15DISTRICT FOUR: REMARKABILITY
Sebastian "Seb" Vryce, 18
District Four is kinda an amalgamation of everywhere.
The style of our architecture is mostly borrowed from our neighboring Districts; if you've had the privilege of seeing the other residential areas of Panem, you'd notice the influence at once. We borrowed the white, soaring pillars from the decadence of District One, the sprawling verandas from District Seven, and the compactness of District Twelve. You can say we borrowed elements of culture, too. We borrowed the Academy from District Two, the tight-knit compassion from District Eleven, and the contented complacency from District Five.
I don't know if we also borrowed the thieving from somewhere, but I wouldn't be surprised. That being said, petty thievery isn't exactly the most honorable occupation, but it sure as hell pays the bills. Specifically my bills.
My fingers drum against my leg as I stroll the alleys snaking behind the more wealthy sector of Four. The houses here are pretty well protected by the local Peacekeepers, but when you've been stealing for as long as I have, that's child's play. I've mastered the art of scouting through the neighborhood, comfortable in my knowledge of how to avoid every piece of surveillance equipment, every 'Keeper, every second of being stranded out in the open. It's only a challenge to choose which house will be the most unprotected, the most vulnerable to a street urchin with too much time on his hands to think about anything other than great, creative ways to sneak into places he doesn't belong.
Since it's Reaping day, there aren't too many people out to stare at me suspiciously. Most people are inside their homes, cooking breakfast 'n crap, consoling their kids about how 'your name isn't in there too many times, you should be fine'. Am I desensitized to the Games? No. It's just a lot easier to deny the risk before you're standing in a mob of kids your age, fearfully watching the travesty of a District escort wobble onstage in outrageous heels and an off-center wig.
There's a woman who lives in a re-refurbished beach house who's usually a good victim. She never married and never had kids, so she's a single decrepit lady in a house big enough for a family of seven. As long as I was apt enough not to pick the room she was in, I could sneak around undetected and rob her blind. Every time. However, she always invited a lot of friends over for the Reaping… said it was easier to bear with other people around… 'even though I don't have kids, I still don't like watching them shipped off to die every year'. So, yeah, no go on her today.
Maybe Mr. Malawi? He's an occupational teacher at the school, phenomenal at fishing, but otherwise pretty challenged. He claims to have "cleithrophobia", a long fancy word for fear of being enclosed; therefore, he always has his windows open. Horrendous practice when it rained, even worse when I was in the neighborhood. He's a little more difficult than the old lady since he can't stand being in the same spot for over a few seconds, but his blaring music helped to muffle feet.
So many choices, so little time. I treated myself to oversleeping this morning, my own form of a Reaping gift… that being said, it was almost time to head over. I had about forty minutes to get this done. More than enough time, but deadlines always made me a bit antsy.
As I walk, I make sure to make myself look like I belong. My eyes remain forward as I make my way deeper into the patch of houses, although my peripheral diligently documents every home I pass. The few people that pass don't pay me any special attention, but they hush their voices and walk a tad faster. Understandable. I'd bet a large amount of those people are cussing out the Capitol, and you can never tell who's gonna run to the Keepers and blab for money. However, one conversation makes my ears perk.
"So, what're you wearing for the Reaping?"
"Dunno. Probably gonna ask my mom to borrow her bridesmaid dress."
"Good idea. Wanna catch the eye of Jules with that neckline, huh?"
"No, shut up!"
"Don't think I will."
Then there's the sound of impact.
I turn to chase the sound of their voices with my eyes. They're two girls, probably my age, and admittedly very pretty. Whoever this Jules dude is, I'd be lucky to see that neckline.
They're gone, though, turning the corner and entering the backyard of a particularly imposing mansion. It stands tall, wide and proud, cutting through the torrent of gray storm clouds. The roof sharpens into a steeple, grandiose and boastful. These features tell me two things… one, lots of money. Two, lots of complacency.
My seasoned green eyes watch them enter. They use the back door, announcing to someone further inside that they're home, and then close it. The window is translucent, but their shadows disappear from the threshold too quickly for them to have taken the time to lock it.
Perfect.
I backtrack a bit under the pretense of pretending I dropped something, looking around wildly to sell it. As I approach the fencing, I linger just outside the window's view, chancing quick glances inside. There are no shadows in the gargantuan room that are anywhere near human. I see the outline of a spiral staircase leading up to the multiple upper floors, and the bar of a kitchenette off to the left. Otherwise, no place of entry or exit, and the door's metal edges are clear of rust. Hopefully, that means it won't behold a thief's worst enemy… creaking hinges.
I give it a second before reaching out to grab the knob. I turn it agonizingly slowly, pushing it open even slower. Thankfully, it was almost inaudible, and my initial assessment was correct. There's no one in the room, and by the muffled thuds of footfalls above me, it sounds like the inhabitants are up on the third floor. I'll have to move fast, but not so fast to alert anyone.
So I do. I crouch, leisurely crossing the scuffed tiled floors and heading toward the fireplace in the center of the back wall. The chrome mantle hosts a large stack of pristine, folded clothing. Shirts, pants, vests, you name it. Nothing feminine though, so I doubt I'll be seeing a reappearance of the girl looking for her mom's bridesmaid dress.
If I'm gonna be looting for money or the like, I might as well take a Reaping outfit. When you live on the streets, you don't exactly have the luxury of a washing bucket or nice, dressy clothes. My greasy ebony hair and rumpled cloth 'ensemble' should be enough evidence of that.
I reach up on the balls of my feet, gently taking off a stack of clothes. Many choices tempt me, like the suave blue tux or the faux leather jacket, but I can't take anything that will be sorely missed. A crime is best committed in such a manner that when it's noticed, you're really too far gone.
Finally, near the end of the array, I spot something suitable. It's a green, silken polo. Nowhere near the elegance of anything else, but it looks comfortable and strangely attractive. Way better than the chafe of what I'm wearing now.
I place it gently on the floor, making sure to replace every discarded garment exactly where it came from. Then I turn my gaze to the stack of pants; I unceremoniously select a pair of black jeans. I reach down and pick up my shirt, slinging both of my selections over my arm and sneaking over to the coffee table off to the side. It's stationed before the squat couch, proud despite its regularity. On it, however, is stationed a small clam jewelry box. I carefully lift the lid.
Jackpot. Glittering up at me are endless pearls, both opalescent and black, gold chains, and diamond earrings. Whatever these people do, they rake in a ton of money. Perhaps they're trainers? No. If they were, I'd have seen their children at the Academy sessions by now.
Pondering aside, I'm a little intimidated by the gold mine in front of me. I could take it all, dart out of here, and never have to thieve again… but if I'd been robbed of this many treasures, I'd be hellbent on finding whoever did the deed.
My drooling is cut short. My head whips toward the stairs when I begin to hear voices filtering down the stairwell, the words permeating through the living space like the call of a canary in a coal mine.
"...and then, Mikaia, he slapped her!"
I can feel my heartbeat spring in pace everywhere… the tips of my toes, in my ears, my throat. I grab blindly into the box, gently closed the lid, and scurry across the floor. I grab a pair of shoes by their intertwined laces, fashion be damned, and just as cautiously opened the door, bolting out of there with barely any time to spare. As I fled across the lawn, obscured from the window by the brick walls, I heard the girls' voices grow to a crescendo. If I had to guess, they were halfway across the living room by now.
As soon as I was a safe distance away, the thud of my heartbeat was replaced with the cold, refreshing rush of adrenaline. Yet another successful heist to Sebastian Vryce's roster!
I collapse against the alleyway's wall, sliding down until I was on the floor. I tilt my head back, still fighting to steady my breath, but grinning all the same. So, I didn't get much money, but I did come away with something, and the Peacekeepers/rich people didn't catch me and wring my neck. Victory in my book.
When all the elevated heart rate and breathing return to their natural andante, I chance a look at what I had blindly ripped from the jewelry clam. It's not diamonds or gold, much to my chagrin, but it's interesting in its own right. A dog tag necklace lays across my palm, and upon closer inspection, it appears to made of a yellowish-ivory substance, hard and unbending. Bone.
What type of bone? I don't know. However, it must be pretty big to be made into something of this caliber. Perhaps a large fish. A whale, most likely.
I stand up and strip myself of my clothes. I was out in the open, but no one was around here. I pull the shirt over my head and then struggle into the jeans. The jeans are a tad tight and the shirt exposes a sliver of my stomach when I raise my arms, but thieves can't be choosers.
The shoes I snagged were plain brown work boots and a bit harder to get on. Either my feet are huge, or whoever's boots these were had extremely small feet. After a few seconds of struggling, I fit my heels in all the same. They pinch in the toes, but it's a small price to pay.
I stand still for a moment to steady my breathing (yet again) after the struggle. My hand carts lazily through my hair, breaking through tangles and primping the wavy strands to the best of its ability. If I'm gonna rush off to die in a gladiator-esque fashion, might as well look good doing it.
The thought wipes any remnant of a smile from the corners of my lips. Today was the day, wasn't it? For some reason, it didn't sink in until now.
My body aches from an unfathomable amount of scars and wounds from my rigorous training at the Academy. My choice, so complete and full in its resolve, begins to falter.
Sure, District Four is a hellhole with its omnipresent reek of dead fish and salt, but it was… home? The closest thing to home, anyway. I was never blessed with the comfort of a mother's arms, and the time with my father was brief, but even then I never felt like I was where I belonged. The streets are cold and merciless and I've seen countless souls succumb to its icy claws of death… but it was familiar. Manageable, even, with the right skills and mindset. But the arena? Who knows what I'll be getting into then? Not everything can be solved with quick feet and the ability to judge if a floorboard is loose. If I die, I'll have lived an unremarkable life, lost to the sands of time and District Four's decay. Tossed out to the sea, even, to be devoured by the creatures who feast on unexceptional flesh.
But then I remember the Victor's Village. Fashioned on the only hill in Four, it shone down on the turmoil of the commonplace slums. The buildings, so elegant and fashioned like Capitol, were a sign of remarkability. Anyone who graced these houses had escaped the grip of their District, of the cruel Peacekeepers, of the Game designed to tear you down.
It was the ultimate honor, the ultimate call, and the only place that I could ever call home.
So I straightened the collar of my shirt, laced my boots, and trudged on toward the city center, ready to say those four words that would change my life.
Maeve Blackwater, 16
Rosé and I walked side-by-side down the market sector of District Four, our pockets laden with shiny gold coins. Our father always gave us an allowance on Reaping day, allowing us to buy something from the stalls as a gift. We didn't have much money, but it was customary to go all out today. You know, in case we died.
My sister's wide brown eyes flitted from stall to stall. This entire place was sensory overload. Spices, herbs, and meats wafted together and joined in a conglomeration of beautiful scents, not to mention the many fragrances of the homemade perfumes and colognes that sold for copious amounts of money in Four. The brightly colored banners slung proudly over kiosks, stalls, and their tchotchkes demanded attention everywhere you looked. A cacophony of voices, blending together to build a soundscape of every tone and accent, permeated through the place. Needless to say, it was almost impossible to hear my sister when she spoke up spritely.
"Hey Maeve, I think I wanna check out the clothes section this time!" she yelled. I cocked an eyebrow.
"You sure? You don't want, like, a novelty or something?" I replied, ducking under the flailing arms of a tall man as he animatedly gestured toward a stall.
"Yeah. I need new Reaping clothes."
"Oh."
It's true. Rosé had grown like a weed this past year or so. Dad and I were beginning to worry that we might need to buy her an entire new wardrobe, something we absolutely could not afford. But if she was able to forget what they were for, Rosé could wear her Reaping clothes casually, and that's one less shopping trip for us.
So I took her hand and led her deeper into the tumult. There was no signage anywhere, so a newcomer would be hard-pressed to find their way around. However, I had been here so many times I could navigate this place with my eyes closed.
A few vendors wave at me as I pass. A one-eyed lady named Pasha leans forward over her wooden stand and grabs a fistful of my shirt. I raise my arms defensively, but when I see it's only her, I erupt in laughter.
"Pasha! Where've you been? Didn't see you here last year!"
"Yeah," the woman croaked. "Husband and I had a run in with the Peacekeepers."
"Shit, what happened?"
"They found out some of our items were a little south of legal. It's alright though, here I am I am to pester you!" she barked out a laugh so raspy I fought back a cringe.
"Guess so! Hey, have you met Rosé?" Rosé's eyes shot to me and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, but the damage had been done.
"Don't think I have. Ain't she your sister?"
"Yeah." I put my hands on her shoulders and pull her closer to me. Pasha flashes us a yellow grin.
"How about that? She looks like you, Maeve."
"You think so?" I hear that a lot, but I don't see the resemblance. She might have my nose but I don't think anything about us looks alike past that. Her lips are fuller than mine, her eyelashes curl upward, and her body is short and wide. I'm tall and thin with curves, rowdy curls, and slightly slanted eyes.
"Hell yeah! Say, you guys want something? On the house."
Rosé's eyes light up. She bounds closer to the woman's wares, scanning them diligently. They're mostly shark and sheepshead teeth, but a few cool looking rocks are scattered far and few. Predictably, she picks up a purple mass that glitters in the sparse sunlight.
"What's this?"
Pasha grins once again. She puts her red hair behind her ear and takes a good, close look at it.
"That's an amethyst," she explained proudly. "It's a precious gem. Goes for a lot of money in the hoity-toity Districts like One and Two, but no one here has that kinda money… except for the merchants, maybe."
"Where'd you find that? In the ocean?" I stooped down to take a closer look. The stone was encased in a hard back of stone, but the points that jutted forth were an elegant, soulful lilac. I didn't have a hard time believing this would go for a lot of money anywhere else.
"Nah, the ex-husband got it for me. He had a lot of money, shame he caught me with Seamus. Coulda still been a rich woman," she sighed. "Now I got no use for it. Glad you guys'll get some joy outta it."
Rosé pocketed the stone. Pasha reached behind her ear and let her curls fall in front of her bad eye once more.
"Thank you," I said. Another soul-wrenching laugh.
"Don't mention it. Just don't tell anybody, don't want a bunch of beggars demanding free precious rocks."
"Gotcha," Rosé replied. Her face, usually closed-off and neutral, erupts in the light of her grin.
That's what's great about District Four. The people here, so full of life and stories and good, can bring anyone up from the brink of sadness. Dad's a fisherman, constantly sailing across the roiling expanse of the ocean, and his crew comes over sometimes to hang out at our house. They always bring stories of grandeur, the braving of the great unknown, and harrowing adventures rarely crossed by man. Now, how accurate these stories are, I don't know, but it's always fun to listen to them.
Everyone has a story, that much I know. Some people will tell it freely, some people need a little coaxing, and some still may take years to open up at all. However, if you play your cards right, you're always rewarded with a series of escapades that make you grin, cry, or fawn. It's truly remarkable.
Because of that, I've taken it upon myself to be a confidant for the people I meet. Known by all to be an open ear, someone to hear the things you have to say and keep them to herself.
That's why as we pass further into the market, more and more people call my name and stop to chat. Rosé begins to get annoyed, tugging at my sleeve and dragging me further along, and eventually, my conversations dwindle to banter then small talk then just little hellos and waves.
We finally arrive at the clothing brokers. There's only two, an old man and his son. They're both shaggy-haired with tanned, scarred skin and long fingers. It's common knowledge that the man's wife and the kid's mother passed last year from a nasty bit of pneumonia in the winter. They've kept her business up in her place and they do a remarkable job.
"Hey there, Mr. Kork!"
Both of the Korks turn their heads at once, waving at us as we approach. They abandon their station to walk over to meet us halfway.
"Miss Blackwater! And who's this?" the son questions.
"This is my sister, Rosé."
"A pleasure to meet you, Rosé, my name's Scrod," says the father. Rosé giggles at the name.
"Yeah, it's funny, isn't it? I don't know what my parents were thinking," he laughs. "This is my son, Mahseer."
Mahseer shakes Rosé's hand. He's the quieter of the two, but he's still very nice.
"Well, Blackwaters, what can we do for you?" Scrod asks, wringing his hands. "We're about to close up shop, though, so we have to hurry."
"We're looking for some nice clothes."
"Ah, we got plenty of those," Mahseer pipes up. "Certain color?"
"Red," Rosé answers. Mahseer nods. He disappears behind the counter and returns with a red, frilly frock. He holds it up to my sister's tiny form. "This'll fit. Do you like it?"
My sister nods. She isn't particularly picky about clothes.
"Then let's go pick out some shoes." Mahseer leads her over to the array of formal shoes, and they begin talking quietly amongst themselves.
I turn to Scrod. "How're you holding up?"
The old man bites his lip. "It's hard, but every day is a bit easier. I'm on the way up and I think the kid is too."
"That's good. Is business alright?"
"Business is great! Everyone came flocking as soon as we opened up again. We're not nearly as good as Marjorie at sewing but we'll get there. Eventually."
"I have no doubt. If you ever need help, you know where to find me."
"Thanks for the offer, but we're okay, really. We don't need charity."
Charity? It isn't charity. But before I can open my mouth to tell him otherwise, my sister and Scrod's son are back. Rosé is fitted in black mary janes and has a big, bright bow in her hair. She's cute and she knows it.
"How much do I owe you?" I reach into my pockets to fish out my coins.
"That'll be ten dollars," Mahseer informs me. I place the money into his open palm.
"Wish we could stay longer, but we have to go," I told the shopkeepers. "Lots of stuff to do before tonight."
"Understood," Scrod nods. "It was great seeing you again, Maeve."
"And you too."
And then we're off, headed back the way we came. My sister is certainly in a much better mood now than she was when she woke up this morning. She's thirteen now, no tesserae, but she was more worried for me than for herself. She's clutching Pasha's amethyst in her hand and holding the hangar for her dress in the other, wearing a contented smile.
I haven't told her yet about volunteering. My Dad and I worked very hard to conceal my training at the Academy from her, always disguising it as errands or hanging out with friends. It's not that we don't think she can handle it, we just didn't want her to worry about it.
Right now, we live in a hovel… a houseboat that has definitely seen better days, battered along a rotting dock. When I get back, we'll be in a real house, we'll be able to afford things we don't need all year instead of one day, and best of all, it won't be just us.
Everyone will share in the spoils.
And that's remarkable.
I am SO sorry for how late this was! I went on an unannounced vacation.
I love to hear from you guys! Who was your favorite? Anything you liked? Disliked?
Thanks for reading, and I promise the next chapter will be out much sooner.