Off To Death [Aya]

Before being carted off to the train, Cerise had been visited by the remnants of her family. Her mother wrung her hands, fidgeting, contemplating the loss of a daughter that she never really connected with. None of them knew what to do or say. Torn between her general dislike of the younger sister that greatly surpassed her in all things academic and her constant need to create, perpetuate, and bask in melodrama, Cerise's older sister teetered from side to side, looking as if she were on the verge of tears. Derringer, her twin by relation only, wore a mask of concentration, suggesting thoughts much more profound than had ever crossed his neanderthal brain.

She wished they'd hadn't come.

There were several dozen fledgeling thoughts incubating in her head, and she would much prefer to spend her last moments in District Three entertaining some of them, as opposed to watching her family uncomfortably trying to figure out something to say to her. After a few minutes, she could take it no longer. "Can you leave?" she asked outright, no traces of a question in the phrase. They obliged, leaving her with a pat on the back, an unreturned embrace, and a kiss on the top of the head.

She was not left entirely alone, however; she was briefly visited by a stringy pair of twins that worked in the same machine part factory that she did. She'd seldom spoken to the wiry-haired boys, and they did not have much to say to her now — instead, they handed off a rolled up schematic and suggested that she familiarize herself with the contents as quickly as possibly. They'd explained that they'd begun work in it as soon as the quell was announced, out of fear that their little sister would be reaped, but did not offer any details about the project. As they left, Cerise still found herself somewhat unsure as to what she'd been handed — or why they'd decided to pass it off to her — but familiar with the urgency that surrounded clandestine documents, she rolled up the blueprints, then folded it width-wise into quarters and stuffed it into her left boot. She would have plenty of free time on the train ride to review them, to consider committing them to memory.

Several more minutes passed, then Cerise was unceremoniously shuffled off to the train. She spent an unspecified amount of time in her compartment, absorbing the paper that she'd stored in her boot, eventually making sense of them. As the plan depicted in the schematics became more and more clear, a mischievous smirk grew on her face — even if she felt a touch of jealous for not having come up with it herself. She was looking forward to putting the brothers' plan into action, to say the least.

After a short while, the district escort, Sparky, poked her head in and suggested that Cerise have something to eat. The girl flat-out refused, but her stubbornness was met with an equal and opposite reaction from the escort, who firmly insisted on pestering her until she agreed to leave her compartment — which Cerise did, with much grumbling and eye-rolling. If she'd had her way, she would've spent the entire ride studying the documents, but it was impossible to focus with Sparky being obnoxious in the doorway.

She maintained her scowl the entire way to the dining compartment, which had several tables piled high with food. She cast a sidelong glance at her district parter, who was busy filling his plate, and got her the impression that he had been crying, or he'd been doing his best to keep himself from doing just that. Hmm. She filed the information away in her brain for later reference. She circled the tables like a vulture, but, finding nothing that suited her, pocked an apple before plopping herself down in one of the overstuffed chairs.

Her glare fixed itself on her district partner, one Jim McCoy. He was older than her — she'd seen him emerge from the line of fourteen-year-olds during the reaping — but much to her delight, she had two or three inches on him. She didn't see the point of talking to him; what did she care if they were friends? In all likelihood, they'd be at each others' throats in a matter of weeks. She affixed her brown eyes on his teary ones, irritated by his apparent fright, and addressed him sharply and directly:"Oh, get a grip. Your life isn't that tragic."