District Seven

0849 hours CST

Caesar stifles a yawn as the Peacekeepers escort him from the silky white train. Claudius Templesmith is at his side, the two cameramen trailing behind them, recording equipment already out and ready. The train station is located in the town of the district, the small urban center where the district's wealthiest citizens live. It has been nearly three hours since curfew was lifted, but only a small crowd has assembled to see the crew.

Surrounding the Town is the Forests, a swamp of trees and foliage genetically engineered to grow at some three times the natural rate. The Forest is dotted with small clearings, each containing a cluster of settlements, nearly all of which are home to the district's many woodcutters.

The Capitolites follow a narrow, winding path through the Forests. The cameramen turn their cameras to the birds roosting in the canopy, all but one colorful and flamboyant. On the highest branch rests a black and white bird, its beak wide as it hoots out not a simple sequence of notes but a beautiful melody.

A mockingjay.

The cameras return to the path immediately, their owners looking flustered and nervous.

Caesar is temped to say something to break the uncomfortable silence, but his words are stuck in his throat when the path opens up to a large clearing. The Outskirts.

Unlike the glades of the Forests, the ground is dusty and bare, without even the occasional shrub. Pushed up against the district boundary in the distance are maybe fifty wooden shacks, each of which looks as if it was thrown together during the Dark Days, though Caesar knows they are more recent than that - the Outskirts were completely demolished in the First Rebellion. A good ninety percent of its inhabitants lost their lives.

In front of Caesar, a Peacekeeper raises his white, gloved hand. Wordlessly he points to a particularly shabby dwelling perhaps halfway to the fence. Outside sits a boy maybe fourteen years old, though it is difficult to tell from this distance. His knees are clutched to his chest, and he draws in the dust with a stick.

The group starts down into the valley. When they reach the boy, he looks up. He is younger than he had appeared from a distance, perhaps twelve years old.

"You're here," the kid says, forcing a smile as he gets to his feet. "We've been expecting you. But you know that." After an uncomfortable silence, he pulls open the door to the shack behind him. It creaks horribly, and Caesar tries not to wince.

"Hello, Kay," Caesar says, smiling widely. "It's so nice to finally meet you. Are the others inside?"

Kay nods wordlessly, crooking his finger before disappearing into the shack.

Inside the tiny settlement are only two rooms. Caesar gets only a fleeting glimpse of the first, a dark room with a single soiled mattress shoved against the far wall. The second is lighter, with an open window just above the small kitchen counter. A man and a woman are huddled at the back of the room, and though they wear their nicest clothes they look disheveled.

Caesar goes immediately to the back of the room, a wide smile on his face. "Ebby, Spid, we've been looking forward to this for ages. It's great to meet you. And Kay, I believe we already met you." He grins, but the boy does not respond.

"Ah, yes, Kay." Claudius shakes the twelve-y


Aear-old's hand and sits back in his chair. "You are a family friend, yes? Jame mentioned that you were his friend, but how close were you to Jeffane?"

"Not close."

"Is that all you have to say?" Claudius grins teasingly. "Come on, tell us more. Were you frenemies? That word's quite the rage in the Capitol this week."

Disgust flickers briefly across Kay's face, but he remains silent.

"He's usually more talkative than this," Jeffane's father says. "Maybe it's the cameras."

Kay turns to glare at his friend's father, but when the man meets him with a slight look of warning in his eyes, the anger melts from his expression. He turns to face the commentators again, a carefully neutral expression on his face.

But Caesar sees it. Under the blank facade, the pain. The hatred.

Claudius forges on, far too boldly for Caesar's liking. "That can't have been easy, watching the four of your kids go away. One day there, the next gone." He smiles sympathetically, silently urging the District Seven natives to spill their secrets to the camera.

"It was not easy," Ebby says. "Jeffane...he was always a tough child. A trouble child. But I never thought he would volunteer. I never thought he would throw his life away. And then the other three were chosen . . . " She shakes her head, pressing her fingertips to her temple.

"And then Kay came," Spid continues. "He had been Jame's friend for years, but once they were. . .chosen, he started coming to us daily. His parents, um, tell him to get outside a lot, so he's always over here. We've been watching the Games together since day one. Trying to cope. It...hasn't worked." He blinks hard. "There's no coping with this. You just...can't. We lost everything that day."

Caesar steps forward, putting his hand on his fellow interviewer's arm. "Ebby - you said Jeffane was a 'trouble child'. Could you elaborate on that a bit?"

Jeffane's mother nods. Her brown eyes drift past Caesar, latching on something in the distance. "Yes. Yes, he was a bit of a trouble child. Got into fights right and left. Always seemed to have his fist swinging. The other kids, they were afraid of him. Jame and Mika and Chiny, they got the hard end of it. The other kids were afraid of Jeffane, but they weren't scared of his siblings, and they knew he sure wouldn't protect them. So they'd go after the others. Jame and Mika and Chiny, they didn't do too well with Jeff as a brother."

Jeffane had said more than once that his parents didn't care for him. Caesar thinks back to the twelve-year-old's words, the lonesome anger in his eyes, the balled fists he tried to hide whenever the subject of home was brought up. Caesar had heard the remarks in the Capitol, the wealthy citizens who have never experienced hardship insisting that his parents did love him, that he was just being stubborn and self-pitying.

And probably his parents did love him. But he was not their favorite, that much was obvious. If they loved him, it was because they were bound by blood. Because to disown him would be to abandon him. And to abandon a twelve-year-old, even one as hardy as Jeffane, is to resign them to a life in the slums at best.

Caesar is preparing to ask another question when he sees Kay. The boy has straightened, his dark eyes focused. The anger has returned, and when he begins to speak, his voice shakes with fury.

"You don't know what it's like," Kay says. "Do you? Do you know what it's like to have your best friend disappear forever? Your best friend and his three siblings, whisked away to play a game where at least three of them will die painful deaths? Do you know what it's like to see your best friend's name picked from the reaping bowl, to get only three minutes to wish him luck and beg him to come back, knowing that even if he does somehow manage to avoid a painful, bloody death, if he does return, he'll be changed forever?

"I've seen some of the victors. They haven't won anything, only managed to survive with their lives. They're still stuck in the arena, most of them, and they'll never get out. If you're chosen for the Games, you don't have a chance. If you're lucky, you might get out in one piece, with your heart still beating. But you'll never be the same. You'll be ruined. You'll be rich and famous, but whoever you were before you were chosen, they're dead. They're dead, replaced by a wrecked killer who may or may not have the strength to bear the knowledge of what you've done, all the people you've killed, all the lives you've ruined."

The cameras cut out there, and what they did get will never be broadcasted, but will doubtlessly be used at the preteen's trial.

Because there is no way the president will overlook what he just said.

The Capitol does not forgive.


District Ten

1655 hours LST

1555 hours CST

At the back of a truck weaving through the long lanes of District Ten sit two Capitolites. Their recording equipment forgotten at their sides, they are rather ungracefully sprawled on a pile of hay, lulled to sleep by the gentle lowing of cattle.

The truck jerks to a stop, and the female camerawoman sits up, plucking stray pieces of straw from her meticulously styled black hair. Beside her, the male cameraman snores on, his face stuffed in the pile of hay.

Caesar peers outside, his hand resting on the windowsill. The truck has stopped next to a small cottage. Woody's parents are sharecroppers, he remembers. They live and work on another family's ranch, and get to keep a bit of their income. A good seventy percent of District Ten are sharecroppers, according to the last census, taken only the year before.

The door is opened by a thin woman of maybe forty years. She is about Caesar's height, with thin, graying brown hair pulled back in a fraying braid. She eyes the Peacekeepers nervously, her bony hands trembling visibly as she widens the door to let them in. A few words are exchanged as the Capitolites enter the cottage.

Caesar feels the corners of Woody's tribute card in the pocket of his nylon jacket. There will be only two interviewees- Woody's mother, Wren, and his father, Davis.

The interviewers look around the dismal room. There is little more than a single dirty mattress, a small cupboard, and a battered television. On the floor beside the mattress is a large expanse of space with significantly less dust and dirt than the ground around it. A second mattress must once have sat there, Caesar realizes. Woody's, no doubt. Perhaps they sold it for the money. Perhaps they just couldn't handle waking every morning to see it empty.

"There are no chairs," Wren apologizes. Davis stands beside her, looking rather uncomfortable.

"No problem, no problem at all," Caesar says cheerfully, clearly putting the woman at ease. "We'll simply conduct the interview outside. I saw some good rocks. No need for chairs."

Woody's parents follow the Capitolites out of the house. Squinting in the bright sunlight, Caesar directs the crew over to a spot beside the road. He sits in the shade of a wooden sign mounted on a tall spike wedged into the ground and waits, smiling, for the interviewees to settle down.

Davis apologizes again for the inconvenience, but Caesar waves away his concerns.

"Really," the interviewer assures him, "it's much nicer to conduct interviews out in the open. We've been cooped up inside all day. We need the fresh air."

"Glad to hear it." Davis crosses his arms, picking at the dried skin on his elbows.

Caesar begins the interview before the silence gets awkward. "I must congratulate you both. Woody has done remarkably well."

"No kidding," Claudius says, grinning. "An eleven-year-old, taking part in a competition made for twelve- to eighteen-year-olds, and he's made it to the final eight."

"Woody is remarkable," Davis agrees. "The most remarkable boy I've ever known. We're just hoping he's remarkable enough to make it back home. He's too young to end up in the cemetery. Kids go there all the time, picked off by sickness and starvation, but it's not Woody's time yet." There is a look of determination in his eyes, and Caesar knows that he truly believes his son will be the one to return. There is no doubt there.

"What exactly is Woody's, ah, affliction?" Claudius inquires, lightly patting his orange styled hair with a slender hand.

"The docs said it was schizophrenia," Wren says, shaking her head. "Means 'split mind'. There isn't just Woody, see. There's another boy in my son, and he isn't my son. I don't know what I did. I tried to raise him good, the way I was raised, but look what happened." She rubs her temple, looking at once irritated and depressed.

"The docs don't know what they're talking about," Davis counters, resting a reassuring hand on his wife's arm. "This isn't schizophrenia. Woody has a split mind, yes, but not in that way. He found out what it was in the Capitol. Better psychologists there. He's dissociative. Got multiple personalities. I forget the name."

Caesar smiles, shifting his position on the rock. He almost wishes they had stayed inside the Young cottage. Growing up in the Capitol, he was used to sitting on plush chairs, not gnarly, hard rocks out in the countryside. And the mosquitoes, the mosquitoes!

"Yes, our psychologists are very skilled," Caesar agrees. "It seemed a mistake was made in District Ten about Woody's diagnosis, but it is an understandable mistake. Woody does indeed have a 'split mind', but in a different way than the doctors imagined. I believe the 'other person' you mentioned Woody calls Woody Two. Am I correct?"

Wren nods with a sigh. "He's been around for some years. At first it was just Woody, and I thought we had a good, normal little boy. But when he was five or six Woody became sullen and quiet. He'd jump at the slightest sound. He was angry nearly all the time. Angry and scared. I don't know if it was something we did or something we couldn't control. After a few months, he started to get better. He was happier, smiled more. But sometimes he slipped. Sometimes the anger and fear returned." She closes her eyes and inhales deeply through her nose.

Davis casts her a worried glance, but picks up for her. "We didn't know what happened then. Now we know he was dissociating. Means he separated the scared and angry part of him, distanced himself from it to protect whatever was left of the boy we knew as our son. That's how Woody Two formed. Usually Woody's in control, but sometimes something'll trigger him and he'll slip."

"We must've done something wrong," Wren laments, tugging at the graying brown locks that hang limply around her shoulders. "I don't know why Woody made that...thing, but it must've been our fault. We tried to raise him good, and we thought we was, and then he went and made a creature who'd salivate sometimes as he sat in front of the television watching the Games. Hurt other people, hurt himself sometimes. Once Davis and I came back from the ranch and fond Woody holding a butcher's knife, his..." She draws a shaky breath and hesitates a moment before continuing. "His arm, it was covered in blood. He said...he said he had done it."

Caesar shakes his head sympathetically. "Have there been any incidents since?"

Wren opens her mouth, then closes it again. She looks away from the interviewers, her eyes going to the cattle grazing in the nearby field.

"There have been a few incidents," Davis says, reluctant to speak and not trying to hide it. "Usually Woody's in control, unless something...provokes him. Wren and me, we haven't seen him cutting Woody, we haven't seen the blood, but we know it's happened. Scars, running all down our boy's arms. He hurts him. He hurts everyone he can when he feels like it..." He trails off, his face contorting in misery as he stares down at his own gnarly hands, his old, scarred cuticles.

Claudius steps forward, his smile never wavering. "So it seems you had a rocky relationship with Woody. Are you still hoping he will come back?"

Caesar hides his wince. Only Claudius would ask such a question.

"Yeah. Yeah, we're hoping," Wren says, but there is no emotion behind it. Her face is impassive, and her eyes remain on the distant cattle.

Davis stares at Claudius in disbelief. "You're suggesting we might root against Woody because of a couple issues he has? He is our son, and that will never change. We're rooting for him, and we know he will return. He might be only eleven, but he's the strongest warrior out there. He's a fighter, and he will return."

"Considering what we've seen him do, your faith is well placed," Caesar says. He stands, glad to remove himself from his uncomfortable perch on the rock. "Now, time is running short. It's been great talking with you, Wren, Davis, but I'm afraid we must be off."


District Eleven

1948 hours LST

1848 hours CST

Welcome to Zone D.

Caesar stares at the sign staked next to the road. The words are printed in the same bold, angular font as the signs in the train station. Not the best font for a welcome sign, Caesar thinks to himself, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to the road. He wonders briefly if the car will survive the drive to the Wolfe household. The road is little more than a dirt lane bisecting an orchard. It is unpaved and rocky, and Caesar winces with each jerk.

Just ahead at the right of the car is a cluster of small wooden shacks. As the car approaches, the grubby, thin children playing in the dirt look up. They stare at the vehicle, awe and confusion on their small faces, and Caesar wonders just how thick the layer of dust on the outside is.

One child, a dark-skinned boy of maybe eight or nine years, shoots to his feet, the stick he was using to draw in the dust falling at his feet. He wears only a tattered pair of trousers, and he is so skinny that Caesar can easily count his ribs.

"They from the Capitol!" the boy shouts in excitement. "They come to interview Anvil's folks!"

The other children jump to their feet and start towards the car. The Peacekeeper at the wheel steps on the gas pedal, and the vehicle shoots forward, away from the grubby reaching hands. The children chase after the car, giving up pursuit only when the Peacekeeper in the backseat lifts his gun into sight. They fall back immediately when they see the weapon, and the Peacekeeper snickers.

The next village they come upon is much smaller than the first, consisting of only a few settlements. No children play in the dirt outside. The car stops, and the Capitolites get out. Caesar senses movement from the corner of his vision, and he turns around.

A girl who cannot be older than six is huddled in the window of the nearest shack, holding up the frayed blanket that covers the window. Unlike the children of the previous village, her eyes do not hold awe, but fear. Just as Caesar sees her, a woman pulls the girl from the window. She looks out, and her eyes meet Caesar's. She glances fearfully at the Peacekeepers and drops the curtain.

"This way," the Peacekeeper closest to Caesar says. He gestures with a white gloved hand for the Capitolites to follow him, then starts off, weaving through the tiny dwellings. He stops in front of the shack directly behind the settlement in which Caesar had seen the little girl.

"This is it?" the cameraman asks doubtfully. "Seems awfully rundown, even for a district house."

"This is District Eleven," Claudius says. "Lowest living standards of any district. I hear some zones are worse, though. Be happy Anvil was from D. F's supposed to be horrid."

The Peacekeeper raises his arm to rap his knuckles on the wooden door, but the door opens before he gets the chance. Framed in the doorway is a dark-skinned woman, well over six feet in height. A bandana a washed out shade of blue is wrapped around her head, holding back her braid, the end of which tickles her elbows.

Caesar smiles at her, extending my hand in greeting. "Marian," Caesar says, inclining my head respectfully. "May we come in? We'd love to speak with you and Jon."

"Don't suppose you're asking?" Anvil's mother says, staring at Caesar. When the Peacekeeper beside him clears his throat, her eyes glide to the white-clad man, the gun at his side. "All right, come on in," she sighs. "There's not much room, but it'll have to do. Neighbors won't want us out there."

"If you say so." Caesar smiles at her, gesturing for her to go inside.

Marian leads the Capitolites into the shack. When Caesar's eyes adjust to the dim lighting, they go straight to the room's occupant, a solidly built man nearly as tall as his wife. He is good looking, not to mention muscular from countless hours laboring in the fields, and Caesar is drawn to him immediately.

Caesar would be content to merely stand there and watch the man greet the others, but he forces himself to speak.

"Jon," the interviewer says, walking towards Anvil's father, reaching out for the larger man's hand.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Jon takes Caesar's hand. He shakes it once, then lets his hand fall back to his side.

"Good afternoon," Caesar says with all of the cheerfulness he can muster in such a dismal place. "As you know, we're here to talk to you a bit about a certain Anvil Wolfe, who has proved himself worthy of admiration. He has been remarkably successful, wouldn't you agree?"

Jon doesn't meet his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is little more than a low grunt. "Successful. Yeah. Or just lucky."

"Do you imagine his luck will hold up?" Claudius inquires warmly. "Do you expect him to return?"

Marian laughs nervously, a strangled sound. All the eyes in the room swivel over to her, and she pulls uncomfortably at the frayed hem of her shirt. "We - we haven't had the best of luck in the Games," she says. She opens her mouth as if to say more, then closes it again.

Claudius smiles at her. "Ah, I forgot - you had another son entered in the Games, yes?"

Anvil's mother nods. "Three years ago. His name was Arman. He was such a sweet boy. Quite like Anvil, quite like him, but a bit more outgoing. Friendly as he could be, helped wherever he could. He deserved a good, long life. But he...he wasn't..." Her voice cracks, and she breaks off, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt.

"He wasn't what?" Caesar prompts gently.

To the Capitolite's surprise, it is Anvil's father who answers. "Arman was strong," Jon says quietly. His face is impassive, but he cannot hide the pain in his voice. "Strong, like Anvil. He could have made it. Should have. But the Career was stronger. Arman, he could have won. But he'd had an ally, the boy from Nine. Just gotten killed. He still wasn't over that. Still in shock. Wasn't in any shape to fight."

Caesar remembers the battle. Arman's ally had seen the Career coming. They'd fought, the girl from Two and the boy from Nine. She'd won, slicing her blade through the flesh of his neck. He bled out just as Arman reached him. The huge boy from Eleven, the one so many were betting on, he did not want to fight. He wanted to remove the medical supplies from his backpack and help his ally. But there was no time to even assess the damage. He died just as Arman arrived.

The battle lasted hardly thirty seconds. Before the audience knew it, the trumpets werea blaring, celebrating the survival of one victorious competitor.

And it was not Arman.

"Anvil doesn't have any allies now," Caesar reminds the District Eleven natives. "Are you glad about that?"

"We were surprised when Anvil got allies when the Games started," Marian answers. "After what happened to Arman, we were not expecting him to get with anyone. And then one of them died, and the other left. After that, I think he realized allies would never do him any good. He's better off alone." She inhales deeply, closing her eyes. "He's got a better chance than Arman did. We're just hoping he'll take it. He's strong. He can come back. He needs to come back..."

And then Jon is wrapping his arm around her, lifting his lips to her ear, and murmuring just loud enough for the cameras to hear his words: "He will."


District Twelve

2153 hours EST

1953 hours CST

In the living room of a house in the town of District Twelve sit a man and a woman. They are clean and their clothes sport no patches, but they cling to each other, fear in their eyes. They sit on a shabby couch shoved to one side of the room, a Peacekeeper standing sentry at each end. The room in which they sit was upturned and wrecked not a week before, but designers from the Capitol itself have put it back together, bringing in the Capitol's shabbiest furniture. Apart from the furniture, which is far more decorative than anything you would normally find in District Twelve, there is no sign that any commotion occurred in the room.

The president was rather miffed that he had to go to the trouble of putting the room back together, but he had no choice in the matter. He had hinted to the Gamemakers that he would prefer if the couple's daughter did not make it to the final eight, but the dense programmers did not take it upon themselves to end her prematurely.

That morning, four Peacekeepers had been sent to two adjacent cells of the Capitol's most secure jail, the Penitentiary. They had dragged out a man and a woman, each grimy and dirty, wearing the same soiled clothes they had been wearing when they were taken from District Twelve several days before. They were cleaned and given clean clothes, then shoved on a train bound for District Twelve.

In the arena, Naya was shown the fate of her family. The viewers were not. They were only told that Oakely, the being that most of them had believed to be a mutt was, in fact, Naya's sister.

The masses do not know about what happened to the family of Naya Smoke, and President Peak intends to keep it that way. Naya's parents must be sent to District Twelve for the interview, but they cannot be allowed to talk. After the interview, they will disappear for good. Their charges? Struggling against the Peacekeepers. District Twelve will assume them dead, but as there is a rather long execution lineup for Penitentiary inmates, they will most likely face another fate.

President Peak has other reasons for his irritation. For one, the Peacekeepers have failed to locate Naya's ten-year-old brother, Rojan. They will not stop searching until they find the escapee, and the president is confident that eventually they will be successful, but it has been days since he evaded capture.

As the president fumes in his desk, halfway across the continent a small crew of Capitolites is approaching the house in which Lauren and Dallas Smoke are locked.

"At least she didn't live in the Seen," the cameraman is saying. "Or is it the Seam? You know, the miner-y coal dusty place? I can never remember what it's called. I've heard that place is nasty. The town, this should be okay. I'm actually kind of excited. I'm still in that kiddy phase where you want to see all the districts, you know. I even - "

"We're here," the Peacekeeper says, eager to interrupt the man's flood of words.

The Capitolites look up at the building looming over them. It is two stories tall, built from wood, covered in the flaky remnants of light blue paint. The windows on the front side of the house are as trim and neat as any, but a glance at a side of the building the cameras will not see reveals shattered panes of glass, and beyond them rooms in varying states of disrepair.

Caesar was told of the events that took place only five nights before. He wonders what this interview would be like of the stunt with Naya's sister had never been pulled. A happy family environment, perhaps, with the smiling, hopeful faces of two children, instead of two traumatized adults huddled in a room stripped of everything that once gave it meaning.

When the Capitolites enter the building, the couple on the couch cringes, no doubt remembering the last time they saw Peacekeepers enter the room. Caesar does his best to put them to ease, waving at them from across the room rather then approaching them to shake hands.

"How are you?" Caesar asks as he removes his long overcoat. He knows the question is somewhat risky, but trusts that Lauren and Dallas will know not to say anything that might put them in jeopardy. And even if they did, their words would be edited out. And their situation could hardly be any worse.

The Smokes don't respond for a few seconds. Lauren's long, thin fingers tap nervously at her knee, and Dallas crosses his arms to keep them from shaking.

Finally, Lauren speaks. "We - we're okay. We're worried about Naya, of course. Worried. She - she might die. At any time." Her voice is nearly inaudible, and its quavers make it nearly unintelligible.

"You're worried about Naya," Caesar repeats for the listeners. "That's understandable, very understandable. I myself might be worried for her, but she seems very capable. She has made it to the final eight, after all. That is no easy feat. The competition is very fierce in the arena, as I'm sure you are aware of."

Dallas gives a shaky laugh, his dark eyes darting nervously from Caesar's face to that of the Peacekeeper nearest to him. "Yes, we have noticed."

Claudius steps forward as if to ask a question, but Caesar cuts him off, not trusting his associate to correctly gauge the emotional strength of the couple seated before them.

"Can you share with us one memory you have of Naya as a child?" Caesar asks, keeping his voice soft so as not to alarm the traumatized couple. "One special memory of her?"

Lauren sighs. "There aren't nearly as many as we should have. Naya, since she was young she always distanced herself from us, from everyone except for her brother...Rojan." Her voice breaks as she says his name. "And she was only thirteen when she was reaped. So young..." Her voice fades away, and she wipes a tear from her eye.

Dallas takes a deep breath, and the cameras turn to focus on his face. "We do have many memories, though. I remember clearly the first day of school when she was eight. Rojan, he was five. It was his first year. Lauren and I were both busy, so Naya took him to school. She got him to his room and told him everything would be fine. That if anything happened she'd always be there to protect him."

"Rojan was small," Lauren continue, her eyes red-rimmed and distant. "He was bullied a lot in school, almost from the first day. Whenever Naya saw someone picking on them, she beat them up. Gave them a piece of her mind." She smiles sadly. "She would take Rojan home and get him fixed up herself, since Dallas and I were often preoccupied with Oakely, our youngest. And then each time she would remind him that she would always be there to protect him."

He glint of sunlight against a reflective surface catches Caesar's eye. He turns, and his eyes fall on a small photograph tacked to the wall. It is not ornately framed, and Caesar realizes that this must be one of the few authentic aspects of the revitalized rooms.

In the photograph, a small girl no older than six or seven with a wide grin and dark hair in two braids stands on the porch of a blue townhouse. Her arms are wrapped around the shoulders of a little boy, who clutches at her hand, smiling shyly. At their feet sits an infant, her back propped against her older sister's legs. Naya, with the boy the Capitol is now so fervently hunting down. With the girl they forced her to kill for their entertainment.

A chill runs down Caesar's spine. He is standing in a graveyard.

The Capitolite is filled with the sudden need to distance himself from this place, to run and run until this haunted building is miles behind him, and it's ghosts cannot reach him. But no matter how far he gets from this place, he will never be able to leave them behind, the ghosts of all the tributes passed through his hands into the gauntlet of the arena. They will haunt him forever.


A/N: I was planning on writing another SYOT after this, but I don't know if I should, since I probably won't be able to update more than once, maybe twice a month. What do you guys think?

Which interview was your favorite? Least favorite? Why?

Please review. It would really make my day.

See you next chapter, I hope.