A/N: Sorry guys. Life has suddenly become overwhelming and I can't continue writing this story for a while. A couple months at minimum. I'm so sorry.

... April Fools! 8D

Disclaimer: No no no and, oh yeah, no.

The 125th Hunger Games
District Eight Train Ride

Liesl Lisbon POV

I haven't said a single word since the Reaping. Perhaps it's shock. Perhaps I've simply had nothing to say. Considering Mom broke down crying on my shoulder not yet ten minutes ago and I stood there, stiff as a board, not speaking, makes me think it's the former. She wept until the Peacekeepers forcibly dragged her out. I wanted to say something. Maybe, "Gee, thanks for the confidence, Mom," or, "I'll be back," or maybe even, "I love you."

Instead I said nothing. Even now I fear if I open my mouth to talk I might scream instead.

District Eight has two mentors. Neither of them say anything, either. In fact, the only sound is that of silverware scraping against glass plates.

I toy with the spaghetti; twirl it with my fork; wonder who these people are. What their story tells.

The man, who didn't introduce himself, looks bored. He pokes his steak with a knife. Automatically I can tell he won't be much help. The women, Naomi, picks at a salad. She looks like she might have been pretty, once. Before the Games stole her youth.

Sneaking a look at Crayne, who sits beside me, I see his face is oddly blank. Immediately I'm suspicious. Even the Capitol escort looks bored; the whiskers surgically glued to her face are drooping.

We're a lively bunch. I'm still unsure if I prefer the silence or mindless chatter most people feel compelled to fill a room with.

"Any questions?" Naomi's voice is uncomfortably loud. She clears her throat. "About the Games, I mean."

I shrug. Personally, I'd love nothing more then to find a book on this train and bury myself in someone else's problems. The best books are able to make you forget, even if it's only for a moment.

"Yeah," Crayne replies. He turns to me. "Want to ally?"

I don't trust him. But he's older, bigger, probably stronger. I nod affirmative.

With no appetite, I shovel the pasta down my throat without tasting it and force down half a steak and a bowl of salad. I may not be hungry now, but in four days, I'd rather be looking back longingly on the food I ate then beating myself up over not eating it all.

The more food I eat the longer I can last without it in the arena, after all.

—

Miracle of all miracles, I find a hardback book in the bedroom. Placed in the drawer next to my bed, it's a novel I've read to death. The History of Panem has been mandatory reading since the second grade. But a book is a book is a book.

I crack it open to the first page. Panem sucks eggs is graffitied in black pen. Not exactly eloquent, but I still smile. It's nice to know rebellion happens even in the unlikeliest of places.

Before Panem, I read. The world was dangerous. The people were ruthless. The technology was primitive. They burnt their world to the ground. And out of the ashes rose Panem.

—

The next morning, as the train slows to a stop, Naomi appears in front of me, looking distressed. "Are you sure you have no questions?"

I nod.

"Well ... listen to the stylists. They're here to help you." She worries her bottom lip. "I'll think up an angle for you while you're gone. Any preference?"

I shake my head no. The train doors gape open.

"Good luck!" she calls out after me.

Good luck indeed.

Crayne Lyde POV

I'm dipping my second lobster in warm butter when Liesl abruptly stands up and leaves the dining room without so much a backward glance. We watch her leave. When I turn back around, the butter from my lobster has dripped onto the tablecloth. Oops. I move my plate over to cover the stain and hope no one notices.

Outside the window, we pass trees, trees, and a few more trees. Some overgrown branches scratch the glass as the train whips by, but it doesn't leave a mark. "How does this train work, anyways?" I ask, suddenly overcome by curiosity. "What does it run on?"

The unnamed escort snorts. "Who cares?"

"It runs on the track," Felicity tells me, her tone oozing superiority. "Duh."

I stare at her. "No, I meant what powers it? Electricity? Water?"

Her mouth forms an 'o' of embarrassment and her whiskers twitch. "I'm with Gregorius," she sniffs, gesturing to the male escort. At least now I know why he didn't tell us his name. "Who cares?"

"It runs on coal," Naomi interrupts. "From Twelve. Why do you want to know?"

"Just wondering," I say vaguely.

Back home, no one would have questioned this kind of behavior. I come from a long line of inventors—my great-grandfather invented the sewing machine, and industrialized textile factories forever. In fact, the only person in my family not an inventor is Mom, and, well, I don't really see her too often. She has her own life now.

Even Jingle, who periodically stalks guys, has a knack for inventing.

I miss them. All of them. District Eight wasn't perfect, but it was safe and familiar and home. I guess there's a reason 'you never miss a good thing until it's gone' is such a popular saying.

"How are you holding up?" Naomi inquires, and though I know she means well I'm kind of annoyed. Why would I tell a complete stranger how I'm feeling on the worst day of my life? I can't stand nosy people.

"As well as could be expected."

She gives me a look. "Which is?"

" ... Fine."

I excuse myself before she starts asking what color underpants I wear, too.

—

Safely hidden away in the room they gave me, I rummage through the drawers for a sheet of paper and a pencil. I find a small notepad with the words Capitol Inc. Supplying your paper for years! stamped in the corner. I figure, who knows what I'm capable of doing better then I do?

No one, that's who.

Diving the pad into two columns, I write can climb under the Things I Can Do heading. Swim goes under Things I Can't Do, along with use weapons and hunting animals. Looking at this uneven list, I'm feeling pretty depressed and quickly scribble identify poison plants and bugs next to climb. Just to make it even, I add on run quickly, too.

At least now I know what to work on during training. Which is basically everything. I sigh and crumple the paper up into a small ball before tossing into the waste basket five feet away. It misses.

There's another thing I can't do—aim.

As long as the Arena doesn't have any bodies of water, people I have to kill with weapons, or animals I have to hunt, I think I'll be okay. In others words, I'm screwed.

Then I remember I allied with Liesl, and silently hope she's a better swimmer then I am.

—

After hours of tossing and turning, I give up any hope of sleeping and flip on the light switch. A clock sits on the bedside dresser. With nothing better to do, I take it apart and use the parts to build a lopsided helicopter. Using the hour and minute hands as propellers, I throw it into the air and watch as it hovers, uncertain, before the makeshift wings buckle under gravity's immense weight, and the helicopter drops out of the sky.

The pieces shatter when it hits the floor.

Is it just me or did the train ride chapters go by really quickly? Chariot rides are up next. I'm kind of excited to come up with some crazy chariot ride outfits. ;D Also, do you guys want me to write longer chapters? They've been really short ...

Maya—angry
Scene—arrogant
Katalina—independent
Drampton—ruthless
Seraphina—dreamer
Weston—energetic
Maren—upbeat
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)
Jenna—sweet
Ezra—mature
Katara—observant
Toris—shy
Ava—brash
Triston—player
Liesl—intelligent
Crayne—mysterious

You've been warned~
- Alactricity