Woot! Let's go! Train rides begin now, so all aboard! * cheesy whistle noise * My longest chapter to date!

Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female, 18 years old

I sit atop the plush velvet loveseat, sipping bubble tea and accenting my fake tears with loud sniffs. Colorful bursts of lemon and orange explode on my tongue as Kai, Silky, and Mason talk amongst themselves, occasionally sending angry, confused glances my way.

Every time three laser-focused pairs of eyes zero in on me, I make sure to flood the tearducts and sob especially loud, my slender frame trembling atop luxury, that, despite me living in the luxury district, have never imagined.

"Strategy for your interview?" Kai barks at Mason. The latter rolls his eyes and slumps, having grown increasingly bored throughout the entire ordeal. "It doesn't matter, does it?" He says lazily. "They'll love me anyways-"

Kai stands up and slaps Mason on the face.

Mason flies up from his couch, spitting venom at his coldly disapproving mentor, creating a perfect picture of fire and ice.

"You're overconfident. Humiliation will settle your temper." Kai snarls, his voice cold and controlled with a hint of savagery in it's depths. He grabs Mason by the ear and flings him violently to the ground. The furious boy hits the ground with an earth-shattering THUNK. Kai raises his foot to kick the fool, but obviously thinks better of it. His face darkens and he pulls Mason up roughly and without warning. Mason sputters, disbelieving.

"I'm not allowed to harm you, but no one will know if no bruises form. Luckily for you, I've a better idea then showing off my pressure point training." With those words, Kai lashes out. His slim, battered fingers catch on the belt of Mason's jeans and riiiiiips with extreme force. His pants fall into a bundle of acid-washed navy, leaving him, red-faced, in boxers.

I can't help it. I laugh.

Rules for surviving the Hunger Games, by Chablis Brochetto:

1. Don't lose your cool around your mentor. Looking at you, Mason.

Taurus Black, District 2 Male, 18 years old

They're all fools. Who are they to deny me anything, anything at all? They are bugs at best, and I am a god at worst. I will never let them forgot how high above them I am. But I'm sure they already know. They just prefer to live in denial. They should get used to it. I will become their twisted reality, their demons, their night terrors. I will haunt their dreams, and I'll be there when they wake up screaming. I will rip and tear and slaughter and they will cower at my feet, scrounging for scraps in pools of blood.

They stand against me still, despite knowing this.

Venie truly defines what it is to be a moron. The girl thinks herself to be so high-and-mighty- I wonder if she'll still believe herself to be superior to me when I slit her warbling throat. Why someone so obviously struggling with dietary problems would volunteer for a glorious deathmatch is beyond me.

Ares has the name of a true warrior, and yet he is a blustering fool. He won his games through brute strength, and in the years since his victory, has regrettably let that strength go to seed. The fat idiot still believes himself to be a prime warrior, however. He'll learn his place when I take him on after my victory. I wonder if I'd be able to cut that fat off him and burn it like blubber. He's certainly the size of a whale.

Pompone is more tolerable then Venie and Ares, thankfully, but she is still quite near insufferable. She labels herself a "fighter," but her knifework is deplorable at best.

I surround myself with utter morons.

What a thing for a king to suffer!

Wait- make that an emperor.

Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male, 18 years old.

"Velvet." I mutter as I touch the crushed, smooth curtains lightly, still numb with shock. "Extravagant, isn't it?"

Pipper laughs lightly. "This train belongs to the Capitol, sweetheart! Sweet heaven, we're all extravagant. Extravagance is my middle name!"

I flash her a narrow gaze, my eyes slits. "Was that a joke, or are you serious?"

Pipper blinks up at me, confused.

"Why would I not be serious?! I'm always serious!"

Futura groans and slumps forwards, her head in her hands. Wyre rubs his temples tiredly, his graying, steel-like hair flopping limply over olive skin. Both of them look extremely worn out, and I sort of feel like joining their Moaning-Groaning-And Wanting To Be Anywhere But Here-Club. But I keep a strained smile on my face, for the sake of appearances.

"So." Says Roxy flatly. "Can the two of you do anything other then grunt and comment on fabric, or did I get two Bloodbaths this year?" Futura snaps to attention.

"I can make decisions based on logic and not let my emotions infect those decisions-" She starts, but Roxy interrupts her. "Didn't seem like that during the Reapings, sugar. Don't tell me you volunteered because you thought you could do it. I don't like liars."

"A momentary lapse in judgement." Says Futura coldly, and Roxy's eyebrow quirks up, impressed despite her cold, harsh words at Futura's cool. "And, on the contrary, I fully believe I can do it. It shouldn't be hard for me to gain allies, and I know a lot about coding, machinery, and discipline. I'm numb to extreme violence- I've seen a lot of shit in my life. How's that sound?"

Roxy nods slowly and turns to me.

"And you?"

"Err…" I mumble. "I can code, and-"

"-need to gain some self-confidence and not mumble. Nasty habit." Roxy spits bleakly, and stomps out the carriage.

"Well, that was rude." Pipper frowns.

Serena Melenese, District 4 Female, 18 years old

"How do I appeal to sponsors?" I ask politely, hoping I'm hiding my awe at being in the presences of Crescent Wade and Alexier Calterry. The two are legends, and even being in the same room as them makes my stomach lurch in a very uncomfortable fashion. Alexier is really cute, too, so that doesn't help.

Crescent pauses, her slim fingernail tapping at her puffed lips. "I went for the seductress angle." She frowns and examines me with critical eyes, icy blue eyes zeroing on every scar, each flaw. "But something tells me that won't work for you…"

I flinch, trying not to take offense at the offhand comment, but the words sting all the same. It's shameful to know that the words of a person I've never met until today seem to mean more to me then the criticism of my mother.

"You're powerful." Alexier says slowly. "A good leader-"

"HA!" Mason interrupts, a horrifyingly smug look on his face. "Serena, a good leader? Please. We all know it's me who'll be leading this Career pack."

Silence.

"Are you sure about that?" I whisper, my words ghostly and strange upon my own lips.

"Positive." He boasts. "You couldn't lead a cat to it's supper."

"Well then." I say with a flicker of a smile. "Let's fight for it."

Crescent squeals and claps her hands together. Alexier opens his mouth to protest, but a venomous glare from Crescent makes him shut his trap instantly. Mason shrugs. "Sure, why not?" He says lazily. "Girlie, you don't have a chance against me." I ignore his smug boasts and turn to Crescent. "Are there any weapons in the train?" "In one of the storage rooms, I believe." She says with an exaggerated wink and pivots on her foot.

She returns with two slim swords. I take one, and Maximus grabs the other. Immediately, I note the flaws in his grip and his lazy stance. My lip curls. This will be all too easy.

Maximus lunges first- a beginners mistake. He swings the blade down in a quick arc but I parry the swing with almost his laziness. He looks amazed. I twist away from him and flick the sword towards the handle. The clink startles him, and the sword tumbles from his already-loose fingers. In one sweeping motion, I've won a duel that took longer to set up then it lasted. Maximus gapes at me, his eyes huge with disbelief. He sputters. "What- No- you dirty cheat!" "Do you really expect anyone to fight fair in the Hunger Games, Maximus?"

Crescent claps.

Nyso Torrent, District 5 Male, 15 years old

My throat's as dry as a bone, and Hesiodia won't stop talking. Her annoyingly nasal voice just carries on and on and on. Finally, I say something, just to break the parade of complaints and screeches. "Would there happen to be any water on the train?" I ask the people I despise politely as I can manage.

Togo tips his head back and laughs maniacally. "WATER?! My dear boy, we have every drink in the world! Apple juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, Shirley Temples, firebranders, kid's cocktails, real cocktails..."

My eyes bug out and my mouth forms a perfect o. Before I can stammer out a single word of disbelief, Togo is running energetically for the well-polished kitchen, looking far more suited to be there then my grimy self could ever be. He pulls a dusty crystal flute from a cabinet and practically dances over to a spigot in the wall with a flat screen next to it. He taps it wildly, and suddenly a strange mix of burgundy and amber is flowing from the tap and shifting and swirling inside the glass, raising a frothing sugar cloud.

Togo bounds exuberantly over to me, the curls of liquid sloshing in the glass, colors I've never seen before created by the stirring. He shoves it roughly into my hands and I stare, uncomprehending, at it.

"Go on, drink it!" He urges. "I'll never understand you District folk. Have you ever had a mixed pomegranate-and-orange drink? Savages!"

I stare into the cup.

"DRINK IT!"

Anger superheats me. I'm not sure why, exactly, but fury boils through me as the pompous fool urges me to drink.

"I don't trust anything the Capitol makes." I spit.

I fling the flute on the ground. It shatters into a million dripping shards, reminding me forcefully of my fate.

Togo sighs reproachfully and flashes me a gentle, wounded look.

He cleans it up.

Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female, 15 years old

I explore the train with an eagerness that surprises even me. I'm far more calm then I thought I'd be in this situation, as if I'm expecting someone to explode out of the closet and tell me it's just a joke. But it isn't, of course. This is my reality now. My nerves simply haven't caught up with that fact.

I stumble down a long hallways strewn with velvet tapestries. I stop to stare at a series of them, all seemingly interconnected.

I examine the first one, and a story begins to unfold.

Two woven gold figures stand next to each other, holding hands, their faces bright with rapture at the chance to represent their district. Trees, a golden sun, and several solemn faces surround them.

In the next tapestry, the two are in a chariot, still holding hands, and waving at the audience with their free hands. Swarms of cheering golden weave press towards them, desperate to touch the two glorious representatives.

In the next, they're holding hands again (it's seemingly a theme,) and traveling dreamily from station to station at the training center, watching, unworried, as several woven bodies spar and learn.

In the second-to-last, they stand on their platforms in a sprawling forest arena, reaching for each other desperately as the golden cornucopia gleams in the woven sunlight.

And in the final tapestry, they're sprawled across the ground at the foot of the cornucopia, gleaming golden blood spilling from their crumpled figures.

They're holding hands.

I shiver involuntarily as I see the title of the gruesome tapestries.

Love and War.

"Creepy, aren't they?" Says a voice from behind me.

I spin around to see my haunted district partner, his sad eyes like open graves, staring up at the bittersweet works of art.

"My brother died two years ago yesterday." He says bluntly. My stomach heaves. "I-I'm sorry." I say hesitantly. "How funny would it be…" He whispers, gaunt, "If I died a week after my brother did?" "I don't think it's funny at all!" I exclaim, angry at this sallow-eyed boy, Preston, for giving up so easily.

He blinks owlishly at me. "Glad to know someone doesn't find this amusing." He mutters. "Or escort certainly does." I sigh. "What and airhead." He nods solemnly, then looks away, suddenly shy.

"I came to ask…" he mumbles, "If you… err, if you might consider being my ally?"

I stare at him. Then at the tapestries. Then at him again.

Those tapestries are not an omen, I tell myself sternly.

"Sure."