The Hunger Games; Cosa Nostra

I hope I don't mess these up. >_<

Games Theme: The Godfather 

/oxPOqyrQHMg

RULES

 * I will leave a two tributes maximum per user. I will increase the maximum by one after each week of sign-ups.
 * You can reserve 1 tribute for 144 hours (6 days). All reservations will expire on their designated date at approximately 8:00 AM EST.
 * You can send advice, but you cannot directly influence the storyline. Things like "don't show up to the bloodbath!" or "be careful of !" is fine but I don't want thorough plans; they will be ignored. This is so my content will (mostly) originate from my own ideas.
 * These games will have graphic content, vulgar language, etc. You have been warned.
 * Threats, insults, or anything that can be considered offensive that is directed to other users and myself will not be tolerated under any circumstances. Otherwise, you can be as dirty as your minds want. >:^)
 * You need an account to apply a tribute for a spot in these games (no wikia contributors).
 * Constructive criticism and feedback is great! I will only improve when I notice my mistakes, so point out grammar mistakes/typos or anything that looks out of sorts.

TRIBUTES
The following is required in a tribute template:

TEMPLATE
Name: (First + last)

Age: (12 through 18)

Gender: (Do I have to explain this?)

District: (0 through 15 + Capitol)

Personality: (List/describe traits + characteristics)

Appearance: (Provide visuals and/or written description)

Weapons: (Experience with weaponry)

Strengths: (List/describe skills)

Weaknesses: (List/describe vulnerabilities)

Any other criteria is extra and will surely improve your tributes rate of survival!

GUIDELINES
The following is just pet-peeves :P
 * There will be 30 tributes competing.
 * A tribute template must contain a minimum of 300 words. With tributes reaching 4,000 words in backstories this isn't a restricting rule!
 * Silly or farfetched tributes simply won't be accepted. Any troll tributes (no matter how descriptive) or tributes I feel have absolutely no effort put into despite meeting word count minimum will be rejected. I don't think I will have this problem though.
 * Any tributes submitted in games from my previous account are still eligible! Tributes don't have to be completely brand new either to be submitted; old tributes are accepted and are considered equal to new tributes too.


 * Any tributes representing districts 1, 2, and 4 must have volunteers unless there's an extremely good explanation as why there aren't any. It wouldn't make sense if there weren't any volunteers in a career district; even if that tribute in question being reaped is hated or despised.
 * I'm extremely picky on names. I don't want a name to be extremely generic and common, nor an English word that I can easily distinguish.
 * I will accept siblings, but you should definitely expect one to die early IF the two siblings are extremely reliant on each-other for character development. Of course if the pair of siblings are both creative in their own ways this is a different story.
 * I'm a huuuge sucker for awesome lunaiis. ;u;
 * Quality always beats quantity!
 * A good tribute is only step #1 of the process. Being active is also a necessity, I mean unless you don't want your tribute to win.
 * Finally, I like people that read through the rules/guidelines! In your comment, say "I draft my tribute into the criminal syndicate known as 'Cosa Nostra'." at the very top of your post to signify that you've read to this point.

ALLIANCES
Pre-made alliances are accepted at any point during the pre-games. Afterwards, I may make all adjustments according to the storyline. If there isn't a clear alliance suggested (ie. careers or alone) in their tribute template they will be left in "undecided". If the group training commences and there are still tributes in the undecided category I will make commitments myself in any [Public] alliance or alone. Of course, after group training you will be allowed to adjust your alliances. However, once the games officially begin there will be no alterations made by anyone but the owner.

Note: Tributes from 1, 2, and 4 will automatically be considered 'careers' and will not have to go through a draft while the remainder of tributes will have to pass a form of initiation.

Careers; [Draft]
Ryan (0) [Pending], Carson (1), Joshua (2), Jenny (2), Severus (4), Emilia (4), Calvin (6) [Pending], Felony (7) [Pending], Callimont (8) [Pending], Max (8) [Pending] & Tank (14) [Pending].

Alliance 1; [Private]
Isidore (C), Ursula (C) & Wiona (11).

Alliance 2; [Private]
Signors (3), Lupin (9) & Lucia (12).

Alliance 3; [Private]
Ia (3) & Clara (6).

Alliance 4; [Private]
Yun (5) & Charity (14).

Alliance 5; [Private]
Jason (10) & Belle (13).

Alliance 6; [Private]
Melvin (11) & Opal (15).

Alone;
Luna (0), Ashlynn (1), Arya (5), Arvore (7), Profecía (9), Sharlene (10), Caesar (12), Lucario (13) & Apio (15).

[Public] means tributes can freely join this alliance without permission.

[Draft] means tributes can freely join this alliance, but must pass an initiation (this usually depends on the tribute template).

[Private] means this tribute must seek permission from the majority of the alliance.

[Pending] means this tribute is currently seeking permission into this alliance, or has been requested into this alliance and waiting for a response.

PART ONE
Part One will consist of REAPINGS and GROUP TRAINING DAY ONE & TWO.

REAPINGS
The reapings will be told from 6 PoVs.

Ryan Barton of District 0
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Avery asks once more before I depart for the eternity to come. Avery never interfered with my desires of volunteering, but recently she's been accumulating concern. Her gracious, good-hearted nature has always been centered around me and those around her. That's one of the reasons why I love her. Even when she doesn't directly express that amiable personality, I'm the only person that can see through her like a translucent barrier and locate her true feelings of compassion. That kind of bond is one only a brother and sister can share.

"I've never been so sure about anything in my life." I reassure Avery smoothly. Avery softly exhales before gazing off into the distance, focused on nothing in particular excluding her own thoughts. I never imagined how my reaping would affect Avery, which is why I have to fight for her.

"Are you coming?" I nudge her, catching her attention. Avery glances into my eyes for the slightest second before looking down to the ground, twirling her hair.

"No, I'll go later. There's something I want to do first before I go." Avery stutters, folding her arms. Abruptly, Avery lunges towards me arms opened and strangles the life out of me in a tight embrace. I merrily chuckle and pat her head.

"I've got something myself I have to do." I state, before hushing Avery to the side and travel to the family den. There, my intoxicated mother is drowning within her alcoholic addiction. I have a smoking fixation of my own, but I never let my obsessions vastly interfere with my lifestyle. On the other hand, my mother's compulsion for liquor drained the vigor from her soul. I barely know the woman like I used to in my adolescence years. She's used methanol and booze to offer satisfaction through her personal dilemmas while simultaneously creating more complications for everyone around her. The burden she has placed on her children is inexcusable. When I return from The Hunger Games, I'll invite Avery to accompany me in a life of luxury while my mother can wither and succumb to drinking. The day she keels over from alcoholism is a day I will look forward to.

"What are you still doing here? Get to the reapings you miserable brat!" The witch belligerently barks, raising her jug of cider for a lengthy chug. Her breath reeks of an unquestionably abhorrent odor. I can't help but clench my nose to repel the smell.

"You can't oversee what I do; not now, not ever. A stubborn, ludicrous streetwalker like you will never tell me what to do!" I retaliate, swiping her dry jug from her pointed claws.

"You know what? Just die! And when you do, I'll savor every fucking second of your death!" The demon hell-spawn blathers, blabbering nonsense from the mouth that just won't shut. I'm convinced that my mother enjoys afternoon tea with Satan himself when she's supposedly working in the local market. With the wage she brings home I wouldn't be surprised if she scavenged the streets for lost change after expending all our cash reserves on her alcohol addiction.

"If I do end up dying in the arena, I'll die happily knowing my miserable, pathetic mother is poisoning herself to death!" I declare, smashing the glass chalice into millions of pieces. A shower of crystal fragments hailed over the room, particularly directed to the grotesque ghoul cowering in front of me. She wails in agony as if I was torturing her, I have a theory that if I laid a finger on her precious skin she'd suffer an immense convulsive attack and collapse from shock.

"I'll be the last one laughing when I rebound into Victor's Village and you keel over from your drinking fetish." I depart from the room, abandoning my distraught mother who I hope to never encounter again. I pass by Avery once more before leaving for the reapings. I can immediately tell she doesn't approve of my actions. Nevertheless, we still share a strong brother and sister bond despite my mother's complication.

"I give you my word, I'm not volunteering for my own personal needs but for yours instead. I'm going to win these games and bring pride to our family and give you the life you deserve. You believe me, right?" I cheerfully console her. Avery skeptically nods, but still shows uncertainty and apprehension. Despite these feelings, she fights through and mutters a single phrase.

"I'm going to miss you." Avery quietly says as I step out of the door. I spin around and flash a toothy smile.

"Don't be! I'm not going to be gone for long." Those are my very last words before I walk away from the home I've lived in for eighteen years. I hold no regrets on my shoulders and march away with my self-respect and dignity. I light a cigarette and enjoy a peaceful walk by myself to the district square.

Okay maybe I have a few regrets. My first one is tangling myself with this mess of an escort. The moment he strides onto stage he welcomes the audience with a hearty belch before rewarding himself with another swig of liquor. The sole fact that he buries his hardships with alcohol makes me utterly despise him. His hair is a metallic, shiny shade of silver. His bedhead hairstyle and unkempt stubble exhibits his lack of hygiene. The man's dark grey overcoat and deep navy, black scarf doesn't resemble attire from the Capitol which makes him a bit more tolerable. Too bad his attire is smeared with grime and filth. Does this escort have no priority in sanitation?

"Good morning, peasants!" The escort booms into the microphone, before exploding with arbitrary laughter. "I am Bukowski and I will be signing off two of your children to an unequivocal death!" At least he will make things somewhat interesting for me. Unfortunately, he will be forced to choke on his own words when I return to the arena. Bukowski stumbles across the platform in a drunken stupor, nearly knocking over the reaping bowl. I don't know why the Capitol hired a clumsy fool like him.

"Despina Ma'awiya." Bukowski announces with frequent stutters in his speech attempting to pronounce the tribute's name incorrectly. A young, distraught damsel emerges from the crowd overwhelmed in anxiety. She begins her journey towards the podium but fails her pilgrimage and capitulates to her panic and despair. Despina crouches holding her knees towards her stomach, refusing to move.

"I volunteer!" A crackling voice blasts throughout the horde of people. Despina's savior surfaces from the ocean of citizens. A mature woman with a daunting flare in her deep green eyes breaks for the stage. Her curly auburn locks flow like the wind trailing behind her head, tangling in the gusts of air in the cold winter. This woman appears physically competent however doesn't present to have owned a penny in her life; as if she's suddenly appeared from the frigid wilderness of the unknown. The new female tribute plants the soles of her slippers on the platform with her arms crossed, suggesting a serious demeanor. She must've summoned great courage to volunteer for a minor. Suddenly, her genuine, sincere personality twisted into a whole new character as she swiped the microphone from Bukowski's grasp and began irritatingly cackling.

"Listen here and listen well, because this is the name you will remember for centuries! My name is Luna Tick and I am going to win these games!" Luna barrages the audience with her tone. I initially perceived her with to be a vigilant and caring person. I'm sure most of the attending civilians still view her this way, although I can examine past her masquerade. I'm not entirely sure of her motives, but I know Luna has a few tricks and mysteries stowed away in her back pocket. The profound flicker sparking in her jade iris' makes me question who this person really is. In retaliation of Luna's action, Bukowski throws a tantrum and retrieves his mic and stomps towards the next reaping bowl. Before Bukowski can select a ballot, I seal my fate.

"I volunteer!" I roar, jogging up to the stage. Luna flashes a charming, lovable smile, waving at her tribute counterpart. I'm about to revoke my thought of Luna concealing a different side to her personality until her grin turns into a menacingly stare for a split second. I blink twice and shake my head, trying to convince myself my imagination is distorting reality. I peer off into the distance, trying to locate Avery. Nowhere in sight, but I am absolutely certain Avery is hidden in the distance monitoring my every move, giving me motivation as I sought for well deserved triumph; not only for me but for her too.

"Wow, maybe District Zero isn't screwed after all." Bukowski mumbles sarcastically. "What's your name, kid?"

"Ryan Barton, and I-" Bukowski cuts me off by yanking the microphone away from my voice, ending the reapings abruptly.

"There you have it folks, Ryan Barton and Luna Tick. Show's over." Bukowski hushes the two of us away and begins to clear out in a hurry. His enthusiasm is burning my soul from the inside-out. As District Zero begins to evacuate the plaza, Luna and I pursue for Bukowski, which didn't take much efforts as Bukowski's stumbling barely allowed him to walk. The both of us assist our deplorable escort to the train station. I'm not too sure how long I can survive at the Capitol. Bukowski is a constant reminder of my mother, the out-dated fossil that gave up on life.

I find myself an occupant in a shuttle compartment filled with great riches all to my expose. Bukowski vanished into his quarters, probably to vomit his misery. To hell with him. Luna marked her territory at the opposite end of the room, befriending the kitchen knife sitting at a polished counter. They're having make-belief conversations and I'm pretty sure Luna spread her filthy tongue across the sharp blade. Occasionally, Luna will gawk at my direction and rupture with a thundering laugh. She's a fucking creep, but much tolerable than my sad excuse for an escort. I couldn't have forecast such an odd predicament such at this, every second in this chaos makes my longing for Avery's support increase. The two of us contrast in such a way, but I believe the conflicting traits we posses develop our bond further. It's unusual that Avery's no longer by my side, that the double cherry we once were became forced apart after we were both ripped off the stem that connected us.

I won't let impediment conquer me. After all, I'll reunite with Avery in a matter of weeks.

Signors Stalingrad of District 3
''Today is reaping day. Ordinarily this festivity is shunned by the community, but enduring this tradition is a sacrifice worth to make. I'll bear hardship at all expenses to ensure Hitomi's life. China's one child policy threatened to strip Hitomi's existence. Our family with minimal alternatives fled to Panem, viewing their lands as a sanctuary for Hitomi. A natural beauty at birth. A reincarnated, advanced female version of myself. Hitomi was destined to achieve vast accomplishment. She was the heroine that fueled Panem with hope, she might've even had the potential to overthrow the Capitol's tyranny and establish peace to our nation. She had the capacity to fulfill prodigious revolution and create the continuity of balance in society. A seed of jealousy sprouted within my mentality, but that grain of envy flourished into love and compassion for my wonderful sister.''

''The present-day marks Hitomi's introduction to the reapings. I confidently reassured her that a single ballot symbolized a threat of no value. Nevertheless, Kimi and I offered her comfort. I can correlate Hitomi's situation to mine. The agitation and nervousness stirred until boiling point. With the mental support from my family and friends, I fought through my first reaping. I am sanguine that Hitomi will have a similar, if not enriched and optimistic approach on the topic of her reapings. She would never grant permission such a crude and savage ceremony, however Hitomi can present a pragmatic, stoic disposition while heartening others despite apprehension of The Hunger Games.''

''Kimi, my childhood friend, I thought we had permanently separated. The verifiable reality that she hunted for a future with me warms my heart. There's somebody that sincerely welcomes every fiber of my being, including the disfigured, loathsome, revolting creature I was in my prior years. My complexion repulsed everything in sight, excluding Kimi. She surveyed beyond my bloodcurdling appearance and focused on my innermost traits. I'm a human being, just like everyone else. Only Kimi seemed to immediately realize this. Never have I experienced courteous conduct from others my age group. I ultimately migrated to Panem, but Kimi trailed soon after. I'm forever appreciative of charitable and supportive nature.''

''Our trio established a time and place to meet before departing for the district square. Kimi, Hitomi, and I complied to arrive at the reapings together. With my two closest companions by my side... we could take on the plaza. We could take on the country. We could take on the world. Nothing could go wrong.''

I'm drenched from the downpour of drizzle. The chapeau situated on my scalp fails to cushion the torrent of rain, rather adding extra weight after becoming soggy and saturated. Bystanders hovering umbrellas over their hands gaze at the poor boy submerged in the rainstorm. I've an umbrella myself; I choose not to bring one. I try imagining my lost comrades by my side, but the horrid reality remains the same. Hitomi died a long time ago. She burst home one night tainted with wounds and blemishes. Healing and recovering was impractical at that moment in time, as one of several injuries were visibly discolored and swelled. A destructive toxin had entered her system and had circulated throughout her body. Hitomi died of the fatal laceration briefly after. Hitomi's passing struck like a lightning bolt to a tree. My brain fried from the inside-out, scorching the tissue into a crisp. The psychological suffering left an perpetual scar, yet that blemish only marked the dawning of agonizing misery.

I refuse to accept Kimi being Hitomi's assassin. The idea has been bombarded countless of times. As time elapses I plunge myself into everlasting denial. Subsequently, a rift severs myself from reality as I create a make-shift world to my ideal. I must face the truth with an iron fist. However, even after Kimi's confession to her crimes, I can still put faith in her. I'd like to believe Kimi's guilt and regret compelled Kimi to acknowledge her wrongdoings and accept consequences. I cannot forget Kimi's betrayal, but I can learn to face reality by the horns and move on. The burden of abandoning the only girl that recognized the identity behind my mask pains me, but there is no other alternative.

Upon arrival at the district square, a crowd accumulates, hectic in conversation. I recognize several people from my academy. Students seem to cling onto me like glue, although I never attempt to construct bonds with my peers. Especially considering that under my original identity, I can guarantee nobody bothered to make eye-contact. My name is Alexai and I am a social outcast in society. I possessed the talent to disgust and revolt anyone within a fifty foot radius. All you had to do is gaze at my deformity. Excluding my family and Kimi, not one soul ever acknowledged my beliefs and opinions. Bullies easily absconded from the scene as free men, while I received punishment instead. This complication reached the brink of dilemma where I was expelled and removed from my environment. I now live under false alias. I've lived incognito under a spurious character that never existed. After disguising into a new person, I've received all my desires I've yearned in the past. But I haven't resolved anything; I'm still an outcast pursuing shelter under the skin of someone else. I am Signors and at the same time, I am not Signors.

"Attention! All eyes at center! I am Corporal Prochorus and I am your senior drill instructor!" Prochorus commands us, saluting the district. Our escort's apparel is composed of a full cameo military uniform. Prochorus' impersonating an instructor from a military camp, though he somehow got stuck as District Three's escort.

"From now on, you will only speak when spoken too! And the first and last words out of your filthy mouths when speaking to me will be sir! Do you understand?!" Prochorus viciously roars. The gathering of people respond in utter stillness. Prochorus scowl's at the lack of recognition for his authority. The savage sergeant raises a revolver and fires a plank into the air, filling the atmosphere with a reverberating blast.

"I SAID DO YOU FUCKING WORTHLESS MAGGOTS UNDERSTAND!?" Prochorus ferociously thunders, trembling the district with his wicked bellow. Spectators strife to regain their balance, finally comprehending the intensity of the situation.

"Sir, yes, sir!" The crowd of eligible tribute candidates chant in unity, propelling their right hands to their forehead to demonstrate respect. Prochorus seemingly satisfied nods in approval.

"I will conscript two of you insignificant, filthy pests to fight for our country! When I call your name, you'd best march your ass up here or you'll be dead before you reach the arena!" Prochorus walks with great deliberation to the girl's reaping bowl. His sleek black gloves roughly clench a ballot.

"Sir, I volunteer... sir!" A feminine voice yells from the posterior of the gathering. A dazzling, gorgeous girl arises from the crowd. Her sinuous straw-berry blond curls swathe gracefully around her shoulders and extend to her slender hips. Despite her alluring presence, she appears watchful and cautious as she strolls past the masses of people. Everyone anxiously examines this woman, gasping in what I initially recognized as awe. Studying their expressions, I can only conclude that their reactions reflect the fear swelling in their minds. I cannot distinguish this particular lady; she's another anonymous stranger. Yet the undeniable fact lingers that this woman and District Three share an undesirable relationship that I'm unaware of. Her dim crystalline cyan eyes shed ache and strain, quickly avoiding the judgmental glares of her neighbors and departs for the platform with feverish haste.

"Ah, so we have a volunteer! What is your name, private?" Prochorus enthusiastically booms. His devotion for this girl is prominent. Enlisting into combat has surely won over Prochorus' favouritism, but with erroneous purpose. It is no mystery that this woman hasn't volunteered for The Hunger Games because she is certain of success; only few can discern that matter. Her true intentions of volunteering remain conclusive. What ambitions have compelled her to volunteer?

"Sir, Ia Stone. S-sir..." Ia skeptically utters under her breath. She's sincerely attained a loss for words. Ia hopelessly tries to block the subjective, intuitive convictions she is indirectly besieged by the swarm of citizens shooting disowning frowns. She is desperately evading a specific force or movement in particular, but what influence has rendered Ia dazed in stigma and regret? Why did she volunteer in the first place?

"I except remarkable progress in the arena, cadet! You'll do our country justice!" Prochorus announces, patting his latest prodigy on the shoulders. Ia scarcely manages a fabricated smile, though doesn't seem to be savoring the dilemma she's in. Prochorus patrols to the counterpart reaping bowl as Ia cautiously distances herself with District Three's hysterical escort. She steadies herself against the wall, clasping her scalp and covering her ears although district persists in complete silence.

"Signors Stalingrad" I become stunned, but not initially from panic. A few classmates heave in reaction to hearing my name. It doesn't matter; they'd show little sympathy if Alexai was reaped. I contemplate the future to come as well as the revelation of my past. I relive a new era with Hitomi and commemorate her compassion and generosity. When Hitomi bestowed her open wounds trickling with blood I couldn't grant her with cheerful, comforting words. Being naive and ignorant just to feed your inner-subconsciousness with pleasant lies leave you prone to the harsh authenticity of the real world. I cannot change fate; it is impractical to ignore the promenade that is destined no matter what grief and suffering it may await. That is the analysis behind my observations that lead to my actions; to inform Hitomi of her calamitous condition and its catastrophic repercussions. Hitomi clung onto life with every grain of strength but ultimately capitulated to serve poisoning, presumably by a sharp, blunt weapon dipped in poison. Now she's gone. Maybe... I'll join her soon.

"Behold, your courageous representatives of District Three! Signors Stalingrad and Ia Stone!" Prochorus orders Ia and I in a row of two and leads a march to the train station. He stubbornly refuses to use the Capitol limousine and governed a forty minute three-person parade. Prochorus also insists on a marching cadence.

"I don’t know, but it’s been said," Prochorus earnestly shouts to the melody.

"I don’t know, but it’s been said," Ia and I blandly recite afterwards.

"Air force wings are made of lead!"

"Air force wings are made of lead!"

"I don’t know, but I’ve been told,"

"I don’t know, but I’ve been told,"

"Navy wings are made of gold!"

"Navy wings are made of gold!"

I collapse from fatigue upon arrival at the terminal. Prochorus promptly scolds me for "slacking off". I don't bother retaliating; I just want to rest. Luckily, Ia makes a bee-line to her room, peculiarly hastily. Her facial expressions implies an ongoing feud with nervousness. Ia piercingly slams her door shut... wait no. The shuttle doors automatically close with sensors. Did Ia barricade the door? Prochorus wishes us great luck before disappearing as well, leaving me unattended in the dining cart.

I'm treasuring the twinkling tiny stars in the tenebrous twilight, sipping warm herbal tea soothed by the delicate rumble of the train's engine. That and the thundering grumble and monstrous growl booming from Ia's residence. The untamed beast contests its confined territory in an endeavor to withdrawal from its chamber and ravage everything in its midst. I proposed assisting Ia, but a sturdy structure fortified the gateway. Unfortunately should the snarling continue, sleeping would be impossible. As Ia's dormitory is separated from mine with a single wall, the ferocious pounding reverberated between rooms. What's happening in there?

Arya Heller of District 5
"Wow! It's beautiful!" Lola begins chanting, waving her index finger at the daybreak emerging over the horizon. She appears enthralled by the captivating scenery judging by her mighty laugh and contagious smile. District Five is populated by manufacturing plants and other factories and industries; often sunrises are rare due to the high quantities of smog in the sky. I'm estimating that humans often find such uncommon situations extraordinary, but when I glimpse towards the skyline I can only perceive the sun repeating its daily, normal routine by basking upon our city.

"I don't get it..." I affirm, utterly perplexed. Lola jokingly giggles at my remark. I could never comprehend how one can appreciate the little things we encounter, while Lola can comfortably recognize and uphold the worth and value of various concepts that I would normally dismiss from thought. I didn't favor my instinct to nonchalantly shed the significance of something. That is just how my brain has been wired.

"Look at it this way; it isn't just perceiving things as pretty to trigger happy emotions, you have to factor in the people you spend time with too during cherished memories." Lola declares, lifting her chin and nudging my elbow. She urges me to scan the sunrise once more. I manage to form a slight grin. After a decade, I've gradually uncovered the mysteries of life itself. I have bee diagnosed as an apathetic individual at birth and I've never had an accurate grasp on emotion. I would've never anticipated a future where I could desire or care for something, frankly at the time I would've accepted the fact. Without meeting Lola, I would've carried out the remainder of my perfunctory existence without purpose. Lola has blessed me with an alternative mindset and I'm eternally indebted. Lola's eyes train on a few dozen peacekeepers organized in files, marching towards the District square. Her demeanor noticeably drains of joy.

"Is there something wrong? The peacekeepers are only there for reaping day." I state, trying to provoke an upbeat mood. The annual reapings never seemed to concern me. The possibility of Lola and I being elected as tribute are very slim. The general idea of The Hunger Games slipped from thought.

"That's the problem." Lola sighs, exhaling the remainder of delight brought from the break of dawn. "The Capitols' tyranny isn't justified. The Hunger Games goes against any interpretations of social justice. How can these games possibly convey peace when their declaration forces children across the nation to fight to the death?" Lola cringes at the very thought of the reaping. I agree with her statement, but there's simply no realistic possible course of action I can take in order to fulfill her request of the oblivion of The Hunger Games; especially with apathetic individualism. District Five frankly has no influence in comparison to the Capitol. The Hunger Games has been the icon of our society for generations despite its infamous reputation. The mortality of this tradition would be a great step-forward to the flourish of Panem, but with the imbalance of jurisdiction currently leaves the districts at no state to rebel. Besides, my initial impulse is to not become embroiled; that's all I can manage.

"There's no need to worry; reaping day will be done before you know it." I console her to insufficient outcome. I can't possibly comprehend bliss sentiment, how can I influence elation on my companions?

Fast-forwarding to noon, I'm accompanied with Lola at the reapings. She's exhibited a glamorous, aquamarine semi-formal gown. I generate emphasis with my plain violet tank-top, contradicting amongst the business casual gathering. I've never understood adjusting your attire according to the occasion, as the apparel you wear won't directly affect anything in the long-run. Lola and I exchanged mere small talk throughout the duration to our destination, reaping day drastically changed the overall tone of our relationship making conversation quiet and awkward. At a young age, I accustomed and grew upon isolating myself from other orphans at the orphanage I was thrown into, so I don't mind the current circumstances. I'm confident that after reaping day, Lola will return to her cheerful self.

I stand next to Lola during the reaping in an attempt to comfort her, which is fairly ironic considering I've been dependent on her since forever. Our district escort dances onto the stage. Her hair is gigantic, fluffy, and tinted a dull emerald. The rest of her appearance also employs a shade of green, but her afro is the most prominent feature. The escort egotistically expresses great pride in her physical characteristics, but I honestly believe she resembles an over-sized broccoli floret.

"Greetings to all, it is so wonderful that everyone has come out for this special occasion! You can call me Antonietta and I will be your escort today!" Antonietta sings using an excessive amount of hand gestures. Her enthusiasm is enough to accommodate the disinterest and lethargy of the audience.

"Let's get a move on, we're on a schedule!" Antonietta gallops off and fishes through a reaping bowl, taking an incredible amount of time disregarding her previous assertion. I can faintly hear Lola grinding her teeth under horrid tension. If I were to be elected in this raffle, I'd be oddly more willing to accept my fate compared to the rest of the potential tributes standing before me. The context of life has always been a disorientated blur in my eyes. That won't cease a noble fight, but the possibilities of death lurking at my doorstep won't bring panic. The afterlife is a passage that everyone will cross.

"Lola Heller!" Antonietta serenades harmoniously following an eruption of a one man- or woman applause. My heart sinks into a black chasm. I can't recall ever experiencing such a hollow mentality. A parasite blossoming with anguish and misery devours my organs and feasts upon my flesh. This virus swelling in my veins, chilled my neurons and rendered me momentarily paralyzed. What is this mental state of hopelessness and despair? My entire life has revolved around Lola. To me, she symbolizes a momentum that surpasses the title of 'sister'. If she is reaped now, I'll lose purpose in my existence. I owe my life to her.

"I volunteer!" I holler. The entire crowd draws their undivided attention towards me. We don't normally receive volunteers from District Five. My physical appearance is average, but mediocre compared to career tributes who dedicate every moment to improving their strength in preparation for The Hunger Games. I can merely sense the curiosity amongst the assembly, pondering the potential I have that can impact this years games. A hand extends gripping my forearm and preventing any other further movement. Lola is hauling my wrist away from my possible demise. She's making no efforts to repress her tears; her sniffling is audible across the horde of citizens.

"Why... why did you do that?!" Lola complains in between shallow breathes. "You didn't have to volunteer for me! I don't want you to leave! Please, don't go... don't leave me!" She embraces my arm in futile attempts to forbid my departure. Her salty tears stain my arms. Everyone is catching Lola's contagious cries. To ease the situation, I return the hug.

"Growing up, I never had the ability to posses personal interest towards, well anything. That all changed when I met you. You've given me moral and purpose in this world. Without any of that, my life would substantially end. If you are reaped today, I don't know what I would do." Lola shakes and trembles under the pressure of the reaping. She attentively soaks in every single syllable of my oath. "I couldn't have asked for a more loyal friend. You not only helped me endure my obstacles and struggles, but aided the recovery of my impairments. I've finally sought significance in my life and I couldn't have accomplished that feat without you. If I let you bid your farewells I'll never be the same. So please, let me do this. For you." Lola tries to quarrel her emotions but ultimately ends up choking back tears.

"You promise that you will come back?" Lola whispers in a seemingly tranquil tone. clenching onto my hands like no tomorrow.

"Of course. I'll try my best." Lola doubtfully nods, releasing my arms from her clutches. I persist my journey towards the stage, where my surprisingly anxious escort shoves her atrocious microphone in my face. Initially, I never understood the constant fear of The Hunger Games. After this short episode, I've now recognized why this traditional practice is looked down upon by the Districts of Panem. The ghoul wrenching my heart no longer lingers in my skeleton, but its footprints imported a constant reminder of heartache. Repentance is a dynamic force, considering the element was so foreign beforehand.

"Hello darling! What's your name?" Antonietta happily chirps. I anxiously observe the crowd whom are waiting for my response. I can pin-point Lola, who's sought relief from our parents who mingle amongst the back of the congregation.

"...Arya." I mutter. "Arya Heller." I begin to process my future and zone out. My desire to live is fueled by the opportunity to reunite with Lola and offer a better lifestyle; my own safety is irrelevant. However, without Lola's stability how will I manage? Will I spiral out of physical and mental control?

"Yun Zhao!" Antonietta chimes, ushering our male tribute to the stage. Yun's physical attributes are uncommon in Panem, let alone District Five. Yun is far from a Capitol freak, yet he doesn't match any other typical resident in District Five either. His height is equivalent to mine, but his body mass is somewhat lighter than mine. Yun addresses my presence with an irregular bow and broadens his hands which I hesitatingly shake. I examine his facial features and recognized extensive and immense scars flying across his face, resembling the claws of a tiger. I assume his appearance is for cultural practice.

"Your tributes from District Five; Yun Zhao and Arya Heller!" Antonietta cheers, assuming responsibility of applauding for our spectators. Yun and I exchange glances before Peacekeepers overwhelm and seize us. The Capitol doesn't give us last minute of rekindle with our loved ones. A whole new era flashes before my eyes. All the meaningful connections I've composed dissolves without second thought. A gulf consumes the compassion in my consciousness until I detach from my surroundings. Lola's spirit still exists but in a darkened, murky crater. I crave for her moral support, but alas she's dissociated far from my grasp.

I tread into the steel shuttle and watch as I put miles in between myself and my habitation. Antonietta fortuitously scraped her glossy olive nails on the shuttle entryway and had a panic attack. She scampered to her dormitory, mourning over her fractured nails. Yun situated himself directly across from me, propping his feet on the porcelain coffee table.

"Protecting your sister while keeping your cool in front of all those people was quite noble of you. You'll surely be rained by sponsors in the arena." Yun sympathetically remarks, chewing on a jawbreaker.

"I don't see it as much. I couldn't have reacted any different." I stammer, shrugging and fidgeting with my fingers. I'm unable to design a future ideal to my desires. I naturally float where the wind blows and my typical tendencies are to follow given options instead of creating my own. That all changed when Lola inflicted value in my life. Her exertions to provide a future for me still exist; in that sense Lola remains by my side. As long as I am alongside Lola, I will persist my skirmishes and prevail through my struggles. That is my goal. No... that is my promise.

Clara Willows of District 6
I unhook the compartment in the shuttle where luggage is stored. The suitcase repository is vacant. Naturally, of course it is. This train is preparing for departure. I exhale as a pair of trucks hoisting horse-carriage components maneuver adjacent to the train station. Each chariot depletes three boxes and seventeen carriages are needed in total for the annual chariots; in total fifty-one packages have to be stashed into the cargo department. This is going to take all day...

Vigorous, manual labor has been my specialty since my migration to District Six. Where I once hailed is irrelevant now, furthermore I will massacre whoever interrogates me about my origin. Haha, just kidding. Seriously though, don't bother questioning me; it's for the best. I fled my previous district for liberation from my pitiful past. I can finally commence a new era of existence where I can discover myself. I've developed into an independent lifestyle and grown to involve little reliance in others. I employed into various transportation occupations to make a living and habituated to be the sovereign of my decisions.

Although I haven't isolated myself from all interaction. Otherwise I would've lost my sanity long ago. I've simply found that operating as a single unit may require excruciating effort but presents abundant low-risk benefits. The leverage of tension and turbulence from loved ones shackles me like hand-cuffs; those relationships are better to go without. No... I don't concede with that statement. I'm attempting to brainwash myself from my prior traumas. Another conjured technique I'm experimenting to bypass, well, everything. I truly despite this solution. The constant headaches have only been indirectly clarified to little degree. If I want symbolic and meaningful progress, I must confront my past directly. But how will I do that?

Alvaro, my co-worker, assists my aim to lug the chariot pieces for transport. He consistently drones about his precious newborn children. Alvaro is rather pretentious and pompous of his unconditional life resolution to provide for his idolized offspring. Overhearing Alvaro's miraculous, impeccable family relationship prompts the reminiscence of my brother, Hawthorne. His sole company heartened my spirit with strength and durability. The two of us were eternally soul-linked in a bond thicker than blood. What I can only classify as fate united us. Now, destiny has scattered us in opposite realms as if mocking my faith towards Hawthorne. To think Hawthorne could neglect the years we've braced life together makes me want to bawl all over again. The scars smearing my forearms are constant reminders of the agony and misery after Hawthorne's sudden takeoff. I'm desperately trying to flee the anguish but despair has yet to cease its authoritarianism over my conscience.

"My son and daughter have been nervous about the reapings. They promised to protect each other during the ceremony. They're far from reaping age, but it's cute how innocent children can be." Alvaro spontaneously raves, going into great depth of his family. I do give credit when its due. Alvaro is approximately ten years older than I am. To bear such responsibility at a youthful maturity is quite remarkable considering he is a single father.

We collaborate and conspire in such a way to make challenging tasks a piece of cake. Our work environment consists of no communication, yet we can function in such a way that some could supposedly assume we could interpret each others actions. That is, if you exclude Alvaro's repetitive chatter of family-related matters as communicating.

"Hey, Clara. If you're not going to the reapings with anyone my family and I would love your company." Alvaro pitches in, trying to lighten up the atmosphere. I'm not one to regulate the flow of conversation after losing Hawthorne. I've grown pessimistic and began to confine myself from society. Only recently have I decided to manufacture a new identity in Panem. Still, attentively listening is much tolerable compared to striking a discussion of my own.

"Uhm... sure. Yeah, I'll come." I uncertainly reply, mustering enough energy to generate a merely perceptible tone. Accompanying Alvaro isn't the worst of suggestions. At the present moment, Alvaro is one of few I can consider friends. I'm appreciative of Alvaro's witty personality and ability to pass time and improve the working environment. After packing the final parcels into the cargo department, our supervisor dismisses Alvaro and I early due to reaping precautions. It's refreshing and soothing that Alvaro will attend to what will be my final stance in District Six.

"Excuse me, Miss Willows?" Alvaro's little angel Lucasta inquires, tugging on my elbow. "Does daddy ever talk about me at work?" She props herself against me like we've been childhood buddies, granting we've introduced each other hours earlier. Lucasta's chastity and purity gleams an infectious aura of happiness. It's comforting knowing Alvaro's parenting supervision strives beyond the call of duty.

"Mhm! All the time!" I enthusiastically allege. That's no exaggeration either, in fact that declaration hasn't been magnified enough to be the least bit adequate. Lucasta's complexion flares with bliss and laughter. Modest, friendly gestures never refrain from fascinating the fresh, sparkling minds of children. I remember once being like that. Those days have vanished long ago.

"Buenos Dias, District Six! I'm Emilia, your escort for this years installment of The Hunger Games!" An eye-catching spirit and vibrant appearance, although Emilia clearly doesn't have characteristics parallel to the Capitol's fashion. The regime's ambiguous coercion cannot penetrate her strong-willed mind. At first glance she is the pilot of her cruiser and can navigate her crew past the turbulence of the vortex consuming the sea. She'll commit to her responsibilities as not just an escort, but a mentor too.

"I'll begin with the female lottery." Emilia announces eagerly, quickly pulling a ballot out of the bowl. "Eleanor Arden!" A petite, adorable girl emerges from the crowd trembling from the top of her scalp to the tips of her pinky toes. Her forehead flushes a pale blue, her breath drawing short and beads of sweat dribbling from her temple. This is my chance.

"I volunteer." I declare, serenely approaching the tribute podium where Emilia greets me with a heartfelt, genuine smile. The damsel attempts to smother her suffering as her mother plucks her cherished, loving daughter in a warm embrace, capturing the sentiment of thousands.

"My name is Clara Willows and I volunteer for this years Hunger Games." I officially publish, locking my eyes with the glass of a camera planted on a tripod focusing to capture me in the spotlight. Through these lenses, the nation spectates the election of children being prepared for their likely sacrifice. Hawthorne, are you watching? It's relieving to finally cross paths once more. A myriad of centuries have lapsed since our last encounter. I aspire for the utmost in your life. Many miserable nights were spent sinking my head into my pillow immersing in ultimate anguish and pain. Times have change. I've grown physically and mentally stronger; I won't need your bothersome meddling anymore. Not since all feelings of tenderness I treasured blossomed to reveal the lies written in between the lines, after you forsaken our pact to support one another.

As for you, my resentful father. Your timeless grudge against the world never ceases to falter. The blemishes scarring my skin narrate the corruption and injustice that plagued my childhood. I somewhat share sympathy for the hostility rotting in your soul. Your life revolved around surrendering to fear and masking your cowardice in aggression and promiscuity. Fortunately the excruciating suffering I've endured I learned how to assert my position and uphold my views and understandings. Hopefully when I enter the arena I'll create an identity in Panem and clarify this biased, tendentious society. Emilia regards my "courage" to volunteer before snapping her attention to the boy's lottery.

"Outta my way, I volunteer!" A man thrashes in the audience, bulldozing past unsuspecting crowd-goers that tumble to the side. A red headed brute causing a commotion amongst the audience and snags the microphone stand from Emilia. "I am Calvin Barton, your next victor!" Calvin cries out, beaming as if expecting a burst of applause. What a modest fellow, I sarcastically ponder. Calvin immediately extends his hand to shake mine, with a snarky sneer spread across his face. His love for adrenaline is fueled by his egotistical personality, although that's not surprising for most volunteers.

"District Six, your tributes; Calvin Barton and Clara Willows!" Emilia reports, signaling the closure of the reapings. "Alright guys, let's keep moving forward. After all, that's all we can do right?"

The reapings and District Six are all distant memories of the past. Calvin, Emilia and I have been on-board a Capitol shutter for hours now. Calvin's self-absorbed, cocky demeanor makes conversation very irritating. I'm certain Calvin will dart for the careers; alliance negotiation with him isn't favourable at the moment. My mind swirls around the thought of Hawthorne. Certainly, my reaping has been broadcasted across Panem and Hawthorne is fully aware about my participation in the Hunger Games. Is he mourning my possible demise in the arena, or does he not care at all?

Emilia's demonstrated to be a cooperative, friendly escort and possibly a crucial ally in the Capitol. She's engaged us in battle tactics and survival skills, as though Emilia herself once competed in the arena. Remarkably, she mannerly addressed and criticized Calvin's self-centered ego. Calvin in retaliation hailed a barrage of childish insults in order to incline the idea of Calvin's aptitude. We both exchange a laugh as Calvin angrily locks his dormitory door. Quite the temper he has.

Lupin "Lou" Gaines of District 9
A crumpled arrangement of sprigs crunch in the hazy, indistinct fog of war. I cannot pin-point the exact presence of my lurker. But he, she, or it is skulking amongst the shrubs eager to pounce. My pursuer is evidently plotting sinister recipes to cook my lifeless cadaver in a steaming cauldron. Except I'm no roadkill. I'll soon be their worst nightmare.

"I know you're out there! Show your face!" I challenge my huntsman, brandishing my set of metal throwing darts. The territory occupying the timber-lands foreign of District Nine are officially no-mans-land. A few rustles resound as a figure scratches adjacent to ferns and twigs.

"I'm not scared of you! Bring it on!" I assert, altering my stance in preparation of commencing a stand-off. The moment I spy any ominous or threatening gesture, I won't hesitate to lob a clean flechette in between their eyes. For a split second, the rustling momentarily terminates. I permit myself a minute to loosen my composure and relax. Suddenly, a menacing silhouette springs into action. I prop a dart ready to fire at the ferocious fawn gnawing on a berry bush. Only a fawn. I discharge the intensity and tension in my consciousness with a heavy exhale. The presumed danger was just a mirage. A delusion of great peril. I slump forward and sweep the lush meadow in between my fingers. My paranoia has reached an all-time peak. I can't encompass my speculation around courage. A lone deer frightened me to petrification.

"Hey Lupin!" A voice pipes up. My younger brother bobs his head into eye-sight, casting a shadow over my chest. "What happened? Why are you shaking?" The doe prances away after catching sight of human activity. I pause and quickly amend my posture before presenting myself in a respectable manner.

"Yeah. It's just cold out, 'tis all." I reply smoothly, cleaning the sweat compiling near my hair-line. "How did you get here?"

"I followed you! I wanted to see what you were up to." My brother, Abram energetically beams, praising the orchard residing outside the district. A budding, pure child manifesting on the divine features of the landscape outside of Panem is naive to its unseen dangers. Abram cannot possibly grasp the lethal and pernicious creatures cloaked within the fraudulent paradise.

"You really have to go home. The reapings are soon and you don't want to be late." I explain to Abram precisely. Abram flashes a sulky expression, grumbling and crossing his arms. His disappointment won't prevent the malicious evils from ambushing. I can feel their sinister scowls breathing fire down my neck. If we're caught loitering beyond the fences we're as good as dead. As if on cue, a horde treads in unity, marching down a path near the electrified fence. The swarm of units creates a barrier dividing our location and destination. A silver gleam of the metallic pendant beholding the area upon a polished white custodian helmet confirms my suspicion. Peacekeepers are surveying the area for trespassers and punishing lawbreakers.

Recently, fugitives have been caught hopping the barbed wires isolated the citizens in the district. Can you blame them? Being captives of an aristocracy can be suffocating without mobility rights and freedoms. Condemning individuals for seeking exemption from a depraved dictatorship isn't rational, nevertheless as peasants serving for the convenience of the Capitol descendants we don't carry any influence towards the political chain. The harsh reality of Panem is traumatizing; escaping the district is another way of diminishing the burden placed on the districts. Unfortunately, the Capitol's decree spreads propaganda and indoctrination of their jurisdiction over the districts.

The peacekeepers govern the district with no mercy. The slightest impression of a liability will be immediately penalized. I couldn't afford getting caught. It is my obligation to provide a hopeful childhood for Abram. I didn't require for anyone else to become embroiled in my predicament, let alone take the culpability. Yet an innocent elderly dame was pronounced guilty for my misconduct. Despite her old age she was roughly detained and seized never to be seen again. Now I'm trapped back in my own nightmare.

"Look at me in the eyes, Abram. This is important. We have to avoid those men at all costs. We're going to climb the trees, and try to get into the district without touching the ground or getting caught. Do you understand?" Abram nods impatiently, excited to depart for our little mini-adventure. I boost him up and he hoists himself up to a branch and proceeds to climb without my guidance.

"Hey, Abram you should wait for me first." I whisper, attempting to hide my anxiety. It's no use; he's retreated into the peaks of the trees. I hurriedly heave my body into the fork of a tree. He couldn't have gone far. I catch a bright brown strip of hair hastily leaping from branch to branch. Abram abruptly squeals, losing his footing. I have to practically fling myself towards him in order to help reinforce his balance.

My pulse is still ringing. The worst possible thing that could've ever happened occurred in a matter of a split second. Life itself froze in place. The only motion audible is the piercing snap of a twig. The peacekeepers divert their attention towards the sound and pin-point our whereabouts. In a flash, I lift Abram over my shoulders and soar over the towering gate surrounding the district. I sprint away, leaving a dust-trail of gravel. I tarp Abram's mouth with my palm to mask his hyperventilating. Luckily, the two of us didn't suffer any observable injuries on the way down. I force myself to muster every nanometer of courage to peer past the street corner I ran past.

The peacekeepers lost my scent and in lieu of the fugitive, their asperity instead clutched a young woman meters away from the crime scene. Avena. Avena is startled by the barrage of officers congregating around her. She cries in agony as peacekeepers viciously apprehend her limbs. One explains the charges pressed against her, before Avena is towed away from sight. Our friendship strayed years ago, however our bond still lingers deep in my heart. She's receded into the claws of the Capitol. And it's all my fault.

I directed Abram home after the incident. His stone-cold expression finalized his mind-set on life. Nothing can expunge the grime that contaminated his immaculateness. The abomination of existence I've unveiled left a perpetual blemish on his psyche. I let an old companion expire to the demoralization of the Capitol. When my eyelids seal I can visualize the helpless souls extracted from their homes. Prejudiced conviction is a rampant, controversial issue in Panem. Yet I allowed two innocent women to fall victims of the Capitol. All I did was stand and watch.

I couldn't even glimpse at Abram, aware of the ordeal and confusion seeping through his skull. I simply vanished into the depths of the uncharted regions of Panem. I wish I could evaporate into the thicket, drifting with the hymn of the mocking birds. Unfortunately reaping day is an obligatory event and participation is mandatory. I find myself merged within a crowd of teenage youth waiting for the reaper to execute two of District Nine's children. Literally. A cloaked, pale angel of death conducting a steel scythe makes his appearance from a sliding panel on the platform. They're clothed in detachable, ominous, sleek black angel wings. A clear gender isn't identifiable.

"Come closer, my children, let me look upon you. So many new faces, searching and uncertain. Many find their way to this consecrated land without knowing it to be their destination. But this pilgrimage was no accident; you have suffered, and you seek a convalescence of the spirit. Look around. You are not alone." The reaper's solemn, hollow voice echos. Their tone fosters a lifeless aura as if succumbed to the rich solace of death. Everyone worriedly exchanges glances before surveying the death-bringer's crusade. The ghoul leisurely approaches a reaping bowl. Their flaking, dried fingers clutch a white slip.

"Your time has come, Profecía Sonar." An impassive girl with shoulder-length imperial plum hair and conspicuous blue eyes walks to the stage. There's an evident strain in her face. Her fists are tightly clutched, possibly to restrain emotion. The cryptic figure then transitions to the opposite side of the stage, towards the contiguous reaping bowl.

"Hear the elegy of the lost, Lupin Gaines." Their haunting, sinister resonance rings in my head. Their ghastly words compress my brain to the point of combustion. This is karma's omen biting my ass for not owning up to my frailty. Oh god, why did this happen? Surely, my imperfections are only natural. It's what makes me human. I can't be held accountable. After what felt like an eternity, I break my trance and proceed towards the podium. I confront Profecía with a bold grin and extend my hand. She remains motionless, occasionally jittering in place. Her bangs are swept over her face, but I can perceive a clenched jaw and gritting teeth beneath her fringe.

"We all have a place among the divine. We have only to accept it. Welcome our choir of death, this years trib-" Suddenly, Profecía lifts her chin exposing a set of carmine red pupils. She plunges into the assembly and maneuvers past swarms of people. Peacekeepers mobilize to repress Profecía, but she effortlessly eludes their attacks. She terminates her wicked dance when she finally approaches one particular individual. Baron.

"Profecía, please!" Baron begs in distress. She slowly crawls towards a helpless Baron, and sinks her broad, sharpened talons into Baron's chest. Baggy flesh and tissue rip open and bleed profusely. His intestines and entrails are mangled as she reaches for his most vital organ; the heart. A swift yank unshackles his core from his system. Profecía surveys in awe, admiring the cardiac organ as she pierces into its tissue, clot cascading down her finger nails. Baron's inert carcass lays lifeless on the ground. Everyone gapes in revulsion at the mayhem exhibited. The blood circulating through my cranium cuts short. My vision becomes hazy.

''I'm strong. I'm strong...'' My thoughts standstill and everything fades grey.

Sharlene "Shar" Randell of District 10
"She is quite the crafty individual indeed. They've sprawled her wanted posters across this street!" A wealthy citizen exuberantly chuckles, inhaling a cylinder of tobacco and emitting a flurry of smog.

"She's a lost cause, that's for sure. I bet she died long ago. She's been missing for ages." A rash, imprudent fellow grumbles. He disregards the criminal's mug-shot and trains his eyes upon the lavishing bounty over her head. The extravagance one will achieve after collecting such monetary gift is what an ordinary citizen of District Ten would procure in three lifetimes. Only an avaricious simpleton would be enticed by such trifle.

"There's not one coherent tree stump, but a variety of assorted branches! There's always another explanation in life and questions with more than one answer. What if Ms. Randell is right under our noses right now?" The nobleman merrily booms, erupting in an odd chortle. Oh, the irony. I ponder for a moment, before fixating my attention surveying their conversation.

"Let's cut to the chase. If you're looking for quick and easy money, I can purchase that pocket-watch off you. How does that sound?" The conceited thug scoffs. He's clearly only interested in the gold swelling in his buyers pockets. "I'll cash out two hundred fifty. Deal?"

"Of course my good friend!" The jolly man sings, reaching out to shake his hand. The hooligan cringes before sucking up a hearty handshake. The wealthy Capitol business man shakes the life out of him before reaching into his pocket.

"Let's make this quick! I have a train to-huh?" He fumbles around in his pocket panic-stricken and agitated. "What? It's gone?!" The prosperous virtuoso confoundedly peers into his hollow pouch where a glimmering, golden pocket-watch once took time.

"I'm not dealing with this bullshit. Thanks for wasting my time you old fart." The ruffian hisses before flipping off his client and churlishly turns away. I proceed to depart unnoticed, treasuring the shiny deep, lustrous, golden pocket-watch. This entailed a miracle to purloin undetected but now his precious gem is safely secured in my grasp. I envy the shameful remorse of brought by the aftermath of theft, but without it I'd not be here to tell my tale. I take the opportunity provided and glide with the wind.

I approach a pawnbroker's shop clutching my beloved timepiece anticipating a good score. District Ten's bazaar is crammed with vendors and patrons vehement to save a few bucks. The ongoing shoppers tether their eyes upon the mysterious hooded maiden mysteriously lurking into the store. I raise my hood for a brief moment to contract the emphasis upon me before approaching the counter.

"Hello, ma'am. You've been here before? What's your name?" The conceited clerk sneers from behind the desk. He's focused on a wad of chewing tobacco curled around his tongue.

"Uhm... Alloria." I stutter, before composing myself and speaking fluently. "And no. I just need quick cash." I hurriedly toss my merchandise on the table. His eyes lock on the ticking clock encrusted in pure gold. His fingers caress the fine material, dollar signs appear in his pupils.

"Quite the item you've got here. How does two hundred sound?" The man exclaims, marveling in the pocket watch's beauty. I immediately recognize this delinquent. I recall the brash straggler trying to make a quick dime from the Capitol drone.

"Come on. That's it? I bought this for triple of what you're offering. I want at the least four hundred." I protest, letting a thick lie slip through my lips. The man folds his arms and winces, trying to retain his displeasure. He undoubtedly desires for such valuable accessories and concurrently wants to rip his customers off.

"I'm not arguing with you all day lady. I'll pay three hundred. That's final." The ruffian fusses. He collects a variety of bills from a small padlock safe and chucks the exact amount in my palms. A jackpot I've acquired would yield jealousy of all of District Ten. Yet in my clutches I hold enough funds to keep on going for a while.

"Wait, wait. Hold up there miss. I've a bone to pick with you. No way in hell did you turn up from the blue. I've seen your face before." The teller blusters, slamming his fist onto the thick plaster table. He examines my facial features, scanning my characteristics and speculating the possibilities of any matches. The prick will tie two and two together and realize I'm a wanted felon. I've much overstayed my welcome.

"I have nothing to gain from being here any longer. Sayonara." I abruptly conclude before masking my hood and scurrying away, leaving the clerk to ponder in his own thoughts.

I conceal myself in a rally of potential tributes at the reapings. My discernible ebony cloak spellbinds the eyes of many but my identity remains covert which is my prime objective. The escort, a slender, mature woman, in a full-body grey bulky blazer and sleek, dark shades calmly approaches the microphone. Her frilly dreadlocks have been tied back. She tilts her glasses to glance at the audience before fixing them perfectly over her eyes.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen. The time has come to partake in the annual ritual known as The Hunger Games. I am Damijana and I will guide you towards the path of freedom." Damijana publicizes. Many shoot concerned, doubtful gestures. I'd never acknowledge to her false autonomy nor falter to the delusional propaganda she intends to spread. For the first time in a while, a feeling of loneliness and incertitude pulses in my heart. I wish Jason and I had never separated, so he'd continue to mentor me through life. He aided my forced release from prison and I couldn't me more indebted and beholden. Now Jason only exists in my subconscious. Damijana finishes droning, regarding imprecise judgements of "liberation" brought by The Hunger Games, a children's gladiator match, and finally commences the reaping. Damijana's dark grey gauntlets snatch a single slip. Damijana's face suddenly erupts with a creepy, eerie smirk.

"Sharlene Randell!" Damijana merrily roars, radiating a vibrant smile. I don't know quite how to respond. So I don't. I stand utterly still, my entire body ceasing motion. The probability of a girl stepping up as Sharlene Randell is close to nonexistent. Soon, peacekeepers will be surging through the crowd on a witch-hunt for Miss Sharlene Randell. Her posters are everywhere. It is a matter of time before the culprit is found. Of course, Sharlene Randell is no concern of mine; I am Alloria Grace Maxon... right?

Peacekeepers begin charging into the horde to seize their female tribute. I begin wandering in a daze, hoping my knight in shining armor will magically appear. Or an escape route, which would be fairly convenient as well. But Peacekeepers have blocked all passages leading to departure. I meander through the current of citizens anxiously awaiting the reapings to continue until I see him. Jason. He is positioned near the back of the gathering eager to withdraw into the midst of the district. I stumble towards his direction, hoping to talk to him one more time.

"Jason." I hurriedly peep quietly, enough to catch his attention while simultaneously diverting the scrutiny of suspicious activity. Jason's eyes widen when we both latch onto each others eyes. I rush towards Jason, extending my hand out, when my mantle suddenly flies off my torso. I peer down to catch a peacekeeper's rugged boot trapping a portion of black fabric. He yanked off my disguise with his foot. The peacekeeper gets a good look at my face and analyzes my features before reprimanding his target and hauling me to the justice building platform. My hand extends towards Jason as the rift of despair I've successfully obliterated recreates itself.

"You cannot run from justice, Sharlene Randell. You'll finally pay for the sins you've committed. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Damijana sarcastically sneers, taunting me from a distance. I want to lacerate her spotless complexion, but in this helpless state all I can manage is watch the liberation I've achieved evaporate within a bat of the eye, as I'm captivated in Damijana's corrupted version of freedom.

"All I ever did was live up to my name. Why is that so bad?!" I revolt, kicking and thrashing. I knee the peacekeeper's spine, causing him to relinquish his grasp upon me. He easily regains momentum and towers over me while I'm still sprawled across the ground recovering from the fall.

"I've had enough of your trouble, you swine!" The peacekeeper bellows, towing me across his shoulder and slamming me against the wall. I slump against the brick stockade and sight begins to blur. I can define an apparition, a hazy figure peering at me before vanishing back into the crowd. A sense of relief pours into my mind knowing that Jason is unharmed. But what about me?

I rekindle my thoughts in a futuristic shuttle. A tall burly man with shoulder-length puffy brown hair sits next to me. His posture emits an unpleasant, closed-off personality.

"Jason." The man utters, before securing the chains that shackle us apart and containing himself inside his own thought bubble. I clutch my head, trying to rap around the intensity of the situation I'm in. I try to envision the Jason I've come to know and love substituting for the other Jason I've just encountered. Alas, as Jason cracks his knuckles and scoffs in my direction I must face the reality of everything. I am this years' District 10 female tribute in The Hunger Games. There is absolutely no impact I can enforce to change the fact I will be thrown into an arena where I may take my last breathe.

No matter how hard I try, Jason's bubble cannot be burst. I retreat into my dormitory for peace and serenity. I cannot seclude myself from the pernicious tyranny infecting the nation, but I can still relieve the strain twisting my muscles. In my bedroom, I find a personal lavatory equipped with features I've never seen before. I spin a gear bolted into the wall and hot water cascades down a shower nozzle. I endure the painful splatter of steaming, heavy water pounding against my back. I let the water sprinkle onto my face and loosen the tensity compressing my head. A downpour of Adam's ale runs across my cheeks. I taste a salty substance on the surface of my lips. The tears welling in my eyes mix with the hot shower water, vaporizing into a gas form. I wish all my problems could volatilize like that so easily.

GROUP TRAINING DAY ONE
Day one of group training will be told from 5 PoVs.

Carson Bhaltair of District 1
I've spent all morning preparing a gourmet brunch with the guidance of the Avox servants. I draped a pearly white tablecloth across a marble dining table and lit frosty ivory scented candles. I strewed petite carmine red rose petals on the surface and ordered fresh gastronome cuisine to die for in the Capitol. I discovered a full-body blazer stashed deep into my closet perfect in size.

Wielding three pallid roses I take cautious steps towards Ashlynn's Capitol chambers. I've been pursuing to conquer her attention and with under a week until our internment in the arena I cannot spare a single second. With that thought, I press my knuckles against the door frame, take a deep breath, and knock twice. The door hinges chirr open and unveil a beautiful maiden locked away in her tower. She pulls strands of hair behind her head, securing the bundle with an elastic hair-tie.

"Hey Carson. What's up?" Ashlynn cheerfully greets me, assorting filaments of tangled and twister hair. She struts towards the main foyer, solemnly staring at the romantic buffet I had prepared.

"What's this?" She inquires, slightly perturbed. She presses her lips, gawking at the exit. She doesn't appear to be enjoying her sojourn. Did I do something wrong?

"Yes, I did. For the two of us." I sleekly reply, pretending not to notice her discomfort. Ashlynn resists pertaining eye-contact and we stand in utter silence. There's a brief moment of awkward silence lingering in the air.

"Well...thanks but no thanks. I'm not hungry, I'll pass." Ashlynn abruptly stammers, bolting for the door. She sinks her head towards the ground and safeguards her face from view. I think I just got rejected. Unfortunately for her, I don't give up that easy.

TBC.

GROUP TRAINING DAY TWO
Day two of group training will be told from 5 PoVs.

PART TWO
Part Two will consist of individual training, interviews, and pre-games. INDIVIDUAL TRAINING, INTERVIEWS, and PRE-GAMES will all consist of 6 PoVs.

PART THREE
Part Three will contain The Hunger Games itself. PoV distribution hasn't been established yet.

SPONSORING & BETTING
The sponsor system will work differently compared to my other games. I will release a series of questions throughout the course of these games. The answer that is either quickest, correct, and/or best will receive a sponsor gift for a tribute of their choice. An item must be pre-approved by the host and cannot be sent into the arena when a new day begins.

BETTING IS CURRENTLY CLOSED: BETS WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED