*says something about being on time*

*anecdote?*

*jokes, haha*

*"but you don't care, you want to read"*

*wonders if you do actually want to read*

*says 'read'*

Chapter Twenty-One - Lloyd

Finn shakes me awake, and none too gently. Groaning in protest, I squint up at him, eyes bleary with sleep. "Up, sluggard. Time to train." I roll over in the warm covers, clutching vainly at the linen and the sleep I took for granted.

"We don't have tr-raining today…" My speech is slurred and I bury my head in my pillow.

Finn whacks me with the pillow's pair and nudges me. "Training for the interview, dummy. Where's all the training I've given you personally gone?" I slowly sit up, wincing in protest.

"Interview? You mean, with Chen?" Finn glances around the bedroom, like he's expecting Chen to waltz in right now.

"Master Chen, yes. The whole of Ninjago and all of the citizens of the Tower will be watching, and, quite frankly, I don't want you winging it." I rub my eyes, slightly offended, but too tired to retaliate. "So get up! We have much to discuss over breakfast."

Breakfast is extremely overdone, with every available space crammed with fruit and breads and drinks and pastries, all steaming and savory and giving off incredible smells. Finn dismisses my prep team and they glance around the dining area woefully, and I can imagine them tasting the foods in their mind's eye. Ignoring this, Finn turns to me, all business.

"Chen will try to do a multitude of things to you, try to expose points of your character that the people assume of you. We need you to have a look or a quality or a character trait that the populous will associate with you." I take a bite of apple slowly, processing what he's said.

"O-kay. So, what's my look?" Finn smirks, and I feel my stomach plunge. "It's not that easy," he drawls, and I bury me face in my napkin.

"Nothing is…"

"You'll need to help me with that. Some of the impressions I've gotten from you, since I've mentored you, is that you're naïve -"

"Hey!"

"Inexperienced -"

"What?"

"And quite frankly, unprepared for the Games in all aspects. Prove me wrong." I drop my napkin on the floor.

"How am I supposed to do that? Am I that hopeless?"

Finn shrugs. "Eh…" I toss a bagel bite at him.

"Real encouraging."

"The look I think you should go for… Could be many things. You could be young and humble, like 'Wow, everything here is amazing!' always putting the attention away from yourself. Or you could go for lovable, acting nice and kiss-up-y. Maybe you could act shy, but they're forgettable." Finn sits a moment, thinking, brow creased.

"Or…" I venture, "I could just answer his questions. No pretenses." Finn looks up from his plate.

"I guess…" he murmurs, then his head whips up. "Lloyd! You're a genius!" I drop my head, feigning bashfulness.

"Please, Finn, you make me blush."

Finn waves away my comment. "No, really. When you go up there and act totally honest, answering from the heart, they'll see you stand out. Everyone else will have a look. That's how it's gone for years!"

I smile. "Just call me the loose cannon." Finn rolls his eyes.

"Don't get too cocky. Many a better tribute has fallen due to overconfidence."

That sobers up our conversation for the rest of breakfast.

Since the day is mainly for preparing for the interview, and I have nothing really to do but maybe practice being honest, which is kind of an oxymoron. I take a walk around the tribute areas of Borg Tower. All of the tributes avoid each other like their opponents are doused in poison, and I'm no exception. Daphnes and the other Careers are working out in the gym, lifting huge weights and making me feel very incompetent in comparison. The scores of the Careers flash before my eyes and I turn away, stomach writhing with nerves.

The movie theater is occupied by the Fire girl, and, on the total opposite side, the Lightning boy, who's fiddling with the seat cup holder, like he has a nervous tic in his hands and can't keep still. The swimming pool is appropriated by the Water tributes, of course, and the indoor track is being run by the Lightning girl. Why she's running a day before the Games, I don't know. One wouldn't want to wear themselves out. In the very corner of the track room is a lone basketball hoop, where the Fire boy shoots baskets. Although the gym has more sports fields, I can see why he came here. I'd be intimidated by the Careers, though, if I had to play basketball only yards from my soon-to-be mortal enemies.

Without anything left to do, I simply wander. It's a good way to pass the time though, peering into empty rooms and just getting lost in the complex corridors and floors. Along every wall, though, spoiling the adventure somewhat, are Nindroids, red eyes glaring, standing at fierce attention. I wonder if they think I'm up to something.

But, inevitably, my wanderlust fades and I get bored. I find a solitary corner on a lower floor and sit to think. This is, quite possibly, my last day alive. What should I do with it?

I could write to my family – tell them I love them, say good-bye to Skye… Tears blur my vision and I gulp thickly. I can't do it. I can't say goodbye. My mother and father swim before my eyes, smiling, and Skye sits beside them, grinning. They can't leave me, and I them. No, writing letters is out of the question.

So, what should I do? I think back on my life, the brevity of my existence. It's been a good life, I suppose. A sheltered one. So much so that I can barely believe that tomorrow morning I'll be shipped off to the Arena. Such violence and death has never been a part of my existence. I saw the Hunger Games. Only now am I believing them.

Finn would tell me to suck it up and not to act weak. But what chance do I really have in the Games? Even he admitted it. What would happen if I went and… I blink hard, making tears mingle with my eyelashes. Cameras. Can't cry. How will I die, though? When? More tears. Cameras. Can't cry. I look up, trying hard to make out walls and doors amidst the gauzy haze of tears. I can survive. I can win. If I can be honest, I can win.

Somehow I make it back to my room, and there I where I let go – let go of the knot of emotions coiling in my insides, let go of all of the tears and fears I've kept since the Reaping, let go of all of the pain and the loss I've faced so far. At some point Finn cracks open the door to see what I'm doing, but to his credit, he closes it quietly and lets me resume my quiet weeping. And on and on, past the dinner hours and finally my stylist walks in, looking agitated.

"Smarten yourself up, boy, we have work to do before the interview." I rub my eyes tiredly and take a breath. What would happen if I broke down during the interview and just sobbed while Chen sat there, trying to console me? Yup, an A plus way to get sponsors.

Finn follow my stylist, overlooks my red eyes and damp cheeks, and hands me a bundle of clothes. "For the interview," he says, speaking tritely, as if not to disturb me any further. His eyes are still cold, but a certain warmth seems to be burning in the center, trying to win over. I take the clothes and open my mouth to speak, but Finn interrupts me. "It's good you did it now. Better?"

I nod shakily. "Yeah." My voice sounds sort of croaky after my crying fit. Now a blush creeps into my cheeks, a flush of embarrassment, for turning into a sniveling child for so long. Finn judges my looks.

"We all do it. Cry before the Games. I'll bet each and every tribute has, even if it's on the inside. Get it all out now." He pauses, fiddling with one of my throw pillows. "Ready for your interview?" I stand a bit unsteadily, then walk towards the closet where I'll change.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

I wonder if Finn had to interfere with this outfit, too, because it lacks incredibly in sparkles and sequins and satins. I'm dressed in a slim-fitting suit of coal grey, with an expensive-looking green tie tied as tightly as a noose around my neck. I pull at it in an attempt to loosen its grip.

My shoes are solid black leather, which surprises me, because leather is very, very rare. Only the best traders can get their hands on the uncured kind, selling it for exorbitant prices. They shine in the light and I have to resist the urge to touch them, which would probably smear whatever varnish or glaze they've applied.

The suit fits snugly and I feel warm in the heavy fabric, adding to the feeling of enclosure the outfit gives, but when I walk out of the closet both Finn and my stylist nod their approval. My stylist is holding the trimming scissors tightly, like she has to resist the urge to give me the bowl cut she so desires. Finn winks at me and I pull at my sleeves, which are beginning to chafe my wrists. Nice look, uncomfortable feel.

Finn leads me to the living room and sits me down, which is hard to do in my stiff slacks, and leads me through a couple interview questions, and I answer as honestly as I can.

"Are you nervous about the upcoming Games?"

"How can I not? I bet everyone is." I add a smile, and Finn smiles too. A nice touch – a shy smile. A little inviting, but not too revealing. Honest.

"How do you think you'll do?"

I laugh a little at this one, looking up from my tightly clenched hands to face Finn, making sure his eyes are on me. "How will I do? As well as I can!" Shifting in my seat, I angle myself to face the invisible crowd, and smile again. When my eyes flick back to Finn he gives me an encouraging thumbs-up, then continues.

"Do you have family back at home, Lloyd?" he asks, and I feel myself choke up a bit. Family. Skye. Saying goodbye. But when I speak, my tone is remarkably controlled.

"My mom and dad, of course. They're amazing parents. I would say they're the best, but I'm biased." Pause for laughter. "Then I have a sister. Her name is Skye and she's just about an angel. Sweetest person you'd ever meet." I hope Finn is finished with my family, but he continues to pry on.

"What does Skye do with you?" The question is easy, and I feel a little more relaxed.

"She always makes me play school and seems to find solace in putting me in detention!" I chuckle at the memory. Finn laughs, too.

"I thought you said she was an angel!" I shake my head and smile, thinking of the times I would be subject to the pains of detention by Skye.

Our conversation moves on, and it's easy. Bantering, anecdotes, memorable phrases – all of these fill our lively talk. Finn gradually relaxes, too, seeing how well I'm doing. "Honesty is a good trait. We want the people to see that in you. And right now?" He pauses dramatically and I roll my hands in a get-on-with-it gesture. "I'm getting that feeling."

"Yes!" I pump my fist into the air and Finn stands, smoothing his shirt.

"It's about time to go to the interview. Ready to go?"

The elevator we ride in is already occupied, but we squeeze our way in between a prep team and Sawyer, who stands firm, not moving to give any space. In the tight enclosure of the elevator the Metal boy looks enormous, like a small giant. I remind myself that he's five years older than me, but that's no comfort. Everyone here is older than me – I'm the underdog. Sawyer gives me a quick glance and lets out a small puff of air and his lips twitch up into a smile. The thought is readable in his expression. Pathetic. And in that instant, I want to prove him wrong.

The doors of the lift ding open to reveal a frenzied scene before us. On a sort of dais near the stage steps are chairs for the tributes, small metal ones that don't look the least bit comfortable. A few tributes sit in their designated seats already, prep team member and stylists swarming around them like bees. Even more stylists run around the space in front of the platform, stuffed with overflowing tables covered in mountains of concealer containers, precariously balanced stacks of paints and brushes, and drooping piles of sheer material that glitters in the light. A girl tribute, maybe the Fire one, is trying on different shawls at one table, while her stylists squabble about colors and compliments and which ones make her look more appealing.

Sawyer shoves me forward as he exits, and I step on his foot as I walk out too. Finn casts me a glance, don't cause trouble, and I nod, then quickly look away. My stylist dashes to the table of plumes and feathers, running her clawlike nails through them, feeling the texture. I wonder, not for the first time, what her deal with feathers is.

Finn leads me through a clump of gossiping prep team members and past a few of the Careers, who give me the same look Sawyer did. Just you wait. You'll remember me tonight. I hold my head high as I weave my way through the maze of fabric bolts and racks of thread bobbins that tower over me, all the while following Finn, who shows me to the dais.

"Makeup and all of –" He moves his hand in an encompassing circle around the waiting room, "This-wise, you're fine. Just hang tight until your interview." Finn turns and acknowledges a beckoning wave from my stylist, and he's gone. No wish for good luck, no we'll-be-there-for-you assurance, just gone. Maybe he doesn't wish me luck because I don't need any. Or maybe he doesn't believe in me anymore. A lost cause.

To distract myself, I look around the room I'm in. All the walls are concrete, much like the waiting area before the dragon display, but the room is much smaller, maybe the size of the basketball courts combined at school. The entire floor is stuffed with people and tables. Except for the platform, the area is stuffed to the brim. Adding this to the uncomfortably low ceiling, I begin to feel like I'm being swallowed by the extravagance and the stylists and the products, like I'd just sink into the chair and disappear.

Can't think that way. I've got to stay on top of things. Interview. Honesty. All-Element. You can do this.

The rest of the tributes and their prep teams and stylists and mentors join the throng, effectively filling the small waiting room. Eventually every tribute is sitting in their chairs. Some talk. Most are silent. Next to me, the Water boy jiggles his leg up and down, up and down, tapping out a nervous beat on the floor. Up, down, up, down. The rhythm calms me slightly, and I find myself drumming my fingers on my knee to the same time as he does. Soon, though, I catch myself and still my fingers. Got to stay on top of things.

Almost as soon as I stop tapping the door to the stage, near the edge of the dais, slides open and fog billows in, presumably for effect. Master Chen has a flair for the dramatic, no doubt. His loud, resonating voice fills the waiting room, shaking my metal chair against the platform's wooden beams.

"Welcome, all, to the tribute interviews! I am your host, the dashing, daring, and marvelously handsome Master Chen!" The crowd screams and roars, clapping and rattling noise machines and cheering at the top of their lungs. My fist clenches on my knee.

"Yes, yes, thank you! It is my honor -" He stresses the word rather obviously, as if desperately trying to convey his point, "To introduce to you the Air tribute first to join us on stage, the lovely Aimee Holmes!" Aimee stand up from her chair, hands clenched together so tightly I'm surprised she hasn't broken a bone already, and steps to the door. She's dressed in a light, sheer layered white dress, which I guess is supposed to represent Air, but combined with her chalk-white face and pale features, it makes her look more like a ghost than a person.

I wonder how I will look on stage – scared? Confident? Ready? I doubt anyone truly is. This is a matter of life and death – how I appear to the public. Will they accept me? Will they empathize? Moreover, will they let me survive?

I like this chapter okay, but the next one is loads better. Gives you something to look forward to, eh?

*that's all for now folks deal*

*exits*