The first district - District Eight! Courtesy of paperthorn!
Cosima Laurentius, 16
Even on the reaping day in District Eight, there was work to be done. Food still needed to be placed on the table and mouths needed to be fed. That was what Cosima told herself in one of her fleeting thoughts that found itself interwoven with so many others. They were the small bouts of resilience she hoped would drag her through her shift. That sentiment resounded in District Eight where memories of the hard, arduous labour they had to endure still cut deep and raw. It was only the factories that were given the 'luxury' of having the morning off.
Only in the Capitol would they think a day off work is a luxury. That was why Oskar had the day off; what could a packer in Eight's factories do when the Capitol closed them for the reaping? Cosima's bitter thought was a quick one, replaced near immediately by helping a customer at the store. Better to channel it into something more productive anyway.
"Can this be adjusted?" The woman's voice was a lot softer than her appearance led on; thick, dark sunglasses hid whatever wandering eyes were beneath. "Or, at least, make it better."
Cosima was used to dissatisfied customers and uninterested window shoppers alike; the small store she worked at in the centre of District Eight's capital was never anything glamourous. Oftentimes, it was given the scraps from the factories - whatever articles of clothing failed to meet the cut. By whatever luck, however, the store had gotten a reputation for being cheap and thus a cycle of customers being unimpressed and directing their frustration on the workers began.
If the store didn't pay surprisingly well, Cosima may have considered quitting.
"I'm sorry ma'am," She began, the repeated mantra being automatic at this point. "But this store operates on a 'buy what you see' policy - we do recommend the tailors down the road, however, if adjustments are desired."
This never sounds like me. Too pretty.
"You'd be wise to make an exception for me, dear girl."
The woman brought the thick rims of her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, exposing her eyes as if that was to help Cosima guess her identity. 'Keepers the rich are so full of themselves. Cosima simply smiled at her, a subtle shake to her head.
"My husband makes those garments," The woman continued, a gloved finger pushing the glasses back up to where they were. "It'd be in your best interest to accommodate my requests."
Cosima continued to smile, though she rolled her eyes as her back turned to move back behind the counter. "I'm really sorry ma'am," She repeated, letting her body flow into the natural ease it had for multi-tasking. As she spoke, she folded garments and labelled them with whatever reduced price the owner had deemed them worthy of. "I can't do it."
The woman's eyes fluttered from the dress back to Cosima (though, behind the dark sunglasses, the movement couldn't be seen) before she huffed. "You know, I think sometimes we need those long hours back." Her voice dripped with an acidity that Cosima recognised enough; some of Eight's rich who had profited off the slave hours given as punishment for the Second Rebellion often lamented how they had been revoked. "It'd make people be willing to help for a change."
As she always did - even if her mind was thankfully lost in a different train of thought - Cosima thanked the woman for her time, apologised once more for good measure and watched as she left.
The rest of her shift, thankfully, was uneventful. A few mothers came in to do some last minute reaping day shopping and some of the richer girls came in to buy accessories to elevate their outfits further. They called it 'elevating;' Cosima called it ruining. Oskar would hear of it, accompanied dutifully with their names and outfits. She packed up shop with a childlike eagerness, wanting to spend some time at home before the inevitable of the afternoon.
Cosima liked the sunshine the summer brought to District Eight. It seemed to shine through the smoke of the factories and give life a much needed injection of appeal. Pretty wildflowers bloomed despite whatever pollution they were subjected to on the daily and the most curious of wildlife would make appearances. She smiled as she took the more scenic way back home; letting her brain drift away to the beat of her shoes on the sidewalk.
There were more benefits to this particular way home beyond the plants and the rivers, namely the house of one Stefan Laurentius.
As her brother had let the relationship with their father deteriorate and rot away into nothing, Cosima had tried to continue. Consoling a father who's grief at the loss of his wife had turned him to alcohol had been hard but Cosima persisted. Some days were better than others but a bond had been created. Hell, Cosima had even seen him get a little sober over the past few years.
The house her father lived at was rundown and dirty. It sat on the edge of the neighbourhood that was known for being a nice part of District Eight; one where the encroaching grasp of the Capitol quite hadn't returned yet. Neighbours knew of the story behind it, how Stefan had become so lost in grief that fixing up the house wasn't a priority. In fact, only the rooms he frequented the most were of any standard.
Once, the house scared Cosima - the twisted, abandoned vibe was something she had seen from old Capitol horror movies. That anxiety turned to some form of anticipation as she made headway in repairing the relationship with her father but, after so many years, she only felt sadness. Although her father had made questionable decisions after her mother died, she felt he didn't deserve to live as squalidly as he did. He was reluctant to leave, however, and so he remained.
One day we'll get you out, Cosima thought to herself as she pushed her way through the door. Her father had given her an old key that apparently had once been her mother's. Or we'll make this nicer.
"I got you this." Cosima said as she came across her father in what was the living room. They never needed the formalities of welcoming one another; she was the only one who ever visited. She reached into her bag and producing a small sugared bun wrapped neatly in brown paper. A neighbour had told her once that sugared buns were her father's favourite and, ever since, she had gotten him one on reaping day. "The baker kept it aside 'cos he figured I'd be there soon enough."
She offered her father a smile, finding some satisfaction when he smiled back. It was a small smile but one that had the echoes of the large smiles she had seen in pictures. Mostly the ones that had her mother in them too. He looked younger when he smiled, calmer too. There was a paternal energy to it that Cosima took secret happiness in, as if her father was brought back to the more exciting times of being an expecting parent.
Her father never talked much whenever she visited. At first, the silence unnerved her. She felt judged and worried that her father saw it all as ingenuine, thinly-veiled attempts at the whole 'sorry granddad won custody' speech. He, instead, seemed to follow along with her jumping thoughts - so much so that Cosima could speak and fill the silence between them.
She spoke, he listened. Sometimes he even connected thoughts for her that even she had been unable to do.
Her father stared at the bun for a second before unwrapping it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling the sweet, freshly baked aroma. In a district like Eight, such pleasures were held onto. "I'll get you one next year," He said, the appreciation evident in his eyes. "And another one - for your brother."
Cosima's smile turned more genuine as she allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, their little family could be completed by next year.
Oskar Laurentius, 16
Oskar's grandfather, Uwe Domitia, was an aged man. Born near the Fiftieth Hunger Games, he had waited patiently for the Second Rebellion. He did all he could and, when it failed, he began to wait patiently once more. He always spoke about how he could see Oskar, someone who eagerly leant into roles of leadership, as the Mockingjay reborn.
Oskar, like many of Panem's youth, knew a rebellion wouldn't happen in their lifetime. Instead, he smiled and nodded.
Reaping days seemed to flare his grandfather's rebelliousness more than other days. Countless times had Oskar and his sister heard stories of the Second Rebellion as Uwe fussed over whatever breakfast he made for them. There was always a definite sadness to the tone the stories were told in; as if missed opportunities that hadn't been taken could've changed the course of the rebellion. Yet a pride remained, some happy ownership of being involved in some of Eight's more rebellious moments.
Oskar watched absent-mindedly as his grandfather fussed over eggs over the stone, listening with half an ear to stories he had heard again and again. The only bad thing having reaping day off from the factories was that Cosima still had to work. Sure he didn't need his twin to be entertained but, as one would expect, the two of them together was exceedingly fun.
He looked at the clock, noting that Cosima was supposed to have finished her shift an hour ago. He knew where she was, how could he not? Oskar supposed it was admirable that she tried to keep their father involved in her life but he felt a little jealousy. Charm was a staple of Oskar Laurentius - many people had and would continue to be entranced by his natural charisma. He often joked that he was an actor in a past life or, at least, someone that moved hundreds by their words. There was only ever once person who his charm hadn't worked on; his father. As Stefan continued to connect with Cosima and forge a bond with her out of the ashes of what was a messy custody battle, Oskar retreated away.
Sometimes, guilt ate at him for not trying harder. Most of the time, he was able to blissfully ignore it. That was one part he had come to hate about the reaping day - how family was emphasised and how he was reminded again and again that he had been unable to charm his father back to normality.
Even as he listened to his grandfather tell another story of the time Eight's rebel hospital was bombed, Oskar tapped his fingers in a weak attempt to will some guilt out of his body.
The only thing that made him perk up - and made those pesky, far too real emotions disappear - was Cosima walking through the door with her usual smile.
.
If there was one thing Oskar loved more than watching the sea of various fabrics and colours that signalled the reaping morning, it was gossiping about who was wearing what. Who could forget the time that Cotton from math class was wearing a dress inspired by the disgraced Capitol designer Alexandrous Le Varry? Or the time Velvet wore his father's vintage Thierra Harcourt suit? And who, honestly who, could forget when Miss. Hetzenzahn decided to try and mix a vintage Mariposielle Duncan skirt with a Acropilon Yves blazer?
He and Cosima could, had, and would continue to spend hours after the reaping talking about what happened. Out of some sort of twisted respect, ignoring who had been reaped was an unspoken rule; instead, they ridiculed whatever poor attempts at fashion they could find. That was often where the similarities between the Capitol and District Eight ended; they both took opportunities to show off to an extreme, often at the detriment of looking good.
That was always something that gave Oskar some small comfort during the reaping. Though not necessarily an easily intimidated person, it was simple to let the prospect of being reaped cloud a person's thoughts and make them excessively anxious. By talking to Cosima and gossiping as they did best, Oskar always felt more at ease.
"Ugh, Buckram is wearing that god-awful lilac suit again."
Oskar didn't need to hear the little giggles in his sister's voice to know that the sight was amusing. Buckram, someone in their homeroom, often wore hand-me-downs for anything. Whilst that could be sympathised, he seemed to insist on wearing a lilac suit for the reaping and had done for the past four years. Unlike him, the suit hadn't accommodated to his growth and looked more and more like he was some overgrown toddler who's parents refused to buy any newer clothes.
"Maybe this is the year it'll grow into him?" Oskar suggested with an easy smirk, ducking his head behind the person in front of them in the line as the mentioned boy looked over. "Or he'll finally ruin it and spare us from it."
"Unlikely," Cosima said, rolling her eyes. "I heard from one of the girls at work that he went to the boutique asking if it could be resized."
The only bad thing about talking to Cosima was he never noticed how quickly the line moved.
"Can they do that? I mean, it's a pretty small suit..."
Cosima shrugged, moving forward as the line dictated. She looked up to some point in the sky, engaged in a thought no doubt. "Perhaps, though it'd take a long ass time."
They were closer to being recorded as present.
Their conversation moved from Buckram and his lilac suit to Twillany and her grey - Cosima had told him that she tried to claim it was pastel black once - dress and they were just getting onto imagining what the escort for Eight might where when they were separated off.
Time to let the reaping make you scared, Oskar thought with a bitter huff.
"I'll see you after," Oskar said, an easy, relaxed smile on his face. There was no use being too anxious, not when they held the coveted position they did. They never had anything to worry about - living with their resourceful grandfather meant tesserae was never taken. "And we better talk about Annaleia."
Cosima simply smiled and nodded as she was moved off to where she'd stand, mouthing something that positively affirmed that, yes, they'd have many conversations about Annaleia.
Cosima Laurentius, 16
The escort for District Eight, Annaleia Templeton, always seemed to channel the essence of the District's industry very well; every year, she donned fabrics and styles that Cosima had heard Oskar explain to their grandfather. Having worked in the factories, often he heard of the latest Capitol fashion trends before she did. Her fashion was distinctively Capitol but there was always an unmistakable Eight twist that accompanied the look. Cosima briefly remembered some Capitol fashion magazines using the escort's fashion as a way to show how 'in tune' the Capitol was with District Eight. Annaleia, as she did every year, chose a new colour palette and most everyone could agree the baby pink was much more digestible than the garish orange she wore last year. Instead, though Cosima may never admit it unless masqueraded as gossip, she looked rather nice. She looked more like a Capitolite model than a Hunger Games escort.
From watching the reapings year after year, Cosima could tell that Annaleia was one of the more interesting non-Career escorts. She, in a blatant attempt at mimicking the escorts of One and Two, was preppy and celebratory of the Games. Other escorts like those of Nine, Ten and Twelve had long since given up the act, their chirpy spirits bent and snapped by the dull response the districts offered in return. Even though Eight could be neatly added to the line, somehow Annaleia never gave up.
She was bubbly as she gave remembrance to last year's tributes who had both pitifully died in the Bloodbath. She was bubbly as the Mayor gave his usual speech and through the introduction of Eight's only Victor, Velveteen Murphy.
Annaleia was especially bubbly through the films of comeuppance, detailing both the Dark Days and the Second Rebellion and how failure had meant the Hunger Games was established and then continued. By that point, as one would expect of her, Cosima had very wilfully let her brain follow the evanescent thoughts of her head. Whatever direction they took her in was better than the reaping, though one strand of thought was always squarely placed on the escort.
For however much she enjoyed being lost in whatever world her brain constructed for her, Cosima knew some things needed to be paid close attention to. The reaping was one of them.
Tension flittered within Cosima as she watched Annaleia walk towards the names of District Eight's girls. In there, Cosima Laurentius was neatly folded. How many times she had lost count but enough to have it recognised. Oskar had always told her not to worry about her name being read out. There were, after all, more people in far worse positions than they were whose names had accrued many more entries. Cosima wanted to believe him and, to satisfy him from going on and on until the inevitable next time he'd reassure her, she'd always go along with it.
As Annaleia's hand nimbly plucked a sheet from the bowl, Cosima was less sure of her brother's words. Even less as the small, black binding was torn.
Very little belief remained as the name was read out. It was the same every year, but old fears died hard.
"Cosima Laurentius!"
It took a second for the sound of her name to register. In all truth, Cosima had near immediately and very happily wrapped herself away in speculation on what her grandfather would make for dinner that night. Every year it was something different and something undeniably tasty. She had turned off her head to the name, not wanting it to be one she recognised. Yet, this year, it was her name.
She supposed, sadly, she'd never find out what her grandfather would make.
For the first time since attending the reapings four years ago, Cosima was painfully aware of the cameras. All of them scanned the crowd trying to find her. She was now one of twenty-eight who would be the fixation of Panem for the year... She was one of twenty-eight who were expected to kill for their life. Cosima tried to keep her mind focused as the girls around her nudged her to begin moving. Better that than the Peacekeepers dragging you into the aisle.
Her body was tense, as she moved. Rigid as if it had never walked before. In a passing thought, Cosima assumed it was because she never had to walk with purpose before.
Keep your mind focused.
She could hear her grandfather's words in the back of her head as she walked down the aisle, taking slight refuge in that the sixteen-year-olds were closer to the front. She tried to follow the advice from the reaping lessons they took at school to prepare them for this. Head held high to show the sponsors that you weren't scared. Purposeful walks, to show that you know how to act. Face unreadable, so they don't undervalue you as weak.
'Keepers she wanted to live in one of her fluttering thoughts, ones nestled in moments of happiness or safety.
No. You're a tribute now. Move.
As Cosima walked, her hands found each other at her waist, fingers fiddling with one another as her mind focused on being anything other than a marked Bloodbath. Every eye was on her, those around her feeling sorry for her and those in the crowd wondering just how far she could possibly make it. Catching the eye of some dissatisfied looks, she straightened her back. Everyone heard stories about how incessant the stylists could be - best try and train herself out of her regular, comforted slouch now.
"Don't be gawky for once," She told herself in her head. Cosima didn't quite know what to make of her inner voice being a whisper. "Let's try and be graceful."
She resolved to look forward at Annaleia, trying to will comfort in her soft baby pink hair. Better someone who could pretend to have confidence in you than the people of your District just deciding if they should put any hope on you at all. Plus, the little news they got form the Capitol said that Annaleia was a nicer escort. There had to be some truth there, right?
The Capitolite's hand was cold, when Cosima took it. Unlike her own that had turned a little clammy as her fingers had fiddled together nervously, the sleek fingers felt like they had no blood running through them. For a brief second, Cosima wondered if that was true. She was helped up to the stage slowly. Clearly, Annaleia saw her as something to show off - something to let each of the sponsors get a good look at. What the escort had seen, Cosima was unsure of. She accepted the help, however, with a small smile as she stood neatly to Annaleia's side.
Cosima let her mind wander as the escort began the spectacle of choosing who her counterpart would be. All she could hope for, the only meaningful thought she gave it, was that whoever was reaped wouldn't betray her. She barely registered the name that had been picked, recognising it briefly as the younger brother of a classmate's. He looked painfully scared, mostly because he likely knew he'd be Bloodbathed as an easy kill. Poor thing.
Then came the dreaded words.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
Some found the act of volunteering to protect a sister noble; others considered it sheer, poorly veiled stupidity.
Mostly, Cosima felt anger towards Oskar. Of course he would do something like this! What is he thinking?
She had barely begun to wrap her head around how she would survive the next few weeks - if she was to survive them - and now he had to complicate things incessantly? Part of her tried to reason that she would see the nobleness behind it all if given time but, really, she knew she never would. Not entirely, at least. This made everything worse. Now she had to think about how to word things in the Capitol - how to articulate exactly how she felt. She could feel herself rambling in front of the Master of Ceremonies. Worst of all, she knew that for one of them to come home alive, the other had to die.
"Never one, without the other," She and Oskar used to say to one another, grinning stupidly at their inside jokes and other things reserved for them alone. "It's us against the world."
Then why did he volunteer?
Oskar Laurentius, 16
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The words echoed around the district square like a sadistic ghost. Such words had only ever been uttered by the most desperate - the neediest where death at the hands of another teen was but a small, poor alternative in an otherwise needed victory.
The impulse, the desperation, hadn't been missed in his words. Mixed in with the incredulous looks from the crowd were some of sympathy; those who knew Oskar and his twin could see the very reason why. For a click of a second, Oskar regretted his decision. He wanted to take back his words and laugh about it, maybe even apologise to the small twelve-year-old who had very happily returned to their place amongst the crowd. "Sorry kid!" He could say, laying the charm on thick to cushion some of the blow. "Stab a Career for me, eh?"
Then he looked at her again. Cosima, on the stage. Before, she looked dignified and neutral and Oskar could laugh, knowing she was remembering whatever lessons they had been taught. Now, anger was written all over her face. He could tell that Cosima wasn't happy with his decision. It had taken her a moment - a prolonged second for the name to sound in her head - but the annoyance was clear as day. Even though the whole 'twin telepathy' thing was something they played on, Oskar was sure he could genuinely hear his sister's words without her uttering a sound. Stupid. Idiot. What are you thinking? Are you dumb? What. The. Fuck? All of them rang loud inside his head.
Oskar was headstrong in his reasoning, however. He would, no, he had to keep her safe. He would see her to the very end and, from wherever people went when they died, he would watch her be wreathed in the Victor's Crown. The alternative was to watch her die on screen and become reclusive like his father had become. That, quite simply, would be a fate worse than death.
If Cosima was to die in the Hunger Games, so would he. If Cosima was to win the Hunger Games, it would be at his eager death.
Sometimes, Oskar's impulses had led him to trouble and embarrassment. Other times, they gave him opportunities he wouldn't otherwise have or give him some great things. He hoped such an impulse as volunteering for the Hunger Games would belong to the latter.
He masked whatever fear - whatever guilt that began to bubble as he acknowledged that Cosima would have to see him die - behind a defiantly neutral expression. The Capitol could wait to hear his reasons for volunteering; they could guess whatever they wanted from his tone. That was all irrelevant, at the moment at least. He, first, needed to take his place alongside his sister as the male tribute for District Eight. The two of them would have to be asked if they had planned for it and then he alone would have to bear the responsibility of coming to terms with his inevitable death.
That was a lot and he knew that. For right now, he could play the part as District Eight's first volunteer in eons.
Annaleia was much more eager to drag him from the escort of Peacekeepers and have him take his place at her side. Whatever potential she had seen in Cosima had been eclipsed by him volunteering. Guilt, again, knocked at his heart. How is she meant to survive when I have the attention..?
Such things could be corrected after the train rides.
"And what is your name, my dear?" Annaleia's voice dripped with excitement. The smile on her face was hopeful with a predatory curl; it was as if she had already planned his Victory speech and envisioned the death of Cosima being something he'd need to endure. How wrong she was.
"Oskar Laurentius." His own voice sounded slightly foreign. Still strong and robust as he had rehearsed quickly as he took the steps to the stage, but unfamiliar.
"Oh bravo!"
Annaleia clapped her hands excitedly, the Capitol within her shining through whatever costume of Eight she paraded herself in.
"District Eight, I have the honour of introducing you to your tributes for the 115th Annual Hunger Games - Cosima and Oskar Laurentius! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour!"
Oskar didn't know what to expect when he faced his sister to shake her hand. He cheekily, for a moment, presumed gratitude and relief that they'd be together before resigning to contempt and anger. He was unnerved, a little, to see her neutral. An expression of determination and sternness found itself on his twin's features. Though he could see in her eyes that Cosima was full of rage - full of anger and hurt for what this made their reality - he saw a tribute who was trying to play the Games.
He was reassured only by the familiarity of her handshake.
Here we have our first tributes of Serpentine! Thanks so much to Poppy for sending them in!
Honestly, as soon as I got their forms, I knew they had to be accepted - their stories are too interesting to not tell.
If it seems like there's a little more focus on Cosima, that's just because the writing came so easily for her. Don't worry about Oskar - I have a feeling he'll become much more of a staple during the Capitol period.
Submissions are still being accepted so if you're new here, like what you just read, then submit a kiddo! I'm not against this turning to a partial if need be but I want to have as many people that want to join be given the chance to do so!
In any case, here's our District Eight pairing with an interesting dynamic!
- Oli