District Two: Blood-Laced Dreams

Trigger warning: Mentions of mental and physical abuse in the second section and homophobia in both.

Hana Marko, 18.

District Two Female.

She still remembers the first time she saw the games.

She's six years old, a little girl no taller than three-and-a half-feet. Her older brother Alfie and she are wrestling in the living room when their parents usher them out, claiming they are going to watch one of their "adult" television shows that they are not allowed to see. Like the obedient little girl she is, she quickly files out, but her brother has another idea.

"I want to see what they're watching," Alfie decides, flashing her a wicked and mischievous grin.

Her eyes widen. "No, mommy said we can't!"

Her brother laughs. "Well, you can't. The Hunger Games aren't meant for six-year-olds. But seven-year-olds are old enough to watch."

Hana folds her arms and gives her brother a giant frown. She is just as good as him, even if she is an entire year younger than him. "Fine, if you are watching it, I'm watching it!"

Her brother agrees, and as quietly as possible, the two of them tip-toe silently to the door of the living room. Alfie tips it open ever so silently so that they can see a glimpse of the shiny television without alerting their parents of their presence. Leaning against the wooden door frame, Hana watches with wide, curious brown eyes.

The bloodshed she sees should scare her, but instead, it only fascinates her and draws her further into the brutal slaughter that the Capitol craves so badly.

"Woah," she murmurs, awestruck.

"Woah," her brother echoes back, equally as hypnotized by the sparkling crimson blood spilling all across the glowing screen.

They watch every night while their parents think they are in bed sleeping. Every night, she is lured further and further into the games, enchanted by the beautiful red world the Capitol as created. Her brother likes it, but not in the same way as her. She's in love.

Two weeks later, a victor is crowned in gold and celebrated by all of Panem. She points to the television, her eyes fixated to its surface like glue.

"Me," she whispers, holding her head high in the air. "That's going to be me."

Twelve years later, Hana Marko still dreams of President Heron placing the golden crown upon her head and proclaiming her as the victor of the Twelfth Annual Hunger Games.

"Hana, you don't have to do this," her girlfriend Shuri murmurs, stroking her delicate fingers through Hana's long black hair. They're sitting on the couch in her living room, watching old reruns of the games that Hana recorded. She's watched them countless times, but the addictive effect they first had on her never wears off. Each time she watches it is as miraculous as the last for her, never growing old no matter if it is the first time or the hundredth time she's watching Alaric get crushed by a million boulders.

"It's dangerous," Shuri continues, snapping Hana out of her mindless fantasy. "You could die. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The young girl leans back, reclining into the soft cushion. "You won't have to know because you won't have to live without me. I'm going to win."

Shuri frowns, her normally bright and pretty face contorting into a sad expression. She turns away sharply. Hana can't help but feel a twinge of sadness as well. Seeing her girlfriend upset makes her upset. She raises her hand and strokes Shuri's cheek affectionately, pulling her face back toward her.

"Look," she mutters, giving her a weak smile. "It's been my dream ever since I was a little girl. I'm not giving it up, even if you're scared. I know I could die, but I need to do this. For me, for Alfie, and for you. Even if I lose, the compensation the academy sends would give you a better life. You wouldn't have to work breaking your back in the mines anymore."

Shuri blinks, her deep brown eyes looking right into Hana's own. The screams of tributes from the Eighth Hunger Games play in the background as the boy from District Three gets decapitated by the tall and vicious girl from Six. Perfect timing. Hana quickly grabs the remote, clicking the television off with a press of the button.

"I'd rather have a broken back and you than nothing at all," her girlfriend whispers, blinking her wide puppy dog eyes slowly. Hana gulps, instantly feeling guilty. Shuri just has a way of doing that to her. Maybe she should stay here. The games may have been her first love, but right now, the wide-eyed and beautiful girl in front of her is her everything. She can't give that up for one-in-twenty-four odds.

But it's her dream. Dreams are worth those odds, right?

She doesn't know.

Extending her arm outward, she runs her calloused and bruised hand from training long days and nights along Shuri's soft cheek. For a moment, everything around her seems to fade away and it's only her and Shuri. The short girl's eyes stare deep into her own, and for a minute, it feels like they are on two different sides of an invisible glass, in the same room but in two totally different universes.

She wishes Shuri wasn't so beautiful. Maybe that'd make this choice easier.

Hana leans forward, placing her hands right in the empty space between Shuri's bent arms and the side of her chest. The girl raises her head and closes her eyes, and the next thing Hana knows, her mouth is on Shuri's pale pink lips the color of rose petals. Shuri's running her fingers through Hana's long hair again and it's just them, the world a background to their love.

Then, the door slams open and everything comes racing back.

"Hana!" A shrill voice yells, echoing off the walls of the small living room. "I thought I told you I never wanted to see this girl in my house ever again!"

Hana sighs deeply, pulling herself away from Shuri. She twists her head around to face the man who just entered to room.

"Hi-ya Dad," she chortles sarcastically, as happy to see him as he was to see her on top of Shuri.

"Hi-ya," he mocks bitterly, placing his hands on his hips. Shuri raises herself into a sitting position on the couch, blinking her eyes like she just woke up from a dream. In a way, they have. They are back in reality now, the world no longer just them two and nothing else.

"I—I—I was just leaving," Shuri stutters, standing and brushing a few specks of dust of her shirt in an effort to quickly compose herself.

Her dad nods gruffly. "Yeah you were," he responds as icily as the frigid winter.

Shuri turns back to Hana and gives her palm a squeeze. Their fingers interlace, tangled in each other. Hana wishes she'd never let go. "Think about it, alright?" Shuri asks before peeling her hand away from Hana and scurrying out the door. Hana nods mutely, watching as she exits with longing eyes. She wishes she could just forget about the games and run off with Shuri.

If only it was that simple. Why did life have to be so complicated? Why couldn't she just have the games and Shuri, why did it just have to be one or the other? Why did her girlfriend have to be so against them? Couldn't she see that they were great?

"I told you to stop seeing that girl," her father growls.

"That girl has a name you know," Hana retorts. "It's Shuri."

"Her name doesn't matter to me. As far as I'm concerned, she's that girl and nothing more. The only thing she will ever be is a distraction from the games and a distraction from the boys you should be liking."

"She's not a distraction!" Hana protested. "She's going to be my future wife and I don't care what you think about her! I love her, and that's all that matters! Alfie would have understood!"

"Well, Alfie isn't here right now!" Her father shouts back, his voice booming like a drum. Hana shutters, but doesn't back down, holding her ground defiantly. Her brother might be dead, but he still supports her, wherever he may be. She doesn't need her dad's support as long as she has his. Alfie always supports her, no matter what.

Her father sighs, taking a deep breath. "I don't like arguing with you, Hana. Why can't you just do what I say?"

"Because what you say isn't right," she spat, holding her chin high. "You may be my dad, but you're not the boss of me. I'm my own person, and I'll love whoever I choose to love!"

Her dad narrowed his eyes at her, and she copied him, narrowing them back. There was no way she was backing down from this fight.

"Fine," her father growls, averting his gaze in defeat. "I'm just happy I'll get compensation for all this nonsense when you win. Maybe the games will straighten you out and make you see what's really best for you."

"Maybe I just won't enter the games then," Hana retorts, though knows what she's saying is nonsense. She's been training her entire life for this and even Shuri can't persuade her to give it all up.

She's going, and nothing will stand in her way from winning and coming back to see her girlfriend again.

Pilate Antoni, 18.

District Two Male.

A hard boot in the stomach kicks him awake.

"I said you can't sleep here, street rat!" The large figure in front of him bellows, its arms folded over its chest in an angry stance. Pilate slowly blinks his eyes open, letting them adjust to the bright morning light surrounding him. The shadowy figure slowly becomes a man with furrowed eyebrows and a large frown the size of a mountain. The young boy groans, pulling the newspaper that served as a makeshift blanket closer to his chest. He isn't moving whether the man wants him to or not.

"Listen to me! I said take a hike!" The man yells loudly. Pilate ignores him, closing his eyes again and rolling over onto his side. Yawning, he tries to drift back off to sleep once more.

Then, the hard shoe of the man collides with his stomach. Pilate's eyes jolt open and he coughs violently. The man growls, yanking the young boy's arm upward so that he now stands on his two feet and is facing him. Despite being slightly taller than average, Pilate still feels small in the shadow of the large shopkeeper.

"You can leave yourself, or I'll call the cops and have them do it for you!" He screams. "You're scaring off the customers!"

Pilate growls, jerking his wrist out of the strong man's grip. "Don't touch me," he hisses.

"Three," the man begins to count down, pulling out a silver cell phone in his pocket.

Rolling his eyes, Pilate grabs his guitar in one hand and the wrinkled and dirty newspaper in the other.

"Two," the man continues to count, making Pilate's nose flare. Why can't this guy just give him a goddamn break?

"I'm leaving, alright?" Pilate growls, brushing the dirt off his shirt.

"One," the man continues to count, beginning to click the small buttons on his phone.

Pilate scowls, crumbling the newspaper into a small ball and throwing it at the shopkeeper angrily. "Go rot in hell," he spits, stomping away from the storefront. He grips his old guitar angrily, the skin on his hand turning white.

He crosses the street, a few cars stopping short and honking at him. He flips each one of them off as he passes. A few people return the favor, but he doesn't care. It doesn't get to him anymore.

For a Wednesday in late November, the main drag of District Two is unusually busy. Most of the time, the cold mountain air keeps all the people bolted up inside their houses, but for some reason, the sunshine must have brought them all out. He keeps his head tucked low as he passes a happy family walking along, the kids playing tag and laughing gleefully as they weave in between the lampposts and bushes that line the side of the street.

A long time ago that would have been him. One couldn't tell from his dirtied and always glum appearance now, but he used to have a warm bed that was his own and a family who loved him more than anything else in the entire world.

Now they are as dead to him as his once innocent and carefree life.

He doesn't care though. Nothing affects him now. He is as hard as stone and as unbreakable as a rock. The fact that his parents told him he was nothing but a deadbeat because all because he was gay and now pretend like he doesn't exist doesn't bother him at all. No, Pilate Antoni is as uncrackable as a statue. Nothing gets through his impermeable outer shell. Not his parents, not the man who kicked him out of his sleeping spot, and most certainly not Draco Madiera, the embodiment of the devil himself.

Ugh. He felt his nostrils flare just thinking of that pathetic boy's name.

Sighing, Pilate sits down on the icy pavement and takes out his guitar. He has a few hours until training begins, and needs to make some money to buy himself a celebration dinner after he wins the fight tonight. He fishes a small rusted metal tray out of his coat pocket and places it on the sidewalk in front of him.

Taking out his guitar pick, he strums the strings of his guitar slowly. A smooth melody fills his ears, bringing back nostalgic memories of playing in his yard on hot summer nights three years ago, Draco humming along beside him. Those were such good times.

Tears well in his eyes, and he quickly quells them. The strong don't cry. He instantly puts the pick back in his pocket and stands to his feet. He'll get money another way. He doesn't need to play the guitar. Only the weak care about music anyway, and he's strong. The strong don't play the music. Music makes people weak.

Yet, despite how much he wants to, he can't part with his only remaining possession. It reminds him that the old Pilate is still in there somewhere and that the joyous and relaxed boy he once was isn't completely gone yet.

No, the old Pilate is dead, he tells himself. It's better this way. This way, he can't get hurt. Rocks don't shatter like delicate glass does.

He arrives that the academy exactly at noon, the guitar still gripped feverishly in his hand.

"Ugh, I knew something smelled like trash in here," Draco hisses when he enters, his small posse of hooligans trailing after him.

The homeless boy narrows his eyes at his ex-boyfriend, his lips curled into a snarl. "Yeah, it's you," he retorts bitterly.

"Whatever," Draco spits, rolling his eyes as if Pilate just made an immature joke. His friends snicker. "Let's just get this over with."

The two boys make their way over to the mock arena in the center of the academy building. Today is the final battle to determine which one will be chosen to entire the games, and Pilate plans to destroy Draco. After everything that the boy has done to him, Draco doesn't deserve his mercy or kindness. No one does.

They step into the ring, and Pilate runs his dirt-stained fingers along the side of neck where a noticeable scar runs all the way from the top of his temple to his collarbone. It's a constant and visible reminder of the pain that Draco dragged him through. He won't let it happen again.

"Are you ready to get destroyed?" Pilate asks, puffing out his chest to make his already muscular body seem bigger.

Draco scoffs. "You're still nothing without me Pilate," he jeers. "You live on the streets. Your music sucks. When will you learn that? You can't beat me."

A chill runs down Pilate's spine. Draco is doing it again, trying to control him like he was nothing more than a mindless puppet. Well, he isn't. He learned his lesson and would never let anyone control him or make him feel like he wasn't even deserving of being treated like a person again.

"I'm twice the man you are."

"Oh yeah?" Draco asks, raising an eyebrow and taunting him to come closer. "Prove it."

Pilate growls, surging forward. His massive body flies toward Draco, catching him off guard and pummelling him to the ground. The gong that officially starts the match hasn't even rung yet, but the trainee doesn't care. Draco didn't play fair when he threw the vase at his head and called him a worthless piece of trash, so why should he?

His opponent doesn't know what's happening, spitting and desperately trying to wiggle free. Pilate just punches his face over and over again, the pain increasing each time his hand fist collides with Draco's face. Rage races through his veins like race cars flying around a track. He just punches and punches and punches until he can see nothing but red.

Even when Draco cries out in pain, he doesn't stop. He's not going to stop until every drop of blood that has been drained out of his body is repaid. Even if it kills him and turns him into the violent monster that he has constantly dreaded he will become, he's going to get his revenge on everyone who has ever wronged him. Draco is just the beginning.

A/N: I wrote Pilate's section when my house was out of power and it was like 45 degrees inside. It made me colder. Brrr.

Also, Hana is of Asian decent, though I wasn't able to fit that in. I hope you liked these two guys, I certainly did! I'm a sucker for careers, and I had a lot of fun writing their chapters. As always, tell me what you think of them, I like to hear your opinion and it helps me plan plots in stuff in the future, I guess. I'm already planning some and let me tell you, it's going to be an exciting ride :)

And since someone asked, the academies are decently established, particularily in One and Two where they have been around for 4/5 years. They are pretty common and ewll known now.

Updates should be weekly from now on, but honestly, once I say that something always seems to come up and they aren't. I'm playing a varsity sport again this spring, but I did it last year and still found lots of time to write, so I should be fine again. We'll see though, I have a job now. Point being, just expect an update next weekend or something like that.

See you guys in District Three!

paper :)