The Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games

Thalia

"Thalia, please brush your hair before you start eating." I scowl at the escort and take a bite of my cinnamon roll. I've already forgotten her name. Euphoria Piddle or something like that. It doesn't matter. All Capitol citizens are the same. Just a bunch of stuck-up idiots with ridiculous hair. I take another large bite of my roll.

"I am not going to brush my hair, Flamingo Woman." I snap, referring to her hot pink hair. The woman looks affronted, while my mentor, Ciara, hides a smirk.

"What did you just call me?" At the opposite end of the table, Malcolm snickers.

She glares at Malcolm to stop, and he shuts up immediately. "I will not have my tributes acting like street rats!" I snort.

"Your tributes? Ha! You hardly even speak to us!" I slide out of my chair and push it in roughly. I grab a few cinnamon rolls from a basket and storm out of the room. Flamingo Woman looks positively disgusted at my behavior. I smirk to myself. Good. I've had enough of her bullshit. I don't want to be in the Games, but I'm sure as hell going to win.

I head to the back of the train, where no one will bother me, to look out the window. It's unsettling how fast we're moving, but at least we're not on a plane. I shudder. I've always been afraid of heights, but I've been lucky enough to have never been on a plane. I settle down on the velvet chaise near the window. We should be reaching the Capitol in a few hours. I browse through the shelf of books opposite to the wall, picking up 'The Tourist's Guide to the Capitol'. I snort. I don't think there are tourists in the Capitol. I flip through the pages, uninterested. It's not like I need to see any more Capitol propaganda. I stretch out on the sofa, having every intention of falling asleep.

It doesn't work. I groan, and shift positions to lay on my stomach, hoping it might help me fall asleep. I just end up rolling onto the floor. Figures. I bet if I tried to stay awake, I'd fall asleep within the blink of an eye. I should try that. I maneuver my body into an extremely uncomfortable position.

"I am not going to sleep. I do not want to sleep." Nothing happens. "Damn it!" I slump on the floor. "Ugh."

"We should be arriving in the Capitol shortly- what are you doing?" Flamingo Woman stares at me disapprovingly. "A dignified lady like you should not be lying on the floor like a rat! Get up!"

"Where's Ciara?"

"Your mentor is waiting for you in the sitting room. Now hurry up. After all, we wouldn't want to leave you on the train!" she titters, completely oblivious to the fact that it sounds like a threat. I grunt in response.

"Fine. Tell Ciara I'm coming." She purses her lips in disapproval.

"I am not a personal messenger, Miss Grace. It would be in your best interest for you to come with me."

"Do not call me that." I snarl, but I get up anyway. I follow her down the hallway to the 'informal lounge', which is Capitol-speak for a glorified sitting room.

"Hello, Thalia." greets Ciara from one of the plush, silky couches. Her silver hair sparkles in the evening light. She must be at least 50, but is still in perfect shape.

"Hi, Lightning Lady." Ciara might be the only tolerable person involved in the Games that I've met. I haven't really gotten to know Malcolm, and our escort is a pain in the butt.

"We'll arrive in the Capitol in a few minutes." I nod.

"Flamingo Woman here told me." Ciara struggles to hold in a laugh, while Flamingo Woman just purses her lips.

"I see." I stretch back on the sofa across from hers.

"So, what's our plan?" Ciara leans forward.

"Go for the Cornucopia." I frown.

"Isn't that usually considered a bad thing?"

"Everyone is going to be staying away from it at first, so no one will expect you to go for it." I frown. I can never understand reverse psychology.

"But what about the Careers?" Ciara frowns.

"We'll think about that later." I shrug. The less planning, the better.

"Now, I think your stylist wants to meet you." My face pales. Oh, no. A stylist?

Damn it! This really is terrible.

The stylist is just as bad as I thought she would be. She and her minions quickly get to work, and by the time an hour has passed, I look as if I've just been electrocuted. My stylist sprays some weird stuff onto my hair to keep it in place, and I'm finally done. She surveys me critically, and I hold my breath.

"I've done all that can be done, now shoo." She glares at me. "I said, shoo!" I exit the room, but not before sweeping my arm over the table, scattering fabric, makeup, and assorted hair products. I smile as sweetly as I can.

"Oops! Looks like you'll have to get that cleaned up."

This chapter was written by me.

-Toodles!