What...WHAT'S THIS?! THE STORY LIVES?! INCONCEIVABLE!

Nah, I decided to throw this up and see how it looks. I'm pretty ok with it.

And I HATE leaving stories without endings. So I'm going to try and do some more work with this story, and maybe it'll work out. But I changed jobs 4 months ago, and this new one isn't as conducive to writing as my last one. So, I'll do the best I can. No promises.

An explosion shatters rock and mortar. Cracks spider web up the stone edifice, and a giant rumble echoes in the chasm. Water bursts through, sweeping over the dry riverbed, a cascade of violence wiping away everything in its path. Anthony's broken body is quickly lost in the commotion.

The camera pans out from the view of the dam, then switches to following the rushing water down the canyon. Debris crashes into trees and rocks, the force of the water destroying anything that stands against it. Finally, the river bursts out into open space, the lazy waterfall turned into a mini-Niagara Falls.

Finally, the focus is swept back to me, sitting calmly on the top of the cliff, several feet above the relative calm of the water, with the setting sun in the background. I watch as wisps of auburn hair dance in the wind, and then the feed changes to the image of me, seated next to Caesar Flickerman in the gorgeous gown Reva designed for me. The audience's applause fades away, and Caesar turns to me—

I jump as my bedroom door slams open, and my auburn-haired roommate storms in. "What are you still doing in bed? The Reaping is in an hour, you have to be on that stage, and I'll be damned if I have to explain to the Peacekeepers why the newest Victor isn't there for the ceremony!"

I blink, my doe-eyes full of innocence.

Annie rolls her eyes and yanks off my blankets. "Up! You're lucky Reva's in the Capitol, or else you'd be in real trouble."

I groan. I look back at the projection TV, at the fake smile and empty eyes on my face. How appropriate. "I don't really care, they won't be looking at me."

"Of course they will be, and even if they aren't, a certain someone else will be," she says.

Her face is buried in my closet, which is great, because she can't see the blush on my face. "I won't dignify that with a reply, thank you very much."

"You really don't have to. Put these on." She pulls out a light blue blouse and white shorts and tosses them on my bed. I watch, bemused, as Annie's eyes cut across my vast collection of clothes I'd probably never wear if she didn't practically force me into them. She reaches in and grabs a pale yellow sundress.

Annie spins around and holds the dress up against her. "What do you think? Too light?"

"Beautiful, actually. Take it, I don't like dresses," I reply, slipping out of bed and obediently putting on the clothes she chose for me. Annie watches the projection as I step into the bathroom and, closing the door, take off my nightclothes.

"It would probably be good if you could work on hiding your murderous intentions better, Celia," Annie yells at me through the door.

"What do you mean? The interview?" I finish buttoning my blouse and open the door. Annie's perched on the edge of my bed, a thoughtful look on her face as she watches the byplay between Caesar and me.

She nods, giving my clothes a quick look. "You get this look in your eyes, like you're thinking of how to make it look like an accident. A little circumspection would probably do you some good."

"You've been raiding my library again, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"The audience didn't seem to notice."

I sit next to her on the bed, and she reaches over and grabs my hairbrush and starts working on the knots and tangles in my hair. "They weren't they only ones watching."

"Hmm." I can't help but relax while Annie does my hair. The feel of the brush through my auburn tresses is soothing. I doze as she arranges it in neat rows of braids along my scalp until it hangs down my neck to my shoulders. I'd been resisting letting it grow out, although Annie assures me it would look great.

A few minutes later, she's pushing me up and out the door. "Go, go. I'll be along in a few minutes. Say high to Finnick for me!" She sends me off with a cheeky grin.

I stick my tongue out as I walk down the stairs from my house. It's nice, two stories tall, nestled in the shade of the cliff with the nineteen other houses that make up the Victor's Village. Its color scheme was light blue and yellow, to my specifications, and the small lawn surrounding it had patches of flowers scattered all around. I still didn't have much talent for ikebana, but they bloomed almost year-round, and traces of their scent often wafted through my house.

The houses are on a rise that lets them overlook the town as a whole, from the warehouses to the docks to the tenement buildings to the market. I could see just about anywhere from my front steps—although I suspect the intent is to remind everyone else just how separate the Victors are from the rest of them.

I still have twenty minutes before the start of the Reaping, which gives me plenty of time to stop by the market for a quick breakfast. Though my stomach still churns a bit in anticipation, I don't let it stop me from eating a few pieces of pastry I buy from the old man selling them from his stall. The people of the market are always happy to see me—Victors, of course, being the most likely to spend money—and I try to oblige them by spreading my newfound wealth as much as possible.

I turn to the square, where people have been filing in to stand for a while now. Everyone twelve to eighteen is gathered according to age in the partitioned area in the middle, with all the spectators—their parents and not-of-age siblings, and everyone else—surrounding them, looking on, even making bets in a few instances. I give these people a look of disgust, and do my best to ignore them.

The dais in front of the Justice Building is starting to fill up with Victors. I've gotten to know a couple of them in the past year, but for the most part I've stuck with Finnick and Mags. The others are mostly proud of their victories in the Games, and of the acclaim that goes with it. I don't have much in common with these people, the ones who get together during Hunger Games to celebrate and recap their wins and enjoy their successes. Frankly, it's not something I have much stomach for, so I stick to Finnick and Mags.

I hand off my last bit of pastry to a small child clinging to his mother's skirt and mount the stage, taking a seat at the end of the isle next to Mags. She smiles at me and pats my leg, then turns to watch Simon Hellepholant plod his way across the stage in his usual gaudy attire. This time, it's a bright pink coat with a pale violet undershirt and shorts matching the color of his dyed mustache. "He's gone all out this year, hasn't he?" I murmur to Mags, who gives me a fake-stern glare as Simon taps the microphone.

"Hello, hello! And welcome to the Reaping of the Seventy First Hunger Games! I'd like to extend my warmest of welcomes to all of you here, but especially to our newest Victor, Celia Sawyer!" gestures to me, and the crowd cheers. I smile and wave back to everyone, and there are even a few catcalls mixed in. I see Annie, almost exactly in the middle of all the potential Tributes, wearing the sundress she'd taken from my closet less than an hour ago.

The applause dies down as Simon holds his hands up. "Now, time for the Reaping!" He reaches into the boys' bowl and pulls out a tiny slip of paper. He takes his time opening it up and reading the name as everyone holds their breath in anticipation.

"Gregory Slader!"

A wave of relief sweeps through the crowd as dozens of boys are spared for another year. Gregory, understandably, is less than relieved—indeed, he's tense and sweating. Friends of his are consoling him, to little avail, as the Peacekeepers reach him and move to escort him to the stage. He moves forward, jerkily, his eyes wild. When he finally makes it to the dais, something inside of him gives and he slumps forward. No one is volunteering.

I feel for him.

Simon's already reaching into the girls' bowl, digging around for a bit before pulling out a name. He reads the name written inside and says, "Beatrice Fletcher!"

A heavy sob comes from a few deep in the crowd. A girl with wavy dark brown hair has her hands clutched over her face, her eyes wide in terror. She can't be more than fourteen years old. She takes a step forward as people make a path for her, but before she can take a second, a voice calls out from near the back.

"I volunteer as Tribute!"

People in the crowd turn to look at the volunteer. Space opens up around her as she strides, confidently, towards the front. I absently watch as Beatrice practically collapses into the arms of her friends, a look of disbelief and wonder on her face as she's spared a fight to the death.

The volunteer mounts the stage and stands on the opposite side of Simon from Gregory, an anticipatory grin spreading across her face. "And you would be?"

"Lyda Nybar," she responds. There's some applause from a few people towards where she was standing. The girl waves at her friends and family; I take the opportunity to look over my new trainee. She's tall, taller than me, with short light brown hair and blue eyes. She's not the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, but there's an aura of confidence around her that has a lot of the boys in the crowd cheering. Greg's glowering at her pretty heavily, though—probably jealous that no one volunteered for him.

Can't say I blame him.

"Excellent!" Simon exclaims. He grabs each Tribute by the hand and raises them up high. "Ladies and gentlemen of District Four, I give you—your Tributes!"

Gregory is the strong, silent type—well, silent at least. He isn't small or scrawny, but there is a distinct lack of muscle on his lanky frame. A few inches short of six feet, he looks like someone had taken a child and stretched him out. He's clumsy, awkward, and I doubt that the few days of training available to the Tributes will do much to help him get over that.

And I do not envy Finnick the job, either.

Lyda, on the other hand, is confident almost to the point of excess. She ignores Gregory, and answers questions with bland non-answers that do nothing to advance any attempt at conversation any of us make. The end result is that Finnick and I are forced to talk to Simon. Simon, of course, is as boisterous and bombastic as always, which is its own special form of torture.

Any hopes I have that Lyda's standoffish attitude would dissipate once we were alone together are pretty immediately crushed. I'm honestly a little offended; my victory in the last Games showed pretty thoroughly that I have a solid grasp of weapons handling, strategic thinking, and improvisation, and yet Lyda more or less ignores my attempts to spark a discussion over her skills. Is she afraid I'd leak information on her to other Tributes? Is she arrogant enough to think that I can't help her cause?

Fortunately, the train ride ends fairly quickly, and we're all escorted past screaming fans, most of whom are cheering for me, although a large contingent of girls and women squeal when Finnick graces them with his trademark grin.

Our transport moves us to the arena, where we're met by Reva and the Triplets (with their skin colored in dark blue, green, and violet, a clear attempt to maintain District Four's aquatic theme). Reva and I share a quick look once she takes charge of my Tribute that communicates to her how I feel. The single elegantly raised eyebrow tells me that she got my message, although you wouldn't be able to tell from how she takes charge of Lyda. The Triplets twitter back and forth, sparing an enthusiastic greeting for me that I have no time to appreciate before they whisk my Tribute away into the annals of the arena.

Once our Tributes are gone, Finnick and I take what seems to be the first chance since we've left Four to just breathe. The tension in my shoulders that I didn't notice building up starts to ease.

"I don't know which of us has the harder job," Finnick mutters to me.

"Oh, it's definitely you," I respond. "My Tribute clearly doesn't need my help."

He rolls his eyes. "She's not the first Tribute to have that attitude. My first year as a Mentor, I had a boy two years older than me. He thought I was just a pretty boy who got lucky, so he didn't listen to a word I said." He snorts in disgust. "He didn't make it out of the Cornucopia. Stabbed in the back by someone he'd thought was an ally."

I nod along to his story. Finnick sounds disgusted, but I can tell there is some real emotion behind the story; sadness, frustration, and anger.

We stood there for a moment, when I break the silence. "He was wrong, you know."

Finnick glances my way, broken out of whatever memories he was reliving. "Oh?"

I nod solemnly. "Oh, yeah. You're not THAT pretty."

He snirks and ruffles my hair. "Come on. Let's introduce you to the other mentors."