Spark

by ReganXandSionnachO

Reaped as a Tribute in the 71st Hunger Games, thirteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen is an instant write-off for most of those around her, a useful tool for others. One or two might even care enough to give the plucky kid a shot. Mixed POV.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Haymitch

Even if I was sober, the outfit these Capitol twerps wrestled me into would have my eyes paining me more than my throat. I wince as I rub at where she got me. Who could have predicted that Effie Trinket of all people would know how to throw a punch? I'd be impressed if it didn't hurt so damn much.

Every year, the closet and chest of drawers in my compartment are stocked with clothes and every year, it's a challenge to find something I can wear without the sight of my reflection making me want to hang myself.

Thanks to Effie's determination to have me cleaned up before we'd even set off, I need to search for a change of clothes before I can even leave my compartment. I tear the teal jacket and matching cravat from my body, swiftly followed by the lavender shirt with violet frills on the collar and cuffs. I don't even know what to name the colour of the pants. It's like pink, if pink hated itself and everything else.

Effie has undoubtedly ordered that the clothes I was wearing at the Justice Building be burned for fear that I might shame her by showing up in the Capitol looking at least somewhat normal.

It takes almost twenty minutes for me to empty the closet and drawers to put together the least garish pieces into an acceptable whole. I leave the mess for the Capitol staff. Unfortunately the change of clothes doesn't really do anything for the reek of lemon from whatever disgusting body wash the attendants tried to drown me in. I'll be lucky if I can even taste my drink over all the mouthwash they forced down my throat.

A day that started out bad when the Peacekeepers came for me and got worse when Hurricane Effie arrived takes a turn for the catastrophic when I go over to the console to avail of the only good thing about my annual trip to the Capitol.

"Unable to comply," the syrupy-sweet tones of the automated voice, with its ridiculous Capitol accent, informs me. "Alcoholic beverages may not be served in this compartment."

I storm out of my compartment towards the dining cart, barking at the first attendant I to get me a glass of amber. He glances around, looking panicked. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. Orders from the chief." With that, he turns and flees the room.

I watch him leave, stewing furiously. No Capitol employee would ever cut me off. We both prefer me in a stupor, and I'm sure Seneca Crane does too. It's a beneficial arrangement for all involved. There's only one person who'd dare to do something like this.

She's been a royal pain in the ass ever since Septimia Kincardine dumped her on me and ran to Seven as fast as she could, but at least she knew her place. There are lines she knows - or knew - not to cross. She knew when to keep her damn mouth shut.

Now it looks like the squeaky freak has found her voice at last. Can't have that.

I throw open the door through which the attendant ran away and roar down the corridor. "Somebody get me a damn drink, NOW!" When nobody shows up within the next minute, I overturn the cake stands, stomping on the pastries until every crumb is ground into the carpet. After another minute, I'm flinging every piece of dinnerware I can get my hands on at the panelled walls of the compartment, bellowing at whoever is listening - and I know that somebody is - that I'll smash every trinket and stick of furniture on this train if they don't get me my drink. Then maybe I'll smash one more Trinket.

It's only been a couple of hours since I fortified myself for the Reaping with a bottle of Ripper's finest, but the thought of having to get through the coming weeks sober has my stomach churning, my head spinning and my hands shaking as badly as they did the last time Ripper's still blew and I was cut off for days while she repaired it. Effie knows that this isn't done. How a Victor decides to self-medicate is their business. Nobody tries to part Chaff from his flask any more than they try to pry the morphling from Iris' bony yellow fingers.

Another attendant, a girl this time, slips into the compartment and sets a drink down on the counter in front of me. She has already darted away by the time I snatch up the glass, take my first gulp of the bright red concoction and taste syrupy, fruity sweetness without so much as a drop of alcohol to sharpen it. I slump down into the nearest chair with what is apparently the closest thing I'm going to get to a real drink and sit there nursing it as the two attendants cautiously poke their heads into the compartment to see if it's safe to enter before getting to work cleaning up my mess and setting the table for dinner. I scowl at them, but they never so much as look at me, and go about their work as silently as Avoxes. I don't bother raging with them or shouting at them. There's no point. They're not about to go against their orders, and I know who I should really be yelling at.

She is the first to enter the dining compartment, undoubtedly wanting to make sure that it and I won't be too terrifying for our latest pair of Tributes, in case they take one look at me and decide that there are worse things than dying in the arena, after all, denying her the victory that could win her the promotion she's been hankering for. Her mouth presses into a thin line as she takes in the damage but I don't give her a chance to berate me for the mess.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" I demand. "You have a very simple task! You deliver a pair of Tributes to the Capitol and then a couple of weeks later, you escort a pair of coffins back to District Twelve and rattle off a few platitudes for their families. Trying to control my life is NOT part of your job description!"

"I couldn't possibly care less about your life," Effie informs me bluntly, with more fire in her voice than I would ever have given her credit for before today. "I have spent the last nine years watching you drink yourself into oblivion and ignore your Tributes and this year, you take it even further and cannot even be bothered to stay sober enough to be in a fit state to attend the Reaping! In case I didn't make myself clear already, I have had enough! I am going to do everything in my limited power to see to it that at least one of your Tributes has a fighting chance of surviving the arena, and that means that you will be doing your job for once. If these children die, it won't be because their mentor is too drunk to give them the help and support they need."

"You have no authority to cut me off!"

"Then perhaps you should report me," Effie suggests in a voice every bit as sweet as the syrupy snot in my glass. She knows as well as I do that I would never run crying to the Gamemakers, even if I thought that there was a chance that they might take my side. "I will already have to answer to them for the conspicuous absence of the only living Victor my district has to offer. I am sure that it can only help my cause if you start demanding more alcohol, after all of the trouble you've already caused." Before I can come up with a response to that, Effie lifts a finger to her lips to shush me. "They're coming. If you can at least make an effort to behave in front of them, you may have a glass of wine with your dinner."

I should probably feel ashamed that this pathetic bribe is enough to get me to stand up, ready to greet my Tributes without running them off, but with Effie on a power trip, I'll be facing a long, unpleasant journey if she doesn't loosen her hold on the keys to the liquor cabinet.

Effie pastes a broad smile on her face as soon as the door to the compartment slides open to reveal District Twelve's latest offerings for the Capitol. "Come in, come in," she calls invitingly, like a witch in the woods with a roaring oven waiting to be filled. She jumps up and flings her arm around the girl, ignoring her squirming as she guides them over to the table. "This is your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy." She fixes me with a pointed glare, as if to rebuke me for the fact that my absence from the Reaping has delayed the introductions until now. "Allow me to present Katniss Everdeen and Bannock Mellark."

I take one look at the girl and mentally write her off. Unmistakably a Seam kid, every bit as tiny as Effie said she was and as thin as a rail, she's a 'pneumonia' death waiting to happen. At least the Capitol will get a few decent meals into her before I'm left with my forty-first corpse.

The boy, on the other hand, just might have enough potential to avoid being corpse number forty-two. He's the first merchant kid I've had in the last few years, taller than me and as muscular as any Career. He's good-looking enough now so he should be able to turn heads once his stylist is through with him. It's too much to hope that he'll have any experience handling a weapon but he's clearly strong and might just have a shot, if he has a brain in his head. It'd be just my luck if my first promising Tribute in nearly a decade wasn't just as strong as an ox but as stupid as one too.

Nobody bothers with any attempt at a greeting; they know me and I don't want to know them. We just look at each other for a quiet moment, the pair of them glaring at me while I size them up. Eventually realising there aren't going to be any pleasantries exchanged, Effie ushers us over to the table, pushing the kids into chairs on one side and making me sit next to her before she signals to an attendant that they can begin to serve dinner. She beams at the kids when they both use their spoons instead of slurping their chowder from the bowls, like last year's Tributes.

The girl is quiet, her attention focused on the food in front of her, which is more than I can say for the boy. He's under the impression that since we're sitting at the same table, he's allowed to talk to me.

"Is there any footage of the other Reapings yet?"

"No."

"Are the mentors ever given any idea ahead of time about the kind of arena we're looking at?"

I roll my eyes. That's a 'no' on the brain question. Even the Career Districts, who can get away with training young killing machines while the rest of us aren't allowed to put a weapon in a kid's hand before the Reaping, are kept in the dark about the kind of arena the Gamemakers have in store. If they're feeling creative, it could be anything. "No."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Shut up." I can feel Effie frowning at me, but I ignore her. It's bad enough that I have her getting on my case about my drinking without this idiot bothering me too. I wonder how awful I must look for the boy - who, like everybody else in District Twelve, must know of my drinking habits - to ask after my health. Hopefully bad enough for Effie to see that she's not doing the kids any favours if she tries to cut me off for the rest of the Games.

Once we're finished with our soup, the servers move in to clear the bowls away, to be replaced by plates laden with the main course.

I barely notice what I'm eating; my attention is focused on the girl carrying a carafe of ruby-red wine who circles the table filling a glass for each person. At Effie's signal, she ignores the larger glass I hold out to her and fills the much smaller one, the one meant for Tributes who most likely have never tasted wine before, and I don't even get my usual top up after I gulp down half the contents of the glass. Telling the boy to shut up has clearly cost me. Effie makes a point of declining the wine, asking for a glass of lemonade instead.

The girl, who will never be old enough to develop an appreciation for alcohol, follows Effie's example and drinks a glass of lemonade, ignoring the wine in front of her.

Even if Effie had not cut me off, I could never sit idly by while good booze goes to waste.

I realise my mistake in trying to snatch something from a Seam kid about a split second before she whacks my hand away with the flat of her fork.

Rather than showing the little brat the back of my hand, I decide to kill two birds with one stone and show Effie how much these losers and their 'potential' really amount to. I grab the butter knife from a dish in the middle of the table and take a swing at the girl. My second mistake. She doesn't even seem to be looking at me, having given her full focus to her plate after defending her wine, but she's moving as soon as I pick up the knife. By the time the blade passes through the empty air where her neck was, she's kicked back from the table, knocking her chair over and launching herself over the back of it. Her hand blurs, and the only thing that saves me is that I lost my balance and nearly fell over sideways when I lunged at her. I hear the unmistakable thunk of a knife sticking in wood, and as I turn my head, my entire view is taken up by the sight of the boy diving over the table, roaring as he flies at me.

Despite his size, the force with which he hits me still seems like more than he should be capable of, and every breath of air in my lungs is lost when I hit the ground with him on top of me. His knee hits me hard in the gut, instantly making me want to throw up again, and before I can even begin to react, a massive fist threatens to completely unhinge my jaw. Pain explodes across the left side of my face and my mouth instantly begins to fill with blood. He's got one of my arms pinned, and I can't seem find any strength in the other or do a damn thing at all as the kid's fist draws back a second time, his face purple with rage.

He starts when a tiny hand clamps around his beefy wrist. "Let him up," she orders, and he's off me in an instant.

Air rushes into my lungs, only for me to choke. I turn on my side and retch up a torrent of bloody, acidic liquid. Thinking that's it, I'm struggling to my feet when it happens again, and it suddenly occurs to me to wonder when I last ate.

Still sputtering, the room spinning and the pain in my face worsening, I finally manage to pick myself up off the floor and slump against the wall. Some small, petty slice of my mind notices with satisfaction that my horrible Capitol clothes are as thoroughly ruined as the carpet, and the boy's nice clean Reaping clothes didn't fare much better. He took half the table with him when he leapt at me, and seems to be wearing as much food as wound up on the floor.

"He used the blunt edge of the knife," the girl is telling Bannock, her voice as calm as if she were describing the weather, but she's watching him nervously. He's still shaking with rage, but the look on his face is sheer confusion. I glance over at Effie Trinket, still sitting dumbstruck in her chair, her mouth hanging open as she gapes at the scene before her. Probably upset about the ruined carpet.

"Wouldn't have left much more than a bruise, slow as he is."

I open my mouth to voice my indignation and the agony in my face reduces me to incoherent spluttering. I hadn't been aiming to really hurt her, but she damn well would have known she'd been hit. I think.

Effie's chair scrapes across the floor and she almost falls out of it. "Oh, dear," she breathes, and well follow her eyes to my chair. The kid is more than just fast; she's a lot stronger than she looks. A good inch of her steak knife is embedded in the heavy wood. If I hadn't stumbled, that would have been my face. "That's mahogany..."

The boy makes a sound like a choking bear, and doubles over with laughter. The girl looks around at us all like we're completely insane. I think she should try looking in a mirror.

Before I can start laughing too, Effie Trinket is in my face, or at least as close to my face as her heels will allow, shrieking insensibly. I catch a few words here and there, but my head is pounding, my face is burning, and I'm not sure she's speaking in only the one language.

I spit up more blood at her feet, and she recoils with a squeak. One hand flies to her suddenly green face and she falls backward into my somehow upright chair, bumping her head off the knife handle. "Now, if you could please just stay that way and quietly enjoy the fact that you were right for once?!" I hiss at her, and every word makes the pain worse. Grabbing a napkin off the floor, I fill it with ice, which is the only thing the attendants didn't take away from the drinks station, and hold it to my jaw.

I motion for the kids to follow me over to the lounge area. "Let's give them a while to tidy up. I'm sure someone in the main car is having a heart attack at the state of this place."

Effie takes a second to free her tangled wig from the knife handle before prancing after us, then clutches the girl, examines her briefly until she is satisfied that she's not hurt before she releases her and gently pushes her into the chair furthest from me. The same pair who cleaned up the earlier mess return, one of them muttering under his breath. Between me and the boy, they'll never save that carpet.

I ignore them, and try to ignore the increasingly sharp pain in my jaw. Damn kid doesn't seem to have broken it, but he loosened some teeth at the very least. I pluck a surviving glass from the floor near my feet, spitting blood into it. "Let's have it," I begin, locking eyes with the boy. "Clearly you're strong," I groad, brandishing the glass. "Any other skills I should know about? Any sports at school?"

"I'm in the wrestling club, and I play some Blitz at lunchtimes."

This is already more promising than most of the forty Tributes I've brought to the Capitol so far. Blitz is a pretty rough sport, less about the ball than the people kicking each other around. It isn't exactly legal, since the Capitol won't pay to watch a bunch of kids destroying each other if they haven't been prettied up for the cameras first.

I know from other Victors that in other Districts, besides One, Two and Four, the schools can expect to have the Peacekeepers cracking down on them if they do anything that could be construed as trying to train kids for the Games in advance, including teaching them any sport that could possibly help them in hand-to-hand combat should they be selected as Tributes. Nobody in Twelve would believe me if I could tell them that we actually have it better than most. I would never have believed it before my Victory Tour and before I had a chance to talk to some of the other Victors. Old Cray may be a sleazy bastard, but he's not about to send troops into the school to arrest the coach of the wrestling club, or to break up games of Blitz.

"Ever handled any weapons?"

"Does a woodcutter's axe count?"

"Remind me to introduce you to Johanna. You two can compare notes. Just remember your manners, and you might live long enough to make it until the arena."

"I'm nowhere near as good as Johanna Mason," the boy tells me.

"It's still a start. You're strong, so concentrate on the heavier weapons in training; learn to fight with an axe and throw one, to swing a mace and a club. Most of the Tributes won't even be able to lift them. And whatever you do, don't ignore the survival stations. You're bigger than a lot of the Careers I've seen in my time but they always make the mistake of turning their noses up at the lessons in survival skills so they can spend their training time showing off with weapons and scaring the other Tributes. They always rely on the supplies in the cornucopia and it ends up costing them if anything happens to it." The Careers might be the favourites of the Capitol, especially the ones from District One, but they never like to see them have too easy a time of it so, every so often, the Gamemakers see to it that their supplies are destroyed. "Don't make the same mistake." The boy nods. The girl hasn't said a word but she's listening intently to everything I'm saying. "What about you, sweetheart? What do you do when the furniture fights back?"

"I shoot it," she snaps, her eyes narrowing. "Bow and arrow."

I blink at her. This kid is a hunter? "And are you any good?"

"She's the best," the boy cuts in. "She sells her squirrels to my father. He says that she always hits them square in the eye. A couple of months ago, she even took out a lynx."

The girl opens her mouth, then shuts it again, smirking a little. There's something funny about the lynx story, or at least funny to her. I look her over properly. She may be crazy, but there's something there. All of the kids in the Seam tend to look the same to me so I can't say for sure that I recognise her from the Hob but there are just a tiny handful of people who ever dare to venture beyond the fence, only one man I know of who hunts with a bow, and only one man who always brings his little girl with him to the Hob when he comes to trade. If she is the girl I think she is, and she has half of her father's talent, I may have something special on my hands. "Does your father take you out hunting with him?"

"He did," she tells me in a flat tone, her face hardening into an expressionless mask.

Whoops. "What happened to him?"

"Mine explosion. Last year." She bites out each word, shaking with anger.

"We should all be lucky enough to go so quickly," I tell her coolly.

Effie hisses at my apparently shameful manners, and the boy looks ready to pounce again. I ignore them, silently watching Katniss, trying to give my throbbing face a rest and take a moment to think where I've seen the sullen little firebrand in front of me. I can vaguely recall a smiling little girl walking hand in hand through the Hob with her father, who I knew to say hello to, a long time ago.

Then I have to choke back a laugh, mostly because my face can't handle the strain. Every boy and girl in our class knew this girl's father all too well, after the role he played in the biggest scandal we'd ever witnessed. The apothecary's daughter, beautiful and haughty Callie Thornesong, had been all set to marry the butcher's boy, as their parents had agreed years earlier, but everyone had been expecting her to throw him over for Simnel Mellark. Then, barely a month after her last Reaping, she was living in the Seam and married to a mouthy coal miner; a hunter who all-but flaunted his criminal enterprise, as most of our grim Head Peacekeeper's subordinates bought from him.

He eventually learned his lesson on being boastful, and the girl at least has a little bit of self-control; she drops her eyes after glaring at me for a bit.

If her father died in last year's big mine explosion, this girl has been braving the woods alone for more than a year. Most kids don't dare to approach the fence, and would never dream of crossing it, least of all alone but this girl not only goes into the woods, she has been able to thrive there. I reach out to briefly squeeze her upper arms to feel the slender muscles beneath her skin. She's rail thin but there's more to her than the usual Seam scrawniness, a strength that belies her size. She wouldn't be any use as a hunter if she wasn't strong enough to draw a bow and carry her kills back to District Twelve. She's got spunk, probably more than I've seen in any of the Tributes I've had so far, but it's not going to do her any good.

If she was five years older, this girl would be a force to be reckoned with, small and slender enough not to alarm the Careers in training and ensure that every one of them would be gunning for her as soon as the gong sounded but strong, skilled and resourceful enough to have a real chance of winning. I would have to wrestle with the question of which of them I should try to save; the ox of a baker's son who could pit his strength against any of the boys that the Career Districts will have to offer, or the firebrand who can survive adversity and who could have the guts to do whatever it takes to make it out of the arena.

Maybe I should be grateful that the choice can be an easy one.

The boy could have a shot at coming out of the arena alive. The girl is just too damn tiny to be able to go up against highly trained Careers three times her size or to survive the machinations of the Gamemakers.

The servers have nearly finished cleaning up the mess we left so it won't be long before they are ready to lay out fresh plates and bring us the rest of our dinner. I decide to leave the real strategy talk until we're at the Training Centre and focus on the first hurdle they'll have to face once they reach the Capitol.

"We'll reach the Capitol tomorrow morning, after breakfast," I tell them. "Get a good night's sleep tonight, while you can. As soon as we pull into the station, you'll be taken straight to the Remake Centre and put into the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you but, whatever you do, don't resist. Be polite if you can manage it. The Tribute parade is your first chance to make an impression and you do not want these people getting into a huff and doing a half-assed job with you."

"I'm not going naked!" the boy protests immediately.

"Don't sell yourself short. You need to make an impression, after all." I let him think about that for a moment, about just how far he is going to have to go if he wants to survive, before setting his mind at ease on one front. "Relax, boy. Nudity won't be on the cards this year, not with somebody as tiny as our little sweetheart in the mix. Even the worst stylists have to follow some basic guidelines for decency, at least in public." Even the perverts in the Capitol who'd get a thrill out of seeing a little girl paraded in front of them wearing nothing but a thin dusting of black powder would never admit to wanting to see it, not in polite society, so it'll be coal miners' outfits and headlamps again this year. Appius and Cloelia have never felt the need to put in any real effort for Twelve.

"Ah," Effie trills when an attendant returns with fresh plates of food. She gets up and leads the way over to the table, which is now spotless and laid with a fresh tablecloth and silverware, as though our brawl never happened. "It's time for us to finish our dinner."

She glares at me as she struts away. Probably best I don't ask for another glass of wine. Before leaving I grab the ice bucket still on the table for my throbbing face.

The next morning, the entire left side of my face is purple and seems to have swelled up to twice it's normal size. My throat is a little bruised where Effie caught me, but it's easy enough to ignore next to the damage the boy caused. I order some ice cold water, but can barely manage to sip on it without spilling all over myself. There's point even trying to eat, and I don't think I could anyway. Miserable and sore, I sit in my room until the train pulls into its destination.

Any other year, the first order of business after sending Effie off with the brats would be to track down Chaff and a bottle of the Capitol's best whiskey, and find a quiet spot where we can drink in peace until we have to join the other Victors for the Tribute parade. This year I need it more than ever - my entire body is screaming for a drink. There isn't a power in the world that would make Chaff refuse me, and I know that despite what the kid did to my face, I'd find a way to get it into me.

I don't know why I end up following Effie and the kids to the Remake Centre, and apparently neither does Effie. She doesn't say a word about it, but I catch her glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, always surprised to find me still there. For all her insistence that I would be a 'real mentor' this year, she didn't expect that I'd actually go along with it.

Neither did I.

It looks like we have new prep teams. My heart sinks when I catch sight of the pair milling around the Remake Centre lobby yoo-hooing for 'Miss Trinket'. It's impossible to say which of them is the most freakish-looking and I can't imagine that a woman who thinks that dying her skin the colour of broccoli is the height of fashion or a man willing to appear in public with orange corkscrew curls and purple lipstick are going to be able to be of the slightest use in helping the kids make an impression.

I'm ready to order the strongest drink they have and let Effie wrestle it from my hand, if she can, when it finally sinks in that their ravings about 'Cinna' and 'Portia' aren't their attempts to flatter one another but their ringing endorsement of the stylists they work for. New stylists too, then. I really should have just met up with Chaff.

Whenever there's a change to the stylist roster, Twelve always get either the newest idiots or the most irrelevant burnouts, and they never appreciate being assigned the coal district. Bracing for the worst, dying for a drink, I follow Orange and Broccoli upstairs to the section designated for District Twelve.

A man with spiky scarlet hair, silver tattoos, and crimson gems embedded in his teeth emerges from one of the prep rooms to take charge of the boy while Broccoli leads the girl into the other prep room, leaving Orange to show the grown-ups into one of the sitting rooms where the stylists are waiting to greet us.

I feel instant relief at the sight of them.

The woman's hair, a slightly softer orange than the other one, is a little off-putting but the smile of welcome she gives us is genuine and something in her eyes tells me that, unlike most of the vacant twits we get stuck with, there's a brain under all that hair. The man has to be the most normal looking Capitolite I've ever seen in black pants, a simple dark green shirt and no makeup at all. He even manages to sound sincere when he tells me that he's happy to be working with District Twelve. They both take in the damage to my face with unsubtle curiosity, but nobody comments.

When they offer me a drink, my request for coffee leaves Effie gaping at me until I glare at her. If she wants me drunk, I'd be happy to oblige.

There's a screen set on one wall, featuring a slideshow of images of my Tributes, from the moment their names were called at the Reaping to the footage of them getting on the train in Twelve and off again in the station at the Capitol, to the recordings of them when they entered the Remake Centre.

"So who gets who?" I slur through barely movable lips, certain that they must have fought it out amongst themselves about who got the boy as soon as they watched the Reaping.

"I'll take Katniss, Portia can have Bannock," Cinna tells me, surprising me with the fact that he bothered to learn the kids' names in advance. It's even more of a surprise that he doesn't seem bothered by the fact that he got stuck with the girl, who will need a lot more work than the boy before the Capitol will ever buy her as any kind of contender for the Victor's crown. "What can you tell us about them?"

There's something odd about the way he talks. It's not quite Capitol. Put together with his clothes and lack of freakish adornments, I think I know why this Cinna is so happy to be working with District Twelve. Odds are he's lucky to be working at all after all the mentors from the more popular districts refused to accept him. They all want the best, and if there's one thing the Capitolites know better than any District charity case, it's fashion. Maybe his father is a higher up in his District, capable of pulling strings to get him working for a Capitol designer. But there was no string to pull to make the Career mentors let him work on their kids, so I get stuck with him.

They probably thought I'd be too far gone to even notice. Most years they'd be right. I don't like the idea of being stuck with the reject among rejects, but it's not like we've ever had a good stylist anyway. I might as well accept it.

"He's strong, and can fight when he needs to." My face and voice are a pretty clear testament to this. "His father is the baker, so he eats better than most of the District, and he's no stranger to hard work. It shouldn't be hard to sell him as a physical terror." Portia nods absently, her eyes flicking between the boy on the screen and a sketchpad in her lap.

"What about Katniss?" Cinna asks.

I hesitate for a few moments before deciding to tell them everything I know. There are no Peacekeepers within earshot and these two are likely to be as trustworthy as anybody in the Capitol can be. Maybe even a little more so, I think, eyeing Cinna carefully. "She's a hunter, been supporting her family for at least a year now. The boy tells me that she's amazing with a bow and the fact that she's sneaking past the boundary shows that she's got guts. She's small but she's a firebrand."

Cinna nods at this before turning his attention to the images on the screen. I attempt a sip of coffee while he taps a few controls on the panel next to him, calling up an image of the kids at the train station in Twelve, just before Effie ushered them onto the train, and zooming in on Katniss. "What is that?" he asks, pointing at the gold pin attached to the collar of her blouse. My breath catches. Maysilee.

That's Maysilee Donner's pin. How did I not notice that she was wearing it? How did it come to her? Did the Donners give it to her mother when it was returned to them with Maysilee's body?

"It's a mockingjay," I finally mutter. I can't tell them about Maysilee and am glad that none of them can remember that this isn't the first time that a Tribute from District Twelve brought that pin to the Capitol.

"Interesting," is all Cinna says.

I wonder if he knows just how interesting it is. He may know much better than most in the Capitol what the mockingjay means to the people in the Districts, not just as a creature that lived and thrived despite the Capitol but as the symbol of one of the most extreme rebel factions, the last one to keep fighting after Thirteen was obliterated and the rest of the country was ready to agree to anything to be spared the same fate, even if it meant allowing their children to suffer and die as punishment for their uprising.

"There's something else you should know," Portia says, interrupting my thoughts. "My original partner and I were meant to be working for District One. He took ill only yesterday, and by the time I persuaded Cinna to take his place, I'd already been replaced. The plans and themes I had prepared were all with District One in mind. Older Tributes, and more suitable for a showy theme." She looks apologetic at that last bit, but she's not wrong. If there's one thing District Twelve isn't, it's glamorous. Then again, this could actually work out in Twelve's favour. It also seems I was wrong about Cinna being dumped on us. It was the other way around. They had to take Twelve or nothing.

"So no coal miners' outfits."

"No coal miners' outfits," Cinna confirms. "I was hoping to do a flame theme."

"But there isn't time," Portia interrupts. She's going for gentle, but I think she's a little tired of hearing about Cinna's wants. "For now, we have to adapt our original plans for District One to your kids. We may be able to pattern the stones to introduce the flames, and then build on it later, maybe for the interview."

If I was still young and stupid enough to believe in miracles, I might be getting a little hopeful around now. In the same year I finally get a Tribute who might stand a chance of walking out of the arena, I also land stylists who might actually be able to get him some sponsors.

Much to own surprise, I find myself looking forward to working with them, and think that maybe I might actually come to like them, when Portia leaves the room for a moment and returns with a member of her prep team in tow, a woman with curling purple eyelashes as long as my little finger brushing against cheeks embedded with tiny gemstones, and buttercup yellow hair woven into a complicated knot on the top of her head.

"While Lucius and Pullo are getting Bannock ready, I thought that it would be a good idea if you spent a little time with Vorena," she suggests, diplomatically pretending not to see the scowl on my face.

Makeovers are one indignity I've been able to avoid ever since my Victory Tour, and it feels like this is a hell of a lot to ask of me after Effie already had the attendants on the train scrub me from head to toe less than twenty-four hours ago, but I nod in response to Portia's suggestion, knowing that, now that I've started, I may as well see this through. Even if Bannock turns out to be as promising as yesterday suggested, he'll still need help of some kind as the Games progress; water, food, matches, medicine. The rich Capitolites with money to burn on sponsorship expect to have somebody respectable to deal with, and it's bound to stroke their egos if they think that I got prettied up for their benefit.

"Don't worry," Vorena says sweetly, coming over to pull me to my feet so she can lead me away to my doom. "I'll be gentle with you."

True to her word, Vorena is gentle with me, or as gentle as any member of a prep team ever is.

I'm released from her clutches before the kids are ready and she restricted herself to ordering me into a shower programmed with spicy-smelling foam, trimming my hair and lightly styling it, shaving my face and dressing me in a tailored black suit with the edges of the lapels trimmed in tiny yellow, orange, red and gold gemstones. One area she wouldn't take any arguments from me is makeup, insisting on hiding my 'wreck of a face' after what Bannock did to me. I very carefully avoid mirrors once she's done.

There's just enough time for me to get a quick look at the kids before they're shepherded away for the parade.

Portia and Cinna have dressed them in skin-tight black unitards covered with black diamonds and opals to signify coal. Their costumes are also studded with coloured gemstones like the ones on my lapels, patterned in the shape of candle flames. Each stylist has added small individual touches to their Tribute. The boy is wearing a pair of black combat pants over his unitard and the way he stands over the girl makes him look more like her bodyguard than her district partner. It looks like there was no room for her mockingjay pin among the stones, but Cinna apparently wanted it seen, as it's been affixed to a thin black satin belt around her waist. Other than the dark eye shadow that makes her eyes look huge, there's little by the way of makeup. Her hair is in twin braids, crisscrossed atop her head and secured in place with red and gold hair clasps that look like flames at first, until I get a closer look at them and see that the design is of feathers rather than flames.

"Valkyrie," Cinna says, like the word is supposed to mean something to me.

Effie thanks the stylists profusely for all of their hard work and, for once, I can second her without sarcasm.

Once the kids have been led away to their chariot, I make my way to the balcony reserved for the mentors, and any other Victors who have tagged along to enjoy the hospitality of the Capitol.

As usual, the mentors from the Career districts sit in a cluster on one end of the balcony, talking in hushed tones and ignoring the rest of us.

Annie Cresta, the girl from District Four who won last year, is sitting between Finnick Odair and Cara Aldjoy, the mentors for this year. It's no surprise to see Finnick there; even if President Snow didn't insist that he attend every year, no boy from District Four would ever get any sponsors if the Capitol was denied the pleasure of ogling Finnick, no matter how hard his replacement tried to woo them. The female Victors share the duties of mentoring among themselves but, as this is Annie's first year as a Victor, she has to be here to shadow Cara and learn what will be expected of her when it's her turn to be the mentor. I can tell at a glance that she's having a hard time holding it together, clutching Finnick's hand in both of hers to keep herself from crying and screaming. There's nothing of the confident Career Tribute we saw last year left in this shattered girl.

I imagine Finnick and the others will see to it that this is the last time that she will have to come to the Capitol, if they can avoid it. District Four has enough Victors that they can do without Annie as a mentor.

It's the one thing I envy Annie.

I'm selfish enough to wish the life of a Victor on Bannock Mellark if it means that I no longer have to cope with all of this alone, year after year.

Chaff has saved the seat next to him for me and he greets me with a warm smile and a slap on the shoulder. As soon as I'm sat down he produces a flask unscrews the lid and takes a sip before offering it to me. I was shaking all through the prep work, and just the smell of the whiskey has me breaking out in a cold sweat I know one sip will cure. Suppressing a groan, I shake my head. Chaff doesn't question me or look surprised; he just shrugs and sets the open flask on the floor between us, within easy reach for when I want it. This is going to be a long night.

I've just wrenched my eyes away from the flask when Johanna Mason flings herself into the seat next to mine, scowling.

"Did you see my Tribute for this year?" she demands by way of greeting.

We all did.

Every year, mentors, escorts and Tributes gather together on each of the twelve Tribute trains to watch a recap of the reaping. It's the first chance to get a look at the competition so nobody misses it, not even me. This year, the boy from District Seven looks like he might actually have some potential. He looks to be about seventeen and has been felling trees for some time now, if his buff build is any indication. If Blight can keep his focus, he might actually be able to make something of his Tribute. Johanna wasn't as lucky. Her Tribute is a girl of fourteen or fifteen whose right foot has been amputated above the ankle.

Seeder reaches out to lay a hand on Johanna's arm, shaking her head almost imperceptibly to remind her that this is neither the time nor the place for her to rant against the Capitol for forcing a crippled child into the arena.

"Finnick's not too happy about his Tribute either," Chaff chimes in with forced good cheer. "The way I hear it, he and the trainers had their boy chosen months ago, one who could have given Finnick a run for his money with a trident, and they thought that they were all set for another win. Next thing they know, some kid from their training program, a boy about fifteen or so, got the jump on the chosen one at the Reaping and was the first to volunteer. He refused to withdraw so there was nothing they could do about it and Finnick's stuck with him."

"Idiot!" Johanna growls contemptuously. "Couldn't he wait another few years to die?"

"He probably thinks that he'll make more of a splash if he wins young," I point out. Most districts would be thrilled with any Victor, because it's so rare for them to see one of their Tributes return except in a coffin and because it means that they'll have enough to eat for a year, but the Career Districts win often enough that this is no longer enough for them. Their Victors compete among themselves for who has the most kills, who prevails against the worst odds, who the Capitol finds most impressive. Victors who don't distinguish themselves tend to fade into the background once their Tour is over, the lucky bastards. This boy, whoever he is, has his eye on a greater prize than any ordinary victory, and it's likely to get him killed.

A fanfare sounds to let everybody know that the parade is about to begin.

Beneath the Victor's balcony, I can see row after row of brightly coloured Capitolites all but bouncing in their seats, craning their necks to be the first to catch a glimpse of this year's Tributes. Most of them have roses of varying hues clutched in their fists, ready to be thrown at whichever Tribute catches their fancy. Even with over a hundred thousand seats available, tickets to the parade are highly prized and sell for a fortune.

As always, District One leads the procession. I'm surprised when I see what their stylists have decked them out in. You can usually count on District One to dazzle but this year's Tributes are swathed in magenta velvet and fur, with ridiculous jeweled headpieces. Even Effie wouldn't be seen in something like it… well, probably not. Luckily for them, One never sends a kid to the Capitol if they aren't good-looking and the pair they've chosen for this year are no exception to the rule. Despite their costumes, they draw admiring cheers from the crowd as they pass them by. Even District Two's Tributes are overshadowed by them, though they're bound to make up for it when the time comes to reveal the training scores. The pair from District Three wave shyly at a crowd that pays little attention to them.

I'm curious about the boy from District Four, the kid who broke the rules to rush into the Games a few years early. He's a handsome kid and he knows it. He stands tall in his chariot, waving at the crowd as regally as President Snow ever could and smirking like he's in no doubt that they will adore him. Just about every Career Tribute is arrogant, taught to think of victory as theirs for the taking, but this boy is even worse than most. Arrogance can be a very dangerous thing in the arena, one way or another.

The Tributes that follow are met with a much more subdued response than the Careers, their costumes more of the usual rubbish that the stylists truss the outlying Districts into. Johanna growls under her breath as her Tributes ride past in tree costumes so stiff that the poor kids can barely move, muttering something about sticking her axe in the stylists' faces. The pair from District Ten have to be the worst off, though; apparently their stylists decided to try to be creative this year and, instead of the usual ranch worker or cow costumes, they've draped the kids in hanks of meat to form a sort of tunic of sorts, thereby ensuring that, not only will none of the other Tributes find them the least bit threatening, any would-be sponsors in the audience will be repulsed.

When the chariot carrying my Tributes comes into view, bringing up the rear of the procession, the novelty of seeing District Twelve Tributes in something other than skimpy miners' outfits or coal dust is enough to draw the attention of the audience and, once they get a closer look at them, their interest turns to cheers of approval.

They must have stood the girl on a platform of some kind so people could get a proper look at her and her costume. The top of her head reaches the boy's shoulder. The glow of the torches is reflected in the hair clasps Cinna put on her and, for a moment, it looks as though there are flames rising from her hair. She's managed to dredge up a little charm for the occasion and she waves and smiles at the crowd as her chariot makes its way down the processional path. The crowd responds eagerly enough, cheering and applauding.

The flame-tipped accents on the boy's costume make his shoulders look even broader. He stands tall in his chariot, a little grim, but waving. The women in the audience are especially impressed by him; a chorus of whistles and catcalls follows him all along the route.

For the first time in living memory, District Twelve makes a splash at the opening ceremonies.

People are even going to the trouble of checking the programmes so they can call to the kids by name.

I'd enjoy the novelty of having Tributes who are admired by the crowd a lot more if my stomach wasn't churning, threatening to spill everything I've eaten in the last few days. Which isn't much, I realise. I left most of my stomach contents in Cray's office yesterday, and of course I haven't tried to eat anything else since having my jaw pulverised. Being this hungry probably isn't helping with everything else. I wonder if I can stomach the idea of asking Effie Trinket to get me an appointment with a doctor.

As the twelve chariots ride into the City Circle, taking their places in a large semi-circle for the President's address, the cameras cut to the Tributes from each of the Districts in turn at first but, after that, they alternate almost exclusively between Districts One and Twelve rather than cutting between shots of all of the Career Tributes, as they usually do. I can practically feel Brutus glaring at me for daring to steal his Tributes' thunder. Enobaria probably wants to rip my throat out with her teeth. I'd be worried if we didn't all know that the Peacekeeper response to any brawling among Victors would be swift and brutal. Brutus and Enobaria aren't quite crazy enough to try anything. Even Sparkly and Shiny, or whatever the hell their parents named them, are fuming by the end when, after President Snow finally shuts up about the Tributes' courage and sacrifice, the camera holds on the District Twelve chariot as it makes a final slow pass around the City Circle before following the others into the Training Centre.

Finnick claps me on the shoulder before I can make my way down from the mentors' balcony to the Training Centre.

"You owe District One a 'thank you'," he informs me cheerfully.

"What for?" Sparkly and Shiny barely deign to acknowledge my existence at the best of times.

"That." He waves one arm in the direction of the nearest screen, which features a larger than life replay of my Tributes' ride into the City Circle, along with reaction shots from the crowd. "Your stylists were supposed to be assigned to One but Cashmere threw some kind of fit. Gloss goes along with everything she says, so they got Appius and Cloelia and the other two were assigned to you."

"What was Sparkly's problem?" I can guess; maybe I had it right the first time about the Capitol favourites refusing to allow Cinna on their team. I can't really be mad at Portia for covering for him. District Twelve is a hit thanks to them, after all.

Finnick shrugs. "Cashmere has too many problems to keep track of. Maybe they didn't fawn over her enough."

"Of course you couldn't relate to that at all."

Finnick chuckles grimly. Sometimes the only way to deal with the horrible parts of life is to try and laugh it off. "Never. I always have my legions falling over themselves to get a piece of me."

We're the last ones on the balcony so we can't stick around. I have to jog to catch up with the stragglers as we make our way into the Training Centre to reunite with our escorts and collect our Tributes.

Effie is all smiles as she greets the kids, engulfing them both in hugs as soon as Cinna and Portia have helped them down from the chariot. "You were wonderful! Everybody is sure to be talking about us now!" She pounces on the stylists next, shaking their hands so enthusiastically that I think she might manage to dislocate their shoulders. "Those costumes were remarkable, so much better that anything we've had since I've been escort!"

"They really were something special." As much as it pains me to agree with Effie, I have to second her on that.

Portia accepts our praise graciously but, while Cinna nods, he looks a little disappointed.

"I was hoping that we would have the flames perfected in time for the parade. Nobody would have forgotten them," he says wistfully. He reaches out to straighten one of the girl's hair clasps. "I'll have them ready for your interview, Katniss, no matter what it takes," he vows to her, muttering something about a girl on fire. Well, as long as he doesn't roast the boy along with her.

"Maybe we'd better take this upstairs," I suggest, noticing that we've attracted quite a bit of attention from mentors, stylists and some of the Career Tributes. If Cinna has something special planned, the last thing we need is for them to overhear him and copy his idea, especially as my kids will always be the last shown.

Effie agrees that it's time for us to go to our quarters and takes charge.

"So, each of the districts get their own floor and because you're from District Twelve, you get the penthouse," she tells the kids as she shepherds them over to the elevator, demonstrating that all they need to do to get to our floor is to press the button with their district number on it, a wasted lesson, given that they're not supposed to put a toe outside of the living quarters without Effie or a Peacekeeper escorting them. If they do manage to slip away, it won't take long for them to be delivered back to our suite.

The girl's eyes are round with wonder as she takes in the glass elevator and even the boy can't hide his awe. The only elevator in District Twelve, apart from the lifts that take the men down to the deepest recesses of the mines, is the one in the Justice Building, which they will have seen exactly once – or twice in the girl's case; Mayor Undersee always presents a medal of some kind to the families of those lost to mining accidents – and which is covered in stains and, for some reason, always smells like sour milk.

Their awe at the elevator is nothing compared to the expression on their faces when the doors open to reveal the penthouse apartment that will be their home for the next six days, until they are sent into the arena.

My house in Victors' Village is - or was - a palace by District Twelve's standards, but beyond simple next to this.

"So this is the living room," Effie tells them, smiling indulgently at their amazement at the sight of their plush surroundings. "I know, I know." She gives them a brief tour, pointing out the sitting and dining areas before leading them away to their rooms, suggesting that they change out of their costumes and clean themselves up a little before dinner, which is due to be served in an hour. They follow her obediently, too overwhelmed by the grandeur of their surroundings to do anything else.

The tremors are getting worse, and my protesting stomach won't be ignored any longer. I leave her to the tour and make my way to the room I use every year, determined to hold it together until I'm alone.

I make it to the bathroom just in time and discover that not only can I really open my mouth when it's a question of my choking to death, but that there was a lot more in my stomach than I knew. By the time I'm done I can only slump against the wall right there. My throat is burning, my face hurts more than ever, and I have no idea how I'm going to survive the next couple of weeks, let alone be any use to the boy when he's in the arena.

A few minutes later, I hear the door slide open behind me and turn to see a truly beautiful sight.

Even the fact that the glass is in Effie's hand can't diminish my joy.

She wrinkles her nose in distaste at the stench and takes a few steps in my direction, making sure to stay a safe distance away from me and the toilet as she passes the crystal tumbler into my outstretched hand. This is a very wise move on her part as I feel like I could blow again at any minute. It's heavily diluted but I'm in no position to be picky. I down it carefully, but as quickly as I can manage.

"How did your interview with Crane go?" I ask her once my glass is empty, doing my best to sound like I could care less. Even Capitolites can find themselves in huge trouble if they piss off the people in charge. I'll never like Effie Trinket, but it could actually be worse. The last thing I need is a new escort.

"Well enough," she tells me, although her brow is creased in a slight frown that leaves thin cracks in her white make-up. "While he agreed that I had no alternative but to proceed with the Reaping in your absence, given the state you were in, he admonished me for cutting off your supply. Apparently he prefers you as a wreck. Someday, you will have to tell me what you did to earn such dislike from a Senior Gamemaker."

"Someday," I echo, knowing that that's a story I will never tell anybody, least of all Effie Trinket.

She doesn't need to hear stories about my time in the arena and I couldn't stomach the idea of confiding in her about my family. She wouldn't want to know that twenty-one years ago, when Senaca Crane was a newly appointed apprentice taken under the wing of the Head Gamemaker during the Second Quarter Quell, his mentor paid the price for my victory, for giving me the opportunity to turn the arena that was meant to kill me into a weapon I could wield against another Tribute; a Career who had been the favourite to win.

She won't want to know how Crane took his revenge.

It doesn't take Effie long to realise that there is no way that she is going to get any answers from me, and I'd say that, deep down, she knows that she doesn't want them.

"At any rate, I've arranged a visit from a doctor," she says. "Unlike Crane, he'd probably prefer I hadn't given you that drink, but since most everyone I've met today is already furious with me over something or other, one doctor won't make much of a difference.

"He'll be here in a moment. The kitchen staff are holding dinner for us until you're ready."

She turns on her heel and leaves, sparing me the further humiliation of having to thank her.