Chapter Seven - "My Way"

"Miss! Miss! Miss!"

"Spitfire! Excuse me, Ms. Spitfire!"

As I leave the confines of the truck that brought us here, my head swivels from left to right, only to be met with the flashes of cameras and the shoving of microphones into my face. The reporters crowd both wings of the open space that leads into Two's central train station. "Miss! Miss! Miss!" they've been squawking for me ever since I left the confines of the Justice Building. On occasion they would try to speak to Rabe or Gibbs but the spotlight was on me squarely.

So much for being a grayman, Forge...Not like I already forfeited that opportunity back at the reaping.

I see it on HV, the raving press descending on unsuspecting tributes, on the various documentaries and reruns. But now that it's happening to me, I can't help but feel stunned at all the sudden attention. I'm a little too stunned it seems, as I someone bumps into my back.

"Keep it moving," the Peacekeeper grumbles, shoving me forward.

I nearly trip, thanks to the shackles I have on my ankles. Instinct causes my hands to splay out in preparation to break my fall, but they barely budge because they too are shackled. I scoff, ignoring the clamor of the press as I continue my shuffle into the Station.

It's all a part of the process. A punishment Games, no one is a favorite.

Just like the Justice Building, the Central Station is a hollow shell riddled with construction work and debris, a stark contrast to how spacious and new it looked a year ago. In the foyer, leaning against a pillar as a gang of reporters surround her is the Escort. Her eyes flicker toward me and she grins, causing the gaggle of reporters to come my way, only to be stopped by PKs. I wonder to myself what her angle is but I decide I don't care. She's just a dumb escort in it for the flashy cameras.

I silently thank Panem that the Station itself is quiet and without people besides the PKs and the rebels shuffling along with me. It doesn't take long to reach the platform and the sleek train that lies dormant on the tracks before us. The reporters join us on the platform to snap photos for posterity. This is a 'historic moment' after all. I can't help but feel a sense of dread as we're made to board the train, giving the station one last look over before entering the car.

Because chances are, almost certainly, I'll never see this place again.

...

Another thing I remember from HV is the luxurious train cars, each filled to the brim with fancy foods, bars, sleeping quarters (how do you fit a bedroom on a train?) and an observation room. Naturally, we get none of that, instead we're made to sit in armchairs in a passenger car - which is nice-looking but lacking those perks they always advertise. The shackles remain on of course, and the PKs staff two of their own on either side of the car exits.

As the train lifts off and begins to roll out of the station, I'm left to retreat into my own world, watching from the oblong window as 2 drifts further and further away. There's a knot as tight as rope in my stomach as I recline back in my chair. I'm actually doing this. My brain keeps replaying the various warnings my friends and teachers kept droning on about, but I opt to ignore them.

So what if there were ninety-six tributes - rebels - in the arena with me? All that means is that I have plenty of people to kill, plenty of rebel families to hurt the way I've been hurt.

The silence of the car allows me to pick up the murmurs of the others around me. "She...War...Court...Victim." From the right side of the car I turn to my left, glaring at Lilith and Lucas who quit their mumbling as soon as I lay eyes on them. If I didn't have these shackles, I'd stomp right over there and use my fists instead of my mouth.

"You have somethin' to say to me?" I snap. "Who d'you think you are, talkin' about me?"

Everyone is keeping an eye on the conversation, even the PKs stationed on either side of the train car. I watch then exchange looks before returning my attention back to the two.

"N-No!" Lucas replies, vigorously shaking his head. He's a scrawny little chicken, probably from a line of maintenance workers or bureaucrats.

"Lucas was just telling me what he knows about you." Lilith says, ignoring the protestations of the little worm beside her. She stares right at me, with her ugly pinched face and permanent scowl. "It's kinda obvious that you'd be a subject of wonder considering your reaping..."

"Well, if you wanna know about me, come to the source and don't whisper about me like some D1 bimbo."

Her eyes flicker around before settling back on me. "Alright, why are you here-?"

I scowl. "Fuck off."

Lilith snorts, shaking her head at me as if I'm some sort of lost cause. "I already knew what I needed to know about you. This isn't a Career cakewalk like most years. We're all being punished the same, no volunteers. It baffles me, despite everything that's happened, people like you are still bought into the system-!"

"You don't know fuck all about me!" I fume, launching out of my chair, the shackles the only thing that stops me..."You best watch that treacherous mouth of yours before I-!"

What did she know?! She doesn't know shit about me! She couldn't walk five feet in my shoes without blowing her brains out.

"Alright!" one of the PKs says aloud. "Save it for the arena. You, sit down, now."

I glare at each of the rebels, content in the way some of them, the younger ones, shy away from my eyes before complying. Rabe continues to shake that head of hers, turning her attention back to the windows. Eldwyn and Tatiana exchange glances before averting their eyes.

"She's right," Slate says from behind me. "What would compel you to force your way-?"

"I'll show you when the gong goes off," I snip.

"Shut up!" the PK barks.

I drop it, planting my head against the glass window. I calm myself with the thought that the taboo concept of killing one's district partners will be rendered useless this time around.

...

Someone nudges my knees. "Wake up."

I gasp, frowning at the Peacekeeper who drops a package into my lap. I immediately recognize the package as the standard Peacekeeper MRE - meal ready to eat.

"Use those buttons on the side there to activate your tray," the PK says, a sergeant judging from the insignia on his helmet.

"Can you believe this?" the other Peacekeeper says with a scoff. "I'd rather feed them pig slop, 'cause that's what these cretins deserve."

"Feeding them crap would make for shitty tributes, Corporal." The Sergeant says. "I suggest you guys pay attention, the reaping recaps are beginning soon."

I barely register their conversation, instead fumbling with the package in my hand. I guess the mountains of food as seen on HV weren't going to be a thing this time around. Instead, I'm stuck with Menu No. 5 - Minced Meat.

I sigh. Joy...It beats "pig slop" or no food at all.

The holovision mounted onto the floor in front of me activates with the fanfare of the national anthem. The screen cuts to the faces of Caesar Flickerman and Marceline Devereaux. After some jovial banter back and forth, the screen flashes to District 1's plains, mountains and towns. I find myself eyeing their victors, Serene Westenfluss and Kaiser Neumann, wondering how they managed to survive the War while the other Victors didn't. There's no sign of anxiety on their faces. I'd go as far as to say they were bored sitting in their thrones. It's not like they have students from Orchid Edenthew Academy volunteering this year.

District 1 usually serves as 2's 'frenemy', so we're taught to pick them apart frame by frame. There's nothing to pick apart here, the boys are average at best and the girls were tearing up (the first time I've ever seen a D1 tribute cry in decades). I'm about to write off the District entirely when the escort calls up a girl named Spinel Knudsen. The cameras cut to a black-haired oriental girl, clad in a prison jumpsuit and cuffed, who chuckles to herself.

"Oh, joy!" she chirps, skipping out of the row of eighteens as if she were selected to ride a pony not participate in a deathmatch. Everyone is flabbergasted, from the governor, the victors, the escort to the Peacekeepers boxing her in. She links her arms with two of them, only to be shoved back into the middle of the box formation.

"Humph, rude!" she snorts. "Don't'cha ya guys like girls?!"

She bounds up the steps, shoving the gawking escort aside while taking control of the microphone.

"Well, there ya have it!" she bellows with the moxie of an announcer. "District 1's tributes getting the ball rolling! If you thought the Games were gut-wrenching before, you'd better hold on tight! It's gonna be one helluva show!"

"What a loon..." I mutter to myself as the screens cut to the confused faces of Caesar and Marceline. I barely touch my meal when the Sergeant steps into my peripherals. I turn to him and glance up, watching as he nudges his head toward the car exit.

"Let's go," he says.

I set my meal aside and follow the Sergeant into the next car, which is very narrow (for bedrooms maybe?) and then the next car, where Peacekeepers chow down on good food and drink as they watch Spinel skip up the steps of the Justice Building. We're just about to bound up the steps to the second floor of the next cart when we hear a commotion.

"Piss off, Capicunt! I ain't your stepping stone!"

There's more commotion, growling and then the clomping of boots as a Peacekeeper Corporal hustles a purple-eyed Eldwyn Bishop down the steps. We trade the briefest of glances before the Sergeant prods me up the steps.

The observation deck, or so it seems, is a breath of fresh air from the artificial lights of the passenger car. Arched roof skylights allow the last of the day's sunlight to shine in with an orange colored hue.

Next it's the table that I notice, piled high with various foods and drink. I caress my abdomen. The things on this table smell a whole lot better than minced meat.

"Who is this young lady?" Caesar says with intrigue.

I turn my attention to the screen on the other side of the deck. The screen focuses on me as I march my way up to the steps of 2's Justice Building. Oh wow...I can't help but notice how serious I am, how every single pair of eyes watches me make my way into supposed history.

When I was there in the moment, I thought I'd stumble over from all the nerves.

"You, me and just about everyone in Panem is asking the same question!" Marceline chimes back in reply. "Viondra DeWynter isn't saying a word and neither are any officials. Is she a rebel with a death wish, a rebel trying to cause another ruckus? Snow knows! I for one want to know more about this mystery girl."

"Me too, I don't think I've ever seen such a reaping scene before..." Caesar says. "There's a strictly no volunteers rule and this young lady threw it out the window! Talk about first impressions. The odds board is barely even a thing yet I have word that people are already hedging their bets!"

Gee. Sorry Forge. There's no way I'm going off the radar now.

"It's funny..." a familiar, deep, Capitol, feminine voice says aloud.

I turn my head from the screen to the woman, our Escort, who sits down on the curved booth below it. With one slender, stocking-covered leg crossed over the other, the First Lieutenant is dressed down out of her service tunic, wearing her loosened white blouse and dove gray skirt. Her garrison cap is off as well, showcasing her voluminous, blonde 'victory rolls', a popular hairstyle among loyalist women...like my mother. She even sports a lilac flower in it to differentiate.

"Every victor that's been crowned has a story," she drawls, eyeing me with a grin. "Gloss and Cashmere Ritchson were twins constantly trying to one-up one another. Johanna Mason was a rough-and-tumble urchin taking on the role of a useless outlier. They who shall not be named had a connection since kindergarten that saw them through their Games...All victors are exceptional, essentially."

She rewinds the footage to me striding down the aisle and presses pause, her cheeks forming chipmunk-like pouches as she grins.

"And you, my friend, are exceptional in more ways than one."

I shrug. Part of me wants to snap to attention at the sight of a 1st L-T. Another part of me says that my cadet days are over. "Being a Two is all about self-exceptionalism, miss...?"

I watch as she slips a slender cigarette holder between her ruby red lips, igniting it as she takes a drag and exhales through the side of her mouth, flashing me a pearly white smile.

"Viondra," she answers. "Viondra DeWynter. And forgo the 'miss'. I may not act it, but I'm not that much older than you are."

I didn't pay much attention during the introductions. DeWynter...does she mean..."Like the Vice President?"

"The very same. I'm the eldest daughter." She replies, inclining her head. "And you are Zenobia Rivendell, like Zenobia Rivendell the late victor?"

I nod. "Mom thought I should carry on the name."

"Not like this, I'd imagine..." Viondra jabs back playfully.

At her feet, two puppy-like creatures gnaw on their own individual bones. My vision flickers upward back toward the holovision where District 3 is now on. The escort has just finished reaping the last of the females, a rigid seventeen year old that reminds me of Garrison by how she constantly fidgets with herself.

"What brings me up here?" I ask, my eyes shifting back to Viondra.

The escort grins and rises to her feet, allowing me to take in her tall stature. Round hips swishing, she saunters past me, giving me a whiff of her vanilla perfume as she makes her way to the other end of the room, taking in the scenery.

"Well...since your debut at the reaping ceremony today, I thought I'd peruse through your file," she answers, craning her head to the side as she grins. "Like I said, you're exceptional. I'd like to extend my heartfelt condolences in regards to your...accident. But I think actions speak louder than words. I'd like to help you."

""Help" me?" I repeat with a quirked brow.

"Yes, help you." She replies. "This year is shaping up to be a real quagmire. I could help you navigate-"

"What? So you can get your time in the limelight and a promotion to D1 or something?" I reply incredulously. "Sorry to pop your bubble, Viondra, but I don't need your help. I have a pretty simple job."

She snorts, smiling as she shakes her head. "Oh yeah, and what 'job' is that?"

"Rub out as many Rebs as I can." I reply, folding my arms. "Don't need an escort for that."

Snickering like an idiot, Viondra continues to shake her head at me like I'm some child talking about my imaginary friend.

"Again...I don't think you quite get the nature of these year's Games." She says. Her tone is serious. "You wouldn't last the first minute the way you are now. The press is clamoring to know who you are. I could just say... "Oh, I don't know, she's just some Career girl who couldn't bear to miss out this year.""

I shrug. "I mean, in a sense you ain't wrong."

"To the rebel children, you'll be a prized pig to hunt." she says, shrugging as she continues. "Sure, in The Capitol you may have an admirer or two, but I won't be putting my neck out for you, putting out a good word. You'll be treated just the same, another face in a sea of dozens-"

"Again, there's nothin' wrong with that. In fact, I prefer it." I bite back, shrugging. "I doubt the victor of these Games will be popular anyways."

"That's not a wise thing to say, given this year's parameters," Viondra tuts, taking another drag from her cigarette. "So you'd rather be viewed as a desperate Career hells-bent on 'revenge'? No prep work, no coaching? Just 'winging' it?"

I don't answer, but instead continue to glare at her. What is she getting at? I watch as she sashays back towards the holovision. The recaps finished District 4 and are moving onto 5. Caesar marvels at the fact that the majority of names drawn have been seventeen and eighteen year old tributes. In silence, we eye the screen as 5's tributes are selected. Like 3, District 5 has its share of eggheads but this time around, all the fives are either seventeen or eighteen. If they're scared, they hide it behind impassive or sullen faces. All wear jumpsuits with the orange octagons - active rebel fighters. Even District 6 - morph central - draws mostly older, hardened tributes. Viondra notices this, a knowing expression on her face as she waggles a finger toward the screen.

"I heard about your little scrap downstairs. Those little terrors and the ninety-odd other mini rebels will do you a lot worse than what happened to you on that road once the word gets out about your loyalty."

My body flushes with heat as I stomp toward her. She has no right bringing my family into this. None. "You-!"

The PK Sergeant steps in my way before I could get in the L-T's face. She's just another know-it-all who thinks she knows everything about me but doesn't.

"I don't give a mutt's ass. Let 'em come!" I yell at her, shooting my arms into the air as I let out a mock-serious chuckle. "Whatever happens, happens!"

"Your Career training means nothing, not this year, not without my help." Viondra drawls in reply as she takes another drag of her cigarette. "These kids will tear you apart, maybe even before you even step foot in the arena."

Just as the PK Sergeant begins marshaling me back downstairs, I give her a mocking shrug. "I wouldn't mind startin' early."

The Sergeant tugs me down the stairs as I shake my head, annoyed by her sense of superiority. Fucking Capitol officers...Doesn't she think I know what I'm getting myself into? I don't need her, nor do I need anyone's 'support', my job here is quite simple - kill, kill, kill until I'm killed because I'm too fucked up to kill them back.

I sit back in my seat, returning to the reaping recaps as the District 8 Escort begins to select their crop of tributes. All are in their late teens but look like young men and women. Relative to the infamous Commander Patina Paylor - known for 'Paylor's Last Stand' in District 6 - Darlex Paylor gets chosen, which prompts the room to murmur with apparent worry that yet another relative of a famous rebel was chosen.

I shut off my screen and decide to rest. The past nine districts have all been the same thing, rebels, more rebels and famous rebels, all of which will be dead in a matter of weeks. Why bother getting to know all their faces? The last thing that lingers in my mind before I drift off is Paulus. If things were normal, if things were right, and he volunteered and found himself on his way to The Capitol, what would he be thinking, how would he go about it?

"I dunno. Why does it matter?" he chuckles, his voice in my ear as if he were actually here. "I never got the chance. This is your story, not mine."

I jump, nearly wringing my own neck as it whips to my left. Paulus occupies the seat next to me, clad in his air cadet uniform. His leg smartly crossing over the other, he offers me a slight nod, a small grin on his face.

"P-Paulus?" I splutter. "What're you doin' 'ere?"

"Fuuck Zen..." he whistles, ignoring me as he glances around the passenger car. "You actually did it...I knew you were itchin' to pick up my torch but I thought you were stumped with the whole 'no volunteering' thing. But then you fuckin' barged your way into that reaping and made them take you!" he slaps his knee, guffawing. "They don't even know your name!"

I begin chuckling too. "I was scared outta my mind sneakin' into the aisles."

"I bet you were..." he replies, his chuckles quieting. "I'm surprised you're not shittin' yourself now, now that you're in the mutt's den with all these fuckin' Rebs."

"Yea, 'bout that..." I murmur sheepishly. "What would Paulus do?"

"Shit...I'd take it hour by hour at this point," he snorts. "Prepare for the shitstorm that are these Games. Oh yea, and I'd most definitely not resign my fate like a fuckin' outlier! Where did this defeatist crap come from?"

"I'm not you! Okay, I'm not the child Dad would take out more than me." I reply bitterly, recalling all the times that he and Dad would go out and train one-on-one while Mom had me learning how to cook and knit and study like a good "Panemian girl". "You're the super soldier. I was just the second fiddle."

"Yea, well, now you're the friggin 'first fiddle' now." He says with a chuckle. "If you do somethin', you do it all the way. If you're gonna kill as much Rebs as you can, you're gonna kill 'em an' get your crown on top of it all."

I shake my head. "But my training..."

I'm good, but I'm not that good. I'm just being realistic about my chances of winning verses dying. And chances are I'm going to die even if I don't want to die.

"It's good enough, even without the ACT." He replies with a dismissive wave. When my expression falls into a frown, he sighs. "Listen, Zen, just take all this day by day. Your outlook will change."

I sigh, grinning at my older brother as he does the same. Sure, he drove me up the wall nearly every single day of our existence, but there were always times he came through for me.

I rise out of my seat and saunter towards him with my arms spread wide, wanting to just hug him. When's the last time we ever hugged one another?

"I miss you, Paulus..." I sniffle. "I want...I need..."

"Get your head in the game, sis." Paulus replies, not moving to meet my embrace as he continues to lounge in his chair. "It's not as easy as y'think it is."

I reach out and embrace him, only to hug the air. Startled, I gasp out only to find that I've been seated the entire time. Paulus wasn't in the seat next to me. Taking a quick look around me, the evening sky through the oblong window was now pitch black and the other tributes were fast asleep. Though the PK Private that guards the car exit in front of me doesn't look directly at me, I can see him giving me a sideways glance with a frown on his lips.

I cuss under my breath, reclining back into the chair in an attempt to regain my bearings. It doesn't take long to drift back to sleep.

Though Paulus may not have been here in person, I heard his words loud and clear.

...

My sleep is interrupted by the constant chatter of the Peacekeepers around me until I finally have enough of them and decide to wake myself up. It's then that I notice the shining lights of The Capitol from across the Capitol Lake. I've seen enough Games documentaries showcasing the same iconic scene where the tribute trains would roll into the mountain range and catch a glimpse of the shining skyline, but seeing it in person is a whole other experience.

"Wake up! Prepare to move!" Viondra's voice thunders as she enters the car, her puppy creatures following dutifully behind her. Her service dress is put back together, topped with a greatcoat and a holster for her sidearm. The other tributes begin to stir at her voice. "I want all personnel not on tribute escort to bolster the units already on ground providing crowd control. Word has it that they are not happy to see this year's crop."

"You'd think everyone would be asleep 'til noon, ma'am." A PK snorts.

Viondra grins. "Its still is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Private."

I feel the train around me slow to a halt and settle. Even though it was the crack of dawn, the clamoring of the spectators outside is as loud as it would be during the day. A PK orders us to stand and begins to herd us through the passenger car and outside onto the platform. The line pauses when Eunice freezes in place.

"Jeremiah...I'm - I'm not sure if I can..."

With a hand on her shoulder, Jeremiah moves her forward. "Just ignore them, Eunice. Try your best."

"Ignore their words," Lilith adds. "Everything they blab about is based on lies and hoodwinking. Too bad they're all too stupid enough to realize."

If I felt swamped back in 2, then I feel totally overwhelmed here in the Capitol. As soon as we step outside, a thin, white line of PKs holding their batons horizontally in front of them are the only deterrent against the sea of Capitolites hissing and jeering at us. Rabe and Gibbs get most of the arrows and rocks slung at them.

"We gave Lyme everything! Everything! How could you betray us!?" one women berates.

"You're a bunch of traitors, every single one of you!" Another man snaps. It's he that nearly breaks through the protective line, only to be shoved back into place.

Of course, the reporters and spectators clamor after me too. I watch them as they watch me make our way through the protective line. Though I'm beyond caring at this point, I couldn't help but notice there was no red carpet or velvet ropes dividing us from the public.

"Miss, who are you?!"

"Miss, why did you barge your way into the Games?!"

"Miss Spitfire! Miss Spitfire! Oh, Miss Spitfire!"

Chin up, eyes forward, I stare straight ahead, ignoring the flashing bulbs and voices clamoring for my attention as if I were the next Cashmere Ritchson. What my doing here is none of their business. I'm here to do one thing and one thing only. I don't need their adoration, don't care for it.

"Ms. DeWynter, who is that young lady?!"

"Ms. DeWynter, please tell us!"

A pair of gloved hands tugs me out of line and toward the gaggle of reporters. I try to shrug out of Viondra's grasp, only for her to keep me firmly in place.

"This is Zenobia Rivendell, niece to the late victor, Zenobia Rivendell." Viondra purrs. The clicking of the cameras intensifies, as do the clamor of the reporters. A brief glance back to the line allows me to see the likes of Tatiana and Lilith glaring back at me.

"Ms. DeWynter, is she a rebel?"

As the cameras continue to click, I glance up at the Escort just as she glances down at me with the smallest of grins on her ruby red lips. "I'm still trying to figure that out," Viondra replies wryly. "The whole ordeal is still...quite shocking to her. As soon as she comes to her senses, I'll be sure to talk about Ms. Rivendell's intentions proper."

Like poking a tracker-jacker's nest, that really riles them up. Before they could get another question in, DeWynter passes me off to another PK, who shoves me back into line. I mentally cuss her out. I'm not her fucking prop.

Instead of getting into a sleek limousine with chrome trimmings and whitewall tires, we're met with a hulking tactical troop carrier. Viondra gets her own staff car though, and I watch her as she slips inside, not before giving me a smug smirk. With a PK coaxing us along, we contend with our shackles while we awkwardly clamber into the bed of the truck. The bed is already half full with tributes, all eyeing me as I take up the leftmost spot closest to the bed door. I'm content with ignoring their glares...that is until someone jabs me in the side with their elbow.

I turn my head toward them, immediately recognizing her as the nutbar from D1, Spinel. She watches me with a stupid grin on her face, reminding me of the way Domita would poke me in different places to rile me up. But this time, I have no friendly connotations with her.

"Mmm, who are you?" she purrs, eyeing me up and down. "You don't look like you belong with this motley crew of rebels? But then again you bopped a PK like it was nothing. What? Are you a shunned Capitolite, cast away from your Gem City?"

I hold my glare toward the girl for a good five seconds before turning my attention to the three PKs who bound up the ladder and join us by using the frames overhead as balance. One of them moves to zip up the tarp that shrouds the bed.

"Silent and a 'tude to boot," she trills, giggling with a snort. "I like people with a little mystery to them!"

"Quiet," A Peacekeeper snaps.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, take it easy Buckethead." Spinel claps back. As the truck begins to roll, she elbows me again. There's an unnerving sneer on her lips. "I have it on good authority that they aren't so tough when its them all shackled up."

I pay her no mind, but instead try to catch as much sleep as I can before we're herded off elsewhere.