#RORYˏˋ°•*⁀➷intro

[battlcborn]

(   kiowa gordon  ,   cis man   ,   he/him   )   that’s  RORY HAWTHORNE, the THIRTY year old UNDERCOVER PEACEKEEPER from DISTRICT 12.  they’re so lucky to be in the capitol for such a special hunger games.  they’ve been here for long enough to gain a reputation for being so STRONG- WILLED, and simultaneously INCENDIARY.  they remind me of the flash of yellow in the black- a canary in the coal mine, you have forgotten the face of your father, wax wings melting in the sun as the air rushes past as you fall, i am not throwing away my shot, which makes sense since they’re always listening to THE ROAD I MUST TRAVEL by tom morello: the nightwatchman. let’s hope they’re up for all this��work ahead of them this year .  

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: rory hawthorne . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . aurelius cragg nicknames: rory, ror age: thirty birthday: august 16 . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . august 6 zodiac: leo district: twelve . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . two  gender: cis male pronouns: he / him orientation: bisexual profession: miner, rebel . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . undercover peacekeeper

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: kiowa gordon hair color: dark brown eye color: dark brown height: 5'10" scars: a patchwork of lash scars across his back and shoulders- varying from some that are roped with thick, purple scar tissue and others that are just that permanent angry red; a thin scar on the bottom of his chin from busting it when he was a kid; a scar above his left eye from a peacekeeper's baton, a three inch scar from a bullet graze on his right shoulder

RELATIONSHIPS

father: tba hawthorne ( deceased ) mother: hazelle hawthorne  siblings: gale ( older brother ), vick ( younger brother ), posy ( younger sister ) significant other: tba

EXTRA

mbti: esfp-t ( the consul  ) temperament: sanguine - choleric   moral alignment: chaotic good primary vice: wrath primary virtue: diligence element:fire playlist & pinterest

BACKSTORY

TW: parent death, whipping, police & gun violence

ᴏɴᴄᴇ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴇɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ

the day your father dies is etched in your memory with startling clarity-- how the shouting from the mines had carried throughout the district, how the peacekeeper uniforms turned a dingy grey with the coal dust as some jumped in alongside the miners trying to dig out the collapsed shaft ( the same ones whose faces you'll recognize frequenting the hob, the same ones who pay or trade for the game gale brings back after he learns to hunt and never ask how or where he got it ); the feeling of how tightly gale holds your hand as you stand with your mother just outside of the mine, waiting for that blurred face to be pulled out- broken and limp. you remember the noise your mother made- not a scream or a wail of grief but a low moan that reverberated so deep that it's permanently etched in the walls of your mind- as her legs go out from under her and gale's hand leaves yours to catch her; you don't know the name for the noise but over the years, you grow so used to hearing it from the corner of the home where she huddles around baby posy or vick- both who are too small to know what's going on- and one day the word comes to you: despair.

you're not the only ones who lost a father in the accident and out of that tragedy is some bright spot: the everdeens. your mothers both share that empty stare of losing the men they loved who stood between their children and starvation; your mothers both share oldest children who step in to be fathers. gale gets katniss and you get prim; while the two of them go hunt, crossing over that forbidden line of the boundary, the two of you share the fullness of childhood-- a childhood that your older siblings had cut short in order for you to experience. a childhood in the seam- raised by the seam because while gale is away and your mother is away there is still that guiding presence with other mothers balancing babies on their hips who scrub your dirty, tear stained face with the corners of thin aprons and wash your scrapes with cool water and old timers ( whose bodies are too hunched and frail to work in the mines, chests constantly rattling with coal dust that's glued to the inside of their lungs ) who bark at you from dirt porches when you get too rowdy with other kids and the play fighting turns to real fighting. as you get older, they find chores for you to do- the old timers tell you it's good for your character, the other mothers tell you you're doing them a great favor saving their men and sons from the extra work after coming home from the mines- rewarding you with whatever little they can spare. everyone knows the hawthornes have got more than their fair share of open mouths and empty bellies; everyone knows the weight of the family has fallen on gale. they tell you that you should help your brother however you can.

you learn about the tesserae when you're ten-- you hear gale and katniss talking about it and the number of times gale's name has been added to the reaping bowl makes your stomach turn- truly full for the first time since the last time he collected tesserae and it makes you sick with fear and worry. you understand the reapings by now and you cling to gale later, unable to tell him what's wrong when he asks-- afraid that if you open your mouth, you'll get sick and waste the food your brother had paid for with his life. because if he gets picked, you know that's what it means-- twelve hadn't had a victor in longer than either of you have been alive and while you think he could win, there's always that very real possibility that he wouldn't; and you can't imagine a world without your brother. you're still too young to take out the tessarae for yourself- for your siblings- and you bite down on your tongue when gale comes back with the proof that he had yet again; you want to help your brother but you don't know how.

the morning of your first reaping, it's gale who gets you up, who fills the tin tub with heated water and scrubs at your skin until you yelp, who combs your hair- trying desperately to get it to lay flat- and helps to button your shirt when your hands shake. it's gale's last year, he's an old pro by now-- but you counted. and you know how many slips of paper have his name on them and your singular one floats in that sea of white but it's not you that you're afraid for. when you see prim's face and how scared she is, you smother your own fear-- you can't be strong for gale but you can be strong for her-- and the only moment you let it slip out before your arm wraps around her shoulders ( because younger kids go to the front, you can't stand with those pillars of strength in the back ) is when you look back at gale, seeking reassurance in his eyes. it won't be us, you tell prim, whispering in her ear like it's a secret before you have to go to one side and her the other, after this, we'll play pirates. when they call her name your heart stops beating, eyes wild to find her face as she stumbles out like a lost lamb into the aisle before you look back to find gale-- but the moment katniss' voice raises your eyes go to her.

you don't play pirates after-- you sit with prim while she cries and later after the stars have come out and you walk prim home, you take charge of home- getting vick and posy dinner and getting them in bed, tucking a blanket around your mother's shoulders- trying to, without words, take some of the weight off gale's shoulders. you sit quietly with gale for as long as he'll let you. there's a question sitting behind your teeth and there's times when that silence between you two feels so heavy that it almost slips out but it never does; would you have volunteered for me? the part of your mind that knows your brother loves you in the same way that katniss loves prim has no doubt that if it had been the reverse of the coin, that gale would've taken that burden from you-- just like he had taken every burden for the last five years; the part of your mind that is growing up knows that gale couldn't leave posy and vick, both of them younger than both of you. you don't have to wonder if you'd volunteer for him-- you also couldn't leave vick or posy... and you're still afraid of dying. the air is heavy and you don't say anything because you know gale is hurting but, you're relieved-- relieved it's not going to be him. you hate that it's katniss because the people you love most in the world are in pain because of it-- but he's safe and after all those years of putting himself at risk of the games, he's not ever going to have to go there. and for that, you're grateful.

ɪ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴍɪꜱꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴇ, ɪ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ɪ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀʀʙᴀɢᴇ, ɪ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ

they both come back- katniss and peeta- and everything changes. there are new peacekeepers with grim faces that seem to flood the district; there's a distance to gale that you can't understand. you ask him to teach you to hunt- you want to help, that's all you want to do because the weight of the world seems to be weighing him down-- but there's never time. they burn the hob and strap gale to a whipping post-- you're out gathering wood, trying to lighten that load on gale's shoulders and don't find out until someone finds you- arms laden with the driest pieces you can find with the snow as thick as it is- and regales the news to you; you drop the wood and run to the opposite side of the district, racing for that aisle of houses where prim lives now. another sound etches itself into the halls of your mind, taking up residence next to your mother's moan of despair: the sound of your brother screaming in pain. you help to hold him down, jaw clenched tightly and tears silently rolling down your face as hands that have lost the softness of childhood grip at his arm, desperate to keep him still while prim and her mother work-- until he falls still and quiet.

you don't want to leave him. you have to get back to vick and posy and mom. you don't know how you're going to carry him home- you're taller and your shoulders have started to broaden but it's a good trek back to the seam and gale can't move. you can never repay their kindness. you don't want to leave him. you promise to come back after you've got vick and posy in bed; you're reminded there's a curfew-- if you look back and examine it, maybe this is where that rebellious spark ignited in your chest because you don't care. you only try it the once, almost caught by those patrolling peacekeepers but you come back to the house and you sit with him that first night, shoulder pressed against the corner of the kitchen where he's laid out, head resting against the wall, sitting vigil silently. while gale heals you pick up more and more odd jobs where you can; you take his bow and sneak past the boundary-- and almost lose his arrows, spending most of the time trying to find where they've fallen. when the time comes, you take out the tesserae for yourself, vick and posy. gale can't do it anymore but you can and you want so desperately to just help him; the two of you end up fighting, your crackling voice ( changing because you're growing, you're getting older, you can help more-- ) raised in anger and exasperation. you just wanted to help.

when he comes home in that crisp white uniform, baton at his hip, you almost think it's a joke-- and honestly, you treat it like a joke. you're an angry teenager because the reality of life in your district is starting to actualize in your mind, how these white clad thugs walked around as if they owned the damn district, harassing folk who had generations buried in this ground, how they had damn near killed gale-- and he's parading around in one of their uniforms. he tells you he has to work-- you don't understand why he can't keep working in the mines like everyone else in the damn district. it's a cause of friction between you two that only softens the slightest bit when gale becomes involved in the rebellion with you following half a step behind him whether he wanted you to or not. you tell gale he doesn't have to provide for you anymore when you start working in the mines at sixteen. you're sick of him carrying your weight and whether he likes it or not, he's sharing vick and posy's with you-- you can provide for this family too. gale might be too good for the mines but you're not. you can help too.

the coal dust that clings to the threads of gale's hand-me-downs that you're quickly growing out of clashes against that crisp white uniform; and you continue to clash against your brother. over time, that clashing slows and ceases, seeing the evidence of your brother using his position to help where he can, to aid rebellion efforts at home and away. there's a lot you learn about your brother as you get older and go through all the ages he has already experienced, viewing them through the lens of your own life in one eye and his through another; there's a lot you've never thanked him for and aren't sure you'll ever really know how to. he works in his position and you work in yours and at the end of the day, you both come home-- that's the part that matters: you both come home.

you're twenty-three and still in the mines: eyes burning and red from the dust that falls in them, face with dark lines etched in your skin making you look older than you are, chest already starting to rattle with the start of that miner's lung. the older man next to you starts grabbing at his chest and you call for a halt, trying to help him get seated, shoving a canteen in his hand as he rubs at the spot breathing shallow through the dark dust that tries to settle. peacekeepers have joined the foremen in the mines, making sure production doesn't halt, pushing you deeper and deeper-- and just as you've got the man seated, gasping in pain as he rubs his chest, they push again. you start to argue on behalf of the man- his chest is hurting, he should see see a healer at the very least he deserves a moment to rest and catch his breath! a baton whips across your face and you see red, starting to launch yourself before you're drug back. it's not worth it, they mutter, voices rough against your ears, it's not worth it. the older man stands and work resumes. he drops dead about three hours later. you and another carry the body out, the dead weight balanced between the two of you and your anger lashes out before you can stop yourself. the baton cracks at your face again, splitting the skin above your eye and your vision does go red, dropping you to your knees. with blood on your face you carry the body back to his widow because these are your people. this man worked alongside you like a brother, an uncle, a father and you honor him in the same way you would if he were blood related. the next day you help to bury him with others in your crew; you're back in the mines an hour later and a scrawny fourteen year old year old kid takes his place in the line.

ɪ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴡꜱᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ'ᴅ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴏᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴀꜱꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪ ꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ!

time passes and you strike a new vein of coal but you've all been doing this long enough to know that the deeper you follow it, the more unstable the shaft becomes. you tell them it's not safe; they push you. you tell them the shaft will collapse; they push you. and you see your father's death flash before your eyes as the tunnel collapses and you're dragged backward, watching the earth bury outstretched hands that reach for you. it takes three days to dig them out. time is a wheel and history repeats itself and there are still those digging who remember the last collapse, the sons whose fathers were buried now work these same mines-- and they're angry. it's not the capitol or it's peacekeepers who bury the district's dead or who care for her widows and orphans. it's you and everyone else with red-rimmed eyes and lungs burning with coal dust-- coal that never heats your homes. they don't care if you live or die because there's always room for one more on the line and there's more empty bellies in the seam than there are full in the whole of the district. you're not even sure when you started talking or when people started listening but it's a spark that catches onto every coal-dusted soul in those mines and sets it ablaze.

a sea of headlamps march from the mines and you lead them out, shovels and pickaxes gripped in tight fists: a strike. no production until conditions change. it's not anything set out by the rebellion leaders in that mythical district thirteen; no, this was twelve- the district and her people, acting in their own with that flame ignited in their chests- as you march out and are met immediately with a wall of white. bullets fly and batons whip but they're met with resistance, the tools of your trade now turned makeshift weapons. some scatter, most stand until they fall by bullet or baton and you're grazed by one, burning fire across your shoulder before the baton slams against your temple and everything goes dark. they drag you and two other 'co-conspirators' to the whipping post and you understand the sound of gale's scream that's etched in your mind, echoing through it's halls and joining yours as the whip falls against your back and shoulders. you understand how he couldn't move after, every breath feeling like fire. the train cars you had been loading for the past few weeks as you dug through that unsafe shaft are going to the capitol-- and you're going with it. since that tongue thinks it's so smart, wagging and inciting treason, the only way to deal with it is to cut it out. they're going to make you an avox.

that night, you're carried from the cell but by friendly faces-- rebels who work to get you from the justice building to the train yard, dragging your weight, legs feeling almost useless under you. they hide you in plain sight: on the train that was supposed to lead you to your doom. they shove a bandana in your mouth and tell you to bite down, muffling the sounds of pain as they lay you in a bed of coal that digs into the sore spots, staining the bandages around your torso red. you try to focus past the pain that has tears running lines through the coal dust that's settling on your face as they bury you under a layer just thin enough to be hidden: the train will take you to three. there, rebels in three will hide you for a few weeks before a train on it's way to six passes through where you'll stowaway on to get yourself to six. once you hit six, you're on foot until you reach thirteen.

you ask through the bandana you have gripped in your teeth where gale is-- it would be the first place they're going to look when they realize you're gone, he had to have a solid alibi, right now he's too important. you agree. you don't regret the choices that have brought you here and you don't regret the ones you'll have to make going forward but damn if you don't regret the fact you didn't get to say goodbye. you've left your family with a mess to clean up-- you just hope they understand why. you ask the faces to tell gale you're sorry you didn't make it home tonight.

ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜɪʀꜱᴛʏ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴇɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ

it goes exactly as planned-- you reach three and you wait for hands that dig, reaching out to let them pull you free. they clean your back and feed you, keep you hidden until the next train rolls in to three for a pick up of technological pieces for the trains and other vehicles that rolled out of six. it makes you stir crazy- to sit and wait, sit and wait- but there's this fear in your chest that has you wondering what it is that you're so eager to go for? getting to six will have risks and getting from six to thirteen will be beyond treacherous-- and after that? unknown. you think about home a lot- about your brothers and your sister, your mother ( which twists like a knife of guilt in your gut, wondering how much grief losing a son would bring her ), of prim and how you never got to explain or say goodbye-- wondering if you're ever going to see it again. you apologized for not making it home but now you're not sure you're going to make it home for a long time. maybe never.

the train to six is harder to hide on but you manage and you've had time to heal but those still-stitching wounds are tender-- you make it to the boundary and hidden among trees before anyone can see you. they gave you a map in three- taught you how to read a map, not exactly like you'd ever had need for one before now- and you follow it, pressing deeper into territory that's familiar and new all at once. you're not sure when you actually crossed the border into thirteen, having gone further beyond the boundary and losing the fence line some time back but you're found by scouts that you at first mistake for peacekeepers and try to outrun. you don't get far and at first it looks like you've missed the welcome wagon but they help you up and take you in.

you're not sure what you imagined when you thought about district thirteen before but it certainly wasn't what greeted you. you tell them who you are and how you managed to get there. they ask you how old you are- you ask what day it is; they tell you august 20-- you tell them you just turned twenty-five. you don't argue with the work assignments that are given to you-- hell, you're just grateful that you're given something to do and don't have to sit and wait or run anymore. that only lasts a few months because you've seen the military training that goes on, you've seen the rooms where it's happening- the rebellion, planned meticulously, different strings across the district all connected to thirteen- and you didn't come all this way to scrub toilets.

the next three years are different but focus and ground you. you train, learn how to be a fighter and not a brawler, how to be a soldier not a rioter. you fall in love-- it's three years, it's bound to happen. you still think about home but less and less in the looking back way and more looking ahead. fire is catching across the districts and you're ready to fight like hell to be able to go home. it feels a different life away- district twelve- so different than the one you're living now but once again, you're struck with that stir-crazy feeling. it feels too much like sitting and waiting now even with the parts that filled the space between like the lover who wrapped around your heart. when the assignment comes, you immediately jump on it, eager to be moving again.

ꜱᴏ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ɪɴ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡᴏʀɴ ꜱʜᴏᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ-- ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴇɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ

the assignment: peacekeeper in the capitol. rory hawthorne of district twelve is dead so you get a new name: aurelius cragg, born august 6th in district two. you tell them you don't want a new name-- especially not aurelius cragg. they tell you that you don't get to pick-- you can get rory out of 'aurelius'. you're briefed on your family history, your academic history, your record at the peacekeeper academy, all bundled up in the official documents that would prove your identity. you're smuggled across the districts to two where those documents get you a one way ticket to the capitol on a transport filled with other district two peacekeepers, freshly graduated from the academy.

the next two years, you live that double life; rory hawthorne is dead and aurelius 'rory' cragg is who looks back at you in the mirror. you wear the uniform you had sneered at when your brother wore it, working street beats and eventually your way up to private events of those self important capitol citizens. there are rebels all over the capitol and over the past two years, you've worked alongside them in different missions. you hold up the facade of this identity that isn't yours and work as a dead man in the dark, each success drawing that dream of going home that much closer- to see your brothers, your sister, your mother, your best friend- and each failure pushes it further away.

you're assigned to the tribute center this year-- a place you've spent the last two years avoiding each time the games roll around and with good reason. rory hawthorne was supposed to be dead as much as your heart yearns for that glimpse of home, you've kept your distance, never getting any closer to those victors from twelve than a television screen. for the first time, you argue against the assignment-- but you can't give an answer that will satisfy when pressed for why; you can't exactly tell your superior officer that you're supposed to be dead.

every time you turn a corner, you're afraid you're going to be found out. you've seen them- katniss and peeta, haymitch, gale and prim-- but you've taken great care that they don't see you. the things you have been helping to put into place over the last five years are starting to fall into motion and no matter how desperately you want to seek them out, you cannot risk anything going wrong.

you want to be able to go home with them when this is all over-- you can wait a little longer for your reunion.

ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ꜰʀᴇᴇ! ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴇɴᴅ… ɪ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ

TFLDR + EXTRAS

rory is gale's younger brother, second born, typical middle child.

after their dad died, gale took on everything and was 100% rory's idol for his entire childhood and into his teenaged years

grew up as childhood besties with prim he was her self appointed guard dog growing up

gale became a peacekeeper** just as rory was entering puberty which of course meant he had to be a real shithead to gale about it for longer than he probably should've

he joins the rebellion and starts working in the mines at sixteen bc he's going to prove a point to gale. dont ask him what the point is

when he's 23, a fellow miner in his crew drops dead after being denied a moment to rest after complaining of chest pains and rory gets in an altercation with some peacekeepers.

later after warning the foremen of a shafts instability, there's a cave in that kills a handful of miners and rory organizes an impromptu strike that leads in a riot and violent altercation between d12's miners and peacekeepers.

rory and two other 'co-conspirators' are flogged publicly for inciting rebellion and are set to be sent to the capitol to become avoxes. rebels help to sneak him out and hide him in the coal being transported to the capitol that's stopping in three. rebels in three help him heal up and get him on a train to six and from six he walks to thirteen.

he spends three years training in 13 before he's sent on assignment to the capitol as an undercover peacekeeper where he's been for the last two years.

this is the first year he's been assigned to the tribute center and he's trying very hard to maintain that low profile-- we'll see how well that works out.

short math: rory was 25 when he reached district 13 so it's been 5 years since he disappeared from district 12.

has an alias 'aurelius cragg' but he thinks that name is stupid and has established that you can get 'rory' out of aurelius

** in the event we get a gale (please!!) who isn't down for gale being a peacekeeper, i will edit that in the intro-- it's just what was going on the last time i played rory!

CONNECTIONS

EX LOVER -- so rory spent three years in d13 training and preparing and between that hyperfocus, he found time to fall in love. maybe the two of them were in the same training squadron or just lived in the same area. maybe they've both fled from their districts seeking shelter in thirteen or maybe rory's the outsider who's coming into their home. however it happened, it happened and for at least while he was in thirteen, it was this bright spot of happiness in his life. but after a while, he gets restless and takes an assignment that separates the two of them and they split- amicably? less so? horribly? who knows! i think it could be fun

REBEL CONNECTIONS -- rory's been in the capitol for the last two years undercover so would love!! to come up with some connections that have developed while both of these characters have been fighting this quiet ( and not so quiet ) war behind enemy lines !! but also the rebels that helped him escape to thirteen by sneaking him out of twelve and then hiding him in three and even some in six like this network of people who are all fighting for freedom from the capitol who helped get him safe pls i beg

fr yall know im up for anything and everything let's just do this