filming helicopters crashing in the ocean from way above

got the music in you, baby, tell me why?

you've been locked in here forever

and you just can't say goodbye

A/N: All of the introductory chapters will take place approximately two weeks prior to the start of the trip.

miles byrne (17)

The water paved a way for Miles as he paddled furiously, arms slicing through the air and propelling himself forward. The slap-slap of his kicks echoed off the walls, reaching his ears in the exact beat of his pounding heart. He had the pool to himself, just as he did before class every morning—at six in the morning, people in his little corner of Chicago didn't care nearly enough to get up early and train. Or, as he always thought, maybe they just weren't looking for an excuse to get out of the house, like he always was.

All was quiet as he finally climbed out of the pool, soaking wet, swim trunks dripping all over the tile. The gentle hum from the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound that could be heard. Miles grabbed his towel and leaned against the wall to towel off his hair. Not bad swimming today, he reflected. Judging from the clock on his phone, he only had a few minutes before he had to start getting ready for school, which meant that he had to get a move on. Not that he was necessarily excited for it—he didn't hate classes, not any more than the next person, anyway—but if it were up to him, he would swim all day. Sinead had told him once that she was certain he had all water in his brain, nothing else. He had told her she was spending too much time reading books, and then she'd told him to shut up, which he did.

The door to the boys locker room swung open just as he was entering. "Byrne," a loud, familiar voice boomed, and he knew who it was, before he even looked up—Coach Leon, the coach of the swim team. A burly middle-aged man, well over six feet, his coach had a couple inches on everyone, even on him, who was close to six feet himself. Miles had to crane his neck up just to look him in the eye. "You're always at the pool, aren't you?"

"Some people would say so, sir."

Leon laughed, shaking his head. "Dedication," he said, almost fondly, as if remembering a time from his own childhood. "That's why I like you, Byrne. You're a good kid, a serious competitor. You know how winners are made."

A tiny grin threatened to spread across Miles' face, but he stifled it down before it could. It was rare when Leon gave a lot of praise, even to his best swimmers, but he tried not to let his satisfaction show. "Just getting ready for the meet this weekend," he said.

"That's what I like to hear." Leon seemed pleased. He moved out of the doorway to let him through, and Miles slung his towel over his shoulder, but Leon called his name again, just before he could go. "Hey, Byrne, those nationals are coming up pretty soon, if you're interested."

"I'll think about it," Miles answered quickly, his standard response for any question that he had to mull over in his mind. Leon just raised his eyebrows—they've had this conversation before, and he gave him the same response every time—but he didn't say anything, just let him go without question. After all, Miles was a junior now, and he'd been on the swim team since he was a freshman—of all people, Leon knew that it took awhile for Miles to make up his mind about most things, or, rather, practically everything.

The school day passed by slowly, which wasn't a surprise. Miles sat in the back of the classroom with his earbuds in and fiddled with his pencil when he was supposed to be taking notes, itching to get back into the water. He knew he wouldn't be able to, though—his mom was starting to get on his case about applying himself to his studies more, instead of just breezing through with common sense and a good memory. She'd also told him that him and Sinead were in charge of taking care of Corey and Cecelia tonight while she graded papers, so there went his plans to train again this afternoon.

"You swim too much," Jason, his lab partner, said, when he told him his predicament.

Miles shrugged. "I like it," was all he said in response, and Jason couldn't argue with that.

When school finally ended, he couldn't be more ready for it. He ran the three miles back home, the same distance he'd run to the school in the morning, backpack flapping against his back, fraying Converses slapping on the sidewalk in a steady cadence. Outside the house, Sinead was already there, having taken the bus. She was kicking around a soccer ball, looking particularly focused, only stopping to look up at him when he crossed the lawn to get to the front door.

"Didn't get here as fast as you did yesterday," she teased by way of greeting, hands on her hips. Sinead punted the ball in his direction, and Miles wasn't fast enough to move out of the way before it slammed into his shoulder, almost sending him spiraling to the ground. He frowned, kicking it back to her, but she just smirked. Soccer was her forte, but it definitely wasn't his.

"Just by a few seconds," Miles said, after a moment. "I had more homework today."

"Lighten up, Mi. You're so serious sometimes." Sinead finally tucked the soccer ball under her arm and followed him into the house, undoing her ponytail as she went. A spill of long red hair cascaded down her back, and she flung the ball into the living room as they passed it, not waiting to see where it would land. Judging by the loud bang and then a yelp, Miles could only guess that it came close to hitting one of their younger siblings.

They hung out in the kitchen. Sinead sat in one of the run-down stools while he rummaged around in the pantry, looking for food. He only came up with a loaf of bread and some Nutella, but that would just have to do. Miles was the middle child, Sinead being older than him by a year, but he was always the one making the snacks for everyone. After all, if he didn't, no one else would remember to. "Coach Leon keeps asking me to swim at nationals," he told her after a while, handing her the Nutella sandwich he just made. Sinead mumbled out a quick thank you before diving in, finishing it before he could even make another.

She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand when she was done, leaning forward in her stool, interest piqued. "So why don't you?"

"Don't know if I want that," he said with a shrug. "I've never swam at nationals."

Sinead raised her eyebrows. "You don't know if you want this, don't know if you want that—"

"Lay off. I was just telling you."

"Miles!" came a high voice from the other room, and little Cecelia came running into the kitchen, waving her homework around in the air. Corey was right on her heels, frowning, arms crossed. "Miles, can you help me with my homework? Jane's picking me up for gymnastics soon."

"Help me first," Corey groaned, exasperated. As the other middle child, he seemed to be going through a phase where he felt neglected. He threw his hands up in the air. "You always help Cecelia first."

All of this happened before Miles could even finish the sandwich he was making for himself. He groaned, too, but he set the bread down. "Okay, hang on, I'll be there in a second," he muttered, and Sinead just laughed at him, snatching his half-made sandwich off his plate before he could protest. When he glared at her, she just grinned and shrugged.

"Your headache," she said and left, leaving him alone with Corey and a whining Cecelia.

It was just another typical day at the Byrne house.

peyton smith (17)

Some days, writing was easy for Peyton. All she had to do was lock herself in her room—not that anyone was going to come in, anyway, because she was usually home alone—and then she could bang out a couple of chapters of whatever story she happened to be working on that day while listening to Billie Eilish or Imagine Dragons. Other days were exactly the opposite. She would still lock herself in her room, of course, for fear that someone would try to read her writing, but the result at the end of a few hours would only be a quasi-blank page with almost nothing on it. Her head tended to hurt on those sort of days; it was exhausting enough to try to think of ideas, but it was even more frustrating when none of her thoughts seemed to translate correctly on her screen or when everything just came out entirely wrong.

Today was one of those days. The document on Peyton's laptop screen blinked back at her, blank and white as a sheet, as if trying to mock her. With a sigh, Peyton turned it off and rolled onto her back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars she'd stuck up on her ceiling, back when she was thirteen years old. They still glowed sometimes, but they were really starting to lose their light. It's been years, after all—back then, she was still being homeschooled, but she was pretty much the same. Peyton liked to pride herself on the fact that over the course of her teenagehood, she hadn't changed, not a single bit. It was one of the things she liked about herself.

Picking up her phone, she opened Tumblr and drafted a quick message to Ellie. I hate writing with a burning passion. Peyton could not count the number of times that she had sent Ellie this same sentence, perhaps in the same words, perhaps in different ones, but they conveyed her message all the same. She pressed send, and then, realizing how dumb that sounded, quickly backtracked. Writer's block is a pain in the ass.

The response was instantaneous, as it usually was: I know exactly how it feels. Which story are you working on? Ellie always seemed to be awake. For all Peyton knew, she could be from all the way across the globe, somewhere where the time zone didn't match up with hers, but either way, she was always there to chat.

You know, the story. The fantasy dystopian one that sounds so bad I want to cry.

If you let me read it, I could be the judge of that, Ellie wrote back with lightning speed, tagging on a laugh-crying emoji at the end.

No way, Peyton typed, but she was smiling. She had been working on the same novel for about two years now, but she had sworn in her journal once that she would never, ever let anybody read it, not until it was ready, which would likely be a lifetime from now. Since then, she had kept it relatively under wraps from the world, besides Ellie. Occasionally she would ask for her opinion on an idea or for advice on what to do next, but so far no one had read her untitled work, and she intended to keep it that way for a very, very long time.

Ellie answered quickly. Whatever, Beatrice, the message said, with a faux-sad face at the end. To anyone Peyton chatted with on the internet, her name was always Beatrice, named after one of her favorite book characters of all time. Ellie's name was probably just a facade, too, but she liked to think they knew each other inside and out otherwise, which they did. Ellie often ranted to her about school and the people in it in long, lengthy paragraphs, and in turn, Peyton vented about her writing problems. Maybe one day if her fantasy novel got published, she would publish it under the name Beatrice. Nothing else, just Beatrice, and people would know her work as a masterpiece Beatrice wrote. Maybe that would all happen, one day in the far future—if she could actually finish this chapter, that was.

There was a quick knock on Peyton's door, and she shut off her phone hastily, tossing it to the other side of the bed. "Come in," she called, unsure why her heart was pounding so fast. It was going to be her mom, she already knew—Amy worked most of the time, but she always came home at six o'clock without fail. Just as she expected, Amy opened the door with a smile, still wearing her nursing uniform, short hair tied up in a messy bun. A lot of people tended to say that the two of them looked alike, but Peyton begged to differ, as she once did in a wordy Tumblr post—where Amy's hair was a chestnut brown, Peyton's was blonde, dyed a purple ombré at the top, a mistake she had made a year ago that actually turned out looking alright. Still, she had to admit, she had her mom's freckles and her eyes.

"How was your day, honey?" Amy asked, leaning over to kiss the top of Peyton's head. Peyton wrinkled her nose and feigned disgust, but they both knew she didn't really mind. Of course, if she did mind, she would never have the guts to be anything but polite to an adult, anyway. "Good, I hope?"

Peyton smiled slightly and shrugged. "Nothing much happened."

"I'll have dinner cooking in a bit. Anything you want to request?"

Peyton shrugged again.

"Well, you can come downstairs with me. We can spend some time together."

Even if her mom was always busy with work, she was happy that she tried to set aside some time for them to bond, even if it was just a little bit. "Sounds great," Peyton answered, swinging her long legs over the side of her bed to get up. Her body ached from lying around all day, but it hadn't necessarily been worth it. She would try to write again after dinner, she promised herself. After all, her book wasn't going to write itself.

Dinner was Amy's speciality, a pasta that Peyton didn't know the name of but vowed to try and make it one day with half the amount of skill Amy had. "This tastes delicious," she announced, just as she always did when Amy made her special treat. Amy just grinned, shaking her head, but Peyton could tell she was pleased.

"I think I might've put in too much sauce this time," she said, just to refute her.

"Well, whatever you did, it tastes amazing." Peyton shoved her mouth full with another forkful, and Amy just laughed, finally accepting the accolade. "I think this is the best pasta I've ever had."

Maybe she was flattering her mom too much, but that was okay. Amy deserved it, and Peyton liked giving out compliments when she thought the people she cared about should hear them.

A/N: Here are our first two students/tributes! What do you think of them? I hope I did Miles and Peyton justice.

Since there are no actual Districts in the story, I'll probably just write two tributes per introductory chapter, in whatever order they come to me first. It probably won't always be a boy-girl pair, in that case. Either way, you'll get introductory chapters for all of them and then get to hear more about them as they go on their field trip to Ananke.

Lots of spots still open, so please reserve and submit if you'd like! You can submit up to two tributes. I'm super excited to see what I'll get.

Song lyrics at the top are from "Apocalypse" by Cigarettes After Sex. I don't own any of the song lyrics that I will be posting, nor do I own the Hunger Games.