CHAPTER XVIII: TRAIN RIDES II
Yuly Montreal • District Eleven Male
Train Eleven / July 4th, 3:17 PM
Yuly doesn't know why the universe has decided he deserves this, but it's quite evident that higher powers are displeased with him.
What could he have done to warrant this karmic retribution? They try to think back on any misdeeds from the past few months. Perhaps his… meeting with the man at a banquet could've upset its delicate balance. It hadn't been classy, Yuly can admit — but he had never been one to leave an urge, a desire unsatiated.
Hours earlier, when his name flitted from the lips of the District Eleven escort, all Yuly could feel was dread. But if this was a message from the universe, then the only thing he could do was accept their fate. The kids from the orphanage had clutched at him from the sidelines as he made his way up to the podium, begging him to stay. Walking into the Justice Building, Yuly had consoled himself with the knowledge that, at the very least, he changed some lives in Eleven for the better.
Yuly is under no delusion that he's leaving this arena alive. His death is a fact he'll embrace; he doesn't even want to think about the spiritual backlash that would strike him as a result of ending another person's life, even in self-defense. It's the type of sin you can't come back from, the type you can't repent for. Yuly isn't sure that's a cross he can bear until the end of time.
Well — best-case scenario, he won't have to resort to such means. The dawn's closing in quick; Yuly can feel it. He wants to be well-prepared for what the afterlife may have in store for him. And, if he can help it, avoid incurring irreparable damage to his mortal soul.
Yuly plans on dying the same way he lived —helping the vulnerable, the outcasts, the forgotten. He'll be at peace with himself when his time comes if he can manage to take care of some other tributes, if he can help them see another day. All he needs are a couple of kids who are willing to be taken under his wing.
He's hopeful about his first recruit: Jillion. His young District partner fit the exact description he was looking for: a young, small, pitiable thing. He saw the way she tried to keep her lip from quivering on stage, biting down on it like it would steel something inside of her. She was putting on a brave front, but she's still just a little kid at the end of the day — Yuly understood, right then and there, that the universe must've sent her to him to be protected. He was more than willing to accept the task.
At least, that's what he's been trying to do, as he knocks and knocks and knocks on the door to Jillion's room. Countless times, no response. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that Jillion was somewhere else, but there was no mistaking the immediate beeline she made the moment they stepped onto the train. Just to be safe, he checked the rest of train cars he had access to; no sign of the small girl. Jillion had to be in her room.
Yuly presses his ear to the room. It's stiffeningly silent. But he remains undeterred — third time's the charm, he supposes.
He knocks again, and after a second, decides to call out, "Jillion, are you there?" for good measure. "I'd like to talk to you about something, if you don't mind!"
Yet another long minute passes — yet again, no response. He sniffs, a little bothered now. Yuly supposes he'll just have to try again later, or talk to her at dinner, if she came out for dinner at all. He'd prefer to talk to her now, but it didn't seem like that was what fate intended for him at this point in time.
Just as he starts to turn, his ears latch on to the soft click of a door being opened.
He whirls back around to see the door just barely cracked open. Through the sliver, he can see one of Jillion's eyes peering out, straight at him. He doesn't think the dim lighting is the sole contributor to her darkened expression — she stares at him like a wary fawn.
It's an earnest attempt to look unapproachable, something like a defense mechanism. It's a good thing that she won't have to look so tough after Yuly extends his protection to her.
"Jillion," he exclaims airily, wiping any lingering vexation from his face. "Could we talk?"
The young girl's eyes are narrowed in suspicion. Upon further inspection, Yuly can see weeks, maybe months worth of restless nights etched under her eyes. "About what," she says, voice quiet, less like she's actually curious as to what Yuly has to say and more like she's trying to gauge his intentions.
Yuly only has good ones, but he can tell she doesn't quite trust him.
He hums to himself as he thinks about how to go about this. He doesn't want to be too pushy, too overwhelming with his offer, lest she skitter off like a frightened doe. He decides to ease into it first, in an attempt to get her to lower her guard.
Yuly softens his voice to the same volume and tone he'd use on the orphans back home. "I just wanted to check up on you," he says, hands lowered, clasped together nonthreateningly. "Know how you were holding up."
The sliver between the door and the frame somehow becomes even smaller. "I'm doing just fine," the young girl says tightly, stepping back to close the door completely. "If that's it, then bye now."
"Wait!" Yuly exclaims, smacking his hand on the door to keep it open. "Sorry, I just — that's not what I came here to talk about."
"Then get to the point," she mutters, face sullen. "I hate stalling."
Yuly tries not to let the shock show on his face. "Okay. I'll be direct. Because I want to earn your respect."
Jillion looks at him, unimpressed. He takes a deep breath. "I would like for you to join my alliance."
She doesn't even pretend to consider it. "No thanks."
Yuly frowns, taken aback. The immediate rejection stings; his mind races with ways to rationalize her response. Jillion's just a kid — she's probably still rattled by the events of the day, she's too stressed to be thinking right.
Yuly straightens, regaining composure. "I'd like to explain why first, if you'll hear me out?"
Jillion doesn't say anything. She just keeps staring at him through the door, with that look on her face, the one that makes her look much older and much more tired than thirteen. The silence is probably the best thing Yuly's going to get here — he can work with this, as long as she hasn't closed the door in his face yet. He sighs deeply.
"Look," he starts. "I think it sucks that we're here. This was supposed to be my last Reaping. I was supposed to be okay after this, but now I'm on a train, heading for what I've accepted is my imminent death at this point. But you're just a kid. You didn't do anything wrong. It doesn't have to be that way for you.
"Back in Eleven, I talked to a lot of kids like you. They came from bad situations, had bad lives before they ended up at the orphanage. But—" Yuly really hopes his sincerity translates through his voice, "they let me into their lives, trusted me, and let me take care of them. And they're doing a lot better now. I know you don't know me, and I know I'm just some person, but when I look at you, I see someone worth something. Someone who deserves to live. And if you let me, I can help you get out of here."
He holds Jillion's gaze, which remains… unreadable. He has no idea if she's listening to anything he's saying.
"I want to help you," they repeat, gazing at Jillion earnestly.
"I don't need your help," she states, stony-faced, "or anyone else's."
The door slams shut without another word. Yuly distinctly hears the lock slide into place, the sound deafening.
"The," Yuly hesitates, his words muffled by the door, "well, the offer's always there if you decide to change your mind."
Good god, the kid's bull-headed. He takes a couple steps back, shaking his head slightly. Jillion might be stubborn, but Yuly'd be damned to let such an obvious opportunity from the universe slip through his fingers. Because if he's anything, it's persistent. He's never been wrong about a gut feeling — their time in the Capitol is little under a week, but he's sure he'll be able to convince Jillion that her best shot at survival is with him and the other friends they'll make.
He exhales, then inhales deeply, gathering his resolve back up again. He feels the well-worn, well-deserved smile trace its path back across his face. The feeling of serenity trickles back into his veins.
Yuly is no stranger to adversity; if he gave up every time he faced a challenge, he wouldn't be half the person he is today. The universe may be throwing a lot of things Yuly's way, but he is going to make the most out of all of it.
He'll need all the good karma he can get if he wants to see this through. After all, everything that goes around comes back around — he'll make sure that, by the end, all of his sacrifices will pay off.
Cassia Cosmos • District Two Female
Train Two / July 4th, 1:33 PM
Sergeant lets out a low whistle, eyes alight with interest. "District One never disappoints," he says boldly, his gaze not once wavering from the screen.
Cassia is very, very inclined to agree. On the television screen, the District One Female of the 94th Hunger Games — Reverie — is shown strutting up the steps, equal parts gold and glorious. Cassia finds her beautiful, but intimidating as well, like she'll be blinded if she looks for too long.
Cassia has always found watching reruns a little tedious, but Sergeant's company helps ease the boredom. It's also not so bad when half the girls might as well be models, like Reverie.
Cassia's vaguely familiar with the name — the assigned District One female volunteer had been a fairly recent re-issue, and Cassia's overheard a little here and there about a scandal regarding her and a girl named Calli-something. She hadn't immersed herself too much in the rumors — there was always something going on with One — but she figures whoever Reverie is, she's good, really good, at what she does.
"You said it," Cassia chirps, hoping her enthusiasm makes up for the way her words awkwardly jumble out of her mouth. To her pleasure, Sergeant gives her a laugh in response — a good laugh, one that doesn't sound mean or mocking.
He gestures for Cassia to clink their comically small teacups together. She gets an unparalleled amount of joy from this simple action.
Maybe it's wishful thinking, but she'd like to think that by now she'd be able to tell when someone was making fun of her. Whenever she recalls her murky memories of grade school, she hears echoes of cruel laughter and thinly veiled insults under the guise of jokes. Truthfully, she can't really say that much has changed since then; the taunting simply evolved, and she had to get better at ignoring it. The whizz of a swinging blade and the clash of metal against metal could drown out a lot, Cassia grew to realize.
But here, while she and Sergeant sit on the carpeted floor watching the Reaping rerun, she doesn't get the sense that she's being judged or made fun of. It's… strangely nice. She'd never felt this at ease back home at the Training Center, when Sergeant was little more than just a concept to her.
Admittedly, she didn't know much about her District partner prior to the Reaping, but he always seemed composed, unapproachable. Sergeant's father was a distinguished Peacekeeper — it was no wonder he always carried himself like a soldier whenever she caught a glimpse of him at the Academy. Boarding the train, she wondered whether he'd be like the others in their cohort, but he had been the first to extend his hand towards her and smile. The gesture seemed so natural and effortless.
She had hesitated a little too long before clasping his hand back, wondering if he would be bothered by how sweaty her palms were. But if he noticed, he didn't seem to care. She felt a little silly overthinking it now — Sergeant was a lot nicer than Cassia gave him credit for, and a lot more laidback. Perhaps not warm, but certainly friendly. And Cassia could always use a little more friendly in her life.
On the television screen, the District One Male strolls across the stage. Sergeant's eyes flicker to him, appraising him for a beat before he grabs the remote and fast-forwards.
"The girl from Two's awful pretty, too," Sergeant comments, giving her an exaggerated wink. Taken aback, Cassia laughs. She feels a flush creep up her face, though she doesn't know how to explain that she's more entertained than anything else.
He turns to her with a smile, the names of District Three blaring in the background. "Well? Don't you think so?"
"I feel like it's weird for me to agree with you," she protests lightly.
"Nothing's weird about having eyes. We're probably the most photogenic pair Two's had in years." Sergeant reverts his attention back to the screen, the corners of his mouth rising again. "Goddamn, the Four girl's a looker, too."
Cassia turns, and she feels like the breath is knocked from her chest — the camera's angled down on a girl, standing proud and tall. Her dirty blonde hair is pleated back in braids, eyes stormy as she regards the crowd. Her name commands just as much presence as her look — Jupiter Fairhope.
"Though," Sergeant says, cutting through her thoughts with a conspiratorial look, "I get the feeling I'm not her type."
Cassia takes a second to peel her eyes from the screen. "Why not?"
"Oh, she looks…" Sergeant tapers off. "You know?"
"'You know?'" she repeats, cocking her head to the side.
He makes a vague gesture. "I just mean… well, she—"
Sergeant's explanation is cut off by the wet, staticky squelch of a blade. They both freeze, watching the camera zero in on a boy draped in a massive animal pelt, now splattered with blood.
Ice drips down Cassia's spine. She watches with mounting dread as he clambers to the podium, not a single person in the audience daring to contest his spot as volunteer.
"What the fuck," Sergeant deadpans.
"They…" Cassia says slowly, "…just let that happen?"
Sergeant keeps his gaze fixed on the screen as Jupiter and the boy, Kai, are walked into the Justice Building. "That's what it looks like." He mutters a litany of swears under his breath. "Mind me running it back?"
"That's fine," Cassia says quietly.
He turns to her, his expression sincere yet stern. "If it's gonna bother you, you need to tell me," he says, and Cassia gets the feeling that he's not quite asking her out of courtesy. He's looking at her a little too intently, observing a little too close. Almost like he's testing her.
Cassia hardens her jaw and whips her head toward the screen, paused on the receding figures of Jupiter and Kai. "Play it back."
She can feel Sergeant's eyes linger on her for a beat longer before he finally starts to rewind. She hears the escort call out a name. She watches the camera pan toward someone in the crowd, a tall, light-haired boy. She hears the beginning of an "I volunteer—" before it's cut off with a sickening, wet noise, and suddenly half of the screen is eclipsed by the shadowed profile of a figure clothed in animal fur.
Her eyes stay fixed on the screen the whole time. She pays no mind to the squirming feeling in her stomach, no mind at all.
It's strange. This is what she's going to have to do: stab someone clean through, maybe from behind. She's resolved herself of its inevitability; really, what's the difference between her and the Four boy?
She supposes it's one thing to reconcile it in her own head and another to see someone do it on screen, with no warning. Not to mention the Games hadn't even started yet. That's it — the problem is the sequential order of things. That's why Kai unsettles her so bad.
Her teeth worry at her bottom lip. She sends a prayer to the stars that she won't have to interact too much with the Four boy, though she knows the chances are near impossible that she'll be so lucky.
Sergeant heaves a sigh, stretching his legs out on the carpet. "Of course some shit's gotta screw with my Games. My Career pack."
"We'll figure something out," Cassia murmurs, eyebrows furrowed.
"We have to, or we're a little fucked," Sergeant says plainly. "You look like you're thinking real hard. What are you cooking, Cass?"
She blinks. "What am I… cooking?"
"What's on your mind?" Sergeant explains. "What do you think we should do about Four here?"
"Oh." She hesitates. "You're asking me?"
"Well, yeah?" Sergeant cocks an eyebrow. "You're here, with me. Two chose you, so you've gotta at least have a good idea or two."
That startles an uncomfortable laugh out of Cassia. Sergeant thinks I'm capable. A warm feeling blooms in her chest. A little hesitantly, she clears her throat.
"I think," she starts, "I think we should find out if we can get any use from him at all. I don't like him — I don't think you like him, either. But because of him, we're down one strong person in the Pack. I don't think we should do anything too hasty."
Sergeant nods. "I'm not sure he expects to be let in the Pack, but if he does, I'd prefer to have eyes on him as opposed to him fucking off somewhere nobody knows."
"Controlled variable," Cassia says. "I… agree. That makes sense. I'd just prefer if we didn't have to keep him too close."
"We're on the same page, Cass. But it's not too bad of a thing to keep your enemies close." He gives her a smile she's not fully sure how to return.
"We're…" She hesitates. "We're gonna be okay, right?"
"More than okay," Sergeant affirms. "We're gonna make sure Two brings back another Victor."
Cassia nods firmly, finding herself uplifted by Sergeant's confidence. "We will." Bravely, she raises her fist toward Sergeant.
Sergeant gazes at it for a beat before smiling ferociously, bumping his fist into hers. It's just a small knuckle-to-knuckle collision in the grand scheme of things, but for a split second Cassia really feels like she has a place in this universe.
"That's right," Sergeant says. "You and me, Cassia. We're gonna do great things."
Jupiter Fairhope • District Four Female
Train Four / July 4th, 12:51 PM
Jupiter gets the vague sense that there's something deeply wrong with her District partner. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that he stabbed, fucking stabbed the assigned volunteer in front of the entire District.
Oh, but who's to say, really? All that she knows is that she's stuck on this train with a psychopath (or idiot) of a District partner, and that she'd feel a lot more comfortable with at least a couple miles of distance between them.
She can't shake the feeling of eyes on her skin, drilling holes into her spine. She knows that he had simply been following her into the Justice Building, and that they were both escorted by Peacekeepers — he wouldn't have been able to lay a hand on her. She tells herself this, but despite it all, she can't help but think to herself: this must be what being stalked feels like.
Jupiter isn't a girl that scares easily. But she wants to stay the hell away from Kai. Hardly an unreasonable urge, she thinks.
She finds her thoughts gravitating back to the guy who was supposed to be her District partner. She won't pretend like they were friends, but they were sure as hell familiar — she practically saw him at the training center every day. Jupiter doesn't think the paramedics got to him fast enough; now, he's probably dead. And some psychopath she had never seen before is in his place, in his train cabin.
She wishes she could say Kai was familiar from anywhere. She thinks she would've recognized him if he was in her training bracket, but it's equally likely she hadn't paid enough attention. Maybe Kai and the actual volunteer had some sort of feud? Maybe Kai had his pride hurt during a little spar?
God. What a fucking mess. Jupiter made sure to settle all those things before they picked her as volunteer; that way, no one would have the nerve to pull some nasty shit on her at the last second.
Jupiter wonders what this will mean for the pack. In her eyes, it's a clean-cut decision — Kai's a loose cannon, and strength can easily become a disadvantage for anyone who's too fucked up upstairs to differentiate enemy from ally. She doesn't doubt she could take Kai down if things came down to it, but she doesn't underestimate the half-foot he's got on her either, not to mention the muscle mass.
Jupiter didn't come into this wanting a leadership position, and she sure as hell hasn't changed her mind. She doesn't envy whoever's gonna lead in the slightest; it's one thing to make a decision, and another thing to enforce it. Especially if there's a lack of group consensus.
But regardless, nobody's gonna want to keep him around, right?
Surely.
(Jupiter only hopes.)
As soon as they stepped onto the train, their mentors practically ushered them into their rooms, instructing Jupiter to stay in hers until they came in to talk. Jupiter initially found herself grateful for that executive decision, but as the minutes wore on, her nerves grew uneasy. And impossibly bored.
(Kai's little stunt at the Reaping proved a severe deficiency in brain cells, but he isn't so stupid as to barge into her room and kill her, right? Even if he wanted to, the fuck is a door gonna do to protect her? If she stays here, she's nothing more than a sitting duck.)
So she left. She just opened the door and walked out. Maybe lingered too long before she passed the door across from hers, but there was no indication that her District partner was doing anything inside. She might've just imagined the sound of incredibly menacing breathing, but that was it.
What she can hear, however, is the sound of voices from between the train cars. And now she's got her face pressed against the door, straining to eavesdrop on her mentors' conversation over the wind and the roar of the train.
"—a hazard, Sion!" The older woman hisses: Maritza, Victor of the 76th Hunger Games. Her well-manicured nails clutch a smoking pipe made of blue seaglass. "I've got an awful feeling about it."
"I get that," the other one, a younger man, frowns: Sion, a more recent Victor. "But there's not much anyone can do about it. There's too many things on HQ's plate right now."
"So add another one." Maritza spits with a lot more vitriol than Jupiter had expected from the Victor. Maritza rubs her temples forcefully, as if she's trying to soften her skull with her hands alone.
"We just need to make it look under control," Sion says. "Or it comes down on both of us."
"I've already told you. I refuse to make this my problem — let the Capitol clean up its own mess and figure out how to explain this."
"I'm on your side," Sion insists. "And we have a plan! It's not going to be a problem for long, as long as we can delay an outburst until the Games. There's no point in inflaming the situation. There's no point in fighting the Capitol on this — it's smarter to fight within your own constraints."
"I've done my piece for the Capitol years before you even started training." She dumps the ash over the railing with a metal clang. Jupiter ducks as Maritza turns her head toward the door. "And you think you're grown, you think you know better than me how this world works, huh?"
"Mari," Sion pleads. "Where are you going?"
"I'm talking to the girl. That was our plan, right?"
"Wait — Maritza–"
Jupiter darts to the other side of the room, scrambling onto the sofa. She hikes her boots up on the coffee table in an effort to look as nonchalant as possible, pieces of mud flecking off.
The door opens swiftly, revealing Maritza's tall frame. Immediately, her eyes land on Jupiter with no wasted movement. She's already glaring at her. Great.
"Heard you wanted to talk to me?" Jupiter says.
"We told you to stay in your room." Maritza's voice is icy. "What else did you hear?"
Jupiter gives her a noncommittal shrug. "A good amount. You might wanna work on being a little quieter."
"Or you might want to work on doing what as you're told to." Maritza stares at her, unimpressed. "Blatantly disobeying your mentor seems like the fastest way to get yourself killed, wouldn't you agree?"
Jupiter's jaw sets. Maritza Akane's Games were widely agreed to be one of the best and most brutal in recent history. Strangely, she had never wondered what interacting with the Victor herself would be like. She isn't quite sure why she's surprised by Maritza's strictness — in fact, it only made sense, considering her elite performance in her Games.
Yeah — it's probably not a good idea to piss off this lady even more than she already has. Back home, Jupiter couldn't give half a shit what most of her trainers told her, but Maritza was different. She was a Victor, not an ex-Peacekeeper or a volunteer reject. She was the real deal, and had the kill count to boast.
Jupiter takes her legs off the table and straightens, balling her hands into fists. She casts her gaze down. "Right. Yes, ma'am."
She practically feels Maritza appraising her before the sensation suddenly vanishes. A long stretch of silence passes, almost too long — Jupiter's about to look up until she hears the flick of a lighter, and the sound of something catching flame.
"Maybe we'll get somewhere with you after all," Maritza exhales, though her tone makes it sound like she hardly cares either way. Less that she doesn't give a fuck, but more like she isn't going to make an effort if Jupiter intends on wasting it. "Are you ready to listen?"
Jupiter finally meets the woman's gaze and nods firmly. Maritza and Sion exchange a glance with one another before Maritza perches herself on the edge of the coffee table, and Sion in one of the chairs off to the side.
They're a peculiar mentor pair, a generation apart. Sion's fresh-faced, young enough to be the other woman's son. Or her secretary, by the dynamic.
Sion peers at Jupiter, attentive. "How are you feeling?" he starts off, lowering his voice to a serene register. "Are you hungry? Have you gotten anything to e—"
Maritza tips the ash from her pipe into an ornate tray at the end of the table. "Sion. Cut the bullshit."
Sion closes his eyes and sighs for a long time. At last, he looks at Jupiter again. In the same tone, perhaps even quieter this time, he asks, "What do you think about Kai?"
Jupiter pretends to think for a second. "Seems a little shy," she says drily. "Might be hard to get to know. I'm not sure I'd like to, either. Getting kebab'ed before the Games start seems like a shitty way to go."
Nobody laughs. "Do you know who he is, Jupiter?" Sion continues.
"Uh, nah. I don't think I've seen him around. Does he train?"
"No. He's not enrolled in the Academy. He's almost completely off the grid, as far as records show."
"That's… nice to know." Jupiter frowns. So Kai's not the product of a training feud. In fact, he's just some complete rando. Jupiter's enthusiasm for this entire situation just keeps plummeting.
"Have you heard about the killings that started a couple years back?"
Jupiter squints — the subject is vaguely familiar. It's another moment before something suddenly clicks in Jupiter's brain, a conversation with her best friend under a starlit sky. "Wait, I know this. Rumors about a serial killer, right? Dana was telling me about this the other week…" She squints, snapping her fingers. "What's his name… bone, boner-something…"
"Allegedly, he goes by Bone Demon," Maritza says flatly.
"Yeah, that," Jupiter exclaims, pointing at Maritza. "So…"
Sion and Maritza stare at her, waiting for her to connect the dots. It probably takes longer than it should.
"Oh," Jupiter says at last. "Fuuuck."
"Fuck," Maritza repeats, laughing to herself. "We have an eloquent one on our hands, Si."
"So, he's an idiot, a psychopath…" Jupiter counts off her fingers, "but he also might be a serial killer? The serial killer?"
Sion shrugs. "No way to confirm that until a couple weeks or months pass. But that's the educated guess."
Jupiter throws her head back and laughs, pissed. "With all due respect, y'all gotta be fucking with me. You're telling me I go into the Arena with a rumored serial killer next week. I'm so sorry, that's actually ridiculous. You mean the Bone Demon is just some kid my age?"
Maritza levels a stare at her. "Does that surprise you?"
"Yes, the fuck? Dude's a teenager, and you're sitting here telling me he's already caught bodies on top of bodies. That doesn't even sound fuckin' real."
Maritza observes her. "What do you think Victors have to do, every year?"
"That's not the same."
"But isn't it?"
Jupiter frowns. "I'm not tryna have this conversation right now. What do y'all even expect me to do with this information?" She looks at the both of them, suspicious. "You're not gonna tell me to be nice to him for home District cookie points, are you?"
"Absolutely not," Maritza says. "You remember the ship accident from a couple years back? The one that got caught in the typhoon?"
Slowly, Jupiter nods. Maritza takes another long drag before continuing.
"Fish. It's Four's largest export. This individual has singlehandedly downed a significant portion of the working population on his side of the coast. He's killed so many fishermen that the entire industry has suffered for it.
"I'm only telling you about the economy because that's the only thing the Capitol really cares about. As people who grew up here, in District Four, our interests lie elsewhere. You and I, Jupiter, have a more personal stake in this."
Maritza closes her eyes as the smoke billows out through her nostrils. When she directs her attention back to Jupiter again, there's something almost livid behind her smoldering stare. "He's destroyed livelihoods, families. Lain waste to the District — he's turned a part of Four into his own personal playground. Every effort sent after his head has only left behind more bodies. That part of Four used to thrive. Now the only things it houses are ghosts, widows, and children too scared to leave their house.
"There are many, many families who would be happy to see Kai Thana dead." Maritza's gaze is hard, unwavering. Jupiter nearly withers under it. "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you right now?"
"What?" Jupiter says, her voice hollow.
"Jupiter." Sion bites the inside of his cheek. "Every District sponsor is behind you. Not him, you. What is the best way to demonstrate that you deserve their support?"
Jupiter just stares, uncomprehending. Then the realization dawns on her — quiet, but no less condemning.
"You want me to kill him?" she whispers.
Wisteria Peak • District Nine Female
Train Nine / July 4th, 5:08 PM
It's strange to think that a place so pretty is taking her to certain death.
Wisteria doesn't think she's ever been surrounded by such delicate finery. This train car and its contents alone are worth three, maybe four times the combined possessions of her family. Couches, silverware, fine china that costs more than her home - it all makes up more wealth than she's ever seen in her life.
If she closes her eyes and drapes herself across the sofa, she can pretend she's an heiress, indulging in dainty luxuries before she must meet with an equally wealthy benefactor to… talk about business, or whatever rich people do. Wisteria's afraid it's not her area of expertise. But she's sure she could've come up with something if she didn't feel so much… dread. She finds herself wishing she could've enjoyed it all under different circumstances.
They have less than an hour before the train arrives in the Capitol. And then Wisteria will have to face the fact that she can't run away from what's going to happen.
But in the meantime, she can indulge in her favorite pastime: procrastinating. Pretending the rest of the world is far, far away.
"Do y-you have a four?" Emilio asks.
The corners of Wisteria's mouth flick up a little. "Go fish."
With a small puff through his nose, Emilio draws from the stack in the center of the dining table. Its surface is so glossy that Wisteria can see both of their reflections in it. She feels almost as if she's making the glass dirty simply by sitting near it. Emilio sits just as stiffly, taking immense care to pick up a card without his fingerprints staining the glass.
They found a deck of cards in the train car and since then, have been handing cards back and forth for the better part of an hour. She's won two games of Go Fish, Emilio one.
She usually doesn't prefer company, but Emilio's is pleasant. He's a little soft-spoken, but Wisteria certainly isn't complaining — she's pretty quiet, too. It works out. She can suspend whatever's on her mind to have a brief exchange with him, and then it'll peter back out into lovely silence.
Even from their short interactions, Wisteria already thinks there's a lot to admire about Emilio. It's less to do with what she knows about him (very little, really) and more to do with the way the boy carries himself.
He's timid, but everything he says is intentional. She can tell by the way he pauses between each response, like he's meticulously thinking about what to say and how to say it. He's quiet, as if he's not used to someone sincerely wanting to hear him. His voice holds a stutter, and his eyes flicker from her gaze often, but his hands are always steady.
She wonders about his story. There's a carefully put-together sort of kindness to him, something unassuming but resolute. Wisteria feels an unexpected twinge of envy in her chest, but she's not sure for what.
"Ten?" Wisteria asks.
Emilio forks over two cards. Wisteria procures two Tens from her own hand and pats down a full set, feeling a little victorious. "Catch up to me soon," she boasts lightly, grinning. "Or else I'll win again."
At this, Emilio offers a small smile. "I don't m-mind if I lose."
Wisteria's head snaps up to the sound of a door swinging open on its hinges.
Their mentor barges in, shattering their idyllic quiet. "Oh good, you're both here," Ester sniffs, strolling all the way up to their side of the table. There's a hygiene mask covering the lower half of her face, but Wisteria can still imagine the grimace that must've been underneath it. "The train will arrive in about thirty minutes. I hope this mess will be all cleaned up by then."
Wisteria glances between Ester, Emilio, and the "mess" on the table: there's nothing but a couple sets of cards, a half-finished plate of pastries, and some napkins she had been doodling on earlier. Wisteria would snicker if she thought she could get away with it — if this was a mess to Ester, she'd have a stroke seeing her little sister's room back home.
Home. It must be hundreds of miles away at this point. She thinks about Lia's tear-streaked face in the Justice Building, and the wet drops she could feel on her own. What if that's the last time she'd ever see her little sister? What if that's the last memory she'll ever have of her, of her family?
Wisteria blinks rapidly, tilting her head up to the ceiling. "Yeah," she responds to Ester, making her voice as light as possible. "Sure."
"It's 'yes ma'am,'" Ester corrects. "Manners? Have we abandoned those?"
Their mentor can't be more than a few years older than them; at the most, she's in her mid-twenties. Despite that, Wisteria can't help but find her similar to her dreadful school teachers, who decided they had it out for her even though Wisteria herself did nothing but keep to herself. It must be some sort of complex that compelled her teachers — and now compels Ester — to power-trip on teenagers.
"Yes, ma'am." Wisteria stresses the second word, rolling her eyes as discreetly as she can in Emilio's direction.
Emilio makes a small noise that he quickly disguises into a cough. Ester recoils slightly, startled. Their mentor stares at him for another beat, suspicious, before procuring a couple of lozenges and a disposable mask from her dress pocket.
"Take those," she orders, "and put that on."
Hesitantly, Emilio does as she asks, snapping the mask around his ears. Her narrowed eyes don't leave his face. She appraises him for another beat before turning up her nose and leaving the room without so much as a goodbye.
Ester's footsteps still echo down the corridor long after she leaves. "Why do you think she's like that?" Emilio whispers under his breath, once he's sure she's far enough away. "Three, by the way?"
Wisteria passes him two cards. "You mean like… rude for no reason? Really bitchy?"
"I… wouldn't use th-that word, but yeah."
"I think she's probably just used to bossing people around, and getting what she wants," she shrugs. "Don't let it bother you."
Emilio nods. "Has more to d-do with her than u-us."
"Yeah," Wisteria murmurs. "D'you have a jack?"
The minutes pass by in silence, the waxy swipe of card against card the only sound in the train car. It's difficult to find it peaceful, however, with Ester's notice lingering in the back of her mind: thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes, and then she and twenty-three other kids will be in the Capitol, preparing for whatever comes next. She's overheard enough of her peers' conversations to know the general structure of things: there's a parade, three days to pick up skills, and a couple major events. All together, the next week will serve as a tribute's first, last, and only chance to market themselves.
Wisteria can't help but feel slightly hopeless thinking about it all. What chance does she have at making herself into someone people want to root for? The only way Wisteria knows how to fix her problems is by running away. But that's not an option anymore — not here, not now, and perhaps not ever again.
"Eight?" Emilio asks softly.
Wisteria blinks, scanning her deck. "Go fish," she tells him. He draws the last card, pats down a set, and looks at the remaining three cards in his hand.
Wisteria peers back at her final card. "Any kings?" she says, already knowing what Emilio's answer will be.
Emilio smiles at her, his eyes crinkling a little. Wordlessly, he fans out his last three cards, all of them kings. She takes them from him, pleased.
Underneath her feet, Wisteria feels the groaning of machinery. The landscape outside starts to slow down, turning grayer and whiter, more industrial. She makes eye contact with Emilio, and she can tell he's come to the same conclusion she has: they've reached the Capitol.
Her heart pitters in her chest as they both scoop the cards back into their sleeve, rushing to be ready before Ester comes back, to be ready before someone steps onto the train and takes her somewhere the meadows and lakes of District Nine are nothing more than a distant memory.
Emilio stands beside her. He looms over her by a couple of inches, looking at her with unmasked concern. The pittering in her chest turns into throbs, becoming nearly painful. It doesn't feel like there's enough air in her lungs; she feels like she wants to jump out of her own skin.
"Are you o-okay?" he asks her.
Slowly, she shakes her head.
Emilio says nothing. Instead, he turns his hand slightly to hers — a silent offer. She stares at it, trembling, before sliding her brown palms into his.
Wisteria lets out a shaking breath. The touch grounds her — holding someone's hand feels familiar, even if the hand belongs to a person she's never met before prior to today. But it's somehow comforting to know that Emilio comes from the same place that she does, knows her world. She's not alone; Emilio's presence reminds her of that.
Bright sunlight pierces through as the train doors hiss open, revealing the sweeping skyline of the Capitol. A crew of people, dressed to the nines in elaborate fashions and makeup looks, gaze toward them. They wait idly underneath a canopy of technicolor foliage.
The trees and flora are a far cry from Nine's— meticulously trimmed, strikingly manufactured. The contrast is so jarring Wisteria swears she can even smell the difference, like overpowering perfume in open air.
She's far, far from home. And she might never return — not the same, anyway.
Emilio tightens his grip on her hand. Without a word, she squeezes back.
a/n: hiii twirls hair. not much to say really. is there ever? the only kind of relevant thing i have to say is that i graduate next semester, and by that point, the era i've "written" this syot will have eclipsed my entire undergraduate career! i find that unbelievably fucked so i've decided i really do have to write this shit if i ever want to finish it at any point ever LMFAOOO [laugh track]
benevolent dictator goldie makes her grand return to betaing this bullshit… gives her the sloppiest toppy ever in thanks and appreciation :pleading:
q: what dollar amount would it take for you to suck the most average middle-class dick in the world (freshly washed, 5 in, cut, etc.)
$wag im out this bitch,
bingo