Eh. It's Saturday somewhere. I know I said last week that this week would be District Four, but I was under the weather and was unable to write much. Thankfully, District Six was ready to go, so here it is! CW: Harassment and Language

"Fuck you. Fuck all of you."

Viorica McCoy, 17, District Six Female

June 22, Year 78

District 6 Train Yard

Viorica McCoy put the finishing touches on her latest work of art, a mural of a white butterfly perched on a tattered red flower, on one of the various train cars in one of District Six's many, many train yards. She swiped the sweat off of her forehead, inadvertently spreading a little paint on her face in the process.

It took her hours, hours of looking over her shoulder for any peacekeepers, hours of spray painting and releasing her frustration into her work, but she was quite proud of her work. Not as proud as the mural she created on a building one block from Peacekeeper Headquarters, a gift for the hard-working, trigger-happy bastards, but proud all the same.

Viorica, satisfied with her work, added her tag, a simple "V." She then began packing up her paints and prepared to head back into the cold, cruel world she was cursed to call her own.

It wasn't always this way. Viorica once lived a life of luxury. Her father was big in the wheels business, running a company that he inherited from his father, Viorica's grandfather. It was nepotism at its finest. It was one of the few ways to get anything in this country. Inherit it from family, survive the Hunger Games, or try and kiss up to the Capitol and see if they could oh so graciously help out, but they were more likely to enjoy the groveling and suffering than do anything else.

Except there was nothing left to inherit, Viorica had no intention of going into the Games, and there was no way in hell she was ever going to lower herself to the level of a Capitol bootlicker. This was going to be her life forever, all thanks to her father and his poor business decisions that plunged them into bankruptcy and debt.

As Viorica finished packing up, she heard something clatter on the ground nearby. She looked around for the source, and upon finding nothing, picked up her bag. Still, she kept her head on constant swivel as she made her way out of the train yard. It was going to be a long walk back to the old shack she now had to call her home ever since her parents could no longer afford to pay for their once nice house, for food, for art lessons, for anything.

The evening sun still burned hot. The metal was cooler now, but still warm as Viorica scaled the various train cars towards a gap in the fence where she could escape unnoticed. Moving through the yard like this was something that she found relaxing. It took three years of practice, but she was able to leap across train cars, scale crates, and squeeze between gaps with ease, and she could go for a long time if she had to.

Until she was interrupted.

The sound of someone clapping alerted Viorica to someone nearby. She whipped around towards the noise, her renewed mood sour once again. A filthy man drenched and sweat with yellowed, baggy skin and dark bags under his eyes, a classic symptom of morphling addiction. "Nice moves, little girl!" he drawled. "I don't suppose you've got any of the good stuff in that bag of yours. Been too long since my last hit."

Viorica glared at him. "Fuck off," she snapped back. She tried to walk past him, but the man stepped in her way. He made a feeble attempt to stand over her, to try and intimidate her, but Viorica stood her ground. She straightened up and stared at the man with eyes full of challenge. Her nose wrinkled at his foul breath. "Ever heard of manners?" the man snarled.

"Ever heard of mouthwash?" Viorica retorted. She once again tried to push past the man, but his hand quickly snaked out and snatched her arm tightly, and yanked Viorica back.

"I know what you just did. That artwork of yours? Ain't exactly legal around here, is it? I could turn you into the Peacekeepers, get you whipped or even worse, but not before I mess up that face of yours."

Viorica's eyes narrowed. "Let go, or we're going to have a problem."

"I think we already do," the man retorted. "Now, empty the contents of that bag. Now."

The man shoved Viorica backward. Viorica stumbled, having to brace herself against one of the nearby crates to avoid falling. She paused there for a moment, then slowly righted herself. "You want the contents of my bag?" she growled.

"Now you're getting it. I knew there were some brains somewhere under those curls."

Viorica slowly opened up her bag and reached inside. Then, she whipped out a can and gave the man a coat of fresh pink paint, right in the eyes. The man shrieked in pain and his hands flew to his eyes. Viorica then slammed her foot right between the man's legs with enough force to send him stumbling back into a train car. He hit the steel wall of the derelict car and then hit the ground. He groaned in pain. "Fucking bitch!" he gasped.

"What was that?" Viorica snarled. "You want another one?" The man only whimpered in response. Viorica continued. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to fuck off, and you're going to stay fucked off. If you don't, that little love tap I gave you is going to be cuddles compared to what you'll get. Crystal?"

Viorica didn't give the man a chance to respond. The message was clearly received, and if not, well, she was not above sending him back to whatever drug den he crawled out of with the inability to have children and decorated in all the colors of the rainbow.

Still, as Viorica exited the train yard, there was a small part of her that couldn't help but wonder about his situation. He was clearly struggling with morphling addiction, something that had been a huge problem in District Six for as long as Viorica could remember. There were rumors that the Capitol deliberately introduced morphling to the people of District Six during the Dark Days and got many of its citizens addicted to weaken them. The Capitol denied this of course, and even tried to say that they were doing everything in their power to combat the problem, but Viorica called bullshit. She knew full well that some of the biggest dealers in Six were in the Capitol's back pocket. The man was a victim of the system, and that made Viorica somewhat pity him.

Somewhat.

However, he was ultimately a creep who tried to rob her, and Viorica couldn't let that go unanswered either.

"Hey, V!"

Viorica was broken from her thoughts when she heard her friend and fellow artist, AJ, calling her from across the street. Viorica turned and her mood improved immediately when she saw him. She checked the street for oncoming traffic, then quickly bolted across to catch up to him. "Hey, AJ," she replied. "Fancy meeting you here."

AJ laughed. "Oh, I was just adding some color to that alleyway near the apothecary. You okay? You look like you've been in a scrap."

Viorica just shrugged. "Some creep tried to rob me in the train yard. Had to make him go away."

"You know, V, you scare me sometimes. Are you headed home?"

Viorica rolled her eyes. Home. That old shack with her alcoholic idiot of a father and her airheaded mother who couldn't let go of their former life. "Unfortunately," she replied bitterly.

The smile fell off of AJ's face, and he nodded solemnly. "Need a walking buddy?"

Viorica chuckled. "Sure. I'll take the company."

The two made their way back to Viorica's house, making conversation the entire way there, about different art styles, about other members of the district's graffiti community and their recent endeavors, as well as discussing the meanings behind the murals that had appeared over the past few months.

"I've actually been wanting to get into charcoal drawings," Viorica said as they approached her house, "but the good supplies aren't exactly cheap, and it's too damn hot to start a fire and take charcoal from that."

"You know," AJ replied. "You could go to the local bar. They'll sometimes roast their food over a fire. You could ask for the ashes. That's what a buddy of mine did. The owner was very accommodating."

Viorica nodded. "Good to know, except my parents won't want me going over there."

"When has that ever stopped you?"

"Never."

Viorica's uplifted mood instantly soured when she and AJ reached her house, and she saw her mother standing in the doorway, a disapproving look on her face.

"Great," she muttered. "Time for another bullshit speech. Mind taking my bag to the usual place? So my mother can't take it away again?"

AJ patted her arm sympathetically before taking the bag. "Sure thing. Good luck, V," he said.

Viorica sighed. "Good luck indeed. Thanks for walking me home." She then lowered her voice. "Meet at the pub tomorrow afternoon?"

AJ nodded. "See you then. Later." With that, AJ turned around and walked away.

Viorica's mother narrowed her eyes at her. "How many times do I have to tell you to not hang out with hooligans?" she said.

Viorica just glared at her mother. "I lost count." She then stalked into the house, past her mother, and towards her bedroom.

"Watch your attitude, young lady!" her mother snapped back as she followed her inside. "Why don't you tell me why you weren't at school today?"

Viorica didn't answer. She just kept walking. As she passed the living room, she caught the smell of cheap white liquor and turned to see her father passed out on the ratty old couch, clutching a bottle. She rolled her eyes and kept moving.

"Viorica McCoy!" her mother shouted. "Don't walk away from me!"

Viorica whipped around. "Will you get off my case?" she shouted back.

"What happened to you lately? You used to be such a sweet girl!"

Viorica scoffed. "You clearly didn't fucking know me then."

She then walked into her bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it behind her to keep her mother from following further, ignoring her mother's admonishments regarding her language.

Once upon a time, her life was perfect. Her parents actually supported her art, they let her express herself, and the art world was her oyster. When the McCoys lost it all, that support dried up. Her father turned to drink. Her mother stopped caring. Neither of them saw the world as Viorica saw it after her life turned upside down, a cruel, uncaring place that was rigged against those who weren't in control.

Perhaps if they did, they'd understand, but instead, they stuck their heads in the sand and tried to pretend nothing had changed, that the world was still perfect.

They were completely apathetic, like so many people in Panem.

The world needed to change. It needed a little more color.

There was only so much Viorica could do to change it. She was only one person after all.

However, she was determined to add a little color where she could. Fuck her parents, fuck the Peacekeepers, and fuck the Capitol.

Viorica would do what she wanted. She would express herself how she wanted, and one day, the world would know her name.

She would make damn sure of it.

"Nothing hurts more than trying your absolute best and still not feeling good enough."

Hendrix "Hen" Conestoga, 13, District Six Male

April 2nd, Year 78

Conestoga Residence

Hendrix Conestoga, legendary adventurer, defeated the Bookwyrm with a triumphant swing of his sword, completing the dangerous quest that his literature teacher had assigned. He had already decoded the Ancient Treasure Map for his geography teacher and found the formula for a powerful potion for his science teacher.

All that was left was to cross the Bridges of Number and defeat the trolls that guarded it. To do so, he had to solve a riddle.

As simple as that sounded, it would be the hardest part of his adventure.

Hendrix solved the riddles one by one and crossed each treacherous bridge. Each one was more difficult than the last, but the mighty hero stood his ground, until he reached the final bridge, with the most ferocious troll of all.

Hendrix gripped his mighty sword and bravely approached the ferocious monster. It stared at Hendrix with glowing yellow eyes. When it spoke, its voice shook the cliffside.

"A car dealership has forty tires. Every day, the dealership sells half of the tires available. On the first day (Monday), the dealership distributes twenty tires, leaving it with twenty tires left to sell. The dealership is required to place an order for new tires once the available stock drops below ten tires. On what day will the dealership need to place an order?"

Hendrix, the mighty adventurer, slayer of the Bookwrym, and savior of the village, froze in his tracks. He thought about the riddle for a long time. The troll in front of him grew even more impatient, the grip on his wooden club, stained with the blood of heroes that came before, growing tighter.

Hendrix took a deep breath, attempted to solve the riddle in his magical journal, but the numbers weren't adding up, the math wasn't mathing, and the troll was growing even angrier.

"Er…" Hendrix cleared his throat. "Thursday?"

The troll growled. "Wrong answer."

He approached the hero and raised his club.

The front door opened and closed quickly. Carlisle must have just returned from debate practice. Sure enough, a few moments later, his voice chirped through the doorway that separated the kitchen and the living room. "Hen! Hey, Hen!"

Hendrix Conestoga, ordinary thirteen-year-old, groaned at the use of his despised nickname. He didn't answer, a strategy that had been deemed a failure long ago but Hendrix still employed it at times, particularly when he was not in the mood for his siblings' antics.

Instead, Hendrix simply looked up, gave his older brother a brief stink eye, and looked back down to his homework.

This did not deter Carlisle. Next thing Hendrix knew, his brother was peeking over his shoulder and down at his homework. "Who gives homework on a Friday?" he asked, perplexed.

"All of my teachers," Hendrix replied with a sigh.

"Why are you trying to get it all done tonight?" Carlisle asked.

"So it doesn't live in my head rent-free all weekend?"

Carlisle thought of this for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. It looks like you're almost done though. One more math problem left?"

Hendrix nodded.

"Giving you trouble?"

Hendrix nodded again. Carlisle immediately pulled up a chair and sat next to Hendrix. "Here. Let me give you a hand."

Hendrix quickly shook his head. "No, I can do this by myself. Besides, Miss Green said we couldn't get help."

Carlisle snorted. "You're such a goodie two shoes, Hen."

"Easy for you to say," Hendrix retorted. "You're so smart! You can get perfect grades no matter what you do. I need every point I can get. I can't risk getting deductions."

"Hey, easy. You're smart too, you know. Besides, what Miss Green doesn't know, right?" Carlisle immediately looked at the problem. "That one is easy! You just need to set it up right. Let me show you."

The great Hendrix Contestoga raised his mighty sword to defend himself against the evil troll who was set on ending his story prematurely. The club knocked the sword out of Hendrix's hands. It spun away and lodged itself in the ground nearby.

The blow sent the mighty hero tumbling across the hard ground. When he finally came to a stop, he rolled onto his back, breathless.

He could hear the mighty troll approach him, its footsteps shaking the ground beneath it.

The troll raised its club to finish the job. It seemed that all hope was lost for our brave hero. "Hen!"

But when the club descended, instead of striking Hendrix's vulnerable flesh, it struck the magical shield of Hendrix's older brother, Carlisle Jackson, the world's most powerful wizard. "That one is easy!" he said, his voice echoing through the canyon with a magical boom. "You just need to set it up right."

Hendrix Conestoga slowly rose to his feet. With his sword now lying useless and out of reach, he was forced to rely on both his brother and a mere dagger to fell the foul beast.

Carlisle launched a massive orb of fire at the troll. The troll roared at the blow and turned his attention to the greater threat. Hendrix lunged forward and struck at the troll. It barely made a dent, leaving a mere scratch on the creature.

Carlisle was smarter. He cast a spell of vulnerability on the creature and this time, Hendrix's dagger slid easily into the troll's leg.

Then, Carlisle cast one final spell. A dagger made of pure ice flew from his magic wand and slammed into the chest of the foul creature. Hendrix pulled his dagger free at the last second as the troll stumbled backward and off the cliff, falling to his demise below.

"Friday!" Hendrix breathed. "It's Friday!"

Carlisle ruffled Hendrix's hair. "There you go! See? Easy!"

He then vanished into thin air, leaving Hendrix alone.

Hendrix retrieved his sword and crossed the final bridge, mildly embarrassed that his hero brother had to swoop in and save the day again, but triumphant.

The last troll had been defeated, and the final quest was completed. The kingdom was free, all thanks to Carlisle and Hendrix.

Unfortunately, Hendrix could only live in his imagination for so long before reality inevitably caught up to him, and reality was much less impressive.

Hendrix put his homework away with a sigh, making sure everything was packed up and ready to be turned in on Monday morning.

Carlisle had vanished the moment Hendrix finished the math problem, presumably to greet his parents and his oldest sister, Jennifer, who were talking shop in another room while waiting for Nuzu to return from track practice.

His three siblings had bright futures ahead of them. Hendrix envied them. They were masters of their craft, while Hendrix was a master of none.

He was no knight, no hero of legends.

He was merely Hendrix Conestoga, adopted son of the wealthy Hathaways, but with no skills to call his own, forever in the shadow of his heiress sister, his intelligent brother, and his athletic other sister. He was the youngest of four children, three of whom knowing exactly where they came from, while Hendrix was in the dark. He had to endure their constant teasing, something that annoyed him greatly despite knowing it all came from a place of love.

Hendrix Conestoga knew he was useless, despite his family's insistence that he was not. He had no idea why his parents would adopt him of all people, he had no idea why his parents abandoned him to begin with.

Hendrix much preferred the fantasy version of himself.

It was much kinder than his reality.

Thank you to rising-balloons for Viorica and n3b for Hendrix! I love these two so much! They are wonderful! Viorica's faceclaim is Caroline Reuter and Hendrix's faceclaim is Riley Moore! The playlist will be updated first thing in the morning...my time. When the sun rises.

Next Saturday will be District Four, I promise! I hope Becket and Luce will be worth the wait! Now, if you'll excuse me, it's past my bedtime! Good night everyone!