brooklyn st. james | district eight | fin

Name: Brooklyn St. James. His middle name is actually Saint – thanks to his mother who had a come to Ripred moment when she finally saw his shining blue eyes and blonde hair as she held him in her arms – but thankfully, that moment of religiosity has passed and Brook would shorten his middle name whenever he had to write it. You see, there isn’t much to pray for when you’re a child of District Eight, nor did our young boy ever experience anything to give him hope or faith. Except perhaps Harper.

Age: Sixteen
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 8

Personality/History/Appearance:

Brooklyn – everyone just calls him Brook (save for Harper) – stood tall at six feet, his tiny and wiry frame always silhouetted by a black jacket, the collar popped. On the one hand, it was for warmth – no matter what time of year, it seemed District Eight always had a chill. It could have been the surroundings, the moonscape upon which District Eight was built – growing up surrounded by smokestacks, factories, and machinery made the sun look grey, the ground look grey, the people look grey. The forest surrounding District Eight, however, was alive. And it was beautiful. Brooklyn would lose himself for hours at his favorite clearing – a harsh wool blanket underneath him, his hand flying across the page.

Brook’s blonde hair sparkled in the grey sunlight and he was known for running his hands through the strands, convinced that with each ministration, it would settle just a little more perfect on the top of his head. His eyes were grey as well. Well, perhaps not grey but not exactly blue either. Something in between. They changed in the light and were as mercurial as his moods. His favorite outfit is a pair of black jeans, black t-shirt lovingly adorned with holes, and heavy black leather boots – casually untied at the tops so that he could fold them down.

His hands are speckled with ink - black and blue dotting his long fingers, his dirty nails. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he could not get the ink off completely. Just as well though. He was not built for this life of creating garments, textiles, uniforms for Peacekeepers. He was built to create worlds and words. His escape was a pen and paper – journals were stacked by his bed with his musings. He never used a pencil. You see, the lead was not permanent enough, and in Panem, you never knew when your life could be snuffed out like a candle. His words needed to be permanent – he needed to have some sort of mark on this world.

Brooklyn is the eldest son of factory workers, much like every other child of District Eight. They poured over fabrics for ten hours a day, but his home, his home was decorated with rich tapestries that were somehow imbued with a sense hope when you glanced at them. It was always a bit of a shock – coming inside from the grey world of the outside to sheer warmth – reds, browns, and golds hanging from the walls of his small home. Perhaps that was his parents’ way of giving him something – they certainly could not give him more money or food, but they could give him a warm home and love. That was enough, right?

Now let’s talk about Harper. His little sister, Harper, was, to put it simply, his world. He hoped one day that she would read the stories that he wrote for her – the dragons and the princess, the bear and the prince, the wolves and their fearless leader (who was always, even after so many iterations, still a blonde-haired, blue-eyed fierce thing of a girl). Brooklyn adored Harper and would sit for hours writing about a world in which she did not have to grow up afraid of being Reaped. They trained when they could – tips for survival in a forest, how to build a fire, how to navigate via the stars. They covered the basics of close combat – a knife was all he could find to help train Harper because she needed to be ready if he was not around to protect her. She needed to survive. She was quite good with the small hunting knife, Brooklyn had to admit.

Brooklyn would dazzle Harper with stories drawn from mythology – tempestuous Zeus who attempted to bed every mortal woman he saw; beautiful Daphne who attracted the attention of Apollo only to be saved by her father by transforming her into a laurel tree. Harper knew them all and could recite them back to Brooklyn when his muse had escaped him. She always somehow found a way to make him thirsty to write.

The boy is idealistic, a hopeless romantic devoted to his sister, but perhaps like his mother, seeking something from the heavens. This life that he has been given in District Eight (hell, even all of fucking Panem) is a half-life and Brooklyn is quite aware of that simple fact, but something within him hopes for something better. Or someone better.

Three more years – that was all he had to get through before he could live in peace with Harper and hope against hope that she wouldn’t be Reaped. They had survived this long as family and they would get through this life without having to sacrifice anything – lives included. He could be free to write and Harper could be free to grow up and learn and explore and live and love.

Oh, we haven’t covered love yet with dear Brooklyn, have we? Let’s just say that our valiant Achilles is searching for his Patroclus.