TW for Toxic relationship with parents in Sammy's POV, as well as a mild mention of blood and animal injury, and death of a sibling in Oriole's POV, mentioned briefly. Please don't hesitate to DM me for a summary if needed.

"My cage has many rooms, damask and dark

No one there sings, not even my lark

Larks never will, you know,

When they're captive

Teach me to be more adaptive."

Sammy Kalakari, 18, District Four (He/Him)

The storm is swelling outside, but Sammy finds himself utterly secluded and safe. His room is vast, but to him it is marginal, small enough to make his thoughts feel too large, too close. He can't escape them here.

The wind off the sea kicks salt and rocks against the Kalakari mansion, threatening to creep in around the edges of their haven. Here, Sammy is safe. Here, he is at peace.

But not for long.

Above the din of the waves and the scream of the wind—still not loud enough to drown out the emptiness in his mind—Sammy hears a dull thud, the shatter of something brittle. He cringes and wraps his blanket tighter around his shoulders, but curiosity has always been a poison even Perfect Sammy cannot resist.

The unknowns of the world call to him, and they've never lead to anything good. Except...

Donna invades his thoughts again, and he allows her to take up space with the boldness and brightness of her smile, just for one moment.

How free she'd been, and how wild he'd felt with her... almost as if his entire life had been one careful path, but Donna had opened a host of possibilities. In Donna he saw all he could be, and all he was not...

No doubt about it, curiosity has always been the death of him. His parents have tried so desperately to train it out of him, that ungainly spirit which causes so many problems. They want only the best for him. That's why he can have no expression outside of their approval, no thoughts of his own.

But he swears he can hear a wounded wail amid the storm, as if someone—or something—needs him.

This is why he hates to be alone. It awakens a kind of... rebellion within him that isn't acceptable, not when his family has a reputation to uphold.

(Not when every ounce of his parents' love costs more than he can give. But it's beautiful.

Isn't it?)

Still, he finds himself wandering to the window, aimless and silent. He pulls it open, just a sliver, and lets the rhythm of torrential rain pull him away from the traitorous thoughts.

He is nothing and no one outside of his parents and to assume otherwise is blasphemous, is disrespectful, and it's a miracle they even love him at all, especially when he's so fragile, so soft, so—

There's a songbird ensnared on the windowsill, battered against the window by the relentless wind. It struggles fruitlessly to right itself in the ravaging storm, its wing bent out of shape by the window it collided with. The glass is smeared with feathers and blood, and the bird scrabbles at the sill, letting out a trilling, fractured note.

Sammy feels a deep shudder wrack his body, and not because of the storm's chill. It hurts him to see the bird so helpless, almost as if its pain is his.

(Soon it will be more than broken birds... soon it will be children... and he might be doing the breaking—)

It takes him a moment to realize those harsh gasps are coming from him. He takes a deep breath, trying to find control, any kind of sanity...

"Hello, little one," he says gently. "That's an awfully big storm for such a tiny thing. You shouldn't be out there all alone."

His heart aches witnessing the bird, so dizzy and frantic as it teeters on the edge, so close to falling...

The bird tries to push itself through the crack, but even its tiny body is too big, and Sammy can only stand frozen on the other side, staring out at the turbulent world.

He—he should snap the bird's neck, or close the window, or turn away and let the storm run its course. Part of him simply wants to curl up beneath the covers and pretend the world isn't there, pretend he's not being sacrificed to the Games to obviously win and ensure his family's glory, because what else can he do? He doesn't want their legacy in ruins, now does he?

He pulls himself from the spiral, channelling all that faux politeness he conjures in public. He knows how to become a blank slate, a perfect model of everything his parents want from him.

In fact... sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees nothing but that person. Still, he can't forget that wild, unruly, glorious month in Eight, and the lively girl that came with it. Donna ignited a spark within him, both terrifying and wondrous.

But the Kalakari mansion is cold, and the storm sends a draft through his bedroom, extinguishing the budding flames. It's easier to be empty. At least he's gaining the love from his parents he's so desperately longed for.

Still, Donna's voice—her very memory—refuses to fade. He sees her in the songbird, clawing frantically for freedom. He hears her in its persistent warble. He can't help but be transfixed by its colors, the way it balances so precariously against the window, its talons tapping against the glass... he can't tear his gaze away. Colors are so rare in his household, and he...

He shouldn't even be looking. But the storm is dying down, allowing bands of sun to seep through the clouds, and Sammy is reminded of a time when he became something more than a token something more than someone else's sacrifice.

He slides open the window, letting in a briny breeze. Just at the moment that he reaches toward the songbird, arms outstretched in protection, he hears the creaking footsteps of one of his parents coming ever closer down the hall.

Shame and guilt unspool in his chest, dark and deep and all-consuming. They wash away Donna's lingering image. He feels himself stiffen, backing away from the window, and watches as the songbird shakes out its good wing and rises unsteadily from the sill. It wheels out toward the sea, not taking a moment to hesitate now that the world has calmed, even though its wounded wing will likely leave it floundering into the waves.

He stares after it, feeling a conflicting sense of longing and heartache. It has the good sense to fly away, to leave him behind.

But with freedom comes unspeakable pain. So why does he feel so forsaken?

The door eases open, and Sammy slams the window closed, shutting out the sunlight. He whirls to meet his mother in the doorway, sucking in a breath.

(He feels the remnants of his emotions scrubbed away as quickly as chalk in the rain. He waits tensely, expecting his mother to discover his wrong. Ready for the newest instruction.)

"Son," she says, her tone clipped as usual. "Have you been studying the war accounts?"

His palms grow clammy, but he manages to stand straight beneath that fateful gaze. "I... I got a little distracted by the storm. Apologies."

"What have I told you? Apologies are weak and do not befit your station. Besides, you will have far more distracting things come the Games, and I should hope you don't lose your focus so easily."

He lowers his head, feeling small as the distant speck of the horizon. "Of course, Mother."

She comes close to him, resting her gloved hand against his cheek. Despite himself, he leans into her touch, even though her fingers are ice-cold. It's so rare that he finds this affection from his parents.

But no. They love him, they want only the best... their word is law, why wouldn't it be?

"You know we've been desperate of late. The new environmental regulations are making your father's business dealings much more restricted—not that I would ever complain. The Capitol is wise."

"Yes," he says politely, feeling that pin-neat smile slip back into place. It's so easy now, to lose himself in favor of pleasing them.

(How Donna would frown to see him so detached. Would she even recognize him?)

"You're such a good boy," his mother says gently, though the words feel rehearsed—but no, he shouldn't think that... "I know you will save our name. Your winning will bring such prestige." She smiles giddily, before beckoning for him to follow. "Time to train."

Of course. His parents walk a tightrope line between needing to please the Capitol and vying for the people's attention despite their constant corruption... still, he would die if it meant their pride. And when time comes to Volunteer, he won't hesitate. Those traitorous thoughts will finally fade, once he proves himself.

Still... as he picks up his sword, he can't help thinking of the bird and its haste to take flight. Compared to its freedom, compared to that stolen month with Donna, the mansion feels like the cruelest of cages.

But freedom brings loneliness. And here, he is surrounded by those who expect nothing but greatness from him.

That has to be enough.

...

Oriole "Ori" Morgenstern, 18, District Seven (He/Him)

His flowers are dying.

Heads wilting on their stems, sinking into the soil and succumbing to the chill despite Oriole's careful coaxing. Nothing he does seems to be enough.

He gently removes the drowned stems, soggy and limp in his hands, counting the azaleas, peonies, violets and irises, all to the jagged rhythm of his parents' arguing. Their anger bursts through the floorboards, makes him question whether something he's done has provoked it. If he was only a better son, none of this would have happened.

He's triple-checked the portion of water he pours into the plant's soil, placed it at every angle beneath the sun, and yet the garden is fading. He can't seem to keep it alive.

Just like he couldn't keep Morrigan alive... he can see his baby brother now, running toward him through the hallways with his arms outspread, bright-eyed and vibrant... he sees himself finding Morrigan on the side of the road, his broken voice whispering Ori's name, small hands reaching out. His bloodied face contorted in pain as his life slips, slips away, and if Ori had only stayed with him—

The pain is sharp and deep enough to cut Oriole open, but he braces himself against the bedpost and counts his breaths just the way he's learned. It's not beseeming to come apart like this, and he's never been one to indulge in improper displays of emotion. If his parents saw him in such a state...

Only, they're grieving, too. And Oriole has never felt so powerless.

He's not doing enough. He'll pick up a few more shifts at the candle shop, pull Sparrow from her spirals of self-destruction, forget about everything that makes him unsteady because he can't afford to waver. Oh, and keep up with his grades. It's easy, really, for Oriole to balance it all.

But perhaps it wouldn't be too much to take a few minutes outside beside the lavender bush, just to clear his head. He promises himself he won't linger too long and pulls on an appropriate jacket, feeling the tremors in his hands recede.

He slips out unnoticed by the household and its empty, ghostly spaces. The lavender calms him instantly—not that he was ever out of control, of course not—and he allows himself a few cleansing breaths of the morning air. He's just preparing to get back to work, ending his too-long break, when a sharp "Pst!" catches his attention.

Oriole turns sharply on his heel, preparing to scowl at the neighbors for distracting him or apprehend a wayward cat, but he comes face-to-face with the gleeful visage of Markham Black, grinning at him through the hedge.

Not to say that this unnerves him in any way, and he certainly doesn't flinch. That would be ridiculous... but Markham's appearance is far from expected. He feels his lips press into a stern, sharp line. "What are you doing here?" he hisses, grabbing Markham by the arm and dragging him away down the street. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I could be in?"

Ori pulls Markham into a small space between two houses and darts into the stand of trees nearby. If they're lucky, they won't be spotted here... but this wasn't the plan. Ori can already feel the unease of Markham's unorthodox arrival crawling beneath his skin.

"I wanted to surprise you," says Markham, grinning back at him unfazed.

"Why in Panem would you do a thing like that?" Oriole pulls his arm free from Markham's.

"Hey... I'm sorry. I know your parents wouldn't exactly be thrilled to see me—"

"Understatement," Ori snaps, but he can already feel himself softening. Markham is infuriatingly hard to stay mad at. It's some kind of mystical ability the over boy has over him, and Ori doesn't appreciate it.

"I'd never want you to be hurt," Markham continues, looking at Ori with those pleading green eyes he can't help but be enchanted by. "I'm sorry."

Ori crosses his arms, but he can feel a smile breaking free of his careful control. "What are you doing here?"

Markham is, in fact, the opposite of what Oriole's parents want for him, in many ways. Meredith and Lachlan want Ori to marry a respectable girl and become a government official, and for a long time Ori wanted that, too. Markham, on the other hand, is sketchy, to put it lightly, a creature of the underworld of Seven who's kissed more people than is possible to count and mingles with the kind of crowds that would make the Morgensterns faint. And also, he's... well. Not a girl. So there's that.

He doesn't live here, in the nicer and upper-class neighborhood of Seven. They usually meet somewhere discreet, deeper into the slums or the wilder, less patrolled parts of the forest.

"I just wanted to see you," Markham says. "Is that a crime?"

He reaches for Ori, a question in his eyes. He knows more than Ori ever planned for him to, namely that Ori doesn't like to be touched most of the time. But Markham has begun to be an exception for many things in his life. So he just nods, allowing Markham to gently cup his cheek. "I brought you a present."

Ori frowns. "Why?"

"Because I like you, Oriole Morgenstern. I thought that was clear by now."

Ori pulls away, tugging himself loose from those captivating eyes. It's embarrassing, really, how beautiful Markham is.

But he's found that many things don't make sense anymore. A long time ago, he had a best friend. A brother. A perfect family. Now, all three of those things are gone. And Ori feels like a boy without a candle, lost in the thick of the woods. Markham is one of the only lights he has. Still, he can't help but be guilty for leaning toward the glow.

His family would be mortified. They might even cast him out. He's not supposed to be like this, so broken and lost—

"Ori?" a playful voice calls. "Sir Morgenstern? Where'd you go?"

"I didn't go anywhere," he says, exasperated with himself.

Markham nods along. "Okay. Maybe this will help."

Ori finds himself shrinking, just a little. "I still don't know why you got it for me. There's no special occasion."

He's never really had presents before. Never wanted them. But something about this feels almost forbidden. He can't possibly deserve it.

"No occasion; only you. Just open it, Ori." Ori can't help but enjoy the way Markham calls him that. Here, he doesn't have to be the perfect son, the paragon of obedience. Here, he is just himself.

Not that he minds being his parents' son, the eldest whose sole responsibility is to uphold the family name. He's proud of what he's become in the eyes of his parents. Happy to fulfill his duties.

And yet... even golden sons deserve to be smiled at and given gifts on occasion, don't they?

They don't. At least, not ones with lost baby brothers and troubled sisters and parents who don't know what love is anymore. Still, he doesn't want to disappoint Markham. Doesn't want him to see his turmoil.

So he takes the gift and unwraps it, careful not to rip or crease the paper. Inside is a thick book with the silhouette of an angel on the cover. The second installment in his favorite fantasy series, his guilty pleasure.

Ori can't help but gape. "Where did you get it?"

Markham smiles mischievously. "Do you really want to know where I got the money? You probably won't like it."

He winces, imagining thievery or gambling or any other vice to be found in the pits of Seven. "Probably not. But really, thank you. You shouldn't have."

"And why not?" Markham takes his hand gently.

Because Markham doesn't know all the hurt, all the cracks that dwell inside Ori. He's likely had a million loves, all more beautiful and worthy than Ori could ever dream to be. Ori might just be a distraction, a forbidden and sheltered boy that Markham will laugh about later. How foolish is he to think Markham ever cared?

And even if he does, Ori has too much to worry about to let himself be happy. But he rests his head on Markham's shoulder all the same, because he is so tired. And the pain is so strong.

Ori doesn't think he can carry it all, not anymore.

"Because," Ori whispers, "I will never be good enough."

But he tries anyway. Because Oriole Morgenstern has no other options. He hasn't the luxury to bend beneath the weight.

So he carries it, even if it burns. It's worth it, he tells himself, to be what they all need him to be.

Beyond that, nothing else matters. Not really.

...

Ithaca Dominica Marquesa Sotavento, 18, District One (She/Her)

Sometimes, when Ithaca trains till her limbs are stretched like rubber and nausea begins clawing its way up her throat, the pain worth thin by the thrill of productivity, she thinks of home.

It's not necessarily a choice. Ithaca does her best not to think much of anything outside of what she should. Polishing her katanas and cooling down, counting breaths until she's regulated again... but the pang of homesickness slips in somewhere between one breath and the next, even her defenses too weak to keep out the yearning.

When she was ten, her parents decided she could become more than just their daughter. She could be a weapon, a shining star. A means to an end. They'd been shaping her to gain their success since she was born, but it still wasn't enough. Four wasn't ready for her, they said. She deserved greater things. Better training meant a higher chance at Victor. And victory meant financial salvation, social status, and unconditional love.

Her parents' love for each other is strictly fair-weather, but Ithaca knows somewhere deep in her heart that when she wins, the sun will come out again and their family will be spotless once more.

For now, she becomes what they need her to be in One, working for a goal that's not so distant anymore. She's careening toward the Games, but she promises herself to be ready. No one will know what hit them when she's done.

(Although sometimes she wonders if her work will ever be finished. If she will ever reach that elusive glimpse of success. Perhaps it will be like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow: a never-ending journey with no real destination. Chasing something that will never be within reach.

But she can't think like that. What would her parents say?)

She packs up along with the rest of her trainees. Maybe she should stay an hour or two longer, but she did wake up before dawn to take some extra time while the rich, pampered high-borns slumbered, oblivious as always.

Not that she's much different from them, aside from the fact that she works harder. Still, being from the lazy, sun-soaked cities of Four sets her apart, giving her a kind of mark she's not sure she can erase even if she wanted to.

She passes the groups of kids, sharing sandwiches and tapping their feet to the newest Capitol hits on the radio. Whispering about new boyfriends or braiding each other's hair. It's all so nauseatingly natural, how they form their little groups and perform the choreography of friendship. Ithaca never bothered to learn the dance, and it seems she's fallen out of step without really meaning to.

What does it matter anyway? It's better here on the outside, with a clear head and a clean path ahead. No distractions, no time for rest.

Except... maybe she can spare an hour. Just a small walk to finish cooling off, and then she'll do it all over again. It's not too dark yet. Maybe she can catch the sunset or soak in the twilight.

"Ithaca!" One of the girls finally notices her and Ithaca wheels around. Her scowl must be firmly in place, because Celandine Charmant wilts a little. "I just... I mean, how are you?"

The words sound rehearsed, just one more box Celandine can check off her daily list—as if Ithaca could ever be fooled into thinking she belonged. "I'm well. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"We're having a party at Scarlett's later. A graduation, farewell-type thing. There'll be a bonfire and games, some drinks to help us loosen up a little." She winks like somehow, her and Ithaca are sharing a secret. "You're totally invited."

"Thank you, but I have work to do. And alcohol is strictly forbidden for trainees, in case you'd forgotten. You'll have hangovers for the checkpoint assessments tomorrow." With that, she turns on her heel and clips away, listening to the stunned whispers behind her.

"What's her deal?"

"Girl wouldn't know a party if it hit her in the head."

"She's so wound up she'll snap. Just wait."

Snap? Ithaca Dominica Marquesa Sotavento, heir to her family's fortune and the very pinnacle which her parents place their hopes upon? She pictures herself rending in two like a taut elastic beneath the pressure, becoming threadbare and weak and broken.

The notion is absurd. Unable to be entertained. Absolutely forbidden.

And yet.

She takes in the air in big gulps, poisoned by the scents of industry and the metallic tang that always seems to linger in the air. She inhales the artificial odors of perfumes wafting from new boutiques, the chemical sting of nail polish from salons. It's all much better than Four. The beaches there are too picturesque, the air too salty-sweet, the people too kind... the scenery too lovely. She doesn't need to be there for the summertime, not when the Games are so near. Not when her family needs her here.

Still... she can't help the distant ache that lingers in her throat, like the call of the waves, so far away. She hears Malibu's voice, lilting and lively.

It's been so long since she lost herself in the ocean brine. Since she wandered the boardwalks and stumbled into that bar, colliding with Malibu Mokarran and their salty smile. Seems like ages since she's looked out at all that open space and wondered what was beyond.

Now she knows, in a way. She has a place here among the wealth and the excess. Tomorrow, she will scrape the remnants of her exhaustion from beneath her eyes, scrub her nailbeds raw, corral her hair into place and erase every errant thought she'd been plagued with the night before.

She will train and push herself until she's dizzy, until she's floating and dreaming of what her parents will say. They haven't smiled at each other for so long. Maybe if she's perfect enough, they'll remember.

For tonight, she wanders beneath the scrutiny of the sky, allowing her arms to swing loose by her sides. Trying to forget that electric feeling of belonging she'd sampled with Malibu. Just a taste of how it might feel to be free.

She stops cold on the street corner. Free from what? She's doing exactly what she wants to do. Her parents have spent a fortune on her, one they're quickly running out of, and she's fulfilled because she has something to fight for. If she fails, her family falls through.

She doesn't want that. She can't let it happen.

So let the other girls gossip at their party, sharing kisses or sips beneath the starlight. Let them waste their parents' money on trivial things and train because they've nothing better to do.

Ithaca doesn't have the luxury. She actually has something to work toward. And that's more than half of them can say.

She walks home, angrier than she should be, her feet echoing against the apartment complexes. The shadows are monstrous in the dark, the music of the parties distant and distorted.

But Ithaca is more substantial and resolute than they could ever dream to be. She's built from stronger stuff. So what if she feels tears build behind her lashes as the door slams behind her?

It can only mean a job well done. Another day beneath her belt.

One step closer to victory.

She clenches her fists and feels the longing, the homesickness, the weakness recede. Back into the deepest part of herself, where they belong. Where they will stay.

Otherwise, what is she good for?

...

Green Finch and Linnet Bird- Sweeney Todd

HIII! It's so good to be back from our lil break! I got really sad and moody about these intros, why are you all so mean to your kids I wonder? JK it's me, I know. I only have myself to blame lol but I hope you enjoy nevertheless! Here we meet our dear friends Sammy by Wiki, Ori by Phobie and Ithaca by R-B! (Hey, that kinda rhymed! Kinda.) Thank you from the bottom of my heart for entrusting me with these kids; it's a pleasure to write them.

We have ONE intro chapter left my friends! I can't believe I've already written fifteen kids... that's so many lol, we have three more to meet and then Pregames here we come baby! I hope you're all excited. Thanks for reading as always, I love you all, hope your week is as amazing as you are!

Love,

Miri