I am lost, trying to get found
In an ocean of people
Please don't ask me any questions
There won't be a valid answer
~ Grace VanderWaal
INTROS I
Kanaloa Cresswell, 18
District 4 Male
The hand that Kanaloa holds out is slick with sweat; there's a glistening sheen across his forehead, too, but he barely pays attention to it as Elise drops the coins onto his outstretched palm. The coins sparkle with starlight from the windows overhead, and Kanaloa quickly counts them.
She's been generous. But then again, Elise is a regular client, and she's always generous.
Regardless, he quenches the ripple of gratitude inside him with the knowledge that he's earned every penny of it; he's not making a living off the sympathy of others, but out of his own honed abilities. His performance tonight has left him breathing heavily, but the payment makes it worth it. That doesn't stop him as he angles his head upwards to meet her gaze, and pulls his lips into a flirtatious grin.
"Much appreciated," he drawls, as the coins disappear into the pockets of his skin-tight costume. He can see Elise's eyes tracing the edges of his outfit - which leaves nothing to the imagination - but doesn't feel self-conscious. Rather, he feels the familiar glow of satisfaction as he detects her admiration.
Her hand moves as if to feel him but, as smoothly as a willow tree, Kanaloa pulls away at the last moment.
He makes a light, clicking noise in the back of his throat as he interjects, "Hey, you know the rules, dear. No touching."
"I remember," she sighs, eyes bright with lust. Kanaloa smiles as he regards her from a distance. She's pretty: in her mid-thirties, and certainly much more appealing than some of the drunkards that like to hire him and his sister for a night of entertainment.
Still, the affection that he shows her is nothing more than an act; it's all a well-practiced facade. Her wealth makes her a valuable connection to draw on if he ever needs a favor, and that increases his own chances of survival.
In the end, that's all that matters to him.
Years of academy training will do that to someone: making them see everything in terms of how it can benefit them. To Kanaloa, the needs of him and his sister, Namaka, come before anything and anyone else. He's willing to flirt with, lie to and discard anyone, just to increase their own chances in life.
Does that make him selfish? Probably. But morals never helped anyone.
With a heavy breath as he continues to recover from the exertion of the dance, Kanaloa carefully makes his way to the other side of the hall, where Namaka is deep in conversation with another dancer that Elise must have hired for the night. He's seen her before, in earlier performances, at other houses. Samantha, the name bubbles up to the forefront of his mind.
He can still feel Elise's gaze burning into the back of his skull as he calls out.
"Hey, Namaka, can I pull you away for a second?"
His sister's blue eyes flash, like sunlight when it catches the surface of the sea, as she turns her head towards his voice. Kanaloa returns the mischievous smile she gives him. "Sure thing."
Her face is flushed with the same tiredness as him as they move towards a private corner where they won't be overheard, yet she moves with the same willowy grace instilled by years of academy training. Kanaloa recognizes this with a surge of pride that he quickly buries inside him.
"Who was that?" he asks her, thoughtfully.
"Who, Samantha?" Namaka shrugs, lazily. She isn't affected by his hard stare as she adds, "A dancer, just like us. She was just telling me that her sister's gotten into the business. Asking me to look out for her if I ever see her around in future gigs, you know?"
"You know that there's no room for us to look out for anyone, except for family." Kanaloa probes.
"No need to remind me of that," Namaka shoots back, and Kanaloa concedes by twitching his lips, as he's reminded of Namaka's feisty attitude. He knows his sister well enough to know that she doesn't trust anyone, other than him.
He should have known better than to doubt her. Whilst talking to Samantha, his sister was probably making mental notes of the other woman's ticks and assessing whether or not she might be useful in the future.
When it comes to cold analysis, Kanaloa acknowledges that his sister is even more callous than him.
"...
"Look." He rapidly changes the subject, pulling out the gold coins to show her their payment for the night. Namaka eyes them hungrily, before looking back up at him.
"What are you going to do with them?"
Kanaloa shrugs, "I haven't decided yet. I'll probably use most of it to buy some fresh goods at the fish market tomorrow. Rydia could use the supplies."
"Sounds good," says Namaka, and Kanaloa nods. Rydia isn't their mother - she's their older sister - but she practically raised the twins, as well as all their younger siblings. Although the two have sworn not to trust anyone outside of each other, they both make an exception for family.
After all, both them and every single one of their siblings are just products of their mother's lifestyle, selling her body for money, and getting pregnant over and over again as a result.
To their knowledge, Namaka and Kanaloa are the only two who share the same father due to being twins, and they don't even know who their father is. Nor do they care. For all they know, they could share blood with one of the dozens of drunken men who have money to spare - who hire them to dance in front of them for a night.
It doesn't matter, and Kanaloa doesn't lose sleep over it.
"I saw Cascata yesterday," he mentions, offhandedly.
Namaka's eyes harden into razor-sharp chips of ice at the mention of her aunt's name. "That bitch isn't getting anything from us." She spits, savagely.
"I know." Kanaloa replies, feel the same bitter stab of resentment towards the women who spent years dangling the promise of adoption in front of them - the promise of an easy life, of a warm fire and a full belly - only for those hollow words to never amount to anything. In the end, all she did was plant seeds of cold hatred in Namaka. When they were young, Kanaloa tried to shield the truth from his sister, but nowadays, he knows better than to belittle her by even trying.
Sometimes, he can see the yearning for a better life choking Namaka, like a noose wrapped around her neck. He knows she would rather die than admit such a weakness, but also knows that such desires have a far stronger hold on her than they do on him.
He shakes his head, clearing a mind that's addled with exhaustion.
"I need to get some sleep," he announces, "I'll see you back at Rydia's house."
"Will you be at the academy tomorrow morning?" Namaka asks, carding a hand through her tightly tied-up hair.
"I might take a day off."
"Well, I will be." She states, indifferently.
Namaka can't help the easy laugh that pulls itself free from his throat.
"Fair enough." He says.
Namaka Cresswell, 18
District 4 Female
Namaka's throwing spears hit the human-shaped targets with the force of waves breaking on the shores. They fly straight, through air painted with soft morning hues, lodging deep into the cardboard throats of the cutouts, one after another.
As soon as the pile of spears on the floor by her side has been used up, she strides over to the targets and begins to yank the shafts free, with single, violent movements that are each accompanied by a sharp intake of breath.
The walls enclosing the academy cast long shadows over the courtyard. Namaka can smell the sea breeze wafting in, and she allows herself a moment to savour it. Her body feel light with morning energy, without a trace of the exhaustion that had enveloped her the night before. Thankfully, she had managed to hide it, right up until the moment she had collapsed into her bed at Rydia's house and been swallowed instantly by sleep.
She relishes the feeling of control over her own body. It always obeys her, and she trusts it completely; in a way that she can't trust anyone - or anything - else, other than Kanaloa.
With the graceful ease that comes from her experience as a dancer, she returns back to where she started, with the bundle of spears between her arm. Dropping it to the floor, she starts again with the first one from the pile. This time around, she aims for the heart on the cutout - or at least, where the heart would be if the speartips were slicing through flesh, instead of cardboard.
Her aim, as always, is steady, but Namaka's mind is barely on it. Instead, it's running through the list of medicinal herbs and their uses that her trainer has instructed her to memorize by next week.
Her skill with anything that can be thrown has never been questioned. Namaka can throw knives, spears and even tridents with the confident, triumphant assurance that she never misses.
Her survival skills - or rather, her lack of them - are a weakness that she resents.
Suddenly, Namaka's thoughts are interrupted by a voice, thrown across the courtyard.
"Don't worry, Namaka, I think you've killed them."
It's Coventina. Spinning around on the ball of one foot, Namaka recognizes the woman she regularly trains with, who is currently angling her head towards the impaled cut-outs. On instinct, Namaka morphs her sharp features into a coy smile; becoming the paragon of modesty when, in reality, the word 'modesty' does not, and will never, apply to her.
And she knows this.
She makes a vague noise of affirmation as Coventina approaches. She's known her for a long time, yet still, she watches Coventina's every move as she approaches. Force of habit. One day, it might keep her alive. It's that same logic that makes her cast her eye over the other woman, taking in every detail: from her tied-up hair, which is the color of golden bread fresh out of the oven, to how she walks, just in case it might hint towards a hidden injury that Namaka could exploit.
As she assesses Coventina, she's also aware that Coventina is expecting a reply. Namaka doesn't give it to her. Quite honestly, she doesn't see the point.
Instead, she chooses to dart towards the weapons racks against one of the walls and grabs two mock training swords, making her intentions clear to the other woman as she does so. Turning around, she throws one of them towards Coventina, who catches it without blinking.
Career instincts. At eighteen, Coventina is two years older than Namaka. Like Namaka, she's been training here for longer than she can remember. Were it not for the twist she probably would have had a good shot at the Games. Unfortunately, Conventina is also an only child, which rules her out this year.
District 4 has given up on any organized volunteering this year.
Instead, for the first time in decades, the higher-ups at the academy have left it down to the reaping bowl to decide the siblings who will risk their lives for fame and glory in the arena.
Were it not for the twist, Kanaloa would have volunteered as the male this year. He would have had the chance to lift their family out of poverty. At that thought, Namaka feels the same throb of blistering irritation that she's been experiencing ever since the twist was announced.
Another year of selling herself out, just to fucking survive, she thinks, bitterly.
Next year, she'll try for the games herself. She has to. The thought of spending the rest of her life like this brings an acidic taste to her mouth, and it just generally makes her feel sick. Her current lifestyle was always meant to be a temporary means of getting by, whilst she prepared for the year where she'd prove herself.
But not this year. She and Kanaloa have agreed that they don't want to go into the area together.
Next year.
The resolve inside her is as hard as the rocks that wash up on the shore of the beaches of District 4.
"..."
Namaka shrugs off her jacket as she prepares to spar with Coventina, sending a sly smile towards the other woman as she removes the layer of clothing. She's so used to feeling the probing stares of other people tracing her curves that the concept of being self-conscious about her body is a foreign concept to her.
She takes a deep breath as she tosses her jacket to the side, before turning back to Coventina, who's already assumed a defensive position. An unspoken agreement passes between the two women, and they begin.
Their swords move in a wooden blur. The impacts resonate through Namaka's body, but she incorporates every shudder into her next movements, dancing around the other blade like a stream of water over smooth pebbles.
Mentally, she scolds herself at every slip-up. Her lips form a tight line of concentration as she fights.
But in the end, all it takes is one mistake.
Her sword flies out of her hand as Coventina's blade slams into Namaka's hilt, and a hiss of pure annoyance escapes Namaka as she finds Coventina's blade aimed at her throat. She raises her hand in reluctant surrender if just to end the horrible feeling of helplessness that accompanies the blade at her throat.
Anger bubbles in her chest, and she fights to keep it down.
She'll get better at this. She has to.
"..."
Next year, she'll be ready.
Ixora Faye, 18
District 7 Female
Ixora Faye wakes up disoriented. That's the only way to put it.
That said, she also wakes up feeling like she's floating on clouds; the sense of warmth and security engulfing her chases any alarm from her fuzzy mind as she shakes off the fog of sleep, and begins trying to figure out where she is.
She finds herself lying on a couch, and breathes in the scent of pine cones and dust that she can smell clinging to her clothes. It's not much of a hint, as it's the same combination of smells that coat half the surfaces in District 7. For a fleeting moment, her eyes scour the room around her, hazel in the flickering candlelight, but it's too dark to make out much. Regardless, the vague shape of the room seems familiar but pinpointing why exactly is as hard as trying to catch leaf mid-fall. Frustration gnaws at Ixora as she tries to recall her most recent memories.
Her memory is a blur. With a jolt of raw panic, she wonders if she's given in to her old morphine addiction.
No - she reassures herself, quickly. It feels different. Less nauseating. She would recognize the bone-shattering feeling of exhaustion that always came after if that was the reason. Besides, she's sworn never to touch that vile substance again; even the memory of the lows that she had once sunk to causes bile to rise up in Ixora's throat.
She forces herself to stay calm.
Thankfully, she doesn't have to wait long for answers about her situation.
The door opens opposite her, scattering beams of leaf-green tinted sunlight into the room. Ixora blinks, adjusting to the light, but when she opens them again - like the rising sun - her face breaks into a smile as she recognizes the tousled hair of her boyfriend, Perry.
Of course, she should have recognized the house of her boyfriend's family earlier. She wonders how she ended up here, but doesn't question it. Perry's presence is like a drug: she immediately feels- knows that she'll always be safe around him.
He practically saved her during the darkest years of her life, and he's never let her down since. She has no reason to doubt him, nor question if he has the same feelings for her that she has for him.
She knows he does. And for her, whose childhood has been defined by self-doubt and by her questioning her own reality, assuming that practically everyone hated her: that means something. As she contemplates this, she senses Perry crossing the space between them with haste, having noticed that she's woken up. She glances upwards to meet his eyes, which are wide with relief as the words gush out of him, "Ixi, you're awake!"
A soft laugh escapes her at the use of the nickname, and she's quick to reassure him, "I'm fine. I feel great, actually."
"That's... good." Perry murmurs, carding a hand through his hair. His soft tone betrays the fact that he's been worried about her. Ixora's skin prickles with guilt, but she can't offer an explanation when she doesn't have the answers to formulate one.
She bites back the questions bubbling up on her tongue because otherwise, they'd all come out at once in an incoherent, overwhelming flood. She knows this all too well from the first few times she tried to open up about how she felt to her parents. Also, she knows it from the tear-filled, rambling explanation she'd given her brother when he'd discovered her diary, all those years ago.
She shakes her head, wishing that the ghosts of her past didn't haunt her as much as they do.
Instead, she starts simple, just like her parents have taught her.
"What time is it?"
"Just past noon, I think," Perry replies.
"How long have I been... here?"
"A couple of hours." Her boyfriend replies, steadily, before adding, "Holland found you sleeping near the forest's edge. He thought you'd been up since early this morning, and must have fallen asleep. He had to go to school, so he brought you here. He was worried about bears, and... the other animals that roam the forest."
The mention of her brother's name, despite the circumstances, brings a nostalgic smile to Ixora's face. Given how much he looks out for her, she thinks someone could easily mistake him for the older sibling, instead of her.
She feels bad for giving him so many reasons to worry about her when she has eyes and can see that he has enough problems of his own to deal with.
Still, her heart swells with gratitude.
"Thank him for me... please."
"I already did," Perry replies, a smile dancing across his face. It fades - and Ixora's head swirls with apprehension - as he adds, "He wondered if you couldn't sleep. What with the Games approaching, and all."
Ixora blanches, as a tidal wave of memories hits her.
When she was fourteen, she had intricately planned out how she would volunteer. Bullied at school, and feeling like her life had no purpose, she had resigned herself to death. The games had seemed like the easiest opportunity to end her life. Trapped in the void of her own bleakness, isolated and without a reason to live, she had written it all down in her diary, as if trying to give herself the bravery to actually carry her desperate plan out.
Holland had found it, and read it. He had saved her life by talking her out of it, and she'll never be able to repay him for that.
She knows she should be the big sister that he deserves, but sometimes it feels like she's still trying to hold it all together. Perry's love for her, and Holland's dependence on her, are all the reasons to keep on living that she'll ever need.
But the Games still serve as a bitter reminder of her past, and she can't help the familiar throb of terror whenever she hears about the kids dying in them and thinks about how close she came to being one of them.
"What were you doing by the forest, anyway?" Perry asks her. Ixora instinctively looks down at her hands. She doesn't know why until she catches a glimpse of the stains on her fingers as the candlelight dances around them. It's a kaleidoscope of reds and greens and browns marring her skin, but she recognizes them all the same. Paint-stains. The edges of her lip twitch, and she takes a moment to admire the mixture of colors against her skin before replying.
"I think I was painting the sunrise."
Perry lets out a low, good-humored chuckle, as he takes in her explanation.
"Was it... a nice sunrise?" He says, wistfully.
His easy acceptance warms her spirit, driving her to pull herself to her feet as she grins, "It was lovely." She pauses, before saying, more seriously, "That said, I should get back home. I don't want to worry Holland."
"Good idea."
As she moves towards the open door, Perry pulls her into a hug. Ixora's eyes widen with surprise, but she leans into his touch, letting all her worries melt away.
"I love you." She whispers, in a voice that bleeds raw with adoration.
He echoes her emotion exactly as he murmurs into her ear, "I love you too. Be safe."
I will. Ixora silently promises.
Holland Faye, 16
District 7 Male
Holland flushes as he slides onto the bench of one of the tables outside the school; his school bag chafes at his shoulders, and the heat from the midday sun glares down at him. Elowen is already there, perched on the edge of the bench like she's ready to run off. Holland isn't fazed.
Instead, he feels a pulse of excitement pulse through once more as he recalls why, exactly, his bag is so heavy.
The rest of his classmates mill around as they wait for class to start; Holland tunes them out. Sometimes, he can't. Sometimes he can't help but watch them, and feel his heart start to go all race-y as he experiences the bitter familiarity of attraction well up inside him. He's learned to manage it better, but the knowledge that most of the boys would bully him if they saw his gaze lingering on them still burrows uncomfortably into his bones if he lets it.
Not today. Today, he refuses to waste thoughts on anything other than being happy for Elowen.
It's not every day someone turns sixteen, after all, and someone has to make a big deal out of it if she won't.
"Psst, Elowen!"
"...Huh?" She turns her bleary eyes towards him.
"Look." Holland is rummaging through his bag as he speaks, wincing as the splinters on his fingers catch against the edges of his pack and send pain signals to his brain.
He should be able to ignore them. Other boys his age seem to have no trouble tolerating splinters, but Holland is forced to bite his lip to try and drown out the throbbing. Threads of self-consciousness tug at him, deep inside, but he shakes them away. Outwardly, he exudes his normal confidence.
He immediately forgets them, though, as he pulls out the wooden sculpture from his bag, with a glow of triumph radiating out from him as he does so. He's spent days on this, under the watchful gaze of his mother. Carving is his mother's true passion, and Holland could spend hours just watching her. He adores the way that all her troubles seem to vanish when she's working on a project. In those fleeting moments, when she has a cutting knife in one hand and is steadying the sculpture with the other, she becomes a completely different person to the one that spends her days fretting over Holland's older sister.
Holland longs to be like her when he grows up. He doesn't have her quick fingers, or eye for it, just yet, but one day, he will. The beauty of the finished products will make it all worth it.
His father expects him to work at the flooring factory. But Holland knows he doesn't have the attention span. Even the thoughts of the repetive monotony of such a job makes him feel sleepy. Furthermore, he doesn't have the strength. The grunt of effort that escapes him as he pulls the wooden figure out of his bag is a harsh reminder of that.
His own sculpture is small, in the shape of a bare-leafed tree. Some of the wooden branches have rough, chipped edges, and the base wobbles slightly as he sets it down on the table, but Holland pays no attention to its flaws. It's the first time he's finished a project in his mother's workshop and his entire body glows with pride.
Elowen's eyes widen.
"That's... beautiful. Did you make it?" She asks.
"Yup." Holland grins."
"You... you didn't have to." She stumbles.
"It's not every day you turn sixteen." Holland replies, confidently, "You deserve it for being such a great friend, anyways."
Elowen stares at him for a moment, before suddenly grabbing her own bag from where it's been sitting next to her. Holland's stomach twists with confusion as she thrusts her hand in, clearly looking for something. Her eyes narrow with concentration in the process.
"Here."
She pulls back up, and hands something to him; a crumpled magazine. On the cover, there's a Capitol model, posing for the camera. Holland stares at in awe.
The Capitol fascinates him, in a way that he can't explain. The outrageous fashion and daring new trends inspire and captivate him. Most people judge him for it. Ixora stays quiet, but her own revulsion at anything Games-related, including the Capitol, means she avoids the topic as much as humanely possible.
Holland is the opposite - he yearns to consume as much Capitol-related content as he can.
Although the actual Games disgust him, he's always been drawn to the Chariot rides, and interview stages of them, drawn to the bright costumes and glamour like a moth to the flame. He plays back those parts on their family's glitchy television every year, wishing he had the materials to recreate some of the designs that get shown off. He's tried carving them into wood, but the effect isn't the same.
He shakes his head, pulling himself back to the present.
"Where did you get this?" Holland asks, star-stuck.
"Some ambassador from the Capitol gave it to my father after a meeting." Elowen replies, quietly, "I thought you'd find it more interesting than I would."
Elowen's father works in the Justice Building of District 7, and sees the few and far-between Capitolites who come to check on their District. A pang of envy shoots through Holland before he can stop it.
He wishes he could meet someone from the Capitol, one day.
He swallows, thickly.
"I will... thank you so much!"
Impulsively, he glances back down again at the bright cover, beaming from ear to ear as he does so.
"..."
He knows what he'll be doing tonight.
So, those are the first two sets of siblings. A huge thanks to Golden Moon Huntress for submitting Kanaloa and Namaka, and to ladyqueerfoot for submitting Holland and Ixora. I'm going to stick with this format of two Districts per chapter for all of the intros going forward. As always, I'd love to know what you think of the first four tributes, since I really enjoyed writing them, and I'm already making up story arcs and plans for many of the tributes that have been submitted.
There's also still a small number of submission slots open as well, just in case you want to fill them and haven't entered a pair yet. I'm hoping to complete the next set of intros in the next week or so, so stay tuned for that as well.
~Carnival