A/N: Thank you so much for the kind reviews, you are all making my day that much brighter! Let me know if you like finding out more about character's past stories, or if you'd rather I cut the character development and goes straight to the action parts :)


I sleep fitfully, haunted by nightmares of the Games and the bloodiness of it all. It is especially horrible because the tributes are no longer faceless, and I am no longer on the sideline. I see my own death time and time again, first by a blade through my heart and then by an arrow in my back. By the time the clock struck five, my sheets are soaked in sweat and my eyes wide open. I can't go back in that horrific world one second longer. Sitting up, I slip out from the covers and walk barefoot to the bathroom.

The light turns on automatically as I open the door. The tiles are blissfully cool beneath my feet as I walk over to the sink. Dunking my flushed face under the cold water, I try my hardest to wash away the evidence of my nightmare. Hair dripping and skin feeling as cold as marble, I finally straighten to look at myself in the mirror. Miserable eyes stare back at me, puffy from crying and red from lack of sleep. My hair has frizzed up into painful tangles. I look like a downright mess.

Biting my lips, I take a brush out of the cabinet and drag it through my hair. The teeth get stuck halfway down, and I yank on it hard. The brush comes through, but so did a fistful of my hair. My eyes narrow with pain, but I don't make a sound. In a way, it is a kind of preliminary training to the pain of the Hunger Games. I only let my raw scalp rest when my hair stops resembling a wild bush, putting the hair-clogged brush back into the cabinet.

A fresh set of clothes lays waiting for me on my chair, and I shrug them on in record time. Slipping my feet into nice leather boots, I head out the door and down the hallway. The corridor is half-lit, draped in a soft golden glow rather than that harsh bright light. I don't seem to remember the hallway being this long, but I guess the last time I walked down here I had company. Finally I find myself back in the main room, the one full of grand furniture and richness. A silhouette sits hunched in an armchair, and I stop in my track

"Can't sleep either?" asks Chaff's familiar voice from the chair, his hand waving me over.

I shake my head as I walk towards him. He points me to another chair close by, and I perch tentatively on the edge of the velvet-covered seat. Even when I'm sitting like that, my toes just touch the ground.

"Let me guess," he says conversationally, "Nightmares about the Games?"

I nod, my eyes looking down.

"You can talk, you know. I don't bite," he tells me, then adds as an afterthought, "Not usually anyway."

"I..." I speak softly, "The Games. So many deaths. And God, the blood. Like a river almost."

"As I thought. It's like déjà vu, you know, you and me."

"You dreamed of that too?" I ask, "Is that why you're here?"

"No, not those dreams tonight. But thirty years ago, yes. In this very penthouse, shaking and screaming in that very room."

It takes me a while to understand what he meant.

"Chaff Balen, the boy tribute from District Eleven in the Forty-Fourth Games," he speaks on, his voice raw at the edges from a surge of memories, "What a lovely present for his twelfth birthday. An almost guaranteed one-way ticket to the Capitol."

So he was my age. I have always expected this hardened survivor to be a burly sixteen-year-old walking into the Hunger Games, not an innocent twelve-year-old. I have a gazillion questions burning on the tip of my tongue, but I bite my lips and keep quiet. Best to let him continue on.

"I was rather like you in those days, small and nimble," he tells me, "And with both arms intact. Terrified out of my wits about the Hunger Games, but trying my hardest to put on a brave face. I can still remember the weeks before the Games as though they were only yesterday. Did you know Seeder mentored me? Not officially, because that was the job of our District's first winner Thistle Folster. But Thistle was weak with age and deluded with alcohol, and he passed on the year after I came back home.

"Seeder was, and still is, such a mothering figure. We bicker constantly, as you can see, but underneath I am so grateful for her. She insisted on learning survival skills rather than combat, being the peace maker that she is. But I was a twelve years old boy, so of course I went against the grain and mastered knife wielding. She was right about learning survival skills though. The damn arena that year was covered in snow, just endless pine forests and frozen lakes. Those who didn't die in the bloodbath perished later with frostbite and illness, as well as hunger.

"One of the first things I said to Seeder when I came back was "I told you so!" because I was also right about the knife wielding. Who would've thought that the last two standing would've been the twelve-year-old from District Eleven and the thirteen-year-old from District Four. We met face-to-face for the first time that final night in the arena. She was vicious, I remembered that much. She was much taller than me, having had a growth spurt and also was a Career. My god, she was wicked with a sword. Hacked my arm right off, had me dizzy with blood lost and all. Good thing she died quickly when I threw my knife at her, or otherwise there would've been two dead finalists."

He shudders and falls silent at that, his face grim. I want badly to give him some condolences, but I just can't figure out how. Awkwardly I reach over the space between our chairs to pat his hand.

"I guess the moral of the story is that even the tiniest and youngest tributes can survive," he says, "And if I can survive, then nothing's stopping you or Thresh from doing the same."

"Apart from the fact that Thresh has the odds in his favours," I reply, "And I have about the worst chances ever, since most of this year's tributes are twice my size."

"Be positive for once, girl," he tells me sternly, "My principle is that the glass is always half full. So if it's not full, we fill it with positivity until it is full. You're a smart kid, and people underestimate smartness in these Games. A fatal mistake if you ask me."

"How did you do it?" that question bursts out of me, "How did you survive the odds?"

"By staying alive," he says simply, "And making sure I stay alive even in the most impossible of situations. Have you ever heard of hope? It's a life saver."

"Hope?"

"Yes, hope. Don't ever lose sight of it. And don't lose sight of food or water either, that would also help," he tells me, standing up and stretching, "Talking of food, I could do with an early breakfast."

He turns and walks off, and after some moments of hesitation I follow suit. He leads me into an adjacent room, where there is a large mahogany table with eight chairs surrounding it. Benches line the walls of the room, offering a wide selection of food. Chaff fills his plate with egg and sausages, and takes a steaming mug of coffee. Timidly I take a gleaming plate and spoon a serving of egg and bacon on, and pour myself a glass of milk. Seeder, Thresh and Aqua join us when we are nearly finished.

"Isn't six thirty a tad early for breakfast?" Aqua asks as she plonks herself down on an upholstered chair, her appearance immaculate.

"No time's too early for food," Chaff replies as he gulps down the rest of his coffee.

"Oh well, I guess we can have an early start with the prep team," she says as she butters a roll, "An extra hour will make up for the train delay yesterday."

"An extra hour? How long do we have to be there for?" Thresh asks.

"Until they finish," Aqua replies matter-of-factly, "You two aren't too shabby, so it shouldn't take the whole day. But after that we have an appointment with your stylists about the chariot ride, and then there are a couple of other things on the agenda before we call it a day."

It is going to be a long day. Too long.