#mj.intro

hi everyone! i'm isa and very excited to be here and introduce you to my boy quin (or quintus, if you're being formal). his intro got very long, so thank you in advance for reading!!

early life

quin is born to a somewhat successful businessman from district 1 and his wife - who herself trained to be a career, but didn't end up making the final cut. his mother's got a bit of a chip on her shoulder about that situation, and thus quin's fate is sealed when he's given his name: he will be, so his parent's hope, the fifth male victor of the district. (whether this worked out or not is up in the air, but i like to think it didn't!)

and so, from the time quin learns to walk, there's training - first with private tutors, then at an academy. knowing nothing but what he's been told, quin fully buys into it: he will bring honour to his district, there is nothing more worthy than winning the games, so on and so forth. there's nobody in his life who teaches him a sense of worth beyond his career skillset, no parents who'll encourage him to be anything but a future victor. he's pretty much the ideal career: staunchly loyal to the capitol, deadly in a way that's (spoilers!) going to pay off on screen, attractive enough to be interesting for capitolite teenagers watching.

quin, very predictably, makes the cut when he's 18. he volunteers, he says all the right things in interviews. he's learnt how to play the game, and it doesn't even look like he's reciting lines that have been fed to him. on screen, he appears confident - cocky in the ways that people like when the talk is backed by actions. his training score is high, his stylist does a good job at not making him look like a fool. he goes into the arena a clear favourite.

the 79th hunger games

quin's games were held in an abandoned cityscape. he stuck with the career pack for most of the runtime. they first designated a city block as their home base, then headed out in daylight to hunt down tributes. once most of the others had been picked off, the career pack - now numbering five - broke up. quin teamed up with the male tribute from district 2. the next day, they came across his district partner, who had sustained an ankle injury; the boys consequently killed her. quin's games ended in a showdown between him and the male tribute from 2, a fight memorable enough that it got plenty of airtime in recaps over the next years.

quin fought primarly with a sword he'd received from the cornucopia, and benefitted from generous sponsor gifts throughout his games. certain reactions of his - like him discreetly puking his guts out after the initial bloodbath - never made it onto viewer's screens. he was portrayed as an archetypical career, with little remorse to spare.

after the game

(cw for this section: depression, allusions to victor prostitution and drug abuse)

it was only when he returned home that quin realised he'd never had a home to begin with. robbed of his life's purpose now that he'd won, he struggled for a long while to reorient himself in life. his family, who had previously kept him at arm's length - attachment to a boy likely destined to die had seemed like a bad idea - was suddenly all over him, but their efforts to include him felt too ingenuine and disjointed. quin moved into his home in the victor's village and spent a few weeks cooped up inside. it was on his victory tour - and when he returned to the capitol - that he snapped out of his fugue state. and while he had little patience for the generally vapid attitudes of capitol socialites, he quickly figured out that he really liked the parties he was invited to.

to this day, quin makes an effort to spend more time in the capitol than back in district 1. there's people who pay for his time or for him to attend certain parties, those who bring him into the city and set him loose to collect gossip. quin makes sure he's a pleasure to be around and swallows whatever designer drugs are currently en vogue. he makes himself available for interviews, appears on talkshows; anything to escape the depression he experiences when he's home.

personality & interests

i'll level with you: quin's so used to acting out different versions of himself that even he doesn't quite know who he is. he's good at fitting himself into new social situations, an extrovert who likes being around people. he's charismatic in that he takes up space - you'll notice when he enters a room. the trauma he experienced during his games has turned him from a brainwashed child into a more critical adult, but he's very careful around whom he voices displeasure about the political climate, and people he's not close to might see him as the capitol darling he paints himself as.

quin enjoys mentoring, and he takes the gig seriously when he's assigned or takes it on. he's a responsible mentor adept at talking sponsors into donating. there's a soft core to him once you get friendly with him, and he can be fiercly protective of the people he considers his closest friends. while not being self-sacrificial or overly adept at emotional comfort, he's the type to offer silent support or a round in a sparring ring if needed.

onto the bad... he's impatient as hell, especially when he feels the other person should already know something he's explaining. even as a kid he was overly critical, which worked wonders for his career... career (he's critical of himself, too), but didn't make him too many friends back in the day. he's learnt to swallow down many of these comments but sometimes you'll still get a biting jab out of him. he's also got a bit of a short temper - he's never learnt how to regulate his anger, and it shows when he's in environments he feels comfortable in. he works off a lot of that energy in the gym, but when that outlet isn't available he starts getting unpleasant. and he's very difficult to get to open up; the lack of a truly loving parental connection did a number on him in childhood. it's for the same reason that there's a desperation with which he holds onto the people he's close to.

quin took up metalsmithing after his games - he mostly makes rings, sometimes earrings, and if you're friendly with him chances are he'll gift you something eventually - and he learnt how to play the piano, which he shows off fairly frequently. quin doesn't like to read (his education stopped focussing on life skills you might need in a regular job when he picked up a sword), but he's a pretty decent storyteller and will listen to friends talk about the books they're into. he's learnt to cook, but he isn't all that good at it. he works out daily and keeps up parts of his former career training regime. in district 1 - and in the capitol, when he's able - he likes to go on long, meandering walks. he mostly enjoys hobbies that have him shape something with his hands: he had a phase where he got into pottery (and has many wonky bowls to prove it), then he started painting said pottery, then he got into woodworking and abandoned it. those fickle hobbies he picks up and drops aren't known to the general populace, but they keep him busy, and keeping busy is what he needs or he'll start losing it.

connection ideas!

now we get to the fun part. i'm a brainstorming kinda person so these are just starting ideas : ')

fellow people who enjoy the capitol lifestyle can find quin at their mutual acquaintance's brunch event.

fellow victors (general); quin's social enough that he'll make nice with the victors he comes across as long as he's not being antagonised.

fellow victors or d1 staff (specific); one or two people who realised how badly he was doing after his games and helped him get back on his own two feet.

former flings; quin takes a very casual attitude to sex. he's bisexual, so anything goes here.

fans of his performance; people he was a fan of; someone whose actions in the games were dissected in the academy training rooms and who directly influenced something quin did in the arena.

shared interests, or people with hobbies they're happy to teach him. i could see him picking up fiber crafts if he had a patient teacher, for example.

a fellow victor whom he doesn't actually get along with (a clash of personalities, maybe?) but whom he relies on in the capitol and vice versa - a sort of 'the enemy of my enemy (the capitol as a whole) is my reluctant friend' situation.

(   olivia cooke   ,   demi woman   ,   she / they   )   that’s  OPHELIA REDFIELD , the THIRTY THREE year old UNDERCOVER GAMEMAKER from DISTRICT EIGHT  they’re so lucky to be in the capitol for such a special hunger games.  they’ve been here for long enough to gain a reputation for being so RESILIENT, and simultaneously ILLUSIVE.  they remind me of the patience of awaiting a moment you have ached for, to be so riddled with guilt that you no longer feel the grief, red on your hands and in your scalp ; might you never escape?, which makes sense since they’re always listening to ODE TO THE METS by the strokes. let’s hope they’re up for all this work ahead of them this year .  

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : ophelia redfield age : thirty three gender / pronouns : demi  woman she  /  they orientation : lesbiam  occupation : undercover gamemaker 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  brown hair  colour  :  auburn build  :  slim,  muscular height  :  5′7″ piercings  :  ear lobes, tragus, cartilage tattoos  :  sister's name on their left hand distinctive  features  :  thick, curly hair face  claim  :  olivia cooke  

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

TW: death of a sibling .

you  had  thought  that  it  would  be  you.  you  would  be  the  one  to  go  into  the  games,  because  you  were  the  one  with  the  spine  like  steel.  a  promise  between  sisters,  born  of  the  same  womb,  but  she  was  a  few  minutes  older  and  she  never  allowed  you  to  forget  it.  despite  it,  you  felt  like  the  eldest.  she  was  tender  where  you  were  rough,  cynical  of  the  world  around  you.  both  of  you  huddled  up  close  together  under  the  thin  blanket  you  slept  beneath  the  night  before  your  very  first  reaping  —  that  you  would  never  volunteer  for  her,  and  vice  versa.

she  knew  you,  the  half  to  her  whole.  she  knew  you  were  most  likely  to  lean  towards  self  sacrifice  if  it  meant  your  twin  would  live.  she  knew  that  the  only  thing  stronger  than  your  resolve,  was  your  refusal  to  break  a  promise.  and  yet,  on  the  reaping  of  your  fourteenth  year,  paloma  redfield’s  name  was  called.  your  lips  parted,  the  words  formed,  and  her  hand  slapped  itself  over  your  mouth.  your  sister,  tender  as  a  spring  morning  and  twice  as  beautiful,  who  picked  daisies  as  though  the  world  was  not  on  fire  all  around  you,  refused  to  let  you  take  her  place  upon  the  chopping  block.

you  sobbed  against  her  palm,  but  you  nodded  at  the  demand  in  her  gaze.  you  would  not  betray  her,  not  when  she  was  your  entire  heart.  that  heart  broke  in  paloma's  hands  as  you  watched  her  go,  shaking  on  that  stage  alongside  her  escort,  her  mentor,  and  her  tribute  partner.  you  could  tell  that  she  was  petrified,  and  still  she  smiled  as  you  from  her  place  on  the  stage.  she  was  good  at  that,  pretending  as  though  all  was  well  in  the  world  you  never  could  make  sense  of.

the  days  passed,  and  eventually  she  was  dead.  you  made  your  peace  with  it  for  your  mother’s  sake,  but  you  never  did  heal  from  the  loss.  you  buried  your  grief  alongside  paloma,  and  you  went  on  about  your  days.  you  did  not  seek  out  rebellion,  but  it  did  find  you  with  such  ease.  all  around  eight  knew  of  your  anger,  and  it  was  on  your  way  home  from  too  many  drinks  following  a  rotten  day  of  work  at  the  factory  that  you  were  cornered  by  an  old  school  friend  who  informed  you  of  the  unrest.  you  didn’t  hesitate,  not  with  such  fury  bubbling  under  your  skin.

you’ve  worked  for  years  towards  the  shared  goal  of  the  rebellion.  the  day  you  received  your  orders  to  attend  the  capitol  is  the  day  it  feels  like  the  rest  of  your  life,  paused  from  the  day  of  the  reaping,  finally  resumed  its  pace.  you  had  meaning  again,  a  way  to  avenge  the  sister  who  took  chunk  of  you  with  her  into  death.

you  never  did  expect  the  role  of  a  gamemaker,  and  yet  you  accepted  it  with  a  clenched  jaw  and  gritted  teeth.  you  did  what  you  had  to  do,  and  you  disgusted  yourself  as  you  worked  your  way  through  the  ranks.  it  was  a  rotten  job,  but  someone  had  to  do  it.  you  wonder  if  paloma  would  hate  you,  now.  would  she  see  her  twin  move  through  the  capitol  with  dark  eyes,  a  stranger  to  the  steely  young  girl  you  had  been  so  long  ago,  and  recognise  you  at  all?

you  hate  it  here,  it’s  tough  to  mask  your  dislike  of  the  chaos  in  the  capitol.  still,  you’ve  been  here  four  long  years,  and  their  madness  becomes  everyday  to  you.  all  that  you  do  to  keep  yourself  grounded  is  written  on  your  body;  running  until  you  can’t  feel  your  feet,  working  yourself  to  the  bone  in  the  gym,  the  punchbag  indented  with  the  shape  of  your  fist,  for  your  anger  has  no  outlet  here.

the  time  has  come,  finally.  you  work  with  plutarch  on  everything  that's  set  to  come  next,  but  you  can  barely  make  it  through  the  day.  your  jaw  aches  from  forcing  back  the  vitriol  you  feel  for  the  other  gamemakers,  knuckles  white  from  holding  back  the  punches  you  want  to  swing.

full name — pyaari chadhary nickname(s) — ari name meaning — pyaari ( darling ), chadhary ( undertaking the burden )  age — twenty-eight date of birth — october 31st place of birth — district six star sign — scorpio sun, virgo moon, taurus rising  current location — the capitol / district 6  gender — cis-woman pronouns — she/her sexual orientation — bisexual religion — agnostic  occupation — victor education level — district six family — adhira chadhary ( mother ), aavya chadhary ( sister )  finances — not great   spoken languages — english, bhojpuri allegiance — the rebellion ( it’s complicated ) 

tw: mentions of violence, blood, fire, strangulation, drowning, lots of death but it's the hunger games.

BEFORE.

your story started out before you were born, a runaway girl from the capitol finding solace in district 6, she married quick to change her name, the love for her husband had come after, a child was next, and then came you. you got a couple of good years with your father before he died during a late night transport to the capitol, the death is a mysterious one, but the capitol claimed that there must have been something wrong with the train, or perhaps he was just a little too tired that night. there was no body to be returned. your little sister cannot remember your father very well, there are just photos that proved he existed once. 

your mother plays a game with you and your sister aavya, she used to call it midnight dancing with the constant steady hum of the trains and train tracks. its simple really, and a bit dangerous, but your mother thrived on danger, and you won’t ever know the full story of why your family feels cursed, at least, not yet anyway. your mother climbs the train until she gets to the top you pull your sister up before pulling yourself up after her, your mother hums a song that you don’t recognize, stereos are expensive but she starts to dance, it’s graceful, your sister spins and you think it’s stupid at first until you look up at the stars and start to dance too. 

on the particular bad days you play this game, jumping over the tops of trains by yourself in the middle of the night, you’ve gotten good at climbing, and sometimes you think that if you really wanted to you could ride the the top of the train like a wave and it’ll take you somewhere very far away from here. you learn how to be light on your feet, and this is how you learn how to steal things from transportation for your family to make sure that they never go hungry. 

of course this comes to an end quickly, you’ve always been told you’re the replica of your mother, her ease and grace is something you learned how to be, you learned it to be like her, she learned it because it’s what she grew up in. 

it’s a cold morning, when you wake up and your mother isn’t there and your sister has had a cold for days. walking out to the town square and see peacekeepers surrounding your mother with videos of a cloak you wear to hide your face when you steal things from transport, they ask how do you plead and she says guilty. all that you can remember is running to your mother, and you’re going to confess that it was you that was doing all the stealing. but your mother looks at you and shakes her head. 

“you’re a rebel and a thief.” 

“guilty.” she says, and then a shot rings in your ears. 

the peacekeeper looks at you, the blood splattered on white, a sniff and then, “bury your dead.” 

you can’t afford to keep the house. you make a home out of shipping containers and abandoned trains that no longer work anymore. 

your sister gets sicker and sicker, and then reaping day comes. 

mother made clothes for the family, for the special occasions, pyaari dresses her sister up in her best and gently does her hair, kissing her on the forehead promising that no matter what happens she will always be her first priority now. it’s not fair that there is no other help but themselves, mama’s funeral was a small affair, when she was called a rebel moments before her did pyaari was too lost in her thoughts to look at the fear in people’s eyes when the peacekeeper said it. 

she watches as her sister stands in the front, she can’t help but play with the stitching on her dress, and pyaari notices how lopsided the little bits of hair, how the braid is falling apart, how nothing seems to fit her sister right anymore. she bites her lip before listening to the same speech they give over and over again very single year. 

“ladies first!” 

pyaari watches as fingers dive into the bowl, long fingernails holding up the female tribute, a smile. 

“pyaari chadhary!” for a moment, she is still, and then she walks down the middle of the aisle. she can hear her sister and she reaches out, fingers brushing against the tiny hand but she doesn’t look back, she walks gracefully onto the podium like in waves, hands behind her back. 

and before she knows it the second name comes out. elam mottello. not a friend, nor an enemy, someone that pyaari sat with at lunch, someone who often found pyaari at the scrap yard looking for parts to try and make a home. she remembers how he would look for parts too, to help her, because he was kind, and because he was lonely. 

and before she knows it they’re being rushed into the building and the only person to greet her is her sister. she doesn’t know what happens next after this — her sister cannot survive on her own. she’ll die. there’s a woman that pyaari recognises as a conductor that makes her way towards them, she says that she won’t have to worry about aavya, they were going to take care of her — she knows it’s only loyalty because of her father, but she thanks them anyway. 

“are you going to come back?” her sister asks, and they both know the answer. but her pale face, her tiny body, the braveness that she was forced to learn, the loss they both went through, pyaari lets her sisters hair down, she presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“i’m going to do everything i can to get back to you.” she whispers. “i don’t want you to watch.” she says, even more quietly. 

“why?” her sister asks. 

“because i don’t want you to be afraid of me when i come back.” 

“you’re my sister—i can never be afraid of you.” 

pyaari hugs her one last time, smelling the sweet scent of chamomile soap that pyaari learned how to make, the train tracks in their odd little home, the last remaining scents of their mother in the stitching of their dresses. 

“aham tvayi snihyaami, aavya.”

INTERLUDE.

pyaari would never had been considered kind growing up, but she liked to think that she was polite and fair. after they had scrubbed every inch of her body she knew that it was time to get to work on her image everywhere else. she was kind to every single stylist she encountered, she said hello to tributes from every single district. she especially had gotten close to her district six partner, elam had looked terrified, and pyaari had given him small little directions of how she could act if he wanted sponsors. 

by the time that training actually happened pyaari was a soft face, working with the plants and learning how to make a shelter even though she had been doing that most of her life. she had learned how to play with knives having attempted to make her own with the scrap metal back home. the way that she moved around the dart boards was magic, her feet so light, she had twirled before aiming before it came to combat. she had avoided most attacks, but it was always the districts that had the careers that were harder to impress and even harder to get trust her, most thinking that she was either a weak link. she stayed far away from them but she observed, often asking questions, trying to find the things that made them tick. 

the younger tributes were the easiest for her to manipulate, and so many had flocked to her, she often told fabricated lies about her childhood and even stooped so low to talk about her sister in ways that weren’t true, but she promised her sister that she would do anything she could to bring herself home. 

when it came to her score, she had gotten a two. she had given them an elaborate dance and threw a couple knives at a board. but her winning personality had gotten her sponsors. 

when they dress her up, they dress her up in black and gold, tiny white stripes lined on the sides. she looked over at elam once. 

“allies? until the bitter end?” he whispered. 

she reached out and shook his head. 

“until the bitter end.” 

and then she remembered, his score was a five. 

BETWEEN.

you're dropped from the sky with an insulated jacket on your back, goggles for the hidden sunrays, and a pack of supplies for an icy terrain with a beautiful background of a palace that looks close to the one called the palace of versailles. from your viewpoint, the water has been frozen over but the gardens are vibrant and beautiful, untouched by the icy terrain and the manicured trees take to the sky. 

the doors open and you’re forced to drop using ropes onto the roof. this is the easy part as you make you swing in the air, you watch as tribute districts one and two are the first to land, but are immediately humbled by the ice you decide a different way to go, there’s a glass roof you prepare your feet for the impact and smash through to be hit with one of the first chandeliers. you curse yourself swinging from it before dropping, breath leaves your lungs but then there’s your fellow tribute from district 6, grabbing you up as district 1 and 2 are looking for the kill. you can’t breathe in these dry conditions but the adrenaline runs through you as you make it out the door to the cornucopia that’s huge, grecian statues surround it as well as the ice. it looks like an oversized fountain. you watch as district 3 and 4 get on the ice and watch as it immediately cracks and they fall in, the ice breaking quickly. you make a run for it, feet hitting the cold water, stepping over the bodies as they try and stand up, their body going into shock from how cold the water is. 

living in six where it snows in a non insulated container shipment taught you that you could handle the cold, you grab the knives that you watched district 1-4 love so much, watching as a child from district 3 who you stepped up looks thirsty for blood, their hands reach out for you and it’s your first kill with the knives and for good measure you kick them back into the ice, it cracks underneath their skull. you don’t look at the blood. 

the second weapon you grab is the whip before making yourself scarce and heading towards the palace.

when pyaari entered the arena changed, what was a bright and inviting palace turned blue, the only real light where the small reflections through the windows otherwise it was shadows and unbearably cold. pyaari had kept the whip close in hand as she moved lightly up the stairs, all those years of stealing had made her stealth, often only moving on her tippy toes as she made her way through the great halls looking for supplies that would be helpful. by nightfall she knows that this will be claimed by the career pack. she had grabbed linen from a bed and folded it as small as she could and then matches. she moves from the next room before she hears a boom and the palace shakes and then a cannon goes off. 

there’s laughter downstairs, and she knows that she needs to get out of here. 

“landmine!” she can hear someone scream and now she knows this place is infested with them. she opens the window and it’s too far to scale down safely and her ribs are already bruised. she hears a creak behind her before she sees another district, she can’t remember which one, but they smile when they see her and she smiles back. she reaches out her hand, they’re one of the youngest here, and that’s all that she can remember. ahead of them is another great hall and there’s intricate tiles stretching far. 

“how about you go ahead of me and i’ll protect you from behind?” she says with a whisper. 

the child is naive, and the worst part is pyaari knows that they are. the child walks, their body hunched and pyaari is steps back, knife in one hand and the whip in the other. they just need to make it across to the other set of winding stairs. 

everything goes find, until another landmine sets off and all there is smoke, another canon and pyaari begins to run. 

she couldn’t even remember their name. 

the first night as she sleeps in one of the trees in the gardens she looks up at the sky at all the tributes lost and falls asleep. 

THE WOLF & THE SHEEPS. 

as the games go on, pyaari tends to attack at night, her sweet voice, her kind and caring nature to the little ones make them trust her, they think it’s the careers killing all of them off one by one, but the easiest way to weed out is by striking first. the hardest deaths would be the ones that caught on too late, who see when she’s about to strike. she uses the whip the most as a way of strangulation before throwing them out into the icy fountains and ponds, by the time morning comes her footprints are small until they’re completely vanished. 

she has yet to see her district partner. but if she knows anything about district six it’s that he’s hiding and pyaari is making herself something out to be a loud spectacle. hand combat in the snow is hard when you can’t feel your fingers, and most of the time food that she does get she ends up dipping her hands in just to bring back some warmth before she eats it. she doesn’t think about her sister, and doesn’t even think about her mother. 

the mutts that come into play near the end of her games are the worst ones. she has to go back to the palace to look for more food and by the time that she gets there in the middle of the night all of the food sources are piled up in piles and there’s a game that needs to be played knowing that the careers have set their own set of landmines. she realizes that she needs to scale the palace, using her light feet and upper body strength she learned from climbing trains.

when she’s in she finds herself in the hall of mirrors and there’s a scent that smells sweet that smells like home, the chamomile, the air and the grain and grass near the train tracks, and the last scent of her mother that lingered on the dresses that she had made. she makes one small move, and the ground shakes the mirrors move too, and then she’s staring at her own reflection with the corpse of her mother behind her and her sister too. their hands are placed on both sides of her shoulders in the mirror but nothing is actually touching her. their faces are beautiful, but frozen, their eyes are dull and there’s nothing there. the blood is frozen on their outfits and then a song starts to play, the one that she didn’t recognize. she takes one step and they follow with her, she watches as the visions of her mother and sister dance behind her, their smile turns creepy, it looks painted on and she starts to run, her hands out in front of her and the melody of the song gets louder and she runs into the glass and it begins to crack and her breathing is getting harder, and she realizes that it’s poison, her lungs feel on fire for being so dry and cold over the last week in these games.

“keep going!” she can hear elam say. “i went through it too!” he says, there’s blood running down his forehead and his arms are out and she can’t tell if it’s an illusion. 

“there’s no landmines. it’s psychological torture. they played the same song for me too. try not to breathe.” he says and she places her nose in her shirt as he hands are reached out, and she starts using the whip to hit the glass, watching as the glass shatters and there’s nothing but a black wall that gets revealed. she can’t bare to see her sister and mother like this anymore and all the glass keeps shattering around her, she trips and she’s crawling now, she can’t hear anything over the song, and when she’s out she takes a deep breath and elam grabs her and slides her away from the room of mirrors into one of the foyers and grabs the water and pours it over her face and she can finally see past all the red. 

the careers who are the only one’s that are left get to them, and pyaari can barely fight but she gets up, her hands cut up but at least she can see. the boy from district one goes in for the attack, pushing her back against the wall and using strangulation on her, she reaches for her knife and misses the first time before she gets successful the second time, a blow to the neck, but it doesn’t stop him. she crawls on top of him, fingers shaking as she grabs the whip and chokes him with it. the district two girl is fighting elam who’s not taking the hits well but holding his own, the cannon goes off and they double team. elam is the one to take the kill. 

another cannon. 

there’s still another career out there. pyaari ransacks the careers of their weapons and grabs the four shoes off of their feet and stands back outside the big palace doors and throws one of the shoes as far as it can go and one landmine goes off before she throws the other three until it all goes up in flames. 

they walk through the fire, a comfort in the icy tundra. 

“what did you mean when you knew the song?” pyaari asks. 

elam is chewing on a tangerine rind, before he bites into one of the slices. 

“it’s a capitol lullaby. my mother used to sing it to me before she died. she was a rebel from the capitol too.” he says with a sad smile. “like yours. she hid out in district six until it caught up to her.” 

like mine.

THE BETRAYER. 

the games end early morning, no sun, a forever blue tinted sky. pyaari doesn’t sleep. but an announcement is made that only three tributes are left. and then the palace goes up in flames, and the arena is slowly is starting to set on fire. the flowers rise up in a way that’s unnatural and pyaari can physically see the poison release into the air. they start to run towards the iced out water that stretches as long as a football field to what looks like a stage that is also made of ice. except there’s only one spot for one victor. 

they see the last career running towards the same goal and he sees that he’s starting to throw knives at them and then the axe. pyaari ducks down and so does elam and she uses her whip and watches as the fire is starting to catch up to them. she hits him once with it, he screams out in pain before she stops and grabs him by the jacket and throws him into the fire and she can hear the screams before she’s running again. the ice starts to crack underneath them and the fire has reached the water, and it quite literally looks like the lake of fire and she can hear the mutts in the water starting to swim after them. it’s their family members in fancy dresses, gold and black, their bodies blue tint, cold and lifeless, the song plays again and elam reaches out to grab pyaari’s hand and he pushes her up to the front, and he’s right behind her, she puts distance between them and the ice keeps cracking beneath until they’re swimming, her teeth chattering and her lungs feeling like they’re concaving. 

there’s only one way to get this to stop. 

“elam!” she screams, and he looks up at her she reaches out her hand for him again and he takes it before she dunks him underneath the water. holding his head down and he can feel her fighting him and she sits and watches as the mutts get closer, and they grab his leg and she tries to kick them off but they don’t care about her. and then, the flailing stops. the mutts deactivate almost the cannon goes off. the fire is gone and the water turns warm and she gets up and elam’s body floats. 

her body is numb as she walks towards the podium, dripped in gold. 

AFTER. 

aavya died one day into pyaari’s games due to her sickness. 

a small mercy, pyaari had thought, not having to see the monster that she had become. 

pyaari became outcasted from her district due to elam’s violent death by her own hands.

the safest place to live was in the victor’s village. 

BASICS.

full    name.    madge  lillian  undersee nicknames    &    titles.    madgie,  magpie  (  by  her  mother  ),  the  mayor's  daughter age.    thirty    -    five   years origin.    district    twelve gender.    cis    woman pronouns.    she    /    her sexual    orientation.    bisexual marital    status.    single occupation.     rebel  medic,  public  servant,  full-time  caregiver  for  her  mother  (  formerly  ) current    location.    district  twelve loyalty.    the  rebellion,  district  thirteen skills.   herbal  and  traditional  medicine,  fine  motor  skills,  diplomacy  &  problem-solving,  animal  handling,  empathy,  gardening,  sewing,  writing,  reading, playing  the  piano

APPEARANCE.

height.   five   feet,   five   inches build.   on  the  thinner  side  due  to  food  rationing  in  the  district,  but  she  is  by  no  means  underweight.  appears  petite  and  rather  delicate.  graceful  and  soft  around  the  edges.  feminine  facial  features  with  deep  dimples  on  either  side  of  her  smile.  slightly  crooked  front  teeth hair.    naturally  golden  blonde  with  some  wavy  texture.  usually  medium  length,  ranging  from  just  above  her  shoulders  to  below  her  collarbones.  often  pulled  back  into  a  ponytail  or  bun  to  keep  it  out  of  her  face skin.   fair  with  rosy  cheeks,  often  sun-burned  in  exposed  areas eyes.    green-hazel  eyes  with  hooded  lids posture.   sits  up  straight  with  her  shoulders  back,  a  habit  imparted  by  her  father  since  she  grew  up  in  the  public  eye.  her  hands  are  usually  clasped  in  her  lap.  her  ankles  are  crossed  when  seated,  taking  up  as  little  physical  space  as  possible voice.  soft-spoken  and  high-pitched,  with  a  musical  cadence faceclaim.    willa  fitzgerald

PERSONALITY.

mbti.    infp,  the  idealist enneagram.    2w1,  the  companion moral    alignment.    neutral  good vice.    envy virtue.    charity temperament.    melancholic-phlegmatic positive    traits.    reliable,  kind-hearted,  loyal,  observant,  intuitive,  humble,  empathetic,  affable,  articulate,  diplomatic neutral    traits.    idealistic,  cautious,  sensitive,  optimistic,  sentimental,  modest,  sincere,  imaginative,  well-read negative    traits.    untrusting,  guarded,  passive,  detached,  repressed,  subdued,  insecure,  isolated  similar   characters.   eleanor  vance,  dolores  abernathy,  luke  skywalker,  frodo  baggins

BACKSTORY.

madge  is  the  only  daughter  of  mayor  oskar  undersee  and  merrilee  donner.  as  a  member  of  twelve's  merchant  class,  she  was  largely  free  from  the  poverty  and  suffering  of  the  seam.  yet,  she  never  took  her  privilege  for  granted,  and  her  father  instilled  within  her  a  heart  for  service.  however,  solidarity  between  the  seam  and  the  merchants  was  frowned  upon  at  best  and  illegal  at  worst.  mayor  undersee  had  to  be  creative  in  the  ways  he  supported  his  community;  this  often  looked  like  buying  goods  from  the  local  hunters,  hiring  workers  from  the  seam  to  do  jobs  like  clotheswashing  or  dressmaking,  and  leaving  baked  goods  at  school  for  the  local  children. despite  not  experiencing  it  herself,  madge  was  well-acquainted  with  the  suffering  and  hardship  in  the  district  through  her  father's  duties  as  mayor.  for  instance,  madge  and  her  mother  were  expected  to  attend  the  ceremonies  honoring  coal  miners  who  were  killed  in  accidents.  she's  stood  across  from  hundreds  of  weeping  children  in  the  justice  building,  feeling  powerless  as  they  mourn  the  loss  of  their  loved  one.  she  held  her  parents  a  little  closer  those  nights,  grateful  for  their  lives  and  wondering  why  she  was  the  lucky  one.

as  madge  grew  older,  her  mother  grew  sicker.  mrs.  undersee  was  never  quite  the  same  after  losing  her  twin  sister  in  the  second  quarter  quell,  suffering  from  debilitating  headaches  and  chronic  pain.  although  the  undersees  were  privileged,  they  couldn't  afford  the  expensive  medicine  from  the  capitol  to  treat  her  properly.  mrs.  undersee  relied  on  morphling,  a  heavily  sedating  and  addictive  opioid,  to  treat  her  symptoms.  the  drug  was  far  from  ideal  and  came  with  a  myriad  of  side  effects,  but  it  was  the  only  medication  they  could  afford  that  gave  her  relief.  madge  found  herself  in  a  caretaking  role  for  her  mother,  often  bringing  food  and  medicine  to  her  bedside  and  taking  over  her  duties  when  she  was  too  ill  to  get  out  of  bed.

when  the  74th  games  rolled  around,  madge  was  shocked  to  see  someone  she  considered  a  friend  was  reaped.  familiar  faces  had  entered  the  games  before,  but  this  was  the  first  time  she  truly  understood  a  sliver  of  the  pain  her  mother  felt  24  years  prior.  the  memory  of  the  mockingjay  pin  came  suddenly;  she  hadn't  thought  about  it  in  years,  but  it's  been  on  her  mother's  nightstand  for  as  long  as  she  could  remember.  the  minute  the  reaping  ended,  she  sprinted  home  and  took  the  pin  without  asking  her  mom.  best  case  scenario,  katniss  wins  and  it  becomes  a  good  luck  charm  instead  of  an  omen  of  death.  perhaps  katniss  could  call  upon  the  symbolism  of  the  mockingjay  for  hope  in  the  arena.  worst  case  scenario,  it  is  returned  to  the  everdeen  family  and  they  can  sell  it  for  some  spare  money.  she  doubted  her  mother  would  miss  it  anyway,  as  looking  at  it  caused  her  too  much  pain.  maybe  getting  it  out  of  the  house  would  be  a  good  thing. mrs.  undersee  only  discovered  the  pin  was  gone  when  it  showed  up  on  katniss's  arena  uniform.  she  knew  her  daughter's  mischievous  habits  and  didn't  even  need  to  ask  madge  to  know  she  was  behind  this.  madge  was  torn  between  being  angry  at  herself  for  causing  her  mother's  heartbreak  and  pride  that  her  gift  seemed  to  have  a  positive  effect  on  katniss.  she  assumed  that  her  mother  got  over  her  heartbreak  eventually,  but  she  never  asked  her  about  it  directly.

as  an  adult,  madge  learned  to  balance  her  responsibility  to  her  father,  her  mother,  and  her  district.  she  was  both  a  full-time  caregiver  for  her  mother  and  her  father's  assistant.  she  slowly  lost  touch  with  the  things  she  loved,  like  playing  piano  and  spending  time  in  the  merchant  district.  when  madge  was  thirty-one  years  old,  her  mother  died  due  to  complications  of  her  morphling  dependence.  madge  suddenly  found  herself  with  loads  of  free  time  and  a  hole  where  her  identity  was  supposed  to  be. she  sought  out  one  of  the  only  faces  that  stayed  familiar  over  the  years:  mrs.  asterid  everdeen.  madge  turned  to  the  healer  when  her  mother  experienced  withdrawal  symptoms  or  breakthrough  headaches,  paying  her  handsomely  for  her  services.  caring  for  others  was  in  madge's  blood  now,  and  she  wanted  to  use  her  knowledge  and  skills  to  serve  others.  thus,  she  began  training  as  a  healer  and  a  medic  alongside  asterid  and  prim.  her  position  as  the  mayor's  daughter  made  her  a  valuable  ally  for  the  rebellion,  a  cause  for  which  she  would  gladly  give  her  life.

; bio

name: maddox, fawn

nickname(s): n/a

date of birth: october 10th, year 57

zodiac: libra

sexual orientation: bisexual

relationship status: single

past partner(s): tbd

home: victors village, district 10

profession: mentor, farmer

: history

you grow up beneath the enormous sky of district 10, where mornings begin with the bawl of cattle and end with the quiet hum of insects in the grass. your childhood is unexpectedly tender; you learn gentleness before anything else. you are the kid who waits for the injured calf to stand, who hums softly while your mother stitches up torn skin with practiced hands. you’re quiet, but not because you have nothing to say. you’re quiet because you’re listening - to people, to animals, to the earth itself. your family jokes that you were born with a soft heart, but they never mean it as a weakness. they mean it as a blessing.

your younger sister follows you everywhere. she clings to you with an unwavering trust, and you learn firmness because of her: to set boundaries, to speak calmly, to hold steady even when frightened. you discover you can be both gentle and strong, both tender and immovable, because that’s the only way to keep her safe in a world with teeth. when you come to understand yourself as non-binary, it is your sister who accepts you without hesitation. she tilts her head, nods once, and asks if she should correct people for you. that unconditional love becomes a small fire in your chest that never goes out.

when the reaping chooses you at sixteen, the world seems to crack open. your sister’s breath hitches and you swear you can hear it all the way over to where you stand. you want to tell her it’ll be okay, but the words get stuck somewhere behind your ribs. so you step forward in silence, your heart punching at your sternum, your breath thin, but your spine straight. you know she’s watching. you know she’ll remember this moment for the rest of her life. so you give her the only gift you can: steadiness. you walk with your chin up, even though you feel like collapsing.

the capitol overwhelms you. glittering lights, invasive eyes, hands constantly touching you without asking. you shrink inward, becoming even softer-spoken, but the capitol misinterprets your quiet as mystique. they call you fascinating. poised. their favorite contradiction: a victorling who looks breakable but stands like carved stone. you hate the attention, but enduring it becomes part of your survival. every polite nod, every carefully measured smile, buys your sister and parents another day of safety. you learn to breathe through the sweetness of capitol perfume and sleep through the distant throb of endless parties.

then comes the arena of the 73rd hunger games, a monstrous parody of joy: a sprawling abandoned water park, echoes carrying down long hallways, tiles slick with condensation. the air smells faintly of metal and chlorine. the capitol wants it to be whimsical ( colorful slides, fake murals of smiling cartoon animals ) but everything is edged with danger. the slides are lined with razor filaments, the pools have inconsistent depths, and the water filtration systems rumble like distant growls in the night.

you learn quickly that noise is your enemy. your footsteps echo too loudly. your breath bounces down the corridors. so you move like a shadow. you use the maintenance corridors to stay unseen. you learn the rhythm of the pumps and when the filtration system changes pressure. it masks your movements.

your first kill is an accident. a boy from district 3 slips on wet tile near you; he hits his head so hard the crack echoes. you put pressure on the wound, whispering i’m sorry over and over even though you know it won’t change anything. when he stops breathing, you sit with him until you hear voices approaching. then you force yourself to leave. the capitol later edits the footage to make it look intentional. they call you efficient. you feel sick.

your second kill comes on day four. a girl from district 4 corners you near the wave pool; she’s strong, fast, and desperate. she charges with a sharpened length of pool pole. you don’t think; you react. you duck, push her toward the edge, and she slips on the tile. her head goes under the churning waves of the malfunctioning machine. you try to reach her, but the water pulls her down. when the cannon fires, you’re shaking too hard to stand.

the arena keeps shifting. slides collapse, walls flood, corridors fog with steam until it burns your throat. on day six, the gamemakers reroute water through a massive slide, forcing tributes into a trap where the razors gleam like spiderwebs. you avoid it only because you’d spent the morning mapping the pressure changes in the pipes.

your final kill is the most deliberate, and it scars you the deepest. the last tribute left ( an older boy from district 7 ) stalks you for hours, leaving footprints where the water has evaporated. when he attacks near the lockers, the fight is clumsy, wet, terrifying. you disarm him only because he slips, and you pin him with shaking hands. you tell him to yield, to stop, to let you walk away. but he lunges one final time, forcing your hand. when he dies, you whisper another apology into the hollow echo of the corridor.

when you win, it’s not triumph you feel. it’s the suffocating weight of survival.

after the games, the capitol adores you even more. they call your quiet ethereal. they call your steadiness beautifully controlled. they say your withdrawn nature is what makes you captivating. they never ask why you’re quiet. they don’t want the truth, that you’re haunted by echoes and rippling water, that every still pond looks like a grave.

you mentor district 10’s tributes with tenderness and firmness in equal measure. you teach them how to breathe through fear, how to move softly, how to listen. you hold their hands before the reaping and straighten their shoulders before interviews. every loss carves something out of you, but you never let them see that. you want their final memories ( if the worst happens ) to be of someone steady. someone who cared.

your family grows. your sister has two small children with bright eyes and wild hair, and they cling to you the way she once did. they become your anchor, and your chains. you stay in the capitol’s good graces because you have to. you smile, you bow, you behave, because the consequences of rebellion are not yours alone to bear. but each rebel victory, each whispered rumor, each spark of hope shifts something inside you. the idea of defecting begins to bloom in your chest, fragile but persistent.

now, in year 92, president snow announces his monstrous birthday celebration: the tributes this year will be chosen from the pool of existing victors. the room spins. you feel your stomach drop as memories of chlorine and blood rise like a tide. you keep your face composed ( your same calm mask ) but inside, every alarm in your body is screaming.

(   asivak koostachin   ,   demi man   ,   he / they   )    did you see them ?!   that was SIKU MASKWA, the winner of the 77ND hunger games. they’re back for the 92nd games as a MENTOR, and you know they’re one of my favourites!  the THIRTY ONE year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 5 when they won their games with MIND GAMES & KNIVES.  they’re known all over panem for being so CREATIVE despite being so IMPULSIVE. they remind me of to feel yourself unspooling so swiftly you cannot stop yourself, reliant on everyone around him whilst keeping the world at arm's length, fresh air erupting in a plume upon early morning lips,  and when i think of them, i think of STARBURSTER by fontaines dc  .  

𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘴

full name : siku maskwa age : thirty  one gender / pronouns : demi  man he  /  they orientation : bisexual  occupation : mentor  , district  five 

𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭

eye  colour  :  brown hair  colour  :  brown build  :  slim,  muscular height  :  6′2″ piercings  :  none tattoos  :  none distinctive  features  :  long, soft hair and lisp face  claim  :  asivak koostachin  

𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

; bio

name: faraday, camden

nickname(s): cam

date of birth: september 5th, 67th year

zodiac: virgo

sexual orientation: lesbian

relationship status: single

past partner(s): tbd

home: the victors' village, district 6

profession: mentor, victor, tribute

; history

OVERTURE

you grow up in the hum and clatter of the district 6 train station, the air always thick with steel dust and old diesel. your father, elias faraday, works the early shift; tightening bolts, checking gauges, shouting over engines with a voice that’s been ground down to gravel. you’re five the first time you trail after him, your boots too big and your hands stuffed in the pockets of a coat that used to belong to your older sister. you don’t understand any of the mechanics yet, but you understand rhythm: the clack of wheels, the hiss of brakes, the low whistle that sings before departure. so you start singing too. silly little songs about boxcars and oil cans, or lullabies about staying on the tracks when everything else comes loose. the engineers call you “the bird.”

your mother, mairin, works night shifts at the medical depot, patching up overdoses and sleep-sick rail operators. you barely see her except at dawn, when she falls asleep sitting up at the kitchen table with a half-burned cigarette still between her fingers. your siblings ( owen, age thirteen, and baby delia, born when you were seven ) keep to their own corners of the house: owen with his drawings of trains that will never be built, delia with her toy instruments and wide, silent eyes that always watch you. but it’s rowan who sees you, really sees you - your best friend since you both stumbled into school on the same rainy day, soaked to the bone, late and loud. you and rowan are inseparable from that moment on. they teach you how to throw a punch, you teach them how to harmonize. you both talk big about getting out of the district, about riding the rails forever.

when you’re twelve, you start working at the station full-time. no more tagging along. you wear the uniform now, carry the grease under your nails like a badge. but you never stop singing. even when your voice starts to change, even when the older workers roll their eyes, even when the capitol inspectors walk past with their cold stares. you sing softly sometimes, just under your breath, songs no one else knows. they’re yours.

and then one july morning, the reaping comes. you and rowan are side by side in the square, fingers laced. when the name is called ( rowan leroy ) you don’t even think. your hand goes up before your heart catches up. your voice is steady when you say “i volunteer,” but inside, everything breaks like glass. you don’t look at rowan when the peacekeepers lead you to the stage. you’re afraid you’ll sing.

ENSEMBLE

the capitol is too bright. too polished. everything smells like perfume and chemicals - sweet, cold, wrong. the walls gleam, but the air feels sterile, like it’s never touched by weather or time. the windows don’t open. you try anyway. every day.

your room in the tribute tower is luxurious in the way a mausoleum is. wide, spotless, lined with velvet and chrome. there’s a bed the size of your whole house, a glass shower that fogs like mist over the river back home. the silence is deafening. there’s no sound of trains here. just your breathing, the occasional hum of the vents, and the songs you sing to yourself when you can’t sleep.

your prep team descends like buzzards, clucking and scrubbing and waxing and tweaking. one of them calls you “endearingly rough,” and you almost bite her. you only stop when you see your reflection: half-stripped, furious, afraid. you look like a cornered animal. the Capitol will eat that up. you know it.

your stylist, sera, is different. she watches you like she’s waiting for the truth, not the performance. she doesn’t try to tame you. she doesn’t ask you to smile. for the parade, she dresses you in black and copper: sleek metal plates that shimmer like train tracks in the heat, soot-blown silk trailing behind you like steam. you look like a machine made to survive. when you step into the chariot and the crowd roars, you keep your expression neutral. a disbeliefing grin just twitching at the corner of your mouth. the cameras eat it alive.

in training, the others size you up like meat. you keep your head down. focus on survival skills: knots, shelter, plant ID. you practice with rope more than any weapon. you pull dummies to the ground again and again, until the trainers tell you to stop. the careers laugh behind your back. one girl ( calla, from district 2 ) tosses a coil of rope at your feet and says, “tie me up, district six.” you smile without blinking. you’re not thinking about rope then. you’re thinking about how her neck is almost the same size as the training post.

you don’t spend time with halden ( your district partner ) but there’s a nod between you, a quiet alliance without words.

your interview is chaos behind the curtain. your prep team wants softness. wants tears. but you walk out in rust-colored velvet, hair slicked back, face unreadable. you tell caesar flickerman that you used to sing to the engines back home, that the rhythm of machines was your first lullaby. the audience leans in. “and now?” he asks. you shrug. “now i sing to myself, to remember who i am.” when he asks what makes you special, you grin wide and say, “i don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

they eat it up. they love you. or maybe they love the idea of you.

and then it’s time.

the morning of the Games, your room is cleaned spotless. your prep team won’t look you in the eye. sera hugs you longer than she should. there’s a breakfast tray you don’t touch. the silence is a weight pressing into your throat. you pace. you hum a little. an old tune, one you made up when you were seven, waiting for your dad at the station.

the hovertrain hums below. the metal disc waits.

your song cuts off mid-note.

DUET

the arena begins in the sky.

a towering pirate ship creaks through the clouds, its sails snapping in invisible wind, floating not on water but on air. it groans like something alive. you’re dangling from one of its crossbeams - one ankle bound in thick rope, hanging upside down with twenty-three others like a grotesque wind chime. the deck spins beneath you. the clouds swirl below like a second sky, waiting to swallow whoever falls.

your blood is rushing to your head. your vision flickers. the countdown booms through the clouds, distant and metallic, like thunder breaking against steel.

three. two. one.

you move fast. not clever, not lucky, just trained by years of slipping through station gaps, of untying tangled cable with fast, impatient fingers. you reach up, teeth gritted, and claw at the knot. one tug. twist. release.

you drop.

your shoulder smashes into the deck. you roll hard, biting your tongue to keep from crying out. someone screams behind you ( a boy from district 9, you think ) but you don’t stop. you lunge for what you can grab: a short rope. a rusted fishhook. a water flask with a cracked cap. that’s all. it’s enough.

you disappear into the ship’s lower levels while the bloodbath tears the sky above you apart.

you stay there, hidden between barrels and rusted piping, while the chaos burns overhead. the air down here is hot and sour. you wrap the rope around your wrist like a promise and wait. you don’t sleep. you don’t dare. you hum under your breath to keep from unraveling. just old songs. ones you wrote when you were small. the kind you only sang to the engines.

within a day, the ship starts to die. the sails sag. the wind peters out to nothing. the whole thing groans once, a long, terrible sound, and crashes into something solid. not water. not sky. sand.

when you crawl out, you find yourself on the edge of a lush island: thick jungle, buzzing heat, and at its center, a jagged mountain that cuts the clouds. you make for the trees.

you don’t kill anyone. but you don’t come through untouched.

a girl from district 10 catches you off guard and cracks your jaw with a rock. you shove her down a ravine, but she lives. a boy from district 3 slashes your leg in the dark; you leave him concussed with a broken stick. there are mutts too, things with too many limbs and wet, yellow eyes. one nearly takes your hand. another tears your calf. you fight them off. sometimes you win. sometimes you run.

your body becomes a map of bruises, welts, and blood. your breath whistles through a cracked rib. you hold your rope like a lifeline and count the cannon blasts at night.

until there are two of you.

you, and jason - district 2’s golden boy. all steel and arrogance and trained precision. you’ve watched him circle the others like a wolf. he’s everything the Capitol adores. you wonder if he’s already rehearsed his victory speech.

then the voice echoes from the sky:

“only the bravest of the brave may claim the crown. ascend the mountain. jump.”

you both climb.

the mountain is cruel. slick with moss, sharp with stone. your palms split open. your feet slip. halfway up, you see your own blood on the rocks behind you and wonder if it’s already over. but you keep going.

at the peak, jason is waiting. breathing hard, shirt torn, eyes sharp.

“after you,” he says, smirking.

you don’t answer. you run.

you leap.

you hear his body beside you, slicing through the air. he grabs you mid-fall, trying to pull you down, maybe to steady himself. doesn’t matter.

you’ve still got the rope. you’ve always had the rope.

you loop it around his neck. twist the stick. pull.

he kicks once. twice. then nothing.

you hit the water screaming, but it isn’t fear. it’s release. it’s the final note.

ENCORE

the aftermath isn’t glory. it’s quiet.

when the hovercraft pulls you from the sea, you don’t speak. when they wrap you in warm blankets and offer champagne and gold-threaded robes, you don’t lift your hands. someone brushes the wet hair from your face and says, “smile, camden. you did it.”

but you don’t feel like you did anything except survive.

and not even all of you made it out.

they crown you with laurel leaves dipped in molten bronze and say you’re the pride of district 6, the voice of a new generation. they replay the fall a hundred times on capitol screens, slowed down, turned into ballet. your hands around jason’s throat become symbolic. your scream becomes theatrical.

you become something you don’t recognize.

your victor talent is singing. of course it is.

sera, your stylist, says it was obvious. “that voice of yours, it’s pure gold.” the capitol eats it up. they hand you a stage and a piano and tell you to sing songs about triumph, about hope, about glory.

you do.

you keep your voice even and your face still.

you wear silk and velvet and wipe the blood off your throat with glitter.

but after every performance, when the lights go down, you hide in dressing rooms and bite your tongue until you taste iron. you do everything in your power not to hate it. because the truth is, singing is the only part of you that didn’t kill someone. it’s the only piece left.

you go home to a victor’s mansion. everything’s quiet there. too clean. too wide. the house they give you is polished and empty. you miss the grime of the station, the clatter of trains. your father barely speaks. your mother cries in the kitchen when she thinks you’re asleep. delia doesn’t look at you the same. owen’s drawings are darker now.

rowan is gone.

everything is quieter, but nothing is softer.

months pass. then a year. then two.

and then, one night, a woman you don’t know sits down next to you at a post-performance banquet in the capitol. she smiles politely, sips her wine, and whispers something so simple:

“you’re not the only one who hates what they’ve done to us.”

it starts small. fragments of conversations. names passed between strangers. books that aren’t in capitol archives. songs that end in different chords.

the rebellion isn’t dead. it’s buried. it’s breathing.

and you say yes.

you work carefully. behind closed doors. on trains that take you between districts. songs with double meanings. a shipment that “goes missing.” you use your Capitol spotlight to distract, to mislead, to protect. no one suspects the bratty girl from 6 is capable of strategy. you let them think that. you let them underestimate you.

but nothing is safe forever.

the 92nd Hunger Games approaches. your name isn’t in the reaping pool. you’re a victor. you’re supposed to be immune. until you're not. until coriolanus snow considers your death his very personal birthday present.

they draw your name anyway.

you’re twenty-five. still breathing. still singing. still fighting.

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: roland dearborn nicknames: tba- he's not really a nickname guy but i'm totally open to people coming up with creative nicknames!! age: forty-eight birthday: may 7th zodiac: taurus district: ten gender: cis male pronouns: he / him orientation: bisexual profession: ranch hand, tribute, ranch supervisor, mentor

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: pedro pascal hair color: brown with the start of salt and pepper streaks eye color: brown height: 5'11" scars: 

RELATIONSHIPS

father: william dearborn ( deceased ) mother: gabrielle dearborn ( deceased ) siblings: none extended family: none

TRIBUTE DETAILS

reaped/volunteered: reaped reaped age: 17 victor of the: 61st hunger games weapon of choice: machete arena: a multi-tiered jungle where the tributes were launched on the third tier with a crashed airship, tangled in enormous branches served as the cornucopia. think mcdonald's playhouse style jungle. kill count: six allegedly-- four direct token: braided leather necklace with a rook's skull

EXTRA

mbti: istj-t ( the logistician ) temperament: phlegmatic   moral alignment: true neutral primary vice: pride primary virtue: diligence element: earth

BACKSTORY

TW: animal death ( in relation to the livestock industry ), parent death, general hunger games violence, suicide/suicidal thoughts/ideations

you don't realize how blessed your childhood was-- in comparison. your father was mayor and one of the last 'landowners' in the district, with 100 acres of wild, open country leased from the capitol. once upon another life, he would've been called a cattle baron; damned if he didn't do everything he could to take care of his barony. when you're a child, your parents are god and when you're small, there is not a better example of good than your parents. your life is comfortable in a time when so many aren't but your father extends that comfort as much as he can. as mayor of the district, he stood as a stalwart advocate for his people, always toeing the line but never doing anything outright to warrant his execution-- knowing if president snow did call for his removal ( or worse ) there would be an outcry in district ten that would result in a much bigger problem for the capitol. ( it's no wonder things unfold the way they did-- but you're getting ahead of yourself. )

you thank fate that you weren't born in an urban district-- because while the hand of the capitol inched further and further to shadow that happy childhood with each passing year, you were blessed with space to grow and roam. you were in a saddle from the time you could walk and you grew up around punchy ranch hands who taught you more than any schoolhouse ever could. it was their hands that guided yours to bring a calf into this world and taught you how to dispatch those meant for slaughter. they showed you the native flora and fauna of your district, showing you what plants could soothe and heal; they taught you how to build a cook fire and how to build a shelter. at the time, you thought you were learning what all young people needed to know- why else would they gather you and your friends, taking time out of their days to patiently guide your hands and answer hundreds of questions? ( it's only when you're running for your life do you realize fully all of it was to prepare you-- how these men and women in your life had watched peers, friends, family die year after year for the games and they wanted you and your friends to have a fighting chance-- but you're not there yet, we're building up to it. )

the first person you lose to the games is alain. you're thirteen, standing at the reaping with the hot july sun beating down on you, standing between your best friends since infancy- alain and bert- when his name is called. alain leaves your side and it almost feels like the remainder of your childhood is ripped away with his leaving. he dies in the bloodbath; as much as you loved him ( and you did-- he was gentle and soft-spoken and precocious compared to wild bert, honest to a fault, genuine and empathetic-- ), you're not surprised he's gone as quickly as he is. bert becomes angry when alain returns to district ten in a pine box; you go quiet. not that you were ever particularly verbose- a fact that bert would brow beat you with now that alain is gone- but the absence of his gentleness leaves only bert's sharpness to crash against your stone. ( you smooth parts of his sharpness and he carves a place in your heart no one else could ever occupy. ) you both cling to each other the next year and the years after. ( his hand almost breaks yours when they read your name-- that's always a painful memory to revisit... )

when you're fifteen a new head peacekeeper is assigned to district ten. you're with your father and mother when he departs the train-- your father's hand meeting his with a firm shake and steely eyes. a gaze you have learned over the years is an unspoken warning; you're in my district. at first, it seems as if general marten understands the assignment; nothing drastic changes. you aren't paying attention to the small things that start to seep through the district- how streets that maybe saw one or two patrols a day started to have a peacekeeper on every corner, how they started walking in pairs more more, how they began to push at the boundaries and wills of the district. your father is called to the capitol- discussing district production and demands ( the things his father swore he would teach him one day but one day never came ) - but the calls come more and more frequent and it feels like that hand from the capitol stretches further and further to cover the district.

you're a young man trying to fill in your father's boots while he's away-- life in the district continues, cows ( and people ) have to be fed. you're out from the moment the sun rises until it starts to sink under the horizon, so busy trying to take care of your father's house that you don't notice the snake that's sneaked in. you're not sure why you were looking for your mother but you follow the smell of magnolia to her bedroom, opening the door to what used to be a sanctuary in your childhood to the clipped zip of a peacekeeper uniform. marten slips past you and part of you wants to kill him-- part of you isn't wholly sure you wouldn't have if you had the tools to ensure that swift departure. you never speak of it to your mother and her shame is palpable. ( your cold fury and her shame drives a wedge between the two of you that is never bridged. ) you wait for your father to return to the district- ready for him to take the mantle of responsibility from your shoulders and to deal with the varmint that has taken up residence in his bed; he doesn't return, not until you're thousands of miles away in the capitol. ( you can't think about the last time you saw him; some memories are best left buried. )

you're seventeen and it's reaping day-- you're seventeen and your name is called. ( sometimes you can still feel the echo of how your hand had ached in bert's as he clung to you, brown eyes filled with tears mirroring your own as you wrench away from him. ) from the stage, you can see your mother weeping, held by the men and women who stare at you with love ( and perhaps, cautious hope ); from the stage you can see the smug expression of marten, his peacekeeper's visor casting an dark shadow across his face. you'd never be able to prove it, but in your heart that injustice takes root. you know he made this possible-- you know that he's sending you off to your death.

they come to see you before you leave- your mother, your mentors and bert. your mother tries to hold your hands, gripping calloused palms and reminding you that she loves you- she loves you more than life itself, roland ( won't you please just look at her? )- pressing a kiss to your forehead, the space between your eyes. you remember each hand that shook yours or arms that enveloped you in brief reminders of love; you don't remember when the room cleared and it was just you and bert. he cries openly- you've never shamed him for his tears, he's always felt things more sharply than you- rough palms holding your face as his forehead presses against yours ( you linger in this memory even though you hate to remember it-- ). he takes the braided leather necklace that hangs around his neck, the strand of leather looping between the eye-holes of a rook skull and places it over your neck. his lookout- it's what he called it when he looped the braid around his saddle horn, the brilliant bone-white skull bouncing as they rode; maybe you'll need a lookout in the arena-- or the capitol.

it's the capitol that you don't know how to navigate- the moment the train pulls into the station, you feel closed in. you try hard to keep your distance from your district partner despite there being more than a few threads that connect you and tug. you've known her since childhood- you've known her as a woman. she reaches for your hand on the train and you pull away but when they load you onto the chariots for the parade, a cartoonish wide brimmed hat placed on your head that covers the look of alarm that crosses your expression when she almost flies back at the sudden movement of the horses, your hand immediately bracing the small of hers in a practiced movement. a movement caught by cameras and your escort gushes about the moment caught on camera- your hand steadying her as you fly down the avenue, her face turning to look at you with that doe-ish expression of hers, your face shadowed by the hat-- and how the capitol will eat you up. ( and they do-- they chew you up and spit you out, chew you up and spit you out, chew you-- ) you say nothing, even when she calls out to you in that bell-tone, her small foot stamping at your bullheadedness, your god-damned stubborn ass as you close the door.

your cold shoulder apparently isn't cold enough because she sticks to your side like glue in the training room, mimicking every movement you take- if you pick up a weapon, her hand curls around it's equal; if you wander towards stations with survival skills- locating freshwater, setting up shelter, starting a fire- she is crouched beside you, those dark eyes staring intently at your temple. you lose your patience with her only when you both return to the tenth floor quarters, your voice never raising but each word razor sharp. you say whatever you have to ( you wish you hadn't said most of it by half ) and even when those large doe eyes fill with tears and she screams at you not to leave her to die alone, you stand stony-faced, unmovable. you both know the games too well; susan had also loved alain. she wants comfort; you want to go home. your arms ache to take her in them, to smooth her hair with kisses and whisper sweet nothings to take away the reality-- you think at the time it would be crueler if you did. ( in hindsight, you were only cruel to both of you. )

your stylists- to their credit- paint a beautiful picture of the two of you for the interview: a man in black and a prairie angel. susan goes first ( ladies first ) and you'd never wished to be impolite more in your life when she drags those threads between you under the dazzling glow of stage lights. she tells them about laying under a blanket stars, deliveries of handfuls of wildflowers, dancing under festival lantern light-- she tells them about the love. first love- an ache everyone in the audience can relate to. ( she doesn't tell them how it ended; how as much love there was between you, there was maturing to be done-- right person, wrong time-- ) and when your name is called and you step out into the blinding lights, you know what she's done: you're cornered. you'll have to be there when she dies.

your team scolds you for being, well, you during your interview. susan had painted this tragic picture of first love- of doomed love- and you had remained tight lipped and stone-faced in front of caesar, not playing into the questions that poked and prodded at the life you never wanted to share with the capitol. susan asks if she can stay with you the night before the launch and even though you're furious with her for dragging your life under those lights, even though you know that you're setting yourself up for heartache ( oh, you can't even begin to imagine the heartache you're in for-- ) you let her curl against your chest. in another life and another time, you would've been grateful to have her heart beating against your ribcage again. right now, you can hardly sleep for fear of missing a single beat. she reaches for your hand after they inject your tracker and you don't fight it this time, letting her soft fingers slip between the grooves of your rough ones, only letting go when they pull her away.

a peacekeeper in your launch room takes the rook's skull in his fist and your body tenses-- and when that fist clenches and the frail bird bones shatter in his fist, other white gloved hands hold you back from lashing forward. words fall from their lips but you don't hear them, all you can see is red and you're thrown in the tube, watching those bone fragments fall to the ground, crushed further to dust under that boot before darkness takes your vision. the platform rises and you're greeted with a swath of green as far as your eye can see, save for the creaking and torn wreckage directly in front of you. you can hardly see around it for how it seems to split the tributes-- you can't see susan. it doesn't matter once the horn sounds and your feet fly from the podium, barely touching the greenery underneath you. your gaze is focused on the pack directly in front of you and your hand grabs it quickly when a blade comes down the back of your curled knuckles.

you're lucky that blade is wielded by arms that aren't strong enough to cleave through bone and it's without thinking that you throw your elbow back, slamming into his chest and as he goes down, it's almost as if the ground cushions him for a moment before it sinks and he falls screaming. over the screaming, over the clash of weapons, you hear a crack and then another and another-- you don't spare much time to wonder what happened. when you grab the machete that had bit into your last three knuckles on your right hand, your fingers brush against that greenery and it's the texture of leaves. the career girl from four charges at you and without thinking, you roll towards that place that had swallowed your attacker-- and you fall deeper into the arena.

your left hand is your saving grace- the right one bleeding and those last three fingers going numb as you cling to that weapon- because it catches a branch before you crash to the thick vegetation below you. the fighting continues on above you but as you hang, you see more bodies falling through those holes in the canopy either silenced by the violence above or screaming before they slam against branches and they hit the unforgiving ground. you see others who have figured out the same as you, scared faces gripping tree trunks for dear life-- trying to figure out which was safer: up or down. it would only be a matter of time before the fight would be brought to this next level and you slowly- painfully- choose to move. pressing your body against the trunk, you weave in and out of branches, the throb in your hand becoming almost nauseating as you force those useless finger to grip to keep from falling.

it's dark under the shadow of the leaves that cover the sky but it's impossibly dark by the time you reach the fern covered floor. you're exhausted but you're not stopping until you find water. you tear the sleeve from your arm and wrap your hand, cradling it against your chest and grip that machete in your left hand- a hand not used to handling anything, much less a weapon necessary for your survival- venturing forward into that oppressive dark. you don't find water that first night-- you don't find water until the third morning. your hand is red and infected and your mind is fuzzy with the fever and when you fall into the spring, you could care less if you died then and there. ( you almost do. )

his name is eddie from district 6- another seventeen year old with acne and a chip on his shoulder- who finds you passed out next to the spring. her name is susanna from district 8- an eighteen year old with a foot turned in so dramatically that it's amazing she wasn't taken out in the bloodbath- and she uses medicine gifted to her by sponsors on the infection, wrapping your hand in strips from the blanket tucked inside her pack. his name is jake- a thirteen year old from twelve who watches you with wide eyes that have seen more life than you have- and he helps eddie carry you to the cave the three of them have tucked themselves inside. you wake up two days later to their faces and for a moment, you forget where you are. when it comes rushing back and you reach for that machete with a hand that no longer beats with your heart but still throbs and shoots pain up your arm when you try to grip it, their voices fall over each other in pleas to listen-- to ally with them. you have a higher tribute score- they saw you in the training center, broad shoulders and sure hands- they see some sort of salvation in you that you want to run from.

they tell you that there's only ten left in the area- the four of you, the three careers, the boy and girl from seven, and susan. they tell you there's strength in numbers; they tell you they'll help you find susan. the five of you could take care of the five of them; once the careers and the two from seven ( who had grown up in trees the way you had out in the prairie ) were gone, they would go their separate ways. at least then they would have a fighting chance. maybe it's the faded sickness, maybe it's the hope that susan is still alive in the arena, maybe it's the earnest way that susanna and jake look at you that convinces you to agree. you move slow through the arena- eddie carrying susanna on his back for the majority of the journey, her arms looped around his neck and her knees tucked in the crooks of his elbows. jake stays almost constant at your elbow and there's times when his chatter grates on your nerves but you wonder if he's trying to get out everything he could possibly want to say before he can't speak anymore-- and that stays your tongue.

you lose susanna to a snake that strikes as eddie sets her down in a blanket of thick ferns. he turns his back before he hears her gasp in pain, turning back in time to crush the head of the snake under his boot but not in time to keep those fangs from sinking into the delicate skin of her ankle. you lather on the medicine that had pulled the infection from your body to no avail. it's a slow poison that mottles the skin of her leg as it travels and she chokes and shakes for hours. eddie grips her hand and jake stands behind him with understanding in his expression when your eyes meet-- it's cruel to make her suffer. eddie tries to fight you- tears and snot flying as his hands shove at you, trying to cover as much of her with himself as he can- and it's jake's voice- that chatter quieted to a solemn whisper- that pulls the fight from him. they bear witness as you look into her eyes that have turned red with the blood pooling in them- seeing that begging in them- before you sink eddie's knife into her chest and susanna goes still.

her cannon booms and when you turn back, eddie is gone. his face shows in the sky after susanna's that night and you're not sure how he goes but your heart aches at the loss of both of them. jake stays with you-- you feel responsible for him now that eddie and susanna are both gone. you've lost track of time between the launch and now but susan's face still hasn't appeared in the sky. you decide to leave the jungle floor after the rumble in your stomach - and scarce choice for hunting- forces you back towards the cornucopia. jake follows behind you until he can't, the branch above out his arms reach. you press your belly against the limb and hold out your left hand for him to grab ( your right grip will never be the same ). his feet leave the branch, hand outstretched to grab hold of yours and you feel his smaller hand grip your wrist for a split second before the sweat that gathered on both of your skin has your hands slipping, jake falling towards the ground with his eyes wide open-- and you scream. ( they'll cut that part out later- focus on the moment his hand leaves yours and zoom in on his wide eyes as he falls- and add him to your kill count. )

jake's face lights up the sky with the two from seven. susan is the only thing you can think of now as you tie yourself to a tree trunk, back pressed up against it as that blackness settles around you. a gift from a sponsor floats from the canopy- your first and only- filled with a warm stew that's familiar and comforting in a way you can't put your finger on. you sleep soundly with a full belly and when you wake, there's a new drive in you to reach the cornucopia. ( you want this to be over- you want to find susan-- you want this to be over -- ) you push yourself hard, sweat pouring down your face and drenching your clothes before you finally push yourself into that initial clearing you had launched from.

the careers see your face-- you see susan's. the girl from one has a knife to her shining throat and you realize that you both must have had the same thought of climbing to the cornucopia; she must have just broken through as well. there's no time for taunts or shows of bravado-- you drag yourself up onto that quasi- solid leaf cover and charge. the boys from two and four rush to meet you but your eyes aren't on them but on the blood that beads up from that blade pressed against susan's throat as it draws across it. you'll see in the footage later the moment your mind snaps- how you scream in rage before that machete blade bites into the place where two's neck meets shoulder, wrenching it free in time to swing it wildly, biting into the side of four. their blades draw their own blood- the tip of a sword slicing the skin across your cheek and through the cartilage of your ear, biting into the flesh of your thigh- but susan drops and you feel nothing except for that rage. the girl from one is the last one your blade fells and her blood splatters across your face-- that you remember with startling clarity ( that's when the memory comes back into focus. )

only three cannons have boomed and when you sink down to your knees, pulling susan against your chest while red pours from her throat, you beg god or the capitol or whoever will listen that hers booms soon. you brush the dark hair from her face and you weep, tears tracing through the red splatter and painting streaks of violence down your closed throat. you can't get the words out- how sorry you were, how much you wished you could unsay and take back, how honored you were to have been loved by her even for a time- and when her eyes go sightless and her cannon booms, you cradle her in your arms before standing. the cameras cut as the upper canopy separates, the last frame of the 61st hunger games being you standing with your dead first love in your arms- a dark silhouette against verdant green.

they call you butcher- replaying the moment you lost your mind on the big screen- cheering your savagery while you sit numbly in your victory. you return home an orphan; they tell you that your father returned to district 10 after your reaping and killed himself when they were all certain the infection would take you. you won't say it but you know your father-- he would've never killed himself, not out of grief. your father would've taken that grief and put it to work. ( you find out later from those loyal men and women who have worked alongside your father your entire life how the place had flooded with peacekeepers, how they weren't permitted near the house until after they left and found william dearborn with a single gunshot to the back of his head. ) suicide seems to run in the family because your mother, stricken with grief, had also taken her life after finding your father dead in his office, burying a knife in her own chest. ( this end makes sense- thinking she has lost her man and her son, faced with the shame of her infidelity and the prospect of life after; you don't fault her for it but you haven't forgiven her for it. )

the house ( your ancestral home ) is taken over by general marten in the wake of your parents death; the ranch ( your ranch by birthright ) is taken over by the capitol and you are moved to the row of houses that make you feel claustrophobic. you are desperate for life to return as normal while understanding that life will never be the same-- the district ten you left is not the one you've come home to. your father is dead and a weak man with marten's hand up his ass takes his position as mayor. peacekeepers flood the district and that freedom of your childhood is shrunken down into working hours-- that is until july rolls around.

it becomes a cycle-- for the majority of the year, your mind is home. you don't have the land or the home but you have your horse and you have your men and even if everything has changed, the name dearborn still evokes some sense of loyalty and respect; nothing is given to you that you haven't had to work for now, but years give experience and it's not long before you're running the ranch you grew up on-- the ranch that is yours in blood, sweat and tears but never again in name. once july rolls around and the years reaping has yielded two more tributes for district ten, your mind is on them. you try so hard those first ten years- try so hard to do everything in your power to bring them home. some years you're lucky-- most you're not. ( it wears on the soul, doesn't it? the weight of failure year after year of bringing home pine boxes to bury instead of children back to their families. )

bert stays steadfast beside you even when you try and force him away; bert stays sharp and when he and others in the district come to you with conspiratorial whispers, you damn him for involving you in something that'll leave you both dead. for a brief moment, that doesn't seem like the worst outcome. it's a disorganized effort and there's a moment when those bullets fly, slamming into your shoulder and chest and you fall back that you think you'll find that relief-- that after fifteen years of the cycle ( home, reaping, capitol, pinewood boxes ) that your eyes will close and susan will be waiting for you with alain and your parents at the clearing at the end of the path. you wake up a day later, chest aching and sore but alive-- damnably alive. you bury bert and the others that fell in that suicide mission; you curse the capitol that you aren't sleeping beside them.

the cycle continues- home, reaping, capitol, pinewood boxes- and so you continue. you try to be a man your father would be proud of- you work hard, you take care of your community in the small ways that you can- home and in the capitol. ( no one knows the torment in your mind like those who have seen the arena-- no one comes out of the arena without some torment. ) the announcement of the 92nd hunger games stirs that old, almost-forgotten fury in your chest; it's not the threat of it being you ( gods, you hope it is, you're so ready to be done-- ) but the threat against those that you have fought like hell to see to the other end of the arena-- it's the threat to your people. that cold fury burns in your chest as the days tick down to reaping and while part of you hopes and prays it's your name called, part of you is resolute to do everything you can to keep this from happening again- to you or them. gods damn you if you know even where to begin. you've been so stuck in that cycle now that you want to break free, you have no idea where to look.

ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ɢᴜɴꜱʟɪɴɢᴇʀ. ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴀʀᴋʟᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴛɪɴᴄᴛ. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ʙᴇ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟʟʏ ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ? ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏ ᴏɴ.

TFLDR;

roland was the only son to the mayor of district 10 and grew up privileged compared to a lot of folks in the districts.

grew up surrounded with the folk who worked on the ranch his father ran, learning how to ride a horse, care for the cattle and general survival skills he never thought he'd need ( guess again! )

lost one of his besties to the games when he was 13.

a new head peacekeeper shows up when he's fifteen and his dad is suddenly away at the capitol more and more; he's 16 going on 17 when he catches his mother in an affair with the head peacekeeper.

a few months later, he's reaped. convenient.

his district partner was an ex-girlfriend-susan- his first love. he tries to keep his distance from her but she pretty much drags their history into the light and paints them as these doomed lovers. he straight hates it but only bc it's true.

his arena was a multi-tiered jungle setting with a crashed zeppelin type apparatus as the cornucopia.

he's attacked right off the bat and knocks a kid to his death but not before the kid fucks his right hand up with a machete-- that he ofc picks up and keeps with him the whole time.

almost dies of dehydration and infection, finding water around day three and is found by three other tributes who have banded together- eddie from six, susanna from eight and jake from twelve. they spare him, helping to heal his wound with medicine from sponsors-- ofc he allies himself with them afterwards with promises they'll find susan.

when one of his allies dies-susanna0 bitten by poisonous snake but mercy killed by roland- eddie leaves their makeshift team and ends up in the sky next to her.

the little one- jake from twelve- sticks with him but falls to his death when the two of them try to climb back up to the cornucopia; the gamemakers edit the footage to make it look like roland drops him to his death.

he makes it to the cornucopia, greeted by three remaining careers and susan who has her throat slit by the girl from one. roland McFreakin Loses It™ and kills the two remaining boys from two and the girl from one before holding susan as she bleeds out in his arms.

his parents die while he is at the games- both from apparent suicide but roland has Serious Doubts about his father killing himself. he loses the house, the ranch, the status and is just a mentor stuck in victors village.

goes to work at the ranch that was his and over the years has worked his way up to being a supervisor; gets caught in the cycle of his Life and the Capitol

gets looped into some wild scheme by his best friend to fight back-- everyone dies but him and he's forced to live with that

very much was Stuck in the cycle up until this last games announcement. now he's fucking Mad

isn't Involved with the rebellion but the spirit is willing ( open for that to be a connection we work on in the rp!! )

personality wise? he's very stoic- not a man of many words ( he's never been but tbh it's gotten worse over the years )- but is like a bulldog with how he won't let go of something once he has it in his head-- very determined, almost to the point of obsession at points.