Tres
During the Games, there were times where I imagined how life would be after I won. These were rare occurrences of course, too preoccupied with Chiffon and Eli's plots to kill me to think of anything besides that. And after the Sofia incident, I pretty much knew there was no future beyond getting cozy in a wooden box. But the times I did have hope of making it out alive, I let my imagination run wild. Embracing Esteban and Yesenia, partying it up in the Capitol, romancing Rhapsody till the cows came home, seeing my family again and throwing a fiesta that'll have the pigs and chickens dancing, becoming a living legend, bringing home a tribute every year.
Instead, I'm spending the first of my glory days with my head and butt, whichever end decides to open first, on the golden throne. Mind you a very expensive golden throne, but a toilet nevertheless. Gagging one last time, I go to stare at the mess I've made. Orangeish-brown is splattered all along the bowl, some spilling over to the toilet seat, toilet side, and marble flooring from when I couldn't open the top off in time. Tiny pieces of food float in the gooey mixture of vomit, phlegm, stomach acid, and toilet water. Strips of chicken. A whole piece of broccoli. Yesterday's dinner hurled up for a second helping. The sight and smell of it causes me to gag again, only this time nothing but air comes out. What's there left to cough up, my guts?
Stumbling outside the dim washroom, streams of sunlight come pouring through the rectangular windows lining the walls, shooing away the remnants of sleep still on my eyes. Dammit, what time is it? When I went in, it was still dark. Or was that the third time I got up to empty my bowels?
To say I've been having a rough morning would be the understatement of the year. After last night's dinner, I felt like shit, physically and emotionally. I couldn't get Sofia out of my mind (still can't), so I tried to sleep. I couldn't get the others out of my head (still can't), so I woke up. This kept going on and on until the vomiting and diarrhea began. Originally, Rhapsody was eager to sleep with me, jumping in bed before I could and cuddling up to my warm body. But between the nightmares, the hallucinations, and the decorating the silk sheets and her custom-made, Tigris Ermacora nightgown a new shade of green, I found myself alone on a bare mattress two hours into the night. The medicine the Capitol gave me yesterday was clearly a temporary remedy, enough for me to function and appear competent for my Victory Interview then ship me off in whatever condition I may be in to Ten.
Even through the sickness and exhaustion, I couldn't go to sleep. I didn't want to. Why would I when they wait for me there? I don't dream anymore. Just nightmares. They give me two choices: relive the horror of the Games down to the exact details or enjoy the warped, hooked on morphling version. Last night it was Penelope dying over, and over, and over again. Two nights ago a derma digger infested Creek decided to pay a visit along with a bloody Radiance and a headless Valor. It was a triple-team matchup: Radiance to my left, Valor on my right, Creek pinning me down, choking me to death, resurrecting me, then going at it again. Eli decided to join in on the fun next, shoving off the Careers and mounting me. He didn't yell, scream, or do anything. Just stared me down.
I still remember the scent his wounds. Fresh, sharp, iron tones. Gamey almost, like a wild dog's perhaps.
I hate going to sleep. Sleep is when the horror begins, and the horror feels so real. I need a Vroom! Vroom! Bar. It's been too long since I've had one. The physical craving is gone, but the psychological craving…it never left. I can't function without my comfort. It helped me win the Games. It couldn't be too harmful to rely on it every once in a while. Other Victors have demons far worse than a simple energy bar.
How am I gonna secure my supply of Vroom! Vroom! Bars without Esteban or Yesenia noticing?
BOOP!
My plans are halted when I run straight into something. That something turns out to be a tall man. A tall, angry who's rubbing his pointy nose after our head-on collision.
"Did they remove your eyes too you mindless Avox?" he grumbles, scraping my bare shoulder with his colored nails. A hiss comes out of me, from the light pain and the man's attacking me. He's lucky I'm too sick to retaliate.
Through my accidental wandering I've landed in the backside of the train. The smaller compartments make up this portion, though they're still pretty much Capitol-sized: spacious and outrageously large. In the center of the room sits a daybed upholstered in an overly feminine design, smothered in pillows and blankets. Around the place stand a few furniture pieces I don't see serving much use beyond decoration. There's an end table, floor mirror, bare bookcase, and floral arrangements. I guess this is a longue or waiting room of sorts.
The tall man looks at me. I look at him. We must be thinking the same question: what the hell are you doing here?
The man goes to complain about an unsightly bruise and reporting me to my boss when suddenly something shuts him up. Pushing his face uncomfortably close to mines, his already beady eyes squint then widen, just about popping out of his blackened eyelids. The stench of wine, stale cologne, and sweat radiates from the man's body. Combined with the steady rock of the train, I'm three seconds away from rushing to the bathroom for another round of Del Rojo vs. Bowl.
"You won?" he shouts, gazing at me with the eyes of a non-believer witnessing a supernatural being in the flesh.
I swallow, partially to keep the vomit down and partially to avoid telling this guy off. He's obviously talking about the Games, but what does he mean 'I won'? Of course I won!
I taste the bile in my throat when I go to speak. "Were you in hiding for the past two-three weeks? And who are you? Only District Ten people were allowed to board this train."
Putting his hands on his hips, the man purses his lips, offended that I don't recognize him. "Who else would I be Giovanni?"
The dramatic get-up. That annoying accent. The ever present odor of alcohol…
"Picasso?"
He curtsies, then swiftly comes back up. "Yours truly Del Rojo."
Paying closer attention to his features, I see that the man really is Picasso, but a drastically changed one. He has ditched the awful black body paint (thank Panem) in place of what I assume to be his natural skintone, a golden olive tone. His blue wig is gone as well, replaced by a multicolored black, green and white ponytail running down his back nearly sweeping the burgundy carpet. The lime green top and black tights and boots are also upgrades from that train wreck of a suit he had on before. Unfortunately, the pink teeth are still there and it's like a drunken horse slathered on his makeup by the haphazard way it's been designed. Before the Games he was a murderous clown with a horrible skin condition. Now he's a cross-dressing marching band member who did his makeup in the dark. Progress is progress I guess.
Aw. Now I can't call him Clownface. Getting cheap thrills out of insulting Picasso is what got me by and he had the nerve to go and make himself look like a semi human being.
I think I feel a little betrayed by his makeover.
I don't mean for it to come out as a question, but lo and behold it does. "Nice look?"
Geez, I can't even try to be nice to my escort.
Picasso notices the slight sarcasm, raising one eyebrow but ignoring the hidden jab. "Why thank you. Fashions come and go in the Capitol. Can't be seen with the same look for too long."
Nodding, I change the subject. Discussing the big city's fashion trends is far from my to-do list. "Not meaning anything by this but why are you here? Better yet, where were you all this time?"
"Getting a full body scrub. Sea salt, porifera, the works," he hums. "It takes a day to get the paint off and another to recover. All that intense scrubbing leaves you redder than a robster."
I don't know what a lobster is but I assume it's not something a Capitolite would want to resemble.
Picasso plays with his floor-length extensions as he speaks, swinging the end of it like a cowboy would a small lasso. He looks quite ridiculous doing the motion. "An escort's job really isn't needed until after the Victory Interview anyway."
An eyebrow is raised. "How come?"
"Because I'm coming home with you."
My laugh has Picasso jumping out of his skin. Cowering behind the daybed, he curses at himself then at me. "Damn you boy, it's too early for that nonsense!"
This has to be a joke. What is he, an added bonus to winning? My escort staying in District Ten. Living with me. How? Why? No way! For what possible reason could Picasso Notoriano have for staying home with me? Capitolites aren't made for the district life, especially not something like my escort. I can see him now: complaining about the manure, criticizing my family, guzzling down all the tequila and moonshine he could find. He wouldn't last 24 hours back home, and that's being nice.
He comes from behind the furniture, glaring my way. "I'm not too thrilled to walk the turd-filled streets of Ten. Can barely do it when it's Reaping season but a job is a job. And stop your laughing boy. You settle down or I'll stay two days longer just to aggravate you."
That shuts me up. I notice that for once, my escort is not totally wasted, or even tipsy. When he isn't too inebriated to function, Picasso seems of a man that you could somewhat respect. A groggy, slightly disoriented man but someone you could see helping tributes through their way in the Capitol and not going off to partying the week of training. At least not every night.
"Escorts are required to show their winning tribute the proper social and lifestyle etiquette of a Victor," Picasso explains. "Since it's a near miracle for you people to bring home the living and your pre-Games conditions are just about inhumane, Victors from non-Career districts need extra polishing and attention. Unfortunately. I doubt Victor Ventura or Ruiz can do the job. Victor Casalez, possibly. Had Victor Ibarra not been so ill I wouldn't have nearly as much on my plate."
"Gee, thanks for your concern."
Pink teeth gleam and glimmer into a smile. "I wouldn't do it if I had to. Now, come with me. I have an incredible hangover and you look ready to kill over. You and me both need to fill our bellies. Even if you are," he looks me up and down. "Still in your underwear."
A hint of something devious crosses his eyes. Was that curiosity? Lust? "Blue boxer briefs. Not bad."
My hands go to cover up my privates to shoo my escort's lingering gaze away. Ain't no way you're touching this, pervert. District Thirteen would be discovered before that happens.
I had honestly planned on going back to bed or at least setting aside time to prepare for breakfast, not ready to face the world yet, but with Picasso's smooth hands entwined in mine, I'm dragged down the tumbling train's compartments. My character of an escort chatters on about the happenings of the Capitol, exciting going-ons I missed while off killing a few children. I only catch some of the man's jibber-jabber, not really thinking anything he's talking about being top priority in my life. There are knockoffs of my Interview suit already in production. A party being held tomorrow night is called 'Freaks in Fur'. Whatever that entails I do not want to know. Three babies were named Giovanni yesterday. One person, a woman at that, is now the beaming 'Ms. Del Rojo Abbiati'.
Who knew Victors have such a massive effect on the Capitol crowds. To name your child after us. Are we revered in the Capitol, seen as untouchable gods to the masses? I'm not sure whether to be honored or disgusted. Winning the Hunger Games really isn't that serious. Well, it is but not to that extent. I'm just a rancher kid who got lucky, and I'm feeling anything but unstoppable or godlike right about now.
"And whips are the hottest toys for kids now. Shopowners can't keep them on their shelves. The rhinestone-encrusted and glow in the dark ones are the best sellers…why good morning, good morning everyone!" Picasso yells when we enter the room, plopping down on the cushy velvet seats and immediately starts commanding the room.
"What is this: breakfast or the Hunger Games? Bring out more plates, please," he dictates to an older Avox beside him. The greying man hops to it, disappearing through a doorway bringing along three others. The extravagant man turns his attention to his colleagues. "How are you two? Panem knows I need a pill and a good mimosa after the slew of celebration parties I've had to attend."
It seems that Esteban and Yesenia have beaten us to breakfast, rising up early (or early compared to the hour I had planned on getting up at) to enjoy the Capitol's delights before we arrive in Ten. A modest plate of fruits, pastry, and omelet sit in front of each, bite-sized compared to the feast already coming out for Picasso. Neither mentor seems too thrilled to see the man, the mood in the room shifting with his appearance. Yesenia is, as usual, more discreet with her emotions, greeting him with a polite good morning and throwing in a smile as well.
"I've been better," replies Esteban, not looking up from his plate. Baboso. Talking about me being snarky. Eyes find me on the other side of the room. I haven't moved from the doorway yet, not trusting my stomach or bowels around so much food. Esteban shakes his head at the sight of my near naked body. Yesenia giggles a bit before going back to her plate.
"And here I was thinking we overdressed for this colega," says Esteban, chuckling a bit. Both mentors are dressed far less spectacularly now. No more furry fashions. It's jeans, t-shirt, and the standard-issue flimsy sandals we get back home in muted tones of blue and grey. The District Ten uniform. The glitz and glam have been wiped off as well. Early signs of aging appear on Yesenia's thin face, lining her cheeks and forehead. Faded scars, some small, some big, run down Esteban's arms, warrior marks that withstood the Capitol's tampering. With the Games over, there's no need to be dolled up anymore. I like them like this. They're more natural. More district.
My mentor pats a sit next to his and I move forward, cautiously making my way to the elaborate dining table. The closer I get though, the more my stomach wants to shoot out of my mouth. I finally do make it to the table, underwear clad and nauseated. I have to physically position myself away from Picasso's buffet, the aromas testing the limits of my intestines.
Yesenia spots my trouble first. "Drink this."
A large mug of something steaming is passed my way across the flowing bouquet in front of us. I take a sip. The tip of my tongue is scalded a bit but I go in for another, then another. Well shit, this is some good stuff!
"Spiced chocolate, topped with cream. Sprinkled with chili powder too. The traditional Ten way," Yesenia smiles.
Before I can down the marvelous elixir, a hand snatches it right from my grasp.
Who? What?
Esteban.
"I don't think that's in your diet Giovanni." My heaven in a mug is placed beside the big bad mentor on the edge of the table. I can see it staring at me, yelling 'Save me Giovanni! Save me!'
I'm gonna cry.
After my little 'incident' in the Training Center, the white coats have restricted me to the basics. Veggies, grains, fruits. Few meats, few dairy. No sweets, no spices, nothing to motivate me to continue living. A precautionary order 'until further notice'. Until further notice my ass. Do they really expect me to go back to District Ten, the birthplace of the chili pepper, and turn down enchiladas de pollo smothered in mole? Where the saying is: "If you aren't crying, you ain't eating right?" I'm gonna starve if I listen to those donkeys. But Esteban seems to be taking the white coats' orders seriously. What's that about?
Yesenia agrees with me at least, challenging her younger colleague. "Let the boy live a little. He deserves it. Every day should be a celebration for him."
"Well I want him to see every day. You must not have heard him earlier. Sounded like he was near death in that bathroom."
Peering over her mug, her lips form a tight smile. "Are you questioning my abilities as Victor?"
Arms are folded. "Are you compromising my duties as mentor?"
The mug goes down. "Now that's just ridiculous Esteban. It's only one drink."
"But the doctors gave him a strict diet to adhere to."
She whispers her response, careful not to let Picasso and the cameras we know are hidden everywhere pick up on it. "Really Esteban? They're Capitol, what do they know?"
Picasso interrupts, clanking his champagne glass with a fork. Food spills out of his mouth as he speaks. "People, people. It is 11 in the morning. My brain doesn't turn on till 1. Save the spatting for when we're off this train. Me and my hangover have had enough of this."
That calms things down. For a few minutes. Yesenia says something that apparently ticks Esteban off and the battle continues. I'm not sure what's gotten into the man but something has really riled him up, particularly against Yesenia. His panties weren't this tight even before the Games.
Watching both mentors go at it reminds me of home. Yesenia is Mami, defending her child no matter what they did. Esteban is Papi, criticizing everything he sees. Picasso is all three of my siblings, sick of the fussing and intervening. And I'm just me, sitting back as the drama unfolds. It's like how we were before, at the dinner table, arguing and debating but eventually getting along or at least tolerating one another for the moment. Except it's not exactly the same. For it to be exactly the same, we would have one more person here. One more person who's currently stuffed in a box.
"I'm sorry." My apology interrupts a debate on how my Victor mansion will be organized. Yesenia is in mid-speech about freedom and individuality when she looks my way and lets out a slow sigh.
"Giovanni," she begins, rubbing her temples. "This is the eighth time you've apologized. There's no need to keep doing it."
Ever since Yesenia told me Sofia's act was a total mistake, I haven't felt the same since. All this time I've seen her as this malicious, backstabbing troll, disappointed that I didn't get the chance to finish her off myself. In reality, my district partner was just a scared Community kid thrown into the Hunger Games with little, if any, skills to show for. Thinking back on it, I don't remember Sofia doing exceptionally well at anything she tried her hand at. Not even average. I overshadowed her during the chariot rides, her training score was dismal, and she was like a petrified rat in that hanging brown mess Dante subjected her to during her interview. Had I'd taken the other water bottle, she would've accidentally taken herself out of the Games.
I was a jerk. A bully actually. Yes, I did save her from Chiffon, but the way I treated her throughout my short time of knowing her, it's unforgivable.
"I want to see her." I know she's here somewhere. She has to be. The losing tribute gets shipped the same time as their winning partner. That's how it was with Esteban.
Both mentors share a nervous glance. "In the very back of the train Giovanni, but don't worry-"
My voice rises. "I want to see her."
Esteban places a hand on my shoulder. "I know you're frustrated but it would do you no good seeing her. Trust us amigo. We've both been there."
A male's voice, dripped in Capitol, breaks through the room. Instinctively I jump, gripping the tables to steady myself, unnerved by the sudden noise. I'm back in that place, trapped on my plate, watching Morgana get blown to bits. Is that Templesmith telling us of the trivia rules? It's him! It's no one but him. I know it. I just know it.
Esteban rubs my back for support. "Easy Giovanni, easy. It's not him. It's not Templesmith."
A few seconds inch by till I come back to reality. I'm not in the Arena. I'm not in the Arena. I'm with my team, eating breakfast, having a nice time. It's not him on the intercom, telling us to answer correctly or die. Instead, there's another man, calmer, more soothing, delivering a much happier message.
"Twenty-three minutes until district arrival. Have a safe trip newest Victor."
My face is getting warm. I must look like a fool in front of my team. "I'm such an-"
Yesenia's calloused hand rubs the top of my own. "Shh. We know. We know."
Throughout this entire exchange, Picasso has said not one comforting word or done one sympathetic gesture to calm me down. What is it? Are Capitolites incapable of dealing with negative emotions? Maybe they've become numb to them, seeing them played out on the big screens year after year. Empathy and care must have been surgically removed during the same operation they received to get rid of their imperfections and common sense.
When the side doors to the rest of the train opens, he looks thankful for the distraction, speaking to us in a sickeningly cheerful manner. "Aren't you just happy to see home again? All of your family waiting for you by the train station. Just think of how ecstatic they'll be to see you!"
We nod in response, none of us really paying attention to the man's words. Looking up from the table, two familiar faces peep inside the compartment, silently stepping in to stand dutifully behind my chair.
Picasso motions towards the pair, referring to them like shiny new cars. "Titania's the older one. Pamsh's the younger girl. That's their assigned Avox names. Not sure of their former ones. They're yours to own now. A rather expensive gift from the President himself."
Devouring a cupcake, he finishes. "Consider yourself lucky boy; only the very rich can afford such possessions like these."
I feel like throwing up for an entirely different reason now. They're the same two that assisted me in the Training Center recovery room. Both stare at the wall in front of us, unmoving, avoiding all of our gazes. Pamsh does steal one tiny glance my way, just for a nanosecond, before turning away when she realizes I'm staring back. I 'own' them now? I do not want to own another human being. That's sick. Already I've vomited and bled on these two, and now they must serve me? Until when? Until I die? Until they die? Time and time again I'm proven that the Capitol really couldn't give two shits about their citizens. It never fails to disgust me.
"I thought you were my prize for winning the Games?" I joke. Really, I feel like punching him in the face. It's the closest I'll get to beating up Snow.
Picasso gives me a look. "Aren't you the humorous one. Originally we only wanted Pamsh, however the older one refused to let her leave without tagging along."
I stare at my mentors. Neither says a word. "We?"
Esteban and Yesenia wouldn't. No. That's not like them.
"The mentors and I. I was content to just taking one but they pulled some strings and allowed you to take both. They're companions I guess." He finishes his mimosa and calls for another, tapping the empty glass with his fork again.
"Sisters," I correct him. "They're sisters Picasso." I'm not in the mood for the man's brainless personality. Since I'm going to have prolonged exposure to the Capitolite, I should try being nicer or at least civil towards him. Yet Picasso, as usual, is pushing all the wrong buttons, and this time it's accidental. Maybe it's my unstable emotions right now. Or maybe my escort is simply a royal pain in the ass to handle. Probably the latter. Actually, I don't want to be bothered with any of them. To buy two teenaged girls to make servants out of them? I thought Esteban and Yesenia were above that. They're just as bad as the Capitolites, if not worst.
"Oh yes sure." The slender drink has already lured and seduced my escort's interest away from the conversation. A lost cause now.
To avoid leaping out of this chair and having them sic Lulu on me, I distract myself with food. Though I should fill up my now evacuated stomach, I barely make a dent on my plate. Four cubes of watermelon, bites of an omelet, a lick of something called doughnut, and what felt like a gallon of water is what I manage. I must really be sick because I've never skimped out this much on a meal. My nickname growing up wasn't gordito for nothing. After my little episode, I've become the center of attention. Esteban and Yesenia monitor my actions like a parent would to their problem child, whispering soothing words, never letting me leave their sight. Their excessive kindness is getting on my nerves. I don't need their help and I damn sure don't want it now. I bite my tongue, staying silent. If I lash out that'll just give them more reason to suspect I've lost my mind.
The disembodied voice is back. "Ten minutes until district arrival."
I get up from the table. Both mentors shoot up from their chairs. "I'm getting dressed."
"I'll help," says Esteban, following me through the door.
"Didn't know you had a thing for guys amigo. That would explain a lot."
"Giovanni," he grumbles. We stay silent the way to my room compartment, Esteban trailing behind me. Getting inside, I immediately head to the walk-in closet across from the bed.
Esteban breaks the quiet. "Giovanni."
White or purple? I'm not too much of a fan of bright colors but this shirt is more breathable.
"Look at me."
I'll stick with the white one. Hm…this button-up isn't too bad. Would show off my muscles.
"Giovanni…"
Pants or shorts? District Ten's gonna be hotter than a cow's backside. These are nice shorts. Soft. Nice quality. A little too short though. I'm not about to-
"Giovanni!" hollers Esteban. I'll admit; he made me jump a bit. Okay, off the ground. Hands on both my shoulders, I'm whipped around to face him. I ready myself for the slew of angry words I'm sure he's been dying to let loose. Instead, he does nothing at all. In the young Victor's dark eyes is not fury or even irritation. There's frustration. Sadness. Not at me. But towards who? Picasso? The Capitol? Himself?
"What is your problem?" His gaze is locked down on me. Did I mention how intimidating Esteban is when he's angry?
I parry with the only defense mechanism I know of: sarcasm. "I'm as fine as a dandelion. Yourself?"
His grip grows tighter. "Cut it out boy. What was up at the table? You barely spoke two words to us after the Avoxes came in."
"Because you bought them Esteban!" I confess, hating myself for the level of emotion I allow out. "They're only teenagers. Younger than me probably. You don't see how sick that is, to have them as my personal asswipers?"
His voice goes to a whisper, a whisper so low and furious I'm instantly reconsidering my comment. "Don't you ever in your life scold me on my actions Giovanni. You have no idea, no fucking idea of the things we're put through. Yesenia and I, we had to bust our asses off for you to get out of that Arena alive. People gave up on you. Wrote you off as dead. Eventually Yesenia did too. But I worked my hardest, compromised my dignity and self-respect to have you standing where you are now. So yes, I may not be too honky-dory right now. I have every right not to be. What I did for those girls was rescue them from a life of sorrow and servitude. I saved Titania and Pamsh. Having them in District Ten is the closest thing they're ever gonna get to freedom. Do you understand Giovanni?"
I can't even look him in the eye. "Yes."
"I didn't hear you."
My head flings up. "Yes Papi! Is that what you want?"
The insult is dismissed and I'm left looking like a bratty child. "Giovanni, you truly don't know what the Capitol is capable of. They do things to people you could never imagine. I beg that they spare you."
"Five minutes until district arrival."
With that, Esteban leaves and I'm left hanging onto his last words. He hopes they spare me? From what? They've already put me through the Hunger Games, a possible chronic illness, and everlasting nightmares. What could possibly top that?
Casting the thought aside, I throw on the first thing my hands touch. Putting on the fitted tee and khaki shorts, I slip on my old sandals from home (Esteban delivered them to me yesterday) and attempt to fight with my hair. It won't cooperate and ends up a mess. Typical. I still need to get used to having it so short. Rhapsody isn't here to help me out with it. She won't be here for a long time.
Walking through the compartments and arriving inside the dining room, I find that the state of affairs has been flipped upside down. Picasso is shouting orders to the Avoxes, who are flying around the place like decapitated chickens. Esteban and Yesenia are caught up in another debate though this time the pair is far calmer than earlier. In the center Titania and Pamsh are still standing at attention, waiting for the next command. Suitcases dressed in silver –the color of this year's Games - are in each of their hands. In Pamsh's left hand lies a smaller package. I don't do much traveling, no one does in the districts, but I would imagine it not caring much cause of its size.
I point to the suitcases, addressing anyone who's listening. "What are those for?"
Yesenia breaks from her conversation with Esteban. "Take home items for you from the Capitol. Souvenirs of sorts."
Souvenirs. As if I was on vacation.
I'm about to remark on the Victor's word choice when I see it rolling outside the window.
The dry desert dirt.
The endless rows of tan and orange.
Clear, sparkling blue skies.
Cacti.
Vultures.
Snakes.
Adobes.
Herds.
People. My people.
A wall of gray slaps it away and I let out a small whimper, having to remind myself the block of steel is the train station and not the Arena. Those heinous walls are soon replaced with the sights of civilization. Packed inside the lining area are, unfortunately, Capitolites. Photographers, journalists, and other seemingly very important/attention seeking people waiting for my arrival. Peacekeepers block their way, partially for their safety, mostly for mine. And in the middle of all the chaos, I spot them. It's easy finding them: few people frequent the place, save cargo shippers and the station must be on lockdown because even they are nowhere in sight. But there they are, even little Viviana and the rest of my ninty-seven nieces and nephews.
"Hold your horses Del Rojo," Picasso grabs me away from the doorway. Get off of me man! I want to see my family.
The doors open and before the train can come to a proper close, I'm out. I don't feel the wave of hellheat that already soaks my skin with sweat. I don't hear the yells of my mentors and escort telling me to stop. I don't see the rush of the paparazzi hungry for a photo or the Peacekeepers ready to push them away. All I know is that I'm in my parents' arms and that I'm crying and that I don't wanna stop and that they don't wanna stop either.
Because I'm home.
I'm finally home.