Elias "Smiles" Cuthrow, District Eleven male (18)

The air in the dimly-lit room was warm from the poorly-groomed crowd on rickety benches all along the walls. Their movement jostled the ropes partitioning off the fighting ring from the stands, the single naked bulb overhead swinging back and forth and casting erratic shadows. The threadbare mat under my feet gave slightly as I leaned back on my feet to settle into a proper fighting stance. As I breathed deeply, already winded from the first half of the fight, the smell of dirt and sweat swirled around me, along with my favorite scent: blood.

Some people thought I was a psycho. It was an image I was happy to cultivate, since my profession ran off fear as much as action, but truthfully I didn't do what I did because of some twisted lust for power or cruelty. I just liked violence, simple as that. Not sadism, not control, not destroying someone's life. I just liked the blood and guts and bruises and broken bones. In my defense, I could take it as well as I could dish it out. I never felt more exhilarated than when I tasted my own blood on my teeth. People tell me that those who live by the sword die by the sword. It always makes me laugh, because that's the part I'm looking forward to.

The man I was fighting was taller than I was. He was leanly toned and light on his feet as we jabbed at each other. The main advantage I had was sheer experience. I'd fought a hundred times over the years and most of the fights were for keeps. A hit man's record is all-or-nothing. If I'd ever lost a fight before then I wouldn't be fighting now. The scar on my neck- the "smile" that got me my nickname, though I did consider myself a pretty jovial person- attested to that. I had dozens of similar scars across my body and face, the most notable being the sightless eye my opponents always tried to use to their advantage. I'd learned to live with one eye, but no matter how much I adapted, it would always be a weakness. That was just part of life.

Some of the best parts of fights were when the other guy and I were dancing around each other, looking for a place to strike. I loved the sizzling promise in the air- the imminence of the carnage about to occur. It was the same heady rush I got when I was on a contract and I knew it was almost certain that my employer's enemy had his own agents and they were gunning for me at the same time I was gunning for them. The money was nice and all- I had plenty of long-term plans I was using it for- but I liked the chase as much as I liked the payment. I'd kill anyone. Anyone but kids, anyway- I wasn't a bad person. I'd kill anyone and I even got paid for it! What a world to live in.

My opponent's head snapped backwards as my fist caught him under the chin. I whooped and let out a cackle as the umpire counted to two before the fallen fighter scrambled back to his feet. In fact, he came up so fast his next strike caught me entirely by surprise and I found myself on my back staring up at the still-swinging light bulb, my head buzzing. There was a delicious pain in my cheek where his fist had landed.

I savored the pain for a second before I rose. I giggled as I raised my fists back up for more. My opponent took a step back unintentionally, his face going uncertain at the sight of my apparent enjoyment at my own pain. He clearly thought he must have been mistaken but he was entirely correct. Violence was just as sweet when it was done to me as it was when I did it to someone else. The best part about my job was that I didn't even care who won the fight. I was having a great time either way. Another thing people say- do something you love and you'll never work a day in your life.

Isabella Disney-Busattil, District Eleven female (18)

A lot of people in Panem never went farther than twenty miles from their houses in their lives. I'd been to both sides of the nation and every day I appreciated how fortunate I was. I knew Panem was a terrible place for most people- my mother had a few stories and my father had a thousand- but at the same time I didn't think it was wrong to be thankful for all the gifts I'd received in my life. Even today I was just about to get on a train again, something almost nobody outside of District Six ever did. People from any other District stayed in their towns and lived their predetermined lives. But I wasn't from any District. I was from two of them.

Anders and I joked around with each other as we waited for the train to come in. It was one of the bigger sadnesses in my life that the mere fact of our births made such a difference in our upbringings. While we both lived an almost nomadic life due to our parents both being Victors, legally we were from different Districts. Since our father won first, I was assigned to District Eleven. Anders came two years later and was assigned to Four, our mother's District. At first it didn't matter too much but then he started training. Mom and Dad trained us both, since they quite fairly worried that the double-Victor children might "happen" to be Reaped, but I'd only ever gone along as a backup plan. Anders took to it like a duck to water and he'd been spending a lot more time in Four lately, with their greater resources for volunteers. We hadn't seen each other much in the last few weeks and we wouldn't see each other again once I left until after the Reaping. That was why Mom was so weepy, though she kept saying it was just a cold and of course she wasn't worried at all.

"Call me once you get home, okay?" Mom asked, lightly touching my sleeve like she was checking that I was still real.

"Okay," I said. Of course it didn't really matter. Mom wasn't actually afraid something would happen on the train. What we were all afraid of would come after it dropped me off in Eleven. It was just that there was nothing Mom could do about that and she was clutching onto anything she could do to feel like she had some control over anything. Mom couldn't stop me from getting Reaped but she could call and make sure the train didn't crash. Her eyes filled up again and I pretended not to notice so she didn't think she was scaring me.

"Are they still trying to get you to volunteer?" I asked Anders, turning away so Mom could wipe her eyes sneakily. Of course everyone wanted to see the much-discussed Victor kids in the Games. I'd weaseled out of it for this long and I just had to make it one single more year. Anders actually enjoyed martial arts, unlike me, and Mom and Dad had been nervous for a while that he might volunteer. Yes, even Dad was nervous. Luckily for all of us, some of the instructors at the Academy had started leaning on Anders and trying to strong-arm him into volunteering. The best way to get my brother not to do something was to tell him he had to do it.

Anders rolled his eyes. "They're so annoying. I'll volunteer if I want to. Not because they tell me to."

"Good," I said. "I was worried you might be thinking about it."

Anders looked at me with traces of fear that made me squirm and wish we could talk about something else. I hated it when my baby brother looked scared. But this had to be said, and I forced myself to see it through.

"Not this year," Anders said. Just in case, we both heard what went unsaid.

"Promise?" I asked.

"Promise," Anders said.

A shrieking train whistle took all of us by surprise. I jumped, Anders wrinkled his nose, and Mom whirled around and put up her hands, scaring the lady behind her half to death. The doors opened with a whoosh and my stomach fell. That quickly? I'd forgotten how fast trains come... and leave.

Mom didn't so much hug me as she clung to me. I felt like I was a little baby and it was the first time she'd held me, all unsure and afraid she'd drop me.

"Last time," I said cheerfully as I stepped into the doorway of the train car. I gave a careless wave, though I was really far less careless and cheerful than I was trying to look. Mom huddled next to Anders, clenching his hand in hers as her face twitched.

The door closed behind me, cutting me off from Mom and Anders in an instant and long before I was ready. Usually I went straight to the observation car so I could look out the window, but this time I stayed by the door as the train swayed and started to move. I'd always had such a charmed and happy life, all the way up until now. It was unsettling to face the truth that after all these years I was at the biggest crossroads I would ever face. In a few more days I'd find out if all these privileges were a gift... or a loan.

Elias: Elias is very young but he still has a weathered look. He as a scar over one eye. He's fit and muscular — but not buff — at 5'11 with short but messy reddish-blond hair.

Isabella: Isabella is mixed race. She has short, curly brown hair but she usually wears weaves. She cycles through many different lengths, styles and colours. She is very pretty, the type of person that could pull off any look. She is very tall, standing at 6ft 3 and has a muscular build (not just toned).