Olive looked outside the window, seeing as the train left Four and began its journey to the Capitol. Without realising, she was so deep in thought that she couldn't even hear her escort calling out her legal name.
Mags, one of her four mentors, had to pat her shoulder to drive her back to reality. With her attention back on her escort, Olive watched as Piscia let out an exasperated sigh and guided her and her district partner to their compartments, where they would spend the night until they arrived at the Capitol.
The only rule they enforced on them was to appear for at least meals, although they technically couldn't force them to do so. But, with her uncomfortable Capitol tone, Piscia joked about picking favourites between tributes if that scenario were to happen.
How the fuck do you tell us that? Our lives are in your hands, and you think it's time to remind us that? Of how easy it would be for you to kill us? Just ignore us. Don't give us any sponsors. And we won't survive the second day. Perhaps we'll make it to the third if the Gamemakers are generous. Olive thought, scowling at the escort before entering her room to look around.
She felt tempted to lie down on the bed, hide under the covers and wait for the day to be over. To her dismay, she couldn't do that. It didn't matter how much she wanted to ignore the rest of the world's existence, she couldn't ignore those who would have an important role in keeping her alive while in the arena.
Turning around reluctantly, Olive groaned loudly. She was emotionally drained. The day was already becoming too much for her, and it wasn't even nearly over yet. After pacing around for a few minutes, she decided that taking a walk around the train would be far better than staying in her room. It could help to clear her head and keep her tiredness to a minimum.
Everyone else would likely still be in their own rooms, which would thankfully let her enjoy some time alone. Even back in Four, she had never been a very sociable person. Although she knew almost everyone who traded in the black market, those were trading partners, not friends. She had no one to call a 'friend', and she preferred it like that. After all, friends only meant more names added to the list of people to fear being picked.
Out of the four mentors she had caught a glance at earlier, Olive could only deposit some of her trust on one person, Mags Flanagan. The elder woman would be the only impartial one since she was way too kind to pick favourites. The rest would definitely put her and her district partner under test until the last day, when they would pick the one that had more chances of survival.
Being in their good graces wouldn't be a definite answer, since it all mattered on how she kept playing her role while inside the arena. With them, even the tiniest mistake could surely deprive her of receiving the sponsor's gifts.
I have to prove my worth if I want them to take me seriously. Olive thought, walking through the doors to the dining room, which she had found while walking around the train.
With a hand on a bottle and the other holding her head up, Librae Ogilvy was sitting there by a table. "Ah, the brave one!" The mentor claimed after turning around to meet the intruder. She raised her bottle in the air and took a deep breath before adding. "Care for a drink, sweetheart?"
"That's enough, Librae. Haymitch is a terrible influence on you," a man behind Olive said, walking past her to take the bottle out of Librae's hands.
The man was no other than Ron Stafford, the victor who had charmed everyone with his cold demeanour and handsome face. Handsome face, all right. But, I'm not so sure about 'cold demeanour'. At least, he doesn't look like that with Librae. She thought, staring at the two mentors interacting with each other.
"You talk as if I were a kid. I'm thirty-four, Ron." Librae reprimanded him, taking the bottle back and drinking the liquid as quickly as she could before the bottle was taken away from her again.
"Sure, you're thirty-four, but you still act like a kid. Anyway, control yourself. You know you can't act like this in the Capitol," he reprimanded, not paying much attention to the tribute he was completely ignoring to focus on his fellow victor.
It was horribly awkward for Olive. The people that had her life on their hands weren't only arguing, but one was drunk as well. She wanted to leave, curse them under her breath once she was back in her room. However, something was telling her to stay.
Perhaps it was Ron's concerned tone while mentioning the Capitol. Or Librae's soft gaze while looking at him. But something maintained her in place, not allowing her to move as she watched the victors' interaction, which progressively seemed more like flirting than normal fighting.
"Please tell me I have at least one sane mentor," Olive muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose while trying to forget how Librae had just teased Ron about getting her another drink.
"Brave one. Come here, take a seat," Librae called, patting a seat right next to her on the sofa where she was sitting. Olive agreed reluctantly, taking a seat next to her mentor, while Ron apologised silently for Librae's actions. "What did you say your name was? Niva? Nari?"
"Navin," Olive answered briefly, rubbing the palm of her hands against her trousers to brush the sweat off.
"Navin, huh? And what was the name the little boy called you?" Librae asked, tilting her head just slightly.
Wow, I was right. Olive thought, trying her best to stop herself from laughing out loud. Even drunk, Librae could still keep analysing everyone while still showing a soft gaze that could trick anyone to believe that she was genuinely curious. However, it was clear what her mentor truly wanted out of her. A story. Something that could make her stand out.
Because that was what the Hunger Games were. A show. It didn't matter if they weren't the most prepared out of the twenty-four tributes. As long as the tribute had a compelling story that drove everyone's attention to them, they would survive.
That's what she wants. To know if I have something to engage the Capitol on me. Give them something to root for me. That would be good. The more people with their eyes on me, the more sponsors I'll have. Olive thought, deciding to answer her mentor's question.
"Olive. It's the name I chose myself. Because I've never ever identified myself as a boy. Not even when I was a kid," she explained immediately, without beating around the bush.
Librae laughed softly, resting her head on the palm of her hand with a satisfied expression. "That's a good story."
"It'll be hard to get your stylist to dress you up as a girl. Although, I'm sure we could beat some sense into him." Ron muttered, glancing at Librae with a knowing grin. "District Four makes history by having the very first two simultaneous female tributes, huh?"
"Tell us, Olive, do you want to make history as well by being the very first transgender victor?" Librae asked, although this time it was rather a serious tone. The only way Olive could compare would be with a very important trade with a remarkably intelligent person. The anxiety she had in her body, fearing to be scammed. Or, in this case, abandoned. Because that would mean death. A tribute abandoned by their mentors was as good as dead.
"I don't care about that. I just want to go back to my family. Can you help me do that?" Olive questioned, using her trading face, which her father had taught her while watching Librae smile brightly at her. Almost as if her mentor was proud of her choice.
"We can try," Librae answered, resting her head on her hand while not taking her eyes off the tribute. "So, tell us, what are you good at? Survival? Hunting? Any preferred weapons?"
Olive kept quiet for a minute, thinking about the answers to all those questions. What would she do once she was in the arena? Hunt the other tributes down, or focus on surviving? Perhaps surviving by herself would be better than trying to kill the rest. She wasn't exactly the strongest person out there, putting her at a disadvantage from the start.
"I know how to use knives and bows. I'm not good at hand-to-hand combat, since I'm not that strong. If hunting means hunting the others down, I can't do that. I'm not like the ones from Two. I've been taught to survive, not kill," Olive listed, glancing from Librae to Ron as she spoke.
"Not bad. Better than other years, at least," a voice coming from the entrance said. Finnick Odair, her fourth and last mentor, had just entered the dining room with Mags, who glanced at him disapprovingly. "Do you have a story?"
"Is a boy identifying as a girl a good enough story for you?" Olive commented mockingly, watching the two mentors approach the sofa where the rest was sitting. He took a seat next to Ron and right in front of them, while Mags sat by Librae's side before analysing her up and down.
"Do you still go by Navin?" He asked, causing Olive to snort. The way her mentors were taking the news was too good, to say the least. Although she hadn't encountered many people that had a problem with how she identified herself, it was weird for someone to accept it so off the bat. No questions asked. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing. Nothing. My name is Olive," she answered, waving her hand dismissively.
The chat continued for a while. Mags and Ron gave her useful tips about how types of arenas, Librae spent the time drinking or analysing her, and Finnick made mocking comments about her poor manners. Something she would have to improve if she wanted to create a good first impression.
Olive sat quietly and paid attention to all the advice, although it was sometimes hard for her to take Finnick seriously. She knew about his cocky personality, but it was taken to such an extreme that it was almost odd to her. Perhaps because she wasn't used to it, or because she had never really interacted with rich people.
Who knew? Perhaps all victors were like that. Librae Ogilvy for sure was completely different from the person she had grown to admire. And Ron Stafford, with his worry towards Librae, almost as if he was in love with his fellow victor, was definitely not anywhere near the cold person he had the reputation to be.
As supper arrived, everyone sat at a large table, silently waiting for Piscia to bring Olive's fellow tribute, who she had so long ago forgotten about. There she was, so afraid to be abandoned by her mentors when she had completely ignored that the girl would also be in the arena with her.
If I die, or I don't have all the odds to survive, I hope they help her. If she wins, Four will receive gifts from the Capitol, which means my family will at least have food on the table while mourning me. Olive thought, not taking her eyes off the table while hearing how one of her mentors hummed a short melody.
Just as Piscia came into the room with the girl tribute, the food was finally displayed. Both tributes, at the sight of food, didn't wait for a second and dug in, not caring about any manners while eating.
Piscia let out a shriek, something that was between disgust and surprise. "Have you ever been taught manners? My goodness, what's with that way of eating?"
Olive stopped eating, glancing at the escort with a baffled expression. Who taught us manners? Well, I don't know about her, but my family never really had time to do that. We were too busy surviving, Piscia.
"My family barely has money to pay for a loaf of bread. You think I care about manners?" Her fellow tribute pointed out, causing Olive to snort as she tried not to laugh out loud. "My god, Piscia, wake up. Not everyone in Four lives the dream. Some of us struggle to even survive."
That was a bit mean, but still completely true. Olive thought, stuffing a slice of bread in her mouth while listening to how Mags tried to change the subject to something less violent.
After the grand meal, neither Olive nor her district partner seemed to be feeling good. Of course, after barely eating anything since they were born, to suddenly eating as much as they had, their stomachs would surely end up being upset. Both did their best to ignore the urge to vomit and followed the escort and mentors to another room, where they would watch the recap of all the reapings across Panem.
District by district, they watched the faces of the tributes they would have to encounter at some point. Not long after, the recording showed Four's reaping. How the girl's was normal, with no volunteers. While the boy's was surprising, not because there was a volunteer. Volunteers weren't uncommon in Four, although there weren't many either. The camera emphasised her expression all the time. From the time she heard her little brother's name, to when Gianna took him to Annie, letting Olive walk to the stage.
Watching her family, even if it was on tape, was heartbreaking for Olive. Who knew if she would ever see them again? Unconsciously, her hand made its way to her mother's earring. It was her way of calming down, which didn't go completely overlooked by one of her mentors.
That year's tributes had all kinds of ages, from the youngest, a twelve-year-old, to the oldest, an eighteen-year-old volunteer from Two. Something didn't seem right, though. Most of the younger tributes were from districts like Eleven or Twelve, where obviously no volunteers would appear. What were the odds that something like that could happen?
Just as the anthem played, the television went black. That was it. All tributes had been presented to Panem, and most importantly, to the Sponsors. From now on, they would have to act, fake, and pretend to get people to like them. As Finnick had stated earlier, that would be the decisive point to know whether she could survive or if she would inevitably die.
As blunt as that statement could seem to anyone else, Olive actually preferred it like that. There was no point in sugarcoating the information vital for her survival. She heard all possible acts she could take from her mentors, although, surprisingly enough, none mentioned the one that two of them had chosen in their own Games. The sexy, or flirtatious, approach.
Why none had mentioned it was beyond her. Maybe they thought she couldn't pull it off. Or perhaps they believed there was another that suited her character better than that one.
Light landed directly on her eyelids, forcing her to flutter her eyes open. She was in her room. More specifically, she was lying on her train's room bed. She didn't remember falling asleep, let alone getting out of the recap room.
It was weird for her to be in such a spacious room. The nursery where she and her siblings slept wasn't like that. Their room had just enough space for two bunk beds and a closet, which they all shared. It wasn't as if they had lots of clothes or minded sharing, so there wasn't an actual problem or fight for clothing.
Seeing as there were different nightshirts displayed for her to take in the closet, she realised she was expected to have showered yesterday. Sluggishly, Olive took the covers off of her, swinging her legs to the side of the bed before taking a random nightshirt and walking to the bathroom.
In the shower, there was a giant panel with many buttons, each weirder than the last. She took a deep breath, acknowledging the fact that it would take a long while to have the shower before she started pressing buttons at random. After nearly twenty failed attempts to get warm water, she finally managed to have a decent shower.
Once dry, she stood in front of the room's closet, analysing each outfit in front of her before deciding that her father's old clothes weren't dirty enough to change into something that screamed 'Capitol' all around.
Still sleepy, she tied her long wavy black hair in a high bun, letting her face be perfectly visible. Her dark brown skin, which was the same as her father's, stood out between the dozens of white furniture and clothing around her.
"Up, up, up! It's going to be a very big, big, big day!" Piscia yelled in a singsong voice while entering Olive's room without knocking first.
You're all about being proper and manners, yet you enter a room without being invited in, or even knocking first? Olive thought bitterly. If there was one rule, her family followed strictly in their home, it was knocking. Whenever they entered a closed room, they had to knock first to make sure whoever was inside let them pass.
"What are you standing there for? Come on!" The escort insisted, waving her hand towards herself, trying to get her tribute to move.
Olive accepted reluctantly, leaving the nightshirt she had in her hands on the ground before following the woman to the dining room, where a magnificent breakfast awaited them.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Finnick commented teasingly to Olive's confusion. She wasn't late, nor was she the last to arrive, so why would he tell her that? "Slept well?"
"Yeah," she muttered, still weirded out at his attitude. Piscia forced her to sit right in front of him. Not only that made things more awkward for her, but it also made her sit right beside Librae, who was using her soft gaze again to hide the fact she was analysing her every move.
Not creepy at all. Not awkward at all. She chuckled, eating to evade any small talk that could occur between her and the mentors. They all seemed to have lost some of their cheekiness from yesterday. Mostly Ron and Finnick than the female victors. Mags looked way more worried about them, and Librae barely touched the drinks.
Olive took a second to look around the table once she had finished her plate of fried eggs. She wasn't particularly hungry, but she needed to eat more to gain enough weight for the Games. Glancing in front of her, she saw Finnick drinking from a mug that had some type of hot brown liquid inside.
"What's that?" She asked curiously, bending slightly to take a better look at whatever he was drinking.
"It's called hot chocolate," he answered, a smirk forming on his lips as he saw her fascinated expression. "Want to try some?" he asked, offering her the mug for her to take a sip.
"Yes, please," she muttered, a smile forming across her face as she received the warm mug from him.
"Oh, but be careful. You could burn your ton-" he tried to warn, although, before he could finish his sentence, Olive let out a cry. She had just burnt her tongue. "Yeah, that could happen," he added mockingly.
"How can you even drink this? It's boiling," she wondered out loud, glancing from Finnick to the mug again.
"Once you've burnt your tongue a few times, you can barely tell," he answered, a smirk still present on his face. "Come on, give it here. You'll only burn your tongue again. And let me tell you, that sucks. You can just ask them to give you one that's not boiling hot."
Olive accepted, giving him back the mug before asking an Avox for another one. Hers was still quite hot, but nowhere near as hot as Finnick's was. How has he not lost his sense of taste? She thought, glancing discretely at him, who feigned not to notice her looking at him as if he was a riddle she had to decipher.
"So, stylists and prep crew," Librae spoke up after a couple of minutes, getting the two tributes' attention immediately. "They will do many things to get you all 'pretty', and you won't like them. But don't struggle, they hate it."
"Why?" Her district partner asked, which surprised Olive, as she wasn't expecting her to have such a strong opinion about anything Capitol-related. Yesterday in the reaping, the girl was shaking like a leaf, and now she was being overly confident.
Could it be that she was faking for the cameras? She seems like two completely different people from yesterday to today. Olive thought, deciding to keep an eye on her district partner for the time being to figure out if it was an act or not.
"Just don't argue. They won't be happy, and if they're not happy with you, your outfits will be . . . let's say bad to even Capitol's standards," Ron answered the girl's question, trying to be as delicate as possible.
"Great," Olive muttered with a hint of amusement in her voice. There were at least another three or four people to add to the people she shouldn't anger if she wanted to survive. Yey. And of course, me being the most adorable and amicable person alive, I'll be able to shut my damn mouth and not argue. I think the odds have already given up on me by now. If I have to be liked by so many people to survive . . . I'm as good as dead.