Esme introduces us to our prep teams and stylists, and I'm immediately shocked by the colors. For a moment I think that my retinas have burned off, then realize that it's just the fact that one of the people from my prep team has neon orange skin. The things that people in the Capitol do to beautify themselves . . . and they usually just come out looking like freak shows.

Devin and I exchange looks. His is nervous, mine is slightly skeptical. I strongly doubt that our prep teams will do us much good if they look as bad as they do now.

"Well!" Esme claps her hands together, smiling her false smile. "I'll leave you two to your prep teams and stylists, then! Have fun, and make sure you're polite!"

I raise a disdainful eyebrow at her and look my stylist over. He's in his mid-twenties, I think, with stylishly messy brown hair (looks like he came right out of bed) and black eyes. I wonder if the eyes are his natural color, or if they're contact lenses. "I'm Joleyn." I hold my hand out for him to shake, somewhat reluctantly. He takes it. His grasp is cool, firm.

"Jonas." Those black eyes sweep over me, assessing me. He gives an almost imperceptible nod and motions for me to follow him. The prep team comes along, too. I shoot a glance at Devin before following my stylist, Jonas, and see that Devin is chatting amiably enough with his own stylist. He flashes me a tentative smile. I don't give him one in return.

"So, Joleyn," Jonas says, turning his jet black gaze to me. "District 4. You must be an excellent swimmer."

Whatever good feelings—or rather, indifferent feelings—remaining for Jonas vanish. He seems to like picking fun at me; I know that stylists are given files on their tribute assignments before the Games start. Jonas knows already that I have a fear of water.

I decide to humor him, although my patience is thin. "No. I dislike swimming immensely."

"Really," he says, his black eyes seeming to pierce into my soul. I wish that I had been assigned a different stylist; this one seems almost dangerous. "That's a pity. I'll leave you to the prep team, and I'll be back in" —he checks his watch— "about an hour and a half's time."

He walks away, and I find myself being surrounded by the five members of my prep team. The orange-skinned one smiles at me, but I'm not reassured. "Better get started with you," she says, grinning widely.

I'm not sure, but I think that feeling at the pit of my stomach is nervousness.

The outfit that Jonas has designed for me is as fancy as I feared.

It's a floor-length, silvery-blue gown that falls down to my feet like sheets of water. The material is thin and delicate, and I'm sure that it will rip if I step on it. I decide to scowl, just to ruin the effect of the dress and to annoy Jonas.

Jonas gives me a sideways glance and says, "Don't scowl. Nobody will want to sponsor you if you keep that attitude—and that expression—up. I'd suggest that you cozy up with your tribute friend—Devin, isn't it? He looks like he could pull his fair share of sponsors, and sponsors are key near the end of the games. Make sure not to antagonize any of the other Careers before you get into the arena. Now get in the chariot and smile, wave, blow kisses . . . whatever gets you on the good side of the audience. Oh, and here." He hands me a silver tiara embedded with sapphires. "Don't destroy it, that thing is expensive."

I stare at him, not taking the tiara yet. "Why are you helping me?"

His expression is one of—is that pity? It never crossed my mind that Jonas could be capable of pity. "I know how it is, being neglected. My parents didn't pay much attention to me, either. And you are my tribute, so my money's going to be on the table for you. I'm placing my bets on you, so you'd better win."

At this, I give the faintest of smirks. "I'll make sure I lose."

"Cocky," sighs Jonas. "I was afraid I'd get one like you." He helps me onto the chariot, where Devin is already waiting for me. I nod cordially at Jonas as our chariot begins to leave the stand. "Good luck, Joleyn."

"Thanks," I say, then look at Devin. He's staring at me expressionlessly, not saying a word. I feel slightly awkward with his piercing stare boring into me. "This is your strong point, Devin. You'll need to tell me what to do."

He tips his head to the side, strands of bronze hair falling out of his tanned face. His gray eyes bore into me. "Smile. Wave. Don't scowl," he adds, seeing me beginning to scowl at the thought of smiling. "Nobody likes a scowler."

"Gee, thanks," I say dryly, while wondering how I'll possibly smile at the audience. Joleyn Laychin doesn't smile. That's perfectly ridiculous—I'm next to incapable of any sentimental activity. "Remind me how to smile?"

The look that Devin flashes me is incredulous, and I roll my eyes at him. "I'm kidding, Devin . . . sort of. I think I should be able to remember how to smile. It's only been a couple of . . ." I pause. When was the last time I smiled?

"I saw you smile two days ago," says Devin, frowning. "It can't be that bad. Besides, didn't you smile that time that I told you . . ."

I almost smile then and there. "The time that you told me that I had pretty eyes?" I say quietly, my mind flashing back to that day. I had been twelve, and he fourteen. He'd flashed the statement at me, then dove for the ball during Gym. And I had indeed smiled, for the shortest of moments.

"I still stand by that statement," he says, grinning slightly at me. Our chariot wheeled around, and I find myself facing thousands of Capitol people. Devin and I wave wildly, and I even manage to crack a smile. It seems that Devin makes me smile, for some strange reason.

Whether that's an asset or a holdback, I've yet to figure out.

Someone raps on my door. I can tell it's Devin, once again, and I tell him to come in. The door, once again, is unlocked.

"Just come in next time," I say, slightly impatient. "I don't do anything in here that I need to keep secret from you, so you might as well just open the door."

Devin flushes a little bit, and mumbles something about me being a girl and him being a boy, and that he doesn't want to catch me at an "awkward" time. A smirk makes its way up to my lips.

"Anyway. So you're here because . . . ?" I let the question trail off, and I look at him with a raised eyebrow.

His cheeks redden, and he says, "Well, you did say that you'd help me out on my lying skills and all, so I figured that now would be an acceptable time for that . . . if that's okay with you?" he tacks on at the end, looking up at me from underneath his eyelashes.

The ghost of a smile appears on my lips, and I nod. Lying is what I do best, and everybody knows it. "That sounds fine. Er—sit down, if you want. Okay, tell me about your family, but lie." I cross my ankles at look at him attentively.

"Okay, um . . ." Devin thinks quickly then says, "I've got seven brothers and sisters, all younger than me. My mom is dead and my dad works on the rafts." The rafts are part of our fishing community. People who work on them scout for good fishing spots, then alert the fishermen on the boats where the fishing spots are.

After a moment of looking hard at him, I say, "You were trying too hard to look me straight in the eye. People always tell you that eye contact is key in lying, but that's not the actual case. If you look too hard, that's a dead giveaway that you're lying. So maintain eye contact, but don't actually try so hard. It should come naturally. And your hands are clenched too tight." I nod at his hands, which are clenched tightly. His knuckles are white, a startling contrast against his deeply tanned skin. "But otherwise, you're actually not that bad. Make your sentences seem natural, like you've been telling people this for all your life. That's really all there is to lying."

Devin nods at me. He looks like he's really concentrating; whatever he's got to hide seems like it's important. "Okay, I think I got it."

"Good. Now, tell me about your family again, and lie." I look at him and give him my full attention yet again. And after hours of practice and talking, we fall asleep, curling up next to each other on my bed. The last conscious thought that strikes me before I fall asleep is that I'm going to have a hard time when I lose this boy in the Hunger Games.

The day of the interviews with Caesar Flickerman comes too soon. Both Devin and I work tirelessly on our weaknesses—his lying and my social skills. We correct each other, do last-minute quizzing, the works. But our interviews come swiftly, and I can't help but feel extremely nervous.

They call my name, and I go up front to Caesar Flickerman. I feel a flicker of panic building in my stomach, but I squash it down, as I do with just about every other emotion. Caesar smiles at me, and I hide my shock at his appearance. His lips and hair are dyed a striking burgundy color, and it looks like he's bleeding. Who would want to look like that?

I sit down on the couch facing Caesar and cross my legs, forcing my lips to turn up at the corners.

"Joleyn Laychin," he says, his red lips spreading over his white teeth. "Wonderful to see you. You're a pretty young lady, aren't you? District 4? I suppose you live swimming, then?"

It's all that I can do to not scowl at him. I smile tightly at him. "Not at all. I don't find swimming enjoyable, as shocking as that sounds."

He seems genuinely surprised, so I assume that he hasn't read my file yet. No matter, since he's supposed to dig out all of my deepest secrets in these three minutes of life. To his credit, Caesar recovers in mere seconds. "I see. Do you have any family?"

The answer comes easily to my lips. "Yes. My mother."

Caesar looks relieved to have found something to speak about. "I bet you love her very much, huh? I know that I really loved my mom when I was your age."

I smile sweetly at him; Devin has taught me how to smile at will. "Then it seems that you and I have many differences, Mister Flickerman. I have no love for my family or district." My smile turns into a sneer, and I can see Jay burying his face in his hands. A smirk tugs at my lips, and I see Caesar's stunned expression. "Continue your questions, please."

Caesar's mouth opens, then closes. He quickly regains his composure and smiles again, his lips flashing a bright crimson. "Got any boy back home waiting for you?"

"No," I say lightly, resting my chin on my palm. "Not at all."

He's clearly grasping at straws now. "Erm—alright. And your fellow District 4 tribute—quite a looker, isn't he? Fancy him much?"

I smile faintly, pondering this thought. "I won't deny that he's not lacking in the looks department," I say slowly, then see my amused face on screens all over the building. I wink lightly and see my magnified face doing the same. "But I don't think that fancying him would get me anywhere. So no. Not interested."

"That's a disappointment," says Caesar. "And Joleyn—do you plan to come out of the Hunger Games? Think you'll be the first victor?"

I tip my head to the side thoughtfully, my dark, glitter-sprinkled curls falling out of my face. "Mm, no. Not really. I've seen the tributes from the other districts—and some of the men are fine stuff" —I smirk— "so frankly, I think my chances are slim. I'm just enjoying the food while I can." I spread my arms out and smirk.

"You find it bearable to joke about your upcoming death?" says Caesar. He looks actually interested, as if he can't find out why I'm so indifferent about my death.

I lean forward slightly and smile at me. On the enlarged screens, I see that the smile is almost feral. "Oh, it's bearable. I don't care. Live or die, I'll always be an antagonist." My smile widens a little when I see Jonas holding in his laughter on the box full of the officials and stylists. "Besides, I've never seen the point of my existence. So thank you, Capitol." I wave easily at the audience, who are dead silent. The buzzer for three minutes goes off, and a very confused-looking Caesar ushers me back to where the other tributes are waiting. Devin looks rather sad after my interview, but he gives me a quick peck on the cheek before walking off to Caesar and the couch. I look up and see that the audience saw the whole kiss-on-the-cheek thing. Smiling knowingly, I see that my face is still on the screens. Then Devin's face comes up, and his interview starts.

"Look at what they've dubbed you," says Devin, rubbing his eyes from fatigue. He points at the overlarge television, looking absolutely exhausted.

I walk over and seat myself beside him on the large sofa. "What, I have a nickname now?"

"Yeah," yawns Devin. I see the purplish-blue circles underneath his gray eyes. "Watch it, you'll hear it—"

"The girl with no soul," comes from the TV, and I raise an eyebrow at Devin. He shrugs, already half-asleep. It's two in the morning, but my eyes are still wide open. I've always been known as an insomniac.

I look at his tired form, and I sigh. "Go to bed, Devin," I say. "You look dead on your feet, and I have no doubt that you are."

"No, I'm not," he argues, his voice muffled by his arm, which is slung across his face. I just shake my head and pull him off of the sofa. He's heavier than I thought he'd be, and I grunt under his weight. Devin's eyes fly open, and he turns his face to me. "Put me down, I'm going to break your back. I'm not light."

"I noticed," I say as I lug him towards his bedroom. "Jay!" I shout. "Help me with this hunk of fat, he must be equivalent to the weight of a baby whale."

Devin grunts, not denying it.

Jay opens the door and looks at me incredulously. "You can carry him?" he says, looking surprised. I shrug; since I can't swim, I lug the nets full of fish to the factories. I'm used to heavy things.

Just not quite as heavy as Devin is.

Making a face, Jay takes Devin from me and kicks the door to Devin's room open. The distinct thump in his room leads me to believe that Jay has thrown Devin on the bed. The man has good aim, I'll give him that much.

Shaking my head in amusement, I open the door to my room and collapse onto my bed. I turn the lights off, but lie awake for several hours more. It always takes me ages to fall asleep, no matter how late it is. But I finally give in to the blackness of sleep at five in the morning.

"Get up, we're doing training today," Devin's voice cuts into my dreams. I open a single eye and scowl at him.

Checking the time, I groan. "Seven o'clock? Dev, I fell asleep at five. You could try cutting me some slack, even I can't survive on two hours of sleep. At least you got six hours."

"Sorry," he says apologetically. "Jay told me to get you up. He didn't tell me when you fell asleep. But still, today we have to go to the training arena and meet all of the other tributes. We should be able to get our fair share of allies, you're pretty fast, and I can give a fair punch. I'm also alright with a knife."

Something in his statement bothers me. "'We'?" I ask him, frowning. "Don't you mean 'me' or 'you'?"

Devin rolls his eyes. "We're obviously going to be allies, Joleyn. What did you expect, for me to throw you to the dogs?" Actually, I was expecting something along those lines. "I'm not that bad, Jo. We're friends, so we should be allies. Obviously."

Wait. We're friends?

The world must be ending. Joleyn Laychin doesn't make friends.

"Hurry up!" Devin urges me, throwing the covers off of me. He grabs a pair of leggings and a white shirt from my wardrobe and throws it at me. "Get dressed, I'll be at the breakfast table. See you in ten." Dashing out the door, he waves as he makes his exit.

I laugh at his antics and shut the door behind him. Pulling on the outfit that Devin had thrown at me, I brush my teeth and brush my dark hair. It's straightened out from last night, when Jonas and my prep team had curled it for the interviews. Most of the golden glitter has washed out by now, and that's a relief.

I look at my face in the mirror. I'm not bad looking, I know. My skin is tanned and flawless, like the rest of the District 4 population. I'm a straight-haired brunette—nothing special. The only feature that stands out for me are my eyes. They're tawny, with hints of orange. I've always liked my eyes, and Devin apparently likes them too.

I'm fairly average, with a slender five-foot-six build, but somehow I manage to attract loads of attention at school. Maybe it's the fact that I never slouch . . . or maybe it's because I don't really care about anything in particular. But either way, I receive attention, and it doesn't bother me.

Devin knocks on the door again, startling me out of my reverie. "Joleyn! Hurry up, we haven't got all day," he calls in a singsong voice. "Joleyn . . ."

I push the door open, bumping into him. "I'm done, I'm done, you pestering little bug," I say, rolling my eyes lightly at him. He just grins in response, and we walk towards the breakfast table. Every inch that the wooden table has to spare is filled with plates and food, but I'm long used to this, so I don't bother to marvel at the huge expanse of food stretched before me.

I lump a bunch of scrambled eggs and bacon on my plate, while Devin takes a spoonful of every dish. He ends up with seven plates, and starts gorging himself the moment that he finishes putting everything on.

"Pig," I comment idly as I watch him throw spoonfuls and forkfuls of breakfast foods into his mouth. "I don't know how you're not five hundred pounds yet."

"I'm a hundred and forty-five," he says through a mouthful of food. It comes out like "Ah uh huh-ed an fo-ee fahve."

Not that bad, actually. I've seen people attempt to say similar stuff, and the outcome is usually not as pretty as Devin's.

Jay finishes first, as always, and stands up from the table. He starts pacing as we eat. "Okay," he says. "I've never been in the Hunger Games before, as you guys know." I resist the urge to say "duh" to him; this is the first Annual Hunger Games, of course he hasn't been in it before. "But the Gamemakers gave me a pretty good idea of what's going to happen. There's a giant basket-like thing called the Cornucopia, shaped like a horn, and that's where all the goods and weapons will be at the beginning of the games. I think both of you are strong and fast enough to grab some stuff from there when the gong sounds, but it's all up to you. The Cornucopia is going to be a bloodbath, okay? So make as many allies as you can today, and you'll come out alive. Now get to practice. Esme will show you there."

I make it a point to ignore Esme on the way down the elevator. She babbles on about trinkets and ribbons nevertheless, and Devin and I exchange tortured looks. Finally, I snap and say, "Esme, neither of us care about baubles or ribbons, so can you just be—quiet?"

She shuts her mouth, looking hurt. I feel slightly relieved by the silence, but Devin starts fidgeting uncomfortably to the point of me losing my cool. "What?" I snap, looking at him.

"Huh?" he says cluelessly, being the dense male character that he is.

I grit my teeth and calm down a little, telling myself that he's my friend and that he's not actually that irritating when he fidgets. It doesn't entirely work. "Why are you so . . . twitchy?"

Devin ruffles his already messy hair with one hand. "Reflex?" he suggests weakly, smiling halfheartedly at me. "I'm nervous, Jo. Cut me some slack. I mean, did you see the guy from District 2, the one named Cedric? He's going to be either a great ally or a vicious competitor."

Cedric. I remember him from the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. He's tall, about six feet, with short bleach-blond hair and a well-toned body. He definitely doesn't need help in the looks department, and I'm sure that he won't need help when it comes to the fighting department. All in all, he'll be a sponsor magnet.

I nod tersely in agreement. "So we'll get him as an ally. We're in the Career districts too." From what I'd learned, the Career districts consisted of Districts 1, 2, and 4. The occasional tribute from another district. Of course, we'd never had a Hunger Games before this, but the Capitol knew which district could hold up in a fight.

"You realize that the Career districts do the main of the killing?" Devin notes dryly, giving me a bitter half-smile.

I smirk right back at him, with a quick shrug of my shoulders. "Killing shouldn't be hard. We kill fish on a daily basis, or hadn't you forgotten? Besides," I say coolly, "it should be an easy activity for a girl with no soul."

The elevator door dings and opens. I walk straight out, hearing Devin's quick footsteps behind me. He calls my name.

"Joleyn!" he shouts. "Hey, hold up!" His footsteps slow when I stop walking, and he's by my side before I know it. "Look, Jo, I'm sorry about that. You have a soul, I know you do. And I know it's messed up, but you're my best friend."

I look up at him disinterestedly, although my stomach flips when he says that. And here I was, thinking that I was incapable of making friends. "Maybe you're wrong, Devin. Maybe I don't have a soul. I wouldn't know, but it wouldn't surprise me if I didn't." I stalk off, leaving him with a shocked expression on his face. I don't understand why he's making such a big deal out of it; I'm not the type to hold grudges.

. . . Right, I might forgive someone who offends me after a year of ignoring them.

I walk into the training center, and find that most of the tributes are already there. Their eyes assess me carefully, but I'm not bothered by it. I'm an athletic girl, and from what I hear, I'm not lacking when it comes to looks. Devin comes in several seconds after me. By then, I've already invited myself over to the Career group. If it's not already obvious, I'm not lacking confidence, either.

Devins sits himself next to me, and I give him a half-smile to show that I'm not actually angry with him. Might as well make nice with my only friend, since I'll be long gone in a couple of weeks. "Hey," I say quietly before a tall, buff, middle-aged man starts speaking. He tells us where all the stations are, pointing to each of them in turn, then ushers us off.

I immediately turn to talk to the other Careers. "Joleyn Laychin," I say, holding out my hand to the Cedric boy and smiling slightly. He takes it and shakes my hand. His grip is strong, which I admire. This isn't any weakling pretty boy.

"Devin Hollister," Devin states firmly, holding out his hand to Cedric once I'm finished. Cedric's smile widens, and they shake.

The girl from District 1 smiles radiantly at me and sticks her beautifully manicured hand out to me. "Pearl Johnston. Nice to meet you."

I shake her hand with mine, which is almost the exact carbon copy of hers, minus the nail polish. Funny, I never thought that my hands would be anything like someone from District 1's. They never have to do anything close to labor.

"Knight Meadowson, District 1." I see a large, tanned hand come inside my vision. I look up and see a brown haired boy with dazzlingly white teeth, which are focused on smiling at me right now. "You're Joleyn Laychin, right? Girl with no soul?"

I grin widely at him. Now here's a boy who isn't afraid to speak his mind. I decide that I like Knight Meadowson a lot. "The one and only. Nice meeting you." We shake hands.

"Alis Prangler," comes a voice to my right. I twist around and see a thin, pixie-like girl with spiky black hair and piercing hazel eyes. "District 2." Her small, heart shaped face breaks out into a smile. "It'll be good to have you as an ally."

"Likewise," I say, smiling wryly. "How old're you?" She's short enough to be an eleven year old, but her clever eyes and defined cheekbones tell me that she's older than that.

"Fifteen," she says, beaming brightly. "I know that I don't look it—my whole family's full of midgets—but I really am. And you're what, sixteen?"

"Fourteen," I correct her, feeling somewhat flattered that she thought I could pass as a sixteen year old. "You're looking for Devin if you want a sixteen year old."

Her hazel gaze turns to Devin, and I feel a brief flash of indignation, although it passes quickly. She has no right to have her designs on him, especially if she'd kill him the moment we were in the arena (at least, I know she would if he weren't a Career). "Do you fancy him?" she asks, catching me off-guard.

I look at her in surprise. "No, not really. He's my friend, that's all. Why, are you interested?" I say indifferently. I can feel his gray eyes burning a hole in my back.

"Mm, no, I like my boys the same age as me. And I don't like it when they're at least a foot taller than me, so he's basically crossed out of my 'will date' list and put in my 'friends only' list." She smiles widely and drags me over to the other Careers, who are watching us talk with amusement. "Cedric," she says in a singsong voice, "stop socializing and start doing some actual work."

His full lips break into a smile. "You're one to talk, Alis. Okay, Careers, time to get to work. Little Allie here thinks we should, and who are we to object to her, eh?" Cedric says, laughing.

I feel a twinge of annoyance; he seems to have taken the leader spot, and I hate being told what to do. But Cedric is a fairly likable person, and I know that he'll be capable of leading us. It's just that I know I'll be more capable.

I'll have it fixed later. Nobody ever denies me what I want.

And I have my spot as the co-leader at the end of the day, sharing the responsibility with Cedric. I like the arrangement just fine, we can switch off if one of us gets tired, and if one of us gets picked off earlier in the games, we'll have the other one.

It turns out that I'm efficient in everything except naming edible foods. Admittedly, I've never been anything close to a master chef, and can't do anything close to cooking (I've burned water before, trust me). My mother doesn't think it's very feminine of me, but I don't really care. I'll just do all the bossing around if I ever get a husband.

Which I won't, because this is the Hunger Games—the fight to the death.

I'm sure I'll have loads of fun in the arena.