I don't have much time right now, but I wanted to post this. Enjoy!

District 1: Ariana Angel, Age 15

I wake up as the sun's just peeking over the horizon, sending a plume of golden light through my window. I yawn and stretch, throwing my legs over the side of my bed. Still half-asleep, I stumble out of my room through the hallway and into the large kitchen area. Only my mentor, Fanfare, is there. Everyone else must still be asleep.

"Get a good night's sleep?" Fanfare asks me, sipping a cup of coffee. I snort.

"I wish." I respond. I grab a piece of bacon from a plate in the center of the table and drop it into my mouth.

"Eat as much as you can," Fanfare advises, dumping a load of sausage and pancakes onto my plate. "You're going to need your energy for the interviews tonight."
We eat in silence for a moment. As I bite into an apple, I eventually ask him, "Do you ever regret volunteering?" It's a random question, and Fanfare seems a bit taken aback, but he lets out a wry chuckle.
"Sure, I do," He responds, "I've regretted volunteering ever since I came out of that cursed arena." He seems to notice my downfallen expression and softens a little. He gives me a pat on the back. "There are some pluses to being a victor, though," He adds reassuringly, "I'm rich, at least. And I don't have to worry about cleaning my house. I can usually just hire someone to do it." I sigh, staring down at my plate. Fanfare senses my sadness. "You having some regrets yourself?" He asks. I nod.

"I didn't even want to go into the arena in the first place," I grunt, spearing a piece of sausage violently with my fork, "My stupid parents forced me into it. And besides, my little brother was super excited that I was going to volunteer. He looks up to me. I wanted to make him proud. I couldn't just let him down." At this point, everyone else has come into the room, everyone looking excited. I wave at Blaze. He smiles back, but I can see bags under his eyes. I guess I'm not the only one who's been having trouble sleeping.

As everyone begins to eat, Emaria claps her hands together. "So what's the plan for today?" She asks. "We have a lot of work to do and only a little bit of time to get it done. I can help you two out with posture and whatnot," She says, pointing to Blaze and I. "Maybe I can take one of you for the morning, and in the afternoon, we can switch?" I give a shrug of agreement.

"I'll go with Fanfare first." I offer. I finish up the plate I was eating and stand from the table. Emaria gives a nod of approval and turns to Blaze. "I guess it's just you and me now, then!" She says with a smile. I think I catch Blaze rolling his eyes as he gets up to leave, but it might just be my imagination.

Fanfare follows me to the couch, where we both sit down. He starts the conversation. "So what angle do you want to play?" He asks. I shrug.

"I haven't really thought about it." I respond honestly.

"You could try being sexy," Fanfare suggests, "That's usually how the 1 girls play their cards." I shake my head immediately.

"That's not my style." I say defiantly.

"What is your style, then?" My mentor persists. I realize that he has a point. After a moment of not responding, he says, "Why don't you try the sexy angle and then we can take things from there." I sigh.

"Fine." I agree.

We quickly realize that the angle is not for me. Or any angle, it seems. No matter what I do, I always end up screaming and shouting insults so loudly that Emaria once had to come in to make sure everything was alright.

"Ariana," Fanfare says, groaning with exasperation, "You can't just yell at the Capitol. No one will want to sponsor you." I frown and cross my arms over my chest. I know he's right. But being nice and sweet can be extremely difficult sometimes.

"You could try being mysterious." Fanfare suggests. I shrug. I doubt it'll be any different than the other angles I've tried, but it's worth a shot, I guess.

Fanfare clears his throat and straightens up as if he's Caesar Flickerman and smiles at me. "Good evening, Ariana!" He greets. "How are you today?"

"Fine." I practically spit the words at my mentor.
"Please, tell me about your homelife." Fanfare invites me.

"It's fine." I respond simply. "There's a lot of… Madness." He raises his eyebrow.

"Actually," He mutters to himself, "This might work." We continue to practice, him asking questions, me giving vague answers. When we're finished, I realize that I actually might not bomb my interviews like I originally thought I would.

Panem isn't going to know what hit them.

District 5: Wyatt Foster Jr., Age 17

"Try it again," My mentor, Trisha, says with a frustrated sigh, "But this time, try not to scream as much."

Trisha decided that my best bet for the interviews would be to act charismatic. She quickly realized, however, that there were many flaws to that strategy. She's surprisingly patient with me, however, considering the fact that I do something different for my angle every single time we practice.

"Hello, Wyatt!" She begins again, acting like that one interview guy who's name I can't remember. "How are you feeling on this fine evening?"

Why do you care? The voices hiss in my ear. "Why do you care?" I repeat. Trisha mutters something to herself, but continues.

"Has the Capitol been good to you so far?" She asks.

They're sending you off to die a bloody death. The voices scream. Of course you're not!"

"Not really," I respond, "In fact, I sort of hate it here." There's a loud, over dramatic groan as my mentor slunks down in her chair. She takes a deep breath.

"Why's that?" She finally mutters.

"Why's that?" I snap. "WHY'S THAT?! It's because you Capitolite people are so STUPID! The Hunger Games are terrible! You're terrible! Everyone here are idiots! You're all a bunch of morons that do-"

"WYATT," Trisha explodes, "You can't SAY that! C-A-N-T. Can't! You won't win if you do that in your interview."

"So what?" I exclaim. "I'm going to die anyway. I might as well leave a mark."

"I'll admit, you probably are going to die," Trisha responds, "But at least make an attempt to survive! Don't just give up! Now, we're going to try this again. But this time, you're not going to act like a maniac on front of all of Panem."

She doesn't want you to shout at the Capitol, huh? The voices inside me murmur gleefully. Give her what she wants, then. Don't say anything the entire interview!

Trisha begins to ask me questions. "So, what's life like in District 5?" I refuse to respond, instead looking down at the couch. My mentor waits for me to answer with growing impatience. "Did you hear me?" She asks, the aggravation clear in her voice. "What's life like in District 5?" I continue to remain silent. Trisha tries once more, this time screaming the words at my face. "WHAT'S LIFE LIKE IN DISTRICT 5?!" There's nothing but quiet. Trisha buries her face in her hands. "You have to give some sort of response to the questions." She mumbles. I ignore her, and she looks up at me. "WYATT, SAY SOMETHING!"

"Well, first you get annoyed at me for yelling, but now you're annoyed at me for not saying anything," I growl, "There's just no pleasing you!" Trisha opens her mouth to respond, then gives up and abruptly leaves the room, muttering something about how much she hates me as she goes. I shrug and lean back on the couch, enjoying the short and fleeting moment of calm.

District 2: Juno Armstrong, Age 18

"Do I really have to wear these?" I complain, stumbling as I struggle to stand in the tall high heels I wear.

"It's essential to your costume, Juno," Macklin responds with a shrug. "Now, try walking with a little more poise."

"That's a little bit difficult to do," I snap back, "When I can barely walk at all." My escort sighs and shakes his head as I misplace a step and come toppling to the floor. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me to my feet, this time giving me his support as I step forward shakily.

We continue to practice for a while. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to find my balance. Once, Octavian comes strolling into the hallway. When he sees me stumbling about like a baby giraffe just learning to walk, he smirks. "Having fun?" He remarks, letting out a laugh. I give him a death glare. When he still doesn't shut up, I promptly snatch one of the heels I wear off of my foot and throw it at him. My aim is impeccable, and he receives a small scratch above his right eye, courtesy of Juno Armstrong. Serves him right.

After a painstakingly long time filled with torture, I finally manage to get the hang of walking. After I conquer the high heels, I lean how to sit up straight and a whole bunch of other crap that I really don't care about. About two hours later, I'm finally finished. "Are you ready to get your outfit?" Macklin asks. I nod. Hopefully it isn't something stupid. There's no way I'm going to be wearing a dress at the interviews.

I watch television on the couch while Macklin rushes to find Larry, my stylist. On the TV, two announcers are discussing the games. "You know, I wouldn't count out that 7 boy, Verin," One says, "He seems really strong, and an 8 isn't easy to get, especially for an outlier. I snort and change the channel. Pfft. I could kill him easily.

It's not long before Larry comes bustling through the door. In his hand is a long, simple gray dress. I wrinkle my nose. "Please don't tell me I have to wear that," I say. Larry sighs.

"Look," He says, "I know you don't like it, but you have to wear it. Besides, I'm sure you'll like the crown that I made to go along with it." It's then that I notice that he's holding something in his other hand. It's made of stone, cracked and covered in moss. Splotches of red have been painted onto it, designed to look like blood. I grin. "Now that I like." I tell him, taking the dress and crown from his hand. I walk to my room, where I strip off my clothes and slip the dress on over my head. After that, I place the crown on my brow. I instantly notice that it's extremely heavy, and my head sinks under the weight. Oh, well. At least it's not covered in glitter.

I come back to where Larry sits, who hands me a pair of black high heels that I put on. As I walk to the elevator, I'm suddenly grateful for the hours of practice I had with the shoes.

"Well, good luck out there. Break a leg." Larry tells me. I only laugh at him.

"Please," I say, "I don't need luck." And with that, the elevator doors open and I step inside.

Next chapter is the interviews (part 1). After the interviews, we've got the night before, the countdown, and then… the bloodbath! Eek! I'm super excited.