*UPDATES at bottom*

A look into the thoughts of your Gamemaker:
Would you look at us. We've apparently been reported and… well, we're still here. I take that to mean the world isn't going to spontaneously combust for this Fic anytime soon—kindly disregard my previous freak-out. I'm unpredictable this way… you can never trace the path of my thoughts, even if you leave breadcrumbs… your tributes better watch their backs in the arena (which, by the way, has been decided upon).

And I'd also like to point out that, according to the rules, interactive FanFics are just as banned AS TYPING IN ALL CAPS and not useing SpellCheck. Relieving, isn't it?

And now…
Take a deep breath. And pray your name is far out of reach from the Capitol's groping hand, because it's Reaping time.

"I present Ida Topia, your female District three tribute!"

I fidgeted to get the blue bow on my hip to sit straight as the Capitol voice from the screen echoed over us. One nasty thread kept pulling it off a bit to the left- the inner pleats refused to be horizontal. I didn't personally like the feature, but then again, the whole Reaping number hadn't been my idea. The two masterminds behind my outfit had their heads peeking over the other girls in the 12's section. My baby sisters. My angels.

Jaw clenched, I re-focused my attention to the huge TV screen to match every other pair of eyes in Salttide Square-the largest meeting place in 4. The live broadcast of the Reapings prior to ours had just featured a close-up shot on a lanky girl's bony face. Their Capitol representative presented her as District 3's female tribute, before the cameras zeroed in on the hand in the male reaping ball. The fingers sorted through the slips, waiting to touch just the right one…

The representative pulled it out upside-down. She giggled to herself as she fixed it, squinting at the paper before yelling, "Charles Hunter!"

The shot swooped over the crowd, waiting to detect any movement. It finally came to rest on a slight shuffling in the boy's fourteens section. Zooming in to the heart of the movement, we all watched as Charles Hunter, a relatively short boy, was pushed away from the pack. His steps toward the stage were odd, tripping on every other movement. It took me a moment to register this as a limp in his left leg- smugness settled comfortably in my gut. Maybe this killing thing won't be so hard after all…

We tracked his bobbing black head up to the stage, mounting the steps with surprising ease. Only then did we get a close-up of his face, as he shook hands with the representative. Fury, not fear, burned behind his blue eyes- but as startling as that was, it was the eyes themselves that drew gasps from the audience. His left eye's cool color boiled icy-hot in unspoken hatred of this woman with whom he was making a friendly, partnering gesture. But his right eye… a bright white scar was scraped from hairline to jaw, creating grotesque ridges in his crumpled eyelids. Whoever had cut him hadn't missed the eye itself- it's color was milkier than the other, the pupil less concise, the iris stretched a bit to flow in the scar's direction. This oddly reminded me of long evenings, sitting on the dock with a long stick in my grasp, drawing a single line through a patch of sea foam suspended on the water's surface. The foam always morphed to follow the direction of my stick, reaching out with a new arm for it…

Maybe he's blind in that eye, I consoled myself. That gives him two disabilities.

But no amount of consoling could erase from my mind the look of pure hatred that rode that sliced face so well.

"And now, your tributes of District Three: Ida Topia and Charles Hunter!"

One last camera shot of the two tributes, now shaking hands with each other (the poor girl looked like she was about to faint), before the screen went black. As large white words formed, our mayor hurriedly straightened his silver tie and smoothed his whisps of white hair from his position behind the podium. The words read:

District 4
Capital of Fishing Industries
Mayor Seaquin Caps

All the large cameras hovering over our heads trained themselves on Mayor Caps as he began to solemnly speak. I could hardly absorb his reading of the Treaty of Treason for the vat of nervous excitement boiling in my gut. Seven years of planning. I'd been waiting for this day for so long. And I was ready-calculated, crunched and confirmed. I repeated to myself how silly it was to be nervous- I'd rehearsed this moment countless times in front of my own reflection and just to the open ocean, standing on the familiar sand that wormed its way between my toes. Begging me to stay longer, knowing I had to leave. To fight.

The shock of color on the stage made me blink back sudden wetness in my eyes. Apparently Mayor Caps had finished and our escort had made an appearance- these Capitol people and their clothes. A hand emerged from beneath all the fabric and into the bowl, and I took in a huge breath of salty air to cool my nerves.

"Pearl Weedeta!"

Not my name. Not by a longshot. Pearl was a girl in my sister's school, slightly ill in the head.

I waited for the poor little girl to be led up to the stage by another pale 12-year-old. I stood, heart racing, waiting as she climbed the steps agonizingly slowly. Any minute now… I'd already planned not to yell out before being politely asked. Then I would seem crazy, for willingly throwing myself into what they saw as almost guaranteed death. No, now- with an adorable, mentally ill girl that I appeared to be saving- now I would just look like a compassionate teen. A doomed, compassionate teen.

"Any volunteers?" the Capitol voice piped.

I physically took a step forward, getting a considerable bit of attention. Any movement I made would be easy to spot in this group of shrimpy 17-year-old girls. At 5'11", I towered over them all.

"I, Callista Cade, volunteer as tribute." A huge dose of relief graced my veins after the statement came out smoothly.

Pearl looked like she was about to collapse of gratitude, in her own odd way. She made an incomprehensible noise and staggered forward a few feet before the same girl as before hurried her offstage. The crowds parted like the sea making way for a goddess- people stepped back from my lean frame, eyes glued to my ever-serious face. I made my way down this new path and shook the unnaturally hot hand that protruded from the Capitol outfit. I didn't need her whispered prompt to know where to stand, facing the crowd with jaw-set determination.

I didn't see anything but the remarkably blue sky. Two clouds floated over its broad canvas, giving the only hint that I wasn't looking at the sea from afar. But I still pretended I was. For the sake of last comforts to my jumping nerves.

"Sebastian Aquearus?"

A question mark slipped its way into the Capitol accent. I'd never, ever heard that name before- which came with slight relief. If it had been someone from my school, or worse yet, Jarvis himself, my confidence would have been hurt slightly. I couldn't kill my best friend. I would probably have had to hand the weapon to him and ask him to run me through with it.

My gaze slid from the skies to the crowd, where a typical 4 boy was detaching himself from the 18's with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts. He looked about ready for a swim- and nothing more than slightly disappointed that that wasn't going to work out.

On the stage, he flashed a wary smile in the direction of the girl's 18s.

"Would anyone like to volunteer?" the Capitol accent tweeted as the huge screen was filled with this guy's face. He wasn't half-bad looking, actually. White-blond hair, startlingly blue eyes—

"I volunteer!" a thick voice called from the 18's. Another, thicker boy sprung from the pack with relative ease. He wasted no time in getting to the stage to stand next to the slightly-bewildered-looking Sebastian.

"And what's your name?" our representative asked.

"Neveah Bosun," he said, voice strong enough for me to easily hear him without to microphone. But the Capitol-ite leaned back to it again, facing the cameras to announce, "Neveah Bosun, everyone!"

Sebastian clapped Neveah on the back in a sort of thanks-for-saving-my-life-but-you're-so-not-coming-back way as he returned to his pen to the whoops and happy yells of many others. Almost nobody watched Neveah, standing solidly off to the side with me. Our eyes only met once, and immediately swept away- there. A greeting. A grudging admittance that we were both going into this, and that we're both Careers. I quietly eye his thick arms and black tee shirt that does little to conceal the carved strength of his chest. An ally, I decided off the bat. A Career, and an ally.

Just as I'd planned.

"I give you our District four tributes; Callista Cade and Neveah Bosun…

May I present the tributes of District five; Lilia Copper and Matthew Ply…

And as a reminder of our great Capitol's overall power, we send our children to the ultimate Game…

Now for our female tribute…"

The dread shoots through my stomach before the name is even read allowed. I knew. I had that feeling, that sickening feeling that you get right before something bad happens. Because you already know. It's not a surprise when my name is murdered by a Capitol accent, but that doesn't mean my dread lightens at all. Feeling my stomach freeze over and knowing that I'm never going to see 6 again isn't what really sets off the tears. It's Jenna-sweet, optimistic Jenna- when her face cripples and she gives me a look that's beyond despair. She leans over the tape separating the 17s girls from the 17s guys, her blotty features disappearing into Jake's grey tee shirt. He slowly returns her embrace, rubbing soothing circles on the stress spot of her spine before lifting his emerald eyes to mine. "Analyse."

I don't need his soundless mouthing to know it's time to go. Tears rolling in an uncloggable stream now, I float, dream-like, to the platform, no weight registering on the pads of my feet, no beat heard slamming around my chest. I don't feel at all like the girl who has trouble making friends due to shyness- I don't feel like the girl who spends lazy afternoons on her bed, ticking away at a Rubix cube to see how fast she can do it blindfolded… Because it couldn't possibly be Analyse Fellows who's heading off to slaughter. She has too many odds in her favor…

"Analyse Fellows and Raymond Heartly, the tributes of District six…

The spirit of the Games carries down through generations…

District seven tributes, Daniella Patchin and Kresley Mulch…

We always keep in mind the Capitol's command, knowing that it's only fools that attempt to oppose…"

Warm thumbs stroked her cheeks, massaging comfort into their tear-stained surface. Her eyes slid shut, letting Adam's breath and touch absorb the unshed tears. He always knew how to calm the crazed rush of emotions that constantly blazed inside her-knew the right words, the right touch, the right silences to release the unexplainable tears.

"Two weeks, Baize," he said softly, one hand moving off her smooth face and down her arm, leaving warm tingles in its path. A smile gently curved the edges of her small lips. His hand glided down her wrist and briefly captured her left hand, lean fingers continuing to slip away until only his fingertips supported hers. "Two weeks until you're mine for life."

There was a smile in his voice- the kind that made his silky brown eyes sparkle and the edges of his brow tilt up the tiniest bit. That was her favorite smile and he knew it-her flecked green eyes re-opened, and with them a full-blown smile. Her wedding was perhaps the only thing that could lift her constantly-weighted spirits on Reaping day. Every night, she dreamed of herself in a filmy white dress, striding with confidence to where Adam stood in a sleek new suit, his golden-red hair disshelved as it normally is because she couldn't imagine it any other way. His face lit up, and hers dry for once- the only tears she would shed would be those of pure joy. She's young. She's in love. All the people who purposely cross the street as to not have to pass her will finally leave her alone- all those who laugh at her daily break-downs because they think she's just the crazy girl. The one who will often descend into tears for reasons nobody understands. All that will go away…

"What if I'm picked?" she persisted realistically, her moment of joy wearing off quickly to the gloom of the day.

Adam wasn't unreasonable—she loved how he never tried to sugar-coat anything for her, how he respected her enough to give her the truth. "You could be- but out of all the girls in eight…"

"What if I don't come back?" she squeaked.

"That's assuming you're leaving in the first place," he said, pulling her gently to his side with a protective arm. How she wished he could protect her from this, the only obstacle left between them and their marriage. She wished he could guarantee that her slip would stay safely on the bottom of the jar… but they were both too smart to count out the possibility of Baize being reaped. She blinked back more tears, determined to stay strong today.

"I wish I was nineteen," she said quietly, her face pressed against his familiar chest.

"So do I… I wish there was no Reaping," he murmured back, hands sliding up and down her back in comforting patterns she could fall asleep to. There they stood, in Adam's kitchen, for a countless amount of time, soaking up each other's company with every cell.

"If you don't come back," he finally said, so low Baize could hardly make out his words. "Don't think the wedding's off. I'll just have to come to meet you." He took a breath that she could feel rattle in his lungs. Her silent tears soaked a dark patch in his nice Reaping shirt as he continued. "And it will be the grandest, most beautiful wedding you can imagine. We can have your grandparents there, and little Joe. And my father can make it all official. My mother will be in the front row, crying her eyes out of course- out of pride that her son has finally found a perfect girl.

"And we can live more grandly than we ever would here. Together- for the rest of time."

"I give you the tributes of District eight; Baize Claremont and Micheal Roe…

The Games tear us apart, they break bonds that we aforethought were unbreakable, with the strength of our Capitol's hand…

Female tribute: Suzu Sendora…"

They're wrong. Of course they're wrong. There's no other explanation—I'll have to tell then when I get to the stage.

I don't feel any of their eyes as I shove my way to the podium. My mouth opens in thoughtless speech—but then my escort hands me my slip. Suzu Sendora. Written in my own hand, only a few months ago. I've changed the way I write my z's since then… but that's the only difference. There's no question of whom it belongs to, and any barrier of denial I had crashes around my ankles. I feel the color leave my face and the feeling leave my limbs, ice taking a lock hold on my chest. I'm going to die. I'm going to compete in the Games… and die. There's no weapon I can wield with experience, there's no way I could ever kill somebody who isn't a Peacekeeper, there's—

The Reaping continues, a buzz of noise and color in the foreground of my mind while the back clicks away. But there are Peacekeeper's children in the arena. District 2-ites. Careers, I knew from a life of watching the Games on TV, but being a Career doesn't make you death-proof. And I wouldn't even feel guilty after slaughtering them like the pigs they are—if their fathers can kill my father with useless reasons, I can kill their children with vengeful ones. Fair trade.

My hand is suddenly encased in someone else's. Snapping jerkily back to the Reaping, I see that Thepro Hile, a guy from my Language class, is worriedly shaking my unresponsive hand. His eyes plead with me to make this easy, and for the time being, I do; returning the shake like a good sport and silently plotting the 2's death.

"Your District nine tributes, Suzu Sendora and Thepro Hile!

Our respected Capitol generously supports all of us in return for measly items- a debt we will never pay off…

Lyle Claus, your District ten female tribute…

Any volunteers?"

She never actually had any plans for what she did. The words just spill out of her mouth before her thoughts caught up. "I volunteer!"

The uncomfortable weight of Panem's huge eyes is suddenly on her face, her flushing cheeks. A loud guffah from the back of the crowd powers her feet to mount the steps to the grand entry to her death. From this new vantage point, she can identify the source of the noise: her father, utterly drunk, tottering around behind some disgusted-looking parents.

"That's… 's my daughter!" he laughs, spilling a bit of the liquid in the clear bottle in his grasp. The crowd is utterly silent otherwise, drawing all attention to the drunk and his rueful daughter, who stood displayed on a stage for everyone to see.

"Idn't… idn't she a pretty one?" His voice broke off into wheezing, drunken laughter. Sora's face turned an even darker red in anger and embarrassment.

The answer to the voice in her head that pleaded why-why volunteer? came with natural ease.

To get away from him, she decided with a tone of finality, as the man was sick all over a woman's fancy shoes. Take me away. Let me die. Get me away from that thing.

A sudden scuffle of noise drew her attention- a boy in the very back of the 12's was having some sort of interaction with an older girl who was leaning over the rope…

"A goat horn?" I whispered with a tiny laugh. "How much will I actually need a goat horn?"

"It's not what you need, it's what reminds you of home," Rose whispered back impatiently under the cover of the loud drunk laughs of a man behind her. She studied my disbelieving expression for a moment before letting a tiny smile touch her lips. "It's only your first year anyway… I'll think of something better next Reaping."

"Alright," I said grudgingly, accepting the black horn with a touch of embarrassment. "Love you," I added nonchalantly as she melted back with the adults and post-18 siblings.

Only then did my ears pick up on what everyone else was already muttering about.

"Arrett Hayes? Arrett?" A ridiculous Capitol giggle. "Is there an Arrett Hayes out there?"

Dread filled my gut. Really? On my very first Reaping… Rose had said I shouldn't really worry-it's the older guys who have all the bad luck…

Is this seriously happening? The one line continually ran through my head, over and over and over again like a printed banner on a revolving roll. I didn't quite feel the Capitol escort's handshake, neither the one from the girl onstage.

Can I really do this? I have my hunting skills from all these years, and am woods-smart… but I'm only twelve. Just a measly redhead twelve-year-old from 10. If I'm not smashed by the Careers at the Cornucopia- I'm making a run for it, I'm already deciding as the crowd is applauding their tributes. –I'm making a run for it. Hiding. In a tree, maybe. But I'll need to get to the Cornucopia to get any weapons…

Thoughts buzzing, plans taking shape in my head, I catch Rose's worried gaze in the crowd. My confidence has lifted considerably since two minutes ago, and I shoot her an assuring smile. Just you wait, Rosie. I'm going to make it out of this one. Goat horn in tact.

"I present the tributes of District ten; Sora Keiler and Arrett Hayes…

In the end, the Games are a time of celebration and mourning…

May I present Rosa Hertbranch, our female tribute of District eleven!"

Everyone craned their necks to see the bony girl being shoved away from the pack of 16's. She tottered a bit on bony ankles, glancing around bewilderedly at her sudden audience before one of the other girls called to her, "The stage, Rose!"

Sparrow chuckled quietly from his position in the 16's boys. The poor girl didn't have a chance- he'd only ever seen her around school, but she had this twiggy, unstable way about her that gave you the impression a gentle breeze could sweep her off her feet. Wary applause trickled over the crowd, but it was easily seen through as false.

Drumming his long, lean fingers against his thigh, his pale blue eyes searched not the stage, where everyone else's were, but the girl's 15s pen. The twins stood slightly taller than the other girls, making them relatively easy to spot. Sparrow could see how their shoulders were relaxed in breaths of relief- Violet turned around to give him the "all-good" symbol; two fingers extended horizontally to the left. A smile jumped to his lips as he returned it, silently planning to get them all special Reaping day apples for dinner—which shouldn't be that hard, just a risky trip to the orchard—

"River Kingston!"

His tapping fingers froze as he felt all the eyes in his general vicinity glance worriedly at him. Not that it was his name that had been called. Or his baby brother, Falcon's. Violet had been lucky, Lilac had been lucky, even Sparrow, the oldest with as much tessare as he could possibly have, had been lucky. But little River, only thirteen years old and about as vicious as their tender mother…

He wouldn't make it five minutes. The other, bigger tributes would stake him without a second thought about his huge family back in 11, or the guilt his older brother would have to suffer…

"No-wait! Don't take him," Sparrow was suddenly yelling, elbowing his way out of his pen and over the tape. "Take me- I volunteer!"

As usual, his words pre-dated his thoughts. In this instant, however, it actually seemed to be a good thing; River hadn't even made it out of his pen.

"Sparrow…" River said mournfully; the voice he usually kept reserved for when his older brother came home with blood dripping from the scrapes on his back.

"I'll be find-listen to your sisters," Sparrow hardly had time to mutter as he passed his brother on the way to the podium. He hoped River wouldn't watch him die-maybe he'd close his eyes or bury his face in one of the twin's hair, but not watch. He's already seen too much blood in his life without watching his idol be murdered.

Taking his place in center stage next to Rosa, who was shaking like a leaf, Sparrow took one last long breath of the ever soil-y air of 11. God, he's going to miss this place. And his siblings. His strong father. Warm mother. Caring friends.

Gone.

"Rosa Hertbranch and Sparrow Kingston, everyone…

… A reminder of our Great Capitol's firm hand, and a tradition that marks Panem for the unique nation it is…"

"No, the one behind him, Aislian," Schuyler hisses in my ear, unheard under the drawl of the mayor's voice. I know she's seriously vying for my attention by the use of my full name-how easily impressed she was…

"Him? But he's so…" I'd never understood my twin's fascination with the opposite sex; they just seemed like bigger, stupider versions of us to me. Give or take few physical changes, but still nothing worth whispering about in our Reaping pen.

"Hot?" She sighs almost silently in exasperation. "Well, he's better closer up. Like, his nose is smaller…"

"Sh!" I cut her off as the mayor's drawl shifts into an open-ended silence before a few wary hands smack together. The same Capitol ditz we get every year clanks up to the Reaping balls on painfully high heels and chirps something pitchily into the mic. Her thin hand dips into the ball.

"Isn't his name O'Connor?" Skye whispers to me. "He looks like that Ben boy from Music, except older—"

"Schuyler Lieds!"

The voice is loud enough to echo around the sagging shoulders of dozens of relieved girls, and one suddenly frozen one. Her lips were still soundlessly pronouncing 'older', her eyes widened slightly. Seeing the color drain from her face, of course I did it. There was no thought to the action, just pure protective instinct.

"I volunteer," I called out, but I hadn't needed to raise my voice to be heard. Anybody with eyes could see that we were twins- identical oval-shaped grey eyes and high, curving cheekbones, exact same shade of olive undertones in our skin- and nobody liked to see twins split. They all stood watching, holding their breaths as I gave Skye one last parting glance and stride to the stage, trying to keep any sign of emotion from stirring features. In the silence, her outburst was like thunder clapping.

"Ash!" It was an exclamation of disbelief, of annoyance. I stopped, halfway down the path the remaining kids had cleared for me, to turn back to my sister. She rushed up to overtake me. "I refuse!" she announced, apparently not knowing the correct word. "I refuse her volunteering, and I re-volunteer!"

Though her terminology was a bit shaky, everyone understood. The Capitol lady leaned in to the mic to announce our new tribute, but I didn't give her the air.

"No-don't be stupid, Skye! I'm going!"

"I'm... older!" she protested bravely, though I could see how her frame shook slightly with bottled fear. My own heart was racing to an undetermined finish line, bursting at the confines of my chest. With excitement, though. My system was a stranger to fear.

"By what, eight minutes?"

"I'm chosen! I'm going!"

"You can't handle it, Skye," I said, my tone much harsher than I'd ever used with her before. The seriousness in my tone silenced her for a moment as we stared each other down. Fear clouded behind her eyes, and her lips were pressed together as barriers containing a scream. Her nostrils flared, and she spoke with definite clarity as she proposed, "Fine. Rock, paper, scissors."

It seems childish, but it's really a rather effective way to decide something without too much brainpower. Never before had it been a matter of depression or death.

We raised our fists, resting on our opposite hands, and began the slow beat.

"Rock.. paper… scissors." Skye's voiced failed to a whisper as her hand sat, two fingers extended, staring pathetically at my fist. Instead of smashing her scissors, I took her hand in mine.

"You always choose scissors," I say softly.

Then I proceed to the doors of Hell.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your District twelve tributes, Aislin Lieds and Darious Flint!

Sponsors, far and wide, we have our twenty-four tributes! Though all exceptional and unique to this year, ten of them have been receiving noteworthy attention… Charles Hunter, the angry boy with the scar from Three… Callista Cade, the tall, determined girl volunteering from Four… Neveah Bosun, the steady-headed mass of muscle from Four… Analyse Fellows, the untalkative girl from Six… Baize Claremont, the teary eighteen-year-old from Eight… Suzu Sendora, the vengeful girl from Nine… Sora Keiler, the blushing girl with the drunk father from Ten… Arrett Hayes, the tiny yet spiteful twelve-year old of Ten… Sparrow Kingston, the feather-haired volunteer of Eleven… and Aislin Leids, the firey twin of Twelve. Who stands out to you? To whom would you entrust your sponsorship? Who will be the first to die…

Confused?

Welcome to the Games, children. May the odds be ever in your favor."

.:!.Topsy:!:.

Start earning your Sponsor points now, good people of FanFiction.
Remember, a serious review about the writing and/or character portrayments is worth 2 points. Check over Chapter One for other ways to earn points… and what you'll be able to spend them on in the arena.
I'm always keeping track.

UPDATE:

Our next large event is the presentation of our tributes to Panem. We're in need of stylists with unique designs! PM me with the below template filled out to the fourth question. I'll let you know how to proceed.

I'm only accepting one stylist from each "focus" District (3,6,8,9,10,11,12) and 4 is already taken. Keep in mind that some focus Districts have one tribute, some have two—either way, there's only one stylist to do all the designs for that District.

Stylist Template:

First Name:

Works for which focus tribute(s):

Appearance (including their clothing styles):

Quote:

Only PM me with that much, and I will reply with more specific details about that tribute that may help with your designs. Any information I share with you about tributes is confidential—DO NOT share anything I PM you with anyone else. No matter who they are. Let's keep this surprise factor alive for a while longer—we need to meet the tribbies on our own.

I'll reply with what to do with your designs from there.

Any potential sponsor on FanFiction can submit a stylist.

Mentors can submit stylists, and can submit them for their own District.

Anyone who submits a stylist and designs will earn 4 sponsor points.

DO NOT review with your stylist template filled out. BAD things will happen.

I reserve the right to get bored of waiting for stylist admissions, and to create designs for any unclaimed districts.

Please remember that your stylist will not be a big character—chances are, their name, style, and personality won't even be mentioned. It's their designs I need—and to get a better sense of how the designs're like, I need to know the stylist.