The 99th Hunger Games

So. These are my first ever Hunger Games in my life. I can't emphasize too much on begging you to please bear with me and my English. It's not perfect and it most likely will stay that way for the near future. Other than that, I do hope that you enjoy this Games and do nag me on the comments to update please.

The Twist:
Mwahahaha, this is where it gets interesting. Only characters that are mentally disturbed can be accepted. Now, don't get too stressed on me, your character doesn't necessarily have to be dingo-bat crazy. He/she can have a backstory that has affected them psychologically, or just slightly have obsessions over stuff. Yes, you can also have totally crazy chars. However, do keep in mind that I will amplify their madness in these games.

Zapphire O'Quaid · District 1:
No. I’m not going to put up with the reaping today. Not again. Even if father dares to make me go, I’m not going. It’s scary and disturbing enough to be standing in the middle of the whole stinking teenagers of District 1, let alone having the knowledge that one slip of paper could diminish your probabilities of living one more year from 100% to 1/30, because apparently, District 13, 14 and 15 will be participating this year too. It is a total blow-off from the Capitol. They say they want to stop the killing. That they want to stop the Games. That’s crap. If they wanted that, they wouldn’t send 6 more people to die this year, and now that they’ve done so, they aren’t going to stop. The new Districts will most likely continue to send their pair of tributes annually from now on.

The good news is that as far as I am concerned, my plan is still on board. All I had to give that stupid and weak-minded Peacekeeper was a small amount of money and a ruby necklace for his wife. So naïve! Truth to be told, it wasn’t a real ruby necklace. It was a fake… but you know what they say: “Corrupted people only get corrupted rewards.” That’s what I say, at least.

Deep inside of me I do feel sad for the Peacekeepers. And for Panem. Our country is rotting to hell and drowning in corruption, and the only thing that the people whose job is to maintain peace do, is to do the contrary by taking cheap bribes to make the dirty job for the citizens. But whatever, I guess. It works for me and it helped me with the most vital part of my plan.

That thought makes me smirk. How people are so easily manipulated. How people can be swayed just by material objects I stand up from my bed and go to my bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. Perfect as always, Zapphire…

Then I notice it; my blood turns ice cold, my face becomes moonlight pale and my heart becomes an unsteady yet rapid bang of war drums. A vile and abominable pimple sits just on the tip of my nose. I am most definitely not having this. Even if I am not going to attend the reaping, I’ve got to stay presentable in case anything happens. A tear comes out of my left eye. Calm down darling; you’re beautiful even if you have an volcano about to burst on your face.

But I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it.

I quickly search through my bathroom drawers, my hands trembling anxiously in anticipation to finding that blessed object. I find the small box containing it on its insides. I gingerly take the lid off and pick the object between my right index finger and my thumb. I look at it cautiously, almost as if feeling that my fate depends on it. I quickly rub alcohol on it before warily directing it to my nose and popping the pimple open. I squeeze that sucker inside-out and then place a piece of wet cotton with alcohol on top of it. I wince as it burns, but I take it in.

Beauty hurts indeed, but not being beautiful hurts even more.

“Zapphire, dear, are you ready to go to The Reaping?!” My father inquires from downstairs.

“As if! I’m not going to that foolish ceremony this year, father. I’m a grown woman now, I can take my own decisions!” I retort with a small tone of indignation.

“You have to go! It’s illegal not to do so. Either way, if you don’t get ready to go now, the Peacekeepers will come here for you and take you in any state that they find you…”

My heart stops beating for a split-second. ''Oh my. What if they do? Would they really take me in my pink zebra night gown? I guess I will have to go…'' I don’t reply. I just nod and get undressed before hitting the shower and cleansing my whole body from any dirt particle that might’ve managed to illicitly touch my sacred body. There aren’t any, of course, but I still wash myself. Hygiene is extremely imperative.

When I’m done, I grab a lilac spring ruffle strapless dress with white small polka dots on it. I then wrap around my waist a thick leather belt and then slide my feet inside a pair of teal 5-inch heels. Carefully, I braid my hair into three Dutch braids that meet in a certain point, where then I twist my hair and make a bun out of it. I spray some perfume on my neck and then I groggily walk down the stairs, only to find an impatient father of mine in his usual suit.

“Nice dress. Who knows, maybe if you get reaped, all the people will look at it and be jealous of you.” The unfortunate man chuckles, obviously teasing.

In response, I direct a death glare towards him. “Father, you know very well that we don’t do jokes about The Reaping; even less today. Besides, everybody is jealous of me every time. Now, step aside.”

And so he does. Not even is he immune to my orders. I walk out of the house only to vaguely listen my father’s long and regretful sigh. I find it amusing, and my face makes sure to show it. “I’ll wait for you at the square,” I say, before I continue “See you after The Reaping.”

——

The whole District congregated in the square. As I had recalled from last year, it indeed was smelly. So much sweat. Even from the girls. That was oddly disturbing. They clearly didn’t have enough education to know that hygiene was important. But that is not important, I do have that knowledge and I did take a shower. I’m sure I don’t stink. At least not like the others…

I start feeling nausea and dizziness. I want this stupid Reaping to get over with.

Our ‘beautiful’ Escort stands up in the podium and greets us all. She introduces herself, but I don’t pay attention to her name. She gives us a speech that she has obviously memorized. Everyone nods absentmindedly. She shifts uncomfortably and I notice her blue and red boot-heels. Ugh, hideous; that poor woman has no taste in clothes whatsoever. Then I notice her pastel coral dress that definitely doesn’t match her shoes. Her long brown hair is ironed perfectly, but then I notice a small burnt patch of hair. I roll my eyes and a disgusted look lingers on my face for a moderate amount of time. If she’s from the Capitol, what awaits the rest of humanity? I must be one of the few people in Panem with a decent taste in clothes.

A video is shown on the humongous screen. We all watch it attentively and from the corner of eyes, I can see our Escort mouthing every single line of dialogue. When the video finishes, I’m left with grogginess and a sleepy mind.

“Now, for the most awaited part; the tributes! As always… Ladies first.” She seems anxious and drops her hand to the bowl with all the slips of paper. Her hand moves gingerly before grasping onto a small slip of paper, rising it with care out of the bowl, opening it, and reading the girl’s name out loud.

“Zapphire O’Quaid.”

My mouth drops to my stomach as my inside organs orchestrate an intricate knot that keeps me from swallowing my saliva and breathing. My heart pounds a million times per minute as I shake my head to listen to the actual name pulled out. Some girls look for me but don’t find me, as I’m wearing a pair of stylish dark glasses. The Escort repeats my name and it dawns on me. I am going to the Hunger Games. Then the people notice me and stand aside so that I can walk up to the podium.

I confidently stride all the way until I am next to the Escort. My steps are calculated and perfect. They make me look better than I already do, which, although it may seem impossible, isn’t. The Escort whispers me to take off my glasses but I don’t. I'm not giving her that satisfaction. Just as she asks me for my words, a hand shoots up from the crowd. “I volunteer as tribute!” the owner exclaims.

A devilish smirk forms from ear to ear in my visage. Not because I am going to be replaced, but because this is going better than I had planned originally. She is the daughter of the stupid psychologist that tried to make me go nuts. His most beloved thing in this world, apparently. I made sure that he’d pay for his sins long before today.

That’s when the gunfire starts, and a split-second later, the young girl who volunteered has approximately 4 bloody bullet holes on her chest. She falls to the ground and everybody gasps. Everybody besides me, that is. Everyone looks for the one responsible for this, but they won't find the Peacekeeper that I hired as a sniper. I also made sure he was stealthy.

Some try to run away, but the Peacekeepers surround the square and they won't let the teenagers out.

But the ceremony must go on.

"Any more volunteers?" The Escort asks and I face-palm in front of everyone. Of course, District 1 is a place where normally both females and males volunteer, however, I think that the people will have second thoughts on volunteering now that the latest volunteer has been brutally murdered. Cowards.

"No? Well, we will now go on with the male tribute." The woman in the coral dress continues. She walks to the bowl with the male slips and quickly snatches one out before reading it:

"Bronze Gollyfleck"

Everyone looks around, trying to find the owner of the name. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a cute guy laughing and walking to the podium. Nobody stops him. His mad laughter leaves the whole District with a sense of uneasiness. Any attraction that I had towards him seems to have vanished already. He forcefully takes the microphone from the Escort and speaks to it, his crazy voice echoing through the square, resonating.

"My name is Linen Moonstone, and I volunteer as tribute."

His face is void of any emotion, and his stare stays blank. Something about him feels just... off. I feel quite disturbed and uncomfortable just by looking at my now fellow District tribute for the Games.

The woman with horrible taste in fashion decides to continue talking, despite the fact that nobody wants to listen to her anymore, “Well, these year’s tributes have been chosen finally! Let’s all show them our support.” The whole District puts their three fingers in their mouth and then showed their palm to the tributes. As far as I know, I think it was considered treason about 30 years ago, but now it is a sign of respect, a sign of solidarity.

Not that I’d care enough to feel respected or supported. I know that once the Games start, every single one of them showing their so-called ‘respect’ will want me to die as brutally as the vixen that I am.

I can’t really say that I blame them.

Fjord Holt · District 4:
The sun rays beam in my face telling me that the dawn has finally ended, and my nose immediately flare in response. Truth to be told, I haven’t been able to sleep very well lately. Meta has been, unbeknownst to her, nagging me in my mind for the last few days. What will happen in the Games when we volunteer together?

Will she be there for me? Will I be there for her? Will she let me? What if she decides not tonally with me? These are the types of questions that bug me every now and then. Every time that I think of Meta, at least. I yawn before rubbing my eyelids with my balled fists. I crack my back as I stretch and grin for a few moments and satisfaction runs through my veins. Pleasure, even. The same feeling I get when I am close to Meta. When she talks to me and we casually laugh together. The feeling that I will be longing for once I am in the arena, because Meta will not look at me the same way as she did yesterday. In fact, whether I like it or not, I know that the lingering pleasure that still finds home inside my chest will dissipate sooner or later.

My hands clench into fists once again as a reflex, my forearms’ muscles are tight and I think that I may have a break-down. But I don’t. I make sure to breathe in and out calmly as the images of my death father flash through my mind. I manage to control myself after a lot of previous practice. My body stands up from the couch and makes its way to the shower, then to the shampoo, the soap and finally to the towel as it cleans itself. But I don’t, my mind is not present. It is sort of in a pre-traumatic stress progress, thinking about all the possible outcomes of the next few days.

I head off of my house and go to train, making sure to excell in my main weapons before I volunteer today. I like training, it helps me sweat off all of my thoughts and problems. They are bound to come back after some time, and I know it, yet it helps to momentarily get that massive weight out of my shoulders every now and then.

When I am done with the reps, I hit the showers in my house and then get dressed up in some formal beige trousers, a vanilla yellow dress shirt, dark brown loafers and a navy blue sweater with baby blue highlights in the collar and the cuffs. It makes me warm, cozy and elegant somehow. My alarm rings just in time to alert me that the reapings are about to start.

When I get to to the square, it just takes me about 4 minutes to get pricked and taken blood of. Our beautiful escort, Mandarina Baiterhousen reminds all of us how very thankful she is to have the honor to serve in a Career District. Everyone remains serious as she continues with protocol and reads the Treaty of Treason. Her white long dress seems magical, with silver sparkles and figures on the shoulders, waist and collar. Her face is pale as always, with some ice blue eyeshadow and silver lips and earrings. Her bleached white long hair is shaped to seem like a bee hive, although some small metallic fish are hung up from it, instead of bees.

“Well, well, well! Isn’t it exciting! We are now to pick the female tribute’s name.” She smiles genuinely as she walks over the bowl, makes a twirl with her wrist, lowers her hand, scrambles the slips around and finally fishes one out of the bowl.

“Meta Stiles!” Mandarina beams at us as my heart sinks into my stomach. What were the odds of her being picked? Definitely I had gone over this. I never thought that this could ever happen. It is— perfect in so many ways. Too many. It feels wrong, somehow. The District falls silent. Everyone knew that she was going to volunteer. But now she can’t.

“I volunteer!” A hand shoots up from the middle of the crowds. The sensual girl walks up confidently to the stage before speaking to the microphone. “I am Vassëna Myndwood, and I volunteer as tribute.

“Marvelous, darling. We are very glad for you.” Mandarina nods. And strolls over in her high heels to the males’ bowl. This time, she quickly snatches the slip of paper before unfolding it and reading carefully:

“Hector McTaraglu-” I decide to speak up now and raise my arm at light speed, screaming “I volunteer as tribute!”

I make my way to the stage, my hands going over non-existent wrinkles in my fine sweater as several boys from the District groan in disgust and disappointment. Until next time, fellas! I think to myself, grinning slightly cockily.

“And what may be this handsome tribute’s name?” Even her white makeup can’t conceal the crimson blush on her cheeks. She hands me over the mic and I speak clearly with a charming tone and smile. “Fjord Holt.”

The escort offers us a fake smile; or rather, one that she has given one too many times, making it seem as if it were fake.

“District Four, I present to you your tributes for the 99th Hunger Games. We wish you the best of luck, and as always, may the odds be ever in your favor!”

I eye Vassëna over, weary and cautious, making sure I don’t seem too obvious. I search through all the faces in the crowd and stop when I finally catch a glimpse of Meta. I sense her gulping nut I feel utter bitter-sweet joy in my chest as I now know she will not die. But then it hits me: she will be the one to watch me die in case I get beat. She will be the one to presence and testify of my decapitation on a big wide screen. And she will cry without any comfort. And I have done this to her. It is my fault. Now I know I can not trust anyone in the games, not even Vassëna. She looks as deceitful as a snake. I could have trusted Meta, but now my trust is reserved to myself only. I shall trust my instincts, for I can not bear to make Meta grief for my death.

I need to win these Games so that this glimpse of Meta doesn’t die with me as the last one. I am not cruel enough to do that to me and her.

To us, I correct myself inside my head as a single teardrop falls from my left eye.

Siltori Lincoln · District 12:
I don't have the courage to look back. Not to face the world. Not to face myself. And it is embarassing to feel this way. The sky seems to laugh and cry at my misery and patheticalness; morning dew drops clicking against the plastic window of the train that will eventually get me to District 12. I know for a fact that no girl over there would volunteer, so I figured I should go there to make sure that my plan actually worked..

On the train's TV I see a capitolian reporter with 6-inch eyelashes speaking, "Both a mother and a son were found brutally murdered in their house in District 6. There are no clear suspects, but the only two so far are the mother's step-children..." the reporter continued as some photos of the victims flash by and I just close my eyes and turn away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see some peacekeepers walking through the main train aisle, checking for everybody's train ticket. I don't exactly have one, I'm technically escaping from them and I have something to do that will take time, so going to the bathroom only sounds like the logical thing to do. I grab my messenger bag, quickly tie my silver hair into a ponytail, put a cap over it and walk towards the bathroom, with my head low. Once I enter, I bolt the door and make sure it is impossible for anyone to enter.

I make my hand rummage through the insides of my bag until it finds the box. I take it out and place it in front of my face as I carefully read the instructions of the box whilst muttering them under my breath to make sure I understand them. In a few moments I'm done and I do as the instructions dictate.

After the mixture is done, I grab the brush and make it touch the sticky an gooey substance of the mixture with my right hand, as my left holds on to a strand of hair.

I gulp and wince as my right hand swiftly makes the brush do the first stroke over my hair, and I take a look of myself in the mirror, knowing that this is probably the last time that I ever see myself with long silver hair.

OOC: Trigger warning for sexual assault, read at your own discretion.

''It was really stormy. Last night, Gizelle had gone somewhere important (probably out to steal some other family father's money and dignity) and Zakari had gone out with a few of his friends for a reunion (to a place with lots of girls to flirt and sleep with). Still, it was definitely better than having them around home bossing Alu and I around.''

''Alu had just left after I confronted him about us escaping again. He denied, so I, of course, used my 'I'm-volunteering-then' card which always worked. Except that night. He instead said he'd volunteer alongside me if I was stupid enough to volunteer. See, I really didn't want to. But did we have any other choice? I was much better than a slave, let alone of my freaking step-mother. I was infuriated, specially since Alu had decided to simply storm off the room to get fresh air.''

''I heard the door open and then get slammed shut again. Maybe he'd decided to come back and apologize... say that we should escape while we were still alone or that he'd find a way to set us free.''

''No such luck. ''

''A few seconds later, I could smell the stench emmanating from what had to be an intoxicated Zakari's mouth. I knew the aroma all to well, since in that state, he either replaced Gizelle with the beatings or was too good of a person and beat me yet again after Gizelle was done. ''

I thought he was supposed to stop drinking since last time the peacekeepers had caught him and brought him home with a warning.

I stood up and snatched a duster from Alu's open drawer, only to fake-clean a piece of wood as Zakari made his way into Alu's bedroom, where I stood alone.

''"Siltori! Did you clean my bedroom as I told you?" he managed to say through his slurred speech.''

"Yes,"

"And did you wash and iron the shirt I told you I needed for tomorrow morning?"

''I wince. i had completely forgotten. I'd lie to him and he probably wouldn't notice, but if he found out, it'd be worse.''

"No, but I can do it right now and have it for you in less than an-"

''"No! You disobeyed me, you pig!" He got close to me and grabbed me by the collar, lifting me up into tiptoes as I only could squeal, wince and try to persuade my breathing to stop inhaling the hideous fumes his alcoholic mouth released.''

''"Let me go!" I shouted, struggling against his firm grip on my collar, as I tried kicking my dangling feet in the air. He then threw me to the bed. I tried standing up, but Zakari had already pinned me down into the bed with his forearm against my chest, limiting my oxygen navigation and making me almost choke.''

''"You little pig, I'll make you suffer like one," he started as he put his hand on the hem of my shirt and started ripping it off, which would be leaving me with only my top and my skirt. I shouted and shouted for Alu's name, my throat screeching in pain from the high vibrations my vocal chords made. ''

''Panicking, and listening to the main door opening and closing again with some hurried footsteps following the thud, I managed to free my arm from Zakari's grip and made it travel to the open drawer, and making it look for the small and secret opening our dad had made years ago, where he left his most precious object. I hoped the footseps where Alu coming to my rescue. Once I found the opening, I took the small and heavy artifact in my hand and shifted it into place so that it made harmony with my hand's shape.''

As Zakari continued trying to undress me, I struck him with the butt of the gun and then shot him in his head.

BAM! 'Once.

BAM! 'Twice.

''I wiggled the corpse of a dead Zakari off my semi-dressed body and watched it fall to my side just as the footsteps got to the threshold of the room. It was Gizelle and she was bewildered at the sight. Running inside and being almost ready to pounce at me, I shot the last four bullets into her chest.''

BAM!  BAM!  BAM! ' BAM! '

''Blood oozed from her body and I started screaming whislt crying. What had I just done? Was I now a murderer? Maybe it was just a dream. It was surely just a dream...''

''I hadn't thought through this... Now what? The peacekeepers would start looking for me once they found the corpses. Without a second thought, I grabbed the first box of hair dye I found in my room that wasn't silver and put it inside my messenger bag. Then I went to my closet and grabbed the first shirt I found, only to put it on and run as fast as I could outside the house. From far away I could see Alu walking, breathing slowly and turning to face me as I ran. ''

''"Sil?!" He shouted, asking. I just ignored him and continued running, tears welling my raw eyes as I tried to remember the way towards the train station, where I'd take a train to the farthest district to volunteer as a tribute so that the peacekeepers wouldn't be able to capture me even if they found out I'd been the one who killed Gizelle and Zakari. ''

I walked into the station and saw the train schedule, the one heading towards District 12 was departing in three minutes and arrived at 8:45 in the morning, just in time to get to The Reaping.

With hesitation filling my mind and mayhem running wild in the station, I entered the train and watched as the doors closed in front of me, taking me to my salvation- which also happened to be my doom.

After waiting 15 minutes for the super fast dye to sink into my hair, I wash it off, dry it with the towel, and then admire it with a lopsided grin. It is strawberry blond now, that way, it will be harder for anyone to recognize me, specially Alu.

I know he thinks I'll be volunteering today, and while that isn't a lie, he won't know since I'm not volunteering in District 6. Now he will think I didn't volunteer, and he won't volunteer either.

Even if he does see District 12's Reaping on TV, I hope he won't recognize me by my hair. Still, to make sure, I grab my make-up kit from my bag and cake my face with make up, making my face look paler and giving some highlights in it, making it have an overall differen't look compared to my real face.

Satisfied by it, I go back to my seat and plop down in it. In less than five minutes, I'm already asleep.

...

The squeaky and nasal voice in the intercom informing us that we've reached District 12 is the thing that awakes me from my deep slumber. I stand up and get down the train, asking everyone directions for the square where the reaping will take place. Once they've helped me, I run towards it and get just in time before it is too late. I go towards the girls' section and then find the 17-year-olds subdivision, towards where I walk

An ugly and extremely tall and galant female escort makes the announcements an plays the accustomed videos before walking towards the bowls with the names.

"As usual, ladies first." She moves her hand over her bowl, and just before she plucks up a name, I shoot my arm up and shout at the top of my lungs, "I volunteer!"

I walk up the stage, trying to look confident, although I try to make my face avoid the cameras.

"A volunteer! How lovely... What is your beautiful name, you, beautiful tribute?"

It then dawns on me that I cannot use my normal name for this, and that I never thought about creating a fake name for my new tribute identity.

As the escort passes me the microphone, and I get weird looks from the whole district that doesn't recognize me, I gulp and start sweating.

"Your name, dearie, what is it?" The escort repeats with an overly sweet voice.

I gulp, "Ashley..." I spurt the first girl name I thought of before thinking about the last name. Trying to think quick, I try thinking about District 12's function. ''Mines. Fire. Coal. Coal! Cole''.

"My name is Ashley Cole." I then offer a small smile but all the other people just look at me oddly.

The escort then goes to pick the boy while I notice some peacekeepers looking straight at me, probably from recognizing me. I close my eyes as the escort reads the name out loud and a lanky young boy makes his way up to the stage,

"Well, District 12, there are your tributes this year. The dynamic duo! Maybe this year you have a shot at winning this!"

I roll my eyes as I start thinking about what I want my makeover to be once I get to The Capitol and my stylists are assigned.

I can't afford to be Siltori Lincoln anymore, as from now on, and until the day I'll die, I'll be Ashley Cole.

Courtney Dax · Train from District 2 to Capitol:
Daniellet Lingereaux escorts me and my district partner into the train with a specially firm grip on my shoulder, as if trying to test how tough and strong I am. He doesn’t hurt me by this, because I can resist so much more. Of course, I am stronger than him. He practically looks like a ladyboy with those lilac and unnaturally long lashes and his lavender-dyed slicked-back hair. His features are also very soft and definitely not manly.

I mentally laugh at his puny build and miserable existence. If anything, I deserved a much worthier escort. I sigh as I realize that there is nothing that I really could do about the situation. His hand on his shoulder starts bothering me so I yank my shoulder off his grip as I turn to face him with a threatening look on my visage.

He simply smiles courtly and turns around to leave just as the train doors close behind us, leaving just us two tributes in the train section.

I turn to look at my short nails and notice that one is chipped. Unfazed by it, I let my hand go and it dangles on my side as I turn to face and examine my fellow tribute. He wears an obnoxiously foolish grin and his eyes sparkle with a glint of immaturity and I groan internally. Really? Out of all the possible Distrcit 2 candidates of strong and trained males, I got an adult baby for a companion.

“Once, I tried putting a baby in my oven, but he didn’t fit. it was a small oven.” He remarked, his stupid grin untarnished by the comment.

“I bet that must have been frightening.” I cut him off as I cross my arms, grab a bottle of water from a counter in the room and leave it. In a few seconds I hear footsteps coming after me and I know it is that same guy.

“I’m Micheal. But call me Caboose. Caboose is my last name, but I like it better when they call me Caboose. ”

“Look, Michael. I really don’t find it relevant whether you like your last name better than your first name and I didn’t come here to the Games to be faced by a tribute with little to no experience whatsoever at solving mind-challenging problems due to his lack of mental capacity, so please, if you will, get out of my way. Now.”

He raised his hands in what appeared to be mock surrender, although I could not really tell if he was really exaggerating or if his natural expressions were that childish.

“It’s not my fault. It is Tucker’s fault!”

My face becomes puzzled and I debate on whether I should ask about it or not, but I decide not to do so, as long as he stops talking to me. Instead, I just leave and lock myself in what I suppose is my temporary bedroom. I plop down on the bed and grab the TV remote and turn the seemingly invisible device on.

To my surprise, the wall in front of me lights up and shows me a menu to choose from with all the Districts’ reapings.

“Say which Reaping you’d like to watch Ms. Dax.” a female electronic voice recites and I am surprised by how quickly the technology works; enough to program all the reapings into a wall of a train and enough to let a robot know what my name is.

Even though I would never admit it out loud, this scares me a bit. What could the Gamemakers have in store for us this year? Even if it isn’t a Quarter Quell until next year, I’m pretty sure Gamemakers almost always spice things up a year before the Quarter Quell as if to practice for the next year.

The same electronic voice interrupts my train of thought. “Say which Reaping you’d like to watch Ms. Dax.”

“Oh, uh, what about… District 13 Reaping?” I speak loudly and hesitantly, just saying the first District that came to mind. In reality, I don’t think I have to watch all of them, instead just the Career Districts to know who I am going to ally with.

The screen fades to black and then shows me a square in District 13 where the Reaping took place a while ago. To be honest, I find it fair that District 13 participates in the Games, because in the Second Rebellion they were basically the ones who were the leaders. I think this would be the 9th Hunger Games they are a part of.

I remember back when I was a kid, President Gyllock died and President Valerox took his place. The first thing he did was to make District 13 join the Games. There are theories that as soon as they were done, and a District 4 tribute came out victorious, District 13 started plotting yet another rebellion, but were quickly stopped by a massive movement of hanging everyone who had a part in the conspiracy against the Capitol.

What I really don’t find fair is the fact that District 14 and 15 are also joining the Games. I mean, they were just recently discovered and adopted by Panem. Even a decade and a half after the Second Rebellion, so I really don’t see the point in them joining if they are completely innocent. This is the first year they’ll be participating in the Games after President Valerox’s command. I feel that unfortunately, those two Districts’ tributes will die early off in the Games. Just like the pair of District 13’s tributes did nine years ago.

If anything, another uprising could be planned in either District at this exact moment.

“Chastity Kincardine!” I hear the Escort in the video scream with her unnaturally high-pitched voice and I am distracted from my thoughts yet again.

A small and shy-looking girl with dark auburn hair walked towards the stage. Just like me, she had freckles throughout her face, but of course, I was more beautiful than her.

The Escort then walked towards the guy’s bowl and picked a small piece of paper that slipped through her hands and fell to the floor. There was a short echo of laughter that was quickly silenced by a death glare of the Escort towards the audience. After standing up a again, she reads the name and a tall and attractive boy arrogantly saunters to the stage, his attitude protruding cloying and saccharine confidence that makes me become disgusted.

The video ends soon after and I go to check the Career’s Reapings. From District 1, a slender girl with a devious and diva-like personality and a blond and pretty boy with a maniacal laugh and highly-likely mental issues. From District 4, an athletic guy with determination and sadness in his face (who strangely enough, seems like the most decent ally out of all the Careers), and a very sexy girl with mind-blowing curves and a face with full and sly lips. She looks like the type of person that could easily manipulate any guy. That could be helpful. I could do it too, if I put my mind out to it, however. The Reaping ends and I stretch in my bed.

I use my memory and try to remember each of the Careers’ names: Zapphire, Linen, Michael, Vassëna, that guy whose name I couldn’t understand and most importantly, me.

Out of curiosity, I want to see the new Districts’ Reapings, wanting to discover if they have anything different from our Reapings. At the end, I come to the conclusion that they are technically identical. I recognize District 14’s Escort as Frieda Stoma, as she was our Escort back when I was 12. However, her skin is now tainted with a very faint shade of apple-green and she only has dark green hair on half her head, braided so that it falls in the front of her extremely short and revealing black dress.

She reads the Treaty of Treason, then the video is shown and she picks the names. For the girls, a strong-looking girl with dark glasses and a walking stick volunteers, although, strangely, she doesn’t shout at doing so. She just says it right after the Escort calls someone from the 14 year olds. Even from my view, she must be really brave, as she isn’t only the first volunteer from District 14, but also the first female tribute, and I’m not sure if she’s also the first blind tribute ever. Maybe not.

The next tribute is reaped, but by his appearance, he might as well have volunteered. He’s fit and looks like he has trained for some time, just like the female tribute. I take a look at all the other young teens in the District, and most look capable enough to be a part of the Games. I take a mental note to keep in mind to ask this pair of tributes to join the Careers if I see they are able to keep up with our pace in the Training Center. That would mean more power for the Careers.

I then decide to watch District 15’s Reaping just in case the tributes are as fit as District 14’s are. Much to my dismay, I notice that they’re not nearly as prepared and there are many that look very skinny and others are just slim, both of the tributes chosen being closer to the latter.

The female has blond hair and sweet features, although she is apparently talking to non-existing people as she makes her way up to the stage and looks at her shoes as the male tribute is called, one with a suit, a clean shaven face and an intelectual expression on his face. Strangely, he looks for someone within the people of the District and when it seems that he finally finds that someone, he starts crying out of the blue.

Bored and tired, I continue watching other Reapings until my eyelids start feeling heavy and I even try to lighten them by taking deep breaths with no avail. Soon enough, a lazy yawn escapes my lips and everything turns dark as I drift into a soft but deep slumber.

——

I wake up desperately from a nightmare about my father and shake my arms in the air, blatantly trying to find air with no apparent result. When my face finally rises from the sheets, I sit there, panting in exhaustion and shock.

My hand daintily searches over the nightstand, trying to find the butter cookies that I noticed before I fell asleep. After some time, I realize that there are just crumbs and that the plate is empty. The digital watch reading 3:08 am. Confused, I sit up and stand from the bed, only to find Michael sitting in a car in front of me. I take a step back, startled.

“Tucker was the one who ate the cookies.”

“What the hell are you doing in here?!” I ask and shout within whispers, careful not to wake Daniellet up.

“I was bored. I couldn’t sleep. I was hungry. I came here and you had more cookies.”

I look at him, unamused, “Well, now I am hungry. Go get me more cookies.” I half-joke, but much to my amusement, he does as told, and in little less than a minute, he’s back with three butter cookies cupped in his hands then and hands them to me. I receive them and bite on to one.

“Where did you get them?” I demand, bewildered.

He shyly looks at his feet and rubs his forearm with his other hand. “I- I saw that Daniellet also had cookies on my way here, so I snuck into his room and brought them here to you…”

I snort and stifle a laugh as I bite onto one of them.

“Could I have one if I tell you a secret?” He asks, as a blush creeps up to his face,

“Whatever,” I reply, trying to sound apathetic, although I’m strangely, but genuinely curious about the secret. He snatches a cookie from my hand and eats it, leaving some crumbles on his lips.

He rubs his thumb against his lips innocently, trying to brush the crumbs off as he confesses, “I really just came here because I enjoy watching you sleep… Although the cookies were a bonus.”

For once, I am taken by the spur of the moment and genuinely laugh along him.

Bellum Bliston · Outskirts of the Capitol
The light that enters my train compartment is divides into sections by the louver that covers the large window in front of my bed. I yawn and look at my clock: a quarter till four. I spent most of the time of my stay in this train either sleeping, pacing, or secretly drinking the alcoholic beverages with the least percentage of alcohol that I could find, much to both my Escort and Mentor’s opposition. They are both extremely annoying. Specially Gilda, the Escort. Zylo, on the other hand, is an okay guy, but he incessantly chases me around, trying to get me to sit down and have small talk with him about tips and advice on the Games, which just ruins his whole laid-back personality.

Being from District 13 is a curse.

I mean, other than the facts that we’re the generally most hated District due to our ominous “nuclear activity”, that we live most of our lives underground, and that the closest thing we have to a mentor is a 22-year-old morphling that has been the only Victor of District 13 since it was incorporated into the Games, our District is relatively normal.

But I don’t want to complain. Nor do I want to be known by my rants or my run-on sentences. If anything, I want to win this. I need to win this. My thoughts drift for a second to my mom and dad, and everything that I’m leaving behind to play Slaughterhouse with several other people.

I’m not going to lie, because that would be useless; in a way, I am sort of excited that I can finally leave District 13 for a while. The views the train offers me are all beautiful and very different from each other. Only on the television had I ever watched the luxuries and sun-kissed cities of District 1, and seeing them in person is very different. We get closer to The Capitol, but I only know that from the speakers that boom throughout all the train, letting my District partner and I know that we should be getting ready with our belongings to get down the train whenever we get to the Training Center.

Ha.

Like we have any belongings other than our weighing souls and whatever we decided to wear on the Reaping.

It feels odd, because I could easily tell apart each District we came across depending on the different things my senses could perceive, but it was a different story for the Capitol. For example, the scent of recently cut wood (which I think was cedar, but I can’t be sure, as I’m not an expert on lumber) in District 7, or the sound of swift planes drifting through the air at light-speed in District 6, or even the hinting citric taste in the sharp air that flew into train in District 11 as we passed by a bright orange tree field. But as the train immerses itself deeper and deeper into the Capitol, there is nothing that I can identify the city with. No natural smells. No original or breathtaking landscapes. No sounds other than the bustling movements of automobiles honking, dense machinery, busy and hurried people with artificial and over-the-top appearances.

In the distance, I take in the intimidating look of an extremely tall crystal-like building about 15 stories high. As the light clouds float sideways in the sky and the sunlight falls on different segments of the building, I admire the shimmering illusion created. After a few minutes of being in trance, I shake my head and head towards the snack-bar, where I grab a beer at room-temperature, pop it open with the granite counter and chug down half of it.

I sigh and turn around, only to find the lithe figure of my District partner with her arms crossed and a shy smirk. The inconsistency of her body language makes me subconsciously decide that I do not trust her.

"You are not supposed to drink booze. Even less before the Games even start. Word says that they will take blood samples this year before training starts, and get this, those under any kind of substance will be penalized." After saying this, she looks at her short nails. If they were long, I would suppose one was chipped, but since that is not the case, I get confused.

I blink twice before I notice she wants an answer. What? Does she want me to get down on my knees and plead her not to tell? Long shot.

"Cool story," I fake a yawn and look at my watch, "Although, why are you telling me this?”

“I am just informing you that small piece of info, and the fact that I am not going to tell…” She pauses dramatically and smirks even more, making me start doubting on the actual whereabouts of the devil. Does he live in hell or inside this crazy 13-year-old?

After what feels like an eternity of boredom, she continues, “Plus,” the girl takes out a little white bottle from a pocket inside her coat and offers it to me and I can’t tell if it is a diuretic or a laxative. I focus on it instead of her as her voice goes on, “I found this in the first-aid kit. Why would any one have a diuretic in a first aid kit beats me, but here it is anyway. Take it, it’ll pour the alcohol out of you faster. Hopefully before training starts, you will be okay,” she then expresses what seems a kindhearted grin, but I can not really tell.

“Why should I trust you? For all I know you could be poisoning me.” My capacity to think clearly, even when tipsy surprises me.

Expecting the question, my District partner shrugs, “What good would that do to me? Killing you would only grant me a penalization in the Games. Besides, the bottle hasn’t been opened yet. Check for yourself,” she slightly raises her chin for effect and I corroborate.

Indeed, it is closed.

“Why are you helping me?” I cock my head to the side. Nothing about this makes sense, although it probably is the fact that my inhibitions and thought-processes aren’t working that well.

“And why are you asking so many questions?” she knits her eyebrows before turning on her heels to leave, but before doing so, she turns her head back to face me one more time, “In case you really want to know, I’m helping you just cause, and by the way, my name is Chastity. I know didn’t bother to learn it, Bellum.”

I pour a little of the contents of the bottle into what is left of my beer and gulp all of it as I notice Chastity walking back to her train compartment from the corner of my eyes.

What an odd kid.

After several minutes and a quick trip to the restroom, we wind up in front of the crystal building which has several hundreds of peacekeepers uselessly surrounding it. I score one point to my ignorance, as it turns out that this is the Training Center. People gather around the train, some with recorders, others with microphones, and others with gigantic cameras. Zylo and Gilda meet Chastity and I in the train exit a few seconds before the train halts into a full stop.

“Walk with poise and smile for everyone.” Gilda reminds us just before the doors open. The following seconds become a blur. Flashes, shouts, questions and a plastic grin on my face.

Only then do I notice what we are. Chastity and I are celebrities. Not the good kind, but we are celebrities nonetheless. I remember watching the interviews when I was little and cheering for the District 13 pair of tributes when they came up in the TV. It is up to me to either be yet another failure of my District, or to finally be a victor, and hopefully a decent role model for the following generation. Somehow this motivates me, and before I know it, we’re inside the building, with 28 other tributes staring at us. Shouldn’t they be resting from the train ride?

I hear the faint sound of Gilda and Zylo whispering. Clearly, they didn’t expect this either. I chuckle in irony before who I think is the Head Peacekeeper meets us. “You are late. All of you. You were supposed to be here at fifteen hundred hours.”

Having a father who worked in the military easily let me know that he was talking about 3 p.m. I take a quick glimpse at my watch. It read 17:27.

“It’s not like it was our fault.” I blurt out, and start thinking about what could have delayed us. That is, until I remember the fact that on the first night, the train stopped for about two hours due to some mechanical or electrical issue that I didn’t care enough about to try and understand.

Zylo, who is on my left side, quickly shoulders me on my ribs for saying what I said before speaking up himself, “We understand, and we apologize. But I wonder, why is it really that important? The Parade is tomorrow night and training doesn’t start until the day after tomorrow… Or were we not informed about a new event incorporated?”

The Peacekeeper snorted, “You were certainly misinformed, but not about a new event. President Valerox decided to hasten the Games by rescheduling everything a day earlier. The Tribute Parade is at twenty hundred hours.”

Gilda gasped loudly, “Oh, dear.”

The Parade is at 8 p.m.? Even if the news did take me by surprise, we still have two and a half hours to be prepped. That is a lot of time. I bet we could spare another whole hour. Still, why do the rest of the tributes look so upset and mad?

“Why are those staring at us that way?” I ask with my arms crossed as I gesture towards the tributes with my chin.

I hear the Peacekeeper giggle under his mask, “Oh, them? The rules state that in order for the parade to be fair, all tributes have to be given the same amount of time of preparation. Since you weren’t here yet, they had to wait like sitting ducks for two hours. Two hours that they could have used to beautify themselves. So, keep an eye on them.” The Peacekeeper walked past me, patting me on my shoulder.

With a sudden wave of rage, I yank his hand off my shoulder, “No. We were told that as soon as we got here, we would go to our rooms, get cleaned and then have dinner. That is what I am doing, and if it interferes with the Tribute Parade, then so be it, I’m not going.”

“Bellum!” Gilda shrieks with her eyes open wide, ”I’m so sorry, he’s just tired. He means that–”

The Peacekeeper shoots his hand out, cutting her off, “I’ll take care of it.” He turned around to face me once again, my eyes daring and proud, “You, young mister, will attend the Parade. It’s our job to make sure you do. If necessary, we’ll drag you to it from your feet.”

Haughtily, I reply, “I’d like to see you try. You can’t hurt a tribute before they get to the Games.” Right after that, I start heading towards the elevator in front of me, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Watch me,” I barely register the sound as a pair of Peacekeepers tackle me down to the ground. One of them quickly gags me with a white piece of cloth as the other grabs me by my feet and starts dragging me to a room with about 4 stylists surrounding a chair similar to the ones they use at the dentist. I kick, squirm and try to shout with no avail.

Laughter erupts from the rest of the tributes and I can almost swear I can l hear the overbearing sound of Chastity’s devilish giggle. I mentally swear.

This is what I get for speaking up.

Avian Dorias · Prep for Chariot Rides
Pain.

That’s the very first sensation my brain registers as I flutter my eyelids open to stare at my kinda-attractive-in-an-elfish-way head stylist, Prais. She pours some golden hot wax over my left armpit yet again before gingerly pressing the waxing strip over the drying liquid and quickly yanking it away, making me scream loudly.

RIP!

Prais seems to find my agony amusing. I just roll my head from side to side. Trying to ignore the pain from my now raw and vulnerable skin. Was this really necessary? Never did it ever cross my mind that when getting into the Hunger Games, I’d have to go through an underarm-hair-removal session.

“Do not think about the pain,” Morda, a member of my prep team, suggests, “Just ask us questions and we’ll answer. That should distract you at least a little, dear.”

And another yank. I feel as if all of the blood in my head is emptied and replaced by strong and intermittent surges of pain and throbbing. Morda dabs a large piece of cotton on the opening of a wide-opened bottle of what looks like ethanol before rubbing it over the section of skin that had just been yanked at by the pellon waxing strip. Nevertheless, the lingering burning sensation as she lifts the soft cotton ball from my skin makes me certain that it is not just common alcohol. I decide to start there.

“What is that?” I demand to know as I scratch my armpit in discomfort, which, much to my dismay, only seems to heighten the irritability and redness.

“Oh. It is ethasilicon,” Prais quickly mutters, trying her best not to lose focus on the main topic at hand, my other arm.

Etha-what?

“Excuse me?” I ask, trying not to sound ignorant or rude.

“Ah. Don’t you know what ethasilicon is? It is a relatively new capitol development. It is a compound substance. It works as an antiseptic, but it also contains silicon. When it makes contact with the skin, it clogs the pores with silicon, which quickly dries. It stops hair from growing there again.” Morda replies, as if it were the discovery of the century and absolutely everybody knew about this etha-thing.

Wanting to prove that I’m not stupid, I reply quickly, not really noticing now that they keep on plucking out the hairs in my skin, “Wouldn’t it have some negative long-term effects? I mean, if done incorrectly, it could potentially lead to ingrown hairs… Or if this chemical makes contact with a sweat gland, it could also stop the sweating completely, therefore leading to other medical issues.” I smile in satisfaction as Morda, as stupid as most Capitolites, just looks at me dumbfound, obviously not knowing how to reply.

Prais, on the other hand, knows exactly how to put me in my place and stop me from bragging.

“I’m sorry to say this, honey, but the chances of you getting out of that arena are catastrophically low. And no long-term effect can really get to you if you're dead.”

Touché.

After about an hour of constant suffering of raw and excruciating agony in my skin pores, I am left alone in a hospital-gown-like piece of clothing to rest for a few minutes to let the hair-dye’s pigmentation sink into my hair and hopefully let the burning sensation on my thighs and armpits dissipate at least a notch. I let my mind wander off into a much darker topic: my fate in the games.

I know I’m talented. I know I can fend off myself, and attack others properly and whatnot… But the thought still manages to haunt me. What if these are the last days of my life? I shake my head. I can not let that happen, I need to win these Games and go back home with Eros and finally reunite properly; not like we did back in the day I was reaped.

This phrase lingers on my train of thought for several seconds before its rail is interrupted by a deviation of tragedy: my family’s tragedy. Suddenly, I am yet again a witness of my father’s throat being pierced by those light metal bullets; a witness of my mother’s frail frame being corrupted by a barricade of steel, blood, flesh, and that loud, yet inaudible thud as she hits the ground; the very sound that follows me everywhere like a ring inside my head. Is it really worth it to go back home? To continue living in that constant fear of my uncle pursuing me in his trek for vengeance and power? My hands absentmindedly slide through the side of my head to grasp onto my hair, pulling at it. I’m desperate, and I can’t seem to open my eyes.

Once I’m able to separate my eyelids from each other once again, a great amount of light finds its way into my pupils, making my pupils contract significantly. There, I find the slender figure of Prais looking down at me, with genuine concern painting her visage.

“Are you alright, my dear? You appear to be greatly unsettled…” My head stylist whispers with a thin, motherly tone. I blink twice, suddenly uncomfortable at the short distance between us and the fact that I am practically naked, except for a thin sheet of light-blue cloth that covers me from my neck to my knees. It is only then that it dawns on me that she will, in fact, have to see me completely nude in a few moments to put on my parade outfit. I gulp, and her eyes skip to my Adam’s apple as I do so. She caresses the porcelain-like back of her hand against my right cheek, and as if on cue, I start feeling light-headed.

“I am perfectly fine.” I respond hastily as I manage to swiftly sit up by pulling myself up against the mattress with my arms, locking my elbows in to stay sturdy and stabilized.

Prais’ face lights up drastically as her mouth opens once more to speak her mind out, “Marvelous. Then we shall get started on getting you ready for your Chariot Ride.” Soon thereafter, she rinses the dye off my hair, dries it with a thick and dank towel and motions her hand to indicate me that I should stand up and take off my gown. I comply, grudgingly at first, but I become hesitant as I continue sliding off the only piece of clothing I have at the moment.

Instinctively, and in a last act of modesty and dignity, I take a rapid glimpse at the single door in the room to make sure it’s locked shut before I completely let go of my thin shield against utter exposure. Turns out that the gown is so light that I do not get to hear it as it touches the cold floor.

Vulnerable. I know I’m supposed to feel vulnerable, unprotected, prone to danger… Yet I just don’t. Oddly, this state of being exposed does quite the opposite. It makes me feel an unforeseen impression of empowerment, of … of confidence.

I am unsure if Prais is going to judge me for my physique or not; it does not really matter. The only thought in my mind as she starts to wrap some synthetic vines around my skin is the fact that whatever I do in this Chariot Ride is going to partially define how many sponsors I get for the Games. This worries me quite a bit. What if my outfit is not that great? What if this stops me from getting a sponsor that could potentially save my life once I’m faced with trouble in the arena? Taking a firm decision that I’ll do my best to try to impress the Capitolites, I turn to look at Prais, who now has a hand pressed against my left hip for support while the other wraps the vines around my groin, taking me back to a comfort zone. It amazes me how she does all of this so nonchalantly; how she doesn’t get fazed by being so intimate with someone she just met a few hours ago.

Several moments of sheer ennui ensue, effectively leaving me susceptible to dark, maddening, or deep thoughts. However, I decide to stay blank, and have my mind veer off from any inconvenient or apprehensive concerns. Before I know it, she has finished wrapping the vines, leaving several parts of my body bare, such as my left leg, my right arm, and —for the most part— my torso.

Once my “clothing” is positioned properly to show off enough skin while maintaining modesty, she opens a nearby drawer and takes out some vine fruits: grape bunches, passion fruits, berries… you name it. Without speaking another word, she takes all of them and starts hanging them on the vines surrounding my athletic frame as if they were ornaments. Once they’re all set, I notice that they’re way too heavy to be simple ornaments.

“What are these? Why are they so heavy?”

My head stylist beams up at me, her voluminous mass of short, wavy, platinum hair almost frizzing from the energy her lithe and petite body emanates. “They haven’t been tried yet, but they are fireworks that work with the same mechanism as a grenade. Say, you pluck a blueberry from your outfit, it will explode in 3 seconds, so you have to throw it as far away as possible, and, in theory, it should explode into a blue firework once the fuse is consumed. Each firework will match its fruit color, for more consistency. What do you think?”

My eyes are wide open, pleasantly surprised; it actually does sound like a very good idea that could lure sponsors like a venus flytrap to its victims… except for the part of killing and eating them. I grin cockily, now actually excited for my turn to participate in the Chariot Ride, leaving all the anguish and anxiety I had long behind me.

“I think it sounds great. Anything else?” I query.

Prais backs away a few steps, with her hands clutched together, pressed against her chin, as if contemplating and perusing her detailed artwork of synthetic plant-clothing that adorns my body.

“You are beautiful.” She states matter-of-factly, although I do perceive a hint of pride and emotion behind her words. I do not know if she is starting to develop a weird stylist-to-tribute attraction, if she just says this to every tribute she dresses up to give them a confidence boost, or if she just finds me generically good-looking.

Regardless, it makes me feel uncomfortable once again, so trying to ignore her presence, I just gracefully waltz towards the locked door, pressing the button next to the recognition pad and then placing my thumb on the scanner to make the door slide into the hollow wall.

Much to my dismay, I find the rest of my prep team just outside, apparently waiting for me. I roll my eyes lazily, but their wide and stilted smiles remain the same, if not grander.

Morda opens her mouth to speak, “Well, hello yet again, Avian! You are looking stunning. Definitely Capitol-worthy.”

I cock my head to the side, slightly disconcerted from her word choice. ‘’Capitol-worthy? Was I not before?’' Her saccharine smile implies that she is waiting for a reply, but I honestly do not know what to say back, so I just quietly thank her, and force a polite flush into my cheeks. “Ah. Anyhow, we are back here for the finishing touches: you know, getting your hair ready, putting on a little make up, eyebrow filling… the usual.”

I can not put up my fake grin for so long so it dissolves into a worried and cringy expression. I do not want to go through having make up being applied to my face, specially after the odd interactions I just had with Prais. Nevertheless, I know I won’t be able to complain anything against it, so I do the same thing I’ve been doing since I got here to the Capitol: comply, accept, and adapt.

A mischievous thought creeps into the back of my mind as I flash-forward into being in the arena, doing the exact opposite. Once I’m in the arena, I can do anything I want, even murder teenagers with the consent of our government. Funny, really, how I have to put on a mask for the meantime, just to rip it off as soon as the gong sounds and embrace the pressure-ensuing freedom that comes with the Games. In a way, it’s a thought that warms me in the inside and keeps me almost content.

I guess that is what freedom of violence means.

Corin Greer · Courtyard of the Presidential Mansion
"Hurry up, we're late!" Francesca exclaims through closed teeth against my left ear as we hustle and work our way alongside Cecil through the path towards our chariot; task that would be considered exponentially easier if not for the tight and flashy costumes we were forced to wear, the black four-inch plastic heels beneath my boots' soles, and the constant and active effort to cover my eyes from the incoming flashes from cameras everywhere.

The female escort holds a grip so firm on my and Cecil's arms that I am certain I will find a bruise there tomorrow morning the size of her thumb.

I know she is grabbing my arm because the aforementioned high-heeled ankle boots are stalling me, but I don't know if she is holding on to Cecil to guide him or just to hasten his pace, too. So much noise must be extremely disorienting for him.

Hailing from District 2, Francesca Morelli won her Games at the tender age of 14 and immediately became famous for such feat.

She soon fell into an addiction to alcoholic beverages so deep that it was rumoured she had fallen ill with alcohol poisoning about a dozen times. Clearly incapable of mentoring the District 2 tributes, and with several other Victors to replace her, the Capitol disposed of her by naming her the rightful escort of District 5 about seven years ago.

I guess she never lost her athletic shape because I swear to anything holy that my left arm has never hurt this bad from someone pulling me from it.

"So," I start, " you look great with that outfit that Nieva tailored for you." I compliment Cecil once we climb to the chariot in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence that had started to seep in like warm honey after Francesca left us on our own.

"Yeah, Nieva has a good reputation as a stylist, although I wouldn't know if I do look good or not in this outfit."

Faux pas, Corin, faux pas...

I wince in response and try to think more carefully in what to reply next, but my mind goes blank and I limit myself to a good-natured chuckle and an honest comment.

"Well, to be fair, you don't look bad, or even half as ridiculous as the rest of the tributes."

The corners of his lips tug lopsidedly in a wistful fashion. "Wish I could see them myself to spare a few laughs."

I see an opportunity here to extend the conversation, so I take it, "Would you like me to describe them for you?" I offer and he laughs nervously, quite possibly thinking I am bluffing or making an ill-hearted joke.

I blink twice, and the silence speaks in my behalf: No, she is actually serious.

"Oh," his face returns to its serious expression as he rubs the back of his his neck with his right hand and scrunches his nose ever-so slightly, "Sure, I guess."

As we wait for the last few tributes to arrive, namely the District 11 pair and District 9's female tribute, I start to describe the outfits that Cecil asks from me at the best of my ability. We laugh at a few, like the snake-girl from 14, the bedlam of colors and textures that the 8's pair's outfits turned out to be and the boy from District 9 who's wearing something that I wouldn't even qualify as an outfit.

Suddenly, I feel less self-conscious about our clothing. It's not until this thought crosses my mind that another consecutively arrives; I haven't told him about our own outfits.

"Your shirt and slacks are baby blue," I muse, still a little hesitant, "Just like my dress. And our shoes are black, at least for the most part."

He seems to knit his eyebrows in what I take must be concentration, "The shirt's satin."

My eyes widen a bit in surprise, "Indeed, just like my dress. Have you—"

I am suddenly cut off by a loud sound which I soon recognize to be one of the horses supporting our chariot neighing. A split-second later, the horses take off and I take a step back to hold my ground, stunned.

I am about to protest before my eyes quickly scan around and I notice that already the first four chariots are crossing the main pathway towards the Presidential Mansion, tall stone bleachers full of shrieking Capitolites.

Flowers, petals, glitter, camera flashes, and cries to get the first sneak-peek of this year's tributes are thrown everywhere, although mostly to the dressed-up tributes.

"Corin," Cecil wakes me up from my brief trance with a start, and it is not until then that I notice that we already crossed the threshold towards the courtyard of the mansion, right where everyone can see us, judge us and have our fates be decided and sealed based on the judgement of our beauty with as much as a flick of their fingers.

Following Francesca's instructions, I raise my hand and start waving at the bleachers, trying to put on my best smile.

I look at Cecil's arms before I steal a quick glimpse at my own, and —just as Nieva promised— fake electric currents circle around them. Slowly, the currents seem to be spreading to our hands and torsos.

I can feel my anxiety begin to bubble in the pit of my stomach. I need to make a good first impression. Could I at least get one sponsor interested in me? And if so, could that save me in the arena?

I wonder if I should wave more vigorously or widen my smile, but decide against it, as I don't want to seem as fake as the Careers do.

''Funny. Everyone knows they are fake and still they get the most sponsors.''

A young boy in the crowd about my age catches my attention, and even though he is far away, I can see his eyes: a sweet and light tone of brown, just like mine and just like the pair of the boy that caught my attention, too, at the Reaping. I try to focus more on him and notice that he is the guy at the Reaping.

But that can't be. I'm certain. I blink several times to clear my vision and when I turn to look at him again, another young boy is in his place, with ice-blue eyes and platinum-blond hair.

I suddenly feel shamefully grateful by the fact that Cecil is blind, because if he weren't, he'd already know something is up; I have been looking at the blond for a second too long.

I force myself to look at the other side of bleachers and continue waving.

What happened to the guy with my eyes? Why does he look awfully similar to me? Was he even here just a few seconds ago or is my mind making him up? Did I even see him at the Reaping in the first place?

All these questions and the unbelievable lack of answers whatsoever make my head throb, and suddenly, the lights and flashes hurt a little more.

I don't know if Cecil has ESP or something, but he seems to know I am not feeling well because he turns to face me and offers a sympathetic and humble smile.

It's gonna be okay, he mouths, and for a while, it does help. I try to think of something else, like how slow time seems to be passing, or how our whole bodies are now covered in blue electrical currents.

Without previous announcement, a blinding light flashes from our outfits and I fight the urge to cry or scream. My eyes are tired and burn from the light, but the Capitolites continue clapping. If anything, their claps become louder and the glint of bloodlust in their eyes becomes a little brighter, as if my pain only arouses their excitement.

Stupid, I think, That's the whole point of the Games...

My body —and Cecil's, for that matter— is now covered in a sort of thick and airy light. Our ride is almost done so I try to look at anything else but it. I just turn my head forward and see President Valerox standing there in his balcony overlooking the courtyard.

His face looks a bit more tired than last year, although this might also be because I am finally looking at him in real life. He wears a burgundy suit and a black shiny dress shirt. His near-black hair looks slicker than usual now that its pushed back and his turquoise eyes are dimmed by the natural dark circles in his eyes and the dull swipes of space silver eyeliner.

The fact that he looks decent makes me despise him even more than I already do.

By now, the light emanating from my body and Cecil's has mostly died, and our original outfits are visible again. The first four chariots have already halted in what looks like is going to end being a half-moon formation around the balcony once all the Districts' chariots have stopped.

Our chariot begins to slow down, but doesn't fully stop until our horses are about ten feet behind District 4's chariot.

The girl, Vanessa something or other (if I recall correctly from her District's Reaping video), looks at us over her left shoulder. She first shoots me a fake smile but then turns to Cecil and winks at him.

I let out a much-needed chuckle as my anxiety begins to dissipate. If she only knew he's blind.

I turn around and watch how the crowd behaves in response to the tributes' outfits as they make their way with their chariots.

District 7 makes an unsurprising performance with yet another tree costume, although this one has a twist. The claps noticeably diminish as soon as District 9 makes its appearance, but drastically return to their previous (and I'd daresay even more) fervor as the District 11 tributes work their outfits, something that even surprises me, given that usually said District's outfits tend to be quite underwhelming.

Lastly, District 13 gathers lots of excitement from the people, longside District 14. Nonetheless District 15's finale doesn't seem to quite do the trick and therefore leaves the Capitolites wanting for more.

Once all the chariots are in their rightful positions, President Valerox starts his speech with the usual formalities.

My sleep deprivation from being unable to sleep in the train from home to the Capitol starts to take its toll on me and I have to frequently cover my mouth while yawning throughout our president's speech. Said speech features the kind of ennui that leaves anyone prone to fiddle with their fingers, the unforgettable Dark Days, the unforgivable Second Rebellion, the importance of the Hunger Games and how proud (scared) we should feel for being chosen (forced) to take part in this 99th edition of the annual Games.

Which doesn't really help given that I am trying not to fall asleep.

Just when I am about to nod off, something catches my attention, "Dear tributes, I must come clean to you. My husband Carlyle and I had been trying to adopt a child for a few years. We wanted the process to be as confidential and secret as possible in hopes of letting the child grow up in a healthy environment. We were successful and adopted a beautiful 12 year old girl named Antoinette from a nearby orphanage about 11 months ago."

He pauses for a second, but when he opens his mouth to continue, the crowd doesn't allow him, and instead fills the silence with "Awww's" and "Oooh's". I remain unfazed.

He raises his hand gingerly with his palm extended to silence them. "However," he continues, and his voice cracks as he begins the sentence that follows, "She took her own life a month ago. She suffered from an undiagnosed mental illness. She was always paranoid and sometimes claimed that Carl and I had kidnapped her. Poor thing; it was too much for her."

The crowd falls dead-silent, although everyone's faces denote shock and pity, his looks genuinely crestfallen.

"That must be awful," Cecil comments, but I don't reply. Something about all of this story seems sketchy. Maybe its all the constant little worries in my mind that added together gnaw at my brain, begging me to find a solution or at least something that makes sense.

"And so," Valerox sighs, "Carl and I decided to offer her a tribute. I offered to give the games a twist inspired by my dear Antoinette and he agreed, but waiting until next year's Quarter Quell was too long a wait for us and messing with the instructions for next year's Quarter Quell was just morally wrong..."

Yeah, like indirectly killing 30 kids annually isn't morally wrong.

"...And hence, we decided to organize it this year under wraps. Nevertheless, to make it really significant for Antoinette, I believe everyone should know why this year's Games are so special."

Dramatic pause. Many people lean in, and even I, quite absentmindedly do so as well.

"All of these year's tributes have something in common. To create awareness of mental illness, which took Antoinette's life, all of the families with notorious mental or personality disorders in the past were further researched, and only the names of their youths were to be chosen this year. Escorts were thoroughly trained and informed of this. They were only permitted to accept volunteers from said families."

This is all very mentally-draining. Was I chosen then from a much smaller pool of tributes just because the president's daughter committed suicide? I understand that such experience was terrible for both her and Valerox, but how does that justify partly rigging the Reapings? Would've someone else have been reaped in my place otherwise?

My anxiety comes back in exponential amounts with a jolt and my breathing becomes heavy with anger, powerlessness, determination and what-if thougths.

"For this, my dear tributes, each and every one of you are more special to me than any others before. You all remind me a bit of my beautiful Antoinette." He grins wistfully, showing off his carefully sculpted dimples and some barely noticeable wrinkles next to his eyes.

"Happy Hunger Games," he starts, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

Or else, I finish myself.

All the Capitolites in the bleachers yelp in admiration and anticipation for bloodshed, but us tributes just stand there shocked, enraged and with terrible headaches.

Or maybe that's just me. I ball my hands into fists and close my eyes, trying to concentrate and motivate myself with soft words of comfort.

''Get it together, Corin. You will win these Games. For Elijah. For everything you have gone through. For yourself.''

But it doesn't really help. Words won't keep me from being killed. Just when I think I cannot take any more, I open my eyes again and turn towards Cecil, my breath now something intermittent and cut off every now and then by my emotions.

But in the face that just a few seconds ago still belonged to Cecil, I find the epitome of my worries.

Before I can even cry in frustration or confusion, I see the edges in my vision darken, feel my head lighten, and let my knees buckle.

All because I couldn't see Cecil's features anymore, but rather that other damn boy's with my same damn eyes.

And that's about the last damn thing I can remember.

Vassëna Myndwood · Training Center: District 4's Apartment
After stripping down completely from the skin-tight coral dress I had to wear for the chariot ride, I let out a discreet but long yawn. A yawn to let out my fears and troubles behind. A yawn to try induce me into some peaceful beauty sleep for the night before training starts tomorrow morning.

I've heard that since the tributes' number grew, more stations had to be set up to ensure a fair training experience for everybody. Hopefully it will go flowingly and avoid congestiona at the stations.

That only means that there is only more things to learn and to know before the actual Games start. Games that I need to win to go back to my family.

I go through the clothing assortment that was left for me in my bedroom. It's honestly surprising how everything is my size and my style. I wonder how the Capitol knows such things, but then I figure that I'd rather not know and remain in this blissful state of ignorance.

A nightgown the color of a pale winter sky catches my eye and I decide to wear it for the night. After I put it on, I decide that maybe the fit is not too perfect, as it is just a tad loose, but it's still too close for comfort.

I waltz barefoot to the nearest mirror in the room and grab a small piece of cotton to remove my makeup with firm swipes across my face. Once that's done, I quickly braid my hair into something messy, but decent enough to sleep in and to keep my hair out of my face and mouth while I am deep in my slumber.

It only occurs to me now that I can't see a bed in the room and my eyebrows knit in confusion. I walk around and press all these random buttons around the room in hopes of finding one that will miraculously make my bed appear somehow. And yet, I only manage to drop the temperature to a threateningly cold one and to turn the white walls that surrounded me now look like a live-action desert at night.

When I give up, I sit down on a comfortable-looking armrest chair and decide that this is where I am going to sleep. I was surprised by all the technology and food in the Capitol, but apparently they don't provide beds for their tributes.

I lean back on the chair and just as I am about to curse the Capitol’s cheap furniture because it feels like it's going to fall back, a mechanism is triggered and the chair suddenly leans back itself until it is flat and what were the chair’s four legs are now supporting a full-on mattress.

I feel around the edges and sit up to have a better look at what I am laying on, and, as it turns out, it actually looks exactly like a bed.

I cock my head to one side, pleasantly surprised and lie back down, determined to go to sleep.

My determination, however, lacks the power needed to cajole my mind into sleeping, though, because after about an hour of tossing and turning, I am still as awake as I was before. I grunt in frustration and kick the sheets in front of me, consequently getting up to go to the restroom, stupidly thinking that that will help me drift into a slumber.

But the metal sliding door that separates the main apartment room from my bedroom is locked shut.

I frown and try to unlock it by placing my right index finger on the digital fingertip reader. It does grant my access, but the door still won't budge. I kick it quite unceremoniously, but it just vibrates in response.

I huff, blowing a stray strand of hair out of my face, placing my hands on my hips.

I take the quick decision to go back to bed, trying to convince myself that the door is probably programmed to keep us inside our rooms at night to avoid us from escaping, but I don’t quite believe it. Mainly because, if that were the case, why did the biometric reader grant my access?

I yawn the thought away, turning on my heels to face the bed again.

As if on cue, I hear the door slide open behind me, and I sigh in relief, ready to head outside towards the restroom.

However, before I'm able to do such thing, something grabs me —or rather, someone seizes me— from behind with one arm, while their other hand flies to cover my mouth.

I am about to kick whoever it is in the groin with a backwards kick but the person expects it, so they push me forcefully against the nearest wall, whilst the hand that covered my mouth swiftly draws a knife, act soon followed by that same hand pressing said knife against my lithe neck.

The voice is muffled and audibly altered, but is otherwise perfectly human and clear when it whispers in my ear, "Dare make a sound, as much as a whimper and I'll have your throat slit before you can cry for your District partner next door. Nod if you understand."

I nod frantically. My heartbeat rises so quickly my head starts to lighten from the increase in blood pressure. It could be anyone's voice. Since it is altered, it sounds terribly neutral. I try to determine the person's gender by their hands, but they're too thick to be feminine and too slender to be masculine. Besides —and it is only now that I notice— their hands are covered in leather gloves.

"Good." The person deadpans and frog-marches me to the balcony across my room. I try to think of something to do to escape this situation, but I remain immobilized, and the second best option is to try to speak my way out of it, so I go for it.

"Please," I whisper, "What do you want? I'll give you anything if you don't kill me. I-I could pleasure you...” I try to let out a cry, but it gets stuck in my now-dry throat.

"Shush," the mysterious attacker silences me by pressing the knife even further onto my neck, and judging by the pressure the person is putting on it, if he presses any further, the knife will draw blood. As a result, I am left with my last alternative: obeying.

I continue walking towards the balcony’s railing, the kidnapper’s heavy breath hot against the nape of my neck. Once we are there, I hear the stranger from behind pulling something out from what I think is a bag. They fiddle with it singlehandedly and I listen to something tightening right behind my left, around the area where I believe the pole that holds Panem’s flag should be.

I wonder what the hell is happening as my heartbeat pounds harder against my chest. My mind remains blank so I just stand there, stupefied. The cold midnight air pricks my skin and my body starts to shiver absently.

"Close your eyes. Nod when you've closed them," they say, and I immediately do as told.

I feel something metallic tighten ever-so slightly around my slender neck, which for a very short moment I think must be both their hands, until I remember that one of their hands is holding the knife against my throat. I choke for air but their grip tightens and I know better than to protest. My breasts heave in and out as a single tear comes out of my right eye.

"Is it a necklace?" I query in the airiest and faintest of voices.

They chuckle, "Of some sorts, yes. Now open your eyes."

I open them and look at the thick marble railing in front of me, having the Capitol’s skyline as its background.

"Now, if you don't want me to kill you, I want you to do a single thing. Are you up to that challenge? Promise not to complain?"

I nod, scared for my life.

"Good. Then stand on the ledge of the balcony. The one right in front of you."

My eyes widen and I shake my head, tears now streaming freely down my eyes. "Please, no..." I beseech, despite knowing that it won't have any results.

"We agreed on no complaints," they say and push the knife at my neck, nicking it and drawing blood this time. At least the ice-cold wind numbs my neck enough so to keep me from wincing at the pain. Instead, I just gasp for air after they say, “Now, be a good girl and stand on the ledge."

I very hesitantly do so, my feet wobbly and my knees threatening to buckle as I watch my tears fall down the void that faces of me. I turn my head back up and take another look at the Capitol: majestic, metallic, and ominous all at the same time.

"Turn around."

I give a 180 turn while watching my feet, careful not to give a wrong step and fall to my demise.

The first thing my eyes take in is the shape of the person, who wears a completely white and flabby outfit, similar to those the Peacekeepers wear when they have to search in radioactive waters back home. They also wear a pair of leather gloves and a gas mask covering their face, both of which shine in a dull shade of gold under the moonlight.

I stand stiff on my feet, not daring to make the slightest move or sound as I await for their next instruction.

That is, until I realize that tight around the pole that holds Panem's flag, lies a thin, metallic, and golden rope that slithers all the way to me.

Or rather all the way up to my neck.

It is only then that realization dawns on me. What my attacker had strung around my neck was most definitely not a necklace, but rather a noose.

On instinct, my hands fly to hold onto it, but I can’t take it off, and the stranger takes that very short moment of confusion to their advantage.

They pull their right hand back —the one holding the knife— before quickly catapulting it forward. Even before I see the knife projectile itself towards me, I let out a pathetic little gasp, put my hands up protectively and take a step back.

Only until I see that the knife is still in the masked person’s hand do I notice my fatal mistake.

My foot finds no ground to step onto, only the void behind me, and even before I start falling to the ground four stories below me, a thought is very clear inside my head:

They tricked me.

Knowing that I am heading to my demise, the stranger takes off their mask and my eyes widen.

I try to shout but the shock and the gasp impede me from even muttering a single syllable.

You! I think as I recognise the face behind the golden mask.

They only feigned the motion of throwing the knife at me so I would fall from the balcony, knowing that I had a noose around my neck. How was I so stupid? It would look like I killed myself and nobody would even suspect of a murder.

The following seconds leading to my death are the longest of my life.

My most important life events flash before my eyes and I almost regret volunteering, but I don’t.

The last thought I have is a stupid one, but an inevitable one, given how I feel the noose tightening around my neck and I shake my feet in the air, as if that could somehow stop me from free-falling in the Capitol’s midair:

Funny that I won’t even get a gong to signal the end of my life.