Hello, hello, welcome to Chapter 2! I greatly appreciate the follows and views, so keep it up!

This chapter features some Jet and Gloss bonding time (I think I would like their ship name to be Jess, just sayin', guys), tension between our beloved pain in the neck Sheen and Cashmere, and the Tribute Parade.

Also, I'm planning on spacing things out differently than usual, so the timeline will also be a little different. I plan on having more days of training, so Gloss and Jet can form a stronger relationship before Jet is just thrown into the arena without him.

I'm also planning on making this a longer series, so this story will not be the only one, because there won't be a whole much of Jess in this, as they'll be away from each other for a long time, and let's face it, y'all love my OC already so much hahahahah *gets stoned to death by the angry mobs*.

Anyways, I'll stop rambling now and let you guys read.

I wake the next morning to the sound of my alarm. I sit up in my bed, the blankets pooling around my waist as I turn the electronic device off. I'm in my bedroom, I realize. Yesterday must have just been a terrible nightmare. With a small smile adorning my lips, I leave my comfortable, familiar bed, walking downstairs to see my parents.

However, things aren't right. I know this right away, as there isn't the smell of breakfast getting started, or the sound of my parents having quiet, inane chatter as they get ready for the day. Once I reach the bottom of the stairs, my stomach drops to my feet and I fight the urge to retch as my eyes prickle with tears.

I cover my mouth with my hand as I make a strangled yelp at the scene in front of me; my parents with blood painting their bodies, their limbs twisted at grotesque angles. Bullet wounds dot their bodies like the stars in the nighttime sky- brutally murdered, both of them, the only two people that I've built a relationship with in my entire life. The people that wiped my tears when cried, the people that would soothe me when I had one of my fits, the people that cared and loved for me from the beginning.

Gone.

I crumple to the floor, unable to bear the loss when I hear a familiar voice boom, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Suddenly, I hear an alarm go off. It rings louder and louder, until I open my eyes. I lurch forward in the overly luxurious bed, the silk blankets that cover me falling down. My breathing comes out in sharp gasps as I run a hand through my hair, covering my face as I attempt to calm myself down.

I reach over with my free hand, turning off the alarm. I don't remember setting an alarm, so I figure it was just automatically set that way for all of the tributes. I rise from the bed, sliding out of the bed that had been so comfortable last night, but disgusts me this morning. I pad over to the bathroom, the door sliding open before me.

I face the mirror, inspecting my appearance. I look like I got hit by a truck, to say in the least. The nightmare I'd just had didn't do me any good, that was for sure, but I was also relieved that it was just a dream. Bags hang under my light eyes and a sallow complexion seems to have taken over my usual snow white pallor. I glance over on the counter, noticing that another set of clothing had been laid out for me.

They must be really sneaky here, I muse, rolling my eyes a little as I get dressed in the outfit laid out for me, a white dress that contours to my body. I was a little shy looking at myself in the mirror at the form fitting dress, but eventually decide that I like it. I push a button on the control panel, watching in the mirror as a current of air flew down from above me, smoothing my hair out in a dark wave that tumbled down past my shoulders, resting at the small of my back in a neat, brushed sea.

Even though my face looks like an absolute wreck, I shrug as I make my way back out of the bathroom, then out of my bedroom. I am met with the intoxicating smell of eggs, bacon, fruits, and some other meat I couldn't put my finger on. The scents twist my stomach, out of nerves and out of the fact that this was the first morning in all of my life that I wasn't going to be eating my mother's breakfast.

As I enter the kitchen, I am a little surprised to see just Gloss sitting there, quietly eating breakfast as his eyes are focused at a rather interesting spot on the wall, apparently. I awkwardly clear my throat, making my appearance known as I advance closer to the table that had two chairs present, one of which occupied Gloss.

My dress suddenly feels too tight as his eyes flicker over to me, and I notice then how beautiful they are. They're not quite green, but not quite blue, either. They're an infusion of both, I conclude. My eyes meet his intense gaze and I mentally will myself to not blush. Gosh, I was such a teenage girl. All of those years of alienating myself from everyone certainly didn't prepare me for developing my first crush, especially when he was practically a celebrity and way out of my league.

A smile makes itself known on his handsome face as Gloss gestures to the chair sitting across from him. "Take a seat. I was getting worried I would have to come wake you up. Your breakfast is getting cold," he says, voice dripping with charm.

Oh, God.

I stand there for a good second awkwardly before taking his offer, pulling out the chair and seating myself. I look at the food sitting on the plate before me, the urge to throw up steadily building in my throat as my throat starts to get tight, constricting in uncomfortable ways as my mouth starts to water. I firmly grasp the fork, stabbing a piece of scrambled egg, carefully opening my mouth and depositing the food on my tongue. It was good, I'll give the Capitol cooks that much, but nothing could beat my mother's, that was for sure.

"Bad night's sleep?" I hear Gloss ask, perking my head up to look at him.

I nod, speaking quietly. "You could say that."

He nods understandingly. "I get them, too," he then adds, "the nightmares."

A span of silence spreads between us before I speak again, "So where are the others?"

"Cashmere is helping your district partner somewhere else. We're firm believers that everyone in that arena is your enemy, and the last thing you want is for someone else to hear your plans, even if they're your district partner," he spoke. Something told me that he had personal experience with this.

He then continues, "So, now that you're awake and eating, we can discuss some things."

I immediately tense up. "Like what?"

He picks up on my anxiety, speaking lowly and calmly. "Nothing that big of a deal. Just tell me what you were good at during training back home."

I clear my throat, nodding. I was always exceptionally good at long-distance weapons, like throwing knives, the bow and arrow, and a spear. "I like long-range things. I'm not much of an up close and personal kind of person," I tell him. Even though I didn't really plan on using a weapon at all in my life to harm someone else, now I know that that really wouldn't be an option if I ever wanted to come back home to my family.

He nods, listening to me intently, then replying, "That's good, you know your strengths and weaknesses, and judging from your body type, it's good you don't think you're brute, because you definitely don't look like one. It's one of the biggest mistakes tributes can make; overestimating or underestimating themselves and their opponents."

I chuckle softly, nodding, then flush a little. So I wasn't wrong in assuming he was looking at me yesterday, I conclude. "But if it's really up to me, I wouldn't fight at all."

He bites his lip at that, staying quiet a moment before speaking again. "I understand that, but you are expected to be in the Careers. They'll want you to do some things you won't want to do." Realizing how harsh that sounded, he then adds with a small smirk, "You'll just surprise them all when you come out of that arena a winner without spilling a drop of blood."

His words shock me, but not in a bad way. More of in a way that makes you feel all warm and happy and proud, like when someone gives you a compliment. Was he complimenting me? Maybe not, but one thing was sure; he believed in me. I wasn't sure if I could take that to heart, as I hadn't completed any form of training, done my interview, or the evaluation, but it definitely lifted my spirits.

We finish breakfast in a comfortable silence for the rest of the morning, then, Gloss's watch sounds off. He stands up, pushing in the chair. "It's time to get you prepped," he says, offering his hand to me.

A little surprised, I take his hand, standing up as he pushes my chair in for me, then leads me to the door of the train car. Because District 1 is relatively close to the Capitol, the train ride is never that long for the tributes and their mentors, so we usually get some more time to get ready and prepped than the other districts. I peer outside, seeing the people of the Capitol, enthusiastic screams as they pine in anticipation to see the District 1 tributes for the 70th Hunger Games.

Sheen and Cashmere are suddenly standing next to Gloss and me. Sheen looks fidgety and nervous, while Cashmere looks exhausted and miserable. Gloss departs from my side, my fingers slipping away from his as he joins Cashmere, asking her something I can't hear. Cashmere lets out a rough bark of a laugh, shaking her head as she crosses her arms. Sheen winces, moving a little closer to me. I hide my smirk as I turn my face back to the crowd. The doors slide open, and then we're outside in the Capitol.

The crowd roars like a wild animal, and it takes me a moment to realize that they're saying our names. Goosebumps appear on my skin as I smile graciously, flashing it to the crowd. They nearly feint, screaming my name even more. They clap like crazy, throwing roses onto the way that we're walking.

I look around me at the excellent architecture surrounding us. There's amazing, grand buildings everywhere around us. Tall, masterfully made skyscrapers reach into the sky, clouds circling around their tallest floors. All of the buildings' surfaces reflect the sun, an almost ethereal light covering those in the paths of its lights.

We are escorted until we are brought to a Capitol car. We slide in the modern vehicle and the engine purrs softly as it takes off towards the Tribute Center. The ride is relatively short, and no one says much. The tension between Cashmere and Sheen was thick, and I knew that someone was getting ready to snap. I was internally grateful that I wasn't in that situation with my mentor. Well, at least, not yet. Hopefully, not ever.

Once we reach the destination, the doors open, and we practically spill out of the car. Cashmere roughly grabs ahold of Sheen's arm, leading him to where his prep team was. Gloss and I make our ways to where I'm required to be, following the pair in front of us as they enter the magnificent building that looms before us, its majesty topping even some of the buildings that I had first seen when I came out of the train car moments ago.

As we walk, Gloss lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. "It would appear your district partner is pushing some buttons on my dear sister."

I chuckle softly, nodding. "Yeah, I think he had a habit of doing that to teachers back home, too."

The rest of the walk is quiet until I am brought to a small, white, sterile room. Gloss bids me farewell and closes the door behind him. Without his presence, I realize how nervous I am again. I can't forget that I'm in the Hunger Games.

I stand there for a few moments before a trio of Capitol people come in. The first is literally painted in lime green, the paint covering the entirety of her skin, even seeming to seep into the wig that stood a mile above her head, her swampy green eyes, and equally green lips. She is plump and short, with kind eyes and a tender smile. She rushes towards me, enveloping me in an uncomfortable hug, her strange designer clothes digging into my skin.

Once she has had enough affection, she releases me, but not totally, her hands coming up to roughly grasp my shoulders. "Ah, what a beautiful one they sent us this year! Natural beauty is always important. It makes our work much easier, right, Wamilda?"

Wamilda, I'm assuming, turns her head, nodding slowly. "Yes, certainly," she replies in a slow, almost condescending tone. She is basically the polar opposite to the woman who stands before me now. She is tall and skinny, with her cheek bones almost threatening to break through the wrinkled skin of her cheeks. I assume she's an older lady, but I'm not sure. Who knows, maybe wrinkles are a current fashion statement in the Capitol right now. Her hair is tied up in a purple turban (assuming there is hair under there), with a purple dress swathed in layers around her bony body to match.

The plump, kind woman grabs my hand, pulling me towards a chair that is in the center of the room. I sit, allowing for her to mess with my hair. From here, I see the third member of my prep team more closely. This one is male. He has a cool look, with steely grey hair, dark eyes, and clad in black. He looks pretty normal, for a Capitol citizen, I observe. He catches my eyes, stepping forward.

"I am Orde, the woman currently pulling on your hair is Lima, and the woman currently judging you is Wamilda," he says with a dry sense of humor to his voice. It soothes me, for some odd reason. He seems truer and more natural than the others, almost like he could belong in one of the districts.

Lima is offended at his words, but Wamilda just laughs dryly, her tone matching Orde's as the two banter, ignoring Lima's incessant complaints. I close my eyes, letting myself relax more as I accept these people as my prep team. I'd overheard some of the horror stories kids spread at school about prep teams, that they used flame throwers and bombs to make the tributes look good, so I accepted when Lima started to roughly pull on my hair with brushes and other tools. At least they wouldn't kill me.

I was a little self-conscious when they stripped me naked, though. I know that it's a part of getting prepared, but I was still insecure, nonetheless. They didn't react, but rather got right into it, laying sticky strips on the parts of my body that were covered up before, pulling them off quickly, ripping any body hair off of me. I grit my teeth roughly, tears prickling in the corners of my eyes at the pain.

After two hours of scraping, pricking, brushing, and sticking, my prep team was satisfied. Lima chattered like an overexcited bird, while Orde and Wamilda stood back, eyes scanning over me carefully. I didn't like being analyzed like this, so I was more than happy when Orde handed me a plain, white robe. I thankfully slid into it, shaking a little at the coldness of the room.

When it was time for the odd trio to leave, Lima pressed a hurried kiss against my temple, wiping away the tears that fell out of her eyes. I thought she was a little dramatic, but then again, who in the Capitol isn't? Wamilda simply nods her head at me, then leaves with Lima, practically having to carry her out of the room. Orde is the last to bid me farewell as he places a kiss to the back of my hand.

"Until we meet again," he says in that dry voice before he leaves as well, trailing behind Wamilda and Lima.

I sit in the chair in the cold room for a while longer before an Avox comes to retrieve me. I follow them into a grand, ostentatious room that is decorated to the extent that the train was. I don't notice anyone else in the room until I hear someone softly clearing their throat. I look to my right and see the owner of the sound.

There was no mistaking that this man was elderly, whereas with Wamilda I was unsure. The man has long, draping white whiskers that reach past his shoulders. His equally snowy hair is styled upwards, almost spiked. He has a dangerously sharp wit to him, and his eyes bore into me intensely, but he doesn't seem unkind.

He slowly advanced towards me, examining me closely. I was just waiting for the moment he would ask me to take my robe off, but thankfully, he didn't. He nods his head as he walks a circle around me. I feel his eyes roam over me in a critical way. In the past two days, I'd been assessed and judged more times physically than I ever had in my whole life.

Once the man made a full circle around me, he stopped in front of me. He gestured for me to follow him with a simple wave of an ancient hand. I follow behind him politely, almost carefully. For some reason, I really didn't want to get on his bad side, especially because he was my designer, and he decides what to dress me in, and I, for one, really didn't want to go out there naked or indecent.

The glass door slides open for him as he walks over the threshold. I follow him in the smaller, quainter room. I am surprised to see bookshelves with actual books in them. A small, wooden desk sits at the far end of the room, next to an empty mannequin. The room as a whole feels warm, a strange thing to call a room in the Capitol, for sure, but what really catches my eye is the thing that the older man is currently pulling out of a garment bag.

District 1 is luxury, so, naturally, we were the best dressed tributes, but my designer appears to have outdone himself on this one. The dress appears to be one gem. It's long and white, with a billowy bottom and a more fitted bodice that extended down to the waist. As he brings it closer, I inspect that the entire thing is actually made of lace and a see-through mesh, with pearls and diamonds seemingly threaded throughout the whole thing. My breath is taken away at the beauty of it, and I'm also more than thankful that it's modest and I won't be naked.

He gently thrusts the dress at me, looking at me expectantly. I take the dress from him as he turns around to give me privacy. I inwardly thank him as I slide my robe off, gently kicking it off to the side as I carefully take the dress off its hanger. The small tag inside reads Gomo, and I assume it's the name of the elderly man in front of me. I slide the dress on, turning around to look in the full length mirror I'd noticed earlier in the room.

I can't fight back a smile at the person who stands before me. Not only are my bags gone and the sickness that had developed on my skin gone, but this girl isn't me. This girl is beautiful, strong, and confident, all things I never considered to be me. I was always told that if a dress could make you feel like things you felt you weren't, then it was a good dress made by a good designer.

The dress looks like it's floating on me, as the see-through mesh blends to my skin, but with the lace and other gems covering me, it looks like the whole thing is just an ethereal dream, like it's not real. Gomo appears at my shoulder, looking over it and into the mirror to see me.

"Good," the old man whispers the first thing he's said yet, more to himself than to me. He turns around, grabbing something, then turns back around to me, presenting a pair of white heels and pearl earrings. I am immediately reminded of my mother's necklace, and my stomach turns. I forgot it on the train.

Fighting back an emotion, I smile softly to him, taking the shoes and earrings. I quickly slide the earrings in and then get into my shoes. I wobble a little as I stand straight up, but quickly become accustomed to the extra height and challenges the heels present in walking.

He gently takes my long hair, laying it behind me. He then taps my shoulder, nodding. "You are ready," he says, this time to me.

I nod, taking a deep breath as my smile grows ever so slightly. "Thank you."

He nods once more before placing his hand at the small of my back, escorting me out of the room. It's time for the Tribute Parade, and he waves me goodbye as I leave the room, Gloss waiting for me outside. His appearance surprises me, but I'm thankful nonetheless. He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it as he drinks in my appearance. I swallow the dry lump in my throat, smiling shyly.

"Hi," I greet him quietly.

It takes him a moment to respond. "You look perfect. The sponsors are going to love you." He then adds, "But, I think you're missing something." He then fishes around in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, pulling out the pearl necklace that I know all too well.

I can't fight back the grin as he brushes my hair out of the way, clasping the necklace. I was shocked at the fact that he had it in the first place, but I was extremely thankful for it. The gesture of him putting the necklace on me reminds me of my mother, and I have to remind myself that everything will be okay. I hope.

"Thank you," I decide not to question on how he had happened upon my necklace. He flashes me a charming smile as he offers his arm to me. I take it, thankful for his stability as I take a few wobbly steps in my heels, but, thankfully, don't go down. He escorts me to where a chariot awaits, my district partner waiting for me as Cashmere frets over every facet of his outfit. His hair is slicked back and his white suit matches mine, with pearls and diamonds emblazoned on his pocket.

As Sheen sees me, his eyes widen in disbelief. "Oh, wow. You look great," he says.

I smile at him. "Thank you. You look good, too."

Cashmere perks up at this. "Oh, honey, you look absolutely gorgeous. I wish your designer had a brain in that bald head of hers," Cashmere spat the second sentence out at Sheen.

I don't see anything wrong with Sheen's appearance, but decide against trying to argue with Cashmere. That seemed like a mistake that Sheen had already made. Gloss makes his way over to Cashmere, calming her down as he starts some light conversation with her. Without her scrutinizing eye bearing down on him, Sheen makes his way over to me as we both look at the tributes that were lined up behind us.

District 2 looks like two boulders, District 3 looks like robots, District 4 looks like fish, and the stereotypes go all the way down the line until the District 12 coal miners. Sheen swallows the lump in his throat, looking over at me. "So this is really it, isn't it? We're doing the Hunger Games," I can hear the fear in his voice as he speaks.

"This is it," I reply, nodding in agreement, analyzing everyone. Those who scared me as I watched the Reaping yesterday still scare me today, maybe even more so today, now that I see them in person. I see the confident look that the male from 2 has, the all-knowing air from the female from 3, and the grim determination from the male from 11.

Suddenly, a bell goes off, and the mentors are getting their tributes in their chariots. I turn back around, walking the short distance to the chariot. Sheen stands beside me as Cashmere fixes and primps our clothes, Gloss standing back, letting her do her job. He comes up beside us, speaking so both of Sheen and I can hear.

"I want you two to be winners, not friends, or enemies. You'll be respectful and polite to the crowd, but not exaggerating it. I don't want you to look happy. You're going to be in the Hunger Games," he says, knowing exactly what he wants out of us. We nod understandingly as the black horses that pull our chariot suddenly start moving, and right then, the Hunger Games begins.

As we come into the light, the crowd goes absolutely wild. The crowd roars and cheers, screaming our names. I try to look as regal and composed as I can as I see myself appear on a huge screen before us. The crowd apparently likes it, as they start screaming even more, if that was possible. They throw roses down once more, decorating the way in reds, whites, pinks, and yellows.

Our chariot pulls into the circle and we wait for the others. Soon, District 2 pulls up beside us, then 3, then 4, and so on. I glance over at Sheen and he gives me a reassuring smile. We're both shaking with nerves, but we did it. We made it through the Tribute Parade. One step closer to either death or survival.

Once all of the chariots have assembled, the leader of our country, President Snow, makes his appearance known as he strides with confidence to the microphone. His white beard and hair are perfectly trimmed and manicured, and his suit is meticulous and professional as his crisp voice booms over the microphone. Instantly, everyone is quiet.

A chill runs down my spine as I realize something, something I didn't really want to realize. His voice was the same voice that I had heard in my nightmare last night.

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

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