Savannah De La Bois, aged 13
She's walked past those girls on her way to school. The kind with dirty rags for clothes, missing fingers, worn-out eyes, and overall just reek of death. The kind that trudge in a line into the factory. The kind that are lucky to just eat a single cracker for lunch while she devours the entire bag as a snack. They're depressed and they're exhausted and they're completely different from what she believes a girl to be.
"Savannah, sweetheart...don't stare too long," Mother says, pulling Savannah along with her. "It's rude!"
"But Mommy, look at them! They're so dirty!"
"Savannah!" Mommy stops in the middle of the street, kneeling down to Savannah's level. "Your attitude right now is completely rude and disrespectful. And you know what happens to little girls who are rude and disrespectful?"
"No..." Savannah has to force herself not to break eye contact with her mother.
"They end up on the streets. Juts like those girls you called dirty. Where you have to fend for yourself, without any help from Mommy or Daddy. Do you understand? Now leave them alone."
Savannah nods meekly; the idea of living without her precious mother or father is just too unbearable. Mommy straightens up as Savannah grabs her hand, not planning on letting go. They continue through the streets of District 8. There's a unique scent in the air, the scent of smoke and ash mingling with rotten corpses and worn cloth.
The atmosphere of despair.
Savannah is almost too happy to leave the industrial area of 8, to end up in the commercial part of town, where the shopkeepers sell their wares. Mommy is admiring some new shoes, no doubt handmade by the poor little girls sitting on the street corners. Factory wages is not enough to get them a slice of bread to eat or a roof over their heads. One of them glares enviously at Savannah as she tries on the pair Mommy selected for her. They fit like a glove.
Mommy finds a pair of fancy blue flats for herself, then pulls out her wallet to pay while Savannah looks around the store for a bit. She finds one of them. And she can tell he's one of them because his hair's an unnatural shade of black, covered in soot from burnt factories and he smells of it too. His clothes would be a size too small if he was growing properly, but he's practically a stick figure so they hang off him. The only new thing he wears are the shoes on his feet and he attempts to sweep up the floor, often going back for the dirt he trails around. He's probably older than her, but he looks like he's twelve, due to his size.
"May I help you, miss?" he asks politely, which is strange because he's such a street rat so Savannah expected him to have almost no manners at all. She twirls a strand of her orange ringlets around her finger and bores into him with her eyes, asking him why he even dares to talk to her, when she sees him as less worth than dust on the shop's floor.
"I don't need help from a dirty street urchin like you."
"I'm not a dirty street urchin," the boy replies and it's clear he's used to this kind of treatment and he won't go down without a fight. two can lay at this game, after all. "I'm a janitor."
"If you have a job, how come you can't afford actual clothes?"
"Because my money's not going to me. My little brother's sick and I'm saving up to buy him medicine-"
"Savannah! Where are you? It's time to go."
"Coming, mother!" Savannah bursts through the rows of stacked shoe boxes and grabs her mother's hand.
"Savannah...I thought I told you to leave those...those...those kids alone!"
"He started it! He came up to me first!"
"Come on, honey. Let's go home."
Savannah beams up at her mother and skips out the door with a spring in her step. The boy is left behind, watching her leave. She has no clue that tonight, he'll head to the little run-down shack he and all the other orphans little share when they're not working dead-end jobs in the factories. And they'll huddle together and they'll whisper. They'll whisper of a girl with lovely red hair are curled and new shoes on her feet. She's living life inside a silver birdcage, oblivious to everything, everyone on the outside.
This will all come back to haunt her.
It's always the orphans that perish at the hands of Careers in the Bloodbath, because they've got so many slips. They eat so much tessarae, but it's never enough. But, the odds even out in the end. Sometimes, it's a kid like Savannah that gets chosen. The kid that has never lifted a finger, or lost one, in their entire life. The kid that can afford to dress up nicely for the Reaping.
And when that happens, the orphans can either laugh or cry. But instead, they bury their faces in each other's shoulders, thanking the unseen forces above them for sparing them another year to be killed in a factory accident, or the following Hunger Games.
Whichever comes first.
Savannah doesn't see it, but when her name is called for the 74th Hunger Games and nobody steps up to save her, there's a young boy with ragged clothes and beat-up shoes smirking in the crowd.
Cecilia Twayne, aged 37
She supposes things could be worse.
She's the hottest item in the black market; everybody wants a piece of her. Everyone wants to touch the poor 16 year-old freshly emerged from the arena and claim that I slept with the Victor of the 54th Hunger Games. She fought for her chance to go back home, not to remain in the Capitol, among all these greedy eyes. They paid, and they paid, and now she's trapped in an elevator, awaiting her first customer ever.
She hopes they'll be nice.
Cecilia pulls on her ponytail and a strand of hair falls loose. The highest bidder, a minor Gamemaker named Heavensbee, says she can wear whatever she likes, but her stylist still makes her dress to the nines. She has on a baby blue summer dress, white tights, and black flats. She plans to burn all of it once the night is over.
With her is the Victor of 47th Hunger Games and her mentor, Tweed Barker. Tweed gives Cecilia and affectionate pat on the shoulder. The elevator stops and Cecilia quietly steps out, shooting Tweed one last look before the doors close.
Heavensbee doesn't look as bad as she expected. He's somewhere in his thirties, and he wears a plum-coloured bathrobe. When she knocks on his hotel room door, he opens it with a smile. "Ah, Cecilia! It's wonderful to meet you, my dear."
"It's wonderful to meet you too, Mr. Heavensbee."
"No need to be so formal, dear. Just Plutarch will do. Come inside!" Plutarch ushers the young girl inside his room; he gestures to a minifridge."Would you like anything to eat? Something to drink?"
She shakes her head. She doesn't think she can keep anything down right now.
"Well, you're still free to help yourself." Pluatrch sits down on the bed, motioning for Cecilia to join him. "Tell me about yourself."
"Like what?"
"How's life been ever since you won?"
How has life been? Well, she's in Victor's Village now. With her mother and father and older sister. She meets up with her boyfriend a lot. A man named Michael. A man who loves her no matter what, even if she has the blood of two Careers on her hands. She talks about everything with him.
"I'm fine, I guess."
"You did mention our boyfriend in your interview, i believe. Have things progressed?"
Cecilia blushes. "No. Not yet."
"Well, you two should think about it." Plutarch lowers his voice and leans in close. "If you space about the engagement announcement, the wedding, and the honeymoon, they'll forget all about you and have moved on to the next Victors."
"Wait, you mean-"
"Marriage isn't a guaranteed ticket out of the black market," Plutarch says "But if you play your cards right, it just might work."
"I'll tell Michael when I get back."
"You do that, Cecilia." Plutarch is an awfully smiley man. "Now...are you familiar with a little word?"
"What?"
"Rebellion."
Cecilia opens her mouth, then shuts it. Of course she's familiar with rebellion. She's from 8 after all. They may be meek little tailors, but they're a cunning people, and they're strategic, and they're vengeful. Fires are only noticed when they're out of control, but Cecilia's victory has lit embers within her people's hearts. Burn a little brighter, and the Capitol won't know what's coming for them.
"All too well, Plutarch."
"Good. So are we."
Cecilia wants to ask, but Plutarch already has an answer. "Beetee. Wiress. Chaff. Haymitch. Coiler. Lyme. Rudia. Your own mentor, Tweed."
"You expect me to join?"
"I'm not expecting you. I'm asking you. Cecilia, your win has inspired hope in lot of people. You have reminded District 8 about how powerful they can truly be. I sincerely hope that you'll say yes, but...it's not my decision to make. It's yours."
Plutarch's eyes still linger on Cecilia as he gets up and pours himself a glass of champagne. "If you do say no...well, I understand...rebellion is a very dangerous word, after all. But don't rat us out. Don't rat your dear mentor Tweed out. Instead...think. Think of the change you can make."
For a moment, Cecilia is lost in though before Plutarch brings her back down to earth. "Our little...rendezvous...is over. If anyone asks, tell them I'm not feeling well."
In the elevator, Cecilia meets up with Tweed and confronts her. "You and the other Victors are part of-"
"Not here, Cecilia." The older woman's lips curl into a devious smile. "But...what should I tell them?"
"Yes. Tell them yes. I'm in."
Opposites ends of the spectrum here, with Savannah and Cecilia. Anyways, I've always found 8 to be a fun district to explore, considering that everyone treats them as weaklings and Bloodbath fodder, but they're actually super destructive and rebellious.