AUTHORS NOTE

I don't own the Hunger Games or any characters in it, only my OCs. PrimroseRaspberry owns her OC. Get ready, this is a long one!

3

The train station is less than a minute away from the town hall, but that minute feels like an hour. I never understood how annoying it is to be photographed and interviewed at every turn until now. Frankly, I thought being in the spotlight would be a little less suffocating.

I didn't notice Lyme and the mayor sneak away, but somehow it's just me, Cato, our mentors and Metella navigating the ocean of reporters.

Damn it, Clove. Keep your senses sharp.

Metella leads the way, splitting the sea of cameras and fluffy microphones with a single sweep of her drooping velvet sleeves. She's been our Capitol representative since before I was born, so she's walked this path dozens of times. Even Enobaria follows behind her, recognising the authority in the situation. Metella must be a whole new level of severe to gain proud Enobaria's respect.

Metella gestures to our mini procession to keep up with her. It's hard to match the woman's pace without breaking out into a jog, and I even catch a running bounce in Cato's gait. If Enobaria's a beast, I don't want to risk crossing this swift woman.

'Don't pay attention to the cameras, and do not give the reporters any sound bites.' Metella hisses in my ear, after I've finally caught up to her. 'I've done this job long enough to know that one revealing little phrase can bring your image crashing down.'

I nod nervously as Metella lifts her head and repeats her advice to Cato. She's made shivers dash down my spine. My life hangs between this woman and Enobaria, and I've already managed to piss off one. I need to keep my track record with Metella sparklingly pristine.

The flash of bulky, dangerous-looking cameras renders me pretty much blind to where we are for the entire trip. Directly to my right, left and behind is an unholy glow that masks my surroundings.

When we finally darken the doorstep of District 2's main train station, the only thing visible through the bulletproof panes of the wide entrance doors is a mass of twisting bodies. Elbows dig into stomachs and armpits devour faces.

Somehow, a crowd of citizens has beaten me and most of the needy reporters to the station. Thankfully, a small army of peacekeepers has also beaten me to the stations. They flip open the doors and start to chase people away so we can get to the platform. They wave a glowing blue electric baton at anyone that dares come to close, a crackle of current following each empty swing.

I get pushed and heaved through the high-security terminals and onto the platform. Fortunately, the platform is the first one directly opposite the lobby. It spares us from having to walk over the arching metal bridge to the next. People have somehow figured out a way to get past the first level of security and flood onto the bridge, leaning over the banister and waving with over-eager smiles stretched across their faces. I even get a catcall from a pug-faced teenager that doesn't ring a bell.

Well, at least someone thinks I'm hot.

Because the first platform is the only one designed for trains carrying sentient beings and not mammoth slabs of stone, it's slightly nicer and a hell of a lot more tight on the security front. Can't have any one hitching a nice little illegal train ride to the Capitol.

We get pushed through a second round of terminals by our peacekeeping travel buddies, who have their hands on their holsters. Venturing no further than the concourse, they hand us over to another band of uniformed figures, masked this time.

During the commotion, the maglev that's going to take me to the rest of my life has begun to slide soundlessly into the station, doors hissing open. As it pulls up almost in slow-motion, I catch sight of what may become one of my two least favorite people through a window.

The District 1 girl has her cheeks squashed against the glass, flashing a cartoon wave and matching smile. Caramel beach waves cascade over her shoulders.

Bare shoulders, I realise. Ballsy move.

Still, there's no mistaking the you're-so-dead look in her sexy-girl eyes. I stifle a gulp, a cannonball of dread rupturing my stomach.

The peacekeepers poke us forward into the beckoning maw of the train doors, which clamp shut behind us. The greedy screams of the rowdy crowd outside are muffled, but they pound my ears even so. It's a relief to finally be away from the ravenous clutches of the crowd and the blonde Career's arrow-sharp death stare. I take a deep breath.

I'm in a small tiled hallway of sorts, with a passageway to the right and a six-panelled door right ahead. On the wall to my left is an abstract painting that looks like it cost more than the train itself.

'Right,' Metella says, leaning on the sideboard as if this is her home, 'Now everybody's here, children, your bedrooms are past the dining car. Cato is in number one and Clove three. Everyone else, I trust you know where you need to be. I expect you in the dining car within half an hour.'

With that, Metella does a swift one-eighty and slips through the door, red dress trailing behind her. Enobaria and Brutus disappear through the passage to the right, leaving Cato and me alone.

I make to follow the Victors, but I feel Cato's large, rough hand on my shoulder stopping me.

'Hey.' he says. 'You still owe me an explanation for before.'

I sigh and turn away.

'I'm not stupid, you know.'

'Really? I'm surprised.' I just can't help myself.

'I can put two and two together. Where'd the jacket go?'

My brow furrows. I'm starting to get annoyed. I don't want to keep being reminded about my jelly-laced predicament the moment I forget about it. And the hell I'm telling Cato all about it.

'It went to none of your business.' I snap, my words like poison arrows.

'Oops. Someone's getting angry. Spill.'

This time around, Cato has the impish grin. Our roles are reversed, and I don't like this dangerous new territory. The interrogator needs to pick herself up.

I force my face into a practised calm, unclenching my fists and slowing my breath. Inside, there's a small world war.

'Spill what? Maybe I just didn't want to wear it.'

If I know anything, there's nothing more vexing than empty answers. Time to take back my high ground.

'That's not an answer.' Cato's voice is wavering. Bingo.

'What else were you expecting? Did I spill the blood of my enemies on it after I chased them into a room and slaughtered them? Incinerate it in one of my torture devices? Cry onto it? Yeah, it's not that juicy, buddy.'

'By the way you looked at that bitch in the train window, I think it's a little juicier than that.'

'Oh shit, you caught me. I really did cry onto it. I was missing my mommy.' I retaliate.

Cato turns a shade redder.

'Clove, you're smart,'

'Stating the obvious.' I butt in.

Cato ignores my comment.

'so you know how important that damn clasp is. You're not suicidal, either. I mean, hell, I've still got my beauties,' Cato flashes me his cufflinks. 'and I didn't need to be told twice to wear them. Where'd the jacket go?'

He's getting better at this, goddammit. I recognise a lost battle. With false confidence, I turn towards the passage, leaving Cato hanging with nothing but an ignorant smile lingering on my lips.

'Hey! Hey!' he calls after me.

I start through the archway, dragging my fingers across the mahogany frame. Stop for a moment. Take in the luxury. Then I stride across the lounge car, fingertips gliding across the leather couch suite.

Cato persists in trying to win my attention back. I drown him out with the music in my head.

It's an old song. I don't mean twenty, fifty or even a hundred years old. This song dates further back in time than the Dark Days. Further than even Panem, all the way back to before the world caught fire and society drowned, and only Panem survived. Back when Panem used to be some-place called Murica.

It's all triumphant chords and wailing gang voices, with a male singer belting over it all. I first heard it on an old piece of tech called a ped or a pod, something like that, when I was little. Gran pressed the pod to my pudgy hands on the vicious Tuesday morning before I was surrendered to the Career camp, looping the tiny, wired listening devices over my ears. The music was tinny, but the catchy melodies burst through all the same. The sound quality had deteriorated over time, rendering the lyrics undistinguishable except from a single line:

When I ruled the world.

'Listen! Listen to that, Clove! He ruled the world, just like you will. Believe in it like I do, and you can rule all of it. The whole wide world won't stop you. And you, my little rabbit, will be the greatest leader it's ever seen!' Gran whispered softly into my ear.

I remember her warm, gentle arms blanketing me in a hug. Her citrus perfume. Her wild chuckle as she released me into the clutches of the Career training program. But just like everyone else, she hung her little rabbit up high and dry, ignoring my sad existence until she wanted bragging material for her book club. And then she died without ever saying goodbye, and District kids don't get to be rulers.

My grandmother may have gone, but the song stuck. I mouth along to the contour of the words as the beat pulses through my head. While all the other newbies to purgatory, Cato included, snivelled into their comforters, I swayed to the song in my head. It's stayed with me all this time.

I'm at the end of the lounge car now, leaning against the door frame to the dining car, facing a grumpy Cato still half-in the hallway.

Music in my head, sorry! I mouth to him.

I turn on my heel, dashing through the dining car, barely avoiding a mirrored drinks tray and varnished sideboard. Glad that's over.

The next car is a long hall with two doors on one side. Brass numbers mark out rooms one and two. The door to number two is ajar, and through it I get an excellent view of Brutus' shirtless back. His bed hides less pleasant sights. I grimace. God, did this guy get the doors 101 course?

I continue on to the next car. It's a clone of the previous one, only this time the door numbers are three and four, and there's no passage through the end. I think back to the art on the wall of the entranceway. No passage in that direction either. Can't have us clawing each other's throats out before the games even start, can we?

I slip into my room, sliding to the floor with my back against the door. I massage my temples. Now Cato's pissed at me as well. It's better than him thinking I'm deranged, though. I'm one to keep my cards close, play them at the right moment, but Cato blurts everything out willy-nilly. Thank God I didn't surrender to his investigation.

I lock the door this time, for sure, and make sure the train window doesn't open. Satisfied, I plop down on the queen size bed, feeling the velvet throw prickling the skin on the back of my hand and the underneath of my knee. The feather mattress is a sea of comfort, and my eyes itch with tiredness. Nevertheless, if I'm to stay on Metella's good side, I need to be in the dining car in -let's see- ten minutes.

I may as well have not taken that shower this morning. Somewhere in between the handshakes and my argument with Cato, I've perspired a small ocean, and I need to wash and change. I've only got time to do one of these things in the measly time that I've got.

The closet in my bedroom is fully stocked with fashionable Capitol get-up in my size. It even has a selection of faux patent-leather footwear and matching shiny purses. I keep it open in front of me as I undress, considering what to wear. I'm not one to be picky about my outfits, but here I don't even know where to start. I need comfortable, yet presentable. Shit.

Once I've stripped down to my underwear, I have to go deeper than my surface search of the closet. I spin the rotary hang-rail until I get to a section containing jumpsuits and lounge sets. I settle on a mauve legging-sweater combo and pull a white club-collar shirt on underneath it, to make it look like I at least tried. Socks, at the least, are simple. I clad my feet in a solid grey pair.

The real problem, however, is shoes. I'm not getting back into those buckled freaks ever again, which leaves me a wide, but very uncomfortable-looking, choice. There's spiky red stiletto heels and shining blue brogues, woven platform sandals and some art piece on a six-inch sole that resembles a cheese, among crazier things. In a fit of desperation, I force my yeti feet into the stiff navy brogues, squishing five toes into a space made for three. I have to lean on the upholstered footboard of my bed to get them on, my fingers straining in between my fat ankle and the unforgiving leather.

Once I'm done, I sigh in relief, taking a moment to regain my breath. If anything's going to kill me, it's the Capitol shoes. I look to the decorative clock above my bed frame. One minute.

I waddle uncomfortably back to the dining car. Everyone's there but Brutus. Cato is still in his reaping clothes, a white dress shirt, floral tie, and navy slacks. And of course, olive-branch-themed golden cufflinks from District 1. Metella has exchanged her long ruby ballgown for a clean wine-red two piece suit, and Enobaria is clad in a forest cocktail dress.

The two women stand by the drinks tray. Soft conversation comes to a halt as I enter.

'Clove.' Metella gives me a piercing glare. 'Just in time. Sit.' She says, gesturing to the claw-footed chair beside Cato's.

I take my seat as Metella and Enobaria draw chairs at the heads of the table. Metella purses her lips, looking towards the empty seat opposite mine.

'We'll have to proceed without Brutus.' She hisses, brow furrowing. Could she have been Brutus's representative for his games? It's not unlikely.

'Now, let's talk tactics.'

'Already?' Cato interjects. 'We don't even know who we're up against.'

'Yeah. We'd know our opponents much better after the reapings end. Wouldn't it be so much easier to devise our strategies then?' I agree.

Suddenly, Enobaria joins the conversation, leaning diagonally across the table until Cato and I can taste her breath. Her bitter perfume stings my nostrils.

'Believe me, you do not know what you're up against. You will not know before the reaping, or after. Not until the games will you ever, ever know who your opponents are.'

Her eyes secrete some kind of fury I've never seen before in anyone, in all of my life, and I've met a lot of very angry people. I've also never been as aware of her chiselled shark-teeth before. This woman is talking from experience, and not the good kind. For the first time, Enobaria really, truly scares me.

I'm pulled out of the fire by the appearance of Brutus's bald head in the door-frame. I've only ever seen Brutus in intense rage or even more intense rage, but this time he has a freaky smile stretched across his cheeks. He jumps into the room with a deep chuckle, leaping into his chair and staring right through my soul. Enobaria finally backs away, and I sigh inwardly, relieved. I hear Cato's held breath releasing through his lips.

Brutus's voice has a scarily upbeat quality to it as he addresses the table. At least the words he says are comfortingly Brutus-esque.

'Breakfast! Where?' he grunts, rapping his place-mat with a meaty knuckle.

'Patience, patience, Brutus. All in good time.' Metella sounds almost motherly, and a smile I thought to be extinct appears on her full lips.

She reaches elegantly over her shoulder, ringing a brushed gold bell on the sideboard. It gives a soft chime. Metella turns back to face us. I can't help but notice Brutus's grin widen, a flash of pink tongue poking from a corner.

'Didn't you already have breakfast, before we left? I saw you in the refecto-' Cato is abruptly cut off by Brutus.

'Believe me, boy, ya haven't ate till ya have ate Capitol food. Blow ya away.'

'Eaten, Brutus. You haven't eaten.' Metella corrects, but not in the way Enobaria used to spit at me when I was younger. More kind. Caring, even. This is getting weird.

As if on cue, a white-robed servant steps out of the lounge car, two golden trays weighing down her thin arms. She places the first tray, laden with shiny pastries, in front of me, followed by the second, which carries teapots, jugs and cups.

'Thank you.' I say, as politely as I can manage while inhaling the heavenly scent of the food.

Looking around, I notice no one else thanks her. Metella leans to whisper in my ear:

'Avox. No tongue. Don't bother thanking them, they never work hard enough anyway.'

'Oh.'

Well that's damn cruel, but I say nothing to object. I have the feeling that if I do, bad things are going to happen, and not just to me.

'We shall discuss over breakfast. You may eat.' Metella declares.

I only now notice that everyone, including me, has been waiting for her word to attack the mound of food. No one's even thought of questioning her authority. And I see why. Partly because she's terrifying and commanding, but also because our thoughts are preoccupied with the food.

Food. Glorious, delicious, incredible food. If I had to list my hobbies, eating would be somewhere between knife-throwing and music, but in this moment it's skyrocketing to the top. The first pastry I grab is a roll caked entirely in sesame seeds. I take a polite little bite out of it, feeling the sesame crackling and hearty sourdough fill my mouth. I'm warmed instantly from head to toe, a small sun inside my body. Food definitely number one on that list, now. But that's not even the best of it. I take another bite, as respectfully as I can muster, then throw all manners overboard. I've hit gold- the inside of the roll is packed with blissfully sweet fruit and earthy, flavorfull nuts. Desperately, I stuff the heavenly bun into myself so hard I'm practically inhaling it. I have so much to chew, I haven't just bitten off more than I can. It feels like if I split the load evenly across the table, the five us wouldn't be able to even start chewing. My hands, in this moment, exist only to pound the pastry through my lips, and my eyes are half-closed in other-worldly bliss.

Somehow, most of the food manages to get past my throat so I can somewhat speak.

'Wow.' I say, my voice muffled by the dough still left in my mouth. 'Yeah.'

I brush a mob of crumbs from my chin, giving the floor a nice little shower. Sprays of them fly from my mouth as I keep talking.

'Mmmm. Brutus had a point.'

The table stares at me in shock, Cato paused in the act of drowning a roll in a mug of hot chocolate. I stop chewing for a moment, embarrassment striking a hammer into my heart. What must Metella think of me now?

As it turns out, she doesn't care all that much. I guess I'm not the first to act like I did in reaction to all the delicacies, because she chuckles knowingly and says:

'Don't worry, dear. I've seen much worse. You've actually been rather polite.'

She casts a piercing glare in Brutus's direction. He shrugs, attention focused on scarfing down three coffee-soaked ciabatta rolls at once. Yeah, I'm not that bad. Then I double take. Metella just reassured me. She was nice. But why? Where did the cut-throat demeanour go, all of a sudden?

I put the questions aside, at least temporarily. Jelly-ghost is first on the agenda of weird things I need to address, and it's screaming me from the top of my mental list. The 'strange stuff' list is second on the mental list of mental lists, though. First up is the list of what to eat next.

At an incredible speed, the Avox girl has visited the kitchen, wherever it is, and came back with two trays of various porridges, toasts, and salads to add to the feast.

'Right on cue.' Metella declares. ' Now, let's try to eat a little slower this time. We need all the discussion we can get. You'll have plenty of time for self-indulgence, and to thank me, if you win. No point in getting slow and fat now.'

Never mind. Nice Metella has dissolved as quickly as she appeared.

As Metella keeps talking, the rest of the table piles food onto their plates. I grab another godly sesame fruit-roll and two slices of pane pugliese covered with a thick layer of guacamole, pouring myself some orange juice while I'm at it. Cato and Brutus have discovered a platter of some sort of candy, parcels of soft white dough containing vibrant jell-o. They scrap for their favourite flavors with quiet huffing noises. Even uptight Enobaria bites into a bruschetta, but somehow, the Capitol woman's plate is empty. As my cheeks fill with avocado, Metella finally continues:

'I can tell you two are formidable fighters. You're fast, and you're strong. You can be monsters when you need to. If you want to be taken seriously, you need to send that message across. How you present yourselves in the next few days is how you do that. You need people to want to ally with you, as many people as possible. Right now, you're doing the opposite of that.'

The entire table turns to look at me. I'm now very much aware of how damn ugly my outfit is, and how grandly I've fucked up with the jacket fiasco. District 1 will want to ally with 4, upholding the tradition. Then they'll give Cato the option of joining them or becoming their prey, just like I'll be. He'll choose the Career pack, leaving me, the hunter, alone to be hunted. Why me?

Then I get a stroke of genius. Each year, the Tributes get their own personal stylists to present them in whatever image they want. I'm sure I'll be able to make requests, and there's got to be some Capitol jeweller that imports from District 1. I can make a new olive branch, and wear it on stage in the Capitol instead. You'd never know it's gone.A grin plays on my lips.

'Clove! Clove!' Enobaria spits. 'Pay attention, for your own sake!'

I snap back to reality. I didn't notice I'd zoned out. My cheeks flush.

Metella clears her throat and I think she's about to pick up her speech once more, but instead she resigns with a sigh.

'These children are almost useless. Very well. Enjoy your meal. You will report back to me, having watched all the reapings, at two exactly, to form a plan for each of you. Lunch is at twelve. Maybe next time you'll actually listen, but if you're anything like the last pair... '

Metella rises from the table and heads in the direction of her private door, which I presume is some sort of staff's quarters. The rest of breakfast goes by in silence, with the exception of Cato and Brutus's scuffling over food. I feel guilty for ignoring Metella, and it might bite back a bit later, but I'm also relieved. Finally, I can truly focus on the grub.

Brutus beckons to the Avox girl, who's been standing meekly by the sideboard after delivering toast.

'More a' this. As much ya got.' He barks, jabbing at the empty sweet platter.

Content with enough sweet dough to feed a family of five, the men fall quiet, and the sound of crunching and chewing is the only thing to stir the stagnant air. The atmosphere is more awkward than the training centre reaping-day gala. I finish my avocado toast and engage in a staring contest with the fruit roll. Defeated, I snatch it and rise from the table, chair legs screeching.

'Right,' I say. 'I'll make a start on the reapings, then.'

'You do that.' Enobaria reaches for a bowl of oatmeal.

'I'll come with.'

Cato gets up, but not before upsetting Brutus by pilfering half of the jell-o sweets.

'My room or yours?' He asks. 'Mine's got a great flatsceen.'

I remember, with jealousy, the TV-less-ness of my quarters.

'It'll have to be yours.'

We leave our mentors alone in the dining car. Cato's room is first along the hall. He holds the door open for me as I duck through.

We settle together on the bed, although I make a point of staying a safe distance away from Cato's body.

The void looking back at us from the opposite wall flickers to life, straight to an aerial view of District 7. It's the same ordeal as last year, and the dozens before it. 7's a boring district. No one usually volunteers. Past tributes from 7 include a high concentration of snivelling twelve-year-olds, and when it's not a weeping child, it's a weeping teenager. The only exception that comes to mind is Johanna Mason, who posed as a cowardly little brat until the final ten. Then she went absolutely berserk with an axe and won the Games with ease.

I'm expecting this reaping to go exactly like all the other's I've witnessed. Cue the cry-babies. But it doesn't. No, this reaping goes south quicker than one can say 'It's reaping-day!'. And far south it goes.