Chapter One: Good News
Author's Note: Thanks for clicking! This is an idea I've had in my head for a while. I was recently consumed once again by the Hunger Games after watching Mockingjay Part Two. This is my first fic that I've actually done something with, so feedback is much appreciated!
"She's a natural, Mrs. Irving. There isn't much else we can offer her here."
My mother, whose expression doesn't usually convey anything other than cool indifference, lights up at the headmaster's words. This is, after all, her dream come true: one of her very own children, smart enough to leave the district behind. To enter the inventors labs and become one of the very few privileged enough to lead a mobile life of innovation, free from the constraints of District Three's looming concrete walls.
Well, mostly free. The District Three elite are still member's of the district, and like all members are still under constant strict Capitol surveillance. Every so often reminders of this come in the form of inventors dying mysteriously in Capitol laboratories, or the sons and daughters of opinionated high level workers being reaped for the Games.
Surveillance aside, the inventors still have mobility- something most people here can only dream of. Inventors get to ride the trains, spreading their inventions to the furthest corners of Panem. Every year one of them visits the schools of Three, serving as a reminder of what ordinary kids can achieve if we just work hard enough. They always tell us tales of the projects beyond the walls, in the other districts, in the glorious Capitol. These reminders work, for the most part. The visitors fill the kids' heads with just enough hope and determination to last until they return the year after, ready to give another empowering speech.
Of course, most of it is nonsense. Every able-minded person in Three goes through the same system of schooling, and at the end of the day only a very select few are chosen to be Lab Apprentices. And only one-fifth of those go on to be inventors. The odds of anyone even getting the opportunity of making it to that level are extremely low.
Yet somehow I managed to get this far.
My mother smiles now, pride evident in her voice as she asks, "So does this mean she can proceed to the next level?"
The headmaster smiles, but shakes his head. "Unfortunately, apprenticeship will not be possible for Widget for another year. You see, it is very rare for someone so young to qualify for the position. The labs were not anticipating any new students until six months after the Reaping."
At this my mother frowns. I, too, am confused- if I can't become an apprentice until next year, what am I supposed to do between now and then?
"Well what is she going to do until then?" Mother questions, somewhat frustratedly.
"She has a choice. At the moment, we have two available options: Widget can either remain in her Advanced Programming course until the Labs can take her for her apprenticeship-"
"I'm a bit tired of that class, sir..." I interrupt. It's true. For the past two years I've taken Advanced Programming, and the past year has been migraine-inducing. Not necessarily because the subject matter is too difficult- I can handle most of it fine-but because it's incredibly, mind-numbingly boring. Contrary to what many of my classmates might tell you, I despise everything about programming. In truth, I would rather spend all day doing something much less demanding, like writing music or birdwatching.
Hah! Birdwatching. If only that payed for food.
Inventing is what I've been trained to want my whole life. I can't imagine a future doing something else- my parents and teachers have thoroughly convinced me that this path is the only option. And when you look at the available alternatives and salaries, it certainly seems like the only real option.
"I'm not finished." The headmaster gives me a reprimanding gaze, and I shrink back in my seat self-consciously.
"As I was saying, the other option would be a sort of unofficial apprenticeship."
"Unofficial?" If I wasn't confused before, I certainly am now. I've never heard of anyone doing an unofficial apprenticeship.
"Yes. Before you proceed with the next level of training, one of our retired inventors has volunteered to show you the ropes, so to speak. You would go to his house and he would introduce you to the basic concepts of inventing. Prepare you for the labs."
It takes me a minute to process this information, but when I do I know I'll have to say yes. Pretty much anything beats another year of programming.
"Which inventor?" I ask.
"Inventor Nimb," he replies.
"Oh, Widget, I remember him!" My mother exclaims, turning to me. "He visited my class twenty years ago when I was taking circuitry. He was a lovely gentleman, very inspiring speech..."
"Well, Widget? Mrs. Irving?" The headmaster glances at the clock above the door impatiently, as if he has somewhere vitally important he has to be and we are holding him up.
As if, I think to myself. You don't have anywhere to go. You're just a failed apprentice.
"Yes, Headmaster Clarke, working with Inventor Nimb sounds incredible." Out of the corner of my eye I see my mother nod approvingly.
"Very well. I will notify Inventor Nimb later this evening, and you can begin training after the Reaping. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Irving."
"Yes, thank you headmaster." My mother says as she stands up, heading for the door. I follow behind her, and only speak after the door closes behind us.
"Um...that went well?" My statement ends up coming out like a question, but my mom just turns around and envelopes me in a fierce hug. I am surprised; this is an unusual display coming from her. The meeting must have made her very happy.
"I am so proud of you!" She says into my hair. I hug her back, laughing. This is why I'm doing this. I've come so far, made so many people proud. It feels good.
We walk back home to the MSA in relative silence. I don't mind- it's not awkward. I feel content. I can't wait to tell my father the good news. Coyle will be so impressed- he just entered the Panem Advanced Technical Training a few months ago. Dash, well... He'll be happy for me on the inside.
Suddenly a little boy comes running down the street, side-stepping my mother and barreling right into me. This causes him to drop the square bread he was carrying, the small loaves scattering on the pavement. Hurriedly, he bends down to gather them, frightened eyes scanning his surroundings before getting up and sprinting away.
Just as the boy turns a corner and disappears from view, Mr. Heckle comes hobbling towards us from the same direction, waving an angry fist as he goes.
"Hey! Stop him! Stop that thief!" The old baker shouts to no one in particular. My mother and I watch as he takes several heavy steps forward, then stops in the middle of the road, clutching his side.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Heckle, he's long gone," I say to the baker as we pass him. I secretly hope the boy doesn't get caught. Years of selling bread on the same street every single day has made Mr. Heckle a grumpy old man, and even though I sympathize with him to a certain extent, the boy probably needed those rolls more than he did.
"No good factory spawn. No good, I tell ya," he grunts, turning around and hobbling back to his bread cart.
My family, like sixty percent of those in District Three, live in the Manufacturing Settlement Area, or MSA for short. This is essentially the hub of District Three. The railway is located here, as well as all of the prestigious labs and business centers. Our house is only a block away from the Snow Technology Development Center, where the apprentices train to become inventors. Almost everyone who lives in the MSA either works in one of the STDC's associated labs as an engineer, tester or experimental physicist. Both of my parents are testers in STDC Lab #5.
Outside of the MSA, however, there isn't much. The outskirts are where the poorer people of the District live. These small towns are built around factories, where the District sends all children who do not pass advanced placement. The factory workers then spend the rest of their lives carrying out the manual labor required to assemble most of the technology and machinery. The job pays little and demands a lot, which is why factory workers and their children end up living in poverty.
As one might expect, technology is not a very simple area of study. The school system here is designed to filter out the brightest students, and separate Three's youth into two general categories, which over the years have been nicknamed the "bulbs" and the "duds."
At age three all children go through the annual 'district roundup.' The children are all tested to determine their aptitude, intelligence and learning ability. Those who pass- the 'bulbs' proceed to advanced placement, and are then taken from their families to begin school at Panem Advanced Technical Training. This was the story with me and my little brother. I went through twelve years at the PATT, coming home on the weekends and for Reapings.
Those who fail the test are the 'duds.' They live with their parents until they are old enough to follow instructions and operate basic factory tools, and then are expected to show up to work every day in the outskirts. Most of the time, the populations in the MSA and the outskirts stay constant: factory parents tend to have factory children, and vice versa. Sometimes, though, MSA parents will end up with duds; rarely do factory parents have bulb children.
"Here we are!" My mother chimes happily, opening the door to our small house. Inside my father sits at the table, reading what I assume to be his latest test results.
"Modeme! Widget! How was the meeting?" My father sets the papers down on the table, gazing at us expectantly.
Before I can open my mouth, my mother answers for me. "She made it in! Widget will start at the STDC next year!"
My father's expression transforms into one of pure joy. "That's amazing! I knew she could do it! She's a smart little thing, my Widget!"
The commotion draws Coyle, my little brother, from his room. "What happened?" He questions, eyeing our parents suspiciously. At just three and a half years old, Coyle isn't much of a conversationalist, but his careful and calculating personality is already very defined. He passed the round up a few months ago and just started at Technical Training.
"Your sister did it, Coyle! She's gonna become a big, fancy inventor!" My father strides over to the three-year-old, picking him up and swinging him around elatedly. This elicits a round of infectious giggling from the little boy, which of course results in everyone laughing along with him.
Yes, this is why I need to continue training. Everyone is so happy for me.
After we've all seemingly run out of laughs, I head to the bathroom to wash up and get changed into my sleeping clothes. It's already starting to get dark outside- a little bit of light left over from the sunset shines through the window as I make my way down the hall. I'm going to have to be quick- father decided to stop paying for electricity after the Capitol raised the prices last year, and showering in the dark isn't very pleasant.
As I shower I think about the wonderful day I've had. I received an unusual but exciting apprenticeship offer, made my mother and father overjoyed, and got to hear Coyle giggle. After the reaping I can start the apprenticeship, and hopefully become an inventor. If I get the position, my family will never have to worry about housing, food or electricity ever again.
There's just one person I have to talk to before I go to bed.
When I knock on our door, as usual, there's no response. "Dash?" I call quietly, "I'm coming in!"
He's in bed, but I can tell he isn't sleeping. He never is. My older brother is unmoving for several seconds, and I just stand in the doorway looking at his form. Eventually, a low voice responds, somewhat annoyedly. "What is it, Widget?"
"I wanted to tell you the news." I take a few steps into our shared bedroom, closing the door behind me. "I made it in. They told me I could start next year."
Silence answers me.
"I thought you would be happy for me. It's kind of a big deal, and-"
"And you thought I'd be surprised? Come on, Widget. Stop pretending to be modest. We all know you're really smart, and no one in the entire district expected anything less."
Dash's voice is bitter. Resentful. I suppose I knew he would react this way, but somehow I hoped he'd find it in him to at least pretend he didn't hate me.
"I wish you could get over your whole jealousy thing for at least a minute. Everyone else is happy for me."
"If everyone else is happy, why do you need validation from me? My opinion means nothing."
The silence returns. I let him have the last word.
Tomorrow will be a better day. Mom and Dad will still be proud of me, and maybe I can help Coyle with his homework. In just two days the Reaping will be over with, and I'll meet Inventor Nimb.
Everything will be fine.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments appreciated. I may or may not continue with this, but I figured it would be healthy to put something out there for once. Also if anyone was wondering I got most of the background for how District Three works from the Panem propaganda website.