Sorry! Got my days mixed up! So it's a day late.
Anya Powers of District Eight
Districts 5-8 Interviews by Nightfuries
The chief reason for drinking is the desire to behave in a certain way, and to be able to blame it on alcohol.
-Mignon McLaughlin
Everyone is thrilled tonight; after all, it is the interviews, a time for each and every citizen of the Capitol to nearly wet themselves with excitement. Of course, all they really see are the pretty costumes and the mostly fake acts we tributes put on, but if one were to look real close, one might see something slightly odd. Anya Powers, the tribute whose stylist almost had to resort to tranquilising her just to get her into her chariot costume, is in a dress and smiling. Now that's odd, one might wonder. Why is she so cheerful?The answer, my friends, is a very simple one: Anya Powers is drunk out of her mind.
Admittedly, my mentor had decidedly not been all for the idea. I'd barely wandered near the bar that had been conveniently placed on the train for tributes just like myself when he'd planted himself firmly in front of it and cut me right off with a sharp, "No drinking, either here or in the Capitol."
I can tell you, that had put a damper on my day.
But come on, do you think a little thing like getting on the bad side of the one person who could potentially hold the key to my survival would stop Anya Powers from getting to her alcohol? And I thought you all knew me so well. Admittedly, it might have been a good idea to try and go without it, suffering from the effects of withdrawal here in the Capitol rather than the arena where 23 others are trying to kill me. But you know what, that sounds suspiciously like some sort of strategy where I might actually have to plan things out, and just thinking about trying to formulate tactics for the Games makes my head hurt. I am strictly a one-step-at-a-time kind of person. Especially when I'm drunk. Honestly, is there anything that ruins the pleasure of having a few drinks more than contemplating your imminent doom that occurs tomorrow?
Still, probably should pay attention to some of these interviews. I kind of zoned out for all tributes from Districts 1 to 4, only picking up a few random lines that I figure might actually have made sense if I'd bothered to listen to them in context. But now I force myself to focus on the bright mane of red hair that is the District 5 female as she passes the guy with the weird accent on her way to the stage. Caesar introduces her as the wonderful Atalanta Zimmerman and she takes her seat across from him and his son, who seems to be transfixed, either by her shimmering silver gown or fiery red hair, I neither know nor care to.
"So, Atalanta, welcome to the Capitol!" Caesar says, as though she just arrived and hasn't actually been her for nearly a week. "I love the dress, by the way."
The girl just smirks. "It's not really my kind of thing."
He makes an overly exaggerated shocked face for the audience. "Really? But it looks so beautiful on you." He smiles and turns to little Caesar, who still seems mesmerised. "And I think my son might agree. But why don't you like it? Not a fan of dresses?"
"It's not so much the dress as the colour," Atalanta responds, earning a curious look from Caesar.
"Silver? What's wrong with it?"
"It represents second place. And I can assure you, I'll be going for the gold in the Games."
There's a second where the tiny brains of the Capitol seconds pause to understand her words, than everyone starts laughing along with Caesar. Huh, seems this girl's got a bit of an ego – the smirk she wears is quite reminiscent of the ones plastered onto the Careers faces from One, Two and Four. Ignoring the interview for a moment, I try to drag my scattered thoughts back together in an attempt to remember whether I ever saw this girl in the Pack alliance; figure now might just be a good time to know that sort of information.
Yeah, yeah, night before the Games and I'm just now trying to figure out which of my opponents might be teaming up. Hey, better late than never.
"So, Atalanta, any plans for alliances in the arena?"
Thank you, Caesar! I guess he was wondering the same as I had been; and now my poor, intoxicated brain doesn't have to think! Which is good, because all this attempted use of my mind was starting to make me feel sick. And as funny as it had been the first time, I doubt the Capitol would appreciate if I threw up on live television for them again.
Someone releases a derisive snort; crap, right, the interviews. I try to pull my focus back to the stage before me, which is pretty hard with the current state of my attention span; I can just feel it beginning to drop below the levels of that of a small, furry mammal that likes to climb trees. Hey, speaking of squirrels . . .
No, Anya, focus. Focus.
"No, I don't think I'll be making an alliance in the arena," Atalanta says, shaking her head as though she can't believe she was asked a question with an answer that was apparently obvious to everyone; you know, except the millions and millions watching this broadcasted interviews. Caesar seems to be confused as well, and doesn't hesitate to ask her why. "Because I don't need anyone."
Ah, more pride problems. I'd dealt with my fair share of those, that's for sure. My mother had a horrible sense of honour that she wouldn't hesitate to defend if someone so much as poked at it with a straw. It was awful. I remember one time when she dragged me along with her to get some new clothes and we ended up spending two hours arguing with these two old, homeless guys who she believed had insulted her in some way.
"What did you just say?"
Oh, great, here we go again. Mom's turned back to the men and I glance over at her, but she's too busy staring them down. Wonderful, here it comes; the Mom Glare. And sure enough, there go those scary grey eyes, focusing all of their intimidation power to try and make the two guys quake in their boots . . . metaphorically, since they don't seem to actually be wearing anything on their feet. Surprisingly though, they don't even flinch at the glare, which only leads me to sigh. Looks like we're going to be here for a while – and I didn't even want to come in the first place. Stupid dress shopping, stupid crazy homeless dudes, stupid Mom getting mad at their stupid insult . . .
"Changed your mind?" one of them asks, holding out his palm again and referencing the fact that just moments ago they asked us for handouts on our way to the tailor's. Of course, Mom didn't give them anything, which most likely led to their whispered comment about the "old, uncharitable bat."
"No, but I highly suggest you change yours," Mom answers, bringing herself up to her full height. She actually isn't all that tall, but she has this way of standing really straight and making herself seem like, eight feet. Then again, the two men are sitting down in their little alleyway, so that also helps with the comparison of height. "Do you know who I am?"
Oh, not this question again. It seems like every time someone makes some sort of snide comment or insult, that phrase pops up. Do you know who I am? Jeez, Mom, you're not the president of Panem! Qwella Powers isn't exactly a household name; you're not known universally. As demonstrated when one of the men answers her question with, "An old, uncharitable bat?"
If this had been back in her rebellious years, she probably would have punched the guy. Actually, that could be mildly entertaining; I glance at Mom hopefully but of course, after nineteen years of lying low and being normal and having a family, the instinct to hit people she doesn't like has been somewhat diminished. Although I can still see the fiery light in her eyes that states she'd love to knock some sense into them; too bad she won't act on it. I sigh again and absentmindedly fiddle with one of the blonde curls that always hangs in my face; and I actually thought I might see a bit of excitement before enduring the torture of being forced into a dress. Apparently not.
"I've done more to help this district than you two could EVER imagine. Probably just hid in your little alleyway like the cowards you are during the rebellion, while other brave men and women worth ten of you fought. Remember that next time you go trying to insult someone."
"So are we to assume you're one of these 'brave men and women?'"
Mom doesn't respond, but the answer's still pretty obvious as she stares them down one last time before turning on her heel and marching away, grabbing my shoulder as she goes to make sure I don't stay; which, to be fair, I was considering. Might have just been me, but I thought the two guys were kind of cool. At least until one of them calls out after us, "So if we had all these "brave" men and women like you fighting for us, how come we still have the Hunger Games?"
Oh, no. Did he just . . .? Yes, yes he did.
The Hunger Games has been a bit of a sore spot for Mom, and all the others who fought so hard for freedom. Kind of adding insult to injury; hey, not only did you lose the rebellion, but we're gonna take your children and force them to kill each other too! Not something you want to bring up with an ex-rebel. I glance over at Mom, noting the newfound tenseness in her shoulders, the dangerous light in her eyes. I can tell what she's going to do. "Aw, come on Mom," I whine, just wanting to get on with the shopping so that I can have the rest of my afternoon free.
"Quiet, Anya," she says, already releasing my shoulder and turning back to where the two men are. "And stay here."
Stay here; yeah, right. Hey, if she HAS to go "teach these guys a lesson," well, might as well watch the show.
Ah, such fond memories of my childhood; there was certainly never a dull moment when Mom was around. Huh, I never thought of it that way before; maybe I left after she died because she supplied the action and interesting things I loved to have in my life. Wait, does that mean that I actually missed her, in my own weird way?
Oh man, I must be more drunk then I thought if I'm contemplating actually missing Mom. I laugh slightly and shake my head, but the idea still sticks in my mind. Well, I guess I can't deny everything; I mean, Mom did provide some entertainment. I hadn't seen her resort to throwing punches in a while, and watching her attack the unsuspecting homeless guys was kind of funny. Good thing they didn't hold the grudge against me too, or when I next stumbled upon them they might not have let me stay in their little group for five more years.
"There's a boy in my class who says that," a young voice pipes up. Right, right; interviews. Shoot, did I miss anything? I pull my attention back to the present and luckily it seems that Little Caesar is just responding to Atalanta's comment about not needing anyone. "But everyone else says that it secretly means he has no friends."
I let out a snort, trying to contain myself from bursting in to full-out laughter as the rest of the Capitol audience chuckles. I really don't think the kid meant anything by it; he's been blurting out things like that ever since his dad first decided to take him on the show. But by the way Atalanta glares down at him, I can tell she won't accept any excuses. "I have plenty of friends back home, thank you very much. And anyone who thinks that the arena is a place for friendship is an idiot."
Silence falls over the audience as her words ring through the City Circle, Caesar Jr. looking up at her like she's some sort of monster about to eat him. Lucky his father has had years of experience dealing with all sorts of tributes who say all sorts of things; before the quiet gets awkward, he quickly interjects. "Ah, yes, your friends. Tell me about them."
The District Five female seems like she'd still love to eat little Caesar for breakfast, but after another second of glaring she breaks eye contact and looks up. "I have three: Avis, Birgitta and . . . Lyric." Maybe the alcohol's making me hear things but I swear her voice caught on that last name, and by the look on Caesar's face I think he heard it too. His mouth opens to ask another, most likely personal question, but just then a loud buzzer echoes through the area, effectively ending the interview and saving Atalanta in the process. She quickly rises and heads back to her seat, but with less of the attitude she'd held with her at the beginning. Is there a story behind that? Probably. Do I care? Eh . . . no. Honestly, I don't understand why every tribute feels the need to have a fake façade and then an additional personality underneath. Way to complicated, that. I'm just going to head out there and let the alcohol do the talking.
Just as Atalanta plops herself back down in her seat, her district partner rises, walking to the stage while the crowd oohs and ahhs at his interview outfit. It's essentially a cloak, but all through the material are glowing wires, curling and twisting to form a vast network of shining lines making up the entire exterior of his costume. Even I can't help but stare at it in awe. So bright . . . so bright . . .
Well, it's official; my attention span has fallen past that of a squirrel and is now hovering somewhere near the moth range.
My eyes drift away from the cloak, instead choosing to focus on a married couple sitting in the audience, the woman of which is whispering quickly to her husband (most likely something about the interviews) and is seemingly oblivious to the fact that he's soundasleep. Hey, look, someone who cares for this event about just as much as I do. I guess even in the Capitol there are a select few that the Hunger Games just can't excite. Still, it's not like his life could be at risk if he chooses not to pay attention. Mine, unfortunately, is, which is why I really need to try and focus. But please, can they get anymore repetitive?
"Well, Bastian, it's a pleasure to have you here tonight!" Caesar says warmly and I watch as the boy takes a seat across from the two interviewers (does little Caesar count as a whole interviewer? Nah, I'd say combined they make up about one and a half), his cloak rustling and glimmering as the fabric folds to allow him to sit. The bright . . . shiny fabric . . . no, no, don't look. Jeez, that thing is like a crafty trap for the inebriated. Look, let's just focus on Mr I'm-Too-Lazy-To-Even-Bother-Staying-Awake in the audience; that way, you can hear what's going on, but you'll actually be able to focus. See, isn't that a smart plan, Anya? What do you know, you can think when you're drunk!
Although as the seconds tick by and Bastian's interview continues, I begin to think that maybe that cloak is the only thing holding my attention. These tributes . . . they all just seem so similar. Okay, there are some differences, like the fact that where Atalanta was ruthless and cocky, Bastian is more nervous and awkward; and admittedly I didn't really listen to any before the District 5 ones but still, the banality of their lives is nearly boring me to tears. Either they're putting up false fronts to hide their real emotions and feelings from the Capitol (the most likely case), or they're lives are really that depressingly normal. And to think, if I hadn't ditched Dad all those years ago, I might have ended up like them. Perish forbid.
My mind begins to wander after the first minute and unconsciously, I start playing a little game, answering the questions Caesar asks Bastian in my head before said tribute responds; adds a little spice to the interview and allows me to stay awake.
"So, Bastian, any family members back home?"
Nah, I just poofed into existence one day without any known parents or siblings at all. Although I do worship elephants as honorary members of my family.
"Well, I have a father and a mother, and there's also my brother, Benjamin."
"Wonderful, wonderful. And what do you enjoy doing to pass the time?"
I'm glad you asked Caesar! I have this fantastically fun hobby of massacring towns and torturing their inhabitants. Between attacks though, I also enjoy categorising the world's endless shades of pink.
"I-I actually don't really do all that much for entertainment. I mean, um, sometimes I . . . write. I guess that's why my token is a notebook. Actually, I'm writing a book for the Capitol now."
"Really?" Caesar's expression melts into one of extreme interest while his son attempts to copy it. "Tell us more."
Oh, it's going to be a completely fantastic novel on the absolute horrors of Capitol trends. I'm thinking of calling it "Capitol Disaster: A Fashion Fail Tale." Essentially it'll be exploring each and every aspect of the designer world, and why everything seems to have gone so horribly wrong.
"I don't want to spoil it too much," Bastian says, seeming to grow more confident now that the topic revolves around something he appears to be an expert in. "But I can tell you that once I finish, it'll be spectacular."
"What about friends?"
My absolute BFF is a wandering unicorn I happened across, although I do also enjoy spending time with my magical pet toad.
"Actually, my family and I, we're not particularly . . . well-liked amongst the other district citizens."
"Oh? You seem like a kind, charming young man; what could they possibly have against you?"
Well, remember those fun hobbies I was talking about? Yeah, my parents got me into that; they're mass murderers and often enjoy going around and killing off various members of District 5.
"Something happened, a few years back, caused by my father. It was just an accident but a lot of people were injured and some . . . were killed. Well, anyways, we haven't been treated particularly kindly since."
His words stop me in my tracks as I realise that my absurd, random guess to the answer of the question actually wasn't as far off as I'd assumed it would be. Something about that makes me smile slightly, and then the whole scenario seems to start transforming, becoming more and more hilarious until I'm holding back chuckles, earning me a few strange/disgusted looks from the other tributes.
"Why are you laughing?" Damian whispers next to me, a confused and somewhat appalled expression on his face as he eyes my attempt at holding back giggles.
I open my mouth to explain to him, but it just seems like so much work, so the only words that end up coming out of my mouth are, "It's so funny!"
Obviously, this doesn't go over well with my district partner.
"He just said that his father caused an accident that killed people . . . and you find that funny?" Damian eyes me up and down, looking pretty repulsed, but then it seems to dawn on him. "Are you drunk?"
"What?!" I sputter, and it doesn't really help my case when I hiccup at the end of the word. "I can't believe you would ever suggest that! When have I ever gotten drunk? Never, I say!"
"Yep; you're drunk." Damian shakes his head slightly, but some sort of new emotion sprouts in his eyes and he tries to casually scoot away from me.
"What was that?" I ask, frowning.
"What was what?"
"That little . . . moving away thingy." Sure, it makes sense that most of the population of Panem wouldn't want to be around a drunken person, especially when said person has already thrown up on live TV while intoxicated. But Damian's seen me drunk since (Itold you a little thing like my mentor's advice wasn't going to stop me from getting to the alcohol) and he knows that I'm not usually a total idiot while drinking. Actually, now that I think about it, it was the day of the private training sessions when that all changed; afterwards came the weird looks and the extreme awkwardness from the usually cocky and collected thief. To be honest, I barely remember a thing about that day other than being extremely drunk (my reasoning was that I didn't have any plan going into the session, so I figured I might as well have a few drinks beforehand. That way, if it went badly, I could just blame it on the alcohol. Yeah, that might explain my terrible training score). But now I'm starting to consider the possibility that something might have happened that day, something that even just the memory of makes my normally smooth and quick-on-his-feet district partner seem slightly agitated and apprehensive.
Or it could be something I've dealt with ever since I've been on the streets, a factor of my appearance that makes most people want to move away from me. Just in case, I tilt my head and try to sniff myself. "Do I smell?"
This catches Damian off-guard and he glances at me. "What? . . . No."
"Good, because it took my stylist, prep team and a squad of six Peacekeepers to get me into a bathtub and I'm pretty sure they'd be displeased if all their work was for nothing."
A look crosses over his face, one of complete disbelief; but do I perhaps spot a hint of approval hiding in there as well? "Six Peacekeepers?"
"Yep. And I'm happy to say that they were all pretty bloodied and bruised by the end of it," I add, grinning at the memory. It actually had been quite fun to watch as they tried their various methods of getting me into the bath; though my happy mood swiftly ended when they finally did manage to force me into the tub.
"So you're saying you fought with six Peacekeepers . . . because you didn't want to take a bath?"
"Is there a problem with that?"
"It sounds kind of stupid."
"Hey! Look who's talking Mr I'm-Fighting-With-A-Peacekeeper-Over-A-Rat."
"Ferret," Damian corrects automatically, although I'm pretty sure he's not exactly sure what that little thing, which he must have left in his room for the interviews, is. "And that's different. He's my best friend." I open my mouth to interject with some sort of snarky comment as to how sad that last bit sounded, but he seems to know what I'm about to do and quickly continues. "Besides, there was a life at stake for that fight. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have died if you got in a bath."
I frown, trying to work my alcohol-addled brain into coming up with a suitable comeback. "Um, excuse me, you forget about the dozens of ticks and fleas that probably had made a home on me at some point. Their lives were at stake."
Considering my level of intoxication, I found this a pretty reasonable excuse, but Damian just stares at me, looking somewhat grossed out. "That's disgusting."
Yeah, okay, maybe it is, but I can't just let him have the last word, now can I? "Hey, you have your pets, I have mine."
Of course, this comment doesn't really do much to waver his expression of revulsion. "That doesn't mean it's not disgusting."
"Yeah, well . . ." I wrack my brain, trying to find a something else to say back, but nothing comes up. Then I remember why this whole discussion on small parasitic entities and their differentiating levels of grossness began. "Stop changing the subject!"
He raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't."
"I mean before. We were talking about you and your not-so-subtle methods of avoiding me; what you've been doing since the private training sessions. What's with that?"
He just rolls his eyes, but I swear some sort of embarrassment flickers across his face. "I just shifted in my chair. Sorry if that's some sort of capital offence. Or rather, Capitol offence."
I let out a snort, but at the same time, I can't let him change the subject again. "Well, whatever happened that day must have been pretty bad."
I was hoping to catch him off-guard, letting him think his little joke had distracted me, but he just waves the question away with another eye-roll. "Nothing happened."
"I didn't say anything?"
"No."
"Oh." I pause, analysing his face to try and see if he's lying. But I can barely maintain enough focus to stay on one topic of conversation, let alone drag together enough drunken brain cells to try and notice any signs that might give his words away as a fib. Then again, I am talking to District 8's most renown thief; kid can probably lie almost as well as I can drink. "Well, okay then." We turn back to watching the interviews, just in time to catch Bastian say, "Really, what's life but one big story? And as far as writers go, I'm a bit different; I usually write the ending first. So I've already got my life's story's big finish planned; and let me tell you, it's not going to end any time soon."
"Very powerful words from a truly memorable tribute!" Caesar says and the audience claps just as an idea hits me. "Wait," I say, turning to Damian. "Did I . . . do something?"
As my words resonate through the air I swear I see that smooth, cool thief façade falter, but I have no time to double check; the audience currently decides that now would be a great time to distract me with their thunderous applause as Bastian rises from his seat, trailing that oh-so-bright (focus, Anya) cloak behind him, but the clapping keeps going long after he's left the stage. Oh, good Lord, please don't tell me they're going to keep going until the next person takes to the stage, because it seems like it'll take a while. There's no detectable movement from the District 6 female and quite a few of us tributes don't bother trying to mask our movements as we lean out to try and see what the holdup is. Though it's nothing that I can see; the little sixteen year-old just seems content to sit in her chair and finger the diamonds that stud her arm, also decorating her velvet dress and reddish-gold hair. Most of the other tributes seem to understand though, sitting back in their chairs, their confusion apparently satisfied. Well, hurray for them actually paying attention to their opponents before now. What was special about her? I try to think as a Peacekeeper who must have been appointed to stand nearby for just such a purpose makes his way towards the tribute to lead her to the stage, Londyn tripping and wobbling with every step. Some sort of disability? Loss of limb? Hmm, nope, all accounted for. Mute? Nah. Deaf? Maybe . . .
"Please, everyone, give a warm welcome to Londyn Aureole!" Caesar shouts to the crowd as he takes her hand from the Peacekeeper and guides her to the chair himself.
"S-sorry for the wait," she murmurs, whimpering slightly on the last word. "I just . . . couldn't see when . . ."
Blind! That's it! I nearly snap my fingers once it hits me. Well, I'm feeling pretty darn proud of myself right now; I'm pretty sure this is the most thinking I've ever done after having a few drinks. Actually, scratch that; this might just be the most thinking I've ever had to do in my life. Who would have thought the Games would be so hard on the brain? And we're not even in the arena yet. Oh, I can't wait for that part to start.
But until the moment where I have to start fearing for my life, I'm stuck here listening to tributes ramble on about themselves. This Londyn, at least, seems slightly different; I mean, other than the obvious, of course. I can't quite put my finger on it, until Caesar politely attempts to question her more about her disability. "Has it always been this way?"
Londyn nods slightly, tears welling up in her unseeing eyes. "Ever since I was born. I-I've tried to get past it, but it's hard."
I think I'm starting to get the urge to throw up again, and not because of the drinks; the sweet, pitiful little blind girl act is so fake even I can see through it in my intoxicated state. But of course, the Capitol is lapping it up; which was probably Londyn's intention. Hmm, wonder what it'd be like to see this girl when her real personality is shining through.
Caesar pats her leg comfortingly with one hand while the other reaches up as if to brush away a tear; of course, this sets the audience off, and soon you can here dozens of sympathetic murmurs and tears being shed for this poor, unfortunate tribute. "I'm sure you've been managing wonderfully though."
Of course, it's picturesque, heart-wrenching moments like this that exist solely so little Caesar can come along and ruin them. Which he does, in all the eloquence and maturity that can be possessed by a little kid like him. "Why don't you get glasses?"
His father pauses in the middle of his compassionate act, a brief look flashing across his face and disappearing just as quickly before anyone in the audience can pick it up. But I know it well; 'tis an expression my mother wore often whenever she dragged me out of the house on errands and I threw fits (alright, admittedly I wasn't the most pleasant toddler). In other words, it's a look that clearly says, Good God, why did I bring this little monster out with me and unleash it on this poor, undeserving world?
Caesar Jr. seems unsatisfied by the lack of reaction his comment gets from the audience; maybe he was expecting them to laugh, or remark how smart he is for coming up with such a brilliant idea. His face goes red, deepening to a shade almost matching his hair and makeup colour as he continues, "Our neighbour used to only be able to see close up, but then he got his eyes fixed with some special equipment! I don't think you have that in the districts though, so you'll have to do with glasses."
Ouch, pulling the "Capitol has more money and technology than the rest of you suckers" card. Again, I highly doubt he means it the way he's said, but unfortunately he's a bit too young to be using the excuse I'll be saying if I something offensive or rude (i.e. it's the alcohol's fault) so there's nothing to defend himself when the handful of tributes up and down the line who certainly don't appreciate that comment glare slightly. As for Londyn, she just pauses in the middle of her act, eyes focused on a spot somewhere to the left of the kid's head, and as she opens her mouth, it almost seems likes she's going to break her wimpy act and say something snarky, sarcastic and decidedly not pitiful. But the actual reaction is even stranger; she laughs. Not like a little You're-Stupid-But-I-Should-Humour-You-Or-I-Might-Die laugh; no, this is full-on, side-splitting whoops and chuckles that echo through the City Circle until the air in her lungs begins to run out and she just sits back in her chair, sinking into breathless giggles. "S-sorry," she says, once she manages to get some air back into her system. "I-I guess I'm just nervous."
"Nervous my foot," I whisper, snickering to myself as it finally becomes clear to me. What do you know, it looks like I'm not the only one under the influence of something else tonight.
"What?" Damian whispers to me, taking in my chuckling.
"I think Little Miss Londyn's been playing with something she shouldn't have been."
"Meaning?"
"She's high."
"What?" He glances at her again, watching the tribute in question calm herself enough to fully continue the interview with Caesar, who begins to ask her about her home life. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Trust me, there aren't a lot of people like that in Eight, but when there are, we see them." It's true, really. All of the messed up people in our district our little group tends to know, if not as acquaintances, then as people we see wandering the streets during the night. Though most of the time those kinds of people have just been drinking; not all that many opportunities in the textile district to get your hands on drugs. Makes sense if she's from Six then; if they make medicine, who knows what kind of stuff they have over there.
For a second, the two of us continue to watch Londyn, back to the sweet, innocent little blind girl who apparently had a wonderful, but difficult life back home and who just wishes she could go back to her loving father and not face the unknown horrors of the arena. Whatever she's actually like, she's a pretty good actress; doubly so if she can manage to convince the Capitolites every whimper and tear she sheds is genuine (mind you, considering their collective mental capacities probably reach the same levels as mybrain's state when I'm drunk, this might not be so hard). Her act goes on until Caesar realises that it's time to wrap the interview up, and he thanks her profusely for coming onto the show (because you know, she had a choice). "I can assure you, we'll all be rooting for you in the arena Londyn. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"
It's only at that moment were her act nearly collapses; her pathetic expression shifts somewhat as she opens her mouth, the first syllables of some sort of cheeky insult forming, but she quickly manages to stop herself and nods quietly instead, allowing herself to be meekly led off by the same Peacekeeper as before. Like Bastian though, the audience continues to clap long after she's gone, whispers and murmurs still zipping like lightning through the crowd, probably somewhere along the lines of "Oh, that poor girl!" and "I hope she does alright in the Games." But they quieten themselves soon after as Londyn's district partner rises and takes to the stage.
Apparently he's one Edrick Quillheart, and as Caesar begins to interview him on his life back in the district and such, it becomes pretty clear that he's either mute or has an extreme, extreme case of shyness. He must be answering Caesar's questions because the man jumps from one to another as though he's received a response, but between the quiet tone and the stuttering I can barely hear anything at all.
"Edrick, you seem like a wonderful man; any friends back home?" Caesar asks, grinning.
Unfortunately, it appears we'll never find out because the only thing I can hear is indecipherable murmuring. I glance at the tributes on either side of me and by the way they seem to be straining their ears I can tell they're having a bit of a problem listening as well. Eventually, Caesar moves on to asking him about his family, but when that's answered with more indistinct whispers, I finally lose my patience. "Oi! Speak up!"
Well, the muttering stops – mind you, so does every other noise as the audience goes completely silent, Edrick, Caesar and pretty much everyone else turning towards me, shocked and surprised looks on their faces. Hmm, could it be that interrupting the interviews is not a good idea? Oops . . . well, it seemed like a fine plan at the time. But that was probably just the alcohol talking. I throw my hands up in an innocent gesture and attempt to casually turn away and cover my face with one hand, hoping they'll just forget it and go back to the interview. Not that I'm embarrassed; but there is the Peacekeeper still standing by Londyn, glaring at me as though I've just interrupted something sacred. For the briefest moment, hope grows inside me as I contemplate the possibility of being kicked out of these endless interviews for my outburst; but no, apparently they're willing to excuse it. Damn. Hey, maybe if I tried again . . .
"I said," Edrick repeats in a tone that sounds mightily ticked off (yet thankfully easily understandable), "I live by myself. My parents and I don't exactly get along."
"I'm sorry. Why might that be?" Caesar asks.
"Is it because they didn't get you what you wanted for your birthday?" Little Caesar interrupts. "That happened to me once. I wanted this awesome new gaming system, but all I got was a bigger television! I was so mad."
The audience laughs as Caesar Sr. blushes, no doubt at the memory of the huge temper tantrum his son must have thrown on the occasion. Meanwhile, Edrick just sits there, staring at the boy and seemingly trying to understand what he means. I don't blame him; gaming system? What, is that some sort of new way to watch the Hunger Games? Hell if I know.
The interview continues, with Edrick mostly steering the conversation away from his parents and the rest of the members of his district and the reason why he got voted in, which is most likely due to the hatred the former two subjects felt for him. Caesar might not be able to pick it up, but the rest of us can see it pretty clearly – after all, most of these tributes (minus the Careers, of course) were sent into these Games for the same reason; nobody liked them. And clearly most of them aren't alright with it, hence the avoidance of the topic. Of course, the exception to this rule currently sits before you in the District 8 female's chair; obviously the reason I was voted in was because everyone just loved me to pieces.
Surprisingly, I manage to stomach a lot more of the interview than I originally thought; it's only when Caesar attempts to ask about Edrick's hobbies and said tribute diverts the attention and avoid responding yet again that I let out a groan, attracting the attention of my district partner once more. "Tell me, Damian," I say, sinking low in my seat and staring dully at Mr You're-Never-Going-To-Find-Out-Anything-Personal-About-Me Quillheart. "Why are we here?"
Damian frowns, probably assuming that my question is a result of drinking too much, which is causing my brain to start forgetting things. Totally not true. Sort of . . . "Because I'm pretty sure a Peacekeeper might try and shoot us if we left."
I roll my eyes. "But what's the point of even keeping us here in the first place? Why are we being forced to sit through this torture?"
"To give us an edge over our opponents; learn more about them. And if you decided to pay attention, it might actually help in the arena."
"That's just it, though! We're notlearning anything! We're just learning which tributes are good liars and which aren't." My point is proven as Caesar asks if Edrick has a "special someone" waiting for him at home, making the District 6 male hesitate before quickly saying that there's one girl named Aly who's his best friend, but nothing more. "I mean, come on, we're not getting to know these people at all."
"You know, it's often the things that aren't said that tell you the most," Damian says, glancing out at me from under his hood, which is made of thousands of tiny needles (our stylists, still choosing to go with the gruesome theme they had for the chariot rides, decided to make us look like weird, mutant patchwork doll things, with squares of fabric attaches all over the place and looking like it'd been sewn onto our skin. As for the hair accessories, Damian had the weird hood thing while my stylist had finally managed to pull my coils of knots into something that could potentially resemble a bun, with a pair of giant sewing scissors attached over head so that the points stuck out at the bottom while the handles were visible at the top. Damian believes our stylists are insane, but I just think they're like me; flat-out drunk when they decided to make the clothes).
"What is that, some kind of thief's proverb?" I slouch down lower in my chair, trying to drone out Caesar's relentless, interviewing voice.
"So how would you suggest we go about getting to know other tributes then?" he asks sarcastically.
"By having actual conversations that are interesting instead of listening to people go on and on about their boring lives." An idea pops into my head suddenly, the sort of idea most people would only get when they're really intoxicated. "Like this." I turn away from Damian and to the boy from Seven sitting next to me, who seemed to be watching us out of the corner of his eye anyways. "Hi," I say briskly, trying to keep the hiccups and laughs out of my voice as I attempt to maintain a straight face and stretch my hand out towards him. "Anya Powers, District 8 female."
The kid looks at me for a moment, as though he's trying to figure out if I'm drunk or crazy or both, but then he grins slightly and shakes my hand. "Yeah, I know you. You're the chick who threw up during the reapings."
I turn back to my own district partner, who's currently shaking his head as though he can't believe what an idiot I'm being. But hey, this is a better way to spend the interviews than actually bothering to watch them. "Damian, look, I'm famous!"
"Fantastic," he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes and I turn back to the District 7 male, who seems to be enjoying our little exchange. "So, want my autograph?" I ask.
"I think I'm good," he answers. "Though I'm sure it'd be a better present than the one you left the escort."
I snort, earning myself another glare from the Peacekeeper, who looks like he's seriously debating the idea of coming over here and shutting us up if we get too loud. I try to silence my chuckles and lower my voice to a whisper. "I like you, kid."
He smiles and extends his own hand. "Jonas."
We shake again just as Edrick's buzzer goes off and he gets up to return to his seat, while Jonas's district partner rises from her own, silvery dress shining slightly in the lights (though not as mesmerising as Bastian's cloak, thank goodness. At least I can actuallyfocus on her interview). My new acquaintance gives her a small, encouraging smile, but I don't think she manages to catch it; she seems to be too busy calming herself down, trying to get rid of the nerves as she crosses the distance to the stage. A few of the tributes down the line who seem to have decided that since we've been having little side-conversations and getting away with it, they might as well too, stop the whispered murmurs as they watch her intently as she goes to sit with Caesar. Oh, wonderful; another "special" tribute I'm supposed to know about. Addict? Psycho? Damn it, why is this stuff so freaking hard to remember? I lean over to Jonas and whisper, "What's important about her?"
He frowns for a second, then seems to take note of other people watching the "beautiful Alexis Spurling" as introduced by Caesar. "She's got this little phobia of sharp things. Remember in training?"
"Uhhhhh . . . remember what?"
"She sort of freaked out near all the weapons stations, attacked a guy." Jonas looks at me. "It was a bit hard to miss. Where were you?"
"Trying to figure out how to sneak alcohol from the Gamemakers' table," Damian answers for me and I glare at him, though in my state the intimidation factor probably isn't working all that well.
"It was one time. Jeez."
"You tried one time. I believe you also came up with many plans that you never got to execute."
"Way to spend your training days wisely," Jonas says, chuckling.
"Oh, shut up and listen to the interviews," I say back, turning away from the two snickering boys on either side of me to watch the red-headed girl currently in conversation with Caesar.
"So Alexis, a smart, kind girl like you must have some friends back at home, eh?"
Alexis blushes slightly. "Um, actually . . . no, not really."
Caesar gasps in shock as though it's unthinkable that no one could possibly like this tribute back home. Honestly, I'm surprised he can still manage to act surprised after hearing the same answer again and again. The districts were voting off people to go die; obviously they weren't going to pick someone anybody liked. But of course, Caesar finds a way to spin it. "More of a family girl then, am I right?"
"W-well, I never used to get along with my brother all that well, but he came to me during the goodbyes and said . . ." She peters off, trying to keep her voice level.
"Yes?" Caesar asks gently.
"He just apologised for everything and told me that he . . . he really wants me to come back."
The audience lets out one collective "Aww" as Caesar places one hand on his heart, using the other to wipe away yet another fake tear. "Beautiful, beautiful," he murmurs. "The bond between a brother and sister is strong, yes?" Alexis nods slowly. "So is it just you and your brother then? Any parents or other siblings?"
"It's just the three of us: Lucas, me and our mother. But before . . ." Alexis bites her lip, closing her eyes and trying to calm herself while Caesar waits patiently; little Caesar seems to be semi-interested, but his eyes look a bit glazed over. "I had another brother. M-Marcus." The tremble in her voice is unmistakable on that last word, and of course Caesar doesn't hesitate to press her further about it.
"And what happened to him?"
"We were working in the forest one night. He was training me to work with an a- . . . he was teaching me the typical work of District 7. But then out of nowhere this a-axe . . . it . . ." She stutters into silence, looking very much as though she's trying to hold on to the few strands of sanity she has left and no amount of coaxing from Caesar can get her to continue her story.
Finally, after what seems like a whole minute of the audience sit and watch this girl wrestle with whatever problem's going on her brain, she opens her mouth and tries to start again. "He d-died, in the woods that night. All thanks to some irresponsible teenager."
"It must be hard," Caesar says.
Alexis nods and shortly after, her buzzer goes. The Capitol gives another cacophonous round of applause as she begins to make her way back to her seat, looking more than happy to collapse into it and never have to speak again. Meanwhile, Jonas makes his way towards the stage and Caesar doesn't hesitate to start yet another interview rolling.
"Welcome, Jonas Emerson!" Caesar says as the boy takes a seat across from him. "I love your shirt, by the way."
Said article of clothing is brown, somewhat tree-like in design and altogether dull, but of course that doesn't stop our charismatic interviewer. Seems his way of making tributes feel at ease is by complimenting them all on something they neither chose nor wished to wear. But Jonas merely responds with, "Thanks. Nice hair."
Whether the comment was genuine or not, Caesar still pretends to blush, one hand rising to the tuft of crimson on his forehead. "Oh, thank you. My son picked the colour out this year," he adds, smiling affectionately at Caesar Jr.
"Yeah, I could tell."
This sets off a few snickers up and down the line of tributes, but neither Caesar nor the Capitol audience pick up on what was most likely intended as an insult. Instead, little Caesar looks up at Jonas with a huge grin and says, "You like it?"
"Sure," Jonas answers. "To dye for."
The rest of the interview continues on in a similar fashion, Caesar asking questions, Jonas avoiding responses by making up some sort of sarcastic comeback that never fails to be completely lost on the Capitol citizens and taken as a genuine comment. Which makes me laugh doubly as hard; but at least with this interview, there's reasons for other tributes to snicker, so I'm not the only one awkwardly bursting into random, drunken chuckles. Thank goodness, because I don't think my giggles during those oh-so-inappropriate moments such as, say, telling Caesar your father accidentally killed a bunch of people were appreciated. Subconsciously, I glance down the line of tributes at Bastian, but he seems intent on the interview presently happening, looking like he's committing every detail to memory. Probably so he can write it down in his little notebook token later, I think, chuckling to myself. Then again, could just be that he wants to know his opponents well, which might be a good thing to do if you want to, oh, I don't know, survive.
Yeah, well, big whoop. I think I already went over the whole "these interviews don't teach us anything" principle. Admittedly, when Jonas and I had that short conversation, we didn't really talk about much more than, well, my drinking habits (seems to have come up a lot these past few days), but hey, I think I deserve points for attempting to communicate while extremely intoxicated and with a rapidly diminishing attention span. Besides, it's not exactly like I'm getting to know him any better during the interview.
"You know, Jonas, I couldn't help noticing that you and the mayor share the same last name," Caesar says, casually eyeing the tribute. "Are you two, by any chance, related?"
There's a slight pause, then Jonas just grins and shakes his head. "Nah, it's a coincidence. Emerson's a pretty common name over there. You know, like the John Smith of District 7."
"Who's John Smith?" little Caesar asks.
Nice attempt, Caesar, nice attempt, I think, shaking my head as the interviewer stops to explain to his son what "John Smith" means, while the young boy just answers with, "Well, the name sounds dumb." I guess they haven't given up yet on trying to get details about tributes' lives out into the open, but that's pretty hard when most of these kids are still coming to terms with the fact that the population of their district hated them enough to send them into these Games. Aside from the Careers, no one seems to want to talk. And as Jonas deflects yet another question and receives more chuckles from tributes and laughs that clearly mean they have no idea what's going on from the Capitol, I snicker, thinking, Caesar Flickerman: 0, Jonas Emerson: 1
"So he's not related to this John Smith . . . John Emerson . . . what was it?"
"It's Mayor Emerson of District 7, son," Caesar says, patting his son's head as a reward for his effort. "And he was just joking." The attention focuses back on Jonas, who was apparently content to sit for awhile and let them talk, fidgeting slightly in a way that seems almost as if he's playing some sort of imaginary instrument. "The two of you are related, am I right?" Before the boy can answer with what will no doubt be another comment that would confuse the younger kid to know end, Caesar quickly adds, "It must have been hard for him to say goodbye to his son."
"Well, I'll admit, I have met different people who I'd much rather say goodbye to," Jonas says with a pointed glance at Caesar that once again no one seems to pick up. The audience still gives a half-hearted laugh anyways, though a flicker of disappointment runs across the interviewer's face. Seems like he's running out of ways to get Jonas to open up.
Caesar Flickerman: 0, Jonas Emerson: 2
"Why don't you tell us about things you do for fun back home?"
"Well, half of its probably illegal, and I don't think the other half is suitable for the ears of children under 15."
Another laugh, another slightly confused look on Caesar's face as he tries to figure out whether Jonas is lying which, judging by the smirk tugging at the corner of the tribute's lips, I'm guessing he is. Caesar Flickerman: 0, Jonas Emerson . . . Damn it, what number was I at? Freaking addled brain cells.
Doesn't matter though because a few seconds later Jonas's buzzer goes and he tips the audience and Caesar a two-fingered, sarcastic salute before rising from his chair, leaving a very relieved-looking interviewer and his confused son behind. Probably hoping that the next tribute won't be as reluctant to talk about their personal life – or rather, hoping that they won't be as good at avoiding the topic. It'd be kind of funny to watch him try and deal with that again. I glance down the line of tributes, trying to identify which is going next. Who . . .?
Crap, right; my turn. It registers in my brain just as Jonas reaches his seat to sit down. He gives me a quick, mischievous grin as I get up and start walking towards the stage. Yeah, when I'd had those few drinks a little while ago, I kind of hadn't downed them with the idea that I'd have to walk in mind. The ground seems to be doing this weird sort of bobbing thing but, impressively, I don't actually trip until I'm nearly at my spot.
"Careful there," Caesar says, reaching an arm out to help the empty seat. "Little off-balance tonight?"
"Yeah, kind of feeling tipsy," I reply and the audience laughs at that. Hey, they think I'm funny! Never mind the fact that they've been laughing themselves silly for most of the evening (I have the feeling I'm not the only drunk one out here). Everything's going according to the plan; at least, as much as things can when I don't actually have a plan. I know, I know, what happened to the entire day supposedly spent coming up with my interview angle? Hehe, funny story.
"Alright, I've already got some ideas planned out for us to try today, but I want to check if you have anything else in mind," my mentor, Taf Burming says, slamming a book down on his desk as he speaks. What, has someone actually bothered to write an "Interview Angles for Dummies?" "So, what were your plans for your angle?"
"Uh," I say, still staring at the gargantuan book as though it'll hold the answers to the world's questions – and more importantly, my mentor's. "Actually, I was kind of thinking of just having a few drinks beforehand."
Taf glares at me; though really, he should have been expecting that as my answer. "First off, I said no drinking."
"Yeah, and those words broke my heart," I say back, sniffing and pretending to look traumatised as I touch a hand to my chest.
"Don't be idiotic; you think I don't know you've been breaking the only real rule I laid out for you?"
" . . . If I say yes, would you start enforcing said rule harder?"
Another deepening of his permanent frown, another glare shot my way; honestly, does this man really think he's being intimidating? I spent 13 years of my life putting up with my mother's evil eye, thank you very much; that woman could burn holes through your SOUL. "The only reason I let it pass was because I was hoping you would exercise some sort self-restraint yourself."
I snort. Self-restraint? Exercise? Me? Obviously this man hasn't spent this past week getting to know Anya Powers. "By all means, laugh now," Taf says, eyeing me carefully. "Because I can guarantee you won't be in the arena."
"Blah, blah, blah, that's TWO days from now. There's still plenty of time for me to procrastinate quivering in fear."
He stares at me for another moment and I begin to get the uncomfortable feeling that his gaze, while not burning holes into my soul, is analysing every single square inch of it. "Fine," he says finally, sitting back down in his chair. "Interview angles. Let's try a-"
"Look, this is a waste of time," I say, crossing my arms and slouching in my chair. "I can't act."
"Well, you're life depends on it," Taf answers, frowning at me once more. As an experiment, I try glaring back; come on Anya, harness you're inner evil eye, narrow those grey orbs, make him feel intimidated!
Yeah, probably just look like I'm having some sort of eye spasm.
" . . . And if you're sober, you might actually be able to accomplish something," Taf finishes before glancing back at me, no doubt waiting for my thoughts on his little lecture.
"Sorry, what?"
He takes a deep, slow breath, as though trying to get all of his irritation out in a single exhale; and I admit, part of me does feel sorry for the man that he has to deal with ME as a tribute. "Pay. Attention."
"I was! But you said something about no drinking and after that I chose to tune everything out."
His hands rise to his temples as he slowly massages them; another gesture I've seen done many times after, oh, every conversation we've had. "You're not going to be prepared for this."
"Then just let me drink," I say, earning yet another glare. "Look, I know you seem to have some sort of almighty problem with alcohol, but if I have a few shots or something before I go on, I'll have a foolproof excuse if anything bad or rebellious or stupid comes out of my mouth."
The frown is still present but there's a moment, a small moment, where I see something flicker in his eyes. "You won't get any sponsors that way," he says swiftly.
I shrug. "Whatever. Doubt I'd be getting them after my little show at the reapings anyways."
There's a long, silent pause where he does that creepy, analysing-soul thing again, staring me up and down and taking in my altogether too eager face. What can I say; it'd be nice to get this guy off my back about drinking and show him one of the many pluses of liquor. Then, ever so slowly, he opens his mouth to speak. "So, your interview strategy . . . is going to be to blame everything on the alcohol." He sighs. "That's going to be interesting."
I grin at the memory, nearly letting out a chuckle before I remember where I am; right, live TV, millions of people watching and all that. I drag myself back to the present just in time to see Caesar Jr.'s apprehensive little face as he eyes me warily. "Are you going to throw up again?"
Alright; now I can laugh. And so does most of the Capitol audience as well. But I've got a show to put on, so I quickly try and subside the chuckles and say, "Nah, of course not! Gotta have some new material to show you guys; don't want to bore you, after all."
Little Caesar takes that into consideration, thinking it over before allowing himself to scoot a little closer to me. "So what're you going to do this time?"
"Oh, I don't know. Dance? Somersault? Juggle?"
"You juggle?" Caesar Jr. asks.
"Yeah, scratch that; don't think I'm coordinated enough tonight."
Most of the Capitol audience has caught on by now as to my current state of mind and they let out loud laughs at my words; see? I knew drinking was the answer to my problem! Always is. "Why did you throw up in the first place?" Young Caesar asks again (his father seems content to let him get some interviewing experience for a few moments). "Where you sick?"
"No, no; not quite," I say, grinning as more chuckles emit from the audience. "See, this man knows what I'm talking about." I point to a guy near the front row who seems to be absolutely peeing himself with laughter; I'm thinking that we have a few things in common tonight. The cameras pan over to the guy I'm talking about before going back to us, just in time to catch Little Caesar frown and say, "I don't get it."
"You're a little too young yet, son," Caesar answers, patting him on the head with a smile. Unfortunately this does little to pacify the boy, who seems on the verge of temper tantrum meltdown here, so I decide it'd be a good idea to add to Caesar's words.
"Don't worry, kid. Come back to me in ten or so years and I'll let you in on our secret."
Little Caesar looks at me for a second, then grins and nods. "'Kay."
The audience bursts into laughter once more as Caesar seems torn between chuckling and seeming absolutely mortified at the prospect of having his offspring come to me for advice on life. "I hope you won't be teaching my son any bad habits, Miss Powers," he says with a smile.
"Perish the thought!" I say, clapping one hand on my knee. "Everyone knows I only take up good habits."
Of course this gets another laugh and we're forced to wait for the audience to calm down once more. Huh, this isn't so bad after all; between educating Little Caesar on the ways of the adult world and stopping for everyone to react once in a while, I won't have to do much talking (or thinking) at all. This thing might go by quicker than I thought; and yeah, I might be kind of corrupting a Capitol child in the process, but eh, kid needs to live a little.
"So, any other fun habits or hobbies you used to do back home?" Caesar asks, seeming intent on bringing the conversation back to where it should be. "Preferably child-appropriate ones?"
That earns a few chuckles and I pause for a second, trying to come up with what Gerier, Losan, Merie and I did for fun, other than drink. Yeah, I'm not getting anything. "Well, I do enjoy . . . sleeping."
Caesar laughs. "And how many hours do you sleep a day?"
"Oh, only four or five."
"Only?" Caesar asks, cheery expression faltering once more into one of confusion. "I thought you said you enjoyed sleeping."
"I do. That's why I also sleep 12 hours a night."
The volcano of laughter erupts once more, with a few added cheers and claps from what I assume to be the more lethargic of the Capitol population. I grin and nod at a few of them, sharing the bond of complete and total laziness. You know, these Capitol people aren't actually all bad.
To repeat: incredibly drunk. So don't hold any of my crazy, intoxicated thoughts against me.
We pass around a few more random comments that mostly end up linking back to my drinking (hey, I don't know much else, alright?) until Caesar finally decides to try and put things back on a more serious track. "What about any family you have back home?"
Surprisingly, the question does bug me as much as it might normally; another pleasant side-effect of alcohol. "Well, Caesar, there's not much to tell. I mean, they're nowhere as cool as me."
More laughs, but they end quicker; guess everyone really does want to hear about my family members. Sigh. Ah well, better get it over with. "Well, there's my dad."
"Yes," Caesar says, waiting for more info. "And what's he like?"
"Bald. Okay, that's not exactly fair; balding. But he's getting there." I let the audience laugh, hoping they'll go on for a while and get me out of talking for a few more seconds. Yes, yes . . . Damn. "Other than that, there isn't much to him."
"Oh, there must be something," Caesar says, prodding the microphone closer to me.
"Nope, I can't really think of anything . . ." I peter off, waiting for Caesar to ask another question, but he's still sticking intently to the Dad topic. Probably thinks there's some sort of huge scandal behind it. Well, if he wants more, he'll get more; suddenly, I snap my fingers and in Caesar's excitement, he leans forward and we almost bonk heads. "I know," I say triumphantly. "He has glasses!"
Obviously not what Caesar was looking for, but that's just too bad for him; honestly, I would try to think up some gigantic, sad and tragic story involving Dad but I think I've already made my views on thinking pretty clear. I glance over at the interviewer, crossing my fingers that he won't try and continue along this subject and, thankfully, he seems to get the idea. "Then what about your mother?"
On second thought, I think I'd rather talk more about Dad.
"Eh, she's not really a part of my life," I say casually (at least I'm hoping it sounds casual). "Then again, she isn't really part of any sort of life."
Caesar frowns for a moment, the gears in his brain almost visible as they take in my words. Then it dawns on him. "You mean . . .?"
"She's dead. Gone. Up in that big old Capitol city in the sky."
"Oh. I'm sorry." He pats my hand comfortingly while I try to resist the urge to reach out and pat him. On the head. Really, really hard. Anyone remember my feelings on expressions of sympathy? "And, if you don't mind me asking, how did it happen?"
"I do mind, actually," I answer, my voice sounding too loud and harsh in my ears. It takes a second for my alcohol addled brain to process my words, and then another to take in Caesar's expression and the silence that's stricken the audience. Crap, way to completely kill your interview, Anya. Fix it!
How?
What's your interview strategy, stupid?
Oh yeah . . .
"I'm sorry, what were we talking about?" I ask suddenly, hiccupping for effect. "My attention span has been shrinking all evening. This was working," I add, pointing to my mouth before gesturing to my head. "But the mind was off on a really extended vacation."
Caesar laughs and all of the previous tension vanishes. "Don't worry, I'm sure everyone is a little nervous tonight."
I glance at him with a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, Caesar, I think everyone knows that it's not the nerves causing my lack of concentration tonight."
If there was any awkward strain left over from my previous words, it disappears now as the audience laughs easily again. Whew, disaster aborted; thank goodness. Surprisingly, as I scan the audience, I manage to pick out Taf, of all people, sitting with the others mentors and, of course, still wearing his ever-present, disapproving frown. But as our eyes lock he makes another gesture; a nod. Not a glare or an irritated crossing of the arms or a weary rub of the forehead, but a nod. Like he thinks I've actually done something right this evening. Huh; never thought I'd live to see that day.
"So, Anya, any final words before we part ways?" Caesar asks, glancing down at his watch.
"Right, yes. Um, stay in school, no underage drinking, that sort of thing," I say, glancing at little Caesar as the audience chuckles once more. "Oh, and prepare to see some serious Anya-style in the arena."
"What's Anya-style?" Caesar Jr. asks.
Drinking, making sarcastic remarks, and generally acting like an idiot.
"Fighting, kicking butt, generally being awesome." I wink at the kid. "That sort of thing."
"Oh." Little Caesar thinks for a second, then looks back at me. "Do I have Anya-style?"
Probably one of my most genuinely astonished laughs just happened right there. "Sure, kid. Why not?"
He beams up at me and I chuckle again, just as the buzzer goes. Well, that honestly didn't take as long as I'd expected. And it was kind of fun too, I think as I leave the stage and pass Damian on the way to my seat, listening to him start the interview off behind me. From the sounds of it, he's playing up the smooth-talking, mysterious thief, but I can tell as I sit back down that he's still not enjoying having to be interviewed for the entertainment of others. Not exactly a people person, my district partner.
"Welcome, Damian! I think everyone's been excited to find out more about you." As if on cue, a few fanatical Capitol girls start whispering excitedly, and I swear one of them swoons as Damian starts to speak.
"Well, don't get too happy; you still have to get the answers out of me," Damian says with a smirk.
Caesar gives a good-natured groan. "Not going to make my job easy for me too, are you?" The audience laughs; guess they weren't entirely oblivious if they managed to pick up the fact that Caesar's now had at least three tributes in a row who don't enjoy talking about their personal lives. I swear though, I've got nothing wrong with my personal life; nothing at all. I just believe that your mouth was put on your face for one purpose and one purpose alone; to inhale alcoholic beverages. Anything else it tries to do is a waste of time.
"Of course not," Damian answers. "Where'd be the fun in that?"
The interview goes on, and it's obvious from the get go that Caesar's going to get even less personal info from Damian than he did from me. Ask him what he does for a living and he quickly changes the subject; most likely because it's illegal and punishable by death. Then again, not exactly like they could do anything if they found out, now could they? I guess another bonus of this "Quarter Quell" for the President and his little Gamemaker cronies was that they can easily get rid of all the assumed criminals, psychos and general threats to the society of Panem; judging by the interviews that have gone on so far, that makes up about half us tributes. The other half, of course, just gets sentenced to death for being unlikeable to a rather large group of district people.
"What was that cool animal thing that was on TV during your reapings?" It seems Little Caesar is also tiring of the way his father's questions were getting answered, because he seems to have decided it's time to take matters into his own hands.
"Bandit?" Damian asks, and for a moment he's actually thrown off by the boy's interruption. But then, quickly as it left, the concealing façade slips back over his face. "He's my pet ferret."
"Cool!" Little Caesar shouts, and the audience has to laugh as his whole face lights up with the loveable adoration that little kids seem to get for small animals. "I want one!"
"I don't think your mother would be too pleased with that," Caesar says, smiling and his son's ecstatic grin slowly disappears as the audience gives off another collective, sympathetic "aww." "So, Damian, what about your mother? What's she like?"
"That's not really any of your business, is it Caesar?" Damian says, his tone suddenly turning ice cold. The interviewer falters for a moment, but throws on a big smile and shakes his head. "Intent on keeping secrets, eh, Damian?" he asks. "You'll have to answer sometime."
And they're off again with their question-asking and avoidance tactics. Jeez, how come my district partner could get away with being all intimidating and I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it, while I had to make an absolute idiot out of myself and pretend to be too drunk to know what I was saying? Admittedly, that was the entire reason I'd taken the drinks in the first place, as a scapegoat for whatever nasty nonsense might come out of my mouth, but still. How come I can't be the brooding, mysterious thief?
As is common of someone who can't concentrate for more than five seconds, my gaze begins to wander over the audience and down the line of tributes, until I make eye contact with someone I wasn't expecting to; Erik Fiske of District 11. Our encounter during training was . . . interesting, to say the least. I don't really know exactly what to make of it; we were acting pretty friendly afterwards but I was only really there and having a conversation so that I had a legitimate excuse not to train (or rather, pretend to). But I've been beginning to think that, maybe, he sees me in some sort of alliance with him. At first, the idea turned me off; not only did I not really want to have to deal with someone with me in the arena, but alliances require planning and planning requires thinking and thinking requires . . . well, I think you all know where this goes. But the harsh reality is, the Games start tomorrow. I can't exactly hide from that reality anymore. Not that I was ever hiding before, I think quickly, turning my attention back to the interviews in time to watch Damian harshly decline speaking about his father as well. More . . . ignoring the situation. Though it's going to be tough doing that tomorrow when I'm rising up on that metal plate and into an arena with 23 other kids out to kill me. And there's the fact that if, in about a day, I'm not, in fact, dead, then I'm going to be going through some major withdrawal. Maybe I should have taken my mentor's advice and stayed away from the drinks this week after all.
Ah, well, too late for that now; besides, I've improvised my whole life. I'm pretty sure, if need be, I can improvise my death as well – though hopefully it won't come to that. But as for plans, whatever; if Erik wants to ally with me in the arena then what the heck, we'll ally. And we'll kick butt too. I'll just leave all the planning, strategising and overall thinking to him.
And whatever happens, it's sure to be interesting, I think, watching Damian rise swiftly as his buzzer goes. Interesting indeed.