Once again, disclaimer: Georgette and Abner have not had their birthdays yet.

Also: MASSIVE trigger warning for Mila's POV. Su*c*de, romanticization of, and some graphic imagery. This trigger warning will apply to most, if not all, of Mila's POVs, as well as Robin's. These two are incredibly dark and upsetting: consider yourself warned. I'm always willing to give summaries- mental health is more important than fanfiction.

Georgette Hemingway, 17*, District Eight Female

September 12th, 87 ADD

Georgette's room was an absolute mess.

That morning, while Georgette was minding her own business, her mother had entered her room (without knocking) and dumped an enormous pile of clothes on the floor. Then, without so much as a nod, she'd turned on her heel and left. Leaving the door wide open. Leaving Georgette to clean up the mess she'd made.

The clothes themselves were all new, purchases for the fall. The Hemingways were the owners of one of Eight's largest dye producers, and as such, made regular public appearances. Even beyond that, though, there were expectations that Georgette always needed to look her best. So new clothes appeared every season, ruining the order that was Georgette's closet. Every drawer was labeled and filled with dividers to make sure everything remained in their place, all the way down to the sock. Hanging from rods were all manner of blouses, dresses, skirts, and sweaters, again divided by garment type. The clothing on hangers was also organized by fabric and shade, because if it wasn't it would drive Georgette absolutely insane.

But of course, her mother had to come in and ruin Georgette's tranquility, and destroy her peace of mind with it. For the last three hours, Georgette had desperately been trying to fit the new clothes in. She redivided her drawers and unhung her dresses and recategorized everything, because she needed it to make sense. Everything needed to be in the right place. The whole process made her nauseous, but the pile of wrinkled clothes was somehow worse, so she kept going.

Well into the afternoon, another face appeared at her door. Luckily for her, Chiffon was in a much friendlier mood than her mother.

"You hungry?" her younger brother asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Haven't seen you all day."

"What time is it?" she asked, absentmindedly, as she unhung a sweater. She'd thought she'd found its place, but it clearly wasn't working. The colors were off.

"Four," Chiffon replied.

Georgette finally looked over at Chiffon. "It's four? Already?"

Chiffon glanced around her room. "C'mon, let's take a break," he replied. "The clothes can wait."

"If I don't do it now, it'll keep bothering me," Georgette said. "I have to finish it first."

"At least let me bring you something?"

"Fine," Georgette relented. "But only if you want to."

Chiffon nodded. "I'll be back," he promised. "And when I come back you're going to relax."

That earned him a timid smile. Then he was gone, thumping down the stairs in the manner teenage boys do. Georgette watched him go, a million thoughts swirling around in her mind. But that wasn't anything new, so she went back to reorganizing her closet.

Just as she'd finished sorting the blouses, her brother's footsteps echoed across the floor. She turned to see him setting a plate on her desk, and utensils next to it. He hesitated.

"You should probably go," Georgette said.

"I know," he replied. But he continued to linger.

"You know they won't like it," Georgette pressed.

Chiffon looked away, his gaze landing on the half-finished painting sitting in the corner. "What's that?" he asked.

"It's unfinished," Georgette answered.

Chiffon stepped toward it, his brow furrowing. "Is it supposed to be us?"

Georgette rose from the shrinking pile of clothes surrounding her. "I don't even like it that much. I might just start over…"

Chiffon bit his lip. "No, I… I like it."

Georgette took a closer look at the painting in question. It clearly needed work- the girl's nose was crooked, and the father's shirt wasn't draped quite right, and her brother Cotton's eyes weren't the same size. But standing in the center was undeniably the Hemingway family, with two parents and three boys painted in vivid color, standing together in solidarity.

"Why are you painted in gray?" Chiffon asked.

Her eyes shifted to the leftmost edge of the canvas, to the image of a girl, her back turned on the rest.

All alone.

Ghostlike.

"It's a metaphor," Georgette replied, her voice soft. "For how they see things."

"Oh." Chiffon stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I mean… they still love you, you know."

Georgette didn't answer.

"You know that, right?"

The Hemingway parents still hadn't forgiven Georgette. It had been five years, and they still went out of their way to ignore their eldest daughter as much as possible. After all, she was the disappointment. She was the rebellious one, the selfish one. Because God forbid twelve-year-old Georgette should want an identity, a life of her own.

At the very least, they hadn't disowned her. That would be too much of a scandal for them. Instead, Georgette remained where she was, a ghost in her own home.

"Yes," Georgette finally replied.

"Okay," Chiffon replied, clearly unconvinced.

Another pause hung in the air, both siblings unsure of what to say. They cared for each other, they really did, but a wedge was being driven between them. A wedge of Georgette's making, because in declaring she wanted to be an artist, she'd turned the Hemingway's world upside down. She was supposed to be the heir, her father's pride, and she'd thrown it away.

The whole thing was her fault, really.

Her fingers itched to grab the paintbrush, to help her push back the guilt.

"I should probably go," Chiffon finally said. "Promise you'll eat something?"

"Yes," Georgette replied, still aching to get back to her work. The closet, the painting, there was so much to be done, her thoughts jumbled and twisted together-

"Okay," Chiffon said. "I'll see you later, then."

Georgette nodded, and Chiffon left her room, shutting the door gently behind him. Georgette turned to survey her bedroom. Several garments were still strewn about the floor, and the more she studied her painting, the more she needed to fix. She took a peek at the meal Chiffon had brought- decent enough for a teenaged boy- and straightened the silverware he'd left next to it. Then, she returned to the closet.

After all, Georgette's room was still an absolute mess.

Abner Beacon, 17*, District Five Male

October 18th, 87 ADD

Abner woke up to a drop of rain hitting him square on the forehead. He opened his eyes to see that more rain was incoming, and quickly rolled out of the way to avoid being soaked. If it were his house, he'd bother with fixing the roof, but since the closest thing he had was this abandoned warehouse, he'd just have to move over a few feet.

After getting dressed, Abner immediately headed over to the Westmoor home. Despite being only five minutes away, the Westmoors lived in an entirely different world than Abner. Their house had multiple floors, and there was enough space for everyone to have their own bedroom. While Five was a pretty warm place, they didn't have to worry about whether or not they had enough blankets to keep from shivering through the night.

Most importantly, they still had each other.

Something that could not be said for Abner.

For a brief, rare moment, Abner let himself wonder about Ozias. Is he even still alive?

Before that train could continue any longer, Abner was at the Westmoor's door. He knocked, and it was only a few seconds before it swung open to reveal Faven Westmoor.

"Good morning," she said, suddenly shy.

"Hi," Abner replied. The smell of cooked meat wafted through the doorway, making his mouth water. "Is that bacon?"

"Yes," Faven answered. "It's just you and me today. Everyone else already left."

Abner raised a brow. "For work? This early?" He would've liked to see Mr. Westmoor.

Faven sighed and turned around, walking deeper into the house. Abner followed, closing the door behind them. "There's some big event for the mayor next weekend, and apparently it's all hands on deck," she continued. Both of the Westmoor parents worked for the mayor, which was where all their wealth came from. "And Elora had brunch with friends, and Ivory said she didn't want to third wheel."

"Third wheel?" Abner scoffed. "We're not dating or anything."

A tiny smile crept onto Faven's lips. "She's just not cool enough to hang out with her little sister," she joked.

"Yeah, clearly she's too cool to hang out with the homeless kid from down the street," Abner added, smirking.

"Homeless orphans? Ivory could never."

"Yeah, she's actually allergic to the likes of me."

"It's probably the smell," Faven laughed.

Abner took a whiff of his shirt. "Am I that bad?"

"Ivory clearly thinks so. I'm still deciding."

"Damn, and I just did my laundry here, too."

"Oh, really? Looks like we'll have to replace our washing machine now…"

The pair had reached the kitchen by now. Abner's arrangement with the Westmoors- meals in exchange for work- had been in place for years, but the sight of the kitchen still took him off guard every time. It was a shining room full of marble and stainless steel and food. Abner made a beeline for the bacon, piling a plate full of it. He added a piece of toast and some eggs to round it out, and Faven met him at the table with a plate of her own. They dug in.

"Wait wait wait," Faven interrupted. "What happened to your hand?"

Abner paused, his mouth full of food, and glanced down at his left hand. He took a second to swallow before answering. "Looks fine to me."

"Abner," Faven said, exasperated, "your other hand."

"Oh, that?" Abner asked, quickly pulling it under the table. "No big deal. Just, you know, looking out for myself."

"Abner."

He relented, placing his hand in Faven's outstretched one. He would wince, except it would get Faven even more worked up than she usually was. His knuckles were… not shredded, exactly, but not entirely whole either. Angry purple stains enveloped each mark.

Her hand is so warm, Abner realized.

"Did you at least clean it?" she asked.

Abner shrugged.

Faven pursed her lips as she stood and crossed the room to retrieve a medical kit. That kit in particular was usually used to fix up Abner. She brought it back to the table, opening it up and pulling out some antiseptic.

"Faven, really, it's fine," Abner protested. "It doesn't hurt or anything."

"Mmmhmm," she replied. She soaked a cotton ball with it and, before Abner could protest any more, applied it to one of his knuckles. Abner winced.

"That's what I thought," she said, dabbing his hands clean of blood. "Tell me what happened."

"Nothing, really."

"Tell me."

Abner glanced up to see Faven's warm blue eyes, like the sky on a summer day, staring right into his. His best friend of four years had a way of seeing right through him, and who was he to hide from her?

"I was on my way home last night," Abner said, lowering his voice, "and I ran into a Knuckle."

"Oh my God."

"And he came up to me, and started pushing me around, and I, uh… I lost it."

"That's strange that they're so close to this side of town," Faven mulled.

"They're close to my side, not yours," Abner replied. Even the Brass Knuckles wouldn't get close to a neighborhood like the Westmoor's. But Abner's neighborhood, the one made up of abandoned buildings and decay? That was no problem.

"I'm sorry that happened," Faven said. "That must have been hard. And I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah," Abner mumbled. On another day, he would've made a joke to break the tension, but he wasn't feeling cheery. Faven continued cleaning his hand- frankly, he'd been lucky to only receive that (plus the bruised rib he was doing his best to conceal). He should know better. But with the Brass Knuckles, he was never forgiving.

You can't leave me! You're all I have left, please…

I have to go, Abner.

Three weeks later, his last brother, Ephraim, was dead. No question which gang was responsible. Abner closed his eyes, willing the images away.

He was only fourteen.

"All clean," Faven said, interrupting his line of thought. He was grateful for that. He opened his eyes to see his hand was all patched up, and he gave her a smile. She beamed back at him, and for a second, he felt okay again.

His parents were dead. Ozias was long gone. Ephraim had chosen a lonely death over his only relative. Abner was the only Beacon still standing, and he was alone.

Looking at Faven Westmoor, somehow, he was able to forget that.

Chamomile "Mila" Nazeryan-Perdanez, 18, District Nine Female

November 8th, 87 ADD

"Thought I'd find you here."

Mila kept her stare on the tombstone as Robin sat beside her on the cold hard ground. The same cold hard ground her mother, Cel Perdanez, laid in, her eyes gouged out and her wrists slashed. The same cold hard ground his mother, Daria Makrain, laid in, eyes missing and wrists matching Cel's, only a few feet away.

The images were seared into her mind, and she welcomed them. Mila did not fear death.

She didn't.

"I brought you something," Robin said.

Mila finally tore her eyes away from her mother's grave. Robin was ready for her, patient and gentle, as he slipped his hands into hers.

"What is it?"

Robin smirked. "Me."

In spite of herself, Mila laughed.

"There we go," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"What kind of gift is that?" she asked, still smiling.

"Well, it is your birthday," he answered. He pretended to pout. "Am I not special enough, Your Highness?"

"You're always enough," she replied. She squeezed his hands, and he squeezed back, this boy that was fully, overwhelmingly, hopelessly in love with her, who came the closest a person could come to understanding Mila Nazeryan-Perdanez. The boy who stood by her as she conquered death.

That's what she was, a conqueror. Someone who had beaten death at its own game so many times she might as well be-

"You're going to rule the world someday, you know that?" said Robin. He cocked his head, clearly intent on preventing another spiral. His eyes searched hers, checking to make sure the light was still in them.

"That's the goal," she replied, pushing back the exhaustion. She was going to enjoy her birthday, dammit. Who knew how many more she'd get. After all, Cel was only seventeen when her eyes, sightless to begin with, were torn from her head.

I'm older now than she'll ever be, Mila realized. The idea struck a nerve.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, leaning in closer. He radiated warmth, and she found herself drawn to him. He really was her lighter half.

The words burst from her before she could stop them- uncharacteristic of Mila, but Robin was good at getting under her guard like that. "If I died, would you come with me?"

"Mila," he replied, immediate and earnest, "do you even need to ask?"

"I need to hear you say it," she said, cringing at the desperation in her words.

"Miss Chamomile," he replied, a smile playing across his lips, "I would die a hundred times just to see you smile." He leaned in even closer, and Mila could feel his breath on her neck. "Besides, you're not getting rid of me that easily."

He planted a kiss on her cheek before drawing away. Before he could get too far, she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He pulled her closer.

Mila let Robin hold her for a long, long time.

That night, Mila and Robin returned to the graveyard. This time, they brought one of Mila's followers, Kris, along with them. The rest of her followers were not in attendance- these last moments were too important. Only Mila and Robin, the Queen and her Jester, ever witnessed them in person.

Six days into the arena, and Cel Perdanez had walked right into a trap.

In the back corner of the graveyard was an ancient oak tree, stretching dozens of feet in the air.

Cel fought furiously, but the net would not give.

The threesome stopped in front of the tree.

"Oh, did the little blind mouse get caught in a trap?"

Kris turned to look at Mila, her eyes already dead.

A shriek bubbled up in Cel's throat. She knew that voice. If she didn't get away now, the Games were as good as lost.

"Go on," Mila whispered.

"No one's here to save you," the girl from Two mumbled into her ear. Cel flinched away, desperation in her every movement. She scrambled for the ropes- maybe she could untie them?

Kris nodded, her expression solemn.

She reached up only to be met with cold metal. The Blood Queen sliced her knuckles open, and Cel shrieked.

Kris turned back to the tree.

"You have pretty eyes, you know."

Kris began to climb.

"Shame they're useless."

Next to her, Robin pulled out his camera.

Cel began to writhe in the net, punching and kicking and shrieking. A few blows met flesh, but not enough damage was done.

Kris was about ten feet in the air now.

"Don't worry, little mouse," the Blood Queen murmured. "We're going to have lots of fun."

Fifteen.

It went on for hours, then days. The girl from Two took advantage of Cel's blindness, leaving every inch of her battered and bruised and bleeding. And the taunting never stopped.

Twenty.

One night- at least, Cel thought it was night; it was difficult to tell how much time had passed- while her torturer was asleep, she managed to untie one of the net's knots. And then a second, and a third. She was so tired, but Mila, Daria, they needed her…

Thirty.

A few more knots, and the net finally caved, sending Cel tumbling to the ground.

Forty.

Loudly.

Forty-five.

Loud enough to wake the Blood Queen.

Fifty.

"Maybe those eyes of yours work better than I thought… best get rid of them, just in case…"

"Here she goes," Robin murmured.

And Cel screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed, and her eyes were really gone now and she was tied up again and she couldn't keep doing this and-

Above them, Kris swayed with the wind, staring out at the night sky. Robin readied the camera.

Cel was done.

Kris closed her eyes.

The next time the blade came near her, she threw her wrists against it.

Kris let go.

Again, and again, and again.

Kris fell down, down, down.

I'm so sorry, Mila. I'm sorry, Daria, and Voitsekh…

Kris shattered.

Cel faded.

Robin's camera flashed.

The Blood Queen roared.

Mila's lips twitched into a smile.

It was over.

Robin crashed into Mila, and this time, it was no gentle kiss on the cheek as his lips met hers.

Thank you to Very New To This for Georgette, HELF for Abner, and Dawn for Mila! I had a lovely time with them, and I'm very eager to hear everyone's thoughts. All about 1k again. Several of you will probably recognize Cel from other stories- she's a little different here, but that is Cel Perdanez. This was also a sneak peek at Robin, who we'll be seeing again in Intros 7!

Also, a huge thank-you to Rune and timesphobic for betaing this chapter! Very much appreciated, incredibly grateful to you both :heart:

Looking forward to hearing from you guys, and I'll see you next time with Hunter, Serenity, and Esper!

-r-b