District 5 Train Ride
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.
Zephyrin Greer, 18
District 5 Male Tribute
My silver engagement ring burns my finger.
In one month, I was supposed to change my name to Zephyrin Greer-Nayeli. My fiancée and I already filled out the legal paperwork, eager to eternalize our three-year relationship in matrimony. We paid the deposit on our venue almost a year ago, sent invitations to our families and friends months ago, finalized the food service weeks ago, received our wedding rings from District One days ago. My mom joked that I would eventually get bored with all the wedding planning, but the entire experience has been filled with bliss. Each deposit and reservation brought me one step closer to marrying the love of my life.
My cousin Bronsen, a victor of the 16th Hunger Games alongside his boyfriend, agreed to be our officiant. Because he was the one who introduced me to Izara, it seemed fitting for him to spiritually bind us together. The morning after the wedding, he was planning to propose to his boyfriend over brunch. Although Izara and I wanted him to propose at our reception, he adamantly refused; he wanted us to fully celebrate our marriage without stealing any of the attention.
One slip of paper with my name on it may have ruined both a marriage and a proposal.
Izara and Bronsen barge into my room in the Justice Building, followed by my mom at a more leisurely pace. Endless tears streak down Izara's cheeks, and devastation is evident on Bronsen's face. Although my mom's eyes are shinier than usual, she maintains an elegant posture and a calming presence. Maybe it's for my sake, maybe it's for Izara and Bronsen — whatever the reason, I find comfort in her emotional strength.
Izara pulls me into a tight hug and covers her face in my chest. I rub circles into her back in an effort to soothe her, but it seems to bring a wave of new tears. The growing wetness on my shirt shatters my heart.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Bronsen mutters, pacing back and forth in front of me. "I can't believe— Why did— Zegs, I'm—"
"Bronsen," I interrupt sharply. He turns toward me with frightened eyes. "Shut up." My mom snorts in the background. "You don't need to apologize. It's not your fault, and I'm not blaming you for anything."
"But—"
"I'm serious." Despite my unambiguous tone, he still seems hesitant to believe me. "If you still feel the need to apologize or make it up to me or whatever — even though you don't — there's one thing you can do for me."
"What?"
"Be my officiant."
Bronsen furrows his brows in confusion. Fortunately, my mom seems to understand my implication. She digs into her purse, hastily throwing old receipts and other miscellaneous items aside as she searches for the desired object.
When she pulls out the velvet ring box, I tenderly move Izara away from my chest and hold her face between my hands. Another tear rolls down her cheek, but I wipe it away with my thumb.
"Izara, I have loved you for the past three years, and I will continue to love you until my final breath. If fate has determined that I am to die in the arena, I would rather die as your husband than as your fiancé." I grab her hands. "This may not be our ideal venue, but we have a witness"—I nod toward my mom—"and we have an officiant"—I nod toward Bronsen—"and my love for you has never faltered."
"Zeph." I can hear the love in Izara's whisper. Even after three years of dating, she still makes my heart flutter. "I… I would love nothing more than to be your wife."
I smile so wide that my cheeks start to hurt.
"Ooh, okay, so we're doing this," Bronsen mutters. Terror has reappeared on his face, but for an entirely different reason. "Like… right now?"
I nod.
"Cool, cool, cool." Bronsen looks around frantically. "Um… Auntie G, could you do the lights?"
My mom nods.
"Cool, cool, cool." Bronsen moves to stand between Izara and me. "Um… I haven't fully memorized my script yet—"
"Just do what you can remember," I say. "I trust you."
"Oh, okay." Bronsen's cheeks redden. "Then, um… We'll skip the procession and invocation. Oh, um… I know you were planning to do your own vows. Do you still want to do that? Or do you want me to use the traditional one?"
I glance at Izara. Based on her expression, I can tell that she won't be able to make it through her vows without crying. Although I spent countless hours perfecting my vows, I can't force her to read her own in this already stressful and emotional moment. It's a small sacrifice to make.
"Use the traditional ones."
Bronsen nods and clears his throat. "Do you, Zephyrin Ephraim Greer, choose Izara Mei Nayeli to be your lawfully wedded wife and your only love; to live together and laugh together; to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her; in sickness and in health; in sorrow and joy; from this day forward and as long as you both shall live; as has been established since before the age of electricity?"
"I do." It's the easiest two words I have ever said.
"And do you, Izara Mei Nayeli," Bronsen continues, "choose Zephyrin Ephraim Greer to be your lawfully wedded husband and your only love; to live together and laugh together; to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him; in sickness and in health; in sorrow and joy; from this day forward and as long as you both shall live; as has been established since before the age of electricity?"
"I do." Unshed tears glisten in Izara's eyes.
"Zephyrin and Izara have chosen rings to exchange with each other. Just as a circle is without end, the rings are meant to symbolize their unending love." My mom hands the ring box to Bronsen. "Zephyrin, as you place the ring on Izara's finger, please repeat after me: With this ring, I wed you and pledge to love you, now and forever."
I grab Izara's ring from the box. "With this ring, I wed you and pledge to love you, now and forever."
The ring looks beautiful on Izara's finger.
"Izara," Bronsen continues," as you place the ring on Zephyrin's finger, please repeat after me: With this ring, I wed you and pledge to love you, now and forever."
Izara grabs the ring and places it tenderly on my finger. "With this ring, I wed you and pledge to love you, now and forever."
My mom turns off the lights.
"By the power vested in me by the fifth district of Panem, I now pronounce you husband and wife." Bronsen's voice echos throughout the dark room. "In the presence of the witnesses, I would now like to introduce the newlywed couple: Zephyrin Ephraim Greer-Nayeli and Izara Mei Greer-Nayeli."
As the lights turn on, I pull Izara into a deep kiss. Bronsen and my mom applaud in the background, but I tune them out.
I savor every second of our kiss, realizing that it may be our last.
The atmosphere on the train is subdued by the time we leave for the Capitol. It's like the grief and the anxiety has faded between the Reaping and the farewells in the Justice Building, leaving behind a wake of emotional fatigue.
As soon as the Peacekeepers dropped us off at the train station, my district partner, Jenikka, retreated to her assigned bedroom. Based on her puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, she needed some time alone to recompose herself. She looks so young and frail; I doubt she's any older than twelve or thirteen. I don't even want to imagine how devastating her farewells were, knowing she has such a slim chance of returning home.
I haven't seen her mentor since the Reaping. He must be somewhere on the train — the conductor wouldn't have left without him — but he hasn't made an appearance in the general lounge car yet. Bronsen went to look for him. Since he's still gone, I assume either he can't find his former mentor or they're in a fight. (With only two years between them, they act more like brothers than a typical mentor-mentee dyad.)
The only other person in the lounge car with me is our district escort, Masozi Kamaria. Although we haven't spoken beyond basic greetings, the silence isn't too awkward. He sits at the bar, nursing a glass of dark liquor and reading something on his cellphone. Meanwhile, I sit on the fabric loveseat, watching a summary of the Reapings without listening to the commentators' input.
"You know, you're already a favorite to win," Masozi says, breaking the silence. "If it wasn't for Daedalus's daughter, you'd be tied for the favorite."
I glance back at him. "Who?"
"The girl from Two. Her father, Daedalus, is a victor." He squints at his phone screen. "But besides her, it seems like none of the other Careers are legacies; they were eligible 'cause of a family member died in the Games."
"How many legacies are there?"
"Five." He raises a finger as he names each tribute. "There's you, obviously; Honoria, Daedalus's daughter in Two; Bryony, Sylvie's daughter in Seven; Laelia, Gania's cousin in Ten; and Fresia, the Arena Baby in Eleven." He lowers his hand. "It'll be an interesting year. Almost a third of the bets have been collectively placed in your names."
I nod in agreement.
Five legacies are going into the arena. Five tributes whose parent or cousin has emerged victorious from the arena are going to try to repeat history, but only one will come out alive.
The Capitol is probably ecstatic for these Games.
Jenikka Amias, 13
District 5 Female Tribute
I was raised in a large, picturesque family. People often think that nine siblings—all of whom are close in age—and three golden retrievers are a burden for any normal couple. But they couldn't be more wrong.
My childhood memories are shrouded by smoke from our weekly summertime bonfires, and the taste of burnt marshmallows still lingers on my tongue. My ears always ached from the recurring cacophony of barks at the crack of dawn, the friendly screams throughout the three-story house, and the boisterous laughs around the supper table. Any argument was resolved within a few hours, and every goodnight or goodbye was followed by "I love you."
But any trace of familial love vanishes on Reaping Day.
Two of my older sisters stood beside me in the crowd of eligible tributes. They were barely able to keep themselves quiet and motionless throughout the mayor's speech. But when the escort called my name, they turned into statues. I waited for one of them to volunteer, but the words never left their mouth—not when the Peacekeepers dragged me to the stage, not when my mom's sobs echoed throughout the City Square, and not when the escort explicitly asked for volunteer.
Maybe they were too afraid. I can't really blame them. With what happened to my oldest brother's girlfriend—
I spring out of bed in a cold sweat, trying to escape the nightmarish memories of CiCi's death as its tendrils prod at my brain.
"Watts equals amps times volts," I mutter to distract myself. "Ohm's law states that the current between two points is proportional to the voltage across the points. Current equals voltage divided by resistance. One ohm is equal to a volt divided by an amp. Amp is short for ampere. Electricity travels at—"
Someone knocks on my door.
"Electricity travels at the speed of light," I continue, turning my back toward the door. "The speed of light is almost three hundred thousand kilometres per second, which converts to three hundred megametres per second. Before climate change and nuclear war destroyed the previous civilization, the largest hydroelectric dam was located in what is now District Seven. A hydroelectric dam uses—"
"What the hell are you doing?"
I barely manage to suppress a scream before I compose myself enough to glare at the intruders.
Flick Hewlit and Bronsen Raede, my district's only victors, stand outside the doorway. They look eerily like brothers who made drastically different life choices. Flick's light brown hair is only a few shades away from Bronsen's dirty blond. They have stubble along their sharp jawlines and above their thin upper lips. Their eyes, their eyebrows, their jaws, and even their noses look similar. But Flick's dilated pupils paired with the dark circles under his eyes — clear signs of drug and alcohol abuse — contrast to Bronsen's seemingly healthy complexion.
Bronsen elbows Flick in the side. "Don't be rude."
"I was just asking a question!"
"You didn't need to say it so condescendingly!"
"That's just my voice!"
"Then fix it!" Bronsen pinches the bridge of his nose. "You don't need to be such an a— a jerk to your tribute."
"Wait. He's my mentor," I interrupt, pointing at Flick. "Can't you mentor me? Please?"
Bronsen frowns at me with sympathy. "Jenikka, Zegs is my cousin, and we were practically raised together. He's the closest thing I have to a brother. I can't… I can't not mentor him. And it would be a disservice to you to try to mentor you, even though I'm going to be so focused on doing anything to help Zegs come home." He sighs. "It… It's just not feasible."
"But he— He can't—" I feel tears prickle the corners of my eyes. "He can't help me. You could— You could actually do something."
There was so much blood. Every time the Capitol replayed her death, it seemed like they added more and more embellishments, more and more blood. In one of the replays, they added a blood splatter effect to the camera lens like a tacky horror film. But that was impossible. The cameras were too far away. It couldn't be too close to the tributes; if it got damaged, it would be unusable for the rest of the Games.
But the blood.
The Capitol loved the blood.
There was so much blood.
"Jenikka?" Bronsen asks cautiously. "Are you… What's wrong?"
"The word electrocute derives from 'electro' and 'execution,'" I mutter to myself, "so you weren't electrocuted if you survive it. You were just shocked. Electric shock can cause PTSD, depression, anxiety, memory loss—"
"She's doing it again," I hear Flick say as I continue muttering. "Does she have a photographic memory or something?"
"Maybe?" Bronsen answers. "But I think she's just in shock."
"Copper has a greater capacity for electrical conductivity than silver," I mutter. "Saltwater conducts electricity better than freshwater because of the ions in salt molecules. The chemical name for salt is sodium chloride. Sodium chloride is an ionic compound with one molecule of sodium and one molecule of chloride. Sodium is a cation with a plus-one charge. Chloride is an anion with a negative-one charge. Almost two-thirds of sodium chloride's mass is—"
"Are we supposed to do something?" Flick asks.
"We just have to wait." I think Bronsen sighs, but it's barely audible as I mutter about the periodic table. "She'll tire out eventually."
Thirty seconds remain on the countdown. All the other tributes have their eyes locked on various items scattered around the cornucopia. Nobody is going to try to survive this arena without supplies. Not even the thirteen-year-old girl from Three.
But most tributes are looking at the weapons laced with a fast-acting poison. I don't blame them. With this twist, a weapon could drastically improve one's chances of survival. A single cut could take down another tribute or a dangerous mutt in seconds. It could easily turn a weakling into a threat.
This year, it's not a competition between who's the strongest and most dangerous tribute; it's a competition of speed and stealth.
But I don't look at the weapons. It's not worth the risk, not if I want to survive the first twenty-four hours. My eyes are locked on the medium-sized backpack near the side of the cornucopia. I can only hope it contains a water bottle; I won't have the time to check. It's slightly closer to the center than I want it to be, but it should be safe. The fighting should be centered around the mouth of the cornucopia. All the weapons are there — I don't even see a knife near the outskirts, even though it's usually considered more of a survival item than a weapon.
I should be safe.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
As soon as the gong sounds, I propel myself forward with all my strength, using the back of the platform as if it were a starting block for a track and field race. I keep my eyes focused on the backpack. I'm only a few metres away when another tribute runs right over it. But fortunately, they don't grab it.
I speed up.
Someone collides into me. One second, I'm reaching for the bag; the next, my face is in the sand and my left knee burns. I don't even know who ran into me; they're gone by the I lift my head.
The backpack is still there, though.
Small victories.
I throw the backpack over my shoulder and sprint away, ignoring the bloodcurdling screams and vicious shouts from the cornucopia.
I don't look back. I can't watch the sand turn crimson under the Careers' feet.
Before I reach the platforms, someone pulls me backward by my braided hair. The backpack falls to the ground. A strong forearm wraps around my chest, and I feel a sharp object prickle my throat. My hair is pulled back again, leaving my neck further exposed.
I scream.
"Leaving so soon?" a masculine voice whispers in my ear.
He doesn't give me a chance to respond. All I feel is pain as he—
I jolt awake with a scream, instinctively reaching for my throat. Although there's no gashes nor blood, I still feel the phantom knife digging into it. Someone tries to hold me down, but I scream even louder and kick in their general direction. My foot makes contact with something. I try to scramble away, but another pair of hands pin my feet down.
"Jenikka! Jenikka, wake up!"
I snap my attention toward the voice. Flick stares at me with worry. It's the most genuine expression I've ever seen on his face. A moment after we make eye contact, he gently removes his hands from my ankles.
Beside him, Bronsen is crouched down with both hands covering his groin.
"You're okay, Jenikka," Flick continues. "It was just a dream. You're okay."
But it wasn't just a dream; it was more like a memory. The hands pulling on my hair, the knife pressed against my throat — that was how CiCi died in the arena.
And now I'm heading toward the same fate.
"I need to cut my hair." My voice sounds hoarse, even to my own ears. "I need to cut my hair! Flick, I need to—"
"We can talk to your stylist—"
"Now!" A new wave of tears obscures my vision. "Flick, I need to cut my hair now!"
"I can't—"
"Flick." My voice cracks. "Please."
He bites his lip and glances at Bronsen for assistance. "Umm…"
Bronsen looks at me. "How short?"
End of Chapter 9.
Current Tribute List:
District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17
District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16
District 3
Skagen Matisse, 13
Eulalia Psy, 17
District 4
Tycho Searling, 17
Mayuri Odelle, 18
District 5
Zephyrin Greer, 18
Jenikka Amias, 13
District 6
Kaia Palani, 15
Lark Devereaux, 16
District 7
Juniper Anatole, 16
Bryony Linden, 17
District 9
Havan Thorpe, 14
Farah Cybele, 16
District 10
Taneli Masarie, 18
Laelia Lantbruk, 18
Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! We're in the final stretch of character introductions!
As mentioned in Zephyrin's 2nd POV, each tribute has a calculated odds of winning based on their respective Reaping. These will be continually be updated both before and during the Games in response to the tributes' actions.
In my universe, I use two different metrics to gauge the "entertainment" value of each tribute: their odds of winning and their Capitol favoritism.
Odds of winning is determined by the tribute's strength and weaknesses that could directly impact them in the arena, such as their physical strength, their relation to a previous victor, and their training score. These are presented as b–a, which represents the number of wins, a, after the number of losses, b. For example, if a tribute has odds of 1–1, they have a 50% chance of winning the Games; not a 100% chance.
Although these odds are favorited into Capitol favoritism, the second metric further includes other items that have no influence on the tribute's ability to survive in the arena, such as their chariot ride outfit, their relation to a celebrity, and their relationship status (particularly if they have a showmance). These are presented in rank-order.
During the sequel SYOT, these two metrics will directly influence sponsoring. The tribute's odds of winning will determine the amount of money the tribute is given. Meanwhile, the tribute's Capitol favoritism will determine discounts the tribute receives on sponsoring items. I will provide a more thorough explanation of this sponsoring system in the SYOT, so if it currently sounds confusing, I apologize.
Anyway, the next update will probably not be posted for 2 weeks because I'll be on vacation.
Fun Fact: The thirteen-year-old female tribute from Three that Jenikka references in her second POV is Skagen's sister, Petrovna Matisse. She was previously mentioned in Chapter 5. To get a full glimpse of the currently known tributes from each Games, you can go to the History Hunger Games tab on the series website.
Q: What do you think about Zephyrin and Jenikka?
Next Chapter: Battle Scars (D8 Train Ride)
