#tbptrain25

The train is...loud, louder than a heard of stampeding cows, quite frankly. At least as it pulled out of the station. I watched Maybelle out the window as we rolled away. It was surreal, in a way. I knew what it felt like to watch a part of you be carried away, and now I knew what it was like from the other side, as the last of my heart was left behind on that platform.

Honour was...broody. She didn’t say much of anything to me and I wasn’t very inclined to say anything to her. We both just sort of scowled as Brienne took us around, chattering on about the Quell and the Games and the "excitement” and "thrills” that would be coming. As for our Mentor, well, I had no idea where she’d gotten off to.

As the sky melts into a collection of amber and pink tones and then fades away into darkness that shrouds the train’s exterior, I pull myself away from the dinner table and from my conversation with Isle, finding a seat on a couch cushion that lines the side of the train car. Peering out through the large windows, my eyes search for the moon. I am homesick already, and I yearn to see something that the train and my home have in common. Though the night sky seems to be littered with clouds, obscuring the moon’s milky glow, revealing only a slightly bright haze.

The world rattled by his cage and he could only watch it through bleary eyes. He had no desire to see the world, to leave his home, his memories, his refuge, or his land. Yet here he was to be uprooted like a weed and tossed aside. His hand ran over the soft velvet of the seat, and he wished that it was worn and tattered so that he might take comfort in the fact that his daughter had touched the same space. But this was new, he supposed they replaced it every year to keep up with the ever changing trends of the Capitol. 

Farro had secluded himself from the moment he’d stepped on board the train, not having the taste for companionship at the moment. The girl he had been reaped with was young and he had not wanted to see her vibrancy, nor clashed with any atmosphere of hope the others might yet hold. 

He had no interest in asking why he had been reaped. And he had no anger to hold at the universe or his God. Instead he was filled with sorrow for the others who would take this journey with him, but much too soon, and much younger than he. Rage boiled in the pit of his stomach, but it had only one target, and that was the Capitol that had murdered his daughter and would murder these youth with the same blood stained hands. 

As the fields of Nine disappeared into the sunset, he promised himself that he would not bloody his hands in their battlefield. He knew his place as a lowly farmer, but he was not so low down as to become a killer. Because while not a learned man he knew what he believed, and he also knew that no one, should have to bury their child.

After Liucija excused herself to one of the more secluded cars for a nap, Klaus and Izara were left to face dinner alone. As expected, the Capitol spared no expense and the two were left facing an extravagant table overflowing with food. Each dish so neatly prepared that it could have been plastic for all she knew, nothing the Capitol ever made was as it seemed.

I’m still a bleeding mess by the time the train rolls forward, the movement nudging my feet to the side. I keep my eyes fixed on em, my shoes blood coated and all, and I hold in a sigh. S’been awhile since the knots in my stomach were this overwhelming. They kinda make it hard to swallow, much less smile.

Stepping into the train, Ronan observed the sleekness of it all. It was fucking perfect, metallic to the point where everything in it became a machine. Already missing the forest and the sea, Ronan took a deep breath. It was an automatic reflex for him. Something he did when he was close to snapping. Instead of breathing in the fresh forest air, he breathed in chemicals. He hated it with a burning passion, one that matched the heat one would feel whilst burning in hell.

Navigating his way through the train, Ronan came upon a lavish bathroom. Locked himself inside it. Took delight in the fact that his nose was still bleeding and was staining the otherwise pristine white facade of the small room. Downed what remained in terms of alcoholic beverages in his bag. Opened the small window. Dropped all of the evidence outside. Heard the bottles break. Examined his nose. Realized that it was broken. But not out of position. Held it until the blood clotted. Shot up his last vial of morphling. Threw the evidence outside. Decided that he should probably use the bathroom for its actual purpose. Washed his hands. Decided to leave the dried blood on his face. Exited the small room and headed into the area Kiya and the woman occupied. 

Heading to a lavish couch, Ronan moved all of the throw pillows out of the way. Took a seat. Hoped to hell that no one would try to converse with him. And they didn’t, which was the only fucking blessing he’d had bestowed upon him all day. Hours went by, and Ronan felt progressively shittier as time marched on. Unsure of whether it was because of what he had put in him already, or whether his body was beginning to go through withdrawal, he decided that the best option would be to ignore it for the moment. Sat as still as possible. Observed the conversation between the woman and Kiya. Lay on the couch and glared at the ceiling, upset that it wasn’t creating the canvas he was used to. Ignored the woman when she called him to dinner. Even if he wanted to eat (which he didn’t, because it would probably only make him feel worse), he wouldn’t be able to taste any of it. It might as well be oatmeal instead of salad that had fucking goat cheese of all things on it. Listened to the conversation between the woman and Kiya again. Glared at the ceiling more and began absentmindedly playing with a frayed edge of his jacket. Heard the conversation stop. 

The train ride to the Capitol is always the worst for Isle. Partly because she doesn’t travel well to begin with, and because it’s always awkward. The tributes either start asking questions the moment the doors close, or they don’t ask anything at all. It seems like this year Isle is on board with two zombies. Ronan sits off to the side, seemingly trying not to move too much. Isle guesses withdrawal is starting to kick in and it’s not being nice to him at all. She decides to deal with him later, wanting to prepare herself in case it’s like talking to a brick wall.

Kiya, though…

Kiya sits at the long dinner table that’s been set up for the tributes and mentor, staring at nothing that Isle can see. She hasn’t said much since the reaping, and Isle isn’t rude enough to eavesdrop on someone’s goodbye. She still can’t get over how much Kiya looked like Lakota. Sure, it’s been years since her death, but it’s as if she’s sitting right in front of her.

“Do you remember her at all?” Isle asks. “Lakota, I mean. Surely you have some sort of memory of her?”

After those gag worthy ‘I might never see you again’ goodbyes to their parents, Peter and Principessa are immediately escorted to the train following the Reaping. With the excitement of the Quell on everyones lips things must be thrusted into hyper drive this year as not one of them had time for pictures or sound bites. Time was of importance and a schedule must be kept. Even if Indica could barely tell time the events that follow in this years Games are not ones to miss.

Seeing as how Peter thinks of no one but himself, he effortlessly takes the lead and enters the train upon arrival, making his way to the bar car out of pure instinct. While others in outlying districts may seemed surprised at the high caliber luxury his eyes remain at rest settling in on one of the barstools. This extravagance is nothing new to a Reznikov.