THE HUNGER GAMES: REVISED

Disclaimer: All excerpts from the original The Hunger Games novel are not mine by any means.

A/N: I don't believe in author's notes at the beginning of chapters, but I did want to let you guys know that although there will be some parallels to the book in this chapter, things are changed quite a bit. The plot will begin changing more as the story goes on.

PART I: THE TRIBUTES

CHAPTER 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see her. My mother, laying on her side, a shallow indentation in the foam mattress by her chest where Prim must have been sleeping. But she's not there.

In the corner of the room, my eyes find Prim. She's shaking, her arms wrapped around her knees. I slide out of bed and creep over to her, careful to make my footsteps light so as not to wake our mother. It's useless trouble, though. She's a heavy sleeper.

"What's the matter, Prim?" I whisper to my little sister.

Her wide blue eyes are frightened. "I'm scared."

"Nightmare?" I ask. She nods, and I envelope her in my arms. She rests her chin on my arm. "I get them, too, you know. But they're not real."

"They feel real," she whimpers.

"I know. But they're not. Today's just like any other day, right?"

I see her lip quiver, know she's about to cry.

"Hey. Hey," I say gently. I tilt her chin up so her eyes are level with mine. "What's wrong?"

Prim's eyes shine with fresh tears. "They picked me."

"Oh . . . Prim," I murmur. I lift her to her feet and pull her head against my chest. "It's your first year, Prim. Your name's only been in there once."

"So?" she asks, hiccuping between sobs.

"So, they're not going to pick you," I reply. I kiss the top of her head, then take her hand in mine and lead her back to the bed we share. I help her lie down. Once she's settled, I pull the old, blue sheet up to her chin and give her another kiss, this time on her forehead.

"Try and get some sleep. Okay?"

"I can't," she says.

"Just try," I say, and smooth back her hair away from her face. She closes her eyes and smiles a little. "I have to go. I'll be back soon."

"Are you going to see Gale?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'll be back in time to get ready."

With that said, I head to the kitchen. Slinking around by the back door is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

But as it stands, I have nothing to feed him now. And so the single hiss is directed at me, and I'm forced to take it without much complaint. Prim's probably not asleep yet; she'd hear if I did anything to her beloved pet. So I say "I'll still cook you" and leave without giving him another glance - but not eyeing the perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves that's sitting on our table. I pick it up. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket and slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust from under their broken fingernails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wife loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods - packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears - that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out if District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meet as anybody is. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples from the trees, but always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.

"District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance around quickly over both of my shoulders. Even in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, in the far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble, so I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts. I learned to do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, the black market where I make the majority if my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Gale.

I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pulse quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rocky ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hey, Catnip," says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it, so he thought I'd said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company, but I at least got a satisfactory price for his pelt.

"Look what I shot," says Gale. He holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it.

"Look at you," I say, smiling. "You caught us breakfast."

It's real bakery bread, not the flat, sense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it.

"It better be. Cost me a squirrel," says Gale. "I think the old guy was feeling sentimental this morning. He even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say. I don't even bother to roll my eyes. Suddenly, I remember something. I pull the slab of cheese from my pocket and hold it out to Gale. "Prim left us a cheese."

His expression brightens at the bread. "Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real feast. Oh, I almost forgot!" He falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the reaping. "Happy Hunger Games!"

He plucks two blackberries from the bushes around us. He pops one in his mouth and tosses the other one in a high arc toward me. I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I say with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair and olive skin. We even have the same gray eyes. We're not related, though. Not closely, at least. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way.

That's why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place here. They are. My mother's parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of town. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for this dumpy lifestyle in the Seam. I try to remember this when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father's sak, but to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out at the reaping.

"We could do it, you know," Gale speaks up suddenly, quietly. I look at him questioningly. He's looking off into the valley beyond us, fingering at a strand of grass he picked. "Take off, live in the woods. It's what we do anyway."

"They'd catch us," I say, not allowing myself so much as a moment of indulgence in his fantasy. Such things could never happen.

"Maybe not," he says.

I scoff at the idea. "Gale, be realistic. We wouldn't make it five miles."

"Oh, I'd get five miles." He grins and nods to the mountains that lay past the valley ahead of us. "I'd go that way."

I laugh. "Not with your brothers, you wouldn't. And Posy. And Prim."

We fall silent as I begin to wonder what it would be like if we really could run away. As things are, the sheer notion of running away from the district is punishable. It goes unsaid that if you're caught running, you'll be killed on site. No, Gale and I couldn't risk that. And dragging our families along with us would be out of the question.

"I'm never having kids," I blurt out suddenly.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Gale.

"But you do live here," I say.

"I know, but if I didn't."

"What's the point of talking about it, anyway?" I say, irritated. "I mean, it's not like we're actually going to run away."

Gale faces me, his expression suddenly serious. "We could, though. I meant what I said, Katniss. If you want to run . . . we can run."

I shake my head quickly and turn away from him. "No," I say. The reaping's today. If Gale and I ran, who would be there to comfort Prim? Since it's her first year, she'll no doubt be terrified. And anyway, how could I leave her? Prim, the one person in the world I'm certain I love. Not to mention that Gale, too, is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it?

And where did all this stuff about having kids come from? There's never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we met, I was a skinny preteen - twelve years old, to be exact - and he already looked like a man despite him being only two years older than me. It took a long time for us to even become friends. In order for that to happen, we had to quit arguing over every trade and start helping each other out. And eventually we did.

And besides, if Gale he wants kids, he won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. All the other girls want him. I can see it in the way they whisper about him when he walks by in school. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

"What do you want to do?" I ask, snapping out of my thoughts. We can hunt, fish, or gather. There's a plethora of things to do once you escape the confines of the district.

"How about we fish at the lake? We can leave our poles and gather in the woods," Gale suggests, then throws on a cheeky grin. "Get us something nice for supper tonight."

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We end up doing well this morning. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey is available to them. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens, and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I was the one to find the patch of fruit several years ago, but the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out animals was Gale's.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, which is the black market that operates in an abandoned coal warehouse. When they came up with a more efficient system that transported coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. Gale and I trade six fish for some bread - it's not from the bakery, but it's still good - and the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup in her own stall, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two in self defense, well, meat is meat. "Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn down a good leg of wild dog. However, the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

After our business at the market, we head to the mayor's house to sell the strawberries we picked, knowing he has a particular fondness for them. And he doesn't try to bargain with us, he accepts our price - an added bonus.

We climb the steps to the back door and Gale knocks twice. The door swings open to reveal Madge, the mayor's daughter. She's in my year at school. Being the child of someone of high authority, you'd expect her to be a snob, but she's alright. She just keeps to herself, same as me. Since neither of us really have a group of friends, we end up together a lot at school. Sharing a table in the cafeteria at lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Today, Madge's dull, colorless school outfit has been exchange for an expensive white dress. Her blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail with a pink ribbon. She's all done-up for the reaping.

"Pretty dress," Gale comments, looking her up and down.

Madge throws him a calculating look, probably trying to figure out if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, I'll admit. But she wouldn't be seen wearing it on any ordinary day. She presses her lips together and smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's Gale's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? My bet is on the latter.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," says Gale. For a split second, a flash of envy crosses him. I know exactly what he's thinking. That it's all so unfair, so horribly unfair, that the children born into money never have to worry about being reaped, whereas the children who were unlucky enough to be born into a Seam family are almost always picked. His eyes land on a small, circular pin attached to the corner of Madge's dress. It seems to be made of real gold and is of magnificent craftsmanship. If someone were to sell that pin, it'd keep them fed for at least a month. Probably more. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was twelve years old."

"You make it sound like that's her fault," I say, subtly trying to talk some sense into Gale before he severs a working relationship. There probably aren't many people in District 12 who will pay as well as the mayor for half a gallon of strawberries.

"No, it's no one's fault," Gale says. "It's just the way it is."

The atmosphere has become tense with Gale's observation. Madge seems emotionless as she reaches in her pocket to count out some money. She places the cash in my hand and smiles coolly. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You, too," I say. Then the door closes between us.

Gale and I are silent during our walk back to the Seam. I'm still not happy that Gale took a dig at Madge. Off the top of my head, I can list probably ten other kids who could use a good lecture about common decency to the less fortunate. Madge is not one of them. But Gale was right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered one. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen. That's the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the drawing seven times. That's the case for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of Panem.

But there's a catch. Say you are poor and starving as we were. You can opt to enter your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each member of your family (say you're like me and live with yourself and two family members, then you can take three tessera and your name will be entered three times, plus the amount of times it's already entered in accordance with age). So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three times for tesserae and grain and oil for myself, Prim, and my mother. Every year it has been necessary for me to do this. And did I mention that the entries are cumulative? So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping ball twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in the pool forty-two times.

So, you can see why someone like Madge, who has never been at risk of needing tessera or being chosen for the Hunger Games, would set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is slim to none compared to us Seam kids. It's not impossible by any means, but highly unlikely. We both know that the rules were set by the Capitol and not Madge's family, but it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tessera in order to survive.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. He feels sorry now as we walk the uneven gravel path back home. On other days, when we're both deep in the woods beyond hearing range of the people in the district, I've listened to him go on about how the whole tesserae system is just another tool to create a feeling of injustice in the districts. It's a way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure that we will never, ever trust one another. "Having us divided this way is to the Capitol's advantage," he might spout off if we were alone. If it wasn't reaping day. If a girl our age, adorned with a gold pin and no tesserae, had not made what I'm sure she thought was a harmless comment. Lesson learned, you've got to watch your tongue around Gale.

As we walk, I glance over at Gale's face, still smoldering under his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I would never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him, because I do. But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn't change things. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our rumbling stomachs. In fact, it does more damage than good. It scares off nearby game, and if anyone was ever in the woods following us, we'd surely be in huge trouble. But I let him yell, anyway. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

When we reach the branch in the road that separates my part of the Seam from his, we wordlessly begin dividing our goods. We each get two fish, two loaves of bread, a handful of greens, a quart of strawberries, some salt, some leftover paraffin, and a bit of spending money.

"So, I'll see you in the square?" I mean to say it as a departing statement, but it comes out like question.

He nods in answer to my unintentional question. He stares at me for a few seconds, then looks away. "Wear something pretty," he mutters, unemphatic.

Upon stepping through the front door of my family's house, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim is wearing a hand-me-down, my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has secured it to the best of her ability with a few safety pins. Even so, the blouse keeps coming untucked in the back.

My mother has filled the tub with warm water for me. I sink into it, relaxing for the first time since Gale's tiff with Madge. I scrub myself clean and wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. It's a soft blue thing with short sleeves and a knee-length hem to keep my arms and legs cool in the early summer heat.

"Are you sure?" I ask her when I see it draped over the side of my bed. I truly am making an effort to get past my habit of rejecting offers of help from her. For a long time, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. But this is something special, and I know this. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course I am," she says, a small smile turning up just the corners of her mouth. "After you dry it, why don't you let me braid your hair, too?"

"Okay," I say. Once my hair has been towel-dried in the bathroom, I let my mother braid it around the back of my head - an intricate creation that only someone like my mother could achieve, with her careful fingers and eye for detail. She leads me to the cracked full-length mirror propped up against the wall in the bedroom. I can hardly recognize myself.

"You look beautiful," says Prim in a hushed voice.

"And nothing like myself," I say. My eyes meet hers in the reflection on the mirror.

"I wish I looked like you," she says.

I turn and walk to her, my arms held open for her. "Oh, I wish I looked like you," I say with a forced smile. I can only hope that she doesn't notice that small fact. I crouch down in front of her and embrace her. As I pull away, I notice the back of her blouse has come untucked once again. I reach behind her and tuck it in, still maintaining my smile. "You better tuck in your tail, little duck."

Prim giggles. "Quack."

"Quack, yourself," I giggle back. My hand zooms in to pinch her side, where she's most ticklish. She leans away from my touch and steps backwards, laughing now.

I have to be here for her today, because these next few hours will be terrible for her. It's her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, being entered in the pool only once. She asked to take out tesserae to help us out, but I refused. I know she's worried about me, that the unthinkable might happen, but I can't sit back and watch as she takes the same risks. I try to protect Prim in every way I can. But in a battle between myself and the reaping, I'm at a loss. I'm completely powerless against it.

Before we leave for the town square, we set a stew made of the fish and greens that Gale and I caught and gathered on the stove so that it's done cooking by the time the reaping is over. By then it'll be five o'clock and we'll be ready to eat supper. We leave the strawberries and bakery bread alone, planning to make this evening's meal extra special with these treats.

In every district, attendance at the reaping is mandatory. There is a slight exception for those who are ailing, but the person must be on death's door in order to be excused. This evening, our district's Peacekeepers will come around to the homes of each missing person and check if this is the case. If a person is absent and the Peacekeepers deem his or her explanation unfeasible, he or she will be imprisoned.

I find it upsetting that they insist on holding the reaping in the one place in out district that is somewhat pleasant. Surrounded by shops and sometimes carrying a holiday feel, our town square is the only spot in District 12 which holds some semblance of beauty. But today, as it is every year on reaping day, it is overcrowded and uninviting. I'll give them credit, they do try to brighten the place up on this annual assembly with brightly-colored banners and Effie Trinket's bright ensemble which changes in color each year. But the camera crews perched in the corner of each rooftop watching us like hawks and the occasion itself makes everything unbearably unpleasant.

Hoards of people file through the streets and sign in at one of the five tables set around the square for incoming people. I say there are hoards of people, but this is somewhat of a stretch. Of all the districts in Panem, ours is probably the smallest. Our population is extremely low due to starvation and mine accidents, both of which lead to death. And the fact that most people can't afford a doctor when they're sick doesn't help much, either. Anyway, the Capitol uses the reaping as a census, too.

Children from the ages of twelve to eighteen are ushered into roped-off areas separated by age and gender. Boys are on one side of the square, girls are on the other, and within that, the oldest ones stand at the front and the youngest at the back. Family members hold tight to each other, holding hands, clutching arms. I spot a few girls in my year giving melodramatic kisses to their boyfriends. Most of them merchants' kids. Of course. Those of us in the Seam wouldn't be foolish enough to be in a romantic relationship before graduating from school. Not with the ever-present fear of the reaping lingering in the backs of our minds. Besides these, there are those who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care. They slip in and out of the crowd, chatting with others like them, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are weighted on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be gossips, tattlers, and who in District 12 hasn't broken the law before? I could technically be shot on a daily basis for hunting, and a less severe punishment would be issued for going past the fence and into the woods, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. I suppose not everyone can claim the same. This is another reason why our population is lower than most. Anyway, Gale and I have talked about it before and we both agree that if we had a choice between death by starvation and death by a bullet through the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The relatively large square shrinks in size as more people arrive. There's not enough room here to hold the entirety of District 12, so the ones who arrive late are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteen-year-olds, all from the Seam. We give each other little more acknowledgement than polite nods before switching our attention to the temporary stage that's set up in front of the Justice Building. On the stage, there are three chairs, a podium, and two big glass balls. One of the balls holds the boys' names and the other holds the girls' names. I stare at the paper slips in the girls' ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, fills one of the chairs on the stage. He's a tall, balding man, but besides those two small details, it's clear that Madge gets a good bit of her features from him. Madge isn't tall, but she isn't short by any means. She's in good shape, having had enough to eat all her life. Here in District 12, being of an average weight like Madge or even being slightly overweight like a girl I know from school, Delly Cartwright, is cause for the most intense jealousy from those who aren't as lucky. Mayor Undersee's strange, undefined face shape has been passed down to his daughter, as well. I would describe it as heart-shaped, but it's not exactly. Madge's more distinct features, such as her blonde hair, aqua-green eyes, and rounded nose come from her mother, whom I rarely see. I hear she gets sick a lot.

Beside Mayor Undersee is Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and fuchsia skirt suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat to Effie's left.

Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium just as the town clock strikes two. He begins to read about our country from a stack of notecards in his hands, although I doubt he really needs them. It's the same thing every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve districts were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. As punishment for the uprising from the Dark Days, each of the twelve remaining districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, as participants. This makes twenty-four total tributes. They will be stuck in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the tributes must fight to the death. The last man standing is the winner.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch - this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you, just as we did in District Thirteen."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The winning tribute, known as a victor, receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with rewards, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will present the victorious district with gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the remaining districts battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have only had two, and only one is still living. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy man in his mid-forties with dirty blonde shoulder-length hair that covers half of his face when he looks down. At this moment he appears hollering something unintelligible. He staggers onto the stage and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks anxious, probably thinking of how District 12 is currently the laughingstock of Panem - since this is all being televised, everyone in the country just saw Haymitch's spectacle. Mayor Undersee tries to switch everyone's focus back to the reaping. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . Effie Trinket, District Twelve escort."

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and give her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

From across the crowd, I spot Gale looking at me with a ghost of smile. As far as reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor, not at all. Not compared to a lot of the boys. A look of confusion twists his features. "You okay?" he mouths to me.

I nod and force a reassuring smile onto my face, but at that moment, he seems to realize the same thing I just did. His face darkens suddenly an he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him. But he's too far away to hear me. And besides, what good would it do for me to promise him we'll both be okay when really, no one has that reassurance. No one can definitely say that they won't get chosen.

Now it's time for the drawing.

"As usual, ladies first!" Effie Trinket says as she crosses to the girls' glass ball. She reaches in, digs her hand deep inside the ball, and fishes around for a moment to increase the drama and anticipation in the crowd. Everyone seems to draw in a collective breath and all falls silent as Effie pulls out one single slip. She takes her time unfolding it and the whole time I'm thinking of how I feel sick to my stomach and I so desperately hope that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium and flattens out the slip of paper against the podium's smooth wooden surface. She clears her throat lightly before reading the name out in a clear voice that rings across the square. That's how I know for sure that I didn't mishear it. No, it's not me.

It's Primrose Everdeen.

A/N: Hi, guys! Thank you so much for checking out the first chapter of The Hunger Games: Revised. I'm really hoping that this story will do Suzanne Collins's original story justice, which is why I used some of her best lines from the original book in this chapter. I promise that it won't be like this forever. The story picks up next chapter and I begin to shed some light on my own version of the story.

If you like my writing in this story, be sure to check out one of my other THG fics, Squad 451. It follows Katniss and her life after Mockingjay, and focuses mainly on what would happen if Gale came back to District 12 (which I truly believe he would've eventually if Suzanne Collins had continued the series). It's Galeniss, but there's a TON of Everlark in there throughout the majority of the story so whether you like Gale or Peeta, you'll be happy!

Please make sure you favorite/follow this story if you plan on coming back so you won't miss a single update! Or, if you want to follow me as an author, you can do that, too. Also PLEASE don't forget to review this chapter with your thoughts and ideas for the rest of this story. I can't wait to get to know you guys better and to share my ideas with you :)