Octavia de Martino- 14

District 5F

The Morning of the Reapings

An ear-piercing buzz followed by a WHOOSH indicates the entrance of the detention center's warden into the prison block. My eyes travel to the digital clock positioned above the cell door. 8:00am. Two hours until the reaping. I sigh, rolling out of bed and barely saving myself from a painful collision with the metal floor.

"Children of reaping age must be ready for breakfast in ten minutes!" The warden's voice floats over the crackly PA system. Letting out an audible groan, I splash my face with water from the rusty tap. My disheveled reflection greets me in the mirror which brings a smile to my face. Not even the Capitol can force me to dress up for their little costume party.

I stand by my cell door, hands clenched behind my back and a devilish smile plastered on my face. A guard walks up to my cell and he does not look amused. "Cut the crap Martino. I can't deal with your poor behavior today."

I blink back at him, smile as wide as ever. "Me, misbehaving? I think you're mistaking me for someone else." The guard rolls his eyes, buzzing himself into my cell and grabbing me rather roughly by the arm. "I don't want to be here anymore than you do kid."

He leads me- along with a few other escorted delinquents- to the mess hall for breakfast. Once we arrive I'm deposited near the end of the line that has already formed to get food. I tap my foot impatiently as I wait for the seemingly endless trail of children to move.

A few minutes later, there is just one guy ahead of me who is taking his sweet time. I glare at him angrily. "Hurry up before I make you." The kid slops some oatmeal onto his plate and scurries away to find a seat. Sure, I might not be the most menacing kid here, but I'd say I sit comfortably in the middle of the pack.

After I have collected my breakfast, I find an empty table and noisily plop myself into a chair. I can't count how many days I've spent locked in this craphole, completing the same boring routine. Ever since I blew up that church I've pretty much guaranteed myself a lifetime sentence in district five's juvenile detention center.

A child blowing up a church? I can admit that it wasn't easy, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. Ever since complications with my birth led to my mother's death, my father has been a useless drunk. He tried to maintain his pristine image as an upstanding, devoted Catholic, but the damage had been done. He had descended into what the church leader called "religious melancholy." Each service we would attend out of habit; so that maybe God would pity my father if he made an appearance in his house each week.

After years of my father "faking a smile" so to speak, I decided that enough was enough. All God had done was bring my family pain. He took my mother, gave my father to the bottles and let our family descend into poverty. All the anger and rage I harbored towards God could only be released by destroying his own house.

I researched fire and explosives, spending hours poring over restricted books about bomb assembly and execution. After three years of devoting my every waking moment to literature, I could assemble a simple pipe bomb without a sweat. Of course I couldn't go through with my plan without testing out my handiwork.

First it was cranky old Mrs. Johnson's mailbox. I was scared the bomb wouldn't go off, but it eventually did, scaring her scruffy cat half way to the Capitol. When choosing my next victim, I settled on the workshop that belonged to Suzy Pelter's Father. Should make her reconsider the next time she calls someone a sewer rat.

I probably shouldn't have left that sweet little note on her front porch, taking full responsibility for the crime. I had my first stint in the juvenile detention center where I now live eleven months a year. After being released for good behavior, I got to work constructing twenty of my best pipe bombs yet.

The church's foundation didn't stand a chance that night. Although the act pretty much signed away my freedom until the day I die, it was all worth it in the end. I was snapped out of my thoughts by the buzzer that indicated the end of breakfast.

I shove my barely-touched slop into the garbage, tossing the bowl on the rack carelessly. I line up behind a tough-looking eighteen year old who looks as if he's single-handedly massacred an entire district. His eyes narrow as I approach. I just grin back smugly.

I'm pretty sure everyone in this joint hates me for one reason or another. Good thing the peacekeepers need us all at the reaping in one piece. We make our way to reaping in a somber fashion. The one thing that united us with the civil children of the district was our fear of the reapings.

I stand through the first portion of the reaping ceremony with a nasty scowl etched onto my face. Once the district escort finally mounts the stage I chuckle to myself. If only I could wipe that stupid smile off of his face with one of my little friends.

His gloved hand is reaching for a slip of paper when a peacekeeper enters the stage. He whispers something into the escort's ear, producing a look of surprise and amusement. I wonder what that could mean. It doesn't take me long to find out.

"This year's female tribute will be Octavia de Martino!" Those bastards from the church! I should have known they'd come for me eventually. I glance towards the spectator section and sure enough, a few church officials glare back at me.

"Octavia? Can you please identify yourself honey?" I gulp, walking up to the stage with as much confidence as I can muster. I clench my hands together in an attempt to stop their incessant shaking.

As I approach the escort, a thought enters my mind: I'm going to do all I can to make life a living hell for the Capitol. They don't know who they're messing with.

Yaroslav Agafon- 18

District 5M

The Morning of the Reapings

I awaken to bright streams of sunlight stabbing at my eyelids. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I shuffle towards the bathroom to get ready for the day. It takes a moment for the importance of this particular morning to dawn on me. Reaping day.

My thoughts had been so preoccupied with the proceedings of the last court hearing I had stood in for, that I had forgotten that today will be the final time I attend the reaping as a potential tribute. I can't deny the relief that such a realization brings me, but a more pressing manner is gnawing at my conscience. As the youngest criminal defense lawyer in Panem, I am no stranger to tricky cases dripping with injustice and corruption.

While I am able to win most of my cases, it is not without meticulous planning, consideration and pawn shifting, if you will. In Panem, books and words can only get you so far. As the son of famed authoritarians, I often find myself presented with a string or two to pull.

I often wonder how the court system would function within a true democracy; the kind I had read about in those old forbidden volumes from our nation's past. After ruminating upon the idea for weeks, I came to the conclusion that such a system may be little more than an ancient fairy tale.

The defendant from the previous night was an obvious scapegoat for a crime committed against the town baker's shop. Although it proved to be one of my more tame cases, the primary suspect was none other than a scrawny peacekeeper who had been looking for some additional food to curb the hunger that his meager rations had failed to satisfy. It just so happened that this peacekeeper had some connections with his buddies, and there was no way he would be risking a flogging (at the least) for a stupid screw up.

So, poor Mister Williams was subjected to District Five's brutal court system. I hope- for his sake- that my speech was convincing enough for the Judge. In most scenarios, the cases I win are dropped, and no one ends up taking on the consequences for the crime. I suppose I'll know the verdict soon enough.

I shower quickly, before throwing on my white button-up shirt, tie, suit and slacks. I smooth out the rumples in the outfit until I am satisfied. I take the stairs two at a time, meeting both of my parents in the kitchen for breakfast. My father offers me a curt nod, my mother is too engrossed in her work to notice my appearance.

I grab a bowl from the pantry, spooning myself a large helping of steaming porridge. Once I've scarfed down my food, I wait patiently for my parents to reemerge from the depths of their work.

I know I should be feeling nervous, but I've saved most of my anxiety for Mister Williams. The odds of me being selected as tribute were lower than the odds of my client taking the blame for a crime he didn't commit.

After a few minutes, my father clears his throat, standing from his position in his recliner. He glances down at his ornate wrist watch. "Well son, I guess it's time to head out now." I nod in response, slipping on my dress shoes and propping the door open for my parents. They exit silently, most likely itching to get back to their respective projects.

I arrive at the square in under five minutes, going through the motions of registering myself and finding my designated section. As a man of few words, I also don't have many friends. People don't make fun of me, they simply ignore my existence.

I watch as the mayor finishes his speech, and Barnaby Luster takes the stage. As he reaches into the bowl, the population of District Five watches on with baited breath. Then a peacekeeper is climbing the stage and whispering into his ear. Barnaby's expression changes from surprise to curiosity.

Someone must have rubbed the Capitol the wrong way. "This year's female tribute will be Octavia de Martino!" Some time passes and Octavia fails to make an appearance. "Octavia? Can you please identify yourself honey?" A rough-looking girl melts from the crowd, trembling in fear.

"What's your name dear?" Barnabus puts an arm around her shoulders, which she shoves away from her in disgust. "You already know my name." The escort looks baffled. "Well- yes, but it's tradition to repeat it once you've taken the title of tribute-" "Fine, fine I'm Octavia de Martino. You happy?" The crowd gasps at her boldness. She must have a death wish.

A peacekeeper restores order moments later by firing his rifle into the air. This shuts the crowd up. Barnabus shoots the peacekeeper a grateful smile, before he continues announcing the male tribute.

"Yaroslav Agafon. Did I say that right?" My heart beats rapidly in my chest as I hear the sound of my name. I'm used to hearing it spoken out loud in the courtroom, but my life isn't in danger. I compose myself, mounting the stage in a dignified nature.

All I can hope is that Mister Williams wins his case, because I sure won't be home to witness the outcome.

A/N There is District Five. I'd like to thank each of you for being patient during my sudden period of absence. I'm not really sure what overcame me this past week, but I've crossed the bridge. Well, what do you think about Octavia and Yaroslav? Give DrRedneck and Gomex a hearty pat on the back for their D5F and D5M contributions. As always, thanks for reading!

Character descriptions:

Octavia: Appearance: Octavia is both short and rather lithe, not possessing much muscle or strength. Her skin is rather swarthy, indicative of her Italian heritage, and her hair is a deep brown color, hanging only shoulder length but very thickly. Her hair often has a manic sort of appearance, being thrown about, and she never takes the time to fix it in order to achieve a neater appearance.

Height: 5'0"

Weight: 95lbs

Yaroslav: Physical Appearance (include height, general weight, and recognizable features): Yaroslav has bright green eyes, dirty blonde hair, has light colored skin, and stands at 6"2.

-Archer