I'm zoned out for the chariot parade. Layla nudges me every once in a while, she tells me to smile and wave. Like one of those greeting dolls in the gear shop. I see us on the big screen. I look like a doll. I'm not real, I can't be.

There's the president.

Now we're going back inside.

I don't want to get out of the chariot. I want to take it and Layla and storm out of the Capitol.

When did we get back to the apartment building?

"Berlyn?" Layla shakes my shoulder. Her hand feels prickly. That's the spot on my arm where I was stung by that fire urchin. The nerves there have always been sensitive since that sting.

"I'm good," I'm lying.

"You look tired," she says.

"How can you tell? I've got a mountain of makeup on my face."

Layla laughs again. I'm quickly falling in love with that sound. No! No, no! Bad! Bad, bad, bad idea! She is not your friend! You are being deceptive. It's not for real. Not real. Just made up. This is all made up. Just like my face. It's all fake.

I have to sleep. I didn't sleep on the train. That's what's going on. I haven't slept since we left District 4. I'm running on almost three days of no sleep. I'll start hallucinating soon.

I don't remember going to my room. I don't remember taking the costume off. I don't remember anything other than waking up to Caesar Flickerman screeching my name.

"Holy crap!" I have no idea what I threw, but it left my hand and broke the television screen. It didn't stop the functions, and Caesar went on to sing my praises as the most promising thirteen-year-old tribute to date. I blink at the screen. That's not my picture on there. Oh, yes it is. I'm just in costume. Damn, I did a good job. Gun will hound me about this until we die.

There's a noise at the door. It's an Avox boy. He's staring at me in shock. I must have scared him when I threw... whatever it was.

"See something you like?"

He all but runs away.

I laugh. His life must be sad. My life is probably sad. It's better if you can find the humor. This nugget of phenomenal wisdom is courtesy of the wise philosopher Gunther Hayden. He's a widely ignored guru of the oceans.

Oh, I hear people.

I go out there and find Mentor and Layla at a table. Layla smiles at me. Mentor looks less pissed off with me than he normally does.

"You did a good job on the costumes," Mentor says, "I didn't think you knew what you were talking about."

"Thanks," I sit beside Layla. My feet don't reach the floor.

"We were talking about training strategies and how to pick allies." Layla fills me in.

"Oh," I pretend to be interested, "Are we forming a Career pack?"

Mentor makes a face. He doesn't like me. He doesn't like my smart mouth. That's fine.

"It's your best bet for making it through the Games in one piece."

"One piece?" I'm being honest. No sarcasm or anything, "What about all those victors from 1 and 2 who're missing limbs and crap?"

Mentor blinks. Then he nods, "Good point," he agrees. I think Mentor doesn't like me because I can't be fooled. That, or I'm just merciless with wording. Probably the latter.

"Also, aren't 1 and 2 infamously untrustworthy? You know, turn on 4 almost every game?"

"I suppose there's a trend," Mentor is really upset with me now, "Why am I even here?"

"You have to know what's important once we get into the arena," I provide him an excuse for being here. I don't mean to be cruel, but I'm starting to think this guy is the reason 4 hasn't won in a long time. His tactics are a little... ineffective? Useless?

"Right, the only thing you don't know," now he's being sarcastic, "I would assume you could just watch previous games and figure that out yourself, Mr. Know-It-All."

"I could," I say, "But I'd rather hear it from someone who's still alive how they made it through. Psychology is important to me. I want to know what went through your head. Adrenaline can alter how you think."

I'm bulls******* him. He buys it.

"Right, well, uh, when I first entered the arena, it was disorienting," he recounts how his games went. I feel stupid for assuming he wouldn't be able to give me any insight on how the games affect your mind. I pulled that out of the garbage can of my brain, the whole adrenaline thing. I've run on adrenaline before, I know it makes thinking a little different. Mentor explained how he had trouble deciding small things, but his body would move on its own. The subconscious would take over and whatever training had been drilled into him in the week he was in training would come out. I knew that. I forgot about it. When I was stung by the fire urchin, I had no idea how I got back to shore. Crap, now I have to take this man seriously.

"The best advice I can give you, if you don't want to team with 1 and 2, is run. As soon as the sixty seconds are up, you need to grab whatever supplies is closest and run as far as you can in the opposite direction of everyone else."

That doesn't sound like bad advice. Probably the best idea he's ever had.

"Did the others turn on you?" Layla asks. She's smarter than I give her credit for. I guess she has that appearance of stupid teenage girl.

"I didn't give them the opportunity," Mentor explains, "As soon as we got down to eight, I split from the group while they were sleeping. I picked off the few remaining with a bow at the end."

"Anticlimactic," I mutter sarcastically. Any ending where you're still alive is a good one, it doesn't matter how you got there.

"Smart," Mentor argues, "Something I'd expect out of you, actually."

"Sounds like something I'd do," I say.

Layla rubs her face. She shakes her head and then says, "How are we supposed to fight each other?"

"Just stay separated and it won't be an issue," Mentor says.

"Maybe Layla should just hide in the woods the whole time," I honestly don't think she's capable of killing anyone.

"That might work," she agrees. She probably doesn't think she can kill anyone either. She looks a little sad. Maybe that's fear. She makes this little noise and then says, "Can you be honest for a minute?" to Mentor.

"Sure," he promises.

"What are our actual odds?"

Ugh... I can't believe she asked that. The odds don't matter. They don't. Real life can't be controlled by numbers people pull out of the air. I don't care if they're the smartest person on the planet, nobody is able to predict the future using math. Life isn't an equation.

Mentor is quiet. He believes in the made up math too.

"Well," he coughs, "I think... well, you have pretty good odds if you can stay hidden for a while. It all depends on how you move once you're in the arena. Berlyn, I have to tell you, you're thirteen. I don't know if you'll be able to get any allies because you're so young. Even if you do, I don't think there's any way you'll be able to fight any of them and win. So, for both of you, so long as you avoid the other tributes, you have a chance of making it through."

I wish he'd be honest all the time.

Layla doesn't. She's crying now.

"Just wait until we start training," I tell her, "You strike me as a quick learner."

She nods, but she still cries. I don't know what to do about that.

"Where is Greenhead?" I ask.

"You mean Yilen? Your stylist?" Mentor clarifies, "She's actually downstairs in the lobby. She wanted to talk to you before training today to 'get a feel' for your styles."

"Okay, thank you," I slide out of the chair, "I need to talk to her about something."

"Change into the training clothes before you get down there!" Mentor yells at me as I go back to my room.

I wave my hand to let him know I heard him. I wash the rest of the makeup off first, then change into the training uniform. It's a black one-piece that zips up in the front like a wet suit. I hate wet suits. It's like wearing a plastic bag. This thing that I have on is about the same.

The one redeeming factor is that it has short sleeves.

I go down to the lobby to find Yari... Yasmine... Greenhead. I suck with names. She's sitting in one of the weird circular chairs and scribbling in a notebook.

"Hey,"

She jumps. I almost laughed. Almost. Her whole body jiggled like a beached jellyfish.

"Berlyn!" she smiles, "How are you this morning?"

"I wanted to ask you how I'd get a tattoo."

"Straight to the point," Greenhead jots something in her notes, "I'm actually a tattoo artist. I can give you one if that's what you really want."

"I want one on my right arm of my family's names."

"Oh, that's sweet. Did you have a design?"

"Yeah,"

"Alright, well, I'll get my studio in order and you can come by after training today." Greenhead surprises me with how cooperative she is. She may be the only person in the Capitol who realizes I may die in a few days, but I'm still alive right now.

"Thank you."

We get to the gymnasium early. There aren't any other tributes here yet. I think it's interesting that the Capitol spent so much money on the training facility for the Games. Wouldn't it be cheaper to have low-tech, hand-me-down equipment? That'd work better for preparing to go into the arena, wouldn't it? Oh, that's probably why. All this fancy stuff gives a false sense of security. The mats, the glowing targets, the cleanliness, it all makes you think you're really learning. I've been thrown into the asphalt enough times to know wrestling on a mat is nothing like real fighting. Environment is everything. I tell Layla this. She thanks me for the advice. I'm glad she listens. I don't want her to die in there under the foolish assumption she can fight a boy fifty pounds heavier than she is. I mean, she can if she masters timing. But it's always better to avoid fighting someone bigger than you.

So, when we finally decide on a station to train at, we pick archery. Neither of us know how to do it and it's likely the most useful skill we can have. If you're far away from the other tributes, you can kill them and they can't touch you. Harpoons and spears can only go so far. Layla takes to shooting like a natural. My arms aren't long enough to shoot the arrows with enough force. I get frustrated and throw one of the arrows. It sticks in the target dummy's eye socket. Huh, maybe I should go for knife throwing. The other tributes are here now. They all look older. Certainly older than they looked in the chariot parade. I don't see anyone my age in this group. Now I'm nervous.

I know what I'm good at, but I'm at a major disadvantage simply in size. Weight is half a fight.

I guess I'll have to work on my conditioning some more. And soft stepping.

The tributes from 1 are 17. You can tell from their haircuts they think they're all grown up. That says something truly despicable about their personalities. They think they're adults, and they're totally cool with murdering a bunch of kids. The boy is ripped. His deltoids are the size of my head. He goes straight to the melee weapons, picks out a sword, and gets to work hacking apart holograms like a moron. I say like a moron, the guy has good form. It's just, the holograms have no mass. His sword passes through them with no resistance and even though some of his strikes aren't accurate enough to be kill shots, the hologram disintegrates anyway. Like I pointed out before, false sense of security. I wouldn't want to fight him because of how big he is, but if I get the opportunity, I'm not scared of trying to take him down. The girl, on the other hand, she doesn't look much like a District 1 girl. She looks like she's from 2. Her hair is dark and short, her eyes are narrowed, and she has her mind set on the throwing knives. She doesn't bother with holograms. Instead, she spends all her time hurling little, sharp things straight through solid targets. I decide to skip knife throwing.

District 2 has a 17-year-old girl and a 15-year-old boy. The girl likes swords. She and the District 1 boy start flirting over their weapons. The boy picks out a mace. He smashes through targets and laughs along with his district partner and the boy from 1. He's only a little smaller than the boy from 1. Him I would fight. And the girl. They have maybe thirty pounds on me, I can take them. One at a time. Strategically, I can handle them.

The District 3 tributes are next to us on the archery station. I think they might be siblings. They look exactly the same. Their hair is tight, red curls and their faces are splattered with orange freckles. The girl is no good with a bow, but the boy is a freaking sniper. I compliment him on his shooting and he blushes like a little girl.

"Thanks, you're from 4, right?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm Berlyn, this is Layla."

"How old are you?"

"I'm thirteen," I decide to fess up. It's not feasible to lie about my age.

The girl beside him looks away. I catch the expression on her face before she hides it. She feels sorry for me.

The boy holds out his hand to me, "I'm Katur, this is Jallina."

Layla says, "You aren't looking to ally with 1 and 2?"

"No," Katur shakes his head, "Our mentor told us they're too volatile this year. We can't trust them."

"What about us?"

Are you serious, Layla? These two could be insane. Or liars. Or both.

"She said you two seemed alright, but maybe not skilled like most 4 tributes."

"Wow," I resent that so much, "At least she's more straightforward than our guy."

"Who is your mentor?" Katur asks.

When I don't answer, Layla turns to me with an aghast look on her face, "You haven't learned our mentor's name yet?"

"I suck with names, Layla!"

"We've been in an apartment with him for days!"

"What's your point?" I'm trying not to smile. She's trying not to smile. Poor Katur and... Jilly? Johanna? Whatever, they're both trying to decide whether or not we're joking. I'm not joking. Life is just that funny.

"Let's get to another station before we run out of time," Layla says. We wave goodbye to the 3's and go to plant identification.

The plants are familiar to me. I know several of them and so does Layla. Looks like the arena this year is going to be in our favor. There's a wildlife section that is smaller, but one picture catches my eye. I know exactly what that is.

"Fire urchin!" I exclaim.

"What?" Layla looks at the page on the table with a picture of the horrendous creature.

"I got stung by one of those when I was younger." I roll up my sleeve to show her my shoulder. There's a pink scar there from the blisters that thing left on me. When I get older, it will turn white. Yeah, I will get older and it will turn white.