Only Hunger

The new District 4 tributes watched Cordelia Odair with wide eyes, their gazes trailing her every movement as she walked leisurely through the train, her feet barely making a sound against the polished floor. The rhythmic clink of glass against the counter echoed in the otherwise silent car, the soft splash of juice pouring into the glass punctuating the stillness. She was a vision of grace, her long hair cascading like dark silk, shimmering beneath the soft, artificial lights of the Capitol's sleek train. Yet, despite her beauty, there was a heaviness to her, something that clung to her presence and made it impossible for anyone to ignore.

Finnick Odair, sitting across from the tributes, was the first to break the silence with his signature smile. It was charming, easy, a smile that had won the Capitol's heart countless times. But Cordelia, his cousin, was a different story. She was quieter, more introspective. She had always been the one with the weight of history on her shoulders—the one with the tragic tale that the Capitol adored to exploit, but which no one truly understood. Her story had been etched in the minds of the people for years, like an old myth, retold in hushed tones and around campfires, her face a ghostly image on posters, with the haunting memory of Zyaire's sacrifice woven into every telling.

The two new tributes couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and dread as they watched her. She had the look of someone who had lived through everything the Capitol could throw at her and survived, though not unscathed. Her eyes, though calm now, held something darker beneath the surface—a sorrow that never seemed to leave her.

Despite the distance in her gaze, Cordelia was aware of their stares, and after a long moment, she finally turned to face them. Her voice broke the stillness, sharp and quiet, yet somehow carrying a weight that made her words feel like they were meant for more than just the immediate moment.

"So," she began, her eyes flicking between the two tributes, "what are you good at?"

The question hung in the air, simple yet cutting in its directness. The two tributes exchanged nervous glances, their faces betraying a mixture of fear and uncertainty. They knew who Cordelia was—everyone knew who she was. She was the victor, the daughter of the waves, the one whose story had become both legend and cautionary tale. The pressure to impress her, to prove themselves worthy in the face of her quiet strength, was suffocating.

They glanced at Finnick, hoping for some reassurance, but he only gave them a small nod of encouragement, his grin never faltering. His eyes twinkled with that familiar playfulness, but there was an unspoken understanding between him and Cordelia, a shared history that no one could penetrate. The tributes knew that in this room, with these two legends, they were not the center of attention. They were the ones being judged.

The younger of the two tributes, a tall, wiry boy with an unremarkable face, cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. "I-I'm good with knives," he stammered, his hands twitching nervously at his sides. "I used to hunt with my father before... before all of this."

Cordelia nodded, her gaze steady. She didn't speak immediately, her silence stretching between them like a tangible thing. The boy felt the weight of it, his heart thumping in his chest as he waited for her response. She took a sip of her juice, her eyes never leaving him, as if considering whether or not his words meant anything.

"And you?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with something deeper. She wasn't asking out of curiosity, but out of necessity, as if she needed to understand what they were capable of.

The second tribute, a girl with sharp features and a quiet intensity in her eyes, leaned forward slightly. "I'm good with traps," she said, her voice more confident now. "I know how to set them, how to hide them... how to use them to my advantage."

Cordelia's lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. It was the first sign of emotion she had shown, and even then, it was fleeting.

"Good," she said, nodding slowly. "You'll need all the skills you have to survive."

The air in the train car seemed to thicken with the weight of her words. It wasn't meant as encouragement; it was a reality check. There was no sugar-coating it. The Games would be cruel, no matter what skills they had. Cordelia knew that all too well.

The two tributes fell silent again, their eyes shifting uneasily between her and Finnick. Finnick's smile was still there, though it seemed less certain now, his gaze flicking from Cordelia to the tributes with a mixture of pride and pity. He had seen it all before-the fear, the anxiety, the desperate hope that they could somehow avoid becoming another casualty of the Games.

Cordelia, for her part, didn't look at Finnick. She couldn't. Not now. Not when the memories of Zyaire, of the river, of the Games she had fought through, were still so raw, still so fresh in her mind.

She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. The movement startled the tributes, and even Finnick seemed momentarily thrown off. She walked to the window, her eyes lost in the blur of the passing landscape outside.

Finnick watched her for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes fading into something more somber. He knew this was the part of her that most people didn't see—the part of Cordelia that had been broken long before the Capitol ever got its hands on her. He had tried, over and over again, to reach her, to help her heal from what had happened, but the cracks in her heart were too deep, too jagged for even him to mend.

"You'll be alright," he said to the tributes, his tone soft but firm. "Just remember, this isn't just about surviving. It's about outlasting everyone else."

Cordelia turned her gaze back to them, her eyes piercing, full of untold stories. She said nothing, but the unspoken message was clear: Trust no one. Not even yourself.

She walked out of the room without another word, leaving the tributes to wonder if they would ever survive long enough to make it out of the Games alive.

In the silence that followed, the train continued to rumble on, carrying them toward their inevitable fate. And with each passing mile, the weight of the Capitol's cruelty loomed larger, more suffocating, until they were all but consumed by it.