The second the train pulls out of the station, Mags rounds on Finnick, eyes blazing. "We made a deal! You could volunteer if there was no other option!"

"Mags, I—"

"Who did you go to behind my back? Saela? Hurley?" Mags whirls around to face her partner, who lounges on a couch with the ease of someone who has sat there many times before. Caspia, who sits beside him, observes the events unfolding before her with vague interest. Predictably, no mentors in training accompany them to the Capitol. Thanks to District 4's slew of bad luck over recent years, there haven't been any mentor trainees since Rhyne, who fell out of favor with the Capitol years ago lately due to the unsavory nature of his pharmacological habits. "Did you rig it for him, Abalone?"

"He didn't do anything," Finnick bursts out, all of the emotion pent up inside him surging out in a jumble of vehement speech. "No one did. I promise, Mags. I didn't get anyone else to rig it for me. Me getting reaped was all chance."

"If there's one thing I've learned after sixty-four years of Hunger Games, it's that no one gets put in the arena by chance," Mags growls. Her curls, so immaculately tamed at the reaping, bounce around her face in frizzy wisps. "You die in the Games because it's what the Capitol wants."

Finnick looks up at her, searching. "You think I'm going to die?"

Mags inhales a deep breath, jaw clenched, shoulders set. "Not if I have anything to say about it. Both of you, go to your cars." She runs her hands through her hair, loosening more strands from its braid. "I have to discuss strategy with my partner first."

Finnick is sitting on a bench looking out the window when Mags finally slides open the door of his compartment. Instead of whipping around to look at her as his instincts dictate, Finnick continues to gaze out at landscape of Panem rushing by and wishes he could see more than just a blur of color and motion.

Mags lowers herself onto the seat across from him with a soft sigh. "I'm sure you're already aware of this, but Caspia is being mentored separately from you."

Finnick gives a vague noise of assent, only half-listening. In the solitude of his own quarters, he's had too much time to think about his parents and their last farewell. The embrace of his father, the tremor in his mother's voice—they make his heart ache so profoundly he wonders if he's been mortally injured before the Games have even begun.

Come home to me, son, his mother whispered, hugging him close. Please, come home.

I'll be back before you know it, Finnick assured her. Didn't I tell you I was going to win the Hunger Games one day? She was holding back her tears for him, which he appreciated more than he could say.

We'll be watching you, Finnick, his father said. We'll be supporting you every step of the way.

I'll make you proud, Finnick promised. I'll make Four the best district in all of Panem. He doesn't know how yet, but he has to try.

So he pushes aside his melancholy and turns to face Mags. "All right, mentor. What's your strategy?"

"Well, you already know the basics," Mags starts, settling back in anticipation of a long conversation. "Once we get to the Capitol, you and Caspia will start forming an alliance with One and Two. But here's the part other Careers tend to dismiss: The motivation and presentation of your opponents, and how you are going to present yourself conversely to them."

In the year since they made their deal on the beach, Mags has tutored Finnick privately in Games science outside of academy training. Strategy beyond the usual horde-hunt-kill mentality is not well-covered in Career curriculum because the Capitol isn't interested in the intrigue and politics of psychological manipulation. They want blood and they want lots of it, and it's the academy's job to teach students how to satiate that bloodlust and exploit it for their own gain. Everything else is insignificant.

Mags' eyes glitter with an intelligence borne of years of experience. There's no doubt in Finnick's mind that she hates the Games as much as he does, but this—the intricate steps comprising the dance of Games tactics—this is what she is good at. "Because of your youth, the others are automatically going to think you're weak. But you're also Career, which makes you a potential threat. If they're smart, they're going to mark you as a target and kill you at the bloodbath to get you out of the way."

"So I make an alliance."

Mags waves a dismissive hand. "Alliances only last as long as there is something to be gained from them. What makes you worth their time?"

"I'm good with pretty much any weapon they'll provide in the arena—"

"So are they," Mags cuts in. "What sets you apart from the rest? What makes you invaluable to them and appealing to Capitol audiences?"

"Well, I can fish," Finnick says. Restless energy thrums in him, electric and galvanizing. Finnick stands and begins pacing in an attempt to mitigate it. "I can swim and use knives and spears and—"

"Your ability to use those skills is totally dependent on Gamemaker whim," Mags says, absently tapping her fingers against her leg. "And Gamemaker whim is largely dictated by Capitol opinion. That part I'm not too concerned with. You're practically a Capitolite fantasy come to life."

Finnick smirks and spins around to face Mags, linking his fingers behind his head. "You think there'll be any tributes better-looking than me?"

"Looks don't get you through the Games—"

"They sure help, though," Finnick cuts in, waggling his eyebrows impudently. This earns an eyeroll from Mags, though he notices with some satisfaction that she smiles, too. "Come on, Mags. You know part of the reason One and Two always get sponsors is because they pick the best-looking volunteers. I bet the Capitol takes one look at this beautiful face and they'll be begging you to let them sponsor me."

All the humor vanishes from Mags' mien, replaced by a baleful wariness. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Whether Mags likes it or not, Finnick isn't afraid of using any advantage he can get, even at the expense of his own pride. Some of his agitation purged, Finnick flops back onto his seat with a dramatic sigh. "You just don't want to admit I actually have a chance at winning this thing."

"You're as arrogant as you are pretty," Mags sighs.

With that, Finnick cannot disagree.

"Tributes from outlying districts like Ten and Twelve won't arrive at the Capitol until tomorrow morning, so you have some time to acclimate yourselves before you meet your stylists. Make sure you get to bed soon, though; I'll wake you bright and early so they can get you ready for the opening ceremonies!" Ortensia gives Caspia and Finnick a pat on the back with gloved hands. "Goodness, is it midnight already? Well, I'm expected at a meeting with a few of your potential sponsors in a half-hour, so you two just go ahead and get settled in."

The scent of Ortensia's perfume lingers even after she hurries out of the room to meet with District 4's possible benefactors. Though Finnick is by no means sorry to see her go, she leaves a ringing silence in her wake—one Finnick isn't sure how to fill. To occupy his mind with something other than how awkward the quiet is becoming, he takes in the luxury of their living quarters once more, breathtaking in both their extravagance and the implication of them being so. The walls, painted a gentle sea blue and adorned with coral pink accents, are bedecked with every manner of sea-related décor imaginable: A mirror with a shell-shaped frame, silver wire twisted into the shape of waves, sea turtles covered in precious gems swimming in circles. Perfectly manicured palm trees sprout from pots scattered artfully around the room. He's eager to get back to his room to explore the bed, which is, according to Ortensia, filled with water rather than springs and padding.

"Well, isn't this just splendid," Caspia remarks, breaking him from his thoughts. She wanders further into the room and sprawls out on a plush, cream-colored couch embroidered with patterns of coral, seashells, and waves. She kicks up her feet on a coffee table in the room's center, upsetting a tin of pale cookies.

"Homey," Finnick agrees, though he's somewhat surprised at Caspia's sudden inclination to speech. The train ride had been several hours long, and the only time she and Finnick had conversed was when she asked Finnick to pass the jam at their communal meal in the dining car. Abalone had been even more taciturn, muttering under his breath and spurning any attempt at even the most perfunctory dialogue.

Finnick studies her as he eases down on an equally ornate piece of furniture across from her. Alliance always starts with district partners. They make the most reliable allies and are less likely to betray you than tributes from other districts. Since Caspia shows no indication of starting the discussion of strategy, Finnick elects to make the first move.

"Even if we're coached separately, I don't want to be the one to have to kill you."

Caspia doesn't look up from chewing off her nails with her teeth. "Likewise."

One word is better than none, Finnick supposes, so he soldiers on. "Mags says we need to come up with some kind of signal, so we both know when to split off from the Career pack. Or maybe even plan an ambush, though it won't help us any with sponsors."

"Stabbing one's allies in the back does tend to put a damper on things," Caspia agrees. "But it doesn't matter anyway. I'm not joining the Career pack. I'm going off on my own."

Finnick snorts. "Yeah, all right."

Caspia raises a single dark brow.

Finnick blinks, incredulous. "You're serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Caspia crosses her arms over her chest.

"That's ridiculous," Finnick says, a derisive laugh hitching his words. "You think you're going to win going off by yourself?"

"Do you really want to make friends with the Primaries?" Caspia fires back. "Four's tributes have been doing it for as long as I can remember, and recently it hasn't been working out too well for them."

"There's safety in numbers," Finnick says slowly. Maybe this isn't the Caspia Deltan he remembers from the academy. Maybe it was some other, smarter tribute instead. "What did Abalone have to say about this?"

"Abalone doesn't care if I live or die," Caspia replies blithely. "And frankly, I don't think you should, either."

Finnick scoffs and grabs one of the spilled cookies from the table. It's tinted green and shaped like fish. A bout of homesickness hits Finnick like a heart attack, and he tosses the cookie aside. "So that's your plan? You're going to go off on your own, without any allies, and expect to make it to the end."

"Maybe, maybe not." Caspia shrugs. "It's happened before."

There's something about Caspia's apparent lack of any motivation that creeps under Finnick's skin, igniting a spark of irritation. "Why'd you volunteer if you don't even care if you win?"

Finally, a sentiment other than insouciant disdain flashes over Caspia's face. "I wouldn't expect you to understand anything about my life, Beacher."

So it's about the money. Somehow it always comes back to the money. Finnick sucks in a deep breath and exhales his frustration. "Look, if you want to run off and get yourself killed, it's your choice. But I have a responsibility to my district and my people to try my best to win these Games."

Caspia cocks her head, expression unmoved. "Must be nice," she says.

"What?"

"Being able to afford selflessness."

Her nonchalant bluntness strikes Finnick like a brick wall, knocking any valid riposte clean out of his head. How can he respond to her now? She'll resent him no matter what he does or says. So Finnick just stands up, clasping his hands in front of him like a shield. "I tell you what: I won't help you win, but I won't hurt you either. At least not intentionally. We're both from the same district, and we're both working toward the same goal."

He holds Caspia's gaze, unwavering as she sizes him up. "Think of me what you will," he continues. "But I just want what is best for our district."

A weighted silence follows. Caspia, inscrutable as the deepest depths of the ocean. Finnick, vulnerable and expectant, his offer a squirming worm baited on a hook. Intradistrict alliance is a double-edged sword; the capacity to be hurt is almost as great as the capacity to be helped. Although he hates doing it, he finds himself evaluating Caspia the way he's been trained, cataloguing strengths and weaknesses like he's already sure they will be enemies. She's muscular and has more years of experience, but he's taller and faster. If it comes down to the two of them, who will be killing whom? Who will return home with wearing the victor's crown?

At last, Caspia jerks her head. "Fine."

Finnick lets out a long breath. "Good." He rises and starts toward the hall down which Ortensia had told him his quarters are located.

"I do know one thing." Caspia grins and crushes a fallen cookie beneath a clunky black boot. "If anyone can win the Hunger Games at fourteen, it's you."

"My, my!"

"Aren't you a handsome one!"

"Won't have any trouble getting sponsors, will you, honey?"

Finnick shifts, concealing his discomfort with a self-assured smile. People have been complimenting his looks for as long as he can remember, but being ogled at by Capitol citizens so strange-looking they barely qualify as human is a new experience entirely. Under their scrutiny, he feels less like a boy and more like a statue to be polished and installed outside of some public institution. "Don't worry, guys. You'll get to see plenty more of me in the days to come."

"I look forward to it." One of them, a man with shocking yellow hair and fluffy white clouds tattooed on his skin, prods Finnick's arms like he's a hefty chunk of salmon put on display at the marketplace. "How old did you say you were?"

"Fourteen."

The man tut-tuts, propping his hands on his hips. "It's a pity you were reaped so young. Imagine what he'd look like a couple of years from now. What do you think, Cilla?"

"We'll give him the basic treatment, of course." Cilla, a willowy woman whose face has been surgically altered nearly to the point of grotesqueness, runs her fingers through Finnick's hair. "Nice and thick. Plenty of volume, too. He'd give that girl Cashmere a run for her money, eh, Aeneas?" She blinks owlishly at him, and for a moment all Finnick can do is stare. Her abnormally large eyes, upturned at the corners, are clouded by some sort of opaque lens. Their milky white color reminds Finnick of a shark's eyes, rolled back in its head before it attacks its prey.

"I wish all of Four's tributes looked like you," the yellow-haired man, Aeneas, says. Expression practically simmering with envy, he gives his own hair, gelled into long spikes, a quick manual inspection. ""It won't take much work at all to make you the best-looking tribute in the Games. This is going to be so much fun!"

"Well, Finnick, I'm sure you're tired of hearing this, but you are one marvelously good-looking boy." The third prep team member, a mousy man wearing a skintight suit made of what appears to be snakeskin, gives him a reassuring pat. Lar, Finnick remembers. He's in charge of making Finnick's nails look, in his own words, "Like you haven't been filing them with a rock for the past ten years."

"Me, tired of compliments?" Finnick presses a hand against his heart in mock surprise, and Cilla lets out a girlish giggle. "Perish the thought."

The prep team titters and begin their work. Finnick has no choice but to submit to their every whim as they scrub him down, polish his nails and teeth, and wash and condition his hair. By the time his stylist bustles in, Finnick feels like an overgrown lobster, boiled and dressed for a feast.

"Well, well—you're better looking in real life than you are on television," the stylist says, a smile stretching her painted lips. "Hello, Finnick. My name is Calliope, and I'm your stylist during the Games."

"Oh, I know who you are," Finnick says with a wink. "It'd be hard to forget a face as striking as yours."

Over her years as stylist, Calliope has garnered quite a name for herself as a master of her trade, an artist renowned across Panem for her unique flair and the magnificent, themed collections she releases each year. This year, her personal theme is floral, and Finnick's pretty sure he could smell her self-made perfume from a mile away. Every inch of her, from her brows to her shoes, is inked or fixed with some kind of blossom. Flowers pasted to her skin, threaded through her hair and brows, embroidered on her dark green jumpsuit—Calliope resembles a moving, breathing floral garden.

"Oh, there's no need to flatter me, dear. I've heard it all." Still, there's an extra spring to her step as she circles Finnick, muttering things under her breath and jotting down notes on a digipad. "Not quite as muscular as past tributes, but that's normal given your age. We can give you shots and supplements to bulk you up a little."

"Mags told me not to let you give me any shots or pills," Finnick says hastily.

"Two does it every year," Calliope wheedles, her tone almost petulant.

Finnick shrugs. "Sorry. Mags' rules." And he's eternally grateful for them.

"We'll see about that," Calliope grumbles. "Now stand up straight. I need to get some last-minute measurements."