Morning on the train brought a brief period of disorientation as I woke in the plush Capitol bed.
It was like I was Jake Carter again, waking from a vivid dream about the Hunger Games. Then reality reasserted itself—I was Jake Thompson, District 12 tribute, speeding toward the Capitol and almost certain death.
I showered quickly and dressed in the clothes laid out for me—dark pants and a blue shirt that matched Madge's eyes.
In the dining car, I found Madge sitting alone, nibbling on a piece of toast while staring out the window. She wore a pale yellow dress today, simple but clearly Capitol-made, with her blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. The mockingjay pendant gleamed at her chest.
"Morning," I said, sliding into the seat across from her.
She looked up, offering a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "They say we'll reach the Capitol in about an hour."
I filled my plate from the lavish breakfast spread—eggs, bacon, pastries, fruits I couldn't even name—aware that building my strength now might make the difference later in the arena.
"Did you sleep?" I asked, noting the shadows under her eyes.
"Not really." She set down her barely-touched toast. "I kept thinking about all the tributes who've ridden this same train, slept in these same compartments, eaten at this same table. How many of them came home?"
One in seventy-three years.
Three in seventy-five years.
The question didn't require an answer.
The door slid open, and Haymitch entered, surprisingly sober for the second day in a row. He poured himself coffee and sat heavily at the table.
"Good, you're both up," he said. "We need to discuss what happens when we arrive."
He explained the process in detail—the Reception Center, the prep teams, the stylists, the chariot ride that would introduce us to the Capitol audience. Much of it I already knew, but I listened attentively, noting how Madge absorbed every detail with sharp focus.
"The key thing to remember," Haymitch emphasized, "is that from the moment we step off this train, you are on display. Everything you do, every expression, every word—it all feeds into how sponsors perceive you."
At that statement, I recall the recap of the reapings from yesterday night.
"And now," Caesar announced with heightened excitement, "we come to District Twelve, which provided one of the most emotionally charged moments of this year's Reapings."
I tensed as the footage began, showing the square, Mayor Undersee reading the Treaty of Treason, Effie approaching the glass bowl. Madge's selection was shown with dramatic close-ups of her shocked face and her father's barely contained grief.
"The mayor's daughter!" Claudius exclaimed. "What a twist of fate!"
The footage cut to my name being called, zooming in on my face as I absorbed the news. Then came Lily's scream—louder and more heart-wrenching than I remembered—and her desperate dash toward me. The cameras captured our embrace in intimate detail, lingering on her tear-streaked face and my protective posture.
The footage slowed as I positioned myself between Lily and the approaching Peacekeepers, my expression resolute. They'd edited the sequence to emphasize my height and strength, the determined set of my jaw, the gentle way I knelt to speak to Lily despite the tension of the moment.
"Remarkable presence of mind for someone so young," Claudius commented.
"The protective older brother," Caesar confirmed. "How very touching."
The footage returned to the Reaping, showing my ascent to the stage. The cameras captured a moment I hadn't even noticed—Madge watching me with fear and something that, in the edited footage, looked almost like admiration.
"The mayor's elegant daughter and the blacksmith's protective son. Two young people from the same district but very different worlds."
The recap concluded with a final shot of Madge and me shaking hands on stage, the camera zooming in on our clasped fingers before cutting back to the studio.
"So we need to start playing the game now," Madge said, her voice carrying a new resolve that brought me back from my reverie.
Haymitch nodded approvingly. "Quick study, this one." He turned to me. "Any thoughts on your angle, hammer boy?"
I considered my options. Peeta had played the lovesick boy from District 12, hopelessly devoted to Katniss. That wouldn't work for me—at least not yet. I needed something authentic to my character while leaving room for the romance narrative to develop later.
"Protective," I said finally. "The boy who shields his sister, who promises to watch over his district partner. It's honest, and it builds on what the Capitol already saw during the Reaping."
Haymitch studied me over the rim of his coffee cup. "Smart. Play to what they've already seen and believe about you." He shifted his gaze to Madge. "And you, sweetheart? What's your angle?"
She bristled slightly at the endearment but considered the question seriously. "The mayor's daughter with unexpected depths," she said after a moment. "Someone who's been observing from a position of privilege but has her own strength."
"Good," Haymitch said, sounding genuinely impressed. "Both authentic and intriguing. The Capitol loves discovering 'hidden depths' in tributes—makes them feel clever for seeing past the surface."
The train suddenly went dark, and I realized we were passing through a tunnel—the final approach to the Capitol, cut through the mountains that surrounded and protected the city.
"Here we go," Haymitch muttered, draining his coffee. "Remember, from this moment on, someone is always watching. Always."
Light flooded the compartment as we emerged from the tunnel, and the Capitol spread before us in all its impossible, garish splendor. Even expecting it, I gasped at the sight.
The gleaming spires, the rainbow-hued buildings, the glittering lake—it was like an alien cityscape, beautiful and terrifying in its excess.
Madge moved to the window, her face reflecting both wonder and revulsion. "It's so..."
"Unreal," I finished for her, joining her at the window.
People lined the station as our train slowed, pointing and waving at the newest tributes to arrive for their entertainment.
They were as colorful and bizarre as their city—outlandish hairstyles in impossible colors, skin dyed and tattooed in patterns that defied nature, clothing that seemed designed to restrict movement rather than enhance it.
"Wave," Haymitch instructed through gritted teeth, his smile fixed in place. "Remember, sponsors."
Madge and I obediently raised our hands, smiling and waving as if we were honored guests rather than sacrificial lambs. The crowd's excitement intensified, and I caught snippets of their comments:
"District Twelve!"
"The handsome one from the Victory Tour!"
"The mayor's daughter!"
They already knew who we were. The Capitol's surveillance and propaganda machine was efficient, if nothing else.
Effie appeared as the train came to a stop, practically vibrating with excitement. "Big, big day!" she trilled, ushering us toward the doors. "Remember, chins up, smiles on! You're making your first impression on the Capitol!"
We descended into a sea of colors, sounds, and overwhelming scents. Capitol citizens pressed close, held back only by a cordon of Peacekeepers. Camera flashes blinded us from all directions.
Instinctively, I placed a protective hand on Madge's back, guiding her through the crowd toward the waiting cars.
She glanced at me, startled but not displeased, and leaned slightly closer. The cameras went wild at this small gesture of unity.
"Perfect," Haymitch murmured as he followed us. "Keep that up."
The Reception Center was a massive, sterile building where tributes were separated from their mentors and escorts, handed over to prep teams for what the Capitol euphemistically called "beautification."
"I'll see you before the chariot ride," Haymitch promised as uniformed attendants led us away. "Do whatever the stylists say, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Their job is to make you memorable."
Madge and I exchanged one last look before being led in different directions—hers conveying nervous determination, mine attempting reassurance.
My prep team consisted of three Capitol citizens who made Effie Trinket look positively understated—a woman with metallic gold skin and matching eyes, a man whose blue hair was styled in the shape of an ocean wave, and a person of indeterminate gender whose entire body appeared to be tattooed in an animal print pattern. How did they even learn fashion?
"Oh, we have so much work to do!" the gold woman exclaimed, circling me like a predator. "But such wonderful raw material!"
What followed was the most invasive, uncomfortable experience of either of my lives.
I was stripped naked, scrubbed, shaved, plucked, oiled, molested, and examined as if I were livestock rather than a human being. My prep team chatted throughout, discussing me as if I weren't present, their Capitol accents making them sound like exotic birds.
"Such strong shoulders!"
"The hair needs work, but the color is divine. So natural!"
"Look at those hands—you can tell he's worked with them. Too bad the calluses are ugly."
I endured their backstabbing praises silently, remembering Haymitch's advice. These people held influence over how I would be presented to potential sponsors. Besides, their chatter occasionally yielded useful information about other tributes who had already arrived.
"...District One girl is absolutely stunning this year..."
"...they say the boy from Two can break a neck with his bare hands..."
"...not much to work with from Eleven, though the little girl is adorable..."
Rue had arrived. I wondered if she and Thresh would still play important roles in this altered timeline.
After what felt like hours, my prep team declared me "almost human" as if I was an animal and left me alone in a sterile white room, naked except for a thin robe, to await my stylist and to rip away my last shred of dignity.
The door opened, and a woman entered—someone unfamiliar. She was one of the most normal-looking Capitol citizens I'd seen, with only a subtle shimmer to her skin and simple gold tattoos at the corners of her eyes to mark her origin. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical knot, and she wore all black, like an artist prepared to work.
"Hello, Jake," she said, her voice carrying only a slight Capitol accent. "I'm Aurelia, your stylist."
She circled me slowly, professional rather than invasive, then gestured for me to drop the robe. I did so, having surrendered my modesty hours ago to the prep team.
"You have an excellent form," she said matter-of-factly. "Very handsome. Strong but not bulky. The blacksmith's son, yes? It shows in your shoulders and hands."
I nodded, surprised by her observant assessment.
"You can put the robe back on," she said, gesturing to a pair of chairs. "Let's talk."
As I sat across from her, she studied my face with surprising intensity. "You're not what I expected from District Twelve," she said finally.
"What did you expect?" I asked, curious.
"Someone defeated before they even arrived. Most outer district tributes have already surrendered in their minds."
She leaned forward. "But you haven't. There's something in your eyes—determination, yes, but also something else."
Her insight was unnerving. I shifted the subject. "Have you met Madge? My district partner?"
"Cinna is with her now," Aurelia replied. "He's new, like me. This is our first Games as stylists."
Cinna. So he was still involved, just with Madge instead of Katniss. That could be important—his designs had been crucial to the "Girl on Fire" narrative that sparked the rebellion.
"We've been discussing your presentation for tonight's opening ceremonies," Aurelia continued. "District Twelve is traditionally dressed as coal miners, which is—"
"Boring and forgettable," I finished for her.
She smiled, the first genuine expression I'd seen from a Capitol citizen. "Exactly. Cinna and I want to do something different. Something that will make District Twelve impossible to ignore."
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Coal," she said, "is not interesting. But what do we do with coal?" Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "We burn it."
"Fire," I said, nodding. "You want to set us on fire."
"Not literally," she assured me with a laugh. "Though it will appear that way. Cinna has developed a synthetic flame—harmless but spectacular. The effect will be... unforgettable."
Just as in the original. I wondered if this had been Cinna's plan all along, regardless of which tributes came from District 12.
"I trust you," I said, and meant it. If this Cinna was anything like the one from the movies, he was likely a secret rebel sympathizer, using his position to help spark the revolution.
"There's something else," Aurelia said, her voice dropping slightly. "Something you're already doing that we want to emphasize."
"What's that?"
She reached out and touched the two pins on my robe—the hammer pendant and the mockingjay pin I'd reattached after my prep ordeal. "These symbols. Together, they tell a story. The worker and the rebel, side by side."
Her use of the word "rebel" sent a chill through me. Was she testing me? Or revealing herself as an ally?
"The mockingjay is just a family token," I said carefully. "It belonged to Madge's aunt."
"Of course," she agreed smoothly. "But symbols have power beyond their origins, Jake. Especially when paired with appropriate imagery."
She stood, suddenly all business again. "Now, let's get you dressed. We have a lot of work to do before the ceremony."
The outfit she produced was both simple and striking—a black unitard that covered me from neck to ankles, with boots that shone like polished coal. Over this, she draped a cape of red, orange, and yellow fabric that would be set "alight" with Cinna's synthetic flames. But the most interesting element was a subtle embossing on the chest of the unitard—a small hammer crossed with what could be interpreted as either a mining pick or a mockingjay wing.
"Subtle but unmistakable," Aurelia said, tracing the design. "Those who know what to look for will see it."
"And those who don't?" I asked.
"Will see it later, when we want them to," she replied cryptically.
After my hair was styled—left slightly tousled in what Aurelia called "calculated dishevelment"—and subtle makeup applied to enhance my features under the harsh lights, I was led to the bottom level of the Remake Center where the chariots awaited.
Madge was already there, looking transformed. Her blonde hair was intricately braided with ribbons of red and gold, and she wore a matching black unitard with the same cape design. On her chest was a similar embossed pattern, though hers emphasized the mockingjay wing over the hammer. The effect was stunning—the mayor's daughter transformed into a warrior queen. She was beautiful.
Her eyes widened when she saw me, a blush rising to her cheeks. "You look..." she started, then seemed unable to finish.
"So do you," I replied, genuinely impressed. "Completely transformed."
Cinna and Aurelia conferred nearby, looking pleased with our reactions to each other. Cinna was exactly as I remembered him from the films—understated, thoughtful, with just a touch of gold eyeliner as his only concession to Capitol fashion.
"Remember," Cinna instructed as attendants began helping tributes onto their chariots, "when we light the capes, stand tall and proud. The flames will create an illusion, transforming you both into living fire."
"And stay together," Aurelia added, adjusting my cape. "Unity is your strength."
As we took our positions on the District 12 chariot, I got my first good look at the other tributes. The Careers from 1 and 2 were as intimidating as expected, draped in jewels and gladiator-inspired costumes that emphasized their trained physiques. The tributes from the middle districts were a mixed group, some strong, some clearly terrified. From District 11, I spotted tiny Rue in a costume of fruit and grain, standing beside the towering Thresh.
"They're all so..." Madge whispered, taking them in.
"Scared," I finished for her. "Just like us, under the costumes."
She glanced at me, surprised by the observation. "Even the Careers?"
"Especially them," I said. "They've been trained their whole lives for this moment. The pressure to perform, to live up to expectations—it's a different kind of fear, but it's still fear."
Before she could respond, the massive doors opened, and District 1's chariot began rolling out to the roar of the crowd. One by one, the district pairs made their entrance, greeted with varying levels of enthusiasm.
"Ready for this?" I asked as our turn approached.
Madge took a deep breath, standing straighter. "As I'll ever be."
"Remember," I said quickly, "we're a team. Whatever happens in there, we face it together."
She nodded, her expression resolute. "Together."
As our chariot began to move, Cinna appeared beside us with a lighted torch. "Here we go," he said, and touched it to our capes.
There was a whoosh of synthetic flames, and suddenly we were transformed.
The crowd's reaction was immediate and deafening—gasps followed by wild cheering as we emerged into the City Circle, trailing what appeared to be genuine fire.
"Heads high," I murmured to Madge, remembering Cinna's instructions. "Show them we're not afraid."
She lifted her chin, and I saw the flames reflected in her blue eyes, turning them to gold. The effect was mesmerizing.
Acting on instinct—or perhaps following the script I knew from the original—I reached for her hand. "Together?" I asked, loud enough for her to hear over the crowd.
She hesitated only a moment before gripping my hand firmly. "Together."
We raised our joined hands high, and the crowd went absolutely wild. Flowers rained down on us. People screamed our names—not just "District Twelve" but "Jake!" and "Madge!"—proving that we'd already made an impression before even reaching the Capitol.
On the massive screens that lined the avenue, I could see us as the Capitol saw us—transformed by fire into something mythic, something powerful. The hammer and mockingjay emblems on our chests seemed to glow in the firelight, subtle but present for those who knew to look.
As we circled the City Center, I caught sight of President Snow on his balcony, watching us with cold calculation and a fake smile.
Even at this distance, I could sense his displeasure at our dramatic entrance, at the way we'd captured the crowd's attention.
Good, I thought. Let him worry. Let him wonder what else we might do to upset his carefully controlled narrative.
The chariots finally came to a halt before the president's mansion. The flames on our costumes continued to "burn" as Snow gave his official welcome, though his eyes lingered on us longer than on any other district pair.
"May the odds be ever in your favor," he concluded, his serpentine smile directed at us.
And I glared. Because the odds are never in our favor.
It's actually stocked against us. He knew it. Even revelled in it.
What an absolute bastard.
As the chariots began their final parade back to the Training Center, Madge leaned closer to me. "Did you see how he was looking at us?" she whispered.
"I did," I confirmed. He looked at us like we're a bunch of dead people walking. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"That's not a good thing, is it?"
I squeezed her hand, still clasped in mine. "It means we made an impact. And in the Games, being memorable is better than being overlooked."
"Even if it makes us targets?" she asked.
"We were already targets," I reminded her. "Now we're targets with potential sponsors."
She nodded slowly, processing this logic. "I suppose you're right."
As we rolled back into the Remake Center, Haymitch was waiting with Cinna and Aurelia, all three looking pleased.
"Well done," Haymitch said as attendants helped us down from the chariot. "You're the talk of the opening ceremonies. Even the Career districts are talking about the 'Fire Pair' from Twelve."
"The Fire Pair," Madge repeated, testing the name. "I like it."
"So do the sponsors," Haymitch confirmed with a rare smile. "We've already received inquiries."
I caught Cinna watching me with a thoughtful expression, his eyes lingering on the mockingjay pin now clearly visible against my black costume.
I turned to Aurelia. "Thank you. For making us unforgettable."
"You did that yourselves," she replied. "We just provided the spark."
The phrasing seemed deliberately chosen—another hint that perhaps our stylists had motives beyond simply preparing tributes for the Games.
As we were led toward the elevators that would take us to our accommodations on the twelfth floor, I glanced back at the other tributes. The Careers were watching us with open hostility, clearly unhappy that an outer district had stolen the spotlight. Rue, however, gave me a small smile before dropping her gaze.
In the elevator, Madge finally released my hand, flexing her fingers. "Sorry if I squeezed too hard," she said. "I was more nervous than I thought."
"You didn't show it," I assured her. "You looked like you were born to ride a chariot through the Capitol. Like a Queen."
She laughed, the sound bright and melodious in our grim circumstances. "Yes, all those chariot-riding lessons my father insisted on are finally paying off."
Her humor was another surprise, revealing yet another layer to the mayor's daughter I thought I knew. "You're full of surprises, Madge Undersee."
"As are you, Jake Thompson," she replied, her blue eyes studying me with renewed interest. "As are you."
The elevator doors opened to reveal our penthouse accommodations—another display of Capitol excess that would be our home until the Games began.
Tomorrow would bring the first training session, our first close contact with the other tributes. Tonight had been about impressions and imagery. Tomorrow would begin the real work of preparing for the arena.
As Effie led us on a tour of the penthouse, chattering about dinner schedules and amenities, I caught Madge watching me with a thoughtful expression. The fire was gone from our costumes, but something had ignited between us during that chariot ride—a real partnership, maybe, or the beginning of trust.