Canyon's advice regarding the opening ceremony is… not great. He says he did terribly at his own, and had to scramble hard to recover at the interviews. Anya finds herself watching said interview late that night when she's meant to be sleeping.

Canyon was only 15 when he won his games 25 years ago, on the younger side as far as victors go. But it's immediately evident as he sits beside Caesar Flickerman in an uncomfortably sheer green shirt, he'd been working in the forests for years. Anya's eyes follow the carefully calculated movements of 15-year-old Canyon as he pushes some of his dark hair from his face and smiles, a handsome young man all things considered.

He does make a good impression, and it gives Anya hope that he'll be able to coach her to do the same come the interviews. Anya knows that she's not the easiest person to talk to, at least not since she lost her memories. The conversations she's managed to have since then tend to include her dropping off halfway through with a memory wrapping its tendrils around her brain but not sinking in– or with the other person getting frustrated with her doing just that and cutting the conversation short.

Will the plump man who conducts the interviews now get frustrated with her too if she starts dropping in and out of her half-conscious state? Or will Canyon do enough prepping to get her to focus for three agonising minutes?

She doesn't sleep. She knows she should, that it would be her best course of action, but she doesn't even try. If she lays down, if she lets her mind stop running a mile a minute, she may be forced to accept that the sword above her head is getting lower and lower, the hands of time tearing at the fragile thread that holds it with every passing second.

Anya decides instead to focus on how strange all of this feels– and not in the way it probably should. She presumes that Dimitri too has a feeling of strangeness, but a very different one than her own. Anya feels as though she's experienced all this before, and every supposedly new sensation brings forth a nauseating wave of deja vu. When she had crawled into the sheets she's not wrapped in, when she had showered under the train's high-pressure shower, when she had eaten that delectable stew at dinner. All of it familiar, not a second of it brand new– except the feeling of impending doom, of course. That's very much new and exhilarating in the worst possible way.

In her night of not sleeping, Anya pours over Crimson Winter maybe another hundred times. It's not a long book, just a children's picture book, maybe about 25 pages long. Her fingers trail gently over the printed words, over the pictures that imitate a watercolour. It's the story of a close knit family pushing through the harsh winter and surviving together. They face challenges, they're torn apart but in the end they end up together, safe and happy. A happy ending.

When she had first awoken from the snow, she had hoped that this story might be hers. That this happy ending would become her own. But as the years went by, and no family came to claim her, she resigned herself to the truth of her life, which was that happy endings were for happy people. For characters in children's books. Not lost little girls who can't even remember their name. She's still staring at the watercolour image of the embracing family when the sun rises, trying to will it to be her own.

When Anya arrives in the remake centre the next morning, her prep team very loudly lament the dark circles under her eyes. She hears the advice Canyon had given herself and Dimitri at breakfast that morning: "Don't fight them."

As far as Canyon's advice goes, this piece is proving the most difficult to follow. Because as they rip and tear at the hair growing from her body, Anya fights very strong impulses to punch them, very hard. Surely with all the Capitol's ridiculously advanced technology and their food that appears in seconds, they might have come up with a painless way to do this. Besides all that, Anya likes her body hair. It's an extra layer of protection against District Seven's brutal winters. But then… that doesn't matter either. She'll likely never be going back.

Still, maybe it's sentimentality. Or a desperation to cling to the infinitesimal chance that she could survive, could return to District Seven. Which, admittedly, isn't born out of any particular love for the district. It's just that all her memories of Seven, however awful and overshadowed with unfounded grief they are, are always accompanied with a reminder that she's alive. District Seven, to Anya, is the place she lived, the place she defied death. If she clings to that, clings to that feeling, maybe she can defy death again.

But if she's told off again by the horrible girl on her prep team with the awful tattooed-on bright green freckles, she may do something rash enough to get her executed before she even steps foot in the arena.

"We don't exactly spend a lot of time tending to our hair in District Seven," says Anya through gritted teeth as the awful girl brushes out her red curls.

"Ugh, I know, but it's so dry! It's barbaric!"

More barbaric than tearing my hair from its follicles? Anya wants to snap, but she bites her tongue, knowing that if she doesn't, she could lose the thing.

"You'll figure something out," she manages instead.

Her stylist, somehow, is worse.

He's a horrifically ugly man that looks like a frog, and Anya thinks it may be on purpose. He pokes and prods at her and – like everyone else – remarks how familiar she looks. She's incredibly thankful that she can't say the same for him.

Thus far, the Capitol had seemed simply odd and eccentric. This? This is… foul. He's like torture to look upon, and the worst part is that he probably thinks his toad-like face looks good.

…He doesn't have terrible taste in clothes, though, in fairness. He puts Anya's hair up into a beautiful series of braids that sit in a pile atop her head like a halo of flames, and her body into a floor length green gown that flows like water and is decorated with trails of pleated green fabric that looks like leaves.

Compared to the man who designed it, it's… understated. Simple. But so beautiful.

And wearing it feels so… normal. She should feel like a stranger as she looks at herself in the giant mirror. Only, she doesn't. She's hit with that nauseating deja vu again and the stylist– whose name is allegedly Nimrod (Anya finds it very fitting) – shoves a bucket into her hands, chastising her preemptively for getting vomit on his masterpiece.

"No, I'm okay," says Anya, shoving the bucket back toward the prep team. "Am I done?"

"Yes," says Nimrod, looking her over with a satisfied gesture. "You are divine."

"Thanks," she mumbles, making for the exit but almost stumbling in her shoes. "I'm fine!"

She shoos off the prep team, regaining her footing and making her way out with Nimrod. Her head feels clearer than it's been in days, months… maybe years. It's been cleared of its fog and replaced with something else without a name – maybe just more fog with a different formula, but at least it's a change of mental scenery.

Dimitri is waiting by their chariot, talking under his breath to speckled brown horses that are set to pull them through the city. As Anya nears, she catches his murmured words of consolation to the horses, telling them he knows what it feels like to work under the Capitol's thumb too.

"Are horses very good conversationalists?" asks Anya, gown floating to the ground as she stops beside him.

Dimitri gives her a side glance, face carefully blank. "Better than my prep team," he says after a moment. A smile plays at Anya's lips.

"Better than me?"

"Not sure." Dimitri steps away from the horse, and Anya gets a better look at his outfit. He's in matching green, a light dress shirt and a larger pale green lace shirt unbuttoned over it. It looks like far less effort than what Anya has on. But he does look handsome, Anya thinks if they do a good enough job of looking stoic and serious they'll catch some decent attention.

The two don't speak for another moment longer until Dimitri's eyes slide over to the man standing a few feet behind her, and immediately fill with indignant horror.

"Holy fuck," he mumbles. "Is that your stylist?"

Anya looks over her shoulder, then back at Dimitri.

"It's frightening, isn't it?"

"Oh, wow, I mean- I thought my stylist was bad." He gestures vaguely toward another man with winding gold tattoos decorating his whole body. "It's sickening– I told him that, you know, and he said thank you? I think it means something different here."

"He looks cool, I think."

"I mean… yeah, but–"

"Horses ain't gonna buy you sponsors!" Canyon's holler cuts through their conversation and Anya looks over at him. He's not smoking, for once, but he smells like he just has been. He looks over both their outfits and nods in approval. "Okay, I've had worse."

"These aren't even bad," says Anya.

"But they're… eh, a little plain. Look, at least you're not dressed like a tree– I was. Get into place now, or they'll leave without you."

When the two teenagers don't immediately move, Canyon raises his eyebrows.

"You think I'm joking? In 93 they left without the poor suckers from Twelve. Up and in the chariot, please!"

"I think that's the first time I've ever heard you use manners," says Anya, making Dimitri snort as he helps her up into the chariot.

Canyon is very clearly trying to suppress a smirk, but failing quite terribly. "Oh, she's funny, is she? I'll remember how funny you are when you need help in that arena."

Anya smirks, moving to grab hold of the crossbar so she's not knocked from the chariot when it inevitably jolts forward. She adjusts the way the gown sits, wary of its soft chiffon getting caught in the wheels.

"Any last pieces of advice?" asks Dimitri.

"Don't fall out," says Canyon, rummaging around in his pockets for a cigarette. "And don't embarrass me!"

Dimitri turns to Anya, seeming exasperated. "He makes me wish we had Johanna Mason as a mentor."

"I think Johanna Mason lives in Twelve with her wife," says Anya, looking forward and pressing up on her tiptoes, trying to get a better view of the tributes ahead of them. "And I don't think she'd be much better than Canyon. He's not that bad anyway; at least he's sober."

"I guess so."

"He is trying to help us."

"If you'd call that help."

Anya frowns, glancing over at Dimitri as their chariot jolts forward. She can see he has a clear problem with the Capitol – the intensity of which makes her feel uncomfortable for some reason – but Canyon? Canyon is from Seven, the same as they are. Perhaps he thinks he's a traitor, for letting himself exist under the Capitol's thumb, doing their bidding and sending kids off to their deaths.

But she doesn't think Canyon has much choice in the matter. His predecessor retired to a whole different district, he's the only one that can do this job. And he doesn't seem particularly happy about it either– she thinks that Dimitri's anger is misdirected. But then, when he had tried to direct it at Leto, they had only stared at him in that strange way they seem to like to stare. Like there was nothing going on behind their eyes.

(Anya's still not convinced Leto isn't just a ghost taking corporeal form.)

(A ghost who is very good at the 'don't talk and you won't say anything wrong' method of conversation.)

Dimitri might just be upset that Canyon is trying to stop him from going on his rebellious tirades, but Anya understands why he is. This is not the place to speak out so vehemently against the Capitol. His life is in their hands, even more so than it is back in the Districts.

Canyon is trying to protect them, he's just not sugarcoating it. Anya's thankful that he's not– she feels as though she spent much of her life having the world's harsh reality sugarcoated. She doesn't want any more of it.

It's that odd thing again. The memory of a feeling, but not the source of it. Because her life in Seven wasn't sugarcoated, it was rather the opposite. Salt-coated, even. But there's that feeling, of being sheltered for so long.

It's the taunting.

It's only exacerbated by the bright lights of the Capitol that threaten to blind her when their chariot emerges from the tunnel. She squints for just a moment, before her better sense takes over and she trains her face into stony emptiness. Tough, if she can manage it. But serious and uninterested is where Canyon said she'll be at her best.

Which, usually, is her natural state. But for once… she doesn't feel uninterested. She feels so curious it threatens to break her facade before the eyes of all of Panem. She feels like she can see herself from where the rabid crowds sit and screams at them. Not in an out of body experience way, but a memory. She feels like she's been the one sitting in those stands, wide eyes watching district children go by, carted off to their deaths.

But… that can't be. It's ridiculous. It's another cruel taunt from the depths of her mind.

But it does feel hauntingly real. Realer than any story she's made up for herself about her life in District Seven before the accident. All those fake memories she made up in an attempt to find the real ones, none of them hold a candle to the crazed Capitolites screaming at her right now.

She elects to ignore this feeling. It's outlandish, and it makes no sense. It's impossible– not just improbable, impossible.

By the time Anya's able to blink away this vicious bout of deja vu, she's supposed to be listening to the president give a speech. She blinks up at the handsome man standing on the balcony of his mansion, and squints as she tries to tune in but the smooth honey of his voice just sounds like buzzing. He's a commanding presence, though apparently not commanding enough to warrant Anya's full attention.

She still hasn't managed to focus when the chariot jolts forward again, a soft noise of surprise tumbling from her mouth, for which Dimitri glances at her sideways and raises an eyebrow. Once they're inside the confines of the tribute centre, Anya releases a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding.

"You're lucky we weren't wearing microphones," Dimitri mumbles as he climbs out of the chariot. "That was horrific. They're like animals."

"Yeah," says Anya, voice an echo in her own ears. "Crazy."

"Should Canyon be here? Would he have made it around in time?"

Anya shrugs, and her gaze falls onto Leto floating over to them. "Guess they're showing us to where we're staying. Wanna air out your grievances about the parade before they get to us?"

"I think I'm just gonna start keeping a journal," Dimitri mumbles dryly.

As soon as they're released into the training centre, Dimitri parts from Anya and immediately ignores Canyon's advice about paying attention to the survival stations. Anya watches him rush toward the sword fighting station with a frown on her face.

She doesn't understand why he bothers, considering that neither of them are going to pick up on the intricacies of a brand new weapon in three days. Their best bet is to stick to the weapons they know, and work on the survival skills they don't. She presumes being a logger, Dimitri knows his way around an axe. And Anya… well, processing timber isn't a particularly violent profession, she doesn't think knowing her way around a saw and sandpaper is going to serve her very well in the arena. But it's given her some decent muscle mass, and it's better than nothing.

Besides, if she gets her hands on a knife, how hard is it to figure out how to use it? You stick them with the pointy end. Why waste time on training with them when she has no idea how to stoke a fire or identify what plants will kill her?

But then, maybe Dimitri does already know those things, and he's being smart by picking up new skills. She can see him from the place she's taken at the fire-making station, ignoring all attempts at conversation as he takes shots at a target, the knife's accuracy varying with each throw. (Which tells her that for him, it's entirely a game of chance.)

"Embarrassing, ain't it?"

The brand new voice in Anya's ear makes her jump. She takes a harsh breath, composes herself and looks up to see a boy lowering himself to sit next to her in the false underbrush of the false woods they're in. She notices the number 9 embroidered on his shirt, and a grin sits comfortably on his lips. His eyes, icy blue and paler than her own, meet hers, and he smiles wider.

"I'm Rook Cabot," he says, and he doesn't give her a chance to respond before he's continuing. "So desperate to show off, ain't he? Doesn't he know it's all pointless?"

Anya looks back at Dimitri, who is less than politely telling the girl from Four that he's not done. (With a few choice words thrown in.)

"Capitol already knows who they want to make it far, and trust me, it ain't us outliers."

Anya scoffs. "That's not necessarily true. If that were the case, we'd have no mentors. Why are you talking to me?"

"Shit, well, mentor they gave us is 'bout as good as having none at all."

"Why are you talking to me?" Anya repeats.

Rook meets her eye and shrugs after a moment. "You look like you're not boring."

Anya's lip twitches, but she doesn't justify him with an entire smile. But Rook notices anyway.

"Maybe I am."

"Nah, I don't believe that. There's something real about you. You ain't like them."

"Them?"

"Them." He gestures around the gym. "I can tell you're not fixin' to conform to the Capitol's labels."

Anya blinks at him, wondering if he's not right in the head– but if he is, who is she to judge? Neither is she.

"So tell me, Seven-"

"My name is Anya."

"Is it?"

She pauses in her movements, looking up at the incessant boy. Her brows knit together.

Is it?

"Yes. Anya A."

Rook hums, sitting back against a synthetic tree. Anya frowns at him, and he only raises his eyebrows with an easy smile on his face.

"Okay. Anya, then. That's good, cause I don't believe in Districts."

"You… don't believe in Districts," Anya echoes, eyebrows raised. She doesn't say more, waiting and watching to see if he'll elaborate and make himself look more crazy.

"All they are's a concept, Anya A. A restrictive idea imposed by the upper class to keep us in line."

"You're kind of exhausting, Rook Cabot."

"Thank you!"

Anya scowls, shaking her head and turning back to her poor attempt at a fire, trying to remember when she'd watch Madame Clavell stoke fires in the hearth at the orphanage. It had seemed so simple when she did it, except she has to consider that that hearth was dusted with years worth of soot and coal. Clavell had a place to start, this is… fruitless.

As she glares down at the stubbornly un-sparking kindling, a pair of tanned hands enters her vision. She looks back up to see Rook focused on the kindling, dark brows furrowed in concentration. Incredibly, he manages to start the fire without much effort, sending smoke floating up into the vents above them. He quickly lights a match and looks at Anya with a proud grin as fire blooms in the kindling.

"How did you do that?" asks Anya. "I thought District Nine was… hot?"

Rook laughs, holding his hands over the fire to warm them even though the room is perfectly temperate. "Not in the winter. Everything freezes over…"

His smile falters for a moment, hardly long enough to be noticed.

"I can start a fire from anything. Pine needles, rotten wheat, tesserae grains. If it's flammable and easily accessible, I've made a fire out of it."

"Will you show me how?" Anya asks, surprising herself.

Rook continues on grinning, raising a single finger. "One condition."

Anya says nothing, and Rook takes it as an invitation to continue.

"Let's be friends."

"You mean allies?"

"Whatever you wanna call it. Me and you, Anya A. We'll look out for each other. What do you say?"

He holds out his hand to shake, and Anya can't believe she's really considering this. Is knowing how to start a fire really worth promising loyalty to this guy she's just met?

But then, it's more than fire. More than knowledge to help her survive. It's someone to help her survive. An ally, someone to rely on. She feels bad, because she doesn't have much to offer in return. But he's the one who asked, maybe he won't mind that Anya can't help him like he could help her.

So she takes his hand, and she shakes it firmly. Rook smiles, nodding with determination.

"We're gonna do this together, Anya A. You and me."

"Yeah yeah," says Anya dismissivey. "Teach me how to start this fire, Rook Cabot."

At lunch, Anya chews quietly on the orange that has been placed on her tray, listening to Rook do his best to analyse the other tributes based on what he can see. He points his fork to each of them as he goes, and Anya thinks most of it is unfounded guesses based on how they carry themselves or what he's seen them doing in training, but when he points at Dimitri – who sits alone at the other side of the cafeteria – she perks up to listen. Maybe Rook can get a better read on him than she can.

"He ain't half handsome, huh?" Rook begins, shovelling some pasta into his mouth. "But he looks angry. Look between his eyebrows, he has–" He snorts in amusement as he squints across the room at the boy. "Look close, he's got a tan line between his eyebrows cause he frowns so much."

Anya presses her lips together and looks down at her tray, trying hard not to laugh because Rook is absolutely correct. Dimitri is so angry and miserable that the sun has etched the memory of his frown into his face. It's kind of ridiculous. But as she glances back up, she sees the tan lines are gone, because he's frowning again.

Anya snorts, covering her mouth and looking away as Rook bursts out, absolutely guffawing in delight and attracting the attention of much of the room.

"Stop, stop!" Anya insists, suppressing her amused snickers and smacking his arm gently. "Everyone's looking."

"Good, let them! They'll see their biggest competition being happy and unbothered!"

"Please," says Anya, popping a slice of orange in her mouth. "We're only competition to that tiny one from Ten."

"Nah." Rook shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. "They're scared of us. But our biggest competition is sitting right there."

Anya follows the path of where he gestures his fork to, and her eyes land on the tall and beautiful girl from District One. She's gorgeous, her brown skin seems to glow like the sun and her black hair falls in thick waves over her shoulder. Her arms are rippled with muscles, and she speaks quietly to her allies, looking as though she's already taken charge.

"Her name is Opalette," whispers Rook. "Ridiculous name, but ridiculously good. Have you taken a look at the odds?"

"No, our mentor says it'll only mess with our psyche."

"Well, he's probably right, but I looked anyway. Three to one."

Anya frowns, looking at him expectantly. "Is… that good?"

"Well, to compare, my odds are currently sitting at about nineteen to one. Now– I barely know how to do maths beyond what I gotta do in the paddies, but I know that ain't good."

"Did you look at mine?" Anya wonders.

"I did."

"And?"

"Ah, well, wouldn't wanna go against your mentor's wishes–"

"Rook."

Rook raises his eyebrows, grinning in amusement. "Knew you weren't a rule follower. You're sitting at around forty."

"Forty?!"

"It don't even matter, really," he assures. "Who are they to decide how likely we are to win based on arbitrary judgements?"

"You brought it up."

"Well, yeah, because miss Opalette has been training for this, so they have her trainer's testimony to base their odds around! Hers ain't just based on the reaping and parade!"

"But you said it's arbitrary."

"I did say that. And now I'm saying this. Opalette Vivienne is our biggest competitor."

Anya scowls at him, though she's somewhat amused with how inconsistent his beliefs are. "What about the other careers?"

"Irrelevant, really," Rook hums, resting his elbow on the table and setting his chin on his fist. "Opalette is the ringleader. Although…"

Anya watches as he nods toward the girl sitting next to Opalette, a surprisingly small girl with shiny blonde hair and the number '2' embroidered on her shirt.

"Herminia Florus. Seven to one odds, has been following Opalette around like a lost puppy all morning. I think she'll do pretty much anything that girl tells her to."

Anya frowns. She hadn't put much consideration into the career tributes– she's been more focused on trying to get out of her own head and figure out Dimitri. But she had assumed they wouldn't be followers, they'd be hard headed individualists. From what she knows, it's generally District Two who head up the career pack, who fetch the better scores and better odds.

"I can't say I blame her," Rook continues. "She is gorgeous, who can resist when a pretty girl bosses them around?"

Anya glances over at him.

"Thought you weren't a follower?"

"I'm not! But I make a point to see all points of view."

It makes sense. Though much of Rook's analysis of the other tributes has been unfounded and irrelevant drivel, bits and pieces of it are clearly based on what he's noticed. Like his conclusion that Dimitri is miserable by nature based on the frown lines in his face, and he's been observing closely enough to notice Herminia following Opalette.

Rook is unserious, clearly, but he's not stupid. Anya can't quite gauge his loyalty yet, but he's proving to be a more worthy ally than he makes himself out to escapes her, though, is why he approached her in the first place. She'd ask, but she doesn't know whether to trust his answer.

What judgements has he made on her through distant observation? It must be good, decent enough to want to be by her side. Has he seen something in her that she can't see in herself?

If she asks, will he tell her what he sees?

"We'll keep an eye on them both," Anya decides. "See which weapons they lean toward."

"Yes, right! So we can grab those weapons and keep them from their strengths."

"Sure." Anya shrugs. "Or so we know what to be wary of. If one of them is more proficient in a long range weapon, we can try to avoid lower ground."

Rook grins, nodding eagerly and causing the strands of curly hair that fall from his bun bounce with the movement. "Clever. We'll keep a close eye on everyone's strengths. Cause you and me? We're the best here, we're gonna make it out, Anya A."

"That's… definitely not how it works."

Rook only meets her with that same handsome grin, turning his gaze back to his food and beginning to shovel it down like it might run away.

Dimitri takes his dinner alone in his room that evening, much to Canyon's annoyance. Anya takes advantage of being mostly alone with him to fill him in on her new alliance. He seems surprised to hear it.

"What? What's that look?" Anya asks.

She feels foggy once more now she's sat up here, trying her best to focus hard on Canyon and not the nauseating deja vu this pasta dish is bringing her.

"Shocked," says Canyon plainly. "You're not exactly the most talkative girl I've ever met."

"Maybe I just don't like you."

Canyon raises his eyebrows in vague amusement as he chews on his food.

"He approached me."

"Ah. Who is he then?"

"His name is Rook, from District Nine."

Canyon hums, squinting up at the wall behind Anya as he seemingly tries to recall the tributes from District Nine. He soon shakes his head.

"I'll have to ask Lea about him," he muses. "Not that she's likely paid him any mind. What do you think, then? Must be capable enough to have won your approval."

"He's… mercurial. But observant, clever."

Canyon nods, leaning back in his seat, gaze thoughtful.

"What about Dimitri?"

Anya frowns, shrugging. "What about him?"

"Have you been watching him?"

"...Yes," she says after a moment. "He's ignoring your advice."

He sighs, nodding as though he'd expected that much. Canyon really does seem to be trying. He doesn't give much in the way of kind words, but his advice has proven sound so far, even if one half of the children in his care is ignoring it as much as he can manage.

"He tried the axes?"

"No. I haven't seen him go near them."

"Okay, well I guess there's that, at least. Anything else?"

"I probably shouldn't say anymore. He hates me enough as it is."

"Hates you?" he repeats. "He doesn't hate you, kid. He's just confused by you."

"The feeling is mutual," mumbles Anya. "Do I confuse you?"

Canyon purses his lips and shrugs. "No. You're a bit aloof, doesn't make you confusing."

Anya watches him in silence for a moment.

"Alright."

"Rook, do I look familiar to you?"

Rook glances up from the snare he's trying to set, one eyebrow raised. His curly hair is pulled back in a bun once more, the strands that are too short to fit tumbling out beneath the tie. He looks over Anya's face, her own curly red hair pulled back in a simple braid. He squints at her, feigning dubiousness, before his face relaxes into its usual smile and he shrugs.

"Nope. Ain't never seen anyone quite like you, Anya A."

Anya doesn't know why her cheeks heat up. It should feel more like an insult than a compliment, but it doesn't. She doesn't even know if he meant it kindly. It is, by definition, a completely neutral statement.

"Why?"

Anya hesitates, shifting where she sits with a bundle of twine in her hands, cross legged across from Rook.

"I…" She sighs, and shrugs. "People keep saying I look familiar here."

"People… like the Capitol folks?"

She nods. "And Dimitri."

"Huh," says Rook, and for once his expression is unreadable. Thus far, Rook has been an open book, his emotions easy to see on his face. The one he wears now is as confusing to her as the rest of the Capitol is. "Well, you don't share a look with most of Seven. From what I can tell."

Anya remains quiet, seeming almost nervous to hear a hint of his usually astute observations.

"People from Seven tend to be… tan. Brown skin, dark hair and eyes. Which, well…"

"I don't have."

"No. But then, people in Nine don't tend to have blue eyes."

"No?"

"Districts ain't an enclave. I mean, for instance, One is known for blonde hair and green eyes. Opalette's got neither. Maybe you just share features that people tend to have in the Capitol. Which sucks for you."

Anya rolls her eyes, but a smile is pulling at her lips.

"Do you care what these people think of you, Anya?"

"No!" She says, perhaps a tad too fast. "I'm just trying to make sense of it."

"Well, good. 'Cause it don't matter. You don't need them, don't let what they think of you affect the real Anya."

Anya looks at him quietly, contemplative.

"I don't know who the real Anya is," she says.

He shrugs. "Took me a while to know the real Rook. He's a bit annoying. We'll find her, you and I."

"Or we'll die trying."

Rook grins, gently bumping her arm with his fist.

On the last day of training, Dimitri all but spits in the face of any advice Canyon has given him.

Anya is sitting with Rook at the edible food station, listening to Rook analyse the way Herminia is laughing too hard at Opalette's jokes, when she catches sight of Dimitri walking toward the axe station with steely determination. She hits Rook gently on the arm, drawing his attention by nodding her head toward Dimitri. .

Even Rook's mentor, a woman named Meadowlea who has apparently shown very little interest in actually mentoring Rook and his district partner, gave the advice of saving their biggest strengths for their private sessions. It's the one thing every mentor, no matter the district, seems to agree on.

Anya isn't entirely sure what she plans to show off at her own private session. She's decently strong, and she's rather good at the memory matching games.

The irony of that isn't lost on her.

But Dimitri, she was certain, was intending to show off his skills with an axe.

But now she's certain that Dimitri is picking up an axe and setting up one of the training droids to fight with.

"Surely he ain't…"

Anya shushes Rook, unsure why she can't seem to tear her eyes away from Dimitri. Perhaps she's curious, as much of the gym seems to also be. She hears Rook whisper to her that the careers have stopped to watch too, and she spares them a momentary glance, seeing that the group is observing Dimitri just as curiously. When she looks back, Dimitri is making his first swing.

She can hear the puffs of air that leave his mouth as he battles the droid, see the practised ease with which he swings the axe, see him meeting the droid with deadly precision that the thing barely manages to block.

He's been training.

Anya realises that before the games, before he had been reaped, Dimitri must have taken his axe out into the woods and swung it at the trees until he could do so with devastating and precise force. As though he were preparing for something– perhaps not the games, but something else.

(Or, perhaps the games indeed, Dimitri is only seventeen, his prime time to volunteer would have been next year.)

It must have to do with why he thought his reaping was fixed, why he's so sure the Capitol is out to get him. But nothing Anya does– no matter how hard she stares and squints at him, seems to solve his mysteries. Even Rook can't seem to figure out the details.

"Damn," drawls Rook softly, his eyebrows shooting up as Dimitri buries the axe right into the droid's head with a shout of exertion. "I think we oughta add him to our list of problems."

Anya thinks it's kind of miraculous that she manages to earn a solid 6 for her training score. It could be better, but it could also be far worse.

They'd given Rook a 4, despite how obviously capable he is– he'd told Anya before they went in that he'd be doing absolutely nothing, and he had no interest in 'desperately flouncing around trying to gain their approval.' She assumes the points he did gain are from what they observed in the days prior.

Dimitri was given a 9. Clearly, the gamemakers were thoroughly impressed by his skill. Or they wanted to put a target on his back.

(That was what Dimitri had muttered when his score appeared on screen.)

(Anya thinks if they wanted to single him out, he'd get a higher score than a 9. But she still doesn't know why they'd be singling him out, or what score it would have earned him. It's driving her insane– which is strange, because she hasn't cared so much about another person's business in three years.)

Canyon is hoping that Anya can build upon her 'half-decent' score through means of the interview that she's currently being trussed up for. She wears another green gown, this one pleated with soft sleeves that fall off her shoulders. It's fine, apart from the slit in the skirt that begins in the middle of her thigh.

Though, as she makes her way to the backstage area with Nimrod she realises it's not quite so bad. Because she spots Opalette, who stands tall and beautiful in a hot pink down, dripping with shining stones and hugging her form, and feels incredibly thankful for how much her own dress covers her. Opalette doesn't seem particularly uncomfortable with the low cut of the bodice, or the high cut of the skirt (she had probably anticipated being sold on her sex appeal from the moment she volunteered), but Anya knows she would be.

"Oh, what the hell?" Dimitri's familiar voice huffs from behind Anya. She turns, failing to hide that he had startled her. "You look incredible. I was hoping you'd at least look as ridiculous as I do so it wouldn't be so humiliating."

"You look fine," says Anya, and though his outfit isn't as… formal as her own, he is making it work.

"I'm wearing a turtleneck and a velvet coat," Dimitri deadpans. "I look ridiculous."

"Show them that shining personality of yours and they won't notice that you look like a middle aged professor."

Dimitri scowls, letting a stagehand direct them to line up. "You sound like Canyon."

Anya doesn't think she minds that, actually.

"What'll you do?" Anya can't help but ask. "When you get up there."

"Well, I don't plan to entertain them," he says, sounding closed off and cryptic. "My score is high enough that I don't need to grovel for approval."

"Not that high."

"High enough. What's your friend planning to do to make up for that 4?"

"I bet you'd love to know," says Anya, suddenly feeling defensive of Rook.

Dimitri only scoffs, and they fall into silence as the interviews begin.

The Master of Ceremonies is a plump older man named Mars, and he's been hosting the Hunger Games for as long as Anya can remember– even before her accident, she remembers Mars as a staple of the games.

Which is… not ironic, per say, but unfortunate, given his rapidly fading charisma has made the interviews a deadly boring and unmemorable affair for the past decade or so. He's gotten lazy, started feeling secure in his position, like he's tenured and he'll be able to work this job until he retires peacefully.

Which is both ridiculous and naive, because everyone knows that no job in the Capitol is secure, not under President Gomez' mercurial hand.

…

Does everyone know that? Why does Anya know that? All she's seen of President Gomez that she can remember is that he's a charismatic, handsome, and laid back man that just happens to enjoy sending District children off to their deaths. So why does she know that he's supposedly mercurial and ruthless? She doesn't just think it, she's absolutely certain. Certain that she's heard someone, someone she cared about, whisper that the president had killed someone, someone important, someone who thought they were safe and secure, just to make a point.

Who would have said that?

Why would her family, who had lived their entire lives in District Seven, know the true nature of the president?

She's being guided out onto the stage before she knows it, confusion and haze ringing in her head, bouncing around her skull like a rock skipping over water, just skipping and skipping and never sinking into the depths.

Her feet carry her over to Mars, who beckons her closer with a lazy, ingenuine smile. He's as unfortunate to look at as any Capitol bigwig, overindulgent and overdone, skin pulled tight with years of procedures to make him look younger that ultimately fail to do so.

Anya sits down beside him, the slit of her dress falling so that the smooth skin of her leg is exposed. She supposes she understands why they'd ripped the hair from the follicles now. The lights on her are so blinding, she's sure the audience can see every little detail of her appearance– including the startled confusion on her face.

Mars is talking to her before she can really process her surroundings, and she's still staring into the stagelighyz when she catches the end of his sentence.

"–the A stand for?"

She blinks at him, frowning, saying nothing.

Mars laughs awkwardly, glancing from Anya to the audience, and back again– he lost his ability to save an awkward conversation years ago.

"Well we're all wondering!" He says, clearing his throat. "It's the big mystery on everyone's lips. What's the A in Anya stand for?"

Anya's lips turn further downward.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what your own name is?"

"No. I don't."

She hears laughter from the audience– they must think she's joking. She can work with that, right? That's what Canyon told her to be. Funny. He told her to be honest, that she was funny when she was honest.

(He's also promptly turned to Dimitri and told him very firmly not to be honest.)

"Just call me Anya."

"Of course, Anya," says Mars, leaning back in his seat with a smile. "So, how are you finding the Capitol?"

Anya shrugs, still sitting too stiffly.

"Weird."

"Weird, weird how?"

Anya can't tell if he's interested or if he's just so lazy he's letting her lead the interview.

"I thought I'd be more… surprised. It's all…" She trails off. How does she say she thinks he's been here before– and for a long time too – without sounding completely crazy?

Maybe she is completely crazy, but that's not going to get her sponsors.

"Whelming."

"Overwhelming?" Mars corrects curiously.

"No, whelming. Not over or under."

Mars laughs, and so the audience laughs.

"I was expecting to be amazed by all the technology," she goes on. "But it's like… whatever. It's cool, nicer than District Seven. I guess I'm just not so surprised?"

"A shame to hear we're failing to surprise you, Anya. Maybe we'll have to try harder!"

"I'm sure you will," says Anya.

She continues on in this awkward manner with Mars, with the man trying his best to keep up with her.

She's entirely unaware of the pair of eyes that watch her intently. That watch her red hair, and the way she speaks of the Capitol like she knows it. A pair of eyes who have realised who exactly it is they're looking at. A pair of eyes that fill with scorn and hatred, and a murmured voice that quietly promises vindication.

Anya watches as the tube slides closed between herself and Nimrod, leaving her in silence as he gives her an encouraging thumbs up.

She doesn't understand why Nimrod is the one seeing her off. He's the least comforting sight she can possibly think of to be her last human contact before she's thrust into a den of desperate, bloodthirsty teenagers, but she's trying not to dwell on it. Her belly is full with that pasta dish that she asked so much about that people began to think she just really liked it, the corners of Crimson Winter are digging into her ribs where the book is tucked into the inner pocket of her jacket, and Canyon's advice is ringing in her head.

Be smart.

By nature, it should be simple advice. It's a plain instruction, only two words. But she has no idea how she's supposed to pull that off when her head is pounding and her vision feels like it's breaking off at the edges.

The platform raises her up, and she doesn't know why she holds her breath. The sunlight is blinding, and she blinks harshly in order to adjust.

Despite the fact that it's certain to be the site of her impending death, the arena is… beautiful.

The tributes are raised up into a green clearing, surrounded by tall and winding trees, with trunks so thick one would think they'd been there for centuries. It's not any kind of tree Anya thinks she's ever seem before.

At least… not in District Seven.

She feels the haze of a forgotten memory threatening to cloud her mind and she forces it away, shaking her head fiercely and willing herself to focus on what's before her.

The cornucopia is as golden and presumably overflowing as it is every year. She presumes, because she's faced directly with the back end of it. The shining tail of the horn seems close enough to touch, and she can't really gauge the bounty that sits in the mouth of it. She can see additional supplies dotted around the edges– backpacks, tarps, stray bits of rope and the like– but no weapons, no visible food or water.

She also can't see Rook. He's hidden somewhere on the other side of the clearing. She can't communicate a plan with him through frenzied hand motions like he said they should. She just has to hope he won't get slaughtered in the chaos and they'll find one another at some point.

She… she can see Dimitri though. He's staring right at her, unmistakable murder in his brown eyed gaze. That same fire she'd seen at the reaping, it's burning brighter and its burning right at her.

Last night, after the interviews, Dimitri had avoided her at all costs. Which, yes, he'd been doing passively the entire time they'd been here, but he seemed particularly adamant about it yesterday.

Anya just can't figure him out no matter how hard she tries. But right now, watching the way he's looking at her, she can surmise that he very much wants to kill her. She can't, however, surmise why.

As the countdown ticks over to the last 5 seconds, Dimitri looks away from her, presumably eyeing some weapon that Anya can't see, something to appropriately kill her with.

The gong sounds, and all that happens next happens so very fast.

Anya surges forward, sprinting toward a red backpack. She's hoping she can grab it, find Rook, and get out into the woods without Dimitri planting an axe in her skull. Her feet fall heavily against the hard packed earth as she sprints toward the backpack, and she's reaching down to tuck her fingers into the strap and sling it onto her back as efficiently as possible when she's tackled to the ground.

She's thrown directly onto her back and all the breath is knocked violently from her lungs, and as she's gasping for breath her vision clears, and Dimitri is hovering over her with a serrated knife in hand.

"It's you!" He's shouting, sounding distant compared to the overwhelming struggle of drawing in air– which is made all the more difficult by his formidable weight on her torso. "I knew it, you're her!"

Anya looks up at him in affronted confusion, trying in vain to shove him off as she desperately wheezes for air.

"You thought I wouldn't notice? You thought I'd let you get away with–"

His weight is gone from Anya before she can even process what's happening. She scrambles onto her hands and knees to greedily gulp down air and looks over. She turns her gaze over just in time to see Rook pulling a bloody knife from Dimitri's back and rushing over to Anya.

"Come on!" He encourages, shoving the red backpack into her hands and grabbing her by the arm to drag her toward the treeline.