Magna Aerosta's Story

”Oh no. No no no no no, not again.”

Those had been Keeth’s words, upon seeing the gleaming train that would bring them from the Capitol proper to their dwelling for the next nine months. Dwelling was the word that he’d decided on for the place, for it would never be his home. He’d probably never see his real home, the small boxy apartment that he had kept so free of clutter, dust, and grime, again, but that didn’t mean he was simply going to forget it.

The Peacekeepers in attendance to escort them onto the train had been warned of Keeth’s liability as a flight risk. When the dark-haired boy, wide eyed and in the beginning throes of hyperventilation, tried to bolt, a stocky man all in white caught him by one of his spindly arms and kept him from running off. Keeth struggled for a moment before realizing that he had no hope of winning free, but he had to be all but half-carried or dragged to his cabin, and then locked in until the train was underway. He gladly accepted the sedative that someone, he wasn’t sure who, offered him. Even with it coursing through his system, he was still pacing across his room like a nervous crane as the shuttle came to life. He’d drawn all of the shades; the landscape blurring backwards past them would be too much.

Not long after they were moving, he heard the lock on his door click open. Even though he had no intentions whatsoever of going to dinner, he did have preparations to make. He was wearing the same get-up his stylists had picked out for him that morning, and his hair was a mess from the many, many times he’d run his hands through it (sometimes tugging quite hard) in the course of his mad pacing. He didn’t need to primp or change or any of that, though: what he needed were pillows. And blankets. As many as he could come by. He didn’t remember if the meal was mandatory or not, but if it was, they’d have to find him and drag him there as well. It was less a matter of open defiance and more a matter of survival. He’d accepted that he was going to die in the arena, sort of, but he’d do everything in his power to avoid death by train.

He’d grown up in Six. His father and both brothers had worked in the factories that made the rail lines and often worked on laying them down as well. He remembered well the many graphic descriptions his father had laid out for him, of trains derailing, and the reason for the calamity was always something innocuous. ”Oh, there was a defect in the rail, no bigger than your thumb. Doesn’t take much when the thing’s going hundreds of miles an hour, Keeth. Doesn’t take much at all.” How could the other tributes not know what danger they were all in? The train was more dangerous than any muttation or trap they’d encounter during the games, but they were… what, doing their hair? It boggled the mind. Keeth’s mind, anyway. How could they even keep the rich fare that the Capitol served down while they were smoothly speeding toward fiery death?

He stripped his bed of all the bedclothes and pillows and bundled them up. The first place they’d look for him, if dinner was compulsory, was his room, and that meant he needed to find a better hiding place. There were bathrooms that weren’t attached to any cabins, and those would do just fine. Using a bit of tenuous reverse psychology, Keeth decided that any pursuers would almost certainly assume he’d get as far away from the dining car as possible, and so in a fit of what might pass for cunning, he decided to stow himself in the lavatory second-closest to that very place. If the Gamemakers had scored them on cowardly ingenuity, Keeth would have swept the competition.

He bumbled out of his cabin, barely able to see above the bundle of goose-down pillows and heavy comforters he’d taken with him, and nearly ran into Magna as she exited her nearby cabin. Peering at her from the side of his padding-to-be, he opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. He’d tried to talk to her the other night, after she’d gotten back from wherever the Peacekeepers had dragged her after her outburst on the show, and she’d barely said a word to him. He’d been hoping to speak with her, about that, about the boy from eleven, about… well, everything, but then she’d just stalked into her room.

”You do realize that no one’s allowed to kill you before we get into the arena, right?” That was what she said to him as he peeked at her in the train corridor. Anxiety had knotted his stomach, he needed to get to bathtub ground as soon as possible, before a squirrel got caught in the engine or something, and so he just squeaked ”Yes, I realize that” and then scurried off with his soft, fluffy spoils.

After depositing the bundle in the bathtub of the lavatory (why a public use bathroom would need a great huge claw-footed bathtub that would have comfortably fit three tributes was beyond him, but he’d stopped questioning the ostentatiousness of the Capitol shortly after he’d witnessed a man puking up his dinner for the sole purpose of being able to stuff himself all over again), he trekked back out into the corridor, raiding a nearby linen closet for more pillows. He only dared take another armload, and hoped it would be proof against the inevitable doom that waited for the lot of them at the end of the line.

He turned the lights off. Darkness would make it easier to imagine that he wasn’t on a train, that he was in his own bed at home, squeezing his eyes shut in the wake of the nightmare that the past few days had been. His life had never been exceptionally great, but he would have gone back to his brothers making him wear their mother’s frilly apron while he cooked for them in a heartbeat if it meant someone else had been Reaped instead of him.

He arranged the blankets and pillows as best he could, then climbed over the high edge of the tub with some difficulty. He actually wound up falling into his little nest, but fortunately, it was… well, a nest of pillows and blankets, and he suffered no harm. Burrowing down into them and wrapping himself up in a tight cocoon, he closed his eyes and prayed that he might be able to sleep through the whole voyage, or with luck, the next nine months. Or maybe he’d just die in his sleep. That would have been a boon, at this point. He knew he’d get no sleep, though. However he tried to distract himself, he’d always drift back to the fact that he was on a train, and a lance of terror would skewer him anew.






Scipio was starting to believe he had a telepathic ally somewhere very high up in the Capitol.

Things were going well. Very well. Too well. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of suspicion, but then, when one spent the bulk of his existence living a very elaborate lie, paranoia was practically an old friend. One of the few true friends he had. It made him sharp to consider every angle, every possibility. Perhaps some savvy oppressor had seen through his act, and was merely giving him enough rope to hang himself with? Scipio had very little interest in rope tricks. He’d leave that to Niles and Diomache. Even if someone did suspect him, it wasn’t as if they could pull him from the games. Not after he’d scored an eleven (tied for highest, which was mildly irritating and only reinforced the need to both sway the girl from Four to his side and then figure out a way to deal with her) and nailed his interview. Not after gladiatorial couture had already begun sweeping the Capitol.

He’d be sharing his room with the very girl he’d alluded to at the end of his interview. He’d been keeping track of the time, adding little pauses or jokes here and there to run out the clock in order to create suspense on that front. It was perfect. He wouldn’t even have to try to get her alone in order to woo her. He did need to get her would-be paramour alone though, for a gentlemanly discussion, but that could wait.

He couldn’t help but grin remembering his interview. How perfectly his double-talk had carried off. He’d restore the honor of his family, alright, but not as the empty-headed cravens of the Capitol thought he meant to. He’d even managed to work in a reference to the Thirteenth District that had been obliterated at the end of the Dark Days, in such a way that most wouldn’t even think it was defiance. Retrospectively, though, the truth of that three minutes would be undeniable. Proof positive that he’d been on this course all along, when he eventually needed to show the world who he really was.

His grin persisted as he remembered his session before the Gamemakers. The looks on their faces had been priceless as he rampaged through the training area with a mace in each hand, obliterating anything that came in his path. He imagined that a targeting dummy was Caesar Flickerman as he took its head clean off and then doubled it over with a blow to the midsection. He imposed the face of President Argent over a punching bag as he knocked it off its chain and then smashed it flat with a flurry of hateful blows. By the time they’d regained their senses enough to dismiss him, gawking, he’d damn near wrecked everything. Poor Stiletto had probably been quite cross, waiting for them to set things right before she could enter.

He was in front of the mirror, making a few last minute adjustments. He’d opted for a much more casual attire for the evening- a pair of nice but unremarkable pants of some sturdy brown cloth, along with a simple white t-shirt that showcased his upper body very well. He used a comb and some clear goo to sweep his hair to one side of his head, and then used his fingers to poke and prod the pale blond coif into perfection. He wanted to seem approachable. Normal. Just another teenager. None would fall for it, of course, at least not at the onset. His mission tonight was to convince as many as possible that even though they’d all be at each other’s throats in nine months, there was no reason they couldn’t be friends in the meantime. He’d seize any opportunities for drama that might present themselves, of course, but he didn’t plan to push. Not yet.

Satisfied that he was camera-ready, he made his way out into the hall. He had some time left before the meal would start in earnest, so he decided to do a bit of wandering… making his way slowly through the train in hopes of finding open doors with tributes within who he might talk with. His brow knit as he spotted The Boy Who Cried hurrying past him, hugging a mass of blankets, but he just shook his head and continued onward toward the back of the train at a lazy pace.

I find it an extremely out-of-body experience, the knowledge that I'm hurtling past outdoor objects at a speed which would (in any other contraption) be considered ludicrous and yet, surprisingly, I feel as though I sit still. The scenery explodes and implodes from view so quickly my eyes barely have time to focus before shifting to the next onslaught of foliage. This is frustrating and makes looking out of any window quite pointless. So I sit, confined to this tiny compartment. All the riches that can be fathomed and they choose to waste it by inventing trains that move so quickly one cannot enjoy the natural beauty of our world. The luxury that is wasted... If even the smallest amount of what they spend on their grand balls and dinners could be put towards the outlying districts! I've lamented on that too much though, and what good would another entry in this journal about the disparities of our world really do? Nothing. Just the hateful musings of a young man destined for doom.

Lor sighed and leaned back, away from his desk. He tucked the pencil he'd been using behind his ear and stretched, yawning. Against his better judgement he was thankful that the pencil existed, his left hand had finally stopped carrying the signs of his writing. In Nine he'd always had to use charcoal or ink on a stick, anything that would leave a mark on a page. His penmanship was better due to this crazy luxury, true, but it was the fact that his hand remained clean that he didn't mind. He glanced out the window out of habit and a new scowl crossed his face. He'd wanted to watch the country-side, see the sights, out of sheer curiosity. The damn train moved so fast you could barely keep yourself from creating a headache if you even tried to look outside for longer than a minute. Disgusted, he pulled the pencil from his ear and tossed it onto the desk. Rising, he shut the blinds. The light outside had been beginning to darken, and it occurred to Lor that the tribute's dinner would be starting soon. He pursed his lips and looked about his room. It was the last night he'd have a room completely to himself. Sitting on his bed, he let his shoulders sag as he stared hard at the floor, going over the past few days in his head.

Lor knew he'd killed his interview, was confident that he did, but so had many of the other tributes. He wondered briefly just how many sponsors there actually were and, guessing at a number, tried to divvy them up to different tributes. He felt confident that he had a fair chance, but fair didn't keep you alive. He knew that he'd have to keep up appearances and (no matter what) never let anyone know about his deeper feelings on the Capitol and most of Panem. He looked at his journal then. If the wrong person read it... He shook his head to stop his mind from thinking that way. It was his possession, his "trinket" as it were. No one would be allowed to read it, even in the event that he was killed right off. He'd made sure to bring a new journal with him, one that didn't mention any of his family's views, but he'd been writing in it since his first train ride to the Capitol in the first place. Many of his rants about the people in the Capitol and the Games in general had already been rehashed in the first couple of pages, and could be incriminatory if found under any other circumstances. As it was, Lor felt comfortable knowing that there wasn't much worse they could do to him, he'd already been sentenced to death.

Standing, he walked over to his desk and picked up the journal. Tying it closed he tucked it into the pouch he kept around his waist, under his shirt. From now on, it was where he'd always carry the journal. Then, moving over to his closet, he looked in. A suit bag with the word "Dinner" printed on it was in the front of a row of clothing that had been tailored for him. He took it out and unzipped it. Inside he found a charcoal suit that fit snugly, but comfortably, a pair of combat boots, and an undershirt. Confused, he checked the rest of the bag. No tie, no collared shirt. His brow wrinkled and he cocked his head slightly, hadn't Silver said that all suits must be worn with collared shirts? Then he noticed a note in one of the shoes. Grabbing it, he flicked it open. He smiled as he read the four words that were scrawled on the page in such a no-nonsense hand that there was no room for a question of who'd left it:

No shirt. More Masculine.

Once again struck by how grateful he was for his stylist, he finished dressing, messed wit his hair a bit, then stood back to take in the final product. Approvingly, he nodded, then moved the blinds to get a bearing on what time it was. It was late. Time to go. He took one last moment to compose himself, then stepped out into the hallway, turning towards the dining car.



Pip laughed boisterously as she burst from the dining car into the lounge car, a large piece of chocolate in her hand. She'd made sure to befriend the Avoxes as soon as possible, and so far had not been let down. Not only had she come to love the fact that they pretended to not listen to her (even though their silent gurgles indicated laughter at her jokes) but over the short amount of time the tributes had been on the car she'd already had 5 chocolate bars, 2 cookies, and at least a dozen fruits she didn't know the name of but was already addicted to. She plopped down onto a lush couch in the middle of the room and kicked her feet up over the back of it. Biting into the bittersweet dark chocolate again, a contented sigh bubbled it's way up and out of her system.

"Yes, this. This is defffffinitely the life!" She drawled quietly to no on in particular, seeing as no one was in the room with her. She lay there for a while, lounging. Half-sleeping and half awake as she relished in the chocolate bar, eating slowly. She finally finished it and lay, hands on her stomach for quite some time, staring at the ceiling. She was having such a good time already, and still nine months awaited! She drifted then, into a light slumber. She didn't rest for very long, though, because as her eyes had drifted closed her mind had drifted back to Nine and Lua. Jerking up-right she nearly toppled off the couch as the sadness washed over her. Lua... he'd been left behind. By Jesh and now her... And he knew that she'd do anything in her power to help the right person win, whoever that turned out to be. She felt the familiar tingle/burn in the upper portion of her nose, the warning sign that tears would soon follow.

Shaking her head, she smiled and rolled off the couch. Bouncing up to a standing position she stared at the door to the dining cart... "Hmmm do I want a donut?" Pip thought aloud, then noticed the clock hanging on the left wall of the train. "Aw! 5:30 already?" She stomped her small foot and pouted prettily, "Guess I'll wait then! It's almost dinner time..." Her eyes widening, she looked down at herself. "Woooopsie!" Giggling she took two steps backwards, then turned and began moving back towards the hallway where all the rooms were situated. Matt would have her head on a platter if she showed up to the televised dinner in her bright pink bath towel. Hurrying towards her door she nearly bumped into Saffron as was standing in front of one of the guy's doors. "Sorry!" She trilled over her shoulder, bouncing past, "Gotta get all hot and sexy for dinner tonight. You know how it goes!" Then she turned into her room.

Shutting the door behind her she went to work. She'd already successfully destroyed the room by creating different piles of "stuff" for lack of a better term when she'd first boarded the train. Really, she'd just been interested in what all the compartment could hold, so she'd gone through everything, the downfall being that Pip didn't have time nor want to put anything away herself. Thus, piles of clothing, shoes, books, things she'd never seen before were strewn across her floor and bed. Her desk was covered with all sorts of things she'd seen her stylists use on her hair and face and her bed was already torn to shreds because she'd jumped in immediately and wiggled around in it, reveling in how soft the sheets were. At the memory, she giddily tore her bathrobe off, revealing her nude body and slid into the bed again. Rolling around in the sheets she stretched and smiled, making a mental note of how wonderful this sensation would feel with another human body involved.

Catching sight of the clock on the wall Pip rolled her eyes. "6 already?" She mumbled impertinently. "Looks like I'm late, again!" She sighed, took a few more minutes to enjoy the sheets, then stood and began to get dressed for the dinner. She rummaged around in the dress pile until she found a powder blue soft thing that looked like it'd be pretty cute and still help her come off as one of the "young ones." Putting it on, she mussed with her hair, found some shoes in that pile, then knocked everything on her desk onto the floor in her mad search for lipstick to finish off her attire. Biting her lip she realized that she was now at least 15 minutes late for the dinner and decided that another couple minutes wouldn't hurt, so she ran over and snuggled up in her bed one more time, letting her hands run back and forth across the silk.



Magna blew the bangs out of her face as she lay on her back on the floor in the middle of her compartment, her hands linked across her stomach and her legs crossed. It had been a long few days and now began the longest nine months of her life for certain. She sat listening to the lack of sound the luxurious train made and stared at the ceiling. To her surprise, her eyes focused on a black dot in one of the ceiling corners. A spider? She could almost laugh at the absurdity, I didn't know the Capitol allowed things like... oh, wait. Standing, she grabbed the desk chair and moved it over. Stepping on it she moved closer to the 'spider' and rolled her eyes. Of course. The creature had all eight limbs and the abdomen of a spider, but instead of the multitude of eyes Magna had grown accustomed to seeing on normal spiders there was one, large, subtly glowing orb in their place. She smiled ferally into it then, "Hey President Argent! Gonna watch me change?" She quickly smooshed the tiny muttation with her bare hand. "Pathetic."

Jumping off the chair, she turned and looked at her room. After unceremoniously dumping her onto the train earlier they'd stationed a Peacekeeper outside of her cabin door. A little while ago he'd knocked on it to tell her they were moving at fast enough speeds that she was allowed to leave the room, but she chose not to. Not long after, she'd listened as his boots had clunked away, probably bored with guarding a girl who wouldn't try anything. She couldn't say that she would have done things differently in her interview had she known she'd spend her last couple days in the Capitol locking herself into her room to avoid Keeth's expectant and worried stares, it wasn't in her nature to lie, but she had pondered what more tact might have bought her. Shrugging it off, she opened her door curiously and looked out. She'd only seen Keeth when getting on the train and he'd given her a look that reeked of pity and remorse. Well, he could save that for another time. In the arena maybe. No... not even there. There won't be time for remorse there and it's going to be hard enough for Keeth to stay alive anyway. She pursed her lips as fire grew in her eyes, then, thinking better of it, breathed out and let the emotion go again. Turning, she wandered off to the left, unsure of what she'd find.

Some way down the cars of the train she'd passed a clothing car, (Ridiculous), what seemed to be a car for the nail things (Mani-cures? Pedi-cures?) that the Capitol so loved, and a car full of boxes. She became aware that she was heading towards the back of the train and decided to change direction and come back. She knew what these trains entailed. She thought back to what Mr. Diggett always used to say, something about the tiniest crack in the railway causing the train to derail... or explosions due to poorly manufactured engines. For a millisecond she was worried, then realized it didn't really matter and shrugged to herself, That'd be alright.

Magna returned to the car with all the living quarters and was moving toward her door, overly bored with the train already, when a giant pillow monster exploded from the door to her left. She sidestepped quickly as a reflex and stared at the pillows. Suddenly, from behind them a head popped out with disheveled hair and wide, terrified eyes. Keeth. You idiot. Pillows won't save you against a train explosion. She rolled her eyes and pushed a finger into one of the pillows. It gave way as if it were made of clouds.

She looked at him then with disinterested eyes, "You do realize that no one's allowed to kill you before we get into the arena, right?" She watched as the fear spread afresh over his face and squelched the tiny bud of remorse before it even began in her stomach. No time or need for emotions, she turned and moved into her room, listening as he scurried off down the hall with his cumbersome load.

Sitting on her bed, she looked out the window. Her eyes unfocused and she sat for a moment, just letting the world blur by her vision. She knew she'd have to get dressed soon, show up for the pomp and circumstance of the dinner, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. The knock on the door broke her from her trance on the landscape. "Miss Aerosta, I'm here to take you to dinner." It was that idiot Peacekeeper again. She didn't respond, just stood and started to de-robe.

"Miss...?" Another knock on the door, this time a little louder. Instead of a response, she locked the door. She knew he'd wait outside, it was his Capitol duty, but at least he'd know she was in there now instead of rattling her door every five seconds. Taking her time, she mustered the energy to get dressed and do her make up. If anything, she'd at least look pretty at the dinner. What was two hours in front of a camera compared to nine months anyway? Gritting her teeth, she opened her door and looked up at him. He smiled, she stared blankly, he turned, she followed after.

His mantra was not working. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect, drawing yet another physically imposing tribute into the bathroom as well. Reutruse had started to stammer (which struck Keeth as strange in an unidentifiable way; he was used to being the stammerer, not the stammeree) out that it was okay, even though it was most definitely not okay. Nothing was okay about the current situation. He was supposed to be snugly nestled in the tub, like he had been on the way from Six to The Capitol. No one was supposed to come in at all, never mind come in to relieve themselves!

And then it was even less okay. It shouldn’t have struck him as so strange that some people actually wanted to use the bathroom for its intended purpose, but it did. He felt very, very small, hiding in his blankets, with the two daunting young men towering over his less and less adequate bathtub of protection. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. The only thing that came to mind would actually have been more of a shrill scream, to the tune of GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GO AWAY LEAVE ME ALONE. He’d learned his lessons about screaming long ago. It was better to just consent to whatever hurt or humiliation was coming. He’d probably end up hauled up over one of their heads, or maybe one would take him by the wrists and the other by the ankles and they’d swing him to the count of three before launching him into the corridor. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He’d been thrown like that before, when bigger boys from Six had caught him one day and chucked him into a fountain outside the Hall of Justice. A filthy fountain. Birds pooped all over it, and for all he knew, tall, handsome boys who made his stomach feel funny and warm peed in it all the time. He’d thrashed and gasped as if it had been twenty feet of water rather than less than one, spurring laughter from the ones who’d tossed him and most other people in eye- or earshot.

He heard their words, even as he hid. Reutruse’s stuck in his head. He failed to grasp Marvel’s appraisal of the situation in the initial exchange, but then the boy from eleven protested, it’s not what it looks like. What did it look like? He had no idea. Was there something that one meek coward hiding in a bathtub that just happened to be in the same bathroom as a powerful hero who’d volunteered to save a similar boy looked like? If there was, it was well beyond his kenning. It was like they were speaking in code. Maybe there was a male universal language, hidden between the lines of normal words, which he was not privy to? Maybe it came along with puberty, but only if you got muscles and the need to shave more than once a fortnight as well?

It was when the words doing anything somehow passed through the fabric cocoon and reached his ears that he realized, to a degree, what it looked like. Keeth may have been naïve, but he was fairly observant, and probably too clever for his own good. It was part of always being at the edge of every group, always wearing the outside-looking-in perspective. He’d heard other boys talk about things they had done or would have liked to have done. He was vaguely aware that, for some reason, he was supposed to want to do those things too, whatever, exactly, they were. He had a sneaking suspicion that part of why he was so often the target of bullies was intricately tied to his lack of wanting to learn more about, never mind actually participate in, those activities. He was also reasonably sure that Reutruse and Marvel were talking about those things right now, only it involved him, and Reutruse, and…

… it made him wish the train would derail, right then and there, and consume them all in fiery doom.

He waited about three seconds, bracing himself for the screech of metal. Of course, the world was cruel, so it never came. That meant he had to go with Plan B. Plan B was really more instinctive than anything else. It involved hurtling over the side of the bathtub and dashing out of the bathroom as if he were being chased by a flock of birds that were attended by trackerjackers. He was fast, he knew that, and they both seemed pretty focused on peeing, so he had a good shot at escaping, in his estimation, and then they could do whatever they wanted and just leave him out of it.

Initiate Plan B!

He grabbed the side of the bathtub yet again, and this time got his legs beneath him, erupting with all the awkward grace of an antelope wearing work boots out of his blankety confines and over the edge of the tub. So far so good. He darted in the darkness, avoiding the silhouettes of the two other tributes, and realized, oddly, that his cheeks felt very warm. No time to think about that, even if he wanted to. Every second was precious, if he wanted to make a clean getaway. If either got their hands on him, he’d be as helpless to wriggle free as he had been with the Peacekeeper. Anxious adrenaline had burned the drugs out of his system, it seemed, which was good. He made it to the door unscathed and then grabbed the knob. He was free of the incredibly strange situation!

Or he would have been, if the door weren’t locked. Panic seized him, and rather than work the lock, he tugged and turned and grunted and then started to cry. He was trapped, trapped in the dark (the lightswitch was like, two feet away, but never mind that), and they were going to do who-knew-what to him. He felt very stupid all of three seconds later when Smart Keeth reappeared and undid the lock. Success!

The split-second he spent congratulating himself proved to be his undoing. Before he could pull the door open, someone much stronger than him pushed it open from without. He let out a yelp as he was driven back, and his legs got all tangled up, causing him to stumble and then fall, flat on his back with a very audible ”Oof!” of pain. It radiated up and down his spine, carrying through his limbs. The light pouring in from the doorway was blinding him, forcing him to squint, and even then the amount of time he’d spent in the dark bathroom made it impossible for him to identify the newest participant in this nightmarish experience as anything more than a black shadow in stark contrast to the whiteness that filled the doorframe.

Magna followed the Peacekeepr in silence. She briefly wondered if he'd stay with her for the remainder of her life before teh Games began. Deciding that whether he did or not, it wouldn't truly affect her in anyway, she let her gaze drop to his booted feet. So militaristic, and yet she'd bet money she didn't have that he didn't know the first thing of having to use the weaponry on his being. He was a Capitol Peacekeeper after all, and very little happened in the Capitol to call for Peacekeepers who could actually accomplish anything other than looking formidable. Even so, this particular one had hard enough time even attempting that. Perhaps he was terrified of how "radical" she was. Smirking, she looked back up at the back of his head, covered with the helmet of his kind. Breathing in through her nose, she decided to test him. Reaching up decisively, she tapped him on the shoulder. To his credit, he didn't jump, but turned quietly and looked at her. Even though his demeanor was calm, she could read his eyes. He was confused, and yes, she'd been right, a little scared. She stopped moving, causing him to also cease his forward trajectory.

"Yes, Miss Aerosta?" His eyes had calmed, but Magna was positive that underneath all the padding of his uniform he was tense, ready to run. She could have laughed, would have, if he'd even had the smallest idea of who she really was, deep inside. As it was, he knew the 'new' Magna, the Magna who pushed the old one deep down inside any time the pain started again. She let him sit for a moment, expectation and the smallest amount of worry settling in. She was patient and could wait out the awkwardness, so instead of responding she turned and walked slowly over to a window. She stood there, and crossed her arms softly across her chest. The Peacekeeper shuffled his foot, obviously uncomfortable, and let a small cough escape his lips. A smile spread across Magna's face. The absurdity of it all. Shouldn't she be the one uncomfortable in his presence? Smiling feraly she turned and looked at him dead on. She felt more than saw his tension build. Then, in her sweetest voice possible, she made a simple request.

"I believe I need to use the restroom. Will you please show me the way?" She watched as the suited man untensed and expelled a breath. Seriously, what was she going to do? Stab him? A thought occurred to her, "Actually, you're dismissed." She wasn't sure if it would work, but it was worth a shot. The Peacekeeper stood for a second, obviously slightly confused, "I can't go anywhere, we're on a bullet train. Besides, I have to be on air in 3 minutes." He wasn't moving and she was almost positive that she couldn't pull of what she'd planned, then another thought, "I want privacy. So shoo." As she had in her interview, she kept her voice level, knowing that even the slightest change in vocal patterns cued people to emotions that weren't always necessarily there. Another minute passed as the two looked at one another, then the Peacekeeper looked sidelong as if listening to and concentrating on something that Magna couldn't hear. Nodding once, curtly, he turned and left the room.

Magna's eyebrows raised as she watched him retreat away from her. He'd obviously been given some order by the Gamemakers. She may not be on Panem LIVE yet, but she'd be damned if she didn't think they had her on watch somehow. The spider muttation in her room had told her as much. She made a mental note to undress subtly, knowing that it didn't really matter after all the time with the stylists, but for her own peace of mind.

Clearing her thoughts, she started heading towards the dining car. As she made her way along the cars, a few sounds caught her attention. She heard some high pitched squeaking, then two more manly voices. Interest slightly piqued, she wandered to the door the sounds were coming from. If there was an alliance being made, she wanted to hear it. She needed every tiny bit of information she could get if she was going to win. She listened intently, a scowl crossing her face as she craned her neck back to give the door a look that dripped of, "What the...?"

She put her hand on the knob then to steady herself as she leaned on it to listen better, on some level curious of what was really happening in the community restroom. She heard some clamoring about, and something that sounded like grunts of exertion giving way to helpless whimpers as the doorknob jiggled in her hand. Someone was breaking the rules, it was obvious. It sounded as though two of the larger guys had gotten a hold of one of the weaker ones or even a girl. Not that she really cared about the Games rules, but she did have morals and that just wasn't fair. They weren't even to the house yet, disgusting pigs. It was probably the Careers and that Tyke kid or something. Her eyes narrowed as she realized that she recognized the whimpers. Well shit Keeth. Magna looked skyward briefly, What have you gotten yourself into? She heard the lock click and without a hesitation pushed the door open with all her strength. Rules and stoicism be damned, no one, and she meant no one was allowed to hurt Keeth if she was around.

As the door flew open a yelp and movement pulled her line of sight to the crumpled Keeth flailing backwards to the ground. She watched him hit the ground, then looked at the two figures standing behind him. Mild surprise hit her as the light from the doorway shone past her and illuminated the men. The only outward show of this surprise was her eyebrows raising ever so slightly as she looked from one man to the other, then to the boy, and flicked the light on. Now that she could fully see them all, she assessed the situation. Reutruse, the guy who stands up for the little man but doesn't give a thought to how the people who care about him feel. Marvelos, the one who caused a twinge of pain and tight aching in her chest that she didn't want to name or remember . And Keeth. Enough said.

A tiny smile crept onto her lips she looked down at the third, letting a softness fall over her features that was rarely seen. Arching a pretty eyebrow, she set aside her amusement and the softness was gone again. "Did you just want to prove me wrong?" She asked him not unkindly, then looked at the two larger boys. Again, without raising her voice or adding any venom what-so-ever, she continued "You know the rules. Don't mess with the other Tributes, especially not the defenseless ones, before the Games." Stepping forward so that Keeth was behind her, Magna's tiny body only stood about shoulder height on the other boys. "I know first hand what they do to you for breaking their precious rules," she stated matter-of-factly, "You boys won't like it." She was not threatening them or being menacing in any way, as she shrugged to punctuate her sentence. It was as though she were stating they couldn't wear her shoes because they wouldn't like 3 inch heels.