'You both look fantastic,' says Jackamo Loveguard, 'If I do say so myself. Though of course it was a joint effort.'

We are minutes before the start of the tribute parade. Clyde and I stand beside the back of a bronze chariot on vast spoked wheels, the two horses attached shaking their heads and whinnying to be off. We each wear a skin tight, high necked bodysuit of a bluish silver. Upon our heads sit silver helmets which sweep forward and down over the bridge of the nose, and at the sides curve round to cover a slice of our cheekbones and chin. Great sheets of silver in the shape of scales line the sides of the helmet and jut out from the back, like a dragon ruffling its wings, like a fish lifting its fins to the air. Similar scales branch out in spiked fins from our shoulders, then run in a ridge down the back of our high silver boots. There are silver cuffs at our arms, and the helmets are subtly different in design, making our individual costumes unique. My hair flows underneath onto my shoulders.

District 4: the hub of Panem's fishing industry. In case it wasn't obvious.

Ophelia says nothing, but instead appraises us and gives a slow nod of her head. 'You'll do.'

This is the first time I've had an opportunity to see the other tributes up close. In front of us are the two District 3 tributes, both of them Careers, and dressed in costumes clearly designed around the theme of electrical wiring. They are engaged in deep discussion with their mentors. The District 2 boy turns our way, arms crossed and gaze openly hostile. I hold his dark eyes for a moment, but then I have to look away. The boy and girl from District 1 – Halcyon and Victory - wander down the line, slowly, casually, and occasionally stepping forward to speak to another tribute.

The Games don't start in the Arena, my voice reminds me. The Games have already begun.

'Do you attach yourself to power, or do you avoid it?' Finnick had said to me this morning. 'That all depends on exactly how you think you're going to stay alive. It can work, building alliances. As long as you remember that all alliances are there to be broken, as soon as the greater threat is gone. Or sooner, if you are no longer useful.'

I cannot bring myself to talk to the other tributes.

'Four,' a voice cuts through my thoughts, and it's 1's girl, dark hair piled high under a headdress made of both baubles and feathers. I start slightly. 'Still feel like running away?'

Clyde looks at me expectantly. My throat is dry.

'There's not really anywhere to run,' I say slowly, voice quieter than I'd like, 'But if there were, I would probably give escaping a go.'

To my amazement her face breaks out in a smile, although it's not a nice smile. But almost immediately she loses interest and carries on further down the line. 'I'll look forward to fighting you, big man,' she says casually at Clyde over her shoulder.

'Who would have thought it,' says Clyde dryly, 'The little mouse has a backbone.'

Before I can work out how to object to being called a mouse, a blast comes over the speakers. It's time to get on board, and I clamber onto the back of our chariot as gracefully as I can manage.

'Remember what we talked about last night,' Ophelia says.

'Make the District proud,' says Aenon.

Finnick stands to the side, arms folded, and he inclines his head towards us. I face forward and feel a rush of adrenaline as to either side of the column of chariots the preparatory teams fall back, and the vast metal doors in front of us begin to open. Immediately I'm hit by the glare of floodlights and the roar of a crowd of six hundred thousand people.

Our chariot starts to move and foolishly, I worry that I'm going to fall. But the horses are well trained and it's smoother than I thought it would be as we glide forward towards the light.

The horses' hooves beat faster, and then we're racing out into the open air and a stadium so vast I can barely see the other end. The tributes in the chariot ahead wave to the sea of people but I keep looking resolutely ahead, hands clenched on the front of the chariot.

'For District 4, Clyde Laiken and Annie Cresta!' booms a voice over the speakers, and if it's possible the roar of the crowd gets louder. The voice calls out again and again as one by one the chariots behind us exit the depot.

We're moving fast enough that the air is cold as it rushes through my helmet. Strong, calm and poised. Our faces are projected onto huge screens on either side of the stadium, helmets flashing blue and silver in the light, our costumes smooth as water. Clyde is breathing hard with exhilaration; the atmosphere is intoxicating. Strong. But I cannot forget why it is we're here and instead of excitement I feel my gorge rise. Calm. I clench my jaw so they cannot see what I'm feeling. Poised.

It's taken an age, but now we're approaching the end of the stadium and the presidential stand. The chariot sweeps round in an arc past the front and I gaze up at the towering row of seating. Then, as the chariot comes to a stop, I see the bearded figure in the presidential box. But he's too small. Too insignificant, against the vast rising wings behind him, the harsh glint of gold, the eagle of Panem.

I open my mouth, as though I am about to call out. What for, I do not know. The President cannot give us a pardon. Not now. Even the President is powerless against the Games.

The eagle's eyes burn in the sun. One nation. Sending us to our deaths.

'You're here for ten days,' says Finnick, 'And I'm going to be honest; there's only so much I can teach you in that time.'

We're standing in the center of one of the private gyms beside a small mat, walls lined with all manner of apparatus, equipment and weapons. I'm wearing a dark grey and white patterned body suit which all the tributes have been issued with, which clings to me like a wetsuit. Finnick is in jogging bottoms and a tight fitting t-shirt, still wearing his necklace.

He paces slowly in front of me, as though it's uncomfortable for him to stand still. 'There's certainly no way I can teach you to become proficient in handling any sort of weapons.' He turns to me, 'I'm assuming you've never handled any weapons.'

'But for a knife to gut fish, no,' I say, 'And…' for some reason I don't want to say it, 'To catch fish, we used to practice with a trident sometimes. It's not particularly efficient. Only for show.'

And I don't want to learn to use a weapon. Because there's no-one I would ever want to use it on.

Finnick inclines his head. 'That's what I thought. So instead we're going to focus on basic survival, self-defense, and getting you used to handling a few different weapons. First things first – and this sounds stupid, but I know mentors who've forgotten to check and it's cost their tributes their lives – I'm assuming you can light a fire.'

I almost snort. Most houses in District 4 have gas fires, but I didn't grow up in the Capitol. 'Yes.'

'You can fish. Set up lines and hooks.'

'Of course.'

'Have you ever done any other hunting, or trapping?'

'No, but I can recognize quite a lot of plants,' I say. 'At least, enough that if there's flora I won't starve.'

'Thank god,' Finnick suddenly gives me a grin, 'Otherwise we'd be starting entirely from scratch. Although I am going to warn you right now that in most situations you're not going to want to use fire, as it obviously gives away your whereabouts.'

I nod; that seems simple enough.

'And there's no guarantee that there will be vegetation or hunting opportunities, though from experience I'd say we can safely bet on it. The Games aren't as fun when the tributes are weak from starvation. '

I swallow. I remember the 54th Hunger Games – a rocky, barren environment devoid of any edible plant life which drove one of the tributes to cannibalism. The Gamemakers had him taken down.

'And obviously we have no idea what the Arena's going to be like,' Finnick's pacing again, 'I was lucky to get a terrain with so much water. If I hadn't been so lucky I probably wouldn't have won,' he adds darkly. 'I'll never forget how grateful I was when I came up into my pod and saw the shore we were standing on.'

In my mind's eye, I see him in the recording our District have played over and over. Young but already tall, well on his way to becoming a man. Green eyes bright as the klaxon sounds and he dives smoothly off his platform, cutting through the water towards the cornucopia before some of the other tributes have even moved.

'But you could just as easily get desert, or tundra, rainforest,' Finnick continues, 'And there is no way I can prepare you for all of those scenarios. So you're just going to have to be as resourceful as you can, and make do.'

'What about the cornucopia?' I ask.

'You won't be able to get to it without a bloody fight,' says Finnick, 'For you I'd say it's certainly going to be best not to risk it. As soon as the whistle goes, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. There are three things you need to survive. Shelter, water, food. In that order. And they come before everything else.'

I nod once more. I'm going to be faced with this soon, far too soon. My heart beats slightly faster.

'Alright,' says Finnick, 'Now we've got that out of the way we're going to get on to some simple self-defense. Come stand in front of me.'

I move to do as he says; now that I'm so close I find it harder to keep his gaze. It's his eyes again, for some reason if I look for more than a second I find myself staring.

'Never forget that every opponent is going to be coming in for the kill,' he says, 'And you need to fight back to kill them as well. I know you don't think you can,' he adds, as I pull a face, 'But believe me, when someone's coming at your face intending to murder you, violence suddenly becomes a lot more natural.'

That's not something I want to think about, ever, but it's going to be my reality very soon. I can either deny it, or I can accept it and make the best of what's going to happen to me.

'Ophelia gave you three words to remember,' Finnick says, 'Well; I'm going to give you three more. Preservation – your own safety always comes first. Domination – you need to find ways to get power over the other tributes. And finally, exploitation. Once you have them where you want them, you use them, and you end them.'

'Preservation, domination, exploitation,' I echo him obediently. It's not just my own chance at survival I'm worried about here, I realize. There's something else: I don't want to let Finnick down. I want his approval.

'For the next couple of hours we're going to concentrate on hand to hand self-defense,' says Finnick, adjusting his stance in front of me, 'The good thing about the techniques I'm going to show you is that it doesn't matter how strong your opponent is, they'll still be effective. But realistically, you're not going to be getting into many situations where neither of you has a weapon.'

It's easy to forget how young he is, because he acts so mature, so assured. And he's certainly seen more violence than any adult would wish to in their lives. I puff out a breath and give my hands and arms a shake, because I'm nervous.

'And by the way,' Finnick adds after a moment, 'You can talk back to me. You don't just have to accept everything I say without question. Despite what they've probably been telling you down in District 4, I'm not actually a god.'

I don't really have a reply to that.

'And yet another beautiful slice of wit goes to waste,' Finnick sighs. 'Not much of a talker, are you.'

'I do talk,' I reply. I used to talk to everyone. I used to smile at them too. 'Just not to strangers.'

'We've been cohabiting for two days now, and you consider me a stranger. Well,' Finnick pauses, 'Miss Annabel Cresta, I'm deeply offended.'

'My name's not Annabel.'

'It's not?' he turns to me, and his eyes are wide in mock surprise, 'I'm so sorry to have made the assumption, it's just that we've never been formally introduced. Me being a total stranger, after all.'

Because I know he's doing it for my benefit, something about his dreadful humor smooths the edges of the jagged lump of fear within me, or at least makes it easier to pretend it's not there. My lips tug into a small smile, and I hold out my hand as though I'm a Capitol debutante. 'Well, Mr Odair, since you are so insistent. My name is Annie Cresta, and it's a pleasure to meet you.'

'The pleasure is all mine,' he says, voice low, and gently raises my hand to his lips, not breaking eye contact the entire time. I resist the urge to pull my hand back.

Finnick doesn't let go of my hand, but instead adjusts my fingers so that they lie together, palm flat. 'I'm going to move towards you right now, with my neck exposed. I want you to try and jab me right...here.' He maneuvers my hand so that the tips of his fingers are just resting against his jugular. I'm slightly thrown off by the smooth change back to the topic at hand.

'It's incredibly uncomfortable and will give you a few moments to take the advantage if you get caught off guard during an attack. Otherwise go for the eyes and crotch.' He raises his hand and bounces his own fingers off the front of my neck. I jerk back, fighting down my gag reflex. 'See?' Finnick smiles. 'Now it's your turn.'

He moves backwards and then without warning lunges towards me. I'm completely caught off guard and before I know it his hands are on my neck.

'Try again,' he says simply, moving back before I've even registered what's happened. I ready myself, but he waits. What is he playing at? Then he's moving and I whip my arm out in front of me, fingers outstretched. Finnick stops, paused on the balls of his feet, neck millimetres from the ends of my fingers. His whole body thrums like a live wire.

'Better,' he says, with a quick smile. 'And again.'

We do this three times more, I stop him twice, and I feel completely on edge. He's getting faster as well. Then we try again. My arm goes up, expecting his attack, but then he swipes his other arm around to knock mine out of the way. I lean into his attack and smack my other hand forward and over his arm, and he stops once again just as my fingernails are about to graze his skin.

'You're fast,' says Finnick, and I feel a small prick of pride, 'But you're going to have to be faster.'

Without warning he's on me again, from an angle I wasn't expecting, and is swiping my legs from under me so that I go crashing down backwards onto the mat.

'Never assume that the attack will come from the same direction it has before,' he says, 'Expect everything. Get on up, and let's keep going.'

God help me if Finnick and I had competed in the same Hunger Games.

Trying to hide my winded gasps for breath, I roll over and push myself back to my feet. This is going to be a long day.

It's the morning of our second full day in the Capitol when Clyde and I step through the doors into the tributes' communal gym. I resist the urge to smooth back my hair; when Ambrosia caught sight of me she insisted I wear my bangs down instead of pinned back as I had for training yesterday.

'Image is everything, honeyplum,' she had said, faffing with a comb as I tried to protest that it would go sweaty and get in my eyes. 'The others will want get a good look at you for the first time, and we need to have you at your best.'

No, what I need is to not appear weak and helpless, but what are the chances of that?

Ambrosia's wrong though, because few of the tributes give us more than a cursory glance as we enter the large, dark-walled hall. I guess they saw all they needed to when watching playbacks of the choosing ceremony. Most of the tributes are already here. Two boys spar unarmed; one is tall, olive skinned, powerful blows coming thick and fast. Yet his tiny, grinning companion darts out of reach of the blows, even breaking under the other's guard to lay down his own sharp strikes. They are so smooth, so precise; they can only be Halcyon and Indigo of 1 and 2.

The stocky boy from District 6 pauses to look Clyde up and down, short sword gripped in one hand. Returning his gaze, Clyde slowly picks up a machete, spinning it deftly before letting it settle into his grasp. Clyde raises his eyebrows at 6, who makes a jerking motion with his head. The two of them head off towards one of the raised sparring platforms.

Typical man communication, sighs the voice in my head, and to my surprise it sounds a little bit like Finnick today.

There's a ridiculous array of weapons stacked against the walls: sleek metal bows, wickedly curved knives, daggers so long they're more like swords, axes and even blow darts. A number of stations cover every survival orientated activity I can think of from fishing to camouflage painting. I feel a small flash of relief that not everything here revolves around strength and fighting ability. Tying fish hooks is actually something I can do.

I walk with as much authority as I can muster over to the table of fishing equipment and pick up a hook at random. My fingers rub over it, thoughtless for a moment before I drag myself back to the present.

Focus on the training, Annie.

Who bought the equipment that's used here? It's the worst made fishhook I've seen in years. Any child in District 4 would be embarrassed to catch fish with something made like this. I give a small huff of amusement. Guess the Capitol aren't as brilliant as they'd like to think after all.

I fiddle absentmindedly with a bit of twine, but I'm not going to learn anything here. Instead, as my fingers tie knots out of muscle memory, I peer surreptitiously around at the other tributes, trying to commit their faces to memory.

That's 12's boy, Kayn Staw, arms wiry and nose bent from an old break, testing a mace and flail in his grip before experimentally whirling it around his head. A curvy ginger takes shots at a punching bag with little accuracy but lots of gusto, cheeks reddening rapidly from her exertion – that must be Fannia Elestren of District 6. Trellis Lawson of 12 builds a simulated fire at a holographic station as Thorborn of 5 hovers by the wall, chubby face miserable. Epiphany Deerlove of 2 is sapling slim with high cheekbones and a choppy brown bob. She kicks a leg idly as she runs a whetting stone down a hooked blade, regarding the rest of the room with her slender-eyed gaze. I duck my head before our eyes meet.

Tall, auburn haired Iberis Kincardine of 3 climbs a wall like a spider and pulls himself through a series of bars attached to the ceiling. Quiver Starne of 5 is young with a mop of black curls, but manages to draw back a bow almost as long as she. The girl from 7 has hard eyes and arms sleek with muscle, pounding a target to pulp and then spinning into a roundhouse kick. Cashmere Wisehart of 3 looks like a supermodel, blonde waves bouncing from her tight ponytail as she throws a spear clean across the length of the room. It has barely trembled in its target for a moment before there is a patter like the sound of rain and the spear is surrounded by a clutch of tiny throwing stars. Their source is Victory of 1. She raises her eyebrow at Cashmere and smirks, before performing an elegant back flip down from the platform on which she stands.

Two slim figures spin on another platform, movements like a dance, their steps so fast they almost blur into one another. They are impeccably matched; there's a crack as their staffs meet in the middle and in that momentary pause they are one and the same, Juno and Jupiter, the thin faced twins. Then they whirl away from each other and the dance begins again.

God.

As if you ever stood a chance, says my voice. At least it is back to its normal condescending self.

I blink angrily at the tell-tale prick of tears. Now is not the time. While I'm here, I might at least try and do something useful. I let the twine fall from my fingers and walk by the other stations in case they have anything to offer. A computer bank displays a series of tests involving reaction time and recognition of flora and fauna, and I run one of the simulations testing speed at identifying poisonous plants and fungi. My fingers are slow and my time is bad, but I surprise myself by correctly identifying over half. Overall I perform rather well.

I'm about to press the button to rerun the programme when my voice whispers, Too well.

I reassess my score. I am unfamiliar with forest fauna of the kind I know is native to many of the northern districts. I know there are many types of poisonous fungi I've never heard of, deadly berries and flowers which don't grow far south enough for me to be familiar with. And yet I performed well… because the plants in the test were largely native to District 4.

That can't be right.

I look around me once more. There is the table with the fishhooks. On a rack on my other side stand a row of spearing hooks just like the kind my father uses for larger catch. I turn again to where Trellis coaxes flames from her holographic fire – the kindling she is laying down is seaweed.

Perhaps I'm imagining it. It's understated, to be sure. But there's a recurring pattern, a theme running through all of the equipment and training possibilities in this gym.

The sea.

Finnick shakes his head. 'Don't assume anything. It could just as well be a bluff.'

'But why would the Gamemakers bluff?' Clyde and I have joined our mentors for lunch, and I have told Finnick of suspicions about this year's Arena.

'Why else?' Finnick butters a thick slice of bread. 'To see who's clever enough to notice, and who's not clever enough to ignore it. To make things more interesting. To add extra entertainment.' He rips his slice of bread in to. 'And next time Annie, I would consider refraining from spilling your bright ideas around other tributes. You're not winning this as a team.'

'I haven't got a problem if she wants to tell me stuff,' says Clyde with a grin, 'Thanks for the heads up, Annie. You share your information with me any time.'

I look down at my food, chastened.

'Actually, there was something else,' Clyde says, 'And I'm only sharing this because any idiot would have noticed. Some of the tributes can fight.'

Shona snorts as she slices up a sausage roll. 'What were you expecting, Clyde?'

'I mean, really fight.' Clyde says meaningfully. 'Ones that shouldn't be able to fight.'

There's a pause. Shona's eyes flicker to Finnick.

'It's getting worse,' he says. 'We knew it was getting worse.'

'What's getting worse?' I ask.

Finnick sighs and drops his napkin. 'There are some poorer Districts who've had a little too much of losing.'

The back of my neck prickles. 'They're training Careers,' I breathe. 'But that's illegal.'

It's Clyde's turn to snort, and Shona raises an eyebrow. 'Please, Annie. You really think Mayor Brockhurst is the only one to have started building his little training schools before the district had been given Career dispensation?

'But those other districts,' I frown, 'They're… This is District 7 we're talking about. Even District 10. How do they afford it?'

Shona shrugs. 'District government can always afford more than it wants you to think.'

'That's wrong.'

'Think of it this way,' Clyde says. 'They're protecting their people by sending in the ones with a chance.'

Everyone knows that in 11 and 12, people starve when there's been a bad winter. The thought that their magistrates might be spending their money bringing up a few children for war - I shake my head. 'It's still wrong.'

'Welcome to politics,' says Shona, without a trace of irony. Finnick pushes his chair back from the table, and as I catch his gaze in consternation, there's a sadness to the warmth of his sea green eyes.

'Welcome to the Capitol, Annie,' he says flatly. As he walks by me to leave, his hand lingers for an instant on my shoulder.

By the end the day, Finnick has shown me how to target other sensitive areas of the body, how to use the momentum of a punch against an attacker, and how to take your opponent with you if you get tackled to the floor. The rest of my lesson with him consisted of attempts to build up my fitness – namely, running repeated laps around the hall.

'Today wasn't bad,' says Finnick, as we head back up into the penthouse for dinner after a quick shower. After my two sessions – in the communal gym this morning, and with Finnick this afternoon - I'm exhausted and sweating freely. Yet to my surprise, I'm actually enjoying myself. Finnick is light on his feet, and the physical jabs he makes at me are interspersed with verbal quips I smile at despite myself.

It's not just me who's burning with physical exertion. Finnick is breathing hard and his t-shirt is beginning to cling to him in slightly distracting ways.

'Tomorrow we'll take a look at weapons,' He says. 'You'll be training with the other tributes every other morning, and we need to prepare for your presentation.'

I hide a grimace, because while we'd been fighting hand to hand I'd almost been able to pretend that this was all for fun. I say almost, because Finnick has been making sure I never really forget.

Aenon meets us at the door of the dining room. 'Remember that you both need to get ready for your sponsor evening soon – there will be a car waiting to collect you at eighteen hundred hours precisely.'

'Sponsor evening?' Clyde asks, as I slide into a chair at the table. My mouth waters at the elegant spread; the day has left me absolutely ravenous.

Riley Sepulchre has datapad in hand, as ever. 'Finnick and I have organized a joint drinks and dinner evening in conjunction with the District 7 team, and a number of Capitol high flyers have been invited. It'll be an invaluable opportunity for you to make good impressions on potential sponsors.'

'You're going to have to talk to strangers, Annie,' Finnick says breezily. I look up mid mouthful because I'm not sure if he's teasing.

'To be serious,' says Aenon, 'This evening is going to be absolutely crucial. Among the guests we have some of the Capitol's most esteemed citizens. Miss Sepulchre has drawn up fact files of all of them which I expect you to familiarise yourselves with before this evening.'

'I suppose Miss Mason will be attending?' Shona asked. 'I hear she's mentoring this year.'

'Johanna Mason?' Clyde asks. He seems impressed.

'Of course Johanna will be there,' says Finnick, and gives me a smile out of the corner of his eye, 'And actually I can't wait for Annie and Clyde to meet her.'

Immediately, in my mind's eye, I am watching the 68th Hunger Games. I remember the lithe young girl from District 7, how her small, innocent figure reminded me a little too much of myself. I remember clutching my hands to my face as the group of Careers bore down on her badly chosen hiding place and chased her into the open. And I remember how as she turned around to face them, she threw off her timid façade, swung down her axe, and became a cold blooded murderer. She was grinning when she won, with other people's blood splattered across her face, and barely seventeen.

Just a little younger than you now, Annie.

I can hardly think of a Victor who horrifies me more. I push my plate away because I am no longer hungry.

'Eat,' says Finnick seriously, 'We're going to have to build up your strength. You're going to be constantly on the move. And you need to be strong enough to fight for your life at every moment.'

I know he is right, and I pull my plate back towards me. But no matter what I eat, it isn't going to sate the slow, slick dread in my stomach.

Eek! Thanks for reading so far...there's more coming very soon, I promise. Muhahaha! Please smash that review button and let me know what you think :D