Oren Achani

District Nine Tribute

18

–

The twins are screaming again.

It's the first thing Oren hears as he creeps into the Achani family home, wooden door creaking shut as the arguments of his sibling floats down from the hallway.

"Did you just fucking shove me?" Forsyth, no doubt, arms crossed in indignation.

Inevitably comes Frazier's colder reply: "You were basically asking for it."

There's the sound of loud footsteps against the wooden floor of their bedroom, and a door slamming. Stifling a sigh, Oren quietly removes his shoes and places them neatly in the foyer. A habit that neither of the twins have picked up yet - there are still patches of grass and mud lying next to the door from their recent escapades - but Oren hopes that if he continued to do it, they would catch on.

He makes his way into the living room (that doubles as a kitchen and dining room) and into the hallway, when -

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Oren turns around, noticing his mother, splayed out on the couch, cigarette to her lip. She frowns at him, lip curled in disgust, as if it was so strange of her child to show up in their house.

"I've been out," he sighs. If she'd wanted to know about the ins and outs of his life, she would've shown so a long time ago.

His mother scoffs, a puff of smoke leaving her lips from the cigarette. "Jesus, okay."

That's it. All she says. Oren should probably be relieved that his parents don't want to police his everyday goings, he's certain many of his schoolmates would kill to say the same, but something about his mother's disdain stings.

He'd been gone for three days, and that's all she has to say?

Oren doesn't like dwelling on difficult things like these, though, so he turns on his heels and makes his way into the hallway, where the twins' doors are still shut. He knocks on the left one, Forsyth's, not wanting to be met with Frazier's retorts so early in his return.

"Forsyth? It's me, I'm back."

There's a second of silence, and then the loud tumble of feet heading towards the door. It whips open, revealing a younger boy with a lopsided grin on his face. "Oren! Holy shit! I'm so glad you're back, because, like, Frazier is a complete bitch when you're not around and it's honestly absolutely unlivable and like, Mom really doesn't give a shit and neither does Dad, so it really sucks when you're not here, and um, yeah." Forsyth's string of words suddenly comes to a full stop, and he blinks expectantly at Oren.

Oren smiles back weakly at him. He knows that Frazier isn't exactly… the warmest presence in the house, which is saying something, but he's also more than aware that Forsyth does his fair share of poking the bear. "I'm sorry, bud," he says, but his voice sounds deflated. Defeated.

He'd hoped that, maybe just for three days, he could live by himself. That the twins would be just fine on their own, letting Oren discover just for an instant what peace is like, what taking care of himself is like. But it seems that they're unable to control themselves in his absence. Can he blame them, really, when he's been the only parental figure present in the house? Wouldn't he go insane, stuck in their morbid farmhouse with only their parents as so-called company?

(Still, he'd hoped. That he could maybe have a few days just for himself, where he could listen to the wind brushing against the stalks of wheat growing in the fields, where he could laugh and connect with people who want him as a friend, and not a parent.)

He'd hoped. Maybe that was the issue - hoping in a place like this.

"Can you stay? Pretty please?" Forsyth asks, tilting his head and widening his big brown eyes. "I don't want to be alone again."

Even as a trace of resentment bubbles up Oren's chest, he nods. "Of course, Forsyth. I'll stay."

He owes it to them, after all. Owes it to his family, to care for them no matter what. That's what family is for, isn't it, to build bonds that can withstand time, to cultivate unconditional loyalty? Oren's the eldest, has always been - and with their parents out of the picture, there's nobody else who can bare the burden of keeping the twins safe. It's his duty, his responsibility. He knows it.

(And yet, if family truly is about that, why do his brothers never return the favor?)

–

"Oren, man, we love you and all, but there's no way we're bringing these toddlers with us," Halim says, gesturing at the twins lingering by Oren's side. The leader of their group of wanderers crosses his arms with a raised eyebrow, dark hair falling to his cheeks in curls.

Oren opens his mouth to argue, but he's immediately interrupted by Frazier's cutting voice. "The fuck? We're not toddlers."

Oren shoots him a glance, begging him for once to shut his mouth, but Frazier only glares back, muttering a buzzkill under his breath.

Halim scoffs at Frazier's outburst. "Case in point, man. I get what you're trying to do for your family, but we can't have them around. We need to do real shit, man, real robberies. And I don't think they're gonna be an asset for that, exactly."

"Holy shit, robberies?" Forsyth exclaims, eyes wide with excitement, before Oren can assure him that it's not what he thinks, that they're not robbing banks like in books, that they're only breaking into small convenience stores occasionally and that there's nothing cool about it.

Frazier laughs. "Can you hear this shit, Oren? They think we can't help out."

Oren shoves a hand into his hair, begging them all to be quiet, just for an instant. Swallowing carefully, he makes eye contact with Halim, trying to ignore the chattering on both sides of him from the twins. "Listen, I know it's not the best situation," he begins, infusing his words with the reasonability he uses when Frazier has his bouts of silence, "but you've gotta help me out here. I've got nowhere to go."

It's the truth, really. One night, it'd simply become too much, watching the twins squabble over a dinner that Oren had prepared, while his parents watched from the couch, only occasionally yelling out a shut up! when Forsyth got too loud. One night, the loud noises and the indifference and the bleak nothingness of their home had swallowed him whole, and he'd packed his bags in a feverish haze, the world outside luring him out his window like a siren's song.

(He had to take the twins with him, though. He had to. They'd be lost without him, and Forsyth had begged him not to leave again.)

(It's Oren's duty to care for them. If he doesn't, then who will?)

Oren's only hope, now, was that his friends would let him bring them along their journeys and wanderings, that they'd find a spot for them. Maybe then, he could have the best of both worlds. He could keep his friendships, keep the nature and the feeling of the wind against his skin, keep the laughter around a campfire and the lushness of living - while also keeping the twins safe, by his side, like he needed to.

But, just like their parents, Oren's friends want nothing to do with the twins.

(Sometimes, Oren wonders if he feels the same.)

"No can do, bro, I'm sorry," Halim shrugs, and the finality in the words feels like it crushes Oren's stomach to knots.

With that, his friends turn away, and trudge onto the main road of Nine, stretching out towards the golden horizon. A part of Oren makes him want to run off after them, abandoning the herculean weight of the twins behind him, finally, riding off into the sunset and towards freedom like he hopes but… but it slips through his fingers. He needs to stay. He has to. If the twins don't have him, they'll have nobody.

(And God does Oren know how bad it hurts to have nobody.)

Another door towards a brighter future closes. Perhaps the only door he'll ever have. Perhaps there never was a door at all. Perhaps Oren's just been deluding himself, hoping for a good ending in Nine.

Perhaps resigning himself to his fate is the best thing he can do, now. At least he won't be disappointed.

He turns back to the twins, Forsyth watching the wanderers go with a frown. Frazier rolls his eyes. "Your so-called friends didn't want anything to do with us. Kind of hurtful, man."

"It's fine," he assures them, but the words fall flat in the emptiness of the fields around them. "It'll be fine. We'll figure something out together, like we always do."

"We better do something fun, though," Frazier retorts, as if that's somehow the biggest of their worries now that they're stranded, homeless, in the fucking countryside. "I don't want it to be like back home."

"It won't be." God, Oren sounds like a broken record. "We're free now, we can go anywhere we want. It won't be boring."

Forsyth plops to the ground with a groan. "Of course it will be! It's Nine! Everywhere we go, it's gonna be boring!" He casts a melodramatic hand to his forehead, which might bring a smile to Oren's lips if it weren't so unironic.

"But we won't be home!" Oren insists.

Frazier lifts an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And how the hell are we gonna eat now? Without Mom or Dad?"

(As if Oren wasn't the one to cook them dinner every night. As if Oren wasn't the one who gathered extra cash whenever he could, when their parents' salary started dwindling.)

Oren stretches his lips into a thin smile. "We're gonna figure it out. Now, come on, night's falling. We should get to the next town by then if we hurry up."

Both of the twins mumble and groan, but Forsyth stands back up, brushing dirt off his pants, and both of them follow him without another word.

That's the most important part, right?

—

For once, the night is quiet.

It's something so unfamiliar to Oren that he finds himself glancing around, unsure, hesitant. Surely something is wrong for it to be so silent, surely something is out of place.

But, no. No, there is nothing threatening about the stillness, it doesn't warn him that he's forgotten one of his responsibilities, leading to some silent catastrophe. As he takes in the brisk air of a spring night, in the center of a sleeping town, he realizes that he's simply at peace.

(He does not yet dare proclaim himself happy.)

Still, it's a good start. He stands there for another instant, mind clouded by a soft haze. Around him, the last light still burning in the town - the tavern, most likely Eve's candle - flickers out, leaving only the rhythmic tandem of wheat stalks in the wind to distract him. His heart twists a little at the sight. Eve is going to sleep now, like her boss told her to. He already knew this, it's the reason why they couldn't continue their conversation. So why does he feel like a new opportunity is already closing on him, like she'll soon be slipping through his fingers?

Oren's being silly, and he knows it. He promised that he'd return tomorrow, and she'd seemed so hopeful about seeing him again. Clearly it's something she wants, too. Clearly he wasn't the only one still in a daze from their conversation, completely enraptured by every word that left the other's mouth.

Clearly, everything is going to be fine.

It's just a hard concept for Oren to get used to, after an unending series of mishaps and bad luck.

But isn't it possible that his luck changes? Isn't his meeting with Eve the very proof of that? Proof that there is some good in this world, even if it is often erased by the mundanity of Nine, that there is someone out there capable of connecting with Oren? Capable of appreciating him for all that he is, of sharing the burden of life instead of shoving it all onto him?

(Of loving him?)

Oren Achani hasn't had much experience with optimism in his short life, but he's willing to try.

–

Patton Tioga

District Twelve Male

18

–

First Day of the Interrogation

"Mr. Tioga. We do hope you understand the gravity of your situation here."

It's yet another cold, February day, where the icy winds drag flakes of snow into the charred-black smoke of the coal mines, turning into a grayish sludge. How morbid. Patton's always associated the coming of winter with death. Maybe that's why, in the old world, the people used to dress themselves in bones and blood when the weather started to turn.

"Mr. Tioga? Mr. Tioga, I would highly recommend that you do us the honor of answering when we're talking to you."

Everybody in Twelve, to some extent, associates the winter with tragedy. Huddled in their rundown shacks, begging the electricity to work, the kindling for fire running out… it's a scene they all know too well. But to Patton, it also reminds him of his father's coughs. The way the phlegm had wracked his throat and how he'd turned blue in his bed. How he'd withered away in the span of a year.

"Mr. Tioga! You've been accused of murder, young man, and if you do not cooperate this instant, you know damn well the firing squad is who you'll be facing instead of me!"
Finally, Patton drags his gaze away from his hands, shackled together and resting on a cool, steel table, and towards his interrogator. The Head Peacekeeper of Twelve, Nero Strong, stands before him, eyes wide with fury. Patton remembers the last time he's seen him like this. It'd ended with blood on the snow.

"Do you have anything to say in your defense?" Nero snarls, drawing closer to Patton. He smells like rotten cabbage and beer, and Patton wrinkles his nose. Disgusting.

"I'm not saying shit to you."

Patton's words fall flat in the sterile interrogation room. Nero's nose flares like a bull, and a flare of anger rises through Patton's chest. How many times were they going to repeat the same dance, the same cat-and-mouse game? If Nero truly wanted to have Patton behind bars and executed, he should go ahad and fucking do it. Patton's had enough of being his toy, fuel for his power trip.

He won't give Nero the satisfaction of responding anymore.

(If he dies, so be it. He has more people waiting for him on the other side than back home, anyways.)

"You think you're all that, don't you, you little twat?" Nero continues, beginning to pace around him like one of his hounds. "Think you can do whatever you want, get away with anything?"

As far as Patton's concerned, no one's ever been able to stop him from doing whatever he wants. The one person who tried ended up with a crushed skull, deep in the mines… though that was an accident. Not that it matters anyways.

Patton drops his gaze back down. "I just want to be left alone, is that too much to ask?" he mutters.

It's a foolish thing to say, of course. In Twelve, everybody's trying to take the meager scraps you have, squabbling over the bare necessities. Bad luck crawls under every mining tunnel, every rock and every smog-filled village, stealing away the few that do matter to you. It's always been this way, and Patton would be naive to expect any different.

And yet, somehow, he'd hoped that his bad luck would finally end. That the world would finally have enough of tormenting him, and would move on to fresher victims. That he may finally know some goddamn peace.

"Well, you haven't been doing a very good job at that, have you," Nero snorts. "Twice now that I could've locked you up. Not to mention all the petty squabbles you'd have with your coworkers, and that stupid little friend of yours-"

(There's blood in the snow.)

(There's blood in the snow, and you can smell it, you can taste it.)

(There's blood in the snow and you can't save him.)

Patton stands up in a burst of rage, slamming the chair back and putting his fist down onto the table. "Don't you fucking talk about Sten!" he yells, and his voice echoes through the Peacekeeper station, bounces around on the steel and stone. He swallows, trying to push down his impulses, because if he fucking attacks Nero right now it'd be over for him. "Don't you talk about him," he repeats, forcing his voice into something more low and menacing.

"Are you fucking threatening me, boy?" Nero laughs, and the grin of disbelief he gives Patton sends another burst of rage up his spine. It's always disdain, it's all Patton's ever gotten. Disdain or indifference from men better off than him, who would like to see him dead. It's all he's ever gotten in his godforsaken life, disdain and tragedy, and if he could, he'd tear Nero apart, but -

First Week of the Interrogation

Powerless. That's all Patton is, rotting in his cell as countless days pass, the light of the sun making a full arc from his barred window as the snow continues to fall.

Fucking powerless. He can't decide when his meals come, nor in what form. Can't decide when he's thirsty, can't decide where he goes. All he can do is pace around his meager room, clenching and unclenching his jaw, reminding himself of a zoo animal. It's pathetic - Patton's always had to take care of himself, always had to save himself. He's always had to be the one in control, and there's no way in hell the Peacekeepers should get to control his daily schedule. It's maddening. His life should be his. If the world was so hellbent on making him miserable, on taking everyone he holds dear away from him, then at the very least it could let him keep himself.

His life should be his, and most importantly, not in that pig Nero's hands.

But what else will he do? Confess to killing Monty? There's a lot of things Patton could be judged for, the stealing and the quarreling, the blunt words and the occasional punches thrown, but what happened with Monty wasn't his fault. Death just follows him like some dark shroud, never letting him catch his breath. Shame for Monty or whatever, but it's not Patton's goddamn fault.

Monty started it, anyways, hissing at Patton and shoving him around. Just like the bosses at the mines, and Nero and the Peacekeepers and everyone else in this rotten District who thinks they're better than Patton.

Monty wanted him to snap, and he'd gotten what he wanted. That's not a crime, is it?

(There's blood on the snow.)

(There's blood on the snow, and on the rocks too, and it's all your fault.)

Patton hadn't even thrown the punch - it'd been Monty, a stupid uppercut that Patton dodged with ease. Monty lost his balance, and… well, there are far too many sharp rocks in a coal mine.

The only regret Patton has, really, is that Jed had to see him like that, standing in front of a dead body with a shattered skull. Jed's seen enough death, from their parents to the occasional coworker getting crushed in debris. It may be sentimental bullshit, but Jed's the only one who ever tried with Patton, and he doesn't want Jed to see him like a monster.

Jed hasn't come to visit him yet. Patton tries not to take it personally. He's probably not allowed any visitors, because Nero has that hate boner against him. Or, maybe, Jed's busy working extra shifts, now that he's the only man with a salary in the household. It's gotta be that. Jed's gotta take care of himself, just like Patton's gotta take care of himself, just like everyone it Twelve's gotta take care of themselves and mind their own business.

If only Monty would have minded his business. If only he hadn't poked the bear that was Patton's bad luck, if only he hadn't pushed around a living curse. Then, one of them wouldn't be six feet under, and the other wouldn't be behind bars.

If only, if only, if only. Just like death, those words are starting to feel like a recurrent theme in Patton's life.

First Month of the Interrogation

Patton isn't sure what time it is anymore. Some time before (was it weeks? days?) Jed had finally come to visit, though he'd only been allowed to stay for five minutes. They'd exchanged quick words to each other in the gloom of the prison, Jed pressing his face against the rusty bars. Jed had begged him to try cooperating with the Peacekeepers, that the sooner he tells the truth, the sooner he'll get out.

But Patton didn't want to say another word to those monsters. He was done with all their rules and repression and need for submission. At this point, if he were to talk - even if the truth really did imply his innocence - it'd be like bending the knee to them. And Patton would rather die than do that. Jed didn't quite understand, but he sighed and Patton saw a glimpse of sadness in Jed's eyes. A sort of melancholy, as if his brother knew Patton couldn't help being this way, so abrasive and spiteful. That, really, it was the world that turned him this way, and he can't blame him for it.

Then, the guard had screamed at Jed that it was time to go, and the days started blending together again, somber and cold, with only the sound of a broken water pipe somewhere in the building to keep Patton sane. Drip, drip drip. His only metronome.

Patton started to have dreams again. Not any of that hopeful stuff, he's too old for that kind of shit, but ones about his parents, when he closes his eyes and sleep finally takes him away from his flea-infested cot. About his mother's soft hands on his cheeks, about her laughter when Jed would play peek-a-boo with Patton and he'd get all confused. He's sure he's making some of this up, as he can't possibly remember her in such detail, but it still feels like home. Sometimes, too, he dreams about his father, before the cough took him, or even sometimes about Sten.

It's those dreams that have him waking in a cold sweat, nails clenched into his palms so hard they leave crescents behind, teeth grinding in rage. If Nero showed up, God, if Nero showed up in those moments, that pig wouldn't be alive. Patton would claw and punch at him until he was reduced to fuckin' nothing. If Patton can't save Sten from his fate, if Patton has to resign himself with the fact that anyone he grows close to ends up being taken from him, Patton could at least avenge him. Maybe that'd be something.

But Nero only shows up when life is drained out of Patton after long days of nothingness, when he knows Patton won't have the strength to argue or fight back. Waiting for him to crack. He only shows up when Patton remembers that no matter what he does, no matter who he fights against or who he kills, it won't do much against the unending monotony of Twelve. It won't do anything in the face of a cold and indifferent world.

All Patton has left for himself now is spite. If Patton can hold onto that, refuse to submit to Nero's tyrannical rule, refuse to submit to the monster that killed his friend… well, it has to count for something. Right?

–

There's blood in the snow, and there's traces of coal in it too, turning the Hob's marketplace into a wasteland of half-melted sludge. The wind crawls its frozen fingers into the people's hearts, whipping at their cheeks and making them turn away from their neighbors. That's all there is to Twelve in the winter. Fear and hunger. And blood.

When Patton steps through the crowd of huddled folks, hiding behind their homemade scarfs and their hats filled with holes, he already knows what awaits him. Deep inside, he already knows that nothing lasts in his world. He already knows it's over.

It's been over since his mother's heart stopped, and all the warmth in his life disappeared.

There's nothing in Twelve. There's never been anything.

Patton Tioga does not startle at the sight of his best friend, skull cracked open, in the center of the marketplace, pouch of money dangling from his limp fingers, while Nero Strong stands over him.

Patton Tioga is not surprised. He simply waits for the next tragedy to strike.

–

Mirabeau St. James

District Twelve Female

18

–

It's the best day of the year.

Admittedly, there aren't a lot of good days in Twelve, but the first bloom is still pretty fucking cool in Mirabeau's opinion. Her dad knows how much it means to her, so he's allowed her some time off from the shop. After promising that, yes, she did do her homework - a lie, obviously, who the hell do you think she is? - Mirabeau packed her bag with a couple apples and a water bottle, and strolled into the woods.

She's been lucky enough to live in the mining towns that haven't cut down all the trees yet to fuel the coal mines, though she's certain the woods in Seven must be even more impressive than the ones she knows. Still, it's enough for her. When she slips between their branches and the familiar sway of leaves greets her, she knows she's home. Sure, there's still some snow lying around some trees and bushes, colored black from soot and ashes drifting through from Mirabeau's town, and some flowers have a sickly hue, but it's still something. It's still teeming with life, and with the return of spring, Mirabeau can already hear the first chirps of birds above.

Mirabeau sticks to the main path at first, in case she catches the attention of a Peacekeeper or one of those goody-two-shoes who enjoy telling her what's dangerous or not, but once she's far away enough from her town, Mirabeau ventures into the thick underbrush, abandoning the pathway. It's illegal, sort of. Not that Mirabeau really cares. If something's fun in Twelve, it's most likely illegal.

(Sometimes, she wishes she could escape. Into Seven, or Ten, or any of the wilder Districts. Find real freedom, away from the sullen workers with calluses and lost dreams. Find real freedom, before she too becomes like them.)

But Mirabeau knows better than to be that naive. She's stuck here, no matter how she feels about it. She may as well make the most of it.

Cutting through the bramble and the clawed branches of still-bare trees, Mirabeau tries to remember if she's been this way before. Most likely, she has, but if she's lucky, maybe she'll find something new. Perhaps a secluded stream she hadn't noticed yet, or a tree with strange markings, or maybe an animal she hasn't seen before. That's one thing she loves so much about nature - how far it is from the monotony of town life, how every venture into its mysterious depths can offer a brand new adventure. There's nothing like that back in town, where every day is coordinated around the work shifts of the miners and Mirabeau can feel herself going stir crazy.

Suddenly, a branch snaps somewhere near her. Mirabeau whirls around, heartbeat quickening. Something big enough to break a branch, so early in the year? It's nothing she's ever seen before, it has to be. Excitement vibrating through her. Mirabeau creeps towards the sound, when -

"Boo!"

Despite herself, Mirabeau shrieks and turns around to see… "Oh my god, you fuckin' idiot! You scared me!"

Her best friend Cannen stands before her, smug and proud of himself. God, he's so annoying sometimes, she's gonna wipe that smirk off his face.

"Got you!" Cannen winks, earning a playful swipe from Mirabeau, who then collapses into her brash, good-natured laugh.

"I'm gonna get you back for that," Mirabeau promises, wagging a finger in front of him. "I don't know how yet, Cannen Ford, but I'm gonna cook your ass."

Cannen raises an eyebrow. "Oh, is that so?"

Mirabeau stands up on the tips of her toes, to be at eye level with him, and draws closer. "Do you really wanna find out?" she threatens, dumb grin splayed across her face.

"Hmm…" Cannen rocks back on his heels, as if pondering some great mystery. "I'm not sure, Ms. St James. What guarantees that you're so scary? For all I know, you could be bluffing…"

Mirabeau opens her mouth and blabbers something in false offense. "Excuse me? Me? Bluffing? Oh, you have no idea how serious I am."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"For real?"

"For real, for real."

Cannen claps his hands together, and he reminds Mirabeau of those kids from Three on TV when they have a genius idea in one of their labs. "Shall we put this to test?"

Mirabeau cocks her head, shit-eating grin growing even larger. "A test, huh?" Oh, Mirabeau doesn't mind that at all. Whatever he dares her to do, she's up for it. In fact, the less he believes her capable of pulling the stunt off, the more it fills her with the utter need to do it.

"Indeed," Cannen says with flourish, dipping into a Capitolite accent that almost makes Mirabeau break character. "Do you see this tree, far yonder?" he asks, pointing at a large oak with strong, solid branches. A wise old thing, that's probably seen the times before.

This time, Mirabeau can't hold back her laughter. "Yonder?!" she mimics, snorting loudly.

Cannen ignores her, wisely so. "If you truly are so worthy of my complete and total destruction, Mirabeau St. James, you must scale this tree and return unharmed."

Oh, perfect. Mirabeau's done some tree climbing before of her own volition, but never has she gone up one as high as the oak. It's the type of shit that can get her really badly injured, or worse. Her favorite kind of activity.

"Oh, you're on," Mirabeau retorts, and bounds towards the tree.

She examines the first few branches. It's a solid trunk, no doubt about it, and the first branch is pretty high up. She's gonna need to leap for it. Mirabeau backs up, takes a deep breath, and jumps for it. Her feet leap off the ground in an exhilarating rush, and she reaches for the branch, nails digging into the bark. She swings there for a wild second, straining her arms, before pulling herself up. Crouching on top of it, she grins at Cannen and sticks up her middle finger.

"That is by far not even half-way!" Cannen replies.

Mirabeau rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there."

She stands up, feet wobbling from the exertion and lack of room, and tries to turn to spot the next branch. It's a bit too high up for her to reach naturally, dangling above her head, tantalizing. She lifts up on the tip of her toes, straining her fingers towards it, but her feet wobble too much, and suddenly she's falling backwards until -

CRASH!

Mirabeau slams down onto the newly-thawed grass, red hair flying everywhere. Ow. That's gonna have to be bruised for sure.

"Mirabeau!" Cannen exclaims, running towards her, this time with genuine concern in his voice.

Aw. How cute. He actually thinks Mirabeau got hurt badly. Trying not to give herself away by snickering, she continues laying as limply as possible.

"Mirabeau! Are you hurt!"
"Ohhhh….." Mirabeau moans in pain, lifting a dramatic hand into the air like a dying man. "Ohhhh…. Cannen it hurts sooooo baaaad…."

"What hurts?" Cannen asks, kneeling next to her.

Mirabeau allows herself another groan of pain, before rolling back into a sitting position, flashing him a smile. "Why, my self-esteem, of course!"
Cannen blinks for a second, confused, before breaking into a fit of laughter. "Jesus Christ Mirabeau. You're really incorrigible."

That she is.

–

It's the best day of the year.

Or, at least, it should be. It would be, if Mirabeau's life hadn't fallen into pieces since last year, if it hadn't slipped from her fingers and become something so unrecognizable.

It would be, if her father hadn't been lowered into a shallow grave after the coughing sickness got to him, and if she hadn't become a prisoner to her family's shop, working day and night at making shoes for her District, hoping it'll be enough to feed herself. Hoping it'll be enough for her District.

If Mirabeau's life hadn't changed, if she wasn't stuck here in her grim workshop where the floorboards creak and the lamp flickers, she'd be outside in the woods with Cannen, fooling around like idiots, enjoying the first bloom.

But, here she is.

The current shoe she's been working on has been giving her a lot of trouble. She's never been as naturally dextrous as her father, and the thread keeps slipping from the needle, causing her to prick her hand. It shouldn't be that hard, but God is it a way to make it clear that this job isn't for her. That she isn't meant to be here.

And yet, what else can she do? She has no one left to care for her now. Only has herself. Maybe she could find a job elsewhere, but would it really be any different? It'd still be the same tiring shifts, straining the body and mind. It's this or the mines, really, and she'd rather die than work down there, so far away from the wind and the sun.

Plus, she owes it to her District. Owes it to her town and her neighbors. They'd have no one to make shoes for them anymore if the St. James' shop closed down. It's such an easy thing to take for granted, shoes, but Mirabeau knows very well how impossible it'd be to live without them. Barefoot in Twelve means stepping on shards of metal and glass and other things you'd rather not identify. Barefoot in Twelve means scrapes and soot and ash. Barefoot in Twelve means cold, and cold means death. The District needs her, and the last she can do is provide.

She likes to tell herself that, at least, by making shoes, she makes a difference. She keeps the cold at bay, the same cold that killed her father. If she can protect the rest of the town from that withering sickness that steals any life left in them, then she will.

The needle slips from her fingers again, pricking her, and Mirabeau curses under her breath. It's nice and all to be doing the people a favor, but she fucking sucks at it.

Suddenly, the shop's door opens, followed by the bell ringing, making Mirabeau glance up from her work. Selfishly, she hopes it's not another customer. She's already running out of materials for the week, and if she can't stop wasting them on this stupid shoe with all her stupid mistakes she's gonna run out…

"Cannen!" Mirabeau exclaims at the sight of who stands at the door. Her posture immediately relaxes into her characteristic slouch - she's had to adopt the customer service mask after taking over the shop, and it kills her for every second of it - and she puts away her work. "What's up?"

Her eyes find their way towards a box of pastries in Cannen's hands. She opens her mouth, but Cannen interrupts with a knowing chuckle. "Yes, that's for you, no need to thank me."

"Wasn't planning on it," Mirabeau retorts, though it's far from the truth.

Cannen places the box on her work table, and Mirabeau starts digging in voraciously, chocolate and sugar sticking to her fingers. For the first time in weeks, she finds the corners of her mouth lifting in a genuine smile. God, how she's missed her best friend. The shop's taken every inch of her time, and she hasn't seen him in far too long. Thank God he works as a baker, and can occasionally sneak off some sweet things for her.

"How you been holding up?" Cannen asks, and his gaze is soft.

That's one thing Mirabeau hates about grief - how people soften around you, like you've turned to glass overnight. She's still the same person, no matter who she's lost. She wishes Cannen could still treat her like the mean bitch she is.

She can't blame him, though. She knows he's trying to be nice, and at least he's never told her any platitudes about being sorry for her loss.

"I've been fine," she replies with a sigh. It's true enough. She's been eating and drinking and pissing and everything else that's important for the human body. In a medical book, that'd probably constitute 'fine', right?

There's a small pause of silence, before Mirabeau admits more softly, "I do wish I could get out of here. Without causing any trouble, you know? Without it feeling like I'm abandoning the town?"

"I'm sure it'll come, Mirabeau. I'm sure there'll be an opportunity," Cannen promises, but everytime they have this conversation, it rings even less true.

She'll just have to wait some more, she guesses, until her luck turns. If it ever does.