The last intros...

Rampart Szajko, 16

District 3, eight months before the Reaping

Sometimes Rampart Szajko felt like everything about them was broken. They tried so hard to fix themselves, to be something functional, to be looked at and considered worth something. But no matter how hard they tried, there seemed to be something broken at their core.

It's not easy to come back from being looked down on. Literally.

They never asked to be born in a brothel, never asked to spend the first years of their life there, but the world was unfair. And so, Rampart's earliest memories were filled with the goings on of a nameless brothel that attracted only the wretched.

Rampart's mother never brought up their father, and there was no reason to press her. It wasn't like that even mattered. Their mother was heavily in demand, so they spent a lot of time alone or being watched by some of the other women.

Rampart preferred the days where they could be alone. The other women talked down to them, said horrible things. They battered their mother, in what she said was jealousy. Unfortunately for Rampart, they turned out to be an easy outlet for the women to express their anger.

All the things that were said were things that Rampart would have rather forgot, but the memory clings, intent on never letting them escape that hell. They called them a sorry excuse for lady, they called them ugly, they called them useless, a broken girl.

If you aren't pretty, then what good are you?

The only reprieve Rampart had from this torment were the few times where their mother would be with them. It was during those times where Rampart learned to read. In hindsight, they supposed they could thank her at least for that.

It was only those few moments with their mother where they felt like they weren't broken, that they weren't ugly, that they weren't a girl.

But it was soon that Rampart learned the first of many lessons. Nothing lasts forever. They learned everything was temporary, that they were indeed broken. Why else would their mother abandon them out of nowhere? Why else, then because they were broken.

They were dragged off to a community home, but Rampart learned another lesson that day. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

All the children at the community home just echoed what had already been drilled into their head. You're quiet, you're weird, you're not very pretty for a girl, you're broken. It was all the same, the same story over and over. Rampart wished they could start a new chapter, but every time they turned the page, the same words would spill down the page and into their soul.

It seemed like there would be no escape, no solution, no continuation of this sad story.

Who would have thought such a strange variable would enter Rampart's life, balancing this broken equation.

The day was like any other. Rampart was sitting alone, doing homework. Ever since they started school, they found out they had a knack for it. Perhaps it was one thing they could be good at, one thing that would make them worth something.

Rampart hardly noticed the boy until he was right in their face. They recognized him but didn't know his name. He was one of the more energetic of the bunch, bouncing off the walls and getting into trouble. Rampart usually tried to stay clear of kids like that, but more so just kids in general.

As the kid walked up, Rampart braced themself, expecting the worst.

Are you a boy or a girl?

They had sat there not sure how to respond. They knew they didn't want to be a girl, but they weren't sure a boy was right either. Rampart didn't have answer, but the boy didn't miss a beat.

He asked if they were cold. Rampart wasn't. One of the things that Rampart felt was broken about themself was their temperature. Even in the cold, they managed to stay warm. Sure, it could be considered an asset, but it also felt like it was yet another "abnormal" thing about them.

Upon learning this knowledge, the boy asked "Can I hold your hand?"

Rampart was uncertain, but they found themself extending their hand. They tried not to recoil in shock when the boy laced his cold hand in theirs. Touch. It was a strange thing, but Rampart discovered it wasn't unwelcome. They decided not to let go. The boy didn't either.

The name of this fascinating variable was Jericho Gallagher, and it wasn't an understatement to say that he changed the entire course of Rampart's life.

When their hands intertwined, the course of their lives followed suit. They were inseparable, eating lunch together and doing homework together, and even sharing the same bed because the community home ran out of beds. It was indeed a new chapter, and of course, a chapter needs a name.

They had never offered their name to Jericho because he never asked, or at least kept forgetting to. When they finally told him their name, Jericho seemed unsatisfied.

I don't think it fits you.

He was right. It didn't fit them, not at all. But things never really changed. It was their name, the name given to them by their mother. It was a label, a marker. You can't just erase something like that…can you?

Jericho answered by pulling out a dictionary, declaring that there was surely something in there that would fit.

Rampart was at a loss. The thought of changing their name seemed impossible, too good to be true. But Jericho just flipped through the pages with no hesitation, no resistance. Eventually he came to a definition.

Rampart: a defensive wall of a castle or walled city.

Jericho's reasoning, that warm = defensive, was flimsy at best, but there was something nice about it. More importantly though, Jericho unknowingly taught them another lesson. Change is possible, you just have to reach out and grab it.

With the chapter named, a new story could begin.

FIZZ.

Rampart sighed, leaning off to the side and screwing the lightbulb back into its place. They really had to fix that. Once the makeshift lamp was fixed, they turned their attention back to their latest contraption.

One wouldn't normally think of a dark attic in an abandoned factory as comforting, but for Rampart, it was home. The space was certainly bigger than any singular room than they had ever lived in, but not as big as the sleeping quarters in the community home. Unlike there though, they had the whole place to themselves. Just the two of them. Them, and the cats of course.

They smiled at the sound of a familiar meow, turning from their work to see Mo, one of their cats slinking up to them. Mo was one of four cats that stayed particularly close to the two of them, often spending their time in the attic. Their names were Eenie, Meenie, Minnie, and Mo.

Mo was Rampart's secret favorite, because they wouldn't dare tell anyone that. They didn't want to hurt the other cats' feelings.

Bending down, they gave Mo some nice scratches behind the ears. Mo purred loudly, and it made their heart swell. These silly little cats were so important to them. Animals had always been better than people. They didn't call them broken. To them, they were just Rampart, and that was more than enough.

The rest of the attic space was filled with piles of scrap and little contraptions Rampart had been working on. Jericho would always make a point to gather stuff for them to make. Usually, they could cobble together something that could be sold, even if it was just for a little money.

In order to make the place feel more like a home, Jericho had arranged some old furniture around and fixed some of it up. There was only so much he could do with the materials at hand, but Rampart thought that he had done a pretty good job. When you added the little lamps around the place, it did start to feel like home.

Home. Rampart never really felt like they had one before. But they had found one, all thanks to a boy who just wanted to hold their hand.

Mo jumped a little at the sound of something clomping loudly up the stairs.

"It's alright," Rampart soothed. "It's just-"

Jericho. He came bounding upstairs, an excited look in his eyes and a grin on his face. Eenie and Meenie were right on his heels.

"Well have I got some stuff for you today!" he said excitedly, not even waiting before dumping a bunch of scrap on the floor. "Oh, sorry."

Rampart just laughed and knelt down to take a look at the haul. Jericho had gotten quite good at picking out useful things. He said it was just random, but Rampart knew that he just automatically knew which ones to take. He was smart like that, smarter than anyone in his life ever gave him credit for. School didn't value that kind of smart though.

As the two of them moved up in the school system, Jericho just keep slipping. Teachers gave up, and the leaders at the community home didn't bother with positive reinforcement. Instead, they put all their support behind Rampart, who was doing rather well. When the time came for a placement exam to test whether they had the potential for more specialized education, Rampart passed with high marks. They were granted a scholarship to the illustrious Cirket Institute of Technology. It was a full ride, all expenses paid.

It seemed like a fantastic opportunity, and Rampart thought things might be different. They followed the schema of the lesson they learned after meeting Jericho. Change was possible, you just have to reach out and grab it. But an old lesson came back, beating into Rampart in harsh refrain. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Classes at CIT were divided by sex, boys and girls, supposedly to limit "distractions." Rampart found themselves in the girls' classrooms, relabeled the name that was supposed to be dead. CIT also had a uniform, which meant skirts. Everything fell back into the same pattern. Girls would bully them for their more boyish looks, just like the women in the brothel from all those years ago.

For a while, Rampart managed to keep their head high and their grades as well. Things never got better. As soon as their grades started to slip just a little, there were after-class reprimands. How many days had Rampart cried in a classroom after all the other students had gone, with only a faceless instructor and ticking clock as their witness?

Being without Jericho made things hard too, so it was hard to turn down his incessant propositions of running away. But how could Rampart run away from this opportunity to make something of their life? At least, that was what all the teachers, all the adults at the community home said.

Climb the ladder, strive for greatness, pursue the dream. How great could it really be if every rung was covered in thorns and lies?

But things couldn't change. No matter what they did, the world would walk over them. Why pay attention to something broken?

And yet Rampart still tried to fix everything. After a summer of Jericho's pestering plans, they returned to CIT. Somehow, things got worse. The gender roles were even more reinforced and now that Rampart had shown weakness, everyone exploited it. The hallways were a minefield, the classrooms were a ticking bomb. Nowhere was safe. Every way they turned, the world threatened to explode in their face.

The grades kept slipping…and slipping…and then Rampart was called to a dreaded appointment with a counselor.

Taking a deep breath, Rampart had finally tried to open up, to be honest. Maybe someone would finally understand. Surely there had to be someone good here.

They expressed their desire to leave the girls' class, and since there was no third class, to just be put in the boys'. The counselor was confused. How couldn't they be a girl? Their name was in the girls' Reaping bowl, they were far too composed and obedient to be anything else.

Good girls were quiet and obedient. Good girls wore skirts. Good girls were pretty. Good girls didn't hang around with that sort. Good girls weren't raised in a brothel. Good girls weren't you.

Rampart never wanted to be that anyway. It was clear that they didn't fit, so why did this counselor, like everyone else, still force them to try to be something they weren't? Apparently, the world took pleasure watching something broken trying to fix itself, to became something that it couldn't.

The final nail was their eventual expulsion. Their grades had slipped too much and everyone just wanted to be rid of them. After that day, Rampart knew they were unfixable, unable to be what everyone wanted them to be. There was nothing left to lose, so Rampart took Jericho up on his plan. The world had turned its back on them, so the solution? Turn their back on the world.

The two of them found their way to an abandoned factory, and it was there they finally found a home.

Rampart shifted through the pile of scrap, picking out pieces here and there, their brain locking onto the mechanisms that could fit together.

They looked up from their work to see Jericho moving one of the chairs in the attic around.

"New layout?" they asked.

"Yeah, trust me, this will look MUCH better," he replied, excitedly pushing the squeaking chair into a new position.

Rampart gave him a soft smile and bent down to get to work on building something new. They were able to finish a little contraption in seconds. It was a little wind-up cat.

They wound it up and sent it towards Jericho, waiting expectantly for his reaction.

The world may have thought Rampart Szajko was unfixable, incomplete, broken, but being with Jericho taught them a new lesson.

Being with someone who makes you feel whole is the only way to live.

Jericho Gallagher, 16

District 3, The Day of the Reaping

For Jericho Gallagher, what had only been a few months felt more like a few years. Losing your other half tended to do that to you.

Jericho couldn't even remember a point in his life without Rampart Szajko by his side. He supposed they had met just around the time they started school. Before that? Well, it didn't really matter. Why would anything before Rampart even matter?

Why would anything after Rampart matter either?

The midmorning sun was trying desperately to break through District 3's concrete canopy to no avail. All it took was a little smog and smoke to completely snuff out whatever natural light tried to reach this corner of the district. Jericho was used to it though. This was the sky he saw for most of life, and there was no reason why the sky would change for him.

Despite there being no physical change, things had felt darker in the past couple months. The darkness crept towards him, telling him that he was broken, unfit, unfixable. For years Jericho had an impenetrable wall up around him, but that wall was gone. Even if it never really seemed it like, he hoped that Rampart knew that their walls were what kept out the cold shadows that crawled out of the disdainful eyes of the world. It was always them against the world, but there was no them anymore.

The only ward against this cold was the fact that Jericho's thoughts moved too quickly to dwell on anything for too long. His physical movement matched the speed of his mind, always bouncing and rocketing around.

Everyday required a change of scenery, and today was no different. Jericho wove his way through the crisscrossing alleys, dodging people slumped in the streets and bits of scrap or nameless decay. Home.

He moved along, occasionally climbing onto the walls and jumping off when an obstacle was impassable. To others it might have seemed like avalanche of waste and poverty, but Jericho just saw it as an obstacle course to weave through. It made it fun, and why not have fun? If something was fun, he would do it. There was no point in hesitation, in questioning the consequences. Just move. Just keep moving.

That was how he operated, even more so in the past few months since the explosion. Moving, always moving. The abandoned factory they called home was unbearable without Rampart. Jericho couldn't stomach it for more than a few hours before moving on again. He just couldn't. Rampart wasn't there to steady him, so he fired away, ricocheting away from everything he loved.

If this was what life without Rampart was like, he was glad he couldn't remember a time before.

The first memory that really mattered took place in community home in which he spent so many years. There was kid who usually sat alone, a kid who the other kids would berate for how they looked, for their meagerness. This kid could not have been more different than him, but there was one thing they shared.

Everyone thought they were broken.

It seemed like the kid was working on some schoolwork. Jericho was never any good at school. His mind moved too fast, and all his teachers labeled him as a problem, told him he had a few screws loose. Jericho hated school.

Words and thoughts spilled from Jericho's lips, and he was holding the kid's hand before he knew it. What Jericho remembered most about this fateful day was the feeling of Rampart's hand. It was just…so warm. It was the warmest thing he had felt before. Well, he didn't have anything else warm in his life to compare it to so it became the warmest thing ever regardless. And that was just fine with Jericho.

He never wanted to let go of that warmth. Never. If there was one thing to stay constant, to stay with him always, he wanted it to be that warmth. Moving, always moving, except for that warmth.

How stupid he was, for moving away from that warmth on that day.

You can't stand still for once in your life can you?

The words that authority figures had bombarded him with were ringing in his head. Only this time, he built the bomb, he let off those horrible words ringing in his ears. He couldn't stand still, and now Rampart was dead. Dead and gone.

Jericho leapt over the skeletal remains of a bed and continued pattering down the narrow street. Where was he going? He didn't know. Breakfast probably would be a good idea so he hoped he would run into it.

In the past, he would try to zero in on people in the busier streets who looked like they came from the upper class. They were perfect for pickpocketing: oblivious, bulging pockets, and of course, vindicating to rob. But as Jericho peeked out of the alley, there was a noticeable lack of people. What was going on?

Jericho racked his brains, trying to think of what could possibly be the reason for this sudden change. Some holiday? Factory explosion? Rebel activity?

He gave up after a few seconds. Thinking was Rampart's job.

Turning, Jericho started back into the alley when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Hey!" yelled a gruff voice from across the street. Jericho looked over his shoulder to a squad of about three Peacekeepers approaching.

"Shit," he muttered, and took off sprinting.

He easily maneuvered through the little nooks and crannies of the streets, getting farther and farther away from the Peacekeepers. Jericho looked back and grinned, changing course and scurrying up the wall, finding easy traction like he had webbing stuck to his hands and feet. After years of practice, this stuff came natural to him. He had never been caught yet, and he wasn't about to start now.

The sounds of the Peacekeepers were already fading behind him as he reached the roof and began sprinting, leaping over short gaps and moving around the various devices and protrusions.

When the sounds were completely gone from Jericho's senses, he finally skidded to halt. He was on the roof of a greyish rectangular building with no distinguishing features. It was not as tall as some of the massive buildings and factories to the north, but it allowed him to get a decent view of everything below and beyond.

Above some of the smog that slithered across the floor of this concrete jungle, the sun was just barely coming through. He felt a slight sense of warmth reach him, leaking through the sky. It was calming, but nothing would compare to them. No offense to the sun, but nothing could compare to them in any capacity.

Jericho looked back at the way he came and felt a shot of cold to his heart. It wasn't the same gap between buildings, but it was easy to be reminded of that day.

School was a blur to Jericho. Nothing made sense and everyone around him hadn't even tried to help. They'd given up on him, so why shouldn't he?

Rampart was a different story though. They were always inclined towards school, working so hard and even going to that stupid academy. Jericho was happy for Rampart, but he was distrustful of that place from the start. The way the teachers and adults acted about it made Jericho seethe.

He was proven right when Rampart was kicked out of the school. They were treated like dogshit by everyone there, Jericho never forgave them for it. Ever since Rampart had told him about what was happening there, Jericho was just want so angry that…he wanted to blow it up. What better way to get back at something than by just blowing it the fuck up. Leave nothing but ash and dust. It was a fitting punishment. The school thought they were broken? Why not break the school in return?

Rampart didn't like the idea at first, but Jericho never let up. He wanted that dump gone. It was exhilarating to think about doing so drastic. But, nothing would come of it unless Rampart agreed. They were the smart one, they were the tinkerer.

One day, his dreams came true. Rampart agreed, and the plans were set in motion. There wasn't much thinking to be done. The plan was to blow up the school in the summer (when it was hopefully empty) and watch it burn, watch it all burn, all the hurt and all the pain. In retrospect, Jericho wished he had thought about the aftermath, but he was so focused on revenge that it didn't even cross his mind.

It was that oversight that led to Jericho on one side of a gap between buildings and Rampart on the other. He didn't want to leave, but Rampart couldn't keep up. It wasn't their fault. He should have planned an escape route. Maybe then he wouldn't have come back to find nothing but a bloody ring, maybe Rampart wouldn't have told him to run, maybe Rampart would still be by his side.

Jericho tried not to dwell on maybes. After Rampart didn't show at the factory, he couldn't stand to stay there any longer. It was too much of a reminder of the way things had been. The good years. It was impossible for Jericho to even consider staying there, waiting for someone who would never come back. No, he had to keep moving. Just keep moving.

And that was just what he did. He started to continue across the rooftops when noticed the square a little ways away. A bunch of people were gathered and there were Peacekeepers lining the whole place.

The Reaping. Jericho almost laughed out loud, slapping his forehead. How could he have forgotten the Reaping.

Everyone knew it was dangerous to not attend. Peacekeepers patrolled the homes and streets, looking for people who dared break the law. It was grounds for execution.

Jericho tapped his foot nervously. Should he go? He was nervous that he would be recognized if he showed up, but it would be harder to hide if he stayed behind with the influx of security. He and Rampart had never missed a Reaping. Jericho had pestered Rampart about taking the risk, but they always shook their head. The risk was too great.

As Jericho looked at the town square starting to fill, he absentmindedly drifted his hand into his pocket and fingered the ring, all he had left of Rampart.

"What would you say to me right now?" he asked the empty air.

Jericho swayed side-to-side in a group of kids, all lined up to sign in and take their place for the Reaping. He noticed that there only seemed to be older kids, but shrugged it off. Probably wasn't important.

"Next."

A Peacekeeper with some sort of detector waved it over him and it buzzed loudly. Everyone in the vincinity turned to look at him. Jericho just laughed, somehow managing to make it sound comical, like he was in on the joke, if this were a joke.

The Peacekeeper patted him down and emptied out Jericho's pockets. To his surprise, a bunch of little scraps and techno bits and bobs poured out. He hadn't even realized they were there. With a pang, he came to the conclusion that he had been picking up scraps during his day. During their times at the factory, he would always pick things up for Rampart to tinker with. They could usually make magic out of nothing, and be able to sell it for a little bit of money.

After looking through the scrap, the Peacekeeper waved him on. The scraps were never anything dangerous. Like he said, Rampart could make something out of nothing.

The Peacekeepers allowed him to keep the ring and he walked forward to the person signing in. He fidgeted as they pricked his finger and looked around at the surrounding Peacekeepers. No one moved towards him, no one raised their guns. Finally, he was let through.

Jericho breathed a huge sigh of relief as he made his way to the rest of the District 3 youth. All he could think about was how much Rampart hated the sign-in process. Their eye twitched when their deadname was addressed to them, a label that never belonged to them. They were always Rampart, never that.

Finding a spot to stand, Jericho's eyes darted around the stage. The Mayor was seated alongside some of the living victors (who Jericho didn't even remember). At the center of the stage was a strange looking woman with what looked like cybernetic implants. The District 3 escort, Cypher, thought she would stay with the theme of the District every year. And so, everyone was forced to watch her parade around with a fake robotic voice and implants for the sole purpose of aesthetic.

It didn't take long for the anthem to begin and the usual spiel to start. Jericho zoned out immediately and instead looked at all the people next to him, instinctively looking for a face that should have been there. They should have been here.

Jericho's hand once again slipped into his pocket, his fingers stretching out for the ring. He rolled it between his fingers as the ceremony went on, completely flying right by him, as inconsequential as a breeze.

His attention was only redirected onto the stage when he heard a noise that didn't seem like a traditional Reaping noise. Where there were usually 2 glass bowls, there was a giant screen. On the screen there were two digital picture frames, outlined in pink and red hearts. In the center of the picture frames there was something vertically spinning, like a slot machine at an arcade.

He squinted his eyes at the blurred images. Were those…faces? And what was the deal with those hearts?

There was hardly a moment for him process anything when an excited DING echoed across the silent, stoic crowd.

He looked up and blinked, looking at the left picture frame. There was a face at the center. Jericho twitched, trying to process what he was looking at. His own face answered his quizzical look.

The kids near him stared, already starting to part, perfectly content to watch another kid march to their death. As long as it wasn't them.

Jericho just stood there, trying to figure out exactly what was going on when a second DING brought his eyes to the right picture frame.

He knew that face. He knew that face all too well.

Rampart Szajko's features were projected for the whole world to see.

As Jericho Gallagher's mouth dropped open, speechless for the first time in his life, pink and red confetti shot out of the sides of the screen. It fluttered through the air like frigid snow, descending upon a silent ocean of indifference.

It has been so long...wow. I started this story when I was just starting college and now I'm almost done and I have only just gotten through intros. I am so sorry that it took so long to get through. It has been, quite the journey. None of these chapters are perfect, but I'm just so happy that I was able to get to this point, which for me, is a milestone.

For a while this story was miserable for me to write. I wasn't happy and it was doubtful it was even going to finish. But here we are. It took some reshuffling of characters and plot to really get me excited about this story again, and it worked because I am excited! I am so hyped for the rest of this story, and now that I've got to this point, I can see a world where I manage to finish this story. Wild.

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, or just supported me as I made my way through this story over the past few years. It's been wild, and I'm so excited to move on and get to the real start of this tragedy of love and death.