to the wasteland, baby [train]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

At approximately ten the night before, my mother burst into the room with no introduction and no niceties, just goddamnit Shelby give me the fucking bottle, before leaving, a slammed door and the echo of her footsteps down the hall the only after effects.

I was about to use that, I call after her, but I know she hasn’t heard me simply because she doesn’t want to. I sigh as loudly as I can without choking while thrusting a hand into the space under my bed searching for backup ammunition and the cheap, tiny bottles of hard liquor I keep for these occasions. Nothing.

I roll onto my back, shake a fist at the ceiling, and pass out.

The next morning, I interrogate her at the table, but she’s unwilling to give me much of anything, only an I just think this is best for you, Shelby.

I scoff, spit bullshit at her feet and keep my eyes on the table. Someone told you to keep me sober for this morning, didn’t they? She shrugs her shoulders, and I’ve had enough. I leave the kitchen and a full plate, searching for any site Adessia has arrived.

*

I stay behind her as long as they’ll allow me to, though my head peeks out above hers when I stand with squared shoulders. What if you go out there instead of me? I ask quietly, as though I am now a child with stage fright, with a fear of public speaking or letting down the entirety of the people I am in some way, supposed to represent. She doesn’t reply but steps aside and places a hand on my shoulder reassuringly.

My place in this is to toe a line of etiquette that has never been delineated to me. I am supposed to sit tall, shoulders back, and all the while allow the proper amount of sympathy to wash over me at just the right moment. Too early and I appear to not cherish the opportunity; too late and I look cold, indifferent.

The bastards this year throw an extra kink into the plan, with their sauntering strolls to the stage and their tossed dialogue, his I guess this is me volunteering and her but you already know that.

I don’t know shit about nearly anything, but I’m not about to let two cocky fuckers point that out to me before I’m hammered.

*

I board the train first with the mission of locating the alcohol and hoarding what I can before anyone else makes it into the car. I move two bottles of bourbon to my bunk in the back room and stash them under the pillows before retuning to the main area and composing myself in a manner that feels appropriate—feet up on one of the chairs, shoulders slouched, and both arms cradling a bottle of scotch the neck of which has already been down my throat. This is not the Shelby Leviane that held the small body of a young girl—that picture of a human all stabbed heart and bleeding now.

This self doesn’t even want to be this self anymore but does so out of necessity, calls out to no one in particular when it hears the door open and says, don’t make yourselves too comfortable—there’s not enough booze for that.

[ table: rave ]

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

There is no visit from Uncle Tom, I guess he has work to do on the kitchen window. What is surprising though, is not one cousin dared to step into the justice building and say their farewells. I am guessing Uncle Tom had a say in that too. So, I spend my time in the waiting room twiddling my thumbs. Talk will be fluttering outside the door he has no visitors – a poor lonely boy and it is probably why he volunteered, he has nobody here. Oh such a tragedy, it is partially true on the latter but so much more has drawn me to sign my own death certificate.

Oh, and fuck, I didn’t realise a damn Rasoio had volunteered before me. It does really pay off to pay attention to details, but nobody has time for that. I have done work for them before, a nasty family that isn’t to be tested. I try to avoid their contracts but have not cut ties with them completely. They may be a vile clan, but they are generous with their payments.

”Is it time to get on that damn train already?” I say to the two peacekeepers that walk through the door. A grunt rumbles through the helmets as they pull me from my seat. ”Woah woah woah, steady brainless tin heads! My legs do function well.” They still drag me through the hallway, I don’t blame them as I dig my heals into the ground at every stride. Everything really must be so dramatic with this type. A simple journey to board train but they make it out as if I am wild animal that no natural talent can tame. Well let’s play along with their game.

As soon as we reach outside the building, the cameras are quick to point to my direction. Perfect timing. I begin to struggle in the peackeeper’s grip, sinking my knees to the ground making it difficult for them to take me away. ”You will never take me alive!” Crowds surround the entrance of the train as I am basically thrown up the stairs on the platform. Smuggled away quickly to hide my personal dramatics but the show was long enough to be replayed on tonight’s reaping recap. That’ll get them talking. Talking positively? Probably not.

”So this train then, if there isn’t much booze left, where are the rations stored?” I kick back on one of the chair’s by the dining table, picking at a bowl of chocolate coated fruits as my free hand slams an empty glass on the table. ”This will be a long journey, I want some fuel.” I kick out the chair besides me, resting my feet up onto it, perfectly comfortable for the moments ahead. ”Lets get the talking over with. We are both going to die. District Eight isn’t getting a victor anytime soon so good luck Shelby. Now lets get the alcohol flowing.”

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

Stepping aboard the train feels like fate has sealed itself. This is the closest I have come to luxury in an exceptionally long time, and I get that I've got wealth from being a Rasoio but nothing compares to how the Capitol lives—there's an us and a them—because we are two parallel lines running alongside each other. They can see us and we can see them, and that's the worst thing about it. To be sat in this carriage surrounded by chocolate treats and glossy end tables which hold precious carved vases is an alien experience; not even in my dreams could I picture this. Wealth in Eight is not having to worry about dying that day, and that is worth its weight in gold.

I get on before Reyes, but that does not his shouts from echoing their way down the corridor to find me; his distain at the situation shown through strained vocals, and it almost seems unjustified considering he also volunteered. I guess that we had already made it easy for them by offering ourselves so sparingly, and after laughter comes tears.

To cry would feel wrong though—thankfully neither of us are doing that, because if we did, I'm sure Eight would erupt in a frenzy. With volunteering, there comes a sense of shock that moves through your system like a virus and it almost makes you think that someone trusts their instincts enough to make it out alive. But with it comes a realisation that not everybody is as sane as you are—and you factor in the teenagers caught up in their dark glory days who wish the night away hoping to sit amongst the stars. Then there are the delusional few, the ones who think that Eight is the type of place that can breed brutes as great as the upper districts. It almost makes me laugh, but then I remember that I volunteered because I liked my chances better than the other girl's, and I begin to realise I am no better than the volunteers who have come before me.

A Rasoio, sure, but legacy means nothing. We could become one of those families who trades their infamy for tragedy.

So I am no better, but also no worse.

My district partner falls into a dining chair making some remark about booze and rations—I stare at him from the other side of the table and can't help but feel some sense of superiority over him considering my head is at least screwed on straight and sober, and I am wise enough that no drink will numb future pain. He throws a glass down onto the table with force, and there's a command in his movements that travels through to the glass, so it stands strong as if it too demands to be filled. Then he reclines into the chair, his feet finding their way onto the seat beside him and he definitely looks far too comfortable for someone who has just put themselves into a death match.

This will be a game of last man standing, but by the look of it, he won't be standing by noon.

"Sure, we might both die. But one of us is going to die first," my eyes stare straight into his, "yeah, I think that'll be you." Too addicted and too comfortable—that means he'll be too scared to face change, let alone be it. "I'll do a shot for my nerves, but I don't want to drink my life away. It's too early for that."