an:/ oh my gosh I love you guys. Thank you for pointing out some of my mistakes, because I mixed up THG with OUAT! I am SO SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION :( I hope this chapter makes up for it because our favorite pirate is in it. :) I hope this makes things better. I updated the previous chapters and fixed it. LOOKING FOR A BETA READER IF POSSIBLE WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE IT :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any of the characters created by OUAT. Thank you.


I thought the Earth Remembered Me:

I thought the Earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars,

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom.

By morning, I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

Unknown.

.

.

.

My mother had a book she'd brought with her from the apothecary shop.

The pages were made of old parchment and covered in ink drawings of plants.

Neat handwritten blocks told their names, where to gather them, when they came in bloom, their medical uses.

But my father added other entries to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, pines.

Henry and I spent the rest of the night poring over those pages.

When my father died, I thanked whatever Gods were out there for him writing in that book.

For giving me the courage to go into those woods.

The woods became my savior, and each day I went a bit farther into its arms.

It was slow-going at first, but I was determined to feed us.

I stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath my feet.

Plants are tricky.

Many are edible, but one false mouthful and you're dead.

I checked and double-checked the plants I harvested with my father's pictures.

I kept us alive.

Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first.

Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got bored and moved on.

Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of our kingdom.

I don't blame them.

What we didn't absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Yard.

It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me.

Game was game after all, no matter who'd shot it. Besides, people were too hungry to turn down food.

I also sold at the back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remember what my father had told me and learning a few new tricks as well.

The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels.

The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his wife wasn't around.

The Head Queen's-Men loved wild turkey.

The Gov. had a passion for strawberries.

In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed the plants growing around me.

I began to notice life springing around the forests that I had inhabited since my father's death.

As if my presence made the forest grow.

Slowly, my mother returned to us.

She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter.

People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies.

One day, I heard her singing.

Henry was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching, waiting for her to disappear on us again.

I didn't trust her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness, for her neglect, for the months she had put us through.

Henry forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing was ever the same between us again.

Now I was going to die without that ever being set right.

I shoot up in bed, my chest heaving as I look at the small illuminated clock next to me.

Just past two in the morning.

For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another kingdom, just behind us.

I picture the families sleeping, except for one. Perhaps the one family had lost their hunter too.

A hunter who would possibly, and most likely be dead in the first few days of the Games.

I imagine my home, with its shutters drawn tight.

What are they doing now, my mother and Henry? Were they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lay untouched on their plates?

Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears.

Is my mother holding up, being strong for Henry? Or has she already started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my brother's fragile shoulders?

I turn from the window, trying to calm the raging thoughts plaguing my mind.

I was being ridiculous.

Could Graham and I have been eating blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago.

Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare.

Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in K12, where I belong.

If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face.

But no tears come.

I'm too tired or too numb to cry.

The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else.

So I let the train rock me into oblivion.

.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me.

I hear Mary Margaret's voice, calling me to rise.

"Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea.

I put the green outfit back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold swan and I think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and Henry waking up, having to get on with things.

I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping and it doesn't look too bad, so I just leave it up. It doesn't matter. We can't be far from the Capitol now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the last word in fashion.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Jefferson, waving me over.

The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled.

The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week.

There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice.

I've only even tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my father bought one as a special treat.

A cup of coffee.

My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I've never seen.

"They call it hot chocolate," says Jefferson . "It's good."

There's a whipped topping on the top.

I see ground cinnamon and sprinkle some of that onto the cup.

I instantly am relieved with a smooth, woodsy tasting liquid rushing down my throat.

I look and see Jefferson downing a glass of a reddish liquid, and judging by the smell its some sort of spirit.

I've seen Jefferson in the yard, drinking and throwing his copious amounts of money to the liquor woman.

I realize I detest Jefferson. No wonder the K12 tributes never stand a chance.

It isn't just that we've been underfed and lack training.

Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it.

But we rarely get sponsors and he's a big part of the reason why.

The rich people who back tributes — either because they're betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect someone classier than Jefferson to deal with.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say to Jefferson.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Jefferson before he starts laughing.

Jefferson goes back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers.

He stares at me, in utter disbelief.

"Well, what's this?" says Jefferson. "Did I actually get a fighter this year?"

"Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

The bow and arrow is my weapon.

But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well.

Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it.

I realize that if I want Jefferson's attention, this is my moment to make an impression.

I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room.

I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Jefferson. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

I open my mouth to ask a question, but Jefferson holds his hand up.

"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Jefferson.

"But —" I begin.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Jefferson. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark.

There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as if night has

fallen again.

I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels.

This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today.

Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.

The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.

I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Tabor. The cameras haven't lied about its grandeur. If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in 12.

The people begin to point at me, eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch me die.

I see a large banner off in the distance with the large words:

MAY THE ODDS EVER BE IN YOUR FAVOR

I snort.

.

R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Aurora, a woman with dark purple hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. She had this sort of unawareness about her. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!"

Why do these people speak in such a high pitch?

Why do their jaws barely open when they talk?

Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question?

Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s... no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them.

Aurora makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face.

"Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod.

The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.

I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist.

Apparently she has no interest in seeing me until Aurora and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems.

This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair.

My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the hair, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting.

I don't like it.

My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable.

But I have kept my side of the bargain with Jefferson, and no objection has crossed my lips.

"You're doing very well," says some guy named Whale.

He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth.

"If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!"

Aurora and Superior, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin.

Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on.

I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair.

I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet.

The three step back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Whale, and they all laugh.

I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am.

"Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in Kingdom Twelve."

This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Superior clasping her hands together in distress for me.

"But don't worry," says Aurora. "By the time Ruby is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!"

"We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Whale encouragingly.

"Let's call Ruby!"

They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me.

I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Ruby, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone.

My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged.

My mother.

I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home.

Now I wish I had.

"They're beautiful," A female's voice says.

I turn and am met with a pretty woman.

Her hair is dark brown, with streaks of red running through the front layers.

Her eyes are a deep chestnut brown, reminding me of something that I just couldn't place my finger on.

She wears an outfit that was slightly too tight for my tastes…but somehow suited her. She looked rebellious…dangerous even.

"I'm Ruby, your stylist," She says with a twinkle in her eye.

I go to open my mouth, but she stops me. "Emma Nolan, we all know who you are." She says.

I shut my mouth at that statement.

Ruby walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with her dark eyes.

Like a wolf stalking her pray.

I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?"

"My mother," I say.

"It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," She says.

I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Ruby has met none of these expectations.

"You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say.

Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes.

Some have been around my whole life.

"Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Ruby.

"So they gave you district twelve." I conclude.

She slides her dark eyes up to meet my lighter ones.

"I asked for District Twelve," She says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat."

Pulling on my robe, I follow her through a door into a sitting room.

Two red couches face off over a low table.

Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city.

I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast.

Ruby invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes her place across from me.

She presses a button on the side of the table.

The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch.

Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.

I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own Stamp ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button?

How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by?

What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Ruby's eyes trained on mine.

"How despicable we must seem to you," She says.

Has she seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? She's right, though.

The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

"No matter," says Ruby.

"So, Emma, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Granny, is the stylist for your fellow tribute," She says.

Other tribute?

"Other tribute?" I ask confused.

"Yes, Killian Jones," She says.

I've never heard of him in my life. As far as I remember there's only ever been one tribute from each district. It was more personal that way, at least it felt like that now.

"I don't want to be rude, but…we've never had other tributes before, Ruby." I say.

She smiles, but not condescendingly.

"The Queen wanted something new this year…she wanted to extend the games, I suppose." She says.

"He's from K12," She says.

"No one else was drawn," I trail.

"He was a rebel." Is her response.

So he went to jail? Excellent. Truly grand.

I want to ask her a questions but I don't think she'd have all the answers anyways.

"Anyways, we needed to think of something to represent your district," She says.

For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your Kingdom's principal industry. Kingdom 11, agriculture. Kingdom 4, fishing. Kingdom 3, factories. This means that coming from Kingdom 12, Killian and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup.

Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps.

One year, our tribute was stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust.

It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Ruby.

Naked and covered in black dust, I think.

"And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Ruby.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you, Emma?" She sees my expression and grins.

.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies.

I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck.

Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees.

But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume.

Ruby plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.

"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Granny and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," She says.

But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center.

My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there.

My hair has been brushed out and then braided down my back in my usual style.

"I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Ruby dreamily. "Emma, the girl who was on fire."

It crosses my mind that Ruby's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.

I also was about to meet my fellow tribute in a few minutes.

I wasn't nervous, I just didn't know who he could be.

He was a rebel, so perhaps we could get along better than we had before.

Could I trust him?

Obviously we had to share somewhat similar sentiments about the Capitol…or did we?

Had he truly rebelled against the Queen?

The Queen who we pledged to each and every day?

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my raging thoughts.

I see Granny round the corner first, and in tow, she brings a man.

He has a strong jawline, covered in a black scruff. He's somewhat pale, but tanned enough. His hair is dark brown, with highlights of dark blue running through. He's wearing leather pants that are almost obscene, dark black boots, a costume that strongly resembles my own.

His eyes are what catches me: the lightest shade of blue I had ever seen, lighter than the sky above the forest even.

He couldn't have originally been from 12, it just wasn't possible.

He looks up, those pretty blues meeting mine, and he smirks.

Any awe that I held, quickly flies out the window.

"Hello love," His accent drawls.

Definitely not from 12.

His stylist, Granny, and her team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Ruby. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.

Killian walks over to me.

"You must be Emma," He says, he touches the pin on my chest, Madge's pin.

I flinch back instinctively and raise an eyebrow.

"Swan?" He asks raising an eyebrow.

When I don't answer he moves on.

"Killian Jones," He says bowing in front of me, in a sort of old world manner.

"Charmed." I say dryly.

"Alright, show time!" Mary Margaret's bright voice calls out as she walks down the stairs.

She smiles and blinks kindly to Killian, who I'm sure has been nothing but overly nice to her.

I could feel this man was dangerous.

We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable.

The opening ceremonies are about to start.

Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses.

Ours are coal black. Nice touch, Ruby.

The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins.

Ruby and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.

I see Killian looking slightly uncomfortable about the fire, so I decide to try and be cordial.

"What do you think?" I ask Killian. "About the fire?"

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.

So I had made the correct assumption after knowing him for two minutes, he's somewhat of an open book.

"Deal," I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns.

It's bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in.

"Where's…Jefferson?" He asks.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say.

Killian grins slightly, before laughing quietly, and quickly.

I don't laugh as I prepare myself to be lit on fire.

The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol.

Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets.

The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin.

The tributes from Kingdom 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels.

District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd.

They are always favorites.

Kingdom 2 gets into position to follow them.

In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray.

The tributes from Kingdom 11 are just rolling out when Ruby appears with a lighted torch.

"Here we go then," She says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire.

I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Ruby climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses.

She lets out a sign of relief.

"It works." Then she gently tucks a hand under my chin.

"Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Ruby jumps off the chariot and has one last idea.

She shouts something up at us, but the music drowns her out. She shouts again and gestures.

"What's he saying?" I ask Killian.

For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling.

And I must be, too.

He smirks at me, but I can see the worry in his eyes—but something else: awe.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," says Killian. I raise an eyebrow, thinking this to be a pick up line. He grabs my right hand in his left, and I am amazed at how strong and calloused it feels.

We look to Ruby for confirmation.

She nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.

The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of

"Kingdom Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us.

At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look.

In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces.

We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Ruby was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.

Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Ruby's voice in my head.

I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand.

I'm glad now I have Killian to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock.

But I can't get too comfortable because in a few days, we'll be dead—fighting against one another.

There wasn't camaraderie in the Fairie Games.

There just wasn't.

I keep the smile and step away from Killian, trying to look as independent and strong as I can, molding my face into one of my many masks.

As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd.

The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program.

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Ruby has given me a great advantage.

No one will forget me.

Not my look, not my name.

Emma.

The girl who was on fire.

We enter the City Circle, I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "Come on love, let's finish out the show," He says, his eyes surprisingly firelight flickers off his blue eyes, making it look like hot ice, if that was a plausible oxymoron.

I can see that he's trying—not to be a cocky asshole.

I nod once and take a deep breath.

"Okay," I say.

So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Ruby has linked us together.

I barely knew him, but somehow I felt like I had known him before.

Sometime ago.

There's a trust forming already, a bond that didn't make sense.

A team.

It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle.

On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol.

Our horses pull our chariot right up to The Queen's Castle, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.

The Queen, an extravagant woman, whose dark eyes stare out as her ruby painted lips smile darkly out at her subjects. The ones who she has struck fear into their lives. She gives the official welcome from a balcony above us.

It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech.

But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime.

The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering.

When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the Kingdom 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise.

As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all.

Then Ruby and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses.

Granny extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.

I realize I'm still glued to Killian and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me, love. I like a strong woman," He says with a wink.

I roll my eyes at his flirtation.

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you."

I outright scoff at that one.

Ok, I was wrong. He's captain flirtation.

A warning bell goes off in my head.

Don't be so stupid. Killian is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.

But because two can play at this game, I grin and walk away swaying my hips.

.

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams.

This will be our home until the actual Games begin.

Each district has an entire floor.

You simply step onto an elevator and press the number of your district. Easy enough to remember.

I've ridden the elevator a couple of times in the Magicinal Building back in 12.

Once to receive the medal for my father's death and then yesterday to say my final goodbyes to my friends and family.

But that's a dark and creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells of sour milk.

The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air. It's exhilarating and I'm tempted to ask Mary Margaret if we can ride it again, but somehow that seems childish.

Apparently, Mary Margaret's duties did not conclude at the station.

She and Jefferson will be overseeing us right into the arena.

In a way, that's a plus because at least she can be counted on to corral us around to places on time whereas I haven't seen Jefferson since he agreed to help me on the train.

Probably passed out somewhere.

Mary Margaret, on the other hand, seems to be flying high.

We're the first team she's ever chaperoned that made a splash at the opening ceremonies.

She's complimentary about not just our costumes but how we conducted ourselves.

And, to hear her tell it, Mary Margaret knows everyone who's anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to win us sponsors.

"I've been very mysterious, though," she says, her eyes squint half shut. "Because, of course, Jefferson hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Emma sacrificed herself for her brother. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district."

Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Surface material?

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being rom the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" Mary Margaret beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it's wrong.

Killian shoots me a look from the corner of his eye, but I don't say anything to respond to it.

Coal doesn't turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that's only if a special machine is used.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Jefferson can do that," says Mary Margaret grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

Although lacking in many departments, Mary Margaret has a certain determination I have to admire.

My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many automatic gadgets that I'm sure I won't have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hundred options you can choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain.

I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute.

I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there's a knock on the door.

Mary's calling me to dinner.

Killian, Ruby and Granny are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room.

I'm glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Jefferson will be joining us.

A meal presided over by just Mary Margaret and Jefferson is bound to be a disaster.

Besides, dinner isn't really about food, it's about planning out our strategies, and Ruby and Portia have already proven how valuable they are.

A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all stemmed glasses of wine.

I think about turning it down, but I've never had wine, except the homemade stuff my mother uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to try it again?

I take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and secretly think it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of honey.

Jefferson shows up just as dinner is being served.

It looks as if he's had his own stylist because he's clean and groomed and about as sober as I've ever seen him.

He doesn't refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it's the first time I've ever seen him eat.

Maybe he really will pull himself together long enough to help us.

Ruby and Granny seem to have a civilizing effect on Jefferson and Mary Margaret.

At least they're addressing each other decently.

And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists' opening act.

While they make small talk, I concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes.

The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.

About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts feeling foggy, so I change to water instead.

I don't like the feeling and hope it wears off soon.

How Jefferson can stand walking around like this full-time is a mystery.

I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges awhile until it finally goes out.

I have a moment of doubt.

"What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" I say, looking up at the girl.

"That's the last thing I wa — oh! I know you!"

I can't place a name or time to the girl's face. But I'm certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain white skin.

But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I can't pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with her.

The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and unease.

She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.

When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.

"Don't be ridiculous, Emma. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Mary Margaret. "The very thought."

"What's an Avox?" I ask stupidly.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," says Jefferson. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her." Our mentor continues.

Killian's eyes burn into the side of my head.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Mary Margaret.

"Of course, you don't really know her."

But I do know her. And now that Jefferson has mentioned the word traitor I remember from where.

The disapproval is so high I could never admit it.

"No, I guess not, I just —" I stammer, and the wine is not helping.

Killian snaps his fingers. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly.

She may also be the friendliest person on the planet — she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me.

I have never seen the girl with the red hair smile.

But I jump on Killian's suggestion gratefully.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," I say.

"Something about the eyes, too," says Killian.

The energy at the table relaxes.

"Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Ruby.

"And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut." The dark eyed woman explains.

We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies that's being broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an "Ahh!" as they show us coming out of the Remake Center.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" asks Jefferson.

"Ruby's," says Granny, looking affectionately to the girl.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Jefferson.

"Very nice."

Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart, never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow tribute did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I know what Jefferson means.

Presenting ourselves not as adversaries but as friends has distinguished us as much as the fiery costumes.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Jefferson to Killian and I.

"Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

Killian and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms.

When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him.

"How's about we get to know one another better?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. I go to push past him but I can't: he's about six inches taller than myself, putting me right under the crook of his arm.

I look up at him with a glare.

"Try something new darling it's called trust," He says, those eyes boring into my own.

"Have you been on the roof yet?" I shake my head. "Ruby showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though."

I translate this into "No one will overhear us talking" in my head.

"Sure," I say.

I follow him to a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. There's a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a vast field of fireflies.

"Come see the garden."

On the other side of the dome, they've built a garden with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hang hundreds of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard. Here in the garden, on this windy night, it's enough to drown out two people who are trying not to be heard.

I look up at him.

"You aren't from 12," I accuse.

He looks up, and grins, a slow lazy thing.

"Correct, Miss Swan," he says, nodding to the pin.

It sounds different coming from him—he doesn't know the story, yet he calls me that?

I am too tired to care or call him out.

I drop my fingers to a flower, a rose, to be exact. A white one.

"Where are you from then?" I ask, looking up.

He looks over the city below, his eyes far off.

"Somewhere far away," Is his only answer.

"You're from 12, obviously," He says, no smile on his face, or a teasing note to his voice.

"Yes. I live with my mother and younger brother," I said.

"I know. You love your brother very much," He says.

"How do you know that?" I ask in a challenge.

He turns to face me fully.

"You're somewhat of an open book," He admits.

I stare at him. Killian Jones was dangerous-very dangerous.


an:/ and ladies and gents this is happening-and I am very proud of such happenings. Not to sound greedy, but I LOVE YOUR REVIEWS! Please remember I am only a teenager writing this-so be gentle, but I am always open to honesty. :) Thanks again!