INURED.¹

[ v ]. watching, waiting

                    Each district has been assigned a floor; Eleven is near the top, and it's only accessible by elevator. It's entirely fashioned from glass, so you can see the world below you slowly shrink away. Mara gets a childish rush of exhilaration going up; they haven't got things like elevators back home ─── it's only since coming here she's realised how they really have nothing at all.

                    Her quarters are twice the size of a granary and decked out with everything she could ever want, but she refuses to use any of it. Not the buttons on the walls, even when she's dying to find out what they do, not the remote for the huge television, or even the window with the tint, transparency, and mesh to keep out insects. She refuses to shower, but her resolve fades once she realises how warm the water is. It's also covered in different buttons ─── how she longs to press them all at once, but then she'd burn or freeze or drown in bubbles. The water and lotions shed a layer of makeup from her skin, and she feels a little cleaner.

                    If only her soul weren't tainted with hatred for her damned mortality, she'd be spotless.

                    After basking in the hot water, slowly turning up the temperature to see how much she can stand, she dries off ─── the normal way, even if those dryers look tempting ─── and scours the wardrobe for the least gaudy outfit she can find. Dinner is spent with the stylists, who keep Antonia and Chaff occupied enough not to point out any faults in her performance. Opal and Antonia get along well, debating different cuts of dresses; Chaff persuades Cyrus to have a drink, and he settles for a glass of champagne. She keeps her head down, eating away, gaze straying either to Avens, or to the windows, and the sheer drop to the sparkling lights beyond.

                    That night, she sleeps like a baby ─── there's no problem falling asleep, but she wakes every hour.

                    Mara wakes once more in the early morning; judging by the sun well over the horizon, she's slept in. Usually, she'd be up before dawn, working by now. Instead, she lays in a huge bed, a radio call away from a meal, shuffling towards her death. After wandering about her room, she heads down for breakfast long before anyone else.

                    The meal is another sombre one; the only conversation is short, between Avens and Antonia about the upcoming training.

                    "When do we have to be there?" He asks after finishing his plate of ham and cheese pastries.

                    "Ten." Antonia says, casting a wary glance to Chaff. "So we'll be there by nine-thirty. Just in case."

                    He swears at her, glaring from above the rim of his whiskey, and mutters something along the lines of not my fault.

                    "Uniforms of any kind?"

                     Antonia nods, glad that a tribute is showing interest for once. "Your stylists will give them to you. You'll be told everything else in due time."

                    He nods, mulling over her words, and Mara cannot read the stony, ashen expression on his face. It's only when they're taking the elevator down that she realises it was a face of grim determination. Avens, her only friend, is fighting to kill her. Somehow, it's not as surprising as it should be ─── isn't she doing the same thing?

                    The training centre is a huge gymnasium, divided into countless stations, which range from obstacle courses to weapons to survival skills like fire starting and camouflage painting. There's a viewing window above where the Gamemakers are assembled at a dining table, watching the tributes below. Although they're not late ─── Antonia would have a fit if they were ─── they're among some of the last to arrive. The pair joins the tightly knit semicircle of tributes; Mara gets her first chance to truly size up her opponents.