The Second Strike: Chariot Rides

Capitol

As Silvia Yeh hurried down the side alleys of the Capitol, masquerading as a Capitolite, all she could think about was how Rufus had betrayed her.

"It's simply not safe—especially for Vera! Think about her future!"

The words still rung in her ears. She'd risked her own safety as well of the safety of the Red Blades by telling him the details of their planned assault; she had hoped that Hunger Games coverage would provoke him to action.

She had gambled and lost. As angry as he had been that night of the Reapings, it wasn't enough to make him move. What a coward! A lovable coward that she held close to her heart, but a coward nonetheless.

And she was stupid for believing that he would change.

Before she exited the quietness of the alley and mixed herself into the crowded main streets of the Capitol, she took a moment to make sure she knew what she was doing. Her teammates had been tasked with planting backpacks full of fire accelerants around the streets where the parade would pass. Others were in a secure location, communicating with everyone to ensure everything was in place.

That left her. The chosen firebrand to light it all up. The wirelessly controlled firebomb disguised as an umbrella in her purse would make sure of that.

She took a quick look at herself with her phone. The face that stared back at her wasn't hers, with her exaggerated makeup, colorful wig, and powdered face. She was no longer Silvia Yeh, Districto, robbed of rights and a voice. She was a Capitolite as far as looks went—though it'd only last as long as she didn't have to use her Capitol ID.

The wind picked up, and she smiled. Excellent. The weather forecast was accurate. The wind would be crucial to ensuring a smooth operation. With a deep breath, she stepped into the street, where she was instantly swept into the river of people that flowed towards the City Circle, eager to see the latest sacrifices kidnapped from the Districts.

When the crowd first sucked her in, she was a bit wobbly atop her six-inch heels. All her practice at home hadn't prepared her to be jostled about. She grit her teeth and breathed carefully to keep herself calm and confident. It wouldn't be long until the heels came off anyway, and she'd be running on the hard soles she was wearing inside the heels.

Her earpiece vibrated once, tickling her ear. The first backpack of fire accelerant had been planted successfully. Time to hurry up. She couldn't afford to be the weak link.

A knot formed in her stomach as she approached the gate that said "VIP Members Only." She'd never done a mission before that required so much interaction with the enemy. There was no time to worry. She handed the fake pass to the Peacekeeper. As he scrutinized it, her lungs felt like they were about to give out. Missions that required acting and finesse weren't her strong suit. But then the Peacekeeper waved her in, and she relaxed.

Her gait picked up; the weight on her back had loosed considerably. The hardest part was over. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and then she slipped the "umbrella" out of her purse and onto the ground, pointing it towards the greenery underneath the balcony where the President waited.

Take that, Rufus.

Her job was done. She slipped back through the crowd. Amidst the festive chaos, no one noticed when she pressed twice on a button on her earpiece, signaling to the guys at the home base that they could set off the firebomb whenever necessary.

She turned around and took one last look at the President's ugly figure, sitting on the balcony, likely assured that everything was under his control without any idea of the literal firestorm that was about to happen.

It won't remain like this much longer, you snake.

The Capitol would take their demands seriously. Their rights would be established. Vera would have a brighter future.

Perhaps Rufus will finally come around.

Bryson Fields, 13, District Nine

Our stylists ditch Orysa and me the moment we arrive at the chariot, jabbering on about "meeting with a prominent official" and how it'll "propel them to the premier spotlight." I watch as their ridiculous figures disappear from the huge stable that forms the ground floor of the Remake Center. That's all they ever talk about—themselves. If they had any kind of brain, they'd realize that dressing your tributes in unflattering stalks of wheat does nothing to boost your reputation. I don't suppose kids here are born with those, or they suck all the intelligence out in school.

Orysa nudges me, smiling. "They didn't treat you too bad, did they?"

I shrug. "Not too bad. I feel like my skin has been rubbed off, but I'm alive."

"Don't worry," she says, putting on a brave face that seems a little too smiley to be real, "My stylist said that we'll get baths tonight with solutions designed to ease the soreness. Won't you like that? I can't wait."

"Well…"

"And I'm sure you'll like the snacks we'll get!"

"Orysa… Don't treat me like a little child."

She frowns. "…I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional."

"I'm old enough to die. I think I deserve to be treated like a normal human being."

She doesn't say anything, but she keeps giving me that look that tells me that she still feels bad for me. I look away and turn towards the other tributes. Most of them are atop their chariots, save for the District Four Male, who's just jumped off, much to the chagrin of his frowning District Partner, who looks like she's trying to get him to return. The boy from District Three looks to be fiddling with his chariot while his terrified District Partner pulls at his arm for him to stop.

On one side of us is District Eight, and they don't look happy with each other. Orysa, friendly as ever, has started a conversation with the boy, while the girl's arms are crossed, back turned towards him.

On the other side is District Ten, and I shudder. The girl, who's clearly got some muscle on her despite her one arm, is closer to me, but I can see the boy's—or man's—entire head above her head. If the yearly Star Alliance doesn't produce a Victor, then District Ten's highly likely to win. The man waves at me. What's he trying to do? Soften me up before he kills me? I look away, but I still feel his eyes on me.

Thankfully, the anthem begins to play, and the guy looks elsewhere. The chariots begin to move one after another, beginning with District One. I grip the railing and brace myself for when we move.

Please don't fall. Please don't fall. Please don't fall.

Orysa nudges me again. "You'll be great, kiddo."

There it is again, treating me like a little kid that needs false hope. Still, I can't bring myself to snap at her. I'm shaking all over, and her words bring a slight bit of solace.

Our chariot pulls forward, and thank goodness—I don't fall. The moment we exit the Remake Center, I'm blinded by the dazzling sunlight that shines down on us. The first thing I notice is the noise—there's yelling and cheering everywhere. I glance up at the screens, which are fixed on the open gates to the Remake Center as we exit. Then comes District Ten, with that weird man, and then the angry Elevens, and then the poor Twelves.

I take a closer look at the strange Capitol fashion—they don't even look human anymore, with their unnatural hair and skin and clothes. It's completely appropriate; I don't know if they can be considered human with the way they enjoy watching murder. Those bas—

The chariot goes over a bump just as the wind picks up even more, and I nearly fall, barely holding on. Perhaps I'll stare straight ahead from now on.

The new President of Panem has just come into view on his balcony in the City Circle when a wisp of smoke triggers my senses.

"Do you smell smoke?" I say. "Or is it just me?"

She wrinkles her nose. "It's not just you. I smell it too."

The horses continue forward anyway, plodding forward like drones that have been programmed to do the will of their masters. The world could end right now and these horses would just clop, clop, clop on as if nothing were wrong. I glance at the Peacekeepers that are stationed every couple of feet—they're the same way as well. Drones, every last one of them.

But where's the smoke coming from?

Suddenly, there's an explosion in the distance, and a flame of fire leaps into the air. The cheers become screams. Some of the horses leap, rocking the heavy chariots. The girl from Six loses her balance; her district partner holds her tightly.

"What do we do?" I yell.

Orysa looks around in a panic. "I— I don't know!"

The fire consumes the greenery in the City Circle ahead of us, letting off thick, black fumes as it burns the wet fodder, and it begins to creep towards us tributes, aided by the flowers on both sides of the street like a monster, determined to—

"Get out of the chariot! Run!"

I'm jolted out of my imagination by the District One boy, who's running past us right now, bolting back towards the Remake Center. My eyes meet Orysa's and we do the same, crashing to the dusty ground after we leap off the chariot. I rip off the stupid sheaves of faux grain, and we run for our lives, back through the streets we just passed through.

Neighing. The horses are stampeding. Though they're slightly slowed at first, the chariots begin to gain momentum as they accelerate—neighing cannonballs of death.

And they're headed towards us.

Suddenly, a Peacekeeper on a small motorcycle pulls up beside Orysa, yelling at her to hop on.

She grabs me and shoves me towards him. "Take him!"

Before I can protest, he swoops me up and plants me on the vehicle, and we speed off, leaving Orysa in the dust.

What? Did she… just give up her safety for mine?

I guess no matter what I say, she'll still think of me as a child.

Please don't die yet, Orysa. You're a decent human being.

Viyella Mackinaw, 18, District Eight

The air is rapidly heating as the sky above dims. The smoke covers the sun. I'm pressing forward as fast as I can—my muscles straining, my lungs screaming for oxygen. Neither Baize nor I are particularly fast, and that's a big problem right now—the horses are gaining on us.

"F— the stylists," Baize yells to no one in particular as the doors of the Remake Center come into sight, "How are we supposed to sprint in these?"

I've tried my best not to complain about the costumes this entire time, but he's right. The costumes are life-threatening right now because they slow us down, and they need to be gone as soon as possible. I rip off the tight clothing, tearing the seams in a million ways. "Lose the pants!" I yell to Baize.

"What?"

"Lose the pants!"

His eyes widen. "No way!"

So he'll complain about them, but he won't do what it takes to get rid of 'em? "Do you want to die right now?"

Grumbling, he pauses to slip off the tight pants, exposing the pink boxers underneath, and we're off again, much faster now. Two motorcycles with Peacekeepers pull up beside us, and we hop on. I catch my breath as we whiz towards the Remake Center, now far ahead of the horses and fire behind us. The panic subsides when the beams of the Remake Center roll over us. We made it.

"Get off," the Peacekeeper commands, "Follow me."

I half climb, half fall off the motorcycle and gingerly follow him, my entire body still shaking from the adrenaline rush. I glance at the open gates, from which smoke streams in. A final pair of motorcycles dashes in with the Threes, who were near the front of the parade, and the doors slam shut.

"Wait here." The Peacekeeper leaves me by the wall, and I look around. They seem to be pairing us up by District in preparation to transport us to the Tribute Center. I catch the girl from Seven staring at me—now that I'm not literally about to die, I have time to feel self-conscious at being half-naked. She averts her eyes.

I hear cursing, and I frown. A Peacekeeper approaches, dragging Baize along.

"…you f— monster!"

"Shut up and wait here." The Peacekeeper shoves him against the wall beside me, and then he leaves.

"What happened?" I say.

"Nothing," he grumbles, "Just tried to run off."

"That doesn't sound like nothing."

"F— you."

I press my lips together. That language would never fly in my house—I make sure of that—and though I have no authority here, it doesn't make it any easier to listen to. Do my peers in District Eight all act like this?

He smirks. "Not a fan of cursing?"

I shake my head. "Absolutely not."

"Then you better f— get used to it."

My hand balls into a fist, but I force myself to breathe deeply and relax. No, Viyella. Don't let him edge you on. He's just acting like this because he's in a bad mood, and his immaturity doesn't give you a right to act immature.

It strikes me—this is exactly the way I deal with my younger siblings—and I laugh. He raises an eyebrow, but he loses the snarl. "What's so funny?"

"Just—" I catch myself. It wouldn't do me any good to tell him that I'm comparing him to my young siblings. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

He takes a long look at the fully-dressed tributes all around us. Save for a couple that tossed their heels and headdresses, every still has their clothes on. "Well…" he says, "This is awkward."

"Only if you make it."

He squats to try to cover himself a bit. "If only our idiot stylists had been a little smarter about practicality…"

I don't like where this is going, but no words come to mind.

"Like what were they thinking, right? You'd think that professionals would have a bit more common sense."

Here we go again, back on Baize's latest podcast about why things suck.

"The Capitol's just a piece of s—, you know?"

I sigh. "I guess… but you can't really blame the stylists. They didn't know the fire was going to happen."

He cocks his head. "Are you defending them?"

"Maybe I'm just tired of hearing about why literally everything in the world sucks."

He snorts. "That's 'cause our world does suck."

I press my lips firmly together. He's not wrong—we are about to enter a deathmatch, and we almost died before we got to the Arena. "But…" I say, "Still. What's the point in complaining about things you won't be able to fix? There's plenty of stuff we can control."

"Pfffft… we can't really control anything."

"We can find allies… train… become more appealing to sponsors…"

"You want to ally?"

I narrow my eyes. "With you?"

"Why not?"

I bite my lip. Neither of us are particularly strong compared to the Ones, Twos, Fours, Sevens, Tens… Plus I'm already resorting to coping mechanisms I use with my youngest siblings. I maybe only have enough patience to put up with him for a few more hours before I'll need some time away; being around him all the time would be disastrous. "I… don't think it's wise for us to team up."

"Why not?"

"Well… maybe we should get more capable allies. Like the Sevens—or even the Tens if we can manage that."

"Just to be clear—district loyalty still beats alliance loyalty in the Arena, right?"

"Of course."

There's a squeal. Our stylists are approaching. Baize groans. He opens his mouth, but I don't let him speak.

"No—I already know you're about to talk crap about them, and I'm not having it right now."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine, Mom."

I sigh. Even here in the Capitol, I still find myself taking care of kids.

A/N: Turns out my writing is more concise in third person. Who knew?

Most chapters will be told from the perspectives of the tributes, but sometimes, the Capitol perspectives will be interwoven on the same chapter. I hope it wasn't confusing—Please tell me if it was!

Oh! I'll be completely off of anything related to fanfiction from Monday, June 1, to Wednesday, June 3, so if you're looking for me, don't expect a response until Thursday. The same goes for the discord—I won't be there for a bit.

Thoughts? Ready for training to begin? I've got… 8 Training chapters planned; it'll be a wild ride.