"All right, you two," beams Effie Trinket, "it's time to go!"

She sounds so excited that I wonder if she remembers where she's taking us; or is the person who escorts you to the gallows supposed to be so cheerful?

A change from her attire for breakfast, she wears a hideous orange and green combination made of something resembling tree leaves that culminates to a large forest green wig balancing precariously on the top of her head. I notice she is sure to keep her distance from Haymitch—who is fully drunk again—lest he uproot it like he did at the reaping.

We arrived at the Capitol train station twenty minutes ago, but nobody came to check us in, detain me and Cecil, or probably even knew we were here until just now. I imagine they'll have been busy preening another lower district, like 1 or 2, and forgot all about us from 12. Now there's a Peacekeeper squad here complete with guns and uniforms that make me almost feel like I'm back at home.

Although the train has not exactly been comfortable, climbing down into the glaring station makes me feel small and vulnerable. Cecil stands next to me but neither of us look at each other, and I wonder if this is how it's gonna be for us; not all district pairs of tributes in past Games have been allies, and just because we're both from 12 doesn't mean we automatically have to be. I had been banking on the idea that we would, but I still can't get a read on Cecil. It sure would be nice to have a friend here, though.

The Peacekeepers cuff us this time to escort us, and I know it's because we're in the Capitol now. We can be treated like celebrities in the privacy of our home district or on our train, but in the public eye, they don't want to risk us making a break for it.

Like we would. I remember that boy from a couple years back—Haymitch's Games, funnily enough—that didn't even make it to the arena because he tried to run from the Reaping and they shot him on the spot. I was five, and it wasn't even the first murder I'd seen with my own eyes. It was the first one I wrote a song about, though.

"Welcome to the Capitol," says Haymitch, and his voice is as bitter as it regularly is. He doesn't look at me or Cecil, just gestures for us to head on. "Let's go."

Outside, we get about thirty seconds of fresh air before we're loaded into a Peacekeeper van. I've only been in an automobile once, and that was yesterday to get to the train station in 12. Here it's different; the windows are tinted and I can't see out. No light, no air. No Peacekeepers, reads a poster stuck crookedly on the inside of the backdoor, no Peace.

Cecil and I face each other on the benches, our cuffed hands hanging uselessly between or on our legs. I stare down at them, press my wrists against the cold metal, and decide I despise this part more than anything else so far. It makes me feel like an animal, like they have to put a muzzle on me so I don't go feral. And I can't do nothing but accept it.

I can still feel Tap's whistle in my back pocket, though, and that makes me feel better. It presses against my behind so I know it's still there. He's still there. Home's still there.

When the van doors swing open again, I'm temporarily thrown by the light. The dryness of the air makes me swallow thickly in hopes of wetting my mouth, but no such luck. A singer can't have dry mouth, she'll go crazy without being able to use her instrument. I don't think they care though.

Effie and Haymitch are nowhere to be seen. Peacekeepers order us out of the van. On the train they didn't have any shoes to offer me to change into, just shirts and pants, so I'm still in my old ballet flats from home and it feels like I'm walking on this white marble stone walkway with nothing but my bare feet. The path branches out to a wide expanse of imposing buildings filled with people who point and stare at me and Cecil from a distance. Not grown-ups. People our age, dressed in matching uniforms. School kids.

I feel even more like an animal now than I did before, caged and mute, put on display for everyone to observe. I glance to Cecil; he's got his chin up, a look of determination on his face. He won't be embarrassed. I wish I had that confidence.

The van pulls away, revealing a large building, probably bigger than anything we've got at home, but more dilapidated and abandoned, too. A huge banner over the entrance reads TRIBUTE CENTER in metallic gold letters. The Peacekeepers hold the cracked glass doors open and the smell of floor cleaner and mildew hits us.

We're the last tributes to arrive. Our competitors sit around the room in pairs of two at stations marked with their district numbers. The Peacekeepers heard Cecil and I to the 12 sign at the far end of the gym. Nobody's saying much, or at least not when we walk past them. I realize a hiss of low whispers arises after Cecil and I are a few steps beyond them.

Each station consists of two padded tables separated by flimsy curtains. Pairs of white-coated assistants flank the tables, wearing utility belts filled with grooming equipment: scissors and razors and such.

The Peacekeepers direct the boy tributes to one locker room, the girls to another. I know I haven't exchanged a word with Cecil since last night, but his company brought me at least some sense of familiarity, and being separated from him terrifies me, for the first time since I've been in the Capitol.

At the locker room door, they line up us girls by district number, so I don't have to watch my back. I see some familiar faces from the reapings I watched yesterday, but don't think I could pin down any names if I tried. And I don't try.

Inside we're told to strip. This would be a simple task if it weren't for our cuffed hands. I manage to get the pants off easy—though I'm sure to grab Tap's whistle out of the back pocket first—and then wait for the Peacekeepers to come around with knives and cut off the shirts provided to us from the Capitol. I wonder if they have enough of these things to be cutting a whole bunch of them up like this, then decide the Capitol has never been in need of anything the same way we have in 12. They probably burn up their old clothes after wearing them so laundry isn't a chore.

The Peacekeeper makes it to the back of the line and slices right through the thin material of my shirt. I don't know if it's a woman or a man under that mask, but either way, I resent them for seeing me like this.

When he sees I'm holding something in my hand, he pauses, his mask tipping down and gun raising slightly.

"Token?" he asks me in a surprisingly bored voice. I guess he does this a lot: Strips people down, threatens them with guns to get naked, fires at 'em with washer weapons.

I stare at him. "What?"

He nudges my hand with the tip of his gun, which I take as a last-chance warning to open my fist and show him what I've got. Tap's whistle rolls across my palm and shows how little threat it possesses. The Peacekeeper nods.

"Is that your token?" he says, slowing down the words like he's trying to communicate with someone who speaks a different language.

I nod slowly. Tributes are allowed to take one item from home with them into the arena, as long as it's not a weapon. There's no world in which my whistle could give me any unfair advantages.

The Peacekeeper takes it from me and inspects it between his fingers. Then he nods again and replaces it in my hand. "They'll have to evaluate that later."

Once he's gone, we're marched into a large, open room with blue tiles on the floor and showerheads spaced around the walls. It's nice, I won't lie, but of course I'm used to much worse standards. Now, I'm no prude—I've skinny dipped with my girl plenty of times—but it's weird seeing eleven other girls at their barest. The good news is the Capitol gives us enough modesty to provide us with dividers, though they seem half-baked: Blue tiles like the floor climb up a little wall and reach about my hip, so at least my bottom half is covered up, and there's a curtain between the two walls on either side of me so I pull that shut and get a little more privacy. The girl next to me, from 11, does the same. I glance at her, think it's probably awkward to stare at a naked girl (not to mention would likely make Daylily angrier than a hornet's nest), then decide now's a good a time as any to size up my competition.

Velca, who I recognize from the reapings I watched on the train, stands in the frontmost shower cell, glaring at anyone who looks her way—though it's hard to look intimidating when you're buck-naked. In the stall next to her, Perris from 2, whose muscles contradict my last thought completely, does a much better job glowering at the girl on her right. I skim my eyes further down the row. Eleria, from 3, is the last name that I remember from the reaping before I reach Twill in district 8.

The only reason she stuck with me is because the first thing I thought when I laid eyes on her was that she's Tap's long-lost twin sister or cousin. Not only are they the same age, if I had to guess, but they've got the same sand-colored hair and alabaster skin. The same features that made Tap stick out so much back in 12 look natural on Twill, and I think it's because she comes from 8; no doubt her partner has a similar look to hers. Her big blue eyes dart around the room and she hugs her arms close to herself.

Once I found a baby swallow bird down by the lake; its mother had gone off and died or something, and the chick was pretty confused, had been cheeping for ages by the time Sam Hickory and I stumbled across her. We named her Buggy because her eyes reminded us of one. She was dead by the next morning that Sam Hickory and I went down to visit her; probably fell out of her nest and cracked her neck, but we never found out for sure.

Twill reminds me of that bird. I hope fate handles her more gently than it did Buggy.

Things for little Twill, who looks like a statue with how still she's frozen in fear, get pretty bad when the showerheads come to life, soaking us with scalding water.

We all dodge around in our stalls, trying to evade the streams to no avail. Things go from bad to worse when the water's replaced by a noxious soapy spray that triggers my gag reflex and burns my eyes like pepper dust. The water returns, but this time we're fighting for it as we try to get the soap off. When the showers turn to drips, I still feel covered in a stringing slime from head to toe.

A towel might help, but instead a blast of hot air follows, which adds to the misery and bakes the slime into my skin, making it itch like crazy. Whatever fight any of us had in us has been squelched. We're just a scratching, sniveling bunch of kids with runny eyes and spiked hair. Back in the locker room, we're each given a thin towel to wrap around ourselves for modesty's sake and directed back to our district areas in the gym.

I wonder if the boys had been spared this fate, but when I see Cecil's face looking grouchy instead of his usual bored, I know he's been through the wringer, too. We're each directed to a table, ordered to sit, and that's the last I see of the other tributes for a while; the Peacekeepers shut off my cubicle with white curtains.

I worry for a second that something's gone wrong with my vision, because I think I'm seeing double, but then I blink and realize there actually are two identical people approaching me, dressed the exact same down to the orange moles on their pale white cheeks. Both of their heads are adorned with wigs adjacent to Effie's—orange so bright it's blinding (I think that color must be "in" this year), quaffed into layers of curls that stack at least a foot higher than they need to, cut with asymmetrical bangs where the wigs meet their foreheads. The skin on their faces is perfectly white with the exception of their eyebrows and lips, which are the same color orange as their wigs. It's hard to tell with all the makeup, but I think they must be around my age, maybe three or four years older than me.

"Hi!" they say together. "Welcome to the Capitol!"

I blink. If all interactions with these two consist of them speaking in unison, I don't think I want to speak to them much longer. Thankfully, only the one on the left continues on, and it's only then that I realize he's a boy.

"We're your prep team, your fashionistas, your glamour! I'm Salus, and this is my sister—"

"—Selia," finishes the second one, beaming down at me with a grin identical to her brother's. "We're here to make you gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous!"

"Don't worry, we've got plenty of time and materials," assures the first one—Salus, I try to remind myself, but I'm pretty positive I'll never be able to remember which is which.

"We will scare the others off," says Twin #2, and she goes so far as to claw at the air and bare her teeth in a feigned growl. "They will be so afraid of you—so afraid, so afraid!"

I wonder if we'll be saying everything three times, three times, three times.

"And we'll get you lots of sponsors!" Salus's voice drops to a low whisper. "We can't send you things, of course, since we're part of your team. But our great-aunt already said she'll sponsor you. And not just to help my grade."

His grade? "You're students? Do you go to this school?"

"What a cute accent!" croons Salus.

"Oh, no, we're University students, not Academy. I mean, we're not seniors or anything," says Selia, sharing a glance with Salus like they've discussed this before and it's a point of amusement for them. "They all wanted better districts."

"But we really like you," says Salus. "You're cute."

"Thanks, I'm spoken for," I tell him.

"No surprise there." Selia waves a hand to absolve me of anything. "But I doubt the Capitol will want to know that. Anyway, we've got three more years to move up."

"'Cause 12 isn't good enough for you," I gather.

Neither of them recognize my sarcasm. Salus nods enthusiastically and Selia grins at me all over again like I'm just now getting it.

So, my team consists of Effie, who's so bright she could put the sun out of business, a mentor who hates me and drowns in liquor on the daily, a set of underclassmen twins, and... "Who's my stylist?"

"Oh, 12 got it good this year," Selia tells me, still smiling. I wonder if she's able to do anything else with her face. "Bacchus Creed will be your stylist. He's just the best! Isn't he the best, Salus?"

I don't recognize that name, but then again, I don't expect to. Back in the day, 12 was given the same stylist year after year after year, and all he would put our tributes in were black coveralls and a miner's hat. It was dated and repetitive and nobody fancied seeing it. He got fired for negligence a few years back, and from what I've heard, 12's been bouncing between bottom-of-the-barrel stylists ever since. Bacchus Creed must be this year's unlucky draw.

"He's promised with his whole heart that he's got a shining new look for this year," Salus agrees, nodding his huge wig. "Probably lots of vermillion, if I had to guess..."

"Vermillion," I repeat in a flat voice.

"Orange," clarifies Selia, and in unison, she and Salus point to their wigs. "This orange. It's super in this year. And ruffles are big, too, so we'll see what Bacchus has put together!"

"But until then," says Salus, and he begins to look over me, "let's get our job done! All the bugs gone, gone, gone?"

I don't even open my mouth. So that's what they sprayed us in: Insecticides. No wonder my skin hasn't stopped burning since I left the showers. Luckily Selia has access to some sort of lotion that she lathers all over me, and instantly the itching calms down. I don't know what's in this concoction that has covered me completely, and I really don't care. Maybe I would if I knew I'd be around long enough for it to matter.

The prep team shaves off all my visible body hair with electric razors. They use a tiny one to tackle my eyebrows, which I didn't know could even be tamed. I feel like a skinned squirrel, raw and exposed. Then they trim my nails, honoring my request to leave me enough to fight with because, as Selia says, "You might need your claws!" I wonder if she thinks of my nose as a snout, my hair as fur, my feet as paws.

Salus adds a handful of goo to my knotted hair and massages it until it's no longer in danger of snapping off at the ends. He's pretty good with the hair, actually, and it feels nice—almost like one of Daylily's massages, if I close my eyes and shut out everything else. Salus's voice draws me back to reality a few minutes later.

"What's that?"

I open my eyes to find that both he and Selia are staring at my hand. I'd been clutching Tap's whistle hard enough for my knuckles to turn white, so I guess I must've gotten tired of that—the whistle lays in my open palm, rolling between my thumb and pointer finger. Only when I stop the movement do I realize how calming it was for me.

"Oooh!" Selia leans in from over my shoulder, her long orange lashes fluttering with excitement. "What is it?"

"Shiny," Salus chimes, already reaching toward it. "Is it... jewelry? Or—no! A charm? A capsule? A pillbox?"

"It's a whistle," I say flatly, curling my fingers around it before they can get any closer. The way they've surrounded me and inched closer—it makes me feel even more like an animal, and they're closing in on their prey. "It's from home."

Selia gasps, hands clasped dramatically over her chest. "Oh no no no, sweetling, that won't do!"

Salus makes a sympathetic noise. "Such a District 12 thing, isn't it? Whistles and dust and coal-stained teeth—"

"I brush," I cut in rudely, but it's not the insult that stings. It's the look they're giving the whistle. Like it's offensive? This whistle I'm holding. I can't help but think about Tap knowing they're saying these things about his work—can't help but imagine his wounded face if he ever found out.

Selia titters nervously. "Of course, of course! It's just—well, we can't have you carrying that around the Capitol, can we? Especially not on camera."

"We'll find something better!" Salus promises, already pawing through a tray of accessories. "Something glittery. Maybe something with—"

"It's staying." My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to, and for a moment, both of them go still.

Selia blinks. "But darling, it clashes with the theme. I'm sure Bacchus will want—"

"I don't care." I press the whistle into my palm until it bites the skin. "It's staying."

A silence stretches between us—awkward, fragile, like glass. For once, neither of the twins repeats themselves. They share a glance that I obviously am not supposed to see, then leave me with a new towel and a linty peppermint drop from the makeup tray. They run off then, taking the makeup tray and all of their devices that prettified me.

I'm alone for the first time all day, except it doesn't really feel like it, because I know all of the tributes are in the same room as me, just behind dozens of white curtains with their own prep team.

After an hour or so, Peacekeepers drop off two nut butter sandwiches and my first banana. While I wouldn't call it fruit—too starchy and juiceless—it tastes pretty good. I wash it down with a bottle of water filled with bubbles, which seems like a stupid thing to do to water, since I just burp them all up anyway.

The Peacekeepers pull the curtains back and I can see everybody's been given the same prep as me. Some of those Careers had full beards earlier, but they look younger and less scary clean-shaven. Losing the chest hair didn't hurt either. I wonder what they're thinking of me, because, as the seconds stretch on, I realize there's a good handful of eyes that keep wandering back to me. What's got them so interested in us? Is it 'cause we're 12 and the literal bottom of the barrel out here?

More Capitol folk arrive to escort the District 1 tributes into the boys' locker room, tearing the rest of the tributes' eyes off me and Cecil, who I realize is standing next to me now that I don't feel like I'm on display anymore. He looks just fine after his grooming, maybe less manly with no chest hair but still just as broad-shouldered and intimidating as he had been before. He doesn't say anything to me now, but I hadn't been expecting him to.

The District 1 prep tems trot after their tributes into the boys' locker room to get ready for the chariot procession coming up here soon. They're the first for two reasons: One, because they're the first district and will lead the chariot ride, and two, because their costumes are typically the most intricate and tend to take the longest compared to all the rest of ours. In a few minutes, the same routine plays out with District 2 and the girls' locker room, so I know I'm right. I've been watching these Games long as I can remember; I think I understand their rhythm now.

A half hour later, the District 1 tributes, looking Capitol-adjacent in their orchid-colored ballgown and shimmering suit, parade across the gym to load back into their van. A moment later, District 2 struts by in bright orange leather that hardly covers their privates and takes off in their own van. I think back to what Selia said; orange is super in this year, but specifically vermillion. The District 2 stylists must not have realized their outfit choice was not "in", but rather incredibly ugly and, if I'm being honest, an absolute eyesore.

Cecil seems to be on the same wavelength as me. "Never seen a thing more unattractive."

I try not to whip around toward him, because I'm so surprised he said anything at all, but of course he's still playing it all casual and nonchalant like this whole ordeal is beneath him. Bored Cecil, I decide I want to call him. He couldn't care about anything less than he already does.

"Hideous," I agree, keeping my voice level. Together, we will be the bored district, and that's what will make us stand out. I've decided. "Hopefully our stylist has more fashion sense than theirs. Did ya hear anything about him from your prep team?"

He shakes his head. He's not looking at me, but rather the tributes of District 3 as they awkwardly shuffle by in deep green leather costumes that seem to be highly uncomfortable for them in all sorts of places, judging by their pulling and scowling.

"Mine weren't exactly talkative," says Cecil. "More just wanted to get their jobs done and get out."

"Like tribute, like prep team," I say.

"What?"

"Nothing," I amend, very quickly. "I just mean—you don't see that a lot here in the Capitol, someone not wanting to chit-chat. I feel like they have mandatory lessons here on how to talk your ear off."

"Have you taken one?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I might imagine it, but I swear Cecil's lips curl up in the tiniest of smiles. "Nothing."

Now I can't hide my grin. I shake my head and keep my eyes forward, just in time to watch districts 5, 6, and 7 make toward their vans. It seems that not only is vermillion the color of the year, but that it's going to be way overdone by the time this chariot procession's over. I can only hope that Bacchus Creed is one step ahead of all his fellow Capitol stylists, but if I know anything about District 12, it's that we get the absolute shortest straw there is possible. It's really likely Bacchus is either gonna put me and Cecil in a full-on orange jumpsuit, or that we're walking out of here in the same gray coveralls that the tributes from 12 have worn for as long as I can remember.

The longer we stand there waiting for our turn to change, the more I settle with the idea of these bland costumes. No need for Cecil and I to stand out. We will make our impression by acting bored with everything; we'll act better than the Capitol folk and the Games as a whole.

Back home, the families who live in the merchant side of 12 typically act better than the rest of us, walking around with their noses turned up and scowling if any of us Seam or Covey folk got too close. I think of Merrilee Undersee—she's got the look of "I'm too good for you" perfected—and try to mimic it, practicing for the cameras.

Cecil gives me a sideways glance. "You smell something?"

"No," I say, letting the face drop, trying to keep my cheeks from staining red with embarrassment. "Just trying to look intimidating."

"Oh, well, don't mind me," he says, looking forward again. "I think you've got a good ways to go, though."

"Shut up."

The place is slowly emptying out. I'm resigned to being last by now, but it's still pretty boring to stand around and wait this long. Thankfully Selia and Salus return, looking refreshed, delicately holding glasses of a cool clear drink with some green vegetable floating inside. They seem as chipper as before, whispering between themselves and basically ignoring me and Cecil entirely. The District 11 tributes get whisked away by their stylist just as Effie comes clacking across the gym floor in her metallic stiletto heels. She's beaming, and it takes me a second to realize it's at me and Cecil.

"You two look amazing!" She practically sings the last word, and she looks so happy I think it's a surprise she hasn't started floating yet. As she gets closer, she reaches out toward me, and her palm cups my cheek; she does the same with Cecil and her other hand. It takes everything in me not to glance over at him and laugh.

"Didn't we do wonderfully, Effie?" gushes Selia, as she and Salus eye me from over my escort's shoulder. "Hardly recognizable!"

"Thanks," I say, because I know that wasn't a compliment but I also know they're expecting me to thank them anyway.

"Where is that Bacchus?" says Effie, dropping mine and Cecil's faces and turning to gaze around the nearly empty gym. Besides me, Cecil, and our team, there's only district 11 left, but I can see their prep team returning to lead them away now. That leaves us alone, and I can tell by the look on Effie's face that we're behind schedule.

"He should be here any moment," says Salus, glancing around. "I remember he told Selia and I that he would be stopping by his grandfather's before he came here—he wanted to gather the finishing touches, I think."

It's not much longer that we wait, and I'm surprised Salus was right—he gives me the impression of someone who wouldn't really be on top of anything, but rather was very slow. I guess he's proved me wrong.

The door opens one last time, and Bacchus Creed has arrived.

He enters like he owns the floor beneath him, all sharp angles and exaggerated elegance. He's pretty tall, taller than Cecil, and with a long, pointed face and cheekbones so high they could slice glass. His hair is a glossy steel-blue, slicked back with precision that suggests he either spends hours styling it or has never moved fast enough for it to change. A streak of gold bisects one eyebrow—painted on, I think, until I realize it shimmers with each blink. His eyes are a strange, uncanny green, and it rubs me that maybe they weren't that color yesterday.

He wears a suit tailored so tightly I worry he'll split a seam just by breathing. The collar is high and stiff, trimmed in tiny bells that chime softly when he turns his head. It's hard to tell whether he's here to style a tribute or attend a funeral, but either way, he's dressed for a show.

Thrown over his back is a bag which he grips by the clothing hangers sticking out the top of it, and I know that inside are mine and Cecil's costumes for the chariot procession. I'm suddenly nervous. I've never been in front of so many people at once—except for the reaping, of course—but now it hits me that I'm going to be out for the whole country to see. They'll be judging me already, discerning whether or not I'm a worthy tribute to put their money on.

I hope they approve; probably their sponsored gifts are the only things that will help me survive in these Games.

"Don't look so surprised to see me," Bacchus says to Effie, "you knew I'd get here at some point. Wouldn't miss this for the world, Effie."

She exhales a nervous titter of a laugh, clearly still shaken, and watches as he hooks the clothing hangers up on a curtain rod. "Well, you're full of surprises, Bacchus!"

Our stylist looks back over his shoulder and shoots her a wink. It strikes me that he might be the most attractive person I've seen since I got to the Capitol, but he still couldn't hold a candle to my Daylily. Without a warning, he unzips the costume bag—no need to keep things hush-hush since there's nobody else in here anymore—and pulls out two pairs of the same costumes I've seen on district 12 tributes for as long as I can remember.

I can practically hear Selia and Salus fighting the urge to groan. Clearly, this Bacchus Creed is not as revolutionary as they had expected him to be.

"Bacchus," says Effie, and her voice is strained from behind her gritted smile, "I thought you said you had a... 'shining new look' for this year's chariot procession?"

"I do, doll," he assures her, though he's still holding two pairs of miner overalls, so I guess he's a liar.

He extends the smaller pair to me and the larger to Cecil, and the two of us share a glance before accepting them and walking our happy tails over to the locker rooms.

The coveralls are smelly and held together by a bunch of safety pins. I pull them on without complaint. The boots are too big for me, but I just lace them up as tight as I can because it's nice to have shoes at all.

When Cecil and I return from the locker rooms, I can tell Effie and Bacchus are still discussing his failed promise; her cheeks are pink with frustration, but Bacchus is calm and collected, talking clearly.

"This isn't the full look, Effie," he promises her, gesturing to me and Cecil as we walk back up together. I haven't gotten a glimpse of myself in the mirror yet, but I can feel that these overalls are probably a size too big for me and I'm at dangerous risk of being exposed—though I wonder if that's on purpose for the sake of the audience's interest in me.

"Then show us the full look!" says Selia excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet at the thought of Bacchus's genius.

"Alright, alright," he says, relenting, putting his hands up in defeat. "Here's my surprise."

Thank goodness, I think as he reaches into the smaller bag he'd brought in on his hip. Give us something—anything—to save this outfit.

He pulls out two pickaxes that look as if they've been pulled right from the mines, complete with a dusting of coal powder and chipped blades.

"Tada!" exclaims Bacchus, holding them high into the air. "Props!"

Nobody says anything for a moment. I'm so underwhelmed that it takes me a second to even think of something to say, but luckily I don't think Bacchus is waiting for me and Cecil's response. He watches Effie closely for her reaction. It's a good thing she has plenty of experience in faking joy.

"How.... inspired!" gasps our escort, plastering on that wide, white grin as she stares at the two pickaxes. "How did you ever think of it, Bacchus?"

"Stroke of genius," he says humbly, shrugging as he reaches out to hand the pickaxes to me and Cecil. We take them, and his eyes light up. "See!?" He whirls back toward the rest of the prep team, beaming. "They add exactly what the outfit needed!"

Nobody else has anything to say, not even Selia or Salus—instead they stare at me and Cecil sideways like they're trying to see the vision Bacchus sees. Then we remember we have somewhere to be and we hightail it out of there and into the waiting van, which speeds through the Capitol streets, horn blaring. It's not enough to drown out a booming version of the anthem, which they must be blasting out citywide. The Hunger Games opening ceremonies have begun without us. I'm not surprised—nobody cares about 12. As the anthem ends, we screech to a halt and the van doors fly open, revealing the inside of a cavernous stable, its high roof supported by concrete pillars. Handlers are trying to wrangle the costumed tributes into twelve chariots while harnessing the horses meant to pull us through the streets.

Parade music begins, the grand stable doors open, and the District 1 tributes pose for photographers before rolling onto the avenue to the roar of the crowd. A photographer runs up and snaps our picture repeatedly, then vanishes. Was that our photo shoot? Us chained up in the van? I'm sure it wasn't a pretty look, because these overalls make me hunch over real bad.

Effie flits out of the back of the van, looking completely out of place in this chaos. She starts shouting, but her voice doesn't get very loud, and I'm not exactly sure who she's talking to. "District Twelve! Where's District Twelve? Where's the mount for—?"

We're unchained, freed of our cuffs, and hauled to a rickety chariot drawn by a quartet of skittish gray horses. My eyes sweep the stable, confirming what I thought: everybody looks better than us. The other tributes have new district-themed costumes—sexy red cowboy suits for District 10, shimmering mermaid suits for District 4, iridescent gray coveralls with wheel-shaped crowns for District 6. Their chariots are tricked out, some menacing, others elegant, all of them eye-catching. Their glossy horses sport matching plumes and flowers, while ours are bare-headed.

"Girls in front!" trills Effie, trying to squeeze back in beside us, but the chariot wranglers herd her off like she's a stray cat at a dinner party. "Smiles high, chins up, look lively! You'll do greatly!"

That's the last thing we hear before she's swallowed by the crowd.

I glance at Cecil. "We're not actually gonna smile, right?"

He scoffs. "What do I look like, Miss Panem?"

One of our horses bucks violently, rattling the whole chariot. I lurch forward, nearly losing grip on the rail with one hand and Bacchus's damn pickaxe prop with the other. Safety wasn't part of the design brief, apparently.

"Maybe not," I mutter, catching my breath just as the wranglers settle the horses and they bolt forward—clearly more annoyed than trained. Cecil and I brace ourselves against the sides as we're launched after District Eleven like there's no end in sight.

For the first stretch, the horses fall into a rhythm with the music, and I steal a glance at the screens overhead. There I am: hunched, sweating, gripping the rail like it's the edge of the world. I force myself upright and wipe my face of emotion, because Cecil's already perfected the expression of being above everything. I try to mock it, at least for the rest of the procession.

The crowd is already wild. Hooting, howling, faces flushed and fists flying. Someone chucks a bottle—it misses us but explodes on the pavement. Others toss whatever they can: confetti, wrappers, jeers. The stench rolls in heavy: liquor, sweat, sick.

A man with a cane lunges at the District 11 chariot and ends up kissing the concrete. A woman with nothing but pearls on shouts something vulgar at Cecil and blows a kiss. I grit my teeth and hold the rail tighter.

The chariots snake their way through the Avenue of the Tributes, the screaming only getting louder the farther we go. I don't know what I expected—maybe more catcalling, maybe silence—but it's just a sea of frenzied people clawing for a glimpse of the next victim. I see faces with glittered eyes, mouths painted like wounds, hands reaching out like they could touch us just once.

"Don't look down," Cecil mutters beside me. He's stiff, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscles jumping in his neck. I think he's holding his breath. Or maybe I am.

I nod once, eyes forward, letting the pickaxe rest across my shoulder like it's nothing, like it doesn't weigh as much as the entire district back home. I'm not sure why I'm doing it—maybe to look strong or maybe just to prove I still can. The cameras catch it. I can tell because a sudden roar rises from the stands. Somewhere in the distance, someone's shouting my name. Not jeering. Not mocking. Just vying for my attention. For some reason, this straightens my back a little, and I tighten my jaw further. They're liking this version of me. I can tell.

We round the final corner. I see the end of the procession looming ahead—Snow's mansion, an obscene sculpture of wealth, towering over everything. The president's balcony comes into view, a perfect white square above the roaring chaos. Cameras swivel toward it. Screens zoom in. President Snow is already standing there, still as a tree trunk.

As we get closer, I realize he doesn't look pleased. For the president of the entire country, I guess I'd been expecting him to put on a show of excitement—after all, the Games have returned again, after a year of boredom. But Snow does not even attempt to look joyous. He's glaring down at the tribute procession with such an iciness that it gives me chills.

Then I realize why it makes me so uncomfortable—it's because he isn't glaring at the tributes. He's watching the last chariot. He's watching me. And he looks murderous.

Suddenly I feel like I could hurl.

Our horses slow to a halt. It takes a second before I realize we've reached the center. I look away from President Snow, thinking maybe I overestimated how important I am. Why would he care about me? I watch the flame fountain spurt upward. The anthem blares. Cameras sweep over each pair of tributes in turn, and I know we're being recorded in high definition, preserved forever.

I raise my chin, wondering if President Snow still has his eyes on me or if they were ever there to begin with.

For five full minutes, we wait there—District 12, still and defiant—as the whole world watches. My grip on the pickaxe doesn't waver. I don't cry. I don't flinch. I don't smile.

For the first time since the Reaping, I feel something close to power. It's not enough to survive, I think. Not for me. But in any case, I know they're going to end up remembering me.

via speaks

boring chapter im sorry please don't eat me