Did the seconds pass you by?

We are back here again! I have a lovely announcement – I have finished Picking Up The Pieces, and now I can dedicate more of my time to writing Borrowed Time, which is great! While I was arresting Firedawn'd over her dictatorship (I'm kidding ily) I was eager to get started on this chapter because we are now halfway through intros, right at the same time as my fabulous collab partner, Remus98, the author of Into The Abyss. If you fancy another slice of the Echo Verse, his story is definitely one to visit. ;)

That being said, let's get on to the chapter. Thank you to the submitters of Valerian (symphorophilia), Tyson (Alexcias), and Hamza (Remus98) for their excellent characters, I hope you enjoy them!

Trigger Warning: Some suggestions of homophobia in Tyson's POV and suggestive sexual content in Ham's. If you need a summary for these POV's, let me know and I'll be happy to send it your way.

Thank you to Remus98, FireflyLlama, goldie031, optimisms, ladyqueerfoot (ft Flawless Catastrophe) and BradiLain for your wonderful reviews. Thanks to the Discord messages and PM's as well! :)

you've got my hands tied

innocent sacrifice.

Valerian Istan, Eighteen
District Six Male
23:49

The tip of the needle twinkled under the flickering overhead light.

Valerian's eyes narrowed as he placed the object on the tray, sighing as he tried to distract himself from his swirling thoughts. The night shift was never his favourite at the surgery; usually, the day had more locals bursting in, bleeding from knife wounds or delirious from overdoses. The evening was worse, with gruesome injuries and grotesque patients beaten down by gangs or caught in fights on their way home. All of those people in need kept his mind distracted, but in the quiet of the late-night darkness, the last hour of his shift had been, for the most part, silent.

He hated not having a distraction.

The last thing Valerian would ever want was to be alone with his thoughts. Living life idly would only invite the guilty whispers into his mind, reminding him of the horrible things he'd done and how he deserved his retribution for it. He did, he'd never deny it. He deserved to have the life ripped from his body, skin peeled from muscle, and muscle torn from bone. He deserved to face justice for the lives he had taken. Yet, when the opportunity arose to be judge, jury and executioner, Valerian had stood forth and passed a sentence he had no right to carry out.

Or did he?

Surely they deserved it, after all? People do horrible things, but drug dealers kill more people than anyone gives them credit for. Perhaps it was their grating arrogance that made Valerian's blood boil, or that the people who ended up getting hurt were the good ones.

His sister was one of those people.

He'd found her pale corpse on her bed two years ago, rigid and sweating, the signs of an overdose as clear as day. He could still remember how his frantic hands had shaken her shoulders and how his trembling voice had rung out in her room just asking, no, begging her to wake up. The two of them hadn't always seen eye to eye but it had been the two of them left on their aunt's doorstep one vicious winter. Back then, their Mother's addiction and their Father's desperation had left them with Pheobe Istan, their aunt. Pheobe had been a stern woman but had taught them well, shielding them from poverty. Senna had shown no interest in her aunt's surgery and the business it gathered, but Valerian's quick mind and willingness to learn had left him working as an apprentice.

His sister was reckless, foolish even, and while Valerian had expressed his concern for her too many times, it had never come out in the right way. He'd always said the wrong thing, been the one who had been too harsh, too critical, too stupid to recognise that she'd needed his help.

He'd failed her.

He really had. He could feel the weight of her death on his shoulders and while he knew he did nothing to hurt her, he couldn't help but blame himself. If he'd been better, she'd still be alive right now, perhaps working alongside him in the dim lighting of the surgery's cracked grey hallways.

Maybe if he'd saved her, he wouldn't have become a murderer.

Farroukh Zarei wrote his destiny for him.

He'd heard the name too many times before; drugged-up patients shaking from withdrawals or delirious from their highs, muttering about him; the drugs he gave them; the hit he'd tempt them with; the reliability of his services. Mr Zarei was a well-known individual in Six's underworld and as someone who had to tend to the needs of helpless drug addicts, Valerian had unknowingly committed the name to memory. After all, Mr Zarei was a staple in his patient's deranged mutterings.

It was only when the man himself ended up in the surgery, bleeding heavily from a knife wound, did Valerian finally meet him. Valerian and his aunt had worked on the man for hours, doing their best to save his life, a few stitches here, a wad of gauze there. When Valerian had been left alone to conduct a post-assessment on him, he'd spotted the name on the top of the form. The whispers had come back to him as his aunt's fresh ink traced the letters of that name and damned the criminal forever.

Farroukh Zarei.

Memories of patients and their doped-up ramblings had echoed in his mind at the time.

I-I just needed another hit, y'know? Farroukh Zarei fixed me up real good this time…

Valerian had always wondered if Mr Zarei had been the man to give those drugs to his sister.

Suddenly, it all made sense. If Valerian was born into this world to save people's lives, then it was up to him to stop those who would put others in danger. All Valerian had to do was make a small adjustment to the man's IV bag, enough for an overdose that would soon prove fatal. Quiet Valerian, sweet, hard-working, unassuming Valerian claimed ignorance when the man was pronounced dead. The drip had been faulty, after all - the surgery never had the safest equipment and patients died all the time. This would just be another unfortunate case of a surgery's struggle to save yet another fading life.

After everything he'd done, there was no resolution.

There was satisfaction, obviously; the knowledge that another criminal had been wiped from the face of the earth. There was also a want to kill more, to bring justice down on those who made others' lives so much harder, those who ruined this world and took what they were unauthorised to take. Valerian felt unsatisfied knowing that other dealers were out there, heartless dealers gambling with people's lives for money.

It didn't take long for bitterness to become a resident in his mouth.

The aftertaste of it had seeped in when Senna had died and had grown stronger with every patient he'd struggled to save. His anger boiled away beneath his skin, a toxic lake bubbling away, gnawing at him from the inside. He had to take action. He couldn't let this scum ruin more and more lives unchecked.

Farroukh Zarei had just been the beginning, of course. Valerian had vowed to rid Six of its drug problem, one dealer at a time.

So, he did.

After two years, six lives were now on Valerian's hands. A whisper here, a mutter there and he would find all the evidence he needed. After all, the patients spoke nonsense for hours. All Valerian had to do was pick out the important little pieces of information and come to a conclusion. He was still hunting, always waiting for the next unsuspecting criminal to find themselves in his care, where he would watch them drift from life, never to wake up.

"Valerian, are you ready to go?"

The voice of his aunt brought Valerian from his thoughts, and he was grateful for the distraction. When there was a silent moment, his own guilt fell freely like a waterfall, drowning him. While he'd killed bad people, his conscience was never kind. After all, there was blood on his hands, too. Did these people have families? Were they as bad as he thought or just trying to survive, like everyone else? In many ways, he was just as bad as the dealers were, just as bad as Farroukh Zarei. Maybe he deserved to face justice for the terrible things he had done too.

"Yes, Aunt Pheobe," he answered, as cordial as ever.

"Good, let's make a move then," she nodded, but paused, watching Valerian's face. "Are you okay?"

No. He wanted to say. I'm a murderer. A liar. A fool.

He'd never tell her. He couldn't. It was the knowledge of his crime combined with his mission that left him so resolute, so determined to rain justice down on those who deserved its wrath. He hid his guilt away even though it lied there, heavy in his heart, eating him up piece by piece. He was doing good work here, but at what cost? Whatever the price, he was ready to pay it, but not quite yet.

"I'm fine," Valerian spoke again. "Just…thinking."

Yes, he was thinking.

When would his retribution come?

Tyson "Ty" Bermont, Eighteen
District Two Male
00:00

Tyson waited for the burn to come.

Downing vodka at midnight was probably not the best idea for any academy trainee, but the way it hit the back of his throat was just perfect. Tyson was no alcoholic by any means, but the way the warmth hit his stomach, followed by the laughter of his friends just made sharing drinks so much better. Drinking to celebrate the recently announced twist for the Quarter Quell hadn't exactly been expected either, but Tyson wasn't complaining. Few things could beat good company with good friends, and tonight, all of them were hopeful for what was to come.

"Alright guys, this is enough," Kent, his best friend, warned them all. "We don't want to be trashed for training tomorrow morning."

Tyson leaned back against the springy bunk in their dorm, watching as Avan began protesting wildly.

"Dude, you're such a buzzkill!" he cried. "Let us live and party at least once in our lives! Damn, is there no time for fun these days?"

"You know we have to try and stay in shape for volunteer try-outs," Kent crossed his arms, although a slight smile lingered on his lips at Avan's indignance.

"Speaking of," Tyson announced, shooting up. "I've been wanting to try out that new technique on you at some point. Why not do it now?"

Both Kent and Avan groaned at these words. Tyson was known as an organised and meticulous fighter and no stranger to trying said techniques out on unlucky students. There was no denying that Tyson put every ounce of himself into his craft, and would be one of the clear frontrunners to be chosen as the volunteer for the 125th Hunger Games.

"I'll do it!" Brodie, the youngest in their dorm, offered.

"No you won't," Kent reminded him sternly. "It's great to drink and party, but fighting will alert the locals, and getting told off won't be pretty."

"Ugh, don't remind me of the last time," Avan yawned. "I don't think I'll ever live that down. Lying naked in my own vomit wasn't the best look."

"Don't remind me," Kent wrinkled his nose. "I don't need the mental image."

"Oh, don't you dream of me, Kent?" Avan laughed, before ducking the shoe that was thrown at his head from the other side of the room. "Fine, fine, I'll spare you the rundown of my greatest moments. Now lads, shots?"

"Sure, another one," Brodie spoke up brightly, his youthful face wide and grinning.

Tyson watched the entire interaction with a smile on his face, grateful for such brilliant and entertaining friends. Sometimes, when you had nobody else to rely on, good friends could always come to the rescue. Academies in Two had an optional live-in programme for trainees who lived in less fortunate circumstances, and while Tyson had never known poverty, he'd known the pain of loneliness. His Mother was as cold and cruel as frostbite, and his Father ignored his entire existence. Apparently being gay was a crime in this day and age - said no one. Coming from one of the few conservative families in the District had left Tyson with parents he never saw eye to eye with, and almost nobody to relate to.

He should've left when his Father found him with another boy and flew off the handle. George Bermont had left the house and never returned, ashamed to live with so-called filth. Carolina, his Mother, hadn't been much warmer, cruel and cutting in her every remark, reminding Tyson of how much of a disappointment he was for bringing disgrace to the family.

Tyson had felt the tension grow until it was almost unbearable. He remembered the snide remarks, the tutting or scoffing when he was in the room, the air of disdain directed at him at almost any opportunity. One day, he left for the academy and never returned.

If Tyson had any regrets, it was leaving Tyrell behind.

His brother had always been a sweet soul, a kind and nurturing person. The idea of Tyrell at mercy to his Mother was almost too much to bear, and he went to visit whenever he could. He could deal with the offhanded comments by his Mother for a short while if it meant he could be there for his brother.

"Just one more? Please?"

Avan was arched over Kent, reaching for the bottle of vodka as Kent desperately held it away from his grasp. It was Brodie, however, who waited for the perfect opportunity. Creeping forward, he nimbly plucked the bottle from Kent's fingers, laughing at the two of them, who promptly toppled over into a tipsy two-man mess on the floor. Tyson felt the smile rise to his face as he watched Kent and Avan's bickering, and poured out another shot for Brodie as the duo squabbled over so-called responsibility.

"You'll do it, you know?" Brodie spoke suddenly from beside him.

"Do what?" Tyson asked.

"Volunteer," Brodie told him. "I don't know why, but it just feels like it. They'll pick you. I'm sure of it."

Tyson looked over to his younger friend as he downed his shot. The seventeen-year-old had grown specifically attached to him, eager to mould himself in Tyson's image. If only Brodie had known how deep his demons were and how he was no role model to look up to. He was just another kid trying to escape his family, twisted in their own way. How could he be a leader for someone else if he wasn't even sure how to lead himself out of life's never-ending problems?

"You really think so?" Tyson chuckled, but he entertained himself with the idea.

It wouldn't be stupid to believe that he could do it; he'd studied harder than almost anyone else, perfecting every possible parry and riposte, honing his techniques and practising the slightest change in angle or sword grip. Tyson had trained and trained until he was soaked to the skin by his own sweat, and then he'd trained some more. Brodie was right, he supposed. He did have a chance.

"Yep," Brodie hiccupped. "Then next year, I'll volunteer too. We'll be the best friends who won back to back Games."

"Two bloodbaths, though," Tyson mused, lying back on the bed, the ceiling above him swaying slightly. "Who could be prepared for that?"

"Does it matter?" Brodie wondered. "If you get home at the end, does it really matter?"

"I guess not..." he muttered.

He guessed not, he'd said, but he quickly fell silent.

That was the thing. It did matter. Everything he wanted was resting on his own victory against twenty-three others, in an arena with an expiration date, no less. His victory, too, was relying on the slim chance he'd be chosen as this year's volunteer.

Of course, it mattered.

How could it not?

Hamza "Ham" Falsini, Eighteen
District Twelve Male
06:00

How could he ever get bored of this?

Ham lied half-asleep in his bed, the hazy morning light creeping in through the shadowy curtains, leaving small tendrils of dust floating sleepily from one place to another. Through his half-closed eyes, he could make out the form of his lover, Orisha, in front of him, his arms draped over their waist. His brown eyes followed the curve of their neck, tracing every slight wrinkle across their black skin, all the way to the top of their shaved head. Despite Orisha's beauty, however, the two of them were not alone.

He could feel the weight of Tyr's arm around his own waist and could imagine the tousled blonde hair dangling in front of closed green eyes, surrendered to sleep. He could feel Tyr's warmth close to his back where the muscles rippled with every breath and the smooth skin made him feel at home. His other lover held him as closely as he held Orisha, the three of them breathing in unison, drifting in and out of their own sweet dreams.

This was the best part of the morning, the era of limbo that lied between sleep and wakefulness. Ham always enjoyed it most for the cosiness, the warmth, the feeling of togetherness with the person he was sleeping with. Tyr and Orisha were his most loving and passionate lovers, but Ham was never exclusive. Anyone he wanted, he knew he could have. There was always something so alluring about Ham that people just couldn't seem to resist, and the young man revelled in every moment of it.

Maybe it was his smile or the way he winked at passers-by, or even in the way he arched his body as he worked in the dim, grimy mines of Twelve. He'd always had something, a glint in his eye, a mystery about him. Maybe it wasn't that. Maybe it had been Ham who was searching for the newest pleasure in life, the next conquest, the next challenge, as he always liked to do. He didn't wait around for the opportunity to fall at his feet; he went out there and did his best to find it. He was always en route to finding the next thrill, the new experience that could change his life forever. That idea of the mystery that came attached to such ideals just made it all the more attractive.

Slowly, Ham slid out from under Tyr's arm, his feet meeting the worn wooden floorboards, the cool morning air draping itself across his skin. While he enjoyed a morning filled with cuddling and closeness, today was, unfortunately, not one of those days. He tip-toed over to the bathroom, careful not to disturb his lovers' rest, before slipping inside. Mere moments later, water caressed his back as he leaned his head back, his fingers following the streams of water across his skin, bouncing across his pecs and down his abs.

He wasn't always like this. He used to be so afraid of himself and his desires, that his confidence had taken a long time to cultivate.

It wasn't easy, struggling with confidence. As a kid, Ham had been so happy and carefree, but his teenage years brought the endless struggle of learning to be himself. It was a minefield that was so difficult to navigate that the idea of finding himself seemed almost impossible. How could he deal with these strange urges? What did they mean? Was he a disgusting person because of them?

His sister, Mamtha, had been really supportive, and together, they'd found a way out of Ham's self-destructive maze. He'd worked hard on himself; his confidence, his body, his ways of attracting others. Ham relished in the idea of being able to walk up to almost anyone he wanted and asking them to spend the night with him. He loved his own ability to be powerful and comfortable in his own skin, to be able to know his own worth and be happy to pursue the reckless pleasures that life often held in the arms of another person.

Naked and dripping from the shower, he padded out into the bedroom, a towel around his waist. Boredly, he picked through his clothes, unimpressed. He always found clothing so…restrictive. It often felt so suffocating on him, and often, embracing his natural form (and well-carved body, if he said so himself) was so much more freeing and comfortable than squishing his body into whatever shitty clothing Twelve had to offer.

Did people think he was weird? Yeah.

Did he care? Not at all.

"Ham?"

Orisha's voice, laced with drowsiness, echoed around the room, gathering Ham's attention. A creak from the bed signalled their movement, and as Ham turned around, Tyr's handsome face popped up over Orisha's shoulder.

"Good morning," Ham grinned.

He liked seeing the two of them together. The three of them were friends as much as they were lovers, and were open and able to express themselves so freely that being with them was just easy. They just understood Ham better than almost anyone else. The pair of them were tangled in the sheets together, watching him, almost wishing for him to return to them. He certainly wouldn't refuse such an offer, of course.

"Morning," Tyr mumbled. "I didn't think you'd be waiting for us like that. Not that I mind, obviously."

There was a teasing and flirtatious lilt to his voice, and Orisha let loose a small giggle, following Tyr's interest. Maybe a few years ago, Ham would've shied away from such suggestive comments, but now, he welcomed them shamelessly.

"I need to get to work," Ham mentioned but leaned forwards suggestively. "Although, I suppose I can waste a little more time before I go."

"Time well spent, I'd say," Orisha informed him, leaning forwards as well, looking up at him with a sultry gaze. "You don't want to forget us down there in the mines, do you? We'll give you something to remember."

"Oh, I bet you will," Ham purred, creeping closer.

With a flourish, he dropped the towel to the floor and sunk into the bedsheets as Orisha and Tyr rose to meet him, lips crashing together, hands roaming, skin connecting…bodies becoming one. Ham enjoyed the simple thrills, the electricity in the air and the way it crackled with delicious promise.

Yes, Ham could live this life every day and he'd never regret a minute of it. It was the simple pleasures he enjoyed the most, the bond between lovers, one that was raw and passionate, filled with pleasure and unity in the best way.

So, when he felt the lips at his neck, then at his chest, he closed his eyes and willed for a little more time to enjoy the morning while it lasted.

As his lovers' touch descended, he breathed a small, contented sigh.

This was his favourite waking hour.

Halfway through intros! Those on Discord saw that I had to take some time away from writing - this chapter was a tough one but I'm happy how it turned out. That and life can get really busy with my job, relationship and typical adult commitments! Still, it's spring and the trees and flowers are blooming, so I'm in my element.

Valerian's got blood on his hands. How do you feel about his vigilante-like perspective?
Tyson's got so much to prove. Do you think he'll be able to keep himself together in the Games?
Ham's a little less PG. What did you think about his dynamic persona?

If at any point, you have an issue with the way I'm writing tributes, then please do speak up. I value feedback over anything else, and you all have been receptive to that so far with reminding me to correct some minor things such as name spellings and such...bear with me, new kids, new vibes. Regardless, thank you so much for that! I really appreciate it.

That wraps up the Announcements, now we're on to Pre-Reaping vibes. Are you ready to meet the rest of our tributes?

Over and out!
~Mental