i can see { five } hundred years dead set ahead of me »train

It starts how it always starts. First came an obstinacy of trucks, barraging through the streets in the early hours of yesterday. Their cargo ranged from scaffolding to high-end expensive camera equipment, but each truck looked identical to the last. Through the engine fumes emerged the mass of Capitol-hired workers, lugging the framework and lighting units to their required positions. It always used to amaze me how they set it all up in less than a week, but these days I don't invest my awe in such trivial things as event organisation, even if said event is the Hunger Games. Next, came the officials. The project managers, the on-screen pundits, the experts, and of course the representatives who draw the names from the pool. They always look ridiculous. I'm starting to think that I'm used to it. The Peacekeepers, of course, arrived long before anyone else, making their presence known with a frankly terrifying display of numbers across every street intersection and rooftop. The white army, dotted on every corner of District Five. Finally came me and Lethe, positioned for all to see on small wooden chairs at the rear of the stage.

It ends how it always ends. Two poor souls being fished out of the hoarde and thrusted into the limelight, their faces agape with the horror of it all. Oh, how I remember it so vividly. My face was just like theirs - full of absolute terror. I said my goodbyes that day, not expecting to see this place again, but here I am staring at the same sun-scorched grey buildings with the all-too familar smell of manure drifting in from the fields. I made the experts look stupid. They said an outsider would never win the 68th, not with such prime Career talent in the mix. The nature of the caves would send middle-District Tributes insane, they claimed, and they were right. Plenty lost their minds down there, but not me, I found something different altogether. I found my purpose.

Lethe and I traverse towards the station as this year's Tributes are taken to the Justice Building to say their goodbyes to their families. I cannot begin to explain how difficult it is to say goodbye to the person you love most in this world, knowing for a fact that you will never see them again. Somehow I betrayed that goodbye. The words I said six years ago to the day are burning like a cancer in my brain, and I just can't tell myself that they don't matter now.

It's not long before the Tributes are forced onboard and the locomotive strains into a steady pace. No going back for them. One of them is going to die, if not both. If I can make it the former, then I'll have achieved something this decade.

No sooner than we in the main carriage, I reach for a wide glass and neck back a whiskey. Lethe gives me a disapproving glance.
"Give over. It's for the chest pain." I say, not entirely sure if I'm telling the truth or not. Sometimes it helps me to forget that I was stabbed clean through the chest, sometimes it's because I can't deal with the emotions that come flooding back on days like today, sometimes it's to help me compose myself before I speak to the Tributes, and sometimes just because.

"Suit yourself, sister." I set the glass down and playfully punch Lethe in the arm as I walk past, heading towards the carriage where the poor souls are being detained. Better do this sooner, rather than later.

Lethe has been incredible these past couple of years. She's really taken mentoring into her stride, doing everything in her power to keep these kids alive. Thus far, we haven't been successful, but we've sent them in knowing that we've done everything we can. That's all anyone can ask for, really. I'm proud of her for stepping up to the plate. She did it completely on her own last year too, given my suspended sentence away from the Capitol. I guess people really can change, given the right amount of time and aggression.

Samira is a scarecrow of a girl, with faded blonde hair and an expression that is more lost than I can possibly fathom. She is impossibly thin, and her eyes are hungry - but for what? She looks a bit like Pearl, but I reject the thought as quickly as it arrives, as it makes me feel a bit sick.

Alexandre, or Sacha as the media are now saying, is altogether a different mystery. The blood has drained from his cheeks, and his eyes are straining as he attempts to keep it all together and not break down. This is understandably difficult for both of them, as it was for me, as it was for Lethe, as it was for the countless others.

"Tell me," I hear Sam say to Sacha as I slip into the room quitly, "Are you a fighter, or a survivor?"

I've always claimed to be a survivor. It's an interesting question. In theory, all survivors are fighters, but not all fighters are surviors. The difference is that survivors change who they are to win, whilst fighters resist it. You can't afford to have morals in the Hunger Games, else I would have died in that cave. Some other survivor would have worn my crown.

"If you're not here to survive then tell me now so that I don't have to waste my time on you." I interrupt, "I understand this is hard for the two of you but the worst thing you can do right now is shut down. You need to come to terms with where you are, where you're going, and what that means. Yes, you'll have to fight, you'll even have to kill, but if you want to survive then you'll need to adapt, and fast."

As usual, I've probably gone in too hard on them, but going by previous years, I've been too soft on those who "give up" in the first few hours.
"Patricia Valfierno, by the way. I know this sucks, but you're not going to die if I can help it."