District Five & Six Non-Reapings
Electra Eirrisse, 18, District Five
Electra leaned against the back of the chair behind the counter of her mother's convenience store, tucked away in a small corner behind the massive Romulus Nuclear Power Plant. Even though its monstrous cooling towers cast shadows over the little store, a beam of warm light snuck through the corner of the huge window and fell on her hand, basking it and the edge of the cashier's counter in welcome light.
She watched Christo pace on the tile floor, from the glass door with its bell to the rack of bagged snacks and then back to the door in his well-worn path. If she really squinted, she could almost see a trail of scratches from the uncountable times he'd come to her after work.
"Everything's a mess," he sighed, shoulders hunched over in dejected humiliation. He wrung his hands so tightly that she winced. "At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if I walked into the office tomorrow just to see an effin' termination notice or whatever bull they do."
She nodded with empathy, though she was glad for her own job. From what she'd heard, working in the plants was boring at best and soul-sucking at worst. The Capitol and its… imperfect systems at fault, once again.
Of course, she'd never say that out loud, not in loyal District Five.
"W-Well," she said instead. "It s-sounds like it was all just b-bad timing. I d-don't think he's that mad at you." She tried to hold her voice steady, but as always, it was to no avail. She cringed at herself. He was her friend; he deserved better than her stuttering speech.
He looked sideways at her, a faint twinkle of nervous hope in his eye. "You think so?"
She nodded. No talking, no stutter.
"I hope so. I can't lose this job."
Almost reluctantly, she allowed herself to grin and wink. "W-We'll always have a… j-job for you here."
The words flowed choppily; she immediately wished she could take them back, but he rubbed his head and smiled for the first time that day.
"Your mom probably doesn't need my clumsy self around here." He chuckled, looking around the convenience store and its three short aisles before his eyes landed on the clock on the wall. "Oh, gosh—I've gone on for way too long."
"N-No! It's f-fine!" She shook her head, horrified that he might actually think he was bothering her with his problems. In fact, something about hearing his problems almost made her feel as if they were both in it together, unified in a way that District Five had never been since the Purges of 169, and it felt oddly nice. Unusual, but nice, much like the sunbeam.
"Then let's talk about you! Are you doing ok? Things going alright with your mom?"
"I-I…" She froze. The sunbeam on her hand suddenly didn't feel so warm anymore. Usually, Christo had to leave before he had much of a chance to ask about her life—a fact for which she was secretly glad—but now that he'd asked… Do I tell him? He's looking at me and I don't know what to say and ahh…
Her heart screamed "yes." It was an opportunity, a chance to invite him into her life and her problems, a chance to share her burdens with someone, a chance to see someone's empathetic smile instead of giving them to others like she always did. He means well. He really cares. We're friends, right?
Yet no matter how hard she tried to force the words out, she couldn't even manage a pitiful, stutter-filled "C-Could be doing b-better." The words felt stuck in her throat, held captive by the blaring sirens in her head—keep it to yourself, it's safer that way, you'll stay strong enough to care for him—
"Electra? Is everything okay?"
"I'm g-good, uh—"
Din-gla-ling!
The bell dangling from the door rang as a woman in dirty overalls—a power plant worker—entered the store, rescuing Electra from her conundrum. Christo's face fell—I'm sorry, she pleaded silently, I wish I could talk, I wish I was better at this—but he nodded.
"I'll see you soon, okay?" he said, heading out the door.
She beamed at him, hoping that it would compensate for her wordlessness, that he would get the message that she wasn't trying to be cold or mean, that she just wasn't good at… Talking? Answering questions?
No. Vulnerability.
She pushed the thought aside as she bagged a couple of snacks for the power plant worker, and she wondered about the woman in front of her and her story. Did this woman have a hard life? The dead look in her eyes suggested so. Perhaps the people of the district would have happier lives if they had self-governing power, away from the tyranny of the Capitol.
Of course, Electra would never admit that to anyone. She barely admitted it to herself.
Soon after the worker left, the clock struck three—the end of her shift. Once she saw the next employee coming out from the back room, she gave the guy a smile, leapt up from her chair, and hurried out the back, Christo's "Electra? Are you okay?" ringing in her ears. On days like this… it was easier to just keep silent, so she kept her head down all the way to the nearby youth shelter where she volunteered.
The moment she stepped into the play room, a little boy ran over, holding a crayon-covered paper in his hands.
"Electra!"
"Abner!" She exclaimed it before she realized what she was saying, but even after she noticed, it didn't bother her that she was being not-quiet, for once. "What's the p-picture of?"
In his excitement, he waved it in her face, so fast she could barely make out what was on it. "It's you!"
"M-Me?" she said, eyes wide in pleased amusement. "Why me?"
"You're my favorite! You never take my toys."
She ruffled his hair with a friendly pat on the head. "Remember to s-share, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah." He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him. "Come with me!"
As he led her through the room of kids, she felt the weight fall off her shoulders with every laugh she heard. Kids didn't judge. That was enough for this room of otherwise homeless kids to feel more like home than anywhere else.
Kiran Malhotra, 15, District Five
Lunch, in the artificially-lit cafeteria in one of District Five's schools. Kids huddled around tables filled the room with chatter that echoed off the hard floors and concrete walls until every individual conversation coalesced into a roar that made it hard to hear anyone from even the next table over.
Of course, not a single conversation involved Kiran, his back against the wall in a dim corner of the room. No one paid attention to the scrawny, bony boy; not a single word drifted his way; not a single glance wandered towards him. But that was fine. The lack of attention was mutual.
Who needs attention anyway? Not me. Not at all.
He absent-mindedly kicked at the leg of the table, resting his head on his hands and staring off into the distance. Though physically present, he (basically) ignored the whole lot of them.
Though if Hahn were here…
A normally repressed smile crept onto his face as he thought about the protagonist of the story he was writing. Well… the story he wanted to eventually write, if he ever stopped dreaming up cloudy ideas and started putting words on paper.
Hahn wouldn't be ignored, not with his superhero alter-ego, the Positron. He would be strong, impossible to ignore wherever he went, almost like the Peacekeepers that commanded fear throughout the District. But also not like the Peacekeepers, because no one liked Peacekeepers. Peacekeepers were tolerated, not liked, and if Hahn were like that…
Whoops, that hit a little too close to home.
Scrap that—maybe Hahn could start off unliked, but then he could earn the respect of all? He mentally swept off every previous idea into the imaginary dumpster; this idea was new. So maybe…
"Hey! Kiran!"
He jolted and blinked, quickly setting his face into a scowl as he cursed under his breath. "What do you want, Jeggings?"
Sylvester Jennings rolled his sleep-deprived eyes at the name and set his backpack down next to Kiran. "What a wonderful day, huh?"
"Shut up, twit."
"Must be a good day," the younger boy teased. "Did I just see you smile? Maybe it was my imagination…"
He glared. "Your effin' eyes saw effin' nothing."
"What were you smiling about?"
"I wasn't smiling."
"Hmm… I don't know, chief."
"Shut the f— — up. I don't f— — smile."
"Sure?"
"Duh, Jeggings."
Of course Kiran hadn't been smiling. Kiran Malhotra didn't smile. Kiran Malhotra was tough and intense, and he definitely did not daydream about characters, not in a million light years or effin' quantum whatever-the-blecks. He tried to make his frown even frownier—that would prove his un-smiley-ness for sure.
Sylvester snorted. "Sure, sure."
"Stupid freshie brat," he muttered, even though he was only a year older. "Why do you look like you fell into a nuclear reactor?"
A laugh. A fricken' laugh. "What's that even supposed to mean?"
"Your ugly face looks paler than… than…" He fumbled, trying to find something to finish his sentence. "Than… a really white piece of paper… or a lightbulb… or something like that."
"I was up late last night on a project," Sylvester said, the corner of his mouth curled up in an amused grin. "Thanks for asking."
"Shut your dirty—"
But Sylvester wasn't listening. He happily munched on a sandwich from his bag, completely unbothered, which put an even-frownier frown on Kiran's face. If he couldn't even get a freshie to take him seriously…
A bell rang, marking the end of lunch. Sylvester sighed. "I have a test next period…"
"No one cares," he drawled, already beginning to ignore him, or at least try to ignore him by staring deeply at the wall.
Sylvester snickered. "See you later!"
"F— — you too, Jeggings."
What an annoying kid. Stupid kid—not his friend, not at all by any stretch of anyone's effin' imagination. Friends? Who needed friends? All the same, he involuntarily sighed and broke his super cool and intense gaze at the wall to follow the boy as he snaked his stupid freshie way through the crowd.
Once the teachers began yelling for the students to hurry up, he bowed his head and followed suit. Haphazardly, he slung his bag around his shoulder and marched towards his next class, intentionally brushing past a random guy twice his size and shoving him aside to barrel through a doorway. The guy seemed to be an athlete. Even better.
"Ah!" the guy cried, surprised. His binder clattered to the ground, spilling papers everywhere. "What do you think you're—"
"F— — you," he smirked, basking in the guy's incensed glare. For once, here he was, not pitied, not overlooked, not disregarded, but… cool? "Wanna fight?"
"Bruh, come on!"
"Let's go. Right now."
"You wanna go?"
"Try me. I could take on your chicken-leg arms any day of the week." He followed his words up with an exaggerated spit for that intense effect.
"You're gonna— Oh… it's you…" The guy started, but the anger was gone in a flash, immediately doused by scornful recognition faster than a set of control rods could shut down one of Five's nuclear reactors. Smoothly, he gathered his papers off the floor, gave Kiran one last side glace, and walked off without a second look, as if Kiran didn't even deserve the guy's anger.
Kiran called after him. "Hey! You can shove it up your…"
His voice trailed off; the guy was long gone. Suddenly, he noticed the looks all around him from his passing classmates. Their gazes were fleeting, like a nanoscopic quantum of time in the grand scheme of his day, yet each one lingered on him like a metamaterial cloak long after the source disappeared down the hall or round a corner, invisible yet undeniably tangible.
He could almost hear their thoughts— There's Kiran, the pathetic stick of a boy. Poor kid. It's honestly kinda funny. Every hair on his arms bristled as his glares landed without effect. It was hard to be intimidating when the most anyone gave him was effin' pity.
Hahn wouldn't ever end up like this. No one would dare pity him.
He straightened his shoulders until they were almost exaggeratedly square and rumbled off to class. Someday, he'd get there, to be more like Hahn, strong, respected… not this pathetic stick of a… something super pathetic.
Laforza Wheeler, 17, District Six
The relentless whirring of engines that filled her ears from morning to night. The inescapable stench of oil and smoke that suffocated her. The sludgy grime on her hands that never seemed to fully wash off, even with repeated scrubbings in hot water and soap. Such was standard for the average factory worker in District Six, a life lived under polluted skies and smothering subjugation.
Laforza hated it all.
As she filled cans with some black sludge that did who-knows-what for Capitol hovercraft, she unwittingly glared at the clock, just in time to see it tick past seven. Through the dirty, glass-covered cracks in the ceiling the Capitol had the audacity to call windows, the sun's rays had come and gone, and as always, she had spent nearly all of it trapped in the stuffy factory.
The stupid machine sputtered to a stop, so she gave it a good kick, further denting the "metal sheet" that now looked neither shiny as metal nor smooth as sheet due to disrepair. Though it groaned with worrying volume, the kick must've rattled something correctly because sludge poured back out of the nozzle, half into the can and half onto the floor, where it splattered onto her clothes.
Stupid effin'—
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
Her supervisor called from behind. His voice was worn, as everyone was at this point in the day, yet she bristled at his tone.
She bit her lip and shot him a glare. "Taking a shower, duh."
"Then make it fast," he said without missing a beat. "The day's about to end. If you break anything, it's coming out of your paycheck. Again."
Stupid, effin'...
With smoke pouring from her nostrils, she turned away, refusing to grace him with a reply. Her teeth clamped down on the inside of her cheek until the taste of blood drowned out the smoke and exhaust that always lingered on her tongue. Of course he'd seen the accident.
She eyed a black vat of sludge simmering behind him. Her fingers tingled with embarrassed rage—Oh, if I could just shove him in! But that would be too rash, too extreme —a sign of emotion out of control. She settled for digging her fingernails into her palm until her hands stung.
Just a little longer.
Work would be over. She could retreat into her rickety shack of a room and hide out until the next day, perhaps even with a bowl of hot oatmeal. The thought was enough to warm her while she cleaned up the mess, although the cold sludge that still soaked her clothes now dripped into her hands and hair.
Oatmeal…
Half an hour later, she was on her way home, hurrying through the dark streets. As if it weren't cold enough, a biting wind attacked her soaked clothes, which chilled her to the bone. A nearby streetlight tinted her face in dull, dead-bug yellow, barely providing enough light for her to weave around the potholes that littered the concrete.
It wasn't safe by any stretch of the imagination, especially with the drug addicts that frequented this side of town (along with basically every corner of Six), yet she mocked the darkness with her resolute eyes, as if daring them to come after her. A punching bag would be nice.
Oh, no! I'm a poor, unarmed girl. Whatever would I do?
Pah!She could take a druggie on; at least, she was pretty sure she could. Even if Peacekeepers caught her, they'd let her off scot-free. Peacekeepers only ever seemed to care about catching drug addicts and rebels, anyway—they might even reward her for doing their work for them.
District Six… Pick your poison: Drugs, Peacekeepers, or both?
Alas, she arrived at her rotten front doorstep without incident. The wind was stronger now; she shivered uncontrollably. Even so, she hesitated before entering.
Senseless screaming or conked-out cold?
She pressed her ear to the door, wincing at the sludge dripping off her clothes. Silence. Not even a single rustle. Conked-out cold it is. Sure enough, when she walked into the kitchen, she found her "guardian" snoring on the rickety table.
Some guardian. She snorted. If anything, you should be glad that I'm around so you can keep getting high. She had no concrete proof that the old lady was spending the orphan fund money on drugs, but she sure as heck wasn't receiving any of it.
"Hello, Fleur."
The woman stirred. "Laforza…. is that you?"
"No, I'm a sludge monster," she spat. "I came to drag you into the sewers."
"Oh… Okay… Just let me tell that girl and…" Her head thudded on the table, out again before she could finish her sentence.
Laforza snorted, looking down at the woman with disdain as she watched a trail of drool drip out of her mouth and fall to the table. A puddle pooled beside a totally inconspicuous pile of not-suspicious white powder.
As discreet as a dying freight train… no surprise you ended up alone.
Funny, though. She hadn't expected Fleur to find fresh "supplies" for another week. Where did the stuff come from this time? But her stomach's growling was too much; she didn't have the energy to care about her legal guardian's drug sources.
"Why don't you just go die?" she muttered as she rummaged through the mostly empty pantry, glancing over every so often to sneer at the drugged out woman. "No one cares about you anyway."
After canvassing the shelves twice, all she came up with was a handful of spilled oats. She sucked in an angry breath—there had been at least two bags in the morning! Her stomach roared for food—had the old hag finished it all? Impossible!
New drugs… no food… Oh.
Laforza really needed to throttle someone now.
She flipped up her middle finger and retreated up the creaky stairs, mumbling curses under her breath. Though an unfinished sketch beckoned her from her makeshift desk, she stumbled to the bathroom, flipped on the shower, and sank down to the floor, too drained to care about the freezing water that splattered her like little shards of ice.
Everything's just so messed up.
Thomas Montoya, 16, District Six
Thomas sat perched near the edge of the roof of the apartment complex with his eyes closed, humming a song as the wind ruffled his brown curls and rattled the whiskey bottle at his side. The height didn't seem to bother him; rather, the height was part of the experience. He pressed his hand against an electrical box to steady himself and waited for the rush of adrenaline to kickstart his creative energy.
When the air momentarily stilled, he opened his eyes and clicked through the pictures on Silver, his camera, an antique beauty preserved from days long past, before District Six was the way it was, the dreary land of metal and concrete. Yet even as he rested his eyes on the dullness that surrounded him, he sighed in contentedness, dreaming of the way the shadows could play through Silver's lens, with… with…
Well, that's why he was on the roof in the first place. The idea of light and shadow intrigued him, yet it felt like a fog, a vague atmosphere that refused to solidify into anything on his camera. As he pressed through his camera roll, he deleted every last one of the photos he had taken that morning. Being in the vibe somehow hadn't done a thing.
Once he felt the movement of air tickle his ear, he instantly closed his eyes again, blocking out the creative frustrations of his morning to fully place himself in the moment. Just to be present, to feel his shirt whipping around in the wind, the dust against his cheek. Knowing that he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be only made it even better.
Ooh… there we go. He sighed contentedly as ideas bubbled up inside, transforming the vague yet beautiful ideas into concrete plans that he could communicate to Silver. Sometimes, the most effective inspirations were free. It cost nothing to sneak up on the roof, but it did wonders for his little photography business.
Of course, it never hurt to add some flavor from his paid inspirations. He gladly took a good swig from the whiskey bottle. Ooh! Nothin' like a good drink. He licked his lips to catch every drop of alcohol, adding the final touches of color to fully rev up his creative engine. Buzzed and unshackled, he was now ready for his next appointment.
"Montoya!"
The voice pulled him out of his haze. Wiry, grey-headed Old Man Gates yelled at him from the entrance to the apartment complex's main office. Thomas frowned. He wasn't hurting anyone; why was the old man so persnickety about it?
"Get off the roof!" Gates said. He kept going when Thomas didn't immediately move. "I'm callin' the Peacekeepers on ya'!"
Thomas scrunched up his shoulders and quickly retreated to the service stairway, bristling at the restriction yet terrified at the prospect of a confrontation. On his way down, he took another long drink to clear his mind of Gates' voice. Being yelled at wasn't good for his muse, especially when it was by an old man with something up his rear end. Good thing his bottle was always here for him.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Old Man Gates was out of mind and a spring had returned to Thomas' steps. He half-skipped through the dim hallways until he arrived at his destination, a dreary corner of the dusty set of buildings that needed renovations decades ago, lit by a window so dirty it obscured as much light as it let in. Next to an old, rotting crate, a woman stood with her arms crossed, a random resident of the complex that had reluctantly agreed to model for him.
"Ready?" he said, bursting at the seams with pictures to take.
"Make it fast," she said curtly, "I have work soon."
He withered a little inside, but it wasn't anything a drink couldn't fix. He replied unfazed. "Great! If you'll sit on the crate for me… Awesome!"
With a tender pat, he lined Silver's lens up with the woman and peered through the camera's tiny window, nearly cheering aloud when it looked just the way he had envisioned. He forced his excited hands to hold still. If she has work soon, then every shot has to count, but there's so much to do, and—
Click!
The moment Thomas pressed Silver's shutter, a flash of momentary light illuminated the corner. His heart sank. Though he wasn't certain, he could've sworn he saw her move. He squinted at the dirty screen and gasped, appalled to find his subject blurry.
"Is it any good?" she said, drumming her fingers against the crate. He had asked her to model for him since business was slow, but now he was beginning to regret it.
"It's blurry. Let's… take another one." He shook his head. What was he going to say, that it was her fault for moving? Just thinking about her reaction was enough to keep his mouth shut.
"Hmph. How long is this gonna take?"
He pursed his lips. Why didn't he ask beforehand to ensure she had enough time? Now all that creative energy he'd spent so long conjuring would remain bottled up inside, good only for channeling into bed with his partners.
"Just one more?" he pleaded.
"Fine, but make this quick."
He took a deep swig and closed his eyes, rejoicing at the rush of tingles that danced from his toes to his head and sparked an explosion of light and shadow, color and monochrome, motion and stillness.
Maybe not motion. Silver can't handle that one.
"Just… hold still," he mumbled out the corner of his mouth, almost hoping that the woman wouldn't hear him because she might get even more annoyed. Line up the shot, pause for a moment to appreciate its beauty, and—
Click!
She immediately rose to her feet. "I'll be going."
"Okay," he mumbled, his full attention on Silver. The image he found put a smile on his face.
As she walked by, she leaned over his shoulder to see, and to his chagrin, he heard her sigh, and not in a happy way.
"It's a little unbalanced."
"I think it's beautiful," he retorted (softly). "It's supposed to be a little imperfect; it shows—"
"Whatever. It's your picture."
Then she was gone, and with her went his chance to defend his art. He glared at her behind her back. What a muse-killer. Annoyed, he downed the last bit of whiskey and moved on. With all the beauty in the world to be found, who had the time to stop for haters?
A/N It's been another month... I got two more weeks in this semester so hopefully, December should be faster for updates. Shout out to optimisms for looking over this chapter for me (even though she doesn't read this story)!
Half of our tributes introduced! Favorites so far? Whom are you most eagerly anticipating?
Thoughts?
