I feel a meaty hand clamp around the back of my arms and drag me toward the elevator. The noise of the City Center crowd drowns out all other words except Katniss, Katniss, Katniss. My mind spins on the ride up, even though its only one floor and we could have taken the stairs. Gloss' grip on my arms does not weaken, I can almost feel the rage radiating into my arm from his hands. I wonder if another mentor said something to them.

Tributes from District 9 cower against the far edge of the glass. My very presence incites fear, I think, although it is very possible that they could be shying away from Marvel, who seems to enjoy their humiliation. I curl the edges of my lips up into a small smile, but they shiver and look away.

When we reach our living quarters, Gloss and Cashmere lead us aggressively toward a luxurious stretch of living room with a large television. Marvel and I sit hip to hip, watching the sudden anger erupt out of our mentors.

Cashmere slides her finger up on a glass remote, turning on the recap, and chucks it behind the couch into the next room. Gloss had been standing behind us and is in nearly impeccable positioning as he flicks his wrist out, effortlessly, and catches it. He hurls his shoulder back and slams it against a wall behind her head. A growl escapes Cashmere's throat as she turns away from Gloss, a whip of blonde hair, and watches the Capitol seal spread across the screen.

"Her stylist is good," Marvel inhales deeply, reading our mentor's minds. "But so what?"

Cashmere turns back sharply and looks at Gloss, and then to us.

"Wait and see what you think of the Girl on Fire after this." Cashmere says, her voice fiery.

Cashmere and Gloss allow us to watch our own Reaping. Could that have possibly been earlier today? I almost forgot how white everything was without the avant garde Capitolites dressing us. When Dahlia calls my name, the first thing I notice is that all the girls exchange terse glances. The second thing is that I contract from my chest a little bit, and now, sitting on the couch I feel the shot of cold blood that rushed through my limbs. It took no more than a couple of seconds for me to realize no one was volunteering, but I beg myself silently to make the next move.

Finally I smile and hold a hand to my heart, then hug the girl next to me as if we've been lifelong friends. I sit back a little in the plush couch. It's over.

Marvel makes an equally noticeable shift forward when Dahlia announces the boy's drawing. His name is called and all his surrounding classmates shake his hand in honor and awe. He walks with confidence and might, seeming to look over the crowd and into the beyond as he stands on the Reaping stage. I remember his mom dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief while saying, "That's my son." Cashmere has been pacing the living room this entire time, her stilettos making an echo every time she steps. She halts for a moment to pat Marvel's hand.

"I'm sure she's very proud of you, son. I know she wanted the same for Kyanite and Jasper."

He nods and then focuses back on the screen. District 2.

These are the warriors of the Games. Training killers in in District 2 is mandatory, and it is obvious that every single kid is prepared to die. They're brainwashed, truly, and my heart goes out to them. After the Dark Days, the Capitol rewarded the one district that stuck tight to its rule. My parents knew that secret, I do too. Few know that District 2 is not only masonry, but it is the military base of Panem. Does anyone realize how easy it would be? If a revolution sparked in District 2 of all places… They could change things. There would be blood in the streets. Everything we knew-

"Glimmer!" Cashmere barks and nods to the screen.

The muscular brute that was in the chariot behind us lunges forward at the questioning of volunteers. He could wound an animal just with his eyes.

A fit, brawny girl stands next to the boy. She has dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, dark eyes, and a light dusting of freckles under her eyes. She looks quite short compared to the boy, but I know she is a warrior. There is a reason no one volunteered for her. Cashmere pauses it.

"Meet the first half of your alliance. Cato and Clove."

District 3 itself is decrepit. The skies are gray and hang low as the monstrous factories in the background pump smoke into the air. The streets are soggy and wet, like they have never seen a ray of sun. The boy has a nagging cough and the girl's dress hangs off of her like a trash bag. Marvel clenches and unclenches his fists in anticipation. I can't do this. It's sickening.

District 4 fascinates me. There's something about them that is… Deeper. They train their tributes illegally, but are not flashy. They do what needs to be done and get over it. Even Finnick Odair, who may not be very humble, creates these relationships so effortlessly with other victors. The tributes this year are a girl that looks about my age, with golden hair and a pretty suntan. She looks healthy, I suppose, but nothing like Clove. The boy emerges from the 12 year olds crowd, but no one says a word or nods in disapproval.

"You're kidding me," Marvel snorts and looks to Gloss. "I am not about to ally with a 12 year old."

Before Cashmere chastises him on attitude toward his respectable mentors, I chime in.

"There is a reason no one volunteered. Give him a chance." I say in the most judging tone I can muster, gesturing to the screen.

"Oh yeah? The same way no one volunteered for you, you arrogant-"

"Shut up, you two." Gloss demands. We redirect our attention.

District 5. There is a girl with fiery red hair that is Reaped. She walks up to the stage slowly, her perpetually concentrated gaze speaking for her. The wind whistles around her, the only noise as the crowd asks for volunteers, and I decide that she doesn't look so big but she has a Clove-like appearance to her.

The rest of the Reaping proceeds apace until we get to District 10. A boy is Reaped, but instead of walking up to the podium, he hobbles. He has a crippled foot. Everyone looks down as he passes, slowly. Painfully slowly.

District 11. Another 12 year old is Reaped, a lovely girl with dark skin and dark eyes. Mama, her lips barely move enough for me to notice as she leaves her line and marches to the stage. Her mother just stands there and cries while everyone around her shifts uncomfortably.

I think about that girl for a long time. That could have been Em. That will be Em if I don't win this cruel… Game? Is it still a game? No… No, it is more than that. In the districts it is much more than a game… In fact it's a war, a war in its earliest stages. I twist the ring around on my finger, the one Onyx gave to me. MAKE YOU FEEL MY LOVE, the fancy script promises me. The words offer me little comfort, I still don't quite understand their meaning.

At last, District 12. It looks a lot like District 3, but even deeper in poverty. Everyone looks very sick. I try to spot the girl named Katniss in the crowd, but no one stands out in the sea of gray and white. Haymitch Abernathy, the district's only living victor talks in a drunken tongue up on the stage to their Capitol escort.

Primrose Everdeen.

The girl that emerges from the crowd is not Katniss, or resembles her in any way. She has blue eyes and two blond braids that trail down her back to reveal that her shirt is untucked. Everyone in the crowd sighs disapprovingly. Then volunteer! I scream in my head, and I am answered by a strangles female voice.

"Prim! Prim, no! I- I VOLUNTEER!" She emerges from the crowd, and that, yes that, is Katniss. It is not the Girl on Fire, but that is Katniss, the girl with an olive complexion, ashy eyes, and straight black hair. "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" Everyone is startled and shaken up by her sudden sacrifice, even the Peacekeepers stop closing in around her.

"Katniss, no. Oh please don't, please don't Katniss," Primrose Everdeen begs her sister.

"Go to Gale." Katniss says flatly, not even looking at Prim, who has wrapped her arms around her sister's middle. A lot of mumbling and figuring out rules is happening on the stage, but no one is paying attention.

"No, Katniss!"

"I said go, Prim."

A handsome young man, I presume Gale, hurries out of the crowd and sweeps Prim up with one hand. She is crying hysterically and hitting Gale but he doesn't budge.

Their escort says some ridiculous thing about stealing all the glory from her sister, but I tune back in when she asks for applause. I have never, ever wished to live in District 12 until this moment, the moment when they do not condone the Hunger Games but instead hold three fingers to their lips and raise their hands in the air.

Marvel sits next to me in shock, shaking his head.

The boy chosen is Peeta Mallark. He isn't a total weakling, although he isn't as tall as Marvel. His build is slightly stocky, and he has blue eyes and blond hair. He looks more like Prim than Katniss. The anthem plays, and the screen goes black.

Cashmere and Gloss walk around the couch and stand over us, their arms crossed identically.

"You are quite lucky your predecessors have left legacies," Cashmere says coolly. "Katniss has made the best first impression of all the districts. That's going to be hard to come back from."

Marvel looks at me and snorts, as if the idea is so preposterous and expects me to say something. "Well, that's absurd. All that stuff is pageantry. We'll be in the Training Center tomorrow-"

"Training Center?" I look up to Cashmere in question.

"-And that's where it will all fall apart. She's probably never handled anymore than a butter knife." Marvel continued in a raised voice as if I hadn't interrupted.

"Marvel, your confidence is awe-inspiring," Cashmere assures him. "But the Capitolites… Well, I think they're excited about an… underdog, if I may."

"It won't last long," Gloss states in a gruff voice. "If that old drunk Abernathy could find his way to a single sponsorship dinner I would be shocked."

Cashmere and Marvel nod in agreement. "Well it's late. Go on to bed. Tomorrow we will be getting up early, Marvel to work with me, and Gloss to work with Glimmer."

I follow Marvel's suit and slightly bow my head as I rise from the couch and walk to our rooms. The Capitol seal still shines bright on the television that I first met my victims.