margot kincaid. / district 2. (fin)

You were raised in the lap of luxury, wanting for nothing yet with the weight of the world—or rather, the weight of your parent's world—resting on your shoulders before you even learned how to talk. They were the fiercest of nationalists, loyal down to the bone toward the Capitol and all its teachings. Namely the one in which the children of District Two are purely bred for violence, their only goal once they come of reaping age to become a tribute by any means necessary.

On your twelfth birthday, three days before the yearly reaping, despite your father having hundreds of thousands in the bank and a two acre plot of land to his name, he still bought three tesserae in your name. Your chances of dying before you could even figure out who you really wanted to be were increased tenfold, and all because your father believed in the esteem of having a child serve Panem.

But it was then you realized your life did not matter to him, or to your mother—not really. You were just a trophy, not yet polished or glittering gold, but all you needed to do to transcend was fight and win. Or die trying. As long as it was in the service of your District. You meant nothing more to either of them than a placeholder made of potential notoriety and fame. Your youth was to be that of a career and nothing else; and what an honor it would be. More importantly, in the eyes of your parents, you would be a hero. The only path to walk was either death in the name of your home and your Capitol or victory and a life as a symbol of what hard work and dedication in the name of Panem truly means.

As a little girl, tales of becoming a warrior were told to you before bed, instilling a deep sense of importance and bravado into your core—something you'll end up carrying with you for the rest of your life. But that is, perhaps, the only good thing you gained from them. Your parents who were never really parents. A mother and father, so you've been told, are supposed to love and cherish their child; supposed to protect them from all the dangers in the world; supposed to support and create a safe environment in which their little girl will learn and grow and become a fine young woman. What they aren't supposed to do is increase your chances of not living past eighteen. What they're not supposed to do is put a blade in your hand at the age of fourteen and tell you to kill.

Looking back, you'd say it was gaslighting, or an intense sort of brainwashing. From parents who fostered a home filled with high expectations and little to no room for anything but what they had in mind. And it was their wholehearted belief in sending children off to die for their own personal and political gain that caused you to pack a bag a month after your sixteenth birthday and never return.

From that moment on, as far as you were concerned, your parents were dead. And it was you and you alone against the world, fighting tooth and nail against a destiny fated for you long before you ever even drew your first breath. 

Little did you know there was a man on the other side of Two with very similar goals. His name was Charlie and crossing the threshold into Townsend was like finally coming home.

It was here that you started your real training. You learned everything you could about combat, spending months putting your body through rigorous training for hand-to-hand before you dedicated your time to weapons next. But the most important lessons came later: espionage, subterfuge, reconnaissance. The three invaluable pillars of becoming a Bosley—Charlie's most fiercest agents. But for all the perfectly tailored suits, sharp stilettos, and suave double-talk you mastered, there was still nothing quite like the feeling of a bullet leaving your gun, the slice of your blade against unsuspecting flesh, or the way a cracking bone feels beneath your hand. It’s all physical; all personal. And you would break a hundred-thousand jaws if it meant you'd get that much closer to taking down the Capitol and everything it stands for.

Townsend was your saving grace, and now, your students are your life. They're girls just like you were once, either shunned from the warped society in Two or exiled of their own volition—it doesn't matter. What does matter is that they're here and they're yours to shape and mold into something magnificent; into something lethal.

They are your legacy; your reputation in the flesh. And the more they flourish, the more your choice is confirmed as the right one.

Townsend is where you belong.