Sorry for the long wait everybody! I was away on vacation and I've now got a cold, so this might not be the best chapter ever. But guess what! After this, there's only going to be three more chapters until the Games finally begin. Three more chapters! Who's excited?

This is the last chapter where we get tributes who haven't had POVs in the Capitol yet, so for the next three chapters you'll be seeing tributes that you've already seen. I'm really sorry because not everybody can have two Capitol POVs, so some tributes will be getting more than others. That's not a sign that your tribute will be dying in the bloodbath; it just means that I couldn't fit them in. I do have some plans for certain tributes in these next few chapters, which you will see soon enough, and I have some plans for tributes in the arena. I just really end up writing who I think would be interesting at that point in time :)

So hopefully you guys will like these next few chapters and are excited for the Games! Enjoy!

Meredith Blade, District 4 Female

I wake up before everyone else on our floor, as per usual. I don't know where Perrin found the will to get up so early on the day of the reapings ceremony, but I haven't seen that attitude towards morning-time since. As for our escort and the other mentors, well, they're just lazy.

However, despite the lack of people around, breakfast is already set out on the table and I'm sure if I called an Avox would come running. I idly begin to make myself a sandwich with the bread, however my thoughts are elsewhere.

Today is the day each tribute spends time with their mentors and escorts to be coached for the interviews. Obviously there's no way I'll let some fat old Capitolite and a bunch of retired victors boss me around but still, I'm beginning to wonder if there may actually be something to gain from listening to them. Unlike the private training sessions, where I knew exactly what I was going to do and had the confidence that I would walk away with the highest score out of all the tributes, the interviews are an event I'm less sure of. With my ten in training, I doubt that I really have to worry about getting sponsors but still, the Capitol people are fickle. If there's a pitiable tribute out there with dead parents or a lover left behind or a tragic back story, they'd sponsor that tribute over one with the most likely chance of winning in a heartbeat. After all, what they want is a show.

So where does that leave me? And not for the first time, I find myself returning to the conversation I had with Perrin on the train. Maybe I really should try to feel some emotion during these interviews, if it'll help me out. Play up the dead parents card; after all, they don't know who was behind it. Create some sort of sob-story involving a father who had always wanted his daughter to win the Hunger Games. Or something like that.

I have to snort at that. Am I really planning on making the Capitol feel pity for me? The mere thought is ridiculous. No, I decide. I don't think I'd be able to play that sort of angle with a straight face. So I'll go as myself; after all, my ten in training should be enough to show them that I'll be the one immerging victorious from the arena. Any idiot could see that.

But you're not the only one with a ten, I think, and my mind returns to the memories of the night before. Sitting on the couch, waiting for the training scores to come up, a slight smirk on my face, knowing that there was no possible way the boy from Eight could come up with a high enough score to keep him in the Careers. That would show Perrin his place. I acknowledge the fact that we are "co-leaders" but in reality, I'll be the one making the decisions. Like I've said before, he's a weak link. His training may be enough for me to overlook the fact that if it came down to it, he might not be able to kill someone in cold blood, but there's no way I'd let someone like that lead the Careers. Sure, I let him think that he could induct members into our alliance; I let him keep the little District 8 boy. But the training scores would show him that he made a poor decision trying to bring a weakling like that into our Pack; it would show him that only I could really make the decisions.

And then the boy's score came up: ten. The highest score of the night, only comparable to mine. Ten. A double digit score, not only from a tribute younger than myself, but from a tribute who lived in a District that makes textiles. The boy who wore curtains for his chariot costume beat out all of the other Careers and, worst of all, proved me wrong. He knew that my speeches before everyone went into their sessions were mainly directed at him and now, with his score, he might as well be laughing in my face. He's shown me up. And that's something I won't allow people to do.

Yes, he'll have to be very careful in the arena, I think to myself, smiling slightly. Sure, I'll keep him around for a little while, use his skills to help whittle down the competition, but soon afterwards, he'd better watch his back. Because I'll be waiting for the right moment to strike.

Although first, I'm going to have to get through today. The sound of loud, heavy footsteps reminds me of what later is to come and soon Seel enters the room, yawning loudly and wearing only a robe, the shortness of which could probably serve to mentally scar most of the younger tributes.

"Ah, Meredith, you're awake," he says, his speech still understandable, though I know it won't be soon after he gets to the food. "Anyways, you know what today is, I hope. The schedule is that you and Perrin will be spending four hours with me and four hours with your mentors for preparation for the interviews. You will begin with me."

Wonderful, I think, sighing inwardly. This is going to be a very long day.

"- so after I eat we can . . ." Seal peters off, staring at the sandwich in my one hand and the knife in the other. I'd almost completely forgotten they were there. "Meredith, did you . . . use the same knife for the peanut butter and the jam?"

For the first time since I've gotten here, this simple-minded Capitol citizen has actually managed to confuse me. What on earth is he talking about? I look down at the jars of various spreads on the table, finally realising what I must have put on the bread. Seel is still gaping at me, as if what I've done is the absolute most atrocious thing I could have done.

I roll my eyes at him. "Are you actually serious? My goodness, you people really are idiots, aren't you?" Then I smile as an idea pops into my head. "It's not that bad. See for yourself." And before he can ask what I mean, I rear back and throw the knife, aiming directly for his head. He doesn't even have time to flinch as it lands solidly in the wall right above his head, slicing off a few of his remaining hairs. Seel looks up, terrified, just in time to get a splat of jelly right on his face as it drips from the knife. Then he turns his horrified visage towards me.

Scratch that earlier thought, I think to myself, still smiling as he stares at me in shock, red jam sliding down his face like blood. Today might actually be fun.

Carlisle McAwny, District 9 Male

"Walk slower!"

"Chin up!"

"Don't swing your arms so much!"

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

The woman in front of me puts her hands on her hips. No wait, woman isn't the word to describe her. More like creature, something from another world. Her pale pink skin, long delicate nails and golden coloured hair all led me to believe that she wasn't real, just something I had conjured up in my imagination. That happens to me a lot; I'll be talking to someone I think is there, and then Damon will ask me who I'm chatting with and I'll realise that no one else can see the person. But it seems like everyone can see this odd, pink lady, so I guess she is real. I don't see how though; even my hallucinations seem more realistic than she looks.

"Carlisle!" She snaps her fingers and the sound ricochets through my mind, echoing off of every corner. "Listen to me!"

Her words register in my brain and I get the feeling that I should answer her, but I just . . . can't. I don't see why I should anyways. Damon doesn't like it when I talk to my hallucinations.

She's not a hallucination though, I think to myself. Remember? But I don't. Other people could talk to her and see her, right? I'm not sure. It's been too long since I've seen anyone else besides this crazy lady. I don't know how long, but the large hand of the clock on the wall has gone around nearly four times. That should mean something to me, I know it should. Something about telling time. But once again I'm at a loss as to what it's supposed to mean. Another memory that slowly floated away from me until it was too far to be called back.

The woman throws up her hands and storms out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Good, I like it better this way. With her here, too many things were going on; she blurred the line between dreams and reality. But now, with her gone, I know that everything I see now will be of my own creation.

I wait for someone, or something, of my imagination to appear. Most of the time it's always something different; I've only been able to recreate my hallucinations a few times. But as the moments stretch out, I finally realise that nothing is going to come. I wish something would; it's lonely in this room.

Without thinking about it, my hand clasps around a pin attached to the collar of my shirt. I think it was handed to me during the goodbyes. For the longest time, I couldn't think what it was, but then it hit me last night; it's Damon's. Or at least, it was. Now it's mine.

The sense of loneliness returns with even more force as I think about my brother. I wish he were here with me; I can't do this on my own. He's been my guiding light for as long as I can remember and now, without him, I'm lost in the darkness of my own mind. But maybe I can bring him back.

As if in a trance, I begin to walk forwards towards the table where the pink lady had been sitting, taking notes on how I stood and my posture. I can see the pencil and sheaves of paper now; slowly, my hands reach out and curl around the items. There is a chair tucked underneath the table but I don't bother with it. Instead, I sink to the ground and press the grey lead to the white surface, slowly beginning to trace lines around the paper.

"Carlisle?"

The voice rouses me from my thoughts, and I look up to see a young woman entering the room. She seems familiar somehow, like I should know her. Wait . . . Imogen. I smile slightly to myself; at least I haven't forgotten everything.

"You see? He doesn't respond to anything! I can't work in these conditions!" The pink lady is back, but this time I know she's real because Imogen glares at her before turning back to me.

"Carlisle, I was just wondering . . ." she begins, but stops as she catches a glimpse of my drawing.

Two things have acted as my sort of anchors to the real world; Damon, and my sketches. Holding a pencil in my hand just seems so real, and when you draw something, it doesn't matter if it's something you hallucinated or not because people think it's pretty either way. This one though, this one is of something real.

Four pairs of eyes stare out from the page as four bodies pose in the drawing. Chance, wearing his trademark, lopsided grin; Reta, beaming up at me from the page; and of course, Damon. At a first glance, he might seem sad or serious to someone who just looked at the drawing, but I know better. My brother rarely smiles, but that doesn't mean he's never happy. He's gotten used to hiding his feelings from most people, but you can still see all of his joy in his eyes. And right now, his face captured in my sketch, he looks completely at peace with the world.

The fourth person might be hard to detect at first; I've drawn them almost as if they were a ghost, which I guess is fitting. But even though my mother's figure may seem spectral, as though she could disappear at any moment from the image, her eyes still stand out brightly from the paper. I know that to the others who look at her, she'll be in black and white, seeing as that's all the colours a pencil is capable of. But I can see every detail of her as clearly as if she were really standing right in front of me; long, flowing brown hair, ruby red lips and her eyes. Bright, hazel eyes that look slightly ember in the sunlight. Eyes that I inherited from her.

Imogen is still staring silently at my drawing and I begin to worry if I've done something wrong. When Damon gets angry, his face hardens and he remains quiet, just glaring at whoever offended him. Have I accidentally insulted Imogen with my picture?

"I'm sorry," I say automatically, looking up at her. She glances down at me, seemingly surprised. Is that not the proper way to ask forgiveness?

But my worries melt away a second later as she smiles. "You don't have to apologise Carlisle," she says to me. "It's beautiful."

"Oh," is all I can say. Beautiful. I've never heard anyone say that about my drawings before. It's nice to know she likes them though. Then maybe other people will like them too. All I need is the right moment to show everyone.

Emerald Marsh, District 11 Female

I sigh in exasperation and look hopefully at the clock. Thank goodness, only a half an hour left of interview prep. Not that I'm getting much done right now; the past three and a half hours have been spent arguing with District 11's only victor and mine and Dylian's mentor.

"Look, for the last time, I can't play intimidating!" I say, trying to get that through Jaros's thick head. "I'm thirteen! Look at me, do I look menacing to you?"

"It's the best angle and it'll get you the most sponsors," Jaros shoots back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Just because his interview angle was intimidating and he won the Games doesn't mean he should force every pair of tributes that come his way to try and follow in his footsteps. I've seen the tributes he's tried to make seem menacing and for the most part, it doesn't work. Dylian might be able to pull it off but I highly doubt that I could. "Remember, the girl from 11 last year used it and got to the final five!"

"Maybe it was the best angle for her," I say, trying not to sound frustrated or angry, "But times have changed! I'm not an eighteen year-old woman with martial arts training! I'm the mayor's daughter who may have gotten into a fight or two back in my home district but that doesn't mean I'm set for the Hunger Games!"

Jaros narrows his eyes. "Well fine then, if you think you know more than I do about getting sponsors, try it your own way then."

I sigh in relief, taking his words as a cue that the argument is finished. "Thank you."

"But in reality, you know next to nothing and acting like you do is just going to get you killed in the arena."

My whole body tenses and unconsciously my hands clench into fists. Part of my brain is telling me to just let him say what he wants; it's no use getting into another fight. But a bigger part is shouting that I can't just take what he says. He's my mentor, he's supposed to be helping me try and get far in the Games, not predict when I'm going to die. "I guess you're right," I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. "After all, the other past tributes have tried to be menacing and look how happy they ended up!"

Jaros freezes and immediately I know I've crossed the line. How could I even say that? Because I'm the spoiled mayor's daughter who's never had to take tessera in her life and therefore the Hunger Games have to effect on her. Yes, I have friends who aren't as privileged as I am, and both David and Lilly have known people who've gone into the Games. And I've felt sad, but not for the tributes who are losing their lives, just because I don't want to appear insensitive in front of my friends. In reality, the Games have never posed a threat to me at all before this year. But Jaros, he's had to watch countless kids go off to die in the arena, knowing that he can't do a thing about it. How can I sit here and talk about his job and the dead tributes so lightly? He's right, I don't know anything about the Games and so I don't have a right to talk about them like I'm an expert.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean that."

He just continues to stare at me for a long time, and just when I've decided that he hasn't accepted my apology and he's not going to speak, he does. "Have you ever played Daring Heights, Emerald?"

I frown, confused as to what he's getting at. Daring Heights is a game commonly played in our district. A group of kids pick a certain tree and try to climb it all the way to the top. As you get higher though, the branches get weaker and begin to break under you. The winner is that last person to fall out of the tree. I've always considered it a stupid game, but David and Lilly have dragged me into playing it when we were younger. "Yes."

"The winner is always the last person to fall," he says. "But that just makes them the person who has the longest fall that hurts the most in the end. So really, there is no winner." He stands and begins to make his way to the door, but stops before he exits and turns back to me. "Just remember that some games don't have winners." And then he's gone, leaving me to ponder what he said. Some games don't have winners. For a little while, it doesn't make any sense to me. All games have winners or they wouldn't really be games, now would they? But as I sit longer and think, I begin to realise what he means. Winning may seem great at the beginning, but it comes at a cost. So now I really only have one question that remains to be answered. In the Game I'm about to play, the cost of winning is high. Would I be able to deal with it?