DISTRICT EIGHT: TEXTILES: STYLISTS AND CHARIOTS
~ POV: Jefferson "Jeff" Parker, Age 16, District 8 Male Tribute ~
"BOXERS' TRUNKS AND GLOVES, OKAY?"
Octavian, my tall, scrawny stylist with green-spiked hair, looks incredulous: "Are you kidding me, tribute?"
"Why would I be?"
"Because you live in the Textile District, and you'll wear a Peacekeeper uniform you most likely made."
I smirk. "As the ancients used to say, 'Don't judge a book by its cover!' I don't do any of that drudgery."
"Are you a guard, then?" Octavian can't understand why my eyes are still a-twinkle. "You're quite burly."
"My preferred costume for the chariot ride should have given you a clue. I'm a boxer, and proud of it!"
The stylist looks amazed, and then understandably suspicious: "Isn't that occupation illegal, young man?"
"Sure it is, but you can't expect the rich people in District Eight not to have something to gamble on, right?" He stammers for a moment, but his incessant motor mouth seems to have ground to a halt. When he manages to give me a low and impressed whistle, I finally look him in the eye. "I know full well that you could report me, but since I might die in the upcoming Hunger Games, what would be the good of that? I also know you're dying to know how I got out of the uniform factories and into the ring. Am I right, or not?"
"Tell me your story," Octavian spits out, "and I'll keep quiet about your not doing what you're supposed to."
"Deal." I hold a finger to my lips. "It started when I was born, at a whopping eleven pounds, two ounces…" Mom and Dad couldn't believe it. Their firstborn son was absolutely enormous, and what was worse, his strength was eventually going to be wasted via sewing! In our stinking and bleak little corner of Panem, you're either a factory worker, a laundry worker, a teacher, or a factory guard. A very few of us are designers and embroiderers, like my District partner Aoife used to be. However, they're getting fewer every day as more Peacekeepers are hired. My parents both decided that I would never spend the rest of my days hunched over a machine, but what was I going to do? They didn't want me to be a guard, either.
"Annie," said Dad as soon as I could walk. "I know what I used to do, and I want to teach Jeff my trade."
"Oh, no, you don't!" she'd screamed, or so Dad told me. "You almost got arrested, and I won't have it!"
"Remember how I didn't, though? The local Peacekeepers all remember me, because I fought well. That's why our family doesn't get into any real trouble around here, even if we slack off at work. I'm a legend."
"What if our son isn't?" My mother shuddered. "Lots of boys go into the ring and never come out, John."
"He will." With that, my fate was sealed. "Look at him. He'll be even better than me at prizefighting!" Mom and Dad let me go to school, of course, but afterward I was to come straight home, ducking through back alleys reeking of slops if I needed to. I wasn't to go near the factories after that, as the rest of my classmates did, but to the Beer and Baton - a Peacekeepers' tavern. In wealthier Districts like One and Two, the Capitol's goons in white frequent more "respectable" places such as gentleman's clubs, but not here. In District Eight, they prefer far bloodier sport than seduction and ogling, and they like to bet a lot. Boxing is their drug of choice, as well as powerful stimulants, so I began my training regimen at four. Now that I'm sixteen, I have countless victories under my belt - all thanks to Dad, who worked me like the strongest quarter horse in any stable! When I tell Octavian this, he nods slowly, because he can believe it.
"Whom are you going to kill first?" he asks me in a whisper. I have only one name in mind: Mars Cutullo.
~ POV: Aoife McCallan, Age 18, District 8 Female Tribute ~
"EE-FA! EE-FA! EE-FA! EE-FA! EE-FA!"
I luxuriate in the radiance of the Capitol crowd's adoration, as they chant my name over and over. Also spelled Aìfe, it means "beauty" in Gaelic. My own beauty comes not from my face, hair or body, worn down by years of factory work. Rather, it lies in the gown that my Capitol stylist, Volumnia, has designed for me. It consists of twenty-six long fabric stripes, one for every letter of the English alphabet, all in twenty-six colors. To wit, they are: apricot acetate, burgundy brocade, cobalt cashmere, dandelion duvetyn, emerald elastane, fuchsia flannel, gold gauze (VERY delicate), harlequin herringbone, ivory iridescent taffeta, jade jacquard, khaki karakul, lavender lamè, maroon muslin, navy nylon, orchid organza, pear polyester, quartz quiviut, russet rayon, salmon satin, taupe twill, umber underwear (Hee! I know that's not a fabric in and of itself, but I'm wearing it anyway), violet velvet, white wool, xanthic Xenotheron (a synthetic, stretchy silk), yarrow Yelt (a rayon/felt hybrid) and zucchini zibeline. Whew - that's quite a mouthful (and a dress full)!
Beneath this gown, however, I'm as thin and sparse as a reed. The one doctor that I've been to since I started becoming a woman revealed that I have a highly-premature bone disease called osteoporosis…? Who has ever heard of that? Illnesses are supposed to be cured here in Panem, but we can't afford such things. All the money we earn goes to paying for food, clothing, shelter, and "protection." In case you live in a different District than Eight, which I hope to heaven you do, this kind of protection barely keeps us safe. It not only refers to the pills we factory girls take to keep ourselves from getting pregnant and having babies we can't support, but also to the bribes we pay so the foremen and Peacekeepers won't touch us! As long as we give them a cut of our meager salaries, we'll be all right - well, unless you're frail like me. Men like those with pretty hands as well as pretty faces, though both of mine are almost always dirty. I used to be an embroiderer, one of only ten girls who got to make dresses for ladies at the Capitol, but…
"Aoife." I can still hear his rough voice in my head, even above that of the crowd, calling me "OW-eef."
"What do you want?" I knew very well what he desired, despite who he was. No factory lad was this gent.
"The other nine have seen me. Why haven't you? Those fancy fingers of yours could be put to better use." You had better do so, and quickly, or that position of yours goes to your nearest rival: Emily Ming."
"Let her have it! I won't be one of your whores!"
He grinned, exposing ill-fitting dentures. He's one of the few in Eight who has enough money for them, even if they're too big for his mouth. "Oh, no, you little Irish beauty. I'm not letting you get away that easily."
I spat at his feet. "Why not? There are plenty of girls lovelier than I, with long hair and all of their teeth!"
"Yes, but you're special. The fire in your eyes is not yet gone, and all the pallid zombies on the floor, no matter the size of their breasts and buttocks, aren't like you. You're beautiful to me, Miss Aoife McCallan."
"Go away!" I practically screamed, but he grabbed me, wrenched his fingers through my hair, and pulled.
"There's a new machine in Factory Thirty," he hissed, "that's so fast you won't be able to handle it. If you won't have me, I'm going to send you there and put you on it. I guarantee you'll lose a finger the first day."
I could do nothing but weep, and the next thing I knew, I was on a rickety subway to my District's hell.
"EE-FA! EE-FA! EE-FA! EE-FA! EE-FA!"
Very slowly and gingerly, I pull the third fingers of my white satin gloves (that counterbalance my gown) together so that they touch. Then I tie them in a love knot and hold them high before the chanting crowd. When I turn my hands over, pulling and pulling without feeling an ounce of pain, they know the ugly truth: I've lost both of these fingers, and have nowhere to put a traditional wedding band. They gasp. Let them!
