Elodie Wilson, 15: District 11 Female
Oh
And I held you
So close
July 7, 73ADD: 45 minutes after Reaping
Elodie shifts uncomfortably in her seat at the back of the peacekeeper truck. Her eyes still sting from all the tears she shed once she finally got into the Justice Building. She was scared, no doubt, but she knew better than to cry in front of all of Panem. It would make her look even weaker. Looking weak means slimmer chances of survival, and it's not like Elodie thinks she has much of a chance anyways.
"What do you think the Capitol is like?" Era asks. So far, Elodie is not too fond of her district partner. From the way he was smiling when his name was called at the Reaping, Era does not seem like a trustworthy person to Elodie. The older boy stares at Elodie with that same lopsided grin, causing the girl to shudder.
"I think it'll be nice," Elodie says curtly, not wanting to talk to Era any more than necessary. Truth is, Elodie imagines the Capitol being the total opposite of District Eleven. She imagines the Capitol being clean and pristine. In her mind, the Capitol is a marvelous city of gold and marble. Skyscrapers reach higher than any tree in all of Eleven and the streets are free of cracks and potholes unlike the weathered roads of her home district. Elodie had often dreamed of visiting such a place, but not like this. Not right before being sent off to die.
"Yeah," Era says. "But I heard that all the people look super fuckin' weird."
If their escort was anything to go by, then yes, the Capitolites probably do in fact look super weird. Lucretia Hoekstra sits at the front of the truck, oblivious to her tributes' conversation. Her black hair is speckled with golden flakes, and she wears a bodysuit covered in small gold panels that reflect the sunlight. That combined with makeup that Elodie can only describe as grotesque made for an overall unpleasant look.
Not too keen on speaking any more, Elodie simply nods her head, hoping that Era takes the hint. Unfortunately, Elodie's district partner only interprets this as a signal to keep talking.
"So what have you thought about strategy yet?" Era asks. "Because I was thinking we could form a huge alliance. One that could outnumber the Careers even."
"Well—"
"If we can get enough people, then we can take out all the Careers on the first day," Era continues. "Think of how much easier the Games would be for me—I mean, one of us, to win!"
"Right," Elodie trails off. Era's plan is ambitious, but it's also unrealistic. There are usually six Career tributes every year, and from all the Games she's been forced to watch, they always seem to have the largest alliance. It's difficult to keep that large of an alliance together, and if she's being honest with herself, Elodie doesn't see herself being in such a big group. The Careers are trained specifically for the Hunger Games. This year's batch could probably cut down the other tributes without breaking a sweat.
"Think about it," Era says. "You look like you've been through some shit," he gestures at Elodie's ratty outfit, "so you're probably pretty tough. Maybe not a good fighter, but you probably have some street smarts."
It's true. Elodie knows her way around the streets of District Eleven, but what good will that serve her in the arena? She spent most of her days hiding in alleyways and sneaking around town in search of food. Hiding and sneaking around aren't skills that would work well in a big group, especially not with someone who talks as much as Era.
"And I'm a pretty good talker," Era says. "I bet I could sweet-talk my way into or out of anything. All we need to do is find people who can fight and we'll be golden."
Elodie rolls her eyes and sighs. With the way he's talking, Era must certainly think that the Hunger Games are just that—a game. Elodie isn't so sure that Era understands that they are in fact not playing a game. They're fighting for their lives. Era's plan is rooted in pure delusion. There's no possible scenario that Elodie can think of where his plan would work.
"The plan is literally foolproof." Era crosses his arms and sits back, obviously confident in himself. "There's no way it won't work."
"I'm not so sure about—"
"Finally, we're here," Lucretia interjects, her uppity Capitol accent grating to the ear. "Now I can get the hell out of this humid furnace of a district."
The peacekeeper truck comes to a stop. Two armed guards approach the vehicle and open each of the rear passenger doors. Immediately, Elodie is greeted with multiple camera flashes as a small crowd of Capitol journalists gather to capture the first shots of Eleven's tributes. They all speak over each other, trying to get their questions in for their tabloids. Between the flashing lights and cacophony of voices, Elodie can't even begin to make out what they're saying.
Era, on the other hand, is more than happy to engage with the journalists. He walks right up to them with a crooked smirk plastered on his face. He strikes a few poses for the photographers, basking in the attention he's receiving.
"Sorry about my district partner," Era says to the crowd. "She's not much of a talker."
Elodie huffs, turning her attention away from the crowd. As she does, she notices the sleek silver bullet that is the Capitol train speeding into the station. It's a far cry from the usual cumbersome cargo trains that frequent the district. A sudden gust of wind kicks up as the train comes to a halt, causing Elodie to stumble back a step.
"Looks like my ride's here," Era says. "I'll see y'all in the Capitol."
Once stationary, the doors to the passenger car slide open, revealing the train's refined interior. Elodie gasps. She's never seen anything like it. Plush furniture, soft carpet, chandeliers—the grandiosity of it all leaves Elodie at a loss for words. She steps inside, truly stunned by how expensive everything looks.
Era, for one, is not at a loss for words. "Holy shit!" he blurts, pushing past Elodie and into the train car. "Look at all this!" He promptly throws himself onto the sofa in the living area. "This is fuckin' awesome!"
"You district kids always seem to be amazed by the train," Lucretia says, prancing inside. "But this is just the tip of the iceberg. Just wait until you see the amenities in the Capitol."
Elodie can't imagine anything much fancier than the train. It's already stratospheres above the dirty, dark alleyways that she has grown accustomed to. How much more glamorous could the Capitol actually be?
"I could get used to this," Era says, clasping his hands behind his head.
"Please do! Make yourself at home," Lucretia replies. "After all, you only have six days to enjoy it all before you go into the arena."
Suddenly, the reality of Elodie's situation comes crashing down onto her. In less than a week, she'd be fighting for her life in an arena with twenty-three other kids doing the same. Most of them will be well-fed, much stronger than she could ever be. Elodie finds it hard to enjoy even the fanciest of things when death is just around the corner.
"Elodie." Lucretia's posh voice brings Elodie back. She glances over at the woman, trying her best not to grimace at the stark makeup on her face. "You've been awfully quiet. Is something the matter?"
"No," Elodie lies. "Nothing's wrong. Just taking it all in."
"I understand," Lucretia says. "The furnishings and decorations must be overwhelming for someone used to only the crudest of facilities."
Elodie isn't too sure what all of those things mean, but Lucretia's tone does not sound genuine. Lucretia has been District Eleven's escort for as long as Elodie can remember. In that time, Eleven hasn't had a single Victor. Elodie knows that Lucretia is only doing her job. To her, Elodie is just another kid she picked that will inevitably die. When it's all said and done, she'll just be another statistic.
"You just have a seat wherever you'd like," Lucretia continues. "I'll go fetch your mentors."
Lucretia walks out of the passenger car, leaving Elodie and Era by themselves. Not wanting to sit too close to her district partner, Elodie opts for a seat at the table in the dining area adjacent to the living room. Era peers over, seemingly examining Elodie.
"What do you think our mentors are like?" Era begins. "I bet they're pretty cool. You gotta be a badass to win the Games."
"I just hope they're helpful," Elodie says.
"Even if they're not, my plan will be helpful," Era declares boldly. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me. Are you in on the plan?"
Elodie is positive that Era's plan is doomed to fail. Being involved could end up with her getting killed much sooner than she already thinks. Much like Lucretia, Elodie doesn't believe that Era has her best interest in mind. His words and actions already seem too big, too ambitious, too facetious. Elodie knows that she can't trust Era. Not if she wants to have any chance at survival.
Era looks at Elodie with hope in his eyes. But behind the hopeful eyes and crooked smile, Elodie sees nothing but treachery. But she could be wrong. What if Era is genuine? Sure, his plan is impractical, but wouldn't it be good to have an ally before even setting foot in the Capitol? Elodie isn't completely sure, and her answer conveys the same level of uncertainty.
"I'll think about it."
Lukas Veridia, 17: District 7 Male
Are you tired of me yet?
I'm a little sick right now, but I swear
When I'm ready, I will fly us out of here
July 7, 73ADD: 1 hour after Reaping
Lukas sits silently in the living area of the main car, watching tree after tree as the train zips through the jagged terrain of the inland forest of District Seven. It's only been about fifteen minutes since he left, but Lukas already misses home. He misses being able to sit in the trees, reading away while the gentle breeze blows softly on his skin. He misses his walks down by the bay, listening to the cool sea water wash up on shore. He misses sitting with his grandmother on the front porch, embroidering intricate designs on blankets and quilts. Lukas wishes he could go back to that quiet life.
Where he's going is the exact opposite of quiet. From what he's heard, the Capitol is a loud place full of bright lights and massive crowds. It's far from the sleepy town that is District Seven. Far from anything Lukas could ever imagine calling home.
Lukas glances over at his district partner. Foster sits quietly on the other end of the couch, a comfortable enough distance away from Lukas. Their escort had told them not to go far while he grabbed their mentors, but that was more than five minutes ago. He wonders what the hold up is. Did Lukas's mentor see him at the Reaping and deem him too weak to be worth helping? Was he so nervous and awkward that they didn't want to even try talking to him? Whatever the case may be, Lukas just wished he could get all of the formalities out of the way so he could find somewhere where no one would find him. He just wants to be alone.
"Foster, Lukas." District Seven's escort, Celsus Drago enters the passenger car. His freshly pressed suit is a deep red, an outfit that is much more subdued that what Lukas imagines most Capitolites would wear. "Your mentors are on their way."
Lukas's hands start clamming up. He's already wrought with nerves given his dire circumstances. He doesn't know if he can handle meeting more people, but talking to his mentors might be his only shot at possibly surviving this ordeal. He bites the inside of his cheek, hoping that he can at least get through this introduction without too much hassle.
A young woman walks in first. If Lukas recalls correctly, her name is Sequoia Richards, Victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games. She has long, dark brown hair and piercing gray eyes. Sequoia stands in front of Lukas, looking the boy up and down, eyes casting judgement upon him. She scoffs and smirks, and Lukas's heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. Just as he expected, his mentor wants nothing to do with him. He's already been written off as a lost cause.
"You look like you could actually stand a chance," Sequoia says coldly to Foster. "You're not a total nervous wreck like that one," Sequoia points a finger directly at Luka, who shrinks back in his seat. He wishes he could just disappear.
"Aren't we supposed to have two mentors?" Foster inquires. It's the first time Lukas actually hears Foster speak. The girl hadn't said a word to Lukas before. Granted, neither did he. "Where's the other guy?"
"Oh, Arbor." Sequoia rolls her eyes. "That big oaf's always a few steps behind."
The sound of the door connecting the Victors' living quarters to the main car sliding open alerts Lukas. An absolute mountain of a man walks in, ducking his head to clear the threshold. Lukas's heart rate soars, he gulps involuntarily. The man is easily three times his size, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His slightly disheveled dirty blond hair and beard only add to his intimidating appearance. If these are supposed to be Lukas's mentors, he isn't so sure he'll ever muster up enough courage to talk to them.
"There he is," Sequoia says sarcastically. "The big and not-so-great Arbor Felix, always lagging behind."
"Sorry for the delay." Although it's deep, Arbor's voice is still soft and a little bit shaky. "Are we ready to start?"
"We were just waitin' on you," Sequoia says. She then turns to Lukas and Foster. "Before we go any further, would you two like to be trained together or separately?"
"Separately," Foster answers. It's the same answer Lukas would have given, but that would mean extensive one-on-one time with either Sequoia or Arbor, neither of which he's too keen on spending a lot of time with. Briefly, he wonders if just being by himself is an option, but that probably won't work out well in the long run.
"Is that okay with you, Lukas?" Arbor asks. Lukas swears he can feel the Victor's eyes on him, but he doesn't dare look into them. It's not like he could if he wanted to, anyways. Eye contact is difficult for Lukas, especially with someone that looks as intimidating as Arbor. It makes him much too nervous to even think correctly.
"I-I…I guess so," Lukas stutters in spite of his reservations.
"Great," Sequoia says. "I can actually focus on someone who actually looks like a fighter. Maybe this year won't be a waste."
"Sequoia, can we please not do this again this year?" Arbor pleads. "That's not going to help either one of our kids."
"Well good thing I only intend on helping out one of them," Sequoia snaps. "Foster and I will find somewhere private to discuss strategy. Good luck with that mess," she gestures at Lukas. "You're gonna need it."
Sequoia turns on her heels and exits the main car, Foster not too far behind. Lukas is left with only Arbor, who seems to loom over him.
"Can I sit?" Arbor asks, pointing to the far end of the sofa. Lukas silently nods. He watches as Arbor lowers his hefty frame onto the couch, the seat creaking under his weight. Even though he sits at the other end, Lukas still feels crowded.
"I'm sorry about Sequoia," Arbor sighs. "She wasn't the most pleasant person when I mentored her, but she was tolerable. But her Games…they did a number on her. I guess she copes by being super abrasive. I hope you didn't take it too personally."
So being a total bitch is a coping mechanism? Lukas thinks to himself. Interesting.
"How do you cope?" Lukas's curiosity momentarily overrides his apprehension. His thirst for knowledge is probably the only thing that he thinks is stronger than his anxiety. Normally, Lukas would just read a book or newspaper, but he hasn't seen any books on the train yet.
"Not very well," Arbor admits. "I try to keep a smile on my face when I'm in public, but I've seen some terrible things. Worse than anything you've probably seen."
Lukas thinks of the worst things he's seen growing up. A few broken bones, several dead deer, an eagle sinking its talons into a defenseless rabbit. The worst of them all was probably when a coworker of his lost an arm at the sawmill. Lukas shudders. He can't even begin to imagine the horrors Arbor must have endured.
"I don't mean to scare you," Arbor says. "But it's best if I tell you now. So you're at least somewhat prepared."
Lukas understands that it probably is best if he's aware of what he might encounter once he enters the arena. It's better than going in blind. Still, it does scare him, and very much so. On one hand, he could very well die. If he survives, however, he'll still have to deal with some vexatious memories.
"And I try so hard, Lukas. I really do," Arbor continues. "I try to help everyone. Sequoia says I can't help everyone—that I get too attached to you guys."
"W-well," Lukas stammers. "Aren't you supposed to try to help?"
"That's how I feel at least," Arbor says. "Each loss hurts even more than the last, but I'll be damned if I don't try."
While Lukas does find Arbor's desire to help to be admirable, he still isn't sure if he wants it. Accepting Arbor's help would mean constant communication with him. Such constant interaction with someone he doesn't even know drains the life out of him.
You won't have any life to drain if you don't let him help you.
Lukas shifts nervously. The thought of dying looms over his head like a storm cloud ready to dump its rain and cast down its thunder. He wants so badly to just retreat into a dark corner, away from everyone. Lukas desperately craves silence, peace, solitude. He could probably have all of those things if he just asked Arbor to leave him alone.
But at what cost? Are you willing to die just so you can be alone?
"Lukas." Arbor's tone is hushed, its softness in stark contrast to the man's formidable appearance. Lukas looks towards Arbor, eyes finally meeting. Arbor's eyes look puffy, and the whites surrounding his icy blue irises are colored a pale pink. The corners of his eyes are marked red, raw and inflamed.
Has he been crying?
Staring back at Lukas is a man that is broken. Year after year of watching child after child die because his help just wasn't enough. Still, he wants to try again and again, no matter how much it hurts him. Maybe it's because of Sequoia that he keeps trying. But Lukas is not Sequoia. He doesn't know if he has the mentality to win the Hunger Games.
But what about Arbor?
If Lukas is going off of his first impression, Arbor seems like he's a trustworthy person. He wants to help Lukas, but what does Lukas want more? Does he want Arbor's help? Or does he want to be alone?
Or do you want to die?
"Are you going to let me help you?" Arbor asks. Except he isn't just asking Lukas. He's begging him.
Lukas hates being put on the spot, but he has to make a decision. Can he push his timidity to the side and accept Arbor's assistance?
"Yes," Lukas says weakly, betraying his intense desire for solitude.
He'll have all the time in the world to be alone if he lives through this.
Shizuka Miura, 18: District 4 Male
Baa baa, black sheep
Have you any soul?
No, sir, by the way
What the hell are morals?
July 7, 73ADD: 2.5 hours after Reaping
Shizuka must admit; the train ride feels much smoother than he thought it would. He sits alone in the living area as the train moves silently through the dry scrubland that lies beyond the towering peaks of District Four's central mountains. To most, the various hues of tan and beige may seem monotonous, but it gives something for Shizuka to look at while he waits for lunch to be served.
His fellow volunteer, Miami Saffridge sits at the dining table, chatting away with their mentors. His district partner had invited him to join the conversation, but Shizuka declined the offer. Wade and Miran are only breaking the ice with Miami, which Shizuka has very little interest in doing. Talking about himself feels unnecessary, but that doesn't stop him from listening in. That way, he can gather information about Miami without revealing anything about himself.
The only problem is that Miami seems to deflect most personal questions. Any time one of her mentors inquires about her personal life, she flips the question back on them. Miami's affable energy tricks Miran and Wade into talking more about themselves, and Shizuka already knows enough about them.
"Looks like lunch is being served," Wade says. Avoxes carry tray after tray to the table, creating a grand spread of food for the District Four team to enjoy.
Drawn by the enticing aroma of the meal being laid out, Shizuka enters the dining area. The conversation at the table comes to a stop as the three other passengers turn their attention to Shizuka.
"It's so nice of you to finally join us, Shizuka," Miran says jokingly. Shizuka ruffles his brow, unamused. Miran seems to take notice, saying, "I'm just kidding, have a seat."
Shizuka glances at Miami, who flashes a polite smile and nods towards the empty seat next to her. This time, Shizuka obliges, mostly because he was hungry. He had a fairly small breakfast prior to the Reaping and hasn't eaten since. He grabs a plate and starts filling it with food that he's already familiar with—salmon, broccoli, carrots, and rice. Despite his hunger, Shizuka forgoes the more hearty options, electing to save his appetite for dinner.
"I wish you'd have sat with us earlier," Wade says. "The Academy always wants us to use most of our time actually planning for the Games and I think it's best if we train you guys together." Wade's tone is casual, much like his appearance. Shizuka wishes his mentors were a little more…professional, but Miran and Wade are the only mentors he has. He'll still take whatever advice he can get from them, even if he disagrees with their more relaxed approach.
"So, where do we start?" Shizuka asks.
"Tell us a bit about yourself," Miran suggests. "What should we know about you?"
Shizuka hesitates. He feels as if he's at school on the first day of the year, having to state an interesting fact about himself to the class. He's never been good at talking about himself, or talking in general. Besides, revealing too much about himself right away doesn't sound like a good idea to him.
"Uh, well," Shizuka starts. He doesn't know what to say. What if Miami uses it against him later? "Well, my birthday's November Eleventh."
"Oh, so that makes you a Scorpio!" Miami excitedly says. "I'm a Taurus so I'm pretty sure that means we're like, hella compatible."
Shizuka has no clue what Miami's talking about. He just stares blankly at Miami, unsure of how he should respond. How can something as basic as a birthday determine compatibility?
"I'm not quite sure what that means," Shizuka says. "But that's…nice, I guess."
"It means we'll probably work well together," Miami declares. "We'll be able to bounce ideas off of each other."
Shizuka isn't too sure that he and Miami are all that compatible. At least not yet, but Miami seems to be more like Wade and Miran than himself. She's much less inclined to talk about strategy, instead rambling on about useless nonsense. Who cares about birthdays and scorpions and tourists? That has nothing to do with the Games.
She's not taking this seriously at all.
"That's interesting," Miran says. "Shizuka, do you think you and Miami are compatible?"
"We'll have to see, but I think we're on the right track so far," Shizuka answers. It's not a total lie—he will have to see if he and Miami are truly compatible, or at the very least able to work together despite the differences he perceives between them.
"That's great," Wade says, brushing his dreads back with his hands. "It's always an advantage to have mutual understanding between district partners. Especially in the Career pack."
"I wish we could see who the other Careers are," Miami says. "I wanna know who else we'll be working with."
"The recaps should air in a couple hours," Wade says, checking his watch. "It'll be good for you guys to get a first glance at your competition."
Shizuka was anxious to finally see who he would be going up against. If last year's Games were anything to go by, the stiffest competition could come from unexpected places, and District Four couldn't afford to suffer another embarrassing defeat at the hands of a much younger tribute.
"We need to do a better job scouting this year," Miran says. "We can't have a repeat of last year's blunder."
"Last year was a fluke," Wade recalls. "We would've had another Victor if Jason hadn't blown out his knee."
Shizuka remembers Jason Lager vividly. He never really talked to the guy, but he knew of him. Everyone did. He was supposed to carry District Four to back to back victories, then his knee gave out. Jason's history of knee problems was well-known amongst the older trainees at the Academy, but he was still the most skilled in his age group. The Academy's selection committee was willing to overlook Jason's injury history, and it bit them in the ass. Turns out you're more injury prone when you're starving and exhausted.
"Have either of you had any major injuries?" Miran asks. Both tributes shake their heads. Sure, Shizuka has had a couple of small injuries—a sprained ankle here, a strained shoulder there, but nothing too serious. Shizuka would actually consider himself to be quite durable despite his admittedly unimpressive stature.
"Well that's good to know. We shouldn't have to worry about any knees going kaboom," Wade laughs. His humor is lost on Shizuka, who simply raises his eyebrows and curls in his lips, not making a sound. Miami, on the other hand, covers her mouth and chuckles.
That's not a genuine laugh. She doesn't think it's funny either.
"No need to worry about that. Thankfully my knees aren't that explosive," Miami says. "That was a good joke though."
"Thanks, Miami," Wade smiles. "I was afraid that joke wouldn't land."
"Why would you be?" Miami says. "I thought it was pretty funny."
No you didn't.
"I'm glad my jokes aren't lost on you," Wade says. "Miran thinks they're lame."
"That's because they are lame. Just like the rest of you," Miran teases.
"You're not lame at all! I actually think you're pretty cool," Miami says. "Don't you think so, Shizuka?"
Miami seems to be hellbent on sucking up to Wade and Miran. From jumping into a conversation as soon as they boarded the train to laughing at Wade's unfunny jokes, Miami has used her time to kiss the asses of their mentors. Shizuka is sure that Miami has a great deal of respect for the pair, and he does too. Not everyone gets the opportunity to be mentored by Wade Irvin and Miran Aquinus, two of District Four's greatest success stories. Still though, Miami's words and actions reek of insincerity, disingenuousness, and something that gets Shizuka excited like a child getting his favorite candy.
Desperation.
Shizuka has to fight himself not to start licking his chops. He never would've imagined it being this easy to figure out his district partner. But it's much too early to show his hand. What he can do, though, is play along. So play along he will.
"Yeah," Shizuka lies. "Super cool."
"See?" Wade points at Miami and Shizuka excitedly. "They think I'm funny. You're the lame one."
"Whatever you say, dude," Miran sighs. "We should probably get back on task. We have to train these guys for the Hunger Games, remember?"
"Right, right," Wade nods. "Where were we?"
"We were talking about scouting this year's competition," Shizuka says, earning an appreciative smile from wade.
"Thanks, Shizuka," Wade says. "We really need to do our due diligence in scouting this year. That'll start with the Reaping recap."
"It's a good opportunity to start taking mental notes about each tribute," Miran adds.
"What should we look for?" Miami asks. "It's not like we're seeing them in person yet."
"Facial expression, body language, how they dress," Miran lists off. "There's a lot you can tell from only a few seconds of screen time."
"Especially with outer district kids," Wade says. "They usually give away at least one weakness at the Reaping."
Shizuka nods. Weakness is a word he's all too familiar with. The Academy trainers used it to describe him all the time. He was too weak to do well in weight training. Too weak to wield a sword or trident (which was complete bullshit, he just preferred knives). Too weak to hold his own against his own age group. But Shizuka knew the trainers were wrong. He just had to show them, and he did it the best way he knew how—exploiting the weaknesses of his competition. And what better time to start than the present.
Vintage Zahavi, 18: District 1 Male
All these voices in my head get loud
I wish that I could shut them out
I'm sorry that I let you down
Let you down
July 7, 73ADD: 6 hours after Reaping
"That concludes the Reaping recap for the seventy-third annual Hunger Games," Master of Ceremonies Chikere Idowu announces. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
The seal of Panem flashes on the television screen briefly as the national anthem fades out, thus ending Hunger Games coverage for the day. Velour Skye, Victor of the fifty-seventh Hunger Games and one of Vintage's mentors, turns off the television and faces the District One pair sitting on the couch.
"So, what do you think of the competition this year?" Velour asks. "Anything you saw that's worth noting?"
"That girl from Seven looks pretty fierce," Hysteria answers first. "She might be pretty hard to take out."
"And the guys from Nine and Twelve," Vintage adds. "They look pretty strong. I could see them giving us some problems if we're not careful."
"Oh, and did you notice the boy from Eleven?" Hysteria says. "Why the hell was he smiling? That never happens. I don't think he's all the way there, if you know what I mean."
Vintage thinks back to the District Eleven boy. Eric, he thinks his name was, but he can't remember for sure. What he does remember, however, is the lopsided grin on the boy's face. It was an odd sight seeing a kid from a poor district look perfectly content with the prospect of an early death. That's definitely something to watch out for.
"Good observations." Peridot Hunter, Victor of the sixty-sixth Hunger Games, compliments. "What do you think about Two and Four? Since you'll be working with them so much, I wanna know your opinions."
"Mercy looks pretty deadly," Hysteria says. "She'll definitely be a major help for us."
Vintage has to admit; he was thoroughly impressed with Mercy. Even if it was just a few seconds, the girl from Two showed that she would be a great asset to the Career pack, and an even more formidable opponent. Vintage has a sinking feeling that Mercy is already the Capitol's favorite, which could actually be a good thing for him. Sponsors are extremely hard to come by, even for a Career. A beacon of strength and power like Mercy may very well rake in the sponsors for the entire pack.
"Anyone stand out to you, Vintage?" Peridot asks.
"Mercy," Vintage says. "She looks pretty damn strong."
"I think we've already established that," Velour says. "Was there anyone else?"
"To be honest, not really," Hysteria says. "No one else impressed me."
Vintage thinks for a moment. Who else stood out besides Mercy? Her district partner, Felix, seemed like the typical District Two jock. In District Four, Miami also looked like their usual fishing district product. The boy however, struck Vintage as a little bit odd. Shizuka Miura's stature and stage presence was admittedly underwhelming. Vintage could understand why someone like Hysteria, who always seemed very confident in herself, would overlook a tribute like Shizuka. But there was something about the boy from Four that just didn't sit right with Vintage.
"I think we should keep an eye on Shizuka," Vintage says.
"That short dude from Four?" Hysteria furrows her brow. "He won't be much of a threat."
"I don't know, Hysteria," Vintage says. "He looks kinda sketchy."
"Even if he is sketchy, I can't imagine him doing much damage," Hysteria retorts. "I could take care of him pretty easily."
"He's probably trained just like us," Vintage argues. "I think it's best if we're still cautious."
"Whatever, man," Hysteria says dismissively. "If you think he's sketchy, I'll let you think that. I just don't see it."
Vintage grips the armrest of the sofa tightly, his fingers digging into the soft suede. He knew of Hysteria's bold and brash confidence, but he hardly ever spoke to her at the Academy. He didn't realize just how grating the girl's hubris could be. Vintage's frustration is growing quickly, but he doesn't dare let it be known. Not being on the same page as his district partner this early on would not bode well for the near future.
"I admire your confidence, Hysteria," Velour says. "But you need to be careful. Never underestimate your opponent."
"I'm not underestimating anyone," Hysteria says. "I just know I can beat him if it comes down to it. Even if he somehow can put up a good fight, I know Vintage'll have my back, isn't that right? "
Even though he is very much part of the conversation, Vintage was not expecting to be put on the spot. He stutters and stammers, searching for the right words to answer Hysteria. District loyalty is expected in One. Betrayal of one's district partner is highly frowned upon. But the Hunger Games only allow for one Victor.
"You are gonna have my back," Hysteria presses. "Right, Vintage?"
Hysteria stares Vintage down expectantly. She leans forward, her deep brown eyes boring holes into Vintage. While Vintage struggles to maintain eye contact, Hysteria's gaze is focused, intense, unwavering. There's no deflecting this question, Hysteria obviously won't accept that. She needs a definitive yes or no.
"Well," Hysteria says impatiently. "I'll have your back if you got mine, but I need an answer."
There's a profound urgency in Hysteria's tone. The overbearing gusto she had just moments ago has been chipped away. Where it went so quickly, Vintage can't even begin to describe. Beneath the intensity, Vintage is left to see only one thing—desperation. She needs an answer from Vintage, and there's clearly a right answer and a very wrong one.
"Yes," Vintage finally says. "I'll have your back."
With those simple words, all of Hysteria's confidence returns. Her eyes soften. She beams a bright smile.
"Good! I knew you would," Hysteria says. "And like I said, I'll have your back too!"
"Thanks, I really appreciate that." Vintage is glad that he'll have at least one person looking out for him. He just wishes it wasn't someone who was so…volatile. There was no telling how the other Careers' personalities would mesh, or if they'd even mesh at all. Disagreements are inevitable, Vintage is sure of that fact. The real danger is potential infighting between members of the Career alliance. Numerous District One tributes have fallen at the hands of an ally who refused to compromise. It's a fate which Vintage does not wish to suffer.
"Having an alliance within a bigger one is a good idea," Peridot says. "It's how I won my Games after all."
"I know all about your Games," Hysteria gushes. "We still talk about it at the Academy."
The sixty-sixth Hunger Games were one of the Games that trainees studied extensively at District One's Career Academy. Vintage remembers being taught about the importance of intradistrict alliance within the Career pack. Peridot and her district partner, Arkin Pavone, remained solid in their loyalty to each other, their only goal being a victory for One. A combination of hidden agendas and explosive personalities resulted in the tributes from Two and Four taking each other out in the final eight, thus clearing the path to an eventual District One victory.
"Well, I'm thoroughly flattered," Peridot says. "I really hope you two can implement my strategy."
There is only one flaw in Peridot's strategy. A flaw that Vintage is uncertain that he can overcome. Such a plan requires total buy-in from both sides. Peridot was fortunate enough to have an honorable district partner in Arkin. One whose sole motivation was to bring honor and prestige to their district. Even though the Academy preaches loyalty to District One, personal interest prevails more often than not.
"We most certainly will!" Hysteria replies. "It'll be an honor to bring home another Victor's crown."
Hysteria seems to value loyalty, but to what extent? Would she bail at the first sign of trouble, leaving Vintage to fend for himself? Would she stab him in the back when he least expects it? Vintage has to look out for himself too. That's what Dr. Hartman had told him.
It's okay to be selfish sometimes.
You're so selfish! You only ever think about yourself.
His therapist's and his mother's words alternated inside Vintage's head in a constant seesaw, jumping from one extreme to the next. What a time to be conflicted, right when he's about to go into the Hunger Games. Dr. Hartman said he should do what he wants, and this is what he wanted, right? Why, all of a sudden, are the doubts creeping in?
"Whatcha thinkin' about, Vintage?" Hysteria's voice alarms Vintage, bringing him back to reality. He answers with a puzzled, "Huh?"
"I asked what you were thinking about," Hysteria repeats. "You spaced out there for a sec."
"Oh, sorry about that," Vintage says. "I was just…thinking about how much time was left before dinner."
"Honestly, me too." Hysteria rubs her stomach. "I'm getting kind of hungry."
"We still have a couple hours," Velour says, checking the diamond-encrusted watch on his wrist. "Lunch wasn't that long ago."
"It feels like forever ago," Hysteria complains. "I wish we didn't have to wait."
"You might wanna get used to waiting," Velour says. "There's no guarantee that you'll have a lot of food in the arena."
Hysteria and the mentors' conversation fades into the background. All that Vintage could think about was all the possible ways that being associated withHysteria could go wrong. He barely even knew her, but he can't shake the feeling that she might be hiding something. Something about the way Hysteria insisted that he would stay loyal to her, despite not even knowing him herself. She's desperate, but the reason why remains a mystery. How would she react if Vintage slipped up, doing something that she perceives as breaking her trust? Vintage doesn't know, and he's not sure if he ever wants to find out.
Swather Henrikson, 17: District 9 Male
Now your dream's a memory
And seems more true from far away
Just like smoke that fades
And makes no sound
July 7, 73ADD: 9.5 hours after Reaping
Swather's had a terrible day.
The sun finally begins to set, painting the sky various shades of pink and orange. Swather usually enjoys sunsets. Watching the sun dip below the horizon, highlighting the endless rows of wheat stalks with a bright yellow aura; it used to be a welcome sight. But now, as day begins to fade into night, all that Swather can think about is how many sunsets he'll miss.
The tranquility that comes with the evening hours is replaced with feelings of apprehension, unease, dread. Swather is all too aware that every minute that ticks by is a minute closer to death. Oh, how he wishes he could stop time, or even reverse it. But what would that do? Prolong the inevitable? Give him even more time to think about each possible outcome of this dire situation, which all ultimately end with him lying dead on the cold, hard ground.
Boom Boom Boom
The dull, heavy pounding on the door of Swather's sleeping quarters startles him. He already knows who it is. Swather presses a button on the wall next to the door, causing it to slide open. On the other side stands Tiller Yates, Victor of the forty-fifth Hunger Games. Tiller is a rugged man with a fairly large frame, salt-and-pepper hair and beard, and thick eyebrows that rest low on his forehead. He smells faintly of cigarette smoke and whiskey.
"Dinner's ready." Tiller's voice is gruff and gravely. "Better come and eat before it's all gone."
Swather isn't certain whether Tiller is joking or not. The man's expression doesn't change in the slightest. For all Swather knows, Tiller could be dead serious, so he's not taking any chances. He makes his way into the main car and is practically slapped in the face with an intoxicating aroma.
The dining table is packed with more food than Swather's ever seen in one place. Whole rotisserie chickens, turkeys, ham, steaks, and a host of other meats Swather has never seen before rest alongside every side dish imaginable and then some. Swather is so entranced by the dinner display that he nearly forgets he's not alone.
"Good evening, Mr. Henrikson," Otho Avakian, District Nine's escort, greets. Swather just gives Otho a curt nod. He can't stand to look at him. Even if he does look less grotesque than the average Capitolite he's seen on television, in his finely-threaded burgundy suit and matching eye shadow, that doesn't negate the fact that Otho is the reason that Swather is even on this damned train.
Luckily, Swather doesn't have to say a word to Otho, as Tiller follows in right behind him. He promptly grabs a plate and starts filling it up.
"Demeter and Cassandra should be out in a moment," Otho says to Tiller. The man just grunts in response.
Swather watches as Tiller methodically arranges the food into neat sections on the porcelain dish, presumably for himself. Swather motions to grab a plate of his own, but stops dead in his tracks when he hears Tiller clear his throat.
Guess the elders eat first. Swather thinks to himself.
Once the plate is filled with heaps of various foods, Tiller sets it on the table and pulls out a chair. He doesn't sit down, though. Instead, he stares at Swather. His stern amber gaze could probably stop a bullet if he wanted.
"C'mon, kid, sit down," Tiller says impatiently, gesturing to the empty chair. Swather hesitates for a moment, but another glare from Tiller gets him to move.
"Eat up," Tiller commands. Swather wastes no time in following Tiller's orders. He slices into a slab of steak that's bigger than any beef product that's ever even existed in District Nine. Beef is a rarity in Nine, and on the off chance anyone gets their hands on some, it's usually cooked into a stew. Never in his seventeen years has Swather bit into something so juicy and tender.
"Looks like someone's hungry." Swather looks up to see Demeter Fields, Victor of the fifty-fourth Hunger Games, walk in with Cassandra in tow. His face flushes as he gulps down another piece of steak.
"Sorry," Swather says. "This stuff is just so good."
"Just wait 'till you get to the Capitol," Demeter says. "You'll really be eating then."
Swather lets out a sigh. The Capitol is the last thing he wants to think about, but as soon as it's brought up, it's the only thing on his mind. The train is hurtling towards Swather's worst nightmare. In less than a day, he'll be put on display for the entire Capitol to gawk at, bet on— and then they'll cheer when he dies. They're monsters, all of them. Sick, twisted, evil monsters.
"You're gonna need it too," Tiller grunts. "Gonna need a lot of fuel for the arena."
Swather gulps. The only thing more intimidating than Tiller is the arena. Probably because he has no idea what's in store for him once he enters. Would it be a dense forest like last year? Or perhaps a scorching hot desert? Swather's best bet is probably vast open fields like the ones back home, but the prospect of such an environment still doesn't bring much hope. Chances are that no matter what arena he steps into, it will be where Swather Henrikson spends his final days.
"Can we—" Swather inhales, gathering himself. He doesn't want to sound too rude, "can we not talk about that stuff right now?"
"Why not?" Tiller asks, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know if you missed the memo, but you're going into the Hunger Games. It might actually help if we do talk about this stuff."
"I know," Swather says. "But—"
"But what?" Tiller interrupts. His eyes are fixated on Swather. It seems like he actually wants to help Swather, but his method of intimidating him into accepting his offer is strange. Plus, Swather needs more time. He's not in the right headspace to talk about survival just yet.
However, Swather has always been excellent at talking to people. It's why he's so popular back in Nine; he could get along with just about anyone. Socialization comes naturally to Swather, just like breathing or eating or drinking. With the right words, he could make anyone like him. Some people just need a bit more convincing. Swather thinks he can get Tiller to respect his wishes, even if he is a bit of a hardass.
"Listen, Tiller," Swather begins. "You were only, what, sixteen when you were Reaped, right?"
"Yes…" Tiller answers suspiciously.
"Right, a year younger than me," Swather says. "Do you remember how you felt when your name was called?"
"That was a long time ago." Tiller finally averts his gaze, staring down at his dinner plate, poking at his food with a fork. He's deflecting, and Swather knows it.
"But it changed your whole life," Swather says. "You've got to remember how you felt."
"I don't know," Tiller grumbles. "Angry, confused—"
"Scared, even?" Swather suggests.
"Mr. Henrikson, maybe we should change the subject," Otho says nervously. Swather pays the escort no mind.
"Were you scared?" Swather repeats.
"Maybe a little bit." Tiller quickly cocks his head to the side, a nervous tic of some sort. "Why does that even matter, though? I've already won my Games."
He's uncomfortable. Swather thinks to himself. Time to bring it home.
"Imagine how I feel right now," Swather says. "Or how Cassandra feels," he points in his district partner's direction. "She's twelve for crying out loud. I don't think either one of us is in the right state of mind to talk about the Games just yet. Just give me a day to get myself together. Then we can start talking."
Tiller clenches his jaw, and Swather's heart drops. He angered the man, which is exactly what he was trying to avoid. Swather braces himself for a stern lecture, or maybe a severe tongue-lashing, or maybe something even worse than that.
"Alright, kid," Tiller sighs. "You got it," he stands and pushes his chair in, his steely expression vanished, replaced with a blank, withdrawn stare. "But we start planning first thing in the morning. That should be more than enough time to prepare yourself, understood?"
"Yes sir," Swather nods. "Understood."
Tiller marches out of the main car, leaving his half-eaten dinner. On his way out, he snatches a bottle of dark liquor from the mini bar. Otho follows closely behind, saying something about watching how much alcohol he drinks. An avox swiftly appears and swipes up Tiller's plate from the table then another wipes down the spot where it once lay. Swather looks in Demeter's direction, not too sure of what just happened. Demeter looks back at the boy, surprise written all over her face.
"Never in my nineteen years of mentoring have I seen a kid convince Tiller to back off," Demeter says. "He's by far the most stubborn guy I've ever known."
"Really? I couldn't tell," Swather says sarcastically, earning a giggle from both Demeter and Cassandra.
"Seriously though, Tiller's a tough guy," Demeter says. "You must've really struck a nerve."
"Oh, I didn't mean to," Swather says apologetically. "Is he gonna be okay?"
"I'm sure he'll be fine." Demeter doesn't sound too confident in her answer. She's known Tiller for more than half her life. She must know a lot about the guy that Swather doesn't. "But I'll go check on him. Keep an eye on Cassandra for me, okay?"
Demeter slinks off in the same direction that Tiller left. Once again, the avoxes appear, seemingly out of nowhere, and briskly clean Demeter's spot. They're gone before Swather can even utter a word of gratitude.
"You can go too if you want," Cassandra says. "I don't need anyone to watch me."
"No, it's cool," Swather says. "I want to finish eating anyway," he pauses briefly, looking at the door that Tiller left through. "I wonder what his deal is."
"I'm guessing you brought up a bad memory," Cassandra says.
"Well, I can't imagine your Reaping being a good memory," Swather responds.
"I think it might be more than just that." Cassandra twirls a fork in her hand. "Something really bad must've happened when he was Reaped. Something worse than the Reaping itself."
Swather can't imagine anything worse than being Reaped for the Hunger Games. Well, other than dying in them. But obviously Tiller didn't die. He had survived Swather's worst nightmare already, surely nothing else could compare.
Winning the Games is the best case scenario, right?
Ottie Wellscion, 14: District 5 Male
I didn't mean to put you through this
I can tell
We cannot sweep this under the carpet
July 7, 73ADD: 13 hours after Reaping
Ottie can't sleep.
He tosses and turns, trying desperately to find a comfortable position. No matter how he angles his body, Ottie can't settle down. He thought he would fall right asleep after such an exhausting day. He wishes he would just drift off, so he could rest his weary body and mind. But his mind just won't turn off.
You're gonna die. You're gonna take one stop off of that pedestal and take a knife to the back. You're gonna bleed out in front of all of Panem. Or a Career is gonna strangle you with their bare hands. You're dead. You'll never see home again. You won't see Mom or Dad or Oleff or any of your classmates or—
"Shut up!" Ottie shouts into his pillow, muffling his voice so he doesn't disturb anyone but himself. He turns, lying supine, staring up at the ceiling. He's not going to get any sleep tonight. Not in these conditions. Not while visions of his own death dance on the back of his eyelids every time he shuts them.
Ottie shivers. The air feels thin and cold, even under the plush duvet. He misses the dry desert heat of District Five. Sure, it felt like an oven baking him alive, but at least it felt like home. Ottie's in uncharted territory. He doesn't belong here. He should be at home, reading a book or helping his dad take care of his mother or literally anything other than being whisked off to die in the wilderness.
Ottie smacks his lips. His throat is dry. Probably from his wracked nerves, but he's parched. He needs water. He's not falling asleep anytime soon, not while he's this anxious. So he might as well quench his thirst.
Ottie crawls out of bed, cringing when his bare feet hit the wool carpet. He reaches under the covers for the pair of socks he kicked off while in bed and slips them back on. He presses the button to the right side of the door, gritting his teeth at the sound of the door sliding open. Anything that breaks the eerie silence sounds like an explosion. He hopes he didn't wake Jamie. That is if she wasn't having trouble sleeping like him. Jamie looked just as terrified as Ottie at the Reaping. He can't imagine her being able to sleep either.
He walks into the main car, through another sliding door that makes way too much noise. On the far side of the train stands a refrigerator that looks bigger than Ottie's entire kitchen back home. He darts across the car as quietly as he can. He tugs on the heavy stainless steel door, the refrigerator light bathing the kitchen in a faint glow. Ottie wastes little time in grabbing a plastic water bottle and taking a swig.
"Can't sleep?"
Ottie gasps in shock, sending some of the water down the wrong pipe. He sputters and gags as water spills out of his mouth and onto his shirt and the floor. Spinning around, Ottie comes face to face with Tomaz Wellflower, the youngest Victor in Hunger Games history. His honey brown eyes are surrounded by dark circles and underlined by deep bags, making his face look rather aged for someone that's only thirteen years old.
"What the hell, man!?" Ottie coughs. "You could've drowned me! What are you doing out here?"
"Checking on you, I guess," Tomaz says. "I couldn't sleep either."
"Why can't you sleep?" Ottie asks, still trying to catch his breath.
"No reason, really. Just can't," Tomaz answers, shrugging. "Haven't been able to for a few days."
"I guess you understand why I can't," Ottie says awkwardly.
"Yeah, I can," Tomaz says. "You are going into a death match after all."
Ottie feels a sharp stabbing sensation in his chest. His breath quickens. He brings the bottle up to his lips, attempting to take a sip, but his hand won't stop shaking long enough for his lips to form a seal on the bottle. His anxiety intensifies as more visions of a painful death begin to swirl. He can't escape it. At every turn he's reminded of his impending fate. Ottie feels so helpless.
"I'm gonna fucking die," Ottie mumbles.
"Yeah, probably," Tomaz says, voice way too casual for Ottie's liking.
"You're not helping," Ottie whines. "Stop making it worse."
"If you want to be coddled, you should ask Hal," Tomaz says, crossing his arms. "But he won't be too happy if you wake him up."
"Why are you being such an ass?" Ottie says. He's tried to be respectful to Tomaz ever since they got on the train, but goodness, does the kid make it hard.
"Trust me, I'm not being an ass," Tomaz says. "You'll see plenty of real asshats in the Capitol."
"You just told me I was gonna die," Ottie argues. "Seems like a dick move to me."
Tomaz lets out a deep sigh through his nostrils, curling his lips inward. He sits down on the counter behind him. "Look, dude," he starts. "I'd rather you think I'm a dick now by telling you the truth than have you hate me later because I gave you false hope."
"What do you mean by that?" Ottie screws the cap back on his bottle.
"It means that you probably will die," Tomaz says. "And if you don't, you'll still never be the same person again."
"How is you telling me this supposed to help me?" Ottie asks. "It's not very encouraging."
"It's not supposed to be," Tomaz says. "It's just the truth. The Games are gonna fuck you up. And if you win, you'll have to deal with the guilt of living."
"Guilt?" Ottie's perplexed. What part of winning the Hunger Games brings about guilt? Winning the Games is a good thing, isn't it? "Why would I have to deal with guilt?"
"Well, you want allies, right?" Tomaz asks. "You mentioned finding allies at dinner."
"Yeah," Ottie nods. "I want allies." Before this year's Reaping, Ottie tried not to think too much about the Games. In the rare moments he did, he imagined himself with allies. Ottie doesn't have all the skills necessary to survive on his own. Without allies, winning the Games would be impossible.
"And I'm pretty sure you want to win, right?" Tomaz says.
"I mean, yeah," Ottie says. "What kind of question is that?"
"You do realize that your allies will have to die for that to happen, right?" Tomaz says. "That's when you'll feel guilty. Because they'll be dead because you can't save them."
Tomaz stares directly at, or rather through, Ottie. His eyes look as if all life has been sucked out of them. Ottie thought that there would be a silver lining in this ordeal. He thought that having a mentor so close in age meant that he could relate to him more. But after tonight, Ottie realizes that he and Tomaz are worlds apart. He isn't sure how to respond; any words that he can think of don't sound right, so all that comes out is an awkward, "Wow. That sucks."
"Yeah, it does suck," Tomaz says dejectedly. "A lot."
Ottie taps on his thigh nervously. He's never been too good at reassurance, but neither has Tomaz. He searches in his mind for something, anything that he can say to show some form of empathy.
"My mom is dying," Ottie blurts out. "She's been sick pretty much my whole life."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Tomaz says. "Sometimes I miss my mom."
"What happened to her?" Ottie curiously inquires.
"Nothing crazy. She's not dead or anything," Tomaz says. "She just…changed after my brother died."
"Changed how?"
"She's always angry now," Tomaz replies. "Her and my dad. They used to yell at me and hit me and punish me for stupid stuff all the time."
"How'd you get them to stop?" Ottie asks.
"I left after I got back home last year," Tomaz answers.
"So you live alone now? And you're not lonely?" Ottie can't imagine living alone. He needs his family. Without his mom and dad and Oleff, Ottie feels lost. Just leaving them has never even crossed his mind.
"No, not really." Tomaz shakes his head. "I have Hal and Ion living across the street. They help me out a lot."
"What happened to your brother?" Ottie winces as the question leaves his lips. From what Ottie has seen in his interviews and the Victory Tour, Tomaz's brother's death is a very sore subject. Ottie doesn't mean to be inconsiderate, but his curiosity got the best of him.
"He got gunned down by peacekeepers," Tomaz recalls. "Thought he was stealing."
"That's so fucked up!" Ottie says.
"That's one way to describe it," Tomaz sighs.
"Well, you're a Victor now," Ottie says. "You could do something about it."
"I can't," Tomaz denies. "Not while they're watching."
"Not while who is watching?"
"The Capitol," Tomaz says. "They've got eyes on me at all times," he points to the far corner of the kitchen. Ottie looks, thoroughly confused at what Tomaz is pointing at. All he sees is an arbitrary corner, a joining of two walls.
"Tomaz, I'm not saying you're crazy," Ottie says. "But there's nothing there."
"Look up." Tomaz grabs the back of Ottie's head, angling the boy's vision upwards. Ottie finally sees it—a tiny blinking red light.
"Cameras?" Ottie says.
"They're everywhere," Tomaz says. "Mics too."
Ottie suddenly feels exposed. He'd never seen any footage from the train rides before, so he figured he'd have a little privacy. Oh, how wrong Ottie was. Honestly, he should have known better than to think the Capitol wouldn't always be watching.
There's no way he's getting any sleep tonight.
Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter and some of the first tribute/mentor and tribute/tribute interactions. Just as a heads up, this SYOT completely ignores the original canon, so you won't be seeing any Victors you might be familiar with. That's all I really have for this author's note. I'll see you again soon for the second half of the train rides.
Until next time,
Ty