Gallant Nemes

When I was little, a traveller gave me a book. Six or seven or maybe eight, I was still young enough that all I could see from the world was the good. My mom was still my hero I wanted to be just like, my dad always aboard the next train rolling into the station. Bullies were just future friends, District One my home in more than just my name.

I still remember running home, holding the leather tightly to my chest as my little legs swung as hard as they could, propelling me through the crowded streets, leaping over overflowing sewage and side-stepping patrolling Peacekeepers clad in white armor. She hit me over the head with a wooden spoon when I showed her what I had bought, asking me how leather and paper was supposed to fill our bellies. But later that night, when I curled up by the fire, my face just inches from the page as if I was scared the words would fade if I so much as blinked, I could see her out the corner of my eye, standing in the hall, looking at me, smiling.

My hands run across the smooth leather cover one last time as I slide it to the vendor. The silver coins feel much colder in my hands, but I close my fist around them anyway, and walk away.

The crossroads market is still enough to make stars appear in my eyes. Travelers in bright, beautiful cloths from as far as the shining Capitol to the west stand beside rag-wearing merchants who still seem to have the coal dust of District Twelve clinging to their olive skin and dark hair. There's shouting in the air, harsh northern accents ringing loudly and clashing against the soft lilts and drawls of the southern melody. A girl no older than fifteen stands singing on a crate, coal dust in her blonde hair while the oil stains covering her clothes mark her as from the Middle District Beltway. Her voice is harsh and breaks every other note, but there's a beauty in that. I peer into the tin cup beside her as I walk by, and drop a coin into the empty cup.

A man with vibrant green hair from District One is sitting behind a velvet-laid table, jewels and other shiny things from the district of luxury all for sale at exorbitant prices. A Stone of the Sea sits in the center of the table, the light blue gem of my mother's namesake glimmering in the early morning fog. I feel the silvers in my hand, and sigh as I walk past the stand. Normally I would stop and ask for tidings out of District One, before that I would ask for stories, and even earlier than that I used to ask about a man they may happen to know.

But today isn't a day for stories of a home that I've never seen. It's a day to get coins and food and survive to see another foggy sunrise clouded by the smog of coal trains. A few boys and girls bump into me as they run through the crowded walkway, laughing and yelling as they chase after one another. I watch them for a few more moments, and smile to myself when one of them looks oddly at the stone in their hand.

I count the coins in my closed fist again to be certain, thumbing through each of the eight remaining pieces of silver. A tan-skinned boy of no more than eight with a straw hat carries a cart of large, ripe grapefruits, struggling under the weight as he pushes through the crowd. I flip him a coin and lighten the load by three, and he smiles at me gratefully.

I bite into the flesh, bitter juice trickling down my chin that I wipe away with my tattered sleeve. The gaggle of orphans runs past me again, and I stop one of them as they do, offering to trade one of the large orange fruits for my stone back. His face fills back up with color as he rapidly nods his head, and as soon as the grapefruit is in his hands he runs off to catch up with his friends, who are peering back at him from the opposite side of the windy market.

I slide the small flat stone back into my pocket and whistle to myself, picking up the beat of a nearby man drumming on some buckets and bins. As I make for the exit of the canopy-covered, maze-like market covering the inter-district train platforms, I stop the same place I always do, and read the sign.

Discover Panem. Tickets starting at 200 silver.

A mural of a rugged man and women backdropped by the Panemian flag are painted beside it, and on its other side is a map, a web of red, blue, and yellow lines sprawling from its heart in Six to all the other districts.

I feel the coins in my fist again, and take another bite of the fruit, my eyes gleaming as they trace a path along the routes, crawling from corner to corner, from the cold northern woods of Seven, to the grey skies of the Middle District Beltway, to the endless grain fields and sunshine of the the far east, all the way back west to District One, and the shiny glimmer of a foreign home.

"Soon," I hear myself saying, my voice soft and quiet under the sounds of engines and whistles and shouting voices. "Just you wait, pa. I'll catch up soon."

Hello, lovelies! Thank you so much to all the wonderful people who sent me a character, I was blown away by all the attention and love that this story received, and the characters were all absolutely stunning, each and every one of them! I'm sad to say that I ended up getting more than 24 submissions, and so I sadly wasn't able to accept all the characters I received, as much as I wish I could. The tribute list is on my profile, as well as a link to the blog that I've updated to have a tributes page showing off all 24 of the amazing characters you've sent! I hope that I can do justice with the fantastic tributes that you've all sent my way '3

All the Love,

CC