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A girl once of District 13, I was never one to belong underneath the earth. I have spent the greater part of 14 years living more than 6 feet below the ground, and yet I have finally come alive
(if you choose to call this living), standing firmly within the walls of District One.

[justify]Black eyes and a seemingly omniscient expression are most often painted on the girl's delicately shaped face, projecting an aura of calmness and purity that can only ever shine through on the face of a child. Her face is at times deceiving; feigning the face of a girl several years younger than herself rather than her actual age of 14. For one just entering her teen years, she has little to nothing to show for it, masking her age with pudgy cheeks and a helpless look about her that never takes a vacation from her eyes, even if she attempts to put on a semblance of anger or passion. Nothing she does is ever communicated through word or writing, and therefore her eyes and actions guide her and allow her to communicate. Most everything that she does and feels is done in slight movements and the tiniest changes of expression on her face, leaving deep communication with others at an almost impossible distance. Hand gestures and body language rule her entirely, though this has yet to bother her much. Saying nothing and doing little amounts to nothing much else to do other than watching people or attempting in vain to get somebody to listen, so she often spends her time observing and gazing over people. Meandering into a conversation to which she doesn't belong (nor could she contribute to) isn't a rare event, but this only ever poses a problem when the people conversing become aware of their intruder.

Resembling a shadow if nothing else, she's quite the easy character to overlook. She walks lightly on the soles of her feet, breathes calmly and noiselessly, and never says a word or shouts an opinion to draw any attention to herself as other people do. Her spindly figure only amounts to a height just below 5 feet tall, and she has few expectations of adding any useful size to that. Her parents were both scrawny individuals too, though they at least amounted to above 5 feet, while she is forever stuck at below average. Traveling on foot is slower for her than most, as she takes small strides and moves as carefully as she can in and out of crowds and around any obstacles. Staying firmly on her feet is a simple task, as her balance and reflexes are sharp and she tends to avert her solemn gaze towards the ground whenever nothing else catches her interest.

Slashing across that face that looks perfectly innocent otherwise, a knife once tore deeply into the skin across her cheek, running diagonally down from her forehead, through her upper lip, slightly descending onto her chin. Most everything else about her is forgotten when one catches a glimpse of this outlandish feature on her face that doesn't belong, and yet they are not the only marks of her interrogation. The thumb on her left hand ceases to exist, and this often makes it quite difficult for her to lift objects even of the smallest of weights. Her level of strength does nothing to improve the issue, weighing a mere 90 pounds and resembling an emaciated skeleton not yet begun to rot. Muscle is a thing of dreams only envisioned on the Careers that she so often sees strutting around the place, or even on the simplest of able people who are fortunate enough to be able to hold their own. The blow that slid across her nose broke it easily, leaving an awkward blob in the middle of her face that stands crooked and deeply scarred.

Abnormally pale skin graces every person born within the underground walls of District 13, never truly being allowed to venture elsewhere unless given special permission. Her family's living quarters were placed several levels below ground, but she often traveled to her friends' rooms just to peer out of the window at most other times. Everything out there was magical and unreal, and whenever she was able to gaze at it, it seemed a completely different world to her. Most in District 13 resembled each other with that pale skin tone, but it looked particularly odd on the face of Tzipora because of her dark eyes and black pixie hair, contrasting oddly to give her a bit of an awkward look. Emerging above ground helped nothing with the matter; she is always forced to stay in the shade as much as possible, as her light skin burns easily and becomes a painful red color.

Between the people that push others around and the ones that are the victims, Tzipora would be the victim. A born follower rather than a leader, she is not the person to stand up and take control. She'll cower at the foot of anyone more confident and self-assured than herself, for what would she do? Take a stand and voice her opinions? Without a voice, there is no leading. Cooperate and cooperate fully, because there is no other option. It defined her life back in District Thirteen entirely, always being given a strict schedule, places to be, people to be around. There was no freedom or control, because people of higher power always controlled her life. Nothing was uncertain; it was all set in stone. She would go here in the morning, there in the afternoon, there were similar meals every day. Nothing in her life was different, but it was safe. It was why she left - why she took a stand. Though she no longer speaks, it is wrong to assume that she doesn't feel and doesn't carry opinions about everything. She can say and do little about anything that she feels, but she does feel. The lack of words does not equal stupidity or lack of thoughts; it simply means that she cannot and will not speak, though she is technically capable of doing so. Her tongue was not ruined when she was imprisoned as her face was mutilated, but speaking is impossible now. It's as if she never learned to do so, though before she was detained she could speak perfectly. Perhaps she wasn't the loudest of people, but she was able to speak back then.

Showing and feeling emotion are two very different things, but Tzipora often does her best to avoid showing what she is actually feeling. The expressions on her face are the only sign of any emotion at all, but at times someone might think of her as some kind of inanimate object that only sits in the corner and doesn't truly think or feel. In a way she is - human relationships don't really exist for her. Friends, family, loves, even enemies. She isn't loved and she isn't hated, she is simply there. One would again be wrong in inferring that she isn't capable of caring or loving people, though she is very cautious of other people. She relies mostly on herself and cares for herself, but when she ventures away from her comfort zone she does so carefully and slowly.

She has a weakness in helping the weak and the defenseless, for sometimes it turns out that those that appear weak are much stronger than they seem to be. Just because somebody is weak does not mean that they somehow don't contain simple human faults, and often she'll realize this too late. A bit of food given to a hungry child on the street can result in losing everything off of her back, but she still reaches out to anyone in need. She's not well off herself, but she gives anything possible to those that need more than herself, a trait that often leaves her hungry and worse off than she was before. Random acts of kindness are the norm for her, but everything else vaguely related to human contact to her is always thrown away and forgotten. She won't let anyone touch her out of fear that they will attack her or harm her in some way, and she always avoids the eyes of strangers on the street. She is afraid of everyone and everything imaginable, so she always hides in the background to avoid anything uncomfortable.




[/justify]

[justify]
There are times when Tzipora wonders which was worse; living years in District Thirteen, or living for weeks within the Detention Center. Both were prison - dark and somber places which she could not escape, but it was within the Detention Center that she truly changed. Freedom was an unknown luxury, but it was diminished to nothing in the walls of a place that treated her like an animal. In District Thirteen she had friends, she had family, she had safety. The years there seemed never-ending, but the weeks in the Detention Center seemed to last just as long. She had little control over her life in both places, but at least at her previous home she was not tortured. She did not have to watch others lose their tongues and their lives. Regret doesn't even begin to describe how she feels about leaving her home with her parents. Her mind was full of foolish ideas of freedom and choices and sunlight, and she failed to realize what the underground of District Thirteen was truly keeping her safe from. Her parents had the same foolish ideas - leave District Thirteen to live a happy life. There would be few problems, few complications. They had the ideas of runaways but the false feeling of safety that District Thirteen brought them, and they were obviously wrong in their decision. That night they were able to sneak out behind a group of people allowed to leave temporarily, and only days later they were captured and thrown into prison to be interrogated.

Tzipora was put into a cell with another girl and a boy, both younger than herself at the time. The girl had already lost her tongue before Tzipora arrived, but the boy was fully able to speak and to communicate. He wasn't a runaway as she was, but his parents had been caught voicing treasonous words and supposedly inciting rebellion - words that were simple complaints, but blown far out of proportion, as most everything is - and the Peacekeepers had already killed both of his parents a week beforehand. He had yet to be interrogated, but nobody could ignore the screams of people in the rooms where the questions were always asked. It never seemed as if questions even existed in those rooms, only torture and horrible screaming and both blunt and sharp weapons. Tzipora could only imagine what was happening to her parents, as they were put into a cell far away from her own. Every person walking by her cell always brought a new wave of fear to the front of her mind, and she couldn't ignore the fact that the boy always started crying when a noise came closer to them. The same question always ran through their minds - When is it my time to be tortured? It seemed as if the day would never come, but one day it did.

The boy that had never told her his name was pulled out of the cell first, but they were surprisingly both taken to the same interrogation room only a few paces down the hall. Just as they had imagined, a selection of weapons and knives and horrible objects sat threateningly on a table to the side. The boy was interrogated first, and no serious questions were asked. What was a boy of 9 years supposed to know about treason or rebellion? It did not matter to the peacekeepers. Perhaps the reason that Tzipora no longer speaks is that she saw that boy being tortured in that cell, or perhaps it is because she fully saw every moment of the time when he became an Avox as she cowered in the corner awaiting her own turn. Cooperation was key; speak out of turn, and they make sure that you never speak again in your life. Tzipora answered any questions that they had, but not without leaving with a mutilated face and a missing thumb. Perhaps they would have killed her had she not been so young, but instead they released her in the open forest, sure that she would die within days anyways. They were not counting on the fact that one of their own, a young Peacekeeper, would reach out and help her long enough to guide her to District One. She has lived there for several years now, unable to find anyone to take her in but living (uncomfortably at best) in the District's community home. They keep her slightly fed and she does her best to stay away from those that are more tempted to harm the kids, but it is nothing like District Thirteen was. This is her freedom.

There actually isn't any "Other" stuff this time around.
Here's the codeword.
odair