Better to die fighting for freedom then be a prisoner all the days of your life.

- Bob Marley

Selyse Frigard
18. District Two.

TW: Emotional and verbal abuse, Mental illness

The academy was dimly lit with not a soul around. Despite the closing time having already passed, over the years Selyse had found that it was rarely enforced and, as long as she cleaned up after herself, she could train into the late hours of the night. On this very day, she was doing just that. The sun had set, and the other trainees had gone home, leaving only Selyse and her sword. The rough hilt that rested on her palms and the rhythm of the blade swinging through the air were among the few comforts that were left to her as of late.

The bright, blue hologram she slashed at with her blade bounced back with lightning speed, and Selyse spun to chase after it. Agility had always been one of her most treasured skills, and she was able to drown everything else out as she focused on honing it.

Well, almost everything.

Yeah, you almost got him! A childish voice cried out.

Indigo was always with her when she was in battle.

She lunged with her sword, driving the cold metal with ruthless precision through the torso of the hologram. It turned a deep red, signalling the end of the exercise, and Selyse dropped to the floor in a sweat.

Oh, yeah! We did it!

As her breathing grew more laboured, she knew exhaustion was beginning to take over, and, as hard as she tried to push it away, she accepted that she couldn't lock herself away in the academy forever – although it was certainly tempting.

Her feet dragged to the locker room, grabbing a towel as she passed, and she made her way to the showers. As it always was, the room was empty when she entered, and her feet echoed as she walked beneath the flickering lights. She stepped into the water pooling at the floor of a shower head, stripped her clothes off and turned the valve to the right. A scalding heat burst from above, and drops of water marked her skin.

She is always cold these days. I wish that I could hold her. I wish that I could tell her that everything was going to be okay. A sweet, female voice said. But not to her. Orchid was always conversing with someone else, although what she said seemed to be about her. Either way, her presence was comforting. At times, she knew Selyse better than she knew herself. And it was true, she was always cold these days; she had been since the warmth of Einar's touch had been taken from her.

His name in her mind sent a shiver chasing down her spine, and she became dependent on the heat of the water to burn it out. She couldn't think about him, and so she chose to think about anything else. Like the sensation of warmth that streamed through her tangle of willowy brown hair, washing out the sweat. After dragging out the shower for as long as possible, eventually, Selyse's skin had begun to rash, and she took it as her sign to leave. Besides, her stomach was rumbling, and her father would have something to say about her late arrival. The earlier, the better off she would be.

The streets of District Two were orderly and uniform. Selyse had walked past the hundreds of identical homes, all just as large as the others, and trudged on the bleached, concrete pavement, that was clear of litter, more times than she could count. As she was guided by the light of the moon, she felt for a moment that she was utterly alone. It was a naive assumption to make, though; she hadn't been alone in a long time – whether for better or for worse.

She is going to be late home. Oh, dear, how I worry about her.

He's going to be angry at you; he's going to be so angry.

Run, Selyse, run!

She pinched her arm tightly, squeezing until the voices became background noise once more. She could never make them truly leave her be, but, over the years, she had adopted strategies to stop them taking over. Her toned, pale arm, filled with scratches, scars and bruises, was evidence enough of that. Still, it was better than the panic that occurred when they got too loud.

Selyse did her best to be quiet as she used her key to click open the front door of the manor she had been made to call home – it wasn't what she knew a home was; it hadn't been that for a long time – but it was no use. Asmund Frigard stood in the doorway, staring down at her with those dark eyes. "Where were you?" He asked. His gruff voice was as commanding as ever.

"At the Academy." She looked down at her shoes, not wanting to face that withering stare. "I know I'm late; I'm sorry." He stepped to the side, and she squeezed between him and the doorway into the grand entrance of the home. It was the definition of the upper class of Two, with its hanging chandelier casting a warm, yellow light across the spiralling staircase and marble floors. Not to mention the grand portrait that hung at the far wall, the smiling faces of the Frigard family greeting visitors as they entered. She shuddered whenever her eyes met those upon that wall. Once, Selyse had been able to appreciate how lucky she was to live somewhere so grand. Now, she felt as if she would have been better born anywhere else than here.

Her father scoffed from behind her. "Always late. Always sorry." He muttered under his breath.

Like Orchid, Indigo and the others, Asmund's harsh whispers were always following her – no matter how hard she tried to escape them. He complained about how she had done this or why she had done that and, every step of the way, made it clear that he despised her existence. Often, Selyse doubted the use of her existence too.

She began to climb the spiral staircase when her father coughed from below, and she warily turned to face him. He combed a hand through his bleached, white hair. "You're not going to have dinner?"

"Right. Sorry." She murmured, changing direction to the dining room.

He had left her a plate of his leftovers. Scraps of chicken, some lettuce on the side and one piece of broccoli. She had learnt not to expect much from her father's cooking; usually, he didn't even leave her anything. The only reason he had bothered was…

"Our little volunteer is going to need her energy." He mocked. "Who would've thought our Selyse would actually be of some use to this family?" He slumped down on the chair at the opposite side of the long table, and she averted her eyes to her plate. With him watching her, she didn't have much of an appetite, and so she circled the broccoli around the plate with her fork. "To think in just a few days, I'll have you out of my way."

"Just a few days." She whispered back, more to herself than him.

Once, she may have been proud that her father had found something to like about her. Now, she couldn't force herself to care.

He doesn't love her.

You deserve better.

She needs to get away. She will get away. Soon.

Your father is a cruel man.

She jumped at the last voice. The harsh whisper sent goosebumps running down her skin. The soft and gentle voice of her mother in her memories had been twisted with malice, and it terrified her. Was this what her mother had turned into before her disappearance? Would Selyse soon become that person too?

"Selyse, do not ignore me!" Her father barked, his chair slamming against the floor as he stood. She snapped out of her thoughts and back into reality, her hands shaking and her eyes filled with water. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm… I'm sorry." She stammered. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't give me that." He snapped back. "You're just as your mother was. Attention-seeking, ungrateful, a waste of space." She flinched. Her father had called her worse before, but every word still hurt like a knife. Yet, not only did it instil fear, but it also lit a flame. A flame that didn't grow often but, when it did, it seemed to unfreeze part of Selyse's old self and allow it to come out in her once more.

"You're wrong." She said, channelling as much defiance as she could manage.

"Excuse me?" He replied, his mouth falling open.

"It's not attention-seeking, Father." She stood from her chair. "You just don't understand."

Then, she fled.

…

No matter how hard she tried to stay away from Einar, she always found her way back to him.

Einar Heimdall.

Son, Brother, Friend.

Friend.

But he had been more than that. He had been her everything. Her rock, her anchor, the person who truly understood her despite all her complexities. And yet he left her. Just as her mother did. She sat cross-legged in the grass that surrounded the tombstone, tracing her finger through his engraved name.

You're never empty, Selyse.

You're never alone.

For a moment, there was silence. And in that silence, Selyse's mind took her back to a simpler time, when she felt more than the emptiness that now consumed her.

…

She had only been a child, around 10 or 11, when she had met Einar the first time. She remembered vividly rocks cracking beneath her feet as she swung a branch she had found beside its tree. Her stance was strong and her muscles tense as she clutched it like a warrior. She was unbreakable, just like those brave girls she saw on the TV.

The outskirts of Two served as her home away from the harsh words of her father. She couldn't bear to see him tear her mother down more than he already had. And so she ran. She wasn't sure what else she could do. But she was scared, and when she held a weapon in hand, that fear seemed to dissipate if only for a moment.

She had been coming here for a month before he had stepped out from the shadows. She noticed his eyes first, bright and blue and full of life. Matched with his mop of dark hair, he had an allure about him that Selyse had never seen before. "Who are you?" She blurted out, sticking out the branch in his direction.

"I'm Einar." He chuckled. "Are you about to attack me with a stick?"

She huffed. "And what if I am, Einar?"

"Well, then you'd have to get me a stick too." He replied, his eyebrows raising pointedly. "I'm unarmed; it wouldn't be a fair fight."

And so she got him a stick.

That day, they had fought under the sweltering sun until their muscles were sore and their skin drenched. Back then, he had been better than her – that was odd; it mustn't have lasted long – but she had put up a fair fight. As they watched the clouds together, Einar said five words that she would never forget.

"You were born for this."

The next day, she enrolled in the academy and never looked back.

…

The memory lit that flame in her once more, reminding her of the warmth that life could be. Then, a voice brought her back to reality, as they often did.

But Einar's gone.

And it was right. He was gone.

Most days, she did not know how to live with that. She had to remind herself of the Games. They were her final chance to fight against the darkness that stole her mother and Einar from her. If she won, maybe the world would know she was strong. Maybe she would believe it, too.

So, she stepped toward them with a grim sense of duty.

Her final chance.

Your final chance.

Our final chance.

Elliot Tweed
17. District Eight.

The air was thick with smoke protruding from District Eight's looming factories as Elliot made his way home. The crowd of workers and students walking along the path shared coughs and sullen looks, their drab clothes as grey as the smoke itself. With every cough, he felt his blood boil just a little more. When the older man beside him, his skin sagging and yellow, let out a real hack into his elbow, Elliot's fists clenched.

Did people not have the decency to shut the hell up? He'd already spent the entire day in a classroom, filled with the incessant gossiping of hormonal loudmouths and disciplining of teachers, and he was finally beginning to reach his boiling point. He was surprised the annoyances of the day were only now erupting from him; Panem knew there were enough of them for him to have sunk into at least three fits of rage by now.

It would just take one more thing, and then he was bound to let it all out. It's not like it was his fault; if the people of Eight just had some decency, then maybe he wouldn't have even reached this point.

His train of thought is cut off as a smaller boy barges past him in a fit of giggles, running away from his friend who's attempting to catch him. They sprint around Elliot in a circle, not caring whether they nudged him or wouldn't let him past, and that is when he finally blew up. He grabbed the boy being chased by the shirt, his sneer cold and mean, and raised his fist in the air – aimed straight at the kid's face. The people of Eight, so beaten down by the day, walked around him without a second glance.

He was hardly physically intimidating, standing at a plainly average 5'8", with his pale skin and the permanent dark around his eyes only emphasising his meekness. Yet, when he stared at you with those deep, serpent green eyes and bared his tinged-yellow fangs, you couldn't help but cower. Just as the younger boy did now, using all his willpower to avoid eye contact.

"Listen here, you little shit." Elliot snarled, and the boy's bright blue eyes grew wide with fear. Elliot took pleasure in that; maybe he could end his miserable day by teaching somebody a goddamn lesson in manners. "We're all trying to get home after a long fucking day. Don't shove people, don't run around and don't giggle like there's anything in this world you should be happy about. You hear me?"

The boy nodded eagerly, and Elliot gave him one last pull of his shirt before releasing him. The little rat scurried away, not daring to look back, and Elliot couldn't help but smirk. Perhaps this day hadn't been an utter waste; if the boy really heeded his words, then there was one less vermin on District Eight's streets.

He only wished he had a team of exterminators; maybe then this town wouldn't be such a shithole, but that was impossible. And so, Elliot accepted that he would forever remain miserable in the morose hellscape of District Eight. He was fine with that; it's not like there was anything that could be done about it even if he wasn't.

…

As Elliot trudged down the stairs of his home, his nose caught the smell of something rich, caramelised and buttery emanating from the kitchen. To many, the smell of soup boiling on a cool evening might bring a smile to their face. Elliot, though, remained expressionless as he took his seat at the dining room table. Like everything in his life, it was nothing special. A poor-quality wood that looked as if it could give you a splinter any minute paired with four chairs that were never actually put to use.

The last time those four chairs had been filled had faded from his mind, as all memories of his mother had, and he found himself glad for that. If there had been a world in which he had once been happy, he did not want to know. It would only serve to make his life all the more dreary, and he wasn't sure how much more of that he could take.

"I've cooked you something special!" A voice cried cheerfully from the kitchen in the next room over. "It's been a while since we had dinner together; I thought I'd put my blood, sweat and tears into it." August entered the room with a grin spread across her pale face, an array of laugh lines appearing on her cheeks as she did. She brought a large metal pot with her, and steam flowed from it as she set it down at the centre of the table. "Stay put; I'll just get you a bowl."

She was always doing that, taking care of him and babying him even when she didn't have to. Elliot could never understand why she had cared for him in the first place; with his mother dead and his father constantly working, she was only a neighbour; it wasn't like he was her responsibility. And yet, she had taken him in. A small part of him – very deep down – felt an unusual gratefulness that she had seemed to care enough about him to treat him as one of her own. But mostly, he wished she had simply left him alone. Life was better that way, he had concluded.

When she returned with a bowl, she was still smiling. He couldn't help but roll his eyes – what could anyone in District Eight have to be happy about? – and the curls in her lips noticeably dropped as he did. Good, maybe she would finally leave him alone.

But August was forever persistent. "Here, I'll serve you a bowl." She scooped the orange liquid into a porcelain bowl and set it out in front of him. "How was your day?"

He didn't respond. His answer was always the same, anyway, so what need was there for him to reply?

"Did you get up to anything fun in school?" She pulled out a seat opposite him, serving herself her bowl.

"No." He lazily placed a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

"Still tormenting your classmates?"

Elliot looks up from his bowl to meet her eyes, finding her eyebrows raised with a disapproving look. What right did she have to lecture him? She wasn't his mother; she never would be, no matter how much she acted like one. "Yes." He went back to his soup.

Just then, the front door clicked open behind him. He was grateful for the distraction from conversation, but he didn't bother turning to greet the man who entered. It's not like he wanted to see him; he was probably going to go… "Straight upstairs," he said under his breath as the stairs creaked with the weight of his steps.

"That's not fair, Elliot." August sighed. "He's just tired from work; you know how long his hours are. It isn't anything personal." But she was wrong; it was personal. His father had never put in any effort with him; he hadn't even taken just one day off to celebrate Elliot's birthday. But it was fine. It wasn't like he wanted to celebrate his birthday, besides the reminder that he was one year closer to escaping the monotonous cycle of life.

"I'm leaving." He said, abruptly, and stood. His bowl remained half-full, but he didn't have much of an appetite, so he wasn't going to eat it – to him, it was as simple as that. August pursed her lips as he sauntered off, but she didn't bother with a lecture.

Good, maybe she had finally taken the hint.

…

His legs hung from the roof of a 30-foot apartment block, his eyes peering down at the deserted streets below. He had been climbing the ladder at the back of this particular building ever since he could remember; it was one of the only places he could escape from the world. Then, Imran joined him. At first, he despised the boy's need to follow him up the building every night. The roof had been his place, and Imran had taken it over with his chatter and his jokes. But, as with all things in life, Elliot had grown accustomed to it.

"You could've just asked them not to push past you." He pointed out, looking at Elliot with those all-knowing eyes. "Sometimes that works better than, you know, whatever the hell you did!"

"You don't learn a lesson by being asked nicely."

He shrugged. "Some of us do."

"For a minute, maybe even an hour. But the next day, they would be right back to their usual shit." He grumbled. "All I'm asking for is a bit of peace and quiet."

"Fair."

He liked that about Imran. He pushed, but never too hard. He questioned Elliot, but never to the point of making him feel stupid. In those ways, Elliot felt as if maybe Imran truly understood him. More than most, at least.

With that thought in mind, he asked a question that had been plaguing his mind for a long time. "Why'd you sit with me that day at lunch?"

Imran chuckled. "Why not? You didn't have any friends; I didn't have any friends. So, I thought, "Why not resolve the problem for both of us?"

"Okay."

He had been a jerk to Imran, as he was to everyone, for weeks after that – some would argue he still was – but, for some reason or another, he had stuck around. And yeah, he was usually irritating, and he talked far too much for Elliot's liking, but in many ways, he felt at peace when with Imran; at the very least, he didn't need to constantly explain himself or his actions because… Well, Imran just got it.

"Do you ever wish you were out of Eight?" He asked, looking out at the vast array of depressive architecture.

"Every day."

He grinned, turning to Elliot. "Oh, yeah? And where would you be instead?"

"A place where people don't bother you unless you want them to would be nice. And everyone has hot water to use every day so the whole district doesn't go around smelling like shit. And there are no rats that roam the streets or diseases that hop from child to child." He paused, then. "Or that kills people's mothers."

Imran placed his hand on Elliot's shoulder. "I'm sorry, man." He shrugged it off. Imran was the closest Elliot had ever got to another person, but he doubted he would ever be that close with anyone. "You didn't deserve that."

"Yeah, well, nobody does." He snapped.

"Elliot—"

"I don't want your pity."

"Okay, that's fine."

And it was. Because as many times as Elliot snapped and as many times as he tried to block Imran out of his life, he would always be there. And Elliot appreciated that more than he could express in words. So, they sat in silence, staring out at the smoke-filled sky of Eight as they contaminated their lungs with its sickening air.

Usually, Elliot's mind was full of hatred and contempt. Yet, in those short moments when the world grew silent, he supposed he could be content with life. They were short moments, though, and only a few minutes later his mind would be black and grey once more.

Jessamine McCullough
14. District Twelve.

The sun shone through her window bright and early, and Jessamine blinked awake with resignation. The light came much earlier in the summer months, blasting her bedroom with an undesirable heat, and it forced her out of bed before she would've liked. She supposed it was for the best, though, so she could get an early start on breakfast.

She found her mother at the stove, pouring a bag of oats into a pot, and stood on her tiptoes to peck her on the cheek. "Morning, Ma." Her mother forced a weak smile, and Jessamine's heart sank. She hadn't returned from the mines until late last night, and now she was up in the early morning, preparing for another long day. It wasn't fair. But it was life. "Here, let me take that." Jessamine took the bag and placed it on the countertop. "I'll finish up breakfast, go change and get some more rest if you can."

Ma nodded meekly. "Thank you, Jessi."

When she peered into the bag of coal, Jessamine took a deep breath through her nose. It was close to empty, with the brown burlap of the bag beginning to show between the dusty, black clumps. She took a few less than she usually would. Her hope was that the oatmeal would simply cook slowly, but as she stirred it around in the pot, the fire began to die until she was left with a liquidy half-cooked mixture of oats and water.

The McCulloughs would just have to settle for that, as the rest of the coal was supposed to last them until Reaping Day, and that was still weeks away. As strangely textured and bland as it was, they would force it down, just as they had with all of the misery that Twelve had thrown at them. She poured a bowl of the half-cooked oatmeal for her father and found him in his usual spot by the living room window, staring out at the dust-ridden streets with glazed-over eyes. Jessamine hadn't seen him leave the spot for years.

Not since the accident. Everything had changed after that.

He fumbled with a bandage he was trying to wrap around his right hand – or rather, the stump in place of it – and Jessamine sat the bowl of oatmeal on the floor beside him.

"Please, Papa, let me help with that." She whispered, taking the bandage in her hands and wrapping it carefully around the festering wound. She and Ignacio had done their best to clean it up, but Panem knew District Twelve was lacking in resources. The two didn't speak as Jessamine placed the bowl on his lap and handed him a spoon, but it was done with such care that there was no need to speak. She loved her father, and she knew he loved her. That was enough for them. "I'll grab your tonic before I head into town."

She rushed to the pantry and pulled out a clear glass vial filled with a grass-green liquid. She then scribbled out a note, her handwriting joint up and polished after years of practice with Ignacio, and stuck it to the vial.

Remember your tonic. It read.

Her father had trouble remembering things since his accident. She understood that. Memories were painful, and she didn't want her father to be in pain, so she did her best to ensure he didn't have to remember things. She could handle that for him.

…

The streets of District Twelve were almost always quiet in the early morning, with most underground in the mines. Yet, as Jessamine turned the corner that led to the Hob, there was a voice crying out in the distance. She approached cautiously, scoping out the array of shops with blacked-out windows and makeshift signs. As she reached the centre of the black market, the shouting became much clearer, and so did its source.

An older man, she guessed fifty or sixty, was yelling up at the sky with his hands raised toward it. A crowd had gathered around him, watching on with an anxious silence. "The dove is coming!" He cried. "She brings us peace. 'Peace to the Districts!' she says! And the Districts must say 'Aye!'" Jessamine peeked through the crowds, staying at the back. This was not going to end well, and she knew she didn't have any other choice but to stay. It was what Ignacio would want her to do.

"The dove soars through the sky!" He spread his arms across the expanse above them, and Jessamine, along with the rest of the crowd, couldn't help but look up. There wasn't a dove, though, just the plain old grey. "She flies to the Districts to bring her peace. And peace we shall have!" She supposed, in some ways, he was right because that was when the Peacekeepers arrived.

Jessamine flew from the crowd as soon as the first shouts began, diving into an alleyway between two stores. She pressed herself against the bricks, her grey eyes peering out from the dark as the men launched themselves upon the speaker. People cried out as the old man flew to the floor, his head slamming against the concrete. Most ran, just as she had, but those who were braver grabbed onto the Peacekeepers and attempted to pry them away. She covered her eyes with her hands as those men too were thrown to the ground.

It was only when the shouting stopped that Jessamine dared to take a look. Head Peacekeeper Grimstone stood in the centre of beaten and bloody men and women, a gun clutched in his hands. "Everyone back to work! The next time I'm here, these streets should be clear. Do you hear me?" He barked. Then, he pointed the gun at the old rebel, who was curled up in a ball on the ground, and shot him straight through the head.

The bullet rang out across the streets of Twelve.

Perhaps, once, Jessamine wouldn't have dared stick around for any longer than she already had. But now, she had a responsibility, and that thought kept the tears from her eyes as the swarm of Peacekeepers left the Hob, bullets shooting up in the air as they did. As soon as the last white uniform had left their vision, the citizens of District Twelve flocked from the alleyways and to those they had left behind to save themselves.

Jessamine was first to a younger man with dark, spiked hair and olive skin. He stared blankly at the sky, water welling in his eyes, and clutched his ribs. "What's your name?" She asked, kneeling down beside him.

"Clarence." He managed, wincing in pain.

"Okay, Clarence." She clutched her hand in his own. "We're going to get you sorted out." She called for help, and another, older woman came to clutch onto his legs as Jessamine grabbed his armpits. Around her, most of the Hob was doing the same with the other injured. "To Igancio's." She said to the older woman. "It's not far."

…

He was waiting at the door expectantly when the crowd arrived. "I've heard what happened. Please, come in, come in." He ushered Jessamine and the woman who carried Clarence between them inside the makeshift doctor's office. It was certainly not what the richest families in Twelve would expect, but, for the citizens of the Seam, they had to make do. A number of wooden surgical tables sat alongside the far wall, and shelves of vials and plants were littered around the edges of the room. Jessamine helped place Clarence on one of the tables, and others did the same. The least injured were placed on the floor, with the room too crowded to fit all the patients.

"Looks like we have a busy day, Jess." Ignacio said, patting her lightly on the head. "Are you up to it?"

She blushed.

Was she up to it? Well, she didn't know. She had been watching Ignacio for years, sure, but she hadn't been trusted with much practical work. Right now, though, he needed all the help he could get, and Jessamine forced her insecurity aside for his sake. "Just tell me what you need."

He pointed to Clarence. "He'll need some painkillers for those ribs. Don't wrap them. We don't want to restrict his breathing."

She nodded. "Got it."

To anyone else, the shelf of plants and vials in front of her may have been an impossible puzzle to solve, but, after acting as Ignacio's assistant all these years, Jessamine was quick to select the appropriate medicines.

"I'm going to rub this over your ribs." She said, "Is that okay?"

Making sure your patient is comfortable is key. Ignacio's voice replayed in her head.

He nodded, his eyes squeezed shut, and she took out a handful of the smooth, clear substance. It smelt strongly of metal, and Jessamine had seen Ignacio often layer it across broken bones. She rubbed it into Clarence gently, her hands shaking every time he let out a cry of pain. "I'm sorry. Just a little bit more." She soothed. When she was done, the boy seemed to have passed out. She was relieved for that, as he needed his rest.

She found Ignacio wrapped up in conversation as he folded bandages around the arm of a grey-haired man with black circles around his eyes. His frailty reminded her of her father, but the way he spoke certainly did not, as a fiery rage accompanied every word that left his mouth. "Velora Calico; they call her the Dove around here. That's what Otto was raging about when they…" He released a hacking cough. "Well, when they shot him in the head."

She didn't know who Velora Calico was, but she was curious about this Dove. She wouldn't ask, though; it was best not to interrupt conversations. She had found you had learnt much more from standing just out of sight, not so close that you could be accused of eavesdropping but not so far that you missed every other word spoken. "Calico is really making her waves, isn't she?" Ignacio replied, examining his patient's leg. Jessamine had no idea how he managed to talk as he worked; healing had always taken all her focus. "Can you imagine that? A District girl becoming president of Panem?"

District girl?

The older man shushed Ignacio, looking around frantically. "Not here, Ignacio. As a matter of fact, not anywhere."

…

When Jessamine arrived home that night, her mind was clouded and her feet were dragging. She had worked until the sun had set, rewrapping bandages and applying painkillers. It had been hard work, some of the hardest she had ever faced, but, as she clicked open the door to her house, she felt an overwhelming sense of pride.

She had done something. She had helped people. And after her father's accident, that's all she had ever wanted to do.

He was still sitting by the window when she passed the living room, and he didn't turn to acknowledge her – Jessamine wasn't even sure if he heard her. Her mother too was still at work, and she felt a stab of pain at that thought. If she was tired, then how did her mother feel? She worked in those mines from sunrise to sunset, hacking away with very little breaks and in the poorest conditions.

No, she mustn't think about it. Ma wouldn't want her to worry.

Jessamine climbed into bed without brushing her teeth or showering – neither toothpaste nor hot water was a commodity they could currently afford – and curled up in her thin, grey blanket. Exhaustion took her almost immediately.

She went to sleep knowing that the hard, monotonous work of today would repeat tomorrow. And the next day after that. And for weeks to come. But she accepted that because Jessamine had learnt the way of the world in her short fourteen years, and she knew there was no point in hoping for more. She could make do with her life, no matter the challenges, as long as held onto her drive.

A/N: Half way through the intros wooo!

I hope you enjoyed these three, I had a lot of fun writing them. Thank you to Paradigm of Writing (Para) for Selyse, illegalcryptid (Jade) for Elliot and Tales from the Cluttered Desk for Jessamine.

A little bit of worldbuilding in here for subplot reasons. It's important to note that many rebels from other Districts who are responsible for more petty crimes like public nuisance etc or who will damaged Capitol authority if they are killed are sent to District Twelve. As well as this, Eight, Eleven and Twelve experience the most outright support for Velora Calico (the so called Dove). Mostly because these are the places where word has spread about her the most whereas many of the other Districts have very limited knowledge on her.

On top of this, Selyse, like Cosmo, experiences psychosis so please let me know if I'm handling that appropriately! And, if not, how I can improve my interpretation.

Next up we have Sina, Caspum and Lupin.

Thanks for reading!

- Neb