Marvel Quaid, 17

It would make sense that District 1 would never settle for anything less than first place. After all, they deserve it more than anyone else.
So the trainees are expected to thrive for first place. No matter how well they preform, they are nothing without that victory. The standards are high and future tributes find themselves doing all sorts of things in order to reach.

Marvel Quaid is no exception.

He trains and trains. He throws his spears. He signs up for a couple of weightlifting classes, in order to get himself into shape. He reminds himself why he's doing this. Someday he's going to volunteer for the Games and win.
Everybody agrees that Marvel's got a good chance at being selected this year. Sure he's not 18 like most volunteers, but he's got skill. And sure enough, he gets the spot.

Marvel's fellow trainees come up and congratulate him. The trainers clap him on the back. Even the bitter 18 year-olds shake his hand and tell him to knock 'em dead. Marvel is currently at the top. He's number one. The boy everybody looks up at in complete and utter awe. He could live in this moment forever.

But all good things must come to an end.

At home, Marvel is anything but number one. He's the loser. Beaten by his parents, ignored by his older brother. He's always reminded that's he never the man they wanted him to become. If Academy expectations are tough, family expectations are next to impossible.

It's almost as if his family hates him, but Marvel can never figure out why. Is it because he's too much his own person to transform into what they want? Perhaps he's the kid they took their anger out on once and never broke the habit.

When Marvel announces that he's going to volunteer, everyone stops what they're doing. His brother, Wonder, manages a small smile. His parents say nothing. They're probably thinking of a new way to break him down.
"Well..." his father is clearly at a loss for words. "You..could've volunteered at 16!"

That's a little silly. Marvel opens his mouth to speak, but is quickly interrupted by his mother. "So you volunteered a year early. What's the big deal? There are kids younger than you, winning more then you. You could've won TWO Hunger Games by now! But no, you throw it all away..."
On and on it goes. In the days leading up to the Reaping, Marvel is constantly reminded about how he had to chance to become more successful than he is, but it's all his fault the opportunities are gone. All his fault.

The night before his big day, he just sits in his room alone. Just sitting. No polishing a spear. No thinking vengeful thoughts toward his parents. No combing his dirty-blond hair to perfection. Just sitting on his bed, staring at the window. The Sun is currently setting, casting all these pretty shades of pink and orange.
Marvel just sits, watching.

Before he knows it, he is crying.

It's nothing, really. One small tear slips down his cheek, then followed by another. Gradually, more and more salty droplets fall from his face. He hiccups, then wipes his eyes with his sleeve.
If his parents were here, they'd taunt him for looking so weak and measly. For some reason, a boy displaying emotion is a sign of weakness. And no weakling should ever, ever, deserve the prize.

Marvel knows that he could lose his image over a few tears. He doesn't care. In the safety of his own room, he's still number one.
He eventually stops crying. it feels good to let it all out, when he knows that after tomorrow, everyone expects him to meet those standards. If family standards are tough, tribute standards are next to impossible.

I could just back out.

He's considered backing out of volunteering. Going for one last year of training, just to make sure he's ready for it. But then he'd look like a failure. He'd fail the Academy, who thought he was deserving of that prized spot up on the stage. He'd fail his family, who would never let him forget this was one of those fallen chances. He'd fail his district, who thought they had a chance at victory this year.
He'd fail himself.

The next day, Marvel volunteers for a 15 year-old boy he doesn't even know the name of. He aims for first place and only first place. Day by day, he inches his way closer and closer to a victory he would never receive, because a "weakling" stole the prize.

Gloss Ritchson, aged 29

"Hey Gloss. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Gloss looks up to see Augustus Braun standing over him. He can't help but smile. Augustus was his first Victor. His first successful tribute. He won just four years after Gloss. Constantly, the two go to each other for advice. Augustus must want to ask him about something.
"Sure. What's up?"

"So...you won your Games."
"Of course."
"Did you get visited by President Snow?'

Gloss stops smiling. He now gives the younger victor a look of concern. "Oh no..."
"He made you sign the contract too?"

Every Victor from District 1 is different. They all have different tactics up their sleeves. Some use beauty to their advantage, like Cashmere and Augustus. Others just go in and out fighting, like Gloss. However, many of them, especially the recent victors, have been forced to sign the dreaded contract.
Gloss Ritchson is no exception.

When he went into the Games, he was hoping to come back home. Then he'd just live in Victor's Village for the rest of his life, alongside his mother and little sister. Nobody told him about the contract, until Snow came to visit him and watched the young boy squirm in his seat.

If it was up to Gloss, he never would have said yes. He would just go home and return to life as a Victor. As a champion. He would return to feeling like he was on top of the world.
Gloss isn't on top of the world. President Snow is. He's the one who stays in power and makes sure nobody tries to challenge his authority, even if they are as beloved as Gloss. Adored by his district, admired by the Capitol.

Admired so much by the Capitol, they pay for his body.
That was all in the contract. The same contract that they printed a copy of and forced Augustus to sign. Gloss has met the Braun family before. Augustus has got a mother, a father, and two little brothers. He's willing to bet Snow threatened to get rid of those kids before they were old enough to volunteer for and die in the Hunger Games.

Soon, Gloss and Augustus are sitting side by side, sharing stories of nightmares and lust and worries that a family member will turn up dead the next morning. Augustus just slumps back in his chair and sighs. "I thought that when I won...things were going to be perfect for me."
"It's something they don't teach you in the Academy."

"Academy standards are tough enough."
That gets a small grin out of Gloss. "Yeah. What a first place prize."

They stop talking after that. Neither is in the mood to keep going. Augustus eventually gets up and walks off, leaving Gloss alone at a table outside a Capitol cafe. Probably off to visit a client.
These talks often make Gloss wonder. Was victory really worth it? The years of training and fighting and volunteering and killing and contract signing...was this what he wanted?

Sometimes Gloss wonders if he'd be better off dead. In the final battle of the 63rd Hunger Games, two Career boys went up against each other. Gloss wonders if things would be better had he gotten killed instead. Leave some other poor dude to get into this prostituting mess. Cashmere and his mother would never worry about losing their lives, since Gloss wouldn't be alive to sign the damn contract.

He'd never have to sneak out of a Capitol apartment, then lock eyes with Augustus and feel a pang of pity. Or dear Cashmere. The girl whose life Gloss wanted to so desperately save that he signed his body away...only for her to win next year's Games and suffer the exact same fate.

As he thinks this, he watches Capitol citizens stroll on by. They have no clue what kind of turmoil a Victor goes through. Each of these flashy, vibrant numbskulls are trapped in their own little bubble, too selfish to care about other people's needs, too dumb to see the other side of the Victors that they worship.

One citizens strolls up to him. Instantly, Gloss stops thinking about the what-ifs. He has to start playing along now, being the perfect golden boy his victory made him become.
His client is a woman in her mid-twenties. She has neon pink hair and pale purple skin, just like she told him. The clothing she has on is extremely suggestive, even for a Capitolite.

"You ready, baby?" she purrs in her thick accent. Gloss stands up and just rolls his eyes.
"Sure. Whatever."

That was Marvel and Gloss. And we'll dive into District 2 next.