0.6

Night fell and I am now on my bed, waiting glancing at the window, where nothing bringing light source pass by, as if I can see the tress being under a blanket of darkness. The bath was amazing and am slightly disappointed at the clothes that are provided in the wardrobe. Most of the clothes were too extravagant, in terms of colours and glitter, I began to wonder how Capital citizens even sleep in. Certainly not in these clothes with their makeups still painted on their faces. Fortunately, there are clothes that were suitable for nightwear and I wear clothes that were as soft as cashmere and a cardigan that cover my sleeves, protecting me from the cold that this train seemed to have no mercy of adjusting on. I wonder if there's any dial for this function, but so far my attempts for looking one has so far gone fruitless. I leave the air conditioner switched to full blast, and have a cardigan to compensate my problems.

Effie called us for dinner, where the tables has been prepped with food laid out. I wonder where are the chefs that bring these food. Were these prep-cooked? Capitol technology seems too advanced even for the habitants of District 12 can ever afford. It baffles me, but nonetheless, my hunger is something I need to satiate and food is the only conventional method to do so. I eat, with Effie around. I would ask where Katniss and Haymitch are, but then again, Haymitch is too drunk and Katniss is probably brooding about today's events to even stomach real food. Effie and I are the only one at the table, with her table etiquette well worn on her sleeves. I, myself try to mimic her movements, hoping that I don't embarrass myself by being one of the kids whom, despite living in a remote district, eats with a form of untrained grace and by chance hope to impress that my feeble and honest attempt is enough to not get a head turn from a group of Capitol people. Effie so far has not admonished me for my table manners, and I begin to think whether it's a good thing or not. I hold the fork with my left and the knife in the other, trying to cut my food with patient determination, and eventually praised myself for having being able to get myself a small portion of the meal that I'm currently eating. I look down and wondered what function is there on putting my napkin on my lap, until I see some gravy and some liquid marring the cream yellow fabric. I finally understand. Great application of ideas, I think.

I wonder what Gale would think about this life, if I do come back telling him about this whole Capitol trip. Surely he will accept it, right?

Probably not, now that I think about him in that manner. He hates Madge, and she's rich, and the Capitol's rich and I don't think that's the only reason he would disagree about my story. I shake my head at the thought and continue eating my food. Gale would be happy if he's living somewhere that is free of authority, senseless killing, and wealth that changes people into becoming aloof.

"So, Peeta," pipes Effie, "What do you think of this so far?"

What do I think? About being mutilated by kids who probably don't mind killing other kids who have no desire to be killed in a matter few weeks, and then being sent back home where they will be forgotten by the public, with no memorial for these "brave" and "courageous" souls to face through their undeserving death? "I think the foods great, Effie," I reply, not wanting to paint a picture to someone who is blissfully ignorant to the idea behind killing someone.

She smiles, and we begin talking about the foods, where she ensures that the food in the Capitol is far better than what we are eating here. I didn't complain, mostly because I have no idea what kind of discernment can I gain from by having food that were manufactured by the same place that these people are now having.

"I know how you people don't really like this idea of The Hunger Games, but at least you'll enjoy this meal," she says, with her hope completely thrown out of my mind. I nod, just to humour her and make sure that she's smart enough to take that into a positive note and continue to finish my meal, with her insistence of asking me to finish almost all of the food. An option that I feel is extremely detrimental if I ever want to survive the upcoming games.

I return to my cargo, passing by Katniss's and Haymitch's rooms, not really wondering what benefit can I gain for heckling them to have a bite of something. I'm sure the food will stay there until Katniss gets hungry. I hope.

The television remote is on the table, and I pick it up and see the yearly interview hosted by Caeser Flickerman, who as usual in his cheerful self, interview the Gamemaker, Seneca Crane. I know him. He was the one that ran the Games for four years now. He looks young, with blue eyes and hair looking shiny and slick, all thanks to the Capitol stylists, no doubt. His moustache has always made him stand out from the rest of the Capitol people. Unlike most scruffs, his one is intricately trimmed and shave to precision into a swirly pattern on the side of his cheekbones. Eccentric, yes but clearly not a trend anyone's living up to.

I hear their interview, about how Seneca has managed to craft a style for each new games, and there he goes, acting so philosophical about his progress and his intentions of doing so, to which I see no difference in. From the past games that I loath seeing, I only manage to surmise that you could pick any random place, be it a forest or a lake and dump 24 children to their deaths without batting an eye. Seneca then goes on about the stunning difference of this year's games, particularly about the participation from a volunteer that an outlying district. He didn't mention from who, and I see no understanding of why he had to omit that part out knowing that every tribute, volunteer or not, was disseminated nationally to all big screens after their respective Reaping. Interesting, was the word that Seneca described for this year's games. I look down on my sheets, where I feel extremely disconcerted by the whole interview, where they seemed unfazed by the whole concept. Is murder considered a serious tradition to all of the Capitol? From the way they glorify it, I guess it is.

The broadcast changes to where Caeser Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith are discussing the past Hunger Games, which is their own version of an homage to them. They do not care to censor any violence that the images show and took a step further by commenting how beautiful the death was. How the terrains and background was ingenious and the tributes being resourceful of using rubble, the nature or the dangers of the place as being their main source of victory. The blood and gore that came out of these people were gruesome, and I didn't realize how gruesome the 73rd Hunger Games was when they showcased every tribute's death, one by one, and with at least five minutes to even come up with their own commentaries and awe with levity towards their impressive deaths. Discombobulating.

I turn the television off, not really wanting to have the images expanding my imagination of how I will die. I know I will die, but having a scenario of how I will die, never mind. I do not need the slide shows to give them some vicarious way of satisfaction. I look around, with the facilities around here not really providing me any form of entertainment. I feel lonely, that's what I can say, for sure. I lay on my bed, and wrap myself with the blanket, hoping that tomorrow will be kinder, with a please on the side.

I wake up and today is the day we should be arriving at the Capitol. How will my reaction be towards the appearance? Will it be disgust? Will it be awe? Will it be too shocked until I forgot what my reason of being there for is? I blink finally for the first time at the array of questions, my answers all left blank like one of those bi-annual tests they have in school where you cannot answer the questions. None of them require any objective answers.

I get up and Effie comes in, with her expression turn into a pleased one when she sees my awakened state. She instructs me to get up and take my bath and then join her and Haymitch for breakfast, to which I proceed to heed them. She also adds the part where I have to be in my district clothes before leaving the room and I guess her mood will be a good one seeing that my punctual state of mind has set into motion. It's still 7 in the morning and it is usually the time I wake up, and knowing that breakfast will start this early only proves that our destination is coming closer and closer. I get up, throwing the blankets away to one side, freeing my legs of the soft comfort and ponder how things will go from now on.

Capitol. People that will scream their heads off. Activities that I have no idea what they will be doing as a way of preparation. And then the Hunger Games.

Breathe in, breathe out. I can survive this day. I can.

I stand up finally, with my conscience slightly motivated. I walk to the window and see the train never stopping at all and the trees that we passed by have finally become mountains. I immediately conclude that the mountains are near the upper districts, and to get to the Capitol, the train will need to go through the mountains in order to reach there. Okay. The mountains are tall, that's something you can't deny. I see some waterfalls and lakes that are both large and small, with people less than 10 fleet before my eyes in a flash. Effie wasn't kidding about the speed of the train exceeding the normal speed limit and barely feeling a thing. I wonder what happens if there is a stone impeding the way here. Will we feel a bump or some form of turbulence?

I walk to the bathroom and removed my clothes, with my decision locked on using the shower. I never used a shower, since the closest coming up to shower was grabbing a small pail filled with water and then dumping it all over my head and body. I remove my clothes, as usual and the buttons laid out on the wall like murals, just make me feel like an interloping dyslexic. I observe them and almost feel afraid to even touch them seeing the ones marked with letters. Either they are marked because of scent or because they are not functioning properly both makes me lower one eye in confusion. I hesitantly touch the red one and I can feel something click, immediately awakening my reflexes, as I prepare my naked body towards something I cannot predict from just a shift of my body like a marionette. I touch another, a pale blue one and sure enough another click comes by, and then downpour of liquid coming down. The gelid contact of water alarms me and make me gasp as the water is frigid cold. I fraught for another button, anything to change this cold temperature. I touch a darker blue one, and feel the water turning into a warmer feeling but still cold. I touch the red one that I pressed, and sure enough the temperature turn lukewarm, which I give a gasp of relief because that is the last button I will ever want to press for any form of adjustment.

I turn off the shower, pressing the ones I did all over again. The pouring ended and I leave the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, a little more confidently this time since there is no one spying on me. Usually in Gale's or mine, I consciously wear my clothes before leaving the bathroom, making sure that no one will gape or probe my body when I leave. I see my clothes being laid on a chair, neatly done and ironed which made me wonder who laid it there. Shaking my head of the question, I pat every morsel and inch of my body dry, not really want to feel any wetness even after wearing the clothes. I wear my clothes and look myself in the mirror hoping that my appearance is passable to the others' eyes. The only difference between yesterday and today is my hair. My hair is still damp, and more free and less slicked from the Reaping. Okay, now for breakfast.

I walk past the other rooms, which are probably vacant by now and see Haymitch and Effie, both doing two completely different things. Effie is now on her chair, assessing her face with the mirror on her palm, outstretched for the best angle possible. She smiles when she looks at her appearance, and I can't help but roll my eyes for being that vain. Haymitch on the other hand is being served by a lady, with makeup that looks slightly emo, which is a trend to the Capitol these days, with Effie's agreement, even though her style does not resonate that. Her hair is in a bun and she looks like a weird attendant or something in the likes of that. She pours coffee in his cup, his attention not caring of her presence and his mouth and head not moving to indicate how thankful he is.

I walk in, clearly now assured that nothing implicit will need my complicity. The door slides open and Effie smiles at my neat appearance, clearly happy that I do not need to be told of how I should look. I smile back in reply, and then join Haymitch at the dining table, with him giving a head jerk in my presence. I sit down, and putting the napkin on my lap like last night, and eat with him in silence for the first few minutes. The clanking of the utensils, like the knife dipping into the jam jar and hearing the metal part hitting the glass to the knife or fork placed onto the plate for just a little while, are the only things you can hear during our meal (as well as Effie's fascination towards her makeup).

"So, how do we win this thing?" I ask Haymitch, with more hope this time, seeing that yesterday we have both agreed that I can be of great instrument to him. I won't back away from my promises that he has in store for me, so it is only fair that he returns the same favour for me.

He purses his lips, with his hands still gripping the knife and fork, his mind calculative on how he should answer the question. I was about to repeat my question when he suddenly opens his mouth, and then closes it, and I stare at him, my hands too not moving in motion. Finally, with a deep breath, he moves his hands and answers with, "Just stay alive,".

I spent almost a couple of minutes to hear three words? But that doesn't stop there though, "If it's like a desert kind of area, then water will be scarce, unless you have stamina and patience to dig up some water or walk a million miles just to finally meet water, but I doubt the Gamekeepers would let you walk away from the nearest tribute. The next thing you see a disaster that comes out of nowhere, is where the Gamekeepers want you close to the nearest tribute," he explains. I bite the cut up toast, nodding at the concept. So, basically even if I go far to hide, the Gamekeepers will do their darndest to make sure that I will not be able to far.

"Also, if it were a cold place, whether it be the real cold place or night time. Fire is out of the option," he explains. I look at him in confusion, when I finally hear Katniss' voice overtaking Haymitch's.

"What's out of option?" she asks, her face still placid and aloof.

"Joy. Join in and have some toast," he asks, "Pass me the marmalade, would you dear? Your friend here just asked what is the best way to live through this,"

"How do you live through this?" asks Katniss, the marmalade jar still not moving from her side to his. I can feel the tension – an unwanted one at that – building up in the dining area and I cannot help but feel that this is completely unnecessary. Haymitch will give the answer, and I feel that Katniss is not pressing him at an agitated state.

"Let me have some food, alright?" he stares at her, frustrated with her arrogance and brash nature. I continue chewing my food, and let the argument continue, knowing that despite Haymitch come from both a little immoral and wise, I can definitely say that he underestimates Katniss' determination. I don't really think she knows of her hobby every day and her contribution to the district. Katniss places a knife in between Haymitch's approaching hand to the marmalade jar. I back out, clearly not expecting the silent ambush. I can hear the Effie exclaiming on how the table was made of mahogany and as comical the line is, the shock plastered on Haymitch's face was priceless. He takes the knife out, praising her for her silent approach and all three strikes out of his mental image.

"Fine, you want to know how to stay alive?" he asks, his mind now resolute on not leaving us both with the benefit of the doubt, "You get sponsors. So, let's say you are starving or injured or even out of arrows," so he does know of Katniss' activities, "then comes a parachute, where even a match, or a survival knife," which I see on the table now that I look at it, "or even iodine, that is requisite, for diluting even the murkiest of water can mean the difference that can turn the tables," he eats the bread now lathered with marmalade, "and you sweetheart, you're not really up to a great start," Katniss' eyes widen slightly at the explanation, not really into making impression of others. For all I know, Katniss can pass as a recluse, seeing that the only people in her social circle are Gale, Prim and Madge, but both don't really have a close one as she does with Gale. She isn't as sociable as her sister Prim, and the reluctance gleam brightly in her eyes, and I know how much of a hard time she is going to have without any sponsors being in her back pocket, essentially speaking.

The train turns dark suddenly, with the lights still on, just the outside going on dark mode like a flip of a switch. Effie squeals as she says, "We are here!" and the train leaves the tunnel, where I can see a huge water bank overlooking the outside. I stand up and neared my body to the window, where my scope has been zoomed by dramatic results. The place is… a loss of words, that's for starters. My mouth is agape for looking at the view, simply amazed by the architecture of the buildings. The crystal blue water is just beautiful and I wonder what technology is used to keep the resplendence maintained. I look back at Katniss, who seemed unimpressed at my so called change of devotion – which I don't think it's true at all, seeing how far fetch her judgmental look gave course – not expressing the same sentiment towards my happiness. Haymitch continues eating, seemed to be used for 24 years with the experience. He seemed slightly upset when the train finally arrives at the docking station, where it's pooled with people of different colours of clothing, cheering with fervent excitement. Their faces were beaming and exuberance are easily pinpointed from their looks. Their hands waving at our direction and to be honest, the welcome given for District 12 is the most surprising. Who would have thought that an outlying district would get the such a response. Completely in awe, I wave back at them with a smile written on my face and the roaring becomes louder and their actions more animated.

But for something this transitional, I truly forgot what the smiles and cheering are actually for.

"Wonderful. Wonderful," Effie comments as she walks us past the crowd. Their hands pet our shoulders, and some even fainted, which cause me to worry if they are ever paid for such exaggeration of expressions, and their voices saying how privilege they are to meet, and even spare a few words to their tributes, to which I understand, since I think the real honour is being one of the many spectators watching us die right before their naked eye. I can feel their slight jostles and pushes but nothing too drastic to the point of us falling to the floor, if dramatics is excluded from the picture. Effie responds to the crowd back with the same fervor, with her hands too petting their outfits on how 'trendy' they seem to look, and I wonder if the same reception is ever given when she's not representing us or any tributes during the recess after each Hunger Games. I wonder how any of them are chosen to even escort us.

We walk away from the crowd, where soon less and less people became visible to us as we walk into a building where I see other tributes too, with their own home clothing, and faces of discomfort, awe and even smug paint their faces. I can feel the shiver when I think about the smug faces, seeing them being slightly more presentable than the rest of us. I conclude that they are from the upper districts, where sully looks become a primary facial expression for them.

Haymitch separates from us and I see him joining the other tributes who welcome him with forlorn looks, well, except for the ones from the upper district. They seem… proud. Proud with their tributes and that's when things click.

They volunteered. The tributes volunteer, meaning that there is some form of confidence bred in their looks and the way they scan us makes only brings more satisfaction when they witness the retreating looks embossed on their faces. I can see one, with brunette hair and with a snarling kind of face chuckling at the other tributes when they turn their heads away upon seeing him. I didn't turn away from him, and only scanned the others, watching the other tributes, but before I can even make my assessment about the tributes, I get dragged away by Effie, who ushers me excitedly to a room made for only District 12 tributes. The room is lit fairly bright and in the room is separated into two columns, one for Katniss and one for myself. I move and I'm instructed by a lady and a man, both wearing scrubs and hair and makeup looking horrid, as if they went through the wrong side of the bed. They instruct me, with a lazy tone, to disrobe and wear the same pale blue scrubs as they are, without any traces of garments underneath them. The fact that I'm stripping right in front of them without leaving, only makes things even more awkward. They gave me knowing look on my face and left, leaving me enough space to unclothe and then wear the said scrubs.

I wear the scrubs and I lay on the table, where they return with looks of approval at the folded clothes that I spend my time for them. I didn't think of wanting them to be burdened with unnecessary works, so with their pleased looks, they continued their work by hosing my down with water, cleaning any untraceable dirt. They didn't seem to look disgusted, probably because their experience have armoured their disgust quite well. Once that's done, they take tweezers from the table, with them holding my face down, telling me that what they're doing will leave a stinging pain before plucking my eyebrows, which the pain is only bearable, in my opinion.

For Capitol people, they are actually quite nonchalant and nice, even though their moral discernment is quite off the normal target. The closest I see them looking mad is the hygiene part. I know that District 12 isn't the most sanitary of all districts, but then again, which district hits that mark? The Capitol is the only one that fulfil that criterion. If I can think the closest to a clean district, it would be 1, since their time has been spent in cleaning every piece of jewellery and gem they sell. District 2 wouldn't hit that mark since they spend so much time doing blacksmith and sweating themselves out playing their man made byproducts.

I feel something hot, and my legs flinch at the contact, and feel a soft piece of paper rubbing over the warm and wham I squeak in pain, bringing some chuckles from the two stylists. I have just been waxed. Without warning, and gosh I feel like one should be given. At least I manage to entertain them for the moment, that's what I can at least admit from the whole experience.

Once all of their duties are completed, they tell me that my lead stylist will be coming to meet me. I lay there, motionless and stare at the fluorescent light bulb installed above me, waiting for the door to slide, where my stylist will consult me throughout the entire time. I move this time, not really going to adhere to their instructions since not like my body hair will be growing back that fast in a matter of seconds. I hope.

I walk around and see the sanitized utensils and objects laid out systematically for use. I would grab them but when I remember the stylist that catered to me wore gloves, I refrain my fingers by an inch and eventually half a metre later when I decided not to touch any of them. I sit back down, not really in the mood for exploring a room bare of any items for me to peruse. The life of a tribute is to strip them off any excitement. The real excitement is at the arena, if anyone's asking. For now, let there be boredom.

I hear the door slide open and comes in a dark skin lady wearing black that shows off her collarbones and shoulder. She has her lips coloured with dark colouring, and her makeup smokey. Alluring, and seductive if that's what she's intending. Her hair reaches no limits as it looks frizzy but coloured, making them fade from one colour to another. The amount of artificial items used on her face and hair really is a lot to stomach. She's dressed in black, with a blazer covering the electric blue blouse and with a pencil skirt to compliment her entire attire. She walks in with a smile and her attention is only fixated to one person.

Myself.

"Hello, I'm Portia," she says, with her hand outstretched, "I'll be your personal stylist for the entire time," I shake her head without speaking any words to her. She seems nice, but then again, since when anyone in the Capitol aren't nice? I'll just humour her, as far as I've done with everyone from the Capitol here. "So, Peeta," at least I skip the main part of the introduction to her, "I know that my partner, Cinna will be taking care of Katniss and we both have come to the concurrence that most stylist don't," that certainly peak my interest.

"Remember last year's costume at the Tribute Parade?" Do I remember it? The better question will be more like 'Did I forget the Tribute Parade last year?'. Long story short, the stylist covered last year's tributes with nothing but coal, since the goal of every Tribute Parade is to instill pride to our district. So much pride going on there. I wonder if the stylists last year were even passionate in their job, and the promise that Portia say brings some promise. "Well, I don't want to go through the atrocity of such details,"

I still have not said a word to Portia, mostly because her sentences are completed by her and of knowledge by herself. At least she has taken some words out of my mouth, but regardless grateful of the intrusion, for I really do not know what to answer, even with charm up by a few notches. Charm is essential in conversations, but deemed useless if you have no one knows what are you even talking about. That would be considered being out of it.

She leads me out of the room, where I see Katniss, her attention focused to a dark skinned man, with his hair shaved and his face bare of any makeup, just that his eyes are touched with a simple golden eyeliner. His clothes are simple, black and fitting, nothing too flashy or revealing. Out of all the people I have seen in the Capitol, he's so far the most simplistic person I've seen in appearance terms. Almost like he's not preening about his looks or anything. Seems humble. He looks at me, and introduces himself as Cinna, with his voice in a velvety smooth tone. I shake his hand, and the rest is just business for Katniss and I.

Portia and Cinna lead us to the mannequins, where we see suits, made out of one of the most, if not, the shiniest and slick leather, with collars bigger than the usual. Nothing too flashy about it, either, and I wonder what angle are they trying to pull of. I ask myself how can a pair of leather pantsuit can make a huge impression towards the crowd tonight at the Tribute Parade. It almost makes us feel like the there's no real put effort placed for us.

"I hope you're not afraid of fire," says Cinna.

I have no issues with fire.

Working in the bakery, my family meets heat at out fingertips, everyday. Literally. Our oven never works as it wants to really. Like a five year old, it sometimes has a mind of its own, where, by its own volition, the fire in it will be amped up more than par for the course. The hardships of being a baker, sometime.

Portia and Cinna lead us out, with Portia having her winning, professional smile masked as she passes by the entire crowd, and Cinna looking unperturbed by the whole attention. None of us talked on the way, and honestly, I'm relieved to not force myself of having chats with them. From what I can tell, both of them do not really favour the whole sending-innocent-kids-to-their-death thing, and that's really nice to feel, especially from people who watch us die with so much passion and fervent.

We are escorted to a horse carriage, and I can see the other tributes in their respective clothing and costumes. Portia was right, they are all dressed according to the theme of their district, horribly though. I don't need to be from the Capitol to know that, honestly. The upper district, don't seem to mind really, particularly from 1. The female tribute seemed to preen in her fuchsia coloured fur costume. She is checking her face on the mirror, and seemed to be satisfied with her vanity. The male tribute seemed disinterested with how he looked, with my guess that his determination of winning being his main goal from this game. Understandable, work before reaping the benefits. I know that District 1 focuses on jewellery and materialism, and I am really not sure how pink fur exaggerated that theme. Maybe I'll understand, but I'll be dead by then.

District 2 are dressed in gold gladiator, and I can see the male tribute looking like a real Adonis. A man that girls will scream their lungs out for. He is so dashing and he stares at us with firm eyes locked onto our way. I look back into it and my body turns numb with his blue eyes. Cold ones too, and I cannot help but feel both aroused and terrified at the same time. Like he could be someone who's possessive but murderous in one body. I feel a shrill of terror just thinking what will transpire if I putatively talk to another guy. He could either abuse, kill me or the guy I allegedly talk to, as a means of warning future men that I'm taken.

We both are still eye locked, and I see his lips, thin but sensual, twitching upwards before turning away. I let out a breath, that I didn't realize that I've been holding all this while. Guess the fear was really evident and I think the lip twitch that threatened his demeanour to smile was due to the fear pooled to the brim in my eyes. I think he's going to enjoy pulling some of my strings. God, help me with this.

Cinna marches towards us, with some unidentifiable things in his hands. I cannot read them, mostly because his fingers are covering the entirety of what he's holding. He is also holding a sturdy matchstick. A long one, for what purpose I have no idea.

"Alright, this is how it is going to go," he holds the matchstick and lights it up with the unidentifiable object – a lighter now – and it emits out a blue flame, bringing our eyes to enhanced curiosity, "Now this isn't real, I will apply the gel," Portia shows a container, "and we will both apply it on your costume, then when the parade starts, the costume will light up. Don't worry, it's not real. It's synthetic,"

"Looks pretty real to me," I say, which I feel like I need a slap for my slow ability to catch up.

"That's the idea," replies Cinna honestly, his expression seemed unfazed by my obviousness. The two work on the last details of our costume.

I stare at the horses in jealousy. They were being fed with sugar cubes, groomed by the Capitol. How easy their lives are, only used for this day, and this day only. They don't have to worry about having their lives cut off short. They have their entire life span to themselves, where they can find their mate, get mated and then have offspring, and live to see their inheritance grow and flourish 'til the day they die. Stay in the same place and be burdened of small jobs. The worst kind of situation that any animal will relate with us is being hunted off for food, like the ones in the forest.

Their eternal version of Hunger Games. Where everyone is a prey and a predator. A danger to each other. These ones are lucky, no need to be stranded. Sheltered, cared for with love, whether deformed or not. They say be free like a bird, but freedom is nothing but transgression and a fritter of life if you walk around without a conscience.

But a freedom worth having than being here.

"Nicely done," praises Effie, "Oh, the crowds will pay much attention to you this year. I have a really good feeling that sponsors will be the main weapon of your games," She escorts us down from the carriage. The crowd was electrified by our fiery – pun intended – entrance, with their heads screaming and wooing with passion and excitement. Roses were thrown and I wondered if any were askance of the roses not burning when some phased through the intangible, illusionary element. I know that the Capitol is gullible, but surely they cannot be that gullible.

"Nicely done," says Haymitch, dressed in navy blue, and this time without his alcohol around his hands. I contemplate on his honesty because of his temporary sobriety.

"You sure your tributes should be near flames?" asks Katniss, hoping to bring something out of Haymitch.

"Fake flames? Are you sur-" he stares at the other side, his cohesion clearly interrupted by his sight. We turn around and stare at the same guy in gold from 2. He stares at us with the selfsame cold, blue eyes, his face contorting to something like jealousy and anger, but also amusement.

My mind is still in his visionary grip when I feel Haymitch's hand clapping onto my shoulder, "Let's get you to your place," he says. I swear I could hear him say, "Wouldn't want them hearing us,"

We enter the elevator, with Effie ecstatic of showing us our new living quarters, with her assurances and hopes confirmed when she adds, "Because you're both from 12, you get the penthouse, the highest floor,"

The place is grand, that's for sure. Futuristic, and a complete 180 transition from the lives that we were raised in. Stairs leading to what I assume are individual bedrooms, and the kitchen, on a pedestal with green chairs to complement the silver metal table. My mouth hangs open unsurprisingly, because what we were living in that was made of woods, comes in a new abode with everything that an inmate of 12 would dream to refurbish it to. This is definitely too much to grasp on, and something I don't think I will ever adjust to too comfortably.

"Why don't Portia take you to your room, Peeta and I will take Katniss to hers? Shower and then we'll have dinner," Effie instructs, knocking my awed expression out of my face. We are still clad in the leather suit and I frankly cannot wait to be out of it. Certainly something I have no intention of wearing on a routine.

Portia and I climb down the stairs, and we climb up another, the one that will take me to my room. For now. It is nice, with a screen that is almost pasted to the wall, and a bed, possibly a water one, to sleep on. Portia leaves me to my needs, and I nod as a gesture of thanks. I skim my hands on the bed, feeling the soft – almost ethereal – fabric on my hand. It was definitely better than the one in the train, by small margins.

I see the towel rack and enter the bathroom, bigger this time, with enough space to remove my leather suit. I place the towel down and unclothe my skin like suit, my body giving a nice sort of sigh when it makes contact with the conditioned air. I finally got out of the suit and enter the cubicles and meet my worst enemy.

The wall of buttons for my shower and bath. I sigh as I press the button to my inevitable gasping and shrieking.


A/N: I have been exhausted these days so I've been writing my works little by little so at least the end of the week I have a new chapter for your reading.

I wonder why my mail doesn't seem to receive emails about reviews.