to worry about Peacekeepers invading their home. She'd dreamed for years of the moment she could actually be free from the shackles the Capitol bound to her ankles and wrists since the day she was born.

She looked up to the sky and shut her eyes tight, warm tears slipping down either side of her gaunt face.

'Mother, father, protect me. Please.'

"Alright!" Babbitt chimed, clapping her hands together. She motioned for the bowl-holder to come closer.

'I'm going to be safe,'she thought, clenching her fists together. 'I'm going to be safe.'

Babbitt dug her hand into the bowl.

'My brother's going to be safe. Roseanne's going to be safe. Harley's going to be safe.'

She pulled out a slip.

'We're all going to be safe. Venie's going to be safe. James's going to be safe. Nadia and Dallas too.'

She couldn't help but think of how many of her entries Babbitt's touched already. It's okay. They'd talk about how close they all were tonight.

"Cassandra Angelo!"

Her heart stopped. There was a distinct cry, a loud, sharp one from the other side of the square. No. No-no-no-no-no-no. This couldn't be happening. Not, now. Not today.

'"You'll be watched nearly every second, monitored by hundreds of thousands of people knowing that if you make a wrong move, you can kill us—ruin every chance of fighting back the Capitol, kill your family and friends and everything youlove. Just that quickly it's all gone."'

Cassandra Angelo—she was a rebel.

"Let go of me! Let me go!" She screamed again. And again. And again. Cursing, kicking, punching—the big screen showed it all. Two Elites struggled to keep her down. Her face was red. There was already a small gash at her hairline, blood seeping down her cheek.

"Mom! Mom! MOM! Help me! MOM! PLEASE!"

Jackie was silent. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't do anything.

"MOM! HELP ME!"

She couldn't even stop the tears running free out of her eyes. People looked at her. She didn't care.

They dragged her all the way up the steps to the stage, her hands held behind her back. Babbitt looked frightened. She dug her hand in the bowl again. Her body shook.

She pulled another slip out.

'It's not me. It's not me. It's no-'

"Jackie Lune!"

It was her. Spirits above, it was her.

Jackie stopped moving. She stopped breathing. Hell, as far as sure knew, the world could've stopped existing. It was her.

'It's me.'

The crowd split and two Peacekeepers rushed through, prepared for the same reaction. She couldn't breathe. Oh god, she couldn't breathe.

She couldn't feel the ground anymore either.

"Ledd'er go! Ledd'er go!"

'Grandma!' Her senses jolted back into at once, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She wasn't going out like this. She'll be damned if they were going to take her like this.

She clawed at her captor's hand. Her legs flew in all directions. One of her boots came off and soared into the crowd. She writhed around, the sharp edges of the Peacekeeper's armor cutting her belly. She didn't fucking care. She'd rather die.

"I'm not going! I'm not fucking going!"

One of her toes scraped against the floor. She was almost there. She was almost free. She turned around, sparing a glance at her grandma.

'Shit!'

There was an Elite. He grabbed her grandma's arm and twisted it the wrong way. She could hear the bone pop from feet away. Her Grandma's mouth was open. Her eyes wide in horror. Her knees on the ground. One moment she was screaming. The next, half her body was a limp crisp. She was shot. They shot her with a beacon-rifle.

"GRANDMA! GRANDMA!"

The Elite thrust his gun into her rib, silencing her. It hurt. It hurt so much.

They dragged her all the way the stage and stood her up next to Cassandra. For a single moment, their eyes met. In that one glance, they were able communicate on a level the common tongue couldn't even hope to reach.

Hunger Games or not, the Capital was going to pay.

L!A/N: Well. This happened. Not much else to say. By the way, this took me like 4 or 5 months to write. o-o. Know that. I also personally make it my job to torture Coqui with long ass chapters.

C!A/N: why you write such long chapters over 9K, really? IT WILL TAKE FOREVER FOR ME TO GET THIS MUCH DOWN, SOB.