Trigger warnings: mentions of abuse in the first POV. Please proceed with caution.
Bryce Melbourne, aged 18
He's the youngest of five kids.
He's also the runt too.
He was born with a crippled foot, and his parents had to sell half of their cows in order to pay for amputation and a prosthetic. But it wasn't enough money, so the doctors cheaped out and he'll forever have a limp. For as long as he can remember, his family has never had enough money for him and all his brothers.
Apparently it's his fault.
But he never asked to be born crippled.
Nobody has expectations for Bryce, because he supposedly can't do anything right, and when they do, the bar has been set to high for him to ever cross. Because he's the youngest, and he'll never walk properly again, he's a prime target for everything. His parents lash out at him over the littlest of things. They strike him down, spit in his face, scratch at his arms, and they'll even step on his foot so he can't get back up again.
His four older brothers mock him as he limps by, and he pretends not to notice. Sometimes, they show up in his little cramped room in the attic, asking him if he can do some chore he knows they're too lazy to spend time on. Fix the fence, feed the cows, organize the barn. The whole time, Bryce carries on with his chores as expected, and he acts like his brothers aren't giggling to themselves about how worthless he is and that he should just give up.
He's come close in the past.
But he pushes forward.
What Bryce knows that his family doesn't is there's a secret trapdoor in the corner of the barn, covered with haybales. Underneath is a little bunker, only big enough for one person. He doesn't keep much down there, only a few rations and his precious stack of money. When the going gets tough and he finds himself in a dire situation, he sneaks into town to buy whatever he needs to keep afloat. Most of the time, his portions are smaller than everyone else's, and he's extremely lucky if there will be second helpings.
After all, he's the runt. Why would they waste precious necessities on him?
Sometimes, the hunger is too much to bear, and Bryce has to sneak out into town when everyone is too buys to keep an eye on him, then buy the first thing that catches his eye. They say he's clumsy, but after eighteen years of limps, Bryce has learned how to travel without making a sound. He may be at a physical disadvantage, but that never stopped him before.
It won't stop him now.
After another visit into town, Bryce is stopped by a butcher. "Say, kid. Come here often?"
"Sometimes. Why?"
The butcher sizes him up. For a teenager, Bryce is surprisingly large. But his entire family is like that. It always amuses him the double take people do when he passes by. He wonders to himself how they'd react if they ran into one of his older and well-fed brothers.
"Kid, how old are you?"
"I turn 15 in a week."
"15!" The butcher laughs. "What are they feeding ya?"
"Actually, not much."
The laughter stops and the butcher frowns. "Oh...oh dear."
"Yeah, I know."
"So, what are you doing here anyways?"
"Buying supplies," Bryce says as he gestures to his prosthetic. And maybe something to eat along the way."
"Where do you get the money?"
Bryce just shrugs; no way is he going to tell this stranger that he gets his precious coins by stealing them behind his parents's backs.
"Have you ever gotten a job before?"
"No." Bryce glances down at his feet.
"Well...would you like one?"
"Really?" Bryce gasps. Is this a sick joke? Or is this butcher just pitying him? Or, does he actually want to hire him? "You want to hire me?"
"Well, how good are you with the slaughterhouse."
He's never actually worked in a slaughterhouse before. "I'm a fast learner."
"Is that so? Mind if I put that to the test?"
"So I'm hired?"
"Is the sky blue?"
Bryce just smirks. The next day, he's shown up almost an hour early, eager to just leave the house. He wants to prove that he deserves this job and the money. He's worth something, in this butcher's eyes.
He spends his days slicing up thick cuts of meat straight from the cow. It's bloody brutal work, and it occasionally makes him a little sick, but it pays. Plus, the others in the slaughterhouse says that the queasiness makes him human. If he still feels a bit of remorse at the end of the day for what he's done, then he's not a monster.
Occasionally, he comes home with a little bit of blood of his white shirt. His brothers just cackle and joke among themselves. "Who beat you up now, Brycey? Did you fight back? Of course you didn't. Look at you, you're lame!"
His parents just scowl and they send him back upstairs to change into something more respectable, something that doesn't scream family disgrace.
He gets Reaped in his last year and nobody volunteers for him.
Chase Reynolds, aged 24
He was Reaped for the 69th Hunger Games.
He was street kid that stole for a living, and sometimes for the fun of it. He was also involved in gangs and gambling rings too, such as the Mekotas. He never put any effort into anything, and he only existed to please himself. He was selfish and bitter. Chase didn't need friends. He didn't need anyone. He lived the life of a lone wolf, and he'd die one as well.
He put no effort into training, he only scored a 3. He said nothing during his entire interview. His mentor, Doella Rhumes, was beyond exasperated with him. It didn't take long before Chase was marked as a Bloodbath. Dead in a heartbeat, the Capitol said.
Yet he made it past the first day.
Three Careers died that day too.
He killed one of them.
Suddenly, people were paying attention.
Fourteen tributes died in the Bloodbath. Chase was not one of them. He took his kill and ran. Then he hid. And then people forgot about him again.
In the 75th Hunger Games, Chase snickers to himself as he runs through the jungle, tripping over every little tree branch and stepping on every single patch of dirt. This was how he won, after all. he just kept his head down so nobody would notice him. And when the time was right, he came out with fire in his soul and fury in his fists.
He pummeled those stupid Careers to death. Bows, spears, and swords were all useless against him, pressing his entire weight down on their bodies as he broke their faces and spilled their blood. he'd happily do it again. Survival is merely a game and Chase plays with the intent to win.
He doesn't make friends with these Victors. He doesn't speak to them or even look them in the eye. He only talks to Doella and sometimes even she can't be bothered to put up with him. The other Victors gather in their little cliques and whisper about the strange boy amongst them.
He's a tricky one, that Chase Reynolds is.
Maybe, Plutarch thinks to himself as he rubs his chin, maybe, they just might have their mockingjay.
They should've asked him.
Chase would happily sacrifice his right arm to be their mockingjay. To be the little sweet-singing bird that takes the Capitol down. And why not? He did everything a Victor wasn't supposed to do in his Games. He should very well be dead ten times over yet here he is.
But no, they went with that chick with the braided hair. What was her name again? Everest-green? Well, it doesn't matter. Her and Loverboy. They're the face of this new movement and Chase is just some nameless Victor who goes down as another casualty in the Hunger Games.
He's safe, for now. The jungle is merciless. So many people he knows have died. Friends turned on friends. Chase openly wept last night when he saw Doella's face shining in the sky. His beloved mentor, dead and gone. Things were not supposed to be this way. They thought for their right to live, only to have to do it all again.
And he's next to die.
The sad thing is, who will remember Chase when he dies?
He has no family, he has no friends. He does not matter to Katniss Everdeen; she will carry not torch for him. She doesn't even know his name. He'll just be another record in the history books. Another dead tribute who won one Games and lost another. District 10 will mourn when his body is shipped back home, but they will soon forget.
When Chase finally succumbs, everything the people know about him will die at his side.
He starts running again, this time from his regrets. He should've done better, could've done better. He should've introduced himself to those victors, march right up to Plutarch and demand his rightful role of mockingjay. He should be standing arm-in-arm with Finnick Odair, because Katniss is everything and they need to get her out of the arena alive.
He's a dead man walking anyways, why not sacrifice himself for the greater good?
As much as Chase talks himself up, he's really nothing but a coward. He fears human interaction. He belittles his tributes and fires back every little nitpick and insult he can, because it's better than growing attached and having your heart ripped out. It's better to keep to himself, because people can hurt him in all sorts of ways.
Chase is afraid of caring.
He's afraid of getting close to someone, letting them know he loves them. He's afraid of the stinging guilt that comes with the screams as he watches them get ripped away. He's always been a self-absorbed mobster, because it repels anyone who would ever be true to him.
Maybe, it's not too late for him to love.
But he's got nothing left.
His feet grow weary, but he hears a loud roar and he doesn't dare look back. There's a beast lurking in the trees. It's after him, and he knows. So Chase continues to run as fast as he can because he doesn't really want to die. Not just yet. Not when he's got so much he's leaving behind.
But he can't keep going.
He can't...
Not anymore...
He feels a sharp talon at his heels and Chase reminds himself there are no victors in Panem.
Only survivors.
And even survivors eventually die.
Finally, next chapter will have us back in relevant-characters-who-actually-get-their-names-revealed territory!