A/N

After a short break I am back with the next instalment of intros for MoS! It was such a relief to spend some time writing instead of revising for exams, and after my final exam this Friday (which, admittedly I don't have to revise as much for as the previous two), I cannot wait to get back into MoS properly with some more blog updates and plans for the rest of the story.

But for now, I have the pleasure of introducing three more of the incredible tributes in MoS. Say hello to Circe Sirona (submitted by ASlytheringSlytherin), Cameron Alcatraz (submitted by Pacecca) and Matthew Kwon (submitted by Alecxias). Thank you to their submitters for yet another group of great tributes!

Circe Sirona, 18, District Four Female

When she was older, Circe Sirona was a sailor, on an open sea.

The waves in their mighty strength would crash against the sides of her rowboat, clawing at the smooth wooden surface with their insatiable desire to take. Take, take, take it all, the ocean would. It had tried to take Circe once, in the life she currently walked. Its all-consuming body had engulfed her, just a small, oblivious child. It had filled her lungs; tried to possess her from the inside-out. Helpless, she had tried to cry out, though her words were lost to the expanse of water. Cold, cold water. It suffocated her, froze the blood that flowed within her veins, edging towards the epicentre.

But that was just a new beginning of an old end.

Where was Circe Sirona now?

Wherever the ocean was not.

"Oh look, she's at it again," the insufferable complaints of her mother echoed somewhere in the background. "Promoting the Games and saying how we're better off with them back. Well I could have told them that!"

"But no one would listen to you, Aracely" a deeper voice that reeked of toxic masculinity responded. The voice of Circe's father, in fact. "You're a whiny bitch who needs to lower their tone by at least an octave or two."

Silence.

"Well, I just don't see why everyone listens to her," Aracely continued. "She's basically still a child."

"She sounds far less childish than you do."

A huff. "Just wait and see the respect I'll be able to command when Circe wipes that smug smile off Risa's face. Assuming that Circe is even paying attention."

Circe glanced up from her bowl, where she had been tracing her spoon between the precisely cut pieces of fruit that filled it. Her mother's face was taut with disappointment her judgemental eyes cast over her hazy state. Circe knew that her mother blamed her and her twin for the fact that the Sirona reputation was hanging by a thread, and as much as Circe hated her parents for what she and Cephus had been put through, she also accepted the blame.

In not one, but two lifetimes, Circe had failed her parents. She sometimes wondered whether it was an inescapable fate; if whether she was destined to continue to fail those around her –like Madeline. She had failed Madeline once before, and perhaps she would do it again.

But with each life came opportunity. The benefit of being able to see the truth was that Circe now knew where her past self had gone wrong, which gave her the chance to put things right. She would win the Games, restore her parents' reputation, gain Madeline's forgiveness and rescue Cephus from themselves.

And if not, then she would simply try again in the next life.

"Tell me, what did I do to deserve such anguish?" groaned Aracely, then taking an elegant sip from her delicately painted china mug. "We all knew that Cephus never stood a chance, but to spread that…foolishness to their sister! Why? Just look at her, Euphrates, she's a delusional mess!"

Circe gazed at her parents with a face void of expression. A dark aura sounded them, cloaking their silhouettes with a misty hue.

"Those who do not see the truth are the delusional ones," Circe muttered almost silently; her voice a hoarse whisper as she felt her comforting haze begin to loosen its embrace.

Her mother cried out. "One of our children won't shut the fuck up, and the other speaks in riddles. Honestly, Circe, you are making me age quicker. Unless you win these Games I swear I will enter an early grave."

"At least then I wouldn't have to put up with your fucking complaining," hissed Euphrates, swiping his jacket from the coatrack and sliding his arms into it. Without telling his wife or daughter where he was going, he quickly exited the house.

Aracely met Circe's eyes with a narrowed glare.

"You'd better pull yourself together, Circe," her mother almost spat the words towards her. "This family depends on you winning these Games. I know you're ranking well in the Academy, but you need to push yourself more or they won't offer you the volunteering spot. I cannot have you failing like Cephus –you are my last chance. Understand?"

Circe nodded, though her head felt heavy as her neck muscles contracted.

She was slipping.

"I'm going to the Academy," she said finally, standing up from the breakfast table.

"Oh good," replied her mother as Circe slid her feet into her boots. "I need to pick out my outfit for Cordelia's party tonight. Oh! Is that a grey hair? No, it can't be…"

The sound of her mother's soul-sucking voice slowly faded into the background as Circe passed silently through the front door of the Sirona mansion. Despite their flagging reputation, the Sirona's still possessed enough wealth and influence to maintain their physical presence in the higher social rankings of District Four, and keep Circe and Cephus enrolled in the Academy.

The walk to the Academy was one Circe had walked many times before. As she passed the rows of established houses, the colours in the sky began to leak into each other like blood. This life did possess some beauty, Circe thought, though it was tainted by the pain and suffering that was stitched into the fibres of her temporary being. She hoped that she would not live in this life for too long; perhaps the next life would bring more pleasantries than this one had to offer?

As she neared the Academy, a gust nearly knocked her off her feet.

"Sister! My sweet pea, the apple of my eye!" Cephus Sirona looped an arm around Circe's. "Why so forlorn, my seahorse? What must I do to bring joy to your beautiful face?"

Circe looked up at her twin with a heaviness in her heart. Cephus was the one true goodness in this life; the one thing that tethered her to this plain of existence. Circe did not care for her own life, as she knew she had many more to come, though she cared deeply for Cephus'.

"Tell me you're not going to the Academy?" Cephus' face pulled into a frown.

Circe did not reply.

"Whoa, stop right there, young whippersnapper!" Cephus exclaimed suddenly, leaping in front of Circe and holding her still with their hands planted firmly on her shoulders. The sleeves of their crisp cream blouse pulled back slightly, revealing a scattering of tiny bruises across their wrists.

"Cephus, I need to train," said Circe, quickly pressing her lips together before adding her true intentions.

I need to see Madeline.

"No, no, you think you need to train," insisted Cephus. "But, luckily for you, dearest sister, I can think for the both of us–you know, twin sense and all that. And I think… I think…indeed… aha! We shall go and have ice cream! Yes –ice cream! What an excellent suggestion."

With a swift nudge, Circe felt herself being pulled by Cephus towards the ice cream parlour that stood on the corner of street.

With a flamboyant flourish, Cephus swung open the door to the parlour, nearly sending the bell that hung above the door soaring across the room.

"What flavour would you like, my sea cucumber?" asked Cephus, perusing the large selection. "Perhaps a white raspberry? Lemon sorbet? Matcha? Oh fuck it, we'll take a scoop of all of them!"

The young girl behind the counter raised her eyebrows at Cephus' request, asking them to clarify that they did in fact want a scoop of every available flavour. After a sincere nod from Cephus, the girl searched for the largest tub she could find before loading it up scoop after scoop.

Meanwhile, Circe found herself staring at the rest of the parlour. Couples sat opposite each other, happily enjoying their frozen treats, seemingly immune to the suffering Circe knew too well. Perhaps in the next life Circe could bring Madeline to a place like this.

Madeline.

The world was beginning to slide from Circe's grip. She was certain that Madeline had loved her once, yet as the bustle of this life rang in her ears, Circe began to feel as though she was forgetting how it felt to be loved by Madeline.

She was also remembering how it felt to drown.

Panicked, Circe dashed from the parlour, the outside air hitting her like a brick wall. She could taste salt on her lips and a coldness was spreading through her limbs as her legs began to quake beneath her. She fumbled in her pockets, her trembling fingers finally wrapping around a small packet.

Pulling the packet from her pocket, Circe shakily poured a small mound of powder into her palm. Bringing it to her nose, she allowed the drug to enter her body.

As she waited for the numbness to seep through her, Circe closed her eyes.

When she was older, Circe Sirona was a sailor, on an open sea.

She would not drown today.

Cameron Alcatraz, 16, District Seven Male

"A bag of carrots too, please," Cameron requested politely, reaching into his pocket to pull out the collection of coins his mother had given him.

With a quick glance at the money in his palm, Cameron was pleased to see that he had the exact amount of money required without the need for any change. Small things like that brought a smile to his face, which remained present on his lips as he exchanged the paper bag of vegetables for the handful of coins.

"Thank you," he nodded quickly, holding the bag close to his chest as he turned to leave the store. The storeowner replied with a pleasant farewell as Cameron slipped past the collection of customers and back outside.

It was a pleasant day. The sun was shining through a light veil of clouds, subduing the temperature to a mild and comforting embrace. The central town of the middle class area of District Seven was satisfyingly busy; enough people to bring a vibrancy to the streets, yet not too many to make Cameron feel too anxious.

As he walked towards home, Cameron found his attention diverting; his eyes and ears leapt from side to side, glancing brief moments and sampling snippets of conversations. Despite the bright weather, it was clear that there was unsettlement around. The Reapings were fast approaching, and with them, an unbound potential for fear.

With the Games having been cancelled five years ago, Cameron had never experienced a Reaping before. Statistically, he should count himself lucky as his chances of entering the Games had been greatly reduced by the majority of his eligible years having been spared from the Reaping bowl, though that did little to reduce the fear he now felt.

Did that make him selfish?

There had been hundreds of thousands of children in the years before the 86th Games, who had faced the Reaping bowl seven times; many surviving it, though some not quite so lucky. Was it right for Cameron to compare his own feelings to theirs? Did his own privilege blind him to the experiences of others?

As he dwelled on those thoughts, a sickening feeling of guilt began to gather at the pit of his stomach. How could he allow himself to be so narrow-minded? That was not the son his parents had brought him up to be.

As though out of nowhere, the toe of his shoes collided with a bump in the pavement and as he stumbled, Cameron broke from his wandering thoughts and returned to reality.

To his horror, his bag of groceries had fallen from his grasp. The bag itself lay sadly on its side, its contents spilled out in front of it. Dropping instantly to his knees, Cameron began to scramble for the vegetables, gathering them back into the bag as his heart began to quicken in haste.

"Here, let me help," a friendly voice wafted towards him.

Sharply turning his head, Cameron saw a girl greeting him with a warm smile. She seemed a similar age to Cameron, though undoubtedly she appeared a little older in comparison to Cameron's youthful face and short height. Her green eyes were vibrant as she crouched beside him with an almost doll-like grace. Her hands swept lightly across the floor, collecting the remaining pieces before dropping them into the bag.

"Th-thank you," Cameron stumbled over his words. His eyes then fell to the bag, where he could see the vegetables inside were coated in a dusting of brown dirt. He felt his shoulders slump. "They're ruined."

Knowing he had no more money with him to purchase fresh food, Cameron began to worry. What would his mother say if he returned home empty handed? He would be scolded for sure, and the shame he would feel would only add to the guilt he already felt from his earlier conundrum.

"They're not ruined," insisted the girl, standing up and dusting off her trousers. "They just need a wash. Come on then!"

Feeling as though he could trust the girl, despite not even knowing her name, Cameron followed as she walked into the building beside them. With a frown, Cameron realised that he had never ventured down this pathway before –in his distracted haze he must have taken a wrong turn. He hoped he hadn't wandered too far; his mother would undoubtedly be keeping an eye on how long he had been out.

Yet as he walked through the doorway and stepped onto the scratched floorboards, he couldn't help but feel as though he never wanted to leave.

"Here, pass me the bag," instructed the girl, holding out her hands. Grateful, Cameron handed over the bag and watched as the girl slipped through the back door.

As he waited, Cameron found himself drifting around the building. It was a small shop, he discovered. A toyshop, in fact.

Shelves of intricately made wooden toys and ornaments lined the walls, opening Cameron's eyes widely with wonder as he looked at each one. He had long outgrown toys, though he could never be too old to appreciate the delicate talents that had been poured into each object.

His hand reached out to touch one of the toys; a small carved duck with a small lever at the side which Cameron was keen to see the effects of.

"All done!"

Cameron gasped, quickly retracting his hand as he spun around to see the girl had returned with his bag of groceries.

"D-do you m-make these?" he asked nervously, his fingers twiddling together.

The girl nodded. "They're not much, but if they can bring a smile to a child's face then that's enough for me."

"They look amazing," Cameron complimented the work, his eyes casting over another shelf of toys.

The girl blushed. "Thank you. Are you ok, by the way? You seemed a little distracted when you tripped in the street."

Cameron squeezed his fingers together tightly.

"I was…erm, just thinking."

"It's awful, isn't it?" said the girl, a surprising alteration in her facial expression saw her cheerful smile turn to an angry frown. "They can't just bring the Games back like that! Whilst they sit in their comfort, children here are punished just for existing! It's so wrong, I hate it."

Cameron nodded meekly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the girl quickly apologised, her smile returning to her face. "I'm just a little nervous about it. I won't keep you any longer, I'm sure you have somewhere to be."

"It's, erm, ok," replied Cameron, taking the bag as the girl handed it back to him. "Thank you so much though."

"If we can't find the time to help a stranger then we're wasting our time on this earth, right?"

"Right."

Lifting a hand, careful not to drop the bag with his other, Cameron waved goodbye to the girl and headed back out to navigate his way home.

As he wandered down the streets, trying to find a place he recognised, he realised that he never asked for her name. Perhaps he would find the little toyshop again so he could properly thank the girl. Yes, that was what he would do.

After a few wrong turns, Cameron eventually recognised his surroundings. He admittedly knew little of his District; he tended to keep to the same areas close to home and school, and almost never ventured towards the woods that gathered on the horizon.

It didn't take too long to reach his home, though as he fumbled for his key, the front door swung open and he was met by the disappointed face of his mother, Gian.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "In fact, never-mind. Just hurry up and get started on the prep."

Mumbling an apology, Cameron ducked under his mother's arm and headed into the kitchen at the back of the house. Thankfully, his mother hadn't followed him as he began to unload the bag, feeling a small relief at the sight of the freshly washed vegetables that showed no signs of having been dropped at all.

Picking up a small knife, Cameron began to peel and slice the vegetables. As he worked, his mind began to wander again.

He thought about the girl, and he thought about the Reaping. He thought about every time in his life that he had failed someone, or himself.

"Ouch!"

Cameron looked down at his finger, where the knife had sliced into the tip of it. A small trickle of blood began to ooze from the cut.

Gasping, Cameron rushed over to the sink to rinse his finger. The water was cold as it gushed into his wound, mixing with the crimson blood and running down the white basin.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

He repeated the words over and over to no one in particular as he felt himself drowning in his own guilt.

Matthew Kwon, 18, District Three Male

The tap creaked as Matthew's fingers wrapped around it, twisting it sharply to release the water into the metal basin below. With a sigh, water began to leak from the tap's end, being pumped at a painfully slow rate through the pipes that ran behind the concrete wall.

Cupping his hands, Matthew held them beneath the trickle of water, dampening his smooth skin. He scowled at the sheer lack of water, smacking his palm against the side of the tap. With a reluctant groan, the tap began to spurt more water, which Matthew gratefully received.

A bar of soap, stained with patches of dark red sat meekly on the side of the basin. Matthew took it in his hands and began rubbing it around and around, until his hands were coated with chemically scented bubbles. Returning the soap to the side of the basin, careful not to allow it to slide off the edge, Matthew worked the bubbles between his fingers, deeply massaging into his palm and scrubbing ferociously at his nails.

Finally, he rinsed.

Matthew raised his head as he dried his hands with a soft towel, looking into the dusty mirror with disgust. Someone really ought to clean it, he thought, as he brushed away a stray strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead.

His dark, but piercing, eyes stared back at him. They appeared void of emotion, barely a flicker of humanity to be witnessed. There was a time when Matthew's eyes would fill with tears; his pupils glistening behind his own fear. But his days of crying were long behind him. Matthew had learnt that tears could not save him.

Only he could save himself.

To Matthew, fear was all about control. You could control people with fear, or you could control fear with people.

Matthew had experienced both.

Throughout his years under Jackson Lombard's regime, Matthew had fostered a careful relationship with fear. It had attacked him, feeding on his insecurities nearly to the point of brokenness. In the darkness it thrived, enveloping itself around every inch of his body, seeping like poison into his veins. Fear was what had moulded Matthew into subordination; the desperate need not to brawl with fear made accepting commands seem like an acceptable escape.

And yet fear was also his weapon. Without fear, what was the need for those who walked between the shadows?

Fear served Matthew as Matthew served fear. The two were intrinsically linked; both dependent on the other. That was the way it had to be for Matthew to survive.

He left the bathroom, the dim lights of the underground base flickering as they hung low above his head. Matthew said nothing as he passed a handful of boys around his own age who were leaning against the concrete walls, sharing whispers between them.

He had no time for friendships. This was not the kind of life that fostered relationships, even if Matthew wished to pursue emotional connections. It was a life of black and white. Of life and death.

A life of missions.

"Matt."

Matthew came to a gentle stop.

"This one needs to be clean, got it?" reminded Jackson, who had stepped out from the shadows with his arms folded across his blue armoured chest.

"That's why you gave the job to me," replied Matthew with a slickness to his tone. "I'm always clean."

Jackson nodded. "Indeed you are. I'd considered sending Luke with you, seeing that the target is so vital, but well, after what happened on the last group mission…"

Matthew's jaw tightened as he remembered the sound of the gunshot that had buried itself in the head of a new recruit who had gotten in between Luke's envious tendencies and Matthew's retaliations.

That boy had been a lesson, though Matthew had been the student.

"I can do it alone," said Matthew with honest confidence. "You know that."

"You're right," a smirk appeared on Jackson's lips. "If only all my recruits were as sharp as you."

Commotion from the central room caught both Matthew and Jackson's attention simultaneously.

Immediately, the two of them walked with long strides towards the sound, heading into the largest open space within the base.

Two recruits were embroiled in a dispute; one having pulled a gun on the other, who held a small knife in her hand.

"What is going on here?!" Jackson bellowed, pushing past a few recruits who were loitering and observing the fight with eager anticipation. They quickly scurried to the back walls of the room, knowing it was always a better idea to avoid Jackson's wrath where possible.

"She stole my shit," accused the boy, still holding his gun towards the girl.

"I didn't steal nothing," the girl spat back, moving from side to side as she held up her knife. "Jackson, you know he's a liar."

Jackson pondered for a moment. "Yes, we all know that Randal is a liar, but we also know that you're quite sly with your hands, Mai."

"Jackson, I-," Mai started, but didn't finish.

"Tell me," said Jackson, pacing between the two of them. "Does this look like a playground to you? Hm?"

They both shook their heads.

"Then tell me why you are acting like children!" Jackson's voice rose. "If you cannot hold yourselves together down here, how are you supposed to hold yourselves out there?"

"I'm sorry, Jackson," the boy apologised, lowering his arm.

Jackson sighed. "Randal, you know I'm not one for apologies."

Jackson turned to John, who acted like a bodyguard to the leader of the regime. "Chuck 'em both in the hole. One tonight, the other tomorrow."

At the thought of the hole, Matthew's gut clenched. He, like many of the recruits here, had spent his fair share of time in that abyss. And never did it get easier than the time before.

There were audible protests as Matthew turned and walked away from the room, and whilst he sympathised with their fear, he knew that they only had themselves to blame.

Matthew's only concern now was for himself. And with that, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the neatly folded piece of paper with the instructions he had written to himself: the name of his target, and their timetable for the day.

As he did with most of his assassinations, Matthew meticulously planned his moves. He would often stalk his target, getting to know how they spent every minute of every day. He did that until he understood their lives, enough so that he could predict where the prime opportunity to strike would arise. It was a routine that had never failed him once.

His target this time was a well-known leader of one of the many rebel organisations in District Three. They were notoriously against the return of the Hunger Games, and whilst Matthew held little opinion towards the Games himself, Jackson was particularly keen on removing those who protested against them. His affiliations with the Capitol and The Candid had planted a deep patriotism in Jackson that continued to linger despite the crumbling influence of the central city.

Through his observations, Matthew knew that his target would be alone as he made his way to his shadowed meeting with the higher ranking members of his crew. He would pass a small unused building, an old shop that had been abandoned perhaps, where Matthew would be waiting.

But that was two hours away from now.

The fresh air tasted almost sweet as Matthew exited from the underground base. The air below the ground always seemed stale, as though it was being constantly recycled; breathed in and breathed out by the same group of people over and over. But the air above the ground was new; it came with a calming presence that cleansed Matthew as he walked around the District, taking in the sights of normal life which he was so far removed from.

Did he take these walks to clear his head, or to convince himself that he was doing the right thing?

How much blood it would take before he drowned?

A/N

So, another three tributes to start to get to know. What are your thoughts on these three?

As before, these three are very different from each other and from the previous tributes we've been introduced to, though there was a small theme that tied them together.

Firstly, Circe is a mysterious girl. With her body filled with drugs, she drifts between two worlds. Will she be able to make up for her past failings, or will she struggle and simply try again in her next life? Who is Madeline, and what happened between the them? We also saw a small glimpse of Cephus, who we know will also be a tribute in these Games -what will lead both of the twins to end up in the Games?

Cameron also faces pressures from his parents, though more of a mundane kind. He is conditioned to behave well, and feels tremendous guilt when he believes he has failed. He found kindness in a stranger, though ultimately his guilt returned as he arrived home. Does he deserve to feel so guilty for such trivial things? And how will he cope with the Games?

Finally, things took a darker tone with Matthew. He seems to be involved in a secret operation of young assassins, led by a tough Peacekeeper, Jackson. It seems as though Matthew has experienced a lot of fear in his childhood and this has helped to shape him into the boy he is today. With plenty of blood on his hands, will it be easy to adapt to the Games, or will he be out of place away from the shadows?

I'd love to know what you thought of these next three tributes! I think there is such a variety of tributes, and I can't wait to show you the next three. Thank you to all who have reviewed; I shall try to catch up with responding to your reviews as my life starts to slow down a little. I do really appreciate all of your kind words and it is great to see you getting involved!

Next time, hopefully back to weekly updates, we will be introduced to another three tributes!

Until then,

Firefly.