AN: Hello again! Here's the second half of the train rides, featuring our final four unintroduced tributes: Killian, Slate, Emilie, and Dillan. We'll also pick up where we left off from the Capitol plotline.
Miracle Emerson / Victor of the 87th Hunger Games
The black SUV races across the Lake Aeneas Bypass with Panem's latest victor in the back, her seat reclined all the way. Once again, she's headed for the Demeter Hotel, the oh-so-classy waterfront establishment that countless victors have become overly familiar with. She always thought it looked rather tacky from the outside, with a rooftop swimming pool perched halfway up the structure, complete with faux palm trees and a waterslide.
Gaius drops her off at the side of the building, where she goes in through a staff entrance and takes the freight elevator up to the 19th floor. Discretion is their top priority, hence the sunglasses and fur coat, despite it being 85 degrees and overcast outside.
Once Miracle arrives at her room – 1902 – she throws off the disguise, letting the items fall onto the soft carpet. She recalls the instructions from the letter:
He will have his laptop bag with him, which contains an external hard drive with an access key to his primary bank account. Simply plug the hard drive into the laptop and wait about a minute for it to copy the data.
They make it sound so easy, as if a million different things couldn't go wrong. She looks at the bed, covered in pristine white with intricate patterns woven in gold. Flipping open the bedspread, she finds a laptop sitting there, just like they said. It must not have been easy to sneak something like that into the room, and it's clear to her by this point that these are not small-time criminals requesting her help. Part of her realizes how unwise it is to get herself mixed up in this, but letting these Capitolites get away with what they're doing to her – no, she has to strike back, and this is how she'll do it.
Miracle slides the laptop underneath the bed, for it's best that it remain out of sight completely. Her "guest" should be arriving shortly, with the bedside clock nearing the 5 PM mark. She's been to the Demeter several times for this purpose, but she can feel her heart beating much faster than usual.
This isn't a game. What if you mess up, Mira? They can hurt you more, and worse – they can hurt your mother and Maxon. They can hurt Isabel.
Just as she's having second thoughts, there's a short buzz at the door signaling the arrival of the supposed PCB executive. These people sure picked the right person to steal from, for anyone who can afford to buy a victor like this must be swimming in credits. He looks like he'd just come from work, which he likely did, wearing a full slate-gray suit with a vest, a rather conservative outfit by Capitol standards. He looks to be in his late 50s if she had to guess.
"Miss Miracle Emerson! I've waited a long time to see you," he greets her. "I must say, you look even more stunning now. The city must be treating you well."
"It has. And thank you," she replies timidly, perhaps too much so – she wouldn't want him to feel that anything is off.
Miracle eyes his leather laptop bag, which he sets on a coffee table.
"Please excuse me for a moment, miss. I'd like to freshen up before we… begin."
The man heads into the bathroom, and Miracle springs from the bed as soon as the door closes. Now's not the time to think, but act, since she'll probably not get another opportunity like this.
"Hard drive, hard drive," she whispers to herself, fumbling through the bag while paying attention to the sound of running water from the restroom sink. The main compartment produces nothing, so she begins checking the numerous side pockets. Finally, she manages to fish out a small, rectangular box cased in black steel and with a cable attached.
This has to be it.
Right away, Miracle grabs the laptop from under the bed and flips it open. A program seems to have been open this whole time, inviting her to connect a device. She attaches the cable to its corresponding port on the laptop's side before shoving the whole thing back under the bed, noticing that the water has stopped.
She jumps back onto the bed seconds before the man emerges from the bathroom.
"Alright, let's get started," he announces before something draws his attention, directing his gaze to the coffee table as Miracle's heart sinks.
The zipper on the bag. You forgot the fucking zipper.
He begins to fumble inside the bag's open pocket, clearly in a panic.
"Wh—what's wrong?" Miracle asks, trying her best to sound innocent.
"I need to call the office," he mutters, taking out his cellphone.
Everything seems to happen all at once then: the sound of splintering wood, a muffled "pop," and a warm spray hitting her. Next thing she knows, the man is face-down on the floor, with a pool of red in the carpet creeping outward from his head. A woman in dark clothing stands by the door.
"Why'd you do that?" demands Miracle, assuming that these are the people whom she agreed to help, though she surely didn't think they'd be others with her here, ready to break into the room.
"We needed more time," answers the woman, a suppressed pistol in her hand. "They could've disabled the drive remotely once they confirmed it to be missing."
"And what am I supposed to tell Licinia? This doesn't exactly look like natural causes," she says, gesturing at the floor.
The woman shrugs. "Tell her you were robbed. Not that far-fetched since they seem to value discretion over security in the end. Now, where's the laptop?"
"Under the bed."
She collects the device and unplugs the hard drive before placing it back inside the laptop bag. The woman then begins to head for the door.
"So you were listening in this whole time?" Miracle asks.
"Yes."
"Seems like you could've just broken in and shot him in the first place. Why bother with the extra steps?"
"This isn't ideal," replies the woman. "His death changes the timetable. Everything needs to be pushed forward."
"What do you mean? It's just credits, isn't it?"
"Look, I agree that you deserve answers, but now's not the time. We'll be in touch."
The woman leaves the room before Miracle can say anything else, leaving her with the dead body on the carpet, another life lost because of her.
Killian Fitzgerald / 14 / District Seven Male
"Well that's a Bloodbath if I've ever seen one," comments Carissa, who's holding a glass of champagne in her hand. She's referring to the diminutive blonde girl from Five, practically shaking as she walks up to the stage, eyes tearing up behind thick glasses. The on-screen information shows that she's only 13, a year younger than Killian himself.
"You think she'll survive longer than a minute?" Carissa asks, the question apparently being directed at Kassandra, who's barely paying any attention as she types away on her phone.
They're only three districts into the recaps, but Killian is already unable to hold his tongue.
"So do you think you're a Career already, or do you always act like a bitch?" he spits out.
"The fuck did you say?"
"You heard me."
"Hate to break it to you, but you're a Bloodbath too, obviously," says Carissa.
"We'll see about that. And you'll be safe with the Careers, right? You really think they'll make you one of their own? Volunteer or not, you're from Seven, just like me."
"Don't be mad that I have a great chance to win, while you'd be lucky to place in the teens."
He isn't scared of her. He knows that anyone who can afford to train and volunteer would be sheltered. But Killian's not like that, from his parents sending him away at a young age to live with his grandmother, to working in the forests so he could support her failing business… he knows how to be self-reliant. Physical training isn't everything, for one needs to be mentally prepared. Besides, you're not allowed to harm another tribute before the Games start. And he knows she knows that, too.
"Heh. At best, they'll use you for a few days then stab you in the back," the boy from Seven responds, before adding one more line: "But who knows, maybe you like being used."
There's a glint of silver, and Killian barely manages to dodge the object hurtling towards him, which clatters against the wall of the train car before falling to the floor. He stares back at Carissa in shock, the commotion prompting Kassandra to finally look up from her phone.
"That's enough!" yells the escort. "Let me remind you that the consequences are very severe for—"
"He was mouthing off," replies Carissa rather calmly. "There are consequences for that too."
"Save it for the Games, my dear. But I hope you two can reach an understanding before that."
"And besides, it wasn't going to hurt him anyway," Carissa points out, nodding at where the object landed.
Killian turns around, looking down to see exactly what she'd thrown at him: a stainless steel cheese spreader, apparently from the platter next to her.
"Next time will be different, Killian," she adds, the way she says his name admittedly sending a chill down his spine.
He gets up from the sofa and silently exits the train car, leaving his district partner to watch the remainder of the recap without him. What's the point of this anyway? He'd be meeting the other 22 tributes soon enough, and first impressions can be quite misleading…
He remembers closing his eyes when Kassandra was about to read the male tribute's name that morning, as if doing so would shut out the sound of her voice. It took all his might to walk onto the stage, his head caught in a mix of shock and incredulity. Killian Fitzgerald is no stranger to hardship, but this—this was something else. Moments earlier, his district partner had volunteered, taking the place of some crying little girl on stage. Seven hasn't had a volunteer in ages, and they'd always been siblings of those who were Reaped. And the way Carissa said everything – she sounded confident, determined, collected.
But she lost her composure. If she can't handle a few choice words from Killian, who knows how she'll be able to handle things down the road when they actually get tough.
If he's lucky, she'll drag the Careers down with her once they're in the arena. But one thing's for sure: Killian will need to look elsewhere for allies.
Slate Winter / 18 / District Twelve Male
In the hour or so they've had on the train, Slate has learned the following about his district partner: that she's a voracious reader, the imaginative type, creative. Corianne wouldn't want to blend in. She's someone who'd think outside the box.
So he says to her, "Imagine getting off this train before we get to the Capitol."
"Wh—what do you mean?" she asks, clearly confused.
"Exactly that. What if I tell you there's a way? You'd help me, won't you?"
"But wouldn't we get in trouble if it goes wrong?"
"We're already in big trouble, Corianne. This thing is taking us to our execution, and there won't be any way to escape once we're in their city. And besides, they can't kill us now – that's what the Games are for."
"Okay. Let's say we get off this train somehow. Then what? You don't think they'll come looking for us? How are we going to survive out there?"
"We'll find a way. There's a whole world out there beyond the fences, entire communities living outside the Capitol's influence."
"That's a bullshit rumor, Slate. We'd be lucky to last a week."
"And how long do you think you'll last in the Games? I know I'm not a fighter. Never was, never will be. I'll take my chances out there."
She doesn't respond, letting out a deep sigh instead, and it's clear that she knows he's right.
"Listen," Slate continues. "You and I were fucked the minute Elise picked our slips. We're from Twelve, with a single mentor who doesn't even care. But if we can get away now, at least there's a chance – a chance to write our own story."
"Shit," whispers Corianne. "So what are we doing?"
"Here's the deal. I'm guessing the windows are going to be nearly impossible to break, and even then, the train's going too fast for us to jump out. That means we need to stop it, or at least slow it down enough. Obviously, the problem with that is the peacekeepers – there won't be enough time to get away if we somehow stop the whole train."
"So we need to stop just this car."
"Exactly."
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Corianne asks.
"I figured there has to be a way to uncouple a car during an emergency. And earlier, I saw this little screen in the area between the cars, behind a plastic cover. But you have to punch in a code to do anything with it."
"And let me guess – you have the code somehow."
"I watched Elise punch it in at the door when we first got to the train. I'm willing to bet her code works for that screen."
"So there's a chance it won't and we get nothing out of this."
"Sure. Then we'll have to face the arena. But if this works, we pull the emergency brake in the car, and we have a window to escape into the woods."
"Alright then," says Corianne as she stands up. "Let's do this."
The two walk over to the door connecting the car to the next, Slate explaining that he needs her to keep watch over the other car while he tries to work the screen.
He whispers the numbers to himself as he punches them in, while his district partner stares through the window in the door dividing the cars.
"It works," he announces a moment later, the excitement in his voice palpable.
"I can't believe we're doing this," mutters Corianne.
"Is the coast clear?"
"Yeah. No one's coming."
"Here goes nothing then," Slate murmurs, tapping a red button labeled "emergency decouple."
The two of them are silent for a moment, waiting anxiously for some response from the train. But as the seconds drift by, nothing seems to happen.
Slate taps the button on the screen again. And again, and again.
He turns to Corianne. "I don't understand—"
His words are interrupted by a commotion from the next car down, where two peacekeepers have entered, guns pointed at them.
"On your knees with your hands up!" one of them shouts, his voice muffled by the door separating them.
The pair from Twelve comply, Slate's face twisting into a disappointed grimace.
"You really thought it'd be that easy" comments the other peacekeeper.
"Stupid outers," mutters the first. "The engineer has time to override any decoupling triggered from one of the cars."
Emilie Dubois / 14 / District Nine Female
"You know, it doesn't have to be like this just because you volunteered," says the girl from Nine to her district partner.
"Like what?" he asks, sounding uninterested as he continues to stare out the window. The terrain outside is changing – rockier, more elevated, a sign that they are approaching the Capitol.
"All quiet and awkward and whatever."
"What's there to talk about?" he responds, the question sounding more like a statement.
"For starters, why'd you volunteer? I'm sure you have your reasons. And don't give me none of that scripted Career bull."
"A Career, so that's what you think I am," Devlin replies with a Scoff.
"You trained, didn't you?"
"Sure. But I'm no Career. They're a bunch of pampered assholes picking on the weak."
The reply catches Emilie off guard, but she can appreciate where the conversation's going. It's better to push a bit earlier on and establish yourself, assuming that there's any real partnership to be found between her and Devlin.
"And of course you're different," she replies sarcastically.
"I am. I don't operate the same way as they do – I have principles."
Emilie scoffs. "Really? I find that hard to believe."
"Believe what you will," replies Devlin unbothered. "You'll find out soon enough."
"I mean you're saying all this now, but when things get tough, you'll do whatever you can to make it out. Anyone would."
"How about this: why don't you stick around with me and see for yourself?"
"What do you mean? Like an alliance?" she asks, incredulous. Why would a trained volunteer like him want a 14-year-old girl by his side in the arena?
"Fine. We can call it that," replies Devlin. "I'll carry you into the top ten. How's that?"
"And why should I trust you?"
He shrugs. "You don't seem to like Careers either. We have enough in common far as I'm concerned. Plus, everyone knows you're not supposed to kill your district partner early on."
"I'm sure that would be against your 'principles' anyway," replies Emilie, forming air quotes.
"Correct."
She's reminded of something her mother always says to her: "Opportunities often spring from the most unexpected places. Embrace them."
Opportunities are especially hard to come by in a place like District Nine, where generations come and go doing the same thing for the same people. Emilie's parents, just like their parents before them, work at a mill owned by Rothmann Heartland Inc., the corporation that now controls 95% of the grain production in District Nine. They're not exactly modest about their influence either, as Emilie recalls the new Justice Building's opening ceremony a year ago, the project having been majority financed by the company. There are a few small businesses downtown, owned by the district elite, but most people spend their lives growing, harvesting, and processing grain. That's the way life is in Nine, and it doesn't seem likely to her that things will change soon.
And now, her dreams of going beyond this "business as usual," of doing something more – well, they're a reality now, just not in the way she wanted. And she had thought herself to be good as dead when Julia Pembroke, the district's new escort, picked her name from the bowl. A few seconds later, this boy – an ill-fitting term given his stature – volunteers to take the place alongside her. There've been very few volunteers in Nine's history, and certainly none of them were trained. Never in a million years did Emilie think he'd want to ally with her.
Devlin Mead doesn't have her trust yet, to be sure, but it's a start. She has a few days before the Games begin to evaluate exactly what kind of partnership this will be. It's time to embrace this opportunity, Emilie decides.
Dillan Brackendown / 13 / District Five Male
His right leg is shaking up and down rapidly as he's sitting, but thankfully the motion of the train makes it so Claire can't feel it. She's sitting across the table from him, albeit spaced apart by a few feet such that they're not face-to-face. Dillan has been working up the nerve to say something to her, as they haven't spoken since briefly introducing themselves to each other at the train station.
Earlier, they had watched recaps of the Reapings together, along with Kennon, Hunter, and Brielle – all in silence, save for the occasional side comment made by one of the adults. Dillan recalls the ones from the Career districts the best, the confidence and poise exuding from each one of them. Of course, they've prepared for this years in advance, but he was nonetheless impressed by how effortlessly they spoke in front of a large crowd. It had been hard enough for him just to hold back tears as he trudged his way to Brielle…
"Everyone's different," his mother has always said. "You have your own talents that others are jealous of."
Dillan's leg stops shaking as a thought hits him, one that he thinks would be obvious from the moment his name was called that morning: objectively speaking, he's almost certainly going to die in a few days, and so is the girl with the pink glasses sitting across the table. So who cares if he messes up the small talk now?
"What are you drawing?" he blurts out, perhaps sounding less friendly than he'd wanted.
Claire looks up, holding her pencil in place. "It's a cartoon. I'm almost done with the last page."
"Th—that's cool," replies Dillan. "So the pictures are related to each other? Like a story?"
"Yeah. You can take a look if you want," she offers, sliding the small pile of completed drawings in his direction. "They're already in the right order."
Despite being pencil sketches, the pictures are highly detailed, with careful shading and 3D perspective. The first few depict a small town, and it doesn't take Dillan long to realize that it's supposed to be District Five, as he recognizes the Energy City Bridge, the old Justice Building, and the cliffside windmills on either side of Brattle Canyon. As he flips through the drawings, he notices that they get darker and hazier. The trees in the background begin to fade away and are replaced by smokestacks.
"They're… really good," Dillan says. "What made you come up with these?"
"I thought of this place I used to go to – a treehouse way up the hills by the Canyon," explains Claire. "You had a great view of the district and the night sky there. Over time, I forgot about it until recently when I decided to go back. But it was gone. The whole area's a wind farm now, and the skies are so full of smog that you can't see the town or the stars anymore."
"My dad tells me Panem's population is growing faster and faster, which is why the power demand is going up so fast," replies Dillan.
"Your dad – is he like a manager at one of the giants?"
"No, he works at the mayor's office. Has a lot of contact with the Capitol."
"That must be stressful, having to deal with those people all the time," says Claire with a not-so-subtle look of disgust.
"They're not all like the escorts. Some of them seem pretty normal. And technically, I'm from there."
"You're from the Capitol? How?" Claire asks, visibly confused.
"When I was really young, I was sent to Three and adopted by my parents. So I don't actually remember anything about the place."
"I didn't know they did that. And it's kinda messed up that you're going back there…"
Dillan shrugs. "Guess it's only fair since I'm officially a Three resident."
"Look over there!" Claire exclaims suddenly, pointing at the window behind Dillan as the train exits a tunnel.
He turns around and sees what she's referring to right away – the magnificent Capitol skyline, a crowd of skyscrapers gleaming in the sunlight. He's seen images of the city countless times before, but to witness such a scene in person is an entirely different experience.
Perhaps he should've been talking with Claire about the Games, the two of them easily being the youngest district pair. At least she knows quite a bit about him now, which Dillan considers a good enough start.
AN: So we've now met all 24 tributes! I know it's been 6 months since I started this story, but since I didn't do 24 Reapings this time, we at least have some more progression in the plot while the tributes are introduced.
Next, we'll be moving into the "pre-Games" phase, starting from when the tributes first arrive in the Capitol. I'm planning for each tribute to receive 2-3 POVs in total before the Bloodbath, though they'll frequently appear in others' POVs as well.
Thanks to everyone who's still following the story. I think the pre-Games material will be a little easier to write for me, so the wait between chapters should be shorter. Progress will continue to be posted on my profile for those who are curious. The reviews have expectedly dried up quite a bit given the long intervals between chapters, but as always I do love hearing your thoughts on everything!