After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

District Twelve Reapings

District Twelve is a tiny place, the only district where it is possible to walk from one side to the other. The trams aren’t needed here, mostly because everybody lives close to where they work; this is how the Seam came into being.

After the failed Quell rebellion, District Twelve has no living victors. The Victor’s Village stands empty, the only spot where nothing has had to be rebuilt. Their mentor is Capitol-provided, an exuberant but still likeable man with a blissfully reserved fashion sense and a constantly upbeat demeanour. If anybody can regain a shred of respect for the Capitol from this worn and battered district, it’s Mercio. Today he’s wearing simple black cords and a flame coloured shirt; a little too tongue-in-cheek for some Capitol people’s liking but the people here appreciate it. He’s even added the occasional orange streak to his hair, which he usually keeps black and loose around his shoulders. If it wasn’t for the occasional touch – like the streaks – and his clipped and polished accent (which he often tries to amend whenever he’s here, much to the amusement of some of the younger children), he would look like he belongs in the Seam. One or two of the girls, despite themselves, have a bit of a thing for him. But as he’s only here on reaping days, for everyone else it doesn’t matter what he looks like or how hard he tries; he’s a harbinger of bad news.

He doesn’t smile as he stands there on stage, looking down into the gathering crowd. Teenagers are trying not to look scared, some of the younger ones sucking on their fingers where drops of blood leak out. Parents mill around nervously, some coughing constantly thanks to the coal dust collecting on their lungs, muscled and thin at the same time. Some look close to starvation. Children, who usually would be too young to serve in the mines, are grubby with coal dust and just can’t get clean; it’s like the gritty black has sunk into their skin like a tattoo. It has been a hard year in District Twelve, and it wasn’t exactly easy to start with. Mercio knows. The Mayor told him sadly, with the air of somebody who knows nothing will be done but needs to say something anyway. The coal is running out. More miners than ever are dying of disease, and there was a nasty accident a few weeks ago involving a young trapper falling asleep on the job, a heavy mine cart and a lot of blood. The young man should be in the pens today. Instead, his family are already in mourning.

Mercio listens, watching people’s reactions, as the Mayor addresses the crowd. There aren’t really any reactions at all, apart from a kind of weariness that he knows nobody in the Capitol has ever worn. Sick and tired has never been the ‘in’ look. A few girls’ eyes dart away as his rove over the pens, wondering which two will die this year. One particularly bold girl locks eyes with him, her smile steady and alluring. As usual, the Mayor appeals for a moment of silence.

The silence observed in Twelve is profound. It seems to say more than the Mayor’s words or the speech. It speaks of loss, and hope, and also pride. District Twelve are proud of who they are, in a warped way. They are proud of having come out of the ashes and survived when the Capitol wanted to crush them. They see every year that they live as a slap in the face of the Capitol, survival against the odds. Mercio knows the truth; the Capitol doesn’t need Twelve. With the coal running out and Five starting to provide more and more efficient forms of energy (who cares about the dangers of nuclear when you’re nowhere near it?), District Twelve is obsolete, only useful for providing tributes. The plan in the Capitol is probably along the lines of letting them slowly starve and self-destruct. Though some people argue that twelve is a much rounder number than eleven.

Mercio pushes the thought from his mind; for once there is something more dismal to think about. He has to deliver the speech. Usually the escort would do it, but for some reason some genius up high has decided that it may as well be Mercio. The escort, well, he won’t even meet her until the train. This year it’s a new one; Mallie got pregnant. Nothing to do with him, he swears. And it wasn’t. Judging by Mallie’s face when she broke the news to him, it’s not somebody you would want to be a father.