#embersintro

[sinksand]

𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃. 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒. 𝑓𝑖𝑓𝑡𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑓𝑡ℎ 𝑣𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟.

eternal eldest child syndrome—or in harsher words, washed up and burned out.  a scorpion suspended in amber.  almost princess-like in demeanor, aven is a mild shell of what she used to be.

𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕. 𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒏. 𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒔. 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒔.

[givcnup]

Meet GRIFFIN CRIPES. Click HERE for his stats, bio, playlist, and other shit. Basic gist is, he’s Haymitch, but 100% sadder, and also, he is Oscar Isaac. We cool? We cool. TLDR for his big-ass bio under the cut!

Hunter boy born in The Seam. Good with a knife. Got reaped for the 50th Hunger Games/2nd Quarter Quell along with three other kids from District 12. Won the games by pulling a stunt with the barriers. Snow didn’t like that, so mom, lil bro, and girlfriend are all killed two weeks after his victory. Now he drinks to cope and has to sleep next to a fucking knife because everything is painful!!!!

[hoversee]

hollis oversee, a tale of fashion and choices

i. life before

     What’s a kid to do? Long and stylish, from the moment her parents lay their eyes on her. Sensitive, fragile, and with hands that would work wonders in the shop when she was old enough. Eager to help from a young age, hypnotized by the patterns her mother created; lucky to have the luxury of seeing her work.

     Hollis knew her mother was different and she wanted to be like her oh, so badly. From a young age, she’d sneak into her mother’s studio and sift through the scraps, only to stitch them together and present them to the older woman with a proud grin and the expectation of a compliment and a reward. And, most of the time, she got what she wanted. Her mother was proud of her, and that’s all Hollis had ever hoped for.

ii. life between

     It was during a victory tour -- more specifically, the year that Hollis turned ten. She was too yong to be entered in the Reaping, but she wasn’t oblivious to the Games. She couldn’t, they were everywhere. Every year, her mother would come up with new designs, garments she thought would compliment that year’s tributes, but nobody ever asked her for her opinion so all those sketch pads were lying in the back of the studio, collecting dust. But that year, for some reason, was different and it was all pure luck, really.

iii. life now

     Choosing District Eight was the easiest thing she’d ever done, and it proved to be the right thing when she finally saw a glimmer of pride in her father’s eyes. That same look she’d earned from her mother when she was younger and playing with leftover pieces of fabric, scribbling intelligibly on scraps of paper and practicing her figure drawing, but it meant so much more this time. It meant she was finally doing something right, something that amounted to all her father had given up, something that could make up for what they’d left behind all those years before.

For Hollis’s full biography, click here!

[silverostro]

silver ostro. 40. they/them. district 3. victor of the 52nd hunger games.

all of your flaws and all of my flaws, when they have been exhumed we'll see that we need them to be who we are without them we'd be doomed

full bio / connections / playlist / pinterest / skeleton

They always carry a notebook, and an old ink pen.

Silver Ostro has long gotten used to the barely concealed looks of confusion it garners, the very looks that they receive by their escorts to the Capitol, when they arrive at the train with only a small bag and a stack of notebooks.

At first, the journals were simply a means to coax out the memories that hadn’t returned to them after their recovery from the Games, and keep track of those that did. Pages and pages of stream of consciousness that would make little sense to anyone who could stumble upon the journals, and made little sense to even Silver themself, at times. It felt like the only option, somehow, to begin to find themself again by trying to find the past where it was hidden in their mind. Another puzzle to solve, another problem to find a solution to, almost a mercy, all things considered, with the way the near obsessive journaling kept them from thinking too hard about the aftermath. It’s easier to deal with grand problems if they’re made concrete.

It’s a habit that gets them strange looks, even now as it’s evolved into something else entirely. On their victory tour, it was written off as a strange coping mechanism from an already strange victor. After, it was considered all the more proof that something wasn’t quite right with them. In reality, it’s the opposite.

Memories come back slowly as thoughts are put to paper, allowing them to focus all the better on their work for the way they can catalogue and store their personal thoughts elsewhere, keep them tucked away safely, only to be recalled when it’s convenient for them, which it rarely is. The act of putting their thoughts somewhere concrete evolves. It becomes their only means of expressing themself, it becomes their connection to perhaps the only person who might consider them a friend, after years keeping a distance between themself and the world, just as their parents had taught them.

The journals, and letters, often times written in shorthand few could understand, or code of their own devising, the ramblings of a strange inventor to outside eyes, are where they can put those thoughts that would get them killed for treason, if found by the wrong hands.

And yet, it feels like one of the few things that the Capitol can’t take from them. Funny, that they spend all of their time making it easier for the Capitol to watch and control the whole of Panem with technology, but something as simple as putting pen to paper is the thing that keeps them and their ideas safe.

Silver clutches the notebooks a little tighter to their chest, as someone offers to take them with their bag once they’re on the train. “I prefer to keep my work with me,” they explain, although they know there’s no need.

What they get in return is a barely detectable eye-roll, something muttered about always being so odd, and their journals safe and sound for another day, on their way to somewhere they can perhaps truly get to work.

[hcllisfm]

HOLLIS OVERSEE, WALLFLOWER

❝ I became good at pretending. I became so good that after a while the lines blurred between my truth and fiction. And sometimes, when I did a really good job of pretending, I even fooled myself. ❞

playlist / pinterest

AESTHETICS 

Hollis is an avid makeup wearer. He is no beauty guru but you will always catch him wearing eyeliner and dark eyeshadow (bright colors and glitter are for special occasions only) Think of him as a chic Jack Sparrow. It looks smudged but it takes time to perfect that look. Back home there isn’t a lot of vegetation so Hollis enjoys incorporating flowers and nature into his designs and his personal style. He can be seen wearing bright colors, though his fashion sense is not as costume-y as what the Capitol is used to he does tend to dress in a way that gets people to look at him. Skirts, dresses, jumpsuits, he doesn’t care as long as the clothes are telling a story.

He keeps his curly hair long and has a beard he tends to decorate if the outfit calls for it. REF

influences: Prince, Harry Styles, Cody Fern, Givenchy, Versace, John Galliano

( please bear with me since the gifs i will be using won’t reflect this and i’m very upset! )

BACKGROUND TW: death & bullying

You’ve always known what privilege is.

Your life on Eight was not perfect, but you had it much better than the other kids you went to school with. They made sure you knew that. 

You lost your father at a young age, but your mother was a hard worker, so she made up for it. Every day after school you would find her at her little shop turning scraps and trash into beautiful garments that kept both of you fed and clothed. That was supposed to be it. You were a kid, maybe that’s why you didn’t understand. All you saw were pretty colors.

Those were the happiest days of your life. Even with your father gone, you cherish the memories of your mother teaching you the proper way to handle a needle deeply. Life was easy, simple. The pretty colors filled your days. It didn’t matter that no one wanted to play with you because at least you had her.  Then the Capitol found you.

Well, they found your mother. You just came in a package deal. 

You were so young you didn’t understand why her creations were so loved, why people seemed to fawn over every new piece she’d exhibit by the shop’s window. All you saw were colors, the textures.  Your mother’s excitement confused you as well, because why would someone want to leave home? What about your father’s grave? You didn’t want to leave, but you loved your mother and you were barely eleven so you didn’t exactly have a choice. 

You thought things would be different at the Capitol. The kids back home didn’t like you because you were lucky to be in a better position than them. Maybe now that your mother was part of the big leagues things would change. You never expected to be rejected again, this time because of where you came from. You begged to be able to return home, but your mother was on cloud nine and had stopped listening a long time ago.

Your only friends were the sewing kit you got when you were ten. You still have it, though it hasn’t been used for years. It’s a nice reminder of life back at Eight.

Even as you grew up and your mother and her shop became a staple of the Capitol, kids didn’t really pay attention to you. Maybe part of it was your fault too. You were quiet, preferring to observe them in an attempt to imitate them in hopes they’d accept you one day. That didn’t exactly happen, but it gave you something to do when you weren’t busy working for your mother.

Things started looking up when mother met Freesia. She’d stop by the shop every day, your mother the reason why she was there. Despite that, the woman would almost bring you a small gift. Sweets, drawings you’d later use to create a new outfit. Freesia knew that you were lonely and did their best to help with that. When she married your mother, you were the happiest you’d ever been. 

Everything was perfect, but as you grew up, you noticed how the differences between your mother and her new wife were starting to affect their marriage. 

Your mother seemed to be determined to forget all about her life back on Eight. In a way, you understood. She would go on and on about how wonderful life was in the Capitol, how they had blessed you with a chance to be someone else, someone better. And they saved you from the games too, which she would be eternally grateful for. As for you, even as an adult that is a source of guilt you can’t seem to shake off, especially now that you work for the very same terror you managed to avoid.

Freesia was the opposite. You didn’t notice it at first. It’s not until you grew up that you began to learn more about their beliefs. Every year during the games, Freesia’s usual jovial mood would change. She’d spend time alone in their studio, never telling anyone what they were working on. It frustrated your mother and there was nothing you could do except listen to her ranting.

When you were asked to join the games as a stylist, your mother was ecstatic. Freesia was the opposite. They weren’t upset but you could tell they were worried for you. That was what got her to open up to you and reveal what they really thought about your adoptive home. Then everything clicked.

The fights, the secrets. Your mother refusing to talk to the few friends Freesia had. It was almost ironic. There you were, living with with a Capitol born woman from a good family that rejected her own history and condemned their home, and a mother born on Eight that was desperate to forget her past and pretend the Capitol had always been her home. You moved soon after.

You still talk to both, of course. Despite her many flaws you love your mother, and Freesia is your biggest support system. She is good at helping you remain humble now that your budding fame as a stylist is keeping you busy. And maybe there is more to that. Maybe one in a while she shares her opinions with you and has managed to influence your thoughts. Not that you’d reveal what you really think. 

With the climate being so heavy in Panem and people growing restless, you know it’s vital for you to follow your mother’s example and live your life pretending you finally feel like you belong. The Capitol seems to still have the upper hand, so you are in their corner, though Freesia’s arguments are good enough to make you consider leaning towards the other side.

Did the bullying leave a lasting effect on you? You want to say no, but you’d be kidding yourself. When people ask why you’re so quiet your only reply is to shrug and offer them a charming smile along with a compliment that will divert the conversation away from you. You mostly keep to yourself now that you’re older. It’s much easier than attempting to navigate the tempestuous waters of the Capitol, especially when you know how many enemies your stepmother has. So you keep your head down; learn and observe. You speak when spoken to, never allow yourself to say anything remotely controversial that could put your family at risk.

You’re a hard worker still, which has earned you enough leverage to be able to still have a place in high society. You’re not a top dog, but your talent cannot be ignored. Could you be bigger? Absolutely, but you’re content with what you have. You know very well what comes with notoriety and fear what could happen if people were to start looking into your personal life. 

But, what scares you the most is the possibility of people seeing what’s behind your politeness, of ever finding out the inner turmoil you live with because you don’t know where you really belong. Or that you’re starting to agree more with Freesia than with your own mother.

[elevenian]

Summary: Aldera grew up in District 11, witnessing many cruelties and brutalities through her life. Working til exhaustion, it was really all she ever knew. Then she was thrown into the games at thirteen, forming a close bond with another elevenian, Tillden Vinepot. They managed to survive throughout the games together, and maybe, one of them would make it out alive. Aldera ended up being that lucky one, and somehow, she was crowned the victor of the 63rd Annual Hunger Games. Upon returning from the games she was a wild child. All the trauma that she had been through would burst out of her and cause a controversial victory tour. She was a victor that people didn’t know what to do with, how to deal with her. She was a mess, still is a mess, but she’ll heal someday, who knows. 

If you would like to read Aldera’s full biography you can find it HERE. It is incredibly lengthy, so if you end up reading all of it, I thank you! 

[hcrdcreeks]

I got 𝖑𝖔𝖞𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖞, got 𝖗𝖔𝖞𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖞 inside my DNA

Name: Slate Hardcreek

Gender: Cis Man

Age: Forty-four

Sexuality: Bisexual

Height: 6′1

Home District: Two

Status: Victor & mentor

Character Inspo: Tommy Shelby & Kendall Roy

𝖈𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖛𝖎𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞

tw: mentions of abuse, gore, & eye trauma

His feet were too heavy, is what he remembers of youth. Breathing from his mouth, is one of his biggest sins, he remembers.

Hardcreek, what a beautiful name in Two. No, you weren’t Peacekeepers. As if you were to be bothered with such things in your District. You didn’t know the taste of copper like so many did. No, your father was a Victor himself. Winner of the 17th Hunger Games, in fact. At that time, kinks were just beginning to be worked out. Father didn’t know of the “glamor's” that came with Slate’s time.

Slate, born in one of the caves in Two, when Mother was touring the working of the facility on behalf of her husband, it was dirty and cold, but felt like a christening of good. Mother would say that Hardcreeks didn’t know ordinary. Once she began giving birth, she refused traveling to the med-bay. Her son would not be born from weakness of help from others.

Father produced and distributed arms across Districts. Meant he traveled frequently. A cold man with cold hands and cold eyes. Constantly telling Slate that his loud feet would get him killed. That breathing from his mouth took away his status. Mother wasn’t much better, sticking her fingers into his spine to get him to sit straight.

At six, he began training. “Careers” were an early concept but there was no way Father was going to end the Hardcreek legacy. Arms dealing be damned, his son was going to be a victor.

Slate has no idea if he was a soft child growing up. An semblance of it would have been wiped away before it could come to fruition. He was worked day and night. There were no room for friends. In fact, both Mother and Father only encouraged Slate to befriend peers in order to learn weaknesses. Weekly quizzes were formed at the dinner table. And how would you bring Claudius to his knees, Boy? 

Strategy came to start, then strength and agility in later years. Once it was acceptable, Father pulled Slate from unnecessary education, just to focus on training for the Games. Slate stopped learning reading, math, sciences, even history, after the age of ten.

Three years later, and you were deemed ready. In truth, he wasn’t exactly. Certainly, he was overly confident. He was bred for victory and he was hungry for it. Hungry to make his parents proud. He had to bruises from fingertips poking and prodding to make sure his body did as it needed to do. Every one of his peers in training, he’d figured how to bring them down. 

He was glory. He was a diamond. He was ready to shine and rise above everyone else, as he was meant to do.

In truth, Father just believed that he was small and nimble, and had a soft enough face that would earn him more sponsors than when he was to truly grow and become harsher.

Slate was a dazzle. The idea of well trained personalities wasn’t really grasped yet, and he nailed it. A delight to talk to, and absolute icon in every other category. It didn’t hurt that he had a knockout stylist that made him prime and ready to shock. To the shock of no one, he was laid out with sponsors.

Victory was handed to him on a silver platter. In a tree-dense arena, he was still small enough to climb, but strong enough to choke out other tributes once he had the upper hand. His signature was coming down from the trees, latching onto them, and landing his small blade into their eye.

It was only ironic for him to end up losing his own from an arrow attack.

The final battle, and it all came down to wits. Slate watched the other in training, even became her friend for a moment. Knew that she had an older brother and a boyfriend back home she wanted to get back to. Clutching the arrow to his eye, he said he didn’t even want to win. That this was all so he could just bring disgrace to his father, to get back for years of torment. Her story inspired him and he wanted her to take the victory, and make her district proud. All he wanted was to be given mercy, and be held in death.

She approached, knife pointed to his chest. As the knife began to plunge, a weaponless Slate took the arrow from his eye, eye and all, and drove the arrow into the neck of the other victor. Again, and again, pierced through the throat of the little girl, and claimed his victory.

Unfortunately, technology wasn’t exactly what it was then, and certainly, the could mainly take care of the scar to his chest, sans for a pink mark, but the eye was forever gone. Instead, Slate was given a glass replacement. 

Finally, he was the boy with the crown. Father was proud. Mother was proud. And in truth, Slate was proud. In his victory, he was never boastful. Father had his expectations, but he did not raise a show-boat winner. Slate would sit upon his throne, wave to his adorers. 

But after that, Mother and Father stopped caring. In their eyes, their son was an adult, and on his own. He had brother the victory, and the legacy, and no longer served them. While this wasn’t clear that things would end this way, Slate wasn’t entirely shocked. While Father had his arms, Slate took to victory. And victory would be something he would need to continue to bring. 

He even opted out of eye replacements when tech would improve. He needed the reminder for his tributes that victory comes at a price. That even lavish Slate, had lost. Every year, he would bounce between Capitol, maintaining loyal followers that would blindly trust his tributes, and training future tributes. Just like Father, fingers jabbed in spines, he told the nine year old to stop breathing from his mouth. He was above that. 

Brutality, cold, it knew him well. But success wrapped his shoulders and it was the cost. He thought nothing of it. For decades, he was an avid voucher for the Games, and in turn, the Capitol, even doing outside work for them.

Certainly, it didn’t phase him, until Teal. The little girl he crafted by hand. Brutal, spiteful. He straightened her back, taught her to manipulate, to run, to bleed and make others bleed. He breathed his cruelty into her. 

It wasn’t until she came back, and his cruelty stared back at him. For the first time, he was overpowered. The night he had made a passing joke about the president, he had come home to find her sitting on his couch. She’d found months worth of confidential work in a matter of hours. She knew Slate couldn’t be threatened with violence, but could be with power. Effectively, this child was stronger than him.

After the jealousy and pride settled, all Slate was left with was horror.

The foundation of his entire life has begun to crack. What has he been doing this whole time? Has he bred monsters? Were there more of his victors who were just more quietly vicious like Teal? He now sees every move she takes, every act of abuse inflicted. At this point, he’s starting to see that Teal is his punishment. 

The idea of yet another year, especially a quell, staring down the barrel of a gun of his own creation, is starting to actually make him sick.

DISCLAIMER: Please not that my aim with Slate is trying to write a character who was groomed and abused, and lead to believe that that was just how life was. While Slate was raised a Capitol sympathizes and patriot, my aim is not to write one. He is on the path of realizing rebellion is needed, but he is in the very early stages. If I ever write something for Slate that makes you uncomfortable, please please let me know. I am going to write this character carefully and with attention so as not to write a sympathetic demon. I also encourage in-character conflict that will bring up things Slate has done that have perpetuated the Capitols reign in hopes to cause more growth. He might not like it, but I will.

[ncllysnge]

All I really 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 is to be 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖚𝖑

Name: Nelly Singe

Gender: Cis Woman

Age: Thirty-four

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Height: 5′3

Home District: Captiol

Status: Tribute escort

Character Inspo: Electra Heart & The Valley of the Dolls Gals

tw: drug abuse, grooming, sexual exploitation of minors, death

Caesar Flickerman wasn’t the only beloved icon in Panem. 

Raised from Panem’s first Hunger Games host, Caesar, and his considerably younger sister Calpurnia, were first child stars, home brewed, always singing and dancing on television. Caesar began his route into presenting, and Calpurnia began into her own stardom. When she began to grow older, her body taking more form, her sex appeal growing more apparent.

Both the Flickerman children were television personalities, while Caesar kept it down a straight and narrow path, Calpurnia was one that excited people. She was glamor, she was sex, she was everything good and bad. Big blue eyes and long eyelashes. A delish hourglass figure everyone wanted a piece of. Everything she wore was a spectacle. Didn’t matter if she was only sixteen.

Expectations were great. She loved the glory, to see her name in bright lights. She was born to be adored, and by golly, she was adored more than most. But with adoration cam great criticism. Moments she wasn’t on a show, or at a party, she was working to keep her form perfect and tight. 

At twenty-four, she married an old Game Maker, of much status and money. Not that she was worried about the later, the former was certainly a bonus. And not even eighteen months after that, the beautiful little gift Nelly Singe was born. Another name to be shown in lights.

And pregnancy was beautiful. Calpurnia made it a fashion statement to show your baby bump off. People thought she was more glowing than ever before. But after it? Well... her body didn’t bounce back quite the same. There was a depression that hit unlike any other. She went out and yet... the critics seemed that much more intense. Her body didn’t look as appealing anymore. She didn’t feel as appealing anymore.

Calpurnia began grasping at straws for her validation and adoration again. Surgeries to make her beautiful once again, give her implants and markings to make her stand out again. She took morphling to help with the depression after childbirth. She’d hang around parties until the sun came up. The world which built her up, which put her worth in her body, suddenly tore her down.

By the time Nelly was three, her mother was washed up, completely botched, and frequently too high to leave the house. Calpurnia was no longer a Flickerman, but a Singe, and the Flickerman estate wanted nothing to do with her. Nelly only met her uncle once as a baby, and then much later in her career, but things were much different then.

Growing up, much of Nelly’s early memories were with her mother, sprawled on her chest, watching television. The woman far too dazed, but mumbling about the beautiful people on tv. Nelly grew up thinking it was the most beautiful place on earth--- the tv.

As she got older, her mother started to shape her daughter into the person she wanted to be. There were concerns Nelly wouldn’t be as beautiful as she had been. There were preemptive shaping gear Nelly wore as a child to make sure her waist would be smaller, hips would open up more. Though, as puberty took place, that didn’t seem to be needed as much, considering she became just as gifted as her mother.

It didn’t matter much, though. She had the Singe name. Everyone in the Capitol knew she was Calpurnia’s daughter. No one wanted to put that legacy on the television. So Calpurnia trained her daughter harder. More manners, more politeness. More appeal. She studied fashion night and day, money from her father was used to make sure she dressed just as well as her peers.

Nelly never took the words to be unkind. Her mother explained that was simply the way of the world. When beauty bestows you, you have to wield it, and people hold you to a higher standard.

The big break came at sixteen, the age her mother’s career really took off. Nelly was excited. A television presenter wanted her on his show. A real up and comer, he was. He wanted to make the best of her. She was just far too naive to understand what that meant. She believed him when he said he loved her. For her mind, her soul, and her body. Nelly was just glad that someone looked at her and saw her for the beauty she thought she was meant to be. 

Nelly was on the tv finally. Wore sparkly dresses and helped on the game shows. And she’d stay after shoots to keep the director company. Because that’s what love is, right? Calpurnia told her as much. If he keeps her around so much, it must be love.

But a spotlight isn’t meant to last forever. Calpurnia had a hard time with her daughter’s stardom. After a particular episode involving plenty of absinthe and morphling, Calpurnia stumbled onto set demanding for her time on camera. She had fit herself into one of her most iconic dressed from her late teens. She still fit! And it was her time to shine.

They were both escorted off state. The director called the following morning to tell Nelly her roll had been replaced. She cried for two weeks. Her love had crushed her.

It was six months later when her father passed away. He was seventy when Nelly was born, and really only cared of his job in the Games. Nelly hardly knew the man. It was far more sad to have her heart stomped out by her lover than to find out her father had died in his sleep at eighty-nine. 

But a blessing came of it. Nelly was his legacy, and it granted her a position into the Games. She thought maybe she’d work along side her uncle. This man she adored and looked up to but never knew. Instead, she was told she’d be an escort. Not her first choice but she wasn’t picky either. And then, the news came that she’d be given District Twelve. Clearly, the respect and legacy of her father didn’t get her far enough.

Her mother told her not to fuck this up. It was all a ladder. Wear the best clothes, teach the tributes the best she could. If she brought a victor back, maybe she’d be given a better district, and would become an icon. Maybe they both would.

That’s not exactly what happened.

Every year, Nelly showed up to the grimy District Twelve in her full Capitol top of the line clothing, saying the names of the tributes, escorting them to the Capitol, making sure they knew how to behave like the Capitol expected. She guided them, trained them to be the best versions of themselves. And then, she watched them die. Most of the time, in very humiliating fashions.

And then there was Griffin. He had potential. Nelly was a few years younger than him, but she watched his games. Thought he was a brilliant mind, and quite comical. Only to come and find out he was a drunk. It was a fast disappointment, expecting him to be so great and he was far from it. But Nelly took care of someone who was detached from reality her whole life. Griffin was no different.

Every year, she holds out hope that this will be the one her tributes will win, this will be the year Griffin pulls himself out of his haze and mentors the children like she know he can. She knows that if she just tries a little harder, if she nurtures them more, gives them more warmth, more advice, more of her time and her attention, then it can happen. It has to happen.

It takes sixteen years. But it finally does. And nothing is going to strip that away from her.

One month after the victory of Fava and Hudson, both of her victors, her mother had overdosed on morphling. In truth, Nelly never knew her mother used morphling. Knew about the drinking, sure, but never that. Her mother went out of her way to make sure Nelly never knew what morphling was like. Perhaps it’s the one selfless act she did.

Nelly knew her mother to be an icon. She was a star and others just forgot. No one went the funeral. Nelly was just sent her ashes in a tin while she was on the Victory Tour with Fava and Hudson. She’s not entirely sure what to do with it. It’s still in her suitcase. But she’s telling herself it’s there to remind her what she always has to do. She has to strive to be the star her mother should have been.

But if she leaves Twelve to escort another District, where will that leave those she’s grown so close to?