The train that takes them to the Capitol has become familiar, like a visit to a place you used to hate with a burning passion, but now only makes you feel hollow. ( Read )
Trains meant pain and suffering, meant watching those she loved picked off one by one as though they were flies. The Grittel family has never had any luck with Reapings--Perynne hears stories of her mother's sister, of her father's sister, of her father himself, of her older brother. They have a reputation. She's heard the whispers, the curse that must have settled upon her family. No one would imagine District 9 to be a superstitious bunch, but her family was the exception to the rule.
It was only a matter of time, she supposed. She survived four Reapings with little but the thinnest strands of hope, but she knew it was too good to be true, too risky to pass a fifth year without hearing the Capitol spokesperson speaking her name in ringing, dissonant tones.
She felt her eyes unfocus and re-focus in too quick of a succession, spots dancing across her vision. Oddly enough, she didn't feel fear coursing through her veins like her father had painted so vividly in her mind. Her childhood rang with the truth of his fear--he was a distant parent, too lost in the past and too afraid to love his children too much only to lose them to the eyes of the Capitol. Instead, she feels some sort of cold, deadly determination. She hears the faint rumours surrounding her rivals, a shroud that should threaten to consume her, but she only holds the gazes of those sending her to the slaughter. Defiance is etched across her face and it substitutes fear.
Her hands tremble slightly, though she dismisses the gesture as a symptom of the hunger from which she suffers daily, of the sickness she feels toward the Capitol for taking pleasure in watching them die. She is about to open her mouth to speak to her district partner--Rivel, Nash, some name she can't bring to the forefront of her mind--when the compartment door opens and she fights the urge to jump, instead stilling herself as though she was a statue.
Perynne turns to face her mentor, this Airelle her father had mentioned once, the aloof girl who couldn't spark hope in the tributes. She suffers from her mother's small vanities and her nostrils flare slightly, her gaze hard. "Ready," she replies hollowly, tilting her head up in the slightest hint of disdain. "Do you remember our names, Airelle? It would be helpful if you did."
"Pipe down, Perynne," her district partner says, lounging quite carelessly across his seat. "It might be better for us to have a mentor who would rather sit back and watch instead of shoving ideas down our throats. Maybe we'll have a chance of survival." She hears the hesitation in the word we, the virtually imperceptible hitch. Only one returns alive, she thinks, and for a moment she wants to hit him but she restrains herself.
Despite herself, Airelle feels a small, humorless smile begin to tug at the corners of her lips. She had not managed to form an opinion on them from their Reapings, as she sometimes had, but it’s no matter-here everything becomes clear as day: Perynne Grittel tries too hard and Dever Cayle not enough, and this will not be a year for District 9. Neither of these children will leave the arena.
Her eyes narrow as they turn to Perynne’s defiant gaze, taking in the tension, the edges, the brittle hardness. The small smile is back, and this time, it’s tinged with just the slightest hint of disappointment.
“Are you ready, really? I do wonder,” she says at last, injecting her voice with more amusement than she truly feels, and ignoring the girl’s question. “He’s right, you know. I can only do so much for you-if you are simply determined to die, it’s hardly my fault, and no amount of mentoring is going to change that.”
She sinks deeper and hates herself further with every syllable she speaks. Years ago, before her victory and even shortly afterwards, the words would have made her wince. Too bitter, too harsh. If she’d heard them spoken to her during her days as a tribute, she would have stormed out of the car, and each year, deep down, she hopes one of them will do just that.
“Sponsors are the one thing I can promise you-you’ll be easy, I can tell you that. Victor’s daughter, proud, hard. That will sell, as long as you try not to die too soon.” Without waiting for an answer, she turns towards the boy, Dever. This one she can’t read quite as easily, but he is also less hostile. “What about you, then?” she asks. “What should I do with you?”
The way he phrased his sentence, the we he used, is not lost on her.
He cherishes his life far more now that he can feel its end approaching. Dever has no real experience fighting, no stories to boost his confidence at night. His parents are poor, harvesting crops for their small farm and the ones of the older couples who can't do the labour. He can wield a blade, knows fifty uses for a pair of scissors, but he thinks he has no chance when it comes down to it. He has seen Perynne use a scythe with vicious force, as though she was practising and it only dawns on him as he takes the steps numbingly to his scaffold.
Their mentor goads them with words that are harsh, but he doesn't mind them--they won't help. Airelle hasn't brought a victor home in too long, and he doesn't think she can bring him home. He watches with casual disinterest at the two staring off, refusing to fall prey to Airelle's attempts to see through him. Perynne is too angry, he too indifferent. She bites her words, stinging everyone with their poison, and he only brushes them off. They hardly know each other, but he has seen her at school, her eyes too bright and her mind too keen, but she knows what she's doing and he plans to take his advantage.
He shrugs at her questions, sitting a bit straighter. Perynne glares at their mentor and he fights the urge to laugh. "You can paint whatever image you'd like for me because it doesn't matter much in the end, as long as my survival skills are worthy." A pause. He is certain that being her ally would result in his death sooner rather than later, but if she can work her way through the arena, he can learn from her and then he can use his real knack for staying hidden.
"It might be worth a shot, though I'd like to have more than just her. She'll kill me in my sleep."
Trains meant pain and suffering, meant watching those she loved picked off one by one as though they were flies. The Grittel family has never had any luck with Reapings--Perynne hears stories of her mother's sister, of her father's sister, of her father himself, of her older brother. They have a reputation. She's heard the whispers, the curse that must have settled upon her family. No one would imagine District 9 to be a superstitious bunch, but her family was the exception to the rule.
It was only a matter of time, she supposed. She survived four Reapings with little but the thinnest strands of hope, but she knew it was too good to be true, too risky to pass a fifth year without hearing the Capitol spokesperson speaking her name in ringing, dissonant tones.
She felt her eyes unfocus and re-focus in too quick of a succession, spots dancing across her vision. Oddly enough, she didn't feel fear coursing through her veins like her father had painted so vividly in her mind. Her childhood rang with the truth of his fear--he was a distant parent, too lost in the past and too afraid to love his children too much only to lose them to the eyes of the Capitol. Instead, she feels some sort of cold, deadly determination. She hears the faint rumours surrounding her rivals, a shroud that should threaten to consume her, but she only holds the gazes of those sending her to the slaughter. Defiance is etched across her face and it substitutes fear.
Her hands tremble slightly, though she dismisses the gesture as a symptom of the hunger from which she suffers daily, of the sickness she feels toward the Capitol for taking pleasure in watching them die. She is about to open her mouth to speak to her district partner--Rivel, Nash, some name she can't bring to the forefront of her mind--when the compartment door opens and she fights the urge to jump, instead stilling herself as though she was a statue.
Perynne turns to face her mentor, this Airelle her father had mentioned once, the aloof girl who couldn't spark hope in the tributes. She suffers from her mother's small vanities and her nostrils flare slightly, her gaze hard. "Ready," she replies hollowly, tilting her head up in the slightest hint of disdain. "Do you remember our names, Airelle? It would be helpful if you did."
"Pipe down, Perynne," her district partner says, lounging quite carelessly across his seat. "It might be better for us to have a mentor who would rather sit back and watch instead of shoving ideas down our throats. Maybe we'll have a chance of survival." She hears the hesitation in the word we, the virtually imperceptible hitch. Only one returns alive, she thinks, and for a moment she wants to hit him but she restrains herself.
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Her eyes narrow as they turn to Perynne’s defiant gaze, taking in the tension, the edges, the brittle hardness. The small smile is back, and this time, it’s tinged with just the slightest hint of disappointment.
“Are you ready, really? I do wonder,” she says at last, injecting her voice with more amusement than she truly feels, and ignoring the girl’s question. “He’s right, you know. I can only do so much for you-if you are simply determined to die, it’s hardly my fault, and no amount of mentoring is going to change that.”
She sinks deeper and hates herself further with every syllable she speaks. Years ago, before her victory and even shortly afterwards, the words would have made her wince. Too bitter, too harsh. If she’d heard them spoken to her during her days as a tribute, she would have stormed out of the car, and each year, deep down, she hopes one of them will do just that.
“Sponsors are the one thing I can promise you-you’ll be easy, I can tell you that. Victor’s daughter, proud, hard. That will sell, as long as you try not to die too soon.” Without waiting for an answer, she turns towards the boy, Dever. This one she can’t read quite as easily, but he is also less hostile. “What about you, then?” she asks. “What should I do with you?”
The way he phrased his sentence, the we he used, is not lost on her.
“Are you going to be allies?”
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Their mentor goads them with words that are harsh, but he doesn't mind them--they won't help. Airelle hasn't brought a victor home in too long, and he doesn't think she can bring him home. He watches with casual disinterest at the two staring off, refusing to fall prey to Airelle's attempts to see through him. Perynne is too angry, he too indifferent. She bites her words, stinging everyone with their poison, and he only brushes them off. They hardly know each other, but he has seen her at school, her eyes too bright and her mind too keen, but she knows what she's doing and he plans to take his advantage.
He shrugs at her questions, sitting a bit straighter. Perynne glares at their mentor and he fights the urge to laugh. "You can paint whatever image you'd like for me because it doesn't matter much in the end, as long as my survival skills are worthy." A pause. He is certain that being her ally would result in his death sooner rather than later, but if she can work her way through the arena, he can learn from her and then he can use his real knack for staying hidden.
"It might be worth a shot, though I'd like to have more than just her. She'll kill me in my sleep."
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