After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

District Nine Reapings

It has been a hard year in District Nine. Vicious storms washed away the seeds as soon as they were planted, and those that grew were baked in an abnormally hot sun. They have still managed to produce enough grain to satisfy the need for tesserae, but only just. Grain for other purposes has been limited, and never in its history has District Nine produced so little. 

It shows. The people seem harrowed and hollow, startlingly thin. Many of them have had their first brush with starvation this year. The previously golden fields are parched, with cracks big enough to fit an entire hand in and patches are completely bare. Tractors and harvesters, used sparsely where fuel is expensive, sit around with the paint peeling. Last year they had just been repainted and stood proud and glossy. 

Last year feels like a long time ago. 

A lot of people have died since then. The square feels empty. Well, more empty than usual. For a district of its size, District Nine has surprisingly few people. More than four fifths of the land is field. There is no real main township and the population live in clusters of cottages, in small groups of three to five families. For many, the reapings are the only time they will leave their allocated fields. As usual, trams spiral around the district, breaking down with alarming regularity. Sparse Peacekeepers amble, whistling, through the fields, their only role being to make sure that the inhabitants aren't hacking each other to death with the scythes. Which they aren't, because today everybody is in the square. 

The stage looks like it is about to collapse. It probably is; it's the same stage that has been used for ninety nine years, simply because District Nine has never been bothered to replace it and by the time they've realised it needs replacing, they don't have the means. The whole set-up is titled to one side, tired of being hauled out of the sheds and set up every year. The Capitol rep totters out nervously, a young woman with thick golden plaits formed into a crown around her high forehead. Her dusty beige dress is knee length, with a net train that froths behind her as she walks. District Nine look up at her impassively; they know that she isn't to blame for the horrific weather that has plagued them. A few blame a long-forgotten deity, the will of fate. Others blame nobody, and especially not nervous young Lamia. 

She stands on the lopsided stage, occasionally touching her elaborate hairdo to check that it is still in place. She will have the task of getting sponsors for two of these children, who will inevitably die anyway. She knows she can do it; all she needs to do is flutter her eyelashes. Though that feels like a cheap trick to her, if it helps keep her tributes alive, she'll do it. 

She looks down sadly at these ragged excuses for children, their faces wrinkled and dry and flaking. There isn't a pale face in the crowd, which looks thinner to her than last year, and the tones range from a deep rugged tan - even one or two as dark as District Eleven - to peeling red. District Nine usually look unassuming and tolerant, occasionally even cheerful; it's one of the reasons Lamia loves it here. Here people will judge you on your smile rather than your style. There's something so simple about the District Nine lifestyle that sometimes makes Lamia jealous. It seems so...genuine. 

Not this year, though, and she feels her heart go out to all these people, all these children who don't look like children anymore. She wishes she could have done something. But the Capitol doesn't tell you these things, and she knew nothing about the horrific plight of District Nine until she got here. 

The Mayor, a man who usually has a slightly dark sense of humour and a welcoming handshake, looks like he's had the life sapped from him. He gives Lamia a sympathetic smile which reminds her of her own father, who is desperately proud of her. He greets the district with words of comfort and sorrow, simple but heartfelt enough to bring tears to many eyes, including the stunted cameraman, and asks that they hold a longer than usual respectful pause.