Hey, it's been a while. But I have been productive during that time. A lot of planning now I have a full Tribute List, and I have written future sections but see the A/N below to get an update on my updating schedule. And here it is: My first foray into writing the weird and wonderful characters submitted by you guys :)

Cicero Bastille, 18, District Two

The Hunger Games, as they've been christened by Presient DeMontford have caused chaos throughout Panem. I cannot find it within myself to sympathise with these outcries of 'cruelty', or those so eager to brand the Capitol as 'monsters'. We're all mosters, these people bit the hand that has fed them since Panem came to be and are now have the audacity to cry out that the punishment handed down is 'unfair'.

Such sentiments are not whispered often in my home District, Two provided soldiers to fight on the behalf of the Capitol- and these Hunger Games are a prime opportunity for us to continue the plight of enforcing the Capitol's undisputed sovereignty. My father died during the 'Dark Days' stolen from our family by scum, the very same scum who are now terrified of the punishment they now face.

Unfortunately, it seems that this unease has somehow filtered into the fortress that District Two became known as during the war. Surprisingly, it has taken root in the Bastille household, a household who has never attempted to disguise their loyalist ideologies. Since the loss of our patriarch, Mother has burrowed away into her bedroom- her only company being the liquor that ushers her away from reality on a daily basis; Justinian and Caesar's presence is scarce in the household, working unsociable hours in the mines. It leaves Lucius and I alone, fending for ourselves in a sense; and my stomach clenches as I realised that I have failed in my duties as a big brother, and a surrogate father.

Lucius Bastille, youngest son of Demetri Bastille, is spouting District propaganda. It's an alarming feeling, the rage blossoming in my chest as I try to school my features into parental disapproval. My father would never have tolerated this, and for a moment I feel shame carving a cavity into my being: I should have been more prudent in ensuring Lucius understood the importance of being a true loyalist.

Being the youngest, I have probably sheltered the boy too much, trying to preserve his 'innocence' but that was a definite oversight on my behalf. Shame envelopes me as I imagine the bitter disappointment my father would inevitably feel at one of his progeny questioning the Capitol. Why? Such a simple word, but it is much more than a request for explanation: It undermines the authority of the benevolent Capitol.

It paints Lucius as a coward, and I cannot allow this to continue: Bastille men are steadfast in their loyalist stance, Polonius Rimbaud recounted how our father had died proudly as he fought for the Capitol cause. Lucius' trepidation is a stain on our father's honour, and it is my responsibility to cleanse Lucius of this poorly misinformed propaganda he should learn to ignore.

"Luc, you're young. But you cannot go around listening to these imbeciles touting bullshit. You're my brother and I want the best for you, and I don't want to scare you: But listening to those people could result in some unpleasant consequences. I mean, Peacekeepers are here to keep the peace and even being a born and bred Bastille cannot protect you if you're found spouting this anti-Capitol propaganda. I cannot protect you."

His choclate brown eyes, similarly coloured to my own become glassy. His brow furrows, and for a moment I feel the bitter sting of regret at having to open his eyes to the real world. Where naïve sympathy for the Rebels can have much more devastating effects than a scolding from your older brother. With a stern expression I notice his furrowed brow, confusion staining his pallor. He looks so helpless, and it is my duty to alleviate this bewilderment on his behalf; taking his small hand in my own I smile in a way that I hope reads as reassuring.

"The Hunger Games are a punishment bro, I won't dispute that. But they are necessary, do you not remember the stories of the war? Terrorism, child soldiers- The 'Rebels' were, no are, nothing but arrogant bastards. They need this punishment: The scum are nothing more than rabid animals who dared bite the hand that fed them."

Lucius nods mechanically, everyone heard the stories: Frequent terrorist attacks in the outlier Districts, how they forced naïve children onto the front line to fight for a cause they did not even understand. It's painful to know that humanity could degenerate in such a way, I shake my head in disgust before handing Lucius a glass of water. Comprehension has seen a little colour return to his cheeks, he takes a sip of the water before teasing his lower lip with his teeth.

"I understand. I just don't get why Districts like One and Two have to compete. We fought for the Capitol, Pa died for them- anyone who has ever said anything remotely treasonous is either whipped to within an inch of their life or straight up killed Cic. Why do we have to send two 'Tributes'?"

I nod along with his observations, they are correct to a degree. While I may not be privy to any statistics about crime rates across Panem, I am certain that any incident pertaining to treason or conspiracy to commit treason- District Two would have the lowest amount, if any, of cases reported. But why we, as a prolific Capitol friendly District, are expected to participate is a little more complex even if I know it is a necessity.

"Do you remember what would happen if any of us misbehaved when Father was around?"

Lucius may have been young before father left home to aid the Capitol during the war effort, but I doubt he is unaware of father's means of punishing those who behaved in a manner not befitting the Bastille name. The look of understanding coupled with fear as he begins to play with a loose thread on his shirt tell me he knows exactly what I am talking about, even if he never experienced it. Demetri Bastille and his methods of discipline are notorious, and not easily forgotten.

"T-the belt."

"And did any of us do it again? And do you think that just because father may have favoured a specific child that he would never have used the belt on them?"

There's a moment before Lucius meets my eyes with his own for a moment, before they trail back to the wooden table top. He traces nonsensical patterns onto the surface, pointedly avoiding answering the question. My patience lasts for a few moments before I slam my palm against the table: The burst of sound shattering the silence that had settled over the dining room. Lucius' tawny orbs widen as he looks up, he shakes his head: No. I almost feel shame over having to demolish his childish perception of the world: My words a crimson stain on the white of his innocence. But it is what father would want, a son who was aware of why the Capitol had to do this.

"These Hunger Games are the Capitol's belt, don't you see that? And just think of those lucky ones, chosen to represent the District: Go to the Capitol itself. Thank them for what they have done, given the responsibility of swinging the belt on behalf of the Capitol. They'll be our heroes, and they will have our respect."

Lucius initially looks weary, but I see him understand my passion. The importance of ensuring these Hunger Games achieve their purpose and kick the outlier scum to the curb where they belong. Sacrifices are sometimes inevitable: My father sacrificed himself for the greater good, and those lucky enough to be chosen as Tribute should be honoured to have the means of sacrificing themselves to further the Capitol's cause.

"But we, or they, people would have to kill others?"

It would be frustrating, having to explain this to my brother: But it is my solemn duty to act as my father would if he were here, so I simply shrug and tell my younger brother to fetch his coat. Maybe words alone are not enough to open his eyes.

I feel Lucius follow as I meander through a path I have walked more times than I care to admit. His childish mutterings ignored as we breach the boundaries of the town, emerging into Valhalla. The cemetery wherein those who have fought with honour, in aid of the Capitol, are laid to rest when they depart the Earthly plane. The white marble tombstones glittering in the sunlight, dotted along the expansive meadow with military precision.

I am not one to ponder my own death, but when I succumb to the inevitable- I pray that I have earned the right to be buried here. I hear Lucius' awed exclamation as he sees the web of ivory graves before him; I cannot help but smile as I recall the first time I was brought here by Polonius after being told our father had passed on. Enchanted by the very feeling of power that seems to emanate from the gravesites.

"Woah, why have your brought me here, Cic? I mean it's... beautiful, but I'm a little lost."

I simply gesture for him to follow as I navigate through the maze of graves, words fail me. I am often struck speechless when I wander through Valhalla imagining the honourable plights of those ensconced within the Earth I am treading: But I also feel a growing sense of guilt as we near our destination. Lucius' weakness, questioning the Capitol agenda almost feels sacrilegious within the boundaries of Valhalla.

But Lucius must learn to walk a path of honour, and staunch loyalty like our father before us. And my attempts at simple explanation have failed, so bringing him here- to the place where I feel closest to Father: Maybe that will help rid him of this plague of sympathising with the outliers. Time stops for a moment as we reach our destination before I drop to my knees before the marble tombstone, fingers tracing the elegant filigree of the seal of the Capitol nestled in the upper corner of the burial site.

Turning to Lucius, I see his eyes are fixed on the marble monument: Eyes shifting along the epitaph. I see a single tear fall from his eyes before he takes a shuddering breath and pulls himself to his full height. I imagine how he must feel now, looking down at the ground where our Father is laid to rest: The pride, the conviction to uphold his beliefs. I feel closer to my brother in this instant than I have in a long time, solidarity born from our shared pride as we stare down at the memorial.

Here Lies Demetri Bastille,

Mourned by a wife and three sons.

May his honour be a thing of legend, his sacrifices never forgotten

Their glory shall not be blotted out

Numquam obliviscere, commemora semper

"Never forget, always remember. That's what the Latin means Lucius, our Father believed in the Capitol: He fought for them, bled for them and ultimately died for them. In a way, these Hunger Games are a legacy of our Father's: His loyalty meant he would've supported these games. Would we dare share him by ignoring his legacy?"

Lucius looks bewildered for a moment, I understand why. I've spent many hours tormenting myself with what my father would think about everything I have done, would he be proud of the man I am becoming? Would he have praised my loyalty and ambition to follow him into the Peacekeeper Corps. Polonius tells me he would have, but sometimes doubts plague me like dishonesty and shame plague the outlier citizens.

"Lord Cic, it almost sounds like you want your name to be called at that ceremony thing."

Lucius chuckles to himself, words shaped by a joking lilt. But his throwaway attempt at humour gives me pause. It has always been my greatest desire to make my father proud, to emulate his ideologies and follow in his footsteps. To do the bidding of the Capitol, and I was too short sighted to see that these Hunger Games are a platform to do exactly that.

An opportunity wherein I can make an example of those who dare to wear their treasonous affiliations as a badge of false honour. To cut them down as the almighty Capitol have squashed down their futile attempt at revolution. And to do it for all to see, where every Rebel and their affiliates can witness as a true loyalist cuts down their progeny who are probably already infected with their treason.

It's invigorating. Every set of eyes in Panem fixed on me: The Champion of the Capitol, becoming the physical embodiment of their virtues. A precautionary tale to anyone who would ever question the Capitol's supremacy again.

"Cic? You okay? You're looking a little flushed."

I can tell he is concerned, his small hand comes to rest on my broad shoulder and I throw my arm across his shoulder. Something akin to euphoria is flooding through my veins, and I'm surprised that Lucius cannot feel the conviction radiating from my body, a fire has been lit in my stomach and I give my younger brother a grin of unfiltered joy.

"I've never been better, Lu."

I have not shared my plans with any of my family, as of yet. Lucius would worry needlessly, his spine still not forged with the iron of Bastille men; and the others, they'd use their false 'concern' for my welfare as a way to try and drag me from the spotlight that I'm becoming more and more convinced I am destined to step into. As harsh as it sounds, their thoughts do not matter to me- maybe Lucius' could, but I need to lead by example and show him what it means to be a man.

Since my father was unjustly snatched from us by rebellious zealots, there is one man whose thoughts matter to me. In those instances wherein I would want someone's opinion who I know would mirror my father's steadfast values, I find myself standing at the door to the Rimbaud townhouse. The elaborate Gryphon shaped knocker a familiar weight in my hand.

Moments later the door opens, and I am greeted by the pleasant sight of Ophelia Rimbaud. Her ebony hair pulled into an elegant chignon and her emerald eyes glimmer in recognition before trailing the length of my body. I wait for a raspberry blush to mar her milky skin, but the budding socialite is unaffected by my presence: Her manicured eyebrow rises in challenge.

"Good evening, Miss Ophelia."

I smile gently, projecting every ounce of charisma I know myself to possess. The very same charm that has made many young women fall into my bed; but the Rimbaud girl is a mystery. I see it as a game, to see if anything I can do can rumble the 'unflappable' beauty. Her haughty features remain fixed in an expression of polite disinterest, mocking my inability to invoke a more impassioned reaction from the girl.

"And what is it I can do for you, Mr. Cicero?"

The melodious tone is one I associate with the well-bred women of District Two. But the subtle snarky tone amuses me, Ophelia is one of the few women of her standing I respect. While she may have a fondness for the ostentatious aspects of being a socialite; the intelligent glimmer in her viridian eyes and the toned physique from running Peacekeeper drills at her father's behest make her a beguiling mystery for any young hot blooded man. As she folds her arms, I clear my throat and nod my head.

"I am here to see Sergeant Rimbaud if he is available?"

The overly formal camaraderie is standard as Ophelia nods distractedly, unsurprised by the purpose of my visit as she has answered the door on more than one occasion when I have come to seek an audience with the man, who has become a pseudo-father in my owns absence.

"He's in the parlour, I doubt he'd turn you away but courtesy dictates I check if he is 'receiving visitors', you can wait here."

She turns on her heel and leaves me standing in the entrance hall, as she climbs the ornate staircase I can't help but admire her shapely carves and the poise in which she carries herself. She might look like a porcelain doll but I pity any man who dares treat her like one, beneath the dainty façade their is an iron will and sharp wit that is more devastating than any blade.

"If I catch you staring at my ass again Cicero, I will not hesitate in separating you from Little Cicero. As slowly and as painfully as I can make the process"

The threat is delivered in a simpering manner, but I quickly avert my gaze to the baroque style painting: Threats from a Rimbaud are not to be taken lightly, and I do not doubt her capabilities in following through with any threat she makes. I smirk to myself as I imagine what life could be like if I were not destined to enter the Hunger Games, or her the elite social circles of Two: She'd make a fine wife, and if not that: A fine comrade if we joined the Peacekeeper Corps.

"Bastille, my father will see you now."

Cali Topaz, 17, District One

The finest couture that District One has to offer, and none of it is good enough. The ruby coloured silk is the wrong shade, and the cerulean taffeta is possibly the most horrific garment I've had the misfortune to see. Oh, if the outliers could see us now: They'd laugh. District One is meant to embody sophistication, and I am seconds away from taking scissors to these expensive excuses for ball gowns.

Terracotta? What fool would deign to couple terracotta with my skin tone. Calming breaths, it is a truth universally acknowledged that you cannot buy class or teach it- it is something you're born with, and whichever 'stylist' thought these were suitable for the most important evening in the District's social calendar: They were obviously born with no taste and should genuinely consider alternative employment.

Tonight must be perfect, no ifs or buts about it. I will be the proverbial Belle of the Ball, I don't doubt that for a second. But it seems that I'm going to have to send one of the housekeepers to collect a gown from the Topaz Vault: They're usually saved for elaborate affairs when visiting the Capitol, but since the futile 'War Effort' travel between the Capitol and Districts has ceased. Definitely inconvenient, and time consuming. Deep breaths, I am Cali Topaz and there is nothing I cannot do.

"Darling, I've brought you a little something to wear tonight."

Cinder Topaz waltzes into the room, followed by her personal assistant who is struggling with a garment box. It's as though my silent prayers have been answered. My Mother, political mastermind, and thankfully a woman of taste; she is so attuned to my own preferences that I do not doubt for a moment that I won't be the centre of attention at the Gala. I press a quick kiss to her soft cheek, before clapping my hands together excitedly.

"Show me, show me."

My mother laughs daintily, adjusting her midnight satin skirt as she gestures for her nameless assistant, who draws the garment from the box. The maroon satin and the glass beading is a masterpiece: My pale skin and dark hair will looks resplendent against the luxurious fabric. My mother's eyes, cornflower blue and so similar to my own, glimmer in triumph. Tonight the Topaz family goes to war, and these elaborate fashions are our armour.

"I shall leave you to get ready now, sweetheart, don't overdo it with the accessories. You would not want to take this gown- imported directly from the Capitol, may I add- and make it look tacky. Leave over accessorising to the Belfleur's and the like. Toodles."

I nod, shivering in disgust at the mere idea of somehow being compared to the Belfleur's: They're called 'New Money', which everyone knows is a synonym for dirty money. I bark out orders for the maids to come and tidy my dressing room and these 'gowns', for want of a better word, are couriered back to whichever tasteless fashion house saw fit to send them to the Topaz Estate.

"Oh, Maid. I'm sorry I've forgotten your name again. Once you've returned the garment, I need you to go and collect Tobin and Gracie Algarde and bring them here. Explain it is of utmost importance. And also send one of the other staff to draw me a bath- patchouli and sandalwood for tonight I think: Cali is feeling 'spicy'"

The young blonde nods her head, hastily jotting down the requests I make. She curtsies deeply, rather impressive for one not raised in high society and leaves almost soundly. A lot of those I know tend to moan about their staff, but I don't mind as long as they're efficient.

It's time to get ready, now where is my war paint? It's almost therapeutic, compiling a selection of cosmetics; choosing the correct scent to project the image you want; which jewels will make my social status apparent without appearing gaudy. Every stroke of a makeup brush, every spritz of a perfume must be calculated. I will be breath-taking.

Standing before my floor length mirror even I am astounded by the image facing me. My charcoal hair is panned back with diamond pins, my eyes lined with a smoky kohl, lips painted a deep blood red and my golden skin is blemish free. Exquisite is a word I'd use, the way the satin clings to my generous curves and the way the corset enhances my full chest: Every man will want me, and every woman will want to be me. As it should be.

I search fruitlessly for any flaws, even the light catches the delicate bead work and makes me look radiant. I selected an earthy musk with touches of vanilla for my perfume, and a single gold choker coupled with a ruby signet ring for my accessories. I can imagine the avalanche of compliments I'll face this evening, and my full lips pull into a genuine smile: I am a work of art, and all art deserves to be appreciated. Looking over my shoulder I notice the Algarde twins are bickering, as usual, they have not even spared me a glance in all of my splendour and that simply will not do.

"By the grace of the Capitol, will you two shut up?"

The effect is instantaneous as the blonde twins jump from the bed, instantly showering me with compliments: I hear the word statuesque and preen as they covet my dress, comment on my unparalleled taste levels and so on. It's good for a girls ego.

"You'll be the Belle of the Ball."

Gracie cuts in, her amber eyes glowing with sincerity and I spare her an indulgent smile. I give her my hand, and she instantly begins to fawn over the matte plum colour of my nails. I eye Tobin, the young man resembles his sister but he isn't as verbose- he nods approvingly, circling me with his well-attuned stare. I stand perfectly upright, cocking my hip to the side: Silently daring him to find a singular issue with the aesthetic I've created for tonight. A few moments pass before he claps his hands together and grins.

"I think the more appropriate compliment would be: Goddess of the Gala."

I nod towards him in thanks. The Algarde twins are of a similar social standing to myself, but while Gracie is a little vapid and easily led: Tobin is perceptive and more difficult to impress. But tonight I could charm the President himself into giving me a Capitol citizenship: I am untouchable.

"Thank you both, tonight truly is important. And I want you both to know I appreciate the compliments- and feel free to describe me as statuesque as often as you can, I liked that. But no, with this 'war' business: It really impacted on my mother's trade proposals- effectively nullifying her life's work. Thankfully, everything is coming together and we're back on track. Tonight is truly the next step, for myself, my parents and you- my friends who always have a kind word to say, I appreciate it."

Gracie applauds and I give the simple girl a small smile, she's incredibly good for boosting one's self-esteem. Tobin nods his head politely, probably thinking I sound like a spoiled brat; I return in kind as we all know that Tobin once refused to enter a diamond mine because he was wearing fine leather moccasins: Who's spoiled now. Gracie's exuberances dims somewhat as she quietens and seems to become thoughtful. I'm half a mind to call for the maid, if the vibrant blonde begins to show signs of rational judgement it could be the precursor to the apocalypse. I smirk at my sardonic musings, Tobin simply rolls his eyes.

"You know what? It is despicable that happened to you Cali. It really is, I mean District One was never involved in these silly 'Dark Days' and now two of us- are going to have to-"

Words fail the girl and she begins to cry earnestly, I would attempt to comfort her but I am not risking her crying and somehow marking my dress. Instead I reach out and pat her shoulder while Tobin pulls her into a hug. Where did that even come from? We were talking about the Gala, and she ended up whinging about these 'Dark Days' of Panem. I do not know how that girls mind works. Tobin is whispering empty words of comfort and I head to pour myself a much deserved glass of champagne.

"Gracie, we may not have played hosts to terrorists or had Peacekeepers trawling the streets, but there was still-"

I'm bored of this. Since they were announced, everyone has done nothing but discuss the Hunger Games. What do they mean? What will happen? Unless you're the President or that Corrine Snow woman- nobody knows, so I don't see the point in torturing myself or others by talking about the 'what ifs'. I much prefer focussing on certainties and one thing I am certain of, is that this Gala is more important right about now. I drain the glass of champagne before clearing my throat loud enough to draw the attention of the twins.

"Is this really the conversation we want to be having? Gracie, I agree- it's a little sad but the Hunger Games are happening and crying over them isn't going to change that. All it will do is possibly make us late if we need to fix your makeup- we have much more pressing matters to attend to."

That may have been a little brusque, but sometimes you need to shock people into reality. Gracie, at least, stops crying and instantly pulls out a compact mirror to ensure her makeup has not- in fact- run; Tobin however looks at me as if I've grown a second head ad I supress the violent urge to roll my eyes. I may like the young man, but he has an annoying habit of contradicting me at every corner and I can see that tonight is no different by the set of his jaw.

"More pressing matters than the possibility of being taken from our homes and thrown into an Arena where the only rule is kill or be killed? What can be more pressing than that, Cali?"

He looks aghast, and that really irks me. I can basically see him trying to climb on a moral high horse and I have no patience for that this evening. The Annual Business Gala will not be overshadowed by the Hunger Games, I won't allow it- I roll my eyes at his theatrics. People die every day, people are murdered every day- the only real difference is that it will be televised.

"Well, Tobin- in all honesty, yes. Those liberal Wilde's are protesting the proposed trade agreement my mother put forward. Whining about minimum wages and controlling the number of hours people work, to prevent stress and the risk of injury related to 'excessive' working hours. It's really starting to grate on my last nerve."

I look towards Gracie for her inevitable support but she is fiddling with the hem of her fuchsia dress, like a child afraid of being scolded. This doesn't bode well, I turn to Tobin and as expected he is wearing his 'I am about to try and educate you' expression: An expression I could do without seeing shaping his elfin features.

"Cali- I know you may not like to hear it but they are valid points. A safe and happy work force-"

I hold up my hand to cut him off. I will not have someone come into my home and preach at me like some rabid morphling addict picked up from the streets of some outlier District. He's always considered himself smart, but Tobin certainly lacks a sense of self-preservation if he wants to continue contradicting me. It's always funny at first, but then he begins to patronise me and I am not having it today of all days.

"Tobin, if I wanted your opinions on fiscal policy and work force morale- rest assured I would have asked for them. Let me be frank, you both need to leave- so I can compose myself before the Gala. If I were you, I'd avoid me at least until tomorrow."

Tobin appears to realise that he's stepped over some invisible line, nodding his head in agreement he heads towards the dresser and begins to gather his belongings. Gracie opens her mouth, an apology on her brother's behalf on the tip of her tongue; but with my patented 'do not presume to test me' glare she is sent scurrying after her brother. Deep breaths, tonight Cali you must wow the crowds- not imagine the plethora of ways you could happily beat sense into tweedle dipshit and tweedle dim.

The night has been a resounding success. My Mother has been radiant since the Bill of Gold Commerce was signed by Mayor Fortescue himself, I have played the role of dutiful daughter: Posing for photographs, exchanging mindless chit chat with the daughter's and young wives of political powerhouses of the District.

Plus, there has not been a singular person whose eyes haven't followed me around the room; bountiful compliments and offers to take me for dinner. It's almost addictive the feeling of being desired and with this business model my Mother has devised, I am even more desirable. It's almost perfect, the wine tastes sweeter and the chandeliers glitter brightly. I said I'd wow the crowds, and I did more than that; I enchanted them with my demure persona, excited them with my smart remarks and astounded them with my beauty. All in a day's work.

"Well if it isn't Cali Topaz. Still forcing those people to work their fingers to the bone,"

And the moment is ruined, the proverbial sunshine of the evening's success is marred by the arrival of the grey cloud called Dorian Wilde. The wine becomes bitter, and the shimmer of the chandelier dims as he leans haphazardly against the ornate pillar. His mere presence makes my blood begin to boil, instead I simper sweetly while his classically handsome features are distorted by a smug smirk.

"Wilde. Are you still trying to procreate with anything that has a vagina, pulse optional."

The scathing remark is delivered in the sweetest tone I can muster while in his presence. His grey eyes glitter in mirth, and he runs a hands through his auburn locks before he places his hand against his chest. Feigning pain as he mockingly falls against the pillar. His eyes narrow as he waves his finger mockingly in my direction.

"Oh how you wound me Princess. However will I go on, when the fearsome Ice Queen has wounded me so?"

He looks completely relaxed as if we were discussing the weather rather than exchanging acidic barbs. Something about it irks me, irrationally so, why is it that the one person who is immune to my razor wit- is the very same person who burrows beneath my skin and aggravates me in a way no other can. I have an overwhelming urge to shower him with the chardonnay in the crystal glass I hold with a vice grip, but that is the exact kind of reaction that cretin desires. And I would be damned if I gave that smarmy bastard anything he wanted.

I saunter closer to the self-proclaimed 'charmer', my hips swaying side to side until I'm close enough to smell the pine undertones to his cologne, count the thick eyelashes framing his silvery eyes and hear every stuttering breath as it escapes his parted lips. It's empowering, his eyes slowly beginning to hood with lust as he falls under my spell.

"If I wanted to hurt you Wilde, you'd be hurt. Never question that."

I smile almost baring my teeth, his eyes skim my body hungrily before he chuckles to himself. His eyes bright and his posture returns to its previous state of relaxation. Seconds ago he seemed enchanted and now he's as smug as ever. It's unsettling and I grit my teeth as he winks at me unashamedly.

"I think you could benefit from a ride on the Wilde side Cali, I'd make sure to removed that stick you have shoved so far up your shapely backside."

Without warning, he lurches forwards and presses a chaste kiss and presses something into my hand. He steps away and saunters off before I can regain my composure and acquaint my shoe with his own shapely backside. Deep breaths, I look at the card he pressed into my hand:

You know where to find me Ice Queen

-Dorian Wilde

What a presumptuous prick. How dare he proposition me like that, as if I would ever give a slimeball like Dorian Wilde the time of day. I hastily down the drink before signalling for it to be refilled. It feels as though he has one up on me, and that makes me livid.

My head is throbbing as I gracelessly fall into consciousness. I try to open my eyes but find my retinas assaulted by the amber hues of day break. My mouth is drier than the deserts on the out skirts of One, opening my eyes fully I look around the room and feel my heart drop into my stomach. I'm as naked as the day I was born, and I've woken up in a room that is certainly not my own with the mint green walls and peach accents. Turning over I see the auburn locks of Dorian Wilde and I almost gag at the sudden rush of self loathing.

I remember the way his long fingers caressed every inch of my body, the way he tasted my skin with the tip of his tongue and as he swallowed my frantic moans as he brought me to climax more than once. I would be much happier if it was only a passionate kiss with a generous amount of hand action but as I try to slide from the bed I feel the slickness between my thighs and the dull ache in my lower abdomen that tells me, without a doubt, that I definitely took a ride on the 'Wilde side'.

The thought sickens me, and in that moment I vow never to touch another drop of chardonnay for as long as I live: It's obviously hazardous to my social, mental and physical health. Who knows what kind of venereal diseases my body may be playing host to after a 'roll in the hay' with that moron.

I discretely navigate the darkened room, hastily pulling my clothes on as I find them scattered around; silently praying that the suave idiot remains asleep. Promising whichever unseen deity that may be listening that I would never do anything like this again, as I pull on my stiletto it seems my prayers were unanswered.

"And just where are you off to, Wildcat?"

Pulling myself to my full height, I turn to fix him with a disdainful glare: He is lay there, bare for the world to see; silver eyes heavy with sleep, hair a complete mess from where I had run my fingers through it and his trademark smug grin on his face. He'd be considered cute if he were not such a proverbial thorn in my side, although he's definitely been a thorn elsewhere as of last night. I am practically seething as he lays there completely at ease.

"I am going home to bathe, and attempt to wash the filth that is you from my body."

He yawns and stretches, I cannot help but notice as his pale skin pulls along his sculpted abs. He remains unbothered by my attempts to rattle his seemingly unshakeable confidence. He just nods towards a mirror at a vanity table, and I cringe: My ebony hair is wild, pulled form the coiffed style I had worn the previous evening; my makeup, painstakingly applied to present the image of perfection is smudged and worn away from sweat- my lips are as swollen as Dorian's and in that moment I can almost feel his stare at my back; reminding me of the way he teased and pleased me the previous night. Scarily as I shudder involuntarily, I cannot pinpoint if it was from despair or desire.

"See you around, Kitten."

He simply rolls away, presumably to go back to sleep: I'm almost offended until I notice the crimson lines marring his back and shoulders, it looks as though he's been ravaged by a rabid animal: He may have shown me the Wilde side, but it was definitely me leaving my mark on him. Feeling invigorated I pull the door open.

"Yeah, in your dreams dipshit."

He chuckles good naturedly, as I toss my hair back and strut from the room. My hips swaying as I give him my favourite one fingered salute: His laughter becomes more pronounced and as I leave I hear him mutter the words that almost make me pause.

"Every night."

And there we go: Cicero, submitted by david12341, and Cali, submitted by crossroadsphan. You also met their District partners, Ophelia Rimbaud and Dorian Wilde. Let me know what you think of the dynamics and all that jazz.

As I said above, this chapter was going to include Cassian but I wanted to update and I am too tired to finishing editing his POV. That will be uploaded tomorrow, and from that point going forwards we will have 3 POV's a chapter as the Tributes are introduced.

Let me know what you thought about each character, and take a look at the Tribute List on my profile- solely on their name, is there any Tribute you're curious about?

-Andii