I rouse to the constant rapping of knuckles on wood.

"Up up up! We have a lot to go over and not a lot of time to do it." Tooth shouts from behind the face of the bedroom door, the suckling sweetness of her voice tempting me to chuck a throw pillow at the direction of the sound.

"Oh, ok!" I call distantly. I instead grab the nearest pillow and slam it over my face.

Oh god! Why am I so tired? I'm usually more of a morning person.

Off and on occasion, I would wake up hours before dawn. While the others were still snoring away, I'd sneak out of the house with a blanket and coat and sit in the Meadow, the chill of dusk bristling the fur in my arms. Owls hooted in the dark and the distant croak of a toad could be heard by the pond. A few pin pricks of light would shine through the mystic night sky, stretching seemingly forever; stars. We never got to see stars back in New York.

I cherished those moments alone. All of that silence and tranquility all to myself. Those were the only times I've ever felt truly happy in the last three years.

I guess I nodded off again because I jarr awake at Tooth's pounding.

"Alright! I'm up!" I shout as I prop myself onto an elbow. "Jesus Christ!"

I hear the flutter of wings drift away from the door and I plop back onto the plush mattress, praying to whatever God up above in Heaven would put me in a coma and let me sleep for the rest of eternity. I lay there for a few minutes. In the back of my head, I was hoping that all of it had just been a bad dream. The reaping, me volunteering, Gia and Gobber's bombardment into my life, the whole enchilada. I rub my eyes and blow air through my cheeks.

Well, it can't get any worse from here.

Reluctantly, I flip the warm comforter off and shuffle to the closet. I distinctly remember grabbing an outfit, but it's hard to say since I'm still half asleep. But I find myself in a t-shirt and sweats however many minutes later.

The mess I made last night of cookies still lays on the carpet. The bits are probably dry and old, the box is split open in multiple directions, looking as if the pastries exploded inside the cardboard compartment. I don't clean it up.

The scent of something cooking brings me to the present. Something warm and greasy and impossibly delectable. I jog to the dining car when my stomach rumbles loudly. The others are already there, their silverware clinking against expensive china. Gia is already on her second helping, Tooth is sipping on a cup of coffee, and Gobber takes a swig every few seconds from a tin flask. From the strong scent of the fumes, it's a spirit.

I can't pull up a memory of him without liquor. Before the Hunger Games, he might've been more subtle, maybe even sober. But I wasn't even born then so I'll never truly know. He's a constant visitor of the Hobb, throwing away coins at any stand selling beer or whiskey, drinking until a reluctant trader had to escort him home.

I take my seat (unfortunately, right next to Gia) and make myself a plate before my pride gets the better of me and makes me sit there stonely. Steaming scrambled eggs, sizzling sausage links, hot fried potatoes, and crispy bacon sit in hot serving trays, radiating with heat and mouth-watering fragrances. Glass pitchers of orange juice are served along with a whistling kettle. I pour myself some and a brown liquid swims in my cup, froth bubbling at the lip of my mug.

"It's called hot chocolate." Gia says when she notices my quizzical look before returning to her toast.

What the hell does she think?! That I don't know what hot chocolate is when I see it? Of course I know what hot chocolate is. I mean, who doesn't?

Back at the zoo, the other's and I would sneak into the employees' room after hours and scavenge for little treats. Candy, soda, chips, whatever we could get our grubby little paws on. And in the winter, we would drink hot chocolate from foam cups and watch the snowfall in Central Park. Back then, life was simple and easy. Performing on stage, being pampered, drinking hot chocolate almost every night, and not a single care in the world ever invaded our consciousness. Like a fairy tale.

What a twisted happy ending it turned out to be, huh?

I take a cautious sip and sweet, creamy goodness floods my mouth. I can almost feel the snowflakes softly landing on my nose and the bitter chill of December creeping into the peninsula of Manhattan. I wolf down breakfast until I'm convinced that my stomach will burst any second. I pat my stomach in satisfaction.

"So, Gobber." I say, leaning back in my chair as the meal settles in.

He eyes me as he takes yet another gulp of his alcohol.

"You said you'd help us, right?" I ask.

He gives the slightest of nods and I let my thoughts ramble out.

"Okay, so, when we get to the arena, what's the best thing to do at the Cornucopia? Stay and fight for supplies? Run or stay out of it? Or- "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa 'ere." Gobber suddenly interrupts, raising his hand and mallet to stop my talking, flask still in his grasp. "Slow down 'ere a bit. We haven' even reached the Capitol ye'."

I blink. The clatter of silver prongs meeting porcelain ceases to a stop.

"Wait but-"

"Shut it!" Gobber barks.

I shut my mouth and stare at him expectantly, brows furrowing with frustration. If he's gonna turn into the Gobber from yesterday, we're gonna have a problem.

"Liste', in a few minutes we'll be arrivin' a' the Capitol. Yer'll be handed ove' to the stylists. An' trust me 'ere, yer not goin' to like wha' happens to yer in the leas'. But wha'ever they do to yer, do no' resis'.

"What if-" I try to ask.

"No." Gobber interrupts.

"But-

"Nope."

"Wh-"

"NO! Yer will do as I say an' withou' question. Go' i'?" He says, stabbing a finger at my chest on "got it".

I groan as I cross my arms, pouting fruitlessly. Gia nods her head vigorously, but I remain still. I can feel Gobber's gaze on me, staring daggers at my head. I don't flinch for a second.

"I said," Gobber ventures, his tone stressed. ", do yer go' it, Lion?"

I chance a sidelong glance at him. His gaze is cold and calculating, threatening. Before I can respond with my casual snarky comment, we're plunged into darkness and I shoot to my feet, head swiveling through the sudden switch from day to night. The outside of the train is pitch black against the warm glow of the dining car. I rush to the window, Gia by my side and watch in bewilderment.

We must be in the tunnel that runs through the Rocky Mountains. The Capitol was built on one side of the mountain range and the rest of us on the other, forming a sort of barrier between the gluttonously rich and the districts who struggle to survive under their oppressive reign.

I've heard stories of the war where the districts attempted to rebel against the Capitol. The people of the districts were clearly unprepared for the attacks that followed. When we tried to get over the mountain, officially known as Pikes Peak, we were sitting ducks for the bombs that destroyed our aircrafts and soldiers. And trying to get inside through the tunnels is nearly impossible. We were easily defeated.

The miles of rock above my head separating me from the open spaces of the sky makes my chest tighten. I'm not unfamiliar with being underground. Three years ago, the new arrivals of District 12 were given a tour through the mines to give us a sort of view of our future. In a year or so, I was supposed to start working in the coal mines. But now, I'm not ever going to work there now. I'd be glad about it if it weren't for the greater, more bloody death I'll receive now that the end of my life is just around the corner.

A flash of blinding white light shines through the inky blackness and I shield my eyes until they adjust to the new environment. Outside, a whole new world thrives in the heart of Panem. I can't help but marvel at the grandeur of the bright city before me. The television programs had shown us tidbits of the Capitol, never fully capturing its beauty. Skyscrapers reach to the sky, shimmering and twinkling in the sun like crystals. Strange, shiny vehicles wind through the wide, perfect asphalt. People mill around on the sidewalk in the most bizarre outfits I've ever seen: hair as tall as a giraffe or as wide as an elephant, glittering fabrics in all too artificial colors; hot pink, neon yellows, radioactive blues; faces with so much paint they could put a circus clown to shame.

A crowd has gathered at the train station, awaiting our arrival with eager enthusiasm. I back away from them, their colorful faces and all too wide smiles scaring the shit out of me. But Gia stays in place, waving at the crowd with a smile forming on her short snout. She looks back at me, her large brown eyes alight. She takes notice of my repulsion towards the poorly inadequate fashionistas watching us with their circus freak expression.

"What? One of them might be rich." She inquires with a shrug of her shoulder

My forehead jumps to my scalp. Gobber comes up behind me and pats a wooden hand on my back.

"Ye could learn a thin' or two from her." He says and hobbles off.

It appears that, regrettably, he's right. Gia is stepping up her game by winning over the crowd with a loving appearance. Her strategy of being an innocent, nice girl from a pitiful town won't overthrow the other tributes' chances, but it'll give her the upper hand. This'll help her gain sponsors and other resources for the Games. It appears that I've underestimated the jaguar. I'm assuming that she's forming a plan to survive. Which also means a plan to kill me.

Unlike me, she hasn't given up. Gia Zaragoza, the jaguar I'm in debt to, is fighting for her life.