"For the first Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that it was their choice to initiate violence that caused all the needless bloodshed and horrific rebellion, the tributes will be chosen not by a drawing, but by a vote."

You could almost hear a collective gasp fly through Panem. Not President Candlewick, of course, but even the Capitol audience, even the governent officials were surprised. Surprised, but not horrified.

The gasps in the districts were different. It was not merely a pleasant surprise catching them off-guard, but a new terror to plague them all. Who could live with the guilt of electing someone to go off and die? Who could fight with hope in the arena knowing that their neighbors and friends were the ones that gave them this fate?

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

~000~

It's really not all that different from what we do in our district, really. Pick the strongest, the brightest, the best to vie for the crown. Well, normally there would be pandemonium at the reapings, with trained tributes climbing over one another to be noticed, chosen. This way, I think, is much more efficient and organized.

We started training our tributes about ten years ago. At first it was a means of survival, but now it has become a sort of contest. Our children have learned to be optimistic and self-sacrificing. They want to use what they've learned, to show off their skills, to prove themselves the greatest of them all-even if they die trying.

I smile at the large assembly of the most prominent citizens of District One, almost sure to be a majority of the district. They each silently want something different for their child, but are sure to go along with whatever plan the Head Trainer has to offer.

"I have supervised all classes and chosen the two best trainees to be our tributes for the year. The lucky girl and boy are Chemise Accour and Shadow Delaviande."

~000~

Two is a large district. Those who train their children to be in the Games think they make up the majority of the it, but they forget us. The stonemasons. The poor who elect not to be brainwashed into warlike ways and servitude towards the Capitol.

Let them train their tributes for the Games! Let one of them be picked! See if we care! It makes better odds for our children, after all.

I scan over the list of eligible tributes in my hand. Two twelve-year-old Careers, that should teach them. They don't even worry about the twelve-year-olds not being prepared-there's always an older, better Career to take his place.

We've planned this, the stonemasons. Those wealthy families are going to feel pain for the first time and join our side. Soon we will turn the tide. Wait and see.

Girl: Sandrine Tortallini

Boy: Locke Duncan

~000~

"Mama, please!"

Stacia looks at me with pleading eyes. I frown and crease my brow, unsure. "Staci, dear, don't you want to wait until you're older? More experienced?"

She stomps her foot. "Mama, I can handle it. You know how good I am. And oh! the honor of being victor of a Quarter Quell! Think, Mama! It'll make you even more powerful-your social ranking will skyrocket!"

"Oh, alright. I'll vote for you. Just be careful." I clasp the pearl necklace around my neck and peck a kiss on the cheek of my 13-year-old daughter.

"Tell all your friends, too!" she says, grinning brightly. "And everyone at the party!"

"I'll be sure to, my little victor." I adjust the shawl around my shoulders. "And which boy would you like us to vote for?"

She pauses, considering for a moment. "Nik Castro."

"Nik Castro, then." I sweep out the door. "Stacia Sinclair and Nik Castro for tributes of District Four!"

~000~

I don't know any of the young 'uns in District Five. How'm I s'pposed to vote?

I scan down the list, squinting. It's printed so tiny, I can barely see. I should prob'ly pick 18-year-old, they 'ave a better chance. Umm... Rebeka Applefield, 18 years old. Sounds strong, prob'ly smart. At least as smart as the average Five citizen.

Ah! Here's a name I remember! Mills! That's the mayor-this must be his son. 18-year-old Stanton Mills. Hmm... poor kid. But the only one I know.

~000~

Katlyn Chesbrough works in the forests, scampering up trees and chopping off all the tough, young branches before we feel the tree, running them back to the place behind Paper Factory One so that anyone who needs kindling can use it. She's 15 years old, strong, fast, smart, brave and compassionate. I hate to send her to her death, but she's the only girl from Seven I can think of who actually might not die.

I know the rest of the district thinks this way, too. And Katlyn herself knows full well. After the elections, walking home, I saw her up in a tree, sawing off branches as usual. She looked down at my mournfully, and I think she shed a tear.

Oh God, what have I done?

~000~

Josef Swan and Alais Lynn. I had them picked even before I went to go vote.

Josef Swan is the son of my neighbor. The boy is smart and cheerful and relatively athletic. He might have the wits to get past the bloodbath. But his parents want him dead-one less mouth to feed-and they asked me as a "neighborly" favor. They asked everyone on the block. I hope it doesn't break the poor boy's spirit, which-I've gotta admit-is pretty hard to break.

Alais Lynn lives at the community home. Every day she goes out into the marketplace in the town square and weaves beautiful cloths, to sell for money. She's run into trouble because of this, and has got the whipping scars to prove it. She's kind of spacey, but she's clever enough and has a photographic memory, or so they say. And who knows where she got the loom and thread in the first place? She's kind of a district legend.

Josef Swan and Alais Lynn. The Nuisances. I honestly don't care if they die or live, but at least I'm not emotionally invested.

~000~

That "girl" space keeps staring me in the face, mocking me. I know there's only one name anybody from my neighborhood of District Eleven could possibly think of putting there, and that's Winnie Hartford. The tough-as-nails field worker who wields a scythe like she was born to kill.

Not only does Winnie Hartford actually stand a chance, but she's mean. Even if she died, the neighborhood would be glad to be rid of her. She treats everyone else like we're dirt, and is proud of it. No one would rejoice at her death, but no one would cry.

No one, that is, except me. I'm her cousin, confidante, and best friend.

I wonder if they'll kill me if I don't put down any name?

~000~

It's the easiest thing in the world, sentencing a man to death. I should know, I do it every day. I'm the closest thing to a hanging judge District Twelve's got-a Head Peacekeeper.

Sentencing a kid to death? Once in a while, it happens. But I've never had any qualms about it. Usually they've done something to deserve it. Heck, all these stupid Twelvers deserve it. I'm maybe the only person in the whole district who enjoys the reapings. Two less kids to watch over. Well, only one, one year, when Mandy Marlowe won the 3rd Annual Hunger Games. Meh. Whatever.

There's one kid this year, though, that I've got it out for. Stephen Shakstaff. That no-good brat I always catch hovering around the electric fence, muttering poetry to himself. Once he even got under it-he was nearly whipped to pieces. Nearly. So close.

Usually, I feel nothing when another kid is sentenced to death. But this year, I feel something-joy. The sweet taste of blood and vengeance.