A/N: Hey, there, sneaky people. I'd be happy to hear anything you have to say about my story... It may have an impact in my writing, so it's worth your... couple of seconds to review. :)

I hear the click of the Peacekeeper opening the door, and I pull away. Iah only smiles at me sadly before he's escorted out the door.

Mim and the Careers, including Twig, have arrived, and I'm whisked away to a large car to go to the train station. The small station I know to be pretty far away, despite its tracks across the town, but coming in a car, we arrive quickly.

I step out of the car—Twig, for some odd reason, decided to hold the door open for me when he'd gotten out—and I'm instantly blinded by a camera flash.

No one in my family has ever had a camera—it's not exactly an everyday occurrence for someone in The Tip to take pictures—so I don't have the best understanding of how they work, but apparently, the sun behind clouds and the shade of the car are too dark for them to see. I think I've confirmed this when the sixth camera flashes at me.

Mim, Mill, Lily, and Ime have already somehow gotten through the crowd and are having their pictures taken at the boarding shack, while Twig and I are left to wade through the busybodies. I'm sure Twig could get them out of the way easily, but he's too busy flexing and showing off. I should probably do something, too, to appeal to the sponsors, but I'm still just blankly floating through all of this, and I have no ideas of what I could do to get their attention.

It takes a few minutes, but we do manage to catch up to the adults, and we're finally shoved onto the train, away from the cameras, and into a room that smells like sugar-coated pond lilies. The train door slides shut, there's a loud click, and then the train surges into motion, making me pitch backwards. Luckily, I manage to catch myself before I fall.

Mim excitedly—since she doesn't seem to have any other mood—ushers Twig and me up and down the train. The room we came in is the center car; the dining room, as well as other rooms tributes don't need access to, like the kitchen, are toward the front of the train, while a very long room with comfortable-looking couches that I don't get to try out yet and the bedrooms are further down.

Mim now announces it's time for a light lunch, and we're pulled back to the dining car, where the table has since been outfitted with oodles of silverware, oddly-folded pieces of cloth that must be napkins, a series of small plates, and the winners of the district. She seats herself at the head of the table, and a waiter is quick to swoop in and set her napkin in its place. Mim nods at me expectantly, and I seat myself to one side of the table. She approves, and the same dark-haired waiter unfolds my napkin and sets it in my lap. Twig has also sat down; he's set his elbows on the table, which is starting to take a significant tilt toward him.

Now that everyone is situated, six waiters in matching white suits bring out matching white bowls to everyone's place. I look analytically at the cloudy, white, first course for a moment, giving everyone else time to start before I do so myself.

If I've learned one thing about the Capitol today, it's that they know how to make food. All three of our "light" lunch courses are amazing. Of course, I'd be wowed by just the variety of ingredients, since I've only ever had the same few things every day at home. But the utter deliciousness of everything makes another point entirely. The creamy potato—I think; we don't eat potatoes that often—soup the size of my normal dinner with clams, the crunchy bread and gooey cheese and crisp lettuce and tender beef—none of which I've never actually had before—on the sandwich with its other condiments, some of which I can't even pronounce, the odd, frozen, gel-like dessert that tastes like nothing I've ever had before. It's all very unusual for my normally-limited palate.

But soon enough, lunch is over, and the table falls to conversation now that our mouths aren't full. Mim is reminiscing with the winners about their final victories. Mill's utter decimation with a lead pipe of a smaller boy from District 3. Lily's killing of the last two competitors from District 5 simultaneously with her knife throwing. Ime's furtive poisoning of the girl from District 7 two years ago.

Suddenly, Mim claps and announces it's about time for the first recapping of the reaping ceremonies. Our rooms, she says, have television sets, so we'll all be dismissed until supper at six-o-clock sharp.

I start to make my way through the train-length, narrow hallway to my room, noting the large door to the side that opens into a restroom. There's an overly-large screen on the wall that I assume must be my television, and I manage to get it turned on.

I watch the reaping ceremonies of the first three districts, noting with a grimace one particularly small girl from the District 3. It's horrible enough to make teenagers fight to the death, but it's outright wrong to throw in twelve-year-olds. Every year it happens, every year I root for them, but they're invariably overpowered by someone blessed with a few extra years. It's not even anything they could change.

Now District 4's ceremony is on, and I hear my name called. The camera pans to the crowd, and I step out almost immediately. It's odd; I figured I was probably making them wait a good minute or two before I started for the platform. And I don't look as terrified as I thought, either. Just numb.

But a few seconds after Iah's name is called, I look plenty horrified. Iah himself doesn't look it much, though; in fact, now that I think about it, I can't remember ever seeing him scared. Then Twig calls in his substitution, and once he's up on the stage flaunting, me still standing stiff and lifeless, the camera jumps to the next district.

My eyes are still on the television, but I'm not paying attention anymore.

I'm lucky nothing had sunk in when I was still onstage; I don't think I could say I came on as strong, but fifteen-year-old crybabies certainly don't get the most sponsors.

The clock embedded under the television says it's 3:30. I'm not sure what to do now. I suppose the most logical thing to do would be to continue watching the ceremonies, but I don't think they're really the best indication of the tributes' personalities. I've seen plenty of kids play timid in the reaping ceremonies that turn out to be psycho killers.

I look around the room. It's nice, but houses little more than the bed I'm lying on and a large, mirrored cabinet. Curious, I walk over and open one of the white but wooden drawers. The thing is stuffed to the brim with clothing. I allow myself a smile. Finally, I can get out of this accursed dress! I fumble through the garments, made of silk or chiffon or even velvet, in colors I've never gotten to wear before, in styles I've never even seen before!

I try on nearly everything I find before settling on a silky, maroon top with tight, darker maroon sleeves and a sagging collar of excess fabric, coupled with a pair of shiny, gray pants that flare out at the calf. And amazingly, they fit me, better than my own clothes do. Still bubbly, I kick off my ugly, old shoes and look through the drawers I've yet to open. There are two entire drawers filled with nothing but shoes, so I start to go through them. In the end, I settle on a pair of black sandals with small heels that are kind of amusing just to walk around in.

There are two more drawers, so I go ahead and open them up. They're filled with glimmering jewelry, the kind I've only seen on the getups of District 1 tributes. I go ahead and shuffle through them, but I don't find anything that goes with the outfit I've made.

I close everything back up and look in the mirror, twirling around, despite the lack of a trailing skirt. Then I realize a silvery chain is disappearing under the maroon collar. I pull out the necklace gingerly and gaze at the koi.

It's been passed down through the family, the only thing, actually; most of the other artifacts have been destroyed by hurricanes one generation or another. Mom says she was wearing it the day she met Dad, so it's particularly special for her. I was always in love with it, though; I've been caught trying it on myself more than once.

But now what is it? It's certainly just as beautiful as the day I set eyes on it. But it's not just a necklace. It's home. The home I'll never see again. The home that's been torn from my fingers by the insatiable need for blood in the Capitol. The family, worn down and defeated by the cruel government.

And to think I was actually starting to enjoy myself here.

I frown, turning away from the mirror without bothering to put up the mess I've made of the jewelry. I don't mind giving people that work for the Capitol something else on their to-do list.

The clock now reads 5:00. I still have a whole hour before suppertime, but the recaps on the still-blaring television have cycled back to District 1, and I have no reason to sit through that again. I've already tried on all the clothes I could ever want to try on, and there's nothing else in my room but the bed.

Well, nothing else to do. I lay right on top of the covers, shoes still on, and try to doze off.

I nap off and on for another fifty minutes, snippets of nightmares from previous Games jumping out at me every time I nod off. I don't feel like sleeping any more now, and it's probably time to get going, anyway. I shuffle off the now-disheveled bedspread and head for the dining car.

By the time I get there, Mim is already buzzing around, asking someone with a tall, white hat about something. The last of the napkins is silently set upon the table as I approach.

"Ah! You're here!" Mim trills happily, flitting over to where I stand. "Dressed properly and everything!"

I agree, but there's no telling how perpetually-mismatched Mim considers a plain outfit like this as "proper".

"You can go ahead and take your seat," she informs me, gesturing to where I had sat a few hours ago, "but we'll have to wait for the others before—Oh!" She flies over to the doorway, where Ime has since appeared.

While Mim starts babbling at him, I shuffle over and seat myself. It's quite hard to sit properly in these pants. Which is probably why, besides it's sure-to-be-astronomical price tag, I don't have anything similar. My family isn't known to opt for anything with disputable practicality.

A few more minutes pass, and the traingoers gradually come together as 6:00 approaches, Twig showing up last of all.

The dishes start coming from there; a green soup with some sort of vegetable I've never heard of, a dish of colorful, saucy meats skewered by small sticks of wood, a salad—which I've never even heard of before now—with breaded bits of chicken meat, a plate of venison soaked in a lemon sauce atop a bed of rice, and lastly, some sort of chocolate cake, with powdered sugar on top and vanilla ice cream and melted chocolate inside.

Despite still being semi-full from lunch, I shove down at least a bite from each course and manage to finish the last of the dessert course. After all, I've never been one to turn down a good piece of chocolate, even when it means giving up my lunch.

But no one in the Capitol would ever have to give up lunch for this. They wouldn't even have to ride a train to their murder in the first place.

Speaking of which, I think the train is docked now. It doesn't feel like it's moving anymore; after all, District 4 isn't all that far from the Capitol in the first place. It would be a feasible trekking distance if the mountains weren't in the way. I imagine we'll be ushered out the second we finish breakfast tomorrow.

But right now, I can't imagine eating anything else. I'm stuffed to the brim, and Mim's still disappointed at how I peck at my food so subtly.

Now Mim tells Twig and me to go get a good night's sleep; after all, tomorrow's the day Twig and I will be outfitted by the Capitol's most amazing stylists!

I enter my room, and although it's only about 7:00, I'm already sleepy from all of the food I've gorged on.

I only halfheartedly shuffle through the shelves again before plucking the first nightgown I see from its place and putting it on. It's a sleeveless, light yellow, silky gown, and the skirt is long enough to bunch up at my toes.

I have to throw off about seventy pillows off the now-made before I can pull the covers back and climb in. I curl up drowsily and pull the covers back over me.

I wonder what Mom and Dad are doing now. Mom's surely still making our jerky. Poor woman would have to work all by herself now, I think bitterly.

And Dad… I have no idea what he could be doing. Lying around in bed, too sick to move? Or is he well enough to struggle to go to work, even though Mom insists he shouldn't be moving around?

But it doesn't really matter what they do. I'll still march off to my death and leave them behind.

I fall asleep on a tearstained pillow.