A/N: I now have a poll up on my profile page, so you guys can vote on who you want winning the games. I, myself, am still clueless as to who will win, and I'm not saying that whoever leads on the poll will be victor, but I'll definitely take that into some consideration.
Vote and review? (:
Tennacity Fielden's POV
On the train to District Three, I check my hair three times, redo my makeup twice, and eat one diet pill, completing it all with a cigarette. Then I pop a piece of mint-flavoured gum in my mouth as the fresh air streaming in through my window suddenly becomes smoky and clouded, disgusting, so I toss my used cigarette out into the landscape and roll my window back up.
District Three, factories. Really? The one year I get the job of interviewing the tributes' friends and families, and the tributes from both District One and Two die off. That's just my luck.
The train comes to a stop, and I quickly plaster on another layer of bright red lip-gloss. It's the nice shimmery kind. My partner for the interviews, Corvin, says that it's too bright and blinds him every time he looks at me, although I have always assumed he's simply jealous. Not only am I much better looking than him, but I've been the favorite for the crowds of Panem. It's not my fault that I'm attractive, likeable, and have a higher salary, is it?
Corvin walks into my cabin of the train, rolling his eyes when he catches sight of the shimmery lip-gloss. I pucker my lips just for him.
"Take that shit off and hurry up. We're all waiting for you outside." Then he slams the door and I hear his footsteps fading as he walks down the hall. Silly Corvin. Doesn't he know you need to make an entrance in these interviews?
I wait another minute, time it on my new diamond-studded watch, and then make my way to the front of the train where the exit is and the crew is waiting, clipping my microphone on as I go. District Three may be the factories district, but I'm sure it'll be one of the nicer ones on our stops through Panem. That's why I put on a smile before walking outside.
"Hello, Panem!" I exclaim as the doors shut behind me. I know that the cameras are already filming, and the way Corvin continues to roll his eyes doesn't stop me. "Welcome to District Three. The land of factories, of manufacturing. Right now, my co-host Corvin Bleu and I will be interviewing the friends and family of Cheyenne Wells, the last remaining tribute of District Three this season." I walk over to Corvin and throw an arm around his shoulders. He doesn't like it, I know that, but he's smiling for the cameras anyways.
The camera guy whose name I can't remember tells us that that was a good scene before we all pile into a long automobile and take off to Cayenne Well's house. Oh, sorry, Cheyenne. I need to work on the names. Some of them are truly quite odd.
"Will you stop applying that stuff already, Tennacity?" Corvin demands. I realize I'm putting on another layer of lip-gloss; it's become a sort of habit now, I guess. But the more the merrier, right?
I ignore him until we pull up in front of a small house made of various colors of bricks. It stands out from the others on the block which are all modernized, some even made of pure metal. The camera crew gets out first, and then me and then Corvin, so I accidentally slam the door in his face because I assumed he was out with the rest of them. I apologize half-heartedly with a dirty smirk, him rubbing his nose that kind of points out at the end, while the two of us walk up and knock on the front door.
"You're filming, right?" The camera man nods, and I put on my biggest smile as the door opens, revealing a pregnant young woman and a man in his twenties, or something like that. I'm not too sure who they are, but I keep that smile on anyways. "Hello. I'm Tennacity Fielden from the Capitol's main news station, TCN. The Capitol's News. I'm here to interview you about Cayen—Cheyenne Wells?"
The man's face grimaces every time I say Capitol, and I hear Corvin sigh from behind me, but the guy opens the door and welcomes us in, showing us to a small living room with green floral couches and drapes that match. An old television is placed in the corner, and a coffee table that sits in front of the couch has two mugs placed on top which the pregnant girl hands to me and Corvin. Corvin thanks her. I just smile politely and order the camera man to give them their microphones.
"So, how are you two related to Cheyenne?" Corvin asks, although he must already know. We get envelopes on the train that tell us who we'll be interviewing, and how they're related to the tribute, so it's really all for the cameras.
"I'm her older brother, Angelo. And this is my fiancé, Jannett." He places an arm around her shoulders. I take a sip out of the mug, which is horribly-made coffee. I immediately put it back down on the coffee table. "Cheyenne actually volunteered for Jannett, because, well, she's pregnant."
"Ah," I say, before Corvin can speak. "What a noble act!"
Angelo just nods his head, all glumly. "We know it was. But I'm convinced Cheyenne will be coming home alive. So far luck has been on her side, even if it hasn't been for our other family members that have participated in the games. Nobody has ever made it to the final eight!"
Well, that's interesting. "Other family members?" I press.
Angelo nods again. "Our sister died in the Games. Along with our uncle and our aunt almost twenty years ago—but we've labeled that as our past. It isn't going to affect our future. Especially not this one." He pats Jannett's stomach. Even though I feel no sympathy, no empathy, on the inside, I give a face that shows I must on the outside. I see Corvin's doing the same.
The rest of the interview goes like that. Angelo informs us that Cheyenne is one of the most caring people, ever, and that nobody in their right mind would want to kill her. Blah blah blah, the usual stuff. It just gets their hopes up. When he sees his sister's death broadcasted all over live television is the only time when he'll get the picture.
The interview ends after a few more of the standard questions and, after picking up a nifty souvenir that says "District Three" on a keychain with a mini plastic factory on it, Corvin and I retreat back to the train that will take us to District Four. It won't be a long train ride, but I use the few hours it does take to catch up on some beauty rest. Not that I need it or anything. I just think it's always best to look better than the best.
Corvin Bleu's POV
We don't even have to knock on Wendibell Peffer's door before it flies open, revealing a—I have to say—very attractive woman that resembles her daughter very much. Black hair, compelling eyes…
Then she speaks and it kind of ruins it all. Like with Tennacity. "You're the Capitol people? Well get your perky asses inside, I have company over; we're watching my daughter win the Games and I want to get this interview thing over with." I give a look at the camera crew before stepping inside her household. It's large—almost as large as those houses they give out here if you win the Games. I can't imagine why her daughter would volunteer when she has this life waiting back at home for her.
She leads us past a room full of people whose eyes are fixed on a high-tech television set and into a room with three seats and a desk, with a window behind the desk. It has an amazing view of the ocean.
Wendibell sits down on one end of the desk, in front of the window, while Tennacity and I take the sign to sit on the other. The cameras set up to our right. Tennacity opens her mouth but I cut her off. "So, Mrs. Peffer, you're proud of your daughter entering the Games?"
She flicks a strand of black hair out of her eyes. "Of course. I'm proud of her and I'm sure she'll be able to win."
Tennacity gets a word in, now. "So you're coping well?"
"Why would I not be? All those other tributes are truly weaklings. My Ariel has a sword, you see? She'll kill the rest of 'em off."
She spits out the last sentence like we're talking about animals with rabies. I suppose we're still talking about an animal, though, it's just that this one doesn't have a disease that makes them foam at the mouth.
If I'm being honest with you, throughout the Games, I've always cheered for the tributes that Mrs. Peffer is calling weaklings. In fact, I was rooting for that Trawny kid up until he died. Damn bugs.
I've never agreed with the Games, frankly. They're a horrible creation that aims to kill twenty-three children for power. And I always feel bad for the families like the Wells—poor Cheyenne, volunteering for a pregnant woman. Her family made it seem like she didn't have a choice in it.
But Tennacity on the other hand… well, I'm not too sure she has much of a heart. "What does Ariel like to do when she's at home?" she asks.
"She practices," she tells us. "My daughter couldn't be more talented with a sword. She takes after her father, you know."
"Who was her father?" I pry.
"Oh." Mrs. Peffer waves a hand dismissively in the air. "He's gone, now. Can't really remember where. But I remember that he was fantastic with a sword. Absolutely brilliant!"
She goes on for a bit more about Ariel's wonderful skills with a sword before turning to the cameras and ordering the people of the Capitol to support her daughter. Not that she needs the help. It's just that she doesn't want her offspring coming home totally beaten-up, and lessening the burden of winning on her would be a great thing to do.
Alexander Willis's family is just about the same. Along with their house—although it's a tad larger than the Peffers'. It has three stories and is made of mainly colorful bricks—coral, perhaps? And, like the room in Wendibell's house, the room that Mrs and Mr. Willis lead us into has a great view of the ocean.
"So, Alexander…" I start to speak, but am immediately cut off by Mrs. Willis. "Is a descendant of Finnick! You all know who Finnick is!" She is talking to the cameras, not me or Tennacity, and Mr. Willis is rolling his eyes.
"He's strong and caring and whoever supports him will be supporting Finnick!"
Tennacity clears her throat deliberately. "Yes, well, did Alexander ever get the chance to meet Finnick before he… erm, passed on?"
"Well, no," Mrs. Willis tells us. "But he's a spitting image of him!"
Mr. Willis talks up, now. "Alexander is a great boy. I know he has the courage to win the Games with his pride, and he would be that way even if he wasn't a descendant of one of the most popular victors in history." This man is more grounded than his wife so I decide I'll be asking any further questions to him. Not the woman sitting next to him.
"Ah." Tennacity nods. "Of course he would be, Mr. Willis! We've all seen his chivalry towards the District Three girl, Cheyenne—"
"Yes," he replies firmly. "But that girl will have to die for my boy to come home, and deep down he knows that."
"But they're just so sweet together!" Tennacity doesn't get the hint, and I cough once, trying to send her the message to stop talking about this Cheyenne girl. She doesn't receive it. "I mean, since the moment he refused to kill her, taking her out to the desert and practically saving her life—"
Mr. Willis looks a bit annoyed. "Yes, Alexander did do that. But if you're suggesting that my son will be like that District Three boy who sacrificed himself—"
"But that was for his district partner. I'm sure it will be different with someone as brave as Alexander, who is well aware of the way the Games work." I look at Mrs. Willis. "Am I right?"
"Yes, yes, Corvin!" She giggles a little. "Especially a brave young man that is one of Finnick's legacies!"
I just saved my interview partner although she nearly broke my nose with that car door yesterday. She owes me one.
But I doubt she'll admit that once we're on the train.
Jacklyn Fairmount's POV
The interview people from the Capitol make me feel uncomfortable. The lady is pretty, with curly blonde hair and sparkly blue eyes, but her skin looks bright pink in our poor lighting and her lipstick is too shiny. The man is more normal but you can still tell he comes from the Capitol, with his spikey black hair and really sharp cheekbones and brown eyes that don't have pupils.
"Jacklyn." The lady, I think her name is Tennacity, smiles brightly at me. I want to look away. Her teeth are too white. And this is a waste of my time when I could be watching my brother on the television. "Do you miss your big brother Odyss?"
I bob my head up and down a few times. "Ye, ma'am! I sure do. But he told me that he'll be coming home soon and I'm holding him to that promise."
Mom told me to play the audience a bit. Play the innocent little girl act, even if I know what's really happening with Odyss. It might help him in the end.
"That's sweet." She's still smiling. I wish the man, Corvin something, would talk instead. "You look a lot like him, you know! Has anyone ever told you that?"
I bob my head up and down some more. "We have the same hair and eyes."
"I know, I know!" She starts laughing loud and I want to cover my ears but that would be rude. My mom is sitting next to me and she looks about as awkward as I do, maybe more, because her eyes are red and puffy and you can tell that she's been crying. Corvin asks her questions I don't hear. But then he turns to me and I pay more attention.
"How did you feel about his alliance with the other girl from this district? Ebony Storm?"
His smile is less scary, so I answer him with what I actually am feeling. "She was nice. I cried when she died because Odyss was crying. I feel bad for her family. I don't know how I would feel if my brother died like she did!"
He smiles again. It makes me feel a little better; it doesn't feel as fake as the other girl here, and I think he might feel bad for me—just a small, tiny part of him, at least. I'm good at telling what other people are feeling. "But," I say, "I think that my brother is doing well. So that's good."
"Indeed it is." The grin wipes off his face, and it's replaced with one that does feel and look not genuine. He's spun away from my mother and me and is talking to the cameras, to the rest of the Panem, announcing how their time in District Five is wrapping up, but next they're off to District Eight to see the family of Mara Davies. Stay tuned, he says. Don't leave that TV!
I watch them pack up their cameras and get into the fancy automobile they arrived in—long and glossy and black, with really big tires and smoke that streams out the back like a District Three factory. Before Tennacity leaves she thanks me and my mom. It's phony. It's for her image. To make her more likable to us, probably. But once everyone but Corvin has left he looks at me and goes, "Hang in there, kiddo. Things will get better," and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
And then they're all gone.
Tarha Davie's POV
My mother is visibly upset, but the Capitol people don't see it. They're too busy setting up the interview in a place with better lighting and the cameras in the right positions and fixing their blonde curls so they fall perfectly onto their shoulders. Tennacity is one of the few interviewers I truly hate, mostly because she's more concerned with herself than the people that she interviews.
Then again, if I lived in the Capitol and could have my hair done nicely every morning, I would bask it in, too. I think.
If this interview wasn't about my sister participating in the Hunger Games I would be checking my hair in the mirror, now, and making sure the charcoal on my eyelids isn't smudged. But, in fact, it is for my sister, who somehow managed to survive into the final eight. Which, by the way, I am totally proud of. Don't get me wrong. I just wish that if she isn't going to win, she would just go ahead and die earlier and get it over with. I wouldn't be able to stand the pain, either way, but I might be able to manage it better if it would happen sooner.
"Tara!" Tennacity says.
"It's Tarha," I correct her, putting emphasis on the first syllable. If she is going to come in here, from the Capitol, with her fancy hair and pink eye stuff, then the least she could do would be get my name right. And my mother's. Whose she's given the nickname "Renny" to, when it's actually just "Ren". Idiot.
"Right." She takes a glance at her notes like she suspects I'm the wrong one, but looks back up extra cheerfully. I give her back one of those smiles. "Anyways, Tarha, do you really believe your sister can win the Games?"
"Yes, Tennacity." I stare hard at her, suddenly not cheery at all. "I really do believe she can. No matter what your opinion may be."
There's an awkward silence until Corvin breaks through it. "Righty-oh. Mrs. Davies, do you consider your family to be well off?"
She stares just as hard at these Capitol twirps as I had. "Do we look well off to you, Mr. Bleu? Do you understand what tesserae are? My daughter put her life on the line so we could get by with some grain, and this is where it's gotten us." Tennacity offers her a scented tissue, her eyes are watering again, but my mother just gives her a dirty look. "We get by on grain, do you hear me? And then you come along with scented—scented—tissues, and you don't comprehend why we look at you with such disdain?"
Maybe I should calm her down a bit. Tell her it's fine. Except, it isn't. I respect the words coming out of her mouth right now and I don't want to stop them.
But then I think of the Peacekeepers that flood the streets and rip the tissue from Tennacity's hand, wiping away some of the tears that are flowing down my mom's cheeks. Her hands are beginning to shake. She's going to have a blow-up slash panic attack worse than the one she had when we got the news about my father, so I look at Tennacity and Corvin. "Please leave."
They make some objections—mainly Tennacity—and although I'm fully aware that we're being broadcasted live throughout Panem at this second I don't stop yelling until they're all out the door and walking down the old, cracked stone walkway to their car. Which, as a side note, I've never ridden in before. A car. These people must ride in the glitzy vehicles at least once a day. Ugh.
I go back in the house, turn on the television, and curl up beside my mother on the uncomfortable couch with metal springs sticking out of the cushions while I watch my sister and the boy from Twelve that she's allied with.
It's selfish to want her to come home because of the house we'll receive, isn't it?
Viv Foakley's POV
Oh, I adore the Hunger Games. I really do. And my favorite part would have to be the interviews—that Tennacity girl is so glamorous, and that Corvin fellow is to die for. I once entered a contest to meet Corvin, Tennacity hadn't been an interviewer at that point, but I didn't win. Some twat from the north side of the Capitol did. The north side—pah—a filthy place, with its two-cent diners and crazy, cross-eyed people who sometimes beg and plead you for a half a dollar. I've only been there once. My plastic surgeon moved places. But, let me assure you, after that one trip I never went back.
After a short intermission to the bathroom I come back to my television to see Corvin and Tennacity hurrying out of that District Eight's home, Tennacity speaking as she walks backwards down a truly ugly pathway, "We'll be right back with Bambi Shoonheid's family and friends! Don't go away!"
I wait another hour, eating a few orange puff snacks, and then Tennacity and Corvin come back on screen, sitting next to a woman with long brown hair and a butterfly tattooed across her cheek, and beside her is a teenager with straight, blonde hair and green cat-like eyes. They're all in this plush room with red walls, fancy, soft-looking furniture, and a snow-white carpet. I instantly decide I'm going to style my next room in exactly this way.
"This is Bambi's mother, Fanessa Shoonheid." Corvin gestures to the woman with a butterfly on her cheek. "And this is Bambi's best friend from school, Zelda Cork. She's known Bambi since they were both at the young age of six, and is proud of Bambi becoming a strong player in these games." He directs the next question at Zelda. "Isn't that right?"
She nods. "Of course I am! Bambi has been waiting for her chance since Lilly died."
"Lilly…" Corvin stretches out her name. Who's Lilly? I wonder. Corvin does do an excellent job of keeping us Capitol viewers on the edge of our seats. There's a pause between them all and I feel like screaming, "ASK HER ALREADY!" but refuse to as I might end up waking my cat Feather up in the process. And the poor feline is pretty tired after that liposuction.
"Who is Lilly?"
Zelda looks to Fanessa, who just shakes her head and turns away. She might be crying a bit. But I can't tell. The cameras are focusing on Zelda. "Lilly was Bambi's older sister," she tells us. Biting her lip, it looks as if it's hard for her to continue on. "She… Lilly… was a victim of the Hunger Games, a couple years ago. When she died, Bambi vowed she would go back in there and win. To avenge Lilly. She, well, Lilly died a terrible death."
I think back to years ago. Hmm… Lilly from District Nine. Do I remember a Lilly from…? Oh! Oh! Lilly! From District Nine! I nearly, nearly, felt bad for the female Nine that year—the boy from District One tore her to shreds, made sure that she suffered. Ledger was his name. He killed over twenty of the other people in the arena. One of the most exciting Games yet, I have to say, even if this Lilly girl did get the short end of the stick.
"Yes. Well." Zelda swallows. "Lilly was a sweet, beautiful girl. She just didn't have, I don't know, experience. You know?"
Corvin nods sympathetically. "I know, Zelda. I know."
Knows everything, Corvin does! I would marry him if I ever got the chance!
Fanessa talks a little more about Bambi and how she's a pretty girl, but very modest about it and has never been in a serious relationship in her life. This is appalling to me. If I looked like Bambi, I would be using it to get someone like Corvin and not risking it all by volunteering for the Games. I mean, what is she thinking?
Finally they wrap up the interview, and by that time Zelda and Fanessa are both sobbing into Tennacity's pink, candy cane-scented tissues that she did an endorsement advertisement for a few weeks ago, before the Games started up again. I bought five cases of those tissues after that advertisement, and my nose has never smelt so good.
Rose Crouse's POV
My daughter has killed. It shouldn't, but the murders she's caused give me hope. They give me faith. Give me the strength to hold myself together, knowing that she has a chance at coming back home.
But the innocent Trawny boy she stayed loyal to for so long, died, just like that, leaving her alone in that awful place. I wish I could be there to make her not so alone. No, just be there instead of her. I wish I could take her place. Die for her. But I can't, nobody can, and I must get used to that concept.
"As you know, Mrs. Crouse," one of the Capitol people says to me. I didn't take the effort to bond their names into my mind. All I know is that there is a man and a woman, both very ritzy-looking, and that right now the man is talking to me. "Violet had a bit of… conflict with one of the other tributes during the training."
My husband gives my hand a squeeze. He knows I'll need more and more encouragement before I speak to these people. "Yes," I tell them. "I'm not disappointed in what she did, exactly. She stood up for what she believed in and for that I'm proud. I couldn't be more proud."
Another clutch on my hand. I do the same thing back. He's dying inside as much as I am, he must be, and everyone needs a little push to keep going every once and a while. Even if they don't say it aloud, even if they keep it all in, like Denver does a lot.
"Yes, well, it was very noble to speak up for someone smaller than her to someone bigger. Or, not speak up." The woman gives a chuckle. "The fists did the talking for her, did they not?"
"They did," Denver agrees. "But at least she didn't watch on."
The man concurs with my husband. "Violet has proven disbelievers of her strength. Was she as outspoken at home as she is in the Capitol and arena?"
"It's not like she was afraid to stand up for what she believed in," I say, remembering one specific time when it might've been better for her not to say anything. She came home that day, holding back tears, with the long wounds on her back and an unconscious twelve-year-old boy in her arms. I shudder at that memory. We spent a week's money for food on bandages for her and the boy, and the scars are still drawn down her back like reminders—this is what we can do to you, if you dare stand against us.
The Hunger Games are another reminder of this.
Tennacity's POV
Oh my freaking goodness, District Twelve. And, at that, one of the worst neighborhoods that there is in the worst district in all of Panem. Like, honestly. No District One. No District Two. But, here Tennacity, you can go ahead and explore District Twelve, which will actually just end up making you horribly sick because of all the freaking coal dust that's in the air that will make you cough until you're sure you're going to pop a blood vessel in, like, your eye. Happy Hunger Games!
Whatever. It's my job. Getting on that train, leaving District Eleven (which admittedly wasn't that pleasant, with all the fields of people working and the mayor greeting us a little too happily—I don't think they've had many visitors from the Capitol besides escorts the past few years) was hard enough for me. But stepping into Krow Haliss's house, a house the size of the biggest room in my house back in the Capitol, with a stove in the corner right by a bed, made me want to go jump out the window. I mean, I guess there's only one floor, so jumping out the window wouldn't have that much effect. But you get my drift, don't you?
Three little girls—thirteen years old, ten and nine—all with un-brushed blonde, brown and black hair that is equally as messy as their mother's—sit on the ground while their mom, Redina Haliss, sits on a chair across from the couch Corvin and I take a seat on. The nine year old climbs up on Redina's lap, and she pets the top of her head.
"So, um," I say, a little uncomfortable. I can barely breathe. There's coal dust everywhere. "Are you girls attached to your older brother?"
The thirteen-year old, is the only one that speaks up. "We love him. He helps the family, a lot. I don't know what I'd do without him."
"Of course," Corvin begins, twiddling with his thumbs, "but what—"
We're interrupted by the front door bursting open and a young girl standing in the doorway, along with an even younger boy. She's completely out of breath, and as the cameras pan to her, I'm starting to wonder if she's mentally unstable or something like that. What if she wants to kill us, like the Davies, back in District Eight did? She's breathing heavily and the sunlight—the only light—streams in from behind her and casts her shadow long on the floor. I resist screaming.
"Don't tell me I'm too late?" she asks. Then her eyes set on Corvin and me and her mouth—a straight line across her face—slowly turns into a smile.
Redina smiles a bit as well, and I give the camera man a panicked expression. He's big. He's buff, to an extent. If something goes wrong, he could protect us, right? I can't really depend on Corvin. Not after bashing his nose in the car door a few districts ago.
"No, no, dear. Come on in." Redina looks at us. "It's all right if we have another interviewee, isn't it?"
I'm still a tad confused but Corvin recovers quickly. "Yes! Indeed it is! Come, come, and take a seat…" He cuts himself short as he realizes there are no other chairs. "…on the floor."
She does, along with the little boy who hasn't spoken a word and looks insanely frightened by the cameras and me. Maybe Corvin is right. Maybe I need new lip-gloss. It seems to be scaring little children, lately.
"Shrike, right?" Corvin beams at her.
Shrike. Who the hell's Shrike? I should probably know that, but I don't recall any Shrike on that envelope on the train, describing who we would be interviewing. And no little boy, either.
This Shrike girl nods, and I smile although I'm clueless to what's happening. "Yes. And this is my brother Jay. Krow volunteered to save Jay's life."
Oh. Well, there we go. Half of an explanation. I dig into it more. "You and Krow are friends, then?"
Her smile fades. "Should've been. Could've been. Weren't. But when he comes back we will be."
"When he comes back…" I echo gradually, but all of a sudden feeling Corvin's shoe plow into my own, I shut up. It's too dark for the cameras to catch it but it's painful, so I stop talking. It isn't worth it.
Besides, I'll get him back later by slamming his whole head in the car door. Then who will be sorry?
