Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

District Eight Reaping - Cassidy Fairchild and Sokka Sith

You wouldn’t know that the people of District Eight made beautiful clothing for a living.  Their clothes are well cut, but they are drab, and worn out looking, much like the people wearing them.  Some women have tried to liven their grey dresses up with aprons made from now faded strips of cloth, and their attempts looks somewhat pathetic against the overwhelming grey and dirty whites around them.

The factories still clatter away in the background, manned by a scant few older men, who will be made to watch a recording of the reapings later that night.  Demand in the Capitol for the cloth and clothing the district produces has reached an all-time high, the designs and colours brighter and more flamboyant than ever.  They never stop to think of the hands that stitched their outfits; they see only the beauty of the finished product. 

Such beauty and colour out of such a drab place.  It’s rather ironic, really.

The people shuffle through the narrow alleys that lead to the Justice Building, feet stumbling occasionally in the gloom between the tall buildings.  No-one speaks; it’s a silent procession, broken only by the occasional hacking cough that marks the workers in the clothing factories, bought on by the constant inhalation of cotton and silk fluff, a constant reminder that if you don’t die in the Games, the Capitol will kill you eventually anyway.  More irony, only this cuts a little closer to the bone. 

Some might even consider a quick death in the arena to be preferable.

The Capitol escort is already onstage as the people start to fill the square.  She’s new to the district, and people are staring at her curiously – she looks somewhat different to the others they have seen over the years.  She’s seated at the rear of the stage, so the people can’t see her too well, just an immense pile of black hair scattered with tiny birds in bright colours.  Some of the younger children whisper excitedly as they see the bundles of feathers twitch and move, thinking the birds are real.  They’re not, but it’s been so long since anyone saw any real birds over the district, the fakes are as near as they’ll get.

It seems like it takes a long time until the Peacekeepers at the rear of the square give the signal to begin.  The crowd shuffles restlessly, as they do every reaping, unsure of what is about to happen.  Some of the younger children hold hands, their knuckles white with nervous anticipation.  Volunteers are rare in District Eight, and victors are even rarer.  Everyone knows being reaped is a virtual death sentence. 

Some of the older people remember the year the girl had won, a bolt from the blue.  But that had been years ago, and her name was almost forgotten now, a fragment of a children’s story, a relic of days that were once brighter than today.

There’s the sound of grunting and puffing from the back of the stage as the escort levers herself free of her seat.  She’s a vast woman, a tottering mountain of silk clad flesh.  Some children giggle, their hands whipping up to muffle the noise before the Peacekeepers hear. The women in the crowd are mentally estimating how much fabric in the dress that clings almost obscenely to the rolls in her sides.  There’s enough silk there to make dresses for almost every twelve year old girl in the district.  They might be skinny, but there are a lot of them.

Lallifa hates this place.  It’s dank and boring and the depressing atmosphere makes her want to scream.  She always does scream, actually, but not until she’s in the train, back in the lavish surroundings she’s used to.

The sound of her laboured breathing can be heard over the microphone in her lapel; the effort of getting out of the seat, combined with the walk to the podium, is taking its toll on her already.  She’s just made it to the stand when there’s a loud crack and the people gasp as they see her topple sideways, arms flailing.  She hits the stage with an impressive thud, her legs flying into the air, and everyone can see the snapped heel on her glittery shoe that’s laid her flat.