District Three & Four Non-Reapings
Ada Sparks, 18, District Three
The girl pulled her hood over her head as she hurried down the open street, clutching her research books close to her chest. All along both sides of the road, huge planters full of flowers exploded in overflows of reds, pinks, purples, and whites.
Garden Petunias. Petunia × atkinsiana. A hybrid flower, now long removed from its distant ancestors that grew in the jungles of Pre-Panemian America. Unlike its ancestors, which had been optimized for reproduction by the uncaring process of natural selection, these gorgeous plants now only had to worry about producing bloom after bloom all summer long.
She glanced up at the sky and found it blue, a rare sight for most District Three citizens but common in the secluded District Center of the district, above which energy fields kept the constant smog out of the sky. If she squinted down the long, straight road, she could see the grey in the distance, where the energy fields ended and with pollutants from the factories constantly spewed into the air.
What a pity. When she took her place among the premier scientists of District Three, she'd make sure someone was assigned to research pollutant-free factory design. The Capitol must not have considered the effects of its factories on the life expectancies of their workers—though there were no official numbers, she'd heard reports that an average District Three citizen (discounting those in the District Center, of course) only lived a little over fifty years. Perhaps this would be her mark on Panem…
She caught herself smiling widely as she accidentally made eye contact with a man passing by. Frick. He's looking at me funny! Train of thought now derailed, she pulled her hood lower, bowed her head slightly, and picked up her pace. Now careful to keep her eyes far, far away from others' faces—That was so awkward!—she scurried down the familiar streets, the route now so ingrained in her mind that she no longer needed to calculate the most efficient path home from the laboratory where she worked.
No calculations means a shorter commute. A shorter commute means no unnecessary interactions with strangers. She remembered the man's quizzical expression and shuddered. Hopefully, he'd already forgotten the stranger that gave him a weird smile.
When she entered the front door of her refuge, a soft figure slipped by her leg—her cat. She immediately dropped her books (carefully) on the floor and bent down to pick Tess up, gently stroking her soft fur. The cat purred in delight, rubbing her head against Ada's shoulder.
"Aww…. That's a good girl."
"Meow."
She glanced over at the empty dish, still sparkling clean from the scrubbing yesterday. Her parents must've forgotten to refill it in the morning. "Did they forget to feed you again? I'm sorry…"
"Meow."
"It's not their fault, you know? They're out there fixing Panem's problems." She set the cat down and quickly refilled the dish with cat food. "There you go! Now…"
But the cat wasn't interested in her any more, all focus now centered on food. Oh well. Ada simply shrugged, flipped the hood off her head, and bounded into the kitchen, where she pulled the refrigerator open to check for food, only to find it mostly empty. It must almost be time for Capitol grocery delivery again. Bread… cheese… good enough. Mom and Dad were both out of town for business, so there was no need to cook up anything fancy. Besides, a simple cheese sandwich was efficient to eat while reading late into the night. Reading….
My books!
She rushed back to the doorway and scooped the books off the floor, searching them for any sign of tampering from the cat. To her relief, Tess hadn't messed with them. The books were Dr. Grey's, and she wouldn't be able to face her boss if anything happened to them.
Out of the blue, the doorbell rang. Ada froze. She wasn't expecting anyone; who would come knocking? Her shoulders dropped and she took a deep breath. Though she preferred to avoid dealing with strangers whenever possible, she was the only one at home. With a sigh, she fixed a passable smile on her face, ran though basic niceties of small talk in her head (good afternoon… I'm fine… how are you… yuck!), and opened the door.
Her mouth opened mechanically when she saw the figure, but then she realized the person dressed in the blue had his back turned to her, hurrying down the stairs away from the house. A package sat on the doormat, addressed to her father. Likely some important material for his research.
Oh, you silly…
She laughed at herself—had she been that nervous over a package delivery? Out of habit, she glanced up at the blue sky, just as dark clouds rolled in, casting everything in ominous dimness. Is this what regular Three citizens see every day? What would life even be like without looking up and seeing blue? Yet many of her fellow district-folk lived their entire lives under a smog-covered sky. Like the petunias… separate from their jungle cousins, with life tracks and priorities so different they were barely the same plants, even though they shared more than 99.99% of their DNA.
Voices. A neighborhood family strolled down the sidewalk, a mother and father and two little boys. Her eyes froze wide and she swiftly shut the door—if she made eye contact with any of them, she'd have to smile and wave and say "hello," all of which was simply too exhausting after a day in the lab… or really any day.
It was all a privilege, she knew. Regular folk couldn't afford to hide away with their unfairly long working hours and the paper-thin walls of their tiny apartments that afforded no privacy, breathing in toxins that cut their very lives short. Some day, she'd do her best. She was already on track—in just a few years, she'd have the power to apply her solutions to the issues of District Three.
But for now, she enjoyed holing up in her house away from the world, reading up on thermodynamics as she munched on a cheese sandwich.
Ace Invidia, 18, District Three
Teetering atop a shaky ladder two floors off the ground, Ace hammered the nail deeper into the wall with careful swing after careful swing, holding the rusty nail in place with his left hand while his right hand wielded the hammer.
Ting! Ting! Ting!
After a long day at the factory, every knock seemed to sap his energy. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm, damp with moisture from the air, and paused to recharge, filling his lungs with polluted air.
Ting! Ting! Ting!
His hand slipped; the hammer slammed into his left thumb.
"Ah!" He cursed his vision—No, I don't need glasses!—and shook his hand in the air, gritting his teeth and waiting for the pain to subside all while trying to maintain his balance. As the stars swirling around his head faded away, the sky above him came into focus, thick with smoggy clouds that sprinkled a gentle mist down onto the slum-like streets of District Three.
A female voice reached his ears from the ground below. "What's up?"
He looked down. Lumosa stood there, a fellow worker from the factory, a threadbare, oversized jacket wrapped around her shoulders. Even though the humidity, he felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment.
"Fixing the Curies' roof," he said. "The storm last night knocked a chunk in."
"Ever the responsible one, eh?" she teased, though her singsong voice held no trace of malice. She laughed lightly. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he grunted, turning his attention back to that effin' nail.
"You didn't sound fine."
He swore he could hear her wink as he finished hammering it in. "What do you want."
"We're getting drinks—you wanna come?"
"Sure," he said, inspecting his work on the neighboring Curie family roof. He pressed against the corrugated metal and smiled when it didn't budge. It wasn't pretty, but it'd keep the rain out. More importantly, it'd net his family a few extra coins. Perhaps his younger brother could afford a few sweets for his birthday.
His work complete, he put his tools away and slowly descended, one hand on the ladder, the other holding his toolbox.
"You want help?" Lumosa called. "The ladder's pretty shaky."
"I've got it."
She grabbed hold of the ladder anyway and held it steady. "I'm helping you anyway."
He grunted a disgruntled "thank you" as he landed on the muddy ground.
"Ready to go now?"
"Give me a sec." He swung the door to his own house open and slid the toolbox and ladder in; he'd take care of it when he returned. Roof repaired, money earned, tools secured—whew… maybe some time for myself?
After a good walk, the pair approached the bustling bar on the border between the rich District center and the rest of the otherwise impoverished district. When Ace stepped in after Lumosa, he was instantly blasted with laughter and chatter, plates and pint glasses. The dim lighting left much in a medium between light and shadow, illuminating just enough to show the way yet obscuring the sweat, grime, and dirt that undoubtedly coated most surfaces. Though he'd been here multiple times, each new visit felt like the first time, drowning in the din.
When he lingered in the doorway for too long, Lumosa grabbed his hand and pulled him after her to a corner of the place, where the rest of The Gang sat, about fifteen strong. Almost immediately, they deluged him with half-hugs and back-slaps, which he reciprocated mechanically—less mechanically than he usually felt, yet mechanically all the same.
The Gang… The name made him nervous. It spoke of rebellion, of an entity that operated outside of the control of the Capitol, one that the Peacekeepers sitting at the bar would crush without hesitation. Yet it brought on a rush of excitement, as if they were actually an organized underground movement and not just a group of coworkers that did their best to look out for each other.
His eyes wandered back to the Peacekeepers across the room, laughing and drinking. It seemed that inside these four walls, the division between District Three Native and Peacekeeper disappeared; each wanted to down their worries after all, shot after shot. Most of The Gang didn't seem to mind. But Ace squirmed in discomfort at the white suits, shooting them a resentful look when their backs were turned. No amount of alcohol could change what he'd seen Peacekeepers do to his people.
Well, he wasn't drinking much anyway. He sipped at his drink, simply content to exist in the company of his friends. He'd never really thought about it… I supposed they're my friends? Most of his life was just work and worry anyways—who had time to think about friends?
Lumosa tilted her head at him, gesturing his half-filled mug, mostly empty because he hadn't put much in it in the first place. "Don't you want a little more than that?"
"Ha!" Radeon laughed. "You know the Invidia boy don't drink much."
Ace smiled awkwardly, though he lacked the energy to bring it all the way up the sides of his face. "I'm good."
"Are you sure?" she pressed, a little more aggressive now that she had a bit of alcohol in her bloodstream. "You could use some loosening up, here and there."
"I suppose," he said mindlessly, "But I'm good."
He watched them talk, laugh, joke, occasionally giving them a response when they asked it of him. It wasn't that he felt excluded—they were his people, closer to him than a family. If he ever suffered a severe injury or got Reaped or somethin', he knew without a shadow of a doubt that they'd take care of his family.
But why can't I… be like them? Laugh the way they laughed, talk the way they talked.
It wasn't like drinking could do him any good. Like metal to a magnet, he found himself watching the Peacekeepers again. Does anyone else care? Was he the only one that saw their white uniforms and instantly thought of public executions? His lips formed a firm line. No matter how others seemed to treat them, Peacekeepers would always be "them" that oppressed "us", the dirty hands of the authoritarian Capitol.
Can we even do anything?
The Capitol was too large, too powerful. What could a ragtag bunch of malnourished factory workers do?
I'd give anything to know.
Azolla Majuli, 18, District Four
Ding dong!
Azolla leaned against the counter in the kitchen of the Dourne mansion, sorting the spice mason jars by color with one hand while the other grabbed a kettle to prepare tea for her mentor, only the most renowned writer and socialite in all of District Four. A visitor! She instantly leaped to her feet and hurried to the front office through the spacious rooms, which still intimidated her even now after a year of spending time in them.
She crashed through the door to the front office, where a young man stood waiting at the desk, a clipboard in hand and a rugged courier bag strapped around his shoulder, hanging loosely by his waist. Although Ms. Dourne's front office was simple compared to the rest of her house, he seemed out of place, his clothes marking him as middle class at best. Instantly, she felt for him. She felt out of place too—a slum girl? In a mansion?
"Hi!" she chirped, trying to catch her breath. "How may I help you?"
The young man fidgeted, fingers tapping against the clipboard. "I'm looking for Ms. Dourne—is this the right place?"
"Oh! You're in the right place; don't worry. Do you have an appointment?" She smiled, hoping to ease his discomfort.
"I was hoping I could make one with her… Is that possible?"
"Of course!" She dropped into the swivel chair, suddenly realizing that she still held the kettle in her hand. With a sheepish smile, she placed the kettle down on the desk and pulled out a notepad from under the desk. "I'm her personal assistant, by the way; sorry about that…"
He chuckled. "Oh, no. It's nothing… I'm a mess most of the time."
It was a wisp of a chuckle, barely audible, but his face relaxed a bit. She smiled at him. "Anyway, can I get a name and reason for meeting?"
"Adrian O'Halloran..." he said, pausing for her to jot it down. "I'd like to interview her about her next book."
Next book… She froze. "Wait—who are you with again?"
"I guess you could call me an independent journalist."
She bit the inside of her cheek, dreading his reaction. "Oh… Ms. Dourne usually doesn't take appointments from anyone outside of a 'reputable organization'… not that I think you're disreputable—that's what she thinks, at least…"
He sighed, crestfallen. "Then I'd better be going…"
"Wait! Don't go—" She bit her lip, racking her mind for something to remedy the situation. He looks so disappointed…
He paused, head turned back.
"I…" For a moment, she thought of Ms. Dourne's disapproving face, but she pushed it out of mind. "Look, I can see that this meeting means a lot to you… so maybe I'll talk to her today and see if I can arrange something."
"Really?" His face suddenly brightened. "Thank you so much!"
Her smile returned, just glad to see him happy. "I can't promise anything, but check back tomorrow and I'll let you know, okay?"
"Okay—Thanks again!"
She waved as he walked out the door, her heart warm although she dreaded having to discuss the issue with Ms. Dourne. What will she think? She's going to say no… but I still have to try.
Once the man was out of sight, she swooped up the kettle and hurried back in the main part of the mansion, this time bouncing up the stairs after a quick detour to drop the kettle off in the kitchen. With a spring in her step, she swung open the double doors to the office. Bright midday sunshine fell in thick rays that filled the room with natural light, and through the huge orchid-lined windows, she could see the ocean, rippling with waves that seemed no larger than wrinkles on fabric from this distance.
She paused by the window, searching the sea for boats. Her brother was out there, faithfully working long hours day after day to keep the two of them from drowning in the slums of District Four. There was a time when she'd been on the waves with him, but she hadn't touched a harpoon ever since she won a writing apprenticeship. Never mind that she wasn't doing much writing now; she'd helped her mentor out a few times and now she had a stable job as the woman's personal assistant.
Beep beep. The clock chirped; she jumped—the room still wasn't to Ms. Dourne's liking! Humming an old work song she and her brother used to sing, she flipped open Ms. Dourne's holo screen to set the after-spa playlist (the woman was very particular about her playlists) and made sure that every pen was in the right pen holder, sorted by thickness and color. Her mentor-turned-boss had never explicitly told her to do that, but how could she not do it when it made the woman smile?
Suddenly, her hands brushed by a stack of papers on the corner of the desk. For a moment, she froze in a panic—oh no, did I mess everything up—her breathing only returning to normal when the stack didn't fall. She turned away to water the plants, but…
Oh? Was it just her, or did the words seem familiar? She whirled back around and craned her head to read the familiar handwriting. Sure enough, it was her handwriting, and the paper—it was her submission to the contest last year that changed her life. She ran her fingers down the dusty page, likely untouched for weeks, dormant ideas springing back to life with every new word her fingertips touched, as if they were old friends, calling for her to return.
The bell rang, jolting her back to reality. She took one last wistful look at the manuscript—Azolla, stop being so selfish—and scurried out of the work office, mentally running through Ms. Dourne's preferences to set up a checklist while she physically ran to the front office.
But through the sea of things to do (Himalayan salt, perfectly adjusted blinds, thermostat set to exactly halfway between cool and warm…), she still heard the voices of her old friends, the characters she'd spent hours creating, the stories she'd spent weeks weaving.
Some day…
Navarro de León, 18, District Four
As the shadows grew long and the workday settled to an end, Navarro splashed his fish-slime-coated hands under a faucet, washing them thoroughly in the cold water. He hated working by the docks, and fish sorting days were the worst, especially when he forgot to bring gloves to protect his skin from fish slime. Why was he here, anyway? His family didn't need the money. He could be out enjoying his school-less life, yet Father had insisted that he work.
He grunted and splashed his sweaty face with water, sighing in relief when a cool drop ran down his back. Stupid fish… Stupid docks… Stupid—
"You almost done yet?"
Every hair on his arms bristling, Navarro looked up and found Thames, a dock-worker from the city slums, leaning impatiently against a nearby wall. He glared at the boy a year or two his younger. "Mind your own business."
Thames spat. "Just because you're rich doesn't mean you get special treatment, you know?"
"If you don't keep your mouth shut…" he threatened, narrowing his eyes.
"You're gonna what?" the boy said.
Navarro grabbed him by the collar. He glowered down at him and stared daggers, corner of his lip curling with cruel delight at the boy's terrified face. Here… I have power.
"Know your place," he said, splattering his saliva all over Thames' face. "Slum rat."
Thames averted his eyes, frozen in place in Navarro's grip. He nodded, barely perceivable.
It wasn't enough for Navarro. He yanked him up until they were face to face and the boy's toes barely touched the ground. "Understand?"
"Yes… Navarro."
"Good." He released his grip, and the boy fell back, scuttling away from him with his head bowed low, eyes blinking rapidly. A whoosh of satisfaction rushed through Navarro's veins. Ha! That teaches him.
But just as he turned to leave, he felt a splash of water on his back. The smell hit him, the odor of foul, slimy, fish water, rising from his now wet shirt. He whirled around; he balled his hands into fists. Thames stood there washing his hands, his bowed head glancing up sideways to glare daggers at him, a bucket of brine by his feet.
For a moment, the two stood with locked eyes, Navarro with his shoulders squared and fists formed, Thames still over the sink, trembling slightly yet trying so hard to not back down.
Navarro noticed the boy's quivering eyes and a wicked grin spread across his face. He punched the boy straight in the face. His fist came back bloody.
The boy cursed at him, squirming and spitting as blood flowed from his nose, yet his malnourished frame was no match for his assailant's better-fed one. "You—"
"Shut your f— — mouth!" Navarro said, his hands gripping the boy's shoulders as he slammed him against the wall again and again. A wave of adrenaline washed over his mind. Take that! And that!
After the third or fourth knock, Thames was a blubbering mess, slumping down against the wall with blood flowing down his face and bruises all over. "Please… stop…"
Pathetic. He turned his back and stalked off, casting one last disdainful look at the beaten boy before he set off for home, basking in the attention of passersby, many of whom curved out of his way when they noticed the fresh blood splatters.
By the time Navarro walked up the flower-lined path to his house, shirt splattered with fish water and blood, the sun approached the horizon. The dark, cold silhouette of the house fell over him, smothering him in its cold shadow. There was no one to see him now. Although the evening breeze kissed his skin with warmth, he still shivered.
Slowly, he cracked open the front door. The only sound he heard inside was the tick… tick… tick… of the grandfather clock in the living room, a family heirloom that marked the wealth of the de León family, passed down from generation to generation since the time before the Dark Days. His eyes wandered over the dusty couches and tables, made with the finest fabrics and woods available in District Four yet barely used since his parents were never home.
Cold.
He turned around and walked out, haphazardly swinging the door close behind him as he made a beeline for the ocean view behind his house. With no one to see or care, he plopped down on the beach and ran his hand through the sand, rubbing the sun-baked grains between his fingers. Finally… He removed his bloody, briny shirt and leaned back to soak in the long rays of the sun.
The sun's warmth enveloped him, pulling him out of the cold, dusty reality of the grand house behind him. He closed his eyes; a sigh escaped his lips. The sun could always be counted on when people couldn't. Every so often, he cracked open his eyelids again, marveling at the change in color across the sky, burning with orange and red above the calm waters below. At that moment, it didn't matter that his parents clearly didn't care about him, that his future was a mess, that every day only brought new frustrations.
But once the sun disappeared below the horizon, the chilly wind reminded him that he was alone, shattering the illusion of permanent bliss. A wave rushed over the beach, reaching for his toes with the incoming tide that longed to suck in into its frigid depths. His hands buried in the sand, he waited for just a while longer, as if searching for a remnant of warmth. There was none.
Just cold.
A/N Whoops, it's been a hot sec, between Premonition (which is almost complete!), submissions (which I'm not doing any more of at the moment), and reviews (which I'm still behind on). But the second set of intros is here! I'd love to hear what you think about the cast thus far!
Thoughts?
