It's kind of weird, because I keep forgetting that Italy is a boy. I keep thinking that I'm writing about him as a girl. I just hope I remember to keep him a male! And I hope you enjoy the newest chapter!

Immediately, we are swarmed by curious Tributes and reporters who keep asking us questions about our relationship. And probably my sanity. But before Sealand can pull away, I whisper frantically into his ear, "Listen, it's me, Italy. I'll explain everything later, but you must treat me like a girl. Trust me, okay?" I silently beg him to understand.

He mumbles back, "How can I be sure it's you?" his voice cracks a bit.

"Look into the sky, Sea. Doesn't that cloud look like a rabbit?" I know it sounds like a random sentence, but to us, it holds a heavy weight.

It was the day I was supposed to leave. Sealand had dragged me out to the meadow, and we had lain back on the grass, watching the clouds puff back. I was getting ready to tell him the news, when I spotted a cloud that resembled a bunny. "Look into the sky, Sea," I told him, using the nickname I'd given him, "doesn't it look like a rabbit?" He smiled at me with the last real smile I would see from him.

He seems to remember, because he clutches me tighter, and I think he's trembling. I feel small tears land on my shoulder that's bare from the dress. "I missed you, sister," he says loud enough for everyone else to hear. I smile, knowing he's on my side now.

I break apart from him, studying his face. The make-up artists have done a number on him. His face was always fair and pale, but with heavy cosmetics, they made it almost look like he's a piece of coal himself. His face is smeared with dark paste in decorative swirls that reflect the light of the glowing outfit. But his face is stretched in a huge grin, his white teeth a stark contrast with the dark face-paint. He seems to take me in, trying to hide his surprise at my appearance. I guess I must look drastically different from when he last saw me.

"On the roof," I mouth to him before standing up. I immediately shrink back from the number of reporters and curious faces pressing up against us.

"Who is that boy?"

"Is that your brother?"

"How is he a contestant in the Games with you, when there is already a different male Tribute?"

"Is he from a different District?"

"That's illegal to change Districts!"

Suddenly, everyone is yelling and screaming at us, demanding answers. I try to look brave by hiding Sealand behind my back, but I'm trembling under the flowing fabric of the dress. Many faces are pressing in on us; a woman with a big chest and long, golden hair; a boy with long, black hair and hazel eyes; a man with brownish-gray hair and brown eyes. I can't concentrate on many faces, and I'm shaking with fear. No noise will come from my throat, and the mob around Sealand and me seem to be angered even more by that.

I'm on the verge of tears when Germany shoves his way through the crowd with a woman by his side. She had bright green eyes, and a scar across her left eye. They are both glaring at everyone, shutting them up with just their looks. "Back off," Germany barks. He takes a look at Sealand, knowing who he is. I've talked about him a lot before, so it's no surprise that he knows what's going on. "Yes, they are siblings, but Italy didn't run from District 12," Germany lies. "Her father had her in District 11, then ran to District 12 and had her brother. He then died in a mine explosion." With that simple fib, the whole crowd is subdued. They buy his story and meander off, no longer interested in the scandal surrounding me and Sealand. Germany turns to me, a gently frustrated look on his face. He almost looks surprised when he sees me, but it's quickly wiped from his expression. "When will you stop getting into trouble, Little Italy?" he jokes, petting me gently on the head.

I smile. "When I die." I mean it as a joke, but I had momentarily forgotten where we are. He gets a pained expression on his face, turning away from me.

"Well, let's hope you're in trouble for a long time to come," he whispers, hurt in his eyes.

"I-I was only joking—" I stutter, putting my arm on Germany's shoulder. He smiles at me, but it doesn't go anywhere near his eyes.

"Hey there," the woman with the scar greets me. "You must be Italy. I'm Portugal from District 9. It's nice to meet you." She holds her hand out, no expression on her solemn face.

She's dressed in a revealing outfit. Since District 9 specializes in power, her hair look like her finger was stuck in a light socket; it sticks up at ridiculous angles, and there are yellow highlights racing around her brown hair. Her startlingly green eyes only add to the effect. Her clothes look like they're made of lightning bolts, the golden fabric zigzagging up and down her toned body. There are strips of cloth covering her breasts and her bottom half, but the rest is open skin. I'm blushing just looking at her, and I cover Sealand's eyes with my hand.

"It's nice to meet you, too," I reply, shaking her hand. "And thank you for helping. That was kind of you."

"Don't mention it," she says, turning away and heading into the crowd towards her chariot.

"Are you all right?" Germany asks, looking me over. "No one hurt you, did they?" His eyes are full of worry.

"I'm fine," I laugh. "I found my brother." I pull Sealand in front of me, smiling widely. Sealand backs up into me, obviously scared by Germany. Honestly, there are few people who aren't terrified of him when they first meet him.

Germany bends down to look Sealand in the face. "This must be the infamous Sealand I've heard so much about." He ruffles Sealand's hair good-naturedly. To the others around us, it would look like Germany knows his way around children, and that he did it often. But it was obvious to me that he is uncomfortable touching my brother. I giggle a bit.

Before anyone can say anything else, a stylist that I recognize from the television, Cinna, rushes up to my brother, flanked by three ridiculously dressed, fat people. I also know them as Katniss's prep team. I guess it's an honor that my brother gets to be dressed by them, but I can't help but feel something close to dislike. They are, in a way, supporting the fact that my brother will die in the Arena.

Octavia, a plump, short woman, bustles up, grabbing Sealand by the shoulders. She seems to check the level of his make-up, to see if it needs touch-ups, then his hair, then his nails. After a few moments, she steps back, giving a satisfied nod. I'm right behind him the whole time; I don't know why, but I'm suddenly terrified that they're going to take my brother away again.

Germany must sense this, because he steps up behind me, putting his hand on my padded shoulder. "It's going to be all right, Little Italy. He's not going anywhere." He gives my arm a little squeeze, and I smile at him. I think his cheeks are a little red, but it could be a trick of the light, or just the fact that his stylists have gone a little nuts with the blush. And his hair. And his clothes.

He's dressed in a suit that looks to be of the same material as my dress, but it's not even a suit. It's more like a giant, one-shouldered sack. I can be blunt sometimes, and that's just what comes to mind. He resembles a photo I saw once, a long time ago, of a Jolly Green Giant. His face is covered in red blush, and his lips are painted a bright cherry that stands out even from his cheeks. His hair is slicked back, with little strands of wheat twined into his yellow locks. I take a second look, deciding that he doesn't look like a Green Giant; he looks like a golden god of wheat. I don't know why, but I feel my cheeks hearing up as I stare at him.

Without warning, he says, "We have to go now." I turn around to find that Sealand is being hauled away by Octavia and Cinna toward the District 12 chariot. I almost follow him, not willing to let one of the only people who matters in my life to walk away, but Germany holds me back. "We'll see him again. It's only a few hours until we get back to the hotel, right?"

I can tell he's trying to be comforting, but he's still not comfortable. Germany is the strong and silent type, not the kind of person to give words of consolation. I pat his hand, giving him a look and turning towards our own chariot. Our carriage has the number 11 emblazoned on its black side. The numbers look like they're fashioned out of strands of grain, coming to a point at the top after making a circle around the numbers. Germany pulls me up into the seat, catching me as I stumble over the hem of my dress. "Thanks," I mumble, straightening up.

Greece comes up to us, Germania and Lichtenstein trailing behind him. I notice something, though. Lichtenstein doesn't seem to have the same bounce in her step, and her face seems a little longer than it was. I don't pay it any mind though; I figure it might just be the fact that she's not going to see most of the people around her in about two weeks. This thought brings me down, until Germany takes my hand.

I look up at him in confusion and maybe something that resembles horror. No matter what the public sees, we are still two boys, and holding hands with another male sends the heat rushing up to my cheeks. He just grins down at me in a laughing way. "Greece just said that he wants us to hold hands," he explains. "Like Peeta and Katniss." I can tell that he's trying to take it easy on me. Normally, he would be talking to me sternly, his voice slightly raised. It's not that he yelled a lot or that's what he resorted to when things didn't go his way. It's just that Germany hates incompetent people; people who don't follow orders or don't listen the first time they're told something. I find myself in the second category a lot.

"Sorry," I apologize to Greece, bowing a little. It is something I picked up from my friends in District 11, a little sign of respect.

He smiles up at me, as does Lichtenstein. I think I see Germania's lips go up at the corners a bit. "No problem," the cat-man replies. He presses one furry claw to his ear, listening intently. I see for the first time that he has a plastic earpiece in his human ear. He looks up after a moment, smiling lazily at me. "Time to go". As soon as he says that, a giant door in front of me, at the head of the line, opens, pouring in artificial light from the Capitol lights. In the distance, I can hear the roar of cheering crowds. Somewhere inside, I feel a strong dislike, a feeling I am not used to. But the fact that so many people have gathered in one spot, in hopes of getting a glimpse of the kids they will get to see kill each other in a spectacular battle of bloodshed.

As the first chariot rolls out into the light, the roars grow louder as the crowd takes in their costumes. From the few glimpses I've seen of the District 1 Tributes, there's a very busty girl and a boy with bushy eyebrows. Both of them were dressed in the highest of Capitol fashion. In other words, they look ridiculous. Every inch of their body is gold, sparkling like some sort of plastic gem. The woman's shirt is too tight, and the boy's outfit is too tight as well, showing off every inch and crevice of his body. I get red just thinking about it.

"Get ready," Germany whispers in my ear, staring straight ahead. As the carriage lurches forward, I fall into the seat, the sudden movement startling me. Germany catches me, his face hard and emotionless for the cameras. I've only seen him like this six times before. Every Reaping, he would clam up, his fists clenched by his sides and his eyebrows dipped in the middle. I hate it every time he gets like this, so I've developed a technique that gets some feeling back into his expression. I take my hands and push my thumbs up at the corners of his mouth, making him smile in a weird way. He shakes me off, but I can't but notice that he's grinning a bit.

Our chariot makes it way out of the cavern, the horses clomping noisily. I blink as the light shines down on us. But what's even worse than Germany's stoic face is that the people are still screaming their throats out, excited that new faces are showing up to provide them entertainment. My cheeks flame up with anger, and I'm glad that it can be taken as embarrassment. I grip Germany's hand, giving it a little squeeze. He squeezes back.

I straighten up as the faces of the crowd around us come into view, and I almost giggle. Most of them look like they should be in a circus; girls with huge, puffy skirts that protrude from their waists and fall in pink or ivory waterfalls to their ankles; boys whose suits are weird stripes and zigzags of blue and a fluorescent color of green; more men who are dressed like the girls. And most of them have skin that looks like it's been dipped in pain of all different hues. And rows upon rows upon rows of seats are crammed with these people. I get the slight impression that some of the people might actually be clowns; I see one woman with her nose, just her nose, bright red.

But I notice that half of the faces look incredibly bored. Figures, since they've already seen twenty other Tributes parading around. Besides, District 12 is probably going to get most of the attention, because of Katniss, Peeta, and Cinna. Although, I do see some boys ringed around the outside edge of the track blowing kisses and mockingly making seductive faces at me. It takes me a moment to figure out what they're doing, and when I do, I blush.

For a moment I'm tempted to tell them off, but for one, it would reflect badly onto Germany if his partner has temper issues, and two, by the time I look over again, they are blending into the crowd, avoiding my gaze at any cost. I glance over at Germany, and I can see why. He is furious for some reason, his glare directed at the boys in the crowd.

I can't think about this for too long, because the roar of cheering people becomes too loud to think straight. I look up at the giant screen that is proudly showcasing our faces, only to find the source of the commotion. My little Sealand is coming out of the cavern, his face almost glowing with smiles. Beside him, gripping his hand like Germany is mine is a woman of about 18 years. Her suit matches his, but her chest is large enough to distract all the boys from the splendor of their outfits. The boys' cat calls are even louder. This time, both Germany and I turn to glare at them. And, I may be wrong, but I think Sealand takes his turn intimidating them. I almost laugh.

In a few moments, we've paraded around the central square, my legs getting a little shaky from trying to stay standing in the rocking cart for so long. The bottom of my dress would normally be chaffing the back of my knees by now, but Greece must have made it out of a unique fabric. I barely feel it, even with the amount of moving that we're doing. I steal a quick glance at Germany; the trip around the block doesn't seem to have affected him much. His clothes are still orderly and unwrinkled, and his face seems calm and composed. But he's almost glaring at something in the distance.

I follow his gaze, only to find the three people who could really set him off. The first one, who isn't that much of a threat, is Caesar Flickerman. He's standing onstage, relishing the applause as if it's all for him. He reminds me strongly of France, how he throws kisses carelessly into the crowd. Standing beside him is Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker this year. He's a…chubby man, with a double-chin that can almost be seen. His thinning hair sits on his shining head like a toupee and looks kind of ridiculous. But the figure that strikes fear into my heart the most is the tall man in white standing on the other side of Plutarch.

President Snow.

His white hair is slicked back, almost like Germany's, but his doesn't give off a professional feel. I get more of an evil and snake-like feeling, which sets my skin to crawling. His clothes are simple and white, with barely-visible gray stripes running up and down the length of his body. His redder-than-they-should-be lips puff out of his face, nearly giving off the impression that he was once a demonic clown. Snow's cold, calculating eyes catch mine, and I shiver. His gaze is unsettling, because I get the impression that he will, whether I like it or not, discover my secret.

Germany puts his arm on mine, steadying me. It's just now that I realize that my legs are bent, and I'm leaning forward, almost collapsing. "Are you all right?" he asks me in his gruff voice. I nod, almost afraid to make a noise, as if President Snow will hear me. Germany must see my fright, because he helps me up and takes my hand again without another question.

"Ladies and gentlemen," President Snow announces into a microphone hidden in his lapel. The crowd immediately quiets, listening intently their leader's every syllable. "Citizens of Panem, I welcome you to the beginning of this year's Hunger Games!" The crowd roars again, and Snow only allows them a few moments to cheer before he raises his hand to silence them. "Years ago, the Districts of Panem were so foolish as to rebel against the Capitol…"

I tune out the annual recitation of the treaty of treason, the reason for the Hunger Games, and whatnot. Every year we've been forced to listen to the same speech, so most of us have it memorized. I almost do, and I would have it down, but Germany says that my attention span is too short for that.

Even though our past was a reality just earlier today (was it really just this morning?), I miss it dearly. How Germany and I would wake up every morning, get on work clothes, and head out into the fields; how Germany would stroke my head until I fell asleep; how I would swing from treetop to treetop, scaring Germany out of his wits every time I pretended to fall. I decide that, if I could just have one more wish granted before I die, that I would wish to see Germany smile a true smile one more time. There's nothing like it in the world, really. The way his eye crinkle around the edges, how his cheeks get just the tiniest bit red, how his blue eyes fill with happiness…

I'm torn from my fantasy by President Snow, who has finished the Treaty of Treason and is wishing everyone good luck in the Arena. "And may the odds," he starts, and I mouth the words with him as he hisses out, "be ever in your favor!"

With that, a giant, metal door screeches closed, engulfing all of the Tributes in darkness, separating us from the screaming crowd outside.