Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games franchise...But, if I did, there would definitely be more love for Haymitch Abernathy.

Sass Says: I would once again love to thank my amazing beta, StayingAlive223, but would also love to thank my first reviewer: JujuMel! This chapter is for you~


No one really visited us like I thought they would. Neither my father nor Rosetta ever showed up, not that Thatcher and I expected anyone to after what happened, but still. Our last chance to say goodbye (mine probably forever) and we don't even get to see the people we care most about.

It was thoughtful of Seeder and Chaff to try to cheer us up, but nothing made me feel any better. Both Thatcher and I knew what happened to those that made the Peacekeepers angry, especially since they were being broadcast. The shot we heard wasn't a warning shot, and it didn't take much for both of us to acknowledge that our mother was dead. If only Seeder would acknowledge it as well, then we wouldn't have had to sit here as long as we are.

Maybe she expected us to be more shaken up about the whole thing. By this point, though, I managed to control my emotions and turn them into anger. I'm numb.

Thatcher held my hand as we sat in the office for what seemed like an eternity, but neither of us moved. I could feel the tears streaming down my face, but I wouldn't let the sobs escape me. Neither could Thatcher. His eyes were water free, but his hands were shaking worse than mine.

Eventually, the Peacekeepers come back to us after our designated hour empty of visitors had passed. I follow behind the men in the white suits with my brother right next to me. They march us like cattle towards the Capitol train, but neither of us have any time to admire the glory of something so incredible. Chaff and Seeder sit themselves down comfortably once we're inside, but I twitch awkwardly as Thatcher stands stiff once again by my side. Neither of us has seen so much food.

Even with the tesserae we took out, it doesn't compare to the table in front of us. The extensiveness of the ravishment could feed our family for months. It is obvious that Genie isn't bothered by it because she plops down right next to Seeder with a wide smile on her plasticized face.

"You'll love this. It's so good, trust me. You'll absolutely adore it!" She sunk her teeth into what looked like chicken, although I wouldn't really know because meat is rare even for people better off than we were.

Thatcher's never had chicken, either, as far as I know, but the look on his face when he tentatively bites into it makes me smile, and the tears finally stop dripping down my cheeks. I barely start to eat when Genie perks up at our cooperativeness and grabs a remote from near the television. It is bigger than the projector they use to bring us the games.

"Let's look at the competition, shall we?" She asks giddily, although it isn't really a question more than it is a statement.

The girl from District One can be summed up with one word: seductive. She had wide, malicious blue eyes, and silk-like, curly blonde hair pulled in a short, carefully-crafted style. She isn't incredibly tall, but she isn't short. She has to be around seventeen and the boy about eighteen—who was incredibly beautiful. His piercing gray eyes seemed to penetrate the television screen and stare directly at me. He has straight, chestnut colored hair that's kept short and very practical. He's about as tall as Thatcher, and has a muscular build. Garnet Pence and Topaz Seely.

The rest of the careers were as expected, like District One. All beautiful, muscular, and lethal. Names pass through the fog in my mind, but only few stay long enough for me to remember them. Darya Cresta from District Four had fiery red hair that cascaded down her side in a fish-tale type braid. She had an Amazonian build and in her arms she held a baby with the bluest eyes I've ever seen. It started to cry when she handed it off to the nearest girl to make her way up to the stage. Her eyes screamed revenge, and I made a mental note to watch out for her.

District Seven's Sylvan Green had to be no older than fifteen, but he looked like he was about ready to take anyone out with an axe. He had very black hair and reminded me a lot of a sixteen-year-old Haymitch Abernathy. He honestly didn't look exceptionally extraordinary, but he seemed be hiding something behind his hooded eyes. His Partner, Ilara Thorne, had to be fifteen as well. She had to pry what looked like her twin off of her before she made her way up to the stage.

It was harder to watch my own Reaping. It's still painful to see the look of confusion then hurt flash on my face as Seesy and Lola abandon my sides. But, I am immensely proud of the look of pride that sparks on my features the next moment as I make my way to the stage. There, I look down at the crowd coolly, easily avoiding the area where the cameras zoom to show my mother crying loudly into my father's neck. Rosetta's entire frame became pale, and her hands shaking uncontrollably.

"You took your news better than I did." Thatcher's mouth curves into a weathered smile as he raises his eyebrow at me. "See? There I am, shaking."

And, he was. Only, when I thought that he looked worried before, I had gotten it all wrong. My brother hadn't looked worried – he had looked livid. And, when his name was called, his face became that of stone. He looked like every bit as scary as I expected him to be. When both of us were on stage, we looked a lot smaller than the other tributes – hungrier, thinner. Of course, we were starved, but a little more so than District Three and District Ten, who were the closest in appearance. Inwardly, I smiled. Rosalie and Thatcher Trosse, fifteen and eighteen.

District Twelve had me shaken. The girl was relatively small. She had to be twelve, but looked even younger than that. She looked every bit as skinny as I did, and her grey eyes kept flitting back and forth over everyone, begging for them to volunteer for her. No one did. She had dark hair, grey eyes, and an olive complexion. Her name is Wedge Roe. The boy was as tall as Thatcher and Garnet. He, too, had dark hair, grey eyes, and an olive tone to his skin. He had a square jaw and long hair tied back into a ponytail. His bulking muscles flexed involuntarily—or voluntarily, I don't know—every time he moved, and his face was impassive and blank. His name is Adit Oden. They are escorted inside of the Peacekeeper building by Haymitch, although he stumbles. I guess the rumors of him turning to drink are true.

I'm struck, really, by how nice but intimidating Adit seems. So much that I stare at the screen for a while after Genie turns it off. After she finishes reassuring us that these Games will be the best ever, she claps her hands excitedly. Much too enthusiastic.

"Aren't you two just so excited?" she asks.

"No." Thatcher answers before I do, and he sets down his chicken while glowering at her. His entire being is twisted, like he's talking to a Peacekeeper.

"Thatcher," I lay my hand on his knee, frowning, but not completely disagreeing with him.

"I'd eat up." Seeder smiled and tapped her hands on the arm of her chair. "We'll arrive in the Capitol soon, and you have the rest of the day to relax. Tomorrow you meet the prep team; they'll get you through the chariot presentations. Then, it's training."

Chaff snorts, refilling his flask with the alcohol on the table. "Seeder, are you going to take care of them?"

I lean back, smelling the whiskey on his breath, with distaste. She doesn't pay him much attention, looking past him to us.

"You're going to hate it. You're going to really hate it, but you're going to need to get them to like you. The only District the Capitol likes less than us is Twelve, and they still adore Haymitch."

"Hey!" Chaff frowns, leaning forward. "I'm not too old yet!"

She snorts and spares him a glance. "Promise me you'll sleep tonight?"

My brother didn't look amused, so I nodded my head for the two of us.

"We'll talk strategy tomorrow." She finishes, nodding towards Chaff as the two of them stand up and make their way back to their rooms.

Genie looks at a loss between the two of us and heads off towards her own room without further instruction.

So, we leave the table as well and sit next to the windows, where we can see the world passing faster than I could have thought feasible. It is impossible to focus on anything in particular, but it's nice to get to look at the scenery rather than thinking about dying in the future. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, Thatcher is shaking me awake and lights spills through the crystal window, reminding me painfully of home.

"Why are you always asleep, Rosalie?" His tone isn't scolding, so I shrug my shoulders at him and stretch.

There are people peering at us through the tinted windows, screaming and waving their arms frantically. It startles me, so I draw closer to my older brother with an astounded look on my face. Thatcher's hand wraps around my wrist as he pulls me closer to Genie and Seeder, his face carefully blank. The two of them protect us from all the wandering hands wanting to touch us until we are inside what Genie has introduced as the Remake Center, where our prep teams await our arrival.

As soon as I step a foot inside, a strange woman grabs my wrist and tows me along behind her as if we haven't just met.

"This way, Rosalie!" She beams at me, leading me into a secluded hallway. I glance over my shoulder and Thatcher has disappeared, along with Genie and my mentors.

Juniper has two beady orange eyes the color of glowing embers. Her silky hair falls in waves to her waist. And, while that normally wouldn't be odd, it was the color of emeralds and twisted into a comet's trail. She's short and awfully busty, but incredibly pale.

"I'm Juniper Aldjoy!" She grins, her teeth bejeweled with more tiny emeralds. What is it with Capitol people and wearing precious jewels like they're not a rare thing? She gestures toward the woman with droopy purple eyes. Her curly hair is the color of cream and crafted into two very high pigtails on either side of her head. She was somewhat taller than Juniper, but she had an athletic build to her. "That's Zipporah Rollo!"

The bouncy man next to us has narrow gray eyes the color of coins, but his thick purple hair is styled so tall it has to be some sort of headdress. He's incredibly tan—an unnatural color, not like my dark skin—and keeps muttering under his breath while looking at me. When I finally catch him staring, he flashes a quick smile. "Libo Renfrewshire, at your service."

"We're your prep team," Juniper says. "And now that we've made your acquaintance…"

They lead me into a room and shut the door behind me. I'm pushed onto a silver, metal table with only a thin sheet of paper on it, and I stare at them blankly. They asked me to take of my clothes, and I do so warily, eyeing all three of them the entire time that I do. It's freezing in the room and their eyes rake over my body almost hungrily, like a lion would look at a stray antelope.

When I'm finished, I'm told to lie back on the table and I happily oblige. There's no getting out of this, Seeder told us. I almost start to fight them, though, when I feel something being spread onto my leg. It's hot and it's almost painful, but the real pain comes when they stick a cloth to it and pull it out.

I scream, but they trudge on, seeming unfazed by my outburst. They take hair from my legs and my underarms, from above my lips to my eyebrows – all over the place. My eyes well up and I can't stop the tears from coming. It's not emotional, just painful.

After the waxing—that's what Juniper called it—is done, they're scrubbing my body with a hard soap that's almost more painful than the pulling of my hair is. Then, they move onto doing something to my stomach, and I don't open my eyes to see what it is. Finally, after I'm hosed down and dried off again, I feel a robe being pushed into my hands, but I have no time to put it on.

I'm pulled onto my feet and look up to meet sparkling golden eyes. The woman before me is decked in a stylish red dress ending mid-thigh. Her hair is a pale yellow and pulled into a high ponytail, ending around the middle of her back. Her eyelashes are extremely long, and her lips are painted a bright red. "I'm Blye."

She's carrying a dress in her arms, and I eye it in her hands. None of the previous victors have been dressed lovely before, so I'm immediately wary of her. She seems to sense this and tells me to relax.

"We're going to doll you up like Persephone from old Rome." She holds out the dress for me, and I'm astounded.

The dress is so plain, it's beautiful to me. It's long, and it's green. It's the color of dark grass, and I love it immensely. On my wrists, Libo and Zipporah braid long grass into bracelets while Juniper braids strands of grass and little flowers into my hair. Blye is doing last minute arrangements on my dress, making sure it fits me right. When they're done with that, they go about doing my makeup, but keep it light as it's supposed to look "natural".

Blye grabs my hand excitedly and drags me down the hall, beaming at me. I'm wearing no shoes, and I tell her, but she waves me off. When my eyes landed on Thatcher, my eyebrows hit the sky. He looks almost like me, but a fiercer me. Not only that, but he's wearing less clothes than I am. His chest is bare, showing off his muscles. (And his ribs. I have to force myself not to count the few that are visible.) I have to think back to when my brother had ever gotten a six pack without me noticing.

We're handed baskets of fruit and vegetables – things that we could have easily picked and shucked back in District Eleven, and I'm more than a little angry that they would use this for props instead of eating it when my people are starving at home.

Thatcher helps me get in the chariot and I wrap my hands around the reins to keep a steady balance while he does the same. We're not the last chariot to get started, but we might as well have been. Ten chariots went forward before ours did. I nearly take a step backwards when the chariot jolts us back, but both of us manage to stay in one place.

We stand tall and gaze at the crowd around us. Thousands of Capitol-citizens must be there, and I shift uneasily. I'm careful to keep my face blank and fierce, like Thatcher's.

I'm filled with the urge to wave at some members when out chariot starts down the first leg of the Square. Thatcher follows my example, and eventually we have people throwing flowers at us with admiration. With every one he caught, my brother would pin them somewhere on himself or somewhere on me, weaving a thorn-less rose into my hair with ease. It had been something he used to do when we were children.

It makes me severely uncomfortable to hear people shouting my name and screaming for my attention, thinking I'm small and insignificant and these people shouldn't even know my name. But they do, and this is happening. I squeeze my brother's hand.

It's hard to focus on anything around me while our blonde, almost golden, horses pull us at an amazing speed. My knuckles turn white from my grip on the side of the chariot and finally, we come to a smooth, practiced stop before President Snow himself.

"Welcome, tributes! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!"


A/N: If you loved this chapter, let me know. If you loathed it, that's okay. You're entitled to your opinion. But, I'll not know what you hate unless you review~