Calvin Kadkhodaian, 15.
District 8 Male.


Calvin squinted slightly at the paper before him, focusing intently, gripping the pencil between his fingers tighter. He'd been trying to perfect one corner of the building he was sketching for almost an hour now, but he'd been unable to nail it down. "Come on, why can't it just work?!" he exclaimed, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He'd been working at this for two hours, and it still wasn't getting done.

"Fuck," Calvin muttered to himself, straightening up and stretching backwards as he shook his wrist out. He dropped the pencil on the table, pushing himself to his feet and stretching his tense body out. He had a habit of sitting far too still for far too long, focusing so hard that everything around him would drop away, leaving only the scratching of his pencil and the paper before him.

Calvin crossed the room, wooden floorboards creaking in a familiar pattern (as they had his entire life). He stopped at the window, resting his shoulder in the corner between the cool, glass pane and the wooden window frame. Before him was the very building he'd been trying to draw, the corner he'd been stuck on for so long right before his eyes, almost as if taunting him. The building was beautiful, one of the oldest houses in the District, and it was also likely the most expensive; being from one of the nicest areas of Eight had its advantages, especially the sheer number of houses perfect for sketching.

Yet even after committing the house outside his window to memory, Calvin couldn't get it. He'd looked out the same window at the same sight for his entire life, and yet he couldn't do it. Calvin knew what his mother would say about it; she'd tell him to give his hobby up, to stop pursuing his art. But he would not give it up, not ever. Despite his mother's nagging and constant lecturing, he wouldn't.

Calvin couldn't give his mother the satisfaction of giving up.

Calvin stood still, pondering, watching as everything moved around him: clouds floating by overhead, trees waving in the breeze, the occasional bird flying across his view. It was peaceful, nice, serene. He considered grabbing a canvas and painting it but he almost didn't want to move. That was, until a quiet thud came from the other side of the window. It startled Calvin, pushing him out of his thoughts as if a bucket of cold water had just been dumped on him. Calvin stepped forward, peering down to look at the ground. He quickly jumped back as the window was hit with what he realized to be two more stones in rapid succession. Quickly, he spotted the culprit: it was his friend, Damask, standing in the middle of the pathway in front of his house with a wide grin on her face. Calvin waved at her sheepishly. He pushed open the window, allowing a gust of fresh air to blow through, rustling the pages of the sketchbook which still lay open on his desk.

"What's up?" Calvin called down from the window. Damask had been a somewhat recent addition to their friend group, but one he didn't mind one bit. They'd gone to school for a long time together, always running parallel to each other, paths never quite crossing until they did. Calvin didn't quite understand what changed, what had pushed their paths to cross, but one day Damask just started sitting with them during lunch. And the rest was history.

"I'm here to get you, duh," Damask announced, clapping her hands loudly as she grinned.

"What for? I thought we didn't have any plans tonight."

"The boys decided they wanted to go out, so I'm here to get you."

"Why not just go without me?"

"No way am I going out with those doofuses without you."

"Oh, um... thank you? I guess they can be pretty idiodic sometimes," Calvin chuckled nervously, grateful that he was far away from Damask as he could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks. He'd never been very good at taking compliments in any form, and that didn't seem like something that would change about him anytime soon.

"So are you gonna come down here or what?" Damask snorted, looking very amused at his flustered attempt at a joke.

"Yeah, hold on, I'll be out in a sec," Calvin replied, promptly shutting the window. He grabbed a bag that was hanging off a chair nearby, picking up a few items and unceremoniously dumping them into the open bag. He slung it over his shoulder and hurried out of the room, his large wooden door clattering closed behind him.

Cavin made his way through their house, the stairs, which must have been built before his parents were even born, creaking beneath his feet. The sounds were familiar; he always knew what floorboard would creak in what way, a careful puzzle of what would get his mother to notice his presence and what would not. He hit the bottom landing of the stairs, passing beneath the tall archway into the front hall. Calvin grabbed his keys from the bowl next to the door, then pushed the door open and stepped out into the soft spring air, nearly running into Damask, who had taken a seat on the steps.

"Good, good, you've decided to join me," Damask quipped, turning and looking over her shoulder at him.

"Of course, I wasn't gonna just leave you hanging," Calvin replied, stepping around her and hopping onto the front path with a thud. He offered a hand to Damask, who took it, allowing Calvin to pull her to her feet.

"Alright, let's get going. I don't really care if we're late, because I know everyone else will be," Damask said, turning on her heel and marching off down the path, giving Calvin no choice but to follow. He'd never been particularly skilled at interacting with girls, and Damask's presence in their friend group only proved this. Despite freezing up in her presence, Calvin at least thought he was getting better at talking to her - or at least the other guys in their group had started giving him less flak for it in recent weeks.

Calvin kept his head down as they walked through the streets of District Eight, the residential streets morphing into wider roads lined with shops of every kind. The crowds also increased as people of all kinds went about their shopping, filling the air with a cacophony of voices all talking over one another, trying to be heard over the dull roar of the crowd. Soon enough, the pair turned into the wide open town square, the space a welcome change from the looming buildings and the masses of people.

"Where are we supposed to be meeting them?" Calvin asked.

"Over at the fountain. I don't see them yet, which doesn't surprise me," Damask sighed, gesturing to the fountain that sat in the center of the square, bubbling audibly even from a distance.

"Yeah, they're late. Did we really expect them to be on time?"

"Nah, let's just sit," Damask said, bounding down to the fountain and sitting on the edge of the large basin. Calvin followed suit, taking a seat a little way down from Damask. She stretched her body out, laying across the fountain's edge, hands cupped behind her head like a pillow.

Careful as to not disturb Damask, Calvin carefully pulled his sketchbook from his bag. It wasn't often his friends would hold still long enough for him to draw them, but whenever they did,Calvin was sure to take the chance. He opened the small sketchbook, flipping through the pages until he reached a blank one. Gripping the pencil between his fingers, Calvin put the first few lines onto paper, the rough hewn shapes growing clearer, turning into something he could make sense of. By the time the rest of their friends appeared, Armani in the lead with Elijah in tow, the drawing was more refined; it actually looked like Damask.

"You two ready to go?" Armani asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Huh- what? Oh, yeah I'm ready," Damask replied, rubbing her eyes as she rolled off the edge of the fountain, somehow managing to land on her feet. Calvin followed, shoving his things back into his bag as he took off after his friends, It was nice to be able to get away from it all, to be part of the art instead of the one creating it. Sometimes all he needed was a little push.


Ifer Aiguille, 17.
District 8 Female.


Ifer gripped the fabric between her fingers tighter, squinting as she stitched. Over and under, over and under, each piece of fabric coming together in a puzzle that she had to put together on her own. The girl had no guide or reference, just her measurement notes, her hands and the shining silver needle gripped tightly between her fingers.

The loud, consistent thunking of sewing machines filled the room, the machines far more efficient than Ifer who used only her hands, though they were less precise. The only sound piercing through the familiar, mechanical noises of the machines was the chattering of Ifer's sisters.

"Did you hear what Mother said about Stirling?" Karin, her oldest sister, called across the worktable. Alma and Marianna, two of Ifer's other sisters, nodded their heads.

"I didn't, but I suspect he's ruined his chances with her for good," Alma replied, her forehead creasing as she erased another line on the sketchbook in her hands.

"He just thinks he should get everything because he's the oldest," Marianna chipped in from her seat in the corner, hands clasped over her newly showing stomach, evidence of Ifer's next niece or nephew.

"Well Mother called him an entitled brat, so I doubt he's getting anything!" Karin cackled, their other sisters joining in. Ifer had never been particularly fond of her sisters; they were far too gossipy and nasty, always out to get their other siblings. The battle for who would inherit their mothers business was fierce, each of the eight siblings was fighting against the others in the constant struggle for their mother's attention and approval, and eventually, her store. Their mother had started her business as a tailor shop, but eventually it grew into one of the most prominent fashion boutiques in District Eight, only catering to the upper crust of their District and even the Capitol. When one of them was given control over Chardae's, they'd hold more wealth than almost anybody else in the District.

Their mother had built an empire, but just one of them could inherit it in the end.

"-What about Sigrid, have you heard about what Serika did to her the other day?" Alma asked.

"Yeah apparently she spilt tea on her sketchbook, but nobody could prove it was Serika,"

"Of course not, poor Sigrid, she's too sensitive. Cries too much and all," Karin snorted, looking unamused about the whole situation.

"Oh leave Sigrid alone, she's better at her job than any of you are. Besides that, you won't get anything done talking as much as you do," Ifer chipped in, annoyed at how her sisters gossiped. She'd learned a long time ago that they talked more than they should, and never said anything of particular value, but even then Ifer couldn't just let them talk about her triplet like that. Ifer, Sigrid, and Tove tended to stick together; in the hostile environment that was the rest of their family, they needed to have each other's backs, watching out for each other in the cutthroat battle that was the fight for their mother's business.

"Girls?" The regal voice of their mother reverberated through the door, which opened the woman herself following. Their mother was an imposing figure despite her age, and Ifer could feel herself straightening up, just as her sisters did at the mere sight of her.

"Yes, mother?" Karin said, a pleasant (and very fake) smile stretching across her face.

"Where's Ifer? It's time for us to head home. You have school tomorrow, after all," Chardae replied, pushing her glasses up on her nose as she looked around the large, cluttered workroom searching for Ifer among the bolts of cloth draped over chairs and tables and large spools of string stacked against one of the walls. Ifer placed her work onto the table, standing from her workstation.

"Where's Tove and Siggy?" Ifer asked as she carefully made her way to the door, trying not to knock any projects on the go out of place.

"Waiting in the front room already," Chardae responded, turning and walking out of the room, leaving Ifer to trail behind. As she closed the door, Ifer could hear her sisters giggling and whispering at what Ifer assumed to be her exit.

The well kept hallways of Chardae's were familiar to Ifer, the smell of lit incense floating through the air, her shoes clicking on the pristine white floors as she walked. She'd spent much of her seventeen years of life here, much of it spent working in some way or another, whether bringing patterns to another or counting the change in the cash register for her mother. But the shop was also a place of play for her; she could remember running beneath the tables, hiding behind her sister's skirts and between racks of fabric as a kid. Ifer enjoyed being here at Chardae's; while she was much older now and had to work instead of play, it still maintained that strange air of whimsy.

The hallway ended, depositing Ifer and her mother into the front of the shop, which was filled with all sorts of mannequins, clad in their latest fashions and designs. Ifer preferred working in the front of the shop whenever she could. It held the best part of the job in her opinion: getting to interact with their customers, taking tailor orders, things like that. It was much more of a direct payoff then just making things and sending them off to the Capitol.

"Hey Momma," Sigrid said, a polite smile crossing her face as she pulled the shutters down over the windows. Chardae flicked most of the lights off as she and Ifer approached the front door.

"Alright, are we ready to go?" Chardae replied, nodding to acknowledge Tove and Sigrid. The triplets nodded, Tove's head barely visible over the pile of documents and records she held. Ifer stepped forward and opened the door, stepping back to allow her sisters and mother to pass. They filed through one after the other, Tove watching Sigrid to make sure she didn't drop any of the things she was holding. Ifer let the door close, Chardae locking it behind her as they stepped out onto the streets of District Eight. The boulevard was mostly empty, save for the few trees placed in the planters that dotted the sidewalk, beginning to bud in the fresh spring air. There was a welcoming breeze, refreshing after the biting winds of winter.

"It's nice out tonight, isn't it?" Tove said as they made their way to the streetcar station, situated at the end of the street.

"Yeah, it sure is. You got any plans?"

"Hmm, I might go down to the bonfire."

"There's a bonfire tonight? I thought it was later this week," Ifer said, leaning back against the wall of the small booth while they waited.

"You need to be careful out there Tove," Sigrid piped up.

"I know, I'll be okay," Tove replied with a smirk, patting Sigrid on the shoulder, "Besides that, if Ifer comes she can keep an eye on me."

"Yeah, it'll be okay, Siggy," Ifer chimed in with a smile. Sigrid was somewhat sensitive, so Ifer and Tove spent a good chunk of time quelling her anxieties about things. It was just how things were; with Tove's recklessness and Sigrid's worrying, it was up to Ifer to mediate between those two extremes.

A series of cracking sounds alerted Ifer to the incoming streetcar. "Everyone got everything?" Chardae asked, turning to her daughters. All three nodded in sync, Sigrid over her stack of documents. When the streetcar came to a stop, Chardae stepped on first, Ifer and her sisters following her up the stairs like ducklings. Their mother paid for all four of them before making her way towards the back of the car, looking for a seat. There were a few people scattered around the car, most sitting by themselves, paying no attention to anyone else, so it was easy enough to find four seats together.

As Ifer took her seat next to Sigrid, she leaned her head against the window, watching as the world slowly started to move. The scenery outside of the window passed quickly, roads and shops turning to houses which grew larger with every stop and start. Eventually, the grandest houses in District 8 rose up around them. The car slowed to a stop, allowing Ifer and her family to disembark, making their way into the evening air.

"You sure you've got all those books?" Ifer asked, turning to Tove as they made their way down the street.

"It's fine, I've got it," Tove sighed over the stack of books. Ifer nodded, sticking close to her sister just in case she needed help. Sigrid and Chardae walked ahead, Sigrid quietly showing their mother a few of her new designs. Ifer always thought that if anyone should take over their family's shop, it should be Sigrid. Sure, she kept to herself, and she could be incredibly sensitive, but in the end Ifer thought she was the best candidate. If anyone could mediate and keep the peace between all of the Aiguille siblings, it was Sigrid. Ifer would be more than willing to give up the shop to her sister if it came to it. All she wanted was for their family to be whole again, for them to be able to sit down and have dinner without somebody wanting to strangle somebody else.

At least she had them. At least she had Sigrid and Tove. They were like a puzzle, incomplete without the other two, three peas in a pod all their lives. And Ifer didn't intend to break this group apart if she could help it. She would hold them together no matter what.

The family turned off the main road, walking up the path leading to the front door of their home. Chardae opened the door, calling through for her husband as the triplets' three dogs skittered up to the door to greet them excitedly. Ifer pet her dog, Berkeley, waving in greeting to her father who appeared in the doorway to see them.

"C'mon Berkey baby," Ifer called, gesturing to the tan dog. He followed her up the stairs of the grand house and down the long hallway that led to her room. As she opened her door, Ifer ran through her tasks for the night: she had to pick an outfit for the bonfire, and she had homework to do, and it certainly couldn't hurt to get some more work done on her projects at home. All of the things she had to do swirled around her mind as she laid back on her bed, sighing deeply. Berkley jumped up onto the bed next to her, laying down next to Ifer as she ran her hands across his short fur, the motion equally soothing to them both.

There was so much to do and so little time, and yet Ifer knew she'd be able to get it all done. Despite the weariness wearing her down, Ifer knew the ending was in sight. Within a year, the battle for Chardae's would be over and she could rest with her sisters.

But until then, Ifer had to hold her sisters together.