Suzanne Collins is acknowledged as the creator of the Hunger Games characters and story.

Part One: Tribute

1. Primal urges.

Haymitch Abernathy and Effie Trinket; a drunk and a nag. They're whom I'm stuck with on this train tonight. Them and Peeta Mellark, my fellow tribute from District Twelve. I'd like to spend the remainder of this journey alone in my compartment, but Effie won't let me. According to Effie, the four of us must take our evening meal together in the lounge car. Apparently it will be a chance for Haymitch and Effie to impart further essential advice, without which Peeta and I won't survive the next few weeks. Unless the 74th Hunger Games are to be a two-week long drinking contest, I can't imagine what useful advice Haymitch is in a fit state to tell us.

"The meal will be served at seven-thirty," says Effie to Haymitch, Peeta and I. "I want you to go and freshen up, and change into something suitable for dinner. You need to practise at being civilised."

Haymitch simply belches and pours himself another drink. I'm too tired to challenge Effie's last remark. I may not live in a fancy house, nor have a wardrobe full of clothes, but I've never thought of myself as uncivilised. I mean, I do know how to use a knife and fork. Anyway, I agree that Haymitch needs to clean himself up and put on some new clothes. He's spilled enough booze on his shirt and pants to be a fire hazard.

Strangely enough I can understand why Haymitch seeks solace in drink. It can't be easy being the sole District Twelve mentor for twenty four years on the trot. For each of the last twenty three years he's done this same trip with two kids reaped from the young people of our district. None of those kids returned alive from the Hunger Games arena. In truth, none of them came close to winning their Hunger Games contest. Now this year's reaping has delivered Peeta and I into his care. He's already written us off as dead. Which annoys me a lot. I've no intention of going to my death without a fight. Unfortunately, Haymitch is already so drunk that he's worse than useless to me.

"I didn't bring any spare clothes," I say to Effie.

"There's a selection of clothes in your compartment," replies Effie, as though I should have known that already. I suppose I could have looked for myself when we first boarded the train, but I was too distraught at being torn away from my family and friends to notice anything. I go to my compartment at the far end of the next car.

The accommodation car has six compartments, each with a narrow bed, a wardrobe and a small private bathroom. I've never travelled on a train before, so I don't know whether or not this arrangement is typical for long distance trains. Having a private bathroom strikes me as extravagant, but I'm not complaining.

Peeta and Haymitch have the two compartments nearest the lounge car, with Effie and I at the far end. The two compartments in the middle are empty. A barrier between the genders to discourage any funny games in the night. As if any of us are likely to be in the mood for that sort of thing!

I look through the selection of clothing hanging in the wardrobe. I suppose that by the standards of the Capitol, the selection is quite ordinary. But not to me. After a life time of wearing clothes made of coarse linen or leather, the soft fabrics on display are almost too good to wear. Almost.

At first I think the clothes are too small for me. It's a though they were expecting someone the size of my sister Prim. On closer inspection I realise the fabric stretches to fit the wearer comfortably. It's not exactly one-size-fits-all clothing, but it's close enough. Evidence of the Capitol's amazing technology which it normally denies to those of us in the districts. In addition to a nightdress there's a choice of three outfits. I put back the shirt and trousers, deciding I'll save those to wear tomorrow morning. Which leaves a three-quarter length dress, and short skirt and blouse. I can't say the colours and patterns appeal to me, but it's all the choice I'm being given. I could refuse to change and continue to wear my own dress, but I'm not in the mood for another battle of wills against Effie.

I take a shower in the tiny cubicle. How someone the size of Haymitch is expected to manage in this confined space is beyond me. I bang my head, elbows and knees more than a few times. Washing my hair is virtually impossible, but the stubborn streak in me refuses to give up. As it is, I get through six bars of soap ... not because I'm dirty, but I drop five of them while I am showering and there's no easy way to pick them up without getting out of the shower.

Drying myself is easier than I first feared. The bathroom is fitted with a body dryer which comes complete with easy to follow instructions. Once I'm dry, I rummage through the assorted bottles of oils and powders in the bathroom cabinet. I've no idea what some of the concoctions are supposed to do. I decide against showing my ignorance and leave them all alone.

Feeling much better for the shower, I return to the wardrobe and look at the outfits once again. I try the blouse on, but soon discard it in favour of the dress. The stretchy fabric of the blouse means it's a snug fit. It shows every contour of my body in intimate detail. Far too much detail for my liking. I don't want to spend the evening sat there while Haymitch and Peeta ogle at my body. Not that the dress is much better, but the deep cut at the back means the front isn't quite so tight around my chest.

The clock by my bed shows seven-fifteen as I add the finishing touches to my attire. Shoes will be a problem, since I've only the ones I was wearing when I boarded the train. I may not be a fashion princess, but I know my clumpy school shoes don't suit the fine lines of this dress. There's a pair of white slippers in the bedside cabinet, but they're no better than my shoes. I check everywhere once again in case I've missed a hidden cache of shoes. Nothing.

I'm down to a choice between going barefoot or wearing my school shoes. Barefoot wins the day. I set out for the lounge car with five minutes to spare. Effie is already there, looking elegant despite the riot of colours in her outfit. Without getting up, she looks at me as though she's a sergeant-major inspecting a new recruit. Her small nod of approval means I must have passed whatever test it was that I've just undergone. I sit in a chair facing Effie.

"Did you find the make-up and perfume?" asks Effie.

"Yes, but I don't use them," I reply, refusing to show my ignorance.

"I understand," replies Effie, clearly not understanding at all. "Of course, if you were a girl from the Capitol, you would have been wearing those since you were ten years old."

"If I was a girl from the Capitol, I wouldn't be on this train going to my almost certain death," I retort, unable to contain my anger.

"Hmmm ... Quite so, quite so," replies Effie, nonplussed by my outburst for only a moment. "But you must look on this trip as an opportunity. A winner of the Hunger Games receives rewards far exceeding your wildest imagination."

I could let rip with a tirade about the unfairness of it all. How I would prefer not to be here. Yes, there's a winner of each Hunger Games, but for every winner there are also twenty three losers. Dead losers. Lives wasted just to satisfy the power-hungry overlords living in the Capitol. President Snow in particular. But I'm too weary from today's exertions to pick a fight with Effie. Added to which, what good would it do. Effie isn't responsible for the reaping. She's just a pawn in a much bigger game.

Peeta joins us while I'm brooding over my last thoughts. He's looking smart, although he too has had trouble with the skin-hugging fabric of the clothing provided. However, in his case, it shows off his body to good effect. He's more muscular than most district boys of his age. Probably because his parents run the local bakery. Unlike most district children, he's not likely to have had to go without too many meals. His chest and stomach look ...

Argghh! Get a grip of yourself girl! You're looking at him as though you're some lovestruck fourteen year old. He's going to be your enemy once we're inside the arena. Don't you dare forget it.

A small bell rings and Effie goes to the strange piece of furniture that stands at the far end of the lounge car. It looks like a large sideboard, but I know it's something more than that. Effie lifts a large flap in the thingamajig, and there sits several bowls of food. The steam rising from the bowls indicates they are warm. How they got there is a mystery to me.

"Katniss, would you like to help me set the table?" asks Effie, making it sound more like a command than a question.

My immediate thought is why doesn't she ask Peeta. Is setting the table regarded as women's work in Effie's eyes. So much for gender equality. Of course, if Haymitch were here I wouldn't trust him to carry anything to the table. He'd more than likely end up wearing the food. But Peeta is able bodied and more than capable of helping with the task.

I do Peeta an injustice. He immediately stands up and goes to help Effie. I need to leap up after him to make it look as though I'm just as willing to be helpful. We arrive together. To my great surprise Effie tells Peeta to go and sit down while she and I set the table. I'm fuming.

"Is there some reason why Peeta can't help?" I ask, loud enough for Peeta to hear.

"Don't be rude, Katniss," says Effie. "I merely needed to have a quiet word with you. Peeta. Would you be so good as to find out what is delaying Haymitch."

My anger abates, but doesn't dissipate entirely. I have enough sense to hold my tongue until Peeta has left the lounge car.

"Well?" I say with as soon as the door closes behind Peeta.

"Katniss, my dear," begins Effie. "Your not wearing any underwear or shoes. Could you not find them in your compartment?"

"Of course I found them," I lie, refusing to admit my obvious failure. "I often go barefoot and without underwear. There's no rule against it, is there?"

"No. There's nothing saying that you must wear those things. You're quite welcome to wear what you like. Only Peeta will no doubt have noticed the absence of your underwear and he might jump to the wrong conclusions."

"Wrong conclusions?" I ask. "Do you mean that he might think I'm trying to lead him on? That I want to make out with him?"

"Um ... yes. It isn't unheard of, you know. Two tributes facing an uncertain future, and a certain death for at least one of them. Primal urges can sometimes take hold and ... well, you surely understand what I mean."

"Yes. And no," I reply. "Yes, I understand what you mean. And no, I'm not going to be leaping into bed with Peeta tonight, nor at any time this side of next Christmas."

"Okay, okay," replies Effie defensively. "Don't get your panties in a twist. You should ... Why are you laughing?"

"You just made a joke, Effie," I reply, stifling my laughter. "I can hardly get my panties in a twist if I'm not wearing any."

My reply has Effie at a loss for words. Instead she hands me a small box containing a dozen or so white pills.

"What are these for?" I ask. "I don't do drugs."

"They're contraceptives, my dear. Just in case you need them. Take one a day."

Now it is my turn to be lost for words. I slip the box into the small pocket in my dress. Why on earth would Effie think I need something like this. I'll likely be dead in a couple of weeks. Worrying about bringing up a child is the least of my problems. Besides, even I know that you need two people to make babies.