Arlie Poplin, 15
District Eight Standard Male

As it did every morning, the blaring sound of an airhorn shook Arlie Poplin out of his slumber. One would think that by now, he'd be used to his 5:45 AM wakeup calls; someone once told him that your body just got used to its schedule and so it would eventually get to the point that he'd wake up at 5:45, ready for the day. And yet, here he was, just as tired this morning as he was every other work day that he could remember.

Maybe he just was not a morning person.

Groggily, Arlie shoved himself out of bed and followed the stream of children to retrieve some breakfast, as he did every morning. It was the same as always, a small loaf of bread made from tesserae grain and a small cup of watery oatmeal. He took his meal back to his cot to eat, taking care not to spill lest he lose one of his few precious bites of food. A few moments later, he felt the bed sink under the weight of another person. "Good morning, Dennis," Arlie said, scooching over a bit to give him more room.

"Morning," replied Dennis loudly, earning him quite a few glares from the others in the room. "How'd you sleep?" he asked, trying and failing to keep his voice down, as he did every morning.

"Fine," Arlie shrugged. "You?"

"As good as always," Dennis said.

"Did you dream last night?"

"Actually, I did," replied Dennis, quickly launching into a long and winding description about his dream that Arlie could not exactly follow. But Arlie didn't mind; honestly, he much preferred letting his other friends drive conversation, especially in the mornings when he preferred to eat rather than to talk or think. And it didn't matter if he caught every one of Dennis's words, because Dennis said so many of them so loudly that either Arlie would get enough of the gist of his dream or someone else would fill Arlie in later on if Dennis actually cared. But Dennis usually didn't mind if someone didn't completely follow along with what he was saying; he just liked saying words most of the time.

"… and then the mutts turned to face me before exploding in a burst of butterflies and confetti. And then I woke up!"

"That was quite the dream," said Arlie, as he finished his last bite of bread.

"It was," replied Dennis. He paused for a second, turning to his food, before realizing that he should probably ask, "Did you dream?"

But before Arlie could answer, the airhorn sounded again. "Oh, I guess we have to get to the factory."

"Damn it! I didn't have enough time to eat."

"Maybe you should eat instead of talk," Arlie suggested.

"Yeah, yeah, you say that every day."

"But have you ever had enough time to eat breakfast?"

"Um… I'm not sure."

"My point exactly."

The boys shuffled out of their room, following the stream of children making their way to the factory for work. Arlie and Dennis tried to stay to the back of the pack, so they could link up with their third friend, Maxine. "Good morning, Max," said Arlie.

"Morning."

The three walked along in silence to the factory – even Dennis realized that it was too early for chatter – arriving, as they always did, just a few moments before the bell that indicated the start and end of each shift rang. Once they clocked in, Arlie waved goodbye to Dennis and Maxine, then approached one of the Peacekeepers standing along the wall. The Peacekeeper nodded, then pushed on the wall behind him, allowing Arlie up a set of back stairs to the bridge that overlooked the floor of the factory.

Like most children who lived in the Community Homes of Eight, Arlie had been working in Eight's factory system since his eighth birthday. He had started, like his peers, as a runner, bringing fabrics and threads to the various sewing machines on the floor of the factory. Of course, the job could be boring at times, especially given the number of children who were put to work from the Community Home and that they couldn't be put to work on the machines until they were ten or eleven. So, to keep himself busy, Arlie would tinker with some of the extra machines lying around in the room where the kids would wait until they were needed. Little did Arlie know that those machines had been put there deliberately, to see which kids would gravitate towards them. When the time came for the children to be assigned their sewing machines, where they'd work until they turned eighteen, Arlie was one of just a few kids in his year to be given a different job, assembling and maintaining the many sewing machines within the factory. It kept him busy, for sure, but he enjoyed himself – or, at least, this was far preferable to mindlessly sewing for the whole day.

Pretty much as soon as he set foot in the door, a pair of heavy duty tweezers, a screwdriver, and a box of screws were thrust into his hand. "We've got word from Zone Three that some thread got tangled in the guts of a few of their machines," said his overseer, Janome. "Some numbskull on the night-time prep shift threaded the machines using thicker thread than they can handle. The backup machines are on their way over there already but we need all hands on deck to fix them up."

"I'm on it," Arlie said.

Arlie took his tools over to his workstation, which he'd specifically picked because he could see his friends' workstations on the factory floor from where he sat. There was already a sewing machine waiting for him, so after cracking his window open a bit so he could hear what was going on below him, he quickly got to work. He unscrewed the middle panel and took a moment to survey the situation, which he quickly realized was going to be a much bigger project than he could have ever anticipated. Somehow the thread had gotten tangled into seemingly all of the nooks and crannies of the machinery, as if whoever threaded the machine had deliberately taken the thread and wound it around every fucking gear. Arlie could not imagine someone accidentally causing such a disaster in a sewing machine, and if they did, they truly had more talent than any single other person in the factory. And the problem was, if he left any of the thread in the machine, even just a little scrap, it could catch on something and break the machine, or even catch fire. With a sigh, Arlie picked up his tweezers and dove in, hoping that he wouldn't have to take the whole machine apart. It was going to take him the entire morning to extract all of the thread at this rate.

By the time Arlie had finally gotten all of the pieces of thread out of the machine, the bell rang again, marking the end of the morning shift and confirming the boy's hypothesis. He leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to stretch his hands out and crack his knuckles before getting up to go join his friends for lunch. As he stood, however, he heard a familiar sound coming from the factory floor. "… and then I heard that dumbass Milo say that Bobbin is a rat bastard bitch boy," Dennis explained animatedly as he walked with Max towards the exit, his voice undoubtedly carrying across the entire factory as it always did.

Suddenly, a hulking, muscular figure appeared behind Dennis. "What did you say about me?" he growled.

Dennis turned around slowly. "N-n-nothing," he stuttered, taking a few steps backwards until he stumbled into a table, knocking the sewing machine off of it. The machine fell to the ground with a loud clatter, somehow hitting in just the right way as to cause the back panel to fall off and gears to spill out everywhere.

"And now you've broken my sewing machine," the boy exclaimed.

"I didn't mean to!" Dennis insisted.

"Yeah, right, you little pest," the boy muttered, delivering a quick kick to Dennis's shins.

Without missing a beat, Arlie bolted down the stairs, trying his best to get to the factory floor before things got worse. Time and time again, he'd told Dennis not to speak so loudly or it could get him into trouble, but this was the first time that something had actually come of it. And as much as Arlie hated to say "I told you so," he'd told Dennis so.

He just hoped nobody got too hurt.

By the time he got to the factory floor, the damage had been done: Dennis was lying on the floor, clutching his side in pain as blood flowed from his nose and from a cut on the side of his head. Sure, Dennis might have been a little bit out of pocket, but not nearly enough to merit this sort of a beating. "Arlie, thank goodness," Max said, as she locked eyes with Arlie. "We gotta get him help."

"From who? We gotta do it ourselves. Here, let's help him up," Arlie said, working with Max to lift up Dennis's body and bring it outside, where they were able to lay Dennis out on one of the few patches of grass in the otherwise grey district. "Max, go run and see if there are any fabric scraps out back so we can whip up a bandage. Dennis, can you hear me?"

"Mhm," Dennis replied faintly as Maxine scampered off.

"How's your head?"

"Hurts. A lot."

"That makes sense. Can you open and close your hand for me? Just keep moving it please. Do you remember your name?"

"Dennis Heston."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Where do you live?"

"The Community Home."

"Good. Good good good ok."

"Arlie! Here."

"Thanks, Max." Arlie took the mass of fabric that she'd thrust into his hands and unfurled it, finding a couple of long pieces mixed in with some smaller scraps. "This is perfect." He took one wad of fabric and held it tightly on the head wound, then took the longest piece of fabric and wrapped it around Dennis's head. "All right. Let's get him back home."

"Yeah. I just don't understand why he felt the need to do that," Max said. "What did Dennis ever do to him?"

"I agree, Max. There's no need for that kind of violence."

As they walked Dennis back to the community home, Arlie felt himself getting more and more angry at the bigger boy. Why didn't he just hear Dennis out? Sure, Dennis shouldn't have been shouting insults so loudly, but Dennis was almost definitely talking about a completely different person. The brute had no right to knock Dennis down the way he did, and most likely he wouldn't get into any trouble; in fact, because Dennis broke that sewing machine, the older boy might even be rewarded for doing the beating instead of the Peacekeepers. That was simply not fair.

Suddenly, Arlie had a realization. He recognized the red stripe around the bottom of the hulking boy's sewing machine: it was one of the more complicated ones to repair because of some of its special functions. And as far as he knew, Arlie was the only person who knew how to fix them.

Wouldn't it be a shame if, the next day, the boy's sewing machine didn't work?

Vidja Zavala, 19
District Three Quell Female

Vidja Zavala watched with bated breath as the escort swished her hand around inside the bowl, eventually lifting one slip from the bowl and carrying it back to the microphone, the fate of a child clutched between her long blue fingernails. The girl could feel the entire district inhale as the escort opened her mouth and said in a strong voice, "Your female tribute for the 99th Hunger Games is…"

"Krypta Haskell."

Vidja let out her breath, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. This was her last reaping, after all; now she was safe, out of the Capitol's clutches for the rest of her life.

Well. That wasn't entirely true. There was still the Quell next year. The Capitol had already proven that they could expand the age brackets of the Reapings. For all Vidja knew, the Capitol could do the same again, especially as this was the fourth Quell. What if they only did nineteen-year-old girls? Or nineteen-year-old orphans? Or they could do something wack and do nineteen-year-olds with V first names? Honestly, anything was possible when the Capitol was concerned and Vidja didn't trust them at all, not when every single thing that every authority figure, every person in government had shown that they simply did not care about her. And this would be the ultimate way to prove it… to take away everything she'd ever loved…

"Hey! Anyone home?" a voice called out, cutting through the woman's thoughts.

"Oh, hey, Jixter," Vidja said. "Is the Reaping over?"

"Yeah. Krypta and Chione. Seem to be pretty typical nerds. Probably don't stand a chance," Jixter predicted with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "C'mon, we gotta get back to Elysium."

"Yeah." Vidja stuck a hand into her pockets and began to fidget with some of the items that resided in them as she followed Jixter back to her place of work. She didn't have much in them today; she kept them mostly empty on Reaping Day in case she was Reaped, keeping a just single wire loop with a few bolts threaded onto it on her person. But the girl had a plethora of trinkets back in her home that she'd been collecting for years. And honestly she couldn't bear to give any of them up; after all, it was thanks to them that she even had a place to live.

"You're oddly quiet, my gal," said Jixter. "What's up? Don't look so down. We're safe. Don't got to worry about the Reaping no more."

"But what about…"

"No. Not today. Today is about taking our Shot and celebrating freedom. No sense worrying about what we can't control."

Jixter was right. He had said what Vidja had been wanting to hear, what she already told herself nearly every day. Don't think like that. Push those thoughts down. Not today. Not ever.

As the two made their way down the bustling streets of Three, Vidja couldn't help but notice that they were taking a slightly longer route back to Elysium than they had to. She didn't mind so much, but she was a bit confused as to why they were taking a longer walk, given that there was still a lot of work to get done before opening that night. The night after the Reaping was always one of Elysium's most bustling nights, as eighteen-year-olds from all over the district converged on the club to celebrate aging out of the Reaping and, in many districts, becoming full legal adults. Many commemorated this occasion by taking their first shots of alcohol, even if they'd turned eighteen (and were thus legally able to have alcohol) months before their last Reaping. Vidja assumed there were different customs for this across the districts; in Three, at least, many teens chose not to celebrate with their families but instead to go to one of the clubs scattered across the district to celebrate with their friends. And this year, where both of Elysium's performers were aging out of the Reaping, the celebration was sure to be out in full force, making it more important than ever that everything was ready and secure before the night began.

When they got to the entrance to the club, Jixter stepped in front of Vidja and opened the door, revealing the darkened interior of the club. "Where'd everyone go?" Vidja asked. "And why are the lights off?"

"Not sure," Jinxter said, with a lilt in his voice; clearly, he did know something. And Vidja had a feeling she knew what he knew.

Suddenly, the lights came on, revealing the interior of the club, which had been decorated with neon colored banners of varying widths and length, turning the already-bright room into a veritable explosion of color. "Congratulations!" exclaimed the rest of Elysium's staff, jumping out from behind tables and throwing confetti in the air in the general vicinity of the teenagers as upbeat music began to blast from the speakers.

"Fuck, this is epic!" Vidja exclaimed, her eyes widening as she attempted to take in the onslaught on her senses. "Thank you, Kassiva."

"It's the least we could do for our two new adults," said Kassiva, the owner of the club, coming up behind them and wrapping her arms around the eighteen-year-olds' shoulders. "Today is a big day for you! You deserve to celebrate."

"And take our Shots, yeah?" Vidja nudged, as she walked over to the bar and took a seat, looking expectantly at Suza.

"Not yet. You're doing it tonight during your set."

"Ah, darn. I guess that makes sense though."

"Yeah, we figured the patrons that have seen you for a while would want to see you take your Shot," explained Suza, the bartender. "It is your first drink, after all."

"Oh, yes, my first drink!" Vidja bantered, quietly enough so Kassiva couldn't hear. "Absolutely 100% my first taste of alcohol."

"Yes, Vidja, definitely your first ever shot." Suza slyly slid Vidja a shot glass across the bar, which Vidja quickly downed before Kassiva saw what was going on. The girl gave her head a little shake as the familiar burning sensation traveled down her throat, warmth blossoming in her stomach. "You're gonna have to fake it a little better tonight," Suza whispered, taking the glass from Vidja and pouring the girl another. "Kassiva would have my head if she figured out why you're so good at this."

"Eh, she'll get over it. I'm legal. Can't punish me in retrospect." Vidja swiftly downed the second shot.

"That's what they all say."

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed by in a flurry of preparations, with the entire club staff working together to get the place in tip-top shape. As she busied herself with setting up and sound checking her DJ equipment, Vidja's mind couldn't help but wander to the first days she spent at Elysium. Kassiva had found the girl on the streets of Three, nearly a year after she'd aged out of the Community Home at fifteen. Vidja had been scraping by thanks to her collection of knick knacks, little bits and bobs that she collected off the street. The ones that seemed valuable she'd pawned off for money, but she began to explore the other trinkets - bolts, wires, coins, and the like – and the noises that she could make with them. Soon, she figured out how to turn the knickknacks into instruments, the haphazard combinations of sounds into compositions, urban symphonies of scraping and clanking that only she, with her uncanny ability to coordinate her limbs, could perform. She eventually began attracting crowds to watch her, some of whom would even give her a little money for her troubles, more than she'd ever made in those first weeks of begging after she left the Home.

It was at one of these concerts that Kassiva found Vidja, who by this point had been dubbed "Rhythm" by her spectators, and recruited her to live at Elysium. And how could Vidja say no? For the first time, she would have a roof over her head and a steady supply of food. She would have a comfortable place to sleep at night. And for the first time, there were people who seemed to care about her.

For the first time, she felt like she belonged.

Once everything was set up, Vidja went up to her room on the second floor of the club to get ready for her performance. She carefully emptied her pockets, making sure that each of her trinkets made its way back into the box on her dresser. Then it was time to get dressed. Vidja selected a pair of black cargo pants, a black tank top that left her midriff exposed, and a neon pink, mesh top. Rifling through her pile of eyeliners, she selected a pink one to apply under her right eye and over her left, and a more or less complimentary orange one for under her left eye and over her right. Finally, she pulled her hair up in a ponytail and selected her instruments for her special set, which she slid in her pockets; even with all of her fancy – er, fancier – equipment, she still liked to do at least a couple of her old performances each night. It helped her remember where she came from, how she got to where she was (and she wouldn't be surprised if her presence was a selling point for Kassiva as well).

After giving herself a last once-over using a small hand-held mirror, returned to the main room of the club, where the lights were dim and the floor was filled with people dancing to the sound of Jixter's singing. Normally, he wouldn't be singing on a night like this – the atmosphere was a bit too energetic and ravey for his jazzier sound – but on a night like tonight, where the crowd had to be entertained to prevent things from getting too out of hand, it was all hands on deck to keep the crowd calm. Vidja snuck around the back of the crowd until she got to her DJ set up, next to which someone had placed a full shot glass on a glowing blue coaster. She slid on a pair of bright orange headphones, then turned her console on, watching as the buttons lit up in a rainbow of bright, neon colors. Vidja felt the adrenaline course through her veins, almost as if the electricity flowing through the console was turning her into her DJ persona, Rhythm. She took a deep breath, then locked eyes with Jixter and gave him a thumbs up, which he acknowledged with a little flick of his head and a smile.

It was time for Rhythm to put on a show.

As soon as Jixter finished his last song, Rhythm pressed the button under her sliders and began to slowly move one of them up, allowing the deep bass of EDM music to filter through the club's speakers. The crowd erupted with excitement, beginning to chant Rhythm's name in the somewhat haphazard way in which a crowd of drunken strangers attempts to chant the same word at the same time. The energy was infectious, flooding the room with a level of joy and excitement that was nearly unparalleled. Rhythm began to bring more and more sliders up, layering the different beats together until the sound blossomed into a veritable cacophony, the sound waves bouncing from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.

And she was just getting started.

Keeping one hand on a particular button, Rhythm took the other hand and grabbed the shot glass. She held it up confidently to the cheers of the crowd, then, in one motion, downed the shot of vodka (trying her best to seem like it hurt) and pressed the button, dropping the sickest beat that Rhythm had stored on her console. The crowd erupted into applause, which only gave Rhythm more adrenaline.

She was safe from the Reaping. She was doing the best set of her life. Vidja Zavala was on top of the world.

And nothing could ever bring the woman down.

And we're back with another chapter! And the first of UpdatePocalypse at that (it is Sunday in EST but still Vidja's birthday in CST so Brooke I think I win :sunglasses:)! I was hoping for a slightly shorter gap from the last one to this one but school is crazy busy, but at least I managed to get one more intro out before the end of the semester, so that's great! A major thank you to the lovely mags2000 for Arlie and FlawlessCatastrophe for Vidja! They're both really fun to write and I hope I did them justice!

We've got two more intro chapters from here, with two kids in each. Hopefully I'll get the next one out relatively soon but I'm not holding my breath given that I still have 20 pages of my thesis left to write? Any guesses on who the next two could be?

See y'all soon,

goldie031