silver shines like gold [.thundy&kay.]

Hanging my head low, I trace my hands over the edge of the cold train window, drawing a smiling face in the fogginess made by my breath. Only problem is, the picture doesn't look right; I get the curve of the mouth wrong somehow, and the smile looks more like a hard, thin line when all is said and done. I try to fix it by adding curves to both edges, but the smile's too big now, eating up the eyes and taking up all the space, lookin' like a clown, or the moon when it's shaped like a crescent, or the way the Capitolites contort their faces into big fat lines when they grin, baring all their teeth.

No worries, no worries. I wipe away the picture with my hand and breath on the glass again, starting over. This time the picture looks neater, so I nod and leave it like that.

"Guess it's just you and me," I say blandly to the smiling face, gazing around the train car.

Truly, it is. There's nobody here in the back of the train, but I like looking out the windows, staring out at the vast expanse of land as we race through grassy yellow fields and snow-peaked hills, everything in full color. I like how the sun does that, bringing out the brightness in everything. The colors get bigger and the world looks as I imagine it should, full of greens and yellows and blues, and - now that the snow's falling down in the northern Districts - whites as well. The train whispers through the wild like a deer, so quiet and quick you wouldn't even know it was there except for the image of it. When I look out the windows, I can lose myself and imagine that I'm running, flying through the fields like I haven't got a care in the world, like all I've gotta do is watch the turn of the earth and exist for a while.

But oh no, I won't be allowed that luxury. Just seconds after I rest my head against the window and close my eyes, my escort bursts through the door, looking bored with me.

"Get up," she says, barely sparing me a look. "We're almost to District Ten. Lepitera wants you to change."

I already put on the outfit my stylist gave me this morning, so why do I have to change again? I'm about to open my mouth to say something, but the way my escort is pacing around the room tells me she doesn't have the patience for anything but my complete obedience, so I stand up and exit the car.

Rushing towards me, my stylist shoves an outfit into my hands without saying a word. I open my mouth to say something - hello, maybe? - but she glares at me as if she expects a protest, and the urge to speak is quelled in my chest. Gulping back my words, I bundle the clothes in my arms and bring them to my room, feeling empty and alone.

Everything fits perfectly - it always does - and I'm thankful that the garments are comfortable and warm. If nothing else, the fabric is soft. I've been given a dark sweater to wear underneath a thick jacket, and I'm pulling the sleeves of the sweater up to my face and rubbing my cheeks, living in comfort for a brief moment, before I have to face the world.

Emerging through the door, my escort is there. "We're here," she says, her voice flat and.. and angry? I know that I'm not a huge fan of the Capitolites these days, but aren't these people supposed to care about me? Aren't they supposed to support me, and talk to me, and make me feel prepared?

I suppose my escort's got that last part covered; she shoves a few cards into my hand without a word (god, this is already becoming routine) and tells me, "There are other victors in this District. Don't mess it up and forget their names. The male is Mace Emberstatt, and the female won just last year - Saffron Lowe."

(I mean, I'm thankful for this kind of preparation, don't get me wrong. Do I know the names of the other victors? No. I'm shit with names - I could barely even remember the tributes in the Arena.)

"Mace, and, uh.. Saffron. Got it."

My escort does not look convinced.

We're walking down the hall towards the exit car now, and I'm followed into the chilly air by my entourage of Capitolites, unsure of where to go. District Ten looks bigger than Nine, more spaced out. Where Nine has refineries and factories, Ten has miles and miles of open fields, and it looks friendlier, more inviting.

Before I can even ask where I'm supposed to be going, a small girl with bright hair walks forward.

(Admittedly, everyone feels small compared to me, but it's hard to tell until people get up close.)

"Hello, Mr. O'Leary," she smiles, not stopping, barreling into me with a hug, arms wrapped tight around my torso.

I grunt in surprise - a little freaked out at the sudden contact, feeling for a second like I'm being attacked - but I instinctively (though awkwardly) wrap my arms around her, looking desperately toward my escort for help. "Who?" I mouth, and she responds with a silent word of her own: "Saffron."

As the initial fear fades away, I feel a great sense of comfort surge in my heart. With my family back in District Nine, it's been days since anyone has shown me any sort of kindness. At least.. a kindness that isn't required, not for the cameras or the Capitol or the courtesy of a District. These past few days, it felt like I was thrown back into my old life, where nobody so much as looked at me without pointing out the worst of my character. Used to be those things were stupid, you know, calling me ugly and big-nosed and dirty, but now.. on this Victory Tour, I have to face up to the parts of myself I never even considered, those demons buried down deep that never should have seen the light of day.

"You'll be okay," Saffron says, still holding on to me.

I laugh and hold onto her a little tighter, but the sound of it is wrong. Fuck. Am I crying? My throat feels hoarse, as if I'm standing somewhere on the edge of breaking down, but at least there aren't any tears; my escort would kill me if I cried.

"Hell yeah, I will," I say, smiling a little, but it sounds weak and unconvincing, and my face falls a moment later, all crooked and wrong.

When I try to hold my chin up to make it all better, I see a man standing there, waiting. From what I gather, this must be Mace Emberstatt, victor of.. well, who knows? I guess it doesn't matter. The number isn't so important, because the general experience is all the same. I nod in his direction, though I don't know if I should smile. Does he see me as a friend or a foe?

Remembering something, I remove myself from Saffron's grasp and meet her gaze, feeling awkward after such a long hug.

"And 'Mr. O'Leary' is kind of weird," I say, looking down at my toes, embarrassed. "You could call me Soap, or.. or Colgate. I guess I don't really know anymore. Names are just.. "

I trail off.