Katrina brushed a strand of thin hair from her dark eyes as she waited uneasily for the Reaping to commence. Her parents had tackled her with kisses and hugs and wishes of good luck before taking her to Town Square. Even her little brother Enrique understood perfectly what was going on, and this had been one of the few times in her life that Katrina allowed him to hug her. Now, her family stood in the crowd, waiting just as nervously as her.

Among the twelve-year-old girls stood Kaya, whose antenna twitched anxiously. Somewhere among the gathered people,her five-year-old sister Ailya was there, praying that she wouldn't be picked. Kaya was praying for the same thing. She hoped that her name wouldn't be drawn, that she and her sister could return to their home at the orphanage and never have to worry about the Games ever, until next year.

She's all I have. Mom and Dad are gone, and there's no one else. It's just me and Ailya.

The little mutant girl stared around at the group of twelve-year-olds. They were all taller than her–she was pretty short, even for her age, and Kaya suddenly felt self-conscious.

Maybe I'll grow soon, she thought. Hopefully.

"Um, hello?" the announcer's awkward voice boomed from the stage set up at the head of Town Square. "H-hello, District Five!"

Kaya looked up at the stage. A tall, skinny man with dark skin and black hair styled into an afro stood there, shaking slightly, with a microphone in his hands. He wore a small pair of oval-shaped glasses over his dark eyes, and a black mustache decorated his upper lip. The man's thick black eyebrows narrowed as he cleared his throat, speaking again.

"Er...my name is Baxter. Baxter St-Stockman," the man stuttered. "I'm supposed to be announcing your Tributes this year."

A few children in the audience snickered as Baxter shuffled over to the glass ball, reaching in and pulling out two slips of paper. His hands shook as he unfolded them, reading over and calling out the first name.

"K-Katrina Lopez!"

Katrina's whole body stiffened, feeling like bugs were crawling over her skin. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman cried out with grief–it was her mother, make no mistake. Katrina's chest heaved as she struggled for breath, her head spinning. All pairs of eyes in the district turned to her, and she stumbled forward, climbing up onto the stage and standing beside Baxter.

"And last b-but not least," said Baxter. "Kayenne Alrid!"

Kaya's antenna went rigid with fear, her eyes widening to the size of saucers. She could just barely hear a tiny, horrified gasp from the audience, which she knew right away belonged to her sister.

No...Ailya...

Taking a deep breath, Kaya plunged forward. She hurried toward the stage, not daring to look at the gathered people behind her, not daring to stop until she was onstage next to Katrina. From there, both Tributes could see their families. Enrique was sobbing into their mother's arm while their father held both of them comfortingly. Katrina squinted, and could see the glimmer of a tear on her father's cheek. Kay spotted her little sister, whose cheeks were already soaked with tears.

"W-well, that's that," said Baxter. "Your Tributes for this year's Hunger Games, K-Katrina Lopez and Kayenne Alrid!"

***

Cara found herself standing with the other sixteen-year-old girls of the district, waiting to see which two unlucky souls would be Reaped that year. She folded her wings close to her back, her long tail curled around her legs. Her long blonde hair, usually let loose, was secured back in a ponytail for the day. Her snakelike green eyes flitted back and forth anxiously, her tail tip twitching every once and a while. She knew her adopted mother was here too, which made her anxiety worse.

Please, don't let me be picked, she prayed. I can't leave her all alone. I'm all she has.

Nearby, Winter was grouped with the other fifteen-year-olds, her hands folded elegantly behind her back as she waited for the Reaping to begin. Her dark hair was done up in a bun at the top of her head for the day, with two loose strands dangling by the sides of her face. The thought of her name being drawn from the glass ball was too upsetting to her. The thought of her mother and little sister Abigail, crying over the loss of her, was too much to bear.

Pain gripped Winter's heart as she thought about the Reaping, about the Games.

I hate them. Those stupid Games have taken away so much of my family...and they all never came back.

That can't happen to me.

I can't leave Mom and Abigail forever.

"Hello, District Six!" the announcer whooped from the stage.

Winter's head snapped to the stage in surprise. A tall, skinny young man with dark skin and a thin purple mohawk stood onstage, grinning a mile-wide smile at the audience as he gripped the microphone. He wore a dark bodysuit with glowing purple lights, with a matching-colored  on his head. With a wink of his dark eye, the mohawk lit up like an excessively-bright firefly. Winter blinked, shaking her head.

"Aw, y'all are so dead!" the announcer hollered. "Can I get a little excitement up in here?"

He was met with dead silence.

"Whatever," he huffed. "Lemme introduce myself. I'm Anton Zeck, and I'm your announcer for this year, babies!"

He let out a singsong little he-he, moonwalking smoothly over to the glass ball before plunging a hand in. He rummaged around a bit before pulling out two slips of paper, humming a funky tune to himself as he unfolded them both. Taking a deep breath, he read over the first name and literally sang it out.

"Caravina Romano!"

Cara's wings almost snapped open in shock as she froze, her tail twitching again.

No. This...this can't be happening. It can't be!

But it was, and that's what she came to realize as she dragged herself up onto the stage. Anton hummed again as he read over the next name, once again singing it out on the highest note possible.

"Winter Hill!"

Winter stifled a cry of horror, her body suddenly feeling like it turned to ice. Her breathing deepened until she was practically struggling for breath. A woman wailed mournfully–her mother–but Winter barely heard it. She barely heard anything as she walked toward the stage, her head seeming to pound and her blood hot. She leaped up onto the stage and came to stand beside Cara.

Both Tributes could now see their families. Cara's adopted mother, Rosanna, had her face buried in her hands. Winter spotted Abigail, clinging to her mother. Both of them appeared to be sobbing. The two girls felt their hearts break at the exact same moment.

"Well, there we have it!" Anton boomed. "Your Tributes for this year's Hunger Games, Caravina Romano and Winter Hill. Peace out, babies. He-he!"

***

Raphael's large, three-toed feet made prints in the dirt as he shuffled around anxiously. His arms were crossed across his chipped plastron, as usual, as he stood with the other fifteen-year-olds of the district. He gazed around at the tall trees surrounding Town Square, at the forests farther off where his home was, and inhaled the sweet scent of pine and flowers–his home.

It was terrifying to think that after today, he might never see any of it.

But it was even more terrifying to think that his little sister could very well suffer the same fate.

His electric green eyes traveled for what seemed like the hundredth time to the group of twelve-year-old girls. Sure enough, he spotted Scarlet, her brown eyes big as she fiddled with her long braid. A surge of protective love filled the turtle mutant as he gazed at her.

I won't let you be picked, he thought. There's no way on this earth I'm letting you die, little sister.

"Hello, people of seventh district," the announcer's voice, thick with a Russian accent, sounded from the stage.

Raphael's eyes left Scarlet (for just ten seconds) to look up at the announcer. He was a burly, muscular man, with blonde hair and eyes that looked like black pits from where Raph stood. Or...just eye. For where his left eye should have been, there was what appeared to be a glittering diamond. Several scars criss-crossed his fair-skinned face, and he was dressed in a black suit with golden spiked shoulder pads. His tie was bright red, the color of Raph's mask–the color of blood.

"I am Ivan Steranko," the man continued. "I will announce Tributes, for this year's Games of Hunger. Let us begin, dah?"

He marched over to the glass bowl and plunged a beefy hand in, pulling out two slips of paper and unfolding them. He read over the first name, calling it out.

"Scarlet Green!"

Raphael felt as if he'd been hit with the force of thirty five Capitol bullet trains.

No...

Over where she stood, Scarlet froze in horror. Her legs began to shake violently, and bile rise in her throat, like she might throw up. She tried to take a step forward, but she couldn't. She was too shocked.

"Do not be shy," Ivan's voice was thick and gruff. "Come up on stage."

Once again, Scarlet attempted to move, but she was rooted to her spot with fear. Her whole body was shaking now.

"I do not have all the day," Ivan growled. "Come up. Now."

Tears sprang into Scarlet's brown eyes, but once again she could not move. Large footsteps crunched on the dirt as two Peacekeepers marched toward her. Raphael watched in horror.

You Peacekeepers keep your dirty Capitol hands away from my little sister!

"I volunteer!" he screamed, just as the Peacekeepers were upon Scarlet. "I volunteer as Tribute!"

Both Scarlet and the Peacekeepers froze. Scarlet bolted upright, her eyes growing impossibly bigger.

"Raph..." she whispered, shocked. "No..."

The red-masked turtle stalked briskly up into the stage, folding his arms once again with an expressionless face.

"Ah, a volunteer?" Ivan sneered. "Refreshing. I have not seen volunteers in long while. What is your name?"

"Raphael Green."

"Ah. Very good. And now for next name!"

Ivan unfolded the final slip of paper, his face falling as he read over it.

"Interesting," he muttered. "This I did not expect."

"What?" Raphael demanded, whipping his was around to glare at him.

Ivan looked over at him, bringing the microphone to his lips.

"Raphael Green," he said. "That is what tiny paper says."

Raph stiffened again, that horrible feeling coming back to him. His stomach churned violent.

No...that means...

"Bring back girl!" Ivan commanded.

The two Peacekeepers from before headed briskly toward the group of twelve-year-old girls, their backs to the stage. When they turned back around, they were dragging a terrified Scarlet with them. The white-uniformed men let go of her, shoving her forward and letting her scurry up onto the stage like a little mouse. Scarlet's breathing was heavy as she stood beside Raphael, her skin looking paler than normal. Raph touched a hand to hers comfortingly, although it was trembling.

"Dah, very good," Ivan rumbled. "Here are Tributes for seventh district, Scarlet and Raphael Green!"

The brother and sister stared at each other, both asking the same silent question.

Why?

***

Shelby's cheek was still sore from where her father had struck her the night before. The bruise, due to the icy powers inside of her, had long faded. Her mutation had made it so that her injuries healed themselves, and this was no exception. It still stung like fire, however.

Her father had been too busy preparing Aiden for the Reaping that morning to pay any attention to her or Tyler. Yes, just Aiden, because he was his favorite. To him, Shelby and Tyler were nothing more than nuisances. Which was fine with Shelby, because she felt the same about him. The shorter teenage girl flipped her mane of brown hair over her shoulder, suddenly self-conscious.

I've got to be the shortest sixteen-year-old here.

Nervously she looked around, spotting Tyler and Aiden standing among the fourteen-year-olds. Tyler's expression was nervous, his mismatched eyes glittering with worry. Aiden's face was, as usual, inexpressive, his arms folded across his chest. However, Shelby spotted a gleam of worry in his dark eyes. She knew her father was here too, somewhere in the crowd, but she didn't dare look for him.

Nearby, Michelangelo stood with the fifteen-year-old boys, shuffling his feet anxiously. His heart pounded heard against his ribcage, feeling as if it would pop out at any given moment. The orange-clad turtle found himself placing a hand over his heart, just in case.

I don't wanna be picked, he thought. I wanna stay here at home and become a fashion designer. I can't design fabulous clothing if I'm dead!

He whimpered, burying his freckled green face in his three-fingered hands. He didn't notice the announcer walking onstage until she'd begun talking.

"Greetings, District Eight," the announcer onstage spoke in a robotic voice, her face absolutely expressionless. "I am Mrs. Campbell, and I will be your announcer for this year's Hunger Games."

Mrs. Campbell's dark gray hair remained unmoved by the chilly morning wind winding around the square, her blue eyes were completely dull and lifeless. Her movements were stiff and robotic as she marched over to the glass ball and reached a hand inside, pulling out two small slips of paper. Shelby's body tensed as the announcer unfolded the first slip, reading over the name.

"Michelangelo Bertolini."

The orange-masked turtle's heart caught in his throat, seeming to stop beating altogether.

No! No, this isn't happening. I'm just imagining this.

He brought two fingers to his arm and pinched as hard as he could, wincing at the pain, only to discover with horror that he was still there, with everyone in the district staring expectantly at him. Mikey gulped, a horrible feeling of dread crawling up his skin.

I'm not dreaming.

This is real.

Slowly, he made his way up to the stage, climbing up onto the stage. Mrs. Campbell nodded stiffly, unfolding the final paper with startling speed and reading over the name.

"Aiden Bradford."

Shelby's breath hitched in her throat as she stiffened. Her pale blue gaze darted to the fourteen-year-old boys; Tyler's expression was horrified, while Aiden's muscles were tensed beneath his skin, eyes wide. Shelby caught a glimpse of her father and see that even he looked shocked.

Aiden shoved his way out of the group of boys, stalking across the grass toward the stage. Although his face was expressionless, he was still tense, and Shelby could tell he was shaking a little. Something was tugging at her gut, some kind of feeling. Before she even knew it, the words had already slipped out of her mouth.

"I volunteer," her voice rang loud and clear through Town Square. "I volunteer as Tribute."

A collective gasp rose up from the crowd. Aiden froze in his tracks, whirling around to look at his sister with huge eyes as she emerged from her group. Shelby didn't even look at her younger brother as she walked up, her shoulder barely brushing his as she marched briskly past him and sprang up onto the stage. Michelangelo's sky-blue eyes were wide with shock as the blue-eyed girl took her place beside him. Aiden still stood there, too shocked to move, and two Peacekeepers approached him and carried him off.

"What is your name, volunteer?" Mrs. Campbell asked. Her head turned to look at Shelby with a noise like gears turning.

"Shelby Bradford."

Mrs. Campbell did not reply. Instead, her head turned back to the audience.

"These are District Eight's Tributes for this year's Hunger Games," she said. "Michelangelo Bertolini and Shelby Bradford."

Shelby locked eyes with Aiden, who once again stood with his age group.

You're welcome, is what her gaze seemed to say.

Then her eyes met her father's.

I just saved your favorite child, is what her gaze seemed to say. You're welcome, too.