Avery Wilkins
District 11 Male
Age 18
3 weeks before the reaping
Avery sits peacefully up in the tall oak tree's branches, his dark eyes staring blankly down at the District's orchards beneath him. His mind is oddly calm and peaceful. He listens to the delicate, hushed whisper usher itself from the orchard's deep depths. An utter echo, song-like thing pertaining up in line to the cloudy sky above him. The mid-day sun twists its beams this way and that, tracing his features gently.
The tree branches beneath Avery swing gently in the breeze as he continues sweeping his gaze down towards the countryside. District Eleven spread out like a spiderweb of lines upon lines. Rolling out before him in waves of fruitful trees.
He shifts his stare onwards, dark eyes settling a group of teenagers to the very right of him. They howl in the wind, jumping from a local cliffside. Avery could see their pivot point from his comfortable seat up in the oak tree, watching them tempt fate in a reckless ordeal. Their giddy, excited screams pierced through Avery's eardrums like a sharp blade.
The wind's breath pulls at his black shirt, bellowing an emotionless goodbye as two of the teenagers rush forward. They waltz off the side of the small cliff into the eerie, dark blue water beneath them. He looks away from the group as the sound of a splash evades his ears.
He hates seeing people putting themselves into possible danger, even in a safe space. Pain could just be avoided if everyone just stopped all the recklessness. But it's no use changing people, all he can do is protect and prevent.
With a small smile overtaking her features (at the thought of protecting) Avery turns to face the ground beneath him. He looks casually down, hands holding tight to two strong branches below his feet. He thinks for a moment, knowing he could either jump or climb down. Even though his instincts tell him to jump, Avery's brain chooses the latter of the options. His dark eyes gleam brightly against the sheen reflected from the glowing ball of citrus-smelling sunlight.
After climbing down a far length, Avery drops onto the soft grass. It comforts his body in a whisper of nature. He looks up, staring at the District from his place in the grass.
His fingers reach for the bag at his side, lightly fingering the contents. He grasps a bit of the leftover stale bread, taking the loaf from his carrier. Its rigid crust bumping his palm, threatening to leave a scape behind but he couldn't care completely less.
He might not be very fortunate with how poor his family is but that doesn't mean he can't help others in worse situations. It's all he can stand, if he's not aiding others, who is he? He is simply nothing, nothing nothing. He's rarely ever much of Avery, instead, he's 'Nighthawk'.
Avery chuckles lightly to himself, thinking of the cheezy nickname some of the other District kids had given him. Who had started it, he would never know, but he liked it. It made him feel like he actually was of some importance.
He pushes his frame up from the soft grass, wiping the mid-day dew from his palms.
Avery feels the name fits, he's always helping anyone when possible. Which includes his wildchild of a little sister. Daisy herself doesn't care much for anything calm and enjoys bending the rules as much as possible. She often likes pushing the peacekeepers' buttons, just for fun.
"Stupid." Avery mutters to himself as he turns towards the small town just outside of the mains in District Eleven. He shakes his head, footsteps pounding in his ears as he races away from the tree overviewing the orchards of District Eleven.
He practically flies through the rows of trees, breath slightly wheezing as his legs power swiftly through the orchards.
Quickly, he reaches sector 3- home to the poorest of the District. Avery takes a swift breath in, smiling to himself as he speeds through the loose dirt. He knows this portion of the District like the back of his hand and could find the camps with his eyes closed.
Old tarps and tipped-over metal shingling are the only things keeping this one together, but that doesn't stop life from bustling amongst the people. Avery has always been a loner and not much for conversation, but here, he doesn't need to talk. (He does like being in charge though) but all he has to do is find Leon, head of the whole camp and he'll take the bread-
"Hey ya look!" He hears a voice whisper behind him, interrupting his thoughts. Avery whips around, instincts kicking in much faster than his mind could process.
The boy comes to face a sweet-looking young girl with two dark braids cascading down to her chest. Her sun-tanned skin is covered with small pinpricks of freckles, dancing across her dirty complexion. She giggles at him, "it's Nighthawk!" she smiles, nudging the boy behind her.
"Huh?" he asks, turning to face him.
"The guy who saves kids from being hurt by bullies."
"Like a defender?" The boy asks, running a hand through his flaming, bright red hair. Speaks of white fly into the air from his head but Avery doesn't care. "Why?"
"That's me." He smiles, taking the loaf in both hands and splitting it before the children. Avery holds out one half to each of them, laughing to himself as they take the food with giddy, wide-spread smiles.
Something inside him beams alongside the two children as they scamper away to their families. The happiness he feels in the form of helping others is outwardly unexplainable, but it's the biggest reason he's able to live his life in such a positive state. Other people's joy makes him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.
So, he turns on his heels, satisfied with helping the children in a heap of conviviality and cheerfulness, and walks away.
Izora Ashanova
District 14 Female
Age 18
3 weeks before the reaping
Izora's bright smile beams from her parched lips, dancing in a freedom of plain happiness. She dashes in through the oak door of the Perdanez Institute, excited to tell her friend the news.
"Hey Izzy!" the lady sitting at the counter, Aera Wells, squeaks as she checks the almost-broken clock on the hall above her. "You're here early."
"Gotta tell Cel something," Izzy responds, quickly covering the length of the first room and into the entrance to the stairwell.
"Oh, alright." Aera can't keep the disappointment from her voice and it strikes Izora like a blade.
"Don't worry, I'll be down soon." Izzy smiles, trying to make her feel better.
"Sounds good." The girl nods.
Izora turns, eyeing the flights of stairs before her. How much she is thankful for her strong endurance, grateful she's able to climb all these stairs almost daily. Her footsteps pound loudly in the echoey, claustrophobic stairwell. Under her breath, Izzy hums the melody stuck in her head, climbing up the steps to the beat.
Soon, she reaches the 6th floor, opening a door into the long hallway that stood before her. "Cel!" she giggles, scampering to the second door on the left.
She doesn't knock, just opens the paneling. Celestino Perdanez sits before her, waves of wild and dark hair blowing in the gentle breeze from an open window. He sits casually on the floor, expression melancholy and grey but when he hears her come in, he perks up.
Their complexion is quite handsome just sitting there, if her lesbian heart does say so, but Cel and Izzy have never had that kinda a relationship. He has always felt like her brother, protecting her from things she can't fight herself.
"Izzy?" They say, voice utterly monotone. Almost instantly, she realizes something is off with him, something about their smile doesn't fall right with her.
"What's wrong?" she asks, cocking her head to the left as she closes the oak door behind her.
"Why don't you just quit?" he asks, running a tan, sun-kissed hand through their waves of black hair.
"Pardon?"
"Why? Don't you just quit? A little blackmail isn't worth your life." He asks, as she sits down lightly on the floor beside him. Her green eyes scour over their room, noticing just how messy it looks. Normally, Cel has an unkept room but this was a straight-up mess. Clothes unevenly covered the ground, papers were ripped apart and his blankets were in huge tangles.
"I was literally here yesterday, what happened?"
"I got upset, not the point- Izzy, the program will get you killed."
"But leaving means death threats, do you not understand?"
"At least you have a chance to live then, the Games mean certain death," Cel says, getting up slowly from his seat on the floor. He picks up a ball of paper, fingering it lightly before tossing it into the wastebasket to the right of Izzy.
"God Cel, can't you see I want to live." Izora sighs, "but I have to volunteer, I've been trained- I have a shot as good as ever."
Izora exhalations, she knows Cel wants her to quit District Fourteen's savior program but she can't help but feel drawn to it. Besides, leaving would mean a brutal life full of disappointment, blackmail, and terrible death threats.
"But you don't have to, what about Ed?"
"You know Ed, there's no convincing him not to." Izora slumps her shoulders at the thought of her best friend volunteering alongside her. She blinks away the instant tears that threaten to escape from her green eyes.
"Then you'll have to watch him die." Cel points out, hearing the melancholy voice ushering itself from Izzy's pale rose lips. "Think about you. Izzy, I won't let you hurt yourself like this, I can't." They whisper through a fog of blindness.
Celosto Perdanez has been Izzy's brother-like figure for as long as she could remember. At least since she started volunteer work at the Institute. They might be blind but they are someone to talk to and that's what mattered to her.
But he makes points, does she really want to volunteer alongside Ed? Izora loves Ed in the friendliest way possible, and watching him die right in front of her would be absolutely heartbreaking. He's her best friend after all, and only one can make it out.
God.
Izora Astanova does not want to die.
"I guess," Izzy responds, tugging lightly at her chestnut brown ponytail. At her words, a look of relief cascades over Cel's features and there's something that pings at her stomach.
"Please, tell Sagan tomorrow, I'll come with you."
"I can handle it on my own Cel, thank you though." She says, gaining a lot of her energy as she stands back onto her feet. A small giggle escapes her mouth, Izzy wants to live. She isn't going to play with death like it's a dice she can just roll. Or a game.
Izzy turns slowly on her heels, "See you later," she whispers, "I've got a shift to get to."
"Oh! I sometimes forget that you like volunteer at my house."
"I know, shocker."
"But then again, it's not really a house… it's an institute for freaking blind ass people." He says.
"I think you're cool, being blind doesn't change your personality."
"Whatever whatever." He waves his arm, a smile creeping over their features. "You got a shift." He says, the once sadness gone from his face.
"Oh yeah! Aera was so excited when I came in but totally disappointed when I was here to see you."
Cel sighs, "I think she's in love with you or something." He teases.
"She is really pretty and sweet but like, I'm not looking for any relationship right now." Izzy laughs.
"Suuuuure." He chuckles and Izzy just rolls her eyes.
"See you later." She grins, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door.
Harry Starr
District 2 Male
Age 18
3 weeks before the reaping
As the slow music slowly starts to die out, Harry just stands there. Not a single word is able to escape his pale lips as the people around him start to file about. They give him swift pats on the back or sure nods, but all he can do is stare, eyes transfixed on his mother's grave.
Sorrow drips from his mind, but he doesn't let it show through his emotionless exterior. Harry has grown accustomed to the idea of death, starting from a very young age. So the sight of graves or the scent of corpses has never really bothered him too much.
Numb.
That's all he can feel though, just as broken he felt when his sister was stabbed in the stomach by her own District partner.
God, Liz deserved much better, she could have done so much. She could have made it home to their family; to him. Instead, he watched as crimson dripped steadily from her torso, gleaming against the sheen reflected off the ice walls. Stage lights beamed down at her frame as she gasped her last breath, diving deep into a battle with the grim reaper. Liz didn't want to die, she wanted to live and be happy and be free. But that couldn't happen, because she's gone, she's dead.
People always tell him to live for his sister, but she was the biggest part of him. She made him who he is, so he just feels broken and torn apart, instead of how people think he should be, happy.
All of the images of her death flood back to him as he stood there, frame billowing against the shades of soft green that fluttered around him. The graveyard bore heavy feelings of sorrow, crashing upon him like waves against the beaches of District Four. The ones he's read about in 'Panem Studies' textbooks and would love to see one day.
Harry closes his eyes slowly, the soft whisper of his eyelids echoing through his skull. He picks a yellow wildflower growing in the grass beside him, placing the beauty on the freshly upturned dirt. He knew his mother's death would come soon, having had many long years with her to say goodbye before the disease finally took her out-
"Harry?" A small voice asks from behind him, making Harry jump slightly.
"Alistor." He nods, recognizing the voice of the boy standing behind him. The tone of Harry's voice is slightly happier than monotone, which had become his normal since well… always.
"I'm sorry I'm late." His voice childish as he runs to Harry. The young boy grabs him by the waist, squeezing Harry tight.
Alisor is a young, orphaned thief of a boy who visits his parents' graves often. They are the two overgrown patches that lay beside his own mother and sister. Harry had, over the last few years, just sorta taken the boy under his wing, not as a friend so much, but as a brother. Being an influence in Alistor's life has made Harry's world spin around. He was the only thing keeping Harry sane at this point.
"I haven't seen you in like forever." The boy beams, his childish innocence making Harry feel even the tiniest bit better. The somberness obviously hadn't caught Alisor and all Harry could do is cherish it.
"I missed you too." Harry nodded, slowly prying the young boy's arms off his stomach. "But I need to tell you something." The sadness returns to Harry's voice, it pangs him to have to tell Alisor about what the trainers told him this morning.
"You know how I've been training?"
"Of course..."
"Well, I'm at the top of my class."
"Alright?"
"That means-"
"You're going to have to volunteer, right?" Alistor says, not even letting Harry finish his sentence before his eleven-year-old concern fills the icy, stiff air.
"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."
"Are you gonna die?"
"Hopefully not."
"You gonna avenge your sister?"
"Yes." Harry nods, slightly biting his bottom lip. There is a small part of him that is glad he gets the chance to volunteer, not for the idea of being a career but for the prospect of bringing justice to his sister.
Which means possibly killing the boy from Seven in her legacy. That's all she wanted to do, get revenge for Jocylin, and now he has to. Liz died trying, now, it's his turn and he won't fail. Harry very much dislikes District Seven. Simple as that.
But the other part of his soul will miss the little boy and his cute smile. Alistor has been almost all of Harry's motivation. But hopefully soon, there'll be a place for the two of them, very soon. There's just a silly game standing in the way.
"Then do it, I know you can," Alistor says, placing a mature hand on Harry's shoulder.
"I hope so." Harry nods, smiling back at the young boy. "I'm gonna win for Liz, for you, and for Dad, just you wait."
"I don't doubt it."
"You don't?" Harry puzzles.
"I've seen you training." Alistor answers.
"When? Were you watching me?"
"Just a few times I slipped into the academy as a guest resident to watch you." He giggles.
"That's creepy man," Harry laughs slightly before his eyes widen. He quickly clamps his mouth shut, laughing is not something his father would allow him to do. He is stoic, he is serious. District Two is not a place for light-headed laughter. He was stupid to make the sound in the first place.
"Yeah, made me feel like a stalker." Alistor chuckles.
"Ain't that the best way to be." He says, putting his arm around Alistor.
"I'm sorry about your mom." He whispers after a solid few minutes of silence.
"You know what, I knew it was coming, she's been sick since Liz died."
"Yeah." He agrees and Harry nods. The two boys stand in more silence for a while, neither daring to move much, watching the grave before them.
Clara Saxon
District 5 Female
Age 17
3 weeks before the reaping
One last song;
Dance,
A single fit of glory.
The final trophy of triumph.
Tears, building a waterfall.
A swaying melody,
Blending on the paper as paints on a canvas.
One last sip of coffee poured,
Through the steaming kettle.
A cup of steam rising to the ceiling.
Spiraling from the burnt umber depths.
Rich in oak color.
One last sparrow's tune.
A crescendo in the midst,
Of a pounding orchestra.
The bird's single heartbeat pounding hard against a window pane.
The last act,
A final bow.
The audience roaring,
As the cast slowly escapes the bright beams of lights.
Slithering from stage.
Before the silence,
Of an empty, abandoned theater,
Of a calmed kettle.
Of a dead sparrow-
Clara pulls tightly on the wrist of her battered grey jacket with her right hand, turning away slightly from the poem sprawled across a ripped out notebook page. She grips the paper tightly in her hand, not even bothering to read the rest. Clara sighs softly to herself, throwing it down forcefully and turning back to watch the fire below engulf the words themselves. The ink burning with the last shred of her care for the poem.
The flames leap with the joy of the enrolled, enchanted dancer. Sparks pirouetting, giving their all in this brightest of performances. The orange and red colors breathe in and out, cackling in a desperate yet methodical matter.
Fire is all that Clara seems to desire later, and she always gets what she wants.
Not in the pityish, snobby way of some high-end prick from across the District, no, she works hard for what she wants. Fights grit and nail for every last thing, as she should.
So she throws another poem into the fire, watching it fuel up towards the roar of a black bitter sky. Ash floats around her frame and Clara basks in the harsh burnt smell. Her girlfriend is dead, and so are her words. Her poems and works that Clara once used to love, but now hastily despises.
It's not like she meant to kill her girlfriend, or her parents, for that matter. She only meant to injure them- bring their factory to its knees. All she wanted was for them to see her, notice her and only her.
Maybe that makes her selfish but Clara couldn't care less.
Clara tosses another poem into the bellowing fire, the flames flowing as golden wind-swept waters. She sighs lightly, surveying the scene around her. Not a single soul collected in the junkyard she resided. Trash and useless objects piled around in stalks taller than herself.
She didn't typically burn anything in a trash site but a boy had almost caught her last night and she wasn't willing to take that chance again. Hopefully, he'll forget about her soon and she can hit the streets again.
"I mean, he didn't see my actual face so I'm fine." She whispers to the flames that cackled beside her skinny frame.
Besides, he's the least of her worries with the peacekeepers hot on her trail as well. They're investigating her parent's deaths and it's only a matter of time before they figure out the bomb- and who planted it.
There's no way she can talk her way outta that one, even if her actions were right. They deserved it all, Clara is extremely glad her parents are six feet underground now. She hated them, both of them- and her ex. Her cheating ex who somehow intertwined with her plans to explode the factory.
Clara couldn't just wait and let them find her. Clara isn't a sitting duck and hates waiting, so, she's gotta take her own future into her own hands.
She typically always seems to have a plan for getting herself outta trouble but now, the future is unclear and that's what troubles her. Clara throws another poem of her deceased lover into the flames while lost in thought. She needs to escape them somehow, get away from the District all together.
That's when the idea struck her like a clock strikes midnight.
She could volunteer. Clara flinches closer to the fire at the idea but she knows she doesn't have much of another option. She could either be shot seven times after a long court session, or she could go into a death match. There she could either die quickly or come out victorious. All crimes and debt are taken away from your record after you win and that's her really only option of survival.
"I'll volunteer then, I have to." She whispers, only to have her thoughts interrupted by a soft voice from the mouth of the junkyard.
"Is that smoke?" She hears a boy question as two forms start to make their way through the darkness toward her.
"Is someone burning trash?" Another asks.
To their words, Clara starts scrambling to throw on her hooded jacket and grab up her bag. Taking a deep breath, she collects her things and throws them into her pack. Clara looks down, tossing the last of the unburned poems into the orange flickers of flames.
"Must be." The first voice says, agreeing.
She blinks once, dashing away and towards the back entrance. The fire roars and smokes behind her, drawing in the two young figures. She stops, hiding behind an abandoned chair as they marvel at her dancing beauty that twirled in swirls of yellow, orange, red and even a little sprinkle of blue.
"Who you think started this?" the taller of the teenagers asks, turning to the other.
"I have no idea, but we should put it out, right?"
The second boy nods, "Yeah." His voice raspy but oddly quiet and Clara can't help but recognize the pair. Of course they had to be the boys who put out her fire last night, this is just great.
Clara slowly turns away, slipping through the junkyard to the back entrance. She doesn't look back, she can't. She dashes through the gap in the garbage, running into the night, hood bellowing in the wind as her frame cuts through the darkness like a knife.
A/N: Annnnd we're back bitches! Shaboom. Sorry about the long freaking wait- it's been an absolutely crazy past few weeks and I haven't really had the motivation to write but I pulled myself together for this one! I hope you enjoy.
Because we're at the last intros, I wanted to check in with y'all because why not. Raf made fun of me last time for doing 'what's your fav color' so screw you raf (actually you're fucking amazing, love you, you're awesome) but like what's your LEAST fav color. Just dm/pm your responses, u really don't have to make them fancy or anything- I'd just love to know you're reading :sunglasses:
ANDDDDD WE'RE DONE WITH THE FUCKING INTROS GUYSSSS. These intros have pained me smmm, I'm so glad to be done with them. On to the pregames! Hopefully my update speed will pick back up now because the chapter's will be easier to write. ALSO- all updates will be on Wednesdays so I can have a bit of order in my life without setting a strict schedule. They might be back to back Wednesdays, they might be 3 weeks apart- idk, it really depends on my mental state at the time. So like, yeah, that's all I had to say- as always, have a good day/night/afternoon!
Bye for now,
Marie