Sorry for such a long wait! These are the Train Rides and we see the POVs of four tributes here. Everyone's tribute will get a chance in the chapters before the games, so don't worry if yours' wasn't in this chapter. Also, these chapters will be somewhat shorter so I can work up more quickly to the actual Games themselves, which will be long, detailed chapters of each day. So I hope you enjoy it! I'm still trying to work out how the sponsor points will work, but I believe I have a system that will work out. And finally, a big thank you to stinkemrpink who betaed this [half] of this chapter for me. I wanted to get the whole thing posted because I feel like it's been a while. Once she's done the other half I'll post the new version. Thank you!
Disclaimer: If I owned the Hunger Games, I would be out helping cast the movie. Or rewriting parts of Mockingjay.
Luka Charn, District 10
You'd think I'd have a more rational thought as we make our way to the glistening silver train that will whisk us away to our doom, or, okay, the Capitol and the Games, but as soon as we make our way out the wave of photographers and reporters and the locomotive comes into view, the first thing that comes to my mind is whoa, that thing is huge.
The second thing that comes several seconds after is how out of place it looks. In District 10, people use horses, wagons, or their ever reliable own two feet to get them where they want to go. These people couldn't survive a week in our shoes. I feel a tug on my sleeve and look to see Luna next to me, steam from the train swirling up around her ankles. "Isn't it something?" She says, eyes still focused on the silver bullet. This is the first time she's spoken to me. "Yeah," I respond after a moment of silence, unable to hold back a small smile, "Something."
We board the train and are shown to our own personal bedrooms, complete with a large bathroom and an area with a large wardrobe where we can change. Our escort tells me that she'll come and get me for dinner later, and for the time being to change and get comfortable. I take one look around and flop down on the bed. I hit the mattress and sink in, frowning. It's much too soft for my taste; my bed at home isn't nearly as cushy, but it's warm and I'm tempted to fall asleep almost immediately. Here I am thinking about beds when in less than a week I could be dead.
I try to brush off the notion by stepping into the bathroom and stripping down, throwing my jeans and shirt aside. That shirt was Danny's—I suppose he won't be getting it back. I hesitate when I actually get in the shower, because there are so many buttons, and I have no idea which one does what. Back home, we only have one small bath and shower, and it's old and rusty and only produces ice-cold water. It's better than what others have though, and it keeps our small family of three clean.
Finally, I end up pressing three random buttons which shower me in lukewarm water and blue bubbly shampoo that smells faintly of lavender, scrubbed down by a thick sponge thing. I step out of the shower, clean and wrap a towel around my waist as I go and search the wardrobe for something to wear. It seems like an almost endless selection of pants, shirts, and other accessories await me, so I pick up the first thing I see, a pair of khaki pants and a yellow and blue striped polo shirt. Then, I wait for my escort to come back.
But while I wait, my thoughts wander. What will I do, once I'm in the arena? What will the arena even be? Maybe there will be animals-that'd be a piece of good luck. I've always had a knack for animals, horses in particular since I've worked with them from a young age. Unless the animals were dangerous, ferocious beasts, I think I could handle it. I don't know how they'd help me win, though.
How would I possibly win? Would I kill, like my father? My dad was executed for murder three years ago—I don't want to turn into him. I think the guilt would overcome me in the end, too. Anyways, what's the point of being a winner when you've lost your decency and humanity? The thought just leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so I'm grateful when I hear a knock on my door. Dinner.
Lindy Waterson, District 3
They bring dinner out in different stages. The first thing, a rich orange looking soup that our escort Vanilla Clydel calls pumpkin, is put in front of us, topped with a glob of cream in the center. Next comes a perfectly roasted duck complete with greens, spinach by the looks of it, with onions, carrots and green beans. After that coffee, (which I've had at home because my mother demands we always have it in our home at the Victor's Village) with assorted fruit tarts and then an overly large black and white cake that Vanilla Clydel calls tuxedo cheesecake. The food is so overwhelmingly rich, warm and good I find it hard to hate. But I do hate it. They eat all this crap and more every day while people in our district go starving. I'm lucky to live in the Victor's Village, because we actually get some of the good stuff. To add to that my mother is a baker, so we are presented with pastries, breads and other baked goods that she makes us try. But it doesn't even compare to all this. I eat it all not because I want to, but because I need my strength if I'm going to win.
Crawford seems particularly impressed with the food. He can't stop staring at it, and eats it very slowly, as if tasting each bite. It doesn't bother me, but it seems to unhinge Patterson, our male mentor, after a half an hour of nibbling.
"Would you please eat your food! Honestly," The young man grumbled a gaggle of curses under his breath while our female mentor named Flicka just frowned at him. I'm lucky that Flicka is my mentor, rather than my mother, but it would technically be considered unfair if she was my mentor. But that's all District 3 has, just three victors. I suppose it's better than some, were there have only been one or two. So far I've analyzed these two and only gotten that Flicka has a guilty conscience and Patterson is just bitter. I don't see how either is going to help me achieve victory.
"Leave the boy alone, Pat." She says, trying to concentrate on her own meal. "He's just fourteen.
"Oh, right, I forgot. And how old are you again?" Patterson sneers rudely, dull brown eyes now flashing in my direction. "Fifteen? We certainly have a pair of winners this year."
I have the urge to reach out and smack him across the face, but I hold myself back, only allowing a steady glare back at the man. If I'm going to play it sweet and innocent, then getting into a scuffle with one of my mentors probably isn't the best idea.
"I'm finished. May I talk to you?" I turn to Flicka, politely wiping a napkin over my mouth.
"Of course. Patterson, you can advise Crawford too once he's completed his meal. Then we should watch the Reaping—come on, Lindy." She gets up and leaves the room. I follow without a look back at the table. Poor Crawford. Getting a crappy mentor is one of the worst things that can happen to a tribute. At least Flicka is willing to give me advice.
We walk to a small room where a plush couch and large chair are placed, along with a small side table and wide screen television set. From the windows I can see distant lights, which must be from District 1 or 2. We'll be arriving relatively soon, and the closer we get to the Capitol, the more my overwhelming rage bubbles over.
"So," Flicka finally says after we've settled down and gotten comfortable. "Your mother has told me plenty about you. How do you want to play these games?"
"I don't know," I respond dumbly, innocently. Better start pretending now. But Flicka sees right through my disguise.
"Lindy, you're the daughter of a victor, the fiercest in 3. I know she's trained you and your siblings for years now. You probably have the best chance to win out of all the kids in District 3. I know it, Patterson knows it, and Crawford knows it. You know it. Are you sure you want to be the harmless sweet girl when everyone believes you have such a good chance already?"
Her questions surprise me, but so does my own answer. "Yes—I don't want to be a target. The Careers will pick me out easy if they know what I'm capable of,"
"Or," Flicka says casually, "They'd ask you to join them,"
"I don't want to," I reply back forcefully, "I can win on my own,"
Flicka is quiet but she finally shrugs. "Alright, you got it. Shall we take a look at your competitors then?"
Rory Tinsel, District 6
"Move over Anus," I say, as I plop down on the sofa next to the younger bronze haired boy who just sighs as he moves to the right. On my other side is our male mentor, Gallic, and next to him are Emily and Rousetta, our female mentor and escort. "By the way Anus, I forgot to ask. How's it like to finally be back home?" I ask as casually as possible, with a light smile on my face. I don't expect the reaction I get back. Small glistening tears appear in the corner of Oceanus' eyes.
I shouldn't have said that. It was cruel. I mouth a sorry just as Rousetta lets out a yelp of horror. "You're messing up my hair!" She shouts at Gallic, who sits there looking unconcerned. I see him roll his eyes.
"You mean your wig," I say sweetly, looking around me after Rousetta gives me a death glare. "It is a wig, isn't it?"
"Let's watch the Reapings," Rousetta hisses, turning on the television set. Oceanus laughs a little bit and I join him. He's not a bad kid at all really. I've always been fonder of guys than girls friend wise, and maybe if he was older, and I knew him, Oceanus and I would have been friends. But now we're just tributes, and if I'm going to win, it'll mean he'll have to die. I stop laughing and turn my attention back to the T.V. set.
District 1 comes first. The boy is the Career norm; brutish, excited. The girl looks a little different than your average District 1 tribute, but just as dangerous. District 2 is similar; both tributes seem clever and well trained. By the look on the boy's face he already seems to be calculating a winning strategy. The announcers mention how the girl is the younger sister of a tribute who went into the Games a few years ago.
District 3 is at least a little less pathetic than usual. I mean, the boy still is definite bloodbath material, but the girl is a daughter of a past victor as the escort announces gleefully, even before the announcers do.
District 4 has two more capable looking tributes, though maybe not as strong as the other Career districts. District 5 is nothing really special, both looking scared out of their pants. And then it's us. I hear Oceanus suck in his breath as he watches himself make his way to the stage, looking semi-confident with his head up. But I can see his hands shaking. Then me, and oh god, why the hell did I decide to look so ridiculous? Everyone on the couch emits a giggle as I shout crap and make my way up, even Emily, who hasn't spoken more than three words since we got on the train. She's a known morphling addict. Great. I don't expect that to get me any help, but at least I'm memorable. We both are, actually. Oceanus in his unique appearance and background, and me for my goofiness and profanity!
District 7 is pretty impressive, followed by a less than impressive District 8 where their tributes are a washed up druggy and a twelve year old. District 9 has a good-looking guy tribute that I tell myself to keep an eye on. District 10 and 11 are the average, though the girl from 11 looks as tough a nails. And then the Reapings end with the typical District 12 tributes.
"Are there any clear favorites?" Oceanus asks Gallic after the Capitol seal has appeared on the television. Gallic shakes his head. "It's a little too early to say. Once we reach the Capitol I'll have a better idea of who is ahead in the bets, but my guess is that District 1, 2, 4 and 7 will be the favorites. Then again, you guys might be too."
At first I think he's just being nice but then Gallic continues.
"Oceanus, you're a half Capitol, good-looking boy. You might not have a lot of experience, but Capitol girls will like you immediately. And Rory, you made a…clear impression during the Reaping. You guys are noticeable."
"So we wait and see," I say, glancing at Oceanus, whose face seems lifted in just the slightest addition of hope.
"We wait and see," Gallic repeats, turning off the television.
Sulla Hart, District 2
I open my eyes and feel off at once. We are no longer moving along smooth rails—we've stopped. I get up and out of bed immediately and dress in a pair of black shorts and a sharp white collared shirt that has a 2 printed in the left pocket. The outfit brings out the green in my eyes, making me look even more attractive. I exit the room just in time to see Ashkai leaving hers. I pick up my pace until I reach her, and we fall into step.
"Nervous?" I ask her politely, offering my arm.
She gives me a look. She isn't falling for my charm like most girls were. Ashkai is smart—we're both trying to play one another and it isn't working. So I just continue to smile. After a moment, she smiles back, linking her arm in mine.
"No," She replies finally, "Why should I be?"
"It was a stupid question," I agree without hesitation, holding the smile and twinkle in my eye. We reach the dining room where breakfast is being brought out. We take seats next to one another just as our escort rushes in.
"Eat quickly please!" She puffs out, clearly running short of breath. "The reporters are already surrounding our train and District 1 is already out getting all the attention!"
I don't see how that's her problem, but I eat as quickly as I can, which is tough considering there's so much to eat. Once I'm finished I wipe my mouth and wait for Ashkai, who's taking her time. Our escort still stands in the doorway, stomping her foot and looking over her shoulder every so often. I wonder where our mentors are—most likely outside taking questions and getting some spotlight. Apparently winning the games isn't enough for them, they have to have the attention even after. I turn my attention from our escort back to Ashkai. How can I break you? I wonder, trying to decipher a way. Her weak points? There's her brother, who died in the Games. That'll work. And her father, who to me seemed to push her into the Games. I'll get close to her and find out more about her. I'll make her an ally, not an enemy. She'll grow to trust me.
Once Ashkai is finally done I offer her my hand which she takes, and our escort half pushes us out the door of the train. Sunlight blinds me momentarily and then just after I regain my vision, camera flashes make me squint. I feel Ashkai's grip on my hand tighten, and I don't let go. Reporters, asking us all types of questions, suddenly swarm us. I put on a brave face and answer them all, because if I'm going to win the Games, there's no better place to start than with these clueless idiots. They'll spread whatever I tell them like wildfire. I can see the sponsors signing up already.
"Sulla! Sulla Hart!" One pushes his way up to me, pointing a microphone into my face. "Tell us a little bit about yourself!"
I start with a look at Ashkai and a smile.
Hope you guys liked it. I apologize for the lame ending.
Also: what three tributes do you think will be the last ones standing? answer this in your review. in other words, review, please.