Kay, on to chapter 15! Hurray! Hopefully I'm starting to make up for lost time? And this one's a bit lengthier than the previous two (though those will be combined at some point).

Also: Thanks SO much to all of my reviewers! I really would not be continuing without you.

Alright, enjoy!

I wake up earlier than I should and stare at the ceiling as light filters sluggishly into the room. I glance to the clock on the wall, and it takes longer than it should to make out the numbers. My vision is oddly hazy. The big hand is on the 3, short hand on the 7.

7:15.

I have almost two hours before I'm meeting Finnick for my last go at personal training. Probably only one hour before Blye wobbles in to drag me to breakfast. I wonder if Oscar is awake yet. Probably not…any sane person would squeeze in as much sleep as possible this morning. After all, we might not get much for the next week or so…if we're lucky. Better no sleep than eternal sleep.

I haven't lain awake long before an itch seems to settle over my body; a prickling restlessness that climbs up my legs and over my arms. Soon my fingers and toes are twitching, and after a few moments I give up. My system is wired, my brain buzzing to keep up with my adrenaline. By the time my heart starts thumping, I give up and throw my covers off. I feel instantly better with motion, blood humming in my ears like I've been given a shot of pure caffeine.

Well, I guess the morning of the games effects everyone differently.

The floor is cold against my bare feet—as though my system needs another jolt. Nevertheless, I stand quickly, pad to the far side of the room and grab the robe that hangs there on a hook. This morning, more than any other, is one for a shower. And not just because I might never get another one. I need the therapy of hot water.

For some reason, I choose this morning to experiment with the buttons in the shower. Every day up to now, I have played it safe: clicked the button for hot water, used the soap and shampoo available on the shelf. Today I find myself having fun, making the water ice cold, then scalding before finding a good temperature; playing with the scent buttons until I've been lathered with citrus orange, vanilla and thyme, hair drenched with something rather like lime. By the time I come out it's 8:00, my skin is tingling and I smell like something I might find on the breakfast table.

I dry quickly, return to the room and begin rustling through the drawers against the wall. There's an outfit waiting on my bed—who knows when Flux put it there—but I ignore it. The outfit is clearly meant for the games, and I'm not ready to wear my death suit just yet. Instead, I pull out a simple white tank top, followed by a pair of thick, black leggings, and yank a light blue jacket out of the closet.

By the time Blye opens the door twenty minutes later, I'm pulling a black boot onto my left foot, deftly tying the laces. My hair is braided across my forehead as usual, but today the braid continues back over the side of my head to meet the rest of my hair in a high ponytail. No doubt Flux will come up with something more functional later, but this will do for now.

"Well, aren't you ready early," Blye twitters cheerfully. I offer a wide, shockingly genuine smile and a nod.

"I just couldn't stay asleep very long, this morning," I confide. Blye offers a sympathetic smile, fidgets awkwardly, like she always does when we mention the true nature of what she likes to see as our "vacation to the capitol".

"Well, that's to be expected, dear," she says, pats me on the shoulder before following me out the door. I accept her comfort, but find that I'm not actually upset. Rather, it feels more like I'm excited…which can't be right. When I think about the arena—about facing the other tributes, wielding a weapon, surviving—my mind becomes blank with terror. Perhaps this jittery feeling is simply a defense mechanism, but suddenly I feel not only ready, but oddly invincible. Perhaps it's because, as I fought my nightmares last night, I came to a profound realization, an acceptance. There's nothing I can do but trudge forward.

"Good morning, Tobi," Finnick greets mildly. The smile on his face is forced, jaded.

"Good morning Finnick," I reply, tone subdued, but still chipper. "Oscar." Oscar nods to me before his gaze snaps back to his plate, where it appears he has arranged the untouched food in odd patterns. I look between the two of them as I lower slowly into a chair across from Finnick, smile fading from my face. Oscar's face is pale, eyes wide and red-rimmed. He looks as though he might pass out, or else start crying. Finnick has set his jaw, brows furrowed, eating scrambled eggs with a ritualistic determination. In the wake of these somber faces, my near giddiness fades to a dull nausea. How could I be so optimistic, when the morning marks the slow, painful execution of 23 children?

I feel ill, so that the eggs and fruit Blye piles on my plate nearly triggers my gag reflex. Horrible…disgusting. Not for the first time since my arrival in the capitol, I wonder whether something is wrong with me—whether perhaps I lack some crucial piece of humanity. And here I was calling Cato the killer. Cato…suddenly the nausea stills, and I pop a piece of melon into my mouth. Cato feels the same way. The thought isn't necessarily comforting—being comparable to the vicious career is a far cry from declaring humanity—but it's better than being the only one.

"So. Today I get a half hour with each of you before the games start," Finnick announces, at last pushing his plate away with a grimace. He looks to Oscar. "I'll meet with you first—our slot is at nine. Tobi, you come down at 9:30. We're in Training Room 2—the one on the left." He looks carefully between the two of us. "Listen, both of you avoid the other tributes." His gaze lingers on mine just a fraction of a second too long. "In order to get everyone in before the games start at 3, both training rooms are being used, so two districts will be training at once at all times. District 3 will be training in the room next to us…and District 2 will have our room right before us, so they'll all be around. Don't talk to them, don't exchange glares, nothing. Got it?" Oscar nods minutely, but I meet Finnick's gaze squarely.

"Got it."

"Alright—break!" Finnick stands with a more energetic smile than I was expecting. I follow his lead and stand quickly, leaving the rest of my fruit to bleed into my untouched eggs. It's almost nine—I haven't got long to wait. As it is, Oscar and Finnick immediately head to the elevator; they'll want to arrive at the room before the other district leaves, so as not to waste a moment. I lazily pad back to my room, saunter over to my wardrobe. My little figurine catches my eyes, perched innocently atop the wooden fixture. I've largely forgotten about it, so wrapped up in the looming games. I scoop it up, allow my fingers to probe it's delicate surface as I sit on the edge of my cot. Suddenly it's like a dam is breaking; I don't cry, but a great weight is released from somewhere in my chest. For the first time in days, the faces of Grandma, Brook, Mag and Hiram float through my mind in a happy glow, and they aren't crying. Their smiling. Well, and I suppose that's it, I realize. There's your motivation, Tobi. You're not a killer…you just want to go home.

I remember suddenly that we're allowed to bring a token into the games, as long as it's approved. I see no reason why I couldn't bring the little fish with me—it's not sharp, and it's far too delicate to be used as a weapon, anyway. The question is how to carry it…I twist it through y fingers. It could break in a pocket…but there's no real way to attach it anywhere. A necklace, maybe? No…that could prove inconvenient.

At last, I settle on carving a little hole in the base of one of the wings, where the bone is strong and less brittle, using a cheese fork left on the kitchen table. It takes a while, and by the time I've created a suitable hole it's about time for me to head down to the training room. I stand reluctantly, having become absorbed in y little project, and leave the fish on my bed. When I come back, I will decide what to put through the hole, and where to attach it.

I do some simple stretches on the elevator ride to the basement, loosen my shoulders and limber up my knees and back until my muscles are warm. I don't know what I'm expecting—I have no idea what Finnick has in mind for this last training session. We've been spending our one-on-ones experimenting with new tools and working on my stamina and speed. Perhaps today will be the same…though I doubt it.

I'm completely engrossed in thought when the elevator lets out an ominous ding and glides to a stop. My eyes have fixated on one spot, so I step forward without lifting my gaze from the floor, trusting that when I reach them the doors will have opened. I'm moving in a sort of meditative trance…so I don't see the figure of a person until I've run into it.

My first reaction is one of panic; Finnick's words from earlier run through my head, and I know this must be someone from District one or two. Please, not Cato! I start to lift my gaze slowly, but haven't made it past the black-clad knees before a hand yanks me out of the elevator and slams me against the wall. I gasp, claw at the hand that's clenched in the front of my shirt and kick aimlessly. My feet no longer touch the floor, and the collar of my shirt presses painfully against my windpipe. Hazily my eyes meet the onyx gaze of my attacker, and I can't help but sneer. Clove, huh?

"What do you want, Two?" I manage to gasp out, though it sounds less than intimidating. Clove's face is mean—dark, hard eyes, arched eyebrows, a smattering of freckles across a sharp nose and thin lips. She leans forward, her sneer much more convincing than mine.

"Nothing I can't manage in the arena," she whispers into my face, grin stretching for a moment before disappearing altogether. She pulls me away from the wall, drops me on the floor. "I heard Cato paid you a visit last night, Four." I scramble to my feet, glare up at her. I consider warning her of the consequences of pre-game violence, but think better of it. She knows the rules…and clearly she doesn't care.

"He did," I respond as evenly as I can. "What about it?" She laughs—a sharp, mean bark, rather like one of the small, fluffy dogs capitol people own.

"Just watch your step, Four," she growls, grin returning. "I don't know what Cato said to you—whatever ideas you've gotten—don't think we won't hunt you down right off the bat." I force myself to shrug, even though a shiver runs up my spine.

"Hunt all you like, you still have to find me." I lean forward with a smile of my own. "Then you have to catch me." Unfortunately, Clove all out laughs this time, shoves me into the wall and starts to walk away.

"Alright, Four, if that's how you want to play. But just remember that when we catch you," she stops, turns to sneer over her shoulder, "Cato will be the first one to rip you in half. And of course, I'll be the second." With that she turns back around, saunters down the hall with her hand raised in mocking farewell. "Happy Hunger Games, Four!"

I stand there somewhere between terror and fury for probably five minutes, rooted to the stark white tiles. That was a definite threat…and Clove made it clear she spoke on behalf of all the careers. But why am I a target? They can't think I'm threatening…first on their list should be Thresh, or the pair from twelve…not me. Well, but perhaps that wasn't on behalf of the careers—perhaps it was just Clove. She's Cato's district partner…was she jealous?

"Tobi!" I spin around, hands raised in automatic defense. Finnick has come out of the training room with Oscar, and they share a look of confusion. "What are you doing?" I open my mouth to answer, gesture wordlessly down the hall. I probably look like a carp as I try to find the right words—or really just unravel my tongue. After a moment I give up, shrug gruffly and stride over to them.

"Nothing—let's train." I stomp into the training room, heart hammering. More than anything—more than the training, the interviews or the nightmares—my encounter with Clove has made the games seem real, larger than life and impossibly close. My death stared me in the face, today, and it's eyes were hard onyx shards. No doubt, it will find me again in the arena. Later today, my brain reminds me. I take a deep, shaky breath. How far I've fallen from my near excitement this morning.

"Alright," Finnick concedes carefully, turns to dismiss Oscar and closes the door on his way back in. "Take a seat." He gestures to the benches against the wall, takes a seat himself. I walk over to take the bench next to his, hook my feet underneath and clench my hands in my lap. He takes in my posture with no more than a raised eyebrow. "Well, today is really up to you," he says at last. My eyes flick up.

"What?"

"You decide what we do in these last 30 minutes." He leans back, holds out his hands in offering. "We can talk strategy, or we can work on more tools, whatever you feel you need at this point. The one thing I would suggest is nothing straining—save your strength for later." You'll need it. The words hover in the air, and I sink even further into my combined fear and desperate determination.

"I suppose strategy would be a good idea," I mutter. "I think I've got a good repertoire of things to build." I offer a smile. He nods, returns the smile.

"Okay, then…did you have a plan in mind?" I shrug, shake my head.

"Not really…I know I can't hang around long, though. I don't want to get caught up in the mess at the cornucopia." I avoid calling it the Bloodbath. "I was thinking I would grab what I could—I'm faster than most of the careers, and everyone else will be trying to get out fast. I'd probably just run straight for the cornucopia, grab something on the fly and continue past it, depending on where I come up…" I trail off. My plan is incomplete at best, but even as I speak I see Finnick start to frown.

"Okay, I see what you're thinking," he murmurs. "But I have some advice for you. I think the run-by is a good idea: you don't want to get caught in the bloodbath, but it's just as bad to end up in the arena without any supplies." I nod, trying not to flinch at his pointed labeling of the bloodbath. His countenance is hard—he knows I don't like the term, and he also knows that I need to hear it and get accustomed to the event it represents.

"Okay," I nod, waiting for the "but" of his statement.

"I think everything will depend on where you come up. If there are trees, make for those, even if it means doubling back. They're safer. If there is water, don't stay by it for too long—the careers will probably take control of any obvious water source, and if you're there when they get there…" I gulp, and surprisingly so does Finnick. I notice suddenly that what I took for hardness in his face is actually tension. His eyes are crisp, somewhere between fierce and teary, and I realize how much he hates sending us into the arena.

"So…make for trees and stay away from water," I nod. He shakes his head.

"Not all water, of course…I guess, as a rule, stay away from centralized locations and open spaces. My advice is to grab what you can, and make for whatever cover there is. Then just continue away from the center. Get as far as you can. When you stop for the night, make sure you're out of the way—up high, or well hidden. And unless it's so cold you'll die, don't light a fire at night. It's a dead location giveaway." I nod slowly, mentally filing away the information. It may be crucial later. Particularly with the careers targeting me…I frown, the scene with Clove replaying in my head.

"Finnick," I begin before launching into a short account of the event. Finnick listens, expression growing ever more serious. "What do I do if they come after me?" I search his gaze, watch his eyes darken as he sinks into thought. Finally he releases a breath through his nose, twists his mouth to the side.

"Well, obviously you've got two options: fight or flight." I nod, impatient. "If you can, I would run. Avoid conflict with the careers until the last minute; let them take out the other tributes. Focus on running and hiding, so that by the time they get to you, some of them have been killed off."

Before I know it our time is up, and Finnick stands, waits for me to follow suit. I am numb; talking strategy has been the final straw in my recognition that the games are going to start in five hours, and if I don't play my cards right I'll be dead by the sixth.

"Finnick," my whisper is so quiet that for a moment, I don't think he heard me. But he stops and turns around, eyebrows raised. I find that the corners of my eyes prickle with tears that I refuse to release. I take a shaky breath, meet Finnick's gaze. "Is there a way to get rid of fear?" Something settles over his face, as though it's melting. For a second he stares at me with that crystalline expression. Finally he shakes his head, clicks his tongue and strides forward. I'm enveloped in a firm hug, head against the hollow of his shoulder. I feel him rest his chin on my head, arms squeezing against my ribcage. I close my eyes, and for a moment I wish, more than anything, that he would hug me too hard, implode my ribs and crush my heart.

"There's a trick I learned from Mags when I was a tribute," he says, releasing the hug to hold me at arm's length and meet my gaze." I quirk an eyebrow.

"Did it help?" He nods with a chuckle.

"Have you ever known Mags to give unhelpful advice?" I shrug, shake my head. Mags is a uniquely wise woman. "Mags told me, 'remember that we are from water. Water gives us strength.'" He squeezes my shoulders, but I'm not reassured.

"What about when there isn't any water?" He offers a knowing smirk, leans close to whisper.

"There's always water, little fish. It's in everything—every plant, every animal, the ground, even stone. You just have to find it." I crack a smile and nod. Finnick flicks my ponytail and follows me out of the room.

I spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon preparing for the games. I stay in my room, stretch, do a few simple exercises. And I lay on my back, in the middle of the room with my arms outstretched and my eyes closed, imagining that I'm on the deck of the Bobber.

The only bothersome thing is that my little figurine is gone. When I reentered the room after training, it had disappeared. For perhaps half an hour, I searched frantically, desperate to retain this tangible piece of home. But eventually I gave up; it was gone, and I needed the remaining time to clear my mind and prepare myself, emotionally.

At 2:30, Blye comes to get me. I've dutifully donned the simple black shirt, canvas pants and heavy boots. The fabric is heavy, but the shirt is short sleeved. I guess there's going to be a pretty wide range of temperatures. The boots are heavy-duty—made for a range of terrains—but not for ice or mountains, so I guess I can rule those out.

"I'll take you as far as the hovercraft," Finnick says when I meet him in the hall. "You'll board along with the other tributes, then you'll be taken to the launching facility. Flux is waiting for you there." I nod, and the terror must be evident on my face, because Finnick offers a sympathetic glance and squeezes my arm as he leads me to the elevator. The trip is short: we take the elevator all the way up the tower, past the penthouse, and stop at the roof. It lets us out onto a large Launchpad. I don't know if the other tributes have already boarded or not, but we're the only ones out there aside from a monstrous craft, like some huge fly squatting on a fish carcass. I take a step toward it, but Finnick catches my arm. I turn around, ponytail whipping in the wind. He takes my hand, squeezes it.

"One more piece of advice, little fish," he says. "Don't step off your mark early; they'll blow you sky high." I nod somberly. I know what he's doing; everyone knows that if you step off early an explosion will go off underfoot. Finnick is reminding me that if I make a wrong move, the capitol has ways of ending things, themselves. The careers are far from my only problem.

I clamber up the stairs into the craft and find that most of the tributes have gathered in parallel rows of seats, facing one another. I pause for a moment—there doesn't seem to be an order in which to sit. The careers have already taken many of the seats along one side of the craft, and tributes from 11 and 5 have taken the rest. The other side is spottily filled with everyone except 12, 8, 10 and 4. My options are sadly limited…eventually I select a seat next to the girl from 11, with no one on my right. Hopefully Oscar will sit there when he arrives…anything is better than sitting across from the careers, where I'd no doubt endure Clove's glare the entire flight.

I've been sitting perhaps two minutes when Oscar climbs the steps and I wave him over. It's been perhaps three more when the tributes from 10 and 8 arrive in a clump. Then another five before the boy from 12 arrives. We wait.

"Of course it'd be Twelve," someone scoffs. It might have been Clove. Everyone's getting restless…I myself am tapping my feet against the metal grates in the floor, hands clenched in my lap, a thin sheen of sweat over my brow. The passenger hold is uncomfortably warm, made all the worse by 23 nervous bodies.

Finally, ten minutes later, Katniss Everdeen decides to make an appearance and we take off. Within moments people with needles invade the space, coming up to us one at a time.

"W-what is that?" I ask as a woman approaches me wielding the small sword she intends to stick into my arm. She doesn't answer before jamming the thing up the basilic vein in my right arm. I hiss air through my teeth, watch a little glow move with my bloodstream.

"That's your tracker." She says callously as she walks away. Tracker. I look up, find my gaze caught by Katniss Everdeen. In that instant, I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing: now the only way out is to die…or win.

Oh my gosh, we're so close to the games I can almost taste it! Like a metallic tang in the back of my throat, like when you get a nosebleed. At least, that's what I imagine Tobi is experiencing about now. Next up: Flux's final farewell, and let the games begin!