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We pass the train ride in silence. We've only been in Four for around two days, and yet here we are on a train again, this time bound for the Capitol. After the rebellion, the Capitol had to undergo a massive repair job. I've heard things, of course, about how they're rebuilding the candy colored skyscrapers and installing brand new, high tech streetlights. Flashes of TV news which I turned off and dismissed. After all, it's not like I could care less. Up until now, that is.

Now I know why they've bothered to recreate the city which ignited the rebellion. Revenge. Because it wasn't enough to rip countless families apart. Kill thousands of innocent people, young and old. My flaming outfits and defiant words were all just a mere stage in this sick, twisted game of war and justice.

Months ago, in a room seated with my remaining fellow victors and Coin, we'd had a vote. The details of that day come rushing back in full detail now. I start to feel queasy. "No! I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!" "Let them have a taste of their own medicine." "We have to stop viewing one another as enemies." Then, "I vote yes…for Prim." For Prim.

My head starts to pound. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 17 years old. My sister, Prim, was killed in a bombing. Released by the rebels I sided with. I survived. I voted yes to a final Hunger Games held with Capitol children. I am on a train now, headed for the Capitol. The Seventy Sixth Hunger Games will be taking place because of my vote that day. Children will be killed. Their families will mourn. Because of me.

I do remember Johanna and Enobaria voting yes along with me. And Haymitch. But I know whatever happens next, I am the one who is truly responsible. If I'd sided with Peeta, Annie, Finnick, and Beetee, Haymitch would have been with me. Which means there would be no Seventy Sixth Hunger Games.

A wave of confusion washes over me. Didn't I vote yes for Prim? For everything and everyone I lost to the Capitol. For justice. Or was it really vengeance?

Only when a pair of strong, familiar arms encircle me do I realize I'm sitting in a hunched position on the floor, rocking back and forth. There's something comforting about the steady rhythm. Back and forth. Tick, tock. The arena's a clock. And then I break down. Whatever bit of self control and sanity I had leaves me in an instant. I start to cry, not sniffles and silent tears, but loud sobs which rack my body and tear at my heart. My throat is dry and choked up, as though someone were strangling me. And then I'm thrashing around, fighting everyone and everything.

I can hear voices trying to reach me, see faces shifting around, but it's as though they're all obscured with a thick layer of fog. Nothing makes sense anymore. Eventually, I feel something cold and sharp stab into me, before I start descending into pitch black darkness.

When I open my eyes again, I'm in the room I share with Peeta, cocooned in a tangle of sheets. Evening light filters through the window, indicating that I've been out for…three, maybe four hours? Peeta is standing at the window with his back to me, his figure silhouetted.

As though he knew I were awake, he turns around, relief crossing his face. "Hey," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Feel better?"

I nod. The headache and fog have cleared away, leaving just a dull throb. This must be some kind of record for me. Being knocked out twice in a month. I start to wonder if I'll be able to keep my sanity after all.

"So," I say, my voice dry and raspy. "What did I miss out on?" He shrugs. "Not much, really." But I can tell there's something he's not saying out loud. "You're a terrible liar, Mellark."

He sighs, averting my gaze. "Maybe it'd be best if I let Plutarch tell you himself," he says hesitantly. "Once you're in better condition, that is." "I'm not crazy!" I can feel my voice rising, panic starting to bubble in my stomach. "You're not," he says soothingly. "Of course you aren't, Katniss. I didn't say you were." "Then tell me." I stare him down until he gives in.

He sighs again. "Plutarch has been planning for the Seventy Sixth Hunger Games," he begins, in a flat, monotone voice. "He's rebuilt not just the Capitol, but also a new arena, training center, everything. The Reaping is taking place tomorrow, which is when we're scheduled to arrive. We're supposed to show up as some kind of honorary guest." He pauses for a moment, letting me digest all this information.

Tomorrow? Everything feels a bit surreal at the moment, so I just nod numbly for Peeta to continue. "There's going to be twenty-four tributes, same as always. Twelve female, twelve male, from ages twelve to eighteen. The only exception is that Snow's granddaughter has been guaranteed a spot in the games this year. Two weeks of training, and no mentors this year."

I raise my eyebrows. "That seems quite unfair," I say. His eyes are sad. "The games were never about fair, Katniss. You know that." I'm somewhat surprised at this coming from Peeta, since when did he become so jaded?

"We're the sponsors," he finishes. "Victors, and all of Panem." There's a heaviness in my chest which I can't explain. We both know that this year's games are going to be even more depressing and miserable than ever. They don't really stand a chance, those Capitol children. And it's not like they'll exactly have pools of eager sponsors, either.

"Peeta," I whisper. "Why did I ever vote for this?" He doesn't say anything. It's not necessary, really. The silence which hangs between us is woven out of all the feelings we'll never be able to voice.

As soon as we arrive at the Capitol, we're immediately ushered into a large auditorium by an excited looking Plutarch Heavensbee. He doesn't seem to notice the haggard expression on our faces, or the tiredness of our voices. He's beaming, ranting on and on about how this year shall be unforgettable, and how everyone just can't wait to see us, as though this were some big party.

I tune him out by turning my attention to other things instead. There's a stage at the front of the auditorium, complete with red velvet drapes and special effects lighting on the ceiling. The two crystal bowls are on the table rising out of the stage itself, filled to the brim with slips of white paper. I briefly wonder who will be the one who has to face the unpleasant task of pulling name after name out, announcing the death sentence of all but one tribute.

There are people everywhere. The seats are nearly full already, and there's a steady stream coming in through the doors. Today, these Capitol people somehow seem less frivolous and more subdued. The colorful wigs and ridiculous hats are still there, but beneath the layers of costume and makeup, I see creased foreheads and dull eyes. They look so devastated that I almost start to feel sorry for them.

Then I'm confused again. Aren't these the very same people who cheered for our deaths and took pleasure in the games we hated so much?

I feel a yank on my arm, and I'm suddenly pulled forward by Johanna, who's just behind Plutarch and the others. "Earth to Brainless," she whispers sarcastically. "Let's get our asses up front in those VIP seats, because we just can't wait for the games to start. It's going to be an oh so fabulous and unforgettable year."

I have to smile, despite everything. "It's definitely a big, big, big day," I agree mockingly. Then we both crack up a little, some of the tension eased. I'm secretly glad to have Johanna by my side, someone who I know I can trust to snap me out of my mood.

We settle down in one row, with Plutarch to the left, Peeta next to Plutarch, then me, Finnick, Annie, and Johanna. Beetee and Enobaria show up a while later, sitting down silently. I can't say I'm surprised at Haymitch's absence.

The announcer, it turns out, is none other than Effie herself, sporting a lavender colored wig today. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual reaping of the Seventy Sixth Hunger Games!" she trills, her voice wobbling a bit. There's half-hearted applause before she continues. "As you all know," she says slowly, "This year is very, very special." A pause. "These shall be the final, and ultimate Hunger Games in the history of Panem. " She swallows visibly. "This year's tributes are from our very own Capitol." Silence. "Let's get started, then!" she says hurriedly, clapping her hands loudly. It's almost like watching someone having a conversation with themself.

It starts. I don't recognize any of the names, and the list just goes on and on. Only a few names leave an impression in my mind, though. There's Ophelia Snow, Snow's granddaughter, who turns out to be sixteen with white blond hair and icy blue eyes. Then there's Dimitri, a tall, stocky eighteen year old with a bald head and a body covered in tattoos. Marcus, a thirteen year old with wild curls and startling green eyes.

We're down to the last few tributes, I think, when someone catches my attention. The girl who walks towards the stage looks around fifteen or sixteen, with jet black hair and a slim frame. When she reaches the stage, and turns around to face the audience, that's when I know for sure. Emerald eyes with flecks of gold in them. A very light coat of makeup, barely visible save the metallic bronze eyeliner.

I'm frozen. It can't be. No, the resemblance is too uncanny to be ignored. Stylish black leather jacket and matching black pants. Simple white blouse and a pair of caramel colored knee boots. This outfit could only have been designed by one person I know. Those eyes could only belong to him.

And all of a sudden, I know without a doubt that Cinna's daughter has just been reaped.