Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dad died in Year 62, during the coldest winter on record in the history of District 8. The monthly circular, our only form of news besides Capitol-mandated TV broadcasts, included this brief mention of his death in the February edition:

“Linen Weaver, 32, died suddenly and unexpectedly last month. Known to his family and friends as “Lin,” Mr. Weaver was a hard-working cutter at Factory Number 9 for the last 20 years. He is survived by his wife of 14 years, Georgette, and their five children, Calico, Baize, Poplin, Corduroy, and Taffeta.”

These three ridiculously short lines still feel like a slap in the face. For as long as I could remember, I had been collecting the circular, saving it carefully in a canvas folio Mom had made for me, along with all of my other treasures. Before that, Mom collected the circular for me, from the time I was born. I savored every scrap of information I got, thinking it was all true, and in return, all I got was three stupid sentences for my beloved father.

The obituary, if it can even be called that, didn’t mention that he played the violin or that his favorite color was green or that he was the unofficial leader of the cutters in the factory. It said nothing about my parents’ sickly sweet love story, nor did it quote his favorite thing to say to us: “The six of you are my entire universe!” There was no mention of our ages–Mom was 32 as well, I was twelve, Baize was ten, Poppy was eight, Cor was six, and Taffy was barely four.

Even the brief mention of his death itself was wrong. It wasn’t sudden or unexpected. He had “suddenly” and “unexpectedly” taken a turn for the worse, but he had been sick with brown lung for a long time. And of course, none of the circulars ever so much as hinted at brown lung, even though, by my count, there were rumors of at least two dozen in the past year alone.

That summer was my first Reaping. With Dad gone, I had to take out tesserae for all of us. My name was entered eight times. That was the only time my number of entries was in the single digits.

Chapter Text

By the time we get to the town square, the afternoon sun is beating down on us. We say our goodbyes and split up. Baize leads Cord to the boys’ section while I take Poppy to the girls’. When we join our age groups, I squeeze in next to Rosette up front. Mom and Taffy go stand with Rosette’s parents, Thread and Organza, in the spectator section. Mom holds Organza’s hand on her left and Taffy’s on her right. It is Twill and Tweed’s first Reaping, too. They look just as terrified as Cord. 

Rosette takes my hand as this year’s escort appears on the front steps of the Justice Building. His burgundy brocade suit stands in stark contrast to the pastels and grays of the district. The entire square and everyone in it have been scrubbed up for the occasion, but the white marble of the Justice Building is still stained gray from the soot and smog. The escort joins the mayor and our only living victors, Cecelia and Woof, on stage. 

The mayor steps forward and awkwardly taps the microphone in front of him, causing it to squeal with feedback. He gives the same speech he does every year, droning on and on about the history of Panem and the Games. I sneak glances at my family—Mom and Taffy holding on to each other for dear life, Poppy looking anxious, Cord trying not to cry, Baize leaning heavily on his crutch, even with his prosthetic leg on. 

Finally, the escort steps forward and introduces himself as Seneca Crane. He gives some bullshit remarks about the honor of being chosen for the Games. Spoken like a true Capitolite. Then he reaches into the bowl of girls’ names and fishes out a slip of paper. His beard is shaved in a swirling pattern. It doesn’t suit him. He clears his throat, causing another squeal of feedback, and I feel myself rolling my eyes. 

“Calico Weaver,” he announces with little ceremony.

My stomach drops. Rosette squeezes my hand, then lets go. My heart beats too fast as I make my way out of my section. I walk towards the stage in disbelief. I was so close to being done. As I trudge up the stairs, I remember with a jolt that I had 56 entries this year. It was only a matter of time. I stand by the bowl with my other 55 entries and face the crowd. I can’t see my family or Rosette. 

Seneca picks a name from the boys’ bowl as blood rushes in my ears, so I don’t hear the announcement. Out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar figure loping up the stairs like he owns the place. Cashmere Ligarus. No fucking way. 

Cashmere stands behind the boys’ bowl, grinning at the crowd like he’s won a prize. I look straight ahead, trying to ignore his too-white grimace. Seneca tries to get us to shake hands, but I refuse, glaring at them both before facing the district again. I clench my fists at my sides and grit my teeth to keep from screaming. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of District 8, your tributes for the 68th Hunger Games, Calico Weaver and Cashmere Ligarus!” 

Seneca announces this as if it is something to celebrate. Then the mayor returns to read the Treaty of Treason and lead us in the national anthem. I force myself to sing along. I feel numb. This cannot be happening. Of course this is fucking happening.

Suddenly, Peacekeepers surround the stage in a small swarm and usher us inside. Cashmere and I are led to separate rooms. A Peacekeeper remains just inside the door, probably to make sure I don’t try to escape or kill myself. He gestures at me to sit down, but I can’t. I start pacing, trying to stay as far away from him as possible. A few minutes later, my family bursts into the room, tailed by another Peacekeeper. Mercifully, the two men close the door and stand guard in the hallway. I have no doubt they are listening to us.

Taffy runs at me first, wrapping her arms around my hips and burying her face in my shirt. Tears quickly soak through the thin cotton. Poppy and Cord come up next, clinging on to either side of me. Then Baize leans against the couch behind me so he can ditch his crutch and hug my waist, his face on my shoulder. Mom finally comes up to me and holds my face in her hands.

“I’m so sorry, Cali,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing the top of my head.

The six of us stood there for a long time, crying and holding each other. The clock on the wall ticks loudly. One of the guards shouts a forty-five minute warning. They must be counting the time from the second the ceremony ended. We aren’t even getting a full hour, like we’re supposed to. Bastards. 

I force us to disentangle ourselves and sit down to discuss what happens next. We talk about collecting this month’s tesserae and saving my portion to build a meager surplus, divvy up my many chores, including walking Velveteen, and devise a new family routine. I discreetly ask Mom to take over my client work, hoping that the guards won’t hear or understand what I’m saying. By the time we’ve worked everything out, we have seventeen minutes left. Mom changes the subject.

“Why don’t we go around and say our favorite things or memories about Cali?” she suggests, smoothing Taffy’s hair.

I tear up as they take turns talking. Taffy loves that I make her clothes, and she shares, on behalf of Velveteen, that he loves that I take him on walks and let him sleep on my bed. Cord likes the food I make. Poppy appreciates that I help her with her homework and always taste her baking experiments. Baize shares the embarrassing but funny story of me throwing a tantrum when Mom told us she was pregnant with Cord, which cracked everyone up. Mom told the story of my birth and how excited she and Dad were to start a family. It was bittersweet and started all of us crying again. 

Just before the five minute mark, I hugged each of them fiercely. We shared one last group hug before leaving so that Rosette could come in. When the five of them filed out, it was like my heart left my body. Rosette came in with three minutes left. She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. We both cried uncontrollably for a moment. Then she stepped back and squeezed my arms. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Numb. Scared. Devastated,” whispered. Then I mouthed “angry” at her so the guards wouldn’t hear.

She nods and says, “Of course.” 

We’ve known each other so long we can practically read each other’s minds. 

I can’t fucking believe this , I mentally broadcast.

Me either. 

She hugs me again, even tighter this time, and we whisper, so quietly it’s barely audible.

 “I’ll take care of them, no matter what. Even if you die. Especially if you die. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And Cali?”

“Yeah?”

“If you go down, make sure you go down fighting. Take Cash down with you.”

“I will.”

The guards yell out the thirty second warning. Rosette releases me and wipes away my tears with her handkerchief.

Don’t let those assholes see you cry , her face says.

As the guards open the door, she squeezes my hands one last time.

I love you , both of our faces say.

The guards usher her out, and I do my best to put my walls back up. I need them now more than ever. The two guards get on either side of me, grabbing me by the elbows and pushing me out the door. I desperately want to shove them off, but I resist the instinct. It will only make things worse than they already are. They get worse anyway.

At the end of the hall, Captain Ligarus blocks my exit. The guards halt. Clearly, they are just foot soldiers. Ligarus nods at me and leans in close. I try not to flinch.

“Remember who your friends are, Miss Weaver,” he says in a low voice.

Then he gives me a tight-lipped smile and dismisses us. The guards practically shove me forward out the back door, down the steps, and onto the train.

Chapter Text

As we whizzed past the gray cement landscape of District 8, all I could think was that my first-ever train ride would probably be my last. Seneca insisted that the train to the Capitol was the fastest yet. Whether or not this was true, the fact remained that I was trapped in a glorified metal coffin for the rest of the day, hurtling towards certain death alongside the person I despised the most, a vapid Capitolite, and two mentors who were very bad at their job. I got as far away from them as I could after lunch in the dining car, locking myself in my assigned room. 

The woman who showed me to my room was an Avox, the only one I’d ever met. There had been a lot of firsts today and while they weren’t necessarily bad (Capitol food is delicious, the Avox woman seemed perfectly nice and had probably been made an Avox for something ridiculous like having red hair, and the train was amazing), they were signs that this was actually happening. Worst of all, the train wasn’t fast enough to limit the time I had to think. 

I tried to distract myself by wandering around the bedroom and attached bathroom, touching every fabric I could get my hands on. Normally, this activity–tactile exploration of colors and textures–calmed me. This time, whatever comfort the fabric gave me was canceled out by its ability to remind me of the life I was being forced to leave behind. The bedspread was lavender, Taffy’s favorite color. The velvet couch cushions felt almost exactly like Velveteen’s ears. Even the spacious white marble bathroom made me think of Baize and how much more comfortable he’d be in here for dressing changes. 

This morning was so normal. I had seen a client, Lace, for the final fitting of her wedding dress. She had been two years ahead of me in school; her fianc é was a boy in the year above her. They were together for three years and got engaged last year as soon as she aged out of the Games. The wedding date was set for the beginning of August, which meant that, preparing for the worst-case scenario, I had to finish the dress before the Reaping. 

By eight o’clock, she stood on a stool in the middle of my bedroom, complying with my instructions as I re-pinned seams and moved embellishments. She waited patiently as I ran the dress through my sewing machine and then set on it with a needle to hand-sew the finishing touches. When she tried on the dress for the last time, it was perfect. She looked amazing, her brown skin glowing against the matte ivory silk. She’d bought it on the black market from someone who’d stolen it out of the scrap bin of Factory Number 7. 

The risky move paid off. Per Lace’s specifications, the floor-length dress had a form-fitting bodice and long sleeves, ballet neckline, and a-line skirt. I’d fashioned the sash at her waist out of a wide ivory satin ribbon with roses sewn on it, which I made out of leftover fabric from the dress. I made her a matching headband out of a narrow ivory satin ribbon and more scrap fabric roses. I even covered an old pair of her slippers in scrap silk when she mentioned not being able to buy or borrow matching shoes. The whole ensemble was some of my best–and most expensive–work, and Lace happily paid full price out of her meager savings from her teacher’s salary.

Ironically, Reaping Day was the best day to conduct black market business. Most of the Peacekeepers were reassigned to patrol the town square, allowing customers and vendors to move more freely throughout the district. Lace was able to walk the fifteen minutes from her apartment building to mine and back accosted, even while carrying a brown paper packet containing the outfit. I spotted her in the crowd at the Reaping, unharmed, standing next to Loom, her fianc é. 

Thinking of Lace and her beautiful dress in my apartment this morning made me think of the quiet breakfast I shared with my family before she arrived, maybe the last time I would ever eat with them. We had leftover bread and butter from last night. Mom, Baize, and I had tiny cups of black coffee while Poppy, Cord, and Taffy had chamomile tea. There was barely anything left to feed Velveteen, so I added a few stale crackers to his bowl. I walked him as soon as I woke up this morning, before Lace’s fitting, and again right before the Reaping. I might never see any of them again. Even if, by some miracle, I did see them again, nothing would ever be normal again. Not the way yesterday had been normal, just like most of the days before it.

This summer has been unbearably hot. Luckily, yesterday, the temperature had cooled somewhat by the time I left Factory Number 9 in the early evening. The exhaust, however, made it feel almost as hot as the early afternoon, when the sun beat down on us through the few grimy windows of the factory floor. My denim coveralls were drenched with sweat, my curly hair a frizzy mess from the humidity. Rosette walked next to me, her pale face red with heat exhaustion. Our heavy brown leather work boots thudded on the cracked sidewalk. We had worked our sixth twelve-hour shift in a row, as we had in the five weeks since graduation. Somehow, her twelve-year-old siblings, Twill and Tweed, managed to run ahead of us, despite having worked a four-hour shift themselves. 

Rosette and I walked in comfortable silence, occasionally rolling our eyes at each other when the twins let out a particularly loud whoop or nearly crashed into a lamppost. When we arrived at our cinderblock building, which is nearly identical to all of the other residential buildings, Twill and Tweed fell over each other to push the door open. They raced up the stairs in darkness because, according to the mayor, “the factories need all the juice they can get.” Rosette and I, on the other hand, trudged up the stairs. On the eleventh floor, they veered off into the hallway to apartment 11B. I waved goodbye before huffing and puffing up to the twelfth floor.

At the end of the hallway, I unlocked the door to 12F. I was immediately hit with the smell of bread baking in our too-hot apartment. Poppy stood in front of the oven with the door open, poking at a loaf of bread made from the last of this year’s tesserae grain. Baize leaned against the counter eating the last scrap from the previous week’s loaf of bread. He held his crutch tightly under his left arm, making up for the fact that he took off his prosthetic leg. It was hurting him again, but a big smile broke out across his face as he pushed himself upright to give me a one-armed hug. 

“Hey, Cal,” he said, his hair tickling my ears.

“Hey, yourself,” I said. When he released me, I sat down to unlace my work boots.

Poppy closed the oven and finally noticed me. Her face brightened, too.

“Cali!” She gave me a bear hug, the flour on her apron sticking to my sweaty clothes.

“Hi,” I managed as she crushed my ribcage.

Then, Velveteen skittered over, his entire body wiggling with excitement. I leaned down to pet his silky black fur. He immediately flopped over to show me the white patch on his belly, which I rubbed. His tongue lolled out of his mouth at an angle and he’s still wiggling with excitement that I’m home.

“Where’s Mom? I thought you had the same shift today.”

I looked up at Poppy, still petting Velveteen.

“We did, but she went out to run errands after. She said she’d be back in an hour or two.”

She nodded.

“Where are the others?”

Baize pointed to the living room, his mouth full of cheese. I rounded the corner to find Cord and Taffy on the rug playing checkers and said hi, but they were both much too absorbed in their game to do more than mumble a greeting that vaguely sounded like English. I rolled my eyes and returned to the kitchen to ask if anyone had walked the dog recently. No one had, so I forced my boots back on my swollen feet and clipped Velveteen’s leash onto his collar.

He bounded down the twelve flights of stairs and out the door like a rabbit before settling into an easy stroll. We walked several blocks, stopping every few minutes so he could sniff a patch of cement sidewalk, until we reached the green. It is a small rectangle of patchy yellow-green grass surrounded by a chain link fence. Two opposite benches run the length of the longer sides. One corner has a trash can and a waste bag dispenser. The opposite corner has a sad excuse for a tree, which barely has any leaves, even now. The other two corners each have a scraggly bush.

As always, we walked around the perimeter of the park, stopping to sniff every single thing as if he hadn't seen it before. Then I let him off the leash and sat on a bench to watch him run around. The weather had cooled a bit more and there was even a slight breeze. A young woman arrived with a large dog and two small children. She sat on the other bench as the children toddled around and the dogs chased each other around the perimeter. I tried to clear my head and relax. As sad as this place may be, it is the closest thing we have to nature in 8. I find it peaceful.

When we got home half an hour later, I made dinner with Poppy. Baize set the table and convinced Cord and Taffy to end their game in order to wash up. Mom walked in the door just as we sat down. She hugged all of us and enlisted Cor’s help in unpacking the canvas bag she brought in–a few spools of thread in different bright colors, a pack of needles, a much-needed restock of Baize’s medical supplies, and a tiny cake from the bakery by the Justice Building. It costs a small fortune, but Mom buys it every year for Reaping Day, in celebration of us all still being together.

We ate the cold potato soup I made with slices of the dense, dark bread Poppy made earlier. I don’t know what she does to it, but she somehow makes tesserae grain tolerable. There hasn’t been butter at the store for a while, but she spent the last hour making some out of a tiny bottle of cream she managed to get the other day. The six of us ate and talked and laughed for a long time. 

Afterwards, we all scraped our table scraps into Velveteen’s bowl. He waited patiently for his dinner and eagerly devoured soup and bread. Mom tidied up the living room while Taffy and Cord cleaned the kitchen under Poppy’s watchful eye. I dragged Baize into the bathroom to look at his leg.

The lights took a few seconds to flicker on. I helped Baize sit on the toilet lid and rolled up his pant leg. He winced when the rough fabric brushed his skin. His leg has been fine since his amputation four years ago, but his prosthetic causes almost as many problems as it solves. It’s a tapered wooden pole with a rubber cap on the bottom, which he puts a sock on when he’s home to keep from scuffing or dirtying the floors. When Mom bought it off the black market, I used one of Dad’s old belts to make straps that secure it around his thigh. The socket that touches his leg is a shallow depression he covers with scrap fabric for some comfort. He also wears a sleeve that I made out of old socks and a drawstring, but he must have taken it off when he took off his leg. 

The skin on his stump was rubbed raw and bright red with irritation. Both the straps and the drawstring left deep impressions. His knee was swollen. I cleaned the skin and applied a soothing salve, focusing on the areas where the skin is bleeding. I wrapped it in clean gauze and then a reusable bandage, making sure they’re tight enough to stay on but not so tight that they cause further irritation. I secured the bandage with a clip and got the painkillers from the cabinet. They are potent, expensive, and hard to come by, so I cut one pill in half. He swallowed it with a handful of water from the tap. Since he hadn’t showered yet, I covered the bandage in a plastic bag, securing it with a knot. 

As I helped him to his feet, I made him promise to take off his prosthetic and treat his leg as soon as he gets home the next time this happens. We hobbled to the living room, where I set him down on the couch with his bad leg elevated on a pillow. Mom got him an ice cap from the freezer for his knee. 

It’s all so clear in my head, the life I had until a few hours ago. I stared at the ceiling, thinking and hoping and reminiscing, until I was jolted by the train’s sudden lack of movement. We’re here.

I hope Baize keeps his promise. I hope they will all be okay without me.