Ibai Zubizarretta, 18
District Four Male, he/him
Despite how hard he tries, Ibai cannot manage to pretend like he's on a boat instead of a train.
When he lays it out like that, the whole thing sounds silly. No boat is completely enclosed and land-ridden, surrounded on all sides by trees and grass. And the gentle movements of the train don't mimic the sensation of a boat rocking back and forth on the waves, not even when he closes his eyes and tries to imagine otherwise.
It's beginning to dawn on Ibai that there were many things he did not manage to adequately prepare for going into this. Sure, he's got all of the actual training stuff down, and sure, he's already thought through every strategy under the sun, but that's suddenly not enough. Not even close to enough, really. He's stuck wondering about allies and mentors and trains; not even fleeting thoughts of boats can soothe his mind.
(There's a whole history of animals accompanying people on boats, but cats have a more desired and prevalent role. On the seas, any companion is better than none, and a cat can control infestations and vermin. Some sailors even find a black cat to be good luck.
Ibai wonders if the same is true for trains.)
Like clockwork, his thoughts restlessly turn back to his two most pressing issues: allies and mentors. Since getting on the train, he's hardly seen anyone at all. The escort, Marielle, ushered him in and then disappeared. Faye briefly passed by to get something from the kitchen, Bastian immediately locked himself away in his room, and Thessaly…
He frowns. Out of everyone, Ibai has dreaded meeting his District Partner the most. That is, officially meeting her. Thessaly Akaste has made herself known around the training grounds of Four for years, with a reputation for making friends everywhere she goes. Ibai has interacted with her on occasion, but he's never exactly been the social type, and she'd flutter off before he has the chance to get much out. Based on that, and also the whole Dacre thing, he assumes she'll be ignoring him as much as possible. Not that he can blame her, really.
Already, he's beginning to fall down a familiar path, so Ibai sighs heavily and returns to staring out the window. The trees whip by, and the train moves on, but Ibai keeps finding himself in the same place. He almost wishes he had some sort of distraction, a true distraction, but to his knowledge, he's still alone.
Ibai takes a moment to concentrate on something else, anything else. He fiddles with the yacht charm attached to his necklace, biting his lip as he watches endless greenery go by. He's never been this far from home before, and he finds that the world outside looks unnatural without a view of sand and the ocean. Green is close enough to blue, but not in the way that really matters. There are no large bodies of water around – the lakes they've passed certainly don't count – and Ibai already feels antsy. He wonders if the Arena this year will be outdoors, or if he'll be locked inside like last year was. Maybe the worse case scenario would be some sort of cold landscape, where Ibai can't do anything but freeze, but those are the least common types of Arenas. Then again, this new Head Gamemaker seems to be all about being new and imaginative, so there's no real way to tell, which is beginning to frustrate Ibai more than he's willing to admit.
"Ibai!"
His head snaps to the side, and Ibai immediately freezes when he notices his District Partner's attention solely directed at him. He takes a moment to glance around the room, seeing that it's otherwise devoid of life, and swallows. These are the kinds of situations he's least sure how to handle – Ibai is certainly glad that there's no one else in the room, as he doesn't particularly want to be around that many people, but he also isn't quite sure how to talk to the girl in front of him now.
"Yes?" he says after realizing he's been staring. "That's, uh, me."
"Ibai Zubizarretta," she declares, eyes glinting. "I've heard all about you, so no need to introduce yourself. I'm Thessaly Akaste."
He visibly cringes when he realizes all the reasons why she's likely heard of him. "Same goes to you. I'm not sure a soul training at Four doesn't know who you are, considering you took it upon yourself to befriend as many as you could."
"Duh," Thessaly says. "Isn't that the point of training?" She pauses, eyeing the coffee table between them. In one swift move, she's completely jumped over it, landing on the couch next to Ibai.
He blinks. She merely grins.
"I figured the purpose of training was the actual training part," Ibai points out. "When you're facing off against another tribute in the Arena, I'm not sure you can befriend them to death."
Thessaly laughs, stretching her feet out so they rest on the table. Ibai's not entirely sure why she's laughing, considering his statement was entirely truthful, but he relaxes a bit anyway. As long as he doesn't manage to make his District Partner completely hate him, maybe he can survive the next couple of weeks.
"Maybe not," she says, wiggling her feet, "but it's certainly the best method to get people not to kill me. Doesn't that count for something?"
"Sure, but I'm still not sure that'll help you in the middle of a fight."
"Not a problem. I can win any fight I get into and avoid the ones I can't. That's what allies are for, right?"
Ibai frowns. "We haven't even met the rest of them."
Shrugging, Thessaly tilts her head to the side. "Don't need to. I have a good feeling about them."
He makes eye contact with her for what he realizes is the first time in the conversation. Miren always said he should work on that more. "Have you seen the recap yet?" he asks, attention caught.
You'll never make it if your focus keeps slipping.
He grits his teeth and wills himself to start paying more attention. Now isn't the time for Ibai to get lost in his own mind, thinking about all sorts of things that certainly won't help him now.
She thinks it should've been Dacre too.
"Nope!" Thessaly stretches her arms over her head, and Ibai wonders if she's trying to take up as much space as physically possible. "Like I said, I just have a good feeling about them. And you, of course."
His shoulders hunch slightly, and he tears his gaze away. "Is that so?"
God, here it comes. Ibai's been waiting for the other shoe to drop as soon as she started up a conversation with him. He was never particularly well liked during training, and now he's going to pay the price for his actions. Part of him wonders if Thessaly would understand if he tried to explain himself, and the other part of him doesn't think it's worth trying. She's probably already made up her mind just like everyone else.
"Of course!" Her voice is still overly energetic, as if she's personally trying to infuse life into the conversation. Ibai doesn't quite understand her methods, but he does appreciate them. "I've seen you around. You're very good, you know."
"That's what they say about you," he says. "That you're good, I mean. Thessaly Akaste, started two years early, has made friends with everyone she comes into contact with. Your main weapon is your own body, but you can use throwing stars if the situation calls for it. One of the most gifted trainees by a long shot, and considering you have two years of experience on the rest of the group, you landed the spot without issues."
He realizes he's been talking for a moment too long and abruptly cuts himself off. It's not as if he's interacted with her much before – or with anyone, admittedly – so maybe she'll just think it's weird that he knows so much.
"Cool," she breathes. "You make me sound like a research project."
"Not a very interesting one," Ibai says, a hint of a smile playing across his lips. "Nor a very in-depth one. I still have a lot to figure out."
"An ongoing research project, then."
"Whatever you want to call it."
She hums, and when he glances back over, she's tapping her finger against her chin. "You can call me Thess, by the way. It's what all my friends call me."
He tries not to sound too hopeful as he says, "Friends?"
"Of course," she says, eyes glittering. "You're my District Partner, and I've just decided you're my friend too. Or maybe research project if you prefer."
"Are you planning to do any research as well?"
Laughing, Thessaly - Thess, he reminds himself – sits up and readjusts, crossing her legs on the couch. "For sure! I only know the base info: you're wicked smart, stellar with karambits, and you tend to keep to yourself a lot."
"Sounds like you don't have much on me, then."
She grins. "That's why it's an ongoing research project."
If Ibai had to guess, he'd say this was going well. He's never been one for making friends, and certainly not so easily, but there's something comfortable about the way Thess talks, as if she believes there's nothing to worry about at all. Strangely, instead of getting increasingly tense as the conversation continues, Ibai finds himself beginning to relax.
"So tell me something," Thess says, leaning closer. "Something about yourself. You know plenty about me already, so I gotta even the score now."
It's as if every interesting fact about himself has been wiped out of his mind. Ibai scrambles for a moment to come up with something, anything, and eventually lands on, "I can do knife tricks?"
Thess shifts in her seat again. Ibai notices that she keeps doing that, as if it takes a lot for her to even somewhat sit still. "That's fucking sick," she declares, boldly enough for Ibai to blink wordlessly at her. "Actually, you should show me some of them."
"I don't exactly have a knife here."
"There are butter knives in the cabinets?"
"Yes, my ultimate trick of 'spread butter on bread,'" he says dryly.
She laughs and waves a hand. "I suppose that's fair. You probably need a specific type. Karambits are nothing like regular knives, or so I'm told."
"Hopefully they'll have those in training," he muses. It would be rather troublesome if they weren't. If Alila could get something as specific as 'bladed fans' in the Arena last year, then hopefully Ibai can demonstrate that he needs something of his own.
"Training!" Thess snaps her fingers. "Duh! You can show me then."
"You want to train together?"
"We're allies and friends," Thess proclaims proudly. "It just makes sense, doesn't it?"
He considers her proposal for a moment. Training together would solve his most pressing issue – what to do about allies – and he's growing quite fond of Thess so far. If he can just make a friend within his alliance, lasting or not, then this whole situation will be far more tolerable. Ibai's been worried that he'd quickly become the odd man out, but this is off to a good start. A great start, even.
"It does," he says, finally conceding with a nod. "Then we will train together."
Thess laughs brightly, as if she's won something. Ibai cannot imagine why anyone would be that excited to spend time with him, but he can't help but smile with her anyway.
"Looks like you two are getting along."
Ibai's face immediately goes blank as he looks to see the source of the voice. Bastian Allard is studiously avoiding their gazes, hands shoved in his pockets. There's something particularly sorrowful about the way he carries himself, and Ibai can only assume that the reason can be tied back to his sister's death. News travels fast around Four, and considering their most recent Victor wasn't seen publicly for months following the 123rd Games, it feels like the most logical conclusion. Ibai almost wants to ask about it, but somehow, he doesn't think that would be a good idea.
"Just getting ready for the Games," Thess says, grinning widely. "Finding allies and all."
"A smart move," Bastian says. He's still not looking at them. Ibai doesn't know what to make of him.
"You here to watch the recap with us?" Thess asks, perking up slightly. "We could always-"
"No," Bastian replies, too quickly. "I'm just… passing through."
"What about Faye?"
He laughs darkly and shakes his head. "If you see her before morning, it'll be a miracle."
"You could still stay for a bit," Thess offers. She seems particularly determined to achieve something, and Ibai's perfectly willing to sit back and let her try. "I'd love to hear what you have to say about the other tributes. Just for a few?"
Bastian looks panic-stricken, but his face quickly smoothes back over. He coughs and takes his hands out of his pockets. "I'm… fine. Really. Just… if you need anything, you know where I'll be."
He doesn't give either of them a chance to respond before making a hasty exit. Ibai stares after him, perplexed. He already doesn't know what to make of this Victor, and he's hardly seen the other at all. If things are going to continue like this, it may be him and Thess against the world.
(Somehow, that doesn't seem like such a bad outcome.)
"Hm." Thess turns back to him with her arms crossed over her chest. "I'm not sure I believe him."
"Why not?"
Her lips twist into a frown. "I just have a feeling."
"You seem to have a lot of those."
"I do. I'm like an empath or something."
Ibai nods wisely, as if he has any idea what that means. He doesn't, not really, but he's willing to go along with it anyway.
She shifts on the couch again, turning back to face him. Ibai blinks, recognizing that she's continued inching closer, and stays perfectly still. Thess seems to think nothing of it. "Anyway. I don't want to watch the recap yet. You have to tell me more about yourself."
Ibai twitches. "More?"
"Of course more! What's something you like?"
He instantly relaxes. It's the easiest prompt he's ever been given. "Boats."
"Boats?"
He nods his head a little too excitedly. "Boats. I know all about them."
Thess grins slyly. "You mind sharing?"
For once, Ibai hesitates. His eyes dart over to meet Thessaly's, and he tries to gauge whether or not she's serious. "I'm not sure if I can fit it all into one conversation."
"You don't have to," Thess says. "We're friends now, remember? You'll have plenty of future conversations with me too."
Though he's been reminded of this several times now, Ibai feels something strange in his chest as Thess says it this time. He feels, for the first time since getting chosen as the volunteer, that he's actually capable of doing something.
He just hopes he's not about to fuck it up.
Marri Esters, 15
District Seven Female, she/her
She can't seem to stop crying.
At this point, it's starting to get embarrassing. Marri's aware of this, she knows this, and yet she still can't stop. All she can think is how this isn't fair, none of this is fair, and yet here she is anyway: dragged from her home, from everything she's ever known, and sent to die brutally at the hands of someone else.
She's seen the Hunger Games before. She knows what happens. Twenty-four kids go in and only one comes out. Everyone knows that the older and stronger kids have better chances, and someone as young and weak as Marri stands almost no chance at all. Even lasting past the bloodbath would be a miracle, one that Marri isn't sure she's capable of.
(She hasn't felt capable of much these days. All Marri could do was move around in a daze, even before her father died. She's always been a little too stuck in her head, and now she can't seem to get out. Not when it really matters.)
The room's other inhabitants move around her, and Marri watches as if she's an outsider. She's not one of them. They don't ignore her, but they do walk on eggshells around her, as if afraid of setting her off again. She's still crying, hasn't stopped, but she's silent now. Almost afraid to breathe.
One of them brought her some water earlier. Marri tucks her feet up under her body and relaxes into the couch, trying to disappear, and raises the cup to her lips, sipping at it gratefully. She tries to tune back into the conversation, eyesight blurry from tears still clinging to her lashes.
For a moment, she almost laughs. What a sight she must be. A pathetic, sniveling girl waiting to die.
She probably won't have to wait for long.
"What talents do you bring to the table?" Lynx asks, gaze turned to Marri's District Partner, Zephyr. "Anything that could be turned into something that could help you?"
"I work in the lumber industry," Zephyr says. "Giant saws buzzing around. You could argue I'm pretty athletic and nimble."
"A good start," Briar says, grinning. "No weapons experience?"
"Not really," they admit. "But I'll be looking for something lightweight and easy."
"You'll get more use out of a knife than a hatchet, then." Lynx hums and rubs his chin. "Or something that could give you some distance. You could try a crossbow."
"Throwing knives, throwing stars…" Briar grins. "You might try tailing the Careers, see what you can pick up by observing."
"Wouldn't that be dangerous?" Zephyr asks, but he doesn't seem opposed to the idea. Rather, they seem curious, as if he's genuinely considering this piece of advice.
Marri could never. She shudders and curls up tighter. Sniffles once. Wipes her face with her sleeve. Tries to answer the question for herself.
What talents do you bring to the table?
None. She loves reading and painting, but those won't exactly help her here. And while she also works, she's a cleaner at a furniture making factory. Nothing that will help her now.
Maybe it's hopeless.
(She's Sawyer and her lungs are filling with water. She's suffocating, drowning, and she's only getting dragged down deeper. She screams wordlessly, watching bubbles escape to the surface, but she can't follow. Surely there should be a hand reaching down for her soon, saving her from this endless struggle, but there's nothing. All Marri has to rely on is herself, and it's not enough, and she's drowning-)
"What about allies?" Briar asks, propping one leg up on the couch. "As your mentor, I'm supposed to suggest them as a good idea, but what do you want?"
"You seem like the type to want allies," Lynx chimes in. "It's a good look on a volunteer, considering you'll have Careers after you, but has anyone caught your eye yet?"
Marri blinks. Have they watched the recap yet? Did she manage to completely miss it? Distantly, she registers that she should be on the search for allies of her own, but she wouldn't even know where to begin.
Why would anyone want to ally with someone as lost as her?
"Looks to be an interesting group," Zephyr muses. "Lots of… characters."
"Some to stay away from," Lynx advises. "Like the one from Five."
"Certainly," Zephyr says smoothly, "but I was intrigued by the Eights."
The two mentors share a look, and Marri isn't sure what to make of it. She knows they're having some sort of silent conversation that her and Zephyr aren't privy to, but she's not sure why.
"They often have something to bring to the table, but be careful of which one Ariadne decides to focus her efforts on," Briar finally says. She coughs. "They always go farther, and they take after her."
"Wouldn't that be a good thing?" Zephyr asks, bemused. "She won, after all."
"They're willing to do anything," Lynx explains, "sometimes at the cost of others. It's just something to be aware of."
Marri's not entirely sure what any of that means. Her throat is tighter now. She swallows and tries to suck in a slow breath. This is all so much more than she could ever handle, but she has to find a way. She has to go home, she can't just stay here to… to…
(Everything is cold and she's so, so tired. Her entire body hurts, aches with every movement, and she can hardly bring herself to keep going. Each day she prays for relief, and each day her prayers go unanswered. She's suffering through unbearable agony, and all she wants is for it to end. But she'll fade out of life just as insignificantly as she entered it, with no say in what happens to her.)
"Maybe Eleven would have been interesting if he hadn't decided to run," Zephyr says, playing with the ends of his hair. "Not a good look. Makes me wonder if there's something going on there."
"A good thing to watch out for." Briar purses her lips, mulling things over for a moment. "His predicted placement was higher than the one that threw a paint bomb and yelled at their mentor. Probably not worth the risk."
"The Twelve girl volunteered," Zephyr points out. "She might be interesting considering-"
"Considering last year?" Lynx barks out a laugh. "Don't trust a volunteer from Twelve of all places."
"She has to have something to bring to the table."
"Or something she's running from."
"Don't most tributes?"
Briar fixes him with a look. "Do you?"
Zephyr raises a hand to his chest, scoffing a bit. "What, do you think I volunteered for a reason that should worry you?"
"I think there's a reason why you haven't shared it with us yet," she says. "Care to share now?"
The smile never leaves his face, but Marri can see their expression tighten. She'd already managed to forget that her District Partner had volunteered. She shivers again. Marri can't even begin to fathom why anyone would sign up to risk their lives. Surely nothing could be worth all of this.
"Maybe during another mentoring session," he says, brushing her off. "We'll have to come up with something good to feed the Capitol."
"I can't say I particularly like that answer, but we'll put it on the list of things to tackle later," Lynx says. "So, the Eights?"
"I can't say I'm terribly picky about allies," Zephyr admits. "Someone that won't drag me down. Someone I don't hate spending time with."
"What an extensive laundry list of requirements," Briar says dryly. "We'll keep it in mind. Try getting a feel for people during the Parade tomorrow. That'll help."
"I'll keep that in mind."
There's a brief lull in the conversation; instead of getting dragged down again, Marri fights her way to the surface. She wants to try, really try, as best she can, and this is her chance. She won't let it pass.
"What about me?" Marri finally asks, voice slightly shaky. She clears her throat, trying to sound normal. "I don't think I could do this by myself."
Lynx immediately directs his attention over to her, smiling gently. Marri wishes she could feel reassured right now. "It's good to be able to acknowledge that," he says. Marri doesn't believe him. "Did anyone from the recap catch your eye?"
She shakes her head slowly. Marri still doesn't remember the recap at all.
"The girls from Three and Ten are your age, as is the boy from Six. A lot of tributes tend to group together if they're the same age, or they find someone a bit older that could theoretically protect them."
She nods this time. She recalls last year, and how the young boy from Three hung around two older kids. Then again, he died before both of them, so maybe that's not the best strategy.
"I wouldn't recommend allying with anyone younger than you," Briar warns. "So unless the boys from Three, Ten, and Twelve manage to have any useful skills, I'd keep your distance."
This all makes perfect sense to Marri; she's glad that the conversation is helping to clear her head a bit. It's the sort of thing that she wouldn't have thought of on her own. She hadn't realized there were so many things to think about when it came to the Games. Before this, she'd sorta assumed that people just made friends and those were what you called your allies.
"Okay," she says, when she realizes she should really say something in response. "How do I get them, then? Allies, that is."
"Depends." Briar leans forward in her seat, humming a bit. "Some ally with their District Partner during train rides. Others will find someone they like during the Parades rush. Most wait until training, since that's where you're best able to meet everyone. It also gives you the chance to show off your own skills."
"What if I don't know anything?" Marri says, clenching her hands together tightly in her lap. "What do I do then?"
"Start with something you think you can learn," Lynx says with a shrug. "From there, find something you can learn to do well."
"I don't think I could learn to use a weapon well."
"I never said you had to. Survival skills are just as important."
"They were hardly used last year," she points out. "Everything was inside."
"Every year brings something new to the table," Lynx counters. "Remember the year no one had any weapons?"
Marri cringes. She was only a kid at the time, but she's sure no one can forget the sheer brutality of that year. "Yeah."
"Everything you choose to learn – or not – is a gamble. But if you don't find a way to try, then you'll never get anywhere."
She twists her lips, feeling a bit like a scolded child. And maybe, in a way, she is. But Marri also knows that he's just trying to help her, and she'd do well to take his advice.
"Okay," she says slowly. "Do you have any ideas for where to start?"
Because while Marri may fully believe that there's no way she's getting out of this alive, she also doesn't want to give up. That would be taking the easy way out, and that's not what her father taught her to do.
It's too soon for her to disappear. Not when she's hardly gotten to live.
Saccharine Esculenta, 18
District One Female, she/her
This train ride is already an absolute disaster.
Saccharine clasps her hands together in her lap, the perfect picture of serenity. She's been practicing for this moment ever since she knew she had to volunteer, ever since she knew that it was the only way to fix things for Nectarine. She just didn't think it would be this easy to make a good impression.
See, Estelle and Alila are far too worried about the other occupant of the train. Saccharine wouldn't call herself worried, but she's certainly curious. No one knows who Callum Cadogan is, and they don't really want to, either. It's considered beyond deplorable for someone to step in and take the place of the chosen volunteer, and Callum snatched the spot right out of Rhydian Magnusson's hands.
Saccharine finds him truly fascinating. It's further proof that, even among the middle class of One, the entire District is rotten. They're all the same in the end, even if they insist otherwise. And based on the way Callum sits now, self-righteousness dripping off his form, he's just like the rest.
Her lips curl into the barest smile. Pleasant, disarming. If this is the first of her allies, then she can't wait to see what the rest will bring to the table.
Problem is, they haven't even managed to watch the recap yet. Estelle has been pacing the room for ages, muttering something to Alila as she goes. It makes Saccharine want to roll her eyes into the back of her head. This isn't her problem. If her own District Partner is a moron with a savior complex, he'll be easy enough to take down later. According to Estelle's nearly incomprehensible ramblings, he isn't even trained. Foolish boy doesn't stand a chance in the end.
None of them do. Not if Saccharine has anything to say about it.
For at least a bit, Saccharine is content to observe. Since she doesn't yet have any intel on the rest of her future allies, she'll have to work with what she's got here: two absolute morons, and Alila, who's only about half a moron. Just thinking about her current predicament is enough to drive Saccharine insane, but she'll play it safe for now.
(Unbidden, her eyes dart over to Estelle. For a brief second, Saccharine imagines that it's Nectarine instead, having rightfully won the 119th Games instead of being driven to take her own life.
The image doesn't manage to bring her any comfort.)
"Maybe I should've asked Asteria to come," Estelle mutters, continuing to pace. "She always knows what to do. But that's not fair considering… well, considering last year… I would've asked Mendoza but he wanted a couple off years…"
"Estelle," Alila says patiently. "Estelle, really, it's not-"
"We should switch," Estelle blurts out, voice growing louder. "I'll take Callum and you can take Saccharine. Unless we combine…?"
"Separate, please," Saccharine chimes in. "If you don't mind, that is. I'm sure Callum here could use some extra support on his own."
"I would, actually," Callum says, far too politely for his own good. Saccharine is beginning to wonder if he's a complete moron. "If you wouldn't mind, that is. I think I have a lot to learn between now and the Games."
"Three days isn't a lot of time." Saccharine feigns sympathy, placing a hand to her chest. "Unless, of course, you already have something to go off of? Some sort of talent?"
He pauses, eyebrows scrunching together as if he's thinking hard. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" She tilts her head to the side just barely. "Or you don't want to say?"
"I'm not trained," he insists. "Not formally, anyway. But I have my own set of skills."
Saccharine is quickly piecing something together, and she smiles gently. "I have no doubt about that. What about alliances?"
"Huh?"
"Alliances," Saccharine repeats more slowly. "Who do you plan on allying with?"
Callum frowns. "Oh. I, uh, wasn't sure."
At this, Saccharine can only laugh, raising a hand to her mouth. After a moment, Callum laughs nervously with her, though he stops before she does. She pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, shaking her head. "That's a shame."
"What is?"
"Since you volunteered and all, I thought you'd at least be smart enough to figure this one out."
"Figure what out?"
"All of One will turn against you," Saccharine says, making sure to sweeten her voice to lessen the blow. She can't have Callum think she's not helping, after all. "If you leave the pack, they'll all turn against you, too. How are you supposed to survive the Arena when its most dangerous players are looking to hunt you down?"
"We can always work something out," Alila cuts in. "Your sponsor situation will likely be rough, but don't feel like you have to do anything. The choice is ultimately up to you."
"I didn't mean to intrude," Saccharine says, bowing her head slightly. "I just thought that, as his District Partner, I might offer my opinion on the matter."
"It's okay, really." Callum glances between her and Alila. "I appreciate it. Both of you."
"I want to mentor Callum," Alila says, though she's tense as she speaks. Saccharine can't imagine the unbearably hard working girl from last year actually wants to mentor this boy, who stole another's spot in the Games, but maybe she thinks she has something to prove.
Estelle shoots another worried look at Callum, and then back at Alila. Her lack of subtlety is truly astounding. "Are you sure? But what about…"
Alila smiles and puts a hand on Estelle's shoulder to reassure her. "I've got it, I promise. I can handle this."
"I know you can," Estelle says, nearly pouting. "It's just…"
"If I ever have any questions, I can go to you. I promise. We're a team now, right?"
It makes Saccharine sick. At least Alila half-earned her victory, even if her showing was rather lacking throughout. She did better than Estelle, who bumbled her way into the finale and won solely because she'd barely earned a scratch over the course of the week she was in there. And now Saccharine has to be mentored by her, the same girl that won the year that should've been Nectarine's. She can't think of a worse scenario.
Something familiar rises up in Saccharine so fast that she has to squash it down. Her hands tremble just slightly, the only sign that she's close to losing any sense of control. Her eyes flutter shut for one, two, three seconds.
(It's useless to lose control of herself now. Even though Saccharine wants to ruin them, ruin them all, she has to bide her time. She hasn't spent the last few years working for all of this to fall apart now.
Nectarine would be so disappointed in her.)
"I'd still like to be mentored separately," Saccharine says, getting to her feet. "If that's alright with you, Estelle?"
"Of course!" Estelle immediately heads out of the room, gesturing for Saccharine to follow her down a hallway. "We can talk and then meet back up for the recap in a few."
"That sounds lovely." Saccharine smiles at Estelle's back. She wonders what it would be like to put a knife through it.
For you, Nectarine, she promises. They'll all know your pain.
Saccharine quickly realizes that this train is grating on her for a number of reasons, the main one being that it's so frustratingly ornate. It reminds her of the spa back home, so deceivingly lovely that it makes her sick. Her skin crawls at the reminder of broken wings littering the floor night after night, a reminder of how everything beautiful is temporary, fleeting. Worthless in the end.
"I'm so sorry," Estelle says as they walk into a room. She takes a moment to flick the lights on, sighing quietly. "Really, I am. I didn't expect to be so… so out of sorts today."
She wants to sneer at Estelle, to tell her that Nectarine deserved her position so much more, that Estelle will only ever be a shadow compared to what her sister was, but Saccharine knows she has to bide her time. Sooner or later, they always crumble.
No one is ever truly good enough.
"Aw, that's okay," Saccharine says sweetly. "Don't worry about it. We all make mistakes."
Estelle sucks in a breath and then releases it slowly. "Right," she says. "Right, sorry. This is all terribly unprofessional of me."
"It is," Saccharine chirps. "I'd think you would know better by now."
"Huh?" Estelle blinks and stares at her, so wide-eyed and stupidly uncomprehending that Saccharine almost has to laugh.
"Oh, you know." Saccharine cocks her head to the side. "It's just that you're the most experienced mentor here. Don't you think it's a little… embarrassing that your own mentee has a better grasp on things than you?"
"I don't-"
"But that's okay!" Saccharine pastes on her most amiable smile, which only widens as Estelle cautiously returns it. "I'm sure there are plenty of other things you're good at."
Lie. Saccharine doubts Estelle is good at anything besides being a braindead blonde. It's half a miracle Alila managed to get home alive on her own, much less with the "help" of Estelle Duvont.
But, of course, she doesn't say that part. Saccharine merely waits for Estelle to lower her guard again, to inch just a step closer.
Saccharine's used to getting people caught in her trap. And as soon as Estelle wanders too close, she won't even be able to notice that Saccharine's sweet facade is only there to mask the poison lining her every word.
And to think no one will notice until it's far too late.
It's not fair. Saccharine wants to rip the world to shreds, tear it limb from limb, show it every ounce of pain that Nectarine had felt. But she's still so terribly hollow, a shell of her former self. Saccharine Esculenta feels like a totally different person now, one that's missing something she'll never be able to get back.
The funeral had been lovely. So, so lovely. The Veitchianas took care of everything, after all. They spared no expense for the girl whose training they sponsored, paying for the funeral as if paying off a debt.
No amount of money could ever be worth Nectarine's life.
The funeral had been lovely. So, so lovely. Her parents wept throughout the whole thing, the perfect picture of a mourning family. They clung tightly to each other for support, crying out for their daughter to return to them.
No amount of tears could ever fix what they'd been content to ignore.
The funeral had been lovely. So, so lovely. The girls from the Academy cried their pretty tears, shared their sob stories about a girl they never bothered to know. It was all so clearly fake, but no one batted an eye. They only came to make themselves feel better, after all. It wasn't Nectarine they cared about. It was themselves.
No amount of atoning would ever be enough to fix what they'd ruined.
Saccharine stares into her own eyes, into Nectarine's eyes, her body still adorned with the drab, black garments she'd been fitted with a few days ago. She wants to know where she's supposed to go from here, what she's supposed to do. Her mirror self holds no answers.
It's not fair.
The first hit makes her hand sting. Saccharine hisses and draws back, but this only makes her anger flare more. She goes for another, and then another, a senseless violence that she can't even wrap her head around. It feels right to give in to her own anger, to let it consume her in a way that makes her breath catch, makes her chest ache, makes her eyes sting.
But she doesn't cry. No, Saccharine doesn't cry. A lady should always strive to be proper, and Saccharine can't even summon tears for the one person that meant most to her in the entire world.
When she finally slows, body tired and aching, Saccharine catches sight of herself again in the shattered remains of the mirror. Her eyes are wild, her chest is heaving, and blood trails from her nose. Though they're sisters, Saccharine realizes she's nothing like Nectarine at all. Nectarine, who was always so… so perfect.
(Almost.)
She laughs. It's so simple. All she has to do is become that perfection, become everything her parents always wanted her to be.
And then she'll be able to bring the whole world to its knees.
Guinevere "Gwen" Solomon, 18
District Eight Female, she/her
The ghost is still watching her.
Gwen can see it. Her. Scarlet. Around every corner, in every mirror, behind her eyelids as she goes to sleep. Concrete proof that despite her efforts, despite things getting better, Gwen can never truly be free of her own past. And now she can do nothing but wait for her own death and hope that it's swift and merciful.
She sucks in a breath. The death card. Change. Gwen remembers the woman that pulled it shortly before the reaping, and now she wonders if the message was really for herself. Things are certainly about to change, but Gwen wonders if she'll meet death in the literal sense as well.
There's only one way to find out.
The train hurtles forward, speeding past grass and trees that Gwen tries hard to concentrate on. She openly ignores the other occupants of the train, except for the one that insistently peers over her shoulder. When the outside world begins to blur, Gwen's concentration instead locks on the window and the sight of her own reflection within it. She looks frightened — eyes wide but completely dry, lips pressed together firmly, face pale and drawn. When her eyes dart to the side, focusing on a spot just behind her ear, she sees a visage that looks similar to hers. Tears course down her face, her mouth opens in a silent scream, and her cheeks are sunken. Forever young.
Gwen wonders if she'll look just like that in a week.
(Scarlet's head whips around wildly, searching for her allies, for anyone to help. Her feet stumble over each other, leading her towards the Cornucopia instead of fleeing somewhere safer. She doesn't know if anywhere is safer. Scarlet has never felt so wildly out of her element, so nearly animalistic in her primal fear. Her heart stutters, and every shallow breath makes her chest ache. She wonders if anyone else can hear just how frightened she is, can tell how weak and useless and vulnerable she is.
Where should she go? Where is there to go?
Her feet splash through puddles on the ground, and she stumbles again. The ground beneath her is soft and wet, threatening to drag her down forever. Trees unlike any Scarlet has ever seen surround her, as if about to swallow her whole. The air is thick and humid, and as she tries to suck in a breath, she nearly chokes.
Several feet away, a noise catches her attention, and Scarlet's head whips to the side. She sees her District Partner, a boy of about twelve, cowering on the ground where he'd fallen. He screeches, limbs flailing as he tries fruitlessly to get back up, but he can't gain purchase on the marshy ground.
Maybe she should help. Maybe Scarlet should grab him and run, get out of here. Or maybe she should take this as a sign to run far, far away, all on her own.
Scarlet does none of these things. It's as if all the life has been sucked out of her body. She can't even move.
The rest happens in a blur.
A Career approaches her fallen District Partner, the boy whose name Scarlet can't even summon in her state of panic. For some reason, it's the only thought running across her mind. She can tell he's about to die, that the dark haired girl wielding an axe is about to cut through him, but her mind loops the same question.
What's his name? What's his name? What's his name?
A final screech, and then there's a spray of blood. Bile rises in Scarlet's throat, but the only thing that comes out is a scream of her own. A name, calling out to a boy now dead, soon to be forgotten. Scarlet may join him soon.
"Jules!"
The girl turns to face her, teeth glinting blindingly white against her bloodstained face. Scarlet has always loved the color red because of her name, but now she feels sick at the sight of it.
"Darius!" the girl calls, her voice taunting Scarlet. "This one's all yours."
Scarlet whirls around, ready to run, but something slams into her shoulder and suddenly she's on the ground. Her fingers dig into the mud, and Scarlet dully recalls that Ariadne told her to run far, far away from the Cornucopia. She should've remembered. She should've listened.
But there is no Ariadne to help her now, only a shield that moves aside to show a boy that stares down at her, face completely impassive, as if he's unbothered by what he's about to do.
"Sorry," the boy grunts, chest heaving. He raises a sword over his head, blood already shining on the blade. "It's nothing personal."
Then the sword swings down in an arc of silver-red and Scarlet screams in agony as the blade pierces her skin, cutting through too fast and too slow and she can't think she can't move, can't do anything but scream for someone, anyone, but the only thing that comes to greet her is the cruel embrace of death…)
"Guinevere!"
Gwen's head snaps away from the window so quickly that her neck twinges. Even though she can't see Scarlet's face anymore, she knows that the girl is still hovering just behind her, just out of sight. Part of her wonders if anyone else can see the dead girl or if they can just see Gwen, but soon enough those will be synonyms anyway.
Checkmate, Scarlet. You win, don't you?
"Sorry," Gwen mumbles. "What were you saying?"
Ariadne's lips purse, clearly unamused by Gwen's lack of attentiveness. Gwen half expects to be berated for it, but Ariadne's face quickly smooths over, and she just sighs quietly. "Nothing in particular. You've been staring out the window for a long time – are you okay?"
Her throat is strangely dry. Gwen swears she can still feel a sword digging into her ribcage. She swallows. "Fine."
Her mentor frowns again, clearly not believing Gwen, but Ariadne appears willing to drop the matter for now. "Glad that's settled, then. Onto business. Are you both ready?"
Gwen startles and glances over at the other occupant of the room, whose gaze is already locked on her. He flushes and glances back down at his hands, foot bouncing restlessly against the floor. Something has made him clearly uncomfortable, and Gwen has a suspicion she knows what. Or, rather, who.
There's not a soul in Eight that isn't aware of Ariadne Valade. There's the obvious: she's a Victor. But there's no avoiding how she became a Victor. She forged temporary alliances and then dispatched her "allies" before they could do the same to her. Even worse, no one seems to know what her true allegiance is now. She hangs around the Capitol, around Careers, and there have been plenty of rumors that she actively hunts down rebels and hands them over to the Capitol. Her presence alone is enough to make Gwen twitch, as if Ariadne has the power to draw secrets out of Gwen that not even she herself knows.
The silence has stretched on for too long, and, recognizing that Svelte won't speak up, Gwen decides to do it herself. "Both?"
Something mischievous glints in Ariadne's eyes as she nods. "Both. Eirian got caught up doing something last night – ve has the worst sleep schedule of anyone I know – so he'll catch up with us in a bit. So the three of us will do… I'll call it a preliminary mentoring session."
"Okay," Gwen says, feeling strangely lightheaded. Over her shoulder, Scarlet drifts closer, attention captured. Gwen doesn't want to know what that could mean. "What does that entail?"
"First of all, introduce yourselves," Ariadne instructs. "I presume you both know who I am, but I'll go first. Ariadne Valade, most notable for winning the 117th Games, but I also work part-time for my mother as a seamstress." She pauses, and then frowns. "By the way, if either of you see my yarn around, let me know."
Gwen isn't quite sure what to make of her, and based on the look they exchange, Svelte isn't either. He's still choosing to stay quiet, so Gwen opens her mouth next. Instead of introducing herself, what comes out is, "You still work? As a Victor?"
Ariadne is bemused by her question, and she nods. "Why shouldn't I? Even a Victor has to keep busy somehow. I may not be able to embroider as well as my mother, but I've been able to wield a needle and thread my whole life."
That's all it takes for Gwen to recognize Ariadne's tactic. It's one she's familiar with, having used it on some of her customers. When they're too nervous to engage in a real conversation with Gwen, she has to figure out a way to liken herself to them, prove they're the same deep down. As long as she can establish a connection, even in a small way, she's got an in. The most important thing to figure out is how to make her customers lower their guard, and that's what Ariadne's trying to do now.
Gwen narrows her eyes slightly. Though Ariadne's words may just be part of a tactic to make her loosen up, the other woman still seems… genuine. And besides, Gwen figures it'll be hard to avoid her own mentor. She might as well play along, at least for now.
"Guinevere Solomon," she says. "You can call me Gwen. I read fortunes at the Strange & Unusual Oddities Parlour."
Ariadne's eyes light up. "My sister loves that place."
"How old is your sister?"
"Nearly seven."
Gwen has to try not to snort. That tracks. They sold shit that would primarily be appealing to someone without critical thinking skills or the mind of a child – ultimately worthless, but perhaps entertaining if you were willing to let your imagination take over. "My wife runs it," she says, wiggling her fingers, where her token rested. A shitty ring, but a ring nonetheless – the most important belonging Gwen ever owned.
"Congratulations," Ariadne says sincerely. "I presume that-"
An orange blur rushes across Gwen's legs, and she jolts in her seat. The blur continues moving until it settles in Svelte's lap, and he shoots a wide-eyed look at Ariadne, who merely beams.
"Yarn!" she says, gesturing to the small orange cat. "I was starting to get worried that he accidentally got lost or trapped in Eirian's room."
Tentatively, Svelte begins to pet the cat, who begins purring loudly. A ghost of a smile flashes across his face, finally cracking the somber look he'd been wearing before. "Yarn?"
"He likes the Capitol," Ariadne explains. "Or, rather, he likes following me around. In truth, I think he really just likes Callan, so I'll have to keep a close eye on him when we get to the training center."
Now, Gwen may have been called a witch in the past, but she's beginning to get the sense that Ariadne is similar in a way she can't quite put her finger on. Maybe it's because, behind the eyes of a woman willing to help, lays the remains of a girl that could draw in other tributes, get them to lower their guard, and swiftly put them down.
Gwen doesn't think she'll be next, but the thought sends a shudder down her spine anyway.
"I'm Svelte Rasa," the boy says, noticeably calmer as he strokes the cat, managing to find a spot under his chin that makes Yarn purr even louder. "I'm an acrobat at the Bizarre."
He doesn't offer up any more, but Gwen's eyes widen regardless. "The Bizarre," she breathes, excited despite herself. "I've set my tent up out there a few times, but I've never caught a show myself. Everyone that passes through says you're truly wonderful, though."
At her praise, Svelte looks abashed, staring down at the cat in his lap. Yarn wiggles to get comfortable again, and he manages a slight smile. It's the sort of smile that makes Gwen wonder if she'll ever see it widen. "Thank you," he says. "I've… worked at it for a long time."
There's a slight lull in the conversation, but Ariadne picks it up quickly. "Yarn likes you," she says, nodding at the small cat. "And you're good with him."
"I have one of my own back home," he says, scratching Yarn between the ears. "Widow. I picked her up as a stray."
"Me too," Gwen says, laughing a bit. "Found him right outside our shop a few months ago. He doesn't have an official name, though. We just call him Little Friend."
"We?"
Gwen wiggles her ring finger again. "Me and the wife. And their brother. Been the three of us for a few years now. Couldn't imagine life without them."
Something in Svelte's face changes, but before Gwen can determine why, someone with green hair and tattoos comes into the living room area. She sits up a little straighter, recognizing him to be Eirian Lockram, Victor of the 103rd Games. This realization somehow stuns her, as if she's just figuring out that she's on the train, heading towards her own Games. These two Victors will help her and Svelte forge a path towards victory.
They couldn't do the same for me, Scarlet whispers in her ear. Gwen doesn't have to look to see the smile on her face.
"Nice to see you awake," Ariadne says.
"Nice to be awake," Eirian replies, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm gonna take a few to make some tea – either of you want any?"
Svelte perks up at the offer. "I'll take whatever you have."
"Same," Gwen says, a ghost of a smile crossing her face as she thinks about being able to cradle a warm cup of tea in her hands again.
"What, not gonna offer me any?" Ariadne calls.
"You don't even like tea!"
"I'd still appreciate the offer!"
Eirian waves her off before heading into the kitchen, but based on the way Ariadne is still grinning, this is normal for them. Gwen isn't quite sure what to make of it, but she's determined that at the very least, she stands a chance with them on her side. No matter what Scarlet has to say about it.
Coughing a bit, Ariadne shifts in her seat. "Now, let's dig into some business for a few. About alliances-"
"I'm not looking for allies," Svelte says sharply, startling both of them. Gwen tries to pretend like his harsh rejection doesn't hurt her feelings.
Ariadne smiles the kind of smile that means she's about to lure him in, though even Gwen can't determine what her end goal is. "You didn't let me finish."
Svelte glances away, properly admonished but also clearly irritated. "Sorry," he mutters, in a tone that very much says he isn't.
"I want you to stick together for the first two days of training," Ariadne says, glancing over at Gwen. "Two days, help each other out, part ways if you're really that reluctant to ally."
"Why?" Gwen asks, beating Svelte to it. "What's the point if we don't end up sticking together?"
"You have talents that can help each other out. As an acrobat, you're agile and might have some experience with light weaponry. You're also a performer, but Gwen's talents lend to her being people savvy. The two of you can navigate training together, pick up a few skills together, and then you can split. You get on well enough already, so I don't think it'll take too much out of you to play nice for a few days."
Svelte frowns deeply. Gwen can tell that he wants to ignore Ariadne and go off on his own. Strangely, Gwen finds that she doesn't want that to happen. She may not know much about this boy with a somber face, but she can tell that they're… similar. Similar in all the ways that matter, anyway.
(Maybe it's because she can see Gwen from a few years ago, before Shae and Jericho. Maybe it's because she recognizes the darkness that clings to him and the way Scarlet smiles gleefully, as if she's waiting to take him down alongside Gwen. Maybe Gwen has learned that if she wants to get out of this, she wants to do it with someone by her side, someone that won't try to drag her down.
Maybe Gwen is tired of all the ghosts. Maybe she's ready to embrace something new.)
"Two days," Gwen proposes, taking over for Ariadne. "If it really bothers you to stick around that long, you can leave whenever you want. But ally with me for two days, see how it goes, and if you still want to split, we can do that too. I'll make it worth your time."
Svelte squints at her, trying to find a reason not to trust her. Gwen folds her hands in her lap, waiting patiently. Based on the way he's been avoiding everyone since they got on this train – and the way he's fidgeting now, only getting worked up when someone suggested he find allies – she figures that he's used to being alone. If she can just convince him that allying with her is a tantalizing offer that would benefit him more than hurt him, she'll have an in. And the most crucial detail is making sure he still feels like he can refuse.
"Two days," Svelte repeats. She tries not to smile. "But two days and that's it."
"Right," Gwen says, head spinning. "That's all. Unless you want to stay."
Surprisingly, the corners of his mouth almost twitch up into a smile. "We'll see about that."
"Glad we got that all worked out," Ariadne chimes in, setting a cup of tea in front of Gwen. There's a look in her eye that makes Gwen wonder if she just played right into the woman's hands. "If you'd like, we can continue our mentoring session here, or we can split off now that Eirian's awake."
The question is clearly aimed at Svelte, so Gwen simply picks up her cup of tea and cradles it close to her chest. She breathes in slowly, the pleasant smell calming her nerves and sending Scarlet back into the recesses of her mind.
"Together is fine," Svelte mutters somewhat reluctantly. Yarn purrs again in his lap.
Ariadne smiles. "Take a few minutes, then. We'll continue once you've had some of that tea."
Unbidden, Gwen finds her attention drawn towards the window once more. She brings the cup to her mouth and sips at it, the tea hot enough that it scalds her mouth and she can't quite taste it. Trees continue to flash by, but all Gwen can see is the silver-red arc of a sword slashing down at her.
You'll join me soon enough, Scarlet says.
Gwen's lips tighten. Not if I have anything to say about it.
omg hiii friends! not much to say here except i'm excited to get to train rides 2! got lots in store and i'm thrilled that i finally get to start implementing my plans!
u know the drill! i'll be back in 2-4 weeks probably. if i hit a month assume i'm dead. no one will catch my ass in jail. give me thoughts i hunger for them.
~de laney is out