Original

"I am inimitable. I am an original."

Lacey Blair, 16
District Eight

"I hear they've got something a bit more original planned this year," Eve offers hopefully as the train pulls into the Capitol streets. "A bit more elaborate. The outfits during the parade last year were a bit lackluster – especially the outer districts. This year, they'll be stepping up their game, so be ready for … well, anything."

I nod a little. She's trying to help us. Trying to be encouraging. But all this talk about outfits and dressing up and making us look good – it's only a reminder that, to them, this is all a game. A pageant of sorts. They just want to have fun. They want us to look good before they send us off to fight for our lives.

She's right about the outfits being a bit lackluster last year, though. A few of the more loyal districts got special treatment – District Two's tributes were dressed up as soldiers, and District One was dressed in gold, although that could be because their district specializes in luxury.

The rest of the tributes were simply color-coded to fit their district industry. A black suit and a black dress for the boy and girl from Twelve – because their industry is coal. Brown for Nine, Ten, and Eleven – to represent things growing in the dirt, I suppose. Green for Seven – trees – and blue for Four – for the ocean. And grey for the districts dominated by factories – Three, Five, Six, and, of course, Eight. It certainly helped One and Two get more attention – at least at first.

But getting attention … well, that's not always a good thing. It made the audience notice them, it's true, but it also meant that other tributes targeted them. District Seven's tributes went after the girl from Two right away, and managed to injure her early on – an injury that never really healed and ended up hampering her later in the Games. The girl from Eight, on the other hand, was still in pretty good condition by the time she made it to the final fight.

In pretty good condition, of course, except for being hungry. Starving, even. And that ended up hurting her. In better condition, she may have been able to overpower the boy from One. But he'd eaten pretty well during the Games – he and his allies had managed to find a group of cactuses and discovered that they were edible. That may have given him an edge.

That wasn't the only thing that gave some tributes an edge, though. At the end of each day, the Gamemakers sent a package to one of the tributes. The tributes in the arena probably didn't know it, but it was announced after the first package was sent that the Capitol audience had voted for their favorite tributes, and that, at the end of each day, the winner would be sent a gift.

Most of the packages didn't contain much. A little food, a few matches – enough to help them get by, but not enough to give them too much of an advantage. But each package also came with a list of the tributes who had died that day – something they didn't know ahead of time. But this year, we know more. We know those packages exist. We know there will be weapons provided at the start of the Games. And we know each death in the arena is signaled with a cannon. It'll be easier to keep track of how many tributes are dead, but those packages are still the only way to tell exactly who died.

So the idea of catching the attention of the audience – maybe that isn't as silly or superficial as it sounds. Last year, tributes had no idea those packages were coming. They didn't realize how important it was to get the audience to notice them. So the packages went to tributes who … well, ones you wouldn't exactly expect. The boys from Ten, Eleven, and Twelve. All of them were on the older side, sure, but the boy from Eleven had a bad leg. The boy from Ten had allied with a known rebel. And the boy from Twelve didn't really seem to stand out.

This year, everyone will be trying to stand out. And the audience will be paying a lot more attention. That much is obvious as the we finally step off the train. The crowd that has gathered is huge. Eve does her best to usher Atleigh and me in the right direction, but the crowd keeps pressing forward, trying to get a better look at us.

So I wave. So does Atleigh. He's twelve, not stupid. He knows this is a competition. He knows I'm competition. So I have to treat him the same way. The little twelve-year-old next to me is an opponent in a fight to the death. And only one of us can win.

Apollo Lancey, 14
District Five

Only one of us can win. The thought brings a lump to my throat as Ada and I are led in separate directions. A pair of Capitolites lead me to a room, already studying me closely and helping me out of my clothes. And into … nothing. For a moment, I simply sit here, my body bare except for my underwear, waiting to see what they will do. "Lie down," one of them instructs. And I do. What else am I supposed to do? One of them approaches with a wet sponge and a towel.

And it feels … good, if I'm being honest. A bit strange, maybe, but good. The water is warm. The towels are soft. When they've finished washing me, they produce a pair of black shorts from one of the closets. And calling them 'shorts' is being generous. They certainly don't cover any more than the underwear I'm already wearing. But when one of the Capitolites instructs me to try them on, I don't argue. Where's the harm, after all?

I look a bit silly, I realize after I slide them on, finally catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. But no sillier than the tributes did last year, riding in their chariots with their fancy dresses and suits. All decked out in their best for a fight to the death. Is this really any different?

None of this is going to matter, after all, once we're actually in the arena. So when one of the Capitolites approaches with a brush and some sort of ink, I don't shrink away. "Don't worry – it's not permanent," he assures me before he goes to work. Drawing all over my body. Wavy lines – almost tangled. One color, then another. Red and blue and green.

Only once he's almost done do I realize what they're supposed to be. They're wires. Of course. District Five. Power. Wires. Makes sense, I suppose. "Now hold still," the other one instructs. "You have to wait for it to dry."

Okay. I can do that. But, after a moment of standing here in front of the mirror, literally watching paint dry, I'm bored stiff. "So what're your names?" I ask, desperate for any sort of conversation. Anything to pass the time. And there's no harm, after all, in being polite.

"Atticus," the one with the brushes answers.

"Andreas," answers the other. "We're twins."

Of course. "And what do you do – I mean, when you're not doing this."

Atticus looks a little offended. "We're artists, of course. Couldn't you tell?"

I shake my head a little before remembering I'm not supposed to move. "No, I mean what do you do for work? What's your job?"

They still look puzzled. "This is our job," Andreas explains. "We design all sorts of new looks. Well, I design, and Atticus paints. Mostly body work, but we occasionally dabble in canvas, as well." I must look puzzled, too, because he shakes his head. "Don't you have something like this in the districts?"

No. No, we don't. No one in the districts would ever think about wasting money to pay someone to draw on their skin. And no one would ever consider trying to make a living doing something so … extravagant. So unnecessary.

But looking at what they've done – both to me and to themselves – it doesn't look unnecessary. It looks fun. Atticus' curly, blazing orange hair. The butterflies that line Andreas' arms. The way both of them prance about in their silly outfits, not caring whether anyone is looking at them. Maybe even enjoying the fact that people are looking at them. Maybe they're a little bit silly, but they like what they do.

How many people in the districts could I say that about? Could I say that about my parents – or even myself? Both of them joined the rebels because they felt it was the right thing to do, but was it ever really something they wanted to do? Something they enjoyed? My father's job – does he really enjoy it, or does he just do it because he has to have some way to support us?

I know the answer to that, of course. No one in District Five likes their job. And these two wouldn't, either, if they had to work in a factory all day. But they don't have to – that's the point. Here, in the Capitol, they can draw designs on people all day and call it a job. They can make their living doing something that they like, rather than something they're forced to do. They chose to do this.

And that's what the rebellion was about, in the end. The right to choose, rather than having the Capitol rip all choices away from us. But I can't explain that to them – not really. Not without sounding like a rebel myself. And I don't want that. Not here. Not when I think about what happened to the rebels in the Games last year…

"No," I answer. "I don't think we have anyone in the districts who does this … but I wish we did." I wish we could.

Julian Masters, 16
District Two

I wish I could see what they were doing. From what I've been able to tell from their voices, there are three of them. Three Capitolites, trying to figure out what to do with me. What sort of outfit they could possibly give me that would make me look like I have a chance.

There's a simple answer to that, of course: They can't. Nothing can make me look like I have a chance. There's no sort of outfit they could give me that would cover up the fact that I'm blind. I have no chance. No chance at all. I know it. Jayda knows it. The other tributes know it. And everyone in the Capitol knows it.

Which means I have nothing to lose. So I might as well enjoy whatever sort of silly outfit they have planned. If these are going to be my last few days, I'll be damned if I'm going to spend them moping about. I'm going to enjoy this.

And not just for my sake. Clarence is watching. Well, not right now, but he will be. He'll be watching the parade, just like we watched it together last year. He'll be watching me. And if I look miserable, if I look hopeless, he'll never forgive himself for letting me take his place.

So I can't look like I've accepted my fate – even if the truth is that I have. That I'd be stupid not to. So I do my best to smile as one of the Capitolites helps me undress and wraps something around my shoulders. My hands explore the fabric that's fastened around my neck. Some sort of cape, made of … I'm not sure, really. But something soft.

"What color is it?" I can't help asking. I'm not going to see it, of course, but I can still imagine. My fingers clasp the brooch that fastens the cape around my neck. "What does it look like?"

It's a moment before they answer. Maybe they're trying to figure out if I'll understand if they describe it in colors, or if I've always been blind. A bit silly, really. I mean, unless I was born without eyes. Which could happen, I suppose. But the scars, I imagine, would make it pretty obvious that that wasn't the case…

"Blue," one of them answers at last. "The cape's blue, and the brooch is gold."

Better than nothing. "Dark blue? Light blue?"

"Navy blue," a second one answers. "Like the tribute's uniforms last year."

Of course. I should have figured that out. Dark blue, like the Capitol's uniforms during the war. They've already assumed, since I'm from District Two, that I'm a loyalist. The same assumption that Jayda and Titus made on the train.

Usually, that would be a fair assumption, I suppose. District Two wasn't particularly well-known for having a lot of rebel supporters. Seven, Ten, Twelve … but not District Two. It probably hasn't even crossed their minds that my family might have sided with the rebels. That that's the entire reason that I can't see their silly little outfit…

But I don't tell them that. If they want to assume I'm a loyalist, let them. I learned my lesson about being too vocal about the rebellion. Well, sort of. If it were just my life at stake, I'd tell them exactly what I thought of the Capitol and the President and especially the Games.

It's not just my life, though. If the Games last year taught us one thing, it's that it's not just about the tributes in the arena. Our actions have consequences for our families and friends back home … and maybe even for complete strangers. Silver's actions in the Games led to the anti-rebel sentiments back in Two growing even fiercer. She couldn't have imagined that. And I don't blame her for what happened. But I'm not about to make the same mistake.

Because it would be stupid – really stupid – to go through all this effort to save Clarence's life, only to have him punished for my mistakes. I volunteered to keep him safe, and that's what I'm going to do – even if it means swallowing my pride and pretending to be a good, loyal citizen. If that's what it takes to ensure his safety, then it's worth it. He's worth it.

I take a deep breath, calming my nerves as the three of them put the finishing touches on my outfit, which seems to consist of that blue cape, some sort of breastplate, and a pair of pants that feel like they're designed to look like armor. Some sort of tough leather, maybe. Probably blue, too. They're dressing me up like a soldier – the last thing I am. The last thing I ever wanted to be. And for now I'll have to pretend. But once I'm in the arena, how long will I really be able to keep up the act?

Rick Therald, 17
District Three

It's all I can do to try to keep up with their movements – turning here and there as the pair of them buzz around me like a pair of bees. Actually, they kind of look like bees, too – their black-and-yellow hair rather reminiscent of how Leopold's hair looked last year. Is that way he changed it? He didn't want to look like a bee? Makes sense, I suppose. I certainly wouldn't want to look like a bee. Too busy. Well, bzzzz-y.

Anyways, it's hard to believe there are only two of them. They're moving so quickly. The outfit started as a simple lab coat – white and plain and boring. I told them so. Meant it as a joke, but they seemed offended, and quickly buzzed off to get some more supplies – and maybe to tell Dina's stylists that they'd made a horrible mistake and needed to add some color.

So now the two Capitolites – I think I'll call them Bizz and Buzz – are hurrying to correct the mistake, and the lab coat is … well, at least it's no longer white. Their painting is a bit splotchy, but maybe it's supposed to represent some sort of experiment gone horribly wrong. Like the Games. Except they're not using enough red. That's good, I suppose. Wouldn't want to make it look like I'm already bleeding. That would be bad.

"Ta-da!" Bizz cries excitedly, stepping aside so I can look in the mirror while Buzz continues to fiddle with my hair.

I can't help but laugh a little when I see what they've done. There's paint dripping from the lab coat and onto the floor. The paint has even soaked clean through the coat and onto the white shirt and pants beneath it. My hair is sticking up, like I just got fried by whatever experiment I was cooking up. But at least it's not boring.

I suppose that's what they're going for this year. Because last year, despite the lights and the show, most of the outfits were a bit ordinary. Lots of dresses, lots of suits. And this … it's certainly not a suit. I suppose they decided that District Three meant scientists. And, sure, we have a lot of scientists, but there are so many other things they could have done.

I mean, if they wanted to go the science route, they could have dressed us up like a couple of lab mice – funny ears, tails, and all. Or they could have come up with some sort of experiment gone wrong – made us look like some sort of monsters. Or maybe some sort of mutts, like the panther that they let loose in the arena last year.

Shit, I hope there's nothing like that in the arena this year. That would be a terrible way to go. Not that there are too many good ways to go, I suppose. But being mauled by a mutt doesn't sound great. Then again, neither does being stabbed. Or clubbed to death. Or drowning in a swamp. Or—

Stop it. Okay. Breathe. Stop thinking about all the ways you might die. I'm not dead yet. Not yet. And tonight – yeah, tonight's going to be fun. Seeing all the other outfits, the other tributes dressed up – that'll be good. "Any idea what the other districts are dressed up as?" I ask Bizz and Buzz.

Buzz shakes his head. "Not sure. They probably wanted to keep it a secret, too. Don't want anyone stealing their ideas, you know."

So it's a competition for them, too. That makes sense. Maybe that's why they decided to spice things up a bit this year. Last year, District Two's costumes were definitely the most memorable. Maybe the rest of them decided they could do better.

And I don't know if this is better, but it's certainly a lot more interesting. And more interesting means it's more likely to catch the audience's attention. Which could be a good thing. But it also means the other tributes are likely to notice it. What are they going to think? Are they going to assume Dina and I are some sort of mad scientists?

No. Probably not. It's not like I'm going to assume anything about them based on their outfits, either. After all, they didn't have any say in them – any more than I had in mine. They really should give the tributes more of a say, but I don't mention that to Bizz and Buzz. They were offended enough by my last comment, and I don't want to get on their bad side, or they might dress me up as a bee or something during the interviews.

So I clap each of them on the back as Leopold comes to collect me for the chariot rides. "Looks good, boys," I grin, ignoring Leopold's expression. He's clearly not impressed by the outfits, but I'm not trying to impress him. In fact, tonight, I'm not trying to impress anyone. I just want to have some fun.

Lexi Concord, 15
District Four

They seem like they just want to have fun. The three Capitolites who are busying themselves drawing fish scales on my arms and legs – they don't seem to realize what they're preparing me for. That in a few days we'll be fighting for our lives, and that only one of us is going to survive.

And the worst part … well, the worst part is that I can't really blame them. Because, until the reapings, I was just as oblivious. Until my mother told me the truth, I thought the Games were just that – a game. That it was all for fun. That the tributes weren't really going to die.

That I wasn't really going to die.

I bite my lip a little, trying to keep myself from crying in front of them. I'm not going to die. I'm going to fight. I'm going to win this. I just have to try my best, and…

And what? It's not like the other tributes aren't going to try. Twenty-four of us are going to try our best to win, but only one of us will. Only one of us can. All of us are thinking – or at least hoping – that it's going to be us. I hope it's going to be me. But will it?

The Games last year weren't very kind to the rebels, after all. I'm not a rebel, of course. I didn't fight in the war. But my father did. He was a rebel, even though I didn't know it until after the reapings. Will that affect my chances? Will they assume that because he was a rebel, I am, too?

Am I?

It's not that I ever really liked the Capitol, but I never thought they were as bad as people said. But now that I know that the Games are real, now that I know that they killed my father … I can't just ignore that, like Jethro does. On the train, he said that he doesn't really care, as long as the Capitol leaves him alone. But even now that the Capitol isn't leaving him alone, he doesn't seem particularly upset – at least not at them.

But I am. Does that make me a rebel? Maybe. Or maybe it's normal to be angry when people tell you you're going to have to fight other teenagers to the death. Who wouldn't be angry, or scared, or at least nervous?

And I am nervous. As they paint the last of the scales on my arms, I realize just how much I'm shaking. It doesn't seem to have affected their painting, though. The scales on my arms are blue, matching the top of the blue leotard they gave me. My legs, though, they painted with green scales, and waist-down, the leotard is green.

Once I look in the mirror, I realize why. I look like a mermaid. The green on my legs is meant to look like a tail – and, when I stand with my legs together, it almost does. My hair is down, which surprises me for a moment. I don't usually wear my hair down. It looks good. Pretty, even. Maybe even beautiful. I can't help a smile as I stare at the reflection. It doesn't even look like me.

And maybe that's the point. They want to make me look different from the girl who was chosen at the reaping. And maybe I am different, now that I know the truth. Maybe it's not just their outfit that's changed the person looking back at me in the mirror. I twirl a little, and the three Capitolites giggle with glee. "You're ready," one of them nods approvingly.

But am I? Sure, I look a lot better now. But that's not really going to help me in the Games. All the costumes, the makeup, the lights – it's all just for show. And it's just for tonight. Tomorrow, we start training. Training for a fight to the death. And no amount of makeup and mermaid scales are going to prepare me for that.

All of that, though … it seems so far away. Maybe I'm not as prepared as I'd like to be, but there's nothing I can do about that right now. And maybe there's no harm in enjoying tonight. Or at least looking like I'm enjoying tonight. Maybe if I smile and wave enough, if I pretend to be enjoying myself, it'll be enough to convince the audience that I'm not a rebel.

Even if I am. Even if I'm just as angry as everyone else who was picked – maybe even more. I can't afford to show it. Not now. Because rebels don't survive the Games. They proved that last year. If I want to live – and I do – then I'll have to pretend. I'll have to go along with their Games for now. But if I make it out alive – then they'll be sorry.

Aria Barker, 16
District Seven

If I make it out of this alive, they'll be sorry. Leaves. There are leaves everywhere. Leaves on my dress. Leaves in my hair. Leaves tucked into the ends of my sleeves and the tops of my shoes. Red and orange and yellow – all autumn shades, like I'm a tree slowly losing its leaves in the fall. I get it – District Seven. Forests. Leaves. But this is ridiculous!

I told them as much, but the two of them didn't seem to care. And why should they? If I was given the task of making an outfit for a girl who could be dead in a few days, would I put my best effort into it? Would I listen to anything the unfortunate girl had to say? Probably not. So I don't really expect them to.

Or maybe … maybe they honestly don't realize just how silly it looks. Because they look just as bad – if not worse. The girl – she certainly doesn't seem like a woman, with all the giggling she's doing, and she doesn't look much older than me – has dyed her hair an alarming shade of neon pink, and her skin is covered in funny drawings. Her face is practically covered in different shades of makeup ranging from a relatively normal pink blush to a ridiculous green around her eyes. Doesn't she realize that makes her look seasick?

Probably not. And the boy doesn't look much better. In fact, they could practically be twins, except for the fact that his hair is purple rather than green. Maybe they are twins. They certainly act like it. Or maybe that's just how people act around here. Maybe Capitolites really are just as strange as everyone always says.

But General Tyrone … he didn't seem this strange. Harsh, maybe. Cruel, even, after what he did to the tributes' families last year. But at least his behavior seems … well, rational. He looks normal. He acts normal – apart from being a bit stiff. Compared to these two…

Maybe that's because of the war. He said he fought, after all. Maybe he's simply not used to this sort of ridiculous luxury anymore. Or maybe it's his age. Maybe he's just tired of it after so long.

Because it seems like the sort of thing you'd get sick of after a while. Maybe all this is fun for a little bit – as long as you're not the one getting dressed up as a damn tree – but how long can it really last? Is the Capitol really like this all the time, or only during the Games? What do they even do the rest of the year? How do they keep themselves busy when they're not being entertained by kids fighting to the death?

It's not like I'm going to ask them, of course. Not like I want to talk to these two. What I really want is to get away as quickly as possible. But it's clear that I'm not going to be able to do that until they're finished. But they have to be almost finished, right? It's not as if there's anywhere else they can put these leaves.

One of them wraps a scarf around my neck. Perfect. Now I don't just look like a tree – I look like a tree that's going for a walk in the autumn woods. I roll my eyes, but they don't even seem to notice. They're perfectly pleased with themselves.

After a few more minutes of them gawking at me, there's a knock on the door. I never thought I'd be happy to see General Tyrone. And maybe I'm not happy, but I'm at least relieved. Bentley is standing beside him, dressed in the same sort of ridiculous outfit, plastered with leaves, a burnt orange scarf wrapped around his neck. But he's actually … smiling. Is he enjoying this?

Or is he just better at pretending?

I've never been much good at that – pretending to like things that I actually don't. Don't usually see the point, really. Sure, it might make other people happy. But I'm the one who was just picked for a fight to the death. It's not my job to make these other little shits happy. It's my job to survive. Period.

Period? Or comma? Because in order to survive, I am going to have to make the audience happy. Or, at the very least, not make them angry. Because tributes who make the audience angry – who make the Capitol angry – aren't going to survive the Games. They proved that last year.

So I try to smile as the three of us head down the hall. I know I'm not going to enjoy this. Can't enjoy this. Even if I wasn't dressed in a ridiculous costume, I can't ignore what's about to happen in a few days. How can I be happy? How can I enjoy this?

I can't. And that's a fact. But maybe I can pretend to.

Phoebe Linden, 12
District Eleven

Maybe if I pretend I'm having fun, this won't be so bad. That's what I keep trying to tell myself. Maybe tonight will be fun, at least. Maybe I'll be able to forget – at least for a little while – what's about to happen to us. What's about to happen to me.

If so, though, it hasn't happened yet. Because I'm still shaking as the two Capitolites help me into a skintight dark brown outfit that covers me from the neck down, aside from my hands and feet. One of them drapes something over my shoulders. Some sort of wire, maybe, or a cord. The other one begins to twirl it around my arm, wrapping it almost like a vine around a tree.

Actually, that's exactly what it looks like, I realize as I glance in the mirror. I look like a tree – sort of – and they're covering me in vines. Makes sense, I guess. We have plenty of trees and vines in Eleven. I guess they're dressing everyone up to look like something from their district.

Which means One and Two will probably have the best outfits – again. District One's job is luxury, after all – there aren't many ways to go wrong with something like that. Technically, District Two is masonry, but they were dressed up like soldiers last year, so that's probably what they'll do this year. It's better than rocks, after all, and will probably make them look more ready for the Games.

Me, on the other hand – I just look like I would blend in if the arena happened to be a forest. That's not much good – unless the arena actually is a forest, of course. I guess I've just been assuming that the arena's going to be similar to last year. But maybe they decided to change it. They never really said, after all, whether they're going to use the same arena every year or do something entirely new. But they did burn down almost half the arena last year…

Well, two of the tributes burned down half the arena. Not intentionally – they were trying to smoke some of the snakes out of their hiding place so that they could eat them. But the fire got out of control. So if they are going to use the same arena, they probably had to rebuild part of it.

My guess, though, now that I think about it, is that they're going to do something different, anyway. Maybe they were always planning to. Because we saw what the maze looked like from the outside. If they used the same arena – and kept everything in the same place – we would know what to avoid. The marsh. The snakes. And we would know where there might be food – that the cactuses are actually edible. They wouldn't want to give us that sort of advantage.

Then again, if everyone knew where there was food, then that's where everyone would go, and that's certainly one way to get us to fight. Last year, the tributes got rather spread out in the maze by the end, and had to go looking for each other. Which made the Games last a bit longer, but maybe that's what they wanted. Maybe they wanted to draw it out. Maybe last year went exactly as planned.

I take a deep breath, fiddling with one of the vines wrapped around my arm. Exactly as planned. Twenty-three tributes dying – that was the plan. And it's still the plan this year. Everything else – the arena, the mutts, the costumes and the parades – it's all just a bunch of trapping. A way to make everyone forget what we're really here to do.

But I can't afford to forget – not for a moment. Not even now, when we're probably supposed to be having fun and enjoying ourselves. How can I enjoy this, when I know I'll be fighting for my life in a few days? How can I laugh and smile at the other tributes' costumes, when I know that any one of them could kill me?

Or that I might have to kill any of them. Because that's the only option, if I'm going to make it out of the arena alive. I'm going to have to kill. I'm going to have to kill some of them. Other kids – just like me. Just as scared. Just as desperate. Just as anxious to get back to their homes, their families. It's not fair.

But it's not supposed to be. None of this was ever supposed to be fair. The fact that poorer kids were more likely to be chosen, the fact that I'll have to fight tributes who are years older than me and twice my size, the whole idea of the Games in the first place – none of it is fair. The Capitol was never doing this to be fair. They're doing it because they can. Because there's no one who's going to stop them.

Isaac Swarthy, 16
District Twelve

Even these outfits aren't enough to stop me from thinking about what's really going on. In fact, as Ivone and I head for the chariots, I realize that, as the outfits go, what our stylists chose was rather normal. Everyone else looks like they're dressed in some sort of costume, but our stylists went with the same sort of black suit and black dress theme from last year – with a few modifications. Instead of plain black, there are wisps of grey all over my suit. I guess it's supposed to look like smoke. Smoke from coal – that makes sense, I suppose.

But it doesn't matter. None of it matters – the outfits, the chariots, the crowds. Because it's all just meant to distract us from the fact that, in a few days, we're going to be in the arena. We're going to be fighting each other. Killing each other. The fancy outfits, the delicious food, the warm beds – it'll all be gone. Only one of us will be coming out.

And if I want it to be me, then I can't afford to be distracted by any of this. I have to be on my guard. Even as I'm watching the other tributes, I'm not just looking at their outfits. I'm looking for threats. Looking for targets.

I've been doing that all along, of course. Ivone and I watched the other reapings on the train, and Z and I got a good look at the other tributes. But seeing them in person – it's different. Some of them look more confident than they did at the reaping, now that they've had time to process what's going on. Some of them look more nervous, as if the stakes have finally sunk in.

And some of them … some of them look like they're actually enjoying this. And not the ones who are putting on fake smiles for the cameras as we head to our chariots. Not the ones who are smiling simply because their escorts told them to. Some of them are actually laughing. Looking around in delight at the silly outfits. Some of them are actually enjoying themselves.

Maybe some of them have managed to forget – for now, at least – what we're really doing here. Maybe it simply hasn't sunk in – the idea that any of us could be dead in a few days. Or maybe they're just really stupid. That seems the more likely option for some of them.

Ivone, on the other hand, doesn't seem the least bit amused as we head for our chariot. Her outfit matches mine – except it's a long, flowing dress instead of a suit. But it has the same wispy smoke pattern. Maybe it's supposed to look dark. Mysterious. But next to the showier, fancier outfits the other tributes are wearing, it just looks a bit dull. Forgettable.

But maybe that's a good thing. Or maybe … maybe it just doesn't matter one way or the other. Last year, the girl from Twelve went unnoticed, and managed to survive until an unsuccessful attempt to steal from another tribute. The boy lasted even longer, and even managed to earn enough of the audience's attention to get a package sent to him on the third day.

But they still died. Both of them. All this show – the idea of vying for the audience's attention – it's ridiculous. But it's just as ridiculous for any of us to think that we're going to be able to stay out of the spotlight forever. In the end, it's not about how much attention we get. It's about what we do.

And what we do starts now. Once we step into these chariots, once the audience sees us for the first time since the reapings, once we start to interact with tributes besides our own district partners – then the Games really begin.

I want to think that I'm ready for it. That listening to Z will help keep me alive. That I'll be able to find an ally or two, play the game right. But the truth is that I'm not so sure. There's no way that anyone can be sure. We're only the second group of tributes in the Games, after all. There are so many uncertainties. So many unknowns. So many things they could have changed since last year.

"Ready?" Ivone asks as we take our places.

No. No, I'm not ready. Maybe I never will be. Maybe no one can ever really be ready for the Games. But damned if I'm going to admit it to her. I smile a little, hoping I look more confident than I feel. "I guess we'll find out."