The ride back to the Capitol was just plain uncomfortable, no other way to describe it. The second kid who Merle had drawn out of the bowl, Patrick, was barely old enough to make the passing grade for the Games. He was a pathetic son-of-a-bitch; face-full of glasses and lucky if he weighed a buck soaking wet. Not the sort of kid built to withstand the harsh rigours of Panem's sick brand of reality television. Four-eyes had no chance of walking out of the arena alive. He was too young, too green, and too quiet. Not the sneaky kind of quiet neither; he was the hiding behind momma's skirt kind of chicken-shit. A kid that age wouldn't have a chance, even if he'd have been a Career Tribute groomed since birth for battle. The rules of the game demanded youngsters, but Patrick was one player that weren't gonna move very far ahead on the board.
Just another pawn sacrificed in a sick, twisted game of murder. It'd be a miracle if the kid made it through day one.
Once the selection process was over, the next stop on the Hicksville tour was Victor's Village. 12's only winner and sole inhabitant of the miserable ghost town established himself as an asshole from the get go. Arrogant, cunning fucker with shifty eyes and a stick wedged so far up his ass you'd have thought he was a damn puppet. Considering the whispers Merle had heard about just what a victor's life was life after surviving the arena, a puppet was exactly what the winners were conditioned to become. The cat called himself Rick Grimes. Didn't matter what his name was, those two words did nothing to cover the stench of crazy wafting off his skin. There was something about the guy that wormed its way under Merle's hide. The escort didn't like many people, but for some reason he was just itching to slug Victor Rick square in the jaw. Maybe pop him a few times in the gut for good measure.
Merle Dixon always considered himself a generous man, and he was feeling particularly giving when it came to that there Rick the Dick. For the first time in his life, Merle found himself wishing a victor had died in the Arena instead of waltzing out of there with the first place blue ribbon.
Judging from the condescending tone Grimes assumed every time he spoke to Dixon, the feeling appeared to be mutual. That was good news for Merle; meant he didn't need to play nice for appearances sake. Shit sailed a lot smoother when he didn't have to waste time kissing the mayor of Crazy Town's ass.
Not having to shoot the breeze with Rick was one thing, but the silence coming from the third member of the newly formed quartet was damn near deafening.
The mouse with the brass balls, Carol, hadn't strung more than two words together since the metal doors of the train had whooshed shut behind her, severing the group inside the car from unwashed masses pressed out on the station platform. All she'd done besides look like someone pissed in her Cornflakes was to sit down and stare off out the window as the countryside whirled past in a green blur.
Twenty-four hours later and still not a damned peep outta her. If the escort hadn't heard her speak the day before, he'd had thought she was an Avox. Even without speech, she made for shitty company. The girl was a buzzkill, plain and simple. Volunteering was probably the most exciting thing she'd ever done her in life up to that point.
She kept this up, the girl was gonna get eaten alive when they finally made it to the Capitol.
By the time breakfast came around the next day, Merle had had enough of the mute routine. Patrick had worked up the balls to kiss up to Victor Rick, the two of them discussing strategy over plates of piping hot scrambled eggs. Not that talk of how best to kill a tween was the sort of thing the escort wanted to hear when he was trying to swallow his food, but it was better than the stone cold silence that had enveloped the carriage the day before.
Damned place had sounded like a morgue. Some signs of life were better than no life at all.
Merle glanced up from his second helping of eggs to see Carol walk into the car, the same stepped-in-dog-shit expression plastered across her face as the last time he'd clapped eyes on her the night before. Only difference between yesterday and today was that she'd found a pigsticker and was twirling it around her fingers like it was nothing more than a toy. The girl sat down at the table with Ricky-boy and Patrick, her eyes glued to the moving blade whizzing through the air.
"Jesus, mouse! Get that sour look off ya face." Merle clucked his tongue. He'd seen corpses with more life than this one. Stuck on this train for twenty-four hours now and that same scowl was pissing him off. "Try fuckin' smiling. This shit ain't as bad as ya makin' out." It was all lies of course. That girl had every reason to look miserable. There weren't nothing to celebrate about signing your own death warrant. Dumb bitch must have been suicidal to volunteer as tribute in the first place.
"I hate to admit it, but Merle's right, Carol," Rick added, side-eying the girl.
The escort grunted, swiftly giving the finger to the mouthy mentor. Merle Dixon did not need this or any other fuckin' asshole getting all up in his business.
Rick's gaze flickered towards the window seat containing the purple-haired man before re-directing his attention back to the mute mouse to his right. "The only chance you've got in this competition is to put on a front, make like you're happy to be there. We need to get you and Patrick sponsored. You don't play by their rules, you've got no chance of making it through alive."
The knuckleduster knife she'd been twirling around her fingers came crashing down suddenly, landing right between the outspread fingers of the yammering victor and driving down tip first into the polished wooden tabletop.
"Watch it, girl. That there shit's mahogany!" Merle hollered, angered the little bitch had dared scratch the furniture with that pigsticker. No way was he taking a trashed train back to the Capitol and explaining to his bosses that 12's pissy tribute had a tantrum and fucked up the décor on his watch.
Shit like that could get a man demoted from escort down to janitor in the blink of an eye.
"I'm not going to pretend I'm happy to be here…no-one wants to be here," Carol said, her tone even and low. The way she spoke reminded Merle of the fire he'd first glimpsed at the reaping ceremony. She turned her attention from Rick over to Merle. "I'm not going to smile because you tell me to and I don't give a shit about the damn table." She stood, pushing her chair back with enough force to topple the thing right over. Leaning down, Carol yanked the knife out of the polished wood and pointed it at the gaping mentor. "I don't need to kiss someone's ass to survive. Don't underestimate me, I'm going to make it out of this. Alive."
With that the skirt rose from the table and swished straight out of the carriage without a backward glance.
No doubt about it, there was more to Carol than Merle had first assumed. She was a crazy bitch, but crazy sure would make for good viewing come show time.
"That girl's got your number, don't she, Ricky?" The escort chuckled, turning his attention back to the plate of rapidly-cooling eggs still before him. "Knew there was something about 'er that I liked."
"Shut it, Merle," Rick cautioned, glaring across the carriage at the other man.
The hollow threat didn't mean jack. Merle didn't give two shits about what came out of Rick the Dick's mouth, that asshole was nothing. Didn't even register, despite being in desperate need of a good ass-kicking. Now, looked like Merle would have to take a ticket if he wanted to get in on that. Carol clearly didn't want to have shit to do with bats-in-the-belfry Grimes.
Yes sir, that mouse was something else.
Looked like meek, quiet Carol might fit right in to the cesspool waiting at the end of the train line after all. If it weren't against the rules, Merle would bet his last credit on that girl walking out of the arena as the newest victor of the Hunger Games. Finally, there was a tribute headed in there that weren't just another sacrificial lamb heading to slaughter.
One thing was certain. Ain't no way the citizens of Panem had ever seen a show like what Carol was planning on delivering.
A/N: Thanks for reading. As you can see, Rick is the past victor here, mainly because I could see him doing everything in his power to survive the Games if he was ushered into that arena. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Rick. Haymitch had his drinking problem, but I wanted the mentor here to have his own issues, hence why Rick with his questionable mental state won the role, so to speak. Carol may be young, but she still can call Rick out on his bullshit. Also, I wanted to include a few key lines of dialogue here (no surprises which ones!).