I was lost in the pages of a book full of death

Reading how we'll die alone

And if we're good we'll lay to rest

Anywhere we want to go

-Audioslave, Like a Stone

CHAPTER 15

TRIAL WITHOUT ERROR

Evanna Lynn (15), District 10 Tribute

"Oh, come on, Evie," the boy sitting across from her says as he adds a spoonful of brown sugar to his oatmeal. "You're gonna do fine. Just don't get mad if they say anything to you."

"What are they gonna say to me, Ruben?" she asks. I'm tired of everyone treating me like an inadequate little kid. The only thing the Gamemakers should tell me is "good job,'' she huffs as she fixes up herself a bowl of oatmeal, dousing the plain-looking oats in a half-inch layer of rich golden honey. Ruben makes a face at her choice, and swallows.

"First off, I don't know how you're going to eat that. Second, for all you know they'll dismiss you if they've seen enough. And I think it'll reflect poorly on your score if you have another meltdown like you did two days ago." She stops mid-chew and sticks out her tongue, glad that he gets up and moves his bowl over to the kitchen counter. He was blocking the windows, after all. She tries to focus on how the dazzling sunlight falls into patterns on the table rather than focusing on what he's told her. I'm not gonna get mad. Why would I get mad in front of the Gamemakers?

"I won't," she informs him, scooping a spoonful of honey-drenched oats into her mouth, then speaking through them to deliberately bother him. "I'm going to impress them though." Ruben shakes his head passive aggressively, and whether or not he realizes it, he is beginning to tick her off. "Well then, what are you going to show them?" she asks.

"I've got a couple hours to decide," he says elusively. With the runtime of each private session being about fifteen minutes give or take, the pair of them are bound to be stuck waiting forever. "I'm hoping to impress them too," Ruben says. "A score as good as the Careers would certainly tell sponsors to pay attention to me, don't you think?"

"I guess," she grumbles. Kinda weird that the scores is the first time Ruben's ever seemed interested in. The problem with her district partner is that he's the kind of guy you could have a lengthy conversation with and still know next to nothing about him. Checkmate for him, I guess. Even if he impresses all the Capitolites in the world, no one will root for him if he can't give them a reason to do so. "Might make the Careers not like you, though." On the train rides, she had been told to steer clear of them during the bloodbath and she'd be alright. Even though the comment had made her angry - and the fallout had made Ruben punch their escort - it has become the only piece of advice she's actually listened to. If Ruben wants to make himself a target, so be it. One less person I'll have to deal with in the arena.

"I can handle myself just fine," Ruben assures her as he washes his bowl. Mine'll be a nightmare to wash. Maybe I should just leave it for the Avoxes to deal with. "But you should be looking for allies, Evie. Most everyone has one but us." It's not like she hasn't been trying to make alliances, but her outburst on the first day of training had pretty much cemented her position as a lone wolf. I have to think of them all as enemies, even Ruben, she tells herself.

"I can handle myself just fine, too," she snaps at him.

"Sheesh. Good luck, then." Ruben shakes his head again and crosses the spacious living room to head for the door. It's not even 10 A.M. yet. I hope he has fun waiting down there alone, she thinks scathingly as she licks the last bit of honey off her spoon.

"I don't think I'm ready," she admits to an empty room, suddenly feeling very anxious about the whole ordeal. Everything seems to crash in at her all at once again, and all Evie can think about is the comforts of home. She wishes she had her cat here to talk to, but instead she's limited to Ruben with his logical indifference that seems to serve no purpose other than pissing her off.

And if there's one thing I don't need to be today, it's pissed off. As much as she hates to admit it, he is right that if her temper flares, she's likely to forfeit her chances at a good score.

All she needs to do is make sure she gets through the next couple days, and it'll be smooth sailing from there. Her hands fly up to her necklace, and she gently disentangles the silver-painted beads from around her neck, leaving them on the table. I'm not going to die like Evelyn did, all those years ago.

I'm coming home, and this is the first step to do it.

"Oh, come on, Evie," the boy sitting across from her says. "You're gonna do fine. Just don't get mad if they say anything off-putting to you."

"What are they gonna say to me that's off-putting?" she asks. I'm tired of everyone treating me like an inadequate little kid.

Alton Kersey (18), District 4 Tribute

His head is still spinning from last night. The seven of them had been up until the early hours of morning when Cassiopeia, their escort, came back and kicked them out. And it was a shame too, since Alton had been building up the courage all night to finally follow Siren's advice.

Nothing could have prepared me for how fast the relationships in these Games form. Discounting the fact that four of his allies are fully trained killers - and that the other two know how to fight - he's been having a great time getting to know this group. Sure, Asher rubs him the wrong way. He has since the mashed potato incident, he reflects grouchily, rubbing his eyes as he puts on his training uniform for the day. No matter how much he sweats during training, the uniform is always impossibly clean and dry by the next morning, folded neatly on the corner of the bare desk by the window. Still freaks me out that the Avoxes just… come in here.

He tightens the belt and hurries into the kitchen, grabbing two pancakes from the stack that his District partner is tucking into. "Come on," she laughs good-naturedly, whacking him lightly with the back of her hand as he fits one into his mouth.

"Mmph!" he mumbles indignantly, drizzling syrup directly into his mouth.

"ALTON!" Siren yells, and he ducks behind the counter, the second pancake forgotten. She's laughing now, the clear sound filling the empty room. "What are you doing? You can't be that excited for the private sessions…" No, but Moses might be. Maybe I can catch him before we have to wait with everyone else.

"I'm not," he manages to say around a mouthful of breakfast. I'm gonna do it before the effects of last night wear off. "I'm… just gonna see if anyone else feels as bad as I do. Last night was something else," he says sheepishly, waving goodbye before closing the apartment door. He remembers Cassiopeia's reaction to finding the seven of them partying. Raunchy dancing and a couple of drinks, not enough for her to freak out over. After Crescentia and Siren's waltz, the three other guys had decided they were well enough under the influence to put on their own dancing display, and Alton had chosen instead to observe with the girls, laughing when Asher took a nosedive off the counter, accompanied by a loud round of playful booing from Hela. In fact, he still feels cheated when the older woman forces Moses to get down from the counter and put his shirt back on. All he's been able to think about since is the boy's bulging muscles, rippling under his dark skin as he lifts his arms up and shrugs the shirt back on.

He's jittery the entire elevator ride down. Just butterflies in your stomach, his mother would have told him. It's normal. Alton takes a few deep breaths before the doors ding open, trying to steady himself, and steps out into the training hall. It's already bustling with tributes, despite the day not starting until ten-o-clock. He scans the crowd for Moses, and is both delighted and terrified to see him. He's standing with his muscular back facing the elevators in one of the sparring rings with Hela and Asher. The three seem to be engaged in a good conversation, as Moses is laughing at something that Asher has said, the latter boy having a huge grin on his face.

He swallows, his throat suddenly going dry as he approaches them. "Hey guys," he calls out, making Moses turn at the sound of his voice. There's the same look he was giving me last night, Alton notes. I can't be wrong, can I? The thought of having read the mixed bag of signals the other boy has been giving him gnaws away at his stomach. Worry. Fear. What if I'm wrong and we can't look each other in the eyes after this? As he reaches them, Hela gives him a half-smile from where she reclines against the taut rope border of the sparring ring.

"Moses, any way I can talk to you real quick?" He asks, beginning to feel as though he's still on the elevator plummeting downward, as if the ground has been ripped out from under him. Hela and Asher look inquisitive, but do not say anything as Moses shrugs his broad shoulders and follows him to a more private location.

"Hey, so..." he breathes hard, one hand pressed against the wall so he can feel the smooth concrete beneath his fingertips. "Last night was fun, right?

"Right," Moses agrees, a look of boredom crossing his face. Alton pauses, his eyes searching the other boy's face. Am I wrong? All his life, Alton's been discouraged from exploring his emotions. If I'm going to man up, I'm doing it my way.

He leans in, and cups the side of Moses' face gently, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Alton can feel the boy's breath against his face, shallow and controlled. In perhaps one of the boldest moves of his life, Alton takes a leap of faith and kisses him. He can feel the surprise radiate off of Moses, but he does not break from the kiss. Instead, he parts his lips and commits to it, gripping Alton's arm as if to imprison him in the moment. Alton's eyes are shut, yet every other sense feels heightened; the touch of Moses' soft lips and the sweet taste of his mouth make Alton want to forget about everything. Any time they break apart for even a millisecond, he craves the reunion between them, and is rewarded by the entrance of Moses' tongue into his mouth. It's a quick and electric shock, and one which has him leaning in hungrily to the kiss, as no one has ever done this before.

What was at first unsure and questioning, grows deeper and more sensuous as Alton's confidence grows; a warmth surging in his chest and the roaring of desire in his gut are almost enough to bring him to his knees. He can't think clearly until Moses gently places a hand on his chest and pushes him back. He opens his eyes and gazes into the other boy's face, searching once more, but this time for affirmation rather than validation. He's breathing hard - and so is Moses - but it's synchronized, as if he's stolen the breath out of the boy and replaced it with his own.

"You remember when you asked me to pick a weapon? To pick my poison?" Alton asks him. A nod is the only response he gets, and he takes a deep breath, preparing himself.

"What if I told you the poison I want to pick… was you?"

Edward Nelson (12), District 3 Tribute

Everything seems to be annoying Brita today. "Edward, will you stop that?" she hisses, causing him to momentarily stop bouncing his knee up and down. A few of the other tributes already seated in the waiting room look at them strangely, but he could care less. It's her fault. To be honest, there is some satisfaction to be found when she came back to the apartment last night with a dejected look. She deserves it for trying to bother other people for an alliance. She won't even ally with me, so why would other people want her?

She had come home grumbling about 'Sorrel,' who he could only assume was the person she had gone to visit. Edward vaguely remembers him from the Reapings recap, a boy probably two or three years older than himself, but much taller. Apart from that, he can't really remember much about him, least of all anything Brita would want to ally with him for.

She rolls her eyes again, which is quickly becoming the only thing she does anymore. It's not my fault I'm excited. Plus she doesn't have to sit next to me, she just chooses to. In truth, the reason Edward is excited is because today is the day that he gets the undivided attention of Vivianne Vetura and the rest of the Gamemakers. He's a bit nervous to try and impress them, but overall his sense of excitement and pride in getting to meet her face-to-face surmounts any doubt he carries with him. How lucky am I? Surely even the Capitolites are dying to meet her, or even see her in person beyond her appearances being interviewed on stage. I'm meeting a celebrity, for crying out loud!

It's not like their mentors aren't celebrities either, but the difference between survivor and actual celebrity is a very vast one. If I didn't live in Three, I could be a celebrity. Hell, he's watched enough of the Games and even every interview Vivianne has had since her tenure at the beginning of her career as Head Gamemaker. I know enough to be one of them. The thought of being a Gamemaker, too, is one that thrills him. Maybe if I win, I can design muttations for the Capitol or something. His parents are part of the select few District-based volunteers who have jobs as 'arena technicians,' but nothing they do is ever of the same caliber as the Gamemakers themselves. Being a Victor would surely mean he could funnel some earnings into a position on their team. And how amazing would that be?

After all, getting to see his television idols is the single greatest achievement of his life.

Brita sighs exasperatedly beside him, but makes no move to get up as others file into the dimly lit waiting room. District One's two golden-haired tributes sit closest to the door for the sake of not having to walk as far to the door, but Edward will be proud enough to walk past them all when his name is called, for he knows exactly what lies behind the door: opportunity.

Sure, it may be sad that other people have to die in order for a Victor to be made, but their deaths aren't worthless. And neither will be the deaths of everyone around him. After all, they're just an opportunity too, to elevate himself in life. Being the youngest Victor ever at age twelve would certainly raise him up in the eyes of Panem. And if he's reasonable about it, and stays as far away from the Careers as possible, there's no reason to doubt what the future holds for him.

Suddenly a monotone beep fills the room and the tributes - which only fill up about half of the seats - all look up to the door, where large red digital numbers display a name, and a countdown underneath. Fifteen minutes to impress them. Crescentia Monroe, it says, and the girl in question stands up, taking a deep breath, as the door opens for her.

"Good luck," says Castiel grinning from beside her. How can all the Careers look so normal and be so dangerous? Especially since Castiel is supposedly being mentored by Aurelia Dior, the Victor of the first Quarter Quell. Color me jealous, Edward thinks, a scowl resting on his face. He impatiently brushes his short wavy brown hair to the side as he watches the numbers tick down, the anticipation growing more fierce in his stomach.

He stops bouncing his leg, much to Brita's relief, and manually moves the hands in his watch. The token's batteries had been removed during inspection, but by moving the hands he can almost lie to himself that he won't have to wait another hour and ten minutes before getting to cross the threshold into the demonstration room.

Edward takes a deep breath, and looks back up at the numbers to see that, much to his dismay, they haven't changed at all.

Brita gets up and changes her seat when he starts bouncing his knee again.

Moses Finch (18), District 2 Tribute

He can still taste the sweetness from his exploration of Alton's mouth over half an hour later, while the numbers beneath Castiel's name tick down toward zero. He sits next to Hela, who is trying to control her breathing to be as quiet as possible in a room holding twenty-two people, some of which are heavy breathers. He supposes it's a way of relaxing herself, but he feels amped up and ready to show off his skillset to the Gamemakers. A slow sort of confidence has been building within him as time spent in the Capitol stretches on. When Alton leaned in toward him, his lips electric and sweet like syrup, Moses didn't need to think or worry about the implications. It felt right. It felt earned, as if the culmination of a growing stoicism was a pleasurable reward from the tall boy.

He briefly wonders too, how Aaron and Eve feel about him now from the familiarity of District 2. If Aaron has told her what I did in the Justice Building… it was liberating, but rash. With Alton, I want to think it can be different. But how can it be any less rash or rushed with the time span they have? Moses puts his head in his hands, and rests them there for a moment before a third beep raises him. Hela stands abruptly beside him, and he gives her a warm smile that she does not reciprocate. Fifteen minutes pass before the fourth beep sounds, and he stares at the door, seeing his name in red. Moses FInch, 15:00.

He stands with a sigh and stretches his arms in front of him, turning them so that the muscles gleam in the dim lighting. The door slides open and he steps inside, the bright fluorescent lights a harsh change from the dim ambiance of the waiting room. He suddenly feels chilly as he looks up to the raised platform where the Gamemakers are seated; it's not unlike the one in the main training gym, but smaller as the number of attendees has been reduced. He does not care which one is the famed Head Gamemaker. I'm the fourth person in, and a Career. They have to take me seriously. The same numbers on the outside of the room are displayed above the platform, reminding him that he has fourteen minutes and twenty-six seconds to earn high marks. He strides over to the weapons rack and hefts a large sword from it, testing the weight.

"Ca- May I have a sparring partner?" he asks, correcting himself. Someone affirms it and he stands on the sparring mat, sword held so that the tip is grazing the ground. The trainer charges him without warning, and he has just enough time to wrap both hands around the hilt before a sword is being swung at him. He lifts his to parry it, but the familiar sound of steel clashing against steel is absent, since the sword his opponent is using is fake. Moses sidesteps and swings his sword at the man, and the two grow locked in a fierce struggle between blades.

It ends after a few grueling minutes where all Moses is able to focus on is blocking the other man's blows and trying to inflict his own. The trainer steps back and points his sword toward the ground as the synthetic training armor reveals a long red mark on the man's ribcage where Moses finally connected with the armor. "Good fight," he says respectfully, going back to hang his sword up. With time still left on the clock, Moses takes off his shirt as deliberately as possible, making sure they all get a good look at his physique. Now it's even colder, he thinks, slightly embarrassed but determined to push onward. He jogs across the room to the lone punching bag, hanging by a sleek chain, and is reminded of the morning he spent before his whirlwind selection for the Games.

He can feel their eyes on the back of his head, and forgets about his audience as he makes war to the bag, landing a barrage of punches on its smooth red surface. Small dents in its firm composition are made as his knuckles connect, and he makes sure to give them a show of circling the bag. Ducking and dodging as if it were a real opponent, he begins to work up a slight sweat from the exertion and speed of the exercise, before taking off in a full sprint across the room to where the weapons are located. Look, I can run too, he jests in his head as he selects a massive axe off the rack. He tries to control his breathing as he does so, much like Hela earlier, and for a fleeting second wonders what she did before he came in.

Then he charges across the room at the same speed, despite gripping a heavy axe in his hands, and swings it full-force at the punching bag. A gasp sounds from the Gamemakers, as they have stopped their low side-conversation to stare at the results of his attack. The bag is torn in half by a single savage blow, its contents on display though it still barely hangs to the top by a couple of threads.

"Mr. FInch, you are dismissed," says an angular woman from the group of Gamemakers, scribbling on her clipboard. As he heads for the side door, the bag finishes its journey to the ground, and he grins from ear to ear. I must have impressed them.

Sorrel Nettleson (15), District 5 Tribute

He's glad when Brita has disappeared from the waiting room, but the look Nyx gives him wipes the smile off his face. Sure, it was awkward that she kept looking over at the pair of them - especially given how last night went - but Nyx doesn't need to glare at him. She wanted Brita in the alliance, he recounts, staring straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him with his elbows resting on his knees. I can't let someone else in now that I finally have her attention.

He casts a sidelong look at the girl of his dreams, where she sits on the chair with one knee drawn to her chest, the other planted on the floor. The time is ticking on Alton Kersey's private session, and he can sense the nervousness in her posture. "You're gonna do great, Nyxandrea," he tells her. For once, she does not insist on correcting his usage of her full name, instead too focused on the remaining forty seconds on the session before hers. Good, because her name is beautiful… I don't know why she insists on shortening it. "I'm serious! Just show them what you've learned." She nods slowly as Alton's name is replaced with hers, and he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "Good luck," he whispers as she stands and severs the contact, disappearing behind the door.

The next fifteen minutes are slow, and when her name disappears, Sorrel gets up from his chair and walks to the door as promptly as possible, arriving before it even opens. When it does, he makes sure to get inside quickly, but still in a dignified manner. He's taken aback by how small the demonstration room seems in comparison to the main gymnasium. I guess they have to be able to see us wherever we go, he thinks, surveying his options. He's pleased to see nearly every station represented in the room, even if it is scaled down a notch. He stops looking around and centers his attention on the Gamemakers, where they sit perched above the floor. There are five of them in total, and all are drinking wine. And they're all watching me… it's kinda creepy, he decides. He isn't nervous, as there isn't much which seems to faze him anymore, but he feels the need to be as formal as possible.

"Good morning, ma'am," he addresses the woman with the clipboard, who is probably in her late thirties. "I was just wondering if I might ask you a question before I demonstrate anything for you today." His heart is pounding in his chest, but from excitement rather than the nervousness Nyx had seemed to display.

The woman stands and adjusts her glasses. "Yes, Mr. Nettleson?"

"I was just wondering, with all due respect ma'am, what would be required of me to achieve a five as my score?" Sorrel asks, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Hopefully whatever she says I'm capable of. He waits with bated breath for her to dignify him with a response.

"Well, Mr. Nettleson, what do you think merits a five?" He opens his mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. "Why don't you show us instead?"

He sighs inwardly and walks over to the plant identification quiz, looking up to see how much time he has to impress her. I can't be overlooked by sponsors. The Games have never particularly held his interest, but he knows that gaining the favor of the Capitolites is a sure way to make it easier. After the parade, I need to keep them invested in us somehow. He turns on the quiz,and speeds through it mindlessly, the countless hours he and Nyx spent at the station returning to him. It's much easier to remember how she reacted to getting them right or wrong than it is to remember the actual plants. He grimaces as he gets one, then two wrong, but finishes with a high enough score by the end of the exercise.

The problem is that Nyx probably did that station too, and if he wants to distinguish himself from her, he's going to need to do something she wouldn't do. His eyes land on the weapons rack, and he selects a gladius from it. The blade is slightly dulled, and about the length of his forearm, but should be easy enough to use. Sorrel locates the dummies and attacks one, using the sword to hack into the soft silicon side. He takes a step back and plunges the length of the sword through the dummy's chest, right between the pectorals, and pulls it out, fake red blood spraying onto his hands. He then puts all of his force behind the sword and takes the head clean off with two strokes. Not bad for not being very trained in weapons, if I do say so myself. By this point, the time is running to a close, so he carefully wipes the sword off with his shirt and puts it back on the rack.

"I hope that was enough to impress you, ma'am," he tells the woman with the clipboard, bowing slightly before making his exit.

The synthetic blood has quickly dried on his hands, and he wonders for a moment what it would feel like to kill another tribute and feel the weight of real blood on his hands. Would that impress her more, if I were to kill someone?

Maybe. But he can't help but wonder what becoming a murderer would imply for his growing relationship with Nyx. Would she hate me if I killed for her?

Sebastiana Ridgewood (12), District 7 Tribute

The Head Gamemaker is hot. Not smoking hot like some of the people back home, but for a Capitolite, Miss Vetura is clearly a good-looking woman. She exudes confidence, and her high cheekbones and one cocked eyebrow make her look very authoritarian. Something that I generally wouldn't like to see, but it suits her, Bash decides as she enters the room. WIth only fifteen minutes to leave her mark, and being the first member of her alliance to go, Bash is itching to succeed. And itching to not have to wait in the waiting room anymore! So far, that has been the most boring part of the entire Capitol experience. Apart from that, she has thoroughly enjoyed her time here, especially after the chariot rides when she and Winston had decided to make friends with the others.

"Miss Ridgewood, you are welcome to begin," the Head Gamemaker tells her, a smile on her face.

Bash blushes. "Sorry!" she yells, jogging over to the ropes course. She and Arley had climbed it several times during training, trying to catch each other. Her ally wasn't particularly good at it, but Bash had been able to complete the course several times. No reason it should be different now. She grips the ropes course with a firm hand and puts a foot on the first rung, quickly glancing at the Gamemakers to make sure they are paying attention. Being from one of the later districts, most of them begin to lose interest. I can't imagine having to be from Twelve, sitting through all of the private sessions. And all the interviews too. But Miss Vetura is paying attention, and that brings Bash a small amount of comfort as she begins to climb. Despite the area of the room, the ropes course spans a great deal of the ceiling. Steady, she tells herself as she climbs into the air, the rope ladder seeming to wobble beneath her.

Of course, it'd be much easier to climb a tree. But seeing as there is never anything that isn't manufactured in the Capitol, trees must be so hard to come by. Unless they steal them from us. She tries to get all the whimsical thoughts of storks and a tree-stealing machine out of her head by the time she reaches the top of the rope ladder. She stands on a narrow platform a good ten feet in the air, and there's only the entire freaking course left. She takes a deep breath and starts, trying to be as agile as possible when jumping from board to board, or crossing a rope without proper handrails. Many times, Bash is convinced she is going to fall, and stops once she reaches the second platform to brush her messy hair out of her eyes. From here, it looks like the course was an easy maybe two minute ordeal, but seeing that it took her four to reach the second platform, she decides to pick up the pace.

I wonder how I'm going to compare to the other twelve-year-olds. After all, there are four of them this year, and though she's sure she and Arley will be on the same par, she hasn't really gotten a chance to see Edward. And Halley did the Gauntlet, she reminds herself. I still don't regret choosing Padds and Arley over her and Darnius, but I don't want to get a lower score than her. That's the hard part too, she supposes. That you don't quite know what others are capable of, even after seeing them during training. Because people hide their intentions.

Perhaps that's why she feels so out-of-place here in the Capitol. Her escort, stylists, and even the trainers always seem to be unable to hold a transparent conversation with her, and that stings a little. Bash reaches the third platform, and in record time of two minutes. The last platform is separated by a large swath of rope netting which she can run or crawl over. This is where Arley always falls, she thinks to herself. Her back is facing the Gamemakers now, so she feels more relaxed about it. With the time ticking down, though, she doesn't have enough to spare, so when her foot gets caught in the netting, a yell escapes from her lips.

"AHHH!" She finds herself dangling upside down, with the ropes twisted over her foot so that it is cocooned in them. She can feel the blood rushing to her head, and opens her eyes to look at the clock and Miss Vetura, who has stopped paying attention to jot down notes on her clipboard. Disappointment - or maybe vomit - seems to build up in her, and she closes her eyes again as a trainer jogs over to help free her. Three out of four should be enough, right?

Bash is helped to the ground, and without being excused, scampers out the door and away from the situation, leaving the disappointment of the Gamemakers behind her.

Mariela Polaris (15), District 12 Tribute

It took about five hours before Tangaria's name appeared on the screen above the door, and once she left to go show the Gamemakers her demonstration, Mariela and Reynolds are left alone in the room with Asher, her district partner. He hasn't so much as glanced their way at all, and for that she's glad. The boy worries her: he had to have some skills if the Careers accepted him, especially being from District 11. Finally, he is called out and she and Reynolds are left entirely alone in the waiting room. "What do you think you'll show them?" she asks inquisitively.

"I'm not sure yet," he admits. "I might try some knives, maybe one of the survival tests." He gives her a very soft smile. It's fleeting, but there and suddenly Mari feels better about their current situation. He ate more for breakfast today, too. If living with her sister June had taught her anything, it becomes easy to shut the world away when pain makes an appearance in life. She remembers nights spent huddled together beside the candle on the windowsill, watching the flame struggle against the slight breeze. Nights where she would comfort her sister, and vice versa. She remembers June's arms holding her tight, as if nothing in this world could make her let go. Her throaty and broken scream as the Peacekeepers took her away.

I can't linger on that. I have to think about the present, so I can return to the past. "I'll probably show them as much as possible. I've split wood before, and I tried the axes when you and Tangaria were working on shelters."

Reynolds nods. "Just promise me something, Mari." She sits upright in her seat, focused on his words. "You can't get that frustrated in the arena when we have to make shelter, okay?" He winks at her and she chuckles a little, the sound filling the empty room.

"I promise," she tells him as Asher's clock winds down to zero and her name takes his place. A moment later the door opens, and she is almost afraid to leave him alone. But everything will be okay, just like June always said. Just like I always told her.

She takes a deep breath and faces the Gamemakers, nodding to the woman with the clipboard. She fiddles with the ends of her hair for a moment, and old nervous habit, before deciding exactly what she wants to show them. Then Mari walks over to the weapons rack and grabs an axe, the heavy steel clanging against the rack as she takes it off. A few dummies stand a couple yards away from her, and with a war cry she's sure will startle them, she charges the dummies, lifting the axe above her head. It comes hurtling down at the first dummy, splitting the blue silicon head and spewing fake blood everywhere. She quickly dances around it and buries the axe in the stomach of the same dummy, hoping that the display of using a large weapon has impressed them. She steps through the fake blood this time, resting the axe against the dummy before walking calmly back to the rack to take a few small tomahawks off the wall near the throwing knives.

Mariela turns around just in time to see a Gamemaker's eyebrows rise and fall in surprise. Maybe it's not a popular weapon, she thinks, preparing a stance a good distance from the second dummy. The first tomahawk misses, and she curses loudly under her breath. She looks up at the Gamemakers, and upon seeing that she has lost all of their attention, feels disappointed. Maybe being the last district to go guarantees they won't pay attention to us. She clenches her fist harder around the handle of the tomahawk. I bet they give One and Two plenty of attention, she groans. She squares up once more, facing the stationary target, and embeds the tomahawk in its collarbone. Would that even be enough to kill someone? She wonders, the bright scarlet liquid dripping down its neck. She trudges over to the dummy and yanks the tomahawk out of its neck, feeling satisfied as the red spews out of the superficial wound. Maybe. But Mari isn't quite sure she has the killer instinct in her. Not yet, anyway.

"Are you finished, Miss Polaris?" a voice asks her, and she looks up to the expectant expression of the Head Gamemaker. Three minutes remain on the clock. "Uh, yes ma'am," she tells her.

"Alright then, the door is over that way. Make sure to replace the axe on your way out," the older woman instructs, and Mariela can feel her ears burning as she hurries to do so.

At least that is over. She sighs in relief, walking out the doors. The thought of her fate now being in the hands of someone else - even just temporarily - scares her, and she's glad they can't see her face as she leaves them behind.

It may be over, but the Games loom ahead. And so might death.

Author's Note: Here is the private sessions! I know a lot of you probably skipped to the end here, and some might be disappointed to see that the scores are not here. They will, however, be in the next chapter. And yeah… if this chapter seemed a little shorter that's because with the second round of tribute POVs, I'm shooting for 750-1000 words rather than 1000+ because I'm absolutely itching to get into the arena. My apologies! Not my best work, but its work and it didn't take two weeks to get out...

I do have the next chapter complete, but I think I'll wait to post it so I can get ahead on the interviews portion of the pre-games. Four chapters left before the bloodbath! Aaand speaking of the bloodbath, anyone who hasn't read my sponsoring information should probably do that. Sponsoring is officially OPEN. The link is working, and you have up until the bloodbath is posted to purchase your tribute's Cornucopia supplies. Readers may sponsor as well! There are ways you can get points :). If there is any confusion about the process please feel free to shoot me a quick PM.

Have a nice day/night :))