In the morning I'm woken by the train stopping to refuel.

Sunlight shimmers through the windows as I roll out of bed and make my way to the dining car, pausing along the way to take in the scenery. We're speeding along a mountainside, the track carving through the fog-covered terrain. Between the pine trees, glimpses of crystal-blue water glisten from below, its waves lapping against the rocky shore.

There are no views like this in District 12, not even when you breach the fence and hike far into the wilderness. The foothills surrounding us are green and lush, but the winding rivers are more brown than blue. It's charming in its own way, but this degree of natural beauty is surreal. Whichever district we're in, our school textbooks don't do it justice.

The meal they've spread out is just as colorful and diverse as the night before. I'm still full from finishing off the crab cakes, but I'm ready to sample the assortment of glossy pastries, fruits, and delicacies arranged in tiered trays and decorative bowls.

Waiting to be of service, Cresen stands in the same position as when I left her. Only this time we don't make eye contact, a small gesture I'm thankful for.

I'm two Lime Avocado Croissants in when Maysilee makes an appearance. Like me, she's still wearing pajamas.

She rubs her eyes with both fists. "How'd you sleep?"

"Surprisingly well, given the circumstances. What about you?"

When she shakes her head, blonde waves tumble around her shoulders. "All I did was dream about home, and what will happen if I don't make it back."

I've been fighting the same thoughts since we left. My family needs me. So does Laurel—now more than ever. I'm just grateful those worries didn't keep me staring at the ceiling all night.

"You have a girlfriend, don't you?" Maysilee studies me for longer than necessary. "I've seen you at school together. What's her name?"

I swallow hard and pretend to sip at the nutty concoction in my mug. "Laurel."

"She's pretty." A weird silence stretches between us as she fills her plate and sinks into the chair across from me. "I bet you miss her. Did you get to say goodbye?"

"We did." But that's not something I want to think about. Thinking about it will distract me, and I promised my mother I'd stay focused. I need to stay focused. It's the only shot I have at getting back home.

Before she can ask another question, Thorne wanders into the dining car already dressed in fitted beige pants and a soft blue sweater. He's lean, like me, but taller; his wiry frame moving with a self-assurance I hadn't noticed before. For all I know, he took advantage of the mini bar before we woke up.

Maysilee greets him with a nod. "How was your night?"

Same as yesterday, Thorne doesn't respond. Instead, he loads his plate down with Caviar Omelettes and a heaping pile of Sweet Potato Hash and takes a seat at the farthest end of the table.

"I haven't seen you around before," she continues, still attempting a conversation. "What grade are you in?"

But he continues to act as if we're not here.

Maysilee furrows her brow. I'm not trying to make friends with people I'm expected to kill, but his rudeness is annoying—especially when she's only trying to be nice.

I shovel in a spoonful of Gooseberry Parfait and shift in my seat to face him. "Either you have a stick up your backside, or you're as mute as a mule."

Thorne levels me with a glare before returning to his plate.

Maysilee shrugs a shoulder. "If he doesn't want to talk, that's no skin off my back. One less person to worry about going into the Games."

Her comment catches me off guard. I'm not worried about anyone at this table except myself. That's not how a victor would think. My chances of survival aren't great, but I don't plan to be hauled back to District 12 in a body bag. Alliances have formed with Tributes in the past and they always fall apart when someone ends up with a knife in their back. In my opinion, it's better not to rely on anyone but yourself.

"Oh, good. You're all here." Belladonna waltzes into the dining car with Effie and Cinder in tow.

Her hair is seafoam-green today, the same color as her heels, which click against the hardwood as she heads toward the coffee. After examining the vast selection, she presses a holographic touchpad and waits as the beans grind together and a steaming mug emerges from a brushed chrome appliance.

A spicy undertone seeps into the air as she settles into her seat. "While we eat, I'll go over the itinerary and give you a run down of what the next several days will look like. Did everyone get a good night's sleep? The mattresses are state-of-the-art all the way from District Eight! They're like sleeping on a cloud, are they not?"

She doesn't wait for a response.

"When we arrive in the Capitol, we'll go straight to the Remake Center where the prep teams are waiting to scrub away all that ground-in coal dust and make you beautiful. In addition to your teams, you'll each have your own stylist who'll take care of your outfits going forward. Not only for the Tribute Parade, but what you'll wear during training, the interview with our Master of Ceremonies, and finally, the Games," she says, counting the events off with her fingers.

"After your make-overs, we'll move onto the parade—and believe me when I say it is quite the celebratory event. Just think of the thousands of eager faces—and potential sponsors—all waiting to meet you!" Belladonna beams as if she's assembling the crowd herself.

"The chariot ride will take you through the Capitol and right up to City Circle, where President Snow will give a short welcome speech. After that, we'll end the day at the Training Center Tower where you'll be shown to the penthouse suite. Any questions so far?"

"You never answered mine from last night," Maysilee says. "Who will be mentoring us this year?"

Belladonna slowly turns to look at her. "I didn't answer because I do not respond to unfavorable attitudes, young lady."

The semi-polite mask slips from Maysilee's face. "Unfavorable attitudes? How can you sit there and—"

I cut her off with a swift kick beneath the table and steal a glimpse of the Avox standing against the wall. She's watching us, her dark eyes impenetrable.

"What Maysilee is trying to say is that we were so surprised by the Reaping, any perceived attitude was a result of shock at our names being called more so than a disagreeable disposition."

Maysilee glares at me until a subtle look of realization crosses her face. But I didn't say that to save her. It was more for Belladonna's sake—Cresen's, too. I don't need either one of them ratting me out to the president after last night's reckless outburst.

Our escort tilts her head and blinks. "I suppose that makes sense. But going forward, I will not tolerate any disrespect. That goes for you too," she adds in my direction. "I could have requested another district, you know. Maybe leave a few days before the Reaping to lounge on the coast in District Four? I've been doing this long enough and certainly have the seniority. But I choose to remain where I am because I have sympathy for the citizens."

If this is sympathy, I'd hate to see what she'd be like if she didn't feel sorry for us.

While we finish breakfast, Belladonna and Effie chatter on about last year's parade costumes when our panoramic view suddenly gives way to a gray wall of limestone. As we emerge from the tunnel, the Capitol sprawls out in front of us like a fortress, its towering pillars and intricate facades even more majestic than how they appear on TV.

The architecture is a bizarre blend of elegant and whimsical. Ornamental spires and a dizzying array of neon lights flicker across the skyline, while holographic displays showcase ever-changing ads and information above the white marble streets.

A mixture of awe and disgust swirls in my gut.

This is the same view shared by all the Tributes that came before me, most of whom never made it out of the arena alive. I swallow down the sobering thought with a Pistachio and Almond Horn.

As the train crawls to a stop at the station, crowds of people dressed in brightly colored ensembles wave at us from both sides of the tracks, their cheering faces painted with heavy makeup and meticulous tattooed patterns.

Pushing aside her half-eaten breakfast, Cinder rushes to a window. "Are they going to a party?"

Belladonna laughs. "Fashion is a way of life in the Capitol. We're always dressed for a celebration, and your arrival is certainly that! Go ahead—give them a wave. All of you!"

The only ones who comply are Cinder and Effie. The rest of us remain at the table, picking at what's left on our plates.

"Will we get to look like them?" Cinder asks, her hands splayed against the glass.

Effie giggles. "Not just like them—but your prep team will still make you pretty. Unless they're sending you to an arctic wasteland where your face could freeze off if it's not properly covered."

"That's hyperbole, darling." Belladonna caresses her daughter's cheek. "A face can't actually freeze off. It would simply turn an awful shade of green as the tissue decays from frostbite."

Maysilee grumbles. "I don't give two shits about looking pretty. I just want to learn how to survive in whatever godforsaken arena they throw us into."

"Skills don't matter," I say under my breath. "It makes for better TV if you dodge a machete with a touch of mascara and a frilly bow."

She looks up at me, her eyes mirroring my own unease. The arena doesn't care what we look like. All it wants is its next sacrifice.

💀

The lights at the Remake Center cast an extraordinary glow, revealing the preparations already underway. As my prep team begins their makeover magic—one female and another whose gender I can't yet determine—I eye the costume hanging from a rack across the room.

The parade is the Tributes official introduction to Panem, where each district models outfits representing their known industries. District 1, who supplies the Capitol with items of luxury, is almost always scantily clad, wearing form-fitting satins with shiny detailing or gleaming gemstones. Whereas the Tributes from District 9 might be covered in a pattern of golden wheat sheaves, symbolizing their grain production.

Same as every year, District 12's getup is less-than-spectacular. Dark coveralls drape over a metal hanger with steel-toed boots and a cumbersome headlamp waiting on the floor beside it.

"Don't tell me that's what we're wearing to the Tribute Parade," I say, not even bothering to hide my disdain.

"Sorry, that's not our department," the female named Lynx says. "Your stylist will help you with that just as soon as we're finished."

The other one called Valor dabs a cold liquid across my lower face. "This might sting a little." Judging by the voice, I think it's a male, though his eyelashes curl up toward his forehead with silver feather-like extensions.

I blink as a pungent scent floats up my eyes. "It doesn't sting, it's just annoying."

"Not that part, love." He reaches for a hand-held device and hovers it over my chin. Light pulses along my jawline, the skin underneath growing warm and tingly.

"What the hell are you doing?" They giggle as I flinch in my seat.

"It's called laser hair removal," Lynx explains. "It targets and eliminates facial hair all the way down to the root. When cameras zoom in for your close-ups, viewers won't want to be bothered with a five o'clock shadow, now will they?" She puckers her neon-blue lips and talks over my head. "Actually, I don't think they'd mind with this one. He's very pretty. What I'd give for natural curls like this!" she says, running her claw-like fingernails through my hair.

Valor laughs. "He's nothing short of a masterpiece. Such an unfortunate waste..."

When they're finished fussing over every inch of my body, they applaud their own workmanship as another woman enters the room. She's dressed in a shimmering bodysuit with pearly-white thigh-high boots, her waist-length hair shifting hues as she saunters inside.

"Nice work, team. You both deserve a drink." As she waves them away, sheer fabric sways from her long sleeves, giving the illusion of delicate wings.

The closer she gets, the better view I have of her face. It's obvious she's been altered. No one's features are that sleek without surgical intervention. Almond-shaped lavender eyes, higher-than-high cheekbones, and iridescent freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks that, same as her hair, change rainbow-like colors as she moves.

"My name is Prism. I'm your stylist." Without warning, she pinches my chin between her fingers and studies me from every angle. "They said you were attractive, but I had no idea you were this delicious."

I suppose it's a complement, but the way she says it twists my gut.

"So, you're the genius behind my wardrobe choices?" I nod toward the depressing overalls. "I guess we can't all run around dressed like flamboyant fairies, can we?" I say, eyeing her ridiculous outfit.

"Delicious and quick-witted. What an intriguing combination." Prism drops my chin and steps back with a smirk. "And what else would you suggest District Twelve wear if not mining overalls and a headlamp?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe something that would get the Capitol's attention. I hear rhinestones are all the craze these days."

"Black sapphires would certainly make a statement—but I'm not sure it's the one you'd like." When she laughs, it reminds me of fingernails against glass. "It doesn't matter anyway. With four Tributes per district this year, I guarantee District One cleaned out our gem collection."

"What a shame," I say, resting back on my hands. "It's always been a dream of mine to be paraded around like a shiny pendant. I thought you might grant me this favor before sending me off to slaughter."

Prism leans in close, her eyes gleaming. "Those come with a price. If I were to do you a favor, I wonder—when the time comes—what you would find yourself owing in return?"

That's not the response I'm expecting.

"I can't imagine what someone like you would want from someone like me."

She gives me a slow smirk. "Favors are like secrets—you only find out when the time is right."

As her words linger, I can't shake the feeling we're no longer talking about costumes. But for the life of me, I have no idea what it could be.

Approximate chapter word count: 2515
Approximate total word count: 9685

Thank you for coming back to read another chapter!

The only reference here that appeared in the books is the mention of removing body hair before the Games. Other than that, all new characters and situations are made up.

Congratulations to everyone who moved onto Round 2 in ONC! Haymitch has also moved on and this chapter qualifies me to submit when the window opens. Now the hard part will be reaching the next goal!