Carameuse Heloise, 48
Capitol Citizen

"So we have a murder victim? Who is it, anyway?" Fiammetta asks, frowning. She looks tired today - has she been sleeping well? Carameuse can't tell, Fiammetta's good at hiding her emotions. It's one of the reasons why she's been President for so long.

"He. And I've seen him before - I don't know the man's name, but I'll be looking for it. The murderer will be somewhere, on the train - no one could possibly get out of the train, and I have a feeling that he'd rather be on it anyway. After all, he's trying to kill you - and I doubt that this was a suicide." Carameuse stares at Fiammetta, hoping that she's getting through to her friend. "You need to stay in your room - with armed guards at the door, of course -and just wait, while the task force interviews all of the possible suspects. We have a lot of work to do, and I don't want you to be at risk."

"Don't talk down to me." Fiammetta breaks her calm for a moment with the sharp comment, then retreats back into her icy facade. "I will, of course, but I have a right to know what's happening. Harrison, do you have any idea of when the train will be operable once more?"

"In twenty-seven hours, according to the crew," replies a man with a shocking crop of blue bangs that fall over his eyes. He pushes them back, slicking back his hair, then gives a grin. "We'll be moving on towards Six soon - although we'll have to skip Six, Five, and Four due to the delay."

"Of course." Fiammetta turns back to Carameuse, fixing her hair as she does so. It's still as red as it was when Carameuse first met her - back before Fiammetta became President. "So I'll stay here, and you'll be in charge of investigations. I trust you, Carameuse. But remember - you are still working for me. Don't do anything that I wouldn't want you to - make Panem proud."

Carameuse is fed up with Fiammetta's determination to play the role of benevolent leader, but she ignores Fiammetta's subtle warning. "I will, of course."

She walks out, feeling Fiammetta's stare on her back with every step.

Electra Mancuso, 16
District Three Female

Rip!

She grates her teeth and tries not to pay attention to the women hovering around her, plucking stray hairs on her body and trying to make her look as good as any beauty queen in the Capitol.

Electra seriously doubts that they'll be able to do it.

"Oh, sweetie, could you bend a bit that way - no, not that way, my that way - yes, that's perfect! You have another few strips worth of body hair - my, Threes don't shave at all! Isn't it quaint, Priscilla?"

"Yes, quaint it is. But the Capitol wants you to look your best… Electra?" Another woman with a head full of blue locks and tattoos tracing down her throat peers down at Electra, batting her eyelashes. Electra doesn't like her. "Speak up, child - your name is Electra, isn't it?"

Flustered, Electra manages to reply to the strange woman. She hates being put on the spot. "Y-yes, my name is Electra."

"Oh good, I don't want to lose that bet I have with my sister for who memorizes everyone's name first this year. Winner makes the loser cough up a few sesterces for sponsorships - I've lost too many times to count, but this will surely be mine to win! Would you like to add to the pool, Winnie?" The women titter as they continue to clean Electra's body, hoisting her up from the table to hose her down with more cold water. She hates the feeling of being blasted by the water, and starts to shiver when they help her back onto the table and start towelling her off.

She feels like an animal.

She pushes back at them when they start combing her hair, trying to yank away from the offending comb. One of the women gasps, putting a hand to her cherry-red mouth in shock. "Dearie, we need you to stay still so that we can get you ready this year! If you don't stay still, you won't be able to go out in time! We wouldn't want that, would we?"

Electra glares back, her lips forming several insults before she decides to stick with the safe reply. "No, ma'am."

The women soon finish with her, thankfully, and Electra's given a towel to wrap around her body to preserve what's left of her dignity. Her skin feels raw, and she grimaces at her chafed legs. They must have taken off layers of dirt that she didn't know that she had - she can't think of any other reason for why she feels colder than she has before. Perhaps there's a draft in the Prep Centre.

She crosses her legs and looks around at the room, admiring the tiny bookshelf that's tucked into a corner as if it's apologizing for being here. Poor thing - it deserves to be the centre of attention with that woodwork on maple - is it maple? She isn't sure. She's never learned to identify samples of different kinds of wood. She never thought it would be useful - besides, numbers were safer. She prefers staying with her numbers.

"Oh, you - you're gorgeous!" Electra flinches when she hears the strange voice, not wanting to look up and see who it is. She wants to go home. "Oh, Electra - you'll look stunning today! Just you wait - we're going to shock everyone today."

Biting her lip, Electra looks up at the man. He's standing with one hand on his chin and the other on his hip, clothed with a jumpsuit of green silk and white sashes that tie together the outfit. "Three's export to the nation is technology - but technology's not always what you think. We're always clothing you in flashing lights and messy coding patterns - I want something a bit more… glamorous. Do you understand?"

"No," she replies. She didn't understand a thing of what the man's said - his accent is so lilting that she could only pick up on a few words.

"Oh, you districts are quaint - simpleminded, my friends would say, but that isn't very kind of us. Now, let's get you into your dress. Arms up, darling!"

Electra raises her arms, still hesitant. Oh well, she'll find out what he'll do with this eventually.

Perhaps after this, she can go to the apartment that Kaitlynn talked about and sit in her bedroom and pretend that this isn't happening.

That would be nice.

Tristan Locke, 18
District Eight Male

He lets out a large yawn, causing Mona to bend away from him in her bulky factory outfit. "Don't get me sick with whatever bug you have - I've got enough of my own, idiot."

"I yawned, Mona - that isn't a cough," Tristan snaps back. They're both annoyed with each other - Mona blathers all day about how sick she is and how she'll die in the Hunger Games, and Tristan glares at her until she gets fed up with him and switches the topic to how her district partner hates her.

Oh, the horror.

"Well, it's close enough with how much saliva you spit out with every word. Mind your p's - your spittle's disgusting," Mona replies. She starts coughing again, muttering something about the soot that covers her brightly coloured outfit. The stylists from Eight have decided that this year, they wanted colour for their tributes - so they're in cunning little outfits with red and white stripes running down the sides of their jackets and pants. But someone else must have wanted to make sure that they didn't have a chance of doing well here: so the outfits are coated in layers of dust and soot.

They almost look like real factory workers - if they had actually done a shift in the bowels of the factory in this get-up.

"I will, Desdemona." Tristan turns away from his district partner before he says something venomous. He's fed up with her, yet she's just a kid. He shouldn't be wasting energy on trying to annoy her back.

He should be the better man.

As Mona continues to moan about something else - hah, that's a pun in and of itself - Tristan stares at the Capitolites in the stands around them. District One is starting to head out to the crowds, the roaring crowds of a thousand different colours that scream - no, they roar for the tributes.

It's louder than it is on television.

And he can see why they're roaring - District One looks stunning in their robes with colours that fit right in with the Capitol. No, they look better than the Capitol - the girl is in a white-gold dress that fades through both of the colours seamlessly, gems encrusted at the bottom of the gown like fruits falling from the trees where they used to grow. And the boy - the girl? - is in the same outfit, the only difference being that theirs fades from silver to gold.

By the time District Two heads towards the crowds, the boy in typical gladiator fashion while the girl is dressed in similar garments but in the colour of light gold that resembles the rising sun, Mona decides that it's time to moan again. "Have you seen District Seven? They look almost as bad as us - at least we'll have company in the lower echelons of parade rankings. Do you think this will affect our score? As if it wasn't bad enough for me to be sick, but now we have horrible outfits. Look at Four! This really, truly -"

"Just - just - just shut up!" Tristan snarls, biting his tongue as soon as he says it to her. He bites so hard that he can feel the metallic, suffocating taste of blood filling up his mouth. He probably deserves it - as District Four heads out in their chariots, Mona promptly bursts into tears.

"Go… go away!" she howls at him as he tries to console her, desperate to not be seen like this by the Capitolites. "You're horrible! Guards, he's attacking me! Help!"

The peacekeepers glance up at their chariot, shrugging before going back to marching. Tristan knows that a nasty sneer is starting to take over his face, filled with contempt for this stupid little child that he's stuck with.

At least, he thinks to himself as a peacekeeper prods their bay-coloured horses to dart towards the stands, it fits with the standard the Capitol must have set for them. The rebel and the whiner, huh?

Well, he'll play along for now.

Sasha Sone, 17
District Five Male

He's not going to go along with this stupid game that the Capitolites are making them play.

"Sasha - you do know that you're supposed to stand up and wave to them, right?" Colleen whispers through clenched teeth while smiling at the crowd, letting them glimpse her decently white teeth. She's definitely won some sort of genetic lottery to have those types of teeth in District Five, of all places. Sasha doesn't even know if they have a proper dentist in the district.

"I like it better down here," he replies. She almost rolls her eyes at him - Sasha can see how she resists the urge to - but instead settles for a smaller smile. She's playing the game - what a fool. "Aren't you the fool? I thought you were supposed to be the mystery girl - but no, I guess you've settled for desperation."

Colleen shrugs, adjusting her toque. "I guess I'll probably die - why would I win? But if I'm going to get this chance, I want to take every chance I get to win. I suggest you do the same. There's still time to do something - take some dough and throw!"

"No." Sasha tosses away his toque, not bothering to see where the fluffy white chef's hat lands. He's sure that someone will pick it up anyway. "Have fun, chef-girl."

"I will!" Colleen gives a large grin to the crowd, and Sasha's surprised to see that it's genuine. She's really in her element here - taking advantage of the fact that Five's too cluttered to properly define it as anything but a place of electric power, their stylists dressed them as chefs in an attempt to demonstrate some of the uses of electricity. They've been given dough to toss and a fake oven to work with, and Colleen gives it her all. She kneads the dough, dusts flour onto it, and - to the delight of the crowd - gives a chef's kiss before tossing it up in the air.

To Sasha's disgust, it sticks the landing perfectly.

Someone tosses a rose up at them, and Sasha scowls at it. He doesn't see why these Capitolites pretend to adore their victims - why are they even bothering with this? He'd rather see honest ones - ones who know that they're killing him. At least they'd have the courtesy to not tie him up with a ribbon and bow before tossing him into the arena.

Colleen grabs the rose before Sasha has the chance to toss it back, sniffing it delicately before throwing it towards the crowd. It doesn't make it even close to the large stands of screaming Capitolites, clad in blue and green and red and dozens of colours in between - their skin almost as diverse as the clothes they're clad in.

In some cases, it's the clothes they're not dressed in that's more eye-catching. What a strange place.

But soon enough, the chariot ride ends as their horses sidle up to the square that the President's balcony overlooks. Sasha doesn't bother to look up, only listening to their speech about how they're making such a sacrifice for the nation and all of the lies that Capitolites like to stuff into speeches so they won't offend the tributes.

And then, just like that, it's over.

Colleen looks over at him, a smile fluttering on her lips. She looks intrigued by how angry he is - and he hates the way that her gaze probes him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he spits back. Colleen raises an eyebrow, unfazed by his outburst. "Now, let's get out of this get-up and go to the apartment."

"Hey, we're better than we would be if we were with District Seven - did you see? They had to be trees. Imagine having to stand there for almost an hour in scratchy, artificial bark that you can't get off of you. It's a wonder that they didn't topple over." Colleen laughs at the thought, and shoots a glance over at the pair. The younger boy is helping the woman down, and Sasha sees an expression of pain on her face as she follows him. Hey, isn't she the pregnant one?

"I… I guess," he mutters, looking away. He doesn't bother watching the rest of the tributes as they go about their first attempts at making alliances and threatening the competition, trying not to cry or smirk at the thought of dying, of killing with these people, trying to observe everyone here. He's not going to do that.

He wants to be alone.

Umm, I've got nothing to say. Enjoy! We have seven more of these, and then we'll reach the bloodbath. Woohoo!

Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ