If you are new to this story, you are now reading a revised version of the previous one. And if you're a returning reader, the same goes for you. It's nothing major, just a few grammar fix ups that were bugging the hell out of me. I highly suggest reading/re-reading this. It'll look and sound a lot better than before. Trust me. Anyway, back to reading...

I wake up to a very loud, very familiar screaming. I pop my eyes open and shoot up into a sitting position to see my best friend, Marty, screaming bloody murder in his sleep. His body thrashes from side to side, his bed creaking with every movement.

Oh no! Not another nightmare.

I jump out of bed and dash to his side, shaking the zebra's shoulders. He shoots up, tears streaming down his cheeks as he choppily gasps for breath. As soon as he sees me, he grips me tightly and I return the embrace.

This isn't the first time this has happened. Ever since we came here three years ago, Marty's been having nightmares about being picked for the Hunger Games. Of course, he'll never be picked. Thankfully, his name's only been in there once. His chances of it getting pulled out are literally one to a million. Yet as assuring as that is, he's terrified at the mere thought of the thin slip of paper inscribed with his name being read aloud for all of District 12 to hear.

"I w-was picked...and, and I...I". He stutters, his voice muffled as he whimpers into my shoulder.

"It won't happen. I promise." I whisper into his ear, trying to soothe him. I rub my paw up and down his back to slow down the sobs that rack his shoulders.

When he finally stops crying, he lays back down on his stomach and quickly falls back asleep. I sigh heavily, glancing out the dirty, spider web cracked window to see that outside is a cobalt hue mixed with hints of tangerine. Early morning.

Dammit! I'm a full two hours before curfew.

I turn to the others who're still sleeping; Melman and Gloria share the largest bed, snoring away with their arms wrapped securely around the other. My mom, Florrie, has the bed closest to the door. She sleeps flat on her back, her paws lain across her stomach. She looks so peaceful as if she slumbers without a care in the world. Thank God Marty's outburst hadn't wakened them. They'd never go back to bed then.

I can't say the same goes for me. The sudden howls emitting from Marty's surely sore throat not minutes ago had enacted an unwelcome adrenaline rush. The mere thought of climbing back into the rough covers makes me want to do a dozen jumping jacks. Might as well get a jump on the day.

I trudge to my dresser, careful not to step on the particularly loud floorboards disturb the others. Just as my paw grabs a hold of the wooden handle, my ears jerk upwards in alarm. A low, almost quiet hum buzzes distantly. It's coming from outside. It's an all too familiar sound, like the beating of a hummingbird's wings. I cautiously peer out the window again, squinting through the lines of fractured glass. Zooming high in the sky is a large aircraft, pure white and round like a crystalized bubble in a sea of royal blue. One second it's there and the next it disappears like a bullet spitting out of the chamber of a pistol.

That's when it hits me; today is reaping day! The day when the Capitol picks two people or animals to fight in the Hunger Games. Today, two people are to be chosen to go into a meticulously, dangerously designed arena with twenty-two others and be forced to fight to the death.

The urge to faint had never been stronger. I clutch the top of the dresser, claws digging int the wood, eyes clamped shut, breathing through my nostrils until the wave of nausea subsides.

Like any other everyday citizen of Panem, I pray that I won't be one of the newly selected tributes.

Once upon a time long long ago (3 years precisely), we had first arrived n the rundown town of District 12. As new arrivals, we had no way of getting food. So in order for us to not starve to death, we had to do this practice called tesserae where we would get a month's worth of food supplies if we entered our name into the reaping again. I wouldn't let any of the others do it. I couldn't risk them being picked for the Games. And out of all of those slips, forty-three of them are mine.

I pull my head out of that thought and get dressed. I slip off my nightclothes and put on a simple black shirt and brown trousers with an old hunting jacket. Since we can now talk to humans, the Capitol requires that all animals wear clothes, whether we like it or not. And trust me when I say that I'm no fan of this law. I snag my hunting bag from the closet and move out. As I pass by the kitchen, a high pitched growl pierces the eerie silence. I look down with a whirl of my neck to see Marty's pet Yorkie, Goldie, sitting on the floor, glowering at me in what anyone could describe as pure hatred.

Awhile back, we had found him on one of our many errands in town laying in the middle of the road. The little pup was as skinny as a twig, belly swollen with worms, and his fur filled with fleas. I was sure he wouldn't make it, but Marty insisted on keeping him. Even though I told him again and again how I couldn't help him considering I was struggling enough keeping us in check, that I could barely provide for us and he would just be another mouth to feed. Later, I decided to put the pup out of its misery by drowning him in a bucket once, but the second I held its small body over the cold water I thought of how heartbroken Marty would be, how much he would resent me. I didn't go through with it. In a matter of painstakingly long three weeks, Melman was managed to heal him up. And despite letting him live, the little dog has hated my guts ever since.

"I'll still cook you," I warn. He snarls and waddles out of the room, his makeshift collar jingling like a miniature sleigh of bells.

I exit the kitchen and make my way outside, shut the door behind me with a crisp click of the lock, and trek through the field of grass. The early June morning air is warm and moist, the sodden earth under my bare hind paws wet and slightly slick from last night's rainfall. The tall, stringy grass tickles my tail as it sways behind me. I continue forward, my eyes adjusting to dimness of dawn as I approach the fence. It's supposed to be electrified and chain-linked all the while bordering off District 12 from the wilderness outlying just dozens of feet away. But with how well our squads of Peacekeepers are trained (which is little to none), the fence is basically abandoned.

I wiggle my way through a hole puncturing the bottom of the neatly eaved wire- a hole that I had dug up a while back-grab my quiver and bow from a hollow log.

Before I came to District 12, I didn't know zip about the bow and arrow, let alone hunting in all, until our previous neighbor took it upon himself to teach me. He was an older man, a retired coal miner who took pity on us who were a bunch of scared, starving animals at the time. To say that practicing the supposed art of the bow and arrow was a hard task would be an understatement. It was the worst thing I've ever endured, not to mention totally humiliating. My large paws fumbled with the arrows and my arms weren't strong enough to pull back the taut string. Every day I practiced, and boy did I hate it. Plus, the old man wasn't the best teacher and nothing short of an indecent man. Always insulting me and cussing me out as if I was causing him discomfort. Wouldn't help if he got off his lazy ass for once.

Sooner than later (preferably later), I became a natural at it. It's much better and easier than doing it the old fashioned way if you know what I mean.

One year afterward, the old man died of black lung disease. I never knew him well, he never liked to talk about himself much. And anyone who had ever encountered him was not willing to shed a tear for the grouch. As I scavenged his house for anything valuable to barter one day, I found that he had made me a bow as a gift before he had passed on. It's bigger and thicker than the others I had trained with and contorts into a strange crescent shape in the middle as a special hold for my paws. Made of fine spruce and oiled with dark, black paint giving it a smooth and clean texture. And engraved in the wood, a carving of a lion painted in mustard yellow is displayed among the black background. I've used it ever since to catch game and sell it at the Hob, a black market in an old coal factory.

As I ascend a steep hill, I can feel the muscles in my face start to relax as I emerge from a thicket of brush. A sort of weight lifts from my shoulder I reach my destination, relieving. I let out a sigh. The corners of my mouth are already perked up. My friend and hunting partner, Tigress, says that I only smile in the woods.

I make it to a hedge and squeeze my way through the tangle of briar and thorns that open up to a barren cliff. Here I meet Tigress nearly every day for our hunting routine. I find her sitting on a large boulder with her paws resting behind her, face down on the rock. I sit next to her, not wanting to disturb the tranquil environment around us. She doesn't acknowledge me until I speak up.

"Morning, T." I greet. She turns her head, her bright yellow, red eyes glowing like burning embers in the growing rays of the rising sun. She gives a small smile.

"Morning." She says back. "Look what I caught today." She digs through her thick coat and pulls out a large loaf of bread with a knife impaled in the middle. I chuckle as I take the bread into my paws and press it to my snout. Fresh from the bakery. Very much unlike the flat, burnt loaves we make from our grain rations.

"How much for it?" I ask her.

"I got it for free. I think the old cat was feeling a bit giving today." She answers.

"Vitaly? Giving?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "You better not be shitting me."

Vitaly is the Russian tiger who owns the bakery. And let me tell you, the words "Vitaly" and "free" are usually never in the same sentence. Let alone in a paragraph.

We both smirk at the idea.

I slice up the bread with the knife and we eat the baked goods together. In everyday life, moments like this are hard to come by, at least in District 12; spending time with a friend and sharing a good meal together, even if that meal is nothing but a small loaf of bread. And surprisingly, not just plain old bread, either. Inside are bits of nuts and cranberries. A rarity.

Is Tigress sure he gave it away for free? No strings attached?

We both stare off into the distance. Below us, a deep valley filled with giant groves of trees and vegetation overflows the cavern to the brim. For miles and miles, all we can see are the sprouting, deep green tops of the oaks and aspens sway in the gentle wind. Such a sight can be a once in a lifetime experience. Tigress and I are lucky, though. Supposedly, we are the only, repeat the ONLY, ones in the Seam brave enough to venture beyond the fence. Others say that they're too scared of the penalty that comes with our line of work. I, for one, could get a bullet in my head every day for poaching, but I know how to find food. I know how to make my way through the black market. I know how to dodge the punishments. I know how to stay alive.

I almost forget about the reaping, the Hunger Games, the soul-crushing anxiety of knowing that every day is one step closer to inevitable death in this shithole of a town, in these few moments of peace. The scent of wildflowers and pine make it all the more enjoyable. I wish it could last forever. But unfortunately, Tigress interrupts it.

"We could do it, you know?" She says.

"What?"

"Leave District 12. Runoff into the woods, me and you." She says as her eyes traveling over the lands and back to me.

"You know we can't do that. We have too many mouths to feed." I say.

On occasion, Tigress and I have talked about leaving District 12 behind. Running off and making a life for ourselves away from this miserable place. But in all, we both know that it can never happen. We have too many responsibilities on our paws. Nothing good will ever come out of it for them.

"Yeah, if we didn't have so many kids," Tigress says. She turns away from me, scowl etching into her short muzzle.

We don't have kids. Tigress and I aren't mates and nothing romantic has ever wedged between the two of us. But since Tigress is the unofficial caretaker of the orphans in the Seam, they might as well be. She and I are the main providers for young kids. Although we are not entirely allowed to do so, we get the young children's food from the forest. There are well over twenty kids there, and if we were to leave they would starve to death.

Try living with that on your conscious.

"I'm never having kids," I announce. I'm not sure exactly why I say that, but it's true. I can't imagine myself ever bringing a cub or two into the world. And if I did, I couldn't watch them grow and suffer from the constant fear of the Hunger Games as I have.

"I just might, if I didn't live here," Tigress says as she picks at a clump of grass. I don't say that she already lives here because she of all people already knows it. She doesn't need to be reminded.

I glance over at the female tiger. Her swirling black stripes inking her head and arms pop out against her short, Chinese orange and white fur. Tigress is beautiful, there's no doubt about it, although I'm not attracted to her. If she wants children, she'll have no problem finding a proper mate. She's very powerful, too. When she wasn't living in District 12, she was a kung fu warrior in China. I've never been to China, but she told me that it was the most beautiful place she ever laid eyes on. She lived in a village called the Valley of Peace, where she trained her whole life in the art of kung fu to protect others. Coming here, life took a turn for the worse.

Her best friend who had worked in the mines, a panda named Po, had been obliterated in a mine explosion. There was nothing to bury. The whole town held a ceremony at the Justice Building to honor those who had perished in the "unfortunate event", as the mayor put it, and we attended out of respect. Everyone in the Seam knew or either heard of Po. He was kind and polite to everyone, always one for a laugh, a tremendous appetite. It was devastating to watch his funeral.

Standing there, in the large, marble dome, was when I saw Tigress for the first time. With a young child in her arms, Tigress looked as if she had been hit with a truck, metaphorically speaking. Her shoulders slumped forward, her posture crooked and broken like her spirit, her eyes dead. I too knew what she was going through. My dad's loss left me with a cracked heart, never to be truly mended back together again.

Later on, things got better... sort of (I mean, we still live in a goddamn dictatorship, so life is hell). Tigress took the position of helping out at the children's center and began to illegally poach. I met her not too long afterward and we merged into a partnership, but it took even longer for us to become friends. Since then, we've exchanged a number of talents and ideas amongst one another; she taught me how to fight and I taught her how to use weapons. It's been going on for a good two and a half years and I can now say that I know her like the back of my paw.

"So, what should we do first?" She asks after a full five minutes of silence.

"How about we set up the poles and hunt for a bit?" I suggest. She nods in agreement. We stand up, wiping off the dirt from our trousers and make our way up to a small lake in the heart of the woods. We set up some fishing poles to catch trout before we start off in the more dense part of the forest, where most of the larger foul is.

I can't help but notice the music playing around me. A beautiful medley of crickets chirping away, the bubbling of a nearby stream pooling with fresh, cold water, and the unforgettable melody of a Mockingjay. They're my favorite birds. Sweet and shy, yet they can be sneaky little bastards. Every now and again, I'll come across one and whistle out a few notes until it sings along.

Dammit, Alex! Focus! You don't have time to go fucking bird watching.

Right, right. Focus. We have to get this hunt done and over with. We need at least two geese and a duck to provide for today's meals. We can gather plants later. Hopefully, it will be quick so that I can get home and get ready for the reaping.

The hunt it starting out slow, but then we creep up on a flock of geese.

Perfect.

We tiptoe our way behind a tree, peering over around a fat trunk. Sliding off the bow from around my chest, I notch an arrow in place and take aim. It points at a particularly fat one. Out of the peripheral of my vision, I can see Tigress give a quick nod of her head. I breathe in, breath out, and release a second after the exhale. It sails through the air and hits home with a satisfying thud.