Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: New poll! Last one before the Games start, and this one is, "Who do you think will make it to the final eight?" This is not necessarily who you want to make it to the final eight, but who you think will make it that far. In the interest of gathering accurate data, I'm asking you to vote for eight tributes. As usual, feel free to vote for your own if you think they'll make it that far, but, as nobody has eight tributes, please vote for some others, too.

This will probably not affect who the final eight will be, unless everyone manages to guess my final eight correctly or, on the other hand, doesn't get any of them right, which would tell me that my choices are either too predictable or completely unbelievable. I'm aiming for somewhere in between.

After this chapter, there will be one more before the Games begin.

Interviews Part Three
The White Light

Historia Kirsh, 12
Sister of Antiquity Kirsh

At least she didn't seem scared.

Then again, it had been years since Historia had seem her sister seem scared. Or happy. Or upset. Or excited. Now, sitting next to Cornelius onstage, wearing a beautiful pale gold dress, she only seemed more distant. Lost. Out of place.

Cornelius didn't quite seem to know how to respond to this girl who wouldn't answer his questions with any more than a few words. Eventually, he resorted to simple questions that would only require very short answers. "So, Antiquity, do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"Brother or sister?"

"Sister."

"And how old is she?"

"Twelve."

"Do you miss her?"

Antiquity hesitated. Then, quietly, answered, "Yes."

Historia blinked. Yes? Antiquity missed her? The two barely ever spoke, and, when they did, it was usually no more than, "Hello." Historia had certainly never thought her sister had any sort of feelings about her, or would miss her if they were separated. Was she simply lying for the cameras? But Antiquity had never been a very good liar.

Historia blinked back tears, wishing she had known. Wishing she could tell Antiquity that she missed her, too.

But it was too late.

Historia shuddered as the boy took the stage, wearing a gold suit red accents, and light red make-up on his face. Red. They couldn't have chosen it by accident. Word had already gotten out that Husk already had blood on his hands. And would probably have more before the Games were over.

Cornelius made no effort to steer clear of the topic, either. "So, Husk, you're obviously prepared to kill. Do you think it will be any harder in the Games?"

Husk shrugged. "No. As long as I have some sort of weapon. A spear. A sword." He smirked. "A table knife."

Cornelius shuddered over-dramatically. "Tell me – what did that feel like?"

Husk considered for a moment, then answered coldly, "It felt like practice."

Javis Hall, 10
Brother of Libby Hall

Javis was holding up pretty well until Libby got choked up.

Cornelius was doing his best to help her, to calm her down, to cheer her up, but none of it was helping. Neither was her outfit – a tan dress with cowboy boots and a hat that was probably supposed to make her look tough. Or at least strong. It didn't work.

Worst of all was the fact that she kept apologizing. "I'm sorry, Cornelius … I just can't … I don't know … I'm sorry…"

"It's all right, Libby," Cornelius said gently. Sympathetically. Javis winced. It wasn't all right. Her tears would win her sympathy in the districts, but sponsors weren't looking for someone who deserved their sympathy. They were looking for someone who could fight. Someone who could kill.

And that wasn't his sister.

Javis buried his face in Floppy's fur. The dog whimpered a little, and Javis' father wrapped his arms around both of them. "I'm proud of her," his father said at last, softly.

Javis looked up. That was the last thing he had expected to hear. "What?"

His father nodded towards the screen. "Look at them. All the other tributes – trying to put on a brave face, trying to be someone they're not, trying to hide their fears. It's brave, really – refusing to give them that satisfaction. At least half of them probably want to be crying right now. It takes guts to actually do it."

Javis smiled a little. He hadn't thought of it that way. But his father was right. Though some of the other tributes had looked scared, none of them had dared admit it. There was something good, something honest, about Libby's tears. And if that was true, then maybe there was something good about his own.

The boy, Wulfric, soon took Libby's place, giving her what looked like an encouraging smile as they passed. His outfit nearly matched hers – tan suit, boots, and a cowboy hat. But he actually looked the part. Tall, strong, confident. But Javis remembered something else – how he had helped Libby up after she fainted at the reaping. If his sister couldn't win – a thought that made him hug Floppy even tighter – then he wanted Wulfric to.

Cornelius, clearly relieved to have a tribute who wasn't blubbering all over the stage, started off by complimenting Wulfric's score. "So, Wulfric, a nine in training. And we can probably guess how you got it, too – you seem like quite a strong young man."

Wulfric shrugged. "Well, I suppose I've got experience on my side."

Cornelius rubbed his hands together. "Ah, a trained killer. Do tell."

"I've been killing animals for a living since I was young. How much different could it be?"

Cornelius leaned in a little. "You don't think it'll be different killing something that fights back?"

Wulfric shook his head. "You ever look an animal in the eyes, Cornelius? An animal that's been raised to trust, to rely on people who are about to kill it? That trust doesn't exist here. No trust means there's no sense of betrayal, no guilt. Will it be different? Of course." He smiled a little. "It'll be easier."

Mycr Haimish, 24
Brother of Sher Haimish

Goldfish.

Attention span of a goldfish, the lot of them. Three minutes per tribute, and, from that, the audience was expected to form opinions. Make predictions. Choose a likely victor.

Of course, three minutes was more than enough for him. Or for Sher. Or perhaps even Sher's girlfriend, Bianca, who was watching the interviews intently, soaking in every detail. But somebody ordinary, like Joham, who Bianca had invited to join them? All he saw was a crying girl. A boy who worked in a slaughterhouse. A fighter. A gambler. A leader. They might as well just have each tribute hold up a sign with one word on it, pan the camera slowly across them, and call it a night.

"So, Lordez," Cornelius said, smiling at the girl who now sat opposite him, who was wearing a lime green dress with a white, diamond-studded belt. "At the reaping, you said you knew the girl you volunteered for. Can you tell us about her?"

"Her name's Sonya," Lordez smiled. "She's like a sister to me, and I knew she wouldn't stand a chance in the Games. Me, on the other hand – well, it's a gamble, but I've got a fair chance."

Mycr yawned. Dull. The girl had the absolute wrong idea. There was no gambling involved in the Games. It wasn't a game of chance; it was a game of wits. And anyone dim enough to volunteer just because they stood a better chance than some other poor little girl didn't deserve to win.

"I just hope he doesn't get too clever," Joham said quietly to Bianca, who looked worried, too. Mycr was tempted to agree. Sometimes Sher's mouth got him in trouble. But Mycr knew it wasn't something he could turn on and off. His brother couldn't help showing off. And chances were the Capitol folk would love whatever he had to say. The little goldfish would flock to anything new and different.

And, immediately, he looked different. Oh, his outfit was nothing special – a black and blue suit, with only a dark blue scarf to add a touch of originality – but as soon as he was onstage, he plopped down in his seat, swung his legs up onto the arm of the chair, and tucked his hands behind his back, completely relaxed, eyes half-closed as if bored already. Mycr nodded. Let the show begin.

"So, Sherlacham—"

"Sher, if you don't mind," Sher interrupted. "Which you clearly don't because you've been referring to tributes by their nicknames all night. Trying to make us feel at home – but it doesn't really work. You're just trying to make yourself feel better because you secretly loathe the Games and can't wait for these next couple weeks to be over so you can stop thinking about the twenty-three kids that are going to die in front of your eyes while the rest of the Capitol watches for fun. But there is something you're still looking forward to tonight – and it probably has something to do with the envelope tucked under the seat cushion to your left. Surprising news, perhaps, for one of the tributes to come? Assuming it's not for me, that leaves District Twelve, and, judging by the way you've been glancing in his direction all night, it's probably for Aldo. And you've also been watching the mentor section, so it probably has something to do with—"

"Thank you, Sher, that was quite entertaining," Cornelius interrupted, trying to regain control. But it was pointless. By the time Sher's interview was over, the Capitol audience knew everything there was to know about Cornelius Juniper, his wife's affair with the stylist from District Three, his mother's illness, his daughter's test scores, his son's depression, and his short-haired dog's litter of five puppies – two male and three female.

Mycr cracked a smile. Three minutes – that was all it took.

Goldfish.

Annika Retchwood
Mother of Aldo Retchwood

Annika couldn't help but wonder what was in the envelope.

There was nothing, of course, that could change anything. Her son was coming home in a few weeks. He would win. He had to. And then everything would be as it was. Back to normal.

The girl from Twelve looked so young. She was wearing a short, pink dress, which Cornelius started gushing about immediately. "Oh, Heloise, that's such a lovely dress."

Heloise just glared. "You're only saying that because you can't think of anything else to say to a twelve-year-old who you don't think can fight. Well, you just wait and see!"

Cornelius seemed a little taken aback, but, after Sher's display, this was somewhat mild, so he decided to roll with it. "I can't wait! You seem like a fighter, Heloise."

"I am!" the girl nodded, her eyes fierce. "I'm going to be the youngest Victor ever!"

"Well, we have had a—" Cornelius started.

"I'm a month younger than Hazel was," Heloise corrected. "Pardeck told me. I'll be the youngest ever."

Annika shook her head sadly. The poor girl.

Aldo soon took her place, wearing a simple, white suit with silver lining. Annika smiled a little. He looked so handsome. And soon he would be home. Soon.

Soon.

Cornelius got right to the point. "Aldo, I have something that may come as a … a bit of a surprise to you."

Aldo shrugged. "To be honest, Cornelius, after having your name drawn for a fight to the death, I'm not sure anything could come as a surprise anymore."

Cornelius smiled kindly. "Aldo, you've known for a long time that your father – the one you know in District Twelve – is not your biological father."

Aldo nodded. Annika felt Karn's arm around her shoulders. Yes, he knew. They had told him. But it didn't matter. The man sitting next to her was Aldo's father, not whichever one of those Peacekeeper thugs he shared some genes with.

And Aldo told Cornelius exactly the same thing. "He's my father. The only father I've ever known – and the only one I want to. The sort of scum who would do that to my mother … I don't even want to know what kind of person is capable of that."

Cornelius paused dramatically. "Not even if … he was your mentor?"

Silence for a moment. The camera found Pardeck, who looked equally shocked. Cornelius gestured for Pardeck to come onstage, which was unusual. But Pardeck slowly made his way to where Aldo sat, gaping, horrified. Cornelius handed Aldo the envelope, and the boy opened it cautiously and studied the document inside. For a moment, no one seemed sure what would happen.

Then Aldo lunged at Pardeck.

It took three strong men, in the end, to pry him off. But Annika didn't see it. She was crying into Karn's shoulder. She had never known; she hadn't seen their faces. But she couldn't shake the feeling that Cornelius was telling the truth. That the one man in the world she wished was dead was now her son's best hope for survival.

But, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it didn't matter. It didn't change anything. Her son was still coming home. Everything would be the same. Soon.

Very soon.

"White. It serves as a beginning. The white cloth can be dyed. The white page can be overwritten. The white light can be broken."