Can you feel it getting closer? Launch is on Halloween from our resident pyschopath Jett! XD

Also as a note, because of how long these games are promising to be try-outs will likely not be till January at least!

Juniper Harris of District 9

District 9-12 Interviews by Holly Blossom

"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"

- William Shakespeare

My body burns with heat. There are too many people packed in here, too many people casting warmth and lighting this place up. After sixteen interviews my thoughts have drifted slightly, fretting over survival, over the arena, over my sense of self. I glance towards the crowd, the potential sponsors that could very well save my life.

I can just feel their jewel encrusted eyes sizing me up, raking their plastic gazes over my skeletal figure, harshly whispering to their companions about the lack of any real protein or muscle on the slender, malnourished frame before them. A cold trickle runs it's nasty claws over the bumps of my spine. I guess to them I am nothing more than a hunk of meat, nothing more than a pawn in their games. I am not human to them. I am a toy.

But really they are the ones who aren't human. What kind of sick, twisted people can actually enjoy watching kids kill each other on live television? It's not a game, not like they think, it's a reality. They don't seem to understand that. They understand nothing of this world.

They don't know of hunger or pain or desperation. They do not know what it feels like to cling to life by your fingertips, barely living from one day to the next. They don't know of human struggle and emotion, the ragged happiness when your stomach finally feels full, the longing when there is no food. They know nothing. They are the ones who aren't human.

They are the ones that should die.

Sometimes I can barely stand it. I am consumed by nightmares. Waking in them, sleeping in them, living in them. Every time I close my eyes I see my family, their gaunt faces and their pleading eyes so hungry that I can feel their stomach's rumble even from here. Every time I sleep my dreams wind into longing sickness, searing fevers that burn my eyelids and pound like poison through my veins. Sometimes I am dying, feeling the last ebb of my soul fading away, and sometimes I am watching someone else die, watching their eyes as they flatten and stare into nothingness.

And sometimes I am killing.

Deep in the brackish depths of my heart, I fear I'll turn into the Capitol once I enter the arena. When I come out of these Games I at least want to recognize myself.

I don't ever want to be a monster.

I am shaken from my dark, gritty thoughts by the sudden screeching of my name. I seem to faintly recognize the voice as Caesar Flickerman's. With a jolt I realize it must be my turn to be interviewed. Time to put on my mask.

I splay my twitching hands over the forest green satin of my dress, little olive birds lost in an endless forest. I hear the crowd cheer, howling and whistling like rabid wolves, snarling with their pink mouths, swiping at the air with clawed paws. There they are hunting birds, young birds, who can't yet spread their wings and fly away.

My hands clench at my side, nearly convulsing with pulsing nerves and shocking fear. I have to take a deep breath to calm myself, steady the loud screeching of my heart as it tries to take flight and leave my rib cage.

Exhale...inhale...exhale...inhale.

Somehow I manage to glide towards Caesar, without tripping, passing out or trembling like a miniature earthquake. I try not to focus on anything, try to keep my eyes pinned to the long, tight skirt of my dress, but of course my eyes do not follow my command. They immediately stray towards Caesar and his decidedly freakish appearance.

He's of course in his customary blue sky suit with its twinkling stars and perfect hemming. His face, as usual, is painted a phantom white. Features such as his nose and mouth almost seem to float awkwardly out of place on the ghostly landscape glowing up at me. He's dyed his hair, lips and eyelids again, creating a decidedly more evil appearance this year with deep, blood red. The colour reminds me of scars, of crusty scabs forming over old wounds. It reminds me of pain.

"Aren't you looking lovely tonight, Miss Juniper Harris," Caesar booms as soon as the cheering dissipates. With his microphone hanging from limp, spider fingers, he leans towards me conversationally. My skin crawls with phantom chills, the shadows of old fears dancing up and leaping through my heart.

His closeness is a strange, unsettling thing to me. Back in District 9 no one ever came near me, always afraid to associate with an impoverished girl from the Deform slums. It was like they thought poverty was a contagious disease, not a circumstance Even other Deforms never touched me unless I first gave them permission to do so. How can Caesar feel so comfortable by being so close to me, a stranger? Why do I let it bother me so? Why do I just want to run away and hide from this man's strange, ghostly touch?

I try and get myself under control, try and get back into the feel of my angle. I manage to plaster a mask of stone onto my face and crack my red painted lips into an alluring smile, "But Caesar," I purr, running the palm of my hand along my satin covered body, "I always look amazing."

Whistles and cat calls, the shrill cries of animals before they finally capture their prey. The calls screech through the air and pierce the cloudy bubble of the stage like out of control hover crafts flying into enemy territory. For some reason Caesar's mini clone, Caesar Jr., finds this funny and giggles out loud. He tries to politely cover his mouth with one plump, white hand.

I freeze, ice slipping its chilly breath over my skin. How old is he? Ten, eleven maybe? Close to the same age as August then. I bet little Caesar gets whatever his tiny heart desires: food, clothes, toys, anything he could ever dream of having. He will never know hunger or pain or the desperation of trying to survive against all odds. He will know nothing of that, while my brother will never experience anything else.

Sometimes I want to smack life in the face and demand why she is so unfair.

Back on stage Caesar gestures towards the crowd, waving away the cheers with a good natured grin. He leans forwards to talk to me some more, his face breaking into his famous smile. His son mimics his movements as if tied to him with an invisible string. I shiver, but I can't back away, my back pressed tight into my chair.

"So, Juniper," Caesar begins, his bloody lined eyes flickering up to my empty face, "How has your stay in the Capitol been so far?"

I smile slightly, trying to act out my angle like my mentor, Saffy, told me to. It's difficult that's for sure. She wants me to be sexy and flirty, proud and aloof. Proud and aloof, that I can do. District 9 thought of me as nothing else. But how exactly do you act sexy and flirty? I've never really understood how some girls could make it seem so...natural. What are you supposed to do? Stick out your chest, wiggle your hips or just blatantly whip off all your clothes and walk around naked? For the first time in my life I suddenly wish I could navigate these unfamiliar waters more easily.

Ugh, I just want to gag myself right now and get this interview over with. I can't be alluring or sexy or whatever else you can possibly call it. I don't want to wear this dress any more, I don't want it's low collar that makes me feel exposed like a live wire. I don't want its tightness that makes me feel trapped. It's quite literally taking every fiber of my being not to throw up and run off this stage in anger and shame. Desperately I want to claw away all the cameras that have been constantly following me these past few days, the cameras that make me put on masks and try and forget myself. I want to slip off all those masks, pretend they never existed, and gather plants in the woods with Olivia or collect firewood for my family like I usually do. I just want to have the freedom of being myself again. But of course you can never get what you want. Life's like that, isn't it?

Instead of running away, like I so desperately want to, I fight through it, flicking my dark coils of hair over my shoulder. I may be playing this sexy thing over the top now, but I also run my tongue over the smooth pavement of my teeth. I've seen girls back home do the same thing to garner a boy's attention. Hopefully, the Capitol thinks saliva is sexy as well.

"My stay has been just great," I hum, gently running my fingers through my hair. Emerald nail polish glints like poisonous snakes through the dark strands, "I've especially enjoyed the food and of course meeting all of the excellent citizens of the Capitol."

Caesar smiles at me, his ghost white teeth glinting beneath crimson lips like lost souls, "I'm assuming you don't have a special someone back at home?"

I wave him off with a gentle swish and swipe of bony fingers, "Of course not. I simply could not be tied down to one boy."

"Well, what if he had a rope?" Caesar Jr. questions. He tips forward with an elbow slung casually across his knee. I've seen the exact same position mirrored over a hundred times by his father, "Could he tie you down then?"

I laugh at him, a true genuine laugh that froths unbidden from my throat. It sounds fake and forced among all this falseness and deceit, "Well maybe then. Maybe then he could tie me down."

Caesar Sr. is chuckling as well, his laughter a trombone in the middle of an empty auditorium. He waves the crowd for silence, flicking his wrist up and away as if something unpleasant is stuck to his sleeve.

"Now," he says, his legs twisting together in a knotted pretzel, "There's one last question I've been dying to ask you."

I raise an eyebrow in his direction, my hands clasping together in my lap. They twitch slightly as my pulse jiggles up and down. I feel as if they are cupping all my nerves and insecurities away in their hidden basin so no one can see them, "What would that be?"

Caesar glances towards the crowd, his attempt to raise the suspense painfully obvious, "What do you think of this year's hand-picked tributes?"

What do I think of them? The Career pack definitely worries me, their brute strength and combat skills pathetically out-weighing my own. They are fast, they are strong and they will be tough to kill. Maybe I won't be able to kill them, maybe I physically can't kill them. Not unless I somehow manage to miraculously catch one of them off guard or alone and unprepared. Even then it would be tough to fight against their incredible skill. Hopefully, by the time I am forced into action, someone else will have taken them down.

But besides the Careers there are certain others who worry me as well. That red-headed girl, Atalanta, from five is deadly with a knife. Her throws always take my breath away because they are so perfect. Sometimes I even fear that she may even best the Careers in combat, but that could also be my over-active imagination going into over-drive. There's also Brennadon from three and Eric from eleven. Eric's very imposing with his brute strength and superior weapon handling. But even brute strength means nothing if you have no mind behind it. If he is intelligent, then he will be more of a competition then he already is, if he isn't...well there won't be any trouble tricking him. The question is: which is he?

Maeve from three and Lucian from twelve worry me as well. Maeve is...strange to say the least. But she could be hiding her skills and putting up a front to appear weak and crazy. I have seen that strategy work before in the arena. Lucian, on the other hand, doesn't look as strong as the other tributes, but I fear he may be hiding something as well. It wouldn't surprise me. He seems so...hollow and soulless. It's almost like he was born without emotion or even genuine care for people and their lives. He seems capable of doing anything to win.

If I had to pick the one tribute who set me on edge the most, it would be him. Him or maybe Jet. Both of them seem to be swimming a little in the deep end of the lake, if you know what I mean. There's just something there that doesn't quite seem right with them. Beneath their eyes something is growing, maliciously dancing a cold fury. They are genuinely the only tributes that ignite me in the dark, terrible fire of fear.

I turn towards Caesar and say nothing of what I am thinking, it's too dangerous to reveal anything to anybody. I gently press my lips together, smearing the red that has been painted there, and sneer up at his expectant face.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Caesar," I murmur, gently stretching myself forward. The very idea that I'm telling him a secret is absurd, after all the whole country of Panem is watching me right now, "If the tributes this year are meant to be the District's best, well, then...I'd hate to see their worst."

I swish my hair behind my shoulder, a heavy-lidded gaze glancing scornfully towards the tributes behind me, "At least we know District 9 was sending their best. I can't say the same about the rest."

The buzzer goes off then and I stand, sashaying my way back to the tribute bench, still trying not to trip on the satin of my dress, the too-tall heels that wobble under my quaking ankles. I hear cheers and hollers but I don't even look back to see the crowd's, or Caesar's, reactions to what I said. The noise level is enough for me to deduce whether or not my interview was well received.

Just as I am about to sit, Alaric passes me as he hurries onto the stage for his own interview. I look sharply in his direction, immediately noting the nervous way in which he is adjusting his tie, the lapels of his suit jacket. I feel the same nerves sending my fingers dancing across my hips. We lock eyes and I have just enough time to mouth, "Good luck, deaf boy." before he is gone and into the deadly spotlight.

I glance over to my left, feeling the eyes of the Careers snatching my way. Some look as if they're sizing me up, seeing if what I just said is bull or if I am truly a threat to their survival. Most of them seem to think the former, their eyes glazing over with boredom as they look away from me and focus their attention onto Alaric's interview. But Jet continues to train his dancing gaze onto me.

Looking at him seems to confirm my suspicions about him being unstable or volatile. There's just something there, something shimmering and stretching beneath those darkly, glazed eyes that just seems...off.

Afraid to appear weak, I stare right back at him. He keeps his dancing gaze trained on me, insulting me, tormenting me. Those eyes bring forth horrible images from my past: the sharp trill of Larks, ashen fingers igniting the sky and pain, terrible pain, electrifying my body. I am drowning in it, suffocating in its soot and fire and ash. Bile chokes my throat.

I can't take it anymore! I break eye-contact with Jet, flipping my hair over my shoulder to try and make it appear that I got bored instead of very, very frightened and disturbed. I gulp down the bile that had risen up my throat and turn my attention back to Alaric, away from the memories that are clogging my mind.

It's strange, yet despite the fact that Alaric and I come from two very different classes, his being the rich, upper class that I despise the most, we have somehow managed to form a tentative bond with each other. I wouldn't say its friendship...but we have agreed not kill each other in the arena if we should ever meet. That has to count for something...right?

And despite his numerous, yes numerous, flaws I have to reluctantly admit that Alaric's an alright guy. I could've had worse for a district partner.

...

You'll never hear me say that to his face.

On stage, Alaric relaxes into his chair, looking more at ease up there then I probably did. The mottled, blood coloured figure of Caesar tips towards him eagerly as if they already have a good repertoire going. Even Caesar Jr., who sometimes completely loses interest in some interviews he deems boring, leans forward enthusiastically as if Alaric has promised to buy him a present or possibly a new suit. He and his father do need an update.

"So Alaric," Caesar is saying, tapping the side of his knee with ghostly, spider fingers, "I think all of us here have been wondering about your name. How does it go?"

Alaric looks a little stunned by the question, but he quickly recovers, "Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo." He chuckles, flashing the silver coins of his eyes out towards the crowd, "Many people have asked me about my name before."

"Is there a reason that it has to be so long?" Caesar Jr. asks, wrinkling his brow in confusion as if the very idea of having a long name is preposterous.

Alaric shrugs his shoulders, he himself perhaps not knowing why his name is so long and unnecessarily complicated, "It's tradition in District 9's upper class. I guess our last names are there to show us what families we come from...and our first names are there to match."

Caesar nods sagely, as if that explanation makes sense. Caesar Jr., however, still looks confused and ready to ask more questions about the issue. Fast as lightning, his father jumps in and asks another question before Caesar Jr. can even form his.

"Is it hard keeping track of all your names?" Caesar asks, wiggling his severely plucked eyebrows. Scraggly caterpillers. That will tempt out Alaric's answer.

Alaric laughs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. Saffy was right; the likable angle was a perfect match for him. I am constantly having to remind myself that he's just acting, "No, not really. After so long I've gotten used to it. The hard part is keeping track of my twelve sibling's names!"

Caesar blinks, his eyes expanding out of his face like someone's blowing them up with a pump. He blinks again, his tiny brain unable to process the fact that Alaric actually has twelve siblings. I guess it is pretty amazing. I only have two and keeping track of them is hard of enough. And they only have one name! It kind of makes me wonder how Alaric does it all.

With Caesar still not recovered, Caesar Jr., like a rancher trying to catch a runaway horse, pulls the reins back in and takes charge of the interview, "Twelve siblings, that's a lot.

Alaric nods, the corner of his mouth peeking up into a grin.

"Do you love them all?"

"Of course," Alaric breathes, his confidence and charm tarnishing away. In their place shines forth something more vulnerable and tender,"I care for my family very much. We stick together and help each other through all the tough times. Even...even when I," he taps his ear, the sharp tap of nail on plastic echoing through the silent stage, "I lost my hearing and needed hearing aids, they still stuck by me."

A breath of silence envelopes the crowd. Some people are pulling out tissues and dotting at turquoise eyes and bejeweled cheeks as if his tale is truly touching their hearts and not just their tear ducts.

I glance up at Alaric, the tender expressions of emotion casting shadows over the planes of his face. Something pangs in my chest, crying out for him and his helplessness. It's almost like I am under his spell too. But I remind myself that it's not a spell, it's not magic, it's an act. Alaric's just playing the Capitol, trying to make them like him. It's just a good thing he doesn't need to impress me.

Even Caesar dabs at his bloody eyes, trying to hold in the streams of water that threaten to ruin the landscape of his face. Having come out of his daze, he whispers hoarsely, "Despite your disability, Alaric, will you try and go home to them?"

"Yes," Alaric chokes out, clutching his chest like it physically hurts him to say these words, "After all, Caesar, the only disability in life is a bad attitude."

The buzzer blares and Alaric quietly makes his way back to the seating area. Out of my peripheral vision I can see the girl from ten, Pipper, rise and make her way towards Caesar for her own interview.

"You were playing them," I whisper harshly, snapping my eyes to Alaric, "Your emotion may have been real, but all you were really trying to do was engage their sympathies."

Alaric's eyes flip towards me like luminous moons, "You were playing the crowd too."

I don't even bother to feel insulted. I was. In fact I would be more insulted if he thought I would act like that for real, "At least I wasn't bringing my siblings into this mess."

Alaric pauses, running his fingers through his mousy hair. Drifting away, thinking about something too deep and emotional to express with me. His face is twisted into a tortured expression, "You'd do anything to return to your family, wouldn't you?"

I'm taken aback, but unlike Alaric I don't pause before saying my next words. My acidic tongue always has a comment snapping to get out, "Of course. What kind of question is that, Al?"

He twitches like I've just prodded him with an electrical current. The tender emotional mask he was wearing before is gone, replaced instead with a stony, uncomfortable one, "Please don't call me, Al."

I smirk wickedly at him, regaining some of my good humour at his discomfort, "Why? Does it annoy you, Al?"

His mouth twitches into a grimace, "Yes."

I pretend to pull a pen from thin air and mimic writing, swirling invisible letters into the invisible air, "Weakness discovered. Alaric hates being called Al. Could be used to greater potential in the arena."

"Seriously, Juniper? Do you-"

"Sssh," I say, slamming a hand over his mouth. I don't need to hear his protests, "Some of us actually want to watch the interviews, Al. Gather information on the other tributes and the likes."

I swear I feel his lips twitch under my hand, as if he is contemplating biting me. With sudden care I remove my fingers from his face and turn my attention to the interview at hand.

I don't really know much about this girl, Pipper. Ever since her Reaping she has been hiding in the shadow of Sean Armani, twin brother of last year's victor, Aleah Armani. She hasn't really stood out. Not in skill or charm or even looks. Maybe not particularly weak, but not particularly noticeable either.

Who knows, maybe she'll surprise me.

I look up at her. She's done up in a beautiful turquoise gown, tiers of blue satin ruffling over each other like waves. The dress is cinched at the waist, showing off her tiny figure. Rows of curls sprawl down her back, creeping over her eyes and hiding them like a mask. Her pale skin almost seems to glow in the harsh lights of the stage. Her freckles, and I can't help but compare them to my own, look like honey floating on creamy milk.

"How did you feel when you were voted in?" Caesar asks her, leaning forward tentatively as if he is afraid to touch her. I sniff. That bastard wasn't afraid to be near me.

Pipper shrugs her narrow shoulders, "I guess how everyone else felt."

Caesar blinks, not understanding her answer. I don't really understand it either. What game is she trying to play here?

"And how would that be?"

Again she just shrugs, inclining her head mysteriously towards Caesar. Her dark eyes flash with secrets, "You tell me."

"Oh, well, uhm," Caesar stutters, scratching his head and looking (for once) at a loss for words. He turns to his son as if thinking he will help him out of this dire situation.

Caesar Jr. looks at Pipper hopefully, perhaps thinking he'll succeed where his father failed, "Have you liked your stay at the Capitol?"

"Perhaps," Pipper replies, sweeping a pale hand through her thick hair, glancing at him from under her lashes, "Perhaps not."

Caesar Jr. looks at her with his large, child eyes. The red of his hair clouding over a thoughtful face, "Have you liked the food?"

Pipper sweeps her legs together, gently resting her narrow arms on the bony bridges of her knees, "Have you liked the food?."

"What about your family?" Caesar interjects, his eyes raking Pipper's snowy face for any reaction to his question.

Pipper arches an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching down into a grimace, "What about them?"

"Are you close to them?"

Pipper seems to ponder this question for a minute, "As close as you could expect."

Caesar Jr. suddenly waves his hand in the air, nearly jumping up and down for joy as a sudden idea strikes him.

"Do you have any friends?" he asks, eagerly pressing his face closer to Pipper's.

"How are you defining friend?" Pipper questions back, tipping her head to the side as if examining a complex puzzle.

Caesar's pasty face breaks into a grimace. What will he do if she won't answer any of his questions? Cry?

"How are you feeling about this year's tributes?" He asks desperately, waving those spider fingers over his knee.

Piper raises an eyebrow, casually sweeping her long curls over her shoulders, "Do I have to have an opinion about them?"

Caesar blinks, his face going blank. He manages to stutter out, "Well I guess not."

Pipper's face remains impassive, her heavy gaze flashing beneath her thick lashes, "If I did have an opinon, would you like to hear it?"

"Yes!" Caesar Jr. bounces from his plush seat.

"Oh good," Pipper sighs, running her fingers along the layered edges of her dress, "because I don't have one."

Ceasar sighs, running a hand over his tired face, "OK, one last question Pipper. Are you prepared for the arena this year?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Pipper questions, glancing down at her nails.

The buzzer blares.

That was strange.

I learned nothing new about Pipper, learned nothing of what strategy she would use in the arena or of how she operated. Perhaps I did learn one thing. If she's as good at deflecting weapons as she is questions, then maybe she could make it past more than a couple of days in the arena. If not...well then that's that.

Sean Armani steps up next.

He is dressed casually. Blue jeans and a pale T-shirt with a dark blazer thrown over top. His hair is soft and tousled making it look like he just crawled out of bed and threw on some clothes. His sharply angled face has a pleasant, friendly look to it. His eyes are the same blue as his sister's, but they are not sharp and ice cold like hers. They are warm and melting, the same colour as thawing ice in spring.

He's interesting, that one. Everyone expects him to be just as ruthless and cold-hearted as Aleah, but he doesn't seem to be like that. He seems to be friendlier, kinder, more charming then she ever was. He's more likable. Which is dangerous. The likable ones are the ones that you should always look out for.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Caesar starts off, seeming to have recovered his composure after the frazzled interview with Pipper.

Sean grins, relaxing into his chair, "And it's a pleasure to finally have met you."

"I hope your stay in the Capitol has been good?"

"It has been," Sean replies, drifting his sapphire gaze down onto Caesar, "But have you tried making a piece of toast? Do you know how hard it is?"

A few chuckles from the crowd escape. I can hear their high-pitched whine lingering in the air. God, this kid already has the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand.

Caesar blinks, his plastic face breaking into a toothy grin, "No, I've never thought of that, actually."

"There's so many buttons, how do you know which one to press?" Sean runs a hand through his hair thoughtfully, "Or not to press? You make one mistake, push the wrong button and suddenly you have flaming toast trying to kill you."

More laughs, big ones this time. I swear I can even hear some swoons fluttering like butterflies through the air. Sean grins to the crowd, a soft grin that's probably making more than a few female hearts spill onto the floor right now. How does he do that? The crowd positively loves him right now.

Sean continues talking, his voice lilting with humour, "You're so busy worrying over the other tributes, the knives, the arrows that you overlook the deadliest weapon of all: flaming food."

The crowd is hooting with laughter, giggling with strange pitches and clutching their pillow soft bellies. They remind me of the muttated hyenas the bio-engineers in my district once created. They were creatures who laughed at everything, even at something that they had just killed.

"Should we add that to the weapon rack next year?" Caesar grins, a jagged line of white breaking through the soft, landscape of his face.

Sean chuckles, nodding his head, "You better, otherwise the poor tributes coming in next year are going to be very unprepared."

"Because toast can kill!" Caesar Jr. pipes up, nearly falling out of his chair in excitement.

The crowd goes nuts, literally nuts. Laughing and heaving like starving animals waiting for a good joke. Maybe it is funny, maybe they deserve to laugh, but it doesn't make me despise them any less.

Once the laughter has died down, Caesar tries to smooth the craggy surface of his face, maintain a more serious mood. He fails. Miserably. Waving a hand weakly in the air, he tries to catch his breath or possibly think of another question to ask.

"Now Sean," he manages to puff out after a few seconds, "I think you know we've all been talking about you and your sister."

Sean's face loses most of its humor. His eyes still laugh out at the crowd, but his friendly face and pleasant demeanor have sharpend, creased into the crumpled folds of seriousness.

"And do you think that there's a chance the Armani twins can win back to back?"

Sean taps his fingers against his arm, sending them dancing and scuttling over the silky fabric of his blazer. His lip is pulled down into a thoughtful frown.

"I think," he begins haltingly, "my sister has shown she's capable of doing anything, of overcoming all odds. If there's anyone that can bring me home it's her."

Caesar nods, smoothing his chin with the palm of his hand, "You love her." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Sean replies, gently gazing out in into the crowd, "If I could have volunteered for her when she was reaped, I would've. I'd do anything for her."

The crowd absorbs this, gently sighing and holding one another close. To me that's more of an insult than a comfort. They can hold whoever they want, whoever they love whenever they want want to. Tributes, like Sean and me, unfortunately do not have that pleasure. We have to go without.

"And you don't want to get Aleah angry!" Caesar chortles loudly, trying to lighten the somber mood that has folded over the stage.

"No!" Sean laughs, a little humour lighting up his face again, softening the harsh angles of his cheeks and jaw, "You wouldn't like Aleah angry. Especially now that she's trying to find that pink Reaping dress a home."

You can barely hear the buzzer over all the cheers and laughs that he's receiving.

Sean is definitely interesting. He doesn't seem as ruthless or calculating as Aleah, but Sean possesses certain qualities that she didn't. He's stronger, kinder and more likable. If he has the nerve to do so his strength will serve him well in combat and his charming personality will easily garner sponsor gifts. He may not be just like Aleah...but he is just as big of a threat as she was.

Sean sits down and Bianca steps up.

She's done up in a pretty blue gown. It's some sort of sequined thing that hangs to her shins and puffs out around her waist. Beneath the blue is a layer of shimmering yellow that plays and dances across the floor. Her lips are colored a soft pink and wisps of curled hair hang around her face in an elaborate, sculpted hairstyle.

She walks towards Caesar and quietly sits down, carefully crossing her legs and placing her pale hands in her lap.

"Hello Bianca," Caesar begins, crossing starry pant legs and gently hanging his microphone from spider fingers, "How are you today?"

"I'm just fine," Bianca replies back enthusiastically. Her voice chirps around the empty stage, "Really I've been quite enjoying the Capitol. The colors here are so bright and beautiful! I wish we had these kinds of colors back home."

"So you've liked the Capitol?"

Bianca beams, earnestly shaking her head up and down, "Oh yes! The colors, the food, the comforts are all just amazing! I can't believe that I get to experience this."

Caesar nods sagely, wisely, all-powerfully knowing, "Did you like your life back in District 11?"

"Yes," Bianca gushes, a slight quake beginning to tremble through her voice, "but it was hard. My family doesn't have a lot of money you see, so sometimes we had to go without some of the things we wanted or needed."

"That sounds horrible," Caesar Jr breathes, his eyes ballooning out of his head.

Oh, yes little Caesar because it is horrible when you don't get something that you want.

Bianca shrugs, "It was OK, I guess. I mean, my family was happy, right? That's all that mattered. As long as we stuck together and helped each other out we could get through anything."

"You are close with your family?" Caesar asks gently as if soothing a trapped butterfly. The kid's terrified, she's probably going to die, and you think you can help her out Caesar? Yeah right.

"I'm very close with my family," Bianca squeaks out, her hands folding and unfolding the creases in her dress, "I just hope I make them proud. All I want to do is see them again. I want to hold them, and my bestfriend Winnie, tight and never let them go."

Caesar gently reaches forward and strokes her arm, soothingly saying his next words, "You'll make your family proud Bianca. No matter what happens in the arena, your family will always be proud of you."

Bianca looks at him, watery light playing in her chestnut eyes. She's managing to somehow hold it together, but one more good push and those tears will cascade over her face.

Bianca runs her thumbs along the bottom of her eyes, wiping away the tears before they can trickle over her cheeks, "Thank you Caesar. It's just hard sometimes being away from them."

Caesar rubs his hand reassuringly up her arm one more time. Seriously what is his deal about touching people? Does it give him some sick pleasure? If this continues he's shooting right up my creepy meter and sitting just below Lucian.

"You mentioned a friend. Winnie, right?" Caesar asks, folding back into his seat and keeping his hands to himself, "Is she a good friend?"

Bianca nods, seeming to have regained some of her enthusiasm, "Oh yes, the best of best friends. We do everything together. Like my family we stick up for each other and never let someone walk over the other. She's like the sister I never had."

"It sounds like there's a lot of people waiting for you back home," Caesar Jr. states, gently adjusting his crooked tie.

"Yes," Bianca smiles sadly, "There are a lot of people counting on me coming home. Hopefully, I won't disappoint them."

The buzzer blares and Bianca quietly makes her way back towards her seat. That girl seems too innocent and kind to ever be in the Hunger Games. I know for me to win that she must die, but it's hard thinking that way now.

I don't know why Bianca was voted in, what she did in her district to make them do that, but the emotion onstage was real. All she really wants to do is return home, see her bestfriend and not die. She has the same goals as me really and that makes me sad. Only one of us can emerge as the victor. Judging by the tears and uncertain way Bianca said she'd win, I don't think she will. It's harsh, but true.

Glancing forward I see Eric step up onto the stage and...wow is he tall. His thick, winding shadow covers the entire stage, blotting out the floor boards, consuming them in a gigantic, heaving mass. I remember him as tall, but standing like a brick wall on the stage it seems like he's grown. Maybe he has some giant blood in him?

Dressed all in gold, Eric definitely looks like a fierce, raging giant. A warrior cast in amber. Except his shirt. It's the colour of midnight, a stark contrast of night to day. Upon it is a strange symbol I've never seen before. Blazing in the center is a burning sun with two, cruel looking scythes crossed over it. It's odd, I've never seen that symbol before. I wonder what it symbolizes?

Caesar inclines his head towards his huge new guest. His crimson hair shimmering like bloody water in the scorching light, "Welcome Erik Fiske! How are you today?"

Erik glares at him, his dark face straining with muscles, "Fine."

I snap my eyes to Erik. His face is dark, his deep irises flickering and sparking with...something. A barely contained rage maybe? He definitely looks like he wants to leap from his seat in this moment and rip off Caesar's head. What happened to cause him to act this way? Was it the Capitol who upset him or another tribute?

Caesar seems oblivious to the fury burning before him. Maybe he thinks it's just another angle, but I highly doubt he has the brains to think otherwise. Either way he continues on like he senses nothing.

"So Erik," He begins, folding his hands into his lap. Out of the corner of my eye I see Caesar Jr. copy his exact same movement, "I notice you are wearing a rather unique shirt. Is there anything significant about it?"

Erik's face twitches, "It represents an organization back in District 11. The Scarecrows. They keep the district running smoothly. They do all the jobs the Peacekeepes think are beneath them."

Along the edge of the bench I see the girl from Two, Sade I think, cross her arms and twist her face into a searing grimace. What is that about? Does she hold something against Erik? Is there a history between the two? But wait, how could there be a history between them if they are from different districts? Or is it just quite simply that Sade comes from the Peacekeeper district and is angry that Erik pretty much bashed Peacekeepers right in front of her?

"Were you part of the Scarecrows?" Caesar Jr. pipes up from his plush chair.

"Yes," Erik nods.

Caesar Sr. nods as well, as if somehow understanding the life Erik has lived and the struggles he may or may not have gone through, "And did they teach you skills that could be useful in the arena?"

"Yes." Erik glares pointedly at Caesar, not elaborating.

Caesar waits...waits...and waits some more. Finally, exasperated he asks Erik, "Would you mind elaborating?"

Erik stiffly shrugs his shoulder, a jerky movement that seems forced and unnatural, "I learned how to use a slingshot. I'm good at it. I learned snares too. I'm strong and I'm fast."

So he can speak with more than one syllable words. I was beginning to worry he was stupider than I ever hoped to dream. But...no his answers don't ever sound slow or dumb. In fact they sound more forced than anything, as if Erik wants to be anywhere but here, as if he has a great many emotions scattering around inside that enormous body of his.

So he's definitely not stupid, but how does his emotions come into play? Does he have trouble controlling them or is this just a rare case? Is this emotion tonight so great that he can't even fathom controlling it? Again I wonder what has caused him to act in such away. I wish I knew, then I could better understand this perplexing guy.

Caesar Jr. looks at Erik, his eyes shining with youthful innocence, "Do you think your skills are great enough to best the Careers?"

"The Careers?" Erik sneers, his voice sharp and mocking, "The Careers aren't a threat to me. They have no skill, they are weak. I could best them all."

Across the bench, the Careers stiffen, their backs arching up like cats about to pounce. Particularly furious are Jet and Sade. Jet because...he's Jet. What more is there to say? And Sade, well it just can't be district pride, not with that look in her eyes. There's something going on between her and Erik, but I just can't figure out what. It annoys me when I don't know something.

"You seem very confident," Caesar notes, swinging his legs together, twisting them at the ankle, "Do you think you have a chance of winning?"

Erik stares at him, "Yes."

Back to the one syllable words I see. Sigh. What happened to Erik to make him act this way? This isn't his normal behavior I don't think. If it weren't for the fierce emotion flickering through dark eyes I might have considered it his angle, but not now. That emotion is too real to be a deception.

"Your parents must be very proud of you," Caesar Jr. nods, clasping his hands in front of him like an important bio-engineer about to propose the project of his life.

The back of Erik's neck tightens, the muscles of his back coiling together like those springs you sometimes see in toy stores. Did Caesar hit a nerve?

"I don't want to talk about them," Erik mutters, his eyes shuttering down to the floor between his heavy boots.

"But-" Caesar begins.

"Please I don't want to talk about them," Erik rumbles, his voice sharp and defensive. Before Caesar has time to ask another question -

- the buzzer blares.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Galla stand and make her way towards Caesar. Her pale frame is draped in a lacy, black gown that reminds me of the spinning's of a spider. Her hair, shorter than I remember, comes down into a jagged bob just beneath her ears. She appears dark and brooding because of all the heavy black make-up she is wearing. Amongst the brightly colored flock of the Capitol citizens she stands out like a raven in the snow.

Caesar looks at her for the slightest of seconds. I can practically see the gears and wires of his mind whirring and whizzing, discarding questions then picking new ones up.

"Welcome Miss Galla Cinder," Caesar booms, brushing his ghostly hands through the air, "It's an honor to have you here."

Galla looks at him with large, dark eyes heavily enhanced by shadows and midnight make-up, "It's just an honor to be here." Her reply is so quiet it sounds like the whisper of feathers being rubbed together, scratchy breaths of air sweeping through the trees.

Caesar Jr. swings forward, twisting his legs into a squiggly, knotted line, "Have you enjoyed your stay?"

"Yes," Galla nods, quickly, fervently darting her eyes around the stage. She gently rubs her fingers across the dark lace swirls of her dress. Bangs of hair flop into her face and partially obscure her eyes.

"Were you excited to talk to me?" Caesar Jr. asks, a cheeky grin playing across upturned lips.

Flitting her eyes across the stage, desperately tugging at a dark curl of hair, it appears that Galla wants nothing more than to disappear and hide in the shadows. Is this her strategy? Or is she just simply playing up an angle?

"Yeah, I guess." More tugging at her clothes, more picking at the lace. Pale hands crawl together and close up under the dark sleeves of her dress.

What is she doing? Why is she making it so obvious that she wants to disappear? Is this her strategy or the honest desperation of her emotions leaking out? I guess she has always been one to fade into the background, blend with the darkened patches of wall like no one else. But would she use that as her strategy?

What is her game? If her strategy is to blend into the shadows, how does she hope to win? Sure, if no one notices her they won't attack her, but if she completely fades into the background no sponsors will take note of her either. She can't have the best of both worlds.

"Now, Galla," Caesar lilts, his candy eyes sharpening, blazing with new inventiveness, "I need to ask you a question we've all been dying to know."

Galla looks at him suspiciously, her mind probably snagged on the looming word of "dying." Her bangs coil down into her face, "What would that be?"

A finger taps Caesar's long, straight nose, "What was your reaction to being voted in as tribute?"

Galla visibly stiffens, dark eyes shattering into jagged shards of glass. Underneath the fabric of her dress I see her hands clench together in small fists.

"Why do you want to know?" She snaps, hostile and suddenly angry.

Whoah. Wasn't she supposed to be hiding; you know blending into the background? What happened to that strategy? Why did she suddenly abandon it when asked a personal question? If that's not her strategy then what is? What is her game? I am so confused by her.

Apparently Caesar is too. He jumps slightly at her response, exaggeratedly raising one thin-lined eyebrow at his suddenly hostile guest. The crowd whispers softly to themselves, glancing with a new eye at this District 12 tribute.

Tentatively, Caesar runs a finger across his lip, "Is it difficult to talk about how you feel?"

Crossing her arms, Galla pointedly stares down Caesar, "Why do you care? I'm not talking about my feelings with you."

"What about me?" Caesar Jr. squeaks, his tiny face lit up with hopeful light.

"No."

A crack forms on Caesar Jr.'s face, his pale eyes swimming in the pool of his heartbreak. He looks utterly devastated. It's just one "no" kid. Deal with it.

"Oh, well, ugh" Caesar starts, casting a concerned look towards his saddened son, "One more question. Did you say good-bye to your family before coming here?"

Galla twitches, "Why should I answer that? That's none of your business. Leave me alone."

The buzzer blares.

Galla walks off stage, her dress draping behind her like jagged wings. The last tribute rises for their interview. Lucian.

Next to me I can feel the shifting weight of Alaric. He wraps towards me, flicking grey eyes up at my face.

"What do you think of this guy?" He asks, shooting a nervous glance to the dark figure on stage.

I cross my arms, tapping my fingers across my arms. Shivers crawl up and down my spine just thinking about this guy.

"I don't like him. He seems...empty." I sigh and glance at the emerald green nail polish adorning my fingernails. Poisonous green. Poisonous like Lucian.

Alaric nods, his lips parting into a grimace, "Did you ever notice how he never seems to have any real emotion?"

"Yes," I say, casting a furtive look in Lucian's direction, "He could be scary in the arena that one."

Alaric doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He knows just as much as I do that Lucian isn't exactly right.

Up on stage Lucian sits in his chair, a lazy charm plastered onto his chalky face. His clothes are in a word classy. A black tuxedo drapes his smaller frame, hugging the lean curve of his chest and legs. Along the edges it is trimmed in red, blood red. His tie is deep, dark maroon. And...am I imagining this? Even his ebony hair seems to be polished with a vague, maroon colour. Creepily charming can sum up his entire outfit.

Caesar looks at him with crimson-lidded eyes, "Welcome Mr. Lucian Drake. How are you faring?"

Lucian stares back him, his eyes holding an oddly blank stare, "I'm doing fine Caesar. Learning skills, learning survival. Faring quite well indeed."

Icy fingers run themselves up and down my spine. Lucian is so creepy. The way he is saying his words...they sound rehearsed and practiced to the point that there is no emotion or feeling rounding them out. Then there's his eyes, glazed and distant as if he's thinking about one thing and saying another. I wonder what he's thinking. Shiver. Scratch that, I don't really want to know.

"The skills you're learning," Caesar asks, holding out his microphone, licking his dry, paper lips, "will they be of any use to you in the arena?"

Lucian gazes off into the distance, absently running his narrow fingers along his pant leg, "Yes. Yes the skills I'm learning...well they'll be useful to me at least."

Caesar Jr. gazes with avid interest at Lucian. Apparently he isn't creeped out by him. That or he is so used to creepy people it doesn't affect him anymore, "So you think you have a chance of winning?"

"Of course," Lucian replies, a hollow grin gracing his blank face, "Of course I'll win. In a couple weeks from now I'll be back here doing another interview."

But he won't win, I'll be the victor instead. I'd hate to see how the tributes would have suffered under his hands if he had indeed won.

"So, Lucian," Caesar asks, gently leaning forward, "How do you feel about this year's tributes?"

Lucian blinks, considering the question. His blank eyes heavily sweep towards Caesar, his voice drawling unemotionally, "The tributes are strong this year. Most of them are made for the arena. At least I'll have a little competition this year, some years are so boring."

"So you enjoy watching the Hunger Games?" Caesar Jr. suddenly blurts out.

Lucian shrugs, his face impassive, "They entertain me."

That cold-hearted bastard! How sick and twisted can you be to actually enjoy the Hunger Games? How could you enjoy watching that?! How - Why am I asking myself these questions? This is Lucian. Anything sick and creepy probably goes with him.

"And," Lucian continues flatly, "everyone loves the Hunger Games, right?" That same hollowly charming smile ignites his cold lips.

The crowd cheers for him, some laughing and agreeing. The snarling wolves teeth are back, hunting their prey, stalking the weak. Wow, Lucian would get along with most Capitolites just fine.

"You seem like a very charming fellow," Caesar notices, flashing a grin to the cheering crowd.

Lucian nods, the red in his hair shimmering and coiling, "Of course Caesar. I can always persuade people to get what I want. Even if it means using any tactic necessary to get the job done."

What kind of tactic is he talking about? Do I really want to know? Maybe the best thing with Lucian is knowing the least amount of information about him as possible. It's less frightening that way.

" A lot of people like you?" Caesar Jr. asks, grinning cheekily.

Lucian stares at little Caesar the blank eyes staring absently at the kid's forehead. A strange, fractured light dances there, lingering and stretching. The charming smile that had once adorned his face now looks like a hungry grimace, "I would say that I make an impression on them."

"People remember me too!" Caesar Jr. squeaks, jumping up and down in his seat.

Caesar smiles down at his son, gently patting his narrow shoulder and looking like the very image of a proud father, "That they do, Jr." Little Ceasar beams up at him with frost dipped teeth.

Caesar turns back to Lucian, a goofy sort of grin on his face, "Now Lucian one more question."

Lucian glances dully at him, his eyes blank marbles. He looks bored and uncaring sitting there, like a king surveying his people. Stony, blank and completely devoid of emotion.

"What's that?" He asks robotically, his words sounding jarred as if he's reading off a blurry cue card.

"Why do you think you were voted in?"

Lucian regards Caesar blankly, his mouth twisting down into a frown, "Probably thought I could win. I have all the skills to do so and so much more. With me in the Hunger Games, they certainly won't be boring. I'll make sure to entertain."

The buzzer blares. Lucian stands up and makes his way back to the seating area.

The crowd begins cheering, whooping, whistling and clapping like maniacs. The seal of Panem glows up above the stage and the first strings of the anthem begin blaring out.

Dull lights illuminate the various faces of the tributes, some proud, some scared, some confident or right out dazed and lost in their own private worlds. I glance furtively around, soaking in the tribute's faces, their expressions and their mannerisms. I feel the steady warmth of Alaric beside me, the gigantic frame of Erik towering over me.

This is the last time we're all going to be together, warm, breathing and alive. The next time we're together it'll be in the arena. Where we're going to be trying to kill each other. Twenty three of us will die, one of us will survive.

I may not be the strongest tribute, or the fastest or even the best-looking, but I am smart and I know my way around plants. I know which ones are edible and which ones are poisonous.

If there's one thing I am, I am certainly the most poisonous tribute in these games. And it only takes one drop of poison to kill someone.