Enzo

Varden

Varden is an alien, and a former slave. He has no memory of his parents or his childhood, his earliest memories are when he was a slave. Physically, he appears to be part Rodian, part human. Very tall, with dusky-olive green skin, his features are very close to a human's, save his black eyes are larger and rounder than a human's. He is also bald, with Rodian-like spikes on top of his head.
Despite his fearsome appearance, he is warm-hearted and kind. However it is a fatal mistake to take his kindness for weakness or pacifism. If you threaten or harm an innocent in his presence, you are quite liable to be blown to bits of sparkly dust.
He and his former master had become close friends. When the underworld lord was killed, he left his entire empire to Varden, who promptly dismissed all the mercenaries and pirates and freed the slaves. He then proceeded to buy up, bit by bit, the rest of the planet, until he owned the whole planet. Once that goal was accomplished, he made it his life's mission to buy every slave in the galaxy and give them a good, safe home. Word of his planet soon spread, and when slavers had stock they couldn't sell, they'd take them to Varden. He would, of course, buy the unwanted slaves and immediately take care of them.
Newcomers to the planet were tenanted on Varden's land, they worked in his orchards, fields, and craftsmanships. In return, he paid them generously, helping them on their way to buying their own property. No slaver was ever allowed to see most the lush, beautiful planet where the former slaves lived. When they visited, they stayed in the port Varden set up for them. If they didn't, if they tried to force their way to where the freemen lived, they were never seen again. Despite this, and Varden's legendary hatred for slavers, Varden and most pirates usually remained on speaking terms. The arrangement worked, the slavers got their credits and the slaves were freed.
The port has all a spacer could desire - food, lodging, entertainment, a cantina, trading areas - with one exception. There are few women in the port, and sometimes none. Most the proprietors and employees who serve the spacers are large, burly men, with whom it would be ill-advised to tamper. Some of the pirates have been heard to grumble about the lack of female company, but if ever an outsider messed with a woman, he was instantly removed from the planet and forbidden from returning - if he had slaves to sell to Varden, business would be conducted in space.
There were rumours, of course. One that was whispered about was that one man violated Varden's rules, attacking a waitress at the restaurant, then trying to land elsewhere on the planet when he was kicked off. All that had ever been found of him or his ship was ionized bits of dust. Others said that Varden was developing secret, highly advanced weapons, though no one really seemed to know what they were.
The rumours were right, of course. When Varden noticed someone who was very intelligent and or technical minded, he offered them a job in his secret facilities. He has a secret weapon, a thought-discerning deathray. If you attack the planet, you will be ionized. But if you have living collateral aboard, or some of your crew sympathizes with the freedmen, they are spared.
Varden, unable to ever find another like himself, and very lonely, loves arranging picnics, parties, and outings for the families. He adores children and finds any excuse he can - even makes them up - to be around the little ones of the villages near his home.

Tawn Fields

We stand silent, watching the screens, waiting for the tributes to be announced. None of the persons move. No breeze stirs the still heavy air. "Sasha Lodan," calls the escort. A girl detaches herself from the throng of fourteen-year-olds, ascending the stage, her face resigned. Nobody else moves, except the Capitolian on the stage, making her way across to the boys' ball. Somewhere, a bird whistles. The sound is surprisingly loud in the otherwise silent square. Everyone is watching the taloned hand in the reaping ball, swishing around, painfully drawing out the horrific waiting. Finally the crimson-painted talons clasp a piece of paper, lifting it from among the others.
"Tawn Fields," rings out the silly accent. I move away towards the stage, the other seventeen-year-old boys separating to let me through. Some give me sympathetic looks, others avert their faces, extremely relieved and feeling guilty for it. I ignore them all, silently mounting the stairs. I shake Sasha's hand, then stand staring blankly as the escort announces us again for the Capitol. It is all a blur as we are shepherded off the stage, to the Justice building then the train. It's all a blur.

Charlene

A breeze stirs my hair, tugs my dress, winging its silent way over the throng of citizens, gathered in the square of District Eight. My dress is a patchwork of colours, matching my district's industry. My name is Charlene, I am eighteen years old. And this year, I'm going to volunteer for the annual Hunger Games.
Last year, the father of the boy who was reaped staged an uprising when his son was killed. No one was stupid enough to join him, of course, and he was swift repressed and punished. There's been a rumour recently that he was only allowed to live because his daughter was going to be reaped this year. Once she dies, everyone suspects the father will meet with a quiet "accident."
The escort comes out on stage and I shudder. His metallic gold and silver makeup and clothing looks out of place, more appropriate to shiny One or Five. He minces his way across the stage, tapping the microphone twice. Loud echoing booms emerge to deafen us all and he clears his throat, leaning closer to it. "Welcome, welcome, to the annual reaping!" He left off which one. Can he not even count? "And may the odds be ever in your favour!" Stop nattering and get to it, I think sullenly. To my surprise, he obeys my silent command. Mincing his way to the boys' reaping ball, he pulls out a random slip and reads off, "Timothy Traunt!" A sullen looking sixteen-year-old slouches onto the stage, as the escort wobbles primly across to the girls' ball.
As everyone expects, he reads off the name, "Satinee Moyla!" A terrified twelve-year-old slowly ascends the stairs. "Are there any volunteers?" he calls rotely, then motions the two together. "Shake hands, you two."
But before they can, I call out, "Yes, I volunteer." Heads turn my way, confusion and astonishment written on the faces of those looking around. What I have done is hardly unprecedented, but volunteers are much more common in districts such as One, Two, and Four, than in survival-oriented Eight. The escort dithers a moment, not knowing what to do, then Peacekeepers surround me to march me onto stage. The escort shoos Satinee off the stage to make room for me. As she goes, she sends me a look of pure gratitude before running straight to her father, who falls to his knees and hugs her tightly to him.
I climb the steep stairs to the stage, my admiration for the escort rising a couple of points. I don't see how he manages the ridiculously steep stairs and uneven stage as well as he does in those outrageous shoes he wears.  "What's your name, love?" he asks me.
"Charlene Whipple," I reply clearly into the microphone.
"Shake hands, shake hands," our escort trills and I shake hands with Timothy, who looks even more sullen now that he has yet another older, taller opponent.
The escort shoos us off the to Justice building and I suppress the urge to laugh. He's really rather fluttery, like a brightly coloured piece of paper pinned to a clothesline. Seating myself in the large room assigned to me until we go to the train, I mentally review my strategy. The door opens and I look up, as the Moylas enter. I had half expected to see them, and stand with a smile. Satinee smiles back shyly, clinging to her father's hand. They cross the room to me and Mr. Moyla reaches out, taking my hand. "I can never thank you enough for what you did," he says fervently. "Is there anything we can do?"
I smile. "Train her - they'll probably try again next year. I don't have family, no one who will need me. I'll be fine."
Satinee shyly holds out a wilting bouquet of dandelions. "Thank you," she says softly, and I smile, taking them.
"You're quite welcome, Satinee," I say warmly. The Peacekeeper comes to run my visitors out and I take my seat again, tucking the dandelions into my carefully done-up hair. I fold my hands in my lap, waiting composedly to go to the train.