#th:evie

[chip-foster]

my village, my child  //  self

“Among the dead are Livia Levine, a young Gamemaker from Three. She leaves behind a daughter, Olympia.”

His hair was matted with blood. 

Most of it was not his.

The scalpel was still in the pocket of the clothes he’d been handed back as he was wheeled out of the hospital. 

They told him to set frequent alarms to keep himself awake. He did not find it necessary. Every time he closed his eyes, Vidia’s lifeless wolf eyes stared back. 

Chip turned his good ear toward the television as the list of dead was read off again. It was not just the gauze wrapped over the left side of his head that was keeping noises muffled. The doctors said it was likely he might have permanent hearing loss. It’d been hard to focus on them, just as it was hard to focus on the television he technically wasn’t supposed to be watching with his concussion. Regardless, the message stuck. And it left him sick.

Everything left him sick. The concussion made every movement nauseating and painstaking. He hadn’t gotten off his couch since getting home. Not until he finally processed Livia’s name.

He remembered when she was hired, not long after him. District Three was the second most-represented district among the Gamemakers after the Capitol. She’d been pawned off on every former resident of District Three, including its least impressive victor. He remembered she was nice. And he remembered Evie leaning over the back of the sofa to look over his shoulder one day as he scrolled through social media. She’d made him stop so she could look at Livia’s post announcing her daughter’s birth. 

He’d thought little of it since. Until now. 

He pushed himself off the couch, still in little more than a hospital gown and boxers as he tried to find where he’d dropped his close. Flakes of dried blood were fall all over his floor and hands and arms as he tried to find the pocket of his pants. His hand touched the blade of the scalpel and he quickly pulled his hand back. He rocked to the side, hitting the floor hard as he curled up. He balled his hands into fists as he held them close, eyes shut as he forced himself to see the bright blue looking back at him. 

Had Vidia deserved to die?

Maybe not. But Chip knew she probably wasn’t getting out of that lab alive. And Chip deserved to kill her.

“Again, one of those dead just a young woman with a young child. What was her name daughter’s again?” “Olympia.” “Olympia. Just tragic now that Olympia has to grow up without her mother.”

It might’ve been minutes or it might’ve been hours before he pushed himself up off the floor. It was hard to distinguish. He forgot he’d even been looking for his phone. He had to grip the back of the couch to stay standing as he looked at the television. Pictures of all the Gamemakers who’d died were lit up on the screen. Fittingly, it reminded him of his own arena, watching the faces of dead tributes light up the sky.

A clump of matted hair fell in his eyes. He pushed it away, and it fell back as he tried to focus once again on the news.

“And Vidia Vickers, the absolute genius behind the Quarter Quell...”

He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He forgot to turn on the cold water tap, just stood there watching as the water poured down and began to steam. Steam filled the entire bathroom, and he did not move as he watched it. 

He went to a rarely used shelf in his bathroom cupboard. An electric razor he hadn’t used in a long time. Beads of sweat were starting to form on his skin as the steam sank deep into his pores. He shook off the hospital gown, but it did little to change things. He plugged in the razor, and he looked in the mirror.

The blood had been cleaned off his face at the hospital, but he could still see rings around where they hadn’t quite scrubbed it clean. Around his left ear they’d shaved off some of his hair, trying to get a closer look at the damage. The razor was humming and buzzing, waiting to be put to use. He placed it just above where the nurses had shaved, and began to drag it back. Long, tangled curls fell to the floor in a heap. 

He wished for someone else to be doing this. He wished it was Perl sitting him down at a chair because she couldn’t reach, telling him she might as well shave it all off because there was no way to cut and style all those snarls. He wished it was Olive saying she’d been waiting to do this for weeks as she told him what to order for dinner. He wished it was Paslee, who’d say nothing but offer a resounding “hmph” of triumph with each strand that hit the floor. He wished it was Belle or Electra or Clover, the faces he’d known since childhood who’d each given him a bandaid or a glass of water or some form of comfort over the course of his life. He wished it was his mother, who only moved gently and would’ve gotten distracted halfway through with an idea for a painting.

But there was no one. There was just him. 

When there was nothing but stubble, he finally clicked the razor off. He’d had to wipe down the mirror several times so he could still see. He splashed cold water on his face and over his head, and remembered to turn on the cold water tap in his shower. He set several reminders on his phone to keep him awake through the night, and a reminder to book a train ticket to Three. 

He was not alone. The time had come for him to be depended on and not dependent.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

A week later he was cleared to travel, but with precautions. He got on the next train to Three, and there was no need to set alarms to make sure he did not doze off at an odd time. He couldn’t seem to find anything that would actually distract him or hold his attention. Eventually he stood, arms crossed, watching as Panem flew by as he got closer to his niece.

The Victor’s Village was quiet when he arrived early in the morning. The sun had just started to rise as he walked through the entrance. There was only a small ripple of activity from the corner of his eye, and he looked over to see the district’s oldest victor drinking out of a mug. She’d never been a kind woman, but once when he was ten she helped him make a rocket. She yelled him at him a year later when he set a rocket off that destroyed her vegetable garden. Her yard was possibly the only spot in the Village where he hadn’t thrown up or passed out.

She was the one who’d pulled him from the grass the morning of Perl’s funeral and shoved him into the shower with his clothes still on. He hadn’t seen her since that day.

“She normally starts with the chalk around seven,” she declared without prompting. 

Her voice was so unfamiliar Chip wasn’t sure if he even heard her correctly. “Uh...th-thanks.”

He kept his eyes on Belle’s house for some indication of movement behind the curtains, but there was none. When he entered his own home, he was struck with a sudden swirl of dust that made him sneeze. He found the remote to his television somewhere among the couch cushions and turned the television on.

“-Levine, she leaves behind-”

He shut the television off quickly and went to the kitchen. Everything was covered in dust. He didn’t even know where to find a rag to wipe it off, so he just batted at it the dust on the kettle with his hands and found some old tea in the cupboards. Before it was steeped, he heard movement outside. He didn’t even look through a window to see who it was, just headed to his front door that he’d left ajar despite the cold air seeping in.

First he saw Belle. Then he saw a familiar face in an upstairs window. His long legs carried him fast with each stride, but Evie was apparently going even faster as she came sprinting out the front door. He dropped to his knees in the grass and hugged her close. He wasn’t sure if it was him or her shaking more as they cried.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

“What’s a clone?”

Chip folded his hands together on the table, glancing out the window to see the nation streaming by as he considered the best way to answer his niece’s question. “Y-You know tr-tracing paper?” She nodded. “I-It’s like th-that. The same picture. J-Just made a differ-rent way. N-Not th-the r-real picture.”

“Why did they do that to Mommy?”

“Uh...sh-she was a good picture to copy.”

“Will they do it again?”

He scratched at cartilage on his left ear. He did not hear his own nail moving against his skin. He saw Vidia, and he blinked it away. “I-I don’t th-think so.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Snow was keeping most people home in the Capitol. After an afternoon of building snowmen and making snow angels and drinking hot chocolate, Evie was fast asleep. Paslee was in her space. It was just Chip left completely alone for the first time in two weeks, with only the television to keep him company. With so many people likely trapped at home, rehashing news of the Tower attack seemed the only way to pass time.

“And we know, Livia Levine left beyond a baby girl...”

Chip still didn’t know if the keycard he stole gave the rebels access. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever know. Maybe nothing he did or didn’t do had any impact on the outcome of that day. He knew the blood directly on his own hands, and he had no regret about it. It was the indirect blood, the possibility he’d been responsible for taking a parent away from someone, that felt like a constant, sharp pressure at the base of his skull.

“Thankfully, she’s been adopted by another Gamemaker so we know she will have a good life. And...”

This was new. This was entirely new. He didn’t know another Gamemaker had adopted Livia’s daughter. He pushed himself off the couch and took up a seat at the counter where his phone was charging. He sent out several texts to people he hadn’t contacted in weeks. It didn’t take long to get a response. Colette Neptune. She was taking care of Olympia. He could access and talk to the person now in charge of this child of Three. He could help. 

He’d had Colette’s phone number for some time now, though he’d never, ever had a reason to use it. Until now. 

It’s Chip. How’s Olympia?

[chip-foster]

killer instinct  //  self

Chip Foster 

(p. noun): 

1. Victor. 110

2. Killer of Freyja Slate

3. Patron saint of the hackers, slackers, stoners, loners, burnouts, and dropouts.

It is widely believed Chip Foster killed because he was hallucinating.

Actually, Chip Foster just killed the wrong person because he was hallucinating.

Chip Foster had every intention to kill. 

It is a survival instinct. 

The Fosters were great friends to their son, but they were not great parents. It was Perl who kept him fed, who kept track of his birthdays, who first saw how he flew through school assignments. She kept track of his inhalers, his grades, his sleep schedule, his everything. Edison was an excellent experimenter who included his son on all sorts of fun “let’s try this” activities; and Dayta had her son sit for several hours at a time for various portraits. But it was Perl who raised him, long before his parents were killed. 

It was Perl’s survival instinct that got them all there. In a comfortable house and not a trailer. With full bellies and not the same cheap meals for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

Perl won. And Edison and Dayta had another child. They’d been through the Games with their child as a tribute before. They did not want to get through it again, and they were brilliant and creative enough that their minds could only be a benefit to the rebellion. They did what they thought was necessary to keep their son out of the Games.

Little did they know...

Edison and Dayta Foster may have been bad parents, but that bred an individual spirit in their children that could survive almost anything. 

Almost.

Two Games is too much for most people. Three is far too much. Not just on the body, but on the psyche, too. 

Chip could try all he wanted not to be selfish, but he still saw himself before he saw anything else in the woods. He saw a boy who had yet to die for the first time. He saw Sera again, with blood spilling out of her neck. He saw it all, as heads turned in the Cave, the tech hub, to stare at him. He was standing almost instantly, eyes locked on the screen as he watched the scene play out.

And then Perl was there, on another screen. There were dozens of screens on the wall to monitor several parts of the arena at once. But there was one large screen at the center that only his supervisor controlled. 

“Put it up.”

“Gamemaker Foster-” He wished he could’ve laughed. They only used such formal titles in the Cave when shit was going wrong.

“Victor Foster.”

He’d pulled the title exactly twice in his life. The only other time was for Evie.

It took only a few taps before Perl was on screen. For several minutes, she roamed through the dark of the woods. It didn’t matter what anyone else in that room wanted. Chip was calling the shots.

Then it happened too quick for him to even anticipate. 

A ghost. 

An attempt to run. 

A mutt.

He remembered watching her drown the first time. He remembered banging on other doors on Three’s floor and calling sponsor phone number after sponsor phone number to try to get her a snorkel, scuba gear, anything. She was dead before he stopped. The cannon had sounded before he gave up. He was high before he reckoned with her death.

Chip Foster had been here before, for all intents and purposes. Technically, Chip Foster, of the year 120, had watched his sister die before. But he had not. Surviving means adapting, changing. He’d survived. He’d survived his parents’ death, Sera’s death, Freyja’s death, Perl’s death. 

Chip Foster made his living on mourning. 

And still. And still it hit him. But it did not hit him the same way it would’ve in 120. When he left the Cave with steady breath, at a steady pace, he was not heading to a bar. He had access that he never had before. He had no idea who caused the flood that killed his sister. But he knew who had control of the mutts. And when he scanned his ID card at the entrance to their section of the headquarters, he was allowed in. They probably thought he was no threat.

It’d taken all his self-control to keep breathing, to keep moving. He let the control go. He saw Perl vividly - dying by a mutt, drowning in the 120th, at the hospital after Evie was born, helping him blow out the candles on his birthday candle when he was too nervous to do it in front of the whole of District Three’s Victors’ Village.

It took a village to raise a child. The child never wanted to be part of the village.

There was an empty hallway full of colors Chip didn’t care to recognize. Then a Gamemaker turned the corner in a crisp white button-up with an ID card clipped to his ironed shirt pocket. 

Poor fool. 

Didn’t he know what happened when you got stuck in a tunnel with Chip Foster?

Chip lunged forward. He swung first, knuckles colliding with a slack jaw so hard it echoed in the hallways. Another swing, another, and another. Then he wrapped his bony fingers around the Gamemaker’s neck and pressed hard. He wanted to feel something break. He wanted to feel something collapse. He wanted to cut through the skin with his nails and watch blood flow. He wanted to kill this man he’d deemed responsible for his sister’s death. It didn’t matter who held the real responsibility.

Survival did not come with 100% accuracy.

A robotic hand grabbed his shoulder. He knew he’d only break his own bones if he tried to fight against it. His knuckles were raw and bloody from the attack, and his body was so fucking tired. The other Gamemaker was already unconscious. In the struggle, his pristine ID card had slipped off. 

A quick calculation was necessary.

Chip slammed his hands on the ground as he was dragged back, his palm falling on the other Gamemaker’s ID card. He flicked his middle finger and sent the laminated card up his sleeve. Sleight of hand. It came with being a fucking delinquent. 

The robotic Peacekeepers forced him to stand, then marched him down the hall. When he was shoved into a spare office in the Gamemakers’ HQ, he pretended to shake out his shoulders and shimmied the card higher up his sleeve. He was met soon by the head of security for the Tower, who greeted him first with an off-the-record word of sympathy. Then the recording device turned on.

“State your name for the record.”

“Chip Foster.” 

Chip Foster, the rebel. 

[chip-foster]

tear it down, build it up again

Evie was in the car. 

Chip remembered when she was born. Barely. Another detox, locked in a room with nothing but four walls as he was pumped full of fluids to get the toxins out. It was the first time he went in on his own, though. She was several hours old when he showed up, weak, tired, and with a little bit of sweat still stuck to his brow. He thought Perl might not let him hold her. He remembered the way his breath left his lungs when he heard her full name. Evelyn Winnie Foster, Chip Winston Foster’s niece. He remembered whispering an apology to her little head for the middle name they were both stuck with. 

It was the middle of the afternoon. Six days since the Games launched.

He remembered when she took her first steps. He was actually sober for that one. He couldn’t get his phone out fast enough to take a video. He hates that it’s so shaky, but his hands couldn’t stay still. On the television in their living room there’s a nonstop display of videos and pictures he’s taken of his niece since she was first born. There are significant lapses, and it’s a jolt to his system when he sees the obvious time gap between two back to back pictures. 

He always played music when Evie was in the car, even during the Games. Her selection.

He remembered the fall of 116. It was the first time he’d spent several months in Three in a row, but it was easier to stay sober that way. He remembered the first time he stepped on a toy Evie left at his home and let out a spew of profanities his sister would’ve been embarrassed to hear. At least he hadn’t stuttered. He remembered the fear that Evie might have a speech impediment, that she might feel that same barrier he felt in every fucking conversation he ever had. He remembered the first time he showed her a video game. She was so fucking smart.

When an important announcement came in the Games, it always interrupted the music, though. Always.

He remembered the first time he showed her the room he’d set up for her at his apartment, he remembered holding his breath. She knew what she wanted more than he ever would. When she smiled, he thought he’d melt through the floor with relief. She had suggestions for improvements, of course, and he got on it quickly. Each time she stayed over, they did something to the room to change it a little. Even if it just meant drawing a new picture to add to the wall. He never did anything to change it without her permission. She was such a good kid. He was certain she was going to do something important. More important than her uncle ever did, at least.

“We’re interrupting your programming to announce...”

He remembered the first time he saw Evie after Perl died. He was as fucked up as the entire situation. He doesn’t remember what she said, doesn’t remember if he even hugged her. She’s just somewhere in his blurred memories from the days after Perl died.

“To announce the death of the District Six tribute, Jubilee Hudson.”

The music flicked back on, but there was only ringing in Chip’s ears. He was always careful about his driving when Evie was in the car, but it felt like the world was slipping. He thought she might make it, the smart girl from Six who was going to change even part of this unchangeable nation. He hadn’t ever said it out loud. It could get him fired. But he thought she’d make it.

He thought Perl would make it, too, so maybe he wasn’t so good at guessing a victor. The engine revved as he pressed down on the accelerator. The streets of the Capitol were so familiar to him he barely slowed around corners. He didn’t know where he was going. He wasn’t driving home, that was all he knew. 

His thoughts were folding in on themselves and leaving his knuckles white as he clutched the steering wheel. What was the point? What was the fucking point of it all? All these fucking kids - these people - who deserved to live and died because of what? Entertainment? Greed? Power? Electrical wiring he understood. Power dynamics confounded and aggravated him. 

Someone stepped into the street. He blinked his dry eyes. The ringing in his ears stopped and he heard Evie’s voice singing along with the music on the radio. He slammed the brakes, turning the wheel as the person picked up to a jog to avoid getting hit. The car spun, and the only place Chip could look was in the rearview mirror at Evie as he eyes stared wide out the window.

The driver’s side of the car hit a snowbank first, but it wasn’t enough to completely break the momentum before Chip’s door slammed into a light post. The glass shattered just moments before the airbag deployed. His left arm was pinned at a painful angle between the seat and the car door. He tried not to breathe for a few seconds. He didn’t know what glass shards were hovering on his lips and he knew, from experience, the dust in the airbag would send him into an asthma attack. 

He turned his aching neck to look in the rearview mirror at Evie. She was on the opposite side of the car, unharmed even if obviously jarred. Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. What the fuck had he just done?

Chip used his good hand to pull his phone off the dashboard and held it as far back as he could to Evie without turning his body too much. “Call Paslee,” he said, struggling not to wheeze as he spoke. “She needs to pick you up.” 

Evie started to protest, but she eventually gave in and dialed for the Avox who looked after her. Watching her in the mirror, Chip only felt numb. He felt like he was looking at his sister, before he ever met her. Caring for herself while their parents, young then, tried to get by. Too young to care for herself. Evie shouldn’t have to do that, either. No kid should. It wasn’t up to the kids of Panem to be relied on to change the world one day. There was no guarantee they’d get there, not with the Games. It was a suffocating weight to put on small, growing minds. And he’d done just that. Relied on those younger than him to survive, in the hopes they’d do what he was too much of a coward or too selfish to do himself.

It didn’t take long for Paslee to arrive in a cab. Quicker than the emergency vehicles, even, but that was the Games for you. Nothing else mattered when they reached this point, not even car crashes. Chip wanted to promise Evie he’d pick up her favorite ice cream on the way home, but she was just staring at him as she got out of the car and waited patiently with Paslee. Chip’s car had to be dug out before they could pry the door open. He thought it’d be a relief when the pressure on his arm was gone, but it was a new kind of searing pain that made him let out what almost sounded like a yelp. He was too embarrassed to look at Evie after that.

He wasn’t sure how many hours went by of examinations. Surgery wouldn’t be needed for the arm, that was really all he heard. But he would be held for a little while. They wanted to look at a few more X-rays, and keep an eye on him in case he’d inhaled too much from the airbag. He’d heard most of it before, he knew all the physical therapy he’d have to do, so he let his mind wander. His eyes scanned over every inch of technology in the room. From the X-ray machines to the cleaning bots that swiveled on the floor and sanitized instruments. It was only in the Capitol where he’d get this treatment. Only the Capitol was allowed the luxury of cleanliness without labor.

“Hello Panem,

It’s been a few years since you’ve heard from us. “

Chip wasn’t paying much attention to the Games as he sat, examining every inch of the hospital room. He was already racking his brain for what was underneath everything, and where cheaper parts could be found or how a cheaper version could be built.

He remembered the transmission from the night before. It took him a moment to recognize the face on the screens. It was probably the only other person he’d taken notice of during the 120th Chariots outside of Perl.

“Seventy-five families and communities are missing a child, a friend, a loved one.”

Him among them, but wasn’t all this about not being selfish anymore?

“But every forward movement, every life laid down for our cause...”

Death was inevitable. It didn’t matter what the hell anyone thought of the Games. They’d die to avoid it, to end it, to be in it. They’d die in the cold nights when their home was struck down by rebellion. They’d die of starvation when the government deprived them for excesses in the Capitol. 

They’d die fighting in a rebellion while a teenage kid in Three filmed it all on his phone, cowering behind a building. They’d die while their son at home, only seven, tried to build himself a dog with some metal and wire scraps. 

“We will win this fight.”

Would they? Every rebellion made the same promise. He believed he’d heard it all before. Twenty-six and he was heading into the fourth rebellion of his lifetime. 

Not that he was going headfirst himself into this.

Chip had other plans. 

[chip-foster]

deserving  //  self

Chip went back to his room to grab his cigarettes and, when he realized his head was bare, another hat. Before the elevator even reached the garden he was smoking, and a small cloud preceded him as he stepped out. This high up at this hour, it was a little chilly, but he still felt flushed enough to not bother even wishing for a sweatshirt. 

It was a relief to find the space empty as far as he could see. Everyone was probably tuned into the Games as they went into the tenth day. The last twenty-four hours felt like they’d been longer than the rest of the Games, though. 

Chip bent forward to lean his forearms on the railing, flicking some of the ash into the forcefield and watching the little specks get zapped. He wondered if Ravenite would even let Evie come to the Tower, so Chip could try to at least see her during the Games. He wouldn’t put it past Ravenite to be so cruel; and he also wouldn’t put it past the man to parade his daughter with a victor around like she was a doll.

The cigarette went flying into the forcefield and Chip lit another one as he watched the remnants get zapped and fall away. He started to pace. Kai had custody of two kids, right? Chip knew his own history was likely filled with more extreme mistakes, but that didn’t mean Kai was an angel. He was a married man, after all.

Fuck, he was a married man.

Would it be the first time Chip aided and abetted (or abedded?) in infidelity? Hardly. But there was a difference between fucking someone who was married and you saw them once a year at a party, and having sex with a married friend. Still...He tilted his head to the side as he considered what could be his regrets and concluded he had none. Zephyr wasn’t there. People didn’t just fuck around on their spouses for no reason. And selfishly, Chip was relieved to have slept with someone other than Shava without needing drugs or alcohol in his system for the first time in a long time.

Then a concern struck him - would this kind of gossip be held against him in a custody battle? Ravenite was a sponsor, and one who was in favor with Battenberg, at that. Chip was the kid who didn’t deserve to win the 110th. 

The cigarette quickly burned up and ash fell off the edge as Chip sucked in until he thought he might never breathe again. The smoke escaped his mouth with a harsh sigh. 

What did it mean to be undeserving?

Ravenite was definitely deserving of the punch that broke his nose.

Evie was undeserving of being deprived of a relationship with her uncle.

Chip felt he was karmically deserving of the lost contact.

Electra was deserving of her release from the Games.

Nova was undeserving of what happened to her in the Arena. 

Belle was deserving of a life with her family in Three.

Olive was undeserving of the coward she’d found in Chip when the Peacekeepers closed in on her. She wasn’t deserving of his anger, either, even if it bubbled up again at the memory of what happened the night before. But how could she know what it meant to lose family and still be the catalyst for him to lose the only family he had left?

Perl was undeserving of her death. Perl was undeserving of all the hell he’d put her through. Perhaps the only reason he’d gotten out alive was because she deserved it. 

And his parents...his parents were undeserving of their execution.

Chip walked back to the railing, taking deep breaths between long pulls on the cigarette. He needed a third before long. 

Edison and Dayta...what would they think of their son now? Would the two rebels be ashamed their son was too scared to join a rebellion? Had he ever done anything that could make anyone in his family proud? Was the time to start really when they were all dead?

All dead. And here he was, the least deserving of them all to be alive. The one who stayed alive through overdoses, car crashes, and a whole fucking arena. 

Here he was. The victor of the Foster family.

Chip rubbed a hand over the top of his hat. He had no regrets for what he’d done that night, but that was nothing compared to the stack of regrets from his life that grew higher everyday. Evie couldn’t be added to them. Not after everything he’d put Perl through; not after everything Ravenite and Panem put her through. Perl had to step up to raise him, now it was his turn to step up. It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be comfortable. But he had a card he could pull that Ravenite never could. 

Taking out his phone, Chip scrolled through his contacts until he found the number for the Games liaison in Battenberg’s office. He was surprised to hear someone pick up at that hour, but they were probably getting calls from Sponsors and victors all throughout the Games.

“Hello, Mr. Foster, how can we help you this evening?” 

“I-I need to talk to Batt-ttenberg or someone in her off-ffice,” Chip explained. “A pers-sonal m-matt-tter I need some h-help with.”

“Well, Mr. Foster, as you can imagine, the president and her entire office is very busy with the Games. We can try to schedule something in September, maybe, when-”

He paused, taking a drag on the cigarette as he considered his options. The best option seemed clear. 

“I-I’m a fucking victor. Someone can m-make the time.”

[chip-foster]

The Foster Family

Edison Foster - deceased at 38 (executed for inciting a rebellion)

Dayta Foster - deceased at 38 (executed for inciting a rebellion)

Perl Foster - deceased at 40 (tribute in the 120th Hunger Games)

Chip Foster - 26

Evelyn “Evie” Foster - 6

[feather-ed]

India ink drawing of Evelyn Lockhart, colored by artistic magic, that may one day be found in a corner of the Hall of Prophecy after slipping out of Keeper Edward Corner’s bag in early 2027. 

[feather-ed]

Edward Corner + Evelyn Lockhart Aesthetic

[sal-rizzo]

Evie, Astrid, Nerissa

Evie

Here is a post-it

A reminder to sit still

And enjoy the show

Astrid

Sometimes I wonder

What pain you all must carry

To stand up so tall

Nerissa

You could do so much

I can see it in you now

You and all these kids