two one-way tickets to fairyland, please - d7 train

It was a solemn affair each and every time Mackenzie Pryce had to watch District Seven fade into the distance behind him, and this time was no exception. He sat at the train's caboose, wind ruffling his hair while he leaned against the ornate handrails. The train sped in a straight line, the looming pines slowly growing bigger and taller the further away from the Square they went.

Outside of the borders everything got random and disorganized, grown wildly rather than being carefully cultivated. But notably, it still grew all the same. In fact, Mackenzie was always perplexed by the fact that many of the trees he could see out here looked bigger than those growing on the inside. He supposed there was some sort of poetic symbolism which should've made him feel inspired, but it was difficult to feel that way given his own personal circumstances.

They were moving so fast that the smoke was practically nondetectable: gone the instant it rose from the burning end of the roll clutched between Mackenzie's fingers. One last, long inhale before he snuffed it out in an ash tray and turned his careful gaze to Romily, who stood just inside the car.

"You did great today," he explained, "I know how hard it can be..."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. But now, it was his turn to work. Mackenzie knew his own children were safe- Romily had just put Max down for a nap, and Violet leveraged a fishing trip out of Marley once she finished the upcoming school week. But right now, Max and Violet were not the only children he was responsible for. It was an unfortunate part of the deal Mackenzie was forced to make nearly twenty years ago, when he'd had the audacity to live in a contest designed so that people like him never really had the opportunity to do so.

He was supposed to have died. The swarm should've left nothing but his bones behind, but Wynter got in the way. The tidal wave should've swept him out to sea but he'd climbed the tree first instead of helping Faline up first. Akira's flaming sword should've burned him to a crisp, but Stitch made the wrong move.

That was the real rub of all this: there wasn't any real advice he could ever give these kids. He'd survived entirely from luck. From the misfortune of others and a willingness to continue letting it happen. And as sick as it was, he was their only hope.

He made his way into the car they were sitting in just in time to hear one inquiring to the other about their mentors. He raised his hands in a noncommittal shrug, "Talk about timing, am I right?" He walked over to the pair of them, leaning against a structure for balance.

"I'm Mackenzie Pryce," he said. He always hated this part- the awkward 'I've heard the name, seen the face, know nothing about this person' part, where he could always tell they were sizing him up, seeing if he was worth listening to or not. Truth was, Mackenzie wasn't the best man for the job. In his time as a mentor he'd managed to get at least five tributes to the finale, countless others to the top eight. Only one survivor, and Torian was- well... He and Jacinta turned out to have a lot in common. And since the three of them were the only options the tributes in Seven had...

"Bad news is that I'm pretty sure I'm all the help you're gonna get from a mentor. Everyone else missed the train, I guess. Good news is that I'm pretty damn helpful when I want to be." Mackenzie would never forget the images of Glamour Kinkade's plastic expression staring down at him in the night, spouting threats of violence for his success.

He took a seat and sighed, sizing the two of them up. One was tall and lithe. Broad enough shoulders. Brooding expression. Messy dark hair. Honestly, the kid reminded him of a younger version of himself. The other was smaller, with large curious eyes and a more reserved voice. So far, neither of them appeared to be delinquents or practicing members of any religious cults though, so Mackenzie was already considering District Seven's position in this Games ahead of previous attempts at victorship. That was something, at least.

Leaning forward from his seat, Mackenzie flicked his gaze from one to the other, then back again.

"There are three rules all my best tributes abide by, and the first one is this: Don't be an idiot. Don't say stupid shit. If you hold resentment toward the Games or the Capitol, keep it to yourself." He'd seen one too many self-proclaimed smart kids get themselves killed thinking they were making a stand against the Capitol, only for it to end up on the cutting room floor, erased from the narrative. The truth is that when the Capitol was involved, one could never be sure who was listening, and what was considered damnable.

"Rule Number Two: Find an angle to make the people love you, and then exploit the hell out of it. Doesn't matter if you've killed three people or a hundred, you catch an infection or go without water for too long, you're done. And the only way you make sure shit like that doesn't happen is sponsors. I'll be working my magic on my end, but you both will need to meet me halfway. Blend in when you're with the other tributes, but stand out any time you see a camera. The more the screens see you, the more real you become to them."

He hated that he had to phrase it that way, but it was true: to the Capitol everyone else was nothing. The tributes were characters in a production, not people. The victors were simply the best performers.

"And then there's Rule Number Three: Play the game. Don't fight against it. Do what they want, not what you want. You have to be willing to do anything. Anything. Because guess what? If you aren't willing to do it, someone else is."