The boy tribute, I mean Jayson -he does insist I call him by name- and I sit together in silence outside the training floor in a conjoining lobby. The tributes of districts Six to Twelve sit nearby. Those from districts One to Four are absent; you don't come back after your session. Jayson grimaces at me as he is summoned, disappearing through those doors. After around ten minutes, I'm made to follow. I stand, biting my lip, and walk over towards the doorway, thinking not of myself but of what my district partner could've done. That's the disadvantage of being trained separately. The doors slide apart, allowing my passage into my private session.

The Game-makers watch from their compartment intently, sipping red wine from long-stemmed crystal glasses. I recite my name and district, forcing myself to look into their painted faces.

"Finch Emerson, District Five."

I've figured what I want to score. Low, but not too low. Just low enough to have a blind eye turned to. I swivel around, seeking the climbing frame. Clutching a plastic tree limb and swinging my waist around the branch, I hoist myself up merely on the vinery. I manoeuvre my body around the frame with ease, passing over one frame and onto the other with smooth movements. This was what I was good at. I had a quick foot and soft tread; it's a gift I'm only light. I could be sly if I wanted to. I was named after a bird anyway; it seems almost comical we share traits. With this in mind, I throw myself from the canopy onto the ground with feet of feathers. My landing is perfect, soundless.

I sprint away from the course, exercising my speed. I focus on breathing evenly as I weave and dart through the other stations before coming to a halt at my destination. In District Five, we have no use for anything these Games could offer. We are not familiar with tying knots or throwing spears or making genius contraptions. We cannot swim; what uses could it offer? Water and electricity do not bind well. Power. It elicits no need for hunting or for gathering or for dealing with animals. And certainly no uses for weaponry. We simply pump out electricity for the Capitol and they leave us alone (for the most part).

I feel my fingers close around the cold, heavy metal of a knife. I pause for a moment, poised with my arm still outstretched. It feels completely wrong, much longer than the one I used while practicing. And if length wasn't the main concern, it was at least a thousand times heavier. I remain as still as I can possibly manage without blowing over, my quickly paced breathing slowing until one could barely see my chest lower and rise.

It's silent. So silent you can hear the Game-makers sipping their wine. I think about the likeliness of them being drunk, before waving that thought off; they usually only get drunk around District Ten. Suddenly, I sprint forward, jumping in the air and attacking the dummy my eyes are fixed upon, my body manoeuvring around the lifeless opposition and achieving deep slices in the victim's rubbery flesh. I simulate its non-existent attempts at attacking me, dodging around.

'It's harder to hit a moving target.' I hear inside my head. If there's one thing I got out of training, it was this. Surely it's a no-brainer, but it's crucial. It's the difference between you living another moment and having an axe buried in your back.

I stop, sure I have clearly expressed my tactics. Slinking away soundlessly, I compose myself and stand with my head tilted towards the Game-makers. That is enough to get me through without being noticed.

"You're dismissed." That's what Seneca Crane tells me, before turning to speak with someone beside him. It's somebody I don't recognise.

I turn to leave. What more could I possibly do?

·

I sit barefoot and cross-legged on the soft leather sofa, staring at Caesar Flickerman through the screen. More particularly, at his blue hair and his blue lips. It's an awful shade. Nightlock blue. My eyes are trained on the white gleam of his teeth against the sapphire of his lips –what a contrast-, as he reads out the private training scores.

Gathered around me are Jayson, Petalla, Vincent, Helena, Avia and Cyren. All but Jayson and I hold crystal glasses brimming with bubbly champagne. They talk casually, but Helena brings them to a hush as the faces begin to pop up on the screen, along with their training scores.

The Careers all receive high scores of eight to ten. This is hardly surprising. What I'm surprised to see is the boy from Four score so high for such a small person. Usually the tributes from Four are hulking volunteers, but all I see is a tiny boy. He had to be one of the twelve-year-olds. Jayson's face flashes onto the screen. It's only a tiny gesture, but I nudge him with my knee. He nudges back, eyes glued to Caesar.

"…With a training score of, five."

I steal a glance at him. He's expressionless, suddenly more immersed in a loose thread on his pants. Perhaps he was expecting better. My head snaps back towards the polished screen as my name is read out.

"…With a training score of, also five."

Perfect. I make sure to disguise my smile.

But in the long run, this was expected, I guess. I have no material talent that offers survival in the Games. How far can being quick really get you? It's all the same when you're lying dead in a pool of your own blood. The Game-makers only want bloodthirsty, confronting killers; not skinny little girls who will flee upon contact with another tribute. I try and hide my face behind a thin curtain of my hair, which just contributes to my growing agitation. There she is, always trying to hide from things she doesn't like. If I can't handle something, I run. I hide my fears. That's all I've been taught to do. I peek out and see everybody looking at me. My face blushes a shade of crimson that matches my hair.

I'm angry the girl from Twelve gets an eleven. Nobody ever gets an eleven.

We eat our dinner in utter silence. Nobody dares discuss our odds of survival because we all know the odds will never be in our favour.

"I'm done." I say, pushing out my chair. It screeches on the marble tiles.

I am exhausted of overthinking everything and my head feels very heavy. Before crawling into bed, I discard my white shirt and black trousers onto the floor, leaving them in a crumpled pile. The avoxes will pick them up. I cocoon my body in the silken bed sheets, pulling the fine fabric up to my chin. Tomorrow night is the interviews, which means an entire day of prepping. And by 'prepping' I mean several hours of being plucked, brushed and groomed until I'm sparkling, thrown into a ridiculous outfit and shoved into an interview with Caesar Flickerman. Exciting.

When I awaken my limbs are stiff and my hair is a tousled mass. The sun strains to make an appearance behind the tall buildings, indicating it's only early. I barely comb my fingers through the thin strands on my head and peel myself out of bed before my preparation team burst through the door and whisk me into a bathroom. Had they been watching and waiting for me or something? Weird.

I don't get time to ponder on this as I am dumped into the bathtub and soaked in a potent concoction with the texture of wet cement. It scratches my already raw skin, but when I am retrieved from the mixture my skin is soft and smooth. Stellar brushes out my hair, talking to Ophelia about her latest boy troubles. Apollo quietly works on my eyebrows, only joining the conversation when he has to.

My nails are painted a pastel blue and they spend what feels like hours obsessing over my hair, deciding whether to leave it in rollers or curl it later. Eventually Apollo cuts in, arguing that I'm 'good enough for now'. They slather a few lotions on me, force me into a simple shift, and then send me outside. Simple enough.

Unsure of what just happened, I wander into the kitchen to see Vincent, Helena, Petalla and Jayson settling down at the table for breakfast.

"Glad you could join us." Vincent deadpans, digging into a plate of sausages. "Eat."

I slide in beside Jayson, who's staring at me weirdly. He also looks like he has just woken up. Had he no need to go through that prepping, also?

"Nice look, Finch." He says, fighting off a smirk.

I put a hand to my face. What have they done!? When I draw my fingers back, they're covered in a purple goo. Nice.

"My stylists, I swear." I mutter, wiping it on the tablecloth.

I ignore Petalla's distasteful glare for the better alternative of ploughing into bread rolls and hot chocolate.

"Today we'll be working on your interview angles." Helena says in between sips of water. Today her black hair is pinned back, revealing tiny slivers of grey at her roots. "Jayson, you'll start with Vince. Finch, with me. Then you'll swap."

I spend the next two hours of my life learning how to smile like a lady and walk in high heels. It's not too hard, as long as I can see my feet in front of me. If my dress is too long though, I'm screwed. As for the smiling, I think I can pull it off. Helena drills me on how to answer the questions; when to smile, when to not smile. After lunch when I am sent to Vincent, I am relieved I don't have to smile anymore. My jaw was beginning to cramp.

"I have a basic idea, but I want to know what you think your angle should be." He says, leaning forward on his elbows.

I swallow and pretend to think a while. I have a basic idea, also. "Curt, maybe? I could pull off sly, evasive."

"I was thinking that too. Keep your answers short, simple. Keep the audience wanting more. Talk quietly- they'll drink it all up! They'll want to know your tactics and strategies- don't tell them anything. You can handle that?"

I nod and I think he is just relieved that I've got my angle worked out.

.

My hair is styled into an up-do with wisps falling down my shoulders, and my prep team keep telling me how gorgeous I'm going to look. Will I look gorgeous enough to win sponsors? Probably not. I'm made over in pale powders, with pink glowing cheeks and pink lips. I feel like a child, or perhaps a doll. Either way I'm a tribute, a puppet on a string. Pulled this way and that for their entertainment.

Cyren enters and grins his porcelain smile at me, lips now painted a bright silver. The rings on his fingers are of the same shades and encrusted with little coloured gems. He carries a black bag that must contain my outfit.

He unzips the side of the bag and reveals my interview dress; a layered blue thing, which falls to around my knees. Thank God, I think. I won't be falling onto my face. I step into the layers of silk and netting, and he pulls the dress up over my waist. As he's doing the zip on the side, I notice the dress is strapless. He secures a golden band around my throat and I'm made to put my feet into heels.

Jayson compliments me and I compliment him back. Tomorrow we would be in the arena. Chances are both of us would be dead by sundown, so it's only courteous to be kind. Who knows? He might end up being the one to spare me.


Blech.