DISTRICT SIX: TRANSPORTATION: TRAIN RIDE
~ POV: Brandon Shimkus, Age 14, District 6 Male Tribute ~
I REPAIR MACHINES OF PEACE.
Unlike most of my fellow young people in the Transportation District, who toil and act like resentful slaves, I take pride in what I do. The Peacekeepers depend on mechanics like me to keep their vehicles in top shape, and without my work, our protectors and benefactors couldn't do theirs. Say what you like about my friends in white, but they never abuse me. I can correct anything, any problem, that's wrong with their magnificent hovercrafts. For that I'm invaluable. That's why I'm furious my name was drawn in the Reaping for the 77th Hunger Games!. I'm a fixer, not a fighter! What will the Peacekeepers do without me?
On the one massive train to the Capitol, instead of the separate rail that my District partner Emma and I should be taking, I've asked to be put to work. I don't want to interact with any of the other tributes. People annoy me because they're mean and unpredictable, unlike machines. I see the looks on the faces of the "guests" in my District, meaning travelers, and want to stick my mouth on an exhaust pipe for an hour. Just because they're wealthy enough to jet all over Panem, that doesn't mean they have the right to sneer at the "wrench-heads" who make their planes, trains, and automobiles function properly! Sure, at the end of the day, I may be covered with grease and sweat, but I have heard of taking showers. Come to think of it, I've taken more on this high-speed journey than I have in a while, even when the Peacekeepers let me. For some reason, water is strictly rationed in the Transportation hub of our nation, especially for the poor. Now I can let the hot water run all I want in the shower, but there's always plenty more for everyone else!
When I'm fixing things here on the train, tightening bolts and replacing screws, I have no time to think. If I have to kill twenty-three other youth with me in order to survive, I don't want to have to think about them. Who cares about the pathetic little sob story of the boy from District Ten, or that inane girl from Twelve? Does she honestly think that you can wish all your troubles away simply by thinking happy thoughts, or dancing like a fool? Cheesy showmanship like that may be well and good for securing sponsors, but what's the point of that if you get killed before you even reach the Cornucopia? I've watched the Hunger Games before, as have the rest of us, and they're not about sponsorship or even product placement. They are about nothing but watching twenty-three young people die for your own damned entertainment! Pardon my language, but I'm a mechanic. The Peacekeepers would cut out all of my "grease-monkey" compatriots' tongues and make them Avoxes if they knew how much we all cuss, but I'm their protégé.
I work alone. I walk alone. I eat and sleep alone, and I'm certainly going to win the Hunger Games alone!
I don't need allies, because they'd only be a distraction. What would happen when I had to kill them?
Another great thing about repairing the Capitol train instead of trying to "make friends" is that there's no time for the incident to come back into my mind. That's what I'm calling it right now, just as we do on our official forms in District Six, whenever there's a travel- or machine-related problem. This time, however, it was a little more complicated than a misrouted plane or loose fan belt. Little Killian Murphy, who's only six, disposed of used motor oil alongside me. I never thought he'd up and steal my toolkit, but he did one day. I knew him. I was responsible for him and my tools, and damn it, I was going to deal with Killian! Instead, the Peacekeepers spotted him right away, and they had to climb into a hovercraft and chase him. I may have found Killian irritating with his constant chatter, but - sometimes it was oddly soothing to me. I figured he would get good money for my precious wrench set on the black market in our District, but he never got away. My friends in white - well - they caught him, but instead of using the regular force field to do so…
I can still see him writhing on the ground, lacking the strength to scream. Killian was electrocuted, slowly. My own toolkit, the prize which he clutched in his right fist, became the instrument of his torture and death.
Agh! Stupid, stupid, stupid! If Killian hadn't been such a little twerp and swiped my toolkit, he'd still be here. Life has rules, and here in Panem, you play by those rules or you die. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, do what you're told on the double, and you'll survive. That goes for the Hunger Games, too.
~ POV: Emma Portnoy, Age 15, District 6 Female Tribute ~
I'M AN ADDICT. WHO CARES?
I see every expression on the faces of the other tributes on the train with perfect clarity. Some of them are confused, like the poor girl from District Five's: Why are you jaundiced, and why are your eyes so wide? If you're that ill, you shouldn't be in the Hunger Games at all… Some of them are judgmental, like the guy from District Eleven's: I picked fruit for twelve hours every day before I volunteered, and I can get through life WITHOUT drugs, thank you very much. Some of them are incredulous, like the Careers' looks: I can't believe they're letting a junkie like you into the arena when your symptoms aren't even gone yet. Worst of all, however, is the smile on the girl from District Twelve's face: It'll all be okay. Just THINK POSITIVE!
She reminds me too much of my one sponsor, a social worker from my own District who's backing me in Panem's annual slaughter of children ages twelve to eighteen. Her name is Dr. Eileen Pappa, although I know she's not really a doctor. Ph.D.'s come easy when everyone around you is almost too addled by exhaust fumes to be able to read and write. However, "easy" is a financial term, not one of intellectual difficulty. You might not think that social workers make much money (and they don't), but Dr. Pappa is engaged to the pot-bellied pig who runs our main Peacekeeper transport hub. Here's some stuff she says:
"I'm not here to cure you; I'm here to help you cure yourself."
Look, I take and need Morphling because of back pain from hauling people's luggage around, not out of boredom or ennui. Yes, I know that word is pronounced ON-wee, too, so don't treat me like an idiot. I don't want to be cured unless, and until, you get me out of the drudgery which utterly destroys my skeleton!
"Inner turmoil is the slingshot to happiness."
What in Panem is this pointless platitude supposed to mean? How can inner turmoil make you happy?
"And how does that make you feel?"
This is Dr. [sic] Pappa's all-purpose question. It seems kind and innocuous on the surface, but it's a trap. I know that whatever I say next, Dr. Pappa's going to purse her lips, think a while, and then tell me why my feelings are wrong in the current situation. For example, I recently told her I didn't want to volunteer for the Hunger Games because they made me feel frightened and disgusted. Dr. Pappa nodded attentively, as all good social workers do whether or not they're actually paying attention, and then proceeded to tell me that I needed to "reframe" my attitude. "This could be a magnificent stepping stone for you," she said, "and if you win, you'll have proven to yourself that you don't need Morphling or any other addictive substance." Huh? Has she forgotten that my drug of choice is often administered to tributes after all the killing is over? What's worse, how and why does anyone need to "reframe" their fright and disgust about the Games? I'm going to be dead if I lose. What good will Dr. Pappa's advice do me then, no matter if she has a Ph.D.?
"What does that mean to you?"
What, the Hunger Games? They're merely bloodsport, despite what our Mayor and District Escort say. All that jazz about "fostering District loyalty" and "making amends for our past rebellion" is just cheap talk. Sure, Katniss Everdeen and her pack of dead-fool followers may have believed in a better day, a different way of life, but there were too many people in power with too much to lose for it to happen. What do the Games mean to me? My death, or else my survival and living in the gilded cage called the Victors' Village! Dr. Pappa once asked me this question in relation to Morphling, and I simply said: "Utter relief from pain."
"You need to become a P.R. person - PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY!"
From Day One, I've admitted why and how I use Morphling, and it's not only for my physical agony. People spit on you if you don't deliver their luggage quickly enough, or cleanly enough in some cases. They don't give you tips, only orders. I'm responsible, all right - responsible for escaping the hell that is my life!
