A pain that feels like perhaps every molecule in my body being split in half radiates from my leg.

"Ouch!" I yelp, sitting bolt upright, clutching my fiery red leg. My head pounds as the adrenaline pumps into my system. I look around the room and recognize my small prep team ripping a long strip of fabric from my legs, pulling out all the hair with it.

"Back down you go," Sven, a man with paper white skin and red eyes that look like liquid roses, reminds me sternly. "It will hurt much more when you get a spear thrown into your chest!" He rolls his piercing eyes, pushing my shoulder back to the cold table. I decide I don't like Sven that much.

I've fallen asleep in the Remake Center; we've been here for hours. Things are going very slowly here due to the fact there are so many more tributes this year than any other year. The stylists have just been absolutely on edge this entire day, muttering curses under their breath and nervously adjusting their ridiculously colored wigs. I've been scrubbed and washed, shampooed and conditioned endlessly, they've even moisturized and bronzed my skin. They call that the "First Stage" here I've learned. After that stage, my prep team got pulled out of the door by another group of equally outrageous looking people shrieking about how the little girl from District 12 needed extra remake attention. Whatever that means.

I fell asleep after they left, curling into the thin sheet they let me wear. My joints feel sore and rigid, but at least the few hours of unconsciousness have been somewhat at ease. I try not to think about Pax, the way he turned his eyes away from me, seeming to somewhat deny that most of my bruises were his fault. But I'm not one to stay sorry for myself for long. It's not like we could have made up or even been friends in this place anyway, he's so screwed up in his head he probably doesn't even remember what happened this morning.

"Very good, my dear!" A petite looking girl says, trying to comfort me I think. Her name is Paris; she has very tan skin and dark hair twisted into a bun. She could almost be pretty if her entire body wasn't etched with twisting, silver tattoos.

I grit my teeth while they finish. Breath in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. I try to focus on this rhythm, but with every swipe of my hair I get pulled out of my thoughts. I wonder what they're doing to Atticus right now, Abrielle too. Hopefully anything but this, though as I close my eyes and lay still as a board I think I can faintly hear a scream coming from the room to my left.

"Fantastic, District 5! You kept it together! Last one!" Sven pipes, smirking at me almost teasingly.

"Ariana." I say firmly. "I have a name."

"Well, Ariana, we're going to get your stylist. They will be here in a moment!" Paris clasps her hands together; admiring the work they've done today like I'm some kind of doll.

As they dart to the door, I can't seem rip my eyes away from their movements. Paris' movement really, the way her petite figure glides. She has a dancer's lope, any ballerina would weep at the sight. It's strange next to Sven clumsy stomps; his muscular figure leaves no room for grace. It reminds me of someone I know… and suddenly as if two wires connect in my brain, I'm shaking with anger. I grip the edge of the table, my fists clenched so tight my muscles are turning white.

Don't do this. Control yourself.

I beg myself to stop, but my lips are already forming her name. "Paris."

"Yes dear." She turns suddenly, pursing her lips.

"How old are you?" I ask, my voice low and bleak. I lean into her, still clutching the table, awaiting her answer.

Don't act on your anger. It makes you like Mother and Father.

"I… Well, I'm…" She stammers, inching towards Sven who is glancing at his watch, no doubt cursing me under his breathe for making them late.

"It's a simple question." I hiss back, my tendons nearly bursting through my skin from the intense grip.

"Thirteen."

I'm sure if I saw my appearance, I'd be horrified. The saying, if looks could kill, applies. My heart stamps against my chest, like an angry child stomping up the stairs, each stride smashing into the floor louder than the last. My stiff muscles never loosen. I can tell from Paris' sharp intake of breath that my eyes are wide, dangerous, and savage. I can't hear the voice in my head telling me to stop. It's telling me to fight.

"So, why aren't you getting ready for your opening ceremony?" I say slowly, my words slicing the air with each syllable.

Sven looks up from his watch, his face screwed up into a confused expression. Paris backs up to him, her hands latched onto the glass door as if she wants to hide behind it. She stares blankly at me, inaudible sounds escaping her lips, before Sven rests his hand on her shoulder.

"It's time for us to go." Sven guides her away from me.

"I want her to answer!" I snap.

"Ariana, I'm not… I, I'm not a tribute." Her voice is traced with pleading. Her eyes look paralyzed.

"Why?"

"I live in the Capitol."

It all happens so fast. I leap from the table; the thin sheet of cotton they allow me to wear ruffles slightly. I clamp my hands onto her shoulders and slam her into the wall. Screams reverberate in my ears, but I can't tell if it's Paris or me. Tangles of hair sweep in front of my eyes and block my vision, but I can't mistake her fear. I like it. I like the power.

"None of you people understand. It's not real for you. It's amusing entertainment, but it ends…" I snarl into her ear.

"SVEN! Sven, get the peacekeepers!" She yelps, straining her body away from me, refusing to look me in the eyes.

"Is this real enough for you?" I whisper in her ear venomously.

She kicks at my shins aimlessly, but I push her back against the wall. I hear loud footsteps coming from the hallway. They stamp closer and closer until I feel a sting sinking into my left arm. I release Paris and whip around just in time to see five peacekeepers dragging me away from her, and injecting me with a clear liquid I know is sedatives.

Sven sprints in, scooping Paris up and holding her weak body close. She sobs huge heaving sobs, a stream of trickling yellow makeup trickling down her face.

"You're a monster!" Sven spits at me as her strokes Paris' hair.

At of the corner of my eyes I see a flick of light brown hair. Atticus stands there, horrified, as his prep team snatches onto his arms, pulling him back unsuccessfully to his remake room. He simply shakes his head, looking at me with wide eyes.

Another needle sticks me, and the sedatives start to drag me under this time. Her sobs become white noise now, it fades into the background. Everything is blurry around me, my vision only focused on Atticus. Maybe it's the sedatives. All I know is that I have to get to him; tell him what really happened. I can't fight off five peacekeepers. I can't. I can't. They pull Atticus away, and I scream his name. No use. He's gone.

Another prick. I sway on the spot, fighting to stay awake. My muscles feel like they're treading through Jell-O as I reach for Atticus closed safely behind the glass door.

"Get off her! Get off! That's my tribute!" I hear distantly.

My eyelids feel so heavy; sleep entices me, but I have an overwhelming desire to see who's calling for me

"What did you do to her?" A harsh female voice hisses, closer now.

I want to see her. Fight, I think. Fight harder.

A woman stands besides me, arguing with the main peacekeeper restraining me from the scene. She has livid, ink-like hair like a starless night sweeping in front of her eyes. Untamed, messy curls fly helter-skelter. Her snowy skin stands out against her dark eyes. The peacekeeper is whispering back to her, no doubt in an effort to not upset Paris any further, but when she sees my eyes flutter back open she ignores him completely.

"Ariana," she let's out a long hiss of cold breath. "Come on, we're getting out of here." Her ivory hands reach for me, and I want to sink into her but the peacekeepers hold me back.

"Let her go." She commands. It's not a question.

"Go back to your studio and play with your makeup set." A peacekeeper to my right shoots at her.

She bits her lip, shaking her head as if she's actually ready to walk out the door without her tribute. Suddenly, she whips around, yanking the needle out of my arm and drives it into his neck.

He falls, much weaker than I to sedative, surprisingly. I got that stuff a lot in District 5. Too many times.

The clenching fingers around my arm release me and I fall to the floor. The rest of the peacekeepers huddle around the fallen one, pulling out the needle.

"Run, come on. Get out." My stylist whispers in my ear. I hurry to my feet, only to find that they give out as soon as I stand. She pulls me up, half-carrying me as we struggle out of the door.

"Get the girl! Someone stay with him, but get the girl!" Sven orders over Paris' shrills.

My stylist cries out, one of the four remaining peacekeepers with near perfect aim sticks her shoulder. With a trembling hand she rips it out, swaying slightly, and keeps a loose hold on me as we limp into the hallway.

"GET THEM! GET THEM!" A shrieking male voice orders.

My breathing rings in my ears and stings my chest. I intake huge gulps of air, like almost as if I'm drowning. I feel like I am, the medication begs me to go under.

She stifles a whimper as another needles stabs her forearm. Her eyes roll back slightly as her trembling hand reaches to take it out. Her fingers close around it and don't stop until she's pitched the needle back at the peacekeeper. Amazingly, it hits his wrist. She nods slightly as she turns back to me and places a frail hand on my spine to push me forward. A needle whizzes past my ear, I lean to avoid it but fall weakly to the floor, as I don't have much balance left in me. The needle bounces off the ground and skids to halt. I totter on my hands and knees until I pick the needle up shakily and fire it at the peacekeepers with unmistakable aim. I silently thank Sage for teaching me how to throw a knife when I was little.

"More are coming," the woman says within breaths. "We have to hurry."

Beside another, we crawl on our hands and knees, wobbling and falling, but still going. A needle sticks my spine. I know I'm giving out. My stylist curses under her breath, but keeps pushing me forward. With every movement I'm shaking now, and my limbs can't even be controlled.

"Go," I croak out. There's nothing we can do now. The stumbling peacekeepers are inching closer to us, and I'm gone, really. The sedatives wrap me in their arms now.

She shakes her head, pointing to a room only four doors away. It's hers.

Everything aches as I stretch out to get to that door. In the back of my conscious I know I can't do it.

I slump for the final time, pressing my cheek to the cool crystal floors. I close my eyes, pitch black blankets me almost comforting me. Ducking to avoid an air-born needle, she pushes to her feet and slips her hands beneath me. I can hear her heart beating in fast rhythm identical to mine. Ten short, sharp steps and we reach the door. A needle sticks her neck. A growl escapes her, but she is too weak to pull it out. She presses a pattern of complicated buttons on a keypad and the door slides open.

We stumble into the room, instantly plummeting into the floors, curling into the uninviting darkness.