Hello everyone! This is a rather boring (in my opinion) intro to it all! I suggest you skip to chapter 2 :D
A quick message from me: This is my first story to upload on fanfic, PLEASE REVIEW! PLEASE REVIEW! PLEASE REVIEW! PLEASE REVIEW! PLEASE REVIEW!
Random disclaimer: Suzanne Collins Owns Hunger games. I am merely rewriting it as if Katniss were stronger along with Peeta.
And here we were ready to board the train. Train. I mentally scoffed. How fitting to trap us in a metal rectangle slowly pulling us to our deaths. Hah! If only I had Gale here. Surely he would promise that things will be alright. But no, I was here with the boy. This train was taking us to our inevitable doom. Our? I shouldn't be caring about this boy. He is not an ally. Deep down though I know I owe this boy. This baker's son. Peeta turns to me and a small tug of a smile plays at the edge of his mouth. There is some fussing before the train doors open and we enter.
The flashing of the cameras stop when the doors behind us close. I notice Peeta's shoulders relax. I on the other hand only became tenser. I did not like what I saw. This train was so much more… Well, more than the Justice Building. It was fancier. Peeta follows me as we are led down the hall to our rooms. We each receive our own chambers which contain our own bathroom.
I dash into mine and take a shower. Effie had told us to wear anything we wanted. I loved this device, shower. It felt like rain. I choose to wear a dark green shirt and pants. Effie collects me for dinner. I follow her through the carts to the dining room. Peeta sits; I take the empty chair next to him.
"Where's Haymitch?"Effie inquires.
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," says Peeta.
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie Trinket. I think she's relieved by Haymitch's absence, and who can blame her?
Once we've had our superior meals I glance to the boy. He's staring at me. Bewildered I turn to look at my glass. Effie rambles on about our manners. I resist the urge to lick my plate clean. Was there a reason to his staring? It worried me. He may have been plotting my death. I sighed. It caught Effie and Peeta's attention before Effie interrupted us, to ask us to watch the reaping's. We complied.
Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behaviour."
Peeta unexpectedly laughs. "He was drunk," says Peeta. "He's drunk every year."
"Every day," I add. I can't help smirking a little. Effie Trinket makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her.
"Yes," hisses Effie Trinket. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"
Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper?" he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.
"So laugh away!" says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.
For a few moments, Peeta and I take in the scene of our mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my dinner up. We exchange a glance. Obviously Haymitch isn't much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. As if by some unspoken agreement, Peeta and I each take one of Haymitch's arms and help him to his feet.
"I tripped?" Haymitch asks. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.
"Let's get you back to your room," says Peeta. "Clean you up a bit."
We half-lead half-carry Haymitch back to his compartment. Since we can't exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread, we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices.
"It's okay," Peeta says to me. "I'll take it from here."
We share an uncomfortable glance. His eyes completely engulfing my thoughts. He recovered before me. I knew it, but he continued to stare. Embarrassed I stumbled my reply.
"If I can't handle vomit, then I'm not going to get very far in the games am I?" I was surprised by what I had said, but it was too late, they were already out of my mouth. I suppose a part of me, truly believed that I had to fear this baker's boy. Peeta didn't turn away thought, he simply smiled. I frowned. What was this boy thinking?
"You," Peeta interrupts my thoughts. "Can be very scary." He chuckled but began cleaning up our mentors mess. I didn't react at first. Eventually I regained my composure and helped Peeta. I had to excuse myself though after a few minutes of seeing our unconscious mentor bare chested. Peeta was still grinning as I exited the bathroom.
I felt guilty for assuring him I could help and then backing out. I decided to wait outside the compartment. It seemed to take Peeta a few minutes but eventually he emerged. I did not startle him. Internally I shuddered. The baker's boy was stronger than I thought.
Peeta eyed me warily. "So how do you plan on killing me baker's boy?"
A look of utter disgust flashed through his face before a smirk replaced it. "If only you knew." It was my time to have a startled look. If I wasn't mistaken I believe he had just threatened me. I was angered by this, I didn't entirely understand why. I trudged to my compartment and collapse into bed.
Grey light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea.
As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering obscenities under her breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous day's indulgences, is chuckling. Peeta holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed.
"Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch, waving me over. The attendants place food in front of me, and also a cup. A rich brown cup of something I've never seen.
"They call it hot chocolate," says Peeta. "It's good." I took a quick sip. Peeta had entirely undermined it. I drunk it greedily and downed the whole cup. This caused Peeta to laugh, followed by me glaring at him. That shut him up.
"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say to Haymitch.
"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Haymitch, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember I'm having nothing more to do with him. I'm surprised to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so mild.
"That's very funny," says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitch's hand. It shatters on the floor, sending the blood red liquid running toward the back of the train. "Only not to us."
Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself to deflect his hit, but it doesn't come. Instead he sits back and squints at us.
"Well, what's this?" says Haymitch. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"
Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red mark on his jaw.
"No," says Haymitch, stopping him. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."
"That's against the rules," says Peeta.
"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," says Haymitch. He turns to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"
The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Haymitch's attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.
"Stand over here. Both of you," says Haymitch, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."
Peeta and I don't question this. The Hunger Games aren't a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors.
"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Haymitch. "But you have to do exactly what I say."
It's not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.
"Fine," says Peeta.
"So help us," I say. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone - "
"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Haymitch.
"But - " I begin.
"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. We finally enter the Capitol. Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds along. The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch us die. But Peeta holds his ground, actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when the train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.
He sees me staring at him and shrugs. "Who knows?" he says. "One of them may be rich."
Peeta is right. I realise now. He truly wishes to win. My suspicions are confirmed. He will try to kill me. He's trying to win right now, waving at these people. I want to block him off. Ignore him from now on, but there's something stopping me. I can't help myself when I react and take his hand. I find myself waving to them as well. Peeta glances my way. I expect him to remove his hand from mine, but he doesn't. Maybe he won't try to kill me. At least not yet.
Alas the end of the first chapter! do not fret however! If you manage to get hmm... let's say 5 reviews? I'll have another chapter up tommorow!
P.s: Sorry about the content, I can't do much changed monologue in this chapter! Next one I promise? Okay? Please don't be mad!
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