A/N: A short chappy, but hopefully still decent. It's still a chapter or two before we get to the wonderful children-killing-each-other part, but have patience! And while you are waiting, how about a review? :3

"Good mooorning!" calls an overexcited voice I know must be Mim's. I open my eyes unhappily, and when my vision starts to clear, I can make out my door opened just a peep. "Get cleaned up and dressed up! We'll be off straight after breakfast!" she trills, shutting the door a little too hard.

I slide out of bed, wobbling on my feet all the way to the bathroom. This is the first time I've been in it, now, actually. There's a large line of sinks, I would think too many for one person, a toilet, and an enormous shower.

I've never had a shower before. I'm sure it would be quite nice if I could figure out what button turned the temperature down instead of squirting a new scent of foam all over me.

After about thirty minutes of scrubbing the piles of colored bubbles off me, I'm out of the shower and into a nice, light green top with no sleeves and a pair of light brown slacks with odd little bells on the belt. I slip the black sandals back on and slink out the door.

I pass through the middle car to the dining room. The table is completely empty, but a spread of breads and fruits and numerous other foods are laid out on a new, thinner table. I notice the stack of plates and utensils at one end and walk up to one of the servants, expecting him to tell me either what to do or that no one has shown up yet, but he doesn't say anything.

"Am I early or late?" I ask him politely. He only frowns at me, looking kind of bewildered.

"Late?" I ask, assuming the negativity meant he wasn't quite expecting me. He shakes his head.

"So I'm early, then?" I think he's about to shake his head again, but he nods. I frown at him, wondering if he has some sort of speech problem. But I decide to just go ahead and start serving myself—I would have been up hours ago at home, and my stomach knows it—and if he doesn't approve, he can stop me.

But he doesn't move at all as I pick up a plate and fill it with all kinds of fresh fruit—something I've only ever gotten on a few of my birthdays—as well as some toasted, but soft-looking, pieces of bread covered in powdered sugar and some sort of wonderful-smelling tree sap. I pick up a pre-poured glass of something that smells like it may contain chocolate and sit in my usual spot.

"Ah! Circe!" Mim shrieks happily as she enters the room. "You're all ready and raring to go already!"

I nod, though I don't understand what the big deal is. I would've woken up at about six at home, even on a Sunday like this.

"I think I'll get my breakfast now, too," she hums, strutting over to the serving table. "Aren't you just so excited to meet your stylists today?"

"Um, yes," I lie. In fact, I'm not "just so excited" at all. I've heard the whole ordeal is a good deal of pain. And after that, I have to ride a tributes' chariot next to a boy that's aiming to kill me. And I have to not look utterly terrified or the Capitol will be sure not to sponsor me. Not very exciting, if you ask me.

"Wonderful," Mim trills, setting her overfilled plate on the table with a loud clank. "They do such magnificent work, especially those two from last year! Oh, what were their names again?" she asks herself, sounding frustrated she can't remember who dressed up last year's future corpses. "I'm sure they both start with a T," she mutters under her breath, spinning some sort of yellowish noodle I don't recognize around a fork.

I've only eaten two wonderfully juicy strawberries before Twig and Lily walk into the room. Lily immediately goes off to make her plate, and Twig follows once he looks like he's sure what's going on.

They eventually seat themselves, Lily's plate half-empty and Twig's piled up about a foot—though I guess he's used to eating a lot, being a Career tribute and all.

I always thought it was strange that nearly all of the profits our district earned from a Hunger Games victory went toward training and feeding the next competitors. Then they'd bring in another flood of profits that would go toward yet another wave of Careers. It doesn't make any sense to me, and for all I know, anyone else. But I guess that's just the way we do things.

I can hear Ime and Mill laughing as they finally enter the room. They're loudly chatting it up about something—I don't bother to pay any attention since it's sure not to concern me—but start to settle down once they've both taken their places at the table.

"Now," Mim starts, stabbing a piece of sap-covered bread with her fork, "once we're all cleaned up from this, we'll head straight out to the preparation room. Mill, Lily, Ime, and I will lead you there, so you won't have to worry about where to go." She pauses to take another few bites of breakfast. "You let them do whatever they want, now; they know what they're doing, and you're sure to turn out beautifully." She looks at Twig and me expectantly. I nod a few quick times, and Twig grunts an okay.

We sit in silence—except for Twig's loud, messy eating—for a few moments. I look at the three winners. They're supposed to help us, tell us how to survive, but they haven't done a thing for us so far. Or, at least, for me.

I freeze in horror. They're not going to bother to help a worthless cause like myself, but they've probably already told Twig everything about surviving.

My fork clanks against my plate when I drop it. I think some of the people around the table are gazing at me now, but I don't care.

I'm not going to get any help at all, am I? If all the advice is going to Twig, then he's obviously the only one here the crew is going to support. But they control the pools of donations and what they go towards.

And whom they go to.

I think I'm shaking now, but I'm not paying much attention to the outside world at this point.

I'm going to die, and none of these people are going to even try to help me. It doesn't matter that I'm from District 4. They're saying Twig is going to win, and if he wins, everyone else in the arena must die.

Is this how they're going to kill me? Throw me to the hazards of the environment, or the tributes, and just ignore me, hoping their fellow districtmate gets killed quickly so they won't have that pesky little grain of guilt to deal with?

"Circe? Circe!" Mim calls my name several times, but I don't respond.

Suddenly, I've shoved my meal and chair away, and I'm sprinting to the bed in my room.

I remember once, when I was only a few years old, before most of the worst hurricanes, when District 4 was the most amazing place you could ever hope to live. Dad had pulled some strings and managed to take me to his workplace for a day. I was, of course, overjoyed at the thought of exploring new places and being with Dad for a while longer than I usually was.

He took me on the old fishing boat in one of the lakes close to The Tip. I was a little bit scared, of course, but Dad was there, so I was never afraid for too long.

We ended up in a small storm. It hit so quickly we didn't have time to get out of the lake. It wasn't much, just some light rain and some heavier wind, but the boat was rocking severely, and I was scared to death. I was so sure I would fall right out of the boat, off into the lake, and never come back, but Dad was there, smiling, and nothing ever went wrong when he was smiling.

But he's not here to save me now. No one's going to save me. No one's even going to try to help. Sure, Mim seems like she cares, but everyone, even her, knows I'm not the hope of the district. Twig is. And all support, all advice, all supplies, all hope is headed for him.

As I wail into my oversized pillow, I can't help but wonder: Does anyone care about me anymore?