bury a friend; |leticia/ronan| d6 train

Less than an hour into her time as a tribute, and she’s already learned one lesson; pretenses are hard to keep up, especially in front of an entire district and even more so in front of a boy you know has to die if you are to live.

After she was summoned to the stage, a stage far too big and spacious for her small self, she was too focused on keeping her back straight and holding back the tears to the best of her ability that she didn’t catch the boy’s first name. Only the last – Keeni-Einfallen. All she knows so far of him is the asphyxiating scent of cigarette smoke and that if he cared about being picked, he hid it much better than her.

She’s no stranger to cigarettes. Her father would always go out the back of the bakery during rush hour, bringing shaking hands up to his lips and lighting one. She asked her mother why he smoked so much, and she told her he was stressed. She wonders if it’s the same for the Keeni-Einfallen boy.

Delia’s words from the too-short visit she made stick vividly in her mind, ingrained into her conscience and repeating over and over – don’t trust the other tributes, not even him. One look at his dark eyes and the abundance of cigarettes and she knows this boy isn’t exactly made of sunshine and daisies, but she knows not to judge a book by its cover. She sees the best in people, even if they act coldly towards her – it doesn’t stop her from biting back, but in her whole life, she can’t think of a single person she’s hated.

The train is as luxurious as one would expect, considering it’s their first introduction to the wealth and superiority of the Capitol. Her mouth involuntarily hangs open upon entrance, and she quickly shuts it again. She doesn’t want to look impressionable. She doesn’t want people to think they can mould her into whatever they want.

“Interesting to see you here. Guess Six is still losing all of their little girls.”

She wants to give her usual snap back of ‘I’m not little’, but it seems redundant when she’s the one having to look up at him. She settles for digging her nails into the palms of her hand, beginning to wonder if they’d make a good weapon in the arena when he speaks again.

“Maybe, I won’t kill you unlike so many of our past representatives have done to their partners. Or maybe I will.”

His words manage to feel both empty and promising at the same time. Whether he means it or not, her reaction shows clearly on her face in a scowl without her having any control in it. But she knows she has to show strength, the strength she’s been told she has so many times. So she swallows any negative outbursts forming in her throat, and instead speaks as calmly as she can muster.

“Let me know when you figure that one out.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken to anyone but her family today. Usually the Neptunes keep to their own, but she’s been thrown out of the loop, forced into a world too daunting and formidable for a baker’s daughter, no matter how smart or strong she is. She tries to think of how Delia would act in this situation. There aren’t any cameras broadcasting them live to the people of the Capitol; she’d probably be cursing him out right now. She knows how to hold her own, shield herself against others, a skill Leticia tries to mirror to the best of her ability.

The boy is drinking some sort of weird juice, which her judgement tells her isn’t something she’s supposed to drink. Her judgement is pushed aside by the new mindset she’s trying to adopt – there are no rules anymore. She doesn’t have to bake bread anymore. She can curse, drink – hell, she could even smoke like this boy if she wanted to. But she doesn’t want to kill. The word is heavy in her mind, and she’s busy trying to expel it before the boy addresses her again.

“So, tell me girly, what’s your dream?”

The word Dream sends her back to the stage, where she counted up to ten just in time for her name to be called. He’s not talking about that kind of Dream; he’s talking about the future. A future she’s never thought too much about. She’s always placidly followed her parents’ dictation, despite not being overly enthusiastic about baking bread and serving disgruntled customers who patronize her and- wait, did he call her girly?

She fights back the scowl before it shows this time.

“My parents would want me to say something about taking over the bakery,” she begins. She wonders for a fleeting second where Teddy went; he’s her lifeline right now, and something tells her that his presence would diminish the fluttering anxiety she gets when speaking to her partner.

“But they’re not here. And I’ve always wanted to be a circus performer.”

It’s not wholly false. She loves the idea of circuses, but she doesn’t want to walk tightropes or breathe fire or tie herself into knots using her own limbs. She likes the animal tamers. Lions are a particular favourite – she’s always begged her parents for a cat, but really she wanted a larger one, a strong companion she could rely on. If only she could bring one into this arena, she may stand a chance.

“What’s yours?”

It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.