Hello! Despite the fact I said I would only continue if I got response, I changed my mind, it was too fun to write. So, here's the next chapter.

by the way, something I forgot to mention in the first chapter that I noticed a lot of other authors doing... I do NOT own Hunger Games. That privelage goes to Suzanne Collins, which you all probably know but I felt like I had to mention it.

Hope you enjoy!


Chapter 2

I do not recognize my male counterpart. He is scrawny and edgy, with frizzled blonde hair and two mousy eyes adorning a freckled face. When I stand next to him, he looks more than a year younger, but despite his short, thin frame he is actually fifteen.

I stare from the other side of the train as he rubs his thumb over the foggy lenses of his glasses. His movements are stiff and agitated. I feel a stab of pity. Why couldn't the Games have picked on the countless number of folk eager to play? Why did it have to single out the innocent?

My seat is cushioned. Impractical looking glass chandeliers and tables take up most of the car, basking it in painfully bright light.

Verta sits awkwardly between us, at a centered set of dining tables. She licks traces of a creamy orange sauce from her fingers. The harsh light illuminates her elongated features and broken hair.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like anything else to eat dear?" She says sweetly. "An apple isn't much."

I shake my head. The choices are plentiful on this luxury ride, but I had felt wary of anything unrecognizable. An apple had been my final decision. The skin had been sugared, the juice enhanced. It was delicious, and gave me a bubbling desire for more, yet at the same time I was disgusted by the changes. They had manipulated a common, natural joy into another one of their hot messes, and I didn't want to enjoy it. I had pushed down my hunger and turned away.

Verta nods tiredly and returns to her meal. She doesn't bother asking the boy. He won't speak.

I knew nothing about his family or friend situation. I hadn't even known his name until I had seen the nametag on his mandatory wristband; like the kind you'd see at a wealthier doctor's office.

Wyatt Nolden. I think it is odd that I do not recognize the name.

I glance down at my own wristband, an unattractive custard color with tiny etched letters. I pick with my nail at the paper near the "o" in "Ivory".

About two hours ago, after we had been moved from the Justice Building, through the mob of flashing cameras, and into a sleek, high quality Capitol tribute's train, I had ripped away the dress and slid myself into a soft blue sweatshirt and fuzzy white pants. The bottoms were probably sleepwear, but I hadn't cared.

Then I had taken at least a half an hour to stand at the sink and feign scrubbing my face. I could freely let tears come when they were shielded by fragrant bubbles. Cameras couldn't see my weakness under the mask of fussiness.

After I had cried away pounds, I felt an icy coldness blanket me. No tears would suddenly come. All my sadness had been washed away in the breath of a moment.

Feeling sorry for myself wouldn't get me through this. How did I want to spend the last moments of my life?

My stiff fingers had worked their way through a loose auburn braid, pulling my uncontrollable hair into ordered locks down my back. My green eyes looked dead to me in the mirror.

I had walked down to the dining car barefoot and polished. Then ordered back up to slip on shoes.

Verta coughs and I blink, looking up abruptly. "Sorry?"

"I was just informing you," she says crossly, "that your mentor would like to speak with you both. He should be here very –"

Her words are drowned out by the sound of a dull thud on the other side of the door.

It repeatedly echoes, growing more rapid and impatient. I distinctly hear a voice.

"Ruddy door," It mutters.

Verta, startled, stands and clicks her way to the wooden entrance in her jagged black heels. She pulls it open and comes face to face with a wicked knife. The point brushes the skin on her nose and pricks it.

She gasps and stumbles back. "Ethan Steele, what the-"

"Is this them?" His voice is unexpectedly soft and even for his rough look; a large, gray leather jacket over a pair of wide shoulders, and eerily piercing whitish blue eyes wide –set in a carved face with a square jaw. His black hair has been recently cut, and is only now starting to grow out. A silver stud decorates one ear.

"Yes," Verta sniffs crossly, brushing the tip of her narrow nose. "Not quite sure what to make of them yet, they'd hardly talk to me." She sighs and continues talking as if Wyatt and I aren't there. "You'd think they'd want all the help they could get," Verta says loudly, glancing at us, "seeing as they both have quite caring family back home. It's selfish, really, that they aren't going to even try not to end up as ash in a cardboard box. They must not care what-"

"Nip it." Ethan growls, catching my clenched hands and the boiling fury in my eyes. She dares to accuse us of selfishness? To remind us of what we have left? "Leave the lecturing to me."

Verta makes an odd noise in her throat, casts me a haughty look, and clicks out the open door. She turns to run her fingers over the dent marks in the wood where our mentor had stabbed it with a knife. "You owe the train a new door." She snarls, and slams it.

Ethan Steele makes a rude gesture to the door. My lips twitch. He sees and smirks. Wyatt shifts, looking uncomfortable.

I take another long look at our mentor. His eyes are not so cold and shocking once you get used to them. I see warmth and light in the blue.

I decide I like him.

"So," he drops into Verta's seat, but whereas her posture and mannerism made the car feel larger and awkward, he fills the space and we are all suddenly closer. "I'm just throwing a guess out here, but can I assume you both want to stay alive?"

I bite my lip, and nod. Wyatt, though his eyes are hopeless, nods in sync.

Ethan stands and paces. "Surviving these games," he begins, twirling the knife in his fingers, "doesn't only rely on your killing skill, though that'll do you a damn amount of good. This is a show."

He raises his thick eyebrows. "A show is meant to be entertaining. So if you want to win…" He suddenly stops walking. "You have to give the people what they want."

I scowl. Why please someone who cheers for our deaths?

"You can approach this in many different ways." Ethan slips from his pocket some kind of thick pen. He turns to the wall, coated in fancy paper, and starts to write, like a teacher with a chalkboard. I think of Verta's face when she sees it.

He scribbles for a while, then steps back and shows us the list.

Strong and silent

Bloodthirsty

fragile

humorous

sarcastic

somber

abrupt/honest

responsible

nervous

sexy

unsure

optimistic

"These are basic characteristics that tributes often use." He throws the pen to the side, knocking over a glass table ornament. Wyatt flinches as it shatters into millions of glittering pieces. Ethan Steele picks up the knife. "However, some of the tributes made mistakes."

I jump as he slams the knife into the wall and scrapes a jagged line into the wallpaper. It screeches in protest, and the sound hurts my ears, but I stay still. My partner pulls his palms over his ears. Ethan backs away again.

fragile. Gone.

He has crossed it out.

"Tributes can't be breakable. They'll last three minutes, if that." He turns back to the wall.

Screeeech.

Sarcastic. Gone.

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere." He sighs. "Unless you want to lose sponsors instead of gain them. It's insulting, and rude."

Screeeech.

Abrupt/honesty. Gone.

"Yes, you should be honest. But if you're asked about your audience, in no way should you insult them, however much you want to punch them in the face for cheering on your death."

Screeeech.

Nervous. Gone.

He doesn't even bother to explain. He just shakes his head.

Screeeech.

Unsure. Gone.

"Everything you say or do," He begins slowly, "must be confident. You are survivors. Not mice."

He stabs the wall again, and I brace myself again for the noise, but he merely leaves it to hang. Ethan approaches us.

"Now, the interviews where this will come to play aren't until later. Usually mentors focus on what's presently coming up. But I cannot stress the importance of choosing a trait. You have to represent something. Think about it."

He waits for us to say something. We don't.

"Bed. Now."

"But it's only eight." Wyatt protests, and Ethan shakes his head.

"You need your rest tonight. Tomorrow, the fun begins." He laughs humorlessly.

I stand, staring evenly at our mentor. I am about to leave, but then I glance at the wall and I think it is time to set something straight. I walk over to the knife.

His eyebrows crease. "Ivory…"

I don't look at him as I grip the handle and drag it across the wall. I scratch reverently, straining to pull it. Ethan made it look easily. A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead.

I drop the knife and turn around. "I'm no career."

Bloodthirsty. Gone.

My feet find their way to the door. I grip the knob, slip through to the other side, and turn my head.

I catch a glimpse of Wyatt, and stop. I can't read his expression, but it tugs at me. His eyes look like June's.

The image of them burns into my mind as the door shuts.


I sit straight up, the silky covers tossed around and my breathing heavy. I cannot sleep. No matter how hard I try, all I see is Ella as she runs toward me, crying my name. Her voice in my mind is as distraught as then, and it makes my eyes burn with tears, but I refuse to cry.

I slip out of bed and walk to the window. The world passes by in a blur of green and black. In the distance I see a shape and know it is the Capitol. We will be there by morning. Occasionally, a star would gleam, but the night would wash it away before I could feel happiness.

I love stars.

Suddenly, even though I am on a train with rich fabrics and the utmost comfort, where I will never starve, where I am famous, I miss my life so much I have to lean against the window to support myself.

I miss the nights spent lying in the dew dripped grass, pointing out constellations and laughing with my family under the comfort of rustling branches.

I miss rainy days, where June and I would jump in all the puddles and Cyan would roll her eyes and snap at us as we splashed her, but we would know she secretly enjoyed it.

I miss the comfort of my wool hunting jacket.

I miss Ella's singing, soft and beautiful, as she worked in the garden she keeps behind her shabby little house.

I miss Ella's little brother too. My name was the first he learned, because I would watch him for Mr. and Mrs. Rye when they had to work all day.

I miss Beth's laugh, so bright it could lift your spirits in an instant, and her pretty skin, as smooth and rich as chocolate.

I miss Quinn's favorite sweatshirt, which was simply white with messages from us written in pen from the collar to the pockets.

I miss Austin's fear of heights, and how he'd pretend he didn't have it.

I miss…

I open my eyes and push myself from the window as I hear a noise. My hands find their way instinctively to my neck, where I clutch the necklace I always wear. It is a simple silver chain with seven little trinkets strung onto it. I always kept this with me. It was of the utmost importance. Each object represented someone I loved.

One was the small conch shell Ella had found for me on one of our rare excursions to a beach. Though we had many lakes and rivers in District four, our beaches were mostly privately owned and required pay. There was one, however, that was rather far and our favorite. It had the most beautiful white sand, and though it was smaller it was the coziest to us. A group of rocks rested on one side, flat and halfway set into the water. A tide pool plentiful with little fish and plants was hidden behind it. We would often go here on birthdays. The shell is thick and beautiful, with swirls of color set into the surface.

Another was a black arrowhead that Cyan had given me. It was the last of the rock collection she had previously kept, until a bad storm had wrecked most of her house last winter and it was lost. I'd find myself rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface when I was agitated.

Strung next to it was a tiny dream catcher. It was handmade by June, during a period of time where I was having terrible nightmares. You could tell the weaving was done cautiously and carefully. The feathers were that of an eagle.

A little glass vial held a bit of black ink, taken from Beth, who loved to write. She had mixed it herself.

Quinn's object was a marble made of my birthstone, the September –born Sapphire. She had used all her savings to buy it in the richer part of the District. It had a little hook attached so I could hang it from the necklace.

Austin had given me an unusual looking coin that he had found while fishing. It looked very old, despite the fact he had polished it as best he could. It read, "United States of America, 2002". According to the faded silver face it was called a quarter.

The last trinket was a simple copper key. It had opened the door to my old house, where I had spent my younger days with my father and sister.

I had no object for my mother.

Another noise wrenches me out of my thoughts. It sounds like it comes from the left. I hesitantly step to the wall and press my ear against it.

Another sob, clearer now that I am closer, chokes through the room on the other side. I breathe deeply, hearing the voice, devoid of hope.

I walk to my door and tug it open. I glance around the slightly shaking train car, then leave my room to face the door of Wyatt's.

I enter without knocking, and see him sitting on the bed, still neatly made, with his head in his hands. His hair is dirty and tangled. His wet eyes widen as he looks up, startled and embarrassed.

I say nothing as I walk over to him. I sit next to his pale figure, still in the clothes he wore downstairs.

I open my arms and he hesitates before accepting them. He buries his face into my shoulder and his tears stain my shirt, but I don't care.

I hold him until he is quiet. His hands loosen their grip and I slip out of them.

I stand, walk over to his dresser, and pick up a washcloth and his brush. I run the cloth under steaming water and walk back over to him.

I still do not speak as I let water trickle through his blonde hair and down his neck. When it is soaked I take the brush and untangle the matted locks, until it is sleek and smooth.

I circle around and use the cloth to wipe the tears from his eyes. He just stares, unmoving. I should feel odd, taking care of him like this. I am not his mother. He is only a year younger. But it feels natural to comfort him when he needs someone. Despite the fact I hadn't known him before today, we are the only two from District four, and that is all that matters.

But then I remember the circumstances, that one of us will die, and the hand gripping the cloth falters. I start to back away, but Wyatt grabs my wrist and his eyes say all that his words cannot. They say thank you, and he understands. Which is why I feel no guilt when I leave. I have done what I can.

I hear no more sobbing that night.


If you liked it, please give feedback! Be honest, and thanks for reading!

Caxis