First Hunger Games Fic, and I hope you all love it, but I'll settle for like.

I don't own Hunger Games.

My name is called.

At first it doesn't register, until I hear my brother's cry from where he is standing with my mother, six and safe. He may be young, but he is old enough to understand -he's seen enough Reapings to know that those who are called to stand on that stage do not come back home.

My first rational thought is how funny it is that those five syllables which name me -define me- also spell my death. The irony seems to bubble in my veins, and I smother a hysterical laugh that would sound like weakness to the other Tributes.

My feet move without my control, for my body is just a puppet of the Capitol and I am forced to do it's bidding, a prisoner in my mind, forever holding my tongue. The girls my age make a path to the stage for me, and I hear my sister cry out from behind me, her tears familiar, and heart aching.

It's funny how easy it is to walk to the stage - to my death as it were. I had always believed it would be difficult to put one foot in front of the other, like after a hard days work when I'm dead on my feet and yet there is still more to do, but it is simple.

It's the easiest thing in the world.

The stairs are another matter, for it takes most of my strength to walk up them and stand on the platform I have seen so many people stand on before.

I'm not surprised it's my turn. Not really.

My name was on twenty four slips of paper in the Reaping ball. Most would say that the odds of picking one of my twenty four out of a thousand was poor; that it wouldn't happen to me. But there is always a chance -and for a girl who knows about chances, I've been lucky.

I've been lucky for six years, but not this year.

This year, my last year, I will go to the Games, eighteen and youthful in my prime, and I will die.

No one will volunteer to take my place, as the Careers do in some of the districts, so there is no false hope in me that it will happen here, in District 4. It is merely accepting my fate, and it's easier than I thought it could be -knowing that I will die.

The crowd has mixed feelings, most of them are saddened for it is always sad to see the people being led to their deaths, but there is also relief from the other girls that now know they will not be standing in my place this year, and there are people in the crowd that are comforted by my age -glad that I am not one of the younger children, and that I stand a better chance then they would have.

My eyes meet my sister's, from where she is standing with the sixteen year olds, and she is crying, her blue eyes bright with watery tears. I do not look at her for long, because her tears will make me weep if I am to witness them, for her eyes are so much like our mother's. Instead my eyes focus on the clock tower's reflection in a window, and I stare at it refusing to look anywhere else. It's a survival instinct, for to look somewhere else could cause me to break down and show the other's who will watch the District 4 Reaping that their girl Tribute is weak.

I am not weak.

The District 4 Capitol escort's voice is white noise in my ears as he reaches into the boy's Reaping ball to draw out the name of the other Tribute.

It isn't until then that I notice I am watching him and not staring at the window. When his fingers close around a slip of paper- just an innocent scrap of paper- panic surges through my system like ocean water in winter, and my muscles tense like a sailors in a storm.

Please, not him.

If it is him, than I will not have the courage to fight in the Games, but to stand on my platform at the Cornucopia and pray for a swift death.

Not him.

Of all the people in the square today, he is one of the few that I would gladly push my way in front of to volunteer for his place. As if I could do such a thing, as if it were allowed.

My mother, my brother, my sister, and him. They are the ones that I would die for.

My traitorous eyes meet his saddened green ones for a second that seems to last forever as the Capitol escort holds up the slip of paper and the name comes tumbling out- marred by his obnoxious accent.

It is horrible to say that I am relieved when I hear that it is not his name -the name of the boy that I love.

My eyes slid shut for just one moment, because it is too much, and I cannot bear to see the boy Tribute walk to his death -a boy that I know well. But, I cannot hide from the truth forever, and I open my eyes and make sure that my facial expression hasn't compromised me; hasn't revealed the torment wrenching at my soul.

In that moment, I hate the Capitol more than words can express, not for sending me to my death, but for sending him into the Games with me.

He is not my beloved. He is not the love of my life. He is not the boy that I would go to the Games for. He is not the one that I would protect with my very last breath.

He is his brother, and he wears his face, and has his eyes.

The Anthem plays and when we shake, he grasps my trembling hand quickly, so that all of Panem will not see me crumbling; holding it tightly in his clammy grip in a way I'm sure he thinks is reassuring, but isn't.

I cannot bear to look at him, so I stare at his throat and pray that I will not have to kill him to come home.

In the Town Hall, I weep. I do not sob, but tears leak down my face as my brother grips me in his strong little boy hands, and my sister grips my mother as she sobs. My mother stares at me with a sort of defeat, as if she has lost the battle. As if she is going to the Games.

I tell them I love them, with much more courage than I feel, and I want to tell them trivial things to fill the silence, but I can't. I want to tell my sister and my brother to do well in school, and to work hard and not cause any trouble, but I don't. I have always been one to chose my words, and I hope that they know that these are the most important I can give them. It is the last gift that I can give them. I cannot lie to them and tell them that I will come back, because I'm almost certain that I won't.

My friends come and babble on and cry, but I have no ears for them as they chatter and sob, and it makes me feel sick that now I cannot tell them that I care about them -that I am glad that it is me and not them. Words fail me, as they often do, and I am left with noise in my ear, but no meaning to what they say. My tears have gone, and when the girls leave, I feel as though this day will never end -and yet it has only just begun.

My love comes last. We sit in silence, because he knows that I can say nothing to make this better. He knows me better than anyone, so he holds me, because he knows that I need it, though I would never admit it. He puts a thin metal chain around my neck and whispers, "Come back," in my ear so softly and with such sadness that my heart aches.

For him, I will try.

We board the train and wave goodbye to those on the station platform. I plaster on a smile for the cameras -as if I'm happy to leave. As if I know I'm going to come back home.

I'm not, and I don't.

Instead, I say goodbye to the sea and try not to hope that I will see it again.

The days leading up the Games are a blur -strategy is all but forgotten and I rely on what I know. I listen to my mentor, and take what she says with a pinch of doubt, knowing that her advise can only take me so far.

I give myself over to the designer, and wish for the best, wondering what they can make of me - a fatherless girl who has too much lip, and not enough skin on her bones. When they are done I cannot recognize myself, and I only think that, for now, it must be a good thing. My wide eyes don't look frightened, but vigilant, and my thick hair untamed and wild. My skin is -mostly- covered in iridescent scales that shimmer, leaving patches of my skin showing through- teasing and flirtatious. I look beautiful. I look vicious and fast, strong and powerful.

I look like a Tribute worth betting on.

During training, I try all weapons, thinking that even the most basic knowledge might help me -that even if I can't wield it, knowing it's limitations when held against me will be of benefit. I strive for perfection in the survival training, hoping against hope that this will be all that I will need to know to go back home.

I try with all my might to ignore the boy Tribute from my district.

The rich food of the Capitol is not lost on me, and I eat as if I might try to kill myself with over consumption. I know what hunger is, and near the end of the week I start to wean myself off most of it, thinking it might help to get used to small portions in the arena, but all it does is make me hungrier.

I try not to worry, but worrying happens, and I don't sleep as well at night as I should.

I get an average score from the Gamemakers, enough that I'm not overly noticed, nor underestimated, and my mentor nods and tells me to either keep what I'm hiding up my sleeve, or keep letting people think I have something up sleeve with a wariness that comes from having killed and watched people be killed.

The interview is the only place where I'm sure to falter. My mentor chastises and drills and tries to come up with an angle for the sponsors, until she throws her hands up and decides she can't help me.

The questions are easy, but the answers are hard. I am a puppet again, holding my tongue.

Father always said 'choose your words' and I chose not to use them, because it was easier. Now though, they want to hear me speak, and I'm not sure what to tell them.

Do I tell them the truth, or do I tell them what they want to hear?

My answers are deliberate and short, not lies but half-truths twisted to seem exactly as everybody will want to see them.

There's only one question that stalls me in my spot.

"Is there a boy back home waiting for you?"

It isn't until my fingers brush the cold links of my Token that I realize that I've reached for it, subconsciously thinking of the boy back home that looks like the boy sitting next to my empty chair just across the stage- a boy that I might have to kill.

The Capitol man grins at my response.

"I hope."

It's the only time that I speak the complete truth.

I run at the Cornucopia, grabbing what is only within reach and sprinting faster than I have ever sprinted into the pine landscape. It's unfamiliar to me, and I feel lost -as I'm sure most of the others do. I run until I can't run anymore, and I collapse on the ground panting for air, and aching with fatigue.

I've grabbed a bag with a water bottle, some food, a knife, some rope. My hand is also clenched around a small spear, which I don't remember grabbing but will come in handy I'm sure. It's not a trident, but it wields much the same -and for that I am grateful.

I take a sip of the water, and eat none of the food.

That night fourteen faces appear in the sky, and none of them are from District 4.

I don't know if it bothers me, or if it's a relief.

There are ten of us left and I don't sleep at all for fear of a Career standing over me when I wake, or of nightmares filled with the screams from the Cornucopia, which I can almost hear when I close my eyes.

It's the longest night of my life, and I spend it thinking about green eyes and goodbyes, while I wait to see if I'll live till tomorrow.

The next day I find water and gorge myself, trying to fill my empty stomach and save my food rations, but ultimately start to nibble on the things I got from the Cornucopia. I start to scavenge for food because what I have won't last long, and I have to eat. Finding a place to rest near the water isn't hard, but it is tricky because other people might come looking for it and stumble upon me, but the fog that the river creates should help conceal me from my would be murderers. I don't want to be found, in fact, all I want is to ride out this nightmare in a dark corner and wait for the others to kill each other.

That won't happen, and I'll be lucky if my death is quick.

Later, when the Anthem plays, his face is not in the sky, but two others are.

The third day I scavenge and drink. I make fish hooks out of a sharp metal ringlet on my backpack, and use some of the rope as a fishing line. There aren't many fish in the river but I catch a nice one that's not poisonous -but even then I cook it until it's almost burnt. It's the best thing I've ever tasted. I'm feel more comforted by the taste of fish -the taste of home- and it seems that everything is fine.

Until a twig snaps.

Terror pumps in my veins in place of blood, and I'm a statue for just a second -long enough to take in a face that will haunt me forever. Pale skin, almond eyes like too watery mud puddles under bushy brows and a heavy set brow, a long crooked nose, and thin lips.

It's the boy from District 5- Forestry, I think. He's tall and strong -no doubt from chopping down all those trees- and he's holding a weapon that he doesn't know how to use. He's gripping the handle in the wrong spot, almost like you would hold an axe, and the balance is all off with too much weight in the front.

I grab my spear, and as I realize that he hasn't noticed me, my hand tightens on the staff until my knuckles are white. He's come for the water, and I'm far enough from the bank that he hasn't seen me.

He kneels at the edge of the river, not bothering to look around, and gazes at it with the reverence of a dying man before plunging his hands in and drinking from his cupped hands.

It's such an easy kill, that for a second, I think it's a trap.

I have no delusions that if our roles were reversed, that I wouldn't live as long as he has. He'd have seen me and killed me, simple as that.

With this in mind I throw my spear and it sinks into his back with a surreal sort of precision. My motions are mechanical, and I don't realize what I'm dong until it's done. The blood soaks his shirt and he tumbles to the ground, my stomach tumbling with him.

It's not enough to kill him though, those three inches into his back.

He gets up and charges, fighting me, dropping his weapon. His hands curl their way around my throat until I can't breathe. His face is dark and rage filled, but his eyes are riddled with fear and desperation that I understand better than he could ever know. The blood is pounding in my ears, and I beat at him with all my strength until my hands fall limp.

One of them lands on a rock.

It's instinctual to grab it and smash it into his temple. I don't even think about it as it happens, only feel relief as I choke on the air my body has so desperately missed. I pant and treasure each breath as I cough and sputter on the ground.

When the cannon calls his death I blink.

My heart feels like horror, and I can't seem to move.

Somehow I crawl far enough way from him for the Capitol to collect his body.

I'm retching in a bush when the hovercraft comes, shaking in absolute fear of what I have done. My stomach empties and I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and it isn't until then that I realize I have his blood on my hands, and dry heave and tremble and cry.

What have I done?

I scrub my hands in the water, but they never do feel clean and I'm not entirely sure they ever will.

I would have thought it would be harder to kill a man. But, again, I was wrong. It's the easiest thing in the world.

But, the guilt isn't.

They're wrong you know, when they say that hope will kill you. Guilt will, much faster.

That night, there is only one face in the sky -it's the same one that fills my nightmares- and I'll never forget it for as long as I live.

The fourth day my mouth tastes like bile, and I don't eat even though I'm starving. My throat aches, and my spear is covered in dried blood.

There is another face in the sky, but I don't recognize it.

I'm almost glad.

The fifth day a parcel floats down from the sky for me, and I almost can't believe it as it settles into my hands. I stare at it and wonder if I even deserve it after what I've done, but no, that is the point of the Games and this is a reward.

I just want to go home. I just want to be punished for what I've done.

I don't know what I want more.

My survival instincts force me to open my gift, like I'm a puppet again. It's bread, and I'm so hungry that I eat it all, not bothering to conserve, because if I die than I die and it won't be the worst thing in the world to happen. There are few things to live for, and one of them might turn away from me were I to return -and that would be a fate worse than death.

What does he think of me now? Now, that I've killed a man.

That night, before I dream of a rage filled face and green eyes and ocean spray and blood, there are three faces in the sky.

It seems that the Career alliance has been broken, but that doesn't make it any easier to sleep.

The sixth day I gather food and eat and drink, though reluctantly. I don't fish though, because I don't want to think about home right now, and whatever comfort I feel will be forever tainted by the taste of river trout and bile.

There are four of us left.

One from District 1.

One from District 2.

Two from District 4.

It is unheard of, and I have a sickening feeling that the Gamemakers will take this opportune chance to see who will come out on top -and who will kill who.

But, on the sixth night, there are no faces and in the sky.

It is not relief that I feel.

It starts raining the seventh day, a great downpour that seems fit for carnage.

I wonder who's backdrop it is, because it certainly isn't mine, but no faces show up in the sky during the anthem.

A cannon sounds just before dawn, and it wakes me from a nightmare about hands on my throat.

On the eighth day I don't have time to worry about who's died, because the Gamemakers send the worst of the storm my way and I have to flee the flood towards the Cornucopia and the battle that will inevitably come.

The rain pelts down as hail and then as great torrents of water. I stumble trough the forest blind and gasping for breath, hoping to reach the end and wondering if I ever will. I trip and fall, twisting my ankle, and ripping a gash up my leg on a tree root that stings with every step, but I push on, and on, and on.

When I reach it, waterlogged and exhausted, I sleep in it, not worried about death, just comforted that I can breathe someplace dry.

The Anthem wakes me, and the face in the sky is the girl from District 1.

I shiver in the Cornucopia, wet and worried.

I don't want to kill the boy with his face, but it seems like the Gamemakers want me to.

On the ninth day a cannon sounds and I hope it's his.

As bad as it sounds, I hope like hell it's his.

It isn't.

I cry like I never have.

Because even though I'm still alive, I've lost, because I only have two options.

1) I can kill the boy with his face- his brother, his twin or 2) I can die in this arena, with my Token around my neck and his words in my head.

"Come home," he'd said.

But at what price? His resentment?

I couldn't stand it if he looked at me like I'd killed his brother.

I cry all night, and my tears only run out when the sky starts to peak through the clouds.

I wait for him at the Cornucopia, because I know that things must end where they begin. My hand clutches my spear, and my stomach growls in nervous knots.

I don't eat and I don't drink and I don't rest, because this is it -either I live and go to the Capitol and they fix my ails, or I die in the godforsaken arena.

I'm starting to dread both options.

He staggers into the clearing, wounded and bleeding, his dark skin ashen. It's the first time I've looked at him -really looked at him- since before my name was called.

In District 4 they've always said that the twins were identical -that the boys were indistinguishable- but it's not true. His nose is broken from a fight when we were little, and his brother has reef scars up his calves. It's the only physical difference they have and I find myself searching for it the second he's close enough to tell.

This boy's nose is unbroken, and the relief I feel makes me feel sick with guilt.

"Magnolia." he greets me, weakly.

I am startled, since I have not heard my name since my pedestal was hoisted up and my designer bid me goodbye. It's only been ten days, but it feels like a lifetime or more. I don't feel like Magnolia anymore.

He sinks to the ground, unafraid. Perhaps because he has come to the same conclusion I have, or perhaps because he trusts me. Or, maybe it's just because he can stand no longer, his limbs shaking like riggings in the storm winds. He's weak, and he's dying.

I greet him by name, and my voice is horse from lack of use and dehydration.

He looks at me with those sea weed green eyes, and he nods as he sees my spear, still stained with blood despite the torrents of rain it had endured.

"You always were a fighter. I can't say I'm surprised." He smiles, and I notice that he has gaps in his teeth that were not there before. "Someone strangled you?"

There must be bruises, I think, circling my neck -indentations of fingers long dead. "Yes."

"Who?"

"Distr- five." I croak, my dry throat trying to close around the 'r.'

"The trembling girl?"

"No."

"Oh. Did you…?" He glances pointedly at my spear.

I nodded, curtly, and looked away, ashamed.

"Good." He says, mostly to himself.

I have no words for this. I want to tell him that I'm glad he's made it this far, but I'm not. Had it been any other competitor from any other district, I could have done what he had asked of me. I could have come home, with blood forever staining my hands, and guilt forever blotting my mind. I could have fought for it with my last breath.

But, now, I can't.

He licks the blood off his lips, "I want you to kill me, Mags."

I am more frozen than when a twig snapped and I fought with District 5.

"No." My voice is sharp, piercing the air of the arena better than any blade.

"I'm dying. I'm in pain. I want you to end it." He urges, trying to persuade.

"No." My throat hurts, with a flaring pain, but I raise my voice.

"It's because I have his face, isn't it?" He asks, and his voice isn't angry, nor cruel- it simply is.

I don't hesitate to speak the truth, because he is dying, and he deserves as much. "Yes."

"He told me to save you. He begged me. He told me that if I could not, that I should come home. But, he put you in front of me -he always has."

"No." I say again, but my voice trembles.

"He would want you to come home Mags, so he could marry you, like he's wanted to do since we were kids." He spoke. "He'll miss me, but he'll have you."

Now, I don't say anything. I wonder who would live the longest -the one without water or the one without blood.

Which do you need more? Which does he need more?

"Please, Mags, I'm begging." He closes his eyes, and shudders. "Make it quick, so that I don't have to feel this any longer."

"How much?" I ask, and he knows what I'm saying.

How much does it hurt?

"Like hell."

This makes me laugh with an edge of hysteria, and cough as the aching in my throat becomes too much to bear. We're already in hell, and the boy in the grass before be seems to get where I'm getting at. He tries to smile, but all his lips do is twitch into a grimace.

It's this that breaks my resolve, his inability to smile, and I whisper, "I will."

He blinks at me, and I swallow reflexively. "Really?" He slurs.

"For you." I say, and slide off the Cornucopia. My knees tremble, and I pick up my spear with trembling hands.

"No," He says, and I drop it and look at him, wondering if he's changed his mind. He hasn't, since he holds out a knife that has blood around the hilt. He's killed with this knife, and he wants to die by it. "This."

I nod, and take it. It's weight reminds me of the knives back home, and I know why he chose it.

It's the easiest thing in the world, killing a man.

But his green eyes will haunt me, no matter his goodbye.

"Thank you, Mags," He'd sighed, smiling.

This time the hovercraft takes me away, living and breathing, after his cannon sounds.

I hear that cannon every day of my life.

The boy from District 5 damaged my larynx during our struggle, the doctors say, and they can't fix it properly, but that's alright, because I don't say much anyway.

I think it's better this way, because now I can't tell the Capitol what I think.

Because what I would say would have me killed.

I carried those faces, those eyes, and sighs, and knees pressed into the riverbank, all the way back to District 4. I'm praised along the way, but some eyes hold judgment, but not as much as my own.

We eat, and celebrate and everyone is glad I'm home -except the ones who aren't. I can't say I blame them for their hostile glares -because even I wish he would have wanted to come home.

I would have let him.

I go home that night, to a place that isn't home, but more bearable, and fall into cold sheets that smell like dust. It's comforting, I think.

The dreams aren't, but they never will be, I'm sure of that now.

He proposes the day that the cameras go away.

But all I see are those green eyes.

All I hear is "Thank you, Mags."

But I say yes, because I love him.

Or I used to.