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tenminutesadayThis whole scene materialized in my mind the moment I read the prompt, so thank you for that.
Warnings: Implication of canon-typical violence (not graphic)
On the train through Panem, Tartan and I make the best of our remaining time. Neither of us are likely to survive more than a week or two from today and so we sample every delicacy on board.
“What’s a nic-oi-zuh?” I ask on the second afternoon, peering at the projected digital menu. Tartan and I have both discovered salads, an unheard-of luxury in 8.
“Salade niçoise?” sniffs Aelia.
Weft dives in to save us from another lecture. “It’s a cold salad with tomatoes, eggs, and tuna. Try it, you need the vitamins and protein if we’re going to fatten you up for the slaughter.”
I might be offended by that if I hadn’t been watching Weft on TV for most of my life. He’s a snarky old man but I saw him hug Tartan as soon as we left the station. He’s been encouraging us to eat as much as we can and enjoy ourselves. Usually Dimity wants to talk strategy, as if either of us have a chance at surviving, but she excused herself this morning with a migraine and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.
So Tartan and I wave to the bald Avox who stands silently by the table. “Two Salade - Nic - This,” I say, pointing helplessly at the menu. “Please.”
I thank her when she brings the salads a few minutes later from some unseen kitchen farther down the train. Tartan does, too. Despite her sneering at our uncouth table manners, Aelia told us not to bother saying “please” and “thank you” to the Avoxes who serve us here.
“It’s like saying thank you to the doors for opening and closing,” she said airly, waving a hand.
Now I say “Thank you” to the automatic doors between train cars. Tartan does, too. Weft joined us, just to annoy Aelia. I like him even better for it.
The salad is delicious. I’ve only ever eaten tomatoes from a can, in a sauce on pasta to liven up the bland boiled noodles when we could afford it. I’m not prepared for the bright burst of juice when I bite into the first one.
Tartan and I spend the rest of the meal arguing about which tastes better, the tomatoes, which he says taste like soap, or the tuna, which I think smells strange. We order seconds and carefully compare notes on flavors, whether a salade niçoise is better with vinaigrette or oil, if we would swap out the tuna for salmon, which offends Aelia so much that I ask for a third prepared just this way.
It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten and, for a little while, I think about something other than the idea of my death.
Warnings: Implication of canon-typical violence (not graphic)
On the train through Panem, Tartan and I make the best of our remaining time. Neither of us are likely to survive more than a week or two from today and so we sample every delicacy on board.
“What’s a nic-oi-zuh?” I ask on the second afternoon, peering at the projected digital menu. Tartan and I have both discovered salads, an unheard-of luxury in 8.
“Salade niçoise?” sniffs Aelia.
Weft dives in to save us from another lecture. “It’s a cold salad with tomatoes, eggs, and tuna. Try it, you need the vitamins and protein if we’re going to fatten you up for the slaughter.”
I might be offended by that if I hadn’t been watching Weft on TV for most of my life. He’s a snarky old man but I saw him hug Tartan as soon as we left the station. He’s been encouraging us to eat as much as we can and enjoy ourselves. Usually Dimity wants to talk strategy, as if either of us have a chance at surviving, but she excused herself this morning with a migraine and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.
So Tartan and I wave to the bald Avox who stands silently by the table. “Two Salade - Nic - This,” I say, pointing helplessly at the menu. “Please.”
I thank her when she brings the salads a few minutes later from some unseen kitchen farther down the train. Tartan does, too. Despite her sneering at our uncouth table manners, Aelia told us not to bother saying “please” and “thank you” to the Avoxes who serve us here.
“It’s like saying thank you to the doors for opening and closing,” she said airly, waving a hand.
Now I say “Thank you” to the automatic doors between train cars. Tartan does, too. Weft joined us, just to annoy Aelia. I like him even better for it.
The salad is delicious. I’ve only ever eaten tomatoes from a can, in a sauce on pasta to liven up the bland boiled noodles when we could afford it. I’m not prepared for the bright burst of juice when I bite into the first one.
Tartan and I spend the rest of the meal arguing about which tastes better, the tomatoes, which he says taste like soap, or the tuna, which I think smells strange. We order seconds and carefully compare notes on flavors, whether a salade niçoise is better with vinaigrette or oil, if we would swap out the tuna for salmon, which offends Aelia so much that I ask for a third prepared just this way.
It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten and, for a little while, I think about something other than the idea of my death.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-19 05:50 pm (UTC)This was a fascinating little ficlet! I don't know much about The Hunger Games except the basic premise of who Katniss is and what she has to do, and I had no idea it was written in first-person present. You've done a great job of maintaining that immediacy of experience, and I especially love how you expressed the newness and wonder of their experience with the salade nicoise.
I also love that Weft started saying "Thank you" to the servers just to annoy Aelia. :D
no subject
Date: 2025-01-19 08:39 pm (UTC)