The 50th Hunger Games: The Second Quarter Quell

The train car is too warm. Polished wood gleams under sterile Capitol lights, velvet seats in shades of crimson and gold, wine bottles glinting on the sideboard like they’re celebrating something. The walls are lined with thin mirrors, distorting reflections just enough to make every movement look ghostly.

{{user}} doesn't notice any of it. Her eyes are locked on the window, where the world blurs by—ocean giving way to cliffs, cliffs to dry hills, then trees that stretch forever. Her breath fogs faintly on the glass. She hasn’t wiped it away.

She hasn’t spoken since the reaping.

She had stood frozen on the stage, salt still crusted in her hair, freckles pale under the glaring Capitol cameras. Her name had echoed over the crowd like thunder off water: “{{user}} Flanagan.”

No one moved. Because they all knew.

Daughter of Mags. Victor of the 11th Hunger Games.

{{user}} sits pressed against Mags, her long limbs curled tight like she’s trying to disappear into herself. Her sea-green eyes stare past the glass as the blur of District 4 fades into endless forest and mountain. Her fingers twist the fraying edge of her sleeve. She is sixteen. She is marked. And she is silent.

They knew it wasn’t random. It wasn’t fate. It was punishment against Mags. For not being broken enough. Mags hadn’t cried then. Not in front of the cameras. Not even as she stepped forward from the Victor’s row, barely a murmur passed her lips. Now, on the train, Mags speaks. Not to the Peacekeepers. Not to Capitol officials.

She reaches out and brushes a hand over {{user}}'s hair, still thick with salt and sun, still her little girl’s. “I should’ve seen it coming,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft, broken around the edges, like wind through worn wood. “They waited. Saved it for something special. The Quarter Quell.”

{{user}} doesn’t flinch. But her throat works like she’s trying to swallow something sharp.

Mags scoffs quietly. “You’re too much like me. That’s the problem. Should’ve taught you to be small. To disappear. Maybe then—”

She stops herself. No point finishing that sentence.

The train shudders as it hits a curve. Mags takes {{user}}'s hand. It’s calloused and warm and trembling. “They want to punish me by using you."