A/N: You have NO IDEA how hard it was for me to type "What the hell is this, some kind of episode?" Instead of "What the hell is this, some kind of tube?" Also, the pick-up lines aren't mine.

Gareth Barkely, District 7 Male, 16 years old

I take my time exploring the train, investigating each nook and cranny with a perverse interest that makes my escort cough and not-so-silently sputter that perhaps I should sit down and stop examining Capitol property as if your life depends on the placing of each and every bolt. Except he doesn't say that part aloud.

I can't help it, really. Mechanics, things made of wood, and tiny flaws interest me. Some rebellious spirit in my head that enough examining equals discovering a way out. And, like a fool, I feed the beast.

I run my fingers absentmindedly over every scratch, notch and groove in the enclosing wooden walls, my long nails catching on each and every rivet. Endless doors of polished white wood stretch out, and the scratchy blue carpet seems to extend for miles. Suddenly overcome with emotion and fear, I keel over, slippery fingers skidding off the walls.

"I don't trust you."

I spin around, pressing my back against the wall. Heavenly Aquarius is standing five feet away from me, anxiously running her thin fingers through her newly-brushed brown hair.

"Thought you should make that clear, eh?" I spit out wryly. "It's the Hunger Games, trust's usually a bad thing. You've got the right idea. I don't trust you either, come to think of it."

"Not because of the HUNGER GAMES!" She wails like a banshee, her long nails desperately clawing at her silky mane.

From zero to hundred in one second. Well.

"Why not, then?" I ask her, genuinely confused despite my sarcasm and biting remarks earlier on.

"You're friends with him." She says gravely. "You joke with him, you pass notes to him, you eat lunch WITH HIM-"

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU-"

"ASPER LEECH!" She screeches.

"The mayor's son? I suppose I am friendly with him, he's a pretty nice guy-"

"NICE GUY?! NICE GUY?!"

Her nails shift from ripping out clumps of her now-twisted hair to raking themselves down her olive, hollow cheeks. I swear loudly.

"Don't do that!" I yell, wrenching her clawed, bloody hands from her face and forcing them by her sides. "What the hell is this, some kind of episode?!

She stops dead, ivy-green eyes wide and frightened, panicked rabbit-style. Her chest heaves wildly as she gasps for breath.

"You're not like him." She whispers, astonished. "You st-stopped me from hurting myself… I-I didn't think the test would work, not in a million years… not for you… Oh, hell!"

And then she spins around wildly and darts from the room, leaving me to yell curses and questions at her retreating back.

Cajsa Varis, District Eight female, 16 years old

"Your lips look so lonely… would they like to meet mine?"

"You must be one hell of a thief, because you stole my heart from across the room!"

"You're-"

"If this is a pick-up line about my ass, then stuff it up yours!" I snap, wrapping my arms around my slim frame. Ajax wiggles his eyebrows and opens his mouth-

"Shut it!" I hiss. Ajax frowns. "Thought a good make-up session would cheer you up. Usually, that's what pick-up lines lead to." I grimace and stick out my tongue. "Not when they could be served in my Mac & Cheese!" Ajax pouts. "You could give me some consolation points for trying-"

"Try them on me! They just might work." Our escort, Malfi Potpourri, purrs, sliding into the lounge in her typical slinky dress, her ash gray skin looking impossibly sickly under the neon lighting. Ajax grimaces. "No thanks!" He says, a little too loudly, as if she might not hear him. Malfi pouts and slides a thin gray hand up Ajax's side, the latter looking quite terrified. I desperately stifle a laugh. "Well, if you change your mind…" She croons. "I'll be in the kitchen."

The two of us burst into giggles at the same time, hers growing fainter as she heads down the hallways, mine growing only stronger as she leaves, until I'm practically howling. "Ha-ha, very funny, the flirter gets molested." Says Ajax grumpily. "Age of consent in Panem is 16!" I say grandly, sliding into a heap off the velvet couch. "And don't overreact, it isn't good for your complexion." "I didn't hear any consent being given!" Hisses Ajax, only causing my fits of laughter to grow.

"What's so funny?"

Yax Tulle, our infamous mentor, steps into the room, bringing with him a aura of coldness that snuffs all emotion.

"Nothing, sir." I say quietly. Ajax nods assent.

Yax Tulle. Brutal volunteer. Murderer. Torture enthusiast. Career. (Albeit temporarily.) His presence is about as welcome as a heart attack, but nobody dares deny him.

They call him the Boogeyman…

Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male, 18 years old.

Blood runs red on the ground, but blue in the veins…

Teryn is staring. Silly girl. Staring at the Grim Reaper is never advisable.

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish…

Cecily and Ray address her, and her only. It is as if I do not exist. I dream on while they babble.

Sinner or saint, little boy, it doesn't matter. We'll catch ya, and we'll break ya.

There are no words for the fury in my soul at their meaningless chatter and nervous, skittering glances towards my stone-cold face. I temper the rage, reminding myself the Reaper must be silent as the grave. Teryn believes she can use a scythe. What fools they make! The scythe is a Reaper's weapon. Not a weapon belonging to a twittering bloodbath with a venomous stare.

Screaming. Who is screaming? Whose desperate howls and pleas for remorse are splitting the frigid air?

Crying. Who is crying? Who is sobbing with fear and pain, cold salt tracks ripping there way down which freezing face?

Bleeding. Who is bleeding? Who's dripping scarlet and ruby, splashing bloody paint across sharp stone.

The answer…

I've taken tests before. I disregard them. Their tests do not dent me, do not dare to flaw my black, steel soul…

Teryn Gardner is the answer. To life, the universe, and everything. When I kill her, my job is to be complete.

I inform her that she is the answer.

She does not take it well.

Blair Harcourt, District Ten Male, 16 years old

The ice queen sat in wait, her frigid lips pursed and snowy curls sprawled across her castle of mirrors and glass. Her fingers stroked her arrows, first lovingly, then, when the hours passed, tensely. Finally, she snatched her bow and stood. Her servant-boy skittered across the ground like a frightened rabbit and scrambled desperately to kiss the hem of her frost-and-gossamer gown. She sent him sprawling with a single kick.

"Where is he?" She whispered, her voice glacier-like and spun with malignant, cold fury.

"I- I do not know, my lady! He must be here soon-"

"What're you reading?"

Crystaille's curious voice snaps me out of my book obsession. My head shoots up from the well-loved cream pages littered with rips and smudges.

"The Ice-Queen and the Mouse." I mutter, clutching the burgundy book to my chest. "Sounds cool!" She chirps. "I've never had much time for reading, as I've had animals to tend too, but it sounds interesting!"

"Right. Yup. Uh, interesting. R-Really interesting, yeah. Good book." I mutter dumbly, hanging onto the book like a lifeline and hoping desperately that she'll stop talking so I can submerge myself into a world without the Hunger Games.

But she doesn't get the hint.

"So, what's your home life like?" She asks curiously. I stifle a groan.

"Fine." I say quietly, being drawn into the conversation against my conscious will. I'm normally a friendly person, and I suppose that attitude is causing me to gain interest in talking in my very friendly and very pretty district partner, but at the moment, I'm fighting against it, due to the fact that I've just been reaped for a death match, and I'd like to be in a place without conflict- or, at least, without Panem conflict.

"My mom and dad are both really nice people, and there's virtually no conflict in our household." I say quietly, as Crystaille listens attentively.

"I'm generally social with everyone, I suppose, but my closest friend was Carver Oxley. We were close friends when we were small, but we've sort of grown apart and have different interests. He's still really nice, though, we just don't… fit. What about you? What's your life like?"

"Oh!" She says. "Uh, I… ride horses. And, um, milk cows. And kill chickens. I was covered in chicken blood during the Reapings- that was embarrassing! Most of my family is nice… but my grandma… well, lets just say she's a little old-fashioned."

I nod. She hops up and announces she's off to look for our mentors and wrestle a bottle of morphine from between them. She exits the room, leaving me and my book alone.

The Ice Queen nodded, her face taut with the exhaustion of planning the foolish boy's death…

I shiver and tear my gaze from the page. Perhaps I shouldn't be reading this after all.

I stand up and follow Crystaille out.

Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female, 16 years old

My fingers twitch and dance in my lap, the way they do when I'm picking fruit or tree-climbing. Wisika's hitting back a bottle of amber liquid and giving me absolutely no advice at all.

Apparently I was misinformed as to what mentors do.

Finally I sigh and clasp my hands together. "Aren't you supposed to, uh, test my skills, get to know me?" I blurt out. Wisika shoots me a cold glare. "No point." She says flatly. "You're just gonna die."

The words feel like a slap to the face.

"How would you know that?" I say stiffly, attempting not to betray the sting I felt on my cheek when she spat out her words. "You have no idea what I can do, so…"

"Doesn't matter if you're the smartest, strongest, or prettiest person in the entirety of effing Eleven. You'll die anyways. Let me tell you a little story..." I lean forwards and ball my hands obediently in my lap.

"A few years back, I had a tribute a lot like you. The 141st games, if I'm not mistaken. She was… averagely pretty, not very strong in all honesty, but whip smart." My cheeks flame at the indirect compliment. "She could guess the actions of her competitors, she could play to the crowd, and all that bull. But mostly? She was determined to stay alive. I thought I had a winner on my hands.

She got fifth place. Stabbed fifteen times in the gut from the little misery from two, Callfine."

My stomach's lurching in an extremely uncomfortable fashion. But still, I listen.

"Callfine won, as I'm sure you know. I see her at Victor's gatherings sometimes. Takes all my self-control to stop myself from ripping her little throat out, or stabbing her fifteen times like she stabbed Apple."

She takes a swig from the bottle and continues.

"A few years before that, 135th games, I got a boy named John Henry, like from the folktales. His name made sense. He was as huge as an ox, with hands as big as dustbins and muscles that looked like apples strung across his arm. Physical wonder, he was.

But he wasn't just brute strength. Sure, he might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was such a sweet boy, always full of smiles and thank-you-ma'ams. It would bring him favor with the audience. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had a victor here."

Her fingers slowly grow white as she talks, clutching the bottle like a lifeline.

"The Careers asked him to join them, but he said naw. Because of that, and his size, they all ganged up on him at the Bloodbath and made his death the first of the Games."

She lets out a little sigh and sips again.

"The 129th games brought me Persephone. She was… different. Skin like nut-brown silk, glowing amber eyes, glossy curls, curves in all the right places. The sponsors went bananas. I went bananas. She was prettier then the model from one. The model! And she was cunning, too- knew just how to play to the crowd, with skimpy velvet dress and hair flips and saucy winks towards an audience she truly despised. I thought I had a winner with her, as well.

The model from one was a vengeful bitch. Tracked down Persephone on day three. Instead of making it nice and quick with those knives she was so skilled with, she grabbed a rock and sloughed the skin off Persephone's face, all the while screaming that she, Tory, was the prettiest now. It took Persephone half and hour to die. One long, agonizing half an hour."

She sets the cup down and stares gravely at me. I gulp.

"So, you see, it doesn't matter how smart or strong or pretty you are. You'll die. Because everyone always does."

And then she stands up and leaves the room.

Alicia Marleen, District 12 Female, 13 years old

I can't stop staring at the glory all around me, the pure velvet luxury. Neither can Henry- the two of us simply observe our surroundings with wide O's for mouths and don't say a single word to eachother, preferring to unwind on a slippery couch made from cloth so light and floaty it feels like pure air.

Amara steps in, talking lightly to our escort. She stops dead when she sees us, and tears suddenly spring to life in her wide gray eyes.

"Shit." She swears. Henry giggles.

"Could you draw up two baths, please?" She asks the escort calmly.

A half an hour later, I'm lying in a pool of warm water, with rose petals floating on the top and lotion slathered all over my skin. It's the best feeling in the world, and I have no idea how to describe the warmth surrounding me.

I pull myself deeper into the water, floating like a chick in a shell. The warm hand of silky liquid surrounds me, and I lazily flip over in the water, sleepily blinking my eyes.

Soap and lotion stings at my raw eyes, but I keep them open anyways, staring blankly at the slippery petals dancing alongside the bottom, little red dresses in a waltz.

My palms hit the bottom of the tub with an audible thump and my chest begins to burn from lack of air. I open my lips and taste the sugary, flowered water with a wet tongue.

I push myself from the tub and cold air presses against my skin. I suck in a few desperate breaths and stumble out of the bathtub, grabbing a fluffy towel and wrapping it around my malnourished frame, letting the towel absorb the lotion and water dripping off my skin.

I spot the bottle of peach lotion and smile.