Well how are you all liking it so far? Not terribly romantic, I know, but then again Annie "crept up on him"… Enjoy!

I'm going to be in trouble. That hot brunette who is not named Nicole is going to tell all her friends in high places, probably going to exaggerate the incident, probably going to cry. And if she does, I'm going to have to watch my back.

Because my part of the deal was that I have to act like I care. And so far this trip, I haven't been terribly convincing.

We dine together, tributes and mentors, on the fourth floor of the Training Center in District 4's private apartment. Both Annie and Otto's stylists have joined us, and the hot topic of conversation is, of course, the chariot ride, the stunning costumes, and the crowd's enthusiastic response. There's no denying that District 4 has caught the Capitol's attention. I consider telling Annie how she even caught my attention in that getup but think better of it. She'd probably only take it as further harassment.

After dessert, everyone goes their separate ways, with me promising to spend some more time coaching Otto after the tributes change out of their elaborate costumes. Mags catches my arm as we leave the dining area, but I have to wait for her to stick her dentures back in before she speaks.

"So there's three of us now?" she asks with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I frown. "Three what?"

"Three of us not in your fan club. Wow-ee she slapped you good!"

I turn to walk away without another word. As I expected, she just follows me. "You had your eye on somebody else tonight!"

I stop, suddenly going stiff.

"Don't try to deny it!" she crows triumphantly.

I force myself to face her, rolling my eyes. "You're ridiculous. She's ugly."

"Oh, of course she is. I have a hard time remembering that whenever I look at her." She smirks at me. "I'm gonna take over her training anyway, if you don't mind."

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it. I can spend time with both of them."

"No, you can't," Mags says brusquely, waving me off. "I know you too well. I'm gonna train her."

"Well… are you going to make an effort?" I ask hesitantly.

"Of course! That girl's got potential, if you know where to look for it!" Mags exclaims. "I apologize in advance if I do too good a job, and she kills Otto."

There's a hint of her rare dark humor. I laugh out loud. "Really, Mags, you haven't done this on your own for years. I can find her potential, too. I can handle both of them."

"No…" Mags studies me intently. "Finnick, I know you. You're not getting attached."

Attached?

She must recognize my bewildered expression, because she reaches up and brushes my cheek with her wrinkled fingers. "Trust me."

I don't get the chance to question her, because she suddenly complains that the whole night's rowdy festivities have given her a bad headache and wanders away to her quarters, leaving me to wonder about her words. Since when have I been in danger of getting attached to anybody? But still, she knows better than anyone how rough it is to be a mentor. To have your dreams dashed year after year after getting your hopes up so high. District 4 has had dozens of victors, mostly Careers, but none of them ever return to be mentors. Only the most recent victor, the newcomer, the fresh one, has to worry about filling this unpleasant role. I'm just serving my sentence until I bring back another new victor who can take my place. Then I will be able to live out the rest of my life in the lap of luxury back home. That's what every tribute has done in the past. Mags is the only exception. Why she returns year after year without being forced or even really sought after is baffling to me, because I'm counting down the days before I can be out of this wretched city forever, back in the water, bobbing in the surf, hearing the cries of gulls over my head…

My imagination must be getting the better of me, because I really can hear the squawk of seagulls drifting from the living area of our apartment. I poke my head through the doorway and find that the picture window, which takes up an entire wide wall of the room, is switched to a calming image of a sunny seashore, complete with sound effects of the waves quietly lapping at the sand. Annie sits on the big plush couch directly across from it, drinking in the scene thirstily. Out of the glittering costume, back in baggy pajamas, she looks younger again, girlish, fragile. I get the feeling that she's counting down the days too, although she doesn't have many left.

"Pretty realistic, huh?" I say, settling myself against the doorframe. She glances at me for a moment but doesn't respond. Instead, she leans back against her pile of cushions and squeezes her eyes shut, little nose twitching.

"I wish I could smell it," she whispers wistfully.

That's the last thing she should really be worrying about three days before the Games. Maybe as a good mentor I should tell her she needs to stop wishing, to let go of home and the flood of memories and get her head in the game. But I just can't bring myself to say it.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I miss that smell."

I realize it's the first truly honest thing I've said all day. Annie turns to me with a soft smile and curls her knees up to her chest, leaving an empty cushion on the end of the couch. An invitation. She has forgiven me for my initial offense. Even though I am still me and I still disgust her, she doesn't want to be alone right now.

I quickly excuse myself and return to the dining room where Otto is awaiting my expertise, even though I'd love to stay and watch out the window and try to forget that I'm in the Capitol. I'm glad that the boy is my only responsibility now, that Mags will help Annie out in the Games.

Because for the first time, I'm really dreading watching her lose.

Otto is up at the crack of dawn the next morning, ready to tackle the day's challenges, which means I have to be, too. We spend a five-course breakfast discussing his proficiency with various weapons, which skills he should practice during the group training today and which he should keep a secret from his competition. After a lot of debate, we decide that he should only practice those that he's not already lethal with. "Don't forget to stop at the survival stations," I tell him, although I'm fairly certain he won't want to waste the time. "I didn't, and it almost cost me my life."

He considers that for a moment, wheels slowly turning behind his dull eyes. "Tell me about your games!" he says eagerly. The question is unsolicited and sort of surprises me because most Careers from our district have watched the tapes of my highlights so many times they're sick to death of me. But I start at the beginning, describing my arena, the humid, soggy sponge of land that served as a cross between a swamp and a rainforest. I've lost count of how many people have ignorantly accused the District 4 kids of having an advantage in the wetlands. As if being a strong swimmer came in handy in the slimy green bog that only rose to our calves at its deepest. I relate my most famous moments, gaining a record number of sponsors, watching that trident float down from the sky like an answer to prayer, the subsequent rampage that I went on. Oh, and even I don't get tired of talking about the alligator that tore a hole in my left arm just before I put three holes in him with my beautiful new pronged weapon. I can still trace the spot on my shoulder where its teeth sank into my flesh, although no scar remains. I wish the Capitol doctors hadn't done such an excellent job in cleaning me up after the Games, because if an alligator is going to nearly take my appendage off, it'd be nice to have something to show for it.

Otto is engrossed in my account of all the deadly wildlife in the arena, snakes with venomous fangs, frogs with poisonous skin, mosquitoes that swarmed like tracker jackers, and, most eerily, fast-growing vines that curled around your legs if you rested in one place for too long. I know of a couple of kids that fell asleep in a cluster of them and never woke up because the tendrils strangled or suffocated them.

I move away from talking about the glamorized horrors of the swamp and explain the more mundane challenges I faced. For my entire week of preparation, I had ignored everything Mags said, all her survival tips that she had promised would mean the difference between my life and death. I resented the fact that I, a young, strong, handsome kid who knew everything, had to take advice from a toothless, hunched old woman who was the only one who stepped forward to mentor me. The previous victor had gotten into some trouble with the Capitol authorities and disappeared after the first day of training. Needless to say, I was humiliated and mouthed off to her every chance I got.

And then I entered the arena. Within hours of traveling away from the Cornucopia's bloodbath, I was dead lost in the swamp. I had always been able to orientate myself from the position of the sun in the sky or the feel of the breeze, both of which were indiscernible in the still, shadowy bog. I vaguely remembered someone telling me that moss grows on the north side of the trees so I set off resolutely in a northerly direction. Until I turned around once and realized that every tree was girded with moss all the way around its trunk.

The first gift I received was a compass.

I recount to him what might have been my least impressive moment in the games. We were several days in, the air was muggy and thick, tributes were dropping from disease and dehydration. Weak with thirst, even the filthy contaminated swamp water started to look appealing. Growing up around undrinkable water, you'd think I would have known better, but dehydration definitely clouds your reasoning. I remember dropping to my knees, squishing in the sodden ground, and reaching a hand down into the clearest water I could find. Still, I had to pick little clumps of moss and algae out of it, and if that didn't give me pause, the putrid smell should have. But my only concern at that point was that it was wet. I heard Mags' voice telling me faintly to stay away from water sources that I haven't seen animals drinking from. But in my daze, I was sure the fool old woman had no idea what she was talking about.

I only drank two handfuls. That was plenty, enough to turn my insides to liquid within minutes and violently expel them outside. I'm sure that the 65th Hunger Games highlights never would have included that glorious clip. I was forced to make camp in the giant, hollow trunk of a tree for two days because I was too sick to move. Slumped there in the dank, foul-smelling darkness, clutching my stomach with one hand and my little fish-gutting knife in the other, it was the only moment in the arena that I felt vulnerable.

And then the rain started, pure, clean, fresh water running off the leaves of the tree canopy by the bucketful, drumming on the thick bark of my hiding place. I dragged myself to the opening in the wood, cupped my hands to catch a few droplets. Every little splash in the bog echoed Mags' voice. I told you so. I told you. It was the first time in my life that I was painfully aware that I was not the smartest person in the world, not the strongest or the most glamorous. I was not guaranteed to make it out of this alive, and with that knowledge came the realization that I had as good a reason to be terrified as anyone else.

I recovered, unlike several other unfortunate tributes. And I wished that I could go back and hear Mags' survival speeches again. Thankfully, I had retained bits and pieces of her advice entirely by accident, and from then on, I was careful.

"Moral of the story, you are not almighty. You are not immortal. There's a good chance you could die, especially if you get over-confident," I tell Otto matter-of-factly.

"Thanks for the heads-up," he says dryly, but he's nodding, at least trying to get my words filed away in his brain. We really weren't so different, he and I, cocky, self-assured kids wanting attention. A chance to show off. But I think I would have looked hotter in the shark teeth.

"I mean, you've got to appear confident. Play it up for the audience. But don't forget to think before you act." I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. "Which brings up another important point, you've got to know a few things about performing for the audience. If you want people rooting for you, make every battle a memorable one. Don't go around killing people in their sleep. Nobody likes a Career kid who does that."

He snorts. "Sure would make everything easier."

"This isn't gonna be easy no matter how you slice it," I remind him. "And another thing… Don't kill Annie," I say wearily. "That's just being a bad sport."

"Oh, all right." He seems surprised that I've even wasted time thinking about this. "Well, she's not exactly going to be a threat."

"Exactly. Everyone hates to watch a tribute turn on the other kid from their district."

Otto frowns at me. "But you-"

"I know what I did," I snap irritably. "You should learn from my mistakes."

"Well, obviously you didn't make too many. You won and everybody loves you," he insists, obviously bewildered by my advice.

Oh, that's right. I forgot again. I have everything I could ever dream of.

"You know, the Capitol really doesn't care if you kill someone in cold blood…" he mutters.

But you will… I think. Years from now, he will still see their faces. How could I ever begin to explain that to him?

"Just take my word for it," I instruct him. He hesitates, then nods respectfully.

He's so much better than I was.

Annie enters the dining room then, a little reluctantly, as if she doesn't want us to think she has been eavesdropping. "Good morning," she says with a little smile.

I glance at the nearest of twenty-five clocks in the apartment. "Oh, you guys need to get a move on." Group Training starts in fifteen minutes, and they aren't even dressed for it yet. "How did your session with Mags go?" I ask Annie pleasantly.

She flinches. "Mags isn't awake yet."

My face falls. "Excuse me?"

"I didn't want to disturb her!" she exclaims. "Not while she's so…"

"Old?" Otto supplies.

I run a hand through my hair. "You mean you haven't had any instruction about today?"

She shakes her head, loose curls splaying over her shoulders. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, because she's going to look so clueless in front of the other tributes. Easy prey. Even though she wasn't my responsibility, I feel like I've failed her. I clear my throat. "Well, um, try to learn something new. There's got to be something you're good at."

She wrinkles her nose at me like she did the first day of the Reaping, as if I smell nasty to her. "I doubt it."

Pallindra appears to collect them then and goes into cardiac arrest when she sees they aren't ready to go. As she's whisking them back to their stylists, I call after Annie, "Try archery! Archery's sexy!"

She gives me a disgusted look over her shoulder. But I like to think that there was a little twinkle in her eye.

Thanks for reading this far, everybody! How are you liking it?