Dig Rox - D12

The water drip at the back of his throat hadn't settle in ages. Maybe it was another round of disease to hit the Rox Shack, where he and his dad lived a quaint but desperate life. Too old to work in the mines, or even too weak, his poor old man gave everything for his district and got nothing in return. Their relationship was never solid, nor was his parents relationship with each other, but Dig learned quickly when his mum didn't make it through a Winter, that some things are better left unsaid, and some people aren't able to speak like that anymore.

Seventeen, Dig is an average sort with blonde streaks in his usually unkempt hair. With pale eyes and a forefront mouth, he spits a hell of a lot of backtalk for somebody with nothing to lose but the rags he wears to work. His accent is a strange mix of Capitol and District, the kind that makes him sound even more common than those around him. It's came from his area of Twelve. Exile families from the Capitol, not necessarily traitors but much to the same effect, but also Peacekeeper families kept quiet with rations, sent here when their police-parents passed unexpectedly. Dig wears what he can find and what he can wash. It's rare he updates his wardrobe, but occasionally somebody leaves a jacket or a shoe at the local bar where he plays, so finders keepers, he supposes.

Growing up, his mum taught him how to play the one crusty guitar they'd had in the family for ages. It did the job, but had definitely lost the tune. She told him "it'll only work if the right person uses it", and he'd believed that until the age of eleven, when they'd lost her. Since then, it would take at least four years for him to even think about picking it up. But, he managed. He got there. Now, he's rehashed all of her lessons and now finds that it isn't the right person who uses it, but to think of the right person while doing so.

Charming yet comedic, kind of like his name, Dig Rox has made a small but modest name for himself in the back alley bars in District Twelve. He's known for his singing voice. It's calm yet cutting. He's usually avoidant of politic themes for obvious reasons, but he learned that somehow - one or two beatings from the Peacekeepers was enough to teach him to use his voice purely to entertain. Among friends he's known as the joker. He'll bring a group of rag tags together without issue. He'd even keep them that way, if they don't get themselves into too much bother. He's always been one for the people before himself. Anything he can do to help someone else is fair game. But that means that there is never a time he'll let his guard down, almost, that is.

When his mother passed away during the Winter, his father shut himself away for months. They didn't speak. He didn't know if behind that door lay another parent, or what remained of one. He secluded himself in classes. He stopped talking to friends. He was started afresh without the facilities to understand how or why. It lasted four long years, and he still doesn't know what snapped him out of that spell. Maybe it was biology. His body finally adapted to the pressures it was put under. More likely, with each year closer to the freedom from Reaping, he simply lost the hope that he might get called into the arena. That he might actually have to start living a life outside it.

As he got older, Dig focused more and more on creating a place that he could call home away from home. While a shared word or two with his dad each morning and night made up the sum of their relationship, Dig had started working overtime in the mines to fund a rug for the new place, or a lick of paint for the door. Few people knew where to go for the racket they'd hear every Sunday, but it came from the basement dwelling of Dig Rox and his live band. They'd play a few songs whilst those who knew drank their miseries away. Non-alcoholic. Just a good vibe, for once. Runaways destined for relaxation from the bitterness of the world.

Every Winter, Dig makes a pilgrimage out towards the cemetery. He looks around each person buried there and pays his respects to them all. Selfishly, he knows that one day one of them will enter a ballad or two, by chance or misfortune. Then, he'd rest at his mother's patch and sing a verse. That's all he can usually get out, and only if there was nobody around. It just so happens that the Reaping is usually around this time, sometimes. He's always said that if he were to ever be Reaped, he would sing one last song for his mother. He's wisen'd up now, though. Not that he believes she can't hear him, he knows that already. It's more that he doesn't see the point. He knows now that if he wants to secure any kind of future for him, or his future kids, he'd have to win the Games, die trying, or work for the entirety of his life until it breaks him like it broke his dad.

Besides all that; Dig Rox is an average busker who trades the pickaxe for a guitar pick each weekend. Each time he strums a chord he undoes a day of strife, not just for himself but for the audience, if there is ever one. He'd even eye a suitor or two whilst he's at it, but it's all fun and games at his age. He doesn't even know what he's doing when it comes to partners. His parent's relationship was so unhinged whilst it lasted that he has never known any better, and surely looking around Twelve there aren't any decent examples of note. Still, he lives in hope. By a melody or a lyric, a bassline or a beat, he knows that the song must go on until it eventually ends. It's just about having the strength to sing another.