I set my sail; fly the win, it will take me,

Back to my home, sweet home.

Lie on my back.

Clouds are making way for me.

I'm coming home. Sweet home.

SPECTRE WISHART, DISTRICT 3

Spectre Wishart fiddled with the controls of the machine; his hands were splayed over the polished metal, his slightly padded thumbs pressing against the buttons, and his onyx eyes fixed on the screen. He'd never come across such technology before, and the fact that it was being used to train tributes in the art of recognising poisonous plants rather irked him. If he had control of such technology, Spectre knew he'd put it to actual, good use.

Or perhaps the Capitol folk do use it for such things, Spectre thought to himself, as he turned his attention away from the screen for a split-second, in order to glance at the indent in the wall where the Gamemakers sat. Although waste like this is deplorable. He turned his attention back to the screen, and sorted a mysterious looking red berry into the "edible" section. There was a loud, blaring sound, and a skull flashed onto the screen momentarily.

YOU'RE DEAD.

Rolling his eyes at the screen, and his supposed death (Spectre was marginally certain that he was not, indeed, dead. Or perhaps life as he lived it was an illusion in itself, and he was simply under the impression he was alive?), he stepped back away from the machine, his hands flitting from the surface. He shot it one last, longing look, before jumping down from the podium upon which the machine was placed, and panning his eyes around the room.

All of the tributes were busy doing something or another, he realised. Some of them were engaged in conversation, and a few of them seemed almost intimate with one another, in an odd way. This made Spectre frown; how could they be so frivolous in a situation of such danger? He felt an odd, pulling dislike for all of them. Like he was some kind of superior being, immune to their emotions, like love and hate.

Spectre felt a hand on his arm, and almost leapt out of his own skin, his dark hair whipping around with his face as he turned to his left. He supposed that the sudden movement had frightened his assailant, because they let out a rather high-pitched squeak, and ducked backwards.

Once both tributes were re-focused, Spectre realised that it was Skylar- the female tribute from his District- who had interrupted him. He was somewhat neutral towards her, as she was far too small to be a threat, but he found himself rather appreciating her generally quiet, melancholy atmosphere. While he was dubiously silent, she was more approachable, and certainly friendlier. And while Spectre gave off an air of blankness, Skylar seemed more politely the way she was.

"Hello." Skylar said, and her voice seemed rather low compared to her previous squeak of shock. Her reddish-brown hair was tugged out of her face, and it seemed to Spectre that she might be uncomfortable with its tightness. "I was wondering…" She cut herself off at what he supposed might have been his blank expression. For a moment, Spectre wondered if she would merely run away from him, as many others might do. His reputation tended to precede him, after all.

"That mental Wishart boy..."

"I saw that crazy Spectre kid today. He was mumbling to himself…"

"Bunch of crackpots, that entire family…"

"Should be put down…"

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Spectre realised that he should probably talk if he wanted her to proceed. Skylar was shifting about uncomfortably, clearly wanting to get away from him. Despite the fact that he knew she had only the best intentions, he felt a spike of anger run through him. Make your point, already…

Skylar let out a deep breath. "I was wondering if you wanted to hang out, for a while. N-not like allies. Just so we're not alone, you know?"

That hit Spectre quite hard. He liked being alone. Opening his mouth to decline, he gathered the words up within him… and wilted. She wasn't so bad- not ally material, of course, but not so bad. Why not indulge her a little?

"Sure."

ROWAN WOODS, DISTRICT 4

Over on the other side of the room, Rowan Wooded played with an axe. Her long, fine-boned fingers fluttered over the metal of the handle, leaving smudges behind where she touched. For some reason, she was almost enthralled by the gleaming of the axe. In District 12, it was so very rare to see anything shiny and beautiful. Because, although she was perfectly aware of the horrors this axe would commit, Rowan barely cared.

She looked up from the weapon, and manipulated her fingers carefully, balling her fist somewhat inexpertly around the handle. Although Rowan had no idea how to use the axe, and was not even holding it correctly, she felt an odd affection for the weapon.

Axes. I reckon I'll use axes. Not that difficult to use, just swing 'em. And when you swing 'em just right, and you hit the enemy, then you've just killed somebody. You're that one step closer to winning, ah?

Killing… Was not precisely her style. The idea of causing pain did not appeal to her all that much; physical pain, anyway. Survival was going to be her main focus, and whatever she had to do in order so survive was simply necessary. Hopefully other people would just kill one another, to spare her the effort and possible psychological pain of doing so.

Looking up from her weapon, Rowan glanced around the room, her eyes flitting over the other tributes. She was searching for a possible ally. A male would probably be out of the question; she was manipulative, sure, but she didn't want anybody bigger than her. Anybody who held a physical advantage over herself- or a sexual advantage, in the case of the males- was completely ticked off. No way. No advantages. No taking. A female, then? Yes, she would feel safer with a female companion, perhaps one who was similar to how she was. An epic tag-team.

But I'll be the dominant one, the one people really fear. Making a name for myself, and all. 'Cause only one gets out, right?

Her eyes focused on the girl from 7, who was a few metres away from her at the hand to hand station, pummelling a dummy with surprising force for such a delicate looking girl. For a moment Rowan was surprised- and somewhat creeped out- before noticing the almost obscenely large muscles almost popping out of the girl's sleeves.

"A boxer?" Rowan wondered aloud, raising her eyebrows. She was met with an odd look from the boy from 9, who was sitting a little way away from her, eyeing up the swords station, where several gleaming scythes were also situated. She winked in his direction, barely suppressing a smirk at his double-take (can't believe it, ah, pretty boy?). Then, Rowan started walking towards the girl from 7, pushing her hair back over her shoulders.

It took her a few moments to attract the attention of the girl from District 7, but once she had achieved it- still clutching the axe- Rowan smiled serenely in her direction, and batted her eyelashes. Naturally, they weren't particularly thick, but she'd found some strange cosmetic in the bathroom on her floor that had volumised them to an almost startling extent.

The girl kept training, occasionally shooting a confused look in Rowan's direction; she seemed more unnerved by the fact that she was being watched than anything else. But Rowan, who had never precisely been good at subtlety, continued watching; her arms crossed, her chin tilted challengingly.

Eventually, the girl from District 7 grew bored, and pulled off her mitts, dropping them to the floor with an offhand glance. Then, her eyes focused on Rowan, her brows knit, she walked over.

"Why are you watching me?" The girl asked. She was quite a bit shorter than Rowan, but a great deal more physically intimidating. She let out a loud, remarkably unladylike snort. "You gay? 'Cause I'm the most asexual person in the world. Nobody at all, but I'm definitely not gay. I'd appreciate it if you stared at someone else. It's kinda unnerving."

Rowan was unsure whether or not she should be offended, and chose to bare her teeth in a smile. Absolutely perfect. Asexual, smaller than me, a good fighter, and quite pretty. Hmph, maybe there's hope for me yet. For a second, Rowan considered restarting her shy act, in order to manipulate this girl… But she didn't feel like it. Keeping it going throughout the Games would be taxing, and near to impossible. "I'm Rowan Woods, District 12. Straight as they come. And I'm interested in an alliance."

For a second, Rowan was certain that this girl was going to laugh in her face, and return to beating the life out of the dummy. Her face contorted into a near smile, and although she removed it quickly, Rowan caught sight of it. "An alliance? That's interesting."

Rowan chuckled dryly. "That it is. So, you interested?"

"Huh, maybe. I don't know. What've you got to offer?"

That made her think. For a few seconds, Rowan racked her thoughts, trying desperately to come up with something feasible. Then, it hit her. The lie hit her. "You'll have to wait and see." She said slowly, and a small smile came onto her face. She flexed her fingers around the axe, in order to draw the girl's attention to them.

The girl didn't look too convinced, but a new wave of respect came onto her face at the sight of the axe. Perhaps it was the fact- although Rowan was oblivious to this- that it was against the rules for tributes to be carrying around weapons outside of the training stations, but the girl looked somewhat impressed.

Bringing her hand to her face, she spat into it. Rowan frowned at the movement, before the girl reached out the hand she had spat into towards her. "I'm Charlie Zion," Charlie said, with a gruff smile. "Spit and shake, and we're allies."

Momentarily, Rowan considered refusing; the idea of merging her spit with another person's was rather disgusting. She didn't really want to touch this other girl's spit, anyway… But she could go and wash her hands immediately after, right?

With an awkward grimace, Rowan spat into her own hand, and tenuously reached it forward. It took Charlie grabbing her hand for their skin to actually meet, and Rowan winced at the contact.

"Allies."

WINNER SINCLAIR, DISTRICT 1

Winner Sinclair gripped onto the sleek handle of his sword, as he carefully manoeuvred himself around the dummy. His dark brown eyes, usually full of laughter, were deadly serious. Although Winner certainly spent most of his time playing around, he knew that he must pay attention while in training. After all, he wasn't the best with weapons; compared to some of the other Careers, he was a novice.

Taking a vicious swipe at the side of the dummy, he dodged around it, bringing the sword swinging upwards to hit at the head. The thin blade lodged into the dummy's neck and stuck there, with Winner still gripping onto it. He let out a grunt of frustration and, placing one foot on the dummy's "thigh", he jerked the sword back out again.

Gritting his teeth in concentration, his usually brown skin turning a rather unpleasant shade of red, he brought his muscular arm back, and drove the sword forward once more. Winner was relentless as he showered careful blows upon the dummy, his face screwed up in concentration.

He stopped only when he heard a gravelly laugh behind him. And, although Winner could not see the person who was laughing- nor did he recognise the voice, which was a large factor in recognising them in advance- he felt a flash of anger. Turning around, the sword still in hand, he readied himself to do what he had never really tried before: intimidate somebody.

But it was not some outer district fool, who presumed that he was the weakest link of the Careers.

It was Damien; his lips were pulled into their usual smile, this time ever widened by his laughter. Winner briefly wondered if it ever made his face ache, before lowering the sword that he realised he was brandishing.

"Why so serious?" Damien asked, his voice low and husky. Without saying another word, he stepped forwards and gently pried the sword from Winner's hands, running the blade over in his own, calloused hands. A beam of light shot off the metal, momentarily blinding Winner. "I'd be elated if I were you. Making the most of what you have left, and all."

Winner flinched. The implication that he would die quickly was one he had been dealing with from very early on, especially from Audrey. And now, some of the others were echoing her snide words. It hurt his feelings, his pride, and, well, his chances. If they thought he was weak, then they wouldn't waste any time bumping him off.

Easy kill, don't you know…

"Don't count your chances too soon, Damien," Winner said, his tone as cool as he could make it. There was a slight wobble to his voice when he spoke, however; a tremor of nervousness in his brash words. "You know why I was called Winner? Because I'm bred to win!"

"Who is bred to what?" Korina interrupted the conversation. Her hair was wild and tangled, a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Even as she stood with them, she seemed so full of energy that she could not keep still. And despite her best efforts to not move, she was fidgeting madly. "Your parents called you Winner because you are a winner?" Korina looked like she was going to burst out laughing. However, before her lips could part, she took a deep breath and steeled herself, squaring her shoulders. "Sounds like a lie, to me."

When she said this last part, she glanced over her shoulder to where Exotica and Audrey sat a few metres away, conversing. Exotica had a smirk on her face, and her arm was resting casually on Audrey's thigh; Audrey looked extremely irritable, and kept slapping her hand away. Korina briefly looked like she was pining, before turning back, and nodding, as if to reinforce her point.

"Only killers can win," Damien said. There was a sadistic gleam in his eyes. "Could you really kill someone? Feel their blood flowing over your hands, watching the light fade from their eyes, knowing that it is because of you that they are never going to see their families again? Never live to see their significant other, never have a family, never live their lives?"

"Stop." For once, Winner felt distressed. He turned to Korina, in search of a helping hand, but she was stone-faced. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of pity in her eyes, but it was quickly erased. "You're trying to mess with me."

Damien let out what could have been a giggle. "You have to fight for yourself; no one's going to save you. That's just life, right?"

And with that, he walked away.

Sorry for the crap, short chapter here. They will be getting longer and more consistent from now on, but this was basically out in order to let you all know that I'm not ditching this story, so it was done in a bit of a hurry. Next update will be out a lot faster, I promise.