Atom Kishen, District 3
529 tributes have died so far. Add this year's 23 (myself included) and you have 552. I only had four slips. Zoee had seven. I've been alive for 15 years, or 188 months, or 819 weeks, or 5,737 days, or 137,711 hours, or 8,262,670 minutes, or 495,760,218 seconds. And very soon I'll be dead. D E A D.
"Hey, Atom, are you going to keep muttering numbers under your breath this whole train ride?" Zoee asks me. She speaks to me in a concerned, considerate tone. As if I'm crazy.
"I bet you a million dollars he won't." My mentor stabs a piece of meat with his fork, and brings it towards his mouth, but not before I swipe at him and knock the utensil out of his hand.
"A million dollars. What would that be worth to her? She can't use it when she's dead."
Zoee covers her mouth, clearly hurt. I ignore her. Mac looks at me, a grin spreading across his stupid, drunk face. "That's when you make bets like that. I don't have anything to lose. I won."
"I don't think so." I reply sternly, never looking away from this worthless man's face. "I think it's because you lost everything already."
The punch hits me square in the jaw and the pain is almost immediate. It's a pinch compared to what I'll be getting later.
Sebastian Saylor, District 4
This train is pretty freaking great. I thought I wouldn't like it because I'd be itching to just get to the Capitol, but it's super comfortable with lots of open space. It sort of reminds me of my dad's yacht. There's a crystal chandelier, royal blue carpets, and the best freaking food I've ever eaten. Chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce with herbs and broccoli, a pasta salad, warm white rolls the size of your fist and something called chocolate fondue which is basically just a huge fountain of melted chocolate that you dip fruit, mini pieces of cake, and cookies in. It's fucking delicious.
"Hey, can we get seconds?" I grin, popping a chocolate covered strawberry into my mouth.
"Later. We're going to watch the recap of the Reapings." Lyra glances at Jacques, who's finishing his meal. They're both past victors and our mentors this year. District 4 actually has five past winners, but the rest have stayed home. I have no idea why. When I win, I'll go to the Capitol any time I could just to eat the food.
"Awesome, we can scope out our competition." I nudge a pissed-off looking Marina who rolls her eyes and finishes the last of her milk. I drain the rest of my glass, washing down the meal, though I'd rather be washing it down with the alcoholic drink Lyra and Jacques have. Grabbing a couple extra cookies, we exit the dining cab and head to the one with a large television and a leather couch and chairs. I plop down in between Marina and our escort, Aphrodite, who squeals when I chomp down on a cookie, "Sebastian, you're getting crumbs on my dress!"
"My bad!" I stretch out and get another heated glare from Marina, which is about the twentieth one I've gotten tonight. She isn't the prettiest girl by District 4 means, and with me here, she looks like a zero. But man, is she scary.
Jacques sets up the T.V. so that now on the screen we see what has got to be District 1. The boy, Gambit, is a volunteer, and he stares down about six other guys who begin to step forward as volunteers are called. He's muscular and about my height but with more scruffy hair. He walks up to the stage with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face. The girl is totally hot, not a volunteer, but she turns away any volunteers with the wave of her hand, her long blond hair blowing in the wind.
District 2 has another pretty girl with curly hair and a bright smile. She does a little curtsy that makes Marina sigh with annoyance. The boy is extremely tidy with a military haircut, focused blue eyes and, despite fighting his way up to the stage, looks clean as he gives his name to the escort.
District 3 is boring. The boy is two years younger than me and the girl comes from the eighteen-year-old section.
I'm looking forward to seeing myself, and grin as I watch first Marina stride up and volunteer, and then I do the same. I'm pretty sure all the girls swoon and have to catch themselves from falling. Happy with what I see, the rest of the Reapings go by so slow. There's a couple, like the two from 6, the little girl from 10, and a tough looking guy from 12 who look like some kind of obstacle for me. Maybe real competition? If so it's the first I've seen, and nothing's proven until the games actually begin.
"You've both got advantages," Jacques is saying afterwards, though I'm only partially listening. It's been a long day; can you blame me? "Sebastian, you're one of the best looking tributes. People will want to sponsor you, especially if you can get a good training score. You'll prove you have both the looks and the ability. And Marina, you've already showed how intimidating you can be. Keep up that attitude and Lyra and I will get the word out to the press about your training back home."
Oh yeah, I forgot Marina was selected to volunteer. Sometimes in 4, tributes will be specifically selected and train from a young age to age eighteen when they'll then volunteer. She was the best in her group, apparently. I was never in the program, but I stilled trained. I'm a popular guy. I'll still be supported just like any other, if not more.
"We'll arrive in the Capitol in about five hours, so go get some rest and in the morning we'll enter the city." Aphrodite rises and yawns, running a hand through her purple hair. I get up off the couch, purposefully nudging Marina again on the way.
"G'night then." I say, brushing past Aphrodite and making my way to my bedroom. I end up just throwing my clothes onto the floor, and putting on a pair of sleep pants and a tee-shirt from the huge wardrobe in the side of the wall. Falling back onto the bed, I quickly feel myself falling into a peaceful sleep. Hunger Games here I come.
Thistle Holloway, District 11
The train rocks back and forth, in an almost therapeutic way. I've calmed down, but a post-cry headache still attacks me. The warm arms around me are what make it all better.
Jeriko runs his fingers through my hair, murmuring comforting words. They're hopeless, but they help to take my mind off our predicament. It's the fact that this boy, one I've never seen before, is holding me like I'm his baby sister. We're in my room, on the way to the Capitol. We've been here on the bed for maybe two hours and we haven't moved since. Somehow we fell in this way, came to this mutual bond ever since we shook hands on stage. We know we're going to die. There's no point in denying it with "ifs" or "buts". At least we're in it together.
I thought I'd feel differently. Thought I'd be stronger and know not to cling to people, to become attached. But deep down inside, I'm still only sixteen. Still just a kid inside.
Our escort knocks on the door for the eighth time. I wrap my hand in Jeriko's and burry my head into his shoulder. I close my eyes, never wanting to open them again.
Rye Caspar, District 9
I'm careful to watch my footing as I step onto the railing. The breeze whips my hair into my eyes, but I don't dare release my hand as I slide over the other side of the railing, so that I am now above the railroad track. Will this kill me? The train is moving incredibly fast. It's so dark and I can't see how bad the fall is. Maybe if I shut my eyes . . .
I'm suddenly grabbed by the back of my collar and pulled back over onto the train. The wind is knocked out of me as I hit the ground. I'm not even able to cry out in pain. The outline of a person stands over me. As I begin to regain my breath, I grab the person by the ankles instinctively, attempting to pull them off their feet. They nearly lose their footing but manage to stay upright and instead their left foot comes into contact with my chest. My head hits the cold steel and I clench my teeth in pain. I'm pulled inside the cab and the door is slammed shut behind us so that now the wind is gone, replaced by a strange silence. I try to find the strength to sit up, but instead the grip on my shirt tightens. A light flickers on, temporarily blinding me, but as soon as I lift up my hand to block the light, I can see who's standing above me. Millet.
In all honesty, I didn't know who to expect. Millet's saying something, but my head isn't completely clear. He shakes me a little bit.
"Rye! What the hell is wrong with you?" He's flustered and sweating and his light brown hair is a mess. I can't find the words to answer, but manage to pull myself out of his grasp. I lay my head against the cold wall, trying to stable myself.
"Kid, are you crazy? Why the hell were you trying to kill yourself?" He's whispering fiercely, staring at me in disbelief.
I exhale. "I wasn't trying to kill myself," I get out, my breath still coming out in short gasps. Millet shakes his head, and out of nowhere chuckles like this whole event is just one large practical joke. My exhaustion is replaced by anger. "What the hell is your deal, man? You fucking slammed my head into the ground."
He laughs some more and ignores me. "If the Capitol finds out about this, they'll think you're crazy. Hell, maybe you are. What did you think? You could just jump off the train without harm and make it back home to Mom and Dad?"
"Of course not!" I shoot back, putting my hand over the spot on my chest where Millet kicked me. "I figured . . . I might have a better chance of living through that than in the arena. It's not like there's anything back home for me anyway. I've had to do disgusting, terrible things to keep myself fed and alive." I cringe inwardly as I'm reminded by what I've been forced to do. I grew up as a poor, confused boy in an accepting family of four. My mother, father, Quin and I. Quin has always protected me in her own way. When I was late for work, she paid off my boss so that I wouldn't lose my job in the wheat fields. When I came out as gay, she defended me from anyone who might have insulted me. But there's only so much she could do. As soon as I turned sixteen, I started making money in whatever way I could. Even if it meant fighting kids and being bet on by strangers to win. Even if it meant becoming a prostitute (though I hated the word) it was somehow worth it because I got to bring home fresh food for dinner. All for nothing now.
Millet sighs sympathetically. "The Capitol would have just shipped you back anyway. Have you brutally murdered in the Bloodbath, then killed the rest of your friends and family."
"Are they really that clever? Really that cruel?" My voice quivers a little. What would the Capitol do if caught off-guard like that? Would they be prepared?
"I wouldn't put anything past them. They created these Games." Millet pauses. "I was eighteen when I won. They've gotten smarter and smarter ever since. Made the winners their own personal pets, keeping them on a leash, scolding them, petting them when they've done something right. "
"You were the twelfth one. You were their twelfth Victor." I hear myself saying, "Do you think they'll ever be a last?"
It's completely silent, save for the rumble of the train along the tracks. Millet stands there, looking old, broken. I've watched him year after year on stage and now that he's actually my mentor, I can't stand to look at him anymore. I pity him, even though part of me hates him. That he's so weak, even though he has nothing to worry about anymore.
I struggle to get to my feet, and Millet starts to help me, but I shake my head and push him away. In a matter of minutes, we leave the back cab and get back to the one that has our rooms. I go straight inside the room and lock the door behind me. Bruised, I lie back onto the bed, my chest and head still throbbing. Even with the pain, I refuse to cry. I'm not a kid. If the Capitol wanted to send in a weakling from 9, they sent in the wrong person. I'm going to surprise them all, even myself. I'm not beaten. I'm not running away anymore.
Dixie Sterling, District 10
I wake up really excited. I mean it, I do. It's kind of a jittery excitement that's like built in caffeine, which is nice because I don't like the taste of coffee (it's too bitter and strong). I debate hopping in the shower but instead curiosity gets the better of me, and I go to the wardrobe and come face to face with so many beautiful clothes. How am I supposed to choose? None of them are like anything I have at home, where jeans are the most common style. I don't mind the change though. I like being pampered for once.
After a while I end up choosing a pretty pink skirt with a white top. I tie back my hair with a bow, and stare at myself in the mirror, happy with what I see. I look pretty for once, no longer just a silly farm girl. That's the moment I know I've made the right choice.
There's a knock on the door and I bound over and open it up to my escort, Marcus. He's dressed in a tuxedo, a red rose in the pocket and his unnaturally black hair slicked down so that it sticks out in the back as spikes. "My, Ms. Sterling, you're up early! I was just about to come and wake you up myself. Breakfast is ready, and we'll be in the Capitol in less than two hours. There's no time to lose!" He pats my head and then hurries down a door to Bennett's room, knocking and repeating a similar message (Capitol people are so funny).
I walk down to the dining car, first to the table. There's a spread of lovely looking breakfast food, and I spot a basket of cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon rolls! I remember when I was nine, my parents bought them for Christmas breakfast for my sister, brother, and me. They were delicious and made up for the lack of presents we got that year because the factory my father worked at had gone on strike, resulting in pay cuts from the Capitol. I don't know how my parents afforded them, but somehow they just made the world a little better. My mother and father have always been so good to us, and I guess I felt like I ought to pay them back.
When a seventeen year old girl was reaped yesterday, I stood up, took a breath, and volunteered. I was doing something good. The relief on her face replaced my doubt with happiness. I know it sounds dumb, but I think I really have a chance in this. Nothing is impossible. Thirteen year olds have won the Games before. I could bring back the happiness I felt then to the rest of my district. I have faith in myself. Some people may mistake it for stupidity, but I don't mind.
I sit down, pick up a cinnamon roll, and roll it around in the palm of my hand.
It's nice to write after you haven't for quite a while. And I love fleshing out these characters! Thank you for reading, please leave me a review with feedback on what you liked or didn't, and I plan on another chapter sometime in the week. Happy Thanksgiving, for those of you who celebrate it!