but it was nice to meet you (a fleeting friend) : nieve/izzy

[rook]

I try to move, but I can't.

The train moves onward and onward, towards my ultimate destination, and all the while I am standing still, staring at the tin walls around me wondering how, and why, and what, and most of all - when? The dread builds in me, and I see my death ahead on the tracks, at the end of the line. My fate is sealed, just like I am sealed inside this metal coffin, chugging along at a thousand miles an hour.

She sits across from me, the young girl who's name was called before mine. The girl who watched helplessly as her mother was beaten to death in front of her innocent, pure eyes, now tainted and scorned. She wears something new on her face, an emotion that seems alien to her frail and tiny self. I watch her for a short while, feeling a little less concerned for myself and suddenly more worried for her.

She will be torn to shreds.

The bigger children from the other Districts, they'll tear right through her. She doesn't stand a chance. I'm looking at a dead girl. That's the horror of it.

What do I say to a little girl who's just watched the murder of her mother? What do I say to a little girl who's on her way to be executed in front of a live audience? What can I say?

I say nothing. There is nothing to say. Her fate is the same as mine, being delivered first class to the killing fields in a silver carriage. She's every bit as dead as me.

I can't let her know that.

"Hey," I call out, my voice dry, "What's your name?"

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

n i e v e

You stay silent, looking at the floor while the train speeds towards the Capitol. Outside the window, the world is a green blur, but you don't want to look. You don't want to watch as you are brought to your destination — your final destination.

Every time you blink, the image of your mother's blood spattering across the concrete sears through your mind. You are not going to live longer than a few days now, but if you did, it is a memory you would never be able to forget. Your eyes are still red and raw from crying, the pink tinge of your sclera bringing out the purple tones of your irises.

Finally, you look up when the boy sitting across from you asks your name. You realize that you don't remember what his name is either; through all the commotion, you missed it.

"Nieve," you reply with trembling lips. You sniffle, your nose still red and puffy from crying. "What's yours?"

You figure you should know the name of your own District partner, and you're going to need help if you want to survive for more than a few seconds in the Arena, although you are not sure if you do want that. You still have siblings and a father to return to, a best friend too, but if you survive you will have to live every day without your mother and with the guilt of twenty-three lost lives.

Could you kill someone if it meant survival? You don't think you could bring yourself to do it, even though the other tributes are strangers. But everyone is someone's daughter or son, someone's brother or sister. Just because they are a stranger doesn't mean they are no one. And you don't want to kill someone like the Peacekeepers killed your mother.

яose

[rook]

Her name is odd, and I wouldn't even begin to know how to spell it. I've never heard a name quite like it before, but then I suppose mine isn't exactly common either. I try to smile even though it feels alien for me to do so, but there is a small child in front of me who has just witnessed her mother's skull being caved-in, and now she's being sent to her death - so for all that's fucking right in the world, I ought to smile and do what I can to console this little girl.

"That's a nice name," I say, "I'm Izzy."

The train bumbles along the tracks, and it's gentle vibrations help to calm me a little. I take a few balanced breaths and try to centre myself. I look around at the carriage we find ourselves in - it's quite rudimentary. Nothing particularly fancy beyond a few soft benches to sit on, a few tables, and some basic rations - water, bread, some fruit. Nothing extravagant.

I don't feel remotely hungry, but I know that I should eat. Looking outside the window at the blur of trees and buildings whizzing past, I try to make out the sun, and what angle it's at, and exactly what time it is. We've been on this train for about an hour, and before that in the Justice Building for a short while. It must be mid-afternoon at least.

"You should try and eat something, Nieve, even if you're not hungry." I say, trying to smile but it fades fast, "I don't know how long this train ride will be."

The advice is as much for me as it is for her. So, leading by example, I take a slice of seeded brown bread and begin to spread butter over it. I sit down opposite her and take a few floury bites of the granary loaf, which is warm and reminds me of when dad used to take me out in the woods for the day with a packed lunch and a flask of hot tea. It's only now that I realise just how hungry I am.