Here comes Districts 9 and 10!
Cristina Booker, 18
District 9 Female
I follow the escort onto the train, standing tall for the cameras. I am not weak, I tell myself, over and over again. I know that I cannot slip up even once or I will be written off. The Capitol citizens will already be leery of a deaf tribute, and one single slip up will back up all their assumptions and spell my doom.
The escort leads me into the train with my district partner and I follow, a blush rising to my cheeks. The escort is wearing the shortest skirt and most low-necked top I have seen in my life, and when she moves I am constantly worried that I'll see something I don't want to. To distract myself, I pay extra attention to my surroundings. The train car has one long corridor, and doors open off both sides. The driver sits near the front, by the entrance. Most of the doors are locked, and I assume that they are for carrying the servants and security that accompany the tributes. I know that the Capitol has slaves called avoxes who have their tongues cut out.
Sympathy floods me. I can speak, but I rarely do. As I deaf person, it is very hard to find the confidence to talk when you don't know how you sound. Being mute is very, very hard.
Then a new doubt springs into my mind. The other people riding this train - the escort and mentors - won't be able to communicate with me. Once I reach the Capitol, will there be anyone who can help me? How will I do the interviews? A host of worries floods me. If I cannot speak or understand advice no one will respect me. My stomach flip-flops with apprehension as we pass more doors and at last arrive in the back of the train. Everything they think about me will be true if I can't get advice. There are subtitles on the screen at home, so I know a lot from watching previous Games, but there will be some things that only the mentors can teach me. I feel like I'm going to vomit just thinking about it.
I acted brave for my family and for the cameras, but deep down I am just a young woman - a girl, really - and I'm terrified. Worse is the fact that I can't hear. Nearly this entire time the escort has been rattling on to my district partner, and I have no idea what is even being said. Now that I think about it, I realize I don't even know his name.
There is a soft, velvety lounge at the back, beneath a huge window, and I throw myself down on it. Petulantly, I kick off my sandals and put my arms on the back, rating my chin on top of them. The district looks like a blur as it rushes past on both sides, but from the back window I can actually see it and focus on it as it recedes into the distance. Neither life nor by district has been kind to me, and yet a lump rises in my throat and tears prick my eyes as I watch it fade into the distance behind the endless pair of silver lines the train rides. It may not have been much, but it was home.
I could draw there, and run among the stubble of freshly mown fields. It was poor, but it was beautiful. Even if I didn't usually connect with the people, the land and the sky and the sun were my friends, as was the wind that blew my cares to the back of my mind. When I was out there I felt complete. The land could not talk, and we spoke to each other with our beauty and our freedom. Out there, I was just another girl with hopes and dreams of her own.
My skills will not matter if I cannot gain the Capitol's respect, and their respect is a fickle thing.
An overwhelming desire to go on living seizes me. I know why my family wanted to rebel, but at the same time I feel that I could have made the best of living in this country, as broken as it is. As long as I hold onto my own heart and my own mind, the Capitol can toss whatever it wants at us, but I will not be shaken.
Do I have that strength?
I don't know. I've always been seen as weak, and looked for fulfillment in rebellion. Slowly, I uncurl my fingers and look at the disk Henri slipped into my hand before I left. What am I doing? Is this rebellion worth it? Won't I better serve the cause if I win; if I come back as victor, then if I throw my life away in a useless display of mutiny?
I have no way to know what is worth what.
The thoughts pound their way around my brain until I can hardly think, and so I push them all away, closing my eyes and imagining myself back in the fields at home.
The next thing I know there is a hand on my shoulder, and I start upright. A young girl with black hair and flat-looking green eyes stands behind me. Behind her is our escort, dressed more decently, and tapping her foot impatiently.
It is time to eat, the girl signs.
Now I am really startled. She knows how to talk to me! A flood of questions rises up. Tell the escort to wait a moment, I sign. Then: Who are you? I ask.
It doesn't matter, she signs, but there is an anger to her motions and her eyes have awakened somewhat, a spark of green fire and resentment gleaming behind them.
She must be an avox.
Leaving the subject be, I ask a different question. The escort, and my district partner, what are their names?
The escort snaps something to the girl and she beckons me to follow, so I do. No use crossing an escort.
Once we reach the dining area the others are already seated, and I slide nervously into a chair. The girl takes a napkin and a one and points to the escort. Tabatha, she writes, in neat rounded letters. Then she points to my district partner.
Leon Rayner.
I give them each a shy smile. The mentors I already know, Kernel Whitt and Cane Wickham, winners of the 37th and 43rd Hunger Games respectively. I watched reruns of the Games a lot, since it was something to do. Our television had subtitles, and I could actually understand what was going on. It feels twisted that I spent so much of my time doing it, but now, that knowledge of strategy - of what works and what doesn't - may be invaluable.
The dinner is delicious, crispy white noodles and beef fried with vegetables, all sprinkled to taste in a red powder that makes the food burn slightly. At first I don't like it, but then, with a few sips of milk between each bite, the heat is more bearable and I actually rather like it.
I still feel out of the loop as conversation is evident in the moving mouths of my dinner mates, but I feel more comfortable.
Once I reach the Capitol, they will want to be able to understand me, otherwise I'd just be boring. There's avoxes there, and in some ways, I might have more people to talk to than I ever did in District 9.
Once I'm in the Games, hearing won't really matter as long as I lie low. Hopefully there will be trees, so I'll be able to use my eyes and see people coming.
Dinner finishes with an amazing lemony pie, the top fluffy and white. I head back to the train car, and the avox helps me to learn the various gadgets in the room that dim lights, turn on the television, or control the shower. I ask her again what her name is, and again she tells me it's not important.
It is to me, I sign, and something in her eyes softens.
Eilis, she writes.
She dims the lights and leaves the room, but even in the soft surroundings sleep is long in coming.
Byron Calvert, 17
District 10 Male
My district may have been dingy and smelling of animals, but at least it was familiar, and it was home. The train is nothing like that.
Mixing into a strange odor that makes my head pound is the smell of fuel, coal dust, and cleaning agents, along with sweet candies and heady spices, probably scattered in an attempt to freshen the air. My head begins to spin, and I stagger up against the door as we board the train.
Instantly Alasha is all concern, her shoes letting out pained-sounding, brisk 'oinks' as she calls for a servant to carry me into my rooms, brushing off my protestations that I'm completely fine. She may be shallow, but she's certainly shrewd, because when I say I'm fine I'm a miserable liar. The avoxes deposit me on a silky mattress, dim the lights, and deposit a frosty glass of some cool drink on the bedside table before I could say 'Cotton'.
And Cotton is just what I'm thinking about right now. His soft wool against my cheek, his pink little mouth as he sucked at the bottle, and his fuzzy tail whisking back and forth. Perhaps being sad that I won't be able to watch my lamb grow up should be the least of my worries, but it's what's for most in my mind. Haunting too is Vera.
For a moment, she seemed like she would say that she loved me.
I turn over, pressing my face to the pillow, and groan. Good thing Alasha isn't still here; that sound would have sent her over the edge. What am I going to do? Banishing all thought of the Games won't make them go away, though I'm tempted to do just that. If I want to win, I'll have to learn, and fight hard. This stay in the Capitol can't just be a lark, I'll have to make the most of everything anyone can teach me.
Which begs the more pressing question: do I want to win?
The easy answer is yes. Winning means fame and fortune, losing means certain death. But then it gets more complicated. Winning means a life of owing it to the Capitol, of being their mouthpiece, of looking little kids in the face and saying winning the Hunger Games was the best thing that ever happened to you. Winning means watching twenty-three other kids die, probably killing some of them personally. Usually winning means sustaining horrific injuries and terrifying bodily punishment at the hands of others.
And suddenly losing starts to sound really great.
Losing means never, ever being able to be hurt by the Capitol or anyone else again. Sweet deal, huh?
Yeah, but it also means never finding out whether you like your best female friend in that way, and if she likes you back. It means leaving behind your grieving parents and supportive older brother. And, of course, my pet lamb.
What a mess.
What a bloody mess.
I'm not sure whether I mean that as a swear word or a literal adjective.
Probably both.
Moodily, I draw my knees up to my chest, tucking the glass of icy mashed fruit into them and sticking its gaudy straw in my mouth. It's delicious, though after a few big gulps my head and teeth ache from the cold.
Finished, I set it down and go out to the main dining room. For now, I'm gonna take the weak route I mentioned earlier and pretend the Games don't exist.
Alasha looks up as I come into the room. She's changed into a dressing gown, and washed off most of her makeup, and in that state looks almost matronly. My district partner is staring out the window at the back, her eyes misty. It's already dark outside, and I wonder how long I spent in the room thinking.
"Thanks for the fruit," I say, setting down my empty glass.
"Sherbet," Alasha corrects. "It was sherbet. But you're very welcome. Feeling better?"
"Much," I say, giving what I hope is a reassuring smile and not a ghastly excuse for a grin.
Ricotta, sitting by the window in the back, suddenly begins to talk. Her voice sounds stretched and overly optimistic.
"Come and see this! The wheels are throwing up sparks behind us, and they're all twinkly and bright. It's really pretty. They look sorta like stars from here. All flashy and orange."
I go over to her and look out. The sparks are pretty; ghostly as they mark our fiery trail, winking out one by one. Even though I'm here seeing for myself, Ricotta doesn't stop talking.
"I wonder how hot they are, and if they'd burn me if I touched them. They don't look that hot, since they're orange not white. Probably they'd just tickle. I'd like to touch one...oh! There's more of them in the air, high up! How'd they get there? Oh, those must be fireflies. I used to catch those all the time with Colby and Toby..."
Suddenly her voice cracks and a tear runs down her face. I understand her silly play by play now. She was just like me, trying to take her mind off the Games by grasping at any other interesting object in the area, only she was doing it out loud. I hate seeing people cry, and something hot and hard grows in my chest. I wish I could punish the people in the Capitol for doing this to us! It isn't fair. What difference do I make?
My hand is shaking, but a thought springs to the forefront of my mind. Only the difference you try to make, Byron. Only what you try.
Tentatively, I reach out and put a hand on her arm. "I like fireflies too," I say. Maybe it was lame, but it was all I could think of on the spur of the moment; the only link between us I could think of. I expect she thinks it's stupid.
But what I don't expect is for her to round on me, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "That's nice," she says.
She stares at me a few more seconds before moving over to the table and vigorously cutting her self a slice of cake, pointedly putting herself as far from me as possible without leaving the room. My shoulders slump in defeat. This is what the Games do to us. They tear us apart until we can't trust anyone. I was only trying to be friendly, and yet she immediately assumed I had an ulterior motive.
This is cruel.
I'd planned to stay and try to get to know my fellow tribute, my escort, and maybe the mentors. Ricotta doesn't want to talk to me, at least not unless by keeping up a running commentary on what she sees out the window. Alasha's nice enough, but after Ricotta I'm in no mood to talk to an escort. None of the mentors are here. What's the point of staying.
I get up and leave, and as soon as I enter the hallway tears start flowing. I tell myself to stop it and that I'm being weak, but I know that I'm not. I'm weeping for the souls about to be lost, and I'm weeping because I don't think I'm strong enough to do what's right and give up out there. I don't want to win, but I can't die. Which means I have to try to win.
Hopelessly, I slump against the wall, sliding down and putting my face in my hands. Someone sits down beside me, draping a big, strong arm over my shoulders. I look up into the face of Patton Graham, the Victor of the 33rd Hunger Games. His face looks more tired and pinched than on tv, and his eyes just look sad. I'm startled enough that I stop crying, trying to shape up in front of my mentor. I haven't given up yet, and he doesn't need to think I have.
"It's okay to cry." he says matter-of-factly.
"How did you do it?" I burst out. "How did you win! I haven't even gone into the Games, and I'm already bawling like a lost goat!"
"You're not loud enough," he says, with just the barest hint of a smile.
"What?" I snap.
"To be a lost goat. You're not loud enough. Nor furry or smelly enough, either," he says, leaning in, and pretending to sniff.
I huff in annoyance. Can't he see the sober reality here? Or is that what being a victor is about? Just not caring anymore and making a joke out of everything?
"What should I do?" I ask sarcastically.
"What do you want to do?" he counters.
"I don't know," I say, fiddling with a loose strand of carpeting on the floor. He's listening to me. It's now or never, and maybe I should just open up. I sigh, leaning my head against the wall, and stare up at the ceiling. "All my life I've wanted to make people happy," I start. "But it just keeps getting harder. No one understands why, and they just think I'm weird. Well, at least everyone but Rangle, and Vera, and my mother, and..." I stop, realizing how long that list is becoming.
Patton is smiling like he scored a point. "And whose opinion do you value, that of the masses, or that of your family and this...Vera?" He looks at me knowingly.
"My family," I say, more surely.
"What would they want you to do?" he prompts.
I feel like I'm a little kid again, being led by a tactful adult to discover for myself what I should have known all along. "They'd want me to try," I start out, and then I say the hardest thing I've ever said. "They'd want me to try - to win. But not just the Games. They'd want me to win - " I wince, but I close my eyes and force out the words: "their approval. By staying the boy they raised me to be. That would make them proud."
"Then that's what you should do," he says.
I look him in the eye, a frown coming over my face as I notice a glaring inconsistency. "Is that what you did?" I ask, my tone challenging.
A moment later I regret those words, as the most heartrending look of regret and lost innocence I've ever seen ravages his face.
"No," he chokes. "And I've never regretted another decision more my whole life." He stands up sharply, banging his head on a cabinet on the wall. Cursing muffledly and with a hand pressed to his head he stalks away.
Now I feel mean. Being a victor is terrible, I can see that. I knew that already the moment I thought about what winning the Games really means. He was trying to keep me from making the same mistake he did. He was being a real mentor, not a Games mentor, and I had to get and pour salt on his old wounds.
Only a moment ago, he got me to say what I really want, and then I hurt him. Time to start living up to those high ideals I talked about back there.
I go to the door of his room and knock timidly. He answers it, his face guarded when he sees it's me. "I want to apologize for what I said back there," I say, gesturing to the hall. "You helped me a lot. Don't blame yourself for bringing out my sacrificial side. It's right, and it's what I want. I could do a lot of good as a Victor, but what I said in the hall still stands, and unless by some miracle I can both stick to it and win the Games, I won't be leaving that arena alive. You're a good man, Mr. Graham. Let bygones be bygones?"
I reach out my hand, and he shakes it heartily, shaking his head at the same time.
"I don't know what to make of you Byron except this: I salute you."
I smile again, this time for real. Then we hear Alasha's voice, summoning us to dinner.
"Coming!" he yells.
He looks at me respectfully, but then the moment passes and turns to a mischievous grin. "Not a good idea to keep womenfolk waiting. We'd better hurry!"
I laugh out loud. "You're right. In fact, dragging our feet now would be a very bad idea!"
Just before we go into the room, I turn and tell him one last thing. "Mr. Graham, you remind me of my father."
Serious again, he looks me in the eye sincerely. "If he's anything like you, that's the best compliment I've ever been paid."
Sorry this update was so ridiculously long in coming. First I needed to catch up on school. Then I got sick. I had spring break, so I suppose I should have been writing then, especially since I was in bed with a cold, but I didn't want this chapter to turn out reading like a fever dream. Hopefully it was worth the wait! What do you think Snowstorm13 and Josephm611? Was it worth it? Either way, let's let bygones be bygones :)
No questions this chapter, but don't let that stop you from leaving a review. The generic 'did your opinion change\who did you like better\etc' type questions still apply.
Hope to hear\read your opinions soon!