They're dead bored.

They've sat through 20 tribute's presentation's now, the back end of which can't have been anything particularly impressive. Few of the gamemakers spare her so much as a glance, most of them speak amongst themselves. One of them, a fat old man with a line of cut rubies where his eyebrows should be, even looks to be asleep.

Embelia stands before them in silence, looking up at the box and making eye contact with the one gamemaker paying her any mind.

"I'm the fastest picker in my zone," she says, voice loud and clear and capturing the attention of each of them- except for the one who still snores in his plush chair, plate piled high with food sitting precariously on his lap. Some look to her with boredom, some with eyebrows piqued in interest. "I get the best fruit, with the best speed, every time."

She gives them her best attempt at a dazzling smile, like she's seen Narcisse give time and again. She hopes it charms them, hopes it reinforces the confidence that people inexplicably see in her. She tries not to let it linger and turn into an awkward grimace. One of them, a younger man who sits at the back with a beard shaved into an intricate design, writes something down.

She wastes no more time, taking quick steps toward the same screen where she'd done the memory test just days before. But she hesitates a moment, footsteps staggering as she steps up to it. They've already seen it. They were all watching, they all saw her near perfect score, what more was there for them to see?

She glances back, forgetting to hide any sort of vulnerability. She meets the eyes of the one with the fancy beard, and he raises a plucked eyebrow.

Idiot. She curses herself, looking forward again and setting her eyes on the test. She takes a breath, steeling her nerves. She'll just have to surpass near perfect, and show them perfection. She nods to the trainer operating the system, and it begins. She's as fast as she was last time, but she takes special care not to make the same mistake as last time. She doesn't have the room or the time for any other thought as she flies through it, almost forgetting that she's being watched ever so closely. She already visibly hesitated– she's certain that's a fraction of a point off her score, she can't afford to stumble again. She knows perfectly well that her limited talents can only bring her score so high, and every fraction counts.

When the test is completed the screen flashes with a bright 100%. She breathes a soft sigh, grinning proudly to herself before turning back to the gamemakers. Some of them are jotting down notes, others have once more lost interest. No matter, the head gamemaker is looking right at her with interest, and his is the opinion that matters most. She walks back into the centre, still smiling a bit. She wonders, briefly, if she's breaking some sort of unspoken rule by addressing them directly. But if she hasn't been stopped, then it can't possibly be that bad.

"Impressive," says the head gamemaker, surprising Embelia. As far as the Capitol goes, he's rather on the normal side, he's a short and stout man with bleached white hair that sticks out like a hedgehog. It doesn't look all too professional, but Embelia's starting to learn that what seems professional back home might just be the opposite to the Capitol. "It's rare to see a perfect score on that test. Have you anything else you'd like to show us?"

Embelia nods, glancing toward the climbing course. She tells herself to stop hesitating, stop asking for permission. If they want her to stop, they'll make that clear. So she walks off toward the course, taking a steadying breath.

They dismiss her after a few more minutes, seeming satisfied and relatively unimpressed. She just hopes she's done enough to scrape by and earn a sponsor or two. When she emerges from the elevator onto the eleventh floor she's met right away by Seeder's warm smile.

She never needs to say a word, there's a certain expectancy on her face that Embelia's grown used to, a silent communication. She's starting to understand the complex language of the woman's expressions already– it's no wonder she and Chaff seem to be able to share conversations without a word spoken.

"I didn't fall flat on my face," Embelia says with a slight shrug. "So, that's something, right?"

Seeder laughs warmly, beckoning her over to the sofa. "I suppose it is. You did what we discussed?"

"I did," she nods, sitting down beside her.

Seeder raises an eyebrow. "But?"

Embelia blinks, offering an awkward laugh. "Who says there's a but?"

"I just know. But?" She repeats.

She hesitates, glancing down at her hands. Hesitating again. Isn't that what got her into this foul mood? She shakes her head ever so slightly and looks up at Seeder as confidently as she can manage. If she can't be confident in front of the people meant to get her sponsors, she'll never get out of this mess.

"I hesitated," she admits. "Stood there and looked like a fool right in front of them. It was only a split second, but I know for certain some of them noticed."

Seeder sighs. "I understand your worries. Every second counts, but if you did everything else exactly as we discussed you'll do just fine. Did you?"

"I think so."

"Then good," she says, placing a manicured hand on her shoulder - it occurs to Embelia then what a lavish life Seeder must be living now to still have such soft hands. "A little secret? I barely scraped a 5 the year I won. The score isn't the be-all end-all, so don't lose hope if it's not what you expected. What is it Korren says?"

"Lower your expectations," Embelia recites with a small smile.

"Exactly. Now you get changed and rest some, lower your expectations and I'll see you at dinner."

Dinner came and went, and Korren discussed with wavering excitement how he thought he did– well, but not so well he seemed as though he was bragging. It was a thin line to walk – to think highly of yourself without seeming self-interested – but he walked it well, like a daredevil on a tightrope.

Now, they sat once more on the lush sofa, awaiting the scores. The television's programming seemed tuned only to the Games. Embelia had flicked through the channels in her room over and over, and the only other thing she'd found airing was a documentary about the geography of Panem– to which she'd eagerly tuned in. Back home, she wasn't taught a thing about the other districts but what their main exports were. It was fascinating, truly, and she wished that she had learned more than agriculture in her limited schooling.

The television cuts to the scores, and Embelia thinks of holding her breath but she knows she'd likely suffocate before they reached her district.

(Would that be so bad? Could she do that? She's not sure it's possible but she's beginning to think it's the easiest way out.)

Her uneasy allies in the career districts score as excellently as anticipated, none of them falling below a 9– other than the girl from 4 who still manages a formidable 8. Though, Venus and the boy from 4 both score a whopping 11. Narcisse marvels at the high scores, and Embelia can tell she's once again upset she's stuck with such a shoddy outlying district. What on earth could they have done in their private sessions to earn a score that high? She wonder's especially Venus, who is considerably younger than the average career. These scores only make Embelia nervous. You'd have to be smart too to get this kind of score, what if the plan she has to take them out isn't clever enough?

It has to be enough, she tells herself. It has to, and she can't doubt herself. Look at where doubt has gotten her so far.

When the boy from 10 is given an unfortunate 4, Embelia chooses to start holding her breath. Her picture appears on screen, and she hates the thing. She looks ghastly pale and weedy, and she hates how unruly her hair looks.

What must her mother think of it? She'd scold her, for certain, remind her that to be put together is a first step in success. She wishes she was here, and when she catches a whiff of Narcisse's wafting floral perfume, she wishes even more.

When a bright and bold number 6 appears under her name, she breathes a soft breath, a tiny smile pulling at the sides of her mouth. She looks around, and sees the smiles of her team, and hears a chorus of considerate congratulations.

"We'll make it work," grunts Chaff, setting down his glass, finally with a spark of interest, like the two tributes had suddenly become worth his time.

Korren, rather incredibly, scores an 8. Ever humble, he gasps in surprise, unable to stop the laugh that escapes his mouth.

"What?!" He exclaims, breaking the stunned silence in the room. While the team around them congratulate him, he only turns to Embelia with that perfect smile on his face. "Can you believe it?"

She smiles, though fear creeps into the edges of her thoughts. "Of course I can," she says, glancing back at the screen just as his handsome visage shimmers away in favour of the girl from 12. She doesn't think to say more.

She just fears for what's to come. Because it's all suddenly become so real. Her weakness, his strength, the looming threat of those two 11 point markers. She swallows, sinking back into the sofa and looking around at the room, each of them pouring drinks to celebrate. And as she takes the skinny little glass full of sparkling liquid from Narcisse she ignores her mother's voice in her head scolding her for drinking, and she takes a sip. Because it may be her only chance.