ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴀᴍᴇꜱ

3-The Train Ride: Maeve

*A/N yes, I know that both of the mentors are technically dead, but I'm reviving them for the sake of the story. Also I'm too lazy to come up with more dystopian names...*

Peacekeepers box me in on either side as we enter the train like executioners escorting their prisoner to the gallows. Even if I wanted to run, there's nowhere I could go. The steel body of the train reflects the sun's heat and light, burning into my retinas. As I step onto the boarding platform, beads of sweat trickle down my back.

"You really are quite fortunate. Most people from the Districts never even get to see the Capitol in real life, let alone visit!" Lenora babbles, leading the way.

Penn scoffs from behind me. "Fortunate? Yeah, lucky us."

"You didn't have to volunteer," I remind him, but I'm glad to have one familiar face amongst the sea of entirely new ones.

He scoffs again, but doesn't argue my point.

Lenora, oblivious to the conversation going on behind her, continues, "I wish I had time to show you everything, but you two have a busy schedule this week! Speaking of, allow me to introduce you to your mentors!"

The room opens up to reveal an extravagant dining room with a huge glazed mahogany table at the center. A dozen chairs, each with delicately carved designs swirling up the legs and across the back, surround it. Two of the seats are taken, the one at the head of the table by a dark haired man who I estimate to be in his forties and the one to its right by a woman with big, sad eyes. The man gives me a once over and nods to Penn, his black eyes cold and calculating. The woman simply smiles sadly at us. The Peacekeepers take up their position at both the doors, lurking stiff and silent.

"Penn, Maeve," Lenora says, sweeping a dramatic hand in the direction of the mentors, "Allow me to introduce to you Ron Stafford, victor of the 68th Hunger Games, and Librae Ogilvy, victor of the 51st Hunger Games!"

I almost expect her to break out into jazz hands, but our escort simply smiles widely as if awaiting an applause.

"Penn Driscoll," my brother says, sauntering over and extending his hand for Ron to shake.

Ron takes it in his own hand, far too pale to be from District Four, and shakes it limply. "Call me Stafford," he says in a nasally voice.

Penn moves to the woman and shakes her hand as well.

"Good to meet you," Librae says. "Please, sit down."

My brother glances at me over his shoulder and pulls out a seat, beckoning me over. I blow out a breath and sit down. Penn takes the seat next to me and across from Librae.

Lenora smiles widely and practically skips to the spot on Librae's right. "Well, shall we get started? Where do we begin? Icebreakers? Strategy?"

We regard her silently, Stafford glaring at her from beneath the bridge of his upturned nose. Penn and I share a glance. Icebreakers? I mouth, lip twitching upwards. His eyebrows raise as if to ask are you serious and his expression is answer enough. I look down to my hands, clasped together on the table top, in an attempt to hide my growing smile.

"Actually, I was wondering more about sponsors," Penn says.

Lenora claps in excitement and settles her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her fists with her eyes darting from one person to the next.

Stafford's lip curves down in a sneer of... approval? Reading him is difficult, an unnerving thought seeing as I rely so heavily on my ability to do just that. "Score high in your training session. The higher you score, the more people are willing to bet on you winning. I scored an eight."

Penn nods and his face stiffens, meaning he's focused and mentally recording the entire conversation.

I turn to Librae. "And if we don't get high marks? What then?"

Stafford's cold glare burns into my cheek, but keep my eyes plastered on our other mentor instead. She brushes her bangs out of her eyes with trembling fingers and answers my question with a soft voice. "Impress the people at your interview. It weighs in more than you'd expect."

"But only as a last resort," Stafford adds, forcing me to look at him. I nod slowly. "Once you're in the arena, your pretty words won't matter. If you can't fight, you're as good as dead already."

My stomach knots and my head spins. The idea of fighting to the death makes me sick. What I would give to rewind time and never get reaped...

Stafford keeps talking, but he sounds like he's speaking from miles away and I only catch the most important words: survive, weapon, bloody, kill...

My vision blurs, obscured by black dots. I'm going to be sick.

"Where's the restroom?" I squeak. Stafford shoots me a look of pure hatred, likely for interrupting him, but Lenora points to the next train car and I bolt out of the room. Just in time, I find a toilet and upend the contents of my stomach.