When you see me, will you say I've changed?

Sadiq Almana, 18
Appalachia

The tracks are deserted, silent save for the soft crunching of gravel underfoot and the odd bird call. Same as always. The coal train comes twice a week, but other than that, no one visits us here. No one has any need. And I don't blame them; if I could get away, I'd never come back.

It's not that I hate Appalachia. It's just...I don't belong here. It's not just a feeling; it's a part of me, always has been. This dreary, insignificant small-town life – it's fine for some, but maybe I don't want to die in the same room where I was born.

After a good fifteen minute walk, I leave the tracks and follow the worn footpath through the undergrowth, into the woods. The familiar surroundings are a welcome sight, but I can't help but notice that the foliage is thinner, the flowers wilting, the ground cracked beneath my shoes. This forest isn't what it used to be. There's still growth, but it's dying. Slowly. Just like everything else 'round here.

It's the war that did it. Our ancestors survived centuries here just fine, no trouble with the land or the wildlife, isolated but healthy and safe. Independent. Old Ira remembers a time when they thought they were the only civilization left on Earth. Sometimes, I think I can't imagine anything more depressing than that: being stuck in this village, doomed to farm or cook or mine til you die, truly believing there's nothing more to life and nothing better to aspire to. But then, I look at myself, and I can't help but wonder if hope is really any better.

Knowing what's out there – and knowing that I'll never be a part of it – that has to be worse.

The final stretch of the journey is the hardest, a steep uphill climb with little relief before the top, but at least the thick canopy above provides relief from the summer heat. Mom hates that I come out here; she says it's dangerous, too easy to get lost or injured. Nevermind that I've been making this trek for years without any trouble. But I don't dwell on the logic; that's not her real reason, just a convenient excuse.

She just doesn't understand why I make this trip. Why I need to escape. Mother and Father, Shayan, Eshaal – hell, even Arish – they're all perfectly happy here. Well, maybe not perfectly happy, not anymore...but they've always been content with this life. They've never understood; no one ever has. No one except...

I'm shaken from my thoughts by my arrival at the summit. This has always been my favorite spot in the whole settlement; not even the memories could taint that. There's something so freeing about standing up here, looking out over the whole District. Like nothing can hold me back. Nothing ever feels as important from above. I've read books where characters talk of climbing so high that the people below them look like specks, so small they're indistinguishable. I wish I could say the same, but this hill isn't nearly tall enough for all that. Still, it's the closest I'll ever get to freedom, and beggars can't be choosers.

I still remember the first time I brought Faye...the wonder on her face, echoing my own; it was all the proof I needed that she truly understood me, and I her, unlike anyone I'd ever known. Unlike anyone I ever will know.

I settle down in my usual spot, cross-legged in the grass, leaning against a decaying log that looks like it's been here for centuries. When I was younger, there were times I'd pass the whole day up here, journal in one hand, pen in the other, writing about whatever came to mind. And when the trains came, I'd watch them race away and imagine I was leaving with them. Ever since she left, though, the trains don't signify escape. Just betrayal.

Nowadays, I still have the journal and I still write, but with Eshaal married and Shayan working, I can't spare more than an hour for these trips; I'm needed at home. Though, I suppose I can't complain too much. I'll have even less time next year when I begin working in the mines, so having a whole hour to myself is really a luxury.

As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear the faraway echoes of the bell indicating a shift change. I can't actually see them from here, but I envision the swathes of beleaguered men and women, trudging home to a meager meal and a poor night's rest on their rickety beds, before they wake up and do it all again tomorrow.

Soon, that'll be me. Welcome to the rest of your life.

My eyes wander to the post office. My family has a small box there, on the off chance someone outside the District might want to contact us. I stopped by on my way out, just in case, but it was empty. As always.

I don't know why I still check. It's been years since she left, years of silence. I don't even have her address, so it's all on her to reach out, and she's clearly not interested. If she was going to write, she'd have done it by now; God knows she's had plenty of opportunities.

Besides, what am I even hoping to see? "Hey Sadiq! Sorry I left, I'm a jerk. Lots of love, Faye"? As if that would make it any better? She'd still be gone. And I'd still be stuck.

She left me. She's never coming back. And nothing I can do will ever change that.

And rationally, I know that I need to move on, I need to forget about her and us and that whole period of our lives, because it's over and she's long gone, and honestly, how stupid do I have to be to allow my happiness to be determined by someone else? Someone who isn't even in my life anymore, who would leave me in the dust like that?

But, deep down, I know it's not about Faye. Or, it is, but it's not just about her. It's watching my childhood home fall apart around me because of a war we never should have been a part of. It's Ms. Kimball's rejection, cold and calculated and clinical, as if she were just reading a bulletin or assigning a grade, not deciding the rest of my life. It's the mundanity, the futility, the monotony of knowing what every day for the rest of my life will look like, practically dead before I ever get the chance to live. It's her insistence that she loved me, even as she blithely shattered us into a million tiny fragments. It's dreaming of brighter futures and lofty ambitions, then slowly realizing they were never even possible to begin with. It's mistaking the pounding thrum of my own heartbeat for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. It's watching hope slip right through my fingers and lacking the motivation to even try to hold on.

And it's knowing that the person who knew all of it – who said we were a team, and nothing could ever break us apart – left me behind.

Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark.

Lolita Repósado, 18
Queens

When I wake, the world is still asleep. The room is still, a silence broken only by the gentle ticking of the walnut grandfather clock in the corner. The first sunbeams filter through the diaphanous curtains, dappling the bedspread with flickers of light. The faint scents of rosemary and lavender hang in the air, lingering from the candles burning low on the dressing table.

I cast off the sheets and rise from the bed, shivering slightly as the crisp morning air meets my bare skin. Stepping around the garments strewn on the floor – demure black flats, silk gloves, a lace brassiere, and a dress so sickly green even I couldn't pull it off – I throw open the armoire, momentarily pausing to survey the contents before selecting my night robe.

With the black cloth draped around my shoulders and cinched at the waist, the goosebumps dissipate, and as I head to the washroom, I catch a momentary glimpse of the bed. In the mellow morning glow, I can just make out the silhouette under the blankets. No signs of stirring, no surprise there, not after the night she had.

Of course, I've never been one to dally. Within minutes, the bath is filling as I stand at the counter, examining my reflection before it vanishes beneath the steam clinging to the mirror. As I scrunch my thick black curls, I can't help but notice the night's exertion has left it messier than usual, the smallest strands sticking to my forehead as though from sweat. The robe's satin, unique amidst the rest of my wardrobe, is smooth against my skin, the shape of the garment perfectly conforming to the curves of my figure. Most of my dresses were tailored with the express intent of hiding the female body – an instinct I've never quite understood, despite its ubiquity in Queens.

As I slip out of the robe and into the tub, I can't help but marvel at the oddity of my current circumstances. The bath itself is unremarkable; near-scalding and laced with scented oils, it's certainly luxurious, but no more than I've become accustomed to. But when compared to the conditions of my childhood – tepid water in a shabby wooden basin – it's certainly strange to think how much has changed in just two years. And a simple bath doesn't even begin to cover it.

Not that I'm complaining. This may be just another cage, but at least it's a beautiful one.

Once I've soaked and scrubbed, lathered and laved, I rise from the tub and pull the plug, watching the whirlpool's mesmerizing patterns until a few lone bubbles are all that remain. Plush carpet beneath my feet, towel in my hair, I wipe the steam from the mirror; sienna skin and oval eyes stare back at me from the glass.

Despite my prolonged absence, the bedroom is just as I left it, as though no time has passed. I've found there's a novel serenity to the stillness of early morning, before the day begins and responsibilities arise and people demand attention. When I can be alone.

And when I'm alone, I write.

I'm not in the habit of leaving my journals lying around the desk, an open invitation for prying eyes. Usually, I'd have to pull up the loose boards by the armoire and retrieve one from my collection. But last night, I was too tied up with other matters to properly conceal my exploits, and a single leather-bound book lies face down on the table. As I flip it over, I catch a glimpse of my recent efforts:

"Araminta, mi corazón, how can I make you see?" Sarai cried, wild, frantic. "You are all that matters. Without you, I would die – I am sure of it. Just as the oceans lie still without the wind, just as the flowers wither and succumb without the light, so too will I suffocate. You breathed life back into my dreadful existence."

And Araminta almost believed her.

Utter rubbish, all of it. Shit. Sometimes it's hard to remember why I stopped burning these.

The candles, nearly depleted, ought to be replaced with a fresh batch. I don't really need them – the house is wired for electricity – but they conjure memories of a younger Lolita, sneaking pages and passages by candlelight in the dead of night, the threat of discovery terrifying but exhilarating. I don't have to hide anymore, but the ambience helps my composition, and I've found I tend to write better with a few of them around. Plus, they're always a hit with the ladies.

Speaking of...seems my companion is finally rousing from sleep. Carmen Valderrama, 19 years old, wife to Oscar Valderrama and remarkable seamstress; though, as it turns out, not so remarkable a lover. Still, we don't choose our gifts, and she always mends my garments free of charge, so I don't fault her for this shortcoming. From a glance in the mirror, I see her beginning to sit up, so I shove the book into a cluttered drawer for a later time.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," I say with a grin, spinning in my chair to face her. "I thought you might've died in your sleep."

My cheerful greeting is met with a tired groan and a cheeky retort. "If last night didn't kill me, nothing will." That elicits a laugh from me as I dance over to her side and take a seat.

I take her hand in both of mine and bring it to my mouth, brushing her knuckles with my lips before gently kissing it. "Well, I'm busy tonight, but if you want, we can do it all again tomorrow," I tell her in between kisses. While she giggles, I work my way up her arm, shoulders, neck, and finally to her mouth, relishing the feeling of control as she follows my every move.

She sighs and leans back into the pillow. "Lolita Repósado, I think I'm in love with you."

I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Carmen Valderrama's not the first of my paramours to grow attached, not by a long shot, but it never gets any less irksome. Why does everything have to be so serious? Can't a girl just have a little fun? It's not that I don't understand the impulse – not like I don't yearn to fall in love, settle down, start a family – but it's just not a possibility. Hiding my irritation, I force a grin. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we're out of time," I announce, tilting my head to the grandfather clock in the corner. "You have to leave, now."

A quick glance at the clock confirms my assertion, and she reluctantly begins the process of escaping unseen. She rises from the bed – my eyes lingering on her bare chest for only a moment – and retrieves yesterday's outfit from the floor, including the unfortunate olive dress. In a few minutes, she's ready to steal away, fully dressed, hair swept into a haphazard updo.

Standing at the doorway, she quips, "Give Milo my regards," prompting a chuckle from me. A gloved hand turns the brass knob and she slips into the hall, vanishing as the door shuts behind her. I relax slightly, releasing the tension in my shoulders with a soft sigh, but I've no time to waste, either. I set to work getting ready for the day ahead: styling my damp curls, blowing out the candles, stowing the book.

I scrutinize my reflection in the floor-length mirror, ensuring everything is in its proper place. Perfect. As always. Just one piece missing.

I slip on my wedding ring and turn to the door, taking a deep breath before heading out.

My husband will be expecting me.

Writer in the Dark by Lorde.

A/N:

Wow, I cannot believe I'm here! Surprise! Welcome to the start of CO! I know I said I wanted to finish APR before I published CO, but the motivation has simply not been there like it was for these intros, and I didn't want to put everything on hold for one chapter. So, here we are.

House-keeping: If you're new here, hi! I'm Opti, and this is my first SYOT, the 4th Games. I have a prequel called A Proportional Response, which you can read if you want but is not required to understand this one; it mostly deals with world-building. I have 20 tributes, which I've decided means 10 intro chapters w/ 2 POVs each. To learn more about the cast, visit clandestine-operations .weebly .com (delete the spaces); if you want to do a blog review, this chapter is probably the best place for it, but honestly anywhere is fine with me!

Thank you very much to my dear friend ladyqueerfoot for making the amazing (matching!) covers for both APR and CO! And a big shoutout to tracelynn and Firedawn'd for beta-ing Sadiq's and Lolita's POVs respectively!

What did you think of Sadiq and Lolita? This is my first attempt at writing other people's characters and I'm honestly desperate for feedback. I hope I did them justice; thank you to their submitters; I couldn't have asked for two better characters to begin this story with.

I...actually think that's all I have to say? Possibly my shortest A/N so far! See y'all back here whenever I'm able to write with Anaphora and Azrael!

Love,

Opti