A/N: The chariot rides won't last too long. For every character that doesn't have a POV in the chariot rides will have a POV in the interviews.

Annnnd, the POVs will get longer as we go along.

Marina's POV (District Two)

The stylists have made me out to be something I don't even recognize. I'm wearing a long white gown that reflects every bit of light that hits me. They've died my hair from dirty blonde to a darker brown, and my eyes are now greener than they were before. Emeralds, almost.

Trafford is in a matching white suit, which, although looks really nice on him, I don't know how we're representing the district of medicine. Maybe the white stands for something? Who knows? Does it really matter? These outfits will definitely catch the eye of the Capitol.

"Perrrrfect," the stylist I've been assigned to, Laurie, purrs. She reminds me highly of a cat. "Just perfect. TOUCH-UPS!" The three people who plucked every hair from my body appear from out of nowhere and start brushing more makeup onto my face, hairspray a few strands of my curly-ish hair to my head, and then disappear again.

Trafford is already perfect, apparently, because he doesn't need any touch-ups.

Since the day of the reaping, I've learnt a lot about Trafford. One is that he has some sympathy in him, unlike most of the other careers in this competition, and another is that he has horrible aim.

Well, I guess I haven't learned a lot about him, but I suppose it's the same difference.

That day on the train we were also introduced to our mentors. They were two guys, with seemingly a lot of conflict among each other. Paolo and Tarlin—they won two consecutive years, Paolo's being first. And since Trafford and I decided to be trained and coached separately, we each got our pick—Trafford obviously thought he got first pick, because he got Tarlin and I got stuck with Paolo.

Paolo's the arrogant, obnoxious, always-hung-over-and-wasted one.

In fact, as soon as he saw me, he rolled his eyes and took a puff out of the cigar hanging out the side of his mouth, saying, "Another freaking hopeful. I wish they would just all freaking give up already."

I found it a bit offensive, to tell you the truth.

"Turn, turn!" Laurie says, now. I turn, and the white gown catches the light and is really, really bright—even to me. I squint, and Trafford, who is leaning against the back wall, groans and looks away. "Bee-you-tee-full," Laurie sighs and claps her hands together. "Darrrrling, you two are ready for the chariots."

Tiffany's POV (District One)

The red dress I'm wearing has a bunch of ruby-looking gems on it, with big sleeves that hang down almost to my knees. If I had been wearing this dress when Abigail and I had been comparing our outfits, it's clear I would've won it. In fact, I'll make sure to blow a kiss to the cameras while we're in the chariots, just for her.

Keith has matching ruby pants on with no shirt. He doesn't need it. I'm sure the Capitol will love him as much without it, maybe more, because what's under his shirt is—well—impressive, if you know what I mean. Which I'm sure you do. Otherwise you're not that smart. No offence.

But when I see Keith, he doesn't make eye contact with me. He stares out into the space ahead of him; it appears that he wants nothing to do with me at all. This was how it was on the train ride here—we had a mentor named Ledger, who is more evil than Keith is. He insisted our two female victors would be the only two to mentor me, and he would be the only one to mentor Keith, end of story. Keith, of course, agreed.

I've realized that, considering I have no chance against Keith or those District Four tributes, I'm going to have to rely on being devious and people underestimating me. Jara, my favourite out of the two female mentors, says that this is my best approach at the games since I'm not the best at weapons.

She won a few years ago, so I'll have to just trust her.

I haven't made allies yet, and I'm not sure when I plan on it. Maybe during training or something. But as we ride the chariot, Keith and I, standing on completely separate sides and acting as if we don't even know each other, smiling and waving for the cameras and me blowing that extra kiss for Abigail while I twirl in my dress, I realize if I can get sponsors, what does it matter if I have allies? Sponsors are like allies, basically, aren't they? They help you out. Kinda.

I'm wondering what Keith and I looked like out there as I come off the stage. We hadn't been paying any attention to each other, despite what our stylist, Lattley had said earlier.

"Don't be strangers. You're a weird pair; embrace it to the rest of the Capitol. They'll enjoy that."

We hadn't embraced it.

"I like your dress."

I turn around and see the small girl from District Twelve looking at me. She's dressed in all black with dark makeup, which I find is one of the stupidest choices her stylist could possibly make, considering the lightness of her hair. They could have at least dyed her hair or something.

"Thanks," I say, and move so the rubies catch some of the lighting above us. Just to show it off.

She smiles and walks off to the elevator. She would be a cute little kid. Without the dark makeup. And the I'm-all-that attitude.

Whatever. I'll beat her in these games.

Robert Lark's POV

Mara still scares me a little. She's skinny. She hasn't gained any weight since we got here—and she's eaten a lot since the first day on the train. For the chariot ride she wears this red, short dress that has a big red bow tied at the back that brings out red specks in her eyes, and it makes her look more frightening.

My stylist, Hart, doesn't seem to like me. He says I'm ignorant to the reality of the situation when I tell him that the way they did my hair is all wrong—it looks much better down than up. In the end he makes the other three weird-coloured-skin freaks put my hair down because, and I quote, he "can't stand to listen to my little boy voice complaining about his hair anymore."

Moron.

When I win the games and my "little boy voice" is talking to all the districts about my noble victory, he'll see how wrong he is about me.

As we're leaving for the chariot ride, I'm telling him in detail how I do my hair at home and how it's always down and how all these girls are lining up for me. Like Madi. But in the end, when I'm telling him about Madi and all that, he starts yelling at me, right in front of Mara and the tributes from Districts Three and Eleven.

"I can't work with you!" He throws his hands in the air. I sigh. This is always happening to me. Jealousy. But I let him go on. "Get out of my face! I'm not designing your outfit for the interview! You think I'm doing anything for you?"

I sigh again. "Look, Hart—"

"And if you start talking about yourself in third person again, calling yourself the Robster, I swear I will walk out right now."

"Hart, I can't help it. Don't judge me for who The Robster is—"

He storms off.

A/N: Short, I know, but I fell asleep and woke up with a page written, and since I have two tests tomorrow I sort of need to study.

Sooo I promise the next chapter will be longer.

My school only goes to noon tomorrow, soo woo! (: