There have been many things I was quick to notice about district 8 in the time that I lived here.
Seemingly endless rows of textile mills were the first thing to get my attention, as the machines inside seem to be in motion non-stop as filthy workers scramble around and over the thunderously loud machines. Neighborhoods of cramped and crowded tenant buildings and shacks of shoddy construct, often in varying stages of dilapidation with ten families per room. Merchants, or those who have climbed and clawed out of the squalor, have their own apartments, though they are only desirable compared to the tenants. All of this, plus the blackened skies, litter, homeless, and filth mix together to build a general air of urban sprawl. The people here have pale sickly skin, and wear coarse clothing. Very rarely have dark skin, most likely descended from District 11 stowaways who hid among the cotton imports and managed hide among the rabble, as District 11 is the only District where that pigmentation appears in majority planning is almost non-existent, and all the roads are winding mazes that meander around buildings that appear to have been built atop each other; there was clearly no planning done in the districts layout.
I quickly walk down a series of winding alleyways, but I am doing more than just patrolling. I mentally go over the details of my first assignment. I am to patrol the streets as usual, but at 11:30 A.M. I am to meet three other peacekeepers at the specified location. There has been a tip-off of illicit substances being held in tenant room 27 on floor two of tenant building 374. This is my first assignment, and I do not want to screw up.
When I meet up with the others, we are to enter the specified apartment room to arrest a suspected insurgent. After hurrying through narrow alleys, damp hallways, and up shoddly staircases, I reach the location and meet the other three. After the other three give nods of approval, I pound on the door and give the warning.
"We are the peacekeepers, open the door. We have a warrant for your arrest."
No response.
I knock a second time.
Again, no response.
I step aside as one of them use the butt of his semi-automatic to break down the door. We rush into the room and point our guns at the middle aged man and the young girl inside. They both cower in the corner. The man has dark black hair, torn clothes, a skeletal body,and a wrinkled face. The girl has similar hair and looks similar, only younger. She is probably his daughter, and around more or less sixteen years old. Me and one other peacekeeper search the room while the rest watch the suspects.
After turning over ruined furniture and looking around every nook and cranny of this filth encrusted hole, my search proves successful. Tied with frayed shoelace beneath a stained and creaking dining table, I uncover a leather flask and 23 dollars wrapped in musty paper. One quick sniff of the flask supports what was suspected.
"I found morphling."
One of the peacekeepers who was securing the suspects glared at the father and scorned. "Don't you know morphling is illegal?"
Another peacekeeper taunted him while kicking over a partially flooded chamber pot, spilling its foul content. "You're in deep trouble now."
The father stuttered out his slurred defense. "Pp-please sirs, I j-just sell som to feed my famly, I dn't ussse annnee."
Now it was my turn. "You think anybody believes that? Every morphed-up cellar rat has some sorry excuse. Your coming with us."
As I hand-cuffed the junker, his daughter began screaming frantically. "Please don't take him, he won't sell anymore. I promise, just don't take him. "
We walked out of the building while his daughter screamed and sobbed. I heart ached for her, but what else could I have done? The man broke the law and admitted to it, and now he must be punished. Seeing the conditions, I doubt she will be worse off without him.
After turning in the prisoner and the evidence against him, I then head to the training facilities. They are very different from the ones tributes train in. For one thing, peacekeepers train for more than a few weeks. Peacekeepers are to train for four hours a day from 12:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. , using modern weapons meant for practicality rather than entertainment. A second difference is that the other training in here are not competition, they are comrades.
When I reach the training facility, I head directly to the firing range. I can see and hear peacekeepers training with flamethrower guns, sniper rifles, and mounted machine guns in other parts of the facility. When I make my way to the firing range, I fire my semi-automatic at the target figures. The figures are dressed in grey camouflage jackets, with matching pants and solid grey field caps. I learned during the training years those uniforms were worn by defeated District 13 soldiers, before their district was destroyed. After two hours, I'm not missing my mark at all. Feeling satisfied in my marksmanship, I head over to one of the eighteen knife fighting trainers.
He hands me a practice knife, and swings his knife down in a stabbing motion towards my shoulder.
I duck out of the way and shove him aside.
He doesn't lose his footing, and this time attempts to slash at my belly.
With force, I swing my own knife and parry his.
He tries to grab my knife arm and prevent me from slashing his shoulder, but I use my free hand to punch his stomach.
He tries to stab mine, but I dodge to the side and swing around his back.
I hold my knife to his neck, and he relents.
We practice like this for some time.
After proving able to disarm him, I try throwing my knife. I practice flicking my wrist with knife in hand three times, then I throw for real. It spins towards the target, and embeds its blade into the first white ring around the red center. I practice several more times, and I am able to hit my mark well enough.
Next I try blocking or deflecting while he throws knifes. First using the butt of my gun, I strap on practice armor so it will not kill me if I miss. I lift up my gun when he throws the knife, and I wait. Within two seconds, I bring the butt of the gun down and cause the knife to land harmlessly at my feet. After seven executions of this technique, I practice using my own knife.
I again wait as the knife flies towards me and one second before it hits, I swing my own knife into its side. It bounces off the floor before resting to my side. I give it five more tries, and I would have gone longer if I could have.
Now that practicing time is done, I head to the mess hall for dinner. After waiting in the serving line, my trey is filled and my legs lead me to a nearby table. The titanic man brown haired sitting across from me speaks.
"Lysander, Good job busting that morphy today. The more off the streets, the better."
I look up and smile while responding. "It was no big deal, Harod. You brought in three times as many, and stopped an escape."
"None of the ones I brought in had anything worth knowing." Worth knowing? What could that mean?
The younger, smaller, more restless man sitting next to him answered for me. "Didn't you hear? The morpher you brought in revealed where the location of black market trading grounds were. The interrogators didn't take long, he cracked like an egg." He snickered after saying the last part.
Harod Pressed the point home. " An hour ago some peacekeepers were sent in for a shut-down, that's not nothing."
"Well, I didn't know that. Thanks for sharing this with me"
Jacobine, the young one with brown hair much darker than Harod, added in." Tell that to the morpher."
I chuckled, then resumed eating.
Harod, despite being considerably taller than a tree and strong enough to be made of iron, mostly had his heart in the right place. Him congratulating me is even less of a surprise than us becoming friends the after knowing each other for only eight days. Jacobine was really young for a peacekeeper, while most join at eighteen or nineteen, he joined when at age sixteen. His stubborn determination, his can-do mentality, and his bright optimism got him on my good side quickly.
Jacobine cringes as he eats his corn based rations, and I don't blame him. After two years of training, the food here still taste like it was never alive. The cooks assure us it is nutritious, but that does not change the fact that it has a mushy consistency and 'earthy' taste. I would not in the least be surprised if it turned out to be cattle fodder. Every bite has to be accompanied with cold water to resist the inborn urge to spit it out.
Despite this, I am looking forward to my service.
