The Equestrian Hunger Gamesby Eidolon WispChaptersReaping DayProcessionInterlude: Summer Spark's New JobOne-Way Train to CanterlotEn RouteReaping DayI kicked the apple tree hard enough to leave a dent, and felt bad about it as soon as I was done. The tree never did anything to me, after all. I was always on edge this time of year. Everyone was. Even Canterlot, probably, though I'd bet they were more on the edge of their seats than anything else. But this year was worse, because Applebloom was finally eligible for the reaping. I tried to tell myself what all of the Apple family had told Applebloom—it wasn't gonna be her, she only had her name in the drawing once, everything was going to be fine, or as fine as it ever was. The Apple family had it better than some. The farm had been mostly successful—we'd made quota all but one year for as long as I'd been alive. That one year was pretty bad. There'd been a Parasprite invasion, and the blasted things ate more than half our harvest before help arrived from the capitol. Canterlot took the rest of what we had, of course. We could starve, for all they cared, as long as the capitol ponies got their fritters and pie. But we didn't, of course, though me and Big Macintosh both had to take out tesserae. But overall, we'd been luckier than a lot of people. Surely our luck would hold us through another Hunger Games, right? Now, if only I could make myself believe it. The reaping was tomorrow. In two days, this would all be over until next year. I bucked the next tree in the row, not quite as hard as the last, and apples came pouring down into the basket. This year's harvest was a good one. Soon it would be winter, and me, Big Mac, Applebloom and Granny Smith would be sitting inside around a fire, and Granny would be telling us the same stories she'd told us last year, and the year before, and would probably tell next year, too. Yeah. I just had to keep thinking positive. Supper was quieter than usual that night. Granny Smith mentioned that her joints were achy, which meant rain would be coming soon. Applebloom pushed her hay around her plate—I couldn't tell if she'd actually eaten any of it. I was none too hungry myself, but I forced myself to eat to set a good example. It didn't do to let good food go to waste. Canterlot let us keep little enough of it. Granny Smith brought out pie for dessert—a rare treat, saved for special occasions when we could scrape up enough bits to buy flour, butter and sugar. Granny must have been planning this for a while, now, scrimping and saving. Even though Applebloom had barely touched her meal, Granny cleared her plate and served her a slice of pie. "Go on, sweetie," she said. "Apple a day, 'n all that." Applebloom gave her a small smile, and took a bite. The rest of us served ourselves some pie as well. It was as good as ever, and I tried to enjoy it as much as it deserved. There was a chance it could be my last time. Or Applebloom's. But no. Our odds were fairly good. I had a few tesserae, but so had Big Mac, and he hadn't been called up, so it wasn't as though I didn't have a good shot at not getting picked. I turned in early, saying I was tired from working all day. I tossed and turned all night, dreaming about things I couldn't remember in the morning, but that must've been pretty bad, given the way I was tangled up in the covers from all the thrashing I did. We all gathered in the Town Square for the reaping, same as every year. Me and Applebloom went to sign up at the booth, then we stood in the area for earth ponies eligible to be tributes—Big Macintosh was, thankfully, too old as of last year. We waited there for maybe an hour while they got the names all set up for the drawing. Applebloom was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, pressing herself as close to me as she could. "It's gonna be all right," I told her, a few times, but she never seemed to believe me. I couldn't blame her. I wasn't entirely sure whether to believe me. The pony doing the drawings was a unicorn named Gingerbread. Her cutie mark was, predictably enough, a gingerbread pony, which was a little strange given her choice of career. Of course, said gingerbread pony was covered in icing, and Gingerbread had a voice that sounded sickly-sweet as a tubful of frosting, so maybe it fit after all. Most of Gingerbread was a light brownish color, but her hair was a brilliant shade of pink, striped with white. "Hello!" she cooed into the microphone. "Welcome, all of you, to this year's Reaping! I know I'm certainly looking forward to seeing this year's brave young Tributes... but first," she said, shuffling some notecards, "a reminder of what the Hunger Games are all about." Like every year, things started out with the history of the Hunger Games-how Canterlot had united the lands of Equestria two hundred years ago, after the centuries of war that had followed the assassination of Celestia; how, seventy-four years ago, the nine districts had all rebelled against Canterlot and the Regent who ruled it; how the rebellion had been crushed, and District Nine destroyed; and, finally, how the Hunger Games had been established in order to remind the districts of the costs of rebellion. While she spoke, the crystal projectors that had been set up onstage displayed various images-my "favorite" was the one with the hateful-looking rebels charging at the horrified Canterloters, with Celestia gazing down from the clouds, tears rolling down her cheeks. Of course, the picture of the rebel rearing up, forehooves held ready to smash down on a terrified foal, was a close second. When I'd been younger—too young for the Reaping, even—this yearly presentation had given me awful nightmares. At some point, I'd stopped feeling terrified and started getting cynical. It maybe wasn't the safest attitude to have, but I kept quiet, so no harm done. And there was something just plain absurd about Gingerbread doing the announcing. I think she honestly tried to be somber, but something about her made it hard to take her seriously. Maybe it was the fact that she'd probably never seen anything like the horrors of war she described. She'd never lost a loved one to a fever the local doctor didn't have the medicine to fix, and of course Canterlot wasn't going to send any—as long as it didn't start spreading, it wouldn't impede production overmuch. She'd had never had to see her little sister crying with hunger while trains loaded with District Eight crops went puffing off to Canterlot—and the ponies who'd come to take the shipment had demanded that we make up for being under quota by next fall, or face punishment, as though stealing our food wasn't punishment enough. She'd never had to fear that, if the odds weren't in her favor, she might be sent off to kill and die for the amusement of Canterlot. Up until three years ago, it had been the Mayor doing the recitation. But after she caught the redpox, which left her alive, but covered in bleeding pockmarks, she rarely showed her face anywhere. It was strange that barely anyone else had caught it—but then, the last year she'd described the history, she'd started crying, had gone a bit off script, saying something like "And because ponies died during the rebellion, now they steal away our children to die in the arena." This was true, of course, but it wasn't the way you were supposed to talk about it. The Mayor's niece had gotten reaped the year before, though, so it was kind of understandable. It would have been a relief when Gingerbread finished her joke of a presentation if I hadn't known what was coming up next. Gingerbread pepped right up again, practically glowing with excitement. "And now, it's time to select which earth pony, pegasus, and unicorn will have the honor and privilege of representing District Eight in this year's Hunger Games! Oh, isn't this exciting!" I wanted to vomit. The other pony on stage, a mare named Cheerilee who was the last victor to come out of District Eight, seemed to share my sentiments. She hadn't said or done anything throughout the presentation, which was pretty normal for her. She just stood there, stock still, face either expressionless or vaguely nauseated. There were three lotteries set up-little slips of paper with the name of every eligible unicorn, pegasus and earth pony stuck in three rotating spheres, respectively. Gingerbread went for the unicorns first, spinning the sphere with her hoof, then plucking out a name. District Eight was probably the best place in Equestria to be an earth pony, and one of the worst places to be a unicorn or pegasus. District Eight specialized in agriculture, which was, of course, best done by earth ponies. We had a small population of both unicorns and pegasi to take care of those tasks better done by non-earth ponies, such as jobs requiring the fine coordination of magic and weather control, but both groups were outnumbered by far by the earth ponies. So Applebloom was probably one of the safest ponies around. She had only a single entry in the biggest lottery—and heck, I only had a few. I swallowed. Gingerbread cleared her throat, smiled brilliantly, and, glancing over at the unicorn section, read the name of the first tribute: "Lyra Heartstrings!" Two of the burly pegasus Guardians that had come with Gingerbread went down to the unicorn section to escort Lyra to the stage. I knew her. She owned a little harp, and she could play it prettier than anything I'd ever heard. I heard a gasp from nearby—Bon Bon, who stared at the stage in disbelief. I knew that Lyra and Bon Bon were close. I also knew that there wasn't much hope of Lyra coming back. She was a gentle pony—she'd likely be one of the first to go. Unicorns from District Eight didn't tend to do well in the Games. Those unicorns that had a fighting chance generally came from District One, which produced magical items, and tended to produce unicorns who were strong and educated enough to be able to use a fair bit of magic. The fact that unicorns over a certain power level had to wear a dampening device leveled the playing field a bit, but probably not enough-especially since District One actually trained ponies to compete in the Games. Bon Bon started to cry, and Applebloom shivered. I wrapped one of my forelegs around her shoulders. Gingerbread drew from the pegasus lottery next. She unrolled the little slip of paper and, after a dramatic pause, announced the next tribute: "Honeysuckle!" The pink pegasus began to walk towards the stage before the Guardians came to get her, her head held high, and her face hard. I had never really talked to her—I'd seen her flying above the farm a few times, but she seemed to keep to the clouds for the most part. Finally, it was time for the earth pony drawing. With just as much dramatic flair as before, Gingerbread drew the name, unrolled it agonizingly slowly, cleared her throat, and read: "Applebloom!" Applebloom—? ...no. No. No. One name in... it must be hundreds. Only one. I must have misheard, or maybe there was another pony named Applebloom- But no—it was her, my sweet baby sister, and there was no use pretending otherwise. The Guardians were approaching. If they took Applebloom, she'd never come back. So I did the only thing that I could do. "I volunteer!" I yelled. "I volunteer!" The Guardians halted, turned to look at me. Applebloom clung to my leg. "No, Applejack, no, no..." As gently as I could, I detached her. Then I walked, up to the stage with the pegasi on either side of me. I took my place next to Honeysuckle. "Oh," Gingerbread trilled, "a volunteer! How exciting! Do tell us all your name." "Applejack," I said. I looked over at Applebloom. She was crying, hard, and it hurt to see it and not be able to go down and give her a hug. "Now," said Gingerbread, as full of good cheer as she'd been all day, "Let's hear a round of applause for District Eight's brave tributes!" For a few moments, there was silence. Then came a half-hearted drumming of hooves. And then... Granny Smith, from the middle of the crowd, reared up and yelled, at the top of her lungs, "Give 'em hell, Applejack!" She immediately fell back onto all fours, grabbing her hip, but the cry was taken up. "Give 'em hell!" the crowd roared. "Give 'em hell!" Gingerbread seemed pleased as punch. I wondered if she'd be quite so thrilled if she realized that neither Granny or anyone else had said who the "'em" were-the other tributes, or Canterlot itself. Not that we could actually do anything to Canterlot. They were the ones in control, here. All we could do was give 'em a hell of a show. I looked down at Applebloom, then over at Big Mac and Granny Smith, and I swore that I'd do the best I could to get home to them. And I don't break my promises easily. Gingerbread breathes a sigh of relief as soon as she's in private. That was rather draining, but she did well, she thinks. It's her first time doing this-it's not the most prestigeous district, naturally, but maybe she'll move up. Or maybe she won't. Maybe, if one of the ponies she called becomes a Victor, she'll be offered a move up to a nicer district, and she'll refuse, saying she's fallen in love with District Eight, yes, that's what she'll do, because it really is nice out here, very rustic, maybe if District Eight does well this year, a new style-cowpony hats and boots, or maybe something more plant based, like artificial vines wound through manes-will sweep through Canterlot, and Gingerbread will be at the vanguard of the trend, and won't that be wonderful! Still, even if the fashion thing didn't pan out... Gingerbread would still love to see one of her tributes win. She thinks she could get quite attached to them, even though, back when she was being trained for this, she was told not to let herself get too close, because, at best, two of her tributes were going to die. Of course, it was also important to get to know her tributes, so that she could properly perform her duties. It was a tricky balance. Well, she'd just have to be careful. Procession"It's so big," said Lyra as we drew closer to Canterlot. And it really was. You could see the spires of the Royal Castle from quite a distance, and Canterlot proper sprawled out around it. I wondered how so many ponies could bear to live so close together. The thought of being surrounded by so many ponies made me feel a bit antsy—even leaving aside the fact that they would be Canterlot ponies. All three of us tributes were standing at the windows of the train. Gingerbread was with us, and she seemed beside herself with enthusiasm. She kept shifting from hoof to hoof, pointing out landmarks every so often, and telling us about all the things she was absolutely sure we'd just love. "Everything gleams!" she said. "I never really realized how wonderful Canterlot was until I visited District Eight—not to say that your district isn't perfectly lovely, in a rustic sort of way, but Canterlot—it's absolutely fantastic! And I can't wait to introduce you to your stylists—I met a couple of them before setting off, they're lovely ponies, and of course they all have excellent credentials—only the best for the Hunger Games! And the quarters at the Training Center are positively gorgeous, lots of room, big crystal screens—you don't have a lot of those back home, do you?" It got pretty easy to tune her out, after a while. Cheerilee was nowhere in sight. I guessed she'd been to Canterlot enough times not to care about whether she saw any of it or not. Not that I was especially thrilled to be going there, myself. The closer we got, the more difficult it became to keep my mind off the Games to come. But darn it, I tried. When we finally reached the city, I could see crowds of ponies through the windows, cheering. I might have gaped a little-I'd never seen anything quite like the things these ponies did to themselves. I saw ponies who'd dyed their coats with leopard spots and zebra stripes, ponies who had shaved their manes or styled them into spikes, ponies who were wearing fancy dresses or fine suits or shiny ribbons wrapped around their legs and torso—pretty much anything you could think a pony could do with their bodies and an overabundance of funds, the Canterlot ponies did. I even saw one mare with what looked like dozens of butterflies sitting all over her, covering her like a dress. I remembered Gingerbread mentioning we were all getting stylists, and I found I was a mite nervous at the thought. It seems kind of silly to worry about looking ridiculous on every crystal screen in Equestria when I was probably going to die on every crystal screen in Equestria shortly thereafter. But it felt kind of nice to get anxious over something petty. It sounds strange, I know, but worrying about the one made it easier not to worry about the other. When we finally made it to the Training Hall, the three of us were swept off to a room full of mirrors and bottles full of mysterious liquids and powders. Our prep teams were waiting for us. "Hmm," said one, a pale, blue-green pegasus said, tilting her head and moving to look at us from various angles. "Hmm..." "Hmm what?" Honeysuckle asked, irritated, after a few moments. The pegasus looked up at her and blinked slowly, apparently surprised that she'd spoken up. "Well," she said after a moment, "we can work with this, I think." A dark purple unicorn gestured me over to what I could only think of as a grooming station. Reluctantly, I followed his cue. I asked him what his name was, and he answered "Grape Sparkle." Moments later, he snatched the hat right off my head and, before I could protest, he magicked a showerhead out of the wall. Moments later, I was soaking wet and none too thrilled about it. "What in tarnation—I took a bath before getting here, y'know!" I snapped. The unicorn ignored me, instead picking out a few bottles and brushes and setting to work. I was brushed, combed, shampooed, conditioned, scrubbed, filed, picked, clipped, and polished within an inch of my life. Neither of my companions was faring any better, as far as I could tell. Lyra seemed to be enjoying it somewhat more than Honeysuckle, which wasn't hard, given that Honeysuckle looked like she'd have rather kicked a beehive. When, finally, the ordeal was over, I asked for my hat back. The purple unicorn shrugged. "You'll have to ask Cardamom about that," he said. "He's the one in charge of costumes." I didn't have high hopes. Once the three of us were dried off, we were escorted into another room. Three ponies greeted us-a pink unicorn, a pale blue pegasus, and a golden earth pony. The earth pony seemed to be my costume guy—Cardamom, I was guessing—since he walked right up to me, while the other two went to talk to my fellow tributes. "Hello there," he said, smiling. He held out his hoof, which I took, albeit reluctantly. But when someone offers to shake, you can't exactly refuse, at least not without looking like a jerk. He gestured me towards the desk that stood to one side of the room. "I've been working on these sketches ever since I saw who I'd be styling for—tell me what you think." He looked earnest, which was kind of odd. If he meant it, then he'd probably be the first person to care about my opinion since I'd gotten reaped. I went over and took a look at the sketches and, to my surprise, they weren't bad at all. I'd seen the costumes used in previous years for the initial chariot ride through Canterlot, when all the city folk were able to get a good look at the ponies who'd be in the Games that year. Usually, the District Eight tributes were dressed up like, for lack of a better word, hayseeds. We were country folk out in District Eight, but not all of us wore straw hats and overalls. Not that there was anything wrong with those who did, but I'd never seen, say, Lyra wearing that sort of getup. She was a town pony, not a farm pony. The design Cardamom had come up with was less super-rustic-farmer-pony and more blend-of-plant-and-pony. Not all of the notes scribbled around the pictures made sense to me-I saw mention of a "pseudoflorus and illupomogen spells melded with a demiglamour enchantment," which, not being a magic-using pony, I couldn't make heads or tails of. But the gist of it was Cardamom (and the other two costume designers, presumably, since the three of us tributes would be sharing a chariot) intended to make the chariot look like a garden, and the tributes of District Eight look like part of that garden. I was going to get painted-not enough to blend in completely with the spell-plants, but enough that it might be difficult, at first glance, to tell where the plants ended and I began. It was a bit complicated for my tastes—I'd have been happy just to wear what I'd always worn—but given that it seemed that I had to get all gussied up, it was fine. I could live with it. I only had one question. "Any chance I could wear my hat?" I asked. Cardamom raised his eyebrows. "Hmm," he said. He turned and looked back at the sketches for a few moments, then picked up a pencil in his teeth and drew something, stepping back to look at it. "Hmm," he said again. He looked back at me. "Would you object to a different hat, in a similar style? Just so I can fit it in with my design, you see," said Cardamom. "Well, all right," I said. "But..." I'd had a sudden thought. "I will get my old hat back eventually, right?" Cardamom nodded. "I don't see why not. As long as there aren't any sort of concealed weapons in the hat, they should let you take it into the arena." I grimaced. Cardamom looked sympathetic. Strange-he was the first Canterloter to act like being a tribute was anything less than a huge privilege. "I know." He shrugged. "It's hardly anything, compared to what we've taken away." He shook his head, and turned back to his sketches. "I can't do much for you. But I'll do my best to make sure the people of the Capitol will remember you." I didn't know quite what to say to that. "Well," he said, "let me call in my assistants so we can start getting you fixed up." This involved a lot of me standing around doing nothing, which would have been pretty dull if two of Cardamom's assistants weren't spending a fair bit of time spellcasting over me. I was surprised to discover that Cardamom had actually had something to do with designing the variant of the spells the unicorns were using, despite the fact that, being an earth pony, Cardamom didn't have any practical experience with magic. "Oh, he's just brilliant," one of his assistants, an eye-searingly pink unicorn named Pixie Dust, told me when I said something about there being an awful lot of magic involved in my costume. "Honestly, he should have been born a unicorn—his idea of doing a semi-meld of the lower-frequency aether-field portions of the pseudofloris and minor prismshift spells was simply inspired! Such a subtle difference—but it really does wonderful things for the overall effect. And you might think that the demiglamour would be overkill, but really, it just adds an entire new layer to the viewing experience, and it's not overpowering at all. Just wait until you see it in action!" She went on like that for a while. I tuned her out as easily as I had Gingerbread. I guessed it was nice to know I was in good hooves, but I didn't know a sudo-florist from an ill pom-pom, or whatever kind of spells Pixie was weaving over me. As long as they didn't explode in my face, I was good. The magic left my skin feeling kind of tingly, though I couldn't see anything different about me. When I asked about it, the other unicorn—a pale blue fellow named Sugarspin—told me the spells wouldn't be activated until just after we got into the chariot. Cardamom brought me a hat shortly before the unicorns were done. It was like my old one, only in multiple shades of green. It would do. Soon it was time for the three of us District Eight ponies to reunite so we could all get in the pegasus-drawn chariot. I'd seen a few pegasus-powered forms of transportation overhead in Canterlot, but I'd also seen flying vehicles sans pegasi, which looked pretty strange. We didn't have many of the former back in District Eight, and none of the latter. I was guessing we tributes got pegasus chariots because of tradition, and maybe because it would be kind of hard for us to grab control of it and fly away. The pegasi waiting at the chariot were both burlier than Honeysuckle, who wasn't exactly burly herself. "How'd it go?" I asked Lyra and Honeysuckle, quietly. "How do you think?" Honeysuckle replied. "It went okay," Lyra said. "The magic itches, though." "Same here," I said. "All right," said Pixie Dust, "time to make the magic happen!" She lowered her horn, pointed it at me, and I saw a spark at the horn's tip. Suddenly, I was covered in greenery-vines, leaves flowers, and even some fruit. Some of the vines seemed to grow to wrap around the edges of the chariot. When I looked back over myself, I had to admit that all of that magical frippery was awful pretty. The flowers seemed to glow, and as I watched, I realized that they were slowly changing colors-shifting from blue to purple to pink. There were some berries hanging from the vines draped over the chariot's side, so I reached out and picked one. It dissolved in my mouth, and I thought I could taste just the ghost of its flavor. Then we were off. It was an experience unlike any other, being paraded through the streets, surrounded by cheering ponies all arching their necks for a glimpse at the tributes. I didn't see why they bothered—I knew that all of this was being transmitted live to crystal projectors across Equestria, and in Canterlot, I figured everypony probably had a crystal projector in their own house. Why not just stay home and watch in comfort? And they all kept screaming, too. It hurt my ears. I tried to keep a straight face, eyes forward, keeping myself from staring too much at the crowds or the images of the other tributes that were being projected on giant floating screens. Of course, doing that, I couldn't help but notice the chariot right in front of us. District Seven was an agricultural district, too, but they focused mainly on the sorts of plants used for magic and medicine, so their costumes had a plant-ish theme, too, with flowers woven into manes and magically-created butterflies floating all around them. Two of the tributes from District Seven seemed around my age—the unicorn might've been a bit younger, or she might just have a slight figure—but the pegasus was a young thing, around Applebloom's age. She was waving at the crowd. I tried to keep my eyes a little higher after that, so I could only see the tops of the older tributes' heads and the shining wings of the fake butterflies. After what felt like hours, all eight chariots filed into the ceremonial pavilion in front of the castle. There was an elevated podium set up. After all the chariots were set up in a half circle, facing the podium, there was a flash of light as Regent Nivea teleported in. The crowd grew somewhat quieter as she stepped closer to the podium and began to speak. This was my first time seeing the ruler of Equestria in person. I had to admit that she was an impressive sight. She was taller than most ponies, with a long horn to match. Her pale blue mane rippled and flowed, even though there was no wind. It was magic, of course. It was probably also magic that made me think how beautiful she looked, how regal, how graceful, how much she resembled Celestia— I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them. I'd had enough magic done on me today to know how much it could do. Right now, I wanted nothing more than to get these fake vines, fake leaves, fake berries off of me so I could go back to being Applejack instead of the prettied-up earth pony tribute from District Eight. "Citizens of Equestria," the Regent said, her voice sounding clear even over the crowd—more magic—"we are gathered here today to honor this year's tributes." The crowd cheered. The Regent lifted her hoof to quiet them, then continued. "This year's Hunger Games marks seventy-four years of peace and prosperity throughout Equestria. And this year, as with every year, we are united as a nation to remember the past, that we may not repeat it, and to celebrate the present that we have won through blood and toil. Now, let me address the Tributes directly." She looked down over us, and I felt cold, deep in the pit of my stomach. "I congratulate you all on the great honor that has been bestowed on you," she said. "For the next week, you will be given the best of all that Canterlot can provide. Use it to prepare yourselves for the Games. All of Equestria will be watching you. Learn well, fight well, survive, and do your Districts proud." The crowd behind us went wild, shouting and shrieking and hooting and hollering. Our chariots started to move again. We were done. As we made our slow way to the Training Center, still surrounded by a screaming crowd of Canterloters, all I could think was—this was real. This was really real. All magic and illusion aside, we were really here, and we were one week away from the Games. Seven more days, and then the killing and dying would start. Not long after the District Six unicorn enters her quarters at the Training Center, a scroll appears in a flash of smoke and green fire, thudding onto the ground at her hooves. She levitates and unrolls it. It says: You looked really amazing out there! I know that lots of ponies are going to want to sponsor you. You have to keep being great, so that you'll get lots and lots of help, and then you can win and come back home. I'm trying to get together enough bits to buy you something, too. We all miss you a whole lot, but I know you can do it! Come home as soon as you can, okay? Love, Your favorite brother, Spike The unicorn carefully rolls the scroll back up and stands silent for a few moments, eyes closed. She knows that she can't send anything back home. It isn't allowed, and there's no way she could do it without getting caught. But she thinks as hard as she can in the hope that somehow everyone she loves will hear: I will. I'll do my best. I'll win this thing. Somehow. I promise. Interlude: Summer Spark's New JobSent over the Canterlot MagiNet: Date: September 14, 208 11:30 P.M From: "Summer Spark" (summerspark@canterlotlight.gov) To: "Aurora Dawn" (morningfire87@grapevine.org) Subject: Got the job! Hey there, Rora. What do you think of my new Magmail address? I've got a new title to go with it: Assistant Solar Technician, which is another way of saying "guy who gets the coffee." Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. I AM one of the guys who gets sent for coffee, but I'm also supposed to serve as backup—both to supply the non-assistant Solar Technicians with extra magical juice as needed, and to potentially take over for one of them if they're suddenly disabled. Remember the field trip to the Solar Chamber we both took in third grade? It's not any less impressive than it was back then, at least not to me. Maybe after working here for a while, I'll start to get jaded, but I doubt it. I mean, I get to be in the same room with part of Celestia herself. And, if I stick around for long enough to drop the "assistant" from my title, then I'll be working with Celestia's magic on a regular basis. I'll be part of the group responsible for raising the SUN. Holy horseapples. It's powerful stuff. But enough of me gushing about my new job. How are Mom and Dad doing? They're still throwing the annual Hunger Games kickoff party, right? Ask them if there's anything I can bring. I mean, I still couldn't cook to save my life, but I could buy some chips or soda or napkins or something. Tell Mom she should make those stuffed peppers again—those were AMAZING. Now that I've got a new job (oops, there I go again), I'm thinking of buying into a group sponsorship. I'm not sure who to support yet—Districts One and Two are usually the ones who last longest, but I've always had a thing for the underdogs. District 4 hasn't had a Victor in the last few years, and the unicorn from that District is just gorgeous. Yeah, I know I'd never have a shot at her, even if she won, but a stallion can dream, can't he? Well, I'll figure out who to go for once we see a bit more training footage. Anyways, I'm off to bed. Mail me back soon. Love, Summer Spark One-Way Train to CanterlotThey had the three of us put in separate rooms in the Hall of Justice, with guards at the doors to keep us from trying to escape. We had plenty of Guardians who were stationed in Eight on a year-round basis, and nobody liked them, but at least they weren't as bad as they could've been. The Elite in charge of the District Eight Guardians—an Earth Pony named Ironshod—was relatively decent, for a Guardian. She kept her troops under strict discipline, and kept them from trying to take more food than their fair share, or throwing their weight around to extort other things out of us. Of course, she also was strict about any of the District Eight ponies trying to hide food. If we were under quota, we could undergo discipline, but if we had an unusually good harvest... well, then Canterlot got the extras. There were specific rules for exactly how much of each crop we were allowed to keep. If you hid any, the Guardians were allowed to execute you, though last time that happened, the pony who'd done it got away with a flogging. I remembered, though, that during the Parasprite year, when she was overseeing us loading up the apples for Canterlot, that she hadn't ordered the troops to search the premises like every other year. I wished we'd actually tried to hide something, but none of us had the courage. I didn't recognize any of the Guardians here now. They were probably all from Canterlot. I got the feeling that the Canterlot Guardians were even more disciplined, and less willing to be lenient, which was saying something. I had no intention of trying to run away, at any rate. If I did, at best, they'd find and catch me, and at worst, they'd catch me, execute me, and send Applebloom to the Hunger Games. I'd chosen this. I didn't regret it. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared out of my wits. I tried to hide it when the Guardians let in Granny Smith, Applebloom, and Big Mac to see me. "You've got five minutes," said the pegasus Guardian, leaving the door open. Applebloom flung herself at me, wrapping her forelegs around my neck. "You can't go, Applejack! You just can't!" she sobbed. "I can't lose you, too!" "Hey now, sugarcube," I said, patting her hair. "Hey. I'm coming back, okay? I promise I'll do my best to come back home to ya'll." Applebloom sniffled into my mane. "Y'promise?" "Cross my heart," I said. "I'll give it all I got." I held her as tight as I could, and looked over at Big Mac and Granny. "I love you all more than anything else in the world," I said, choking up in spite of myself." "Oh, sweetie pie," said Granny, coming over to join us, followed by Big Mac. We held each other as tightly as if we never meant to let go. Big Mac, steady as always, said, "We'll look after the farm until you get back." "I know you will," I said. "I... I'm sorry I won't be around to finish the harvest." "That's all right," said Big Mac. "Don't you worry about it. Just focus on keeping yourself alive." "I will," I said. "I'm coming home, fast as I can." We stayed like that, close as we could get, until the Guardian from before poked his head in and said that time was up. Big Mac had to pull Applebloom off me. She started to cry again, and I thought I could see Big Mac trying to hold back tears as well, for Applebloom's sake. I'm sorry, I thought. I would have given anything to keep from causing them pain. But that was ridiculous. This wasn't my doing, not one bit of it. It was Canterlot. I sighed, and flopped down on the bed, trying not to start crying myself. I had to hold it together, if I wanted to have any chance at all. I didn't have much of one, but still, out of seventy-three Hunger Games, a District Eight champion had won four. Most victories went to the richer Districts, the ones that trained up ponies specifically for the Games. It wasn't technically allowed, but Canterlot pretended not to notice the training schools that everyone knew existed, as long as those schools were in Districts that were judged sufficiently loyal. Districts One and Two were the main ones who did that sort of thing. District One tended to spend the most time and effort on its unicorns, and District Two its pegasi. I'd heard rumors that District Three was making some tentative motions towards starting a school for Careers, which would mean that we'd start seeing some Careers from a more earth pony-heavy district. Just as well for me if the rumors were false, but given how unlucky I'd been so far... The door opened again. "Three minutes," said the Guardian as Carrot Top walked in. Her real name was Golden Harvest, but everyone called her Carrot Top on account of her orange hair. Her family had a farm near ours, and they raised carrots and turnips. "Hey," she said, quietly. She shifted from one hoof to another. "Hey," I said, back. Silence reigned for a few awkward seconds before Carrot Top spoke up again. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry that this happened, and you were very brave, and I want you to know that my family will do what we can to help yours. So you don't need to worry about it." I blinked a few times. Normally, I didn't like to ask for outside help, but right now... I was right grateful for the offer. Big Mac could probably handle things on his own, but it would still be a load off my mind to know he could find someone to lend a helping hoof, if need be. Of course the extended Apple family would offer help if asked, but they ran apple farms all over District Eight, and would have their own harvests to tend to. "That's... mighty kind of you," I said. "Thank you very much." Carrot Top smiled weakly. "You'd do the same for us, I know." "Yeah. I guess." It didn't seem like either of us could think of anything to say after that, so we sort of looked at each other, then the walls, then back at each other. "Well," said Carrot Top, "Good luck." "Thanks," I said. "Good luck to you too. With the harvest, I mean." I envied her with all of my heart—she was going to get to go back to the earth and the fields, and even if the work was hard, it was survivable. She lowered her eyes. "Goodbye," she said, leaving. The door closed. "Goodbye," I answered quietly, not so much to her as to everything I'd ever known. I laid down on the bed, curled up on my side, waiting for them to finish whatever preparations they were making for the trip to Canterlot and load me and the other two Tributes up. There was a crowd at the train station to see us off, but I barely got a glimpse of anyone as the Guardians herded Lyra, Honeysuckle and me onto the train. As soon as we were on, I looked out the window to see if I could catch one last glimpse of my family, but I couldn't see them in the crowd. I waved anyways. Then the train began to move, and District Eight started to slide away, so I left the window. Gingerbread, as chipper as ever, showed up shortly thereafter. She told us that our rooms were two cars down, clearly labelled, and that she was certain we'd all like to take an hour and a half to settle in and freshen up before it was time for dinner. The three of us Tributes looked at each other, and headed in the direction Gingerbread had pointed. Sure enough, there were three rooms, all next to each other, each with a square metal cut-out on the door-one unicorn, one pegasus, one earth pony. "I guess this was where Amethyst stayed last year," said Lyra, quietly. I thought back to last year's Tributes—the unicorn, Amethyst Star; the pegasus, Thistledown; and the earth pony, Rye. I hadn't known any of them all that well, for which I was grateful. Amethyst, I recalled, had been killed the second day of the Games; Thistledown had gotten taken down by some flying spellbeasts not too long after; and Rye had made it into the last six competitors—enough to give some of us hope that we might have a Victor that year—before getting stabbed to death by a pair of unicorn Careers. "It might not be the same train," Honeysuckle pointed out. That wasn't a huge help. Even if this wasn't the exact same train that Amethyst, Thistledown, and Rye had ridden to their deaths, it had still brought plenty of doomed ponies to Canterlot. I pushed open the door to my room and took a couple steps inside. It was ridiculously plush. From the heavy carpet beneath my hooves that almost seemed to suck me in, to the thick red comforter and the way-too-many pillows on the bed, to the velvet-upholstered chair in front of the vanity-it was all more luxurious than anything I'd seen in my life. And it was all for me. A pony that, odds were, wouldn't live to see many more sunrises. I guessed it only made sense to make the most of it, yet I couldn't help but feel kind of guilty. It wasn't really sensible, but I looked at this room, and all I could see was enough money to keep my family's bellies full for a year, with plenty of pie to go around. Was the frame of the mirror made of real silver? Were the curtains silk? I couldn't tell for sure, but I wouldn't bet against it. The whole point of the Hunger Games was to show the Districts who was in charge. Maybe this was just another way of showing it—letting us know that while we worried about having enough to eat, Canterlot had enough bits to afford every luxury for both its residents and the Tributes it brought for the residents' entertainment. Though if that were so, it didn't seem all that effective, given that I probably wouldn't survive long enough for the message to really sink in. I shook my head. I had to stop thinking like that. Sure, my odds weren't good, but they were probably better than some. I had to quit thinking like a dead pony and start trying to plan. I'd promised I'd do what I could to come home to my family, so I needed to start right now. I started by walking back out of my room to see if I couldn't find our mentor. Cheerilee didn't get out much. She mostly stayed in her house at the Victor's Village. I heard she had a deal with somebody to get food and salt delivered to her front door once a week. I only ever saw her on Reaping Day, where she stared dully at the audience throughout the whole thing and left as soon as possible. But she was going to be our mentor, all three of us, since she was the only Victor from District Eight that was still alive. She'd know what would give us all the best chance of survival. It was her job to help us out, right? I found another set of rooms the next car down, though these weren't labelled. The first door I knocked on didn't seem to have anyone behind it, but at the second I found Cheerilee. "What do you want?" she asked. "Gingerbread send you to get me?" "Um, no. I just... wanted to introduce myself, I guess. Maybe see if you had any useful advice before we get to Canterlot," I replied. She snorted. "I know who you are, and you know who I am, so introductions aren't really necessary. As for advice-don't gorge yourself too much at dinner. Canterlot food's rich enough to make you sick if you're not used to it." She started to close the door, but I held a hoof out to stop her. "I meant I want to know what to expect, when we get to Canterlot," I said. "Expect ponies who don't give a road apple about the little ponies they watch die every year. Expect ponies who have more money than they know that to do with and throw their bits around at stupid things just to show they can. Expect too many lights and frills and crystals. Now leave me alone." She pushed my hoof away and slammed the door. I had the feeling that Cheerilee was just as antisocial as she'd seemed all those years back in District Eight. But curse it all, I expected at least some help from the pony who was supposed to be our mentor! I snorted, frustrated, then headed back to my room until it was time for supper. Cheerilee doesn't know why the earth pony even bothered asking. All three of the tributes are going to die. Hopefully quickly, for their sake and hers. Cheerilee has to watch the Games until all three of her ponies are dead. Two years back, they all were gone before day three, and so Cheerilee went back to her quarters and binged on salt until she couldn't remember the Games even existed, and especially couldn't remember that the little unicorn that year had reminded her of Clementine. But all three of the Tributes were on the older side, this year, so that was something. She washes down her salt with a swig of water and tries not to think about the days to come. En RouteI tried to follow Cheerilee's advice about the food. It was richer than anything I'd eaten before-roasted pears dripping with honey and spices, a savory pie full of potatoes and turnips and gravy, roasted asparagus topped with garlic butter and lemon juice, sugar-coated strawberries stuffed with heavy whipped cream... The worst part of it was that there was entirely too much, even if all five of us—Gingerbread, Cheerilee, Lyra, Honeysuckle, and me—ate ourselves sick, there'd still be enough left over to feed several ponies. I was glad there weren't any apples. I didn't know if I could bear to see them going to waste like this. I kept looking over at Cheerilee as we ate, but she kept her eyes on her plate. The only times she spoke were to ask for something to be passed her way or to make monosyllabic responses to anyone's—mostly Gingerbread's—attempts to draw her into conversation. This was the first year Gingerbread had done the announcing in District Eight—the pony before her had been named Silverstar. He'd been an Earth Pony. I guessed he'd probably been promoted to another district. District Eight was Gingerbread's first assignment, she informed us all over dinner. She was ever so excited to be working with us. She knew that we didn't have the best reputation in the Games, but she had full confidence that we'd all put up a good fight. That unicorn could carry a conversation all on her lonesome, which was a good thing, because she pretty much had to. Lyra barely said anything. Honeysuckle tried, like I had, to see if Cheerilee had anything useful to say, which she still didn't. As for me, I figured it was best to just let Gingerbread talk at us. She seemed like kind of an airhead, but hey, there was the off chance she'd say something helpful. "Silverstar told me such lovely things about your District," said Gingerbread. He'd never seemed to go anywhere in our District outside of the train station, the Hall of Justice, and the stage that got set up in front of the Hall every year, so I wasn't sure how he'd know much about it. "Of course, District Eight might not be the most prestigeous of districts, but of course we all depend on the food we get from you, so you're really very important!" She smiled, glancing at all of us, as though she expected us to be grateful for the compliment. "Well," said Honeysuckle after a minute, "we can all see how much you Canterloters like to eat." Gingerbread paused. She glanced down at herself. "Do you... you don't think I'm... I mean, the crystals add ten pounds, and I have to look presentable..." I glanced over at Honeysuckle. The corner of her mouth twitched upward. I sighed. "You look just fine, Gingerbread," I said. "Really? You're not just saying that?" she asked. Honeysuckle snorted, quietly. "Really," I told her. "Honest." She beamed. "Oh, good." She glanced at her plate—still about a quarter full—and delicately pushed it away. "And you can call me Ginger. All my friends do!" "Well, that's... nice. Ginger." I wondered if she really understood what she was doing. Maybe she'd never let herself think about it. I guessed if I was in her place, I might not want to think about it, either... but then, if I were a Canterloter, I doubted I'd have gone into her line of work. She kept right on chattering about how wonderful Canterlot was, and how much we were all going to love it, and how she couldn't wait to see us all on the crystal set... I excused myself and headed back to my quarters, where I flopped down onto the bed and closed my eyes. None of this seemed like it could be real. I hadn't even gotten to Canterlot yet, and I felt as though I'd stepped into an entirely new world, where food was something you could afford to waste and everything was shiny or plush. Sometimes both. And every minute brought me closer to the Games. I didn't want to think about the Games, or the possibility of being forced to kill somepony, or be killed myself. I'd seen some of the things that happened in the Games. The Career ponies were trained to hurt and kill other ponies, and a lot of them seemed to enjoy it. I didn't like watching, but everyone was required to spend a certain amount of time doing so, to make sure we all remembered what Canterlot was capable of. There were crystal projectors and a big screen in the Hall of Justice that got set up for those mandatory viewing periods. And I watched, like everyone else, how a Career pony—a red pegasus with a horseshoe cutie mark—broke the wings of another, black pegasus. When the black one tried to run away, the Career caught up to him and, with a great kick, broke one of his legs. Then the other three, one at a time. The red one just kept kicking, and kicking, and the black pegasus screamed and screamed, and I planted my hooves hard over Applebloom's ears, and because of that I couldn't cover my own, and so I heard as the screams grew weaker, and weaker, and I saw blood start to leak from the black pegasus's mouth, and... I had nightmares for weeks after that. If I were going to die, I hoped to die quickly, and I hoped to die when no one was watching. Late at night, maybe, when all my family was asleep. Though they might just play my death over in the morning-they sometimes did replays of some of the more dramatic moments when the Games hit a calm period. I didn't want a dramatic death. If I couldn't die in my sleep of old age, I'd prefer a quick set of hooves to the noggin, or a meal of the wrong berries or mushrooms that made me fall asleep and never wake up. But I wasn't going to do what some ponies did when they got sent to the games and kill myself straight off. The platforms all the tributes started out on had spells cast around them so that, if a tribute got off their platform before the starting horn, said tribute would get blasted to smithereens. There'd been maybe three ponies that did that, that I could remember. Two of them were in the same year—a pair of colts from District Five. There hadn't been any after those two, though, and there were rumors that the Gamemakers had set up precautions to keep anypony from purposefully offing themselves before things got started. I laid there on the bed for a few more minutes, then got up and paced for a while. All right. Strategy. What should I do? Well, my main talent was bucking apples. It's what I'd been doing for years. I had strong hooves and powerful legs. I could run pretty well. I could throw a horseshoe and hit my target—or at least close to it—pretty much every time. Those were my strengths. My weaknesses were mainly that I didn't know how to fight. I wasn't from a Career district. I was plenty strong, but the Career ponies had the heart beaten out of them. They didn't hesitate to crush, stab, or bludgeon a colt or filly, barely more than a foal, until they stopped crying. They didn't seem to feel anything when somepony else got hurt, beyond a feeling of satisfaction. Some of them even seemed to enjoy hurting other ponies. I couldn't do that. I thought I could probably hurt a Career, if they tried to hurt me first. But not a little one. Not someone who was somepony's little brother or sister, scared as hell and just trying to survive. Maybe I could just start running, and not stop, keep ahead of the killers and... And the sound of the ponies they killed. I wondered briefly if Cheerilee would mind sharing her salt. Probably she would. I shook my head, turned off the lights, and tried to get some sleep. A white unicorn sits up, bleary-eyed, when she hears the door to her cabin open in the middle of the night. She sees the silhouette of a pegasus in the doorway. "I, I'm sorry," the pegasus says. "I, just, if it's not too much trouble, can I stay with you tonight? If that's okay." "Of course, darling," says the unicorn, scooting over to make room. "Bad dream?" The pegasus nods. "I... I don't wanna talk about it." "That's fine," the unicorn says. "It's all right. You're safe here." The pegasus lies down, and seems to fall asleep quickly. The unicorn listens to her companion's deep, even breathing, and whispers a prayer to a long-dead goddess that both their deaths will be quick, kind, and simultaneous.
Reaping DayI kicked the apple tree hard enough to leave a dent, and felt bad about it as soon as I was done. The tree never did anything to me, after all. I was always on edge this time of year. Everyone was. Even Canterlot, probably, though I'd bet they were more on the edge of their seats than anything else. But this year was worse, because Applebloom was finally eligible for the reaping. I tried to tell myself what all of the Apple family had told Applebloom—it wasn't gonna be her, she only had her name in the drawing once, everything was going to be fine, or as fine as it ever was. The Apple family had it better than some. The farm had been mostly successful—we'd made quota all but one year for as long as I'd been alive. That one year was pretty bad. There'd been a Parasprite invasion, and the blasted things ate more than half our harvest before help arrived from the capitol. Canterlot took the rest of what we had, of course. We could starve, for all they cared, as long as the capitol ponies got their fritters and pie. But we didn't, of course, though me and Big Macintosh both had to take out tesserae. But overall, we'd been luckier than a lot of people. Surely our luck would hold us through another Hunger Games, right? Now, if only I could make myself believe it. The reaping was tomorrow. In two days, this would all be over until next year. I bucked the next tree in the row, not quite as hard as the last, and apples came pouring down into the basket. This year's harvest was a good one. Soon it would be winter, and me, Big Mac, Applebloom and Granny Smith would be sitting inside around a fire, and Granny would be telling us the same stories she'd told us last year, and the year before, and would probably tell next year, too. Yeah. I just had to keep thinking positive. Supper was quieter than usual that night. Granny Smith mentioned that her joints were achy, which meant rain would be coming soon. Applebloom pushed her hay around her plate—I couldn't tell if she'd actually eaten any of it. I was none too hungry myself, but I forced myself to eat to set a good example. It didn't do to let good food go to waste. Canterlot let us keep little enough of it. Granny Smith brought out pie for dessert—a rare treat, saved for special occasions when we could scrape up enough bits to buy flour, butter and sugar. Granny must have been planning this for a while, now, scrimping and saving. Even though Applebloom had barely touched her meal, Granny cleared her plate and served her a slice of pie. "Go on, sweetie," she said. "Apple a day, 'n all that." Applebloom gave her a small smile, and took a bite. The rest of us served ourselves some pie as well. It was as good as ever, and I tried to enjoy it as much as it deserved. There was a chance it could be my last time. Or Applebloom's. But no. Our odds were fairly good. I had a few tesserae, but so had Big Mac, and he hadn't been called up, so it wasn't as though I didn't have a good shot at not getting picked. I turned in early, saying I was tired from working all day. I tossed and turned all night, dreaming about things I couldn't remember in the morning, but that must've been pretty bad, given the way I was tangled up in the covers from all the thrashing I did. We all gathered in the Town Square for the reaping, same as every year. Me and Applebloom went to sign up at the booth, then we stood in the area for earth ponies eligible to be tributes—Big Macintosh was, thankfully, too old as of last year. We waited there for maybe an hour while they got the names all set up for the drawing. Applebloom was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, pressing herself as close to me as she could. "It's gonna be all right," I told her, a few times, but she never seemed to believe me. I couldn't blame her. I wasn't entirely sure whether to believe me. The pony doing the drawings was a unicorn named Gingerbread. Her cutie mark was, predictably enough, a gingerbread pony, which was a little strange given her choice of career. Of course, said gingerbread pony was covered in icing, and Gingerbread had a voice that sounded sickly-sweet as a tubful of frosting, so maybe it fit after all. Most of Gingerbread was a light brownish color, but her hair was a brilliant shade of pink, striped with white. "Hello!" she cooed into the microphone. "Welcome, all of you, to this year's Reaping! I know I'm certainly looking forward to seeing this year's brave young Tributes... but first," she said, shuffling some notecards, "a reminder of what the Hunger Games are all about." Like every year, things started out with the history of the Hunger Games-how Canterlot had united the lands of Equestria two hundred years ago, after the centuries of war that had followed the assassination of Celestia; how, seventy-four years ago, the nine districts had all rebelled against Canterlot and the Regent who ruled it; how the rebellion had been crushed, and District Nine destroyed; and, finally, how the Hunger Games had been established in order to remind the districts of the costs of rebellion. While she spoke, the crystal projectors that had been set up onstage displayed various images-my "favorite" was the one with the hateful-looking rebels charging at the horrified Canterloters, with Celestia gazing down from the clouds, tears rolling down her cheeks. Of course, the picture of the rebel rearing up, forehooves held ready to smash down on a terrified foal, was a close second. When I'd been younger—too young for the Reaping, even—this yearly presentation had given me awful nightmares. At some point, I'd stopped feeling terrified and started getting cynical. It maybe wasn't the safest attitude to have, but I kept quiet, so no harm done. And there was something just plain absurd about Gingerbread doing the announcing. I think she honestly tried to be somber, but something about her made it hard to take her seriously. Maybe it was the fact that she'd probably never seen anything like the horrors of war she described. She'd never lost a loved one to a fever the local doctor didn't have the medicine to fix, and of course Canterlot wasn't going to send any—as long as it didn't start spreading, it wouldn't impede production overmuch. She'd had never had to see her little sister crying with hunger while trains loaded with District Eight crops went puffing off to Canterlot—and the ponies who'd come to take the shipment had demanded that we make up for being under quota by next fall, or face punishment, as though stealing our food wasn't punishment enough. She'd never had to fear that, if the odds weren't in her favor, she might be sent off to kill and die for the amusement of Canterlot. Up until three years ago, it had been the Mayor doing the recitation. But after she caught the redpox, which left her alive, but covered in bleeding pockmarks, she rarely showed her face anywhere. It was strange that barely anyone else had caught it—but then, the last year she'd described the history, she'd started crying, had gone a bit off script, saying something like "And because ponies died during the rebellion, now they steal away our children to die in the arena." This was true, of course, but it wasn't the way you were supposed to talk about it. The Mayor's niece had gotten reaped the year before, though, so it was kind of understandable. It would have been a relief when Gingerbread finished her joke of a presentation if I hadn't known what was coming up next. Gingerbread pepped right up again, practically glowing with excitement. "And now, it's time to select which earth pony, pegasus, and unicorn will have the honor and privilege of representing District Eight in this year's Hunger Games! Oh, isn't this exciting!" I wanted to vomit. The other pony on stage, a mare named Cheerilee who was the last victor to come out of District Eight, seemed to share my sentiments. She hadn't said or done anything throughout the presentation, which was pretty normal for her. She just stood there, stock still, face either expressionless or vaguely nauseated. There were three lotteries set up-little slips of paper with the name of every eligible unicorn, pegasus and earth pony stuck in three rotating spheres, respectively. Gingerbread went for the unicorns first, spinning the sphere with her hoof, then plucking out a name. District Eight was probably the best place in Equestria to be an earth pony, and one of the worst places to be a unicorn or pegasus. District Eight specialized in agriculture, which was, of course, best done by earth ponies. We had a small population of both unicorns and pegasi to take care of those tasks better done by non-earth ponies, such as jobs requiring the fine coordination of magic and weather control, but both groups were outnumbered by far by the earth ponies. So Applebloom was probably one of the safest ponies around. She had only a single entry in the biggest lottery—and heck, I only had a few. I swallowed. Gingerbread cleared her throat, smiled brilliantly, and, glancing over at the unicorn section, read the name of the first tribute: "Lyra Heartstrings!" Two of the burly pegasus Guardians that had come with Gingerbread went down to the unicorn section to escort Lyra to the stage. I knew her. She owned a little harp, and she could play it prettier than anything I'd ever heard. I heard a gasp from nearby—Bon Bon, who stared at the stage in disbelief. I knew that Lyra and Bon Bon were close. I also knew that there wasn't much hope of Lyra coming back. She was a gentle pony—she'd likely be one of the first to go. Unicorns from District Eight didn't tend to do well in the Games. Those unicorns that had a fighting chance generally came from District One, which produced magical items, and tended to produce unicorns who were strong and educated enough to be able to use a fair bit of magic. The fact that unicorns over a certain power level had to wear a dampening device leveled the playing field a bit, but probably not enough-especially since District One actually trained ponies to compete in the Games. Bon Bon started to cry, and Applebloom shivered. I wrapped one of my forelegs around her shoulders. Gingerbread drew from the pegasus lottery next. She unrolled the little slip of paper and, after a dramatic pause, announced the next tribute: "Honeysuckle!" The pink pegasus began to walk towards the stage before the Guardians came to get her, her head held high, and her face hard. I had never really talked to her—I'd seen her flying above the farm a few times, but she seemed to keep to the clouds for the most part. Finally, it was time for the earth pony drawing. With just as much dramatic flair as before, Gingerbread drew the name, unrolled it agonizingly slowly, cleared her throat, and read: "Applebloom!" Applebloom—? ...no. No. No. One name in... it must be hundreds. Only one. I must have misheard, or maybe there was another pony named Applebloom- But no—it was her, my sweet baby sister, and there was no use pretending otherwise. The Guardians were approaching. If they took Applebloom, she'd never come back. So I did the only thing that I could do. "I volunteer!" I yelled. "I volunteer!" The Guardians halted, turned to look at me. Applebloom clung to my leg. "No, Applejack, no, no..." As gently as I could, I detached her. Then I walked, up to the stage with the pegasi on either side of me. I took my place next to Honeysuckle. "Oh," Gingerbread trilled, "a volunteer! How exciting! Do tell us all your name." "Applejack," I said. I looked over at Applebloom. She was crying, hard, and it hurt to see it and not be able to go down and give her a hug. "Now," said Gingerbread, as full of good cheer as she'd been all day, "Let's hear a round of applause for District Eight's brave tributes!" For a few moments, there was silence. Then came a half-hearted drumming of hooves. And then... Granny Smith, from the middle of the crowd, reared up and yelled, at the top of her lungs, "Give 'em hell, Applejack!" She immediately fell back onto all fours, grabbing her hip, but the cry was taken up. "Give 'em hell!" the crowd roared. "Give 'em hell!" Gingerbread seemed pleased as punch. I wondered if she'd be quite so thrilled if she realized that neither Granny or anyone else had said who the "'em" were-the other tributes, or Canterlot itself. Not that we could actually do anything to Canterlot. They were the ones in control, here. All we could do was give 'em a hell of a show. I looked down at Applebloom, then over at Big Mac and Granny Smith, and I swore that I'd do the best I could to get home to them. And I don't break my promises easily. Gingerbread breathes a sigh of relief as soon as she's in private. That was rather draining, but she did well, she thinks. It's her first time doing this-it's not the most prestigeous district, naturally, but maybe she'll move up. Or maybe she won't. Maybe, if one of the ponies she called becomes a Victor, she'll be offered a move up to a nicer district, and she'll refuse, saying she's fallen in love with District Eight, yes, that's what she'll do, because it really is nice out here, very rustic, maybe if District Eight does well this year, a new style-cowpony hats and boots, or maybe something more plant based, like artificial vines wound through manes-will sweep through Canterlot, and Gingerbread will be at the vanguard of the trend, and won't that be wonderful! Still, even if the fashion thing didn't pan out... Gingerbread would still love to see one of her tributes win. She thinks she could get quite attached to them, even though, back when she was being trained for this, she was told not to let herself get too close, because, at best, two of her tributes were going to die. Of course, it was also important to get to know her tributes, so that she could properly perform her duties. It was a tricky balance. Well, she'd just have to be careful.
Procession"It's so big," said Lyra as we drew closer to Canterlot. And it really was. You could see the spires of the Royal Castle from quite a distance, and Canterlot proper sprawled out around it. I wondered how so many ponies could bear to live so close together. The thought of being surrounded by so many ponies made me feel a bit antsy—even leaving aside the fact that they would be Canterlot ponies. All three of us tributes were standing at the windows of the train. Gingerbread was with us, and she seemed beside herself with enthusiasm. She kept shifting from hoof to hoof, pointing out landmarks every so often, and telling us about all the things she was absolutely sure we'd just love. "Everything gleams!" she said. "I never really realized how wonderful Canterlot was until I visited District Eight—not to say that your district isn't perfectly lovely, in a rustic sort of way, but Canterlot—it's absolutely fantastic! And I can't wait to introduce you to your stylists—I met a couple of them before setting off, they're lovely ponies, and of course they all have excellent credentials—only the best for the Hunger Games! And the quarters at the Training Center are positively gorgeous, lots of room, big crystal screens—you don't have a lot of those back home, do you?" It got pretty easy to tune her out, after a while. Cheerilee was nowhere in sight. I guessed she'd been to Canterlot enough times not to care about whether she saw any of it or not. Not that I was especially thrilled to be going there, myself. The closer we got, the more difficult it became to keep my mind off the Games to come. But darn it, I tried. When we finally reached the city, I could see crowds of ponies through the windows, cheering. I might have gaped a little-I'd never seen anything quite like the things these ponies did to themselves. I saw ponies who'd dyed their coats with leopard spots and zebra stripes, ponies who had shaved their manes or styled them into spikes, ponies who were wearing fancy dresses or fine suits or shiny ribbons wrapped around their legs and torso—pretty much anything you could think a pony could do with their bodies and an overabundance of funds, the Canterlot ponies did. I even saw one mare with what looked like dozens of butterflies sitting all over her, covering her like a dress. I remembered Gingerbread mentioning we were all getting stylists, and I found I was a mite nervous at the thought. It seems kind of silly to worry about looking ridiculous on every crystal screen in Equestria when I was probably going to die on every crystal screen in Equestria shortly thereafter. But it felt kind of nice to get anxious over something petty. It sounds strange, I know, but worrying about the one made it easier not to worry about the other. When we finally made it to the Training Hall, the three of us were swept off to a room full of mirrors and bottles full of mysterious liquids and powders. Our prep teams were waiting for us. "Hmm," said one, a pale, blue-green pegasus said, tilting her head and moving to look at us from various angles. "Hmm..." "Hmm what?" Honeysuckle asked, irritated, after a few moments. The pegasus looked up at her and blinked slowly, apparently surprised that she'd spoken up. "Well," she said after a moment, "we can work with this, I think." A dark purple unicorn gestured me over to what I could only think of as a grooming station. Reluctantly, I followed his cue. I asked him what his name was, and he answered "Grape Sparkle." Moments later, he snatched the hat right off my head and, before I could protest, he magicked a showerhead out of the wall. Moments later, I was soaking wet and none too thrilled about it. "What in tarnation—I took a bath before getting here, y'know!" I snapped. The unicorn ignored me, instead picking out a few bottles and brushes and setting to work. I was brushed, combed, shampooed, conditioned, scrubbed, filed, picked, clipped, and polished within an inch of my life. Neither of my companions was faring any better, as far as I could tell. Lyra seemed to be enjoying it somewhat more than Honeysuckle, which wasn't hard, given that Honeysuckle looked like she'd have rather kicked a beehive. When, finally, the ordeal was over, I asked for my hat back. The purple unicorn shrugged. "You'll have to ask Cardamom about that," he said. "He's the one in charge of costumes." I didn't have high hopes. Once the three of us were dried off, we were escorted into another room. Three ponies greeted us-a pink unicorn, a pale blue pegasus, and a golden earth pony. The earth pony seemed to be my costume guy—Cardamom, I was guessing—since he walked right up to me, while the other two went to talk to my fellow tributes. "Hello there," he said, smiling. He held out his hoof, which I took, albeit reluctantly. But when someone offers to shake, you can't exactly refuse, at least not without looking like a jerk. He gestured me towards the desk that stood to one side of the room. "I've been working on these sketches ever since I saw who I'd be styling for—tell me what you think." He looked earnest, which was kind of odd. If he meant it, then he'd probably be the first person to care about my opinion since I'd gotten reaped. I went over and took a look at the sketches and, to my surprise, they weren't bad at all. I'd seen the costumes used in previous years for the initial chariot ride through Canterlot, when all the city folk were able to get a good look at the ponies who'd be in the Games that year. Usually, the District Eight tributes were dressed up like, for lack of a better word, hayseeds. We were country folk out in District Eight, but not all of us wore straw hats and overalls. Not that there was anything wrong with those who did, but I'd never seen, say, Lyra wearing that sort of getup. She was a town pony, not a farm pony. The design Cardamom had come up with was less super-rustic-farmer-pony and more blend-of-plant-and-pony. Not all of the notes scribbled around the pictures made sense to me-I saw mention of a "pseudoflorus and illupomogen spells melded with a demiglamour enchantment," which, not being a magic-using pony, I couldn't make heads or tails of. But the gist of it was Cardamom (and the other two costume designers, presumably, since the three of us tributes would be sharing a chariot) intended to make the chariot look like a garden, and the tributes of District Eight look like part of that garden. I was going to get painted-not enough to blend in completely with the spell-plants, but enough that it might be difficult, at first glance, to tell where the plants ended and I began. It was a bit complicated for my tastes—I'd have been happy just to wear what I'd always worn—but given that it seemed that I had to get all gussied up, it was fine. I could live with it. I only had one question. "Any chance I could wear my hat?" I asked. Cardamom raised his eyebrows. "Hmm," he said. He turned and looked back at the sketches for a few moments, then picked up a pencil in his teeth and drew something, stepping back to look at it. "Hmm," he said again. He looked back at me. "Would you object to a different hat, in a similar style? Just so I can fit it in with my design, you see," said Cardamom. "Well, all right," I said. "But..." I'd had a sudden thought. "I will get my old hat back eventually, right?" Cardamom nodded. "I don't see why not. As long as there aren't any sort of concealed weapons in the hat, they should let you take it into the arena." I grimaced. Cardamom looked sympathetic. Strange-he was the first Canterloter to act like being a tribute was anything less than a huge privilege. "I know." He shrugged. "It's hardly anything, compared to what we've taken away." He shook his head, and turned back to his sketches. "I can't do much for you. But I'll do my best to make sure the people of the Capitol will remember you." I didn't know quite what to say to that. "Well," he said, "let me call in my assistants so we can start getting you fixed up." This involved a lot of me standing around doing nothing, which would have been pretty dull if two of Cardamom's assistants weren't spending a fair bit of time spellcasting over me. I was surprised to discover that Cardamom had actually had something to do with designing the variant of the spells the unicorns were using, despite the fact that, being an earth pony, Cardamom didn't have any practical experience with magic. "Oh, he's just brilliant," one of his assistants, an eye-searingly pink unicorn named Pixie Dust, told me when I said something about there being an awful lot of magic involved in my costume. "Honestly, he should have been born a unicorn—his idea of doing a semi-meld of the lower-frequency aether-field portions of the pseudofloris and minor prismshift spells was simply inspired! Such a subtle difference—but it really does wonderful things for the overall effect. And you might think that the demiglamour would be overkill, but really, it just adds an entire new layer to the viewing experience, and it's not overpowering at all. Just wait until you see it in action!" She went on like that for a while. I tuned her out as easily as I had Gingerbread. I guessed it was nice to know I was in good hooves, but I didn't know a sudo-florist from an ill pom-pom, or whatever kind of spells Pixie was weaving over me. As long as they didn't explode in my face, I was good. The magic left my skin feeling kind of tingly, though I couldn't see anything different about me. When I asked about it, the other unicorn—a pale blue fellow named Sugarspin—told me the spells wouldn't be activated until just after we got into the chariot. Cardamom brought me a hat shortly before the unicorns were done. It was like my old one, only in multiple shades of green. It would do. Soon it was time for the three of us District Eight ponies to reunite so we could all get in the pegasus-drawn chariot. I'd seen a few pegasus-powered forms of transportation overhead in Canterlot, but I'd also seen flying vehicles sans pegasi, which looked pretty strange. We didn't have many of the former back in District Eight, and none of the latter. I was guessing we tributes got pegasus chariots because of tradition, and maybe because it would be kind of hard for us to grab control of it and fly away. The pegasi waiting at the chariot were both burlier than Honeysuckle, who wasn't exactly burly herself. "How'd it go?" I asked Lyra and Honeysuckle, quietly. "How do you think?" Honeysuckle replied. "It went okay," Lyra said. "The magic itches, though." "Same here," I said. "All right," said Pixie Dust, "time to make the magic happen!" She lowered her horn, pointed it at me, and I saw a spark at the horn's tip. Suddenly, I was covered in greenery-vines, leaves flowers, and even some fruit. Some of the vines seemed to grow to wrap around the edges of the chariot. When I looked back over myself, I had to admit that all of that magical frippery was awful pretty. The flowers seemed to glow, and as I watched, I realized that they were slowly changing colors-shifting from blue to purple to pink. There were some berries hanging from the vines draped over the chariot's side, so I reached out and picked one. It dissolved in my mouth, and I thought I could taste just the ghost of its flavor. Then we were off. It was an experience unlike any other, being paraded through the streets, surrounded by cheering ponies all arching their necks for a glimpse at the tributes. I didn't see why they bothered—I knew that all of this was being transmitted live to crystal projectors across Equestria, and in Canterlot, I figured everypony probably had a crystal projector in their own house. Why not just stay home and watch in comfort? And they all kept screaming, too. It hurt my ears. I tried to keep a straight face, eyes forward, keeping myself from staring too much at the crowds or the images of the other tributes that were being projected on giant floating screens. Of course, doing that, I couldn't help but notice the chariot right in front of us. District Seven was an agricultural district, too, but they focused mainly on the sorts of plants used for magic and medicine, so their costumes had a plant-ish theme, too, with flowers woven into manes and magically-created butterflies floating all around them. Two of the tributes from District Seven seemed around my age—the unicorn might've been a bit younger, or she might just have a slight figure—but the pegasus was a young thing, around Applebloom's age. She was waving at the crowd. I tried to keep my eyes a little higher after that, so I could only see the tops of the older tributes' heads and the shining wings of the fake butterflies. After what felt like hours, all eight chariots filed into the ceremonial pavilion in front of the castle. There was an elevated podium set up. After all the chariots were set up in a half circle, facing the podium, there was a flash of light as Regent Nivea teleported in. The crowd grew somewhat quieter as she stepped closer to the podium and began to speak. This was my first time seeing the ruler of Equestria in person. I had to admit that she was an impressive sight. She was taller than most ponies, with a long horn to match. Her pale blue mane rippled and flowed, even though there was no wind. It was magic, of course. It was probably also magic that made me think how beautiful she looked, how regal, how graceful, how much she resembled Celestia— I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them. I'd had enough magic done on me today to know how much it could do. Right now, I wanted nothing more than to get these fake vines, fake leaves, fake berries off of me so I could go back to being Applejack instead of the prettied-up earth pony tribute from District Eight. "Citizens of Equestria," the Regent said, her voice sounding clear even over the crowd—more magic—"we are gathered here today to honor this year's tributes." The crowd cheered. The Regent lifted her hoof to quiet them, then continued. "This year's Hunger Games marks seventy-four years of peace and prosperity throughout Equestria. And this year, as with every year, we are united as a nation to remember the past, that we may not repeat it, and to celebrate the present that we have won through blood and toil. Now, let me address the Tributes directly." She looked down over us, and I felt cold, deep in the pit of my stomach. "I congratulate you all on the great honor that has been bestowed on you," she said. "For the next week, you will be given the best of all that Canterlot can provide. Use it to prepare yourselves for the Games. All of Equestria will be watching you. Learn well, fight well, survive, and do your Districts proud." The crowd behind us went wild, shouting and shrieking and hooting and hollering. Our chariots started to move again. We were done. As we made our slow way to the Training Center, still surrounded by a screaming crowd of Canterloters, all I could think was—this was real. This was really real. All magic and illusion aside, we were really here, and we were one week away from the Games. Seven more days, and then the killing and dying would start. Not long after the District Six unicorn enters her quarters at the Training Center, a scroll appears in a flash of smoke and green fire, thudding onto the ground at her hooves. She levitates and unrolls it. It says: You looked really amazing out there! I know that lots of ponies are going to want to sponsor you. You have to keep being great, so that you'll get lots and lots of help, and then you can win and come back home. I'm trying to get together enough bits to buy you something, too. We all miss you a whole lot, but I know you can do it! Come home as soon as you can, okay? Love, Your favorite brother, Spike The unicorn carefully rolls the scroll back up and stands silent for a few moments, eyes closed. She knows that she can't send anything back home. It isn't allowed, and there's no way she could do it without getting caught. But she thinks as hard as she can in the hope that somehow everyone she loves will hear: I will. I'll do my best. I'll win this thing. Somehow. I promise.
Interlude: Summer Spark's New JobSent over the Canterlot MagiNet: Date: September 14, 208 11:30 P.M From: "Summer Spark" (summerspark@canterlotlight.gov) To: "Aurora Dawn" (morningfire87@grapevine.org) Subject: Got the job! Hey there, Rora. What do you think of my new Magmail address? I've got a new title to go with it: Assistant Solar Technician, which is another way of saying "guy who gets the coffee." Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. I AM one of the guys who gets sent for coffee, but I'm also supposed to serve as backup—both to supply the non-assistant Solar Technicians with extra magical juice as needed, and to potentially take over for one of them if they're suddenly disabled. Remember the field trip to the Solar Chamber we both took in third grade? It's not any less impressive than it was back then, at least not to me. Maybe after working here for a while, I'll start to get jaded, but I doubt it. I mean, I get to be in the same room with part of Celestia herself. And, if I stick around for long enough to drop the "assistant" from my title, then I'll be working with Celestia's magic on a regular basis. I'll be part of the group responsible for raising the SUN. Holy horseapples. It's powerful stuff. But enough of me gushing about my new job. How are Mom and Dad doing? They're still throwing the annual Hunger Games kickoff party, right? Ask them if there's anything I can bring. I mean, I still couldn't cook to save my life, but I could buy some chips or soda or napkins or something. Tell Mom she should make those stuffed peppers again—those were AMAZING. Now that I've got a new job (oops, there I go again), I'm thinking of buying into a group sponsorship. I'm not sure who to support yet—Districts One and Two are usually the ones who last longest, but I've always had a thing for the underdogs. District 4 hasn't had a Victor in the last few years, and the unicorn from that District is just gorgeous. Yeah, I know I'd never have a shot at her, even if she won, but a stallion can dream, can't he? Well, I'll figure out who to go for once we see a bit more training footage. Anyways, I'm off to bed. Mail me back soon. Love, Summer Spark
One-Way Train to CanterlotThey had the three of us put in separate rooms in the Hall of Justice, with guards at the doors to keep us from trying to escape. We had plenty of Guardians who were stationed in Eight on a year-round basis, and nobody liked them, but at least they weren't as bad as they could've been. The Elite in charge of the District Eight Guardians—an Earth Pony named Ironshod—was relatively decent, for a Guardian. She kept her troops under strict discipline, and kept them from trying to take more food than their fair share, or throwing their weight around to extort other things out of us. Of course, she also was strict about any of the District Eight ponies trying to hide food. If we were under quota, we could undergo discipline, but if we had an unusually good harvest... well, then Canterlot got the extras. There were specific rules for exactly how much of each crop we were allowed to keep. If you hid any, the Guardians were allowed to execute you, though last time that happened, the pony who'd done it got away with a flogging. I remembered, though, that during the Parasprite year, when she was overseeing us loading up the apples for Canterlot, that she hadn't ordered the troops to search the premises like every other year. I wished we'd actually tried to hide something, but none of us had the courage. I didn't recognize any of the Guardians here now. They were probably all from Canterlot. I got the feeling that the Canterlot Guardians were even more disciplined, and less willing to be lenient, which was saying something. I had no intention of trying to run away, at any rate. If I did, at best, they'd find and catch me, and at worst, they'd catch me, execute me, and send Applebloom to the Hunger Games. I'd chosen this. I didn't regret it. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared out of my wits. I tried to hide it when the Guardians let in Granny Smith, Applebloom, and Big Mac to see me. "You've got five minutes," said the pegasus Guardian, leaving the door open. Applebloom flung herself at me, wrapping her forelegs around my neck. "You can't go, Applejack! You just can't!" she sobbed. "I can't lose you, too!" "Hey now, sugarcube," I said, patting her hair. "Hey. I'm coming back, okay? I promise I'll do my best to come back home to ya'll." Applebloom sniffled into my mane. "Y'promise?" "Cross my heart," I said. "I'll give it all I got." I held her as tight as I could, and looked over at Big Mac and Granny. "I love you all more than anything else in the world," I said, choking up in spite of myself." "Oh, sweetie pie," said Granny, coming over to join us, followed by Big Mac. We held each other as tightly as if we never meant to let go. Big Mac, steady as always, said, "We'll look after the farm until you get back." "I know you will," I said. "I... I'm sorry I won't be around to finish the harvest." "That's all right," said Big Mac. "Don't you worry about it. Just focus on keeping yourself alive." "I will," I said. "I'm coming home, fast as I can." We stayed like that, close as we could get, until the Guardian from before poked his head in and said that time was up. Big Mac had to pull Applebloom off me. She started to cry again, and I thought I could see Big Mac trying to hold back tears as well, for Applebloom's sake. I'm sorry, I thought. I would have given anything to keep from causing them pain. But that was ridiculous. This wasn't my doing, not one bit of it. It was Canterlot. I sighed, and flopped down on the bed, trying not to start crying myself. I had to hold it together, if I wanted to have any chance at all. I didn't have much of one, but still, out of seventy-three Hunger Games, a District Eight champion had won four. Most victories went to the richer Districts, the ones that trained up ponies specifically for the Games. It wasn't technically allowed, but Canterlot pretended not to notice the training schools that everyone knew existed, as long as those schools were in Districts that were judged sufficiently loyal. Districts One and Two were the main ones who did that sort of thing. District One tended to spend the most time and effort on its unicorns, and District Two its pegasi. I'd heard rumors that District Three was making some tentative motions towards starting a school for Careers, which would mean that we'd start seeing some Careers from a more earth pony-heavy district. Just as well for me if the rumors were false, but given how unlucky I'd been so far... The door opened again. "Three minutes," said the Guardian as Carrot Top walked in. Her real name was Golden Harvest, but everyone called her Carrot Top on account of her orange hair. Her family had a farm near ours, and they raised carrots and turnips. "Hey," she said, quietly. She shifted from one hoof to another. "Hey," I said, back. Silence reigned for a few awkward seconds before Carrot Top spoke up again. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry that this happened, and you were very brave, and I want you to know that my family will do what we can to help yours. So you don't need to worry about it." I blinked a few times. Normally, I didn't like to ask for outside help, but right now... I was right grateful for the offer. Big Mac could probably handle things on his own, but it would still be a load off my mind to know he could find someone to lend a helping hoof, if need be. Of course the extended Apple family would offer help if asked, but they ran apple farms all over District Eight, and would have their own harvests to tend to. "That's... mighty kind of you," I said. "Thank you very much." Carrot Top smiled weakly. "You'd do the same for us, I know." "Yeah. I guess." It didn't seem like either of us could think of anything to say after that, so we sort of looked at each other, then the walls, then back at each other. "Well," said Carrot Top, "Good luck." "Thanks," I said. "Good luck to you too. With the harvest, I mean." I envied her with all of my heart—she was going to get to go back to the earth and the fields, and even if the work was hard, it was survivable. She lowered her eyes. "Goodbye," she said, leaving. The door closed. "Goodbye," I answered quietly, not so much to her as to everything I'd ever known. I laid down on the bed, curled up on my side, waiting for them to finish whatever preparations they were making for the trip to Canterlot and load me and the other two Tributes up. There was a crowd at the train station to see us off, but I barely got a glimpse of anyone as the Guardians herded Lyra, Honeysuckle and me onto the train. As soon as we were on, I looked out the window to see if I could catch one last glimpse of my family, but I couldn't see them in the crowd. I waved anyways. Then the train began to move, and District Eight started to slide away, so I left the window. Gingerbread, as chipper as ever, showed up shortly thereafter. She told us that our rooms were two cars down, clearly labelled, and that she was certain we'd all like to take an hour and a half to settle in and freshen up before it was time for dinner. The three of us Tributes looked at each other, and headed in the direction Gingerbread had pointed. Sure enough, there were three rooms, all next to each other, each with a square metal cut-out on the door-one unicorn, one pegasus, one earth pony. "I guess this was where Amethyst stayed last year," said Lyra, quietly. I thought back to last year's Tributes—the unicorn, Amethyst Star; the pegasus, Thistledown; and the earth pony, Rye. I hadn't known any of them all that well, for which I was grateful. Amethyst, I recalled, had been killed the second day of the Games; Thistledown had gotten taken down by some flying spellbeasts not too long after; and Rye had made it into the last six competitors—enough to give some of us hope that we might have a Victor that year—before getting stabbed to death by a pair of unicorn Careers. "It might not be the same train," Honeysuckle pointed out. That wasn't a huge help. Even if this wasn't the exact same train that Amethyst, Thistledown, and Rye had ridden to their deaths, it had still brought plenty of doomed ponies to Canterlot. I pushed open the door to my room and took a couple steps inside. It was ridiculously plush. From the heavy carpet beneath my hooves that almost seemed to suck me in, to the thick red comforter and the way-too-many pillows on the bed, to the velvet-upholstered chair in front of the vanity-it was all more luxurious than anything I'd seen in my life. And it was all for me. A pony that, odds were, wouldn't live to see many more sunrises. I guessed it only made sense to make the most of it, yet I couldn't help but feel kind of guilty. It wasn't really sensible, but I looked at this room, and all I could see was enough money to keep my family's bellies full for a year, with plenty of pie to go around. Was the frame of the mirror made of real silver? Were the curtains silk? I couldn't tell for sure, but I wouldn't bet against it. The whole point of the Hunger Games was to show the Districts who was in charge. Maybe this was just another way of showing it—letting us know that while we worried about having enough to eat, Canterlot had enough bits to afford every luxury for both its residents and the Tributes it brought for the residents' entertainment. Though if that were so, it didn't seem all that effective, given that I probably wouldn't survive long enough for the message to really sink in. I shook my head. I had to stop thinking like that. Sure, my odds weren't good, but they were probably better than some. I had to quit thinking like a dead pony and start trying to plan. I'd promised I'd do what I could to come home to my family, so I needed to start right now. I started by walking back out of my room to see if I couldn't find our mentor. Cheerilee didn't get out much. She mostly stayed in her house at the Victor's Village. I heard she had a deal with somebody to get food and salt delivered to her front door once a week. I only ever saw her on Reaping Day, where she stared dully at the audience throughout the whole thing and left as soon as possible. But she was going to be our mentor, all three of us, since she was the only Victor from District Eight that was still alive. She'd know what would give us all the best chance of survival. It was her job to help us out, right? I found another set of rooms the next car down, though these weren't labelled. The first door I knocked on didn't seem to have anyone behind it, but at the second I found Cheerilee. "What do you want?" she asked. "Gingerbread send you to get me?" "Um, no. I just... wanted to introduce myself, I guess. Maybe see if you had any useful advice before we get to Canterlot," I replied. She snorted. "I know who you are, and you know who I am, so introductions aren't really necessary. As for advice-don't gorge yourself too much at dinner. Canterlot food's rich enough to make you sick if you're not used to it." She started to close the door, but I held a hoof out to stop her. "I meant I want to know what to expect, when we get to Canterlot," I said. "Expect ponies who don't give a road apple about the little ponies they watch die every year. Expect ponies who have more money than they know that to do with and throw their bits around at stupid things just to show they can. Expect too many lights and frills and crystals. Now leave me alone." She pushed my hoof away and slammed the door. I had the feeling that Cheerilee was just as antisocial as she'd seemed all those years back in District Eight. But curse it all, I expected at least some help from the pony who was supposed to be our mentor! I snorted, frustrated, then headed back to my room until it was time for supper. Cheerilee doesn't know why the earth pony even bothered asking. All three of the tributes are going to die. Hopefully quickly, for their sake and hers. Cheerilee has to watch the Games until all three of her ponies are dead. Two years back, they all were gone before day three, and so Cheerilee went back to her quarters and binged on salt until she couldn't remember the Games even existed, and especially couldn't remember that the little unicorn that year had reminded her of Clementine. But all three of the Tributes were on the older side, this year, so that was something. She washes down her salt with a swig of water and tries not to think about the days to come.
En RouteI tried to follow Cheerilee's advice about the food. It was richer than anything I'd eaten before-roasted pears dripping with honey and spices, a savory pie full of potatoes and turnips and gravy, roasted asparagus topped with garlic butter and lemon juice, sugar-coated strawberries stuffed with heavy whipped cream... The worst part of it was that there was entirely too much, even if all five of us—Gingerbread, Cheerilee, Lyra, Honeysuckle, and me—ate ourselves sick, there'd still be enough left over to feed several ponies. I was glad there weren't any apples. I didn't know if I could bear to see them going to waste like this. I kept looking over at Cheerilee as we ate, but she kept her eyes on her plate. The only times she spoke were to ask for something to be passed her way or to make monosyllabic responses to anyone's—mostly Gingerbread's—attempts to draw her into conversation. This was the first year Gingerbread had done the announcing in District Eight—the pony before her had been named Silverstar. He'd been an Earth Pony. I guessed he'd probably been promoted to another district. District Eight was Gingerbread's first assignment, she informed us all over dinner. She was ever so excited to be working with us. She knew that we didn't have the best reputation in the Games, but she had full confidence that we'd all put up a good fight. That unicorn could carry a conversation all on her lonesome, which was a good thing, because she pretty much had to. Lyra barely said anything. Honeysuckle tried, like I had, to see if Cheerilee had anything useful to say, which she still didn't. As for me, I figured it was best to just let Gingerbread talk at us. She seemed like kind of an airhead, but hey, there was the off chance she'd say something helpful. "Silverstar told me such lovely things about your District," said Gingerbread. He'd never seemed to go anywhere in our District outside of the train station, the Hall of Justice, and the stage that got set up in front of the Hall every year, so I wasn't sure how he'd know much about it. "Of course, District Eight might not be the most prestigeous of districts, but of course we all depend on the food we get from you, so you're really very important!" She smiled, glancing at all of us, as though she expected us to be grateful for the compliment. "Well," said Honeysuckle after a minute, "we can all see how much you Canterloters like to eat." Gingerbread paused. She glanced down at herself. "Do you... you don't think I'm... I mean, the crystals add ten pounds, and I have to look presentable..." I glanced over at Honeysuckle. The corner of her mouth twitched upward. I sighed. "You look just fine, Gingerbread," I said. "Really? You're not just saying that?" she asked. Honeysuckle snorted, quietly. "Really," I told her. "Honest." She beamed. "Oh, good." She glanced at her plate—still about a quarter full—and delicately pushed it away. "And you can call me Ginger. All my friends do!" "Well, that's... nice. Ginger." I wondered if she really understood what she was doing. Maybe she'd never let herself think about it. I guessed if I was in her place, I might not want to think about it, either... but then, if I were a Canterloter, I doubted I'd have gone into her line of work. She kept right on chattering about how wonderful Canterlot was, and how much we were all going to love it, and how she couldn't wait to see us all on the crystal set... I excused myself and headed back to my quarters, where I flopped down onto the bed and closed my eyes. None of this seemed like it could be real. I hadn't even gotten to Canterlot yet, and I felt as though I'd stepped into an entirely new world, where food was something you could afford to waste and everything was shiny or plush. Sometimes both. And every minute brought me closer to the Games. I didn't want to think about the Games, or the possibility of being forced to kill somepony, or be killed myself. I'd seen some of the things that happened in the Games. The Career ponies were trained to hurt and kill other ponies, and a lot of them seemed to enjoy it. I didn't like watching, but everyone was required to spend a certain amount of time doing so, to make sure we all remembered what Canterlot was capable of. There were crystal projectors and a big screen in the Hall of Justice that got set up for those mandatory viewing periods. And I watched, like everyone else, how a Career pony—a red pegasus with a horseshoe cutie mark—broke the wings of another, black pegasus. When the black one tried to run away, the Career caught up to him and, with a great kick, broke one of his legs. Then the other three, one at a time. The red one just kept kicking, and kicking, and the black pegasus screamed and screamed, and I planted my hooves hard over Applebloom's ears, and because of that I couldn't cover my own, and so I heard as the screams grew weaker, and weaker, and I saw blood start to leak from the black pegasus's mouth, and... I had nightmares for weeks after that. If I were going to die, I hoped to die quickly, and I hoped to die when no one was watching. Late at night, maybe, when all my family was asleep. Though they might just play my death over in the morning-they sometimes did replays of some of the more dramatic moments when the Games hit a calm period. I didn't want a dramatic death. If I couldn't die in my sleep of old age, I'd prefer a quick set of hooves to the noggin, or a meal of the wrong berries or mushrooms that made me fall asleep and never wake up. But I wasn't going to do what some ponies did when they got sent to the games and kill myself straight off. The platforms all the tributes started out on had spells cast around them so that, if a tribute got off their platform before the starting horn, said tribute would get blasted to smithereens. There'd been maybe three ponies that did that, that I could remember. Two of them were in the same year—a pair of colts from District Five. There hadn't been any after those two, though, and there were rumors that the Gamemakers had set up precautions to keep anypony from purposefully offing themselves before things got started. I laid there on the bed for a few more minutes, then got up and paced for a while. All right. Strategy. What should I do? Well, my main talent was bucking apples. It's what I'd been doing for years. I had strong hooves and powerful legs. I could run pretty well. I could throw a horseshoe and hit my target—or at least close to it—pretty much every time. Those were my strengths. My weaknesses were mainly that I didn't know how to fight. I wasn't from a Career district. I was plenty strong, but the Career ponies had the heart beaten out of them. They didn't hesitate to crush, stab, or bludgeon a colt or filly, barely more than a foal, until they stopped crying. They didn't seem to feel anything when somepony else got hurt, beyond a feeling of satisfaction. Some of them even seemed to enjoy hurting other ponies. I couldn't do that. I thought I could probably hurt a Career, if they tried to hurt me first. But not a little one. Not someone who was somepony's little brother or sister, scared as hell and just trying to survive. Maybe I could just start running, and not stop, keep ahead of the killers and... And the sound of the ponies they killed. I wondered briefly if Cheerilee would mind sharing her salt. Probably she would. I shook my head, turned off the lights, and tried to get some sleep. A white unicorn sits up, bleary-eyed, when she hears the door to her cabin open in the middle of the night. She sees the silhouette of a pegasus in the doorway. "I, I'm sorry," the pegasus says. "I, just, if it's not too much trouble, can I stay with you tonight? If that's okay." "Of course, darling," says the unicorn, scooting over to make room. "Bad dream?" The pegasus nods. "I... I don't wanna talk about it." "That's fine," the unicorn says. "It's all right. You're safe here." The pegasus lies down, and seems to fall asleep quickly. The unicorn listens to her companion's deep, even breathing, and whispers a prayer to a long-dead goddess that both their deaths will be quick, kind, and simultaneous.
