Train wreck or Train Beauty? [cici]

The train looks just like my house with its elegant draperies and vibrant furniture -- furniture now only used in the Moreno household as barricades, practice targets, knive holders, and whatever other use my siblings can conjure from the poor sofa. Okay, so maybe this place is abit nicer than my house, but still, I swear I've seen this all before. You know, I really don't understand why they try to give us the best pre-games experience when all they're throwing on us District One tributes is an exaggerated version of our day to day lives. I understand why it would make sense to shower Distrit Twelve citizens with exquisite food and gorgeous clothing, but the Capitol either needs to up their game on us District One tributes or make us starve for a week because I am so damn ready for something new here.

Suddenly, my district partner is nearly stumbling into me doing some sort of disoriented back flip. "Sorry about that umm," he says, but the idiot smile that crosses his face only intensifies the scowl upon mine. "Wrong train, Dublin. The 3 o'clock ride to the Panem Olympics left last year." And yet the idiot keeps talking. I walk over to the nearest couch and lie down, looking up at the ceiling. "I did not catch your name on those big speakers out there it was almost too quiet to catch it," he continues and I roll my eyes. "That's really too bad, Dublin. I'd want to know the name of my killer too."

He sits down next to my head and I have the sudden urge to move away. Does he not see that I want my own fucking space? “You know whether you like it or not I am your tribute partner so you mind as well enjoy watching my little show." He says. “Oh yeah no matter how gagging you think my moves are,” and this is where I nearly snap. He actually touches my face, pushing a strand of hair away. Did I give him permission to touch me? I don’t think so! I seize his hand and shove it away, sitting up and moving to the other side of the couch, a far enough distance away. “Oh, and one more thing it will be me who kills myself if I die in these games so you know. I am the one who made the mistake of not defending myself so I can't give you all of the credit for killing me."

His smile is hurting my eyes so much I have to stare at the ceiling. The moving train is bringing a sickening feeling to my stomach, not quite unlike the feeling I get every time I watch my older siblings sever dummy heads and pierce hearts and know that I’ll never be quite as good as that. But they’re gone; they’re on what could seemingly be the other side of the world, and no longer do I have to conform to their expectations, no longer do I owe them any honor or respect. The thought that I’ll never see them again makes the thought of death slightly more pleasant. I smile, but not in the foolish way that this Dublin kid smiles: mine is more of a sly smile.

He talks on and on and asks me to judge fairly. Sure, okay, I’ll judge fairly. He does a couple of tumbles and tosses and flips but my expression is unchanging. What the hell is he trying to prove? Once he finishes, he flashes another idiotic grin and I sigh hopelessly. “Bravo. Bravo. I suppose death by cartwheels is your strategy?” I shake my head, wondering how much more obnoxious this kid can get.

“Ignore what I said before about killing you,” I say nonchalantly. “Chances are you’ll backflip into a rock before I ever get there,” and I turn over onto my face, hoping he might catch the hint to just leave before I punch him in the face.

ooc - will code later