*Hooray, long Thanksgiving update! Happy Thanksgiving to everyone who celebrates it!*

***

Which one to read? Which one to read...?

A shorter girl with darker tan skin and dark brown eyes mentally repeated this question over and over, as she scanned the bookshelf in her room. Her long, completely straight black hair was tied back in a ponytail that swished with even the lightest of movements. The girl was desperately bored, having finished work and chores. And for her, desperate boredom meant a desperate need to read. Of course, she'd already read all of her books, some more than others.

Come on, Katrina. Just pick one...

She finally settled on a book about basic electricity conduction. Plucking it off the shelf, she headed out of her small room. The appetizing aroma of Chilorio wafted into her nostrils as soon as she entered the kitchen. Chilorio was a dish from her parent's home country of Mexico, and a delicious one at that. It was her favorite.

"Hey, Katrina! Where are you going?" a younger boy with curly dark hair–her younger brother–squealed from the dining table.

"Where do you think, Enrique?" Katrina asked irritably as she walked out the front door.

Little brothers. What a pain.

She swerved around the side of her small, silver-colored house, until her feet trampled the short, neatly-clipped grass of her tiny backyard. In her pathetic excuse for a backyard, there was nothing but grass and a single willow tree. The willow tree was quite old–it had been fully grown before Katrina was even born. The teenage girl ducked beneath its soft, almost feather-like leaves, settling down in the grass with her back against its aging trunk. Flipping open her book, a content grin fell upon her face as she began to read.

Meanwhile, a short, skinnier young girl walked past the house, humming to herself quietly. She had darker skin, with semi-curly black hair, but that was where the human traits ended. A pair of antennae stuck up from the top of her head, and on her arms, long hairs resembling an insect's stuck up. Her obsidian-black eyes gazed out at the scarlet sunset before her.

The girl stopped as a bright green butterfly suddenly fluttered past her. The antennae on her head twitched a little.

Wait, she commanded to the butterfly. Come back.

She held out a dark-skinned finger, and sure enough, the butterfly obeyed. The little insect changed direction, flapping toward her and settling on her finger.

"Hello," said the girl to the butterfly. "I'm Kaya."

She felt a surge of pleasure as a dainty voice sounded in her head–the butterfly, talking back to her.

Pleased to meet you.

"Have you got a name?" asked Kaya with a grin.

I'm afraid not.

"Then I'll call you Leaf. Because you're green, just like a spring leaf."

That's lovely. I like it. How old are you?

"I just turned twelve, a week ago."

Oh, well happy belated birthday. I'm sorry, but nI must be going–I have eggs to lay before nightfall!

"Oh!" Kaya giggled. "Then go ahead. Congratulations, on your future children."

Thank you very much. Goodbye, Kaya!

Kaya smiled as her new butterfly friend lifted off. She watched as Leaf zipped through the air, flying freely in loops and zig-zags, until she was nothing more than a dot against the evening sky.

***

Woosh.

The bullet train rocketed along the tracks, flying at at least a hundred miles per hour. The people inside sat in their seats and gripped the handrails like it was nothing, for they were used to the high speeds of the trains they took to and from work every day.

In one seat by the window, a teenage girl sat, staring out at District 6, which seemed to roll by right before her eyes. She had pale skin, almost like a snowflake's, revealing a bit of rosy pink blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were sharp and penetrating, the color of sparkling ice crystals. Today, her long black-brown hair was pinned up in a bun, her hands resting elegantly in her lap. A small sigh escaped her lips.

Well, Winter, tomorrow's the day, she told herself. Tomorrow's the Reaping. You've made it this far without your name being drawn.

There was no way in the world she wanted to fight to the death on live TV. But then again, she'd rather do it than watch her sister do it. Just the thought of her little sister Abigail, lying dead in the arena...

Winter shuddered, shaking her head. She sighed, focusing on the buildings the train passed by until it skidded to a stop, at the familiar near her neighborhood. She and a few other people stood up, exiting the train, and Winter rain toward home as soon as she stepped foot outside.

Meanwhile, in another part of the district, the sound of heavy wing beats rang through the air. A teenage girl soared through the sky...yes, that's right.

Soared.

On her back, a pair of cream-colored dragon wings spread fourteen feet across, seven feet per wing. Her medium-length blonde hair billowed out behind her, buffeted by the evening wind that blew toward her. Her snakelike green eyes, slitted black pupils and all, darted back and forth as she twisted her body, doing a barrel roll in midair. She resisted the urge to whoop with glee.

Nice one, Cara! she praised herself. Hmm, can I try a forward roll?

The dragon mutant tucked her body and wings in, stopping flight for a split second as she rolled in the air. Her wings snapped back open, and the wind caught her like a strong pair of arms, lifting her back up. She was flying toward home, where she knew her adopted mother would be preparing Crostini–a dish from her Italian ancestors–for dinner. Just the thought of the food made her mouth water and her stomach grumble–that stuff was good, and she was hungry.

Cara slowed down until she was gently drifting on the wind, being carried by the breeze. She sighed contentedly, letting the wind whirl gently around her face and blow her hair to the side.

This is the life.

Thinking of the Reaping tomorrow, her stomach churned at the thought that she might lose all she had.

***

Crack.

The sharp sound rang through the nearly-deserted meadow as Raphael's axe chopped a piece of wood clean in half.

The red-masked turtle wiped a few drops of sweat off his green forehead, panting heavily to catch his breath. He dropped his axe to the ground, glad to no longer be feeling its weight in his hands. A few feet behind him, a pile of chopped wood sat in the grass, earned from a long day of chopping down trees, then further chopping it into firewood that he could sell. Raphael gazed into the forest surrounding the small meadow, staring into lush green darkness.

Suddenly, there was a rustling from the trees nearby. Raphael tensed, staring straight ahead. Slowly, he reached down for his axe.

"Who's there?" he demanded gruffly, muscles bunched and ready to spring.

There was more rustling, and then a shorter young girl poked her head out of the trees at him. She had fair skin that was smeared with dirt, with big brown eyes and brown freckles on her cheeks and shoulders. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a braid, falling down her back and almost coming down to her knees. She was dragging along what looked like the bloody carcass of an animal, grimacing at the blood on her fingers and her stained hamidashi blade.

This wasn't an enemy, Raphael realized immediately.

This was Scarlet, his little sister.

Well, not technically. He'd met Scarlet when she was only nine, when he'd caught her trying to steal some of his firewood. It was then that he'd found out she was an orphan, a girl who had no home, didn't know her parents, and lived by herself. He'd taken her in, and they'd lived together for years, becoming like brother and sister. Now she was twelve whole years old. The two of them worked together–he chopped wood, and she hunted for food, and sold the wood in town square.

"Scarlet!" he called out with relief, rushing toward her. "There you are. You've been out for five whole minutes!"

Emphasis on five minutes, thought Scarlet.

"Oh, Raphie," she giggled as he pulled her into a tight embrace. "Five minutes isn't that long, you know."

"I know, I know. What did you catch?"

Scarlet dropped the carcass at his feet, revealing it to be a little deer, not yet fully grown. The girl's stomach churned uncomfortably at the sight of its slit throat and bloody fur.

"I feel bad for killing it," she admitted, unable to take her eyes off the body. "I mean, it was only a baby, and..."

"I know," Raphael comforted her. "But you know we have to eat, too–and this'll make a great dinner. Come on, let's head to the house."

Their house was a tiny hut at the outskirts of the district, built of logs that Raphael had chopped and put together by himself when he was only ten. When he first built it, he'd lived in it alone, but ever since finding Scarlet, the home had become much less lonely.

"Want me to take the firewood to the market?" Scarlet asked. "I'll meet you at the house after."

"I don't know. It's getting late, and it's a long way to the market, and you'll be all alone, and–"

"All right," Scarlet laughed. "Then come with me."

"That I can agree with."

Each of them scooping up some firewood, the big brother and little sister began the long trek to the heart of District 7.

***

Michelangelo squinted, his three-fingered hand closing tighter around the pencil he was holding. In his lap sat his sketchbook, and on the crisp white page was an idea of his taking form. He sat on a bench in Town Square, which was quiet and starting to empty out with the arrival of nighttime. The sun was barely visibly now, almost completely gone, and little stars were starting to pop out from the darkening sky.

The orange-masked turtle hummed happily to himself as he sketched down the vision in his head, scrunching up his face and erasing whenever something didn't quite look right. The tip of his pencil brushed the sketchbook paper lightly, slowly creating a masterpiece.

"Hmm...Okay, that looks good...Eh, no, not that..."

Mikey worked and worked, the late evening breeze stirring his short mask tails. He shivered as the temperature began to drop, but still he refused to stop.

I'm on a roll!

At long last, the young turtle mutant dropped his pencil with a satisfied grin. On his paper, which was once blank, there was now a design of a gorgeous dress. Michelangelo hoped to be a fashion designer one day–hopefully good enough to be a stylist at the Capitol. He'd never understood why people in the Capitol were ridiculed and called freaks. He thought their crazy hairstyles and makeup were cool. The orange-clad turtle smiled at his newest design.

Now I need someone to look at it, and see what they think.

As if on cue, pounding footsteps suddenly sounded behind him. Michelangelo turned his head to see a shorter girl with pale skinand a scarred cheek racing toward him. Her long mane of curly brown hair was flying out behind her, her pastel blue eyes wide and her breathing heavy. Her freckled nose was scrunched up against the wind blowing in her face as she darted along, her legs moving quickly.

"Hey!" Mikey called, waving to her. "Hi, I'm, excuse me-"

The girl shot straight past him, focused on getting home as quickly as possible.

Dang it, Shelby, you're late again, she scolded herself. Dad's gonna kill me.

Literally.

She skidded to a halt outside her small house, throwing open the front door and practically flying inside. Shelby found herself staring into the eyes of her two younger brothers, Tyler and Aiden, and her father–Chris Bradford. Aiden's gelled over, reddish-brown hair looked shinier than normal, like he'd applied a fresh layer of gel to it. His deep blue eyes narrowed when he saw Shelby, the muscles packed under his skin tensing. Tyler's spiky blonde hair seemed to glow against the sunset light leaking in from the kitchen window. His mismatched eyes, one ice blue and one chocolate brown, flooded with relief when he saw his sister enter.

And then there was her father, Chris Bradford.

He glowered at her, his blue eyes sparkling with anger as his beefy hands clenched into fists. Even after sixteen years of experiencing his rage first-hand, part of Shelby still wanted to shrink whenever her father became angry. It was never good for her when that happened.

"Boys?" Chris growled in a low voice, his eyes not leaving Shelby's. "Leave the table. You're dismissed."

Aiden obeyed immediately, leaving a plate of half-eaten corn and an empty glass on the table as he left the room. Tyler hesitated, his eyes glittering with worry for his sister, but a glare from his father made him spring up like a rabbit and abscond.

For a moment, there was complete silence.

"You're late," Chris said at last. "You missed dinner. Do you know who had to make dinner? Me. Because you were late."

"I'm your daughter, not your maid," Shelby spat, bristling. "You can make dinner yourself every day.

"You're an unruly daughter, and you will be punished until you learn to suit up!"

"Unruly? For not doing all the work for you? When mom was alive, did you make her do all the chores?"

"Don't you dare talk about her," Chris hissed, getting to his feet.

"Why not?" Rage bubbled inside of Shelby like lava, making her blood boil. "Don't want to admit you're wrong, you abusive whoreson?"

"That's enough!"

Quicker than lightning, Chris's fist flew forward, striking Shelby across the face. The pale girl staggered back with a shocked gasp, holding her newly-bruised cheek. Chris seethed before her, his eyes blazing with a terrifying light.

"As long as you live under my roof, you abide my my rules!" he screamed. "Unless you move your sorry tail out, you're stuck with me!"

A low growl rumbled in Shelby's throat. She dropped her hand from her cheek, where the bruise was beginning to turn purple.

"I could rip you apart right now," she growled.

"Try it. I dare you," her father snapped. "Touch me, and I swear I'll call the Peacekeepers, and they'll remove you from my house like the wild animal you truly are."

"You're a pathetic excuse for a father."

"And you for a daughter. Now, clean off the table, and when you're finished, the dishes could use some washing. Oh, and no dinner tonight."

With that, he turned and stalked out of the room. Behind him, he left a girl alone in the kitchen, a girl whose physical, mental, and emotional bruises were concealed by a frozen heart.