▢ Scope O'Leary ▢ fin

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Age 16 (17 for the 67th). Male. District Nine.

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My brother is a victor, and I don't know how I feel about that.

We're similar in looks, he and I, with awkwardly large noses and crooked teeth - though some of my teeth were crooked because of blows to the face while his were all bad luck. My eyes are a murky dishwater-blue, my legs and arms somewhat out of proportion with the rest of my body, except for maybe my nose, and my eyebrows are large and bushy. I look as poorly-groomed as the Capitolite's are fancy - meaning I look like a ragged mess. I never put enough care into my appearance to make a difference, if it was possible, knowing that soon I am more likely than not going to have a bruise on my face or a broken nose. It's a wonder my nose is as big as it is still, considering all the times it's been smashed by a fist.

I get in fights more than I care to admit, or more than my mother cares to admit, something that started long before Soap went into the arena. Everyone knew I had never had much patience, not to mention that I was not the type to back down from a challenge. Any insult directed at anyone in my family would always result in a fight - generally with me throwing the first punch. I always won, as far as everyone knew anyway. I would always get even, though often I didn't have to. I was a desperate fighter, desperate for any respect that my peers and superiors might give me. It always bothered me how none of them had the decency to even treat me like a person let alone as an equal. I knew I would have to prove that they owed me the proper courtesies.

I had been like this my whole life, scrappy and itching for a fight, I can't even count the number of times I'd come home with a bloody nose or split lip. Sometimes I'd get a black eye or other cuts and bruises but usually I avoided blows like those - usually, though more than enough times I'd been caught off guard. All of the fighting helped me to build muscle, though it only made my limbs look even more out of proportion. It's as though I can never get a win-win situation - someone always has to lose, even if I'm fighting myself.

I have inner fights more often than people would think. I usually look like the type to leap first, think later, but generally I'm thinking as I leap - a little bit of an odd experience with one half screaming in terror and the other engrossed in the sheer ecstasy of it all. Still, it's not like I take the time to plan anything, I just fix things as I go along. Or sometimes, I break them. It all depends on what will serve me better, or what will stop this asshole or that one from talking shit about my family. I hate when they try to label us with stupid names, or when they pick on Crest. I've beaten enough of those bullies to know they don't shut up until you break their jaw.

I try to be tough for my family, because I feel they need it, and I try to be tough for myself, because I know I need it, but inside I'm just desperate. I'm desperate for respect, I'm desperate for worth, but mostly I'm desperate to prove to myself that someone cares about me and that it's not a mistake on their part. No one seems to understand that, and I know I don't make it any easier by hiding it all away. As if trying to justify my own existence I would always compare myself to Soap, a practice that always drove me mad because I knew I wasn't the better son. I was never as kind as Soap, or as thoughtful, or as helpful. Instead, I was the scrappy younger brother who rebelled at the slightest word of his parents and determined to make himself the best through the stupidest schemes imaginable. I was nothing like Soap, but I always wanted to be better.

Even when I found who could understand me, a group of boys who fought for sport, I still felt like I had my brother's shadow looming over me. Until I had finished beating up one kid, a match I had found too easy by far despite all the warnings I had been given, and one of them joked that my punch was a real zinger. They started calling me Zing, something I liked because it meant my name no longer sounded like the nickname of my older brother - it put a bit of space between me and my never ending jealousy. Everyone loved Soap better, but these guys were not part of everyone, for once I had my own title.

Soon my nickname was lengthened to a real fighter's name, going from the junior level Zing to the more intimidating Zing Leer. I continued fighting, and continued winning, my fights only coming more often and with more desperation when Soap was reaped. I remember the tumble of emotions running through me, sending me into a back alley shortly after - beating on a boy who told me that it was it for my brother. In my heart I knew Soap was coming back, he was always better at everything than me and I knew this would be just another thing he could one up me with.

While he was gone I tried to take his place as eldest son and brother, tried to balance my life with taking care of everyone but we all knew I wasn't good enough for it. I was not Soap, and every effort I made to fill the hole he left made it seem bigger. After a time I gave up and went head first back into my fighting, taking on two fights a day instead of just one, trying to prove to myself I was still strong even when inside I feared for Soap's life constantly. In truth, I didn't know how I was going to manage watching these games. So I didn't. I would simply ask Hannah if Soap was still alive, I did this so often that it got to the point where she would tell me he was still breathing whenever I looked at her. It was only her level headed answers that kept me hoping.

The finale was the hardest to watch, but I forced myself to sit down in front of the television and be there for either my brother's final moments or his victory. I clenched my hands so tightly on my legs that I was left with bruises, but I paid no mind as I focused solely on Soap. When he won, his sword slicing the girl's stomach open, I sat in shock for some moments until I was overcome by the sudden twisting emotions in my gut and I fled to the woods. It was my safe spot here, a spot that my parents had taken Soap and me to a few times, and then where Soap and I had snuck off to when he felt like chastising me for fighting. A couple times, we'd talked about bringing the girls here but I never had the heart to while he was gone.

I had crumbled at the back of the first tree I found, my legs skidding out in front of me and my arms quickly stretching to draw them to my chest. I hid my face from the world, ashamed as the tears began to roll down my face. I was the fighter, the strong one, but inside I knew I was weak. Still, all I could think was that my brother was coming home. How could I face him again though, now that he and I had done so many horrible things since he left. I had nearly killed one of the kids I was fighting, and he had killed a handful of kids, watching his friends die around him. I wanted everything to go back to how it was but I knew then that there was no way that could happen. Too much had gone on, and there was no going back. Even so, a guy can hope, right?

My brother is a victor, and I don't know how I feel about that.

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