In the morning, we run on an incredibly tight schedule. I'm roused by a nightmare earlier than I normally wake up. I don't dare go back to sleep in the morning- I'm still not convinced I will wake up if I do. Then, as if waiting for that sign that I am out of bed, Eli and I are dragged out of our quarters by our mentors, dressed in hospital shifts, and taken up to the roof. Noticeably, the trees and all trace of them are gone, replaced by the pairs of tributes waiting. From there, a giant hovercraft of some kind is waiting above us.

After a minute or two, a door at the bottom of the craft opens, and a ladder falls through. It seems heavy enough- why else would it hang steadily, despite the wind?- and as I study the rungs, I notice strange little metal knobs on the sides. A man in a gray uniform- not unlike a Peacekeeper's- comes with the ladder and drops down. With him is a large black bag. Why does everyone here always have a giant black bag? I think, but am broken out of this thought by a metallic snapping sound. I flinch away from the man as he holds strange metal cuffs to my arms, that have even stranger glowing chips embedded in them.

"They'll keep you from falling off the ladder," the man sighs, his voice tired and stretched-sounding, like his throat had been strained. I give the cuffs an incredulous look, but allow him to attach them to my wrists and hands.

As soon as they latch on, the chips in the cuffs turn from white to yellow. Which I assume is a good thing. I think. The man directs a few tributes to the ladder, and eventually, gets to me. He tells me to grab on, and as soon as my fingers touch the rungs, I feel some kind of force in the palms of the cuffs press to them. The chips turn from yellow to blue, and the knobs I notice earlier light up the same blue with chips I had apparently missed. Then the ladder, probably controlled with some button on a control panel, lifts with me glued to it.

When the ladder reaches the craft, I am helped inside and my cuffs are disabled. As they are taken off, my eyes linger on the white microchips buried around the edges of the wrists and fingers. Another man in a uniform leads me to a giant part of the craft, with two walls lined with metal seats. There are twelve on each wall, I notice, and so far, four seats out of twenty-four are occupied. They must have picked me at random, because I am strapped into the seat next to Lydia, across from the boy from Nine. No one I am particularly friendly with, but no one--so far--that I loathe. If it weren't life or death, I would consider it a mercy on my part.

As soon as everyone's in the craft, the door slides shut, the seams distinguishing it from the floor becoming almost invisible. A couple of people, a man and a woman, come back for us. As soon as the woman approaches the first person on my row, the boy from Four, she pulls what looks like a syringe out of one of the pockets on her white jacket. She tells the boy to hold still, that a tracker is going to be inserted into the soft tissue on the underside of his forearm. That by staying still, she won't mis-stick him. Wouldn't want that, would we? Too much unnecessary information, but the boy ignores this and her, as he has already done what she had said to do. He seems determined to block her out, but as the needle pricks into his forearm, his eyes crinkle, and I see his jaw tense just a tad. For a second, there's a flicker of panic there in his expression, but it fades in an instant.

I watch Lydia getting her tracker in- unlike that boy, she gasps as the needle enters her arm, and her eyes squeeze shut. She must really dislike needles, I think. When the needle comes out of her arm, she lets out a breath, and curiously touches her finger to that place on her forearm, which now carries a chain that forever links her to the Capitol. She is now completely findable until she gets out. If she does, that is.

The woman comes over to me with the syringe in her hand- gosh, that needle is big, come to think of it- and gives me the same spiel she gave the boy and Lydia. While she lectures me, I watch the man stick a huge brown arm with his syringe. Cornelius' face is completely still, and he watches as the tracker lights up silver under his skin. There's something in his expression- eagerness? He might be envisioning that needle as a knife, in which he can stab someone with. He looks up at me and smiles. See you in the arena.

I feel a surge of indignation. And he thinks I'd just let him stab me? Pathetic. I lower my eyes to the needle. Watch it enter my arm. Feel the sting, then combination of pressure and a sharp jab of pain as the tracker enters. Ow ow ow ow OW. I force myself to look nonchalant as I internally gag at the unnatural quality of the glowing thing inside my forearm. The needle slips back out. I grin at Cornelius, sending him a message of my own. I think you know who I was thinking about stabbing just now. Hopefully he doesn't see the false front there. I've worked too hard to build it up to keep it from revealing the fact that if I killed someone, I would never forgive myself.

Four more painstakingly silent minutes pass, excepting, of course, the boring speeches of the people with the needles. I watch reactions, listen half-heartedly to the comically sterile procedures stated over and over, the only significant differences at first the pitch in voice of who is making the speech.

These differences pale, however, in comparison with when the boy from Six, at the very end of my row, has his turn. Right before the needle touches his skin; he asks, in a strangely high squeak, whether he can get his tracker in somewhere else besides his arm.

The woman with the syringe suddenly smiles, a mouth full of white fangs. "Would you like it in your tongue? I have heard that the Gamemakers were considering it for the future," she says in an especially hissy Capitol accent. She and her partner laugh, giving off the sound of a snake being crushed under a rolling pin. A couple other tributes laugh along with them. The boy, mouth clenched in equal amounts of indignation and embarrassment, does not.

The man and woman disappear, and in their place comes an Avox with a tray of rolls. District breads again, I notice. I watch as the boy from Four cautiously chooses a seaweed-tinted bread from his district, while Lydia chooses a uniform cube of bread from hers. I follow suit, taking a familiar loaf from District Seven from the tray.

Mmm. Breakfast. I take a bite of the dense, dark loaf sweetened with tree sap- birch, I note. I study the outside of the bread, the twist of the outside suggesting the shape of a seed cone. I watch the other tributes as I eat. I begin to notice the suspicious looks that the other tributes shoot another when their eyes sweep the election, and then that there are only two loaves from each district. Suddenly, the minty lift of the birch syrup takes a sour, wrenching turn in my stomach.

They're dividing us.

The Gamemakers sent this bread. Now I'm sure of it. And from the reactions among the rows, I know the tactic.

The Gamemakers are giving us a final test. Many tributes seem to have caught on. They all now seem to be afraid of looking different in front of the others. This time, it's by choosing the bread of an opposing district. And supposing that bread were a symbol of loyalty, those who were considering the other districts' bread are pretty much dead. And in this case, anyone who took the wrong roll has confirmed an act of war, I realize. Horrified at this realization, I look around. It doesn't take long to confirm my suspicions.

Maggie is holding a roll, with the painfully obvious mark of a bite in the side. Not a drop biscuit from Twelve. A long, triangular wedge from Two. Unfortunately, Ahab, the boy from Two, is staring straight at her.

The air is so painfully quiet. Unfortunately, as soon as everyone saw the same thing, they'd followed my gaze.

Maggie's eyes shift to mine. They hold the most horrified look I have ever seen. So she knows, too. And Ahab- oh no. Poor Maggie. . .

There's no mistaking the satisfaction in Ahab's eyes.

And there's no doubt where this is going next.

. . .

"I still don't understand," I say to Vernus, who is patiently listening despite the amount of time we have. "Why would the Gamemakers try to divide us? It's not like we're all best friends or something."

"I think it's more of a point of breaking up the quote-on-quote 'rough chunks' in the bunch," replies Vernus, reaching into a black bag on the floor. By this point, if I had a mushroom for every black bag I've seen here, my family would probably be able to make stew. But at the same time, if I had to recount the amount of times I've seen displays of calculation here as well, the stew would require a much larger pot.

"There were too many shows of attachment among the tributes, and too few lone wolves or underdogs." I try to protest, but he cuts me off. "If they find a way to make cause for competition before the arena, there will be more cause for killing another tribute," Vernus finishes. Or at least, I'd thought. 

I open my mouth to speak again, but he quiets me with a hand. "Symbolic or not, we have a year of unusually clever tributes. The Gamemakers picked up on this, and now they're going to try and make this as unusual a Games as possible." He states it as if proving an argument, but from the look in his eyes, I know he would much rather have been wrong.

He pulls a few folded items out of the bag. My outfit for the arena, I realize. I pull on the plain brown underwear- made from a comfortable material that is not too loose or tight. But as I unfold the outfit, I find that the outerwear, unlike the underwear, has changed. Normally, where there would have been brown pants, a green blouse, and a specially designed black hoodie, there is an outfit that looks very different.

"They decided to change it up this year," says Vernus, pulling what looks like a shirt out of its neat fold. "Each district wears a different color outfit now."

"Oh," I reply, surprised. So they really are changing things up this year. But surely, if they changed enough elements now, there would be no more need for a Quarter Quell. A useful fact if it actually mattered.

Vernus helps me put on all of the items. There is a mirror in the Launch Room too, apparently; I reason to check out how good you look in the outfit you'll die in. But the outfit I find somewhat interesting, if not unnerving in the same manner. A russet brown jacket with bluish-gray stripes down the shoulders, sleeves, and sides. A reddish blouse. Gray trousers. However, the Gamemakers kept at least the leather boots with the flexible soles. It would be useful to have something to run in into the arena, wouldn't it? Oh, yes, and the cotton socks as well. Very comfortable, indeed.

The mirror is pulled out, and for a time indefinitely shorter than when I was wearing my interview outfit, I just let myself stare.

Look at me. . . I can't say I'm the old Cassia anymore, can I? Still the hunter, and the gymnast. And the sister, the daughter. . . But what now?

I'm now Cassia the tribute. Cassia the doomed. A chill runs through me as my eyes linger on my attire. The empty, unprotected space on the cloth over my heart, my liver. Cassia the dead. I envision a knife in my hand, and suddenly, if such a thing were possible, I sense the barely imagined stench of blood. Cassia the killer.

Both are bad, very bad. I shudder, my eyes flicking from my chest to my clenched fist. But what is worse? To die, unable to see my family again? To take the life of someone, a kid my age, sacrificing their ticket home to obtain my own? My knuckles turn white from the anxiety being forcibly pushed out. My eyes in the mirror are the green of fear.

What do I do?

"Cassia," Vernus says, startling me awake. No matter how softly he could have tapped me on the shoulder, I would have jumped anyhow. "Your token?"

"My what?"

"Whatever you brought with you to remember your home with. A necklace, a ring. A pocket watch. Something."

Panic rises in my chest. "I don't have one of those," I say, wondering if there's some kind of penalty in the arena for leaving behind family without something to bring back alive. Probably a loss of sponsors, to start.

"Really," says Vernus, eyebrows raised slightly. All of the sudden, his eyes widen and he raises a finger. Wait. Without hesitating for a response, he pulls something out of his pocket. He places something in the palm of my hand. A pendant with a wooden crescent. Oak. It's familiar, but I can't place what memory it must have come from. "There was another tribute about a year older than you, about three years ago," Vernus begins to explain.

Wait a minute. . .

"She was so afraid of the prospect of losing her family that she gave this to me, because she didn't want the last thing she saw be a reminder of what she was going to lose."

"Henna," I whisper, fingering the necklace that has her written all over it. A person I once knew had touched this. A girl who would have been described as strong first, having weaknesses last. Until now.

"Here," Vernus says. He pulls my braid to the side with one hand and fastens the pendant around my neck with the other. "All right. Is that good?"

I jump up and down a little, the crescent bouncing with my movements. Even if it hits me in the face, it won't likely fall off or break, and that's all that matters. "Great."

"Okay, that's good," Vernus says. His eyes suddenly take on the absent look of someone who has been focusing at the task at hand too long.

"Now what do we do?" I say, shifting, out of habit, from one foot to the other.

"We wait," says Vernus. His voice is so calm, but the look on his face isn't. If I hadn't known better, he could have been going into the arena himself.

While he sits on a squishy-looking sofa, I pace the room, my nerves too restless to be still enough to sit. When Vernus asks if I want to sit down with him, I say no. When he asks if I want food, I refuse. I do grab a glass of water, because I have not had any fluids this morning. I sip obsessively, because if anything, it's the only thing that will help keep me occupied. I know it's the worst time to have a panic attack, but there's nothing about this that can't unhinge a person. That won't leave scars on any precious sanity one may have.

"One minute until launch," a voice blares into my thoughts. I look around for the source of the voice, not finding its origin anywhere on the pristine white walls of the Launch Room. Then, starting to tremble, my legs fall out from under me.

Vernus hurries over, trying to shake me out of it. "No, Cassia. Don't let this get the best of you. Don't let it."

I sit there, my shaking suddenly uncontrollable. I CAN'T DO THIS. No. No. No. No.

"Cassia, if you don't let this out, it'll kill you before you even get past the horn." As if his words were a slap in the face, I instantly stop shaking. I look up at him, focus on his face, on the good-natured centers of his dark eyes.

"Good. Good." He helps me to my feet, and we both stand. "You're doing fine. You'll be fine."

Eli's voice fills my mind. Hey, you'll be fine.

Am I?

Will I really?

"Thirty seconds until launch," the voice monotones, mocking me from its hiding place. My stomach lurches, but Vernus keeps me steady.

"Don't stop," he murmurs. "Keep going."

Walking to the pod. Tripping because of my wooden feet. Stumbling because of my weakness. All that could get me killed in two minutes. If even that long.

I move like an old woman. I use the wall of the pod for support, and then pull myself in. Every reminder the voice gives me makes my knees buckle, no matter how hard I try to stand.

Get a grip, Cassia! Snap out of it! Do you want to die? Or do you want to survive?

I stand a little straighter, my posture like an old woman maybe a decade younger. I close my eyes, think of the buildings. I reach a tendril of light out into the darkness of my mind. I reach a hand out and touch the wall. Grasp onto the smooth curve with whatever focus I can.

There. That's me staying alive.

If that's my only security, then so be it.

"Ten seconds until launch."

"That's my girl," says Vernus. He squeezes my hand as the voice counts down. He lets go at the five-second mark. "Be strong. And run."

"I will," I say. Not thinking about how much of an empty promise that is.

The door slides shut. I try not to flinch as the metal plate underneath me lifts me up. I catch Vernus's wave, but by then, there isn't time to wave back. All I can give him is my promise. Which I have yet to prove I can act on.

Darkness. The unpleasant scent of sweat and insecurity. Then sunlight, bright and white-hot on my eyelids.

I smell the redwoods before I see them, and my heart lifts with hope.

What little forms is crushed by the announcer's voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Fifty-fifth Hunger Games begin!"

I can't remember what his name is, but does that matter now? In the long run, would recalling the announcer's name save me from dying?

Fear spikes before my eyes even adjust to the sunlight.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor."

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

Hi guys!

Hope you enjoyed this chapter; and if you did, be sure to leave your reactions and feedback, and also maybe some votes.

Thank you all, and have a fabulous day!