The gleaming steam engine locomotive dominates the town square. Banners stream from the buildings, compliments of the capital. The buildings in this nicer part of district 6 are made from old cinder block station houses, watch towers, industrial complexes and warehouses where 'wealthier citizens' can live and run businesses. Engineers, locomotive captains, heads of mechanics shops. There's even some markets inside of the warehouses, places where merchants can sell food, clothing, boots, and tools, either new or refurbished. One large gray warehouse bares the sign 'Apothecaria.' There's even some food stalls attached to bicycles or built into the trunks of pick up trucks so that working people can buy a cheap, worker's lunch during midday break. But the locomotive dominates the square, beautiful and polished and black against the red iron of rust and the pale gray of the cinder blocks. It isn't an uncommon sight to spy a few rail-yard workers or mechanics siting on the steps leading up to it or standing by it, eating their lunch of thick bread stuffed with various meets, maybe apples or other available fruits, and dark tea. 

     However, on this day instead of the laughs of comradery of working people relieved by a midday break, the locomotive was guarded by two peacekeepers in white armor with their semis in hand. Peace keepers also perched atop the buildings, looking down like vultures waiting to swoop in for a kill. Ropes cordoned off the sections of the square where people were to stand. Adults and small children, and fourteen special squares for the potential tributes, divided by age and sex. People already filing in, parents staying with their kids as long as possible or hurrying off to the viewing area because they couldn't stand it. Everyone wears their best on Reaping day, in case its the last time that they see their kid. Not a work apron nor welding mask nor pair of leather gloves is in sight. Instead everyone appear in their cleanest and least tattered clothes. Long hair is brushed and braided, and those with fancier or flashier things such as conductor's watches or driver's hats show off as much as they can. Food stalls stay perched to start selling as soon as the reaping is over; those who don't have their children picked usually want to stick around since Reaping Day is a day off, after all. Lower ranking peacekeepers busy themselves with setting up a microphone and small platform in front of the locomotive and the officials from the capital stand by, appearing as though they fear touching any locals. They are there to appear on tv and to smile and pretend to be charmed by the 'local customs.'

At high noon, after all the Reaping age children have been signed in and finish being herded to their respective area, the cameras come online and district 6 is live on the air.

(Somewhere in that crowd, another youth stands in line: just as certain as Hopper that today will not be her day.)

      Upon the small makeshift podium before the black locomotive, a strange woman stands before the crowd of dull faces. Daintily, she rises from her seat and approaches the microphone. She appears a head shorter and almost skeletal compared to the broad bodies of laborers before her. Her face is scrunched and tiny, with a thin line of blue lip stick that does her lips no favors, and long, cat-like blue eye liner to match. She appears in her late thirties, and her skin doesn't sag so much as peel away from her tight cheeks as if it could be brushed off with the slightest touch. Her outfit is a three piece suit in a deep and shiny green cut in with blue to match her lips. Her hair is done up in a black/purple pompadour. Upon her head, disturbingly gazing down at the crowd of potential tributes, is the body of a stuffed bird, eyes bloodshot and with wings spread and beak open in a silent scream. But even the horror upon her head doesn't distract from the fright of her hands. The woman's arms are short and end in tiny hands that appear far too small even for someone of her stature, however, her long nails give them an unnatural illusion of length. These nails are at least two inches long, straight and claw like up to the tips. They are painted a sick, nauseous shade of green, with tiny black rhinestones glued to the ends. This gives her hands the appearance of talons. 

Standing before the mic, she begins to speak with the inflection of one from the capital, but with a more raspy voice. She sounds not like she's thirsty, but like she is dying of thirst. "Welcome, my name is Euphemia Hossenfeffer. Thank you for your cooperation in the fifteenth annual Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor. I would like to first welcome Detta Gagnon to the stage."

The crowd sighs in relief for a moment free of her quiet hissing, and instead turn their eyes to the sole victor and mentor of their district, Detta Gagnon. Tall and solemn, her relaxed demeanor and courteous nod are all it takes for her to have the crowd on her side. The people of the district know that every year she does what she can to help their tributes. They do not hold their lack of winners against her.

Letting out a panting sigh, as if strained from the mere act of breathing, Euphemia holds up her hands in front of herself and leans in close to the mic. Her eyes appear strangely wide all of a sudden, as she says, "ladies first." Quickly, the fearful woman approaches the large bowl full of names as if sneaking up to it, ready to pounce. But she doesn't use any flounce or ceremony for the act of choosing itself, instead opting for a quick plunge, grabbing a piece of paper promptly and stalking back to the microphone. 

"Deena Fryeet," she announces into the mic, wrinkling her eyebrows as she struggles to get the pronunciation correct.

Detta leans in, peering over Euphemia's shoulder to read the name on the card. She stands nearly a food taller than her companion on the stage, so it isn't a difficult maneuver.

"Dhina Freight." She hisses a correction into the announcer's ear, keeping her voice low so it isn't picked up by the microphone.

"Dina Freight," says Euphemia, attempting to roll the r fancily but only succeeding to make it sound like a cough. 

It doesn't sink in right away.

First she distantly thinks 'that poor girl' the same way she does every year.

And then she thinks, a little less distantly, 'hey that girl's name sounds sort of like mine'?

And then the crowd around her is parting, and everyone is looking at her, and the reality of the situation hits her all at once.

She steps out of line and approaches the platform.

Without an apology or an acknowledgment, Euphemia approaches the bowl on the boy tribute side, quickly grabbing up a name and reading it into the microphone.

"Hooper Graunt."

The boys side begin the same looking about, trying to decipher who among them it is. There is an unspeakably relief felt by all children in district 6 when the name called on Reaping day sounds nothing like their own. There's always a stiff, scared body that gets noticed by the others in their age group. This time was no different, as the thirteen year old boys slowly turn and look at the boy whose name was called.

[Developer's Note: In future iterations of the Hunger Games, include pronunciation guide alongside names of prospective tributes.]

Hopper slowly becomes aware of the fact that his name had been called, and it was gotten wrong. His cheeks begin burning red as the other thirteen year old boys start to turn toward him. Feelings of humiliation washing over him, Hopper's gaze stays low. Most tributes walk slowly, stunned with fear. In this case the boy was feeling stunned, yes. However, Hopper also feels an intense burning hatred as well, and something drives him forward toward the platform. 

Rushing up on the microphone, red still spreading across his face, Hopper grabs the mic from Euphemia and yells into the mouth piece "my name is Hopper Grant." However, instead of cheering or clapping, the whole crowd ducks and groan as a high pitched, loud ring from the speakers tears through the air. The ringing only lasts for a minute, however, and the boy stubbornly repeats 'Hopper Grant,' to the pained crowds.

A peacekeeper quickly pulls him back as Euphemia straightens out her ruffled clothing, cocking her head at the audacious boy. 

"Well yes it is," she hisses, looking at the boy with a slight tremble of anger. Turning back to the microphone, the slight woman puts on a saccharine smile and whispers into the microphone, "Our tributes." She holds the children's hands as high up as she can, digging in her nails on Hopper's wrist. Only a few people clap..

(Detta cringes wordlessly at the boy tribute's outburst.)

Dhina barely registers it.

She's in her own world right now. A quiet, small world.

Someone--the announcer?--takes her hand and yanks her out of her mental cloister. She once again registers the presence of her ranshackle hometown, of the somber crowd, of the bored peacekeeprs lined up in their spotless white.

She searches the crowd for her parents' faces and makes eye contact, because That Is The Sort Of Thing You Are Supposed To Do.

She doesn't feel much anything.

The next place that Hopper finds himself is sitting on a low bed inside of a Station Agent's house. The mayor is a station agent, so for all that Hopper knew, he might have been inside of the mayor's house. The hard wooden furniture was simple pine with felt covering the seats of the chairs and small bench which served as a couch. There were windows on all of the walls of the square building and Hopper looks out at the train station on one side and the town square on the other. In one corner sits a glorious grandfather clock, beautifully gilded and ticking away. In the opposite corner of the room, a wood-burning stove and cupboard. A table with a hand-knit doily atop it as a decoration with two low chairs pushed in sit by a window and a loft with feather cushions for sleeping on hover above. Hopper can only describe this house as very domesticated.

Outside of the station house his father worked in, this is the nicest building Hopper had ever set foot in. He sits perched on the edge of the bench in this quaint little space, being filled with a sensation of being pulled back and fourth between his feelings and this little room, making him feel nauseous. An empty feeling in his left hand eats at his mind, and quickly and without thinking he darts for a chifferobe, throwing open the bottom drawer and quickly finding a sock. Stuffing it inside his back pocket, Hopper is taken by surprise as the door to the stairwell opens and he sees his mother and sisters walking in, who spot him there on his knees.

"Hopper!" his mother says tensely, " please don't cry." She says this with a touch of concern but mostly with the bluntness she always uses when correcting her children, reaching down and pulling him back up to his feet. Instinctively, he throws his arms around her and for a moment she hugs him back, and then his sisters join in. He listens as his mom makes him sit down and explains that he has to smile for the cameras, and to mention his family while on the air, and that he will 'be okay.' That's the phrase she keeps using. Her soft but firm instructions are inturrupted, however, as Hopper begins to look around and asks, "where's Pete?"

"He wouldn't come," says his older sister simply, mirroring her mother's efficiency and firmness. "Scared they would take him too."

This sets Hopper over the edge and he starts crying severely, snot pouring from his nose and pulling at his skin with his hands. His mom watches and then kneels down, wiping his face with her embroidered handkerchief. When he finally stops, she delicately refolds the handkerchief and hugs him one last time and says, "I'll ask them if your father can leave work to say goodbye." Hopper knows then that his mother, who had always been so strong, was breaking inside. She had never actually used her handkerchief before.

With that the peacekeepers come back inside and pull the family away, leaving Hopper back where he was, sitting perched on the edge of the bench. 

Half an hour later, his father is pushed into the room, sweaty and covered in grease from operating the machinery of the station house. He doesn't speak. Hasn't since the capital cut his tongue out fifteen years before.  Instead, he lays a large hand on Hopper's shoulder and stares at him with intensely blue eyes, sweat and tears gathering in his curly beard.

That is what Hopper remembers as he boards the capital train.

The gleaming capital train sits in the grand central station of district 6, ten cars long. This train is pulled by the latest in electric locomotives. A pale steam wafts across the platform, rising from the smoke stack of the train, but this is only for show. Wax burning inside of a furnace at the front of the train to give off the appearance of smoke, as a sort of decoration. The train is a pale silver in color, and against the afternoon sun it's almost painful to gaze upon.

The first car serves as a work space for navigation and oversight, and the second for the crew of the train to live in while on board. These cars are lovely and homey, but not particularly luxurious, and off limits to the newest tributes. The third car is for the chaperone, Euphemia, so that she has her own space to retire to. This car doesn't look odd from the outside, but inside is decorated from floor to ceiling in animal skins, taxidermy, and skeletons. Euphemia never travels without them.

The next car is divided into two different spaces, half of it serving as Detta's private suite. This suite has a hallway cutting it down the middle, as do all of the cars, so that the bedroom is on one side of the hallway, and the bathroom on the other. These little hallways serve as walkways so that one can traverse the train without violating anyone's privacy. The second half of the car is a full gym, complete with tread mills, weight training, stationary bikes, and other exercise machines. The designers of the space didn't want to say it, but most of the workout equipment on the train is spaced far too close together to be completely safe, especially on a moving train. The next is a spa car, with steam boxes, a massage area, and even a Jacuzzi. After this is the kitchen car, where all of the meals are to be prepared for the tributes, chaperones, mentor's, and staff. 

The next couldn't be anything else but the dinning car. This lovely space featured an antique crystal chandelier hanging over a rich red dinning table. The places lay set already, with silver plates and chalices ready to be filled with wine. Once through this car, one has to pass through Dhina's car, through the hallway which cuts down the middle. Inside of her room, a plush feather mattress sits on a Mahogany frame and a screen covers the entire opposite wall, so that the resident tribute can enjoy a media experience like nothing that they had ever had before. Once out of this car is the lounge and bar. plump plum colored chairs, couches, and ottomons are scattered throughout the room, with tables lined with treats of various types already laid out for the tributes found in between. small plates of cakes and tarts, sweets, sandwiches, and hors d'oruvres cover the low tables and sit atop the bar. Behind the bar, which is made from black ebony wood, the entire wall holds bottles of liquor in every shape and color imaginable. There is also an espresso machine for making coffee beverages. 

The final car of the train is the suite of the male tribute. 

He boards, entering at the door to the lounge car. It is not empty. 

Dhina is greedily availing herself of the aforementioned comestibles.

She glances up at Hopper as he enters, but doesn't rise from her meal.

Hopper takes a long time to board the train, as he insists on taking time to examine the outside  the actual wheels on the tracks, which appear to be chrome. Something he only ever saw on capital trains. When he finally boards, he enters into a rich  bar car, and he immediately wants to examine the walls for ladders or the walls for breaks, instead, it appears as though he is inside of a fancy capital club, like one he had seen on the tv once before. His search as stopped in its tracks almost immediately, though, as he notices the other tribute sitting in a chair with a large plate of the offered refreshments sitting in front of her. She's a year ahead of him in school, so it isn't like he knows her, Still, he's seen her around, so he figures that he ought to say something so that things don't get awkward.

He immediately says the first thing that comes to mind, which is, "how can you eat at a time like this?"

"How can you not?"

She jabs her arm out in his direction, holding a plate of pastries just below his nose.

"We're hungry and we're about to die. May as well fix at least one of those things."

"I don't know about you," says Hopper stepping back. "my family aren't elevator operators. So we get to eat everyday."

She puts the plate down.

"Good for you."

At this Hopper looks away, and then in order to avoid having to respond, shoves the nearest pastry into his mouth.

"So what do you do, anyway? Something with trains, I'm guessing, given how you're dressed."

"My father runs the electrical grid for grand central. I was being trained to run it before I got picked," says Hopper, puffing out his chest and trying to sound proud. "The old electric controls for tracks in district 6 are the last of their kind in the whole of Panem. Replacing them would be too complicated, so instead a new, highly trained specialist takes over when the old one retires. That's been my family business for nearly sixty years. How about y'all? Pushing buttons?"

"Ayup. Real good at pushing buttons. Sometimes we make the elevators go up. Sometimes we make them go do. Gripping work."

"Kay, well I am going to find our mentor. I actually want to have a plan going in. See you later, button masher."

Wordlessly, she points at the door leading towards the front of the train.