Hey, readers! I've decided to take my first shot at a crossover. Please note that there will be no Hunger Games characters in this short story, and forgive any HG errors I might make. This has been rated M just in case. Incoming Malec! I haven't read the books in a while. I hope you all find it intriguing. I know I'm quite out of practice. My skills are terribly rusty. I've still got Survival on the go, and I do intend to finish it. Just having a little trouble getting back into the groove. Anyway, please enjoy the first chapter! Happy reading!

I'm standing in front of the mirror, staring back at my wide-eyed reflection. My hands have finally stopped shaking; in fact, I haven't moved at all for the past while. My feet are frozen to the floor, and I can't bear the thought of them thawing because that would mean I'd be forced to turn away from my reflection and face a darker, more sinister, entity: Reaping Day.

I shouldn't be so nervous; I know for a fact that a handful of other kids my age have had their names entered nearly triple the amount of times mine has. I've never bartered, I've never broken the law, but I have done everything in my power to keep the number of tiny slips of paper bearing my name to the bare minimum. Skipping a meal instead of buying rations from the Gard sure feels more satisfying on Reaping Day.

And yet, it still took me three attempts to correctly align the buttons on my shirt with their corresponding holes.

There's a knock at the door, and I take a few more precious seconds to look over myself. My normally milky-white skin is slightly pink from scrubbing away the dirt too hard. My not-yet-dry hair is slicked back neatly, revealing too much of my face for my liking. My cheekbones and jaw are too sharp, too prominent. Since last year, I've broadened in the shoulders and gained some muscle, which makes my pale blue button down strain slightly against my body. I'll have to find a way to collect enough money to buy a new shirt for next year. Maybe, if I have enough money, I'll splurge and purchase something nice, something not threadbare and itchy. It'll be a special occasion, anyway. Next year is the final year my name will be entered into the Trial of the Angels.

My family is waiting for me in the small dining area of our home. My mother and my younger sister, Isabelle, are nearly identical in gray-blue dresses with short sleeves. The only difference between them is that Isabelle's hair hangs in a single braid down her back, while my mother's hair falls over her shoulders in black curtains. My father is staring at me, his arms crossed and his eyes scrutinizing every inch of me. He takes a step forward, his hand outstretched, and for a moment I think he is going to clap me on the shoulder and say something endearing. But instead, he picks at the sleeve of my shirt and says, "Your shirt is wrinkled."

I can't say I'm particularly surprised by the comment, nor am I hurt by it. The softest parts of his heart have been reserved for Isabelle and my mother; the leftover bits of stone are mine for the taking. After seventeen years I've come to terms with it. Even if he is always callous and stoic, I know that my father is terrified. Because he has children, the Trials have become a nightmare for him once again. The only way to fight the fear is with control, and I was just the unfortunate outlet he chose to enforce said control upon. I think he traded his influence over Isabelle for affection a few years after she was born. He knew she'd disobey him, challenge him at every opportunity. I was much more submissive. I let him criticize me and question me and put me down because I know he's scared for me. Under his controlling demeanour there's fear, and underlying that fear is love.

"Seventeen years old," my father goes on, "and you can't even keep your damn shirt neatly pressed."

"Robert," my mother chides softly. She wraps her arm around Isabelle's slight shoulders. "Come on. We don't want to be late."

As a family we shuffle out of the house and head for the square, a small clearing in District Twelve surrounded by shops. Since attendance is mandatory for every civilian with a beating heart, the shops will be closed until after the ceremony. We close in behind other people en route to the square. There are numerous families, like us, as well as clusters of two: couples without children, and the occasional lone individual: mostly the elderly.

Our parents separate from us at the end of a long line of children and teenagers. My mother wraps Isabelle in a tight embrace and holds her daughter's face in her hands. I notice there are tears pooling in my mother's eyes. This happens every year, but never once has she assured us it's going to be all right. Because how could she lie to her children? For my mother, controlling the fear meant acknowledging it. She never warned us that this could be the year one of us would be chosen, but she never gave us the false hope of immunity.

It's my turn next: My mother cups my cheek in her palm and gives me a timid, wavering smile, then she steps back without saying anything. My father has already hugged Isabelle, and now his arm is around my mother's waist as he stares down at me, his eyes narrowed. He gives the slightest inclination of his head before the two of them turn away and head towards the section of other adults.

Isabelle looks up at me as we fall into step behind the quickly-moving line. "Are you nervous?"

"No," I lie.

"I hear they feed you really well if you're chosen."

She's trying to make light of the situation, but my hands are already shaking again. "Isabelle, that's not funny."

"Alexander, you have a very poor sense of humor."

We're drawing steadily closer to the sign-in table. Every step makes me want to turn and make a run for it, but there's nowhere to escape to. Electrified fence on one side, a long and wide open road on the other. The Gard would catch me eventually and I'd be imprisoned or sentenced to death. Or worse, automatically thrown into the Trials.

"I'm not scared," Isabelle states, like she's telling me the sky is blue.

I glance down at her. "And what if they pick your name?"

Isabelle twists as she flounces up to the sign-in table and the skirts of her dress blossoms out from her thighs. "I'll win. Because I am a badass."

The Gard sitting behind the table cocks an eyebrow at my sister before extending her hand. Isabelle lets the woman take a blood sample and then stands aside to wait for me after she's dismissed with a flick of the Gard's wrist. Together we walk to the centre of the square. A stage has been set up in front of the shops, complete with a projection screen that will display the routine video that is played every year. There are two sections of people in front of the stage: Boys off to the left and girls on the right. Isabelle gives my hand a tight squeeze before we part and join our respective groups.

There are five people sitting in chairs on the stage. One of them is our mayor; the others I do not recognize but whom I suspect are from the Capitol. We stand, the square eerily quiet as we wait for the ceremony to begin. An even deeper silence falls through the square, as if the earth itself were holding her breath, as Imogen Whitelaw appears on the stage.

Imogen Whitelaw was chosen as District Twelve's escort a few years ago, after our previous representative resigned. From what I could see then, she did not appear to be a very pleasant woman. And she hasn't appeared to have changed. Her mouth is twisted into a grimace-frown hybrid, and her nose is wrinkled, as if she can smell a particularly pungent stench. She wears a dress so silver it's nearly metallic, casting off a deadly glare in the sun. Every bare inch of her skin is covered in glitter, and her blond hair is twisted into an elegant knot behind her head. Surprisingly, she wears little makeup. Uncommon for Capitol citizens.

A man carries a microphone stand to centre stage for her, and two waist-high podiums are erected on either side of her. Placed on the podiums are glass bowels, and inside the bowls are puddles of paper slips, each one bearing the name of a child standing in the square.

Imogen taps on the microphone with a slender finger and feedback rings through all of District Twelve. "Welcome to the seventy-fourth Trial of the Angels. Ave atque vale," she announces, unenthusiastically. "The ceremony will begin after a brief message from the Capitol."

All eyes turn to the projection screen. The Clave's symbol appears as the anthem begins to play: Four interlocking Cs on a shield, with two angel's wings fanning out of either side of the crest. A voice booms through the speakers, reiterating the story of the Circle, a group of people who rebelled against the Clave, obliterating the peace and order between the Districts. After a long battle, the Circle was defeated by the Capitol. The Clave believed punishment could only be handed down by a higher power, so the Trial of the Angels was created. The founding members of the Circle, twelve men and twelve women, were placed in an arena and forced to battle to the death. Only one person would survive, one person worthy of the protection and mercy of the angels. To keep the memory of the defeat alive and to desist any further rebellion, the tradition of the Trial was continued. All Twelve Districts would participate, and one child between twelve and eighteen years of age would emerge victorious. We were not to forget the forgiveness and the glory of the angels, and to be selected for the Trial was an honor, because in victory a tribute was blessed and in death a tribute was received by the angels themselves.

I laugh under my breath at the last part of the film. How is it possible to be welcomed into the arms of the angels when, as far as I'm concerned, murdering people buys you a one way ticket straight into the devil's clutches?

Imogen's narrowed eyes scan the square. "Let's begin, shall we? Ladies first." She moves across the stage to the glass bowl on her left. With a look of pinched boredom, she reaches into the bowl, digs around for a minute, and withdraws her hand. One slip of paper is pinioned between her index and middle fingers. She takes her time unfolding it and staring at the name.

I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting anxiously. My finger has begun to bleed again from where the Gard took a sample. Without thinking of the repercussions my father will bestow on me, I wipe the blood on my pants.

Imogen clears her throat and reads clearly into the microphone: "Isabelle Lightwood."

My jaw falls open and a loud breath rushes out of my lungs as if I've just been punched. Some boys around me cast glances in my direction as I stumble slightly. Some looks are sympathetic, others are stern. I shove my way through the crowd to the walkway in the centre of the square. Isabelle is already past me by the time I get there. She climbs the stairs to the stage and stands at Imogen's side. Her shoulders are back and her chin is held high. Even from a distance I can see that her jaw is clenched. She's trying not to let her lip quiver. My head whips around to find my parents, but some taller boys are obstructing my view.

"Moving on to the men," Imogen announces. I hear her heels clack across the stage and the muffled whispers of the papers as her hand delves through them. Too soon she's back at the microphone and revealing the next name. I don't hear her voice over the pounding of blood in my ears, but I see Isabelle's eyes whip across the crowd until coming to rest on me. When I meet her gaze, I see fear in the dark irises. Imogen repeats the name but again I do not hear her. The sounds in my ears are muffled and the ground is swaying beneath me.

Suddenly I am very aware of multiple gazes on me. My vision and hearing sharpen all at once and I hear Imogen very clearly on her third attempt.

"Alexander Lightwood. Please come forward."

I'm frozen again, the same way I had been this morning. Fear has paralyzed my body; I'm no longer carrying fear for just Isabelle, but for myself as well. My heart knows it. My brain knows it. My soul knows it. I am going to die.

In the corner of my vision, I catch several of the Gard moving forward, hands on their guns. If I don't move now, they're going to drag me onto the stage themselves. With one last shaky breath, I step out onto the pathway and start my walk up to the stage. It seems to last an eternity. With every step, the word 'death' pounds in my ears. I can feel too many eyes stabbing into my back like spears. I finally make it to Imogen's side and look out at everyone, struggling to keep my emotions hidden. The audience looks particularly grim. From my vantage point I can see a lot of relieved faces as well as empathetic ones. It is a tragedy for a parent's child to be chosen for the Trial, but to lose two children in the same match? Not only that, but to have them pitted against each other for victory?

The Clave claims this as an act of the angels. But hell has surfaced in District Twelve today.

Someone is sobbing near the back of the square. I follow the sound until my eyes come to rest on my parents. My mother is crying, one hand trying to hold back the anguish escaping her lips. My father is gripping her left shoulder and her right arm, but I can't tell if he's holding my mother in place or clutching her in search of his own comfort. He is tight-lipped and refuses to look up at us, at his own two children.

Imogen spreads her arms wide and proclaims, "I am pleased to present District Twelve's tributes for the seventy-fourth annual Trial of the Angel."

There is no applause, only a symphony of silence and sullen faces. I'm still watching my parents when Imogen Whitelaw's hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me off the stage. Isabelle and I are escorted to a small private building, where we are separated into two rooms. My stomach is in knots and my fingernail is between my teeth as I anxiously pace the tight confines of the space. There are chairs and a table in the corner, but I know that if I sit down I will not be able to stand again.

After a long while, the door opens and my mother and father enter. Just before the door closes I see the shoulders of a Gard keeping watch outside the room. I am not only helpless but I am trapped. Suddenly it is very hard to breathe. The air inside the room is somehow both too thick and too thin.

I find my face cradled in my mother's hands, her dark eyes holding mine steadily. Hers are red from crying, but the tears have been wiped dry from her cheeks. "Don't panic, Alexander," she whispers. "You have to be strong. You have to be strong for your sister."

I search her face. My alarm has subsided, and my ears are straining for the words I desperately need to hear. But she never says them. She gives my cheek an affectionate pat and steps away. My father approaches and now I hold my breath. Of all people, my father is the only one I'd believe if he told me I could win. His approval is the weapon I need. All I need to hear from him is that he loves me. At the very least, that he believes in me.

Robert Lightwood smoothes the wrinkle in my sleeve, but he does not let his hand linger. He stares down at me, his eyes so hard I almost flinch, and he says roughly, "Don't disappoint us."

The two of them turn away and knock on the door. It opens and my mother slips out of the room, but my father remains behind. He has one foot in the hall when he turns and mutters, "Get that blood off your pants." And then he leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

I stare at the closed door for a long while, too stunned to do anything. By not saying the truth out loud, they have made it very clear: My parents want Isabelle to win. I'm supposed to do everything in my power to protect her. If I die before her, I'll have disappointed my parents. If I die after her, I'll have disappointed my parents.

I cannot win. Not the Trial. Not my parents' love.

I cannot win.

My knees give out beneath me and I crumple to the floor. My breaths escape my lungs in short, harsh wheezes, but beneath them I can hear Imogen's words rumbling in my head: Ave atque vale.

Hail, and farewell.