So... yeah. Finally getting around to the chapter. Sorry for the delay. School. *snorts*

Fun Fact of the Chapter: Four of the tributes—Thalia Trinket, Veras Valdez, Riley Rynne, and Kirby Knightly—have alliterative names. Or at least semi-alliterative names.

…..

Caprice Alexander, District Eleven

I feel so stupid. I mean, I know they're my allies, but giving away my high-and-mighty game plan to some of the more competent tributes in the arena doesn't seem like it's going to fare well for me. At all. Besides, the alliance was pretty much forced upon me, which—as shown by many a Career pack—is not good for stability. Bri and Jace don't seem like the type to stab a person in the back, but...

I lean back against the headboard of my bed and glance at the clock on the nightstand. Almost an hour until dinner, and nothing for me to do except worry about my competitors. Ack.

My eyes flit over to the booklet sitting next to the clock, and I reach for it. The Tribute Information Booklet. I had flipped through it a couple times last night before bed—it hadn't been very helpful, so I'd figured that I'd just watch them in training. I turn to Bri's entry and read it again, and then Jace's.

Their pictures say much more than words ever can. Although everyone was trying to put on an angle back then—myself included—they seem to exude genuine strength and subtle cunning, far more appealing than the false bravado of the Careers. They're going to be tough to beat.

I take in a breath. You don't have to beat them, Caprice. You just have to beat yourself. You aren't going to play by the Capitol's rules, now are you?

Of course not. I'm spending every moment of my existence trying not to succumb to the overwhelming dear, the panic, the instinct to do what ever I can to just live...

No. I'm not going to think like that. I'm better than that. I am in control.

The door opens, and I jolt upright, glancing around warily. The woman—one of the servants; Avoxes, did I hear Brubeck call them?— stands in the doorway, a bucket of cleaning supplies dangling from her right hand. I glance back down at the booklet, and then quickly back up at her. Silvery-blond hair. Pale skin. On the tall side. Light blue eyes.

I flip the booklet around and point to the headshot of Jacy Latone, tilting my head in a questioning indication. The Avox moves closer, eyes widening. She looks back up at me, wild with fear.

"I'm her ally," I say in a low voice. "I'm going to keep her safe." And I think I really mean it.

The Avox nods in silent thanks, and slips out through the door as if nothing had happened.

…..

Noaa Carpenter, District Nine

"What do you mean, I can't bring my token into the arena?"

My stylist, Cesaria, shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Noaa. It didn't pass the Gamemaker inspection. Neither did the girl from Three's screwdriver."

"How can a piece of paper be used as a weapon?" I demand, clenching and unclenching my fists as my face turns a million different shades of red. "It was just a poem, for the love of Panem! A few scribbled words! How is that dangerous?"

"More easily than you know," mutters Jace. I'm tempted to throw something at her, but I there's nothing nearby and besides, it's not her fault, anyway.

I sigh. "You know what? Whatever. I hate you. I hate you all." I storm down the hall to my room, hoping for some peace and quiet and maybe something non-breakable to throw to calm me down.

It's not even just the poem itself. I mean, I know every single word on that paper, and that's not going away anytime soon. It's just—that paper was mine! It was the only thing I had! They have no right to take it away from me, even if it is treasonous or whatever!

I could always make myself a new copy and sneak that into the arena; it's not like the Gamemakers would notice. But it... it just wouldn't be the same.

After about a half an hour, I make myself get up and eat dinner. I've very nearly gotten over my fit—although the resentment is still there, lying underneath—but the other members of the "team" seem to be treating me with unusual kindness, shooting me sympathetic glances every five seconds. Yes, even Bobby. I'm torn between wanting to hug them and wanting to murder them, but instead I just try to stay normal. Lay low. Calm down.

My mentor and I discuss a few Cornucopia strategies, and then I head back to my room. I fling open the door and do a double take. What the-

The two Avoxes for our floor are standing on either side of the bed, hunched over a piece of paper and scribbling furiously on it. I blink. "What are you doing?" They turn to me, faces hardened with a scarily intense focus. I swallow. "Is that..." I take a few steps forward. "Is that my poem?" No response. I snatch up the piece of paper, which is covered with spindly handwriting.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY POEM?"

Before I know it, I'm screaming "GET OUT!" at the top of my lungs, crushing the paper with my hand. The Avoxes share a quick glance, and then head out with remarkable speed and calmness. What the heck is going on here?

It takes me a few minutes before I'm placid enough to open the paper without ripping it to shreds. My mouth drops open, and I know immediately that something much, much bigger is going on in the world.

Because these nobody Avoxes have, word-for-word, reproduced my poem.

But there's more of it. More verses, more phrases, all leading up to the fragment that had been my district token. Words threaded together seamlessly, in an almost song-like way...

I wonder if they knew the melody.