But oh, my heart was flawed
I knew my weakness
So hold my hand
Consign me not to darkness
~ Mumford & Sons
INTROS III
Omega Grant, 17
District 12 Female
District 12's school is small and underfunded, and yet, as Omega Grant sits down on one of the benches in the eating area, she takes joy from tapping her feet against the packed earth that makes up the floor. The school is near the trainyard and she can hear the roaring of an engine in the distance as a train packed with coal heads off towards the Capitol.
Who needs wealth, she thinks, when she can enjoy the simple pleasures of life.
Pulling herself back to reality, Omega Grant can feel the gazes of a least a dozen boys digging into the back of her skull. Watching her every action. A wry smile twists across her lips as she plans her next move, whilst enjoying the small roll of bread that Alpha had brought her this morning.
She swallows her current mouthful, savoring the warmth of the fresh loaf for a moment. The warmth of it sits in her stomach, diffusing into her chest with a fuzzy feeling of comfort. Her heart bleeds with sympathy for all the starving kids around her, but she tries not to overthink it- there's not enough for her, let alone enough to share.
She wishes she could help, but depriving herself won't do that.
Alpha would give the loaf away in a heartbeat. He's always been the impulsive one. Compared to him, Omega looks cautious- and that is not a word she'd ever use to describe herself. Just because she mulls things over for more than a couple of seconds before committing, does not mean she obsesses over playing by the rules and staying safe.
As if to reassert that statement, she pulls herself to her feet and tilts her head up. Her eyes sparkle like gemstones, bright, and gleaming with mischief.
"To everyone staring at me, just come over and talk to me if you care so much." She calls out. The students who hadn't been paying attention to her before then turn in their places to look at her. Omega detects a muddled soup of annoyance and intrigue and embarrassment in all the pairs of eyes fixated on her. The more irritated gazes don't bother her, given that they're in the minority.
She's well known around town. She feels like she can talk to almost anyone in the District without fear of hostility - just not the Peacekeepers, of course.
Whether it's the adults, whose expressions still linger with sympathy as they remember how hard the District-wide sickness had hit the Grants two years ago, or the other kids her age, who Omega has spent years winning over.
She doesn't expect any of the boys to own up to it. She's surprised when one of them does rise, and make his way towards her. Playfully, she tosses her light brown ponytail across her shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he says, sheepishly, as soon as he's near enough to not be overheard. His name's Owen. Omega knows almost everyone's name, as well as their personalities. He's in the year below her and has always been far too shy to ever act on his closeted feelings. Hence, the flicker of surprise that ignites within Omega at his unexpected introduction.
She snorts, "Please, you can't help it. You can even sit down here if you want. My gift." She offers him a teasing smile.
"R-really?"
"Did I stutter?" She says, grinning.
Owen sits down opposite her, pressing his lips into an awkward, tight line as he does so.
"It's not... what you think. I'm sorry, I just... knew your sister. You look a lot like her. That's why I was watching you." He tells her.
The smile fades from Omega's face at his words. Carolin. The name of her sister blossoms like a poisoned fruit in her mind. She doesn't dispute his words because she, too, sees the face of her late younger sister in the mirror every morning. The face of a young girl laughing in the spring buds, in the months before the sickness had crept its way into her body.
It's easier than remembering her vomiting blood, or the black bruises beneath bloodshot eyes as death had swallowed her up. Omega would give anything to forget those later memories.
Carolin had died just days before Omega's mother had met the same fate, and just hours after their little brother. The memories of the dark days that had followed, of all-consuming grief and mourning, leave a bitter taste in Omega's mouth.
She swallows, thickly.
"That's alright." She tells Owen.
"Do you miss her?"
"Of course." She says, bluntly. Never one to warp the truth, she shrugs, "Everyone lost family and friends during that period. At least I'm still lucky enough to have a lot of my family left.
"Carolin always said she had a big family." Owen allows a small smile. "I... lost track. You... have a twin, don't you?"
"Alpha?" Omega snorts, "He's not my twin. We're ten months apart. And I still have four more siblings alongside him who are still alive."
"Right. Sorry."
"Forget it," Omega waves it off, "Everyone thinks we're twins. I'm cool with it.
"..."
Owen's gaze flickers off to the side, and suddenly, he stiffens, "That's him, isn't it?"
Omega's muscles tense up as she follows his line of sight. Sure enough, she could recognize that mess of light brown hair from a mile away. Her brother's height makes him stand out from the crowd, anyways. Right now, he's striding across the clearing towards her, blue eyes flashing with barely-suppressed worry. Omega feels panic itching and clawing at the back of her eyes, a ribbon of apprehension swirling in her stomach as he approaches. It's working hours, Alpha should be working. He carries coal from the mines to the trainyard, providing for the family. He wouldn't take time off of work without a good reason.
Something's wrong.
Omega stuffs the remainder of her bread roll into her pocket, forgetting Owen's presence; her heart hammers in between her ribcage as Alpha gets closer.
"What is it?" She says, sharply, words clipped, as soon as he's close enough that they won't be overheard by any of the prying ears around them
"It's Joey," Alpha tells her, pulling to a halt in front of her. "He's ill again. Simon came and told me. He's been throwing up and heaving all morning, apparently."
"Damn it," Omega swears under her breath. Joey, one of their younger siblings, had caught the sickness two years ago that had taken their mother and two of their siblings, yet had managed to pull through, just like the rest of them. Still, his body's never been the same. He's been weaker, and more prone to bouts of illness, ever since. Omega pauses, rearranging her thoughts into an order that makes logical sense before she replies, carefully.
"I'll take the day off and see how he is, alright?" She tells him, "It'll be fine. You can get back to work and I'll tell you if it gets worse, alright?"
"..."
The doubt glistening is Alpha's gaze doesn't go away, but, like a candle, it gutters, and diminishes. "Alright..." He says doubtfully.
Omega grabs her bag from beneath the bench and shoulders it, shooting an easy-going grin at Owen as she does so, "See you around," She tells him, "Tell the teachers I've gone home if anyone asks."
Alpha gives her a small smile, "Thanks for doing this, sis."
"Eh," Omega cards her hand through her hair, "It's nothing. You don't have to thank me. Although it doesn't hurt." She smirks.
Alpha Grant, 17
District 12 Male
Alpha's hands are coated in a thin layer of coal dust. That's normal.
As he makes his way through the streets of district 12, back to the coal mines to continue working, he fixates on the black dust that seems to get everything. Caking the corners of his nail beds, darkening every line on his palms like black spider webs, like ink.
He's too young to descend into the darkness of the coal mines. When he was younger, he used to stare at gaping maw with unbridled fear, but now he eyes it with a glint of excitement. He can't explain it, but the idea of being swallowed up by the darkness, not knowing if it's the last time you'll see the light of day, sends adrenaline branching through his veins like a bolt of lightning.
Soon, he thinks. The moment he turns eighteen. For now, his job is to load the carts with coal and to pour them into the train carriages. It's not the most glamourous job but it puts money in his pocket, and that money is essential to provide for his entire family. They never knew their father, and their mother was a ghost long before she passed.
They live off his money, the charity of others, and the odd chores that his siblings take on in their spare time. Calysta mends clothes. Simon carries messages. They all have to go to school but they alternate with days off to look after Joey and Pierce, the youngest two. It's a hard life, but they've all learned to be optimistic. If nothing else, they have to keep their spirits up as they wait for things to get better in the future.
Alpha hears the crunch of gravel beneath his boots as the coal mines loom in front of him.
the eyes of the other workers in the yard flicker towards him as they register his presence. Most of them look away immediately with disinterest, but the gazes of a few girls and young women linger. Alpha isn't surprised.
He doesn't have time for a girlfriend, but that doesn't mean he won't humor any of them. After all, life's too short to avoid the simple pleasures altogether. A bit of flirting never hurt anyone.
He lifts a hand to brush away a strand of coal-blackened hair sticking to his forehead. His wrist aches at the motion, ever so slightly, and Alpha frowns. He broke his wrist several years ago, jumping off the school roof for a dare.
It sounds silly in hindsight but he's never been one to back down from a dare. Still isn't. Even so, his wrist occasionally reminds him of the incident by aching, just like it does now.
He blames it on the fact that it never healed properly.
He'd been planning to go to the District Doctor when he first received it, but then one of their neighbors had caught the sickness that had flooded the entire district two years ago, and they'd been forced to stay home. Then their mother had caught it, and his wrist had all but been forgotten amidst the sea of grief and struggling that had following.
Alpha shrugs, nonchalantly. As far as physical scars go, a wrist that rarely hurts is nothing to cry home about. His family needs him, now more than ever.
He makes a beeline for a shovel propped up against one of the carts. As he does so, he brushes up against another worker, too lost in thought to watch where he's going. He twists round, flushing.
"Whoops, sorry, didn't see you there." His tone is apologetic, yet it doesn't carry enough weight to be serious. Not that he doesn't mean it. He knows the right balance to strike between playfulness and sincerity.
It's a gift he's always been blessed with, and Alpha has always been thankful for it. Thankful for his silver tongue. Thankful for the little things.
Why waste time lamenting what you don't have, when you can be grateful for what you do have, he thinks.
The young woman with who he'd just collided offers him a smile."Apology accepted. I saw you leaving about half an hour ago. Where have you been?"
"Where haven't I been." Alpha rolls his eyes. He holds one hand out and pretends to count on his fingers, "I haven't been to the Capitol, I haven't been swimming in the ocean, I haven't-"
"Oh- shut up." The woman snorts, jokingly shoving him with her shoulder.
"Please, you know you love me."
"Do I?"
"Mmm, yeah. That's up to you." Alpha sidesteps. He can't hide the irresistible gleam in his eyes as he carries on, looking back over his shoulder towards her, "Sorry, got to work, you know how it is. I'll talk to you later."
"You better."
Alpha snorts; the laughter spills out of him like water from a burst pipe. "Or what?"
He doesn't get a response. As Alpha picks up the shovel and starts transferring coal from one of the piles on the ground into the cart, there's a glow in his chest lingering from the quick-fire banter. He lives off the thrill of taking risks, both physically and socially. For him, the feeling of adrenaline roaring through his blood usually outweighs the dangers.
And, as long as he doesn't think about the dangers, he has nothing to fear.
Bowie Lockhart, 18
District 2 Female
The sound of distant voices and laughter resonates in Bowie's ears as soon as she leaves her bedroom, and a vein in her neck throbs with annoyance. In her home, privacy is a luxury. That doesn't mean she has to like the constant cacophony of noise, but she tolerates it. Barely.
The sun is a beacon in the sky, unperturbed by the occasional cloud that lazily drifts past it. Bowie watches it for a second as she waits for her breathing to calm down.
Irrational rage is also a luxury. If it isn't directed towards someone specific, and if she can't focus it into something useful, then it serves no purpose.
The grumbling of her stomach drives her towards the kitchen, skirting around the garden as she does so. Whilst on that route, out of the corner of her eye she spots one of her half-siblings, Kalix, hiding behind a bush, and she can't help the noise of vague amusement that escapes her. Somewhere, nearby, Jude will be looking for him. The two of them love their games of hide and seek; Bowie knows this all too well from her vain attempts to help train them.
A small part of her is tempted to give Kalix's location away - payback for all the times he's wound her up, invading her personal space or stealing her belongings. She decides against it, just because she can't be bothered to deal with the inevitable retaliation. Plus, she doesn't want to waste time - she's determined to get to the kitchen before it starts filling up with people making breakfast.
Her heartbeat quickens, as her pace increases.
Bolting through the day, she exhales with relief. The only people there so far are her mother and her aunt. Well, adoptive aunt. It's complicated. Her stupid father slept with so many women in the District, and her biological mother, Kore, and Sandra, who's the mother of just some of her other half-siblings, have taken charge of the mess he left behind when he decided to kick the bucket.
AKA: looking after her and all of the half-siblings that they're aware of.
Frankly, half of the younger residents in District 2 could unknowingly be her half-siblings, and she'd be none the wiser.
Bowie makes for the cupboard, grabbing a small bowl of the pre-prepared oatmeal. The batch has gone down considerably since last night, and her eyes narrow.
"Who's eaten all the oatmeal?" She scowls.
"Rogue came by about ten minutes ago." Sandra supplies, helpfully.
Bowie scowls, again, but bites away the choice selection of insults bubbling on her tongue, at least in Sandra's presence. The older woman started dating Rogue shortly after her father's death, and although Bowie acknowledges that she deserves to be able to make her own choices, she won't play games and pretend that she's ever warmed up to the step-father of, amongst others, her half-brother, Ward.
Out of all her siblings, she likes Ward the best. And not just because he helps out when she gets harassed by some boy trying to get into her pants. If she had her way, those sorts of situations would be resolved with a lot more blood and pain involved. But, she concedes, Ward's more peaceful approaches also work, and it probably brings her less attention.
Which is always a good thing.
"Well..." She grumbles, "We've already got to deal with Ward's appetite. Now Rogue, too?"
"That's unfair." Kore chides her. Bowie shrugs, masking her indifference out of respect for her mother, who also happens to be the woman who's played a key part in her training. For most of her childhood she's spent the early hours of the morning, when streaks of starlight still danced in the dark sky, with a blade in her hand, in a rare and welcome silence broken only by Kore's guidance.
"...Sure."
"Where are you headed so early in the morning, anyway?" Sandra asks her.
"Into town. Why?"
"Just asking."
"Be careful," Kore tells her; her eyes shimmer with hidden meaning, and Bowie picks up on it immediately.
It's a warning - you've come so far, don't make the same mistake I did. Bowie's lips curl, and she nods, sharply. Bile rises in her throat, hot and bitter, at the story that Kore has told her so many times. She could recount it in her sleep by now, whispering them to herself, forging the resolve inside her into something molten and rock-hard. When Kore was Bowie's age she, too, trained for the games. She, too, lived with the inherent knowledge that she was good enough, and that she deserved glory.
And then, one drunken night later, and one pregnancy later, all those dreams were flushed down the plughole.
Bowie squeezes her hands into fists by her side, until her knuckles turn white with the pressure. Once again, the resolve to be different, to be perfect, wells up in her chest, re-enforced with every beat as her heart thumps in her ribcage, demanding her attention, as loud and assured as a marching band and-
...
No.
Ward Veros-Lockhart, 17
District 2 Male
There's something nice about getting up early. As Ward walks the streets of District 2, he might as well be the only person in the District. The cold air bites at his skin but he likes how it keeps him awake and alert. Even on his day off, career training means that Ward's body is unable to fully relax; even though the streets are deserted, and the only eyes watching him are the harsh, uncompromising gazes of the stars glittering in the dark sky, like shards of ice.
The Victor's Village looms up ahead. Rows of large houses - most of them with a light in at least one window despite the early hours. After all, Ward thinks, bitterly, Victors aren't exactly known for being heavy sleepers. Nightmares and paranoia crawl their way into the heads of those who enter the Arena, like parasites. If you're lucky enough to survive, they rarely, if ever, leave you.
Of course, not every house in Victor's village is actually occupied by a Victor. Some of them happen to be the immediate family of Victors who have since passed.
As he heads through the gate that marks the entrance to Victor's village, Ward doesn't need to focus on where he's headed. His feet already know the way; it's not his first visit here. Robotically, he pulls his jacket closer to his frame.
He hears a door opening on one of the first houses, and a confused voice, "Ward?"
Ward pauses. He had hoped to avoid anyone from the academy, but luck's never been his strong suit. Regardless, he takes it in stride and turns to face whoever just called out his name. It's Michael, one of the sons of a previous victor, and a boy at the top of Ward's class at the academy. Ward's not at the bottom - far from it - but then again he easily acknowledges that he's not got the same relentless drive, the same focus, and the same willingness to rise by stepping on others, that Michael has. Ward's good. He's know that.
He has to be, if he wants to protect his family.
He just wants to be more in life than a killing machine.
Michael's drive reminds him of his sister, Bowie. That's the only thing that bothers Ward as he offers Michael a casual smile. It sits in his stomach like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Hey."
"What are you doing here?"
"Visiting Ira." Ward shrugs, seeing no reason to lie. As he says her name, the face of last year's victor's sister flashes to the forefront of his mind, and he can't help the wave of sympathy that sweeps through him. As well as having lost her younger brother to suicide just weeks earlier, Ira also happens to have been just one of the dozens of girls who his dad forced himself on, almost a decade earlier.
Ward swallows, convulsively. Ira's stories of his dad's honeyed words and manipulations always make him feel sick. Ward's even been told that his own ability to listen to and interpret the words of the people around him is an ability he's inherited from his late father. His fleeting resemblance and similar features don't help.
He hates being compared to his dad. It's one of the few things that can ignite rare sparks of anger inside him. That, and threats to his family.
"Alone." Michael's eyes, narrow, suspiciously.
"Is that a problem?"
"Mmmm." Michael makes a vague noise in the back of his throat, as his eyes narrow. Ward relaxes in an unconscious effort to try and diffuse the tension, whilst simultaneously keeping an eye on his surroundings as a last resort.
Hope for peace, but prepare for war. Ward can't remember where he's heard that saying, but he can't help but feel it suits him.
"Nothing." Michael says, thoughtfully, "I was just hoping I'd see your sister around."
"Ok, Please stop trying to flirt with Bowie." Ward shuts him down, with a sharp intake of breath. "She's not interested."
"It doesn't hurt to try."
"It might." Ward raises an eyebrow. His voice is cool; smooth with Ward's usual patience. Even so, the threat isn't subtle.
They both know that Bowie is the literal embodiment of ice. She's cold enough to burn anyone who tries to get into her pants, or even to get close to her. As family, Bowie is one of the few people who's seen her vulnerable, and he values his own life well enough to never mention those fleeting moments when her barriers have slumped. She would, quite literally, kill him if he ever told anyone. Furthermore, Bowie can name at least a dozen incidents where he's had to step in between Bowie and a boy who hasn't taken the hint, and act as the peacemaker.
And yet...
If Bowie is ice, then Ward is fire. Normally, he's warmer than Bowie. People can feel comfortable around him. But once or twice, when people have tried to test him, to walk over him, to threaten the people he cares about...
Ward bites his lip, not wanting to finish that thought. He's ashamed about that part of him.
"I'll take my chances." Michael snorts, confidently.
Ward's gaze suddenly darkens.
"You do remember why I got banned from training events, right."
It's Michael's turn to pause. Ward can imagine the images racing through his head, because they're shooting through his head as well. He can't help it. Opponents knocked out, and bleeding. Shouting, and people dragging him away.
He blinks, twice, to jolt himself back to reality. He's not himself when he's like... that.
It's not happened for a long time, but Ward can help but worry that one day, something will set him off again.
Michael gives him a taut nod as he turns away back towards his house, leaving Ward to continue onwards to Ira's house. Leaving him alone with his own thoughts.
...
Ward shakes his head but it doesn't help. He can't help the innate fear swarming inside him. He can't help but be terrified that the next time he loses his head, he'll never be able to return to who he was before.
Thanks to Treble-Notes for submitting Omega and Alpha, and to G00N for submitting Ward and Bowie. Also, Happy 2022, everyone! Reviews and favorites would be much appreciated!