District Two Male

Cassian, 18

His father's body swings, suspended from the balcony above by a rope around his neck. He's still alive, choking repulsively, his eyes bloodshot and bulging. He reeks of booze, and something else - the putrid odor nearly knocks Cassian off his feet. Shit and piss; the stench of death. Beside him, Iver screams.

"Your fault." His father croaks. The rope is crushing his airway, but somehow he forms the words. "Your fault."

Blood dribbles down the corner of his mouth, more and more until Cassian realizes this isn't his father anymore; it's a man, a criminal, his first human kill test, and Cassian has forced his sword through his gut, lifted him up off the ground with nothing but the blade. Blood, hot and wet, drips down the handle, soaking his hands, and his muscles burn but he holds his grip firm until the man's body goes still. Cassian watches the life leave his eyes with grim satisfaction.

Soft footsteps approach him from behind. He pulls his sword from the man's corpse, turns and swings blindly at his attacker. The blade cuts through the sturdy white armor, and Cassian meets his mother's warm brown eyes behind the Peacekeeper mask.

Cassian wakes, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. He hasn't had a nightmare like that for years, since his Field Exam. He tries to process it, but the memory of the dream slips away from him, leaving behind a troubling sense of unease.

Only five days ago he was told he would be going into the arena, but he'd known long before that. He had known the day his grieving father squandered their fortune on booze and hung himself, leaving Cassian with no family and no home to call his own, that the games would be his only salvation from a life of poverty. The Centre became a beacon of light in the darkness, both a home and a family and an outlet for his helpless anger and frustration. They told him to take that fury, that cruelty, and use it. From it, he draws his ambition, his unending drive to achieve above and beyond what is expected, crushing his opponents without mercy.

He's always known he would be the chosen volunteer, and he always knew he would win (he doesn't allow himself to even consider the alternative.) But lately he has been thinking about what happens after, and it's hard for him to even imagine. The Centre took his broken pieces and glued them back together with promises of fame and glory, but it's only a temporary fix. He fears that, once the final cannon sounds, he won't hold together any longer and will come ripping apart at the seams. His desire for the crown is what has kept him together all this time; once his prime ambition is achieved, what will come next for him? Once he's reached the top, he fears the only place for him to go will be down.

His stomach grumbles loudly, interrupting his train of thought. It's only four in the morning, and he's already starving. But before he earns his breakfast, he's got to go on his hour-long morning jog.

Cassian is one of the first ones to the track, which is just the way he likes it. He gets going at a casual pace, giving his muscles some time to warm up. He's not that fast of a runner, too much muscle bulk slowing him down, but he has great endurance and can run very long distances with ease.

Some ways ahead of him, Oriana, this year's female volunteer, is running at a much faster pace. She's definitely quicker than him, but has less stamina. If it came down to it, she could outrun him in the arena, but in a chase he would catch up to her once she tired out - not that either of them would run from a fight. They're careers, not fucking outliers.

He continues to analyze her as they run, silently critiquing her form (not that there's much to critique; it's nearly flawless) and searching for weaknesses to exploit. He's not being subtle about it, either - it couldn't hurt to psych her out a bit before the real thing starts. But every time he tries to get closer, she speeds up.

"Come on, what are you running from?" Cassian taunts.

Oriana ignores him completely. Cool and collected as ever, he supposes. Cassian could never pull off a stoic persona like that, but it works for her. Even when they were younger and just starting the Program, he remembers her being that way. He wonders what it would take to make her snap, how far he would have to push her.

Their hour is up around the same time, but when he goes to follow her out, a trainer, Tavia, gives him a look. "What?" Cassian says, feigning innocence. "I'm just going to get breakfast."

"How about you drop and give me fifty, first." She tells him, crossing her arms. "I don't think you've earned it yet."

Cassian huffs, but does as he's told. By the time he's done, he's hardly even breaking a sweat. If she really wanted to punish him, she'd make him do sprints or run the agility course, something that would be an actual challenge for someone of his build. It's the day of the Reaping, though, so she lets him off easy. Cassian stands at attention, waiting for dismissal.

"Save it for the arena, Cassian," Tavia says. "Or at least after the Reaping."

"Yessir." He says, and shoots her his trademark dazzling smile. She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches upwards.

"Get outta here, kid."

He clears out, taking the quickest route to the cafeteria. He lines up to get his daily oatmeal and protein shake, shoving a couple of younger kids out of the way. One of them starts to protest, until their eyes catch the golden bead on his Centre bracelet, designating him as this year's volunteer. They shut their mouth quickly, stepping back without another word. Aggression is always encouraged in the Centre, but only an idiot would mess with a volunteer.

On the way to his table, he passes by a pair of girls yelling at each other. He recognizes them - Nikita and Rhea, both seventeen and fighting hard to beat out the other for the spot in the arena next year. It doesn't take long for the shouting match to escalate into a full fight, and Cassian has to sidestep out of the way to avoid getting caught by a stray fist. He sits at a table and turns his seat to face them, sipping his protein shake as he watches it go down.

Rhea's a good fighter, quarry-strong and proud, but she's no match for Nikita. Cassian watches intently as Nikita breaks her down, bit by agonizing bit. He can't look away. Nikita is stunning, blood staining her dark skin, exuding power from every pore. By the time the trainers decide to interfere, Rhea's arm is hanging uselessly by her side, bent at an unnatural angle, and Nikita probably has a minor concussion but other than that she's unscathed, smiling in light of her victory.

"Son of a bitch, did I miss it?"

Enoch, a guy in the age bracket below him, slides into the seat across from him. Cassian forces himself to look away from Nikita's retreating figure as she goes off to medical, and nods. "Maybe if you got up on time, you would have seen it."

The younger boy shrugs, spooning some oatmeal into his mouth. "I need my beauty sleep."

Cassian scoffs, shaking his head. It's a miracle Enoch has made it this far in the Program - he obviously doesn't give a shit wether he makes it into the arena or not. He'll be cut sometime soon and sent to the Peacekeeping Academy. Maybe that's what he's aiming for.

Cassian would rather die than go down that route. Both his parents had been Peacekeepers, and it had resulted in sad, miserable deaths for the both of them. His mother had done her twenty years out in Seven, then came back home to Two to start a family, but when they needed her again in Twelve and she went without question. She was loyal until the very end, when she died of some awful lung disease, leaving eleven-year-old Cassian alone with his heartbroken father.

He sure as Snow doesn't plan on following in their footsteps - he is going into the arena. And he is going to win.

District Two Female

Oriana, 18

Oriana wants nothing more than to pick up a knife and carve a dummy to pieces, but the trainers won't let her. She's already tried twice this morning to sneak into the weapons room, with no luck. The trainers are convinced she'll overexert herself and pull something, but she hasn't been training for years just to throw her shoulder out the day of the Reaping and be replaced by her backup. Besides, Oriana has never been one to lose control.

The bloodlust nags at her like an itch she can't quite reach. It's unbearable. Her last kill test was over a year ago, and she still dreams of the satisfying sound of her axe splitting open the criminal's skull. In just a couple days, she will have a chance to taste that pleasure again, but for now she has to be patient. Before she can get into the arena, she has to volunteer. Before she can volunteer, she has to sit in a chair for an hour and have her hair and makeup done. It is what it is.

"You're twitching." One of the trainers comments. Oriana has been shaking her leg without realizing. It's a nervous tic they trained her out of long ago, but apparently the stress of the upcoming Reaping has caused it to resurface. She stops, but shoots the trainer a sideways glare. Such a blatant display of disrespect would normally never go unpunished in the Centre, but as this year's chosen volunteer she can get away with a bit more than she usually would. Besides narrowing his eyes a fraction, the trainer does not react. He's likely seen his fair share of arrogance during his years working at the Centre, and knows better than to give Oriana the reaction she wants. His air of superiority annoys her to no end. She knows she is better than him. He's just a washout, a nobody who didn't make the cut because he wasn't good enough to represent his district in the arena. Now he's here, bossing her around.

Oriana's mentor, Brutus, has actually been where Oriana is right now. He was thrown into a merciless arena and escaped with his life, and became one of the greatest victors the Centre has ever produced. He has continued to make his district proud outside the arena by mentoring, and has already pulled two victors through. If Oriana wins, she will be his third. She hasn't met him yet, and won't until they get on the train, but she can't wait. Sure, he's more brawn than brains, which is pretty much the opposite of Oriana's strategy, but he has invaluable experience mentoring than could save her in the arena. She has nothing but respect for him.

"All right, you're done." The stylist says, finally lowering the makeup brush. Oriana turns to look in the mirror, and is very happy with what she sees. It is only the Reaping, so the look is quite natural, with just a dash of golden eyeshadow and a rosy tint for her lips. They've left her short, brown hair loose and wavy. The brown cream they had been caking on earlier has given her golden skin the illusion of glowing, and she likes it a lot. What they will do to her in the Capitol will be much less... muted. So she should enjoy this while she can.

She's tempted to ask the time, but decides against it. They've been doing this for decades - surely they'll get her to the Reaping Square on time. The thought of missing the Reaping still nags at the back of her mind, unrealistic as it may be.

Two trainers escort her down to the main entrance where they meet up with Cassian. He sidles up next to her and shoots her a grin that she's sure is meant to be unsettling, but she ignores it easily. He'll have to try harder than that if he wants to get under her skin.

Something tells her he doesn't plan on giving up any time soon.

District Two Male

Cassian, 18

The twittering escort decides to pull the males first this year, not that it makes any sort of difference. She unfolds the paper slip, and reads the name aloud.

"Iver Cheng."

Cassian doesn't even make the connection, at first. The escort asks for volunteers, and he's counting down the standard three seconds before he volunteers when he realizes who has been reaped; Iver, his old friend, the only constant in Cassian's life for so many years, until he failed his second animal kill test at thirteen and got cut from the Program. If Cassian were a lesser person, he would have choked up, maybe even hesitated. But Cassian is the best of the best, the strongest the Centre has to offer, and he says the words calm and proud, just as he has practiced for years: "I volunteer!"

The crowd cheers and parts to let him through. He takes his time walking up to the stage, his gait languid and comfortable, because he has practiced this just like he has everything else. Once on the stage, he smiles to the crowd, and another round of applause commences. He catches the image of himself on screen - beside it is Iver, standing with his fist over his heart, a sign of respect in Two. Cassian quickly looks away.

"And your name, young man?" The escort asks, holding up the microphone to him.

"Cassian." He answers. Two volunteers never have surnames - they give them up at thirteen, when they recite the oath giving themselves to the Centre, to District Two and to the Capitol. As far as the Capitol and any of the other districts are concerned, Two volunteers have no family, no past before the arena. Cassian almost wishes that were true.

District Two Female

Oriana, 18

The girl they call starts crying immediately. Oriana doesn't turn to look at her - she's got her eyes cemented to the stage, waiting with bated breath for the escort to call for volunteers - but from the pitch of it she imagines it's a twelve-year-old, young and incredibly stupid. Does she not realize what district she's in? This is Two, for Snow's sake. They aren't going to send a helpless little kid into the arena like some barbaric outlier district.

"Will there be any volunteers?" The escort asks.

They're supposed to wait a moment or two before volunteering, to increase the drama, but the girl's wails are only growing louder and Oriana just really wants her to stop. "I volunteer!" She cries immediately.

Onto the stage she goes, the crowds cheers drowning out the little girl's sobs. She takes her place beside Cassian. He towers an entire foot over her, their height difference painfully apparent on the screens. He's grinning like an idiot.

"And what is your name, love?"

"Oriana." She answers proudly.

The thunderous answering applause echoes in her ears, and Oriana basks in it. This is exactly where she belongs.

District Two Male

Cassian, 18

Cassian fully expected to spend his few minutes in the Justice Building alone with his thoughts. Instead, Iver shows up in the doorway, face flushed.

"Can I come in?" He asks.

"Sure." Cassian answers, sounding much less thrown off than he actually is.

Iver shuts the door gently behind him, and smiles at Cassian like it's been days since they've last seen each other, instead of years. He's grown up tall and wiry, and looks like he's working on growing in a mustache but failing miserably. "I knew it would be you." He says. "I know how much you wanted it... so I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." Cassian says. There's more he wants to say, but he can't put the words together.

"I definitely didn't think it would be me, though." Iver says. "Getting reaped, I mean. I almost had a heart attack."

It's such an Iver thing to say, Cassian can't help but chuckle. Iver's eyes light up at the sound, and his shoulders relax a bit.

It's strange. Iver looks like he hasn't changed a bit - he's still got that mischievous glint in his eye, a carefree smirk on his lips despite everything Cassian knows he has seen - but Cassian is an entirely different person. Iver was his first, last, and only friend, and he was rough and tough enough to make it through the first couple years in the Program, back when it was just training disguised as fun and games, but he wasn't broken enough, like Cassian, for the Centre to mould and to warp into a unrepentant killer. Iver had barely made it through the animal kill test that qualified him to move into the Centre full-time, while Cassian had passed with flying colors and only wept once afterward. Cassian had tried to help his friend, but it was no use. Iver was cut after his second animal kill test, when they gave him a kitten and told him to snap it's neck with his bare hands and he refused.

Cassian has killed a squirrel, a puppy, and a chipmunk, murderers and thieves and a mother and a father and by this point having blood on his hands is more familiar than not. Iver was weak and Cassian was strong and he obeyed and now he's here, on his way to victory and eternal glory, and Iver is not.

Iver says something that he does not hear. Cassian sits, still and silent and seething. Iver comes to the realization his presence is no longer welcomed.

"I'll be betting on you." Iver says, and leaves.

Cassian is grateful for the silence.

District Two Female

Oriana, 18

The room they lead her into in the Justice Hall is very quiet and plan, a nice place for her to sit down and think. Oriana isn't sure if her parents are going to visit her or not. She would understand if they didn't, but if they did they wouldn't be unwelcome.

At that moment, the giant oaken door creaks open. An old man with a cane walks in. She doesn't recognize him at first, until she realizes with a start that this is her father. He'd been nearing his mid-fifties when she said her final goodbyes to him and moved into Residential at age thirteen, and he'd been going grey then but now what little hair he has left is wispy and white. The lines in his face are deep, the skin sagging and worn, and as Oriana's mother walks in behind him, she sees that they have both aged tremendously. She does the math in her head, and realizes that her father is around sixty, and her mother only ten years younger. It's a shock, definitely, but even more unnerving are the grim expressions they wear as they approach her.

Oriana stands, tilting her head in deference, and her mother sighs wistfully. "Look at how strong you've grown." Mother says. Even her voice sounds old and tired. "And so beautiful. You look just like your Aunt Priya."

Mother talked proudly and often of her dead sister when Oriana was young, glorifying Priya's honorable sacrifice in the games. Oriana had always assumed she had died in some epic fight. She was twelve, memorizing the names of fallen tributes in preparation for her test to enter Residential, when she discovered there had been no battle. Priya had burned alive in a volcano explosion that wiped out half the career pack in the 50th. It had been the whim of the gamemakers, not a worthy enemy's sword, that had killed her.

"Thank you." Oriana answers, polite but distant.

Mother smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. Father only stands, his knobby fingers clenched around the handle of his cane, face stoic. No one speaks, and the silence drags on. Oriana had thought speaking with her parents for the first time in years would be a bit uncomfortable, but nothing like this. The silence is maddening. Is her father really just going to stand there?

"Well?" She says, her voice climbing up an octave. "Don't you have anything to say? Aren't you proud of me?"

"Of course we are, sweetheart." Her mother says softly. "We just - well, we didn't really expect this to happen."

This is not going the way she had expected. Not at all. Oriana normally has no problem keeping her cool - she's learned to conceal everything, because there will always be someone waiting to take advantage of her weakness - but in this moment she lets go. "What the hell do you mean?" She says. "You didn't think I was good enough to make it this far?"

"No! It's just that, after Crispin, we'd thought you would come back home." Her mother says, backpedalling. "He was born for the games, he was our sacrifice and... we didn't think we'd be making another."

Oh. So that's what this is about. She should have known he'd come up. Just two years ago, her parents had been standing in this same room with her brother Crispin. As Oriana and the other trainees watched his games in the Centre, her parents had been watching from their couch back at home. They'd both sat through the nail-biting final showdown as Crispin and Gloss fought for their lives. He had been so, so close to victory, but Gloss skewered him with his spear and it was all over.

"You thought wrong." Oriana says, her voice cool and deadly. "His death didn't scare me off. It woke me up. It made me realize that I have to win this game, not only for myself, or for the pride of my district, but for him. There are other ways I could service my district and my Capitol, but there is no greater honor in this world than becoming a victor, and that honor will be mine."

They will never understand. She knows that. Her father got cut from the Centre at sixteen after failing his Field Exam, and had happily enrolled in the Peacekeeper Academy. Her mother had lasted longer in the Program, all the way until eighteen, but when it was down to her and two other girls the trainers decided she didn't have what it took to win. Oriana does, though, and so did Crispin. She is going to win.

She has to.

A/N:

I planned on doing the reapings in order once I got all of my tributes, but submissions have slowed and I still haven't received a District One Male. I had this chapter done already, so I figured why not post it? If you liked it, please submit me some tributes! As of right now, I have ten spots open, and one reserved.

The more detail your submission has, the longer your tribute's POVs will be. I'm just trying to do my best with what I am given.

HUGE shoutout to Lorata, from whom I gleefully stole almost all of my District Two headcanons. She's absolutely amazing. If you haven't read any of her stuff, please do so NOW (I've read all of it at least twice.) The lovely Nikita was borrowed from her, with permission. If you're curious about her fate, check out Lorata's story Fixed to a Star.

I also drew inspiration from azelmaroark on LiveJournal, who has some amazing stuff about District Two, particularly Cato and Clove.

Leave a review letting me know what you thought about this chapter, and the tributes! Cassian was submitted by Nia Irial, and Orina was submitted by Longini48.

UPDATE 7/11 : Changed a small detail that was bugging me. Expect the next chapter soon!