Hey guys, and welcome to the first tribute chapter of Long Way Down! I'm hella tired so this AN is gonna be short, but basically this is the first of 8 Capitol chapters that will detail our tribute's time before the arena. Each tribute will get 2 POVs in these chapters, which I'm hoping will be plenty to develop them all! I would do more for each but I really like this format so I'm sticking with it, hope that's all good/you enjoy the chapter!

Jackson "Jax" Brooks, 17
District Four Male

I'm gonna puke, thought Jax. A moment later a spasm in his stomach forced him double at the waist. He clawed blindly in front of him, and snagged a warm, slightly sweaty palm. Then he vomited into the sand. His eyes streamed; his throat burned. When he straightened up he thought the worst might be over, but he still felt the cotton in his head and the lethargy in his limbs.

"By the Capitol," said Lance. "I told you not to take nine shots. I told you, bubble brain."

Jax squeezed Lance's hand as another spasm tore through his gut. "If this is how I die," he said, "I want you to know that I care about you very much and I want to have your children." His legs gave out and he fell onto the sand, which was warm from the heat of the night. "This is true love," he said, inching away from the puddle of vomit. "True love right here."

"Lucky me," said Lance, sitting cross-legged beside him. "Nah, though. I'm too sober for this to be true love."

"Drink!" said Jax, flipping onto his side and crawling into Lance's lap. "By the Capitol, drink right now!" His brown eyes glittered in the dark. "Nobody sober here tonight, baby!"

"No!" said Lance, incredulous, grinning. Jax reached for his face, fumbled at it, until Lance grabbed his arms and flipped him over and kissed him on the forehead. "I love you," he said, "But I also hate you a lot right now and I'm scared you're going to puke on me."

"Would that turn you on?"

"No. No, it wouldn't." Lance's dark skin was beaded with sweat. The air around them was hot and dry, and didn't stir, even as the waves lapped at the sand a few feet from their toes. Jax reached out across the sand, dug his fingers into it, searching. He found Lance's warm palm after a moment, and covered it. Then he smiled, and closed his eyes.

"This is so nice," he said. "So nice." He took a breath in through his nose. "I especially love that you can still smell my vomit because there's no breeze to blow away the smell. Pure. Romance."

"I'll drown you," said Lance.

Jax wriggled, so that the pressure of Lance's shin on the back of his head was better alleviated. His red hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. "I'm so gross right now," he said, reaching up towards the sky with one heavy hand. I can touch the stars, he thought, swiping his thumb over a twinkling spot in the pool of indigo over his head. They're here, he thought, They're now. All the stars.

"I bet I smell real bad," he said. "Do I? Huh, Lance?"

"You puked all over yourself twice at that party," said Lance. "So yeah. Plus, you have a working nose, so I'm questioning why you can't answer that question for yourself."

"I'm drunk!" said Jax.

"Yeah, I know."

Jax squeezed at Lance's hand. "You know how many girls tried to hook up with me tonight?" he said. "Three. Three. It was aww-ful. Awful. Yuck." He stuck out his tongue, and pulled it back between his teeth as his stomach rumbled. "I should tell them," he said, rocking slightly from side to side. "I should tell 'em all."

"No, you shouldn't," said Lance. "Let's remember our mantra, shall we? Jax's parents are dicks…"

"So I can't mention how much I like dicks," said Jax automatically. "Ha ha, I'm so funny and clever." He paused. "Because I made that up. It was funny. Right?"

"You," said Lance, leaning over and pressing his lips to Jax's forehead, "Are just the funniest." His mouth was cool and wet, and Jax shivered and tilted his head back. They bumped cheekbones, and Jax snickered. Then their lips met, and he stopped snickering.

When he pulled away, enough blood had risen to his cheeks that his tanned skin had flushed scarlet. "Capitol," said Jax, rolling off Lance's lap. "You're good at that."

"Well, I've had plenty of practice," said Lance. He snagged a strand of Jax's red hair between his finger and thumb. "Hey," he said, "While you're drunk. You're still planning on volunteering this year?"

Jax groaned, and rolled onto his back to look at the stars. The sand was gentle on the back of his neck. "Hunger Games this, Hunger Games that. You sound like my mother. It's not a sexy look on you, no offense."

"Offense taken," said Lance. He scooted to Jax's level and laid down beside him. They tilted their heads towards the stars. "Seriously, though," said Lance. "Thoughts?"

"Probably," said Jax. His eyeballs itched. The sand molded itself around him. "Mom's really pushing me about it, you know?" He traced the stars with his thumb again and closed one brown eye so that he had no depth perception, and it was like the stars were close enough to hold. "It's kinda intense. But imagine how cute my butt's gonna look on television."

"Personally I think your butt looks better here where other people aren't trying to murder it," Lance muttered. "You know I'll support you whatever you do, Jax. And that includes staying here in Four and not leaving me to win some stupid crown and then be on that dumbass television show until you manage to mentor another winning tribute."

"Excuse me," said Jax. "Victor's Village is a national treasure, you plebian."

"Rude," said Lance.

"For real," said Jax, digging his heels into the sand. "I'm gonna be fine. I've been training for years, you know, I'm not some starving District kid who only wants to go home to their family and continue to live their one hundred percent innocent and unassuming life!" Then he winced. "Oof. I am drunk."

"Come on," said Lance, wrapping his hand around Jax's waist. "I'm dragging you home."

"Noo," said Jax, "If my parents see you they're gonna kick me out again. I'm not trying to be homeless at this point in the game, come onnn…"

"Oh boo hoo," said Lance. "I'll figure something out." He pulled Jax to his feet. "C'mon, you big lump," he said. "You're not drunk enough that you can't walk."

"I dunno about that," said Jax, limp. "Carry me."

"You're the worst," said Lance, hooking him underneath the arms to drag him across the sand. "I change my mind. Volunteer for the Hunger Games so I can stop looking after your drunk ass."

Jax half-closed his eyes. "You don't mean that!" he said.

"No," said Lance. "I don't."

Delta Gigabyte, 16
District Three Female

She jerked awake, spluttering, blinking stinging cold water out of her eyes. Fuck! she thought, scrambling to her feet, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands to get the water out. What the hell was that?

At her feet, the children scrambled to shake their wet clothes dry, while Gylfie rocketed up and stuck his gangly arms out in front of him. His hands were clenched in two slightly trembling fists. Ready for all takers, thought Delta, wanting to smile for a moment, unable to help the rush of affection.

She was impassive instead. The nest of old newspapers the children had been sleeping on was melting from the water, dissolving into a puddle of fibers and pulp. The air in District Three was crisp and chill, and nipped at the wet skin underneath her sweater. The ends of her curly hair dripped water onto her shivering shoulders.

At the end of the alley, morning light beckoned. Where they had been sleeping was dark, protected from the sun by a row of tall buildings on either side, buildings crammed with enough air conditioners and water pipes that most sunlight was blocked long before it fell to the street below.

A door on one of these buildings stood open, in between Delta and the end of the alley. In the threshold of this door was a squat older woman holding a metal bucket in both hands. Delta could see residual water sloshing in the bottom of the bucket. It fell from the metal rim onto the street.

"You all need to go," said the woman, kneeling down to place the bucket on the threshold of her door. It clunked against the pavement. "Three days is too long. I can't have this."

"We're homeless," said Delta. "There's nowhere to go."

The woman glared. "Children can't be homeless here. There's the Community Home."

"The Community Home is worthless," said Delta. "There are too many mouths to feed and not enough people willing to do the feeding." She took a step forward. "One of these kids came from the Community Home. When I found him he was so thin he'd broken an arm falling onto it. It was like a snapped twig." She felt the warm pressure on her ankle of Gadget grabbing onto her, trembling and remembering the time before they'd met. "We're not hurting you," said Delta. "We just sleep here. We don't steal and we don't make noise."

"You block up this alley and make it difficult to throw away the trash," said the woman. "Seeing you makes the children in both of these buildings uncomfortable."

Delta frowned, very slightly. "I haven't seen any children," she said. "And I'm sure we would never have done something to frighten a child."

At her side, Gylfie lowered his arms. His brown hair was slick to his forehead. "She's lying, Delta," said Gylfie. "She's trying to make you feel bad."

The woman grimaced. "I don't have to lie or make you feel bad," she said. "The fact remains that you children have no right to be here. We need you gone, and if you aren't gone in the next hour, I'm calling the Peacekeepers. They'll sort you out."

Delta narrowed her brown eyes into slits. "I've been sorted by the Peacekeepers before," she said. Her voice was low and rough. "And I'm still here."

The woman didn't budge. "Out of the alley," she said. "Next hour. I will call them." She picked up her bucket. "You're a drain on this District," she said. "Better that you weren't here."

"What an example you're setting for your children now," said Delta, but the woman had already closed the door in between them.

The children had drawn into a huddle, except for Gadget, who still clung to her legs. Tesla and Statica glared and trembled in the direction of the door that the woman had shut. Watt sat with his legs crossed and his fists clenched in his lap. She could see a vein pulsing in his temple. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"I'm so sorry," said Delta. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could have done better than that."

"It's not your fault," said Watt, without looking at her. "You're right about the Community Home, Delta."

"Yeah!" said Statica. "That old lady sucks."

Gylfie put a hand on her shoulder. The pit of her stomach felt warm. Her shoulder tingled where he touched it. "Really, Delta, it's not your fault," he said. "That bit—er, that bad woman—she would've kicked us out no matter what you did." He squeezed her shoulder. "There's nothing we can do."

The corners of her mouth lifted, just for a moment. "Right," she said, "Well." She knelt down and ran her fingers through Gadget's scruffy blonde hair. "Okay, everyone," she said. "Gylfie's going to take you all down to the square so you can try and dry out your clothes in the sun. How does that sound?"

"Good," said Tesla, who was still shivering violently.

"Good!" said Delta. She stood again. "I'm staying here."

"Absolutely not," said Gylfie. "No. No way. Not a chance."

"I absolutely am," said Delta. "I'm not going anywhere. Not for her. Not for anybody. Besides, she might be bluffing about the Peacekeepers."

She could see the fight draining out of Gylfie's eyes. I'll never give in, she thought. He knows it. So he doesn't fight. That's smart.

"Okay, kids," he said, herding the children to their feet. "We're going to the square." He tossed a glance over his shoulder at her. "Be careful," he said. "If I don't see you by sunset I'll know they tossed you in the slammer again. Yeah?"

"Yeah," said Delta, leaning against the alley wall. "See you."

"See you." She watched as he herded the children to the far end of the alley, where the sunlight beckoned them. In the dark, her wet sweater cleaved to her body. Gooseflesh crawled up and down her torso.

When they turned the corner out of sight, she made her way deeper into the alley, found a dusty glass bottle, and hurled it as hard as she could at the wall. It shattered as she dug her nails into her palm and whispered "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," over and over again, a mantra. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

By the time the Peacekeepers came, she'd calmed down, and was sitting in the nest of ruined newspaper, with her back against the wall. She watched the three of them advance down the alley and made no move to stand. All three were scowling. They'd met her before.

"Hello again," said Delta, arching her back and yawning. "I see that the long arm of the law is once again here and ready to beat the snot out of me." She raised an eyebrow. "Is this what they train you people to do down in District Two? Abuse orphans?"

"No," said one of the Peacekeepers. "You're a special case." His lunged for her and grabbed her by the front of her sweater, and drove his other fist into her stomach. "Not so smug now," he said, as she sputtered.

The fists came down on her head. She still felt the littlest bit smug.

Jasper Alba, 17
District Seven Female

The splintering scream that the tree made as it fell startled Jasper so much that she didn't move out of the way. She stared at the tree, thinking, That wasn't supposed to happen, and then, Oh Capitol, what do I do, is it gonna hit me or should I get out of the way—

It hit her. When she got her bearings again she was stunned by the enormous pressure of the tree against her back. She was on her stomach, which was pressed into the dirt. The points of her hips dug into the ground. She could feel a twig stabbing through her cargo pants and into her inner thigh.

She managed a huff of air through lungs that felt squashed and flattened. How big was this tree? she thought. Not very big or I'd probably be dead. She tried to get her arms underneath herself so she could push herself up, but every effort left her arms limp and aching. Rats, she thought, drumming her fists helplessly against the ground.

A pair of boots stepped into her limited view. All she could see was a slice of District Seven forest; dirt, trees stretching into an overcast sky, the occasional bird flittering through foliage. And now boots. David, she thought, wheezing. Get me out of here. Please.

"Oh, Capitol," said David. A moment later she felt him tugging at the branches of the tree. There was a tiny shift in pressure. Not enough. "I'm so sorry," David babbled. "Shit, Jasper, it was my fault, I didn't notice you were behind the thing when I was chopping. Oh shit." He squeezed her shoulder. "You're alright, though. Right?"

She coughed. "Y—yeah," she whimpered. Blood pounded behind her eyes. "Help. Me."

"Right. Right." David stepped back, scratched his chin. "I'll get the overseer," he said. "Couple of big guys should be more than enough for this."

"Daay-vid," Jasper gurgled.

"Only for a few minutes." He shuffled his feet. "So sorry, Jasper. I'll make sure you get extra pay for this, I—I'm going. Back before you know it."

No, she thought. Then his boots backed away. Then he was gone.

Every breath was uncertain. She stared at her slice of District Seven. There were no birds now. David must have scared them away when he'd run to find the overseer. The leaves shivered. There hadn't been snow yet, but she knew it was coming. She could feel it in the chill of the air, in the way she hadn't seen the sun in days. It was coming.

Hurry back, David, she thought, digging her fingers into the dirt. I can't feel my toes.

David would blame himself. She took another shuddering, creaking breath and felt the tree scraping along against her spine. It's not really his fault, she thought. It was a freak accident. Accidents happen out here. She let her head fall into the dirt, so that her chin was buried in it. Her dark brown hair fell in ringlets over her heaving shoulders. I probably could've gotten out of the way in time, she thought. I was thinking too much about it.

Still! She saw trees falling down all the time, but there'd been something about this one, tall and white-barked and bearing down on her with a force and speed that felt insurmountable. As it had struck her on the back, there'd been an intense second where she'd thought, I could actually die from this.

But she wasn't dead. Things could be worse. Things could always be worse.

"Hey! Jasper!" The voices sounded fractured and far away. "Hey!" Getting closer. She wheezed out a reply, but it had such little breath behind it that even she didn't really know what she'd said. "There she is!" There were several sets of work boots now, and they pounded into the clearing to surround her. Warm relief traveled up and down her spine. He didn't just leave me, she thought. She'd hardly been conscious that she was worried he would. He really brought them back. Thank you, David.

"We're gonna get this thing off you," said David, off somewhere behind her. "Everybody ready?" A chorus of assents. Jasper closed her eyes and clenched her fists. It'll work, she thought.

"Now!" And suddenly she could breathe again. She arched her back and pain flared out through her ribs. Crap, she thought, and she rolled to the side and away from the men who'd hoisted the tree into the air. She felt the ground tremble as they dropped it again.

Jasper rolled onto her back and heaved great gulping breaths through her open mouth. David had trotted to her side and was kneeling, slipping one hand underneath her to help her sit up. She wriggled into an upright position and took a few more gasping breaths. She felt lightheaded. But alive.

She smiled. "Thank you, David," she said. Her voice still whistled when she spoke. "For getting the overseer. For coming back for me."

"Of course," said David, black eyes huge. "It was my fault. I dropped that thing onto you."

Stiffly, she shook her head. Her neck ached, but in a few days she was confident she would be back to normal. "Not your fault. It was an accident," she said.

He ducked his head. "Well, I'm sorry, no matter what you say."

Gently she shook his arms away from her and crawled to her feet. Then she walked to the tree that had pinned her. She bent over and ran her fingers across the bark, which was rough and slightly warm where she'd been pressed beneath it. You almost got me, she thought. But today wasn't my day, huh?

The birds had begun to sing again. Back to normal, she thought, And back to work. And she went hunting through the underbrush for her axe.

Flax Newell, 17
District Eight Female

Wait for Judith at the factory, honey, Mother had said. And Flax had tried. But as she stood in the long narrow hallway that led from the factory floor to the outside, and saw the endless stream of people coming in and out, with inks and dyes on their gnarled fingers, her stomach twisted and her palms sweated. So she found a door that she'd found once before, when she waited here for her younger sister, and plunged down the steps beyond.

The basement was smaller than Flax would have expected, and full to bursting with strange metallic machines that pumped and groaned and bellowed steam. She crept past them all as she had the last time she'd been down here. Her dress fluttered and snapped at the stockings on her knees. The air in the basement was hot and wet. The walls dripped and bled condensation in rivulets. It's loud, thought Flax, where's the place I was last time?

There. In one corner of the basement, someone had built a nest of thick blankets and furs. She got on her hands and knees on the cold cracked basement floor and wriggled into the nest, which had been set up inside a small alcove in the wall. The pneumatic groaning from the strange machines was reduced to a softer churning sound that was more easily ignored. Flax pressed herself against the softness of one of the blankets, stroking patterns into the fur. That's better, she thought.

Her blue eyes were half-lidded. Judith will know I'm here, she thought. Since I was here last time. She drew her knees in towards her chest and wrapped her arms around them. I could work here, she thought, but the familiar panic rose up in her stomach and threatened to choke her. No. Too many people. Too loud.

Flax leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes completely. I wish I wasn't this way, she thought, as her heart thudded in her chest. When she got like this, she could really feel her heart, the way it twisted and pumped like the machines outside. Her temples glittered with sweat. I want to be normal. Like everybody else.

As her lips twisted into a grimace, she heard a sharp clatter from the basement. She froze, cocking her head. Even with the muffling blankets, there was footsteps, hard clacking footsteps. She was sure of it. She eased herself as far from the blanketed entrance of the nest as she could. The sweat on her palms was cold.

All at once the blankets were shifted aside. Light speared into the space, and Flax grimaced and held up a hand to shield her eyes. "Oh shit," said a voice, and her stomach churned. "Didn't know someone else was in here!"

She heard the blankets fell back into place and opened her eyes. A boy had crawled into the alcove and was grinning at her with a mouthful of missing and cracked teeth. He had brought the acid-stink of dye in with him, and her eyes watered and she turned away for a moment to cough into her arm.

"You don't work here!" said the boy. "Where'd you come from?"

"I'm waiting for my sister," said Flax, trying to smile. Her cheeks ached.

"Oh! Cool," said the boy. "She tell you about this place?"

"No," said Flax. She crossed her legs at the ankles and tried to keep her expression neutral.

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Ah," he said. "Okay." He scratched his elbow. "Us workers, uh, we tell each other about it. So we can get away from the stink for a little bit." He smiled again. "My name's Paule," he said. "Nice to meet ya!"

"Flax," she said. The word tumbled out.

"What?" he said.

"That's my name." Color rose to her cheeks. Go away, she thought. Please.

"Well, nice to meet you again," he said. For a moment he stared at one of the blankets. Then he reached for it and brushed his fingers along an exposed seam. "I made this one," he said. "It's down here because it's not perfect. Nobody'd buy it like this, right?" He giggled. "Got in a lot of trouble for it, though."

"Oh," said Flax, squirming very slightly. She stared at a spot on Paule's neck and refused to raise her eyes any higher to meet his. "That's, um, that's terrible."

"That's okay!" said Paule. "I shouldn't've made the mistake. That's my fault." Then he sucked in his bottom lip. "But it doesn't actually look that bad, though, now that I'm looking at it down here." He leaned towards her, and when she tried to lean back her head skidded against the blanket on the far wall. "What do you think?" said Paule, pulling the blanket a bit closer for her to inspect.

Sweating, she made a show of glancing over the blanket. Then she attempted another smile. This one really ached. "Nice!" she said. "Er, I mean, it's nice. Yeah."

"Thanks!" He dropped it and watched as it shifted back into place. "Working in the factory's not so good, Flax," he said, still staring at the blanket. His hands twisted in his lap. When she looked at them, they were gnarled and ink-dyed and scabbing in a dozen places. "You should look out for your sister," he said. "If she's not a good worker it could get really dicey for her up there." He hunched his shoulders. "I'm not even supposed to be down here," he admitted, "But the overseers don't really know about it. Keep it on the down low, alright, Flax?"

"Sure," said Flax. She was fascinated by his hands. She could see the bones moving under too-tight skin every time he drummed a finger. Do your hands hurt? She wanted to say it. But the words, as they often did, crowded up in the back of her throat and choked her and made her sweat. She settled into the blankets and looked away. She said nothing.

More footsteps from outside the blankets. Paule stiffened and peered through a small gap between them. Then he relaxed and yanked a blanket aside. "Judith!" he said. "Is this your sister?"

The tension bled out of Flax, and she flipped onto her hands and knees to crawl out of the little nest. "Hi, Judith," she said. "How was your day?"

"Fine." Her younger sister extended a hand and pulled her to her feet. Then she set her hands on her hips and smirked down at Paule. "Hope this guy wasn't bothering you."

"What!" said Paule. "I was being a gentleman!" He giggled, and after a moment Judith did too.

"He's nice," said Flax, standing a bit behind Judith.

"Oh hey, thanks!" said Paule. He smiled up at her. "See you around, then, Flax! Bye Judith." He winked and let the blankets fall back into place, obscuring him from view.

"C'mon," said Flax, made uncomfortable by the grinding and the steam from the machines around them. "Let's get out of here."

"I'm with you," said Judith, whose skin was beaded with sweat and who stunk of acid-dye. "I need to get home. This place is hell."

It is, Flax thought. It really is.

Clover Forney, 16
District Eleven Female

"Today," said Miss Florentine, walking a line between the rows of cots, "You're going to be trying a face cream called BlemishBeGone." Her path was preternaturally straight, as though she'd mapped it out with a yardstick before she walked it. "As most of you know," she said, "Your job is simply to apply the cream and report any and all sensations you experience on the form you've been given." She attempted a smile, but as usual only one side of her lips turned up. The right side remained in a drooping snarl. A stroke, was the official stance on the matter, but Clover Forney was no fool, and she knew with a burning certainty that Miss Florentine's face had been paralyzed in a similar circumstance to the one Clover was currently in.

She reached for the clipboard resting next to her on the cot and turned it over and over in her hands. Okay, she thought, I know that this one's gonna be bad, because the last batch of kids that tested this thing haven't been around. Ten to one they're in the infirmary. Or worse. She scraped her fingernails against the paper on the clipboard. Shivers crawled up her spine. I'm not testing this, she thought. Absolutely not. Doesn't matter if it's not fatal. I can't afford any kind of weakness, not in this place. Not in Eleven.

If she raised her hand and asked to be excused from this one, Miss Florentine would point out that she would be receiving a small stipend from the Capitol for her willingness to cooperate, and that most people in Eleven never got chances like this. If she pressed the matter, she would be reminded, quite firmly, that she'd agreed to this when she signed the contract that allowed her to live in the community home.

The thing is, though, Clover thought, drumming her fingers against the clipboard, I didn't elect to come live here. And they didn't exactly give me a chance to read the fine print.

She glanced at the cot to her right. Briony sat hunched at the edge of the cot, peering out from behind her cracked glasses, grimacing towards the end of the row. Miss Florentine had begun scooping little white tubs out of a large cardboard box. Each was emblazoned with BlemishBeGone in swooping purple script. When Briony saw Clover looking, she leaned over and said, "That's gonna burn our faces off, isn't it?"

"It might," said Clover. "But we're not going to find out."

Her brown eyes darted from one end of the row to the other. Miss Florentine had pressed little white tubs into the hands of the first several children, who were unscrewing the caps. If she gives us those tubs, we'll have no excuse to not slather it on, Clover thought. I have about three minutes.

"Okay, Briony," said Clover. "I've got it. When she gives you the tub, you'll open it, and make like you're slathering it on your face. Don't, though, just spit and rub that on instead. For the shiny look."

"Okay," said Briony, fidgeting, "But what happens when our faces don't scald? If that's what's supposed to happen?" Already faint moans from the farthest cots were audible. "And what happens when she notices our tubs have been untouched?"

Miss Florentine had moved closer. There were five beds in between her and Briony. Clover clenched her fists and whispered, "Just stick your fingers down the back of your throat. If you can puke on the tub she won't touch it. If you threaten to keep puking she'll send you to the infirmary. I'll do the same."

"Oh no," said Briony. "I'm not forcing myself to throw up—"

"Do it," Clover hissed. "It's the only way. Don't think, just do."

"I—" Briony fell silent as Miss Florentine pressed a white tub in her hands. Behind her glasses, her dark eyes were uncertain. Do it, Clover thought, reaching for her own tub. You need to do it, or it's nobody's fault you got scalded but your own.

Miss Florentine handed Clover the tub. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the smooth opaque white cream. It smelled like citrus. Acidic. As she held it to her nose, she opened her mouth and drooled into her palm. Then she dipped the fingers of her other hand into the saliva, and smeared it across her forehead. Miss Florentine was already focusing on another child; all Clover needed at this point was for her forehead to seem as slick with product as everyone else's.

Then she plunged her saliva-coated fingers into the back of her throat with as much force as she could muster. Immediately the back of her throat closed up around the intruders. The muscles in her gut clenched and she bit down at her fingers. She felt a nail scrape the soft skin at the back of her throat.

That did it. She tore her fingers free and hunched over at the same time Miss Florentine turned around. Clover opened her mouth and heaved, holding the tub out in front of her enough that it was soaked, and then dropping it into the growing pool of sick. "Agh!" she said. "It hurts—agh—my face—" The same complaints she was hearing from further down the row. "Gonna be sick again—"

"Oh dear!" Miss Florentine was saying, waving her hands, "Clover, don't you puke again in here—get out, infirmary, have them see about your face, you've ruined your BlemishBeGone!" Clover stumbled to her feet, clutching at her face with hands that stunk of vomit, thinking She won't look too closely when I'm like this. And she didn't.

When Clover made it to the door, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Briony had covered her face in something—whether it was spittle or BlemishBeGone was hard to say. Most other children seemed to be in great pain in the face, and Briony was so far not reacting. As Clover watched, she cast a quick glance at Miss Florentine and, when the woman's back was turned, shoved her fingers into the back of her throat.

As Briony dropped the tub and her throat began to swell with vomit, Clover turned and slipped out of the dormitory. Not too hard, she thought, clasping her stinking hands together. Good girl, Briony. The door clicked shut behind her, and the wailing in the dormitory quieted to a whimper. Clover grinned for a moment. Then she headed for the infirmary.