Hi everyone, and welcome to the Train Rides! These chapters just keep getting longer and longer... Sorry fam. Hope you enjoy it regardless!

Elliot Sole, 18
District Eight Male

Elliot was the first on the train. He picked at the dirt under his fingernails and strolled down the plush corridor, with its gaudy curtains and polished windows. Through the glass, a few cameras flashed. He paused to cast a quick smirk in their direction, raising one hand in a wave so casual it was almost dismissive. More white-hot flashes. He continued down the corridor, rolling his shoulders so that his spine popped. They should hurry, he thought. She must have had a lot of goodbyes to say.

He pulled open one of the sliding doors that separated the cars and stepped into a room filled with round tables, chairs, and rows of banquettes that lined the walls. Each was covered in a variety of dishes; the smells hit him so hard that his eyes watered. It's what the merchant district smells like, he thought. His fingers tingled. For a moment he wanted to sidle up to the table, palm one of the crumbly cakes, and vanish off into a different car with his prize. But I'm allowed to have this, he thought. No stealing necessary.

There was a thought he hadn't had in awhile. He picked up one of the little cakes and kicked a chair out from under the table, collapsing into it in a graceful sprawl. He lifted the cake to his lips and took a bite. It tasted like fruit, which surprised him; he was holding it at arm's length and examining it when his district partner stumbled into the room.

She was not particularly imposing or interesting to look at. He studied her, crossing his arms over his chest. When she realized he was looking, her blue eyes widened and she ran a finger through her hair, which was the color of a dead leaf. She's got a big nose, he thought, But she's actually kind of pretty, now that I think about it. Good for her.

He placed the cake onto the tablecloth and got to his feet. The girl dropped her gaze to the patterns on the carpet. She clasped her hands in front of her and began to wring them, so that her knuckles went white. As he walked towards her, she began to fidget and chew on her bottom lip.

"I'm Elliot Sole," he said, extending a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

She took his hand. Her grip was limp and warm with sweat. "I'm Flax," she muttered.

Not very talkative, he thought. "I was just having a snack," he said, falling back into his chair. "Do you want to eat with me?" He waited, while Flax's cheeks began to burn. "There's Capitol food all along the wall," he said, pointing. "It's pretty good so far."

"I, ah, I'm not hungry," she said. Her eyes were bloodshot. I bet she's been crying, he thought. When her family visited, she must've cried. She didn't cry onstage. That's too bad. She seemed tougher than that. He took another bite of cake and narrowed his eyes.

"Well, we should get to know each other," he said, waving at one of the other chairs at the table. "C'mon, sit down."

She winced. "Okay," she said, voice husky. She walked to the chair he'd offered and sat down, glancing at the food before turning back to Elliot.

"Hey," he said, "If you want some food you should grab it. They've got enough of it in here for my entire gang, so it'll go to waste if somebody doesn't eat it." He rolled his eyes and shrugged one shoulder, conspiratorial.

"Oh," said Flax, "Yeah, okay." She got up and searched the table for a moment, while he thought, I don't think she has much of a backbone. Not the right attitude for the Games. He frowned again.

Flax picked up a flaky pastry and came back to her seat, tearing off a piece and stuffing it into her mouth. She chewed methodically, unhurried, refusing to meet his eyes. "Okay," said Elliot. "I'll go first, while you eat. I'm Elliot, like I said before. Eighteen years old. I don't think we've met, but that makes sense because it looks like you're from the merchant district, and I'm not." She swallowed; he could see her throat working around the mouthful. "I run a gang," he said. "Smugglers, thieves, pickpockets, you name it. You might've heard of us. People in Eight like to say we're a menace." He smiled, looking at her but seeing right through her, seeing a ragtag group of kids with gap-teeth and crooked fingers and itchy palms. "Personally," said Elliot, "I think we're one of the classiest gangs in Panem. But it's my gang, so I might be biased."

At some point Flax had stopped eating. Her hand was still resting on the pastry, but she didn't move to pick it up. "Oh," she said. "Wow." She looked at the back of her hand. Her expression was fixed.

"Well," said Elliot, "Your turn."

The sliding doors to the dining car rumbled; Flax whipped around and Elliot glanced over as three adults stepped into the room. Saved by the bell, Flax, he thought, and the timing couldn't have been better for her because he seriously doubted she would have been capable of saying anything at all.

He recognized all three of them. Hamilton Damask, Chet Rulfio, District Eight's most recent male and female Victors. Hamilton was small, slender, with ice-blonde sheet-straight hair that the tabloids often speculated was Capitol-treated. Chet was tall, taller than Elliot even, with the dazed look in his eyes that had never entirely gone away after his Games. And of course there was Jeffie Morose, who'd gotten some sort of treatment to dye his skin and body completely white this year, and was currently swaying with excitement in front of his Victors, eyes screwed up with rapturous anticipation.

"Hello," said Elliot. "I'm Elliot Sole."

"Elliot!" said Chet, tearing his eyes away from one of the winking crystals on a chandelier. "I'm Chet Rulfio and it's a complete honor to be your mentor." He grinned. Many of his teeth were still missing from an incident in his Games that had involved his face being ground repeatedly into a doorframe, until teeth flowed from his mouth and puddled at his feet along with the blood. "We're gonna do the best we can with this one, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Elliot, grinning back, "I'm planning on it."

"Awesome." Chet glanced at Hamilton, jabbed his finger at the door. "You mind if we head out, 'Milton? We probably have a lot to discuss an' all that."

"Go ahead," said Hamilton, whose electric-blue eyes were fixed on Flax. "So do we."

"Right," said Chet, waving Elliot to his side. Each of Chet's strides were almost double one of Elliot's; the man had insect-like long legs. "Okay," said Chet, as they passed through the sliding doors into the original car, "You feeling okay, Elliot?"

"Fine," said Elliot, stretching out his neck. "It'd be better if my friends were here, but I'll take what I can get."

"That's a good attitude." They'd stepped into a small room crammed with squashy seats and gaudy cushions. Elliot poked at a lace pillow and grimaced, throwing himself into the only undecorated chair.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "Lace is extremely difficult to make properly." Alassa always said that, Alassa with her nimble fingers who'd lost a few to the machines. "It's wasted here," he said. "Pointless."

"I suppose," said Chet. "But don't worry about that right now, yeah? You can relax for a little bit. It's a nice train."

Elliot leaned forward, clasping his hands together, frowning at the unnecessary patterns on the carpet. I can relax, he thought, But my wits stay about me. I've got to be focused. I can do this. A flicker of a thought- a girl lying beaten and bloody on the concrete floor of the base, sightless eyes accusatory, bulging- you did this to me, Elliot-

I can do this, he thought again. I can kill. He felt a sudden chill. It had gotten cold in the little room. After all. I've done it before.

Saege Olyviere, 18
District Eleven Male

"Alright now, Saege," said Wheatgrass Lowe, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "We need to talk about your angle."

Saege nodded, still mostly transfixed by the landscape that rushed by outside the window. The green of the hills blurred into a running strip at the bottom of the window, with the sky an unchanging robin's egg blue. And yet the train ran so smoothly that the china on the table in between them did not rattle. The tea in his cup didn't even ripple. He stared at the tea and rubbed his chin with one tanned hand. "It's interesting," he said. "How fast we're going and how little it affects us." Then he raised golden eyebrows and said, "I'm sorry, Wheatgrass! I'm a bit distracted."

Wheatgrass nodded. The skin on his bald crown was so tight that it shone in the light from one of the glittering chandeliers. "Perfectly understandable," he said. "But we do have to talk about your angle if you want to win this."

"Right," said Saege, "Of course." He took a sip of tea, marveled privately at the flavor. At home they'd never been able to brew tea properly. There were always leaves at the bottom of the cup, waterlogged little mounds that caught in his teeth when he tried to drink it. And a situation that they could afford to throw income away on something like tea was a rare one. It's amazing, he thought, thinking of the Capitol, all the tea, all the luxury. It's horrible.

Wheatgrass smiled. Dark bags hung from the bottom of each of his brown eyes. "Good." He rubbed the back of his head. "As your mentor," he said, "It's my duty to help you sort your angle out. And I strongly suggest that you play it mysterious. Don't give them what they want. Don't give them anything, if you can help it. Let them come to their own conclusions."

"The Capitol?" said Saege.

"Everyone," said Wheatgrass. "The Capitol, the other tributes, everyone. Whatever you believe and however you feel about the Games, you're not going to be what the Capitol wants." He grimaced. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were thrown into stark relief. "I saw your family and friends after saying goodbye," he said. "You're a good person, Saege. That isn't interesting enough."

Saege frowned. "I've been in fights," he said, "I can defend myself. I'm no pushover."

"That doesn't matter," said Wheatgrass. "Plenty of people have been in fights. The Capitol, and by extension the other tributes, they want someone who can kill. They want someone who wants to kill. Those are the most interesting to watch, and they get the most sponsors." His lips thinned. "A lot of us won by killing our allies," he said. "The Capitol loves that. It's a popular move."

"No," said Saege, very quietly.

"Right. I thought you'd say that." Wheatgrass closed his eyes. "Look," he said, "You don't need to worry about that right now. Just tell me what you think about the angle. Hold your cards close to your chest, don't agree or disagree with anything, just stay closed off and hope the blanks they fill in twist you into something they want you to be. Would you be willing to do that?"

Saege drummed his fingers against the tablecloth. "Yes," he said, "Or something like it. Could it hurt to show off my strength, just a little bit? It might help them make an image of me that isn't… entirely accurate."

Wheatgrass shrugged. "Up to you," he said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. "I didn't, but to be fair I didn't have much strength to show." He smiled, but his eyes were far away. "Take a break until dinner," he said. "Try and keep yourself together. One of these cars has movies in it. I'll be in my compartment; if you need me, just knock."

"Sure," said Saege. "Thank you, Wheatgrass. I'm glad you're my mentor; you've been very helpful."

"I try to be," said Wheatgrass. But again he wouldn't meet Saege's eyes.

When his mentor left the compartment, Saege rose to his feet and stared out the window for a while, as District Eleven surged by. Home, he thought. Every second we're getting farther away from home. Mom, Acaycia, Aster. Colly… His eyes were burning. He balled his hands into fists and squeezed them tight, and eventually the lump in his throat melted away and he could breathe again. His shoulders slumped and he tiled his head back, sighing noisily in the back of his throat.

I'm a human mystery, he thought. Mysteries don't show their emotions like that. They certainly don't cry. I can't afford to cry, not anymore.

He wandered from the window and stepped through one of the sets of sliding doors. The train car beyond was shadowy, the only point of light a screen that flashed color and blared music and laughter. The 148th Annual Hunger Games! read a banner on the top of the screen in flowing script. It's the reapings, thought Saege. Somebody's watching the reapings.

Not hard to guess who. "Hi, Clover," he said, just as his district partner straightened up on the couch to peer at him. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a little while?"

"Sure," she said, studying him. "Take a seat." She had been hunched over a little notebook, which was filled with cramped and desperate handwriting. Now startled from it, she blinked for a few moments, as he sat down beside her on the plush couch. In the glow from the screen, her usual light brown skin seemed pallid. The scabs and scarring on her face were as grotesque as they'd been when Clover had been reaped. He wanted to ask, but bit down on his tongue. Never a reason to ask someone what happened to their face, he told himself. Never.

"What are you doing?" he said. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Reapings," she said, waving a hand at the screen. "I'm watching them. Seeing what I can learn." She glanced at her notebook. "Not a lot," she said. "But it'll help to have all the other tributes memorized before we get to the Capitol and have to meet them." She waved a hand and the recording on screen flickered to life. District Six, the banner read, Kara Renault and Tucker Marque. On screen, Tucker Marque was summoned to the stage but did not appear from the crowd. Eventually a few Peacekeepers hoisted him onstage. Tucker's legs had been trembling so hard that he seemed incapable of walking.

Saege glanced at Clover's notebook. Under Tucker's name, she'd written Weak. Not a likely threat.

He stared at the words. "He seems like a good kid," he said.

Clover glanced away from the screen. Its reflection danced in her brown eyes. "Yeah," she said, mouth twisting. "It's too bad."

"What's too bad?" said Saege.

"That he's in this," said Clover. "That he's going to die."

"He might live," said Saege softly.

Clover shook her head and turned back to the screen. "I wish we all could," she said. "But we can't, so when it comes down to it, I'm not rooting for him." Her pen scratched across the paper. He spotted his own name, decided he didn't want to know, looked away.

"We can't all win," he agreed. "Doesn't change the fact that he's probably a good kid. I'd like to help him if I could."

"That's good of you," said Clover, hunching closer to her notebook. "You have good impulses, Saege."

"What about you?" he asked, blurting the words. "In the arena. What are your impulses?"

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. On screen, Tucker Marque trembled like a leaf. "Well," she said, "I want to win. That's my only impulse."

"Right," said Saege. Then he fell silent. Clover turned fully back to the screen, and her pen skittered across paper. Eventually he stood up and left the room. She did not seem to notice.

Zippina "Zippy" Sparks, 15
District Five Female

She'd cried a bit, when she was reaped. Couldn't help it, staring out at the crowd that looked back at her with mostly impassivity. Her eyes were fixed to the other fifteen year old girls, while a mantra in her head chanted I never got a chance to make them my friends, I never got my chance, now I'll die and I'll never have had friends. So she cried then.

When her parents came in, she cried harder, until pain skittered across the surface of her eyeballs every time she blinked. If it was any consolation, her district partner had cried too. When they'd convened on the train, his hazel eyes were bloodshot and dazed. We're in the same boat, Zippy thought, staring up at the ceiling. Me and him. We're both in it now.

At least she'd stopped crying.

It felt as though a balloon had inflated inside her brain and was pressing into the inside of her skull, expanding it, a ceaseless pressure that could not be alleviated. She huffed and rolled onto her side, hugging one of the soft Capitol pillows to her chest. The bed was warm, plush, gentle in a way her coarse blankets at home had never been. But I'd still rather be home, thought Zippy. Mom could cook me something… Dad would tell me to quit being so serious and come play Districts and Capitol with him. Her eyes burned, but even after she blinked they stayed dry. I cried too much, I bet, she thought. Now I can't cry anymore.

Maybe it was for the best.

There were three knocks on her door. "Zippina?" said District Five's escort, Nayala Kid. "Dinner's in five minutes."

"Coming!" Zippy called, rolling onto her back and closing her eyes. I want to sleep, she thought, But I need to eat. Eating's important now more than ever. Every calorie counts. If I waste even one, that could be the difference between starvation and survival in the- in the arena. In the Games.

She shot to her feet, rummaged through a pile of blankets she'd kicked to the floor for her shoes. Better to not wander with bare feet. Who knew what was lying around.

She'd memorized the layout of the train within five minutes of her arrival, and so found herself in the dining car three minutes ahead of schedule. Laid out on one of the central tables was a series of covered silver platters. The smell was intoxicating. Zippy's mouth watered. Fish from Four, she thought, Wheat from Nine, livestock from Ten, crops from Eleven, and it's all here in front of me in Five because of the trains they designed in Six. When this country works, it works.

She sat down and tapped her feet until the sliding door opened again. She glanced up. "Natalie!" she said, as her mentor sauntered into the room, "Look! Dinner's here."

"I see it," said Natalie Kern, flashing the famous half-smirk that had arguably won her her Games. "Good. I could eat your district partner." She threw herself into the chair opposite Zippy. Her blue eyes were barely visible over the rim of one of the covered platters. Neither of them were particularly tall. "Where's everybody else?"

"I'm here," said Nayala, stepping into the dining car and finding herself a seat. She was tall, willowy, dark-skinned and light-eyed. Very beautiful. She's lucky, thought Zippy, thinking about her own snub nose and thin lips. I wish I looked like that. "I don't know where Manny and Liam are," Nayala was saying.

"Ten to one they're both crying," said Natalie. "Well, I'm gonna start." She tore off one of the lids and slid an entire roast chicken onto her plate. "Oh nice!" she said. "I love it when they hit me up with the appetizers before they get to the real meal."

"Actually," said Zippy, "I think that's supposed to be the main course. Most women, on average, couldn't eat that much chicken by themselves without being sick. I think it was meant to be a main course dish that you share with everybody." She thought about it. "Also," she said, "You probably shouldn't start without the others. They might think it's rude and it's definitely against proper Capitol etiquette, I'm pretty sure."

Natalie, who had shoved half of the chicken inside her apparently cavernous mouth, pulled a long white bone from between her teeth. "Huh," she said, screwing up her eyes. "You know, I can't tell whether you think I'm a complete moron who didn't already know that stuff, or whether you genuinely just wanted to let me know because you were being helpful." She chewed on the end of the bone. Zippy heard a crack. "For the record," said Natalie, sucking out the marrow, "I am a complete moron. So throw around your little factoids if you want, Zip. Can't promise they'll stick though."

Zippy's hands clutched at the napkin she'd been settling in her lap. "Oh," she said. Her throat felt tight. "I…" She squeezed the napkin. "I don't think…" she tried again, but her voice was small. It's like at home, she thought, staring down at the tablecloth, digging her fingers into the cloth in her hands to distract herself. I said something stupid again and now she doesn't like me. Why the hell did I say that?

Natalie, who'd been licking chicken blood off her face, wiped the rest away with the back of her hand and said "Whoa whoa whoa, hey, don't be upset, okay? I know you don't think I'm a moron. Nobody could possibly think that, because I'm Natalie freakin' Kern and people don't associate me with idiocy." There was food all over her face. "Cool it, Zipster, alright?"

Zippy's cheeks burned. "Sorry," she muttered, "It won't happen again."

"Oh geez," said Natalie, "No, don't withdraw this early in the game, we still haven't gotten to the point where we bicker a lot but actually have a really close bond yet! Don't deprive me of that, Zipadoodle." Her head whipped to the side. "Yo, look, it's our district partners! That's fun, right?"

Zippy glanced where Natalie was looking. Sure enough, Manny Axelworth and Liam Zealot had entered the car. Both were diminutive, looking at their feet, and shuffling. Where Liam was scarred and twisted from a Games so brutal Zippy had been told to never watch it, Manny was young, scrawny and mop-headed, huge brown eyes peering out from behind thick glasses. When he saw Zippy looking, his eyes widened to an impossible diameter and a blush tinged his dark cheeks scarlet. He slipped into the seat next to her and fidgeted, picking up his fork and dropping it, folding and unfolding his napkin.

Natalie was saying something quietly to Liam, so Zippy took the opportunity and leaned in towards Manny. "Hey," she said. "Just so you know, you're not supposed to do that sort of thing at the table. You should just sit still with your napkin in your lap until dinner starts. Otherwise people might think you're rude."

"Oh!" said Manny, sitting up ramrod straight, immediately dropping the crumpled napkin into his lap. His blush deepened. "Oh-okay. Sorry. I duh-duh-don't wanna seem ruh-rude."

"It's okay!" said Zippy. The nausea in her stomach was beginning to abate. "I bet you didn't know. I know a lot, so I can tell you if you're doing something that goes against Capitol etiquette."

"Thuh-thanks," said Manny. He cast a quick, trembling smile in her direction. His eyes were huge and sweet behind the glasses. "That's really nuh-nuh-nice."

"No problem," said Zippy, smiling back. He's not mad, she thought, That's a first. Even Natalie was a little bit mad. I guess he really needs my help for this. Warmth bloomed along her spine. I bet that's how it works when you have friends, she thought, watching Manny carefully ladling potatoes onto his plate. Not that I'd know. But I bet that's what it feels like.

She didn't cry once through dinner. It was the longest she'd gone since she'd been reaped. A new record.

Theresa DeWitt, 18
District Twelve Female

When three o' clock came and went, she got up and out of bed and strolled down the corridor. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpeting. Faint strips of light on the ceiling glowed a phosphorescent blue that kept her from losing her way. Still, the gathering dark around her made her grind her teeth, kept her heart beating hollowly in her breast.

She ducked into the room she remembered from earlier, the room Jetta had suggested. Her mentor, who had been bleeding heavily from the nose at the time, had pointed Theresa towards the train's only library, which had books on Hunger Games strategy that Jetta claimed would be interesting. I guess it makes sense that she can't train me herself, Theresa thought, thinking of the blood that trailed from the cotton handkerchief plugged into both of Jetta's nostrils, blood that arced and shimmered down Jetta's wrist like a line of paint. She has that hereditary disease, Theresa thought. She's always bleeding.

At least Jetta's motivations were clear. She wanted Theresa to live, wanted to trade places, Jetta back to Twelve and Theresa to the show, the Victor's Village. We want the same thing, thought Theresa, We both want me to live.

So Jetta was easy to trust.

As she slid the door to the library shut behind her, there was movement in the shadowy room beyond. Someone tall and slender was standing between the bookcase and the window, holding a book up to the glass so that moonlight bathed the pages. He glanced up at her approach, and snapped the book shut. The sound was loud enough that she almost jumped.

Her district partner, Dante Blackthorn. Harder to trust.

"Hi, Dante," she said, smiling. His sclera were reflective in the dark. "I guess we both had the same idea." She glanced at the ceiling. "Do you want me to turn the light on?" she said. "You would probably see better."

"Sure," said Dante, pulling his book towards his chest. "Thanks."

"Of course," said Theresa, reaching for the light switch. "It's no problem." She flipped the switch and the light was sudden and scalding; she blinked away tears and looked at her bare feet until the pain dulled.

When she looked back up, Dante was staring at her. He was tall, with well-defined features, a handsome face surrounded by shaggy black hair the color of a crow's feather. His brown eyes were flat. He could kill me right now, thought Theresa. Here in this train car. They'd punish him for it, but what can they do? Kill him? They're already going to kill him. If anything, they'd reward him for starting the Games on his own terms.

Then she shook her head, very slightly. No, she thought, That isn't likely. He wouldn't do that. You're paranoid, Theresa. It's because of your situation.

She doubted very much that she was the only tribute feeling a little paranoid tonight.

"I don't want to disturb you," she said. "I can find something else to do. Besides, I'm not the most literary girl in the world!" She laughed quietly to herself. "It's probably better that you read."

"You can read too," said Dante. His lips moved, but his expression did not change. "There's plenty of room." His lupine eyes were fixed on hers.

A chill crawled through her spine. Stay on your toes, she thought, as she strolled to the bookcase and made a show of reading through the titles. You don't know him. You don't know what he'll do. Especially since…

Well. She wasn't sure he even remembered her, if she'd made as much of an impact on him as he had on her. She could only hope that he did not remember.

She rubbed her chin. "I can't decide," she said. "Most of these books are things I don't know anything about." She peered at Dante out of the corner of her eye. "What did you choose, if you don't mind my asking?" she said. "Maybe you could inspire me here."

He glanced at the spine of the book in his hand. "It's called Breaking it Down: The Hunger Games," he said. "It's about Hunger Games stats. How many people from Twelve died in the Bloodbath, how many Victors betray their allies statistically. That kind of stuff."

"Ah," said Theresa. "It any good?"

He shrugged.

"Well," she said, turning back to the bookcase. She was sweating heavily under her pajamas. Remember, she told herself, Pay attention to him, don't let him get too close. You don't know what he's going to do. "Maybe I'll pick out something like that. Wouldn't know what else to go for anyway."

"I think I'll turn in," said Dante. "I'm sure you'll find something. Good night, Theresa." He nodded at her once, turning to walk away towards the sliding doors. His loose shirt hung from his back. She recoiled at the scars there, ugly twisted things that latticed his olive skin.

"Dante," she said, hating herself even as she said it, thinking, Theresa don't say anything, he's not your responsibility you don't know him, but feeling the urge to help and heal as overwhelming. "I don't want to impose."

He looked at her over his shoulder. There was something meaningful in the way he refused to look away. "Your back," she said quietly. "Did that happen… is that from that night? The night that I met you?" Now he remembers. Her heart was wild. You shouldn't've said that, Theresa.

Dante leaned against the closed door, folding his arms across his chest. Hiding his back from me, she thought. Oh Capitol, I shouldn't've said anything. "I didn't think you remembered that," said Dante coolly. "It was a long time ago."

"I didn't remember much," said Theresa, "Not until they called you onstage. Just bits and pieces…" She trailed off and looked to the side, seeing another night like a film over her eyes. "We must've been, oh, eleven years old," she said.

"I was ten," said Dante.

There was a fluttering in her stomach, for a moment. That's more than he usually says, she thought. He didn't have to offer that up to me. But he did. Maybe I'm helping after all. "They were throwing your family out of the merchant district," she said. "Your father… I don't remember that part very well."

"Executed," said Dante calmly. His gaze did not waver. His face was impassive. "He was ripping off every other merchant family in Twelve." The corners of his lips trembled once, as if unsure whether to tip up or down. "Your family would have been one of the ones we begged for shelter, after they shot him, before they dragged us out."

"Right," said Theresa. "Which we didn't give you." She remembered it very clearly now. She was young, curious, peering through a crack between her mother and the door frame at the haggard family in the street. The raised voices had disturbed her. And she remembered the boy, the only boy in the family, open-faced and shaking. There was blood on his collar. It would have been his father's blood, after he'd been shot. "Our family- every family- they wanted you gone for what your father did," she said. "He cheated all of us. I remember how furious my dad was."

"Your family runs All Sorts, right?" said Dante.

"Yes," said Theresa. "My dad, he… He's very proud of it. We've all worked hard to be as successful as we are." She frowned. "That's why he turned your family away when they needed help. That doesn't excuse it." She took a step forward. "We were neighbors," she said. "Before we ran you out of town. We could've done better. We should have." Don't lash out, she thought, Don't come after me for this. Forgive me. I can't have an enemy like you in the Games. We shouldn't have done this to you, Dante Blackthorn.

He pulled away, pressed his back against the wall. "You were a kid," he said. "You didn't have any power."

"No," she said. "But I understand if you're angry about it, anyway." She tried for a smile which felt stiff on her face. "You can tell me about it," she said. "If you want to. You can be mad at me. At us."

He shook his head. His shaggy black mane danced around his chin. "It was a long time ago," he said again. "Don't worry about it." He grasped the door handle and pulled it open with one yank. "It was… good. Talking to you. Goodnight, Theresa." Then he stepped through the door and let it slide shut behind him.

When she heard it click shut, she collapsed against the bookcase and let out a long sigh. He remembered, she thought. And he didn't say that he forgave me, which means that he doesn't. Oh, Capitol, I shouldn't've said anything.

Then she winced. He said it was good, she thought, Talking to me. Maybe I helped him, by letting him talk. It isn't all bad.

No, shaking her head, He hates me, in the arena he'll kill me. I can't help him. I can't help anyone but myself. I can't, I can't, I can't.

Her head ached. She pressed her palms flat against her temples and squeezed. Even then she felt the pain for a while longer.

Kara Renault, 18
District Six Female

When Kara stepped into the dining car, she was taken aback by the quantity of food spread out on the banquettes. Her stomach had been growling, but quieted abruptly when she entered the room. It was so much food that her belly felt distended just looking at it. She probed at her belly and frowned. Like morning sickness. Like she was pregnant all over again.

I'm not pregnant, though, she thought, and the relief that came along with that thought was immediate and heady. She sat herself in the nearest chair and picked up a stem with dozens of globular purple fruits dangling along its length, and picked one off the stem with her teeth and chewed it. A little sour, she thought. It's good.

From her left came the pneumatic hiss of the sliding doors opening. "Hey, Kara," said Tucker Marque, trotting into the dining car. She smiled wide to greet her district partner, forcing herself to keep smiling even as her gaze raked over his skinny limbs, the way his shirt fluttered around a hollow abdomen. He's so thin, she thought. He must not have been eating very much back home.

"Have some breakfast," she said, kicking a chair out from under the table for him to sit in. "But don't eat too much or you'll be sick. Your body isn't used to this kind of food."

"I know, I know," said Tucker, reaching for one of the china plates. Then he bent over the table and began to scoop a bit of everything he could reach onto the plate. Kara eyed the towering pile of foodstuffs and frowned. Well, he'll stop eating when he can't eat anymore, she decided. I can't run his whole life. I hardly know him.

But she'd sat with him through dinner and then after dinner, when he wanted to watch the reapings. She'd comforted him by pointing out that he hadn't cried, and lots of other tributes had. She'd cried, when they called her name. Not very much. But she'd cried on stage as she stared out at the endless faces and thought, I might never see my son again. It was impossible not to cry.

Now she sat staring at Tucker with her chin resting in her hands. His brown eyes glimmered as he shoveled forkfuls of pastry into his mouth, and when he saw her looking he grinned for a moment and said "Do you think I can eat everything on this table?"

"Hmm," said Kara. "I'm not sure you should try."

"No, watch me!" He bounced in his seat. Then he attacked his plate with renewed vigor. "When I win the Games I'll probably start a food show," he said, in between mouthfuls. Crumbs spewed from his brown lips like impassioned words. "After Victor's Village, I mean. It'll be really good." He paused for a moment, swallowing a mouthful so huge she could see his throat working around it. "If I win, I mean," he said. "Right now it's fifty-fifty, you or me. But Six has got it in the bag this year for sure. I guarantee it."

She smiled. "I agree completely," she said. "We're a couple of winners."

"You bet we are." He took another gigantic mouthful. He was beginning to slow down. "Maybe they'll let us both win," he said. "Like in that other Games, before the Second Rebellion."

They won't, thought Kara. Never again. But she could see it for a moment, her white hand in Tucker's dark one, raised to the sky. Victors. It was such a visceral image that when it cleared she had ducked her head so that her bangs hid her eyes while she dried them. "Maybe," she said huskily. "Our mentors would be very happy."

"Ooh, yeah," said Tucker, abandoning his plate completely and swiveling in his chair to face Kara. He drummed his fingers against his skinny thighs. "Plus our families would be all, Oh shit, two Victors!" He stopped fidgeting for a moment. "My family really needs the money," he said. "So we'd better pull it together and win, Kara. I don't even mind if we have to split it!"

"I don't mind either," she said, "And my family could certainly use some extra savings." She stared into a future that seemed unlikely, saw her bringing Cooper to the Capitol, getting him any medical care he needed, toys, clothes, everything. "My son's almost two," she told Tucker. "He wouldn't understand the significance. But I'd come home after my stint on that TV show and spoil him rotten!"

"Oh wow," said Tucker, "I didn't know you had a kid. What's his name?"

"Cooper," said Kara.

"That's a nice name," said Tucker. "When I have a kid I'm going to name him something really off the chain, like Jaguar. There's a kid in my class named Jaguar and I'm super jealous." He picked up his fork and spun it in a circle on the table. When it slowed, the tines were pointing at Kara. "He sounds like a good kid," said Tucker. "I bet you're a great mom."

The urge to lunge across the table and wrap her arms around him was so great that Kara had to squeeze her fists to keep herself from doing it. "Thank you, Tucker," she said. "I don't know that I'm a great mom. But I certainly try to be."

There was another pneumatic hiss. Kara glanced away from Tucker and towards the woman who had just entered the room. There was something glaringly average about Beatrice Hunt, District Six's current female Victor. She was of an average height and weight, face too harsh to be pretty but too well-shaped to be ugly. She must have been in her late twenties, since she'd won the 138th Games, but the expression on her face made her seem much older than that. When she saw them she smiled, but it wasn't a lasting thing. "Hey guys," she said. "Sorry to interrupt. But Tucker, could you go find your mentor please? I think Reuben is somewhere in the next compartment."

"Yeah, sure." Tucker grabbed a crumbly muffin off his plate and bolted for the door. "See you later, Kara!"

"See you, Tucker." She smiled after him as he vanished through the door.

Beatrice sat across from Kara at the table and reached for one of the fruits on the stem. "You look like you're getting on pretty well with Tucker," she said, popping one of the fruits into her mouth with pale, long fingers.

"Yeah," said Kara. "He reminds me of my son."

"Right." Beatrice swallowed. "So you're thinking of allying with him?"

Kara nodded, brushing a few dark brown hairs out of her eye. "If he accepts," she said. "I was planning on asking before we got off the train."

Beatrice opened her mouth, closed it again. "Well," she said, at length. "That's good for Reuben, anyway. He loves when our tributes work together." She scratched the back of her curly head and stared at the fruit on her plate. "So," she said. "You, uh, are you still feeling confident about your angle?"

"Fairly confident," said Kara. "I think I can pull it off." She pursed her lips. "Young mother starstruck by the Capitol and trying to win for her son. It's not all that fake. Just the bits where I'm in love with Capitol fashion and architecture." She smiled. "Even that's not so false."

"Right. Just remember, when you get off the train they're going to prep you and then it's the Opening Party. You've gotta mingle if you can." She winced. "I wasn't so much a fan of it but I did my best. There'll be potential sponsors around, so just stick with the angle. Love the Capitol, love your son. It should be enough." Then there was a silence, while Beatrice stared at her hands. "I'll tell Reuben you're allying with Tucker," she said finally, "If that's really what you want."

"That's what I want," said Kara. "I'm certain of that."

"Then I'll tell him." Beatrice got to her feet. "I'll be in my compartment if you need me. Don't worry about the Party, Kara, it'll probably go okay. Just keep mingling." Then she walked quickly to the doors and left the room. Kara was alone with her food.

I'll watch Tucker at this party, she decided. He talks big, so his confident underdog angle should work out for him just fine. But I need to make sure he doesn't say anything that will hurt him. I'll stick with him. She yawned, and laid her head on the table, ear flattened against the tablecloth. I don't know about this, she thought. I don't know about any of this. In her mind's eye she saw Cooper, little Cooper, smiling and waving and reaching out to her with one chubby fist. But I'm doing my best. Capitol knows it. That's all I can do.

Eagle eyed readers might have noticed that, in Kara's POV, I mentioned something about an "Opening Party" and nothing about Chariot Rides. What could this mean? Could it be that I abolished the Chariot Rides because I think they're boring and don't have a lot of room for character development and replaced them with a cool party scene?

Hmm tough to say. Guess we'll find out next chapter!