After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

District Seven Reapings

It always rains in District Seven on reaping days.

The whole place smells musty, like damp wood. Last year the rain was torrential, the floor of the square little more than a muddy puddle. The tributes trailed mud into the Justice Building and the rain had been so loud that even with the microphone, the rep had had to read out the names twice before anybody could hear them.

This year is just a light drizzle, not even heavy enough to cause any noise on the rustling leaves. Past half-way, the reapings are now into the afternoon, and the morning is spent going about their usual business. For many, this means a stint in the Clearing; the trade centre of Seven. Almost impossible to find for anybody not born in the forest district – and several Capitol reps have tried, determined to check for illegal trade – locating the Clearing seems to be more instinct than anything else. On normal days, it thrives. There is a tram station about a half-hour’s walk away, so those from the furthest reaches of the district can get there, do business, and return by the end of the day. District Seven is the most sparsely populated district, with most people living in chalet-hamlets and one or two in treehouses. The trams are scattered randomly, with no clear pattern, reminiscent of the district itself.

On reaping mornings, the Clearing is packed full of people, a whole community jammed into one place. There’s barely room to move between the stalls. People chatter in loud voices over the whispering trees. Carpenters worthy of sending their works to the Capitol show it off; far away the lumber mill tirelessly churns out paper. Teenagers meet with friends, climbing up into the branches to talk, determined to enjoy what may possibly be their last moments of freedom.

If there is an electric fence surrounding District Seven, very few people have ever seen it. Most people are happy with their wooden chalet houses, with the speckled sky and the rich colours. Capitol demand is high, of course, but Seven have always worked hard to be sustainable and they can match it, and then some. The difference between the rich and the poor here is much smaller than it is in some districts, enough that some people can’t tell the difference. The tall and willowy population of Seven have never felt oppressed. They can get by comfortably. They get to work outdoors, in the fresh air, and even the hardest workers have little to complain about. Their tributes do well. Some even come back alive.

The Clearing is a thronging mass of wood-coloured umbrellas and orange and brown reaping outfits; tradition reaping colours in District Seven. Not green; green is like the spring and summer. Brown is the autumn, a sign of hard times to come. As the faint outline of the sun becomes visible over the ring of tall, waving trees, the families with children start to drift off, fretting mothers calling wayward teenagers down from the branches, their neighbours packing up their stalls for them. The wizened old men watch with a frown, knowing that at least one of them will not be here next year.

The stage didn’t start going up until the last minute, so even as people start to weave into the square bordered with trees with the wooden buildings barely visible behind them, last minute adjustments are being made. One of the planks of wood that make up the steps is refusing to lie straight and the rhythmic hammering noise is muted by the soft mist and the damp. Workmen arranging the light rigging shout instructions to each other and kids too young to be in the pens, too young to really understand what is going on, gather around asking questions. The men answer kindly, with one even letting the youngest child – an eight year old with a long raven ponytail and a face like a crow – turn the stage lights on and off. She shrieks in delight and runs off to tell her parents. The Mayor watches indulgently. There are some tears, but not many. If a twelve year old is reaped, there will always be a volunteer somewhere. Because people live in such small groups, family bonds are strong in Seven, as is the whole community feeling. Volunteering isn’t that rare.