District 12 Train Ride
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.
Isidore Crusoe, 17
District 12 Male Tribute
Fifteen minutes ago, the Peacekeepers left me alone in a private room in the Justice Building, but nobody has opened the door since. For fifteen minutes, I've sat in silence, tormented by my intrusive thoughts, waiting for someone to finally open the door and escort me to the train.
I would rather go directly into the arena than spend this entire hour by myself.
By now, the Peacekeepers must know that I won't have any visitors. Nobody would leave the City Square, realize their son or their friend or anyone of any importance to them was reaped, and then return to say their farewells. And besides, the Peacekeepers know my father; they know that he doesn't care about me enough to want to say goodbye.
He's probably grateful that he doesn't have to kill me himself. It's one thing to "accidentally" explode a house with your wife inside. But it'd be too suspicious if your son died in the same manner. (And my father is not clever enough to think about an alternative murder method where he walks away free.) It's honestly a surprise that his company is still afloat despite its notoriety for its semi-frequent casualties.
Although I suspected that my father would not visit me, I'm (admittedly) disappointed that my maternal grandparents also haven't made an appearance. When I was a child, I spent most of my days with them while my parents worked at their demolition company. But they cut all ties with my father (and me, by extension) after my mother was killed.
It's been four years since I last saw them. I don't know if they're still living in their picturesque house off of Main Street, if they moved into an assisted living center, if they still have all their teeth and hair, if they got diagnosed with dementia. Part of me wonders if they died. I doubt my father would attend their funerals, much less tell me about them.
I almost hope that they're dead. It would make the pain of them not visiting bearable.
Besides them, I don't have anyone in my life.
After my mother died, my father made sure that he was the only one around, the only one who could take credit for the person that I became. He convinced the government that I was homeschooled, even though he never gave me any sort of traditional education. I may have learned how to create explosives that could knock down a five-story building and how far away I have to stand from the blast zone to avoid injury, but I never learned how to do long division or how to write in cursive. Books gave me some semblance of an education, but textbooks were too dull for someone like me with limited discipline.
I glance at the clock.
Fifteen more minutes have passed. Thirty minutes of silence so far, and thirty more to go.
I wonder what the Capitol would do if I died in this room. Would they force everyone to return to the City Square so another boy could take my place? Would I be considered the first death of the Games and Twelve would just be down a tribute? Does the Capitol even has any protective measures to make sure that all the tributes make it to the arena? I doubt that I'm the first tribute to consider giving up before participating in a losing game.
Maybe that's the purpose of the surveillance camera in the corner: to protect tributes from themselves, not from others. Maybe the most dangerous tributes are the ones with no visitors, the ones who know that they will not be missed. If someone attacked a tribute, the Peacekeeper could react in time. But if the tribute didn't put up a fight, if they willing accepted the ensuing darkness, if they were one pushing the knife into their heart…
Would the Capitol even want a suicidal tribute? If someone wanted to die and had no desire to fight, they couldn't be good entertainment. The Capitolites yearn for fighting and brutality and bloodshed. I doubt they'd want to see tributes deliberately jump off their platforms early.
Maybe they hope that, in the face of impending death, the tribute will rekindle their hopefulness and find a new motivation to survive. The Capitolites may love bloodshed, but the drama in the arena carries the viewership. There will always be tributes who will excel in the Games, but those who are forced out of their comfort zone, who must discover their true selves, have a more compelling storyline.
Or maybe they wouldn't even care. They can't expect all twenty-four tributes to be warriors or to be destined for greatness; they probably see some as "fillers" for their real entertainment. And if the "fillers" get rid of themselves, it means their favorites will earn more screen time.
It's an inhumane trend: to belittle one person due to their lack of entertainment value. But nobody has ever used "Hunger Games" and "humanitarian" in the same sentence. (Unless, of course, if they were being ironic.)
Five more minutes pass until finally, finally, a helmeted Peacekeeper opens the door.
I stand up. "Can I go to the train now?"
The Peacekeeper nods.
I expect that to be the end of the conversation. Peacekeepers are not supposed to talk when their helmets are covering their head. But when I walk through the door, the faceless man whispers from behind, "I'm sorry that your father didn't come."
I ignore the sympathetic words and continue to walk toward the train.
Because Twelve has yet to bring home a victor, the train feels barren and lifeless. I can hear my footsteps echo through the empty halls as I search for a bedroom.
My district partner and our escort decided to stay in the general lounge car to talk about the Games, but I didn't want to waste my time with such an unproductive conversation. Neither of them have entered the arena nor know how to prepare for the Games. Why bother coming up with a tentative strategy now when we'll meet our assigned mentor in a day?
I wonder if that's how the other tributes — those from districts with at least one victor — spend their train ride: devising a strategy. Maybe they have a detailed plan by the time they reach the Capitol, including who they'll avoid during training, how they'll behave during the interviews, and what they'll do during the bloodbath. It's an unfair system — tributes from districts without a victor need more guidance than the others — but nobody can really do anything about it.
At least, not until each district brings home a victor.
After ten minutes of walking between cars and opening random doors, I finally find a bedroom. It's surprisingly spacious compared to how thin the train looked on the outside. A full-size bed consumes half of the room, its headboard pressed against the wall adjacent to the door. It's placed on top of a circle rug and has wooden nightstands on either side to fill in the empty space. There's a small desk against the opposite wall with only a pad of paper, a box of paperclips, and an array of pencils, pens, and highlights thrown across it. The rest of the wall is a set of sliding doors that I assume leads into a closet, yet it won't budge open regardless of how hard I push.
It must be locked. But why would it be locked?
"Hello, Isidore Crusoe." I jump back, startled by the robotic voice and nearly tripping onto my bed. "Please enter your measurements."
A digital questionnaire appears on the sliding doors. It requires me to input my height and weight, but it also gives me the option to include additional measurements like my arm span and my inseam length… if I even knew what that meant.
"What the—"
"Please enter your measurements," it repeats.
"Okay, okay!" I cannot believe that I am arguing with a robot, but I yield to its request. (Because I want it to shut up. No other reason.) I punch in my height and weight with more force than necessary. "Happy?"
The robot dings. "Thank you for submitting your measurements. These items will most likely fit someone of your size. Please note that shoes are not available at this time."
The sliding doors open to reveal multiple shelves of clothes, ranging from t-shirts to sweatshirts to khakis. I don't know why the Capitol stocked the shelves — we're supposed to arrive by tomorrow morning — but I guess it's a nice gesture. Excessive, but nice.
I change into a gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants, tossing my dress shirt and slacks underneath my desk. If there was a trash can nearby, I would just throw my Reaping outfit in there. I highly doubt that I'll ever wear those again… assuming the Capitol puts me in much nicer clothes when I return to Twelve in a casket. But even their most atrocious outfit would be better than whatever my father may pick.
The bed is more comfortable than anything I have ever felt before. (Maybe I should stop being so surprised by the Capitol's hospitality.) I wrap myself in the thick comforter, inhaling its clean and flowery fragrance, and let myself melt into the mattress.
In one week, I'll be able to see my mother again.
I can't wait.
Emeri Malloy, 14
District 12 Female Tribute
"It happened almost four years ago," I say, rubbing circles into my prosthetic leg. I still find it weird that I no longer have any sensation there. "My dance company was hosting a charity event at the Seam to raise money for that year's tributes. They were from different sides of the district — the boy from the Seam, the girl from the Merchant Section — but they were allies in the arena. And we thought that, for a moment, we could get everyone to ignore their internalized prejudices and join forces to sponsor the tributes with something good, something that could help one of them come home alive.
"For the first hour, everyone was tense and hesitant. It looked like the people from the Merchant Section were ready to leave at any moment and the people from the Seam were skeptical about having outsiders on their side. But by the time we finished our first number, everyone seemed to mellow out a bit.
"And when people were finally starting to intermingle, everything turned into chaos. The boy tribute betrayed the girl tribute. People from the Merchant Section thought that the entire event was staged, that the poor folks were trying to steal money for their own tribute. People from the Seam were insulted by their allegations, by their assumptions that they couldn't take care of their own. And my dance company ended up in the middle of the ensuing riot."
"I'm sorry that happened to you," Cress Mariposa says, placing their hands gently over mine. I never expected an escort to be so empathetic. "Where were the Peacekeepers?"
"They were there, but they didn't really do anything." (The Peacekeepers never do anything in Twelve.) "Nobody was attacking them, so I don't think they cared."
"They didn't care?" Cress blinks. "It's their responsibility to protect the citizens."
"But they're controlled by the Capitol." I sigh. "And because of Twelve's role in the rebellions… I guarantee they want my district to keep fighting each other rather than turn our attention elsewhere."
Cress shakes their head. "Regardless, it doesn't justify them watching young children get attacked by older and stronger adults."
"I wasn't attacked by anyone," I clarify. "Well… at least, not intentionally. And the only other people from my dance company that got injured were the ones who chose to partake in the fighting."
Cress tilts their head to the side. "But, your leg…"
"I fell down in the middle of the crowd. I must've bumped into something or lost my balance somehow, but I know that I wasn't shoved to the ground or anything."
"Oh."
I nod. "There were so many people; I was pretty much trapped on the ground. Then, someone decided to light the nearby shops and booths on fire. Everyone focused on fleeing as quickly as possible… My leg ended up being completely crushed by the crowd. It looked like a pancake, according to my brother."
"That must have been traumatizing."
I shrug. "I was unconscious for most of it. After the riot began, the only things that I remember are falling in the crowd and waking up in a hospital bed."
"That sounds horrible." Cress shudders. "Do you know if the doctors tried to do anything to fix it?"
"My parents have a decent amount of money, but it was still too expensive of a risk. Even if they were able to restore the appearance of my leg, they weren't certain if I would be able to walk again. And with dancing… My best option was to get it amputated and spend the leftover money on a good prosthetic. At least, then, I wouldn't be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life."
"We could find you a better one at the Capitol," Cress suggests. "They started creating some with stem cells and artificial sensory nerves and something that can bring back the functionality and sensation of the missing appendage. You might not even realize that it is a prosthetic!"
"Wouldn't the Gamemakers think that's unfair?"
"They focus more on equity than equality. Because none of the other tributes are amputees, you're at a severe disadvantage. A better prosthetic wouldn't give you an upper hand against them; it would just give you an actual chance to survive the arena."
"I see."
"What's your height?" Cress pulls a smartphone out of their purse. "My partner's ex-girlfriend is an amputee. She has connections to some of the best people in that area. If we send her your height, we could have some options waiting for us at our arrival."
"Oh, um…" I bite my lip. "It's a really nice offer and I really appreciate it, but… I don't know."
"Emeri," Cress says in a serious tone, "this could significantly increase your chances of survival. I know that it sounds scary, but it would be an easy adjustment. It would feel like you have your leg again."
I glance at my prosthetic. If someone gave me that offer four years ago, I would've taken it in a heartbeat. During those first months of physical therapy where I made zero progress, I thought that I would lose my sanity. The doctors said that I had the best possibility of walking again with the prosthetic, but I couldn't even take a few steps without crutches. My hopes of ever dancing against felt farfetched.
But Gabian was always there, encouraging and supporting me. He knew how much dancing meant to me. Whenever my parents couldn't attend a physical therapy session, he stepped in. And when I regained my ability to walk, he spent countless hours helping me relearn the most basic dance routines. I would've given up on my dreams without him. And now that he's gone…
I don't want to waste all of his efforts.
"Thank you for the offer." I look into Cress's eyes with certainty. "But I want to stick with mine."
Wednesday, July 8th, 1663 P.A.
I startle awake by the sound of someone banging on my bedroom door.
"Emeri, are you awake?" Cress asks. "We're almost at the Capitol."
I grumble an affirmative.
"Great!" I can hear their smile through the door. "Change into something nice for the audience. There's a lot of options in your closet. It'll be hard to go wrong with a short dress or maybe a floral blouse and dark jeans. I don't think that they stocked your closet with footwear, but the flats that you wore at the Reaping should be fine."
I grumble another affirmative.
"And look alive!" they groan. "I want to see your outfit before we pull into the station. And if you look half-asleep, I will use as much make-up as necessary to fix it."
I wait until the sound of their clacking heels fades before I move out of bed.
My missing leg aches this morning. The pain has become more infrequent over the years, but I still wake up confused whenever I have tingling down there. The doctors warned me that amputees often feel phantom pain in their missing appendage, but I never thought that it would feel so… tangible.
On mornings like this, I realize how much I miss normalcy.
I look in the closet for something to wear, but most of the fancy clothes don't match my style. The dresses either show too much cleavage or cover all of my skin; the blouses either look see-through or have too many ruffles; the jeans either cling too tight to my prosthetic or make my lower half look like a square; and the bras either look like they belong to strippers or to prepubescent girls. It feels like I have to choose between being sexualized by creepy old men or being dismissed by every potential sponsor.
I sigh. It doesn't feel like I actually have a choice in this matter.
"Oh, that dress is beautiful!" Cress claps their hands together in glee. "The color really brings out the green in your eyes. Do a little twirl!"
"Um… I'd rather not." My hands clench the hem of the dress to keep it in place. It feels like a small gust of wind could leave me exposed to the entire Capitol. "Don't you think that it's a bit… short?"
"It's sexy. Although the two are often synonymous." They lean so close to my face that I can feel their breath against my lips. "And you actually look awake. But I think some lipsticks and blush could complete your look. Maybe some eyeliner and—"
Isidore walks into the general lounge car with unkempt hair and an untucked shirt. I never thought that I would be grateful for his dispiriting presence, but he manages to pull Cress's attention away from me.
I feel like I owe him something.
"Isidore! You look terrible!" Cress wails. "You should've told me that you needed help. I used to be a hairdresser; I could've made you look stunning."
Isidore shrugs.
"How can you be so nonchalant? We are minutes, minutes, away from the Capitol and—" They cut themselves off to take a breath. "It's fine. Please, at the very least, tuck in your shirt. I can already see the lights."
I raise my brow. The lights?
But the moment I look out the window, it makes sense.
It looks nothing like Twelve.
Cress smiles. "Welcome to the Capitol."
I have yet to enter the arena, but it feels like the Games have already begun.
End of Chapter 12.
End of Part I.
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 8
Octavian Espen, 12
Nadina Windlass, 17
District 9
Havan Thorpe, 14
Farah Cybele, 16
District 10
Taneli Masarie, 18
Laelia Lantbruk, 18
District 11
Makari Amazu, 17
Fresia Blodwyn, 15
District 12
Isidore Crusoe, 17
Emeri Malloy, 14
Current Odds of Winning Ranking:
1. Honoria Brantlie (D2F), 12-1, 7.99%
2 (tie). Veira Faustus (D1F), 15-1, 6.16%
2 (tie). Tycho Searling (D4M), 15-1, 6.16%
2 (tie). Zephyrin Greer (D5M), 15-1, 6.16%
5 (tie). Mayuri Odelle (D4F), 16-1, 5.94%
5 (tie). Bryony Linden (D7F), 16-1, 5.94%
5 (tie). Taneli Masarie (D10M), 16-1, 5.94%
8. Xolani Satine (D2M), 17-1, 5.71%
9 (tie). Lark Devereaux (D6M), 18-1, 5.25%
9 (tie). Laelia Lantbruk (D10F), 18-1, 5.25%
11 (tie). Nadina Windlass (D8F), 22-1, 4.34%
11 (tie). Fresia Blodwyn (D11F), 22-1, 4.34%
13. Lorcan Estrelle (D1M), 23-1, 4.11%
14 (tie). Juniper Anatole (D7M), 26-1, 3.65%
14 (tie). Makari Amazu (D11M), 26-1, 3.65%
16. Farah Cybele (D9F), 28-1, 3.42%
17. Isidore Crusoe (D12M), 33-1, 2.97%
18 (tie). Skagen Matisse (D3M), 39-1, 2.51%
18 (tie). Kaia Palani (D6F), 39-1, 2.51%
20. Eulalia Psy (D3F), 43-1, 2.28%
21. Jenikka Amias (D5F), 48-1, 2.05%
22. Octavian Espen (D8M), 54-1, 1.83%
23. Havan Thorpe (D9M), 62-1, 1.60%
24. Emeri Malloy (D12F), 437-1, 0.23%
Current Capitol Favoritism Ranking:
1. Honoria Brantlie (D2F)
2. Laelia Lantbruk (D10F)
3. Tycho Searling (D4M)
4. Taneli Masarie (D10M)
5. Fresia Blodwyn (D11F)
6. Zephyrin Greer (D5M)
7. Mayuri Odelle (D4F)
8. Xolani Satine (D2M)
9. Veira Faustus (D1F)
10. Bryony Linden (D7F)
11. Lark Devereaux (D6M)
12. Kaia Palani (D6F)
13. Farah Cybele (D9F)
14. Nadina Windlass (D8F)
15. Lorcan Estrelle (D1M)
16. Makari Amazu (D11M)
17. Isidore Crusoe (D12M)
18 (tie). Juniper Anatole (D7M)
18 (tie). Skagen Matisse (D3M)
20. Jenikka Amias (D5F)
21. Octavian Espen (D8M)
22. Havan Thorpe (D9M)
23. Eulalia Psy (D3F)
24. Emeri Malloy (D12F)
Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! We are officially done introducing each tribute!
Excluding the author notes, the story has somehow reached 40,000 words. Because this is supposed to be the smallest section of the story, I'm a bit alarmed about how long this story will end up being. In the current set-up, each tribute was given a two-scene POV of approximately 1,500 words. If you think this is too long, please let me know. I am open to cutting it down to 1,000 words per tribute in the sequel SYOT.
As I mentioned in the author note in the District 5 introductory chapter, I have included the current rankings for the odds of winning and the Capitol favoritism. These metrics will play a larger role in the SYOT with respect to sponsoring. In the current Games, they're mainly some fun statistics about who is predicted to win the Games and who the Capitol loves.
Q: What do you think about Isidore and Emeri?
Next Chapter: Exposed Secrets (Interlude)
