Back to Lloyd, now a resident of Borg Tower, for however brief a time. For the week they stay I think I'll go day-to-day, but not in the Games, because this story is long enough as is. But hey, you don't want to read this, right? Moving right along to Lloyd.

Chapter Thirteen: Lloyd

Not going to lie – my stylists kind of scare me. When they came through the wall in their weird costumes and brightly colored wigs I nearly had a heart attack. Their clothes are different, too, with the girls wearing incredibly short dresses that make me want to cover my eyes and the guy dressed like greasers from the old movies Dad and Mom like. My main stylist, or at least the one ordering around all the others, has yet to tell me her name, so I dub her Featherhead, due to the enormous plumage bursting from a tiara she wears over her poofed-up hair. The two other girls are Nose Ring and Candycane, who are donned in extreme piercings and a candy striped dress respectively. The one guy I call Elvis, after one of my dad's favorite singers/actors. He keeps slicking back his already grease-filled hair and tossing hopeful looks at Candycane, and I smirk. Young love, as my dad would say. The team puts me thorough a rigorous makeover, and soon I've been ushered out of the room to be escorted to my room.

Elvis walks with me though a newly made door and walks the hallway with me. He looks like he wants to make small talk but doesn't know what to say. What is there to say? I'm a poor tribute boy who's about to die in the Arena. He's a rich, important citizen of Borg Tower. Good luck? Are you nervous? At least you'll look good when you die?

Meandering down the hallway in silence, I begin to truly think about my state now. I'm a tribute going to the Arena. I'm going to train in the Training Hall like all the other tributes, eat like my predecessors, and be shuttled to the Arena to die. Not all of us are going to die, though. One will win. Who it is, though, I couldn't say.

We reach the end of the corridor and Elvis types in a keycode with a gloved hand. A new door materializes and we walk through it. Instead of concrete hallways I see my first view of Borg Tower.

The Lobby fills my vision, an enormous glass structure with a ceiling that must go up ten stories. In the middle of the room is a fountain of gold with water spewing out of invisible faucets, depicting Cyrus Borg standing over a miniature Complex, school building, and factory, holding a walking stick in one hand and the symbol of Borg Enterprises in another. The fountain glitters in the light and casts beams of dappled sunlight about the Lobby, making small spots on the walls and floors shimmer like a mirage. One wall is completely made of elevators. Two of these are encased in what looks like glass. The tribute elevators, surely. Can't have a tribute loose in Borg Tower.

I take a step forward and a Nindroid grasps my arm, fixing me in place. Elvis waves a little, somewhat awkwardly. "I'll see you soon. Y'know, before the interview. Um…Bye?" He ends his sentence like a question, as if unsure he will see me again. I wave with my free hand and Elvis jogs away to make a new door, leather boots clicking in the echoing loudness of the Lobby.

Glancing up, I see long pillars of light hanging from almost invisible strands in the ceiling, lighting the Lobby. Near the elevators is a welcome desk, where Pixal and a few other secretaries sit. I wrinkle my nose as I look at Pixal, at her hands as they write on a clipboard. The hands that drew my name. The hands that fated me to die. The Nindroid pulls roughly on my arm and begins to walk to the glassed-off elevators.

"A message from President Borg: You will be taken to your elemental floor. Each element has an individual floor. All-Element is floor number 99. Your stylist and mentor will be waiting for you in your suite." Mentor? Featherhead and Borg never mentioned a mentor. Nevertheless I allow the Nindroid to drag me to the elevators and watch as he performs a retinal scan – despite his having no "real" eyes – and upon completion he pulls me through the keypad-made door and to the elevator. My Nindroid escort presses the "up" button, steps back, and stands straight upright, clicking his feet together smartly. And we wait.

I run a hand through my hair nervously, feeling the newly trimmed ends. The Nindroid makes no comment as we wait for the elevator, and likely he won't. Talking to a tribute – that action is not one of his commands from Borg. Maybe last year the tributes could speak to their guards. Exchange names, elements, favorite foods or colors or something. Anything! Looking at the Nindroid, I see the empty abyss that stands there, void of anything – the abyss I will soon fall into myself.

Our elevator arrives, finally, and the Nindroid steps in first, a clear sign of his dominance. This is his home turf. Borg's rules. I watch the number '99,' clearly lettered, pop up on the enormous plate of numbers that takes up a whole wall of the elevator. I halfway consider pressing more buttons just to be antagonizing, but the Nindroids look easily capable of injuring me and one look from those red, mismatched eyes and I'm rooted to the spot. The elevator shudders and zips away from the floor with incredible speed. I stumble and throw a hand out to catch myself, palm smacking against the glass. Steadied, I turn and watch the Lobby and other floors disappear from beneath me and fade into oblivion. Colors blur and mix, blending with the new floors, balls of light appearing for only a fraction of a second before winking out like tiny stars. I enjoy watching the jewels of light crop up on random floors and dance around the elevator before falling down to the Earth. The Nindroid stands straight and tall, facing the elevator's closed doors. I see the light-spheres illuminate his eyes, but they reveal only deeper darkness. Borg's creations have no appreciation of beauty. They have no need to.

The floor '99' comes all too soon. With a shudder the elevator stops itself and the Nindroid marches to the door, which opens at his command. I gasp at the sight that lies before me – the suite for the All-Element tributes.

A waterfall covers the entire back wall, gurgling over grey-toned stones that glisten in the light. The All-Element emblem is emblazoned on everything – the floor tiles I step on, the huge hanging lamps that sway above me, and even on the wooden walls, cleverly hidden in the wood grain. The walls are solid wood, like planks, giving the room a cabin-like feel. Warm, dim light fills the entire space, bringing out the mellow colors and darker tones of the room. A table stands in the middle of the atrium, on which sits two envelops, lettered just like the '99' in the elevator: Lloyd and Arden. With a squeak the Nindroid escort turns on his heel and presses the down button for the elevator, leaving me in silence. I'm still admiring the atrium when a voice breaks the silence.

"Done gawking? If ya look like that in the Arena you'll be dead like squat." A black-haired man, maybe thirty, and ruggedly handsome, strolls casually through one of the two side doors and looks at me suspiciously. "Wonder how we got you. Things are changing, though…"

"Got me?"

"You know." He waves a hand as if my question is of trivial importance. "Reaped. Chosen. Honored." His lip curls and he glares at me. "I'll take it you're Lloyd."

"You've taken correctly." I reply icily, matching his glare. Much to my surprise, he claps.

"Good, good. I like that. Shows you've got some spunk. People like a rebel."

"Not today."

"Borg doesn't like a rebel. But the people?" Rebellious activity will get me killed. Then again, I'm going to die at any rate.

"The name's Finn. Finn Cordova." Finn runs a hand over his whiskered chin, looking down at me with his grey eyes, but no longer glaring, which I appreciate. "You were an All-Element victor?" I guess on a whim. "Age fifteen. Hunger Games X, can't remember the number. Not like anyone keeps track. But yeah, I won. You're wondering how?" Which is exactly what I'm wondering, so I hastily shake my head. "No, uh, sir. Mr. Cordova." Finn chuckles, as if I'm a cute puppy he's watching chase its tail. My expression hardens and he stops.

"First off, it's just Finn. No Misters, no sir's. Got it?"

"I think I can handle that."

Finn nods approvingly. "Good. No more nodding, it looks to submissive, like you're scared." I catch myself nodding and reply, "Yes, sir – uh, Finn." My mentor smirks. "Now that that's out of the way, let's get to mentoring. Your room is on the right. Don't accidently go into Arden's. Your stylist is here, too, piece of work if I've never saw one. Wanted to give you a bowl cut, go for more cutesy so you can get sponsors out of pity." Finn snorts and rolls his eyes. "Pathetic. Just get yourself killed even sooner if you're weak." He opens the door for me and I step into my personal suite, but before I can get a good look at it he shoves me into a small maintenance closet and slams the door.

"Listen to me, kid. You're the weak one, the one they'll all go for first."

"They?" I can't tell in the dim light, but I think Finn rolls his eyes again. "Usually the Light tributes form a sort of pack with other strong tributes and they go around hunting the weak ones. I've got my bet on Daphnes, the Earth two, the Fire boy, and maybe a few others. Strong, but also smart." Finn seems to loose concentration for a second, glancing around the room not nervously, like he's looking for bugs or cameras, but thoughtfully.

"This year's tributes are different. Last year's pack of strong ones were all brawn. No brains. This year's Career pack candidates are all sort of both. You can tell, can't you? They look intelligent. Usually a good trick or two can dupe a Career, but not this time. Lloyd, they think." I shrug, which is hard to do in the small space of the maintenance closet.

"Don't we all?" Finn lets out a short breath of air. "Granted. But I mean really think. Ask questions. Find the faults in society. Recognize patters, foresee changes, know things. Have you ever thought like that?" I stammer for a response. "I-I don't know. Maybe?" My mentor grabs my arm and pulls me out of the closet. "If you want to win in the Games you have to think. I'm here to teach you how to."

Learning to think is much harder than I expect. Finn shows me the living room, from which the kitchen and bedroom branch off from, and asks me to find the pillow that has been the most recently sewn. "You've got to be joking." I stare at him incredulously. "I found it the second we walked in. Do it." Scowling, I snatch up a pillow at random. "There's your pillow." Finn catches it and tosses it aside. "Try again."

I turn back to the pillows and choose the largest one, but before I can throw it at Finn he says, "Try again." I glare at the pillows as if they have each done me a personal wrong and wish with all of my heart that they would just burn into ashes. A plushy silver pillow sits near the edge of the couch and I grab it. "Good." Finn says from behind me, and I turn.

"Wait. I got it?"

"Tell me how you chose that one."

"Instinctive thinking is good for now, but we'll have to help you be able to manipulate it. To see patterns and draw conclusions. To recognize a situation and change it to your liking. If you can think you can win." Finn looks over me approvingly. "Now, c'mon. Featherhead has some things she'd like to discuss with us about your look." My jaw drops as I stare at Finn. "How…" He winks, then gestures me to the kitchen. I follow, still in awe at his knowing my stylist's nickname.

Maybe thinking could help me win this thing.

"Bowl cut?" "NO!" Despite Finn's obvious adverse feeling to the cute-and-cuddly look, Featherhead seems intent on making me look as juvenile and innocent as possible. "I'm the stylist here!" She cries, frowning, which looks strange with her permanently upward-pointing lips. "Yes," Finn says patiently, "But we need him to looks strong. Older. More powerful." "Hmph!" Featherhead scoffs. "I can do it. But he'll get more sponsors if he looks young." "Young means vulnerable. Those sponsors won't be any good if he's dead." My stylist's already wide eyes widen even more. "You're not saying…" "Please. Just this one tribute. I swear you'll do him a solid by making him look better." "Fine! But I still like bowl cuts."

I watch Featherhead's hands pull out makeup bottles and brushes, and she suddenly tips over a can of hairspray. With lightning-fast reflexes I catch the can, like I already knew what was going to happen. Patterns. Actions. I look over at Finn and he grins. Have I begun to think? Or am I all the more foolish for believing so…

Soooo... Will Finn make a trader out of Lloyd? Or is he just fooling himself? Or this, or that, or whatever, questions questions questions. And here we conclude this chapter, wonderful reader. Until next time!