Hello again! Been a little while :) I was so sure I'd have this chapter done fast - figured it'd be a shorter reaping. As always, it wasn't :)

On the plus side, I have finally finished my trailer for A Grimm Set of Games! I know the story's already done, but I figured it'd still be a cool thing to put up :) So if you'd like to check it out, the link's on my profile!

Oh, and some info for this chapter that might confuse you a bit: for To Marvel at Death, part of my goal was to define the districts more clearly and make each of them unique and memorable than they were in my last story. As such, there are some continuity errors with A Grimm Set of Games as I'm trying to flesh out the world of Panem more in this fic. So, even though I know this didn't happen in the first story, for the purpose of To Marvel at Death, people from District 3 refer to the Careers as Cro-Magnons. Because District 3 always has to sound smarter than everyone else :) Also, citizens from districts are called their district number with "er" added (for example, someone from 12 is a Twelver, someone from 3 is a Threer, etc.)

These tributes are thanks to jakey121 and Sovereign2. Enjoy!

Felicia Willis

Exam week.

The first conscious thought in my head, once my homemade alarm clock wakes me. My final week of exams has begun. Today, calculus. Tomorrow, electrical engineering. Then advanced programming, the practical wiring task and that's it. I'll be finished school, my future to be decided by any one of the numerous factory owners in our district. After the exam results come out, job offers begin to circulate.

Then my eyes dart to the calendar on the wall opposite my bed and today's actual events dawns on me. Not exam week quite yet, then, as much as I wish it was. First, we have reaping day, which also explains why I set my alarm for so early; I have to be at the school in an hour.

Sliding out from under my covers, I rise from my bed, ignoring the small, lazy part of me that still wants to sleep. I signed up weeks ago to tutor, there's no way I could back out now. Not that I want to; helping educate 3's citizens in need has been one of my life's goals since I was a child. Besides, Clara will be there, and after spending three hours yesterday discussing exams, I deduced my best friend is more than a little worried about her end-of-year finals. I promised I'd meet her at the school and help her out today.

Unconsciously, I begin to hum as I cross to my wardrobe and open the doors wide. Five more days, four more exams and then I'll be off, catapulted into the world of adulthood. Which, hopefully, will involve a permanent placement at AdVanced Inc. It's the leading electronics factory in Panem, the most prestigious place a citizen of District 3 could ever hope to work. Rarely do they even accept children straight out of school, though both of my parents were exceptions. Hopefully, I can be too.

But first, I have to get the reaping out of the way. I know I have nothing to fear – even with the seven slips I have in the reaping bowl from being eighteen, I've calculated the probability of myself getting reaped. The estimated volume of the reaping bowl, knowing it's nearly full each year, divided by the volume of a folded slip of paper gives the number of slips, then . . . well, long story short, there's such a minute possibility my name will be drawn that it's not worth fretting over. It's a sad certainty in 3, but it's almost always some child from the poorer section of the district that gets chosen.

Speaking of which . . . I think, putting my nicest dress back in my closet, shouldn't wear anything too fancy. At least, not to the school. Technically, all education institutes are supposed to be shut down on reaping day, as part of the "celebration", but District 3's unofficial exam support is still allowed to run. Making the most of the day off we have, all teachers in 3 agreed having exams right after the reapings would be best, as, that way, kids have the weekend and then reaping day off to study. Seeing as are reapings are later on since we're one of the closer districts to the Capitol, we have a tutoring program set up at 3's largest school that runs during the morning, for any student that might need extra help studying. Usually, those children tend to be on the poorer side of the district, uneducated because they can't afford to attend better schools. Over the many years I've participated as a tutor in "The Reaping Day Cram", I've learned not to flaunt the fact that my family is relatively well-off. Children from rich families are ridiculed by those who wish they had the same quality of life.

So a plain, white blouse and brown skirt would serve much better. I slip out of my pajamas and slowly begin to dress, allowing my thoughts momentarily to drift back to the reapings later today. Of course, Clara will be out of her mind with worry and as much as I'd love to comfort her, I lack the facts to do so. Not only is she my age, but she's had to take tesserae out each year since she was twelve for her two brothers and sickly father. More often than not, it's children in that exact sort of scenario that wind up in the arena.

Not last year, though, I think to myself as my fingers fumble with the buttons of my blouse. That's something you could reassure her with, at least. True, last year was rather surprising. A sixteen-year-old who had never taken tesserae in his life and a thirteen-year-old from one of the most well-off families in the district. Ram Underhill and Sparkie Jesfer certainly were anomalies.

Could . . . Could it happen again, then? The thought comes without warning and I freeze, halfway through sliding one of my socks on. Another anomaly, like the year before? And you have more than three times as many slips as that young girl had had.

For a moment, the cold clutches of fear latch around my heart and seep into my throat before I force them away with a furious shake of my head. No. The Hunger Games will not ruin the future I have worked so hard to create, the future that is nearly within my grasp. Sparkie Jesfer and Ram Underhill were exceptions, not the rule. I'm sure this year we'll have another pair of the usual underfed, undereducated tributes.

"Not undereducated," I say out loud, speaking to the mirror on my wall. "Not if you can help it." The determination in my blue eyes shines brightly as my reflection mimics the nod of affirmation I give myself before turning around and heading out the door to my room.

Thanks to the jobs my parents have, I was put into top schooling right from the beginning. As we live in the better part of the district, my schools were always close at hand anyways, so I'd never even had to walk more than a few blocks from my home in any direction. It's like I was living in a bubble, blinded by the standards my parents set and foolish enough to believe these were district-wide.

Until I turned twelve. Of course, I'd attended the reapings in previous years, but my mother always kept me close, worried I didn't yet have enough intelligence to properly wield freedom. So I never realised, until I was thrust, alone, into a crowd of my peers, just how divided our district was.

District 3 always prides itself on producing the most intelligent citizens. Even if we don't produce Hunger Games victors, we can still find it in ourselves to laugh at the Cro-Magnons, what other districts call the "Careers". I myself always felt above districts like 1, 2 and 4, simply because of how awfully the rumours said they treated one another. If you weren't the typical muscular, glory-obsessed Hunger Games addict, then you were shunned, insulted, put down for your differences. 3 wasn't like that, I'd thought proudly. 3 accepted everyone.

Oh, how wrong I had been. A lesson I'd soon learned after being thrown into the reaping pen for the first time. There is a clear divide in my district, though it's not between the strong and the weak. Here, if you're intelligent, you accepted by society, and if you're not, you have no place here. Our schools are the training centres, and if your score isn't above a certain average, you will be shunned and ridiculed. It's a sad truth, a horrid truth, and one I decided, from that moment on, that I would set about to righting. I've already made an incredible amount of progress with Clara alone – her scores in practical mechanics alone have nearly made it to the above average mark. I just wish the other children in 3 would let me help them that easily.

I sigh. Well, perhaps today will be different.

"Contemplating the world's problems again, Felicia?" I can hear the smile in my father's voice even from this distance. "And how are you going to solve them today?"

I can't help but grin myself as I enter the kitchen. My family may be wealthy enough to hold the coveted "middle-class" status in the district, but we live in an apartment like all other citizens of 3 just the same and, as such, one can usually hear what everyone else is doing no matter what room they're in. Ours is one of the smallest regions in Panem, both in population and size, and seeing as we need so much space for our factories, it's much more efficient to shunt our living quarters off to the side and build them one on top of the other, instead of wasting land with individual homes like I've heard other districts have. Still, our apartment complex is one of the nicest in 3, not to mention close to all the best schools and factories. The only way life could really get better than this is if we lived in one of the penthouses above electronics plants – it's where all the most prestigious inventors reside.

"Well, I'm heading off the tutoring program in a little bit," I answer as soon as my father comes into view. He's sitting at the kitchen island with my mother, and both have their heads bent over their own respective pieces of paper, scribbling madly away with their pencils, though my father does look up and smile at me as I enter.

Neither of them have started breakfast, but there is a pot of grits keeping warm on the stove, so I take my own bowl and scoop myself. "What is it today?" I ask my parents as I slip onto my usual stool at the island. "Crossword? Cryptogram?"

"Logic problem. Quiet, please," my mother says sternly, never looking up from the page. Oh, of course it had to be a logic problem today. They're the most fun, not to mention the ones I'm best at – though I've yet to beat my mother and father in finishing one. Every day, District 3's sole victor, Daen Lals makes up a new puzzle, a test for one's mind; I suppose the man needed a hobby, after winning the Hunger Games and becoming too rich to ever need to work. Be they riddles or anagrams or whatever else he can come up with, they're copied in bulk and delivered to every District 3 citizen who requests a subscription at the beginning of each year. It's been a longstanding tradition in my family to sit in a row at the counter, each with his or her own copy of the problem and race to see who comes up with the correct answer first. So far, I've never won and it seems today will be no different; my parents, well aware I wouldn't have time for our morning ritual before I had to take off to tutor, have begun without me.

Silence reigns in our kitchen as I try to eat my breakfast as quietly as possible while my parents scribble away beside me. Mother always wants absolute quiet when it comes to solving the Daen Lals Problem of the Day, says any unnecessary noise distracts her – but usually, it's still no use-

"Got it!" My father slams the pencil down beside his paper, grinning like a madman.

"What? Already?" Mother scowls at him. "Impossible."

He merely shrugs, still beaming as he slides his page over to me. "Felicia, would you like to be our impartial judge? The answers are over by the stove."

I smile and take his paper, though I know double-checking it for him is pointless. My father is probably one of the only men in the district with a mind as sharp as that of Daen Lals, and he's never, ever wrong. But I grab the answers anyways, if only to humour my mother, who's looking thoroughly irritated at the fact that she may have just lost to my father again.

My eyes scan down the list of official answers, comparing them to my father's. Like so many of Daen Lals' puzzles, this one has to do with the Hunger Games. I often wonder if it's the victor's way of trying to mentally prepare the citizens of 3 in case they happen to be reaped – sort of like how certain District 2 victors train children at the centres. District 6 male, age fourteen, armed with a Taser, neck snapped by the girl from 4. Correct. District 11 female, age 13, armed with a slingshot, stabbed through the heart by the girl from 1. Correct. On and on the list goes, and indeed, my father has correctly identified every tribute's age, weapon of choice, killer and method of death from the clues provided at the top of the puzzle. I tried to hide my smile for my mother's sake as I set the paper down. "Sorry, they're all correct."

"Impossible," my mother repeats, snatching the answers from my hand to check for herself. It's odd behaviour, even for her – while she may have a competitive side, she grown accustomed to losing out the race to my father. "There's no way you would have had time to figure all that out." She narrows her eyes at my father over the top of the page. "Did you cheat?"

My father places a hand over his heart. "You wound me, my dear Liara. I'd never." The corners of his lips twitch upwards. "But there was a trick to it. Try thinking outside of the box."

Mother glares at him and returns to the page, her blue eyes focused so intensely, I almost expect the puzzle to burst into flames. My own eyes dart to my father, who winks at me. "Do you understand, Felicia?"

I frown, going over the answers in my head. District 6 male, age fourteen, armed with a Taser, neck snapped by the girl from 11 female, age 13, armed with a slingshot, stabbed through the heart by the girl from 1. My mind mentally scrolls down the list of tributes, but I can't discern any noticeable pattern. District 1 male, age 16, armed with a rapier, poisoned by the boy from 3. District 1 female, age 17, armed with a laser, poisoned by the boy from 3. What could my father possibly . . .

"That's it." My father beams, seeing the sudden realisation in my eyes. Of course. I feel like hitting myself for not realising sooner.

"The ninth Hunger Games," I say, thinking back to all those times I'd seen it in class. Hunger Games History is probably one of the least useful courses in school, but it's been made mandatory by the Capitol, so every day for seventy-five minutes we're forced to discuss the event. The ninth Hunger Games footage is my teacher's favourite video to show, most likely because it's the only Games District 3 ever won. "Daen Lals' Games. The tributes, the deaths, they're all from it."

"What?" The sharp question comes from my mother as she glances up at the two of us. "That's ridiculous. Much too obvious a pattern."

"Ah, but that, my dear, is precisely what makes it so difficult to get. We all tend to overthink things, assume our enemies are smarter than they actually are." My father grins. "I believe the Daen Lals piece of wisdom for the day is: Always be smart. But accept that the solution to your problem may not be."

I giggle slightly at that, though my mother's noise of disgust is louder. She's one of the most logical people I know, which, while she believes it's her best trait, can also be a hindrance to her on occasion. My father, on the other hand, is a master at thinking outside of the box and considering all the angles. Both have tried instructing me in their respective way of thinking and while I liked to think I was getting the best of both worlds, it could occasionally lead to confusion and very frustrating arguments.

"You shouldn't have been wasting your time with the problem anyways, Felicia," my mother says curtly after one final check of the answers to make sure my father's not wrong. "Look at the time. You're going to be late."

I jump, having nearly forgotten about the tutoring. The large digital clock on the wall does indeed read 7:50am. If I go fast, I might be able to make it.

Goodbyes are briefly uttered as I sprint from the kitchen to the front door of our apartment, throwing on my shoes as I go. Once in the building's stairwell, however, I force myself to keep my pace dialed back to a fast walk; no matter how late I am, it would never do to go running by the other apartments and out onto the streets like a madman. The only people who rush about are those who are forgetful, lazy, incapable of properly functioning in a work environment. This close to getting a job placement, who knows who may be watching me. Any slipup on my part, in any area of my life, could destroy my chances of getting my dream job.

Besides, running would be nearly impossible anyways, I realise as I pass through the entrance to our apartment complex and make it out onto the narrow streets of 3. I've heard most districts cherish the opportunity to sleep in when the reapings roll around, but here, everyone always has jobs to do. While all of our factories are "officially" shut down, most people still slip in to work on their current projects. The Peacekeepers really couldn't care less, just so long as we're all at the square in time for the reapings.

I weave my way between the throng of people on the street, trying to hurry while also trying not to seem hurried. District 3 may have one of the smallest populations in Panem, but we also have the least amount of square footage, and as such, it always seems like everywhere is crowded. I may look down on the Cro-Magnon districts just like everyone else here, but I have to admit, the pictures in our schoolbooks of 1, 2 and 4 are rather pleasing to the eye. Beautiful architecture, so much space to spread out, rows of glistening beaches and warm sand beneath your feet.

Still, we have something better. Even as I turn down a side street to head towards the school, I can still see it over the roofs of the other buildings. The headquarters for AdVanced Inc., the tallest building in 3, with a beautiful, glass-domed roof and flashing billboards that seem so new and high tech when compared to the rest of my rather lackluster district. A monument to everything our district stands for, and, dare I say, the most breathtaking building in Panem.

"Felicia!" The shout catches me off-guard and I turn just in time to see two girls barrelling out of the school entrance and running towards me. I only really know of Ceety Rordan and Aelle Tie by reputation – the smartest kids in each year are always known throughout the school. As top of their fourteen and fifteen-year-old classes, respectively, the girls have been charged with running the tutoring program for the day, as the teachers aren't supposed to be at work and the older kids are much too busy studying for their own, more challenging exams to spend time tutoring. I'm one of the only exceptions to the rule.

"Felicia, thank goodness you're here!" Aelle reaches me, struggling for breath as Ceety stumbles up behind her. "We thought you weren't coming!"

"I'm sorry, I know I'm late." The poor girls, they look like they nearly had heart attacks. This is their first year running the tutoring program, as far as I'm aware, and I shouldn't have left them without any instructions.

"No . . . No . . ." Ceety pauses, takes a deep breath and continues. "Don't worry about it. You're actually . . . right on time . . ."

"But you know, everyone else usually gets here early," Aelle adds, running a hand through her messy blonde hair. "Except one of the students hasn't shown up! And we were freaking out, we have no idea what to do, I-"

"Calm down," I say soothingly. Inwardly, though, I'm surprised. Most kids who sign up for tutoring do so willingly. Only a select few are forced to come by their parents or teachers and even then, they usually appreciate the extra help. In 3, if you fail your exams, you become a pariah, and no one wants that. "May I see the list?"

"Huh? Oh, oh, sure." Aelle hands me the wad of paper crumpled tightly in her fist, then turns back to the school. "Anyways, we need to head in – got kids waiting. Oh, and there's a Clara Current waiting for you inside, says she's requested you personally as a tutor."

I have to smile at that and wave the girls on in, indicating I'll be following close behind. But first . . . I unwind the ball of paper in my hand, smoothing it back into its former shape. It's the signup sheet for tutoring – all the kids who wanted or needed help had the opportunity to write their names on here last week when the list was posted in the school cafeteria. This morning, Aelle and Ceety would have placed a check beside each name as the student entered the building for tutoring. One name, however, has nothing but a blank space beside it.

I frown down at the name, then unconsciously, my gaze darts back up to the AdVanced Inc. building. How unfair is it that some people are born with everything and yet still refuse to do anything?

"Dexter Vance," I murmur to myself, glancing back down at the paper. "Where are you?"

Dexter Vance

My feet pound in a deafening rhythm, my heartbeat throbbing so loudly in my ears it feels like I can't concentrate on anything else. But the first target is coming up. I can do this; I can do this.

I draw a knife from my belt, somehow managing to accomplish the gesture without slowing my sprinting pace around the race track. The round target is rapidly getting closer – rather, I'm getting closer to it. A few more seconds and I'll be right on top of it.

The knife nearly slips out of my sweaty palm and I curse inwardly. Don't let it fall. You can do this, Dexter. There's no time to readjust my sloppy grip though, so I just take a chance and hurl the knife towards the bulls-eye. I don't manage to get a good look at where it landed before I'm forced to leap over the target, but it didn't look particularly close to the centre. Damn it.

Come on, pull yourself back together and get in the rhythm. There are five targets spaced out on the small, circular sprinting track. My job is to hurl a knife at each one before leaping over it and never faltering in my running pace. Easy peasy, once you grow accustomed to the pattern.

Not wanting to waste any more time, I draw the next knife from my belt just as the next target lines up in front of me. This time, my fingers slide into the correct positions along the knife's handle all by themselves and I take as deep a breath as I can before launching it through the air. The knife flies through the air, nearing the target a lot faster than my running form, and with a resounding thunk! hits the centre of the target. Was that a perfect bulls-eye? Yeah, I think it was. Yes!

Back in the rhythm of the exercise (and having gained back more of my confidence), hitting the rest of the bulls-eyes seems easy. Run, prepare knife, throw knife, leap target. Run, prepare knife, throw knife, leap target. On the last one, I can't but do an exaggerated, graceful leap, throwing my hands in the air as I go and landing right back where I began the exercise. The large, digital clock on the wall nearby was timing me, and I hurriedly sprint over and slam my palm down on the button next to it, freezing the numbers at 24.63.

I ran the track in less than twenty-five seconds. That's the best time I've ever gotten. Yes!

I spin around, the grin on my face only growing. "And who said I wasn't getting any faster, huh?"

But my words get no response and slowly, my smile fades. My trainer, District 3's only victor, the man who was supposed to be congratulating me, is currently seated at the far end of the gym with his head bent over a myriad of papers. I doubt he was paying any attention at all.

I clear my throat, hoping he might at least look up. No such luck. I sigh – why? Why did training have to turn into this? Things used to be great, until about four and a half months ago.

Lacking any other method of getting Daen Lals' attention, I plop myself down in another chair next to him and lean over to see the papers on his little desk. "So, what are the rebels' plans for today?"

Well, I got something out of him, at least. Immediately, Daen slams his hands down on the pages, hurriedly gathering them into a pile and pulling them away from me. "Dexter," he hisses after the papers are safely tucked away in his briefcase. "How many times have I told you to be careful what you say? Especially in my home."

"But you fixed the bug system." Apparently every house in every Victor's Village across Panem is monitored – their inhabitants are, after all, some of the most dangerous citizens in the districts. But Daen, being wildly intelligent and from District 3, has managed to fix the bug system in his home and those of a few other victors so that, not only does the Capitol get false footage of what's actually being said and done here, but they don't even realise it.

"Still, we have to be careful." Daen glances nervously around the enormous gym, which takes up most of the basement of his home. "There may come a day where they override my changes."

I snort. "Even you don't believe that." Citizens from District 3 are rarely modest – usually because they have the talent to back up their over-inflated egos. Daen Lals is one of the smartest people in the district and he knows it; no Capitol airhead could even detect the changes he's made to their system, let alone detect them. Which is probably why some of the most sensitive rebellion plans are sent Daen's way. He lives in one of the only safe victors' houses.

Still, I don't see why the plans keep him so busy. He's not even going to be a part of the rebellion, really. All of the victors will be tied up during the Games keeping their tributes alive. Well, technically only the presence of two victors from each district is really necessary, but somehow a tradition started where every victor would go to the Capitol during the Games, to support the ones who were mentoring. Stopping that routine now would raise suspicions with the president. So instead, the rebellion plans have been entrusted to the non-victor head of the rebel groups in each district.

I don't know the full extent of the rebels' plans, or how they plan to overthrow the Games and the Capitol, but I do know a little bit thanks to Daen. He was reluctant to let me in on the operation at first, even though I was dying to know the secrets he was keeping from me, but eventually, he realised how much use I could be in the rebellion and I became an official part of it. Sort of.

I glower slightly at the thought. "I still don't see why I couldn't go with the rest," I say, hoping to start another argument. Then, at least, Daen might look up from his papers for more than two seconds.

But of course, District 3's ever-level-headed victor doesn't even frown – or look at me. "We've had this conversation before, Dexter. You know why."

Yes – because I'm "too famous". Well, infamous would probably be the more appropriate word. With two of the richest, smartest, most well-known district citizens for parents, I already stand out. Add to that my difficulty reading, my inability to focus and my motto of leaping before looking (all factors contributing to my "freak" status in 3), and everyone would immediately notice if I went missing for more than an hour. All the bullies would have no one to torment.

Which is why the rebellion is mostly being run by completely average, ordinary citizens whose disappearances no one would really question. Of course, the names of these people would still appear on the lists of those who should be attending the reapings, but supposedly, the District 2 victors have taken care of that. I don't know if particularly fond of relying on Cro-Magnon victors, but Daen says they've done their job. 2's victors have somehow gotten some Peacekeepers on the rebellion's side, and all of those Peacekeepers have managed to snag the jobs of signing people into the reapings. Anyone missing from their list, and they'll just overlook it.

Meanwhile, all of these "missing" people are on their way to the Capitol – some, in fact, are already there. Hidden in the cargo of the trains, they're picked up by some more rebel Peacekeepers and escorted to a secret hideout run by a Capitol insider who also happens to be allied with us.

There must be more to the plan, but that's all I know. All I'm required to know, at least, with the job I have.

Perhaps Daen finally notices my dejected expression because at last, he glances up from his papers. "You play a key role in this as well, Dexter, don't undermine your importance." He sighs, his brown eyes glazing over as old memories return. "You have perhaps the most dangerous job in this entire operation."

"The odds are still for me," I say, though, thinking about it, I'm not so sure. In every district, two kids in the rebellion effort, a boy and a girl, are elected as fallbacks, of sorts. Lots of children have enlisted to fight in the rebellion, perhaps even more than adults – adults are harder to make disappear. So, just in case one of these kids who isn't present gets reaped, someone is needed to volunteer; otherwise, suspicions will arise. I just so happen to be one of these volunteers. "And anyways, you said I'll be safe in the arena, right? The rebels are going to hit as soon as the Games begin, I won't even have time to step off my plate, let alone get killed."

"Of course." But there's still a shadow of doubt present in his eyes as he looks at me once more. "You have the list memorised?"

"Yeah." I run through them in my head, all twenty-one boys of reaping age District 3 has sent off to help the rebellion effort. And if any of those twenty-one names are called out by our escort, it's me who will be running up on that stage, volunteering for the Games. "But anyways," I interject quickly. "Did you see my running time?" There's been far too much talk around here about the rebellion lately, and it's been sorely cutting into my training discussions with Daen, which I miss. "Best yet! And four out of five bulls-eyes!"

"Three out of five," Daen mumbles, his eyes already back on his pages. "The last one was close, though."

I frown and glance over at the last target. It's hard to see from here, but the knife does look a little off-centre. Great. Well, at least Daen noticed. "Still, would have been a kill shot if it was a person, right?"

No response. Already, it's like I've gone back to not existing. "Daen?"

"Don't you have tutoring to attend this morning?"

Crap, right. I was forced to sign up by my parents after they got their latest dose of disappointment via my school grades and I've been trying to forget about it ever since. It's why I asked Daen if I could come over and practice my training today specifically.

I glance at the clock on the wall, which has erased my running time and gone back to showing the current hour. Tutoring started forty minutes ago. "If I go now, I'll be late. Best not to go at all."

"Dexter, what do I tell you every day you train?"

I sigh. "That I need to train everything. Mind, body and spirit."

"Think of tutoring as just another training exercise. Besides, your exams start tomorrow. You'll want to do well on those."

He's just trying to get rid of me. Well, fine then. My parents probably would kill me if I didn't show up to tutoring. "All right, all right," I say, reluctantly rising from my chair and starting to head for the stairs. But before I go I can't help but mutter, "I wouldn't have to worry about exams if I was going into the arena."

I'm not facing Daen, but I can hear the sharp intake of breath and somehow, I know he's watching me now. "The Hunger Games are not the better option there. I'd hope you know that, Dexter."

I don't reply, merely grabbing the bag I left by the stairs and heading up to the first floor of Daen's house. Of course I know the Hunger Games aren't the better option there . . . sort of. It's just, well, I suck at reading and writing and all the mathematical stuff, but I'm really good at training. Sometimes the arena does seem easier than the exam table.

And more fun? a cynical little voice whispers as I leave through the front door and walk out onto the sunny street. Admit it. You're starting to like it.

"Shut up," I mutter, attracting a few glares from people passing me. And yet, at the same time, I can't help but worry it's . . . kind of true.

It didn't seem like such of a problem at first. I met Daen when I was fourteen, on the night of the Intelligence Tournament, some dumb event teachers across the district organise to show off their best students and ridicule their worst into doing better. I don't know why I participated that year – to prove to everyone I was worth something, I guess. I should have known I'd crash and burn. In front of hundreds of parents and students, I bumbled my way through competitions like the Math Attack and Chemical Confound, feeling stupider than the names of the events. After pulling dead last in the competition without earning a single point the entire evening (the first and only time that's ever happened, as I'm constantly reminded), I'd been too embarrassed to go home right away and face the disappointed stares of my parents, so I'd walked around the district for a while. And, eventually, I ran into Daen Lals.

He'd been to the competition and I guess had felt sorry for me or whatever, because he gave me some rousing speech about everyone being good at different things, yada, yada, yada. But he also offered to take me under his wing, teach me everything he knew so that I wouldn't feel like such an incompetent failure. In the beginning, he wasn't the greatest of teachers – sometimes he just couldn't understand why I couldn't understand his lessons – but he did the best he could and after a while, the first friendship I'd ever had began to develop. My "problem" followed closely after.

It's not a problem, I think furiously to myself, sidestepping three workers on their way to a factory. Not a problem. Just a . . . a . . . thing.

Shortly after Daen and I met, the 34th Hunger Games rolled around and my new friend had to leave for the Capitol to mentor the newest batch of District 3 corpses: Logyk Gugel and Winda Expy, I believe their names were. They were young that year too, with the girl being thirteen and the boy only a year older. No one expected them to come home.

The arena that year was modelled after old structures called space stations. I'd learned a little about them in History at school, but not too much; all of the stations were abandoned before Panem was even founded – I guess people found they had more than enough to worry about here on Earth. It was a small arena, in any case, not many good places to hide, and as such, Winda was the first dead in the bloodbath, her neck snapped by the powerful fists of the District 2 male. An unfortunate, if not altogether surprising turn of events. Everyone expected Logyk to go the same way, especially, once he was cornered by the district partner of Winda's killer. But young Logyk surprised everyone; dodging the girl's blade, he managed to scoop up a dagger of his own and went in for the kill. It was one of the only instances of a District 3 tribute beating a Cro-Magnon, maybe even the first since Daen had poisoned all the kids from 1 and 2 during his Games. And suddenly, 3 had some hope again.

Until the final nine. I still remember it – the air in the district seemed charged with electricity, everyone was buzzing about so excitedly. We hadn't had a tribute in the final eight since Tekker Kolu in the 30th Games, and usually that type of thing only happens once a decade for us. But with it happening again, so soon, the strangest thing happened; 3's ever-logical citizens started throwing reason out the window, saying it was a sign, we were finally going to have another victor. Tekker had come so close, placing third, and now Logyk was going to go all the way.

Then Logyk found Rosemary Thymeson. She had also been a bit of a dark horse, coming from 11 and being only fifteen, yet she'd managed to take down a Cro-Magnon and two other tributes. When Logyk stumbled upon her, the entire district held its breath, certain a bloody battle to the death would start at any moment. But Rosemary, as she had been doing during the entire Games, went for the unexpected: she asked Logyk to ally with her. She'd been keeping tabs on him, apparently, and had liked what she'd seen, not to mention the fact that they had both come from similar backgrounds – both poor, with parents and younger siblings that needed them back home. They would make a great team, she said, and with luck, could both make it to the final two. Then, well, they would figure that out when they got there.

But Logyk didn't trust her. I mean, everyone had been able to tell from his interview that he was a sullen, skeptical kid, wary of anyone he didn't know well, but still, we were all shocked when he refused the offer. His exact words had been: "You've got to be kidding me. So close to the end? No way. If you're so eager to kill me, then just do it now, don't pretend to be my friend and stab me in the back."

Those were the last words he ever said.

He'd lunged at Rosemary with his dagger and she'd just barely managed to block with an old length of pipe she'd scavenged from somewhere in the space station. Their battle was brutal and bloody, yet despite the previous insults everyone had been muttering at Logyk's idiocy, all of District 3 was holding its breath, praying our tribute could make it out of this fight too, whittle down the competition by one more kid.

But instead, it ended with Logyk splayed out on the floor, head smashed in by Rosemary's now slightly bent pipe. She'd looked down at him and shaken her head – "We could have made a great team." – before leaving him there for the Capitol to clean away. District 3 never did get visited by Caesar for an interview that day. And we haven't ever since.

Needless to say, when Daen came back from the Capitol, he was even more anxious than usual. I figured at first he was just distraught over having lost another tribute, one that he may have truly believed had a chance, but as my training became more rigorous, I realised something else may have been putting him off. Logyk Gugel had been fourteen, my age at the time. I wouldn't say we were carbon copies of one another, but there were certain similarities that I suppose my trainer couldn't ignore – a lifetime of bullies and harsh words had sown resentment within me, as well as a deep reluctance to trust anyone. It was the trait that got Logyk killed. And suddenly, even though I was one of the least likely kids in the district to be reaped, Daen began to fear me dying in the Games. My training had changed: no longer was I going to his house sporadically, learning whatever random lesson he felt like teaching me that day. Now it was structured, with a few hours a day set aside for training, which could consist of hand-to-hand combat, weapons' use, plant identification, problem-solving in life and death situations . . . Daen was preparing me for the Hunger Games. Which really wasn't helping considering, after what I experienced watching the 34th, I was trying to distance myself from the Games as much as possible.

I hate the Hunger Games – just thought I'd get that out there. Hate the Games, hate the Capitol, hate the president. Yet I still can't get past the fact that watching those kids in the arena, well . . . excites me. I hate myself afterward for it, can't even stand looking at myself in a mirror, but when I watched the 34th Games, I found myself riveted, unable to tear my eyes away. When the boy from 4 had the boy from 12 pinned beneath him during the bloodbath, punching and punching and punching and punching, I felt exhilarated. And when the girl from 1 had the boy from 10 tied up, completely at her mercy, and tried to find every way humanly possible to cause him pain, I almost looked forward to whatever she'd come up with next.

It's awful, I know. Completely awful. At least it's a small consolation knowing I do feel guilty afterwards, so I haven't totally gone off the deep end, but still. No matter how hard I try to fight it, I'm drawn to violence. And I can't stop enjoying it.

I haven't told anyone, of course. Living in what might be the most judgemental district in Panem, where every citizen has a deep-rooted hate for the Cro-Magnons, spilling this secret would be the end. Daen doesn't even know, even though I debate telling him almost every day. He was in the Hunger Games, he was even allied with the Cro-Magnons – he might know why I'm feeling this way, might know how to stop it. But I just . . . I can't tell him. What if he hated me? What if he could never look at me the same way again? I don't know if I could bear that.

I shake my head – my feelings for Daen are a whole other story, and not one I want to think about now. It just makes things too complicated. Well, at least this stupid tutoring program will help with one thing, I think, as I round a corner and the school comes into view. If nothing else, it'll serve as a distraction to my thoughts.

"Well, we were wondering when you'd finally show your face around here, Seventy-Six. Did you forget you have tutoring, or did you just get lost on your way here?"

Damn it.

A few metres before the school's entrance, I'm forced to stop as six boys slink out of the shadows. Six. Crap. Last time Matrix Firwel thought it'd be fun to try and beat me up, he only brought two accomplices. Still not great odds, but considering I've been trained by a Hunger Games victor and they spend all their time at home doing research projects, I was still able to make it out somewhat unhurt. Seems he learned his lesson.

Matrix is at the front of the pack now, standing a few feet away and smirking with that ever-present glimmer of obnoxiousness in his eyes. He's one of the smartest kids in our grade, and, as a result, believes it is his right and responsibility to raise the collective intelligence of our peer group. Which means abolishing "weak links" – such as myself.

"Found a few more friends, I see," I say to Matrix while my eyes scan the six boys. Remember what Daen taught you. Look for weak points and strike there. Of course, the path behind me is empty, and I could easily sprint back out onto the busy street. But my feet just don't seem to want to move. "Learned from last time, did you?"

Unconsciously, my hands curl into fists, beginning to itch in anticipation.

For a second, Matrix's expression flickers, but just as quickly, a smirk settles back on his face. "Don't think you can embarrass me into doing something stupid." Matrix chuckles. "I'm not ashamed of last time. It just proves what a danger you are to our society. District 3 does not need or want any Cro-Magnons in our ranks. And you, Seventy-Six, are one of them."

I flinch at the nickname, eyes hardening into a glare. At the age of fourteen, every student in 3 takes a test to determine their intelligence and what classes they should be placed in during the next level of school. My score, seventy-six, is known as one of the lowest the district has ever seen. And now almost everyone uses it to identify me.

"So you really think six guys will do it this time?" I laugh, trying to come off as confident as I can. Guy on the far right has a slight limp. Boy on Matrix's left has glasses. "Well, good luck."

"A true Threer does not rely on luck. Not that you'd know anything about that. Besides, despite the fact that your simple mind cannot comprehend it, brawn does not always win over brains."

"And you think I just have brawn, huh?" Okay, so when they come at you, dodge Matrix's attack and punch the boy to his left in the face. That'll shatter the glasses, put him out of commission for a bit. Sweep the guy on the far right's leg, that'll do the same to him, and then you only have to worry about four of them. Great.

Matrix smirks and snaps his fingers. At once, the boy to his left takes the glasses off and tosses them to the side while the one on the far right shifts his weight, his limp disappearing as though it had never been there before. My heart sinks. "Is finding people's weaknesses something Daen Lals taught you as well? Not very good at it, are you, Seventy-Six?" Matrix laughs and takes a step forward. "Don't lie to yourself. You're not as smart as you think you are."

And with that, they all run at me.

I stand my ground and, despite their sudden lack of weaknesses, manage to dodge Matrix's first punch. I'd love to retaliate with one of my own, but two of the boys are trying to circle around me, get in my blind spot, and I'm forced to ignore Matrix, instead delivering a swift kick to one of the boys before thrusting my leg out behind me, nailing the other guy in the chest. They both go stumbling back but before I can recover, one of the others runs forward and tackles me to the ground. Daen's words about taking a fall come back to me and I slam my arms on the ground, absorbing the impact and stopping myself from rolling too far back and having my head smash into the ground. Unfortunately, the boy on top of me didn't have to take such precautions with me under him to cushion his fall, and his hands are completely free to start raining punches down on my face. One fist connects with my jaw and the other with my cheek, but they're not strong enough to daze me – rather, they bring me back to reality and in a flash, I elbow the guy in the groin before grabbing his shirt and throwing him off to the side. I'm just leaping to my feet when a strong kick sends me coughing back to the ground.

He's getting better, I think bitterly, glaring at Matrix as he lifts his leg for another blow. But I'm expecting this one and lash out, grabbing his ankle and yanking him to the ground beside me. He hits the ground hard, face first, and I can hear something crack – his nose, probably. A steady stream of scarlet starts to trickle out onto the pavement and I can't help but grin viciously. Yes, yes! Who's the weak link now, Matrix?

I stand, wanting to jump on him, punch him again and again, but I haven't even hit two of the other boys yet, and they're still a threat. In the moment I was distracted with Matrix, they've both gotten behind me, grabbing for my arms and trying to pull them behind my back. I lash out, struggling as hard as I can and manage to elbow one in the stomach, but the other won't let go. My arm twists painfully just as the boy behind me kicks out, hitting me behind the knees and I drop like a stone back to the ground. Two more of the boys have recovered at this point, and they help the one behind me with my flailing arms, wrenching them painfully until it feels like my shoulders are going to dislocate. In front of me, Matrix rises to his feet, blood smeared across his now furious face thanks to his broken nose. No clever quips or insults this time – he doesn't waste another second before he brings his fist back and drives it straight into my stomach, followed by another jarring hit to my eye. I snarl at him and struggle once more against the boys holding me, but it's futile, and now the last two boys are joining Matrix in punching me everywhere: face, chest, stomach. Every burst of pain jars my brain by I bite my lip hard, determined not to make a sound. No way am I giving Matrix the satisfaction. I can get out of this, I can. I just have to-

"ENOUGH!"

Felicia Willis

Clara heard the sound first. We were studying closest to the door so I might catch Dexter Vance if he finally decided to show up, and she said she heard the sounds of a fight. I figured she was just trying to distract me from going over Noether's theorem again, a concept she could never understand, but she looked genuinely worried. So I told her to stay inside while I checked what was going on.

Probably nothing, I'd thought. Or maybe some birds fighting over scraps. Or someone dropped something heavy. Not a fight. Not in District 3, right outside the school.

It was only when I stepped out the front doors and saw the mass of boys that I realised it was indeed a fight. Needless to say, I was appalled.

"ENOUGH!" I shriek, hoping to get their attention. None of them seem to hear me, or if they do, they're ignoring me. I can't see past the backs of the three boys closest to me, but I can tell they're hitting someone. It makes my blood boil.

"Did you not hear me?" I demand, storming over to them and grabbing the closest boy by the shoulder. "I said stop."

He whirls around to face me, his eyes still forming a murderous glare for a moment, then he seems to realise who I am. I, of course, know him too. Matrix Firwel, one of the top students in our grade, three places away from me. It only makes me angrier to think a boy who is considered to be so intelligent should be caught doing this.

Realising their leader has stopped, the other boys cease what they're doing and turn to me as well. Vector Mackintosh, Java Mowdel, Webley Quert, Kerome Elgy, Michael Risopht – yes, I recognise them all. And know that, considering my intellect compared to theirs, none of them would dare object to whatever I say, or lay a finger on me.

Glancing down, I take a look at their victim, whose arms are still being held tight by three of the boys. He glances up at me though, and my heart skips a beat. Even with a quickly-swelling black eye, a cut lip and the numerous bruises decorating his face, I still know that dark brown hair, the eyes of the same colour.

It's Dexter Vance. These boys were attacking Dexter Vance. The son of the founders of AdVanced Inc.

"Let him go," I say furiously, glaring at the boys still holding him before rounding on Matrix. "Do you know who this is?"

Matrix seems surprised at first by the harshness in my voice, but his features quickly relax back into casual indifference. "Of course. What, do you think I attack random people in the street?"

"You might be stupid enough to," I say, sending one more glare in the direction of the other boys and, finally, they release Dexter's arms, letting him fall to the street. While he tries to stand, I turn back to the group's leader. "Aren't you looking for a job at AdVanced?" I hiss. "Not smart to be caught beating the bosses' son."

"Don't patronise me," Matrix shoots back. "I'm only three places behind you with the test scores, Felicia, you're not that much more intelligent than I am. And his parents don't care about him anyways. In fact, I'd suspect they'd want to pat me on the back for trying to get rid of their biggest embarrassment."

Matrix may be smart, but he's not a great liar. Usually, no one in District 3 would ever settle their differences by a physical fight because that's not our strengths. Dexter Vance, however, for all he may lack in the intelligence department, is probably the most athletic kid in our grade. And Matrix, a boy who has relied on his brain for his entire life, cannot stand the fact that someone less smart than Matrix is actually better than him in other areas of life. Hence this stupid need to prove he can beat Dexter at his own game.

I open my mouth to tell him this, maybe knock his ego down a few notches, but before I get the chance, Dexter lunges at him. The two go down hard, Dexter throwing a flurry of wild blows while Matrix simultaneously tries to defend and land a few punches of his own. "Stop it," I shout as the other boys go to pull them apart. "Stop!"

Thanks to the combined effort of the other five boys, Matrix and Dexter are pulled away from each other. The former's nose is bleeding even more heavily than before, while the latter coughs and spits a wad of bloody saliva out of his mouth, glaring murderously at Matrix. Before they can think to do anything else, however, I step between them.

"Enough," I say, trying to replicate a teacher's stern look as I glower at all of the boys. "Go home. Clean yourselves up. And you can bet I'll be letting your parents know about this."

Matrix stares at me incredulously, as though he can't believe I'm speaking to him like this, but thankfully, he has enough intelligence to realise arguing is futile. Giving a few muttered commands to his companions, they brush themselves off and turn to go, the two boys holding Dexter dropping him once more. For the second time, Dexter struggles to his feet and turns to leave as well until I grab his shoulder. "I didn't mean you."

When he turns back to face me, I'm stunned into silence for a moment by the sheer amount of rage in his glare – rage which, for reasons I cannot fathom, seems to be entirely directed at me. "Leave me alone," he growls, shaking my hand off his shoulder. "I don't take orders from you."

I frown. So he wants to play the rebellious student role? Fine then – I've dealt with all sorts at past tutoring events. "Actually, as you are here to be tutored and I am one of the tutors, yes, you do. I am essentially a teacher in this scenario."

His eyebrows raise slightly and he looks me up and down before snorting dismissively. "You've got to be kidding me. You're younger than I am."

"By a month or two, perhaps. But age doesn't matter. Within the tutoring program, I hold a position of authority which is why you will be coming with me this instant."

The boy still hesitates, so I quickly add, "Or do I need to speak to your parents about this infraction?" I'm silently praying this will convince him to cooperate, because I don't particularly wish to carry out the threat. What I angered his parents when I mentioned their son's lack of respect and it cost me a job at AdVanced Inc.? My whole future would be ruined.

Thankfully, Dexter takes the threat to heart and, with a rather overly-dramatic sigh, reluctantly follows me into the school. I long to tutor him myself – if my guidance rubbed off on him and his parents noticed my progress with their son, all the better – but Clara looked up at the sound of the opening door and is now watching me expectantly. My mother would tell me to ignore her, to do the logical thing and take the steps I must to ensure my future at AdVanced Inc.; my father, on the other hand, would put his friends first. As always in situations such as this, I find myself torn between the teachings of my two parents. But, as usual, the side that takes after my father wins out.

"You'll be over there with Stephen Wurks," I say, checking Dexter's name off on the attendance list as I do so. When I look up to see the boy still standing in front of me, I give him my sternest glare and indicate the table where the free tutor sits. "Now, Mr. Vance."

Grumbling what I'm sure are obscenities under his breath, he slouches off towards Stephen. Once I'm sure he's taken care of – and not planning on bolting out of the school – I head back over to Clara.

"Isn't that . . ." she begins as I resume my seat once more.

"Dexter Vance," I respond, still watching the boy out of the corner of my eye. Already he has his head in his hands as a flustered Stephen tries to show him a series of equations.

"You should be tutoring him." Clara glances at me. "Wouldn't it put you in the Vances' good books?"

"Stephen can handle him well enough. I promised I'd help you today." Besides, though I feel awful for thinking it, I really don't think any help I give Dexter Vance will be noticed by his parents. From what I've seen and heard, they don't want much to do with their son's life at all. "Clara Current," I say sternly, turning away from Dexter and back to her. "Are you trying to foist me off on some other student so you don't have to learn Noether's theorem?"

For a moment, we just stare at each other – then we both break out into quiet laughter. "Guilty as charged," Clara says, smiling. "I'm never going to understand it."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," I reply, grabbing the textbook and bringing it close. "Now, if you look at these formulas . . ."

Tutoring goes remarkably smoothly for the rest of the day. I'm still not sure Clara entirely understands everything, but she knows enough to do relatively well on her exams, by her standards. By three-thirty, everyone begins to pack up as their parents start to arrive. With the school so close to the town square, most people are just going from here straight to the reapings, having either worn their nice clothes to tutoring or brought them along to change into. Too late, I realise I completely forgot to bring my reaping dress with me, thanks to the hurry I was thrown into this morning.

Not the end of the world, I suppose, I think, fingering the itchy, brown material of my skirt. What I'm wearing now is still nicer than a lot of kids can afford. No one would think I'm underdressed – well, except maybe the Capitol citizens. But they won't be looking at me; the tributes are really all they care about.

"There's my family," Clara says, interrupting our conversation about how we plan to celebrate after our exams are done. "Try and find me when you sign in, all right?" she continues, heading for the school doors. "We still need to talk because there's no way I'm sitting in on an astrophysics lecture as a way of celebration!"

"It would be fun!" I call back to her.

"Yeah, don't think so!" The last thing I hear is her giggle before she meets up with her father and brothers and heads out the door.

There's only a few stragglers left in the building besides myself; their parents really are cutting it close. I wish I could have gone with Clara, but as a tutor, I'm supposed to stay behind so that any parents who come can talk to me about how their child is doing. It's not an excuse the Peacekeepers will take kindly to, though, if I wind up being late for the reapings.

The door to the school opens once more and I glance over at it, only freeze, jaw dropping. That's . . . That's Curie and Banting Vance. The heads of AdVanced Inc. Here in the school. Standing just a few metres from me and looking around like their searching for someone. I should go over, say hello, express how much of a pleasure it is to see them, ask if they need any help – but it's like every part of me has turned to lead. All I can do is stare in awe.

Fortunately, they don't seem to require my aid to find what their looking for. Dexter Vance as reluctantly risen from his seat at the other end of the room, wearing an expression almost as surprised as my own. I'll admit, I didn't think his parents would be coming in person to pick him up either; surely their rich enough to have employees for that kind of thing.

"Mom. Dad," Dexter says, giving a little wave to draw his parents' attention. They're still looking around, searching, despite the fact that their son is standing right in front of them. "Right here."

"We're looking for Felicia Willis," Curie says without even glancing in her son's direction. "Should have bothered to learn what she looks like. Which one is she?"

Dexter stares at his mother for a moment, then sighs and jabs his finger in my direction.

I, meanwhile, haven't take a breath since my name came out of Curie Vance's mouth. That was my name, right? That definitely happened? I feel like a tribute whose name was just called by our Capitol escort, only instead of abject terror flowing through my veins, I couldn't be more excited. Curie Vance knows my name. Curie Vance is looking for me! Curie Vance is walking over to me now!

Oh, god. Curie Vance is walking over to me right now.

"Felicia Willis?" she asks as she and her husband stop in front of me. I'm too afraid to open my mouth, worried if I do, I might start hyperventilating, so all I give her is a small nod. "Excellent. We've heard a lot about you and I'm sure we're not the only ones."

"Which is why we'd like to make sure that, in sorting through your future career offers, you'll consider AdVanced Inc. above all else," Banting adds.

If I thought I couldn't be more shocked after the Vances walked into the school, I was sorely mistaken. My heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest. "I . . . I . . ." Come on, Felicia, get it together! "Of course!" I say quickly, perhaps a little too loudly. "Of course, I mean, it's always been my dream to work with AdVanced Inc., ever since I was a little girl . . ." Stop babbling, you sound ridiculous. "I mean . . . um . . ." I pause for a moment and take a deep breath, hoping the Vances will excuse me for my ridiculous behaviour. At least they're smiling; seems they're rather used to this. "Does this mean," I continue in a quiet voice, knowing my entire future will be decided by the answer to my question. "Does this mean you're offering me a job?"

"Officially, job offers aren't supposed to be sent out until after students are finished their exams," Curie Vance says.

"But, barring the possibility that your grades suddenly drop after completion of the tests," Banting continues, "Yes, we are. We wanted to get to you before any other companies could try and convince you to work for them."

I don't even hear that last bit; my mind is too busy playing the yes, we are part over and over and over again. I have a job at AdVanced Inc. I have a job at the place of my dreams. This is, this is more than I could have ever asked for. I feel like I'm floating.

Vaguely, I'm aware of half-consciously thanking Mr. and Mrs. Vance profusely before they leave. At some point, the other kids must have been picked up, because eventually, I'm left alone in the school, in the exact same spot where the Vances left me. But I can't move. I just . . . I just still can't believe it.

Alone in the school, I slowly collapse on the ground, smiling wider than I ever before and every so often giving small, disbelieving laughs. I did it. I did it.

Dexter Vance

I didn't even wait for my parents; just walked out the doors of the school once I realised they were far more interested in Felicia Willis than they were in me. Though it was kind of funny to see such a stern, by-the-book girl reduced to a puddle of stammered syllables and shocked looks. My parents have that effect on some people.

But what I couldn't help but feel is the jealousy. Not jealousy at knowing she was going to get one of the most coveted jobs in District 3 – I knew I had no hope of that and my parents are the founders of the company. It wasn't even jealousy at the fact that Felicia Willis now knows exactly how the rest of her life is going to pan out, while I still have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. No, it was just . . . this sounds so pathetic, but it was jealousy at the looks my parents gave her while they spoke. It was a look that said you're incredible, we like you, we want you. I've lived with them for eighteen years and I've never once seen that look on their faces.

Get over yourself, Dexter, I think sullenly as I follow the mob of people towards the town square. Should be used to it by now. But I can't help the cold pit of loneliness that's been developing in my stomach over the past few months. With Daen so wrapped up in the rebellion plans, it felt like I'd lost the only friend I had, and I was back to being that sad fourteen-year-old walking away from the Intelligence Tournament, completely alone and excluded by everyone in the district. Feels like not much has changed.

A fact that's made only too obvious once I sign in to the reapings and find my way to the eighteen-year-old section. Almost immediately, a small circle of space appears around me as my peers inch away, glancing at me and murmuring quietly to their friends. Off to my left, I catch sight of Matrix and his friends huddled in a group, whispering to each other and every so often stopping to glare at me. Their still sporting numerous bruises and Matrix's nose looks even more deformed now that all the blood has been cleaned off – I definitely broke it.

A savage pleasure wells up within me that I have to fight to keep down. No, I'm not supposed to enjoy hurting people.

But he deserved it. Doesn't that make it better?

I can't stop my thoughts from growing rather dark as I continue to glare at Matrix, imagining all the ways I could hurt him if, for once, he was man enough to take me on by himself. Then it definitely wouldn't just be his nose I'd break; no, I'd-

"Dexter."

I shake my head, trying to clear it of the rather gruesome daydream I was in the middle of. Jeez, what is wrong with me? This needs to stop, right now. I can't, I can't keep doing this.

Hoping to distract myself, I turn towards the sound of my name and, surprisingly, find someone standing right beside me. I've only met Brayne Servau on a few occasions, but her family is well known to me and every other rebel in 3. Molton Servau is the leader of the rebellion effort, and, "officially", is home sick with a terribly contagious disease that's so awful, he can't even crawl out of bed for the reapings. Unofficially, he's off in the Capitol with the rest of the rebels, waiting for the right time to strike. His daughter was in the same briefing I sat through, during which time Daen told us exactly what we needed to do and handed us each a list of names to memorise.

"Brayne," I say slowly, confused as to why she's here. "What's up?"

"Nothing," she says firmly as the mayor takes to the stage. We've never really talked before, Brayne and I, mostly because she's usually all stoic and quiet and I've never really had a conversation with one of my peers before that hasn't ended in someone getting beaten up. So why is she here now?"

"Are you nervous?" she asks suddenly as the mayor introduces our sole victor.

I glance at her, not sure I heard properly. Brayne Servau isn't the kind of person I'd ever thought to talk about nerves. Her expression is still completely neutral, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line, but something in her grey eyes gives me pause. It's uncertainty. And maybe just a little bit of fear.

Unconsciously, I start to wring my hands. "Um, not really," I mutter uncomfortably. I've never been put in a position where I've had to comfort someone. Not only that, but I have to pick my words incredibly carefully. One wrong word and the whole rebellion operation could come crashing down on our heads. Then every time Daen looked at me, it would be with that same disappointed look my parents always wear. "I mean, the odds are still in our favour, right? And besides, Daen is a good mentor. I'd trust him to get us out alive."

All Brayne gives is a curt nod in response and we lapse into silence once again. But, as our mayor introduces the escort, Fawna Malius, the girl next to me does something totally unexpected; she grabs my hand.

I jump at the unexpected contact and glance curiously in Brayne's direction, but she's got her eyes completely focused on the stage, which our escort is currently parading around on. I guess I should be concentrating on that too, since the boys are being reaped first and I have twenty-one names I need to listen for. And finally, as the escort dances over to the boys' bowl, the number finally hits me. Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Who knows how many slips each boy already had in there, how much tesserae they had to take out. Now I know why Brayne's so nervous. Suddenly, the feeling of her hand in mine isn't uncomfortable or awkward, it's . . . nice.

Fawna grabs a slip from the top of the bowl and quickly unfolds it, eager to find out who this year's male tribute will be. "Dexter Vance!"

Unconsciously, I start to run the name through the mental list I have in my head of twenty-one different boys. Dexter Vance, Dexter Vance, Dexter . . . oh. The one name I didn't think I'd have to worry about.

For a few moments, I stand in the crowd, completely frozen, unable to register anything expect the crushing pain in my hand; it feels like Brayne's trying to squeeze my fingers off. I'm going into the Games. I'm going into the Games. I'm going into the Games. I can't even find it in myself to be scared yet; I'm just too shocked.

But then a sound reaches my ears. The loud, piercing sound of applause, starting slow but growing steadily as time goes on. It's just Matrix and his friends at first, but soon more people start to join in, some for malicious reasons, others simply because they're relieved they weren't picked. But it doesn't matter, because either way, they've decided my life is worth less than theirs.

Fighting the yell of rage building in my throat, I put on the best blank stare I can manage, pry my fingers out of Brayne's grasp and slowly, mechanically, start for the stage. The applause sounds in my ears the entire time; when did our town square become so big? It seems to take an eternity for me to reach the escort.

"Well, look at this one!" Fawna says excitedly as I climb up the steps to meet her. She's probably just happy to finally have a tribute who looks fit, as opposed to the usual scrawny nerds that get sent into the Games from 3. "Quite popular, aren't you?"

I can hear Matrix laugh at her statement from all the way up here and my hands curl into fists, but I force myself to keep a straight face. Daen is watching me and I want to show him I'm calm, collected. I'm not Logyk Gugel. I can make it through the Games, with or without the rebels' help. I can do this.

"And now, the lovely ladies!" Fawna trills, skipping over to the other bowl. I feel myself tense unconsciously, for Brayne's sake, as she dips her hand down to grab a slip. It may have been from sheer nervousness that she took my hand, but it was more affection then I've felt from anyone else in my entire life. She shouldn't be forced into this too, even if the rebels are planning on stopping the Games before they happen.

"Felicia Willis!"

I was expecting a name I didn't know, one I'd worry might be on Brayne's list. District 3 is one of the least populated districts in Panem, but still, I didn't expect to know my fellow tribute this well. Felicia Willis. The girl who had such a bright future, was completely ready to ace her exams and set to working for my parents, has now had her life snatched from her and twisted down a completely different path. At least, in her mind. I know the rebels are going to stop this Games before it ever happens.

"Felicia Willis?" the escort calls out again, glancing around. I mimic her, scanning the eighteen-year-olds section, but that head of dark, dark brown hair is nowhere to be found. "Felicia Willis?"

"Here, here, I am so sorry I'm late!" At the back of the square, a girl dashes into the crowd, having just arrived now. "Please, continue, I apologise for the distraction."

Maybe Felicia thinks the escort is taking attendance or is looking for the people who are missing; not really situations that would ever happen, but, then again, the girl walking towards her section does not look quite the same as the one who broke up a fight earlier today. She seems distracted, and has a bounce in her step that wasn't present before – most likely due to the news my parents gave her. And, despite my dislike for what I thought was a pretty pretentious girl, I can't help feeling a bit bad for Felicia. Her world is just about to come crashing down on her.

"No, dear, I don't think you understand," Fawna calls down from the stage. "You see, you've been reaped. Isn't it exciting? Now come on up to the stage, you lucky girl!"

Felicia freezes in her tracks. Suddenly, the giddy girl is gone, replaced with the same calculating eighteen-year-old I remember from before. But there's another dimension to her now: horror. "Ex-Ex . . ." She sounds like she's about to cry. "Excuse me?"

"Up to the stage, chop chop! The Hunger Games don't wait for anyone!"

And in that exact moment, I can practically see her heart rip in two. She hides it well, keeping a neutral expression as she hesitantly makes her way to the stage, but tears have already started to form in front of eyes that hold complete and utter despair. One slip of paper – that's all it took for her life to change entirely.

She comes to stand next to me and, while the escort prattles on about this year's "promising pair", I choose to listen instead to Felicia. Her breathing is ragged, coming in and out only through her nose; my guess is she doesn't want to open her mouth for fear of letting out a sob. We turn to shake hands and as I stare into her tormented blue eyes, I feel a strong need to tell her it will all be okay. That the rebels are going to interfere, that we'll all be fine, that twenty-three children are not going to die this year.

But instead, I feel the cold snake of fear beginning to make its home in my stomach. Because that thought, that confidence that the rebels were going to make sure everything turned out all right, doesn't seem quite as certain anymore.