Chapter Text
When the skyline's broken, you and me, far from belief...
-x-
Stratnyy Timbercase is the pride and joy of this family. We wouldn't have put our name on it if we didn't think so. It's the way our family is recognised. And even if we'd called the business something different, the red cedar dust that we can never fully dig out from beneath our fingernails would still be a dead giveaway to our family name. And I will never, ever, scrub it out. I don't care. I'll wear my cedar with pride.
At this point, it's just who we are. We make things out of cedar. That's all. Other things happen between us - dramas, arguments, reminders of sprinklings of old crime by the odd Stratnyy By Choice - but I only ever got caught up in it by association, because I'm either outside enjoying the world or I'm in the shed with the ear defenders on. And I don't have to help, but I want to and I enjoy it. It's good experience for a life in lumber.
Cedar is beautiful. It's one of those softwoods that can get away with being sold for a bit more than the others, so long as it's finished right. And whether or not that finish includes staining is the worst decision in the world because new red cedar is pretty, full of colourful streaks, but if it's left for too long uncovered it will fade to grey. I decide that today is not the day for such decisions, and turn off the power to the lathe.
What I should be doing, instead of digging deep into a vase with a chisel, is emptying my wardrobe for my Reaping clothes, which are still several sizes too big for me. My aunt bought the suit for me five years ago for my first Reaping insisting I would grow into it. I started by having to roll my blazer sleeves up to my elbows, and then halfway up my wrists, and then I had to ditch the blazer because nothing I did with it looked right. I have never fully undone the tie since the first time my dad tied it for me.
The Stratnyy shed is a small extension to the house. One layer of brick, single glazing, and corrugated metal for a roof. When my dad built it, he almost brought the whole thing down when busting through the side of the house to make a doorway. We put the door together out of cedar of course, which used to be a sunny pink, and now it looks no different to the rest of the world. It even smells like it's on the verge of collapse.
"How's the vase coming on?" asks my dad, when I emerge from the dusty workshop.
"It could be better," I reply, rolling up my apron and shoving it into the overfilled washing basket. It takes half my body weight to get the thing to shut. "I managed to sand the kicks out but the natural edge fell off."
The point of a natural edge vase is to leave the bark on the rim. Unfortunately, bark is stupid, and no matter how pretty it is when it's done, it simply isn't worth the time and effort to look after. It's just another impossible place to get the dust out of. I took the bark off on purpose. Natural edges don't sell as well, anyway. The Capitol never really were into that kind of thing.
"Oh, never mind. Anyway, you'd better get cleaned up, son." He blows a ring of cigarette smoke out of the open kitchen window. "You've got two hours before you need to be at the Justice Building."
"Aren't you coming with me this year? You have to get ready too, you know."
"We'll set off a bit after you. Your mother's got the gas fire to fix and I don't trust her not to burn the house down. Matilda knows what she's doing now."
I down a glass of water to clean my throat of dust before heading upstairs. This will be Matilda's second Reaping, and her Reaping dress actually fits her. It's a modest thing. Long sleeves, long skirt, loose round the waist, collared like a school shirt, and I know she hates it even if she's never expressed such an opinion. On the way up the stairs I spot her sitting on the floor of the living room with Mum, deciphering the manual for the fireplace that's been broken since last year.
"Why are we doing this today?" Matilda sighs.
"For the same reason everybody else still goes to work on Reaping Monday," she replies, nose deep in one of the pages. "If you keep yourself busy, you can't worry yourself into oblivion."
It's cold for July. The thermometer on my windowsill, embedded in stained walnut, says so, and the clouds outside are thick. I was never one of those people who could smell when it's about to rain, or feel the humidity, or know the exact speed of the wind with a lick of a finger. The weather to me is what the ground and the sky are doing, and the ground is dry and the clouds are white so I don't even attempt the blazer.
After getting changed I lose hope of ever growing. My trousers lightly trace the floor and my shirt sleeves still bunch up around my wrists. I spend some time standing around in my room not knowing what to do with myself while I wait until it's time to leave, struggling to decide between all of the ways I could spend my last day in here before I'm taken away to the Capitol and the rest of my life is stolen from me. I always prepare myself for the worst on Reaping Day. I learnt that the hard way once I found out what the Quarter Quell was gonna be.
"Hey! Get down here! What are you doing?"
Sometimes I spend too long picturing my own demise. I snap back into reality and come running downstairs to a frustrated Matilda, who apparently shouted me three times during my trance. We can't just skip or show up late. The Reaping is a compulsory event. A person would have to be dying to get away with not going. Matilda grips my wrist hard and takes us down the wide dirt road towards the centre of District 7. We're lucky enough to live very near. Some citizens are hours away.
"Do you remember what you need to do?" I ask.
"Do you?"
"Of course I do."
It's hard to forget the rules of this game. One boy and one girl are picked from two bowls full of the names of everyone aged twelve to eighteen in every district. The chance of being picked increases with age, and with the amount of tesserae taken. Matilda and I are lucky enough to not have to take any, so our chances are low. Never zero, but low.
The first rule is attendance. Matilda and I sign in with a prick of a finger. Our blood is sampled on a large piece of paper and scanned to prove our identities.
The second rule is to arrange ourselves by age and gender. I give Matilda a smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder before we separate to opposite ends of the town square. I would hug her and tell her how much I love her, because no matter how low our chances are, today may still be the last day we spend together. She never was one for that kind of affection.
The third rule is to quietly wait.
Zor, the escort for District 7, comes to the stage. He looks no happier to be here than last year, or the years before. He said in an interview that he doesn't know why he does this. Probably for the money? He doesn't know, he has no interest in the outcome. Zor has said that everything is pointless in the cosmic scheme of things. He is rude and mean to everybody, including Capitol citizens. "How dare you find enjoyment in the death of innocent children?" he once said, with a smile creeping up on his face that he tried desperately to hide, as if it physically pained him to smile. He loves it, really. If he can't catch death's cold embrace that he so longs for, then sending children to the Hunger Games and watching them suffer must be the next best option for him. So there's no wonder, that when District 7's third victor Jules steps up beside him, he rolls his eyes and sighs.
"Hi Jules," he says into the microphone.
Jules nods and waves to us.
Zor points to the large screen to our right. "Here's the stupid war movie. Things would have been so much easier if the Capitol had just nuked us all... all dead... all gone..."
I can't say I disagree with him, and watch as the movie plays. It explains our recent history, how the district rebels failed to win their war against the Capitol, and how these games will be a constant reminder of our disobedience as a nation. The end of the film shows the final moments of last year's annual punishment, where fifteen year old Maria, now sixteen, from District 5, won by doing nothing at all, and yet she's still been in and out of hospitals for the last however long for illnesses both physical and mental.
"May the odds be ever in your favour and all that," yawns Zor, dropping his hand into the girls' Reaping bowl.
I have no reason to worry. Her name is only in there twice. But still my heart beats a little faster, everything tenses, and I can't relax. There is nothing about this that's okay. The fact that Zor looks so indifferent to it all. The fact that Jules still manages to have a kind smile on his face, playing up to the cameras broadcasting live to the Capitol televisions. Zor doesn't even mix the papers in the bowl, picking the first piece off the top and unfolding it, bringing it close to his face.
He remains completely void of expression. "The female tribute," he huffs, pausing for wretched suspense, "is Matilda Stratnyy."