Alecta Beckworth

## Bio

*Alecta Beckwourth (she/her). District One Tribute. 21. Jessie Mei Li.*

When you’re appraising a fur coat, there are a few things you should look for. First, part the hair at the base of the fur near the pelt. If there is a weave there, the product is synthetic. If not, you should see skin. No, feel it. Real skin is like suede. One luxury like another. And unlike diamonds – rigid, brittle things that they are – quality hide gives if you tug. Slight pressure, and it will adapt. The best fur is made to be well-worn.

The Beckwourths have always been fur traders and master furriers. Sable, lynx and chinchilla – the craft is finer now, more polished, yes. But still much the same. A proud legacy of the divine, wherein something brutal bears the sweet fruit of something beautiful. Before Alecta held a knife in battle, she held it for the fleshing of hide. To stretch muscles before a fight meant as much to her as to stretch the skin of the mink. To tan and dye and sew them finely into even strips, to create an armor for the elite, not to protect their bodies (though it did keep them warm), but to maintain their social status. Their economic elitism – well-established and evident by the act of donning these.

And so her craft bled into her schooling, into the way she competed to be the best. It was not an option, not a desire. Simply a fact. A foretelling. In the academy, Alecta was ruthless and brutal, for what did it serve her not to be? There was great fortune awaiting her, but that was given. A birthright. Alecta wanted something earned, something she had crafted herself, finer than any fur. A victory all her own. A crown, shining bright.

It wasn’t hard. In the academy, it was a simple game to play. Who had the most? Who hit the hardest? Who held their head highest? Alecta won every time. The others fell into place at her side. To her right, always, was Cyril. Her guard dog, her protector. No, she did not need that. Her enforcer, for when a trap needed setting, or a wounded animal needed to be reminded of its place. For years, this was the natural order of things, the constant build toward a most fitting end – subsequent victories. First Alecta, then Cyril.

But it never came. Or, rather, it came all at once. The curse of lording one’s self too boldly above the rest: Alecta and Cyril were chosen, tops of their class, plucked as the finest goods One had and traded to the Capitol as tributes for the same Games. And they raised their hands. Volunteered. Willingly, yes, but not without frustration. Not without self-righteous indignation, spilling out all over the place. But it’s just as well. Tradition, legacy, glory – these were things the Games had begun to lose, had forgotten the importance of. A strong Career Pack, the value of hard work over a sob story, the appreciation of what victorhood really meant. What it was truly for. And Alecta is determined to show them all – to achieve this and finally know.

One of them will win. Not a question of if either, but simply which.

**What is their district token?**

A lucky rabbit’s foot.

**Three strengths and three weaknesses.**

(+) courageous, clever, ambitious

(.) traditional and proud

(-) merciless, smug, entitled

***PENNED BY: LENA***