another long wait, sorry it took so long. College and what not.

Brent Lutz, 16

District 6, eight months before the Reapings

The orphanage in which Brent Lutz currently resided had a reputation for being the worst of the worst. Any basic comfort that a child would want or need was disregarded. It may have been an orphanage, but there really weren't any children here. Any semblance of childhood innocence, comfort, and naivety was completely and utterly destroyed at the Lauretta Cortez Home for Children.

For any orphans in the system, the place was known as the L.C., which to any adult would seem to refer to the generous benefactor of the orphanage. However, the lost children of District 6 knew the L.C. really stood for the "Lost Causes" who were dumped where they would never be found.

When Brent was transferred to the L.C., he knew that he was now branded a lost cause, a lost child to be swallowed into the gaping maw of a place that was supposed to help the lost become found. Instead, the L.C. only made you more lost, so lost in fact that you would never truly escape the decaying walls and sadistic overseers. For many, the L.C. was the most horrific nightmare one could dream up. It ran on strict, brutal discipline and a virtually nonexistent inflow of donations that resulted in one of most unkempt buildings in the whole district.

Brent loved it. For his entire life, he had been shunted around the system to various orphanages, never staying in one place for too long. He never met his parents and didn't know anything about them. When he was younger, he used to wonder where they could be, but as time passed, they became nothing but a nuisance weighing him down.

Early childhood was marked by instability and bullying. District 6 was densely populated, everyone being cramped together in a sweltering, unending city of sorrow. As such, orphanages become densely populated. Raising a child was a luxury almost no one could afford, so when accidents happened, they found themselves on the steps of poorly funded orphanages that were already bursting at the seams.

These orphanages were a microcosm of District 6. Children were packed together in a cramped environment where only the strong survived. The strong preyed on the weak and the predators hunted their prey. It was a simple system, one that was rather primal, but that was the way of things. With food scarce, kids would fight tooth and nail to survive, and it really was life or death. The orphanages would hush up exactly how many died each year, but it wasn't like many people cared. The people of District 6 had other things to worry about than some kids who were already lost.

Brent found himself struggling to survive in this world. He, like everyone, wanted connections and love, but that was something impossible. Individuality and self-sufficiency were encouraged. "Friends" in these places were near synonymous with "betrayal." In order to survive, Brent closed into himself, allowing his mind to mimic the cracked concrete walls that surrounded his physical body. There wasn't room for love or innocence in his heart, and he didn't think there ever would be. At 18, he would be released out into the endless city and once again be forced to adapt to a world brimming with death and danger.

In a strange way, the L.C. became a comfort to him. In all previous orphanages, Brent was the victim of bullying, like so many others. He remembered being beaten with sticks until he had no tears left to cry. He remembered not being able to raise his right hand after it had been crushed by an older boy. He remembered the vile taste and still squirming legs of black beetles as they were shoved down his throat. There wasn't really any reason for this administration of pain. It was simply done for the sake of it. Inflicting pain on others seemed to be a good way to divert pain from yourself. Such a philosophy was adopted by many, and unfortunately, just as many fell prey to it. A vicious cycle was created, and Brent was just one small part in it.

The difference from those orphanages and the L.C. was quite simple: the overseers. It was the destination of any kids who were deemed hopeless cases, whether they be particularly badly behaved or aggressors who had inflicted immense harm on others. Brent wasn't sent to the L.C. for these reasons, he just didn't have anywhere left to go. He was glad though; the overseers were the apex predators. Gone were the days of hulking boys handling their internal issues with violence. Now, pain was administered by the administration. The L.C. was the only orphanage in District 6 to have a fully developed staff with strict disciplinary policy. It was rigid, unforgiving, and brutal.

Seeing some of the worst children be put in their place was immensely cathartic for Brent, and he would enjoy hearing the thwacks of wood hitting flesh, the muffled yelps of pain, and the soft sobs of those who would never find comfort.

During his time at the L.C., brutality was simply a part of life. Desensitization was assured from the moment he set foot in the threshold. He would never forget the scent that hit him as he crossed into the L.C. for the first time, and how the creak of the door shutting behind him seemed to whisper a promise, a promise to never let him out.

Brent sighed as the world of his novel dissolved around him at the echo of a shrill scream. A new lost cause had entered just a few days ago, and they were still trying to rebel. He smiled as the swish of the cane reached his ears. It wouldn't be long before they'd stop trying. Resistance was futile, and that was fine with him.

There was no constant interaction between kids here. Everyone was too beaten, too broken, too afraid. Isolation was far preferable, and Brent was so very glad to never have to see or speak to most people. He didn't really mind a few people, but for the most part, he was content to stay in his quarters with his musty novel.

He shifted on his side, adjusting his position to return to his book. The bed he was currently laying on was hardly a bed. It was a metal skeleton, covered in rust with only a thin mattress on top that might as well have been a burial shroud. There were no blankets, no pillows, no such comfort. Next to the skeletal bed was a small, circular table. It was made out of wood that seemed to be perpetually damp, a spongy texture stretching out across its body.

The room itself was 4 concrete walls, cracked and covered in scratches that no doubt came from previous occupants. A single wooden door stood at the front of the room, staring down a barred window on the opposite side. The bed and table were squeezed onto one side, and the opposite wall was completely bare.

Brent didn't have many possessions, only the ratty clothes provided to him and whatever book was he reading. He was currently enraptured by The Shattering, a book given to him by Myra, one of his few acquaintances. The two enjoyed discussing horror and thriller novels, and she had access to a trove of them that she had brought from a previous orphanage. The book itself was ratty and torn, the pages crinkled and somewhat stiff, likely from water or some other liquid. It smelled downright awful, but Brent was used to scents that were far worse than a musty book.

It was a horror novel that featured a serial killer who used broken glass as murder weapons. While the mystery was certainly engaging, Brent was more interested in the gore. The substance and plot of a story was always less important to him than the gruesome descriptions. A godawful plot didn't matter to him as long as there was ridiculously detailed scenes of torture and violence.

He wasn't really sure why he loved it so much, but there was just something so satisfying about a person being completely powerless to stop brutality from decimating their mind and body. That was part of the reason why he enjoyed watching the Hunger Games every year. He'd seen the corpses of children be brought out to alleys and burned; watching a polished massacre was enjoyable by comparison. The polish of the Games and Capitol was something he didn't bother paying attention to. The death and gore was all that he was here for.

The 74th Hunger Games had just ended a few months ago, and Brent spent hours glued to the screen watching the boy from District 2 be devoured bit by bit. He never got tired of his screams. It was interesting to hear the progression. Screams turned to tears, tears turned to moans, and moans turned into whispers. It was a fascinating. The stunt with the berries seemed like a big deal to some people in District 6, but Brent didn't give a fuck. He found the District 12 romance revolting, only caring for the beautiful destruction of the hulking boy from Two.

Brent flipped another yellowed page of The Shattering as another scream sounded from somewhere in the building. One of the things he loved about the L.C. was how its walls seemed to capture the wails of its denizens. There were echoes, reverberations, and sound waves throughout as each resident was reminded of exactly what pain sounded like. It held that pain within its walls, surrounding the orphans and beckoning them to join in that pain, to envelop them into the walls themselves.

He scowled as he turned to page 86, which featured a small romantic scene between the protagonist and likely a future victim. This was just fluff, worthless filler content, nothing substantial. Brent let out a long sigh, wondering how stupid this author from the Capitol must be. Why anyone would read books like this for romance was beyond him.

Rolling his eyes, Brent flipped through a few more pages, his eyes scanning for the words that captured pain. His mouth curled into a grin as the word "slice" caught his eye. He traced his finger across the pages, trying to feel the words. Fortunately, the word "slice" would not escape the confines of the crinkled page, and Brent's finger would remain safe. It would merely observe the actions within the novel, a wall separating the it from the suffering.

Immersion was imminent. Brent felt his breathing slow into a soft rhythm. His eyes focused on the words, allowing all peripherals to blur around him. He could almost feel the sharp glass cutting through his skin as his eyes followed word after word, sentence after sentence. It was truly exhilarating.

Then, the veil lifted. Brent felt himself once again be pulled from his world of observation and back into his surroundings. The source of disturbance was a knock on his door. He didn't get many visitors, and he knew from the way the knock sounded that it was Myra.

Before he could open his mouth, she barged in. Myra was a year older than him and was much taller. Her hair was jet black and cut extremely short. She had piece of ribbon tied around her neck as some sort of fashion that Brent didn't really understand.

"How's it going?" she asked, pointing to the cover of the book Brent had been previously immersed in.

"Fine, I was just getting to the good stuff though."

Myra grinned. "Ah, I bet you're on page 96. That's were shit gets really brutal."

Brent nodded in response, his features cold and without any warmth. He liked talking with Myra sometimes, but she didn't fully understand how important isolation was to many of the people at the L.C..

"The fresh meat was getting her teeth kicked in just a few minutes ago. I'm sure you heard," Myra said, gesturing out the open door.

"Yeah, normally I don't mind, but I'm really trying to read right now." Brent turned his head back down towards the book. It was just about as unsubtle a hint as he could give.

"Oh got it, ok fucker I'll leave you alone then." Myra turned and shut the door behind her, quietly. A slammed door was grounds for punishment.

Brent sighed, and turned back to his book. Myra appreciated gore and brutality like he did, but he felt as though she didn't really understand it. Brent didn't fully understand his fascination with it either, all he knew was that there was something magical about it.

Perhaps it was simply human nature to watch others suffer. Perhaps pleasure simply came from the knowledge that you were safe and sound while others endured torture. Perhaps it was just survival, knowing that you live while others die. Regardless of the truth, there would always be those who suffer and those who watch the suffering. The weak, the strong, the sufferer, the survivor, it was all the same really. No matter how morally grey people tried to paint the world, he knew how the world worked. He knew the world was painted with red, and you were either the canvas, the artist, or the observer, and Brent Lutz would do anything to make sure he wouldn't end up splattered on the wall.

Makian "Mako" Lester, 18

District 6, two months before the Reapings

If there was one thing Makian Lester wanted in this world, it was to run to some far-off place with the love of his life, swept up in dazzling fantasy of emotion and intimacy. But reality's impenetrable wall was unbreakable, and all Mako could do was look through the window, imagining himself beyond the walls of District 6.

The scent of grease and machinery in Mako's room was so pertinent that it may as well have been a horrible roommate who never bathed themselves. All things considered though, it was a rather nice room compared to most of District 6.

Mako had gone to great lengths to make his bedroom as close to his dreams as he could. His bed was small, but the soft threads of the blankets felt like clouds in his fingertips. It was easy to dissolve into them, fusing with the fluffiness and allowing himself to become one with air.

Just above his bed hung a small string of yellowish lights. He had acquired them by tinkering around with the bulbs of cars and motorcycles that went in and out of his father's mechanic business. No one was using them, and Mako didn't want to let them go to waste. Besides, he had gotten quite good at being a mechanic. In District 6 there was no shortage of them, so in order to stay competitive, you had to be the best of the best.

"Lester's" was located on the bottom floor of their home, which was right next to their kitchen. The upper floor contained only his room, his father's room, and a small bathroom. This was the reason for the constant permeating smell of grease and gasoline, but Mako usually burned a candle to help with the smell. Sometimes he could afford scented ones that were sold by a woman down the street, who was an expert with wax and natural ingredients. He thought this was a miracle considering that any ounce of nature was wiped clean or destroyed by the District itself.

His father, Fernand, was not a very pleasant man and didn't really approve of Mako's efforts to make his room more comfortable. Fernand was a man who believed in hard work and reality with no pleasantries. He didn't believe in love, and associated love with women, which by association made him quite a sexist. Mako's mother had split from his father a long time ago, and now lived with a new man. He didn't make an effort to see them much, mostly because he didn't want his father to be angry.

Mako let out a deep breath, and then inhaled just as deeply, allowing the scent of the burning candle on his bedside table to overwhelm his senses. It smelled faintly of ginger, which tickled his nose in the most delightful way. Anything was preferable to the stench of District 6.

He brushed his hands over a medium sized book as he laid on his bed. The book was titled The Trouble at Baneburry, and it was the latest in a series of novels by an author from the Capitol named Theodora Trindall, who specialized in romance novels. Mako knew that most people despised the Capitol in District 6, and many would never be caught dead with a product from there, but he couldn't help himself. It was one of the only ways he could find any source of the outside world.

District 6, despite focusing heavily on transportation, was heavily restricting. It was a cruel joke that Mako was surrounded with vehicles to take him to far off places, but couldn't leave the smog of the densely populated stretch of land. He wasn't sure how populated the rest of the Districts were, but judging by watching the Reapings, District 6 was one of, if not the most populated District in Panem. There lots of different areas to it, but the majority of it was packed with people. It definitely wasn't the best place to live, so Mako always relished the chance to wander off to the Capitol through Theodora Trindall's novels as his vehicle.

The glamorous allure of the Capitol was so appealing when compared to the drab and blackened dog-eat-dog world of District 6. Mako loved to imagine himself waltzing through one of the Capitol's ballrooms with a handsome boy on his arm, and just slowly twirling to soft music. He wanted to be carried off so badly to that world, but it couldn't be so. Living in that world was so preferable, but it was just behind a glass wall that Mako couldn't penetrate. He could only uses books as a window, looking through and imagining who he might have been had he been born on the other side of the glass.

Maybe it was simple delusion, but when Mako looked at how awful and unhappy his father was, he didn't understand why others wouldn't want to live in such a world of romance. Being a realist just meant you were real depressing. Mako tried to keep his sprits afloat, helping others and following whatever romantic train of thought he was to board next.

His father heavily disapproved of the books, so Mako had to read them in secret, usually by candlelight in the dead of night. The scent of the shop below was so strong that Mako's candles really only could be smelled in his room, so he was able to create his own little bubble of air amidst the smog. Whenever he pulled whatever his newest book was from under a loose floorboard, he felt so mysterious, so sexy, so powerful. He could see himself as the heroines of Trindall's novels, lost in thought and exploring whatever mysterious drama they would be wrapped up in for the eve.

Today though, Mako was reading in broad daylight. His father was busy in the shop below, and Mako didn't really feel like helping today. He was far more concerned with what the next plot twist of The Trouble at Baneburry could be. It was definitely one of Trindall's better works, a page-turner to be sure.

Mako's desire to dissolve into the pages of the book was only spurred on by the announcement of the Third Quarter Quell twist, and the fallout of the 74th Hunger Games. When the 74th Games happened, he could not believe he was seeing a story like in the books play out onscreen. The Games were on a screen, still separating him from them, but they were still real. It was reality. The starcrossed lovers of District 12 were whisked off to the Capitol from poverty, fell in love, and threatened suicide in order to always be together.

It was just beautiful. It almost mirrored the rags to riches stories of the protagonists in Trindall's novels. Mako was envious that a couple was able to make that fantasy a reality, but the Games were still a scary thing. He hated violence. Having to watch the D2 boy be torn apart for hours was so garish and needless. There was far more story to be told with the lovers, why was the camera so focused on senseless violence? Mako figured that if people just looked for love rather than violence, Panem would be a much better place.

The Quell twist seemed too good to be true. An entire Games centered around romance? Mako hated that he was actually excited for the Hunger Games, but he couldn't help himself. It was even more of his books made real. His heart fluttered in his chest at the thought that he could potentially be picked. Who would his Match be? Would they truly be in love? He found himself romanticizing possible love stories in the Capitol, all while careful to avoid any thoughts of the reality of blood and death.

He turned another page of the book, his eyes eagerly waiting to devour every last morsel that was served to him. The protagonist of the novel, Drusilla Duramond, was creeping out to the garden to have a secret midnight meeting with her love interest, the mysterious Count Narcissus. He allowed the descriptions of the moon and the candlelight flickering around Drusilla's face to swallow him, passing into the world of fantasy.

'My darling, why have you called upon me in this late hour?'

'Oh Miss Duramond, I had to see you. Any moment without your soft presence feels as though I am being roasted across the flames of passion that threaten to destroy me.'

'But Narcissus, I am a simple woman, plain and destitute. I cannot possibly return your advances. I am too meager a woman.'

'Nonsense, marry me Drusilla, and you shall become all of those things and more!'

'Mako get down here right now!'

Mako blinked his eyes at that the last line. What the heck? But as his reality once again descended around him, he understood.

"Mako get down here, did you hear me?"

He sighed. His father had somehow made his way into his conscious with his yells just when things were getting good. How annoying.

"What, Dad?" he called back, doing his best to not let resentment creep into his voice.

"Get your ass to Porter's Parts and get me a new vacillator!"

That was all the way across town. Mako didn't want to go all the way there just to get a vacillator. "You can get one just down the street," he yelled.

After a pause, his father responded "I shouldn't have to explain myself to you. Do as I say."

Mako let out a massive sigh, sliding off his bed. He would have to leave Drusilla's escapade for later. Making his way downstairs, he grabbed some money off the kitchen counter and headed out the back. The kitchen was right next to the mechanic garage and he didn't really want to interact with his dad. So back door it was.

Walking through District 6 was not a treat. In order to get anywhere, you found yourself weaving through people on the streets and the occasional car or motorcycle blasting through a too-small street. He passed the homeless, the starving, the addicts, and all sorts of denizens. All he had to do was grit his teeth and get to the M.

He hated seeing so many people like this out on the streets. His empathy was immense, and he wished he had a way to bring happiness to everyone, but there was nothing he could do now. And so, Mako continued on, trying not to breathe in too heavily and dodging the occasional person laying in the street. It was almost a dance, weaving through the nooks and crannies and the crowds. He tried to imagine himself twirling across a ballroom as he walked. It usually made the trip easier.

Finally, he made his way to a staircase leading to the underground transit system that the people of District 6 knew as the M. It was a pretty big District, so having some form of public transportation was essential for optimal exports to the Capitol. You had to pay for it of course, but it was pretty fast and it got you where you were going. Mako and his dad had made out pretty well for themselves, so paying for transit wasn't too difficult.

Mako stepped onto the metallic looking train in the darkness of the underground, the florescent overhead lights and plastered Capitol advertisements on the walls behind him. The interior included a few seats but it was mostly standing room. There were no carpets or decorations, only a map detailing the particular stops. He had just stepped on the Blue Line, which would take him close to Porter's.

The ride didn't take long, and before he knew it, he was back in the sun (if you could even see it through the smog) of District 6. Mako found himself walking faster. This area was a bit nicer than his own, and the streets were less crowded. Plus, there was something else of note.

He skidded to a stop in front of a very small shop, nestled in the corner of a street bend. A bookstore. One of the few in District 6. It didn't get much business because most people couldn't afford or even want to spend money on something considered so frivolous.

Mako felt the coins jingle in his pocket as he stopped. He cocked his head to the side and breathed in, trying to find some semblance of self-control. But, he could only do so much, as he eyes drifted to the dirty windows to see the newest release of Theodora Trindall in the window.

Looking back down the street, he could see Porter's Parts in the distance. Mako bit his lip. This shouldn't even be something I was thinking of, he thought to himself. He tried to deliberate, but one more look at the cover of the book made Mako turn on his heel towards the bookstore.

Vacillators were easy enough to come by, he could probably find one in a scrap yard if he looked hard enough. Besides, Makian Lester was far more eager for the opportunity to punch his ticket and once again escape from Panem, traveling to somewhere beautiful with the boy of his dreams by his side.

Thanks for reading, and thank you to those who are still sticking around to read this story! It's definitely been hard to motivate myself to write but I am not giving up and I will completing this story no matter how long it takes.

Ty to those of you who reviewed the last chapter! I always appreciate reviews in any form.

As always, if the submitters of these two characters have any issue with their portrayal, please let me know and I'll be happy to make changes since we are still in intros.

Hopefully since it's summer, I'll be able to start working on finishing intros so we can get into the real meat and exciting stuff about this story, because I have a lot planned.

Are you #teamBAKIAN?