A HISTORY LESSON

During the Third Quell, a second civil war erupted. History would call it the Mockingjay Rebellion. Thanks to the support of District Thirteen, a District all thought eliminated in the first civil war, the rebels had a realistic chance at defeating the Capital District. Their efforts proved successful. As victors, the Districts decided to hold one more Hunger Game. Referred to as The Justice Game, it should have sated the District's need for retribution.

It failed to assuage their anger. The District populace demanded blood, lots of it. The Justice Game had a second year, a third year, and still the people were not satisfied. By the time of the Tenth Justice Game, the connection between oppressor and the selected tribute became a murky one at best. Another solution had to be found.

Even as the tributes mounted their platforms for that game, the Government in District Thirteen decided to reintroduce the Hunger Game. The victorious Districts wanted to exact their ultimate revenge on their oppressors. Only the defeated Capital District would submit their young to this blood sport.

After enduring seventy-five years of the Hunger Games, every District citizen knew its horrors. Satisfaction demanded the old Capital suffer even more. Tributes now came as young as ten, innocents led to a cruel slaughter most could not comprehend. Since the conquered district encompassed almost twice as much land as any other district, they increased the number of tributes from twenty-four to thirty-six. As a concession to fairness, the victorious districts gave the selected tributes more time for training. It turned the actual games into an even bloodier affair than the old Hunger Games.

Panem could ill afford another civil war. The rise of the Career tribute led to a viable fighting force for the Districts. The rules were changed to eliminate the option of volunteering. The new government realized every survivor represented a potential symbol of opposition to their rule. Now winners lived in a special community in District Thirteen, as far removed from the old Capital as possible.

Their efforts worked. The other districts found this the bloody vengeance they desired. Like the old Capital, the populace fell in love with the spectacle. What the rebellion leaders envisioned as a one-time event turned into an annual happening. These new Capital Hunger Games played out each year, many in the same venues as the original games. Some took place in special locations, built or modified to entertain the bloodlust of the victors. Regardless of the setting, the horror of the original Hunger Game came to the conquered Capital District. It continues today.

xxxxx

He couldn't sleep. Rest eluded him regardless of what he did. With no other option, he swung his legs off the bed and stood within his compartment. He approached the door and opened it.

He stepped beyond the confines of his room, he looked left and right. The train's corridor was empty. Based on the clock, it didn't surprise him. Nobody should be awake at this hour, and yet he prowled the hallway. Either direction held no advantage, so he turned right. That such a simple choice, left or right, should take on a life defining role terrified him.

His progress through the corridor made him feel like the town drunk. The train's movement did that. The slight sway from side to side was something he still found disorienting. His family said they never noticed it. The train's crew were so use to the rocking motion that they walked in a counter sway that gave them a sense of floating across the thick carpeting.

A stairway beckoned him. He paused at the base, not sure why he hesitated. Clarity came to him. If he climbed these steep steps, it would require two hands. For the span of however many steps existed between this level and the next, he would be vulnerable to any sudden attack.

In a perverse way, a climb to the upper level would confirm his status. It would also represent a step forward, one that placed his recent past further back in time. It was a chance to recapture a normal existence, something he both feared and desired.

His bare foot landed on the first step. He grabbed the railing with his left hand, reluctant to leave himself vulnerable. A deep breath to calm his nerves and he grasped the second railing. He counted the steps as he ascended. When he focused his mind on the count, his fears diminished.

Fourteen steps to the upper floor. It seemed providential. Each step represented a year in his life. That final step turned into a milestone. So much happened on that last step. It overshadowed everything that came before it. Yet he realized one does not reach the uppermost step without first passing those lower ones.

When he gazed out the sky-car's window, he saw nothing in detail. Night does that to one's vision. It turns things close to the train into a dark kaleidoscope of shapes. At their speed, it all resembled nothing more than a momentary smudge outside his window, distant and detached. It made him compare this to his prior existence, a blur. Some events remained too vivid. How he wished those might disappear like the countryside.

Stability came when he gazed towards the night sky. How many times had he looked to the heavenly lights, wondering what marvels were hidden. Adults told him the night sky held constellations, formations that contained pictures. Teachers pointed to a group of stars and called it the great bear. Still another formation described a dog. He recalled dippers, rams, fishes, and others that blurred in his memory. It didn't matter, he never could see anything, even when the teachers drew the lines in class.

A cannon boomed. His heart raced; somewhere near, danger lurked. His right hand moved with the speed of a hummingbird as it reached for his weapon. The hand struck nothing more protective than fabric. He stood unarmed and unprotected in a hostile place. He crouched, ready for open handed combat. His enemy must be near. He faced the sound that had alerted him to possible danger.

"Good morning, Victor. Or should I say good evening? It is after midnight, so either is correct. Would you have a preference, Sir?"

His heart no longer raced, though every nerve in his body tingled. No cannon had boomed, it was nothing more threatening than the closing of a door. In the silence of the room, even the click of the door's latch morphed into the one sound he couldn't purge from his memory. How long would that sound dominate his every action?

The intruder stood behind the counter wearing the uniform of the train's crew. The oriental man stood as tall as his father, but had a greater girth. He couldn't call the porter fat, so he needed a word somewhere between the two extremes. Husky would suffice. The fellow posed no danger to him.

"My name is not Victor, and at my age, the title Sir sounds wrong when spoken by an adult." He wanted to emphasize his words with a tint of anger, but his voice chose that inopportune moment to break. His youth betrayed him.

"Victor," said the porter, "is your title. You are the winner in the latest Capital Hunger Game. That deserves either the honorific of Victor or the respect Sir implies."

"Do me a favor, when we are alone, drop both. I'm tired, cannot sleep, and your unexpected entrance didn't help. How did you know I was even here?"

The oriental man patted the bar in front of him, his unspoken command quite clear. As he approached the chair, the porter placed a china cup and saucer on the wooden bar. He turned his back on him and when he faced him a second time, he held a teapot. Steam rose as he poured.

A lemon scent drew him closer. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his body. All it took was a sip to find contentment. A quick glance into the mirror behind the bar confirmed his suspicion, he wore a smile. Perhaps the first genuine smile since this all started. Tensions melted with each sip. He savored every drop, grateful the porter allowed him solitude while he drank.

The porter wiped the counter after retrieving the empty cup. "The bottom step and top one have a pressure plate. Six hidden motion detectors sweep this room, and a series of lasers makes it impossible for something larger than a tomato to enter this car. When the alarm sounded, I took the porter's stairway to the back room. This is my station and I am here to serve you."

"I don't need a servant. I want somebody I can talk to without judgment and without the coddling parents give. The Game is impossible to describe to outsiders, and nobody else knows what it's like. Sole survivor eliminates everyone else." He drank a second cup of the tea, pleased the porter said nothing more. "Do you have kids? If you do, maybe you'll understand why I need an adult, but not an adult I know or who knows me."

"You are in luck. I have a son a year younger and identical twin daughters a year older than you. My girls ride this train, hoping they might catch a glimpse of the Victor or one of the many mentors. So I understand the need for a confidant."

"Bring your daughters here tomorrow at this time. I think they might help me forget and remember. A strange contradiction, but it's as real as the night sky. Can you do that?"

The porter's smile seemed as much an answer as he intended to give. He stood, thanked the porter for his time and left. He retraced his steps back to his compartment. Like the walk to the bar, he met none on his journey. When he flopped back on his bed, sleep immediately claimed him.

An alarm sounded and he disabled it. During the day, he sat with his parents and listened to them talk about the future. He tried showing enthusiasm, but his father's frown showed he knew he faked it. When he claimed to be tired, his parents did not contradict him, but allowed him to return to his room. He set the alarm for the time he awoke last night.

He found the porter and his two daughters at the bar. The twins were in every way identical in appearance. The same dress, same shoes, same hair style, and the same giggle when he entered the room. No doubt the father had instructed them not to fawn over him, of course they did just that with their eyes. He wondered if he could ever consider such behavior normal. Did the game destroy him in ways he couldn't comprehend?

He sat at a table, and pointed to the other chairs. The girls rushed to either side. When the father placed a cup of lemon tea before him, he asked the porter to take the last empty chair. He did so, but said he must stand if anybody else approached the car. If that happened, he would resume his role as servant. Strange as it sounded, his actions proved his willingness to maintain his role as confidant. It gave him a reason to hope.

"I'm sure you watched the game." Both girls nodded as they shifted their chairs closer. "What you saw isn't everything. We have another twelve hours before reaching our final destination. Let me tell you a story, and when it's done, perhaps I can live with myself."