WARNING: Language and some sex stuff in this first section. Lux ain't give a damn.

Luxor Prince

The bed rocks with the motion of my hips, mussed sheets brushing gently against the floor with a soft rustle barely audible over the insistent thunk of wood against plaster, accompanied by the sweet sonata of my partner's quiet moans and the wet noises of our fucking.

Lilith claws at my back with one hand, the other moving to stifle her wanton noises, leaving her neck unguarded.

Her jugular pulses invitingly.

(The muscles of the jaw are the strongest in the human body.)

I lower my head and bite at her shoulder, gently, ever so gently, and immediately pull back to sooth the faint marks with my tongue. This act earns me a throaty moan and a rush of praise, as it always does.

I am not thinking of how easily I could rip her tear her crush her throat.

(It only takes eleven pounds of pressure to crush a windpipe. Thirty three, if you want to snap the neck.)

Instead I am thinking of how the thin, grey light of dawn is shining through the window, indicating that it will soon be time for one last training session.

(The light of dawn makes everything looked washed out and unreal. Fragile in ways that clearer light obscures.)

I redouble my efforts, easily shifting my weight onto one hand as I slide my other down her hard, muscular body, seeking the softness of her cunt.

She shudders and practically growls at me to move faster harder more more. I comply.

Sex is an excellent means of releasing tension before a taxing undertaking. The effort put in is minimal. Walking up a couple flights of stairs burns about as many calories. The endorphins released block pain transmitters and increase the production of testosterone in the male body. Increased testosterone leads to increased muscle mass, improved mood, and elevated levels of aggression.

It is also a very pleasant way to spend time that would otherwise be idle, and an excellent alternative to being alone in the dark with no one besides ones thoughts to keep one company.

A warm, solid body drapes itself over my back, and hands smaller and darker than mine trail down to where Lilith and I are joined, and I am suddenly at a disadvantage. My breath hitches and my body stiffens, the instinct to fight sabotaged by my need to get off.

(Hold is weak, an elbow to the ribs should break it. Roll off the bed, to the left, grab a weight off the rack by the door, bring it down, hard.)

(It takes 398 psi to fracture a human skull)

"Hmm, y'guys started wifout me?" Onyx says, his voice a bleary rumble of noise like muffled thunder. He yawns widely, then places a kiss between my shoulder blades. "S'much fer bein' my bes friens."

My body loosens and falls back into its rhythm, much to Lilith's delight. "Sno-o-o-ze, and you, ah, l-lose, yes there, fuck, Lux." She says, doing an admirable job of keeping her composure under the circumstances.

Oynx lets out a short bark of laughter and leans awkwardly over my shoulder to kiss first her, then me. His hands trail over my chest and stomach, and his hips rut lazily against my ass. "Well, I s'pose it doesn't matter. I mean, s' hours b'for tha Reapin's an whatnaut. W'cn stay here fr'a while yet" He slurs.

My alarm picks that moment to shriek a warning of imminent tardiness. Onyx and Lilith groan in unison, both loosening their holds on me, prepared for swift abandonment.

My mind is hazy with sex and something else, something warm and tight in my chest, and I can't bear the thought of leaving just yet.

With one smooth motion I grab the clock and fling it at the wall, silencing it's cries of responsibility and duty.

Onyx whoops sleepily and wraps his arms around my waist, while Lilith takes advantage of my imbalanced position to shift her hips on top of mine and thrust hard.

My head fills with pleasant static and my chest with warmth.

Yeah, fuck the Trainers. Nothing's worth leaving this.

Valerie Hall

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4...

I watch my feet pound against the rough grey belt of the treadmill, mind blank and muscles buzzing with the joy of a good workout.

1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4...

I love running, more than anything. The world just seems to make so much sense when it's just me and the track. After all, when you run and run and run as much as I do, there's nothing that can get enough of a grip on you to hurt.

1-2-3-4...

The world is quiet and narrow, comprised only of my deep, even breathing; the sound of the treadmill; and the grey slice of machine and wall that fills my vision.

Well. That and the rather obnoxious sounds of an argument taking place somewhere behind me.

"Come on, Coach! Why does he get to volunteer? I mean, there wasn't even a contest of a fight or nuthin'! It's not even fair!"

I scowl at the wall. God, how rude can you get? I mean, come on. Is it too much to ask for a little quiet time before the Reapings?

"He's never even trained with us! How can we know that he's even all that good?"

"Well, I would hope that you'd trust yer damn teachers to know how to pick the best bloody fighter!"

"I-I know, I do, it's just that... you've never stepped in before! The Games is kid stuff, not adult stuff, so it only makes sense that we decide for ourselves!"

Oh god, this again.

Procedure for Volunteering is rather... informal, to put it delicately. I've heard that D2 has some sort of test to determine who gets to go, but us? We're too new to this. We haven't got all the kinks worked out. All we have is a few competing "traditions", none of which are older that three years.

After all, volunteering has only recently become a thing that actually happens in reality, instead of a possibility as farfetched as building a ladder to the moon.

Our Reapings currently a great big clusterfuck, pardon the vulgarity, full of made up rules that no one follows and tactics that can't strictly be called cheating, but are most definitely unsportsmanlike. So it's something of a relief when someone with the actual authority to back it up steps in and puts things in some kind of order, even if they did ignore the girls this time.

I roll my eyes and try to recapture my jogging buzz, but it's gone. The whiney jerk back there took it out back and shot it in the head like it was a rabid dog, and now everyone in the theater is crying. What a prick.

And he just keeps going on and on about his financial situation and how he needs to be this year's tribute and blah blah blah. Thankfully, the trainer isn't having any of that and politely tells him to buzz off. It's things like this that almost make me want to remember the names of the people who have been teaching me how to be awesome since I turned twelve. Almost.

"And you too, missy! It's nearly time for the Reaping, and the last thing I need is Peacekeepers up my ass about tardiness!" The trainers growls right in my ear, his ugly mug suddenly right next to my face.

My steps falter and catch and my feet shoot out from under me. My face collides with the treadmill's frame, nose breaking with a wet crunch. Blood spurts from my face like a faucet as the belt tosses me back into a rack of free weights. I hit them with about as much grace as a sack of flailing kittens, and the gym resonates with the mingled sounds of metal crashing and one dumb asshole yelping in pain.

I extract myself from the wreckage, gathering the shredded remains of my dignity as I go, and set about cataloguing my injuries. My nose is definitely broken and still gushing blood all over my shirt, but everything other than that seems to be in working order. Just a bit sore, and I can probably chalk that up to my workout, which ran much, much longer than I intended, apparently.

With that in mind, I force myself to turn calmly towards the trainer, who had just born witness to me being the magnificent winner that I am, and ask, "What time is it?"

"A-are... you okay, kid? We got a first aid kit in the back if you need..."

I repeat my question, hiding shaking hands behind my back.

"8:20. Uh... you should probably... get going. Reaping and all... You sure you're okay, kid? That nose looks... well, yikes."

I contort my face into something I hope resembles a carefree grin and mumble something about being fine and dandy, yessir, no need to make us both late, ahaha, as I edge towards the door.

I give a stiff salute and race out the door, dodging the last few stragglers making their way to the Reaping which starts in ten fucking minutes, augh.

My nose is still leaking blood all over my sweat-stained tank top and gym shorts and my hair is tied up in a messy bun and sweaty locks of it are sticking to my face and trailing through my bloody nose and I look like a damned disaster zone and I can never show my face in that particular gym again and holy shit I am such a fucking moron.

There's no time to head back home and clean up, so I'll be forced to sit through the whole ceremony broadcasting my shame like a neon sign above my head that reads "DORK" in blazing red letters, or risk being reprimanded by the Peacekeepers and ending up with much worse than a broken nose.

My wounded pride hurts more than my face.

Luxor Prince

Onyx and Lilith kept me preoccupied for far longer than I had intended, leaving me with little time to bathe and change before the Reaping.

I arrive at the sign just as the Mayor's speech is starting. The officer on duty grimaces at me. I ignore him and proceed to elbow my way into the haphazard mass of males aged 12-18, heading for the front of the crowd.

I dodge and cajole and bully my way through the crowd, ignoring the pointed glares of would-be volunteers and the looks of mingled thankfulness and unease from the would-be Reaped.

Despite what they might think, I'm not doing this for them or to spite them or whatever they think.

I'm doing this because I was born to.

I never knew my parents. Born the year of our District's very first Victory, I was raised by a group of skilled trainers as something of an experiment.

Our first Victor, Rarity Lanadae, was a fluke of a win. A gem cuter by trade and a coward by nature, she did not deserve to live over her more talented competition, but survived nonetheless due to some stroke of luck.

Her Victory brought no honor on our District.

Something she herself seemed to realize, as she devoted her undeserved wealth to preparing the youth of D1 for "whatever challenges life might throw at them" by opening a series of free Training Centers throughout the district, so that those who came after her might have a chance at a more honest win.

Or at least that is how my teachers put it.

In truth, I don't believe she cared so much about winning as she cared about survival. I met her only once, but even a few short minutes in her presence was enough to register her obvious distaste for the so called "Careers" who hoped to make their livings off the Games. Her distaste for everything I stand for.

I was born and raised to be a Victor. To bring honor and glory upon District 1, even at the expense of twenty three young lives.

I was bred to win.

And the ideas of a sentimental old woman are nothing in the face of that one inexorable truth.

I find myself a good position at the front of the crowd, just close enough to the edge to make for a short trip to the stage, but not so far from the center that the Escort has any chance of missing me.

Our escort is short and spry with an exaggerated agedness to her. She appears to be in her seventies or eighties, but the way she moves betrays her youth. Or perhaps Capitol medical technology is simply that good. Either way, she has a certain briskness to her that I have to admire.

She cuts right to the chase, selecting a name from the female's bowl with a minimum of fanfare.

"Glory Joryia."

Not a name I recognize. So, untrained. The females do not have a candidate lined up, so it is likely that I will be going in with a deadweight partner. Not so bad. Less competition.

There is a long pause before someone lets out a strangled yelp. The Escort stands stone-faced and asks for volunteers with practiced indifference.

"I volunteer..?" Someone yells, then repeats herself, firmer. "I volunteer!"

The voice is vaguely familiar. I cannot see the female crowd from where I am standing, so I fix my eyes on the stage and wait.

The girl who appears is tall, about 5'11", and lean. A build suited more for speed than power. Her legs are long, and her center of balance is high, so she should be fairly easy to trip up. Her hair is cut to about chin length, just long enough to prove a good handhold. Difficult to get ahold of, but should go down easily once caught, I surmise.

She's dressed in a faded tank top and threadbare shorts, both speckled with blood from a recently broken nose. So recent that her face is only beginning to purple with what appears to be a very nasty bruise. That will likely be well-treated before the Games begins, so it holds no advantage for me.

Her posture is stiff and determined, but her hands quiver slightly. Nerves? Adrenaline? Her face betrays nothing of what she is feeling. Further assessment will be necessary.

She announces her name to be Valerie Hall. A familiar name. A number of my teachers speak highly of her speed and intelligence. Others decry her impulsive nature and arrogance. I have little reason to disagree with either assessment.

The Escort marches towards the male bowl and plucks a slip of paper from it. I am shouting before she has a chance to read the name.

Cameras focus on me and I put on a show for them, leaping up on stage with ease and loping gracefully to center stage. The Escort gestures at me and Hall to shake hands. We comply. Hall's grip is sure, but she refuses to meet my gaze, and up close the tension in her face is unmistakable.

I allow myself a small grin as I turn to face the crowd.

I am a born winner. And Valerie Hall is not.

Valerie Hall

I'm the smartest idiot in the world.

Two Peacekeepers are escorting me to the Justice building. Bloody, sweaty, reeking me is going to the gorgeous and opulent Justice Building that probably smells of something lovely like lilacs. Because I volunteered.

I volunteered for the Hunger Games.

It's not like I wasn't planning on volunteering eventually. Next year, in fact. And that's the problem. Next year is supposed to be my year. And now I'm missing out on a year's worth of training just because I embarrassed myself in front of one man whose name I can't even remember.

And what's worse is I have to face my family.

There's no way mom and dad won't drop by to yell at me for not telling them that I planed to volunteer. And I'll have to pretend that I planed it, otherwise they'll yell at me for not thinking things through.

And if they're both there at the same time, giving each other those side glances like they just can't stand each others guts...

Ugh.

No thanks.

I don't need that kind of stress on a day like this.

My escorts point me towards a small, tastefully decorated room, done up in muted shades of grey. Everything looks soft and ephemeral, like what my childhood self imagined standing in a cloud would feel like. It should put me at ease, but the idea of spending more time than is necessary around my family sets me on edge.

It's not that they aren't lovely people, far from it; my mother is one of the smartest people I know, and my father is the sweetest and most gentle. It's just that I can't stand the ruse their marriage has become.

I realized when I was twelve, right after my Grandmother died. They both doted on my brother and me, but were hardly ever together. And when they were, the tension was palpable to a devastated and oversensitive young me. They never fought, at least not in front of us kids, but they weren't a unit anymore. And that scared me.

I had just lost my favorite person, and then my parent's relationship all of the sudden seemed shaky. It felt like my whole world was falling apart.

And suddenly, everything and everyone seemed suspect. The very idea of long term love and commitment seemed like a farce. Because after all, mom and dad had grown tired of each other, right? What's to stop them from growing tired of me?

What's to stop everyone I care about from leaving me?

I grew out of that particular fear, and into a more rational one. See, it's clear to both me and my brother that our parents no longer love each other and would be happier apart. That we as a family unit would be better off if the nonstop tension between them would just. Stop. But they insist on keeping up their paper thin façade of affection, for our sakes.

They're trapped in a loveless relationship because they love us too much to hurt us, and are too busy pretending to be happy to realize how much they are hurting us.

I pace nervously for a few seconds, then make up my mind.

"H-hey?" I call through the door, hand hovering just above the knob. "Uh, can I not have, um. Visitors? I mean, c-could you just not let anyone in or something? Please?"

There's no answer. I finger the door knob for a bit before giving up and standing awkwardly in the center of the room, trying my best to avoid dripping blood on the plush carpet.

Shit, I am pathetic.

But, I think to myself with a certain vindictive pleasure, a pathetic loser with mad knife skills and the ability to run further and faster than anyone else in the district.

I'll show them.

This loser trying and failing to keep the blood of her accidentally broken nose off the luxurious carpet of the room she is hiding from her family in is going to win the 31st Annual Hunger Games. Just you wait and see.

AN: It's really weird that a district that specializes in luxury goods became famous for producing winning tributes. I always thought that D2, D4, D10, and D7 dominated the first couple Games, but D1 started up the whole Career thing and the latter two were left in the dust.

Anyway, sorry for the wait for all two of you that care, but.