Cicero Lurch, 18, District Two.
Cicero woke before the sun, his room still shrouded in darkness, the heavy silence pressing against his skin. He lay there, eyes open, staring up at the faint outline of the ceiling above him, tracing the cracks in the plaster. There was a stillness inside him, a quiet that mirrored the world outside, and for a long moment, he simply existed, waiting for something to stir.
He blinked once, twice, and then finally, slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor with a muted thud. He sat there for a moment, feeling the weight of his body settling into place, before standing and padding silently across the room.
His reflection in the cracked mirror caught his eye, but he didn't stop to study it. He knew what he would see. The black hair, cropped close to his scalp, and the fair skin that didn't quite fit with the hard, sun-weathered look of the others. His eyes, though, were what always stood out. Dark brown, but with an emptiness to them. Like they didn't belong.
He dressed quickly, pulling on the plain shirt and pants that hung loosely on his wiry frame.
Outside his window, the first rays of light began to stretch across the horizon, pale and weak, like the sun was reluctant to rise on a day like this. Cicero watched it for a moment, then turned away, grabbing the worn boots by the door and slipping them on with practiced ease. He moved through the small house silently, each step calculated to avoid the creaking floorboards, though there was no one left to wake.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he was out in the cool morning air, his breath visible in the chill. The streets were empty, quiet, as District Two slept through the last moments of peace before the day began in earnest. Cicero liked it this way. The quiet. The solitude. It gave him time to think, to plan, to anticipate.
He moved through the familiar streets, his pace unhurried, his thoughts methodical. He knew what was coming today. The reaping. It had been in his mind for weeks, not in the same frantic, breathless way it was for the others, but in the way a scientist might prepare for an experiment. He'd known it would come to this. The careful steps he'd taken, the subtle ways he'd positioned himself in the academy, had led to this moment. And now, as the day finally arrived, he felt nothing but a detached sort of curiosity.
As he passed the stone buildings that lined the square, Cicero's mind wandered back to Vinicius, the boy who was supposed to be here in his place.Vicious Vinicius, they called him—a name that suited his hulking frame, his brute strength. But Vinicius wasn't here anymore. Cicero had made sure of that. His arm had snapped like dry wood under Cicero's hands, and now, it was Cicero's name that would be called today.
He felt no guilt, no lingering satisfaction from the memory. It had been necessary. Vinicius was too predictable, too reckless. Cicero had been the better choice, and now he would prove it.
But before that moment came, there was something else he had to do.
Cicero turned away from the square, his steps deliberate as he made his way through the winding back streets of District Two. The early morning air was still cool, the kind that clung to your skin and made the hairs on your arms stand up. The sun wasn't strong enough yet to warm the stone, and he liked that. The chill kept him sharp, awake. Ahead, barely visible against the shadows of the district's industrial heart, was the training yard where he'd spent more hours than he could count.
And where his mentor was waiting.
The yard wasn't much to look at—just a dusty patch of earth surrounded by the hulking shapes of warehouses, with old, weathered equipment scattered around. But it was enough. It had been enough for him to shape himself into something different, something no one saw coming. A thin figure moved in the far corner of the yard, already stretching, muscles coiling like a predator ready to pounce. Cicero's eyes narrowed.
The Victor was older now, the years showing in the creases around his mouth and the silver streaks threading through his short hair. But Lucan Thorne's body was still a weapon, honed and dangerous. He wasn't bulky—his frame had never been about raw strength—but every movement was fluid, efficient, like a blade slicing through the air. He had no need for showy power; his strength lay in precision. Cicero had always admired that about him. Lucan's legacy in District 2 wasn't just that he had won his Games—it washowhe had won. He had outlasted the others in one of the bloodiest arenas the Capitol had ever designed, a jungle thick with traps and poison, where every step could kill. But Lucan hadn't just survived it. He had mastered it. His final kill, slow and deliberate, had earned him the respect of an audience that thrived on blood. The Capitol loved him for his cruelty. District Two feared him for it. And now, Cicero was his latest project.
'You're early,' Lucan's voice cut through the quiet of the training yard, not even looking up as Cicero approached. He was crouched near a set of uneven bars, adjusting something in the dirt with quick, deft movements.
'I couldn't sleep.'
Lucan finally glanced over, those dark, assessing eyes sweeping over Cicero's frame.
'Today's the day,' Lucan said, standing and wiping the dust from his hands. He didn't smile, but there was an edge of amusement to his words. 'You ready?'
Cicero nodded once, sharply. 'Of course.'
'Good.'
Cicero didn't respond. Lucan didn't need affirmation—he wasn't the kind of man to waste time on obvious truths. Words were just noise, distractions from what really mattered: control, calculation, survival. Cicero had spent his life studying that philosophy, learning to move in the shadows, to strike when it mattered, not a second before. He wasn't like the others, loud and desperate for attention. He didn't need it.
Lucan's eyes were on him again, studying, searching, as if weighing something in the balance. Then, without warning, he spoke, his voice dropping lower. 'Vinicius.'
Cicero blinked, but his face remained neutral. 'What about him?'
'He'll never wield a sword again. Clean break, wasn't it?' Lucan's tone was casual, but there was a glint in his eyes that told a different story. He knew what had happened—of course he did. Lucan always knew.
Cicero met his gaze evenly. 'He was too slow.'
A beat passed, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. Cicero didn't flinch under his mentor's scrutiny. If Lucan suspected Cicero had engineered the whole thing, orchestrating the "accident" that had left Vinicius on the sidelines, it didn't show. Or maybe it did. Maybe Lucan admired it. He had been watching that day, standing in the shadows like always, as Vinicius's arm snapped under Cicero's hands. The others hadn't understood how it had happened so fast, how deliberate Cicero had been. But Lucan had.
'Too slow,' Lucan echoed, almost thoughtfully, rolling the words around in his mouth as though deciding whether or not to savour them. Then he nodded once, decisively. 'Well, he's not your problem anymore, is he?'
'No.'
Lucan stepped back, rolling his shoulders as he prepared himself, his eyes gleaming with something darker. 'Let's see if you're fast enough, then.'
Cicero didn't hesitate, moving into position, his body already loosening, his mind already anticipating. This was how it always went between them—no need for more words, just action, sharp and deliberate, like the games Lucan had once mastered. Cicero knew better than to expect anything easy. Lucan had pushed him harder than any other mentor would, demanding more from him because he saw something that others didn't. Cicero wasn't like the others; he wasn't raw muscle and bravado. He was something subtler, something more dangerous.
The moment their eyes locked, they launched at each other, a blur of limbs and strikes. Cicero moved first, lightning-quick, ducking under Lucan's opening swing and aiming a sharp elbow at his ribs. But Lucan was faster than he looked, spinning on his heel and catching Cicero's arm mid-swing, yanking him forward with enough force to pull him off balance. Cicero twisted with the motion, using the momentum to flip himself out of Lucan's grip.
They danced like that for several minutes, neither giving ground. Every strike was calculated, every dodge a fraction of a second from disaster. Dust kicked up around them as their feet scraped the ground, their bodies moving with a precision that only came from years of practice. Cicero's muscles burned with the effort, but he didn't let up. He couldn't afford to. This wasn't just training. Lucan was testing him, pushing him, looking for weaknesses he could exploit.
Suddenly, Cicero found himself backed into a corner, Lucan's arm coming down in a heavy arc. He barely had time to react, dropping low and rolling out of the way just as Lucan's fist slammed into the ground with a dull thud. Dust exploded into the air, and for a moment, neither of them could see.
It was enough.
Cicero sprang forward, using the cover of dust to dart around Lucan and land a swift kick to his ribs. Lucan grunted in pain, stumbling back, clutching his side. For a second, Cicero felt a tightness in his chest, something close to satisfaction, but he didn't let it linger. There was no room for that kind of emotion—not here.
Lucan's eyes flared, and before Cicero could move again, his mentor had retaliated, grabbing Cicero's wrist and twisting it sharply. Pain shot through his arm, white-hot, but he gritted his teeth, using the pain to fuel his next move. With a quick, sharp twist of his body, he wrenched himself free, stepping back just as Lucan surged forward again, faster than Cicero had expected.
This time, Lucan's hit connected—solid and hard to the side of Cicero's head. The world tilted violently as Cicero's vision blurred, and he tasted blood where his lip split against his teeth. For a moment, he lay there on the ground, chest heaving, the metallic taste thick on his tongue.
'That all you got?' Lucan growled, his voice rough with exertion.
Cicero's eyes snapped open, the pain sharpening his focus. He rolled to his feet in one smooth motion, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His heart pounded, but his mind was clear, laser-focused.
'I'm just getting started.'
The words hung between them, and Lucan grinned, feral, the kind of smile that made Cicero's skin prickle. His mentor was enjoying this—he always enjoyed pushing his students past their limits, testing their control, their pain tolerance. Lucan thrived on seeing how far someone could go before they broke.
They clashed again, harder this time, their bodies colliding with a force that rattled Cicero's bones. He could feel Lucan's breath, hot against his skin as they grappled, muscles straining against each other. But Cicero wasn't going to give in. Not now. Not ever.
In one fluid motion, Cicero shifted his weight, using his smaller frame to his advantage. He slipped out from under Lucan's hold, moving faster than his mentor could catch, and within seconds, he had Lucan pinned to the ground, his knee pressed hard into the older man's back, his arm twisted at an awkward angle.
For a brief moment, the world went still. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the dust settling around them like an uneasy peace.
Lucan let out a low, breathless laugh. 'You're a slippery little bastard, aren't you?'
Cicero didn't reply, his grip steady but not cruel. There was no need to draw blood. Not yet.
Lucan grunted as he pushed himself up, and Cicero let him go, stepping back. Lucan rolled his shoulder, wincing slightly but the grin never left his face. If anything, he looked more impressed than ever.
'You're ready,' he said, his voice rough but certain. 'But don't forget… the others aren't going to be as forgiving.'
Cicero wiped the sweat from his brow, nodding once. 'I know.'
Lucan studied him for a moment longer, and the tension between them slowly dissolved into something quieter, something closer to understanding. Then, with a heavy sigh, Lucan stretched, his joints cracking audibly in the cool morning air.
Haida Hudson, 17, District Two.
The square felt different today. Haida had stood here so many times before, watching the reaping unfold with a dispassionate stare, just another face in the crowd. But now, everything was sharper, like the world had tilted ever so slightly on its axis. The sun clung stubbornly to the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched over the stone and dust, heat radiating off the buildings that loomed around her. District Two wasn't like the others. Here, the reaping wasn't about fear. It was about pride.
She flexed her fingers, feeling the familiar tightness in her knuckles from a morning spent at the training centre. Her hands still carried the grit of the day, a fine layer of dust that clung to the creases in her skin. Her father had suggested she clean up, wear something that would reflect the Hudson name—something respectable. But Haida had refused. She stood among the others in her worn, grey training gear, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, not bothering to hide the muscle that lined her arms. She wasn't here to look good.
The crowd shuffled around her, bodies jostling for space, their voices low, anxious. Somewhere near the front, the younger kids huddled in clusters, eyes wide and nervous, all hoping they wouldn't hear their names. Haida let her gaze slide past them. Their fear wasn't hers. She knew what she was here to do. The weight of it pressed against her chest, the knowledge that this wasn't just another year. This was her year. She had chosen it.
'You're ready,' her father had said that morning, his voice steady, as if he were stating something as mundane as the weather. Haida had nodded. There had been nothing else to say.
Now, standing at the edge of the square, the stone beneath her feet warm from the sun, she waited. Her eyes moved toward the stage, where the Capitol's escort was already flouncing into place. The woman's dress shimmered unnaturally, iridescent in a way that made her look like a bird of paradise plucked from some gaudy fairy tale. Haida smirked. They always sent someone like that. Someone who didn't belong.
The woman's voice rang out, sugary sweet, filling the square with forced enthusiasm. 'Welcome, citizens of District Two! It's time for another reaping!'
Haida rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that had settled there. Her eyes flicked to the rows of girls standing ahead of her, the older ones, the ones who had trained like she had. She recognised some of them, girls she had sparred with, girls she had beaten. They knew what was coming.
'As always,' the escort continued, her voice climbing higher, 'ladies first!'
The glass bowl shimmered in the heat as she reached inside, the sound of paper crinkling barely audible over the thick silence that had settled over the square. Haida's heart didn't pound the way she expected it might. Instead, it felt eerily calm, her mind already a step ahead, already planning.
'Aris Peldar!'
The name echoed in the square, and there was a beat—a moment where nothing happened. Then Haida saw her. A girl, thin and pale, standing near the back. Aris flinched like a startled animal, her face draining of colour, her hand flying to her mouth as if she could swallow the horror rising in her throat.
Haida moved before the girl could take a step. The path cleared for her instinctively, bodies parting in quiet recognition. She didn't look at them—didn't need to. Her boots scuffed against the stone, each step measured, deliberate. The tension in the air shifted, a collective breath held as the crowd waited.
'I volunteer,' Haida called, her voice steady, clear. She didn't raise it too much, didn't need to. The words cut through the air with a quiet certainty that left no room for question.
The escort blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then quickly recovered with a bright, rehearsed smile. 'Ah! A volunteer!' She clapped her hands together, turning to Haida as she approached the stage. 'Come, dear!'
Haida climbed the stairs, her feet heavy on the wood. She felt the heat of the stage beneath her boots, the sun biting into her back. Aris disappeared into the crowd again, forgotten. Haida didn't bother to look at her. Her fate had never mattered.
'Your name, dear?' the escort asked, her grin widening as she adjusted the microphone.
'Haida Hudson,' she replied. The name sat between them like a weight, and the crowd responded with a subtle shift. They knew that name. Knew what it meant.
The escort's face lit up, recognition sparking in her eyes. 'Hudson? Oh, how marvellous!'
Haida said nothing, keeping her gaze forward, her expression set. She didn't need the Capitol woman's approval, didn't care for her artificial excitement. The Hudson name was enough to carry its own weight. Her father had made sure of that. And Nubian—her brother—had solidified it, even in defeat.
She let her mind drift as the escort moved on, calling for the boys. She barely registered the name, didn't care to. Whoever it was, they weren't her concern yet. Her thoughts stayed with the sound of her brother's name on the Capitol announcer's lips from three years ago. The look on his face as he faced down that District Four boy in the arena, blood running down his arms. She remembered watching it on the screen, her father silent beside her, and the way her heart had cracked open when the blade went in.
She wouldn't make the same mistakes.
The boy joined her on stage, standing beside her, but Haida kept her eyes forward. The anthem of Panem began to play, and as the Capitol's flag unfurled, she stood tall, her chin high, the sun on her skin. She felt the crowd watching her, their eyes heavy with expectation, with hope. But she wouldn't carry that weight. Not theirs. Just her own.
As the anthem blared and the Capitol's cheers rang hollow in her ears, Haida took a breath, letting it fill her lungs. She had already decided who she was going to be. The Games were coming, and she had already won.
Authors note: we're in the readings now ! These won't go up in traditional district order, but will go up when I have both submissions for tributes. So the easiest way to get your tribute written is to submit them :)). I've still got a couple of empty slots on the profile too, so if you're reading this for the first time why not submit a tribute? It'll be great.