Wells's breathing was low and soft beside her. Clarke counted his breaths as they passed his lips, hoping the rhythm might calm her down. She would've used her own breathing as a marker, but it was too shallow and erratic with nervousness.

The two of them sat side by side on a velveteen sofa that Clarke found herself sinking into every time she relaxed her posture. Wells too held a rigid position, his back straight and his face forward. He is afraid to look at me, Clarke thought, suppressing a wry laugh, he is afraid that I will be angry with him for volunteering. Clarke was angry, but she had pushed the feeling down with all her other suppressed emotions; she needed Wells, and he needed her, and with what they were about to be thrown into, they needed to be a team. The last thing Clarke wanted was for them to fight between themselves, they would be fighting other people soon enough.

Clarke sighed and pushed her hair back behind her ears. Wells turned at the sound, she had known he would, but all she had to offer him was a small, fake, smile while they waited. So far, Clarke's day had included a lot more waiting than she had anticipated. It was agonising.

The only sounds were two sets of lungs breathing in and out and the purr of the train as it sped toward the Capitol. The train was beautiful, Clarke knew, but it did not interest her. She would've destroyed its beauty in the same way she had wanted to destroy the city hall, but she didn't think her mentors would treat her kindly for it. It would serve them right for making us wait, she scowled. It was an expression familiar to her face, Wells used to tease her for it, but he said nothing now.

When the carriage door finally slid open, the sound was strange to Clarke's ears, too loud compared to the soft sounds from before, like she had come to the surface after being submerged in water. Two people entered the room, the door thudding shut behind them. Clarke felt heat flood her face, they were so calm, so...arrogant looking, with their high held chins and sauntering walk.

The mentors were a man and woman, one each for each of the tributes. Clarke knew that some districts were not so lucky in their pool of victors as One, where there were several would-be mentors to choose from. She knew from watching a lifetime of televised games that Twelve had had only one living victor left to them, and he was a sour man and a drunk. He must've been good at something when he was younger, good at killing, she supposed.

The male mentor was young, no older than twenty-five, Clarke would guess, and he had smooth tan skin and tousled brown hair. His face was handsome, but it was cruel. His smile was too much of a sneer and his eyes held a darkness despite their blue irises. The woman was older, thirties perhaps, with blonde hair darkening with age, faint crow's feet by her eyes and a physique that was too muscular for a woman. Wells stood up when they entered and Clarke followed suit, trying to mask her irritation with a smile, though the woman's expression showed her that she hadn't hid it well enough.

"Hello, tributes," The woman said with a polite smile as she sat herself in an armchair opposite Clarke. "My name is Diana, and this," She gestured to her male counterpart, "Is Gloss. We will be your mentors during your time in the hunger games."

"I'm Wells," Wells extended a hand to the mentors who took it graciously, Clarke swallowed bile. These people were killers; they should act like it, not hide it away beneath pleasantries and soft-styled hair.

"Yes, you volunteered," Diana's eyes twinkled and Clarke could've sworn that a blush had sprung to Wells's cheeks. Perhaps it is just the light. "You must be very brave. Tell me," The woman leant forward, her eyes flicking between the two teenagers, "You did it for love, not glory, didn't you? Because we could use that for a very good angle, it would draw in tons of sponsors. Hell, it doesn't even have to be true, as long as you can act it! Lovers would make for very dramatic television,"

"We're not lovers," Clarke spat before she could think. She felt sick. Good television. That was all her life was worth anymore. Diana's eyes narrowed slightly but she smiled all the same.

"No, of course not. You're Clarke, yes?" Clarke nodded silently. "Excellent, well, it is traditional for a female victor to mentor the female tribute and vice versa, so I imagine you and I will become very well acquainted, Clarke." Diana's voice was too sweet, the words sticking to her tongue. Clarke wondered how many people she had killed. She looked like she wanted to kill her.

Gloss, Wells's mentor chuckled at her side, sweeping a hand through his hair effortlessly. He was very handsome, but Clarke couldn't find it in herself to be attracted to him. He was too false, as if he had spent too much time in the Capitol.

"Shall we leave the ladies while we talk strategy, Wells?" Wells bit his lip at his mentor's suggestion, his eyes on Clarke. I'll be fine, she thought wilfully, as if he might hear her. Maybe he did, for he dragged his eyes from her face, and followed Gloss through the automatic door, leaving Clarke alone with a woman whom she had already decided she despised.

"Clarke," Diana spoke after a moment of silence, Clarke didn't look at her, she was watching the landscape whizz past in streaky colours through the window, it made her head hurt at the speed it was going, but she pretended it didn't. "I know you don't want to be here, no one ever wants to be here, no matter what they say in their interviews,"

Clarke allowed a glance at Diana's face, her eyes were heavy lidded but the irises were a youthful blue-green.

"It's a strategy, and right now we need to discuss yours," She continued. "You're from District One, you're older, you're healthy and you're pretty. That puts you in a good position sponsor wise, the odds are in your favour, and sponsors will be lining up to support you, if you can convince them to,"

"How do I convince them?" Clarke snapped her head up and Diana laughed softly.

"Smile, for one," Clarke pulled her lips up slightly. "Better. Play to your strengths Clarke. You're from One, a district close to the Capitol, so play up to the Capitol. Let them believe that you love them, no matter what your true feelings are. You're pretty, revel in it. Wells is clearly head over heels for you, use it." She paused, waiting for Clarke to reply, but she merely nodded in silence. She hated to admit it, but what Diana was saying made sense. Wells's affection could give her much-needed sponsors, but she couldn't use him like that, could she? If they were allies, the sponsor's gifts would be for him too, it would be for his benefit too...Clarke gnawed on her bottom lip.

"How did you win?" She blurted out suddenly. Diana smiled into her lap briefly before meeting Clarke's eyes with her own. They looked alike, Clarke realised with a jolt, with their golden-blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Cold and stubborn, the both of us.

"I won the same way that you will, I used my head,"

Clarke pressed the button on the remote. There was an uncomfortable lump in her throat as she hugged her knees to her chest at Wells's side. The talk with their mentors had not lasted long, a taster, Diana had called it, a preface to the mentoring that would occur once they reached the Capitol. Clarke had been drilled by Diana on the skills she possessed, and she had offered them up lamely, feeling less confident in them when they passed her lips than when she had thought of them privately. Diana had surprised her though, latching onto Clarke's medical skills eagerly. Her instructions were for Clarke to learn more offensive skills during the training, as well as practicing her knowledge and use of plants and healing. She should talk to the other tributes and make alliances before the games started.

And now, curled on a large bed beside Wells, across from a flat screened television, Clarke was about to find out who her allies, and her opponents, would be. She didn't know what Wells's mentor had said to him, Wells didn't tell her, and she didn't ask. But he agreed to sit with her while she watched the recaps of the reapings.

Clarke's heart ached at the way he sat so stiffly next her, afraid of touching her, of getting too close. Clarke had never wanted Wells's love in the way that he had offered it, but she needed his affection now. It was too big, too scary to go into alone, so swallowing her own screams of 'selfish' she leant into his side, sighing happily when his arm snaked around her, holding her close.

His long fingers worked through the tangles in her hair absentmindedly, the way they had always done and Clarke buried her face in his chest, inhaling his comforting scent as the screen flashed to life.

As District One, their reaping was displayed first. Clarke stiffened as she watched herself walk to the stage and frown at the crowd, wincing when Wells tore his way to her in his fit of gallantry. The voiceover announced their names and ages, declaring that they looked 'a promising pair of tributes'. Whatever that meant.

The tributes from Two were both volunteers, as always. Clarke paid special attention to them, District One and Two usually allied in the games and she wanted to know what she was in for. The boy was monstrous, at least six foot tall and rippled with muscle, a dangerous grin across his square jaw. The girl was shorter but equally as burly with a frown to rival Clarke's and dark, beady eyes.

The only other tributes that caught Clarke's eye were a handsome boy with dark hair from Four and his fellow tribute, a wiry redhead girl, and surprisingly, the tributes from Twelve. The girl was called first, a tiny mouse of a girl who looked terrified. But when the boy was called, another girl ripped from her sector, screaming for him and hitting the peacekeepers that held her back. The commentators revealed that she was the sister of the male tribute as they zoomed in on his face. He was tall and broad for a District Twelve boy, and angry. He was the last of the tributes to be called, and he stuck in Clarke's mind.

The District Twelve tributes were usually no threat and died off early on, a product of their malnourishment and lack of training. But this boy didn't like he would submit to dying easily, he looked fierce, and he frightened her.

"What do you think?" Wells's asked when the screen returned to black, his voice low and dry from lack of use. Clarke looked up at him from where she was nestled; his dark eyes looked to be examining her, reading her. He had a habit of doing that and it unnerved her, as if he could see right through her and tell what she was thinking.

"Two look awful, Four look okay," She dragged her eyes away and stretched. "I think we'll be at the Capitol soon," She mused and her voice sounded far away, as if another girl was saying it, on another train.

"I think so too," Wells agreed with her. About what? The tributes or the Capitol? Clarke decided she didn't want to know.

A/N I'm not really sure about this chapter, I prefer writing from Bellamy's POV. Still, I hope you guys liked it, please leave me a review to let me know what you thought! - J x