One-Chapter-Fan-Fictions by Bree!

It is quiet, apart from the soft chirps of summer birds that are perched on the branches of oaks, birches and pines. The air is humid and warm, stroking the smooth, young faces of the twenty-three tributes that are destined to die and of the one tribute who is to be the Victor--probably a Career.

"Three."

Finch's eyes flit around nervously, taking in her surroundings. Not too far from her is a sturdy-looking backpack, but should she risk it? She decides against it: after all, she isn't very fast, her legs are small and feeble. All she has is her brain, and even that can't seem to hold her together right now. She might appear collected to the others--she certainly hopes she does--but she isn't, not at all. By now, the jagged breath and whimpers of the girl next to her are more than a little audible.

"Two," Claudius Templesmith announces in his heavy, neutral voice. A bird flies up, twittering loudly in protest against all the foreign noise.

Finch crouches and feels sick. What she wants most right now is to run home and snivel until she has no tears left, but instead, she swallows and tries to contain her anxiety within the premises of her pounding heart. They always say that each tribute stands an equal chance: one in twenty-four. She knows this isn't true. It is sick, twisted: Finch is destined to die, just like that little girl from District Eleven; and the nauseous-looking pair from District Five or District Nine; Seven; Eight; Four; and Three don't seem to have luck on their side this year either.

"One."

Everything goes mute around her as she leaps off of her disk, which makes her wonder whether the gong was too loud and possibly made her deaf. She nearly twists her ankle when her feet hit the ground, and from the corner of her eyes she sees Paisley Watt--the girl from District Three--being stabbed by Marvel, the District One tribute. Finch's heart is close to bursting as her arms swing wildly, trying to force her legs to carry her faster to her freedom, which, she reminds herself, is an ironic word to think of right now. Her ginger hair lashes her face like a whip and she is nearly there--the cool air of the forest is right in front of her, she can smell the pine needles and musky dirt, fertile, welcoming and damp, full of edible (and poisenous) plants.

Her mouth is dry as she realizes she has made it--she avoided the bloodbath, she is still alive. For a short moment, she allows herself to take shallow breaths and leans against a tree, the bark aromatic and rough against her pasty skin, soft from the Capitol's pampering.

Ladies and gentlemen, she thinks bitterly, her amber eyes fixed rigidly on the trees next to her as her chest heaves with exhaustion, let the 74th Hunger Games begin.