"Don't go in there," Crys says softly, as the pain of an injection hits my arm, "don't run into the middle when it starts. You deserve your shot at winning."
"And you don't?" I ask, rubbing the tracker inside my arm while the Hovercraft begins to whirr into motion.
"Seriously, I don't. You're a good girl. Besides, I don't think you'd stand a chance if we ever go face to face by the Cornucopia, and that's the last thing I'd want to happen," he says, flexing his knuckles out in front of him. They're calloused and reddened from the hours of sparring he's done during training.
"I don't think any of us deserve to die. We're just unlucky enough to get chosen," I say, leaning back and trying to avoid the intimidating stare of the Careers seated across me.
"Between you and me, I'd reckon you have a higher chance of actually winning this," he replies with a dejected voice, "I'm just here to give everyone a good show, and then die."
"Crys, I don't think I like shows anymore, and it'd pain me to put one on just to have a chance of going home"
"Don't you ever think about going home?" he asks, looking at his hands.
His words bring tears to my eyes as I think about everything that's been torn away from me: the taste of sprouts and cabbage, lavender coffee, cramped staircases and mazes of corridors to get lost in, even the Power Plant and its rusty charm. Most of all, listening to the comforting words of my mother, feeling the touch of my father's hand to my cheek, and seeing the brilliant smile Gase has which never fails to light up my day.
"All the time," I whisper, looking down and trying my best not to cry.
It's cold, Spartan, and devoid of all comfort. Everywhere the polished green tiles look upon me like a multitude of eyes, watching my every move intensely. After all, this room was built for the sole purpose of containing me. In the corner of the launch room a tube stands open, buzzing with an ominous hum and awaiting a Tribute to be fed into its gaping mouth.
"Awesome, I couldn't have asked to die in more comfort," I say to my stylist, putting on the last pieces of Arena clothes. The shirt fits nicely, the pants are nearly identical to the ones I use at work, and the boots are strikingly familiar to my old rubber work-boots, despite being made of soft leather.
"Don't count yourself out just yet," she says, slipping the jacket over my shoulders, "just survive until the feast and you'll be alright."
"You know?" I ask, my eyes widening. She places a finger on my lip in silence, looking over at the door where Peacekeepers are sure to be guarding the other side.
"You wouldn't have been chosen if Ray and Hertha didn't see something special in you," she says in a cryptic language meant to confuse whoever could potentially be listening in.
"I don't even know how far away the Feast could be. It could be days, even weeks before it happens. What if there're only a few Tributes left? Shouldn't I just try to win?" I ask.
She takes out a hair brush and motions for me to sit on her lap.
"This isn't the first time I've been a stylist, and I've never worked with a Tribute who went on to become a Victor," she says, brushing out my hair and tying them into Fox ears like how my mother used to do before Reapings, "but I've been in the Hunger Games industry long enough to be able to tell you this: no one really wins the Games. You start losing the moment your name gets pulled out. Winning the Games doesn't change anything."
My mind drifts back to the Mentors. Ray with his drunken habits and always trying to compensate for something. The guilt, either from the blood he has shed or the blood he has seen being shed under his watch year after year, must have put him into the deplorable state of perpetually attempting to gain redemption. Most people would think that Hertha fares better than him. But after the many weeks of looking past her immaculate dressing and into those empty eyes, I can only guess that it has something to do with her mysterious absences at night and the way she avoids my glances in the morning.
The touch of her hand to mine returns me to the immediacy of my fate. As she draws her hand away, I see something round and unrecognizable, until the warmth of its presence reminds me of my father.
"We had to re-submit it twice to the review board after it got rejected. It was too sharp and they thought it could be a weapon. By the time we had it filed down to an acceptable shape, it barely resembled the original token. This must mean a lot to you, so I hope you understand."
"No, it's perfect," I reply, examining the now-spherical black crystal ball bound with copper thread. It even comes suspended on a necklace, which I place around my neck and tuck beneath my shirt.
30 Seconds, a female voice buzzes from the loudspeakers.
I rise from her lap and look into her deep blue eyes. The memory of Gase comes through so strongly that I have to tear my eyes from hers and look upon her purple hair and pink lips to remind myself - this woman belongs to the Capitol. Still, the resemblance is uncanny, and it brings back the memory of our last moments together.
"Thank you," we say at the same time, before she wraps her arms around my trembling body in a tight hug.
"Good luck, although I don't think you'll need it," she says, holding my shoulders and leading me to the tube.
I turn around slowly when I reach the edge of the tube, just needing to look upon her face again as it's comforting to be reminded of Gase in my final moments. A false comfort perhaps, one that distracts me from the fact that I am going to die. My skin turns warm and a blush spreads across my face as I look at her lips and remember the feeling of Gase's against mine.
Fuck it, I'm dead anyway.
I only have to take three steps in her direction for her to know what I'm after. She bends her knees to put herself at my height, and our lips touch in a momentary explosion of pleasure cut short by the announcer beginning a 5 second countdown. I inhale deeply against her neck, trying to store enough of her cotton-candy scent in my lungs to bring into the Arena. The euphoric, heady pleasure of our kiss leaves me staggering with delight, and I stumble my way backwards into the Launch tube just in time for the doors to close around me.
The look on her face spells confusion. She touches her lips and looks down at the floor, wondering what the kiss meant. But as the Launchpad begins to rise, she walks over to me; her confused expression replaced by a big smile matched only by the one on my face. I can feel the warmth of her fingers on the glass as she touches them to mine for the last time.
At least I'm going to die with a smile on my face.