Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games in any shape or form.

Geth342: Well, this is the first chapter of my story about the first ever Hunger Games. I hope it's somewhat decent. If you want me to continue, updates will be every 10 days hopefully so the next one would be 8th May. Hope you enjoy.

First

1) Be Serious

Even the name is confusing. The Hunger Games. I don't know where they've got it from. Is it hunger because they can starve us? Hunger to remind us of the Dark Days? Or is it to do with the Games themselves?

As far as I can tell, the only rule of these Games is that the last person standing will win. I know hunger can kill you but I really don't think that they're going to make all of Panem watch how quickly twenty-three kids can starve to death. If they wanted to do that, they could just film a poorer district, like District 12.

No, I really don't get it.

That makes me think I've missed something – the rules seem almost too simple. Twenty-four kids, picked from glass bowls. One arena. Only one person can live. I must be missing something. Maybe they have challenges for each 'tribute' or you can pay your way out? I don't know. Maybe the idea itself is horrible enough.

The one thing I definitely don't understand, though, is why they're punishing us teenagers. It was the adults – especially from District Thirteen – who rebelled. Not us. Not really. My family didn't even take part, nor did most of my friends' families. So why threaten us?

Still, I can't deny that part of me is excited. The winner will bring back money and food. They'll be a hero to the poor. And if that happens in our district, it will prove what the Capitol should know. District 1 isn't looking for trouble. We've learnt our lesson.

Just as long as it's someone else doing the proving.

They're calling the ceremony where they choose the contestants 'the reaping'. That sounds grim. Like the tributes are already dead. At least they've tried to make it fair: the older you are, the more times you're entered. I'm seventeen, so I get entered six times and Pearl, my sister, will be entered twice. You can sign up for this thing called tessarae: you get enough oil and grain for one person, but you get your name added again. I think some of the poorer people did this but a lot of my friends haven't.

People are excited and frightened in equal amounts. The idea is scary but, at the same time, this could be an excellent way to get favour from the Capitol. For the last week, all everyone's been talking about is the Games. Do we stand a chance? What do we have to do?

The ceremony – sorry – the reaping is tomorrow, at eight-thirty in the morning. We go first because we're District 1. Pearl is already nervous, so I'm trying to make her feel better. Dad doesn't see the funny side. He never does.

"Jewel," he snaps after I tell her the winner of the Games will get to fly a hovercraft all around the districts, "stop messing around. It's hard enough already."

If there's one thing I hate about myself, it's my name. Jewel Arram. I never used to mind but after hearing other districts names in the Rebellion – names like Madge, Gidde or Daisy – I can't help thinking mine is stupid. I mean, I'm named after a stone. Not even a specific one. Pearl is better; at least her name was considered normal in District 13.

Mom and Dad both tell me my name is fine. I'm named after my grandmother and she didn't complain. Pearl tells me that at least it's not as bad as the boy who lives next door: Hue. For a thirteen-year-old, Pearl's pretty sensible. My parents are just strange.

The other thing I hate, though, is my surname. Or what it begins with: A. I always have to do things first. Need three people? Let's use an alphabetical list. Who should do the test first? Oh, just pick the person whose surname begins with an A. And then everyone else wants to know what whatever it is, is like. Hey, I didn't get a preview. Why should you?

I end up first for nearly everything: competitions, being picked for teams. In those cases, it's nice. But usually, it's annoying.

"Sorry," I say to Dad. "Just trying to be cheerful."

"Well, don't," he snaps. "This is serious. It's not a joke."

"I know. I'll start crying now." I pull a dramatically sad face. Pearl laughs.

"Jewel, you could die! Don't you understand that?"

My dad spends a lot of time worrying about things he can't control, and this worries everyone else. He's bald (due to stress, I think) but strong. When he's angry, he's scary.

"We haven't even been picked," I point out cautiously, ever the optimist. Someone in this family has to be.

"Yet," he mutters back.

I roll my eyes. "I have, what, a six in five thousand chance? Pearl has even less." It's not that I'm not worried: I am. But I can't bear to think about the possibility of me or my sister being picked. If I focus on the good points, I can get through it easier.

"But it's still high," Mom says, speaking for the first time. She's always quiet in family talks. "When you think about other people."

"Yeah, well, even Hue has a chance of being picked. And he only has one slip in that bowl. It's possible, but it's not likely."

"We need to be prepared," says Dad angrily, not impressed by my logic. "For the worst. If either of you are picked, you need to come home."

"I will," Pearl vows.

"This is a bit late to prepare, isn't it?" I ask. "It's in eleven hours."

"Promise us, Jewel," he thunders.

I sigh. "I promise I'll try."

"You'll try?" His voice is menacing. If I wasn't used to him using this voice on me so often because he doesn't like my attitude, I would be cowering by now.

"I'll try," I agree steadily. "But I can't guarantee it." Pearl looks upset. I realise that I can't win: if I joke, Dad will shout at me. If I take it seriously, Pearl will cry. I'll have to go for something in the middle. "OK, OK," I say hastily. "I promise if I get picked I'll come home. Even if I have to hijack one of those hovercrafts, I'll turn up at the door and ask you for dinner."

Dad sighs. "Guess that's the best I'll get out of you," he says.

I've upset him. Again. "I won't give up," I promise. "Honestly. But let's not worry about it now. Anyone could be picked. Please, Dad?"

To my relief, he agrees. But the mood in the house is undeniably sombre, despite my efforts to get everyone smiling again.

When I go to bed, I stop smiling. I stop laughing. I know I only have a slight chance of being picked. But if I do get picked, I could die.

I dream about the Games when I sleep. I dream that I'm in a corridor with twenty-three other people. We're each led into a separate room – a small, empty room – and left to die. And when I wake up, I'm sweating. Because that could easily happen. To me. To Pearl. To any of my friends.

And how could we fight a fate like that?

I wake up at about six which is when I normally wake up. Usually, Dad would be heading to the factory to make the luxury goods for the Capitol and Mom would be heading to the market to sell crafts. I would either be going with Dad, going to school or going to barter food from the butcher and baker.

We're lucky in my family. We earn enough that we never go hungry: District 1 families all over tend to do well. We never went hungry, even in the rebellion, although I know some families did. Dad just kept on working, day after day, and the Capitol rewarded him.

Today, they're still in the kitchen because of this reaping ceremony. We all have to go so work and school are cancelled. District 1 is going first, so this will be a free day for most people. It's actually quite annoying because I'd like to see what I'm going to have to put up with during this ceremony but, instead, I get to see for myself. And everyone else can watch instead (except District 2 and possibly 3, because each reaping is half-an-hour apart from the other).

I wonder who will watch us. Most districts hate us because we didn't do much for the rebellion and we were the first to fall. It's easier for them. They don't live next door to the Capitol.

The wait is boring. I spend some of it picking an outfit. Not by choice: Mom thinks my first set of clothes is too casual. She says that, if I'm called up, I have to look presentable and create a good impression. Pearl gets the same lecture when she wakes up.

I don't know why my family are focusing on it so much. Why worry unless it happens? All that it's doing is stressing them out. Still, arguing with her will do me no good so I accept her choice of clothing – a pretty blue blouse and purple skirt, made from fine material and worth a lot. It emphasises my blonde hair and hides my less-than-thin figure.

I'm not fat so much as sturdy. Work in the factories and excess sport in school, as well as some weapons training during the rebellion (just in case the army got to us. They didn't say which army) has given me some muscles. I'm not beautiful but I could look worse, I suppose. No one will be comparing me to my name anytime soon though.

I feel stupid, being dressed up so nicely. I try not to think about it right up until I leave the house. Then I see people dressed just as smartly as me. Mostly teenagers. Those eligible for the Games. I suddenly want to thank my mother for being so much more prepared than me but she bustles me down the street and the words are lost as Dad grumbles under his breath.

We arrive at the City Square at eight. It's loud and I don't think I've ever seen it hold so many people. Almost as soon as we enter, Pearl and I are told to go to a table, to register our arrival, before being herded away from our parents and into a mass of teenagers. She has to stand near the front with the other thirteen-year-olds. I get told to stand near the back with the seventeen-year-olds.

It's hard work pushing through the crowd and I stumble once I reach the seventeen-year-olds. Lev – a silent refugee from District 13 whom I don't know that well – picks me up and smiles before turning back to his friend. I consider speaking to his friend, who I know a lot better, but before I can, Gleam finds me and drags me over to two of my other friends – a short, stocky boy called Calem and a pretty girl called Ayla.

She smiles. "Happy Hunger Games," Gleam greets me, using the official phrase. I wonder if my best friend has gone crazy.

"Happy Hunger Games," I reply. The words feel odd on my tongue.

Calem sighs, running his hands through his short, black hair nervously. "This is scary," he admits. "We don't know what's in these Games."

"Yeah," Ayla says. "I wouldn't mind trying it, if I knew what was in it." Despite her looks, Ayla's the most adventurous person I know.

"We do know what's in it," I say. They turn to look at me. "Twenty-four kids get to kill each other on T.V. and only one of them will be alive by the end of it."

She glares at me. "That's it though. What's actually in it? We get trained but how do we know what to train at or, you know, how to survive?"

"Ever tried breathing?" I quip. I can't help it. Sometimes, I feel like I need humour like I need life. This is one of those times. It stops me from focusing on the bad things.

"Stop joking!" snarls Calem. "If we want to win, we have to be prepared."

"You sound like my dad," I inform him. "And there is no preparation time left this year. So why worry?"

"Because you aren't taking it seriously," says Gleam. "If you're picked and you think it's a joke, you'll die. And the district will just disown you."

She's right. District 1 isn't exactly a tight-knit, stand-up-for-your-neighbour kind of place.

"I know it's serious. But I don't see the point in worrying unless I'm picked. Besides, someone might volunteer. I heard that's allowed."

"No one will. Not for the first one."

Of course not. Everyone wants to weigh up the odds first.

I open my mouth to tell them that it could happen anyway but we're called to silence. On the stage are a man and a woman, who are sitting down, Mayor Sard and the Capitol representative: a small, cheerful man called Duriem Wensar. I've only ever seen him once before, but he made a lasting impression on me. And everyone else around me for that matter.

Duriem sits down. Mayor Sard begins to speak. He tells us of the history of Panem - as if we don't know from countless history lessons – and reminds us how bad the rebellion was. Those days were bad, I have to agree, but I can't help wondering if there was more to it. Why did the rebels rise up? It started when I was little, so I don't remember the beginning. I don't remember the reasoning behind it.

He talks for a long time about why we need the Games. I try to listen, to absorb any helpful information, but my eyes are fixated on the glass bowls. There are loads of pieces of paper in there. Six of them say Jewel Arram. But six in all of that? What are the chances?

Vaguely, I wonder what would happen if two people have the same name. Who goes forward?

There's a faint smattering of applause and I realise Mayor Sard has finished his speech and has introduced Duriem. I snap my head up to attention as our Escort springs up and takes centre stage.

"Happy Hunger Games, District 1, and may the odds be ever in your favour" he greets us chirpily. "I hope you're all as excited as I am for the first ever Hunger Games."

"Could anyone be as excited as him?" I mutter to Gleam.

"Shut up, Jewel," she replies, but she's smiling.

"Now, just remember, you can only volunteer after the person whose name is called out arrives on stage. If you don't manage it this year, there's always next year for most of you."

I wonder who he thinks is volunteering. Despite what I said, I haven't met a single person who's planning on doing it.

"And remember, the district who wins will be honoured like no other. My friends behind me will agree." He gestures to the round-faced man and the sharp-faced woman. "These two are Kimre Doyl and Liss Pelat. Until the District has winners or until fifteen years has passed, they will act as the tributes' mentors." The man smiles and waves. The woman just nods.

Duriem walks over to the bowls. "Let's not keep you waiting any longer. It's time to pick our tributes – the first tributes to ever be picked as well. May the odds be ever in your favour." It's the second time he's said it and, for some reason, I find it annoying.

"Why couldn't he just say good luck?" I grumble in the silence.

"Capitol's phrase," Calem hisses back. "Now shut up."

"Girls first," says Duriem winningly. My attention snaps back to the stage as he places his hand in the bowl on the left. Ayla and Gleam tense. I think I do too. No one speaks as he slowly, painfully picks up a piece of paper. In front of me, a tiny sixteen-year-old is whispering 'not me, not me'. I want to do it too, but I like to imagine I have a bit more dignity.

Not me, please, I think. Not me, or Pearl or Gleam or Ayla or … or anybody. No one I know, please. Not until we know what we're getting into.

Please.

He unfolds the paper. It seems to be taking hours. It can only be seconds.

He opens his mouth. This is it. Only six, I remind myself.

"And the first female tribute of District 1 is …" he pauses. I want to tell him to get a move on. This is killing me.

"Congratulations … Jewel Arram! Come on up."

This really has killed me.

I stay where I am, paralysed. My knees are buckling. Calem grabs my arm. I think I'm about to faint.

After all my joking, after all my attempts to placate everyone, after all my reassurances, I have been chosen. Dad was right. Everyone was right and I was wrong. I'm almost certainly the one who has to try this first-hand.

"Jewel Arram?" calls Duriem. "Are you there?"

Ayla gives me a nudge. I jump, pulling Calem up with me.

"Yes," I squeak and grimace. "Yes," I try again and this time, he can hear me. I pull my arm out of Calem's grasp and slowly walk forward. People move aside. "I'm sorry," I add. "I was just thinking about it."

There's a strange sound coming from the crowd. Laughter.

"Nothing wrong with thinking," chuckles Duriem. "Glad to see you're ready."

Am I? It takes me a few seconds to realise that he's joking.

I decide to finish my walk in as dignified a manner as possible, if only to make myself feel better. As I walk through the thirteen-year-olds, I hear crying. Pearl.

I know I shouldn't, but I quickly turn back and mouth 'hovercraft' in the direction of the sobs. Then I continue. I hope she saw me.

"Hi," I say breathlessly as I walk onto the stage. Duriem smiles. I force myself to smile back.

"Hi, Jewel. Congratulations."

"Thanks." I resist the urge to point out that I haven't actually done anything so there's no need to be congratulated. Unless he's thinking of the trip to the stage.

He turns to the crowd. "Before we can continue, is there anybody who wishes to volunteer in place of Jewel Arram?"

Come on, I think. Someone must want to try it. It's new. It's exciting. It's an adventure. Or, tell you what, I'll swap. I'll volunteer next year. Just someone, please volunteer.

No one says a word.

"Well then, I give you the first ever tribute of District 1 … and of the Hunger Games. Ladies and Gentlemen: Jewel Arram!" He shakes my hand.

Everyone claps. Some people cheer. I try to keep smiling, to wear away the shock in my eyes. Following Duriem's gesture, I turn to the mentors and shake their hands, still smiling. Then I turn back to face the crowd.

I'm first, I think numbly as the people cheer. Just like always, I'm first.

Just like always … why am I so surprised anyway? I'm always picked first. I should have guessed that this would happen.

They probably had a list in alphabetical order.