Train Rides

Lannister Saint, 18, District One

District One loves their volunteers, and we are no exception. The moment we're led out of the Justice Building, Peacekeepers have to part the sea of people in order to get us to the train. I shade my eyes from the brilliant sun above. What a beautiful day! I toss my head back and fling my arms wide, basking in the warm sun and absorbing the beautiful festive fragrances of flowers and spices that fill downtown District One on Reaping Day.

The barrel of a gun pokes me in the back. A Peacekeeper nudges me forward. "Get a move on; we don't have all day."

I frown, but I don't say anything and quicken my pace, trying to catch up to Jasmine. Her poised figure floats towards the train in her red ballroom dress, from which her red heels poke out every so often. She wasn't wearing that dress during the Reaping—she must've changed in the Justice Building. I'll never understand girls and their obsession with their clothes.

She's waving and blowing kisses to the crowd and the cameras. Maybe I should do the same. I wave to the people on both sides of me—is that the taxi driver from Designation Day?—and when Jasmine glances back at me, I blow an exaggerated kiss as well. She rolls her eyes and laughs, which makes me grin as well.

The moment I step onto the train, it strikes me that we're in a different world now. It's not just the soft fuschia cushions on the long window seats that stretch the length of both walls, or the crimson high-pile carpet, or even the shimmering chandelier that hangs from the silver ceiling. The cushions, carpet, and chandeliers are all commonplace among the District One upper class. But as for the colors…

I'm going to call it eccentric and stop worrying about it.

Jasmine stops to take it all in, so I brush past her and spread out on one of the window seats.

I grin at her. "It's a lot, isn't it?"

"Huh?" She whips towards me, and then her face visibly brightens by about fifteen shades. "Oh! Of course! It's so… so…"

"Eccentric?"

"That's one way to put it." After spinning around in another circle, she settles down on the seat across the train from me, poised as always—back straight, legs crossed, head tilted slightly with the shadow of a smile. My sister Lynnora hated this—the confined, restricted behavioral rules that dictated social status. I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it.

A Peacekeeper pokes his head in and then pushes a button, which causes the door to slide shut. About five seconds pass, and then District One begins to slide outside the window. We soon zip out of the train station, and before I can say "Abracadabra," District One is gone.

I lower my gaze from the scenery outside to my District Partner, whose face has become uncharacteristically grim. I frown, but I dismiss the thought. It's not my business to pry. Anyways, if we're to work together, we might as well get to know each other, right?

"So," I say, "It's you and me. Jasmine Softwing and Lannister Saint."

Once again, she perks up the moment I begin talking. "Yes! It's going to be phenomenal."

I might not be a genius, but even I can tell that something's up. This isn't the Jasmine I knew from training. That Jasmine was confident, but she wasn't so… gushy? "What are you most excited for?" I say, hoping to get a better read on what's going on.

"Oh my," she says, twirling her hair, "There's so much. Like the food? Training? Showing off my skills?"

"And the Games?"

"And that. I'm ready to win."

That's it. Something's not right, and I'm not just going to sit back and let it unravel. There's a brief pause as I consider how to approach the potentially sensitive subject.

'Um… Jasmine?"

"What?"

"You don't have to pretend around me."

Her smile fades. "Pretend? I'm not pretending."

"What's wrong?"

She sighs, and her shoulders actually relax all the way this time. "It's a long story. You don't want to know."

I shrug. "Why not? We've got time."

"Well… I…" She averts her eyes, and I do too to avoid making her feel more uncomfortable. "Maybe I just realized that I might've just seen my family for the last time."

"Don't say that! You don't know for sure."

"But then that means that…" She gulps. "Pardon my bluntness, but if I will see my family again, then you've just seen your family for the last time."

I bite my lip. Somehow, that thought never crossed my mind. I picture Lynnora's face in my head. She brought little Jasper and visited me in the Justice Building after my parents left with my younger siblings, and she had seemed sad too. I had done my best to reassure her that I only volunteered because I was sure I could win, but I think I now get where she was coming from.

"Well… That's pretty dark," I say, looking back up at her.

She stares at me with hollow eyes. "Isn't it true, though?" When I don't immediately respond, she shifts her gaze to the window outside and shrinks away from me. "Please, pardon me. I shouldn't have gone there."

I shift over to her side of the train and sit down beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. When she hesitantly raises her eyes to meet mine, I give her an encouraging smile. "Oh, come on. We're a team. You tell me what you're thinking, and I'll tell you what I'm thinking. You don't have to pretend."

"Thanks… I'll try."

Dang, the atmosphere is moody and depressed now, and our mentors are nowhere in sight. On second thought, it might be a good thing that neither of them are here; we don't need them to see Jasmine like this and immediately give up on her. What to do…

Ah! That should do the trick! I grab a deck of playing cards off the shelf and give the cards a good shuffle. She watches me with her thin, plucked eyebrows furrowed, questioning silently. I fan the cards out facedown before her.

"Pick a card," I say, "Any card."

She rolls her eyes. "Really."

"I'm serious," I say, "It's better than being homesick, right?"

"Well…"

"C'mon. Pick a card, any card."

She unenthusiastically pulls one out from the fan and looks at it, but a faint smile is returning to her glossy lips. This time, the smile is real.

Cedric McKowen, 18, District Seven

The four of us—Yvonne, our primary mentor; Tulio, our pretentious escort; RIna, my partner; and me—sit a at a dining table, if it's even appropriate to call it one. It's more like a suspended slab of marble that's being treated as a table. The Capitol has so much money, yet it goes to this? Weird neo-post-classical-modernist interpretations of tables? I could build a more functional one out of my backyard in half a day.

The food is nothing to complain about, though, and it takes the two of us a while to get over the initial shock. Yvonne gives us a few minutes to absorb the wonderful fragrances before she begins.

"Why don't you tell me about yourselves?"

Neither Rina nor I speak, and she receives a few minutes of awkward silence.

She gives an encouraging smile. "I know this feels super soon, but we can't waste any time. The Games wait for no one, and I want both of you to have the best chances possible."

I look at Rina. Her cheeks are pulled back in a faint, strained smile that looks plastered on her face, and her eyes scream for help. I guess she won't be talking, so I might as well start.

"Well," I say, "I'm Cedric. I'm eighteen, and I work in a paper mill." Awkward pause. "What else do you want to know?"

She shrugs. "Anything. What do you like to do? What are you good at?"

"I like birds," I say, grinning, "Birds are cool. I'm a decent carpenter, too." It strikes me that I haven't actually said anything useful, and I laugh. "I dunno how I'm going to win by building birdhouses, but anything is possible, eh?"

Satisfied, she looks to Rina. "Rina, dear, you'll have to talk if you want me to help you."

The girl stares back for a brief moment. She straightens her posture and begins slowly. "I'm Rina. I'm eighteen as well…" She glances nervously back and forth between Tulio, Yvonne, and me, and then she swallows before she continues. "I work in the forests."

"So you're handy with an axe?" I blurt.

She nods after a brief moment of consideration. "Of course. I've held one since I-don't-know."

Perhaps I should've asked if she was okay with telling me that, but it seems like she doesn't mind too much. As I look at her face now, it's almost as if she's become another person ever since we started talking. Earlier, her expression still betrayed the nervousness and fear that simmered inside. Now, it's hardened into a sheet of metal, and the only sign of discomfort is the way she silently rolls her fingers on the table. She's trying to hide it behind her glass, but I can see it from my angle.

"You feeling uncomfortable?" I say.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

She narrows her eyes, staring back at me with that impassable face.

I sigh. If we can't be honest with each other, then there's no way we're going to work well together. Besides, holding up an act that's falling apart won't last her long—better jump ship and regroup before it's too late. "You don't need to pretend you're strong in here, you know. There aren't any cameras around, and you're not convincing either of us."

She bites her lip. "How do you expect me to respond to that?"

I shrug. "I dunno. Act like a normal person. It's okay to not be strong all the time, you know?"

"You don't know me," she says, her words shaky as she forces her breathing to remain steady.

"I can tell you're still acting, though," I say. I give her a smile. "C'mon, it's okay. There's no need to—"

She violently pushes her chair back and stands up, shaking the table and knocking over a glass, which shatters on the floor. Tulio gasps, covering his mouth in horror. Yvonne gives her a sad look. Rina narrows her eyes and presses her lips together even firmer, her expression solidifying into something much stonier than the one she already a word, she stares at me with her cold, black eyes, lip quivering ever so slightly. If I could bet, I'd bet that her eyes are frozen there because she's trying to keep tears from spilling out.

After a few moments of this tense silence, she turns around and stalks out of the room. Yikes. This is what I get for not watching my mouth. Maybe calling her out so fast was uncalled for.

Yvonne's eyes follow her until the door is shut, and then she turns to me with a disappointed look. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

I avert my eyes. "I'm… sorry. I'll go find her and let her know."

"No," she says, getting up, "You're going to stay right here and let me talk to her. Talk about Capitol customs or something—don't waste your time."

The two of us watch as she leaves in hot pursuit of Rina. I look at Tulio, and he smiles. "I'd love to tell you about manners in the Capitol! We'll need to make you a bit more… presentable."

I groan. I guess I'm getting my just deserts.

Elena Vogel, 17, District Ten

When the food arrives at the table, Lucia, our escort, gives me a concerned look. I don't acknowledge it and reach for a pork chop.

"Well… dear…"

I stare at her. "Yes?"

"Do you need… I mean, with only one—"

"No, I'm perfectly capable of doin' it myself," I say curtly. "And no. I'm not a savage. I know to cut my food before I eat it."

"How do you do it with only one hand?"

I sigh. Some people don't have clear critical thinking skills. "It's a knife. It cuts, whether you have one arm or two." When I thought about it earlier, I came to the conclusion that I could keep most people off my back if I laid low and played my one-armed-ness to its maximum effect. That's clearly not what I'm doing. I don't need this extra edge to win, and I don't want anyone saying that I won by throwing everyone else a curveball.

She keeps her awkward stare on me as I slice the meat in two. "It's very clear that you were raised well…"

Somehow, the comment rubs me the wrong way, especially combined with her despicable pitying look. "And it's crystal clear that you weren't taught that it's rude to stare."

"I— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare—"

"All is forgiven. Don't assume anything."

She turns to stare at her own plate, where she picks at her vegetables in an embarrassed silence. That should teach her not to come for me. I look at the other members at the banquet table. Opposite of Lucia are the two empty seats where our two mentors sat before they left the table to discuss between themselves in the other car, leaving Lucia, me, and my District Partner.

My eyes land on Barrett. He's huge, taller than any guy I've ever seen. He even manages to dwarf the two of us while we're all sitting. When we watched the Reaping recaps earlier, I noticed how he was the largest tribute of them all, being a few inches taller than the second-tallest tribute, the goofy-looking District One Male tribute. It's not just that he's tall—he's also built, with a body that constantly broadcasts how much physical labor he's done. I'd gander that he comes from the cattle-raising sector; it doesn't take quite as much muscle to raise chickens.

The only thing that puzzles me is his face, which is set in a… sad smile? Half-smile? His soft eyes don't make it any easier for me. Either way, everyone will want him as an ally, so it's a good thing I get dibs as his District Partner. I don't need him to help me win, but I definitely don't want him in my way.

"So, Barrett."

He looks up from his mashed potatoes with mournful eyes. "Yes?"

"I propose we ally for now. We're the most capable outer-district pair, and it'll be beneficial for both of us."

His eyebrows furrow. "Okay…"

Hmph. Perhaps he needs more convincing because he doesn't know what I can do. "As far as we're concerned, I'm trained too. I'm handy with a lasso and knife. We could hunt down the competition until it's too risky to stay together."

He frowns. "Hunt? Like hunt down the other kids?"

"Yeah." It's a bit of a stretch to call them kids, but I don't mention it. It's not wise to humanize your potential killers.

He bites his lip and nods slowly, as if processing everything. Maybe he's a dumb brute? "I see what you mean…"

"What do you say?"

"Sorry," he says, "My mind's as organized as a herd of stampedin' cattle right now. You want to team up and hunt down the rest of 'em kids?"

Kids. He's using that word again. Completely inappropriate for your competitor in a fight to the death. "That's… one way to put it," I say.

He rubs his chin. "Hmm."

I guess he's not dumb—just a bit preoccupied. "What do you think we should do?"

"My bad… I just keep thinkin' 'bout that poor little kid from Nine. What was he? Thirteen? He doesn't deserve to be here."

I frown. "That 'poor little kid' better be another statistic because I don't intend to give up my victory to him."

He raises his head to look straight back at me, though his height means I have to raise my eyes to look straight back at him. I'll admit—I'd be scared if he didn't look so darned disappointed. "I've just been tryin' to figure you out… Do you have any trouble calling him that?"

I shrug. Maybe it's rough for him, but the reality is that everyone else is unimportant as a cardboard cutout. "Why not? It's nothin' personal—It just keeps everythin' simple."

He keeps starin' at me. I don't know how he does it, but his disappointed look somehow becomes even more disappointed. "I see."

"Isn't that the best approach to this?" I say, "They're nothin' but competition. Competition that literally kills you if you don't crush them."

"I'd just like to think that there's still some room for decency, y'know? That we can still be human." When I just stare at him, he goes on. "I was thinkin' 'bout getting with that poor kid. it's the most human thing to do."

That's it—time for Plan B. If he's just going to drag me down, then I'll just have to leave him behind. At any rate, I reckon he won't be able to bring himself to kill me, which means that he's out of my way, just where I want him. Hopefully, he goes out in the final few protecting his little friend and I won't have to fight him.

"Then good riddance," I say, "You go have fun playin' human with your poor kid, and I'll stick to winnin'."

Anetha Layton, 18, District Eleven

As soon as Naaman and I stepped on the train, our frivolous escort dumped us in this extravagant dining room and disappeared. Even after at least ten minutes, I'm still admiring the wallpaper. A year's profit probably couldn't buy us this. I can only imagine how much more successful my intimidation tactics would be if I had it in my office, though. No one would dare to even try to cheat us out of our land.

But now I'm here, bound and sent to the Capitol to be their doll until they tire of me living and kill me, after which I'll be lost to history. Who will watch the shop after I'm gone? In the Justice Building, I told Tiarella to watch it for now, but there's no way she'll be able to hold off the dogs for forever. Ambrose doesn't have his act together either. I stare out the window and watch the land zip by, as if it could take my worries away with it.

Nope, Anetha. You're literally not allowed to think like that. It's not an option.

My mind wanders to the many Hunger Games I've seen in my day. Most of the time, the District Eleven tributes get weeded out fairly early, targeted because we usually have some meat on our bones.

But not always. We had a victor seven years ago. Seeder Runcina made it out of her arena, and that means that I can. I picture Papa's face, and then Mama's—Papa's for strength as I remember his boldness that I try so hard to emulate, and Mama's to remind me of why I have to make it back.

I take several deep breaths. Anetha, you're a queen. You just have to project it. Assert your dominance. Don't let anyone stare you down. You didn't back off with the claim-jumpin' dogs in Eleven; you can't give in to the stuck-up richies from One, Two, and Four.

I feel my shoulders relax and my pounding heart slow to a normal rhythm. My hand is still a bit shaky, but now that I'm decently calm, it's time to start plannin'. That's gonna require my vaguely familiar district partner, since even if I don't win, I want him to. The victory earnings will help Mama, Ambrose, and Tiarella out for a year if I can't be there to provide for them.

I glance over at Naaman, who has pushed his chair back against the wall and is now sitting there, staring at the floor. Something about him seems awfully familiar, but I can't put my finger on it.

"Hey. Naaman, right?"

He only grunts.

"We gotta plan."

"Mmmhmm."

I bite my lip. This boy's too big for his britches. "You gonna look up and try to survive?"

"Maybe," he says, glancing up with a mean glint in his eyes. "Whatcha gonna do about it?"

Okay, then. This boy's angry. Understandable considering the circumstances, but ain't nobody got time for that. "Okay, okay. No need to be defensive. Just thought you might want to live."

He snorts and goes back to staring at the floor.

I frown. Why can't I place his face in my memories? "Where you from?"

"Why do ya want to know?"

"You sound like a little boy tryna cover up somethin'."

He lifts his head a bit, grinnin'. "But I ain't no little boy else you'd be beatin' my a— like you do that kid of yours."

How does he know about my younger brother? "Do I know you?"

"Maybe." He shrugs.

"Tryna be difficult, ain't ya?"

He smirks. "Maybe."

That face… I swear, I think I saw him with Tiarella before. But she doesn't know him, or else she'd have mentioned him in the Justice Building. That means he must've been a customer…

I frown. "I remember you."

"From where?"

"I…" It clicks. He's the boy that charmed Tiarella that day I met with Mr. Nabal. I wouldn't have known he was no good if I hadn't double-checked inventory afterwards and found that we were missing a machete blade. "That's right. You stole from my shop."

"I ain't steal nothin'," he says, head cocked and eyes starin' back at me.

Oh, how I wish I could wipe that cocky grin off his face right now. "You good-for-nothin' whippersnapper!"

"You don't got no proof."

"I don't need no proof! You stole a machete blade and I know it."

"Whatcha gonna do about it?"

"So you confess?"

"Whatcha gonna do about it?"

I'm sure that I'd see smoke flyin' out of my ears if I saw myself in a mirror, but I don't care. The nerve—confessin' that he stole from me while wearin' that smug look. If Ambrose ever dared to talk back like this, he'd get a whoopin' almost as bad as the day I saved him from Peacekeepers. "It's the Hunger Games," I say, "I can do whatever I want."

"You think you can beat me?" he sneers, eyes blazin' with a challenge. "You just try to beat me and I'll pound ya into the ground."

That's exactly the attitude those men had when they thought a poor girl manning her parents' shop wouldn't be able to stand up to them. They were wrong—I sent them packin', and I'm not about to lose to this son of a—

He smirks again. "You come for me in the Hunger Games and you won't live to regret it."

Part of me is screamin' at myself to remain calm, but I'm done with this boy. I hate thieves, especially arrogant ones They're worse than Peacekeepers. I spy the nearby chair in reach.

"Well then," I say, taking a deep breath and giving him a polite smile. "I guess I won't wait until the Hunger Games, then."

I grab the chair and slam it at him. His grin quickly turns to a satisfying terror as he dashes to his right. Too slow. His body is out of the way, but the wood connects with his hand and he shouts in pain.

His eyes no longer issue a brash challenge; they're full of cold anger. He lunges at me; I bolt out of his way, flinging a chair back at him. He's got too much momentum; he can't stop himself and he collides with the table, which tips over, spilling lemonade and cookies all over the carpet.

We're at a stalemate. I stand on one end of the room, holding a chair in front of me because I know I can't pick a fight of brute force with him. He picks himself off the ground where he slammed into the table, rubbing his knee. Our eyes are locked and loaded.

He rushes me, tryna bat the chair out of the way. I shove it at him to hold him back while I make my escape.

"Hey!" A commanding voice interrupts the chaos. "What you kids tryna do?"

We both freeze.

Seeder stands in the doorway, arms crossed and staring down at us, very displeased. Her eyes survey the room. "Now y'all better get y'all's bums in a chair immediately or your life will become a living nightmare."

We stare at the ground and then each other, and we each quickly find a seat. Seeder rights the fallen table with a grunt and stands by the edge of the table, starin' down at both of us.

"Now who's gonna explain to me why I walked in to find my tributes actin' like fools?"

I look at Naaman, and he looks back at me. A painful few minutes of silence follows as Seeder's fierce gaze rests on the two of us. Slowly, the anger inside subsides.

"Well then," she says. "Good. There's not a single good reason for me to find y'all actin' like fools. Now shake hands and make up."

I stare at him. Neither of us wants to make the first move.

"Go on," she says, "I'll wait."

I slowly extend a hand. He hesitantly takes it. The ensuing shake is more pathetic than a limp minnow fished out of a stream.

"Nu-uh," she says, "That don't count. And you need to apologize to each other."

That ain't right—he's the thief here. But no one argues with Ms. Seeder, and so I submit.

"I'm… sorry," I say, squeezing the words out.

"Me too."

"Say it properly," she commands him.

"I'm sorry too."

She smiles, satisfied. "Now shake on it for real."

Though it's nothin' like a solid handshake, it's apparently firm enough for Seeder because she sits down, appeased. "There y'all go! That wasn't too hard, was it?"

I'd rather each chalk than do that again, but I don't say anything. I repeat—no one argues with Ms. Seeder.

"Now that y'all aren't crazed beasts anymore, let's talk strategy."

A/N: Nope, I'm not dead. Just busy. Expect one update a week, though y'all might get two if y'all are lucky.

Thoughts on these four? Favorite one? Anyone you already want to win? Who are you excited to see?

Do you miss the almost-daily updates? :P