skye bordeaux || district eleven || cb || fin

How does someone like you end up in someplace like, well, this?

An age old question, to be sure, but one with a simple explanation. Great-grandparents born and raised in the Capitol, invested in some agricultural shit a couple of years before the war broke out, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time when Eleven rebelled and was promptly squashed, et cetera, et cetera. They consolidated your family's funds, found a modest place to live in the outskirts of the district, something something profit and money, no one cares about that shit and neither do you, really. Flash forward eighty something years and tada, here you are, answering a question that nobody really gives a shit about, yourself included.

At this point, most of that shit is just asked by those too stupid to remember or those terrible at coming up with conversation starters. Everyone in school knows about the girl with the silver hair, one last remnant of some sort of Capitolite genetic manipulation shit that's somehow made it all the way down to you, and you know that the vast, vast majority of them aren't simply worth your time.

You weren't meant to waste your life away in some little backwater, anyway. Sure, your life was anything but difficult, but it wasn't home. Not even if Mama and Pops reminded you four times a year that Eleven was your home, and the Capitol was but a distant memory in your bloodline.

Sure, sure, yeah, whatever, blah blah blah. If there's one valuable thing you've learned from spending eighteen years in this backwater, it's that the most important part of a plant is their roots. So really, are you truly at fault for wanting to discover your own in the process?