Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Sorry this took so long. I've been a bit busy finding a place to rent, moving in, getting everything ready for the new school year, etc. Updates should pick up again once the back-to-school routine sets in. (I did, however, successfully complete Camp NaNoWriMo.)

I went back and forth on how to go about formatting the interviews, and finally decided on doing one POV for every pair of tributes, rather than each district. It would have ended up roughly the same length either way; I just didn't want to write two interviews from one person's POV and six from another. And this way you get to meet a few more of the tributes' loved ones. So here we've got the first four districts, which adds up to seven POVs. (Plus an extra bit at the end.)

Lastly, just a little reminder that the sponsor poll is staying up through the end of the interviews.


Interviews
Trapped


Lulu Berridge, 22
Sister of Jaime Gloire

It was too late to go back.

Lulu squeezed Julian's hand as the two of them settled onto the couch. Julian wrapped an arm supportively around his wife. "Are you ready for this?"

She wasn't. There was no part of her that was ready to see her little sister all decked out in fine Capitol clothes, prepared to fight for her life in the Hunger Games. But, at the same time, there was no way she was not going to watch the interviews. She just wished she felt as ready as Jaime did.

Jaime, of course, was ready. Sometimes Lulu thought her sister had been born ready. Their father had initially pushed for both of them to train, despite their mother's objections. But Lulu had dropped out after only a few days. It wasn't for her. The blood, the gore, the constant struggle. Whatever thrill Jaime got out of it, Lulu had never felt.

And they didn't need the money, the fame, whatever glory might come with winning. So what was the point? She was happier here. With the life their mother had always wanted for both of them. The life Jaime had shunned in favor of their father's dream of victory and glory.

Lulu had hoped that might change two years ago, after their father's death. And, for a while, Jaime had seemed to lose her interest in training, only to return to it with renewed vigor and enthusiasm. Her father's dream had become her own, just as their mother's had become Lulu's. A peaceful home. A loving family. A normal life.

The Career system made it all possible, of course. Because of the Careers, Lulu had never had to worry about her own life being at risk in the Games. Because of the Careers, her own children could grow up without the constant threat of being chosen to fight to the death. Every Career who went into the Games meant one more innocent child was safe in District One. Every time a Career volunteered, they saved a life.

Jaime didn't see it that way, of course. But it was true, nonetheless. She had taken someone else's place in the Games. She had saved a life, whether she had meant to or not.

Now she would have to save her own.

"Don't you worry now," Julian said reassuringly. "She'll be back just in time to meet her first little nephew." He laid a hand on Lulu's growing belly. Another child who would never know the horrors of the Games, because of people like Jaime.

"Or niece," Lulu added with a smile. She wished she was as certain as Julian seemed to be. As certain as Jaime always was. She was ready, yes – as ready as she could ever be. But even Jaime hadn't fully realized what she was volunteering for. She'd had no way of knowing just how different this year would be.

But knowing wouldn't have stopped her.

Lulu took a deep breath as her sister took the stage, wearing a long, flowing silver gown, a glittering silver tiara, and white high heels. Lulu held back a chuckle. Their mother was always trying to convince Jaime to act like a lady. Now, at least, for a little while, she was dressed like one.

But that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. Jaime was scowling as she took her place next to Constance, her surly expression clashing with the princess-like outfit. After years of dealing with Careers, however, Constance was unfazed. "So, Jaime, how has life in the Capitol compared with your expectations?"

"Oh, it's far exceeded them, Constance," Jaime assured her, finally managing a hint of a smile. "And I expect, by this time tomorrow, you'll be saying the same about your expectations of me."

"Confidence – I like that," Constance agreed. "Are there any specific expectations you hope to exceed?"

"Well, Constance, as you know, there are certain … standards … that Careers are expected to live up to. Since we're better-trained than the average tribute, we're expected to perform better. Higher scores. More kills. More Victors. Of course, the last one's the only one that really matters – and that's the one I'm aiming for."

"Speaking of scores," Constance pressed. "A ten in training. Care to say a few words about that?"

Jaime nodded. "To be honest, I'm more interested in other people's scores. I already know my own capabilities. I don't need a score to confirm them – although it's nice to know that the Gamemakers appreciate talent when they see it. But other tribute's scores are also useful – to let us know who's a threat … and who's a target."

Lulu squeezed Julian's hand tightly. That last remark had clearly been meant for her district partner, who had garnered only a six in training. Careers had been kicked out of the pack for scoring sevens; a six was practically unheard of. Did this mean he was out of the pack? That he would be one of their first targets?

That probably wasn't the wisest idea, Lulu concluded as Inviticus took Jaime's place onstage. Looking at him, it was hard to understand why he'd scored so low. His dark purple suit did nothing to hide his muscles, and the scowl on his face matched his district partner's.

But Jaime had pegged him as a target, and Constance pounced on that immediately. "So, Inviticus, do I detect a hint of tension in District One?"

Inviticus crossed his arms. "No more than usual. Alliances between Careers are assumed at the beginning, but, eventually, everyone's an opponent. This year is no different. Jaime and I are allies, but it's no secret that alliances don't last forever." He shook his head. "But, yes, I would say there's been some tension."

Constance leaned forward a little. "Do you think some of that can be attributed to your training score? A six is … rather low for a Career, if I might say so."

Inviticus shrugged it off. "We all have bad days. It's like Jaime said – people expect certain things from Careers. High scores. Kills. Victors. And, most of the time, we deliver. But what matters – what really matters – is the last one. Once you've won the Games, it doesn't really matter what your score was, does it?"

"And winning the Games – you seem very confident of that."

"Naturally. A low score is a minor setback – nothing more. Come tomorrow, I'm sure you'll all agree I deserved a ten – if not higher."

Lulu glanced at Julian, who held her a little tighter. Both of them were right, of course. High scores were nice to see, but they weren't what really mattered. All that mattered was who came home … and who didn't.

And there was nothing she could do about that now.


Lucius Romayne, 55
Father of Septimus Drakon

It was too late for second-guessing.

Lucius shook his head as the large boy from District One left the stage. Brute force had its place, and maybe his allies would be wise enough to acknowledge that and not turn on him immediately, but, ultimately, the Games were rarely decided based on physical prowess alone. It was a factor, of course – an important one, even – but unless the tribute also had a certain measure of intelligence or, at the very least, a modicum of common sense, all that strength was for nothing. And Lucius wasn't convinced that Inviticus possessed either.

Lucius leaned back on the couch, watching as his twin son and daughter, Marcellus and Alexandria, lapped up the festivities without question. They had no idea. No idea that, soon, a tribute who shared their blood would take the stage.

Well, half their blood. After Octavia's death, Lucius had remarried, putting it all behind him. Octavia. Septimus. He had buried that past, disowned his son, started a new life. And he had done quite well for himself, working his way up from that disgrace to the highest echelons of the Capitol's social circles. Only a select few people were now aware that Septimus even existed.

Vanessa knew, of course. She had known when she'd married him, and she'd married him in spite of it. Sometimes, Lucius suspected, because of it. Octavia's betrayal had hit him hard, but it had also strengthened his resolve. It had been an obstacle to overcome, and the challenge of overcoming it together had appealed to Vanessa. Power, after all, was worthless if it came easily. But if it was earned…

And he had earned his power. Struggled and scraped and sweated for every inch. Nothing had been given to him, but, by the same token, his efforts meant that no one could simply take it away. What power and influence he held was his, and no one else's.

Maybe he and Septimus had that in common.

The boy who had run forward at the reaping hadn't had the benefit of Career training. He hadn't been pampered and catered to; he had grown up in isolation. Whatever skills, whatever intelligence, whatever strengths he had were his, and his alone.

Vanessa flashed him a smile as the words "District Two" appeared on the screen. Whatever happened now was out of his control. He had placed a few calls to people who already knew his secret, asking that he be allowed to claim Septimus in his own way, at a time of his choosing. He was fairly certain that Constance would honor his request.

Septimus, on the other hand, was a different matter. If he broached the subject on his own, there was nothing Lucius could do to stop him. Which was why he had chosen to stay home this year, despite numerous invitations to join in the festivities of the interviews in the company of the elite. If his reputation was about to be tarnished – again – he wanted time to prepare. Time to formulate the perfect response.

And he wanted Vanessa by his side.

Lucius turned his attention to the screen as the girl from Two took the stage, wearing a blood-red dress, a matching headband, and dark red flats. Physically, she wasn't as impressive as Inviticus or even Jaime. But Lucius knew better than to write her off on that account. Despite District Two's reputation for brute force and ruthlessness, surprisingly few of their Victors had triumphed due to sheer strength alone. It was Harriet's resourcefulness that had allowed her to flourish in a weaponless arena, Balthasar's quick thinking that had kept him one step ahead of the other Careers after they rejected him. Maybe it was fitting that the two of them were mentoring this year.

Like the first two Careers, Naella didn't even crack a smile as she took a seat next to Constance. If anything, she looked a bit uncomfortable in the spotlight, with the attention of the entire Capitol trained on her, and her alone. Constance, however, jumped right in. "So, Naella, you were one of only four tributes to earn a ten in training – quite an accomplishment with so many tributes this year. Care to share a bit about how you earned such a distinction?"

Naella nodded curtly. "I know we're not supposed to reveal exactly what we do in our private sessions, but it probably won't surprise you to hear that the Gamemakers had a few twists prepared for us. I suppose they were impressed by the way I dealt with their surprises."

Constance leaned forward a little. "I think I speak for all of us when I say we look forward to seeing some of that quick thinking in action during the Games."

"And I look forward to the opportunity," Naella agreed. "As you said, there were four of us who earned tens this year. That can make it easy to lump us together – those of us who scored high, that is. But I'm confident that once we're in the Games, my particular skills will help me stand out even more."

"And what would you say is your greatest skill?"

"I would say that I'm … versatile," Naella offered. "We Careers can sometimes come across as rigid or inflexible. We find a strategy that works, and we stick with it. I would say that what sets me apart is my willingness to change, to adapt. It's impossible to be prepared for every contingency, but it is possible to be ready for them. And I'm ready."

Lucius nodded a little. She had a point. Careers – especially Careers from Two – tended to have a single strategy. They banded together with other Careers, wiped out the other tributes as quickly as possible, and then turned on each other. And sometimes it worked. It had worked for Mortimer. It had worked for Ariadne. But, just as often, it was a Career who broke the mold and infused a little much-needed diversity into the group who came out on top.

Soon, Naella's time was up, and Septimus took her place, his demeanor a mirror of his district partner's. Calm, cold, without so much as a hint of a smile. His outfit was simple: a crisp black suit, shined black shoes, and a steel-grey tie that matched his eyes.

Octavia's eyes.

Constance didn't waste any time. "So, Septimus, I think it's safe to say that's the most unusual reaping we've seen in District Two in quite a while. Can you shed a little light on why you volunteered?"

Septimus nodded. "It's quite simple, actually. District Two has a long, proud history of choosing the best-qualified candidate to volunteer. After assessing the volunteer who had been chosen, I believed I was more capable. And a majority of our Victors agreed with me."

There was more to the story, of course, and they both knew it, but, true to her word, Constance didn't press for the truth. "And, so far, it would seem that trust was well-placed," she pointed out. "A nine in training. I imagine you're pretty proud of that."

"Naturally," Septimus agreed. "It's a good start, and I hope it's enough to demonstrate some of my potential. But we all know that the real test starts tomorrow, and numbers only mean so much once the Games actually begin. I'm looking forward to the chance to prove myself."

Constance nodded. "Of course. Is there anyone in particular you're hoping to impress?"

For half a moment, Lucius held his breath. Constance had opened the door for Septimus; all he had to do was walk through it, and Lucius' reputation would be on the line once more.

But Septimus only shrugged. "I suppose I've set the bar pretty high for myself; I'm hoping to impress both the districts and the Capitol. After the last few Games, I think we all need a reminder – a reminder of what the Games really mean. They're a punishment for the rebellion, yes, but they're also an opportunity. And it's an opportunity I intend to make the most of."

Lucius let out a small sigh of relief as the rest of Septimus' interview proceeded without even the slightest mention of him. They may have been separated for seventeen years, but Septimus was his son. His sense of discretion, his grasp of what the audience needed to hear – maybe they had more in common than Lucius had assumed.

Maybe he had a chance.


Eden Houzer, 59
Guardian of India Telle

It was too late to question her decision.

Eden brushed a few tears from her eyes as the boy from Two left the stage. He wasn't entirely wrong. This year was a reminder of what the Games really were. But he was wrong about what they were. What they represented. The Games weren't an opportunity. They were a punishment. That was all they ever were. All they would ever be.

They hadn't dressed it up so much the first few years. There had been less show, less pomp, less celebration. There hadn't been any attempt to hide what the Games really meant: death.

She had lost her best friend, Jemima, that first year – one of the seven tributes to fall prey to Vester's blade before the Games were over. Even now, forty-one years later, she could still see the look in her friend's eyes.

Eden silently clenched her fists. If Vester had simply killed her friend, maybe she could forgive that – or at least understand it. It was the Hunger Games, after all. Only one Victor had escaped the Games without blood on his hands, and even then only by a stroke of luck and the sheer incompetence of the first Head Gamemaker. Killing was a part of the Games.

But torture wasn't.

Honor and courage. That was what the Games were about – or so the Capitol wanted them to believe. But where was the honor in slicing an unarmed opponent slowly to death? Where was the courage in staking what was left of her out in the field to die of thirst? Even the Gamemakers had shown more mercy, sending mutts to consume Jemima as she lay screaming, begging for death.

And all because her parents had fought for the rebels, as so many had. Vester had promised a slow, painful death to every rebel in the arena, and he was true to his word. But even now, forty-one years later, all Eden could think about was how easily it could have been her, instead. She was an orphan, just like Jemima. Her parents had fought for the rebellion, just like Jemima's. So why was she alive, when her friend was gone?

Maybe it was simply luck. They had both been eighteen. Only one of them could be reaped – at least back then. Now…

Now things were different. But maybe not for India. Maybe not for the fiery young girl who reminded Eden so much of her old friend. It hadn't been fair, perhaps, to expect India to fill that gap. Eden was the adult, after all. She was the teacher, India the student. She was supposed to be helping her pupil, not the other way around.

But the truth was that India had helped her more than she had ever wanted to admit. She had filled a void left so long ago – a need that Eden had thought would never be satisfied. India had benefited, too, of course. She had a home now. A place where she was safe and welcome. Someone who cared for her, without having to worry about putting enough food on the table to feed fourteen hungry mouths.

For however short a time, they had been a family.

Eden dried her eyes once more as India took the stage, wearing a long, flowing satin dress, with golden eye shadow and accents in her hair. Eden swallowed hard. It was unfair to start thinking in the past tense. India had a chance, after all. As good a chance as any other tribute on the stage.

But she had told herself the same thing forty-one years ago.

If she was aware of the connection, however, Constance kept it to herself. "So, India, I think it's safe to say this year was a surprising one for District Three. How do you feel about there being almost twice as many tributes as normal?"

India shrugged a little. "It doesn't matter much, I suppose. After all, the only one I really have to worry about is myself."

Constance nodded. "I take it, then, that we shouldn't expect to see you surrounded by an alliance in the Games."

India shook her head. "From what I've seen, they just seem to get in the way. Look at what happened last year. Allies didn't do anyone much good, did they? Besides," she added, leaning in closer, "Would you trust any of these people?"

Constnace laughed good-naturedly. "I suppose not. But, then, should they trust you, either?"

India smirked. "Of course not. Who's the last Victor of the Hunger Games who was actually trustworthy? Can you name even one?" She waited a moment before answering her own question. "Of course not. This is the Hunger Games. Trust gets you killed." She shrugged. "And I don't mean to get killed."

Eden nodded a little. She shouldn't have been so surprised, perhaps, that India had decided to go it alone. After all, the list of Victors who hadn't turned on their allies was pretty short. And if they hadn't, it was only because someone else had gotten to them first. So maybe it was better not to have allies in the first place. Miriam hadn't had any to begin with. Percival had lost his in the bloodbath. Avery had turned on her allies in exchange for the Capitol's mercy. Allies hadn't done any of them one bit of good.

Maybe India had the right idea.

Soon, India's time was up, and the first boy took her place, wearing well-cut black and white suit. He gave a little bow to the audience before taking a seat beside Constance. "So, Horatio," Constance said with a smile. "Your district partner was quite decided on the issue of allies. Care to share your thoughts on the matter?"

Horatio shrugged a little. "She's right … but for the wrong reasons. It's not an issue of trust. Everyone knows that trust doesn't last forever in the Games. It's simply a matter of numbers. Do you know how many Victors had allies, Constance?"

Constance shrugged. "Off the top of my head, no."

"Neither did I," Horatio admitted. "So I did some digging. Out of forty-one Victors, fifteen are Careers. Obviously, I'm not, so let's take them out of the equation. That leaves twenty-six Victors. Of those twenty-six, ten didn't have allies in the first place, and six of the others lost their allies in the bloodbath or within the first day – either because they all died or because they got separated, whether intentionally or not."

"So that makes ten," Constance nodded. "Ten non-Career Victors who had allies who lasted past the first day."

Horatio nodded. "And sixteen out of twenty-six who didn't have allies for the majority of their Games." He shrugged. "I call that good odds."

Eden smiled a little. Not great odds. Sixteen out of twenty-six. Little more than sixty percent. Not great odds. But better than they could be. And his odds were just as good as India's.

But was that good or bad?


Francesca Blanchet, 17
Sister of Aleron Blanchet

It was too late to help him.

Francesca braced herself for the worst as Horatio's interview drew to a close. Aleron would be up next. The first of the 'replacement' tributes. There was no telling what the Capitol had in store.

Or what Aleron would have in store. She had tried to tell him. Tried to warn him that this was real, that his life was at stake, that he would need to grow up. But she had been telling him to grow up for years. Why would he listen now?

Why would he change now?

Francesca huddled closer to her parents, silently scolding herself. Aleron was her brother, after all. She should be missing him, urging him on, rather than wishing she could yell at him to snap out of it. But what good would it do? In the end, she couldn't help him.

No one could help him anymore.

No one except his mentor, perhaps. Maybe Miriam and Percival could talk some sense into him. But they would no doubt have their hands full with tributes who would listen to them. Tributes like the two who had just left the stage. At least they could talk strategy. Aleron … who knew what he would do?

She didn't have to wait long to find out. As soon as Horatio left the stage, Aleron came charging on, dressed in a ridiculous patchwork suit more fit for District Eight than Three. Bright shades of yellow, red, and blue dotted the suit, topped off with a pair of boots – one yellow, one red – and a bright blue cap. Francesca couldn't help cringing at the sight. Was this one more way for the stylists to humiliate them, or had Aleron actually requested such a hideous outfit?

Even Constance seemed a bit befuddled as Aleron shook her hand, pumping her arm up and down. "So, Aleron, you don't seem at all … bothered … by the thought of the Games tomorrow. Care to share the secret of your enthusiasm?"

Aleron smiled a little. "Even you have to admit those last two were kind of a downer. No allies because this. No allies because that. I mean, all they did was talk about what they weren't going to do."

"I take it you have a different strategy."

Aleron beamed. "Of course! Once we're in the arena, my allies and I will be a force to be reckoned with. Mostly me, to be sure, but we've also got Evander, a pair from Eight, one of the girls from Six, and a girl from … Nine, I think? It's so hard to remember with so many tributes."

"That's quite a large group," Constance agreed. "And large groups have a tendency to go far."

"And get a lot of kills," Aleron added. "Someone has to beat Avery's record, and I mean for it to be me."

Even Constance didn't seem to know what to say to that. Technically, Avery held the record for the number of kills in the Games. Eleven in all – all her former allies. Not a record she was proud of, and certainly not one Aleron had a chance at breaking – even with so many extra tributes. Even Career Victors rarely tallied more than six or seven kills. And, as Horatio had pointed out, they certainly weren't Careers.

Not that it mattered, in the end. It didn't matter how many tributes the Victor killed personally. One kill or ten – it made no difference as long as they came home.

But was that even a possibility?

At least he had allies. That was more than Francesca had hoped for. He had somehow found people who were willing to put up with him – at least for a little while. But would that be enough? Eventually, they wouldn't be able to help him. Eventually, he would be on his own.

Francesca's father held her closer as Aleron rambled on about how they were going to wipe out all the Careers in the bloodbath. Finally, Constance had to cut him off. The audience was laughing, but Francesca was fairly certain her brother hadn't been going for 'funny.' The audience simply couldn't take him seriously.

Hopefully, that meant the Careers wouldn't, either.

Finally, Constance managed to convince Aleron to leave, and Evander took his place, wearing a simple black suit, red undershirt, and a dark red tie. His black shoes were polished and shiny, matching the top hat that hid his shaven head. Evander quickly took a seat next to Constance, smiling apologetically on his ally's behalf. "Sorry about that, Constance. He likes to talk. But, from what I've seen, he really is as good as he says."

Francesca finally smiled a little. That couldn't have been farther from the truth, but at least Evander was doing his best to clean up the mess Aleron had made. Constance seemed to appreciate the effort, as well. "Any truth to what he said about taking on the Careers?"

"Well, I suppose we'll be taking on everyone eventually," Evander answered vaguely. "As for what happens during the bloodbath … well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see. So much depends on what the arena's like."

"So true," Constance agreed. "What sort of arena would you like, if you could have your pick?"

Evander thought for a moment, maybe trying to decide what sort of arena would give District Three an advantage. It was too late, of course, for his answer to have any effect on this year's arena, but maybe he could plant some ideas for the future. A laboratory, maybe, or a giant computer replica – something that would be designed specifically for District Three.

But his answer wasn't what she'd expected. "Actually, I rather liked the arena two years ago – the library. Quite clever, with the different sections representing different books, different mutts appearing from stories to aid or attack the tributes. There was one section in particular I liked – a castle, with a moat and a forest around it. I would have liked to see more of that."

Constance nodded her agreement, and Francesca couldn't help nodding along. If not for the fact that children had been dying, that would have been a fun arena.

But children had been dying. And no matter how spectacular the arena was this year, forty-five of the tributes would still be dying in it. It didn't seem fair. Didn't seem right that such amazing, creative arenas were used solely for the purpose of killing innocent teenagers.

Francesca shook the thought from her head. Of course it wasn't fair. Nothing in the Games was fair. It wasn't fair that her brother was probably going to die, when he hadn't had anything to do with the rebellion last year or the tribute he was supposed to be replacing. It wasn't fair that she'd had to sit here and watch him make a fool out of himself in front of all of Panem. It wasn't fair that her parents had to watch their son go into the arena – and that so many families across Panem were doing the same. It wasn't fair at all. But it was the way things were.

She just hoped Aleron would realize that before it was too late.


Elira Perrot, 18
Sister of Mavina Perrot

It was too late to change her mind.

Elira wrung her hands silently, waiting. It should have been her. The entire district, it seemed, knew it. Knew that she had persuaded Mavina to volunteer instead of her. Knew that there was no way the trainers would have picked Mavina – not without a lot of persuasion. Everyone seemed to know why she had done it.

Everyone except her family. Her parents still believed the lie she had fed Mavina – that she had always had everything she wanted, and that it was time for Mavina to get her chance. Her parents – and Mavina herself – believed she had acted out of pity for her younger sister.

But the truth was a lot simpler: She had been afraid. After realizing – really, finally realizing – that the trainers meant to pick her, she had panicked. Started second-guessing every moment she had spent training for the past six years. Because even if she stood a chance – and she certainly did – it was still only a chance. There were no guarantees.

And she didn't want to die.

But admitting that to the trainers, to the district, to her parents … it would have been too much. Mavina had given her a way out.

Except it wasn't really a way out – not as much as she'd expected, at least. Her friends had been avoiding her ever since the reaping. Even her parents seemed a bit disappointed that she had gone through with allowing Mavina to volunteer. After all, Mavina could have waited until next year. She was only seventeen. They could both have had their shot.

But she didn't want her shot. Not anymore. So Mavina had taken it, instead. Never realizing. Never even suspecting the truth: that her sister was a coward.

Elira swallowed hard. A coward. It was the truth. The truth she'd been trying to avoid. But her friends knew. Maybe even her parents knew, on some level. She'd been afraid of the Games. But this – this terrible silence that had engulfed their family – was even worse. A part of her was beginning to wish she had volunteered.

But it was too late now. Too late to go back. Too late to take the place that could have been hers. Perhaps should have been hers.

She had missed her chance.

The silence in the room seemed to grow even denser as Mavina took the stage, dressed in a light blue-grey gown and white slippers, grinning proudly as she took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled right back. "Well, Mavina, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself. What's would you say has been your favorite part of the Capitol?"

Mavina's smile didn't falter for a moment. "The people, Constance, definitely. Everyone's so wonderful. Our mentors, the stylists, you, and, of course, my district partners. District Four has an excellent chance this year."

Constance nodded. "There are certainly more of you than normal, which could mean better odds. But it also means you've had to share the spotlight. As I understand, there are four mentors to share among the six of you. Has that worked out well?"

Mavina giggled a little. "Well, some people aren't too happy about it, but I don't mind. I've been sharing with my sister my whole life. I'm used to it." She waved playfully at the camera. "Hi, Elira! And thank you! Thank you so much!"

Constance smiled along. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to thank her for?"

Mavina nodded enthusiastically. "For the chance to be here. The trainers wanted her to volunteer, but she convinced them to let me have a chance. Me!" She grinned. "I won't let you down, Sis! I'll be home soon, and we can celebrate together!"

Elira's stomach turned a little as Mavina and Constance continued to babble giddily about what lay ahead. Mavina sounded so certain – so sure that, out of forty-six tributes, she would be the one coming home. Why was she so confident? Elira shook her head, surprised to find herself jealous of her little sister. If only she'd had that sort of confidence, she would be the one sitting on the stage now.

But she would also be the one going into the arena. The one fighting, killing, maybe even dying. It wasn't worth it. The cheers, the spotlight, the attention – they weren't worth the risk. Mavina was convinced there wasn't a risk, that the Games would be hers, without question. But it was never that easy.

The first boy, however, had the same confidence, the same lack of concern, as he swaggered onstage to take Mavina's place. He wore a white shirt with a black jacket outlined in gold, black slacks, black shoes, and a gold bowtie. His hair was perfectly spiked, as if to show off the fact that, unlike most of his district partners, he still had hair. And his smile was less of an enthusiastic grin and more of an arrogant smirk as he took a seat beside Constance.

Constance's smile, however, was still warm and open. "So, Auster, your district partner seems quite optimistic about District Four's chances this year. Care to share your thoughts on the matter?"

Auster nodded. "Well, she's not wrong. District Four has an excellent chance this year. But she is wrong if she thinks that chance is hers. If anyone here is going to be District Four's next Victor, it's going to be me."

"So what is it that sets you apart from your district partners?"

Auster smirked. "Simple. I'm the only one here who was the trainers' first choice to volunteer."

"What about Mavina?" Constance leaned forward a little.

Auster scoffed. "That little wanna-be? She was never the trainers' first choice. Actually, her sister was. But when she chickened out, did the trainers go with their next best choice? No. Elira begged them to choose Mavina instead, in a pathetic attempt to not sully the family name." He shrugged. "Not that it matters. Neither of them was ever as good in as I am. My ten in training is proof of that, and I intend to prove it again in the Games tomorrow."

Elira turned away from the screen as the two of them continued. Tears filled her eyes as her mother turned towards her. "Elira … Is it true? You backed out because you were afraid?"

Tears began to fall from Elira's eyes as she nodded meekly. "I … I just didn't want to die. Please don't … don't be mad."

Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Oh, honey. Why didn't you just tell us you didn't want to volunteer?"

Elira looked up, startled. They weren't upset? "I wanted you to be proud of me," she whispered softly.

Her father held her close. "We are. We always have been. But now Mavina—"

Elira swallowed hard. She had all but condemned her sister to death because she hadn't wanted to admit she was afraid. But it had come out, anyway, despite her best efforts. She had gained nothing from her deception, and now her sister would pay the price.

And there was nothing she could do about it.


Kairi Walker, 17
Friend of Imalia Grenier

It was too late to talk her out of it.

Kairi took a deep breath as she waited for her oldest friend to take the stage. She'd known for years that Imalia wanted to volunteer, but she had never quite pictured it like this. In fact, she'd tried not to picture it at all. She'd never had any desire to see her best friend in the Games.

But it was what Imalia wanted. What she had wanted for years, even though Kairi still didn't understand why. Not really. Why would anyone want to risk dying in the Games when they had a perfectly good life back in District Four?

Of course, that was where they differed. Where Kairi saw a perfectly good life – peaceful, stable, reliable – Imalia saw only boredom and drudgery. It had been that way since they were small. Imalia's parents were fishermen; Kairi's ran a small fishing supply store, making and trading lures and nets and other goods the fishermen needed for a share of their catch. They had grown up together, each learning the family trade. But while Kairi had embraced her parents' work, Imalia had always longed for something more. Something better.

And Kairi could understand that. What didn't make sense was why everyone always thought the Games would be better.

Maybe Kairi's life wasn't amazing. Maybe it wasn't exciting or glamorous. But at least she was alive. And, in a few days, she would almost certainly still be alive, while Imalia could very well be dead.

She wasn't kidding herself. Imalia was well-trained. But so were her five district partners. So were the tributes from One, Two, and even Five. Even if it were just the Careers fighting it out, Imalia would still be one of twelve, and certainly not the strongest contender in the batch. And it wasn't just the Careers. Forty-six tributes, and only one of them could come home.

Was it really going to be Imalia?

They'd talked about it before, of course – the possibility that it might not be. Imalia wasn't kidding herself, either. She knew that, at best, she had only a chance of making it out. But it was a chance she had chosen to take, anyway, because she couldn't bear the thought of being stuck catching fish day in and day out for the rest of her life.

Kairi shook her head. Whatever happened, at least it had been Imalia's choice. She hadn't been ripped away from her family like so many children at the reaping. She hadn't been pressured, persuaded, coerced into training or volunteering. This was what Imalia wanted. What she had always wanted.

But why did she have to want something so dangerous?

Kairi pushed the thought aside as Imalia took the stage, wearing a light, sea-green dress, a matching headscarf, and light grey flats. Even with the scarf covering her lack of hair, Imalia still looked uncomfortable. She had known she was volunteering for the Games, of course, but she couldn't have guessed the rest of it. She hadn't known what was waiting for the 'replacement' tributes during the chariot rides, during training. If she had, Kairi wondered, would she still have volunteered?

Maybe. Once they were in the Games, after all, it wouldn't matter. Or, at least, it shouldn't matter. The Gamemakers weren't above choosing sides, favoring one tribute over another. But would they really favor an entire group over another based on nothing but whose name had been drawn first, who had made it to the stage first?

Kairi turned her attention back to the stage as Imalia took a seat beside Constnace, the slightest hint of a smile on her face. Imalia had none of Mavina's giddiness or Auster's swagger, but Constance simply smiled back, anyway. "So, Imalia, there seems to be a bit of tension between the six of you from District Four."

Imalia nodded slightly. "I'm not going to disagree with that. There's certainly some tension, yes. But tension can be a good thing. Do you know what happens when you're fishing and your line goes tense?" She leaned forward a little, then answered her own question. "It means you've got a bite."

"That something has taken the bait," Constance prompted.

"Exactly. And when that happens, you have two choices. Your gut reaction is always to yank the line back as hard as you can, try to reel in your catch as fast as possible. But if you pull too quickly, if the line gets too taut, what happens?"

Constance nodded. "It breaks?"

"It does," Imalia agreed. "So the trick is to use just enough force, to pull slowly and steadily enough to reel in the fish without breaking your line. That's one of the first things my parents taught me – and the most useful. Because that's the trick in the Games, isn't it? To win – but to win without breaking." She finally smiled a little. "And I don't intend to break."

Kairi nodded a little. At least Imalia wasn't going in with any delusions. She had trained with enough of the Victors to know how hard the Games could be on even the toughest tributes. She wouldn't be easy to break.

On the other hand, no one went into the Games expecting to break. Who would have guessed, all those years ago, that flamboyant, energetic Misha would be the one to crack under the pressure? He had been as strong as any of them going in – and he had broken.

Soon, Imalia's time was up, and the last girl took her place, dressed in a loose-fitting tan blouse, a pair of brown trousers, and black boots. A plain black bandanna circled her head, and a scowl seemed fixed on her face, a scowl that seemed to grow angrier the more Constance smiled.

But Constance either didn't notice or didn't care. "So, Kendall, how have you been enjoying your time in the Capitol?"

Kendall shook her head. "Let's get to the point, Constance. I'm not here to enjoy a good time in the Capitol. I'm here to win the Hunger Games – period."

"True, but there's no harm in having a little fun along the way, is there?" Constance prompted.

"There is if it's a distraction," Kendall pointed out. "That's the problem with so many Careers – even some of my district partners. They want to have fun, to have a good time. But the Hunger Games aren't supposed to be fun. They're supposed to be a challenge. And that's why I'm here."

"Well, you've certainly got determination," Constance pointed out. "And you're certainly focused. Anything else in particular that's going to help you in the Games?"

"My training, obviously. Like Auster already said, a ten is enough to prove I'm one of the strongest contenders. Now I just have to prove it again tomorrow."

Tomorrow. The word hit Kairi harder than before. It wasn't supposed to be tomorrow. It was supposed to be another year. Another year before Imalia volunteered – if the trainers even chose her at all. But that was what she had been afraid of. Not being picked. Afraid that she would miss her chance.

Maybe it would be better if she had.


London Tolett, 15
Sister of Brevin Tolett

It was too late for everything.

London glanced out the window as the last girl from District Four kept talking. She had thought – for a moment – that she had heard something. Something in the distance. But she must have imagined it. The wind was howling outside. Who would be out there in this weather, and with the interviews going on?

Of course, not everyone was as invested in the interviews as her family was this year. For as long as she could remember, she and her family had watched both the chariot rides and the interviews together. But she had never had any particular reason – beyond district loyalty – to care which tributes did well and which didn't. She had never personally known anyone in the Games.

Until now.

London shook her head. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. When Auster had been announced as the chosen volunteer, she had been relieved. Grateful that she would have at least one more year with her brother before…

London swallowed hard. She shouldn't be upset. No one else was. The rest of her family was watching intently, but none of them seemed concerned. They were all confident, all certain that Brevin was coming home.

But she knew that, somewhere out there in the night, there were five other families in District Four – and so many others in the other districts – all saying the same thing. All hoping the same thing. That their son, their daughter, their brother or sister would come home. But only one family would get their wish.

Was it really going to be hers?

Brevin certainly seemed to think so. He was beaming confidently as he took the stage, wearing a bright blue suit and a matching wide-brimmed, floppy hat. He plopped down next to Constance, already leaning forward excitedly in his chair. "So, Brevin, you certainly seem to be having fun," Constance noted.

Brevin smiled back. "Well, unlike certain people, I don't see any problem with having a little fun before the Games. I mean, it isn't exactly as if we're allowed to start killing each other yet. So we might as well make the most of our time before the Games begin."

"Oh, I agree wholeheartedly," Constance assured him. "What's been your favorite part so far?"

"Well, I'm a little surprised no one has said it so far, but I very much enjoyed the chariot rides. I thought our outfits were quite unique."

"You took yours off," Constance pointed out, chuckling a little.

Brevin shrugged. "And that made it even better."

London giggled along with the audience. Listening to her brother, it was hard to believe that, in less than twenty-four hours, he would be in the arena with forty-five other tributes, fighting and killing them so that he could come home. He sounded as if he was on his way to a party.

All too soon, Brevin's time was up, and the last boy from District Four took his place, wearing a white collared shirt, dark grey jacket and slacks, and black shoes. A simple black cap covered his head, and a small smile played on his otherwise calm and composed face as he took a seat next to Constance.

"So, Jarlan," Constance began, "I think we've gotten a feel for your district partners' opinions on the matter. How do you feel about there being six of you?"

"Grateful, mostly," Jarlan admitted. "Without the extra tributes this year, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. Auster and Mavina would be here, and that's it. So, as strange as it sounds, the rest of us owe the Capitol a debt for choosing to respond so generously to our mistake last year. We've been given a chance to redeem ourselves, and we're going to take it."

"So you, too, believe it's District Four's year … even after what happened last year?"

Jarlan shrugged. "What happened last year has nothing to do with us, aside from providing us with more tribute spots. Two people made a mistake. That's it. I wasn't involved. None of my district partners were involved. We're simply here to atone for that mistake, and we mean to do just that."

"So what you're saying is that your district is loyal to the Capitol, and the two last year were just…?"

"A fluke," Jarlan finished. "Even in the best of conditions, there are going to be people who are discontent. We've got it pretty good in Four – even those of us who started off rather low. I grew up in the community home, and look where I am now. Anyone else can do the same if they put their mind to it. There will always be people who want to lash out at those who have more, rather than trying to earn the same for themselves." He shrugged. "That's the reason the Games exist in the first place."

London was surprised to find herself nodding along. He was right – life was pretty good in Four. And if life could be good here, in the fishing district, then why not in Six, or Eight, or even Eleven or Twelve? The districts that were struggling – naturally, it was because they weren't trying hard enough. Weren't willing to work for it. Because they would rather lash out at the Capitol than try to pull themselves up out of the dirt.

Just then, she heard a sound – and this time she was certain. London rushed to the window and peered out into the night. Then she saw it, in the distance. A light, bright and burning. Something was on fire.

Something in the direction of the training center.


Misha Brimmer, 37
Victor of the 22nd Hunger Games

They would thank him one day.

Misha grinned triumphantly as he stepped back, trying to get a better view of his good work. With everyone inside watching the interviews, no one had noticed him. No one had seen him sneak out of his house in Victors' Village and into the training center. No one had seen him make off with a handful of weapons. No one had seen him douse the training center with oil and set it ablaze.

But they saw it now.

People were running. Some towards the building, to get a better look, trying to figure out what was going on. Some away from the flames, trying to escape the blaze. A few Peacekeepers were beginning to emerge, but even they didn't want to get too close to his inferno. As long as he stayed close enough to the flames, maybe they wouldn't see him. But not too close. Not close enough to be burned himself.

Just then, without warning, the wind changed direction, fanning the flames towards him. Without thinking, Misha sprinted away – just far enough to escape the fire. But the movement caught the Peacekeepers' attention. One of them turned in his direction. Pointed at him. Raised his gun.

Panicked, Misha threw one of the knives he had swiped from the training center. It had been years since he'd used one, but his aim was as good as ever. The knife embedded itself in the Peacekeeper's chest. But, by then, several more had spotted him.

For a moment, gunfire filled the air. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Pain. Pain in his chest. Misha looked down, catching a glimpse of his mangled chest as he sank to the ground in a pool of blood. The rest of the weapons fell from his hand as he gasped for air.

Then, amid his own rasping breaths, he heard another sound. Laughter. It took him a moment to realize that the voice was his own. He was laughing, though the sound was punctuated by strange wheezing noises as his lungs and heart struggled to keep his body alive a little longer.

But he kept laughing, because he finally understood. He had been right all along. And one day everyone would realize it. One day they would thank him.

Not today, he knew, as his eyes closed one last time. But one day. And that was enough. Enough to provide a little comfort. He could still feel the warmth from the flames that danced merrily behind him as consciousness began to slip from his grasp. One day, that fire would spread. Misha smiled one last time as the darkness took him.

For the first time in twenty years, he wasn't afraid.


"What I am is trapped."