District 5

Diana Riverton (18) and Chritian Powers (14)

Diana had already previously known about the games, she had. Her grandmother had found out about them through the stupidity of their very own District. She'd tried to feign surprise during the announcements but she'd never been the best actress. Her grandmother had Told her that they were always watching, every single move you made was being recorded. Her reaction upon finding out about these games was no different. She'd had June with her there as well, who'd pretty much just made her feel like even worse of an actress, being able to look just surprised enough as to not raise any suspicion.

Diana on the other hand, was pretty sure that she'd looked like a constipated mule. The mayor's voice had wavered several times, her eyes glistening and face looking on the verge of illness or tears. Sometimes both. Diana knew why. The mayor had twos sons. One of them eligible to the games. Christian Powers. The little red-head who's head was always in some sort of gadget or gizmo. Of course his name wouldn't be in more than the necessary amount, but his name would still be In there. She wondered what it would feel like, being the most powerful person In the Distirct, yet still be so powerless against the Capitol.

Diana wasn't sure, but she felt her views shift slightly, Loyalist. That was what she was, a loyalist. But sometimes she wondered how she supported the Capitol. Then the memory of her parents lifeless bodies starring up at her wedding Und resurface and she would know exactly why she hated the Rebels as much as she did.

Diana knew how much it would hurt if her child, her baby was sent off to die. How much it would hurt if you had althe power in the world, except for the power to keep your child safe. How much that must hurt, Diana wasn't sure. When the mayor had gotten to the part about the age limits, Diana was sure Mayor Powers was going to puke. Ages twelve to eighteen. Her youngest child was fourteen, her older one just turned eighteen a few months back. How grateful she must be.

If June was reaped, Diana would volunteer. She would. She had to, June wouldn't be able to survive. Diana wouldn't be able to survive, if June were picked. She had to imagine the absolute horrors of watching June fight, the insane nerves, anxiety and anticipation, in a way of dread, would be scarring. Seeing June make decisions based on nothing more than intuition and yelling 'No' when the time eventually came. She could imagine June forming alliances and Diana not trusting a single one of the members. Her heart pun ding so loud in the eerie silences during the games, her face sweaty while she bit her lip in fear. She could imagine these clearly and they scarred her, her sweet precious June going out to fight. Her beautiful June dying. In the moments Diana was sure that if June was reaped, Diana would volunteer.

She remembered standing in the courtyard, having the her grandmothers' stories be proven true right in front Of her eyes, had been torture. The absolute reality of these games had hit her. She wouldn't want to become a rebel, ever. But this game was pushing her. The only bright side to if she were chosen would be karma against the rebels. Those stupid rebels who'd gotten her parents, her family killed. Murderred.

She would be able to rip out their heart and finally teach them a lesson, but Diana was a lot of things. A monster was not one of them. She hoped it wasn't at least. She hoped it wouldn't be at least. Because murder seemed so simple in retrospect, just pierce the heart with a blade as simple as that. But could she really do it? Properly.

Could she pick up a sword, knife, whatever and draw blood. They all had families, the children who would be murderred. Some might have relationships like hers withJune. They all had a past, all had a Yesterday. Could she take all that away from them? They all had unwritten scars of their backstories, could she be the one to rob them of it so? They would be rebels, but some would be loyalist, some neutral. How should she know who's who? Besides the interviews where anyone could easily lie.

She just hoped it would never have to Come to that. To the point where she really didn't even know herself anymore. To the point where insanity had one ple tell taken her in and she murderred for the Hell of it. Diana got up from the bed and stormed to the bathroom. Angrily and clumsily stumbling along the way, trying to not to notice the burning pain in her eyes. Locking the white door behind her and pulling out the knife she kept behind the toilet. She angrily felt more tears streaming down her face and wiped furiously for the To stop. Rolling up her sleeves, she cut.

One straight line over her forearm, pure red exploded on her arm and the pain it emitted was soothing. She did it again and again. The white lines of her past crisscrossing onto one another. She couldn't stop, she wouldn't stop. Her arms ached with the self inflicted pain, her body begged her to stop by her subconscious wouldn't listen. She kept going, more tears fell, they weren't controlled and she wasn't holding back. She felt her legs go slack and her hands flew to cover her tear stained face, she sobbed quietly. If you didn't put your ear right next to the door, you wouldn't be able to hear it, but it was still there.

A horrible buzzing started in the back of her mind and her senses dulled. The world went black as Diana looked at the bloody mess on her arm, what she'd done to herself. And stragely she didn't regret it, instead she wanted more.

District 6

Iris Elmswood (14) and Aston Swifte (18)

Iris hummed quietly to herself, to try and escape the torturous thoughts begging to enter her mind. She could hear faint voices at the back of her skull, just there, not making a move or threatening her in any way. Simply there. They didn't speak to her, they didn't make any useful comments or help her in any way, shape or made Iris curious.

Iris wasn't stupid, she knew voices in the back of your skull weren't normal. Seeing the world in different shades or having conversation muted when she tried recalling them, was not normal. She could faintly feel herself slipping into the realm of insanity, of hysteria and insane. She wished she could stop it, but the Caoitol had done this to her and her alone. She'd came home after the announcement. Thinking and scared, these games were a new form of type of torture she was sure. A form meant to punish her, a form that would punish Her. To the sweet shop she held so dearly to her heart. What she'd saw had made her shriek. She'd been trying to tie up her hair, the red locks had never quite stayed still. She dropped her hand, the elastic still tangled in her hair. There, in a heap of bodies and blood, were her parents. Her mother's hand over her father's torso.

Her hands had flew to cover her mouth but the peacekeepers still turned. She'd tried to run, but the bloody whip the man was holding had stopped her. She'd cried out as it hit her back, she'd fallen to her knees. She was sobbing into her shirt, not wanting the peacekeeper to know just how much it hurt her. Just how much she wanted to pass out from the pain, so that it no longer tormented her. But she hadn't, instead all she could hear was the sly voice of the man who she believed to have killed her family.

"Hey there, girlie. You a rebel too, or is it just your parents?" A rebel? What were they talking about? Her parents and her were neutral, neutral. They didn't partake in the war, none of them had. When she refused to speak, another whip came down, Iris screamed again. But she could feel herself slowly fading to black. She felt the sickly red liquid trail down her back and she heard it hit the floor, the whole street was eerily calm. She noticed the shut blinds and turned off lights, she'd scowled bitterly to herself. People she'd known her whole life, would just sit there as she was whipped because they were too afraid of getting whipped themselves. They were all selfish cowards.

"Not... a rebel." She'd managed to croak out after the pain had subs titled enough for her to formulate a proper sentence. She felt a tear rol down her face but barely acknowledged it. Barely. "My.. Ma and... Pa... We're not... Rebels." She managed as an after thought. She was currently on her stomach. Her hands pinned down beneath her. She felt something flip her over. The cold hard segment was burning against her open wounds. The whip marks seemed to multiply by pain times ten as he pushed her harder into the ground, she felt dirt and mud creep up into her cuts, they would get infected she was sure.

"You sure about that, girlie?" She felt a whip across her cheek before promptly passing out. The blood made Iris feel even more nauseous than she already did.

When she woke up, she was in a bedroom. It was a clean and pristine little place, somewhere that she realized, her blood had obviously dirtied. She saw the trails on the door. She pushed upwards and the pain from,sat night flashed back in an instant. She winced as she tried sitting up, managing to do so and propping herself up on the headrest of the bed. She looked down, her entire torso was covered in bandages. She could see the red that was soaking them. She visibly flinched.

Iris didn't know it yet, but it was last nights memories which would eventually spark her insanity of heAring voices and seeing things that weren't really there. "Hello?" She'd called out timidly, not really expecting an immediate answer. Almost instantaneously a plump woman emerged from behind a painted green door. Her dull blonde hair in a messy bun, her clothes were bloodstained as well, Iris could only imagine whose blood that was. She felt strangely guilty, but it passed soon enough.

"Oh, you're awake. How're you feeling, doll?" She seemed slightly overly peppy, which only further increased Iris' unease. Behind her smile Irirs saw worry lines and a fear for the wellbeing of her, Iris. "Fine." She managed to squeak out after a few too many seconds of silence. "What happened...?" She let the question finish itself, knowing the woman would answer her with what she wanted to know.

A dark yet pitiful look passed across the woman's features. "Oh, sweetie, I think that you may have just been set up, to die." Iris passed out again, this time not only from the pain but also the shock. She didn't wake up until the next day.

Where the plump woman had sat beside her and recounted exactly what had happened. Iris would listen as it would be explained how her parents had been rebels. Strong, strong, passionate rebels at that. How Iris never knew of this worried her. Apparently, they'd finally been caught. Revenge was being carried out, to show just how strict the Caoutol would be. No flexibility at all for liars and rebels. and apparently Irirs was guilty by association. Word has it, that the reapings were rigged to pull out her name.

District 7

Veronica Delaney (12) and Oakley Axemoore (16)

Veronica was scared. She was. Her father may be powerful, her life may have been a walk in the park leading up to this moment, but that didn't stop her name from being pulled. She had just as good as a chance as anyone, except for that fact that her name had simply been entered one time. One single slip of paper among thousands. Veronica knew it wasn't very likely that her name would be pulled, but there was still a chance, there would be a chance until her eighteenth birthday. That was six years, six years she would live in fear of the Caoutol, six years she would feel nervous and scared during the exact same day. That is, if she even made to eighteen and wasn't reaped before.

She had just turned twelve a few weeks ago, if only her birthday had been in a few days, than maybe she wouldn't be freaking out quite this much. Wanting to break down and scream at how unfair it was. Veronica was twelve, the minimum age for someone to participate in this monstrosity of a Game.

How could someone live with themselves when they did such cruel things like this. How could they sleep at night knowing they were murderring children, separating families and inducing fear into everyone hearts instead of respect or love. Nobody loved the Capitol, nobody respected the Capitol everyone feared the Capitol. It may be disguised as something else, whether that be general fondness for the subject or extreme hatred.

It was always fear, some didn't though. She knew some didn't mind the Capitol as much as she knew they should. Especially in the higher up Districts, the Caoitol favourite of 1,2 and 4. They, actually liked the Caoutol, most of them at least. And some in Dostorct so low that they didn't fear what the Capitol would do to them. District 9 was a common birth ground for rebels. They were al extremist would didn't care what the Capitol had to say because They were so far down that the Capitol couldn't even be bothered to enforce the rules. Except for District 11, they had the tightest security out all the District. Ebbing one of the first to join in and one of the more extreme as well.

Veronica also had brothers, who would also be eligible for these games. What would come if both her and her brother were picked. He'd have to kill her if it came down to it, she might have to kill him. That was not something she could even think about, not even in the slightest. And what if it happened that one off her friends were reaped, what then, would she be forced to watch them die before her very eyes.

Veronica was a generally happy person, mature beyond her years, but still generally happy. But she was also realistic, she was twelve with nO prior experience in battle or games of manipulation. She had next to no chance of winning. There would be peacekeeper trained soldiers there, kings and queens of lying and manipulation.

Veronica was about as transparent as glass. None of her friends could win either, they were al, to young, too inexperienced. Veronica was very fortunate, during the war she'd pretty much been sheltered by her rich upbringing. She wasn't as damaged or used to the pain as the others were. She still reared up when she would scrape her knee on the pavement. She was hopeless, her friends were hopeles, she'd have to rely on pure luck to survive the next years of her life. The punishment she didn't deserve for the single fact that she hadn't defied the Caoitol in any way, shape or form.

She'd been the perfect model Loyalist. She hasn't killed anyone or brought the war closer to finishing, but hadn't done anything wrong! She hadn't rebelled against the Capitol, nor had she been neutral and sat on her butt all day waiting to see how it all played out. She'd been involved, she'd gone to protest with her mother and father and brothers. She's helped them, she'd helped the Capitol. She remembered hearing words of insult directed at her simply because of her stance on the war, but she didn't care. She'd stood tall for what she'd believed in. There were already enough insults anyways, about being a snobby rich daddy's girl. That one more slur to the list wouldn't be so bad.

Veronica was a transparent person, she reminded herself of glass. Easy to break, no challenge to see through, but once dirty, everything completely obscured and warped. Veronica quite liked this definition. She would often repeat this to herself, it would calm her. Like a soothing Marta to clam herself.

Glass. Easy to break, no challenge to see through, but once dirty, everything completely obscured and warped.

She'd been seven when the war started. And still she'd been involved, if her name was picked, they would punishing their own kin. This injustice was completely unfair. No man or woman would ever want to stand beside you if you would punch them for doing so. Punish the rebels, punish the neutrals, Veronica didn't care.

They deserved it, they'd stood up to you and tried to bring your hard work crashing and burning to the ground. Punish them, not her! Punish them! Kill them! Hurt them! Veronica wasn't quite sure who 'them' was, but a small voice at the back of her head worried her that maybe she wasn't so loyal to the Capitol after all.

Veronica grit her teeth, it would be this that brought reign of the Capitol to an end. Punishment of their own kin and Horrible corrupt schemes to enforce power. Veronica smiled at the thought, albeit a bit bitterly, to herself.

District 8

Thread Flynn (15) and Rosemary Finch (15)

Thread found it disgusting how even the homeless rebels would be forced to enter their name into the ballots. How families and children who'd already lost so much, would be forced to lose more. Children of al ages, would be ripped away from those that were the only things keeping them going. The families he fed every day wopere all at risk of being killed, most of them rebels. Some where Loyalist though, which was unfathomnable as to why the Capitol would want to punish their followers. His name would be entered too of course, but that wasn't why he was so absolutely disgusted.

He knew lots of the rebels would enter their name in more than once for the exchange of food, something he knew many needed dearly. He would be happy to se them leave him because of newfound food or shelter, it would mean they were going to be fine. Or at least, as fine as you could get in the Hellhole known as District 8. The industrial wasteland of factories and gray.

Thread wondered if he could win the games, most likely not. Some people were just meant to talk and cook, he was one of those people. He didn't fight during he war because he couldn't, not nearly strong enough. Thread wondered if anyone would bet on him, if he was reaped. Would they sponsor him like they would someone who was obviously better nourished and stronger? Probably. This was all just some pageant, where the strong, the beautiful and the social rose to the top and the rest were left behind.

The smart, the coy, the calculating who were all silent threats building up over time. Then you had people like Thread, who were simply there for the sake of filling up spaces. He wouldn't have any chance, put him right next to someone from District 2 and he looked like chopped liver. Thread wished he wasn't so useless. Wasn't so hopeless.

Probably wouldn't get reaped though, right? It was a giant chance, someothing so unlikely that he barely even registered it during the announcements. It was after the rules were laid and the games were set that the reality seemed to sink in. He could die, he could die out there. Who would feed all the homeless survivors, whiteout home and without food. Sure his friends would do it, but he was perfectly aware that he was the best cook, and the one who knew almost every face that entered. Commiteed their names and stories to memory.

They knew him, and some were so jacked up in the head that if they didn't see him there they would freak. Happened once when he called in sick and asked his mate Thorn to fill in the position. A little boy of about four had walked in with his widowed mother and screamed at the top of his lungs that the the 'usual short cook-y guy thing brown hair man' wasn't currently there. Thorn had come to get him, which wasn't the best since he vaguely remembered coughing on about three different platters of food.

Thread still couldn't seem to accept the fact that these games were a reality. It was strange, the homeless rebels, neutrals and loyalists felt like his children. They were his family, his own dead. They were what replaced them, or at least helped him cope with the pain.

The games had interesting elements, Thread thought. He might actually enjoy watching the games if they simply took out the death part. It'd be a competition, winner would get fame and fortune, losers would get sent home rejected, but not dead. That would be better, he might actually feel honoured if he were chosen to compete for such an event. He would cheer on his favourites with his friends and talk with the children he was serving about it. Discuss the contestants and who their favourite was, if they had a common favourite, easy conversation would be struck up and he thought he would actually really enjoy that. Thread delusions about this and imagined, that would be paradise.

Somehwere where kids weren't straving or being sentenced to death. Where he could cook for fun and he wasn't so socially awkward because he never knew which key past elements he might trigger with his words of he wasn't aware of his consumer's past.

He thought of all this as he cooked, his escape of reality, his safe haven. Cooking was his freedom. It belonged to him. "Hey, Thread, don't burn the damn thing." I felt the impatient words of Rafe echoes from my side, my movements mechanical as I scooped, plopped and hollered, 'Next!'

Danny on his other side seemed to be struggling to talk to a woman in her mid thirties looking awfully frail as she made wild hand motion in an attempt to communicate with him. She didn't seem to be able to speak English, Thread sniggered at his friends misfortune. Thread nudged Rafe and cocked his head in the direction of Danny. He heard Rafe'd quiet chuckles before he turned back to face his work.

Thread wondered what would happen if his two long term friends were chosen for the games. Thread felt selfish to say he wouldn't volunteer. Just for the sole reason he thought that they had a better chance at survival than he did. He felt awfully guilty for admitting it though, even if it was the truth. But in Thread's world, the truth hurt and everyone just woke up and dealt with it every single day on repeat until they were finally released. Thread longed for the day he too was finally released, but also guilty at having to leave Rafe, Danny and the hundreds of refugees he served. Thread didn't know it, but maybe this day was closer than he thought.

Wooh, another down, reaping should be out soon.