Quick TW for internalized ableism in Enzo's POV. It begins with "people had always…" and ends with "anyone else." Take care of yourselves!
Arden Hornbuckle, 15, District Seven (She/Her)
Arden runs round the track, wishing for forest air and clean skies. The Capitol is a labyrinth of cool tiles and ventilated breaths, entirely enclosed. She'd expected it, but the sterility still chafes at the wild heart inside her.
She paces like a lioness entombed, her eyes trained toward the too-close ceiling. Oriole is running beside her, stately enough to be a Career, eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead. He's kind and studious and dedicated to his family—she saw his sister gaze entreatingly after him during the Reaping. But they'd soon agreed that an alliance wouldn't work between them. She regrets it somewhat, but she can't imagine having the same values as him—fighting in the Games for your family, showing such devotion to a parent. It's an odd mirror to her own childhood; they have the same dedication but wildly different outcomes.
She wonders at the idea that she has nothing to do now but improve herself. No one relies on her here; she has no obligation to manage her parents' job, no worry about taking an hour or two to stare longingly over the fence into the endless woods surrounding her. She never had time for friends as a child; her parents would've crumbled. How odd, to be so enveloped in the expectation of love and yet feel so withered.
It's that crystallized moment, thinking about time and isolation and responsibility, that she runs into a flurry of chest-high excitement.
Arden gasps, jarred, and the little girl begins bouncing on her toes, breathless. "Sorry, I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh you look so pretty!"
Arden blushes, caught off guard and warmly reminded of her little sisters, though this girl looks a bit older. "Thank you. It's okay, I wasn't looking where I was going."
"No big deal!" The girl hurries to the side of the track, Arden following. "I'm Scout! From Six." She gestures wryly to her nametag.
"I'm Arden." She's a little breathless at being in such close contact with someone not of her family, someone so radiant and full of kindness. Arden wouldn't think of herself as particularly shy, but it's somewhat of a shock to be all alone like this. She'd expected freedom to be more… well, freeing, something she'd acclimate to like a bird in migration. But it's all much heavier than she'd envisioned.
"I'm Arden." She smiles quickly, clumsily. "From Seven. I was just running with Oriole, but I'm not sure where he went."
"Your District partner?" Scout grins. "I think he's running away from me. I told him I liked his hair the other day and he looked all scared."
Arden giggles. "He's sort of shy. Keeps to himself."
Scout shrugs. "That happens! Some people don't like talking to people, and that's alright! But I'm not like that, are you?"
"No..." Arden thinks of long days spent swallowing her jealousy, imagining long afternoons among others her age, and all the while convinced that it was for the best. It was because her parents loved her, she was special to them...
But now she knows better. And she aches for the girl who hoped so badly for company.
"And you know who I've been trying to find? My District partner Concorde! I haven't seen him since last night when Blade was telling us about stances and stealth."
"Oh." Arden listens, a bit amused and entirely fascinated.
She's never had a real friend before.
"Want to come find him with me?"
Arden nods and they go walking through the training room, past a comically inverse pair of boys—one haloed with joy and the other limned in darkness—and the Careers in a fierce bout of sparring. She can practically feel the sparks coming off them.
"Pandora." A boy's voice rises above the clamor. "As much as I wish we could, I don't think it's a good idea to steal the berries and put them on the window so the birds will come."
"But they'll be so lonely if they don't have friends!" A much smaller voice chirps back.
"I think they'll survive... oh, hi Scout."
A muscular boy turns to smile somewhat dubiously at them. "And you brought a friend. Pandora loves those."
"I'm Arden." She smiles back at Concorde. "Nice to meet you."
The younger girl, Pandora, pops up next to Concorde. "Yay, more people! Concorde is boring; he never lets me do anything."
Concorde scoffs. "Untrue."
"Wait." Arden holds up a hand. "Are we officially allying? Maybe we should talk first."
"Finally, someone who actually consults me before deciding to be my friend." Concorde grins good-naturedly and pats Pandora's head. "I don't know... it could be good to have more numbers."
Arden thinks about unity. About strength in multitudes. She smiles—a real smile this time. "It would be much more beneficial. I mean, if... I know I'm not from your District."
Scout wraps an arm around Arden's shoulders. "Look at this girl! You can run like nobody else and you act like you're not worthy of us clowns? I'm surprised no one's snatched you up yet!"
Arden feels warmth spill into her heart like tea, filling her to the brim. She shrugs. "I am pretty fast."
Concorde takes a moment to think, glancing at the trio forming around him. Then he chuckles. "The universe works in strange ways. But I guess we might as well!"
Indeed it does.
For the first time, Arden feels like she could sink comfortably into something all her own.
...
Arya Steele, 18, District Two (She/Her)
Ithaca's katanas spin in a blinding pattern as she bares down on Arya. She fights calmly, unerring, a well-made match. But Arya refuses to back down.
She wields the practice sword carefully, disapproving of its dullness, and jabs at Ithaca's legs. The other girl dances, panther-like, out of reach and Arya cannot help but feel some of that old emotion rise up in her, like the soreness in an unexpected muscle you'd long thought strengthened.
She presses closer to Ithaca, swinging her sword high, toward the back of her neck, but Ithaca uses her katana to catch Arya's shoulder while blocking with the other. Arya snarls, caught as sure as a cold, eye-to-eye with the beautiful girl in front of her.
It's with detachment that she looks at Miss Sotavento—her heart is still a cracked-open shell, clinging stubbornly to Thena's words, hoping against hope to prove her victory and return. But this doesn't stop Arya from seeing her own determination in Ithaca's eyes.
Arya bucks hard and spins, catching Ithaca by the ankles. They go down hard, Arya clutching at Ithaca's clothing, pulling her into position. Her sword goes to her throat and Ithaca looks briefly taken off guard.
"This doesn't take into account the fact that my other strike would've wounded you," Ithaca says blandly, breathing slow and measured.
Arya isn't out of breath either. She bares her teeth in a smile. "And what would it matter if I was wounded?"
"That arm would've been severely compromised."
"And you'll recall I didn't use that arm." Arya presses closer, forcing Ithaca to her back. "So the battle is won?"
"I've not surrendered." Ithaca lashes out with a kick to Arya's stomach. Arya laughs, pleased, and finds only cold gravity in Ithaca's eyes.
"Don't you enjoy it?" She plants her feet on Ithaca's knees keeping her from struggling.
"Of course I do." Ithaca's voice never strays from its deadpan level. "I just don't find it becoming to show unnecessary emotion."
"Neither do I." Arya grunts, keeping a wriggling Ithaca still, trying not to think about a time when she had certainly been emotionally unorthodox, when she'd kissed Thena like there was nothing else in the world.
But there is always something else. It is her family and her destiny and the ever-encroaching Games and now, finally, the moment. The crux of it all. The thing that has left her heart broken and her legs shaking and her soul blazing with eagerness.
She doesn't know how to feel about Ithaca. Oftentimes, they'll catch each other staring shrewdly, locked in a perpetual assessment, rivals for now. Arya can't trust a single one of her allies, and that's fine with her. She regards them with the cold distance that she might regard a stone. They will propel her toward Victory, nothing more. It's her sworn duty to show enmity toward them.
But... well, she knows of the animosity nurtured between girls, how the world tries to create hatred between girls for fear that they will become too powerful. And Arya's not about that either. So it leaves her in a bit of a mire.
"Sorry to interrupt." A soft, musical voice breaks their standoff.
Arya grins. "We'll continue this later. And I won, by the way."
"Not likely. Let me go."
Arya releases Ithaca with slow movements, watching her frown slightly, eager to have drawn some feeling from her. Perhaps it makes her sadistic to revel in fierceness, but it's how she was made. And if it helps her win, all the better.
She stands to greet the pretty girl standing over them, surrounding by the others. Her dirty-blonde hair is shiny and soft, her blue-green eyes filled with warmth. Arya frowns, displeased.
"We're not taking anyone else," she growls.
The girl—from Twelve, Arya notes—looks taken aback. Then she smiles. "Even from one trained?"
"Would you look at that?" Mal mutters. "The Games've barely been out in the open and everyone's claiming to be fully Trained?" Then they grin. "More than I can say! Besides, I love your hair, gorgeous. The more the merrier!"
Arya holds up a hand. "Not so fast. Why should we take you?"
The Twelve girl stands tall, an aristocratic grace to her Ballerina bearing. "First of all, Twelve took third last year. That speaks for our capabilities. And that was only a poor boy who had little previous access to weapons. I am from a highly renowned house in Twelve and am skilled at the broadsword, among many others." She smiles. "Besides, it's rude to shut someone out just because they're Outer District. That didn't happen last year, and their choices brought forth a Victor."
"Only because he had access to private Career affairs," Zean grumbles. But he seems oddly drawn to her. "Still, you don't seem like the type."
Arya can read his face like a book. He wants someone he knows can't back-stab him, someone sweet enough to trust him, someone easy to manipulate. Or maybe she's wrong and he really, sincerely wants her on their team.
The first option, she has respect for. The second option, she'd rather not even indulge. This is the Games, not recess. She hates that people treat it in such a way.
Still... bringing in this girl would bring their numbers past the size of last year. And she does seem very muscular and capable for a Twelve.
"We'll take a vote!" Mal chirps, spreading their hands.
"No," Arya snaps. "We are not leaving our chances in the hands of democracy. Still..." She stands there pondering for a moment. She likes to think she can tell when someone is determined. And even if she does seem a bit weak-willed—they already have more than enough of that with Sammy—there's a glint of strength in her eyes that intrigues Arya. "I suppose we'll take you for now. But this is not a hard invitation."
"I understand." The girl's soft voice rings with conviction. "You won't regret it. I'm Elysande."
She goes to talk with Sammy, and Arya gazes down at her hands for a moment. This is the last day of training. The Games are coming fast. There will come a time when the blades are no longer blunted, when no one has to operate under faux civility.
She might be self-serving, but she's not stupid. She knows there are children who've never known a life made of violence and war. She knows that in their minds, it will be like a practice duel or a grand adventure or a test of endurance.
But Arya knows better. She knows it will be chaos and wildness and vice. And she's ready. She was bred in a home that carved sharpness out of steel, made it possible for the Capitol to reap their grisly due. And she refuses to be just another token.
She's ready to take them all by storm. Never mind the uncomfortably large alliance—never mind those too kind to have any chance at this. She is stronger.
She has to be, for the siblings she misses and will always protect, for the hours she spent near collapse pushing strength out of her splintered body. She is no longer weak, and for once in her life, she will have something to show for it.
…
Enzo Rivers, 17, District Five (He/Him)
He did it for her.
Really, it's not that complicated. People try to make it that way, when sometimes the answer is infuriatingly simple.
Maybe he wouldn't be quick to admit it, that he wants to protect Sera for as long as he's able. He knows full well that she's the social butterfly to his curling caterpillar, and he's already told her the calculations. In fact, he expected her to do the allying much earlier.
But she'd been sick—or sad, or haunted. He knows, in his own way. Sometimes life will become so unbearably heavy and there's no way for him to bear it but to stare at the wall, unmoving, until Sera gently pries his fists apart and makes him eat something. He just forgets, sometimes, that the weight of hurt settles over Sera as well.
He wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not her.
She knows what a sacrifice it was for him, to cross the usually icy divide between him and everyone else. In fact, he caught her giving him that scolding look, almost identical to his, that they pass between each other now and then.
The look that conveys absolute perplexity and just a tinge of admiration.
It seems fairly cut-and-dry to him. Allies increase their chance of winning, they both want to win.
(They can't both win. It's an unacceptable variable, an unavoidable roadblock, a completely confounding and inescapable and unknown—)
"Hey." The ally in question, responsible for their increase in odds, is snapping his fingers in front of Enzo's face.
Very carefully, Enzo places the peculiar spiral back onto the shelf of his mind. He's not prone to many of those. But he's decided he's going to solve that conundrum just as soon as he can.
Failing is not an option. He must win, regardless of the consequences.
He just never thought one of those would be Sera. Perhaps that's why her Volunteering bothered him so.
There has to be another way.
(There isn't. No use agonizing over it. It's just a fact, and he's never been known to shield himself from those. Feelings—long-standing friendships—have no place in the matter.)
"Hey, you okay?"
He looks up, somewhat murky-eyed, at his assailant. The boy has a strange cast to his gaze, something Enzo isn't very equipped to dissect. Still, that doesn't mean he'll abstain from trying to solve the mystery and riddle out every possibility.
His sister had been allegedly kind and trustworthy. Hopefully, the same can be said for Rivel.
"What is it?"
Rivel draws back, though there's really no reason. All Enzo had done was speak in his monotone way and his even stare, blank as granite.
People had often called him curious. That's precisely the reason Zepherus selected him for the school. And Enzo knows that the way he is could be categorized as… unseemly? Callous perhaps. Unusual, definitely.
He never thought it relevant to ask Sera if that was alright. He's deduced that her staying with him, working tirelessly for the sole purpose of them lodging together, would be evidence enough. But that doesn't account for anyone else.
"I just… you seemed out of it."
Enzo feels a faint hint of discontent. "Out of what?"
"Just… I don't know." The boy seems to struggle briefly with words. "I guess you're right. That saying is kinda dumb."
"I said nothing of the kind. I only wished for you to specify."
Enzo is trying. For Sera's sake, and for his own.
He can admit that oftentimes his motives are more about being right, making peace with his fear of failure, than resolving an injustice. That doesn't usually come into the picture. But Sera is the sole exception.
"You just seemed… out of touch with… what's happening. Right now in this moment." He winced, though Enzo isn't in the least bit offended.
"What is currently happening is not nearly interesting or pressing enough to hold my focus. In fact, my time would be much better served by introspection and calculation."
"Oh… and what exactly are you introspecting?"
Enzo isn't sure that's a word, but he's only 99% positive, so he doesn't voice his doubts. "I am attempting to parse the best use of our time on today. We have already thoroughly combed over the survival station, and—" He glances over Rivel's shoulder, "—it appears that Sera is currently conversing with the head trainer. Therefore, I chose to set aside time to ruminate."
"Oh. Well, I try to avoid that for the most part. It only makes things worse."
Rivel shrugs. Enzo's about to come to a conclusion regarding this boy's intelligence but there's a shrewdness to his gaze that disperses the idea, something desolate and searching that is both discomfiting and familiar.
Yes. This boy will certainly need more assessing.
"That is true for some things," Enzo concedes. "However, many problems might be solved if the world had a bit more common sense."
Rivel shakes his head. "Sadly true, I guess." While Enzo's thoughts are trained inward, Rivel's gaze searches with uncanny focus, as if wondering who might be watching.
Enzo fears the unknown. Perhaps Rivel does as well.
He takes a rare pause for bravery, then steps just an inch closer to Rivel despite his discomfort at their proximity. "It's a good thing you are brimming with common sense. Aren't you?"
Rivel is surprisingly steady, not quailing as Enzo might've guessed. "Yeah. I'd say that."
"Good. Lack of common sense would lead to you harming Sera Velasco or I. This would unerringly result in the systematic dismantling of your limbs, followed by a complete erasure of everything you hold dear. Hypothetically."
Enzo feels very few things strongly. But this, he would die to uphold.
Rivel steps back. "I don't think anything is certain here, Enzo."
"Oh, some possibilities are most definitely set in stone."
"I'm just saying." Rivel turns to swing at a punching bag. His arm shakes as his fist comes up. "You can't predict anything."
An empty excuse for a laugh bubbles out of him.
Rivel is wrong. Enzo Rivers has always been able to decode even the stickiest of situations.
Most of them.
This time will be just as easily solved.
It has to be.
…
Zean Deveraux, 18, District Two (He/Him)
Nobody is looking at him.
He has to keep his breaths in order, make sure his face is stitched into a pleasing expression because someone could see him, and what would happen then?
But nobody is paying attention. Nobody is laughing at his jokes or complimenting his attire and it shouldn't matter. It doesn't.
He can feel the strings of control slipping out of his fingers with a pain so great he's surprised he doesn't have rope burns.
It shouldn't hurt like this.
He didn't think he'd miss it, the feedback from the Trainers telling him that he was magnificent, that nobody was better suited for the cause. But now he's here in this ballooning alliance where nothing is sure anymore and nobody cares that he's chopped a block of wood into shavings without realizing it. Nobody laughs at his jokes unless it's to silence him.
Shouldn't he be pleased? This means he won't have to rely on anyone. He doesn't want to be needy.
But he needs to be needed.
It's a stupid, needling part of him, burrowing into the corners of his mind as he checks his nails for the hundredth time. There are splinters all around his feet, but none have wedged themselves beneath the perfect crescents. He looks fine. He's acting fine.
Why don't they care?
Sammy's talking to the new girl, Elysande, who is laughing (a real, silver-bell laugh) at something he said. Arya and Ithaca are back to brawling.
He never wanted the alliance to be this big. Attentions can be scattered at such a size, leaving some people unappreciated.
That can't happen, because underappreciated people become restless, then mutinous.
He knows that. He's seen the tail end of the war in the eyes of his parents.
But the Capitol has never shown him any signs of acknowledgment even here. He thought that someone would at least recognize him, praising him for his singleminded dedication, his devotion. Instead he's stuck with a bitter Mentor and… whatever Arya is.
She seems to hate him. They all do.
Maybe he'll hate them back. What then?
They wouldn't notice. He knows they wouldn't notice and he hates that he gets like this and he's going to lose control and then they'll never remember him, he'll be like the barest sliver in a million stars and—
"You look hot today."
His head snaps up. He's always been good at catching people mid-panic, and it appears he's not the only one.
Malibu Mokarran is stretched out in front of him, somehow looking like they're reclining on the beach despite the fact that they are most definitely standing, feet on the ground.
It doesn't look like that, though. It looks like they're weightless, pointed skyward. Even their hair seems to dance in an unseen wind.
They look so much lighter, freer, than him.
Not a rebel sympathizer, perhaps, but still not staunchly Capitol-based and Career like he'd prefer. They wouldn't be his first choice, certainly.
But maybe it's good that he's clearly the most devout of the group, save perhaps Arya. It makes for less competition.
It makes it easier to pretend this is all going to plan. Just the way he dreamed.
"Just an observation," they continue after a moment of rare silence for Zean. "Not that I'd want to date you or anything, although if you want to kiss later..." They waggle their eyebrows.
Thankfully, Zean doesn't blush. "I'm a little busy planning for the Games and private sessions, I'm flattered and all but I know I'd be your second choice." He winks for emphasis.
Mal bursts out laughing. "Aren't you cute? Have me all figured out, don't you!"
"Maybe." He gives them a look. "And do you?"
"Have myself figured out. Stars, no. But that's the way I like it!" They pause. "As for you… well, I think I've got an idea. But please enlighten me!"
"You should be able to infer enough from my appearance. That's the important part."
They giggle. "Beautiful and arrogant, I like it." Their voice takes on a mysterious mocking lilt. "Not all things are as they seem."
"Yes they are. People just say that as an excuse for their lack of perception, which, by the way, can lead to serious consequences. If people just bothered to look and really notice something, maybe their lives would be easier."
Mal presses a hand to their hip. "So what have you noticed, golden boy?"
He pauses. So much. So little.
"I'll tell you what I've seen. I've seen a boy who is working himself into a tizzy because..." They tilt their head patiently.
Zean shakes his head. "I'm not in a tizzy, and even if I was..." He looks up at Mal. Their eyes are gleaming and he's unable to lie. He doesn't want to. "Well, if I was, it would likely be prompted by frustration."
Mal peeks over their shoulder at an imaginary audience. "Are you hearing this? Feelings are being expressed." They turn back to Zean, grinning. "I'm just going to ignore the total vagueness of that statement."
Zean scoffs. "It was not vague."
"It was omission. By choice. Which I get." They glance down. "Nice handiwork."
He tries not to preen. It's more difficult than he'd like. "It would work better with a sharper tool, but even dull weapons can do more damage than people realize. I would know, because I worked with little more than quarry rocks and sticks back in Two."
"Mmm..." But they're not listening, because Ithaca is finally done with what must be her third duel with Arya, and has begun searching for Mal.
"You're a menace." It's easier to cloak it, display his feelings o something humorous and small enough to swallow.
Mal turns back to him, smiling a little impishly. "And you're self-absorbed. Wanna switch?" Their gaze softens just slightly. "I'll be back."
He's halfway to a response, but they're already gone. Everyone here has someone to lean on but him.
And he hates that he wants it, simply for the fact that it's not his. That, on principle, is enough to drive him mad.
He shakes his head, adjusting one misplaced strand of hair. He doesn't have a someone.
And it's better that way. He's ready to affirm it til he runs out of breath, if only someone would ask him.
But nobody does.
…
"Well then. What did you find?"
"I managed to witness each of the sessions."
"And what exactly did you witness? Anything atypical?"
"Depends on your interpretation. Ithaca was the single best Tribute of the lot, earning the only 11. Her double katanas were breathtaking. She has the perfect balance between being well-trained and invested in her work, without letting her heart get the best of her—at least, that's what the notes said."
"And what makes her better than everyone else?"
"Well… Asphodel quite literally hid in the corner the whole time. No camouflage, although he's skinny enough not to be noticed. Earned himself a 3 for effort… Miss Steele is also remarkable. We underestimated her. But she wasn't quite as composed as Sotavento, making her just a touch sloppier. She earned a 10."
"Of course."
"Mr. Deveraux… well, he wasn't half bad. His hands were shaking—I can confirm this—though his movements were impressive for being unofficially trained. As for Four, Sammy seemed almost rehearsed, as if repeating someone else's programmed instructions. It lost him a point, leaving him tied with Zean at a 9. Malibu earned points for being the most theatrical of them all, surprisingly graceful with their cutlass and earning a 7."
"It appears there is hope for the untrained after all, though certainly not much. Go on."
"District Three was unexpected. Mr. Laraki used his teeth to cut fabric for bandages, earning a 4. Miss Waterloo… destroyed the entire room. The painting of the President on the wall was in tatters, the plagues were shattered, and every station was completely demolished by her pickaxe. She earned an automatic 1."
"She demonstrated competent strength, did she not?"
"Ha. That matters little. The Fives managed to keep everything intact, however. They were the first to exclusively avoid weapons—teeth count in the official rulebook.
"Miss Velasco was very adept at weaving snares and traps, earning a 6. Enzo took a more… unconventional approach, choosing to interrogate the Gamemakers. He used the answers of the seemingly harmless questions to deduce a surprising amount. It earned him a 5, mostly due to surprise and accuracy, though they don't see how that can help him in the Games."
"I can think of a few ways. Do continue."
"Scout made a poison, though it didn't quite work like she wanted. She earned a 2. Concorde was excellent at displaying several survival skills, giving him a wider range than most. He ended with taking a dummy's head off with a longsword, which surprised everyone. All in all, he earned a 6."
"Beginner's luck, perhaps."
"Whatever it was, it placed him higher in the ranks. Seven fell more toward the middle, with Arden's agility and athleticism earning her a 4. Oriole received the highest plant identification score of the bunch, managing to create a healing poultice. He earned a 5.
"Tarisai gave some kind of… speech? It was full of metaphor, something about how true fire resides within and how she was the most powerful person in the world. She spent the majority talking about her, and I quote, amethyst orbs."
"Oh."
"Yes. Mr. Singh was better, thank Panem. He wove nets quite skillfully, though he seemed half-hearted. A 4, which seems remarkable compared to Tarisai's display.
"The Nines were quite unsettling. Willow used the dummies as voodoo dolls, and Leland wrote hateful things with the juice of poisonous berries. They both earned a 6, since their methods both succeeded in killing their targets in surprising ways.
"Pandora told the Gamemakers a story about two bunnies who became best friends. She proceeded to kiss each dummy on the head and tuck them into the practice mats. I think I caught one of the assistants crying."
"She earned a 1?"
"She did."
"Eesh."
"Rivel was quite adamant with his spear. He was so angry that the shaft separated from the hilt. So… a 4.
"Mx. Caishen pressed quite a lot of buttons and somehow managed to make an electrified trap. She earned a 5. And Oleander somehow managed to put a tack on Ava's chair, which earned him a 2."
"At least he was amused."
"Miss St. Clair was quite adept as well, though she had the same blank-eyed delivery as Sammy, earning her a 9. Flint is quite adept at boxing, if nothing else, which earned him a 4."
"Well. That's that, then."
"Mmm."
"Do you think we can manage it this year?"
"Certainly worth it."
"We have everything we need, then. Call the others. Let them know it's time."
…
HIIII lovelies! It certainly has been a time! Now I'm realizing I've completed two VEs in the span of this story which is absolutely insane! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that chapter and the wrapping up of Training (finally haha!) Now it's time for two interview chapters and two night before chapters, followed by the Bloodbath! Let's take a look at the Alliances we have so from (wink wink!)
Fierce girlies, anxious bois, and the one and only Clown: Ithaca, Arya, Zean, Mal, Sammy, Elysande
Grumpy, Sunshine, and Cinnamon Roll: Asphodel, Flint, Nylon
Only In It for the Chaos: Donna, Rat, Sequoia, Oleander
Watson and the Sherlocks: Sera, Enzo, Rivel
Free (wholesome) Birds, Scout, Concorde, Arden, Pandora
Doing His Best To Not Get Involved (how long will that last?): Oriole
Not Like The Other Fillers: Tarisai
Spookies: Willow and Leland
Also, I am horrible at scoring. So sorry. I hope I did better than last time though lol! Any predictions on the purposely omitted POV header and dialogue tags?
That's it for now, besties! Thank you as always for the continued support for this fic! I'm heading off to college so I'm hoping to still write somewhat regularly, but you may not see me as often! But we'll be back next time with Malibu, Sequoia, and Nylon! Love you all!
Miri