Chapter Four

At two-hundred miles per hour, our train takes less than an hour to reach the Capitol. We have a chance to finish eating, then discuss strategy for a bit. It's nothing I haven't heard before—the inevitable betrayals, the biggest threats. The most interesting thing that happens is broadcast on TV just as we pull into the Capitol. Some girl from District Twelve breaks free of her line and volunteers for her sister. I think maybe they've finally started training kids in the outlying districts, but when they replay the footage, the girl seems almost shocked that her younger sister has been reaped.

Maybe she thought she was doing something gallant, I think, biting into a roll of bread. It's fluffier than the stuff in District Two, maybe because the flour's more refined. I eat it because it's different from my usual fare, and because I might never get to taste it again.

And then I walk over to the window, because we've passed the pearl-colored gates of the Capitol, and our future sponsors are watching us come into the station. I rest my hands on the windowsill, feeling the faint vibrations of the train car. For a moment, I have to think about what kind of front I want to put up for these people—sadistic, confident, grim? All different emotions, all carrying a thousand subtle nuances that could sway sponsors one way or the other. Suddenly, I'm furious at our mentors for going back to their train car—they should be here, giving us advice on how to act.

Clove handles this better than I do. She hoists herself up onto the windowsill and leans against the window, smirking at the audience as our train rolls by. Freckled and innocuous as she appears, the cold amusement in her expression surprises me. Even though our district is notorious for training tributes ahead of time, a girl like Clove would, based solely on her physical appearance, appear as more of an intellectual.

She doesn't look like a killer. But in just a few days, she'll be one.

I realize, not for the first time, that the games have already started.

My face settles into a mask of confidence, as if I'm telling the Capitol, Yes, I am a celebrity. You may stare.

The train glides into the station, coasting along so that the people who have been waiting for our arrival can catch a glimpse of our faces. Most will flood the station for the rest of the day, watching all the tributes come in. In the closest spots, people have set up tents.

I step off the train, bracing myself to have heart-stopping epiphany. It doesn't come.

My eyes rove around the city, taking in everything unfamiliar. Buildings rise much higher than the two-to-three-story houses we have in District Two. They're so alien to me, in fact, that it takes me a moment to classify them as buildings. They seem almost like some force of nature, the way they rise up from the ground and scrape the sky. I can barely fathom how many people it must've taken to build these.

I begin to wonder, if District Two is one of the richest districts, why we have no such marvels.

The people are only slightly less foreign than the buildings. I've seen Capitol citizens on television, of course, but up close, some of them look more like human-animal hybrids than actual people. As we step off the train, I catch a glimpse of a woman with black spots tattooed into her skin. Wherever there aren't spots, the skin is bleached white. When I catch sight of the threadlike whiskers shooting out of her cheeks, I realize she's trying to look like a snow leopard, not an abuse victim.

Another Capitol citizen reaches webbed hands out to touch us. His whole arm is covered in a layer of shining green scales, and when I look over, I notice his tongue is forked.

I begin to think that Caesar Flickerman, with his constantly changing hair-color, is one of the most normal people in this city.

Peacekeepers are lined up to keep the Capitol citizens at bay, but the sea of people batters ceaselessly at the lines, some almost breaking through. Hundreds of them reach out to touch us, all trying to get just a little bit closer.

Things will get easier once we're in the arena, I tell myself. It's not that I hate people. I've just never been around so many of them, never been the focus of such a massive audience. I'll be a spectacle in the arena, of course, but at least I won't have so many people coming so close to me.

Enobaria and Brutus appear behind us, slipping so naturally into our space that when I see them, I almost flinch. Even over the roar of our audience, I should've been able to perceive their advance. I've been trained to be constantly aware of approaching threats.

If I cannot detect the appearance of two older tributes, how can I expect to sense an enemy coming upon me as a sleep?

"Don't smile," Brutus whispers to me. "I already know what angle the stylists are going to pick for you."

I even out the muscles in my face, letting my lips relax into a flat line under my nose. Brutus nods once in approval, then sweeps forward, making a sharp gesture with his arm. A Peacekeeper opens the door of a black limousine, and we slide inside. There's enough room in the car for all of us to slip into the back. The door closes, leaving us in relative darkness.

"The windows are tinted. You can relax," Enobaria says. I notice a slight edge to her voice that I've never noticed on TV, and wonder if it's because of her dagger-like teeth, or if some accent from one of the other districts has worn off on her. While many victors stay in their own district, some travel all over Panem.

Victors are some of the few people allowed to visit districts outside their own. Another reason I want to win.

Of course, given the choice between winning and dying, most tributes would prefer to win.

"Okay," Brutus says. "We've got a few decisions to make here. The first thing we need to know is if you two are planning to be coached separately."

I look to Clove. My height and muscle have always made me stand out. My strength has always been out in the open. I'd prefer to stick close to her during training, to see if she has any unusual skills that might come in handy, but if she prefers to be coached separately, that's her business.

Then I realize that I'm being courteous by allowing her to make that call without any input from me. Just as I'd laughed at her for doing on the train.

"Together," I say bluntly, leaving no room for argument. Clove's head whips around, but I don't look at her. Let her contest my decision. Let our mentors see whether she is argumentative or a pushover.

"Fine," she says, almost in anger.

Brutus and Enobaria exchange a look. Brutus speaks. "Okay. Anytime you want that to change, let us know." Clove nods, and I suspect she intends to change this arrangement as soon as possible.

"Once we reach our hotel, you'll be sent down to the stylists," Enobaria says. After over a decade of training tributes, the words sound almost rehearsed. "They're going to strip you down, bathe you, and dress you up in something that will get people's attention. And if you're smart, you won't contest them."

"Unless they want you to walk out there naked," Brutus adds, a strange glint in his eyes. "Then you can complain."

Enobaria goes on. "You'll take part in the tribute parade later tonight, after you've gone through the Remake Center. The stylists will probably give you something to go off of, but if nothing else, try to look fierce. The last two years have been pathetic."

I can think of nothing to say, so I nod.

"Take cues from your audience," Brutus says. "You're the second carriage out there—once everyone gets over whatever shocking outfits District One wears, they'll be looking at you. You have to make an impression, right out of gates."

Enobaria takes her turn speaking. "Hold your head high. If you have to smile, make it look like you're thinking about pushing the other tribute off the carriage. Sponsors are attracted to fierce competitors."

This goes on for several minutes, each of them giving us little snippets of advice on how we should present ourselves. They even tell us to appear solemn as we make our way from the limousine to the hotel lobby. Camera flashes blind us as we walk passed the shrubs, but no one steps onto the path. When I see one of the reporters get shoved forward and bounce back, I realize why: there's a barrier between them and us.

So the Capitol has finally decided to give us some space, I think. Another part of my mind supplies a different answer: The barrier is there so we can't escape.

"That was good," Brutus says as we enter the lobby. There are no people here, and not a camera in sight. I allow myself to relax. "Very solemn. Strong, like granite."

I wonder if he makes the reference to granite because District Two's primary industry used to be mining stone for buildings. I try to recall if Brutus's family was from one of the poorer mining towns in District Two, where such references would be common, but I can't call anything back except for what I saw on TV that year.

I only have a minute to think about it, though, before our prep team descends on us.