Disclaimer: I disclaim anything that will get me sued.

I watched as the rebels talked amongst themselves, trying to decide what to tell me. Finally, Peeta looked up.

"Okay, Katrina. You will have a mentor, who will help you try and get through the Games. You will also have a stylist, who will help you look your best for the chariot ride and the interviews."

I opened my mouth to ask a question, but Peeta cut me off. "Is that everything?" Another rebel nodded silently.

"Will my mentor and stylist be rebels?" I asked. Everyone looked at me.

"Yes," someone said carefully. I frowned in their general direction.

"Stay here, Katrina," Katniss said. Then she stood, along with all the rebels.

They walked off to have a private conversation, leaving me wondering who was going to be my stylist and mentor.

-o-O-o-

When the rebels returned, the train had just started, and I was playing with my hair.

"Katrina, we have decided who will be your stylist and mentor," a young man with straight black hair and gray eyes said. Gale Hawthorne, I remembered. I think.

Katniss spoke up again. "Beetee has volunteered to mentor for you. And Octavia said earlier she was going to be your stylist."

I processed her words for a second before asking, "Beetee... as in the Victor/Mentor/Rebel Beetee?"

A man in a wheelchair nodded. "Yes. I'm Beetee. Nice to meet you, Katrina."

I nodded back at him. I sensed the same thing as with Katniss when she came to retrieve me. He spoke in a polite tone, but there was anger in his eyes. I sighed. No one in the room seemed to like me.

I nodded again, trying to convince myself it would be fine; Beetee would not make me die on purpose. "So... what do I do now?" I asked, sensing this conversation was closed.

Everyone except Beetee stood and left. Just as the door was closing, I caught a snippet of their conversation.

"She'll never make it."

"You never know... she could have some of Snow's poison."

"Ha. As if. Nice thinking, Gale."

"Why, thank you."

I scowled at the closed door. So they thought I wasn't going to win?

"Katrina?" Beetee asked. His voice was monotone; he seemed to be trying to hold back anger.

"Yeah?" I replied. I figured that if he was my mentor, I better be polite to him.

"Tomorrow are the chariot rides. Get some sleep." I nodded and walked down the hall to my room.

-o-O-o-

I was jolted awake by what I believed was my stylist's face. "Hello, Katrina! I'm Octavia!"

She was plump, but pretty. She had colored skin; I should get that when I return. "Hello," I said tiredly.

Just then, Beetee wheeled himself into the room. "We've arrived at the Training Center, Katrina. Octavia's going to get you ready for the chariot rides. See you soon." I nodded, and slipped out of bed.

"Oh, Katrina, wait 'til you see your outfit!" Octavia squealed, and I smiled at her. It was nice to have someone who understood fashion.

I hopped out of bed, and shooed Octavia out as I changed to walk to the Training Center.

I grabbed a long-sleeve lavender silk dress that went to my ankles. I put on a shimmery, sparkly, silver shawl and tied it with a lavender ribbon I found. Then, after I put glitter in my hair, I was ready. I stepped outside of my room, and Octavia ohhed and ahhed. I smiled at her again, and we walked outside, down a short walkway, and into a building that I believed was the Training Center.

We walked inside; there was several guards and the president herself, Paylee, or something like that.

"Hello, Katrina," the president said. She had the voice like the rest of the rebels, a strained voice that told me she didn't really like me. "Your floor will be the number stamped on your hand. Your floor is where you will stay until... until the Games," she said. I nodded.

"Thank you, Commander Paylor!" Octavia trilled. Commander? I opened my mouth to ask why Paylee - sorry, Paylor - didn't demand more respect. Grandpa always did. However, Octavia shoved me to the stamping station, where she seemed to have a silent conversation with the guards. Everyone seemed hurried. I quickly got my stamp and was pushed into the elevator before I could even see my hand.

-o-O-o-

Octavia push a button that I assumed was mine. I finally looked at my hand; seeing my number.

On my hand, stamped clearly in blank ink, was the number 13.

"How many... "tributes" are there?" I asked, hesitating a bit on the word tribute.

"Twenty-five," Octavia replied, too quickly for my taste. It was starting to seem like she was a rebel too, when I was really hoping she was from the Capitol.

"Twenty-five," I mused softly. "Twenty-five."

I considered this new piece of information, when suddenly, a thought came to me.

"That's one more than usual," I stated.

Octavia smiled slyly. "They wanted it to be twenty-four. But they made an exception. They wanted it to hurt more."

"For who?" I asked, feeling sorry; not too sorry, but sorry, for the person.

"You," Octavia replied simply.

Dun, dun, duuuuuun! Hope you guys liked it!