Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: And here's our last batch of interviews. There will be one more chapter (after this one) before the Games.

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Interviews Part Three
Edge of Collapse

Clinton Davies, 18
Friend of Cormac Reilly

He had to stay strong, for Cormac's sake.

Clinton brushed the tears from his eyes. Cormac wouldn't want him to cry. He wouldn't want him to be upset. He wouldn't want anyone to worry about him.

Of course, he wouldn't want to be in the Games, either, if he had his way. Wouldn't want to fight. Wouldn't want to kill. Wouldn't want to … to die.

Clinton shook his head. It still didn't quite seem real. He kept thinking – imagining, hoping – that, any moment now, he would wake up. That he would see someone else's face on the screen, someone else sitting next to Cornelius. He just couldn't imagine his best friend in the arena. Covered in blood – maybe someone else's, maybe his own. The images just wouldn't form in his mind. They were too terrible to be real.

Clinton watched as Cormac's district partner took the stage, wearing a beautiful dark gold dress. "So, Ardrey," Cornelius said with a friendly smile. "An eight in training – very impressive for an outer district."

Ardrey smiled. "Thank you, Cornelius. I've come a long way, and I've learned a lot. I've been training hard these past few days, and I'm confident it's going to help me in the arena."

Clinton nodded. A somewhat generic response, but she sounded confident – a far cry from the girl who had broken down in tears at the reaping. And an eight in training was impressive – even better than Cormac's seven, which Clinton hadn't expected, either. What had they done, he wondered, to impress the Gamemakers so much?

Cormac quickly took the girl's place, smiling warmly at the host – even shaking his hand. "So, Cormac," Cornelius grinned. "Can you tell us anything about your plans for the arena?"

Cormac smiled a little – a half-smile that was probably supposed to look secretive. "Well, I can't tell you too much, Cornelius – wouldn't want to give the other tributes any hints about what we're planning."

"Ah, 'we,' then," Cornelius nodded, walking through the door Cormac had willingly opened. "So you won't be going it alone, then?"

Cormac shook his head. "No. And I'd rather not say who my allies are right away, but I think I can fairly say that we're a strong group, and you can expect some exciting things from us."

Clinton nodded. Good. He was glad Cormac wouldn't be alone – not at first, at least. He was someone who needed people. Needed someone to comfort. To help.

But he could only help them for so long.

Clinton sat silently through the rest of the interview, still trying to imagine what it would be like to see his friend in the arena. Working with his allies – hopefully for a long while before … before …

Before what? Before he turned on them? Clinton simply couldn't picture that. It was a bit easier to picture Cormac simply getting up one night and walking away, parting company peacefully with his allies, but even that seemed like a stretch. Cormac wasn't the sort to abandon people who needed him.

But, in the Games, eventually, people only needed him to die.

Surely he knew that. Cormac wasn't an idiot; he knew that any sort of alliance wouldn't last forever. He knew that, eventually, they would have to die if he was going to live.

Clinton knew it, too, but he still couldn't see it. He just hoped – though he felt a bit guilty for hoping it – that someone else would finish off Cormac's allies, whoever they were, before he had to do it himself. Of course, then Cormac would have to take on whoever had killed his allies. But that was easier to picture. Cormac avenging the deaths of his allies. Yes, he could see that. A little.

But it still didn't seem real.

Chenoa Kinsella, 16
Sister of Maeren Kinsella

She had to stay strong, for her family's sake.

Chenoa knew that so many families fell apart after losing someone to the Games. It broke them, shattered their relationships, drove them apart. Tributes like Shaw – driven to volunteer because of their own guilt – were only the extreme examples. The Games affected everyone who lost a family member.

She was trying not to think like that. After all, they hadn't lost Maeren yet. But, somehow, to the three of them, huddled together on the couch, comforting each other, it felt as if they already had. As if she was already gone. As if the girl onstage, sitting next to Cornelius in a sequined, frilly, peach-colored dress and a silver tiara wasn't really her sister, but only a reflection of her.

Or maybe a reflection of herself.

Chenoa fought back a wave of guilt. She had tried to pretend, tried to convince herself, that Maeren's decision to volunteer was simply a spur-of-the-moment thing, prompted by panic or maybe insanity. But it had been deliberate. Certain. Thought-out the moment Chenoa's name had been called. Her younger sister had been convinced that her parents would miss her less. That, of the two of them, she was the one they would prefer to enter the arena.

But now, sitting between her parents, who were both weeping, Chenoa knew that just wasn't true. They didn't want this. Of course, they wouldn't want either of them in the arena, but, if one of them had to go, wouldn't they prefer to send the one who actually had a chance of coming back? Maeren was younger, smaller – one of the youngest, smallest tributes, in fact. Chenoa, at least, might have had a chance. A small chance, yes, but even a small chance was better than nothing.

Chenoa wiped the tears from her eyes. Maeren had a chance. She had to. Last year's victor had been fourteen. But Maeren wasn't Harakuise. Try as she might, Chenoa couldn't picture her sister killing anyone.

Of course, her mentor, Glenn, had won without killing. Chenoa was old enough to remember that year. But it would probably never happen again. The Gamemakers wouldn't allow it. The audience wouldn't stand for it. They wanted a victor with some blood on their hands.

Chenoa just hoped the blood wasn't her sister's.

"So, Maeren," Cornelius beamed. "I think this is the first time I've seen a volunteer who's actually younger than the person they replaced. Can you tell us all what prompted this?"

Maeren smiled sweetly. "I just couldn't bear the thought of my sister going into the Games when it could be me, instead. I didn't want to lose her … and now she's safe."

Safe. Yes, she was safe. And some part of her, despite feeling guilty, was also grateful. As difficult as it was to watch her sister about to fight for her life, it was still better – at least a little – than facing the arena herself.

Maeren was quickly replaced by the boy, who was dressed in a stylish medium-blue suit and wearing a huge grin. Cornelius didn't waste any time. "Well, Lyre, you certainly look excited tonight."

Lyre beamed back. "Well, of course I am, Cornelius. Look around you!" He gestured towards the audience, still smiling. "All these people, all the lights, all the excitement. Who wouldn't get caught up in it? I mean, this sort of thing only happens to twenty-four people a year. And it just happens to be me? Wow."

Chenoa found herself smiling a little. He was convincing; that much was certain. But she couldn't help remembering how he'd cried at the reaping. Well, cried and laughed. So maybe this made sense. She was just glad Maeren hadn't tried anything of the sort. Better to use this time to talk about the people she loved. Because, despite her sister's obsession with her one-sided rivalry, Chenoa had never doubted that Maeren did, in fact, love her. They all loved each other, in their own way.

Which was why their family would survive this.

Mycr Haimish, 25
Friend of Binix Morraen

He had to stay strong, for Gannet's sake.

Not that the little pipsqueak actually understood what was wrong. But, it seemed, the more upset Mycr got, the more the little runt started to fuss. It was starting to give him a headache. If only he'd worked it out sooner, Binix would be here to take care of the little twerp, and he would be … well, he would probably be in exactly the same place, anyway, but at least Gannet would be someone else's responsibility.

He'd worked it out the day after the reaping. The mayor was behind it. All of it. Binix's dead client, framing her, forcing her to volunteer. All because he had found out that his own daughter, eighteen as well, was thinking about volunteering. To stop her – instead of doing something as startlingly rational as trying to talk her out of it – he had killed a man, framed an innocent girl, ruined Binix's reputation, and left Mycr with her five-month-old baby to care for – possibly permanently.

Of course, he had also paved the way for Mycr to claim his job. The people of the district didn't take kindly to a mayor who murdered and framed innocent people. As the man who had exposed him, Mycr had their attention, and, a few hours ago, the people of District Eleven had chosen him as the new mayor by a landslide.

But he would have gladly given it up to have them back.

As he watched Binix take the stage, wearing a short, dark silver, sequined dress, Mycr almost wished she would mention the baby, mention Sher, mention something – anything – that might gain her some sympathy. Almost. But there had been quite enough of that. Quite enough sob stories for one night.

No, Binix knew better. She didn't want their sympathy. She didn't want to be pitied.

She wanted to be feared.

"So, Binix, can you tell me why you volunteered?" Cornelius asked with a grin.

Binix flashed a smile back at him – a smug, arrogant smile. "Can you tell me why I wouldn't want to volunteer? I'm strong. Talented. Trained. Got a nine in training, in fact, and I was even holding back a bit." She shrugged. "I volunteered because I can win. And I will."

Mycr relaxed a little, bouncing Gannet on his knee, which seemed to calm him a bit. With any luck, the other tributes would believe it – that she was trained. The rest of it was certainly true. She was strong – physically and mentally. Talented. He doubted she had held back during her private sessions, but there was no doubt in his mind that she could win.

Then again, he'd thought the same thing about his brother.

Mycr shook the thought from his head as Binix left and the boy took the stage, wearing a sharp-looking black and white suit. But that was the only thing about him that looked smart. He seemed distracted – almost panicked. Mycr continued bouncing Gannet. At least the boy had the sense to be scared. Some tributes didn't.

Sher certainly hadn't.

Mycr shook his head again, trying to focus – as if by concentrating hard enough, he could will Binix to pick up on everything he could see about the boy. Dead father – that much he knew from the files he'd recently pulled up. Dead brother, too, courtesy of the first Games – rebels, both of them. Might account for some of the nervousness, but not all of it. Two distinct personalities, at least – the boy he'd seen during the chariot rides was different than the one sitting across from Cornelius. Not just a different attitude, but a different bearing, a different gait, a different way of furrowing his brow.

Definitely two different boys, possibly triggered by the stress of seeing his own brother brutally tortured to death at Vester's hands, most likely aggravated by being thrown into the Games himself. The one onstage now was almost certainly the one who had earned a six in training – which incicated that the switches between the two probably weren't under his control.

"So, Dallas, how does it feel to be sitting where your brother sat nine years ago?"

"Don't ask him that, you imbecile," Mycr muttered, as if Cornelius could hear him. What was the kid supposed to say? That it felt good? That he was proud? Would anyone be stupid enough to buy that?

Then again, most people were stupid enough to buy anything, provided it was packaged well enough.

"It feels … right," the boy answered after a moment. "It's almost as if my brother has a second chance. As if I have a chance to reclaim what was lost – what was stolen from us. Not just his life, but his dignity. If I die … I don't want to die like he did. I want to face death with dignity."

Mycr shook his head. Dead. Definitely dead. As soon as a tribute began a sentence with, "If I die," they were as good as dead. Once they started thinking like that – about how to die with a little dignity – it was a very, very deep hole to claw their way out of.

No, the boy was completely wrong. It wasn't a second chance. It was simply a second blow. A second devastating loss – something no one should have to go through.

Something that he hoped he and Gannet wouldn't have to endure.

Genesis Ronan, 17
Girlfriend of Hendrix Cohen

She had to stay strong, for all their sakes.

Genesis and her family were at Hendrix's house, together with his family – his parents, his four older sisters, and his niece, Lilah. Everyone was silent. Waiting. Waiting for the last time they would see Hendrix before the Games began. Maybe the last time ever.

Genesis tucked her knees to her chest. She couldn't start thinking like that. If she did, then she would start crying. And then everyone else would start crying. And that would upset Lilah. Maybe it wasn't the best reason to keep her emotions in check – not upsetting a three-year-old – but it was something.

And, at the moment, it was all she had.

Valencia, one of Hendrix's older sisters, slipped an arm comfortingly around Genesis' shoulders. Genesis smiled gratefully. She wanted to say something helpful. Something comforting. She wanted to tell Hendrix's family that he would be back. That he would be home soon. That everything would go back to the way it was.

But she didn't want to lie.

Because even if Hendrix came back – even if he won – nothing would ever go back to normal. The Games changed people. District Twelve didn't have a victor of its own, but every year, they saw the other victors on the television. Some had been strengthened by the Games. Some had been broken. But they had all been changed. She didn't want Hendrix to change.

But changing was better than being dead.

At last, it was District Twelve's turn, and the girl took the stage, wearing a coal-black dress and boots that were probably supposed to resemble a miner's. Genesis shook her head, wishing the stylists would learn some creativity. Not everyone in District Twelve was a miner.

"So, Arianna, I'm curious. What are your thoughts on the surprise resignation of your mentor?"

Arianna shrugged. "Can't say I'm especially surprised. Nine years of mentoring would be hard on anyone. But if he'd only waited one more year – he would have gotten his victor." She smiled.

Genesis managed a smile, as well. The girl had spunk – she had to give her that. But she couldn't win – not if Hendrix was going to make it home.

Soon, Hendrix took her place, dressed in a black suit and tie. Again, it didn't take Cornelius long to turn the topic to their mentor. "So, Hendrix, how do you feel about changing mentors so soon before the Games? Do you feel like you've gotten the short end of the stick here, so to speak?"

Hendrix thought it over for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say what he was actually thinking. And, when he spoke, Genesis could tell from the look on his face that he had decided against it. "Well, I like to look at it a different way." He nodded towards the mentors' section. "Two people over there have actually brought a tribute home. Tania, last year. And Norah." He shrugged. "So I'd say our odds are pretty good."

Cornelius grinned. "Optimism! I like that."

Genesis nodded, and found herself nodding along through the rest of the interview. Hendrix wasn't the sort to complain about something like the mentor change. He just took it in stride, because there was nothing he could do to change it, anyway. If Pardeck wanted to abandon District Twelve, that was his problem. Hendrix was right; Norah had gotten a tribute through the Games alive, only two years ago. Unlike Pardeck, she'd had success. So it was probably a good switch.

The screen clicked off after the interviews, and everyone exchanged hugs. Genesis hugged Lilah last. "When's Henry coming home?" the little girl asked, tears in her eyes.

"Soon," Genesis assured her. "Very, very soon. He's got some things to do first, but he's going to come home to us as soon as he can."

She hoped it was true.

"Living systems are never in equilibrium. They are inherently unstable. They may seem stable, but they're not. Everything is moving and changing. In a sense, everything is on the edge of collapse."