A/N: Hi! I'm cross-posting Wreckage from Ao3 :) It's already finished there and you can find me at the same username to view the entire story. I'll be posting 2-3 times a week until completed on FFN and, in the meantime, I'm working on both a prequel and sequel fic! It's been a long time since I've posted on FFN, so please let me know if there's anything I can improve in terms of formatting/posting/etc.
Thank you for joining me for this ride!
Amber Clark has never been known for her good luck. She reminds herself of this simple fact as she wedges her spiked boots into the thick bark of the tree she climbs. It's common for accidents to happen here, deep in the woods outside of District Seven. The risk is amplified at times like this, when the end of the summer workday leaves the body's limbs sore and the mind cloudy with exhaustion.
She balances on a branch, embracing the moments above ground as she ties her knots. The forest smells of sap, the birds chirp in the distance, and the breeze cools her skin. She looks down, admiring how even the largest of the lumberjacks look so small from this high up. She receives her cue, so she leaps and propels to the base of the tree, landing lightly on her feet.
"Smooth as always," A lumberjack compliments her work. He pats her shoulder pridefully as he speaks. For a District Seven crew, one person's success is everybody's.
"A true pro!" another agrees. They're right. By this point, Amber is an expert. She has done the same job since she was twelve, making this her fifth year working in the forest. The complicated part comes with the increasing daily quota the Peacekeepers have been enforcing. They say that the quota is based on the demand from other districts and the Capitol, although this is a lackluster excuse. Everyone can see the excess lumber piling up in the yards. District Seven has not been moving its goods, and they haven't been receiving many either.
Conditions have never been stellar for the District, at least not in Amber's lifetime, but things seem to be at a new low. It began two years ago, with the 74th Hunger Games. It seemed like every other Game at first: brutal, gory, and frustrating to watch. District Seven had sent two children, a boy and a girl, just like the other eleven districts of Panem. Like every year, everyone hopes that one of them returns. Neither made it past the first day of the Games.
As the Games went on, things became even more unusual. They yielded two victors for the first time ever, both from District Twelve. They also produced something else. Something even odder. The Mockingjay: A symbol that ignited sparks of rebellion. Rumor has it that Districts Eight and Eleven were in full revolt at different points that winter, but their rebellions were squashed. District Seven became restless itself, but the Peacekeepers doubled in numbers and negated any opportunity for gathering.
The next year, the 75th Hunger Games happened. A year in which Amber and her loved ones were saved from the Reaping Bowl because tributes were selected from living victors. Those games were twelve months ago and ended under mysterious circumstances that are still unexplained. The Mamemakers said that one of the remaining tributes accidentally electrocuted the whole arena, killing almost everyone. Weeks later, Enobaria was revealed to be alive and was crowned the victor. Nobody seems to believe this story, but a more plausible explanation is yet to appear.
More rebellious sparks began to fly in the wake of these Games, but Peacekeepers continued to stomp out the flames. The Capitol destroyed all of District Twelve as a warning to the other eleven: If you want to play unsanctioned games, face genocide. Amber remembers that night well. Peacekeepers pulled people from their homes and forced them to the town square. Amber squeezed her eyes shut at the mandatory viewing of the heavily edited footage of District Twelve. The music, the fire, the terror. Accused rebel leaders from Seven being plucked from the crowd and executed in front of all. No trial, only death. The hardest winter of her lifetime followed suit. They couldn't even begin to keep up with the burials.
All that brings her to tomorrow: The 76th Reaping. The Capitol will be fixated on getting things back on track this year. It gives Amber a helpless feeling, but she can't afford to think about that right now. She pushes the thoughts of what used to be and what will be away. If she wants to survive today, she needs to focus on her knotwork now.
Amber observes her crew's final tree of the day with pride as it cracks against the dirt. A bird flies from one of the top branches to another nearby tree. A mockingjay. Amber loves to point out the wildlife, but she knows it's best to admire this one silently.
The tram ride back home to District Seven consists of an overpacked car that is always quiet, especially on the eve of a Reaping. Death looms in the air and everyone can sense it.
Amber's older brother waits for her at the gates of the station. The dusk sky leaves just his silhouette distinguishable. "Weston!" She greets him, a small skip added to her step.
"Hi," Weston says, his usual response. He smiles, but Amber can see the exhaustion in his eyes. They don't bother to small talk. Instead, Amber watches the way Weston carries himself. Being a lumberjack has made him tense and muscular, but his features are still delicate in their own way. Like her, he has eyes that are too large for his face and colored the shade of honey. His blond hair is curly and masked by a layer of dirt. They drag their tired legs up the wooden steps of their home and through the slanted door. Weston tightens the screws on the hinges every couple of months, but they refuse to stick.
Ivy, Amber's twin sister, is asleep on the couch when they enter. She is already bathed after a long day of working at the mill. Amber feels a pang at the sight of her. It brings back the countless nightmares of her sister's name coming out of the Reaping's bowl.
"You're thinking too much," Weston scolds the girl. He doesn't have to ask what about.
"Sorry." Amber turns her eyes down.
"Don't be," Weston's tone becomes gentler. "I know things are hard, but they are out of our hands at this point." He pauses. "I just wish you didn't have to take out the tesserae."
"We have to eat." Amber shrugs. "It's just how it is."
"Are you two just getting home?" Ivy sits up from the couch, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her short hair leaves a damp mark on the couch cushion.
"Just a moment ago," Amber answers.
"Holding you this late the day before the Reaping? How heartless," She grumbles, taking a seat at the table. The chair wobbles as she scoots it in. She had made dinner, which Amber is grateful for.
"They're not paid to show heart," Weston says sternly. He scoops a bowl of soup from the pot and hands it to Amber. "You have to get used to it."
"They're such jerks, though, and we're expected just to lay down and take it," Ivy huffs before continuing on her rant, "At the mill today there was another accident. A twelve-year-old boy's third week on the job, and now if he gets drawn tomorrow, he'll be three fingers down from all his competitors."
Weston scowls. "That boy should be grateful that he's only missing fingers and not his life."
"Maybe him dying there would've been better than him dying at the hands of whatever monster tributes volunteer this year," Ivy grumbles under her breath.
"Ivy," Weston glares at her. His voice became quiet to ensure no other ears outside of the table could hear it. Not that anyone else was even there to listen. "Drop it. The Mockingjay was shot down and this is what is left. Life always moves on, and so you need to as well." He speaks from experience. Amber knows Weston had been rooting for the Mockingjay, but he knew his sisters needed him, and being involved has been a death sentence from the start.
Ivy narrows her eyes, ready to snarl back, but Amber cuts them off. She can't stand any more of the bickering. "One of my crewmates said they're beginning work in Victor's Village," she says. "I wonder what repairs could be done to houses that must already be so perfect."
"I heard they were purging all of the stuff left behind by the previous-uh-tenants," Ivy leans into the gossip, meaning Amber has picked a good distraction. "And that the homes are all trashed. Plenty of nice booze salvaged though. Of course, it was all immediately bought up by the Peacekeepers. Said they'd pay well as long as their boss doesn't find out."
Weston rolls his eyes. If the gossip had made it back to their dining room table, how could it not flow through Peacekeeper ranks? The Peacekeepers were surely scammed. "Trashed makes sense. All victors are alcoholics."
"Drugs from the Capitol too, I hear. Painkillers." Ivy scrunches her face.
"How sad," Amber hums. Drugs of that nature, luckily, weren't much of an issue for the townspeople of District Seven. They're much less affordable than alcohol and gambling. Every once in a while, you'd see someone strung out on the more intense stuff. They never lived long. "I wonder how many homes are considered destroyed."
"Dunno," Ivy ponders it. "How many have ever even been lived in to begin with?"
Amber begins to count on her fingers, but Weston answers for her. "The Seven from Seven." That was right. That phrase had been sung by Hunger Games commentators following Johanna Mason's win. That had been a good year. Johanna came back from the Hunger Games with rations called parcel packages that carried the district through the winter. Still, the memory feels sad. Johanna was rarely spotted in public after her win and her family members kept disappearing. It was clear she was suffering, even in that pretty house in Victor's Village.
After dinner, Amber bathed and sat on the end of her bed. Ivy sits behind her, knotting her sister's wild hair into two braids. "Why do you even care what your hair looks like tomorrow anyways?" Ivy asks.
"Maybe I want to look pretty in case I end up on stage," Amber says. She leans her damp head back as Ivy pulls at the strands. It's heavy on her head, blonde, and often more frizzy than it is curly.
"But you're not getting called," Ivy scowls. "So don't even joke about it."
"Okay," Amber submits, not pushing Ivy's nerves any further.
"And I'm not getting called either," Ivy continues, although mostly to herself. She tightens the elastic around the ends of Amber's hair. She stands and circles in front of Amber. "but say in some hypothetical world we do," Ivy trails off and sucks in a deep breath.
"I remember." Amber already knows the rest of Ivy's thought, which saves Ivy from having to say it aloud. The two girls have been together since before they were even born. Ivy could be hard-shelled, but she's still Amber's closest friend, making it easy to predict her. She recalls the pact they had made after the 74th Reaping. One they hadn't even considered until they saw two other sisters experiencing the pain of the Reaping. It's a simple promise. They are to let fate decide if one of them will be chosen. Neither will intervene for the other by volunteering.
"Good," Ivy seems to deflate, sitting on her own bed. "Just two more of these left, then we will be free. Let's just get it over with." She turns off the oil lamp that lit the room.
Sleep doesn't come easy so Amber climbs out of her bed. As she does, she's careful with her steps so Ivy doesn't wake. She slips onto the porch of their small home. The summer air is warm and sweet, bringing her in like a hug. Being out here is technically breaking curfew, but what the Peacekeepers don't know can't hurt anyone. She leans against the wooden railing, careful not to apply so much pressure that it might snap. She draws her fingers across the carving in the post. E + N. The initials of her parents. They've been gone for almost six years now, but they still feel like ghosts here. Watching over her and her siblings. Giving protection and strength. She wished they were here now.