Alexyandra Acers

16 years old

'The Feral Fury'

District 2

I may be wrong, I may be right

I may never see the light

But you can never take away my freedom

~Temper us in fire, and we grow stronger. When we suffer, we survive~

People only noticed what they wanted to notice. And small 16 year old girls were usually not in that frame.

Fury - or at least, that's what she thought her name was - knew that all too well. Years of averted eyes from the so called 'bravest district around' had taught her that people didn't care about small acts of bravery; no, it was all about the grisly deeds in those torturous games. That was the only bravery that mattered to most in Two.

After all, what could be considered more 'brave' than the killing of innocent children for the sick pleasure of twisted Capitolites? Certainly not helping them to survive on the cold stone streets of Two, where they're covered in mud and God knows what else. To be truthful, Fury couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper bath since leaving that... place?

She didn't remember much about her old life. The only things that mattered were her present and most importantly, her future. She wasn't quite sure how old she was, but every year she was taken to the square for the reapings and this was her 5th she thought. That made her 16.

Perhaps if was not being brought up with murderers in training, but Fury could never understand the obsession with innocent death. It left her baffled.

Fury didn't care about death. Although she hadn't been in one, shrinking from people was the way fights were started almost every week, and they never stopped until one was victorious - and the other either dead or unconscious. But it was fair. It was balanced.

District Two could be cold, with the mountains blocking out the sun, but Fury barely noticed. She was busy screaming at the tough grip that the man in white had on her arm.

"Hurry up, Acers," his breath stank of alcohol and rot as it hit her face.

It took a minute for Fury to realise he was talking to her. 'Acers' brought back memories of long ago. Of a starkly decorated room. Of a harsh voice. Of a swelling belly. Of an innocent screaming. And then of the desperate cold and the feeling of helplessness before she had learnt to adapt, to survive.

Fury was not her real name. It was short for Furious. But that wasn't her real name either, she was almost sure of it. But it didn't matter. Names were baggage. People thought they could be used to define her.

She was once called, well, something, but then she got a taste of dreadful freeness and she was rebirthed Fury by people. People who she didn't care about and who didn't care about her.

But it didn't matter. To some the name meant anger. But to her it meant freedom. It meant solitude. It meant more to her than the before name.

And that was all that mattered to her.

Nigel Cultro

17 years old

'The Determined Fighter'

District 2

Man, Mars

Strong, protective, determined

Needed

~Strong people stand up for themselves, stronger people stand up for others~

Pride.

Fame.

Fortune.

All the reasons to win the games. But to Nigel, it wasn't like that anymore. Sure, he was strong and sure he was fast. Sure he could make girls swoon by a single look but he wasn't happy. And maybe that was all he wanted.

People wonder what their lives would be like if they could change one thing. To Nigel, that question has been hard. So many things seemed wrong with the world, and how on Earth was some guy supposed to fix that.

It didn't matter how great he thought he was sometimes or how proud his choice would make people. Like his trainer always told him, you can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the entire world, but there will always be somebody who hates peaches.

He had started training when he was three. Two years before everybody else. His parents were eager to get him ready. They wanted him to be great. And he was, but they had to give up their son. An eye for an eye. He barely remembered him. But if he did win, he would try and reach out to them.

But the question he asked himself everyday, was: Am I great enough?

He had confided in his friends once. He asked if he really was ready. They just told him that second guessing anything would lead him to nothing but death in the games.

Then again, that was the answer he was expecting. And they were right.

Nigel rolled out of bed, hardly wanting to open his brown eyes. For a day he had been dreading, it seemed like to much work.

Today especially, he really, really hated peaches.

His trainer came into his room, not knocking as always and shaked him.

"Nigel get up! Today's your day."

He groaned and rolled to his side.

"Get up! NOW!" Her voice was commanding and firm.

Not wanting to be in trouble, he reluctantly stepped out of bed and glared at his trainer. She looked to perky, knowing that she could be sending him into death trap today.

"We didn't train for so long for you to sleep in, come on, we need to get you down to the dressing rooms." She smiled again, her voice steady but you could hear the firmness.

Most think that only district 1 cares about looks, but strength wasn't the only factor taken in for picking tributes.

They wanted their tributes to be attractive and strong. Heartthrobs got the sponsors. Romances got the attention. Strong douchebags only got laughed at when they died. Sometimes the academy advisers would talk to the tributes before hand and tell them they needed to start a romance in the games.

It was starting to become cliche.

His trainer, Miss Marcie, practically dragged him downstairs and pushed him into the black leather chair.

A half hour later, he was dressed a white shirt and khaki shorts that fell just right. His hair was perfectly tousled. They even put makeup on him.

To 'smooth' his skin. Nigel didn't know skin was supposed to be smooth.

Miss Marcie sighed, and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. As much as Nigel despised her at times, she was a mother figure for him and he loved her.

"Nigel, just know that whatever happens, I loved the past 13 years of my life, partly because of you. And for that, thank you."

Nigel smiled and turned away before he started crying.

Maybe he wouldn't lose this afterall.

Alexyandra 'Fury' Acers

Getting ready takes on different meanings depending on your economic standing.

To some, they bathe, do their hair, makeup, put on their finest clothing. To Fury, it meant pat down her mass of brown curls and try to look as normal as possible. It wasn't hard really. She wasn't drop dead gorgeous or outstandingly ugly. She had normal looks

The jeans were the nicest things she owned- even if they were getting tight. She had taken them from a posh shop somewhere. She would never normally go near that sort of shop- it was family owned which and Fury was ever going to be the cause of a kid going hungry.

But the look that the woman had given her had ignited an anger in Fury, that years later she still felt it. The jeans were a dark green in color and they made her feel almost normal.

Not that she wanted to be normal.

The men in white had placed her and threatened her into not moving but it didn't matter. Fury wouldn't have moved anyway. What was the point?

They didn't care about her enough to think twice about shooting. If they did they would have done something about the homeless 8 year old she once was.

But they only cared about the power they held over her. And even in District Two, where the chances of her getting picked were miniscule, their powers came in the form of the Reaping.

Escorts were just colourful blurs to Fury and she could barely decipher the strong Capitolite accent so she stopped listening. But she paid attention to the name.

Just in case.

Alexandrya Acers.

The first name meant nothing to her. A vaguely familiar sound. But she recognised the second. She waited but no one moved. It seemed like the world had stopped.

She had had a sibling but he was 8 years younger. And a male. No one seemed to move a muscle so Fury (or was it Alexandrya? a confused part of her brain thought) took a shaky step forward and began to walk, one door in front of another. To her surprise and dismay, no one volunteered and she reached the stage, her thick curly hair seemingly dragging her down. She was at the top of the stage when he called out another time there was a volunteer.

Fury felt the flash of anger reigniting. She didn't remember names. They were unimportant. But she did recognize eyes.

And she was looking into exact replicas of the shop woman who scorned her.

Nigel Cultro

A few hours later, he stood in the front of the 17's section, standing tall and looking perfectly put together.

The escort's accent was heavy. With the blood of children maybe. But after all he hadn't killed them himself.

He listen, soaking in every word. Maybe he would reference somebody, somebody who could help him. Give him advice, But he didn't. All he did was read the name of a girl who Nigel didn't even care enough to notice because he already knew who he was supposed to volunteer with. Rebecca Valance.

She has a beautiful girl with porcelain skin and jet black hair. But she didn't. She stayed quiet.

So instead of the model, Nigel was stuck with a girl who looked like she hadn't bathed in months and a mass of curls.

Great. Just his luck.

Moments later the name of the male was called out. Aster May.

"I volunteer!" he cried out, raising his hand above his head.

Unlike Rebecca, he wasn't going to back out.

Like it or not, this was his destiny and Nigel wasn't one to change fate.

AUTHORS NOTE

Hey guys! The new chap wasn't too long eh (Kill me). These two tributes were sweeeet!

~ Nargs

And continuing on from that, thank you so much for reading! We really appreciate it. If you want to tell us which tributes you hate or like so far, let us know in a review! (And Ella isn't here at the moment but she'd probably say hi too)

~ Moons

Thanks, bye~