The room is cold and dark. I am alone.

I sit still, not even remembering the las time I moved, even twitched. My feet sit planted on the ground. My hands sit on my lap, folded. My eyes sit against the wall, as if they are stuck there, unable to move as well. Everything just sits. There is no free will to the matter, just a cold raw feeling of loneliness that inhabits my body, bringing me closer and closer to tears. I won't cry, of course. I won't move.

The dark wood walls stare back at me. The grooves between their panels stay thin and bare, separating just enough that the naked eye can barely tell. Of course, I can. There's not much else for me to pay inanition to, besides the drifting fragments of dust that seem to sweep through the air like stars in an endless painting of the universe.

The door creaks open and a peacekeeper steps within the doorframe, moving beside it. My mother's blonde curls flashes from behind the wood, but is pulled back, the threat of "Just a minute," coming from my father's curt growl.

I ring my arms around her neck before she can even fully enter the room, my head buried in it.

"I don'y know what to do, mom," I cry, the tears finally coming. She's crying too, the make-up on her eyes beginning to drip from the corners. She strokes my hair and rubs my back, like she tries when I'm sick, when he's not around, but it's barely enough to stop me from heaving like a child. I am a child.

"Finnick, baby, you're going to be fine. Do you hear me?" she says, holding either side of my face with her icy hands, the familiar softness they give supporting my cheeks and chin. "You're so strong. You're going to be fine."

I am a sobbing mess by now, barely able to see out of my weighed-down eyes. "What about you?" I ask, worried about not only what will happen in the arena, but back home, without me.

"I don't want you to worry about that. I'll be okay," she assures me.

"But what about dad?"

She sighs, her watered eyes shinning in the dim light that protrudes in from the lightly covered windows. "I don't want you to worry about me, baby. Okay? You're always trying to protect me, but you don't have to. You need to protect yourself now."

"I'm not ready to lose you," I cry, once again heaving.

My father storms in, saying it's "time to go," pulling at her arm.

"Don't fuck this up," he warms, his finger pointing directly in my face, not needing violence to crush me now. I already look like a mess. "It's my reputation at stake. Don't forget that."

My mother kisses me on the forehead before following his grip's guidance out the door, my foot kicking at it before his foot can fully make it through to the other side of the doorframe.

I retreat back to the opposite wall, leaning my back against its structured support as I squat, my elbow resting on my knees and head facing the sky, eyes closed. I do not look at the ceiling. I do not attempt to call out to something bigger than myself. I just squat, hoping that my legs will go numb and maybe I will just wake up from the infinite misfortune that has happened upon me today.

This cannot be happening, I think to myself. This cannot be real.

The door creaks again and the peacekeeper makes an appearance beside its wood, covering up bits of the paneling of the room with his uniform. Kai and a blonde step inside the room's perimeter. I seem them all out of my peripheral vision, dropping my head from its blind view of the ceiling, yet not refusing to look at her at all.

"I want her out," I say, calmly, seeming to issue my words to no one in particular, merely the wind. They both know that is not the case. She remains to stand, but stops her motion towards me. I move my face towards hers, shifting like a clock, a twitch at every hour, repeating my request when I gaze upon her cool blue. "Out! I Said I want her out!" I yell, my own eyes filling with rage.

She attempts to apologize, but there is nothing that she can do. I am already too frightened inside to disregard another threat to my mental judgement.

"Get the fuck away from me! You did this!" I scream, Kai putting his arm out in front of her as I lunge at the two of them ever-so-slightly. She tries to move past him, crying that she didn't mean to, but he keeps her bounded from my rage as I continue. "Did you know? Is that it? Do you think this is all a game? I'm going to die, shot in the head, bleed out from my leg being cut off, drowned, completely tortured. Don't you get that?"

"I'm sorry! I didn't-"

"You ruined EVERYTHING!" I growl, a peacekeeper drawing them back and out of the room, her face contorted with complete heartbreak while he just tries to protect her. He always had a thing for her, even though her affections always seemed to drift elsewhere. Maybe now he'll have his chance.

I sink down to the floor and lay my body out across its smooth marble, the coldness comforting me like my mother's hand. My chest beats up and down, up and down, as I calm it, adrenaline lighting the tips of my ears and cheeks on fire.

This is just the beginning.

The train station is right behind the Main Square, the elevated tracks not laying more than ten feet away from the back door. It's a silver series of compartment with blackened windows and a stream of smoke pouring out from behind. Panelia needs two peacekeepers to help her up the stairs and I wonder to myself how she did it on the district stage. They probably had to bring her into the Hall of Justice beforehand so that she could make an entrance that didn't take twenty minutes and manual labor.

I've calmed down a bit over the last hour, sitting alone in a room with nothing but myself and the walls. I mean, sure I screamed and thrashed, but now I feel more frozen, like all of this isn't really happening, like it's all just one sick dream.

I am the last one to take the stairs into the unfamiliar place, a line of former victors and Rinoa coming before my frightened face. By the time I do, everyone else has begun to settle into the interior as if it is their second home, dropping down into the velvet chairs and placing their feet on the coffee tables, pouring drinks from bottles of liquor in the bar cart.

The train takes off almost as soon as the door close behind me, suddenly jerking forward, mimicking the same motion with myself. I grab the wall of the doorway I stand in, attempting to keep my balance as my ankles stumble, nearly falling, causing my eyes to have to readjust to the current situation.

The walls are a powdery blue, almost appearing matte, like suede, and lined at the bottom with the whitest pigment I've ever seen. It's almost blinding. In the center is a dark ebony table with gold borders. On top is a matching gold vase filled with big but delicate pink flowers, set in the middle for all to see. Matching fine silverware and dishes are set up at each place setting ready for the next meal. Elaborately patterned deep blue chairs and a white silky leather couch place themselves around the bar cart, creating a seating and entertainment area, the car itself stretching out like two normal rooms. I don't know how it's possibly able to turn on the tracks. But, either way, it looks as though this room is the main watering hole.

A man named Keene is the first to introduce himself, sensing my hesitation and nervous energy. He's the only one without a fancy tall and limber glass or alcohol, favoring instead a plain white ceramic mug of black coffee the size of his strong hands, feeling its comfort sit on his palm and fingertips as he sips through his stubble. He looks like most men from District 4, short cut light brown hair and blue eyes. He reminded me of what a father might be, what a real one should be, someone kind and protective who talks to ease your nerves.

"Don't be intimidated. They're just all setting themselves at ease before the Capital and the fake smiles. None of us really like the whole parade of it," he assures, but keeps his tone low, resting it on a coaster, rubbing his hands over his slight stubble-beard and eyes, attempting to take away the distress of morning. "I just don't drink, not since I met my wife."

The rest of them are nice enough. I'm sure I'll get to know them more later on, but for now I just sit there beside one with a long dark brown ponytail and green jumpsuit that's cut low to show her cleavage, Poet I think her name is, and a bearded man Arlo, on his third glass of whiskey, laughing about something embarrassing he did on their last trip.

Rinoa still stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed and jaw clenching harder as the time ticks by, like tea kettle about to blow its water all over the room, burning those around it. She eats a few chocolates, trying to cool off, before pausing in the front of the room, right in the middle of their conversation, staking her claim, crossing her arms, showing her believed dominance.

"Okay, so what do we do now?" she demands, to which a curly haired and heavily made up women replies, explaining the process of going to the Capital and who our mentors will be. She will have the woman herself, Luciella, while the older one in the corner is mine, Mags. She smiles without her lips closed, but it's sweet. She's definitely better than the airhead blonde that's been fixing her hair in a spoon for the last hour. "Well, in that case, I'm gonna get some sleep. There's no use me talking with people who don't exactly matter, just watching them get sloppy and drunk," she says, grabbing Arlo's glass from his hand and gulping it down in one swig, slamming it slightly agains the coffee table and walking out to her room, leaving it silent.

"Well, don't we have a bitchy one, this year," he says, monotone, only a mild tone of sarcasm playing in his voice.

"They always are," Ellison signs with his hands, smiling his crooked teeth a bit, his voice taken away from him at some point during his games. Arlo laughs and Poet slaps him, scowling, Arlo pretending to protest to it.

We eat fairly early, the sky still reflecting the blue on the ocean, though I haven't actually seen the water for hours. It's all just grass and middle-land between the districts. Thinly sliced tilapia with a raspberry ranch cream sauce sits on a bed of iceberg lettuce, the flatware clanking with the fine china, taking in bites between words.

There's a stranger at the table. His name is Auden. He has messy slept-on brown hair, tanned skin and a few freckles on his cheeks beneath his light brown eyes. He doesn't say a word except to Mags, and even then only twice.

Mags laughs beside me as I tell her an anecdote from home, deep from in her belly, calming me with her motherly ora and comfort, her voice like honey and eyes equally sweet. Keene sits next to her, sipping off the end of his pinkened tea and pouring another brothy drain into his delicate floral cup. No one else has touched theirs but me, frowning and pusing my lips with distaste at its spicy hot thinness and sugary top. He sits across from me, joking with myself and the other victors, laughing along as they tease each other.

Luciella hasn't been seen without makeup on since her games, the fuchsia shade always on her lips, Arlo commenting that if she did it would "scar the children of the district," pouring himself a glass of red liquor, smelling of cranberries.

Arlo tracks sand through all of their houses, never asking before entering, since its an understanding that they keep their doors unlocked, and spending his days split between the village and beach, never wearing shoes but when heading towards the Capital. They all jump on board, laughing to the point of tears and adding in themselves that whenever they then go to his house, his partner Roald makes them wipe their feet before entering.

Auden was stung by a jellyfish the first summer after his games and begged Ellison to pee on his leg, not listening to him or Mags who swore that it would do nothing, being possibly one of the only people in the district to have never seen the water before, living on the farther, writhing in pain, shitting his pants, Ellison instead spraying his leg with vinegar to ease the swelling, Auden vomiting before passing out and having to be carried back. I'm sure it wasn't funny back then, but now he actually cracks a smile.

Poet lives in self-bound secret with a man named Julius, practically living together for seven years, but never calling him her boyfriend, partner, or anything for that matter. In fact, they've all only met him twice, him staying to himself upstairs during her legendary parties.

"Well, at least I'm not whipped by Meredith," she says, referring to Keene's own wife. He almost chokes on his coffee at that. "In bed by 10 o'clock."

I laugh at that, Arlo pouring a bit of the liquor inside my empty tall drop-shaped glass from the farthest arm reach of the table, smiling from ear-to-ear. "See, even the kid thinks you're boring. You're 35, not dead."

"Speak for yourself," Ellison signs, pointing out Arlo and his own middle-aged status.

Fleurette bought a dress from a boutique downtown, covered in sparkles and feather, that she hoped to wear on the train today, but while trying it on, it turned her skin blue. And not just a tinted blue but bright like the Caribbean. It still lingered on her finger tips, coming with matching gloves.

Mags wakes up at four o'clock in the morning to bang a giant gong in her living room, "waking up the spirits" and doing yoga, waking up everyone else in the village in the process every day without fail.

"You should all be glad that I still keep in shape at my 70 years old, not making you change my diapers," she says.

They all get a good laugh at that. Even Mags does, teary laughter and the sound of full glasses clanking filling the room, changing from gloomy and uneasy, awkward and edgy, to almost happy. I feel calm for the first time on the train, knowing that it is Keene's making.

Rinoa has warmed up to Luciella a bit, talking about dresses and makeup and things. They seem very much the same, fierce and feminine, knowing it all the same. She won her games by cutting off her opponent's arms, leaving them to bleed out, unable to fight against her, kissing them on the forehead as they died, wearings fuchsia lip ever since. But she didn't kiss them out of pity or sorrow. She wanted them to die. It was something more recent that left a bitter taste in her mouth from the Capital, though not more than the others.

We finish our plates and nibble on dark chocolate deserts before heading to our beds for an early nap so we're rested to make an appearance to the world in the Capital. Panelia gets a bit worked-up about it, chasing us all away to our night quarters with her drones of boring Capitalite stories from past parties at the Presidential Mansion, like how a purple painted fellow with blonde hair named Theseus spilled punch on a "hideously overdone" woman named Tigris, ruining her dress, meaning it had to be cleaned. The horror!

I retreat to my still-unfamiliar room, escaping early on, but barely sleep, worried of how much time and happy days like this I have left.

There's a knock at my door and as I glance around the room it's pitch dark. I have to remind myself where I am, trying to climb off the wrong side of the bed, catching myself with my hand against the wall before using my forehead accidentally.

I wrestle the maroon velour comforter from my legs, tangled in my few allotted restless hours of sleep, before making my way to the door, the knocking persisting at an elevation against the stained hard wood. It's Adora I see, one eye open and still shirtless with thin silk drawstring pants to cover everything below my navel. She doesn't seem pleased by my sunken disposition.

"Well, I was going to say that we should be arriving in the Capital in a few minutes, but we're probably already there," she huffs, turning on her heels. "Get changed and try to work on your punctuality."

I wipe my closed lips and move towards the window, seeing nothing but the dim starlight of lampposts, that is until my hand grips onto the windowsill itself. The blackness of the train car is suddenly infused with a blinding light, glowing upon everything within the room with its illuminating white glaze. The sound takes a minute to register to my ears, soon of an equal overpowering magnitude. I squint out as I see rich socialites crowd in hoards beneath me, reaching up their diamond encrusted fingertips as high as their elevated toes will take them. Their skin is painted different colors, their clothes more elaborate and expensive than anything I've seen before and they all want a piece of me.

Small shiny cars sprinkle across the highway like candy chips and stop on the road, people stepping from them to catch a glimpse of us and our train as we pass by, saying they saw the next victor, some even screaming my name. Glass towers line the city with their seamless sparkling structures. Odd-looking unique buildings seem to be everywhere, flaunting their fine completion to others. Huge studio lights top each one, shining towards the train, turning off as the tail of it glides by.

I shiver slightly, the cool breeze finally feeling against my bare chest beneath the shock and adrenalin of the entire scene, and I pull back, moving my frame from their view, catching my breath, my hands pressed against my knees as I arch my back forward, eyes getting starry around the corners as the glow continues to glaze the room in its light.

I throw on a pair of clothes that look relatively normal and go to the main car where everyone else has already gathered, holding their things, leaning on the furniture, chatting by the door to arrive in the Training Center. The lights have ceased again, though dimmed lightbulbs within the actually room are on. The gamekeepers don't want the press to catch a glimpse of us again until the Chariot Parade. They've already had their taste.

We exit in silence, with the exception of Arlo and Poet, drunk and laughing to themselves about something incoherent, their faces almost red with the heaves of amusement, Mags staring at them to be quiet from behind them, making it apparent that this is not the time for giggles and alcoholism.

The building itself is astonishing, myself not needing a scolding for silence, being stunned into it by the mere awe of architecture, even in the dimmed dark. It's designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. Each district has their own floor, matching that of their district. Everything from now until the arena happens here. The thought is nerve-wracking, but I manage.

We aren't that high up, being only from District 4, but as soon as the door to the elevator closes, Adora takes that time to scold the group.

"You think this is funny? News travels fast here and don't think your little fit won't be on the paper tomorrow," she points out, her voice raining with anger. "Idiots! I work with idiots!"

"Oh, come on, Adora. You know this is our only night of fun before it all begins. Live a little," Arlo says, gripping her chin with both hands and kissing her cheeks wth a wet and sloppy pucker, satisfied with himself as he exits the platform.

Even Keene chokes down a grin at that.

The space is breathtaking. As soon as you walk in, tall Roman columns meet you at the elevator, creating an entryway into the open room. The floors are seamless marble and the ceilings reach almost two stories into the air. Every wall is a smooth powder blue shade. Once stepping inside the extensive space, a formal dining room decked out in sleek white tables and deep blue fading chairs that look like waves stand at the far away left and an antique living space covered in modern abstract furniture rests in the opposite corner. The large center of the room is empty for people like me to stand from afar and gawk at the masterpiece that is our suit.

"Okay, everyone to bed, now. We have an impressive day come morning," Adora says, shooing us towards a hallway opposite the victors, almost bragging. "Lots of people to meet."

A/N: Please comment on this chapter. I took more time on some parts than others and want to make sure it flows well.