IMPORTANT NOTICE:

This has been changed from the 37th to the 137th due to plot points and arena ideas I want to explore, not working brilliantly as such an early games. I've minorly edited earlier chapters so that this can work. Thank you and sorry for the inconvenience.

Aryn Blant

18 years old

~Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work~

Standing in the hall of fame

And the world's gonna know your name

'Cause you burn with the brightest flame

And the world's gonna know your name

And you'll be on the walls of the hall of fame

I open my tattered music book, hold my flute to my lips and by complete instinct, find the correct position. The song is not one of my favourites but it was easy and had no real complicated notes. The perfect starter.

I am barely three bars in when I hear the sound of my father walking up the stairs. He's wearing his heavy boots in the house again. Mom hates it when he does that; it's one of the first reasons that their petty arguments start all the time.

The second being that Dad sees no point in me learning to play that 'ridiculous instrument', and wants me to stop learning.

I continue the trill absentmindedly, but then Dad starts pounding on my door. I lower the flute away from my lips, disrupting the clean notes.

"Come in!" I yell. The doors and walls are thick, and you have to make a large noise in my family to be heard.

Sometimes though, Dad takes it too far.

"Stop making so much noise! I'm trying to eat breakfast, and your goddamned plinky plonking is annoying the crap out of me!" His ranting is predictable, seeing as he's said it all before. Then, he stops mid rant and turns his head to glare at me, "Why aren't you training? With all the distractions you have, you need all the extra fucking time you can get!"

I stop myself from rolling my eyes. He seems to be under the impression that two hours of music a day - compared to 8 hours of training - is going to ruin my hard work with weapons, or something ridiculous like that.

His logic isn't great when he's sober and even worse when he's drunk, which seems to be every other day. Though he's rarely ever worse than a bit of slurring, he definitely drinks an excessive amount more than he should.

I can't really judge though. Music won't stunt my growth, but smoking, both the usual cigarettes and the occasional joint of weed, could. I don't do either often though, because getting ahold of them requires me to be social and I rarely have the time or the energy.

"It's an hours walk and no buses are running today; it's not worth it to only be able to stay an hour," I try to reason, but he doesn't look even mildly placated.

"Well you could be training here. Last I checked, damn you have a punching bag. It cost a lot of money, Aryn, and it's more than frustrating that you never use it."

I sigh, the flute now hanging limply from my grip, "When could I use it, Dad?"

"If you cut down on-,"

Before he can finish, I cut him off, with a more forceful 'No!' than intended. I know exactly what he was going to say.

Everything goes back to music. Mum decided when I was five, that incase I turned out to hate training, I'd need something to fall back on, and she chose music. Since then, I've learnt the flute and by extension, the piccolo, and reading sheet music is almost easier than reading English to me - especially since I left school at 13 to train full time.

It isn't really meant to be allowed until 15, but the person that runs the school in Two doesn't really care. Some leave even earlier at the age of 11 or 12. You don't need school to swing a sword, or when you've passed that age, to cut stone.

Maybe I would have liked to stay in school, but I don't remember, and now I can't wait for the Games. I love my flute, and if I win it'll definitely be my talent, but I could never live off of making music alone. There's also no denying that the pure glamour of the games never fails to make a pleasant shiver go down my spine.

That same shiver was part of the reason I was picked over Romy. Everyone thought she would be picked over me, but she didn't have the stomach and it would be a ridiculous idea to send someone whose heart wasn't fully in the idea of going in and fighting to survive.

I'm just as good, if not better than her, but there's a stigma against spears. No one in Two has ever won from spears being their main weapon. It's always been swords.

With only four victors so far, it doesn't really mean anything, but Two is nothing but traditional and swords will probably always be the main weapon. However, something about spears is just much more beautiful to me.

"You don't have to be contrary, girl. If you'd focused more time on your training you could have probably had two main weapons instead of only one. You know it's the truth!"

"I still train more than everyone else," my voice comes off like a whiny girl and I internally wince.

"I don't care about anyone else. None of the other girls are going into the games and, being stronger, the guys already have an advantage. Listen to me and go throw some punches. Do you want to be able to fight if someone disarms you?"

He takes a deep breath. The calmness and rationality of his words struck a chord in my mind. If he had yelled, then I would have been able to dismiss them as his usual ranting. Instead, I carefully put my flute back in it's case, letting him lead the way out of my room.

"Good kid," he claps me on the back and we nod at each other. Compared to some of our interactions, it was equal to two overly emotional twelve year olds embracing and crying at a sleepover.

I walk out into our garden. The punching bag is a good one, academy grade. With a sigh, I pull out my kit and wrap my hands before punching the bag, getting a good swing going. I practice for another half an hour before dad comes out.

"They could be stronger," he remarks, but no outright criticism is practically a compliment. "You need a shower by the way; you stink. Your mother used up the hot water but I assume that won't be an issue."

I nod. I don't like cold water, but at least it'll refresh me, and it's not I'll need to wash my hair or anything.

I duck under the stream of water and gasp. I was expecting cold but this was icy. Gritting my teeth, I quickly lather myself in scentless soap and wash as quickly as possible. Finally, I get out and quickly grabbed a towel before half running into my bedroom. Deciding to not go for a dressy look, I rummage around for my best combat trousers, pairing it with a white t shirt and an army style jacket. I redo my messy ponytail and give myself a quick spray of deodorant. I redo my hair to neaten it up and after a quick once over in the mirror, I turn away.

I look at my flute, almost sad that it can't be my token, before I get an idea. My piccolo is tiny at barely 11 inches long, so I quickly put it into one of the many pockets of my trousers. It reminds me of my values, and if needed, I can smash someone over the head with it.

What's not to love?

"Bye guys!" I yell, making sure they'll hear me through the wall. They both respond with similar farewells, and I take a second to make sure the laces of my trainers weren't loose before I walk out the door.

Dagger Bricker

18 years old

~They think I'm weak. I'm going to prove them wrong~

Be my friend, hold me

Wrap me up, unfold me

I am small, I'm needy

Warm me up and breathe me

"Dagger! I know you can hear me, Dagger. Answer me! Put down your sword and look at me! "

I stand in my garden, sword clenched tightly in my hands, with my back turned towards him, ignoring his yells and standing stock still. I can acknowledge him, and I get that it would be polite to answer, but I can't.

Well, there's nothing wrong with my mouth, or vocal cords, but responding would break my concentration. It shouldn't be this important to me, I get that, but my breathing has already became ragged and the hard metal of the sword handle in my hand and the peeling red of the fence are all that's keeping me from starting to panic.

"Dagger! Turn around and face me! I'm trying to talk to you you disrespectful little-"

He doesn't continue, because as he says those words, he puncuates them with a hand on my shoulder. It finally gives him what he wants; me answering.

The second his hand grazes my shoulder, I drop the sword and it makes a clatter, I shove my hands over my ears and close my eyes, trying to block out the world.

Distantly, I hear him let out a string of expletives before the noise of our old, wooden door - white in colour - slams. I lower myself to the ground and make my body as small as possible whilst I wait for the twisting weight in my stomach to subside. I shakily stand up, and pick my sword up again.

I wasn't doing anything with it, but my family invited a load of relatives and close friends around to celebrate the 'day I volunteer'. Inside it was too loud, and people I barely knew, except from family gatherings such as weddings or funerals, were trying to speak to me and congratulate me. I knew that if I was rude, Dad or Mum would yell at me.

Going outside didn't stop that, but the cool air and the relative solitude made up for that. I don't know why I was holding my sword though: perhaps in my panicking mind I thought I would be able to escape to the training centre.

"Dagger!"

I start at the sound of my name, but it isn't my father, back to tell me off again.

"Why did you run off like that?" She asks, before continuing without an answer, "Don't tell me, too many people and you got anxious?"

I nod my head, not trusting my voice not to go shaky. "You realise, it's going to be worse in the Capitol right? And unless you decide not to go with them, you won't be able to get away from the other Careers during the games,"

I nod my head again, but she knows that I understand this. We've discussed this before.

She smiles at me, all perfect white teeth and shiny red lips. On anyone else, it would look fake, but on Maysenne, I don't think anything could be less than genuine.

It's one of the reasons she's my best friend. She wouldn't lie to me or dodge around the truth. I'm not good with fakers and I need to know someone will be 100 - or at least 95% honest with me, before I can be friends with them.

"I didn't realise you were here," I manage to get out. I might have been able to stay in the house if she'd been by my side.

"I only just got here, to say goodbye before you volunteer. I guessed that you'd probably be overwhelmed if too many people come to see you after you've volunteered."

I nod, "Makes sense, thank you."

"Why is your dad mad at you this time?" She asks, "He came back in, bright red, and almost chugged down an entire bottle of beer one gulp; he only does that when he's proper fuming."

"I like the phrase fuming. It makes me think of a bomb going off inside someone," I pause to imagine dad's head exploding.

"Lovely image aside, what did you do?"

I swallow, "I was trying to control my breathing and he was yelling at me, so I ignored him until he touched my shoulder and I needed to try and block it all out. He was really creative with his curse words this time!"

Her lips twitch, "You shouldn't provoke your dad like that."

"I didn't provoke him!" My words come out too defensive, and she just nods.

"Maybe not on purpose but still… I have to go now Dagger, to get ready. I'll come and say goodbye quickly but I wanted to say it whilst you haven't been talked out."

"See you then,"

I waggle my fingers at her in a wave, and she responds likewise. I pick up my sword, and go round, through to the second exit, where I'll be able to walk in and hopefully not be disturbed. I put my sword in its sheath before opening my bedroom door.

When I was a child, my walls were blue, but when I became a teenager, I was allowed to choose the colour I painted it. I chose a calming creamy colour. Dad wanted to object, but he'd already said I could. My room had smelt like paint for weeks after I'd finished, but I bought a nose plug and tried to deal with it as best I could.

I try to keep it as tidy as possible, but I don't have a laundry basket and in my house we only do that once a week, so I have to leave my unclean clothes piled up in a corner. Other than that, my room is almost perfect, although if it was my choice I'd have white bed sheets too, instead of red.

I open my closet, and take out a blue suit. I open my small box and pick out a matching tie, favouring it over the bow tie I also own. A normal tie looks more professional and volunteering is a very serious matter.

As a kid, I was sort of a wimp, so you could imagine my parents surprise when I loved every second of training. It was a further surprise when I turned out to be good at it too.

Years ago, my Dad won. From then on, he never let anyone forget about it. He treated me being chosen as volunteer as more of a personal victory than anything, although he was unhappy when he found this meant he would have to back down on his mentoring duties for a year. Instead, we have Clade Hollsworth, alongside Nyxxa Murdoch, who, according to dad, couldn't mentor a tribute to escape a wet paper bag.

I've met them both, at a Victors and family party I was forced to go to and they seemed nice enough, but I'm not a good judge of character a lot of the time.

I guess, due to Dad having won, we would be considered well off - having a house in Victor's Village and all that - but before Mom and Dad married, Dad treated the place badly. Even after almost 25 years of them living together, there's still a faint smell of alcohol and something else. Dad always says I'm imagining it, in a tone I presume means to drop the topic, and when I ask Mom if she can smell it, she refuses to answer.

I walk down the stairs, trying to avoid the crowd, when Dad catches sight of me. "Here he is! Future Victor, a chip off the old block!" He announces to everyone. He's drunk, or at least tipsy, so I try not to hold it against him that he's touching my shoulder (even though he knows I hate it). Instead, I just wiggle out and escape, before waving and beginning my walk.

Clade Hollsworth

Winner of the 115th

41 years old

"I hear Lawson Bricker's kid is volunteering this year, he's apparently a total oddball but amazing with a sword." Nyxxa and me stand on stage, side to side, making light conversation whilst we wait for Leonie, our escort to appear.

I nod, "Yeah, Lawson was set to mentor, but when his kid was decided they chose me instead."

"I bet he loved that,"

I scoff, Lawson Bricker, Victor of the 107th Hunger Games was a brave man, but humble or even fair, he was not. In fact: he could be an arrogant tosser and it was well know he didn't like neither me nor Nyxxa.

"The girl is no one special though, only the second choice. Their first didn't want to fight so they chose her instead."

Our conversation is cut short when Leonie walks on stage. Her heels are too high, but nothing other than that seems to be off about her outfit. Once she gets into the Capitol, her outfits become brighter, but Leonie is a smart woman and has at least some sense of subtlety.

"We have a surprise video for you guys to watch, and then we can begin."

"A video?" Nyxxa whispers in my ear, "Should we be worried?"

"It can't be that bad," I shake my head and she nods.

I was wrong. So wrong.

"Thank you everyone for your patience! Now let's begin the reaping!"

"Zahra Broughton!"

A dark girl, maybe 15 begins to make her way to the stage, standing there awkwardly. Everyone knows she won't be there long.

"Any volunteers?"

"I volunteer as tribute!"

A blonde, young looking girl steps on stage. For the life of me, I can't think of her name.

"What's your name?"

It doesn't matter though.

"Aryn Blant,"

When she speaks, her foot taps, perhaps unconsciously. I'll have to make sure she gets rid of that habit.

"Lovely! And now for the male. Haidar Coffey!"

The same old spiel of someone walking onto the stage, and Leonie asking again repeats itself. This time I watch for his son, mildly interested.

"I volunteer!"

I've met Dagger once or twice. He's always been perfectly polite, if a bit twitchy.

"Wonderful! Now you if two can shake hands, we'll be off to say goodbye. Happy Hunger Games everyone!"

"Finally," remarks Nyxxa, "After that video I thought this nightmare of a reaping would never end!"

"Do you know what the worst thing about it was?" I ask and she shakes her head, "The Capitol actually paid someone to produce that."

Aryn Blant

"Don't expect either of us to cry," Dad says, "I would probably be more upset if you didn't volunteer. If you die, you die with honour, which is better than all the other cowards."

I nod my head, "I would never expect you to cry," I said, making sure my voice has no hint of the sarcasm I so desperately want to use in it. Mom is suspiciously silent and I hope if she does decide to cry, she'll wait till I've gotten on the train.

"Don't embarrass Two," Dad says and I nod again.

"I wouldn't dream of it," I reply, this time not quite able to keep the sarcasm out. He pats me on the head like I'm a 5 year old, and me Mom gives me a quick hug before they turn and leave.

"You done?" A peacekeeper asks me, walking in

"Yep," I pop the P.

"Come on then," he says and I follow.

Dagger Bricker

All of my close family is crowded into the room and it feels small and crushing. I wish they could have decided to visit one or two at a time, but I don't say this in case Mom Dad tell me I'm being rude.

Sasha is hugging me and crying, whilst I try and resist the urge to make her move. On the contrary Ryder is just standing there, just trying to act cool and uncaring.

For a ten year old, Ryker can be a dick, but he's softer then he seems, although from all the training he does, he's oddly muscled already. He tries not to show it but I think he's quite sensitive, although I'm sure he'd probably bear any of us siblings up for daring to suggest it.

Ashton just looks more excited than anything. He's already planned out his victory speech, and if he wasn't stopped, I'm pretty sure he'd have volunteered the year he turned twelve. He's agreed to wait until he turns seventeen, but even if he isn't picked, he'll still volunteer. It's almost funny how excited he is, but Dad just plays it up.

"You remembered your token right?" Dad asks, and I hold up the gemstone. It looks almost feminine, especially for Dad, but his mother gave it to him and it was his token do I'm proud to use it.

He claps me on the back, and I manage not to flinch for once, before the peacekeeper pops his head around the corner and gestures for them to leave.

It's strange: Without them, the room suddenly seemed too big.

Hey! I'm really sorry I took so long! This chapter is possibly the longest thing I've ever written lol. I really appreciate any support you can give me, so if you have time, please consider dropping a review. Thank you for the amazing feedback I got for the last chapter.

Except you Ella.

(If you didn't know, she posted the script of the Bee Movie and I can't delete it. Thank you so much for that,)

What do you think of these two? Who do you prefer? Do you predict a career win this year?

If you have time, please submit a tribute. At the moment, I need both of District Three, and won't be able to continue without them.