This is a draconian law {nyte/rook}

A dying sky burns an atomic orange over the narrow streets of Nine's sheet-metal empire, casting long, tired shadows across the scorched cobblestones. In alleyways below, the ill-decorated lords of ruin duel with craftwork pistols, blowing holes in the dynasties of the other lost men who were searching for the same tainted riches as them. From above I watch them all dance in a cloud of gunpowder and vengeance, a chaotic ritual that seems to last an age, fluid and wild until their bodies fall limp, and their corpses lie motionless in the mud, spread in sick puddles of red heritage and powdered cocaine.

The rats congregate at the scent of rot. They are the only united force in this District, swarming in solidarity towards the bleeding sacks of meat and bones, gnawing at skin and muscle tissue, ripping away every fibre of what each individual person once was, until they are dust, lost on the wind.

Those with real power lock themselves away in towers too-high, with locks too-secure, and security too-well-paid. This is a world split down the middle, with suffering on the left and greed on the right, and don't they just know it to be so. They, who peer from their city in the sky, thinking that the disease below is of absolutely no concern at all, but they are wrong; for oppression breeds action, and in Nine it's an eye for an eye for an eye for an eye.

This is where I live, between the boiling point proletariat that is so keen to rip itself and everyone else to pieces, and the oblivious, blissful quarter, who'd believe anything but the inconvenient truth; much preferring to accept bribes and a glass of sparkling champagne.

People are afraid to leave their homes after dark, especially in recent times, with numerous gangs fighting for every inch of territory that they can. These slums aren't safe anymore, if they ever even were. Life has become quite claustrophobic and isolated for those caught between the streetcorner kingpins, the iron-grip parliamentarians, and all the shit in between.

I don't know though, I'm quite comfortable in this geopolitical vice-grip. Strangely both on-edge and forever stepping forwards into the unknown, like an astronaught. I wouldn't be a journalist if I didn't have this fucked up mindset and a dangerous curiosity. It's not safe for a girl like me, they say; violent men like clean, pretty girls, and they don't bother with half-measures. Taking a knife to market is a sign of the times, but I often find a pen and my wits are enough.

The bodies below quickly begin to fester. A horrid democracy of crows murmurs yes, and soon circles overhead, its occupants asymmetrically debating in harsh caws and shrieks, with no clear vote of confidence with regards to which body will be stripped to the bone first. The stench travels heavy in the air, musky and raw, and so I step to the alcove of my bedroom and reach out to pull the shutters closed in a weak attempt to repel the rancid smell and stop it's odour from soaking into my bedsheets and clothes. My room smells like death enough already as it is.

I'm half-naked in front of a water-stained mirror, wondering if I'm pretty enough to fit in at a party that is far above my paygrade. My invite is as good a forgery as anyone could find in Nine, and so I'm going to have forge as convincing an appearance if I'm going to maintain my ruse as an upper-class high-maintenance daddy's girl.

I paint myself something far more delicate than is the case, turning my marble skin into porcelain with the soft dabbing of a brush and slight smears under my cheekbones. Precise combs of light black mascara make my eyes sharp, whilst a heated iron clamp turns my scarecrow blonde hair into smooth caramel.

When my father was alive, I had to do this almost weekly if I was to impress his Capitol friends and military colleagues. It feels almost hollow doing it now, which is strange really; back then, I was doing it for him, whereas now I'm doing it for myself. Still, the space around me feels cold and lonely.

I wear as short a skirt as I can deem respectable, black in colour and felt in material. My upper body is clad in red lace, zipped up over my breast, with black sleeves gripping my shoulders and running down my arms, falling short of my wrists. I slip a leather sheathed knife down into my boot and turn towards the lone door of my ten-by-ten living space and out into the Molotov Cocktail that is District Nine.

Moving from the upper slums to the edge of the cloud district is difficult. An uneasiness flushes over me as I notice the various eyes that are glued to me at any one time. I take hasty steps towards more well-lit areas, my knuckles white and my heart swelling in my throat. I feel like a piece of meat, a wounded animal surrounded by a hungry pack of wolves. I'm almost reaching for my knife when I notice a battery-pack of Peacekeepers patrolling the corner, and I move towards them.

They are happy to escort me to the checkpoint, making double sure that my dress doesn't get muddy. The shadows and their occupants seem to shrink away as I reach the white-hot floodlights at Nine's upper district checkpoint. I feel safe here, which is strange given usually I'd be escorted off long before reaching these gates if I was wearing anything else. Status is such a strange concept in that it is often assumed on appearance.

They check my false identification, approve it, and with a buzz and a green light they allow me into the promised land.

It's magnificent. Buildings ten times the size of those nearer the river, with floral decorated streets, avenues of trees, well-policed and secure blocks of managed civilisation. This is how all of the District should live; in security and safety, away from poverty and organised crime.

As I turn the corner and absorb the sheer size and majesty of where this party will take place, the enormity of what I have faked my way into begins to exponentially multiply in my stomach until it's nothing but a thick, black fear.

You've done it this time Fry.