Chapter 3

Next thing I know, it's the interviews. The next day, we're going to the arena.

Where all of the fun begins.

Yeah, right.

I got a six in training. Even though I absolutely bombed the private session, I still got the six. Probably because of that throw that cleaved the dummy's head.

My stylist dresses me up in a fitted sparkly dress. It has an open back that is so low; it almost shows off my bare butt.

But I have to admit, I look pretty good.

And this is reinforced by the looks all of the tributes give me. The look of appraisal.

My hair's curled and twisted into an updo. Little spiral curls escape from it, giving me a glamorous look.

Then there calling Johanna Mason and I mount the stage.

In District 12:

The citizens of Panem watch as this tiny girl, about seventeen in age, mount the stage.

A young Katniss Everdeen sits in front of the TV with her family. She watches the girl from 7 answer Caesar Flickerman's questions shyly. Fear twists the girl's face.

But Katniss sees something in the depths of Johanna's brown eyes. She recognizes it because it's in her own gray eyes.

It's strength.

The weakling had the eyes of a hunter.

Back in the Capitol:

Finally the interviews are over. I feel Jared's eyes on me as we rise to the seventh floor. I glance at him.

His eyes are unreadable. The doors slid open when we reach our floor. I walk out and then the pressure of Jared's hand on my back makes me pay attention.

"Good luck tomorrow. If we both survive, maybe we can work together," he says.

I smile to give him some form of reassurance. We know that the odds are not in our favour. The Careers will probably kill one of us, if not both of us.

If he dies, I'll win it for him.

More like when, since I have to win.

But thinking of Jared dying thoroughly depresses me even though I don't really know him. I guess it is because he's from home. A reminder of the home that I may not ever see again.

I grab his hand and squeeze. We embrace tightly. There are no tears, sadness. It's just us in the dark, holding on to that little piece of home. Jared still smells like home, of pine trees and fresh air.

Then we pull away and go to bed.

My dreams were haunted by my dead brother again. I woke up, covered with sweat and tears leaking out of my eyes.

I sigh and then exit my room. I find one of those Capitol attendants on night shift and they make me something to eat. Don't want to upset a tribute, one that is hours away from death.

I chug the cold milk and cram my face with cookies. I eat until my stomach is bulging and I feel myself turning green.

Hopefully we were in a forest.

I look out a window, the lights of the Capitol lighting up the night sky. I can hear their cheers as many parties take place.

Celebrating the Hunger Games, where kids are going to die and become killers.

I sigh and go back to bed. And of course I dream of the Games. This time, I'm running, bloody axe in hand, hunting some other tributes. The constantly shifting landscape distracts me. When I set foot on a rock, it disappears and I plummet down a cliff, the ocean bathing me in salt water. And my body hits the spire rocks.

It goes on and on. I repeatedly die in different landscapes of past Games. All of those Games that I watched, the different ways that District Seven's tributes died, are replayed except I'm the one living them.

Then my stylist is shaking me awake and it's time to go. We go up to the roof and are lifted into the hovercraft. A woman in a white coat injects me, placing my tracker under my skin.

Which freaking hurts by the way.

I just stare out the hovercraft window while my stylist chatters away excitedly. Birds fly past, their wings working furiously.

Then the windows are blacked out. But not before I get a flash of trees.

Maybe the odds will be in my favour.

I'm escorted to the Launch Room by a bunch of Peacekeepers.

But really it's the Stockyard. The place animals go for slaughter.

My stylist ushers me into the tribute clothes. Sturdy black pants with a black t-shirt. A tight fitted red jacket goes over.

I twist my hair into little pigtails, further pressing the weak image.

"What do you think?" I ask the stylist.

My stylist is pretty stupid but she is smart in one thing: clothes.

"That jacket can reflect body heat. And waterproof," she says, pinching at the blood red fabric.

A pleasant female voice announces that it's time for launch. Sighing, I step on the metal plate and a cylinder is lowered over me. My stylist wiggles her fingers at me and mouths have fun.

Then I'm being lifted into the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-ninth Hunger Games begin!"