After Shan leaves, I'm given some time to myself. I know that it won't be long before my every move is filmed for the entertainment of Panem, so I savor this anonymity while I have it. 

Tears run down my cheeks, and I don't even bother to wipe them away. Apollo will have been crying, too. Anyone reaped would have to be insane not to cry at their inevitable death.

After what seems like eternity, the peacekeepers return. They search me for weapons and, finding none, lead me to the train. 

The doors to the train open at the sight of me, a soft whirring sound greeting me to the rest of my life. Once I am inside, they shut at the same speed, leaving District Four behind. 

Waiting there, ready to greet me, are four people: our two mentors (thankfully, not my father), Prometheus, and Apollo. The latter is sitting in a plush blue chair, and gives me a small smile as I take a seat beside him. 

Prometheus has on a wide smile. It doesn't suit him--his skin wrinkles unnaturally, illuminating all the plastic surgery I'm sure he's gotten. It may be typical in the Capitol, but here, it is really not a good look. 

"Glad you could join us, Daphne," he says, his smile unwavering. I nod, but keep my mouth firmly shut. 

The female victor speaks. "I'm Coira, and this is Grayling. We'll be your mentors for this year's Hunger Games. What are your names?"

She smiles kindly. Coira, in contrast to Prometheus, doesn't look like she's had any plastic surgery done--or if she has, it isn't obvious. Her pale hair is piled up on top of her head neatly, skin just as light, but there is a sorrow in her eyes that shows what she's been through.

I wonder if I exude the same sadness, because right now, happiness feels like a very far prospect. 

Apollo introduces himself first. "I'm Apollo Theodoros."

I go next. "Daphne Amphitrite. I've heard good things about you."

Coira gasps, her hand covering her mouth, the picture of the bourgeoisie I'm sure she's spent plenty of time with. "Amphitrite? Like Nile Amphitrite? Oh, poor dear! Two tributes in a family, what a tragedy! Let's hope you win, imagine you both being victors!"

I wince. "Three tributes, actually. My sister."

Coira opens her mouth to respond, but Apollo speaks first. "Your dad is a victor?"

I nod. "He won the thirty-third Games." What I want to say next is "He hasn't really been the same since," but I don't say it because I'm not one to reveal my entire history to a room full of strangers--plus I didn't even know him before he won. He was fifteen, so I've only heard stories.

Mom used to tell the best ones. She'd say that they'd been friends since the third grade, and when he left for the games she had been devastated. When he returned he won the hearts of all the girls their age--but he only wanted Mom. Eventually they were married, and there came Salacia and me, and there went Mom. 

I shove the thoughts from my head. Maybe I'll think about that more some other time, when everyone isn't staring at me. 

Grayling coughs, filling the awkward silence. "Private quarters are down the hall--they're marked with your names. Training will be at 7:00 P.M. sharp, right after dinner, and will last for two hours. Kitchen's open all the time, but breakfast is at 9:00 A.M., lunch is at noon, and dinner's at six. Rest is free time."

My cheeks blush faintly pink as I retreat down the hall. I glance inside my room, deeming nothing particularly interesting, and wander. 

At the end of the hall there's a door that leads to another sort of den, the walls completely made up by windows. We rush past farmland and small settlements, and I briefly wonder what District this is. 

I check the clock on the wall. It's 3:00 P.M., three hours to dinner and four to training. That feels like too much too long. I've never been one for training, and there's no saying I would even use any of it, but it feels as much a necessity as food, now. 

***

I end up going to dinner, and, as expected, it's awkward. We pick at our plates like crows, as if finishing would mean the end of the world. 

Apollo tries to start a conversation. "It'll be nice going back to the Capitol," he says. "I haven't been since I was a baby."

A hint of pride fills his voice, as if we should all be in awe that he was born there, and technically, a Capitol citizen. 

Coira looks at him, her eyebrows raised. "You'll find it to be even more wonderful than you first expected," she recites, monotone, the comment seemingly lines she was given beforehand. Prometheus nods approvingly, a ditzy smile crossing his face. 

I look around, wondering if we're being watched. Surely there's cameras everywhere in the train, to prevent unsupervised tributes doing anything they're not supposed to. 

I pick at my food, biting back an insult. The Capitol's not wonderful; it killed my sister and alienated my father. But I can't say that, can I?

Prometheus goes on about how he absolutely loves living in the Capitol and how if one of us wins, we should try to move there, too. I don't think we're allowed to, Prometheus just needs something to talk about. His voice fills the silence, his Capitol accent almost making me choke on my food twice, swallowing my laugh just in time. 

Grayling leans back in his chair, the first to find his plate empty. The clock above Prometheus' head reads 6:58, and Grayling deems this close enough to seven. 

He stands. "We can start now. Prometheus, you can join if you want. Just don't interfere."

Coira stands too; Apollo after her. I'm last--Prometheus stays down, chuckling. 

"No, I'll stay here. I heard there's dessert!"

He's drunk, but not very. He'll be fine, the staff will take care of him. 

Grayling and Coira begin to leave. I hesitate, wonder if using dessert as an excuse would get me out of training too, but decide against it and follow Apollo out. 

Coira brings us to a large room that seems to span the whole train in width, and then maybe thirty feet in length. As expected, dummies line one wall, weapons the other, and miscellaneous things like ropes, fishing hooks, and camouflage the third. The final wall boasts the door to the hallway and two large whiteboards--for Coira and Grayling to use to instruct us, I assume. 

We're not on this train for very long, I don't think. They don't broadcast how long the train ride takes. So why would they have a whole training room? There should be twelve different trains--each with a full training room only used once a year? They must have cost so much to make. I wonder if spending all that money on children who are only going to die anyways is even worth it. 

I shiver. Questioning the decisions of the capitol isn't a good idea; I know this.

Grayling walks over to the board, scribbling something down with a black dry-erase marker. He has what I'd call 'teacher handwriting': loopy, yet perfect, just the kind they taught us in school. 

The board reads "DAY ONE." Below that, Grayling writes as Coira speaks. 

"Today, we'll introduce you to the different kinds of weapons you'll find in the arena."

"Introduction to weapons" is written on the board. 

"Now, we won't be here for long. In the actual training center there will be many more weapons, plus more survival stations, like fire-building and poisonous plants. You'll have two sessions with just you and the mentors, and then two with all of the tributes. We'll develop a plan for those later."

Grayling doesn't write any of this on the board. Clearly, it'll be covered later. 

I fight the urge to raise my hand and ask a question. This feels too much like school--I wonder if there would be a penalty for skipping training. 

"...any questions?" Coira probes. I blurt out my question, arms crossed across my chest.

"When we get to the Capitol, the stylists will prep us for the parade, right? And then interviews after rest time?"

Coira nods. 

I don't know how I feel about that. Of course, I've always been one who likes to look pretty... but having someone else decide my makeup, my hair, my style, for me is a foreign idea. It scares me, honestly. That my stylist will dress me up ugly and everyone will hate me--and it won't be my fault, but will be something I could have stopped. 

I don't ask any more questions, and neither does Apollo. Coira begins to show us the weapons. 

I stare at the swords and knives hanging from the wall. If I was given the chance to be here alone, would I do it? Kill myself rather than kill others?

No. I'll win, for my District, but I won't kill. If I ever feel myself start to go down that path, I'll take the knife. 

I hope that moment doesn't ever come. But it seems inevitable.