This is going to be a weird chapter. The thing is, I just created Ranen off of the top of my head, so I don't have much to go on, and, as you said, dramioneforinfinity, Rosita is...different. I'll see what I can do. :)

Ranen Hollock, 12. District 8

My world is full of color.

I see color, I live in color, and people are color. The houses and fabrics of District 8 are in color, too.

I do not hear in color.

I hear in black. Black...is nothing.

My twin sister, Meira, walks into my room with an anxious smile on her face. I return the grin nervously, fidgeting in my seat and straightening a wrinkle on my dark green dress shirt. In truth, I'm worried about her. Meira, only twelve years old like me, might get reaped for the Hunger Games this year.

She mouths a greeting and pulls me up from my chair, dragging me out the door excitedly. I grin; she's always been anxious to see the new colors that the District 8 weavers put out every day. "Wait," I call, trying to gauge the volume of my voice by the vibrations I feel in my throat. She turns and applauds my successful efforts proudly, slowing down for me as we walk, hand in hand, to the main square.

She's right; the colors are beautiful today. Only the best for the Capitol cameras, of course.

The world's colors are beautiful today.

The event they signify, however, is as black and empty as my hearing.

Rosita Lockhart, 17. District 8

My boss, Violet Edinsflock, smiles indulgently at me as she straightens the reaping outfit she's sewn for me. "Darling, you'll do fine," she drawls. "After all, your name is just one of the names of hundreds of other girls. This'll just be a quick affair and we'll be done with it."

I reply, "Of course, Violet. And then I'll finally file away all of those designs that you wanted, and then we can go on with our lives." Because, honestly, what is the chance of me being reaped? I don't have to sign up for the tesserae, so there's a one-in-a-thousand chance of my name being pulled.

Violet grins, showing a trace of the cheeky 24-year-old that she really is under all that makeup and fanfare. She glances at the clock and frowns. "It's almost two. You should be going now," she announces.

I nod, whipping out one of my ever-present bottles of homemade hand sanitizer. It's a glorious invention, this stuff. I'm a total germaphobe, and I can't stand being anywhere without my sanitizer. "Yeah, I'll get going," I tell Violet absently, shrugging on my jacket as I rub the lotion into my hands. "Bye."

I leave Violet's fashion design shop without another word, strolling down the wealthiest street in all of District 8. The general population is being drawn into the main square, and I find myself jostled and bumped by careless elbows and running children. I huff in irritation and reach up to make sure that my dark brown hair is still flawlessly tucked under my hand-crocheted red beret. I notice more than a few admiring stares at the sight of my perfect outfit, which is merely a strapless dark grey dress that reaches midthigh. Of course, being the assistant to the most well-known fashion designer of our district has its perks.

"Welcome, welcome!" trills our escort, the surprisingly normal-looking Rae Darkwood. I personally suspect that she is from District 7, but that she moved to the Capitol. "The time has come, District 8!"

"Of course," I mutter, absently sniffing the sweet aroma of my herb-scented, sanitized hands in my boredom. "Just get on with it."

Rae struts over to the glass orb that holds all of the girls' names, plucking one out after rummaging around for a good while. "Here we are!" she announces. "Your District 8 female tribute for the 32nd Hunger Games is...Rosita Lockhart!"

I look up in surprise, feeling mildly amused. Of all the people, I was picked? How incredibly...fascinating. "Me?" I ask, pointing to my chest.

"Yes, dear. Just come on up," Rae urges.

I shrug and walk up to the stage, mounting the stairs to the top of the dark wooden platform. Rae gives me a quick smile, which I return proudly. She grabs my hand and raises it in the air, burbling, "Your tribute, Rosita Lockhart, everybody!"

The cheers are wild from the girls' section. Of course, I tell myself. Half the girls from the district want my job. But at least I got a nice career into my life before I was reaped.

I make a mental note to wash my hands as soon as I get offstage.

You never know what kind of filth might've been on Rae's hands.

Ranen Hollock, 12. District 8

I watch the female tribute with fascination. She is showing little to no emotion; in fact, she even looks a bit smug.

Meira raises her eyebrows from beside me; she's not too impressed either. I glance back at the stage, and see that Rae, our escort, is walking confidently over to the males' glass orb, picking one with a grin that shows just how much she loves sending kids to their deaths.

Her mouth moves in a swift open-and-close fashion, making short work of the name she announces.

Ranen Hollock.

I cannot breathe. This can't be happening. I did not just get reaped, not on my first year!

Meira grips my hand in fear, trying to keep me from walking away, but knowing that her actions will eventually be futile. My own knees go weak for a moment, and as I walk slowly to the stage, my hands are shaking uncontrollably. I try to quell my fear and the inevitable helplessness that I feel, knowing that I won't have my twin to guide me through life anymore. Rae smiles at me happily, a shark's grin filled with the promise of my imminent death during these Games.

She asks me if I'm okay. Unable to find the concentration to even attempt to talk, I merely nod, watching dumbly as Rae beckons Rosita over and raises our hands in the air. I can tell by looking at her lips that she is announcing our names, proclaiming our identities to District 8 and all of Panem.

I can't hear the cheers and applause, though.

The blackness enshrouds all feeling, making me just watch as fellow human beings applaud my death. For once, I'm glad I can't hear.

Being deaf blocks out the sounds of bloodlust.

Rosita Lockhart, 17. District 8

There's something different about the young tribute that sits beside me in the plush chairs of the Capitol train. I look him over, taking in his well-groomed brown hair and worried, pale gray eyes. All I see is fear there. So it must be something else.

"Ranen," I call quietly, trying not to startle him.

He does not respond, just glances out the window sadly and rubs his thumb over and over across the surface of the leather band that is secured around his wrist. It's a gift from his twin sister.

I reach over and tap his shoulder. "Ranen!" I repeat more urgently. He jumps in surprise and looks at me with these wide, baby-animal eyes that are full of childlike innocence.

"What?" he asks, but the sound of his voice is rough with disuse, and he forms the single syllable oddly, as if it's unfamiliar to him.

I know now.

"You're deaf, aren't you?" I ask, dumbfounded. A deaf district partner! This is the worst luck I've ever had!

He nods grimly. For a moment, I feel sorry for him. But the feeling disperses as I slather my hands with the germ-killing sanitizer that I got from Violet in the Justice Building.

Well, at least that's one less enemy to worry about.