Ainsley Platte, 14

District 9 Female

"Anyone want a cinnamon bun? I'm not sure if they're edible but they're still steaming and they smell so good," Ainsley says, still brandishing her tray of baked goods. "They're probably not real since they've been steaming for over an hour but I'm not adverse to putting one in my mouth."

It seems that that proposition is the last straw for Everett, since he gets to his feet, throwing his chef's hat to the ground as he slams the door to his bedroom. Ainsley starts laughing when she sees the lettering on the door, which reads Everett Reid. She glances over at her own door, pleased to see that her name is spelled correctly.

"Somehow they manage to misspell at least six names every year," Gracyn says, shaking her head. She nods in the direction of Ainsley's questionable cinnamon rolls. "And I don't think you should eat any of those."

"Agreed," Iara says. "Anything that steams for over an hour certainly isn't trustworthy."

"Whatever," Ainsley says, setting the tray of likely-fake and untrustworthy cinnamon buns on the coffee table. She slides her hat off, putting it down beside the tray and starts to untie her apron. Carefully examining her hair, which still has flour dust in it, she says, "Who's idea was it to put flour in our hair?"

Gracyn shrugs. "It's not the worst thing 9's stylists have come up with."

"Great," Ainsley says, bored. "I'm going to take a walk."

"Where?" Iara calls after her as she heads for the elevator.

"Somewhere," Ainsley snaps. She honestly couldn't care less if the tributes are even allowed out of their apartments at night. She needs to get out, go somewhere, be anyway but here. This entire thing has put her on edge. She's almost finding herself missing the endless fields of grain and the droning of her teachers. At least that place is familiar. At least that place is home.

She jams her finger against the button and steps into the elevator. The calm, dance-y music feels out of place in the Capitol as Ainsley stands with the potential to be slaughtered in just a few days' time.

"No," Ainsley says forcefully aloud as she presses the button for the ground floor. She can't afford to think like that. She has things to get home to. She has so much to fix. She has a family, friends, enough of an existence to warrant killing to continue it. She's hardly had any time to live, and she's willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that she gets more of it.

Ainsley's life has never been perfect. She doubts that anyone's ever has. But for all of its faults, and for all of Ainsley's, her life is her life. And it's a life that shouldn't, couldn't, be over yet. There are so many things she still has to do. Like…reform District 9's education system. That's something she could do as a Victor.

So, maybe this whole thing will benefit her in the long run, as long as she is the one to come out on top. It benefits no one if she dies.

The elevator dings and Ainsley steps out. She finds herself where the chariots ended their journey just an hour before. The vaulted-ceilinged room is darkened down, shadows clouding said vaulted-ceiling like spiderwebs. Ainsley breezes past the lines of twelve chariots, all situated in place, not to be touched for a year, and heads for one of the doors. With a yank, she pulls it open and is blinded by the lights of the Capitol.

She steps out into the fresh air of the evening, the sounds of the Capitolites partying outside of the City Circle blaring in her ears. She quietly takes a few steps forward, looking around to see if there are any Peacekeepers, and finds none.

She's not really alone, per say, but no one is talking to her and she is allowed to just sit and exist. It feels good to just be there, not in the Capitol, but just to exist. She's not quite sure how much of that she's got left.

As she takes a seat on the blacktop, she looks around at the now-empty, at all of the roses yet to swept away. Carefully, she moves down the channel and picks up one of the crushed flowers. She stares at it for a long moment before tucking it into the pocket of her pants.

After another moment, Ainsley looks up. She stares down the wide aisle for a while.

She could do it. She could run. They'd catch her, maybe even kill her, but she could run. She could take a chance, try to escape, start a new life in the first district she comes upon.

But she doesn't run. Even she's not that stupid. She stays firmly where she is, a fallen rose in her pocket, flour in her hair, and twenty-three people in the building behind all looking to kill her.

"Ainsley Platte."

Ainsley rolls her eyes, turning around to give this person an earful, that yeah, she'll come inside, no she's not going to run, blah, blah, blah, but when she sees their face she stops.

"That is your name, right? Or are you Lana?" Ashe Illyrian asks her, a slightly nervous edge to her voice.

"Ainsley."

"Oh. Good," Ashe says, nodding and taking a step closer to Ainsley. Ainsley looks at her oddly, but she doesn't move. "What are you doing out here?"

Ainsley shrugs. "Looking."

"Looking at what?"

"Everything," Ainsley answers simply. "The Capitol."

"It's quite strange, isn't it?" Ashe says, staring down the channel with blank eyes. "This whole place. People who party and celebrate the death of the Districts' children. It's hard to fathom that it's even real."

"Yeah," Ainsley says. She kicks at one of the roses on the ground and carefully picks it up. It is a strange thought. Ainsley has never feared death, never held any respect for it, but that still doesn't mean anyone should celebrate it. "They threw a lot of these away."

Ashe picks one up too. As she examines it, she says, "Yeah. They did."

The conversation fizzles off, devolving into silence until Ashe starts walking further down the aisle. "What in Panem are you doing?" Ainsley demands as Ashe crouches and picks something up.

"It's one of the sunflowers, from Quinn and I's costumes," Ashe answers, returning to Ainsley's side and showing her the little yellow flower. "Pretty, isn't it? It's not a real one, though. I've planted the real ones. They're much prettier."

Ainsley, without thinking, reaches out and grabs it. Ashe looks at her oddly but doesn't protest. "Can I keep this?" Ainsley asks. She doesn't know what she's going to do with it, but it feels like a reminder of a different world, of a different life. Ashe's life. Ashe said she'd planted these before, yet Ainsley has never even seen one in person. All she's ever seen is stupid, stupid grain.

"It's not mine, so…sure. Do whatever you want with it," Ashe answers, shrugging and raising her eyebrows. She pockets the fallen rose and turns around. "Well, I'd better head back before Meadow starts looking for me. Have fun with your sunflower."

"Wait," Ainsley says impulsively.

Ashe turns back around curiously. "Yeah?"

"Allies? Like, you and me? Allies?" Ainsley awkwardly stammers, unsure of exactly how to ask this. For a moment, she second-guesses herself, wondering if it would be easier to just go solo when Ashe replies and drags her out of her thoughts.

"Sure," Ashe says, smiling slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah," says Ainsley, uncertain of what else she can say. But she has an ally! And Ashe seems as good of an option as any. She grins to herself as Ashe heads back to the Tribute Building, and once Ashe disappears, she starts bouncing on the heels of her feet.

She hopes she gets to see sunflowers on her Victory Tour.

Sterne Colvin, 14

District 5 Male

For all he jokes about it, Sterne does not want to die.

For all he says, for all he laughs and grins and talks, he does not want to die.

He doesn't want to be dead. He doesn't want to be gone. He doesn't want to be anything but alive. Perfectly, unequivocally, alive.

No matter what he says, no matter how many jokes he makes, he does not want to die.

It's suddenly a very real prospect and he isn't quite sure how he feels about it. On one hand, winning the Hunger Games brings the Victor fame, fortune and eternal glory. On the other, losing means death. The losers are dead.

Perfectly, unequivocally, dead.

There aren't loopholes. There aren't ways to joke his way out of dying. He can't talk his way out of this one. Not this time.

Still, Sterne doesn't want to think about that. After all, he's always preferred to live in the moment, stay in the present, and worry about the future when it gets here.

Which is immensely hard to do when he sees his mentor, Ave, writing his name in her notebook. "What are you doing?" he asks, more confused and curious than mad. He's heard tell of Ave Samenfield's notebook, where all of her fallen tributes lay. A reminder of each death that she has watched and mourned for. Only the dead ones, the ones Ave and Solaryn were unable to save get a place in there. After all, Ave only needs to remember the ones who aren't here anymore.

Sterne does not want a place in that notebook. Not until he's dead, at least.

"Nothing," Ave chirps, closing her notebook and setting it aside.

"You were writing my name," Sterne says, almost accusingly. "Do you…do you think I'm that much of a lost cause?" His voice almost cracks, almost breaks, at the thought of Ave deeming him unsavable. She promised that she gave everyone a chance, that no matter who they were, she would fight for them…what would make Sterne an exception?"

"Just in case," Ave quickly amends. "I have one for Liesel as well."

Sterne deflates. "You don't have to defend it. I get it. I'm a lost cause. Everybody knows it."

"That's not true," Ave says immediately, getting to her feet. "No one is a lost cause. Everyone has a chance."

"No, it's not," replies Sterne, crossing his arms across his chest. "Everyone deserves chance. Not everyone has one."

Ave purses her lips and looks down. "You have a chance. Liesel has a chance. Everyone has a chance."

"Whatever," Sterne mumbles, dropping onto the couch. "I've never been in a fight before. I don't know what it's like to kill someone, or see the light leave someone's eyes, to be the person to push the knife through their heart."

"Very few who enter the Games have," Ave assures him. "And no one who leaves the Games hasn't."

"Maybe I'll be the first," Sterne murmurs, shrugging.

"Maybe you will," Ave says, but Sterne can tell she doesn't mean it. She knows no one gets out of the arena without killing anyone. No matter how it happens, whether you are right there when they die or miles and miles away, no one lives with leaving behind a trail of death. No matter how gruesome the act is, no matter how many tears it causes, no matter who it is or how many it is, no one lives without consequence.

Sterne isn't ready to kill someone. It's not a thought someone of fourteen should be thinking about. He should be thinking about school, homework, friends, and his future. Now, it's nothing but his lack thereof.

"I know it seems bleak right now," Ave says, reaching out and putting a hand on Sterne's knee in, likely, an attempt to appear comforting. "And I know that the prospect of killing or being killed seems horrifying, but know that I will be there with you the whole way. No matter who you kill, who you betray, what you do to survive, I will stand by you. Even if no one else in Panem is pulling for you, I don't abandon my tributes when the going gets tough, no matter who they are and what they've done. You will be no exception. And, if when it's all over, I still need a page for you in my notebook, you will have your place. I promise."

Sterne drops his head. "Thank you."

"However," Ave says, her voice slightly more serious. "I can't do everything for you. You have to go the distance. You have to do whatever you have to in order to win. All I can do is pull for you, bring you sponsors."

Sterne lifts his head and steels himself. He locks eyes with Ave and says, "I can do this. I can do this. I can do this."

"Exactly," Ave says, smiling. She gets to her feet. "I'd recommend you go to bed, if you think you can sleep. Let me tell you, training is tiring."

"Okay," Sterne says quietly, getting to his feet as well. "I'll…see you in the morning, then."

With that, he turns and heads toward his room, noticing that they dropped the e from the end of his name, making it just Stern Colvin on the door. He looks across the hall and notices that Liesel's name is misspelt as well; Liesl Leenheer. It makes a laugh bubble out of his mouth. They might die in a few days, and the Capitol doesn't even have the decency to spell their names right?

It's not funny, but Sterne keeps laughing anyway. After all, he can either cry or he can laugh, and he's sure as hell not going to be the one who breaks down.

As soon as he closes the door his room, his chuckles turn slightly hysterical. He's trying so hard to keep his mind off of everything but the inevitability of it all just keeps crashing back in. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die. He does not want to die, but there isn't much he can do about it.

But Ave is right; he'll always have someone on his side. He'll have Ave. He'll have Ty and Ricky, cheering him on from back home. He'll have his parents. He knows that no matter how alone he may feel in the arena, there will always be someone behind him.

Sterne's laughter abates as he sits down on the bed. The wall to his right is covered in a floor-to-ceiling window, which allows the insanely bright lights from the Capitol to bleed into Sterne's little room full of darkness.

He stares out at the blinding lights as time passes by without his notice. He feels like he should be doing something. He feels like he needs to be making every second count, since for all he knows, this could be one of his last nights alive. But for whatever, he can't make himself move.

The world will move on with Sterne Colvin in it. It already is. Time is already passing without Sterne doing anything about it, and it will continue passing once—if—he's dead. The world doesn't need him, but he needs the world.

After another few long moments, Sterne sits up and starts to pace. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

His feet continue hitting the carpet as he thinks of home. Of the cloudy, smog-filled skies of District 5. Of running amok with Ty and Ricky all day. Of sitting down with his family and hearing Burton complain about Sterne being lazy. Of going to sleep in his own bed, in his home, in his own District, with no death game hanging over his head.

God, he wants to go home. He misses his home so much it makes his chest ache.

But, the only way to get home is to win the Hunger Games. Is to kill someone, to take an innocent life, is to become the person the Games wants him to be.

See, it always comes back to this. It always comes back to the Games. It's a never-ending cycle, a line that Sterne keeps treading, thinking that eventually he'll come to a point only to realize he's been walking in a circle the entire time. It never ends. It never…ends.

The only way it can end is if he wins, and even then he'll have a different circle to pace.

A/N: So, Ainsley and Sterne are the first tributes we hear from in the Capitol, and I hope it did not disappoint.

1. Should Ainsley have run?

2. Do you like Ainsley and Ashe as allies?

3. Is Ave right about Sterne's chances?

4. Do you think Sterne has a chance?

Random Question of the Chapter: which Hunger Games movie is your favorite?

My answer: the first one will always be the best to me. It also makes me extremely motivated to work more on my SYOTs, which is always a plus. I will never turn down free inspiration and motivation.

ALLIANCES:

Flower Girls: Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)

So next up is Training Day One, which will probably take a while since it's got a crap ton of POVs. But I will hopefully see you then.

-Amanda