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Train Ride: Districts 5-8
Home is Behind

Brie Fallyn, 17
District Five Female

He wasn't what she had imagined.

Rumors about the last survivor of the Swallot family were spoken in whispers. The stories were dark. During the last days of the rebellion, the rebel force had grown desperate. They had taken the youngest Swallot children – a twin boy and girl – hostage. By the time their father had sent a squad to rescue them, it was too late. Stories about what happened to his wife conflicted. Some said she left him. Some said she killed herself. Some said he killed her in a fit of rage.

Then, two years ago, Odenn Swallot had died, and the stories surrounding his death were equally shrouded in mystery. The official story was that he had died in his sleep, but no one believed that. Most agreed that he had been killed by one of the last remnants of the rebel force in District Five. There was much speculation about what had happened to those unlucky rebels, but Brie didn't really want to know.

And here he was, the last Swallot boy, wolfing down biscuits as if he hadn't eaten in days. He was smaller than she had expected – smaller than Jai, even though her brother was a year younger. But there was still something about him that made her want to keep her distance.

Which actually suited her just fine, because apparently Tania felt the same way. So while Harakuise sat at the table, watching, Brie sat on the couch with her mentor.

"Everyone knows you seemed desperate to volunteer," Tania was saying, her voice quiet and thin. "But no one knows why. You're a mystery to them. That's good – they'll be watching you."

Desperate. That pretty much summed it up. She wasn't eager. Excited. Just desperate. Desperate enough to go into the arena and face twenty-three teenagers who wanted to kill her. Desperate enough to kill them so that her brother could live.

"So it would help if I knew," Tania continued. "Why did you volunteer?"

Brie glanced over at her district partner, wondering if she should say just now. Then again, she would have to tell all of Panem eventually, so it wouldn't really hurt if he knew. "My brother's going to be executed. But not if I win. Not if I'm a victor. Then they wouldn't hurt him."

As she'd expected, that piqued the boy's interest. "Executed? For what?"

"Our father has been sick. We haven't been bringing in as much money. Jai just wanted to get him some more food, but the Peacekeepers caught him."

Harakuise nodded and went back to his food; apparently, petty thievery wasn't worth his interest. Good. His attention was the last thing she needed.

"Okay, we can work with that," Tania agreed. "But the story could use a little embellishment. You don't want to sound like you'd be using your position as a victor to help your brother avoid justice."

"Justice? He's just a kid!"

"Brie, they watch twenty-three kids die on their screen every year. Do you think they'd think twice about watching one die because he stole some food? And the Peacekeepers back in the district – they won't want to look like they're bending the rules for a victor."

Brie stared, shocked. She had just assumed that if she told the truth, people would understand. "So what do I say?"

"That he was arrested for something much more serious." Brie nearly jumped; the voice was Harakuise's. "Something that would make stealing a little food pale in comparison. Say that he was framed, and that you can use the money rewarded to the victor to pay for an investigation to prove his innocence. Which, of course, you can, because he is innocent."

"But he was only arrested for smuggling food."

Harakuise shrugged. "According to the records at the moment, yes. But with a right word in the right place, records can be changed. Say the word, and your dear little brother could be charged with murder, treason, arson, espionage – whatever story you think would work best."

Brie eyed the boy skeptically. Did he really have that sort of influence? And, more importantly, why was he offering to help? The Swallot family wasn't exactly known for generosity. What did he want? "Why?"

Harakuise shrugged. "Why not?" But his eyes said something different. If he helped her now, she would be in his debt. And he looked like someone who wouldn't forget to come and collect.

But she didn't really have much choice. Tania was right; Capitolites wouldn't understand having to steal food in order to eat. They wouldn't understand how unfair the law was any more than the understood that it was inhumane to force twenty-four kids to kill each other.

"All right," Brie agreed. Then, reluctantly, she added, "Thank you, Harakuise."

The boy smiled, but that was even more unnerving than his cold stare. "Oh, it's my pleasure, Miss Fallyn. My pleasure entirely."

Pike Carter, 12
District Six Male

"That was so exciting!" Prius exclaimed as the tape ended. "Did you see the tributes from District One? The girl looks like she'll be a tough one! And that little boy was sooo cute! The cute ones are the best, especially when they turn out to be ruthless killers! And he's almost as young as you. Isn't that great!"

"Fantastic," Pike managed, his head reeling. He didn't want to think about ruthless killers.

Fortunately, Aron came to his rescue. "How about a snack?" their mentor offered, resting an old, withered hand on Pike's shoulder as they made their way to the table. They sat down together on a bench, and Prius took a seat on the other side of the assortment of food.

Prius was almost as excited about the food as she was about the Games. "Do you know how long it's been since I've had actual Capitol food? It must be almost six months since our last trip back to the Capitol. No offense, Pike, but the food in your district is so…" She searched for the right word.

"Hard to come by?" Pike offered with a wry smile.

The sarcasm was lost on Prius. "Exactly!" she grinned. "Proper food, at least. Now eat up! You look like you haven't eaten in days! You'll need all the help you can get to build up some strength for the arena."

The arena. He didn't want to think about that. Not yet. Watching the other reapings hadn't helped. All he could see were nearly two dozen older, stronger, healthier tributes who might be the one to kill him.

"There'll be plenty of time for thinking about the arena later," Aron said with a gentle smile. "In the meantime, Prius, why don't you tell us why your family came to District Six?"

Pike shot Aron a silent thank you as Prius began explaining her father's job. Most of it, she rattled off too quickly for Pike to catch, but he did gather that he was some sort of businessman who helped organize the transport of goods from the various districts to the Capitol – which explained why they sometimes lived in the districts for a while – and that their move to District Six had something to do with an oil well.

"He's always wanted to see District Six, of course," Prius continued. "He's had this old antique car forever, but he's never been able to get it to run. He brought it with us when we came, and even found someone who'd be willing to fix it up. He was going to go have a look at it after the reaping."

Pike blinked. "An old car? Yellow roadster? Missing pretty much every important part of the engine?"

"How did you know?" Prius asked. "Oh, I hope he still remembers to pick it up – he was so upset when I volunteered, I hope he doesn't forget. Maybe once I win, I can ride in that during my victory tour. That would be—"

"Ironic," Pike finished. "Considering I helped fix it."

"You did?"

Pike nodded. "Well, it was mostly my brother, Axel. But I found a lot of the parts." Probably best not to tell her where he had found most of them – in the junkyard. He hoped her father had still bought the car, at least. He had offered Axel an unusually generous amount for it.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Prius gushed. "Oh, he'll just have to buy it now that we're in the Games together. Aron, do you think I could send him some sort of message? Before he has a chance to leave the district?"

Aron nodded. "Of course. Vanesse would be the one to ask, though – she's in the next car."

Prius was gone almost before he could finish the sentence. "That was nice of her," Pike admitted.

Aron smiled. "Yes, it was. But she just sees a new toy. She doesn't realize that money could keep your family fed for … well, a long time. Still, it's something."

"It's hard to believe she wants to kill people for fun," Pike said quietly, scooting a little closer to his mentor and gulping down as much bread as he dared with his stomach churning.

"She doesn't understand what death is really like." Aron put an arm around Pike's shoulders. "Most of the people in the Capitol don't. Killing has become a sport to them – an end in itself, rather than a means. And most people in the districts hate them for it. But I pity them."

"Is that any better?" Pike asked without thinking. He hated being pitied. People sometimes looked at him and his family with pity on the streets. Pity because they were poor. Pity because his father was dead. And now people looked at him the same way – pity because he was on his way to his death.

"It's better," Aron said softly. "My grandfather told me something very important once. He said, 'Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart.' Remember that, Pike, in the arena. People could use a little more pity in there. And you may find someone who needs it even more than you."

Pike nodded. He wasn't sure he understood. But he was too tired – physically and mentally – to think about it now. He looked up at Aron, who drew him close just like Azure would have. Pike snuggled up against the old man's chest and closed his eyes.

He dreamed of Prius riding around in an old yellow roadster.

Sterling Therms, 18
District Seven Male

There were people who wanted him to live.

Sterling tried to remind himself of that as the train bore them steadily closer to the Capitol, where millions of people were waiting to see him die, instead. But maybe there would be people who would want to help him. People who would want to see a father return to his daughter.

He was surprised to find that Hazel and Arithrim seemed to be among them – or, at least, they wanted to see one of their charges return. All four of them – the two tributes, their mentor, and their escort – were seated around a large table. Almost like a family.

Sterling shook the thought from his mind. No, that wouldn't help, thinking of the girl next to him as family, as someone he should protect. He couldn't afford to start protecting people – not if he wanted to come home.

Arithrim served everyone another helping of turkey and stuffing. Calmly. Casually. As if this sort of thing happened every day. "So, Cahra, can you tell us some things you're good at? Anything at all that might be helpful in the arena, even if it seems insignificant."

Sterling recognized the look on his face. He was trying to be gentle, encouraging, with his younger tribute. Letting her go first to let her know that they weren't going to ignore her simply because Sterling was physically stronger. Sterling liked that.

But Cahra didn't seem to appreciate the gesture. "Yeah, I can do this!" She grabbed a knife from the turkey platter and flung it across the room. The knife clattered against a bookshelf and dropped to the ground. Sterling glanced at Hazel, who seemed to be trying to decide whether that had been Cahra's intended target or not. But the girl was grinning as if that was exactly what she had meant to do.

"That's good," Arithrim smiled, then quickly changed the subject. "And it seems you have fast reflexes. That's probably even more useful. And someone small like you – probably pretty fast."

Cahra nodded. "Very. I can climb trees, too. And I can start fires. That's why I'm here."

Arithrim blinked, as if that didn't quite add up, but decided to move on. "What about you, Sterling? You look like you've done your share of physical work."

Sterling nodded. "I'm pretty good with an axe."

"That'll help," Hazel agreed. "There won't always be axes in the arena, but you can usually find something similar."

"And there won't always be wood for a fire," Arithrim added, glancing at Cahra. "Or trees to climb. But there will probably be something similar. Maybe a bit of brush or grass for a fire, instead. Or a cliff instead of a tree. Adaptability is the name of the game."

"Adaptability and likability," Hazel nodded. "Cahra, you said at the reaping that you weren't afraid. Good. Keep that up. But try to direct it at the other tributes – not the audience. You don't want to seem like you're angry at them."

"But I am angry at them," Cahra said matter-of-factly.

Hazel and Arithrim exchanged a look. "But you don't want them to know that," Arithrim said patiently.

Cahra crossed her arms stubbornly. "I don't care who knows it," she insisted, her voice growing louder. "They don't scare me. The Games don't scare me. The Capitol doesn't scare me!" She seized another knife from the table and threw it wildly in the escort's direction.

Arithrim dodged instinctively, but there was no need. Hazel reached up and caught the knife in mid-air. She slammed it down hard against the table. "Save it for the arena," she glared. "This is no time to lose your temper. I'm going to do my best to help you, but you also have to help yourself. And you won't get yourself any sponsors if you go out there and tell them how angry you are at the Capitol. What you will get is the Gamemakers' attention, and that's bad."

Cahra rose angrily and stormed off, and Hazel followed. Sterling looked to Arithrim for an explanation. "Don't mind her," the escort assured him. "The little girl hit a sore spot, that's all. Hazel's games came down to her and a boy from District One. The boy – Mosaic – had made it pretty well-known that his father was a rebel. Their last fight was a close one, but he had her pinned and was about to kill her when the Mutts were released. She's convinced the Capitol didn't want the son of a rebel for their victor – at least, not one who was proud of it." He shook his head. "Hazel just doesn't want Cahra to make the same mistake." He smiled a little. "So if you have any issues with the Capitol, Sterling, now is the time to bury them."

Sterling shook his head. Of course he didn't like the Capitol, but he could pretend to, if that was what it took. "I just want to go home."

"I'm glad someone's got their priorities straight." Arithrim tossed him an apple. "We can work with that."

Nicoline Peters, 13
District Eight Female

She had always secretly thought that Lander hated her. Now she was sure of it.

"Your best chance is to run." Lander sat across the table from Nicoline and Zione, munching on a plate of cherry tomatoes, the juice dripping down his chin. "Run. Hide. And hope it's a while before they find you." He fixed his eyes on her. "But they will find you. Sooner or later. So maybe it's better to die sooner rather than late. Maybe you shouldn't even run. Maybe—"

"That's enough!" Zione cut in suddenly. "You're scaring her."

He was right. All the relief she had felt over Shaw's safety had melted away, leaving only terror. But Lander didn't care. "She should be scared," he glared at the older boy. "This is a fight to the death, in case you hadn't noticed. She's going to die. And you? You're no better. What you did at the reaping – one of the stupidest things I've ever seen."

"Fortunately, the Capitol likes stupid," Lander continued. "All that wanna-be-hero nonsense – they'll eat it up. And it might just be enough to save your sorry life. If you have the skills to back it up. Or maybe you didn't think about what would happen after you saved the little brat's life."

Zione shook his head. "Oh, I thought about it. And, believe me, it's worth it."

Despite her fear, Nicoline couldn't help but admire the older boy. He considered Shaw's life worth the risk of his own. Nicoline smiled a little. Maybe Lander was right. Maybe she couldn't win. But if she couldn't, then she wanted Zione to.

"If you say so," Lander shrugged. "I suppose it's your life to throw away. So we'll present you as a hero, then. The gallant knight who wants to save everyone in the arena."

"But I can't save everyone," Zione objected. "There's only one victor."

Lander rolled his eyes. "Of course there's only one victor – in the end. But that doesn't mean you can't protect people for a while. Form a group. Watch each other's backs. Tell them it's all for protection. They'll love it. Keep them alive. Protect them as long as you can. Until you're the only ones left."

"And then?"

"And then you kill them, you imbecile! The only thing the Capitol will love more than a hero is a villain. A fallen idol. Give them that, and they won't be able to resist."

Nicoline shifted uneasily in her seat. Zione looked uncomfortable, as well. Then again, she never felt very comfortable around Lander. She doubted anyone did. But he was their mentor. The only one they had. And he had just presented a rather thought-out strategy. "What can I do?" she asked.

Lander cocked an eyebrow, as if noticing her again. "You? Sing his praises, kid. He's your hero now; let everyone know it. Direct all the attention to him. The more people ignore you, the better. Trust me, you don't want the attention. Be invisible."

Nicoline started to object. Invisible people didn't get sponsors. Or allies. Or anything that could keep them alive. He was just abandoning her without a second thought.

After a moment, Lander wandered off, leaving the two of them alone. "Well, he's a piece of work," Zione commented.

Nicoline smiled. At least, either way this went, she wouldn't have to work for Lander any more. "Tell me about it," she agreed.

"He does have a point, though," Zione observed. "What might work for me won't work for you. And he's right – you should run. Hide. Try to go unnoticed. That way, none of the other tributes will target you."

"Including you," Nicoline pointed out. She hadn't really given that much thought – the idea that he might be the one to kill her. She was starting to get used to the idea that she might die. But she didn't want him to be the one to do it.

Apparently, he agreed. "Just … try to put as much distance between us as possible. Once we're in the arena, that is. Until then, we could probably both use a little company that's more pleasant than him." He indicated the direction Lander had gone.

Nicoline nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. And … you don't have to do what he said. Treat me like a hero, that is. I'm sure the plan will work just as well without—"

"But you are a hero," Nicoline pointed out. "You saved my brother. I want them to know that." She shrugged. "It's a good plan."

"For both of us," Zione agreed. "But I'm only the hero until I have to become the villain."

"Maybe you won't have to," Nicoline shrugged. But she already knew her words were empty. Heroes didn't come out of the arena. People like Lander did. Scared. Angry. Broken. And the possibility that she might become that scared her more than the idea of dying.

Zione shook his head. "I will. When I have to. That's the way it works in the Games. If you're not willing to change, you don't last long."

"Yeah, you're right," Nicoline nodded.

But what she meant was, So be it.

"Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,
All shall fade, all shall fade."