Chapter Text
“We’re still on time, but we don’t want to fall behind of course!” Desma called in her singsong voice. “Come on, dear.”
She beckoned with her gloved hand and Riza followed along just behind Jack. The hallways on the train were surprisingly wide, with windows that looked out over the landscape of District 4. In the distance, Riza could see the calm waters of the harbor that surrounded the city. She used to run along the docks during breaks from school until the smell of the sea would sink into her clothes. It never really washed out no matter how much she scrubbed, but eventually it faded from all the time that had passed since she was able to play and dance and forget. Compared to the train and the city that awaited her, those docks seemed so small and insignificant, yet they were the only thing she wanted in the world.
“Just through here,” Desma called again.
The next door led them into an even larger compartment, arranged with velvet chairs and mahogany tables to accommodate far more people than there ever would be on board. A few plates were laid out with fish and local delicacies piled high, but Riza’s stomach rolled at the thought of eating. Something in the back of her mind whispered that she would be a fool to pass up any chance at food, any chance at some energy that could sustain her for a few extra hours. Still, the meager breakfast she ate that morning had already threatened to make her sick, and Desma didn’t seem like she would be very sympathetic if that caused any delays.
“Why don’t you two take a seat, your mentors should join us shortly. Feel free to help yourselves, this is all here especially for you.”
Riza was quickly growing tired of the escort’s sickeningly sweet tone. It hardly matched the disapproving glances Desma started throwing her way the moment they set foot on the train. There was something about the whole compartment that felt cold and wrong, and Riza’s companions certainly did nothing to help.
“You were the escort for District 11 last year, weren’t you?” Jack asked.
Riza’s eyes flickered to the seat next to her, where he was comfortably reclined and lightly regarding the woman standing across from them. She briefly wondered how he would even remember that, but some people studied for the Games. They would try to learn every detail inside and out to win, which included winning over the people of Central. Jack’s words weren’t a question, they were a display of his knowledge.
“Oh yes, but I’m happy to be with a better district now,” she answered. “You have such a lovely city, not to mention all this food. I’ve heard that crab bisque is divine.”
Desma wandered further into the room, crossing over toward the opposite door. She looked impatient again, so Riza decided not to stare. She glanced over at the large bowl and couldn’t help but inhale the enticing scent of garlic and butter.
“Didn’t the mayor announce last week that crabs couldn’t be sold to the public anymore?” she whispered.
Jack looked at her blankly, as if he were surprised she even thought to speak to him. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “Obviously Central needed them more for all the celebrations. The fishermen should be happy their work is going to a good cause, right?”
She didn’t answer. Riza was fairly certain that their people would be happier if they were allowed to prosper from their own labor, but her district partner obviously wasn’t going to share many of her sentiments. Not when he was a volunteer, and probably grew up in one of those grand, waterfront houses that she always admired from a distance. They all faced away from the uglier parts of the city’s outskirts. She expected Jack never bothered to look back.
On the other side of the room, the door slid open to reveal a smartly-dressed older woman. She seemed like she had a permanent frown painted with red lipstick and disapproval. Riza recognized her of course, but she seemed much more intimidating in person.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Madame Christmas.” Jack was already standing, ready to make his way over and offer his hand.
Riza stayed in place, swallowing hard as the woman moved aside to let the man behind her in. Roy Mustang looked exactly the same as he had just an hour ago, but somehow something had changed. Something subtle in his posture maybe, but enough to matter.
“Just Chris. And the pleasure is all ours,” she said flatly. “You’ll recognize Roy as well, I expect.”
Jack nodded quickly. Desma ushered him forward to greet both former victors, whispering something to him excitedly that Riza couldn’t hear. They shook hands and Desma clapped hers in satisfaction.
“And that over there,” she said, turning slightly, “is Riza Hawkeye.”
Riza suddenly felt her heart pounding again. She never wanted to hear Desma say her full name again, not when it would only echo in her ears and take her back to the moment of her Reaping. All eyes were on her again and it felt exactly the same. There was no escaping the constant dread settling into her bones.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Riza,” Chris added with a nod. She nodded back quickly, but didn’t keep eye contact for long.
“I wanted to get introductions out of the way before the journey begins,” Desma explained. “Now that we have our mentors and tributes all in one place, I can go over our itinerary. I like to be well-prepared.”
She started to list things out, but Riza’s mind easily drifted away. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by not knowing what to do or where to go, but she simply couldn’t force herself to focus. There would probably be someone escorting her everywhere as well, so at least there was no chance of her getting lost. Riza recalled their promise that she would be well taken care of, at least until the moment they dropped her in the arena to watch her die.
At some point, the train started moving. After a quick jerk of inertia, the ride was completely smooth despite how fast they were traveling. Everything familiar started to disappear in a blur and Riza knew there really was no going back.
“I should let you both get settled into your compartments,” Desma finished. “You’re allowed to wear anything in the drawers and use any of the facilities. It’s really quite generous.”
She gestured for them to follow her again, and Riza started to rise from her seat. She looked down at the buffet before them and felt a tinge of regret at not eating. Her stomach had settled enough that she desperately wanted some food, and she knew logically that trying to gain a few pounds over the next few days certainly wouldn’t hurt.
“Aren’t we…going to eat a little longer?” she asked quietly.
“I just told you, we’ll have supper later,” Desma sighed. “These were just some appetizers. Someone will clear all this away and our next courses will be ready in an hour.”
With that, she started out the door, leaving Riza to catch up. They walked down an even longer hall, passing countless closed doors with light peeking out beneath them. She briefly thought back to all that wasted food, but it didn’t surprise her in the least. Central would sooner let it rot than let anyone in the districts think they deserved it.
“This will be your room, Riza.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped through the doorway and took in the room all at once. The bedroom furniture was ornate, not to mention larger than anything she ever had at home before. That might not quite be true, Riza realized, because the furniture that Central provided to the Victors’ Village was almost certainly nicer than what they put on the train.
She had only lived in that huge house for the first two years of her life, until her mother died and all the rewards from her being a victor were snatched away. Berthold never fought back or called for sympathy, he simply sank into the same hardship that his wife’s victory had pulled him out of.
Camelia Grumman won the 47th Hunger Games at the age of 17. She managed to avoid most of the fighting and survive on her own, until the arena flooded. By virtue of coming from District 4, she was the strongest swimmer and managed to stay alive while the other remaining tributes were dragged under the waves. Her time as a victor wasn’t very eventful, and no one ever regarded her as a particularly interesting figure. After she married Berthold and gave birth to Riza, it seemed like she was bound to fade into obscurity, rarely called back to Central and left to her own quiet life. Only her untimely death brought any more attention from Central, but the Hawkeyes were quickly forgotten once she was buried and the cameras left. Riza doubted it was public knowledge that she and her father were removed from the Victors’ Village and stripped of any money or possessions they didn’t have before the Games, but she didn’t think many would care.
Riza could only imagine how the people of Central would react to her own Reaping. They would drag out old videos of Camelia and dab their eyes at the memory of a victor gone too soon. They would speculate whether Riza would carry on a “family tradition” as it were, then place bets on how she would die.
The worn fabric of her mother’s shirt was still soft against Riza’s arms, but she knew she should change. Sweat had started to cling to the blouse as she stood outside in the square, and Desma would expect her to use the clothes they provided anyway. She would need to be presentable. The closet was filled with dresses and jumpsuits and dozens of other articles, and Riza had no idea what to pick. Eventually she grabbed a comfortable-looking dress and took it into the en suite bathroom for a shower. Riza carefully removed her pearl earrings and set them on the counter before she stepped under the hot water.
It wasn’t often that she indulged in such a long, cleansing shower. They were lucky enough to always have clean water, but Riza didn’t like to waste it, not anymore. She used to spend so long rinsing the sand and salt of the beach off her body, but eventually she found that there was no time for that, nor for any trips down to the shore just for fun.
Once she was dried off and dressed again, Riza looked around some more. A tall mirror hung from the wall, and she used it to carefully put in her earrings again. It took a few tries to find the holes since she didn’t wear much jewelry, but she loved the way it looked. Just for a moment, she could think of herself as a young woman trying on elegant clothes and traveling somewhere new and exciting, like the ingénue protagonist of an old novel. But that wasn’t her life.
A knock at the door pulled Riza from her thoughts. It was a call back to reality.
“Dinner begins in ten minutes, Riza,” Desma called through the wall. “Trust me, you don’t want to be late.”
She sighed and backed away from the mirror. If there was one thing she could appreciate about her escort, it was her respect for punctuality. There was no point in delaying any further since there was nothing else to do in her compartment and she wanted to take advantage of whatever time she had to eat. The mentors would probably join them for dinner as well, which meant she had to prepare to talk about the Games.
It was easy enough finding the dining room again. Desma was gone by the time Riza opened her door to leave, but her footsteps were loud enough to follow. Jack was already back in his seat waiting to start their meal, while the mentors seemed to be roaming the compartment paying him little attention. Riza quietly took her place next to Jack and soon Chris and Roy joined them at the table.
“Do any of the other tributes seem like threats yet?” Jack asked immediately. Riza glanced over at him, barely hiding the contempt she felt at his single-minded focus on the Games.
“Chris and I decided all that talk can wait until after dinner,” Roy replied.
“Yes, I’d rather not upset my stomach while we eat,” she added gruffly.
Riza was happy enough to keep her head down and heap as much food as possible onto her plate, but she knew they would need to hear from the mentors at some point. It was their job to keep her and Jack alive for as long as possible, and the least they could do was act interested.
No one bothered to make any more conversation as each course was brought out by silent servers. The food was almost too rich and heavy for her stomach, though Riza didn’t want that to stop her. She knew she might feel poorly later, but the small bowl of thin soup she had for breakfast left her feeling empty by the end of the day. No one else seemed quite as urgent as they ate, though she knew victors were never hungry, and neither were kids like Jack. By the time the fourth course arrived, Riza couldn’t have any more. Across from her, Roy slowly picked at his food and hardly seemed to eat at all. He would occasionally mutter a few words to Chris, but other than that he sat quietly and made no eye contact with her. Riza didn’t want to think too hard about why that bothered her so much.
Desma chattered away at the head of the table throughout the meal, and finally announced when it was over. She gleefully told them they would get to watch all the Reapings as she led them to a new compartment, and wondered aloud how she would look compared to the other escorts. Jack assured her she must have been the most fashionable and composed, while Riza rolled her eyes.
It was easier to pay attention to the video playing on the large screen because Riza couldn’t have looked away if she wanted to. Each face that appeared was burned into her mind, whether it was excited, nervous, or downright horrified. The clips were edited, meaning any overly negative reactions would be censored. Her own response appeared neutral, though the commentary from Central reporters couldn’t have been more excited. They instantly made the connection to her mother and launched into stories about past victors. It wasn’t unheard of for the child of a victor to end up in the arena, but it certainly got attention.
Riza felt both mentors staring at her from behind, but she didn’t turn around. Neither had said much, only ever responding to Jack’s commentary.
“Those careers look strong,” he decided as they finally watched the richest districts. “The boy from 1 and the girl from 2 especially. What would you think about an alliance?”
He turned around and Riza realized he was looking straight at Roy, who shifted in his seat and frowned. “It’s hard to say until you meet them. It’s a difficult choice to trust anyone in the arena.”
“Well I suppose you would know that,” Jack replied.
Riza’s mouth almost fell open at his comment. Surely he meant it as a joke, a reference to Roy’s own alliance during his Games. Still, she couldn’t imagine the confidence Jack must have had to act so familiar with someone that could determine his future.
She didn’t watch most of the 65th Hunger Games, but it was impossible to avoid the stories that everyone told in town and the clips that were played every year since. Early on, Roy joined with the careers from Districts 1 and 2 and it quickly became clear that someone within their deadly alliance would emerge as the victor. Many tributes succumbed to the dry desert heat in the arena that year. Once Roy realized that only another small alliance remained, he set fire to their supplies, effectively starving and dehydrating them after a few days. Then he was left to steal away just before dawn with enough of his own alliance’s supplies to survive, but not before setting fire to the rest and leaving the remaining water he couldn’t carry out to evaporate. The citizens of Central would debate amongst themselves whether he intended to let the fire spread to the remaining tributes’ makeshift tents as well, but it made no difference in the end. Those that woke up in time fought each other and still succumbed to the Games one way or another, leaving Roy as the sole survivor.
“We’ll be able to talk more tomorrow,” Chris said, finally disrupting the silence. “Especially after the tribute parade. You should both get some rest, we’re due to arrive in Central in the morning.”
Jack excused himself to retire for the night, shortly followed by Desma. Riza pushed off the couch to leave as well, but found herself walking past the door that guarded her compartment. She could see another door at the end of the long hallway, and something told her it was the end of the train.
The door slid open as she approached, revealing a large room with multiple wide windows facing the tracks. Trees lined each side of the train and even as they flashed by she could tell they were far from home. The landscape was completely different from everything she recognized, and off to the side there even appeared to be mountains in the distance. Riza wondered if her mother ever sat in that very spot, watching the world pass by as she travelled back and forth to Central. What would she have been thinking on that first trip, when the Games were just a few days away and no one knew what to expect? She liked to think her mother would have been brave, facing her fate steadfastly while never losing sight of herself. Camelia never killed a soul in the arena, not even any animals.
Riza heard the soft sound of the door opening again and froze. It could be a Peacekeeper coming to drag her back to her room, or Desma looking for an excuse to finally yell at her. She let out a tense breath and started to turn.
“Riza.”
She stopped again.
“Roy.”
He stepped forward until they were standing next to each other. For the first time in hours, Riza looked up and met his eyes again. Whether it was simply the late hour or all the events of the day hitting her at once, she didn’t know, but all she felt in that moment was sadness. It was a cruel trick of fate that they would be facing each other again, but it was sadder still that this seemed to fit perfectly with the rest of her life.
“You really should try to sleep,” he said softly. “I know it might seem impossible, but you’ll need it. They could give you something to help if-”
“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t want that.”
“Alright,” he sighed. Roy moved further into the room, eventually settling on the large couch that molded against the curved wall.
Now that there was no one between her and the door, Riza knew she could just go back to her compartment to be left alone. Roy looked tired and she didn’t think he would chase after her. But something held her back, and she stayed. She settled on the couch as well, staring out the window into the dark again.
“You can’t just give up,” he said suddenly.
Riza let a moment pass to see if he would say anything else. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m not going to let you die.” He straightened his posture, staring steadily at the door. Already expecting her question, he continued. “First, I’m your mentor and it’s my job.”
Riza nodded. She already knew as much, but it was good to hear him say it in contrast to how disinterested he seemed earlier.
“And second.” He paused and took a deep breath. “It’s the least I can do. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you alive.”
“And then what?” she demanded, half wondering where that challenge came from. “I get to live like you?”
“You get to live,” he replied immediately. “No one wins the Games by accepting death.”
“I know that.” Riza swallowed thickly. It wasn’t the advice she wanted to hear, but she couldn’t deny the truth.
“I can imagine the sort of things your father has told you since I left,” he continued. “That he would rather die than be like me. That anyone who supports Bradley is a traitor.”
Riza’s eyes widened, and her heart rate picked up at the thought that someone might be listening. That didn’t seem to bother Roy much.
“It’s…it’s always a risk, playing by their rules and doing exactly what they want you to. Usually, it’s the best chance anyone has at making it out alive.” He rubbed at his forehead and looked away, as though he was talking to himself more than her. “But there’s always a possibility that you do everything right and you still die. Then what does your death mean?”
“It means exactly what they want it to,” she said quietly.
“And your father would argue that’s the worst outcome, because he would rather be a martyr. He would think it’s all meaningless.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s a tragedy,” he insisted. “It’s sick and vile, but the worst outcome is giving up hope.”
Riza looked away again, trying to pick out any details from the blur of the forest. “I think we have a difference in perspective then.”
Roy let out a humorless laugh. “I guess so.” Another moment passed. “But I still won’t let you die. If you decide not to give up, you need to listen to everything I tell you. Sponsors start watching you from the moment your name is called at the Reaping and they won’t stop until the Games are over. You need to be prepared when we get to Central tomorrow.”
Riza didn’t know how much time passed after that. They both left the observation room and she didn’t even pay attention as she walked back to her compartment and started undressing for bed. The numbness started to take over her body and mind, but she supposed that would at least make it easier to fall asleep. It wasn’t until she was laying in bed, under silk sheets and a velvet blanket, that a moment of clarity hit her.
The next few days would never be enough to prepare her for the arena. She hadn’t trained her whole life to kill and win. Any logic or statistics would suggest she would almost certainly die no matter what she did. She couldn’t decide whether Roy or her father was more correct, whether she should play the excited, grateful tribute or let her disdain show plain on her face. But she did know she would have to make up her mind before they arrived in Central. If she wanted to grab that slim chance at survival, she would have to make it clear the moment she set foot in the city. As much as she wanted to disagree, Riza knew Roy was right about one thing.
The Games had already begun.