Disclaimers:

I do not own, and I am not part of, The Hunger Games.

This story will be painstakingly accurate to the details of the books and movies for the vast majority of its chapters, and the ends of the chapters here will correspond with the ends of the chapters in the real books. However, it will deviate from the cannon story at certain points in very, very significant ways. Even if you aren't familiar with the books and movies, you will know where those points are and how they deviate from what's in the books and movies.

Part 1: The Tributes

The sun is streaming in through the window, but I've been awake for hours. Long enough to see the blood red stain on the clouds the sun greets the sky with. Fitting, given the purpose of the day.

Normally, the whole bakery would be alive with fire and the smell of bread in the ovens. Today, though, only a few smoldering fires burned in their brick institutions. The bread has already been baked, the first customers already gone. Later, there would be more getting food to celebrate the lives of their children. But for now, more pressing matters lay heavily on the whole district.

I throw myself out of bed to make my obligatory batches of dough that won't be baked for several hours. If we don't make the dough early, though, there won't be enough bread for the customers later. And if we bake it now, it won't be warm for the customers later. These were the virtues of a baker that my mother had beaten into me years ago.

I put on the burnt clothes I've been baking in for the past three years. They used to be tight, but time has had a way of stretching them out enough to be wearable. As the child of a merchant I have the luxury of nicer clothes, but those are not for baking in.

I walk downstairs to find the lean figure of Gale walking out with fresh bread. The smell of the loaves on display hits me instantly, reminding me of the rumbling in my stomach. My hand searches the counter while I pretend to be watching for customers and find a bit of burnt bread that I can enjoy while tending to my bakery duties.

The bakery counters are remarkably clean for a mining district. You almost can't distinguish the coal dust from the gray slabs that support bowls, ingredients, and a recipe book that the family has kept up for generations. Of course, there haven't been many contributions. We can't afford the bread we make, never mind the bread that might not be worth selling.

The wooden door at the back creaks open to reveal Gavin, back from feeding the pig. My dirty blond hair falls over his forehead, accenting our similar, soft features. People might say I looked like my oldest brother, if they weren't so focused on the bread they weren't eating. We exchange a curt nod in acknowledgement of each other's presence. This is the most brotherly bonding we experience in a day.

The process isn't difficult, but the ingredients for it are almost impossible to come by in the districts, even for us. But we manage by selling to the peacekeepers and officials from the mysterious Capitol. In exchange, we get access to things like flour, baking soda, salt, and milk.

Mix the dry ingredients until smooth. Add milk. Beat into a dough. Shape, set aside to rise. Wash, rinse, repeat. I've done this so many times that I almost don't have time to react to the roller-pin hitting the back of my head.

"You're late. You'd better work twice as fast to get the dough made in time," my mother crows. This isn't at all abnormal, but her voice is colder than usual. It takes a little more work this time to remind myself that there's love in it; that this is her way of making it easier to see her son entered in the reaping. "And I'd better not catch you slacking off again."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, but I'm not really sure if I still mean it or if it's just a reflex by this point. Either way I do get the work done. Better to make food you won't eat than to never eat at all.

With the work done I go upstairs to put on nicer clothes for the reaping. A white button-down shirt, some black slacks, and a belt. Of course these aren't every-day clothes, but the reaping is not an every-day event. By mandate of the Capitol, this is a special day to be celebrated. And you'd better celebrate. You could very well be shot if you're caught not having enough fun watching children get selected at random to bludgeon each other to death.

The rules are simple. From each of the twelve districts two tributes, one boy and one girl, are chosen at random to compete in a game of survival. Every year, the tributes are rounded up and taken to the Capitol to train for a few weeks before the games. Then they're thrown into an arena full of weapons and cameras to fight to the death for the Capitol's entertainment and the suppression of the districts. The Games are a condition of the Treaty of Treason, and the Capitol's way of saying "we own you, we own your children, and we will do with them what we please. Look at how easily we round them up and force them to kill for our entertainment."

When we get to the square, the camera crews are already looking down hungrily at the crowds like vultures. At any opportunity for misfortune, they swoop in to get every moment. The whole complex is dressed up for the occasion with bright banners and holiday-like festivities. But putting a bow on a monster doesn't change what it is inside. Just then, Effie's large hair and the highly decorated person supporting it step on to the stage.

The whole crowd is silent as its members sign in. Families stand in a tightly-knit ring around the age-separated groups of children submitted to the reaping. In some places it's an honor to bring glory to your district through the Games, but 12 has no reverence for dying as the Capitol's plaything. Here the people are far more somber.

I join the crowd of sixteens and exchange silent nods with the others. With that done, everyone turns their attention to the stage that's been constructed just for today. Three chairs wait for the event to start between two large glass bowls containing the names of this year's victims. There are thousands of slips, but four of them are all I can concentrate on. "Peeta Mellark," they say, written to avoid any possibility of mistake. But there are thousands of slips.

The town clock strikes two and just as it does, the mayor steps up to recount the story of Panem, to read from the Treaty of Treason, and to remind us that the Games are all our fault. To his credit, there was no hint of sincerity.

He now reads off the names of both of the past victors from district 12. 73 Games, 148 tributes, and only two came home. This is the perfect way to introduce Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving victor from 12, who staggers across the stage yelling drunken gibberish.

Not wanting Haymitch's show to go on any longer, the mayor steps up to introduce Effie Trinket, district 12's escort. In her sickly bubbly tone, she approaches the microphone to give her token "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

There are thousands of slips, I reassure myself. Thousands of slips.

"Ladies first," Effie coos, and the crowd is dead silent. She fishes her hand around the bowl trying to divine a name. Finally her fingers pass back up through the opening in the glass, grasping a slip of paper. She carefully undoes the tape keeping the name hidden until the proper moment, and reads the name once in her head to be sure she pronounces it correctly on the live broadcast.

"Primrose Everdeen!" she announces to the waiting audience.