Before me, a pit opens up. The trees around me are huge, tall and looming enough that they block what little there is left of the night sky. I feel a sense of dread of what I will see in the pit, yet I move forward. The air feels thick, almost like I'm moving through water, and slowly the bottom of the pit reveals itself to me.

The bottom of the pit is filled with long, jagged spikes. They protrude several feet from the ground, deadly spears set up for whoever falls in there first. Among them lies Fedya, impaled on several of them, his limbs bent at odd angles. He stares at me in pain and shock, but he doesn't move or speak. He just stares at me, and I realize he's dead. He's died, shocked and in pain, and I couldn't help him.

"Fedya", I choke out, like my voice will bring him back to life. I watch as the pit starts filling up with blood. It will reach him, and drown him, and dissolve him like an acid would. "Fedya!" I scream, and reach out for him. The edge of the pit gives in, and I fall.

I wake up with a jerk. I draw a sharp breath, feeling waves of cold sweat travel from my scalp down my body. My heart stutters and tries to catch its rhythm, soon settling into a fast rhythm. I swallow on my own nausea as I gather my bearings. Fedya hasn't noticed my nightmare, is still lightly snoring to my left. He speaks in his sleep sometimes, but it seems I don't. Good. I don't want to worry him any more than I already have. I think about what we'd said yesterday - he's right, of course, that we should protect each other. And I will. I still can't let go of the thought, though, that he might have a bigger chance than I do, if I just try to get him there.

I throw my legs over the side of the bed and get up. The floor is warm against my bare feet. All the floors are warm here. I wonder how they do it, what kind of technology lets them walk around barefoot without freezing their toes off. Walking over to the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror for a while. I look just the same as before. Tired, yet… well, groomed. I couldn't fault the Capitol's beauty regimen. My skin was less flushed, my cheeks not as red with rosacea as it used to be. My freckles seemed more prominent despite not being in the sun, my eyebrows were well-plucked and my lashes were dark, framing my eyes. I look pretty. I think about what Tigris had said about me not being beautiful. It had stuck with me. What was it that didn't make me more than pretty? I touch my chin, then my cheeks, and sigh quietly, turning away. Who cares anyway? I'll be dead in a few days. At least I'll be a cute corpse.

Something catches my eye. On one of the tables in the bathroom (why we'd need a table in the bathroom I'm not sure of yet) has a set of clothes on it. My outfit for today. Fedya's has to be in his room. I pick it up. It's a relatively simple getup. I breathe a sigh of relief. I was afraid I'd have to walk around with needles all over me during training. It's just a pair of brown leggings and a matching set of green leg warmers and a jumper. I even almost like it. It looks like I'll be able to move in it. It even comes with a matching top so I can remove the jumper if I get sweaty. Not that I'm exactly planning on getting sweaty. If I try too hard to learn how to fight they'll just be able to tell that I can't.

I dress. By the time I'm pulling the jumper over my head, Fedya's woken up.

"Well, don't you just look like the sweetheart of the Capitol", he says drily.

"You look like shit", I tell him, "Didn't they give you any skincare?" I snap back, but there's a joking tone to it, as always. Fedya gives me a glare, "They did. Maybe you're just blind, Yeya", he mutters and rubs his face. "I'll see you at breakfast. I gotta go change or they'll think the only thing I'll be training for is sleeping", he grunts, looking down at his pyjamas.

We say goodbye for now. As soon as he's gone I feel that lingering sense of surreality and dread again. I recall my dream. It's like I have no object permanence. If I can't see him, he could be dead. I grit my teeth. He's not though. And I'll make sure he survives. That's all I need.

*

Breakfast goes by in a blur. Cecelia spends most of it telling us what to do. Don't engage in combat with the other tributes. Try to learn how to fight but also do it discreetly somehow. Learn as much survival as possible. But also learn how to fight or you'll die. She doesn't seem like she can make her mind up, and I realize it's showing that it's her first time mentoring. She's unsure. I can't help but pity her a little bit. Her reputation must be balancing on mine and Fedya's shoulders now. If we die at the bloodbath at the Cornucopia she'll be ruined, I bet.

Fedya isn't dressed like me. I don't know why I'd hoped we'd be matching again, but we're not. His t-shirt is the same brown as my leggings, but other than that we've nothing in common. His joggers are black. We've got the same shoes, but they've gotta be some kind of standard cut. At least we look sort of normal. The stylists did understand that we won't be televised as much today, and that we need to be able to move. I'd send Tigris a thankful thought, but I don't like her.

I hadn't paid much attention to the other tributes during the chariot rides, too caught up in my own thoughts and also trying not to throw up and failing miserably. As we step out of the elevator, I take all of them in at once. The first, second and fourth districts all have careers, as usual. The boys especially seem not only huge, but lethal. How do you gather that much muscle mass? Some of them were eighteen, I'd learned, but one of them was mine and Fedya's age. Fedya was far from that muscled. Didn't they have to work? And eat and stuff? The only one of them who truly stood out, though, was the girl from district two. It was surprising to see her there among them, because not only did she look incredibly shy, she was tiny. She couldn't possibly be a career, but hadn't anyone volunteered in her place? How odd.

A lot of us seemed to be fifteen or sixteen this year. The girl from district seven was tall and looked strong, probably older than most of us. Her counterpart was only twelve. I thought about his family. He looked decently strong, though. I suppose you had to be when you're cutting down trees all day, or something like that.

Cecelia had warned us against doing everything together. Another thing contradicting what she'd said before. She'd seemed so sure of herself before, what had changed? Before she'd been talking about the bond of twins and all that, but now suddenly we weren't to hang around each other too much? I grit my teeth as Fedya leaves my side to train. I fight the need to follow him, not to mention the sting at how easy it seems for him to just go. To be fair, we don't have much choice but to fake it. The careers are looking at us like we're their birthday gifts. Birthday gifts to very entitled, destructive children, then.

I spend most of my day learning how to set traps and not die of exposure. I can't stop thinking of how Cecelia did it. It's probably the only chance I have, to be honest. For a moment, I'd considered a knife by the fighting ring, weighed it in my hand, considered learning how to use it to defend myself. One of the careers had pushed past me then, almost making me drop it, and I'd been quick to reconsider and returned to the spot where you could learn to make a fire.

Fedya had dared to learn how to fight. I saw him learning disarming moves from one of the teachers, as well as throwing spears. For a moment I felt some kind of jealousy. He'd survive. If he learned this quickly, he'd live, and I wouldn't. I chose to look away and let him do his thing. Why wasn't he helping me, though? I considered, for a moment, that maybe he didn't want me to learn how to fight, so he could have an easier time protecting me instead of the other way around.

*

"Why didn't you practice any fighting today?" Fedya asks in the elevator up to the eighth floor. I can't help the annoyed look I send him. What did he expect? Cecelia had specifically told us not to train together.

"Cecelia told us to stay apart. You hogged the fighting all day", I accuse him.

He looks hurt for a moment, confused. "I wasn't hogging all of the fighting spots. You could've tried archery. You've got good aim."

I feel a completely unreasonable rage rise within me. Archery? What was I going to do toward the careers with a couple of days' worth of archery training, boost their egos by missing them completely? He thinks I've got the same way of learning that he has. He hasn't even considered that I'm focusing on things I can learn quickly and easily instead of wasting my time on things that won't be of any use anyway. I grit my teeth and ignore him, seething quietly. Despite it all, I want to survive. I tell myself I'm here to protect him, but I can't help it. I want to live. I want to take him and go home and it's just not possible. We'll die, or he'll die, or I'll die. We'll never be together again after this. Our time together has come to an end and all he can tell me is I've got good aim.

I step out of the elevator and jog to my room. I lock the door behind me this time.

We're quiet during dinner. Koltander keeps yapping about all kinds of things. His new poodle, amongst other things. His niece is turning five. He's getting some kind of plastic surgery. Cecelia is polite enough to nod along, despite putting most of her focus on asking us what we've done all day. She's not happy.

"You both have to try more than just one thing. Tomorrow, Freya, try archery. Fedya says you have good aim." I grit my teeth so hard I almost spit out my mashed potatoes. "And Fedya, try learning some traps, or tricks on how not to die from exposure. Change spots. You don't have that many days left. Everything is useful."

I keep back the annoyed comment. Fedya seems irritated, too. I'm not sure if it's because of me or Cecelia, but I don't ask.

*

The next day, I do as I'm told, but only after repeating my snares again. It's a slight protest against what Cecelia told me. I know I shouldn't, because she probably knows best, but I can't help it. In the end, I end up trying archery, trying to not think too much about who is looking at me and who isn't.

Another bow lifts in my peripheral vision and I look over. It's Fedya, in a pose similar to mine. He's breaking all the things Cecelia told us. He's even smiling at me. We're fighting, at least according to me, but I can't do it. I smile back. I can feel my shoulders relaxing just by having him there beside me. I stop thinking about the other tributes. I shoot when he does. He misses. I hit the outer rim, at a solid 2 points.

"That's not so bad", he comments, "At least you hit it", he notes. I wrinkle my nose and lay another arrow on the bow. I shoot again. I miss. I swear. He laughs. "You can't do it if you're mad", he notes.

In the end, we find a compromise with Cecelia and on the third day we're together some of the time. The third day is mostly just traps for me anyway, but archery proved easier than I thought. I might still miss in the arena, but the odds seem higher than previously expected. I even hit a six-pointer once. It could be worse. I could've missed every time.

When the day comes when we're supposed to get our points, me and Fedya are sat on our bench waiting for our turn. We've discussed for a while what we're going to do. Fedya's not sure. I told him to throw a spear. He's not got perfect aim, but he's got good form and a powerful throw, so if it hits it's pretty good. I thought for a moment about doing archery, but chose against it. Instead I'd decided to make as many good traps as possible in as little time as possible. Good traps, fast hands. I could do that.

Once it's my turn, I walk into the hall. It's got a high roof. I can hear my footsteps echoing as I walk, but the room is oddly barren. It's got no interior like it was never finished; it's all exposed concrete from floor to ceiling, a couple of pillars placed out in the back of the room to keep the ceiling intact. I realize soon that the reason it's so empty is because they must've put the entire budget into making the game designers' spot as luxurious as possible. On a hovering mezzanine a bit above me they sit in a room that seems like it's plucked out of a castle. The walls and the floor are covered in rich, green, crushed velvet with golden and oak details. The chairs and table are made out of massive wood. It doesn't look very modern if it wasn't for the floating screens following each designer wherever they walked, so they could take notes and give points. They look at me as I approach. There's a circle on the floor that I'd been told beforehand to stand in.

"Name and district?"

Couldn't they keep track of the districts or have a list in their fancy floating screens? "Freya Fairwood, district eight."

"Proceed."

And that was it. I watch them return to their food, though they occasionally look up at me. I look around, for a moment not finding what I'm needing, only weapons. I panic, for just a split second, thinking I'm going to have to do archery anyway, but then I look behind the huge lines of weapons and find the different tools for traps. I grab rope, sticks of wood, metal thread and twine and get to work. When my allotted time is up, I've made three perfectly well-made traps. I'd hoped for four, but at least they were somewhat good. I look up at them, all taking notes.

"Dismissed."

In the evening, when we're all sat in front of the TV waiting for our results, Tigris tells me sternly not to bite my nails. I've soon had enough of her. At least I won't have to deal with her anymore in a few days when I'm dead. The Capitol thinks I'm beautiful at least.

"It's us!" Fedya exclaims and I look up. Fedya's picture flashes across the screen. His hair is out and he looks stern, much older than I expected. We're growing up. If we'd gotten a few more years he might've found a partner and made a family. Now this is all we'll be. The number 7 flashes before us on the screen. Fedya looks disappointed, but Cecelia gives him a big smile.

"That's great! We can do a lot with Seven", she notes. Koltander had told me, earlier, that she was pregnant. He'd caught me in the hallway like a schoolgirl wanting to gossip, leaning in to tell me. I'd been surprised at first, but it made sense. Maybe she couldn't make sense of what she was doing now that she was getting a child of her own. Maybe we'd become truly human in her eyes suddenly.

My face flashes across the screen. Then the number. 5. I feel my stomach drop and I lean my head in my hands and sigh. Five. That's what I get, I suppose. Maybe all the designers want is violence and weapons.

"Five is good, too", Cecelia says, seemingly trying to convince herself more than me.

"Spare me", I mutter, "I should've listened to you and done archery."