Scoria Primer, 18

"I'm a killer. One meant for the Hunger Games. That's all you need to know."

(Six Years Before the Reapings)

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Scoria's hand flies, faster and faster with each throw, as her hands grab for a knife, over and over and over again. The blade of each knife cuts into the palm of her hand, but it's not like a little bit of blood has ever stopped her before. It's nothing like the scars on her back. It's nothing the memories of her childhood, of what she is meant to become. Of what she already is.

"Hi!"

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"Hello?"

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Scoria grabs at another knife and lobs it at the target—another bullseye, the ninety-seventh this week, and it's only Tuesday. Her vision is practically tunneled, her eyes only seeing the target, another knife, another smack as another blade hits the target…

"…hello? Anyone home?"

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Everyone in the Academy should know to leave her alone. You don't just walk up to Scoria Primer and strike up a conversation. It must be someone new to Stander, Scoria muses. But you'd think they'd be smart enough to just leave me alone…

"That's really impressive. Your knife throwing, I mean. Man, I wish I could throw knifes like that…"

That's what makes Scoria stop. Not the lack of knives, not the annoyance of being pestered, not the aching in her back.

No, it's just that Scoria can appreciate a sincere compliment. It's not exactly something she gets a taste of often. No one at home gives her compliments or encouragement. All it ever is is what she could do better, what she is doing poorly, and not what she already has done amazingly.

"Are you listening to me? I feel like you're not listening to me."

Scoria carefully reaches for another knife, her hands groping pointlessly for a moment before she realizes she has exhausted her supply. Shaking her head, she turns to the boy standing next to her, her eyes sliding over his face without really seeing it. "What do you want?" she growls, her eyes narrow.

"You just have talent, that's all," the boy answers, shrugging. "Like, you might really have a shot at this thing, you know?"

"Okay," Scoria says, her voice neutral and emotionless.

"This is the part where you say thank you," the boy jokes. "and I'll say you're welcome."

Scoria glares at him. "Thanks," she grounds out through her teeth, staring at him with fire in her eyes. "Who are you, anyways?"

"Favio," the boy says simply. "I'm pretty sure I know your name but…"

"Scoria," she answers, pushing the empty knife rack across the floor. She starts toward her target, looking at the decimation she created, hoping that Favio will take the hint and leave her alone.

"Woah! Are they going to have to throw that target away?" Favio asks excitedly, the awe in his voice evident.

Scoria grinds her teeth closer together and doesn't answer. She starts to pull the knives out of the target. She tosses them over her shoulder once she removes them the target, hoping that maybe one of them will catch Favio on the leg or shoulder and he'll be forced to leave.

"Woah, you should be careful with those! Are those real knives?"

Scoria glares over her shoulder. "Leave me alone."

Favio either doesn't hear her or chooses to ignore her. Scoria has a certain feeling it's the latter.

"Go away," Scoria tries, carelessly tossing another knife over her shoulder.

"You don't have many friends," the boy states.

Scoria raises one of her eyebrows at him. "Thanks for sharing."

"No, I'm just saying…you seem kind of lonely. I figured I'd talk to you but…"

But you clearly have no interest in talking to me, Scoria thinks, hoping that's what will come at the end of this conversation.

"…you couldn't, like, show me a few things, could you?"

Scoria groans internally and throws another knife over her shoulder. "No. I don't give away my tricks."

"Oh," Favio mumbles. "That's unfortunate."

It really isn't, Scoria thinks. "Are you done yet?"

"What's your favorite color?" Favio asks suddenly.

"Oh my God, leave me alone!" Scoria cries. She whirls around, her fists flying through the air. In a moment, her fist slams into Favio's face, sending him tumbling to the floor. His jacket catches on a rack of spears behind them, which goes sliding across the floor.

After a moment of laying on the ground, Favio stands up, looking at Scoria unsurely. He reaches up and touches the skin around his eye, which is quickly turning black and blue. "You hit really hard."

Scoria just stares disbelievingly at him.

(Three Years Before the Reapings)

"I, uh, made us dinner, if you're interested." Favio's smile, unsurprisingly, makes Scoria's heart flutter in a way only Favio can cause. "Do you like spaghetti? There's only one plate but I could only afford one plate…"

"It's just fine," Scoria answers, putting her hand on Favio's shoulder. "And so is spaghetti." Spaghetti is not something Scoria gets a taste of often. Her parents aren't exactly the kind of people who like to have meals with their daughter while talking about what she did that day and whatnot. They much prefer to throw her to the dogs and let the Academy deal with her until she screws up. Then, of course, they'll take matters into their own hands. But Scoria prides herself on avoiding that outcome as much as possible.

"As long as it's with you." Favio shrugs, taking her hand and leading her over to the table in the kitchen. The fluorescent lights on are, and Scoria can hear the voices of Favio's parents upstairs. It's nothing romantic, but for some reason, that makes it better.

"Corny," Scoria says, shaking her head. She sits down at the table across from Favio and picks up one of the forks. "But I'll take it to, since we're together, and no one is bothering us about anything."

Scoria thinks of Favio as her respite from the world. They've been a thing for a few months now, only seeing each other when no one else is around. After all, if Scoria's parents catch wind of their relationship…Scoria doesn't want to think about that possibility. Her parents think she can't afford any distractions, that all it will do is hinder her chances of winning something Scoria doesn't really want in the first place. The thought of her parents finding out about Favio is maybe Scoria's only fear.

"I'm extremely corny, and I'm proud," Favio declares, grabbing the other fork. "I'll be corny for the rest of my life."

"Sure you will," Scoria says, shrugging. "Are you going to drop out of the Academy?"

Favio glances down at the table, his resolve seemingly momentarily crumbling. "Well…maybe. I don't know if I want the risk anymore, you know? I know I'll never be good enough to win, or even get chosen as the volunteer, but…"

Scoria is silent for a moment as she gathers her words. "I suppose that makes sense."

"Stay safe, will you?" Favio says as he twirls spaghetti around his fork. "You're practically a shoe-in for the female in a few years. I don't know what I'd do if you died."

It makes heat rise in Scoria's cheeks. She hides her face, quickly moving to shove a spoonful of spaghetti into her mouth to avoid having to answer. She chews slowly as Favio continues.

"You've gotta promise me that you won't die," he says. "I know it's the Hunger Games, I know it's a one-out-of-twenty-four chance that you'll make it out alive but…stay alive. Please."

Scoria's heart flutters again at the little "please" tacked to the end of his sentence. "I'll do my best." But her best is never enough. Scoria has known for all of her life that her best can always be better. She'll never be perfect; she'll never be absolutely ensured of her Victory. But that doesn't make her afraid. Unlike so many tributes from 2 before her, dying doesn't scare her. One day she'll die, and she doesn't care. No, what really scares her is dying too soon.

"That's all you can do," Favio agrees. Scoria knows it's meant to sound sweet, but the only thought in her head is that her best will never be enough. It likely won't be enough for her to return to Favio. That scares her.

Scoria digs her fork into the plate of spaghetti, slowly twisting the noodles around the prongs. "Favio…are you afraid of dying?" Sure, it's kind of a weird topic for dates, but no one has ever accused Scoria of knowing how to converse like a normal human being.

Favio seems to consider it for a moment. "No," he decides. "No, I don't fear dying."

It sort of puts Scoria's mind at ease. "Do you fear…someone else dying?"

"Someone close to me, yeah," Favio says immediately. "I guess it matters less when it's someone random on the street."

"Yeah…" Scoria says, her voice slowly trailing off. She leans further over the plate of spaghetti, still twirling her fork. Around and around and around it spins, no longer picking up any of the noodles.

She looks up to find herself nose-to-nose with Favio. She breaths out slowly…

…and suddenly they're kissing. Suddenly Favio's lips are on hers, and she's kissing him back, and oh lord it feels wonderful, it's more alive than Scoria has ever felt, it's like electricity is running through her veins in place of her blood—

Favio pulls away far too quickly for Scoria's liking. His face is flushed, and Scoria figures her own is as well. She's remarkably flustered for someone who likes to think she has a good hold on her emotions.

"Wow," she mumbles, still twirling her fork.

"Yeah. Wow," Favio agrees.

It may be the first time Scoria has felt real, true emotion in so, so long. Everything she's used to is so dull, so grayed to the point where it no longer really feels like emotion.

And damn does it feel good.

(Two Years Before the Reapings)

"Scoria, hello."

"You wanted to see me?" Scoria asks, her voice carefully void of emotion.

Her mother's pale face stares back at her, her eyes dark and cold. "Of course. Come." She gestures for Scoria to follow her deeper into the house, where she sees all of the lamps are turned off. It creates a sense of foreboding that Scoria is quick to squash. "Now, Scoria…we have reason to believe you have been…fornicating with someone."

Scoria freezes where she stands for a solid second before she starts to move again. As she tries to keep her breathing under control, she looks around the high-ceilinged living room, trying to show her mother that there is nothing to worry about. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, her voice flat and cold.

"I think you do," her mother answers. "Come, we have something to show you…"

Scoria's blood runs cold as her mother leads her toward the door to the basement. The very same basement where she earned the scars on her back, the same basement where she was so rigorously trained before she could ever go to Stander. The basement of the home of the Head Peacekeeper is, surprisingly, unfinished. Or perhaps when her father commissioned the home to be built, that was one of his requests. "I assure you, Mother, I have not been fornicating with anybody."

Her mother is silent as she opens the door to the basement. Scoria can hear voices within, which makes her legs shake as she walks as straight as she possibly can down the steps.

The color drains from her face at the sight of what the basement holds.

Her father stands by the opposite wall, a bloody bat in his hands as he paces around a lump bound to the wall. After a moment, Scoria realize that it's a human-shaped lump—no, a Favio-shaped lump. She nearly chokes on her own spit, unable to comprehend how her parents found out, why they are doing this, why they would ever touch her precious Favio and oh, they are going to pay for ever laying a finger on him—

She hears the lock turn on the door to the stairs. Her mother joins them after a moment, placing her hand on the small of Scoria's back and shoving her forward.

"This is Favio," her mother says. "I'm sure you know who he is."

Scoria doesn't trust herself to speak.

"I've heard that you and Favio here have been engaging in such acts unspeakable," her mother continues.

"Oh, Scoria. I thought we taught you better," her father says, lifting his bat again.

Favio lifts his head shakily and stares at Scoria will pleading, terrified eyes. She can see the cuts and bruises that cover his face, and her jaw falls open at the sight of her precious, beloved, amazing, wonderful Favio in so much pain.

"I thought—" thwack! "—we said—" thwack! "—no—" thwack! "—distractions!"

For good measure, her father slams the bat against Favio's chest a few more times. Scoria can hear ribs cracking under the pressure as Favio cries out in pain. She watches as the tears in his eyes spill over, trickling down his cheeks and cutting paths through the blood.

"And now, as punishment for everything you've done, you're going to take this bat…" Her father grabs her roughly by the shoulders and shoves the bat into her shaking arms. "…and you going to beat him until he stops moving."

The bat hits the ground with a clatter. Tears of her own prick at her eyes, threatening to spill over and pour down her cheeks. After a moment, her father strikes her across the face. "Now, girl."

She kneels down and shakily picks up the bat, approaching Favio as he shakes and stares at her. It's going to be okay; she can hear him saying. When she would come to him with blood on her back and cuts in her skin, he would hold her and assure her that everything would work out. It's going to be okay.

With shaky hands, she lifts the bat, and strikes him with all of her might on his head. Just one hit. Just one hit and he'll die, and he won't feel the pain and I won't have to see the light leave his eyes and he'll be okay, he'll be okay, we'll be okay, we'll be okay, I'll be okay—

His head drops against his chest, but she can it still rising and falling sporadically with his breaths.

Her father approaches him. "Not dead yet, is he?"

Scoria swallows thickly and hits him again. And again. And again. And again. On and on and on she hits him, until there is no more breath in his lungs and no more tears in her eyes. Until her father has hit her black and blue and bloody. Until she kills the love of her life, her best friend, the only person in the world that really matters. The only person that could make her feel anything.

Navarro Lune, 12

"I'm king, bitch!"

(Six Months Before the Reapings)

(TW for rape)

The late-night winter air is biting as Navarro slides along on the sidewalk. The cement is slick with ice, making walking more difficult than it should be. Travis, from behind Navarro's back, takes tiny baby steps along the ice, but Navarro elects to slide down the sidewalk.

Wind nips at his uncovered face as he peers down alleyway after alleyway, searching for the right place with the right person inside. He can hear Travis mumbling something about the cold and the hour behind him, but he gives it no second thought. Just because Travis is cold doesn't mean everyone else is.

His feet slide along the ice as he prances back and forth across the sidewalk. There's no one else on the streets. It's so cold that he doubts there are even any shady deals going on in the various alleys they pass in their travels.

But, it's just late enough that the evening shifts at Dauper's factory are just now ending. While Navarro and Travis have yet to run into anyone leaving the factory, Navarro has seen shadows of people as they make their way home through the cold.

Everything is dark as Navarro continues to peer down alleyways. He knows that eventually, he'll come upon what he's looking for.

"S-sir…" Travis mumbles nervously from behind Navarro. For someone at the ripe old age of twenty, Travis has a remarkably small amount of spine. He gets anxious at every turn, is stuck in a loop of paranoia, and fears a twelve-year-old over anything else. It's not like Navarro cares. Honestly, Navarro finds it rather entertaining. To have that much power over someone…well, it feels fucking great. Of course, Travis isn't the only person that fears Navarro Lune, but he's Navarro's "favorite". "w-what ar—are w-we do—doing h-here?"

Navarro smirks at Travis over his shoulder. "Oh, you'll see. I've just got to find what I'm looking for…" He peers down another alleyway, looking at the dumpsters and bags of trash in search of a human being. Again, his search comes up empty.

"W-what…what i-is it th—that you're l-looking f—for, sir?"

Navarro's smirk grows wider at the sound of Travis's "sir". Oh, how he loves having titles. Titles make him even more important than he already is. "I can't tell you. That would ruin the surprise…"

"Sur…surprise, sir?" Travis takes a large step forward and leans over Navarro's shoulder.

"Of course," Navarro says importantly, sucking in his chest. He loves surprising his slaves. They never like his surprises, but that's kind of the point. Navarro only surprises his slaves when they misbehave. Which is exactly why he's here right now, dragging a stuttering Travis through the cold. Navarro's gloved hand goes to the hilt of the knife tucked in his pocket. It's clean, at least for the next twenty minutes.

"S-sir…is—is t-this "sur-surprise" be—because of—of—of yesterday?" Travis asks quietly, his voice small and nervous.

"Of course," Navarro says again. Oh, yesterday. Navarro has such a love-hate relationship with his slaves disobeying him. On one hand, he gets to punish them for their insubordination. On the other, they disobeyed him. Just like Travis did yesterday. Navarro had simply told him to go into the basement of his mother's estate with him. Travis had refused, even going so far to attempt to run away from Navarro! Of course, the basement is where his mother keeps her sex slaves and people who have yet to pay her back, and Navarro had been going down to beat up one of the said late-payers. It's one of Navarro's favorite things to do, as well as the only thing his mother thinks he's good for.

At last, Navarro peers down an alleyway and spots a little girl, with long hair and a ragged coat, walking toward them. He whirls back around, grabbing Travis's wrist tight enough to bruise. Travis murmurs in pain, but Navarro knows he's all talk. Surely by this point, Travis is used to how violent Navarro can be. Is that a bad thing? Absolutely not. Being violent is how you get places in this universe. Navarro is just smart enough and strong enough to understand that. Travis is a lot of things, but he is not strong nor smart.

"As I'm sure you know," Navarro begins, his voice quiet. "yesterday, you disobeyed my orders. So, I have to punish you. Here's what you're going to do. Do you see that girl coming down the alleyway right now? You're going to take this knife, attack her, rape her, and kill her."

Travis's face drains of what little color it had retained. He stares at Navarro as if expecting him to suddenly start laughing, yell "just kidding!" and throw confetti at his face. Honestly! Navarro thinks. How is it possible for someone to be that thick headed?

"And…and i-if I re—refuse?" Travis asks quietly, probably trying to stall.

Navarro nearly laughs at Travis's attempt to get out of this. "Then I'll take this gun, put it to your head, and refuse to remove it until you do as I say." Navarro takes the loaded gun out of his other pocket and places it against Travis's forehead.

Travis swallows thickly. "O-okay."

Without removing the gun, Navarro shoves the knife into Travis's shaking hands. Slowly, Travis starts down the alleyway, Navarro following closely behind, the gun now shifted to be against Travis's hair. Suddenly, Travis whirls around. Navarro very nearly pulls the trigger. "P-please, s-sir," Travis begs in a whisper. "d-don't make me do-do-do this!"

"You made this bed, now you have to lie in it," Navarro says coldly.

Travis exhales shakily and stumbles forward a few steps as the girl down the alleyway calls out, "Who are you? Do you—do you have a knife?"

"Time's a ticking," Navarro warns under his breath.

Travis suddenly springs forward, raises the knife and presses it against the girl's throat. Navarro follows slowly. Once Travis has the girl pressed up against the wall of one of the buildings beside them, Navarro places the gun back to his head. "That's a good boy," he says, toying with the gun's trigger.

And Travis does exactly as Navarro told him to. What choice would he have, since Navarro has a gun pressed to his head? Oh, he loves having so much power over Travis. This is how the world should work. The strong should control the weak. The weak should act as the slaves of the strong. This is how the world should be ordered, with Navarro sitting on his throne at the top with Travis below him, as his slave.

"Please! Don't hurt me!" the girl cries. Navarro's smirk only grows. This is where he gets his high. Ohoho, he could get addicted to this feeling.

Navarro shifts his grip on the gun, watching as Travis's shoulder tense at the movement. He loves leaving people in suspense. He loves following Travis around with a gun to his head. Travis knows that Navarro could pull the trigger at any moment, and that is the feeling that Navarro so adores.

"Please! Sto—stop!" the girl continues to beg and beg and beg, but of course, Travis can't stop until the deed is done. If he does…well, bang!There'll be a bullet in his head!

That's when Navarro notices the figure at the other end of the alleyway. He's pretty sure it's a girl, probably around his age judging by her height. Navarro smirks and plays with the trigger on his gun. Come on, girl, come play hero. You'll end up just as dead as Travis's friend here.

But the girl at the end of the alleyway doesn't play hero. She starts to run, charging down the ice with surprising agility. Navarro stares at the spot she had been standing and shrugs. Oh well. It would have been so much more fun if she had come to play hero…then Navarro would have gotten the chance to kill her. Pity.

Even Navarro has to admit that he's getting a little bit cold. They're more shielded from the biting wind in the alley than they were out on the street, though. And Navarro has gloves and a hat. All Travis has is a threadbare coat and pants. He must be freezing! Navarro thinks. Just more incentive to do the job now. But his cell is pretty damn cold too. But it's his funeral.

Suddenly, Travis snatches the knife from the ground, raises it in the air, and slits the struggling girl's throat. Travis stumbles to his feet and collapses in the snow a few feet away.

Navarro pays him no attention. Instead he watches, mesmerized, as the girl chokes on her own blood. Her eyes plead with Navarro to do something, to save her, to end her suffering. Navarro stands up, grabs the gun, and places it back to Travis's head. "Wonderful job," Navarro hisses. "Absolutely wonderful. Now put your pants back on, we're going home."

He grabs Travis's wrist tightly again and starts off toward home, leaving the girl's bloodied girl sitting there with its eyes wide open.

When they arrive at the Lune estate, a place full of extorted money, slaves, and drugs, Navarro quickly drags a shaking and mumbling Travis down the stairs and into the basement. The various cells that were erected in the basement before shortly after Navarro was born stare at them as they pass. Most of the prisoners and slaves inside are asleep, but Navarro notices that one of the cells is empty. It appears that his mother has taken another one of the late-payers to bed again.

These cells were built by the same people that now inhabit them. Or, well, most of the slaves and prisoners that built the cells are long dead now, either executed, beaten to death, or just died of some sort of sickness. They are prisoners after all! Navarro and his mother have no obligation to treat them well.

Navarro drops Travis off at his cell, making sure to lock the door. He watches Travis collapse in the darkness for thirty or so seconds, listening to Travis's nonsensical mumblings. He'll be sure not to disobey me again, Navarro thinks triumphantly. This'll guarantee his obedience, at least for another few months or so.

He turns around and stalks back through the darkened cells. Some of the prisoners are starting to wake up, but Navarro pays them no second thought. He makes his way up the stairs and toward his bedroom, where he hops in the shower to make sure all of the grime is off of his skin. Once he gets out, he twirls around the bloodstained knife and sets his gun on his nightstand. It's nearly two a.m., but Navarro really couldn't care for the hour.

He thinks of Travis, alone in his cell. He thinks of his mother, in bed with some late-payer. Oh, how it feels good to be a Lune, even if his mother doesn't want him. Oh, how it feels good to be on top.

Afandina Hariri, 17

"No one can hurt you if you just bottle up your emotions."

(Two years before the Reapings)

He lost.

Oh, fuck, he lost.

He lost the round, the whole game, and a fuck ton of money in the process.

Afandina Hariri doesn't just lose! He always wins, he always wins. He's never lost a bet before, never been dealt a bad hand! He prides himself on always playing his cards right, on always being ten steps ahead, on always winning. He just rakes in more and more money and never loses a single cap. This wasn't supposed to happen! This doesn't happen! He—he—he can't allow this to happen! He can't lose, he can't lose, he can't lose.

But he did. Afandina Hariri lost a game. He played his cards wrong, and now he's shoveling out the thousands of caps he bet on his cards. Wesley Ryker smirks at him from across the table as Afandina pushes the last of the caps toward him. "There, are you happy now?" Afandina growls.

"Extremely," Wesley says, peering over his stacks of bills and coins.

"Whatever," Afandina says. "I know you cheated. I don't know how, but…you know what? Oh, I don't care." But he does care. He cares a lot but he doesn't really know how to deal with it. He's not used to losing. He's used to winning. He's used to taking money from Wesley Ryker, not giving it!

"Sure you don't," Wesley says carelessly, shrugging as he counts his new money.

Afandina growls at him. He makes to get up, but Wesley snags his sleeve. "Ah-ah, Hariri—remember, you still owe me…ten thousand or so caps. Got that in your pocket?"

"I'll pay you later," Afandina snarls.

"You'd better," Wesley says in a low voice. "You know what happens to people who don't pay me back."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Afandina stands up with a flourish, shoving his chair back so hard it falls over with a thunk. He storms out of the casino, to the surprise of no one. Anyone who has played Afandina Hariri knows that he is good. They know he doesn't lose for nothing.

So he heads home, anger boiling through his veins. All of this is fucking stupid, absol-fucking-lutely stupid. He had that game in the bag, he knows he did! Yet somehow he lost! He fucking lost. He fucking lost, and he lost a fuck ton of money in doing so. He can't imagine that his parents will be pleased, but who gives a single flying fuck? Certainly not Afandina. He couldn't care less about the amount of caps he doled out to Wesley Ryker. No, he only cares because he lost the game. His cards were fucked, he was fucked, and he's absolutely certain that Wesley Ryker found some way to cheat. It's the only way to explain him losing a game of cards, no matter what game. Go fish? He wins. Crazy eight? He wins. Solitaire? He wins. Gin rummy, pinochle, poker, Texas hold 'em, anything! He wins! He always fucking wins!

He stomps his way up the stairs and into the house. It's a large house, extremely luxurious by any other person in District 10's standards. But to Afandina, it's a house. It's a nice house, but it's a house. Sure, thousands of people would kill to live where he lives with the amount of money at their disposal as he has, but it's not Afandina gives a fuck. He stopped giving a fuck a long, long time ago.

"Where have you been?" his father asks from the landing on the second floor. "It's past midnight!"

"Where I am every Saturday," Afandina says, rolling his eyes.

"At this hour! I thought we told you to be home by eleven. It's far past eleven o'clock, young man!"

Afandina rolls his eyes again and turns around. He makes for the door, planning to leave the house and find a different casino to try his hand at.

"Don't you dare open that door," his father says in a deathly calm voice. Afandina can hear his footsteps coming down the stairs, and internally groans. Why can't his father just leave him alone? Why does he suddenly care so much about what time Afandina gets home, or what he spends his evenings doing? "You're staying right here, young man."

"Why do you give a fuck?" Afandina growls, turning around to face his father. "Can't you just leave me alone to do what I want?"

"I give a fuck because you're my son!" his father shouts. "And personally, I don't want to have raised a spoilt, arrogant, rude gambler-asshole!"

"Oh, so you're just realizing now that maybe your parenting techniques aren't perfect?" Afandina yells, trying to ignore the aching in the pride territory from his father's remarks. Spoilt, arrogant, asshole. But Afandina does. Not. Care. So what if his father thinks he's an asshole? So what if his father wishes he wasn't his son? Afandina doesn't care! He doesn't care about anything!

"You know what, young man? I have had enough of you going out every night and throwing my hard-earned money away! Enough is enough! Something is going to give, son, and you aren't going to like it," his father continues angrily.

"It's a little late to fix your child," Afandina snarks. "After all, I'm fifteen-years-old. Not that I'd expect you to know; you hardly pay enough attention to know my FUCKING NAME IS!"

"ENOUGH!" his father screams. "Enough. I'm going to go organize something, and you are going to go to your room, and you aren't going to leave until I come for you."

"I'm not a toddler," Afandina growls.

"You're still my child," his father says, his voice flat.

"Go fuck yourself," Afandina says in a low voice. "I don't have to listen to a single, solitary word I say."

His father simply grabs the door, walks out of the house, and slams it behind him.

(Seven Months Before the Reaping)

Oh, god, he's so hot, Afandina thinks, watching as Kyle searches for something-or-another across the barn. It's not exactly the best situation to be ogling someone—what with the various animals loudly complaining about existence nearby and Afandina's general imprisonment on the Beaux farm—but it's better than nothing. And Kyle is someone to look at. Beautiful, clear tan skin. Dark brown hair with natural highlights that swoops across his face. Eyes that are somewhere between amber, brown and green. A tall, slender figure that still manages to have muscles—a product of all of the farm work—well, just being able to look at Kyle makes all of this almost worth it.

Almost.

Over a year Afandina has spent here on the Beaux farm—or, as he likes to call it, literal hell—working from sunup to sundown. Feeding the animals, milking the cows, collecting the chickens' eggs, herding the sheep. Doing all sorts of boring, demeaning farm work. Afandina Hariri is far, far above herding disgusting sheep and putting his own hands upon a cow's udder.

And his father is so delusional to think that all of this is suddenly going to make him a good parent. As if suddenly, Afandina will have an epiphany and everything will turn out okay. He'll stop having negative traits at all—although Afandina isn't really sure what negative traits he possesses—and be a wonderful ray of sunshine who feeds the stray dogs on the way to work and gives all of the homeless orphans food at he passes. It's completely ridiculous to think that everything could just work out after over a year or so of hard farm work.

It doesn't make sense. It doesn't work. That's just not what happens.

"Afandina? Are you okay?"

Kyle's silky voice snaps Afandina out of his trance. "Oh—uh, yep, I'm good."

"You've been staring at me for the past five minutes," Kyle says flatly.

"Oh," Afandina says, unsure of what else he could say.

"I mean, I know I'm good looking and all but I didn't know that you swung that way," Kyle comments in that beautiful silky voice.

God, he's hot, Afandina thinks.

"Pretty sure you did," Afandina responds. "But I just like to look."

"I get that," Kyle agrees, nodding, but it doesn't take a genius—which Afandina indisputably is—to see the slight hurt in Kyle's face. His posture slumps just the slightest bit and his eyes dull a little.

"I! Uh, I have to, uh, have to go walk the dogs!" Afandina exclaims suddenly, hurrying out of the barn. He doesn't look back, afraid to see Kyle's expression. Instead, he rushes toward the farmhouse and grabs the dogs' leashes. He calls out the names of the dogs, asking them excitedly if they'd like to go for a walk.

As the dogs pull him out of the farmhouse, he breaths out heavily. He doesn't get what he's feeling. Sure, he's looked at many a boy before—even a few girls, way back when—but Kyle feels, somehow…different? It's a feeling that Afandina is unfamiliar with, and if he's being entirely honest, is kind of afraid of. What does it mean? What is he feeling?

One of the dogs starts barking at a random passerby. "Shut up," Afandina hisses at the dog as the other one joins in on the barking. "Shut up!" Afandina repeats. Stupid dogs, he thinks.

Afandina has to admit, what he feels toward Kyle is kind of terrifying. It's nothing he's ever felt before. He doesn't even know what to call it. Lust? Physical attraction? Some other synonym for wanting to fuck Kyle? That's all it is, surely. What else would it be? Besides, all he ever does is stare at Kyle, as if every time he sees Kyle, he has to recommit every inch of him to memory. He doesn't like listening to him talk. He doesn't like watching him work. He doesn't like anything about Kyle that isn't his face or his body…

Honestly, he's kind of scared of Kyle, by this point. It's clear that Kyle wants to fuck him too, but it just doesn't make sense. He doesn't need Kyle. He doesn't need anybody. He's Afandina fucking Hariri! He's a loner, he doesn't like people, he doesn't like anyone except himself. He doesn't like Kyle Beaux. All he wants is to fuck him senseless. Surely. That's what he wants.

It just doesn't make sense. Afandina isn't used to things not making sense. He prides himself on being smart, on always understanding things, but it just doesn't compute. Nothing computes anymore. Everything stopped making sense when his father sent away to live in literal hell. Afandina is just unsure of how to start understanding things again.

A/N: I have returned from the dead! I'm sorry for the two or so weeks between these updates. I was in Chicago and then I wasn't and I didn't want to write and suddenly it's Christmas! Where did December go?

Anyways, Merry Christmas to those who celebrate. I wrote ninety percent of this chapter while my aunt and cousins were breathing down my neck, asking me questions about what I was writing, and I don't like telling my extended family that I'm currently writing Hunger Games fanfiction. My cousins are extremely judgmental, for one thing. For another, it's just something that should stay personal.

1. Thoughts on Scoria?

2. Thoughts on Navarro?

3. Thoughts on Afandina?

4. Which of these three is your favorite?

Random Question of the Chapter: which one of these three would make the best Victor?

Next up, for our second-to-last intro, we have Shad, Darwin and Ottilie.

-Amanda