Chapter Text
The train seat Grayson sat in was uncomfortable at best.
Blindingly white architecture designed the train-- faultless in it’s creation. The seating was an uninspired plastic with mockingly blue cushioning. Buzzing fluorescent lights bounced off the sheeny walls and glared in the boy’s eyes. Grayson was sure they managed the air-conditioning to make it feel incredibly stuffy.
Cold, clammy hands wrung together tensed with every fearful thought he had. His leg bounced, back hunched slightly as he stared at a black speck staining the ground.
Across from him, sitting legs crossed and arms folded, was his Mentor.
The former Victor’s hair color was split evenly in the middle-- a style that had fallen out of fashion some time ago-- with the left being a snowy white and the right a charcoal black. A similar coloration pattern was poked into his eyes; one being red, the other a glittering gold. The boy knew it was contacts.
Grayson swallowed. The lump in his throat didn’t subside. His eyes flickered in and out of focus, squinting. He felt guilty for not even remembering the Victor’s stage name.
“You’re tense,” his Mentor started, and Grayson could hear the man shuffling and unfolding his hands. “Don’t be.”
Grayson laughed-- it was airy, strained. “That’s-- that’s a lot easier said than done, man.”
He looked up from the ground. The man’s clothing was surprisingly casual (for the Capitol’s standards, at least); a light gray jacket with two white stripes on the sleeves. There was a shimmer on the inside of the jacket, however, and he noticed the glittery shine stretching from his cheeks to the bridge of his nose. Notably, his mentor adorned unpractical headphones.
“Then just don’t look tense,” he said simply, and Grayson didn’t respond.
Silence cloaked them. The distant whirl of the air conditioning sounded, and the boy could hear the muffled rumble of the vehicle moving.
“How old were you,” Grayson croaked, words barely managing from his throat, “when you were reaped?”
His mentor raised a brow, pausing before he started to count on his fingers. “I swear I’m not this dumb,” he quipped with a smile, squinting at his hands. Grayson was sure it was apart of his brand-- to act casual. To look casual. To speak casually. The comment made his stomach churn.
“Well, it’s been nine years. I’m twenty-five now, so you can figure out the math there.”
Sixteen. One year older than Grayson.
He was seven when his Mentor won the games. To him, a boy like that was an idol-- a teenager that strategized beyond his years and fought past pure strength. The boy was quick in his thinking, quick with his words, quick with his execution.
By now? The twenty-five-year-old had faded into obscurity.
“I really hate to ask this, I should know, but-- what, what was your name? In the arena?”
“Promise you won’t laugh,” he joked again, a finger coming up to poke his headphones. “Gamerboy80.”
Grayson had to laugh. It was on-brand, wasn’t it? District 3, the home of engineering, technology-- all the advancements in automation and robotics-- it would make sense a tribute would relate. It sounded like a user in one of those video-games. Sickening.
His mentor chuckled, too. “Andrew’s a better fit, don’t you think?”
It was a quiet comment, but the faux-humility made Grayson’s fingers twitch.
“You’re name’s Grayson, yeah?” Andrew’s voice started up again. “I’m sure we can play off something there.”
Maybe his Mentor could manage to market this fifteen-year-old into a star.