Mason Dowry, District 1 Male, 18 years old

Us Careers find ourselves drawn to the weapons stations like moths to a lightbulb. I reach it first and lunge for the swords, creating a ferocious clatter that brings other Careers- as we're legendary-trouble seekers- to the station. The girl from two creeps in next, a slithering shadow, shooting careful arrows and slashing with knives, her shadowy blue eyes glinting in the gloom her presence brings. The boys from four and two come next, and I find myself reflected in them- the same lust for the Games, though the boy from two is more enthusiastic by far. The two slash and cut with fat blades- the four boy takes a trident, as per usual, and the two boy picks up a long steel sword and practically grounds a dummy into dust. My people.

"So, I'll be leading the pack, of course." Says the boy from two- Taurus- with a thin smile that doesn't reach his frigid eyes. I scoff. "Actually, I believe I'M leading the pack-"

"No."

I turn to the four boy, Maximus, in amazement. "What do you mean, no!?" I ask him indignantly." He lets out a soft hiss, his fingers twitching erratically against his bicep, looking as if they want to be fastened around someone's throat. I can't imagine who.

"Serena's the leader." He says flatly, and the four girl, Serena, starts in amazement, shooting him a bewildered glance. "HER?!" I laugh. "She's a girl! She can't lead the pack!"

"Trust me." Says Maximus calmly. "I bet I can persuade you."

I huff. "Go on, persuade me then! Nothing is making me give this up."

Maximus flashes me a dark look, one I can't yet comprehend, but I know is significant. "I'll tell you later." He mouths. I nod stiffly.

After a chaotic hour that includes much screaming, a ruined plate of lasagna, the girl from 12 mouthing off to a dumbstruck Taurus, and half of Venie's greasy hair splayed across the floor, Maximus' hand is vicelike on my arm and he pulls me from the wreckage and into the hallway.

"Listen up." He says quickly, and a random sense of urgency infects me. Apprehension pricks at my spin.

"I have a proposition for you…"

Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female, 18 years old

I approach the Careers with swaying hips and a glossy coat of peach lipstick.

They aren't impressed.

"Reapee." My district partner spits it out like a curse, his blond hair in wild spikes, framing a sweaty, malicious face.

"Pathetic." The Two girl says it quietly, like it's a simple statement instead of an insult, her pale face eclipsed by ever-constant shadows.

"Leave." This comes from the Four girl, the clear leader, her chin tilted up in challenge, eyes flashing fire and might.

"I'll be pleased to." I sneer. "You have no idea who you're turning down, girly."

The Four girl pauses, looking slightly confused at my daring. I smirk at her, eyes widening in an innocent fashion.

"We know who we're turning down." Says the Four boy, his face thrown into sharp relief by the fluorescent lighting. "A sniveling reapee who'll die at the bloodbath." I hiss wildly, and just then do I remember my mask. I freeze, swaying on the balls of my feet.

My mask!

I'm such an idiot.

I press it on again, feeling slippery plastic scrape against my cheek and the familiar smell of sweat fill my nose. This time around, I embrace it.

"I'm sorry." I whisper. "I… I just want protection… p-please… I'm trying to intimidate people, bu-but-" Bu-but!" My district partner mocks. "You better scram before I stick my sword through your stomach, stutterer!" I cringe and force tears to form in my eyes.

"Slut." He says, and it doesn't matter which he because in my mind their words and names and stories and lives blend together.

I can break him, but I won't.

Because just for a second, the word catches me off guard.

How many times have I heard it? Slut, bitch, whore, floozy. Asking for it. So many words, flung at me like heavy things, as if they're supposed to weigh me down. Break me. Cut the human right out of me.

And I always feel the impact. The bomb blast. Unimaginable pain and hatred ripping through me with force enough to rip up trees and churn up dreams.

But just for a second.

They break me, but only for a second.

Because god knows I'm good at rebuilding myself.

But that's the problem, isn't it? The fact that I need to rebuild myself at all. That boys are players, studs, real men, while woman are sluts, whores, not deserving of respect. That they think they can spit on me and degrade me and rip me down for who I choose to have sex with, and how often. I am mighty. Above that. And hell, even if I were a virgin who had never so much as held a boy's hand, I would be a slut anyways. Because that's just how life is. Boobs and a uterus equals slut.

Forever and always.

Once upon a time, there was a monster pretending to be a girl.

She preened and danced and fought like a spitting cat, but instead of using her claws she used her words, knowing they cut deeper then the sharpest claws could. She wore a mask, and she wore it well, so well that ivory and pearls and choppy cuts seemed to blend into her skin. Everyone knew she wore a mask, but they assumed it was because she was an insecure girl and insecure girls flaunt masks and hoods regularly. They didn't think she did it to hide her monstrous identity.

But some had their suspicions…

She was a pretty little monster, she was, with honey eyes and a kitten smile and a bedroom body. So pretty that boys were drawn to her like moths to a flame and only then did they notice the claws and teeth. Only then did they see the wild, predatory features marred by hot wax and claw marks, caused by less savage monsters who fought defensively instead of offensively, like she always did. She hurt them and tore them and ripped them down. And some of them fought back. They did it with words, of course.

And she had the gall to be offended.

Hate me for being terrible. A monster. Hate me for cutting you down, building you up, and cutting you down again.

But don't hate me for being a woman.

Because that's not exactly something I can control.

My life was never based around choices.

But I always attack the ones others make.

Have the decency to attack my choices,

Instead of my being.

A/N: Feminist mindset activated :D. If it seems like Chablis is getting a lot of attention, it's an accident. I gave her the train scene because Mason is reaaaaally one dimensional. Then I realized she needed this, too. Don't worry. I'll tone down the Chablis.