Lance Nelson, aged 14

District 3 may not always have the best luck when it comes to the Hunger Games, but everyone is competitive in their own ways. From a young age, children are encouraged to strive for perfection and success. There are no exceptions. Second place is not an achievement.

Intelligence has always reigned supreme in 3. The adults praise the smart kids, but ignore the misfits who just simply can't catch up. Those with mental disabilities, different hopes and dreams. Those who sit at the back of the class, so that way, the teacher won't think of calling on them.

Lance Nelson is one of these people.

Because he doesn't shine in the classroom, nobody ever gives him a second thought. In the eyes of his teachers and classmates, he's not smart. He takes forever to solve the equation, to write the formula down, to learn the computer code.

Lance may not be as stupid as people think. He knows he struggles. He knows he's a prime target for bullying, gossiping, and exclusion. He knows nobody in the school is going to be there for him, because they don't want to be the friend of such a kid.
He hangs out near the other misfits too. Those who see the world in a different light. Three is pretty exclusive against the mentally disabled, the gay, and the non-binary as well.

Day by day, the routine never changes. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to school. Get slammed into walls, punched in the face, kicked in the shin, gossiped about, verbally reminded you're not like anybody else. Sit alone at lunchtime and sob silently into your food. Repeat until school is over, then run home as fast as your little legs can take you.

Lance hates the routine. He hates getting kicked around every single day. He wants to do something about it, break it, so nobody will see him as an idiot anymore. It's risky, but what does he care?

Lance may be horrible in the classroom, but he's a real whizz at crafting. He finds it easy to search 3's junkyards for the pieces he needs and puts them together, like a child building a tower of blocks. Only in this case, Lance is going to take those blocks down.

He would've tested it out in his backyard, but Lance doesn't want anyone to know. Not even his mother. The poor woman who cares so deeply about her son, the woman he lies to about how people really treat him, the woman who believes he's doing amazing.

The woman he's afraid of disappointing.

Even if he knows she'll never see him as anything other than her son, Lance doesn't want his mother to know the truth. That he's not as good at his coding and programming classes as she thinks, that he lies to her about the marks he got for his computer course. That he's made up all the friends he tells amazing stories about, because he doesn't have any in real life.

Yes, Lance is an amazing liar.

There's another thing he's amazing at...crafting. But not just any type of crafting.
Crafting bombs. Explosives. Weapons. The kinds of things that make people quiver in fear when he just see him holding his latest contraption.

District 3 is a centre for creation. All sorts of technology-related invention are born here, then shipped off the Capitol, where fancy people buy them up and misuse them.
Another reason Lance, a master of destruction, doesn't fit it. What others have spent year creating he can destroy overnight.

And he does.

Everything is as it normally is until a small homemade explosive sails right into the halls of the district school, taking out two classrooms and a good chunk of the outer wall. The smoke clears and a silhouette can be seen standing among the rubble. Classmates gasp and teachers stare in shock.
And from that day forward, Lance Nelson knows the routine is over.

It was broken when he threw that explosive. It remains broken when the Peacekeepers cart him away. It stays like that when 24 hours later, he is publicly whipped in front of the Justice Building. And the routine announces its official stop when Lance's mother is told by the principal that her son is no longer welcome in the school halls.

He feels upset for making his mother cry so much, but Lance doesn't care about going back. He's proved that he isn't the idiot everyone saw him as. He's smart in his own way. Sure, it's a destructive, impulsive, and illegal way, but he's made his mark and he doesn't give single damn about the price he has to pay.

He pays by going into the 74th annual Hunger Games. But once again, he doesn't care. Lance plays the strategy he always played every single day of his life, laying low, pulling the dumb card, displaying the stupid card. When he rises up into the forest arena and sees the landmines by his pedestal, the wheels in his head start turning.
And he smiles.

There's no need for Lance to worry about protecting himself. Those landmines are all he needs.

Beetee Latier, aged 59

"The rebellion is beyond soldiers in combat, Beetee. We need brains. We need people like you."

"The rebellion needs you."

Mr. Plutarch Heavensbee thinks that he's oh so clever, thinks that he's the only one to ever whisper words like that into Beetee's ears. He thinks that his small speech is the real reason Beetee was so quick to join in on the plan.
He doesn't know at all. Beetee's been associated with rebellion for a long time. He's already been invited, but missed out the first chance and is now waiting for a second one.

It all started when he met her.

Her name was CeeDee Heckler. She had auburn hair, fair skin, freckles, and a beautiful smile. When Beetee came out from the arena shaking, she was his support. And months later, his girlfriend.
He was nothing but a reckless teen after winning the 31st Hunger Games. And unsurprisingly, so was Dee. The two ran around the district together, holding hands and sharing dreams. Later, they began making out and sneaking into bedrooms.

What made Beetee so smitten about Dee was her fiery attitude. The way she never backed down from her rebellious beliefs. The way she openly talked about her disgust with the Capitol. Sure, she was a reckless teen, but she was Beetee's reckless teen.

He knew too well not to take her seriously. Beetee was a Victor, after all. He had to play the loyal card, if he wanted to avoid the consequences. But still, he wondered if Dee was on top something. Frequently, she tried to convince him to run away with her, to District 13, a magical place she believed in, but no longer existed.

Beetee shook his head. "I'm not going."
"What? Why?"
"It's too dangerous. 13 is long gone. There might not be anywhere for you to go."
Dee glared at him. "No, it exists. And I'm going to prove it. You can stay here for all I care. Live your life as a slave to the Capitol."

The harsh accusation rung in Beetee's ears. "No...Dee..."
"That's all you Victors are, right? A slave. I should've known better"

With that, she walked off. Beetee never saw her again.

Now, many years later, he knows that Dee was on to something. Whens he wakes up in a foreign hospital, he knows for sure that she was correct.
He's not in Three anymore. He's in Thirteen.

Beetee is about to get out of bed...until he discovers he can't. No, he can't move his legs. He tries wiggling his toes and moving his ankle along the sheets, but he feels nothing.
"Paralysed," a voice says. "I'm sorry, but you'll never walk by yourself again."

The voice belongs to a man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. He stands with the authority of a doctor, but his expression is much more gentle. There's a strange aura surrounding him, as if Beetee might have seen this person before.
"I'm sorry," the man repeats.

"No, I understand. It would've been foolish to think I could've escaped without consequences. I'm Beetee Latier, Victor."
"I know." the man extends his hand. "I'm Twix. Twix Heckler."

That surname. Beetee swears he's heard it before. And the way that Twix shakes his hand...it reminds him of another hand he used to hold.
"Twix, huh? So you're a Thirteen native?"
"Yep. Lived here all my life. My mother was a refugee from 3."

There's something going on here. Beetee's brain is processing this information...and he instantly comes to the conclusion as to why Twix is so familiar.
"CeeDee Heckler..." he says quietly.

Twix gives him a funny look. "You knew my mother?"
"Knew? I dated her...for a while. Then she broke up with me...I never saw her again."

Twix runs a hand through his hair, which is the same colour as Dee's. He even has her freckles. "You know...she used to talk about you. A lot. If you were on TV, she'd point it out. And she always said that I had your eyes."

That's when it hits Beetee.
"You're...you're my son."
"Twix smiles. "So...I guess I am."

"Son..." Beetee says the word again. It's not familiar at all. He's never gotten married, let alone have children. "I don't believe it."
"Neither do I." Twix brings over a wheelchair from the corner. "But it's true. Anyways, come along...father. Looks like we have some catching up to do."

Beetee nods in agreement.