Olivier Ridley

District Four

She/Her

"There's a lot of reasons for Chesil being the number one turtle hatchery in all Four!" Olivier's in her uniform, and while realistically it should be one of the Ones, Aquamarine or Topaz or someone other than Olivier? Well, she can't help it. This is her discovery, her hatchery. This was her place before anyone else's! No reason she should entirely give up touring now that the Capitol's gotten involved, and so once a week Olivier gets to put on the skirt and blouse and show twenty goggle-eyed Capitolites around the beach.

"Have we all got slippers on?" Twenty-one nods, confirming her question, and they're ready. The slippers aren't all too necessary, but it's a nice touch. Don't want to disturb the eggs, after all, and the Capitolites at least think that the slippers mean they're less likely to do so. Plus, they're a little extra souvenir of the visit to the beaches, and that's the least they deserve.

Then they're off. Twenty-one walkers along the temporary boardwalks, until the proper ones can get in place. The wood is smooth beneath slippered feet, the night air is cool and hangs around them with an infinite wetness. The night is dark, the kids are looking around, and with a twenty-minute slow walk to the expected hatching she has to fill the air with something. She's not as versed in the art of storytelling as her colleagues, but at the least it can be made a bit more fun. "Tell me. Have any of you ever heard of the Eskitnau?" There's a collectively audible shaking of heads, and she can give a shocked gasp.

"Well, it's a kind of owl we have out in Four. Not sure why, but it doesn't fly around the Capitol. Probably too scared of you." Collective laughter. "Anyways, people say that even if you hear the cry of an Eskitnau, it promises certain danger upon a member of your family." That's putting it nicely, but it needs to be put nicely. Can't go scaring the children.

"They also say..." The group inhales with shock, eighteen breaths taken in. "...That it's big enough to pick up a big fish, a cat or a misbehaving child and carry it off." The group laughs, and there's an almost appalled sigh. "It's true! Trust me, I should have been picked up by one as a kid. I was out all nights and all kinds of days, doing... Well, you're about to see."

She trails off, casts a glance at the ground. Nothing's happening yet, thank the stars, but the big lights they always have up are pointed down, and the moon is up. Which means it should be ready by now.

"Now then, sirs. Ma'ams. If you just wait." The lights are dim and red, enough that they shouldn't cause a mess. "You should see the biggest miracle this life performs. Trust me, even bigger than chocolate." A collection of laughs, and in the darkness Olivier can duck her head without anyone knowing. She's just glad that they appreciate the joke, not liking it is always a genuine worry. For her, even if for nobody else.

It takes a good ten minutes, ten minutes of tourists staring at red-lit sand and bated breath in case they were wrong, before the first shift in sand. Before there's a little movement, and then a tad more, and even given she's not really meant to be the excited one since it's been seen two-dozen times, Olivier can watch the sand and feel just as much excitement as she felt the first time she'd had the privilege of watching a beak, then a flipper, plunge upwards from the sand.

It doesn't take long before there's a cavalcade of turtles scrambling down the beach, little flippers beating against the earth as they rush towards the sea. A few get distracted by flashing camera lights, and it's of course her job to usher the guests away, encourage them not to use their torches because they could annoy or distract the turtles, and they deserve as clear a path as possible down to the beach. It's still a tad quiet, her voice isn't raised at all because whatever else these still are Capitolites and guests, and she's content to smile and wave her hands and quietly suggest that the lights be turned off. They like her for it, she isn't overstepping, and... Well, all in all? There's no benefit to not being polite.

One of the children, little more than a toddler really, begins a slow stumble towards the hatchlings, and despite the shiver runs through her at even daring to do so, Olivier lunges forwards, puts herself between the little boy and the scrambling turtles. Gently ushers him back towards the main group, and though there's a second of hesitant protest eventually his mother comes over and scoops the boy up, with a slightly-frazzled and very apologetic smile for Olivier. "Thank you. Sorry, he's just a little boy, you know how they get."

"Of course, of course!" She doesn't know, doesn't even have a brother, but it's better to agree. The mother's probably right, after all, the kids probably are like this at this age. Not her place to question or challenge, and so Olivier ducks her head and begins a quiet narration of the scene unfolding before them.

"This is always a hit around Reaping season! They like to come up around this time, and tourists like to have something to do without Games coverage, so Capitol tourism is at an all time high! Or at least, it was last year! This year, we have a special discount intended for Reaping day week – if you're lucky, you can even watch a live Reaping, I've been told special stands are being set up!"

She keeps talking, even as the people chatter, and only stops when asked so they can take videos.

"And if you look, you can see they're all going down the beach! Usually, that's the most dangerous part of the journey, gulls and crabs and such want to get them! But for the most part, our nets have kept this off, and so more of our gorgeous turtles can escape and join their brethren!"

It takes an hour before the last one stumbles down the beach, and Olivier can offer a little bow at this. "Thank you for coming! Your bus should be waiting back at the entry, and then it's just a quick ride back to the hotel! Have a lovely rest of your stay in Four, and feel free to come back! After all, it's a good day, and everyone loves having Capitol visitors come to watch!"

The leaving visitors, all of them more than a little awe-struck and chattering about the events of the hatching, are quick to press money into her hands. Coins, notes, whatever they have in their pockets at the time. The first few are gently refused, but they insist and once that's done the floodgates open. After all, it's not like she can refuse a Capitolite. Enough money Olivier has to start putting it into her pocket, thanking each and every man, woman, child individually. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" She keeps going, right until the last has passed by and is following the lit boardwalk back towards the entrance, where they'll be picked up. Her job is done.

—-

Pushing the door to home open comes with a creak – sign of hinges that just need to be oiled again. Still, it creaks less when she shuts the door behind her, and then she can walk into the kitchen, see her aunt looking down at the framed photo of her and her sister.

Her and Olivier's mother.

It only lasts a moment, though, before her aunt can set the photograph face-down and stride over, giving Olivier a slight smile before getting down to business. "You did a good job tonight?"

And what else can Olivier do but nod. "Yes, Aunt Misanthra. I think they all liked the tour, I think they'll all come back. At least, there weren't any complaints."

"All Capitolites?"

"Yes." Olivier gives a slight nod, shuffling her feet. "No Ones or anything. We don't really have many of those around here, and they wouldn't have the time. Well, some of the Capitol people are here on business, and so they take their aides with them, but not all of them. I got some tips, I did try to refuse them, but they insisted and I couldn't… Couldn't say no?" The question raises her voice, and Olivier has to look at Misanthra for a response.

Her aunt sighs, but that sigh only lasts a moment. "Well, if you did try to refuse. I suppose better you than... Well, 'most anyone else from this mess of a District. At least this way it goes to someone who deserves it more." Almost a smile, but then back to business. "But you know you can't keep doing this forever. They like having someone around who's more local, who can give a more authentic reaction and act like what the Capitol expects a real Four to act."

"I know." Olivier shuffles her feet, and she should know that, but at the same time she doesn't want to stop. She wants to be able to go down to the shore and show the tourists around, spend a bit more time with her beloved turtles. She's heard they want to get a new aquarium going on the shore, that they want to make all sorts of developments. And she should be at the front of that – a loyal Four, not the others. The ones who Aunt Misanthra has told her are traitors. The ones she knows laugh behind their hands, outwardly smile with politeness and play a farce of loyalty.

Isn't it better that Olivier Ridley take a role, show Four how they ought to act. Aunt Misanthra disagrees, thinks she should try and get as far away from here as possible, to Two or One or Five. Serve as a Peacekeeper somewhere that is loyal, somewhere that has the right to it. It's why she puts the question towards Olivier, because she legitimately thinks that Olivier has a better chance to make her way in the world without the burden of Four dragging her down. It's why her Aunt asks the same thing she asks every week, at a minimum.

"And what are your plans? For, well, after. You know as well as I do that your mother wouldn't have wanted you to be out there doing nothing. You should find something to do with your life. I just think that you need to prove your loyalty. I know that we aren't a favoured District any more – we deserve that much.

"Olivier. You have less than a year left, then you're going to need to find a job somewhere. You could probably apply to the Peacekeeping corps. They're always taking new applicants, and with your loyalty, you could rise quickly. Go out somewhere that needs a demonstration of how even an Out-Districter could serve the Capitol. It's not like they're going to learn that on their own, out there in Nine or Eleven or any of that mess. I know you want to go into the Games, but-"

"I'd do good – I promise. Prove to the Capitol that even a Four can be loyal, really, if they just trust me. I just want to prove I'd be a good Victor. Our District's been stuck without a role model. I could be that role model if they just gave me a chance. But they made the rules, and they're good rules. Prevents someone bad from becoming a Victor – someone like… them."

The reference to the Victors who dragged Four into the mess of war is with a shudder. After all, they were disloyal. They were problematic. Olivier knows she wouldn't be problematic, but. Well. She can't exactly blame the Capitol for not trusting her – she wouldn't trust Four under any circumstances. Especially not with Volunteers, where Volunteers were the ones who'd turned on the Capitol.

Her aunt nods, and there is a flash of steel in Misanthra's eye as she continues. "Olivier, you'd have been a perfect Victor. Just like I would have been. And I know you think that you could have done great. But the Capitol's biggest kindness was in not doing what they should and flattening this District. As they deserved. A block on volunteering is more than could be expected in leniency, and as such it's not for us to question the decisions of the Capitol. A real job is something you can rely on, not some hope that your turtles will make you money. You know as well as I do, that's a job for the Ones. The blondes who didn't have their District rise up in rebellion."

Olivier has nothing to say. Her aunt eyes her for a moment, then another, before Misanthra finally waves her hand, lets Olivier go and sit. "Go. I need to get dinner ready, and then we can eat. It's late, and you know I always wait for you." A smile, a slightly forced smile, and then Misanthra turns away from Olivier. Turns to the oven, where a fire burns beneath the oven. There's coal in it, all the way from Twelve, such a change from when Aunt Misanthra says they had gas they used to cook in the good old days.

Dinner is soon – shrimp soup. It's spicy, spicing against her lips and down her throat as she swallows spoonful after spoonful down. It's good – starchy beans, the shrimp that pop juices into her mouth and can be chewed and swallowed down, each bite of rice bringing with it a new explosion of flavour as she eats it down in silence. Aunt Misanthra does the same, and it's a companionable kind of silence, the kind of silence that is polite and enjoyable and ever so positive. It's a good night, a summer night that kisses down through the roof and fills the house with all of summer's merry joy.

There's a silver chime of fork against plate, and soon enough Olivier's done, setting her fork and spoon gently within the span of her plate – the normal way to show that you're done. This gets a glance from Aunt Misanthra, a nod, before her aunt nods, and Olivier smiles… just a bit. Nods are good.

Petrichor Skorpelos

District Four

He/They

The seas are smoother today.

Petrichor's boat is still rocking, a decidedly good thing in their mind. Means they haven't hit any doldrums, and their sail is still filled with the winds that push any little boat out on the Four coast around. He's got the ropes in both hands – he can already feel the boat start to slow, and so releases the rope in his left hand, lets out the sail a bit more so it can catch the wind and feels the boat shift forward slightly. Home is in sight – at least, the muddy brown waters of the estuary are obvious at the worst of times against the blue-white seas, and so they can easily navigate into the sound. Still, there's a bit more to go, and (at least to their mind), the final stretch is always the most dangerous.

The spray of the sea brushes up against his face again, kisses and dashes along before sliding off his cheek and into a growing puddle of water in the base of the boat. It is getting worse, but it should let up enough they can get back. After all, of course he is going to get home and in a worst case scenario the Capitol would have boats out to sea picking people up, nosing the fishing craft and little independent boats back to shore. There's none of that, and today isn't the day.

As his boat draws ever closer, he can see the traffic coming out of Grimsey harbour – a constant stream of fishing ships, and the cargo ships that float fish up to Ten to be canned and filleted, and the Capitol patrol ships buzzing across them all like ants. Like there's any chance of a Four going around and causing issue, they're more likely to smile and greet the Capitol like there was never any conflict between them in the first place.

A caw above him reminds him of the frequent followers, a black cloud that wheels about and follows and blankets the air. Crows, a tiny handful of the swarms that descend across Grimsey every night, but enough that they cast a few dozen black shadows across the water and across his boat. One flies down, seeming to inspect their boat for a second before darting back into the sky to join brethren in their arcs.

It seemed to ask a question. Had he done it? Was this the last time? And, as always, they had to shake their head no. Look up to the sky, and promise them and himself that he would do it tomorrow. He has to do it tomorrow. After all, how hard can it be to find your way home? Dad had just gotten knocked a little bit off course, and gone to some other town to fix up. He'd be back soon.

Right?

Of course.

The water's shining, slick with fish scaled and the offcatch that the ships don't watch and dozens of other things he really would rather not name. His boat slips through it all, though, and then with a little pulling in of the sail begins to trace a path upriver, joining the other boats as they slip up. The smaller boats – the larger ones have their own part of the river to advance upwards, and besides, it is not really safe to have smaller boats rolling alongside the larger ones.

One of the boats, small but still bigger than the flimsy sailboat, veers into his path, would at the least knock against Petrichor's boat except for his pulling the ropes at the last second, guiding the craft in a smooth glide around the interloper. The idiot in the cockpit of the boat waves, and they have to try and conceal any disdain, any complaint, any anything in response.

Once he gets into the dock, of course, it's easier. He can get the boat up to her assigned berth with some shifting of the sail and a lot of paddling, tie it down, and then step onto the rock and ignore the slight rock. The clouds of crows disperse, and soon enough he can wait to be flagged down by one of the patrols going to check every boat is back in on time.

"Petrichor." The Peacekeeper gives a nod, writes down the boat number on the pad in his hand and then brushes it against the boat. Waits until the pad makes a small humming click, and then gives Petrichor a brief nod. "All registered as back in. Now, Skorpelos. Anything up?"

It's the same question, one Petrichor gets asked every time as if the answer would be any different the fifteenth time the question has been asked. Malchus' best days are behind him, and he makes a habit of trying to strike up a conversation with everyone who ties up. Which, as it happens, includes Petrichor.

"No, thank you, sir. I was out on an expedition, and I have returned." He responds earnestly, because every word of it is the truth. They were out on an expedition, and had returned. Still, under his helmet Petrichor can feel the… contempt, disdain, everything that he knows Malchus feels about him in a single concentrated state.

And the feeling, to be frank, is mutual. Because Malchus doesn't have anything better to do than talk to people who don't want to be talked to, because the Peacekeepers are just making a campaign of annoying people who didn't get a job by being nosy busybodies with a bit more muscle than the average child in Two. He doesn't want to or need to talk with them, Malchus' time would be served better doing just about anything else. But still, he's coming over and interfering in the days of people who have something better to be doing, because that's how annoying he is.

"Well, kid… stay safe." Malchus is content to walk away from Petrichor after that – something they're more than fine with. Petrichor can finish tying up the boat, and then lean in and scoop the saltwater out of the boat. With a bucket, of course, and one that doesn't go anywhere near his hands. Who knows where that water's been, or what's in it? No, it's just not safe to touch.

After that's done he can tie off the boat at the back, just to make sure it doesn't blow away, and roll down the sail like it's going to run off. Partially because, in all truth, if given half a chance it might.

The walk home is chased by a searing afternoon sun. The air is so thick you can almost swim in it, and the sweat soaks his brow as he walks past silvery-glassed shop windows and what must have been three groups of children playing in a muddy road.

It's only when he gets onto the river road, though, the one that goes a little away from the port, that he sees it all. It's so… messy.

Children, frolicking in the streams that trace the mud and throwing it at each other. Adults, even, chatting while sat on clumps of reeds, mounds of earth and grass. It's a picturesque Four scene, the kind that would be on any postcard home because it's so… messily quaint. Petrichor turns his head away – these people have better things to do. They shouldn't be out here when they could be stretching a ten hour shift with two of overtime, handling home's chores… anything.

Still, he ignores it. Follows the river road and the various turns – bridges, arcing around a pond, as the houses shrink into a short woodland and then back up.

This part of town is far nicer – cast in white and brick. It's still small, still a little dirty, but compared to the city center, the area around the port? It's a world apart, and Petrichor can think that all he likes. It's his world apart, and that's why he can turn into a doorway and push open the door and see Yana Skorpelos sat at the table – as per usual.

"What's got you like that?" He doesn't even get a chance to step into the room, properly, before he's confronted. Mother is scratching at the paper on the table with a pen, making all kinds of notes and occasionally glancing down at the fish on the table. Like she expects something miraculous to happen. Still, after a few seconds she looks up at them, and shoots them a glare filled with more venom than any sea snake, any lionfish.

"Nothing is wrong." She does not look convinced – why would she be, she is never convinced. "Mother. I am perfectly fine – I don't know what you think the issue is, but I am fine."

She looks up, and Petrichor could swear that she's looking at them with ill-disguised… disappointment? Concern? "You weren't at school today. Where were you – don't tell me. Out on the boat again, looking for-"

"If I keep looking." His tone is insistent, it has to be. Because he's right, and mother's wrong. She has to be wrong, Petrichor knows that much. Knows that if they are anything less than fully resolute then mother will just strike them down again. As she always does, because she just doesn't understand him, and Petrichor should be given more trust. "He wouldn't just disappear into the storm. He wouldn't be lost like that, he was better than that. He was the best sailor in Four, in the District. Of course he couldn't just disappear."

Mother doesn't agree. Instead, she shoots him an almost evil glare, and goes onto the attack.

"Petrichor, he's not coming back!" She tosses him a glare, and it's entirely unwarranted. They know that much. "He's not coming back, and you just have to accept that! Find something useful to do with your life! A smart boy like you, you could do all kinds of things. You could find new recipes for fish, you could get a job at the administrative building, you could… anything. Instead, you haven't even been at school!"

"Mother." She's just denying it. She always denies it, but when dad comes back? When there's a change? Well, then she will have to admit she is wrong. That he was right all along, and that maybe she should have left him to his search.

They could say as much – should say as much. Instead, he's intent to turn away, head upstairs, to where their poems are. She yells words after him, tells him that she was lucky she'd only lost Kayak in the storm and not both of them.

But she hadn't lost either of them, really. And Petrichor's sure, just sure, that if they keep looking, keep taking the little sailboat out onto the water, and keep going around on the ocean? That dad will come back, and then it'll all be right in the world. Dad'll bring the smiles back to the house, and then they'll all be able to live nicely together, and won't need to fight any more.

But that's a forlorn hope while dad is away, and Petrichor can't tell you why dad is taking so long. After all, Kayak Skorpelos was the best sailor in Four, right? He was a great sailor, he always knew how to work his ship with one man, and the Capitol loved him for it. What could ever possess him to go away?

On the way to his room, Petrichor makes a brief stop at the bathroom. The soap's still there, worn a little smaller by mother's hands, and the tap is waiting. He turns the hot all the way up, lets it pour until properly hot (not that it takes much warming up in a Four summer), and then runs the soap under it until slick. He lets the soap roll over his hands, lathering it in a thin layer of clean, and then scrubs. Uses a towel dashed with soap to wipe his face down, and arms too.

Silver scales run off where the water touches him – the remnants of some fishing-blighted water that had clearly leapt into the boat without his even noticing. He lets it roll off, lets all the water wash his hands clean, and only then can he retire to his room. Get into some clean clothes, and open the window because it's ever so hot.

He can already hear the laughter outside. People doing things, whatever it is they do this time of day. It's blocked out – even when a rock plinks through his window. Just another attempt by the town kids to tease him, get him to react. Actually get along with the only person who hasn't bought into the insipid cheer Four brings around far too much?

Well, that's far too much for their simple minds.

Instead, he sits at his table – takes out a pen, presses the paper down to the table because he needs to write it out, and his words begin to flow out.

I miss you, oh, so very much

Wish that you came back from away

Please, just now, I won't ask a thing

Just come back, it'll be okay

He stops there – adds it to the nest of papers, poem after poem laid down onto the table as he looks at his pile. It's a few inches high by now, and beside them are pictures drawn with precious pencils and coloured with even more precious r paints. Some from mother's research notes she won't miss.

And once that's done? He lies on his bed. Relaxes. And wishes that he had some people who got him, had a mother who understood him.

Had a father who came back from the sea with him.

Author's Note

Many thanks to AstralKnight98 for Olivier and Ladyqueerfoot for Petrichor! I very much love them both, and am looking forward to seeing them again :D

Thank you Ama for betaing, and I'll see you all next week for District Seven!