Chapter Text
Sterile walls, velvet cushions, glass too clear to trust. The train felt like the inside of a bleach bottle. Too clean.
Marie sat with her hands folded in her lap, her fox carving clenched tight in one fist. Her dress was wrinkled now, the hem smeared with dust and sweat. Across from her, Jakob sprawled like he belonged there — one arm draped over the seat, the other fiddling with a silver napkin ring.
He'd already found the minibar. Already offered her a glass of juice. She hadn't answered. Marie could see he was swanning. His eyes betrayed him, though. Red, watery. He'd been crying during his goodbyes. Marie wondered who he'd had to say goodbye to.
Priscilla Sickle swept in like a perfume ad come to life, all shine and polish. Her heels clicked dramatically on the polished floor, curls lacquered into a golden crown. She wore peacock blue, her nails glinting gold with tiny embedded rhinestones.
"Room temperature beverages?" she gasped, eyeing Jakob's glass of room-temperature wine. "Every year I am astounded by you people."
Jakob held out his wine glass for Priscilla to plop some ice into. She shook her head; No self-respecting Capitol citizen is going to serve a tribute. Marie and Jakob shared their first glance; Mutual amusement.
Jakob rose slightly in his seat. "Miss Sickle, what lovely shoes you're wearing."
She beamed at him. "Charming as ever. I can see you'll be a Capitol favourite. We love a handsome boy."
"And you, darling," Priscilla cooed, sitting primly beside Jakob, "we'll need to do something about that braid. So severe. You look like you're heading to a funeral, not a celebration!"
"It is a funeral," Marie said flatly.
Priscilla's smile twitched. "Morbid! But we'll work on your... presentation. Stoic can be stylish, you know. With the right lighting."
The door slid open with a hiss, and in stepped Johanna Mason. She was the previous years victor; She had fooled everyone into thinking she was weak. She let them underestimate her.
She looked worse than the Capitol cameras ever allowed: her hair a snarl of curls pulled back into a half-hearted bun, eyes ringed with exhaustion, wearing a flannel shirt that didn't match the Capitol-issue slacks. She took one look at them and groaned.
"God, they do keep getting younger."
Jakob sat up straighter. "Johanna Mason," he said, voice polite, laced with charm. "Pleasure to—"
"Save it," she cut in. "I'm not your Capitol escort. I don't care about your manners, your sob stories, or your odds. I'm here because I have to be. And because it gives me a break from-"
She dropped her bag on the floor and dropped into the seat beside Marie.
"God, I hate these seats. They're all stuffed with Capitol cotton. Smells like dead roses."
Marie didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed, calculating.
Johanna leaned back, stared between the two. "So. Which one of yous the quiet killer?"
Jakob smiled. "That depends on who you ask."
Johanna snorted. "You're the one who practices facial expressions in reflective surfaces. I know your type. You know you can't actually save lives with a smile?"
Jakob blinked, the smile slipping for just a second.
Marie said nothing.
Johanna's gaze shifted. "You. Tangles."
Marie met her eyes. Unblinking.
"You're not going to play nice, are you?"
"No," Marie said. Though truthfully, she had no idea how she would act in the arena. All she knew was she wasn't going to go down without a fight.
A beat.
Johanna tilted her head, studying her more closely now. "Good," she said. "Nice gets you dead. Though, maybe dead is better."
She swung her legs down and stood. Her voice dropped an octave, losing its sharp edge.
"You'll be fed, trained, and paraded. They let you think your outfits matter, your smile, your charm. And when they drop you in that arena, you'll forget everything but survival."
"Any tips?" Jakob asked, smile reloaded.
"Yeah." Johanna walked to the door. "Try to die quickly."
The door hissed closed behind her.
Jakob let out a low whistle. "Charming."