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Marlin Crichton
District Three Male, 18 Years Old
Chariot Rides Preparation
"Why am I here?"
As the stylist enters the room with a clipboard in hand, she pauses, looking at me with a smile on her face. The door closes behind her and she gets a pen out of her pocket and starts jotting down notes. When she doesn't seem like she's going to answer my question, I ask it again.
"Why am I here?"
"Because you were reaped, dear," she says, looking up from her notes. "Why else would you be here?"
"No," I say, shaking my head. That's not what I want to hear. "Why am I here?"
"You tell me."
"If I knew I wouldn't be asking."
"Figure it out, then."
Pouting, I lean back, resting my head on the wall. I look up at the ceiling, then at the door, then at stylist, and then back at the ceiling. I really don't know why I'm here. All I remember was being taken up to the stage by a Peacekeeper. Then, I stood next to Aella, the girl who also is here with me.
What did she do to be reaped?
"Do you know who Aella is?"
"Yes, your partner," she replies, nodding her head and tapping the pen on the clipboard. "She's very pretty."
"Do you know why she's here?"
"No, Marlin. I do not know why anyone is here."
"Okay."
Back on the trains, Aidan and Aisha told us to be careful. Aella was confused, and so was I, and when Aella questioned them, they told her because we're unwanted here. That they won't like us. Then, I asked them why I am here.
They didn't know, either.
No one seems to know.
Aella told me why she was here, though, but I forgot most of it. It had something to do with her uncle and then she said the Capitol now hates her. Maybe that's what they meant when they told us to be careful.
"Do you think the Capitol will hate me?"
The stylist raises an eyebrow and clicks the top of the pen. "Only if you make them hate you."
"I don't want them to hate me," I say, a little upset at the idea of the Capitol hating me for no reason. "No one has ever hated me."
"There's a first for everything," the stylist says, walking over towards a locker in the corner of the room. "Now, if you don't mind, can you please stand up?"
Standing up, I walk over towards her, and see that next to the locker is a mirror. I can only see my chin, though, and nothing above that. The stylist laughs, and I crouch over, looking at the rest of my head.
I smile at myself. "I don't look like someone people would want to hate."
The stylist passes me a hanger with a dark gray suit on it. I put that on, occasionally glancing at myself in the mirror. The suit is loose, with a lot of room for my arms and legs to move around in. Next, she gives me a gray cap, and when I try to put it on, the hair on the back of my head sticks out.
After I fix the hair, she wraps cuffs around my wrists and then my ankles. They're made of metal, and when I try to move my hands, I can feel how heavy they are. Once they're on me, she takes out chains from a black bag in the locker.
"What am I supposed to be?"
"Use your imagination."
Dragging the chains along the ground, she attaches them to the cuffs on my ankles. They dangle on the ground, and when I try to spread my legs out, I can only move so far. She reaches for my hands, but I pull them away, still wanting to be able to move my hands.
"I want to move my hands."
"After."
I nod my head, letting her attach the chains now. I'm glad these won't be on me for the rest of the time in the Capitol. She's finished now, and I walk back over towards the mirror, looking at the part of my body I can see completely. I shake a little bit, making the chains create a sound.
"That hurts my ears."
"So, stop."
The stylist opens up the door, but before we leave, I look at myself one last time. I'm in all gray with these chains on me. I might not like this, but I hope the Capitol will. I don't want them to hate me, so I hope this makes them like me.
And then I remember that I still don't know the answer to my question.
"I still don't know why I'm here."
"Sh," the stylist says, stuffing the hair on the back of my head under the cap. She grabs my shoulder, shakes me, and then readjusts the tightness of the chains. "You'll figure out sooner or later."
"Tell me."
"I don't know."
Why is she being so difficult?
I just want to know why I'm here.
I don't think I've done anything wrong.
Lonan Hurritt
District Ten Male, 15 Years Old
Chariot Rides Preparation
"I look like an idiot."
"This is nothing compared to what we have planned for you."
Great.
The stylist reaches her hand towards to me, but I pull it away, not letting her touch me. I shoot her a glare of disgust, and she utters something to herself, returning to her clipboard. Crossing my arms over my chest, I leap up onto the table, keeping my legs straight and my body motionless.
I want her to at least know I don't want to be here.
I'm sure my father would enjoy this, though. If he was still alive, that is.
Puffing my chest out, I snicker, rolling my eyes. It's comical, really, that the District thought that I was the one – his fourteen year old son, I shall add – who killed him. As if I had it in me.
I might have loathed his mere existence, but I would never kill my own father. If that were the case, I'd be detained, but since I never actually killed him, they gave me the luxury of going into the Hunger Games. At least they're giving me somewhat of a chance to survive.
"Would you rather go to prison and rot away or go into the arena and be killed?"
"Well, Lonan," the stylist says, looking up from her clipboard. She brings her finger to her chin, genuinely thinking about the question. I think I like her more than I originally thought. "When and how would I die in the arena?"
I shrug, conjuring up a Games in my mind with the stylist as tribute. "Day Five with only eight tributes left. You would be killed by the District One male. Sword through the heart."
"More importantly," she adds, looking at me with a smirk on her face. "What would I be wearing when I die?"
"All black."
"I'd rather go to prison, then. I'd rather wear neon orange and white stripes than black."
"Good choice."
"What about you?"
The question stumps me at first, since when I think about it, I don't really know much about the prisons in District Ten. My father from time-to-time mentioned things about it, like the detainees and how they act there. A lot of them lose their mind, he said. It never really sounded too pleasant.
Are the Hunger Games more pleasant, though? Is the idea of twenty-four kids fighting each other more appealing?
"I'd say the arena," I answer, getting a questioning expression on her face from my stylist. "I'd have some free-will there. I would be able to at least get out, you know? You're basically stuck in a prison for life."
"You make a fair argument, Lonan."
"I usually do."
The stylist walks over to a locker in the corner of the room, inserts a key in the lock, and lifts the handle up. The door opens, and the stylist reaches in, taking out an outfit with a cover over it. She gestures for me to stand up, and as I do, I feel relieved that I'll be getting out of this. As soon as we got to the Capitol, we were told to go to change into an all gray suit that has a Capitol emblem on the chest of it.
When she takes off the cover, I don't quite understand what it's supposed to be. Usually, we have something at least relevant to our District's industry, but this year, it has nothing to do with it. It's an even darker gray suit, and where the wrists and ankles are, there are large metal cuffs.
"This is for you."
"Is this a joke?"
"No," she replies. "Please, get dressed."
"I'm not wearing that."
"You have to."
"I don't have to do anything I'm told to," I sneer, shaking my head. "That's why I'm here, right? Because I was a bad boy and didn't follow directions."
"Please, Lonan."
"No."
"Don't make me get the Peacekeepers."
"Do you think they know my father? Or knew, I should say."
The escort holds the outfit on the hanger out in front of her, giving it a quick shake. I roll my eyes, swallow my pride, and grab it out of her hands. Stripping down from what I'm already dressed in, I slip on the next outfit, this one being much looser. It looks sloppy on me, and when I clip the cuffs on my wrists and ankles, I scoff.
"Very creative."
She passes me a bag, and I unzip it, seeing that there are chains in it. I pull them out, letting them dangle in the air, and I go to attach the ones for my wrists. They attach in front of me, and the stylist comes over, inserting a key into the hinge and locking them. She then helps me with the ankle ones, and when I try to take a step forward, I really can't move at all.
"Do you get any satisfaction out of this?"
"I didn't design them."
To finish off this masterpiece, she holds out a gray cap. I put it on, the cap hiding all of my hair and covering some of my forehead. The escort grabs my shoulders, directing me towards the door now. The chains clank together, the sound hurting my ears after a while.
The door opens, showing two Peacekeepers. Their faces are covered, but I could only imagine what face they're making right now. They're probably all enjoying this. I know my father would.
He was twisted like that.
In a way, he deserved to be killed.
Perhaps I deserve to be killed too, then.
For all of the things I've done.
Jonah Danick
District Four Male, 18 Years Old
Chariot Rides
All around, the chains are rattling.
The District One's chariot sets into motion, with the girl bobbing her head side-to-side while the male stands there completely motionless. All of the tributes are dressed in the same attire; the gray suit and cap with the cuffs and chains.
I don't like looking like this. It's giving off the wrong message.
"You could at least try to look happy, Jonah," Otrera says, attempting to bring her hand up to fix a piece of hair, but because of the chains, she can't move past a certain point. "I wouldn't want them all to be mesmerized by just me."
"I'll try."
"Just relax," Otrera says, rolling her shoulders back, pulling the chain with her. "You'll be fine."
The large doors slide open, and once I see the crowd, it's exactly what I thought it would look like. The crowds of people, dressed in all different colors. Their weird hairstyles, their accessories.
These are the people I'm fighting for. The ones I volunteered to protect and bring honor to.
It's more than just that, though, isn't it? There's always a story behind it all.
When District Two's chariot begins to move, I hear something be chanted outside. I can't really hear anything just yet, but when I look at the tributes from Two, I can tell from her body movement that she isn't too thrilled. She stands there stiffly, and although I can't see her face, I can imagine the grudge. The boy, though, seems livelier.
District Three exits the garage, the sound of the chants getting louder and louder as we approach the exit. The first thing I notice about the girl from Three, besides her bright red hair, is the way she's the only tribute so far to be moving her hands. She's constrained, though, and doesn't have a lot of wiggle room. The boy is turned around, looking around the garage rather than ahead. He seems lost.
District Four is at the exit now, and I glance at Otrera who's already staring at me. She winks, licks her lips, and I snap my head away. She's trying to distract me. I can't have that. When we leave the garage, I'm bombarded with the chants.
They're booing us.
They're shouting slang and curse words at us.
"What?" I utter, jerking forward as the chariot strides forward. The chains are still rattling, the sound of them clanking and shaking being heard from all around. "No…"
Why are they booing us?
They should be booing my aunt, not me. She's the one who killed the victor from our District, not me. It was her.
Why do they hate us?
Because you're all supposed to rebels, I remind myself. They don't know about you yet.
My aunt should be the one who's hated. Not me.
"Calm down, babe," Otrera coos, still having a smile on her face. It's like she's enjoying this.
This treatment we're all getting.
"If you think this is bad, then you shouldn't have volunteered."
I had to volunteer.
For my family and friends. For my District. For the Capitol.
It was all worth the risk.
Looking over my shoulder, I look at the District Five's chariot, seeing something go hurling towards them. It looks like a fruit of some sort, but the girl moves her head, dodging it. The boy still stands there, his ears perked up. When the girl sees me staring at her, she smirks, trying to pick up her hand but is bolted down.
Behind them are the two from District Six. The girl looks miserable, while the boy is more animated. The girl stares at the ground, watching the horses as they trudge forward. He has a small smile on his face as he grips his hands around the chains. At least he's trying to make the best of the situation.
I should act like that too.
All of this booing, this screaming, it will all be gone soon. I won't have to deal with this for much longer.
Things will get better.
They always do.
Feeling Otrera's hand slide up my thigh, I tense up, my chain restricting my movement. I hear her giggle next to me, and I stare forward, trying to block out all of the booing. They aren't booing me… They are booing Otrera.
She's the one to hate. Not me.
I never did anything wrong. My aunt did. I always did what I was supposed, followed the rules, and never disobeyed the law. I attended a Training Academy for the Games. I volunteered to fight for the Capitol and its goodness.
I shouldn't be treated like this.
Closing my eyes tightly, I feel something light hit my shoulder, and still, Otrera is sliding up her hand. I'm not the one to hate, why don't they see that? Otrera is. The rest of them are.
I'm not one of them. I'm not like them.
I'm not a rebel.
Alumax Derian
District Eleven Male, 17 Years Old
Chariot Rides
The chariot comes to a halt.
We're positioned like a horse-shoe, all circling a large tower. I stare upwards, squinting my eyes to try to see who's coming out. Would they even risk letting the President come out to speak to us?
After all, we are rebels. We all are trying to kill him.
Two Peacekeepers step onto the platform, both of them carrying a machine of some sort. When they place it down, the machine lights up, emitting a figure that floats above us. It's a hologram of the President.
"What is that?" Cailen asks, nudging me with her forearm. "Is that the President?"
"I guess so."
The President waves his arms, silencing all of the booing and screaming. I've tuned it all out, and when it's all silence, I feel a bit more comfortable. Well, as comfortable as I'll get; I still have all of these people staring down at me, all judging me for a thing I didn't even do.
They're all watching me. I'm rebel scum to them.
But, it wasn't even me.
It was my brother.
"Welcome, Panem," the hologram says, and the crowd of Capitol citizens erupts into clapping and whistles. The hologram waves his hand again, making them all go quiet. I hear Cailen mumble something, but I ignore it, focusing on the President. "Welcome, tributes."
I'm surprised he even called us tributes.
I was expecting something more along the lines of 'wretched vermin who plague this nation'.
"I personally wish you a Happy Hunger Games," the hologram says, staring down at us tributes below him. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."
Sensing Cailen begin to shake next to me, I mover over an inch, not wanting to attract any of her attention. It's not that I dislike her or anything, but one thing I've learned quickly is how emotional she is. Oliver told her back on the trains that maybe Cailen should watch how much she eats – Cailen nearly lost it.
The chariot jerks back into motion and Cailen grips her fingers around the chains. She's still shaking, and as I stare off into the crowd, I feel them all staring at me still.
They're all watching me… They're all judging me.
Looking away, I look at the ground for the rest of the way back into the garage. I don't want them looking at me anymore. I don't want them to see me as something other than who I really am.
It was my brother. Not me.
And, even then, he wasn't a rebel. He just wanted to prove something.
He wanted to prove that the Capitol didn't own him. That they didn't own any of him or his allies.
But, me? I was never a rebel. I might have had rebellious ideas, but I never acted on them. I was always smarter than that.
I try to bring my hands up to cover the scars on my neck, but the chains won't let me move that far. Tilting back my head, I scrunch up my neck, not wanting anyone to see them. I don't want the Capitol to see those… They'll judge me even more.
Tensing up, I try even harder to free my hands from the chains, but I can't do anything. I feel trapped by these, and when I see us nearing the garage, I close my eyes, not wanting to see anyone anymore. I just want to go back to our District Floor.
Finally, we reach the garage, and when the chariot stops, I wait for our stylists to detach us from the chariot. She takes off Cailen's chains first, and she waits for me, her arms wrapped around her stomach. I step down from the chariot once my chains are removed, being met by our mentors, Oliver and Kaeya.
"We'll talk about it later," Olive says to Cailen and I. "I never expected this."
"There's nothing to say," I say, walking ahead of them. Cailen scurries to catch up to me, but I walk faster, trying to get away from her. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Where are you going?" Cailen asks, but I turn left, going into an elevator alone. I close the door quickly, and once the doors slide closed, I lean against the wall and sigh.
I have to remind myself that Keld went through the same exact things. The train ride, the chariots, the training. He went through all of this last year.
If he can do it, so can I.
If he can stand up for something in his life, so can I.
If he can make a difference, then so can I.
I might not have done anything rebellious back in District Eleven, despite these scars on the back of my neck, but now, I have to live up to my brother. He was the one I always looked up to, and one year later, I'm in the Games now, not him.
He already made his difference.
He chose to jump off that plate.
And, now, it's my turn.
I can't let him down.
Author's Note:
Hi.
There you have it – the Chariot Rides!
There's not much to see, though. They're all wearing the same thing.
Let's be honest, Chariot Rides aren't the most exciting part of the Capitol. This isn't the most riveting chapter, I'll admit. I'm glad I finished these, eh. Next up is Training Day One and things will definitely pick up then. We'll be meeting more tributes, so that's fun as well!
So, you can tell me who stood out and whatnot and if you have any favorites so far.
(And, apparently, I'm too dry in these and lack any emotion. When I say I appreciate all reviews and they mean a lot to me, I'm being serious. Sorry I'm not as animated as some people would like.)