Nothing Personal

District Six Reaping

Everything about District Six was grey. The buildings, all either featureless apartment blocks or factories, were all grim and colourless. The ground was almost completely paved over, although every so often thin green weeds poked curiously through the cracks. Even the weather was grey, the whole sky blanketed in unbroken clouds. A tiny point of watery light was the only thing that indicated the presence of the sun.  

People were milling about early, mostly adults who didn't have children. The day off had leant a kind of stillness to the air; nobody was darting busily between factories carrying messages, none of the machines were working, the train station was still. There was nothing to do but turn up at the square and talk. Usually market stalls plied their trade here, coloured umbrellas injecting some brightness into the lives of the inhabitants, but today they'd been collapsed and pushed to one side to make room for the crowd.

Right now there was no crowd, only adults loitering aimlessly, occasionally talking to the cameramen about technical issues, setting up the pens or helping with the last few pieces that needed assembling on the stage. All the others were forcing their children to wake up and put on their best clothes, reassuring the youngest and pampering the oldest, trying desperately to stay confident and cheerful even though they knew that for two families it would be impossible this evening. Those already in the square, those without families, felt this pain too, but not as acutely. They stood in small groups reminiscing about their reapings and what happened to the tributes. Much of it was recent. Little of it was encouraging. 

Only one person in the steadily filling square really stood out; a young man who wasn't wearing the same dull orange overalls as the rest of the workers. Instead he was wearing a dark blue suit that fitted his slim frame so well that it had to be specially made. His hair was black and glossy and hung loose around his chin, and his eyes were dark brown and surveyed the people with a small frown. He was only twenty two but he already had permanent lines etched into the corners of his eyes. He often stopped ambling to talk to someone calling for his attention, and he was treated with the utmost politeness and respect, despite his age. Clearly, he was no ordinary District Six worker-drone. 

Enzo was the bright point, the toast of his district. Four years ago his name had been called; a little less than four years ago he had come back, and all without upsetting himself or the Capitol. Since then he had been pampered, both by his old Capitol sponsors - this suit was a present from them - and by his family and friends. He had never had to work again, he had space in the Victor's Village that he'd never have dreamed of in his pokey little flat, and he never had to mend his own clothes. Everybody loved him.

He wasn't happy. He was glad he'd survived, but he'd loved his job, running errands from one factory to the next. It had kept him moving; now he had no need to do anything and nobody would give him any work if he asked. His flat had small, yes, but it had also been cosy and warm and it was a comfort to hear the snoring of his neighbours in the middle of the night. And he'd grown up in orange overalls. Now everyone treated him with the same respect as they showed old men, even his friends.

He'd beaten the Games, but they'd turned him into a stranger in his own district.

His phone went off. That was another way they'd done it; the phone. Nobody else had one, and they'd given it the stupid anthem as a ringtone and he still hadn't worked out how to change it. Everyone was staring. He ignored it. He knew what it would be anyway; they'd want him back in the Justice Building because they were about to start. He went gladly. He hated the reapings, the horrified expressions on the faces of the tributes and their loved ones. It was all too close.

Once the dark-clad figure of Enzo had skulked out of the way, and everybody else was assembled, the Mayor began proceedings, calling everyone into silence. Faces looked up at him, so many different kinds that it was hard to identify one predominant type, unlike in One, Two and Twelve.