A/N: Hey guys! I'm trying to make up for my huge skip between 1 and 2 with this, so here y'all go. Also, I really like these tributes.
Futura Light, District 3 Female
Logic. Logic has propelled me through my life. Logic has helped me steer clear of people I just want to befriend. Because they would only shun me, Futura Light, for something I cannot control. My genetics. It would mean destroying and reinventing every aspect of my personality, but I would recreate my DNA if I had the chance- snip out every aspect of my father. My bones would shrink, surely, a painful process that I am willing to endure. My face would go plumper and rounder, my eyes larger and wider. And my cunning spirit would be gone. Destroyed. I would rid myself of logic. Am I so willing to give that up?
And yet logic can desert me. Some inner spirit, bent on my fall, no doubt, propels me towards the clustered-up girls. I am drawn to their giggles and laughs, their arm-hooping and poking. Astra Monnetume. Elsie Twitch. Flame O'Mara. My father incriminated their fathers. Logic tells me he was right to do so. Their fathers had broken the law. But compassion, pity, and overall, a general longing to belong tells me my father should never have locked them up- or in Paylor Monnetume's case, killed him. Because if he hadn't, maybe Astra, Elsie, and Flame could be my friends. I've never had a friend before.
But they wouldn't befriend me anyways. My father is too imposing, too brutal. He brought back the death penalty. They are right to fear Cable Light, the mayor of district three.
I shut off the fountain of emotion easily. I do not care about the opinions of these girls. I don't.
But it would be easier to convince myself if Astra Monnetume was not right next to me, her eyes slitted, hands balled into fists.
Reaping day. We are both sixteen years old, so we had the unfortunate consequence of standing next to one another. Her glare burns into my skin, and I fidget uncomfortably. It isn't only Astra's hostility that makes me worried. The Reapings have me on edge. Usually, I am not worried. I have my name in only 5 times. I have never needed to take tesserae. The odds are against me going in- they always have been. More then a thousand to one. But today feels different. The air hums with change. And while I know that's ridiculous, in the technical sense- the air can't hum with anything- I still feel as if today is going to be a turning point in my life. The day when everything changes.
And I'm right.
My name is not called. Astra Monnetume's is.
She sways on her feet, blue eyes wide with terror. She takes a wobbly step forwards, tears running down her pale face. My mind is running at a thousand miles per hour- I know that Astra Monnetume will never make it out there alive. Emotion and logic, battle for a say in my fevered brain. I let out a shaky gasp and words flow out of my mouth, words I don't remember saying in my head.
"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"
Astra stops dead. Her eyes go huge as she sputters for something to say. But I am paying no attention to her- the instant I said those words, I regretted them. What am I doing? This is not logical- I cannot win, I can't. There are Careers out there, who will kill me with dozens of different weapons, mutilate, torture me- I have never known true pain and now I WILL-
"Come up here, sweetheart!" Pipper Valentine giggles, gesturing with a long purple fingernail. I walk up to the stage, staggering on clammy feet. Terror envelops me.
What have I done?
Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male
My fear of the Hunger Games is completely unwarranted. My name is in the bowl only seven times. But every time the reaping rolls around, an unwelcome image springs into my head- my name, called by our mindless escort. And only the whispering wind answers.
I am quite aware of my intelligence. I believe that I would last remarkably long, what with a knowledge of traps and the actions that other tributes may take to further their continued survival. But I am weak, physically speaking. If it comes down to a brutish Career tribute and I, my IQ will do nothing to help me. I will be destroyed. Decimated. No- decimated is not the correct word. It is used to mean completely obliterated, but in truth it means the death of one out of ten. The Hunger Games are a demonstration of the deaths of 23 out of 24. The word that describes my fate the best is the simplest. I will be killed. Probably in a bloody fashion, and most definitely in a painful one.
I am not yet ready to learn what comes after death.
And now I wait, in the office, my hands jabbing computer keys with a quick grace. Anyone with half a brain can see that I know much about the inner workings of this machine, and they can also see how preoccupied I am. It takes an intelligent soul, however, to see that my fingers move in a creaky way, with an awkwardness I clearly am not accustomed to. It takes an intelligent soul to see my fear, infecting my hobby.
My mother is an intelligent soul.
She says nothing of it, though. As usual. My parents are quiet geniuses, with an incredible perception of how human emotion influences actions. I am closed off to everyone except them. To my mother and father, I am an open book. Luckily, they do not broadcast my emotion to the world. They are not those kinds of people.
"We don't want to miss the reaping." She murmurs, her expression maddeningly unreadable. I nod stiffly, following her out of the room.
We move quickly and silently, our footsteps echoing on the stone. I slip past them and move towards the 18 males section, pausing to give the Peacekeeper my blood sample, and to sign in. He lets me pass with a wave of a gloved hand, and I take my place next to a nervous-looking boy I know from school, Abel Shard. I plug my airs as our mayor, Cable Light, speaks. Usually, I would soak in every word, but our mayor is a despicable man and I don't want to take in a single word that his filthy mouth emits.
Finally, the bastard walks off stage, to be replaced by Pipper Valentine. Pipper is an airhead, and from the Capitol, but she means no malice- she's just an idiot. So I don't care about blocking her flow of words.
After giggling and blundering for a bit, Pipper dips her hand into the reaping bowl and reads out a name- "Astra Monnetume!"
I wince. I know Astra, and she isn't the nicest girl, but she isn't intentionally cruel either, except to Futura Light, and no one blames her for that. Futura hasn't done anything wrong, herself, but her father ordered the death of Astra's father, for a petty crime. Astra doesn't deserve the games. But she has no one to prevent her from going in.
But suddenly-
A voice rings out. "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"
The crowd parts to reveal a girl. Small and pale, with black hair and holly-green eyes. She does not look out of the ordinary for a citizen of three, but we all know her face. Her name is Futura Light, and while I didn't expect anyone to volunteer for Astra, she was the one I suspected least.
Pipper doesn't seem surprised at all. She just giggles and asks for her name, despite the fact that she- as do the rest of three- already knows it. Finally, finally, she grabs for a paper slip in the boy's bowl. Slowly and agonizingly, she pulls it out. I tense.
"Tesla Lumen!"
The odds are not in my favor today.