District Nine & Ten Non-Reapings
Clarke Brioche, 17, District Nine
TW: Mentions of Self-Harm
As the sun inched towards the horizon, a calming breeze wafted across the spacious plains of District Nine, picking up the earthy scent of freshly tilled dirt and carrying it through every opened window.
Clarke put down her tattoo gun and sighed when she felt it blow against the back of her sweaty neck. She had installed fans in her little shack of a tattoo parlor, but they could only do so much when the hot summer air hovered in place over the district. On days like this, the memories choked up her throat like carbon monoxide that threatened to suffocate her. Good thing she had business today.
"Whew! There we go!" She grinned at her customer, a young woman who couldn't be much older than herself. "Finally, a breeze! How's the pain on the tattoo?"
"It's fine." The woman forced a tired smile, her eyes flitting between Clarke and the intricate design of woven lines and little flowers on her thigh.
"We can pause if you'd like."
"Oh, no. It's not the tattoo… I've just had a long day."
"Oh?"
"Yeah… One of the centrifuges at the mill wasn't working today, and…"
The woman droned on, but Clarke was barely listening, her attention fully stolen by the loops she inked onto the woman's thigh. Better this than… the alternative.
"…but then the Peacekeeper parade happened. Some guy pissed them off and they shot him on the spot…"
Clarke narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. Every muscle in her body stiffened and her stomach flipped as a burning rage crept up, conjuring up a sudden desire to smash a brick into a certain group of white-suited demons.
But she couldn't afford to let it out, not here. This was too open; too exposed. She lifted her head momentarily and glanced at the woman, who continued to vent. Her queasiness hadn't been noticed. She set the gun down and rose to her feet, adeptly repressing the shudder that threatened to expose the tumult in her mind.
"I'm gonna get a drink of water; I'll be right back!"
The woman smiled gratefully—though she hadn't said anything, Clarke was willing to bet that this gal was still on edge from getting her very first tattoo.
She rushed into the back room and pressed her back to the wall, her hands clenched in fierce fists that nearly punctured her own palms with her fingernails. Peacekeepers. The monsters dressed in white that never ceased to haunt her, day or night, with their murderous presence that had taken the light out of her life. She flipped on the sink and washed her hands to cover up a low groan. Even now, when she rolled her sleeves up, she could still see traces of the scars she used to inflict on herself to release the pain. She grit her teeth as she counted the seconds, taking deep breaths that filled her lungs with hot, stagnant air.
Clarke Brioche was not okay today. But she had to be.
Once her counter reached thirty, she checked the mirror and adjusted her hair, thankful that she didn't give in to tears, not while she had a customer. She strolled out of the back room.
"Is everything okay?" the woman asked.
"Of course!" Clarke smiled. Maybe it'd show that she was fine. "Where were we? Ah, right—All Peacekeepers are bastards. Period. Stack 'em up and burn 'em in a pyre. I don't care."
"Yes please…"
"Whoops—Not 'I don't care.' I'd love to see 'em burn in a pyre."
The woman sighed. "And what's your story?"
"My story? They killed my mom, and now my other mom doesn't function anymore. Nothing much…" Clarke laughed bitterly as she inked on the final touches. "And there's the tattoo."
"Oh! Thanks!" The woman pulled out a few denarii. "I'm… sorry, though. Also for rambling too."
"It's fine." Clarke shrugged, waving the woman out. She flashed a friendly smile although half the words had gone right out her other ear and the other half had brought up… less than pleasant memories. With care, she cleaned up her materials and set her tattoo gun back in its box. She'd take it home with her. It wasn't safe to leave it out here, where someone might take it or destroy it—and then where would she be? Left to wallow in the memories and questions that demanded a release? Stuck with slicing her own self to relieve the pain?
Once home, she found her only remaining mom's skinny figure on the threadbare couch, staring blankly at the crackly television with an empty bottle of moonshine in her hands. On screen, a Peacekeeper parade marched down the main street of District Nine's central city, a replay from the show of force from earlier in the day.
She had no energy to deal with her. Not today. So she hurried into her own little room, where she collapsed on the bed, hoping for the cover of sleep to bring down the curtain over the stage of her mind that replayed her trauma more often than not.
But it didn't. Not fast enough.
On nights like this, the thoughts only ever raged louder. The Peacekeeper parade she'd just seen on the television warped into a battalion of them, with their guns held at the ready and their inhuman stares beaming through cruel visors. A voice rose above the rest, now indecipherable due to the years gone past, marked the point where her life had forever changed, a moment that she had played and replayed a million different times.
Mom's panicked swing at a Peacekeeper. The hail of bullets that followed.
And finally, that brief glance at the Peacekeeper's face when his visor popped open for a split second. His eyes had looked just like hers.
Who am I?
An unwanted child, only allowed to survive by pure coincidence? Nothing more than a byproduct of Peacekeeper cruelty?
Was I ever supposed to exist?
The cicadas did nothing to muffle the question that bounced around inside. It had lingered in the corners of her thoughts all day, but now it took center stage.
She buried her face in the pillow. Here, in the cover of night, she cried.
Mati Strye, 17, District Nine
The mill didn't let out until quarter past eight. By then, the sun had long set, leaving the dim street lights to watch over District Nine's main town, a sprawling mess of winding streets and flimsy roofing that housed the district's mill worker population. Mati shuffled out in the crowd of fellow laborers, his innocent eyes wide open and alert. He hummed a small tune under his breath, soothing the nerves that came with the daily trip home.
Avoid the man with a nasty scowl. Keep to the center of the group to avoid attention. Don't make eye contact.
Unruly whispers rippled to and fro across the surface of the lake of people, flooding out of the front gates to the station where Peacekeeper-operated vehicles would transport them back to the residential areas. The hair bristled on Mati's arm. Unruly whispers meant unrest. Unrest meant risk of a riot. Riot meant death, much more than he'd like to ever see again.
His eyes flitted across the scene, only pausing when they found the men in white stationed on their strategically placed balconies. They must've sensed the unease as well since many more appeared soon after. Perhaps, there wouldn't be a riot, not today.
A faint smile crept across his face, one that he quickly vanquished with a sharp bite at his lip. No one in this crowd knew his past or his opinions, and he'd prefer it to stay this way. Last time word got out, a broken window had swiftly followed it.
Slowly but surely, the flow of people washed him up to the platform, where he clambered into a bus and braced himself for the bumpy ride back to his residence. Well, calling it a bus was an overstatement. Perhaps "truck" would've been more accurate, with its standing-room-only interior and its filthy brown windows.
At any rate, he pressed his back against the window by the door in his preferred spot, watching people board with nervous eyes. Any other time in the day, he'd observe and plan, doing his best to avoid the many problems that came with existing in District Nine. But for the ride back… what could he do to guarantee a safe trip? Nothing but wait and hope.
The dice roll of the crowd soon roughly shuffled a guy next to him, nearly knocking the poor guy to the floor right before the bus lurched forward, giving him no chance to safely regain his footing.
Mati smiled weakly in solidarity and offered a hand. The guy couldn't be more than a year or so older than he was. Though much time had passed, the memories of being pushed around himself hadn't dulled. His lip still tingled simply remembering the time he was unfortunate enough to get knocked onto a sharp rock.
"Are you okay?" He cringed before the words were fully out of his mouth.
The guy looked up, slightly startled at being spoken to. "Me? I'm fine."
"Oh."
Mati bit his lip. Was the guy mad at him for speaking? Maybe it would've been best if he never spoke at all. He turned to look out the window, just as a Peacekeeper tower passed by. A hopeful warmth settled inside. Not all had to be chaotic, and dangerous, and deadly. He wouldn't have to worry about a hijacking on this stretch of the road.
Through the corner of his eye, he caught a few glances of angry glares that shriveled his soul. Evidently, his fellow bus-mates felt differently.
"Thanks, by the way."
Mati tensed and instinctively smiled, caught off-guard by the guy's voice. "Oh— of course!"
"What's the song, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Song?" He froze. Had he really been humming this entire time—and that loudly?
"You were humming?"
"I was?"
The guy chuckled, though Mati couldn't tell whether it was nerves or friendliness. "Yeah… never mind. I liked it though."
Though Mati's cheeks burned, this smile was genuine. Someone… liked his humming. This stranger wouldn't put in so much effort just to lie to him right? Or was this just a nice way of saying, "Your humming is super noticeable and you should turn it down"?
The smile faded.
When the bus rolled to a stop, Mati remained at his spot by the window, allowing the other passengers to disembark so that he wouldn't get caught in the waterfall. His nerves calmed as the bus emptied. From here to his residence, he didn't have much to worry about.
He stepped off the bus onto the street and found a new spring in his step, briefly pausing to take in the refreshing peace, smile at the driver, maybe even close his eyes for a brief moment to remember the feeling of being allowed to exist.
Here, he could walk in peace, without having to worry where the next rotten egg thrown at him might come from. Here, he found children playing in the street instead of hiding in the shelter of their own homes. Here, the people in white abounded, passing by him in squads every other block.
Here, he was safe.
As he quickly rounded a bend, he nearly crashed into a white suit, ducking to the side just in time with a polite nod and appreciative smile. Instinctively, he froze, eyes darting around to see if anyone noticed. Back home, that would've been enough for the townsfolk to look at him funny for weeks.
But home was now gone, destroyed by the tornado that had carried his past away with it. He didn't miss it, not the buckets of piss, not the perpetually broken window, not his mother screaming into his face. They had said that it was his fault, that he deserved it for helping a monster.
Still, he had no regrets from that fateful night two years ago. If his countrymen considered basic human decency to be betrayal, then he'd simply have to keep betraying his district over and over again, no matter what it brought him.
For even the people in white were just that.
People.
Nevaeh Jimenez, 18, District Ten
The afternoon sun beat down hard on the cracked clay earth of District Ten and sent most citizens home to hide out the heat with a siesta, yet it didn't seem to make a difference in the Central Street Market, renowned for its mesmerizing mishmash of picante spices and handcrafted jewelry, dotted with vermillion and terracotta rugs that hung like homely curtains. Every other block or so, a ring of food stalls surrounded a cluster of handmade tables and chairs, filling the air with myriads of scents that permeated every corner of the market.
Though few locals now browsed the stalls under the skin-burning sun, they had been replaced by a gaggle of gawkers wearing multicolored feathers and leathers, bumbling around between stalls with oversized hats and fans, trying to avoid the sun while having the "authentic District Ten experience."
Capitalinos. Residents of the Capitol on vacation in District Ten, characterized by their general laziness and unwillingness to rise earlier than ten o'clock. Any District Ten native would tell you that they were crazy for braving the terrible afternoon, but hey—if they wanted to go home crusty and sunburnt, that was their business. More money flowing into the district was always welcome.
In a little fashion boutique nestled between a food truck selling elotes and a stand of beaded jewelry, Nevaeh sat behind the counter, painting her nails jade green to match the pendant hanging from her neck, her eyes alight with enraptured excitement at the tiny gold flecks in the polish. All around her was a vibrant explosion of red and turquoise, orange and green, from the shirts on the racks to the long skirts trailing from the wall.
But even in this paradise, she tapped her foot impatiently. One of her papá's associates had sent word that an unfortunate mal bicho might be seeking her out, probably hoping that she could negotiate a deal with her father for him. She'd be fine—she'd had plenty of experience dealing with those good-for-nothings that her papá dealt with all the time—but life would just be so much better if they didn't bother her…
Ding-ling-ling!
A Capitalina woman tip-toed in, her wide-brimmed hat decked out with loops of turquoise beads that hung from the brim in little loops, clashing horridly with her otherwise fluorescent red outfit.
"Welcome to A Corner of Heaven!" Nevaeh leapt to her feet and did a little twirl. "I'm Neveah, the owner. How may I help you?"
"Oh!" The woman turned from where she stood by the door, looking at the clothes in the window. "I saw the dresses in the window and I had to come in and take a look. They're absolutely stunning!"
Of course they were stunning. Nevaeh had hand-picked every last piece of clothing she sold, using her father's… connections to their fullest extent to guarantee the very best selection. But the woman wouldn't know that.
"Thank you! I'm glad you like them!" She smiled politely. "Now—what are you looking for today?"
"I'm just looking to take home a bit of that rustic District Ten charm? But it has to match this hat I just bought. Once I get home, I'll throw a party with a vacation theme and I simply have to look—"
"This hat?" Nevaeh cut the woman off. She'd feel bad doing it to a fellow District Ten citizen, but she'd had enough experience with Capitalinos to know that they didn't actually mind being cut off. Interrupting was a necessary evil to keep them from rambling on forever about themselves.
"Oh? Yes! I know it doesn't match what I have on and it's just a disaster, but I didn't come prepared for that horrid heat!"
"Aw… I understand what you mean. That sun is so strong here; sometimes I think it's gonna burn my skin off!"
Neveah pouted in sympathy. Though Capitalinos could be dirt-stupid sometimes, she didn't mind them at all. There was something entertaining about how clueless they were about the way things worked in the Districts.
"Anyway! You came to the right place!" Nevaeh said, taking the woman by her hand. "I will find the perfect dress for you, señora."
The two glided along the edge of the boutique as Nevaeh fingered through the rack of dresses, looking back and forth between the woman and the clothing every so often with a critical eye. Her diamond bracelet clacked against each coat hanger in a symphony of tings.
She gingerly plucked a ? dress off the rack. "How about this one?"
The woman gasped, cautiously taking it by the hanger and holding it up to herself before looking in the nearby mirror.
Nevaeh winked. "I think it looks absolutely beau-ti-ful on you! Your friends will be so jealous!"
"Ooh!" The woman squealed. "I need it!"
"Right this way!
Nevaeh led the woman over to the front counter, where she made a note to herself to remove the dress from her inventory list. As the woman handed over a small stack of denarii, a beam of light landed on Nevaeh's hands, leaving her fingernails sparkling.
"I love your nails!" the woman said. "Who did them for you?"
Nevaeh grinned. "I did them myself!"
The woman clapped her hands together in glee. "That. Is. Gorgeous! And oh! The gold flakes—is it from Claritate's latest line of colors?"
"Of course! Mi papá got it for me!"
Her papá, a strong, respectable man with broad shoulders and a dense moustache. Oh, and a drug lord, well-known throughout shadier circles as a ruthless man. Odds were, some of this woman's tourist friends were getting high off supplies provided by his dealers at this very moment. Was it the most ethical way of making money? No. But was she going to fight him on it? Absolutely not. He'd probably sic his henchmen on her, and she knew firsthand what happened to those people. Besides, how else would she get her hands on Claritate's latest nail polish?
"Bye!" She waved as the woman walked out the front door, sighing internally at the woman's obnoxious perfume that seemed to linger everywhere. To catch a breath, she exited the boutique's back door into a shaded alley, where a metal sink jutted out from the back wall. She flipped on the water and splashed it on her arms, smiling contently at the coolness.
A rustle.
She flipped her hair back and stood up straight, searching every corner of the alley.
"I know you're there," she snapped. "Get out in the open."
Sure enough, a dirty, masked man stepped out from behind a dumpster, a beat-up hat shading his eyes from her curious gaze. Scuffs of dirt marred his hole-ridden clothes. Of course. One of her papá's poor... associates.
"What do you want?" she said, smiling grandly at the mal bicho.
He seemed taken aback, though it was impossible to tell with the mask. "I'm here to ask a favor. If you could talk to El Jefe—"
"Oh, bless your heart," she said, not breaking her smile for even a moment. "It's cute that you think I'll talk to mi papá for you?"
"If you don't…" The man reached for his pocket, looking her straight in the eye.
She frowned. A gun? No, those were nigh impossible to get, even for the shady people her papá dealt with on the regular. There wasn't much of an imprint in the man's pocket anyway. It had to be a knife. In that case, all was well. She knew her way around knives. The Training Center had ensured it.
"You disrespect me?" She pressed her hand to her heart in mock offense, playing with the jade pendant that hung from her neck. "Let me tell you one thing. I take after mi papá, and I have some special charm for you if you don't wanna cooperate."
He snorted. "A little girl like you?"
Oh… he would regret that. The words were barely out of his mouth before she swung a kick at his head, knocking him to the hard concrete below. He scrambled back, fumbling to get the knife out of his pocket, but she pounced on him and pinned him to the ground. When he struggled, finally pulling the knife free, she gave him a good slap to the jaw with the back of her hand, narrowing her eyes when he yelped in pain, dropping the knife.
Even if she never volunteered for the Hunger Games, training was still good for dealing with mal bichos.
"Now," she panted, "You better get yourself outta here."
"Qué?"
She narrowed her eyes, her stern face otherwise as cold as metal, sure to keep her dazzling knife in the man's line of sight. "You will address me with mánde. Try again."
He gulped. "Mánde?"
"Do me a paro and get yourself out of here before I make you wish you left faster."
She stared right into the man's eyes for a moment longer before leaping off and giving the man a final well-deserved kick, smirking as he scuttled away. Easy as always. When she glanced in her mirror, she found a prominent dirt splotch staining the corner of her jade shirt. She sighed. What a bother these mal bichos were. She'd have to talk to her papá about it.
Sostonio Caspiano, 18, District Ten
The pickup truck rumbled down the unpaved road, trailed by a cloud of dust that sprang from the ground with every turn of its heavy-duty tires. Across the side of the truck, "Caspiano Horse Rehabilitation Ranch" proudly stood in faded black and brown lettering.
Sostonio squinted and flipped down the truck's sun visor, lifting a dirt-stained hand up to shade his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Though sweat soaked his shirt and his muscles ached from a long day of labor around the ranch, he relished in that dull throbbing that told him he'd done good work that day—but he couldn't deny that he was tired. Even Nini was silent in the passenger seat. Nini, of all people. Her head rested against the window with a content smile that seemed to lack the energy to make it all the way up her face.
As the two approached the main building on the ranch, Sostonio pressed down on the brake, rolling the truck to a stop by the front porch. He turned the key and grinned.
"That's it!"
The engine had barely silenced its roaring before Nini clambered out of the truck. She trudged up the hand-made stairs and plopped back on a patio chair, closing her eyes under the electric fans.
"Ay!" She sighed, a long exhale under the forced breeze. "I'm beat."
He smiled. Nini had always been much more of a city girl, though the two of them had grown up not too far from each other in the District Ten countryside. Still, she did her best, even though she didn't enjoy it, per se. And for that, he was proud of her.
"Hard work today," he said, sitting down next to her. He took a deep gulp of water, thanking the heavens for the cool waves. "Mil gracias. I know it's not exactly your thing."
She beamed at him. "De nada! Anything to help."
His eyes met hers and froze in them for a brief moment. With a start, he averted his gaze and chuckled, rubbing his neck. When he glanced up with an awkward smile, he found her blushing redder than District Ten clay. A nervous giggle slipped out the side of her mouth. The stagnant summer air did nothing to help either.
A sudden call sounded from inside the house.
"Mijo!"
Sostonio instantly snapped back to reality, halting the red flush rapidly spreading across his cheeks. He quickly straightened and rose to his feet, welcoming Mamá as she strode out onto the porch. Even as she wiped her brow and leaned against the doorpost to rest after long hours of work, her signature twinkle still shone in her eyes. Papá's death and the ensuing land problems had multiplied the wrinkles on her face, but that twinkle never left.
"Yes, Mamá?"
"Could you go check on Zottie for me? I sent him to the stables an hour ago to clean Strawberry's hooves and he hasn't come back yet."
"Of course, señora," he said with a quick nod of his head.
"Gracias." Mamá's knowing gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them, a playful smile dancing on her cheeks. "I'm glad to see you too, Nini!"
He laughed nervously as he started the truck again, waving Nini goodbye for the day though his mind wandered towards Zottie (or Snot, as they all called him). He frowned. Cleaning hooves for two hours? Sure, the kid was only thirteen, but Strawberry was the calmest horse in the stable. She wouldn't hurt a gnat!
As the stables came into view, he squinted, searching for any sign of the new volunteer at the ranch. A figure sat with back to the wall on the tree side of the building with his head bowed low, his wide-brimmed straw hat hiding his face. His shoulders hunched forward like the ancient, wizened trees around him, not even moving an inch when the truck rolled up beside him. The poor kid. What could've happened?
"Snot! Qué onda!" He called as he leapt down from the driver's seat.
The boy pulled his hat further down. "Nothing."
"I don't believe it for no second." He sat down next to Snot with a grunt, squinting at the low sun. "Qué onda?"
"I'm fine."
Sos gave the boy a friendly nudge. "C'mon. You can always tell me."
Silence. Well, as silent as it ever got beside the stable, with the ever-present whinnies and stompings and rustlings. Sostonio raised an eyebrow, waiting on the kid, but no sound came from under the hat, save for the occasional sniffle.
"I'm fixin' to wait as long as I need to."
Another sniffle, this one followed by a quivering sigh. The hat dipped a bit lower as the boy's hand scratched at the dirt below, teasing up a clump only just to let it crumble through his fingers.
"So. What's wrong?"
A small voice answered. "Strawberry hates me."
"Strawberry don't hate no one! What makes you say that?"
"All of 'em do! I can't get any of 'em to like me."
Sostonio suppressed a sigh—this kid loved animals and had the gentlest spirit, but he was somehow inherently abhorrent to the horses? He could smell the bull stronger than the intense scent of animals that perfumed the air.
"Maybe you can't see it, but that just ain't true."
"I can't do it, Sos."
" 'Can't' never could do nothin'! You know I ain't gonna let you give up."
"B-But I…"
"C'mon. I'll take you in and we'll try again."
"It's gettin' late…"
"Who cares? I got time."
He climbed to his feet and extended a hand, winking when Snot finally lifted his eyes to meet his. The boy bit his lip, but Sos smiled encouragingly until the boy reached out and grabbed his hand.
"Fine."
"There 'ya go!" Sos said, pulling Snot to his feet.
As the two wandered back into the stables in search for Strawberry, he patted Snot on the back.
"Don't worry, esé! She'll love you in no time. I believe in you."
A/N Districts Nine and Ten! Unsurprisingly, I've been waiting for this chapter since forever to show off my District Ten worldbuilding! I'm still hoping to finish the next chapter before January 1st, but we'll see.
Favorites! Hopes! Predictions! One set of intros left!
Thoughts?