𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.Cato Hadley

3.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬.
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The train, that is supposed to take us to the Capitol, leaves me speechless. It's so luxurious and big, I've never seen anything like it. I am even more impressed by how much food there is. All kinds of sweets, which I'm sure mainly impresses me because I know Peeta is used to that sort of thing. But I still turn to look at him and notice that he is just as surprised as I am.

People in the Capitol live good. Very good.

I'm glad to be able to distract myself for a bit from the thought of participating in the Hunger Games, but still, all this luxury cannot completely calm me down. At least the last days I have will be spent in a beautiful place. How nice.

"Two hundred miles per hour and you barely feel a thing. I think it's one of the wonderful things about this opportunity you have to be here. Even If it's for a little while." I'm just staring at Effie Trinket. Was this supposed to be some kind of joke? While Peeta and I figure out how to survive, our awesome escort tells us that we have a unique opportunity to be here.

I think she senses that we are not amused, so she finds a way to get out of our presence.

"I'm going to find Haymitch. He is probably in the bar car."

When she leaves, Peeta and I sit on one of the chairs without saying anything to each other. And how could we? In two weeks one of us will surely be dead, it will be better for me if we don't get close. I hate it when I get attached to someone and then lose them.

It's an awkward silence, but it's better for me. I don't want to talk to anyone right now, especially him. But just when I think none of us are going to say anything, Peeta speaks.

"Have you ever met him?" I look at him. "Haymitch, you know our mentor."

"No. You?" I think those were more than enough words I said to him.

"No, but it will be good for us to meet him. He managed to win once, so it will be better for us if we listen to his pieces of advice." I know Peeta is right, but I don't want to talk anymore so I just nod.

Less than two minutes later, the door opens and a drunken man enters. He, just like Peeta, has blond hair, looks about 40 years old, and is holding a glass in his hand. Judging by his appearance, the glass is full of alcohol.

"Congratulations." He tells us sarcastically and laughs a little. Then he sits down with us and finishes the rest of the alcohol in the glass.

And this will be our mentor? That drunk man? That's how my last hope, for survival, died. I don't even want to bother talking to him but Peeta doesn't seem to care about this man's look.