Arrival in the Capitol

Sadira Abdelli, 16, District 11 Female

Sadira is only half awake as she steps off the elevator to enter their apartment. It's early in the morning, probably before six, and she hardly got any sleep on the train. She remembers little about what they discussed about the next few days, but Sadira is certain that their mentor, Fanchon, will go over everything again today. The droning of the Capitol woman is about the only constant sound she's had this past day, but at least it's stopped her from thinking too hard about this whole thing.

"Woah," Rion breathes as he enters the apartment behind her. Sadira looks up from her feet and, for the first time, really looks at the room. It's almost as big as her entire school put together and the ceilings are twice as tall. The walls are decorated with rich, dark shades with pops of bright patterns littering the floors and furniture. Unfortunately, Sadira has never seen a place as beautiful as this one. It would have made her feel better to have something more to complain about. She's entering the Hunger Games yet being treated like royalty in the meantime. It feels like a cruel trick and Sadira rolls her eyes up to the ceiling to stop from admiring it all. Sadly, this too is intricately decorated as if to mock her further.

"Welcome," Fanchon says, walking quickly past the two of them to enter the room without even pausing at the grandness of the space. It's clear that the woman has lived in places this luxurious for her entire life. Sadira wonders what she thought of District 11 with its many shades of dust and dirt. She smiles briefly down at her shoes, noting the muddy tracks she is leaving on the carpet. She feels better knowing that she brought a little bit of home with her and even better thinking that it will ruin the beautiful floors.

Rion follows Fanchon to the sunken living area, hesitating for only a moment before he throws himself down onto the plush cushions. The quick look of fear as he sinks into the pillows makes Sadira laugh and she heads over to join them. She might not be a big fan of Fanchon so far, but Rion is much more her speed. When they first boarded the train he was a sniveling mess, just as Sadira had been after saying goodbye to her mother, but by the time dinner was served they managed to share a few smiles. As macabre as it may sound, she's grateful to have someone like him here with her. If it was only her and Fanchon, Sadira would have already lost her mind.

"Incoming," Sadira laughs as she flops down on the couch beside him. Rion wrinkles his nose as her arm just barely misses smacking him in the stomach, but his smile quickly returns. It feels good to laugh, even if the only reason she can still do that is because she's choosing to ignore everything going on around her.

"Commercial preparation begins in two hours," Fanchon announces, her lips tightly pressed into their usual frown as she looks down upon the two tributes. "It will serve as your official introduction to Panem and I suggest you take it seriously. You won't get to make another first impression."

"Smile and wave that's all they want," Rion says, rolling his eyes. Sadira's own eyes widen, looking between Rion and Fanchon as their mentor's face settles into a deeper frown. From the crying kid that got on the train with her, Sadira never would have expected him to test the boundaries quite so feverishly. In a way, Sadira can kind of understand the feeling. Her life has been basically declared over and it's hard to make herself care about doing anything that might upset someone. Besides, Fanchon is pretty easy to mess with.

"They want to learn who you are," Fanchon corrects, looking directly at Rion as she speaks.

"So they can feel bad when they kill us?" Rion asks boldly. Sadira bursts into another round of laughter, mostly because she doesn't want to take his comment seriously. He's definitely not wrong and that fact alone should be terrifying, but she chooses to laugh instead.

Fanchon takes a step forward until she is standing directly above the two tributes. "I'll tell you one more time. I suggest you take this, all of this, seriously. No tribute in the history of the Hunger Games has won by mocking the Capitol, no matter how funny you think this is. You won't be the first so don't make this mistake."

"Is that a threat?" Sadira asks, but her voice sounds less confident than she meant it to. Her cheeks burn with heat and she can feel Rion go still beside her, the words of their mentor clearly having a similar effect on him. She refuses to let herself be scared of this woman, but it looks like Fanchon won't need her permission for that.

"I'd call it advice," Fanchon says. "If you're interested in dying, continue to do whatever you want. On the off chance you'd like to live, you both better watch what you say. Is that clear?"

Sadira finds herself nodding along with Rion, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she isn't sure that she even heard her correctly. She sits up on the couch without realizing it, untangling herself from the silky pillows. Sadira hates that the words are having an effect on her, but it's an easy choice for anyone. Even though she hasn't really thought about the Hunger Games as much as she should have by now, she is certain of one thing- she doesn't want to die.

"I'd like to meet with you each privately before we head out," Fanchon says, looking directly at Sadira. "Rion, your room is on the left. I'll get you once we're done."

As Sadira watches her district partner leave, it feels eerily similar to being asked to stay after class when she's done something wrong. She tries to swallow down her nerves as the door slams behind Rion and she is left facing her mentor. It definitely feels like she's in trouble.

"What is your strategy?" Fanchon asks, her face remaining expressionless.

"My what?" Sadira asks. "I haven't really, I don't know."

"Are you allying with the boy?"

"Rion." Sadira corrects without even thinking. "We haven't talked about it. Maybe? I'm not sure."

"I am sure," Fanchon says. "I'm telling you this because you need to be realistic when you make these choices. Rion will not make it past the first day. As your mentor I advise you to look for other options that will work out better for you."

"You don't even know him," Sadira says softly, stunned at how she could make such a snap judgement about Rion's life like this. Fanchon already seems to hate him, but to throw him out of the running to last more than one day is harsh. Sadira leans away from her until her back sinks completely into the couch.

"I've been doing this since the Hunger Games began," Fanchon tells her. "Tributes like him do not make it. I think you would have a better chance without allowing him to drag you down."

"Thanks, but I'll make my own decisions," Sadira says, rising from her seat without asking if their meeting is over. She doesn't know what she wants to do about alliances or strategy or any of this. It's been less than a day since her name was called and she hasn't even let herself think about what she should be doing. Sadira isn't going to sit here and let some woman she's just met make these choice for her, no matter what 'experience' she might have. No one has the right to decide what she should do, who she should be with, or which of them is going to fucking die. Before she closes the door behind her, Sadira is unable to stop herself from shouting one last thing at her mentor, who still sits unbothered on the couch. "You don't know anything about us."

Jordan Kalisco, 18, District 4 Male

Venice pulls a square device out of his pocket mid-sentence, pausing to look at the tiny screen. Jordan is grateful for the halt in conversation. It feels like all he's been doing since he boarded the train is talk about commercials, training, or alliances. He's familiar with Venice and the methods that he uses to prepare his trainees, but the expectations have exploded. Everything is going much more quickly than he expected and Jordan just wants a chance to breathe even for a few seconds.

"Finally," Venice huffs, typing away at the screen angrily. He looks up at Jordan, ignoring Noemma as has become usual in their little group. Jordan can't help but feel bad for her, especially knowing that there had been someone slated to volunteer in her place. Unfortunately, according to Venice, it's not uncommon for someone to bow out at the last minute. Jordan himself had considered it briefly before putting his hand up at the reaping. "Two says their tributes are willing to talk. One is still ignoring my messages. Bastards."

Jordan swallows down the lump in his throat. His mentor has been trying to reach those of the other volunteers, trying to see if Jordan will be accepted into their alliance before they get to training. Before Venice mentioned it, Jordan had assumed that it was already set in stone that he would join them. Now, it doesn't seem quite so certain and it's making him nervous.

"I don't understand why it's a question," Jordan says quietly. The alliance between the volunteer districts is the best starting point for Jordan. He doesn't think that any of the others, the non-volunteers, would trust him enough. Noemma definitely doesn't appear to. It doesn't help that Venice seems to be pouring all of his energy into Jordan while ignoring her. He's grateful, but it makes him feel dirty all the same. Just like Jordan's starting to feel like a second-rate volunteer, he can imagine that Noemma feels like a second-rate tribute.

"Beats me," Venice shrugs as his device dings again. "Oh for fuck's sake. One's not sure yet, they said they'll get back to me."

Jordan clenches his hands together under the table. He knows that he will have to be patient, but the path through the arena appeared so much more definite before he volunteered. Jordan hates the feelings of uncertainty but he is trying to be patient.

Venice turns to look at the clock behind him. "We have an hour before we have to head down for commercial shooting. I haven't received an answer about doing separate segments for you two yet, so let me talk to them before you start with your stylists."

"Aren't they always separate?" Noemma asks, looking straight past Jordan towards Venice.

"Not this year," Venice says, rolling his eyes as if the very premise is the stupidest thing he's ever heard. If there's one thing Jordan has learned about the Victor over his year of training it's that he runs a tight ship. He doesn't care what you do outside of training, but when you're in his gym you better be working. It always made sense to Jordan, this wasn't some sports team it was the Hunger Games. Losing is not an option and Venice doesn't intend for his trainees to die. "I don't know how they expect me to write something that fits both of you. There are some pretty big differences."

"Like I'm not a volunteer," Noemma says flatly. Jordan sees the sadness in her eyes and he can't stop himself from looking away. As frustrated as he is about his situation, he can only imagine that she feels worse. All of the attention has been on him so far. Jordan knows that it's deserved; he's spent a year of his life preparing to win and she simply has bad luck. Still, maybe he doesn't need all of Venice's time.

Jordan stands from his chair. "I'm going to shower. Maybe you can talk about her strategy while I'm gone."

Venice looks annoyed but he doesn't make any move to stop him. Jordan briefly chances a look at his district partner, who narrows her eyes slightly as if unsure what to make of his statement. As he heads to his assigned room, Jordan wonders if he's gone too far in telling Venice what to do with his time. He's never disrespected him before, not that he's even sure what he's done counts as disrespect. He feels his chest lighten a bit when Venice begins talking just before Jordan closes his bedroom door.

He breathes a sigh of relief at the silence that settles around him. The bedroom is as lavish as the rest of the apartment, with a double bed against one wall and a heavy desk on another. He walks immediately to the window, pressing his hand against the warm glass as he looks out over the trainyard. It feels like forever and a day since he left District 4. It's impossible to sort through the mixture of anticipation and anxiety that churns in his stomach. Somehow, volunteering feels like both the worst decision he's ever made and the best thing that could have happened to him. One way or another he has changed the course of his family's life. He smiles as the warmth spreads through his chest even as his legs tremble beneath him.

Jordan won't allow himself to focus on the fear right now. He's made his choice and he's gone through with it. Now all that is left is to use everything that he's learned and try to win. He's not an idiot and he knows that this isn't going to be easy. Jordan realizes that nothing is guaranteed just because he volunteered or just because he's trained. There are at least three other tributes like him, who've made the choice to enter the arena. He sits down on the edge of the bed, a furniture piece that feels too regal to possibly belong to him, and then looks again at the room around him. This is what his family's future can look like if he is able to actually win this. That's what Jordan will focus on until he's back home, one way or another.

Ira Adley, 18, District 12 Female

"No," Ira and Florian say at the same time, each looking at the other from their adjacent chairs. Ira tilts her chin up slightly and Florian crosses his arms over his chest. She knows little more about her district partner than his name, but it's already plainly clear that he has no desire to get to know her. Ira can't say that she feels differently. She isn't willing to team up with someone she only met yesterday no matter what Abdiel, their 'mentor' tells her. It's simply not going to happen.

"While I understand your hesitation, believe me when I say this is necessary," Abdiel tells them, his eyes staring at them so intently that Ira has to fight the urge to look down at the table. District 12 has never had a Victor, but Abdiel told them that he's been working as a mentor since the beginning. Ira wants to ask him why he's never been able to bring someone home if he's so good, but she realizes that it would be a mistake to push him away. She needs all the help she can get. "In a few hours we'll start shooting a commercial that is going to brand the two of you as a pair. The more you lean into that image, the better."

Ira glances at Florian for a second before his eyes meet hers. She has never met the boy, but she's seen people like him in the district before. His pressed white shirt and fitted trousers tell her all she needs to know about him. While Ira and her parents have worked for every cent they have, she is willing to bet it all on the fact that Florian has never had to work a day in his privileged life.

"I'd prefer to be alone," Ira says after a moment. She wants to shout that it's unfair to bring her here with the expectation to die a horrible death in the arena then ask her for favours. She wants to knock over the table and run crying into her bedroom. She wants to do any number of the horrible things that are running through her mind, but she remains with her back straight against the dining chair. Even here, where none of these people know her, she is afraid of what they will think and what effect that will have on her chances. Ira attempts to slowly release the tension in her shoulders, but it feels impossible.

"Me too," Florian says softly. He is slouched in his seat with his arms loosely wrapped around his stomach. The image makes Ira roll back her shoulders and sit up just that little bit straighter, if only to prove how little they have in common.

"You both need to do this," Abdiel says. "I know that I am asking a lot, but when all that is standing between you and starvation is a sponsor gift, I will return all of your effort. I promise."

"Sponsors?" Ira asks quickly, wincing at the uncontrolled tone of her voice. Abdiel doesn't seem to notice, but she can't help but feel embarrassed by her question.

"Yes," Abdiel explains. "If the audience likes you, they can send you things to help you survive. I believe that if we are able to pull off a true district partnership, to make them fall in love with you, that sponsors will flood in. People want to be invested."

Ira considers this for a moment. She doesn't know what she should be doing right now, and that simple fact is making her mind run at a hundred miles a minute. Ira prides herself on knowing every step that she is going to take before she even leaves her house. The Hunger Games are uncharted territory, but here is someone that for some reason thinks he has a plan to get her out of this. As much as Ira hates to relinquish the control, she also knows that she has to grab the life preserver. "What do we have to do?"

Florian shoots her a surprised look which she ignores as Abdiel continues. "I need you to be partners in this. Make them believe that you're close, that you will be fighting for each other as well as yourselves. All they want is a story."

Florian doesn't seem to know what to say and, to be fair, neither does Ira at first. She leans back slightly in her chair and closes her eyes. She thinks of everything she knows about the Hunger Games, but there isn't much there. Ira has been focused on so many other things during her life that she never made a plan for being reaped. It feels stupid now, even if the chances were so low. As much as she doesn't want to trust Abdiel, if he's right this could be a big deal for her. Ira knows better than anyone that image is everything. If she can make people think she is the perfect tribute or part of a perfect pair, just as she made people think she was the perfect daughter, his plan could work.

"I'll do it," she says, trying not to regret the words as she says them. Deciding to this is a lot different than being overly courteous in public or making sure to smile at people who pass her by. That was an image that she actually wanted to be, but Ira's not sure that doing what Abdiel is suggesting will make her like herself more. Pretending that she would be willing to fight for this boy she's never met in a way that she would maybe do for her parents is a big commitment. Her life might depend on how well she can act this out and that makes Ira feel both better and worse about the situation.

Florian doesn't say a word for a long while. Ira is about to say something, to ask him what his reservations are, but Abdiel raises his hand to stop her before she even opens her mouth. So they sit in silence for minutes, maybe longer, until he finally looks up from his lap and speaks. "I guess I don't have any other choice."

Abdiel reaches across the table but Florian leans back to avoid his comforting hand. It's obvious that he is uncomfortable, but the important thing is that he agreed. The thought that her life is going to be partly in his hands makes Ira nervous. She knows exactly what she looks like right now- confident, poised- even if she doesn't feel it. She believes that she will be able to sell the image that Abdiel wants from her. Florian is practically folded in on himself, in fact the canyon between them couldn't be any deeper. He looks like he is waiting to die and Ira refuses to be like him for even a moment. This plan feels doomed already.

Chase Hauver, 18, District 10 Male

Chase cannot remember a time when he has felt this tired. He is no stranger to hard work, in fact he has come to enjoy it most of the time as a way to clear his mind. These past twenty-four hours, however, have felt like a whirlwind of advice and itineraries. Even after Gracen, their mentor, told him and Jayde that it was time to tuck in for the night, Chase found himself unable to fall asleep. He doesn't want to think about any of this, but it feels like a tornado of information has exploded in his head and he is powerless to save himself from the crushing winds.

He cradles his throbbing head as Gracen rattles off the rest of the plan for today. It's past Chase's usual waking time, probably six in the morning or so, but he is exhausted. Still, even through his fatigue Chase is sure that he would be able to recite their schedule with his eyes closed. That's how many times Gracen has read it to them.

"How are you both feeling about all of this?" Gracen asks with a sympathetic smile. "I know it can be a lot all at once."

Chase opens his mouth but closes it when he realizes that he doesn't have a single clue how to explain how he feels right now. He's overwhelmed, frustrated, and miserable at the same time. He misses his family and the little, half-fixed up house he should be sleeping in tonight. His head feels so full of information that he truly believes it could explode. He feels like crumpling into a ball on the floor and refusing to get up for the rest of his life. Chase has never failed to find the bright side, even when he was fired from his first job or their roof started leaking. He wonders why the Hunger Games have so easily ripped that away from him.

"It's whatever," Jayde says with a shrug, hugging her arms around herself tightly. "This is nothing new to me."

That's right, Chase remembers, she's used to this type of challenge. At least that's what she's been saying since they boarded the train even though he knows that he heard someone crying quietly into their silk pillows last night. It feels pointless to call her on it; Chase is pretty sure that she wouldn't care even if he did. She hasn't even looked at him since the reaping except when he coughed a bit too loudly over dinner yesterday.

Gracen looks to Chase and he realizes that he hasn't come up with an answer yet. He rubs his head roughly and answers as honestly as he dares. "I'm a bit overwhelmed."

He can hear Jayde snort beside him, but he tries to hold in the immediate urge to run as far away from her as possible. It's been made pretty obvious to him that Jayde isn't interested in being friendly. She's found any reason to put him down or ignore him since they met. Chase didn't know what he expected. He's going into the Hunger Games and Jayde has every right to believe he'll be trying to kill her next week even if he's not sure he has that in him. Still, this situation feels so much worse without a sympathetic face to look to. Not even Gracen truly seems to care even as she's stuffing his brain full of her 'best advice'.

"We have exactly two hours before we'll have to report to your stylist's quarters," Gracen says calmly. "Now is a good time to discuss strategies for you two. Do you think you would like a group meeting or separate ones?"

"Separate," Chase says immediately. He swallows down the embarrassment of being the first to answer her question, but his answer is obvious.

"Separate," Jayde agrees, scowling in his direction but Chase is too tired to care anymore. Chase doesn't wait for anyone to tell him to leave. He stands from his chair and heads to the bedroom Gracen indicated would be his. He just wants to be alone and that doesn't feel like too much to ask for right now.

Chase sinks down beside his bed, the plush carpet weaving between his fingers as he leans his head back against the sheets. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He's supposed to be waking up for work right now, opening the gates so that the cattle can go out in the field for the morning. He's supposed to have his parents over to is new house for dinner because the keys would have been finally his today. Chase has always had such big dreams for himself and all intention of following through on every one of them. Nothing in District 10 could have stopped him. Now, he just feels stupid to have even tried to see the world as this beautiful flower ripe for picking. It's so hard to pull his chin up and keep going when everything he's ever wanted has been taken from him in one day.

His head lifts up, remembering the desk in the corner of the room. Chase quickly opens each drawer, searching until he finds what he needs. A pen and a blank sheet of paper that is so white it practically glows under the room's light. His handwriting is messy, but it feels good just to move his hands across the page. He hasn't done much actual writing since he left school, but it's like his hands never forgot.

Chase writes about himself, the dreamer that always had his head shoved just a little too far into the clouds. He writes about his life without the reaping, or at least he tries to. Somehow the story keeps trying to end with the escort calling his name. He crosses through the line, tears welling up in his eyes as he stares down at the page. How is it that the Hunger Games have become such a staple part of his story, like his name or his job? How is it already impossible to write a different ending even just to make himself feel a little better?

Chase wipes away the first tear that falls before it can hit the page. He writes out the same sentence again, but this time he doesn't cross it out. This is his life now. He can try to push it away and live in the what ifs, but that isn't going to change anything. Chase stares at the line- I hear my name, but I do not cry. There is more to write, he can feel it, but he doesn't know how to continue the story. Maybe more than that, he's afraid at where he will wind up if he does keep writing. The Hunger Games simply don't have happy endings.

A/N: Hi again. This was basically a continuation of the train rides, but I thought it would be a fun chapter to introduce some more partner interaction. Next up will be commercials, but they will be a bit different than what I've done in earlier stories. I'm excited to share some more world building with all of you.

What did you think of these 4 tributes (Sadira, Jordan, Ira, & Chase)?

I appreciate all of your thoughts and reviews! I'm working hard to ensure that your tributes are being portrayed as you intended while also fitting them into the storylines I have created. If you ever take major issue with the direction I'm taking your tribute in, please message me about it so we can talk. Development is obviously going to happen and I promise that your tribute will not be the same person they were in their district, but it's not my intention to go completely OOC without providing sufficient reasoning within the story. Otherwise, enjoy the ride and next chapter should be up in a few days.

~ Olive