Jaqueline "Jack" Carmichael, 17

District Eight Female

Wiping sweat from her brow, Jack frowned at the machine sitting in front of her. Despite the best efforts of every other mechanic, it still wasn't working quite right, and so it had been sent to Jack in the hopes that she could figure out the issue. If no one else before her could get it fixed, Jack would make sure she did.

After pulling the machine apart, Jack was finally able to find the source of the problem: a number of misplaced bolts. While she was glad to have found the issue, it meant that she would effectively have to rebuild the machine from scratch. Fortunately, this process was fairly menial, meaning she could largely let muscle memory take over as she did her job.

The monotonous sound of the machines humming all but faded into the background, Jack's brow furrowing as she moved the bolt into place. She could feel the money she'd brought with her in her pocket, already planning out what she was going to get from the market that day. Ideally, she'd have a bit left over just in case something happened in the future. But this was District Eight, where life was cruel and unforgiving.

Growing up, it was always just Jack and her father, Francis. Her mother, Robyn, had died in childbirth, an unfortunate tragedy but one unfortunately familiar to the poverty-stricken District Eight. From then on, it was the two of them against the world. Everything they tried to do was weighed down by poverty and a crippling feeling of loneliness and isolation. Isolation from who or what, Jack wasn't sure. But the sensation of it permeated every inch of her life, making her grow up hardened and cut off from others. All she ever had was her father, and from a young age, she resolved to make sure that nothing took him away from her.

Francis taught her everything, and even if she wasn't as naturally outgoing or charismatic as he was, she was able to pick up on other traits that served her well. The idea of working hard for what she wanted, of being proud of her accomplishments, was ingrained in her from a young age. Jack may not have been able to "play well with others" like her father, but she could work.

As soon as she was legally able to, Jack started working. It was hard to get by in District Eight, and the meager income she could bring in was enough to keep them afloat, if barely. There was no being comfortable in District Eight, only "just getting by." That's all any of them ever knew. The work was completely mindless and did its best to drain her spirit, which very nearly worked. Jack didn't thrive off of the work itself, but she did appreciate the fact that she was doing it. Besides, her quiet and hardworking nature made it easy for her to work her way up the ranks. She didn't talk back or slack off, so she was the ideal choice to be put into a management position, getting her own workstation to tinker away at machinery.

Was it any better than her job before? Only a bit. She could work at her own pace, she was able to be more isolated, and she didn't have to deal with the mind-numbing small talk that other workers sometimes attempted to subject her to. (No, she didn't particularly care that one of the workers sometimes got to look after "little Melita," and she didn't really care about who that was, either. Apparently this was the wrong thing to express, however, and the other workers didn't seem to seek out her company after that.)

Jack just wanted to keep her head down and get the job done. That's all that really mattered to her.

But apparently it didn't matter to her father when he later got remarried.

It wasn't the marriage itself that upset Jack, no, she could never be mad about her own father's happiness. It was the way things changed after it happened.

Gone was their small home, which wasn't much but it was all Jack had ever known and worked for, replaced by a mansion. Or at least as close to a mansion as you got in District Eight.

That's right, her dad didn't just remarry. Almira Carmichael used to be Almira Acosta, heiress to Acosta & Co., the biggest manufacturer of sewing machines in the District. Considering that Eight was basically sewing central, Acosta & Co got a lot of business.

And so Jack was thrust into a world she'd never asked for. It was… nice, she supposed, but only from an objective standpoint. She didn't have to work for anything, she didn't have any more nights of going hungry, but she also didn't earn any of it.

It was not what her father had taught her, but it appeared he left that part of himself behind when he got married.

Even worse, Almira was nice. Jack couldn't even bring herself to hate the woman, as she could see that Almira and Francis were deeply in love - and that was all she wanted, for her dad to be happy.. But she didn't ask for this future, even though others in the District would probably jump at the chance. It was something out of a fairy tale, but Jack wished for the chance to leave it all behind.

Jack hissed as one of the bolts slipped out of her fingers, making a loud rattling noise as it hit her desk and bounced. She was starting to get distracted at work again, just as she always did when she thought about how she'd go home that night to a house just as cold and foreign to her as it was big and overwhelming. Despite not having to work anymore, Jack refused to leave her job. It didn't make any sense for her to leave her roots like her father did, leaving behind everything they'd known and worked for.

Jack hadn't earned this life, so why should she profit from it?

At least this day of work was over, and Jack could just grab whatever she needed at the market to cook her own dinner. She reached a hand into her pocket for the bit of money she'd brought with her, as she wouldn't get paid again until the end of the week. Jack was used to living on the edge, figuring out where to cut things when it got to be too much for her meager paycheck, and her meals were essentially a routine for her at this point.

Picking up the bolt, Jack managed to fit it back into place as soon as the bell rang to signal the end of the work day. Unable to help herself, Jack yawned as soon as she heard the noise. It meant she could go back home - no, to the house that was not a home - and cook food for herself before promptly passing out and doing it all over again tomorrow.

Her fellow workers were buzzing with excitement over various mundane things that Jack didn't have to overhear about in conversation anymore. She was spared from the drudgery of being dragged into conversations that she wanted no part in, her feet finding their way to the open marketplace without thinking about it too hard.

The market was crowded with people getting off their evening shifts just like Jack, meaning she had to force her way through the crowd or risk getting swept up and carried away. She could occasionally spot a familiar face, but she didn't know the names to go with them. Figuring they were from when she used to come with her father (before everything changed), she just ducked her head and kept going. Her trips to the market were quicker than they used to be, but Jack couldn't find it in her to resent that. She actually appreciated it, being able to get things done more efficiently this way. After all, there was no father here to drag her into conversations with people. There was only Jack and the bag in her hand, slowly filling with items as she picked out what she'd need for the week.

Tucking away what was left of her money, Jack held the bag close to herself as she headed back, keeping a close eye on whoever tried to brush up against her. Maybe the only good thing about her new house was the better area that surrounded it, meaning she didn't have to worry about getting mugged every day on her way back from work. But with every step she took, Jack could feel her stomach sinking. She was getting closer to the house, though Almira and Francis kept trying to push the narrative that it was a home.

A ridiculous notion, really. Homes were supposed to be warm and inviting, but every inch of the place Jack lived was covered in icy tension. The colder things got, the closer they were to snapping.

Jack suppressed a shiver as she opened the front door, brushing past the high, gilded windows, the intricate brickwork which Jack had never cared enough to explore or make sense of. She missed their old home, with its one bedroom and constant state of nearly falling apart; it was more of a home than this building could ever be. This house made everything else feel meaningless, and Jack couldn't help but hate it just as much as she hated everything associated with it.

Slipping off her shoes next to the door, Jack's stomach twisted as she heard a deep laughter ring through the house, one that expressed pure happiness. A higher pitched one followed, the two voices mingling as they chatted away about nothing.

Jack couldn't stand it.

Even finding her way to the kitchen was more complicated than it should be, the long halls winding and leading to a multitude of rooms. It was entirely too complicated and made Jack miss the simplicity of her old house even more.

The two people in the dining room stopped eating as they saw Jack step in, though she avoided their gazes. Her mouth pulled down into a frown as she saw the third plate at the table, knowing there was no one else it could be meant for. Almira brightened when she saw Jack, but Jack just went into the kitchen without waiting, not bothering to look at her father at all.

As she entered the kitchen, one of the cooks moved to intercept her (they always tried), but Jack just ignored them and started pulling out the items she'd bought at the marketplace. They always left her alone eventually, as Jack hadn't broken this habit since the day she'd moved into this house. She would not bend to the new life handed to her, as she hadn't earned it. She would make her own way, how things were supposed to be done.

"How was work today?"

The question made her shoulders tense, but Jack recognized the voice as well. She couldn't bear to look over her shoulder, to look at the face that she'd grown up seeing and loving. It was different now, without the hunger carving away at his features or the toil of work eating away at him.

But dammit, he still tried and that's what hit Jack hardest of all. Didn't he know what he'd done? He'd forsaken every sleepless night, every sickness that had them worried about what would happen if they didn't get better, every frigid night without warmth, all of it. It didn't matter at all to him, only his newfound happiness.

Jack wasn't sure what kind of response he wanted from her, so she just kept unloading her back. She spared a glance to the stove in order to preheat it, determined to make her own dinner as well. She was Jack Carmichael, and she didn't accept handouts from anyone.

At least the weariness in his voice was familiar as he sighed and said, "Come on Jack, don't give me the silent treatment. There's food ready for you, you can come eat with us."

The very idea of it made Jack's throat tighten, making her swallow forcefully before shaking her head. "No," she replied tersely, hoping that would be the end of it.

But her father wasn't known for giving up - after all, it had been a year of this and he was still trying. "Almira just wants the chance to get to know you. Come eat with us and we could be a family again."

There was a brief sting of guilt, as some part of Jack registering that she was being unfair towards Almira. But, just like always, she shoved it away and locked it up. Almira was still the catalyst for this and Jack couldn't look past it.

"No thank you," she tried again, hoping that forcing a bit of politeness into her tone would make him go away.

Jack didn't hear him move away, not immediately. He hovered in the doorway for several long moments that stretched on, likely battling with what he wanted to say in response. He eventually sighed, and Jack heard him leave, her shoulders dropping.

She didn't know why it had to be so hard. She couldn't figure out why he acted this way after everything they'd been through together, forsaking it all for love.

He'd turned his back on everything, turned his back on Jack, and maybe that's what hurt the most.

Callan Levisay, 25

District Two Male

Victor of the 116th Games

It was one of those nights, the kind where not even the sound of the shower running could drown out the sounds of Ariadne's sobs.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget for just a moment that they were stuck like this. If he could just go to sleep he'd be able to escape, but that didn't change the fact that the cycle would only continue when he woke up. Besides, he couldn't go to sleep without making sure she was okay.

Even if he already knew she wasn't…

But then again, were any of them okay? Victory was a cruel reward, and Callan often wondered if the real winners were the ones that didn't make it out at all. At least then they didn't have to piece themselves back together with the whole country watching, waiting for them to make one wrong move. That's all it would take for even a Victor to crumble, and Callan knew that their status wouldn't mean much when they could be made into an example.

The shower stopped, and Callan listened to see if he could hear anything now that the sound of the water was gone. It appeared to be silent now, but he wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing or not.

The window next to her bed had the curtains open, revealing a full moon that was bathing her room in light. Callan could almost feel at peace in its light, but it didn't last long; he was soon more restless than ever. He could never be at peace anymore - the mere idea of it was foreign to him. He always felt the need to watch his back, to keep an eye on everything around him.

What happened in the Arena didn't tend to stay in the Arena, after all.

The bathroom door opened soon and Ariadne stepped out in an oversized shirt and shorts, looking far more casual than the world would ever get the chance to see her. Any sign of her tears had been scrubbed away, though her face still looked raw and red. She offered Callan a smile, hovering by the door of the bathroom.

Without saying a word, Callan got up and walked closer to her, holding his arms out. Ariadne was by him in a flash, barely giving him time to breathe before her arms were around him. He carefully hugged her back, tracing small circles on her shoulders.

"You don't have to wait for me every night," Ariadne said, just as she did every night.

It didn't matter what she said - Callan wasn't going to change his habits. He knew she didn't really mean it anyway, otherwise she wouldn't be standing here hugging him. She was as stubborn as always, but at least Callan could relate to that.

"I know," he said simply.

Ariadne didn't protest any further; she never did. But Callan could feel her fingers tightening their grip on his shirt, could hear her taking in a few shaky breaths. He didn't know what she needed (he never did, really), but if all he could offer was his presence, he'd do what he could.

"Come on, you should be in bed," he murmured, moving his arms away so she could step back.

To his surprise, he heard a faint giggle. "You're so no nonsense, even now," she mumbled, a hint of sadness to her tone.

Callan moved aside to close the curtains while she crawled into bed; by the time he turned around, she was already under the covers. He went around to the other side of the bed to grab his journal, ready to head back to his own room, when he felt a light pressure around his wrist.

Her eyes were already half closed, but Ariadne was looking up at him with pleading eyes, her hand encircling his wrist. "Tell me a story," she mumbled sleepily, her grip on his wrist loose, as if she'd let him slip away if he really wanted to.

A story… it was a request that Callan could have seen as childish, but he perfectly understood why she even asked. Anything that would distract her as she fell asleep would make the perfect defense against the dreams that plagued her every night. The ones he often had to run and wake her up from, when her cries could awaken him from the sleep he only rarely succumbed to. He wished he could let her do more than silently comfort her, but Callan was never terribly good with words. His trainers had figured that out early on, telling him to strut around with a cocky smirk on his face and let that do all the talking.

Look where that had gotten him.

He chuckled uncomfortably, not wanting to say no but also not sure what to say. "I don't think I have any good stories."

"Tell me a memory, then," she pleaded, her eyes wide and vulnerable and he knew all she wanted was for him to stay. Just for a few more minutes. "A happy one."

"I'm not sure if I have too many happy stories," Callan said slowly, trying to run ideas through his head. "None that would be happy for you, anyway. I don't think you'd like hearing about any training stories."

"Before that," Ariadne insisted. It was quickly becoming clear to Callan that he needed to come up with something, since she really wasn't going to let this one go. "Your whole childhood wasn't training, was it?"

Actually, it kind of was. That's how the District Two life went, depending on where you were from. And Callan's parents were devoted to the lifestyle of training their kids to compete in the Games. It was hard to have a sense of normalcy in your life when it was an endless cycle of training.

"I could tell you about my brother."

Ariadne blinked up at him in surprise, not used to him willingly offering up anything about his family. "I'd really like that," she whispered, nestling her head into the pillow.

Callan sighed and leaned back against the headboard, finally starting to relax a bit. "I didn't meet him until I was around nine-"

"You're a lot older than him," Ariadne noted immediately.

"Only a few years," Callan said with a shake of his head. "My mom got remarried and I got a brother out of the situation. He was actually six then, and I remember we were at odds for a while."

Ariadne snickered beside him. "What, did you try to pick fights with the kid?"

Well, he had actually, finding the kid to be rather easy to push around. And Callan always caved to his emotions rather easily, feeling his frustrations simmer under his skin every time he looked at the kid. He knew it wasn't the boy's fault, but… what else was he supposed to do?

"I didn't pick fights necessarily," Callan said slowly, "but I definitely wasn't nice."

"That's a surprise." Ariadne's voice was teasing, but her hand carefully sought out his to take the sting out of her words. She squeezed it carefully, her eyes on him.

Callan just rolled his eyes. "You're not a very good listener," he chided.

Ariadne mimed zipping her lips shut, keeping her other hand on top of his. She raised an eyebrow expectantly, as if saying, What, you gonna continue or not?

"He was a lot nicer than I am," Callan admitted, staring up at the ceiling. "Every time I would shove him out of my way or yell at him, he'd shake it off and pretend like it had never happened. It was his way of reaching out to me, I think. I don't know why. I know I wouldn't have wanted to deal with me after all of that.

"My mom definitely knew that something was up, but she never managed to catch me in the act, so the most she could do was tell me to be nice. I was never fond of listening, and I definitely didn't want to listen back then." Callan sighed and looked down at his hands, one of Ariadne's still covering one of his. "She warned me that he'd practically walk over hot coals for me, and I was just too dumb to see it."

He hesitated now, glancing over at her once more. Ariadne was making a face as if she was contemplating something, likely thinking of her own sibling that Callan had only heard about a few times. They could probably never be close in the same way that Callan and his brother had been, only because Ariadne's sister was barely two years old.

Still, she didn't interrupt him, so Callan continued on. "Things continued on like that for a while, me being too hard-headed to consider the fact that my mom was right until I was around twelve. I was hanging out with a friend at the house and broke a picture on the wall, one of Mom back when she was still with Dad. My brother heard the noise and came to see, and it only took him two seconds to figure out what had happened. I was supposed to have training that night, and Mom would've made me stay home if she knew it was me."

"He took the fall for you, didn't he?"

Slowly, Callan nodded his head. "I couldn't fathom why, but he didn't even give me a chance to protest."

He could still remember the look his brother had given him, nine years old and determined to take the blame for someone that wasn't even nice to him. It had shaken Callan to his core, the idea that someone was just so good that they'd do this for someone else unprompted, especially for Callan himself.

Why'd you do that? Callan couldn't help but ask when he got back from training that night, finding his brother hidden away in his room.

His brother just smiled, all light brown hair and bright eyes full of innocence that District Two hadn't taken away yet. Because I wanted to.

The change was slow, but soon enough Callan was warming up to his brother, even if his way of showing it was still by helping his brother train. Callan didn't know how else to make amends, but that seemed to be enough for his brother.

Humming slightly, Callan realized that this wasn't exactly an uplifting story, but as he watched Ariadne, he noticed her eyes flutter shut. Somehow, it appeared to have worked, even if he didn't understand how or why. Reminiscing wasn't something that he'd signed on for tonight, and he was already regretting bringing up the topic.

Getting up slowly, Callan headed for the doorway, lost in his own thoughts. He hoped she was actually asleep, not looking back at where she still was. "Goodnight, Ariadne."

"You never told me his name," came a drowsy response, Ariadne barely able to pull herself from the grasp of sleep long enough to ask.

Callan hesitated in the doorway, his fingers tightening on the door frame just enough to sting. He always wondered if maybe he'd done too well getting close with his brother, accidentally becoming some kind of role model for him to look up to. But Callan was never the kind of person that others looked up to, so he should've known that things wouldn't work out in the end.

"Darius," he whispered just loud enough for her to hear. "We didn't share a last name, but you've heard of him."

Ariadne didn't respond this time, and Callan wasn't sure if it was because she didn't know what to say or if she'd finally fallen asleep. Either way, it didn't really matter to him as he headed down the hall, shutting himself away in his own room.

For as much as his brother had learned to look up to him, it hadn't done any good when Darius got torn apart in the last battle of the 119th Hunger Games. Callan had relentlessly watched it over and over again until every moment of that fight was burned into his brain, wanting to pick out just exactly where it had gone wrong.

As talented as Darius had been, Callan had eventually reached the conclusion that Estelle had just been better, even if it killed him to admit it. It made him wonder where they'd gone wrong in training, if Darius should've been the chosen volunteer at all. Maybe Callan could've saved him somehow, could've done more to ensure he'd be at the top of his game when he got to the end.

But there was no use in dwelling on things like that; it only made Callan's temper flare and he was never sure who he was really mad at. Darius, for falling short right at the end? Estelle, for killing the one person in the world he didn't know what to do without?

Or himself, for being completely and utterly useless when it really mattered?

Callan gritted his teeth, leaning back against his door. He hated the feeling of being helpless, like he was every night when Ariadne was plagued by nightmares or when she came to him in tears and asked him to help her put on this act. All he had to do was be his cocky self, take the fall for Ariadne so Estelle wouldn't get as hurt. Callan could be the bad guy, chasing Estelle away so Ariadne didn't have to do it herself.

But in the end it didn't feel like he was helping. All he was doing was making things worse for everyone, but maybe it was the lesser of two evils?

With a frustrated sigh, Callan flipped off the light and crawled into bed, anticipating another sleepless night. He could never tell if being awake was worse than being asleep, especially if he was haunted by ghosts either way. At least this way he could try to help Ariadne, but he wondered if it did much good.

After all, what was the point of being strong if he ended up helpless in the end?

Callan hadn't drank any of the champagne in his hand, swirling it in the glass as he stared out at the crowd. He sighed to himself, hoping that people would avoid him long enough for him to be able to go home soon. It was usually a ridiculous thing to hope for, but he'd already successfully played along with whatever Capitolites had approached him until this point, so he could at least try to ignore them now and hope they stayed away.

He was already beyond tired of people brushing up against him, choosing now to stay close to the walls and avoid making eye contact with people. He was just tired of everything, but he knew he had to hold out a little longer before he'd be approved to leave.

"Callan," came a voice from beside him, making him silently groan.

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow at whoever had approached him, immediately recognizing them as Ariadne based on the vibrancy of her red hair. They'd won in back to back years, so they were rather familiar with each other even if they didn't talk much. Callan remembered the look in her eye after she won, the distress and confusion mirroring the way she looked now. He stayed quiet, looking her over to see if he could figure out what she wanted from him. The two just stared at each other for a moment, Callan finally sighing and sipping at his drink as he waited for her to speak.

"I need your help."

Callan tilted his head to the side. "Why do you think I could help you?" he snorted, already dismissing the idea.

Wordlessly, Ariadne reached for his hand and slipped something into it. Callan blinked and looked down at the card, his face paling as he saw the image printed on it.

Unable to suppress a shudder, Callan shoved it in his pocket. "You…" he trailed off, unsure of what to say.

Ariadne offered him a sad smile, one that explained far too many things. Callan wished now that he'd done more, but he also wondered if any of it would've mattered in the end.

"I need your help," she repeated, casually sidling closer to him as if to make it appear to everyone else that they were caught up in some kind of intimate conversation.

And, Callan supposed, in a way they were.

"I'll do it," he said, glancing around instinctively for the eyes he was sure were locked on them right now. "I'll help however I can."

At this point, it was all he could do.

hiiii *looks at callan's pov* weird! what was that! wish i knew... oh wait i do ahaha. again, chill if you don't know what's happening yet! maybe a couple things are a little clearer and others you're like "what the fuck is that laney" which is valid! if you want to know more about ye olde darius minden, i dropped his name in the second prologue :D callback time!

thank you to silversshade for jack! she was fun to write, even though her dynamic makes me sad. i sure do have plans for her, though! and with this, i can say we are four children/two chapters from finishing up intros! next up is d9 and then i make the rules so teagan and crush get the last chapter of intros! we are almost free from intro hell! idk that's all i've got have a good day or whatever

~de laney is out