Author's Note: I plan to go into canon with some other THG stories on fanfiction, most particularly Belmione's "Worse Games To Play" and SilverCistern's Ashes of District 12 series. Amazing works by amazing writers, I can't praise them enough.
The first thing I notice about district 12 is the smell. The forests are strong and thick here, and this is the only place I've been to that doesn't seem to have the stench of war to it. 12 was the first district to be attacked in the war; the propos showing the devastation from the firebombs is still engraved in my memory. It could have very easily been my district… honestly, it could have been any district. Many towns were razed to the ground – it's incredible how much progress has been made in every district. In 12, the rubble has been cleared for years and the town square is framed with green trees and soft grass. I take a deep breath and feel the clarity of the air fill my lungs.
I don't think I'll mind staying here for awhile.
A man waves at me from the station platform: Thom, the mayor. He used to work in the coal mines until the arena was destroyed in the final Games. He's partly responsible for saving hundreds of lives before the firebombs fell. I know the numbers; the statistics of that night are burned into my brain. Thom has almost single-handedly built up this part of 12, and those who returned were unanimous in electing him as their official. I know that Katniss and Peeta were considered – because of course they would be – but turned it down. After everything they've been thru, I don't think anyone expected them to take up that particular mantle again.
"Anath," Thom says, shaking my hand and smiling. "Welcome to District 12."
"Thank you," I return the smile. "I wouldn't be here without your help."
"Not many people come out here to visit unless there's someone specific," he says. "We get to keep a special kind of peace and quiet here, guess that's a pretty valuable commodity." He takes my bag and begins to walk me down the road that leads to the town square. "We still have plenty of open buildings and houses, but we're growing slow and steady," he says proudly. "Didn't start off with much, but…" He trails off, and I can still see the shadow of war in his eyes. There aren't many direct accounts of what happened in district 12, but everyone knows anyway. I'm brimming with questions to ask him, but I keep most of them to myself.
"You know why I'm here," I say quietly. "But I would love to hear from other residents here – including yourself." Thom looks at me, a little startled. "In the other districts, we have a general idea of what happened here with – with the first bombing. We know the numbers, we know the straight facts-"
"But you want to put a face to the tragedy," he says.
I pause. "I'm not a sensationalist, Thom," is my reply. "With everything that happened during the revolution, there isn't a need for it. I'm a historian. It's not a lovely topic, but it's an important one, and one that won't just fade from people's memory."
He gives me a long look. "I read your first book. Was a bit hesitant at first, I'll admit; don't really see the point in reliving the worst days of my life. But you – you did it right. You did justice to those who talked to you, and I respect that." He gives me a small smile. "Don't know how much you'll be able to kick out here. People in 12 tend to keep to themselves and keep their thoughts closer – it's how you survived back in the bad times, see? One wrong word and you'd be out of a job with your family starving. The habit is ingrained in most of us now."
"I plan on being here for awhile. I'm not here for a quick story, I'm here for-"
We reach the center of the square and Thom stops, forcing me to stop with him. "Anath, I'll be straight with you: I'm not betting on your success here. A lot of reporters have come here before, trying to sniff out a story or get more than a word out of Katniss and Peeta, and they all went home without a thing. They tend to keep to themselves and quite frankly, they deserve that right. I don't think you're the kind to cause trouble, but if I catch wind that you're going too far with either of them, I will ask you to leave on the next train."
We stare at each other, analyzing the other. Thom looks similar to the ranchers I've seen roaming in District 10; his skin is browned and weathered, but his eyes are bright. His pants are stained with mud and dirt, as are his hands and boots. Even as a mayor, he still works outside and in the earth… I can imagine that he never thought he'd get that chance. I watch him take me in: tanned from the sun, with eyes the color of our sea and dark hair. I'm small, smaller than most people I know, but the war left me with strength and words. Words are my weapon, and words are what I use.
"I hear you, Thom," I finally say. "You have my word: any sign of trouble, and I'll leave."
His shoulders relax and he grins at me, showing a missing upper tooth. "I think you'll get along here just fine, Adath. Just be careful, though; mockingjays are very protective of their nests here."
We walk in calm silence to the small house at the end of the square; the green shutters could use a scrub and the pain is peeling in some places, but the roof is sound and the fireplace has been redone. I don't know how many other people have stayed here before, but I doubt that someone did this just for me. Authors, especially those who focus on painful subjects, don't normally get good treatment from strangers.
"Before you ask, the bakery is on the other side of town. Big red tiled roof, 'pastries and breads' across the top. I'd go there first if I were you," Thom says, gently putting down my bag and brushing his hands. "Market meets every second Tuesday, shops are open according to whatever hours they post – although that changes every now and then, of course – and if there's any trouble here, just ask for my wife, Susie. She runs most things concerning visitors." His eyes soften at the mention of his wife and I find myself liking Thom even more.
"Anything else I should know?" I don't want to push too far by accident.
"Go slow," he says seriously. "People here keep things tight. Best way to hear a story is to gain trust. And the more you share, the more you'll likely get back." My stomach tightens at this. I don't share my own war stories; I share others'. Thom must sense my reaction, because he follows with "Everybody has healing to do. Figure here is as good a place as any." He nods his head respectfully to me and turns to leave, closing the door gently behind him.
I don't waste time. I dig thru my bag for my recorder, as small and slim as a pen, and head out the door to the bakery.
