Train Rides Part Two and Arrival in the Capitol
Arlo Maddox, 17, District 2 Male
What did I get myself into?
Father sits across from me, drumming his fingers expectantly, waiting for my answer. I wasn't paying attention. Him mentoring me is going to be hell. Really not much different than a regular day of training under him on the weekends when I return home, though.
"Well?" he prompts me.
"Say it again, please."
"What—is—going—to—be—your-strategy—in—the—arena?" He lays it out as if I am a senile, mentally impaired old man with no hearing ability.
Already a million times he has asked this question. My response is rehearsed word for word. "Ally with the careers, kill as many outliers as possible, break things up at the final eight, from the on do not play offensive but defensive, and backstab as many as possible."
"Yes."
"Now, tell me what—"
He is cut off as the escort, Pomponius, intrudes into the room. "Oh, Gunnar," he begins, scooting out a chair and sitting beside him without asking permission, "I remember the days when you won. So entertaining, your Games were, positively magnificent. Easily my favorite of the decade."
Father dares not ask him to leave. Respect your leaders, they are wiser than you are. Don't talk back to your superiors. All going to haunt him now as he is subject to this old, war and murder obsessed coot drone on about the year Father won as if he wasn't even born yet.
I don't feel sorry for him. I'm glad that our talk is done.
Scylla enters the room not long after. That girl seems… odd. I've caught her muttering to herself at least twice. And also, why blue face paint?
"Good morning, Scylla."
Pomponius greets her warmly and asks if she had a good night's sleep.
"Yes, I did."
The purple circles under her blue eyes say otherwise.
"'morning."
She says nothing, only giving me an uncertain nod before taking the seat right beside me and inching away as far as she can without sliding out of her chair.
The rest of breakfast is merely occupied by Pomponius unwittingly keeping the conversation afloat as the rest of us respond to his continual and sometimes bizarre questions. Father mentioned that Minerva, the female mentor, preferred to keep to her room during mealtimes, seeing as she only permitted herself to eat bread, cheese, and canned food in case, for some outlandish reason, she was forced back into the arena.
The windows call to me afterwards. Scylla and Minerva are in the sitting room while Pomponius lounges elsewhere, somewhere, and Father skulks in the kitchen. It's odd, but I'm somewhat looking forward to being in that arena. I hope it will feel… I don't know, freeing. Is that the right word?
I can't help but feel envious of the hawks swooping above me, just outside, carefree, their lives unhindered by others. Plus, more time to be away from Father.
On the other hand, I don't know if I can hill. The instructors always had to drag me away from the small, barebones medical station. It was kind of fun. But I have to kill, because if I don't, I'm not going to make it out of the arena. Besides, if I don't, the pack will oust me at the drop of a hat.
Unconsciously I start to pick at the scabs under my bandaged arm nervously. I know what Father would say if he were here right now. 'Stop gazing off into space, do something productive. Don't pick at that, wouldn't want to lose extra blood in the arena.'
Someone is approaching me. I whip my head around, the fast reflexes training installed in me put to use. It's just Scylla, with her unassuming yet toned frame and wispy brown hair cloaking her upper half.
"Coming to stare at the sights too, are you?"
"Yes," she answers curtly.
We stand there in silence for a while. The scenery really is quite gorgeous. Green pines and thick brown trunks shroud the peaceful wildlife while the clearings beyond let in the golden sun.
"You like it?"
I'm startled by hearing Scylla ask the questions, or even initiate the conversation. "Yes. I do. It's kind of magical, seeing all of this. Not like what was back in Two." I glance back at her. Her face is strained, her eyebrows knotted together. This is taking her a lot of effort. I don't think I'm the most approachable or unintimidating person ever, and this girl is obviously quite the introvert. That makes two of us, I guess. I decide to harbor this conversation, maybe let it bloom. It could help her, in the miniscule amount of time she, and probably I, too, have left. It would be something good for the both of us. At least I can go out saying that. Just a small rebellion against Father.
"I wish I brought my aisle. I like to paint."
"That's cool. I've never been much good at it."
"It does require talent. Only a few people can put that much work into something just for a picture. Waste of time. But it's not a waste of time to me. Helps me vent."
I peek over her hands gripping the railing to peer at her blistered and scabbed right arm. Raising up my own, I say, "Twins."
She gives a light, forced chuckle, the kind you do when something is ironic but maybe it isn't the best thing.
"I guess that's how I vent, mainly."
"Hmmm."
Things have slowed to a halt.
"Would you paint this, if you could?" I ask her.
"Maybe. It would be a good painting. All the greens. Chartreuse, emerald, fern."
I glance over at her again, and now she is smiling. A soft, humble, pained yet happy smile.
We aren't supposed to be smiling. Not if we want to get out alive. The nerves come flooding back. I didn't realize how soothing Scylla's presence could be if she wasn't so tense herself, but she can sense my anxiety, I can see it leeching back onto her.
She says a hurried goodbye and runs away muttering, directing it at me or herself, I don't know. I feel bad for her. Maybe she could blossom if it weren't for the Games. But this is the Games, the great killer of joy and people.
We've both been corrupted by it. We've all been corrupted by it. It takes advantage of us, of me. He took advantage of me. Of my diligence, my determination, my eagerness to please him after Mother died.
I wonder what happened to Scylla's mother.
Either way, all of the good parts of those around us are gone now. Only the bad parts remain. But if so, then why do I still feel reluctant abound killing? Scylla probably does too. I hope she does. She seems nice enough.
It doesn't matter. The Hunger Games will zap up all that hasn't been snatched away yet. I think it's too late to turn back.
I've just got to keep up that cold, determined, unfeeling façade.
Nerissa Doppler, 18, District Three Female
The pancakes this morning smell wonderful. That indescribable blend of syrup and cooking bread slathered in the rich Capitolite butter with the Panem seal stamped on it. I have always loved pancakes.
My partner, Bolt (I took care to remember his name, he seems gullible, a good alliance member.), eats ravenously. Probably hasn't had this much in his entire life. To be fair, neither have I, but being on the wealthier, or rather, wealthiest, side of the spectrum back in that shithole Three has its perks.
The smog has dispersed by now, and as we have passed the border into Nine, mesmerizing wheat fields sprawl across the land under the clear sky. I used to like to watch the old tapes and digital files Daddy had of before the Dark Days and the old environment. Now, I'm here.
"Nerissa, I can't place it. Why does your name sound so familiar?"
I raise my head up from the plate to cock it at Digitta, my mentor.
"Sorry," she says, embarrassed, "I didn't want to ask you yesterday, things were a bit chaotic as it was." It's true. Bolt was a mess then, and the train had a malfunction.
"My father. He's one of the richest men in Three. From the Capitol."
The escort stiffens in shock, and then she nearly topples her chair getting up. "Nerissa! Why didn't you say so earlier? Oh, I can get you so many sponsors with that kind of information!" she chants excitedly with celerity.
I pretend to look flattered, like I never would have thought that that was what she wanted to hear from me. It all comes so easy. Lying and deceiving and acting. "Sorry, Aelia, I just forgot."
"Oh, it's a-okay sweet love! What did he do? Why did he move?"
"He was a filmmaker, but he decided to start a new life," I respond passively, as if this were small potatoes to a dense idiot such as her. It's a good thing indeed that she is too young to have witnessed or probably heard of his only work, a flop sitcom. She's probably imagining Jeffrey Doppler as some sort of director extraordinaire tragically buried under the passage of time. I won't correct her.
It will be hard enough to dig my name out from under the rubble. But I will. I'll stop at nothing. Nobody in Panem will not know who Nerissa Doppler is, have that name imprinted inside their minds, see it flash behind their eyelids every time they blink, by the time I make it out of that arena.
"Oh, I just knew this was going to be a splendid year! Off to make some calls."
"Wait, but I've submitted a short film to the Capitol myself. "Death of a Rose", that's what it's called."
Aelia practically explodes with joy and halfway skips as she hustles away in her six-inch heels.
The other mentor, Coil, hasn't woken up yet, and Digitta's presence is basically nonexistent, even when she is talking, so now it seems to be just me and Bolt.
"I didn't know that you sent in a film to the Capitol." Bolt seems genuinely impressed.
"Thank you. I'm proud of it. It's a shame Aelia wasn't talking to you that much. Really, my dad wasn't that big of a deal."
"That's fine, not your fault."
The conversation is a cake walk from there. Bolt is naturally very talkative, it isn't difficult to see, and I'm good at buttering people up. I don't know, maybe people ae just drawn to me. All I have to do is ask him about his family, chat about how uninteresting schoolwork is when there are much more important things you could be doing, the likes, and thirty minutes later, we're allies. Simple as that.
I don't intend to make friends with him, he's not on my level. Nobody is. But he doesn't need to know that. Friends aren't real, anyway. Only pawns to move around the chessboard of life to get your way.
"You two better start preparing. We're going to be in the Capitol in only about an hour."
"Has it really been that long?" I feign shock as I excuse myself to get ready.
In the hall as Bolt cleans up his mess (Why would he do that, the avoxes will take care of it?), I run into Coil in the hallway.
"Oh, fancy meeting you here." I giggle.
He only eyes me coldly in response. He doesn't even say anything! Jerk. I just don't understand those types of people sometimes. The smarter, less susceptible ones. Never mind, I do, because I'm one of them.
The first thing I do when I enter my room is pull out the roll of film. Oh, so enchanting, so poetic. The bird, still twitching in its final moment, frame by frame moving, its legs at an odd angle, before finally becoming still.
Such a piece of beauty, this is. But no, the perfect film is not beautiful. The perfect film is dark, and gory, and honest, with highs and lows and death, never without death, the great vacuum of humanity and yet the cornerstone of it, for without it there would be nothing.
Joy. Sadness. Betrayal. Rage. Murder. My film is going to have it all. Because I intend to create the perfect film.
One last kiss goodbye to my token, and then I'm off to freshen up.
After I've finished, I enter the sitting room. Now the hills are rolling by as they turn into mountains and the great city is there, distant and glistening in the morning sun.
Bolt is there, too, and he waves me over. "Are you ready for it?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
Despite seeing it time and time again on the screen, that never compares to seeing the shining city in person. How could Daddy ever have wanted to leave this place? This is where I am destined to be a household name. To be.
Now, we roll into the station. I wave, setting my rehearsed dazzled, shy yet enchanting smile into place. The doors open as the flood of people scream my name.
My façade is in place. I step outside into the crowd of eager Capitolites. Boy, will I give them a show. A masterpiece.
Tessa Oakhart, 12, District Seven Female
It's different now being all alone. Scratch that, I'm not all alone, I have Rowan and Lindsay. They're nice. But now there is no Mama to tuck me in, no Daddy to kiss me good night, no TJ to talk to, no Remi to guide me through tough times and give advice, no friendly Minnie always greet me with a smile. Not even Ann, because even though she was mean and cold most of the time, she still had a nice side buried far down.
Rowan and Lindsay are very kind, but they're no family. At least I'm not on my own. I don't know what I would do if that were to happen.
Maybe Rowan and I will make more friends and allies during the Games, and maybe in training, too. I'm a bit giddy to start training, swinging around and running fun obstacle courses and meeting new people. I've always liked to learn, and before I dropped out Mrs. Aberdeen told me I had the best grades in my class.
Lindsay says not to be, that the careers will go around bullying people. That doesn't phase me at all, bullies have been at my side my whole life. All that is needed is a little playing cute and a sweet, innocent smile and nobody will hurt me. Plus, we an make new friends and recruit them.
"I see you're feeling much better than yesterday."
Lindsay scoots in beside me on the coach after finishing her late breakfast.
"Yes ma'am. Me and Rowan talked, and now we want to become an alliance."
"Yeah. We'll do better if we work together, right?"
"Yeah, right," Sycamore answers from the table. Lindsay scowls and wags her fingering at him, mouthing something with her head turned so I can't see. I hate it when people do that. I'm twelve years old!
Rowan seems even more angered at him. "I wasn't asking you, so shut up, drunk! Go back to your cabin," he yells at his mentor. Sycamore doesn't put up a fight.
"Well, that's very good for you two," Lindsay continues as if nothing has been said.
"We're thinking we want to let some other tributes join in, too," I say to keep the conversation flowing. "The more the merrier."
"Any ideas?"
"We were thinking the tributes from Three, Ten, and Eleven, actually," Rowan answers.
"Good choices."
Later on, as Rowan and Lindsay chat fervently about survival, my mind wavers. I know so much about it already, I don't need Lindsay's advice. Though, I guess it may be helpful. Stealing is going to be much more difficult in the arena.
I don't want to think about the arena.
I casually get up from the couch, excusing myself to go use the bathroom. On the way back I pass Sycamore, looking for the bar, most likely.
"Don't expect to be on this train riding back unless it's in a coffin, little girl," he hisses lecherously.
"You wait and see." I'm not going to let him get under my skin. "It's people like you that make the world not as good as it could be." I turn with my nose in the air to leave.
"You dumb, naïve little girl. Still think that the world is a good place? Idiot. The world has never been a good place. The world will never be a good place. You might as well just accept your imminent death as a mercy and try and make it fast."
Tears well up in my eyes. I don't want to let Sycamore see, but he does. I don't want to cry. I don't want to die, either. I don't want to leave behind all that I have, because it's precious and it's mine!
"You should be ashamed of yourself!" I scream into his face two feet above mine. "You ugly jerk!"
I storm off and lock myself in the bathroom at the end of the hallway, sinking to the white marble floor beside the sink.
I can hear yelling. It sounds like Lindsay. Sycamore doesn't put up much of a fight back. Then Rowan busts through the door and before I can utter a question, he hugs me.
"Don't you listen to what Sycamore said, you're going to win."
I don't know what to say, so I just settle with, "Thank you," and I return the embrace. We sit there for a long while after Lindsay's rantings have drifted away.
"Come on, we're going to be in the Capitol soon," Rowan says, pulling me up by the hand. "Better spiffy up."
An hour later, we stand behind the doors just waiting to open, Lindsay in front of us, stern and reproachful, beside her the escort, giddy as always, and behind us the now drunk Sycamore. He has a slap mark on his left cheek. I guess Lindsay hits hard for an old lady.
The train slides to an abrupt halt, and we exit. The storm of people berates us, a cacophony fills the air of the station. I grip onto Rowan, and he stands over me like a defensive older brother. Like TJ used to stand over me.
I gladly take his support. With it I feel strong. I know the world, and I know that the world is a good place. Friendship above all, it is the link that chains us all together. I'm not going to let it break.
I don't know what I would do without Rowan right now. That's the point of friends. TO protect you from being alone. Because when you're alone, there's nothing there to save you from the dark.
Mystic "Myst" Archeron, 16, District Eight Female
What in the name of Panem itself was I thinking?
I keep asking myself that same question over and over and over again. It had seemed then that I was ready for this. Maybe I was still reeling from Morgana. I just felt some pull to do it.
Don't you dare call it fate. Fate has been a fucking asshole to me for my whole life. Fate can go jump off a cliff.
"Mystic."
I don't give a crap what the escort is trying to ask me. I've had enough of her, still oohing and ahhing over the first Eight volunteer in ages.
"Mystic," she chirps again in a high, whistling half talk half sing.
I'm not going to give her the satisfaction and gratification of an answer. They can't control me, not after what I've done.
"Mystic," the woman practically squeals under the fragile masking of her annoyance.
"Don't pay attention to her, Armenia," my partner huffs from across the room. "Pay attention to me! She isn't worth anything."
Armenia clicks her tongue disappointedly as she skips over to where he and his drunken ass of a mentor slumps over on the couch mid-hangover.
"I hope you realize that you should be mentoring that spoiled idiot over there," I say to Chenille.
"Oh, I know."
"So, you know why I volunteered?"
"Yes, Mystic, I do. I know that you volunteered because you wanted to die." She folds her arms and sits up, brushing a wave of copper hair out of her face.
"Then why are you still sitting across from me?"
"Because I think that deep down, you aren't done yet. I used to be a salesperson at an accessory shop. I'm good at reading people. Also, I would much rather you be on this train with me next year than him." She jabs a biting thumb in Cassius's direction as he talks up the escort for the fiftieth time about who his mother is and how much the Capitol will love him. He's just trying to convince himself that the inevitable is evitable.
"Thank you, but I'm not interested."
I promptly scoot back my chair and get up without eating more than a few bites. I've been conditioned not to want much else.
"Mystic Archeron! You get back here this instant and finish your breakfast!"
Armenia stands up and instantly falls down, tripping on one of her stilettos.
Chenille merely stands up and gives a meaningful look right as the door closes shut.
They can't boss me around. Nobody rules me. But as much as I hate to say it to myself, I think Chenille is right. And I also know that I want to go back in that room and plop myself down again and let her tell me all that she has to offer, but she would probably be wasting her time, and besides, I don't bend.
When I reach my room, I slam the door shut behind me and huddle up on my bed.
"Oh, Morgana, why can't you be here with me now. Just put some sense into my head."
There I lay for I don't know how long. It could be hours, maybe just fifteen minutes.
I can see her now, running through the woods, and she sees me, and I can't help it because she is beautiful, and I don't care what or who she is running from, because I want to rescue her.
"Come on, I've got a cave nearby."
"Thank you!"
And later, "Hi, I'm Morgana." And then we make friends, and then after that, that night when she comes up to bring me food and company, and she tells me that she wants to stay with me, not leave, ever, and we kiss.
"Myst, don't be so reckless."
There she is, alive and well above her, sliding down the rocks with caution and at a sensible speed.
"Come on, it's fun!"
And there she goes, sliding down that hill, and we collide, and we never let go until we hit a tree, but it doesn't hurt because I have her. I wish I had never took my arms off of her then.
Fast forward a few months, and there she lies on the floor of the skin, her skin yellow and burning, and there is nothing that I can do, but she still manages to cough out the words, "I—love—you—Myst-tic—Arche-eron."
And then, hours later, she dies.
I don't think that there is really much worth to live for without her. Without Weave, and Weft, and Mom. But all four of them are in the ground, and it's a good thing Dad is down there with them.
Morgana said that I had the best laugh. She said if it could cure her from that evil sickness, then it would have. But I don't think there is much to laugh at anymore.
I stand up from the bed where I have been laying still as tears pool up in my eyes and walk over to the mirror. My dark black mane cascades down my back and falls over my eyes before I brush it away. Perfectly wild. That thing is untamable. And so am I.
I'm not going to play their dumb little game. Fight for my life and kill others in the process for the allure of survival and riches.
My eyes don't seem too puffy. I can just mask them under my hair if necessary.
I meet Chenille in the main room again.
"Finished up? You ready to actually talk? Or do you still insist that you want to die?"
"Yes. I'm ready to talk. Now tell me all that you know about the bow and arrow, and knife fighting, and all of that combat stuff."
"I will. But first, let me ask: What changed your mind?"
"Common sense. The pure human instinct for survival."
That's not the real answer. In truth, I don't know what is. All that I do know is that I don't want to just lie down without a fight. Maybe I'll make it out, maybe I won't, but either way, nobody will be forgetting the name Mystic Archeron anytime soon.
Rhiannon Caster, 15, District Ten Female
The flashback displayed on the screen is currently covering the moment in the 155th when robot butcher mutts sliced apart the Nine girl from that year and her blood splattered the walls of the boiler room that she had been hiding in. Gruesome.
Raihan sits next to me, whimpering, white as a sheet. Naïve boy. He should know by now that this is what he will be facing.
As for me, the sight of blood has become numb. It's not the gore that stings but the loss itself. Yes, I still do have nightmares, guilt bites inside of me for what I could have done to save my precious friends from him, but in the nightmares I only dream of holding them, petting them, those innocent little souls, and then again when they have died. Never the blood.
Sometimes I wish I could slam Uncle Troilus onto that wooden table and chop his neck off myself.
It wouldn't make any difference, though. The fate of the world is locked in inevitability, the best that we can do now is to try to prevent the worst of it. It would be best if none of us were here, if animals could rule the earth as they once did. That's the one thing I picked up in history class. The rest of it was too unbearable to listen to, colonization this, pollution that.
"Rhiannon? Raihan? You two okay over there?"
"Yes," I answer bluntly. Nothing else required to say.
My mentor, Bovina, simply nods anxiously and stares concernedly at Raihan, who sits next to the other mentor, Dirk, who has his arm around him as he shakes.
Someday, he will only come to realize that this is his own fault. His own doing. There isn't a good one in the bunch, myself included.
The familiar searing pain lashes into my palms as I dig my hands into the scabs burned into them. Rage leads to pain, rage leads to suffering, rage leads to death.
Presently, I decide to occupy myself with looking outside the window. The Capitol is approaching, as the green mountains flash swiftly through the glass. Beautiful. Precious. Why must we not cherish it? I know that beyond those peaks lay a vast dumpster, the Capitol's personal trash can. They held some long-lost arena back from the first century in there, they told us in HG history.
School. None of those children in school ever knew my name, I don't think. I didn't know any of theirs. I don't care. It's insignificant.
As a towering peak obscuring our vision passes, the Capitol is revealed.
"Woah!" Raihan jolts up to press his nose against the window, his mouth agape in amazement. "I've never seen anything like it!"
"Do you like our grand city? I find it to be simply marvelous, the pride of Panem."
He nods in response without taking his gaze away from our destination.
"What about you, Rhiannon? What do you think?"
"It's nice," I respond. There isn't anything else I can think of to say without lying through my teeth.
In truth, I haven't seen anything like it either, but not in the way that Raihan means. The concrete expands over everything, as we near the station, there isn't a blade of grass in sight. Dogs wag their tails and walk alongside their owners on leashes like no district pet ever could. Pets as an idea in general are just so repulsive. Humans claiming masterhood over animals inferior in intellect, temporarily satisfying their constant hunger for domination. Sickening.
The lavishly dressed citizens on the streets sit outside to embrace the weather as they chomp down on lamb, and steak, and pheasant, and chicken, and fish and produce of all different sorts. I don't see any of these died and spray-painted little doggies feasting on their humans.
Without the ugly imprint these people have made in the mountain valley, I wonder what it would look like, with a glimmering pool of water in the dip as snowy mountains pierce the sun and animals congregate and roam free. The only true beauty, that of the world.
If I could erase myself to erase the rest of the world, I would. But I can't. It's not this pointless death pageant that angers me. We district folk must not continue to play the victim when we are the predator and not the prey.
Raihan seems reinvigorated by reaching our destination. "So," he whispers genially, nudging me with his elbow as the adults are distracted, "what does your family do? Sorry, I know, random question, just what was on my mind. I'm Raihan, by the way, in case you forgot. Sorry for not talking much yesterday, I was sad and scared and I'm ashamed of it now."
"Rhiannon. Pleased." I take his hand to shake when he offers it and let him do most of the work. He drops it quickly as his face adopts an uncertain appearance.
"Anyway, back to the question. What does your family do? My daddy and my sister and I raise animals for food." His voice trembles at the end. He is straining himself.
Meanwhile, I feel as if a bucket of ice water has been doused on me. This one, he does not realize, but he is one of the worst contributors. So ignorantly blissful in his naïve, compliant innocence. "My uncle is a slaughterer."
"Ha, coincidence, huh?"
I nod.
The conversation comes to an awkward stalemate of mutual wariness until the train pulls into the train station.
"Rhiannon, Raihan, come on, dearies!"
The escort, Daria, gracefully sets her fluffy fur coat upon her shoulders and snaps her fingers at us. I would glare if she could see me, if this wasn't a game of life. Scratch that. I do glare at her. She doesn't see.
And then, in a flash of bright and gaudy colors, we are shoved into the mob of frivols and frills, squeals and echoes, and all I can think is that I wish that I could burn this place, the whole world, to the ground.
Sierra Hay Fields, 17, District Eleven Female
"You don't talk much, do you?"
Aleyn winces at my voice and inches slightly further away from me on the lengthy couch and into his shirt as he brushes his long black bangs over his eyes. He seems a bit peculiar, but alright. Like just another one of those quiet people that I can get to open up with time. But we're pressed for time.
I still have no idea why he would volunteer. I hope to death that he isn't suicidal. It would be such a waste. But I look at him and I can tell that he isn't that way, at least from my ability to read others. They all say that I'm no problem to read, though, so I am not one to talk. I wonder if all of this is visible to him…
"No, not really."
His answer startles me. His voice is higher now than it was a few hours ago at breakfast, when he seemed to be muttering to himself. Odd.
I look over at Aleyn and give him a grin. He returns a pained one, like those muscles are rusty from not being moved in an eternity, but it doesn't reach his nervous brown eyes and furrowed brow.
"Hey," I say softer than before and kinder too, I hope, and scoot closer to him. "It's all going to be alright. We're not in there yet, so we shouldn't just mope around and act sad about our shitty hands."
"You're right." His eyes flit around from side to side, yet they never seem to find me, untrusting.
In the silence that follows, I struggle to hold myself away from those same thoughts: death, pain, all of the suffering that they must be doing back home. They could barely fit everybody that I knew into the goodbye sessions. I want to make them proud. My brothers, and Briony, and Lilo. Lilo.
I am going to make them proud. I won't let them down. I'm already proud of myself, and I'm not ever, ever going to lose that pride and dignity. Without that, there is nothing.
Now Nerios Opperratd, our escort, shuffles in in his iron grey suit with metal accents and vines twirling across it.
"Hello, tributes, been having a nice chat, have you?" He practically skips over to us, and, not waiting for a response, asks, "So, are you two ready for what is nearing?"
"Yes," I answer hesitantly for the both of us.
Now Nerios addresses me, judging Aleyn to be not worth a conversation. "Good. I can just tell that this will be an excellent year for Eleven. Even if Aleyn might be a little bit… scrawny, Sierra, you may very well be back on this train in the coming weeks."
I don't appreciate that, and in my experience, if that's the case, it is best to just say it upfront. So, naturally, I do. "That's not nice, you should be more encouraging to Aleyn. Everything has powerful inner strength inside of them, you don't know what he can do."
"Sierra, no, it's ok, he's right."
"I've got this, Aleyn. And no, he isn't. He best just shut his fat mouth and take his high and mighty Capitolite ass back into his compartment to reapply his eye shadow."
"Well, I'd never…" With a self-righteous, indignant "Hmmpph," he recoils at my booming voice and impressive height and turns around and storms of to his quarters.
I don't know what made me do it. Maybe I need it, to be strong and stand up for someone, to feel that pride in myself and help someone else. Aleyn needed it.
"Thank you," he says.
"No problem," I respond. "I think he's wrong about you, they're all wrong. You'll show them all, I know it. I see potential in you. Allies?"
Aleyn is shocked. "No, I wouldn't want to drag you down."
"You wouldn't be dragging me down. You'd be helping me. Come on. It would be really great to have someone else in the arena to keep me from going insane."
"Ummm… okay. Good. Thanks, again."
"You are welcome. Don't doubt yourself. You're stronger than you know."
An hour later, as we stand in the doorway as the train comes to a halt, I look down at Aleyn and put my hand on his shoulder to stop him from shaking.
"Don't be scared," I say. "Be strong. Be proud. Know that you matter, and that you are loved."
He looks at me and nods. I see tears forming in his eyes and wipe them away in what I intend to be an indiscreet way.
"No crying. Not for those cameras, anyway."
"Sierra, you're the best," he says, regaining his composure to face the crowd.
"And don't forget it, either."
Well, what did you think? My updates are only getting longer and longer, before long I think they'll be in the triple digits. I would really like a hundred reviews before then, so please take the small amount of time necessary to type out a little something, it doesn't have to be long and in depth, because everything that you say means so much to me. I would like to thank MicoNico, Dracarys Wolf, and Nautics all for reviewing last chapter, thanks for the positive feedback!
Please give me all of your thoughts on this newest chapter. I am seriously enjoying finally getting to write tribute-tribute interactions, I just love it so much as a way to develop two characters at once and give outside views on narrators.
Q: Who was your favorite PoV to read this chapter and why?
Q: Not really relating to this chapter but just overall trivia, which two tributes had siblings die in the same Hunger Games?
Have a great day or night wherever you are, and I can't stress enough how important it is to review. There may also be a check-in either next chapter or the one after, so be on the lookout.
-Mills