CHAPTER TWO;
the epicentre

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     That isn't Vesper's Reaping dress lying folded on the chair.

     It can't be. Or if it is, it isn't the same charcoal grey, slightly itchy one she's been wearing to the Reaping for the past four years. She was expecting the same as per usual — her usual dress sitting there, slightly warm from being excessively ironed whilst Blythe waits patiently outside the door with a hairbrush, ready to pounce when she emerges from her room.

But this morning is different. It begins as every morning on this occasion has, of course, with the excruciatingly early start — with everyone in Six so spread out, the transport required to get to The Epicentre produces traffic like no other day of the year. Not to mention that when she gets up, it's there.

Her mother's Reaping dress.

She's going to stick out like a sore thumb, that's for sure. The dress code in Six, unspoken of but somehow universally known and adhered to, is darker and consists of neutral colours — along the lines of greys, browns, blacks and, on rare occasions, whites. Mainly blacks, although in summer the sweltering heat doesn't bode well with the absorbent fabric, so most will resort to grey for the Reaping. Her mother's dress, however, is an off-pale blue, slightly faded from years of sitting packed away, with minuscule patterns of cobalt flowers swarming it from hem to hem. The neckline dips in a slim V shape, a collar of navy blue stitching aligned beside it. It isn't much — but comparatively speaking, she'll look like a rainbow in that square, along with a few of the other more well-off children.

This dress is possibly the only clue Vesper has as to her mother's background. The more colourful your Reaping dress, the richer you are — but according to her father, even that didn't do her any favours...

"Blythe?" Vesper calls out, sounding more uneasy than she'd intended. "Where's my Reaping dress?" Her hands linger at her sides as she hovers by the chair, reluctant to even touch the thing.

"It's on the chair, like it is every year."

"I meant my Reaping dress."

Simultaneously slipping a pin into her hair, Blythe comes to the doorway, cheeks dashed with blotches of red from rushing around. She folds her arms and leans against the chipped door frame. "I threw it out," she answers, breathlessly.

"Why?" Vesper retorts, although deep down she already knows. She'd had her old Reaping dress since she was twelve, bought in a couple sizes bigger so it would last longer — but she was a growing girl at a faster rate than anticipated, especially with her sudden growth spurt last year. She should have seen this coming.

"Because you've outgrown it. It was getting far too tight on you anyway. And it's good to change sometimes, you know?"

"Okay, but this —" she traces her hand along a sleeve, the tips of her fingers breaking out into a sweat immediately at the contact. "I can't— I can't wear... this."

And she should know why. Blythe recognises her subtle hints and sighs, tucking a frizzed hair behind her ear. "Look..." the pause before she continues suggests the careful weighing of her words, "I know how weird it must feel. But it'll fit you perfectly now — I mean, if it bothers you, you could've bought your own if you didn't procrastinate all the time."

     "What?"

     "I've been telling you it's too small for months now!"

     "But..." Vesper glances anxiously from the dress to her stepsister, getting fidgety now. "Can't I just wear your old one?"

     "There's no way you'd fit into that."

     It could come across as an insult, but she knows she isn't wrong. Blythe is skinner, smaller and just proportioned differently to how Vesper is. It would never quite work. Still, she'd prefer discomfort over wearing a dead girl's dress.

     The one her mother wore when her name was picked.

     A silence hangs over the room, both of them staring absentmindedly at the dress sitting on the chair — it disturbs Vesper to think that something so material, so useless like that Reaping dress could have an experience so ominous tied to it from the last body it was worn on. She hates to think about it.

     It's Blythe who finally speaks in the end. "It's just a dress, Vesper..." she murmurs softly, which isn't helping. Furrowing her brows, she adds, "Unless you're superstitious?"

     "No, I'm not! That's ridiculous." she scoffs without a moment's thought. Superstitious? Ha! Does she even know her?

     "Great. Then get dressed. And wash your hair, too — you're not going to the Reaping with it looking like that."

Dragging out a long sigh, she sees her vanish from her peripheral whilst her eyes are trained on the dress. God, if Vesper could burn the thing, she would — but somehow she thinks turning up stark naked to the Reaping wouldn't be a great look.

The shower cubicle that Vesper steps into to cleanse herself is a dismal one; the water rolls off her skin in a chilly, agonising trickle, all thanks to their dire water pressure. It takes twice as long to wash the products out of your hair and scrub yourself down properly. Frankly, she's just happy that any small traces of grease don't show in her dark hair, unlike Blythe's where she has to hide it in an up-do every day.

     When she's finished, tip-toeing across the room, the dress is still there. She doesn't know why she thought it wouldn't be — but now she definitely can't avoid it any longer. Once stripped naked, she pinches the dress by the shoulders and gives it a shake, causing it to fan out and blossom into its full form. The quicker this is over, the better, she thinks.

     One foot in, then the other. As she pulls the dress up her body, she realises Blythe was right. It's a perfect fit. That may be so, but when she bends her arms and slips them through the sleeves, she wonders if she's simply imagining the fabric beginning to tighten on her like a python coiled around her waist.

     Brushing her hands down on the skirt, attempting to flatten the creases her stepsister failed to iron out, she steps back and observed the reflection in the mirror. Vesper isn't sure what to think, except that the dress is a much better fit than the last one — the sensation of wearing a corset isn't there (not that she's ever worn a corset, but if she had the money or somehow the will to wear one, she'd have thought that was what it felt like). She can't compare the girl in the mirror to her mother, because she doesn't have the slightest clue what she looked like. And she never really cared to try and picture it, either — a harsh statement, but to her there was no use living in the past when the present weighs heavy on her shoulders. Besides, she didn't even know her, so why should she care so much? One thing she can deduce is that she must have been smaller than Vesper, for the dress comes a smidge higher than she thinks it's supposed to...

     "That's better, isn't it?" says Blythe. In the reflection, she can see the brush held in her hands. Oh, yipee!

     "Yeah. I guess." Vesper frowns. For some reason, she can't shake the image of her mother standing in this dress, only a little older than what she is now. Reluctant to keep dwelling on it, she raises her eyebrows at the hairbrush being raised to her damp hair. "So, you're ready to attack my hair again?"

     "Oh, for goodness's sake, Vesper! I'm barely touching it. You're the one who leaves me such a mess to deal with."

     Before she can argue, Blythe's beginning to run the brush through her hair. She's hated this since she can remember. Her father used to hate brushing her hair for her, in the end suggesting she wear it in a ponytail to prevent less tangles. But as years went by and his disabilities got the better of him, self-reliance made Vesper decide that she'll take the torture if it means she can feel the wind grazing her scalp, and letting her hair feel all-natural.

Besides, if it puts an end to their useless bickering, then she's more than happy to give Blythe this moment of control.

The wincing is hard to contain as her self-proclaimed stylist brushes out a tangle, pinching areas all over her head like sharp pin pricks. It's another three minutes of this slow torture before Blythe begins bunching the hair together — the worst is over, and Vesper quietly rejoices. She feels the nape of her neck gasp, tingling at the air it's suddenly breathing after having the curtain of hair removed, and bows her head as she feels a clip pinning her now tamed locks to the back of her head.

"There," Blythe purses her lips into a thin smile, squeezing her shoulders from behind. "You look lovely."

Lovely? Vesper seems unconvinced, put off by how wrong her face shape seems without the mane of hair framing it. But she's not up for arguing again, and they've got a train to catch. She slips on her footwear for the Reaping — a battered, sand-coloured pair of slim derby shoes — and follows Blythe out of the door.

Other families are either exiting the square or gathering in it for last-minute touches. The Brunels have congregated in a corner by their front doorstep. Axel stands with his hands behind his back, sharing a somewhat deep conversation with his father, in an ash grey, button-down shirt. Icarus is wearing a similar shirt, except in a mink grey, as his mother adjusts his top button in a fluster. Axel is the first to notice the sisters, as they ascend down the fire escape stairs and make their way over.

"Morning..." he says with a solemn nod, watching fixedly as Blythe rummages in her bag for train tickets — but not before she manages to give him a gentle and weak smile.

"Good morning Axel."

"First year out of the Reaping, huh?"

Blythe expels a breath of disbelief. "I know. It's just so weird... I'm still trying to get my head around it."

"It takes some getting used to," says Axel. He adds, as he places his hand on the small of her back, "Don't worry. Just stick with me and you'll be fine."

Stick with me and you'll be fine.

For some reason that Vesper can't place, this irritates her. Why is Blythe worrying when she's the one going into the Reaping with nineteen entries? She's embarrassed to think something so... petty, but she can't pretend she isn't ticked off.

Like every year, the girls walk with the Brunel family to the station, reconvening with other families again — Kirk's family, Cheyenne and Bolt along with their parents. Even the sidewalk is getting congested with the sheer number of families flooding out of their homes at one time, pushing and shoving each other as they wave tickets in the air. Babies crying, car horns honking, angered parents shouting — Vesper even swears she hears a lost child calling out for their mother.

It's an effort just to avoid falling into the gap at the platform as the crowds threaten to push you in, but it's a risk that a citizen of Six must be willing to take if they want to get to the Reaping on time. In fact, Reaping Day is probably the only day of the year where everyone in District Six has the inclination to use public transport; a common myth conjured by the Capitol and neighbouring districts. It's an easy myth to bust if you think of it from the perspective of someone living there — how would you feel if you were forced to utilise the transport your very oppressors had you manufacture? It's like suggesting that people in Four fish for leisure, or that people in Eleven get a kick out of fruit-picking. Those stereotypes never seem to exist, yet the Capitol always seem disappointed every year when their tributes aren't muscular bandits who hijack trains or use spanners as substitutes for throwing knives.

No, District Six certainly doesn't have that same luxury of experience as the Careers do.

When they have finally crammed themselves into the train and found a seat, Vesper slumps herself against the window. A growl from her stomach reminds her of the breakfast she has yet to eat — part of her can't fathom eating a full meal when she might just throw it up again out of anxiety, but she's also one to have an appetite. So when the train chugs out of Vagary to make for The Epicentre, and the food cart begins coming round, she manages to stomach half a sandwich and an apple without regurgitating it.

She also takes the opportunity, when Blythe isn't looking, to fix her hair — rubbing it against the headrest of her seat frees up a considerable amount of hair, letting some wisps fall loose and cascade down alongside her cheekbones. That's better, she thinks. It's more her.

About thirty minutes into the five hour train journey, around the time when most passengers are beginning to catch on the sleep they've lost preparing for today, Vesper realises she isn't only the only one wide awake. The boy plonks himself into the seat opposite her, leaving his parents alone, and Axel to talk to Blythe privately and dispel her paranoia about today.

     "Hi," says Icarus, managing a light-hearted smile.

     "Hey..."

     Vesper pulls one knee up to her chest, her foot finding a place to lean on the side of the seat. She looks out of the window as blurs of District Six rush past. "So, uh —" he begins, attracting her attention as he also scoots up to the window. "— d'you wanna play a game?"

     "A game?" she smiles.

     "Yeah. How about... I Spy?"

     "Alright then. You start."

     "Okie dokie," Icarus says, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically, and Vesper can't help but chuckle fondly. "I spy with my little eye, something beginning with... B."

     Immediately, her first instinct is to glance over at her sister. "Blythe?"

     "Nope."

     "Bolt?"

     "Nuh uh."

     "How about... boy?"

     "It's not a person, it's a thing." Icarus declares, straightening up in his seat.

     "Hmmm..." Vesper drums her fingers on the table, where the remains of their breakfast lie — nothing but a few crumbs, a ripped paper bag and a water bottle. Wait... "Is it a bottle?"

     "Damn it!"

     Triumphantly, she grabs the empty water bottle and compresses it in her hands, regretting it afterwards as the loud crunch stirs a couple of nearby passengers from their slumber. "Your clue was too easy, that's why. You have to learn to be more sly about things."

     "It's your turn, anyway." With a small harumph, Icarus folds his arms across his chest and kicks the bottom of her seat with his foot — it reminds her of how he wouldn't have been able to do that last year, and how much he's grown since his first Reaping. Vesper begins glancing around the carriage subtly, so as not to give away where she's looking, and her eyes fall on Kirk a few seats down — his head lulled back unconsciously, and a small dribble of saliva collecting at the corner of his mouth. Something about it reminds her of a sleeping toddler. She grins.

     "Right. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with... D."

     "D?" Icarus repeats, and she nods cheekily. "Okay. Huh. Is it... a door?"

     "No."

"Um, a doorman?"

     "Think bigger."

     "A... dinosaur?"

     "No! I wish," she laughs.

"You said think bigger—"

WHOOSH!

The almighty sound rips through the sky above, instantaneously drawing their attention to the window. All there is to be seen is just an open stretch of gravel, flashing lights aligning the sides. It's when the roaring grows deafening and the jet suddenly dips into sight that evokes the ooh's and aah's of wonder from the passengers, as it glides gracefully along the runway to a scheduled halt. And with a flurry of pine trees, the image vanishes into the distance behind them.

Icarus couldn't be more thrilled, his nose pressed against the window and creating a smear of condensation from his ecstatic breaths — he pulls away with a disappointed slump of his shoulders when the view is gone, although he still appears wonderstruck. "Man..." he whispers, utterly impressed. The rarity of seeing aircraft so up close can still stun even the veterans of Vagary. "That was amazing." Even if it does connote the labour of the people that probably went into crafting it, it's hard not to marvel at the sleek prestige the jet has.

"Yeah, it was."

"I'd love to do that some day."

Vesper looks at him — his eyes are practically twinkling with admiration. "What? Fly one of those things?"

"Yeah. I mean, imagine how... how free you must feel. Just miles above the world, with nothing but the sky around you." he pauses, peering around as if to check if anyone's listening, before he leans in to add, "Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong place. Y'know, Vagary's where all the mechanics are. I wish I could take aviation classes or something, but I can't."

Icarus is right. Neighbourhoods and cities in Six tend to be rather occupational. Vagary, for instance, is home to the majority of train mechanics or maintenance teams. If you're from that area, you're likely to end up in such an occupation. And the same goes for other towns in Six, which can dictate what you become — whether it's a baggage handler, porter, pilot, working in trading, transport salesmen or something else. Some are wealthier than others, of course; Vesper certainly knows she isn't in for a life of luxury, for neither of her parents were powerful figures in the transport industry.

"Hey," Vesper says. "You never guessed what I spied."

"I don't know! Just tell me." he whines, flailing his arms in defeat.

A playful smile curling the corners of her lips upwards, she nods towards Kirk's seat. "Drool," she replies. And then watches as Icarus slowly cranes his head around, guffawing loudly at the sight and waking several people in the process.

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The Epicentre — the universally known title, although actually named Permetior — exists as quite possibly the most glamorous city in all of District Six. It's recognisable to Vesper when the train enters it, the sunlight gleaming off the polished windows of showrooms that display rows of immaculate cars. The seagulls crow in a chorus above the Shipyard, the bellowing horn of the great cargo ships floating on the water that is Lake Mercury — named suitably after the Roman God of travellers and transporters of goods (amongst other things), which she finds ironic since most citizens seem to care little for organised religion or anything else of the like. If they do, they're quite often categorised as some kind of cult member.

     On arrival in The Epicentre, sometimes she can forget about the onslaught of the Reaping to come, for it's not anything like the unattractive, rough streets of Vagary. And she's never seen The Capitol, but goodness — if Permetior is nothing in comparison, then the Capitol must be other-worldly.

     Perhaps it's the way that The Epicentre brims with the entire population on Reaping Day, in such a way that isn't as asphyxiating until it's time to gather in the square. The roads are lined with the locals selling street food, an overwhelming combination of aromas, tastes she'd never usually taste — if you've travelled this far, you might as well make a day out of it.

     Of course, here is also where you see the staggering abundance of addicts — the sagging, yellowish skin, the abnormally wide eyes and the general absence of being are the giveaway signs of the Morphling coursing through their veins. The powerful painkiller usually so expensive, reserved for the Capitol aristocracy and severely ill patients, found its way to create a district-wide epidemic of sorts. All she knows is that one day, during the first couple of years of the Dark Days when Panem was crippled by ruins of war, a group of baggage handlers in Six smuggled some Morphling out of a train and experimented with it. One thing led to another — a partnership here, a payment there — and a criminal, drug-dealing underworld was born.

Even with the sandwich from earlier, Vesper is starving by the time midday rolls around. The first few hours are spent well, trying to avoid thoughts of the Reaping by wandering around the streets of Permetior and visiting street vendors. But later after managing to convince Blythe to buy some more food, they settle down on a bench by the Shipyard, cradling warm, disposable cups of curry in their hands. The spices warm her throat and sinuses, soothing the pounding headache that her subconscious had created out of fear for today.

"Honestly, Vesper, I don't know how you can stomach that right now..." Blythe says, shaking her head as she fans her hand in front of her mouth and takes deep breaths.

"I'm not worried about me," Vesper jokes bitterly. "I'm worried about you. At least I have a high tolerance for heat."

"Oh, shut up." she chuckles. Pressing a napkin daintily to her lips, she leans to her side to observe the giant clock-face embedded on the podium where the statue of Mercury stands. Judging from the way her shoulders drop, Vesper knows it's not good. "We've got ten minutes." she murmurs.

     Ten minutes.

     Vesper wills herself to look up, and sure enough, the time blares before her: half past twelve. By now, four districts will have had their chosen tributes broadcasted live across Panem. They occur in pairs of sorts, beginning with District Twelve at midday — to get the dullest Reaping out of the way swiftly — followed immediately by Eleven, who will have been preparing whilst Twelve's tributes were picked. Twelve and Eleven, Ten and Nine, and Eight will have already sent their children off for televised slaughter — District Seven just finishing up as they speak. And then—

District Six.

Suddenly, she isn't so sure she can keep that curry down after all.

To her horror, Blythe tosses her emptied cup into a nearby trash can, and slings her satchel over her shoulder. She stands up and clutches the strap in dread, somehow managing to stay carefully composed. "Shall we start walking over there?" she suggests, the very idea nauseating Vesper. "It'll get crowded when they sound the alarm, so... maybe we can get a head start without getting trampled."

It occurs to her that perhaps Blythe is just as scared for today as she is — to watch all of this from the side-lines for the first time must make one feel close to helplessness. Vesper can only hope it doesn't come down to that.

"Yeah," she sighs, setting aside the curry. She's not hungry anymore. "Let's go."

Checking both sides before crossing the road, she notices there are a handful of families with the same idea as them. Other districts may call it a crowd, but what will follow in the next few minutes will be thousands upon thousands more.

     A strangled cry makes Vesper jump, drawing she and other surrounding people's attention to the man stumbling to the ground, bundling a sack in his arms. He's frail and barely mobile, wiry fingers outstretched before him like futile shields from the approaching Peacekeeper. He cries something out, begging for mercy — Please, I just need food! My family! — but gets cut off by the boot burying itself in his abdomen, causing him to double over and retch. But the Peacekeeper doesn't refrain, now wielding a whip and lashing against his back. With every crack of the whip the victim writhes in agony, screaming inhuman cries until his lips dribble with crimson and he suddenly falls eerily silent. The gaping wounds on his back leak the blood onto the sidewalk, soon being obscured by crowds that walk by and try not to trample on him.

     "Why is no one helping him?" Vesper turns around, not even noticing Icarus and his family have joined them to watch the scene. His eyes glisten with angered, heartbroken tears that he's trying desperately not to shed.

     Looking back at the man, his eyes rolled back into his head as some witnesses from the streets scurry over and hook their hands under his armpits and grab him by the feet, carrying the dead weight to some place else where the results of his flogging can't be so publicly displayed.

     "Icarus..." she barely whispers, hating that she has to spell this out for him. "I think he might be dead."

     A small choke, or whimper of some sort escapes him, before he shakes his head like he's trying to rid himself of the vulnerability. "O-okay," he continues, "Then why didn't anyone help earlier?"

     She knows what he's really asking, through the irate tone he takes on — Why didn't you help? And truth be told, Vesper doesn't know the answer. She couldn't pin-point one anyway. Perhaps because with the Reaping starting in less than an hour, she has bigger things to worry about than helping some stranger...

     And there it is. The disadvantage of Six's citizens having no real close relations with one another. The lack of widespread community that fails to drive them to perform simple acts of kindness or selflessness, beyond their close neighbours or friendship circles. A pang of guilt reverberates through her heart and manifests in her brain, unsettling her by just how unfazed she was by the whole ordeal — a life is already gone because she just stood by and watched. And isn't that the one thing, the whole concept of the Hunger Games, that she and most others in Panem should detest? Yet there she was, merely a witness.

     What if it had been Blythe being beaten? Or Kirk, Axel, Icarus, any of the others? Surely she would have jumped straight into action. Maybe it would be easier, she thinks, if the Peacekeepers weren't masked — the anonymity that hides the people from their cold-blooded "enforcement" of government law makes her feel queasy. The Capitol already get away with enough, making children kill each other on live television, but the Peacekeepers just add the cherry on top of the disastrous cake.

     Right on cue, the siren sounds in spaced out intervals — the signal for everyone to head for the main square. There's something inexplicably haunting about the wailing bursts of sound that resemble a horn, like a lament, in the much further developed Panem where the alert could easily sound more electronic. It's the only thing that could ever make The Epicentre fall silent, nothing moving but the traffic and the crowds of people silently filing in.

     And as the dead man is left by the sidewalk, the people who picked him up now merging with the indoctrinated crowds — the brief glimpse of a bond between alienated communities — it strikes Vesper that perhaps the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games have already begun.

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A/N;

to be honest, i'm not a huge fan of this chapter: it was kind of a filler, because chapter three is the reaping (yikes) i was hoping to get this chapter out by the 4th of july, as that's when i think the reaping actually takes place, but uhhh... i kinda got hooked on animal crossing and procrastinated instead, oOPS–

also, i'm just to eager to get to the actual hunger games stuff, you know? like, everything preceding the reaping, because i just can't wait to introduce you to vesper's escort, her mentors, stylist, fellow tributes, etc!! nevertheless, i hope this gave you a starting flavour of what district six is like.

i'm not really sure if there's anything else to say... so, i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and have a good day/evening! (p.s: may the odds be ever in your favour)

[ published: 7th july, 2020 ]

— Imogen