Into Thin Air: The Forty-Second Hunger Games

Chapter 6

Lucius Petrol

There was a small metal pin in my hand as I sat in the Justice Hall. Usually my thoughts were going a mile a minute, but when I heard my name, they all froze and there was nothing but fear. It was only for an instant, and then the thoughts were running again. I had to rise up to this challenge. I still had a chance, and I wasn't going to waste it.

I always prided myself on my quick thoughts and quick actions. That was why I wanted to be a pilot. Not for the expected reason. I didn't want to fly away from my problems or my District. I just wanted to fly. Being a pilot was the hardest, most elite job in Six. It took lightning-fast reflexes and the ability to think through problems and come up with a plan instantly. No one in my family had ever earned a pair of wings. They didn't even consider it an option. We were humble, working class people who worked hard every day just to make it by. I wanted something more than that. It was going to take everything I had, but it was worth it to me.

It was my grandfather who gave me the pin. It was shaped like a plane none of us had seen for decades. It was before even my grandfather's time. I was one of maybe a dozen people who would have recognized it in my District, and that was only because I was so obsessed with aircraft. It was a B-29, a huge hulk of a plane that was used to drop bombs in a war almost lost to history. The craft I would have flown would have been smaller than that. I wanted to be able to dart between things and zip across the sky like a comet. Flying a B-29 still took skill and craft, but they were often escorted by smaller planes. A B-29 carried bombs. It didn't make fancy maneuvers. It was hard enough to keep the massive hunk of metal airborne.

There wouldn't be planes in the Arena, but that wasn't the only thing I could do. I'd need to think quick and make flexible plans, just like a pilot. The odds were against me, but that wasn't a factor. I wasn't defined by odds or my District. We all went into the Games with a 1 in 24 chance. Th odds went up or down based on our choices, not our birth. Careers fared better because they trained. I wasn't trained, but I was going to learn and adapt.

This didn't have to be the end. It was a hard deal, but I didn't have to let it defeat me. There was no room for error and I'd have to do everything right. Every choice I made from here on out was life-or-death. I was going to take it seriously and give myself the best possible chance. I'd heard of people landing planes after their engines shut off entirely. They improvised, thought quickly, and made do. So would I.

Ferrari Benz

Michel was a good boss. As long as we did our work and kept him out of it, he let us goof around after hours. We didn't steal things (mostly because we didn't want to. We worked in an auto graveyard) or get into mischief that hurt anyone but ourselves. We usually didn't even hurt ourselves. But it wasn't fun and games until someone lost an eye.

You picked up a few things working at a car junk lot. I got to where I could tell which cars really were junk, and which were the ones Peacekeepers threw out when they wanted an upgrade. Through trial-and-error, there was hardly a car on the lot I couldn't get running. Some wouldn't go faster than I could run, but the ones that got going... those were fun.

My latest project was a sleek purple number with two hubcaps and an almost entirely intact windshield. My last number, a sleek black number with three intact tires, had served me well until it died a Viking death in a tower of flames after I took a corner too hard and hit a pile of tires. I could be more careful, but I wasn't going to. I touched a few wires together and heard that satisfying hum.

"Everyone ready?" I asked. The other racers- my friends Polly, Cel, and Shif- flashed thumbs-up from their rides. None of us were wearing helmets. We would have cobbled them together just like we cobbled together our cars, and they would have been useless anyway. We were a quartet of walking safety violations. The egg timer we'd salvaged from the dump and repurposed as a starting pistol went off, and the race was on.

We never bothered to set up a track. The winner was whoever got across the lot first, by any route desired. Polly and Shif were cautious and preferred to go around obstacles. I wasn't no baby. I saw those "obstacles"- things like piles of tires and half-buried hoods- for what they really were: ramps.

I didn't always win, usually because I crashed. Cel was probably the best racer of us, since she planned out her route beforehand and only took reasonable risks. But I was feeling lucky today, so I took the direct route. I went in a straight line, through the pile of seat stuffing and over the half-rusted siderail, clearing it by a good inch and a half. This time my luck held, and I crossed the finish line two lengths ahead of the second place finisher.

Nothing's certain in Panem. I could Reaped tomorrow. I could run over by a taxi on the way to work. Or I could die trying to ramp three cars in a row. We all go someday. When I reached the other side, I wanted the big guy to throw up his hands and ask, "What were you thinking?!"

Lucius is tall and lanky with brown hair and eyes. He has big teeth in an endearing smile. Ferarri is tall with a black bob, amber eyes, and Asian skin.