Our arrival in the Capitol is nothing short of hell.

The train starts off delayed. They tell us that this is because of a fuel mix-up in District Six, but by the time we arrive, I'm starting to think it might be about something else. There are hoards of Peacekeepers at the station, and I doubt that the reason they're so tense is because we're slightly behind schedule.

Either way, it doesn't stop the crowds from being just as enthusiastic as they always are. The platform at the station is merifully empty, but the cheers and cries from the surrounding streets are definitely audible, echoing painfully across the huge marble space. Most of the voices are cheering for me. I duck my head. Leander gives me a scathing look.

It's embarrassing, it is, and I don't want to overshadow my tribute, but there's really nothing I can do to control the crowd's response. Attention outside shifts as another train presumably rolls into sight, and I hear cries of ' Cashmere' and 'Gloss' rise up. At the very least, we'll never fully outshine District One.

I'm following the others down the platform, onto another, smaller train that will take us underground, directly into the bowels of the Remake Centre, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Sorry, Mr Odair," a Peacekeeper says. She looks to be about Ness' age. "I've got instructions from President Snow that you're to be taken elsewhere."

My heart drops. "President Snow wants to meet me?"

She shakes her head. "He says there's been a breakfast meeting arranged for you. With Pomona Paxford?"

Pomona Paxford. It takes me a minute to place the name. I met her during the final night of my victory tour, at the President's mansion. She's a singer in her mid-thirties, with a string of very young boyfriends. I give Mags a confused look. She nods.

"Right. Um. Okay."

"If you could follow me. There'll be a car for you shortly."

I'm led to an office around the back while the others board the train. Leander says something to Mags, and then looks in my direction. Based on her expression, it doesn't seem like he was being particularly pleasant. The Peacekeeper tells me I'll be fetched when the car is ready, and closes the door.

The room is small and cramped, and I feel uneasy. There's a clock that's ticking too loudly, and the poor ventilation makes the air feel stuffy. I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my back. The Capitol in the summer is always suffocating. It must be something about the buildings that trap in the heat. I miss the open, wide space of Four already. It doesn't feel like I can breathe here.

Through the window, I can see District One has arrived. They pay me no attention, so I assume the glass in the office is one-way. Cashmere steps out first, followed by their escort, and then her tribute, Lux. She looks perfect, like she always does, and I can tell Lux is already dressed to match; though instead of the white, flowing outfit that her mentor is wearing, she errs towards the darker, sharper variety. In this heat, she must be boiling alive.

Cashmere goes up to a Peacekeeper - the same one who talked to me - and asks something. She looks towards the train. Gloss and the male tribute, Aussie, step out, engrossed in some intense conversation. They all head down the platform. I wonder if they've been held up too.

I wait.

Eventually, the Peacekeeper comes back. She leads me down a flight of stairs, into an underground car park. There's a plain, unmarked car waiting for me. It has dark tinted windows, and there's an avox at the driver's seat. In silence, I slip into the back, and the car rolls out of the parking lot and into the city sun.

It's the first time I get a proper look at the Capitol. It's huge. Not only huge in scale, (though I'm sure it is), but also in height. There isn't a single building that I don't have to crane my head to look up at, and some go on so far up I can't even see where they end. In Four, our houses are long and flat. There are the occasional two-story buildings - usually for shopkeepers, who live above their storefronts - and a handful of houses built on stilts over the shoreline, but those are the exceptions. The idea of being so high up in the sky feels unnatural to me.

I had assumed the highrises were local to City Centre, which is where I've spent almost all of my time in the Capitol, but as we drive along wide, marble-paved streets, I can tell that I was wrong. Everything goes up for miles, like a forest of glittering metal. We pass by an old-fashioned building centred around a rotunda, which I assume to be an academy of some sort. Teenagers around my age spill from the streets into a sunlit courtyard, all wearing bright red-and-white uniforms and talking excitedly to one another. It feels completely foreign and yet strangely familiar. Kids are kids.

As we drive, we pass by more people. Dog walkers, couples arm in arm, street performers, business men and women, painters, shopkeeps. This feels strange. This is ordinary Capitol life. I've never seen it before. I press my hand to the window. It's hot.

Eventually we take a turn into some sort of gated community, located up a hill. The ground is arid, but there's a beautiful view of the lake to the west. According to Minerva, the lake is made up entirely of salt water. I couldn't quite make sense of that. Looking at it now, though, I can believe it. I can almost imagine fishing on it - there are even a few boats on the nearby shore. It's huge. If it wasn't for the faint strip of land I can see on the other end, I might even mistake it for the sea.

Pomona Paxford's house is huge. At least four stories tall, made up of sweet-smelling lavender stone. The car rolls down into an enclosed garage, and I'm two steps out the door when I hear a squeal.

There's a woman waiting for me. She's not wearing much, though what little she does wear is lavish. She's got her purple hair quaffed into a delicate poof, and wears a perfectly made-up face hidden behind cat-eyed sunglasses. The swimsuit she's dressed in is flush to her body, with strange, geometric cut-outs. Her violet robe billows out after her as she walks over.

"Finnick! Oh, I'm so glad you could come!"

"Of course," I say, practising a polite smile. "Thank you so much for inviting me, Mrs Paxford."

She laughs, high and pealing. " Mrs? Oh, no, I divorced ages ago. It's Miss Paxford, now." She taps the corner of her nose. "But you can call me Pomona."

"Pomona," I echo. "You have a lovely house, Pomona."

"You like it? Oh, I hoped you would! I had it redone over the winter. Would you like to see the pool?"

I observe her swimsuit. "I'm guessing that you want me to say yes?"

She laughs again. "Maybe. Come. I've got a breakfast laid out for us."

Pomona leads me up from her garage to the rest of the house. It's a strange place, made up of dozens of glass rooms that are packed with fluffy seats and pastel hanging decor. Outside, in the garden, there's a bean-shaped pool filled with twinkling purple water. On a deck overlooking it is a picnic; pastries, fresh fruit, chocolate, and two tall glasses of amber liquid.

"Oh, the water?" Pomona says, following my gaze. "It's a special creation. It smells like soap! Would you like a dip?"

I look at her, in her swimsuit, and myself, in my designer outfit. I want to leave.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything to change into."

"Oh, that's alright. You can swim in your under-things. I do it all the time!"

I don't like the way she's looking at me.

"Um, I'm not sure. I have to make it back to my tribute in a bit," I say. Pomona smiles tightly. I think about Snow. Play nice. "But maybe another time?"

The promise of 'another time' seems to please Pomona, because she lets the topic go and leads me to the picnic. I sit down and pick up the sparkling flute of golden liquid. It smells sharp.

"Posca," Pomona says. "Try it."

I take a sip. At first it tastes sweet, but there's a sharp undertone. I wrinkle my nose. Pomona laughs.

"What's in it?" I ask.

"Sweetened wine," she says, picking up her own glass and taking a modest gulp. "It's a Capitol speciality. We've drunk it ever since before the Dark Days."

I put down the glass. "Oh. Um. I probably shouldn't drink."

"Why?" Pomona leans across from me, picking up a grape and letting it pop between her front teeth.

"I'm just too young," I say. "My father says I shouldn't drink a sip of alcohol until I'm eighteen."

Pomona rolls her eyes. "The Districts are so stuffy. Go on. I won't tell."

I look at the glass. "Um. I've got my tribute to worry about. I wouldn't want to distract myself."

"Oh, what ever ," Pomona waves her hand and leans back down. "I suppose you have your responsibilities. But promise me, once you're off-duty, you'll come back and visit, and we'll have some real fun."

"When I'm off duty?" I frown. "I mean - I'm trying to get Leander to reach the end. Do you mean after the Games?"

"Of course you'll say that," Pomona shakes her head. "But really, I don't see much for him. The girl from One, on the other hand? I love her look. Have you seen her?" I nod. "What do you think?"

What do I think? "She seems capable, I guess. But Leander -"

" - and the boy from Ten? Now that's a surprise if I've ever seen one."

"I think Leander will manage to surprise you too," I say.

Pomona cocks her head to the side. "I'm not sure. You think?"

"At the very least, sponsoring him would help me out," I say, and smile at her.

"Would it?" Pomona thinks for a moment, and then leans in. "You should know, nobody's allowed to pay before the parade starts. Don't want the sponsors to be swayed by their favourite victors."

I bink. "Oh. I didn't -"

"But I won't tell," Pomona says. "And if I happen to like the look of your tribute, then so be it. Who said you swayed me?"

"Right. Um -" I didn't mean to break the rules. I don't really know what to say. "Well, thank you."

"Anything to help Finnick Odair," Pomona says. "Now, enough about the Games. Let's talk about you -"

It takes an hour of dragging through conversation with Pomona before I'm back at the Training Centre. Or, at least, what I thought was the Training Centre. The attendant who excitedly shuttles me across a sunlit, grassy courtyard that connects the tribute apartments with a second highrise building tells me that there are actually two centres that make up Games HQ - the Training Centre and then the Games Centre.

Apparently, the latter is made up mostly of Gamemaker offices. In fact, there are only two floors designated for the mentors. They're both underground. One is designed as a sort of living space. Of course, the mentors can return to their apartments whenever they wish, but based on the way the attendant describes it to me, it seems like the longer the Games go on for, the harder it becomes to take any time away. There are small, individual bedrooms, showers, and even a canteen. The floor below it is known as the Donum Level, and it's where we're headed now.

It's huge. Once the elevators open I can tell we're underground, but the ceilings are so high, it gives the impression of an open, airy space. I'm led down a maze of identical white hallways, until we reach a plain, unmarked door, and I'm instructed to enter.

Inside, twenty dozen eyes fall on me. The mentors sit in some sort of seminar room, around a circular table. I recognise a lot of the faces from previous games, or from my victory tour. There's Cashmere and Gloss from One, Lyme and Brutus from Two. Beetee - (everyone in Panem knows Beetee) - from Three, Chaff and Seeder from Eleven. Mags.

Standing at the head of the table is a woman I'm very familiar with. Head Gamemaker Titania Bigelow, in a clean pressed grey suit, smiles at me. She's got a stack of papers in her hands, and behind her, a screen is booting up.

"So, he finally bothers to show up," Brutus says. He's holding a steaming cup of coffee, and looks very bored. Suddenly I realise who Leander's been reminding me of.

"Leave him," Lyme says to him. I duck my head and shuffle in next to Mags, who passes me a similar cup.

"Sweetened it up for you," she grins. "But just in case -" she holds out a palm holding three sugar cubes. I smile. Mags knows my father hates me crunching sugar. I pocket them.

"Wonderful," Bigelow says. "Now that everyone's here - "

("Finally," Brutus repeats, earning him a stern look from Mags this time.)

" - now that everyone's here, we can begin." From behind Bigelow, the screen lights up. "I'm going to be running through this year's mentorship protocols. Obviously, we have a new mentor in the mix. Finnick, if you have any questions, come see me after the meeting."

I nod. "Okay."

"I don't doubt all of you need a refresher, and there's some new information this year that you should know."

There's a shift in energy when Bigelow says this. Nobody sits to attention or anything, but I can sense it in the room. I want to start taking notes, but somehow, I don't think that would go off well.

"The sponsor lines open up tomorrow, once the tributes start training. You'll be able to take calls from here, on our secure phone lines, or you're more than welcome to visit any prospective sponsors within the first three blocs out of City Centre. That range extends to any leisure activities you might want to partake in. You are more than welcome to enjoy what the Capitol has to offer. You've earned it.

"Our systems remain the same as last year. You have a unique biometric login onto our system of servers known as the 'Link'. From there, you can get into contact with any sponsors you wish, as well as schedule and organise meetings. Once the Games go live, you will be able to access the Link, as well as a constant livestream of your tribute's activities and vital signs. Because of an incident a few years ago -" at this, Bigelow's voice turns stern. "- mentors are no longer allowed visual access to one another's screens. You will find specialised glasses in your quarters back at the Training Centre which will sync to your screens, allowing you sole access to your tribute's data.

"You will also have a biometric ID code, which will lead to a sponsor account, wherein you can deposit funds. If you have agreed into an alliance contract, funds may be pooled upon request. In the situation that your tribute passes away, and a member of their alliance is still alive, you may choose to transfer your remaining funds to their mentor. In the case that you choose not to, or there is nobody to transfer to, all money will go to fund next year's Games.

"Half-an-hour before the Games, the sponsor catalogues will open. This is a list of items available for that particular year's Games. Items may be added on at Gamemaker discretion, depending on the requirement in the arena, but this is unlikely. You will be allowed to bid on an item before the Games begin, based on your own judgement. Now -" Bigelow clears her throat. "This year, we have decided that there will be a 7.9% increase in prices for all sponsor items."

Displeasure immediately ripples out through the room. Most mentors pull faces, but a handful actually start to verbally complain, calling out, even standing up. Bigelow holds up her hand.

"I am aware - " she says. "- that this will not be popular. But after last year's Games -"

"S eriously?" Brutus turns to me.

" - when we experienced an exponential growth in sponsor interest, we have decided that there is the market for it. We have publicised the information, and we expect that the audience will respond with more bidding this year than we have seen in the past decade."

"For some districts," Chaff says. "How are we supposed to believe this isn't going to hit the districts with smaller, more loyal fanbases?"

Bigelow smiles coldly. "Our analysis seems to suggest the playing field will remain fair."

"When were they ever? "

Mags turns to me. "Don't worry about all this," she says, under her breath. "They increase it every few years. It doesn't really have anything to do with you."

"Doesn't it?" I frown. Rationally I know this isn't my fault, but something certainly caused it. I can feel the vitriol sent in my direction. I want to sink down in my chair. The whole Capitol might love me, but I've been feeling nothing but negativity from the people around me. Leander. The other mentors. Any confidence I've scraped in the past few months is quickly slipping away.

"Either way," Bigelow says. 'Everything else will be going on as planned. You can proceed as per usual. Finnick, would you like a tour?"

Mags puts a hand on my shoulder. "I'll show him around. You must be busy."

Bigelow straightens her back diplomatically. "Much obliged."

The rest of the room doesn't hesitate to file out as quickly as they can. "You don't mind all that," Mags says to me. "And don't mind her either. As far as Gamemakers go, she's miles from the worst, but I'd stay away from Bigelow if I were you?"

"Why -" I start, but I'm interrupted by a presence by my side. Gloss, from One. A few steps behind is his sister, Cashmere.

"Fresh meat!" he says, and then pauses. "Or, wait, wait. You're from Four. Fresh fish? Catch of the day?"

"What are you trying to do, Glo?" Cashmere says, dryly.

"My point is, we've got a newbie to show around."

" We ?" Mags says. She's not exactly unkind about it. But I know Mags. It's the kind of tone she reserves for a particularly petulant child; stern, but not harsh. I get the sentiment almost immediately. She does not dislike the pair, but she also doesn't trust them.

" We ," Gloss echoes. "Cash and I have been super excited to spend some time with the boy. We can take him. Bet you've got a lot to deal with. We'll let you rest your legs."

"How kind," Mags says, and I'm not sure, but I think she might be being sarcastic. "But I think I'll tag along. Does me good to rehash the place. You know, with how old I am and all. Memory's getting spotty."

It's a boldfaced lie, and Gloss knows it, but he smiles anyways. "Sure," he shrugs. "You coming, Cash?"

"Do I get a choice?" she complains. "All you want to do is nab an alliance with Four for Finnick's sponsor money."

"Not true," he says, as we enter another room. "I've got my eye on the boy. He looks like a strong character. Sponsor money doesn't hurt, though."

I pause at the sight of the space. It's massive. At least twice the size of the living room back at the tribute apartments. One wall is made up of a massive screen, which is currently showing a silent replay of Games coverage. Most of the rest of the space is made up of different seating configurations. Each seat has a desk and a computer with three monitors, and a small, digital phone hooked at the other end. Some of the desks are solo, and others are grouped together in different numbers. There's a paired desk, with seats facing one another. Groups of four, six. There's even a massive circular table, with twelve seats all round each other in a ring. Towards the edges of the room are several drinking fountains, coffee pots, snack baskets. There's something electric buzzing within the space. It's as if it's crackling with anticipation.

"We call it the Click," Mags says to me, and then turns to Gloss. "What was that about the boy?"

"I said, he'd be a good fit for an alliance. What's he like?"

I look at Mags. I don't really know what to say. What sort of strategy do I play? I can't very well say something that could be used against Leander. But I also don't know what could.

"Pain in the arse," she says. "But he seems capable."

Gloss shrugs. "Works for us. What about the girl?"

"Good. Smart. Your tributes?"

"Aussie's flat stupid," Gloss says. "But I've never seen anyone use a sword like he does."

Cashmere shrugs. "Lux is good. That's all you need to know."

"Alright," Mags says. "And are we assuming the usual with Two?"

"Probably. Brutus will probably encourage his boy to. I'm not sure about Lyme. She wasn't supposed to mentor this year, but she liked the look of the girl."

'Well, we'll talk to Maia and Leander about it."

Gloss cosies up to me. "How are you liking the space, Finnick?"

I blink. "It's alright."

"Enjoying the Capitol?"

"I guess."

"We all noticed you were late," he says. "Meeting some friends?"

" Gloss, " Cashmere jumps in, sharply. "Leave him alone."

He rolls his eyes. "Just making conversation."

Mags nudges me. "I'll tour Finnick around the desks. Show him the ropes."

I don't have any time to reply before she practically shoves me down across to the other end of the space, towards a twin pair of monitors. Once she's sure they're out of earshot, she gives me a look.

"I'm sorry about them. How was it earlier?"

"Um," I shrug. "It was okay."

"Pomona's a cradle-snatcher," Mags says. "I'm sorry about her too."

"She wasn't too bad," I peer down at the computer screens. "What did you want to show me?"

"Nothing," Mags says. "Just getting you away from those two."

"They seemed okay," I say. Cashmere and Gloss aren't really anything worse than I experienced after my Games. A bit more intense than they were on my tour, sure, but they've got alliances to make with their tributes. I've met a million Glosses in my time.

Mags shakes her head. "They think you're sharkfood. Don't buy in."

"As long as it gets Leander allies," I say. The idea of seeing him again makes me feel a bit ill. "I don't know how much I'll be able to do with him on my own."

"I told you, he'll learn," Mags says. "But I want you to stop talking like that, Finnick. It's easy to feel like your head's underwater when you first get here. But don't let yourself drown in it. Okay?"

I nod, even though I'm not sure how else I'm supposed to feel. "Okay."

"Escaping from the twins?" I hear a voice from behind us, and turn.

Sitting at the next table are a group of victors. I recognise them all. There are the pair from Eleven - Chaff and Seeder. I like them. I met them at my victory tour and they made an effort to keep me occupied and away from the eyes of the cameras, even if it meant a whistle-stop tour of the entire Justice Building and the surrounding areas for two hours. They're not the only victors from Eleven - there are two more, though they're much older - but these two seem to mentor every year.

Across from them are two other victors. Closest to us is Haymitch from Twelve. I met him at my victory tour too - first stop. Mags really likes him, and I suppose I never saw the appeal before I met him in person. Now I get it. He's dry, and a bit of an asshole, but if he decides he likes you, you're set. I'm glad he's decided he likes me, for whatever reason. He reminds me a bit of my father. Across from him is Sylvia from Seven. I like Sylvia too. Especially compared to the other victors from Seven - a pair of quiet, surly, very tall men, as far as I can tell - she stands out as surprisingly kind. She complimented my footwork back on my tour, when I was invited to dance, and asked me to teach her a few moves from Four.

"For the time being," Mags says, looking at Chaff and coming to sit at the spare seat. I follow. There's nowhere for me to sit, so I hover behind her, awkwardly. I bet some of the others in the room are looking at me. By any rate, these are all older victors. I know I should be expected to go hang out with people my own age, like Cashmere and Gloss - (there's Cecelia over by the water fountain, she won a few years ago, and she was nice, so maybe I should go say hello) - but I don't feel uncomfortable around this lot. Mags likes them, and that's good enough for me.

"How are you feeling, Finnick?" Seeder says to me. "It's a little overwhelming at first, isn't it?"

"I guess," I shrug. "I don't think it's hit me yet."

Chaff laughs. "It will. It took me nearly a week before it broke me in. Took Haymitch three days."

Haymitch looks at him. "Shut your mouth."

"Don't scare him," Seeder rolls her eyes. "You'll be fine, Finnick."

I notice Mags has moved her chair closer to Sylvia. "I'm sorry about Hap. How are you doing?"

Sylvia smiles, a bit sadly. "I'm alright."

"Who's Hap?" I ask.

"Hap Holloway. He won the 26th," Seeder says. "He passed away this year."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Sylvia looks at me. "Thank you, Finnick."

"He got out of it. Lucky bastard," Haymitch says. "I'm going to miss those awful jokes."

"I'm not," Chaff says.

"How are we feeling about the kids this year?" Mags asks. "Any worries."

"Mine are goners," Haymitch says. "I've told them not to go for the Cornucopia, but that's really all I can do."

"Larkspur sharp," Seeder says. "I'm hopeful. Chaff's not sure about the boy."

"He's thirteen ," Chaff says. "Six siblings. Never had enough to eat. The best I can give him is a good few meals before the Games start."

Mags nods, a bit sadly. "Well, we'll probably be over with One and Two again this year."

"Of course you are. Are you ever going to ally with us? Give us some of that sponsor money."

"Maybe one day," Mags says. "How's your girl, Sylvia?"

"I've actually got the boy this year," Sylvia says.

"Oh. How come?"

Sylvia shrugs. "Just worked out that way."

"How's your kid, Odair?" Chaff asks.

Haymitch laughs. " Kid ? The boy's older than him, Chaff."

I cringe. "Don't remind me."

"Don't worry," Seeder tells me. "Half of us have mentored kids older than us. It's horrible for the first few years, but then you get older than them, and they start listening to you."

" Do they?" Haymitch says, dryly.

"I think mine hates me," I say. The others frown.

"He's not the easiest," Mags agrees. "You remember your boy, Chaff, from a couple years ago? Tidd, or something?"

Chaff pulls a face. "Mm."

"Carbon copy."

"That's unlucky."

"You've got to assert yourself," Seeder says. "It's the best way to get them to listen to you."

"How?" I frown. "I don't even know where to start. I've never done this before."

"Talk to him like a Career," she says. "You worked with them last year. How'd you deal with them?"

"By not trusting them and leaving the second I had the chance," I say. "But I can't exactly leave Leander."

"No, you probably can't," Seeder pauses.

Chaff shakes his head. "He needs to see you as an equal. To do that, you need to play by his rules. It's not fair, but with an age difference like that, it's the easiest way," he says. "But don't worry. The older you get, the easier it gets to make them play by your rules."

"I don't even know what his rules are, " I say.

"Yes you do," Mags says.

I pause. Do I? I barely know anything about Leander, apart from the fact that he's got an insane amount of confidence, and he thinks everyone else is beneath him. He barely gives anyone the time of day.

So don't give it to him, I think.

It's not a bad idea. I've been so preoccupied with my meeting with Snow and the idea that I have to please everyone I meet, I've forgotten to not be a doormat. And while I want to go in being kind to all of my tributes, there's nothing telling me that I can't kick some sense into Leander if he needs it. He's not better than me, just because he thinks that he is.

We hang around for a bit longer, while the tributes finish their prep. Sylvia gets called up by their escort because there's been a sizing problem with the girl's costume, which confuses me, because I thought she was mentoring the boy - but then Mags tells me that the male mentor from Seven, Blight, has taken the death of Hap Holloway very hard.

"She's practically mentoring two," she tells me.

"What, like that's hard?" Haymitch says.

Beetee comes over to our group after a while, and I can sense that the energy shifts. He's a nice guy - the accent's hard to work around, but he's always been polite to me - and I like him, but it's obvious that these are a group of friends, and I'm not quite involved. I go to speak to Cecelia for a bit. I like her too. She's seven years older than me, and heavily pregnant, but it's a lot easier to feel like I'm talking to an equal.

Eventually, news comes that the tributes are finishing up with the stylists, and are coming down to the chariots. I turn to find Mags, and realise that the entire group I was with earlier is gone. I frown. Why would they leave without me? Mags at the very least would have come to get me. Maybe they're trying to give me some independence. I suppose, if I do want to assert myself with Leander, I should do it on my own.

I ride up in the elevator with Cecelia and the male mentor from Eight. The stables are starting to fill in, but I don't spot Maia or Leander. I suppose they must still be in prep. Maia I can understand - they always spend more time on the girls - but Leander is a surprise. He'll be working with my old stylist, Fifi, who is a strong proprietor of 'minimalism'. I half expected him to be down here already, in nothing but his birthday suit.

Mags and the others aren't here either. That takes me by surprise. I'm not sure where else they could have gone. Some meeting room, maybe? But why? It's not like either of our tributes will be in an alliance with any of theirs. Maybe they got pulled away for a chat or something. I make a mental note to ask her later.

I shuffle down to the chariot for Four. Minerva isn't here yet, but that's not too much of a surprise. She'll be busy setting up the apartment for the tribute's arrival - updating the catering team on everyone's dietary requirements, sending up clothes in their size. Our chariot is the same as last year. White and blue, with a pearlescent sheen, driven by two gorgeous cream horses. I reach into my pocket and fish out one of the sugar cubes, holding it out to one of the horses.

I'm not the only victor up and about. There's the pair from Eight, obviously, who seem to be calming down a wobbly looking boy. The male victor from Ten speaks in a low voice to his tribute, and Lyme is adjusting the costume for the female tribute from Two, who's dressed in a dark, glittery one-piece. I'm not sure what it's supposed to symbolise.

Those are really the only mentors and tributes about. I go to the other horse, handing out my second sugar cube and stroking its mane with my free hand. I like horses. I never met one before coming to the Capitol, but there are plenty of stories about them back in Four. There's one they always tell, about a 'Kelpie' - a horse made out of sea form, that would drag you out to sea if it manages to lure you in. It's not exactly a nice story, but there used to be an old picture book, and as a child, I was obsessed with the image of the creature. I used to trace it over and over with my fingers. I run my hand down my horse's soft, downy fur. You might be one of the only nice things about the Capitol, I think.

My attention is drawn to the arrival of a tribute from the elevator. It takes me a while to place him, but based on the outfit, he must be from Seven. He looks half-dipped in green paint, and his eyes are streaked with it, giving quite a striking effect. He looks around, obviously lost. Sylvia and Blight are nowhere to be seen, and it's clear he hasn't been told where to go.

"The chariot for Seven is over there," I call, pointing. He blinks at me, seemingly confused as to why I'm speaking to him.

"Sorry?"

"You have to wait over there. Apparently there's an issue with your district partner's costume. Sylvia will be here soon."

"Right," he says, a bit dazed. "Um. Thanks."

I go up to him. He looks to be about my age. Up close, we're about the same height. He's got a smattering of freckles across his nose, and his arms are crossed tightly across his chest. I can see why. His stylist has him in a strange sort of button-up, which is cut-out above the stomach. Cut outs must be in style this year.

"Don't worry, they always look stupid," I say. "What was your name again? Sorry, I've forgotten."

"Ashley," he says.

"I'm Finnick."

"Oh. Never heard of you," he says, a bit dryly.

I laugh. "Yeah. I'm a bit niche." Suddenly, I remember who he is. He's the one who made the sarcastic comment at his reaping. "Mags thought you were funny, on the television."

"Oh," he pauses. "She did? I don't even remember what I said."

"Well, she liked it, anyways."

He looks down. "I'm going to die of embarrassment."

I shake my head. "Don't. Try to own it."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm not you."

"I mean it."

He uncrosses his arms, and then crosses them again. "When I'm on the chariot, maybe."

He seems nice. He seems personable. I wish I had a tribute like him, instead of Leander. Maybe he and Maia would get on. I think about mentioning that to Mags.

"Ashley?"

We both turn to see Sylvia approaching, with their escort and the female tribute from Seven. I give him a nod, and leave back to my chariot.

Maia and Leander are some of the last to arrive. I can see why. Both of them are decorated from head to toe in tiny, glittering scales. In the glow of sunset, they're going to look spectacular. Maia seems pleased, and keeps holding out her arms to examine her stylist's handiwork. Leander looks less so.

"I look stupid," he grumbles, stalking past me and going to lean against the chariot. He isn't wearing a shirt, but under the scales, I can see exactly how strong he is. He wasn't joking. If I were any of the other tributes, I'd be scared.

"The audience will like it," I tell him. "So you have to act like you do."

"Do I?"

"Yes," I say, trying to keep my voice firm and even. "You do. If you look unhappy to be here, they'll mark you as an ungrateful District brat. If you want no sponsors, be my guest, but I'd advise practising a smile before you roll out."

He looks at me strangely, and then shrugs. "Fine."

Was it that easy? I watch him, shocked, as he pushes himself off the chariot and goes to introduce himself to the pair from Two. Maybe this won't be so bad, after all.

"Where's Mags?" Maia asks me. She's looking at the horses with curiosity.

"I'm not sure," I say. "Do you want to feed them?" I hold out my final sugar cube. She stares at it, curiously. "It's packed sugar. The horses like it."

She takes it and holds it out. "They eat better than I do."

I laugh. "Probably. You don't want to go talk to Two?"

She eyes them. "I probably should. I don't know if they'd want to ally with me, though."

"I was talking to One, and they seemed interested," I say.

"You left them early last year," she says. "I didn't volunteer either. I don't know if I should."

I sigh. "You'll have to talk to Mags about that, I'm afraid."

She nods. "Thought so."

Minerva arrives a short time later, and Mags shows up right before the chariots roll out. We're there to wave them off, and then we retreat into a side room, which shows us a live tape of what's going on outside. One makes a big splash with the audience, like they always do, but they seem particularly excited by Maia and Leander's outfits. Maia is effortlessly charismatic, and the crowd seems to love her. Leander doesn't exactly look happy, but at the very least, he doesn't look bored, and he's making an effort to wave.

"See," Mags says. "I told you."

When Seven rolls out, Ashley is putting on a show of confidence too. He makes it look very easy. He even makes a bit of a joke out of it, pointing to the cut-out and making a mock embarrassed face to the audience. It goes off very well, especially next to his district partner, who's a stone.

Seeder's tribute, Larkspur, is angelic. She's a tall, dreamy vision in a long, structured dress made of deconstructed corn husks. Her hair has been done up in two buns, and her face is fairly devoid of makeup, letting the audience see how naturally stunning she really is. She smiles and waves politely, but she doesn't really need to make much of a show. In comparison, Haymitch's girl looks like she might fall off the chariot.

It takes about forty minutes for the trip to complete, and by the time they're done, I'm starved. We take the elevator up to our apartment, and the tributes are very obviously stunned. Even Leander's eyes go wide as Minerva shows them their own private rooms. We eat dinner, and then watch a rerun of the chariot rides.

"They liked us," Maia says, turning to Mags in surprise. "I couldn't even tell. Everything was so loud."

"They always like One the best," Leander says. "Two were telling me."

"You'll have to work harder, then," I say.

Leander gives me a look, but doesn't say anything.

After the rerun, we send the tributes to bed. Mags takes me upstairs to the mentor's rooms. Between the two, there's a study of some sort. She gets out a file, and sits me down across from her on one of the wooden tables.

"What's that?" I ask.

"The sponsor list," she says, flipping it open. "These are all the people who have expressed interest in sponsoring Four over the past year."

"It looks full," I say, peering over. There's at least four pages - double sided - of names, crammed in alphabetical order.

"No thanks to you."

"Should we split them?" I ask.

Mags shakes her head, and grabs a pen. "No. We're going to cut it down."

"Why?"

"Because," she looks up. "There are people you shouldn't meet with, Finnick. And I have a feeling -" she crosses out a name. " - there will be a lot of them on this list."

As it turns out, by the time midnight passes, over two thirds of the list have been crossed out. Mags promises me we'll start on the remaining third tomorrow, and makes me promise to sleep. I slip into my room, which feels bare and soulless. Outside the window, they're tidying up after the mess of the tribute parade. I watch them, until my eyes grow heavy.

I dream about Pomona Paxford, and about a dozen other names from the list, chasing me down City Circle on chariots, whipping at the horses. When they catch up to me, the horses turn into water, and I find that I'm so far under, I can't find the surface. I drown for hours under the waves.

When I wake up, I have a horrible feeling that this is just the start of it.