A/N: I'm really not happy about this chapter. Not really sure why. And by the way, did everyone go blind for the last chappie? I expected about 50 reviews cursing my butt off. But maybe not. Maybe you guys are all Madge/Peeta fans. Who knows?

Chapter 20: Encounters of the Capitol Kind

"Hello. What can I do for you?" I really hope I sound more professional than I am. I'd hate to mess this up – hate as in, curse myself for possibly killing yet another one of my friends. This is the first potential sponsor we've had, and it's a relief to know that at least someone is taking an interest in our tributes.

"I'd like to sponsor Madge Undersee," the voice says on the other end. It's a man and he sounds sort of middle-aged, and eager to volunteer.

"Can I have your name?"

"Filius Hrogthen."

I jot it down on the no-longer-blank form waiting in front of me. "And how much will you be pledging?"

"I'll give fifty gilds."

"Thank you, sir," I say. It always confuses me, this Capitol money – it's slightly different from what we use in District Twelve, though nothing unmanageable. I write this down, too, and hang up.

Haymitch peers over my shoulder. "What, only one?"

"Am I supposed to have more? There haven't been any other calls. And it's not like I'm behind," I add, looking pointedly at the other tables, all of which are empty. I don't really care that I'm the only one not drinking.

"Well, they aren't going to come in here," Haymitch says. "They'll be out there, lining up. Go get 'em." He grabs my collar and yanks me out of my chair before shoving me towards the door.

"You might have mentioned this before," I mutter. With a bang, I throw open the huge metal doors and the sponsors – most of whom appear to have been waiting for quite some time – stream inside. I hurry back to my table and wait.

It doesn't take long for sponsors to find me. Before long, there's a line stretching for quite a few yards. I couldn't be more pleased, but some of the Capitol people have so many operations or just seem so generally messed up that it's difficult to take them seriously.

Like the woman who wants to sponsor Fritz "because he's so sweet." Why, exactly does she even permit his being in the Games if she cares so much?

Or the group of boys about my age who sponsor Madge because they think she's sexy. Which I suppose she is, and of course I'm grateful for their support, but it's an odd reason to sponsor someone.

And then there's the little girl with blonde ringlets and dazzling blue eyes, who can't be older than Fritz, and asks to sponsor him "just because." I'm really, really shocked at the amount she pledges – two hundred gilds. That's enough to buy food for a year. But then she gives her name: Rosey Snow.

The President's granddaughter wants to sponsor Fritz. I wonder if the snake himself knows about this? Then Rosey leans in and whispers, "Plutarch wants your answer."

I suck in a breath, absolutely stunned. There was no way, ever, that I could have foreseen this. Nothing at all to point to it. And I'm not at all ready. But when I open my mouth to say so, what comes out is, "I'm in."

And she turns around and flounces out the door.

For a moment I just sit there, trying to figure it out, until the man in front of me clears his throat impatiently. I look up and say, as I have dozens of times today, "Name, please?"

It's with an aching hand and pounding head that I pull Haymitch into the elevator that night. He grins around at the glass walls, swaying, and slurs, "So, how'd it go?"

"I met the President's daughter," I tell him, figuring that there's nothing any camera could pick up to endanger us. Just a simple sentence, right?

Apparently not. Or, at least, Haymitch doesn't think so. The minute we're inside the door on the twelfth floor, he slaps me so hard that I stagger backwards. "You idiot," he hisses, all traces of drunkenness gone. As I shake my head slightly to clear it, he's glaring at me. "Don't ever say something like that again."

"Why not?" I groan, massaging my jaw. I head for one of the mouthpieces hanging off of the walls. "Ice," I tell it, hoping that Capitol room service is quick.

"Because it'll only bring her trouble." Haymitch lowers his voice, glancing around. "Snow's not above torturing his own relatives. If he finds out she's mixing with the rebels, that's exactly what he'll do. Anything to find out our secrets."

Well, I'm just making wrong turns left and right, aren't I?

"So you know she's on our side," I say, and it isn't a question.

"I know it all, boy," he answers. Then there's a knock on the door. I open it to find a red-haired girl Avox with a bag of ice, looking confused.

"Thanks," I tell her. She nods and leaves, and I shut the door and bring the bag to my face. "I can't believe you did that."

"Your skull's so thick that I'm surprised you felt it." With a grin, Haymitch saunters out of the room.

"Nerve endings aren't behind bone!" I yell after him just as Madge enters.

"A little tense?" she asks.

"Just a tad." I realize that I'm in a truly foul mood.

"Did we get any sponsors?"

"Um, yeah. About thirty."

"Is that a lot?" she asks, so hopeful that it bothers me.

"Not really," I say, watching her face fall. "I mean, that's quite a few people, but they didn't pay much money. Only about ten florens a piece."

"And that's a small amount," she guesses.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Who knows, though? We've got the rest of the week." Once upon a time I might be tempted to say, "We've got the rest of our lives." But that's not true anymore.

The rest of the week, actually, is really only two days. There aren't any more sponsors willing to bite, so all of our spirits sink ever lower, and then it starts to rain. Not just showers but pouring buckets, like the sky is trying to drown us. If not for sewers, it might have worked.

Madge learns to start a fire – she's pretty good at it. For a girl from 12, I mean, who's never set foot in the woods. I'm trying not to let myself think that she's got a chance. But there's no denying that she can gut a person with a knife in the blink of an eye, for which I'm grateful. I don't think I can take much more of this gloom. I know that a lot of it's self-inflicted, though these awful rainclouds aren't helping.

Fritz figures out that his best bet is to run, and run fast. We get the idea from a girl from District Seven who won a few years back, named Johanna Mason. She acted so weak that nobody bothered with her until she was one of the last ones left, which was when everyone discovered that she was a killing machine. I don't really think that Fritz could do that last bit, because he quakes at the mere mention of blood, but at least he could stay out of sight. Maybe, with a lot of good luck – which seems to be out of stock – he'll make it to the final eight. Everyone knows that that's what really counts, because there's a lot of special background information on the remaining tributes to make them seem more like actual people. I hear it warms the cockles of the average Capitol citizen's heart.

So, on the final day of training, nobody eats dinner except for Haymitch, though that can't really be called eating. More like drowning in liquor. In any case, he's the only one consuming anything.

We all file into the television room to see the scores. Predictably, the careers all get eights or nines, and little Elvorix from District Two gets a ten. From District Nine – Key and Rachelle Ehmy – are two sevens, which is unusual for their district. All too soon, it's time for District Twelve, and none of us are ready.

It's Fritz first, and he gets a two, which he takes well. Surprisingly so, in fact. Though admittedly paler, he doesn't run off or anything. I can see that he realizes it will help with his strategy of being ignored.

Then Madge's face appears on the television screen and, beneath it, the number seven. She's stunned, and no wonder – this might be the highest score that someone from Twelve ever receives.

"How'd you do that?" I ask.

She blushes. "I juggled knives."

"You know how to juggle?"

"Well, yeah. My father taught me a few years ago. It's a bit more dangerous with knives, but not too hard."

Huh. That takes the cake.

Interview day dawns bright and clear with a stark contrast to the rest of the week. We all are careful not to make any reference to death, but everyone's thinking about it all the same. When it's the day before you're life's going to be on the line, you can't forget it.

"So, for your interview, I think we should go with something confident. Maybe strong-willed or something along the lines of that. What do you think?"

Madge nods. After several practice questions, I think she's got it. And she assures me that she's never afraid of speaking to crowds. I guess, being the Mayor's daughter, that's not surprising.

Fritz's angle is easy. We do sniveling coward like no one ever has before. If only he could fight as well as he can speak.

Then it's nighttime and all of us victors are seated on the stage to enormous applause. The tributes file out and take their own spots.

Showtime.

A/N: Yes, this chapter is a piece of garbage, but I hope the next one is better!