Hello! This chapter contains mentions of verbal abuse and internalized negative self-talk in Elysande's POV, as well as misgendering and sexism in Rat's POV, both of which are very much challenged and seen in a negative light. Please feel free to DM me for a summary. Thank you!

"When I grow up

I will be strong enough to fight the creatures

That you have to fight beneath the bed each night

To be a grown up."

Elysande St. Clair, 18, District Twelve (She/Her)

There's a lot of jewels deep down in the mine. A lot of weight to fill one's coffers, if one is in the right place, at the right time. And some money is older than the hills, even in Twelve.

But the winters are long and bitter and swift, and the war began when the first snow fell. Elysande is young enough that the war is nothing but a story, though its darkness seems almost within reach. Before the war, the St. Clairs were marvelous, or so she's told. Before she was born, they were the tycoons of Twelve, ruling the mines like kings on their thrones of deepest black.

It's hard not to coincide Elysande's birth with the end of it all. Maybe it's all her fault that they've fallen through. Maybe that's why the weight of lifting her house from its ruin sits so heavy on her shoulders.

Even mines tend to implode, and even thrones can collapse to nothing. Elysande knows it all too well.

She pauses in her study to gaze out the window. The snow makes little patterns against the glass, fanciful shapes that take flight before her eyes. There are fairies winking at her through the panes, a snow-glazed village just waiting for her to find it. Beyond the window is a world of white and pale blue, of music and sweetness. If she could only reach it...

But she can't. She never will.

("Stand up straight, Elysande. Have you forgotten where you come from?"

"You don't have time for dreams, daughter. No good will come from wishing on stars."

"Letting down our family... is that what you want?"

"Don't cry, Elysande. Nobody likes a downer.")

She flinches, bringing herself back from the brink. Her father's voice recedes from her head, although it's never truly gone.

Her imagination is wild and unruly. Just as it conjures gorgeous landscapes, so too must it bring forth the horrible memories of reality.

The St. Clairs don't own weapons, not really. Just picks and axes and cruel-cut stones, kitchen knives and saw-tooth bones. She's learned just how sharp and keen they can be. Learned how to wield them, just as that dark-dusted boy with the swiveling axe did in the sixteenth Games. Her parents learned from him, from the blood-drenched stage and the poisonous fount. If the Careers can earn the Capitol's favor, why can't they? Why can't Elysande?

Heaven knows she's not some filthy miner's daughter, not some wayward creature lost in the shafts. She is a St. Clair, and she will take the Games by storm.

She makes ready for her shift at the merchant's quarter, casting a smile at her sister, Odette as she passes. She blows Ely a kiss and Elysande cannot help but soften, if it's possible for her. She feels made of spun sugar and snow-globe glass already.

"Good eve, sister mine." She gives an ornate little curtsy, causing her sister to giggle.

"Most enchanted of evenings, dear heart," Odette responds playfully as she laces Ely's fingers with her own.

They mustn't let their parents see them, not as they mock the prestige and esteem the family once had. Never mind that they are languishing, close to losing their estate. Never mind that the Seam kids send her sharp glares whenever she passes, despite the gentle smiles she always takes pains to send their way.

"I'm off to work, but I'll be home soon."

"Is it true, Elysande?" Odette keeps gripping Ely's fingers. "Are you going to the Games? Are you going to be killed?"

Tears spring to Odette's eyes, and Elysande has to resist the pull behind her own eyes, the ache in her throat. "Yes, my love, but I'm not going to be killed. I'm coming back home."

"I don't think you belong there."

"And where do I belong? A fairy village dusted with stars and fairy dust?"

"Yes, exactly that!" Odette grins at her.

"I will go where Mother and Father will me, darling. But that doesn't mean I will not come back."

With that, she leaves her sister behind, swallowing her dread, her heartache. She will not let Odette see her face crumbling, the tears rolling over her chin.

She walks alone in the snow, head down low. She pretends not to feel the razor-thin glares of the other kids, the less fortunate who think her so high and mighty. They resent her soft furs and leather boots. But what they don't know is that these are her mother's boots and fur, hand-me-downs wearing through with each snowfall. And, of course, they don't see the sorrow carving its way through Ely's chest like icicles. They don't hear her father's chides, volleyed like hail.

She might've been a baker, or a girl on a mare riding over the plains. A Capitol countess or a snake charmer or a nurse chitching bodies back together. Here, she is nothing. And all she will ever be is nothing. And yet, her family expects everything.

It's what her father has told her. It's what she must believe. Perhaps she once hoped for the Games' end, for a victory taken home and a new life begun. But the more Elysande thinks about it, the less she believes in herself.

She's doomed to let them all down.

She flinches and wakes from that shadow world her mind inhabits, startled by mournful mewling coming from an alley nearby. She lifts her tattered coat and bends to peek between a few storage boxes. There's a ball of coal-black curled into itself, shaking from the chill.

She reaches out her hand to the animal, tentative and gentle. "Shhhh, you're safe," she whispers. "You must be so cold at night, alone on the street."

Two lamp-like eyes peer up at her. In one leap, the fuzzball uncurls until the shape of a kitten resolves, dark as pitch in the oncoming night. Elysande reaches out and bundles the little thing in her arms, brushing gently at the kitten's fur. At first, she thinks perhaps it's only a coating of coal dust.

But no. The kitten's fur is truly as dark as midnight.

Her mother used to say black cats were bad luck. But never has a bad omen filled Elysande's heart with such love.

Perhaps she never truly knows a bad situation until it's too late.

"I've got you now," she whispers. "Nothing can hurt you."

Now that she's holding the kitten up to the light, Elysande sees that she is thin and hungry and helpless, barely large enough to open her sleepy eyes. A few more hours and the tiny thing would've succumbed to the bitter Winter.

Elysande holds her closer and the kitten takes refuge in her warmth, cuddling into her chest. Beneath the layers of coal dust and the crushing burden, the knowledge that Elysande has never been and might never be enough—beyond the desperation that constantly suffuses the streets of Twelve and fills the air with poison—Elysande finds hope. Finds warmth.

"I should be working," she chastises herself. "I'm sorry..."

But the kitten is purring in her arms, and the night is so cold, and Elysande is so lonely. Everything good she once dreamed of has become corrupted and shattered. Faded and faint.

But perhaps good can still come from the darkest of places. "Blanche," Elysande whispers, taking on the playful lilt from earlier. "I dub thee Blanche. Others may see you as bad luck, but I see how pure you truly are."

She laughs at herself, a sad sound. Has she truly fallen so far into loneliness that cats are her only companion? She spins stories in the windows and talks to kittens in alleyway... any sane person would scoff, surely.

But then, Elysande has to be sane. She must be collected. Otherwise, she will have let the darkness win. She will have broken her promise to her sister and left a void in their home.

But most of all, she will let her father down. And that's not an option.

He has always told her she is inadequate. Who is she to doubt him?

But perhaps she has enough in her to make it to the Games. When they come, she will face the issue of winning.

But for now, she can only take one step at a time. She basks in this morsel of hope she has found, against all odds. And she tries to believe that she can carry the weight of the world, all while her father tells her she is unworthy of even a moment.

It's not so hard. She can be a princess and a dancer and a knight in gleaming armor. Surely she can manage a Victor as well.

...

Rathien "Rat" Laraki, 13, District Three (He/Him)

They say Panem is the Devil's playground, full of vices and fools who sell their souls to the top dogs in the Capitol. The devil might be cool and all, but no one can strike fear into the hearts of gangs and demolish toxic masculinity quite like Rat.

If Panem is the Devil's playground, the streets of Three are Rat's amusement park. They're his own labyrinth, and he's the game master.

Aside from the sexism, obviously. Because everyone knows that's the greatest vice of all.

Chaos came with Rat's birth, a storm of wild abandon unleashed upon the world. A perfect storm, though, as his mothers are always reminding him. They've always encouraged his unruliness, knowing it's for a reason.

At least, most of the time. When it matters, at least.

See, Rat might be inherently chaotic, a born menace, but he's outdone himself this time.

He's not always trying to break the world record of most mayhem caused for literally everyone. In fact, tonight had started as a rather peaceful voyage down to the sewers, to take in the view and say hello to all of his little rat friends. He'd been showing off his rat-like reflexes to the legion and trying to adopt their ways even more than he already has... until he felt the constricting jaws of Time close in on him again. Usually he's beyond its flimsy constructs, but tonight Neith wants him to go to a meeting.

And he doesn't want to disappoint his friend. Not when he's antagonized every other living soul in the gang; he has to have some variety. It'd get boring otherwise.

(That, and the rest of the Thunderbirds seem bent on lamenting his existence every chance they get, pointing out his flaws like one might discuss the weather.

And he doesn't care. Really, it's nothing compared to his impregnable defenses and unwavering liveliness. It's only... Neith seems to see in him what nobody but his mothers have understood. And it's nice to feel like he's accomplishing something bigger than himself.)

He splashes through the puddles and says farewell to his rodent friends, emerging into the glow of street lamps, casting the alleys in a beckoning glow. It's almost as if they're welcoming him home. The streets are his to wander, after all, and he's proud to say he knows them better than each sub-species of rat. Which he knows incredibly well, needless to say.

He's passing the turf of the Kitties, a tentatively allied gang to his own, which he's been haunting ever since his well-timed departure from school when he was eight—or, as some absolutely drab people like to call it, his dropping out from third grade—when he hears Neith's name on the wind. Rats are known to have an incredibly heightened sense of hearing, so Rat picks out the members' thread easily.

"Everyone knows Neith is only so high up because Signis likes her. She's not even trying to hide the fact that she's incapable, they should have dropped her years ago."

"—send her back to the factory where she belongs—"

"—just a stupid little girl—"

Rat can bear to hear no longer. He shudders, his fists tightening as he climbs a rooftop, his second-favorite place to scheme. The sewers are first, obviously.

There is so much to unpack within the sheer audacity of those few vile sentences. First, refusing to honor and use Neith's pronouns correctly? Unacceptable. Neith is the most perfect thing to ever grace this Earth, not to mention their wisdom and confidence. Almost everything he's learned, he's learned from her. And for those idiots to undermine all of their hard work under the ludicrous claim that her position is unearned? Ridiculous. Inconceivable.

He's... he's beyond words. The gall! The utter disrespect! Before he knows it, he's skittering across the tiles, teeth bared, ready to unleash the full brutality and wildness of his rat-like core. He'll go back to the Thunderbirds, tell them that their dear Neith's honor is in immediate need of defending, or better yet, let them defend it themself—

Except when he gets there, he can hear those treacherous murmurings snaking through the Thunderbirds' ranks as well.

"Time someone knocked them down a peg—"

"Neith? She's been overstepping bounds for years now..."

"Always knew we'd be better handled if Signis took full leadership. He's always been more authoritative—"

"She's too soft for the direction we really need to work toward—"

"Hiya, fellas!" Rat pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box, right in their midst. "Seems like you're having fun."

He relishes the way they flinch as he dances from person to person, never stopping for longer than a second. He's trying hard to quell the rage inside him, but he can feel a screech building in his throat, slowly rising to a ghastly pitch. He hasn't been this angry since Felicia objectified herself and then found feminist enlightenment, only to be killed in the sixteenth Games.

Rathien Laraki is not a sitting duck. No. He's a rat, and rats seek vengeance. They don't stand for injustice. They... well, most of them live in the sewers and scuttle around in the walls. But Rat is paving the way for a new age! He's not about to let this one slide.

"Laraki." One of the odious men, whose ego is at least five times bigger than it should be, looks down his nose at Rat. "Why are you interrupting our important discussion?"

"Oh, my bad." He grins impishly. "I didn't know gossiping was of great urgency to Thunderbird matters. I was actually trying to get my job done, retrieving the latest message, but by all means. Go on with your monumental discussion. I'll just go—"

"Not one more word." The same disgrace of a man shoves a slip of paper into Rat's hands. "And don't get it dirty. It's very important that this goes to the Kitties. Immediately."

Rat dances from foot to foot like a crazed Capitolite—only way better. Duh.

"Yeah yeah. Immediately. Have fun doing... important business." He gives them a little wink, clicks his teeth for good measure, then runs off cackling.

An important message, huh? He rubs his hands together. Time to cook up a bit of chaos.

Two hours later, he's running for his life. Good thing he's basically immortal, because otherwise he'd be scared to death right now... he's definitely fine though, never been better. You could say he's... g-rat-ified.

Grinning, he ducks under an awning to avoid a gunshot. Maybe his revenge had garnered more than he'd bargained for. But it's worth every stolen second. Every daring dodge.

He'd run to the Kitties immediately after the Profane Pageant of Patriarchy and informed them, very calmly, that the Thunderbirds were going to betray them to the Peacekeepers and burn their safehouses if they didn't give them an outrageous sum of money within the next hour. He'd then returned to the Thunderbirds and serenely revealed that the threats they'd been finding on their borders were, in fact, from the Kitties. And Brea of the Thunderbirds, who'd been found dead only yesterday? That was the Kitties' doing as well.

Following these pleasant exchanges, the two gangs had immediately converged and begun bludgeoning each other, finally feeling the sting of their unforgivable actions. Unfortunately, it hadn't taken them long to figure out that Rathien's messages had been forfeit. Now they both want him dead.

No matter. Many people want rats dead too, and they're still teeming in the underbelly of Three, unperturbed.

"You know," he calls, "I don't even feel bad. If you're dumb enough to blatantly disrespect women, you deserve far worse. Oh, and by the way, I'm immortal. So good luck. Speaking of which, I didn't even tell you about rats and their ability to multiply..."

So maybe he'll have to change his name or bring his mothers to the safe houses. But it'll all be as bothersome as missiles made of feathers and snowflakes. He'll never regret sending the gangs into a frenzy. He just knows Neith will be proud of him.

It's often been said that cats always land on their feet... but rats get squashed underfoot twice as often. And the beautiful thing about them?

They always come back twice as strong.

...

Pandora Roche, 12, District Ten (She/Her)

Her mother hasn't come back for four years.

Sometimes Pandora likes to hoist herself up on the fencepost and crane her neck so she can be tall, taller than the barn and the distant hulking shadows, as if maybe her mother is just beyond the horizon. They used to play hide-and-seek, frollicking through field and brook, chasing butterflies and searching for fairies in the nooks of apple trees. Mother would get tired and pale and shaky and together they would dance back to the house like they were elves in some grand woodland waltz. She can still hear her voice, lilting like sweet music, calling over the fields. Waiting for her to come out, come out, wherever she was...

Now she dances solo in the big wide open, but sometimes she thinks she can hear Mother's voice, winding through the tops of the wildflowers.

Now it's Pandora's turn to seek. She just hasn't found her yet.

"When will she come back?" Pandora is in the kitchen, watching Thea stir oatmeal in the big clay pot. Amity clings to Thea's legs, little arms reaching to be held.

"Who?" Her sister's voice is tight, like she's playing a game.

"You know who!" Pandora pouts, swinging her legs against the stool and listening to the dull thud. It doesn't fill the same space her Mother's voice used to. Sometimes she would sing at night, long lullabies that Pandora can barely remember, the words all blurry like windows in the rain—

"Pandora." Somehow Thea is at her side now, the porridge abandoned. "She's gone."

"I know." Pandora dodges out of the way as her sister attempts to corral her strands of curly hair. "But when is she coming back?"

"Soon." And she returns to the pot, like clockwork. As if Pandora's question had never existed. "Go play, love."

Thea always says Mother is coming home soon. Like maybe she's just gone to fetch milk but got sidetracked along the way, forgot to sprinkle breadcrumbs so she could remember the way back...

"What's Papa up to?" she says, voice still brash and eager as the rooster's first crow.

"He's sick." Amity begins to cry, her four-year-old lungs expanding to accommodate her wails. "He'll be better soon."

Papa hasn't kissed her head and told her he loved her for months. He's like a ghost if he ever appears, brief and fleeting as a falling star...

But it's okay. Everything will be okay. She just has to remember, fill the cracks with the breadth of her joy.

Pandora bundles her well-loved book beneath her arm and races out to catch the sun. Its warmth is little consolation against the absence her mother left, but at least she'll always have Thea. Thea and Amity and, once in a blue moon, Papa. He's always on errands or out of town, confined to his bed or on a walk. There are a hundred ways to be gone. The sun leaves, too.

But it always comes back.

"Glen!" she says excitedly, throwing her arms wide and forgetting about the book beneath her elbow. It skitters over the soft meadow floor, and Pandora makes a dive for it, graceful as a swan. "Whoops!"

Glen, a squirrel who's been on the farm for six months now, puffs his cheeks at her from a nearby log. She grins and makes herself comfortable on her favorite hay bale. "Only two chapters left, bud. The ogre is coming for the princess but luckily the knight is already there. He calls up to her tower with his gentle voice..."

"'Come out, fair maiden. You don't have to hide anymore.'

And she's pale because she never left her farm—I mean tower. But she's so happy to see him, she runs to the sill and he throws his arms around her. He thought she was gone, killed by the witch, but she never left. She never would have left her friend."

Gagging and shuddering, Pandora flips the page. The kissing scene is next, and she always skips that part. Besides, Glen is far too innocent to be exposed to such ickiness.

"And they all lived happily ever after." Sighing and wiping a stray tear from her eye—where did that come from?—she closes the book and watches as her best friend, Daisy the puppy, comes prancing through the fields towards her.

Normally she would roll down the hill and watch the tiny dots of movement that signal a world outside her own. She would pretend to know them, make up stories all about their day-to-day activities and their favorite hobbies and the things that make them sad. But she's not feeling up to it, not at this moment. She curls up against the soft, spongy warmth of the earth, trying to understand why she's feeling so empty.

She should be happy. Her mother's away but soon she'll come home and her father will remember how much he loves them and the sun will rise as it always does. But for now, it's just Pandora in a field, with her book clutched to her heart as if its tender magic, the beauty of reunion and friendship, could become her own story.

Closing her eyes, she imagines that if she just wishes hard enough, all of these confusing, sick feelings will wash away like muck from her boots in the rain. She'll stand and pick flowers and run into the sunshine. The veil will fall over her eyes again and she'll forget her sister's pinched face, Amity's forlorn cries, the vacancy in her father's gaze. She'll forget that Mother ever left.

It works every time.

The wind smells so sweet, out here beyond the stables where the wind blows just so. Daisy nuzzles her cheek and Pandora cracks open her eyes, kissing her head.

"You're a good girl," she croons, scratching behind Daisy's ears. "Yes you are! I'm just tired, that's all. I tried to catch a ladybug but he was too fast and then he landed on a leaf but it was too far away..." She stops for breath. "I climbed the tree but the branch was too fragile so I almost died! But I'm okay, don't worry. The ladybug left me, but I'm sure I'll find another one soon."

Daisy licks her face happily. Pandora bounces to her feet. "Come on! The strawberries are ready today. Thea says we need most of them for sales but I think I can sneak one."

It really is nice, to be happy. So blissfully serene, to forget.

She can almost imagine that her mother will jump out from behind a hedge and throw her arms around Pandora. And even if that doesn't happen, Pandora can venture like a brave knight, crossing the world to wherever the wind has blown her mother. Pandora'd be safe out there, she just knows it. The world is at once so small she can cup it in her palms and so immense she might throw her arms open and run forever.

But for now, the new summer air is making her drowsy, and she's trying to catch the wind in her fingertips and humming one of her mother's songs. Even if she can't remember the words, she knows her mother will be glad to remind her.

She just has to wait. Mother will find her way back.

And if she screws her eyes tight and holds her breath, Pandora can almost convince herself this beautiful lie is as true as the sunrise.

...

HIIII! Okay so I know this chapter was a little sad but Rat is here to break it up a little and also I'm just a little guy! Thank you, thank you, to Dyl for Elysande, Linds for Rathien, and Laney for Pandora! I love these kids so much and it is such a pleasure to write them!

Happy holidays my friends! We've got a surprise chapter today because I'm really hoping to squeeze one more in by New Year's. We'll see if that actually happens but either way, I really hope you enjoyed! We're done with intros my dudes... can you believe it?! Feel free to drop some thoughts about how you're enjoying the Tributes, what I can do better, whether you have any alliance predictions or if you can ever forgive me... just kidding! But truly, thank you all so much for reading and supporting so far, it means the world to see your kind words and to know that you're having at least a little bit of a good time lol! I love you all and I hope this week is treating you well! See you next time with a reaping recap/interlude from Yomi and Chalet!

Love,

Miri