( mackenyu arata , cis man , he/him ) did you see them ?! that was QUINTUS YAMAMOTO, the winner of the 79th 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 1 when they won their games with A SWORD AND SPONSOR GIFTS. they’re known all over panem for being so ADAPTABLE despite being so IMPATIENT. they remind me of a child soldier's unwavering devotion, a falcon spotting prey, the pop of a champagne bottle, reaching for what can't be touched, and when i think of them, i think of SPACE COWBOY by flipturn . — isa . 26 . she/her . gmt . no triggers .
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.
so much more... but this has been a lot of text so i'll stop here!
( amita suman , cis-woman , she/her ) did you see them ?! that was PYAARI CHADHARY, the winner of the EIGHTY-FIRST hunger games. they’re back for the 92nd games as a VICTOR, and you know they’re one of my favourites! the TWENTY-EIGHT year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 6 when they won their games with MANIPULATION AND DROWNING. they’re known all over panem for being so RUTHLESS despite being so SPITEFUL. they remind me of a ballerina with no dancing shoes, a wolf in sheeps clothing, a rusted gold personality, and when i think of them, i think of DAUGHTER by beyonce .
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.
when asked to join the rebellion, she accepted. she didn’t have much left to lose anyway.
( madelyn cline , cis woman , she/her ) that’s LIVIA PLINTH, the TWENTY-EIGHT year old DISTRICT 2 STYLIST from THE CAPITOL. 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 DEVOTED, and simultaneously IMPULSIVE. they remind me of the bitter taste of revenge, leaving behind a token of ill will, taking a forbidden bite of the juiciest pomegranate, which makes sense since they’re always listening to HARD TIMES by paramore. let’s hope they’re up for all this work ahead of them this year .
stats
name . livia plinth
age . 28 , april 1
sexual orientation. bisexual
family. tba
independent, determined, confident , devoted, short-tempered , bitter, cynical, arrogant, impulsive
character inspiration. toph beifong (atla), sejanus plith ( the ballad of songbirds and snakes ), gale hawthorne, eren jaeger ( attack on titan )
background ( death tw )
when you’re born as the sun, you’re expected to shine brightly. however, no one expects you to burn so hot, that you set the world on fire.
livia plinth is born brilliant. the sun, bright enough to erase the shadows cast by the plinth name, still stained by the distant relative she only knows the name of: sejanus plinth. a name that was meant to be erased from all records and spoken only in disdain.
from an early age, livia was doted on. declared a prodigy, smart but not in the way her parents wanted her to be. she questioned the world around her. when she first watched the games, she wouldn’t watch them with unease that grew from empathy but it was rather the lack of understanding. she’d question the history of it. what the games truly meant and why why it was always the people from the districts, and never them.
once she dared to ask why people cheered for death. her father ignored her question, telling her to never ask again. not to become like him. the name that haunted them.
yet, livia didn’t stop like her parents wished. if her parents wouldn’t answer her questions she’d just ask someone else. her family, already cautious because of their past, began to panic. livia’s curiosity was not only dangerous, it was unacceptable. so, under the guise of a lie, she was sent to one of the poorer districts. her father breathed a warning, hoping to teach her to appreciate what the bloody hands of the capitol had given her.
however, it wasn’t obedience that would finally take root in her. no, it was empathy that threatened to bloom with awareness. the people from the districts weren’t what the capitol tried to make them out to be. in fact, they were more human, more humane, than anyone from the capitol would ever be.
when she returned, she came back changed. not contorted into the dutiful child she was supposed to be. instead her knowledge had been sharpened into a weapon, with the unexpected edge of empathy. she’d voice her opinion more openly, brazen and fearless. and her parents could only watch as the sun burst.
it was only when they found out about maia, a girl she met in the districts, someone who saved her, challenged her and introduced her to a small group of rebels. but most importantly she ended up being her friend and perhaps even more. but she would never find out about it. not when it was her name that would be drawn in the reaping. perhaps it was simply fate, simple and cruel or it was a warning by the capitol, what happened to those who dared to question them.
in the end it didn’t matter anyway. maia didn’t survive and livia watched every second that led to her death. when her picture emerged in the artificial sky, something inside her broke, and only left her with fury.
present
her rage had burned down and only left her cold. she doesn’t flinch at the cost of what a rebellion would mean. war. loss is inevitable ( something easy to say, for someone who feels like lost everything anyway ), and weapons are not meant to be wielded with mercy but with vengeance.
misc
she’s only a stylist because her parents made her one, a position meant to keep her under their thumb,to keep her close and remind her that every bond she dares to form with a tribute is destined to be broken. and in a way, they succeeded. livia doesn’t let herself get close anymore. she knows how it always ends.
she’s also known throughout the capitol for being bad at her job. not because she simply doesn’t care but because she refuses to dress tributes like gifts, wrapped and presented for the capitol that plans to tear them apart. her designs are plain, functional, even somber. her quietest form of rebellion.
( kiowa gordon , cis man , he/him ) that’s RORY HAWTHORNE, the THIRTY year old UNDERCOVER PEACEKEEPER from DISTRICT 12. 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 STRONG- WILLED, and simultaneously INCENDIARY. they remind me of the flash of yellow in the black- a canary in the coal mine, you have forgotten the face of your father, wax wings melting in the sun as the air rushes past as you fall, i am not throwing away my shot, which makes sense since they’re always listening to THE ROAD I MUST TRAVEL by tom morello: the nightwatchman. let’s hope they’re up for all this work ahead of them this year .
BASIC INFORMATION
full name: rory hawthorne . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . aurelius cragg
nicknames: rory, ror
age: thirty
birthday: august 16 . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . august 6
zodiac: leo
district: twelve . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . two
gender: cis male
pronouns: he / him
orientation: bisexual
profession: miner, rebel . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . undercover peacekeeper
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE
face claim: kiowa gordon
hair color: dark brown
eye color: dark brown
height: 5'10"
scars: a patchwork of lash scars across his back and shoulders- varying from some that are roped with thick, purple scar tissue and others that are just that permanent angry red; a thin scar on the bottom of his chin from busting it when he was a kid; a scar above his left eye from a peacekeeper's baton, a three inch scar from a bullet graze on his right shoulder
the day your father dies is etched in your memory with startling clarity-- how the shouting from the mines had carried throughout the district, how the peacekeeper uniforms turned a dingy grey with the coal dust as some jumped in alongside the miners trying to dig out the collapsed shaft ( the same ones whose faces you'll recognize frequenting the hob, the same ones who pay or trade for the game gale brings back after he learns to hunt and never ask how or where he got it ); the feeling of how tightly gale holds your hand as you stand with your mother just outside of the mine, waiting for that blurred face to be pulled out- broken and limp. you remember the noise your mother made- not a scream or a wail of grief but a low moan that reverberated so deep that it's permanently etched in the walls of your mind- as her legs go out from under her and gale's hand leaves yours to catch her; you don't know the name for the noise but over the years, you grow so used to hearing it from the corner of the home where she huddles around baby posy or vick- both who are too small to know what's going on- and one day the word comes to you: despair.
you're not the only ones who lost a father in the accident and out of that tragedy is some bright spot: the everdeens. your mothers both share that empty stare of losing the men they loved who stood between their children and starvation; your mothers both share oldest children who step in to be fathers. gale gets katniss and you get prim; while the two of them go hunt, crossing over that forbidden line of the boundary, the two of you share the fullness of childhood-- a childhood that your older siblings had cut short in order for you to experience. a childhood in the seam- raised by the seam because while gale is away and your mother is away there is still that guiding presence with other mothers balancing babies on their hips who scrub your dirty, tear stained face with the corners of thin aprons and wash your scrapes with cool water and old timers ( whose bodies are too hunched and frail to work in the mines, chests constantly rattling with coal dust that's glued to the inside of their lungs ) who bark at you from dirt porches when you get too rowdy with other kids and the play fighting turns to real fighting. as you get older, they find chores for you to do- the old timers tell you it's good for your character, the other mothers tell you you're doing them a great favor saving their men and sons from the extra work after coming home from the mines- rewarding you with whatever little they can spare. everyone knows the hawthornes have got more than their fair share of open mouths and empty bellies; everyone knows the weight of the family has fallen on gale. they tell you that you should help your brother however you can.
you learn about the tesserae when you're ten-- you hear gale and katniss talking about it and the number of times gale's name has been added to the reaping bowl makes your stomach turn- truly full for the first time since the last time he collected tesserae and it makes you sick with fear and worry. you understand the reapings by now and you cling to gale later, unable to tell him what's wrong when he asks-- afraid that if you open your mouth, you'll get sick and waste the food your brother had paid for with his life. because if he gets picked, you know that's what it means-- twelve hadn't had a victor in longer than either of you have been alive and while you think he could win, there's always that very real possibility that he wouldn't; and you can't imagine a world without your brother. you're still too young to take out the tessarae for yourself- for your siblings- and you bite down on your tongue when gale comes back with the proof that he had yet again; you want to help your brother but you don't know how.
the morning of your first reaping, it's gale who gets you up, who fills the tin tub with heated water and scrubs at your skin until you yelp, who combs your hair- trying desperately to get it to lay flat- and helps to button your shirt when your hands shake. it's gale's last year, he's an old pro by now-- but you counted. and you know how many slips of paper have his name on them and your singular one floats in that sea of white but it's not you that you're afraid for. when you see prim's face and how scared she is, you smother your own fear-- you can't be strong for gale but you can be strong for her-- and the only moment you let it slip out before your arm wraps around her shoulders ( because younger kids go to the front, you can't stand with those pillars of strength in the back ) is when you look back at gale, seeking reassurance in his eyes. it won't be us, you tell prim, whispering in her ear like it's a secret before you have to go to one side and her the other, after this, we'll play pirates. when they call her name your heart stops beating, eyes wild to find her face as she stumbles out like a lost lamb into the aisle before you look back to find gale-- but the moment katniss' voice raises your eyes go to her.
you don't play pirates after-- you sit with prim while she cries and later after the stars have come out and you walk prim home, you take charge of home- getting vick and posy dinner and getting them in bed, tucking a blanket around your mother's shoulders- trying to, without words, take some of the weight off gale's shoulders. you sit quietly with gale for as long as he'll let you. there's a question sitting behind your teeth and there's times when that silence between you two feels so heavy that it almost slips out but it never does; would you have volunteered for me? the part of your mind that knows your brother loves you in the same way that katniss loves prim has no doubt that if it had been the reverse of the coin, that gale would've taken that burden from you-- just like he had taken every burden for the last five years; the part of your mind that is growing up knows that gale couldn't leave posy and vick, both of them younger than both of you. you don't have to wonder if you'd volunteer for him-- you also couldn't leave vick or posy... and you're still afraid of dying. the air is heavy and you don't say anything because you know gale is hurting but, you're relieved-- relieved it's not going to be him. you hate that it's katniss because the people you love most in the world are in pain because of it-- but he's safe and after all those years of putting himself at risk of the games, he's not ever going to have to go there. and for that, you're grateful.
they both come back- katniss and peeta- and everything changes. there are new peacekeepers with grim faces that seem to flood the district; there's a distance to gale that you can't understand. you ask him to teach you to hunt- you want to help, that's all you want to do because the weight of the world seems to be weighing him down-- but there's never time. they burn the hob and strap gale to a whipping post-- you're out gathering wood, trying to lighten that load on gale's shoulders and don't find out until someone finds you- arms laden with the driest pieces you can find with the snow as thick as it is- and regales the news to you; you drop the wood and run to the opposite side of the district, racing for that aisle of houses where prim lives now. another sound etches itself into the halls of your mind, taking up residence next to your mother's moan of despair: the sound of your brother screaming in pain. you help to hold him down, jaw clenched tightly and tears silently rolling down your face as hands that have lost the softness of childhood grip at his arm, desperate to keep him still while prim and her mother work-- until he falls still and quiet.
you don't want to leave him. you have to get back to vick and posy and mom. you don't know how you're going to carry him home- you're taller and your shoulders have started to broaden but it's a good trek back to the seam and gale can't move. you can never repay their kindness. you don't want to leave him. you promise to come back after you've got vick and posy in bed; you're reminded there's a curfew-- if you look back and examine it, maybe this is where that rebellious spark ignited in your chest because you don't care. you only try it the once, almost caught by those patrolling peacekeepers but you come back to the house and you sit with him that first night, shoulder pressed against the corner of the kitchen where he's laid out, head resting against the wall, sitting vigil silently. while gale heals you pick up more and more odd jobs where you can; you take his bow and sneak past the boundary-- and almost lose his arrows, spending most of the time trying to find where they've fallen. when the time comes, you take out the tesserae for yourself, vick and posy. gale can't do it anymore but you can and you want so desperately to just help him; the two of you end up fighting, your crackling voice ( changing because you're growing, you're getting older, you can help more-- ) raised in anger and exasperation. you just wanted to help.
when he comes home in that crisp white uniform, baton at his hip, you almost think it's a joke-- and honestly, you treat it like a joke. you're an angry teenager because the reality of life in your district is starting to actualize in your mind, how these white clad thugs walked around as if they owned the damn district, harassing folk who had generations buried in this ground, how they had damn near killed gale-- and he's parading around in one of their uniforms. he tells you he has to work-- you don't understand why he can't keep working in the mines like everyone else in the damn district. it's a cause of friction between you two that only softens the slightest bit when gale becomes involved in the rebellion with you following half a step behind him whether he wanted you to or not. you tell gale he doesn't have to provide for you anymore when you start working in the mines at sixteen. you're sick of him carrying your weight and whether he likes it or not, he's sharing vick and posy's with you-- you can provide for this family too. gale might be too good for the mines but you're not. you can help too.
the coal dust that clings to the threads of gale's hand-me-downs that you're quickly growing out of clashes against that crisp white uniform; and you continue to clash against your brother. over time, that clashing slows and ceases, seeing the evidence of your brother using his position to help where he can, to aid rebellion efforts at home and away. there's a lot you learn about your brother as you get older and go through all the ages he has already experienced, viewing them through the lens of your own life in one eye and his through another; there's a lot you've never thanked him for and aren't sure you'll ever really know how to. he works in his position and you work in yours and at the end of the day, you both come home-- that's the part that matters: you both come home.
you're twenty-three and still in the mines: eyes burning and red from the dust that falls in them, face with dark lines etched in your skin making you look older than you are, chest already starting to rattle with the start of that miner's lung. the older man next to you starts grabbing at his chest and you call for a halt, trying to help him get seated, shoving a canteen in his hand as he rubs at the spot breathing shallow through the dark dust that tries to settle. peacekeepers have joined the foremen in the mines, making sure production doesn't halt, pushing you deeper and deeper-- and just as you've got the man seated, gasping in pain as he rubs his chest, they push again. you start to argue on behalf of the man- his chest is hurting, he should see see a healer at the very least he deserves a moment to rest and catch his breath! a baton whips across your face and you see red, starting to launch yourself before you're drug back. it's not worth it, they mutter, voices rough against your ears, it's not worth it. the older man stands and work resumes. he drops dead about three hours later. you and another carry the body out, the dead weight balanced between the two of you and your anger lashes out before you can stop yourself. the baton cracks at your face again, splitting the skin above your eye and your vision does go red, dropping you to your knees. with blood on your face you carry the body back to his widow because these are your people. this man worked alongside you like a brother, an uncle, a father and you honor him in the same way you would if he were blood related. the next day you help to bury him with others in your crew; you're back in the mines an hour later and a scrawny fourteen year old year old kid takes his place in the line.
time passes and you strike a new vein of coal but you've all been doing this long enough to know that the deeper you follow it, the more unstable the shaft becomes. you tell them it's not safe; they push you. you tell them the shaft will collapse; they push you. and you see your father's death flash before your eyes as the tunnel collapses and you're dragged backward, watching the earth bury outstretched hands that reach for you. it takes three days to dig them out. time is a wheel and history repeats itself and there are still those digging who remember the last collapse, the sons whose fathers were buried now work these same mines-- and they're angry. it's not the capitol or it's peacekeepers who bury the district's dead or who care for her widows and orphans. it's you and everyone else with red-rimmed eyes and lungs burning with coal dust-- coal that never heats your homes. they don't care if you live or die because there's always room for one more on the line and there's more empty bellies in the seam than there are full in the whole of the district. you're not even sure when you started talking or when people started listening but it's a spark that catches onto every coal-dusted soul in those mines and sets it ablaze.
a sea of headlamps march from the mines and you lead them out, shovels and pickaxes gripped in tight fists: a strike. no production until conditions change. it's not anything set out by the rebellion leaders in that mythical district thirteen; no, this was twelve- the district and her people, acting in their own with that flame ignited in their chests- as you march out and are met immediately with a wall of white. bullets fly and batons whip but they're met with resistance, the tools of your trade now turned makeshift weapons. some scatter, most stand until they fall by bullet or baton and you're grazed by one, burning fire across your shoulder before the baton slams against your temple and everything goes dark. they drag you and two other 'co-conspirators' to the whipping post and you understand the sound of gale's scream that's etched in your mind, echoing through it's halls and joining yours as the whip falls against your back and shoulders. you understand how he couldn't move after, every breath feeling like fire. the train cars you had been loading for the past few weeks as you dug through that unsafe shaft are going to the capitol-- and you're going with it. since that tongue thinks it's so smart, wagging and inciting treason, the only way to deal with it is to cut it out. they're going to make you an avox.
that night, you're carried from the cell but by friendly faces-- rebels who work to get you from the justice building to the train yard, dragging your weight, legs feeling almost useless under you. they hide you in plain sight: on the train that was supposed to lead you to your doom. they shove a bandana in your mouth and tell you to bite down, muffling the sounds of pain as they lay you in a bed of coal that digs into the sore spots, staining the bandages around your torso red. you try to focus past the pain that has tears running lines through the coal dust that's settling on your face as they bury you under a layer just thin enough to be hidden: the train will take you to three. there, rebels in three will hide you for a few weeks before a train on it's way to six passes through where you'll stowaway on to get yourself to six. once you hit six, you're on foot until you reach thirteen.
you ask through the bandana you have gripped in your teeth where gale is-- it would be the first place they're going to look when they realize you're gone, he had to have a solid alibi, right now he's too important. you agree. you don't regret the choices that have brought you here and you don't regret the ones you'll have to make going forward but damn if you don't regret the fact you didn't get to say goodbye. you've left your family with a mess to clean up-- you just hope they understand why. you ask the faces to tell gale you're sorry you didn't make it home tonight.
it goes exactly as planned-- you reach three and you wait for hands that dig, reaching out to let them pull you free. they clean your back and feed you, keep you hidden until the next train rolls in to three for a pick up of technological pieces for the trains and other vehicles that rolled out of six. it makes you stir crazy- to sit and wait, sit and wait- but there's this fear in your chest that has you wondering what it is that you're so eager to go for? getting to six will have risks and getting from six to thirteen will be beyond treacherous-- and after that? unknown. you think about home a lot- about your brothers and your sister, your mother ( which twists like a knife of guilt in your gut, wondering how much grief losing a son would bring her ), of prim and how you never got to explain or say goodbye-- wondering if you're ever going to see it again. you apologized for not making it home but now you're not sure you're going to make it home for a long time. maybe never.
the train to six is harder to hide on but you manage and you've had time to heal but those still-stitching wounds are tender-- you make it to the boundary and hidden among trees before anyone can see you. they gave you a map in three- taught you how to read a map, not exactly like you'd ever had need for one before now- and you follow it, pressing deeper into territory that's familiar and new all at once. you're not sure when you actually crossed the border into thirteen, having gone further beyond the boundary and losing the fence line some time back but you're found by scouts that you at first mistake for peacekeepers and try to outrun. you don't get far and at first it looks like you've missed the welcome wagon but they help you up and take you in.
you're not sure what you imagined when you thought about district thirteen before but it certainly wasn't what greeted you. you tell them who you are and how you managed to get there. they ask you how old you are- you ask what day it is; they tell you august 20-- you tell them you just turned twenty-five. you don't argue with the work assignments that are given to you-- hell, you're just grateful that you're given something to do and don't have to sit and wait or run anymore. that only lasts a few months because you've seen the military training that goes on, you've seen the rooms where it's happening- the rebellion, planned meticulously, different strings across the district all connected to thirteen- and you didn't come all this way to scrub toilets.
the next three years are different but focus and ground you. you train, learn how to be a fighter and not a brawler, how to be a soldier not a rioter. you fall in love-- it's three years, it's bound to happen. you still think about home but less and less in the looking back way and more looking ahead. fire is catching across the districts and you're ready to fight like hell to be able to go home. it feels a different life away- district twelve- so different than the one you're living now but once again, you're struck with that stir-crazy feeling. it feels too much like sitting and waiting now even with the parts that filled the space between like the lover who wrapped around your heart. when the assignment comes, you immediately jump on it, eager to be moving again.
the assignment: peacekeeper in the capitol. rory hawthorne of district twelve is dead so you get a new name: aurelius cragg, born august 6th in district two. you tell them you don't want a new name-- especially not aurelius cragg. they tell you that you don't get to pick-- you can get rory out of 'aurelius'. you're briefed on your family history, your academic history, your record at the peacekeeper academy, all bundled up in the official documents that would prove your identity. you're smuggled across the districts to two where those documents get you a one way ticket to the capitol on a transport filled with other district two peacekeepers, freshly graduated from the academy.
the next two years, you live that double life; rory hawthorne is dead and aurelius 'rory' cragg is who looks back at you in the mirror. you wear the uniform you had sneered at when your brother wore it, working street beats and eventually your way up to private events of those self important capitol citizens. there are rebels all over the capitol and over the past two years, you've worked alongside them in different missions. you hold up the facade of this identity that isn't yours and work as a dead man in the dark, each success drawing that dream of going home that much closer- to see your brothers, your sister, your mother, your best friend- and each failure pushes it further away.
you're assigned to the tribute center this year-- a place you've spent the last two years avoiding each time the games roll around and with good reason. rory hawthorne was supposed to be dead as much as your heart yearns for that glimpse of home, you've kept your distance, never getting any closer to those victors from twelve than a television screen. for the first time, you argue against the assignment-- but you can't give an answer that will satisfy when pressed for why; you can't exactly tell your superior officer that you're supposed to be dead.
every time you turn a corner, you're afraid you're going to be found out. you've seen them- katniss and peeta, haymitch, gale and prim-- but you've taken great care that they don't see you. the things you have been helping to put into place over the last five years are starting to fall into motion and no matter how desperately you want to seek them out, you cannot risk anything going wrong.
you want to be able to go home with them when this is all over-- you can wait a little longer for your reunion.
rory is gale's younger brother, second born, typical middle child.
after their dad died, gale took on everything and was 100% rory's idol for his entire childhood and into his teenaged years
grew up as childhood besties with prim he was her self appointed guard dog growing up
gale became a peacekeeper** just as rory was entering puberty which of course meant he had to be a real shithead to gale about it for longer than he probably should've
he joins the rebellion and starts working in the mines at sixteen bc he's going to prove a point to gale. dont ask him what the point is
when he's 23, a fellow miner in his crew drops dead after being denied a moment to rest after complaining of chest pains and rory gets in an altercation with some peacekeepers.
later after warning the foremen of a shafts instability, there's a cave in that kills a handful of miners and rory organizes an impromptu strike that leads in a riot and violent altercation between d12's miners and peacekeepers.
rory and two other 'co-conspirators' are flogged publicly for inciting rebellion and are set to be sent to the capitol to become avoxes. rebels help to sneak him out and hide him in the coal being transported to the capitol that's stopping in three. rebels in three help him heal up and get him on a train to six and from six he walks to thirteen.
he spends three years training in 13 before he's sent on assignment to the capitol as an undercover peacekeeper where he's been for the last two years.
this is the first year he's been assigned to the tribute center and he's trying very hard to maintain that low profile-- we'll see how well that works out.
short math: rory was 25 when he reached district 13 so it's been 5 years since he disappeared from district 12.
has an alias 'aurelius cragg' but he thinks that name is stupid and has established that you can get 'rory' out of aurelius
** in the event we get a gale (please!!) who isn't down for gale being a peacekeeper, i will edit that in the intro-- it's just what was going on the last time i played rory!
CONNECTIONS
EX LOVER -- so rory spent three years in d13 training and preparing and between that hyperfocus, he found time to fall in love. maybe the two of them were in the same training squadron or just lived in the same area. maybe they've both fled from their districts seeking shelter in thirteen or maybe rory's the outsider who's coming into their home. however it happened, it happened and for at least while he was in thirteen, it was this bright spot of happiness in his life. but after a while, he gets restless and takes an assignment that separates the two of them and they split- amicably? less so? horribly? who knows! i think it could be fun
REBEL CONNECTIONS -- rory's been in the capitol for the last two years undercover so would love!! to come up with some connections that have developed while both of these characters have been fighting this quiet ( and not so quiet ) war behind enemy lines !! but also the rebels that helped him escape to thirteen by sneaking him out of twelve and then hiding him in three and even some in six like this network of people who are all fighting for freedom from the capitol who helped get him safe pls i beg
fr yall know im up for anything and everything let's just do this
𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝚆𝙾𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁𝚂 what it would be like to love you.
maxim crane, capitolite.
➶ i recognize that face ! that’s maxim crane, the twenty-eight year old producer/caesar flickerman's co-host from the capitol they’ve been in the capitol around twenty eight years, long enough to gain a reputation for being so debonair & hedonistic. they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character isn't part of the uprising )
BASICS.
name: maxim crane
age: twenty-eight
gender / pronouns: cis male, he/him
orientation: bisexual
home: capitol
countenance: eight diamonds embedded into skin, four underneath each collarbone; golden body art on arms; three flogging lashes on back
faceclaim: evan roderick
BIOGRAPHY.
the capitol has no shortage of beautiful faces, and you are one more added to the mix. the youngest of three, son to one of the most influential men in the capitol -- the name crane has always been well known. you live most of your life ignorant to the horrors of the world as most capitol residents do. where there are some starving and doing hard labor just to receive scraps, you argue with your siblings over who stole whose shirt and dare to worry about which colors might make your skin look too washed out.
you aren't sure at what age you begin to see it though, but it creeps in over the years just the same. you follow your father around with augustus and learn the ins and outs of his company, but it's clear the only reason you are there is because you are the backup should something happen to your brother. your father doesn't seem as worried about you knowing these things as he is augustus, and he writes livinia off entirely, your mother too worried about finding her someone nice and rich to marry even though you know your sister detests it. and yet despite it, you end up coming to this conclusion: mother and father have expectations for them, their chosen children. augustus and livinia's lives are set up and their destinations are clear. what destination is set for you?
you find yourself lacking. you wander adrift with seemingly no purpose, no real attention from your parents aside from when they require the three of you for things. your troublesome and attention-craving attitude is a nuisance at best, ignored at worst. the one person that sees through it all is cousin seneca -- he was closer to you and your siblings than your own father was, and somehow managed to give each one of you the exact thing you'd been missing in your life. for you, it was the attention you missed and the reassurance that you did not need to have your life set out for you at birth to have purpose.
when he was suddenly gone after the 74th hunger games, you could tell your siblings were just as hurt but it somehow drove the three of you further apart than you already were. through your teens, you heed seneca's advice quietly and feel like a traitor each time you do -- you aren't to even utter the man's name yet his voice rings as clear to you as it was on the day he'd said it. you can make a name for yourself, create your own path in this life -- and so you do.
you demand a position within your father's company, and are shocked when he agrees. perhaps he sees something in you. bold, charming, persuasive, you've made it clear how easily socializing is for you and he knows how valuable you could be to this company. by how easily he relents, you have a sneaking suspicion that perhaps he's playing you for a fool. you're proved right when you are not given the title right below augustus, but made a producer in the televisions department. it feels like a slap to the face, a clear show at how he does not think you to be able to handle this, that you will never be the face of this company. so you become the face of something else -- somehow, through sheer willpower and absolute determination to make these people take you seriously, make your way from behind the screen to in front of it, right there next to caesar flickerman himself.
your reputation grows quickly and messily. the charming golden boy persona who sits next to the very host everyone adores, you quickly become adored just the same. you thrive off of the attention, between being the loudest one in the room, demanding to be looked at, bold clothing and makeup, the flashiest jewelry -- rings adorning each finger, earrings hanging low to your shoulder, even styling your body and altering it designed to turn heads; an even bolder personality, you succeed in receiving that attention you so craved. a string of lost lovers, lavish parties hosted (because if there's one thing capitolites love more than the hunger games, it's a festivity), some ending with waking up in strange environments and no recollection of the night before. they love you, though, oh, they love you. they see your blinding smiles and lap up your charm and endearing playfulness like it's a lifeline. you don’t get the warmth or safety you desire from others, so you create it yourself, a walking invitation for anyone that wants it. that is the attention you begin to thrive off of-- these people you don’t know, the lingering stares and backroom lovers, the sycophancy of it all, in the hopes that it makes up for what you lack where it counts. it never does quite work out the way you want it to, though.
as you surround yourself with these people clawing and nipping at your heels, even then you struggle to admit how lonely it is. perhaps that is why your bed is always fresh with the warmth of another, why you surround yourself with noise so you aren’t reminded of the simple fact that you are, and have been for years, alone. you hide it well, a little too well. a little too much, that’s what you are, but you've known that from the moment you saw how easily the capitol's people's love was won over and the lengths you would go to to have it. a selfish part of you cannot fathom not having it. who are you without the validation of these strangers? you want to please these people, but you suspect that you have crafted your careless and cocky façade a little too strongly. try as you might not to at one point, you care too much.
you promote the games each year, commentary next to caesar, and continue to do exactly what you're expected to on screen. you watch children die and celebrate the victories and each year becomes a little more tense. it's clear that you are still looked down upon by your father. you are the pretty face next to caesar, never taken seriously, as if your messy behavior would warrant any sort of trust. caesar is the face, you are the spare. always the spare.
when you defy them, there is no room for excuses. you realize then just how closely they've been keeping an eye on the crane family, ever since seneca was disposed of -- maybe that's even why they've had you in the public eye for so long, waiting for a slip up, and between the three crane children, you were the one most likely to do just that. all these years, all that effort -- maybe that purpose you thought you'd found has been fake all along.
you hadn't meant to be seen as defying -- you went off script. that's all you did, though now you have three lashes on your back to remind you not to do it again. you know it's more than the script, it's the fact that you briefly mentioned seneca that did it. an accident, a slip up. no one knew your cousin's fate, and the look caesar gave you as it broadcasted live across the country told you everything you needed to know -- punishment was soon to follow.
after that, the gravity of things weighs on you. though the public does not know how grave a mistake you made on tv that day, a clip buried as much as they could, reputations go relatively unscathed but you have sealed your fate indefinitely -- you continue to try to prove yourself as a valuable asset to the company, walking a thin line. there is no room for a mistake to be made, even as the signs of how wrong the capitol is have begun to place in your head. a pretty face for the capitol is all you will be, so long as your father and president snow have anything to do about it.
PINTEREST | SPOTIFY
WANTED CONNECTIONS
any type of lovers: maxim is a slut ok. any sort of affairs I'm down with and so is he.
fre/enemies: though beloved by the captiol, there's gotta be people that do not buy into his golden boy peacock persona. he's annoying and loud. hate him pls.
found family: he SCREAMS found family ok ! he puts on a pretty front but this man is full of crippling self doubt and self hatred! LOVE HIM PLS.
ben barnes . cis man . he / him ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s AIRK DOVECOTE , the FORTY year old MEMBER OF SNOW’S CABINET from THE CAPITOL . they’ve been in the capitol around THEIR WHOLE LIFE , long enough to gain a reputation for being so PROTECTIVE & UNYIELDING . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character ISN’T part of the uprising )
Basic Information
Full Name: Airk Regulus Dovecote
Nicknames: N/A
Age: 40
District: The Capitol
Gender: Cis man
Pronouns: He / him
Orientation: Bisexual
Profession: Trainer, member of Snow's Cabinet/Security to President Snow
Physical Appearance
Face Claim: Ben Barnes
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Dark brown
Height: 6'2" Piercings:
N/A Scars: A scar on his left hip, a scar across the inside of his left palm, several assorted small scars
MBTI: ESTJ-A (The Executive)
Temperament: Choleric
Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Primary Vice: Pride
Primary Virtue: Temperance
Element: Fire
BIO-[TW: MENTION OF DEATH]
The Dovecote name has always held weight in the capitol-the kind of weight that insured that Airk had a rather blessed life growing up. His father held a seat on President Snow's cabinet and, even better? Held President Snow's favor.
Airk learned to never ask any real questions about just what it was that his father did. His mother always told him that he handled security for President Snow. A simple and straightforward answer. One that Airk--and most of the capitol--didn't question and Invictus was often seen at President Snow's side.
Despite being part of a capitol family--and therefore having no worry about winding up in the arena--Invictus trained Airk as if he were a career. Started young and pushed hard, kept him on his toes--he trained his son to be more than a fighter, he trained him to be lethal.
Airk never questioned it, in fact he took to training well. Never questioned. Part of him assumed that maybe his father was going to send him to be a peacekeeper, but even as Airk grew older, he stayed right in the capitol. His father taught him about the political side of the capitol, took him to a couple of meetings when he was old enough, told him to keep a sharp eye. At the end, his father would question him on seemingly random things. Tiny details that seemed pointless to notice--everything from what a person was wearing to the way they interacted with others. Airk grew up learning to be very perceptive, he learned to adapt.
It didn't take long for him to realize that his father was training him to replace him one day.
As a young man, Airk learned the truth about what his father did. He protected the President from any potential threats--specifically the people Snow decided were threats. Enemies were made when you were in a position of power, it was their job to remove those enemies from the playing field. Less security and closer to an assassin for Snow.
A job that Airk would one day take over.
All that physical skill earned him a spot training at the tribute center--every year when the games rolled around. It paid well, not that he really had a need for money. And he took pride in his job. When it came to the tributes, he truly did his best to try to keep them alive in the arena. Even though he knew only one would make it back out.
The death of his father was a surprise, and the job that Airk had trained to take over was placed onto his shoulders at an age younger than they expected. But he stepped into the role well, all that training paid off and Airk proved himself an invaluable member of Snow's cabinet. And an invaluable ally to have on his side like his father before him.
Life settled into something almost monotonous after that. Not the Airk didn't care for the social events that his job gave him access to, but they all seemed to blur together almost. Things had grown almost dull among the bright colors of the capitol.
Until Juniper came into his life.
It wasn't just her beauty that drew him in--it was her strength. Her intelligence and independence, there were some who were intimidated by Juniper--but never Airk.
They were only able to speak rarely, those far too brief moments where June was in the capitol, but Airk held those moments so close to his heart. Years passed and the flirtatious back and forth between the two turned into so much more. There were...complications, of course. A capitolite falling in love with someone from the districts. But Airk didn't share June's concerns, he knew he would do whatever it took to spend his life at her side.
June said she would marry him the third time he asked.
It was a small affair, quiet and private. But there are eyes and ears everywhere in the capitol and nothing escapes Snow's attention for long.
But Snow approved. To a degree. So long as June didn't prove a distraction, he gave his blessing to the happy couple. Allowed Airk a good amount of time with his wife--and, later on, their children--so long as his attention was where it needed to be every other week of the year.
Airk agreed. But he longs to spend more time with his family, the three people he loves more than anything in this world.
But one doesn't just leave the employ of the President. So Airk continues to serve faithfully in the hopes that one day? He will be allowed to spend his life how he wishes.
Those hopes were dashed the moment Tilly's name was drawn. When June stepped forward to volunteer to go in with her (but Airk knew she would, would she be the woman he loved if she didn't?)
It doesn't feel fair. It isn't fair to June--who had already been through that horror once before and emerged victorious, something that should have guaranteed her safety. It isn't fair to Tilly, who was far too young for this. And after everything he did for the capitol? For Snow? Even Airk-ever loyal-thinks it unfair to him.
For the first time in his life, he is beginning to question things, but as he prepares to watch his wife and child go back into that arena? He thinks his eyes have been opened far too late.
maxence danet-fauvel . cis man . he/him ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s GABRIEL DOVECOTE , the THIRTY year old STYLIST OF DISTRICT TWO from THE CAPITOL . they’ve been in the capitol around THEIR WHOLE LIFE , long enough to gain a reputation for being so IDEALISTIC & EMOTIONAL . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character ISN’T part of the uprising )
LOADING PANEM CITIZEN NO. C-87263122... G. DOVECOTE, CAPITOL.
███████▒▒▒ 50%
full name: gabriel nocturn dovecote
age: thirty
district: the capitol
gender: cis man
pronouns: he/him
sexuality: homoromantic homosexual
occupation: stylist for district two
status: active
public reception: notable for their interesting take on design, highly sought after within the capitol for their concepts
medical conditions: none.
height: 6′5″
parents: CITIZEN NO. C-23813234; uriel dovecote, CITIZEN NO. C-726312934; aphrodite dovecote.
siblings: an older brother & a younger sister ( wanted connections ).
ACCESS GRANTED.
the dovecotes have always been a staple within capitol society, and it’s something that they’ve seemed to thrive on for decades. people know who they are, people know what their family is doing and although eyes aren’t always on them much like any of the other high families, they’re still known for their resilience to rise above the horrible goings on within the inter-fighting and gossip.
uriel was a stylist in his heyday, one with great renown. founding the ‘house of doves’, the fashion house was quickly recognised for its innovative designs and forward thinking fashion. uriel never wanted two looks to exude the same emotion, to be looked upon the same: every piece was unique, just like his kids. because of this, when it came time for them to grow up as children, each of them may have been held to the same regard, but both parents had a mind for where they wanted their child to go in life. to gabe? they had an idea of perfection for their tender hearted boy. one that, he fears, he could never truly live up to.
but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try. in fact, all he did was try. in school, when it came time to speak of what their parents did, gabe did his best to design an outfit himself at the age of eight with a toy sewing machine that he’d been given by his father as a joke, a ‘maybe one day you’ll take over the house’ way. instead, he took the gift as an opportunity. maybe if he made something beautiful, gushed about his father, maybe then he’d be viewed in the same light as his older brother or younger sister. instead what happened was the fabric got torn by kids who wanted to see the soft one’s downfall. at the end of the day, all he had to show for his hard work were torn scraps and broken dreams. maybe if he was tougher, he could’ve fought back, but he wasn’t. he never would be.
their father wanted him to be the best he could be because uriel knew gabe’s potential. he could see that same spark within him that reminded him of his creativity, and although there were times when aphrodite would step in and mention about going a little easier, ultimately she knew that if gabe only applied himself, that he could achieve great things-- even outside of just riding their family name for the rest of his life. still, those words stuck in gabe’s head for years. ‘maybe one day you’ll take over the house.’ and if anything, gabe wanted the approval of his father. he tried, and tried to garner his favour through sketchbooks that were left open with designs of grand gowns, to suits with structure that would look perfect on a chariot in the very hunger games itself.
ah, the hunger games. now, that’s something that gabe has always struggled with. in school, they’re taught that the reason the districts have to pay such a terrible price such as life is because of all the countless losses that were lost in the first uprising. he...doesn’t agree with that. ultimately, life is something that should be savoured, not used as a bargaining chip. right? if panem really wanted to work towards a better future for all of its people, then the grand pageant wouldn’t be needed-- there would be a common ground found among its people and one that would benefit all. right? of course, gabe can never voice these internal thoughts. especially after his chosen profession being that of a designer, one contracted to work for the games themselves.
when the opportunity arose six years ago, gabe was twenty four and had made quite a name for himself outside of the name of dovecote, even founding his own fashion company known as featherdown. more and more, his pieces began to be mentioned at balls, at galas, at events and on day time television shows that capitolites would watch in their morning hungover stupor. featherdown is one to watch. and you’ll never guess who created them.
however, success comes at a price. uriel’s joke may not have been too much of an actual joke and more of a plan, in hindsight. so when gabe set out on his own to make his own, to have his name attached to perfectly crafted outfits for tributes during hunger games season, what he wanted more than anything was to make his father proud. instead, he was met with resentment and disappointment. ‘you were meant to follow in mine, take over the company some day. not make your own with your trust fund.’
today, gabe lives alone in a large apartment close to his workshop. it’s lonely. and although he has never truly agreed with the hunger games, the one thing he always gets happy for is for the season to roll around again. for the last three years, he has been one of the stylists for district two, a district of warriors. and if there’s something he can do, it’s make a design that will make the tributes stand out, tailor an outfit to exactly what they wanted and the image they wished to portray. if asked, he would tell the truth-- he loves each and every one of the tributes he’s had the honour of designing for, and has kept mementos of the ones that fell. though the capitol may forget their names, gabe doesn’t. and neither does district two.
john david washington . demi man . he / they ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s CINNA, the THIRTY-THREE year old DISTRICT TWELVE STYLIST from THE CAPITOL . they’ve been in the capitol around THEIR WHOLE LIFE , long enough to gain a reputation as THE RISING STAR for being so ELEGANT & SUBDUED . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising )
jean here again ! cinna is one of my favorite characters from the series because of the number of unanswered questions i have about him. his motivations, background, personality, and artistic ability are all an enigma, and i’m very excited to fall down a rabbit hole of explanations.
cinna harbour was born in the capitol to a family of artists. his mother was a tattoo artist and body modification specialist, and his father the editor of a high-end fashion magazine. although they were by no means the most wealthy or influential family in the capitol, their family’s trust was more than enough to fund their indulgent lifestyle. they saw the world as their stage, with every moment a carefully crafted performance. when life is art, image is everything. cinna was raised to put his best foot forward in every scenario, even the most dull and mundane. though many capitol families waltzed through life as if their actions had no consequences, the harbours knew that one bad moment, one unflattering headline, one malicious rumor could poison a family name for generations. thus, the pressure for cinna to shine was enormous, to say the least.
cinna’s art has always been his emotional outlet. when he doesn’t have the words to express his feelings, he instead opens his sketchbook and begins drawing. after a long, stressful day, you’ll often find him on a patio cafe, designing an entire runway show based off of a single passerby or their colorful pet. he also dabbles in architectural design, hair, and makeup as occasional side projects.
cinna’s empathy and strong sense of justice led him to pursue a career as a stylist for the hunger games. he initially strove only to give the children a better chance at survival by helping them make a strong first impression. however, he later realized that he could use his talents to bring about real societal change.
even before becoming a stylist for the games, cinna was involved with the underground rebellion in the capitol. he and plutarch heavensbee, as well as the rebel-aligned victors, have been patiently waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves and declare war on the capitol.
other rebels, particularly those from the districts, sometimes perceive cinna’s focus on fashion as shallow and materialistic. however, he believes that clothing is both an art form and the extension of the self, and it can be used to shape public perception just as much as words and other forms of propaganda. his beliefs are proven correct after his designs for katniss skyrocket her to fame as “ the girl on fire. ”
cinna’s sense of style is, paradoxically, an obvious yet subtle way he pushes back against the capitol. rather than indulging in their over-the-top lifestyle and flamboyant couture, his daily attire consists of sleek, black clothing and his signature gold eyeliner. it’s his way of altering other rebels— and only other rebels— that he is one of them.
although i admire cinna’s kindness and believe he is a good person, i’m interested in exploring the negative aspects of his character that katniss doesn’t necessarily see. although cinna genuinely cares about his tributes’ well being, they are ultimately pawns in his long-term plan: to liberate the districts and overthrow president snow. in the trilogy, he is but one of the countless adults guilty of manipulating katniss to serve their own goals. i believe that he was acutely aware of his influence over her, as it’s mentioned in the films that cinna wouldn’t show katniss his sketches for the mockingjay suit until she agreed on her own to take the role. however, i believe that he ultimately cares more about the “ greater good ” than any individual life— even katniss’s. likewise, his economic status awards him a privilege he can never fully abandon. his capitol upbringing inevitably influences his view of the world and approach to the war.
according to canon, cinna’s first year as a tribute stylist was the 74th games, and he specifically requested district twelve. i’m keeping both of these details in my portrayal. cinna’s first job in the fashion industry was as an apprentice at one of the largest fashion houses in the capitol, but he quit / was fired as a result of pervasive creative differences between himself and the lead designer. after this, he started his own fashion brand and began networking with other rebels in secret.
he rose to fame after katniss and peeta’s tribute parade, and his designs were all the rage from the period between their victory and their tour. when katniss and peeta were killed, cinna only became more popular. the star-crossed lovers’ clothes were immortalized in a museum exhibit, which cinna was forced to host and promote. following the limited exhibit, the clothes were auctioned off to the highest bidder. reliving the trauma of their loss hardened him considerably, but it also solidified his desire to see the capitol pay for their crimes.
