Kendall Delancy (18) D1M

I never liked parties. The first chance I got to leave mine behind, I did, closing the door behind me with a shudder. My room was a refuge to me, one place where I could appreciate near-silence after all of the polite hand-shaking and back-clapping and general restrained rowdiness of a Volunteer party. If I had my say, we never would have had a party, but I wasn't going to tell my dad that. He wanted to celebrate when his only son volunteered, and I could let him have his fun.

"Hey, Ame," I called, approaching my sister. We didn't normally share a room. In a family like ours, we didn't even have to share a dining room. Ametrine just knew, as all twins do, when I would need a calm moment before the storm of the next day. She had wheeled herself in and was sitting by my bed, leaving me the perfect place to collapse and collect myself for a few minutes.

I took the opportunity. I flung myself onto my bed, ruffling the perfectly-made sheets and face planting into a pillow. I just needed a moment, or three, or five, and I could sit up and be functional again. Ame just waited patiently, knowing I would talk when I was good and ready. She was the one who was actually outgoing, who liked being the center of attention. I was the perfect playboy who could fake it til he made it.

"I'm scared," I finally said, my pillow muffling my voice. "I'm not supposed to be, but I'm scared."

"I would've been, too," Ame admitted, putting a hand on mine. "I actually get nightmares sometimes about if I had volunteered. You don't have to, you know." She was just saying that. I had promised to volunteer once the wheelchair stopped her from ever being One's representative. Honestly, she was still strong, but One would never admit that. Nobody but a perfect golden child to volunteer for them.

"It seems… reckless." I was always the thoughtful one, looking before I lept. I'd promised to volunteer in the heat of the moment, and sometimes I regretted it. Not enough to stop training, not enough to actually change my mind, but enough to know that it was a little bit stupid.

"You don't have to volunteer." It was all I would get out of Ame. She would love me no matter what, but she was the tough love type. She wouldn't hold my hand and say it was ok. She wouldn't lie and promise that I'd win. Some years the Careers lost. Even if a Career won, there were six Careers and only one.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "One you have to promise you'll never tell anyone, ever?" Ame's only response was a nod.

"I told myself that if I won, I'd finally tell mom and dad… They'd be too proud of me to do anything about it." I cushioned my words before I spoke, preparing myself mentally as Ame patiently waited for me to finish. "I think I might be gay."

"Might?" was all Ame responded with. "Kendall, I'm your twin. I've known you were gay since you described your first kiss as 'A little weird but not all that bad.' You're gay."

Ame didn't really have psychic powers, and I never believed in a twin bond, much as she liked to claim both. But her casual response helped me relax. "I can't tell mom and dad yet, y'know? They wouldn't kick me out but… they'd love me less, I think? And anyway I really can't tell them about Slate." The last few words came out a mumble, barely audible to even me.

"About Slate?" Ame asked more loudly.

"About the boyfriend I've had for a year."

Kallik (18) D1F

The air bit my skin. It was a welcome reminder of the winters of far back home, the snow that got so cold it burned instead of freezing. It was the one piece of One I found myself loving. It was the only piece of the Districts that was worth loving.

To this day, I don't know what made the Capitol change. My people lived on their own for generations. No one bothered us. We quietly followed the laws and paid our dues. I registered for the Reapings, like all of my siblings, and I attended the ceremony every year. I made the long trek to the District Square, like I was told, and kept my head down, never doing anything wrong. It was a peaceful life, though a hard one, until I got the letter. It had to be hand-delivered. There were no roads as far North as I lived. A squire, of all things, delivered the news that destroyed my life.

"To maintain the honor and decorum of the Districts, all children eighteen years of age and younger must attend a school in the Districts. If you do not already attend a school, a boarding school will be provided. All children outside our current bounds are required by President's decree to board the provided Capitolite transports and move into the District center. The transports will arrive in two days."

Mother taught me not to swear. Father agreed with her, and I was inclined to listen to my parents. Even three years ago though, when the news first broke, I knew what it was: A load of shit. The Capitol didn't care about ensuring the children had the best education possible. If it did, we would have the best food, the best teachers, the best supplies. We had blankets that none of us trusted and beds that were harder than the mats we liked to use at home. We had food that most of us couldn't digest at first and rules about how we could wear our hair and how much of our home language we could use. We weren't getting the best education possible. We were getting indoctrinated.

Our field trips were the one thing that kept me going. We had convinced some of our teachers that without the ability to reconnect to nature our health would slowly worsen until we died. It was, like so many things in our life, a lie. We did need the nature to stay healthy. We needed to be able to breathe fresh air instead of the smoke of the cars. We needed to be able to run across rocks barefoot instead of being told what we could wear. It was all mental health reasons, but the teachers didn't need to know that. We didn't need their therapy and medication. We needed to return home.

It was on a field trip when I felt snow for the first time in so long. It was on a field trip where I found a small clearing in the woods and gathered some of the younger students, sitting hidden from the rest of the world. It was on the field trip when I faced one of my greatest fears in order to preserve the greatest good. I would never be a great public speaker, but I could pray to be good enough. I would do what I could to teach the younger children about our ancestors, one field trip at a time.

SUP I'm hip I'm cool I'm here I'm hoping to update more regularly but make no promise LESGO