The next train chapter! I hope you all like this chapter and how the characters have been written.
Without further adieu, please enjoy!
~ Meghan
"Fear is proof of a degenerate mind."
- Virgil, 70 BC to 19 BC, Roman Italy
The Journey.
...
Garrick Raymond - 17 y.o. - D2
...
- Somewhere in Panem -
Garrick couldn't focus on what Mason was saying.
She took a bite of food, dabbing at her mouth primly with one of the satin napkins. It was insulting. How could they not see that?
"Naturally, the tributes from One and Four are likely prospects," Mason continued. "We still have to go through the formal way of arranging alliances - it's protocol for the Gamemakers. Back in my day we just did it ourselves, but these new Heads are such sticklers for their formalities. Anyway, Scoria and I can handle that process ourselves. The other tributes will probably get the same brief from their own mentors, but the formal invitation stands."
Garrick finally nodded at the elephant in the room. "You're joking. Right?"
A tense silence filled the train's dining compartment. Nymph stared at him, a baked carrot falling from her fork and plopping onto her plate, purple lips parted in shock. Mason clenched his jaw, glancing over at the other mentor. Princess just froze in her seat, obviously knowing that he was talking about her. Why the hell did everyone seem so surprised? Why were they pretending like everything was normal?
"Care to elaborate, Mr. Raymond?" Scoria said smoothly, lifting a dark eyebrow. She swirled her glass of whatever blood-red drink she had as if they were discussing their dinner.
He pointed an accusing finger at the child sitting across from him. "This!"
"I have every right to be here," Princess snapped, not sounding convinced of her own words. She lifted her chin. "I volunteered fair and square."
"Bullshit." Garrick shook his head. "I was supposed to have a capable district partner. Someone trained."
"I am trained."
"Someone old enough to not need a sippy-cup!"
Scoria sighed, planting her glass on the table with finality. "You're both acting juvenile."
"I wonder why," Garrick said. "She's literally thirteen."
"Stop talking about me like I'm not right here!" Princess shouted.
Mason stood up, and Garrick shut his mouth immediately, a retort still burning on his tongue. "Enough. The only reason I haven't thrown you both out of this train and made you run to catch up yet is because of the respect I have for both of your parents. This is ridiculous." He motioned to Princess. "Garrick, do you think I'm stupid?"
Indignation rising in Garrick's chest, but he knew it would be useless to argue. "No, sir."
"Then why do you think I'm not aware that she's younger than the average volunteer?" Mason pressed. He folded his muscular arms, keeping an unflinching Garrick.
The younger tribute clenched his teeth. After years of being a student at the training academy, he knew better than to disobey Mason Golding or Scoria Elestreen. His mentors were familiar faces, two of the regular instructors at his school. They were victors - along with a couple of the recent ones - that made an effort to train the future tributes themselves after having gone into the arena and come out alive.
Everyone in District 2 knew they were secretly together, too. It was sort of an unsaid thing in the training academy, but everyone was aware of it. After Mason and Scoria had won the 18th and 20th Games respectively, they had become a pair in the Capitol as an example of District 2's prowess in the Hunger Games. It had been strange chance that they had fallen in love, Garrick figured. But then again, maybe the only person who could understand a victor was a victor.
He honestly couldn't stand either of them: Scoria for what she did, Mason just by association.
They weren't supposed to ruin his chances of winning like they did for Sammy.
Garrick looked away from Mason. "It's just that I'm supposed to be in an alliance with my district partner. It was supposed to be Olive, the girl that the committee chose. We were your best students."
"Let's get something straight," Mason continued in that ridiculous teacher voice he used. "I can't change what's been done, and pissing about it won't either. If you want to go complain, be my guest. I'm sure Head Gamemaker Bellum would absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Or you can do as I say. That means no yelling, no arguing, and if I hear one more word of whining, I'll make the Avoxes look lucky compared to the pair of you. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Princess murmured weakly, pale face red.
Garrick glared at his glass of water. "Yes, sir."
Mason nodded. "Wonderful. See how easy that was?"
Nymph cleared her throat, tapping at the gold watch on her wrist. "I'd say it's about time for the recap."
Garrick stood up with the rest of the group, following them into the hallway to another wood-paneled compartment with plush couches and a screen. Princess turned away from him, her blonde waves hiding her face as she chose the chair furthest from his.
How he had somehow ended up going into the Games with Princess Daylight, he couldn't imagine. Never had he ever pictured the spoiled brat volunteering for the Games. He had seen her at some of the social functions he attended with his father, and by all accounts she was the perfect District 2 daughter. She never strayed from her parents' shadow and always seemed to stay in her family's mansion. And now here he was with a sniveling child too delicate to leave her own cushiony home.
"You'll need to work twice as hard in the arena," Jacobus Raymond had said to Garrick in the Justice Building. "The others from One and Four will be going in as a set. They'll see you as the odd one out."
Garrick had nodded. The collar of his shirt felt too tight as he swallowed. "I won't let you down."
Jacobus put a hand on Garrick's shoulder, the closest his son would get to a hug from his father to send him into the arena. "Make District Two proud."
The reaping recap began like it always did with the Panem anthem and the seal flashing on the screen. Caesar Flickerman, the Host of Ceremonies taking over from his father, welcomed the audience with the usual introductory remarks. Happy Hunger Games! Welcome to the coverage of the Forty-second year, this day marking our reapings. It was the same broadcast that everyone in the districts watched in the evening after the Capitol had watched it live. But this year it felt surreal. Garrick didn't feel like he was about to watch himself volunteer.
He'd spent every year that he could remember sitting down in their family's large living room, watching the replay of all the districts go by. He had always felt a swell of pride for District 2, of course, and he knew that his father felt the same - even if he didn't show it.
"I volunteer!" the tributes would say each year, raising their hands with a confidence in their eyes that took Garrick's breath away.
How powerful did it feel to volunteer?
"That's going to be me one day," Sammy had said to him one year when he was so young he wasn't even of reaping age. His older sister had moved closer to him on the rug and pointed at the screen, her beaded bracelet gleaming on her wrist. "See that girl? I'm going to be her one day, Garrick."
"Calm down, Sempronia," Jacobus had intoned from his chair, so they hid their smiles.
As the years passed, Garrick watched as sister trained and became a warrior. She spent her afternoons in the academy, training until she collapsed, becoming Scoria's prized student. She was a shoe-in to win and everyone knew it. But when the other kids in his district saw a victor-to-be, she never stopped being his big sister. She still snuck him ice cream after dinner and walked home with him after school before heading back herself to train.
And then when she was eighteen, he watched as she volunteered.
One of Garrick's friends in the sea of fourteen-year-old boys had elbowed him, whispering, "your sister's gonna' win."
"This is yours," Sammy said in the Justice Building. She held out her bracelet with its smooth marble beads. "Keep it safe for me until I get back, okay, Garrick?"
"What's going to be your token?" he had asked, looking up at her.
She grinned, winking one of her brown eyes. "Victors don't need tokens, silly. I'll see you in a few weeks."
And then he had sat on that same rug in their living room and watched his sister get electrocuted to death.
"SHE'S NOT DEAD!"
He hadn't realized he had been screaming and crawling to the television until his father had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up, Sammy's bracelet digging into Garrick's skin beneath his father's firm hand.
"She's dead," his father had said. It was the only time Garrick had heard his father's voice break since his mom had died years before. And then Jacobus Raymond was back to the normal, stern quarry overseer he usually was. "Compose yourself, Garrick. She lost."
The anger Garrick felt was one that burned away every shred of childhood he had left.
He started training the next day.
His hand drifted to the bracelet on his wrist as Caesar Flickerman's face vanished from the screen. The marble beads were cool beneath his fingers, just like they had been when Sammy had given it to him four years ago.
The reapings began.
District 12 came first with a terrified-looking pair getting called up to a coal-dusted stage. The girl had a scar on her face but the boy looked remarkably like Garrick, all tall with brown hair and pale skin. District 8 produced a boring pair. The boy was just as young as Princess. The two from 6 were both tall with identical glares on their faces.
In a nearby chair, Nymph bent over a notepad to scribble something down, chewing on one of her long lime-green nails.
Nothing about the other tributes was particularly notable to Garrick so far. It was fairly typical outer-district fodder.
District 3 appeared on the screen.
Garrick's eyes narrowed and he fought the urge to lean closer.
The bastard sat in a chair behind the mayor giving the welcoming speech. He next to their only other living victor. Fuck they were a pathetic district.
"The victors of District Three," the mayor said, pulling out a piece of paper - as if it was that hard to remember three measly names. "Edison Thales, victor of the Sixteenth Hunger Games. Electra Onduit, victor of the Twenty-fifth Hunger Games, now deceased. Beetee Latier, victor of the Thirty-ninth Hunger Games."
There was applause for the bastard. Obviously. A weak district like them only had a crippled victor, a dead victor, and a weakling to cheer for. These were their examples of their district's pride. The motley trio was the best their district could produce. It was almost sad.
Beetee Latier ducked his ashen face in embarrassment as the crowd finally calmed down.
Garrick ground his teeth together. How had such a... such an insect killed his sister? With his wire and the electricity - there was no honor. She didn't even have a chance.
Sammy was supposed to win.
And then the tributes were being chosen, some small girl and a boy who looked like he'd pass out on the stage. Garrick couldn't lie, he had been hoping for something more formidable, but then again it still was District 3. He would kill the girl first, and then the boy, and hope with every fiber of his being that Beetee Latier was the boy's mentor. Beetee would have to helplessly watch his tribute die just like Garrick had to watch his sister die. Garrick wanted him to hurt.
"District Eleven will have more support this year," Scoria said, pulling Garrick from his thoughts.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down as the agricultural district appeared on the screen. They had been the ones to get a victor last year, but they weren't his concern. District 11 sometimes managed to scrounge up some good tributes but this year seemed like a joke. A girl who could barely make it up the stage and a small kid ended up being selected.
As District 9 ended up with yet another pair of overlookable tributes, Garrick almost felt bored. This parade was his competition this year?
Things finally became interesting when District 10 had a volunteer. A stricken, younger girl climbed the steps and took the place of her friend. It was obvious the girl was volunteering to die, but Garrick couldn't help the spark of respect he felt for her. While it didn't have the same honor as volunteering with the intent to be an actual competitor, it took bravery.
He'd kill her fast if he ran across her in the arena, he decided. It was only fair.
District 2 appeared.
Garrick felt as if he was someone else watching the reaping for a moment, listening to the mayor reading off the list of victors with Mason and Scoria's names on it, watching as Nymph walked to the bowl and pulled out a name no one remembered.
"Any volunteers?"
A silent beat.
"I volunteer!"
The slow, practiced walk up the stage that had been imagined a hundred times.
"Garrick, your sister's gonna' win."
"And what's your name?"
"Garrick Raymond."
He lifted his chin as just like he did on screen. The marble bracelet glinted on Garrick's wrist. For just a moment, he thought he saw Sammy in the crowd.
Mustang Lane - 18 y.o. - D6
...
- Somewhere in Panem -
Mustang downed her third glass of hot chocolate.
"Young lady, I think you might find that the desserts won't disappear. You don't need to consume them all at once."
Setting down her glass, Mustang turned to the Capitol escort, who looked at her disapprovingly. The woman was pretty and Mustang couldn't deny that she didn't look as bad as some of the other Capitolites. The shaved hair wouldn't be a big deal back in 6, it was pretty normal for factory workers, but the silver tattoos of birds that shone like metal - matching her silver choker - alighting along the escort's scalp were definitely Capitol.
Mustang made a show of wiping the sticky chocolate off her mouth with her hand, thrilling as Romula Bibelot cringed in disgust.
The table in front of them was laden with platter upon platter of incredible food. The Capitol might've been shitty but their food sure wasn't. Mustang hadn't even heard of half the dishes, but she had tried a bite of everything from the bubbling orange soup to the stuffed bird with decorative feathers sticking out one end. Her favorite was the hot chocolate. She'd always enjoyed it back home during a cold snap, but this one was even better than any of the watered-down stuff she'd had in 6.
Poe Venture shifted in his seat, setting down his napkin. "Enjoy it, Mustang. This food is here for you."
"Who knows how much longer we'll actually get any," Trip said darkly, staring at his fork of buttered, golden potatoes.
"That's why I intend to enjoy it," Mustang agreed. She licked the chocolate off her teeth, wishing her stomach didn't feel so full - she wanted to keep enjoying things. Did people really live like this in the Capitol? Bursting full all the time? "Got any scotch?"
"Scotch?" Romula asked, bemused.
Mustang shrugged. "Alright then, what about some brandy?"
"You can't have any alcohol," Wellim Howell said apologetically, his dark eyes warm. "The tributes aren't allowed."
She scoffed. "I'm about to be dodging swords and bloodthirsty tributes in a week, but I can't have any drinks?"
Her mentors at least looked sorry. They were decent people, though they were really all District 6 had to offer. It was a well-known but hush-hush fact that the most recent victor, Raley Rivett, had been self-medicating on morphling since he won the 32nd Games. He rarely mentored, which always left Poe and Wellim to do the dirty work of sending off the tributes. And, so far, their track record wasn't stellar. The only tribute they'd managed to bring home was now an addict. It didn't exactly make Mustang very confident in her mentors.
Mustang rolled her eyes. "So not even one shot." She'd see about that.
The train began to slow, the movement almost imperceptible. The vehicle was so sleek, outfitted with the best active suspension and stainless steel underframe Mustang had ever seen. She was so amazed by it and the luxurious interior that she could almost forget it was carrying her towards the Hunger Games.
"Fuel refill," Romula said, standing up. She nodded at Mustang and Trip. "Why don't you both go freshen up while I speak with your mentors?"
Mustang smirked at the woman. "You can just tell us to fuck off, you know? You don't have to treat us like we're five."
Romula leveled a glare at her but Mustang didn't look away. She wasn't about to let some metal-headed escort tell her what to do. "Fine then," Romula said, sucking in her cheeks. "Wellim, Poe, I need to speak to you in another room." She shot one last glare at Mustang before spinning and marching out of the dining car.
"There's no need to antagonize her," Wellim murmured to Mustang.
She shrugged.
He didn't bother to argue, getting up and following Romula out of the car with Poe not far behind.
Once the door clicked shut, Mustang moved smoothly, taking her time to stretch her arms out like a cat. The train slowed until she felt it come to a stop. Where were they now? Maybe passing outside District 9, moving closer and closer to the mountains that bordered the Capitol. Wherever they were, every single moment took her further from home. It was useless to think about it, but it kept popping into her head, a constant reminder of the fucked up situation she was in.
"Crazy, isn't it?" Mustang mused aloud. She kicked her boots up onto Romula's empty chair. "Both of us were almost out of reaping age. They got us at the very end."
Trip set his fork down, folding his arms. "I wouldn't know from how you're acting."
Mustang glanced over at him. She hadn't realized they both had brown eyes, though hers were darker than his. "I'm just trying to enjoy myself. If I'm about to go into the arena, I'm going to have some fun first."
He gave her a derisive look back. "As if you don't already do that every day? You and the rest of the Wandering Souls-"
"Lost Souls."
"Whatever," he said, waving his hand. "Let's not pretend you were actually going anywhere in life."
Mustang leaned back to look at him. Trip Hewitt was a classmate she'd never really bothered to talk to - well, before she'd stopped going to school, that is. He kept to himself and was always a bit too serious for Mustang's taste. Still, he had that whole fight club thing going with his stepfather and it was fun to watch sometimes. She wasn't exactly up for violence in the same way she was down with other things, but she could appreciate how the fighters in the ring felt.
"Are you implying that your fight club is any better?" Mustang pressed.
"Never said it was," he quipped. "But at least I'm not just doing it because I don't care about anything else. My mom thinks you and your little gang are some kind of anti-Capitol movement, but I don't buy it. You all are just low-lives to be honest."
Mustang laughed, burying a hand in her short black hair. "That's where you're wrong, Hewitt. It's not that we don't care about anything else. I don't have any big, fancy, grand goals. I just do what I feel like. The Lost Souls is about one thing: enjoying the fuck out of our lives."
The gang hadn't been something she had planned.
It came about one evening when Mustang had snuck some bottles of cheap beer from her parents. She hid in an empty warehouse full of busted tires with Roaden and Hina, her ride or die best friends, getting drunk and jumping off the tires until sunrise.
"Life is pointless anyway," Mustang remembered herself saying, bottle in her hand sloshing as she kicked a scrap of rubber. "We're all just going to end up in some shithole factory like this."
"Or get picked for the Games," Hina added. She pulled a blunt from her pocket.
Mustang pointed her bottle. "Thought your grandparents grounded you last time you had some of those on you."
Hina pulled a match from her sock and struck it against her shoe. The flame sizzled in the dark, lighting up the girl's face briefly as she put the blunt between her chapped lips. She winked as she blew out the smoke. "Maybe they'll hide them from me better this time."
As Mustang laughed, Roaden laid down on the dirty concrete floor. "I think I'd survive the Games. I'd have a good shot."
Hina tossed the match onto the floor and ground it under her heel. "You'd survive for a while, you're pretty fearless. But I say you'd bite it."
"I'd live," Mustang said, taking a drink from her bottle. She swallowed, closing her eyes, spinning in a dizzy circle. "But it's all that's waiting for us, isn't it? The Games, you know... All we do is live to die by getting picked for the Hunger Games. What's the point in trying to some build a future, like a whole fucking future, when it could just be taken by the Capitol?" She stumbled, eyes flying open. "It's not really worth it."
"We should drop out of school," Roaden sighed.
Hina gasped, almost dropping her beer bottle. "We should form a gang! Just all about enjoying things and doing whatever the fuck we want. We might as well enjoy ourselves and make some friends while we're at it."
Mustang laughed but then she stared down at the black marks left by Hina's match. Maybe it was the alcohol making her brain fuzzy but it wasn't such a bad idea. They were all getting ground under the Capitol's heel. It was pointless. But they could still have fun before getting crushed. "A gang. Just for enjoying ourselves. Do batshit stuff-"
"-and make this empty life our bitch," Hina finished, her blunt burning like an ember.
"We need a name," Roaden said. "Something to call ourselves. Even if we're all a bunch of lost souls, we should have a proper title."
"Roaden, you're a genius," Mustang said.
He looked up at her. "I am?"
She raised her beer bottle. "To the Lost Souls. The greatest gang District Six has ever seen."
Mustang had become the leader after that and their group had only grown. It was probably getting too big to control at that point, but she honestly didn't care. She just enjoyed being with the family she had chosen, even if her parents disapproved. All their recklessness was fun and she craved it. And she had been right, after all. She got picked. Her name was in that bowl and now she was here.
"You have to admit it," Mustang said to the boy whose name was drawn from the other bowl. "Everything we did back home, trying to build some little life for when we were older and whatever - it's all pointless. Look at us now." She stretched out her arms, gazing around the dining car and all the food on the table. "We're just being led by a golden leash to the Capitol. But it's always been that way. I didn't want to spend my time being a grunt for them. I spent my days enjoying myself."
"You're just a hedonist," Trip drawled.
Mustang put her boots up on the table, smearing dirt across the white tablecloth. "Guilty as charged. You might want to try it sometime."
Trip stood up, not bothering to push his chair in. "No thanks. I actually intend on surviving."
"Who said I don't, too?"
"I never said you didn't," he replied simply, turning and walking out the door. "I just don't think you will."
Anger ignited inside Mustang, but before she could spit something at him he disappeared through the hallway, not even sparing a glance back to see how his words had landed. She hated that it struck a nerve. What the fuck did he know anyway? He and his daddy just had a place for sweaty adults to beat each other, even Peacekeepers sometimes too.
"Fuck you, too," Mustang called out towards the door. Who cared if her mentors or that escort heard her? She hoped they did.
"You always make things more difficult for yourself," Mustang's mother had said one morning when she got home. Dawn was just breaking, orange rays of sun punching through the clouds. Soon the sunshine would be hidden by plumes of factory smoke. Mustang had been buzzing from a game of chase in an abandoned factory with the Lost Souls until Peacekeepers showed up and they scattered. Her mother wasn't amused. "Imagine if they caught you. What then?"
Mustang had just laughed. She was a little tired - and, okay, maybe a little high too - but her heart was still racing from the adrenaline. "They don't have cameras there."
Her mother had given her a look like she always did. It had been a while since Mustang had seen her parents look pleased to see her. The same could be said for her younger sister, too, though. Vespa was a withdrawn girl who never really seemed invested much, but one thing she never failed to mention was how much she disapproved of Mustang bringing Ford into her games.
"He's only twelve," Vespa said as Mustang kicked off her boots in their room. She crossed her arms. "You need to stop dragging him with you."
Mustang yawned and threw her leather jacket on the windowsill. "And you're only fourteen, so stop acting like Mom and Pop." She fell into her bed. "Our little brother is more outgoing than you, Vespie. You might want to take some notes."
"I never want to go down the road you're going," Vespa had said.
Mustang would've responded, but she was already falling asleep.
The train she sat in now began to move again. The fuel refill was over. It was time to keep going towards the Capitol. You're lucky you aren't going where I'm going, Vespie, Mustang thought bitterly. She looked out over the table of half-eaten plates of food. Without thinking, she grabbed her plate and smashed it on one of the free chairs, watching the fine china pieces fall and clink on the beautiful rug.
"I was right," she said to the empty room and reached out to grab the thermos of hot chocolate. She didn't know how much she drank, but she gulped the sweet dessert until her stomach ached, and then some more.
As Mustang walked out of the dining car and towards her room, Panem passed through the windows. Golden strings of light fell over summer forests, and birds skimmed up high in the sunset. One of the small windows was open, letting in the smell of earth and engine fuel. It was so different from the usual reek of smoke and metal in District 6. Everything was different now. She knew where she was headed, and none of the other Lost Souls could run with her now.
Mustang leaned her head out the window and vomited up stomach acid and hot chocolate.
Darrius Morningstar - 13 y.o. - D8
...
- Somewhere in Panem -
Darrius was lying in bed awake.
His tears had dried up at some point an hour ago - or was it half an hour? Time seemed to be weaving itself together with the rocking of the train. Not that it really mattered. It was still dark outside the windows of his room. What district were they near now? He'd seen some lights in the distance a bit ago. People there were sleeping, nestled down in their homes.
He was on a train headed for the Capitol.
The freaking Capitol!
He turned onto his back, snuggled beneath the silk sheets like he was in a pillow fort. The bed was nice, he had to admit that. It was probably the comfiest thing he'd ever sat on, like what he'd always imagined a Capitol bed would be like. Darrius was so used to his wooden bed with its lumpy mattress that this felt like something fit for the president of Panem.
"I bet they sleep in silk in the Capitol." Darrius had taken a bite of his ham sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "Like, the really good stuff."
Cress Sliver wrinkled her nose. "I don't like silk. My mom makes it. It's just crushed up silkworms in cocoons, you know."
"I know," Darrius said. He actually didn't, but he wasn't about to admit that to Cress.
They weren't close, really. He preferred to be on his own but she was the closest person in his class he'd call a friend. Well, frenemies was more accurate. They got along - sort of. Cress was his opposite in every way. She took the world seriously, acting like she was thirty instead of thirteen too. It was probably why Euphemia liked Cress, since they were so similar. Cress liked to think she was more mature than Darrius in every way, but really she just didn't know how to relax like he did.
Also, she couldn't ever beat him at hide-and-seek and he knew that frustrated her to no end.
"I think I'd prefer to wear tulle," Cress continued. "No worms involved." She took a bite of her bruised apple.
In front of them, the rest of their class played at recess. The playground they had was mostly sun-washed pavement, dotted with a couple basketball hoops, but there were some patches of grass at the edges like the ones he and Cress sat on. One of the others had a giant anthill so it had been this one for today.
A basketball bounced past them, rolling to the fence.
"Throw it back!" one of their classmates shouted, waving his arms.
Darrius frowned and ate another piece of his sandwich.
Cress sighed, standing up and trudging to the basketball. She tossed it back to the group of students who continued to play their game of keep-away. "You're so lazy," she said to Darrius as she sat back down. "I don't even know why I eat lunch with you, Darrius Morningstar."
"You just have a crush on me, I guess," Darrius said, cracking a smile.
Cress gave him a look of disgust, but didn't tease him back. "Yeah, right." But then she'd laughed and he had too.
At the Justice Building after the reaping, Cress still didn't tease him. For the first time, Darrius had seen her with tears in her eyes, wiping them with the hem of her fancy, ruffled reaping dress. She'd still been just as serious as always, and he didn't admit just how grateful he was to see her face.
What would Cress think now if she could see him?
Darrius swallowed hard. He emerged from his bedding fort, moving over the side and tucking his feet into the slippers he'd left beside his nightstand. It wasn't cold as he stood up but he still grabbed one of the fluffy blankets from his bed and wrapped it around himself. It had been too hot in District 8 to sleep with blankets during the summer. Now he just felt safer with one wrapped around his shoulders and hugging his arms.
Heading out of his room, Darrius shut the door quietly. Was he even allowed to roam the train at night? Surely their escort or someone might scold him but he couldn't sleep and, well, curiosity was itching at him.
He trudged through the hallway, dragging the blanket, slashes of moonlight streaking the walls with silver. Outside the windows, mountains and dense trees stretched off into the distance. His stomach tightened. How far from District 8 was he?
Darrius passed through a compartment full of cupboards and counters full of glasses. Judging by the squishy-looking chairs, it was probably just another dining cart or something like that. The next compartment had a lounge with a large television screen taking up almost an entire wall. A portrait of President Snow hung on the wall. Just how large was the train?
It seemed like a long ribbon that kept going. Darrius had never been inside a car before until the drive away from the Justice Building to the train station. A train felt like an even bigger step up from the car. Why couldn't District 8 have a small version of the train? It didn't have to be a big silver one like this one, but just something tiny to carry people around. It would beat walking around under the hot sun through the factories at home. Did all Capitol people travel like this?
He couldn't help the confusing feeling of being an outsider for a moment. He didn't belong on this train - but, then again, he was a tribute. A tribute.
Darrius tightened the blanket around himself as he entered the last compartment. The caboose had a rounded end to it with windows. A window-seat shaped like a crescent moon sat beneath it, lit up navy by all the moonlight spilling through the large view outside. Darrius crept closer, his breath catching as he watched an endless string of rails stretch out behind the train.
"Woah," he breathed. He clambered onto the window-seat, kneeling on the pillows as he pressed his hands against the cold glass panes. For a moment, he could've sworn he heard some distant howl. What creatures were lurking out in the forest?
"Those stories about monsters are just for babies," Cress had said last autumn as they sat in front of the District 8 border.
Darrius tossed a rock at the fence. It passed cleanly through the mesh wires that encircled the district. A sign next to the fencepost had a bright yellow triangle with a skull in the middle. WARNING, it read, ELECTRIFIED AT ALL TIMES. It was entertaining to throw things at it and watch them sizzle. Cress didn't approve, but then again the girls Darrius knew always got scared when little animals went near the fence and almost got toasted.
"Think there's wolves?" Darrius asked her.
"Maybe," Cress said. She laid down in the tall grass. "Not like we'll find out."
Darrius picked up a dead, browning leaf beside him. "You wouldn't go outside the fences if the electricity shut off?"
Cress scoffed. "Of course not. I'd get arrested."
"But, like, if there weren't any Peacekeepers," Darrius said. He crushed the leaf up in his hands, sprinkling the bits on the yellow grass. "If you could just... go."
"No," she said matter-of-factly, "because there's bound to be lots of dangerous things out there. The terrain probably has lots of deep rivers and things like that, you know. Would you?"
Darrius picked up another rock. "Maybe once. But I'm fine where I am." He threw the rock and watched as it dented the metal warning sign.
Now in the train, there was only the glass windows separating him from the forests. The wilderness of Panem was so much bigger than it had ever looked on maps. If only Euphemia could see this-
"Can't sleep?"
Darrius screamed, almost tumbling off the window-seat. He pressed himself against the cushions, heart racing, searching the shadows of the caboose where he heard the voice. "Are you trying to kill me before the Games by giving me a heart attack?" he said hoarsely.
Pazley blinked back at him, sitting casually on a chair, still in her black clothes from the reaping. "You're pretty jumpy."
"Am not," he snapped back. Darrius pulled his blanket up around his neck. He was glad the train was dark so she couldn't see his face turning red in embarrassment. "I didn't even hear you come in. Were you sitting there the whole time?" He shook his head. "Never mind."
Honestly, he didn't know what to make of his district partner. She was from home, sure, but she was... strange. Not that he really cared. But it was creepy how her expression never seemed to change. When they watched the replay of the reapings, she'd looked stunned on television, but since then Pazley had just seemed bored. Maybe it was shock or something, but he couldn't help feeling weirded out.
"Where do you think we are?" Darrius asked her.
She shrugged.
Quiet settled over them awkwardly. The train hummed on. Darrius sat down on the window-seat. "So... Did anyone say bye to you?"
"My family," she replied, not saying anything else.
Weirdo.
Darrius waited a second for her to return the question, but - of course - she didn't. "My sister came to see me." His voice cracked, making his cheeks warm. But Pazley didn't seem to care. He hadn't expected to miss his older sister, but the more he thought about being away from her for the first time, he found himself wishing the train could go in reverse.
"We'll just need to add an acidic mordant," Euphemia had said just a week ago. Sweat rolled down her temple as she sat beside the small cauldron, the June heat sweltering even in the shade of their small house.
Darrius leaned over the dye bath she'd made with all of the mashed blueberries.
Euphemia had promised him they could dye their hair with some of the left-over batch after the clothes she had to finish that day. He hadn't wanted to have to do it himself - finding the cauldron and the ingredients sounded like a lot of work - so she had taken care of everything. Now she beamed at him, her bright blue eyes sparkling. Darrius had the same ones, inherited from the parents that had died when he was so young he didn't even remember their faces.
His sister took off the ring she always wore. "To keep it safe," she told him. He watched as she poured in a dose of vinegar. "Now remember: this is the acid. If we added an alkaline, say baking soda, this would turn green. But if we added some alum instead, and dipped in wool fabric, we'd get the most beautiful purple!"
Darrius watched curiously, half-listening to what she said, batting away some buzzing flies. He wasn't as interested in the work that his sister did as she was. School was boring enough. "So your hair really will be pink?"
Euphemia beamed, nodding. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder. It had been its natural black last night, but now it was a bleached light-yellow. "And when we make the chokeberry mixture, you'll have your red bangs."
In the darkness of the train, Darrius reached up to touch the bangs that fell on his forehead. While the rest of his hair was black, the tips of his bangs were the red color his sister had promised. He knew the whole dye project was to cheer him up for the reaping. Euphemia was always like that, doting and stuff. She had taken care of him his whole life, always a constant presence.
"I love you so much," Euphemia had sobbed at the Justice Building. She had hugged him, shaking her pink hair. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
Darrius had cried too - not that he'd admit it to anyone else.
"There's so much I need to tell you," his sister said, looking at him through her tears. Euphemia bent down a bit, though now that he had gone through a growth spurt he was almost as tall as her. "Y-you need to find someone. You need an ally, someone you can trust to take care of you and keep you safe."
Darrius felt the pocket of his pajama pants. The ring Euphie had given him brushed his palm. "Are you going to ally with anyone, Pazley?"
Pazley's eyes glimmered in the shadows. "Ally?"
"You know, like forming an alliance."
"I know what it means," she deadpanned.
"Well you didn't act like it," Darrius snapped, glaring at her. He'd been nothing but friendly so far and she was the one acting rude.
Crossing one leg gracefully over the other, Pazley looked back at him, as stoic as ever. "I'm not going to have any allies. I can't trust anyone."
"You don't know any of the other tributes yet."
"Don't need to. They're all competition."
"What about me?" Darrius asked, her. He pulled the blanket up to his ears. "You don't trust me?"
"It's nothing personal," she responded coldly, making it sound absolutely personal.
Darrius turned away from her and looked back out the window as the train tracks continued in a seemingly endless line. "Well. I don't trust you either."
Pazley was quiet. The train entered a tunnel, blacking out the moonlight and plunging Darrius into darkness. As the train turned around a slow corner, the tracks disappeared and Darrius couldn't see anything. His fingers smoothed over the velvet of the couch and his fleece blanket - how many times had he felt the fabrics his sister brought home? His hand moved to the ring in his pocket, and he worried it might be gone, vanished into the darkness. But his sister's ring remained.
Light suddenly returned as they left the tunnel. The moon shone high above them, painting the window-seat in silver.
When Darrius turned, Pazley was gone. He was alone.
I hope you all liked it!
I'm excited to show all the characters interacting and how that will continue to get more interesting as they meet each other. So far, what do you think of the relationships between district partners? I'd love to hear your thoughts and predictions on who you think will butt heads or will ally together. Also remember that there are things about the tributes that I haven't given away yet, so there are plenty of surprises coming up.
Question 1.) Who was your favorite POV from this chapter and why?
Question 2.) Who is your favorite tribute overall so far (besides your own) and why?
Hope you all are having a great July! And thank you to Annabeth777, Paradigm of Writing, and SakuraDragomir for reviewing last chapter. I appreciate it more than I can say. Until next chapter!
~ Meghan