Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Just a friendly reminder that the "Favorite Tribute" poll will be up through the end of the train rides.

Train Rides
Who People Are

Leif Rosewood, 15
District Seven

He would have to figure out how to make a better impression.

Leif shook his head, staring blankly at the selection of clothes in the closet in front of him. He'd never really thought much about clothes, but he'd never had this many options before. His family was more well off than a large part of the district, it was true, but that didn't mean they had money to waste on frivolous things like fancy clothes. It had never seemed important before. Now…

Now he had to make a good impression, because he certainly hadn't done so at the reaping. His mentor hadn't said anything about it, but he had to be disappointed already. Was there anything more pitiful than a tribute begging his older brother to volunteer? No wonder Casper had been so quiet when they'd watched the other reapings, and had only spoken up to suggest that they should get changed before dinner.

That had been a while ago. Leif wasn't sure exactly how long, but they were probably waiting for him by now. Another bad impression. Damn. He knew he should just pick something and go, but … well, it was a relief to be alone for just a little while, even if it was going to get him into trouble later. He just wanted to think. Just a moment to himself to get everything figured out.

Right. As if the Games were something that he could fix if he just sat down and thought about them hard enough. Leif sank down onto the bed, trying to hold back the tears that were starting to flow again. He couldn't keep crying. What would Casper think? What would Galadriel think?

What would the audience think?

The audience. Leif clenched his fists. He didn't even want to think about the audience. If Casper was disappointed in his performance so far, they would certainly be even more unsatisfied. They wanted to see tributes who had a chance. Tributes who acted like they had a chance. They would have loved Barke – a big, strong eighteen-year-old with charisma coming out of his ears. Leif … he didn't have any idea where to start.

Leif nearly jumped at the sound of a knock on the door. "Leif?" That was Casper. Leif quickly wiped away some of the tears, but more quickly took their place. "May I come in?"

Leif swallowed hard. He wanted to say no. He wanted that door to just stay shut forever. But some part of him knew that wasn't an option. Casper was here to help him. But what would he think if he walked in and saw that Leif had been crying?

Leif clenched his fists. Probably the same thing he'd thought when he'd been begging his brother to volunteer at the reaping. Could anything really make his mentor think less of him than that? Leif took a deep breath. "Yeah."

The door opened slowly. At least Casper had the courtesy not to ask if he was okay when the answer was painfully obvious. "I told Sadira and Galadriel to go ahead and get started without us, but don't worry. There's always plenty of food." He closed the door behind him. "Want to talk?"

Leif bit his lip. He didn't want to talk – and certainly not about the Games. But he would have to eventually. Might as well get it over with. "Sorry you got stuck with me," he mumbled.

Casper shook his head. "Why, because you've been crying? You think you're the first tribute to cry on this train? I know I had my fair share of tears. Honestly, I worry more about the ones who don't cry at all, who keep all that emotion bottled up inside. You have to walk on eggshells around them, wondering what's going to be the thing that finally makes them lose control. It can be pretty messy when that happens. If you ask me, it's better to get it all out in the air now, while it's just the few of us on this train."

"Before the audience can see it, you mean? Isn't it a bit late for that?"

Casper took a seat on the bed next to him. "Because of what happened at the reaping?"

Leif nodded. "They'll all think I'm…" What? Weak? Scared? An easy target? "Hopeless," he decided.

Casper shook his head. "Maybe some people will. But most of the brighter folks in the audience have figured out that you can't judge a tribute by what you see at the reaping. When I was a little older than you, there was a boy who got reaped, begged for someone to volunteer, pleaded with the escort to just draw another name. That boy spent the whole train ride in his room crying, and spent a good part of training alone, working through his feelings. It took him a long time to work up the courage to fight … but he got there in the end."

"Are you…" Leif hesitated, but Casper telling him the story only made sense if his guess was right. "That was you?"

Casper chuckled. "Was it that obvious?"

Leif shrugged. "If the boy died, it wouldn't be much of a motivational speech."

"You got me there," Casper agreed. "But it's still true."

"And is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I know better than that. There's nothing I can really do to make this any better. But I was hoping it might help you feel less alone. Sadira and I – we've both been in your shoes. And Galadriel is in the same spot you are."

"But you didn't have to–" Leif started, but stopped himself. That wasn't going to help.

"What?"

"It's nothing."

"Is it about your brother?"

Leif looked away. "All those other volunteers during the other reapings. There were so many, but … but not him. And I know how that must sound. It's not like I wanted him to die. But he would have a better chance."

Casper nodded. "And why do you say that?"

"Because he's eighteen. Because he's stronger. And people … people like him. He would have known how to … well, make a better impression."

"I think you may be giving him a bit too much credit."

Leif looked up. That wasn't the response he'd expected. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if someone wanted to really make an impression, volunteering for their little brother would be a good way to do it. He had the perfect chance, and he didn't take it. He decided he valued his own life more."

"That's what most people would do."

"Exactly. So maybe it's time to stop thinking about what your brother would have done. He's not here. You are. So what are you going to do?"

"I … I'm not sure."

Casper nodded. "And that's okay. I wasn't expecting you to immediately have a grand plan for winning the Games. I know I sure didn't. Neither did Sadira. Or Hazel, for that matter. None of us made a splash at the reaping. None of us had some clever plan. We went in, fought like hell for our lives, and did it just well enough to make it out again. That's all. It's not all about making the audience like you."

Leif smiled faintly. "Well, that's a relief. But do you think…"

Casper cocked his head. "What?"

"What if they already hate me?"

"The audience?"

"Yeah."

Casper shook his head. "You'll have to try harder than that if you want them to hate you. I've had tributes they liked. I've had tributes they completely ignored. But I don't think I've ever had one they hated."

"Even during the 41st Games?"

Casper fell silent, and for a moment, Leif thought maybe he'd said the wrong thing. After a moment of silence, Leif realized his mentor had tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I–"

"Her name was Colette." Casper's voice was quiet. "She was fourteen years old. She wasn't a rebel, but she thought … she hoped they were right. Hoped they could really stop the Games, because that meant her siblings would be safe. That's all she wanted. And you're right; they hated her for it. Maybe that's not the word most of them would use, but they watched as she and the others were tortured in the Games, as her whole family was brutally executed, and thought the Capitol was right … or at least justified. If that isn't hate, I don't know what is." He shook his head. "So as long as you don't do anything like that…"

"I'm certainly not planning to."

Casper wiped away a few tears. "Neither was she. It wasn't her plan; she just got swept up in someone else's. Watch out for people like that."

"People with plans?"

"People with the wrong kind of plan. Plans that seem too good to be true. And plans that rely on the audience liking you or even agreeing with you. They're fickle. Unpredictable. And they can be unimaginably cruel." He sighed. "This probably isn't helping, is it."

Leif shook his head. "Helping me feel better? No. Not at all. But helping me feel less alone? A bit. I don't know if I would have been able to get them to like me anyway, so if all I have to do is make sure they don't hate me … that seems a bit more manageable."

"Good. That's a good first step. Now if you think you can manage a second one, it would do you good to eat something. If you'd rather stay here for a little while, I can bring you something."

Leif nodded weakly. "That … that sounds good. Thank you. I mean, if you don't think Sadira and Galadriel will mind."

Casper shrugged. "It's just dinner. I'm sure they can manage."

"No, I meant–"

"I know. You don't want to seem rude."

"Yeah. I just … I'd rather be alone right now."

Casper nodded. "And that's fine. If Galadriel has a problem with that, Sadira can deal with it. You're my tribute. I'm here to help you, not worry about what they think of you. And to be honest, as far as the Games are concerned, there are much worse things to be than rude." He gave Leif's shoulder a gentle squeeze, then stood up and headed for the door. "I'll be right back with dinner."

Leif hesitated as Casper turned to go. "Casper?"

His mentor turned. "Yeah?"

"If you want to join me, I … I wouldn't mind a little company."

Casper nodded. "You got it. I'll be right back."

Leif relaxed a little as Casper headed to the next car. Maybe he didn't feel better, but Casper was right. He did feel a bit less alone.

That would have to do for now.

Faven Aldana, 14
District Four

She would have to figure out how to kill them.

Faven watched Imalia curiously as her mentor helped herself to another slice of pie. Mags and Acher had already gone off to another room to speak privately, and Faven had assumed that Imalia would want to get in a little mentoring before turning in for the night. But so far, Imalia had seemed content to watch her with a strange smile, almost as if she was amused by something Faven was doing. Faven swallowed another bite of her own pie. "What?"

"Hmm?"

"You're smiling. What is it?"

"Nothing." Imalia shrugged. "Well, nothing important, at least. It's just … I don't think I've ever seen anyone eat so slowly."

Faven could feel her face growing warm. "That's what you're focused on? I'm going to be in a fight to the death soon, and you're worried about how slowly I'm eating?"

Imalia chuckled. "Didn't say I was worried about it. And I did say it wasn't important. But you asked. It's like you're afraid you might spill something on that pretty dress of yours. You know they can just clean it if you do, right?"

Faven looked away. She knew, of course. On some level, she knew. But it was a habit. How many times had her parents scolded her when she was little for eating too quickly, for spilling, for scarfing down her food like she was afraid it might disappear? It was important to look like a lady. At least, it was important to them. And she'd been the one who had to scrub the stains out herself when she spilled. The thought of just handing the soiled clothes to someone else and putting on something fresh without any thought was … different. "I guess it's just a habit," Faven admitted.

"Not a bad habit, mind you," Imalia pointed out. "The Capitol likes it when tributes have some restraint, some sense of decorum, but there's a time and a place. As long as you're not going to be fussy about getting your clothes dirty once you're in the arena, we won't have an issue."

Faven nodded. "Of course not. That's part of the Games." And a little dirt would be the least of her worries when there were other tributes trying to kill her.

Tributes she would have to figure out how to kill.

"A lot of things are part of the Games," Imalia reasoned. "Some of them are easier to deal with than others. So … what do you think the hardest part will be?"

Faven squinted. "Is this a test?"

"Probably."

"And you want me to say that killing will be the hardest part."

"That depends."

"On what?"

Imalia leaned forward. "On whether that's the truth. I'm not a sponsor. I'm your mentor. You don't have to try to impress me. Don't say what you think I want to hear. Be honest. What's going to be the hardest part for you?"

Faven hesitated. Killing would be hard, but … well, not because of the killing itself, maybe. She didn't want to kill any more than anyone else did, but if her life was one the line, if someone was trying to kill her and it was her life or theirs … well, that wasn't really much of a choice, was it? Mentally, at least. But physically…

"Fighting," she answered at last. "I've never done … well, anything like that." That was a bit of an understatement, she knew. She'd never so much as thrown a punch. She had a few memories of wrestling with her older brothers when she was small, but their parents had quickly put a stop to that. That wasn't proper and polite. Good children didn't go around looking for fights or traipsing around the district getting their clothes all dirty. Good children did as they were told.

But now she was being told to fight.

Imalia nodded. "Okay. So how do we work with that?"

"Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me?"

"I have some ideas. But ideas aren't going to do you any good if you don't think you can make them work. So what do we do about you not knowing how to fight?"

"Focus on a lot of fighting stations during training, I guess."

Imalia nodded. "Not a bad first step. Not that you're going to become a Career-level fighter after three days of training, but it can go a long way towards at least getting you comfortable with the idea of holding a weapon and using it to defend yourself. What else?"

"Allies?"

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"I'm not sure," Faven admitted. "When you came to see me after the reaping, you said you thought I could do better than Acher if I'm looking for allies, but … I don't know if I am. If I don't know how to fight, am I really going to find any other allies who want to work with me?"

Imalia shrugged. "You might be surprised. Not every alliance is about finding the strongest fighters. It can't be. Because there are plenty of tributes who have never been in a fight worth speaking of but have other talents to offer an alliance. If the other tributes think you have something to offer, it won't matter that you're not a particularly good fighter."

"And you think I have something to offer?"

"You tell me."

Faven thought for a moment. "I'm pretty good at figuring out when a plan isn't going to work."

Imalia cocked her head. "What do you mean by that?"

Faven shook her head. "I mean, even if that does work – even if I find some allies who are better at fighting – I'm eventually going to have to fight, right? They're not just going to do all of the work for me. Because eventually, they're going to die. They have to, if I'm going to win. So no matter how good of an alliance I find, it's only going to help for so long. Even if I impress the audience and get a bunch of sponsors, I'm eventually going to have to fight my own battles. It all comes down to that in the end, doesn't it."

Imalia was smiling again – that odd, almost amused half-smile. "Yes. It does. And the fact that you realize that now, Faven – that's good. A lot of tributes go into the Games thinking that as long as they find the right allies, get the right sponsors, make the right moves, it won't matter that they've never picked up a weapon in their life. They're wrong. And the fact that you realize that puts you a step ahead of every tribute who is still stuck with that idea."

Faven blinked. She hadn't been expecting that. "So what do I do?"

Imalia thought for a moment. Then she stood up and, in one swift motion, picked up her chair and swung it against the wall. Faven ducked as shards of wood went flying, but when she looked up, Imalia was holding something out for her. It was one of the chair legs. Imalia was holding another one. "You said you'd never been in a fight. Let's change that."

Faven's hand closed around the chair leg. It was heavier than she'd expected. She passed it carefully from one hand to another. "You want me to fight you?"

Imalia glanced around. "I'm not seeing any other volunteers. Are you?"

"No, but–"

Her next thought was cut off as Imalia swung her chair leg, nearly hitting Faven, who hadn't moved. Nearly. Imalia was being careful not to hit her. The Capitol probably wouldn't take kindly to the idea of a mentor harming one of their tributes. But the same would be true of the trainers in the Capitol. None of them would actually be trying to kill her, either. So this was probably as good for practice as that would be. Better, because Imalia had actually been in the Games. Imalia was a Victor. A Career Victor. She couldn't ask for a better teacher.

She swung. The blow was clumsy, and Imalia caught it with her chair leg, but she was smiling. "Good. But don't aim for my weapon. Aim for me."

"But what if I–"

Imalia rolled her eyes. "You won't. And even if you get lucky, it's a chair leg. The worst you might do is a little bruising. Aim for me."

Faven did. Imalia dodged. She dodged the next blow, as well, circling around Faven and then lunging. Faven instinctively backed up – right into the table. She toppled over, spilling onto the floor along with a few of the dishes. She rolled out of the way in time to avoid being hit by one of the cups, which spilled water all over her dress.

Faven smiled.

She was all wet. Her clothes were a mess, and no one was scolding her. No one was going to scold her. In fact, Imalia was grinning as she helped Faven to her feet. "Good. Now you have some idea of how important it is to pay attention to your surroundings – and how hard that can be when you're focusing on not getting hit. Feel a little bit better?"

"A little."

"Good. Now–"

Before Imalia could finish the sentence, the door burst open, and their escort, Renata, burst in. "What's going on in here?" She took in the spilled dishes, the broken chair, the chair legs the pair of them were holding. "Were you two fighting?"

Faven nodded. "Imalia was giving me some lessons."

Renata relaxed a little. "As long as you weren't attacking her."

Faven blinked as she realized that remark had been directed at her. Renata had been worried about her hurting Imalia?

Imalia shook her head. "I'm fine, Renata. Really. Nothing like that's happened in years."

"But it has happened before?" Faven asked as Renata left. "Tributes have attacked their mentors?"

Imalia nodded. "A few times. Not recently. And not that you really had a chance of hurting me, but … well, the fact that she thought you did – that felt pretty good, huh?"

Faven nodded. It had, if only for a fleeting moment. "Yes."

"Ready for another round?"

"In a moment. I have a question first."

"Of course."

"You asked me what would be the hardest part of the Games for me. What was the hardest part for you?"

Imalia lowered the chair leg. "I–"

But she didn't get any farther, because Faven lunged forward and swung her own chair leg, nearly reaching Imalia's leg before the blow was deflected. Faven looked up, expecting a scowl or a few harsh words, but Imalia was beaming. "Excellent. Words can be weapons, too. Don't forget that. If your opponent is distracted, it sometimes won't matter if they're a better fighter than you are. Only sometimes, but sometimes … sometimes that's enough."

Faven nodded as Imalia swung her chair leg. Sometimes that's enough. Maybe it would be enough for her. Maybe she really did have a chance.

Maybe she really could save herself.

Diyon Mendis, 18
District Eight

He could tell Kit was trying to figure him out.

Diyon leaned back in his chair and took another sip of fruit juice. It was good. Fresh fruit in Eight was such a rarity that he wasn't even certain what kind it was, but it was certainly the best drink he'd ever tasted.

Kit was still watching him silently. Carolina and Edwina had slipped out earlier. Lander had lingered for a while before Diyon had asked him politely to leave so he could speak privately with his mentor. Lander had been a bit grumbly about that, but that was understandable. He probably wasn't sure what to make of Diyon either, and he was understandably protective of Kit. But Kit wasn't a little boy anymore. And he might be useful.

Or he might be another obstacle, depending on what he decided to do. He was the one who had started all the fuss fifteen years ago, after all. Well, maybe not started. That was too big a claim for any one person. But his actions – and more importantly, his words – had sparked the rebellion during the 41st Games. He wasn't wholly responsible, of course. He had been a child, a scared thirteen year old boy who hadn't fully realized the impact his words could have. And other people had been involved, people who had made their own choices. But knowingly or not, intentionally or not, he had played a part.

Maybe now he could play a different one.

"Why are you here?" Kit asked at last, quietly. But not hesitantly. He was already thinking this through, already trying to get a feel for where the conversation might be going.

Diyon smiled. He'd already answered the question, but maybe Kit thought he would get a different answer now that it was just the two of them. He wouldn't. "I told you. I want to lead District Eight."

"Why?"

"Because the right Victor could make things better for the whole district, the way some of the other districts' Victors have done."

"And because the Victors you have clearly weren't getting the job done?"

Diyon shrugged. "I wouldn't have put it like that."

"Not out loud, maybe," Kit agreed. "Very diplomatic of you."

"Thank you."

"So what makes you think you can do better?"

"I think I'm in a position to do better. Right now, people are primed to accept a Victor who is loyal to the Capitol and to the district, who wants to make things better without tearing the whole system down. Right now, with Thirteen's fall, people are realizing that they can't win against the Capitol, but if they're willing to work with the Capitol, we can accomplish more than they'd thought."

Kit nodded. "Strike while the iron is hot. That makes sense. But why you?"

"Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

"Of course it is."

"No, it really isn't. Not when the question is why you volunteered for a fight to the death with twenty-five other kids. We've had some volunteers over the years, all with some sort of reason. Some were good reasons. Some less so. But not a single one of them would have answered the question 'Why you?' with 'Why not? I had nothing better to do today.'"

"Even during the 41st Games?"

Kit's gaze hardened. "Especially during the 41st Games. How old were you that year? Four?"

"Yes."

"What do you remember about them? The volunteers?"

"They failed."

"Yes. They did. What else?"

Diyon thought for a moment. The important thing, of course, was that they had failed. What they had thought they could accomplish didn't really matter. But there was no harm in humoring Kit. "They failed, and what's worse is that their failure was inevitable. They didn't have a plan." No, that wasn't quite right. "They didn't have a wholeplan," he corrected himself. "They had the start of a plan, but no idea of what to do once they got past the first step. Once they eliminated everyone who wasn't willing to join them, once it was just the twelve of them … then what? What did they think was going to happen?"

Kit nodded. "I can tell you what they hoped would happen. They hoped the gamemakers would be forced to call off the Games, that as long as they refused to fight, they couldn't be forced to."

"Is that what you thought at the end of your Games?"

"Yes. You have to remember, Diyon, I was a child. Thirteen years old. Maybe I didn't think they'd let the three of us sit there forever, but I wasn't thinking about forever. I was thinking about the next moment, and the next, and how I didn't want to kill my friends."

"But you did."

"Yes. I did. Because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't. Afraid of the mutts I thought were coming to tear us apart until only one of us was left. If I'd been thinking, I probably would have reasoned that killing them quickly in their sleep was kinder than what would have happened if the mutts had found us. But I wasn't thinking that far. I didn't have a plan. And you're right; neither did the volunteers during the 41st Games. Not a whole plan." He leaned forward a little. "What would you have done differently?"

"Pardon?"

"During the 41st Games. If that had been you instead, what would have been your plan? What would it have taken to give them a chance of success? Not a certainty – just enough of a chance that they weren't doomed from the start. What would it take?"

"People on the inside," Diyon answered immediately. "Look at what happened between the Capitol and Thirteen. Thirteen thought they had a chance because they thought they had people on the inside. They thought the Victors would support them. They were wrong, but they had the right idea. That's what it would take. People with influence, not just a handful of unknown volunteers."

"So they needed more Victors on their side?"

Diyon raised an eyebrow. More? Did that mean some of the Victors had been supporting the rebels? Maybe. It wasn't too big of a stretch to imagine that Misha might have had a hand in it, considering what had happened the next year, but had there been others?

"That would have been a good start," Diyon agreed. "But still not enough. You would need other people inside the Capitol itself – people who could convince the audience to back them. Ideally, a gamemaker, or maybe a host. Stylists, too. Escorts. Anyone with a high level of visibility. The audience saw the volunteers as a group of unruly rebels bent on destroying a decades-old tradition. That's not a good image."

"What would have been a better one?"

Anything. Anything would be a better image than that. Kit was watching him curiously – almost hungrily. Wondering what he could have done differently – and maybe even wondering whether he still could. But Diyon didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His mind was going too fast now. "The Capitol believes the Games are necessary in order to keep the districts in line. Everything the rebels did during the 41st Games only cemented that view. But what if they had presented the opposite idea: that the districts are loyal enough now that we don't need the Games to remind us of our place. Volunteers from Three, Six, and Eight could never have played that angle, but what about elsewhere? One and Two? Five? Twelve? You think it's fear of the Games that keeps Twelve loyal? No. It's the knowledge that things could be a lot worse than the Games. And because they realize that, things are getting better in Twelve now – just like they could be getting better in Eight." He shook his head. "But that's not what the volunteers wanted. Not really."

"No," Kit agreed. "What they wanted was a lot less … defined. Freedom. Independence. Justice. They wanted to fix everything in one move: stop the Games, overthrow the Capitol, establish a new and lasting peace. And they wanted to be at the forefront of the revolution they believed they were starting. They wanted to make history."

"They did," Diyon conceded. "Just not quite the way they expected."

"Fair enough," Kit agreed quietly. "And what about you? Why you?"

"Because my plan will work. Because I'm not trying to change everything all in one go. I don't think I can just win the Games and make everything perfect overnight. But I can put myself in a position to make them better. Little by little. Day by day. It's not grand and exciting, but it's practical. It's realistic. It can work."

Slowly, Kit nodded in agreement. "Maybe it can. Maybe you do have a chance. Not because of what you said, but because of what you didn't say."

"What do you mean?"

"When I asked you what you would have done differently – what the rebels could have done – you didn't say they never had a chance, that there was nothing they could have done, that the Capitol is too strong. Blind loyalty like that … it wouldn't get you very far in Eight. But practical loyalty, like the kind Brennan has been fostering in Twelve – that might have a chance. Not coming from me, or even Lander and Carolina, but maybe someone like you."

Diyon cocked his head. "Don't sell yourself short, Kit. I heard what you didn't say, too."

"Meaning?"

"I laid out an excellent plan for potentially stopping the Games, and you didn't jump up and say 'Great, let's do that!' You know we have to wait. You thought it through. That's something you didn't do fourteen years ago."

"And people died," Kit finished. "A lot of people. I wasn't the only one at fault, but I was partly responsible. That's the sort of thing that will make you think twice about saying anything rash or springing into action at the first hint of a bold plan to change the world."

Diyon shook his head. "I don't want to change the world. Just my little corner of it. Just District Eight. That's good enough for me."

Kit actually chuckled a little. "Good to know your ambition has some limits. So what's the first step?"

"Hmm?"

"You said the rebels' problem was that they had the first part of a plan, but didn't know what to do once they got past that step. I think you might have the opposite problem. You know what you want to accomplish once you win the Games, once you're in a position to lead the district … but what about the first step: winning the Games? Have you got a plan for that?"

"Maybe not a whole plan," Diyon admitted. "You know as well as anyone – if not better – that so much depends on the arena, the other tributes, things like that – things no one has any way of knowing yet." He crossed his arms.

"But I do have some ideas."

Christina Rae Kimetto, 16
District Six

He would figure it out eventually.

Christina stared out into the night as the scenery rushed past. This train was faster than the ones she was used to. Those were freight trains, built to haul as much as they could between districts at one time. This one was built for speed. She could hardly hear the sound of the rails at all, and the wind was stronger as the train whipped by. But it was still something familiar, something real. Something that was hers.

"If yer thinkin' about jumping off, I'd think again," came a voice from behind her. "They'll just come back fer ya, an' trust me, they won't hesitate to send you into the Games with a dozen broken bones."

Christina didn't turn around. "I wasn't going to jump."

Duke settled down awkwardly beside her, his peg leg stretched out in front of him. "Didn't strike me as the type, really, but it's hard ta tell sometimes. People do strange things when they're desperate."

"I'm not that desperate yet."

"Good." He leaned forward a little, taking in the view. "How'd ya get the doors open? They're not s'posed to open while it's moving."

Christina reached under one of the seats and produced the wrench and screwdriver she'd found tucked away there, probably for repairs. "You just have to know where to apply the right amount of pressure."

Duke cocked his head. "So not desperate enough ta jump, but desperate enough ta tamper with Capitol property for … what? A better view? The windows are big enough, I'da thought."

Christina looked away. The windows were rather large, but there was something different when there wasn't a barrier there. "It's the wind."

Duke nodded. "Couldn't help noticing ya didn't say much about yerself during dinner."

Christina shrugged. "Neither did Rook."

Duke chuckled. "That's 'cuz Rook's scared outta his wits."

"And you think I'm not?"

"No. Not that scared. 'Course, he's got more reason. He's twelve, he's small, he's prob'ly never been outside the district before."

"I–" Christina started, but thought better of it. "You could tell?"

Duke chuckled. "No, Lana could. She had more to do with the rail project than I did. Did you think it was a coincidence – the increase in the number of rail kids over the last few years, the number of Peacekeepers who didn't seem ta give a damn as long as they were paid off? It was Harakuise's idea ta begin with, but she took it an' ran."

Christina studied Duke's face. He didn't look like he was lying, and why would he? So it had been part of the Capitol's plan all along. Or Harakuise's plan, which was close enough to the same thing. Did that mean they'd be more likely to ignore what she'd done? Probably not. If it had been part of their plan, that plan had been meant to make the districts look more rebellious, and looking rebellious was not a good thing in the Games. And if Lana had figured it out…

"So what gave me away?" Christina asked.

Duke nodded. "You're wondering whatcha need to hide?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "You could start with your boots. Good soles, strong grip. Not a lotta jobs in Six where you'd need a pair that good and be able ta afford 'em. I reckon dark clothes make it easier ta hide at night in the railyard, even if some of the Peacekeepers are likely ta turn a blind eye. But what Lana noticed was how ya were holding onto things."

"What?"

"The way you've always got one hand on somethin' when you're walking around the train. Tables, chairs, the doorframe. Like yer used ta the train bein' a bit wobblier, even though this one's smooth as glass. I reckon it's prob'ly a hard habit ta shake even if ya decide to try."

"You think I shouldn't try?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you think … I mean, you think there's a choice?" She'd just assumed that if the Capitol found out that she'd been out of District Six, she was done for. That was as good as being a rebel in their eyes, wasn't it?

Was it?

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whatcha were doin' on those trains. Look, I know life in Six is no bed of roses. There's a hundred reasons why life on the rails might look like a better option, 'specially for an orphan."

"How do you know I'm an orphan?"

Duke waved a hand. "The Peacekeepers make a note of who comes ta say goodbye. Misty runs the orphanage. I did the math." He shook his head. "Look, just 'cause I dropped outta school when I was twelve doesn't mean I'm dumb."

Christina nodded. "I haven't been to school in four years. Not since my mother died and I started riding the trains."

"Looks like we both did a dif'rent kinda learning," Duke agreed. "So … why the trains?"

Because I wanted to be free. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back, because that wasn't a good answer. It was an honest answer, but it wasn't a safe answer. "I saw some of the other kids doing it, and it seemed like a better way to earn a living than working in a factory all day." That was also true, even if it wasn't the whole truth, and it would be hard to argue with. Who wanted to work in a factory, after all? No one ended up in the factories because they enjoyed it. They ended up there because they didn't have any other choice.

Or because they didn't realize there was another choice.

Duke raised an eyebrow but apparently decided to accept the answer. "And how did ya earn that living?"

"I sold things."

"What kinda things?"

"All kinds of things. Anything that I could get for cheap in one district and sell for a profit in another. Wood shavings, fabric scraps, bits of metal, corn husks, flowers."

"Flowers? What kinda flowers?"

"Marigolds, goldenrods, cosmos, hollyhock, even dandelions. They always sell well in Eight. Good for dyeing fabrics, apparently."

"Any other sorts of plants?"

Christina shook her head. "No drugs, if that's what you're asking." She knew some people who did, but that was a risk that had never seemed appealing. She'd never needed the extra money, and some of the drug traders were rather cutthroat. There was a market for it, of course, especially in outer districts like Nine and Ten. But she'd always figured there would be time to break into that side of things later, if she decided it was worth it. Later.

Now there wouldn't be a later.

"How about people?"

"What?"

Duke sighed. "Don't play dumb. Lana did what she could to encourage people to hop on the rails because it gave District Thirteen one more way to get people outta the districts. So … how about people?"

"No." Well, there was Terra, but that didn't really count, did it? After all, it wasn't as if Christina had smuggled her to Thirteen, or away from the districts at all. She'd just helped her get from one district to another. And it wasn't even as if she'd brought Terra somewhere where she'd be safe, somewhere like One or Two where she wouldn't have to worry about being reaped. She'd brought her to Six. Next year, when Terra turned twelve, she'd have just as much chance of being reaped in Six as she would have back in Seven.

Okay, maybe not exactly the same chance, just because of the sheer number of people in Six, but the Capitol wouldn't really care about that, would they? That wasn't really what Duke was asking about. He was asking if she'd helped smuggle people to Thirteen, and she hadn't.

Because she hadn't known that Thirteen existed.

What would she have done if she had?

"I think yer prob'ly in the clear, then," Duke said at last.

Christina raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"If you've told me the truth, then yes. Y'know why?"

"Why?"

Duke stared out the open door for a moment before answering. "I was in a gang, Christina. And not just in it. I was the leader. We broke all sorts of rules. Stealing, mostly, but we also had more than a few scuffles with some of the other gangs. It was enough ta attract Vernon's attention and get 'im to have me reaped, but not enough for the Gamemakers ta go after me once the Games actually started. Do you know why?"

Christina shook her head. She'd been eight years old during Duke's Games. She remembered the finale, but not much else. "Why?"

"Because I wasn't a rebel. I'd never gone after anyone the Capitol had a reason to care about. I was just another teenager who thought a life of petty crime sounded better than a life in the factories. And because President Grisom understood the difference. If Snow had still been president, I woulda been dead. So would you. Grisom was different. Brand's even better. Don't make yourself a target, and you prob'ly won't be one. You're no rebel."

"What makes you so sure?"

"A rebel woulda hopped on those trains, hopped off in the wilderness somewhere, an' never come back. Or woulda been helpin' other people do the same, or get to Thirteen. You just wanted ta make a life fer yerself, make yer own way in the world after life handed ya the short end of the stick. That's not a death sentence anymore, an' it might even help you."

"How?"

Duke leaned forward. "If yer still doin' this after, what, four years? That means yer pretty good at it. Means you know how to think on yer feet, keep yer head when things get tricky. It also means ya know people. People in some of the other districts. People who might know other people. That can be a powerful tool – if yer lookin' for allies, that is."

Christina nodded. Allies. Yes, she would be looking for allies. She'd started out alone on the trains, and she'd done all right by herself, but working with Naomi the last couple years had taught her how valuable it was to have someone else there, someone to watch your back when things got rough, someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who cared.

Except she didn't want someone who cared. Not in the Games. But someone to watch her back, someone who could pull their own weight, someone who had something to offer, just like she did – that was what she was looking for. And Duke was suggesting … what? That some of the other tributes might know her? Or know someone who knew her? Maybe. She had a lot of contacts in the other districts. Maybe she would get lucky.

Duke reached up, grasped the door frame, and used it to pull himself to his feet. Well, foot. "Just something ta think about," he offered. "You don't have to decide anything right now. Sleep on it. Get ta know some of the other tributes. Trust your gut when it comes to how much to tell 'em. Then we can figure out how ya wanna spin this fer the sponsors. Okay?"

Christina nodded. "Okay." She stared out into the night as the sound of Duke's peg leg thumping down the hall faded into the distance. Sponsors. Allies. She'd assumed she would have to lie to them, but maybe Duke was right.

Maybe she wouldn't have to hide as much as she'd thought.

"Figuring out who people are takes time. And it takes twice as much time if they're trying to impress you."