Clarke gnawed on her bottom lip until the flesh was ragged and raw. The air around her was hot and close, as constricting as the law that required her to stand there; in a roped off section full of other seventeen year old girls while they waited to hear if they would live another day. A metallic taste filled her mouth as she tore apart the skin of her lip and the blood began to pool from it. It was a habit that her mother chastised her for, but it kept her grounded when she was nervous, the small sting was something to hold onto when everything got too much.

She supposed she had collected the habit when her father died and she had held onto it ever since, still, there were worse habits to get into.

The girl beside her was restless, wringing her hands and casting anxious glances all around. Clarke pitied her, they were all scared, some of them just hid it better.

The barest hint of a breeze wafted through the square, tousling strands of Clarke's golden hair. She had worn it down in honour of the reaping; a ridiculous custom in her eyes, to dress up nicely as you send children to their deaths. The blue dress she was wearing fluttered lazily about her knees. Clarke hated wearing dresses, they made her feel fragile, but her mother had insisted. "You'll look beautiful, Clarke," she had said, Clarke didn't feel beautiful. She felt like an animal that was caged in as it awaited the slaughter.

Her eyes were barely focused as she stood there, sweltering and chewing her mouth to pieces, but a flash of colour got her attention and she focused her eyes again in time to see a capitol woman taking to the stage. She was clad in ridiculous garb that made Clarke's best dress seem like cheap rags and she had a great wig of orange curls that sat lopsided on her head.

"Hello, District One!" The woman tapped a microphone with her fingernail as she spoke, her high pitched voice travelling across the square and lifting everyone's heads to attention. She was Vivian Yule, and she had been District One's escort for as long as Clarke could remember. She was smiling and nattering about district pride and loving the Capitol in a horrible squeaky voice but Clarke wasn't really listening. She couldn't care less about the patriotic video they aired every year or the bubbly speech the escort always delivered, all that mattered was the name on that slip of paper.

On the stage on either side of Vivian's wide, flared skirts were large glass bowls, filled with hundreds of slips of paper with the names of every person in the district aged between twelve and eighteen. Clarke's name was in there. Clarke's name was in there ten times.

She inhaled sharply. That's nothing, she tried to tell herself, ten out of hundreds, nothing, nothing, nothing. But her stomach sank all the same and heart beat sped up as Vivian finished her speech and crossed to the bowl that contained the girls' names.

"And now, the moment we have all been waiting for," Vivian beamed, dazzlingly the front rows with her chemical whitened teeth. "For the ladies..." Agonisingly slow she dipped her hand into the bowl, swirling the paper round and round with her fingertips. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Ten times is nothing.

The taste of blood returned to Clarke's mouth. The girl beside her was weeping. They haven't even said the names yet, you stupid girl, she thought bitterly, though she couldn't really blame the girl. She wanted to cry herself.

Vivian had chosen a piece of paper, all creamy and white and bright in the sun. It was fastened with a strip of black tape. Vivian's nail broke through it easily.

Nothing. It's nothing, it's nothing.

"This year's female tribute for District One is;"

No. Please.

"Clarke Griffin!" Clarke felt as if all the weight in the world had filled her body and turned her bones to lead. The girl beside her gasped loudly but the sound was muted to Clarke's ears. She wanted to fall down, she wanted to cry. No. She had to be brave, she knew. If they thought she was weak they would pick her off straight away, she would die straight away. She couldn't, wouldn't. She straightened her back, feeling as though a knife was already there, stabbing her between the shoulder blades.

The girls in her section parted for her easily. She walked slowly and purposefully, her head held high and her expression stony. These people would not see her cry. No one would. She wasn't weak.

She knew that the District One tributes often acted thrilled to be picked, the Career Tributes they were called, but Clarke didn't believe it for one second. It was an act, an act used to stay alive and one she may well have to adopt. But becoming a career tribute didn't mean she had to smile, it just meant she had to be brave. She would stay calm and silently angry all the way, she promised herself, the Capitol would not have the satisfaction of seeing her break. Not yet, not today.

At the steps Vivian waited for her looking like a bizarre, colourful bird with her rainbow outfit and nose like a beak.

"Well done, Clarke! Everyone, please put your hands together for our female tribute, Clarke Griffin!" Clarke's hand was forced from her side and jerked roughly upward in a sign of victory. It dropped lamely to her hip when Vivian released it. "And now, for the gentlemen!" She crossed to the other bowl, leaving Clarke alone on the centre of the stage, staring blankly at the crowd.

She pretended it wasn't happening to keep the emotion from her face; it was the only way to stay strong. But as her eyes scanned the crowd they locked onto the face she had hoped she wouldn't see, the one she had been unconsciously searching for.

The dark eyes were full of sorrow as they met hers and his mouth was open in horror. Vivian had barely spoken the male tribute's name before he scrambled forward, pushing the other boys aside.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" His deep voice was breathless as it carried across the square and his eyes never left Clarke's, though her heart sank even further at his words and she was worried that she might cry.

Vivian welcomed him on stage eagerly, patting his back as she asked for his name.

"Well here we are, our two tributes for this year," The daft woman sounded so thrilled. "Clarke Griffin and Wells Jaha!" Some people clapped, some people just looked on sombrely. Clarke couldn't see her mother's face in the crowd but she could feel Wells's eyes boring into her.

He had always said. Ever since they were little. "If you get picked, I'll volunteer to be with you, I'll protect you, don't worry," She never thought he had meant it though, never thought it would actually happen. She wanted to kick something. She wanted to kick him. How could he be so utterly stupid? It was bad enough that she had to go into the games, now she had to worry about Wells's life too.

If he died before her, she would never forgive herself. Not for the rest of her life, at least it wouldn't be too long to wait.