Author's Note: Long chapter, everyone.

This was quite possibly the most awkward chapter to write, ever. I couldn't even let myself see what I was typing, it was so... whatever it is.

So, uh, pardon me if there are any typos. Haha.

Rome Gnaeus, District 1

At last, Ania and I are being outfitted for the chariot. Separately, of course; at the moment, me and two styling assistants are the only ones in the room. They seem to be taking a little while to figure out what they need to change about me. It's only natural; even a highly-trained eye would have diffculty finding physical flaws on me. Not only am I perfectly sculpted from my years in the Tribute Training Facility, I'm also pretty darn handsome, to put it lightly. I'd expect the stylists won't find anything wrong with me.

But after a few minutes of inspection, a stylist decides to shave my chin. I don't see why he'd have any reason to do that—I may have more stubble than the average 18-year-old, but I think it just adds to my manliness—but he does, anyway.

A quick and more painful than I'd like to admit waxing later, the assistants have left to call in the head stylist. I take the moment of solitude to find the mirror and strike a few poses. Man, I'm sexy.

"Hello."

I scramble back to attention and turn to face the female stylist.

"Hello," I respond. I don't bother to put the robe back on because 1. she'll probably take it back off, anyway and 2. there's no need to deprive a lady from seeing all of me she wants to.

"Well, let's get started," the stylist says, walking further into the room.

"Sure," I reply. Not much to get started. Take a good look at me to ensure I'm as perfect as I should be, and then slap a costume on. Shouldn't take long.

The stylist circles me for a moment, eyes narrowed, hands stroking her chin. She pulls away, then comes closer, then suddenly backs up and snaps her fingers.

"That's what's wrong!" she announces. "Your eyelashes!"

I blink.

"What?"

"Yes, yes," she tuts, cradling my chin in her hands and staring at my eyes. "They're far too short."

"What?" I repeat blankly.

"Oh, don't worry about it! We have plenty of false eyelashes here." The stylist pulls through a couple of drawers. "Maybe these glittery ones?"

My lower eyelid starts to twitch. "I don't think that's the best idea," I venture, pulling in closer to her and grinning. "As you can obviously see—" I strike a model-worthy pose—"I clearly have the 'manly' angle going for me."

The stylist nods, though she doesn't seem all that convinced. "And your point?" she finally responds.

I try to keep my composure. "Don't you think putting glittery eyelashes on me would completely ruin that?"

The stylist immediately starts laughing. "Oh, everyone in the Capitol wears fake eyelashes!"

"But, uh, people in the Districts... don't."

"Well, that just shows how silly they are! Now," she continues, pulling a small box out of a drawer, "let's get you situated, shall we?"

The second the chariot pulls out, I am ripping these off my face. No one as ripped and handsome as I am should ever wear anything that glitters. What kind of man sparkles?

The stylist, unaware of my thoughts, arranges the folds of my golden-lined toga before the music finally starts. The horse carrying the chariot starts to gallop off, and, out of my stylist's range, I immediately tug at the stupid, sparkling eyelashes.

But they won't come off.

I get a few more frantic chances to rip them off me before the horse has pulled me and my districtmate into the view of everyone in the Capitol. Everyone in the country. I finally surrender and put my arms down. Eyelashes aren't that noticeable, right? So if I don't make a big deal about it, no one should notice!

Clearing my throat, I finally let myself start interacting with the crowd. Waving, catching flowers and flashing my handsome smile, eventually flexing since the chariots are all about showing off, anyway.

In the midst of this, I can just detect Ania leaning a little close to my ear.

"Nice eyelashes."

Ania Jerume, District 1

I look around at the Capitolians surrounding me, and it finally starts to sink in.

I'm going to the Hunger Games.

I've been in training for it, of course. So it's certainly not as if I'm intimidated by it. It's just a bit odd.

For one thing, my district partner is two years older than me. This doesn't happen that often in the Hunger Games. The gap is generally just one year, or none.

Of course, I wasn't actually chosen to go this year. I wasn't planning on it at first. But when the Training Facility officials announced Rome would be going… I had to volunteer.

And, since I am one of the strongest girls there, they accepted me.

I look over at Rome. While he's certainly not ugly, I didn't follow him into the battlefield for that reason. I don't even like him.

No, I came here with him to repay him.

"Well, we're very glad you've decided to join us here, Ania," the official says, continuing his tour of the grounds. "We'll make a top-notch tribute out of you, I guarantee."

I nod, sending a few strands of my long, blonde hair sliding over my shoulder.

"Now," the attendant says, looking at his watch, "my shift's over, and so's the tour. I'll leave it up to Harrow over there to get you started. Harrow!"

A slim young man with black hair trots over.

"Get Ania here started, all right?"

"Got it." Harrow looks me over as the first guide exits. "So," he starts, "how strong do you think you are, Ania?"

I look back at him for a minute. "Strong enough."

"All right... I'll set you up with a spar against..." Harrow looks around the room. "Atil over there." He motions toward a very well-built tribute who must be a good few years older than me.

I can't help but think this won't be the fairest of spars. But I certainly can't back away now, when I've only just been accepted to train here. And maybe Atil is just the best to measure newcomers' strengths.

"All right..."

"Atil!" Harrow calls, making the future tribute look over at him. "Ania here's going to spar with you!" Harrow looks back at me. "Have fun." He starts to walk away.

I consider calling after him and asking if he's going to stay so he can accurately determine my skills, but I stop myself. I'm probably just unaware of exactly how they do things around here.

Instead, I go ahead and walk over to Atil.

"Shall we begin?"

I was right when I thought I was outmatched. If I were weak, I never would have been allowed inside—but it's impossible to even compare myself to Atil. Even though we both fight with dulled swords—my specialty—I'm losing horribly. And Harrow's not here to stop it. No one is. If anything, people are just looking on in amusement.

Our swords clang against each other, but Atil, being much the stronger, shoves his forward so hard my sword's tip buries itself uncomfortably in my shoulder. We pull back, and Atil heaves his sword upward and brings it down before I have the chance to defend myself. The blow is so strong even the dulled sword manages to pierce my upper arm. I draw back, half in pain, half in surprise, but Atil continues unfazed. Our swords cross again, and once again he overpowers me.

This is getting serious. Against this kind of person—I could die here.

We exchange blows again, his sword making a cut dangerously close to my neck.

My strength is waning. I'm not sure how long I can keep this up—and then what? Will he stop?

But he must. The Facility couldn't possibly kill its new recruits!

With another clang of metal on metal, my sword is suddenly knocked away from my grasp, and I'm knocked off my feet.

But Atil doesn't stop; He rears back for another swing, and, unable to move away, I close my eyes and brace myself. I hear the squelch of tearing flesh—

But it's not mine.

I dare to unclose my eyes. Blocking my view of Atil is a newcomer with dark brown hair about the right length for a male his age. The sword is stuck into the middle of his torso, but it didn't get very far.

"How about you pick on someone your own size, Atil?" he grunts as a mildly-confused Atil pulls his sword back out.

And while the newcomer isn't exactly the same size as Atil, he's almost as muscular.

As Atil walks away to put his sword up, the brunette turns to face me.

"Hey," he greets with a grin that is completely incongruous with the damage he's just taken. He extends a hand, and I shakily pull myself back to my feet.

"Thanks," I say, not sure where exactly to start.

"Ah, don't mention it. It's the least I can do for a nice-looking lady." He continues to grin. "My name's Rome. Yours?"

"Ania," I reply slowly. My gaze drags back down to his wound, which is still bleeding.

Rome blinks and follows my line of sight.

"Oh, yeah. I should probably get that checked out. Uh, see you later?"

"Sure…"