AN: Howdy! Yes, I've done the unthinkable, dared to cross Narnia over with (gasp!) The Hunger Games! Don't hate me because my mind is random and weird, LOL! That said, this is very, very AU. Maybe even more so than my HDM/Narnia stories were (if that's even possible...) As for pairings, the two main pairings in this fic are going to be Edmund/Lucy and Eustace/Jill. Also, I wanted to try something new with this, so I'm writing it from first-person instead of my often-used "third person". One chapter will be present-tense from Edmund's point of view, and then one from Jill's in past-tense, then Edmund's again... And so on and so forth. You get the idea. It's easy to tell which chapters are which because in the chapter title, Edmund's chapters have an E next to "Chapter (number here)" and Jill's will have a J. Also, I'm hoping that my writing will be decent enough that the two characters' narratives will be distinguishable on their own merits as well.

"Happy Hunger Games," I say nonchalantly, hearing my elder sister's footsteps approaching my bedroom.

The door is open, and I have one foot up on the bed, trying to lace up my boots.

I know these are two things she hates rolled into one: the Hunger Games and me putting my dirty footwear on the bedspread even though she's told me not to hundreds of times.

Nobody likes the Hunger Games. Well, nobody from District 7 does, anyway. People in the Capitol look forward to it all year. It's not like anyone they know has to participate. People from the Districts 1, 2, and 4 like the Hunger Games, too. They train for it, even though that's supposed to be against the rules. For them, it's an honour. For us, here in 7, it's anything from an inconvenience to an out-right yearly tragedy. But of course we act like we view it as a privilege just like 1, 2, and 4 do. All the other districts do. Even 12, and rumour is that some of them are so poor they're quietly starving to death out there.

So why do we all pretend we think it's the greatest bloody thing since the invention of the wheel, if we actually secretly hate it?

We don't have a death wish, that's why.

But Susan can't get used to it. She's resigned to it, like all of us are, but her acting leaves much to be desired. You can tell by the way she clenches her jaw and her face goes all ash-white, and how she doesn't sleep the night before the reaping, that she's petrified.

As for the shoes-on-the-bedspread issue, that's just one of Susan's annoying pet peeves that make absolutely no sense. It's gotten to the point where I don't even bother mentioning that they're my sheets to mess up anyhow. That just gets her on this whole tangent regarding how I never help with the laundry.

Today, however, I might be safe from any such lectures. She's always more sentimental and patient with me on the day of the reaping.

I think, even though she never says so, it's because she knows that I could be gone by the end of it. She's safe now; her name's not in the drawing anymore because she's gotten too old. At twenty-one, she hasn't been eligible for three years. But never once has she lost that scared look or that one sleepless night beforehand.

Because roughly around the same time her name was removed, mine went right on in.

At fifteen, my name-my eligibility as a tribute for the games-isn't going anywhere for the next three years.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Susan says, forcing a weak smile at me.

I know she means it, that it's not just a cheerful little holiday greeting in her perception, but I'm not worried. I mean, three years and my name hasn't been selected yet. So far so good. Way I see it, by the end of the day, Susan will be breathing a sigh of relief, having worried for nothing. If she could go, what, seven years, without her name ever being drawn, why can't I?

"Aren't they always?" I take my foot off the bed and turn, grinning at her.

"You look nice," she notes. "Where are you going?"

"Anne Featherstone's house." I shrug. "I'm having luncheon with her parents." I add, "Don't worry, I'll be at the reaping at one." I have to be. Attendance is mandatory. If you don't show, you had best be coughing up blood or lying lifelessly in a casket in the funeral home.

"Why are you even with Anne?" asks Susan, looking perplexed.

"She's pretty," I admit, sort of under my breath. "And her family's rich." Really, really rich. Unlike most people here in District 7, her father isn't a lumberjack or a woodsman; he owns a paper factory.

"Edmund, that's terrible."

"I didn't hear any complaints from you when I brought back leftovers from their house last year when the value of lumber went down and we were running out of food," I snap.

We don't talk about that. How close I came to having to take out a tesserae.

A tesserae is basically an exchange for a small amount of oil, grain, wheat, and flour. But the price is high. It's another entry in the reaping. It doesn't seem like much, your name being added in one more measly time, but Susan swore it would add up and begged me not to. Still, I told her I would get the tesserae if I couldn't figure out another way to feed all four of us-her, me, and our parents.

Then, after school one day, Anne Featherstone asked me if I would like to have supper over her house that night. Not because she noticed I was getting thin, not for the same reason Susan sometimes leads random bums with patched-up coats and blood-shot eyes into our house for a meal when we're doing all right financially. Anne asked me because she liked me. And her parents had no problem with their daughter's boyfriend taking food home. Anne's father doesn't like me, but I've yet to see him say no to anything his only child wants. Which means, for now, I'm welcome in their house.

To be completely honest, I was a secretly a little flattered that she noticed me to begin with. It's not like I ever hated Anne or anything. She's attractive, with her blonde hair and greenish-blue eyes, and she can be surprisingly good company so long as she's not in one of her more whiny moods and none of the family servants have gotten on her nerves lately. Lots of boys here in District 7 are mad about her. And considering she couldn't stand me when we were younger because, at age nine, I called her a rather nasty name that sounds kind of like 'twit' but with a different vowel (I didn't know what it meant, I was just a kid), the fact that she's interested in me now is something of a miracle.

And a miracle was exactly what I was looking for when Susan tried to take the tesserae option out of the picture for my own good.

Apparently, Susan can't think of a good rebuttal, because she's standing there in my doorway with her mouth slightly agape.

"See you later." I brush passed her.

In the next room, Mum is glued to the television. We have decent-sized one, even though we aren't rich. Even dirt poor people in the really bad parts of Districts 11 or 12 own a small telly. The government makes sure of it. Because, if they didn't have one, how could they watch the Hunger Games every year? The law makes it mandatory viewing. No one is allowed to say, "Hey, is there anything else on?" and change the channel over.

Now, though, since the Hunger Games haven't started yet for this year, the tributes waiting to be chosen today, Mum can watch her favorite soap while she nurses a bowl of oatmeal that's getting colder by the second.

"Oh, Emma!" she sobs at the screen. "Why are you marrying him? You're throwing your whole life away!"

I squint at the program she's watching and roll my eyes. "Mum! That's not even your show."

She sits up straighter, puts the bowl of oatmeal down beside her on the sofa, and, twisting her torso, blinks at me. "What?"

"Your show is about a girl named Laurel, not Emma," I sigh, embarrassed that I know that.

For weeks, I've been hearing the theme to Laurel's Worldly World blasting every morning. I almost hummed it the other day simply because it got stuck in my head. I think I may actually hate that dashed soap, but it's currently Mum's favorite thing.

That is, when she's not getting it mixed up with Emma Emerald on the next channel over.

I'm seriously hoping it's a phase.

"Oh, my." She looks back at the screen and hastily changes the channel. "You're right! Where would I be without you?"

For a moment we both stare at each other.

Normally, her comment would be met by indifference. But I think, deep down, like Susan, she worries that, after today, I might be carried off to the Capitol and she really would be without me.

Only, she has nothing to worry about. I didn't take any tesserae. So I have no entries beyond the required minimum. I have a rich girlfriend who can give us food in case of emergency. The value of wood in general is steadily going up, putting more money in Father's pocket. The odds are definitely in our favor.

Mum quickly brushes away tears she doesn't want me to see and focuses her attention back on the television, forgetting her problems, totally immersed in Laurel's. "Oh, Laurel! How can you marry him? He doesn't love you! You're throwing away your life."

"Mum," says Susan, coming out of my doorway with her arms folded across her chest, a single dark lock of her black hair falling over one shoulder, "how can you watch that? It's so predictable..." Her voice trails off and she starts watching more intently. "Wait, that's who she's marrying?" She rushes over and sits next to Mum, who moves the bowl of oatmeal back into her lap to make room.

Women! I think, about to leave, finding my eyes drawn to the screen in spite of myself.

Laurel is staring at her wedding dress hanging on a hook on the back of her dressing room closet. The words, To Be Continued... appear and the picture fades to black.

"So, next week's going to show her wedding?" I ask, leaning over the back of the sofa and putting my head next to Susan's ear. Not that any of us will actually get to see it, as the Hunger Games will have begun by then.

"Edmund," Susan laughs at me, "it's a soap. The ring boy and flower girl might not even make it down that aisle by next week, never-mind Laurel."

"Right," I say, grabbing my hat off the coat-hooks by the door. "Well, see you at the reaping."

Standing on the raised, slightly chipped, red-brick porch, I close the door behind myself and breathe in deeply.

There's a slight chill in the air, but aside from that the weather is fairly comfortable over-all.

I skip down the steps and walk along a dirt path with narrow, barely-there, sidewalks. A few broken glass bottles and candy-wrappers are scattered in the gutters. I come to a stop at a tall iron post with a rusty old broken lantern set on top of it.

They say it used to be the only lamppost here in District 7, when there were more trees than people and this path hadn't been made yet. Not that we aren't swarmed with trees now. Our district's specialty is lumber and paper, after all. But supposedly it was so dense you could barely walk through it without stumbling over roots and brambles. Back then it wasn't called District 7. They called it the Lantern Waste. It was before Panem's time, back when this country was called Narnia.

Sitting with his back against the broken lamppost, is a somewhat scruffy-looking chap called Tumnus. He's not exactly a bum, but sometimes he gets so lost in his music that he might as well be. Those are the chief loves of his life: music and books. When he's reading, you basically have to be running around with your clothes set on fire for him to look up and take notice of you. And when he's doing his music? Forget it. Unless he happens to meet your eyes and wants your opinion of his new song, a conversation is just not going to take place.

That's why, even though he has a nice house and when he remembers he has to work with the other woodsmen to keep himself warm and fed he does fine, Susan has had to bring him into our house for countless meals, even when we didn't have much to spare. In all fairness, when he has food, he shares with us. Susan had tea or luncheon over his house dozens of times as a little girl, and he always gave her something to take home to the rest of us, even if it was just a bit of butter or four bread rolls wrapped in a napkin.

Usually on the reaping day, Tumnus can be found in this very spot, playing a wooden flute, only today he has a stringed instrument instead and is singing along with his made-up strummings.

His tune and voice are very good. But unlike most days when he takes it in his head to sing, he isn't bellowing out humourous words about the more comedic elements of living in such a woodsy area. No, instead, he's singing a song that, though thinly disguised, is clearly about the Hunger Games. He's not showing them in a positive light either.

Has he lost his mind? Today of all days? On the reaping? If the peacekeepers don't apprehend him, some git visiting from the Capitol for the reaping ceremony is bound to.

"Tumnus," I say, warningly, snapping my fingers to get his attention.

"What? Where?" He stops strumming and looks up, bewildered.

I cough pointedly.

"Ah, Edmund Martin." He smiles faintly. "What do you think of the song?"

"I think you're going to get yourself in a whole lot of trouble," I hiss down at him. "The Hunger Games are a privilege, remember?"

His smile fades. "Well, I'm sorry, Edmund, but nothing rhymes with privilege!" Sighing, he stands up.

Tumnus has weird legs, they're always sort of bent, like there's something the matter with his muscles. He also walks on his toes all the time. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the man had the hindquarters of a goat.

This is a hard day for pretty much everybody, but I think Tumnus knows I'm right. He can't go around singing songs like that without putting the whole district in danger.

Let's just say, once upon a time, there used to be 13 districts in Panem. Now there's just the 12. There's a reason for that. And we could be blown off the map next if the Capitol takes us for rebels or traitors.

"Edmund!" shouts a deep-sounding girl's voice. "Happy Hunger Games!"

I turn around to see Johanna Mason standing there. "Hey!"

Johanna Mason. How does one describe somebody like Johanna Mason? Well, some people think she's completely insane. As for me, I just think she got her head bashed in with a rock one too many times during her Hunger Games.

She's one of District 7's own victors. She won her Hunger Games by ingeniously pretending to be a pathetic, sniveling crybaby. She acted like she was scared of her own shadow and wanted to go home. So nobody bothered with her until the game was dwindling down to a very slim handful of remaining contestants, and they all found out, too late, that the sobbing girl from District 7 was deadly with an axe.

Now she lives in the Victor's Village (every district's got one) and is so rich she could become Mr. Featherstone's boss if she took the notion. It's strange to think, to really recall, that she used to be from one of the poorest families here. Her parents actually died of malnutrition while she was away in the Capitol. That's the official story, anyway. The one the doctors and peacekeepers came up with. None of us, including Johanna, knows for certain how true it is.

We, her and I, have an...interesting...relationship. We're sort of friends. Except, Mum and Susan go mental every time I so much as mention visiting her house. Because, well, I came home drunk from her house once. Mum says Johanna has all the signs of alcoholism and is terrified she'll corrupt me and turn me into a full-blown drunkard or something. She did, however, make me go over there to give Johanna a questionnaire pamphlet regarding her drinking habits. She said to tell my Mum thanks. Turns out it's a fantastic coaster. Also, there's the whole thing about how, even though she's never been in a serious relationship, everybody knows Johanna had a few lovers in the Capitol after winning the Hunger Games. It's not exactly a secret. I guess my folks, especially Mum, didn't like the thought of my going alone to her house after hearing about that.

But the thing is, I like Johanna. As a friend. She's the only person I've ever met who can beat me in a sarcasm battle.

I mean, yeah, she's weird and in desperate need of a psychiatrist (no one will hire her one because they don't want to anger the Capitol by daring to imply that their games have a bad effect on anyone). And, all right, maybe she is the sort of person who will randomly take off her clothes just to make you uncomfortable during an argument (very awkward, especially when it happens in public). But she can be a lot of fun. And fun is a something of a rarity here. The Hunger Games can be frightening, but most of the time life here is pretty boring. My sister is always telling me, "Boring is safe, Edmund," and I know she's right. Yet I still crave a bit of excitement from time to time. Even if it's just playing drinking games with Johanna then hiding in the bushes to throw pinecones at unsuspecting passersby.

"When was the last time you came over my house for a drink?" Johanna asks.

Too long. "Um, a month ago?" I guess.

"How about after the reaping?" she suggests. "We can watch the repeat showings of the reapings from other districts."

"I'll come if I don't have to watch," I say. The Hunger Games, along with their opening ceremonies and interviews with the tributes, might be required viewing, but the reaping isn't. It's televised, but it's not like anyone in the districts could watch the whole thing live, not when they have to be present for their own district's reaping. So there's no law against not watching that.

"All right," she says.

"My mum doesn't want me going over to your house anymore, you know," I add.

She smirks. "So, I'll see you at five?"

"Of course," I assure her.

"Oh, we'd better make it five thirty," she realizes, stopping in the middle of the road.

"Why?" I've never seen her put off drinking before.

"I'm the mentor this year," explains Johanna, rolling her eyes. "For the tributes. I drew the short straw. So I have to go see the poor saps in the Justice Building and introduce myself."

"That also means you have to get up really early," I point out. "To catch the train to the Capitol with them."

She swears under her breath. "Don't remind me."

"Listen, I'm late," I tell her, knowing Anne will have a fit if I'm not knocking at her door within the next five minutes. "I'll see you at five thirty."

"Tell Anne I said Happy Hunger Games." She winks at me.

This is a running joke between us. Johanna is always telling me to give her best to Anne, knowing I will never bring her name up in front of my girlfriend.

When Anne first started showing interest in me, Johanna thought it was the funniest thing ever. As she never liked Anne, she would deliberately make these little flirty faces at me and blow kisses in my direction just to make her mad. It was pretty amusing, but I sobered up and stopped viewing it as such when Anne threatened to end our courtship if I didn't tell 'that tramp Johanna Mason' to back off.

The thing is, Johanna's a really fun friend, but despite the fact that she's up to her ears in money, I know she isn't going to take care of my family. She blows a lot of her Hunger Games income on booze, for one. And even if I could muster up the courage (and coherency) to ask her for money or food after a visit with her, I get the feeling I would have to come up with a major lie or else my Mum would never accept the gift. Even if we were starving. Not from her. Not from the young woman who's 'ruining' her son.

Thankfully, Johanna was a real brick about it when I told her what Anne said. She hasn't made fake sheep eyes at me once since I asked her not to.

I arrive at the Featherstones' doorstep right on time.

The door is opened by a timid-looking maid who, doubtless, will be fired by the end of the week at latest.

Anne runs down the spiral staircase in the middle of the receiving room to greet me. She's wearing one of the most ruffled puffy white dresses I've ever seen in my life, her curled hair is pinned up, and there's a shiny gold pin on the left side of her bodice.

"What do you think?" she asks, twirling around.

No hello, no 'how are you, Edmund?'. Not even a "Happy Hunger Games to you!" or a "May the odds be ever in your favor". Nope, all she wants is my opinion of the dress.

"You look like a pastry," I blurt out.

She furrows her pale eyebrows. "You don't have any taste in fashion."

"I'm sure I don't," I say to make amends. My tone is dark, though. I don't like being treated like a pet she's training, but sometimes I think I don't have much choice.

Anne doesn't pick up on the edge in my voice. Instead, she smiles and insists I take her arm and lead her into the dining room for luncheon, reminding me that her folks don't like to be kept waiting.

"I want to look nice, you know," she prattles on in my ear. "If I have to go to the Capitol."

Because Anne is my age, she still has full eligibility. But her odds are as good as mine of not being picked. She's just showing off. Fancy dress that no one else (except Johanna, if she got the notion) in our district can afford, solid gold pin to set off the already absurd display of extravagance.

Sometimes I think Anne would have been better off being born in the Capitol, where all they talk or think about is entertainment and fashion. She would have fit in there perfectly. She doesn't belong here, in this district. At the very least, she would fit in better in a wealthier district like 1, 2, or 4. She'll never be like the rest of us here in 7, no matter how many times her name winds up in the reaping bowl.

I sneak a closer look at her pin. It's a bird in a circle with an arrow in its mouth. It looks like he's in flight. I wonder what sort of bird it is, but don't bothering asking. I strongly suspect Anne doesn't know a whole lot about birds, either.

Luncheon with her parents goes by quickly and has only one truly awkward moment. A vast improvement from the last time I ate with them.

I mess up by noticing the really fancy china with gold around the rim and hand-painted green vines. They always have nice things, but this is the first time I've seen these.

So I make the mistake of asking, "When was the last time you used these dishes?"

Mr. Featherstone, who never misses an opportunity to put me in my place, grunts, "The night Anne was conceived."

I can't help it, I make a face of revulsion and force the salad in my mouth down by gulping water like it's going out of style.

Mrs. Featherstone, blushing and looking unnerved, passes a plate to me. "More spinach, Edmund?"

I take some, for the sake of keeping busy and not making eye-contact with Mr. Featherstone, but I don't eat it. I hate spinach. Always have, always will.

Finally the poor, flustered maid, who has obviously been listening to our lovely little meal-time conversation, clears away the dishes.

Mrs. Featherstone says, "You two had better go. You don't want to be late."

Anne gives my tweed overcoat and woolen hat a disdainful look, as if noticing them for the first time. Up till this point, she was too preoccupied with her own clothes, I guess. "You are going to go home and change first, aren't you?"

"Uh, no," I answer truthfully.

She makes a snort-like noise of disapproval.

"We can't be late." I remind her that I don't have time to go home and change, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Only, I keep that last bit to myself.

In a big clearing that serves as the 'public square' for District 7, dead-set between the shopping centers, bakeries, and other public places and the dense woods beyond, a temporary stage has been set up. The glass bowl with all the girls' names in it is already set on a little polished pedestal.

I try not to yawn or sigh exaggeratedly as a bunch of peacekeepers in their olive-green uniforms hustle me and Anne over to a roped-off space where the other eligible children are standing.

The little twelve-year-olds are all trembling, even though most of them only have their names entered once. 'Almost' because some of them have doubtless taken their tesserae now that they're old enough.

The older kids look calmer, though some shift nervously from foot to foot.

Anne glares at a younger girl and snaps, "Marjorie! Must you breathe so loudly?"

There is the screechy noise of a microphone being turned on, and a thick, gutter-version of a Capitol accent goes, "Hah-loo, boys and gels."

I cringe and stare down at my feet. It doesn't matter that I've been hearing Pug's voice every reaping day since I was a baby, his bad accent and arrogant tone still sends shivers of disgust up and down my spine.

Pug is the man the Capitol sends to District 7 to pull our names out of the bowl and read them aloud. They always send him. Every year I make a wish that he'll be sick and we'll get a respite, a nice change of pace. Someone new. But I guess Pug is in perfect health because we haven't had a substitute yet. Not ever, that I can recall. I've seen the people they send to other districts on television; not all of them are as ugly as Pug. They're all freaks of nature, slaves to fashion who dye their hair stupid colours and wear tight, ill-fitted clothes, but most of them are still an improvement on what we're sent.

Against my better judgment, I sneak a glimpse up at Pug. I want to know what stupid garment he's wearing this time so I can make fun of it later when I go over to Johanna's house. Last year, we played this game where we took a swing of this really strong wine every time either of us said the word 'medallion' because of the enormous, gaudy piece of jewelry Pug had dangling from his neck at the reaping.

Today, Pug is wearing purposefully torn clothes of different dark and light colours, including deep purples and bright oranges. It looks like he couldn't decide whether to dress up as a pirate, gypsy, or a gangster so he just went ahead and came as all three.

"Now, it's that time again," says Pug into the microphone. "For celebration and repentance."

I half-listen as he launches into this whole tirade about how after the country of Narnia went down the drains, Panem rose from the ashes, its 13 districts and its proud, perfect, Capitol. There was a war...it must never happen again...blah blah blah... The Hunger Games were invented to remind us all that we owe our lives to the Capitol...yada, yada...

One year, some coot jumped up screaming, "Lies! Lies! Cair Paravel was perfect! The Capitol is a worthless parody of something good! We have nothing to repent for! What have we done lately? Besides let our children die for your sick entertainment?"

And we never saw him again.

I think that's why I worry about Tumnus and his questionable songs. I don't want him to become the next nameless 'rebellious coot' who gets apprehended and never comes back.

"And now," Pug continues, "I will select one boy and gel to participate in the 77th annual Hunger Games! As this is an honour as well as a reminder, please keep your emotions in check. Let's have no fuss and then none of you will have anything to cry about, see?"

I feel the sun beating down on my head. It's giving me a headache. And all of a sudden all I can think about is how badly I want this to be over. I wish I was already drinking with Johanna, mocking Pug.

"Little gels first." Pug puts his hand in the bowl and pulls out a name. "Jill Pole!"

I swallow hard. I don't know her too well, but I do know her. She's a nice girl and she goes to school with me even though we're not in the same year. She's about thirteen, I would guess. Normally, she keeps to herself, but I've seen other kids talking to her before. Not as friends, as bullies. For the first time I wish I'd said something to the teacher about it. Told on those little brats just once. Now it's too late. Jill Pole will never go to school again. She'll lose and be dead. Or she'll win (unlikely) and be as rich as Johanna Mason.

Peacekeepers find her among us, and guide her up to the stage. She's got pretty eyes, hazel. And her light brown hair is curly. Long too. It ends in these big spiraling banana curls almost at her waist.

She stands on stage, wearing that same gray sweater I've seen her wear at school, looking out at us all, a little stunned. Bewildered surprise. That's the only expression I can read in her.

Someone comes and takes the glass bowl away, replacing it with another one. This one has all the boys' names in it. Including mine.

Pug reaches in, his ugly, sausage-shaped fingers running over a few different slips of paper teasingly. It's funny to him, I'm sure. But it's life or death to us.

Not me, though. Because the odds are in my favor. I know they are. It's not going to be me.

He finally grasps a slip of paper between two of his fingers and pulls it out. "Edmund Martin!"

Me. I nearly choke on my own spit.

Beside me, Anne starts wailing at the top of her voice. She allows Marjorie and some other girl whose name I don't know to come and put their arms around her consolingly.

It isn't Anne I'm worried about now. It's my parents. And Susan. Oh, Susan! I feel like I've lied to her, as well as to myself. Acting like everything was going to be fine, when all along this was a distinct possibility.

I find myself scanning the crowd for my sister as the peacekeepers usher me over to the stage.

Probably, straining to see Susan and catch her eyes, I've annoyed the peacekeepers, not moving quickly enough. One of them tries to drag me. Which I immediately buck at.

"Hey get off," I hiss, shoving their hands away. "I know how to get on a stage by myself. Get off me!"

"The tributes of District 7!" cries Pug, gesturing at me and Jill with a wave of his arm. "Edmund Martin and Jill Pole!"

There is polite clapping, nothing more. No one is happy about this. But no one is coming forward, volunteering to take our places, either.

Finally I meet Susan's eyes. They're full of tears, and I can't stand the broken expression on her face. I realize that she isn't seeing me, fifteen year old Edmund. She's seeing the baby brother Mum let her hold when she was six years old.

My parents are both white-faced and aged years in a manner of seconds.

It hits me. I'm probably never coming home again. I find myself wishing I'd been a better son and brother. No sneaking off to drink with Johanna, no fighting at school, and, silly as it sounds, no putting my boots on the bed-spread like I did this morning, annoying Susan.

Anne is still bawling her head off. "My boyfriend is going to d-die!"

Golly, thanks Anne, your vote of confidence is overwhelming. I scowl in her general direction.

Not that she notices. After all, this is a really big deal, and it no longer actually concerns my opinion on anything. Now she can brag about how she has a boyfriend in the Hunger Games. She and her close chums will watch me get killed on live television and everyone will be all, "Poor Anne."

Whatever.

I look over my shoulder at where Johanna is sitting. She's in a chair on the stage with the other precious few past victors from our district. Pug rambled her name, and those of the others, earlier, when I was mocking him in my head.

It's funny how life can turn on you like that. One minute I'm planning to meet up with Johanna later, the next I am definitely going to meet up with her later, except not for a drink. I'll be meeting her in the Justice Building. I had better find a way of staying unwaveringly on her good side, too. Because if I don't, I'm dead. She's my mentor now. Mine and Jill's. A big part of the responsibility of keeping us alive in that arena will be on her shoulders.

She gives me a look that makes me want to drop dead right then and there. We're barely friends, that look tells me. She'll help me like she's supposed to, maybe. But I realize then that hanging out together and enjoying a drink or two doesn't mean we care a fig about each other. I remember something she said to me once: "The Capitol can't hurt me. There's no one left I care about."

And that includes me.

Before today, I wouldn't have worried about her not caring whether I live or die. But now I care. What if she decides to neglect taking care of any sponsors to keep me alive during the games and only caters to Jill? I mean, it would be great for Jill and all, but what happens to me? And to my family when I don't come back? Who is going to bring leftover food home from Anne's house? Susan's too old for any tesserae. What if the value of lumber comes plummeting down a fortnight from now?

The world becomes a fuzzy blur to me as Jill and I, after numbly shaking hands, are taken away to the Justice Building.

It's a nice place, almost as nice as the houses in the Victor's Village. There's all these offices with velvet chairs and shinny desks made from polished oak. A carpeted elevator takes me to a floor I've never been on before.

Jill and I are separated, taken down different ends of the hallway.

A peacekeeper opens the door to a small room with a bed, nightstand, and a television. It's like being in an hotel or an inn, I suppose, though I've never really been in one.

Tomorrow, they'll let my family and friends come and say goodbye to me, but it will be a very short farewell, timed by the minute. Then I'll be on the telly again, boarding the train that will take me to the Capitol.

Johanna never turns up to talk to me. I guess I'll see her tomorrow anyway, as we'll be on the same train. But, a little angrily, I can't help wondering if she's only talking to Jill and not me. If she thinks Jill has a better chance of making a go at it in the arena than I do. I mean, sure my fellow tribute's just a little slip of a thing, but I've seen her do archery in physical education at school. Maybe Johanna is going to teach her how to wield an axe on top of that.

More likely, she just went home for the night. Maybe she needed that drink at five instead of five thirty after all.

The sunlight fades, hours tick by.

I'm trapped in the dark because I don't feel like turning on any lights. It feels as if it's been for ever since it was one in the afternoon and I stood beside Anne at the reaping, thinking my name would never get pulled out of that bowl.

Closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, I reach for the remote and turn the telly on. The flashing screen, the sudden glaring light, hurts my eyes as I open them up again.

On almost every channel there's just some picture of Lord Snow's mansion in the Capitol. The only channel with anything on it is the reaping recaps. Highlights. Interesting moments.

In District 12 some middle-aged lanky chap, one of their four living Hunger Games victors, gets drunk and tries to hug Effie Trinket, the woman the Capitol sends to that district. I wonder how drunk a person would have to be to try and embrace Pug. I've seen Johanna get pretty tight before, but I still can't imagine her ever wanting to put her arms around him.

In District 5, one tribute is an eighteen year old boy suffering from a disease that dwarfs him. He's smaller than Jill. Much more stocky, though. And there is the start of a blackish-gray beard on his chin. The girl tribute has red hair and a sly, pale face. She's about seventeen and of normal height for her age.

When I see myself, as they begin showing highlights from District 7, I almost vomit. Seeing myself in the reaping makes it that much more real to me. This is truly happening. I'm going to be in an arena with twenty-three other kids whose goal is to kill me. Great.

Then they show Anne, sobbing. They get a big close up of her blubbering and everything. I'm sure all of Panem is thinking, "My, what lovely snot she has." Suddenly I'm incredibly embarrassed. I don't want all of Panem to see me as the boy whose rich girlfriend cried crocodile tears when his name got called.

And yet, that's exactly how I look. Nothing else differentiates me from the other tributes. Even Jill has that whole 'pretty little girl' thing going for her. She, along with the little twelve year old girl tributes from Districts 4 and 12, looks sweet and pitiful. It's like they're just waiting from some kindly sponsor to help them beat the odds. I look just like any of the other male tributes.

I am just a boy from an unimportant district in a tweed overcoat. No one is going to think twice about me. I'm never getting out of this.

The voice-over on the telly says something about a surprising out-burst from a previous victor in District 1. Then it prepares to pan over to the girl tribute.

Like I care. As If I want to see the face of another boy and girl who want to kill me. District 2, which they've already shown, was bad enough. Their names were Cato and Clove, and they looked a million times more prepared for this, more excited for the games, than I ever could be. One of them will probably slit my throat on the first day in the arena. District 1 is probably even worse.

Before I can even see what this girl tribute from District 1 looks like, I throw a pillow at the screen, hit mute on the remote, and bury myself under the covers until morning.

AN: So? What do you think? Any good? Please review and let me know.