DAY 11

District 8

The Reality of District 8

In many ways District 8 was the loudest of all the Districts. Even District 6, which did transportation, was somewhat limited by the presence of the Capitol right next door.

District 8 was bordered by 11, 12, and (formerly) 13.

No such problems.

That it also bordered the ocean—a putrid sort of thing, there was a reason why most of the fishing was confined to the other coast—mostly meant they had easy waste disposal.

That easy disposal had other benefits though.

In the landlocked Districts refuse (what little there was) was analyzed by the Capitol—size, quantity, whatever—to ensure that no one was getting their hands on something they shouldn't.

And then trains, full of tons of debris from an empire which cared for nothing but the living conditions of the Capitol, would be sent to District 8.

And dumped.

Theoretically, into the ocean.

In reality, however…

District 8 was noisy.

District 8 was busy.

District 8 was rebellious, but not as rebellious as Districts 6 or 7.

District 8, more than any other district, had imports.

Admittedly, those imports were what the Capitol hadn't been able to find some other use for (there were several plants in District 5 solely fueled off of biowaste) but still.

Imports.

And a very large population.

And noise.

The Peacekeepers targeted those who were blatant in their rebellion, who couldn't help but shout out their intentions. Occasionally, ever few years or so, there would be a massive sting operation that would see a lot of other, more covert individuals swept up too.

It wasn't enough.

District 8 didn't need the excuse of the Centennial Censure to rebel, but that was only because they already were, in ways too numerous to name.

All the Centennial Censure gave them was the trigger.

One particularly elderly man, born only five years after the end of the Dark Days, watched from the window of his family's room of the tenement as the streets suddenly swarmed with people, a writhing mass who were never going to take another shove lying down again.

The Peacekeepers took dozens with them, but one by one their guns were taken, their breaths stolen away.

The man was sure that those nearest to the railroad gates would be crowding them now, trying to force them open by any means necessary. Those near District 13 were likely headed that way by any means necessary, those near the ocean likely trying to figure out how to use the liquid escape route to their advantage.

But his window couldn't see any of that.

He could, however, see one of the local 'Innovation Buildings', the building which kept in contact with the Capitol to address minute-to-minute trends in fashion.

Every day the building would send out information on spacing of sequins, on color palettes, on needlework designs and the 'right kind' of acid wash.

And every day District 8 would give them exactly what they wanted.

The building was double and triple retrofitted, contained an insane amount of anti-spy protections (the Capitol owners of the various factories were always trying to beat each other to the punch, and were more than willing to do so in backhanded ways), and were…

Well, surprisingly easy to take control of, really.

It was hard to hear amidst the cheering in the streets—the factory machines might be off, but the people seemed bound and determined to make just as much noise themselves—but he could almost swear he heard footsteps coming up the staircase.

Just as the man turned, curious, to the door (he would be down there, if he could, but his knees no longer worked right) it swung open and a boy—no more than eighteen, young and lean and underfed even for the district, threw himself into the room.

"You—You're old man Mitchell?" The boy gasped. Behind him more footsteps strove up and up and up, getting nearer and nearer as the old man eyed the boy with increasing bemusement.

"I am."

"And your parents—they worked the radio? During the—the war?"

"Yes."

"Did they ever—"

"I was well instructed."

"Well then," another man, slightly older and in far better physical health said, "let's get you where you'll be useful."

The old man grinned. "Let's make 'em pay, eh?"

The boys—six of them now, positioning themselves around his chair with the clear intention to carry him and it the seven flights in as expedient a manner as possible, grinned back.

"District 4's got their own radio now, too—Cicero said during the interviews. We can—"

"Oh, I know exactly what we can do."