Anakin was the first one awake in the District 3 quarters. He wasn't surprised—he was used to being up early, along with everyone else in his district.

He padded across the main living quarters. There had been some fanfare last night, mostly with Anakin stumbling up to the room while Artoo cackled at his heels. Threepio had been tutting about worriedly the whole way, and for once, Anakin couldn't really blame him. Padmé, on the other hand, had seemed perfectly calm, and save for a look of disproval at Artoo, there hadn't been much discussed.

Anakin, on the other hand, had been sure to let his feelings known.

"Were you trying to burn me alive?" Anakin asked.

Artoo had scoffed. "Of course not," he said. "What do you think I am, crazy?"

Yes, Anakin thought.

"You weren't ever going to burn," Artoo had said, patting Anakin's shoulder. "Those sparks would have died eventually. But the other tributes' reactions—and everyone's reactions—that was the real showstopper. Including that little stunt from District 11 and District 1—everyone's got their eyes on you now."

There was that. Anakin didn't know what to make of the sudden jump from the District 11 girl. Just that she had shown up at his side, and then Anakin had just enough time to think, well, at least we both look stupid before District 1 showed up. Anakin didn't know what to make of him, either, except when the chariots circled back around, District 1 didn't so much as give them a second glance when they all retreated back to their mentors and stylists.

"That wasn't exactly how I wanted to get everyone's eyes," Anakin had said, and then he'd gone off to bed, eager to wash the paint off his arms. He still didn't know what had been in the thing, and he didn't really want to know. Actually, knowing what little Anakin knew of Artoo, there could be something toxic in that paint.

So fine, Artoo's stunt might have given Anakin more attention than the average tribute, but Anakin wasn't about to tell his manic stylist that just yet.

Anakin made his way into the dining area and snagged an apple off the fruit bowl. That was something he was still trying to get used to too—the fact that there was just food lying around everywhere. He had just taken a bite out of the apple when heard quiet footsteps behind him, and Anakin turned around to find Padmé walking to the dining room with arms folded behind her back. But she wasn't looking at him—she was speaking quietly with an attendant, one of the tongue-less Capitol servants who Anakin sometimes had difficulty making eye-contact with.

There was an exchanged nod between the two, and then the attendant dashed off. Padmé turned to Anakin and smiled briefly. "He's getting us some actual food," she said, nodding to the apple in Anakin's hand.

"This is food," Anakin said. He was surprised to hear how defensive he sounded, and he knew that Padmé heard it too, because her expression softened.

"I know," Padmé said simply. "But you'll be training for the first time today, and you'll probably need something a little more substantial than just an apple."

Training.

Before Anakin could think of a response, the attendant returned, followed on his heels by Artoo and Threepio. The attendant silently laid out a selection of plates onto the shining table: breads and meats and eggs and porridges that Anakin didn't even know existed in certain colors, and then mugs of dark brown and green and orange liquids that seemed like they would never stop steaming.

"We have such a busy day," Threepio was already fretting, ignoring the cup of orange liquid Artoo passed him. "Training is only in forty minutes—only forty minutes, and Anakin isn't even properly dressed—"

"I'm dressed," Anakin said defensively, looking down at his shirt, his pants.

"He's talking about your training clothes," Artoo said around a mouthful of a bread roll. They weren't like the rolls Anakin had back home, not even like the nicer rolls. Anakin picked one up. Flakier, weirdly greasier in his hand. He took a bite: warm, rich. The bread melted right onto Anakin's tongue like it was made out of nothing at all.

He decided that he liked it.

"Croissants," Padmé said, scooting another roll on Anakin's plate. "I like them, too."

Anakin hadn't realized that he had been smiling. "They're…good," he said dumbly.

"Well, make sure to have something else too," Padmé said. She plucked out a croissant for herself, scooped up a pile of eggs. "As for training," she added, picking up her fork, "test out any new skills that you can. Survival skills would be the most helpful."

"And fighting?" Anakin asked, thinking of all the games that ended in blood. A sword driven through the stomach, an arrow lodged into the throat, a knife plunged into the chest. All gruesome ways to die, all done with weapons. Sometimes bare fists. Anakin remembered a Hunger Games in which the victor won by smashing someone's head into a pile of bricks.

Padmé looked at Anakin, her dark eyes flicking up and down his frame. "You're bigger and probably stronger than most of the tributes," she said decidedly. "Pick up a fighting skill or two if you have to—but don't overexert yourself in any one particular field. People will be watching." She cleared her throat and looked to the table. "Now eat."

Ahsoka tugged at her training clothes. All the tributes apparently wore the same training clothes, so there was no need to worry about looking more impressive than whoever. Still, Ahsoka couldn't help but wish she was wearing something more familiar. The black fabric was too smooth and cool for her own liking, and she hoped she wouldn't be wearing something like this when she actually went into the arena.

The arena.

She was training for the arena today.

"Any experience with weapons?" Rex asked her before they headed out of the apartment.

Ahsoka tried to think. There were the occasional fake sword battles she would have with her brothers with sticks, but she didn't think that counted. "No," she replied. "I can run fast, though."

"That's good," Rex replied seriously. "That's something. Focus on that. And try learning how to use a weapon you can carry around while you're running—something that won't drag you down too much. Something like knives. Those are easier to come by in the arena. Swords are bulkier and more expensive."

Ahsoka nodded. "Anything else?"

"It wouldn't hurt to make some allies," Rex said. He gestured out the door, and Ahsoka followed him into the hallway. "People still think you're friendly. Your little interruption with the chariots the other day has solidified that image, too."

Her little interruption—meaning Ahsoka's brief escape into District 3's chariot. She hadn't really known what she was doing, just that she had seen the sparks and felt the sudden shift amongst the tributes, and then she was running forward. Ahsoka hadn't really been thinking about her image, but now that Rex said it, Ahsoka decided that it was a good thing that she had run forward after all.

"And don't show off," Rex said. He looked down at Ahsoka, and as she opened her mouth to protest, he lifted up a hand. "I know you're probably used to not showing off in the first place—and I know that you're smarter than you're letting on. But in the training room, there will be tributes who try to get under your skin. Tributes who will try to get you to expose yourself and find out what your weak points are. So no matter how tempting it might be, don't show off. Don't let them know what you're capable of. That's something that you'll show the game makers later." Rex bowed his head down so that he was looking directly into Ahsoka's eyes. "Do you understand?"

Ahsoka paused. And then she nodded.

"Good," Rex said, and then they stepped into the elevator—an elevator, which was new to Ahsoka's vocabulary. Sleek and shiny and weirdly medicinal, and by the time the doors opened again, Ahsoka had schooled her expression back into one of quiet naiveté.

Rex took one look at her and for a moment, Ahsoka thought he was going to smile. But then he cleared his throat and gestured out the doors. "Don't show off," he repeated, and then he was gone too.

Ahsoka turned herself back around. She could already hear the other tributes inside.

She stepped through the glass doors.

Just as she had suspected, there were at least half of the tributes already there: all of them familiar faces, all of them with the numbers of their districts stitched onto the tops of their shirts. Ahsoka herself fingered the 11 stitched onto her shirt and made her way a little apart from the tributes. All of them were a little separated from each other anyways, all of them exchanging wary looks at one another.

Well, all of them except for one.

Ahsoka found District 1 standing at the farthest right of the cluster of tributes. He wasn't even looking at the other tributes or at the training room. He had a book in his hand, and for a moment, Ahsoka wondered if District 1 would look up at her, but he seemed intent on his book.

Ahsoka found herself standing closest to the girl she had managed to smile at on the chariots—the girl from District 8, with the head-covering and the freckles across her nose. Ahsoka wondered if she could smile again now, and then the girl from District 8 looked up, and they were looking at each other for perhaps a second too long, so—

Ahsoka smiled anyways. And waved. A small, quiet wave, just like she had given at the chariots.

And the girl, to Ahsoka's small delight and also small dread, smiled back—what Ahsoka imagined was an equally small, equally quiet smile of her own, and for a moment, Ahsoka felt a small thrill (see, I made a friend!) before the doors opened for more tributes to come filing in.

Ahsoka turned around to see District 2 and District 4 come strolling through first. They looked like an odd pair, and Ahsoka found it even odder that the two of them would come in together, but she supposed that they must have created an alliance quickly. District 4 was a broad-shouldered, tall young man rather than boy—Ahsoka could practically feel the ground shaking underneath his feet as he practically stomped forward. Meanwhile, District 2 seemed to nearly glide across the ground, a strange little smile already spread across his lips. Ahsoka made sure to look away when he walked up.

The doors opened a moment later to reveal the boy from District 12. He looked half-awake, his hair sticking up on end, but he still staggered in a half-second before the doors opened again for what Ahsoka knew had to be the head trainer.

"Looks like most of you are here," the trainer said in a bored voice. "We're just waiting for…" She craned her head over the group and frowned. "District 3."

As soon as she said those words, the doors slid open, and Ahsoka found herself watching with everyone else as District 3 came barreling in.

"Here," District 3 said, and Ahsoka glanced past the doors in time to see what she was fairly certain was a golden-suited man with flailing arms. Ahsoka frowned in time to see a hand yank the golden-suited man away.

"Here," District 3 repeated, and then he was walking quickly towards the end of the cluster of tributes, towards—

Ahsoka lifted her eyes briefly to District 3 as he settled a few feet away from her. He looked a little different without all that silver makeup on. Ahsoka could tell that his skin was actually a little warmer than the weird pale blend it had been the night before, and she wondered if he recognized her at all too.

Maybe he shouldn't, Ahsoka thought, turning back around to the head trainer.

Obi-Wan knew that he technically didn't need the training at all. He had had enough of his own training with Qui-Gon and on his own, but still, he knew that this was as good a time to observe as any. And he might as well brush up on his own skills and learn something. He had snagged the book on plants fairly quickly, and none of the training attendants or even the head trainer herself had told him off, so Obi-Wan continued to read until everyone was settled into the training room.

He found himself lingering near the survival section fairly early in the training period: looking through plants and perfecting methods on how to start a fire even though he knew it all. As he did so, he looked across the survival section to find District 3 similarly starting a fire. He had gone about it in a different method, and now he sat back on his haunches, looking almost bored.

Bored is dangerous, Obi-Wan thought, re-focusing on the small fire in front of him. Being bored meant that there was relaxation, and where there was relaxation, there was room for error.

Obi-Wan stood up, threw some dirt on the fire to put it out. He took another look around the training room, this time to where there were tributes were already handling weapons. District 4 was expertly handling a double-edged blade, his movements just as heavy and as powerful as Obi-Wan suspected they'd be. District 2 was doing the same, only his movements were a little lither, though just as aggressive. Obi-Wan heard the clang of their blades against each other, the brutal laughter that followed.

He re-focused on the other side of the training room, where a few of the other tributes were trying at the rope courses. The girl from District 5 was making good work, coming to the top of the ropes course first. The boy from District 7, on the other hand, was at the middle. Obi-Wan watched as his foot slipped briefly, but then he caught himself at the last second. Fast reflexes.

Obi-Wan looked to yet another side. Only one of the tributes had wound up there: the girl from District 9. She pulled back an arrow in her bow, let it fly. Obi-Wan watched as it only just barely missed the bull's eye. As the girl from District 9 set down the bow with a self-satisfied grin, Obi-Wan couldn't help but wonder if she had missed the bull's eye on purpose.

There was another shout from District 4 and District 2—this time angrier, and Obi-Wan looked to see the two turned towards two girls. District 8 and District 11, Obi-Wan realized. He could tell it was District 11 even without looking at the stitched number on her shirt.

"Did you think that was funny?" District 4 was saying. He held up a small knife, and Obi-Wan spotted the slight tear in his shirt sleeve. District 11 and District 8's eyes were wide, and District 4 was advancing with heavy, angry steps, District 2 close behind.

"It was an accident," District 11 was saying. She was standing in front of District 8, and Obi-Wan realized then that District 11 had not been the one to throw the knife. But District 4 and District 2 didn't know that yet.

"An accident," District 2 drawled. "An incredibly convenient accident, wouldn't you think, for you to accidentally hurt a tribute before the games even started?" He took a few steps forward, and even from this distance, Obi-Wan could see the dangerous glitter in District 2's eyes. "You realize there are consequences for that."

District 2 took another step forward, and in a flash, the tip of his blade was resting on District 11's chest.

The whole training room went dead silent.

Obi-Wan saw District 11 look down at her chest, look back up at District 2. "I—"

"She said it was an accident."

Obi-Wan heard movement across from him, and a moment later, he saw District 3 striding across the training room, his eyes narrowed.

District 2's lips curled. "And you would…"

"Be the person who heard it all," District 3 said. He held out his hand. "And I think that knife belongs to District 11."

Another silence.

District 3's hand remained outstretched. "Now," he added.

"You shouldn't have your hand out like that," District 2 mused. He looked at District 4, and in another flash, the tip of his sword was resting against District 3's wrist.

Obi-Wan looked around the training room. The attendants either weren't watching or were pretending not to watch. The other tributes, on the other hand, stood frozen. Obi-Wan saw the conflict on some of the tributes' faces, the mild interest in others'.

He turned back around to District 11 and District 3. District 11, with the sword still resting at her chest, and District 3, with the sword resting at his wrist. Obi-Wan knew that if District 2 or District 4 pressed any harder, there would most definitely be blood.

What a mess that would be.

Obi-Wan shut his book with a loud snap, not caring if the sound rippled across the training room.

"Now, now," he said loudly, not caring if everyone's eyes were on him now—including District 2 and District 4. Both tributes lifted their nearly yellow eyes up to Obi-Wan. He pretended not to notice the slight flicker of interest across District 2's face. (They'll want an alliance, Qui-Gon had warned. And Obi-Wan had said that he wasn't interested. And he still wasn't interested.)

Obi-Wan plucked the knife out of District 4's hand—and that was easy, especially since District 4 clearly wasn't expecting the gesture. He handed the knife back to District 11, who took it in silence. "We'll want to save this excitement for the actual games, won't we?"

He nodded to the swords at District 11 and District 3. "Really, if you wanted to have some fun with them, you might as well wait for the arena." He cleared his throat and looked to the attendants. "And I'm sure pressing any further would be sure to cause some trouble."

For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved.

And then District 2 dropped his sword from District 11's chest. District 4 did the same with District 3's wrist.

"Well done," Obi-Wan said dryly. "Now, if that's all settled, I'd like to go back to my reading."

With that, he turned around and walked back to the survival station.

Anakin found himself back at the training room, only this time, he knew that he was going in alone.

He could still see the other tributes though: District 2 had just gone in, and Anakin could see the line of tributes behind him. He waited and waited and waited—really, he didn't think that the trials would take that long, but in the meantime—

Anakin tugged out the block of wood from his pocket. The same block of wood that his mom had given him before he had gone off to the Capitol. A part of him felt stupid at carrying the block around. It wasn't like he had that much time to carve anything anyways, but—

Anakin brushed a thumb over the wood, tucked it back in his pocket as the doors flung open.

District 2 paused only once, threw all the tributes a smirk before disappearing down the long corridor back to the elevators.

That was Anakin's signal.

He walked in.

The game makers were at least still a little alert—there had only been two other tributes to present, after all, so Anakin figured that he was supposed to be grateful.

Supposed to be grateful.

Anakin looked around the training room. There wasn't much he could do, not really. But the game makers didn't seem too concerned about that: they were murmuring amongst themselves about something. Somewhere, a sound system played music that Anakin hadn't heard before.

Music.

A sound system.

That was something Anakin was familiar with.

Tech—that was something that—

But that didn't really make sense, because Anakin hadn't actually trained with anything tech-related since coming into the training room. He hadn't bothered touching the wires or anything when he had gone in—those were already too familiar for him, but now, Anakin's hands itched as he imagined exactly what the sound system would look like—what he could do—

Anakin made his way across the training room, his eyes scanning for something that would get him to—

There. Practically invisible to anyone who wasn't knowing what they were looking for, Anakin found the small hatch that he knew would lead him directly to the sound system.

Sure enough, when he popped open the hatch, he found the mess of wires waiting for him. He looked up. There were only a few game makers who were intrigued in what he was doing now, and considering the fact that none of the training attendants had told him to stop, Anakin didn't stop.

He wasn't sure if he would have stopped even if they had come. It wasn't like he had bothered training himself to do anything else. Survival skills this, survival skills that. Some basic sword fighting, sure. All of that was fine and good, but this—tech, machinery, that was Anakin's to control.

He looked down at the work before him.

And then he had an idea.

A stupid idea, and probably a risky idea, but it was an idea.

Something familiar.

Anakin couldn't help himself: he smiled a little as he reached in to the system. Not just a sound system here, Anakin realized. But something else. Again, to the untrained eye, this might have looked like a system that was too complicated—but to Anakin, he saw exactly where all the pieces fit together. He saw that this wasn't complicated at all: just two things merged into one. Sound, yes, and also something else. Something that reached past the boundaries of the Capitol and instead delved into familiar territory. If Anakin could just—

There.

The music playing around him shorted out.

For a moment, there was only silence as the game makers paused, puzzled at the sudden static, and then Anakin decided to show off his trick.

Music filtered through the training room: soft notes first, too soft to decipher, but then, with another crackle of static, the music strengthened, grew, filled the training room.

Voices. Scratchy, untrained voices—voices strained by too little hours of rest and too many hours of work spent in factories building the very technology that the Capitol prided itself in possessing. Quiet singing—or really just rhythmic humming, soft chanting of the process of the day. Less song and more just speaking, but that was District 3, and suddenly Anakin saw his house, and he saw his mom float before his eyes, and for a second, all he wanted was to go home.

But he was here, in this training room with the game makers who were now staring down at Anakin with expressions he couldn't read.

He turned up the volume.

Let the voices of his home fill the training room for one last time.

And then he left.

By the time Ahsoka walked into the training room, the game makers were agitated and tired, and honestly, so was Ahsoka. All the waiting had turned her into little more than an anxious stick figure by the wall, and only a few times had she looked at the boy from District 12—and she had felt bad for him, because at least she was going in before him. He would have it worst of all, Ahsoka knew.

But when Ahsoka walked in, her heart sank all the same, because the game makers looked bored and their eyes were half-closed from being in the training room the whole day.

Ahsoka looked around the training room. She walked over to the knife section briefly, her eyes lingering once on the knife that only a little while ago she had gotten back from District 1. That was something Ahsoka was still trying to wrap her head around. District 3 and District 1—they were both people who Ahsoka just couldn't stop running into, no matter what seemed to happen in the training room.

Ahsoka set her hand on the knife handle and picked it up. She hadn't even been the one to throw the knife at District 4—that had been District 8, who Ahsoka learned was named Barriss. And Barriss was nice. She knew about knives too, and she even helped adjust Ahsoka's grip, and they had only been talking about aim—and Barriss had gotten a funny look on her face and said that she could throw much farther than most people expected.

Ahsoka hadn't expected the knife to fly as far as it did, and she knew from Barriss' expression that she hadn't expected it to fly that far, either.

But District 1 and District 3 had almost materialized on either side of her, and Ahsoka wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or not. Because she was a little grateful—she didn't like having a sword tip at her chest, thank you very much, and she was grateful because that must mean she was doing something right if there were already other tributes who were standing up by her, but at the same time—

Ahsoka picked up the knife now and looked at the game makers. Some of them were focusing on her, while others had completely fallen asleep in their chairs.

No matter.

Ahsoka picked up another knife. Twirled it around her wrist. It was surprisingly light—lighter than Ahsoka had expected. She turned to one of the dummies at the back of the room. Considered maybe taking a stab at the dummies, but on second thought, cutting off the arms or legs of a dummy that couldn't fight back was hardly impressive.

Ahsoka tossed the knife instead. She had meant to aim for the head, but it caught the dummy at the throat instead. Which Ahsoka figured was good enough. She walked over to the dummy, ripped the knife out of its throat and turned back around to the game makers. One of them had nodded in semi-approval. Only one.

Not good enough.

Ahsoka looked down at the knives in her hands.

No one ever expected much from her—she was small, but she was quick.

Ahsoka looked back up at the stage of game makers.

Really, how different were these tired game makers from the Peacekeepers back home?

Ahsoka slipped the knives at her belt and looked around. The ropes course was still dangling at the side, still waiting to be used.

Ahsoka's eyes traveled from the top of the ropes course to—

Yes.

Ahsoka walked up to the ropes course. Tilted her head back, surveyed the height. Really not that much taller than the trees Ahsoka would sometimes climb when she was hiding from the Peacekeepers.

Ahsoka scrambled up the ropes course faster than she expected. Climbing up ropes, she realized, was easier than climbing trees. Because with trees, she at least had to worry about splinters and bugs and bits of bark falling down her face. But ropes were easy to grip, and Ahsoka's hands were calloused enough that she didn't have to worry about any burns.

She swung to the top of the ropes, balanced herself lightly on the lengths of rope still tied to the ceiling. From here, she could see the beams of the ceiling itself. Look down below to where the game makers were. Still, just a few more game makers had looked up to observe Ahsoka, but still, the majority of them were completely oblivious to what she was doing or what she had done.

Ahsoka figured that that meant that they deserved what was coming next.

Ahsoka spotted the bowl of apples sitting on the table.

Apples—really, she had gotten away with worse and with much more.

Ahsoka undid one of the ropes, let it fall and narrowly miss the head of one of the game makers. She almost laughed at how he jumped back, but she needed to stay focused.

Ahsoka slipped down the length of the rope. Landed right on the table holding the bowl of apples. She heard a few surprised gasps, and this time, Ahsoka actually laughed a little. She winked—actually winked, with a little thrill in her chest—at the game makers, and then she scooped up an apple. Stuck it in her mouth and jumped up to the rope.

She made it to the top of the rope and, looking down at the stunned game makers, she waved.

And then, taking out her knife, she cut down the length of the rope. Let it fall right on the game makers.

There were some more surprised gasps, and this time, Ahsoka laughed for real.

"Congratulations," Satine said as Obi-Wan's 9 flashed across the screen. "What did you do to impress them?"

"I recited all one thousand different tree species of Panem," Obi-Wan deadpanned, resting the side of his face with a hand. District 2—Maul, Obi-Wan finally learned his name through the screen—earned himself an 8. Obi-Wan thought of the furious dueling in the training rooms. He wasn't all that surprised.

"Very funny," Satine said. "But if you insist on being that way…"

"I very well do insist," Obi-Wan replied. He rubbed a hand over his face, blinked at the bright screen. Found District 3 flash before him: Anakin Skywalker.

An 8.

Obi-Wan thought of District 3 sitting back on his haunches, looking absolutely bored with the small fire he had built. So perhaps he had done something more than just the survival section as well. Obi-Wan tried to think of what he had seen District 3 do at other stations: nothing much, except perhaps throw a bunch of knives. Maybe pick up a sword or two. He was a decent fighter, stronger and taller than probably the average tribute that came out of District 3—and probably stronger and taller than the average tribute, period, but still, Obi-Wan wasn't entirely certain if District 3 would exhibit those skills in front of the game makers, unless District 3 was just better at hiding than Obi-Wan gave him credit for.

But then Obi-Wan remembered how quickly District 3 had walked across the room when District 2 and District 4 had risen up to District 11—and he had the feeling that hiding wasn't exactly District 3's strong suit. No, there was something else that District 3 simply didn't think to exhibit in the training room until the day in front of the game makers.

The next few numbers flashed by in waves of 6's, 7's, some 5's. A few more 8's.

And another 9—

This time from District 11.

Obi-Wan found himself sitting up.

Now that was interesting.

Ahsoka Tano, read the caption under the photo of District 11. A small, young thing who had gotten the only other 9.

Obi-Wan tried to think of what District 11 had done in the training rooms too. She hadn't done much, maybe toyed around with the knives, but she, too, had been casual about the whole process. Unless she, too, was much better than she was letting on.

Obi-Wan couldn't help but smile a little to himself. He had been right from the start—he had the strange feeling that that girl had something about her, even at the time of the chariots.

The last score flashed by—a 7 from the boy in District 12, and then that was that.

"An interesting array," Qui-Gon said, shutting off the television. "Higher scores than I expected."

"You were expecting lower?"

"At least more of them," Qui-Gon replied. He leaned back against the couch. "We have many 8's, two 9's. Everyone seemed to have scored relatively high, save for a few. Why do you think that is?"

Obi-Wan paused. And then he turned to the black screen. "Higher scores mean more competition," he said. "More sponsors will be looking at more tributes. There'll be more of a struggle to see which tribute snags which sponsor."

"Correct," Qui-Gon replied. He smiled grimly. "The game makers want to promise its audience a good game this year."

"Aren't they always," Obi-Wan said dryly. He stood up, brushed himself off.

"And where do you think you're going?" Satine asked, looking up from her pad.

"Going to bed," Obi-Wan replied over his shoulder.

"You have your interview tomorrow," Satine called after him.

"So I'll prepare tomorrow morning," Obi-Wan said. He turned around once to look at both Qui-Gon and Satine. "I'll be ready then."

Satine opened her mouth to argue, but Qui-Gon nodded. "Be sure you're ready in the morning," was all he said.

"I will," Obi-Wan replied.

But when Obi-Wan got back to his room, he didn't sleep.

He perched himself by the window, looked out at the gleaming lights of the Capitol below him. Even through the thick windows, he could hear some of the shouting and the music below. Constant shouting, constant music, constant light—that was what the Capitol was, and in a few days, Obi-Wan would be out on the arena.

Obi-Wan thought of his score: 9, and he thought of the scores of District 3 and District 11. Stupid. He had been stupid to do anything—he had been stupid to do any actual interacting.

An 8 and a 9, Obi-Wan mused.

They could very well kill him.

A/N: as always, reviews/follows/favorites are greatly appreciated!