Chapter Two

"Let's Play A Game"

Rottie watched as the world outside her window whirred by, her expression blank as she stared out at the uneventful landscape aimlessly, eyes half-closed as the huddled in the window seat with her knees pressed to her chest. Eventually, the speed at which her surroundings were moving became overwhelmingly dizzying and she was forced to look away, closing her eyes as her thoughts trailed to Andrew.

She remembered the final words that he had spoken to her before the Peacekeeper had barged in and ripped her out of his embrace, dragging her out of the courthouse and shoving her into the train car before he slammed the door closed behind her, sealing her in her newfound prison. He had not had time to finish the last sentence, but she knew what he had intended to say. She could see it on his face, in the sapphire depths of his eyes, in the drumming of his heartbeat in her ear. It was the long-awaited confession, the one that she had so often tried to coax out of him before. It was the statement that would have changed Rottie's life. It was the three simple but powerful words that her heart had yearned to hear for almost four years: I love you.

And she knew that she loved him, too. She had loved him since the fateful day when he had rounded the corner and found her cornered in the alley, under the attack of a co-worker that she had foolishly provoked during school hours. From that day forward, she had known that Andrew was the one. The knight in shining armor. The hero. Her hero.

"So, who is he?"

Scowling, Rottie opened her eyes and turned to the redheaded teen. He was sitting in the chair across from the window seat, running a hand through his oily, unkempt hair. She arched a brow at him and snapped, "That's none of your business."

He chuckled uneasily, shaking his head. "Touchy, touchy."

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before the redhead persisted, "He's not from Five, is he?"

She sighed. "No, he's not."

"Didn't think so. He looks too...clean to be from Five," he replied, anxiously picking at a tear in his own dirty jeans. With a knowing cock of his brow, he added, "Or any of the other districts, for that matter. Except for One or Two, maybe."

Rottie hesitated, then cautiously clarified, "He's a Capitolite."

The redhead grinned uneasily. "Thought so," he answered, "Peculiar, though. A Capitolite and a district girl."

"There's been stranger," she retorted.

"I never said that there was anything wrong with it," he replied, his wry smile fading into a light frown as he examined his lightly-freckled face in one of the nearby mirrors, "By the way, my name's Carson. Carson Mantle."

"I know," she muttered as she turned back to the window, wearing a seemingly permanent frown and dull, half-lidded eyes, "We used to be classmates, way back when. Remember?"

The redhead leaned forward in his chair, examining his short-cut nails. "Yeah. I remember. You were the one who was always running late. A few grades ahead of me, I think." He quietened down for a moment, then looked at her and stated, "You always seemed so depressed."

She shrugged, relieved when the door slid open and the green-haired announcer from the Reaping pranced into the room, bringing with her the rich odors of the dining car next door. However, her relief quickly turned to irritation as the woman waltzed over to them, wearing a blindingly white smile that was as fake as the magenta hue of her eyes and the glossy hair on her head. "Hello, hello!" she chirped as she sat down in the plush chair beside of Carson's, "My name is Shawnee, and I'll be your escort during your stay in the Capitol!"

A glimmer of agitation bloomed in Rottie's solemn stare. The woman reminded her of a green-feathered parakeet, with her fluttery, anxious movements and habit of repeating the same word multiple times before she finished a sentence. "Escort?" she snorted, her stare still fixated on the window as the world outside flashed by, "Are we going to tour the cussing place before you lock us in that death-trap arena?"

"No, no, no, of course not!" Shawnee replied, as if Rottie's question had been more than rhetorical, "I'm going to escort you from place to place before the Games! There will be a chariot ride and interviews and training sessions."

"You say that as if it's going to be fun," the orphan retorted as she watched a wheat field flash by her window through half-lidded eyes.

The Capitolite shuffled anxiously. "Now, now, Isabella. There's no need to have a bad-"

"It's Rottie," the young woman in the window seat snapped, "Not 'Isabella.' Rottie. Got it?"

"W-well," Shawnee stuttered uneasily, "Rottie it is." She cleared her throat, then stood, shuffling her feet anxiously.

"I'm going to go now. Your mentor will be in shortly," she informed them as she began to walk off, her heels clacking loudly on the tiled floor, "And dinner will be served in an hour. You two are in for a treat."

Rottie closed her eyes as she listened to the automatic door slide closed behind Shawnee as she exited the train car. Again, the rich, exotic smells from the dining car flooded the room, coaxing a grumble from the orphan's stomach as her nostrils twitched. "Guess she's right about something," she stated, "The grub smells good."

"You don't have to be rude to her," Carson replied, "It's not her fault that we're here."

"Doesn't mean that I have to like her," Rottie retorted, looking over her shoulder as the door opened once more. This time, it was not Shawnee, but an intimidatingly tall, sharp-eyed man with pale blonde hair that cascaded down to his calves. An immediate sense of caution washed over her as the man of solid muscle walked over to them, sitting down heavily in the chair beside of Carson's.

"So," the man mused in a voice deeper than thunder, resting his chin in his massive hand, "You two are the kids that I'll be sending to the grave this year."

A low snarl rumbled in the back of Rottie's throat.

The blond-haired man snorted. "What? Is that supposed to scare me or something?"

Growling warily, she replied, "It should."

He laughed colorlessly and remarked, "That's cute, kid. That'll get you really far in the arena when you're faced with someone whose twice your size and hellbent on killing you."

Rottie's eyes narrowed at the giant of a man, but he only returned her contemptuous glare with a scarlet stare of his own, his red irises boring into hers until she finally averted her gaze, still growling under her breath. With an unamused roll of his eyes, he informed the tributes, "My name is Kaen. You two might remember me from the fourth Games. And, unfortunately, I'm your mentor."

Kaen leaned back in his chair and prompted, "Now, what are your names?"

"Carson Mantle," the redhead replied nonchalantly.

"Ah, I remember you," Kaen answered with a thoughtful nod, "The mortician's kid."

Carson nodded. "That's right."

Looking to the black-haired young woman in the window seat, the red-eyed man asked, "What about you, pipsqueak? What's your name?"

The orphan hesitated for a moment, chewing on her cracked lower lip diligently. Then, she replied, "Rottie."

Kaen snorted. "Rottie? Really? That's what your parents named you?"

"My parents abandoned me when I was a baby," she retorted.

Kaen, however, was unfazed. "Whatever, pipsqueak. I'm not hear to listen to your sob stories. I'm here to tell you how to survive in the arena...not that you stand a chance, anyways."

Rottie did not so much as flinch as the venomous words registered in her mind. Instead, she simply turned away with a frown, averting her gaze to the window once more as a dense forest flashed by. But, the lush, leafy trees so unlike the stark, decrepit foliage of District 5 had vanished an instant later, fading into an open field where a herd of large animals was grazing. Entranced by the dizzyingly blurry world outside her window, the orphan was only vaguely aware of the voices around her.

"Hey!" Kaen snapped, attracting her attention, "Are you listening to me? Dinner's ready. And I'm going to be giving you two some life-saving advice while we eat, so I suggest that you pay attention."

She replied with a solemn nod, but her eyes brightened the instant that she turned around and noticed the well-dressed man that had entered the car, bringing with him a wheeled cart that was lined with china dishes laden with food unlike any that she had ever seen. The luscious smells of her dinner flooded her senses with every breath, provoking a grumble from her stomach. The dainty dinner rolls, neatly carved meats, and bowls of steaming soup were so unlike the pots of unsightly mush that sometimes appeared on the orphanage stovetop. It was called oatmeal, but Rottie knew it as the tasteless, grayish pulp that kept eleven hungry mouths fed...

"Hey, kid," Kaen snorted as the server left the room, the whoosh of the sliding doors between the train cars dragging Rottie from her thoughts, "Try not to drool. You act like you've never seen food before."

Rottie realized for the first time that her eyes were locked on the dishes that had been set on the coffee table in the middle of the seating area, her mouth hanging open like a hungry dog's as her stomach grumbled. She looked away, embarrassed. "Sorry," she muttered meekly.

Already pulling the tender, white meat off of a chicken breast dressed in rich, brown gravy, Carson smiled at his district mate and urged, "C'mon, Rottie. Dig in."

Bony joints popping as she rose, Rottie walked over to the empty chair across from Carson and Kaen, sitting down wearily with an uneasy glance at her mentor, frowning severely. But, the delicious smells of her dinner soon overtook her caution, her fingers groping for a fork as she ogled the thick slice of medium-rare red meat in front of her. Finding her silverware, she began slicing over a fatty chunk of the meat, popping it into her mouth and savoring its rich flavor, unlike anything that she had ever tasted. In her entire lifetime, she had tasted beef only a few times, and it had always been the ground-up leftovers from the butcher, scraps of meat that turned into a greasy, grizzled mess on the stovetop – a definite improvement over the usual array of watery oatmeal and runny grits that kept her hunger at bay.

"So," Kaen began when their dinner was half-finished, eating even more ravenously than his trainees, "Do either of you have any experience with weapons? Or maybe a special skill that might help you in the arena?"

"I can use a scythe," Carson volunteered over a mouthful of bread.

The blond frowned. "A scythe, huh? You don't see many of those in the arena," he stated. Then, he turned to Rottie and prompted, "What about you?"

"I've never touched a weapon in my life," she replied.

Kaen sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, good," he remarked with a roll of his eyes, "Really, kid? You don't have anything that could help you out?"

Nibbling on her lower lip, she pondered his question, then responded, "I once bit a boy's fingers off."

Pausing in the middle of a bite, Carson shot her a peculiar look, then resumed chewing.

Kaen blinked, processing her words. Then, a devilish smirk spread across his smooth lips. "You bit someone's fingers off. And that's why you're called Rottie."

She nodded, a devious smile of her own playing on her cracked lips.

Propping his feet up amidst the empty dishes on the coffee table, Kaen informed her, "We can work with that." His haughty smirk fading, he added, "But, you're going to need a weapon, too. We'll have to work on that and your bad attitude."

Rottie snorted. "Why does it matter what kind of attitude I have?"

"Because," Kaen replied with a stern frown, "Sponsors don't like a bad attitude. The friendlier you are the better. These people might be complete nimrods, but they're also the ones with the money. The ones who can afford to send you gifts while you're in the arena. Food, water, a knife, a pack of matches...anything could be the difference between life or death. Keep that in mind the next time you open your mouth to make a smart remark, mutt."

She quietened down, processing his words with a thoughtful blink of her brown eyes. Then, quietly, she requested, "Tell me more."

Kaen smiled, pleased. "That's what I want to hear. You don't have to like me. But, just remember that I'm your new best friend," he informed her. Glancing at Carson, he calmly added, "And that goes for both of you."

The tributes nodded.

"It's getting late," Kaen observed, turning to the line of windows that framed the far wall of the train car. Outside, the sky was a deep shade of indigo, the sun sinking beneath the treeline. He stared out the window thoughtfully for a long moment, then nodded to himself and stated, "We'll wait until tomorrow to talk about sponsors. You two have been through a lot today. Get some sleep."

"Sleep?" Carson prompted, "The sun isn't even down yet."

"Tomorrow is a big day," Kaen reminded him, slowly rising from his chair to loom over the cluttered coffee table, "We'll arrive in the Capitol in the morning. Early."

With a crack of his thick neck, he turned to leave, then paused. "If you can't sleep, I suggest you turn on the TV and watch the reruns of the previous Games," he stated, pointing to the flat-screen television on the wall behind the seating area.

"The dining car is next door, if you're still hungry. Put on as much weight as you can before the Games. You're going to need it," he added as he exited the room, "Especially you, pipsqueak."

Silence settled on the room as Kaen left, the automatic door closing with a whoosh. Then, Carson stood and informed her, "He's right. I'm going next door for dessert. Want anything?"

"Sure," Rottie replied halfheartedly, "Something with a lot of fat."

He smiled lightly and nodded. "Got it. Why don't you turn those Games on while I'm out? We can watch them together."

The orphan nodded, waiting until Carson had left the room before reluctantly rising from her chair and approaching the enormous, flat-screen television. She groped the side of it for a power button, the screen flickering to life. A rerun of the fourth Games was on, the malicious snicker of a Career tribute from District 2 flashing across the screen as Rottie turned the volume down. The blond-haired teen was looming over the cowering form of a younger tribute, his mouse brown hair matted with blood as it streamed down his face from a head wound. She watched with peculiar fascination as the Career lifted his blood-drenched knife, the wounded tribute's face contorting with fear as the blade came down on him, sinking into the vulnerable flesh of his throat. The tribute writhed for only a moment before he went ominously still. The sound of a cannon firing in the distance could be heard over the malevolent chortle of the Career as he turned and calmly walked away, as if the other tribute's death had never occurred.

With a shake of her head, Rottie forced herself out of her peculiar daze of morbid fascination, bringing the remote with her as she sulked back to her chair, sinking into the pleasant softness of the plush, dark blue cushions. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sounds of a tribute's horrified screams as a swarm of trackerjackers chased her across the screen, her face swollen with the genetically enhanced venom of their stings.

Lounging in the comfortable arm chair with her eyes closed, the orphan began to fall asleep, blinking to keep herself awake. She realized for the first time how exhausted she was, even though the sun had only recently slipped beneath the horizon. She was on the verge of unconsciousness when a familiar voice startled her awake, the television seeming much louder in her exhausted state.

Onscreen, a much thinner, brown-eyed Kaen was looming over the blond-haired Career from the previous clip. His hair was much shorter, tied back in a short ponytail in ragged, blood-matted strands. The Career's arms were raised, shielding his face as Kaen demanded a plead for mercy from him. Rottie opened her eyes just in time to watch her mentor effortlessly tear the boy's left arm out of its socket altogether, slinging the limb aside in a rain of red. The Career shrieked like a possessed animal, shrinking to the ground in fear as he aimlessly clutched the newly opened wound, a fountain of blood spewing between his fingers as he covered the splintered fragments of bone that remained of his shoulder.

It was then that Carson returned to the room, carrying a silver tray laden with an assortment of Capitol treats. He set the platter on the coffee table as he settled into his chair, watching the television screen with an unexpected look of interest. "That Career should have known better than to take on someone as big as Kaen," he commented, taking a chocolate-covered strawberry from the palette of delicacies, "Even then, that guy was a tank. Solid muscle."

Indicating the platter, he added, "I didn't know what you like, so I brought a little of everything."

But, Rottie was silent, watching the screen with mingled emotions of disgust and awe. Kaen had easily reduced the Career to pleading tears in a single strike...

And she would, too.

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The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler