Lucent Saccharyn POV:

District One is up next. I'm a little unsure what I'm hoping for from them. I want a nice, confident Career who knows what they want and how to get it. A good tribute would ideally be strong and skilled with a weapon, but not gratuitously violent. Psychopathy is not a desirable trait in a Career. Outer district kids can sometimes pull off the "attractively insane" angle because it gives them a parallel personality and spontaneity usually lacking from such a tribute, but there's no need for crazy Careers because they're already larger than life and prepared to murder. It feels overdone when Careers try the sadistic path because it's too gory to really keep the audience satisfied. The District One Academy is going a little hands-off because of the Quarter Quell, allowing tributes to choose to volunteer rather than appointing them as preplanned tributes. I'll be interested to see them, but right now there's not much to do but pull myself together, preparing to drink and fidget my way through a long, dull speech. District One escorts love pontificating at length about the achievements of the district. That might work over there, but it's quite boring for those of us watching from the Capitol. The Games are mainly for our viewing pleasure, not to give some meatheaded chump another thing to boast about for the benefit of his already inflated ego. On screen, a pink-haired lady with a ridiculous inflated dress clicks her extravagantly manicured fingernails right into the microphone. Her grating voice produces a shrill screech from the microphone and everyone recoils in unison. Sighing, I brace myself to endure her speech.

Livieoula "Livi" Carnelian, 18: D1F

I have always considered myself a highly disciplined person. I like routine, predictability, keeping to myself. It is for this reason I'm pleased instead of dismayed when my alarm rings at six o'clock. I switch it off and swing my legs over the edge of my bed onto the floor. The first thing I do is fling open my curtains and raise the blinds before yanking the sash and opening the window. I notice it's a little scratchy and I make a mental note to oil it later so it doesn't squeak. I can already feel the warm air breeze in and blow around my curtains. I have the perfect view of the vendors in the District Square just beginning to open their shops. There will undoubtedly be customers because people always forget to make time for breakfast or buy their outfits ahead of time. I would never make such foolish mistakes, because I know I'm better than that. Go to the Reaping in your pajamas, you moron, and stop making the rest of us look bad. I am part of the crowd who actually cares about my image. Other people my age are sleeping in today, but I don't do that sort of thing. I'm actually enjoying keeping to a proper schedule, even though a person as capable as myself really deserves flexibility and free rein over her time. When I volunteer today I'm certain to be the most prompt, punctual, effective, stoic tribute in the entire Hunger Games. Also, the most humble, because I actually understand the value of humility and don't brag about myself like other Careers do. The Reaping will take place in four hours, but I like having a little time to myself. Admittedly, such a deviation from my normal timetable puts me off just a tad but it's very much preferable to just waking up later. Change is the enemy of people like me. We like patrolling our territory to keep enemies out, eliminating threats as they arrive, and in turn keeping people away with the mere mention of our name. If someone launches an attack out of the blue, it disrupts this cycle and I won't be able to keep people away because I'm dealing with the new intruder. I check my clock and find I've wasted nearly five minutes staring out my window. A bit foolish I suppose, but how could you blame me? It's not my fault I'm playing out my volunteering in my mind. It's the fault of my lesser, weaker challengers who think they can beat me out and get to the stage before me that's disrupting my concentration. I step into the nice dark marble bathroom. It's home to a claw-foot tub, two separate washbasins, and lots of storage space for my collection of beauty products. I grab a few fluffy towels and a bathrobe and set them on the shelf next to the tub while I turn on the tap. I roll out a cart of assorted soaps, oils, and bottles with stoppers containing my vast array of scented powders and such. I mix up a witch's brew of products in the bath water before climbing in. I take my time in the bath, studying victor Griffin Cadbury's Hunger Games strategy book as I relax and let the cream in my hair work its magic. "Act as though you are superior, and you will appear so to your enemies," the book reads. "They will be intimidated and act subservient in your presence during the Capitol, and so will resist less when you eliminate them in the arena." Well, I have the superiority part down all right, no acting necessary. Everybody and their mama knows I'm the best damn fighter in the district. I remember one time a boy invited me to a dance and leaned in for a kiss. I gave him my hand instead, holding it limp as he pressed his lips to the back of my glove. Then I shoved him to the side and headed for the snack bar. I have no respect for people who try to skate by on charm or sex appeal, whether in school or the Hunger Games. A Career who acts pretty but isn't strong will not be living very long, at least that's what my mother told me before she died giving birth to my sister when I was nine. Even then she knew I was destined for greatness. I stick a bookmark in the novel and drain the tub, cloaking myself in the bathrobe and wrapping my hair up in a towel on top of my head. I saunter downstairs and make myself a bowl of oatmeal, methodically stirring the sludgy substance in the pot. My father stands at the counter, slicing up fruit. He tosses me a honeycrisp apple and I crunch into it while I wait for my oatmeal to cook. Honeycrisp apples are the epitome of gourmet food, and nobody can tell me otherwise. I'll turn down a full dessert spread if it means eating one of my apples instead. After a brief exchanging of words and a dad joke, I whisk upstairs again to change into my Reaping attire as I prepare for the ceremony that will change my life forever, as well as that of the boy who will volunteer alongside me. Well, his life won't be changed. It'll just be snuffed out. But why should I care?

Oscar Poudret, 18: D1M

"Get your lazy ass up!" Alise looms above me, arms crossed. "You know exactly what's happening today and you can't afford to miss it." No, you can't afford to miss it. That's why you've spent the last decade beating up your son and training him up as a tribute to be sent off to the Capital and make you rich. I can't say that to her though, so I get up and obey her instead. It hurts to even refer to her in my mind as a mother. Who treats their kid like this? I suppose I should be grateful to be volunteering for the Hunger Games. When I win I'll have enough influence and power to finally get her arrested for all she's done to me. I head to the bathroom but Alise veers in front of me and cuts off my path. "No. You're going straight to the Academy to train and get yourself fixed up for the Reaping."

"I need to use the bathroom!" This revelation is met with a smack to the back of my head.

"No, you impudent little bastard. What you need to do is go to the Academy and prepare to go into the Hunger Games." She clicks her tongue at me while I load up a duffle bag with the things that I'll need to get presentable for the Reaping, plus a few personal ornaments and some money to buy food. Alise isn't allowing me breakfast this morning. She uses a broom to shoo me outside the second I'm finished packing, whacking me again for good measure. She's been avoiding hitting me hard because she doesn't want any marks to be visible to my Capitol stylist, but my hair will cover any welts I have there and Alise has been taking full advantage of it. I'm not sad to leave her behind. I have at least an hour of training time before I have to shower and change, so when I arrive at the Academy building and see my friends Lucia and Logane Price sparring on a mat with boxing gloves, I don't get to work right away. Insead I sit down on one of the hard plastic chairs the trainers seem to like so much and relax. I need to take advantage of every moment I have away from Alise because it won't last long. We chat for a few minutes aimlessly about weather and such before Lucia points out my disheveled appearance. I tell her that I was made to come here only five minutes ago and I didn't even get a chance to pee yet. She and Logane immediately erupt in sympathy. Logan reaches for me and I instinctively flinch away, momentarily flashing back to Alise's hand striking out. He barely blinks. They're used to the aftereffects of abuse that make me act a little strange sometimes. I forgo the training I've been ordered to complete and head straight to the locker room, showering and washing my hair, scrubbing away the blood caked on my lip from where Alice's bracelet caught me when she slapped me last night. I get dressed in a pale blue button-up and a pair of jeans, twisting my dead father's ring onto my finger, where Alise won't be able to steal it and throw it away. Lucia, Logane, and I go to the square and mill around for an hour, wasting time until the Reaping starts. The escort chatters away in her shrill voice for an additional twenty minutes before she pulls the girl tribute. The name is only halfway out of her mouth when a girl volunteers. She looks somewhere between ethereal and don't-mess-with-me in a sharply cut emerald green dress with a slit in the back and translucent green sleeves that shimmer when she moves. She has a sort of steely half-smirk on her face, and I instantly know she's the sort of bloodthirsty girl Alise would have wanted instead of me. She'll have no qualms about killing me. In fact, she might even be happy to do it. When the escort calls the name of the male tribute, I'm halfway to peeing myself but I put on a brave face and volunteer anyhow, thinking happily about how much better it'll be than living with Alise. It's all I can do to stop from crying on stage.


Hey y'all! Thanks for all the tributes you've been submitting, you're really helpful! I'm sorry this is short and a little crappy but my parents are making me go to bed. See you next chapter!

~LC