I do not in any way, shape or form own the Hunger Games series, or any of its characters. Those exist thanks to Suzanne Collins. I'm merely just playing with her characters and universe.

Witch Nike- I'm glad you liked your characterization with Nika! And believe me, every review means the absolute world to me!

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The walk to the train is filled with noise that overwhelms my ears and turns into a loud buzzing that makes picking out any singular sound impossible. Screams and cheers of my name along with Kylie's crash upon us as she struts, tossing out a calculated smile and wave as she does so, while I numbly stride towards the train, fierce determination apparent on my face. Masking my emotions has been a talent of mine ever since I was young, which is an art that will undoubtedly prove useful in this circus of unnecessary gluttony, vanity, and stupidity. Once we make it inside, the doors shut, sealing out all and any semblance of sound and the train smoothly glides forward. Kylie tosses a look at me, and sneers. Our stylists' taste has differed for our individual take we'll be adopting for the Games.

Kylie has gone with 'sultry' and has a skintight costume to complete it. Her hair has been darkened to a deeper crimson and has covered the slight twists of gold that once existed. Lyan has overdone (in my taste, anyways) her makeup with blackened streaks of eyeliner shooting out on the top of her eyes, with golden shimmers ringing the bottom. Her eyelids transform from black at the edge of her upper eyelid to gold just below her eyebrows. The only part left natural are her lips, though her eyelashes look far too large and dark to be hers, and her hair rests in a twist at the left of her neck. This is a look that is far more commonly worn in District 1, which is a comparison I'm certain Lyan is trying to emulate. Her dress is a glittery gold and rests by two strings on one shoulder, and is drastically short, falling just below the curve of her ass. Black triangles are purposefully placed in order to suggest her figure is more voluptuous than it actually is. She has obviously relished being decked out in all things Capitol. In comparison, I am remarkably plain.

I've been dressed in a simple and professionally wrinkled (as I was assured by one of Nika's assistants) white shirt, with sleeves reaching to my elbows, accompanied with a pair of light blue denim shorts which cut off at the knee and look as though they've been plucked off an abandoned island. The shirt is semi-transparent, seeing as it was one of the concessions I allowed Nika; but in return, I was able to keep my weathered sandals. My curls have been miraculously tamed into waves that are supposed to accentuate my 'roguishly good looks' as another of Nika's assistants put it. No makeup exists on any part of me, just as I requested. The rope from Nim's mirror never leaves my hand as I twist and undo it into a variety of knots. My reaction to her is roll my eyes at her jeering face and at my reaction, she haughtily walks off, irritated with me for whatever reason exists in her mind. I move in the opposite direction, only wishing to create as much distance between her and I on this train as humanly possible.

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I awake in darkness to hear a quick knock on the door, accompanied by the voice of Tryvius.

"Mr. Odair, I just wanted to let you know that dinner is currently being served with Miss Demetria and your mentors." His voice sounds like a sea urchin dipped in honey. Deceptively sweet, but punctuated with a message. I am to appear as soon as possible if I wish to have any chance of winning this. Unspoken words are clearer to me than what's said most of the time. I groan and reply.

"Thank you, Tryvius. I'll be over shortly. And it's Finnick." His footsteps lead away from my door, and I flick on the light that rests next to my bed. The room lights up from a golden light emanating from a turquoise lamp. This, along with it's twin on the nightstand on the other side of the bed is the only piece of color that exists in the room. Though the room is of a decent size, floor to ceiling is cloaked in black, as well as the bed sheets. I wasn't entirely upset with this turn of events, seeing as it seemed I was just crawling into the inky darkness of the night sky. Plus, given my current mood, I was hardly able to disagree with the color choice.

Pushing myself off the bed without a glance to the hematite-framed mirror, I propel myself to the door. If the disarray of my hair is a matter of serious consequence to my mentors, then I have more problems than just forgetting to comb it. The dining area is a straight shot from my room, only requiring going through a double set of doors. I open the final door and see Kylie seated at the table across two people. Presumably, they are our mentors, two randomly chosen Victors of the past who can't escape the Games even after the initial horrors. The one directly across Kylie is Ian Trito, a sailor who won the Games about seven years back. His muscles are burly and strain under his light blue shirt, which contrasts starkly to his sun-tanned skin. He's roughly shoved the sleeves up to his elbows and his black messy hair hangs haphazardly around his face and just past the nape of his neck. Through his scraggly bangs, a startlingly warm pair of brown eyes scrutinize me in what I sincerely hope is not pity. Next to him is an older woman, who I am much more familiar with.

Margaret Darby was one of the first to win the Games for our district, seeing as she was one of the first to participate. Though I've nodded in greeting to her in passing, she's hardly an acquaintance. And now my survival rests in her hands. Hands which are wrinkled and creased from age and browned from the sun. Her blonde hair has starting to become streaked with white and silver, giving her a celestial look that is complimented by her pale blue eyes. It doesn't help that she usually wears lighter colors which only adds to this effect. True to form, she is wearing a light and gauzy lilac wrap around her like a cocoon over a creamy lace dress underneath. Her expression is dreamy, as though she is in another world, but her eyes are crystal clear and focused straight on me, her mouth set in an unwavering line that elicits neither a positive or negative response in me. It's a little unsettling to see someone who appears to be out of touch be so startlingly aware. She's a bit intense, which is why I'm sure Kylie avoided sitting across from her. Margaret (or Mags, as she's lovingly called around District Four) has decades of poise, wisdom, and acting to maneuver herself in any situation. Kylie has confidence and seduction, which will fade if she doesn't learn other things to pair with it. I take the seat across from Mags and next to Kylie gingerly, meeting Mags' eyes as I do so. I do not want to give off the air that they are beneath me as Kylie probably tried to put into her entrance. I am grateful for whatever they can teach me. Despite my disgust of the Games, Mags was probably just as unwilling as I was to take part back after the end of the Dark Days. She was of a different era and a new world, the first of many to succeed in twisted and animalistic chaos.

Which is why I'm glad that Kylie lacked the bravery to sit across from Mags, who appears to be an older woman slightly detached from the world. Kylie will learn some fighting techniques and weapons while she's with Ian, and how to persuade the crowd to love her, which I am sure she thinks is all she needs. But Mags offers so much more. She can teach me how to survive.

As I sit, Mags raises an eyebrow at my humble entrance. I'm sure that she may have expected something different for me, considering the general attitude of those from our district. I lean back in my chair, preparing myself for whatever advice Ian and Mags have to give to Kylie and I. Mags straightens up in her chair, looks Kylie straight in the eyes, and then fixes her gaze on me. She clasps her hands together and sets them on the table before speaking.

"We have two ways we can do this. We can present you as a pair, a unified team that will give the crowd something to fight for. However, seeing as your appearances are a bit..." she searches for the correct word, presumably to avoid offending either of us, "clashing, it may be easier if we split you both up to be mentored separately. A turbulent duo can make you an enormous target in the Gamemakers' eyes, seeing as it can draw attention away from the slaughter. And believe me, distractions are not tolerated if they don't cater to the Gamemakers' wishes." She doesn't even flinch as she nonchalantly mentions the killing in the Games. Obviously, this is something she has grown quite accustomed to. Kylie's response is instantaneous.

"What gives us a better shot?" Though she's overconfident, she's not stupid enough to do anything that will inhibit her chances at survival. Ian looks at her, and tilts his head before choosing his next sentence.

"Separate mentors." He turns to Mags. "Can I take this one? She's got spunk, and I can work with that. The boy seems like he's more your speed." I would take this as an insult if it weren't for the small smile that graces Mags' face.

"Certainly, Ian. I was going to ask for him anyways. And teach her something about getting her own food, will you? Something tells me she's not very familiar with having to find things for herself." He nods, and returns his attention to Kylie.

"Okay, Demetria," Ian says, looking picking up his dish. "Load up a plate, and we'll head off to the waiting room of your compartment to strategize." She looks slightly shocked by this, most likely appalled that she's being told to move. I successfully keep a smirk of amusement off of my face as she fills her dish with eggs, seaweed rolls, a clementine, yogurt, and some sausage. No doubt that she's attempting to raise her already-heightened nutrition levels before the start of the Games. Ian just chooses a hearty waffle, bacon, and a fresh cinnamon bun that reeks of sugar and butter before getting up. Personally, I like his taste. They each grab a beverage on their way out. Fresh hot chocolate piled with whipped cream for Ian, while Kylie sticks to milk. They disappear through a set of doors, and leave Mags and myself in the quiet room. I don't dare touch any of the food until I've been given her permission. A grin perks up the right side of her mouth before she manages to get a single word out.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Mr. Odair. Why don't we get some food in us and talk about where you're from before we delve into the heavy stuff, shall we?" A mirror image of her grin takes over my face.

"I like your style, Miss Mags," I say as I begin to choose what I suspect will be a largely unhealthy breakfast.