Chapter 3 : The Train
The Justice Building smelled like old wood and dust. Peacekeepers led us through echoing corridors to separate rooms where we'd wait for visitors. One hour. One hour to say goodbye to everyone we loved.
I sat in an ornate chair that creaked under my weight and stared at walls lined with faded portraits of Capitol officials. The room was designed to intimidate, to remind district residents of their place in the hierarchy. Plush velvet curtains covered windows that probably looked out at the execution platform where criminals were hanged.
No one came.
I waited. Listened. Through the wall, muffled voices reached me—Katniss and her family. Her mother's high, reedy tone. Prim's sobs. The low rumble of Gale's voice saying something urgent. They had people. Connections. A world that would miss them when they were gone.
Nolan James had no one. His parents died in a mine collapse three years ago. No siblings. No friends close enough to visit. The borrowed memories confirmed what the empty room proved: I was alone in this world.
The hour passed in silence. When Peacekeepers came to collect me, I stood without complaint and let them lead me to the car that would take us to the train station.
Katniss was already in the vehicle. Her eyes were red, though her face remained composed. She didn't look at me as I slid into the seat across from her. Effie Trinket sat beside her, chattering about schedules and stylists and the wonderful opportunities ahead.
The train station was a mob scene. Cameras everywhere, reporters shouting questions, Capitol citizens who'd traveled all the way to District 12 just to gawk at the latest tributes. I kept my head down and focused on moving forward.
Then we were aboard, and the doors sealed shut, and the train lurched into motion.
The luxury hit like a physical blow.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Velvet couches lined walls paneled in dark wood. A bar gleamed with bottles in every color imaginable. The dining car—visible through an open doorway—displayed more food than I'd seen in Nolan James's entire life. Lamb stew. Roasted vegetables. Fresh bread still steaming from the oven. Fruits I couldn't name in colors that shouldn't exist in nature.
My stomach growled. The healing ability demanded fuel, and I'd burned through everything I'd eaten this morning just dealing with the stress of the Reaping.
Effie launched into her welcome speech. "Your rooms are through there, personal bathrooms attached. Dinner will be served at six o'clock sharp. Tomorrow we arrive in the Capitol and meet your stylists! It's going to be absolutely wonderful!"
Katniss ignored her, moving to the window to watch District 12 shrink into the distance. Haymitch had already claimed a couch and a bottle of something amber-colored.
I walked past Effie mid-sentence and sat down across from him.
He looked up. The bottle paused halfway to his mouth.
"You're our mentor," I said. "You've kept two tributes alive long enough to become Victor exactly once, and that was you. I'm not asking you to believe in us. I'm not asking you to care. I'm asking you to do your job."
Haymitch's eyebrows rose. Behind me, Effie made a scandalized sound.
"Tell me what sponsors look for," I continued. "Tell me what kills most tributes in the first week. Tell me what the Gamemakers want to see. Give me information I can use, and I'll figure out the rest."
The bottle completed its journey. Haymitch took a long pull, eyes never leaving my face.
"Bold." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Most tributes spend the first day crying or denying or bargaining. You're already asking for tactical assessments."
"Crying doesn't improve my odds."
"No." He leaned forward, and something shifted in his posture—a predator evaluating potential prey. "No, it doesn't. What's your angle, kid? Why'd you volunteer? Nobody volunteers from Twelve. Not ever."
"I had my reasons."
"Those reasons going to help you survive?"
"They're going to help me try."
Haymitch laughed—a harsh, barking sound with no humor in it. "Either the bravest or stupidest tribute I've ever had." He took another drink. "Fine. You want information? Here's information."
He talked.
Most tributes died from exposure. Hypothermia, dehydration, infection from wounds that would be minor with proper treatment. The Cornucopia bloodbath claimed the obvious victims—the kids who panicked, the ones who tried to grab supplies instead of running—but the arena itself killed just as many. Tributes who found water sources that turned out to be poisoned. Tributes who ate the wrong berries. Tributes who fell asleep too close to a Gamemaker-placed hazard.
Sponsors wanted memorable. Not just competent—anyone could be competent—but interesting. Tributes who gave the audience something to root for. A story. An angle. Something that made viewers think, "I want that one to live."
Gamemakers wanted entertainment. Low-rated Games meant dead careers for the people who designed them. They'd throw fireballs at boring sections of the arena, release mutts into quiet camps, manipulate the environment to force tributes together. Staying entertaining was staying alive.
Careers would target anyone who seemed like a threat. Districts 1, 2, and 4 trained their children from birth for the Games, and those kids formed packs that dominated the early competition. Going head-to-head with a Career was suicide. Better to avoid, evade, outlast.
I absorbed everything. Filed it away. Asked clarifying questions when Haymitch's explanations got vague.
Katniss had drifted closer during the conversation. She stood near the bar now, arms crossed, pretending to examine the bottle labels while clearly listening to every word.
Haymitch noticed too. "Your ally's got the hunter instinct," he said, nodding toward her. "Seen her at the Hob a few times, selling squirrels and rabbits. Illegal, but nobody cares when you're buying. She can shoot."
"I know," I said. Then, because I shouldn't know: "I've heard stories."
"Stories." Haymitch's eyes narrowed. "What else have you heard, Nolan James?"
"That District 12 hasn't had a victor in twenty-four years. That the Capitol thinks we're already dead. That every sponsor is going to look at us and see coal miners, not competitors." I met his gaze. "I'm going to change their minds."
Haymitch studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw made him nod once, slowly.
"Dinner's at six. Both of you eat as much as you can hold—you'll need the weight going in. Tomorrow you meet Cinna and Portia. Don't insult them, don't fight them, let them do their jobs. Stylists matter more than you think."
He stood, swaying slightly, and headed toward his compartment with the bottle still in hand.
Katniss watched him go. Then her attention shifted to me.
I stood from the couch and walked to the dining car. She followed.
The food spread across the table like a fever dream. I grabbed a plate and started loading it with lamb stew, roasted potatoes, fresh bread. My body demanded fuel, and I wasn't going to deny it. Three full plates later, my stomach finally stopped complaining.
Katniss sat across from me, pushing vegetables around her plate. She'd eaten—her plate had been emptied once—but she seemed more interested in watching me than in feeding herself.
"You're from the Seam," she said finally. "I don't know you."
"Big district."
"Not that big." Her eyes were sharp, assessing. "I know most of the families. Your parents were miners?"
"Died three years ago. Cave-in at the southern shaft."
Something flickered across her face. Recognition of shared loss, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that this was District 12, where parents died in mines and children died in Games.
"Why did you volunteer?"
The question hung between us. I'd been waiting for it since the stage.
"Because I decided that if I'm going to die, I'd rather choose how than let a piece of paper decide." I met her eyes. "I'm not a hero. I'm not brave. I just got tired of waiting for the world to happen to me."
She didn't respond. Her gray eyes searched my face for something—lies, maybe, or the real reason I'd thrown my life away. She wouldn't find it. The truth was too insane to believe.
"I don't trust you," she said finally.
"You shouldn't." I pushed my empty plate aside. "You don't know me. We've never spoken before today. But we're going into the same arena, and the people who kill each other in the first week don't make it to the end. We can be enemies later. Right now, we can be useful to each other."
The train hummed beneath us. Outside the window, the landscape had changed—green fields instead of gray ash, forests that had never felt the shadow of mine dust.
Katniss was quiet for a long time. Then she nodded once, a sharp jerk of her chin that might have been agreement or might have been dismissal.
"We watch each other's backs," I said. "In training. In interviews. In the arena. Whatever happens."
"Whatever happens," she repeated. Not quite agreement. Not quite rejection.
It was enough.
The train entered a tunnel, and darkness swallowed the window. When we emerged on the other side, the Capitol rose against the horizon—spires of glass and steel, buildings in colors that hurt the eyes, a city of excess built on the bones of twelve enslaved districts.
Katniss moved to the window despite herself. Her reflection stared back from the glass, superimposed over that monument to everything wrong with Panem.
I stood beside her. Close enough to speak quietly, far enough to not crowd.
"Whatever happens in there," I said, "we watch each other's backs."
She didn't agree. She didn't disagree. But she didn't move away.
The Capitol skyline blazed with impossible lights, and somewhere in the distance, the Hunger Games waited for us both.
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