IV

Old habits die hard. At the bakery we are up before the sun even threatens to make an appearance, so I am awake long before the others whether I like it or not. Not that it really matters, sleep was elusive at best and filled with gruesome nightmares. By the time I throw sweat-soaked sheets aside I've died a hundred deaths.
The Opening Ceremonies for the Games will be held tonight; we will be shown off once again in front of all of Panem, trying to win favor with those who will watch us die in the arena. We will be painted and dressed up and expected to perform and put on a show, like a circus act. And we will, because it can mean the difference between life and death. And I must play along as well.

Somehow I've wandered into the last train car, which is a lavishly furnished meeting room. The windows are substantial and in the pre-dawn grey I can make out a bit of the landscape – it is entirely foreign looking. We are a long way from home. A pang of longing strikes me. It's hard to believe that I was home less than a day ago, going about our daily routine. Mother will be hard at work, beating her frustrations into the dough. It's delivery day today, so my Father will be hard at work moving sacks of flour and baking goods into our store-room. My brothers will be hard at work as well, even more so without me there. The fires will be burning hot already by this time of day, filling the house with the delicious smell of baked goods. Later, Raff will deliver orders to our faithful few customers. The store-front will need to be changed soon, which always leads to arguments about what should be displayed.
One of my few pleasures back home was helping to create the pieces that were in that front window – cakes, cookies, tarts and other delicacies that I have never actually tasted. Of course I never had any say in what was going to be produced, but I brought my mother's ideas to life. My father can paint pictures with words; I can create stories with my art.
Off in the distance the first few tendrils of sunlight breach the horizon, coaxing soft colours to emerge from the darkness. I'm mesmerized by the sheer speed of the train, how fast the scenery flashes by. Mile after mile is gone in an instant. I've ridden in a car a handful of times in District 12, but to be honest you may as well have walked for how slow you were going – there has never been any need to keep up the roads for any sort of traffic. Only very special guests or important government parties have access to cars, the rest of us are lucky if we have shoes that fit decently well.
Being in the Merchant class, I know that I have it better than most living in District 12, though that isn't saying a whole lot. The Capitol has an iron grip on the entirety of Panem, and they never let you forget. Being a baker's son I have only ever been in true danger of dying of starvation – a common killer in District 12 – a few times through harsh winters. No matter your status in the District, growing old is rarely an option. Our meager supply of medical equipment and the knowledge to go along with it is seldom enough to make a difference most times. It sure didn't help my sister, who died at the tender age of five when she contracted pneumonia one particularly unrelenting winter.
My Mother was never quite the same after that. I was only seven or eight when Keala died, and to be honest I don't have much in the way of memories of her: a pink bow here or a dress there, what I do have vivid memory of was that she was my Mother's little angel. A part of my Mother died with her that fateful February morning.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, watching the sun rise over the foreign scenery, when I hear Effie moving about. I'm thankful the trains are heavily carpeted, we won't have to hear her ridiculous shoes tip-tapping everywhere. She's come to get us up for breakfast and prepare us for another "Big, Big, Big Day!"
The dining car is adjacent to the compartment I am in, and I realize I'm famished. As I get closer I can smell all sorts of different delicacies that they've prepared for us. I turn at the sound of cutlery and see Haymitch, though I don't think he's noticed that I'm even here. As I sit down, I'm served with a plate heaped with food. For a moment I'm worried that I won't be able to eat it all, and that food will go to waste. What do they do with what's left over? Is it like this everywhere in the Capitol?
"Pass the butter, dough-boy," Haymitch demands.
The insult is laughable, but there's something else that feels off. My hand automatically passes over the butter to him as I try to figure out what's wrong. He pours a white liquid from a flask into a goblet of red on the table.
"You're welcome," I mutter under my breath.
"What's that?" his eyes flash up to mine, and he's got a death grip on his butter knife. "You got a problem?"
I clench my jaw. His nostrils are flared; his eyes are trying to keep their focus on mine, drunk as he is. I hold his gaze. As he opens his mouth to speak the alcoholic fumes make their way over to me. It only takes a second – my heart drops. He doesn't remember.
Effie chooses that moment to make her way into the compartment, her voice chirping something about it being a lovely day to be on a train, breaking our standoff. Oblivious to the tension in the room, she sits next to me and pops a pill in her mouth – which she explains helps regulate her weight. My mouth drops open, I can't believe it! Most people in District 12 have never had a full meal and these Capitol creatures have to actively try to not gain too much weight!
Haymitch, who has already forgotten about yelling at me, snorts in retort, obviously already knowing all too well the ways of the Capitol. "Don't worry, darlin' with that hair, nobody's going to pay much attention to your waistline."
"Well I never..!" Effie actually turns a shade of pink complimentary to her hair, which makes Haymitch guffaw even louder. I duck my head and pretend to examine a roll very carefully. "I don't need to take this! Of all the Districts to get stuck with, I get the one with the horrible old drunkard who has never said something decent in his entire life!" She gathers herself up and, still muttering obscenities at Haymitch, rushes out of the car.
Haymitch is still chuckling when he spots Katniss in the doorway, looking befuddled.
"Sit down, sit down!" he says, waving her over. Her eyes practically bulge out of her head when she sees the amount of food laid out before us. She takes her time taking it all in, and peers cautiously at the assortment of drinks.
"They call it hot chocolate," I say when I see her eyeing the mug to the side. "It's good."
We attack our meals in earnest, and it amazes me that there can simply be this much food to go around. Things that I've never tasted before are now at my disposal – anything and everything I could ever possibly want to try is at my fingertips. The thought makes me a tad queasy. My stomach is full to bursting and yet my plate is still not yet empty.
Haymitch seems more intent on drinking himself into oblivion than eating. He's starting to sway in his chair already. I stare daggers at the side of his head, not that he notices.
"So, you're supposed to give us advice," Katniss says, her voice full of quiet rage. District 12 hasn't had a Victor in all the years that Haymitch has been a mentor, which is something that becomes frighteningly obvious when you're up next. Maybe if he cared to sober up long enough, we might stand a chance. Or, at least Katniss would, I remind myself. Life or death. Her life. I'm not about to let this go.
"Here's some advice," he slurs. "Stay alive." This must be really funny to him, because he bursts out laughing. All I can think is that he's gambling our lives – Katniss' life away. That he doesn't care.
Her eyes catch mine for a brief second before she quickly looks away. She looks ready to kill.
"That's very funny," I snarl. Enraged, I lunge out at Haymitch knocking the glass from his hand. "Only not to us," I say.
I'm still leaning over the table at Haymitch while he considers my words. In an amazing show of agility compared to last night, I see his fist coming at me second too late and he catches me across the jaw. I sprawl on the floor, opening and closing my mouth a few times and testing the teeth with my tongue. This wasn't the first punch I've taken and it's certain to not be the last. As I'm getting up, I see that he and Katniss are in a deadlock, her knife driven into the table scant millimetres from his hand.
"Well, what's this?" he asks. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"
I reach for some ice to help with my throbbing jaw, embarrassed that I had underestimated him, furious at myself for not seeing it coming.
"No, let the bruise show," says Haymitch. "The audience will think you've mixed it up with another Tribute before you've even made it to the arena."
"That's against the rules," I argue, but it occurs to me that maybe we've caught his attention.
"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught… even better," he says, then turns his attention to Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"
I have to stifle a smile, because I know. Katniss has been providing for her family for years. I've eaten enough of her hunted game to know – my Father often trades her for bread. She picks up a knife and throws it, astoundingly sticking it between two panels. I raise my eyebrows, impressed. It's good Effie isn't here, I can imagine her screaming about us ruining the Mahogany.
"Stand over here. Both of you," demands Haymitch. We do, and he circles us like a vulture. He gives us a thorough once-over, and again I am struck with the image of a prize hog, being sized up for slaughter. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."
I consider this a moment, but we know it's true. The more attractive Tributes generally are better sponsored. Fair? Not entirely, but since when was that ever part of the Games?
"All right, I'll make a deal with you," Haymitch starts. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."
"Fine," I hear myself say. It's not fine, in fact it's a downright dismal deal, but it's the most we're going to get from him at this point.
"So, help us," Katniss says. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"
"One thing at a time," Haymitch interrupts. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."
"But-" Katniss starts, looking a little white.
"No buts. Don't resist." Haymitch takes his leave, grabbing a bottle of liquor from the table as he passes by. Just as the door swings shut behind them, the car goes ominously dark. I blink, trying to adjust to the drastic change. Katniss stands frozen next to me, her breathing short. I'm about to reassure her about the stylists not being all that bad, when I realize that's not the issue. We're in one of the tunnels that lead through the mountain range to the Capitol. I know she lost her father in a mining explosion, far beneath the earth, and even without that history I can share in her unease.
In the dark, I allow myself a moment of triumph. He may not remember our conversation last night, but it seems we've proven ourselves worthy of his attention. It's a small step in the right direction.
Just as suddenly as it was dark, the car is lit up unnaturally brightly. Like moths, we are drawn to the bright windows. The Capitol is truly spectacular, and I find myself admiring the city that I've loathed for as long as I can remember. The colours, even the sun itself seems to have intensified to being impossibly bright. As we pull up to the station, I see people that look alien to me pointing to our train. Katniss steps back into the shadows of the train car. All these people are gathering to watch the new shipment of Tributes to send to their deaths – the thought repulses me. I stand my ground, knowing who is watching. Sponsors. Our lifeline in the arena.
I feel her watching me, and briefly turn to her. The look of repulsion is broadcast on her face. "Who knows," I say with a shrug. "One of them may be rich." I see the look of distrust that crosses her face before I return to doting on the immense crowd that has gathered. I wish that I could tell her, take her into my arms and let her know it's not me she has to fear or fight. That what I'm doing is trying to protect her.
Of course she would never have any reason to trust a fellow Tribute.