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Zattiana Dain, Age 13, District Six Female Tribute

"Yeah, my family's interesting," giggled the girl from District Three.

Could you shut the hell up? I pleaded mentally, in no mood to listen to everyone's interview. I just wanted to get through mine and then get as far away from the stage as possible. I had no interest in these people. Career, family, sob story, alliances, blah, blah, blah…. They all sounded so much the same and they had no idea that they did.

"Interesting how?" asked the Interview Host.

He just fueled their boringness.

I didn't listen to her answer; it sickened me. She didn't even have a story to tell. She had no skills, no allies, no interesting or tragic history, nothing significant at the Reaping or opening ceremonies, an average score, and a not-strong personality. She focused on her family. Yeah, well, we all had our own special one of those, for better or for worse.

It wasn't as if I had a chance of sounding much better, but still. At least I knew it was hopeless. It seemed that not everyone else had caught on to that, age regardless.

They were trying so desperately to get a last bit of attention before everyone became nothing in the arena. Like: I'll win because I'm eighteen and a Career, I'm tall and strong, I'm attractive and charming and got a high score and I'm smarter than everyone else and I don't have any emotions and I have allies and I have to win.

Yeah, right.

I was thirteen. Poor district. Depressed, morphling addict brother. Too skinny—weak, really. Not really pretty. I didn't like people most of the time, I got a pathetic score, I wasn't that smart and I was bipolar and I didn't have any allies. I was screwed. Like, so, so beyond screwed that I couldn't even wrap my head around it. I was screwed ever since the meds the damn frickin' Capitol gave me didn't work. But to hell with them.

I had my own problems.

More interviews passed. The girl from Four, with a score of ten, trying to be the cold, intelligent type. Her district partner, talking mostly about people back home. Then District Five.

By then, I completely stopped listening.

. . . . .

At last, it was time to get through my own interview. I would be relieved to have it over with. Then I really wouldn't have to pay attention.

The first real question came, a version of, "How did training go for you?"

"Eh," I said, vaguely.

"Eh?" echoed the Host.

I tried to shrug it off. "I don't know. Okay. I guess." I didn't know what to say—it wasn't like anything interesting had happened, and I didn't want him to bring up my training score. There wasn't much to discuss.

"And what about in the future? Did you spend some of that time planning it?"

I… didn't really have a strategy. It would depend on the arena and what supplies it had and what everyone proved themselves as in the morning. And even if I did have a few ideas, I didn't want to give away anything specific. So I tried to play up the mystery, unpredictability. How appropriate. With a purposeful flick of my ribbon-tied ponytail, I said, sweetly as I could, "Oh, Thespian, I think everyone will see that just soon enough."

The Host gave a dramatic nod with the whole upper half of his body, as if thinking about this. "Now, I also hear that you're bipolar. How do you think that affects your capriciousness?"

I… had no idea what that word even meant. Damn it. Just keep playing this angle. It'll be fine. I just have to get through a few minutes. "I—I think that it makes me even more dangerous. You never know what I'm about to do."

The crowd seemed to like that. I had no idea if it even answered his question or not. But I could feel time running out, thank Panem, and sure enough:"Any one last hint for all of us just watching?"

"Just keep an eye out for me."

Buzzer.

. . . . .

After recovery, dinner, and the interview recap, I was so bored that I was pretty sure I was about to snap and stab someone. Sitting around worrying about the morning got horribly tiring. Who do I need to look out for? What will the arena be? What'll happen?

So instead, I tried to wonder about the past week. These Games were already getting insane. Everyone was selected and trained and knew about whoever those "District Fourteen" people were, who I wasn't even concerned with at that point. In a different fit of boredom, I'd tried to find the reason that everyone was selected. Some were obvious, volunteers, etc. But on most I drew a blank, and I started to mentally sound like my mom in science-geek mode.

Then there were all of the tributes that had flipped out. Like, the ones that made me look perfectly sane. The boy from One had snapped before the opening ceremonies—everyone saw that—but I didn't know what happened, then. But then there was the girl from Five… and from Eight…. So many theories had flown around; I didn't want to think about them.

I just sat at the desk in my room and stared at the wall for a second, then out the window at the too-big city.

Then… the scoring. The averaging, and those whacked demonstrations. The averaging was to get our secrets out of us, but I didn't have any. And what were the Gamemakers trying to do with the final demonstrations? What was it they wanted to know?

My head hurt from it all.

Restless, I turned on the desk and pulled up the Stratagem game. Sure enough, it still worked. I played.

The game made me fight for everything. For air, making me squeeze the avatar of myself out from a crevasse, "swim" (flail) in rapids, dig myself out of a form of quicksand, run from a forest fire. For food, with a hard fishing challenge, and trying to shoot a deer with a virtual bow. For shelter, by assembling a tree-branch hut before simulated other tributes got to me. For weapons, in impossible battles—a touch-controlled sword fight with a shaky view against someone who refused to be disarmed, retrieving a knife back from a muttation.

I wondered if that really represented what my life was about to become.

Someone started banging on my door loudly. "Come on, we're going downstairs to train if you won't freaking sleep!"

I wrenched the door open. "I don't want to train," I argued, even though I didn't actually have anything better to do.

"Then go to bed," Kizzy snapped.

"What, do I need a bedtime, now?"

"No, you need energy to live in the morning."

"It's still early!" And I'm not going to force myself to sleep.

"I told you to try."

"But I don't want to!"

Kizzy yanked on my arm suddenly, pulling me into the hall. "See? You have the worst reflexes I've ever seen. Come on."

"Why doesn't Andy have to train?"

"Because he got a nine and he came back from the Tribute's Lounge at a decent time and he's asleep, unlike some people. Do you want to sleep now, or lose at all of the stations again?"

"I won't freaking lose," I grumbled, and jerked my arm out of her grasp before it broke or something, then stormed off towards the elevators. She followed. Whatever. Training, minus my mentor, didn't sound like a horrible option. I'd just try to block her out.

In the gym, Kizzy dealt with security, and took me to the holographic fighting prep room. I geared up, and Kizzy stood off in the corner while the orange holograms appeared in beams of light.

I threw one of the knives at the nearest projection, hard as I could, and almost dropped one of the others in my hand. Before it slipped, I whipped to the side and aimed again, launched, but not forcefully enough, so I stabbed the figure through the chest with all the knives in my other hand when it got too close.

Two down.

Then I felt an odd sensation in my back, and the holograms faded; the lights went on. I'd been hit from behind.

Kizzy shook her head at me. "You didn't think to turn around? Battles are never that damn straight forward. Start over."

The lights went out; the holograms were back. Focus. I threw a double-edged knife like a frisbee straight for one off to my left, and took two tries to hit one along the balcony, switching the knives to my good hand. I attempted to keep my eyes open, and so let another knife fly for a hologram previously behind me, ducking under an orange spear. With my last knife, I barely managed to kill one about to leap down to me, snapping directions around at the last second.

But the lights didn't go on. Confused, I'd scarcely moved (to the wrong way, of course), when a holographic arrow hit my arm. "The hell?"

Now there were lights.

"They don't care if you're disarmed," Kizzy scolded.

"Well, you could've told me that!"

"You should have known."

"Whatever," I scowled. "Blame me for the game's stupid rules."

"The Games don't have rules. Get used to it."

I started a list of everything I hated about my mentor in my head. Impatient, not understanding, unhelpful, too snarky…. "I'm going back upstairs," I decided out loud.

"Like hell you are."

"It might be my last night alive and you're still going to tell me what to freaking do?" I demanded, angrier now.

"It wouldn't be your last night if you did what I said!" She dragged me back out first to the prep room to take off the techy gear, then to the main gym, to the sword-fighting station. Oh, I so didn't have the energy for that.

But Kizzy was insistent.

So I grabbed a light sword that I now knew (thank Panem, I might have just died if I didn't know the exact name of the sword I fought with, note the sarcasm) was called a spadroon. Except that all of the swords at the station were somewhat dull. My mentor grabbed one similar, turned on the red-light sensors, smiled mock-sweetly, said, "Go," and then lunged at me.

I jumped back, wielding the sword far out in front of me, almost over my head, hopefully blocking my face. The metal all clanged together as she mirrored the move, and I scuffled to the right, swinging from the new angle at the sensor on Kizzy's stomach, didn't make it fast enough, and had to yank it back and up to block one of her slashes at my shoulder.

Knocking her weapon out of the way, I jabbed at the same sensor appearing on her clothes, then realized my mistake and half-ducked and half-fell just fast enough for her swing to go over my head. I took another step back, more to the left, coming up again, and twisted just out of the way of a stab at my side. But before I could move again, she'd hit a sensor by my ribs.

"Sad," she said. "Just sad."

"Thanks for the faith in me," I snapped, put the sword back hastily, and stomped towards the elevators once again. This time, Kizzy let me. I hit the button; the doors opened and then shut behind me.

Waiting to reach the sixth floor, alone, all alone, I sunk down towards the floor, on my knees, sitting back, staring at the ground, down at my hands in my lap, helplessly. Unwelcome tears streaked my face, and I made an odd attempt to brush them away with my sleeve, sniffled.

I just want to turn fourteen, I thought bitterly.