Hunger Games: Fandom Style

Train Rides (Part 3)

4
District 4 had more than its share of Victors, but what could you expect from descendants of the old pirate lords? The "pirate" part of that story was apparently a lot more hereditary than the reformed bit. There were no longer any ships to steal, but that peculiar blend of pragmatic cowardice, reckless courage, and pure scalawag flair was apparently a winning combination when it came to the Games.
Usually, the noise in the train was deafening as the Victors took their chance to drink, talk, and fight, all of which were activities they firmly believed should be done as boisterously and as often as possible. This time, however, the party atmosphere had been dampened. Shouts were replaced by disturbed whispers in corners by Victors with nervously shifting eyes. Drinks were downed with more grimness than usual, and the fights were of a different nature entirely. The female Victors were carefully volunteering one another for the "honor" of mentoring Calypso.
Even depressed and gloomy, there was something impressive about them. Ching, Barbossa, Amand, Jocard, Bootstrap Bill, and his son, Will Turner, the youngest victor ever, and the beautiful Esmeralda, not to mention Jack's grandmother. If Jack won, the Sparrow family would go down in Games history as the first to have a winner in three consecutive generations. Any other year it would have been the talk of the dining car. This year, no one mentioned it. No one thought Jack would be winning.
Except, perhaps, Jack.
He knelt in the crawlspace above the dining car and peered through the vent at the dismal huddles of flamboyantly dressed Victors. Tia Dolma was nowhere in sight.
A thin wire appeared out of the vent and began to drop down towards the punch bowl. A thin bead of liquid hovered at it's bottom. Jack unwound it slowly. Carefully, carefully . . .
It was in! Brilliant. Jack sat back and waited.
Barbossa's monkey scampered along the table and stopped by the punch bowl. He chattered curiously and then dabbed at it with his tongue.
The monkey shrieked and began rocketing around the room, hopping from hat to hat. Victors swore and swung at him. He leaped to Grandmama, circling her shoulders before blasting off to the chandelier, shrieking all the while. The more traditional fights and shouts erupted as they chased after the creature and shouted recriminations at Barbossa.
Jack covered his mouth to muffle his laughter.

3
Gimli weaved around the buffet table for thirds, loading up a plate with drumsticks and his cup with cider. Gandalf encouraged him to keep his plate full in the hopes that it would keep his mouth full, and, thus, closed. Dwarves were not known for their discretion.
Eowyn kept him talking the rest of the time. She had a lovely laugh, and she used it often when Gimli got going on one of his stories. He wasn't a bad storyteller at all, Gandalf admitted. He just wasn't quite ready for the Capital to hear about orcs and dragons.
Galadriel listened to both Gimli and Gandalf's attempts to restrain him with equal amusement.
"Perhaps we should discuss your strategies," Gandalf suggested.
"Charge!" Gimli said through a mouthful of chicken, brandishing his knife. "Hack them off at the knees, then finish 'em off!"
"We fight at the Cornucopia, then retreat to a defensible position. If we win enough supplies, we can hold out while the others butcher each other," Eowyn said.
"You intend to ally, then?" Galadriel asked.
Gimli looked as if he had never considered the possibility that they wouldn't. "Aye."
"And if you are the final two?"
"Then we shall fight with honor for the treasure hoard!"
The Dwarvish outlook on life at least had the advantage of simplicity. They were stubborn, fierce, and sometimes greedy, but they were also honorable, loyal, and brave to a fault. Eowyn had a reasonably steady head and a taste for adventure. They should work well together.
Last year it had been hobbits. They had thrown the betting in the Capital completely off. Most had bet on them dying on the first day. Gandalf had known better. The Capital hadn't realized just how hard it is to find a hobbit who doesn't want to be found. For most of the Games, even the Capital's cameras had trouble finding them. When they had been forced to fight, they had been underestimated by their opponents, a fatal mistake. They had made it all the way to the final four.
Then they had lost them.
Gandalf.
He pulled in his wondering thoughts and looked at the two brave tributes before him. Would either of them make the return trip?
Then Gimli climbed on the table and began singing a dwarfish war song, and Gandalf decided it would be easier to send the escort to sleep than to try and stop him.

2
Tink was not happy. Not only was her Peter spending far too much time with that Molly cow again, someone new was trying steal her Peter as well. Camara Rundoon. Her bell like voice spit the name out like a curse.
The wall of fabric to her left pressed inward. Peter was patting his pocket to silent her.
Tink lit up the fabric with indignantly. She would not be silent! She buzzed out of the pocket and zipped behind Peter's back before he could see her and put her back in his pocket.
There they were, the two big yappy cows. Tink sniffed. What Peter saw in such ugly things she was sure she didn't know.
Molly, she was pleased to see, was leaving. That just left the cow from the Capital.
Tink buzzed up behind her and took two big fistfuls of the cow's hair and yanked. The hair was stiff with something she'd never felt before, but it came off in brittle bunches the color of blood.
The woman yelped. Tink kicked her in the head once for good measure and flew back to Peter's pocket, laughing all the way.

1
Juliet did yet another one armed push-up as Butler drilled her on the list of tributes Master Artemis had hacked, schemed, and manipulated to get. There had been one or two upsets. Master Artemis had assumed Horace would volunteer for Will. Not even he had been able to predict Horace's "sudden fainting fit". He'd wanted Merlin, not Arthur, and he was surprised that Harry was actually going in, but apparently he could work with all the changes. Juliet wondered for the hundredth time how he'd convinced the LEP to surrender the massive amounts of data he'd needed to plan this. Of course, the files the Capital had on potential tributes that he'd hacked into had helped.
"District 5," Butler barked.
"Elsa Arandelle. Opposite of pyrokenesis. Kill from behind. Hans Southson. Sociopath. Don't trust him." Master Artemis is one to talk on that.
"District 12."
"Mary Morstan. She's more dangerous than she looks. Also a sociopath. Sherlock Holmes, genius and sociopath." She frowned. "Why did he pick so many sociopaths?"
Butler ignored her. "District 6."
She sighed and switched arms. "District 6. Girl's a werewolf. Let someone else kill the boy."
"Names."
"Does it matter?"
"Names."
She rolled her eyes. "Little Red Riding Hood and the son of Rumplestiltskin."
He kicked her. She rolled out of the way and glared up at him. "What?"
He looked at her, plainly frustrated. "Your life could depend on this. It's not a joking matter."
"I'm a Butler. I'll be fine." Like you were.
He crouched beside her. "You don't get it." He grabbed her shoulders. "I nearly died in my Games, Juliet. Died. And that was against children. This year there are no children in the Games. Everyone's got an angle. Everyone's got a secret. Your angle is that you already know everybody's secrets." He looked her in they eyes. "I didn't want you to volunteer," he said quietly. "Even knowing may not be enough."
Juliet felt a chill. Her brother was afraid for her. "I'll make you proud," she promised. She wrapped her arms around him. She hugged him for a long moment.
Then she turned it into a headlock.
He twisted free, laughing as they fought one last time.