Padget Axenbury D8

    Thin and wiry as the looms on which he weaves, his growth spurt seemed to hit with a vengeance one day, and despite his maturing frame his boyish face hasn't quite caught up yet. His hair shines a dark chestnut, almost ebony the dim lights of the city. The thick clouds of smog that billow above it seem to cloud the sun entirely, although his complexion remains tanned regardless, only faltering with the various scattered moles, freckles, and scars that adorn it.
The scars, brought about by years of torture on large mechanical looms and hasty fabric blades, ripple out from a center around his bony hands. Found in great numbers there, but slowly decreasing in number as focus shifts outward. Aforementioned hands, though young in years, are well versed in the ways of craftsmanship, and hold the marks of age in a multitude of ways: the blistering of the palms, faint bruises on the knuckles, thick nails etched with scratches and chips, pronounced veins and tendons.

    His boyish face makes up for many of his more adult-like features, while the rest of him has aged with exposure and over-use, his face still maintains a bright and youthful exuberance, unlike many of District 8's other inhabitants, whose glow has been long since diminished. His eyes are a pale hazel, usually glazed from smoke and tired, but always shining amidst their frame of thick eyelashes. Though usually covered with a ventilator while outside, his smile is pleasant to see when anyone gets the chance. His teeth are nothing extraordinary, rather stained and thin to be truthful, but that doesn't seem to matter when flashed in friendly gesture. 

    However naive Padget may appear to be at first glance, he is actually rather street savvy in his own kind of way. Charming when necessary with those who hold a place above him, he holds an uncanny gutter rat charm that helps him from time to time when it comes to getting what he wants. Which usually isn't much however, he is a boy after all, a boy of simple pleasures, who would kindly ask for a single piece of candy when he knows he can charm himself into an entire candy store. Not that there is an excess of those in District 8, but again, simple pleasures.

    But whatever quick wit he may posses with his superiors is drained as soon as he lacks a need for it, generally a babbling fool amongst his peers, he is quick to open his mouth and slow to think in casual situations, which tends to land him in trouble more often than his mother would care to admit. But he never lets it get to him too bad when he's reprimanded, there's too much life out there to dwell on the mistakes of the past, right?

    His mentality might be eternal positive, but there are certain fates from which positive thinking can't allow you escape, especially as a young boy working a tumultuous life amidst the buzz and whirr of the District 8 factory hub. Being a weaver may be one of the better manual labor jobs, but its ramifications appear sooner or later. For Padget, it was when he was twelve, when he was cursed with the dreaded tick. Monotonous weaving, all day, every day. Back and forth, up and down. One. Two. Three. The constant pattern of up, across, down. One. Two. Three. The job left him with a curious quirk, one which is more of a burden than he tends to let on. He maintains the obsessive compulsive need to do everything in counts of three. Buttons, light switches, zippers... all in threes. Regardless of the task, if it can be in threes, he will put it into threes. To others in the factory it's more of an annoyance than anything, but outside of the loom it poses many more problems than one might think. But he still keeps a positive attitude, and any frustration isn't worn on his face as obviously as others on the street.

    Born into a family of laborers, hard work has always been in the picture for Padget. He was brought up learning how to function in the real world, and has known how to physically fend for himself since a very young age. Not that he didn't receive any parental love and affection, though. He was very close to both his parent's, only fueling his drive to work harder to help support his family. They were a well functioning, comfortable family unit of five, up until the day he lost his father and two younger sisters in an all too common factory accident. Overheated engines in the machines, internal combustion, plenty of flammable substances. People failed to be skeptical of the cause, everyone has experienced the results of poor conditions before, it affects you sooner or later in the majority of the factory towns. Even in the higher class units preparing uniforms for the capital, accidents happen. You just hope that they don't happen to you.

    Fortunately for him, Padget wasn't present at the factory that day, but by a stroke of chance and poor circumstance his sisters were. And so his unit dwindled to two. He and his mother still get along fine, or, as fine as you can in a place where you can't see two feet in front of you through the smog. Either way, they're functioning, and they've recovered. Though compared to other children his age, he is remarkably close to his mother still. She could pass for a sister, which she often is mistaken for. Quite young when she eloped from a larger city with his father, equally as young when Padget came around. Her young age often causes people to assume she's a deserter, a loose young woman scraping by with her bastard son. But that isn't the way it is, and both of them know the truth.

     He currently works in one of the the factories specializing in Capital-bound designer patterns and fabrics. After originally working in one of the general factories, managers observed his talent for weaving intricate decals and the like, so he was transferred to a different factory that was better suited to exploit his skill. So as apposed to mundane browns, greys and whites, he's surrounded by color in his projects. Though the actual atmosphere is just as bleak in nearly every facet. Padget knows the world holds something more than the repetitive sound of the loom, and the smoky taste of black air, but he is just a boy, and the world is a rather large place.