TW for suicide and depression in Glory's POV. If you want a summary of the chapter, please PM me.
Glory Okoro, 18
(Five months before the Reapings)
It would be Bravery's birthday today, Glory remembers, the cold February air stinging her cheeks and turning them a bright shade of beet. She can hardly remember these things anymore.
She wants to think that the pressure got to him, their father's desire for a familial Victor weighing down on Bravery's soul. But Glory knows the truth. She killed him.
She didn't mean to, obviously. She would never intentionally hurt her little brother. But because of her, Bravery is dead.
He was so young. He just wanted to be like her, like his older sister, the one he idolized so much. Of course, it was never his dream, but he still liked having something in common with Glory.
She should've done more to help him. When he was struggling in training. When the older boys were making fun of him. When he screamed at their father that he wanted to quit, that he hated it. She could've given him an out. If she did, maybe things could've been different.
Glory still remembers how she found him. It was the morning of his fifteenth birthday, one year ago today. Glory waited for him at the breakfast table. a full plate of blueberry pancakes and bacon going cold and still in front of her. She rose up the stairs, wondering why he wasn't coming down.
When she opened the door, all that she could see was blood. So much blood.
Bravery Okoro was buried a few days later.
The babbling of a baby brings Glory back to reality. She looks to her right, a woman with a tightly wound scarf and a knitted hat pushing a stroller containing a baby boy wrapped in a blue blanket. The baby's beady eyes follow Glory as she walks. She finds it unnerving. She never cared much for babies anyways.
(She never cared much for anybody).
Her feet trek through the dirty snow, a slight crunching sound echoing beneath her. The Academy materializes in front of her, it's golden lettering and marble walls shining in the dim sunlight.
The secretary at the front doesn't even need to ask for Glory's name. She's been in and out so many times that eventually they just stop asking names.
The training room smells faintly of teenage musk and buckets of sweat. Trays and walls full of weapons sit, their shiny metal gleaming in the artificial light filtering down from the ceiling. The stone walls are chopped in tiny increments except for a large gaping hole in the back part of the room. They always promise that it'll be fixed by next month but it's been there for as long as Glory remembers.
A flurry of loud grunts echo from across the room. Glory cocks her head to the side. A bald man in his early fifties holds a metallic shield close to his chest. On the other side, coated in a heavy layer of armor stands Anissa Allisto, her brown ponytail swishing from side to side with her every move. A dagger is placed in her left hands, her grip on the handle so firm that her hand is a sickly shade of purple. Anissa always used to joke that she came out her mothers womb, knife in her hand.
Once upon a time, Anissa and Glory considered themselves friends. Best friends, even. That was until the time for the Academy choosing the volunteer grew closer and closer. Their friendship turned to rivalry until they were strangers from one another, the presence between them unable to be filled.
Anissa presses at hand to the man's chest, a physical command for him to halt. Her eyes dart towards Glory, partly filled with rage and partly excited for what she knows is about to come.
"Anissa," Glory says. "I didn't realize you'd be here."
"Same here," Anissa retorts. "Wanna spar?"
Glory's face grows an enthusiastic grin. How could she resist?
Anissa sends the bald man away and sets her blade back down on a metal table. Other sharp metal instruments laid bare on the table, all perfectly arranged as if they were matching pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. They kind of were in a way, all part of the inner workings of the Academy.
She carefully runs her fingers across each hefty instrument of death, feeling which one would be the most comfortable in her hand. She eventually decides, sliding the handle of a katana into her hands, gripping it with the same might as earlier. She gives Glory a smirk before returning to her place on the sparring ring.
Glory doesn't care for any of those (what she believes to be) childish weapons. A rack of spears sits next to the table, the thin rods of metal with a point at the end sitting there, beckoning Glory to choose one of them. She flings one into her hands and put on a coating of armor before joining Anissa at the sparring ring.
The two girls locks eyes. Glory's were a shade of deep brown while Anissa's were the color of a mossy swamp, one that claimed it's victims slowly before they could be drowned. Glory wasn't going to let herself drown.
Anissa doesn't waste any time. She swings the katana over her head and lets it down, the path of the blade blocked by the body of Glory's spear.
Glory lifts the katana from off her weapon and jabbed it at Anissa. The girl dodges with surprising ease. Glory knows that Anissa is speedy but it was never one of her major strengths.
Anissa spins around and lunges forward, practically throwing the katana straight at Glory. The girl barely dodges, tripping on her own feet and slamming onto her back. The sparring ring matting is non-existent, causing a rocket of pain through Glory's body.
"You're good," Anissa says, holding the katana a few inches away from Glory's face. She's about to start talking again when Glory hit her leg against Anissa's, causing her to fall onto her back as well. The katana drops from her hands and Glory kicks it out of the ring. She holds the spear against Anissa's padded chest, the girl sighing from frustration at her loss.
"But I'm better," Glory finishes. "Is that what you were going to say?" Anissa lets out a small chuckle before she takes Glory's hand and hops back up onto her feet.
Anissa grabs her water bottle and dumps some into her mouth while Glory starts to exit the ring.
"Hey Glory?" Anissa calls out.
"Yeah?"
"It's good to see you."
"Good to see you too." Glory is about to exit again when she is stopped once more.
"Whatever happened to us?" Glory stops dead in her tracks, the words cutting into her like a butter knife through a steak, just continuously hacking until it reaches the center.
"I don't know. Everything with my brother...I still haven't recovered." Glory tries to lie but deep down she knows this is the truth. Every since she found Bravery, she spiraled downward until she's had nowhere to go.
"No, but even before that. When we got to Reaping age. We became distant. It's like we're strangers." Glory struggles to keep a tear from falling. She hates showing emotion to other people. She's gotten very good at stuffing it back in but for some reason, Anissa's words hit her hard.
"It's just like that. Only one of us can be the volunteer, right?" It's no secret that Anissa and Glory are the two top candidates for the volunteer at the next Reaping. All the trainers and other girls know it. It doesn't stop them from trying harder though.
"But it doesn't have to be that way." She grabs Glory's hand, her eyes warm with compassion. Glory wants it to be like this, like when there were ten-years-old and they goofed off and had fun. When they didn't have to worry about who would bring honor and valor to District One. But it can't be. There's only one volunteer.
"I have to go." She breaks free of Anissa's grip and runs out of the Academy, the cold air hitting her skin again and causing discomfort.
God, why I am like this? she thinks. She closes her fingers into a tight fist. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to curse. She doesn't know which of those is the most feasible.
Instead she turns towards a metal trash can and with all the strength she can muster, kicks it the fuck over. It topples the ground, the lid becoming detached from the can and a pile of garbage spilling out onto the street.
She turns back around, facing a flickering lamp post that shouldn't even be active since it's the daytime, and shoves her foot into the metal pole. It doesn't fall over but in her mind it does.
Now that she thinks about it, she kicks a lot of stuff actually.
Colt Ramirez, 18
(Five years before the Reapings)
Lennie Ramirez passed away this morning.
It wasn't necessarily unexpected. There was no secret in the Ramirez family that Lennie Ramirez had cancer. But even with the family being fairly well off, at least by District standards, treatment options were few and far between. Colt's mother, Frida, usually resorted to praying at the Panemian altar in their living room, and his younger siblings, Diego and Marietta ask if Papa would be alright. Colt always tried to assure them that he would, but he knew the truth about the medicine Lennie was taking: that it was bullshit.
He was right.
Colt doesn't fear death. He doesn't even have a problem with; he's surrounded by it every day. But in that moment, having the Peacekeepers arrive at his house and seeing the still body of his father carried away, he felt like a little kid again, scared of the monster under his bed.
He remembers the final conversation he had with his father. He spoke with him last night, right as Colt was getting ready for bed. Lennie called the kid over to the couch where he sat hunched over, a few violent coughs coming from his throat. He told him about his duty to family, how he needs to be the provider for his mother and younger siblings. Colt didn't realize what he meant. Lennie was still around.
The next morning he wasn't. It was only then that Colt realized what his father meant.
...
A few days have passed since the death of Lennie Ramirez. Colt's mother wept in the kitchen, a usual occurrence, as he got his siblings ready for bed. Diego is only four years younger than Colt and Marietta only six, but they seem much younger than that.
As Colt tucks Diego into his bed, Marietta's tiny voice pipes up from the shadows.
"Colt?" she whispers. "Where did Papa go?"
"He's dead, Mari," Colt blurts out, immediately regretting the statement. A lot of times Colt didn't know what to say to people, so he just went with the most blunt option possible.
"Like in heaven?" she asks again.
"Yeah." Colt walks over to her bed, standing beside her. "He's somewhere safer, somewhere nice."
"That sounds relaxing."
"Yeah," Colt sighs, walking out of Diego and Marietta's room and shutting the door behind him.
I sure hope it is, he thinks.
(Three years before the Reapings)
The sight of the cow corpse on the ground nearly causes Colt to fall off his horse.
Duke neighs to a halt and Colt ties his reigns around a nearby tree.
He walks over to inspect the carnage, his boots clicking against the pavement and his hat almost falling off his head.
The cow is barely black and white. Puddles of sticky red liquid are dotted all over its body. It's mouth is hanging open and the side of the body is nonexistent, instead replaced by hanging organs and more red liquid.
It's gross. Colt can't think of any other word to describe it other than gross.
This isn't the first occurrence of something like this happening to the livestock. It's been happening for the past couple of weeks, the gruesome body of a dairy cow showing up in the middle of the field.
Colt sighs and hops back on Duke, riding back towards the barn. Diego is there, doing a daily check of the amount of livestock we have.
"We got another one," Colt tells him.
"Another? Really?"
"Yep. My best guess is that it's a wolf."
"You think a wolf did that?"
"What else could it have been? Either way, since it's fresh, the wolf will still have blood on it. So I say we go into the woods and whichever wolf has the bloody snout, is the one that's been killing our cows."
"Sounds like a plan to me."
"Get your horse and a gun. Let's go."
The brothers get their horses and weapons and stride down the street leading to the woods before they are stopped by a figure in the road.
"Hey Colt! Hey Diego."
"Oh, hey Dexter!" The tan-skinned man appears in front of them as they hop off their horses to greet him.
Dexter is a family friend whose father went way back with Lennie. Colt and Dexter basically grew up together.
Plus Colt thinks he was crazy hot.
"I was just coming by to see if..." Dexter glances at Diego before turning back to Colt. "It's kinda awkward that I'm doing this in front of your brother. But I was wondering if you would want to hang out later this week. Maybe Thursday?"
"O-hh, um, ye-aah, that'd be, uh, gre-eat," Colt stutters before giving a little nervous chuckle.
"Cool. We'll figure something out to do. See ya then." Dexter gives Colt a little kick before heading off into the distance.
As he vanishes out of eyesight, Diego turns to Colt.
"Colt and Dexter, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-" Colt clamps a hand over Diego's mouth, before giving him some repeated soft punches in the arm, exhibiting laughter from the boy.
"Shut up," Colt laughs before letting Diego go.
They hop back on their horses, riding off into the woods.
The District Ten woods during the daytime are all right. Colt knows from experience that they can be horrible at night, the windy and twisty trees making it hard to maneuver around and the giant rocks and roots causing pain if you bump into or trip over them.
But luckily it's not the nighttime.
"Keep your eyes spotted," Colt tells Diego, who gives an affirmative nod. "I know it's close."
A zoom and swish of gray fur across Colt Ramirez's vision proves that he is indeed right.
Duke jumps on his hind legs, neighing and kicking at the sky. Colt loses his hands on the reigns and falls backward, flopping onto the ground with a thud.
"Colt!" Diego cries out in concern. He's about to hop off his horse when Colt puts a hand up, signaling for him to not do that.
"Stay there!" Colt firmly tells his brother. "I'm going after it."
And Colt Ramirez treks further into the woods.
Colt's fingers are wound tightly against the gun, his eyes staying sharp for any signs of the wolf. He wants to...no. He needs to kill this wolf. He made a promise to his father. The Ramirez business would remain strong even with Lennie Ramirez's death.
It has to be done.
A tuft of gray fur jumps into his vision. Colt raises the gun and points it directly at the figure. It's the same wolf for sure, the splotches of red still stained on it's nose and snout. It's black eyes meets Colt's.
It looks...scared. Like it's staring death right in the face.
(Probably because it is).
Colt looks away as he pulls the trigger, only hearing the gunshot and the cry of the wounded animal ring out into the woods. Eventually, he looks back, unable to listen to the anguished cries of the wolf.
He walks up to the bloody beast, a large bloodstain in the side of it's torso.
Colt raises his gun again. He's going to do this. He has to do this.
He knows this. He knows it well. But the looming shadow of hesitation still sneaks up on him.
But with a final pull, Colt Ramirez's bullet enters the body of the wolf.
The woods become oddly quiet.
Umber Carraway, 18
(Six months before the Reapings)
Nutmeg is dead. Dead as if the entire Peacekeeper firing squad had been summoned to the orphanage, placed Nutmeg against the wall and let their endless barrage of bullets pierce his skin and break apart his insides.
Despite how he died, it's all still the same. Nutmeg is dead and there is nothing that can be done about it.
Whoever discovered his body must've ruled it as an unfortunate case of drug abuse, a perfectly planted needle found at the foot of Nutmeg's bed. They know that if they say anything else, or even slightly implicated that it was anything other than a suicide or an accident, they would be where Nutmeg is right now.
He isn't quite sure if that's heaven or hell. All Umber Carraway knows is that he is not seeing the former.
The green bandana wrapped tightly around his wrist holds more power than Umber realizes. Anytime he walks around the building with the piece of green cloth clearly shown on his wrist, there are whispers from snarky pre-teens and frightened looks from terrified children. Umber usually likes to give them a nod of reassurance that he's not going to hurt them but they know that.
As long as they don't get in the way of any of his so called "friends".
The bandana is wrapped so tightly that it breaks Umber's skin, leaving behind a red-hot mark and a few flakes of skin peeling off. He could loosen it but he doesn't deserve relief from the pain. Not after the things he's done.
Umber pushes the doors open, letting the crisp District Eleven air melt onto his skin.
Winters are tough on the citizens of the district. Its not hot enough where the crops can survive but it's not cold enough for anything else to happen. The crops and plants exist in a state of limbo, bordering on the cusp of life and death, frozen in place, waiting for the sweet mercy of letting go.
Umber Carraway feels like that too.
Helio leans against the sign of the building, looking more badass than he ever does, Umber notes. A newsboy cap sits perched on his head and his boots are wet and icy with snow. A cigarette is stuck between two fingers and about to be placed in his mouth.
"Don't let Mr. Harrington see you with that," Umber snickers at his friend. Helio jumps a little bit, the smoking device almost falling into the snow.
"Jesus, Umber," Helio gasps. "You spooked me."
Umber met Helio only a year ago, at a so-called "meeting" discussing the violent activities they were about to take place in. They weren't quite friends, but they were friendly. About as friendly as you can be with someone in that scenario.
Their relationship barely grew after that, but Helio was the only one that Umber felt comfortable around in the "crew", if that's what they wanted to call it.
"Good. Keeps you on your toes," Umber jokes, giving Helio a little jab with his elbow. Umber realizes it isn't funny though. It's too real.
"You're eighteen, right?" Helio asks, taking a breath of the cigarette.
"Yep," Umber responds. "Turned it a few weeks ago."
"So...you're an adult?"
"Yeah, I guess. What about it?"
"You're not a kid anymore. You're no longer helpless or powerless, you're...free. You could get out of this place and go off somewhere in the district."
"Oh, come on, Helio. I could never do that."
"Why not?" The answer to the question laid in the space between the two boys.
Because of the gang.
A bell rings throughout the air, stinging Umber's ears. It's normal for the orphanage, usually to call in the younger children when it was time for a meal or for bedtime.
There's another bell ring. That doesn't mean anything. There's not going to be a third, there's not going to be a third, there's not going to be a third. There can't be.
The final ring sounds like a knife scraping against a chalkboard to Umber. He cringes at the sound, realizing what it means. It hasn't gone off in a while. There was no use for it.
Until now.
Helio glances back at Umber, also comprehending their current situation. They sigh heavily before heading inside.
The orphanage is even colder than the outside but the basement is surprisingly warmer. Not by much, but Umber has learned to take what he can get. In the whispers at bedtime, children would sometimes sneak out of their rooms to go explore the basement. Umber liked to be optimistic when they didn't reappear in the morning but deep down he knew.
He still knows.
He and Hello arrive at the center of the basement, a lantern on a rotten wooden table their only source of light. The luminance revealed three burly and tall figures, much too old to be at the orphanage. They must be some of Doc's goons from the District, Umber thinks.
Doc sits on top of the table, his feet not even touching the floor as he readjusts his cap. Despite his short stature and boyish face, Umber still thinks that Doc is still the scariest person he's met.
"Hello, boys," Doc sneers, hopping from the table and approaching the pair of friends. The top of Doc's head barely reaches Umber's shoulders. His eyes are cold and black, no reflection to the soul to speak of.
Umber wasn't even sure Doc had a soul.
"How are you today? I hope well. I had the most amazing pastry on my way over here. It was-"
"Cut the bullshit. Just tell us what you want," Hello snaps. The extort comes out of nowhere and Doc and his goons react with shock. Umber cringes. He knows what's about to happen.
"Whoa! Whatever happened to manners, H?" Doc snickers. With a quick snap from his gloved fingers, two of his men grab Helio's arms and throw him to the floor with a thud-snap. He doesn't react, instead laying silent on the ground. A light breathing comes from his chest but Umber isn't sure if it'll last long.
"Is he…dead?" Umber asks.
"Absolutely not. I would never kill off any of my informants. Not unless they did something to prompt me to do so. I just need him out of my way for a moment." Sure. A moment, Umber thinks.
"I have your next assignment," Doc states as he hands a manilla folder to Umber, filled with papers that stick out from every corner. Doc's a lot of things but neat sure isn't one of them. "Take a peek."
Umber opens the folder, finding black-and-white photos of a boy, maybe thirteen-years-old from what he can tell, with shorter hair and a smaller frame. He looks weak, helpless even. Why would Doc want to target him?
"This is Fennel Oriente. He lives on the third floor of the orphanage and steals from my wares quite often. We've tried to catch him and have him executed several times but we can never seem to do it without him either getting away or having witnesses to the crime, and you know my policy about witnesses."That Umber does. As Doc would say, "Witnesses are messy at best and dangerous at worst."
"That's why we need you," Doc continues. "He recognizes you from the orphanage and you could easily get him alone."
"And you want me to do what to him, exactly?"
"Why, kill him, of course. What else would you do?" Umber understands but he doesn't want to face it. He's killed enough already. He was a part of Nutmeg's death, of the little girl in late December. So much blood, all on his hands.
But still, he has no choice but to accept.
"Fine," Umber replies, a little more aggressive than intended. He stomps out of the basement, leaving the flickering lantern with Doc.
...
Fennel is an elusive beast, only seen in District Eleven for various points in time. He never stays in the same place for too long. He's like a ghost, wandering the cold streets of the District looking for something to eat, bargain, or steal.
Maybe he is a ghost. Maybe Umber is too. They're all dead. That would solve a lot of his problems.
He arrives back at the orphanage, his pockets filled with fruit, bread, jewelry, anything he could get his hands on, really.
Umber is waiting for him, leaning against the crumbling wall, throwing a ball into the air and waiting for it to land back in his palm so he can throw it up again.
"Hey, Umber," Fennel casually greets the older boy, trying to shift his weight so the stolen goods don't become obvious.
"Hello, Fennel," Umber catches the ball and places it back into his pocket. "Can we talk?" Umber gestures towards the side of the orphanage, where the trees meet the building encased in shadows.
"Uh, sure..." Fennel hesitates before following Umber back.
Umber Carraway blocks out the horrendous act, the only reminder of it being a knife with the slight tint of red after being washed off. He throws Fennel (he can't even call him that, he's not Fennel, he's just a dead body) into the woods where it will be chewed on and eaten by the wild animals.
It's just another job, just something he has to do. He's tried to get away but he knows he never will. No one ever will
Because no one ever escapes Doc.
First batch of intros are done! Thank you to the users who submitted these amazing characters. Glory belongs to ace0fsw0rds, Colt belongs to Lisan Al Gaib, and Umber belongs to goldie031. Each of the individual intros will be around 1,500 words, meaning that each chapter will be 4,500-5,000 words which is actually crazy now that I think about it.
Thoughts on Glory?
Thoughts on Colt?
Thoughts on Umber?
The next intro will feature Summer Amaryll of District Ten, Connor Kamenko of District Twelve, and Azarya Shoal of District Four. See you soon-ish (maybe) with that!
-j