I learned to be an accountant five months ago. Every week, Wednesday evening, without fail, I sit at the kitchen table, its surface old, worn, covered with the stories of families past and present. In the left corner is the stain where my mother spilled juice on my third birthday; in the lower right hand side is a deep gouge, from my first sword fighting lesson with Dad.

Currently, however, the kitchen table is covered in bills, each tucked neatly inside a white envelope. Normally Mom helps me with the organizing and calculating and recording and such, but today, she has locked herself in her room, unable to face the day and what it may bring for me and other children throughout Panem.

I sigh dramatically as I shuffle the envelopes and stack them in the corner. I absolutely hate this job. It isn't really even a job, just a chore that I get no money for, no thanks. I kick the chair I was sitting in, sending it careening back into the table, scratching its edge. Another memory engraved upon the surface.

I tuck my knife into my belt, jogging out the door, not bothering to say goodbye to Mom. I'll be back soon enough, anyways. As I stroll through our new neighborhood, which still has failed to grow on me, I take in the curious sites that surround me. Everywhere, through windows, on porches, in doorways, parents are hugging their children. I suppose that the possible date that one may be condemned to death can have that effect on families.

I begin to breathe through my mouth, pressing a cloth over my face as I pass a large pile of garbage. It isn't uncommon for me to see such a sight anymore. In my life before the revolution, a landfill in the middle of a neighborhood was laughable, unheard of. But now, it's as common as sidewalks and paved roads.

-:-

Flashback

"Please, Mr. Heth," low voices are coming from the parlor. I take care to miss the creaky steps as I slowly make my way down the stairs. "Your training, your inside information- it may be our last hope."

I step across the expensive rug, imported from District One, and press my ear to the polished oak door. Men had been showing up at our estate for almost three weeks now, attempting to bribe my father, offering him money, power, possessions. They tried to sweet-talk him, to entice him with dreams of a glorious future for Panem. So far, my father hasn't yielded. I doubt this time will be any different.

"And why should I help you, when it would put my entire family in danger?" Though I can't see him, I can imagine my father's low voice reverberating through the room, automatically taking control of the negotiations. He would be leaning forward, his deep brown eyes, identical to mine, fixed calmly on the man in front of him.

"Sir, we know you are sympathetic to the rebel cause," a reedy voice pipes up, coming from somewhere on the outskirts of the room. "Do you really want to let this opportunity pass by?"

Before Dad can get a word in edgewise, another man picks up the thread. "If you miss this, your child will never know freedom. He will never understand what it is like to not be brainwashed by the Capitol. He is young still- sixteen, did you say?"

"Yes, exactly-" my father draws a breath. "He is only sixteen. Rebel involvement ensures death for me, but it could also mean it for him, and I don't want that. He deserves a long life."

"But is a life without freedom truly a life at all?" the voice is quiet, low, nearly inaudible. I hold my breath, straining to hear my father's answer. The seconds turn to minutes, and still, I can't hear anything. Finally, when I'm about to turn away, my father says, "Give me the pen."

-:-

After Dad signed the contract, he assisted Rebel forces for two months before the Capitol soldiers bombed our mansion during a tactics meeting, killing most people there and arresting the survivors, including my mother, father, three rebels, and I. They soon released Mom and I, realizing we had nothing to do with the plots that were being carried out, possibly not wanting to waste precious time on us.

Dad was shot by the town hall on March second, at 3:47 PM. I didn't go to watch, at his request, and he was shipped to our estate in a plain wooden box. I buried him in the middle of the night, alone, on the outskirts of peacekeeper training grounds. I knew that he would have wanted to be close to his life's work, to his pupils whom he had taught throughout the years.

After he died, we had no real source of income. We still don't. In order to get by, I've become an accountant of sorts, carefully managing the small fortune that is saved in the bank, spending as little as possible. I may very well run out soon, and until I can officially become an adult and get a better paying job as a peacekeeper, this is really all we have.

I approach the gates of the peacekeeper academy, waving lazily as I see Darius leaning against the brick building. He jogs over to meet me, opening the gate from the inside. "Nervous about today?" He immediately asks as we head to a training room.

I hesitate a moment. I don't think I should be nervous. Even if I did join, I have a massive advantage over the other tributes. Since I was big enough to hold and sword and a gun, my dad has been training me in the art of combat, in hopes that someday, I'll become a head peacekeeper in somewhere important and lavish, like District One, or even the Capitol.

But, at the same time, I can't help but feel a slight flutter of nerves. Anyone would at the idea of being thrown into a brutal battle against other children. It's sick and makes me hate the Capitol even more than I already do. I give an invisible shudder.

"Nervous?" I wiggle my eyebrows. "I think you mean overwhelmingly terrified." I grin and push the door to the training room open as Darius places his fingerprint on a sensor pad.

"I know what you mean," Darius laughs slightly. "It's kind of phantasmagorical."

"Oooo," I tease, raising my sword. "Look who's using big fancy words now! You brains instead of brawn now, Dorkius?"

"Shut up," he rolls his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "You know just as well as I do that you can be both."

"Well where does that put you, seeing that you're neither?" I smirk. Before he can dream up a clever retort, I strike, and the clang of metal echoes through the large room. He parries, and we're suddenly locked in a strange dance, vicious and beautiful at the same time. It's one of the greatest things about swordplay, Dad used to say. The sheer oxymoron of it all.

-:-

Flashback

"Hold it out in front of you, Deiter," Dad commands, his keen eyes scanning the sword and its proportions to the height and length of my body. I groan and whine, the piece of metal heavy and causing my arms to ache.

"Too heavy, huh?" he says finally, as if reaching a conclusion. I nod feverently, and he shrugs. "Alright, go ahead and put it down." Dad sighs, sitting back down on the red couch. I drop the sword, watching it fall to the fluffy white carpet. I step carefully around its sharp edges, hopping onto Dad's lap.

"Don't worry," he grins, gesturing to an array of weapons piled in the corner. "We'll find the one that fits you the best."

I follow his gaze, staring at the tangled blades and glimmer of silver and steel and bronze and gold that reflects through all parts of the living room. "I want to try again," I say eagerly, hopping back up. "We've got to find the best one before I start school tomorrow!"

Dad chuckles slightly, slowly stretching and clambering to his feet. "Of course," he heads back over to the pile, hands on his hips as he looks down upon it, searching for something special. "We wouldn't want a seven year old to walk into his first day of peacekeeper training unarmed now, would we?" He mutters the last part a bit sarcastically.

I hop from one foot to the next, eager to see which sword, knife, or gun he'll pull out next. After a moment's consideration, the clang of metal sounds as Dad carefully extracts another sword. As he turns around, I grin with delight.

It's blade is long and sharp, nearly black in color, but has an opalescence and iridescence to it that I haven't yet seen in the others. The hilt is silver, inlaid with rubies and a black stone that I can't quite identify. When I lift it, it cuts through the air, parting the light and the dust that floats through the room. I grin, turning to Dad, who is beaming widely.

"Dieter," he says, eyes shining with pride. "I think we've found your sword."

-:-

I glance down at the same blade as I wipe sweat from my brow with the white gym towel, pushing my long, light brown hair away from my face. Darius is doing one more rep before we leave the academy to get ready for the reaping.

The training area is virtually deserted today, with only a few instructors stopping by to see who's occupying the practice rooms and weight room on what's supposed to be a somber day. I greet a few on a first name basis, since many of them were either Dad's good friends or students. We chat about various things as Darius finishes up, from the length of my hair to good natured teasing.

"Dieter!" Another man calls, shaking my hand firmly as I smile indulgently, unsure of who this one is. He must notice my blank look, because the first thing out of his mouth is, "I'm Edward, an old classmate of your Dad's."

I study him as he begins to reminisce, speaking of times that I have no recollection of. He has a strong face, littered with scars and the shadow of grey stubble on his chin, as though he had missed a spot while shaving. He is tall, muscular, straight-backed a proud, a man who, despite his aging, has remained strong and able.

"How's Ava?" He asks, speaking of my mother. I think back to the last time I saw her, two days ago. We may live under the same shabby roof, but grief and strain have left her unreliable and, for the most part, unseen. She spends days alone in her room, so quiet that she may as well be dead. She used to be beautiful, with dark curly hair and bright green eyes, but now her eyes are dark, her hair gray and brittle, thinning each passing week.

"She's great!" I smile, turning as Darius taps my shoulder. "It was great to see you, Edward." I say courteously, shaking his hand once more before I toss the towel into a hamper and stroll from the academy with my friend.

Though it's windy, the sun is brutal and relentless, baking the air as it flies by, intent on escaping the sun's blunt claws. The sky is a deep blue, the sun so bright that it makes every shadow look twenty times darker. Darius and I part at a fork and the road, me heading left to the slums, him to the middle class sector of two.

As I pass through, heading for home, I suddenly remember I was supposed to get a few items from the market this morning. "Shit," I mutter, checking my watch. We have an hour until the reaping, and, as the mayor said yesterday morning, those who don't show up exactly on time will be punished for their tardiness. I hiss, breathing out through my teeth in annoyance.

I spot a girl in front of me, dressed nicely in a frilly pink dress. She's not particularly pretty, but there's no doubt she'll not find me attractive. I grin to myself, quickly catching up to her. I fall into step, matching her paces exactly. It takes her all of three seconds to look up at me, and I can see her throat flexing inwards and outwards as she swallows.

"Hey," I say, voice flirtatious and self-assured. She merely squeaks in reply. "I'm Dieter, and you?"

"Alexandra," she finally whispers, eyes drifting from my face to my abs, which have conveniently been revealed as I begin to stretch, shirt moving slightly upwards as I do so.

"That's such a pretty name," I wink, casually resting a hand on her shoulder. She blushes deeply. Her blonde hair nearly turns pink, she's so rosy in the face. "Hey, Alexandra, do you mind doing something for me?"

She nods slightly, signaling her consent. "Sure," she squeaks. "Anything."

I tell her, sighing and heaving about the bread that I didn't pick up at the market, taking care to flex my muscles and give her a fair share of winks. I let my fingers idly drift of her shoulders and hair, just in case she's the kind of girl who likes that sort of thing. After I finish, she nods eagerly, turning around and rushing for the market. She sneaks little glances back at me while she runs, a broad smile on her face.

I chuckle, shaking my head. After I get that bread, it's unlikely she'll ever be seeing me again.

I pull open the door, dumping my bag on the ground. As expected, Mom is nowhere in sight. "I'm home!" I call, just in case she's wondering or listening for me. No answer.

I sigh, walking a few short paces to my room, where I wipe myself down with a washcloth, apply deodorant, and brush back my hair, periodically checking my watch as I go. The minutes fly by, and all too soon, it's time to meet up with Ryker, with whom I'll be walking to the reaping.

I throw on black jeans, a pink jumper, and black trainers, head into the kitchen to grab something to eat, and abruptly stop moving. Mom is standing by the table, dressed in a white robe. She looks up as I enter, cracked and dry skin stretching into a halfhearted smile.

"I had to say goodbye before you left for the reaping," she says, heading towards me. "Just in case, you know?"

"I know." I reply, striding over to hug her. I hug her loosely, afraid I might break her. She feels small and light, like a bird, with brittle bones and a certain weightlessness that hovers in the area around her. She smells like my childhood, the musky, dark scents of wood, brass telescopes, and woolen scarves. As the hug breaks, she grips my biceps with unusual strength, holding me at arm's length.

"Love you," she says simply, before letting me go.

"Love you too." With that, I step out into the uncertainty of the future.

I meet Ryker near the bakery, waiting around for him for almost three minutes before he finally shows up. He's breathless, his blonde hair flying all over his face and covering his eyes.

"Sorry… Late… Didn't… Ready…" he pants, kneeling over to catch his breath. I pull him back up getting him to walk with me to the square.

"I can't believe you," I shake my head in mock-disappointment. "How dare you not be completely overwhelmed with happiness and excitement about the day you might die!"

"Shut up, Dieter," he rolls his eyes. "Have you been like this all day?"

"Pretty much," I admit, nodding at a peacekeeper as we enter the square. "Darius was a little annoyed with me this morning at practice. Seemed to think I was been insufferable."

"Yeah, well you're always insufferable."

I punch him lightly as we head towards the section for seventeen year olds, blending quickly into the crowd of nervous boys. Over in the twelve year old section, I can see several girls crying, a couple of boy sniffling. I quickly look away.

"HAPPY HUNGER GAMES!" A shrill, obnoxious voice blares over the high-tech, invisible speakers, causing a ripple of laughter to echo through the crowd with nothing to fear. I snicker a bit after recovering from the initial shock. Our escort is a hideous woman, short and old, with a bright orange wig that keeping slipping off.

The ceremony passes as promised, with speeches, formalities, and plenty of propaganda. By the time the escort is about to choose the boy, I'm half-asleep, ready to go home, but the minute I hear the keywords, my head snaps up, staring intently at her wrinkled hand, which chooses a slip from the very bottom of the bowl.

"Dieter Heth!" She screams, voice shrill as ever.

A jolt goes up my spine. My mind is blank, my hands are sweaty, I'm floating upwards and away, and I can feel a thousand pairs of eyes on me. The eyes are what bring me back down to Earth, causing me to hit the ground with a surprising amount of force.

I take a deep breath, and then confidently step out from the crowd, heading down the path to the stage. My vision is tunneled, and my good ear, the other deaf from the explosion that captured my father, is filled with a high pitched buzz. I grin around, ascending the stage with grace and courage worthy of any peacekeeper. My dad would be proud.

When the microphone is shoved in my face, I smirk and crack a joke. "I've always wanted to be on TV!" I deadpan, causing the crowd, now at ease that both tributes have been chosen, to laugh loudly.

I am the first male tribute of District Two.

Yay! Ok, question time!

1. Best tribute thus far?

2. Best/Worst thing about Dieter?

3. QCC?

please please please tell your friends about this! I don't have any tribute submissions rn, but don't want to have more than one per person!

ily all! xoxo julia