Wednesday, 3rd week of November, 73rd Winter Anno Nix
Thom, pt. 1:
She arrives on the thirty-sixth lashing, but the thirty-sixth lashing never comes. From his vantage point between two powder barrels, Thom can see all too clearly the frayed ends of his hap-dash plan unraveling with alarming speed.
It had been deceivingly simple, really. All of it. You see, harsh winters in District 12 pointed to one thing: junior listings for the mines.
Thom didn't care if it meant that he would be assigned a dead man's helmet or wear overalls arthritic with the memory of older, colder bones. If he felt the frozen consciousness of their former owner creeping into his peripheral, he'd welcome it as a far friendlier soul than the ones he was used to dealing with, not excluding himself.
Thom had the familiar hung-man quality leftover from his youth, days spent sitting up with dead bodies that no longer resembled loved ones and hours sitting outside mine entrances, time and time again, waiting devoid of expectations for a father or a brother to return. He remembers what did return, and that perhaps haunts him more than the memory of what didn't. One is never prepared, at any age, to retrieve the half-blown head of his father. He's had sad eyes and a scruff ever since.
It's this look that the Town girls, gaggled together in tight clusters and blushing like redbuds, call ruggedly Seam. For some of Thom's acquaintances, it's enough to secure a warm body for the night – a meager gain from all the losses. The Seam harlots recognize it as a fast coin, that familiar face of prey left pinned and helpless in their grief. Thom only flies it as a flag of patriotism: District 12, where you can model your misery like so many Capitol mannequins. Perhaps they'll come out to paint him sometime.
Yet as he stands in the slowly coiling line of seven- and eighteen-year olds, his fate begins to take a more tangible, touchable form: that drafting list with every slot a promised salary and every name a grave. But the specifics of his ensuing life hold no interest for him, only the promise of the near future.
This much he knows: he will sign that drafting list and take the registration receipt, slide it to the district recordkeeper. He will present his rickety signature, full of crossed T's and sharp M's like a broken picket fence, and watch as the Capitol attendant highlights his name with effervescent ink and draws a straight, clean line through RESIDENCE: Community Home. He will watch his first house assignment being jot down in careful, crunched numbers, and he will try to ignore the empty ache that smells just like death emanating from the house as much as he will try to forget the empty ache that is just himself, alone in youth. This much he knows.
What he does not know, nor foresee, is that even as he readies to sign his life away until the dark earth covers him, the Capitol takes one more thing away from him: his best friend. It is a silent realization by both parties. The peacekeepers are loud enough, yelling and shoving and beating and slapping and What-are-you-gonna-do-now-Seam-scum? And in one sacred moment, Gale lifts his bloodied face to the mines and Thom can see the ending in his eyes.
They acknowledge each other, as friends do, with a nod on Thom's part and a raise of the chin on Gale's, and though not one of them says a word, Thom feels instinctively that it is his brotherly duty to bear witness to his pain, to see him through to the end. That is a rare and unusual honor in District 12.
So, Thom falls in line with the shambolic crowd trailing the Peacekeepers and their captured criminal. With this, he knows one more thing: he will watch until the end. He will not interfere; a man's fate is his own. When it is done, he will carry Gale's body home to his family. That much he is prepared to do.
He lingers in the fringes of the crowd, away from the current of tension trembling through the mob. A black-eyed man with ashen hair nails a stiff turkey into the gnarled wood of the whipping post and listens cynically to Cray's drunken defense of the victim. Thom resists the wave of unrest that surfs the crowd when a shiny Capitol blade glimmers against Cray's neck.
He grits his teeth and counts resolutely, one…two…three, as nine hooks bite hungrily into dark, muscled back.
Ten…eleven…twelve.
He bids goodbye to the old regime bleeding out onto the cobblestones.
Twenty-two…twenty-three.
He breathes in relief when Gale's body slumps limply against the notched wooden post.
Thirty-four…thirty-five…thirty-
"STOP! Stop, you'll kill him, you – STOP!"
And there she is. The girl who wrecks all his plans. He has only ever known her as an orbiting entity of hope, that bright, dashing feeling that strikes you so quick so sound in every soft part of your being – it's no wonder Gale has guarded her like a Reaping pardon-card. She embodies everything decent in Panem: beauty, endurance, perseverance, pride, loyalty. And courage, that blind, foolish urge that brings him to the present predicament.
He considers walking away, because he doesn't think he has the resolve to witness something as pure as Katniss Everdeen being crushed and smothered under so much hate. His back is turned, his mind made up, his boots chewing icy slush when the hammer cocks tick and the gun spits tock and the crowd speaks stop.
And slowly, slowly, now, Thom bears witness to a different kind of pain then he had anticipated. It is a communal pain, one shared through the visceral emotions of Purnia Meadowfrey's mutinous cries, her neighbor's upraised fist, proud and angry, the first rock flying from a corner of the snowy square. Peacekeepers staggering back as the crowd rushes forward, someone shoving a brick shard in his hand sweeping him towards the swirl of turmoil and strife.
There is a dreamy quality to the chaos around him – perhaps because he has dreamed of this day, this particular scene, these bodies pulling him into the lawless undercurrent and the weight of this sharp shard biting his hand as his arm draws back, circling closer and closer to the pristine uniforms of his tormenters…
Until, with a hypnic jerk he is brought back to reality at the sight of Katniss in his peripheral, stirring on the frozen ground oblivious to the terror about her. A blonde boy grapples his way through the crowd to kneel by her side and help her up, but she pushes him away, murmuring something under her breath, shaking her head weakly.
Gripping the brick once more in his hand, he considers the sweet taste of rebellion before turning roughly against the tide, shouldering his way to the looming whipping post and its bleeding disciples.
Katniss is on her knees now, fingers trembling with something reminiscent of pain or shock or wasted adrenaline as she scrabbles at the tight knots securing Gale's wrists to the pillar. She hasn't registered that Thom is by her side – she hasn't registered anything besides Gale's immediate proximity, so he knocks her hands away and gestures to the stocky Townie to hold her back as he saws through the rope with the brick mortar's edge. Katniss shrugs away the hands on her shoulders and shoves the Townie's elbows towards Gale.
Her voice is strained and low, "Help him. I'm fine. Help him."
The brick shard gnaws hungrily at the frayed rope, but not ravenously enough. A severe-faced Peacekeeper notices their activity and strides towards them, away from the melee. His hand goes to the metal baton at his waist. His voice is sharp and clanging.
"Hey, get away from there. You can't – "
The warning is cut short when a red-haired Peacekeeper – a high-ranking officer with fire-bright hair, comes up behind his comrade and whacks the back of his head with a heavy cudgel. Momentarily stunned, the Peacekeeper staggers forward, allowing his attacker to reach around his shoulder and gouge two fingers into a pressure point. The officer falls to the ground. Red-head wastes no time in unsheathing the Capitol-issued switchblade at his belt and tossing it to Thom.
"Best not let them see you with that, so be quick about it. I'll find it in a powder barrel outside the Hob."
Thom nods at him before he is swallowed once more by the crowd. The knife is polished and wicked and smiles merrily as it cuts the rope. Soon Thom is uncoiling the cord from about Gale's wrists. Katniss lurches forward to catch his body, breathing Gale, Gale, Gale as if the world had forgotten his name. Thom hooks a hand under Gale's arm and eases him down.
"How are we gonna get him out of here?" The blonde boy glances worriedly around at the violence erupting throughout the square.
"You got a jacket?" Thom inquires, eyeing the boy's thin shirt with sleeves pushed past his forearms.
His blonde hair falls in his eyes as he shakes his head. Thom shrugs and sheds his coal-crusted coat, laying it on the ground beside Katniss' forgotten leather.
"We'll take him on this," Thom indicates the row of jackets, "'less you wanna find a board or some such."
Judging from the alarm sputtering behind his blue eyes, the boy does not intend to find a board, or even "some such", amongst the flying rubble and bellows and batons. He only nods briefly and looks to Thom for instructions.
"You boys needin' some help?"
Bristel stands tall and resolute, even while blood makes the hem of her dress hang heavy and wet. Her younger sister, Leevy, kneels to help Katniss to her feet, gripping her shoulders protectively as she eyes the ruby stains growing fresh-hot on her friend's side. The girls grew up near the Everdeens, up until their father's arthritic condition moved them closer to his new job at the mule shed. With family funds tight, Bristel hitched a widower last summer when she aged out of the reaping, a year above Thom and Gale's pool. Now she and her husband live two shanties down from the Hawthornes.
"You willin' to tow?
"Me and my husband can take the front." With grey eyes gleaming, she pinches her fingers together and whistles shrilly into the mob. An older man, many years her elder, looks up from a group of miners attempting to build a barrel blockade and jogs over.
He tugs his cap respectfully to Thom and the Townie, "Afternoon, boys. You'll be needing our help then?"
"We'll lay him over the jackets, boost him with the sleeves." Thom points to the man's humped shoulder, "He ain't heavy, but you sure you can carry with that?"
The man grins, "Boy, I been carryin' with this befores you were born. Let me prove myself."
"So long as we get 'im to the Everdeens, that'll be proof enough for me. Katniss, you willin' to lead?"
Looking behind him as the others drag Gale over to the jackets, Thom finds Leevy holding snow to Katniss' side and looking worriedly into her eyes. The fussing embarrasses Katniss even though she and Leevy go to school together. Nevertheless, Katniss looks too dazed to refuse her attentions, allowing Leevy to turn her head this way and that as she examines the deep cut over one eyebrow and the dark bruises blooming at her temple.
"She hit her head so hard, she's got a proper coal cluster growing on the back. She's bleeding heavy from the bullet, too."
"You can walk?" Thom asks bluntly.
Katniss pulls away from Leevy's arms and straightens a little wearily. "I'm fine."
Thom thinks, This, this is what a woman ought to be, but of course, Katniss is only fifteen – a woman enough for the Seam, but still so little in the world that it smarts a good deal. So, he only turns, tucks Darius' knife into his belt, and picks up the sleeve across from the blonde boy, behind Bristel and her husband.
"Leevy," he barks, "on your way home, stop by and let Hazelle know, will you?"
She bows her head dutifully and starts towards the shops until Katniss reaches for her arm frantically.
"The kids," she rasps, "They're still… school will be out soon. Will you wait for them and walk them home?"
Leevy reassures her and Thom is ashamed he hadn't thought of them before now. They've got no business wandering into the middle of a riot unprotected. It's dangerous enough for two Seam kids to be strolling around Town alone.
Leevy turns to leave when Katniss calls, "And Leevy? Don't let them see. Please."
Leevy shakes her head, "I'll walk 'em the long way. Promise. I'll send Hazelle and Prim over as soon as possible and stay with the kids myself."
And then she is off.
It's about time we are, too, Thom thinks, dissecting the corners of their path, scrutinizing the flashes of fire grenades that peek from behind angles and overhangs.
"Let's go," he grits, "Bristel, you know the way?"
"Took my brother there last year when he nearly died of measles. I reckon I can find it again."
Slowly, tenderly, they make their way, Gale swaying between them and Katniss stumbling painfully behind.
Nearing the black-smoke-burnt-crisp walls of the Hob, the blonde boy looks generously at Thom and extends a pale hand in his direction.
"Peeta, by the way."
Thom shoves his rough, sooty hand into his and crushes it.
"From the bakery, right?" he asks.
Peeta looks surprised at the recognition, "That's right. How did you –"
"Watch yer back!"
With an honest aim, Thom tosses the Capitol blade into a barrel outside the Hob entrance and arranges his mouth into a friendly grimace, stepping over trash scattered on the gravel path.
"Thom. Welcome to the neighborhood."
With those words, Thom's heart gives a little jolt at the sudden silence that surrounds them. As much as the square was harsh and wild and vicious, the Seam is grey and hushed and still. And then the gunshots sing.
Overproof.
A/N –
In regards to junior listings for the mines, I imagine that the regular listings would be offered after the conclusion of the year's Hunger Games. It's important for the Games to be the focus of every citizen during their airing. Starting such a labor-intensive job would leave the workers too exhausted to pay much attention to the Games. Despite being 18 at some point before their last reaping, reaping-age boys would not be considered unless the alternative outcome meant a sudden drop in overall reaping-age children. In the case of a bad winter, the Capitol reasons that more children will survive given that someone in their family has a stipend with which to buy food, fuel, and warm clothes. Regardless of any mine related deaths, the number of child deaths as a result of famine or cold will far outweigh any child workers subsequently caught in a mine collapse, and even then, their siblings would hypothetically be able to live on their compensation money until the next reaping.
Thom being labeled 'good looking' by the Town girls is a nod to something I sensed while reading the books. Both Peeta and Katniss mention Gale's handsomeness and reputation as something deduced from the school girls' gossip. Yet, given Katniss' account of the Seam's preoccupation with food and survival, I personally doubt the Seam girls were the ones gossiping in the school bathrooms and halls about hot boys and sexcapades. This leaves only the opinions of the Town girls who have been raised to perceive all Seam boys immoral and up to no good, just as their female counterparts are branded wild and overly promiscuous. Note that Peeta and his brothers are only ever labeled as strong and athletic – the Town girls never mention the older Mellark boys and their romantic escapades, despite probably knowing them even better than a Seam boy like Gale. I'm led to believe that Seam men are very much the culprit of over-sexualization, similar to the plight of the African American men in white society. Anyway, this is just my personal opinion, and an explanation at what I was trying to convey. I'm expanding on these themes within my own story.
I love Hazelle's name because it is a combination of both a mining term and a reference to nature, two common themes in the Seam community. I'm partial towards the mining term, Hazle, because it means "a tough mixture of sandstone and shale", which I believe is very reflective of her character (she's one tough woman!). Hazelle is simply a more feminine spelling.
"A hypnic jerk, hypnagogic jerk, sleep start, sleep twitch or night start is an involuntary twitch which occurs just as a person is beginning to fall asleep, often causing them to awaken suddenly for a moment." (Wikipedia)
Bristel is a common example of a Seam girl aged out of reaping, but not eligible to work in the coal mines (apart from "womanly jobs" such as watering the mules or sorting slate from the coal haul). The Capitol would not allow women to mine underground because of the potential health implications that might affect their bearing/raising children for the reaping pool. Therefore, Seam women were restricted to two options once they survive the 'bowl': marry/bear children and rely on a husband's stipend, or prostitution, whereas Town girls were given a little more leeway in that they could run shops and businesses apart from their spouses, such as Rooba the butcher. Some Seam women, like Greasy Sae or Ripper, have their own enterprises, but not all women can live to sixty years old by selling stews made of mice meat, pig entrails and tree bark. In short, an 18 (or younger) year old marrying someone twice or thrice her age is not surprising at all, rather deemed a clever business transaction that satisfies many needs at once.
Finally, I know Purnia is a Peacekeeper in cannon. However, I've decided to assign the job of peacekeeping a male-only career, just to play on the social injustice and inequality themes.
Much love,
theory of mice