A/N

I wasn't sure whether I'd get this chapter finished for Sunday, but I ended up writing each pov a lot quicker than expected so here we are with our first introduction chapter! In our first look at tributes, we will be introduced to Ragnar Hellstorm (submitted by harley00), Anise Montague (submitted by Remus98) and Kazimir Ilyushin (submitted by TheWatcherofTheVoid). Thanks to their submitters; you all did such an incredible job of making these tributes as I found them so natural to write for!

I hope you enjoy our first three tributes!

Ragnar Hellstorm, 18, District Two Male

The hardest punches always came from the hardest of hearts.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your stance, the young boy on the other side of the punchbag had a pretty squishy heart. The want was there, but the need was not.

"Why are you fighting?" Ragnar probed, barely tensing as he held the punchbag steady.

"To train for when the Games come back," replied the kid between panting breaths as punch after punch landed squarely in the centre of the punchbag, yet each missing its true potential.

"Why?" Ragnar pushed, almost spitting the word.

The boy's face was contorted into a frown; sweat dripping between the creases in his forehead as he focused on both Ragnar's interrogation and his own punches.

"To bring glory back to my District."

With a sudden and swift movement, Ragnar swung the bag to the side without warning, causing the boy to stumble forwards as his fists ploughed into thin air. Bemused, he looked up at Ragnar, wiping away the sweat that was trickling into his eyes.

"Wrong answer," Ragnar spoke bluntly. "Try again."

"Erm," the boy choked for both oxygen and an answer as he caught his breath, his hands pushed against his thighs with his back bent over. "I want fame –I want money. I want people to know my name."

"There," Ragnar pointed his finger directly towards the boy. "That's your motivation. None of that glory bullshit. You're doing this for you."

Having caught his breath, the younger boy started nodding his head, enthusiasm bubbling inside his veins. He began to jog lightly on the spot, his hands pulled up in a fighting stance as he muttered the same words over and over to himself.

I'm doing this for me. I'm doing this for me.

"Now go get 'em!" Ragnar encouraged, slapping the boy on the back.

With encouragement from his trainer, the boy sped over to the centre of the gym where he practically leapt into the boxing ring, actively seeking a challenger.

As Ragnar watched the boy engage in a sparring match against one of the other younger boys, he leant back against the dusty wooden walls of The Institute and ran a hand through his closely cropped hair.

Ragnar often found himself taking a step back and watching the action. He was a God and this was his Earth; his creation. From the sawdust-coated floors to the wonky lightbulb that sometimes flickered enough for him to consider changing it, every inch of the makeshift gym belonged to Ragnar.

In a world where he hadn't belonged, he had built himself something that would belong to him.

A pitstop between normalcy and the Academy, Ragnar had advertised The Institute as a place where kids could train in case the Games returned. With the Academy having narrowed its pool of trainees, Ragnar included, there had been the perfect gap in the market to both provide a service and line his bare pockets. And for the past few years, it had provided more than just a revenue stream.

It had provided a purpose.

Ragnar was happy.

Or as happy as he could expect himself to ever be.

"Hey, Ragnar!" one of his female students called him over, waving her slender arm to catch his attention.

Straightening himself up, Ragnar walked over to the other side of the gym, where a small congregation had gathered by the water fountain.

"Problem?" Ragnar enquired, folding his arms across his chest.

"No," replied the girl who had called him over. "We were just wondering about the Games."

The Hunger Games. Both their presence and their absence had provided a saving grace during Ragnar's tormented life. In another part of his life the Games had handed him an escape route from the taunts of his home, yet as simply as he had been given a taste of freedom it had been taken away. There was a time when having the Academy's doors shut in his face would have broken Ragnar, but those times were but intangible memories now. He had turned the absence of the Games to his favour, and without them he was thriving.

In fact, the cancellation of the Games was pretty much the best thing to have happened to Ragnar –minus a few details.

"They're coming back, you know," the girl seemed pleased, with a small smirk sliding onto her thin lips.

Ragnar nodded. He'd seen the announcement, everyone had. And he couldn't say that it had brought him much joy –actually, the complete opposite feeling had been stirred.

"I know," he replied simply.

"Are you going to volunteer then?" the girl quizzed, and at once the eyes of all the other kids in The Institute were focused on him.

"Of course he's going to volunteer!" one of the bulkier boys retorted. "He's Ragnar Hellstorm!"

"Yeah, he trained us all!"

"He's the best by far!"

"Gotta show us how it's done!"

Ragnar's mind raced as the words of encouragement swarmed through his ear canals. A sickening sense of dread rose in the back of his throat, scorching him like bile. This hadn't been a part of his plan; he hadn't factored in the Games into his new life. Sure, he was training kids for the Games, but he never actually believed that they'd come back, especially not when he was still eligible reaping age.

The life he had so carefully constructed was now crumbling in his palms.

"Of course I'm volunteering," Ragnar managed to say at last, forcing as much enthusiasm as he could muster into his words.

As the group of young trainees cheered, Ragnar found himself painting a false smile onto his face as inside his body was trembling. There had been a point in his life where he would have happily strolled into that arena, but that was before he had seen glimpses of the person he could become.

Ragnar did not want to add to the blood on his hands.

Though it seemed as though he may have lost the privilege of choice.

By the time the final kid had left The Institute for the night and Ragnar had slid the bolts across the door, he was exhausted.

Exhausted both mentally and physically, Ragnar's entire body ached for release. He could hold in his emotions for the sake of his public image, but there was a limit on how long the rage would remain under his control.

And in that precise moment, time had run out.

Feeling a scream tearing from his lungs, Ragnar flew into a frenzied state. His fists collided with every solid object he could find; sending punchbags swinging and benches toppling over. He finally stopped tearing his gym apart when his knuckles shattered a stained mirror leaning against the back wall.

"Ragnar?" the sweetness in Marcella's voice cut seamlessly through the anger and the pain inside Ragnar's mind. "Ragnar, what's wrong?"

He flinched as his girlfriend lay her fingers on his forearm where blood trickled down from his slashed hands. Crimson streams ran over the ink that decorated his skin.

"I don't…" Ragnar started, catching the break at the back of his throat. "I don't want to do it."

"Do what, babe?" Marcella lifted her hand to cup the side of Ragnar's face.

"Volunteer for the Games," he replied, laying his hand over Marcella's. Her soft skin was warm to touch.

"Then don't," said Marcella simply. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

Ragnar shook his head.

"But I do," he insisted. "They all expect me to –I'm their trainer. I'd be making a bad example if I didn't. I'd look weak –no one wants to be trained by someone weak."

"You are not weak," said Marcella with honesty in her kind eyes. "You are stronger than you think."

Ragnar let out a small breath.

"That's the problem."

Ragnar may have given himself wings; he just hadn't realised until now that they were clipped.

Anise Montague, 18, District Eleven Female

The silken sheets tickled Anise's smooth skin lightly as she rolled over, feeling Cassian stir behind her. His gentle snores disturbed the otherwise tranquil haze of the blissful phase between sleep and consciousness. As Anise broke further away from the safety of slumber, she became aware of the pulsating pains in the front of her head and the feeling of fatigue that seeped into her limbs.

Softly swearing under her breath, Anise propped herself up onto her elbows, reaching out to the marble-top table beside the bed. As she reached for the crystal glass that still had about a finger-depth of raspberry vodka in it, Anise noticed that her hand was trembling ever so slightly.

"Fuck," she whispered, shaking her hand and then making a second attempt at a grasp of the glass.

Her fingers wrapped around the cool glass, bringing it up towards her lips. The taste was sweet at first; the fruity taste of the raspberries hit her tastebuds before being quickly replaced with the familiar burning sensation that trickled like liquid fire down her throat as she swallowed.

It was early for a drink, perhaps, but her anxieties weren't bound by the limits of time.

"Morning, beautiful," Cassian's sleep-imbued words beckoned Anise.

She turned her head to peer over her shoulder, concealing a smirk at his bed-ruffled hair that was plastered to his forehead.

"It's afternoon, actually," she corrected him, having glanced towards the clock which displayed the time 12:27.

"In that case, good afternoon, beautiful," Cassian rephrased, the tips of his nipples peering over the bedsheets as he stretched his arms above his head.

Cassian, like a lot of young men in the Capitol, was rather pleasing to the eye. Carefully constructed muscles clung to his slender frame, and a jawline that could slice through steel set his almost angelic features in prime display. Despite his obvious charms, Anise hadn't initially sought out Cassian as a bedfellow –in fact, their relationship had started with quite a sour taste. As rivals in the entertainment industry, Anise and Cassian had clashed until they had been forced by their respective managers to release a song together. Naturally, the duet was a hit in the Capitol, which led to endless interviews together and well, one too many drinks had led to one too many nights together.

Now, Cassian was one of the only consistencies in Anise's life. Cassian, and a bottle of vodka.

"Are you going to come closer, or am I going to have to drag you back here myself?" teased Cassian, nudging Anise with a gentle prod to her thigh.

Anise shrugged, tossing her hair behind her shoulders so her soft curls bounced lusciously against her bare back. "I guess you'll have to drag me."

With a low snarl, Cassian edged closer, his lean arms sliding around Anise's waist. Anise allowed her eyelids to flutter shut as Cassian drew himself up behind her, his bare skin hot against her own, as he planted kisses along her shoulders, tucking her hair out of the way so that he could run his tongue along the delicacies of her neck.

Physical affection was like a drug to Anise. Pleasure helped to numb her, taking her to a place where she only felt good. She had a fair idea that Cassian felt the same way and in some twisted manner of kindness, Anise was helping him to numb his own problems. Over time Anise suspected that Cassian had developed feelings for her; she could tell by the softness in his eyes that sometimes snuck past the desire, though she didn't return the sentiment. She couldn't ; letting someone in would only hurt the both of them. And Cassian was already too close.

"So, when do you go back to Eleven?" Cassian asked curiously as his lips left Anise's silky skin.

Anise sighed, shuffling over to the edge of the bed where she swung her legs out and tucked her feet into a pair of excessively fluffy slippers.

"Next week," she replied, slipping her arms into a silk robe that draped across her body, covering her modesties but leaving enough on show to rouse Cassian further.

"Are you nervous?" questioned Cassian, propping himself up on his side and watching Anise as she padded lightly around the bedroom.

"No," she lied.

It wasn't a complete lie - Anise was always nervous, though not necessarily about the Hunger Games. Her feelings towards their return was more of anger than of fear. The absence of the Games had given Anise the chance to flourish in the Capitol – her singing career had blossomed for the past five years and it only seemed to be getting better. She was a celebrity; a star.

But now her success was threatened, regardless of whether she was reaped or not. The details of her birth had been hushed since her last visit to District Eleven five years ago; her management needn't have known that she was only half Capitol blood. Without the need to maintain ties to her birthplace, why should anyone have questioned Anise's right to a life of luxury? Yet now, as her father had received a letter summoning Anise back to Eleven for the reapings, it seemed as though the truth had peered out from beneath its cloak.

What would Flutterfield Records think of Anise's truth? Would they cancel her record deal, deeming her to be a tainted commodity?

Anise may have been born in Eleven to a peasant mother, but it was her Capitol father who had raised her and given her a better life away from the District. It was a Capitolite that Anise saw herself to be.

But it was what others would think that scared her.

"I can't imagine what a reaping would be like," pondered Cassian. "Like what it would really be like."

"Lucky you never have to experience one," snapped Anise.

"Anise, sorry I—"

"Aniiiiiiise!" the shrill voice of Reyna echoed from behind her bedroom door. "We're here, darling!"

That seemed to constitute as a knock as the door flew open mere moments later, and Reyna hurried into the room, quickly followed by Rayla.

Anise's managers seemed somewhat uncomfortable by the physical state of the room, which Anise admittedly took little care of. Rayla muttered under her breath as she picked up an empty vodka bottle, returning it to the table quickly.

"Why hello, dearest Cassian," Reyna smiled towards him. "What a surprise to see you here. How's your mother?"

Cassian's smile turned sour at the mention of his mother. Mabel Bouchard was the owner of Flutterfield Records, however she had been recently bedridden after contracting an illness no medical practitioner could yet identify the cause of. In her absence, the company was being run by her niece, Honey, a one-hit-wonder who seemed a little bitter about her own failing career and instead benefitted from the success of her cousin, Cassian, and Anise. His mother's illness was likely the reason why Cassian had seemed so low and in need of a distraction –one which Anise had willingly provided.

Before he could even respond, Rayla had thrown Cassian's clothes at him.

"Cassian, we love you, but you must leave," she instructed. "We need to get Anise ready –she is singing at the summer gala this afternoon. We are already running late!"

Anise found herself being ushered from the bedroom and into the large dressing room adjacent, where her stylist and the much more preferable employee of Flutterfield Records, Wilhemina, was waiting.

"You'll need to get her ready in double time," Reyna dictated. "Make sure she's wearing the lavender mask –it matches with the colour scheme of the gala."

"Of course, I'll work my magic," smiled Wilhemina as the two managers retreated towards the kitchen in search of something to snack on that wouldn't ruin their appetite.

As soon as the two women were out of sight, Wilhemina beckoned Anise over.

"Before we get you ready, I just wanted to show you this," she whispered, unzipping a covering to reveal the most stunning deep blue dress, with sapphires spilling in beaded lengths down the open back.

Anise gasped. "It's finished!"

Wilhemina nodded. "It arrived this morning. Is it how you imagined?"

Anise nodded. "It's perfect."

Whilst the dress itself brought Anise immense joy, the purpose behind it did not. It was a dress she had commissioned from her favourite designer in the Capitol; made especially for the reaping. Other than Cassian and her father, Wilhemina was the only other person who currently knew about Anise's ties to Eleven. Though she knew that would have to change next week when she would have to leave the safety of the Capitol and return to the place she had turned her back on years ago.

Between gossips, Wilhemina helped to prepare Anise for the gala. She made light work of her hair and makeup, opting for an effortless but elegant look to match her lavender gown.

"Now, the final touch," smiled Wilhemina, holding out a mask in her slender hands.

Anise took it, running her fingertips across its jewel-encrusted surface. In the shape of a butterfly, the mask was the key to Anise's persona. To hide her true self, she had decided she must become someone else.

And so she became Mariposa.

A stage name; Mariposa never revealed her face to the public. Her voice was enough to carry her through her career, and it was apparent that the Capitol adored the mystery that surrounded her –it only made her more enticing. A win-win situation, it seemed.

Holding the mask up to her face, Anise carefully tied the ribbon at the back of her head, securing the mask in place. Walking up to the nearest mirror, Anise took one final look at herself and sighed.

If only I were a real butterfly.

Kazimir Ilyushin, 18, District Twelve Male

Kazimir watched as clouds of smoke rose from the stone chimney. At first they remained close together, the particles clinging together for protection. But then as the little clouds rose higher, they disbanded until they were little more than individual specs that became invisible to the human eye.

The smoke was a lot like people, Kazimir thought. They tended to stay close at first, but at one point or another someone would always break the trust, causing the group to shatter and scatter back into the nothingness they came from.

If one thing was certain in life, it was that you couldn't trust anyone.

Humans, by their own nature, were selfish creatures. Driven by power and greed, they had little remorse for the consequences of their own blind actions.

Kazimir did not claim that he was better than the rest of humanity. No, he knew that he was seeping with sin. But what he did believe was that it wasn't his fault. He was a by-product of a corrupt society; he simply did what he had to do to survive. Anyone else in his position would have done the same.

Perhaps not Day, but Day was different.

Kazimir looked over at his best friend, whose attention was focused on the scrap of paper in his hands, which he was folding with precision. His dark hair hung across his face, his lips pulled into a tight line. Day was usually full of energy; reckless energy, admittedly, but it was an energy that Kazimir admired.

"I just can't believe it," Day muttered, shaking his head. "Ren's gone."

"Maybe he's away on business," Kazimir suggested weakly, knowing it unlikely to be true. "He might be back."

Day rose his head, his grey eyes looking solemnly towards Kazimir.

"Kaz, it's been weeks," he stressed. "Ren would never be away that long. And after Lukan… it just feels off, you know?"

Kazimir nodded slowly, choosing not to speak.

Lukan had been killed by the other rebels in the group Kazimir and Day were a part of. They had suspected him of being a traitor, feeding names within the group to Peacekeepers who would then make them 'disappear'. Since Lukan's death the group had been on edge, the uneasiness only increasing a few weeks ago when Ren, a closer member of the group to Kazimir and Day, had become the latest rebel to disappear despite the assumed 'traitor' having been taken care of.

The walls were closing in, it seemed. And Kazimir's back was up against them.

"Fuck," Day swore, sighing heavily. "I wish we could just fly the hell outta this shithole."

He threw the paper violently. Having been folded into the shape of a plane, the paper cut through the clouded air of District Twelve cleanly, before flying off the edge of the rooftop and drifting lightly towards the streets below.

"Remember our plans to fly away?" said Kazimir, reminding Day of their earlier adolescence.

Day nodded. "We'd sketch out designs for our own plane."

"We tried to build one, remember?" Kazimir chuckled lightly at the memory of their failed attempt of escape.

"Yeah," Day nodded, the temporary smile on his face dropping back into a concerned frown. "Didn't work."

It didn't work, that was true, but that wasn't the point. The hope that had come with the plans had been intoxicating. Kazimir relished the feeling of nostalgia; he often found himself wishing that he could retreat into his memories, back to a time when he and Day would surround themselves in wild dreams. Dreams of escaping their realities; dreams of living a better life. But that's all they were: dreams. As Kazimir grew older, he came to realise that dreams had no place in the reality of the darkened world they were trapped in.

Kazimir's vision was dark, though Day provided him with enough light to crawl his way through the tunnel.

Thinking about light, Kazimir noticed that the sun was getting low.

"I gotta go," he said suddenly, rising to his feet.

"Where you goin'?" asked Day, his legs moving beneath him as though he was about to follow.

"My Mom's waiting for me," he lied. "It's her birthday."

Day, ever trusting of Kazimir, seemed to believe him.

"Wish her a happy birthday from me," he said with a small smile.

Kazimir nodded. "Of course. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure."

Kazimir made his way carefully off the rooftop, dropping down onto the muddied street with a small thud. He scowled as brown water sloshed onto his boots, seeping between the cracks in his soles. He hated District Twelve, just as he hated almost everything else in Panem.

As Kazimir made his way down the shadowed streets of Twelve, passing seamlessly between the roughly built houses, he passed a number of torn posters slapped to the sides of dusty walls, or sodden lying in a puddle with the words barely readable.

Let the truth free you.

Kazimir wasn't much of a fan of The Candid. The mysterious cloaked figures who clung to power throughout Panem were, ironically, far from trustworthy in Kazimir's opinion. That being said, he did admire the group's ability to devote themselves to a purpose. As with rebel groups, such as the one Kazimir had reluctantly allowed Day to drag him into, the commitment to a cause to the point where you would even die for it was a concept Kazimir only wished he could relate to.

Alas, Kazimir was far too afraid of death to overcome his cowardice.

In the distance, the rendezvous loomed. Tucked away behind a cluster of quiet buildings, Kazimir spent many evenings loitering in the darkness, waiting.

Today was one of those evenings.

Checking that he was unwatched, or as far as he could tell, Kazimir slipped into the shadows. About halfway down the alley, he stopped, propping himself against the wall.

He waited.

After a few minutes, maybe ten to fifteen, a figure joined him. His blue Peacekeeper armour was just about visible in the dwindling light as he struck up a cigarette and leant against the opposite wall.

"What have ya got for me then?" the Peacekeeper asked after taking a few long drags.

Kazimir coughed as the passive smoke leaked into his lungs.

"I'm getting something," replied Kazimir. "Just give me a little more time, I'm really close, promise."

The Peacekeeper shook his head, disappointed.

"Nah, I need more than that," he insisted. "You did good with the last name, but that's history now."

Kazimir felt his stomach tighten at the reminder of the last time he had met with a man in the shadows.

"I'm onto something big," Kazimir tried to sweeten the Peacekeeper with false promises. "It'll be worth the wait. Might even get you a promotion."

"Go on," urged the Peacekeeper. "What you got?"

Kazimir fell into a casual posture, aware that his shoulders had been tensing up.

"A plot," he said with confidence as lies fell from his tongue. "An attack during the reaping."

"The reaping?" the Peacekeeper was intrigued, taking another drag of his cigarette and breathing the smoke directly into Kazimir's face.

Wafting away the smoke from his eyes, Kazimir nodded. "Yeah, I've heard word that a group of rebels are planning to infiltrate the Justice Building on the morning of the reaping."

"Got any names?" the Peacekeeper pushed. "I need names."

Kazimir felt his fingers twitching at his sides.

"I'm working on it," he insisted. "I need to get a little closer to the group to find out exactly who is involved. Don't wanna be giving you the fall-guy and not the ringleader, right?"

The Peacekeeper flicked his cigarette onto the floor, crushing it under the soles of his heavy boots.

"You're outliving your usefulness, boy," he said with a threatening tone to his voice. "If you can't come up with some names soon then I'll no longer have a need to keep you around. If you know what I mean."

Kazimir glanced quickly down at the trodden cigarette, swallowing the lump at the back of his throat.

"I'll have names before the reaping," he said, knowing that he would need to pick a handful of unfortunate victims to fuel his lie. "Give me five days, that's all I need."

"Three."

"Four?"

The Peacekeeper huffed. "Fine, four days. But if you don't have what I want then it will be the last mistake you make."

"I won't let you down," Kazimir forced a smile onto his lips.

"Better not," replied the Peacekeeper, before straightening his armour and walking away, his figure disappearing into the distance.

Taking his leave too, Kazimir walked with haste. Retracing his steps, he made his way back towards his home, where he knew his mother would be before heading out to work for the night.

Along the way he passed Day's house, where the two of them had been sat upon the rooftop merely an hour ago. Day seemed to have left the rooftop, though Kazimir didn't wish to pay his friend's home a visit. As much as he enjoyed spending time with Day, it never felt right to sit beside him after trading lies with a Peacekeeper. At least a night dwelling on his actions would give him the time to convince himself that he'd done the right thing –the right thing for his survival, anyway. Besides, he needed to maintain the lie he had told his friend about it being his mother's birthday.

Though as he walked past Day's house, keeping his head bent low, Kazimir noticed something sticking out of a puddle.

It was Day's paper plane.

Bending down, Kazimir picked up the delicate structure, his heart sinking as it fell apart in his hands.

One day we'll fly away, he promised, though it was a promise he knew he could not keep.

A/N

Our first three tributes have landed! What are your initial thoughts on them?

Ragnar isn't the typical Career tribute; he has a substantial amount of training behind him, but it is clear that he doesn't wish to volunteer. Why is he so afraid of entering the Games, and what could have happened in his past to have made him wary of the person he may become?

Anise is struggling to balance two lives; her roots in District Eleven have come to mix with her life in the Capitol. Why does she feel the need to wear a mask and what will come of Mariposa on her return to her birthplace?

Kazimir is walking a dangerous line. As the true traitor within the group, will the guilt of his actions catch up with him? Will Day ever discover the truth?

Thank you to everyone for your continued support -a shoutout to both Remus98 and Reign of Winter for catching up on reviews! And thank you to everyone else for continuing to read and support this story. You guys are awesome!

I am thrilled to have started introducing these tributes; I am still amazed by how incredible each and every one of them are. I hope you enjoy getting to know them as much as I'm enjoying writing for them!

Next chapter will introduce another three of our tributes. I have some important professional exams in the next week or two, so I apologise in advance if I am unable to update on Sunday; I'll see how much time I can find!

Until next time,

Firefly.