Hello, people! Thank you to everyone who has read this story! And thank you to tttooohappy for reviewing. I really appreciate it. And please tell me if you think I'm not being faithful to the characters' personalities. I really hate it when I'm not. And by the way, could someone please explain what a "Mary Sue" is when dealing with fanfiction? Someone used that word, and I'm not sure what it means, and I can't contact them. Thank you! Anyway, enjoy!

The guards envelope me in their black circle again, and the lead me out of the Hall and into the street. Through the gapes in between the bodies, I see Germany being escorted out with me. I don't why they've chosen to keep us separate. Maybe they're afraid that, if kept together, we'll start conspiring against the Capitol. I think they're being paranoid, but I don't say anything. I get the feeling that, even if I did ask one of them, they wouldn't answer me anyway.

The sun is half-way to the center of the sky now, sending warm morning rays onto the town. Everyone is crowded around the train simply because it's the law. They wear depressed faces, much to my surprise. I figured that no one will miss us, that we are expendable, that we are just two extra bodies in the wheat fields. I guess not. I even see a few girls crying to see Germany go.

He's been blind to it, but I could see how all the girls looked at him with envy and admiration every time he hefted a bag of flour or plowed through the fields. Since we first got here, the girls have been trying to get close to him. But of course, Germany hasn't noticed. He just brushes them off and gets back to work. And he calls me oblivious.

I jump as the train whistle blows, and I stare at it in amazement. The only trains that ever come through the station are here to drop off supplies and pick up our harvest, and those ones are nothing to look at. They were basically great, ugly things with wooden crates pulled behind a huge coal-burning engine. This one is different. You can tell it comes from the Capitol by its smooth, polished hide that gleams in the morning sunlight. The front is shaped like a bullet, coming to a tip at the very center. Glass windows line its many cars, the train itself so long that it almost disappears into the distance. Unlike the trains that pass through here normally, this one doesn't spout black smoke. Instead, it seems to run off of electricity that I think comes from the tracks themselves.

The door to the train car isn't visible at first, but after a moment, a seam splits in the side, and a giant metal panel opens us to reveal the inside. Mr. Austria and Ms. Hungary, the two Victors, are standing in the doorway, trying their best to smile for the crowd and wave enthusiastically. Though happy faces are what the rest of District 11 sees, I can only see grimaces and arms that look like they're dead and just flapping in the wind. I feel sorry for the two of them; just what kind of horrors did they see in the Games that transformed them from helpful workers to people with no life in their eyes?

I don't have time to dwell on this, for the men around both me and Germany step quickly up to the train's platform, releasing us just outside the door. I stumble a bit, my sandal getting caught on the little seam between the platform and the platform jutting out from the train. Germany catches me, lifts me upright, and then releases me just as quickly. I can see what he's thinking; if we look like we're in love with each other, it won't work out for us like it did for Katniss and Peeta. The other Tributes will cut us down first because we look weak.

France comes up to us from behind, spinning us both around and pointing out to the crowd, whispering in our ears to smile and wave. For a moment, I try to forget what kind of situation we're in, and give my best heart-felt smile. Germany, on the other hand, doesn't do so well. Sure, the corners of his mouth go us, and his hand flops in the air, but sweat starts to roll down his face and his lips are twitching with the effort. I giggle softly, but then the present rushes back to me, and I fall silent.

France tugs us both into the confines of the train car, and the door seals, hissing as the last bit of sunlight disappears from the corners, and the walls become seamless once more. I rush over to the chair to my left that sits in front of a window, crying a bit as the only real home I've ever known vanishes in a whirl of color, everyone's face blending together as the train pulls away immediately. In seconds, you can't see the town anymore, just the woods flashing by. I turn, flopping down into the chair I'd had my knees on. I scrub away the tears, trying to look brave and strong. From the pitying looks that France and Germany give me, it doesn't work. I think I just look pathetic.

"Well, that was fun," France says, turning to the window. The scenery blurs by in a mix of green, blue, and brown, looking like some sort of camouflaged painting. However, judging by the way that France is turning and fixing some of the bronze leave sin his hair, I don't think he's admiring nature. It's more plausible to think he's admiring himself.

Ms. Hungary walks into the train car, jumping at the clicking noise as the door automatically slides closed behind her. Her auburn hair streams down to her shoulder sin unkempt clumps. Her face is pale and ragged, as if she hasn't been eating or sleeping for a while. Her clothes are simple, and not at all what'd you'd expect from a Victor who has access to anything at all. Her dress is plain and brown, right from the bodice to the hem, which brushed the floor. The shoes on her feet look like they are made of wood, clunking against the floor of the train with every step. "What are your names?" she asks, glancing around nervously. From what I can remember, she was chosen as a Tribute just the year before last, so she couldn't be more than twenty years old. The memories of the Games must still be very vivid for her, if she can't even remember our names. It couldn't have been a half an hour since our names were called out, and she still couldn't recall them. I felt sorry for her.

Germany walks up to her, his back straight and his face blank, and takes her hand. "I am Germany Beilschmidt, Ms. Hungary." He can only call her by her first name, since none of us can remember her last. Even around the District, she's only known as either "Ms. Hungary" or "Ms. Victor".

Ms. Hungary seems distracted, because she shakes his hand but keeps glancing around the train car as if someone might jump out at any moment. "Good for you…" An odd answer, but I know why. She's exhausted both mentally and physically. I can see traces of insanity resting in her eyes, just barely covered by fatigue from restless nights.

I don't know why, but I've always been able to read people very well. I can tell when people are lying, telling the truth, or are smiling but crying inside. But even though I can read Germany like an open book, it took me years to do that, and some things I still can't see. Now, for instance, he feels a small pang of sympathy for Ms. Hungary, but the main stream of his thoughts is on the Hunger Games.

"And as for you?" she asks me, wringing her hands until the wrists are raw.

I stand, dust off my skirt and try to look girly, and take her hand, responding in a high voice, "My name is Italy Vargas. It's very nice to meet you, Ms. Hungary." I'm sure I look like a train wreck (no pun intended) with the tears and all, but Ms. Hungary seems cheered a bit by my smile.

"It's very nice to meet you, Italy." She tried her best at a smile, and almost succeeds. Maybe this trip won't be so bad. You know, until we get to the killing and dying part of the voyage.

Just as I sit back down, Mr. Austria comes in next, looking a little better than Ms. Hungary. He brushed his hair back so that it clings tight against his scalp, looking more like gel than hair. A pair of rectangular glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, and I notice for the first time that he has a mole beside his mouth. His cheeks are flushed, and I guess that it isn't tea in the cup that's firmly held in his gloved hand. His clothes are nothing but lace and satin ruffles, from the hem of his jacket to the bottoms of his pants, which come down just below the knee. His shoes have tongues that stick straight up, not appearing to be very comfortable by the way he keeps adjusting from foot to foot whenever he stands in one place for very long. For some reason, he keeps glancing over at me, seemingly fascinated with how I look.

"So you are the new Tributes for this year?" he asks, as if we are just another number; another statistic; another face soon to be forgotten. He crosses his arms over his poofy chest, staring at us as if he is judging the size of a cut of beef. I notice Germany tense up under his gaze, his hands clenching and unclenching when Mr. Austria's gaze flits over to me. I've never had an encounter with someone who is drunk, but I suddenly decide that I don't like people like that. "Do you at least know how to fight a decent fight?" I can hear mocking in his tone, and it kind of stings. I think he was chosen as a Tribute eight years ago, so I can understand why he's rude to us. He's had to coach seven other Tributes, and only one has been able to come home alive. It's not that he hates us or doesn't believe in us; he's trying not to get attached, so he won't have to grieve over us when we die.

Notice I don't say "if".

"I can fight," Germany says, straightening up. He flexes his muscles a bit, to show off what he could do, but it doesn't impress Mr. Austria.

"And what about you, young lady?"

It takes me a while to figure out that he's addressing me. I straighten up as well, trying to puff out my chest to make it look like I have one. "Um…I don't fight, but I can hunt and cook." I try to list off any possible traits that might be helpful, but those are the only things I can come up with.

Germany steps in on my behalf. "Don't sell yourself short, Italy. H—She can dress a wound very well. She's saved my life a couple times before," he exaggerates. I've only cleaned up a scratch he had on his leg before when he got attacked by a wild boar. Sure, there was puss and infection was about to set in, and all the other doctors said they weren't willing to take him in, but I got it clean in time. Nothing major. But I am grateful he remembers who I'm trying to be. If he had said "he" instead of "she", I'd be kicked off the train in a heartbeat. But the way he said it, it sounded like he was sighing before he started talking. I send him an appreciative look.

"Well cooking and flexing muscles aren't going to do you any good in the Arena. I've seen some of your competition, and they are nothing to be laughed at. Then again, we've only visited District 12 so far. Everyone else is soon to come." He says this while taking another swig of his alcohol.

"Wait, so you've seen them? How? The Tributes aren't supposed to be together until they are presented to Panem, aren't they?" The questions flow from my mouth quicker than I can stop them. I turn red, my face turning to the floor in embarrassment.

Mr. Austria smirks at me. "Well, an inquisitive nature can either help you or hurt you in the arena. Let's just hope it helps you. And yes, I have seen them. For some reason, the Capitol decided to take one train around Panem, and put every Tribute in the same train. I don't know why, so don't ask me." Mr. Austria leans against the rocking side of the train wall, bringing his cup to his lips once again. A small bit of beer slides down his chin, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away.

"So the Tribute from District 12 are on this train. Are we allowed to go see them?" Germany asks. I can see he's getting a little tired of Mr. Austria's attitude.

Mr. Austria just looks at him like he's stupid. "Of course not. Victors and Tributes alike are supposed to stay in their own train cars. However, they are allowed to look out the windows at the Tributes and Districts as we pass them. Any more questions?" I am silently glaring at Mr. Austria, not only for the way he is talking to everyone like they're too young to understand, but also because of how he addresses Germany. He just seems pompous to me, but I have a feeling it's the beer. I hope he'll get better as the days go along.

Mr. Austria turns suddenly, opening the train car door and stepping through. Ms. Hungary is right behind, trailing after her mentor like a lost dog. A small gust of wind bursts into the car as the two adults disappear, and vanishes as soon as they are gone. I turn to face Germany, and he looks wore out. His shoulders are slumped, and his hands are hanging down by his sides. His hair is mussed up, not the slick almost helmet-like style it used to be. He drags his feet to the chair beside mine, plopping into it. He sighs heavily, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and first finger.

"Tired?" I ask. He nods his head for a reply, leaning against the window. He is soon asleep, gentle snores coming from his mouth. I smile a little, trying not to focus on what will come in a few hours; meeting the other Tributes, getting shown off the Panem, trying to hide my gender. I'm just happy to be with my best friend, confident that he will make it out of this thing alive.

I hope.