Chariot Prep

A Cannon in the Wind;

The Fifth Hunger Games.

Isabel Abriani, 18;

District Twelve Female.

I'm awoken from my slumber by a banging on the door. Feeling strangely empty and disoriented, I slowly sit up, rubbing my eyes. Who's knocking on my door like that? I yawn, starting to stretch. And why does the bed feels different than usual..?

I'm about to get up and open the door, but in my sleepy state, a thought comes to mind. My mother nor my father would knock that hard. And I don't normally lock my door—that's disrespectful, considering it's their house and not mine. So is it my brother, Stefan? He's always messing with me, always trying to wind me up. And waking me up like this is something that'd definitely wind me up.

But then, that's when I hear the screaming.

"Hey! I know good and well you hear me, damn brat!" Nerva screams, the knocking getting harder and harder. At this point, the dead feeling inside, the unnatural feel of the bed, the locked door—it all starts making sense. "Open this door right now!"

Before I know it, the familiar sting of tears in my eyes comes back. I put my hands over my face, biting my lip to stop from crying out. I'm not at home. I'm in the tribute train. I'm almost at the Capitol.

I've been reaped for the Hunger Games.

I'm going to die.

Nerva continues to scream profanities at me, but it all starts tuning out after a while. All I can think about, all I can focus on, is my impending doom. And that's not even the worst part. Hundreds, thousands, millions of people will be watching as the life drains out of my eyes, as I take my last breath.

If I wasn't from District Twelve, I'd have hope. If I wasn't from the poorest, least-populated, most unprepared district, I'd have at least a smidgen of hope that I can return home.

But I am from District Twelve—and even though it's only been five years, we've come to the sad conclusion that the Hunger Games are a death penalty. Nothing more, and nothing less. Our tributes can't even survive the Bloodbath. If the teenagers prior to me can't do it, then how can someone like me?

I can't. I'm going to die; I'm going to die; I'm going to die.

But that doesn't mean you can't try, Isabel.

"Ahem."

Brought back to reality, I take my hands out of my face and look up. Standing over me is Nerva, his red eyes glaring a hole into my brain. Please don't look at me like that, I want to say, breaking eye contact. Don't look at me like I'm nothing more than trash. I just want to be normal like everybody else. Standing behind him is an Avox, a ring of keys in her pale hands. Even her light blue eyes stare at me with pity, because all she sees is a soon-to-be corpse. Even the lady with no tongue sees me as inferior.

I shift uncomfortably. I hate when multiple people look at me. I hate how they judge me. That's why I cried during the Reapings—not because I was just condemned to a future of unimaginable pain and suffering, but because I could feel the millions of eyes on me. Judging my appearance, my worth, whether they should bet on me or not. And then, after the Recaps, I cried some more because Aeliana was obviously unimpressed with me.

And when the star of Panem was unimpressed with you, everyone was unimpressed with you. That's what Nerva said, anyway. My situation grew in just one day to wondering whether the other girls saw me as their equal to whether the Capitol saw me as anything but a Bloodbath.

Adjusting is more harder than anyone could imagine.

"Do you understand how long I was standing outside, banging on your fucking door?" He questions, seething with rage.

For a moment, I contemplate what to say. Would saying yes get me yelled at more? Would saying no make me sound stupid? What about apologizing? Would he still be angry?

I don't want to make people mad, especially someone important like my Escort. He can get me sponsors, too. He can help me. Even though I resent him, voicing my opinions aren't something I normally do.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, meeting his gaze for half-a-second before looking away again. "I'm really sorry. You, um, look really nice this morning..." For some reason, the Avox lady gives a small smile at that, while my Escort does everything but.

"I look nice every morning," he says, crossing his arms. "But that's beside the point, brat. I refuse to deal with you if you're just going to go around whimpering every five fucking seconds. We'll be arriving to the Capitol in under an hour, so I expect you to change that mentality of yours before we do so. Do you understand me, or are you stupid as well as useless?"

I look down to my gray covers. Wrong answer, Isabel. Before I can mumble another apology, though, Eion pokes his head through the door.

"Can you leave her alone?!" He yells, glaring. Unlike mine, his cheeks aren't tear-stained whatsoever. His hair is horribly messy—but it's a good look for someone like Eion. "Seriously, all of your screaming woke me up! Stop yelling at her all the time, bastard!"

"Why, you..!" Nerva's about to say something really rude to my District Partner, I can tell. But suddenly, he stops himself. He pushes past Eion and the Avox, mumbling. "Stupid pair of brats this year..."

Eion glares after him—but then his gaze lands on me, and it softens considerably. I like my District Partner, I really do. Whenever he looks at me, his eyes only show immeasurable kindness. He even sticks up for me, knowing full-well that Nerva is our only way of sponsors. I still feel a bit inferior compared to him, but he doesn't have an air of superiority like most of the people I've grown up around.

"Thank you, Eion." I smile. It's not one of those smiles I give just to make others feel better, when I'm the one that truly needs help. It's genuine, reserved for genuine people.

If only everyone were like him. If only everyone could see how much I want to be appreciated, how much I want to be normal like them.

But they can't.

And because of it, I'm constantly suffering. And now that I'm a tribute, now that I'm going to be in the Hunger Games, it's only going to get worse.

Koda Samuels, 12;

District Eleven Male.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at a yellow box sitting on the dining table. Priscilla glances up from her magazine, but then she just sighs. Is she mad again? Why is she always in a bad mood?

She reminds me of the Orphanage Keepers, but just way more colorful. They always seemed to be in the worst of moods, and would yell at me whenever I did the smallest of things wrong. Sure, some of them were nice, but the older ones always had something nasty to say to me.

...Is Priscilla an old lady? She doesn't look so old, but a lot of the older boys in District Eleven told me how people from the Capitol alter their appearances to look different. Is she one of those people?

"Priscilla, how old are you?" I ask—and it's like the air in the room vanishes. Meeko looks up from her eggs and stares at me, while my Escort drops her magazine to the table. Her pretty face is contorted into a look of absolute shock.

"What does that have to do with anything?" She demands, before she scowls. "It's none of your business what age I am!"

I tilt my head, totally confused. Why did that set her off? Why does everything I do irritate her?

"You just act like an old lady," I try to explain. "Like the ones in my orphanage, so—"

Priscilla groans, cutting me off. Before I can ask why she's mad again, she gets up from her seat and stomps right out of the train car into a different one. With her gone, it's like the tension dissipates, like I can breathe without being glared at. Meeko goes back to silently eating, while a grin creeps on my face.

Without my Escort in the room, it almost doesn't feel like I'm going into the Hunger Games. It just feels like a regular morning—well, if you don't mention the fact that we're on a train heading to the Capitol. The Capitol. I shudder, the smile wiping off my face. The older kids would always tell scary stories about the people in the Capitol, like how they're all secretly monsters with fake skin to look human.

And honestly, I believe them! Priscilla isn't as scary as I thought she'd be—but with all the makeup on her face, it's hard not to think she's hiding something. Is her real face so hideous that she has to wear a fake one to keep people from being scared?

I'll have to ask her the next time I see her. Let's just hope she doesn't get mad at me.

Suddenly, something outside catches my eye. I stare out the window, watching as the outside world goes by in a blur. But then, after a few seconds, I see it again. Buildings. Buildings that look like glass, buildings that look like they're touching the sky. Is... Is this the Capitol?

Despite my fear, I jump up from my seat and rush over to get a better view. "Meeko, look! It's the Capitol! We've made it to the Capitol!" She looks up from her plate, her eyes widened as she walks over to stand besides me.

Around the city is a large body of water, water that I'd totally drown in if I got pushed inside. I can't swim for the life of me. The Capitol, though, is like nothing I've ever seen before. Huge, glass buildings that tower above everything. Large streets that look like they could hold District Eleven's entire population. Gigantic balloons flying in the air, words on them that say "welcome" or something like that.

And that's when I see the sea of color that our train will have to soon pass by. It's when we're almost there that I realize it's not color, but people. Actual people! Their cheers hit my ears like a hammer. Are… Are they cheering for Meeko and I? The older boys always told me that the Capitol didn't care about District Eleven, though.

Were they wrong?

The train draws closer and closer, and that's when I see my first Capitol citizen. The lady has dark brown skin and dark eyes, but that's where the normal ends and the strange begins. Her head is shaved completely, red feathers cascading down her face instead of hair. On her forehead and around her eyes are blue paint, and on her lips is a mixture of red and blue lipstick. Her earrings are these big orange balls, with more multi-colored feathers coming from it.

If I saw her at the orphanage, I'd scream and run for my life.

"Ah!" I jump back, breathing hard. A sense of fear runs all throughout my body, the lady's image flashing in my mind. She was terrifying! Is that how everyone in the Capitol looks? Am I going to have to see her again?

Thousands of questions buzz inside of my mind, all of them going unanswered before a new one pops up. Is she going to be there when I get off the train? Is she going to be there when I go to bed tonight? What if she's on the train right now? What if she can teleport, and she's going to be right there when I turn around?

What if she hurts me?

What if she hurts Meeko?

I gulp, clenching and unclenching my hands to somehow calm myself down. But it doesn't work. I just saw my first Capitol person, other than Priscilla, and I'm scared. It's no secret in District Eleven that the Capitol people are cruel. What if they try to hurt Meeko and I? What am I going to do?

Stag was right; the Capitol people are monsters. Suddenly, more than the feeling of fear, I feel sick. I feel like I'm about to puke. Why did I volunteer for Stag?

The answer hits me like a bag of bricks.

Because you didn't want him to die.

I could ignore it for awhile, but not anymore. Not after seeing that lady. Meeko and I aren't going to the Capitol for no reason. We're going so we can die in the Hunger Games.

I feel something stinging in my eyes, but I wipe at it before anything else can happen. I don't usually ever cry—but now that I took Stag's place, now that I'm going into the Hunger Games, I can't help but feel the tentacles of dread wrap around my body.

I volunteered so that my big brother wouldn't die.

I volunteered so that I could die instead.

But I don't want to die.

Ricky Laris, 18;

District Ten Male.

"And this is where you two will separate," says Rufus, placing a hand on my shoulder. We're inside of the Remake Center—as my Escort so affectionately calls it.

After getting off the train, Rufus and a few Peacekeepers led London and I to a dark building. It stood out greatly, considering everything else in the Capitol is a spectrum of color. I was completely overwhelmed at how big the streets were, and don't even get me started on the buildings.

It was almost like we were in some sort of parade. A crowd of Capitolites followed us the entire way to the Remake Center, some holding signs that said "Go London!" or "District Ten for Victory!" I didn't know how to respond, so I just kept my head down and let London soak up the limelight.

And my District Partner certainly used that opportunity to her advantage. She got over her shock fast and waved at the crowd of Capitol citizens, who seemed totally overjoyed to get her attention. If there was anybody in that crowd who seriously remembered me—well, I'm pretty sure they don't remember me now.

And I'm fine with that. I really am. I'm not the type of person to want people's attention. If London wants it, she can have it. I don't want to get in her way or anything...

Which is why you'll die, Ricky. She'll gain all the sponsors, and you'll be forgotten, and then you'll die.

I shake off those negative thoughts, staring at the door in front of me. D10 Male is written in red ink.

"Okay, so let's get a few things straightened out before I send you two on your way," Rufus says, looking back at forth between us. London nods, smiling, while I just look to the floor. "Your stylists are waiting in your respective rooms. They'll be making you both look fabulous for the Chariot Rides, so please try not to fight them. They're doing their best to help, and the last thing they need are another set of rebels. Last year was terrible enough..."

I think back to the pair of tributes from last year. A twelve-year-old girl was reaped, killed by her psychotic District Partner. He survived for a long time, but he was openly rebellious to the Capitol. It wasn't a surprise to anyone when a giant Python seemed to come out of nowhere and ate him.

That won't be me. I might die, but the Gamemakers won't see the need to kill me. I'm too docile to verbally announce my hate of the Capitol. I don't even know if I really hate them or not...

I definitely don't like them, I at least know that. Forcing twenty-four kids each year to fight to the death is hideous, and I just can't ignore that. But Rufus has been nothing but nice to me...

I just don't know how to feel. You'll definitely feel that knife slicing into your neck, while the people in the Capitol laugh as you bleed to death. Isn't that enough for you to form an opinion, Ricky—?

"Ricky, are you listening to me?"

I snap back to attention. My escort looks irate at being ignored, while London has a knowing smirk on her face. She's one of the only girls that has ever tried to start a conversation with me. I'm usually too shy to approach them, and they don't ever really approach me.

But London approached you. The same girl that you're going to die with. Ironic, isn't it?

"Sorry," I say, looking away from my District Partner. I'm not even in the Games and I'm already feeling sick. I just don't want the Hunger Games to happen. I just don't want to die. But death is all I can think about.

I've never had to deal with this before. It's just hard. I'm scared.

Rufus scoffs, oblivious to my inner turmoil. "Whatever. Just remember to do whatever your stylists say, no matter what. It's not your place to argue against them."

Not my place. I sigh, nodding. He doesn't even have to tell me this stuff. It's not in my nature to argue with people. I'm the boy that does whatever I'm told, the boy that stays out of everyone's way. The boy that's going to be forgotten by the Capitol, by District Ten, by everyone.

"Well, hurry up and enter!" Rufus exclaims, grinning. "I can't wait to see what costumes they put you two in this year!"

He opens the door for me, gently pushing me inside. Before I can even process what's going on, he closes it behind me—and three colorful people practically glomp me.

"We finally get to meet you!" One of them squabbles, their Capitol accent ridiculously strong. He's a short man, with purple eyes that stare at me with too much intensity. I take a step back, hitting the door—but they just get even closer.

"Look at him, he's as adorable as he was on TV!" The second one says, her hair a bright yellow. I blush a little, trying to speak up—but she just overpowers me, her voice fast and loud. "We can definitely work on those eyebrows, though! Does District Ten find them fashionable?"

Eyebrows? Fashionable? What? "Um—"

"Yes, even though he's absolutely scrumptious, we still have a lot of work to do." The third stylist isn't as energetic as his co-workers, but his sense of clothing is just as weird. With his scar-like tattoos all over his body, he looks more like a war veteran than a stylist for the Hunger Games.

Before I can even try and introduce myself, the yellow-haired lady grabs my arm and leads me to a bed. Around the bed are all kinds of items that I've never seen in my life. The only thing I can identify are the clippers...but why would they even need those? They aren't cutting off my hair...right?

"Before we start, I need you to strip down," the purple-eyed man says—and for a good second, my mind completely stops. What did he just tell me to do?! "Please do not be alarmed. We're going to have to wash and shave everything—minus the hair, of course. Capitolites just don't like hairy tributes."

A regular person might start yelling. A regular person might start fighting back. But I was rigorously taught by my parents not to do such things. Even if they aren't here right now, I can't shake off their teachings so easily...

I look to the floor, playing with my hands. "Are... Are you joking?"

"Of course not! We aren't ones to joke around when we're dealing with our tribute!"

I bite my lip, grabbing the corners of my shirt. I'm about to willingly show these strangers my body, so they can touch all over me before they send me into an arena to die. This isn't right, I want to say. This is wrong, I want to say.

"Yes, ma'am," I say, just like I was taught. My parents were so strict with me. They've basically silenced me.

And in a week, I'll be silenced again.

But this time, it'll be permanent.

Toren Ingalls, 15;

District Nine Female.

"This hair is seriously one gigantic pain," one of my stylists says, groaning. She snatches her comb out of my hair—and it takes everything in my power not to scream in pain. What is wrong with her?! That hurt!

"Lilia, please don't do that again," the lone male of the group scolds. "We must make Toren presentable, and snatching out clunks of her hair will do the opposite."

I almost snort at that; like he's one to talk. When he places that cold sheet of waxed paper on my leg, it feels a thousand times worse than whatever that lady can do to my hair.

Forcing my eyes shut, I grimace when I feel him place another sheet on my left leg. Here it comes, I think, trying to prepare myself. Just try to ig—

He snatches it off, and I bite my lip to keep from crying. It really, really hurts! It's the worst pain I've ever experienced in my entire fifteen years of living, and I'm not even in the Games yet. Could what's to come be any worse than the pain I'm feeling now?

"Once again, dear, I'm terribly sorry," my male stylist says, placing a cold towel on my leg to stop the burn. It doesn't help much, but the thought that he cares enough to try and ease the pain is enough.

My own mom doesn't even care about me that much. Did she ever wonder how I felt to have to move from place to place so often? Getting attached to different people before being violently ripped away—that was my childhood, and it's affected me in more ways than one.

It's sorta like the waxed paper. It attaches to my skin with its cool, almost soothing texture. But then, before I can truly even get to know it, this man rips it off my leg mercilessly. Maybe that's why I'm not crying right now?

It hurts—but I'm use to pain.

"Raise your arms, please."

I do as I'm told, letting the lady wash the "grime and muck" off my body. Apparently, since I'm from the districts, I've been living in filth my entire life. But wouldn't that be the Capitol's fault? We live in poverty—sometimes even worse than that—while these colorful people get to live the good life. Shouldn't they share some of their riches with the people who so clearly need it?

Before yesterday, I didn't even think the Capitol was a real place. I always pictured "the Capitol" as a force held over our heads, maybe even a threat at times. I was always told that they had power over us, that they controlled us.

But in my entire life, I had never seen any signs of a bustling city filled with riches unimaginable. The Capitol had never really controlled my broken life. My mother was the main reason we had to constantly move from home to home, and I've just been adapting as best as I can.

"Why do you district people think growing your hair out so long and thick is a good thing?" Lilia mumbles, running her comb through my brown locks of hair. "Can't we just cut it?"

"No!" I say, so loud that even I'm surprised. They all give me incredulous looks, and I feel my cheeks turn a dark shade of red. "I'm sorry, but I wouldn't... I just don't like that idea..."

I'm not nearly as disagreeing, but I just don't want them cutting off my hair. You don't want any of this, Toren, but do they really care? And aren't you just going along with it, as you always do?

Another sheet of paper is torn off my legs. I wince at the burning pain, and my stylist puts another cold towel on top of it.

"Are you sure, sweety?" Lilia asks, her tone soft. "This is a lot of hair. You don't want anyone to grab it during the Games, do you?" The mention of the Hunger Games makes me shiver, but I try and stand my ground. I may be a friendly, agreeable person, but I'm not a pushover.

"I'm sure," I tell her, and she sighs in defeat. With that small obstacle out of the way, I try to relax myself—but it's harder than it seems. Not only am I lying on a bed, naked, in front of three Capitolites, but Lilia put the thought of the Hunger Games into my brain, and I can't get it out.

Just like the Capitol, I thought of the Hunger Games as more of a threat than a real event. When it wasn't shown on the television, I didn't think about it. Even during the Reapings, I tried to distance myself from it as much as possible. I mean, twenty-four kids battling it out to the death? It just didn't seem real...

Even when I was reaped yesterday, it just didn't seem real. I didn't want to accept it.

But I'm going to have to do more than accept it, apparently. I usually have little to no say in whatever goes around in my life—but I really want to go back home. Even if I resent her a little, I really want to see my mom again.

"Okay, I think we're finally done with you, Toren."

I sit up, smiling thankfully at my three stylists. Even if I can't fully trust them, considering what they do, I am grateful for their hard work. They hand me a robe to cover myself in, all the while talking about how I'm the toughest tribute they've ever worked on.

"Seriously, dear! Beauty is painful, but you've been coping so well!" Lilia exclaims, cupping my hands in hers. Her orange eyes flash in the light—and once again, I'm wondering just how freaky these Capitolites can get. "How do you do it so well? I personally can't stand getting my legs waxed."

I shrug, looking at myself in the mirror. I don't look all too different, but I do note that my skin looks clearer. Will this help me win? Clearer skin?

Whatever it is, I guess I just have to take it. Like I've always done.

Because I really want to win.

I won't just lie down and die.

Kaya Vause, 16;

District Eight Female.

"Sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable," says the rather tall lady with an assortment of colors in her hair. In front of her is a small table, with a pure white couch situated right next to her. I'm not even close to the lady, but already I can smell the thick perfume coming from her body.

I exhale, feeling something hot and painful in my chest. The thought that I'll have to sit so close to a Capitolite, look into her multicolored eyes, breathe the same air as her—it all makes me sick. I'm not ashamed to say that I already want to kill her, because I do.

I really, honestly want to kill her.

I want to kill everyone from this city, actually.

But you can't, Kaya, I tell myself, forcing the smile on my face as I walk over and sit down. You can't do anything to any of them. Not yet...

"My name is Vibiana, and I'm your Head Stylist." She smiles at me, and the urge to get up and scream at her grows stronger with each second. Unlike my bimbo prep team, she actually speaks and moves with a spark of intelligence.

It reminds me too much of things that are best kept in the dark.

"My name is Kaya Vause," I say, swallowing the hatred. "District Eight Fema—"

"I know who you are," she interrupts. I blink. "And please wipe that fake smile off of your face. Manipulation will be a good asset in the Arena, but unfortunately it won't work on me. Do you think I wasn't informed about you breaking one of my stylist's wrists?"

For a good moment, I'm stunned speechless. Did they really tell her? And then, I'm mad, because I tried to forget about my idiotic prep team. I tried to forget about how they practically jumped me, and how all I wanted to do was protect myself, and how they just had to call the Peacekeepers after I fended them off.

"They tried to take off my shirt!" I retort, louder than I mean to.

"That's their job, honey," she says, her patronizing tone adding to her patronizing smirk.

"I don't care." I look away from her artificial face, down to the robes on my body. I couldn't let them strip me down. Not after my mom was literally raped by these people. These colorful, gaudy people...I'd rather die than let them put a single hand on me. "He...had no right..."

"We have every right—"

"You people have absolutely no right!" I scream, that suffocating feeling in my chest burning hotter and hotter. Despite my outburst, Vibiana still stares at me with that condescending look. And that just makes me angrier, because all it does is prove my point.

These people just don't care. These people are the monsters that bombed our districts, killed our families, raped our women.

And I want revenge.

Ever since five years ago, it's all I've ever wanted.

"Why don't you calm down, Ms. Vause," Vibiana suggests. "I'm not here to argue. I'm here to finish you up and show you your chariot costume. Don't you want that?"

I stand up, my hands clenched. "You aren't laying a finger on me," I mumble. "I fought them, and I'll fight you, too."

"Is it because of the scars? Are you ashamed?" She stands up—and all at once, I throw myself at her. She shouldn't know about those, I think, raking my nails across her snobby face. These people shouldn't know!

She screams, shoving me away—and my back hits something soft. Turning around, I'm instantly face-to-face with three Peacekeepers, the same Peacekeepers from earlier. I turn back around, trying to run—but it's practically useless trying to run against these monsters. Because they always seem to have something new, some advantage that assures they win whatever battle they get into.

These people will do anything to win.

I'm not like them. I still have my humanity. And now they're trying to take it away from you.

"I hate you!" I scream, fighting against the Peacekeepers' hold. Tears stream down my face—but I don't care, because the rage is stronger than the sorrow. It'll always be. It has to be. "I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate every single one of you! I'm going to get my revenge! I promise! I'll—I'll kill all of you!"

Revenge.

Ever since that horrible day, it's all I can think about at night. Whenever I close my eyes, I see my mother surrounded by Peacekeepers, I see my friends laughing and then dying the next day. I see people being shot down, blown up, tortured.

I see my auntie.

And it fills me with anger. The type of anger that eats you away from the inside, because you know there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

But now, there is.

Because I'm going to win the Hunger Games.

Because I'm going to break the Capitol from the inside.

For Aunt Kiera.

Calla Mallow, 17;

District Seven Female.

"You look beautiful!" Tatiana looks me up and down, a scarily big grin on her shiny face. "Oh, you must look at yourself in the mirror, Calla! I think I've hit the jackpot with the chariot costume this year!"

I do as she tells me, turning towards the life-size mirror. And once I do, I almost wish I didn't.

I'm in a tight brown dress that hugs my skin in every way possible, giving me the illusion of curvaceous hips. The dress literally stops at the top of my knees, while my cleavage—or lack of—is only half-covered. There's a unique swirl pattern on the dress that actually looks pretty nice, but...

"Don't you like it? I think it's just gorgeous," my Head Stylist coos, still smiling that smile of hers. I try to smile appreciatively, but it comes out a bit awkward.

"It's..." I rack my brain to come up with a word that wouldn't piss her off. I'm not that type of person; unnecessarily making people mad just isn't my thing. "...creative? Eye-catching?"

"My words exactly!" Tatiana starts circling me, mumbling things to herself now. "Maybe I should've had the prep team work on your chest a bit more... Should I pad them? And while tight is sexy, I don't want you looking like a little girl trapped in a woman's dress... Hmm..."

I gulp, totally overwhelmed with her words and the fact that I've been "worked on" for the past three hours. Not to be self-deprecating or anything, but I don't think calling me sexy or even pretty would fit. I'm just...me.

But the Capitol doesn't want plain old Calla. The Capitol wants Calla to dazzle them, to go out wearing something like this.

I don't think I can do that. I've never been more than "that lovely child." I help whenever I'm needed, sure, but I'm just not the type to go around flirting with people. And I'm definitely not going to skip bases and flirt with the entire Capitol, right?

...But what am I supposed to do? I want to go home. I want to go home so bad.

"...Um, Tatiana?" I start, nervously messing with my hair. My prep team left my curls alone, because they still wanted me to be recognizable to Panem after the chariots are over with. I'm thankful for that, because I can't even imagine how my family would react seeing me without my usual hairstyle.

My Head Stylist hardly glances at me, writing something down in her notepad. "Yes, dear?"

"This... This dress. It's going to get me sponsors, right? It's going to make the Capitol remember me...right?"

She does look up this time. "Certainly! I can already see the headlines: Sexy Victor from District Seven! Oh, they'll be talking about my design for months!" Suddenly, she stops talking, a deep look in her eyes. "That is, if you win. So you need to win, Calla, so they'll remember my dress. Okay?"

I almost sigh. She cares more about her dress than about my life. But she is helping, in a way, so I can't totally be against her. Sure, I'm against the Capitol just like everyone else...but I can't vociferate my hatred of them, because I know it'll just be used against me. These people have control over my life, after all.

And I don't want to die. I really don't want to die...

"I'll try not to lose." I force a chuckle, and she laughs right along with me. Because it's all just a game to her. It's not her that could seriously die in a week.

I look back in the mirror. I have makeup on my face. A lot, actually. If I were to be honest, I don't even recognize myself much. Just like the years previous to this one, we're being forced to look a lot older than we are, so that the Capitol can sponsor us. But did that save the pair from last year?

Will that save me?

I hope so. I really do. I'll do anything if it means that I can live another day longer. I'll make the very people that killed my father like me, so that they can sponsor me, so that I can win. So that I can live.

So that I can live...

"Tatiana, I really do like this dress." I smile at her, and she returns it with a giant grin. "Seriously, I can tell you worked hard on it. I'm going to get a lot of sponsors because of you. So once again, I really thank you."

Her face flushes, words of thanks dying on her tongue. "That...was the most any tribute has ever said about my creations. Thank you, Calla..."

I smile. If I need to smile, I'll smile. If I need to suck up to her, I'll do it.

Whatever I need to do, I'll learn to do it.

Because I need to come back home. But sucking up to the Capitol won't really save you in the Arena. You'll have to do something else, something you certainly aren't prepared to do.

I look back at the mirror, staring at the red spots on my dress. Why are those there? She can't seriously be...

"Um, but what's up with these spots?" I ask hesitantly, wanting her to tell me that my fears are for naught, that I'm just being stupid. But instead, Tatiana grins. It's a grin that only someone from the Capitol could make, twisted in the worst possible way.

"I think you'll see soon enough," she says, before going back to writing in her notepad.

I gulp, closing my eyes to somehow slow down my beating heart. But it's to no avail—because she's right, I will see soon enough.

The only question is whether it's someone else's blood or my own.

And it scares me how much I don't want it to be mine.

Author's Note: Hey guys! This chapter didn't take very long, right? I hope not.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! I worked hard, as usual, so a review would be heavenly! I'm really thankful for the ones I've gotten, and I'd like to say "thank you so very much" to all the nice comments. I really love reading them~

Also, why not ask a question or two at the end of each chapter? I think I'm going to start doing that now.

What are your thoughts on each of these six tributes? Which POV was your favorite and why? Which POV was your least favorite and why?

And also, how about a personal question?

Your prep team tells you to strip down completely for them. Do you do it willingly? Do you put up a fight?

And I think that's it! Once again, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll see you all next time, okay? ^_^