A/N: A few things to note: One, this story is completed. I will try to post one chapter a day.

Two, this story is a thirteen way crossover, or, more accurately, a twelve way crossover that's also a Hunger Games fusion. This website doesn't have a good way to mark that, so I'll be changing the category with each chapter I post until I've gone through all of them. After that, I'll choose the category based on which fandom dominates the chapter. I don't know where I'll stick it at the end - if anyone has any suggestions when we get there, please let me know.

Full fandom list is: Narnia, Anne of Green Gables, Squire's Tales, Indiana Jones, Gail Carson Levine, Rowan Hood, Rise of the Guardians, NCIS, Sisters Grimm, Despicable Me, Heir Chronicles, and Jane Austen. If you are unfamiliar with any of those and have questions, feel free to ask!

1. Do not take out tesserae.

District Twelve

Lucy was too young to have her name in many times, but despite everyone's objections, she had gotten tesserae. For Peter, who was too old for the Games, for Susan, who was so very nearly safe, and for Edmund, who had been perfectly dreadful for a month after Father died and who was determined to make up for it ever since.

It didn't matter very much, she convinced herself. The odds were still in her favor, and it was not as if the others didn't do it.

Besides, how could she let the others take on all the risk? How could they do without the food, when Peter worked so hard and ate so little, and with Susan still not quite recovered from that fever last winter? How could she let Edmund shiver in the cold fall breeze when if she signed up for tesserae, they could save enough on food to get another coat? Edmund had insisted she get one last winter; it was only fair.

It didn't matter very much at all, she told herself firmly, and besides, she must be brave. She told Peter that very solemnly when he tried to argue, and she was deliberately cheerful as she signed up for the grain. She even got Caspian, there for his own grain, and Edmund to laugh, several times. Susan never did, but she did smile shyly at Caspian.

It was a good thing, a very good thing, right up until Reaping Day, when "Lucy Pevinsie" got called.

She walked on unsteady legs until Susan, breathless, her words scarcely audible, volunteered.

Susan was as white as a sheet and barely breathing, but she walked with dignity to the stage, looking as beautiful and valiant as an old warrior queen from the stories.

Lucy gasped in horror when Caspian was called up next. Susan didn't smile shyly now. She just looked straight ahead, hard as marble, not at all the gentle Susan who soothed them all to sleep.

Lucy had been brave and taken all the risk she could, but she'd have taken it back in an instant if she'd known Susan would insist on paying the cost.

(Of course, it was all well and good to say not to take out tesserae. The problem was, they'd have starved without it, and then what good would it do to say that at least they had not died in the Games?)

2. If a member of a victor's family dies and they begin acting differently, let them. They know what they're doing.

District Eleven

When Marilla and Mathew Cuthbert adopted Anne, and she started being able to go to school instead of working in the fields, she and Gilbert had both been in the third grade, and he had called her "Carrots."

(He had meant it as a compliment because he was a hungry boy whose family could only barely afford to send him to school, and food of any description was treasure beyond price to him. He hadn't realized she despised the color of her hair.)

When they were in fourth grade, he had given up trying to explain himself and started just tugging on her long braids instead.

When they were in fifth grade, she finally snapped and broke her slate over her head. She would have been expelled for it, but she was a victor's (adopted) daughter, and Mathew was more than able to pay for it.

(Gilbert realized he might have taken the braid thing a bit too far and tried to apologize. In hindsight, he probably should have waited a bit; the teacher had made her stand in front of the class and recite about how all class materials were precious gifts from a Capital that was benevolent but whose patience was not limitless with those who rebelled against its bounty. Her eyes had still been brilliant with unshed tears over the humiliation, and she had walked straight past him, face pale but head high.)

When they were in sixth grade, Gilbert was pulled out of school, but he kept an eye out for Anne. She wandered the district with Diana Barry, the mayor's daughter, coming up with fairy stories for everything and seeing beauty in the most ordinary things. People liked to listen to her talk, and they liked that she was generous with her pocket money.

(When he was sick and his parents couldn't afford medicine, a bottle of it appeared on his bedside table with a note that said "From a Beneficent Faerie who loathes Gilbert Blythe and does not want him to die before she can take proper vengeance on him for mocking her." Gilbert had laughed himself hoarse which had unfortunately devolved into a coughing fit.)

When she was sixteen, almost seventeen, she was reaped.

(After the little girl she'd allied with was killed, she fought her way through her Games like she was an avenging faerie from one of her stories. Her red hair had seemed like crimson fire, but Gilbert had paid more attention to the blood smeared over her teeth.)

When she was seventeen, just a day past her birthday, she finished her last interview in the Capital and came home. She was just as fiery before and just as obsessed with stories, but she liked a different kind now. She still saw the beauty, but she also saw the blood, and her quick temper had turned to gunpowder, and her rages were as likely to end with blows as they were with sobs.

(They danced around her, not knowing how to help, and Gilbert wasn't even sure he had a right to. She was his light, but he was nothing to her, not now, so he just let her rage at him when she needed to, and when she raged at the Capital instead, he nodded along, a slower anger building in his heart.)

When she was two months past seventeen, Matthew died and Marilla grew ill. Anne sat by Marilla's side for a month until she finally began to recover. When they both emerged back into the world, Marilla's face was blank, and Anne was as cool as an autumn wind blowing through the fields. She was polite and ladylike and spoke of faeries as sweet instead of bringers of blood. She gave according to a precise budget and treated everyone, former mortal enemy and bosom friend alike, with the same chill civility.

(Gilbert pulled her aside and told her she could grieve however she wanted, but that if she needed someone to vent at, he was always there. She smiled like it was a mask she was putting on for a play and told him she was very sorry she'd made him put up with her all these years, and now she'd finally grown up and realized how childish she'd been.

It hadn't been what he'd wanted, not at all, but at least she didn't seem to hate him anymore, so he dared to stop by the house to offer Marilla some wild roses he'd picked as a recovery present.

Anne had thrown them out with a shriek of rage befitting a harpy before turning back to ice the moment they'd crashed through the window, vase and all.

Something, Gilbert told Diana, was very, very wrong.)

Diana and Gilbert had ganged together to visit Anne every opportunity they had, but she'd always indicated she didn't want them there.

Right up until The Night. Gilbert always capitalized it in his mind because that's what Anne would have done if she'd been writing it as a story.

Diana knew more about The Night then he did, but he knew enough to make his blood boil.

Anne was better now, though. Some better.

Although as Gilbert heard both his and Diana's names called, he knew better than to hope that would last.

(No victor ever knows what they're doing. If someone dies, be there for them and don't let go, no matter what happens. Just be careful when you do.)

3. If you're over eighteen, don't make friends with people still eligible to be reaped.

District 10

Morgause and Morgan lounged on the victors' chairs like they were opposing thrones. As mayor, Arthur should technically be sitting to one side of them, but he'd wisely planted himself between them. No one wanted a repeat of last year's incident.

Guinevere was lovely as ever, Gawain supposed, but he couldn't bear to look at her. Not when she was about to draw the names.

Gawain was twenty-one and safe. So was Agrivaine, even if it was only barely.

Gareth and Gaheris, though . . .

They won't be picked, he tried to convince himself. After all, the only reason victors' children were usually picked was to punish their parents for something, and Morgause had long since proven that she cared nothing for her children.

When they were younger, Gawain had told his brothers that she was trying to protect them by acting so cold. Agrivaine and Gareth might even still believe it. Gaheris, though . . . Well, there was a reason Gawain hadn't called her 'mother' for years, and it had a great deal to do with her treatment of Gaheris.

Terence caught his eye and smiled reassuringly from his place in the boys' pen. It'll be alright, he'd told him earlier, and somehow, from Terence, it was more than a platitude. He had the same look to him that Merlin'd had before he disappeared.

"Ladies first," Guinevere said. Her quiet voice seemed almost gentle as it echoed in the square.

She didn't belong here in her silk dresses done up in the latest fashions that wouldn't last a minute on the dung caked roads. She was too silly for Ten and too soft for the Games.

"Connoire Noble."

Gawain closed his eyes. Poor Kay.

Arthur's face was solemn as he stood to welcome her to the stage.

Guinevere rocked on her feet a little, chewing her lip, like she understood that the air had gotten just a little tenser at the pronouncement, but she moved on quickly.

"Gaheris Orkney!" Her voice was determinedly bright.

No.

Not Gaheris, who could never learn to fight no matter how hard Gawain had tried to teach him. Not Gaheris, who he guiltily admitted was his favorite brother, seeing as he was the only one of them who had any sense. Not Gaheris. Not when Gawain was too old to do anything about it but grit his teeth and set his jaw.

If he could only volunteer - But he couldn't. Neither could Agrivaine, not that he would have. That just left Gareth, who could actually win a fight when he put his mind to it. Not a lick of sense otherwise, but he was good in a fight.

Gareth didn't move.

Terence did.

"I volunteer."

The words were so calm, so matter of fact, anyone would have thought he'd been expecting this. Knowing Trevisant, his foster father, perhaps he had.

It took a moment for Gaheris's stoic expression to crack into incredulity. "You're thirteen," he protested.

Then the words fully sank in and Gawain couldn't breathe.

Not Terence, either! He wanted to yell. Terence was quiet and quick and (illegally) good with a bow, but he was thirteen and far too small. He was too good for blood soaked Games. He was - Terence.

And Terence, over Gaheris's objections, had reached the stage.

Arthur looked as grave as a statue of an ancient king. Terence looked absurdly calm. He actually had the nerve to look at Gawain with the same smile as before as if to say, See? I told you it would be alright.

Gawain stared back at him helplessly. This is not alright, Terence. This is about as far from alright as you can get.

(Then again, if you don't make those friendships, you might lose a brother. Of course, this way, you lose one anyway.)

9. This is not a time for jokes.

District Nine

Well, Indy thought as he climbed up on stage after Marion Ravenwood, at least I've got my dad's attention.

(Black humor always helps.)

5. If you have a touch of faerie blood, don't add a faerie gift on top of it.

District Eight

The faerie Lucinda meant well, probably. That was what everyone said, at least.

Everyone except Mandy. "Might as well be Unseelie, the way she goes around. Giving a child obedience as a gift! In this country!"

The way Mandy said it was odd as if there were some other country where Lucinda's cursed gift wouldn't be quite so bad, but Mandy said many odd things.

The way Mother always told the story was this:

Sir Peter (meaning her husband; she always called him thus to mock him) had been dragged to the town square to be whipped. He had cheated the Head Peacekeeper, and so he missed the birth of his first and only daughter.

Lucinda had come and looked at the poor squalling babe refusing to quieten and said, "You'll need to be quieter than that if you want to survive in this world, Ella." And then she gave her awful gift.

That was the story. Mother always tried to tell it lightly. Mandy always told it with cursing.

It never mattered much until seventeen years later when sharp faced men walked through the district and noticed that there was a boy who liked to float a little above the ground and that there was a girl who was clumsy with the textile machines and who had the light of a faerie gift in her eyes.

Rhys Nunson and Ella Frell were called to the stage by an escort draped in ridiculously gaudy fabrics and who kept looking away from the cameras as if afraid of what they would see. Myrtle King and Igori Prince stood behind her.

"Magic," Myrtle breathed into his ever so slightly too large ear.

Igori winced. "Skulni?"

"Worse."

(Of course, faeries rarely ask if you want their gifts and often won't remove them no matter how you plead.)

6. Do not get caught stealing from the Peacekeepers' office while dressed as an out-district raider.

District Seven

The cameras had been placed carefully this year. They'd had to be, to conceal the guns that were trained on the potential tributes and the victors.

Tuck kept his hands folded on his belly and smiled placidly into the cameras. Robin's eyes blazed with cold fury as he glared at Head Peacekeeper Nottingham. Not even the annual joy of seeing Miss Marian could keep him in line today.

Not when there was a gun aimed at Will Scarlet's head as they waited for the Reaping to confirm what they all already knew.

Robin didn't regret what they'd done. Not a bit of it. He didn't even regret getting Will involved. As he'd told Snow once, the consequences of doing the right thing didn't absolve you of the imperative to try, and Will had deserved the right to try.

No, the only thing Robin regretted was that every attempt to free him and spirit him away to the forest had failed. That every bargain Robin had tried to strike with the president had been ignored. That he hadn't found a way to put his bow to good use.

They couldn't stop it now, so they did the only thing they could. His men dotted the crowd, even the ones that really couldn't afford to be caught on camera.

The women who'd joined the cause were there too, but Robin was less worried about them. Snow had somehow gotten the idea that Robin was old fashioned about the idea of women fighting, and he'd underestimated their forces because of it,

They couldn't afford to be seen wearing anything approaching a uniform, but they didn't need to. They'd fought together, escaped to the forest together, watched as brothers and sisters died together. They didn't need a uniform to know each other.

Tuck mumbled a prayer as the Reaping began. Marian approached the bowls almost reluctantly.

"Rowan Prior," she called for the girls. Then, "Will Scarlet." She didn't make a habit of drawing it out unnecessarily.

The Peacekeepers readied their guns, but they had nothing to fear from Will. He walked forward with his head held high, just as John had on his way to the gallows. Will didn't cause any overt trouble at all, though the bruises on more than one Peacekeepers' face suggested this was a new state of affairs.

Rowan, however, limped up onto the stage in a white dress smudged with soot, which would have been fine - had the soot not been used to spell out names.

John. Allan. Celestine. Richard.

And marching down the front in a dripping dried blood line, Snow.

Any other year, she would have been caught in an instant, but she'd come covered up in a green coat, and the Peacekeepers were too busy waiting for arrows from the crowd to stop her until it was far too late.

Someone gave a shout, and the cameras cut out quickly. Peacekeepers hurried to the stage to force both of them away. Neither would have visiting rights.

Marian turned to Robin, face pale even beneath her makeup. "Robin - "

He got up and stretched as if he hadn't a care in the world. "No family," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "No friends." Just Celestine Wood's strange daughter, the apothecary since her mother had died. She'd been allied with Robin's folk, but not one of them, because it wasn't quite true that she had no family. Her mother's people still lived in the woods, and they weren't quite mortal.

Marian nodded, face still tight.

"They'll kill her," she whispered.

Tuck patted her arm kindly. "She never had much of a chance anyway, with those legs of her," he said comfortingly. "And I wouldn't be surprised if she put the eye on you to make you pick her slip. The curse was due to claim her within the year, and she wanted to go out fighting."

"Curse?" she demanded.

Robin took her arm and led her off stage with his most charming smile. "Just a district superstition, my love."

Marian's look was decidedly unimpressed.

Robin reigned in the urge to tease her too badly. The odds weren't in their favor this year, and he'd need her before the end if they were going to have a prayer of bringing even the mentors home.

(The above isn't actually a bad rule. The key problem, of course, is that you always have to try, and inevitably, someday you'll get caught.)

7. If you do get picked, don't make a fool of yourself on stage.

District Six

"Jack, I'm scared."

He crouched down in front of her. "Don't be. You're too young to get picked. You just have to stand with our parents for an hour, and then I'll come back."

"What if you get picked?" his sister wailed.

The last of the trains had fallen silent, the one time of year they did so. They were running out of time.

He grinned brightly at her. "Then I'll have to go play the Games. You know how good I am at games." He poked her stomach. His grin widened when she giggled despite herself.

He met his mother's worried eyes for a split second, and then he had to go, weaving through the crowd to slip into the pen at the last minute.

It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

No amount of cleaning had been able to get the stage truly clean. Even the Capital couldn't stop the soot from the trains from getting on everything.

The Capital escort, Mr. Sandy, glittered against the grime. Gold dust sparkled in his hair and gleamed against a suit that might have been woven from sunlight. Even his skin had a distinctive yellow tint.

Behind him, the victors waited grimly. North, who had won his Games with two massive swords, sat with his hulking arms crossed over a chest that reminded him of the Vikings in the lone, tattered storybook his father had managed to rescue from the district library when it had burned a decade ago. Toothiana fidgeted constantly, fingers rubbing over a ridiculous feather dress that must have been straight from the Capital. That didn't reassure him much. It was hard to think of someone famous for collecting her victims' teeth as harmless and restless. Bunnymund . . . Bunnymund bothered him the most. It was his size partially; at six feet tall, he towered over Jack, and he had the muscle to back it up - and, on one occasion, the irritation to prompt him to use it.

That made him wary, but it wasn't what bothered him. What bothered him was that no one else seemed to notice that E. Aster Bunnymund was a giant rabbit.

He didn't mean that figuratively, either.

It reminded him of the black sand that whispered through the cracks of the boards in their shack at night. It reminded him of the dark horses he glimpsed racing through the street. It reminded him of the thin, dark man he'd once caught a glimpse of the night Jamie's father went mad and tried to kill his children to save them from the threat of the Reaping.

Jack saw things no one else could see, and that was never a good thing.

Jamie had seen those things too, but Jamie was gone. Probably because he had seen those things too.

Jack tried not to think about that, just like he tried not to think about the hunger gnawing his belly. Instead, he thought about the wind that was teasing the edges of threadbare coat and pretended it was about to lift him into flight.

Mr. Sandy walked forward. At his short height, he was half hidden behind the podium. He had to practically jump for the bowls.

The girls were first. He jumped for a name and examined the slip carefully. Then he pressed the slip of paper to a scanner and the screens on either side of the stage lit up with the Panem national emblem.

Across the middle of each screen, "Ava Linnet" blazed in sparkling gold cursive.

A little girl, who looked much smaller than the twelve years old she must surely be, trembled as she make her shaky way to the stage. She'd gathered feathers from around the district, painted them blue and green, and pasted them onto her dress in a pale imitation of Toothiana's signatures dresses.

Baby Tooth, he nicknamed her instantly.

Except he'd seen Toothiana's Games replay on TV, and Toothiana hadn't broken down weeping on the stage.

The victors looked pained. Even Mr. Sandy drooped a little.

The sobs echoed in the silence as Mr. Sandy went to the other bowl.

"Jackson Overland."

He stared at the name for a long moment. That wasn't - It couldn't be -

"Jack!" his sister wailed.

He swallowed hard. That was him.

One second more to imagine the wind pulling him out of there, and then he made himself walk forward as carelessly as if this were a stroll in the park, a cocky grin spilling across his face.

He allowed himself one quick glance at his family as he climbed the stairs to the stage. His mother had picked his sister up and was hushing her frantically. His father looked at him with a face as white as death.

Jack kept his grin steady and tried to ignore the way he felt like the thin ice that spread over the pond in winter. Frozen cold and starting to crack.

A question mark lit up on the screens to ask for volunteers. None came forward. Jamie might have, but Jamie was gone. The others either couldn't and or didn't want to. He wouldn't want someone to take his place anyway. He was the oldest, even if it was only by a few months. This was his job, not theirs.

He looked over the square in the long, stretching moment. He wanted to capture one last imagine of this place. Just - Just in case.

Half rotted wood buildings with tin roofs surrounded the square. Everything was stained with soot and coal. The people were as stained as the buildings, and they stared back at him with eyes dulled by black sand that they never saw.

But Jack saw. And he saw the brightness still in his sister, in Sophie, in Pippa and the others.

It was his job to guard that, which meant he would have to come back.

The symbol on the screen switched to one of two people shaking hands. Jack turned to Baby Tooth.

She was still crying, arms wrapped tight around herself, and he didn't think she was really up to shaking hands. That was a grown up gesture, anyway. One for when the black sand had hid every trace of a spark from someone's eyes.

He poked her on the nose instead.

She blinked, so startled that a laugh stole out of her.

He softened his grin, just a bit, and held out his hand. When she held hers out, he grabbed it and spun her around like she was a princess in the stories.

Everyone was staring at him like he'd gone mad, but Baby Tooth was giggling, so he held his head high as he escorted her to the Justice Building.

(They tell you not to cry. Not to break. There's no rule against laughing, though, even if it's just because they didn't think they'd need one.)

8. Don't draw unwanted attention to yourself.

District Five

Kate figured the Reaping was more of a formality than anything. Everyone had known McGee was going ever since the school trip to the power plant when he'd accidentally-on-purpose created a nationwide power outage.

Kate still wasn't sure why, but he'd done it, and she'd bought enough time and kicked up enough fuss they'd let him go since they didn't have any actual proof.

So she already knew what names would be called, just like how last year they'd all known it would be Ziva David and Ari Haswari, although people had been more divided over whether it was punishment strictly for Eli David, or if part of it was aimed at Tony as well.

Tony's own reaping had been to get at Gibbs.

Tony winked at her from his place on the stage. Kate made a face back. He just grinned wider.

It was the last moment of childishness she could allow herself. Abby Sciuto was making her way to the girl's bowl. Her dramatic makeup gleamed in the light of the cameras.

Kate had already opened the gate and was walking forward a split second before her name was called.

McGee actually waited his turn. He kept sneaking glances at Abby once he was onstage.

Kate resisted the urge to smack him.

Gibbs had no such compunction. He cuffed McGee on the head as he led them toward the visiting rooms. "Mind on the Games," he ordered. We talked about this, his face all but shouted.

McGee looked guilty. Kate rolled her eyes.

Tony draped an arm around her shoulders. "Ready, Kit-Kat?"

She opened her mouth to say something biting, but it was too dry. She just nodded instead.

(Not drawing attention to yourself is a good idea. Unfortunately, kids don't always think ahead, and sometimes, doing the right thing means going down with them.)

9. If you met Shakespeare, you are over 18 and are not obligated to enter the Reaping. In fact, you're legally banned from doing so. Do not sign up for tesserae. Do not use magic to put your name in the Reaping Bowl. Do not use magic to turn all the slips in the girl's bowl to your ex-fiancee's name despite the fact she also met Shakespeare. Do not -

District Four

Granny Relda had somehow managed to pick out his face from her place on the stage. Her reproving look was just as stern from a distance. Puck just smiled wickedly back.

If she thought the whoopee cushion in Charming's seat was bad, he could just imagine how she'd reach to what was coming next.

Beside her, Mr. Canis growled. Puck gulped. On second thought, maybe he should have thought this through a bit more.

Too late now. Charming was approaching the Reaping Bowls. He was still scowling.

"Ladies first."

Eager to see what girl you're going to woo this year?

Briar, Rapunzel, Ella . . . And, of course, the first. Snow.

He'd be getting a surprise this year.

For that matter, so would -

"Moth Summers."

The shriek that arose from the girl's pen was not entirely human.

Told you I'd keep Daphne out of the Games, Grimm.

Moth was dragged up the stage, still shrieking. She wasn't supposed to even be in the Reaping.

Normally this joke would be too cruel, even for his ex-fiancée.

Moth, however, had threatened the Grimms. One Grimm in particular. And Puck couldn't be having that.

Puck wore ratty hoodies. He played pranks he had been repeatedly informed were juvenile. He looked all of twelve years old.

But Puck had lived through wars. He had survived his parents' court. He had fought in the Dark Days alongside the rest of the fae until his monarchs (Mother, Father, did you even think of me - ) were caught and bound by their Names into a prison made of iron.

He had lived through being left ragged and bleeding by the edge of the sea, and it had not been Moth that had found him there and saved him. It had been a girl named Relda Grimm, and she had never once given up on him. Never once kicked him out of her house, whether it was hut or mansion.

He wasn't bound to her by Name, but he owed her for the food, the home, and the protection.

(He owed her for more than that.)

Especially considering what that protection had cost her.

So after - Well, after. He'd agreed to protect her granddaughters since it was too late to protect her son.

In hindsight, that had been a bad idea because five weeks into the assignment he owed Sabrina an even bigger debt than he owed Relda.

See, he'd been caught in a faerie trap, and the person who'd caught him there had found out his Name.

And she'd gone and gotten him out of the trap and never once used the fact that in doing so, she'd found out his Name.

He owed her. Which was why his name, lowercase n, was the second pulled out.

He strolled forward with his hands in his pockets and grinned at her brightly from the stage.

Daphne's eyes were wide and tearing up. Sabrina looked furious.

Maybe he hadn't thought this through very well.

But if he was going to fulfill any of his debts, then he needed the power winning the Games would give him.

"Shake hands," Charming ordered. Up close, his eyes looked bloodshot.

Puck grinned at Moth and offered her his hand.

She glared at him with enough force he was surprised it didn't rip through her glamour before she turned and stalked away.

Puck shrugged at the cameras as if to say, "What can you do?" and walked after her.

(You're not supposed to do any of those things, but if you're a faerie and owe debts, you might not have a choice.)

10. Be absolutely certain which name they call.

District Three

Margot straightened her skirt and tried not to look over at the boys' pen. Now wasn't the time for that.

Instead, she turned to Edith and forced her faded pink hat into a better position and tried not to think about poor Agnes standing with the matron and the other kids too young for the Reaping. This would be the first year she didn't have Edith with her.

Edith scowled at her. "It's fine."

"You need to look presentable," she reminded her. "There."

"They don't look presentable," Edith grumbled, waving an indignant hand at the victors on the stage.

Unfortunately, Edith was right. From what little Edith could see, Gru was dressed in the same skintight black he always wore, complete with the grey scarf he always wore wrapped around his thick neck no matter the weather. With his bald head hunched down and his fingers steepled together, he looked like he was plotting world domination.

From the rumors she'd heard, he probably was.

Dr. Nefario was still in his chemical stained lab coat, and his goggles obscured his eyes. She was pretty sure his pocket was wriggling.

Mrs. Scarlett had at least made an effort at being presentable, and Edith felt a quick pang of envy for her elegant red dress and black gloves. Her hair, however, looked like something from the Dark Days.

And Lucy Wilde . . . Well, she'd tried. And it really was quite a nice blue coat. Her clothes were fine, and her hair was quite presentable. It was just, well, Lucy. She was awkward, no matter what she was wearing. Margot supposed you couldn't really expect anything else from someone who had won the final battle of her Games by a clumsy accident.

"Make up your mind," Edith complained. "Last night you said there was no way I would get picked. Today you're acting like you're expecting all of Panem to see me."

"Of course you won't get picked," Margot assured her. Not for the first time, she wished Miss Hattie could find the budget to buy her glasses so that she could look at Edith properly instead of just squinting at her. "But if you look nice today, a family's more likely to adopt you."

"No one gets adopted," Edith said.

"Ten years ago - "

"Ten years ago," Edith agreed, crossing her arms. "Not anymore."

Margot huffed. Thankfully, at that moment, Vector stepped forward to begin his speech.

Five minutes into listening to his nasally voice, she'd let go of her relief.

Finally, he stopped talking and stepped towards the boys' bowl. "Bob Greyling!"

She recognized the name. He was in her grade at school. If she stood on her toes, she could just see him.

Then a small, yellow blob started zipping through the crowd and up onto the stage. "Bob!" it announced proudly.

She could just make out a grey blur around his eyes that was probably glasses of some sort and blue overalls.

Mainly, though, she just noticed that he was short, round, and very, very, yellow.

Vector scooted away from him like it might be contagious. "Bob?" he checked.

Gru was facepalming. Dr. Nefario winced.

Bob Greyling wasn't exactly eager to step forward and correct the mistake, though, so . . . the other Bob . . . got to stay right where he was, preening in the light of the cameras.

Apparently the rumors of why there kept being explosions in Victors' Village had at least some truth to them.

What had happened to that poor kid?

Vector shot the yellow thing another look before going over to the girls' bowl. "Edith Nelson!"

The words took a minute to penetrate.

Edith?

Edith yanked her hat determinedly askew and started walking forward.

Edith?

But she was only twelve. They couldn't possibly have picked Edith. There was some mistake. Or another one of those yellow things would run forward to take her place.

Not Edith. Surely not Edith.

"Volunteers?" Vector drawled, sounding bored.

Edith was on stage. Why was she -

Margot shut her mouth with a snap. Edith had been picked. Edith. That meant -

She took a wobbling step forward and wavered, hesitating. She had to - She couldn't -

"Shake hands," Vector ordered, flapping his hand at them.

No!

"Banana?" the strange little thing asked Edith hopefully.

Too late.

(Once you've heard the names, you must be quick to accept it.)

11. Do not be related to previous victors.

District Two

Seph had his mother's good looks and his father's gift for . . . persuasion.

He didn't, however, have either of their last names, something he tried very hard not to blame them for.

They meant well. His foster mother insisted that they meant well.

It was just hard to remember that when he watched the best of his year mates head off to train as Careers while he remained in school because Gwen - not Mom, she never let him call her that - insisted that it was what his parents wanted.

He wouldn't have minded if it hadn't been for the fact that the Careers got to eat far better than the foster sons of struggling inn owners in a district not known for its tourism. Who wanted to see the masonry district, after all?

He wouldn't have minded working in the inn after school if the chicken he laid out hadn't smelled quite so good. He wouldn't have minded setting the plates out for guests if one of those guests hadn't been Hastings.

The only sign that his father had even noticed him was a last minute, almost forgotten tip. He would have called it generous if his father hadn't been a victor and well able to afford it.

He wouldn't have minded if his father had just looked at him, at least once.

But he hadn't, so Seph took the scraps the guests hadn't eaten back to the kitchen so he could turn them into a supper for two.

A scrap of food, a bit of money, and the barest shred of attention weren't quite enough from a father, he felt, even if it was more than his mother had given him. His mother showed more interest in his cousin Jack than she did in him. He only ever glimpsed her every year at the Reaping.

They just meant to protect him, his foster mother insisted, and she kept insisting it when strange things started happening around him, and his only defense was to bottle up the fizzing power inside him until he felt he would explode for fear that the Peacekeepers in the far too near base would find out. They meant well, she insisted, right up until the long cold winter where they couldn't afford to heat their own rooms, and they couldn't afford a doctor, only the herbs that she had taught him how to mix.

She hadn't taught him well enough.

When she was buried, the inn was sold, he was sent for a bit of far-too-late Career training, and his parents still showed not the slightest interest, Seph hadn't just started to doubt, he'd pulled doubt in and made it his friend.

Either his parents didn't care, or his foster mother had been lying. Maybe it had started out as a pretty fairy story when he was young and she had just forgotten to let go of it. Maybe she'd told him his parents were victors to get him to sleep one night when he'd been too hungry to do so otherwise or to soothe him after the crows had dived to defend him from a schoolyard bully. Maybe she'd wanted to give him hope that someday things would be better, that it was alright to be different, his parents had been too.

Or maybe someone had left him on her doorstep with a note and had thought she'd be more likely to take him in if he was someone important. He didn't know.

He did know, however, that Jack really shouldn't have ended up in the Games. The rules for volunteering and reaping were complicated in the Career districts, but Seph had studied them with something close to obsession the year after Jason - too mouthy, too defiant Jason - got pulled in. Jack should not have been the one to go. It went against all the rules.

Then he saw Linda's - his mother's? - face get white and pinched, and the seed of another kind of doubt grew in his mind.

Jack came back. Came back a little angrier, a little harder than before. Came back having - well, not having broken the rules of the Games. There weren't any rules. But if you got to the final two, you really weren't supposed to spend the last two hours of the Games trying to stop a kid from a completely different district from bleeding out.

The next year, Jack's girlfriend, Ellen, was sent to the Capital and judging by the looks on everyone's faces . . .

Yeah, Seph had some doubts about the Reaping process.

He was almost eighteen by the time the next Reaping rolled around. He went, of course, but he wasn't nervous at all. He might have trained for the last few years, but no one expected him to volunteer. Dr. Leicester's methods hadn't worked on him as well as they did the others, and no one wanted to send the gaunt, nightmare haunted boy who was likely to say something both utterly charming and utterly likely to get him executed on national television.

Alison Mars was reaped for the girls, but Leesha fought her for it with the single minded intensity she'd had ever since Jason hadn't come back. Leesha won, naturally. She was nearly as persuasive as Seph was. He wished her luck.

Right up until he was reaped himself, and somehow, despite the furious volunteering of half his year-mates, it defaulted to him.

Call him a cynic, but Seph was calling foul.

There were ravens gathering at the edges of the square and eyeing the escort, Jessamine Longbranch, with beady eyes. Seph swallowed hard as he mounted the stage and closed his sweating palms into fists. Please, no. That scared him more than the Reaping did.

He stared at the aging buildings that reminded him of half-rotted castles and willed the ravens to stay in place. He couldn't let this happen. Not here. Not now.

He almost forgot to shake Leesha's hand. They did it quickly, both flinching a little at the shock that always came when they touched.

Then he was being bundled into a cold room that reminded him of a cell to wait for his visitors.

Visitors. Right. His foster mother was dead and so was Jason. He had friends enough, both from school and the other Careers, but he doubted they would come. He was charming, but not quite charming enough to overcome Reaping Day.

Then Linda Downey hurried in with frantic, furtive movements, and Seph suddenly realized he might not have been fair to his foster mother after all.

She clasped his hands, flinching a bit as she did so. His skin felt even hotter contrasted against her freezing cold hands.

"Seph, I know you must be very confused right now, and I can't explain everything, but - "

"But you care enough to show up when I'm about to die, even if Hastings doesn't?" Seph interrupted bitterly.

Linda's eyes widened. "She told you?"

"For some crazy reason, she thought I had the right to know." He could feel the heat rushing through him, knew he had to get it under control, but it was hard to care at the moment. Too hard.

Linda bit her lip, but her voice held none of her uncertainty. It was warm and soothing. "It's going to be all right, Seph. I didn't want it to come to this, that's why I couldn't let anyone know you were mine, but now that it has, we'll get you through this, and then I'll answer any questions you like. All right?"

Seph yanked his hands out of her grip. "Don't try that on me," he warned her. "I've spent the last three years resisting the power of suggestion, I'm not about to swallow it from you."

Linda flinched. Seph ruthlessly pushed back any regret. If he was going to resist her, he had to be firm. Her subtle promise of a future family was far more tempting than Dr. Leicester's battering ram approach to convincing them that to die was glorious.

"All right," she said quietly. "We don't have to talk about this now. Do you need anything?"

He shrugged. "I - " He bit off the words, then finished them anyway. "I wouldn't mind some company."

"Of course," she said immediately. "I'm sure I can convince them to let me stay the whole time since there aren't any other visitors waiting."

Seph was sure she could too. People rarely refused Linda Downey anything.

Then the rest of what she said hit him. "Hastings isn't coming?"

Linda hunched a little. "He doesn't know."

Didn't know? He'd been up on the stage with all the other victors, hadn't he? How could he not -

Oh. Well. That made it a bit easier to forgive him for not paying attention, at least.

(It's easy to say that being the child of a previous victor is bad luck, but there isn't anything you can do to change it, is there? No matter how hard your parents try to.)

12. Don't get too close to a victor. Or a victor's daughter.

District One

Bingley was a fool. Darcy had told him so, repeatedly, but Bingley had refused to listen.

If it had been foolishness like Caroline's, it would have been one thing. No doubt the president had gotten a good laugh out of watching Darcy squirm as he beat a hasty retreat from her attentions.

Bingley's foolishness was of another sort entirely, and it was of a far more dangerous kind.

"Come now, Darcy, I'm only being neighborly," Bingley had always cried.

'Neighborly' seemed a bit of a stretch when it was a thirty minute walk between their properties, but Darcy had no objections to a truly neighborly acquaintance; his aunt had been inviting the Bingleys to her Christmas gala for years.

No, to that even President Snow could have no objection. The problem came with Bingley's frequent visits and the invitations that for Georgiana's sake he could not in good conscience refuse.

"If you dislike me that much, Darcy - "

And there he had always cut his friend off. A mistake, he saw now, because it had never been a matter of liking but of safety. The president would not, could not, ignore or tolerate someone who transformed a suitably reclusive and self-destructive victor into someone that could reasonably be called philanthropic and charitably be called amiable, or at least not antisocial.

He ought to have been more careful. He'd thought he'd learned his lesson when his parents were killed and had been sure of it when Fitzwilliam had been reaped. He'd only allowed himself Elizabeth's company when Kitty and Lydia were lost to the Games; that one victor's daughter might be reaped was only expected, two was at least possible at a stretch, but three strained credulity, and she was now safely in her twenties, besides. He'd badly needed her laughing eyes, so he'd allowed himself to answer her quick tongue.

But perhaps that too had been a mistake. His halting attempts at courtship had required much help from Georgiana and Bingley and had thrown the latter into a closer acquaintance with Jane with all too predictable results.

Bingley had, in short, strolled into Victor's Village with an amiable smile and the inevitability of a battering ram, and he had forced the victors out of isolation and into connection with the rest of the district.

Connected victors were dangerous victors, but Darcy had allowed himself to forget. To hope.

Now he stared helplessly as Bingley mounted the stage. Caroline had fainted. Jane and Georgiana were pale with horror; Elizabeth supported them both with strength like steel.

Mr. Bennett sighed beside him. "If my wife were here, there'd be hysterics by now," he murmured.

Mrs. Bennett had not been anywhere since her nervous collapse after Wickham had killed Lydia in the Games a year ago, and Darcy couldn't help but feel a reminder of their previous failures was not what was needed just now.

Aunt de Burgh remained impassive, but Knightley was tense for another reason entirely.

Their escort, Harriet Smith, made her way to the girl's bowl. Despite all her efforts, she was a bit plumper than last year, but, unfortunately, her mind had as little weight as ever. She smiled as she pulled out the name.

Georgiana was still eligible. That was the only thing that pulled his eyes from Bingley's back.

"Emma Woodhouse."

Knightley's hands clenched.

"Volunteers?" Harriet asked cheerfully.

Three girls jumped forward to fight it out. The Peacekeepers tightened around the boys to keep them from doing so.

Darcy paid no attention to the bids and counter-bids. He already knew how this would end.

Sure enough, Emma was the one who ascended the stage with so much dignity he could almost believe she truly considered it an honor.

He wasn't sure if it had been rigged, or if she was just too proud to be spared. It didn't matter.

Knightley was whiter than a pearl from Four.

You fool, Darcy thought. You should have waited.

He wasn't sure who he was talking to, but whoever it was, it was far too late.

(Being near victors is a dangerous thing. Of course, leaving them to self-destruct isn't any better, and this way, at least, the damage done is in the name of good, not apathy.)