A/N: Hey, you guys! Thanks for reading and reviewing the first chapter of Shelter Pending, I really appreciate it. Here's the second chapter for you. Let me know if you spot any grammatical errors or mistakes, things like that.
So, I wanted to say that the events that occur in this fic will be a mix of what happened in the book, the movie, and my own imagination. Things will be altered, yes. However, no, Cato and Clove will not be victors. But wait! I ask you not to let that influence your judgement about whether or not you want to continue reading my work. So with that, please read on!
Disclaimer: I love Cato and Clove too much to have killed them off in the original Hunger Games, so you know I don't own it.
I'm on the train now, headed for the Capitol. It's incredibly different. While the people of District 2 may have an easier time winning the Games, our living conditions are basically the same as the other districts, just slightly improved in terms of food. We freeze, though. And we certainly grovel around in our own filth. Occasional starvation. So on.
When I see the interior of the train, I admittedly gasp a little bit. It's decorative and elaborate in every possible way. The wood is finished and glossy, and I can't help but think of the misshapen wooden fence that surrounds the local apothecary; it's rough and you're bound to get a splinter if you so much as graze it. It's happened to me many times. I always pick the splinter out quickly, then stare at my hand for a bit, wondering if any blood will appear.
The floor of the train is carpeted and I can tell that it's soft. I have to resist the urge to reach down and feel it with my hands. I'm sure the contrast would be great. When I'm done staring at the red designs on the floor of the train car, I look up to see a Capitol attendant, who guides me to my bedroom. He closes the door on his way out.
Then I'm alone, and I gingerly sit down on the edge of the giant bed. I know that everyone will probably be called together for a meal soon. I want to be alone until then. Being raised in District 2 has made up my social skills to be lacking. All I know how to do in front of people is pretend, having seen successful Hunger Games interviews on television, even been trained in them a small amount. But I don't feel like pretending for anyone, entertaining them right now. So I sit on my bed.
After a few minutes, I scoot back until the undersides of my knees hit bedspread. I place my hands behind me and lean slightly onto my arms. It's then that I realize I'm still dressed in my Reaping outfit. I get up to change, choosing a plain burgundy tee-shirt and tight black pants. It's the most normal outfit I can find in the dresser. I leave my hair up, though. When I'm done changing, I look back at the bed, but I decide to just sit on the floor.
I'm in the middle of the room now, and I pull my knees in tight to my chest and stare at the ceiling. For the second time, I remember the feeling I got when I shook hands with the Cato boy. This time, because I'm alone, I allow myself to dwell on it. But I try not to form any thoughts; I just recall what I saw, what I felt. His eyes sharp like a killer's. His jaw the same. Why did someone so lethal make me want to live? I think-…no, there will be no thoughts. Just the feel of my feet cemented into the stage.
Soon, Aoife is calling me to dinner. I emerge from my room and follow her to the dinner table. The Capitol woman tries to talk to me, but I don't bother to listen; she's quite condescending, and blissfully unaware of how ridiculous she is. I take my seat, and notice that Cato is already seated across from me.
And then our mentors enter, a woman named Ire and a man named Creon. They are both in their mid-twenties, being the two victors from District 2 who most recently won the Hunger Games. They examine the seating arrangement so far: Aoife at the head of the table, Cato and I across from each other.
"Why," Ire begins to speak, "don't our tributes sit themselves next to each other so we can see them?" Her voice is low and clear. Her copper-brown hair just brushes her shoulders and ends choppily, sort of framing her face with the muddled green eyes. I recognize her as the winner of the 68th Games, the year when the Arena was a swamp. I remember the saw-grass in there, the stuff that grew up to seven feet tall, with serrated edges and sticky surfaces. Ire was the only one smart enough to fashion the saw-grass into a weapon. Some people in District 2 have misgivings about her, though. They were disappointed that she didn't win like a normal Career, utilizing only brute strength. Despite that, I've always respected her.
"Yeah," Creon gruffly agrees. He speaks in a rumble lower than Ire's. His brown hair is as average as his facial features. He would be plain and unnoticeable if it weren't for two things: his size and his eye color. He easily looms at six feet and six inches, but he's not just tall. He's big and muscular as well, shoulders spanning at least two and a half feet, probably more. His eyes, though, are almost alien. Almost every eye color possible exists somewhat inside of them. His right eye is the simpler of the two, a summery green with splotches of honey brown. His left though, is predominantly forest green, with a pool of dark blue floating along the bottom. Encircling his black pupil is a ring of gold. I don't remember much of his victory, as it was a few years before Ire's. I hadn't even begun training at that point.
I stand up and move to sit next to Cato. Ire and Creon sit across from us. "Hey," Creon suddenly barks. "Aren't you that kid from East Two who tried to lodge a sword through my ribs?"
I look at Cato, because our male mentor certainly isn't talking about me. "Yeah," Cato admits readily. "Didn't think you'd remember it."
Aoife is astounded. "I…what?" Her bewilderment can only be amusing when so affected by her accent.
Cato takes a bite out of a huge steak that the Capitol servers have just put in front of us. "My first year in training."
"You thought you were a real hot-shot already. Thought you could take me down in two seconds flat." Creon turns to me. "Kid couldn't do it. Left a respectable cut on the hand that caught his sword, though. I'd watch out for that one, if I were you."
I send Cato a quizzical glance, and I don't think he notices. He speaks as if he were answering the question in my stare, anyway. "Creon used to help out at the East and South Two training center."
"Yeah, for my first couple years after winning. Then I decided just to stay put in the Center. Easier for everyone that way." Creon doesn't seem like the type of man to care about how easy things are for other people. I wonder what he means, but then decide that I don't really care.
Cato and I don't talk for the rest of the meal. Aoife makes small talk with Ire and Creon, who participate grudgingly. Our escort doesn't pay attention to Cato or me in the slightest. I think she thinks that she's above us, being from the Capitol and all. Maybe victors are more on her level.
When she's finished eating, Aoife retires to her bedchambers. Ire and Creon tell us to stay, though. "Stand," Ire lightly commands. She seems to have a way of being authoritative without pushiness or arrogance. Cato and I stand abreast to one another while Ire circles us. Creon doesn't move, but his odd eyes clearly evaluate us. Cato clenches his hands behind his back like he's frustrated, but he still wears a smirk.
Ire stops in front of me. "How tall are you?" she inquires.
"Five foot four," I state, almost with pride. In the way of Careers, I'm short, and everyone knows it. I manage to remain deadly.
Ire doesn't betray a visible response. She stands at somewhere around five foot ten. "Where are you from?"
"North Two," I say shortly. What does that have to do with anything?
"So, you're from the same area where they train the Peacekeepers." Oh. I suppose that could mean something.
"It's different though," I tell her. "The training."
"I know," she says patiently. Of course she would. I reprimand myself for being ignorant. I can't afford that kind of thing when I go into the Arena.
"You guys got a choice weapon?" Creon asks us.
I respond, "I like to throw knives." Creon seems unimpressed, so I decide to demonstrate. A leftover steak knife from our meal will have to suffice. I pick the nearest one off of the table and send it whizzing by his face. It lodges itself in the center of a Capitol painting behind him. Creon doesn't flinch, but after it's been stuck for a few seconds, he turns his head and looks at the knife, dislodges it, and then looks back at me.
"Why do you guys want to kill me so bad?" He's smiling faintly.
"I use a sword," Cato declares.
Creon grunts. "Still running around with that sword then, eh?"
Cato doesn't reply to this. He only scoffs quietly. Ire directs us to show off our combat skills in the Training Center. Intimidate other tributes. "Don't focus too much on knives and swords, though. Show everyone that you're dangerous all around. Then in the Private Sessions? That's when you don't touch anything but a knife or a sword."
With a few more words, Ire and Creon leave. Cato and I walk to our rooms in the same direction. We fall into step beside each other, making our way through several train cars. He doesn't say anything, though, and I don't for awhile either.
Then, I'm not sure what motivates me to speak. I just need to hear him, see if I experience the same thing as I did at the Reaping. "Creon seems to like you," I say. It's stupid, but also the only thing I could come up with.
"Is that supposed to be sarcastic?" he asks in a bored tone.
"No," I reply. "I think he likes your guts."
"Well, thanks for your help." I know what he's doing. He doesn't want to talk to me because I'm going to die, so it's not like we could be friends or anything. I am going to die. He is not. Which is actually troubling, because again, he looks me in the eye. And I feel like I don't want to go anywhere.
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying here." We're standing still in the hall of the train car that contains both of our bedrooms. He keeps his eyes trained on mine, but they express no emotion. I smirk. "He likes me too, Creon. Maybe a little more than you." And with that, I turn and disappear into my room, Cato's eyes still following me.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I regret my rapid exit. The weight of wanting to drown has returned again. And I still enjoy it.
But…I enjoy the will to live too, even if I've only felt it twice.
A/N: So what did you think? Let me know with a REVIEW! Thanks so much for reading, and I hope to hear from you.
