The delectable smell of hot, fresh food hits my nose and makes my mouth water in an instant. I must be hungrier than I thought. Rowena and Castiel are already in the diner car, seated at a round table that looks like it's made of the finest wood in the world. It practically glimmers in the light. Before them sits an entire array of lavish food, ranging from simple appetizers to high-class cakes and cookies. There's enough here to feed half our district. This is insane!
Rowena spots me standing bug-eyed in the doorway and waves me over, her pale face alight with a grin as she takes a plate and starts picking out her lunch. "Dean, dear! Come join us!" she chirps. "I was just telling this handsome young man how the Capitol spares no expense for its valiant tributes. If you think this buffet is wonderful, then I can't wait to see your reactions when we arrive to the Capitol!"
Castiel doesn't seem to take too kindly to her gushing compliment about him. He shrinks down into his shoulders as I approach the table and take a seat next to him, but Rowena doesn't seem to notice. Either that, or she's not bothered by it.
He does look a lot better now that we're out of the stress of the reaping, though. With new, clean clothes and I assume a shower, his dark hair is a lot fluffier, his face now immaculate and free of tear stains. Although his eyes are still rather puffed up, he looks more at ease, more prepared to take on our upcoming challenges. I'm glad.
There's already a gleaming plate set on the table in front of me, so all I have to do is decide which direction I'm going to take. Do I go savory and pick out some pasta coated with red sauce, or slices of steaming turkey and mashed potatoes? Do I gorge myself on sweets, like the tempting cheesecake that's sitting before me? Or do I go all out because why not? I'm here, I'm being shipped off to what could be certain death, so why not take advantage of an all-you-can-eat? It's not like I care how much the Capitol spends. They're drowning in money, anyway.
"Are we gonna meet our mentor soon?" I ask Rowena as I pile potatoes and rolls and turkey slices onto my plate. I take a glob of pasta for good measure, too. Might as well.
"He should be coming," our escort says, glancing at the door with a sigh. "I told him to meet us here at lunchtime."
I notice Castiel hasn't touched any food at all yet. He's just staring down at his empty plate, eyes glazed over and expression completely vacant. Surely he has to be hungry. It's been hours since we've last had an opportunity to eat anything.
Maybe I was wrong about thinking he was more at ease.
Before I have a chance to ask him if he's all right, the door to the diner car slides open, and an older, stocky man with a scowling face and an unkempt scruff shuffles into the room. He looks far from pleased or exuberant as he heaves a massive sigh and reluctantly sits down next to Rowena. The latter looks like she's using all of her strength to keep from scolding him.
If this is our mentor, my hopes have plummeted to my feet.
Rowena is fighting to put on a smile. I can see the pain shining behind her eyes. "Boys," she says through gritted teeth. "I'd like for you to meet your mentor. This is—"
"Singer," the man grunts. I'm almost afraid to look him in the eye. "Bobby Singer."
"He's a bit of a Grumpy Gus," Rowena quickly adds, "but he knows what he's doing. He's here to help you boys figure out how to survive."
It has to have been years since this man won his Games. I don't doubt his intelligence or ability to help us—he did win once, after all—but has it really been that long since District 9 has had a victor? Maybe I'm being too confident in our abilities to win and go home.
An uneasy silence fills the air as our surly mentor Bobby Singer picks out his lunch and Rowena merely watches him out of the corners of her eyes, as if she's just waiting for him to say or do something ill-mannered. Meanwhile, Castiel still hasn't budged, and I quietly try to eat my own food, fearful of disrupting the silence that's so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Things sure are going swimmingly for us this afternoon.
Finally, as he snatches a piece of toast and coats it with dark jam, Bobby Singer raises his head to glance between Castiel and me, his gaze unreadable. "So, who are the two unlucky ones this year?" Even his voice is as gruff as his appearance.
It takes me a moment to realize he's asking us for our names, and for some odd reason, I'm so nervous I'm stumbling over my own words. "I'm, uh, Dean Winchester," I tell him. His stare is uncomfortably scrutinizing. "I work in the, uh, wheat fields back home."
"Good." His response is so sudden and near-positive that I'm taken aback. "You must be strong or good with sickles, or both. Both would be preferable. We can work with that."
It's hard for me to swallow an anxious but rather intrigued laugh when Rowena flashes me a reassuring grin. If the man who once won the Hunger Games already has faith in me—even if it's just the tiniest spark—then I'm happy. Slowly, my confidence starts to return.
At least it did, until I notice Bobby watching Castiel with his unreadable but undoubtedly crotchety expression. Castiel is as still as a statue, and quite frankly, I'm not even sure if he noticed Bobby's appearance at all. Has he even blinked?
"What about you, son?" Bobby asks, his brows furrowing at Castiel's refusal to move. "You gonna answer me, or are you just gonna sit there and wallow in self-pity?"
"Hey," I snap at our mentor without even stopping to think about the repercussions. "Go easy on him. It's been a hard day."
Great. Now everyone is staring at me. Even Castiel has broken his rigid posture to turn his head, but only ever so slightly. Rowena mostly looks horrified, like I've just committed treason, but she doesn't concern me. Bobby Singer's dangerously narrowed eyes, on the other hand, do concern me.
I might not even make it to the Games. Our mentor might kill me right here, right now.
But then, much to my surprise and overwhelming relief, our surly mentor merely cracks a smile. "I like your spunk, kid," he tells me. "We'll put that to good use. Make sure everyone knows not to mess with you."
Rowena is back to grinning at me, as if nothing ever happened. I wonder if she gets whiplash from changing her emotions so much.
The attention is back on quiet Castiel, though, since he still hasn't introduced himself completely. Part of me wants to do it for him, but I'm not sure if Bobby will appreciate that one. Defending people is one thing, but taking total control of the situation is probably crossing a line, no matter how badly I want to. My fellow tribute looks too afraid to even raise his head and look across the table.
Eventually, he draws a trembling breath and forces himself to sit up in his chair. Still, he struggles to fully meet our mentor's eyes. "Castiel Novak," he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of the train. I can't quite explain why it hurts when I realize it's only the second time I've ever heard him speak. "I work in the fields, too."
"Ah, I got two field workers this year," Bobby remarks, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. "Not bad. Not bad. Anything else I should know?"
I doubt Castiel is going to talk again. It doesn't look like he even has the strength for it. So instead, I try to speak for the both of us, despite the fact that I still know next to nothing about him.
"We're both smart, and quick, too," I say, fully hoping that I'm not feeding our mentor lies. "We should be able to pick up whatever you tell us pretty easily."
"We'll see about that."
I'm glad Rowena clears her throat because it takes the attention away from my fallen expression. That wasn't a very consoling thing for a mentor to say. Aren't they supposed to lift us up, boost our confidence, prepare us for what we could possibly be facing up against in the arena? One thing's for certain, and it's that I'm not feeling very inspired by the person who's supposed to be helping us learn how to survive.
"We should reach the Capitol in a few hours," Rowena says, completely changing the subject. I don't mind. "Since District Nine is rather close, you two will get an extra night to relax and ready yourselves before the big tribute parade tomorrow evening. You're lucky! The outlying districts have to spend the night on the train and immediately jump into the hands of their individual prep teams in the morning!"
"Prep teams?" The dismayed question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. I seem to have a habit of doing that.
"Yes, prep teams!" Rowena trills, eagerly clapping her hands together. "Each tribute has a group of Capitol beauty specialists designated to them! They're going to make you look your very best!"
I must roll my eyes or groan or do something that Rowena doesn't appreciate. She lightly kicks me under the table and asks me where my manners are. I want to tell her I do have them, and actual morals, but would rather not waste them on selfish people who won't bother to return the favor. We're not humans to the Capitol. We're just toys they think they can dress up and beautify for their pleasure and entertainment. All I know about the tribute parade is that it's the first time everyone sees the tributes all together, which pretty much equates to the better you look, the more bets and sponsors you'll receive. I don't even want to think about what they're going to do to us tomorrow morning.
"You'll be staying in a luxurious apartment above the Training Center until the Games begin," Rowena goes on after she finishes reprimanding me. I'm just a crowd pleaser this trip, aren't I? "Since you're from District Nine, you'll be on the ninth floor. Once we reach the Capitol, we'll head straight there. Don't want too many people catching glimpses of you before the big parade, do we?"
No one matches her vivacious enthusiasm.
I don't have much of an appetite anymore. Trying to figure out and adapt to Bobby Singer's attitude wore me out enough, and now Rowena is starting up with her gushing about the Games again. I don't care how fancy our apartment is going to be. I don't care if people from the Capitol see us before the reveal tomorrow at the parade. All of it is pointless, just self-centered, materialistic nonsense. What I really care about is how Castiel and I are going to survive this whole nightmare, and judging by our mentor's gruff and obscure demeanor, that might prove to be more taxing than anything else.
"Eat up, dear," Rowena tells the boy from the fields. "You're skinnier than a twig. You'll need your strength for the days to come."
Castiel suddenly turns to me again, face alight with faint concern, as if he's waiting for my approval or something. I don't know what he expects, but I give him a nod of reassurance, and sure enough, he hesitantly reaches across the table and grabs a buttered roll. Nothing else.
It's difficult to ignore Bobby's watchful gaze on me as I try with all my willpower to finish my own plate of food. Rowena is right. We're going to need it.
* * * * *
A few long, uneventful hours pass. After our incredibly awkward and tense lunch, Bobby Singer retreated to his room, but to do what, I have no idea. At least he isn't bothering me or harassing Castiel anymore.
Speaking of, the boy from the fields who has still barely said anything all day disappeared into his room, too, without uttering a single word to anyone as he went. I wish he would talk more. If not to me, then at least to Rowena. She may be from the Capitol and way too eager about what's going on, but her heart is in the right place. She's trying to make this trip as smooth as possible for us, and deep down, I can appreciate that.
I know it's probably the extreme stress of everything that's happened that's making Castiel so timid and silent, but I hope he manages to come out of his shell soon. I won't be able to help him—help us—if he doesn't speak to me. And I want to help him more than anything. I don't break promises.
So with no one to talk to, I spend the remainder of the journey to the Capitol sitting by myself in the corner of the diner car, in a cushioned seat that's positioned so I can gaze out the spotless window. The landscape slowly transitions from the rolling hills of District 9 to more jagged cliffs as the mountainous zone where the Capitol resides creeps closer. We're almost there, and I can't decide if I'm excited to get off this train or absolutely terrified to see what awaits us in the big city.
Maybe I'll have a better chance to talk to Castiel once we're settled in the apartment, where we won't be under the spotlights of the reaping or the pressures of Rowena and Bobby. We should have enough freedom to spend some time together, to possibly get to know one another a bit more before the events leading up to the Games swallow us whole. I would like that.
The mountains begin to grow taller, jutting up into the cloudless sky. Their towering peaks threaten to block out the rays of warm sunlight, and I'm not sure if I'm just imagining things or if the interior of the train is suddenly a lot colder than before.
Then, in the near distance, I see something sparkling in the light. I squint my eyes, lean closer to the window, and realize it's a monstrous skyscraper, its outer finishing so sleek and silver that it glimmers beneath the sun like a mirror. There are tons of them, all packed together and spanning an enormous strip of land beside the mountains.
It's the Capitol. It has to be.
Rowena confirms my suspicion when she excitedly toddles back into the diner car, nearly tripping over her own high heels. "We're here!" she chirps. "Get ready, dear! Once we stop in the train station, we'll make our way to the Training Center."
The car plunges into darkness without warning. My heart leaps up to my throat when the sounds of the train are amplified, as if they're echoing around inside of a tunnel.
I realize that's exactly what's going on. As far as I know, all districts are blocked off from the others by a long stretch of tunnel that only trains like this one and authorized Capitol vehicles can pass through. We're gliding through the tunnel that keeps the Capitol secured from the outside world, which means we're really in the thick of it now.
When daylight returns and illuminates the car in a flash, all I see are flamboyant wigs, garish makeup, glittering clothes, and grinning faces of Capitol citizens as they swarm the train station, eagerly awaiting the arrival of another tribute train. They're waving at the windows, chanting words I can't quite make out, practically piling on top of one another to get a glimpse of the interior of the train. Are they seriously that desperate to see us that they've been camping out at the train station, waiting for our arrival?
I must have a look of bewilderment on my face. Rowena laughs and gently begins to rub my tense shoulders. "You're a celebrity now, dear," she tells me. "Everyone's dying to meet you."
Well, I certainly don't feel like a celebrity. I'm a candidate for a murder contest. And that probably wasn't the best choice of words on Rowena's part, either. Those people ogling outside the train aren't the ones who are going to be dying soon.
As the train rolls to a stop, Castiel returns to the diner car, still as silent as ever. Bobby Singer follows shortly behind. Rowena then guides us toward a back exit of the train so we're not swarmed by the Capitol citizens, and outside, a smooth, streamline car sits waiting for us. I've never been in a car before. Everyone always walks in District 9.
There's a driver already seated behind the wheel. Only one seat is available beside him, and there isn't much room in the backseat. Much to my overwhelming relief, Rowena suggests that Bobby should sit in the front and she'll sit in the back with Castiel and me. I'm not completely sure if she did that because she just likes us, or if she somehow knows that I would rather be attacked by my new adoring fans than squeeze myself into the backseat with our mentor.
Nonetheless, the very instant we get inside and close the doors, the driver peels out of the train station and into the looming city.
Into our new home until the Hundredth Hunger Games begin.