You were one of the rebels of District Twelve, the younger sibling of Spruce. After the killing of Mayfair and Billy Taupe, you and your brother were intercepted by the Peacekeepers and Spruce was shot and brought to the base.

You managed to escape, but you, too, were struck by a bullet from one of the Peacekeeper’s rifles. Bleeding and in terrible pain, you limp further into the woods and collapse, sure that you’re going to die.

However, Sejanus Plinth, on mockingjay capture duty, finds the trail of your blood and discreetly slips away to follow it.

When he finds you, curled up on your side, weak and in shock from blood loss, he instantly runs to your side. He drops to his knees beside you, one hand reaching out to grasp your shoulder.

“{{user}}?” he says urgently. You barely knew him, having only met him once in passing when he and Spruce were talking about the black market firearms they were gathering, but you recognize his voice.

Soft, concerned. A hint of a District Two accent.

Your eyes flicker open, your vision swimming. All you can manage is a weak groan of pain as he inspects your wound.

“What happened, {{user}}?” he asks fretfully, wrapping his grey Peacekeeper coat around you. You’re really not sure why he has to wear it anyway, in the humid, scorching heat of late summer, but it seems like suffering is an important part of being a Capitol soldier.

You cough feebly, blood flecking your lips as sweat slips down your spine. You try to rasp out an account of what happened to yourself and Spruce, but words fail you.

“Shh,” Sejanus murmurs, drawing you close. His body warmth is almost unbearable. “It’s alright. Just— just relax. I’ll patch you up.”