Chapter 26: (Re)capitulate
Reaping Day, en route to the Capitol
It took a solid minute before the train actually pulled out of the station; with so many Victors (and at least half of them being old and grumpy), they tended to dawdle. Venatrix took mild amusement from the click-click-click of Kitty's long fingernails against the glass dining table, though the escort handled the setback with professional grace. Not like they were going to be late for anything.
The interior of the train itself practically sparkled with Capitol-brand luxury, one gold-lacquered edge after another glinting light into Venatrix's eye. Every surface carried an aura of shiny cleanliness that she'd never found in Two, harsh against the lived-in familiarity of her parents' Victor's manors, yet soft when compared to the sharp white planes of freshly-polished Peacekeepers' armor. Personally, though, Venatrix didn't think bringing fine crystal goblets and gold-rimmed china onto a moving vehicle was a smart idea.
She barely felt the shift when they did start moving, the mountainous landscape outside the window quickly blurring before her eyes without even an audible tinkle of glass against glass.
However, the sheer luxury went in one ear and out the other; the settling of her own reality outdid even the tantalizing buffet laid out on the table before them, and it wasn't long before Venatrix excused herself to her personal car.
Her stomach grumbled in protest, but Venatrix ignored it.
She just… I need a minute.
Quietly, Venatrix sat down on top of the snow-white comforter; she sank at least a foot into the mattress, the unexpected give slightly unbalancing her.
When she closed her eyes, Iago's face swam again through her mind. Agate's tears. Coquina's pathetic last-ditch volunteer attempt. The Reaped girl; her own anger.
Venatrix found herself switching on the television in her room, not to this year's Reapings but to the previous one's. Her eyes followed her sister through the screen with a resigned sort of numbness, and she only realized it had moved all the way to the interviews when a knock on the door broke her fuzzy concentration.
Her father poked his head into the room. "Venatrix, we're about to—" His gaze landed on the screen. "Turn that off."
The chill in his voice made her obey without question.
"They've just finished the Reapings." He left without another word, and Venatrix assumed that meant he expected her to follow. Okay, then.
Out in the lounge car, Two's entourage had gathered on the plush couches, save for the handful of Victors who were too old to give a shit. Venatrix squeezed herself on a couch between her mother and Percy.
He nudged her, reaching into his pocket. "Hey, check it out." Carefully, he extracted a figurine of a tiny marble archer; Agate's work. After snapping the thin bowstring too many times and having to scrap the piece, their friend had finally resorted to lacing a tiny thread through the stone to complete the piece; she'd given it to Percy back in January for his birthday, just before the Selection Tournament. Venatrix grinned when she saw the tiny rendition of her friend-turned-district-partner. "You got yours?"
She patted the pocket of her dress, pulling out her own. "I don't know how she does such a good job with these," Venatrix mused, pressing her thumb against the dull tip of her little toothpick sword.
As Callithyia switched on the television, the shuffling movements of her father came from the beverage car, iced drink in hand; he passed it wordlessly to Dagmara, an affronted look crossing his face when he realized the couch was full. Stubbornly, he seated himself on the arm at his wife's side.
Replacing the statuette in her pocket, Venatrix leaned over her mothers lap. "What was your token, Dad?" she half-whispered over the fanfare of the national anthem, somewhat vexed at the realization that she didn't know.
"Hm?" He shrugged off-handedly. "Didn't have one."
Venatrix frowned. Well, that would explain it. Before the 'Why not?' could fall from her lips, the official Hunger Games announcer began the program, the pastel square of District One plastered across the screen. Offhandedly, Venatrix wondered what One did to punish those who had chickened out of volunteering last year (if they even did).
Like Two, the escort called the girls first; they barely got the question out before a hand shot up, the damning words quickly following it.
Venatrix felt herself lean forwards as the girl floated up to the stage, introducing herself as Mariposa Fonesca. Blonde hair, doe eyes, a sculpted smile perfected to a tea… If she'd been reaped in an outer district, Venatrix might've pegged her as a Bloodbath, skinny as she was, but her demeanor — her poise — was all Career. She earned a few appraising nods from the gathering of Victors; One girls tended to be hit or miss, though this Mariposa seemed inclined towards the former.
Next, the boys, and—
"Oh, come on, they did not seriously name this kid 'Viper,'" Percy scoffed.
But the auburn-haired volunteer proudly announced himself as Viper St. Valleroy, shooting his district partner a wicked sneer that made Venatrix raise an eyebrow. Something about the look in his eye reminded her of her brother, and Venatrix had a feeling he'd live up to his name — or die by it, preferably.
The screen changed to the familiar setting of District Two, and Venatrix picked at one of the leather pleats of her skirt, hoping she'd made the impression she'd intended. So far, so good…
"Hey, what'd you say to her, by the way?"
Venatrix shrugged, ignoring Percy's curious stare as she whispered into Hela's ear onscreen. A couple of the Victors glanced her way at the question, her father included, but her response seemed to satisfy them. If anything, Hela's rapid departure only did her a favor on the stage, proud and confident in comparison. Percy matched her demeanor easily, their show of camaraderie a compelling display echoed fervently by the Reaping day crowd.
"Better impression than the Ones for sure," Morwenna muttered from Percy's other side. "Those two look like they're here to start drama; you two look like you're here to win."
"Agreed," Oberon chuffed.
Three's volunteers succeeded in their basic task of making it to the stage this year. Venatrix didn't think it was possible to be overdressed for Reaping Day, but the boy, Shannon Salisburg, somehow did it. The sharp suit only added to the clean image held up by his wire-rimmed glasses and soft sort of charm; a typical Three if she ever saw one. The girl, Grethel Väisälä, seemed more at ease on the stage than her counterpart, flashing the cameras a sly smile.
Venatrix hoped Four would follow through as well; she'd planned on having a full pack.
Four's escort pulled the girl's name, and she didn't have to worry one bit: as soon as the name left the Capitolite's lips, no less than ten kids shot towards the Reaping stage, kicking and scrambling to be first. They swarmed the barrier like a pack of piranhas, and a choked laugh escaped from Venatrix's mouth. The microphone picked up the escort's screeching as one of them, a fire-haired girl with a vicious grin, breached the stage. "I volunteer!" she shrieked, oblivious to the other hopefuls being restrained by Peacekeepers.
"Fucking 'Makers," Morwenna retorted. "What the hell was that?"
The girl introduced herself as Patience Glasshooke, which drew a round of incredulous chuckles from the Two party. "Impatient much?" Percy said snidely and Venatrix snorted.
"Guess they're not taking any chances with volunteers after last year," Oberon speculated.
The escort, clambering for her lost wig, almost fearfully pulled from the boy's bowl; a similar pandemonium ensued, the winner being a lithe-looking dark-haired kid named Idris Rockwell.
Latent laughter tickled Venatrix's throat well into Five's ceremony, the mental image of the frazzled escort overtaking the view of District Five now displayed on the screen. Even the announcer got a kick out of it, though they recovered in time to express false sympathy for the crying fourteen year-old girl that was called up to the stage. The boy, in contrast, seemed almost unfazed, rolling with the punch to the gut that is getting Reaped in the non-Career districts.
With the onset of the outer-district Reapings, Venatrix began the process of committing their names and impressions to memory, repeating 'Genera Cardine' and 'Valkan Savario' in her head over again, quickly followed by 'Zarim Highlander' and 'Vita Mowbray' of Six.
Those two made an interesting pair, the girl sporting a brave face despite her visible trembling while the boy, Zarim, wore a cooly casual glare, more subtly threatening than that of Valkan from Five.
Somehow, she couldn't picture the two allying together.
Over in Seven, the festively-dressed escort called out Ochre Givens; the boy's shock morphed slowly into a resigned sort of anger as the ceremony went on, written plainly across his face. Sevens tended to be hit or miss as well given their industry skills, but Venatrix didn't think she'd lose too much sleep over the girl Heather Saffron, seventeen years old but crying harder than the little girl from Five. She couldn't help but exchange a huff of amusement with Percy before her mother gave her a warning nudge.
At least the Eight girl put on a better show; Caitlin Marrowell's wavy, chin-length hair delicately framed her still-water expression, though her hands tightly gripped the hem of her dress.
She did, however, flinch when they called the boy's name and the sounds of the scuffle that followed, though Venatrix gave her a pass for that; not everyone had the guts — or lack of common sense — to bite a Peacekeeper. Snorts of surprised laughter danced around the group of Twos as they watched the so-called Houndstooth Vox being dragged onto the stage, blood already dripping from his mouth and now-broken nose. "Outer-district Reapings are always a treat," Honora Vikgar chuckled.
"Don't take any chances with that one, though," Dagmara said from Venatrix's side. "I know Eight already won three years ago, but still."
Venatrix nodded, quieting her smile.
Meanwhile, Nine's were far less entertaining, the cloud of grimness hanging over the square setting the tone. The cries and wails that followed the girl Gaberlee Jacobson to the Reaping stage only added to the atmosphere, her own tears not giving Venatrix much of an impression. The boy on the other hand didn't make a peep, though the muttering of the crowd spoke for him; for some reason, they seemed almost content to see Yaroslav Alexeev go.
Ten was nothing short of typical; Venatrix sighed at the image of the shaky-but-resolute Palomina Wilbur, the shimmering tears of Lucio Serrano, though at eighteen, the boy's reaction certainly wasn't doing him any favors.
When District Eleven flashed onto the screen, Venatrix's eyes immediately found the little Quell Victor up onstage, her hands tucked underneath her legs as she gazed out at the crowd with apprehension. When the escort called out "Paprika Pim!" her expression visibly fell as the camera centered on another small, thirteen year-old girl being gently guided up to the stage by a pair of Peacekeepers. Venatrix felt her own face beginning to mirror Jezephel's; even the escort laid a semi-comforting hand on the shoulder of the unashamedly-sobbing girl before calling the other tribute. She picked out Starling Capricorn easily from the crowd of fifteen year-old boys, thanks to the nudges and pats of condolence from his immediate peers.
Not a single cry of protest followed either kid, and Venatrix frowned. Where are their parents in all of this? She couldn't decide if it were for better or worse if they didn't have any, given that she'd be cutting their lives short either way.
She stopped the thought before it could continue as the program switched to District Twelve.
Movement from the fourteens section caught her eye once the escort read the girl's name, and Venatrix frowned. So many little ones this year. Not as many as last year, of course, but it deepened the sinking feeling in her gut. Rosemary Fawne sported her own set of scared-angry tears, though her fists clenched with determination as she mounted the stage. Venatrix was almost relieved when the boy Erryn Hunt stepped out from the eighteens pen, looking too shell-shocked to cry as he joined his little district partner on the stage.
The dim light of Thirteen's underground square rounded off the ceremony, and Venatrix huffed at the loud objections from the girl. "No-no, what the hell," Vaylani Vauxhall protested, trying unsuccessfully to wrench her arm from the Peacekeeper's grip. "You can't do this!" It's been seventy-six years for you, give it up, Venatrix thought scathingly. The boy, however, only laughed in stunned disbelief. When he bounded onstage, Venatrix quirked her brow at his appearance, the ear piercings and hand-done tattoos fairly unconventional for a Thirteen kid. Iago would love him, Venatrix thought wryly as the grinning Zavian Stavros flipped the camera a rude gesture. "Fuck you, Thirteen, and fuck the Capitol!"
"He won't be getting any love from the sponsors," Oberon said with a snort.
"He's gutsy," Callithyia countered. "They like that sometimes."
As soon as the announcer concluded the ceremony, Venatrix caught her father's eye; he jerked his chin towards the direction of the mentoring cars. "Alright, first impressions?" he said when they'd reached the privacy of the room.
Taking a seat, she wracked her brain. "The Ones are… interesting. Them and the Four girl, I think I'll need to watch out for the most. Threes are pretty standard."
Oberon nodded in agreement, waiting for her to continue.
"Eight boy seems like an absolute psycho," she quipped and he chuckled. "Six boy and the Thirteens are probably the biggest threats, I'd think. The Seven boy too. Him and… Twelve? Hard to get a read on him yet." She pursed her lips, glancing upwards in thought. "Ten girl too, maybe."
She was spitballing now; Reaping ceremonies hardly provided enough information to fully analyze her competitors.
"And the Elevens?"
Venatrix's hands went to the hem of her skirt again. "Easy prey. I can probably get 'em in the Bloodbath."
Her father hummed neutrally.
"What?"
He shook his head. "Oh. No, that's fine." The beat of silence stretched on while Venatrix waited for him to say what he'd intended. "We'll go over the Careers again after tonight's dinner, and the rest after the Parade and your first day of training."
Venatrix nodded.
His eyes flicked to his watch. "Should be almost there," he muttered. "And Venatrix, if you want, I can hold on to your token for you. Keep it safe, until you get into the arena."
Extracting the tiny statue from her pocket, she inspected it once again, the near-perfect likeness of her face, her confident fighting stance. Venatrix wasn't sure what the typical procedure for this was, but she had no reason not to trust her father with this.
(Did she?)
Almost hesitantly, she placed it into his expectant hand.
Oberon knew the rules: no alcohol for the mentoring Victors.
He wasn't an alcoholic (that's what they all say, but genuinely, he wasn't), and he doesn't plan on breaking the Victor-enforced rule, but...
But he just wanted to forget. Wanted to remember.
No, all he wanted was to wake up from this nightmare, to hold all three of his kids tightly in his arms like they were still small; they'd try to escape, of course, and he could already almost hear Dagmara's laughter…
Oberon wasn't stupid enough to break the rule on the way to the Capitol despite how much he needed a fucking drink (wouldn't anyone?). But even more, he needed the full capacity of his brain as much as Venatrix needed hers in the coming weeks if they wanted to get her out alive.
That was the only goal, wasn't it?
At least his eldest (only) daughter was taking this seriously; Bell had been bouncing off the walls with excitement the whole train ride, a stark contrast to her parents' mounting horror—
Stop. Just— not now.
The slowing of the train called him like a wraith to the main car; he let Venatrix and her partner step out onto the platform first, arm in arm, while he plastered on the face he wore for the Capitol. Dagmara appeared at his elbow, and he tried not to think about the last time they did this, their little girl between them, excitement dancing in her eyes as she stepped into her parent's plastic-blood world.
Venatrix, at least, knew her angle, her and Silverhorn sweeping the attention of the crowd in its incessant glitter of flashing cameras. He played his own part, though judging by the quick squeeze of Dagmara's hand on his forearm, she'd caught his sigh of relief as they entered the sanctuary of the Training Center.
Letting her hand drop, Oberon took point, guiding their party to the elevators. The non-mentoring Victors, save for Dagmara, had peeled off to their own residences in the city; as they'd met no other incoming districts, the six of them — the tributes, the Victors, and Kitty — were the sole occupants of the car. Two floors up barely warranted an elevator ride in his mind, but it was tradition at this point.
Five steps ahead of them, Kitty brandished her arm in a fanfare as she pushed open the door to the District Two suite. Oberon ignored her enthusiasm; it wasn't for him anyways.
He stepped inside, and—
Hell, they hadn't rearranged the room at all.
Not a single speck of dust seemed out of place from last year's Games. It was as if he'd only stepped out for an hour or two as opposed to a year; he couldn't help but expect to see Bellara leaping out to greet him, ask him how many sponsors he'd gotten her.
Not entirely unusual; sometimes they revamped the decorations to give the inhabitants a change of pace, though most of the time they didn't bother.
A small part of Oberon's brain wondered if it was intentional, though he was more distracted by his daughter's ghost flitting through the suite like she'd never left, and it was stupid, so stupid to be hung up on this; he'd need more than two hands to count the number of kids he'd mentored, left their memories behind in this apartment…
He didn't even realize he'd stopped moving until someone bumped into him—
"Dad?"
—I can't breathe.
He practically sprinted down the hall and into the privacy of his own quarters; he'd deal with how embarrassing that was later, right now he still couldn't breathe. The bathroom door slammed behind him as he tried to steady himself on the edge of the sink, a small choking noise slipping from his mouth.
When he closed his eyes, the image of Bell in her blood-soaked dress assaulted him like a hailstorm; he opened them to find his vision oddly blurred, and he still…
He still couldn't…
He sucked in a breath, but it wasn't enough, his lungs a black hole as they tried to eat him alive.
She was still here in this suite, her presence soaking the air. She hadn't left, just like she hadn't left his heart, their memories, the pages of his sketchbook.
She was here. She was here, but she's gone.
And he'd just let them take her. Hell, he'd tried to stop them when they came, tried to follow her onto the hovercraft. "Just let me go to the launch room with her, please; let me through—"
Dagmara had been forced to tear him away. "You're scaring her," she'd hissed, and she was right; a cloud of fear had fallen across Bell's rounded features as she'd glimpsed just how desperate her father was. He still felt Dag's fingernails digging into his skin, betraying her own terror, and they'd buried themselves in each other's arms on the roof that morning, wondering if that was the last time they'd ever see their daughter alive…
Oberon couldn't get it out of his head.
He'd just let them take her—
(Anyone who said it wasn't his fault was lying.)
Sure, he'd tried to tell himself, his wife, his kids, that he'd done his best, but even he found it hard to believe as he'd carried his daughter's small, sheet-wrapped body up the mountain, laying her gently atop of the nest of twigs and sticks that would become her funeral pyre.
Somewhere along the way, he'd sunken to the ground, the cool tile of the bathroom floor against his palms a stark reminder of the present. The wall pressed into his back, but Oberon barely registered it through the ringing in his ears, the iron fist gripping his chest. He had a disjointed feeling that if he could get air in his lungs, there was a good chance he'd be screaming now, but all that came out was a horribly pathetic half-whimper. How could I let them take her? How can I let them take Trixie?
They took her from me, from us. The capitol, they— (no, not safe not safe). The Capitol wasn't the one that made it out instead of Bell.
They killed her. (I killed her.) It's Eleven's fault that she's dead.
Through his ragged breaths, Oberon managed to pick up the sound of someone at the door; he didn't have time to think about scrambling into the shower to hide before it opened to reveal the only person he could live with seeing him like this.
"...'Makers, honey, it hasn't even been an hour," Dagmara sighed.
"I-I know. I'm sorry," he choked out, wiping his face on his sleeve. What a sniveling mess he was. "I just— I see her everywhere," he whispered.
She sank down next to him, letting him crawl into her embrace.
"It's my fault, I couldn't—I couldn't help her. I killed her… I killed her Dag, what are you still doing here?" Here with me, he meant.
"Stop this. Stop." She took his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. "We can't help Bell anymore." He could see on her face that it broke her heart to say it. "But Venatrix? She needs you, Oberon. You can't help her if you break now."
"I'm not breaking, it's just—Bell—" His voice cracked on her name; he became uncomfortably aware of the tears spilling from his eyes.
Gently, Dagmara wiped the offending drops from his cheek with her thumb. "I know. I feel her too." He blinked, clearing his vision to capture her heart-stone expression. "But we can't do this here, not now. And Venatrix, we've been preparing for this ever since… Well, you remember when we found out, don't you?"
Oberon nodded; how could he forget? Nineteen years ago, maybe, but the memory haunted them throughout the entirety of their eldest daughter's life.
His wife had insisted on mentoring that year, despite being six months pregnant. As usual, her stubbornness had paid off; Morwenna could stand to thank her more, in his opinion.
The night they'd crowned Dag's Victor, the president had come herself to greet them, laying an uninvited hand across his wife's stomach. Oberon had felt her go rigid, unable to move. "Congratulations on the Victory, and the baby," Venera had said in a low voice, her single eye pinning the soon-to-be parents to the spot. "I hope this one will be just as good when it's her turn in the arena."
They hadn't even named her yet.
Venera's cruel smile had felt even more personal then, her fingers like talons eagerly waiting to rip their baby from Dagmara's flesh, to take what should never have been hers in the first place.
This is not your child, it said.
And they knew it; Dagmara had spent the next hour on the floor of the bathroom at the President's manor sobbing while he held her; not unlike himself now.
This was what they got for going behind the Capitol's back to marry.
"Do you remember what you said to me?" Dagmara said now, cupping his face in her hands. "What we promised to do?"
He nodded. They'd promised to train her, of course. And they did.
"We've done everything right with her," Dagmara reminded him forcefully, her grip on his cheek firm. "Everything we can. There's no one more ready to take on the Games than Venatrix is now."
(That's why they'd named her 'Venatrix', wasn't it? Huntress. She had no choice but to live up to it.)
They'd spent years training her for this, but that didn't mean either of them were prepared to lose her. Maybe they should be (it would be smart), but after Bell…
We can't.
And even then, training could only get her so far, as they'd told her. In the end, it was up to the 'Makers.
And the president, of course.
Last year, the wretched witch had insisted on meeting with him after the Eleven girl was crowned, her false condolences grating at his ears. "I do hope your other daughter will do better than this one," she'd said matter-of-factly.
"Venera, please."
Her lips had curled into a satisfied grin at the desperation in his tone. "Oh, don't worry; I'm sure she'll be just as entertaining as her parents."
(This is what it means to be the president's favorite: she snaps her fingers, and he chases his tail in circles.)
Oberon would be begging her again for his daughter's life soon enough, he knew.
He released a rattling breath, and Dagmara's thumb brushed his cheek in a soothing pattern, her presence grounding. When she slowed, Oberon took her hand in his, pressing a fuzzy kiss to her knuckles in gratitude. "Dagmara, would you mind—" he cleared his throat awkwardly— "not bringing this up to the others?"
"Honey, when have I ever," she said, planting a kiss on his forehead.
He squeezed his eyes shut, embracing her kindness while he still could. Holy shit, I don't deserve her.
(It wasn't exactly news to him.)
It wasn't fair to her either, to force her to deal with him like this when he knew she harbored the same grief, the same fear. He shifted out from her arms, mumbling apologies while Dagmara swept the stray hairs from his face. Patting him on the shoulder, she dragged him to his feet. "Come on, freshen up, hon. We've got dinner soon."
And she left him to his devices, presumably to get dressed. As a non-mentoring Victor, she wasn't explicitly invited, but he'd like to see anybody try telling her to leave.
Switching on the tap, he splashed cool water over his face. Something sharp dug into his leg as he moved; reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a tiny sword, a severed hand firmly gripping the pommel. And a leg. An arm. The rest of the small statuette.
Another pang ripped at his heart, and he let the pieces slip from his shaking hand onto the countertop.
Fuck. Fuck. She trusted me with this.
In that instant, all he wanted to do was retreat back into misery, do nothing but wallow in grief and self-pity. But that wasn't an option. Get the fuck over yourself, he demanded.
Oberon shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He needed to pull himself together, for Venatrix's sake, despite the fact that every breath he took in this godforsaken city seemed to only compound the annual torture.
And speaking of…
Tomorrow. I need to go see Eridan again.
true vengeance 151 . weebly . com
A/N: Happy birthday Oberon… here, have a little mental breakdown, as a treat (: /off-key kazoo rendition of "happy birthday" plays/ I've uploaded a drawing of him to the blog as well lol
I'm predicting that there's gonna be more Oberon POVs in Part II than Part I mostly because we already pretty much know what Venatrix is gonna be doing for the next week. She'll be getting plenty too, don't worry; that just means a lot of fun extra pre-Games stuff (: Also... if you're feeling real funky, you should go check out the one-shot I posted (THE REPARATION CLAUSE). It's uh some Fun 1st Games shenanigans (and is canon for this series too, but just. Very far in the past lol)
Also, thank you again to everyone who sent in a filler kid ! ..I did double-check my responses after I posted the last chapter and I did actually end up getting more kids than I had slots, so apologies for that ;-; A few of the kids needed to be adjusted a bit backstory-wise to fit in more with my worldbuilding, but as it most likely won't come up too much, that's mostly for my purposes lol. I've uploaded them to the blog as well, and I'll include the full tribute list here too (along with the submitters !)
D1F: Mariposa Fonesca, 18 [mine]
D1M: Viper St. Valleroy, 18 [mine]
D2F: Venatrix Pyke, 18 [mine lol]
D2M: Perseus Silverhorn, 18 [mine c:]
D3F: Grethel Väisälä, 18 [mine]
D3M: Shannon Salisburg, 18 [mine]
D4F: Patience Glasshooke, 18 [mine]
D4M: Idris Rockwell, 18 [mine]
D5F: Genera Cardine, 14 [Supersage171, AO3]
D5M: Valkan Savario, 17 [twistedservice, FFN]
D6F: Vita Mowbray, 15 [Majonga, FFN]
D6M: Zarim Highlander, 18 [Rune Whisperer, FFN]
D7F: Heather Saffron, 17 [mine]
D7M: Ochre Givens, 18 [mine]
D8F: Caitlin Marrowell, 17 [ASlytheringSlytherin, FFN]
D8M: Houndstooth Vox, 18 [ladyqueerfoot, FFN + AO3]
D9F: Gaberlee Jacobson, 16 [mine]
D9M: Yaroslav Alexeev, 17 [Jane_Eyre_41, AO3]
D10F: Palomina Wilbur, 17 [mine]
D10M: Lucio Serrano, 18 [mine]
D11F: Paprika Pim, 13 [mine]
D11M: Starling Capricorn, 15 [mine]
D12F: Rosemary Fawne, 14 [mine]
D12M: Erryn Hunt, 18 [Remus98, FFN]
D13F: Vaylani Vauxhall, 16 [ladyqueerfoot, FFN + AO3]
D13M: Zavian Stavros, 16 [dyloccupy, FFN]