Chapter Text
It’s Reaping Day.
I don’t even wince as my sewing needle pricks into my stiff fingers. I have spent the whole night and the early hours of the morning wrapped in a thin, ratty blanket, sitting on the windowsill of our shared bedroom. The cold kept me awake as I sewed buttons to winter coats. Surrounded by stale air and the soft snores of Alex. As usual, the district is tucked under a thick veil of smog that seeps through any crack it can and settles into the bones of the district’s inhabitants. Looking out of the window is as calming as it is unsettling. The streets are empty, with no one rushing to go to work or school or anything really. The Reaping takes place in the later afternoon and not only that but today is considered a “holiday”. I scoff quietly.
Even without pulling an all-nighter, I am usually the first to be awake. Though on this particular day I can’t blame Alex or Rayon for sleeping in. I too would rather sleep through what today has in store. Unfortunately, though, nerves kept me up, as I’m sure it kept many others up. Thus I had spent the remaining hours before the Reaping finishing off some of the coats Rayon had become too tired to bother with. It’s July and autumn is just settling in, but I’m sure it won’t overstay its welcome as winter settles her billowing skirts over the district. I have spent enough sub-freezing winters barely clothed and know to make haste on these coats, lest we be responsible for a spike in hypothermia-related deaths.
But I understand Rayon. Both of us spend four to six hours at the factory (one of many) and then hurry back to the shop to rush through the piled up orders. I usually manage to get through five or seven coats, but Rayon, in his progressing age, is getting slower, hands stiffer and his eyesight is becoming weaker. And along with making sure that both I and Alex are out of trouble, I’m sure that a few extra hours of sleep would do him good.
Rayon Steppe is an older fellow, in his late fifties. He and my father were friends as well as colleagues sharing a workshop. In a lot of ways, despite his stern and unpleasant attitude, he had become the closest to a parental figure we have. A mentor.
I can’t afford not to be thankful for that. By Fate’s design, Alex and I, along with a decent chunk of children of District 8, were left to fend for ourselves very early on. Lesser than district citizens – just nobodies with no parents. With no one to mourn our deaths, should we be thrown into that forsaken arena. I don’t think Rayon would mourn us. For all that he had managed to give us, we were only ever a burdensome promise he made to our father. Although he provided lodgings and some small amounts of money for my apprenticeship at his tailor’s shop, he always kept his distance. Though I can’t blame him for that.
It’s Reaping Day. My hands pause and shake briefly. I stare at them. I need to clean under my nails.
I stand, grab my canvas bag and as quietly as I could manage, exit the bedroom and head to the bathroom. I wash my hair and make sure to scrub any leftover dirt between my toes and under my short, flaky nails.
Getting dressed is my favorite part of the day.
In District 8, you either love or hate anything to do with clothes, textiles and sewing. A lot of people hold resentment towards any fabrics or clothes that aren’t purely utilitarian, mostly because that’s all anyone knows around here. Sure, we are taught Panem history and mathematics, but when that’s all there is and the rest of your day is all revolved around learning how to support the Capitol’s vanity, you grow weary and just put on whatever is the most practical.
I, myself, very much am on the opposite side. I enjoy fashion and colour and textures. I enjoy seeing something other than grey and smog. It’s one of the only pleasures I have left. Looking presentable and drawing attention is relieving. It lets me believe, for the briefest moment, that everything is okay and that there might be a future for me where the Capitol doesn’t matter.
That makes me smile, but it is once again dampened by what waits ahead of me.
Yesterday, I set aside one of my nicest loose sweater dresses. It’s periwinkle, with long sleeves and a turtleneck. The hem ends just above my knees. If I had any money to spare, I would have splurged on some opaque pantyhose to cover up my bruised calves and scratched up knees, but nylon is considered a luxury item that I can’t afford so I settle for a pair of bulky, navy tights. If I were a girl in the Capitol, I probably wouldn’t even think twice before throwing away nylon that doesn’t match the latest trends any more. I finish the look off with a knitted, navy beret and my beat-up, leather loafers.
I hurry down to the first floor of the tenement. Rayon rents out another flat on the first floor where he keeps his workshop. It used to be upstairs, but since we moved in, he had to make space for us to stay. Both me and Alex help out with the rent for the flat we live in and I chip in every now and then for the workshop, whenever Rayon is struggling.
After I unlock the door, I carefully navigate the space like I would navigate a minefield. The workshop is not what I would call “tidy”. With stocked up piles of fabric, discarded projects and clothes used for scrap, it’s a gamble to pass by. Buttons and pins litter the floor, which I pay close attention to; I’ve had one too many pins stuck in my foot all the way through my shoes. I make my way over to the one put-together corner that I have more or less claimed as my own.
On a hanger rack next to my table are two dresses. Identical and modest, in a tunic style; with rounded collars and ¾ sleeves, made with synthetic crêpe. One is a soft dandelion, the other a pale rouge. Both are embroidered with white flowers around the hems and sleeve cuffs. They were ordered by mayor Quilty’s youngest daughters; the same grade as me. I folded the pieces neatly and placed them in an old, bulky suitcase for safer transportation.
The dresses were commissioned specifically for today.
Getting to the mayor’s home wasn’t all that hard. With no foot traffic, there wasn’t anything to worry about. The Quilty family lived in a two-story house near the Justice Building. The Steppe shop was only a few street corners and a stroll over the Velour Bridge away from it.
I arrive at around eleven o’clock. I make sure to knock on the back door. The Quilty family were a bit stuck-up and didn’t want it to be known that they had to order clothes from a cheaper tailor, much less one as young as me. They had originally wanted to commission Rayon, but after he declined in no uncertain terms because of other commissions, he offered my services. Since they were late to order and probably wouldn’t have been able to find another tailor willing to take them on, they begrudgingly settled for me. Not without being difficult though.
The door opens and I am greeted by the twins themselves – Polly and Esther. They take one look at me and then let me in.
“Took you long enough. We were beginning to think you might have gotten cold feet and were about to send the Peacekeepers to arrest you for fraud,” said Esther, causing Polly to giggle and nod. Oh, yes! What a wonderful joke! I give a tight smile and wordlessly settle the suitcase on their dining room table.
My nerves were shot as they examined the dresses. I knew the fit was perfect, but after weeks of resizing and “fixing” every little nitpick of theirs, I had nearly called it quits. Yesterday was a rush to finish them after my shift at the factory and I nearly sewed my hand to one of them. Luckily there were only a few poked-in stitches that I managed to take out and I hadn’t gotten any blood on them. Even now my hand aches, wrapped in bandages.
With bated breath, I watched as they gave each other a look before nodding. Polly went out of the room.
“You did well. We’ll tell other girls to commission you as we agreed. Here’s the other half of the money,” Esther said nonchalantly, tucking a strand of her honey curls behind her ear as she was handing me the manila with money.
As I took the money, a small paper bag was also pushed into my hands by Polly, who had come back in. I look up, a bit taken aback. Both twins had grim expressions as they avoided my eyes, “Good luck today…” Polly muttered. We remained like that for a moment, before I pulled away with a quick nod.
“You too.” The two scoffed dismissively, but the suddenly softer look in their eyes told me that they appreciated the thought, “Pleasure doing business with you.” I smiled and walked out, starting the more leisurely trek home.
Alex is waiting for me at the bridge. He, too, was dressed to the nines by district standards. Navy, cropped slacks; his loose and slightly wrinkled button-up, school shirt (I really should have ironed it yesterday) and his own just as, if not more, beat-up loafers.
“Did the twins like the dresses at last, dear little sister?” He called out with a smile I’ve heard girls at school call charming. I smiled back, feeling the adoration in my chest bubble up as I took out the cash that would last us a whole month- maybe a bit more with some careful penny-pinching.
A grin split across his face and I took the high-five he offered me, before falling into the embrace he pulled me in.
I melted into his chest, sighing at the scent of soap and cigarette smoke. It itches my nose, but it’s become so intrinsic to what I associate with home. His sigh blows up strands of my light blonde hair. His grip on me is secure and I am reminded of how glad I am to have him.
“Two more years and you’re safe. We’ll be alright, Capitol be damned,” he whispers, careful of being overheard by Peacekeepers today, “You’ll become a renowned seamstress and I’ll be your meatheaded sidekick!” The hopeful grin he gave was bright, I couldn’t help returning it.
This close to each other, with me looking up at him, the differences between us become more obvious. While I was considered tall for a girl in my grade, at 175 cm, he still stood a head above me. Heights aside, I am svelte, toeing the line of scrawny; he is broad and imposing. He used to wrestle in school before a leg injury benched him. In winter I still catch him having an odd limp. Now he works almost full-time at the train station, loading cargo for the Capitol – the last few weeks he has been complaining of back pains from carrying some more heavy materials.
He would have considerable chances in the Games.
I ban the last train of thought quickly, deathly afraid of even thinking about him being chosen. Afraid that Fate will hear my fears and take a sick turn on me.
We pull apart and gaze at each other for a moment. For anyone observing us, I’m sure they would see the silent conversation passing between us. As one icy pair of eyes becomes mischievous, the other responds in kind. I shriek as he pushes me back, turns and starts running back home. I soon recover and with a giggle I run after him, long legs helping me along in catching up.
“Hey! Wait up!” I yell as I see him making his way around our tenement and heads towards the fire escape. I am still lugging my father’s bulky suitcase and although it’s empty, it still poses a considerable challenge.
I hear his boisterous laugh as he climbs up the steps, two- nearly three at a time. Any normal person would have thought twice about climbing the rusty pile of metal as it groaned and shook under our assaulting weight. So far, we have climbed up it so often that any nervousness had been long since forgotten. We both trusted that it would hold up. The only obstacle was where the stairs stopped. They didn’t lead all the way to the roof so our little race always ended at the top, around two meters under the roof’s ledge.
We both pant, exertion and excitement making it hard for our lungs to expand for a proper breath. Admittedly, it wasn’t a huge feat of physicality but it still had my heart leaping to break through my breast bone.
By the time I had caught my breath, Alex had already taken a slightly crouched position; legs spread and feet firmly planted on the floor for optimal balance. He clasped his hands to create a step stool for me and braced himself against the ruddy, brick wall behind him. There isn’t much space on the fire escape for a proper run-up but when all you can do for fun around here is either sew or climb tall buildings with sketchy infrastructure, you learn a thing or two about both.
Once I set down the suitcase it happens quickly. I surge forward and before I could think about it, my foot was already being clasped firmly and Alex was launching me up with practiced ease. My fingers clasp onto the crumbly, brick ledge and the muscles of my arms and upper back immediately start working on pulling the rest of me up. Despite my slighter frame, I still have some upper body strength. Alex helps me along, hands staying clasped so my foot has a solid foothold to boost myself further. Once I get my chest over the ledge it becomes easy to pull myself up.
Alex has to wait a few seconds while I remember where we stowed away the ladder last time and go to retrieve it. I lower it carefully, gripping it firmly despite my suddenly shaky arms. He makes sure to place it correctly and checks how steady it is by giving it a firm shake. When it doesn’t budge, he climbs it a bit more recklessly than I would have liked.
“Woo! That was a workout!” he exclaims, grinning jokingly.
I shake my head and step towards the opposite side. Our tenement is a bit taller than most. It allows us to overlook the Velour Bridge and the top of the Justice Building. The preparations for the Reaping started a week ago and they’re just now finishing. When I walked past I saw them setting up the cameras, the chairs for the mayor and victors who will be mentoring this year. Oh! And the microphone and Reaping Balls for Roman Haste – District 8’s escort, how silly of me to forget. I was honestly excited to see him, see what the recent Capitol trends made him wear. I hoped that my hunch was correct and it ended up being periwinkle like my own dress; there had been a lot of periwinkle fabrics being made.
If I got reaped, at least I would be up to date.
In any case, Roman would probably be the brightest thing on the stage. For the most part, there isn’t much of a difference in how districts are decorated for the occasion. Excluding the Career districts, of course, who view the Games as a rite of passage; not mindless slaughter. Probably because they usually end up being victors.
Alex joins me as I sit and swing my legs to dangle over the ledge. He opts for leaning back against it, his back in the direction of the Hall, “Should we pass by the bakery before the Reaping? I reckon we could splurge a bit for this ‘special’ occasion!” I don’t have to look towards him to hear his eye roll.
I suddenly remember, “Oh! I got a tip!” I exclaimed, rushing to take out the small paper bag I was given. I hadn’t even looked inside to see what I was given. I assumed it was a trinket of some kind, as those were common gifts. Maybe some handmade, crummy necklace or bracelet one of them had grown tired of and decided to pity-gift me.
“From the twins?” he looks skeptical, “I wouldn’t be able to believe it even if I saw it!”
His mouth closes quickly once I peel open the paper bag and we take a peek inside, “Woah!”
Our gasps were in unison. We can’t pull the contents out quick enough. I am so shocked at the revelation, that for a while I just stare at the treat in my hand. Two whole tarts!
In District 8, baking sweets isn’t really widespread. When everyone’s schedule is hectic, it doesn’t allow for frivolities. The district is deemed one of the most industrial as well as one of the poorest and as such, pastries are seen as unnecessary, inefficient and very luxurious items. There aren't a lot of bakers who make sweets, since people can’t afford to buy them. Not even for special occasions.
In a place where even the children have to put in a shift at a factory, enjoyment is rudimentary. We sleep, eat and work – the system isn’t profound. It’s exhausting. Especially for people like me and Alex – no parents, no home to call our own, barely passing grades at school and plagued by overwhelming fear every time we claim tesserae.
I watch as Alex takes a tentative bite. His face fills with wonder at the taste, the strain in his shoulders that even I didn’t even notice melts and I hear a satisfied noise pass through his lips. That urges me to start nibbling on my own tart. The crumbly base is sweet, but not overly so; it’s soft and gets moister the closer I get to the filling in the middle. Once I get there, the slightly sour taste of cherries bursts across my tongue and makes me emit a surprised hum.
I close my eyes, not wanting the drab, smoggy view of the district to take away from the experience and dampen my enjoyment. It doesn't take long. I open my eyes and am once again greeted by the hopelessness of it all. I will most likely never eat something like this for a while, maybe even never again. Tesserae could never compare.
I swallow with some difficulty, “Two years… That’s four more slips minimum.”
I don’t have to look at Alex to know what his expression is. I start feeling guilty for ruining his enjoyment of the rare treat but it would have come up sooner or later. The insinuation was clear. The next two years, until I become nineteen, I will take out tesserae for both of us in exchange for putting in my name more times. Currently, my name is entered 15 times because some years I put in my name more than once. Alex is at around 30 because his first 2 years he had to take out for me too.
When I was eleven I fought with him to let me take out my own tesserae the next year to even out our odds. When I turned twelve I did so in spite of his protests. I know he’s still bitter about it to this day, as it was a matter of pride to him, “No! You’re not taking out tesserae for me too! Absolutely not!”
I said nothing; suddenly finding the, now half-eaten, tart more interesting, “I’m serious, Val!” It’s growing colder and I’m sure it’ll be mush soon – pastries like this need to be eaten the same day they were made.
Alex gripped my chin firmly and made me look at him. I did so with very little resistance. I am greeted with the expression I expected – grim and stern. Disapproving. One that discouraged arguments. Meeting his gaze would have made anyone else squirm uncomfortably – piercing ice, with an intensity that could melt through armored metal. A brief memory of my father resurfaces; it’s of his eyes, so eerily similar to my brother’s or, perhaps, it’s the other way around? I don’t remember much of my father to make a fair comparison. I am told by Rayon that I sometimes have the same look whenever I am hyper-focused on a project. I doubt that. I can’t imagine myself being able to produce this level of intensity.
I am saved by the bell. Literally. The clock tower chimes a tune – one specifically meant for Reaping Day. We have to make our way to the plaza for the ceremony, but I’m sure that the conversation is far from over. We’ll probably have an argument later today while two other kids are headed to their death.
Luckily we aren’t walking alone. Rayon is waiting for us at the tenement’s door. He looked less than pleased. If it wasn’t mandatory to be present, I’m sure he would have liked to get his piled up projects finished. Unfortunately though, for him, it is mandatory. You’d have to be on your deathbed to not attend such an important event. He starts walking wordlessly and we follow along. No words pass between us. We nod greetings to neighbors from the street – most families with children in the age bracket for the Games. All that could be heard is everyone’s solemn steps along the pavement.
Today falls into an uncanny valley of discomfort that makes everyone understandably queasy. We are all on our way to watch someone’s life be inevitably ruined. Either that, or it’s your own life that’s on the line. All of us know. Even if you win the Games, you return hollow. Most victors, even those from Career districts, are known to have haunted looks.
After so many years of watching kids be chosen, knowing full well that in about two weeks they might be dead or severely incapacitated, is sickening. I, as well as many others, have learned to dissociate, to place a distance between ourselves and the Games. Some more than others, as I’ve heard of the gambling happening behind the scenes of each reaping. They first bet on the age, then the likeliness of their survival. And on how mentally unwell they will be, should they return. Despite how good Capitol technology is – having the capacity to heal almost anything; they wouldn’t make the tributes forget. They could, but why would they? That was the point.