District 6 train rides! First off, I'd like to thank the people who are reviewing for me...I know I haven't been around much and the chapters are too short and so on. I really appreciate that you take the time to comment on my work and the portrayals as everyone likes to know when they are doing something correctly...me more than others probably. Ah, sorry for taking time from the chapter. Thanks again.

Characters this time around are courtesy of roses are white (Nisse Harvey) and ShayCandyBar714 (Ford Cooper). Mentor is courtesy of me; first, the character has no relations to my other characters Sungyeon and Sungyang, I just like the variations...secondly, if you haven't read the stories in my Poisonverse yet, centered around this victor (my take on the Male Morphling), you might like to check them out...*shameless self-promotion*. Sorry. Anyway. District 6 train rides!


District 6: The Workings of Temperament and Chaos


Nisse Harvey, District 6 female

There was a story I heard when I was younger, a story made before the Panem we know came into the being. This story was around a girl, a girl beaten and hurt by her cruel stepmother after her father's remarriage. In some variations, her father was still alive, with no clue of the abuse his daughter received. The girl grew desperate, and, unexposed to the world, snuck off to a ball. In the end of this story, the girl lived happily ever after. The same won't be said for me.

When I ran away from home, I was thirteen. Thirteen and naïve, yet at the same time, jaded. Ever so jaded. It continued, following me, stalking me into my new life, overworked, exhausted, but mirthful. For once, the first time since my mother died, I felt like there was a chance that my story could have a silver lining.

And now I'm here. Reaped. I suppose I should have figured that I would end up like this, stuck on a train halfway to hell. A beautiful hell, but a cruel one. More cruel than District Six. And there's no way this is ending well, be it for me...or for everyone else.

Maybe, if someone picks favourites off of personality, I have a chance. After all, I'm the brutally honest one.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

I shake my head at the thought, sitting forward slightly in the seat facing the screen where I can just barely see another district's reapings. Sight doesn't matter. Better for me not to see them.

Fucking Capitol, playing us like this. Who do they think they are, anyway? Rich, spoiled elitists with their overdone appearance and air-filled heads. Pretentious.

"Hah!" Someone laughs, and my eyes immediately narrow into slits at the sight of my district partner.

Speaking of air-filled heads, that boy, despite knowing everything there is to know about the Hunger Games, has one of the most shallow minds I have ever had the 'pleasure' of seeing up close. I wonder if maybe, presuming I actually dostrangle him, we'll get a replacement tribute. That would be a nice alternative. I wouldn't mind having Aston or Cooper here, really, except they'd probably get killed too if they were.

Or not. The odds might just actually be in their favor. Or in mine, if it comes down to it. I'm confident (maybe). Got a good head on my shoulders (want to yell; so not calm). Quick thinking brain (at least it's not full of empty space like Mr. Dumb-dumb). Actually, it's looking pretty good the more I think about it. If everyone's as unbelievably frustrating as Ford is, I've got this in the bag.

I glance over at the silent, shaking third member of our gathering. Even if I needed advice, there's no way I'd be able to get any from him. There's no way I'd even be able to talk to him.

Ford has other plans.

"Sungyeol Kalier, right? The Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games?" He smirks. Our mentor says nothing, barely acknowledging him. "You're the one that snapped, aren't you? Eating a girl's heart? Disgusting, wasn't it? And your district partner..." He shrugs, leaning back. "Well, I suppose it couldn't be helped. You probably were high then, just like you are now."

It's not a surprise when Sungyeol sits up, arms wrapping around his overly thin frame, and retreats into a different room.

"What the hell?" I snap, turning toward Ford. "You can't just talk to someone like that. What if he's our last hope? You know, for sponsors, or something?"

"You really think that that is going to help us?" He retorts. "Man, you're dumber than you look."

I growl, a sound deep in my throat, threatening to erupt like a volcano. "I'm dumb? I'm dumb? How about you, fucking nutsack? You think you could actually survive a day in there? If I didn't actually have morals, I swear on the fucking President that I'd kill you."

"Whoa, there, Nissy." He says. "Don't be all bark with no bite. As smart as you are, I'm sure you'd realize what would happen if you killed me on the train."

I barely realize that I am now standing upright, my eyes still narrowed. I sit down again, turning away from him. "Don't goade me." I mutter. I won't snap again. I won't. I can't. Because I'm going to make it back. I can't afford to be this angry.

But he'll regret this in the morning. I know he will.


The window's open to the tiny, unorganized room that seems rather unlike the Capitol, and I'm still sweating. I have no idea why it's this hot on the train, but it just makes tonight ten times easier. Risky, yes, but worth it, hopefully. That asshole. He thinks he can just talk to anyone like that?

It wasn't too hard to find materials around the train car. Obviously, our escort was frustrated too, as he gladly pointed the way to the exact thing I needed. Rope. Flour. Water. Feathers. Sticky mess. I pity the person who has to clean up that room later.

One day away from the Capitol, and things are starting to look up, actually. I just wish I could do the same thing to Aileen. If there was one thing I wanted to do before my life ended, it would be to return her the sorrow she bestowed me. I'll probably never get that chance now, but I guess people trying to kill me are the next best targets.

They don't expect anything from me. But that's good. They'll never see it coming.


Ford Cooper, District 6 male

Being a heavy sleeper doesn't keep me from waking when I feel the first drop or water on my face, or when the feather begins tickling my nose. And when I open my eyes, I am rewarded by the sight of an barrage of white, complete with feathers, cascading down on my head.

And I snap.

"Nisse." I growl, immediately knowing the perpetrator. But rather than stand up, I continue to lie there.

Knowing Nisse, even if for only a couple days, I have no doubt she'll laugh and say outright that it was her. And in all honesty, I shouldn't have gotten so riled up over the entire conversation. But I'd be lying if I said that that little girl didn't annoy the hell out of me, with all her self-righteous and advocating behavior. I can't believe the brat thinks she even has a chance in these games! Even I wouldn't overestimate myself and say that. Ridiculous and immature, exactly what I hate in a person.

My mother was shot for that exact behavior. A Victor of the 20th Hunger Games, the first Victor in District Six, but she was foolish enough to pull a suicidal move and speak up on reaping day.

Four in the head. Six in the chest. Two in the legs. Twelve shots total from the peacekeepers, and she fell like a bloodied doll.

I look over the writing on my own arm. The last words ever spoken by my mother, the first Victor of District Six. There is nothing but hatred, raw brutality, in the Capitol's mindless games. For so long I didn't know what to believe. Now, I feel I do. My mother was never right in rebelling. The Games are there for a reason. And although I never would have chosen to enter the arena, I can only hope to measure up to her.

But even in playing, there's no possible way. Not for me. A good memory, right? That's what I've got.

And that's another reason why I won't forget the brat's stupid retaliation. Who even cares what I say to our mentor? He's practically brain-dead anyway.

I shout, throat aching as I sit forward abruptly, and fling my arms out. The mixture of what I assume is simple baking flour and water drips off of my skin, a lone feather coming to rest on my forehead. I stare up at it, and without another thought, stand and walk to the shower.


The morning is tense. Our escort, Amelie, sits across from us, chattering on animatedly about the Capitol.

"You're just going to love your rooms, darlings- there's gold wallpaper now! Gold, highlighted with blue. It's so perfect together! I can't wait to see how they incorporate your outfits for the chariot rides; I heard it's very special this year. You'll be lucky, the first tributes to-"

I ignore the rest of what she says, aiming my glare toward Nisse, who raises an eyebrow in response. I could almost shout in frustration, if I wasn't so focused on keeping my mouth shut for once.

Despite her thoughts, I know for a fact that Nisse couldn't kill me. Rather, it's probably the opposite. I've got more knowledge about the tributes than she ever would. And if Nisse was smart, she would have been watching the reapings last night to look for possible weak points in the other tributes personas. But she didn't. Calm and self-assured, supposedly. Unlike me. I'm a loose cannon, one that could misfire at any moment. Particularly at her.

I shake my head, and turn away from her, focusing on the copious amounts of food laid out on the table.

Our mentor has yet to show.

Nisse is looking at me evenly now, and I know then that what we're doing, the thing that would seem to be only a simple staring contest to an outsider, has become a battle of wits, neither of us wanting to admit defeat.

So that's why it's so incredibly odd that, at the exact same moment, we turn our heads away, no longer smirking, but thinking to ourselves.

And I chuckle darkly, muffling my mouth with one hand.

Just you wait, Nisse Harvey, I think. We'll see who really is the one to watch for.


Sungyeol Kalier, District 6 mentor

I'm not going to look at them, the bickering, wild-card pair that seems too lost in cockiness to actually realize what's in front of them.

Strategy? There is no strategy to winning the Hunger Games. Loss, pain, agony tearing and ripping at your spine, boiling your skin and searing your eyes?

No. They're not going to come out of that arena. So what they say to me holds no bearing over anything anyway. I can't help them. I couldn't help Carina. I can't even help myself.

I should just die. Just like the twenty children I failed, the people who lost the Games, the people I killed, the people who bled dry in front of me, whose bodies I tortured, slowly, agonizingly slowly, waiting for that blood, the blood, the blood...

The vein.

The needle pierces my skin, breaking in slowly, and I groan, hoping, silently, that this time will be the last time. That this time I won't have to wake up.


"The only competition worth focusing on is against you, yourself, yesterday."