District Eleven Train Ride
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.

Makari Amazu, 17
District Eleven Male Tribute

In my frayed button-down and black dress pants, I look different: my features appear more defined and my posture seems more professional. Even my frizzy hair appears purposefully messy rather than a result of my laziness. I wonder what the Capitol thought of me during the reaping. Are they criticizing my fashion? Laughing at my subpar outfit? Or do they recognize my limited options? Do they realize that the districts, especially the outlying ones, are not the Capitol? I guess I'll find out soon enough.

When I start unbuttoning my shirt, I see them: the white scars against my dark body. Faint near the shoulders, but prominent on my back. Long, thin scars from multiple whippings that cascade down my back in a spiderweb. It's my punishment for preserving my HIV-positive grandmother's life. She's barely able to feed my sister and I, so buying the necessary medicine wasn't an option. I should be happy they haven't executed me yet, but I guess even Peacekeepers have a heart. It's the price I'm willing to take to keep my family alive.

I frown when I hear Fresia, my district partner, argue with her mother outside my bedroom. She should be happy she has a caring mother in the first place. Mine abandoned us after my sister was born, dropping us off at our grandparents and never coming back. I hate to say it, but I wish she's dead. I wish the regrets every decision she ever made because my sister and I are practically orphans now. My grandma only has so much time left. I just wish she lasts until my sister's eighteenth birthday so she isn't forced into the foster system.

The yelling grows louder. I can't take it anymore. People really fail to recognize their blessings. I toss on a shirt and open the door.

"Can you two stop yelling?" The two immediately close their mouths.

"Tell them off, son," Amara Copperdust, my mentor, says.

"I was just telling my mom—" Fresia begins, but I cut her off.

"No, you two need to grow up and start acting like adults. This is ridiculous! Poppi, I honestly would hae expected more from you."

The woman in question crosses her arms. "And what gives you the right to talk to me like that?"

"Well, we're all in the same boat now, aren't we?" She purses her lips. "And if you won't be mature enough, then I will. Seriously, act like a mother and a mentor for your daughter. No one is to blame here."

"You have guts, I give you that." Poppi glares at her daughter. "Maybe I should mentor him instead."

"No, because you would deliberately sabotage my chances if it meant your daughter survived."

She raises her eyebrow. "You don't think I'd be a good mentor?"

"I think your motherly instincts would override that."

I'm surprised she doesn't fight back. That means I won the argument.

"Now, you two need to talk it out, preferably using your inside voices. Let me know when you finally figure it out or we arrive at the Capitol; whichever comes first."

That being said, I slam the door behind me.

For a moment, I think they're about to start shouting again, but I'm pleasantly surprised when I hear footsteps walking away from my room. Relieved, I lean my back against the door and slide down to the ground. I bite my tongue when a sharp pain pokes my butt cheek, suppressing my yelp.

I smile when I pull my sister's necklace out of my back pocket. At first, my grandma wanted to give me her most prized possession: her silver wedding ring. Although my grandpa died before I was born, she hasn't taken it off in decades. But she told me she wanted to die wearing it, so I refused. If I died with it, she would never be able to look at it again, much less wear it. I couldn't do that to her.

My sister's necklace, though, was a present from me for her fourteenth birthday. It was her golden birthday, so I had to buy her something special. I picked up extra shifts on the plantations, and I spent my nights doing inventory at the market. When I saw a shipment with a silver, dog-tag necklace, I asked the owner about it. He gave me a massive discount so I could buy it before her birthday, and I personally engraved it. It reads:

To my lovely sister,
Who is stronger than she looks,
smarter than she admits,
and more courageous than she believes.
You will always be loved.

If I die in the arena, I hope she still keeps the dog-tag. It holds too much worth, too much symbolism, to just go to waste.

No, I need to make it home. For my family.

Fresia Blodwyn, 16
District Eleven Female Tribute

My mother and I sit on adjacent couches in the main car, looking everywhere except at each other. We haven't spoken a single word since Makari yelled at us. Amara stands next to the mini-bar, arms crossed. She's stated, numerous times, that we're both acting childish and immature. At least I have a right to be childish and immature; I'm only sixteen years old after all. But my mother—well, she has to get over herself. She is the legal adult here.

"Are one of you going to say something?" Amara asks, a deep frown on her lips. "Or will Makari really be waiting in his room until we reach the Capitol?"

"I don't have anything to say to her," I snort.

"Nor do I."

"Okay, you two are seriously acting so toxic right now." Amara sits down on the chair in front of us, crouching forward with her elbows on her knees. "You're both channeling your anger into each other when you're really mad at the system."

"I didn't know you became a therapist." My mom raises an eyebrow. Since she was Amara's mentor, she's always treated her as an inferior. "When did this happen?"

"When I realized you two needed therapy." She turns towards me. "You're upset that you were reaped, and you're blaming your mother for it." She turns towards my mother. "And you're upset because you think the reaping was rigged."

"Incorrect." My mom glares dagger at me. "It's because my daughter's pregnant."

Amara's eyes go wide, and she leans back in her chair. "I did not know this."

"Exactly. The 'Arena Baby' is going into the Games with a baby of her own. The Capitol is just going to love this."

My mother and her boyfriend went into the Hunger Games seventeen years ago. She was almost eight months pregnant at the time, but she refused to abort nor deliver me early for the sake of my survival. If she was going to die in the arena, she was going to die with me. When I was born on the fifth day of the Games, I earned the nickname "Arena Baby." After that, the sponsors showered my mom in gifts. (One could even say we had a baby shower in the arena.) Unfortunately, my father still died in the arena during the finale, so I don't remember him.

I guess this means it'll be my second time in the arena.

"How far along are you?" Amara asks me, looking at my stomach. "You're not really showing."

"Only six weeks."

"I swear, I should've never let her have a boyfriend." My mother crosses her arms. "Then this would've never happened."

I shrug. "Or we could've never known the father."

"Now you're just trying to annoy me."

"So what're you going to do?" Amara asks me. "You know, with the baby."

"I have no idea." I glance towards my mother. She frowns. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so mad at you."

"I might've overreacted a little too." That's the best apology I'll ever get from my mom. "You're young, you'll make mistakes. I shouldn't be so critical."

"Thank you."

"Amara, go get Makari." My mom looks to her co-mentor. "We should start discussing our plan if we want these kids to survive."

Author Note: Only one more chapter before all the tributes are revealed!

Next Chapter: An Explosion (D12 Train Ride)