THG: CF: Nights on the Train: District 10

“Ugh, I am SO glad to be out of there!” Effie says, as the train pulls away from District 10's station, and the air system clears away the unfamiliar stench of manure. Still she wafts herself with her hat, “I think I need to shower for three hours, don't you?” then she looks over at Haymitch and her nose wrinkles, “Never mind. I don't suppose you noticed.”
“I'll have you know I know awful smells when I'm around them. If you're implying something about my,” he waves a hand up and down his body, “I'll have you know I bathe,” he says, “Without assistance.”
Katniss makes a scoffing noise.
“No one's had to throw water on me since I've been on the train,” he treats her to a long glower.
“I told you you brought that on yourself,” she points out.
“Well,” Effie says. It seems to be her go to when she's not really sure what we're talking about, “I'm going to go for that shower,” and off she teeters down the train carriage towards her room. Haymitch watches after her, “She might have the right idea though,” he makes an over-exaggerated bow and walks off.
Katniss and I are left by ourselves exchanging awkward glances. The stage was tense today. The words Effie had written meant well, but they were stilted. They weren't anything we would have said. They sound so forced and horrible, and everything is uncomfortable and terrifying; but no one got shot, no one saluted, so there was that. The dinner was less terrible; but that was mostly Effie and I chatting with what passes for dignitaries in District 10. Haymitch would speak here and there, and Katniss answered questions when she was asked and laughed at appropriate times, and chimed in here and there, but she clearly wanted to be swallowed up by the ground, and we have nine more of these to go. It's going to be great.
Katniss is hurrying down the carriage the way Effie and Haymitch went.
“Katniss, wait!” I call after her.
I'm actually surprised when she does.
“What's wrong?” I ask her.
She shakes her head.
“This is one of those friend things,” I point out, “Talking about things that are bothering you. Maybe I can help.”
“Ugh,” she remarks, “These friend things...” but she's partly laughing.
“If it was just standing next to me then I apologize and you carry on and I'll leave you alone.”
“No, it wasn't that.”
“Well, that's a relief.”
She flops down into the nearby seat. We'd climbed back on board into the lounge car. There are a few tables on the other side of the carriage where they sometimes set out snacks and there's a television on the wall in front of us. I sit down on the couch opposite her, after taking off the stuffy jacket I've had to wear all day, and dropping it onto the other side of the couch.
“No, it's all this stupid tour stuff. I don't think I can do this. All these speeches. All these dinners. All these people staring at me. At least with the interviews I could just focus on Caesar—on you, the audience just kinda blurred into a mass after a while, but these people...”
“It'll be okay. Just take it one at a time. Don't think about the whole journey. Just the next one. It's just nine. That's all it is, and remember I'll be there with you.”
“I knew there was a reason I saved your butt,” she says.
“And here I thought it was--” I swallow the comment, it got too close. That was my own fault. She turns to look out of the window but now it's night out and the lights are on so when I follow her line of sight it's just our reflections which are visible staring back at us.
“What were you going to say?” she asks.
“Don't worry about it. We're not there.”
“Oh,” she says, “That's my fault.”
“That's no one's fault,” I shake my head, “No, that's the Capitol's fault.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Keep moving the blame off me?” she's shifted so that she's laying back on the couch legs over the arm, head close to the other, hair spilling over the cushions. I fix the image in my mind, dark hair and brown skin against the mauve of the over stuff chair, the gray and blue of her outfit.
“Because it was survival and I put too much on you myself.”
She flips up in the seat, eyes angry, “Stop it!” she yells, “Stop! Be mad at me like you were before! I deserve it! I lead you on! I knew how you felt and I played along--”
“To get what we needed, so we would both come home--”
“But after—I could have said something to you—I should have...”
“When?” I point out, “They didn't exactly let us see each other after we got out of the arena. I was in surgery and recovery, there was the whole mess with the leg and the fittings and the learning how to balance to look okay on camera. I'm sure they were doing any amount of things to you the five minutes I saw Haymitch he said he had to practically punch out doctors so they didn't perform plastic surgery on you.”
She nods, “I just feel terrible.”
“So you've said,” I say, “Explain things to me, get it out...”
She flops back on the couch, “That'll take years and I don't...”
“I'm sorry,” I tell her, “I want to understand. I'm trying to find a way to avoid awkwardness in the future.”
She gives a sarcastic laugh, “How is that supposed to?”
“Honesty.”
She stares at me for a long while and then she shakes her head, slowly, “Honestly, how do you put up with me?”
“Some of the answers I might give you probably wouldn't like too much so don't hit me okay because I like you and you know that. I've seen the other side of that gruffness you put up. I know there's a caring person under that hard front you put on.”
“Ugh. Stop.”
“You asked,” I point out, “Plus, I dealt with a lot worse...people at the bakery.”
She gives me a disbelieving look for a moment and then something seems to dawn on her, “Going back to yesterday,” she says.
“Yes?”
“What you said...” she pauses for a moment.
“What I said when?”
“I'm trying to think how to phrase the question!” she retorts, “I'm not Caesar! And besides I let you go on this one yesterday so—well, kinda, because now I have several questions.”
“I said that was fine. We're going to be--”
“--working this route until we die?” she finishes, sharply.
I sigh. She's on the defensive again.
“See, I didn't—I was trying to be funny and now you're mad.”
“No, no. I thought you were angry and pushing at me.”
“Well, I am angry. Just not at you,” I'm sure some of her is. Some of me is mad with her, of course. There's just no point voicing it. What's it going to serve?, “I was trying to make it funny. It's not funny though.”
“It is a little bit funny...” I admit, “but we're getting off point. You had questions you wanted to ask me, which I'm guessing had to do with my family in some way?”
“Ah, yes,” she says, “You know all about mine, after all. I haven't seen much in the way of interviews with yours. They must have interviewed them when they did mine and when they did—they made Gale my cousin,” she looks down, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't bring up Gale.”
“I don't have a problem with Gale so long as he doesn't have a problem with me. So, don't feel like you can't bring him up, okay?”
She looks like she doesn't believe me, “If you say so. Anyway, what exactly was the deal with your Mom and—and me winning?”
Honesty. You were the one who brought up honesty, “Ah, well, that was...my wonderful goodbye from 12...'12 might actually have a winner. She's got a lot of skill. We won't see you again. Just don't die in some embarrassing way.' That's about the gist of it.”
She reaches for my hands, “That's awful.”
“My Mom has some issues but in some ways she wasn't wrong. I wouldn't have made it all the way through the arena myself. I would have either been one of those who died of exposure and illness, or the remaining careers would have tracked me down and finished me off, as messed up as my leg was I wouldn't have been able to fight them off properly.”
“What about the rest of your family?” she asks.
“They were upset that I was leaving, but I mean...it's saying goodbye, forever. You do it. Be honest. Did you really think you had much chance of coming back when you got on the train?”
She looks down at the floor, “I told Prim I would try to win, but...but you were determined to get info from Haymitch. You went and hammered on his door for how long?”
I feel my cheeks starting to redden, “To help you. I knew she was right you actually stood some kind of a shot and I was going to help and if I could find out ways to survive long enough to help you win.”
Her mouth curls up a bit, “How noble of you,” it has a bitter edge.
I can feel the done-ness of the evening approaching, and I stand up, “Believe what you want. I'm going to go to bed.”

THG: CF: Nights on the Train: District 9

The mood is more upbeat climbing back on the train after dinner in nine. I think it helps, somewhat, that we had nothing at all to do with the deaths of their tributes. They were killed in the Cornucopia on the first day, something we avoided thanks to Haymitch's advice. Things to remember for the future trainees. Just grab a bag and go, don't be lured in to the shiny because it is full of sharp, pointy death. Maybe you'll last more than twenty minutes, like Cambria. That was her name. The girl from District 8. Her partner, Tanner, he died in the bloodbath though; but she survived, until she got too cold and started a fire and then they found her.

Effie had summoned pie from the dining car when we got on board and met back up with the rest of our team. Cinna even stayed on the train this time along with Portia and the rest of the stylists. We were sitting around chatting and playing cards, eating pie, drinking milk, and Effie started going on about outfits for tomorrow, “It's textiles, after all, we have to make sure to look good,” and that's when I remember Cambria, gagging and choking on her own blood, red flecks on her auburn hair and her jacket in the firelight behind her, eyes wild with fear as they laughed and hooted.

“Cinna and Portia always come up with wonderful things,” Katniss comments.

“I'm sure whatever is decided will be great,” I tell everyone, “but I'm tired all of a sudden. I think I'm just going to go to my room,” and I'm excused after Effie grabs my hand tightly. Haymitch gives me a half-nod I'm not sure he's fully paying attention. The look from Katniss is slightly annoyed but she has Cinna there to keep her company against any onslaught of ostentatiousness that might occur.

Thankfully there are bathrooms up and down the train because I'm only part way to my room when the recent pie, and the meal we ate with District 9's mayor and his family finally escapes despite my constant wishes against it. I sit there for a while breathing slowly and trying to keep the memory of it out, but that's the worst thing you can do really, because it just cycles around.

She'd lit a fire.

I remember Haymitch telling us early on how that was basically a big call for attention. How you had to find other ways to keep warm, layer yourself under things to keep the heat between the layers, find a hollow to hunker down in and bury yourself under leaves, something, anything other than light a fire, unless you knew you could do it in a way you were absolutely not going to be seen, like a cave because you light a fire and it's just a big HEY KILL ME NOW, and that's what it was and they swooped down on her, but it was a kindness. They were torturing her and then they just wanted to walk away and leave her there choking on blood.

When I leave the bathroom I find Portia waiting on the other side of the corridor. She's leaning against the wall, a splash of crushed magenta satin against the dark wood, holding a folder to her chest. She doesn't wear as ostentatious of wigs as Effie does, but neither is she as unobtrusive as Cinna. Her hair is in a tight blonde bob today, it has streaks of magenta through it matching the dress, “Need me to call someone?” she asks.

I shake my head, “I think that was a one time thing.”

“Ah,” she says, with a rueful smile, “Clothing decision has been made.”

“I'm sure it's fine.”

“Are you?” She asks, and I know she doesn't mean if I'm sure about the clothes.

“Yes.” I nod, “Things are a lot better now.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder, and then on my cheek. I wonder how much older than me she is. It's hard to tell how old any of the Capitol people on the train are. They don't age the way our families in the districts do given they have their skin peels, surgeries, and restructurings; but given she and Cinna are new on the fashion design scene I imagine they can't be that old. Cinna seems so different to them all though: muted, deliberate and somewhat calculating. All of our outfits so far have been muted compared to other years' tribute tours, where they've been fairly bright and gaudy. These are elegant but still as though we're in mourning, and nothing to attract too much attention. We're sorrowful along with you not we're celebrating the death of your children. If only there was some sort of outfit that could help us act more emotionally and romantically in sync with each other. I don't think anyone's believing anything. Of course it's hard to convey things in three minute speeches compared to days in a cave together.

“You don't look like things are fine,” she says.

“I'm not feeling sick any more.”

We start walking towards the area where everyone's sleeping quarter's are, “That's something,” she says, “I wish I could give you more advice—but I have no idea. I've never been through anything like this. I had no idea what I was getting into.”

“Well, 12 hadn't won in 24 years,” I point out, “No one knew what they were getting into.”

She hugs me at the door to her room, “I was supposed to be making you feel better.”

“You did.”

“Liar. I'll see you in the morning,” she waves the portfolio at me, “You want to see what you'll be wearing?”

“I'll take the surprise. I'm sure it'll be great as always.”

 

Once I'm back in my room things start to circle back to me and I try to find ways to distract myself given sleep proves to not be an option. We have access to books now, more books than ever before, but a lot of them are vapid and dull. Effie has a lot of history of fashion designers and things of that nature that she keeps dotted about, but there are others I've found that are much more interesting. I'm not sure if they're hers. Honestly they more likely belong to Haymitch, Portia but probably Cinna, but there's the one I've been reading, or trying to called “Losing the Power: Democracy's History and Failure,” there's no signed author to it because it's more a compilation of bits from various other books but it's hard to follow as tired as I am. It looks like it's saying at one time there might have been more than even thirteen districts, each of them had their own separate rights and ruler ship apart from the Capitol and there was a college people went to so they could vote in elections or something. I've read the same paragraph about four times and it's still not making any sense, but drawing was mostly just me drawing swirls on paper which is just a waste so I erased that, gave up and started reading.

Then there's screaming. I bolt up and wind up in a tumble on the floor thanks to trying to set off one-footed. So a cracking thud sees myself in a pile of covers, pillows and shoes. I disentangle myself, sit up, lock it on from it's position next to the bed, kick up, and out the door. We're still on the train and I don't think anyone would have attacked. I shouldn't say couldn't, because hover craft and they might be pissed at us, but surely “the Capitol's sweethearts” or whatever they're calling us now dying during the Victory Tour would do nothing for this precious peace he was on at Katniss about, would it? Hopefully. The screaming is from her room.

“Katniss?” I open the door to her room.

She's got her head on her knees and is sitting up on the bed hugging herself, blankets all around.

“Stupid. Just a stupid nightmare. I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to bed,” it's muffled, because her head is in her knees. She waves a hand in my general direction.

“I wasn't asleep.”

She looks up then and I can see the sheen of tears in the half light, “Then...would you sit with me? I'm an asshole for asking, I know...” She shifts on the bed slightly, trying to maneuver blankets from beneath her.

“No, that's fine. I will,” I clarify, realizing 'no, that's fine' might not come across as a yes. I come towards her as she pulls her way out of the blankets and nearly hits me in the face with the edge. I shield my face.

She falls back on the bed laughing, “I'm sorry.”

“No, that's fine. Just blind me, that's alright.”

“I am sorry,” she reaches for my hand and guides me to the bed as though I was actually blind.

“Imagine how much sympathy we'd get though. The poor blind amputee...”

“Oh, don't,” she says, “It's not funny,” but she is giggling.

She slides back on the bed and to the side so that I can get on to the bed myself.

“Do you want to tell me what the nightmare was about?” I ask offering her my shoulder. She accepts it and curls up against me. I feel my heart skipping slightly with the pressure of her head against my chest and the feeling of her breathing.

“It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid if it had you screaming.”

She sighs, “It was the muttations—the dog things at the end of the...” she trails off, waving her hand.

“I remember.”

“But they'd pulled us both down and...well, you can imagine,” she shudders against me.

“Yeah,” I partly regret that I asked but it's out of her head now, hopefully it's not trapped in mine but right now, at least, she's here, resting against my chest and I feel as though everything will be fine because of that, “we're safe. We're safe.”

“It was Rue. It was the one that was Rue.”

I rub my hand down her arm. There's a temptation to kiss the top of her forehead, but I pull it back. That is the cave talking, and we're not there. We lay there in silence for a while. She drums her fingers against my chest and I try to keep my thoughts more pure to avoid certain things but then she asks something that definitely kills any risk of that, “Were you okay earlier? You kinda left the game abruptly and you normally have Effie eating out of your hand about all the mundane things about the speeches and everything.”

I sigh.

“Honesty,” she says, patting my chest.

“I...was sick—sickened.”

“Ah,” she says, “Not the food?”

“No. I—I was remembering the poor girl from eight, Cambria, and what the careers did to her.”

She tightens her grip on me. She saw the recap at the closing ceremony, of course, “You did her a mercy.”

“I know.”

“She was suffering.”

“I know. They were monsters.”

“I know,” she whispers, “I...can I ask something?” she looks up at me.

“Of course.”

“Will you stay?” Is it my imagination that she's blushing at that?

“Of course.”