District Eight Justice Building
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.


Nadina Windlass, 16
District Eight Female Tribute


I'm not pretty. Although I'm not exactly ugly, I stray far from classical, feminine beauty. I don't have long, wavy hair; I don't have bodacious breasts that boys drool over; I don't wear makeup or paint my nails; I don't wear jewelry (haven't even pierced my ears yet); and I'm too tall to wear high heels, lest I want to be taller than all the boys my age. Compared to the other girls in Eight, I'm barely average. Nobody could imagine someone falling for the "special"—because unique, apparently, wasn't bad enough—orphan who lives on the streets.

I'm not pretty, so when I was assaulted, I was told I should be grateful that anyone wanted me in the first place, that this meant I was desirable. It meant that people could look past my flat chest and masculine physique, albeit they must be "repressing their homosexual desires." Others thought I was lying about the incident to gain popularity, as if I'd want to call any of those birdbrains my friend. I'm fine with being all alone, and the more I repeat it to myself, the more it feels true.

A Peacekeeper enters the room. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you don't have any visitors," he says hesitantly. It must be the first time—at least, since he's been working—that nobody had a visitor. "Would you like to be escorted to the train?"

"Yes." I nod decisively. "Thank you."

As we enter the hallway, I can hear crying in the adjacent room. I nearly snort. My district partner must have a loving family, people who will actually miss him when he's gone. I wouldn't be surprised if a dozen of his friends are waiting to see him, maybe even a girlfriend if he's old enough. People will be weeping at the funeral—hell, people will attend the funeral. I, on the other hand, will merely be another grave in the Tribute Cemetery.

The Peacekeeper has just brought me outside the Justice Building, when I hear loud clacking behind me. Someone is running in high heels. "Nadina, where are you going?" The voice belongs to Kimani Tierza, the same woman who drew my name during the reaping. "Don't you want to say your goodbyes to your family and friends?"

"I don't have any family or friends, so I'd rather not waste my time in a room by myself."

"But you have a visitor."

I pause mid-stride and turn towards her. "Who?"

"You'll just have to see for yourself."

I groan. "Kimani, I'm not in the mood for games. Just tell me."

"C'mon, I promise it's someone you'll want to see." Just reaches for my hand, but I swat it away. "Please, just trust me."

Against my better judgment, I follow the pink-haired, crazy woman to the empty room. I expect her to leave after we reach the room, but she follows me inside. For five minutes, nobody else enters the room. It takes me a moment to realize what's really happening here.

"So you're the visitor?" I scoff. "You know, you could've just talked to me on the train. There's no reason for me to have come—"

"I thought you wanted to say goodbye at home." Her smile makes me sick. "You know, just in case you don't return."

"I'm not going to return."

"You can't go into the arena thinking—"

"No, I'm not pretty." She looks confused. "And because I'm not pretty, I'm not going to win the Games."


Baize Edmonia, 27
District Eight Mentor
Victor of the 11th Hunger Games


Scotch tastes better when you're in a happy mood, when you know one of your tributes might not die in the arena. Last year, the scotch tasted exceptional; at least, it did until my promising protégé refused to kill his female companion in the pre-arena battles, even though she posed no threat to the competition. But this year, neither tribute stands a chance: the boy is too young to last a few days in the arena and the girl is too austere to earn any sponsors.

I hope their farewells are as meaningful as possible.

"Do you want another glass?" the bartender asks.

I nod. "Wait, you're not an avox?"

"No," he chuckles, grabbing the bottle from the shelf. "Never committed a Capitol offense, still have my tongue."

"Then why are you here?"

"President Quain allows lower-class Capitolites to take on jobs that are traditionally given to the avoxes. Rumor has it, he might extend the offer to district citizens."

"I doubt that."

"Well, you never know." He pours the scotch into my glass. "He's a man full of surprises. I don't think anyone really knows what he might do next."

"Ah, cheers to that," I say, taking a swig of my drink. "So, you're not an avox. You must have a name."

"Mordecai." He eagerly reaches out to shake my hand. I hesitantly take it. "And you're the Baize Edmonia, victor of the 11th Hunger Games."

"I am."

"Am I able to ask you about your Games, or is that off-limits?"

I'm not surprised he wants to hear about it, it's a question almost every Capitolite I've met has asked. If there's no chance you or a loved one can go into the arena yourself, you want to know about it. I let him ask away.

"Was it hard killing your boyfriend?"

I down the rest of my drink. I can't answer the question otherwise.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever done. He was my family, you know, and his death will haunt me til the day I die."

"You don't have a family?"

"Not one that I care about, anyway," I scoff. "I honestly hope they're doing absolutely awful."


Octavian Espen, 12
District Eight Male Tribute


"I just don't understand," I murmur to myself, pacing back and forth in the small room. "I don't know anyone— anyone who has been reaped. It's wrong, the reaping was flawed."

"Honey—"

"No, Mom, the reaping was flawed! I shouldn't have been reaped! We should tell someone!"

"Octavian, listen." It's the first time my dad has spoken since he entered; he's been too busy crying to form any audible word. "Your aunt . . . she was— she was in the Games when you were young."

"I thought you were an only child." I stop pacing. "Grandma said she only had one kid."

"She did, it's just—" He starts crying again. I'm getting annoyed with his tears by now; I'm the one that deserves to be crying right now, not my grown-ass dad. "It's just—"

"Mom, what's he trying to say."

"It's not my story to tell," she says, raising her hands in surrender. "Just give him some time—"

"I don't have anymore time." I hold myself back from screaming. "So tell me, now, about my aunt before I ask someone else about it."

"Your aunt," my dad repeats. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "Your aunt is . . . well, she's really . . . she's your half-aunt."

"And that's why I haven't heard about her?"

He nods. "Your grandpa was a little . . . promiscuous before your grandma got sick. Then he met a woman and she became pregnant with a little girl and . . . well, she named her Baize."

"Baize? As in Baize Edmonia?"

He nods again. "My dad knew she was pregnant, but he didn't think she would keep the pregnancy. But, she did."

"But now you know. How?"

"When she was in the arena, the Capitol requested an interview with my dad. And then after she won, my dad tried reconciling with her, but . . . but . . ." A new wave of tears streams down my dad's face, but he vainly rubs them away. "But she denied him."

"Well, I don't blame her," I snort. "Grandpa left her!"

"Octavian, you better not speak to your father in that tone."

"No, I will," I say matter-of-factly. "He's crying because his sister—his half-sister—didn't want to be a part of a family who started caring about her when she was rich and famous."

"That's not—"

"It is, that is what happened." Against my will, I laugh. "And now, now, my life is in her hands, in the hands of my aunt who probably doesn't even know I exist, yet hates me nonetheless. 'May the odds be ever in my favor.'"


Author Note: Expect the rest of the introductory point of views to be done within the next month! Please keep following and commenting if you're enjoying this story!

Next Chapter: Deception (D10 Justice Building)