Chapter 1

Prologue

Arran Caverly, Victor of the Thirtieth Hunger Games

Livia spoke when Arran found that he couldn't. "Are you sure, Mrs. Rosen?"

Rosen. Arran twitched. The mere utterance of her name felt like a stab to his chest. Mrs. Rosen let out a laugh that sounded quite too forced and said, "It's not my decision to make, is it?" She gestured to her daughter beside her. "Shouldn't you be asking her?"

Her daughter was young, and the minute he saw her, Arran wanted to disappear. Her hair was too blonde and her face too round and her eyes too blue and all in all, she looked too much like her.

Keep your head up, Arran told himself. Stand up straight. Breathe steadily. Don't stutter. Don't slouch. Look normal. Look sane. Look alive.

Arran took a breath. "The Academy can only ensure that she's prepared," he said nervously. "We can't ensure victory."

Mrs. Rosen forced another laugh. "Are you trying to talk us out of this?"

All victors were artificial. Unless they were desperate, no parent would want to send their child to the Academy if they knew it only produced corpses and fuck-ups. The victors needed to do what they could to keep the delusion alive—the delusion that victory made you happy.

Arran didn't wear that mask well.

"No, ma'am," he said, his hands frantically moving about, "It's just that—"

"Just what?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but when his gaze fell on her daughter again, he found himself unable to let the words leave his throat. Why did it have to be her?

It was Livia that broke the silence. "If she really wants to, she should go ahead," she said. Her voice did not carry a trace any trace of anxiety, and Arran envied her for it. "But if you aren't sure, your family should not have to risk another loss."

Loss. Arran did not want to be reminded of it. It had only been a few months since he had left the Capitol, and though he had gotten better at coping, he still had his off-days. Today was one of them.

Mrs. Rosen's daughter was a reminder of everything he had tried to forget. She was the trigger, and the memories fired: the swing of an axe, the halted scream, blood, sweat, and the thud of a fallen head. They images played at the back of his mind, over and over in an unending cycle.

The young girl held her head high and looked at both victors, her expression solid, dignified. "We need this," she said. "We need the money."

Arran stared at her. Her eyes contained no anger nor hostility, and that made him feel all the more worse. She reminded him too much of a girl he couldn't save, and like her, she did not deserve to die. He didn't want that to happen. He couldn't let it happen—it wasn't right.

He would make things right.

"If this is your final decision," Livia said, "I'll take you to the Head—"

"There are other ways."

All eyes fell on him. Arran gulped, fearful, as Livia shot him a glare.

Mrs. Rosen raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

He swallowed. "For money." Arran amended. "This isn't your only choice. There are other ways. Better ways."

"My husband's dead. I have five other kids at home—none of them are old enough to work."

"I want to do this," her daughter added. "I have to."

"No," he said. The firmness of his tone surprised even himself. "You don't. I'm telling you: this isn't the only way."

"Well, what else is there?"

Arran searched his mind for an answer. "I...I'll help you," he said. "You don't need training, you don't need the stipend, you don't need any of this. I have more than enough for myself—I can give you anything you need. Anything."

Livia looked at him coldly. "If she wants it, she wants it. That's all that matters, Arran."

"She doesn't know what she wants!" He turned to the girl. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"What do you have? Sixty, seventy years left on you?"

"Arran," Livia warned, "that's enough."

"It's a death match out there, that's not what you want! This isn't the only way—"

"Arran!"

Livia grabbed him by the arm, and Arran wanted to scream at them, tell them he was sorry, tell them they deserved better and give them as much as they could, as much as they needed, and hoped they would accept that desperate attempt to make up for everything he had taken away. But Livia had excused them both, dragging him off to talk to him alone.

She stared at him, her leering eyes piercing right through him.

Arran didn't let himself be phased. "She deserves a chance," he said. "She deserves to live."

"So does the poor sap the escort's gonna call if she doesn't volunteer."

"She shouldn't—"

"People are going to die every year, Arran. At least she'll be ready."

He said nothing. Shame welled inside of him but somehow, he didn't feel an ounce of regret. He still stood by his words — the girl deserved to live.

Livia gave him a cold look. "You're forgetting why we're doing this. We have people to protect. She has a family to feed. It's selfish of you think you're redeeming yourself by saving her."

"It's not like that—"

"I don't want to hear it."

With that, Livia left for the girl and her mother, leaving Arran to himself.

She was right. Their system was a good system. It worked for them. The Academy lured the needy with the stipend, and the desperate clawed for the opportunity.

The other districts had their tesserae. They had this. This way, the poor had food on the table. This way, the rest of them could remain living in safety and comfort, never having to worry about mutations or arenas or having their lives stolen away. This way, they survived.

But the system couldn't save everyone. The ones that chose to play became either martyrs, damaged veterans, or in the rarest cases, happy, guiltless victors. Arran knew that the sad truth was, to spare the unwilling from an unjust fate, it was necessary for people to walk that path. He couldn't sway everyone from it—but he wanted to do what he could to save whomever deserved to be saved.

He watched as Livia led Mrs. Rosen and her daughter away. It was final, most likely. She would try out, and if she proved herself competent enough(which, he was sure she would), they would accept her. She would train, and come a few years, she would be chosen to represent them. After, it was either she came back from the Capitol in a casket, or came back broken.

His superiors would scold him for trying to dissuade a potential volunteer from applying, but Arran didn't care. He'd killed the girl's sister. He felt that he owed her.

A/N: Yoooooooo.

That was a very informal-sounding introduction, and it probably gave off the impression that I'm casual and unprofessional.

Well, you're right. This is fanfiction, I should be allowed to be casual. And I'm definitely no professional—I'm just a tiny human being from some island near the Pacific Ocean. So now that you have a vague idea of who I am, here's a less informal introduction: Hello. Welcome to Oblivion.

This is a SYOT, so you know the drill! The form, rules, and guidelines are all on my profile, and I suggest that you read them, because as you can see, Career's work a lil' bit differently in my universe.

Review if you can, and good luck creating your tributes! :)