I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.


Cheshire Bluebell, District One Escort


For the love of all that is good in the world, do these District deadbeats have any idea how to run a reaping? Judging by their inability to properly color-coordinate, apparently they do not.

"You!" I say, glaring at one of the passing Peacekeepers. He freezes, and points to himself questioningly. "Yes, you. Get over here."

He hesitantly shuffles over to me, and I thrust a mint green banner against his chest. "You will take this, and replace the current banner above the stage. Got it? We can't have a parrot green banner at the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games. It has to be mint."

He holds the banner awkwardly, not entirely sure what to do with it.

I roll my eyes, and slap my palm against my forehead. "Go talk to Onyx. He'll tell you what to do."

The Peacekeeper nods to me and scurries off.

I swear, all of these people are brain dead.


Trance Berrill, District One Male


From my house up on the hill, I can see the entire city. The winding suburbs, the trees, the cluster of high rises on the south side, the people walking from place to place… it's nice, to be sure. But I've become too accustomed to my home. I need a change of scenery.

The grandfather clock in the kitchen chimes exactly eleven times, and as I stare into my cup of orange juice, I wonder where my morning went. Then again, I overslept until ten fifteen. But today is reaping day, so I think I get a pass.

I cross the threshold back into my house and, placing the glass down on the counter, I notice a marble sitting on one of the corners of the wooden table. A beam of sunlight pours through the window above the sink, striking the marble at just the right angle to send a thin rainbow across the surface. I pick up the small sphere and roll it around in the center of my palm. The glass is mostly clear, but a swirl of green and blue runs through the middle, almost like a small leaf trapped inside ice.

Walking back out onto the porch, I lie down on my side and place the marble on one of the wooded planks, right in front of my face, where it will catch the most light. I flick the marble with my finger, only enough to send it to the end of the porch, before the incline of the wood sends it rolling back to me. I flick and flick and flick, entranced by the leaf of color as it spins wildly inside of the glass sphere.

"What are you doing?" a harsh voice demands.

I look up to see Lazuli towering over me, her brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Watching the marble," I murmur, turning my attention back to the shiny sphere.

I can almost feel the frustration radiating off of my sister's skin. "Shouldn't you be training?"

Sighing, I clasp my hand over the marble, stopping it in its tracks. "The reapings are today. I don't think that two hours of slashing at a dummy will do me any good."

"Uh huh," she says, doubtful. "So instead you'll watch a marble rolling across the porch."

"Yup."

A beat of silence passes. "Freak," she mutters. For a moment she lingers, probably still with a glare on her face, before she leaves me alone.

Boredom has already claimed this activity, though, so I stand up, brush myself off, and carelessly toss the marble off into our rosebushes. A white butterfly flits up from one of the flowers, disturbed by the sudden movement. I chase after it without a second thought, with the full intent of catching the winged insect, if only to inspect it. I follow it all the way down my front yard and halfway down the street.

My quarry is almost within my grasp, I can almost feel the white powdery wings fluttering against my hands, when a voice calls my name, breaking my concentration.

"Trance!"

I know that voice.

I turn to see Mirror walking up the hill, her auburn hair shining brightly in the sunlight. She waves at me, and I wave back.

Unfortunately, during this interaction, the butterfly escapes.

I frown at the spot where the creature had been just a moment ago, but quickly recover because Mirror is here, and she's more interesting than the butterfly.

"Today's the day," she says, but I can't identify the emotion in her words.

"Why do you say it like that?"

She averts her eyes, and her lower lip twitches. "You're volunteering today, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Her blue eyes meet mine, and this time I can tell that she's upset. "Can't you just wait until next year?"

I shake my head. "Nope. If I wait until next year, and someone volunteers before I do, I will never be able to participate in the Hunger Games. Ever." As we cross the stone bridge at the end of the block, I step up onto the railing, holding my arms out to balance myself. "I've been training since forever. The Hunger Games interest me. I need to go somewhere new."

"But simple novelty isn't worth entering the Games," Mirror says, her frown deepening.

I hop off of the railing and land lightly on my feet. "Says you."


Alpha Revere, District One Female


I pause the video, right as the District One male buries his hatchet in the District Eight female's neck. This is my favorite part of the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games. The look on the girl's face is just so… perfect. She knows she's going to die.

I've watched this video at least twenty times, along with all of the previous Games. I know that the District One male ends up winning. In fact, when I volunteer in two years, he might end up being my mentor.

But overall, my favorite kill out of all the past Games has to be when, in the Fifty-Eighth, the District Ten female snapped her district partner's neck, and used his body as a shield to defend herself from a vicious muttation. Such a betrayal came as quite a shock to the Capitol, and even though she was later killed by the District Four male, her resourcefulness deserves commendation.

I place the remote on the granite counter top and lean back on the bar stool, which creaks with the movement. Six years ago, I committed myself to the Hunger Games. I know that, when I reach the age of eighteen, I will volunteer, and finally experience the violence for myself. I want to kill.

But it will have to wait for another two years. After all, I stand a better chance of living longer, and therefore killing more people, if I wait until I'm eighteen. Two more years of training can go a long way.

I twist around, cracking my back, and my mother walks into the kitchen, fluffing up her ridiculous blond hair. Her expression indicates disappointment. "Alpha, are you really going to wear that to the reapings? You look like a wreck."

Running a hand through my hair, I look up at the ceiling nonchalantly, intentionally trying to annoy her. "And you think I care because…?"

"Because when you go out into public, you're representing the Revere family."

I slide off of my chair and smooth out my knee-length white dress. "Which is exactly why I don't care."

"Excuse me?" she demands, her arms pressed against her sides. "When you go out looking like a dump, or when you decide to wreak havoc in the district, or worse, you not only make yourself look bad, you hurt our family image, too!"

We have this one-sided argument everyday, and each time she only gets stupider, while her argument only grows weaker. It's not like I'm about to change myself just to make her happy.

I flip my hair back over my shoulder, and flounce out of the kitchen. I'm not even going to dignify my mother's words with a response. She isn't worth it.

I swing around the banister and hurry into the family room, which my father so graciously agreed to help me turn into a training room. Spears, swords, axes, daggers, cleavers, and machetes line the white walls, and three worn dummies stand in the corner, the cloth surfaces full of slices and nicks. Each one has been replaced at least thirty times.

Taking one of the daggers from the rack, I walk towards the center dummy, place my hand on its shoulder, and run the blade up through what would be its diaphragm, and yank upwards to its heart. Oh, I long for the day when my blade cuts through living flesh, and my victim's blood flows freely across my hands. I want to watch the light leave their eyes. I want to be their end.

Using the chest as leverage, I twist the dummy's head off, splintering the weak wooden neck into a thousand different pieces. I wish real vertebrae broke like this. It would be so much better.

"Two years can't pass soon enough," I mutter. Rolling the head over in my hands, I smirk, and throw it down on the ground with as much force as I can muster.

"Alpha," my father says, walking in the doorway. "It's time to go."

I lower my gaze to the ground. Oh, goody. Reaping time.


Trance Berrill


Mirror and I arrive at the center of town rather early in the day, but I don't have a problem with that. It's not like we had any plans, anyways.

In wonderment, I look around what is normally our town square, dotted with extravagant shops and statues and fountains, but today there is only a black stage, sitting in the center of everything. A slender woman with long magenta hair stands on the stage, waving her light blue hands around in frantic circles, in an attempt to give the event some semblance of order. She's our escort, I remember. I've never really liked her. Her voice is too shrill.

I sign in with the registrar, and wander over to my spot among the seventeen-year-olds. No one seems too interested in speaking with me, so I stare up at the sky, looking for any patterns in the fluffy white clouds.

I kinda space out, because next thing I know, my friend Dion nudges me back to reality. When did he get here?

I look over to him, and he nods up to the stage. "It's almost time, dude."

Sure enough, the mayor has already handed off the microphone to the blue-skinned escort, and she is fumbling around in the bowl of names, searching for the kid who definitely won't be going to the Capitol today.

"Jarvis Cithe," she reads aloud.

Some skinny guy from the eighteen-year-old section nervously steps forward, but I leap ahead, shoving one of the other kids who looks like he's about to volunteer out of the way.

"I volunteer!" I cry, running up onto the stage.

The woman gives me a cursory glance, and smirks with her blindingly bright orange lips. "Oh? And your name?"

"Trance Berrill."

She hastily claps for me, and a smattering of applause fans out across the audience. "Well, Mr. Berrill, let's see who your companion will be."


Alpha Revere


The other kids give me a wide berth, but their repulsion only makes my smile grow wider. They should avoid me. They should fear me.

I take my spot in the crowd of children, but no one makes the mistake of actually crowding me. Most everyone knows better than to get too close.

Up on the stage, Mayor Rafael reads off some speech, blah blah blah, Treaty of Treason, blah blah blah, we love the Capitol, blah blah blah, and ten minutes later he finally hands the microphone over to our high-strung escort.

"Hello, District One!" she cries, but I can tell that her joyfulness is completely forced. "Let's find out who our male representative will be!"

She thrusts her hand into the bowl, pulls out a slip of paper, and reads, "Jarvis Cithe."

A guy in the eighteen-year-old section steps forward, his face twisted as if someone just told him his grandma died. But another boy jumps forward and volunteers, knocking some other boy out of the way, and hurries up onto the stage. He looks like a career, but there's something in his expression that indicates he has no idea what he's volunteering for. Fool.

"And your name?" the escort asks, a doubtful expression on her face.

"Trance Berrill," the guy responds. He has a nice voice. Too bad he's going to die.

A few pathetic claps sound from the audience. "Well, Mr. Berrill," the escort says, "let's see who your companion will be."

The bowl of female names gives up one of the slips of paper. The escort quickly unfolds it, and reads what is written: "Alpha Revere."

It takes a second to register that she just read my name.

Oh? Could this really be? A sign, telling me to enter the games this year?

I confidently step forward, a cold grin upon my face. Oh, this will be fun.

Some girl steps out of the ranks of the seventeen-year-olds, throws me a cocky glance, then turns towards the stage and takes a deep breath.

"I volun-"

My elbow smashes into her right temple, and with a small pop, she crumples to the ground in an ugly heap. The audience gives a collective gasp, and the kids nearest to me take a couple steps back. Two Peacekeepers run over and kneel next to her, checking the inside of her wrist for a pulse, patting the side of her face to bring her back to consciousness. She gives no noticeable response, and one of the Peacekeepers shakes his head. Did I just kill her?

Oh, wait. I don't care.

No way this girl takes away my chance to fight in the Games.

Luckily, no one else is stupid enough to volunteer. The rest of them know who I am.

A happy feeling bubbles up in my chest when I realize that I won't even need to wait another two years. I get to go to enter the Games today.

Putting as much swing in my stride as I possibly can, I ascend the steps and walk over to the escort. A muscle twitches underneath her blue face, but she otherwise makes no comment on my actions.

"And may I present to you," she says, interlocking Trance's hand with mine, forcing another smile onto her face, "the District One tributes for the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor."


Trance Berrill


"Did you bring my lucky stone?" I ask.

My mother holds out her hand, and the pale pink rock slips from her fingers, dangling only by a silver chain. "Of course, dear."

I take the necklace and clasp it behind my neck. This will be my token.

My father whacks his hand against my back in approval, and a hearty laugh escapes from him. "I am so proud of you, my boy, keeping up the family tradition!"

My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my uncle all volunteered for their respective games. It's customary for the firstborn son in the Berrill family to volunteer, and since I'm my father's only son, that responsibility fell to me. I didn't volunteer to make my father happy, though. I volunteered to see the Hunger Games and the Capitol from the inside, to quell my own curiosity. The honor and glory and riches aren't as important to me as meeting new people and seeing new things.

The door opens, and an anxious face appears on the other side. It's Mirror. "I've never been inside the Justice Building before. It's kind of nice."

I grin, and step forward to hug her. "You came to say goodbye?"

"We both did," Dion says, following her into the room. I don't hug him, but I think he prefers it that way.

Mirror gives me a halfhearted smile, taking my hand in hers. "We just wanted to wish luck to the future victor of the Sixty-Fourth Hunger Games."

"Well, thank you," I say, unsure how else to respond.

"We are just so proud of you," my mother says, her delicate face scrunched up with an overexcited smile. "And you get to go to the Capitol like you always wanted!"

I smile, and lean up against her shoulder. "Thanks, mom."

As the words pass across my lips, the reality of my situation finally sinks in, at least a little bit.

I will be going to the Capitol.

I will be a part of the Hunger Games.


Alpha Revere


"I don't want a token," I say, my arms folded across my chest and my face turned away from my parents. "I don't want anything to remind me of this dull place."

"But dear," my father says, trying to coax me into taking a small scallop shell, "don't you at least want something to remind you of us?"

I stamp my foot down. "NO! I want to remember nothing of District One, you and mother least of all!"

He pulls away from me, as if stung by a wasp. The pain in his facial expression makes me happy.

"What?" he asks weakly.

"Oh, don't act so surprised," my mother snaps, refusing to even make eye contact with me. "She's always acted like this, why should today be any different?"

For once, she and I actually agree. This goodbye is quickly growing stale.

"Perhaps it's time for you both to leave," I say, waving one of the Peacekeepers over. The hulking man steps forward, his intimidating frame enough to take up the entire doorway. "Goodbye mother, father."

I am finally rid of them. I am finally rid of this place. "Don't miss me while I'm gone."


So, what do you guys think?

If I didn't portray your tribute correctly, don't hesitate to PM me.