Kathleen Watson- 18
District 6F
The Night Before the Reapings
T/W Mild gang-related violence involving fist fights and mention of death ahead in both the DF and DM perspectives. This chapter will kind of be combined, as the two tributes will have an interaction during the reaping ceremony. ;) Please read with caution, and enjoy
The sounds of hurried footsteps echo throughout the spacious warehouse. A sharp rapping noise at my door, right on que. "There'd better be a good reason why you're late." Bruiser's boarish figure shadows the doorway. I notice his eyes shifting in every direction. Something is off.
"What happened, Bruiser?" Silence. My gaze turns deadly as I fold my hands on the desk neatly. "What. Happened?" Bruiser bows his head in shame.
"The target escaped. He had backup, we weren't prepared."
My gaze darkens. "And how, may I ask, did he escape from right under your sorry noses?"
"They lit up Anders and Beckett, we had no choice but to double back."
I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to maintain my composure.
"Do you not recall the debriefing we had just this morning, Bruiser? I'd sacrifice ten men-yourself included- for his capture. And yet, somehow, you failed to complete this seemingly simple task? Despite his brutish size, Bruiser gulped. "No ma'am, I remember the debriefing. It won't happen again."
A sly smile crosses my features. "You're right, it won't." I burst through the doors of my office, whistling sharply through my fingers. The low buzz in the room dissipates. "Boys, Bruise here needs to be taught a lesson." With that, I reenter my office, Bruiser's grunts of pain are clearly audible from the common area.
The Morning of the Reapings
I roll out of bed the next morning, stripping off my grungy undershirt in exchange for a slightly-less tattered tee and jeans. I shrug on my signature leather jacket that my mother gifted me when I was fourteen, completing my look. The Reaping is no different than every other day to me, other than us having to stand in a pen like some caged animals for an hour. Some kids I don't even know will be sent away to die. Boo hoo.
As a child I had never questioned the reason my plate always had food on it, or why my parents owned a modest flat, while the vast majority of Six struggled to make ends meet.
Some nights, dad would come back with bloodstained hands, or mom would smuggle briefcases full of cash into the attic. I figured they were up to no-good, but who wasn't involved in crime? I live in District Six, afterall. It wasn't until I turned fourteen that my parents finally introduced me to the most notorious gang in the district: The Vultures. In one night, I learned that they headed an underground crime ring that was known for its moonshine and morphine, alongside other illicit substances.
I started training in hand-to-hand combat and agility, then I graduated to makeshift weaponry such as shivs and small knives. I even shot the odd firearm, although guns were few and far between. After I had grasped each concept, I combined the three into a daily routine.
Three months later, I bagged my first successful sale with a customer. I worked hard to convince my parents that I could be just as ruthless as the other gang members. Brutality came naturally to me, like air to a pair of lungs. One night my parents told me to dispose of a rival gangster. I had done so without hesitation. That's when my mother gifted me her jacket, expressing how proud she and my dad were of the person I had grown to be.
Overtime, I became a full-fledged member who was equally feared and revered. Everything was going smoothly for our little organization, until a traitor squealed to the authorities. My parents- along with half of our men- were arrested and thrown in prison without trial. A lot of our men got the firing squad, but my parents were lucky. My dad had just completed a rather lucrative deal with the Head Peacekeeper, so he and my mom were spared.. At least for now.
Act of mercy aside, we still lost a lot of good men that night. It took a few months for those of us who remained to regroup, but I was elected the leader unanimously. Since then, I've worked hard to keep the people of Six quaking at our feet.
I splash my face with the lukewarm water in the basin on my desk. It isn't too refreshing, but it wakes me up all the same. The scent of stale cigarettes and vodka lingers in my small room. My room contains a bed, desk, and a cracked vanity. It isn't much since the 'Keepers had seized most of our assets, but it's what I have.
I fumble in my pocket for my lighter, setting a cig ablaze. I enter our makeshift mess hall snagging a piece of toast on my way towards the town center. My second, Joshua, is waiting for me as I emerge from the warehouse. If there is one person who I'd actually label as trustworthy, it would be him. He has proven his loyalty time and time again, plus he's quite the looker.
"Mornin' Kat. Sleep well?" Joshua's the only one who can call me that, aside from my dad. I shrug. "As good as ever I guess." We walk to The Reaping together, along with a few of our younger recruits.
Joshua and I stand beside each other, looks of malice set upon our features. The other 18 year-olds wait a respectable distance away from us, attempting to squeeze into nooks and crannies that don't exist.
I offer Joshua a blunt, which he accepts with a grunt of gratitude. We stand, arms-crossed, awaiting the truly riveting speech that the District is gifted each year. The mayor begins his oration with a string of embellished phrases, which paint The Capitol out to be some deity.
Sometime during the speech a boy stumbles into my space. Joshua notices this and strikes the kid in the nose, causing it to gush blood. I send Josh a knowing glare. He returns it as if to say I know you could have handled him yourself. Just trying to do my job Kat. I give him one of my rare, genuine smiles. He returns it with a crooked-tooth grin.
The kid, seeming to have regained his bearings, starts to fight back. He sends a right hook into Joshua's stomach producing a large OOF from the latter. I watch the events unfold with amusement and surprise, impressed with this kid's sheer courage or stupidity. It depended on how you viewed the situation.
By now the Peacekeepers have noticed the commotion, and literally have to rip the two boys apart. "The little-" Joshua grits his teeth in anger. The boy simply glares back, unmasked fear threatening to show itself. I notice a large scar on his neck. Must be a hood himself. This kid has to learn his place though. We'll get him after the Reaping. I stare the kid dead in the eyes and make a throat-cutting gesture. His resolve crumbles, and the kid fades back into the crowd. Josh and I chuckle.
Finally the bumbling escort has waddled onto the stage, looking like an over-plucked peacock. She reaches her hand into the glass bowl, as the District waits to hear the names of the dead-kids-walking.
"Kathleen Watson!"
At some point, Joshua and I had joined hands. He lets mine go, giving me another one of those looks. Should I volunteer? I shake my head once. Joshua nods in understanding.
I sigh, not wanting to hear my name uttered again in that horrendous accent.
I begin my long walk to the stage, cigarette between my teeth. As I climb onto the stage, I take a long drag of the cig, allowing the smoke to settle before sending the district an evil leer.
"Kathleen Watson. Pleased to make your acquaintance," I announce.
The boys blanche, praying that they aren't the unlucky guy who gets stuck with the Kathleen Watson.
Titus Slitarian- 18
District 6M
The Night Before the Reapings
Somewhere in the distance, a fight breaks out. I pull my pillow over my head in an attempt to block out the poor fellow's cries of pain. As soon as the scuffle starts, it's over. Fights are such a regular occurrence that the Peacekeepers rarely ever intervene. That is, when they are gang-related issues.
I absolutely detest the lowlifes who distribute morphling. I understand that one needs to make a living, but I have seen and experienced the heartbreak that follows the loss of a loved-one to an overdose. Morphine is a silent killer. It's almost like one of those fancy graphs that the factories project. At first, you feel this rushing high that seems to diminish all your problems, but then you become reliant on the drug, ultimately becoming a shell of your former self.
At least that's what people have told me before the reaper claimed them. I've never dared test the waters. I can't let my siblings suffer anymore than they already have.
I turn over onto my side, drifting into an uneasy sleep.
The Morning of the Reapings
Morning comes like a sledgehammer beating me over the head. But it isn't a sledgehammer that is assaulting me. It's my six-year-old brother smacking me with a pillow. "Up Tie, it's Reaping Day!" I groan, rubbing the crust from my eyes. I check the clock on the wall of our shared bedroom.
"Awww J man, it's only 7:00! The Reaping isn't for three hours!" Jet just giggles, toddling away to include our sister Helena in his shenanigans. I smile dismally. Jet and Helena aren't old enough to understand the true meaning of the so-called holiday. Being six and eight respectively, they still believe that the tributes go on a vacation in The Capitol, where they are treated like kings and queens. Or at least, Jet still does.
Helena is starting to catch on, even though I've forbade them to watch the Games. I've always forced them into the spare bedroom, where they'd play until I could risk shutting the clunky television off. When the Peacekeepers made their rounds, I made sure that my siblings were sitting on the faded sofa, seemingly watching the screen. Sure, they may have caught glimpses of violence, but it has mostly fallen upon blind eyes and deaf ears, as the saying goes.
But even if Helena does know what the true purpose of The Hunger Games is, there is an obvious disconnect between her and the chosen tributes, for which I am extremely grateful. Ever since my parents died from a morphine overdose (following the death of my sister, Penelope due to a workplace accident) I've been left to care for my two younger siblings, like countless other youth in the District before me.
My parents worked decent jobs at the factory, but they were clearly expendable, as their positions were filled the day following their passing. I was left to work an entry-level job at the same factory, for a quarter the wage my parents were previously earning. I just couldn't generate enough income to feed the three remaining mouths in our family.
One night I was dragging myself home from a long day at work, when I saw a guy who was completely and utterly zonked. Nothing out of the ordinary. But this beggar had quite the sum of money in the hat beside his trembling form. I'd had no idea how he managed to pull in that much money, but one thing was certain: he had more than I did.
That night, I had fallen prey to my desperation. I approached the guy to take his profits. I reassured myself that the fellow was going to die soon anyways, and that he'd have no use for the coins but to buy more substances. I bent down to snatch his stash, when the guy grabbed onto me in some action of protecting his earnings. Acting in self defense, I stabbed the beggar with the knife I always carried.
I guess I'd hit an artery, because the guy just laid there. Dead. In a pool of his own blood. Panicking, I had sprinted away, almost forgetting to snag the coins in my hurry to hit the road.
Ever since then, I'd been working my job and looting unsuspecting stoners just to stay alive. Sometimes the scrapping was brutal, which is how I earned the long scar that runs my neck. The only guarantee was that by the next day, the bodies would never be found.
I made my way down to the kitchen some time later, where my siblings were helping themselves to the fresh loaf of bread I had purchased last night for the "special" occasion. After we had all eaten, we made our way to the reaping, Jet holding one of my hands, Helena clutching the other.
After I had found a good spot to deposit my siblings, I checked myself in. I noticed two individuals sticking out in the 18-year-old section like sore thumbs. They're Vulture Kids. High ranking too by the looks of it. As experienced in fighting as I was, I wasn't suicidal. I'd never get too close to them.
As more eighteen-year-olds fill the space, I feel myself being jostled closer towards the two hoodlums. Standing at 5'9 and weighing in at under 130 pounds, I'm not exactly a big guy. The mayor begins his tiresome speech, drawing out his sentences with embellished words. Suddenly, some idiot pushes past me, sending me right across that invisible boundary between The Vulture kids and the rest of us.
Before I know what's happening, one of the goons nails me in the schnoz. So he's second in charge… She must be the head honcho.He looks towards the dark-skinned girl, who could be quite pretty if she wasn't you know.. the leader of a freaking gang. And if I was into girls. I'm about to tuck my tail in between my legs and run, when that spontaneous confidence that caused me to mug that beggar last year kicks in. Maybe it's because I was angry, or maybe it was because they could very well have been the ones to sell my parents that morphine. I think the last option was the right one.
The next thing I know, I've landed a heavy blow to the guy's stomach. I can't say it didn't feel good. In fact, it felt very, very good. Too bad I had to do that though, the guys a looker. Before I know it, the Peacekeepers have us at opposite ends of the reaping pen. That leader girl slides her finger across her throat in a gesture that screams: you're dead kid. By this point, the Peacekeepers have released me and I'm able to become invisible once more. I'll have to lay low for a while. What am I going to tell Jet and Helena?
I hadn't even noticed the escort drawing a name from the reaping bowl. I hear a name called out, but I don't start to worry until I see who's been called. It's the head honcho and she doesn't look one bit frightened. It isn't until she's mounted the stage, and the boy's name has been called that I start to have a complete mental break.
My heart falls to the depths of my chest as my name escapes the lips of the escort. I want to scream, beg, cry, and run as far as I can to escape what is most certainly inescapable death. Of course after all the killing and stealing I've done to keep myself and my siblings alive would come back to me. I can't let them see my thoughts. I allow myself to regain my composure and walk to the stage before me. When I'm there and am gazing at the faces before me, the residents of my district. Some my friends, others whose friends have met my blade in a selfish attempt to survive. Finally my eyes land on Jet and Helena, and all regrets and thoughts of my death subside. I have killed before so me and them can live, I will do it again.
As I'm asked to shake hands with this Kathleen chick, I'm not sure I have a splash of color left on my face.
A/N District Six is FINALLY out. What did you guys think of the little interaction during The Reapings? Did you like the overlap? Make sure to bake a chocolate cookie for wiifan2002 and tri96380 who submitted these lovely tributes (That reaction was all tri's by the way!). Until next time!
Here are the character descriptions:
Kathleen: Dark Skin, long black hair, brown eyes, scars across both arm's, height is 5'2 and her weight is 130.
Titus: 5'9 underweight, but not as bad as most youths of district 6. Short black hair in a side fringe usually. Brown eyes. His most distinguishing feature is scar that runs down his neck from a fight on one of his late night "adventures" (Discussed in back story). His hands are also particularly rough.