Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in any shape or form whatsoever.

A/n: This is, potentially, a stupid idea. I've written the entire thing but I'm entering the busiest term of the year so getting around to putting it up will be an interesting experience. Nevertheless, if people want to read the rest of it, I'll give it a shot. Worst comes to the worst, I'll take it down and try again when exams are over.

Anyway, there is something I wanted to get out of the way now. If you've read some of my other stuff, you may recognise the story (which will, of course, spoil it for you in one sense). This is a fic based on something I wrote a while back but it's expanded on and told from another point of view. The reason for this is that the two characters wouldn't leave me alone. The other thing I wanted to get straight now (for those of you who won't/don't recognise the story) is that I only write interpretations of canon. It'll make sense later.

Long author's note over (I doubt I'll write another long one again - you're free!). All that's left for me to say is, I'll try to update soon if people want me to and, above all else, I hope you enjoy.

Logically Speaking

1) Home is Where the Heart is

Most people I meet tell me that their lives are crap. Let's be honest – they're right. I'm allowed to say that because my life is crap too. Which is the argument you hear people use when they're insulting anyone. At this point, everyone else wants to say "No, you're not allowed to insult someone else just because you vaguely fall into the same category". But the way I see it is that if everyone else is allowed to use this argument then I am too.

But in all seriousness, most people here do have awful lives. I'm saying this now because I can see their lives so I have actual evidence to back this up, even if I'm meant to say I love it here (home is where the heart is and all that crap). Perhaps I should list it, to show what I mean.

"Here" is District Five. District Five is in Panem. Panem is in the sea. And the sea is in the world. The world's been through a lot – natural disasters, man-made disasters, several wars and the creation of Panem. Panem's been through the creation of the Capitol and the twelve districts which, in itself, is a minor disaster. Not that I'm allowed to say so which simply emphasises how much of a disaster it is! If things were better, I would be perfectly able to walk around and comment to the man outside, "Well, the world's pretty awful today, isn't it?" and not live in fear of a white-clothed man arresting me and shooting me in the back of my head.

Also, anything which creates 'The Hunger Games' has to be a disaster. If I were to go up to someone and ask them what they thought of the idea of putting twenty-four children in an arena, telling them to kill each other and then filming it as entertainment, they would, logically, look at me as though I had lost my mind. The fact that we do this just shows that something went wrong somewhere. The pathetic thing is that there are people who actually like this idea. I'm sure they'll be writing books about it soon. Why stop at putting real people through it? Let's see what our warped imaginations can come up with too!

Maybe people can be classed as a 'disaster' as well.

Anyway, District Five. Not the worst place in Panem – that would be District 13, which is a radiation-filled ruin, closely followed by District 12 which has more dead people than live ones – but quite bad. It's alright if you live in the richer areas of the district because then you have things like food and water and warm clothes. But where I live, we have small huts and very little to eat. We can take out jobs in the local power stations from the age of ten which will give us a little bit of extra money. Which is fine if you live by yourself. I happen to live with two siblings and my parents. And the wages are very small when you're under nineteen.

The wage increase is presumably to celebrate the fact that you survived childhood. It would make more sense to have higher wages for children so that less die of starvation and then survive childhood. Then you don't increase the wage but you have more workers. But, in addition to being a disaster, Panem isn't exactly sane.

The area we live in is filled with people like us. Old people, young families, families who are down on their luck. Everyone in my family works and we still don't have enough. Sometimes, we make decisions as to whether we would like to be warm or whether we would like to eat. And my brother, my sister and I all have tesserae. I have a total of thirty slips in the Hunger Games Reaping this year. My sister has thirty-five, being one year older. My brother has fifteen. I know kids from school who are my sister's age and only have seven slips. But then, I know someone who is only thirteen and has sixteen slips already, just because of the sheer size of her family. There's something inherently unfair about this.

So our lives are like most other people's lives, which is why I know they're crap. We get up. Me, Leo and Erica go to school. My parents work and try to avoid being injured. After school, we run to the factory. We come home. We eat any food we have or we think of a way to distract ourselves from the lack of food. We invent new games to stay warm. We go to sleep.

Now, the important difference is that unlike most of the people I know, I'm not distinctly unhappy with my life. Yes, I'm a bit bitter and angry about how things have turned out. But there are many things in life I am grateful for. I have a full family. I have a few friends – admittedly, not many due to my propensity to inadvertently insult people – and the community spirit in our area is great. I am definitely going to get a job. Not one I particularly want but a job all the same. Most importantly, I'm not dead. Although, if I were dead, I don't suppose I would be in a position to be happy or not happy, unless those childhood stories about the afterlife are true.

People aren't rational. That's the problem – the entire problem, actually. They tend to view happiness in terms of what they don't have whereas they should view it in terms of what they have. If you don't have it, you don't know if your life would be better with it. But if you have it, you know what it means to you. That's why I define everything in terms of what I have.

And yes: I have been told I'm a pain to know. You get used to it.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It is the day before the Reaping. I'm in a small shop, arguing with the owner about the chance of getting some bread half-price. Understandably, the owner isn't quite as enthused about this as I am. I suspect this is because I haven't thought of a reason for him to be happy about the prospect.

"Either buy the bread, for the correct price, or get out," he snaps.

"But if I don't buy the bread, I can't go home because my parents will send me out to buy bread," I point out.

"And if you don't have the money," he replies, mimicking my tone, "I will refuse to serve you bread, even then."

"I could pay the money in instalments," I suggest.

"This isn't a loan, girl. It's bread."

"Is there a reason it can't be a loan?"

"Because I sell bread! I don't 'loan' it. And what do I do if you don't pay it back?"

"You tell the Peacekeepers I stole it."

He groans. "Anfisa," he says. "We have these discussions every week. You are not getting bread off me for one coin less than the price I asked for."

"Just think," I say. "Imagine that tomorrow, I'm called in the Reaping and then I'm killed in the Games. And the last interaction you ever had with me was you condemning my family to starvation. I hope that sits well with your conscience."

Judging from his horror-filled eyes, I've crossed a line here. The other problem with people is that they're very sensitive about the future. Me being called is a perfectly reasonable possibility for the future but it isn't one he wants to think about. The fact is that there's nothing either of us can do about tomorrow. But people don't think about things rationally, as I said. I just never really understood why.

"Never mind," I say. "I'll just go next door. Maybe the butcher has ... well, I suppose he might have a rat I can get for this." The baker is still silent. "He's even less susceptible to the idea of loans than you are." Silence. "I tried that one last week." Silence, creeping into edginess. "Bye..."

"Wait," he says hastily. He looks at the bread, sighs, and cuts it in half. "Here you go. This is worth the money you have." He places the bread on the counter and holds out his hand. I hand over the money but I can't help feeling guilty. Even though what I said was perfectly logical and he shouldn't have been upset by it. I guess I knew he would be.

"Thanks," I say. I know I should say something else about how if I was called tomorrow, it wouldn't be his fault, except I know it wouldn't be his fault and he knows it wouldn't be his fault. So I just leave. Perhaps I should over-pay him next time, by way of an apology. Although the chances of me having that amount of money is so small that I can't even make this idea sound good.

At least I have some bread now. Not enough, but some. I start to head towards home. I always feel out of place when I'm in this area. I think it's because it's populated by those who have more money than me and wear clothes which look newer and more like clothes than mine do. Whatever the community spirit where I live, I can't say it extends to here. People look at me as though I don't belong. More than that though, they look at me with faces which say 'Thank God I'm not you.'

That, incidentally, is another fallacy in how people measure happiness. They assume that because I have less than they do, I must be unhappier. But, again, that doesn't make sense because the only thing they know about me is what I look like and what I have. They don't know anything about my home life and they don't speak to me. You can't come to conclusions based on assumed facts. Life just doesn't work like that.

But the fact is that, no matter how false their reasoning is, I've grown to hate those looks. So I leave the area as quickly as I can and only slow down when I reach the more familiar, run-down buildings. It's a bit ridiculous actually because there's more chance of being robbed here. The Peacekeepers don't exactly go out of their way to stop it. But any competent robber here knows who has stuff worth robbing and who doesn't and I fall into the latter category. Mostly. I do hold the bread under my shirt, just in case.

I'm nearing my street when I spot Tony Vale with a young girl – his niece. He sees me and waves with his free hand but something seems odd here.

"Hi, Anfisa," he says as I go past.

"Hi, Mr Vale." I look at the girl. "Hey, Menna."

Menna looks at me and then looks at the floor. I don't think I've ever seen her this calm before. Not that I know her well but when I've spoken to her family, she's always been pretty chatty. They all have.

"We're just going inside for some dinner," Mr Vale says cheerfully. Menna doesn't react at all to this.

"You're quiet today, Menna," I say. No response. "Are your pa-" I stop because Mr Vale is frantically mouthing 'no, no' at me. "Er ... are you having a good day?"

She still doesn't say anything and it's beginning to unnerve me. I'm usually pretty crap with children but even this is a bit extreme for me.

"Hey, Menna, why don't you go inside," Mr Vale says. "I'll come in now. Alright?" She looks at him and he squeezes her hand. She turns and walks into his home. We watch her go.

"Is she alright?" I ask. "I've never seen her like that before."

He rubs his hand over his forehead. "I guess you haven't heard?" he asks. I don't bother to point out that I don't know if I've heard it or not because he hasn't told me what I should have heard. "Menna's folks died two weeks back. In the factory down by the east side."

"Oh," I say in some shock. "I think I heard about the accident..." I can't think of anything else to say. None of us work anywhere near that factory and it's not as though we knew the Vales particularly well. Deaths occur all the time. But I still feel guilty that I didn't know about it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry," he says. "But I just thought I should stop you before you mentioned them. She's been upset for the last two weeks."

I think of the little girl with her fox-like features completely still, instead of animated. "Not talking much, I guess."

"No," he says. "I've never seen her like this. Course, she's used to my brother's way of doing things but we always got on well so, hopefully, we'll help each other through this."

In addition to not knowing about Menna's parents' deaths, I'd also forgotten that her father was Mr Vale's brother.

"If you ever need any help," I say hesitantly, "you can always ask me. I could watch Menna or something."

He smiles. "Thanks, Anfisa." He looks back at his door. "I'd better go in."

"Bye," I say.

"Bye. Oh, and good luck for tomorrow."

"Thanks," I say and watch him walk up his path before practically bolting for home. I'm pretty bad at social interactions at the best of times and I've now had two awkward conversations in one hour. I don't think I can stand a third one. Of course, running doesn't necessarily mean that I'll avoid more awkward conversations but the probability is reduced because people will assume I'm in a rush.

Once I'm indoors, I hand my mother the bread. She frowns when she sees it because it's a lot less than we need but she has long ago given up telling me off about it because the amount of bread I return with – from none to a whole loaf – doesn't have any consistent pattern. The only reason I'm still sent there is because Erica is better at bartering with the grouchy butcher and Leo's too polite to badger the baker until he gives in.

We all sit down to eat once Erica has returned from her trip. I can't help considering us as we eat. We all look relatively similar – short, dark hair and pale skin. There's no doubt that my sister takes after my father in terms of facial features because she's the only one of the three of us who ever has any luck with finding partners. Leo and I have the same, more angular features, although Leo's are still softened by age. He's the youngest of us at fourteen. Then me at seventeen and Erica at eighteen.

In terms of mentality, I suspect that Erica is more like me than Leo and I think we take after our mother. None of us have any time for idiots and none of us are particularly good at holding a conversation. Leo and Dad are warmer and more empathetic to people. This, incidentally, is why I think it must be Erica's looks which get her so many boyfriends – it's certainly not her personality.

Over dinner, I tell them about Menna Vale and her parents. Dad's surprised that he hasn't heard about this yet and wants to charge over to make sure Mr Vale is doing OK. I tell him that he is and add that I volunteered my services as babysitter which at least gets them laughing. It's only towards the end of the evening that the conversation turns to the one topic we have all been studiously avoiding.

(I find it curious that people do that, actually. We don't talk about distressing events. I suppose we're happier when we don't think about it but then we're even unhappier when we face the event. But I'm a hypocrite when I talk about this because I never want to talk about uncomfortable topics even though I know it's worse for me in the long run.)

Leo starts it.

"I'm scared," he says suddenly. "About tomorrow."

"Why?" Dad asks.

"What if I'm called?"

"Then you just have to come home again," I say. Everyone looks at me. "Well, the chance of someone volunteering is pretty low so what's the other option?"

The other option, of course, is death – but no one wants to say that.

"Ann, do you ever think before you speak?" Erica asks. Which is a stupid question because everyone thinks before they speak otherwise they'd just open their mouth and make noise. I don't think this is the point she's trying to get at though.

"What'd I say wrong?"

Maybe it's wrong but I get a perverse pleasure out of watching my sister squirm. Whatever I said must be something uncomfortable. But my sister is too much like me to simply let this go and says, "Talking about the chance of volunteering, you muppet."

"Well, that was rude."

"Better to be rude than to hurt someone's feelings."

"But being rude hurts feelings."

"Yes, but it stops you hurting more."

"No, your telling me what I did wrong stops me hurting more feelings. Calling me a muppet was just extra and only hurts my feelings."

"Girls, stop it," Dad says wearily. He gets to hear these arguments every day and, as he has told us on many occasions, he is sick of them. Leo, however, is laughing which isn't the reaction I was expecting but at least it means I've caused him no permanent damage by informing him that no one likes him enough to volunteer for him. To be honest, had he asked, I would have told him that the same went for me and Erica. Except he wouldn't believe that because Erica and I can volunteer for each other and so he'd assume we would.

So here's the truth: I don't know if I'd volunteer for Erica. And I don't know if she'd volunteer for me. Hopefully, we'll never find out. But while I like to think that I would gladly volunteer to save my older sister from death, I have a horrible suspicion that I wouldn't be able to summon up the courage to do it. The facts are that one of us would have a high probability of death and I don't know whether I would like this probability to be lowered for her at the cost of assigning it to me.

Leo breaks my thought process by telling us that he'll come home if he's called. The rest of us don't comment. We could all start swearing heart-breaking oaths that we'd come home as well but, as I said, the probability of coming home coinciding with being alive is low. The silence speaks volumes.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The next morning, I wake up and get changed into my best clothes. Erica does the same. The Reaping won't begin until ten-thirty but the square is about an hour's walk away so we have to leave early. We don't speak on the way there, presumably so we can be happy now. Although it does no good to worry about something we can't control anyway so that could be the alternate explanation. I doubt it though.

When we finally get to the square, my parents hug us all tight and my dad kisses me and Erica on our foreheads. Then we go and register with the Peacekeepers so they know we're not dead or hiding under a table somewhere. Finally, we have to split up. Leo heads towards the middle of the mass of kids. Erica goes towards the very front. I head for the section just behind her and stand next to some friends.

"Hey," I say when I get there.

"Hey," Enya replies. "Feeling lucky?"

"Just as lucky as always."

We laugh, slightly. "Just two more of these and we're home free," she says.

"Still, two's pretty big," one guy says.

"Two more than I ever want to face," says someone else. There's a collective mutter of agreement.

"It could be worse though," Enya says.

"How?"

"It could be a Quarter Quell."

That's true. We're all lucky because we haven't had to face a Quarter Quell. The last one was seventeen years ago. By the next one, we should all be twenty-four year olds.

"We should all do something to celebrate after this," the first guy says.

"Like what?"

"Dunno. Anyone got any money?"

The collective murmur, this time, says no. Having a group of us from the same background means we all have the same limits. It means we're all equal, which is good, but there's never a chance for one of us to really help the others out.

"Food?"

"No."

"... We could just sit and talk?"

"How is that a celebration?"

"What do we do if one of us is called?" I ask. Everyone starts looking uncomfortable. Once again, I have crossed the line which everyone else seems to be able to find easily.

The clock breaks the awkward silence I created by toning the ten-thirty mark As the mayor begins to speak, we all turn to face him, ignoring our conversation. I don't think I've ever been so glad for a Reaping to begin.