Snow On Top || Coriolanus Snow

Part 5: The Mentee

Coriolanus

"She's just a girl. Being district doesn't make her any less human. If I were her, I'd want someone to show me I still matter."

Tigris's words replay in my mind; a desperate attempt to convince myself what I'm about to do isn't foolish.

An hour has passed, and the heat of the train station is starting to get to me–the rose in my sweaty hand has begun to wilt. Aside from the Peacekeepers who keep shooting me skeptical glances, I am alone on the platform. The sound of an approaching train catches my attention, and I stand with anticipation and nervousness. However, I'm disappointed when I see only a string of cattle cars.

Losing patience, I turn to leave when suddenly a scream cuts through the silence of the empty station. I whip around to find the Peacekeepers dragging weary children from the cars–cattle cars.

Like animals.

I feel stupid standing here in my freshly pressed school uniform, holding a white rose as these children emerge from the train, weak and filthy from the journey. The last thing my mentee will want to see is some well-dressed Capitol boy. I'll be lucky if she doesn't laugh in my face.

I turn to my left to see the girl in her out-of-place dress.

"Y/n"? I call out.

She turned around and greeted me with a half smile. In return, I hand her the white wilted rose. She looked down at my gift with slight confusion, then looked back up at me. I snap the end of the stem and put the rose in her hair. She then takes the rose out of her hair, taking a bit of the bud.

"Tastes like bedtime," she says, though she speaks more to herself than me. Her voice has a slight lilt to it, unfamiliar to me; everything about her seems strange to me, a notion that is both intriguing and frightening.

"You seem out of place." she doesn't break eye contact as she speaks. Seeing who will look away first makes me feel a chill. "You sure a Capitol boy like yourself should be hanging around with the likes of us?" she motions to the tributes around her, weak and filthy from the ride.

"Well," I clear my throat, "they didn't exactly tell me not to be here." This makes her grin a bit, and I find myself smiling back.

"Ah, so you're a rebel?" She cocks her head. I pause before remembering I'm supposed to charm her into trusting me.

"That's me, a rebel." She seems to use the word as a compliment, but it leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. It conjures up memories from the war. The rebels were the ones bombing my home, cutting us off from food–I am not a rebel.

"I'm here because I'm your mentor," I say, changing the subject. She raises a brow at this.

"And what exactly does a mentor do?" Ironically, She questions because I'm not entirely sure of the answer.

"I'm supposed to help you before and during the Games. To make sure you're taken care of." This last part makes her snort and gesture to the tributes around her, who the Peacekeepers are rounding up like cattle. I feel my cheeks burn at her insult, though I don't know why. Why do I care what she thinks of me?

Before I can say anything else, a Peacekeeper grabs her and hauls her towards a truck with the others. I call out for y/n, but she is helpless at the hands of the Peacekeeper. Without thinking, I run to the car where the tributes are being taken. Before the Peacekeepers spot me, I jump in alongside them, barely making it inside before the doors are slammed shut.

"Hey, isn't that a schoolboy from the academy?" a male voice recalls. I turn to find the boy from 11 towering over me.

"Yeah, I get first dibs, though; I think we should kill him," another says.

I start to panic, realizing I'm like a piece of chum in a pool full of bloodthirsty sharks. The boy from 11–Reaper–grabs me by the throat, a wicked grin on his face.

"Kill him, and they will kill us," y/n says calmly. I feel Reaper's grip loosen.

She's right. Panem would descend into chaos if one of the students died at the hands of a tribute before the games even started. Their families back home would pay the price.

The other tributes stare at y/n disapprovingly, but reluctantly accept her reasoning. I look over and offer up a small smile in silent thanks. We were waiting in darkness when suddenly, the truck bed turned upward from the front, causing all tribute and myself to fall backward.

"Y/n!" I call out.

We are all piled against the back of the bed, so my hearing is muffled. I began to worry because I heard nothing in response to my call. The doors suddenly swing open, and everyone falls out. I take in my surroundings to ensure everyone is okay, but where is y/n? I couldn't find her in people's ears, so I called her name again.

"Y/n?" I question.

This time, she answers.

"I am over here," she calls.

I carried myself to where I heard her voice. I find her, but I look down to see a considerable amount of blood on her hands.

"Y/n! Are you okay?"

"I am, but he's not."

I look over to see the male tribute from District 8 with blood on the side of his leg. He fell on a nail. Injuries before the Games are about as good as a death sentence.

I turn back to y/n, taking her hands in my own to inspect her wounds. Scrapes from the rocks we were thrown onto cover her palms, and I can tell they'll be bruised by tomorrow.

"It could be worse, just–" I look up to find her staring right at me, immediately losing my thought. However, my concern for her quickly turned to horror when I took in our surroundings for the first time.

The flat rocks beneath us, the metal bars encircling the area. And children.

I stumble back, taking in the confused faces of Capitol citizens as they stare into the zoo enclosure at the tributes, and I—the Academy boy- am glaringly out of place.

My breath quickens, panic taking over. To make matters worse, I caught sight of cameras that were indeed airing the event to all of Panem. I'll be a mockery. Will I even be allowed to continue mentoring? What if–

A small hand slips into my own, reassuring me gently. I look down to see y/n, and suddenly, all my thoughts return to her.