Oopsie, neglected my worldbuilding fic a little.
Just a slight announcement, I'm opening partial subs for Seeds of Rebellion for those who want to submit a tribute. Full disclaimer, the submitted tributes still won't be one of the ones who win - it'll still be one of the ones I introduce in these first five chapters. If you're interested in submitting a tribute who might be in an alliance with one of the potential victors or you think might have a compelling plot for Seeds of Rebellion, hit me up in DMs and I'll send a form your way! I've already got a 9F and a 4F, and there's a blog for Seeds of Rebellion up and running for more info on the potential victors.
Until then, here's Miroir's chapter. TW for domestic abuse, violence, and misgendering, as well as murderous thoughts (regarding fire, murder-suicide, and just plain murder).
03
Miroir Pegg, 15, District 6
An alarm blaring at its highest setting. An uncomfortable bed that felt as hard as the bricks the building was made of. Barely any sunlight peeking through the window.
5 A.M.
It was time for Miroir's day to start.
Immediately head downstairs from the attic, making as little noise as possible. From there, enter the back door to the café owned by the Truman family and start setting up the tables. When a table for the Truman family is set, head back into the kitchen and begin firing up the appliances for breakfast.
Janine preferred her scotch eggs soft-boiled and with a bit of chilli powder mixed into the breading. Even though the egg was wrapped in sausage, she had to have extra sausage on the side to dip into the runny yolk and eat on her buttermilk biscuit.
Raymond insisted on having both provolone and gruyere cheese on his croque madame, and the egg had to have a pink yolk that could only be achieved by steaming it mid-fry. Regular ham would not cut it—the meal had to be made with prosciutto, and the high quality kind they charged extra to customers for. Cost of using a pricey ingredient taken from Miroir's pay, of course.
Olivia's shakshuka had to be made as mild as could be, to the point of almost being tasteless, and it had to be vegetarian thanks to her recent Come To Jesus revelation that eating meat was cruel. Anything that could be mistaken for meat was not to be included in the dish, and the eggs had to be solid when cooked because a runny egg would ruin her outfit if she spilled any.
Matthew's salted caramel apple galette had to be topped with a mix of Honeycrisp and Granny Smith apples. The mix had to include homemade cream cheese, with brown sugar instead of cinnamon thanks to Matthew's allergy to the stuff, and Miroir would suffer for it if he went into anaphylactic shock over breakfast.
Elliot demanded omurice that was extra gooey, with a bed of fried rice from the previous day's leftovers for the omelette to rest on. Miroir had to make sure that the egg inside the omelette was gooey when Elliot ran a knife along its top, opening it up, and a demi-glace had to surround the rice for a mix of sweet and savoury in the dish. A small bowl of melted mozzarella had to be served with it so that Elliot could add some cheesiness to his omelette while also enjoying the satisfying unfolding process on the plate itself. Anything even a smidge out of place with the dish would result in egg, hot cheese, and demi-glace all over Miroir's face before opening hours.
It was a lot for one person to do every single day, but fifteen-year-old Miroir managed to make do. Their internal clock was basically set to this schedule now, having moved in when they were only ten and adapting quickly to the harsh conditions the Trumans placed upon them, and Miroir couldn't even use the words "burnt out" or "overworked" to describe their day to day life.
Breakfast was the beginning of the day. Miroir still had to keep the kitchen of the café the Trumans owned clean throughout the day, and then Miroir was responsible for cooking dinner after closing. And after dinner, it was every household chore that the Truman family had put off—carried out by just Miroir, and they had to be as quiet as a mouse as they did them.
They used to all pitch in with their own chores. When Miroir first moved into the attic at the top of the Trumans' home, they pitied the child. Ten years old, having just lost both parents in a train crash during the 71st Hunger Games, and the loss felt by the Pegg family was felt even by the Capitol, who'd faithfully hired generations of the family to work as staff on their trains. Miroir was going to be one such staff, when they graduated from the reapings, and their parents had done their best to teach Miroir how to do the bare basics to help tributes feel at ease on the train. Avoxes could do most of the manual labour, but they couldn't taste the food to make sure it reminded them of home, and they couldn't ask a tribute if they were comfortable and what could be done to help them settle for the long trip to the Capitol.
The Pegg family used to live next door to the Truman family, but when the Capitol sent a stipend to Miroir to keep them afloat, a guardian needed to hold onto it. The Truman family stepped up, Janine Truman being the younger sister of Romany Pegg, Miroir's father, and Miroir was in the care of their aunt and uncle ever since.
Not that Miroir ever saw that money. The cash went into a downpayment for a café to be built on the property, in front of the house, and the Truman family jumped headfirst into a dream that Raymond had apparently yearned for since he was a child. Miroir had brought that opportunity straight into his lap, and he was so proud of his nibling for working so hard to help him open his café. Their mother and father would be proud, and Miroir believed it for a while. Why wouldn't they? Instead of being left all alone, a mere couple of years before they were eligible to be reaped, their aunt had stepped up and their uncle had given them a purpose that honoured their parents' memories with the money the Capitol had given in compensation. Miroir believed that they were genuinely in good hands.
And then Elliot got sick. Really sick.
It wasn't often that healthy people in District Six got so sick that they had to go to the small hospital nearby. Medical professionals prioritised the rehab centres to help the population wean off of morphling, but it was still a debilitating problem in the District. People still got sick, though, and Elliot was no exception. He'd caught pneumonia, and when a doctor was finally able to check on him, his health had deteriorated to the point where it had affected his heart as well. Miroir remembered being eleven and a half, scared stiff at the idea of their cousin dying, and they'd readily agreed to take on all of Elliot's chores while he recovered in hospital.
And then Miroir agreed to take on Janine's share of the chores while she stayed at the hospital with Elliot. And then Miroir helped with Raymond's share of the chores while he managed the café on his own. And then Miroir started helping by making the meals for the family. And then Olivia broke her arm. And then Matthew threw out his back at the rail yard during his shift. And then, and then, and then.
Miroir doing everything in the house became normal. Blaming Miroir for less than perfection became normal.
Miroir had to make their lives convenient, or else there'd be hell to pay.
The thought made them sick. Miroir slammed the package of prosciutto onto the kitchen counter with a grunt. Day in, day out, Miroir was just their slave. And then every July 4th, they had a whole slew of new problems on their plate that they couldn't set aside for another three years. Elliot's heart medication helped him significantly, and he was able to actually work as a waiter in the café without much trouble, so why couldn't he do his chores anymore? He was already eighteen. Olivia already found herself a good boyfriend who'd been approved by her parents, so why hadn't she moved out and started living her own life now that she was twenty-two? And Matthew—oh, useless Matthew. Heaven forbid his parents punish him for his budding morphling addiction, for being a deadbeat at twenty-five who stole his mother's jewellery to pay for his drugs. And Janine just let it happen! As far as Raymond knew, Matthew was being peer-pressured into his habit every time he stepped foot out of the house!
It was all such bullshit. If Miroir's parents knew how they were being treated right now, they'd just about murder the Truman family and wear the charges. Hell, if Miroir had their way…
Breakfast, as always, took two hours to prepare and cook. Miroir's skills weren't perfect, not by a long shot, but they knew how to make it just the way their relatives liked it. They just wished that they could be allowed to eat some of the food they cooked. The first few times, Miroir had experimented with new dishes to try and ate with the Trumans—but then they got jealous that Miroir's meals looked tastier, so Miroir was only allowed a strict diet of toast, sandwiches, and soup. They were lucky to get leftovers from breakfast or dinner most nights, and not for the first time, Miroir examined the far-too-slender contours of their wrists and fingers. Fed just enough to stay alive and continue doing those chores, anything to make the Trumans' lives easier, but not enough to have the same healthy glow to their skin that even Matthew still had.
How rich, looking worse than the actual addict in the house. Miroir would laugh if it weren't so infuriating.
The sun was peeking over the horizon when Raymond came into the kitchen to check on Miroir's progress. He didn't used to, but after Olivia had told Miroir to spoil themselves and make something nice for their birthday last year—which Raymond hadn't been informed about, and didn't believe Miroir when they told him—Raymond was almost obsessive in doing stocktake and making sure nothing was out of place. The visits used to have a purpose, helping Miroir learn the dishes and checking for any injuries; cut fingers were inconvenient for everyone in the house, a rare moment where Raymond showed concern for Miroir's physical health. Now it was to police what Miroir could use, could touch, could eat. Not even the bread was safe from policing, because how on earth could Raymond be expected to believe that Miroir was hungry enough to eat six slices of toast for breakfast?
"Smells good," were the first words out of Raymond's mouth. "You grabbed everything you needed for the meals already?"
Miroir nodded as they checked the galette in the oven. Raymond hurried over to the pantry, and the familiar sight of the checklist hanging from the door was far from welcome to Miroir's day. He grabbed the checklist, opened the door, and stepped inside the pantry to take a look at how truthful Miroir had been.
He was out in less than ten minutes. Raymond was carrying one of the older bags of bread and custard mix that had been left opened and exposed to the air. Miroir's stomach did flips as he dumped them on the benchtop behind them.
"You've been well-behaved enough," Raymond said airily. "Use these to make yourself something for breakfast. They expired a couple days ago, anyway."
Great, mouldy bread and expired custard powder. Did custard powder even expire? Whatever. Miroir supposed they were having bread pudding for breakfast.
"Can I use some raisins too?" they asked, forcing themselves to sound submissive.
Raymond shot a glare Miroir's way. He glanced at the ingredients, sneered, and waved a hand dismissively. "Guess you gotta use other shit to make the custard," he grumbled. "You get half a cup of raisins, nothing more. I'll be checking."
As if he knew exactly how many raisins were in his pantry. Miroir had snuck a few into their mouth while cleaning on more than one occasion. Still, Miroir nodded quietly and accepted the small half a cup—more like quarter of a cup, since the cheap bastard got it himself and underfilled it—from Raymond with a small thank you.
At least bread pudding was easy to make compared to the rest. Miroir finished up breakfast for the family and hurriedly prepared the bread pudding, grabbing one of the French onion soup bowls to make sure everything fit just enough for Miroir to eat it all. They did wish they were allowed to use the cream cheese to make a drizzle for it, but beggars were hardly ever choosers.
God, Miroir hated being a beggar so fucking much.
They carried half of the food and drinks out of the kitchen on a platter, groaning as they set the table meticulously for the Trumans. Janine wandered out after Raymond, who came back out fresh from his shower, and the three children slowly made their way out next. Miroir hurried back to the kitchen to prepare the finishing touches on the meals, and only Olivia's shakshuka had to wait to be brought out.
The egg was perfectly gooey, the galette was as delicious as it smelled, apparently, and Olivia was excited for her breakfast to be brought out.
"No one ever gets it quite right like Miroir does," she boasted, almost like Miroir liked making her breakfast and getting it right.
"We're the ones who did all the research into what you can eat without meat, though," Raymond sulked. While it had been true that he'd done some looking into a vegetarian diet, Miroir had done the heavy lifting on making those dishes edible with the ideas he came up with. The shakshuka was just the easiest of them, so thank God it was Olivia's favourite.
"You're so smart, Dad!" Olivia laughed. "My friends were telling me how cool it is that you got so successful with the café. They're totally jealous that I get perfect food from you all the time."
Miroir rolled their eyes as they hurried out of the room, back to the kitchen for Olivia's shakshuka.
The bread pudding would be ready by the time they came back from delivering Olivia's food, so Miroir was starting to look forward to it. They flexed their hands by their sides as they passed through the doorway, not entirely focused on the kitchen in front of them; but when a gust of wind passed over Miroir's face, they paused and blinked, eyes wide.
The window to ventilate the kitchen was wide open. A beggar from the streets had climbed in and was eating Olivia's shakshuka straight from the skillet, mouldy bread coated with the stuff and shoved into their mouth as quickly as possible.
Miroir froze. They stared. The beggar looked over at them. They stared at Miroir back.
Whatever the beggar looked like, Miroir wouldn't deny that the beggar's face began to morph in front of their eyes. They went from scruffy and shaggy, twice Miroir's height, and suddenly shrank and became freckled, with red curls cut short and bushy. Miroir was staring at themselves, their stomach churning as they wondered what Olivia's shakshuka tasted like with the bread, and soon enough Miroir heard the beggar speak in their voice as well.
"P—Please…" the beggar whispered, bringing shaking fingers to their lips. "D—Don't tell the o—owner…"
Miroir's mind was slow to pick up on the beggar's words, but when they finally registered, they wouldn't deny the influx of rage and hunger that overtook them. How dare the beggar touch Olivia's food? Now there was nothing to serve to her but Miroir's bread pudding, and there was no way Raymond would let Miroir eat anything but mouldy toast for breakfast when perfectly fine bread pudding was available for Olivia's replacement. And then Olivia would start complaining, because the fussy bitch couldn't stand custard of any kind. And then Miroir was going to suffer for it!
Miroir's hands found the frying pan they'd set aside to wash from Elliot's breakfast. With a snarl, Miroir lunged forward and swung the pan against the beggar, and they were screaming as they did.
"How dare you!" they screamed. They could hear the beggar crying for them to stop. They could hear Raymond calling and running towards the kitchen. "How fucking dare you!"
The thumps and twangs of the pan hitting the beggar resonated throughout the kitchen. It drowned out any cries for help the beggar let out, and Miroir could barely hear themselves screaming at the beggar. They didn't even hear Raymond finally enter the kitchen. Miroir only realised the Truman family had entered the kitchen when Raymond and Matthew charged the beggar, shoving Miroir aside as they grabbed at rags and hair and limbs.
The beggar was thrown out into the street and kicked while they were down. Miroir gripped the frying pan tightly in their hand, breathing heavily as their ears rang and their heart thrummed in their chest. They only began to calm down when their aunt's hand landed on their shoulder. Miroir set aside the frying pan without a word, apologising under their breath for getting it dirty and denting it, but the apology was barely able to get out before Janine pulled Miroir close to her chest.
"Oh, my poor niece!" Janine wailed. "You must've been so scared, seeing that thing in here! Did you get hurt? Show me your face, you've got blood all over it!"
She held Miroir out in front of her and turned their head forcibly to each time, only stopping when she couldn't find a source for the blood on their face. Janine's face was full of relief, up until the moment she glanced at the stove. Olivia gasped softly, letting out a whimper at the sight of her shakshuka half-eaten and ruined, and Janine's expression soured as she shoved Miroir away.
"You moron!" Janine screeched. "How could you let him eat my Olivia's breakfast! Do you want her to starve? I bet you were going to split it with him before you came to your senses! How the hell did he even get in here, anyway? Did you give him a key!?"
Ever the attentive husband and father, Janine's screaming drew Raymond back into the kitchen in a rush. At first he was concerned, worried that something had happened—but then he heard the tail-end of Janine's screaming, and his rage turned to Miroir.
Raymond stormed over and grabbed Miroir by their short, red curls. Miroir cringed and didn't fight back, but as Raymond dragged them out of the kitchen and into the house, they did their best to defend their case.
"I didn't let him in!" Miroir insisted. "I swear, he shimmied open the window! We need to buy locks for them! He must've stacked something outside to reach it or something! Uncle Ray, you know I'd never take Olivia's food!"
"I can see sauce on her face!" Olivia cried. Miroir scowled as Raymond dragged them through the house, up the stairs, towards the attic. It was blood, you absolute dolt! Blood happened to look like the sauce for shakshuka! "She's lying!"
The door to Miroir's room was flung open, and Raymond wasn't gentle as he threw Miroir inside. Miroir crashed to the ground, feeling their shoulders pop and groan from the impact with the cold, hard wood floor, and they curled into a ball on the ground with a whimper. Their stomach growled, their eyes watered, and they couldn't even face Raymond as he fiddled with the lock on Miroir's door.
"You're so ungrateful," he spat at Miroir. They clenched their hands into fists on the floor, bunching up ratty old fabric that served as their rug. "I let you into my house—I give you a job so you can keep yourself steady—and this is how you repay me? You try to rob me so you can soothe your little bleeding heart? That bum is on the street for a reason, and don't think you won't end up like him if you keep disrespecting my family like this. I've had it up to here with you, damn it."
As if this family could function without Miroir doing everything for them. They wiped at the tears brimming at their eyes, and blood was swiped away along their knuckles. Miroir sniffed and hung their head low.
"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Raymond demanded. "We've done nothing but care for you, and you can't even give some excuse for acting out like this?"
Miroir mumbled under their breath.
Raymond's grip on the doorknob tightened enough to make it creak and screech.
"What was that?" he hissed.
Miroir turned on him, and they'd finally hit a boiling point. They bared their teeth at him, eyes wide and only able to see red, and Miroir didn't shy away from Raymond as they screamed, "You did jack shit to care for me! I'm the one caring for all of you!"
The kick to Miroir's gut landed just as they finished screaming. Miroir was almost ashamed that they hadn't anticipated it, especially since this wasn't the first time Raymond had physically punished them. Miroir curled up on the floor and let out a chesty cough, but Raymond didn't stop there. He stomped on Miroir, over and over, sometimes on their legs, sometimes on their head, and sometimes on their torso.
He didn't stop until Miroir was whimpering in pain with every stomp.
Raymond took a step back, running his hands over his face and through his hair, and behind him, Miroir could hear Matthew cheering his father on. Teach that rat a lesson, he was telling Raymond.
With a heavy sigh, Raymond's rage was removed entirely from his demeanour. He propped himself up as the concerned uncle at his wits end once more, and he looked down at Miroir with an almost pitying expression.
"Look what you make me do, Miroir," he sighed. "I've never had to punish my children the way I punish you. Where did Janine and I go wrong with you? You were such a gentle girl when we took you in. Now you're making me the bad guy by forcing my hand. Are you jealous of Olivia because she's prettier than you? Sweetheart, looks aren't everything. You shouldn't be taking it out on your poor cousins by tampering with their food."
A gentle girl? Oh, at some point, Miroir had stopped being both gentle and a girl. No one in the family ever seemed to notice, nor even care, and if it had taken Miroir a sudden realisation one day that they'd just stopped caring about comfort and more about consequences, or that they hadn't seen themselves as a person for a long, long time, then it was safe to say the Truman family were never going to figure it out in this lifetime. Not that Miroir would tell them—why would they even care? They'd probably continue to insist Miroir was their beloved little niece who always caused trouble for them with their mistakes, just like they did now.
Matthew was snickering on the staircase. Raymond sniffed and took a step back. Miroir just laid on the floor, still curled up in a ball and wishing he'd just leave already.
"Right," Raymond eventually decided. "No breakfast, lunch or dinner. You're to wake up extra early tomorrow and clean all of today's dishes instead. I'll consider letting you have lunch tomorrow if you behave yourself today, understood?"
Miroir was silent as they listened for Raymond's footsteps. Their heart jumped into their throat when they heard him stomp closer.
"Miroir," he growled through his teeth. "Answer me when I speak to you."
"Yes," Miroir wheezed quickly. Raymond took another step forward, reaching down for Miroir, and Miroir seized up in preparation for another hit.
Raymond just clapped them on the back as though telling his child they were a good sport.
"Glad we're on the same page. I better not hear a peep from you today. It's busy enough having to do all these orders for families who want a nice breakfast before the reapings tomorrow without having to deal with you throwing tantrums."
He stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him, and Miroir didn't need to check if it had been locked. Raymond was the only one who could unlock it each morning, and he usually kept the door unlocked at night so Miroir could wake up at dawn to start their chores. He'd only ever had to lock it when food went missing during the winter, when mice and rats would find their ways in somehow and eat through the pantry—obviously blamed on Miroir somehow.
Miroir sat up slowly and leaned against their bed with a hiss. They nursed their injuries, eyes trained on the door, and in the back of their mind, they knew Olivia was going to demand Miroir's breakfast because of how "retro" and "cottagecore" it was. Miroir hoped she got mouldy pieces of bread in her breakfast, like Raymond had intended for them.
They were sick of living like this. There was no contacting the Capitol for separation, because Snow never cared about things like the wellbeing of children in the Districts and the like. Peacekeepers wouldn't do anything, either, because most of them got their snacks and dinners from Raymond when they were too lazy to cook for themselves. Try as they might to deny it, the military rations that they were given while out in the Districts was almost as bland as the bread made from the wheat from tesserae. Running away could be an option, but Miroir was in the worst possible District to run away from home in. Every year they'd still have to go back to the Justice Building to go through the motions of the reapings, and every year Raymond and Janine would have a chance to cry wolf about how their beloved niece had gone missing, and won't someone please reunite their poor family?
Miroir hated it. They hated their family. Some days they wondered why Raymond and Janine kept them around, but it was obvious why. They needed someone at rock bottom to make them feel better, so why not continuously make sure that the outsider of the family never got to enjoy their life? Suddenly Matthew's drug habit and Olivia's refusal to move out of home wasn't as pathetic as the orphan living in their attic and fighting the rats for scraps.
If only they could get away with murder, Miroir thought. They'd pour so much rat poison in their breakfasts, just kill them with their gluttony one morning. But even if Miroir was from a family who served the Capitol for years as workers on their trains, there would be no pardoning murder.
Miroir shakily pushed themselves to their feet, knees almost buckling under the pressure, and they collapsed onto their hard bed with a groan. They pulled the blanket over their weary body and smothered their face into their pillow.
One day the Trumans would piss off the wrong person, they told themselves. And then Miroir could silently escape in the shadows as Raymond and Janine got what was coming to them. Maybe Miroir could run away to the gangs in Six and fake their death. They were already good at hiding in an attic every single day, if only to not break the immersion of a happy family that the Trumans deluded themselves to; what was another attic or basement on reaping day?
Or maybe Miroir could just take down the whole building with them. All things considered, they were at least given a small oil lamp for the winter to keep them warm. Janine had a genuine scare when Miroir's body temperature had gotten so low that they'd had to rush to the hospital, so they didn't play around with nature's whims anymore. Miroir could just… tip out all of the oil and start a fire, and then jump out of the house as soon as the wood was weak enough. Maybe they'd survive the fall, maybe they wouldn't. But how thrilling would it be if the Trumans slept through the whole ordeal, and the ceilings of their rooms collapsed on them in their sleep?
The thoughts ran through Miroir's mind at a snail's pace. They made sure to savour every scenario as it played out, and they didn't once skimp over the details as they slowly drifted off into a pained sleep.