Author's Note: This chapter is a little... different. Hopefully it's not too sappy.

Franse Bonnefoy, District 5

I quite like the Training Centre. The tributes don't get much peaceful interaction besides these three days, so this is the only time I have to get to know my fellow competitors.

...And by "get to know", I mean "flirt with".

I'm certainly not one of those tributes that just woos the ladies for the sake of alliance. No, no, I'm much more genteel than that. I only tell them what they want to hear, and act like any other respectable gentleman.

But should they want to ally with me after that, I certainly won't object.

I'm not going to charm the Career girls—it's likely they'll see my courting as a shallow attempt to make an alliance, and they're generally not the most beautiful, anyway—and I'm not going to flirt with anyone under 14—any gap more than two years is a little much—so that leaves six girls to... acquaint myself with.

And lunch, the perfect opportunity, is arriving now.

I don't take any food for myself yet; it's likely to get in the way, and I'm still not hungry after my massive, Capitol-style breakfast. Instead, I slowly finish up at the station I've occupied, the edible plant station, then head to the tables.

The first acceptable lady I come across is Maria, from District 3.

Yes, I know all the tributes' names. It would be unspeakably rude not to, when I've had the chance.

"Hello, Miss Maria," I start, flashing my winning smile as I slide into the seat next to her.

Maria glances at me, then turns back to her food without any other acknowledgement.

Hm. She'll be a tough one, I'm sure.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your meal, but I... couldn't help but notice how beautiful you look." I smile again.

"Sure." Maria takes a bite of her food, then sets her fork down. "Come talk to me when you're man enough to ditch the girl hair."

"Girl hair?" I squeak reflexively. I-I don't have girl hair! Just because I care to groom my beautiful, blonde locks better than the average man, and just because it's almost shoulder-length—fashionable, I assure you—doesn't make it girl hair! "I-I'm afraid you're mista..."

Before I can finish my sentence, Maria's moved. Next to her district partner.

Well... That's one girl I won't be charming.

I shake my head, stand back up, and look for the next belle.

The closest is Peyton, of District 11. She's sitting next to her district partner as well... But that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

I take a seat next to her.

"Hi." She nods at me. "Any particular reason you're sitting here?"

"I just..." I lean in closer to her and drop the volume of my voice a bit, "wanted to make the acquaintance of a beautiful girl."

Peyton pulls back, but has a giggle fit in the process, trying to muffle herself with her hand but failing.

There. A more amicable lady.

I lean back a bit, resting my head on my hands. "Your name is Peyton, non?"

She nods. "And you're... um... Sorry. Wasn't paying much attention..."

I chuckle. "No need to apologize. My name is Franse, and I am—" I take her hand and kiss it—it's a bit old-fashioned, but the ladies never object—"pleased to make your acquaintance."

Peyton giggles again.

"If you don't mind me distracting you from the imminent make-out session, it's about time to start talking strategy."

I turn toward the speaker, Peyton's district partner, who's seated across from us.

"Our strategy," he continues, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Philan!" Peyton exclaims. "We weren't going to..." She shakes her head and turns to me. "Sorry, Franse. He's right; we have to get talking."

"Understood," I reply smoothly, maintaining my smile. Ugh. Of course someone has to interfere. But, I still have a lot of ladies to meet, so I might as well continue with that. "I will visit with you later, then, Miss Peyton—that is, if you don't mind."

"I don't," Peyton replies with smile.

"Then I will see you later."

Wynd Blune, District 5

My district partner's one weird cookie. He'll tell every girl how amazing she is, apparently without realising it's not as sincere with so many people. I don't know how anyone could fall for him.

I definitely didn't fall for him. At all. Nuh-uh. Nope.

...Not for long, anyway.

I mean, how am I supposed to believe I have his heart when he runs off to flirt with someone else? Ridiculous.

Look at him now. He's finished hitting on two girls and has now moved on to the girl from 8.

Wait... Isn't she wearing an engagement ring...?

Oh, boy. This should be interesting.

I push my food to the side and watch.

"Hello, Miss Veta," Franse purrs, sliding into the seat on her left—her right is taken by her district partner.

"Hi," Veta replies bluntly, not bothering to look over at the newcomer.

Oho. First sign of rejection. But I don't think Franse knows to stop.

"How is the beautiful lady in front of me this fine day?" he continues, flashing his gleaming smile.

Now her district partner is looking pissed. Hey... Is that an engagement ring he's wearing, too?

Oh. O-Oh, crap. They... They aren't... Are they?

I turn back to my food, though my stomach's squirming now.

A fine day! What kind of fine day precedes a bloody competition that-that rips apart a future marriage?

Cr-Crap. The Hunger Games... I always thought the competition was a little, a little, mind you, interesting, but... to-to kill people for it? To-to tear apart all these people and their weddings and their friendships and-and-and—

"Don't you dare talk to my fiancé like that!" Veta's sudden roaring jerks me out of my thoughts, and I hear something crash. Looking back toward the table, I see a broken, slimy half-circle in Veta's hands, and little chips of white flying through the air. Franse is freaking out, saying something about his "beautiful, silky hair", and scrabbling his hands through his hair, which is sprayed with more of the white shards as well as something mushy that was probably once chicken pot pie. A few guards are rushing in, restraining Veta, who's still raging.

"Let me go!" she protests loudly. "I'm going to freaking kill him!"

"Well, wait a few days, and you can," one of the guards growls. "But no fighting is allowed in the Training Centre."

Veta snarls, but she's stopped trying to throw off the guards. I guess the thought of being encouraged to kill Franse later brought her back to the situation at hand.

"Don't you ever talk to Austria like he doesn't deserve me," she spits at Franse, who's gotten just enough crap out of his hair to pay attention.

"I wasn't... I wasn't implying that," Franse defends breathlessly. "I..."

"Shut up!"

Franse complies.

Well, that was... interesting. I bet things like that don't happen every year.

But, how would I know? They don't televise what goes on here, or if they do, I've never bothered to watch. All they show is the beautiful chariot ride and the magnificent costumes and the charming interviews... And then they cut straight to the violent, bloody Cornucopia race.

I don't understand any of this. Why would people want to watch how beautiful the districtgoers can be, and how human they really are, only to cheer for whoever brings their deaths?

Like I said, the competition is kind of interesting. The shifting alliances, how only one can be left standing... But why does it literally have to be the last one standing? Why do innocent lives have to be ripped away from their families, their horrible deaths televised to traumatise their loved ones more?

None of it makes sense. None of it at all.

The only thing I know is that, in a few days, I'm going to be in the running. I'm going to be in that competition.

And, more likely than not...

I won't be the last one standing.