Hunger Games 1. Cantaré

**Cantaré: Song of the Dying**

[SYOT is closed. See below for sponsorship information.]

Normal warnings for this fandom apply.

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Summary:

There are more unexplained mysteries in the world than can ever be discovered in a single lifetime. While a vast majority of these mysteries disappeared from human memory by the time Panem came to power, there are some that live on. And should they ever be uncovered, it could spell the demise - or the prosperity - of the tyrannical nation and its brutal Games.

This year's Games will be unforgettable as the long lost secrets of a world before Panem resurface for the first time in centuries.

But the 59th Hunger Games may just be fated to disappear from memory - just as the world's secrets once did for over a hundred years - because what results from this year's Games may be far too dangerous for the Capitol to allow its citizens to remember.

* * *

**Prologue**

All the clocks in the Capitol struck nine at once, a symphony of chimes and rings if not for the nearly soundproof walls and the blaring crowd gathered in the heart of the city.

Those sounds could be heard from blocks away: the cheers, the screams, the pure excitement oozing through the cracks between buildings and vehicles that crammed the streets to full capacity. Everyone was on a night-long high, regardless of whether or not they were actually using.

Anton thought that he might be the only one heading away from the procession of chariots riding through the streets. The chariots themselves hadn't even emerged yet, but everyone was already in an uproar over the brief previews and professional commentary they got from the Reapings.

It wasn't that Anton wanted to avoid watching the opening of this year's Hunger Games. He wouldn't dream of it. His sister had invited him along to watch with her friends, given that they had somehow acquired front row seats to the Chariot Rides, but he had had to decline.

He had volunteered to take the night shift at the local museum, after all. And there was a nice, large TV in the staff room where he could watch the show.

But really, he was there for the books.

The Capitol didn't feature many real, hard copies of books of any kind, let alone original prints that may have graced the halls of museums centuries ago. Most of their books were electronic, ensuring that they were never lost to decay, water damage, or fires. The few that remained from ages long past were carefully preserved by the government.

The museum did allow citizens to read from reproductions of those books (government approved, of course), as well as travel through a timeline of Panem's history stretching back to the collapse of the continent they stood on.

It was one of the most boring jobs in the Capitol, his sister insisted without listening to his sorry attempt at an explanation.

It really was dull work, after all, no matter how he tried to glorify it. The most excitement he ever got out of his day was giving tours to kids in grade school, over half of whom weren't even listening or reading anything in the museum.

Tonight was a bit different though.

Ever since he found that text in the computer's archives -

He was getting a bit ahead of himself. First he had to watch the Chariot Rides.

Anton darted nimbly up the steps to the sleek, metallic museum building glinting in the wake of the city's never ending stream of lights and colors. The glass doors yielded to his ID card and slid open with a cold hiss.

The lighting was dim and the sounds outside silenced. Glinting display cases lined the halls.

That staff room was empty, the two night shift security guards the only other ones around. He'd waved to one of them as he passed the man out front.

The TV was already on by the time he slipped into the room and closed the door, peering out the glass window looking out into the lobby.

The introductions were just concluding, right on time. The Capitol was always perfectly punctual.

He took out the flat, sleek electronic reader and flicked through it until he reached a particularly obscure text that the Committee on Information and Intel had approved purely for the fact that it was unreadable by anyone alive today.

It kept the scholars busy, at any rate.

The first chariot was just inching into view when he ran his fingers over a section of thick, archaic letters printed across the screen.

His eyes flickered from the reader's screen to the TV over and over again with each tribute that proceeded.

Anton had never believed his grandfather until he'd seen that book. He took his stories as the ravings of a senile old man - even though Capitol treatments were able to dissolve most of the worst symptoms.

Maybe he just hadn't _wanted_ to believe him.

It was ridiculous to think -

_"Someday they will return - and we'll be none the wiser - but they will return regardless. You can't stop fate."_

_"Who's coming back, grandpa?"_

_"You can't stop fate. They'll come back. We thought we got rid of all of them, but we're wrong..."_

_"Grandpa?"_

_"...so very wrong."_

It was the last conversation he'd ever had with his grandfather before he passed away, but it wasn't much different from the other conversations he'd had with the man over the years of his youth. His grandfather had always spoken in this low, whispering tone that gave the impression that he was building the suspense for some grand revelation.

But he was just a raving old man, too touched in the head to be taken seriously. He'd been injured long ago, before the Hunger Games were even around.

So Anton ignored him.

Until he found the book.

His grandfather had often scribbled similar images absently, without knowing the significance of the words. Yet, he must have known what they meant at some point.

And then Anton found the _other_ book. He'd burned it as soon as he committed the most important facts to memory.

Because there was something starting and it wasn't the Hunger Games.

And Anton Hannigan was nothing, if not careful. It came with the job - preserving artifacts of the old world - but he was careful in life, too.

He flickered back through the archives and leaned back against the couch to watch the rest of the opening ceremony unfold.

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Hope you enjoy even if you haven't submitted a character!


	2. Cantante

**Cantaré: Song of the Dying**

[The Reapings are out of order so you readers don't have to wait eons for the next chapter.]

Normal warnings for this fandom apply.

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**District 9**

_Kanato dreamed._

_As the familiar room folded out before him like the water colored pages in a picture book, a trembling, needle-hot breath was forced from his lungs as though it was woe to leave._

_Pale, creamy walls sectioned off by smooth wooden beams and a yielding floor of soft wood unraveled from the folds of the darkness he had occupied. It was like coming home after a long, cold trek through the snow on a moonless night._

_A door on the far wall slid open, so perfectly camouflaged that he had to take a moment to wonder if it was real at all, or if the mechanics of the dreamworld were at work here._

_Kanato knew it was a dream because a room this warm and quaint had never existed in all of District 9._

_A small, quiet voice whispered in his ear. He'd seen it before, many times before, so many times in fact that he could have traced out every detail with exact precision with his eyes closed._

_He looked up expectantly as a small child entered, stumbling in on unsteady feet. There was a wide smile on his smooth, pale face._

_Dark eyes were alight with mischief and in those dark depths Kanato could see two things: the absence of hardship, of the labor that characterized every citizen who walked under the Capitol's flag, and himself._

_But he didn't need to look the boy in the eyes to see his reflection. It was enough to simply fix his gaze on the boy himself and recognize that they were one in the same, practically mirror images of each other._

_His reflection stood before him, a thin hand outstretched, urging him over to the center of the room to play. There were toys scattered over the floor: colorful cards, an unsolved puzzle, iridescent marbles. They were toys he had never played with in his life._

_"Let's play!" The boy laughed, his voice remarkably untainted by the harsh grit of the smokestacks, lighter than any bird he had ever seen flit across the smog packed sky over District 9. He could have listened to that voice forever without growing tired of it._

_No such thing existed in all of Panem, he was sure, not even in the Capitol where everyone was perpetually happy._

_"Kana, what do you wanna play?"_

_He pointed slowly at the marbles as if he was afraid that speaking might chase the dream away, might shatter this warm and comforting room into little shards. The little glistening balls of glass with little bursts of colors swirling around inside transfixed him, drew him closer and closer in awe._

_The boy giggle at his confusion when he poured the bag out, the little marbles scattering with gentle clinks and shimmering glass._

_He didn't know the rules. How did he play? The boy seemed to know how._

_He was handed a smooth green marble, a tiny trinket in the palm of his hand with a delicate swirl of colors within, a little ocean inside a glass ball._

_ They played for a long time. He was unsure of how much time had passed, only that he wouldn't have minded if this dream never ended, if he never woke up to the cramped bedroom he shared with his parents. It might even be nice to simply fall asleep here and never wake up._

_The second the bright yellow marble slid from his grasp, however, he knew that the dream had come to an end. It rolled towards the door, which was now slightly ajar._

_The boy made to retrieve it and Kanato reached out, catching his brightly patterned clothes at the last second. His fingers, much shorter and a bit chubbier than his real ones, trembled and groped uselessly at the air when the boy extricated himself from Kanato's grasp. A reassuring smile was on his face, and a peaceful trance overtook him._

_He wanted to believe those eyes._

_Everything was fine._

_Something moved in the thin gap of darkness beyond the doors, something sleek with glinting eyes like marbles and a sweeping tail that trailed behind it. A low, rattling hiss bled through the walls, the painful cry of something dying, not unlike a quiet, smooth version of the squeal of a machine taking its last breaths before it was dismantled._

_Its snout nudged at the doors and the boy backed away, the marble forgotten._

_The cat's eyes were golden and slitted, narrow blades that trailed over the room before stopping at the two other breathing, living beings in the room._

_'Get away!' he wanted to scream, but no sound came out. No sound ever came out. It was like trying to be heard at a whisper in the middle of the factory during its busiest hour._

_The cat's thin shoulder blades hunched into high arcs, shifting beneath a short coat pulled taut over its streamlined bones. Its muscles quivered and another low hiss escaped its gaping maw._

_Kanato blinked. The cat leapt, clearing the distance between it and its prey in one single bound._

_He clenched his teeth and a hitched, soundless gasp stole the breath out of his lungs. He bit his lip until he tasted the metallic tang of blood, but it was all red that he was seeing anyways._

_Redredredredred-_

_it dripped from the cat's long fangs, seeped into the flooring, splattered over the puzzle pieces and marbles and the cat's short fur. Strips of cloth dangled from the creature's jaws and Kanato blocked out the choked sounds of the boy on the floor, the cat's satisfied hiss and perhaps his own screams._

_He clutched his hands to his chest protectively, feeling that if he didn't do so, if he acted on instinct and reached for the boy, then he would soon be no better off. He might not even have a chance to scream._

_The cat leapt for him -_

_and the room quivered, tremors riding through the floor and up the walls until he could barely stand (or was he already sitting?). The cat halted in its steps, ears quivering as well, and he saw the marbles on the floor roll down an incline through the blood, tracing clean little streaks behind them as they migrated._

_The door opened for the last time._

_His parents burst into the room, but they weren't his parents, not really. His parents were worn and battered by years working in the factories and in the processing plants specifically. They had calloused hands and wrinkled smiles and really were too exhausted to speak much, to even wave goodbye sometimes._

_But these people - these clean, warm, impeccable people - were his parents._

_The cat, despite its mass and the blood dripping around it, was no longer in his sight. He didn't know where it went, why it had gone and why it was only him left and -_

_his mother flew at him, her embrace sharp and painful and he could imagine those claws and those fangs tearing through his shirt instead, so, so easily..._

_And she was crying, grasping at his head and hugging him as if he would disappear if she let go. Maybe he would._

_"Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness...Kana, I love you, we love you so much."_

_"Congratulations," said his father with pride, his voice a smooth baritone nothing like his mother's hysterical cries and chanting. He could hear the relief in the man's tone, though, and see his shoulders relax as he leaned down to ruffle the hair on his head. "You've finally graduated."_

_His chin was perched on his mother's shoulder and if he stood on his toes a bit he could see -_

_his eyes were impossibly wide, burning and quivering and unable to look away, unable to blink. Dark and glassy like the marbles, is what he thought._

_And the blood shimmered, redder than the marbles, but all of the marbles were the same red now._

_Weak, gasping breaths pushed themselves from his throat but he couldn't make a sound and his hands wouldn't reach._

_'Can't you see he's dying? He's bleeding. Help him, please. Please...'_

And the dream ended.

Kanato woke gasping and writhing, receiving nothing but heated warmth and stale, putrid air from the cramped bedroom. The only window in the room was sealed shut after a previous tenant leapt off the ledge in a desperate attempt to end her own life.

Even though he'd slept for most of the night he hardly felt rested at all, a distinct and familiar burn settling into the space behind his eyes, his throat dry and stinging.

The sun was just rising on Reaping Day, but in District 9 the only sign that the new day had come was the scattered, weak cloud of pale light that tried to penetrate the never ending blanket of smog.

Kanato drew his knees up against his chest and sat in his bed until his parents began to stir.

* * *

Hamon yanked at his washed out, threadbare shirt until he was quite certain it would tear. His elbow went with the motion, but Kanato hardly budged from his spot and allowed his arm to go limp.

"We're going to be late. C'mon, we only have two more years to go; let's get this over with."

Kanato nodded absently as he reached out with his bare hands towards the still, dilapidated form in the gutters. A pungent, sweet and sickly scent wafted up from the sewers, driven into the air by the heat from the pipelines beneath their feet. Along with it came the distinct, dank scent of death that could never quite be removed once it had fully permeated a place.

"Kana, what're you doing? C'mon," Hamon intoned harshly, a bit more on edge than he usual (although Kanato had always known Hamon for being particularly short tempered) because it was Reaping Day. Kanato's hands, too, were trembling slightly despite his urging for them to still.

His friend peered over his shoulder with a huff of impatience, a shadow falling over stretch of street he was crouched over. He heard Hamon utter a gag of disgust.

Kanato smiled a bit at his reaction. Hamon knew him better than that; he knew that Kanato had a short attention span when it came to things like this.

"Aw, that's disgusting, Kana. What's wrong with you? I swear your mom dropped you on the head when you were a kid. Let's _go, _already," Hamon groaned, reaching out to yank at his friend's arm.

Kanato offered the distorted, partially decaying corpse a last smile, the very edges of his lips tilted upwards in joy. It reminded him of the boy from his dream playing with the marbles, except the real world was much, much dimmer. With one last look of regretful longing he consented and allowed Hamon to drag him off to the square for the Reaping.

The boys' footsteps slowed as they neared the town square, already swarming with crowds of people in their best clothes and on their best manners. It wouldn't do to seem too eager; it might earn you the disdain of your neighbors and that was probably worse than actually being reaped for the Games themselves.

With an aggravated grunt, Hamon smacked Kanato over the head, firmly planting his hand on the top and pushing him down until he was staring at the grimy stones.

"Seriously, wipe that smirk off your face. You look like you're high," he grumbled.

"Sorry," Kanato said flippantly, shrugging his friend's hand off and raising his head. This wasn't the time to be staring at the ground with so many people gathered here.

The two boys took their places in the seventeen year olds section, readily exchanging half-hearted jokes and jibes with their friends and classmates. It didn't do much to alleviate their fears, but it was better than standing there crying or forcing themselves into panic attacks from the worry. They'd had six years to find efficient ways to cope under their belts, unlike the trembling twelve year olds in the back.

As the ceremonies started, Kanato's eyes trailed up to the smog cloaked sky and to the dark, blurry forms of the few birds that dared to live here. They were the types of birds that fed on decomposing corpses in the alleyways, the ones that lurked around garbages and dumpsters for their next meal.

The people of District 9 were probably more than a little similar to them, but without the wings that just made those birds silly little creatures in the end.

Who wanted to live here? No one did, just those stupid birds and the rail thin skeletons people kept as pets. No one wanted to live in Panem, period.

Hamon poked him in his side discreetly, drawing his attention to the platform. They'd finished the last of the opening remarks, the dreadfully dry speech the mayor was obligated to give every year (he could probably recite it in his sleep), and the District 9 escort was flitting about on stage, barely able to contain her excitement.

A pale, nearly white hand delved into the sea of white papers. Despite himself, Kanato felt his throat swell like it did after he woke from a nightmare, terror frozen across his face, his mouth dry and hoarse like he'd been screaming for hours. He couldn't swallow and couldn't speak even if he wanted to.

It was like seeing those slitted eyes narrowing in on its prey, a long tongue flickering out to swipe the blood from its lips.

And then, remarkably, there was nothing.

When they were younger, he and Hamon had clutched at each others' hands in anticipation, just waiting to hear their cursed names and for forces neither of them could ever fight to throw their lives away like trash. That was before they had realized that they lived like trash anyways, and had always been worth less than yesterday's garbage the moment they were born.

Hamon still didn't approve of him terrorizing their neighbors' pets and plucking the wings off the few birds he managed to catch occasionally, and Kanato didn't understand why. They were just animals, worthless ones at that (almost like them), and perhaps he had done it to understand _why._

So Kanato forced his quivering nerves to subside, to sink back into the depths of his mind where they belonged because animals didn't tremble until they were hurting, until they were actually dying.

Some girl's name was called and he hated it just as much as anyone else.

Somehow, people were different. Each year he watched the Games as was required of him, but each year he probably spent more time throwing up and dry heaving than actually watching the screen. His friends teased him sometimes, made cruel jibes other times, and were there to wipe the vomit from his mouth and hold back his hair for the rest.

He couldn't explain it without sounding crazy.

How it felt like watching that boy die all over again -

How it felt like his body wanted to tear itself in two.

But, surprisingly, he didn't feel sad nor angry when his name was called. All he felt was emptiness and a cold, cold sense that he was forgetting something important. He couldn't remember what.

"Will Kanato Winton please step up to the stage?"

* * *

**District 7**

A smooth button slipped from her trembling fingers. Beca breathed in deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, and focused on the small collared shirt.

"Sit still," she said, though not unkindly, at the small boy swinging his legs over the side of the scraggly bed they shared. His worn secondhand dress shoes smacked against the rusty metal beams holding the bed together as he hummed a little meaningless tune, breaking to cough every few beats.

A strikingly loud clanging from the kitchen made her start with a snarl, but she withheld it at the last moment and managed to smooth her features out to give her little brother a smile. It wasn't the most reassuring smile, but it was something.

"You're gonna have to wait with mom and dad, 'kay, Joel?" Beca said while her attention was drawn to the buttons. It was going a bit smoother now. "It won't be too long. I'll come find you as soon as it's done, so try not to wander. After that, let's see if we can get you something from town as a treat."

Beca looked up at her brother wearily, faintly tracing the path through town in her mind to see if she could possibly risk passing through the more…unsightly parts of it or if she should just wait until Joel was safely at home. She couldn't trust her mother or father to see to any of that.

The little boy nodded sharply. Though he usually offered her a wide smile when she was feeling conflicted like this, today he was a bit subdued. She couldn't blame him. Last year he'd only been three and it was hard for him to remember everything about that day. After all, he had barely been able to understand why everyone was so tense and frightened on this day.

This year, though, he knew. It was something he didn't need to worry about until he turned twelve, but Beca could still lose sleep over it.

She'd almost lost count of how many times she had taken out tesserae since she was twelve years old, give her parents' startling inability to hold steady jobs of any sort. They couldn't even maintain their positions as garbage collectors or janitors with the way they were.

If the harsh, muttered cursing from the next room over was anything to go by, they were still at each others' throats and unlikely to even notice Joel as they walked to the town square. Hopefully they wouldn't lose him, though.

"Alright, done!" Beca declared, moving away with exaggerated glee. "You look absolutely wonderful. Now, let's go. If I don't drag mom and dad to the square, they might never go, even if it's the Reaping."

Though Beca wouldn't exactly mind it if the Peacekeepers dragged them away for good. Her only concern was that she still had this one last year to go and if she wasn't around, Joel…

Beca shook her head to clear those thoughts, but halted the instant a throbbing pain began to settle into her temples. Joel tugged at her skirt, a bit tattered at the hems and slightly musty, but her best clothes regardless.

"What's wrong, Beca? You want me to go get the medicine?"

She shook her head even though it hurt to do so and leaned down placing firm yet gentle hands on his thin shoulders. She could feel his bones protruding from his shirt.

"No, I'll be fine," she lied. Then more seriously, "Joel, I've told you: it's not medicine. If you're ever feeling bad, don't take it, just lay down for a bit and try to find something to eat. Now come on, I don't want to be late."

Beca marched up to the front of the crowd, sliding into place among all her eighteen year old classmates. They were girls she barely knew the names of, people she had tried not to concern herself with for a very long time now. They were talking amongst each other, trying to calm one another's fears. Beca was counting out the tesserae she had taken in her life up until now, this crucial moment.

Everyone was nervous, of course. It was their last year and who knew how many slips of paper each of them had in that bowl.

The crowd fell silent, not a single sound rising up from the square.

The mayor stepped up and all Beca could think was of how hypocritical he was for his subservience to the Capitol, for condemning his district's children to die for his own sake. She gritted her teeth and hid her clenched fists in her skirts; it wouldn't do to be caught showing open hostility now of all times.

The moments ticked by and the mayor was done giving his speech when their district's escort sauntered up to the girl's reaping ball with lofty and exaggerated motions. How badly she wanted to see one of _them_ suffer like those kids suffered for the sake of entertainment and control.

Everyone in the Districts were seen as the same to the Capitol: nothing more than fun little toys they could wind up, pit against each other, and laugh at. Then it should be no different for the Capitol citizens, after all, they were human too (as much as she didn't want to admit it), even if they were barely such.

"And our District 7 tribute for this year is…Beca Marshall! Congratulations!"

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Still accepting characters, just look on my profile for a list of open spots. I'm nearly done with the girls!

Kanato is my character, Beca belongs to Anarchy Girl.

Everyone, thanks for submitting characters!


	3. Canto

**Cantaré: Song of the Dying**

[End of the submission period! The amount of reapings per chapter depends on how long they end up being.]

Normal warnings for this fandom apply.

* * *

**District 11**

She hadn't told a single person about her plan: not her mother, not her best friend, and least of all her other neighbors. It was an unfathomable thing she had kept to herself for over a year now, almost too afraid to voice it aloud lest she lose the nerve and courage required to go through with it.

But whenever she had her doubts, all she had to do was look around her at the fields that stretched for miles and miles without an end in sight and imagine what she would be doing tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that.

There must be a world beyond those fields, she thought. She knew there was one, but it might as well have not existed for all intents and purposes.

It wasn't like Claire would be leaving it any time soon, anyways. Maybe in another life she might not have minded staying rooted in one place forever, never venturing out, never meeting new people. It would have suited her just fine to stay here.

But that wasn't the kind of world she lived in. The world they lived in was blotted out by a great storm cloud, the kind that brought the torrential downpours that the harvests needed to thrive.

Except no one needed the Capitol. It was there, it existed, but it wasn't needed. But there was no way to tell anyone that without losing your head, least of all in District 11.

Instead, you were trapped here from the moment you were born until the day you died (however soon that might come). All she had to look forward to in her future was an endless life of work filled with the daily struggle of survival. She did all she could to keep her and her mother fed and safe.

It was a burden, no doubt, but it wasn't like she detested it. Her mother was all she had and although they weren't too close and they didn't often have time to properly talk to each other, that bond was still there. She would do anything for her.

That being said, Claire had begun to find her options dwindling.

The disease that had stolen her little brother's life from his still young and unprotected body had also spared her mother. In exchange, it had rendered her weak and exhausted her stamina and under ordinary circumstances, the Peacekeepers might have shot her dead on the spot by virtue of that alone.

Instead, Claire worked twice as hard to provide for the both of them. It wasn't often that her mother needed medicine, just a deep rest that might last for a day at a time, but it was still tough to feed the two of them alone. There was no one to help them; her best friend had his own worries, even if he did give her a hand now and again.

And so, Claire had come to this conclusion: there was no other way for them to live if this current state of affairs continued to worsen. She was seventeen. Next year would be her last year to enter the Reaping for the Hunger Games and then what would she do? There would be no tesserae to take out, nothing, after that.

Her mother didn't know anything of her plan. Even as Claire helped her dress for the Reaping, holding her trembling hands and smiling a rare smile just for her, she was planning everything out in her head.

She could do it this year. She could do it next year, too. Maybe she would have a better chance next year, but then again, maybe she wouldn't. Maybe weakness from the occasional periods of starvation they suffered would suck the strength right out of her and maybe she was at her prime now.

It would have been nice to ask Hem about this stuff, but she couldn't even tell him. She knew what he would say to her, what his lecture would sound like, even how he would position his body and limbs as he scolded her. There would be disappointment in his eyes and she would feel guilty, even if she had no reason to be.

"Alright mom, ready?" she asked, pulling her mother to her feet and directing her towards the door. She'd allotted plenty of time for them to arrive at the Reaping, taking into consideration the various stops her mother would have to take on the way there. The plaza was a long way off, after all.

Leaving her mother behind would probably be the worst part, Claire decided as she stepped away and disappeared into the crowd of seventeen year old girls gathered for the Reaping. Even leaving her to stand in the middle of all those strangers, her feeble limbs straining to keep her upright, was hard enough. The only reason she still hesitated in carrying out her plan was because she knew her mother would be heartbroken.

It was something her physical body just couldn't take. Losing one child was enough, having her husband leave her was enough, but if her only daughter was also gone?

Claire had to trust Hem to keep her mother kicking long enough for her to win the Games. If not, then it would have all been for nothing even if she did win. It was a risk she had to take, though, because sooner or later they would run out of money, run out of food, and no one would be able to help them.

Claire took a few deep breaths as the crowd quieted down and the mayor's voice echoed across the vast plaza, a loud and flat voice barren of emotion going through all the proper formalities. There would be no one to compete with her. She just had to avoid looking at her mother or at Hem and she could make it through this. She would be saving someone's life, too, someone unfortunate enough to have been born in this era.

The district's escort dipped into the Reaping ball, took out a single slip of paper, and read the name. Claire tensed, prepared to launch her hand high into the air before she had any second thoughts about this.

And…

"Claire Meridian, congratulations!"

…well, that went better than she expected.

* * *

**District 4**

The gulls were crying out overhead, a storm of them rushing across the beach all at once. Together they were deafening, their sharp and shrill cries grating on the ears. There was nothing to do about them, though. Chase them away and they'd return seconds later, perhaps screeching even louder than before.

The people of District 4 knew how to ignore the pesky birds that might have driven others crazy. Since they were in such proximity to the ocean, there were always gulls flying over the central plaza where the Reaping was held each year. Their district escort always complained about them incessantly, as if she expected them to be able to do something about the birds that were just a simple, if annoying, part of life here.

Aurora thought that many of the people in the District were like that. Even though she wasn't particularly fond of any of them, there was nothing she could do about it. They were annoying, far too loud at times, but just a part of life that she couldn't escape no matter how much she wanted to. And there were times when she did want to do something about it _very_ badly.

It was the Reaping soon; she couldn't say that she was calm about the whole thing. Every year she was glad that it wasn't her, glad that it was someone else. Last year someone had volunteered, some stuck-up older girl from school, and the year before that one of her classmates had been reaped. She didn't stand a chance.

_Better her than me,_ Aurora had thought as she sat at home cradling her baby sister in her arms. At that point it had only been a year and a half since her parents died and she had been forced to take out tesserae to survive. She was happy it had been that girl and not her.

Moona, still a bit too young to understand the full gravity of the situation, reached out for her older sister with a wide smile. Last year she had only been three years old. As far as she understood, the people in the Games had gone away like her parents had gone away. She didn't understand what dying really meant.

But this year, she might. Aurora reached for her and lifted the little girl into her arms easily, feeling her ribs as she wrapped her arms around her. She'd take out more tessera this year, that was all.

"Aura," Moona said in that childish voice of hers, still too young to pronounce her sister's name properly. "Where we going?"

"To the Reaping," Aurora said grimly. It wasn't like there was a point in hiding the truth from her. Growing up in the districts, it was just easier to accept your fate sometimes. Trying to shield children from it would only make things harder in the long run, when they figured out what death meant, when they realized that the Capitol was an ominous, oppressive presence that controlled their lives. They could kill anyone in the districts with a flick of their fingers.

Aurora stopped herself from thinking about it, although she found it hard to shake off on Reaping Day. But such thoughts only made her depressed and today she really needed to just focus and get through the Reaping in one piece.

Her arms still wrapped around Moona, she stepped out of their small and modest house cramped in between other small shacks and set off.

She had to leave Moona with others, even though it killed her and she retrieved her sister as soon as she could. Even though she wasn't the greatest friends with them, she often left her sister with the family of the twins Lily and Jasper. They were the closest thing she could call friends in this place and she knew she could entrust Moona to their parents for at least the duration of the Reaping.

She crushed the nerves that skyrocketed in her chest as she passed her sister off to the twins' mother, a plump older woman who cooed at the little girl and waved to Aurora as she left. She found her place next to Lily, the thin and dark girl who looked remarkably like her twin brother despite being female.

Even though she was nervous, she tried to calm herself down. It wasn't like she had that many slips in there. For the first years of her life she had never had a need to take out tessera, since her parents had insisted that they could get by without it. And even then, District 4 sometimes got lucky and had volunteers.

After next year, she wouldn't have to worry anymore. She could concentrate on working hard enough so that Moona wouldn't have to take out tesserae when she turned twelve.

Actually, the prospect of her little sister standing up here waiting in anxiety while the slips were drawn made her more nervous than her own Reaping.

She was so distracted that she had to be jolted from her trance by Lily, who was giving her the most peculiar stare, as if she'd just had her guts ripped from her stomach. It didn't take Aurora long to figure it out.

"Congratulations, Aurora Finch! Do we have any volunteers? No? Well, in that case, come on up so we can draw the lucky boy's name!"

It was another fact of life that they could not control. She hoped a gull hit the escort on her way to the train in some small form of retribution. Walking up stoically, careful not to reveal the absolutely broken thoughts she harbored in her head, Aurora faced forward with a determined expression. Coming from a sometimes-Career district, she knew the importance of image. Even if she wanted to break down, she couldn't if she wanted to live.

"Aura!" There came a small cry from the crowd that had almost ceased its deadened clapping. The groups of kids parted, revealing a very small child running forward as fast as she could on short legs.

Before Aurora knew it, a familiar weight was curled around her legs. It took everything she had to keep the dreadful, rolling emotions from showing on her face. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she was nauseous as she gently pried Moona away from her.

"Go to Lily's mother," she managed, lifting her sister up and kissing her lightly on the nose. "Everything will be fine."

She smiled, but she felt no different from the others out there in the crowd. They were all smiling, but no one felt anything for it.

* * *

**District 6**

The air was stifling and not just because the factories were always working around the clock. The only times they were inactive were for Games related events, when everyone was called away to watch the Reaping or watch the victor return triumphant.

And even now that the factories were still, the last of its workers trickling out the doors to make their way to the town square, the air was still stifling. It was hard for Adelaide to breathe in this place, but she tried to keep a smile about her as she walked with her family and some neighbors.

This place was just too small. The streets were narrow, dirty, and crowded. The factories were solid fixtures that spewed heavy fumes. There were just so many people around that you could hardly ever truly be alone.

"Good luck today," she and her two friends said to one another as they reached the tables to sign in. Her parents and sister wandered off to the sidelines, waving at her encouragingly. Adelaide smiled pleasantly at them, curling her hair together into a loose ponytail before letting it fall again.

She and Crystal clasped Wesley's hands briefly before they departed to opposite ends of the town square. It was something they always did before a Reaping, ever since they were kids. She and Crystal were off to the girl's section; this year they were one step closer to being free of the Games altogether.

"We'll be fine," she told Crystal with an encouraging pat. "Neither of us takes out much tessera each year."

Indeed, there were many who were poorer than her family, many who would suffer at least one loss to the Hunger Games over the years, if not more than that. There were a few unlucky families who had all of their children stolen from them, but it wasn't like they could protest.

She glanced over her shoulder at the Peacekeepers prowling along the sides of the crowd, asserting their dominance by arbitrarily pushing people around to keep order. No one dared say anything in defiance out loud. Even in their own homes they were afraid and they rarely said anything to anyone outside of their immediate family.

All too often people turned each other in just for the small fee they were paid in thanks for helping eliminate the problem of "the unpatriotic" and rebellious. It was ridiculous. As citizens suffering from the same fates and under the same tyrannical hand, they should have been allied with each other against the Capitol.

For some reason, it just wasn't possible. People were willing to save their own skins instead.

She and Crystal shared one last meaningful glance before the Reaping started. It was a look of "good luck", which really meant, "I hope you have bad luck and don't get picked". This was the one lottery you did not want to win.

Adelaide tried not to think of what would happen if anyone she knew was reaped. Last year it had been a small fourteen year old girl who didn't stand a chance. It seemed that at her interview she had already given up all hope. She'd said her last goodbyes to her parents and friends and gone off to die.

Actually, her mother was gone, too. She'd died almost right after her daughter did on TV. No one knew if it was the Capitol's doing or if she had committed suicide out of grief. It didn't really matter, they supposed, because the Capitol was at fault in either case.

Adelaide prayed and prayed that no one she knew was picked.

Everyone said afterwards that despite the shocked, devastated look on her face as the camera zoomed in on her, she had been beautiful as she walked up to the stage. The words couldn't have meant less to her.

"Here we have Adelaide Ravener as our female tribute. Now, the boy is…Henry Green!"

* * *

Wow sorry this one was so late. I decided to do three for this chapter. I'm not sure how the rest of the Reapings are going to be. I might skip some and feature the district partner during the train ride instead of the ones featured here...don't know yet. I'm taking it chapter by chapter.

Characters belong to Catching Fireflies, IcePrincess01, and Zania330.


	4. Cantico

******Cantaré: Song of the Dying**

[Sorry for the wait! Hope you all enjoy and thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! Love you guys!]

Normal warnings for this fandom apply.

* * *

**District 2**

The ceremony was almost over, leaving Neophyte to fidget with impatience as all the upperclassmen vied for the coveted right to volunteer for this year's Games. Each year they conducted the selection process differently and some took longer than others. Every student who attended the Academy was required to attend the ceremony, despite the glaring impatience and envy shining out of their eyes.

But they had to wait their turns - those were the rules that their instructors had set forth. Only eighteen year olds on the verge of graduating from the Academy were allowed to volunteer to be this year's tributes for District 2.

That didn't mean there were the occasional rebels who defied their instructors and volunteered early; they died as fools, leaving behind only an example to all those seventeen year olds waiting for their chance at glory.

Nothing was set in stone, though, not even in District 2.

Neophyte inched through the crowd as it dispersed, biting back a snarl when someone stepped on his foot and clipped him on his shoulder. These were his classmates, but also his rivals; he glared at the retreating back of the one who had pushed past him.

Maybe he'd get himself killed in the Games next year. The world could do without one more rule breaker, one more anomaly, and a shame upon the Academy's integrity. What the Academy itself could do to persecute such students was limited because on the outside the Academy had to appear flawless.

They made no mistakes in those who they accepted into their walls, so even if they had to deal with the irate temper of one student, they would gladly turn a blind eye to small infractions.

Such a thing was unforgivable. To think that some arrogant child who believed his brute strength would carry him farther in life than any other was defiling those rules that the Academy set down, that Neophyte's own father had helped refine, was unforgivable.

Neophyte had not realized that he was snarling until Silvius laid a placating hand on his shoulder and mumbled into his ear to move along. The two boys exchanged a sharp, pointed glance with each other before the crowd consumed their forms and they faded into anonymity once more.

It wasn't that Silvius was a bad friend, but his efforts to calm Neophyte only incensed his anger more. The hid the rage bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, under layers of careful composure built one upon the other ever since he entered the Academy as a child. And such a skill was a blessing, he knew, because without it he'd have shattered his father's rules and his own restraints long ago.

Silvius had nothing to do with his grudge towards Titus, the one person he had stopped thinking of as a rival and instead as a nuisance, a troublesome rule breaker that had to be stopped before he did anything of lasting damage. Silvius, therefore, had no right to placate his anger, to even try to understand an inkling of what Neophyte felt towards that other boy he refused to acknowledge.

As it was now, he was boasting, going on to anyone in the vicinity about how next year it would be _him_ who would stand upon that stage and bring their district glory. Titus would be the male tribute next year.

Perhaps that was true, Neophyte had to consider. But he didn't believe for one second that Titus would win.

"Hey, you'd better watch it," warned one of the other trainees. "Malkuth looks like he wants to do you in before you even get a chance to volunteer."

"He's seriously creepy with that one eye. Why'd you have to go and stab the other one out?" another accused in jest.

Titus laughed aloud, not sparing Neophyte so much as a glance as he and the others exchanged their obnoxious commentary over the clamor of the crowd. They were starting to merge with the other children from the district, the smaller, weaker, more cowardly ones who never signed up for training at the Academy.

Neophyte heard none of it. All that he heard were Titus's closing remarks:

"He should be grateful to me! There's no way he could win without that eye; the only reason he's stayed is 'cause of his old man. I saved his life!" he laughed as if it was something to be proud about.

Neophyte clenched his teeth and fists, trembling with anger as he advanced forward, his legs as heavy as lead. It felt like he'd just gone through a day's worth of training regimens when in reality they had done nothing at all today except elect the candidates to become tributes.

His right eye, still sealed and hidden away underneath a strip of dark cloth since the day he'd lost all sight in it, stung from the mere memory of the pain that had been inflicted upon him that day.

He would never forget it for as long as he lived. Never forget the searing pain, the humiliation, Titus's absurd laughter - his father's disappointed expression over the vid-cam, or at least the half of it that he could still see.

Although the eye had been saved, the doctor told him that he would never be able to see out of it again. The best solution available was to cover it up and adjust to the change in his peripheral vision. That way he could still train, still delude himself into believing that he was worth being acknowledged in his father's eyes.

Of course, there were ways to regain his vision, but only through the Capitol's immensely selective surgeries. Even if District 2 was favored by the Capitol, even if his father was one of their trusted Head Peacekeepers, it just wasn't possible to obtain such an operation.

Not that he was worth the money.

His father didn't need a son who had lost his eye during training. It was only for appearances that he still allowed Neophyte to attend the Academy, because they all knew that there were dozens of more reliable choices to select for the male tribute.

Titus was one of them, despite his attitude.

Neophyte settled into the crowd, surrounded by his peers all eagerly awaiting the decision, awaiting their own Reaping next year.

Neophyte never did learn how to control his temper well until he'd been defeated by Titus. He could at least be grateful for that. Even with his right eye useless, a bloody and mangled mess torn by the spear in Titus's hands, Neophyte had charged at him with the adrenaline pulsing through his veins, a scream on his lips.

He'd managed one solid hit before Titus clipped him on the shoulder and he collapsed, the healers rushing to staunch the bleeding as he heaved and screamed on the floor.

The wild, blood scented haze he had been trapped in never left him. Each time he fought he remembered that desperation, the fire of indignation that overrode every other sensation that might have distracted him. Had he been given the time, had he not collapsed from blood loss, he would have won in that state.

Neophyte watched the stage through a half lidded eye. His father was in another district, overseeing a crowd similar to this one. In another few years he might have gone to join his father by his side, might have had a career and a future beyond this training.

His father had originally intended for him to join the force of Peacekeepers that protected and regulated Panem. It would have been possible. He didn't need to fear being reaped and joining the Academy was only part of his training. At fourteen years old, he had finally been skilled enough to start earning his father's attention little by little.

And three years later, here he was.

They were drawing the final tribute, the unlucky boy who would soon become very fortunate indeed, and Neophyte suppressed his urge to laugh aloud hysterically.

If he wanted his father to be proud of him then why was he about to break the rules? Like this, even if he won…no matter. He wasn't about to back down on this one.

He'd waited until the eighteen year old boy raised his hand and volunteered before he slipped through the crowd, stepping up to the stage before anyone could react. At first there was a gentle rumble of confusion, then a wave of uncertainty wavering on utter shock.

"I, Neophyte Malkuth, volunteer as this year's tribute."

Something deep inside him hummed with pleasure.

* * *

**District 8**

She was respectful enough to know that not everyone could think about that slim, one in one thousand chance that they would be selected and smile about it like her. To those who didn't know her, such an action seemed callous, as if she wasn't even human like the rest of them but that couldn't be any farther from the truth.

As long as you lived in a district that didn't produce careers, it was nearly impossible to actually come to like the Games in any sense. She could point out every year that _everyone_ smiled (albeit tentatively) when the reaping was over and they were free to celebrate having escaped the fate that the two poor tributes had to face. She could point it out, but she didn't.

They were scared, like Nessa was scared - they were all trying to reassure her now even though she insisted that she was fine, but maybe they were just trying to comfort themselves, too. But the way Jaiden saw it, the Capitol's Games were inevitable, as inevitable as the coming and going of the sun.

"Don't worry," her best friend Nikole murmured comfortingly, one pale and scarred hand patting their friend on the shoulder. For once the factories behind them were quiet, the dust in the air still and muffled. Even though Nikole meant to say her words softly, everyone could hear her over the quiet.

It was never silent in District 8. At night the factories still roared with the staff of the nighttime shifts and it was impossible to be heard over the din of the machines, even outside. They were all so used to screaming above the noise that when days like reaping day came along, everyone was unnecessarily loud.

"You don't have that many slips in there," Jaiden told her, making a conscious effort to keep her voice low enough so that no one outside of their group could hear. She smiled at Nessa, smiled as she got up and slung an arm around her brother's shoulders. "There's _thousands_ of slips in there. A lot of people have way more than any of us. Even if we had a lot, the odds of getting picked are really slim."

Nessa looked promptly down, studying the cracks in the concrete. There were feeble, yellowish brown weeds slipping through the gaps. Besides the dyes on the clothes they manufactured, District 8 never saw a single fleck of real green. It must have had something to do with the way the District was built that made it so that even the weeds were dying, struggling to survive.

"Ah, that's enough Jaiden," her brother Cayden scolded her lightly, although his voice was somewhat strained. "You're gonna give the poor girl a heart attack."

"Am not," she instantly rebutted.

"Let's just go before we're late," Nikole urged them, helping Nessa to her feet. "I can't do anything if we're late."

They all nodded and stepped into the steady stream of citizens making their way to the square. When they checked in, they saw Nikole's father directing traffic and even though they had the urge to wave at him casually like always, they refrained from doing so. The reaping was taped and recorded by the Capitol; you never knew when someone was watching.

It was only thanks to luck and Nikole's father that they escaped most of their punishments unscathed or with a relatively light sentence. Most of it was harmless, but they were known around school as troublemakers and made good use of the title so often that most of the peacekeepers knew them all by name. As long as they didn't disrupt the efficiency of work, the peacekeepers usually let them go free.

Nothing could change reaping day, though. The only thing Nikole's father was able to do was ensure that his daughter didn't take out tessera, but the rest of them weren't so lucky. Even then, Jaiden constantly reminded them that there were hundreds of kids and thousands of slips of paper in those bowls.

She kept a straight face on as she progressed with her friends into the girl's section of the square, waving to her brother as he drifted off in the other direction. They shared a smile and a brief but solid glance, sharing in one stare the thoughts of a thousand different emotions that ran through them at the time.

She wasn't naive. They might be selected someday and be forced to leave the other behind. Most of the time she was able to ignore that anxiety and even today she made sure that her nervousness didn't show.

Nikole, her best friend since they were children, grabbed one of her hands tightly and she reached out to take Nessa's in her other. They were fifteen this year with still a few more to go until they were free. Each year it was harder and harder to stand still and await the decision that would alter their fates.

The girls always went first, of course. Despite herself, Jaiden sucked in a deep breath and held it.

"Our female tribute is…Jaiden Farrior."

A sharp pang of pain struck her in the chest, more painful than anything she had ever felt before including the time she accidentally pierced her finger with the needle from a sewing machine. She wasn't sure what it was, only that she had a hard time breathing.

In her head she could almost hear Cayden screaming, but when she glanced out over the crowd she could see him standing in his place, his peers giving him and his best friend a bit of space. His mouth wasn't moving and he wasn't moving either, just standing there with this expression of pure, unadulterated shock and despair on his face.

She imagined that hers kind of looked like that, too.

Closing her eyes for two brief seconds, she carefully schooled her expression into a mask and hoped that it held.

She and Cayden shared the same sentiments. Even before they went to the Justice Building they had said their goodbyes.

* * *

**District 1**

He had been told since he was old enough to understand words that his namesake had been a great man. When he was old enough to talk he asked if Aristotle had been a great Career and his mother had chuckled and said that in the old days, there were no Hunger Games. At first he hadn't believed her.

"Aristotle was a very, very smart and talented man," she continued. "But he wasn't a soldier. He didn't fight."

"Whaat?" he'd asked in what had probably been a very small, irritatingly high pitched voice. "I dun want that name."

His mother smiled patiently. She had a thin, narrow line that trailed across her forehead to the very corner of her eye, a scar from her Games that she and the Capitol decided would look better on her face than off of it. His father had a similar one across his bicep, although it was much thicker and darker than hers.

"Aristotle wasn't a soldier, but he trained and taught the best king, a man named Alexander the Great."

"What's a king?"

"It's a different word for a president, like President Snow. Anyways, this king went on to conquer many, many lands and claimed them as his own. His people both loved and feared his strength. But without Aristotle, Alexander wouldn't have become a king powerful enough to be known as 'the Great'. Do you understand now?"

"Uh-huh…"

Although he still didn't quite understand why his parents didn't just name him Alexander, Aristotle supposed it didn't matter what he was called. He would make his parents proud someday.

This was the day he lived for - his reaping day. Well, it still wasn't his yet until he claimed the title of tribute over all the other eighteen year old boys wrestling for the coveted position, but he trusted his strength to get him through.

They were all straining at their patience waiting as the girl tribute was selected. Some were anticipating when the girls fought to be the chosen tribute. There would be some catcalls and hollers as the girls raced each other to decide who would earn the distinct honor of being named tribute, but that didn't seem to happen this year, for whatever reason.

At last they chose Talia and no one volunteered - some of the girls looked distinctly unnerved, as though they were itching to break whatever agreement they had decided upon beforehand. Aristotle frowned. He didn't understand why they would pass the opportunity up to fight for that spot. Behind them, some of the younger girls sighed in relief.

After that strange display, it was finally the boys' turn. A thin, young thirteen year old was selected, and the fight to win the right to be named tribute began.

It was a race, rather lackluster, but one Aristotle could easily win. He might have seemed too heavy and muscled to have much speed behind him, but as long as it didn't involve agility, he was sure he would win. He was fast, fast and strong.

His father was watching from the stage with strong, steely eyes, and Aristotle couldn't wait to join him someday soon. His mother, although she was no longer a mentor, was also up there with a distinct and delicate smile, although a dangerous glint remained in her eyes even after all these years.

A wide grin spread over his face as he reached the finish line.

"And how exciting, Aristotle Fredrickson is our male tribute! Congratulations, his parents must be very proud! In case you've forgotten, both of Aristotle's parents Socrates and Lota Fredrickson are victors who won their Games in the…"

He heaved an exhilarating breath as he marched up to the stage.

* * *

And here you go, three more tributes done! And yes, the Capitol did indeed twist the myths and history of the old world.

Neophyte Malkuth belongs to me (sort of, he is based off a character from a video game), Jaiden Farrior belongs to SecretChamp, and Aristotle Fredrickson belongs to Titanic X.


	5. Cantabile

**Cantaré: Song of the Dying**

[This one came out much quicker. I finally figured out what plan to follow: I'll be featuring one tribute from each District in the reapings, then the partner in the departure/train scenes and similarly they will be broken up for the training and interviews.]

Normal warnings for this fandom apply.

**District 10**

Little flakes of wood chipped off as she drew a small carving knife over the still rough surface of the block she was currently crafting. The flakes floated down to the dark floor of the little shack, disappearing amongst the multitude of trampled wood shavings. She maneuvered the knife to the right a bit and with a flick of the wrist another piece came flying off.

The voices of children and people and cattle outside in the far distance reached her ears. Normally all she could hear from her private little shack out here were the cattle, but today was different.

She should get going, too, but she wanted to remain in her own closed off little world for a while longer. It was her safe haven, small and dingy as it was, a place where she could almost forget about the everyday workings of her life.

A voice came through the thin walls of her hideaway, calling out for her without approaching. Since the place was small enough, Sophie leaned over in her makeshift chair and poked her head out the door.

Jordan spotted her and waved excitedly, calling over their other friend Riley. The two girls trotted over to her place half smiling, half anxious with worry. She knew that she'd said she would meet up with them earlier that morning, but time had gotten away from her in the little shack.

"Sorry, sorry," she told them sheepishly, holding out the roughly carven pendant she was working on. A similar object hung around a cord of twine around her neck, the finished product. "Lost track of time!"

"Well hurry, we'll be late!" Riley urged her, though not in malice. It wasn't like they cared about arriving to the reaping early, but today was not a day to push the rules. They still had a ways to go before they would reach the town where it was held, too.

"My parents left already?" said Sophie in what she hoped was a casual voice. She hadn't wanted to go home, so she had come here late last night, planning to leave for the reaping once her parents were well on their way as to avoid meeting them. Only, she tended to lose track of time in here, as well.

Jordan nodded. "I saw them before."

Sophie set the unfinished wooden pendant down on the upturned crate she used as a table and sighed, slipping the pocketknife behind a set of old towels.

"Alright, let's go," she said without enthusiasm, walking out of the shack and closing the makeshift door behind her. She secured it with a rough lock of twine to keep the animals away and turned to her friends with a strained smile.

She just wanted the reaping to end so that she could return quickly and get back to work. Making things out of wood wasn't just a past time, but a source of income as well. She made just enough to get by, supplemented with whatever food she dug up from the thin copse of woods surrounding her shack. It wasn't like her parents were ever there to help. It was a wonder how they even managed to survive themselves.

In fact, it was surprising that they still even knew that they had a daughter. When Sophie's first reaping came around she had been terrified as most twelve year olds were, but when she'd turned to her parents all they had to say in way of comfort was "Good luck."

She'd learnt early on that she couldn't rely on them. It happened more often than not in the area her parents lived in. Like minded people tended to flock together, after all, but she had never taken to the other kids who lived similarly to her.

Jordan and Riley were the only two she needed. It was those two who'd helped her through her first reaping and it was those two who supported her when the girls in her class had been teasing her.

They'd get through this one together, too.

Everything was fine, if a little nerve wracking, but from one moment to the next a person's whole life could change. One moment she was wishing for it to end quickly so she could hang out with her friends or return to her little shack in the woods.

And the next moment saw her walking up to the stage, her face frozen in place. She had enough sense to not seem horrified on the outside, but on the inside she was a mess of emotions and indignant cries.

"And here we have our female tribute for District 10, Sophie-Marie Saint Clair!"

For the briefest second, all she could think of was how much she hated her name - the name her parents had given her. Come to think of it, she wondered if they would even show up to say goodbye…

* * *

**District 3**

In the dim, grainy light of the early morning dark figures slunk through the rusted junkyard, slipping past dilapidated buildings that had once housed the most derelict of District 3 citizens. Now there was only trash, spare parts from factories, and the scavengers who browsed through its contents regularly.

The dark made it hard to see, but in return there was no one out to disturb them yet. Years of earning a living this way saw them perfectly at home in the rubble, the slightest bit of morning light just enough for them to navigate the dangerous trash heaps safely.

As they slowed Syarnark bent down and scooped up a small black box, just the right size to be of some use. He fiddled with it despite being unable to see what it was he had found, excitement bubbling up behind the satisfactory smile that dawned upon his face. It might be some sort of discarded electronic from the factories - those were always good finds.

His eyes lifted to the backs of his comrades when he heard the sharp, metallic screech of falling machine parts and a string of colorful expletives. Chuckling, he quickened his pace just in time to see Cuan, their de facto leader and a charismatic man of something like twenty five years, pat a shorter boy on the head and ruffle his hair.

Cuan murmured something that Syarnark didn't quite catch, his hand slipping down to squeeze the boy on the shoulder reassuringly. The little blond shoved his arm away violently, stumbling as he distanced himself from their leader.

"Shut up, I'm _not_ nervous! I don't need you fawning over me!" Pyro growled, practically spitting his displeasure like a wounded feline. He rounded on Syarnark and the others, "Right?!"

"It's just like any other year…" the air headed Matiy said in her usual absentminded tone, leaping up to perch on a thick, rusted railing attached to something that had once resembled a building. The metal joints creaked in protest but held under her light weight.

"You'll be fine," Syarnark added cheerfully. The dawn was starting to break, casting the area in a misty haze of partial lighting. He cracked open the small black box in his hands and peered into the wiring within, still not quite sure what function it had once served. Taking out a small, flickering flashlight, he shone it on the device and parted a few wires with careful fingers.

Pyro muttered another "shut up" under his breath as they all paused in their tracks, ready to listen to whatever it was Cuan had gathered them here for - and it wasn't for a bit of scavenging just before the reaping.

"Alright, so after the reaping we'll meet back up at the usual place," Cuan started in his usual suave, authoritative tone. "There are some people I want to talk to before the train leaves, so I'll take Matiy and Pyro and we'll arrive at the reaping earlier than we normally do. Afterwards I'll take Syarnark and Pyro to meet a few people near the Justice Building. The rest of you, you know what to do."

"Leave and arrive at separate times," Syarnark nodded in confirmation. "Got it - hey, _Pyro,_ get back here!"

He tried to snatch the boy by his shoulder, but was a second too slow. Pyro was small and thin, hardly looked his age of sixteen years, but he wasn't the type of person to be underestimated for a pushover or a weakling. He was swift and agile, had the sharp tongue of a spitting wildcat, and an irate personality as far as most adults were concerned.

Well that was what was so endearing about him, unfortunately. Sure, the kid had a rather aggravating moral compass at times -

_"Do you have to steal from them?! They're poor enough as it is!" _to which Syarnark pointed out with a smile and a laugh, _"We're poor, too, we don't even have a house!"_ and Sche, older than even Cuan, had groaned, "_Ugh, why would you want a house? All of us living under one roof - imagine that!"_

But he supposed they wouldn't be the same without him. Pyro, the youngest of them all, was the only one who dared defy and continuously argue with Cuan to the point of recklessness. Then there was Matiy, oblivious at the best of times, Sche who was brutally concise, and Syarnark who was always smiling. The others, too, each had a uniquely hard to replace personality.

It was Cuan who single handedly managed their ragtag group of part time thieves, part time scavengers, and whatever else they felt like doing at the time. Syarnark had to give the man credit for dealing with their contrasting personalities for so long.

The tall man, standing in the shade of a battered overhand, darted out from the shadows and snatched Pyro's arm up in an instant. The little blond snarled and spun around, trying to twist out of his hold to no avail as his eyes darkened with fury. All the others, even Syarnark, leaved forward in anticipation.

"He's gonna bite him," Sche proposed under her breath as everyone passed around bets. Syarnark sat back against a wooden crate, some battered and rotten thing that smelled something awful, and crossed his arms with a grin.

"Nah, he's not _that_ angry. It's just 'cause it's reaping day," Syarnark pointed out just as Pyro extricated himself from Cuan's grasp with a warning growl and retreated, dropping the small box he'd filched off of Syarnark as he went.

He promptly spun around and glared at Syarnark. "I'm not nervous!"

"It's okay to be a little apprehensive," Cuan said in a moderate, calm tone that held just a touch of jest to it. "It's only natural, given the circumstances."

Pyro colored brightly, his somewhat pale skin tinged with a dusting of red. His hands curled into fists as he shrunk back in a half defensive, half hostile stance. "S-so what if I am? You're all so calm about it, even you Syar, and Matiy, too! You're not afraid?"

"It's just the reaping," Matiy said, as if she couldn't possibly understand Pyro's question. She added, thinking it might help a bit, "What's there to be afraid of?"

"You afraid of dying?" Syarnark ventured a guess. He supposed it was a valid reason behind Pyro's irascible behavior today, although he couldn't imagine why Pyro of all people might be afraid of dying. The blond was the most reckless, objective oriented person he knew. If there was something Pyro wanted done, he'd risk his life tenfold just to make it happen and damn the consequences.

"No, not really," the boy grumbled, hastily crossing his arms as he viciously kicked away a dented can that might have once contained rationed food. The fading label bore the Capitol's symbol, at any rate.

"Out here, you should be ready to die at any time," he reminded Pyro, watching as the boy started and stood still for a pensive moment before nodding once, stiff and dark eyed. In the far distance, alarms were tolling, signaling the start of a new day over District 3. "And besides-"

"Keep in mind, Pyro, that it was you who chose to join us," Cuan interrupted, casting Syarnark a sidelong glance, his steel grey eyes narrowing in on the seventeen year old with a warning. _Right, _he thought, _raising Pyro is kinda like his hobby._ "If you weren't willing to risk your life, you shouldn't have joined. We won't mourn your death if you die, you know."

"If you can't survive the Games then you _shouldn't_ come back alive," Sche said bluntly, but Pyro didn't seem in the mood to protest any further.

Pyro might've been one of them, Syarnark considered as he watched the boy roughly shove a piece of blond hair behind his ear and make his way over to Cuan to scold at the man for being so insensitive, but they often forgot that Pyro hadn't _always _been one of them.

Unlike them, Pyro had once had a life beyond this - a name, a family, however poor it may have been, and friends that weren't dubious part time thieves who got away with anything the peacekeepers didn't catch. No one had known who the blond haired kid was until the day Cuan gathered them all together and presented them with their newest recruit.

He'd been a small, scruffy kid with an even worse temper than the one he currently had, and even went as far as biting Syarnark until he bled simply for attempting to talk to him one time. No one knew why he decided to join them, where his family was now, or what had happened to make him so angry, but no one particularly cared.

But that also meant that they didn't quite understand his anxiety over the reaping. Syarnark sighed and head over to him, tossing an arm over the boy's shoulders and receiving a yelp in response.

"Hey it's fine, you know what the odds of you getting picked are? And even if you do get picked, you're not a weakling anymore, are you?" he said in what he hoped was a somewhat comforting tone of voice. It had been a long time since anyone said similar words to him, he wasn't sure he could remember what it felt like.

Well, it _had_ been Sche who'd told him that when he was twelve - he distinctly remembered her adding, "If it worries you so much, save us the whining and go jump off a building; it'll hurt less" right afterwards.

Pyro frowned, but he didn't shove Syarnark's arm off like he usually might. "What if I'm not worried about myself? You guys make a _game_ out of who takes the most tesserae."

"Why're you worried about _us?_" Syarnark asked, staring down at the boy in surprise. He couldn't see the expression on his face, but he was willing to bet that the boy was flushed in embarrassment. "You should only worry about yourself."

"Yeah," Pyro started out strongly, then in a quieter, subdued tone mumbled, "it wouldn't be the same without you guys."

"The survival of the group takes priority over that of the individual," Cuan came up and reminded him, startling the boy who promptly scowled. "Even if one dies, the others must move on."

"Yeah, but…"

"Like I said, it'll be _fine,_" Syarnark said before the conversation could accumulate into something unpleasant like it usually did when Cuan and Pyro started to argue. "Seriously. Hey, maybe if we're picked Matiy and I will finally get to know what our last names are!"

"T-that's not something to look forward to!" Pyro gasped, incredulous and outraged that Syarnark would even suggest something along those lines. There was, however, a small amount of disbelief and a smile lurking underneath his horror.

Syarnark grinned, "Yes it is, now let's go!"

* * *

Syarnark almost lost his composure, a mask carefully crafted over the course of a lifetime and honed amongst the ranks of their group, when he had to stand up on that stage and look down at Pyro's devastated expression. He wanted to call out to the boy and tell him that he looked silly, to tell him that he was weak for letting those emotions through, but he couldn't.

True to his word, though, he didn't feel panicked when he heard his name announced - Syarnark Werguin - only mild amusement at finally learning what his surname was. Perhaps there was some part of him that fluttered a bit as he walked up there smiling, smiling that empty smile Cuan thought was perfectly suited to someone like him, but there was another part of him that thought maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

To people like him, the Hunger Games were just another type of death sentence. Ever since their parents abandoned them in the orphanages of District 3, they had been granted a life filled with either misery, death, or a combination of the two. The Games were no different from normal day-to-day living, just a test to see who would survive the challenges life set forth.

Syarnark stepped up there and gave them his best grin, thinking that perhaps his only regret would be that look on Pyro's face.

* * *

**District 12**

Even though her friend hid it well, Leilani knew that she was nervous about the reaping. She supposed it was only natural, especially given their district's terrible history in the Games, and she wouldn't lie and say that she wasn't a little apprehensive as well.

She patted her much shorter friend on the shoulder and gave her a small smile, not saying anything that might make the situation worse. It wasn't in her nature to lie and tell Terra that things would be okay and that they would get through this reaping alive.

Because it was the truth that even if they weren't picked, nothing would really be okay. Someone else would die in their stead, the Capitol would continue to exercise its control over the hapless Districts that were under its wing.

Leilani hated lies, so instead she remained silent as she and her friend walked down the roughly strewn roads of the Seam in their cleanest clothes. When she was young she knew that her parents had lied to her, had said, "It'll be fine, you only have three slips in there."

And then the family next to theirs had burst into tears of rage and grief when their twelve year old son had been selected. He'd only had one slip in there, unlike Leilani who had taken out two servings of tesserae.

She hadn't known what to say to her parents for a long time after that. The reverse was the same. From then on she knew that lying would only bring more grief, so she tried to be truthful when she could. Normally she wouldn't have a problem telling someone about their odds of getting reaped or about how no one really won the Hunger Games, but this was Terra.

Terra was different, but she couldn't offer the younger girl false hope like her own parents had done.

Instead, Terra smiled up at her and said, "It'll be okay."

Leilani couldn't help but smile right back and nod. How could she ever tell her best friend that she wasn't really that nervous - that she didn't really mind watching the Games on TV and that, horrible as the situation was, the Games _were_ somewhat interesting?

She disguised it as precaution, but had a feeling that Terra knew what really went on in her mind anyways. Terra was the one person who really knew her, after all. Sometimes she would practice alone with a stick or a plank of wood and pretend that it was a sword, and when Terra caught her she told her friend that it was for "just in case".

Terra didn't say anything, just joined her with a smile and tried to wield the long sticks with her tiny hands and they delved into laughter soon after.

But the times when Terra didn't catch her - Leilani bit back a small smile at the memory. She wasn't too bad now and it was sort of fun pretending to hack at invisible opponents.

"Ready?" Terra said as they melded into the crowd of children signing up for the death game prepared for them.

Leilani rolled her eyes, although she offered her friend a knowing smirk. "Ready as I'll ever be." She waved her off, watching the younger girl dart off into the line of thirteen year olds near the back. Leilani went further up, squeezing in next to some of her classmates in the fifteen year old section.

She waved at a few she didn't mind speaking to during class and turned her attention to the stage. The longer she had to stand there the more fidgety she grew. Telling herself to calm down, she sucked in a deep breath and focused on the reaping. It was always the same words, a bit boring, but she needed a distraction.

The mayor, somewhat vaguely uncomfortable with his duty and a sweating a bit even though it was cool out, ran through the list of speeches he needed to give.

The flamboyantly decorated escort of theirs - Leilani could never tell if it was an ugly woman or a gaudily dressed man - floated up to the front with a few choice words in greeting.

She was thinking about what she would do afterwards when she heard her name called. An instant wave of sickening nausea swept through her, her heart hammering in her chest, her breath hitched as she fought to hold down her breakfast of flat oatmeal.

Everything that had ever happened to a tribute in the Games ran through her head. The exhilaration, the wild primal joy, the terror and fear - all of it - in an instant.

"Leilani Maelrose, congratulations!"

Congratulations, indeed.

* * *

Yes there are a lot of names dropped in District 3's part and Syarnark's name is pronounced pretty much without saying the "y". Cuan is pronounced "ku-ahn", Sche is pronounced "shea" or "shay".

Sophie-Marie Saint Clair belongs to MaximumAngel1. Syarnark belongs to me (somewhat again, he is also based off a character from another series). Leilani Maelrose belongs to Dissection of the Mind.

One more chapter to go and we're done with the reapings! So excited for the game to get rolling! (sorry that was a bad joke)


	6. Cantem

**Cantaré: Song of the Dying**

[On a roll. Goodbyes and train rides are next. The two District 10 tributes will probably get smaller parts since I couldn't resist writing Aspen's part in this section.]

Normal warnings for this fandom apply.

**District 5**

The dark, chipped knife sliced through the air and landed in the far tree with a solid _thunk. _The trunk was littered with an array of narrow, pale track marks from the continuous abuse it had suffered over the years.

Rebekah flexed her stiff fingers and reached for another spare knife, holding onto the tip of the blade with just enough pressure to ensure it wouldn't fall to the ground. These random dinner knives were hardly fit for throwing, but it wasn't like she could find well balanced knives easily. No one realistically sold them and she didn't exactly have the money for it, either.

Lifting her arm and hand, she waited a moment to focus on her intended target and with a light flick of the wrist, sent the knife flying.

The blade whorled, tracing out an arch as it flew through the air and landed with another solid thump against the tree trunk, close enough to the other knife to be satisfactory. A wide smile crossed her lips as she jogged over to retrieve them.

"So this is where you were!" a familiar voice called out from behind the sloping hill that led down to the woods where she often practiced. Rebekah looked over her shoulder at the figure darkened by the sun above. "Should've known when you didn't show up to the game!"

"Just wanted to get some nerves out is all," she called back with a smile, waving at her friend Micah as he came trotting down the hill to greet her. He seemed a bit out of breath, his hair damp and plastered to his face with sweat from the soccer came he had been playing with their friends.

It was something like a tradition among them - to let off their anxiety and fears for a short time by playing soccer or football before the reaping.

Rebekah slipped the knives into her pocket as she joined her friend. It wasn't yet time for the reaping, so after the game they all split up and went home to take a bath and prepare their best clothes. "Where's Monika?" she asked.

Mischa shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as they made their way onto the road. It was empty at a time like this, everyone inside getting ready for the reaping. "Still at your place, I guess. She wasn't at the game either."

That was strange. Her twin sister had introduced her to their little circle of friends, so she naturally spent the most time with them even now. However, she had her moments of flightiness, when she wasn't predictable and went and did things on her own without anyone knowing what she was doing.

Rebekah waved goodbye at Mischa as they parted ways, hurrying on home.

She found her sister inside preparing lunch with a concentrated frown on her face, looking nice and cleaned up except for the stray hairs that poked out of her head. Rebekah smiled and came up behind her, spooking her by laying her hands over Monika's shoulders.

"Rebekah!" she gasped, dropping the butter knife in her hand.

"Trying your hand at lunch?" Rebekah reached forward and stole a thin slice of the rare ham their family bought when it was the reaping. They weren't the poorest, but pork was always a bit expensive and they usually ate chicken instead.

Monika frowned. "Go and get cleaned up."

She and Monika walked to the reaping with their friends and little brother Ashton in tow, the older kids trying to comfort and reassure their younger siblings. Ashton and his friends were only twelve and this was their first reapings - he hadn't even eaten lunch he was so nervous.

"Sh, don't worry," Rebekah soothed him. "You aren't gonna take out any tessera, okay? You'll be fine."

It didn't do much to help him. He tried to hold back his tears to act tough, but Rebekah and Monika saw straight through him. Their first reaping had seen them clutching each other fearfully, unwilling to let go until the next day when they were sure that they had made it through and that it wasn't a dream.

Even now they stood close to each other surrounded by their friends, holding their breath as they waited for the verdict. Except this year they had one more thing to worry about - Ashton. They had to leave him in the back with his friends, but all of the twelve year olds were an emotional wreck.

Sometimes a twelve year old was reaped. It didn't happen often, but happen it did. Everyone knew that.

Rebekah had been so preoccupied worrying about her brother - worrying about him worrying - that she almost missed hearing her name called.

It had taken Monika's soft, painfully keening cry to startle her from her stupor and realize that she had not been lucky.

Rebekah McCall. That was her name, alright. She faced her sister, barely even feeling the tears welling up as she stumbled away before the peacekeepers came around to get her.

**District 10**

When all of Aspen's siblings gathered to go grocery shopping for the week, people always parted way to the children of the Redwood family not because they had earned any overwhelming respect from the townspeople, but because of the sheer number of them. It was hard not to scurry out of the way when over a dozen kids of varying ages came charging into town to buy their wares.

If their weekly shopping trips were amazing enough, then the times when the entire family was called out were even more impressive. They were a tight cluster, all rambunctious and most of all, _loud_ even though their parents tried to shush them and tell them to be respectful and for once in their lives _be quiet_.

It was the reaping that saw the Redwood family gathered together all at once, the parents surrounded by a cluster of little ones and their older siblings and at least one child per age range in the reaping itself. Afterwards they would raid the grocery stores all around town for a celebratory dinner, which could take up to two frustrating hours given all the wandering children they carried around with them.

Aspen's family really was a bit too big - if they weren't his family he wouldn't know how he could remember all of their names. There was never a quiet moment in his house, even when the Hunger Games were airing on television. Even if the older siblings were quiet and respectful for once, the little ones who were still too young to understand what was happening were not.

In fact, he and Brenlin (one of his sisters - it was probably easier to remember her as the seventeen year old) were rounding them up right now. Their mother was busy with the youngest, thirteen month old Gifle, but that still left seven other kids to find around their massive farm in time for the reaping.

They'd been running around, darting between cows and under fences, up and down the barn and burrowing in the loft, and they'd only managed to find Stint by accident in the past half hour.

There were traces of their siblings everywhere, but they were all incredibly good at hide-and-seek. The only reason why they had found Stint was because she had jumped and landed on Aspen when they were searching the barn. Brenlin had the little girl by the hand now, firmly keeping her hold on her as they reached the edges of the barn and the start of the fields.

"I think you taught them how to hide _way_ too well," he groaned as he hopped the fence in one smooth, well practiced motion.

His sister scoffed. "As if you don't do the same. Lucky Jinten caught you or I'd be doing this alone."

"I swear I saw Hollis in the field before…" Aspen speculated as he scanned the horizon. "I guess Red's out there with him. Do I really have to do this?"

Brenlin fixed him with a murderous glare. "Yes. Yes, you do. You go look for those two and _make sure_ you bring them back - don't go off playing around, you here? I'll take Stint back and try to find Barrie and Osbree. They should be around the house."

"Yeah, yeah," Aspen saluted her lazily, trotting off into the field to go find his brothers. He had to dodge cow manure along the way, but he wasn't that pressed for time. They knew better than anyone to allow _lots_ of time to prepare for the reaping.

There really were too many of them, he thought. Soon enough they'd start to overpopulate the cows. He loved his insane, quirky family of course, but sometimes it was a little hard to be anyone but another Redwood sibling here. Even among the family there were those he was close to and those he really didn't know too well.

No wonder people stared when they were in town. He didn't mind it so much, although people always identified him by his height, as he easily towered over most of his siblings. It was an easy identifier. As of a few years ago _another_ set of twins had been born so it wasn't like you could even say "the twins" and have others know who you were talking about.

And each and every last one of his siblings were high maintenance, including himself. They got into trouble so often that their parents probably didn't know - nor did they want to know - the half of it.

He was halfway to the end of the field when he smelled a distinctly rancid smell.

"RED!" he shouted, looking about for his younger brother, cursing all the while. How many times did they have to tell him to start fires only when he was around a source of water?

At least the cows behaved.

To tell the truth, people probably wondered and even speculated about why not a single one of the Redwood's children had ever been reaped. It seemed incredibly unfair for a family with only a single young child to have their son or daughter ripped away from them when the Redwoods had so many kids of all different ages.

They never did need tesserae given the flourishing family business, but that didn't stop others from being reaped either. Some couldn't understand how anyone would want to have that many kids - Aspen kind of had to agree.

He'd heard all of this and more over the years when he and his siblings went to town. It was true, most of it at least, and it wasn't like he could deny it. His two older brothers were no longer eligible for the reaping, but four of them were. Next year two of the twins would turn twelve. That left the youngest free from the reaping for a few years.

Cotton, at eighteen, would be done after this year. He doubted that his brother was even worried about being selected. Aspen himself still had a few years to go at fifteen years, but he couldn't say that he was terribly worried either. Sure, he had a few nerves, but everyone did.

At first he'd only heard "Redwood", completely bypassing his own name, and thought that a ton of people were probably sighing, _finally._

That hurt to think about. He'd wondered who it was, a terrible ache in his chest already, until his friends turned to him with looks of despair, of horror.

"Aspen, hurry, before they drag you up there," hissed one of his friends.

"Me?" he mouthed without sound.

Yes, him. For once in his life he was able to stand before people without his siblings in his shadow. But he didn't want it to be this way.

* * *

Terribly sorry if these two aren't up to par. I'm getting a bit antsy to write the next part. However, not sure when that will be since I'll be moving soon and things will get a bit hectic. On another note, if you liked the District 3 characters I made (for whatever reason), feel free to check out my other story _The Stars_. It's just a series of oneshots (although it does have an underlying plot), so it will be updated more frequently.

Rebekah McCall belongs to Miss Amelia Young and Aspen Redwood belongs to Kelland (you should really write your own story with him, he's an excellent character! I couldn't do him justice here.)


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