My stylist accosts me as soon as get out of the shower. "Madame Lucia is going to shave your head."

I sigh. I'm exhausted. I've spent the entire day prancing in front of Pan in heels and an ill-fitting skirt, learning how to sit like a lady, how to cross my legs, adjust my shoulders, breathe. Apparently I need more work than the female tributes from my district usually do, having never taken Games prep classes at the Institute. Dido took me after lunch to focus on prepping for the interviews. I give answers about strategy without giving too much away, answers on fashion that make it sound like I know what I'm talking about, and answers on what type of tree I would be if I had a choice, although I suspect that was mainly for my mentor's amusement. Brutus put Orion and me through the usual evening workout, and I'm sore, cranky, and entirely out of patience.

"You want to what now?" I snap as I toss my towel onto one of the suede leather armchairs.

Madame Lucia's lips are pursed and I notice with trepidation that she has a prep trolley with her. "Shave your head. Your public image is entirely too soft, my child, and you need a trademark look that will set you apart. We will debut it at the interviews tomorrow so you're identifiable at the Games."

My hand instinctively goes to my ragged hair and I'm back at the Reaver camp, smelling sour breath and body odor as a knife cuts through my braids. The scissors and shears and razors on the trolley mock me.

"It will be an advantage in the arena, my child. Nothing for an enemy to grab onto."

Kill them all, Baria.

"Fine," I mutter. "Do whatever you want."

"It's not what I want, my child. It's what's most advantageous for you."

I take a seat at one of the dining room chairs. "Don't call me your child. I'm a grown woman."

"Miss Malachite were that true you would not be here."

I grit my teeth and Madame Lucia do her work. Black locks of hair tumble to the floor like an early summer's rain.

"Can you leave…anything?" I ask.

Madame Lucia doesn't reply, but pauses for a moment for consideration. Ten minutes later she hands me a mirror. My bald scalp glistens under the lights, except for a strip of half-inch hair Lucia left running down the middle. I touch it gingerly.

"It certainly feels….different."

"It will do," says Lucia. "Ah, you're here Pan. Good. And you have everything?"

I look towards the lift where our escort is stepping out of the elevator with several boxes and a dress bag. He's not in costume tonight and he raises an eyebrow when he sees me. "Distinctive. I like it. Here, put these on quickly while Lucia does your makeup."

He tosses the bag onto my lap. I pull out a scarlet evening gown, red as blood with diamond accents. "What's all this?"

"Don't ask questions, my child, we don't have the time right now," says Lucia as she pulls out several makeup kits. "Do as your escort says."

I bristle at her patronizing but nevertheless strip down and awkwardly put on the dress. It's more low-cut than anything I've ever worn, but after the parade I hardly feel exposed. Pan helps me into low heels and clips a couple of ruby earrings onto my earlobes as Lucia touches up my make-up. Once Madame Lucia declares me fit to be seen, my escort leads me to the elevator and presses the button for the atrium.

I'm starting to suspect I'm not going to an impromptu Teen Games Gab photoshoot.

"This is quite illegal, isn't it?" I say as I wobble across the dark, empty atrium. "I can't imagine the Capitol would generally be thrilled with tributes sneaking out of the Training Center before the Games."

"As long as you are with me, no one is sneaking," says Pan shortly. "I am your escort. I am escorting you."

Sure enough, the security personnel at the doors nod us through. There's a limousine waiting on the drive outside.

"I suppose there are advantages to being from the loyal district," I say as a valet holds the door open.

Pan smirks. "You're about to find out just how much."

"Where's Orion? He's not coming?" I ask as the limo pulls away and takes us into the heart of the Capitol.

"He and Brutus snuck into the gymnasium for some sparring. It's a tradition, apparently. But your team thought your presence would be more useful elsewhere tonight."

I nod. I haven't seen my mentor since interview practice, but the hair, the dress, the sneaking away (no matter what Pan says to the contrary), they have the reek of Dido all over them.

It's my first close look at the Capitol, not counting the car ride from the train station to the Training center, and I unabashedly press my face against the window and gawp. The people I see are so grotesque and altered they almost seem a different species. Women with leopard spotted skin, hats three feet tall, noses so flattened they're almost removed. Men with spun-gold hair, suits made of white fur, horns and talons and tails surgically grafted onto their bodies. Many are nude. No doubt the 'body honesty' fad is still pulling strong. There are parties and concerts and raves, and above it all screens are playing clips from the parade and reapings. I see myself step onto the stage over and over and over…

We pull up onto a crowded curb. The valets step forward and assist Pan and me out of the limo. My jaw drops a bit. A massive gold and crystal palace looms over us, illuminated in purple and blue lights. The line to enter stretches around the block. Twenty foot high letters flash out the name 'Samson's.' Maura used to talk wistfully about the Capitol's most famous and exclusive nightclub. It seems I'm about to get the insider look.

Pan tells me to stay put and goes off to speak to the bouncers. I tug nervously at my dress until a slender arm links itself in mine.

"Imagine finding you here, Enobaria," says Citrine as she flashes a dazzling smile to someone snapping photos. She's wearing a gold net with diamonds stitched in patterns that preserve her modesty. Mostly.

"I didn't expect to be," I whisper. "What's going on?"

"Oh just a bit of preemptive advertising for the sponsors," she giggles. "It's a bit of a District One tradition. I understand your own district prefers to whack at each other with blunt objects, but I must say I prefer the company to Mercury. He's at the racetrack. I like the new haircut, by the way. You look all fierce. Now smile. The public is watching."

I paste on my biggest faux smile as Pan rejoins us with a tall, regal woman I recognize as the District 1 escort. "Ladies, this way," he motions. Men in dark suits surround us, partially concealing us from view. They escort us past the line directly into the glittering nightclub and casino.

Money was a bit of an abstract concept in District 2. From what I remember of my family life before the landslide we were never exactly poor. And all our needs were provided in the Institute, along with a small stipend every cadet receives for our service. But luxury, wealth, I didn't understand the concepts until now. Fountains of gold and platinum-plated walls, diamonds as plentiful as sand and emeralds the size of chicken eggs, silk and samite and fur and perfumes and spices and wine all flying past me in a whirlwind of excess. Citrine grips my arm tightly. She's looking around at the crowds with a hungry gaze in her eyes.

High above the crowds on the casino floor is a screen with the tributes faces, scores, and current odds. I'm given a one in eight chance. Orion is one in four. The worst odds are for the boy from 3, with one in three hundred twenty-six to survive the bloodbath.

My head hurts.

The escorts lead us into a private lounge, a large oak-paneled room with leather armchairs and couches. It's filled with about a hundred people not including the Avoxes, more conservatively dressed and generally older than the crowds outside. Pan situates us near a marble fireplace and presses drinks into our hands. I sip mine. It's just carbonated water.

"Stay here and don't call attention to yourself," says Pan. "I'll send over a few people for some nice conversation. And play nice," he adds. "Your life might depend on these people on a few days."

"Nervous?" whispers Citrine as our escorts disappear into the crowd.

"Wouldn't tell you if I was," I reply, and she gives me her predator's grin.

"Ah, the wonder team," says a young man in an evergreen suit as he approaches us. "What an honor. Are you ladies ready for the fun in a couple of days?"

"More than you know," says Citrine. I just keep trying to smile.

He's wearing too much cologne and his hair is unpleasantly greased-up into a spiral, but overall he's not bad conversation. He's an import official and has spent time in the Little Capitol in District 2 and we exchange pleasantries about the local beer. He promises both of us a small sum before the start of the Games and more if we both make it past the first week and moves on.

The next potential sponsor is a woman whose many surgeries can't entirely cover up her immense age. "Urgulana, my poppets. Such a pleasure. Happy Hunger Games to you both." She eyes us shrewdly. "I hope you'll both understand that I'm dedicated to dear Orion this year. Such a handsome boy. So handsome. But I'll tell you what. A nice gift to whomever can get him out of his trousers first! Make sure the cameras get a good angle too."

Citrine barely manages to muffle her laughter. I give a tight smile and promise to do my best. Urgulana gets a picture with us and departs. Our next visitor is a much younger woman, naked except for strings of pearls. She introduces herself as Larissa Farrar and gives us a cold leer.

"Normally I'm a dedicated District Four supporter," she says as she fingers her pearls. "But certain…sources indicate the girl at least is not a contender this year. Thoughts?"

I smile. "I think you must have some well-placed sources."

She returns the smile. "Well, my contribution has already been confirmed with your mentors. On the other hand, I've owed Cora Shutter and District Eight a bad turn for a few years now. What do you say to 10,000 sesterces for taking down the little girl at the bloodbath?"

I feel like a fist hit my stomach before I was ready and I sway on my feet. "If…If you say," I manage to stammer. Larissa gives me a kiss on the cheek.

It goes on. 15,000 sesterces for anyone who murders five or more at the bloodbath. A nice picnic lunch if we make a kill last over two hours. One lecherous old man promises to keep us supplied with water for the first week if he can feel our breasts. Citrine allows it, I do not.

Citrine gets more and more cheerful as the evening goes on. I'm grateful because I'm the opposite. At least District 2 has a reputation for quiet, intimidating killers but I'm not convinced I don't just look nauseous. My stomach is rolling and my head is spinning and there's a boy who can't be any more than fourteen eagerly asking if we think we'll manage any decapitations this year.

Reavers.

All I can see are the Reavers.

These people are just Reavers in wigs and pearls, gawping at me through the bars of the Cage, screaming at me to kill, kill them all.

I disentangle myself from Citrine. "Be back."

"Where are you going?" she hisses as the boy waxes eloquent on how his stepfather bought him a real arena knife two years ago.

"Bathroom," I mutter and hurry off, ignoring the sounds of indignation as I push past the crowds haphazardly. There's a discrete sign near the back of the lounge and I stumble into the woman's lavatory, barely making it into a stall before I vomit spectacularly into a gold-plated toilet. A recorded voice asks if I'd like a breath mint.

There's more vomit on my chin and I wipe it off with my hand. "Stupid, stupid, Baria," I mutter. Weak. That's what I am. Weak and sentimental. I'm here to do a job and that's what I'm going to do. I'm here to earn my revenge and nothing is going to keep me from it. I'm here –

I vomit again. At least there's not much left in my stomach.

"Not a very good showing there, District Two," says a voice from outside the stall.

I pull myself up and stumble out to the sinks. There's a young woman adjusting her makeup in the mirror. A girl, really, she can't be much older than myself. Long black hair pours down her shoulders, and her black eyes match the simple evening gown she's in. She looks vaguely familiar.

"I thought Careers were supposed to be tough. Dangerous. Eager for the glory of victory in the arena."

I splash some water from the marble sink onto my face. "Ate something funny. Fish, maybe."

"Ah, of course," she replies as she adjusts her lipstick. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you might be a little scared. Fish. Of course.

"I'm not scared," I say, a little too quickly.

She smirks. "Then you're stupid. And you still have a little something there," she adds as she touches her chin.

I angrily splash more water on my face, getting half of it over myself. The woman tuts.

"Now you've gone and smudged up your make-up. Fix that or the tabloids will tear you up like shark mutts."

I look at my smudged eyeliner and grimace. "I don't…I don't know how."

She gives a huge sigh. "Come here." She wets a paper towel and wipes my face, then does a few adjustments. "Better. Now back out to your adoring public."

She doesn't need to tell me, I'm halfway out the door already. I stop near the edge of the crowd, looking for a familiar face. I see Pan talking to a man with the largest belly I've ever seen and start to move towards him, but a hand grips my arm in an iron grip.

"I wouldn't," whispers the woman from the bathroom. "That's the Minister of the Courts. Not someone you want as a sponsor. If you make it out he'll practically own you. See how your escort is trying to get away?"

All I see is Pan engaged in polite conversation, but I'm hardly adept at picking up those clues. I look for Citrine but she's nowhere in sight and now my head is pounding again.

"Stand with me in the corner until he's done," says the woman. "No one will bother us."

"How do you know?" I whisper even as I follow her.

Her smile is tight. "Because I'm rather out of favor at the moment and no one wants our dear president frowning down at them by association."

She's right. I see a few eyes flicker over to us, a few people move hesitantly in our direction, but they think better of it and turn away. My head actually starts to feel better.

"Thanks," I say to my companion.

She gives me a look with eyes far older than anyone her age has a right to have. "Don't get used to it, District Two. Your future is either a pine box, or this." She gestures at the room.

I bristle. "My future is in my district. In my home."

She gives a cruel chuckle. "Silly little bird. It's precious. Don't fool yourself, the moment you stepped onto the stage at the reaping, they owned you. I hope the glory and the fame and honor for your district are worth it."

I raise my chin. "You have no idea why I'm here. Do not pretend to."

She gives me a queer look. "You know what? I believe you. But I'm warning you now. Whatever you think you're going to do after the Games, whatever you're here for, they will take it and twist it and destroy you with it. Think about that when your little alliance crumbles and you're fighting for your life. It's not life you're fighting for. And that's something none of your mentors will ever tell you."

A hundred questions and accusations pop into my head but at that moment a young man in a dark suit materializes out of the crowd.

"Cecelia?" he says. "Mags is waiting at the roulette wheel. She says she has something to discuss with you."

"Tell her I'll be right along," says the woman. "I'm making friends."

The young man gives me one cold look and disappears.

"Blight doesn't really like Careers," she says, but I ignore this in favor of gawping at her.

"You're Cecelia Rheys," I say. I knew she looked familiar. I'm kicking myself for not recognizing her right away. But in all fairness when I think of the Victor of the Fifty-Seventh Games, I remember a screaming, half-insane girl decapitating her ally, not this woman smiling coldly at me.

"Surprised?" she asks. "Don't be. If you're lucky you'll never run into me again."

"What are you doing here?" The words fall out of my mouth. "I thought you'd be…um…"

"Cradling my sister and whispering sweet sorrows into her little ears?" Cecelia shrugs. "There's a part of me that would like nothing more. And I'm sure I'll let that part out before the Games start, not that it's any concern of yours. But tonight I'm afraid I have rather important things to do."

"Sponsors. Right," I say.

She gives me a deeply amused look. "Yes, my dear. Of course. Sponsors." She looks back out over the room. "It looks like dear Pan has escaped the Minister's vile clutches. Run along now, District Two. You've taken up enough of my time."

She walks away, but I can't help myself. I call out "Cecelia!" She turns.

I don't know what to say. "During the Games, if I find your sister. I'll make it…" What? Painless? Quick?" "I'll make sure it's not something they remember."

For a moment something flashes in Cecelia's eyes, something vulnerable and almost human, and then it's gone. "A lovely sentiment. But that's not something you'll need to concern yourself with, little bird. Happy Hunger Games, District Two." She disappears.

As soon as she's gone people start approaching me again. I take a deep breath, adjust my dress and plunge back into the grasping hands of the Capitol.

AN: A shorter chapter this time around but I hope you all enjoy it. This chapter sort of stretches the limits of what's possible in canon, but I wanted Enobaria to face the reality of what she's doing in a situation where she can't avoid it. I actually didn't intend for Cecelia's cameo to correspond with her chapter in The Victors Project. A nice coincidence all around.