Krisstoffer Goodman
o

los ingredientes para una Natilla de Huevo

~x~

Leche: La cremosidad.

Krisstoffer nunca se había sentido especial en su vida, y no necesariamente porque tuviera una mala autoestima o porque su familia no le prestara atención.

Era en parte porque no tenía tiempo de pensar en las cosas que lo hacían diferente a otros segadores de trigo en el Distrito Nueve. Tenía una familia muy normal, un padre estricto, tres hermanos mayores que también trabajaban en el campo. Su madre era enfermera en el único hospital del Distrito y tenía turnos incluso peores que los de ellos.

Pasar más de noventa horas a la semana en el campo dejaban muy poco tiempo para el autoconocimiento y la reflexión, así que en realidad no se había dado cuenta nunca de que había estado viviendo en piloto automático.

Bueno, una vez. Solo una vez deseó ser el mejor, el más guapo, el más divertido y el mejor hombre que podía ser. Solo una vez había tenido el deseo de destacarse entre la multitud. Pero aquello había acabado muy mal. Tan mal que aún no podía hablar al respecto sin llorar. Tan mal que había corrido al chico del salón de las despedidas tras salir cosechado.

— No quiero que mueras pensando que te odio —le había dicho, con sus ojos cafés llenos de lástima, como siempre.

Kriss lo empujó con lágrimas en los ojos hasta la puerta y la cerró en su cara.

Sabía que Aggro no lo odiaba, ojalá lo odiara, porque eso quería decir que sentía algo por él. Pero era demasiado pedir.

— No habla, eso es un problema —su mentor lo sacó del recuerdo. Kriss aún tenía los ojos rojos y las mejillas hinchadas por las despedidas. Sus músculos se marcaban a través de la camisa planchada, pero todos en el tren sabían que era pura fuerza bruta. Nada de entrenamiento o armas que pudieran ayudarle. Sólo una vida de cortar trigo.

Barley hablaba con los escoltas del Nueve, que habían sido los gemelos Everhair desde que Kriss podía recordar, ahora, tenerlos ahí de cerca era como un sueño. O más bien, una pesadilla.

— Hemos tenido una racha de Vencedores ingeniosos, rebeldes y carismáticos. Un chico que no habla podría destacar —comenta uno de ellos.

— No funcionará si no habla porque tiene miedo. Tiene que verse rudo... —Cinnamon, la otra mentora del Nueve también estaba en aquella pequeña reunión. Parecía que aquí se trabajaba en equipo. Excepto que no había señales de su compañera de distrito.

— No lo venderemos como un tributo rudo si cuando llegue a la arena lo matarán como a un corderito —Barley dijo con un tono que no daba pie a réplicas.

Maicena: La densidad.

Kornfeld Goodman era un hombre estricto, que nunca dudaba en corregir a sus hijos cuando se estaban metiendo donde no los llamaba y que siempre había hecho mucho énfasis en que seguir las reglas era más importante que dejar salir nuestros sentimientos. Que la ira, la impotencia, la tristeza y todas esas cosas se superaban trabajando, que una mente ocupada no tenía tiempo para tonterías.

Pero ahora mismo la mente de Kriss no estaba muy ocupado, no tenía que trabajar, no tenía calor, no estaba tan agotado físicamente que solo quería apagarse hasta el día siguiente. Sabía que tanto como su madre como su padre habrían preferido que guardara silencio y confiara en quien tenía más experiencia que él, pero nunca le había gustado cuando la gente hablaba como si él no estuviera en el mismo cuarto.

— Puedo hablar... sí me dicen qué decir —dijo elevando un poco la voz. Todos voltearon a verle y siguieron debatiendo la mejor estrategia sin contestarle.

— La diligencia ayudará ahora pero no en la arena —comenta Cinnamon mirándole de reojo.

— Quizás si le pagamos a alguno de los instructores... —dice uno de los escoltas.

— No creo que golpeándole vaya a aprender algo. A veces simplemente no sabes lo que no sabes y eso está bien... tendremos que trabajar con lo que hay —Barley lo vuelve a mirar de pies a cabeza. Pero parece estar demasiado desilusionado para intentar algo en ese momento—. Ya se me ocurrirá algo. Siguiente...

Los cuatro adultos salieron del compartimento dejándole solo con la bandeja de comida que le han traído. Algo "balanceado" para que no le de dolor de estómago después. Krisstoffer jamás ha comido nada de esto, todo se ve demasiado colorido y huele riquísimo así que no le parece un mal trato y se sienta a comer al borde de su cama, intentando sentirse como se había sentido durante los dieciséis años de su vida pasados. Intentando apagar su cerebro y hacer lo que le decían.

Pero no puede.

Porque esta no es su cama, este no es su cuarto, no irá a casa al final de este día ni ayudará a hacer las cuentas a su hermano mayor mientras se ríen de chistes absurdos.

Simplemente todo ha cambiado y no sabe qué hacer.

Canela: El sabor.

La puerta de su habitación se abrió unas horas después. El sol se ha puesto pero la luz no ha desaparecido del todo así que todo en la habitación está teñido del azul del atardecer.

— Llegaremos en unas horas —le dice la chica. Es la primera vez que la escucha hablar ya que los separaron desde que entraron al tren.

— Gracias... ¿galletas? —pregunta ofreciendo la bandeja en la que solo queda una. Ella lo mira de pies a cabeza rápidamente, intentando decidir qué tipo de chico era.

— No. Toda tuya, comí demasiado —responde con una sonrisa—. ¿No te cambiarás? —observa la ropa de Kriss que no se ha quitado los pantalones perfectamente planchados por él mismo aquella mañana.

— No lo había pensado —confiesa el tributo notando por primera vez que su compañera lleva un estilo de ropa completamente diferente al que llevaba en la cosecha. De hecho, era una de las pocas chicas que había visto subir al estrado con pantalones, a excepción de Distritos como el Siete o el Dos en donde todos eran rudos y fuertes. Ahora llevaba un vestido color violeta pálido y el cabello recogido en una cola de caballo con un gran moño con brillitos. Y... ¿esos eran tacones? No lo mencionó porque pensó que sería descortés preguntarle sobre sus decisiones de vestuario.

— ¿Te ayudo a escoger? —la chica caminó hacia el guardarropa y lo abrió examinando las telas con su mano—. Esto te quedará muy bien, la lana va con todo y es muy fresca —dice sacando un suéter que se ve todo menos cómodo.

— ¿Estás segura? —pregunta Kriss ceñudo y su compañera se queda sin habla un segundo, confundida.

— Claro que no, estoy bromeando... ¿estás bien? ¿Siempre has tenido tantos problemas para mantener una conversación? —dice mostrando en su rostro que comienza a perder la paciencia, aunque su tono siga siendo amable.

El chico intenta reponerse, buscar algo muy divertido que decir, algo que la haga reír o al menos quitar esa cara. No quiere ser una decepción para esta desconocida, no soportaba la idea de ser juzgado y menos aún de que su pobre rendimiento llegara a oídos de sus padres.

— Yo también estoy bromeando —dice al fin con una especie de sonrisa y la chica suspira y rueda los ojos.

— Si no engañas a una niña de dieciséis años de tu propio distrito no lo harás con nadie más, bobo —le dice y le lanza una playera del mismo tono que la suya y unos pantalones blancos—. Ten, necesitarás toda la ayuda que pueda darte, esto hará que te asocien conmigo —su compañera guiña un ojo y sonríe.

Galletas: La textura sorpresa.

— ¿Estás diciendo que...? —las palabras de ella lo toman por sorpresa, igual que la ropa en la cara.

— Claro, bobo, serás mi aliado. Me queda un gramo de honor y lo gastaré contigo —Krisstoffer se queda sin habla durante un par de minutos.

— ¿Ya preguntaste si puedes hacer eso? —la chica lo mira y pestañea muy lentamente, haciendo un esfuerzo sobrehumano por no perder la paciencia con este chico soso. ¿Quién pensaría en algo como eso en estas circunstancias? Se pregunta si debería mentirle, responderle con sarcasmo o ser honesta.

— Quiero que entiendas una cosa, vamos a ir a los Juegos. Somos las estrellas de este show, hasta que entremos a esa arena somos intocables Goodman. ¿Entiendes? —Decide ser honesta con lo que piensa, y Krisstoffer asiente vigorosamente.

— Esa es una buena forma de verlo, no lo había pensado —confiesa el chico. Aunque parece convencido, no lo está del todo.

Krisstoffer sabe que los necesitan, no es tan bobo como ella cree, pero también sabe que no son indispensables, nadie lo es. Sin embargo, le gusta su actitud. Como de alguien que sabe lo que está haciendo, como sus padres y su hermano mayor. Esa confianza de quienes pueden enfrentar al mundo todos los días tomando sus propias decisiones... Qué envidia le dan.

» Solo, ¿te puedo pedir un favor? Y no te ofendas, de verdad no es malo —agrega con la mirada ansiosa. Su compañera lo mira con desconfianza y su postura cambia un poco.

— Dime.

— No me llames bobo —pide y la chica se queda ahí parada frente a él con la boca abierta. Ella se había preparado para algo ofensivo, como pasaba siempre que alguien pedía que la otra persona no se ofendiera. Pero pedirle que no le llamara bobo, ¿cómo podría eso hacerla sentir mal? ¿Cómo podría ella ofenderse porque el chico se diera a respetar un poco? Krisstoffer la estaba sacando de sus casillas.

— Hecho. Ahora yo te diré algo y por favor no te ofendas...

Huevos: El sustento.

Krisstoffer sabía que sus mentores no estaban tan felices por su alianza, y había una voz en la parte trasera de su cabeza que le decía que quizás tenían razón. Ellos sabían más después de todo. Ellos habían ganado los Juegos y por algo estaban a cargo.

Por otro lado, tampoco quería decepcionar a su aliada, ella había apostado por quedarse juntos y él había prometido que la apoyaría hasta el final. Y las promesas son lo que hacen al hombre. Si tu palabra no vale entonces nada dentro de ti lo hace, eso decían su padre y hermano.

Pero también le había hecho una promesa a su familia de que volvería. Y ahora mismo ambas sonaban muy difíciles de cumplir.

Krisstoffer estaba más ansioso que de costumbre al bajar del tren y el solo hecho de enfrentar a la multitud que podía verse a través del cristal lo había hecho palidecer tres tonos.

— ¿Estás segura? —a unos metros de él, los mentores hablaban entre susurros que los tributos no escuchaban del todo.

— Lo estoy, tú sabes exactamente cómo manejar el enfoque de Evana, lo hiciste conmigo —dice Cinnamon y le sonríe a su mentor Barley que se lleva una mano al puente de la nariz y suspira.

— Muy bien, ¿pero, qué harás con el chico? —pregunta y Cinnamon sonríe.

— Su madre es enfermera —Dice por toda explicación sin quitar la sonrisa. No es la sonrisa dulce de una chica linda en sus veintes, sino la sonrisa con la que daba tumbos por la arena recogiendo sus venenos. Era la sonrisa de la Cobra Real.

Kristofer Goodman

or

the ingredients to make Egg Custard

~x~

Eggs: The foundation.

Krisstoffer had never felt special in his life, and not necessarily because he had poor self-esteem or because his family did not pay attention to him.

It was mostly because he didn't have time to think about the things that made him different from other wheat sowers in District Nine. He had a very normal family, a strict father, three older brothers who also worked in the field. His mother was a nurse in the district's only hospital and had even worse shifts than theirs.

Spending more than ninety hours a week in the countryside left very little time for self-recognition and reflection, so he had never really realized that he had been living on autopilot.

Well, that's a lie. One time he did. Only once had he want to be the best, the handsomest, the funniest, and the best man he could be. Only once had he had the desire to stand out from the crowd. But that ended very badly. So bad he still couldn't talk about it without crying. So bad that he had made the boy leave during the farewells after he was harvested.

"I don't want you to die thinking I hate you," he said, his eyes, brown pools of pity, as usual.

Kriss pushed him to the door with tears in his eyes and closed it in his face.

He knew Aggro didn't hate him, he sometimes wished he hated him because that would mean that he had feelings for him. But it was too much to ask.

"He hasn't uttered a word, that's a problem," his mentor pulled him out of memories. Kriss still had red eyes and swollen cheeks from the goodbyes. His muscles were impressively marked through the ironed shirt, but everyone on the train knew it was pure brute force. No training or weapons that could help him. Just a life of cutting wheat.

Barley spoke to District Nine's escorts, who had been the Everhair twins since Kriss could remember, now, having them there up close was like a dream. Or rather, a nightmare.

"We've had a streak of witty, rebellious, charismatic Victors. A boy who doesn't speak might stand out," says one of them.

"It won't work if he doesn't speak because he's afraid. He must look tough..."Cinnamon, the Other Mentor of Nine, was at the impromptu meeting too. It looked like they always worked as a team here. Except her district partner was nowhere to be seen.

"We won't sell him as a rough tribute if he's not. That'll put a target on his back and once he gets to the arena he'll be killed like a lamb," Barley said in a tone that didn't admit replies.

Milk: The creaminess.

Kornfeld Goodman was a strict man, who never hesitated to correct his children when they were behaving even a little below his standards, and who had always placed a lot of emphasis on following the rules. Rules were more important than letting your feelings out. He firmly believed that anger, helplessness, sadness, and all those things were forgotten through hard work. 'A busy mind had no time for nonsense.'

The problem was that right now, Kriss's mind wasn't too busy. He didn't have to work to do, he wasn't under the sun, he wasn't so physically exhausted that he just wanted to shut down until the next day. He knew that his mother and father would have preferred him to remain silent and trust those who had more experience than him, but he had never liked it when people spoke as if he were not in the same room.

"I can talk... and I can talk even more if you tell me what to say," he said, raising his voice a little. Everyone turned to see him and continued to discuss the best strategy without answering him.

"Diligence will help now but not in the arena," Cinnamon says, staring at him but not directing her commentary towards him.

"Maybe if we pay one of the instructors to...," suggests one of the escorts.

"I don't think hitting him is going to make him learn anything. Sometimes you just don't know what you don't know and that's fine... we'll have to work with what's there". Barley looks at him again from head to toe. But he seems too disappointed to try something at the time. "I'll figure something out. Next..."

The four adults left the compartment leaving him alone with the tray of food they brought him. "Something 'balanced' so you don't get a stomachache afterward." They said.

Krisstoffer has never eaten any of this, everything looks too colorful and smells delicious so he doesn't think it's a bad deal and sits down to eat on the edge of his bed, trying to feel the same way he's felt for over sixteen years. Trying to turn off his brain and do as he's told.

But he can't.

Because this isn't his bed, this isn't his room, he's not going home at the end of this day to help his older brother with the bills while they laugh at absurd jokes.

Everything changed and he doesn't know what to do.

Cinnamon: The taste.

His door opened a few hours later. The sun had set but the light isn't completely gone so everything in the room is stained with the blue-ish light of the after-sunset.

"We'll be there in a few hours," the girl tells him. It's the first time he's heard her talk as they've been separated since they got on the train.

"Thank you... cookies? " He asks and offers her the tray in which only one cookie remains. She looks at him from head to toe quickly, trying to decide what kind of boy he was.

"No. All yours, I ate too much," she replies with a smile "Won't you change?" she looks at his clothes, he didn't take off his perfectly ironed trousers from that morning.

"I hadn't thought about it," the tribute confesses, noting for the first time that his companion wears a completely different style of clothing than she wore in the Reaping. In fact, she was one of the few girls he'd ever seen to take the stand in pants, except for Districts like Seven or Two where they were all tough and strong, or at least they wanted to give that image. She now wore a pale violet dress and hair collected in a ponytail with a large bun with twine. and... were those heels? He didn't mention it because he thought it would be rude to ask her about her wardrobe decisions.

"Can I help you choose?" The girl walked to the closet and opened it by examining the fabrics with her hand. "This will look great on you, the wool goes with everything and it's very fresh," she says, pulling out a sweater that looks anything but comfortable.

"Are you sure?" Kriss asks with a worried face and her partner is left speechless for a second, confused.

"Of course not, I'm kidding... are you okay? Have you always had so much trouble having a conversation? "she says, showing on her face that she begins to lose patience, even if her tone remains kind.

The boy tries to recover, to look for something very funny to say, something that makes her laugh or at least quit it with the face. He doesn't want to be a disappointment to this stranger, he couldn't stand the thought of being judged, let alone that her poor performance reached her parents' ears.

"I'm joking too," he says at last with a kind of smile, and the girl sighs and rolls her eyes.

"If you can't fool a sixteen-year-old girl from your own district, you won't do it with anyone else, you dummy," she tells him, throwing him a shirt of the same tone as hers and white pants. "Here, you'll need all the help I can give you, this will make them associate you with me "his companion winks and smiles.

Cookies: The surprising texture.

"Are you saying that...?"Her words take him by surprise, just like the clothes on his face.

"Sure dummy, you'll be my ally. I've got an ounce of honor left and I'll spend it with you "It's Krisstoffer's turn to be speechless for a couple of minutes.

"Have you asked if you can do that yet?" The girl looks at him and blinks very slowly, making a superhuman effort not to lose patience with this sorry ass boy. Who would think of something like that in these circumstances? She wonders if she should lie to him, answer him sarcastically, or be honest.

"I want you to understand one thing, we are going to the Games. We're the stars of this show, and until we get into that arena, we're untouchable Goodman. Do you get that?" She decides to be honest with what she thinks, and Krisstoffer nods vigorously.

"That's a good way to look at it," the boy confesses. Although he seems convinced, he's not.

Krisstoffer knows they need them, he's not as dumb as she thinks, but he also knows they're not indispensable, no one is. However, he likes her attitude. She has the aura of someone who knows what they're doing, like his parents and his older brother. She seems to walk through life those who can face the world every day making their own decisions... He's so jealous.

» I'm game but, can I ask you a favour? And please don't take it the wrong way, it's really not a bad thing…" he adds with an anxious look. His partner looks at him with distrust and her posture changes a little.

"what?"

"Don't call me a dummy" he asks, and the girl is left standing there in front of him with her mouth open. She had prepared for something offensive, that was usually what happened whenever someone asked that the other person not be offended. But telling her not to call him a dum-dum, how could that make her feel bad? Why would standing up for yourself be offensive? Krisstoffer was giving her a serious headache.

"Done. Now I will tell you something and please do not be offended..."

Cornstarch: The density.

Krisstoffer knew his mentors weren't so happy about his alliance, and there was a voice in the back of his head telling him they might be right. They knew more after all. They had won the Games and were in charge for a reason.

On the other hand, he did not want to disappoint his ally, she had opted to stay together, and he had promised that he would support her to the end. And promises are what make man, right? If your word is worthless then you are worthless, that's what his father and brother said.

But he had also made a promise to his family that he would return. And right now, they both sounded very difficult to him.

Krisstoffer was more anxious than usual when the time came to get off the train, simply the thought of confronting the crowd that could already be seen through the glass had made him pale three shades.

"Are you sure? "A few yards from him, the mentors spoke among whispers that tributes couldn't quite listen to.

"I am, you know exactly how to handle Evana's approach, you did it with me," Cinnamon says, smiling at her mentor Barley who puts his fingers to the bridge of his nose and sighs.

"All right, but what are you going to do with the boy? "he asks, and Cinnamon smiles.

"His mom is a nurse" she answers with the smile still on her face. It's not the sweet smile of a pretty girl in her twenties, but the smile with which she stumbled through the arena collecting her poisons. It was the smile of the Royal Cobra.

Nota de autora / Author's note:

English:

Hi! I'm here again with another chapter. I'm really excited to continue and get to the spicy part! But I also like to give all tributes a chance to explain their motives and etcetera. What do you think of Krisstoffer? And how do you feel about his chances?
Also, if I start going into the preps and the parade with the tributes chapters... would you care for that? Or not really?

Español:

Aquí vamos! Ya quiero llegar a "lo bueno" pero saben que me gusta darles a los tributos tiempito bajo el reflector. Me he estado preguntando si debería entremezclar esto con el desfile. ¿Qué les parecería eso?

Saludos!
H