I WAKE UP WITH a sense of purpose. Today is, after all, the last day of training; the day of our private sessions with the Gamemakers, and the day we receive our scores.

Scores aren't everything; I've seen 7's 6's even one 4 win the games in the past. But scores mean a lot in the way of sponsors. They can also mean a lot in the way of allies.

I head to breakfast and-miracle of all miracles-find Padraic not only awake and coherrent, but seated and chatting with his mentor over breakfast. He makes some snarky comment as I take my seat, something about me sleeping in. I choose to ignore the jab as an Avox pours me a glass of orange juice, instead glancing up at my server. I don't know much about the Avox servants besides the fact that they're criminals and everyone pretends like they don't exist. I've never heard one even speak. I wonder what this one did to be forced into serving the Tributes.

Throughout breakfast, Julinia talks a lot about fashion, using terms that I neither understand, nor care to understand. I nod when absolutely necessary, but mostly ignore her, instead staring Liam down in the hopes that he'll have a few final pointers for me. After ten minutes of stoic silence on his part, I intensify my gaze, attempting some form of telepathic communication-or just hoping that he'll feel my eyes boring into his skull. Neither is sucessful.

"Akira, darling, what's your favourite colour?" Julinia purrs.

I turn and find myself momentarily distracted by all of the strange ornaments adorning the beard of Cleo, her partner and Padraic's stylist.

"I don't really have one," I say lamely.

"Well," Julinia says with a small, dismissive wave, "what colour did you wear the most back home?"

I raise an eyebrow, somewhat annoyed. "Honestly? Whatever was still in decent shape and didn't stand out. I didn't exactly have a lot of choices."

"You poor dear," she coos. "Of course you didn't. How silly of me."

Sighing, I push my chair back from the table and stand, deciding to spend the remainder of breakfast time in my room rather than sandwiched between my mentor and stylist. But when I go to close the door, I find that Liam has followed me. I step aside to allow him in.

"Any words of wisdom for today?"

Liam gives me a curt nod. "Give them everything you've got. The showier, the better." He crosses his arms. "The Gamemakers aren't supposed to bet, but they tell their families and friends who to bet on and where to send their sponsorships. Make them remember you."

I nod, the feeling in my chest slowly transforming from purpose into anxiety. Once again, I'm reminded of how much of this sick Game is a performance, a show. The more entertaining you are, the better your odds.

Nothing of any real significance happens in training that day. The Careers keep their distance and I get a few respectful glances from some of the other Tributes-presumably for challenging Carnelian yesterday. Marin and I stay by each others' side, but there isn't much talking; we're both a bit nervous.

"What score are you hoping for?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "Nine. You?"

I bite my lip, then also shrug. "Six or seven, I guess."

Six or seven-what a laugh. Who am I kidding? Parkour alone isn't going to get me that.

Time goes by quickly, slipping away from me until it seems like the day has only begun and it's already time for lunch. I barely eat anything, knowing that I need to be as light on my feet as possible. Marin, on the other hand, eats like a starved jackal.

"Do they not feed you people in Four?" I say, trying to make a joke out of it. After all, District Four's main industry is fishing; they should have plenty of food.

"I'm a growing boy," is all Marin says in response.

I watch as the attendants clear the tables and the thought strikes me that all of the uneaten food that the Capitol throws away could probably feed the Outage indefinitely. I think of all the kids at home who might've been taller, healthier, had they had decent meals.

After lunch is over, everyone remains seated, some idly chatting, some sitting in silence as we wait for the private sessions to begin.

"What are you planning on doing?" I whisper to Marin as the first Tribute, Carnelian, is called into the Training Room.

He shrugs, fiddling with a thin, leather string around his neck. "They've seen me all week; there's not really any one special skill I could make a show of." He gives me a nervous smile. "Takes more than fifteen minutes to catch fish."

I watch him, certain that my skepticism is showing.

"What?" he says.

Shaking my head, I sit back. "You're a Career; you've got better odds than 75% of the Tributes, and probably equal odds with the Tributes from One. It's an open secret that they train you guys one way or another-I mean how else could you guys know how to handle of all of those," I gesture to the weapons rack, "so well?" I sigh. "So don't tell me you don't have something up your sleeve."

Marin doesn't say anything, just stares at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Up until now, he's been nice-something I suspect is intentional on his part. But now I sense a sort of tension underneath the easy-going exterior; an intensity that could kill.

Finally, Marin speaks, breaking eye contact as he toys with his empty glass.

"If you had the opportunity to prepare kids, to give them the best chance at making it out of the Games, wouldn't you?"

My mouth opens, ready to answer, but I have nothing to say to that. It strikes me that he's right; if I had the ability to take the kids from Five, the kids from the Outage, and give them a fighting chance, then of course I would do everything I could.

But, on the other hand, training before the Games is illegal. In every other district, it's a serious crime. So why are One, Two, and Four allowed to get away with it?

"I would," I say, crossing my arms and leaning back in my seat. "But it's illegal in my district-technically, in all districts."

"So, what's your point?" Marin says, sounding annoyed. "You think that I chose to be born in Four anymore than you chose to be born in Five?" He gestures at the kids from the poorest districts. "Anymore than they chose to be born where they're from?" He lowers his voice, leaning forwards. "It's just another way the Capitol keeps us at each other's throats. Rich, poor. Career, non-Career. Divide and conquer so we're too busy fighting and blaming each other to give them any trouble."

I stare at him wide-eyed as a chill runs down my spine. Never, ever, have I heard such things spoken in public. Much less from the lips of someone my own age. From the lips of a Career.

Don't they love the Capitol as much as we hate them? That's what we've always believed.

Marin shifts, uncomfortable under my shocked gaze, but he doesn't look away.

"You're smarter than this," he says quietly. "Look at the bigger picture-don't let them blind you like they have everyone else."

I look away, glancing towards the door and half-expecting a Peacekeeper to appear and drag Marin off for saying such things; and I for listening to him.

"Let's not fight," Marin says, sliding his hand across the edge of the table and holding it out. "We're allies. To the end of this. We're not going to let them turn us on each other."

I look down at his hand, then reach up and grip it tightly. It isn't a lovers' caress, but a squeeze of agreement to a deal that will be sealed in blood by the time this is over.

"Allies," I repeat firmly. Then I ask, "What about the girl from your district?"

He looks over at said girl. "Corina? She'll keep to the traditional alliance. If things get tough, though, they'll dump or kill her. She's not much of a fighter." He nods to the end of the table, wear Padraic sits, casually chatting up the pretty brunette from Two. "I think your boy is taking my place," he says as the girl from One heads into the Training Room.

I scoff. "He certainly fits the archetype."

Marin raises an eyebrow in question. "Archetype?"

I feel my neck heat a little. "You know, the Career archetype."

He gives me an amused look. "Oh really? And what exactly is our archetype?"

I give him a look. "I don't mean you."

Marin shook his head. "No, really. I'm a Career. I want to know what everyone automatically thinks of me when they see me." He swirls his glass around, even though there isn't anything in it. "Hit me."

I take a deep breath, trying to tamp down my embarrassment.

"Okay then. But you asked."

He gestures for me to go ahead.

"Arrogant, over-confident, attractive, priviledged," I pause, "lap-dogs of the Capitol who get by with everything, have enough to eat, and take sadistic pleasure in the Games."

Marin chews on his lip as I sit watching him and waiting for his reaction. Well, he doesn't react. He sits back, crosses his arms, and stares thoughtfully in the distance. I wait expectantly for a couple of minutes, thinking that he's considering his comeback. But he doesn't say anything until it's time for his session and I awkwardly wish him good luck.

He turns back and nods. "You too."

In the fifteen minutes between Marin's session and mine, I mentally go over the path I planned earlier for impressing the Gamemakers. The obstacle course is impressive, but somewhat limited in scope, so I came up with a plan that-in my mind, at least-would be the most impressive while still being doable.

If you can outrun Peacekeepers and survive the night with the Tracers, then you can certainly do this, I tell myself. A sudden pang of homesickness catches me off-guard as I mentally sort through memories from that night. Could that have really only been five days ago? It feels like another lifetime altogether.

"Akira Burke, District Five."

My head pops up at the sound of my name. It's time already?

Taking a deep breath, I stand and head to the door, trying to look confident as I stride past the Careers when, in reality, it's all I can do to keep my hands from shaking. As I step up to the metal door, it opens, sliding upwards to allow me through.

"Give them a show. Make them remember you."

Taking a deep breath, I mentally slip into the new Akira that I have designed. Head high, confident stride, charismatic and witty demeanor.

The Gamemakers are just starting into a large bowl of fruit salad when I enter the room. Only a few actually turn to look at me. None of them are Tacitus Gracchus.

Great, I'm being upstaged by fruit already.

Keeping a neutral expression, I stride over to the weapons rack and begin tucking knives into my belt. I'm not adept at throwing knives, but I can usually hit a target and get a decent stick. Besides, Liam said the showier the better. Acrobatics? Interesting enough. Acrobatics mixed with knife-throwing? That's sure to be memorable.

Deciding that I have a sufficient number of knives, I turn to the Gamemakers and clear my throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Every one of them stops whatever they're doing and looks at me. I flash them my brightest smile and bow with a flourish.

"Thank you, for your consideration today."

Then, I turn and set off at a sprint for the obstacle course, bypassing the entrance and instead doing a wall-run-and-grab. On top of the first obstacle, I execute a perfect safety-roll and spring onto my feet, breaking into a run. I leap onto the strange, monkey-bar-like contraption that's meant to be traversed with the use of two hand-held rings. I ignore the rings, grabbing ahold of the warped, twisting metal with my bare hands and swinging from hand-hold to hand-hold until I can safely leap off and roll.

The next portion is a jumble of low-lying walls and block-like structures at odd angles, almost like a collapsing building. This is also the portion with the targets interspersed throughout.

Pulling three knives from my belt, I barani-flip over the first low wall. When I land, I hurl one knife at a target to my left, a second at a target to my right, and the third at a target above and ahead of me. All three at least make contact with the targets, with the first sticking fast and the third taking a chunk out of the edge.

Jumping up onto one of the blocks, I scamper along something that resembles a crumbling wall, hurling another knife at a target on the wall but not stopping to see if it hits. Reaching the top of this level, I jump up to reach the next level, grabbing onto the edge of the wall and performing a muscle-up.

Next is some sort of teeter-totter to cross. It's round, about fifteen inches in diameter, and moderately unstable. I step on one end of the thing, anticipating and compensating for when it dips down by leaning down and spreading my arms out. When it reaches the bottom of it's tilt, it comes to an abrupt stop, nearly shaking me off. I barely manage to stay on as the contraption begins to swing back up by grabbing ahold of the surface with my right hand.

Hurry up; they'll lose interest.

Straightening, I carefully but fairly quickly walk the length of the log, my balance adjusting to the somewhat predictable pattern of up and down swings. At the end, I jump off, landing perfectly on my toes, knees bent to absorb the force of my weight. But there's no time for celebration, as a glance towards the Gamemakers reveals. A few of them have turned back to the fruit; though, thankfully not the Head Gamemaker himself.

Now comes the final, and hardest part: The Poles.

I walk the first few steps, then work up to a run to build momentum as I head towards the first set. This next obstacle is something like a child's jungle gym on steroids mixed with parallel bars at various heights. I honestly don't know any other way to describe it. But, all the same, it's part of the obstacle course.

You've got this.

Springing up into the air, I grab ahold of the first bar and swing back and forth a couple times before launching myself at a slightly-higher set to my right. Performing a muscle-up, I pull my legs up and crouch on the bar. Then, balancing on the soles of my feet, I leap onto a much-higher set, skipping four steps in between. The remainder is a blur of leaping, swinging, near-misses, and sometimes, sheer luck.

Finally, when I've made it to the end, I leap off, shoulder-rolling to a stop in front of the Gamemakers and throwing my hands up with a flourish. My chest heaves as I scan their faces. Most seem entertained if not impressed, nodding with approval at each other.

"Thank you, Miss Burke," Head Gamemaker Gracchus says. "You are dismissed."

I nod graciously and stand to my feet to leave, heading to the elevator and pushing the button. It isn't long before the doors open and I step inside, still trying to catch my breath.

I did my best; there's nothing more I can do.

But will it be enough?

A/N: Hey guys, sorry (Again!) for the long wait in updating! I'm in my junior year of high school and have my first rounds of ACTs and SATs coming up at the end of the semester. ;S Oh well.