It is the morning of private training. I sit on my bed, staring unseeingly at the Capitol outside of my false window. The reality of the Games is beginning to really sink in. In just a couple of days, I will be entering the arena. But for now, I have to concentrate on what will impress a gang of bored Gamemakers.

That brings a question popping into my head. Do I want to impress them? If I get a low score, maybe the Careers and the rest of the tributes won't go hunting me down first thing. If I get a high score, I'll be seen as a threat. But I will also be more likely to get sponsors. I press my hands to my face, trying to think things out and reach a decision. Whatever I choose is bound to get me killed in the end.

Finally, I lift my head. I'll do my best to get a high score. I'm really far more frightened of what the Gamemakers will throw at me than I am of the other tributes. I stand up, glancing at the high-tec clock on the mahogany nightstand. Nine thirty. The rest of the District Ten crowd should be here soon. I change into my training clothes and sit on my bed, brushing my hair. Technically, this is unnecessary. I could just program the wall, or the door, or my shoe, or that wax tomato over there to do it for me. But it provides a way to steady my nerves, sets a rhythm to which I match my breathing, calming me.

I think back to the previous two days of training, trying to decide what to show the Gamemakers. I was all right with a bow, but really I had only learned to shoot as a long distance self defense. I was a born climber, so the obstacle courses were fun, but not exactly impressive. And what could be less awe inspiring than watching someone build a campfire?

I tilt my head, brushing my hair the other way, continuing my assessment of my capabilities. "Erecting a shelter" was ranked one step above "building a campfire" in terms of entertaining. I can throw a knife fairly well, but the Gamemakers are going to see a lot of knife slinging long before I get to them. I'm terrible with an axe, I almost decapitated the trainer yesterday. That leaves sword play. I twist my hair into a knot at the base of my head, stabbing some hair pins in to keep it in place. I'd have to show the Gamemakers my prowess at sword fighting, and hope they were interested.

There's a knock at my door. Time to head down to training.

Abigail, Woody, Jackson and I all enter the side room, followed by the District Eleven tributes. I glance around. Nobody seems to be sitting with their district partners, except the Careers. This is fine by me. I have no desire to stay with the others from Ten. I sit by myself off to one side, and no one pays me any attention. My feelings aren't hurt. I'm not paying them any attention, either. I pull a small book out of my pocket and start reading it. This was going to take a long time.

A few hours later, the only tributes left in the room are the ones from Eleven and me. I put my book away, and we all sit in silence, staring at each other. I actually notice them for the first time, and I am struck by how small they are. One of the boys looks to be the oldest, and he looks to be only fourteen. They all look somewhat lost, and one of the girls is plainly scared. I feel overwhelming pity. I want to comfort them, but how can I, when in a few days I'll be trying to finish them off? So we sit in silence, just waiting. Finally, my name is called, and it is with some relief that I enter the gymnasium.

As soon as I enter the large room, I know this is going to be difficult. The Gamemakers have had to watch thirty nine other tributes, and they are obviously at the end of their tether. A few are asleep. I suppress my irritation, and head for the sword rack. Halfway across the room, I see them.

Bullwhips.

Coiled and hanging on a silver rack. As if in a trance, I veer off towards them. I select one, testing its weight and balance. I give it a few cracks, just to get the feel. I glance at the Gamemakers, and suddenly I know what I'm going to do. I walk over to the swords and select one. A rapier, light and thin, but strong. I go to the center of the room and begin. Moving the sword slowly in a figure eight, I pick up speed, till the blade is a silver blur in the air. I change the direction abruptly, whirling the rapier above my head, listening to the whistle. Eyes half closed in concentration, I turn slowly to the dummies, still whirling the sword aloft. Suddenly, the whip in my hand shoots out, wrapping around one of the dummies necks. With a swift yank, I bring the doomed mannequin closer, and with a quick downward slash, slice the head clean off. The blade in my hand never ceasing its motion, I turn and advance on the Gamemakers. Again, the whip shoots out, yanking an apple from the hand of the shocked head Gamemaker. With a flick of the whip, the apple spins lazily into the air. My rapier flashes, and a dozen apple slices hit the ground with twelve soft plops. The blade in my hand hisses as it sends the apple slices spinning into the Gamemakers laps. I rotate my left wrist, and the whip coils up my arm. The sword slows to a stop. Breathing lightly, I turn and look at my examiners. They are all stock still, staring at me, their eyes wide.

I wait, trying to appear bland, until the head man clears his throat and says, "You may go, Miss Ilonwhich." I nod respectfully, return the weapons to their racks, and exit. I can hear the low murmur of their voices as I leave.

As I enter the suite on the tenth floor, I see everyone has assembled, including the stylists. Deena and the mentors are staring at me anxiously. I ignore them and march straight to the dinner table, already laid ready for the meal. Terrence looks at me inquiringly, but I just shake my head slightly. "I'm starved," I announce, so they all come over and settle down to eat. Deena attempts small talk all throughout the meal, but when we hit desert, the mentors can stand it no longer.

"So, how was it?" Regina asks. Abigail instantly starts pontificating about her training session. The long and short of it is, she expects to receive around a seven. Jackson is vague; he seems a bit preoccupied. Woody just shrugs, vacant as usual. The adults all look at me expectantly. I swallow.

"Hopefully I scraped a nine," is all I say. Abigail indulges in a snort; it is clear she thinks I'm mediocre.

After dinner, we all go to the living room. I'm bored all through the first tributes, but I pay attention any way, figuring I'd better know what I'm up against. The Careers all score in the 8-10 zone. Typical. I experience a twinge of fear when I see Tcheetah's score: Nine.

Finally, our scores flash. Jackson has managed a seven. Abigail received: five. She lets out a muffled shriek, and I snicker to myself. Silly girl. Woody next: Three. He just stares blankly. Of course, he always stares blankly, so I'm not sure he even noticed his score. I'm last.

My insides curl up in anticipation. Then my face in on the screen and my score below it: Twelve. Deena and Abigail shriek, for different reasons. Jackson slaps my back, and Woody manages a blink. Terrence is hugging me, and Regina and Deena are both trying to make a congratulatory speech, trying to talk over each other. I just sit, stunned, strongly aware of the emotions washing over me. Pride, elation…fear. I picture the other tributes: Tcheetah, gripping me in his arms, squeezing the breath from my body; the boy from Four, plucking a sixteen year old boy up in one hand as if he weighed nothing; the tiny girl from Six, throwing an axe, nailing a dummy right in the heart; one of the boys from Two snapping a spear like a twig. And then my twelve, flashing on the screen for all the nation to see. My throat constricts. I rise abruptly and go to my room, closing the door. I go and sit on the bed, feeling slightly numb. I impressed the Gamemakers alright.

I also made myself the main target.

I'd forgotten half of what went on in the beginning of my story. This chapter, for instance. XD It seems like forever ago that I sat at the desk writing this thing. 0_0

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