An Author's Note

Okay. Sorry I'm publishing this so late, but I promised I'd publish on Wednesday, so I'm publishing on Wednesday. Today was just a lot busier than I had expected.

Happy Wednesday, everyone! We're halfway to the weekend! And, if it isn't Wednesday for you, then happy today!

Also, very sorry for the typos in here. I haven't had time to give it a full edit. Just a quick read-through.

Without further adue, I present Chapter 3: The Passage.

The Passage

It's a short journey from the Justice Building to the train station. I'm reunited with Edward in the car, though Effie sits between us. Neither of us speak. I keep glancing out the windows, looking for an opportunity to escape. I haven't been in a car for such a long time. I've almost forgotten how to fasten my seatbelt. Effie shows me with a gleaming fake smile. She's even paler up close. If she were attractive in any way, she could be a vampire. She wears at least an inch of make-up. It's like has a fake face.

"You two are in for a treat. Crystal chandeliers, platinum doorknobs. And it flies. We'll be at the Capitol in less than a day."

I was right to avoid crying. The station is swarming with reporters— all frilly and ridiculous— who have all of their cameras trained on my face. I've always thought that I naturally look a bit emotionless. I usually hate it. I look dead or... something. People have to get to know me to have any idea what my emotions might be. I'm grateful for it now. I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the screens in the area. It airs my arrival live. I almost appear bored. That should make me look brave. I'm glad, not that it shows.

Edward has the same look on his face. He looks clean of all emotions, like his long-dead heart has finally stopped caring. It disturbs me at first, how he can so easily look like this, but I remember from experience that he's simply an actor. He had told me with such ease that he didn't love me, and I had believed him.

Effie escorts us. They march us to the same destination, a little platform at the station. We stand in the doorway for several minutes. The place reminds me of a jet bridge in an airport, in function, shape, size, and quality. It's odd, the feeling before moving from one region to the next. Edward and I don't speak, as we're not yet alone. I force myself to act coldly to him. We're around the cameras. If we showed affection we could be marked as an easy target. I don't expect to survive, but I don't want to die just yet.

We're then allowed inside, the doors closing behind us.

Stepping onto the train is like seeing color for the first time. Seeing light for the first time. Crystal glasses of liquids that I assume are sodas and alcohol deck the room, along with bowls overflowing with fruit, trays of candies I can't identify, delicate cakes I've never seen before, cinnamon rolls, and little alcoves meant for relaxing. A dining table sits in the middle of the room, with chairs made of platinum and velvet. Flowers accent everything. Although the train begins moving instantly, I barely feel it flying under my feet.

The speed initially takes my breath away. It's been over a year since I've been riding in something this fast. Trains are all but illegal in the Districts, as travel between them is forbidden, unless on officially sanctioned duties. For District 12, that's mainly transporting coal, although this is no ordinary coal train. It's a high-speed Capitol model that averages 250 miles per hour.

In school, I've been told that the Capitol was erected in what was once the Rocky Mountain range. District 12 is in Appalachia. Because they've been mining coal here for hundreds of years, our miners have to dig especially deep. If there's a disaster— a snapped cable, or a time-bomb ready to go off any second— there's very little hope. It takes you five or ten minutes to reach the surface, and explosions are with very little notice. No one from above can hear your screams. And no one from below can hear ours.

Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic reading and math, our instruction is completely coal-related— aside from our weekly indoctrination on the history of Panem and the benevolence and endless mercy of the Capitol, that is. They treat children like items to be manufactured, giving us little more than we need to survive. I know there must be more, so much more, than what they're telling us, an account of what happened during the rebellion, details on what started it in the first place, and the truth about how Panem came to be. They tell us so precious little; I don't even know if this is the last country on the planet.

Effie sits us down in chairs across from hers, and begins lecturing us on how wonderful this opportunity is. She encourages us to enjoy everything, and sees us off to our rooms. Effie tells us to do anything we want, wear anything we want; everything is at our disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. Although we'll only be here until tomorrow morning, they've given us everything. We're each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a bathroom with an array of water controls I didn't know existed.

The drawers in my dressing area are filled with fine clothes. I peel off Esme's blue dress, silently praying that they won't take it away, and take a hot bath. It's been over a year. I turn a knob— although my instincts tell me it's silver, I'm not certain that it isn't platinum— and it froths to the tub with bubbles, almost made of lotion. I dress in a plain dark green shirt and pants.

At the last minute, I remember Madge's little gold pin. For the first time, I get a good look at it. It's as if someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it. A mockingjay.

They're funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term for them was mutations, or sometimes mutts for short. One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol's enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds gathered words, they'd fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the Districts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

Except they didn't die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds, creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child's high-pitched warble to a man's deep tones. And they could re-create songs. Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing to them and if they liked your voice.

I then curl up in a ball on my bed, watching the Reapings of the other Tributes. I need to know my competition if I want any hope of survival. I know I'm going to die, but I'm still hopeful. Unfortunately, I turn it on to a commentary on one of the older Hunger Games. It's a collection of "best moments" from the "best Games." It's a montage of gory deaths and blood. It makes me sick, one of them, when someone called Joanna Mason, a victor, tries to bite out someone's throat. She does't manage it, but she does bite through their skin long enough to swallow their blood after half-stabbing them to death. They then cut to a man beating another man with a brick.

"Oh, this is one of my favorite years," a man, Caesar Flickerman, says. "And one of my favorite arenas." The other commentator nods. "The use of the rubble in the ruined city..."

"Very exciting."

"Yes... and this moment here is a moment you never forget. The moment when a Tribute becomes a Victor."

The man prepares to strike again, to destroy his skull with the brick. I snatch the remote and turn it off. I've barely managed to stomach the rest of it. This is too much. I stand and go into the dining room. It isn't time for dinner yet. Edward hasn't moved an inch, he's in the same place he was earlier. I know he doesn't need anything like I do, and it's more than likely that he's going to die. The Capitol doesn't offer forgiveness. Especially not to vampires.

He doesn't look up as I sat down next to him, slipping my hand into his. This will be the first thing I've said to him since the Reaping. I didn't know what to say, but I wasn't about to deliver a speech.

"Why did you volunteer?" I ask. He turns to look at me. He pauses for what feels like a long time.

"It would be irresponsible to let you go alone." I hear his unspoken words. I'm not going to let you die alone.

"We're not going to die, Edward," I promised. "We always make it out alive."

He laughed, though there was no humor in it. "One of us has to die. And it isn't going to be you."

I take in the impact of his words slowly, a frown forming on my lips. He smiles sadly at me. I sigh.

"Edward, I volunteered so you wouldn't have to die. So your family wouldn't have to die..."

"We'll handle it, Bella. If something happens, they'll run. If you win, they'll... overlook something. They don't hurt Victors."

"What if I hadn't volunteered?" I ask.

"Alice was planning to make a run for it."

So I didn't have to volunteer... it just would have been riskier.

Is it worth it? I selfishly wonder. Jane said I had an important part to play. Could she have been telling the truth? I wonder if Edward knows about her. I sit in silence for a moment, pulling my legs into the chair and gazing out the window. I place my hand on the windowsill, the cold air of altitude— we're in the mountains— shocking me into clearing my head. I need to know if he knows. I turn to him.

"Edward, did all of the Volturi die?" I ask, trying to make it sound like a random question. He pauses, then nods.

"Yeah, there was a nuclear bomb. I don't see how any of them could've survived." I nod in reply. I'm not exactly a class-A actress, and my voice would give me away. Unless he's lying to me, he knows nothing of Jane. I suppose he doesn't recognize voices the instant he hears them, and he would've been distracted with the "white noise" of everyone else's thoughts. He always said he tuned it out unless he was intentionally listening. Could he have sensed Jane's presence? Or had he just passed over it without a second thought?

It's not like me to keep secrets from Edward, especially not when it has to do with Jane or the other Volturi. But more about her eyes had changed than just color. I don't trust her, but she had contacted me for a reason. My mind is the only one that's safe. If someone's hiding something, it's because it's a secret. I can't tell Edward. There are flaws, major ones, in my reasoning I'm sure. But I know I'm going to play an important part in what's coming, and no one is allowed to interfere for grounds unknown. I just don't know what my part is yet.

Effie bursts into the room, so excited that I assume she's going to erupt. Edward is holding back a chortle. Her thoughts must be entertaining, to say the least.

"Have you seen Haymitch?" she trills, her voice filled with fake happiness.

"Last I heard, he was taking a nap," Edward replies with a grin. He's simultaneously listening to the thoughts of a drunk and the thoughts of an... Effie Trinket. I don't know how he's not laughing.

"Well..." she says, sounding strained. The stress shows in her fingers as they spread open with tension and ball into fists. "It's been an exhausting day." I think she's relieved that she doesn't have to deal with Haymitch, and who can blame her?

Dinner comes in courses. Edward claims to not be hungry. Effie tries to force some on him with smiles an coercions. It doesn't work at first, but he takes a forced bite of this and that. I enjoy every bit of it: a thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake, and various dishes that weren't invented in my much simpler era. Throughout the meal, Effie reminds me to save space; there's more to come. I've never had food like this. If I'd known that it had existed during my my time in the United States of America, I wouldn't have the slim figure that I do now.

I guess the best thing I could do before the Games is put on a few pounds.

"At least you have decent manners," says Effie as I finish the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion. But at least they had the courtesy to eat something..."

Effie is annoyed with Edward. He can tell. He forces himself through an entire piece of chocolate cake. Every time Effie looks away, he makes a face at me. I struggle to suppress a laugh. Effie seems pleased. I'm also infuriated by her comment, and I refuse the sixth course— another dessert. This seems to upset her even further.

When the meal is over, I'm fighting to keep it down. It's been a long time since I've had food this rich and this much of it. I'm not particularly nauseous, but achy and exhausted. Edward stands slowly. Despite the fact that he hasn't really eaten anything, he pushes his chair in, folds his napkin, gives a little bow, and says,

"It's been a pleasure, Ms. Trinket."

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the Reapings across the nation. They scatter them throughout the day so that a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol really can or care to do that, as none of them have to attend the Reapings themselves.

We watch the other Reapings, the names being called, the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We examine the faces of the the kids who will be my competition and, possibly, Edward's prey. Although there are twenty-two of them, only a few stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who could tackle Jacob lunges forward to volunteer in District 2. A fox-faced girl with fiery red hair from District 5. A crippled boy from District 10. And a twelve-year-old from District 11. She's so small and innocent, her timid demeanor not at all what you might expect in the Games. She will not be a Victor.

Lastly, as usual, they show District 12. Alice is called. She steps forward without hesitation, as graceful as ever, though I know how devastated she is. We know she's the only thing keeping our family alive. I step forward to volunteer, though this time I catch the dismay as I take her place. The commentators don't know what to say at the refusal to applaud and the silent salute. One says that District 12 is a bit backwards but that local customs can be charming. On cue, Haymitch falls off the stage. The two groan, though Caesar Flickerman makes it intentionally comical. Peeta's name is drawn, and Edward volunteers. The commentators are stunned. Edward and I shake hands. They cut to the two commentators.

"Well, that concludes this year's Reapings. It looks like we've got quite an interesting mix of Tributes this year... what do you think, Roran?"

"Well, we've got not one, not two, but three volunteers this year... that is certainly something we can't ignore."

The camera zooms in on Caesar's face. "Well, Panem, the odds have already been calculated. But that doesn't answer the question: who's your favorite?" He laughs. "That's it, Panem! Thank you very much, and... goodnight." They cut to the anthem as the credits roll. The program ends.

Effie Trinket is not happy about the state of her wig. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

Edward chuckles. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year."

I smile. "Every day," I add. Effie has made it sound like Haymitch has rough manners that could be corrected with an etiquette class. Her joyous expression is replace with something more on par with furious.

"Yes," she hisses. "And he just so happens to be your only chance at surviving in the arena. If you had any chance in the first place... so go ahead."

Just in time, Haymitch steps into the room.

"I miss dinner?" he slurs. He then faints. Effie holds her nose in the air and sniffs.

"So laugh away!"

He tries to rise, but slips. He hasn't vomited. Thankfully. Yet. I stare in slight horror as Edward helps him up. I take his arm and help Edward carry Haymitch to his room, where we lay him on his bed. We sit in silence for a few seconds. It's dark outside. The sun is beginning to set.

"Edward, I'm... worried. They're going to run tests tomorrow, and then... what if they take you away? I'll be left alone with him as my mentor. And..."

"Bella. Stop. It's going to be fine."

"You have a plan?"

"...I have Alice. I don't know how, but... I make it to the Games, and you do, too. After that, it's vague. But there are two things for certain. You're going to be one of us, even if it's for a brief time. And..." he uttered the next words as quietly as possible. "You're going to start something even bigger. I don't know what, but you choose Panem's fate."

I have a choice? If it was completely and truly my choice, Panem would have no future. It would have never come into existence. We would never have been displaced in time. But it isn't my choice. I know it isn't.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

He nods.

"They would never let a vampire into the Games."

"They do this year."

"Why?"

He growls something under his breath. "I don't know!" he half-yells.

"So, what? You snap everyone's neck in five seconds and then refuse to kill me?"

"Alice says that other people have a chance at winning."

"That's not possible."

"It's just what she saw."

"Do you know anything else?" she asks.

"Something about very large wolves. And... someone who helps you out?"

I pause. "So they're putting werewolves in the Games."

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "They aren't werewolves."

"So I survive the Games and become a vampire and am aided by some random person after escaping very large wolves," I

"Yes."

"Edward, that just... doesn't make any sense!" The whole thing is ridiculous. "I'm human... I'm nothing!"

"You're the girl whose thoughts I can't read. And something, someone is going to change you. You won't be human for very much longer."

I nod while Haymitch snores. Okay, I'll be a vampire. According to Alice. "So I'm going to survive the Games?"

"It's still one of many possibilities."

"So I might not be a vampire."

He shrugs. "Maybe Alice was seeing a dead future overlapped with the present one. I can't know for sure."

I still hate it when Edward and Alice talk like that, partially communicating out loud and partially in their minds. Even when he talks about seeing Alice's visions he sounds a bit... off. I yawn, tell Edward good night, and have him walk me back to my part of the train.

I don't sleep well that night. Edward had said he'd come in later so we could talk, but an hour after I'm in bed, the doors on the train lock. I know it wouldn't do anything if we wanted out— the walls are less than half an inch thick— but neither of us really needs to cause a scene. I'm afraid of the nightmares that sleep often offers. But I don't dream. In sleep I find a frighteningly real oblivion, like a blanket pulled over my head and suffocating me. When I wake, I turn on the television again, searching for something comforting.

Is Caesar Flickerman the only thing the Capitol watches? I try changing channels, but only find something about fashions that I don't care for and a documentary about the first and second Quarter Quells, and theories about the third one, which is next year. In the first Quarter Quell, neighbors elected who they wanted in the Games. In the second, there were twice as many opponents. If I remember correctly, that's the year that Haymitch was a Victor. As horrific as next year is going to be, I'm as curious as anyone in the Capitol as to what they'll think of next.

I flip it back to Caesar. It's a rerun, but a recording of his voice promises that he'll be talking "all night." I've developed a slight dislike of him by now, but there's something comforting about his velvety voice. He's one of those people who could make a fortune as nothing but an anchorman on a news station or talking on commercials. And he has. I can see why. He would probably get along well with Ryan Seacrest... As jealous as Edward would be, I let myself fall asleep to endless breaking news alerts, happy Hunger Games, and commercials all narrated by Mr. Flickerman.

I awaken the next morning, hugging my satin pillow, as Effie ushers me out of bed.

"Up! Up! Up! We've got a big, big, big day!" she squeals in delight from the hallway. I groan and force myself to obey. Was there really a need for her to say everything three times? I sigh and dress in the same clothes I wore the day previous. Effie scowls at my taste in fashion as I step out the door and into the dining car. Haymitch and Edward are sitting at the table. Biscuits, bacon, sausages, omelets, pancakes, waffles, jellies, toast, eggs, ham, fried potatoes, pastries, cereal, milk, and everything else I could ever hope for out of breakfast is scattered in various places around the room. And the smell. I hadn't realized how hungry I was, and I know I shouldn't be after last night, but my stomach seems to twist and suddenly I'm nearly fainting with hunger.

Haymitch looks horrid from yesterday's indulgences. He's chuckling, though if it's from drunkenness or from my scowl I can't tell. Edward is forcing down a roll. I know how bad human food must taste to him, but he stomachs it anyways. It would be odd for a person to refuse this.

"Ah, Bella!" he scoffs with fake enthusiasm, and for a moment I think he's mimicking Effie. "Sit down! Sit down!" Yeah, he's mimicking her, from the look of disgust on her face as she sits in a different area, dabbing at a microscopic flaw in her make-up.

I sit, and one of the servants on the train slides me a plate overflowing with food. A basket of fruit chills on ice and a large bucket, as tray isn't exactly the right word, sits in the middle of the table, filled with rolls. There's a glass of orange juice, iced, in an elegant silver goblet. Everything here is so... nice. It's a shame that it comes with the price of my life. There's also a cup of hot chocolate. It's still a bit chilly outside. It's the first time I've had hot chocolate since we were stranded here. I suddenly remember my cover, that I'm from the Seam and that this should be the first time I've ever had something so nice, and ask Effie about it. She seems to find my question, to my annoyance, endearing, as though I were a puppy enjoying their first time with snow or peanut butter.

"It's called hot chocolate," she replies. I take a sip. It's richer and creamier than the ones we had at home, and I ignore most of the meal until my thirst for it is under control. I take a sip too much, and gasp as it burns the roof of my mouth. I still have to mug pressed firmly to my lips, and I take it away too late. In shock, I swallow an entire mouthful of it at once, and wince in pain. I set it down farther away from me, and take orange juice from that point forwards. My throat is on fire after that, though, and I take a glass of ice water in an effort to stop the flames from licking my throat. After that it's only numb, and even the strawberries, drenched in cream, are tasteless. I sigh and force down most things on the plate. It's like swallowing a rock.

Haymitch is pouring something from a red bottle into his coffee. He takes large mouthfuls of it, and judging from the smell, it's alcoholic. He'll be incoherent soon, and I'm loathing him more by the second. Effie may be right. We need him, and he's not willing to help us. As I stare at him, I absorb the reason why the District 12 Tributes never win. With him, we don't get the training or the sponsors we need. Rich people are the ones who pay to give Tributes gifts during the games... and Haymitch? I think he'd have to slip some of his liquor into their drinks for them to even consider it.

"You're supposed to give us advice," I murmur. He must not be completely gone, because he hears my comment.

"Here's some advice, sweetheart. Stay alive," he says, smirking. Then he laughs, a cruel sort of chortle, the kind that makes me want to either slap him or, more likely, wait for Edward to slap him for me.

"That's very funny," Edward mutters. Haymitch must have made a rude comment in his head as he reached for his bottle again, because in an instant, he blurs into his superhuman speed, snatches the glass in his hand, and knocks it to the floor. There's a slightly painful sound of shattering, and the blood-red drink is gradually absorbed by the floor. "But not to us," he growls.

The drunk considers this for a fraction of a second before punching, or trying to punch, Edward. He dodges easily, still frowning. If Haymitch hadn't missed, he probably would've broken his hand. He swears so quietly under his breath that I can't even tell what he says. He then smiles, gives a little almost-polite nod to Edward, and reaches back towards his spirits. It's only out of pure detestation that I do what I do next. I don't think, just act, glad for what training my family had given me, as I snatch my knife and dive it into the table between he and his stash of bottles, missing his fingers by less than an inch. I lean back, proud. If Panem has done anything for me, it's made me less of a coward. Maybe I was always this reckless and stupid, but at least I've marginally impressed Haymitch. The sound is still resonating when Effie gasps.

"That is solid mahogany!" she chides. I fold my arms. Edward glares at me for a couple of seconds, though I can tell he's more shocked than angry, and Haymitch leans back into his chair.

"Well, what's this, sweetheart?" he asks. "I thought you were the quiet and shy one."

Wait 'till you see Edward. I am the quiet and shy one, I mused.

"Looks like I might've gotten a pair of fighters this year... oh, well. Still not enough to save you... probably." He turns to me. "Can you hit anything with a knife besides a table?" he asks, still as snide as ever.

I only shrug. I didn't know I could avoid his fingers.

"C'mon, sweetheart, you aren't going to be able to shrug when you have to save your life."

I gingerly take the knife out of the table. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, drawing it back into the position that Jasper showed me all those months ago.

"Put your hand here. And draw it back to about right. . ." he adjusted my arm to the correct place. "Put your forefinger here, and throw," he said. Emmett had tried to show me, but his "direct approach" had left my knife ricocheting off his chest.

I rummage through my memories for the event and feel the ghost of Jasper's hand directing my throw. It flies across the room and into the wall. I was hardly daring to hope for a solid stick, but it lodges itself between panels unexpectedly. I was actually aiming a few inches to the left of it, but I don't tell Haymitch that. It makes me look like an expert, rather than the amateur I am. Haymitch grins. He inspects us with his eyes for quite some time, then says,

"Well, Edward, you'll be a heartthrob as soon as you enter the Capitol, assuming your stylist has taste... and Bella, you'll be attractive enough as soon as the stylists get hold of you. You're not entire hopeless, and you seem fit... I can sell it. Alright,I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking," he paused, holding out a bottle of alcohol and turning it in his hand, as if inspecting a gem. He leans at an angle and puts his feet up on the table, to Effie's horror. "And I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say. Deal?"

We nod.

"Ok, so what's the best strategy when we get to the arena and..." Edward begins.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Haymitch stops him. "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station and you'll meet your stylists. You aren't going to like what they do to you. But don't resist," he advises, sounding like he's speaking from experience. He takes a small sip from his bottle and puts it aside.

"But—" Edward begins. How are they going to react to his ice cold skin?

"No buts. Don't resist," he says. He takes the bottle of alcohol from the table and stands to go. He grimaces, as if doing something unpleasant, but he puts it back on the table. He leaves the car and the door swings shut behind him.

Suddenly, it's completely dark. I have to restrain myself from screaming as the train shoots across the railroad. Lights are still on inside, but outside, the day has passed, twilight has ended, and night has fallen. I suppose we must be in one of the tunnels that runs underneath the mountains that border the Capitol. The mountains are a natural barrier, and they were one of the reasons that the Districts lost the war. It's impossible to enter without permission, unless you want to climb a mountain.

I run to the window, hoping to be the first to catch a glimpse of it. At present, all I see is rock, and it's unsettling to know that there's nothing but stone for hundreds and hundreds of feet above me. Edward rushes towards the window, too. I crane to get a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, but my angle makes it impossible. Suddenly I begin to panic. The train speeds along, the darkness stretching out endlessly, and I think of how far I am from the sky. Trapped so far below, buried in the darkness, with no one to hear me scream. I'm encased in stone, as though I were already buried deep in the earth, waiting for the elements to take me away. My mind flashes to the dead, all of those killed in mining accidents, forever trapped in the eternal night. Edward must be thinking the same. He takes my hand as we wait for the advent of the sun.

Light suddenly floods the train, and I gasp. We're flying over a dam, onto a lake, and into the Capitol. The New York skyline is small in comparison. Some buildings are almost as tall as the mountains themselves. Various shades of sky blue and aquamarine deck the buildings, and yet somehow they manage to protect nature. I could mistake it for a Utopia if I didn't know that they wanted to see me dead. We zoom into it quickly, pulling into the city. I only catch glimpses of the oddly dressed people as we cross into the center of the city and then pull to a halt in the station. The cameras haven't lied about its grandeur.

The streets are paved, the cars are shiny, and I can't seem to find a color that isn't artificial. The pinks are far too bright, the blues too deep, the yellows too exotic. Other colors are their candy shades, the orange the one that you find in lollipops, the kind that makes my mouth water. And the people. Whiskers are attached to their faces, they where false eyelashes a foot long, their hair is flaming red— sometimes literally, they have been altered to have cats' ears, and others are as pale as snow. Their clothes are bright and frilly, covered in flowers, and all made of satin. I have to wonder how they walk in those high heels. Their faces are painted, some like clowns, others as make-up, they've died their bodies, and they wear Cinderella gloves and earrings that should make their ears fall off. They're human, and they're more alien to me than vampires.

People jump up and down to get a glimpse of us. Their bizarre hairstyles are stunning me, and their odd choices of dress... but what's more is their elation at seeing us. The newest Tributes, soon to be slaughtered. They can't wait to see us die. I stare at them, trying to understand. What thoughts fill their waking hours? What do they do all year before the Games? Do they enjoy the sight of blood and gore, or are they really just anxious for the celebrations that precede? A small girl sits on her father's shoulders, waving at me. I wave back, though I don't smile as she does. She wails and thrashes with delight, nearly knocking herself off. Edward gives her a friendly smile. The train finally pulls to a halt, and we are no longer being observed. It's time for the stylists to take a look at us.

An Author's Note

Remember to review. Feedback would be great, I need to know how I'm doing.

Even if you don't review, thank you for reading.

See you Sunday!

~Sun