To say I am happy about seeing this story posted the other day is an understatement!
Clark is seeing a wider version of his world without hiding under the cover of darkness.
To Clark’s surprise, there had been a certain amount of acceptance from the people watching him. In a way, he was one of them. He wasn’t from District 12, but he was a kid from an outer district, someone for whom the odds had not been favorable, who had managed to survive. He hadn’t taken pleasure in participating in the Games, nor in destroying others, and when the families of the deceased tributes had brought him the required gifts — hothouse flowers from the Capitol, a plaque, and a piece of coal with the District 12 seal carved into it — they had been sad, but not angry at him.
People in other districts do what they can to help their citizens who are less fortunate then they are.
Clark had helped his intoxicated mentors into the car after the dinner was over while Marcius watched them in disgust. As the car had carried them back towards the train station, Clark had seen the two servants from the mayor’s home carrying bowls and platters of leftovers toward their families’ homes — apparently the mayor did not share the Capitolites’ attitude about leftover food and sharing it.
Something occurred to Clark as he looked at the people working in the fields and the few very elderly people and tiny children gathered in front of the small communities of shacks. Almost everyone was dark-skinned, while the Peacekeepers guarding the workers, identifiable by their somewhat modified uniforms and weapons, were almost all light-skinned. He wondered if the residents’ dark skin had anything to do with the heavy guard, though he couldn’t figure why that would be the case. There were dark-skinned people in District 9, but the Peacekeepers treated them no differently than the rest of the population.
Why is this the case? Have the people of this District done more to anger the Captiolites in times past than those of other districts? Why the modified weapons and uniforms? Will Clark ever discover the reason why?
Marcius narrowed his eyes at Clark. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to ask questions?”
“I just want to know —“
“<i>Stop asking questions.</i> You ask more questions than anyone I’ve ever met, and it’s going to get you into trouble.”
“But —“
Like a traffic cop, Marcius threw up a hand, palm forward as he almost shouted, “<i>Stop.</i> This is neither the time nor the place for questions. The Peacekeepers here aren’t known for their sense of humor, and if anyone overhears you asking questions, they might think they can do the same thing.”
Marcius knows exactly what this is all about. Otherwise is his reaction would be calm. Clark needs to be careful. He is asking a lot of questions. He's being true to his reporter's instincts.
Clark pushed his glasses firmly back into place and dropped his arms to his sides, trying not to attract any more attention. He knew that he shouldn’t have let his temper get the better of him, though he wasn’t sorry he’d saved the child from being flogged. The old woman seemed to have some inkling that he’d had something to do with it, and that was a problem.
Maybe. But how would she be able to prove it?
Asking questions and trying to help people were things he couldn’t allow himself to do, no matter how tempting. He had to try to keep a low profile, as difficult as that was for a victor, and make it through this tour with no further incidents.
Ouch! Clark, don't let them bully you into silence and inactivity!
