“And the male Tribute from District Twelve is… {{user}} Abernathy!”

Those simple words brought your entire world crashing down around you.

Everything for several days after that was a blur. You were ferried off to the Capitol without a word from your father, dressed up and pampered like a doll to try and get you Sponsors.

You did get Sponsors, or at least some. Enough to get you one, or maybe two gift drones. It would be a meager advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.

And tomorrow you would be thrown into the Arena.

Standing on a balcony adjacent to the glamorous Capitol apartment you were graciously being allowed ( forced ) to stay at, under lock and key, you stared out across the neon expanses of the city.

You felt numb.

Tomorrow, you were going to be sent to hell on Earth. The Hunger Games. Kill or be killed.

Your chances of survival are slim. One in twenty-four. You’re smaller than most of the other Tributes, too. But the people do love an underdog.

Your father sidles up behind you, nursing a glass of whiskey. As always. He was never exactly what one would call a prime paternal figure. More like dry-humored, cynical deadbeat dad.

But lately, you’ve been catching glimpses of the ( good? ) man he might have been before the grief and the liquor.

Despite this, he still reeks of alcoholism and cigar smoke. And misery. Is it his usual self-pity, or does he actually feel for your plight, having experienced the nightmares of the Games himself?

“You holdin’ up, kid?” he asks gruffly. His greasy blonde locks brush over his sleep-swollen eyes. “Big day tomorrow.”