Treedmills and Sindy. [lovely headache alliance.]

Though the velvety curtains were still drawn shut when he woke up, Joshua knew it was still dark outside. He floated about semiconsciously for a few more moments, more asleep than awake, but a sudden stab of panic drew him to the surface: this wasn’t his bed. These silky, luxurious sheets weren’t his, and neither was the room that was cavernous in the darkness. His eyes snapped open and he reached blindly for the bedside table, knocking several objects off of it - one sounded like it shattered upon impact - before finally grabbing his glasses and shoving them on crookedly. The world closest to him instantly came into focus: mahogany sheets and matching pillows, the elegantly carved bedposts, the cranberry walls…

Panic faded into recognition, and recognition dissolved into the same, sickly dread he’d felt since arriving in the Capitol.

Joshua glanced down at the mess mired in the plush carpet: not only had his district token fallen, a crystalline vase had been reduced to smithereens upon impact, and everything in a three foot radius was soaked. A crimson fish with exotically frilled fins - what had the escort called it? A betta fish? - was suffocating on air and in its death throes. “Great.” He muttered under his breath, stomach churning at the sight. My first kill. The pathetic joke didn’t help to cheer him any. As the doomed creature continued to thrash and squirm, the tribute noticed a small, neon pink capsule beneath it. “What…?”

And then last night’s conversation with the attendant resurfaced: ”Just pop one of these and you won’t have any problem with your stomach at all! Wouldn’t want to repeat that scene on the train, would we?” Cue nervous laughter. He could vaguely recall that, the moment he’d stepped on the train to be sped away from his home, he’d vomited on her shoes. She’d squealed and darted away, though his mentor had found it hilarious.

And that seemingly magical anti-nausea pill was currently beneath a dying fish. Hopefully this wasn’t indicative of his luck, because if so, what would that lead to in the arena? Supplies entombed in a bear carcass? Vital necessities buried under heaps of dead tributes?

He nudged the fish away with his foot and retrieved the magenta pill, drying it off on a corner of his pillow and sniffing it (thankfully, it didn’t reek of dead seafood) before swallowing; within minutes his trembling stomach had settled, and there were other things to attend to. He scooped a silvery pocket watch from the puddle, examining it for any damage: though it was difficult to tell in the enshrouding difficult, it looked undamaged. Joshua fumbled with the tiny clasp and squinted at the clock face inside: 7:06. His stylist - an impossibly dark-skinned woman with short, electric blue hair named Lepitera - was apparently very gadget-oriented: she’d snatched away his token only to relieve it of its rust (he‘d always thought it was bronze until he‘d seen its real coloring), repaired its internal workings, and then, in what had probably been meant as kindness but had been misinterpreted as cruelty, had set it to District 9’s time instead of the Capitol. She’d turned an arbitrarily picked keepsake into the embodiment of everything out of his reach: home. Time.

7:06? Everyone in the household would be awake by now; Roman would be hunting with the mongrels, and Joshua would be either at school or the cramped apothecary. If there was mandatory Capitol programming to be watched, they’d be in the Square - no television at home. Instead, he was currently trapped in 5:06 and would be appearing on that screen in a week or so.

He lay on the bed for at least an hour, tossing the watch from hand to hand and focusing on anything but the Games, though that was close to impossible. ‘Family’ led to ‘what would they think when they were watching him?’, ‘friends’ led to ‘if I don’t find some allies, someone’s going to tear out my throat in the first two minutes,’ and something as simple as ‘what’ll breakfast be?’ was transmuted into ‘it’ll be even more humiliating if I starve to death.’ Joshua was pretty sure that no one from the hunting district had ever died of hunger in the arena.

At this point, he was wishing that they’d just throw him to the mutts now so that he could just get it over with.

When the shrill alarm finally rang, Joshua twitched in surprise and stared at the door expectantly, but no one burst in. After a few more wasted minutes he left the bed of his own accord, poking cautiously through the closet and eventually settling on a simple outfit: a collared tawny shirt and black pants. It was simple by Capitol standards, at least; compared to the patched attire he was accustomed to at home, this was immeasurably fine.

Joshua showered and brushed his hair and teeth quickly before dressing, examining himself closely in the full-length mirror; the clothing was certainly a nice change from hand-me-downs that were too short, they couldn’t hide the fact that he was just… scruffy: too tall and gawky, with battered black glasses and hair that not even Lepitera could make look halfway decent. He fastened a tie around his neck, struggling with the silky fabric, and clipped the pocket watch’s to a belt loop, depositing the actual object into his pocket. Now he looked utterly foolish, as if he were dressed up for some fancy cocktail event instead of the first day of training. The tie was unnecessary, and maybe a different shirt would be better --

“Screw it.” He had a little over a week to live. He could dress like a pompous Capitol brat if he wanted to.

Joshua skipped breakfast in lieu for an extra half-hour or so of training; the center was strangely empty, populated only by station managers and maybe a handful of other tributes. He glanced around, uncertain as to where to even begin, and after a brief period of deliberation decided on the archery station. How many times had Roman offered to teach him the basics, and how many times had he scornfully refused? It would be a useful skill to have, after all, and it couldn’t hurt to learn his district’s trade.

As the blonde tribute crossed to the station, a peal of malicious laughter caught his attention. He paused and half-turned to watch the spectacle, barely catching a glimpse of Luyu (at least, that’s what he thought her name was; Josh recognized her as the nutty volunteer from District 3) stepping away from the treadmill. Seconds later, the deaf girl from 12 - Wave or Ripple or something like that - had fallen flat on her face, tumbled off the machine, and started to sob. Joshua grimaced and the sight and look away, embarrassed that he’d witnessed the girl come unhinged. It didn’t take a genius to figure out ‘burn-to-the-ground’ psycho’s trick; he was more preoccupied with trying to figure out whether it counted as fighting or just a malicious prank. ”What a bitch.” He remarked loudly, turning back towards the archery station - what kind of fruitcake picked on disabled kids?