Oh, my life is changing everyday,
In every possible way.
And oh, my dreams, it's never quite as it seems,
Never quite as it seems.

- The Cranberries

Leda Viscoy, District 5,

It had been difficult to sleep the night before – and I was a pretty heavy sleeper. But when you were suddenly aware of your own mortality every heartbeat and breath felt severely numbered, all you could do was contemplate what the future had in store for you while being consciously aware of your heavy breathing while it slipped out of your mouth, or the drumbeat inside your chest playing a limited song that would finish one day like every other music piece would.

Eventually I had descended into some kind of unconsciousness, unaware of how much sleep I had gotten when I woke up. The morning seemed like an upgraded version of any other: brushing my teeth with a Capitolian machine which meant I didn't have to do it manually, showering in a shower the size of my room and dressing in a disgusting, sparkly dress that seemed like something any old tacky Capitolite would enjoy.

The end result was kind of strange. I inspected myself in the mirror a few times, twirling and watching the dress flow with me like a current of glittery sequins. In this dress I didn't look emaciated like I did in any other baggy clothes. It complimented my pale skin, made my smallness seem attractive. I was far from a Capitol model, with my square head that seemed too big for my body and my pinchy eyes. But in that moment I couldn't help but admire myself.

Here I was, a girl not interested in things as stupid and trivial as fashion and yet I still felt the need to woo over myself in the mirror. I thought over it for a few more seconds, and stormed out into the corridor defeatedly.

Everything surrounding me was bright and superficial, so no longer did I feel special. I just felt kind of like a chameleon as I made my way to the breakfast table. Peering inside the room, I observed the three people who sat at the table as a cluster of Avoxes handed them trays of foods and jugs of drink, most of which were dismissed to be thrown away as children starved. The green skinned escort, Contessa, waved a fork around dramatically and swigged from a goblet. She was kind of stupid and much too optimistic for her own good, spending the previous night attempting to organise a Hunger Games party for us. It didn't go to plan when she made advances on an Avox, but it was mildly amusing.

Beside her was Rayann, my mentor. I had little to say about her. She entered the Games the year before last as some kickass adventure girl who knew how to fight and survive. But the girl I peered at was a lot more cautious and even shy; she receptively listened to Contessa, silently eating at a slab of meat. Across them was my District partner who sat beside an empty seat. Knowing I was late for breakfast and that the food was bound to be delicious, I quickly slid the door open and made my way to the grand, silk covered seat.

"Late for breakfast?" Contessa tittered, inspecting her white eyebrows in the reflection of a silver patter. She looked at me and sighed. "I only hope you're not as hungover as I am, dear."

"I didn't drink," I said. I felt nervous, and when I was nervous I usually became talkative and tended to annoy people. I took a swig of milk, hoping that it would shut me up.

Beside me, the shaven haired, bulky District Partner of mine inspected an exotic breakfast dish with a degree of skepticism. After being satisfied with it, he began wolfing it down. Magnus Carmine was a lot more amiable than I expected. I had initially been scared of him – he was this hulking prison convict, after all. But after having a few conversations with him last night I kind of concluded he was a cool guy. He was nonchalant, capable and he even had a great sense of humour.

"Anyway, where was I, oh yes Rayann," Contessa grinned, looking like some kind of bloated frog. "As I was saying Edoire knows the best publishing house in town and he knows of the best book publishers. They'll accept every detail of your story: your complicated relationship with your mother and her tragic death in the arena, both your Games, how much you love the Capitol for all the wondrous opportunities they presented–"

I glanced at Magnus, zoning in on him as he used a glass of water – the fifth glass in front of him – as a vessel for two conspicuous looking pills. He stuffed the tablets into his mouth and then downed them with the drink while nobody was looking. I stayed silent for a few seconds as a nervous Avox forced some food onto my plate.

"Magnus..." I said. He vacantly stared out of the window. "Magnus, Magnus, Magnus, Magnu-"

"What?" He snapped, glaring at me with a sign of annoyance. I grinned at him, trying to lighten the situation up. When I addressed someone, I kind of asked for their attention, and wasn't above repeating myself numerous times.

"What did you just take?"

He laughed. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

I felt my face drop like an avalanche, wondering what the hell he meant and suddenly seeing the guy before me as a big threat. He threatened to kill me. I turned around, shakily trying to hold my knife and fork and then suddenly feeling some kind of relief when there was a booming laugh. Magnus suddenly found himself amused and patted me on the back hard, and I realised that he was joking.

I laughed awkwardly, feeling myself blush. I had always been an expressive person. Even the most emotionally unintelligent people could detect every obvious emotion etched across my face, and lying was also pretty difficult. But this was a new level of humiliation.

"I'll get you back for that," I grumbled with a bit of a smirk.

"We'll see," Magnus gave a little bit of a grin.

Across us Contessa nudged Rayann, giving her a knowing glance. In order to catch our attention Rayann cleared her throat, though we were already looking at her. It was strange to observe the girl now; her once messy hair was straight and trailed past her shoulders, she was wearing a sensible blue cardigan and a light dash of make-up. It just felt strange to me how people changed. I guess I needed a sensible mentor though, and I should have been grateful that I had a mentor at all.

"Right," Rayann smiled. "If you look outside the window you can see the Capitol approaching–"

Immediately I turned my head, wanting to see the specter that always haunted the television but had never met anybody's real eyes. Even the glimpse of it so far into the horizon had made my jaw drop. Everybody else observed the glittering sky, the numerous golden bridges that crossed the surrounding sea and the metal towers that stabbed the sky. Small, hovering vehicles darted through the skies and between buildings. The technology was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, and even from a distance everything seemed so beautiful and surreal.

"Wow."

Rayann grimaced. "Soon you'll be taken to the remake centre. There you'll be styled." She looked at both of us, though her gaze seemed more directed at me. "Try to comply and not do anything stupid. These guys could be the people who get a meal in your stomach on a cold, snowy night."

I drifted, losing Rayann's attention as she lectured us. The distant buildings soon became more noticeable until the train ran between them and porcelain streets, towering monuments and well maintained lawns blurred past us, separated from the train tracks by a transparent, diamond like wall. This was the Capitol. This was the place where everything happened. Every piece of ground breaking research, every great artistic venture or important political decision. I found all of these things a lot more interesting than Rayann, who'd occasionally say my name. In all honesty, I found both Rayann and Contessa kind of annoying.

Perhaps I'd ignore them.

"And remember-" As the train slid to a halt and my view was obstructed by a multitude of coloured faces, I zoned back in. "The paparazzi can be real dicks. So don't excite them. If they want to spread a negative story about you, they will."

"Why are you complaining?" I snorted, swatting an Avox's hand as she tried to grab my breakfast plate. I took one last aggressive bite of a croissant. "You love the paparazzi. I mean, you did volunteer to go back into a Games for another whole year."

A silence suddenly descended onto the table and I found myself confused. Contessa mumbled something about missing a necklace and rushed out of the room, almost stumbling in her nine inch heels. Magnus was unusually silent and reserved beside me, seemingly more interested in watching his numerous breakfast plates be snatched away by a mousy haired Avox girl. Beside me, Rayann didn't seem angry despite the stiffness that crossed her face. She seemed almost upset, a wave of nostalgia rushing through her green eyes.

Magnus suddenly spoke when Rayann got up and told us to follow her. When she went out into the corridor I was left alone with Magnus, though we weren't granted the privilege of silence. Screaming teenage girls were rapping their fists against the windows and screaming, and though the walls and glass were soundproof, their screams could still be mildly heard. Their weird faces pressed against panes and left smudges of make-up.

When the last Avox had left the room Magnus cast me an almost contemplative glance.

"You don't really believe that bullshit cover story, do you?"

I didn't answer. I just gave him a vacant look, wondering if it made me looked confused or condescending. When he stood up and left, I mulled over his words for a few seconds. The Capitol said Rayann went back into the arena voluntarily. But when had the Capitol lied? As brutal as they could be, I always saw the President and the bureaucrats surrounding him as up-front and honest.

I stood up and shrugged mildly. Without anyone in the room with me, and without food, the breakfast room had suddenly lost some of its shine. The tables in front of me were stark and empty, the adorned walls suddenly seemed tacky and the chair I sat on felt more like an inflated cushion than a sofa. But I guess I had other things to worry about, things beyond Rayann and room decor. It was time to go to the vultures that were the stylists.

My stylists were all very strange women. They had been named after the four seasons and spent more of their time screeching with laughter and gossiping than actually styling me. After being herded into an ovular room with lights that projected a blinding white into the room, bouncing off the multiple mirrors surrounding me, I had endured the wrath of getting hair torn off my legs, my hair being tugged at so viciously it sent agony flaring through my scalp before being sculpted by intimidating looking surgical tools.

Well, after all of that I felt I could endure the Hunger Games. The stylists giggled as they took multiple sharp looking instruments. A sharp device they used to remove hair reminded me of a strange axe and the scissors they used to sculpt my hair were pointed like daggers. After they were finished, they took a moment to step back and admire their handiwork.

"Oh Summa, her legs look divine," a green haired stylist sighed, clasping her hands together in what seemed like prayer.

"Now now Springg," one of the stylists smiled, moving close to me. Out of the four clones she seemed the most beautiful – the way her blue make up clasped her skin like an armour of ice and the tinted blue kissed her lips, creeping up her head and falling from her scalp in waves of snow made her seem like a genuine snow Queen. Capitolians were intimidating, and also kind of annoying, but this one gave me an almost kind smile. "She's just shaved. But now she needs to be waxed. It's nothing too bad dear, are you ready to be waxed?"

"I think so..." I said, trying and failing to keep the nervous edge out of my tone. "I'll be alive by the end of it right?"

The Four sisters grinned.

"I mean, no offence but," I tried to stop myself from fidgeting. "You guys might make me look more presentable but your bedside manner is kind of questionable-"

At that exact moment four metallic pods in their ears flashed, sending blue rays bouncing across the mirrors like the angelic light above us. I covered my eyes, attempting to deafen myself from the screeches the pods made as all four sisters, ignoring me, pressed a finger to their pods and began jabbering to some imaginary friend.

"Escaped – what?"

"What on earth are we to do?"

"Yes, don't worry Blanche, we'll do everything in our power to stop him."

They simultaneously halted the conversation and glanced at me seriously, making me feel kind of nervous. After casting uncertain glances at each other, one of the four sisters stepped forward and looked at me reproachfully.

"One of the tributes escaped."

"Escaped?" I snorted. "I don't blame them."

"He claimed that the many sprays used was constricting his heart and that he had a heart defect," the stylist sighed, quickly investigating the cuticles of her nails. "The stylists persisted, so he ran off. Security has tracked him to this area of the building and we've been asked to retrieve him. I hope that you don't mind if we go on our way. And don't do anything stupid," eight stern eyes glared at me. I made sure to glare back at their stupid Capitol faces. "We'll be back before you know it."

"Try to be as long as possible," I heckled as they moved to the door.

The door slid open and they disappeared beneath a fit of giggles and the rippling of dresses. I stood in the silence, trying to avoid my reflection even though it peered at me from every direction. So it seemed as if one of the tributes had a heart defect? I paused, balancing two parts of my mind that almost fought each other:

Good. That's what one part of me thought. Another tribute had a heart defect, that meant another tribute out there would die in the Bloodbath. If only every tribute out there had a heart defect and I wasn't surrounded by geniuses or tributes who had trained their whole lives to kill. My chances were still slim, but knowing there was another tribute out there whose heart didn't function normally made my chances feel that bit more relaxed. I could almost say that I was happy and a grim sense of slight comfort had been injected to me.

Another part of me couldn't help but feel as if the whole thing was also pretty awful. I mean, in my life I had been a selfish person, and I guess I didn't care too much, but I wasn't immune to emotion and couldn't help but notice the glaring injustice. It was unfair that I was being sent into the Games without knowing the physical difference between a dagger and a regular knife, but someone with a heart defect? It all seemed wrong.

I glanced at my knees, stripped bare of hair and looking incredibly pink and smooth before me. I couldn't pretend I cared too much. And I couldn't pretend to actually care. I kind of had a chance now.

When I looked up I almost cried out. An incredibly short boy – probably five foot at most – had just forced his way into the room. When the door slid behind him he jumped and glanced at me. We both stared at each other with silence eating the air around us. His face was feminine, his hair short and choppy.

"You're the District Five girl," he said, putting on a strange, deep voice.

"District Eleven," I said, remembering his reaping. "You're the one with the heart defect?"

He glanced at the floor guiltily, his dark eyes clashing with the polished marble beneath. "Yeah. I am."

"Why did you escape?"

"Because..." He paused. "Escaping was the only thing I could do–" I noticed his nervous hands, bonding and breaking. "The fumes-"

"Were bad for your heart, I heard."

He smiled. "Who are you, exactly?"

"Lena, the Five girl," I made sure my towel was wrapped tightly around me and stood up, striding towards him confidently and seizing his little hands. It felt kind of empowering to be taller than a boy – I hadn't ever met a boy I was taller than, being relatively short and all. After forcefully shaking it, I smiled. Why not intimidate the weaker competition? "I'm the annoying one."

"There's always one of those," he said coolly, continuing that faux voice. "You can call me Nate."

"Nate..." I smiled. "You know you're in trouble, right?"

"As long as they don't see me naked."

I laughed. It was actually genuine. "Yeah, that wasn't really a pleasant experience. But I have other things to worry about." I moved back to the comfortable leather chair that was grandly positioned in the centre of the room, slumping down onto it. "Such as dying."

Nate moved the opposite direction I did, to one of the many mirrors that seized the walls and fractured light beams. I saw him looking at himself in the mirror, investigating himself almost carefully, mostly his dark hair and his pigeon like chest. He was weak and kind of vulnerable. And he was in a room, all alone with me. In the tray besides me were the tools that the stylists had used, a pair of incredibly sharp scissors glinting temptingly.

I seized them for a second, inspecting their sharpness and pressing it into my finger. I didn't want to kill – but I had to – and it would be good to eliminate the competition. I could run behind him and stab him in the stomach, lie that he charged into the room and committed suicide. The thought tempted me...

"I'm not worried about dying," Nate said, looking at me from the mirror, though having a strange dignity and not turning to face me.

I paused and remembered he was continuing a conversation. I looked at the ceiling and saw multiple security cameras staring down at the room intimidatingly. I couldn't murder Nate without being caught; even without a security camera, the sophisticated Capitol technology would reveal my actions. And though I tried to act like it, I wasn't a killer. I lousily threw the scissors and watched them bounce back into the tray.

"What makes you think you're not going to die?" I asked.

"I've had brushes with death before," Nate smiled. "This is another brush with death I'll survive."

"There's a one in twenty four chance of you surviving, and lets face it, you can't even breathe in aerosol fumes without having some kind of fit," I leant up slightly. "Wouldn't you say that's a brush with death?"

Nate's eyes lit and scrunched together angrily. He turned to face me.

"Yeah? And what experiences with death have you had? Can you master a knife, lift up a tonne of weight or climb the smoothest of surfaces?"

I paused, a little taken aback and silenced. Despite spending my life constantly hungry, I did have a relatively sheltered life. The closest experience I had with death was... My mother. She got paid as a guinea pig. She'd take Capitolian medication before it was released to the Capitol, to ensure no harm could hit their precious citizens. Most medication was harmless, but my mother happened to take something that got her instantly hospitalised.

The memory still haunted me. I remembered her being fine after taking it. She'd talk to my older brother, who I missed annoying so much already, about how the paycheck would be able to fund the bills and I could only watch and cry as she collapsed in the next moment. It was the first (and now probably the last) moment I'd ever experienced what it was like to possibly lose a family member. But she had survived it... And ever since, though I still enjoyed annoying her, I had appreciated her presence.

I looked up at Nate. His family were going through what I went through those years ago, and my family were going through the same, though probability alone made both our chances of going home doubtable.

"Yeah, I guess we're both kind of doomed," I said, not sure if I came across as intimidating or defeated. Nate stared at me with wide eyes, somewhat shocked.

In that moment the doors slid open and a few Peacekeepers stormed in followed by a hysterical looking Capitol woman, whose tears had sent pathways of bare skin across her made up face. Nate stood, still looking at me as they sternly charged in and seized him.

"I'm so sorry Nate," his stylist tapped his back reassuringly as he was dragged away. "We'll just skip the stylist process and just get you into a nice suit, okay?"

He nodded, but those eyes were still fixed on me. I didn't know if he was facing a realisation like I was. But as he was torn out of my sight, into the corridor, and I was left ignored and in the silence again I found myself wondering if I would ever see him again. Maybe the next time I'd see him was as a face in the arena sky.

The silence had left me unsure, but a part of me wished I said goodbye.

Ross Deverell, District 4, 17:

I had silently made it through the stylist process with little complaint or agony. The stylists found that there was very little of me to style: my body was well maintained, smooth and hairless, my mousy brown hair, though messy, had always been a good image so my stylists left that be. They had no need to trim my already thinned eyebrows or my long eyelashes, which framed my green eyes perfectly. Their only complaint was that my skin was incredibly pale, especially for someone who lived in a deep, hot District. To my dismay the stylists had already begun to grab some kind of hose.

"You are from District Four, right?" A stylist said to me exasperatedly. Her face was covered in a large, colourful and unattractive butterfly tattoo, her purple eyes supposed to be a pattern in its majestic wings.

"Yes," I said, distracted by the artwork on her face.

"You need to spend more time in the sun," she said, rolling her eyes. The other three stylists forcefully grabbed my towel, yanking it away from me so that I was left exposed in front of her. "I mean seriously. Well, we'll have to fix that for the chariot rides. It's unpleasant, but be thankful that we don't have to wax you."

At the press of a button a high pressured orange mist was forced onto the skin of my legs, sending icy chills rushing up my spine before resting in my brain and numbing me. My hands automatically clung onto the sides of my chair, though I refused to yell. The experience wasn't painful, but it was incredibly unpleasant as the stylist had described. I watched the spray dye my legs an attractive bronze colour, and the stylist aimed the spray at my body once finished, the force of the spray pinning me to the chair as the orange steam sunk into my skin.

"You'd think he would be more muscular, the Careers we've had in the past few years have been much bigger," another stylist said. She hadn't done much bar make degrading comments and chew some bubblegum.

It was true. I was a lot more muscular than most of the undernourished tributes that I had seen on the television. But I was still pretty lithe, especially in comparison to Honora, my vicious District partner, and the humongous Two boy who was also a human mountain. I was an unusual Career in many other respects: I was cheery and relaxed, controlled, and open minded.

That wasn't to say I refused to kill. I was quite detached, especially from strangers, and had no qualms with throwing a spear through their chest. But I didn't enjoy interpersonal conflicts. Everybody always saw the need to bicker and argue about stupid things or to overanalyse every single situation and automatically reach a negative conclusion. I tried to get on with people, live my life to the fullest and just be generally happy. If I had to kill one or two strangers to do that, so be it.

So what was my motivation to be in the Hunger Games? Not to kill: hopefully I wouldn't have to fight too much and would exit the Games after a few, somewhat uneventful weeks. I didn't really care about glory too. I volunteered because a. I was selected to volunteer, which is District Four's process when it comes to selecting Careers, and I also wanted the quick cash and the immense fame that came with becoming a Hunger Games victor. Immersing myself in the luxuries available in the train made me even more determined to win money.

I liked money and material wealth, but I was unfortunate enough to come from a family who had spent their life depleted of the material resources I wanted. My parents had already had a lot of financial burden with raising two children,

"We had Luster last year," the butterfly-faced stylist replied, grinning when she caught my discomforted expression. "Ross is a lot more muscular than Luster, and hey, Luster won."

"We had Tristan the year before that," the other stylist responded, flicking through some pages of a Capitolian magazine. "What a hunk, abs and all."

"His muscles didn't get him too far. Did he even make the final twelve?"

"Now now ladies, I know everybody fights over me," I made a charismatic smile. "But how about we lighten up and just have a good time?"

The stylist gave me an austere look, suddenly aiming the nozzle of the hose at my face, which was forced back by the spray. What felt like toxicity stung in my eyes and clogged my lungs for the briefest of seconds. I clung onto my stomach, coughing and heaving heavily while all four stylists released a gale of high pitched laughs. As they laughed I caught one quick glance of myself in the mirror, noticing that I suddenly looked tanned, something the District Four sun could never give me was a tan and the Capitol plastered one on my skin with the quick spray of a hose.

After the stylists chattered amongst themselves excitedly, about the Games and how exciting they were, I looked at myself in the mirror with some curiosity. I had lived my life day by day never really thinking of who I was, of what my purpose was. Every day went by without much forethought and I preferred it that way. But now I was going into a fight to the death and I was looking at my preened, Capitolian self, wondering for a second why I was even here. After a second I shook the stupid thoughts from my head.

"Oh, yes, we're done," the stylist holding the magazine said. "Come on, lets stop chit chatting and let Enera do her thing!"

"Yes, yes," they said, walking outside and giggling among themselves. I heard talk about my apparent head stylist Enera, and of how they worried about leaving me alone with her. That sparked my curiosity.

It was so strange that I'd look like one of them, the Capitolians. I had lived my whole life wanting to experience the rich food, culture, entertainment, decor and lifestyle that they had. But I was unfortunate in the gene lottery and ended up in a family in District Four. Though grateful I wasn't in District Twelve or something, I constantly felt as if I wanted more even though my family were relatively poor. Having a third, unexpected child had already strained the family. But I always wanted more and was always ungrateful.

I wish I didn't act the way I did. I wish I didn't have temper tantrums whenever I saw a child with better clothes than me, or shout at my mother whenever she had resorted to buying cheap and unusual meat to keep us alive. But I innately seemed materialistic, and even though I blamed myself every day for the effect my ways had on my family – blamed myself for the divorce of my parents and my mother's constant depression – this greedy side of me still remained, craving for more.

I wasn't the only person who resented me for the effect I had on my family. My brother, Callum, who I shared a room, with had begrudged me for what I had done. Every day there was a snipe about how I only took money and never paid it back, for the fact my spoilt attitude had divided my family. I had spent every day sailing through my life feeling isolated, even when surrounded by torrents on people who smiled and laughed. The only time I could ever feel happiness was with children, who were so careless to the ways of the world and the finances that powered it.

I needed to make money. I needed to prove I could be useful, and not spent my days living an expensive life, swimming and training. District Four picked their Careers every year, unlike District One or Two. Those who were thought of as having a high chance of winning were selected to enter the Games, and out of all the males they selected me. Though initially skeptical, I thought it would be a good opportunity. Go in, kill a few people, leave rich, compensate for all I had done and live a great lifestyle in the process. What was so bad about that?

I mean, I did have a big chance of winning. I wasn't saying that arrogantly; I knew there were mountains out there like the Two boy or my brutal District partner Honora. I have good social skills and am proficiently trained in a number of weapons, especially the spear and flail. I could swim strongly in aquatic arenas. In fact, I was a pretty competent all rounder. The thought of killing people didn't really revolt me either. It was sad, but I had been desensitised to it. In the training centre they made you watch gruesome deaths every single day until it became nothing to you. Sometimes twisted people like Honora would even grow to like the blood and gore.

"You're lost in thought," a satin like voice purred from the doorway. I snapped out of my train of thought, turning to look at the stylist who was on the doorway.

She had leant against it almost seductively, looking me with wide, longing eyes which had perfectly sculpted eyelashes. All of her features were defined, her face almost seeming too pretty for the curvaceous, vixen-like body it was set upon. I cleared my throat nervously, suddenly not glaring at the thousand blushing clones of me that sat around the walls of the room, forever trapped in the mirrors.

"We're not equated," her lips were like two rose petals, curled into a smile by the wind. "But then again, you've never come to the Capitol before." She clicked her fingers and some of the mirrors curled back to reveal bland walls. She strode in, clapping twice so that china platters holding wax candles also slid out of the new walls. "People often tell me to stay away from District children. But I find them very interesting."

I tried to swallow, so instead I spoke. "Well, we're all kind of different. The Career Districts are-"

"My favourites," she revealed pearly fangs, purposely revealing her long legs. Slowly the lights flickered off and her figure was only illuminated by the candlelight. "Always so strong, and handsome-"

"I don't know your name," I said, trying to change conversation.

"Enera," she grinned. She was now in front of me, pinning me to the stylists' chair with her marble like hands. "I'm your stylist. But more importantly your friend."

"You've come here to style me..." I was grasping for straws, and my brain was fighting with my temptations.

"We have plenty of time for that," Enera smiled, flicking a curtain of black hair behind her shoulders. "So let us become acquainted with one another."

"O-Okay..."

"Don't look so unsure," Enera placed a finger on my lips. "It isn't against the rules. And I have lots of money. I'm not allowed to sponsor, but I am allowed to throw in a little bit of money to friends who can. I like the attractive ones, and hoped I'd be with the Four boy," she grinned. "Last year I was with a girl – how awful was that? But what matters now is that I'm here with you, and I want to add a future Hunger Games Victor to my trophy case."

"Trophy case?"

She rolled her eyes. "I slept with the President to get this job, and I've enjoyed the company of famous men since. They make me wealthy and powerful," she had a sly grin. "So how about you do me a favour, then I'll exchange my wealth and power to give you wealth and power and then you owe me wealth and power. Do you get it?"

... I didn't get it too much. But suddenly my temptation and brain had reached a consensus and I knew sleeping with Enera was a good thing strategy wise. As her sleek figure glowed in the luminescence of the candles, all I could do was nod hungrily.

"Why do you look so self satisfied?" Honora asked me as we made our way into the stables.

She looked annoyed. And I would be too, if it wasn't for thirty minutes of passion leaving a dopey, satisfied smile fixed on my face. Honora and I had been thrown into mermaid costumes. If Honora were a beautiful, petite bimbo she'd look good in the glittering gold tail with pink shells covering her small breasts. Her hair had been styled to fall down her hair like a waterfall. I was in a merman outfit too, oiled so my muscles were more defined, though they looked minuscule in comparison to the bulging sacks of meat that rested in Honora's arms, legs and stomach.

"Just... I like my costume..." I said as we both unsteadily hopped towards our chariot. Our houses nuzzled on hay as all four of them supported a large chariot behind them, one that resembled a giant oyster. In between the seats we lounged in rested a pearl as big as a human child.

"I don't," Honora almost stumbled. "It's fucking stupid. I can barely walk in it and I don't look bloodthirsty."

I wanted to disagree with her; Honora always managed to look bloodthirsty, due to her height, muscles and the constant expression of anger she always held. I had known her for over a year, since we were both selected for the Games. We hadn't interacted in over a year since at our selection ceremony she had bullied a young friend of mine, Locklyn, a girl who I had often babysitted and played with. That was crossing the line, and since we never spoke and maintained frosty congeniality at best.

I wondered what Locklyn would think as she saw my chariot emerge from the gates of the remake centre, as I'd be dragged to the main Capitol square where the President would make his speech. She'd be cheering me, naturally, naïvely assured in her childlike way that I was destined to win. My other relatives wouldn't be quite so happy. They'd know everything was vital, that everything was about survival and that my life was at risk. Whether we liked it or not, attractiveness was part of survival and I had to outshine the rest of those tributes. I got myself a backbone of support from Enera, but in the Final Eight, where everyone is dying everywhere, I'd need every credit I could grab.

Honora managed to slump into her chair on the chariot and she huffed. She huffed angrily when I hopped onto the chariot, my legs still tied together by the latex merman's tail that webbed my feet together. After much struggle I was sitting next to her, and my grin made my District partner even more pissed off.

"You won't be smiling for long, pretty boy," she growled under her breath.

I glanced at her with a flash of rage. "At least I can manage a smile. The Capitol aren't going to like you, with your childish little temper tantrums."

Honora gave an acidic laugh and shrugged.

"You really think this fucking matters, don't you?" She sneered. "It doesn't. The Capitol love dressing us up pretty like dollies, and sure, they'll like you, but do you know why they'll like me more?" There was a moment of silence, though she didn't give me time to answer. "Because I'll tear everyone's head off. That's the point of the Hunger Games."

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Honora and I were both somewhat taken aback, and our angry gaze was moved to someone who was leaning on our chariot. I knew immediately it was the District One boy, the one who barely looked like a Career. He was short and skinny, though his sharp features, icy eyes and indifferent expression made me wary. He had been well groomed for the event, dressed in a white suit that glittered with inbuilt diamonds.

"What do you want?"

"To initiate the Career alliance," he said, simply and calmly. A pale hand swept through his precisely cut blonde hair. "District One can often rely on District Four as an ally."

"Oh yeah, and we can rely on District One?" Honora challenged.

"In the short term."

Honora looked at him inquisitively and quickly glanced at the grand, golden carriage that was typical of District One. In it a dainty girl stood, holding onto a glittering purse and nervously awaiting the chariots to leave. I felt almost bad for her; as pretty as she looked in her sweeping, sapphire laced azure dress, she also looked incredibly insecure. District One hadn't reaped a 'normal' girl in years.

"And her?" Honora said questioningly.

The One boy gave a charismatic grin. "I don't quite know. I know her brother, Siebold. He didn't ever go into the Games but well always well trained. I've never seen her in the training centre," he shrugged nonchalantly. "She's probably adept. I don't know. I'll ask her."

"I want a straight answer," Honora demanded. "And a training score of nine."

"Nine?" I said. "That's hars-"

"A nine," Honora smiled. I had to hold my shock in. Even the One boy's expression faltered a little. I wasn't sure if his expression betrayed worry, doubt, concern or anxiety. He swept his hand through his hair again and grinned.

"Very well," he said, striding off.

"You can always trust District One," Honora sighed, leaning back a little. "I miss that place."

"Miss it? You've never been there..."

"Maybe I have," Honora looked at me defensively. "It's none of your business!"

"It'd be illegal if you ever changed Districts."

Honora rolled my eyes. "I like District One because I saw it in a documentary, I like it, and it also produced the best Hunger Games Victors of all time, Cashmere and Gloss. Okay?"

I simply remained quiet, though had a feeling that Honora was hiding something. Next to us more horses were feeding, holding a chariot that appeared to be a mountain. The hulking Two boy was talking to an eccentric looking Capitolian man who was holding a schedule, ensuring District Two came out on time. Beside him what looked like a District kid also listened intently.

I wondered if the Two's outfits made them look better than me. The girl was attractive, though not stunning. In her hand she held a giant white book that was pressed against her night-black dress. The boy next to her, who was as mountainous as his chariot, was also clad in black and holding what seemed like weighing scales that tipped from one end to the other. The tributes also had crowns perched on their head, and were obviously supposed to represent justice, which Peacekeepers apparently gave us.

"Hey, fuckers!" Honora called to the two, who looked up at us. She simply shouted: "Careers?"

It took a moment for her words to sink in, though both tributes realised what she was saying and gave a quick nod. Honora gave a self satisfied grin and looked at me briefly. So it looked like I was in the Careers with allies; the Two girl, who had a determined look on her face, the Two boy, who was the only tribute who matched up to Honora in terms of stature, Honora who... Was Honora. Then there were the One tributes. I didn't really know much about the One girl, and didn't think of her as a threat, but there was the One boy and even though he was the shortest in the alliance something about him unnerved me a lot.

"Looks like the Careers have begun," Honora stated, before chuckling. "I simply can't wait to gut you all."

I wanted to respond, maybe say something snide, but our horses burst into gear and I was thrown back into my seats. The grand, white horses instinctively lined up: the Ones first, followed by the Twos, and the barely noticeable Threes. It felt relieving to be isolated from the rest of the Careers, though I couldn't help but notice that the Five boy behind me was as muscular as I was.

I may have analysed the Careers scrupulously, but I forgot there were District kids out there. Though most of them may have been skinny, useless excuses for children, there were always a handful of competent tributes each year, and by competent I mean good enough to slay Careers. I turned around as the gates opened and I was deafened by a booming voice:

"To Panem..." There was a pause and then the screams from the colonies of Capitolians out there. "I present to you this year's tributes!"

The doors opened and District One slipped into the unknown where unbelievable screams exploded. The Capitol, Honora getting off on the idea of killing her allies – including me – other threatening tributes and god knows what else was out there before me.

I may be strong, I may have just slept with my stylist to build a good foundation for a sponsor base, but I was suddenly aware that these Games wouldn't be the walk in the park I had expected. And they wouldn't be, Honora's words, 'fun' either.

Hooray for 5-day regular updates! These are going to continue well into October if everything goes as planned :)

Anyway, I usually have something to say, but I don't so er... review or something!

~Toxic