"C'mon, kid. Come out and talk to me."
Jack Sowards knocks on the door again, but Makari keeps his face buried in the pillows. His name was picked. It came out of the bowl, and now he's on a train to the Hunger Games. This has to be Eila's fault. He's too overstimulated to get angry, but he is upset. She got him roped up into all that shit she was trying to do. He should've never gone to that stupid meeting.
Jack seems to get the hint because the knocking stops, but the crushing silence it's replaced with makes more space for Makari's misery. He turns his head to the wall-length window and watches the wilderness rush by. The rain is a lot lighter on the roof of the train compared to on the wooden roof back home. He closes his eyes and pretends he's back on his mattress back in District 7.
When he opens his eyes again, he realizes he's dreaming. He's lying underneath a mass of greenery, breathing lightly to hide from the boots three feet away. His surroundings are quiet, aside from the occasional bird, and he can hear them talking to someone else. He considers sliding out backward from the shrubbery to escape, but when he slowly starts to back up, his shoe slides into whatever body of water is sitting right next to the shrubbery. His wince turns into terror as a hand wraps around his ankle and rips him from the greenery.
He's dragged through dirt and plants, and he's thrown onto the ground between two tributes; the boy and girl from District 2 from last year's games. Despite knowing it's not real, he panics and clambers through the dirt in a desperate attempt to get away. The girl gives him a sadistic smile and pulls a knife from inside her jacket. He tries to push himself up, but she immediately shoves him back down and sits on his chest. She raises the knife.
"Now, where to start?" She grunts maliciously. Makari feels the knife cut his lip, and his eyes open for real. His arms thrum with his pulse. It's still raining outside. He takes deep, slow breaths. He manages to hold it together for all about six seconds when the reality of his situation hits him, and the tears come.
He knows what he's getting into. Of course he does. But the closer the train gets to the Capitol, the harder it is to repress the anxiety sinking through his body. It's all so surreal.
The terrified look on his parents' faces during the allotted hour for goodbyes is pressed into the forefront of his mind, and he has the feeling it won't be leaving until he dies. He wishes he had more time with them, but kids from school came to see him, and they only had fifteen minutes to say goodbye. It wasn't long enough. He hopes the girls are okay. He knows his parents can handle them, he's more worried about the kids at school. Kids can be mean.
He turns over onto his back and glances across the room at the wall clock. It reads six o'clock. The quarters on this train are like, three times the size of his kitchen back in Seven. What would you even need this much space for? He moves to the bathroom attached and tries to wash the damage from his face. He's already left a bad impression on the mentors by locking himself away as soon as they boarded the train, the last thing he needs is for them to see his puffy, red eyes. Unfortunately, the evidence is hard to erase, and he ends up looking through the drawers of high-quality clothing to pass the time until his face is back to normal.
Twenty minutes later, the smell of food entices Makari to finally slink out of his bedroom (after he's made sure his face isn't puffy in the bathroom mirror). When he reaches the dining cart, Eila is at the table engaging with Jack Sowards, a tall, handsome man in his early thirties and one of the mentors.
Makari stands awkwardly, feeling embarrassed and out of place. He doubts his reaction was the most dramatic from a District 7 tribute in seventy-five years, but he's still humiliated.
Johanna Mason notices him first.
"Finally ready to join us, kid?"
He awkwardly shrugs and slides into a chair at the end of the table. Opposite the three active mentors for District 7; Blight, Jack, and Johanna.
The oldest is Blight Pongsak, who won the forty-second games. He's around fifty but you can't tell from looking. Whether it's genetics or cosmetics, he looks about fifteen years younger than he should. He's the only chubby person in District 7 that Makari's ever seen, but he backs it up with an impressive amount of muscle. He was a year above Ma in school, and she always jokes about how lots of people had a 'thing' for him.
Makari remembers watching Johanna Mason win the sixty-eighth games. He was nine. The district watched their skeletal, sobbing fifteen-year-old tribute crawl into the top five against the odds. Then she started hunting. It was a huge deal when she won. Their other female victor has been dead for decades, and Johanna was the first girl from District 7 to come home in something like forty years.
"How are you feeling, kid?" Jack asks from across the table.
Jack won the sixty-first games. Naturally, Makari does not remember those games as he was two. He's always been one of the more popular victors, though. Handsome and tall. He gives Makari a good-natured, crooked smile.
"I'm okay," Makari replies.
He glances across the table at Eila, who's looking at him, and her eyes flit away.
"Do you want to be caught up?" Jack asks.
"Sure."
"The next few weeks are going to be very hard, and you deserve to have someone focused on you as much as possible. There are three of us." He gestures around the table. "You'll each get one official mentor, and whoever's left over will help the other two. Eila's already picked because she didn't run off to her room, so you get to choose between Blight and me."
Makari's eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't take the bait. Jack watches him carefully, clearly trying to see if he'll snap. Exhaling quietly through his nose, Makari thinks back to school when the teachers made them watch the tapes of the past District 7 winners. They do it every year, a few months before the Reaping.
Neither of the male Mentors played overtly offensive. Blight set fires every now and then to disorient the other tributes, and when it was just down to him and an alliance of four, he led them into a small ravine and pushed rocks down onto them.
Jack actively avoided everyone. He never started fights, but in the several instances when someone found him, he made sure to finish them.
Realistically Jack would probably be a better match. They're around ten or so years apart in age, as opposed to the thirty years with Blight, and having someone who made it his mission to avoid confrontation seems like it would work better for him personally. But something in his gut tells him to go with Blight, the guy who won by playing it smart and tricking the others. He's quiet too, which would suit Makari much nicer than Jack's charisma.
"I'd like Blight to mentor me."
Blight's shoulder sink, but he doesn't object. Jack seems surprised, he's probably glad to get a year off from mentoring. It'll probably be one of his last years off, given the sour look on Blight's face.
"Okay!" Jack says, clapping his hands together. "I'll be in between the two pairs, but for now, you need to get acquainted with each other and start planning your strategies. Johanna and Eila have already started, but you two should get to it."
Blight's chair scrapes loudly on the floor when he gets up. He trudges off to a door at the end of the carriage, and Makari quickly trails behind. The moment they enter the next cart, the smell of alcohol hits his nostrils. Makari recognizes the scents of whisky and brandy from home, but there are several foreign fruity and bitter aromas that mix together in the air.
Blight goes behind the bar and gestures for Makari to sit at the mahogany table in the middle of the room. He sits there awkwardly, watching the older man pour clear liquid into a couple of crystalline glasses. When he sets one of them in front of Makari, he clears his throat.
"Have a taste."
"I'm only sixteen." Makari leans forward and smells the cup. It's nothing he recognizes.
"I've done this with every one of my tributes for the past thirty years. You should allow yourself to indulge in the finer things before the arena."
"Which ones came back?"
"The annoying one in the room next door. Boy, does he indulge."
Makari feels guilty enjoying himself, considering his family is back in Seven, curtains drawn and doors locked. But they're not on the train to a death match. He takes a sip. Fire sears his throat, and he splutters some of the drink onto the table. There's a ghost of a smile on Blight's face.
"What is that?" Makari asks, wiping his sleeve on his mouth.
"You've never had vodka before?"
"I've heard of it."
Blight bites his lip.
"When I was your age, it was the only thing you could get in the villages."
"My parents drink whisky."
"I guess you've upgraded down there."
The sense of familiarity Makari was feeling dries up. Blight probably hasn't been back down to the villages in years. They sit silently for a few beats, only broken when Blight shifts awkwardly in the chair.
"What are your skills?"
"I can climb trees. I know how to use axes and knives."
Blight makes a noise. "Like every other kid in Seven. Do you have anything that could give you an edge?"
"I'm not as built as a lot of the others, so I can really get high into branches, and if they're dense enough, I can just hide in there. I also know how to keep going on an empty stomach."
"But if your enemies see you and find a way to cut it down? Or set it on fire? You've fallen to your death, or you're burnt alive."
Makari leans back in his chair.
"I want you to play it safe," Blight continues. "You're not one of those outliers who can kill a career in face-to-face combat. You need to play the waiting game. If you're in better condition than the final opponent, it tips the scales in your favor." He rubs his face. "There's just the issue of getting something from the Cornucopia that can last."
Blight brainstorms, and Makari can tell his heart isn't in it. The further the supplies are from the Cornucopia, the less valuable they are, and he implies several times that Makari can't make it there without being cut down. Makari hopes the deadpan in his voice is from being worn out rather than having no confidence in his tribute.
Makari sits there awkwardly, listening to the weariness grow in Blight's voice. It's like, the more he thinks about Makari's odds, the worse his mood gets. Everything Blight suggests is about running and hiding. Waiting until most people are dead.
"You know," Makari interrupts. "I can fight if I need to."
"I'm your mentor, and I'm telling you to stay out fighting until you have to."
"But you're writing me off from my build. I know I can-"
"I won the Hunger Games thirty-three years ago, and I've been mentoring ever since. I've seen sixty-six kids step onto this train, and only two of them came back. Both of them avoided fighting until the end. I know what I'm talking about."
"If you listen-"
"If I listen to you, you'll be dead by the end of the first week."
Makari's eyebrows furrow, and he just glares at Blight. He wonders if it's too late to change mentors, but it'd probably be too embarrassing to ask. Blight sighs and leaves the table, sauntering to the bar. Makari watches him look through the colorful glasses.
He understands why Blight is getting frustrated, but at the end of it all, it's Makari's life on the line. In all of the Hunger Games he's seen in the past sixteen years, no one has won by hiding until the end. Even Jack and Johanna got their hands dirty.
"I want to play by my own rules. If that gets me killed, then it's no one's fault but my own."
Blight's shoulders deflate. He puts the bottle of liquor he just swiped down and leans onto his elbows. His deep voice drops an octave, and when he speaks, Makari is taken aback at how quiet it is.
"You've got no idea what you're about to go through, kid. You have to listen to me."
The defeat in his voice is enough to convince Makari.
"Okay. I'll listen. But you need to trust me enough to look after myself in the arena."
Blight doesn't answer, but he comes back to the table. The brainstorming continues.
Blight gives advice on how to traverse and survive several environments, such as deserts and abandoned cities. Makari tries giving suggestions or asking questions, but Blight shoots them down pretty quickly. By the end of it, Makari is irritable and frustrated but relieved that they're on the same page. Well, on the same chapter. When Jack pokes his head in and calls them back to the main carriage, it's relieving.
They congregate around the television with Eila and the other two mentors. Antigone Creed, District 7's escort, also makes an appearance, though she stands away from everyone. She's been the escort since before he was born, and she's not friendly in the slightest with the victors. He wonders what her problem is.
The television shows the broadcast of the Reapings around the country. They pass by without much to note, like most years. The Career Pack are the obvious frontrunners and a few of the outliers stand out. The girl from One and the boy from Six are related to victors in their respective districts, but everyone else in the first half is forgettable.
District 7 appears on the screen. Makari can see the factories in the distance, behind the Justice Building, and he almost misses that egg smell. Almost.
Eila's name is called. He thinks back to when he was standing amongst the crowd. Several kids in their section gasped or whispered urgently to the person next to them. Someone from their year was picked. It was the first time someone they'd grown up with had their name come out of the bowls. He remembers thinking of how sad it was that the Groves were going to lose two kids to the games.
He knew going around and trying to organize rebellion would come back and bite her in the arse, maybe just not this quickly. It could be a coincidence, but that's unlikely.
His own name is called out, and the camera zooms in and focuses on the look of shock on his face. The shock changes to anger when he climbs the stage and is asked to shake hands with Eila. He swears he can feel her eyes on him right now from across the couch.
Districts 8 to 12 go by, filled with fodder like usual. The girl from Eleven sticks out. She's the same height as the Career girls, though not quite as muscular. The moment the kids from District 12 shake hands, Jack and Johanna begin suggesting possible allies. Makari just sits on his end of the couch and tries to block out the day.
Eila listens aptly, and she asks the right questions when it's appropriate. The victors clearly appreciate it, and Makari's glad to let her be the one to engage. He doesn't have the mental energy to participate yet, he needs some time to be weak before the coming weeks.
Dinner is served at six. He and Eila may be anxious from the past six hours, but sitting in front of them at the table is more food than they probably eat in a month back home, and they go straight for it, tearing pork apart with their fingers and shoving beans and carrots into their mouths in handfuls. Makari picks up chicken broth and drinks it straight from the bowl.
Antigone Creed watches distastefully but doesn't comment. Makari figures she's seen a lot of kids shoveling food into their throats like they've never eaten before.
Makari kind of loses himself in the meal, and twenty minutes later, he's leaning back in his chair, trying to keep it all down. After a lifetime of barely having enough to eat, his body isn't reacting well to all of the rich food, and any slight movement he makes sends rolls of nausea down his body.
Blight sends them to bed. Makari makes a beeline for his room, but Eila intercepts him in the hallway.
"I'm sorry, Makari. I'm truly sorry."
He doesn't make eye contact. "Leave me alone."
He tries to get past her, but she slams her palm into the wall, effectively blocking him.
"One of us is going to survive, and we need to work together if that's going to happen. You can be angry at me all you want, but having an ally before we even get to the Capitol is an advantage. You don't have to like me, but we should be a team."
He rolls his eyes. She's not wrong, but he just can't get past that he's probably here because of her.
"I'll think about it, Eila." He says. He still makes a point not to look at her.
"Thank you. You need to make a decision fast. The day after tomorrow is training, and we should be together during that. Maybe we can pick up some other allies."
There's a look in her eyes. Like she's planning something. She lingers for a couple of seconds, and a small noise comes from her like she's about to say something else, but she just clears her throat.
She leaves the hallway, and he exhales slowly. Maybe the upcoming week will be easier having someone from home. It'll be better going into the arena with someone to watch your back while you sleep. Unless she kills him when he's vulnerable like that.
His eyes prickle, and he clenches his jaw until it hurts to stop the tears from coming. He retreats into his room, clicking the door shut.
He decides to try the shower. He saw it before. There are dozens of little silver buttons on a panel on the wall, and he sweeps his palm across a bunch of them. He's then assaulted by various soaps and sprays, but it's fun. He reluctantly allows himself to enjoy it.
There's a weird device that leaves his hair unknotted and silky within seconds and a huge, fluffy bathrobe hanging on the rack. He sinks into the bed, letting it envelop him. He stays curled up for a while, but his mind is so numb that it consumes him. He picks up the remote and flicks through the channels.
The channels are mindless reality shows or commentary on the tributes, so he flicks off the television and buries his face in the pillows. He stays there, letting the train rock him into darkness.