Author's Note: This is the second story I am in process on, I maintain a promise from the other story-it will be finished, no matter how long it takes for me to get new chapters out. I will apply that promise to this story as well, because I hate being left hanging on a fanfic that never ties up. I am extremely nervous over this story, I really hope you like it! Thank you to anybody who takes the time to read this, I hope it doesn't disappoint!

-Pneuma

The clouds are being wrung out like a soaked sponge today, and my hair is plastered to my skin as I stare at the muddy shoes of the boy in front of me. I keep my head down in the attempt to direct the rainwater running down my face away from my eyes, even though every now and then a droplet of water will drop from an eyelash despite my best efforts. My clothes are drenched and stick to me where they can, and stretch towards the ground where they can't. There is no wind, but it's cold, and the heaviness of my wet clothes seems to drag the chill down into my bones. The chill in my heart, however, isn't from the cold, and neither is the twisted pretzel that is my stomach. This is my first time attending a reaping.

"Next," the voice of a husky peacekeeper calls, and I watch the shoes in front of me leave footprints in the mud and I step forward to replace them. "Hand," the voice says. I hold my hand out, warily keeping my face turned away from it. I can't stand looking at blood, and it's even worse when a needle is going to be pushing into my skin. I feel the stab that is the sterile point of the needle poking a new hole into my finger, then the rough feeling of my blood being rubbed off onto dry paper. I'm not sure how they've kept it dry, but the Capitol must have prepared for rain.

I'm fourteen, but it doesn't seem to faze any of the peacekeepers that my blood wasn't on the registry already. They just took it, stuck my name in the glass bowl, and sent me to stand with the other fourteen-year-olds. I don't understand why it isn't a big deal, but it's not. I go and take my place in the line, wearing my best clothes even though they are now soaked and hanging off of my body. They happen to be the same clothes I showed up in six months ago. I try to keep them pretty decent. I already had to trade my name in for tesserae, and sometimes I can exchange the stuff I get from that for pieces of fabric to patch everything up. Or soap. I'm not good at sewing, but I try. It seems as if my phobia of needles does not extend to them piercing fabric. My clothes probably resemble a pieced together quilt by now, and one stitched together by a five year old at that, but it's the best I can do. In line, I stay quiet and keep my head down. It's hard to be in this place knowing that I came from something better and not understanding how I lost it.

Because sometimes I wake up from dreams with my real memories, things I know I've never seen here but that are familiar. Warm water in a shower. People wearing bright colored clothes, but the designs are not like I see in The Capital on television, they're more suited for everyday living. I have dreams of fighting without the direct intent to kill. I used to practice Krav Maga. It's an Israeli martial art and while you're always supposed to assume you're going to kill somebody, obviously that doesn't happen in classes. These dreams are of a different place, a different kind of world. I wake up with this longing, because I know I'm supposed to be there but something switched out. The table cloth that was California was pulled out from under me, and the table underneath it was District 12. Instead of reading the Hunger Games I'm in it. It makes no sense. Maybe I'm in a coma, or hallucinating. Maybe I'm schizophrenic. I really don't know.

I'm not sure what happened to me. Nobody else in the District remembers me either, so it wouldn't make sense if I've always been here because it's a small District, and somebody would remember. I don't recall anything here past six months ago—that's when I woke up in a ditch covered in dirt. It took me a couple days to figure out what was going on and where I was, and I think that was the first thing that made people mistrust me. Nobody in the district should be unfamiliar with it. I'm commonly referred to as a Mutt. A muttation, a mutant thing sent in from the capital to torment them, although I've never done anything to merit that association. It's not like I have extra arms or anything like that, and I've never had a strange reaction triggered by something random either, so I'm mostly sure the Capital hasn't messed with me. Although maybe I died and have been gene spliced to bring me back to life. Cryogenics, maybe? But it still wouldn't make sense that I've read all of this in books. I could be a psychic, but those aren't real either. Then again, nothing should be real here.

I shiver and fold my arms across my body to shield myself from the cold even a little bit, but the constant onslaught of rain and my chilled clothes pretty much negate that effect. I should stop dwelling on my thoughts and focus more on what's going on around me, but I can't help it. Today especially reminds me of what is wrong with this whole picture. Maybe because it's different from the usual daily life in the district that I've gotten used to. Reaping day is different from daily life for everyone here, and the tension in the air is breathable.

People really do die every year. Kids, like me. It didn't take long for that to become bitterly clear, because a couple weeks after I started to exist here, a mother of one of the tributes who died in the last games committed suicide. A week later her husband followed. It was their only child. Six months ago, I looked around and I knew who would be in the Hunger Games in three years. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Katniss instead of Prim. This year Prim isn't old enough to be in the drawing yet, but I'm in it and so are the two that I know will go to the games one day. We're the same age. They only have two years left after this. At first, I was glad it wasn't me. Now, I wish it was me.

The other teens don't talk to me or go near me. It hurts, but there is no way to stop it. Instead of being with friends during school breaks, I usually borrow the textbooks and read. I didn't really know the history of Panem, all I know is stuff that happened ages ago, and only what was in the books. Maybe. If it ever happened. Sometimes I sing to the mockingjays, singing is something I've been good at for a long time, although it's not completely natural talent because I took voice lessons for four years in California. I teach them rounds, like "row row row your boat." That way when they all sing it sounds really interesting, all of the notes winding around each other. I do it when nobody else is there, I don't want to disturb people. I try to stay out of everyone else's way. I don't belong here, and they know it, and I know it.

I'm not doing a very good job of surviving. I can't tell how much weight I've lost, since I don't have a mirror or a scale, but it's a lot. I tighten my arms across my chest and realize that I my clothes are wet enough and cling to my body enough that I can feel my bones through my skin. It's not like I'm starving on purpose, I eat dandelions when I find them, and since my name is in for tesserae I get some grain and oil every month. A better chance at death is the price you pay to try to stay alive, it's ironic really. I don't really care about that anymore though. If I get pulled this year, I'd feel nothing but relief. I hate living like this. I don't know how to live like this. Maybe I'll volunteer. Today is reaping day after all, a very special day. I should help everyone celebrate by keeping a girl with a family alive through another round of the lottery.

Effie Trinket is our capital representative this year. I guess she actually wasn't last year, but she is now. She'll be here next year too, I know this, and she will be here the year after that when Katniss and Peeta go in. I watch the video, squinting up at it through the rain. It's the same one as last year with slightly different commentary. I can tell because some of the other kids can quote it. I can't. I don't know it well enough. I haven't been here long enough. My stomach churns, twisting that pretzel into tighter knots. Guilt. Effie reaches into the bowl, pulls out a name. I wince as I hear it, watch the girl go up. She's seventeen. Only had one more years to get through, then she would have been safe. I try to make myself say the words, I volunteer, but I can't get my mouth to work right. I'm ashamed. Self-hatred. She's already up there. The boy's name gets chosen. Again I wince, but I can't volunteer for him. I've lost my chance. I deserve to die. I am a disappointment to myself. The girl's family is in a huddle, crying. They know she probably won't come back. I know she definitely won't come back. I deserve to die.

After the peacekeepers let us go, I run to the part of town where people don't go. I'm not sure if they just never went there in the first place, or if it's to avoid me, but I did try to find the most unused part. It's a corner fairly close to the fence. I drop to my knees and I vomit, until the little meal I'd made of dandelions earlier today is no longer part of the contents of my stomach. Today was hard, especially since I understand now that I should be going in to that arena next week. It isn't fair that someone with a family and people that care about them should go. It isn't fair that anybody should go. I stare at my hands. I feel ridiculous. I've never supported teenage angst in writing, but here I am. I laugh out loud, but it's not joyful. It's full of bitterness. My mind works quickly now, in an attempt to work through the angst to a solution. It comes to me. I know where to go.

A few minutes later I'm at the Everdeen house, knocking on the door. Mrs. Everdeen opens it, stares at me like I'm some kind of gaseous poison. I wonder if it's because she thinks I'm a mutt, or if it has something to do with the fact that I'm water-logged and covered in mud. Before I vomited the entire contents of my stomach, the mud was only caked around the hems of my pants and all over my worn out shoes. Now it's slathered over my knees and down my shins, and my hands still have traces of it on them despite being somewhat cleaned by the rain.

"Can I speak to Katniss?" Mrs. Everdeen's eyebrows raise slightly, and she turns from her position in the doorway to call for Katniss. I see a brief glimpse of Prim's wide eyes curiously staring at me before Katniss is at the door. Katniss knows me from school I'm sure. She usually eats alone or with Madge inside, I always eat alone outside. But we share some classes, and since I'm the school's pariah I'm pretty sure that's contributed to my being noticed. Enough people have to know who the outcast is before they can become one.

"Do you want something?" she asks. I look at her. I've calculated it out: I know that mastery of a skill comes after 10,000 hours of working at it. If I practice pretty much all day every day, for the next two years, I might be able to get good enough using the bow and arrow to do damage. I figure I've got some close range training with the Krav Maga, which is not a sissy martial art, but I need distance. Enemies aren't always close range, and when I volunteer, I want to be ready.

"I know you hunt, using a bow and arrow." She looks at me suspiciously, probably wondering if I'm going to turn her in or something. "Will you teach me how to do that?"

"Why should I?" I've expected this, I know from the books that Katniss doesn't really do things unless there's something in it for her.

"I'll practice when you're not using it, or I'll make my own if you want. Anything I kill, it's yours. I'll stick my name in the lottery extra for your whole family. The peacekeepers don't know my last name, nobody does. I'll just say I'm an Everdeen. Bet they won't care, nobody seems to. I don't care if you use it, or if you give it to somebody else, I'll do it."

She stares at me as if trying to figure out if I'm being serious—I don't think she believes me.

"Prove it." She tells me.

"Okay. Let's go." I march to the place where names are traded, and up to the peacekeeper standing there. "I'd like to take out tesserae for the rest of my family please. There's three. I've already got one out for me, but we just don't have enough." The peacekeeper, and Katniss, both stare at me like I'm insane. Maybe I am. Mostly I just don't care if I survive another reaping or not, so it doesn't bother me. The peacekeeper knows I'm not an Everdeen, I don't look like any of them, but he hands me three slips of paper anyways. I'll just say I'm adopted if anybody asks, even though I'm not sure if that happens here. I write my name on each one, Tamsin Everdeen. He takes the slips of paper and puts them into the ball for the girls, which is mostly empty right now. Hands me the tesserae. Directs me to where I can pick up the grain and oil for the rest of my "family."

"After school." Katniss says as we walk back to her house with the months' supply of grain and oil I've got for her whole family. "Where you live." I understand what she is saying. She'll teach me. I nod and help drop the food at her house. Her mom and Prim both stare at me, and then at the food. I smile a little, attempting to not look bloodthirsty, or however I look usually that repels people. Prim smiles back a tiny bit. Then I leave.