Aiden Petrova, 23;

District One Victor & Mentor

Last year was nothing but extraordinary. Who didn't suspect the little girl from Seven to win? Wasn't it quite obvious? I mean, come on, if you didn't expect her to win you either had your head drained in a toilet or just couldn't be bothered to pay attention to any of the current tributes. I'm pretty sure everyone had their bets placed on her; even I didn't believe in my District to bring home a Victor last year.

Seeing as she killed most of the tributes in a matter of days, I don't think anyone had a problem with her being Victor-not even me. She was an interesting tribute for sure. If anything, I sorta wish that she was from One. The female volunteer that we had last year was nothing but disappointing, dying by the hands of, the one and only, Seven.

When she came here on her Victory Tour, it was nothing more than spectacular. You could obviously tell that the girl hated our District, but she didn't let us bother her too much. We welcomed her with a round of applause and a warm welcome like she was one of our own.

Last years tributes were all segregated into three different groups: the elites, the bloodbaths, and the loners. Maple was part of the loners, who weren't given any time of day whatsoever, and nobody bothered to go after her. She was just a predicted bloodbath-the Capitol predicted her a placing of twenty-second.

What a great way to prove them all wrong by winning. Shockingly, she had a Training Score of an 8, but the Capitol decided that someone with an 8 would receive a placing as low as twenty-second. But the best part about her games was when everyone congregated together at the Feast and Maple looked as gregarious as someone could possibly be.

Sure, tributes laughed at her and mocked her, but when you have a tomahawk thrown at your head by the girl you once thought would be dead earlier, it's not as funny as you thought… The looks on people's faces when she won was just... Priceless…

Well, enough of my reminiscing; I think it's time I get out of bed and actually prepare for the Reapings today. I'm a couple hours early, but I'm supposed to be earlier than normal as a Victor, or else there would be consequences or some bull like that. It doesn't really bother me too much. I'm not even sure if the Capitol remembers who I am; it's only been four years since my victory but Victors do die out easily when new ones take the spotlight. Take Caspian Saylor, for example. I'm pretty sure he was suicidal, but that still didn't change the fact I was outshined in a click, snap, flash. But even Caspian didn't matter afterward; Maple took his spot almost immediately.

Struggling out of bed, I groom myself and finish up everything that I need to do. My clothes have been lied out for me ever since yesterday-I thought being ready was easier than rummaging through my closet and trying to find something perfect to wear to the reapings. ''Appearance is everything…'' I mutter to myself, knowing that only Capitolites say something like that.

Rushing downstairs, I tightly grip the handrail keeping me secure, giving me the safety and comfort to know that I won't fall. The glistening light dances across the rail, showing my reflection through the beautiful gold. Every time I walk down here I remember of my games; I remember the tributes that I killed to get here; I remember how I got here.

Looking back at it, I'm not sure if it was all exactly worth it. I mean, I did volunteer for it, but that was only because of the pressure. Coming from a District like this, you're expected to volunteer. If not, what are you other than a disappointment? But I don't like to see it that way. There's more to it, I know that for sure.

Taking my last steps to the opening on my living room, I take in the hickory, melted buttery scent of whatever my mother is cooking. It enters its way through my left nostril and splits into half, moving over to the right and making my mouth water. The smell is so rich that I can almost grab it and taste it, like if I'm lying on a cloud and gliding to a rich paradise of smells just like this one.

My eyes water; not from tears, but from the beauty of it all. It's been quite a while since I've whiffed this scent, because it was never made the way mom made it. We usually had servants, or ''guests'', make them for us. It's just not the same unless someone you know and love makes it, you know?-and it's been years since mom's made what I think I'm smelling: bacon.

Jogging towards the dining room, fully taking in the sweet smell of what I wish to be my breakfast, I stop and take a moment to admire the beautiful scenery in front of me, it's beauty indescribably wonderful to the eye: exquisite colors of paint, the waxed floors that look like mirrors, and the breathtakingly spectacular interior and exterior design that matched like twins. The unique paintings hung high and proud, spreading across various rooms. And the touch of sweet vanilla cream running through the air, but quickly being overshadowed by the bacon that I've yet to receive.

Finally entering the dining room, my parents both catch a glimpse of me and I catch a glimpse of the food held at the table. Like always, I quickly reach in and try to eat, only to have my hand smacked away by my mother's spatula and be scolded at, her words running through ear-to-ear. ''Don't you have somewhere to be?!'' her words catch me off guard, almost as if there was somewhere I had to be, but I forgot. ''The reapings!''

Oh, the reapings…

Yeah, I forgot about those.

''Come on, I haven't had anything to eat yet,'' I beg, leaning against the head table chair and smiling at my mother. Like always, she tells me that it's my fault that I didn't wake up earlier and tells me to march out of the house. See what being generous gets you? You volunteer for them, win for them, and you still can't even live your life the way that you want to; not the way they want you to. Kicking me out of my own house? Come on now, that's just ridiculous.

''Fine,'' I groan, dragging out the 'N', knowing well enough that it won't change the outcome. Instead of waving them off or kissing my parents goodbye, I just walk out of the house making sure that I have everything I need before I head off and further help mentor these volunteers. Really, it all depends on if anyone volunteers or not.

But who am I kidding?

There's always a volunteer.

Caspian Saylor, 24;

District Four Victor & Mentor

I wake up to the iridescent lights of the dank hospital room, whiffing the sterile scent of the hospital room. The lights above me buffer, sparks emitting from the broken bulbs like temporary fireflies.

It's all too familiar to me- of course it is. I've been in this room for about eight months now.

"Caspian, baby," my wife says. "Caspian?"

"I'm here," I croak, my voice dropping several octaves. Iridess beams, noticing that I've awaken. "They wouldn't let me in, for like, an hour," she hisses, her eyes widening, but breaking into a good natured smile a second later. She presses her lips to my forehead, indicating a sign of joy and liveliness. It lightens my heart to see that she's been completely happy and healthy while I've been gone.

"You look good," she marvels, her hand held to my cheek softly. An eyebrow is arched up, revealing that she was surprised about it.

I try to roll my eyes, the pupils straining in the process. "Of course I do."

Iridess groans, and flicks me on the neck like she used to do when we were kids. "Seriously, Caspian. Your scars from before are healing, and your skin's gotten clearer." She smirks in that one-sided way I've grown to love. "It's about time. This hospital's absolute crap."

I can't help but laugh, although it disturbs all the tubes going into my veins and my arteries, causing them to shake. "It's not their fault," I protest weakly, choking with mirth. "I do have a lot of problems with injuries and such."

Silence settles in the thin room like a blanket. Injuries have always been a frequently avoided topic, due to my, ahem, conditions. Normal people tend to steer the conversation away from pain, but they never knew it like me. Even if I wasn't born with the pain gene.

"I mean," I cough, trying to bring back the dynamic from earlier. "There was a count of fifty-three cuts and scratches," I rasp in a low tone, eyes widening alarmingly. I wince, awaiting for the next words that come out of my mouth. "And they're all from me."

Iridess watches me with a pained expression, trying to empathize with me. Trying is the key word- no matter how close someone was to me, they could never feel what I was feeling. I would never allow them to. They can't carry the burden I've shifted for twenty-four years.

"Are you tired?" Iridess watches me with calculating eyes, trying to find out if I was tired or not. I guess she deems me as 'dazed', because she lifts the corners of her mouth into a brace and leans her head to the side, fluttering her eyes shut.

I was a very peculiar person, actually. People have approached me and told me themselves that I was a daydreamer, and almost always detached. While that might be true, it still didn't excuse the fact that I've went through more than they've ever been through. I've survived through countless beatings and situations.

I remember my therapist from last year. She told me to repeat the facts true to myself over and over, until they burned into my brain and imprinted into my memory. I felt like an idiot at first, but now it's just strictly routine.

And before she told me to do so, she'd mutter, "Breathe in, breathe out."

As Iridess unconsciously brushes my hair to the side many times over, I close my eyes and try to calm down my bouncing nerves. Slowly, but surely, I felt all my strain melt away into my lungs, dissolving away until I needed to summon it again.

My name is Caspian Saylor. I am twenty-four years old, and the love of my life is Iridess Hastings. I won the 421st Games when I was eighteen.

I breathe harshly, willing myself to go forward.

People say I'm unemotional, detached. A freak. I had purposely harmed myself- I choke- just to see what it would feel like. If I would feel anything. And I didn't- there was nothing. I kept trying to cut my wrist, determined to get a reaction, and I never did. It was futile. I stayed like that, depressed, anguished, and constantly blacking out from blood loss. Because of my obsession with feeling pain.

My dad wanted me to volunteer for the Games, but I never had to- I was Reaped, anyway. I went in an insane rage once I found out there was nothing to cut myself with. The moment I entered the Games, I strangled tributes in my path on the way to the Cornucopia, completely taken over with the need to get my hands on a blade. That night there were nine deaths, three from my hands.

I went through the Games with a vile, gruesome fascination with blood.

The night of the Feast, I had murdered all the tributes. I felt nothing, but I knew there were fatal injuries all over my body. Inch long cuts through my ribs, blood poisoning in my arms, flesh hanging off by a thread on my leg. It was the most horrific thing I've ever experienced, even more than the tributes I was tearing apart. But I kept going, and wouldn't stop until each one was dead.

I tasted blood in my mouth, the salty, bitter taste stinging my tongue. The metallic, pungent scent threatened to blacken my vision, but I needed to finish my train of thought. I glance to my side, yearning for any support, but Iridess had already fallen asleep. I close my eyes again, and this time I concentrate harder than I ever have before.

Once they were all gone- the tributes I had seen alive only moments before- I collapsed onto the floor, repelled by what I had just done. I had ended four tributes and felt no whims about it.

I went back home, hoping for maybe a loyal and loving District. Instead I received shame. Betraying shame- not one that was obvious but one that was implied. I was still a freak, no matter what I went through.

No. Matter. What.

Not even realizing they were there, the tears in my eyes spilled over. Silent sobs racked through the dank room, making it even more ominous and threatening than it was before. Everything just seemed- against me. My injuries weren't actually the reason I was kept here for eight months- scars always healed eventually. It was because I still had millions of pounds of hysterical trauma. And unlike scars, that might never go away.

Maple Wren, 16;

District Seven Victor & Mentor

I would say something cliche like, "It felt like just yesterday I was being Reaped for the Games!" but that'd be a lie. You see, it's hard to forget about being in the Games when people are constantly being intimidated by you, as a contrast of being annoyed by you.

Take my life, for example. Roughly about two years ago, I was repeatedly being cursed and hated against by the whole of District Seven. And when I come back, holding five kills in my honor, people treat me as some kind of royalty. Funny how people can change so easily.

Not that I don't like being respected- I really do, but it shows a point that in just two weeks people can go from hating you to loving you. Just because of some fame? Just because I'm the Capitol's darling? If I were them, I'd be intimidated by the fact that I've taken away five lives. If I saw some random, fifteen year-old girl on television brutally murdering kids, I'd be kind of scarred. Who wouldn't?

To be completely honest, I don't pride myself with the number of kills I had. It's just a number- the thing that actually matters is the person I killed. And no, I'm not talking about 'District Seven Female' or whatever. I mean, their actual name. Their actual story.

When I was a young girl, maybe around the age of five, I would watch the Games with my parents. You might be thinking of how idiotic my parents were for letting me watch bloody massacre on television, but bear with me. They knew I was mature enough to see the real world. Instead of keeping me locked in my own childhood, they introduced me to the reality millions of people were in. I couldn't have it any other way, actually. I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Anyway, back to the topic. I'd watch these Games, and instead of getting myself immersed with the gore and the placings, I'd carefully watch the tributes. Their stories always interested me the most in show; I'd even find things about them that no one else cared to pay attention to. I would always ponder of their actual life back home, what their parents and friends were thinking, stuff like that. It'd break my heart eventually, however. Watching the tributes I so carefully studied ripped apart in the palms of another teen.

Of course, I'd get over it. I always do.

Well, I always had. Ever since I experienced the actual Hunger Games, and not watching it on screens, it's exhausting to get over the people I killed. Especially when you can't break the habit of getting to know them!

Being one of the most avid Games watcher, I knew one of the top skills to know was to never get to know anyone. If you knew more of their story, the more you'd hesitate to kill them, and the more you stop to consider, the more risks you take for your death. And for me, death was not an option.

But of course, when you need your talents and instincts most, they ditch you and screw you over! Not a single Training Day had gone by when I knew the girl from Five's whole family and their personalities. And trust me, she had a lot of family members.

So, when that extremity came in, I knew I had to take huge measures. I shielded myself from allies or friends of any sort, leaving me with no possible advantages except perhaps sponsors.

I turn on my side, cocooning myself in the huge fluffy blankets I supposedly 'earned' from killing those people. The sun peeks through the blinds, and tendrils of wind slip through, ruffling the curtains. Glancing at the clock besides me, the little electronic numbers flash through my retina, reading out '7:49 AM'.

It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to realize I only had ten minutes to get ready.

"Oh, shi-" I began, only to clamp my mouth shut when I remember my no-swearing policy. I grumble other curse alternatives under my breath, wrestling on my boot-cut jeans and a sweatshirt. I'll probably look like a suburban mom or something, but as long as it's comfy, right?

Rushing down stairs, I stomp my already-socked feet into my combat boots- they let me keep it from the Arena- and toss an infinity scarf around my rather scrawny neck.

Five minute changing skills right there. I'm the best teacher you'll ever learn from, so suck up my amazing fashion tips and go about your everyday lives with a new sense of amazing… um, getting-ready-shit.

Whoops. Another dollar in the mental curse jar. I have, oh, about four hundred imaginary dollars in there now.

I stand outside my posh home, impatiently calculating the number of minutes it'll take to bike over there. Hm. Maybe, three, or four. I got this.

Rushing my bike out in the breathtaking greenness of District Seven, I hurry into a regular biking position, and pedal my way out of the gated community of Victor's Village. Air whips to and fro my copper-streaked hair, playing with the dust and throwing it into my pupils. Temporarily blinded, I falter for a second in my continuous biking but keep moving forward anyway. Only a minute left… I could see the Square…

And, within that time limit, I stumble into the smooth pavement and lean my bike against the wall. Pushing through irritated people, muttering, "Excuse me, excuse me… sorry, thanks! Tell your baby to stop grabbing onto things…" and leaving tons of civilians fed up with my straight-forward attitude. I swiftly pace towards the podium where the Mayor and the Escort lie, and send penetrating glares towards me. Baring my teeth, I dust off my jeans sheepishly. Even though there's no grime to be found.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry I'm late," I say breathlessly, forcing on a cheap smile for the cameras. I cough weakly, looking away from the pointed stares and the crowd. It was only my first year as Mentor, and I was quickly proving to be horrible.

I'm just hoping that won't be the case when I actually try to keep the tributes alive.

Wayne Colair, 18;

District Ten Victor & Mentor

Jeez, reaping day already, huh? What a pain. Still, what can I do about it? We're here for a reason, and although I hate that reason, there's nothing I can do about it-no matter how many times I try.

I'm quite upset that today's actually reaping day, though. I don't even think anyone remembers me; not ever since Maple won. Seriously, how do you forget the latest Victor in the matter of a year? She's basically the Capitol's favorite daughter, no matter how rebellious and angry she is.

But still, it's kind of stupid. Just because she ran around the Arena amuck during the Feast doesn't mean that you can forget all about me: Wayne Colair.

Passing my hand through my hair, I take in the environment of the District as I walk to the Square, with my left hand in my pocket.

The rural area around here is, and has always been, home. It's like my safe haven, somewhere I know that I'll be safe from all of my insecurities no matter what anyone, or myself, has to say about it. It's just different, you know? I haven't lived in one of these broken down barns in a while.

The red and white barn, with the faded colors to add a touch to it's olden features. Dim and dusky like an evening, the shafts of the light pierce through the rough hewn wood, showing just how old this poor structure is. It's probably been around for decades, judging by the platforms on it.

But the thing that contracts me to it the most is the earthy smell of compost, like the secluded forest floor of my Arena. A soft ambient sound of animals outside, breathing the gentle breeze that embraces the rustic structure. There's a stillness to the movement, almost like I'm the only person here, even though I know that Old Man Jenkins still lives in this broken down barn.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, he walks out, smiling and holding a shovel to clean out the cow manure. Feeling bad for the old man, I slowly approach him, leaving my hand out to shake his. He's probably been the only person that I've really ever known, besides my mother and sister, of course, to actually enjoy my company.

He's such an altruistic man-and it pains me to see him living in such an unsanitary position. No matter how many times I ask him to move in with my family and I in the Victors' Village, he always refuses and tells me that this old barn is his home, that these animals are his home. He can't possibly leave them-no matter how many times I try to persuade him.

''Old Man Jenkins, why do you still stay here, even though I try over and over again to get you out of this rusted, broken down building?'' I ask, crossing my arms together after shaking his hand. ''You know that it could crumble any day now, right? We wouldn't want a ledge falling on you and breaking a bone, now would we?''

''Oh, Wayne, aren't you just as friendly as ever?'' he asks sarcastically, eyeing me as the wrinkles on his face begin to stretch, showing his age. ''You know this is my home, and no matter how hard you try you know that I won't leave.''

''I just don't see why you find these animals, this home, so important.'' I blurted, only meaning for that to remain a thought that would soon be lost deep into the depths of my mind.

''I-I'm sorry,'' I apologized, quickly grabbing the man's hand. Starting to stutter, I do exactly like I've done my whole life. And that's to just piss people off, but fortunately for me, Old Man Jenkins doesn't mind me saying some hurtful things, despite how wrong they sound.

Like always, he says something amazingly true that contains a general truth; the aphorism about his barn and why he still stays there makes me realize quite a bit, but I would never admit that. Shuffling my feet on the rough gravel, I begin to walk away from Old Man Jenkins.

''Ha ha, I see your point,'' I smile, waving off as I go. ''I guess I'll see you at the reapings, then?'' No answer is received besides a simple nod, but of course, I shouldn't forget that he's got a lot of work to do. Sadly, though, I don't think someone like that should still be working at his age.

It just seems too rough, you know?

My boots skid against the coarse road, kicking pebbles as I walk down the most used street in Ten to head to the Square. As I walk by, everyone starts to wave at me. The thing, though, is that I don't even think that their smiles are genuine-more like something that they have to put on to show respect to their so called ''respect.''

Finishing my route, I make my way to the Square. My gaze is immediately locked on the Capitol banners that are laid on the streamers. To be completely honest, I like the Capitol banners… Most people in Ten despise them, for obvious reasons, but when you think about it, they're actually kinda cool. Nobody cares if the banners are good or not, because of some stupid bombing that was years ago.

I'm here quite early, so there's nothing to do, really. Maybe just walk around, or conversate with other Victors-but I don't think they like me too much.

I make my way to the stage, taking my place in last seat that's lied out. I sit down, watching the crowd fill in about at least twenty people at a time. This sucks, though. Two more tributes from Ten are gonna enter these games, and most likely neither of the two are returning.

Maybe. It all really depends on whether or not their mentoring goes well. And if it doesn't, that's on me. Me, me, me; only me.

But that's fine. I'm new at this, so the most they can do is just shake their heads-something I'm used to happening quite a bit.

A/N: Whale, whale, whale. Would you look at that? A brand fucking new SYOT brought to you by FanFictioners Ansley and Brooke.

Look at you go, already typing the A/N without me.

Sorry, bae. xD But you can, like, edit it afterwards. Mold it to your preferences.

Ain't no sorry, bitch. Ain't no sorry's! Jk. Jk, chill. Calm tf down. Please. D-Don't kill me. Chill. Water. Ice. Cold. ..Stawp.

Stawp. XD This is weird. It really is. No one's gonna tell which one is us, it just won't work out. xD

Nah, I think people'll tell who I am. I mean, my speech is different from others, cuz I'm just amazing like that ;) Jk, I'm not amazing ;U

Eff. You're gonna embarrass me. Now I have to tell you, "NO, BAE! YOU'RE SO FREAKING AMAZING JUST THE WAY YOU ARE!1!" -.-

Just the way I like it to be heard; people telling me I'm amazing. You know how amazing that sounds in my ears? Ugh, I'm like, so… What do you call it? Self-aware? Idk, I barely have a 10th grade vocabulary ._.

Conceited? Narcissistic?

I eat those cereals for breakfast. T-That's what they are, right..?

I swear, this A/N's gonna be hectic as adchksacfhaeuw because of how crazy we are. ._.

Hehe, yup :D So today, guess what? I was with my friends, right? And then we were walking out of class. So, like, I opened up the door and there was supposed to be a coldfront or something like that, so I opened up the door and saw that everyone else was hesitant. Then, when I opened the door, water came pouring down on my head because of all the rain and everyone started laughing. I was like, ''Fucking AIDs, that's messed up.'' And I thought it was bird shit, because birds love shitting on my head.

See, that brings me to another story. When I was, like, 10, I went to a zoo with my camp and a bird shat on my head. I felt a drop, and I told my teacher and she started laughing, and then everyone else did.

Damn. I swear you're ADHD. I see you typing this up, and it's like asdfghjkl. xD


I AM ADHD, THAT'S NOT FUNNY! XD I used that as an excuse today in pottery class. Friggin' seniors love meh ;U

Sadly, my life is not as crazy as Ansley's. I have zero stories. ._.

What can you say? I just get hit with the epic shit. Jk, getting shit on by birds isn't epic, although I heard it brought a day of good luck, so that made everything better. So anyway, I was at lunch, right? Yeah, and then we-

Um… I was talking to my friend about the black and white of life, and then she was all, "I SEE IT ALL GREY! THERE IS NO GOOD NOR BAD!" then I brang up satanism and she was like "omfg kill it with fire". See? People change very easily. ._. That was lame.

XD Omg. One of my friends and I were at the beach and she convinced herself that she saw Africa from the shorelines. ''No, Ansley, it's Africa. I can even see the tribal people dancing!'' I stood there shocked…

I legit just spit all over my screen. Wtf…

That brings me to another story ;D So you know when you're the only black kid in your class, right? And then you guys start talking about BHM, and then the teacher asks questions about why they were enslaved and shit and everyone stares at you? Yeah, it's awkward ._. Ha ha, I just realized this has nothing to do with the story…

So… we've spent a whole page on what happened this week and nothing to do with the actual story. Great. I feel so freaking prioritized. When I started this A/N, I was all like, "LET'S GET DUN TO BUSINESS *dramatic pause* TO DEFEAT


To defeat 'Da Huns…'

I'm insulting Crystal. Quote from her, "I can never use the word 'da' without feeling immediately ashamed." Or something like that, I forgot. And I'm too lazy to check.

Oh. Can you believe I was talking her today and she told me she would kill me if there was a real-life Hunger Games? Psh, I'd obviously place 3rd, and not by the hands of her ;I Crystal, I'ma slam an axe in your face. Then I'm gonna cry because I miss talking about Brooke secretly with someone else.

3rd? Why 3rd?

Fine, 2nd. Ha ha, jk, I'd be first ;) I mean, come on, now… Me. 3rd? 2nd? Pshaw. 1st? Yass.

._. I think we're gonna have to end it here. Because there are questions. This is hilarious, though xD

Ha ha, true. Well, that's all for today, I guess ;D Oh, and don't forget… Birds shitting on your head equals good luck…

...this A/N has been running for three pages. Stawp.

Slob on my knob, like corn on a cob. Check in with me, and do your job. Lay on the bed, and give me- jk xD Omg, I was dying while typing that out.

Ew. Ansley, that's a really bad song. No offense.

I know, but it's hilarious :D

First find a mate, second find a place. Third find a bag, to hide the hoe face. Real name ''Rover.'' I said bend over. I started to knock, then came the odor. Smelled like mush, shouldn't had a woosh. Told her to stop, and take a dush. Once she did that, I didn't want the cat. So I bounced out, and never came back. XD I'm Done, omg.

Go finish the actual SYOT.

Ugh, okay!

Anyway, Ansley and I have made a new SYOT! YAY! Like we didn't have other main priorities. I mean, we obviously have a life ._. But I guess I just felt like making a collab, so that's what happened. Like word vomit. I guess. I don't know. And, uh, like I said, we'll both be working on it. I WANT to say it'll be updated regularly, but I can't promise anything. Because I'm absolute BS on routine, and I'm Procrastination King/Queen. HEY OMFG THAT RHYMES! I CAN BE A… *looks ahead, light shining in eyes* A WRAPPER!

That was so lame, omfg. I'm dolphinitely never doing that again.

Holy hell, I didn't even do that one on porpoise! Efffff.

Since I have no clue what else to put in this, I'll just leave the rest to Ansley and get with the questions. Submit the best of the best tributes, give us creative ideas to work with! :D I promise we'll *most likely* MAKE THIS THE BEST SYOT EVAHHHH! (no promises)

Gee, I wonder who Ansley and who Brooke are in this situation…?

Did you like the Victors?

Who is your favorite Victor introduced so far? (You see, there is competition. Choose wisely, because two of these guys are Ansley's and two of these guys are Brooke's...

Least favorite? (Same thing as above)


Who do you like better: Ansley or Brooke? Answer carefully… I'll fucking cut you, fam.



They're all gonna choose you Dx

I mean, maybe. ._. XD Who cares? I lowkey honestly do...

I'm afraid that this A/N is actually longer than the actual story…

Yeah. Um. Submit or die. If you want the form, PM one of us and we'll send it over liek dat. *snaps*


Why are you still here? Gtfo off the story and go submit… Wait, leave a review. Share your opinions ^^ Alright, now get the fuck out. SUBMIT! :D


You're not adding this to the chapter, right?