A/N:

Hello :D

This story used to be on another account, but that was confusing and terrible so I gave up. I tried it on another because I didn't think this story would fit with the rest. Oh well.

This story occurs at the same time as the 74th Hunger Games, the first which Katniss and Peeta are in. This story will hopefully have pretty regular updates. Cheers, please review- I want to hear what you like, or don't like, or think I should focus more on... I'm open to constructive criticism. :) The story is told from Sorrel's point of view.

Blurb: Sorrel, a recent winner from District 6, is barely surviving in the Capitol. But things will only get worse as the 74th Annual Hunger Games begin. Mentoring her tribute, juggling Capitol ruthlessness and her own demons, avoiding falling for...anything. May the odds be ever in your favor.

Disclaimer for this entire story: The Hunger Games and all recognisable characters belong to Suzanne Collins. I'm just Fanficin'.

My hidden wardrobe... No one knows about it. I think. I built it myself. I grew up learning minor construction, how to make certain things for the transport systems.

I get down onto my knees in front of the wardrobe and push at what appears to be the back. It slides away, revealing a hidden cavity. I pull out a pair of stockings, and bend my thigh, sliding the silk up until it is fully undone over my skin. Black silk. No garter, never— I'm not some Capitolite idiot that drapes herself in useless, repugnant finery. This is...art. The same reason I do not wear red unless it's requested. No colour, no distractions except for me. I hate the excess of the Capitol, even if I am now a part of it.

My fingers find clean underwear, and I slip them up over my hips. I run my fingers over the skin there, which should be scarred and burnt beyond repair. Instead there is only clear, unscarred skin.

My hands shake and I run them through my hair quickly, breathing deep to control my heart. I wonder how it will be this year. There is a thirst for blood in the air that grows daily, almost every hour, until you can taste it in their eyes. The people want blood. District blood. It's around this time my nightmares are worst. When I have to take morphling drugs to sleep. The drug is addictive, but I have the control to reign in the desire for it. Mostly because it is provided by the Capitol. They wish to keep me sedate. It sickens me. But it is a...trademark of my district. The last District Six winner of the annual Hunger Games became addicted. My mentor. He never had any scars, either.

It makes you hate your own skin.

I need to come to my senses. My hand goes to lie slack by my sides. I look down at myself, breathing already irregular. Think. I continue to get dressed. I spray jasmine perfume on my throat, wrists, and the backs of my knees.

Digging into the back I withdraw a pair of heels. Tall, black, sleek. I slide them onto my feet. Now the tedious task of extra clothing. It's not as if I'll be wearing it for long- Forget it. I pull a dark grey trench coat over my shoulder, doing up the zip in the centre and then fastening the attached belt. The bottom of the coat brushes a few inches under where my stockings begin, which seems perfectly acceptable. In the bathroom, I run a brush through my hair and tie it into a knot at the back of my head with the aid of a ribbon. I've never met a man who didn't like pulling my hair free. It's an alien excitement to me. I push a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and appraise myself in the mirror. I put on a little make-up earlier, but I put a little mascara and eyeliner in the trench's pocket in case.

The mirror reflects back an image of myself I never thought I would see. The fabric is expensive, the clothes themselves well-cut and tailor made, but not anything extraordinary to look at. My skin looks soft and dirt-free, my cheeks aren't hollow anymore. None of the poverty of a district and none of the extravagance of the Capitol.

I look so clean and neat.

I look like I come from nowhere.

All I know about Cinna is that he's a new designer. As such, he's been given District 12 to design for, like all newcomers are. I don't like being sent to make a Capitolite feel welcome, but I like it even less that he isn't even one that will attempt to help my District's tributes.

Though I suppose there is no real way to be a tribute and ever win. If you lose, you're being killed, if you win, you're a puppet for President Snow. He didn't want me to be a victor. District 6 is so embarrassing when we win. My Victory Tour was a carefully controlled mess of me breaking down in front of crowds, unable to speak, and learning how to censor everything I did so that the Capitol wouldn't hurt my family-

Cinna's apartment is in a block of flats that are shaped like a rainbow. A steel and glass one, with a gentle river of misty water flowing from the underside of the arch, through which beams of light are being projected through. This makes real rainbows, as the light hits the fragmented water, turning the whole building into a display. In the exact middle is an elevator shaft that divides the water flow, refracting the light back and intensifying the false rainbows.

It's beautiful. Of course it is. How could the designers for the Hunger Games live in anywhere but a piece of art?

I step towards the base of the elevator shaft. It's made of mirrored glass- I can't see inside. My heart skips a beat when a scanner suddenly brushes over my face, my knuckles gripping the edge of my coat in an effort to keep still. An electronic voice emanates from within the elevator. "Confirmed." A woman's voice, soft and sensual. The doors of the elevator open and I step inside. Inside, it is very dark and very warm. all the day's humidity and heavy heat seems to have found this space and decided to nestle in it. I'm not claustrophobic, but it still makes my skin crawl. When the doors open to let me out I breath out a sigh of relief.

In front of me, a door with a large, cast-iron 6 and the name Pette Darius carved into the handle. Of course. I'm in the middle of the rainbow. My District is right in front of me. Not my District. I can feel color draining from my face.

Cinna is District 12. I turn right and occasionally glance at doors, tracking which number I am on. The corridor is silent. I know nothing of a designer's schedule, but it seems to include a lot of quiet- all I can hear is my own breathing. Even my footsteps are erased by the soft, plush rug that carpets the hall.

10

11

12. I stop and knock on the door three times.

It opens, revealing a man with-

"Who are you?" I ask.

He must be tribute from an older Games. He looks nothing like someone from the Capitol- no alterations to his body; that I can see, at least. No strange skin or tinted hair. No piercings. All that would make him different from a person from the districts is the touch of gold eyeliner around his eyes. It reminds me of the bare touched of make up on my own face. His clothes are plain and black, neat, fitting but far from ostentatious and certainly showing no particular wealth or class. I'm sure if I were more familiar with brands and fabrics I would be able to tell something more about him, but at the moment I am so utterly confused as to why on earth a fellow tribute has broken in to Cinna's apartment. Whether or not I should be getting ready to fight.

"Who are you?" his smile curves his mouth up, turning his face gentle. His voice has a slight Capitol lilt to it. What...? I take a step back. He tilts his head slightly. "My name is Cinna."

I laugh. It sounds wrong. "Stop. I'm not joking- if someone else discovers you're here..."

His brow furrows. "I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else. I'm the designer for District 12- hence my being in this room. Perhaps you've gotten lost?"

I suddenly feel naked, wishing I had trousers, a shirt, something under the long coat.

"I'm sorry. You surprised me." He isn't at all what I was expecting. I've met a few newcomers over the years and they're always desperate to impress, showing off, arrogant. He's watching me with gentle puzzlement that feels like it's breaking me in half. "My name is Sorrel," I say, extending a hand, and watch as his own face begins to mirror what I feel.