Chiffon Shivaan, 18.
District 1 Male.


Chiffon reached out a hand, his long white sleeves fluttering around his wrists as his fingers stretched towards the hand waiting for him. He braced himself, using his grip on Pomela's hand to pull himself onto the roof above. As his feet hit the roof, Chiffon gracefully straightened up, brushing himself off as he turned to his friend who stood nearby.

"Not a bad view, is it?" Chiffon asked as he swung the bag he was holding off his shoulder, placing it on the ground before him. He couldn't help but be impressed by such a view himself, even though he'd seen it hundreds of times. The skyscrapers and buildings of District 1 stretched out far in front of them, neon lights shining brightly in the dark of night. If he could, he'd paint it on a canvas, hang it up in his room to look at. But that was just the problem: stars were not meant to be hung on a wall, captured by a canvas.

"It's nice, yeah, but is it worth skipping a party that was thrown for you?" Pomela replied, sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over the edge.

"'Course it was worth it, I do what the fuck I want," Chiffon replied, digging through his bag looking for the things he wanted. "If that means skipping out on a party thrown for me to have fun on my last night here, then so be it."

"This is what you call fun?" Pomela chuckled. In fact, it was what Chiffon did for fun, as his most recent passion was graffiti. He was quite fond of it, and although he may not have been objectively the best at graffiti, in his mind there was no better art form. Chiffon knew that his parents never approved of his chosen performance art, especially not when compared to his brother Tulle's proficiency in more traditional art forms. Vandalism wasn't exactly something his parents approved of, it wasn't the fine art they'd wanted him to be proficient in (not to mention that it was illegal), but Chiffon couldn't bring himself to care. He'd never been caught - and he never would be - and in his opinion, the fun outweighed everything else.

"Of course it's fun. Why else would I go dragging you up here?" Chiffon replied, shooting a grin towards his best friend as he wrapped one hand around the can of spray paint he'd been looking for and the other around a bottle of champagne which he'd nabbed from the party before they'd left.

"I don't know, because you can't go more than five minutes without needing to talk to someone," Pomela reached out, taking the bottle of alcohol he offered her. "Where'd you get this from? It looks expensive."

"That is not true! And I stole it from the party. I doubt they'd miss it anyways."

"Yeah, you think that, buddy," Pomela responded, cracking the bottle open unceremoniously. Chiffon turned to the nearby brick wall, half covered in a mural he'd been working on for weeks by that point. He'd hoped to have finished it before he had to leave, but that would not be the case. But it wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. Chiffon had all the confidence he'd be back within a few weeks to finish the twisting, swirling, interconnected mural he was oh so proud of.

The pair lapsed into silence- well, about as much silence as you could get in a place as busy as District 1. There was always some sort of noise being made, whether it be the clattering of the street cars running throughout the city at all hours of the day, the hum of the street lamps, or music coming from distant clubs. This, accompanied by the familiar sound of spray paint hitting the wall and the acidic smell which was so familiar, combined into a symphony of comfort and familiarness. The kind of familiarity that kept him company, kept him busy no matter what. Tomorrow it would not be there; tomorrow Chiffon would be on a train heading to the Capitol. It was what, despite his parents' protests, he'd been training for for six years. He was ready, more than ready; Chiffon knew for a fact that he was.

He would be returning from those Games alive. There was no doubt about it.

Stepping back, Chiffon looked at the newest addition to the half painted wall. It was a large cluster of interlocking circles, looking like nothing in particular. But regardless of what it may or may not look like, Chiffon was happy with it. He spun around on his heel to say something to Pomela when he realized there was something strange about the atmosphere. The look on Pomela's face said it all as he moved to peer over the edge of the building.

"Are those Peacekeepers?" Pomela asked, her words slurring ever so slightly. They were indeed Peacekeepers, guns in hand, their shining white armor practically glowing, contrasting against the warm haze of light cast by the streetlamps. Ever since the citizens of District 2 had taken refuge in their District, the Peacekeepers had been patrolling even more, buckling down to keep the restlessness to a minimum.

"Yeah they are. C'mon, let's get the hell out of here before they see us," Chiffon replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he took Pomela by the hand. The pair took off to the back of the building, soon finding themselves on the old creaky fire escape. Chiffon kept a tight hold on his friends hand as they quickly descended, eventually reaching the alleyway just a few stories below. They continued running through the alleyway until they hit a nearby street which was all but empty and deserted, not a single soul in sight.

"You're an idiot, you know that? What if we got caught." Pomela said as their pace slowed to a walk. Chiffon dropped her hand as he burst out into loud, echoing laughter.

"You think we would've gotten caught? With me there? Have a little faith. I've never been caught," Chiffon replied. laughing between his words. It was, frankly, ridiculous. There was no way somebody like him would ever be caught; he was far too smart, far too athletic. There was a reason he was chosen as the designated volunteer this year.

"Yeah, yeah, let's just go home. It's late."

"So? Tomorrow is reaping day. We get to sleep in anyways."

"I know, but I still want to go practice at the studio before the reapings. Do you wanna come with me?"

"Of course, Pom, I wouldn't miss it for the world," Chiffon said, ruffling his friend's hair as they walked, shoulders brushing together with each step. If there was one thing he would miss from home, it would be Pomela. They'd been friends for years, longer than he could remember, having lived in the same apartment building for all their lives. It would be strange without her by his side. But he had faith he would make more friends along the way. It was in his nature after all; he couldn't help but attract people in droves, whether it be for his looks, his personality, or a combination of both.

The pair continued walking, making idle chatter about whatever it was that friends made idle chatter about. When they arrived at their building, Chiffon dropped Pomela off at her door, parting with promises to meet up at their usual place the next morning so Pomela could squeeze one last dance practice in with Chiffon as her cheerleader before he left.

And so would come the part of the night Chiffon was much less excited about. Returning home was like a roulette, like spinning a wheel to see if any of his family members would accost him or if he would be able to escape to his room without running into anyone. Would he be facing his parents, their inherent disappointment and detestment for his lack of traditional artistic skill? Or his brother, the only person he could ever truly say he was jealous of, the golden child who had hogged all of their parents attention away from him? Or maybe all three of them, if he was particularly unlucky.

Pushing the door open to the apartment, Chiffon could tell he was in for an interesting night. The lights in the entryway were still on, and as he crept through the halls towards the kitchen, he could hear the familiar sound of his brother's music playing quietly through the walls of their home. If Tulle's music was on, it meant he was doing something of "importance" (although as far as Chiffon was concerned, his art was everything but important). But at the very least it meant he wouldn't be seeing his brother that night.

But he would not be so lucky; as Chiffon approached his parents' workspace, the door was open with light spilling from inside the room. He softly padded by, casting a curious glance through the doorway as he moved past. Inside was his father, hunched over at his desk, paintbrush in hand. He looked up at Chiffon as he walked by, as if some sort of sixth sense had alerted him to his son's presence. Their eyes met briefly, a look of dejection crossing his fathers face before he turned back to what he was working on.

Chiffon was nothing but a disappointment to his parents. He'd grown up to be nothing that they wanted him to be, and everything that they didn't want him to be. But Chiffon didn't owe them anything. He would prove himself in the Games, not to them, but to himself.

As soon as he was done with these Games, he'd never need the approval of his family again. All Chiffon Shivaan ever needed was himself and this was his time to shine brighter than all of District One.


Mystic Hanemann, 18.
District 1 Female


Mystic gripped the controls of the machine before her, the gloves which covered her hands slipping on the smooth plastic. She squinted up at the screen in front of her, hitting the button which prompted the machine to start the game. The screen blinked and the menu faded away, revealing a new screen. Small obstacles popped up, in the shape of trees and rocks, dotting the 8-bit landscape. A small sprite which Mystic knew to be her materialized at the bottom of the screen, emulating what she thought to be a Peacekeeper. Finally, a few trains appeared amongst the obstacles near the top, moving haphazardly around, winding between rocks and trees. She took aim, navigating the small sprite back and forth and pressing another button to shoot at the trains. Her shots consistently hit their targets, breaking the trains up into smaller groups until they had all been wiped from the screen.

"One down," Mystic mumbled to herself as the second level loaded up. The first level was never all that hard, but then again, Mystic Hanemann was the best in the district at this game. Unbeatable in fact, just as what was expected of a Hanemann. Absolute perfection.

The second level soon loaded, the colours of the obstacles different from the first, the neon pinks and green having turned to purples and blues. The obstacles were more tightly packed, harder to shoot between, but Mystic knew she'd ace it regardless. The same trains appeared, but larger, and there were three of them instead of two. Mystic once again took them out with ease, clearing the level almost as quickly as it loaded. She continued to dominate level after level, each shot just as calculated and perfect as she.

Everything was going to plan until the sixth level presented itself. This was where it usually started to get harder, as enemies were introduced, coming after her little Peacekeeper sprite. She managed to clear the sixth level, narrowly escaping with all three of her lives. She advanced onto the seventh, which she did lose a life on, but she didn't worry. Mystic never needed to, as she knew she could rely on her skill. She'd always been more of a doer than a learner. She couldn't sit still and listen and have somebody tell her what to do; no, she had to get up and do it herself. After all, if you wanted something done right, most often you had to do it yourself, and Mystic was certainly not averse to getting her hands dirty if it came down to it. She had been chosen as the designated volunteer, alongside the Shivaan boy, for a reason.

The eighth level was passed with ease, and she moved onto the ninth one. She lost another life here, and her tight grip only grew tighter with each moment. One more level, one more life. As Mystic rolled the tenseness out of her neck, the tenth and final level loaded. It was complete and utter chaos, nearly impossible to track, but she was trained for this: trained to keep calm in the face of complete and utter pandemonium. If she could apply that training to this situation, then that was for the better.

But the final level proved to be too hard for even Mystic. Halfway through the level she was taken out, the game over screen blinking in a painful shade of red.

"Come on!" Mystic grumbled, releasing her grip on the controls and shaking out her hands. She took a moment to compose herself, watching as the leaderboard presented itself to her. Thankfully, she was still on top, and by a very large margin at that.

"You aren't gonna win the Games if you play like that," Ferd called from the wall nearby where he'd been watching her play.

"What, you don't have any faith in me?" Mystic shot back, arching an eyebrow in disdain.

"No, I have complete faith in you. You just don't get redoes in there."

"I won't fail in the Arena, Fern."

"I know, I know, but you know how I feel about you going in there in the first place."

"I'm aware of where you stand on the matter. There's no need to remind me," Mystic sighed as the two made their way out the doors of the arcade. Mystic and Ferd had been friends all their lives, pushed together by their parents as they both held a great deal of power - or, more accurately, their parents' families did. Mystic's family built up companies and businesses and invested in several large corporations, just to sell them off and live in comfort for the rest of their lives. Ferdinand's family ran one of the companies they'd invested deeply in, and so it was in their best interest to get along. Mystic had always felt the need to compare herself to the other boy, to compete with him even though she didn't need to. Mystic felt she had to push herself to be better than Ferd, to be better than everyone else around her, whether it be because of her parents expecting nothing but the best from her, or because she expected nothing but the best from herself.

Mystic had to be perfect. No, she was perfect. There was no doubt in her mind that she wasn't.

"Alright, alright, if you insist. You know I'm always more than willing to share my opinion," Ferd said as they turned off the stairs onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, the Academy was only a few blocks away from the arcade, which is why she was able to visit it so frequently.

"I know, you like to share them even when they aren't relevant," Mystic replied. She pulled her stark white jacket around her tighter, the spring air warmer than winter but just as fierce, threatening to pull her hair from its braided crown. The two lapsed into silence, only the sound of the whistling wind filling the air, covering the nearly awkward silence.

As they rounded a corner, the Training Academy came into sight. Mystic could well remember the first time she'd laid eyes on the large, overly grandiose building. She'd been a kid, no older than five or six, out in the town with her parents. At the time, she had no desire to train or to become a victor; no, she was set to become her parents' successor, smarter and better than they ever were or ever would be. But that all changed when she turned twelve That was when Mystic found out she was not an intentional child.

No, Mystic was an accident.

How could somebody perfect be a mistake from the start?

And so Mystic felt the need to prove herself. To prove to the universe, to whatever had put her there that she was not an accident. That she could be more than anyone else. That she could be a Victor.

That she was perfect after all.

"I'll see you after training," Mystic said, turning to Ferd and pushing those thoughts away. She couldn't afford to spend time on such grimy, dirty thoughts. They would not get her anywhere.

"Yeah, have fun," Ferd mumbled, turning and walking off down the stairs. Mystic was very aware that he didn't like the training, the pageantry, the gore of it all. He was one of the few in District One to hold such beliefs. It wasn't exactly acceptable, and so it wasn't an opinion he often shared. Mystic got insight into his opinions for some reason, either that they were close friends or that he felt the need to make Mystic aware of it because of her volunteering status. Whatever the reason, she could care less about it, as she knew regardless of what he thought, Ferd had her back. He always did, and he always would.

Mystic stepped into the training academy, the bitter wind giving way to warm air and a familiar, comfortable chatter. Cluttering the front hall were groups of people talking amongst themselves. Mystic could spot kids of all ages, from the youngest twelvies to the seventeen year olds, all vying to be what she was. As she took steps further into the room, heads turned to look at her, loud voices quieting. Everyone in the room envied her, wanted to be in her position and Mystic didn't want it to be any other way.

Heels clicking on the marble floor, Mystic forged onwards through the hall, head held high. She quickly enough made her way into the locker room, changing out of her regular monochromatic outfit to her similarly monochromatic training clothes. Mystic found there was a certain kind of charm to such a colour palette, and so she exclusively wore clothing in shades of white, black, and their middle ground of grey. She put on her shirt, pants, socks, and shoes, leaving the most dreaded part of the process for last. The gloves which covered her hands slid off easily, considering what they concealed. Her hands were covered in scars, white and raised and ugly. Mystic turned her hands over, revealing the large calluses on her palms from her gauntlets and training. Her hands were her sole flaw, and so she covered them.

Nobody could know that Mystic had any imperfections.

Finally ready for training, she stepped out of the locker room onto the training room floor. It was time for Mystic Hanemann to show everyone else what perfection looked like.