@andpale
The 73rd Hunger Games. Drove feels sick. Though he'd known that his odds weren't good going in, his name in the reaping bowl thirty six times at the age of fifteen, hearing his name called out across the square had made his heart drop into the pit of the stomach. Faces turning to look at his, the twins gripping each other as he'd limped past them, little Maeve's crying even before he'd reached the stage. He'd clung to them all for as long as was allowed in the hall of justice before they'd been pulled away. Numb as he lets himself be ushered towards the train.
He's never going to see them again.
His fellow tribute, an eighteen year old named Agnes that he recognises from the slaughterhouse, is silent as they sit in the carriage, neither of them capable of conversation. When the door to the compartment opens, he looks up slowly. Farrow is there, as he'd expected, but of their mentors, she's the only district ten victor. It's common knowledge to most in ten that their other two victors are not in the best of health, but he'd still expected to see Warren here. Instead the second person is someone he vaguely recognises from several games ago. District four, he thinks, though he's not entirely sure. What on earth is she doing here?
