Thought I’d put in an Author’s Note to say that, everything is original character, because I feel like the books themselves are canon to those characters, and I shouldn’t add or subtract from that. That being said, it’s in the Hunger Games universe. Still interested?
I was chosen the very last year that I was eligible. Eighteen and ripe for the Reaping. I guess I was lucky in that respect—I had the advantage of age; the youngest tributes almost never made it very far.
Feeling lucky wasn’t something I would need to get used to though, in the Hunger Games.
The voice comes in to me from outside the window. High. Tinkling with laughter even this early in the morning. “Chrome!”
I shift even deeper in my covers, my movements making the frame of the bunkbed creak. The metal was a poor grade and decades old: the best District Six had to offer. “Chrome!”
Streak is getting impatient. She’s used to my sleeping in, but she must be on edge for some reason. And then I remember…it’s Reaping Day.
The realization runs a chilly, invigorating path through my body. The last year to wake up dreading the day, I think. At the same time, as I go through the motions of dressing, arranging my hair, a little part of me is terrified. But there’s still today, it says.
Streak is pacing up and down the slim top of a brick wall by the time I meet her. Her worn leather jacket catches on the crumbling mortar when she leaps down, and she tugs it loose before commencing our walk through town. “Can you smell the difference in the air?” she asks.
“Yep,” I say. I’m glum, but my answer manages to sound grimly bouyant. “By the end of the day, two less people will be breathing it.”
“More room for us,” she returns. Streak is small, but sturdy. Her cap tilts towards the ground, putting her eyes in half shadow, hiding beneath it a round, determined face. She’s one of the tiniest women on the assembly line and one of the most productive.
I’ve never been able to beat her quota. Then again, I’m hardly ever in that part of the factory to try. Ever since I was about fifteen, they’ve kept me in the Finishing area, putting the final touches on automobiles, trains, elevator cages. Of course I only work part time, but we try to get placed into something when we’re young.
I’m a few inches taller than Streak, but I’m still small. And more than that, fragile, compared to most girls on the Block. No muscle definition, or staying power. My fingers, though, are where I make up for that lack.
The overseers found me in metal shop during an inspection of our school when I was working on a simple cart. My teacher had been lecturing me on the extreme delicacy of my wheels. I’d made them far more ornate than the blueprint called for.
Thankfully, this was a plus for people building to the Capitol’s tastes. They set me up as a designer and “polisher”, making automobiles more pleasing and elegant for the wealthy passengers. In return, I am paid a small (and I do mean, small) wage that can contribute to my family’s income.
Streak and I turn automatically down a narrow street that blossoms into a grid of factories and tenements. Wet asphalt has given our walk a less smokey scent than usual—unsettling after our recent comments. It’s as if the District Six tributes are already out of our midst.
The Canteen is across from Factory Five, and provides meals for the workers every afternoon and evening. In the morning, like now, the cooks are only just beginning their day. But by the time we reach the smudged iron and glass double doors, we realize that today is their day off as well as ours.
We decide to make the trek to the other side of town, to the junkyard where we’ve played since we were little.
How many hours have I spent scouring the scraps of broken and destroyed metal? And what have I been looking for?
I pick up a piece of steel that once was a car door—or a section of a door—and hold it up to Streak where she stands atop a pile of crushed buses. “That’s nice!” She calls back. When we meet up again, she’s holding a fist-sized plastic light that once sat on the roof of a Peacekeeper vehicle. Her hands examine the chipped red case, poking where the light would have been attached.
She sits on the scrap of steel I scavenged. Later, she’ll use it for something else. Maybe a tray. Maybe a small table top. I’ve always been astounded at the uses she can find for things everyone else throws away. Maybe she’ll let me do some filigree work on it…
The junkyard is an interesting mix of refuse. It has the standard wreckage, cars, buses, hovercrafts, carts used in mineshafts. Sometimes a train car from one of the lines going to and from the other Districts. We like to nose around in those, if they haven’t been crushed already. No one but designated officials get to travel out of the District—ironic for a place specializing in transportation.
New models outshine the older, so we have a peak at the outdated styles of the Capitol, even if we don’t work in Assembly. And an added bonus with the cars is the stuff that is tossed out with them. Dinner services, silverware, tablecloths, velvet seat cushions. You can sell all of it. You have to be careful about doing so, but almost everyone has something in their homes that Streak and I have lifted from the yard.
It’s another source of income, although if someone really needed something, we usually couldn’t turn them away. There are so many people in the Block’s crowded apartments that things got worn out quickly, and more often went missing. There was a thriving drug market, if you want it. It’s hard to afford though. Most have to steal to keep up the habit.
The sun’s high in the sky by the time we leave for town. We usually skip breakfast to save on food so I’m used to the feeling, but for some reason today, I feel twice as hungry than I am normally. It’s as if my body is telling me to gather as many nutrients as possible, just in case.
Just in case,I think. In case this coming meal is one of the last I’ll ever need. My mind is foggy, and I come out of my starving reverie only once Streak and I reach my building. Instead of seeing me off at the door, and going back to her own apartment, Streak follows me to the third floor where our friend Titania lives.
Titania’s littlest brother opens the door. At his heels is the next oldest, and they run off together as we crowd inside. Someone shouts hello from the kitchen. We make our way through the apartment, small, but larger than my own, and find Titania up to her elbows in bread dough. Her mother, a stout, dark-haired woman, stokes the coal stove in the corner.
“Ready for your last Reaping, girls?” She asks. Mrs. Waters has coal-black eyes, the same as her daughter, and they glint fiercely. I can tell she’s determined that her daughter won’t be chosen this year. Confident.
Titania comes over, toweling flour off from her hands. “As we’ll ever be.” My friend beams, yet her smile doesn’t carry the same faith that her mother’s did. Streak pulls out her slice of metal and presents it awkwardly. Change of subject. Before she and I head home, all of us sit down for tea, reliving the past twelve years of our friendship.
Titania brings up a time back in second grade when I was reprimanded by the teacher for drawing during lessons. They couldn’t find me for hours afterwards and finally, Ti opened a cupboard at the far side of the room, revealing my hiding place. Everyone howls in laughter, and I just remember how cold the cupboard was.
