And with them a loss, round of applause

sometimes it feels like they want me to lose

It's entertainment, is that an excuse?

No, but the question that lingers, whether win or lose

-Rihanna, Question Existing


CHAPTER 18

BEHIND THE CURTAIN


Winston Thorn (18), District 7 Tribute

The twelve remaining tributes wait in a hallway shrouded in darkness. Winston can hear some irregular breathing toward the back of the line, as though someone is openly expressing how nervous they are to appear on stage. He wonders for a moment if it is Arley, although he cannot place the location. When he looks over his shoulder, the pair from District Eight seem to be standing in silence. Not quite a camaraderie. The stoicism in their faces almost makes Winston feel nervous to the point where he has stopped looking behind him.

It's like some twisted kind of job interview, he muses. Some are just more prepared than others. And some people, like the boy from District Six, clearly do not seem to care about getting hired. He and Bash watched the first half of the tributes file out onto stage, the Careers too far ahead to hear as they whispered to each other at the front of the line. However, Districts Five and Six are two they can hear more audibly before they're called onto the stage, with one pair reassuring each other and the other having a short-lived argument over some kind of clicking noise. Winston isn't the type to be fazed easily by insignificant annoyances, but the hundreds of people in front of them do concern him to a certain extent.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" the boy on stage demands, his eyes narrowed at the interviewer in his sugar pink jacquard suit. Nothing like being aggressive, Winston winces. So far the entire interview has consisted of Axel slouching in his chair, trying to answer Mr. Valentine's questions in the most monotonous tone possible. Is he trying to bore the Capitol? Winston finds himself wondering. Apart from four of the careers and the extremely tall boy from Ten - who Winston recalls predicting would get a score to rival the Careers - both Sixes scored a seven each during the private sessions. And yet neither of them seem like they're capable of it.

Winston won't deny that the glowering look that usually has taken a permanent residence on Axel's face makes him uncomfortable, but there's no way the boy stared at the Gamemakers and they gave him a seven. "District Six has had some good stylists this year," he comments to Bash in a low whisper, his eyes taking in the fitted black leather blazer that Axel is wearing. His black pants seem to have a subtle metallic sheen to them that looks almost incendiary, but the boy takes no notice of them like Winston would have. The fashion in the Capitol never ceases to amaze him; it's a far cry from the standard flannels he would wear at home, but the crazy colors excite him nonetheless.

"Yeah they do!" Bash whispers forcefully, her cheeks shining as they reflect the stage lights.

"Nothing, nothing, just saying," Mr. Valentine amends to the discreet hostility on stage. He looks uncomfortable too, mirroring how Winston already feels about Axel. The Master of Ceremonies almost looks relieved when the buzzer sounds and he can usher the boy off stage.

"I'm next!" Bash grins at him and grabs his hand, her lips gleaming a bright pink with the soft lip tint that the District Seven stylists applied to her face. On cue, Mr. Valentine stands again and calls out her name over the pleasant clapping of the crowd.

"Good luck!" He smiles back at her optimistically, watching her turn heel and walk across the line of shadow the mohair curtains create and into the spotlight. Once the light hits her, Bash's dress looks much more magnificent. The peach-colored mesh tulle dress has a light blue wash at the bodice, slightly puffed sleeves, and a score of pleated ruffles along the neckline and sleeves. The dress fades into a navy blue gradient at the skirt that Winston likes, as when she walks, it almost looks like there is water rippling at her knees.

"It's good to see you, Tarquinius!" she exclaims, shaking his hand. Any uneasiness the audience had when Axel was on the stage is replaced by Bash and her cute overconfidence. She reminds me of my sister, Winston thinks, feeling an ache in his chest.

Both of them are too headstrong for their own good, he decides as the Master of Ceremonies pretends to look taken aback. "It's good to see you too, darling! Goodness, you're excitable, aren't you?" he asks Bash. The grin on her face only grows wider and she gives the interviewer a sly wink that makes Winston want to bury his face in his hands. Maybe not exactly like my sister, he decides.

"You betcha!" she nods, the curls in her hair bouncing around her face.

"You pronounced my name correctly, too!" Mr. Valentine says with a genuine smile on his face. "Not a lot of people can do that - " he lowers his voice - "not even my colleagues." This incites a riot of laughter from the crowd of glamourous Capitolites. Well, they certainly like her already. The two banter back and forth, eyes sparkling under the light, as the interviewer asks Bash about the stunt she pulled during the Reapings. I've never seen anyone else kiss an escort. Bash just eats up the spotlight, doesn't she? Winston grins as she owns it, starting to go off on a tangent about whichever numerous relationships she's had back in Seven.

"That's quite a lot of relationships for someone so young!" Mr. Valentine exclaims, working to quickly change the subject. "So what about your family? I'm sure you're excited to get back to them!" he addresses her. Not with that training score, she won't, Winston thinks, his thoughts taking a morbid turn. But Bash nods her head sagely.

"Oh yeah, Tarquinius! My dad runs a restaurant and he makes the best eggs and breakfast grits you've ever had!" She's beaming now, and despite Winston making a mental note that he's going to need to have a chat with Padds, he is smiling again at her eagerness.

"I bet the food your father serves is delicious," Mr. Valentine declares, "and I'm assuming - if you're willing to indulge me, Miss Ridgewood - that it is a family owned restaurant?" The interviewer folds his hands neatly across his lap and leans forward, though getting any closer isn't necessary to hear her.

"Yep!" she affirms, and Winston sighs, leaning his head against the wall as they continue to talk. He recalls going to brunch at the Ridgewood restaurant once or twice with his friend, Tobias, and his girlfriend Bloom. I miss that, he thinks as he watches all of the colors and flashing halcyon lights that threaten to give him a headache. I miss the simplicity of it all. Nothing in the Capitol can ever be simple, and it's regrettably the only thing that keeps him from overindulging in the splendor around him.

The copious amounts of hairspray that the stylists teased into his hair at the behest of his escort, Lysandra, doesn't help either. His long hair has been slicked back on the sides to tame it, the dark brown color accentuated with a high shine that is sure to help make him look more refined in the eyes of the Capitolites. He's wearing a dark brown button-down shirt and shoes, with a gorgeous mint green blazer with dark brown trim and a mint green tie helping to offset the browns. I know I look good, Winston tells himself, trying to muster up any last bits of courage as Bash shakes the interviewer's hand and exits the stage. And Padds isn't dressed in yellow, so we're all off to a good enough start. He twists around and sees Padds give him a subtle thumbs-up and a wink.

"And also from District Seven, please welcome Winston Thorn, ladies and gentlemen!" shouts Mr. Valentine. Winston turns back with a light chuckle and steps out onto the stage stiffly, trying not to crease the fine leather shoes. "Good evening, Mr. Thorn!"

"Thank you, sir." Winston replies, hoping the nervousness doesn't bleed through his voice.

"So polite! Your family back home teach you those manners?" Mr. Valentine queries, a twinkle in his eyes. "We all like that in a kid, you know."

"Yes sir, they did. My mama, especially," he says quietly. The crowd seems to like his answer, a collective noise of affection rising from their ranks, like he is some adorable little kitten on stage.

"Any brothers or sisters, Mr. Thorn?" Mr. Valentine asks him, pausing to run a hand through his dyed hair, a bright iridescent red color that Winston is beginning to like.

"Just the one. Her name is Tobin, and she's about thirteen. We're pretty close, but she can be a handful at times," he admits, knowing his sister's ears must be burning in their living room at home. He flashes a smile in the general direction of the cameras as if to tell her that he's just joking, the way he would always have to if she took his lightheartedness too seriously.

"And I'm sure you care for your sibling very deeply. Do you see your sister in Miss Ridgewood, I wonder?" the Master of Ceremonies thinks aloud, stroking his chin. "I mean, I don't like to spread rumors or anything, but I've heard somewhere through the grapevine that you're in an alliance with her and some others. With you scoring a seven," Mr. Valentine continues, speaking over a light bout of applause, "which is quite impressive I must add… why would you ally with some of this year's lower scorers? The principle of being district partners, or perhaps because you see your sister in her?" he asks, making it sound as though Winston is only allying with Bash because he feels the need to protect her.

While part of that is true, Winston is beginning to feel defensive. "I think the scores are a bit objective," he says slowly. "Bash is a wonderful person, and I'm quite happy with my choices in allies, thank you," he retorts, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice to keep an upbeat demeanor. There's been too much snark on this stage already.

"Will it secure your victory, though? So you can go back to those that are important in your life?" the man sitting across from him asks. The doubt from earlier resurfaces in his gut, and before he gets the chance to open his mouth, the buzzer goes off. Mr. Valentine gives him a wry smile and stands to shake his hand. "I guess we'll find out, then."

Winston leaves the stage feeling dazed and unsure what he is supposed to do.

Tomorrow is only so far away.


Darnius Paisley (16), District 8 Tribute

If there is one thing that Darnius likes about his time in the Capitol, it has been the chaos that has come with the experience. But Darnius can't help but feel a sickness spread to his stomach - like a drop of ink in a glass of water - at how fake this all seems to be. Once the pair from District Seven has been separated, the line has fallen silent again. It is not a comfortable silence; rather, this silence is like the one that he and Halley have shared for the last few days, but with eight others behind him. He shrugs his shoulders, trying to roll the tension out, and hears the thunderous applause that signals the end of another interview. Winston has gotten up and headed the other way across the stage, looking at a loss for words despite a profound lack of provoking questions. Well, that sure is one way to dampen an impression.

Halley looks back at Darnius, the soft red glow of an exit sign reflected in her green eyes. He gives her a silent nod as Mr. Valentine calls her on stage in the same way as the others, which has become boring and customary over the past forty-five minutes of interviews. Most tributes have been winging it, and Darnius knows he will too despite hours of careful instruction from Augustus, his escort. After the tablecloth incident, I don't think he had reason to try very hard though. But it sits well with Darnius, as he often feels more comfortable riding on impulse rather than careful considerations. Darnius tries to focus his attention on the proceedings before him, but just like the Private Sessions, it has taken forever to inch down the line even though each interview is about three minutes long. To alleviate his boredom, he scratches the side of his nose and immediately forces himself to stop. It's an old habit, and one Arya's been trying to break for years… his hand falls limp back at his side, and he tries not to focus on either the tingling sensation on the side of his nose or his girlfriend, who has already spent hours plaguing the morbid thoughts in his head.

"Welcome, Miss Verron! I must say, you look fantastic tonight," the Master of Ceremonies comments to his district partner, who smiles graciously despite her eyes betraying a certain sense of flightiness he has learned to pick up on. She does look rather sophisticated tonight, Darnius agrees. A far cry from the stoic little girl in the oversized paisley dress who threw up on the trains. They dressed Halley in a white short-sleeved floral mini-dress with a keyhole neckline and small side cut-outs, but it is the dusky pink flowers with green and teal blue leaves that help make her dress stand out from the solid colors of earlier tributes. "For someone so young, you've surely turned a lot of eyes, wouldn't you say?" Mr. Valentine continues, smiling kindly at the twelve-year-old girl.

It wouldn't have been Darnius' choice of words. Her hair is styled into a half-up twist braid knot, and the light pink blush and mauve lipstick do make her look a little older… but trying to play the appearance angle with her isn't a good idea, at least in his mind. Besides, after having two young kids up on stage already, I'm sure the Capitol is tired of seeing them.

"Just Halley, please." his district partner tells Mr. Valentine, pointedly evading the question.

"Halley, okay. I can work with that," he comments with a grin that makes Darnius' skin crawl. He's never been a huge fan of the rich nor the haughty, and Tarquinius Valentine gives him the impression of somehow being both without the intention to be either. "Are you proud of your training score? One of the youngest tributes here, and you've got a six? That's quite the impressive feat, young lady," he praises Halley.

Halley fidgets in her chair, her cheeks burning behind the blush. "I think it has gotten enough attention, so, yes, I am." A grin lights up her face, and not for the first time, Darnius cannot help but feel jealous that she outscored him. What did she do to get that kind of score? Slap someone else? It would be pretty funny to see her slap a Gamemaker, he muses, the thoughts reminiscent of their first night in the Capitol.

"Did you expect I'd get a lower score?" Halley asks boldly, cocking her head to the side and looking Mr. Valentine in the eye.

The man blushes and straightens his lapels for the hundredth time that night. "No, not at all!" Liar. Darnius did not expect any of the younger tributes to score very high, and he recalls watching the television with Halley by his side. Neither spoke a word, just watched with eyes glued to the screen as Mr. Valentine read the cards. And she got a six. As if mirroring his thoughts, the Master of Ceremonies drops his voice into a theatrical whisper. "What did you do to earn such a score, Halley?"

"I don't think I can tell you..." Halley says, her lips tugging into a mischievous smile.

"My, my... you are a bright one," he compliments her with another winning smile. "So, tell me, Halley, what do you want to do if you win?" Mr Valentine asks, uncrossing his legs and reclining in the chair. Which looks a great deal more comfortable than the one we get to sit in. By now, Darnius is only half-listening to the interview, trying to mentally prepare himself for the angle he wants to take. Their escort had discussed with him the possible routes he could go. Attempting to be a tear-jerker isn't on that menu, since Darnius would much rather be distant than look miserable. I want these people's respect, not their pity, he decides. I'd much rather act like that Hela girl did, at least then people might take me seriously. Certainly, by lashing out during the Reapings, he could be plausible to play up the aggressive card. Show them I'm competition.

"When you win," Mr. Valentine continues as Halley sits looking agitated, "you get a lot of money and get to move your whole family into one of those big Victors' Village homes. I'm sure you've seen them!" She nods slowly, the soft waves that have been delicately curled in her hair bouncing on the shoulders of her white dress.

"I want to move all my brothers and sisters in with me to the other houses," Halley replies, slowly lifting her gaze from her lap to meet the interviewer in the eyes once more.

"How many brothers and sisters do you have? Not your parents?" asks Mr. Valentine, a confused expression on his face.

"Well, there's Old Man Clyde... and Miss Lylanis, but..." she pauses, taking a deep breath, mulling over her thoughts as the timer speeds down toward zero. "No, not them. They can take care of themselves. But the others… they deserve a home after losing-"

"So they aren't your relatives, then? Halley, I'm sorry, but I'm confused." Mr. Valentine interjects, an expression of curiosity and concern on his face. But Darnius has heard enough. Miss Lyanis is the one who runs the homeless shelter, he thinks, his stomach sinking to his knees. Halley never mentioned Miss Lylanis before, or her story would have made sense. And to think I made fun of her situation. This Old Man Clyde must have been the closest thing to a father figure she had, and the thought fills Darnius with a great sorrow.

Darnius had once considered registering himself and his father for the homeless shelter when the times got tough and his father abused the bottle too much. After the brutal death of his mother, times always seemed difficult. But alcohol is cheaper than medication in Eight… and the shelter is always overflowing.

"There's nothing to be confused about," Halley shrugs nonchalantly. "If I win, we all get a real home. That's all there is to it."

"Well…" the Master of Ceremonies starts, at a loss for words. "If you live on the streets, I think it's safe to assume that you're scrappy enough to have earned that six."

Halley nods solemnly. "Once, Old Man Henderson saw me get into a fight with a boy a couple years older than me… I got beat pretty badly," she recalls quietly, her voice full of a dampened sort of bigor. "I didn't quit though. He told me to learn how to defend myself until I got good enough to when I could beat the boys." She swallows thickly, the full attention of the Capitolites tuned in to hear her. "And I kept fighting, and kept losing. Until one day, I didn't."

There is a heavy silence which hangs on the crowd, and a similar one in his heart as he recalls years of battles and arguments fought with his friend, Weaver, at his side both in and out of the schoolyards. She and I really aren't too different, he ponders as the buzzer goes off somewhere in the silence. Halley offers a grin to the crowd, whose applause fills the gaps in the stunned silence. Mr. Valentine stands up again and faces the crowd with a signature smile. "Next, please welcome Darnius Paisley of District Eight!" he crows in a jovial tone.

Darnius' feet, enclosed in shiny black dress shoes, seem to move on their own as he makes an impulsive decision. I'm going to treat this like a fight, he tells himself as he walks into the dazzling lights, his suit drawing a myriad of gasps from the crowd.

I went down swinging at the Reapings, I'll go down swinging here.


Arley Harva (12), District 9 Tribute

She's been feeling good about this all day, since the time the scores came out, through the interview preparations, scores of stylists, and finally now standing behind the curtains it feels like nothing can break her stride. Not even the two that I scored. She remembers sitting on the couch with Granger, her mentor, and Padds as Mr. Valentine appeared on screen to read off the scores. Arley expected the Careers to score high, so she was definitely shocked when the girl from One received a lower score than anyone else.

Her score, however, does not worry her. I've got Winston, Bash, and Padds… and if we avoid the rest of the Careers, we'll be alright. The thought of the crimson dawn that tomorrow is sure to bring makes her uneasy, as it would anyone. Tomorrow it begins. She may be naïve, but it would seem that the Games make anyone uneasy… except maybe the little boy from District Three. So she tries to focus on the interviews, the stadium around her filled with hundreds of people instead, and she loves it. Arley loves the suit that Darnius wears, too. The black suit is a chaotic mess of different swatches of color, ranging from dark and light browns, light beige, red, and both gold and matte yellow. Beneath the blazer, Darnius is wearing a charcoal shirt, black tie, and black dress shoes, but it is the color on his suit that draws the attention from both her and the Capitolites upon walking out into the light.

"Good evening, Mr. Paisley. How are you?" Mr. Valentine asks once the older boy is seated. The boy, Darnius, has a smile that seems to waver between aggression and sunshine, and it takes him a solid couple of seconds longer than it should to respond.

"I'm fine," he replies, flattening his hair with his hand.

The Master of Ceremonies sighs. "None of these tributes have any manners," he says with a feigned sort of misery. "You're supposed to say 'I'm fine, thank you,' but I suppose it's too much to ask you all."

Arley narrows her eyes in mild confusion. Why does he care all the sudden? She might attribute it to burnout; after fifteen prior interviews, Mr. Valentine must be getting tired of keeping up such a smiling facade.

"Okay," Darnius nods his head. I wouldn't know how to handle that either, Arley thinks. She turns backward to look at Padds, who shrugs nonchalantly as if this whole thing is no big deal to him.

"He shouldn't lay into you like that, Arley," Padds whispers to her, and she bobs her head in affirmation, the copper crown slipping slightly on her head. She reaches back up to balance it atop her brown hair, which has been styled into soft ruffled waves. If they hadn't been standing there as long as they had - almost an hour - then Arley is sure the crown would be more comfortable. And the heels hurt too! she moans internally, wishing she could be barefoot like she was back home or inside the training apartments.

Something tells her that the interview with the District Eight boy isn't going too well, as he has raised his voice, half-shouting something at the interviewer. "What a heathen thing to do," Mr. Valentine tells him, and Arley can't help but agree with Darnius when he begins to shout at the man.

"Our escort said the same thing when I wiped my mouth on the tablecloth in the dining car," Darnius tells the man, who looks appalled. "Do you know him?"

"Mr. Paisley, I can cut this interview short and-" Mr. Valentine begins before he is rudely cut off. Arley stops paying attention momentarily to crouch down in order to take off her heels. She leans against the wall for support as she does, but Padds offers her his support as well, and she is finally able to get them off.

"So much better!" Arley declares, standing up straight again and once more readjusting the crown. A strand of her hair has clung to her faded berry red lipstick, and she pulls it off in annoyance. Her feet are covered in claret red ribbons which extend about halfway up her calves, disappearing into the dress, but they are much more comfortable than the shoes, which she kicks to the side. The ribbons remind me of Sissa, she thinks sadly, remembering her big sister weaving them into her hair the day of the Reapings.

"You've known for me two days yet you think you know everything about me? You're intolerant, just like my father," Darnius says with a condescending sneer that quickly shocks the crowd. Why is he trying to be so aggressive? "And he's a drunk," Darnius continues. "Are you a drunk, Mr. Valentine?"

The interviewer looks affronted, and beyond the stage there is an uneasy quiet settling in among the Capitolites. "I don't think it's very fair that you-" he tried to defend himself before Darnius cuts him off.

"It isn't too hard to be able to smell the alcohol on your breath," Darnius says, taking an exaggerated whiff as the other man's slush-colored eyes widen. "Most definitely," he continues. "Smells like vodka to me!"

Arley giggles as the man's normally perfect complexion takes on a pink tinge of embarrassment. He stands up hastily, looking flustered, and presses a small concealed button on his armchair. The buzzer sounds from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and no one claps for the boy. Darnius looks dazed for a split second, then stands up and walks off the stage, not bothering to shake Mr. Valentine's formally outstretched hand.

"P-Please welcome, our next guest: Arley Harva! Give District Nine a warm welcome!" he instructs the audience, and they oblige. She feels like a queen as she walks out on stage to all of the clapping. The stage is cold against her feet, but the crown gleams atop her head, sending the Capitolites in a frenzy which makes her blush rather hard. She does a little twirl like that the girl from One did, and although her dress doesn't have as much motion to it, it still makes an impression. Arley is wearing a white long-sleeved blouse with a pale gold sleeveless dress over it that shimmers in the light. It has claret red side panels, embroidered red lines, and small gold pieces and diamonds at the bodice.

Mr. Valentine seems calmed by the audience response as well, and shakes her hand before gesturing graciously for her to sit down. "My, you look stunning tonight, Miss Harva!" he exclaims. "Although I must ask, what prompted your stylists to have you walk out barefoot?" He gestures toward the ribbons on her feet.

"Oh, the heels were starting to pinch my feet, so I had to take them off," she says, smiling innocently.

"Ah," he says with a grin. "Might I ask; what is your favorite part about this temporary life in the Capitol?" Mr. Valentine asks.

"The… The popcorn," she decides. "It's much saltier than what we can make at home, and it's really good," Arley defends her answer.

A roar of laughter comes from the crowd, and Mr. Valentine smiles weakly. "Ah well, our popcorn is pretty good. I don't think any of us were expecting that answer, with you coming from District Nine!" he laughs good-naturedly and wipes the corner of his eye, although Arley didn't see any tears.

"Well... the popcorn here is good..." Arley says, feeling a bit like her queenly demeanor has been reduced by one childish answer.

"It's okay, sweetheart; I'm not criticizing you," he says kindly. "Let's move away from popcorn." She nods, feeling the weight of the crown slip a little on her head. "You seem like a sweet little girl."

Now she's beaming again. "Thank you, Mr. Valentine!"

"And brave… that was your sister, wasn't it? At the Reapings?" She nods slowly to not upset the crown from its resting position. Copper was always good at playing Queen. But now it's your turn, so you can't let her see it fall off your head, Arley berates herself. "You volunteered for her?"

"I- I did..." Arley says, trailing off as she remembers the fear that had spiked a hole inside of her, the horror on her sister's face as she raised her hand and called out the two words that almost always guaranteed a death sentence in District Nine. I volunteer.

"Do you have any idea how brave it is, for what you did? She did come to say goodbye, right?"

"Of course she did," Arley says, feeling a bit confused. "Are you trying to say she wouldn't?"

He shakes his head, his bright red pompadour somehow not moving with the motion. "No, not at all, sweetheart. 'Why did you volunteer for her though, if you don't mind me asking? I've talked to a lot of people on this stage tonight and I don't think that many people as brilliant as you would've done what you did."

Arley feels dumbfounded, grasping for words for a moment as the timer counts down on her. "I couldn't let her come here." Silence. "I didn't know what 'here' was, but it- it wasn't gonna be good, and she can't go."

"And why's that, Miss Harva? Why couldn't she come here to compete for the Hunger Games?" Mr. Valentine asks her politely, though there is a look of sorrow and pity behind shielded eyes.

"Because those that come here don't usually come back. And I don't know if she could come back. But I might." Arley sniffles, using the back of her hand to wipe tears off her face.

Mr. Valentine reaches out to take one of her hands, enveloping it on his own. She can see that the timer has reached zero, but the buzzer has not gone off. "Is there anything you want to say before you go, Miss Harva?"

"Yes there is something I'd like to say before I go," she whispers, trying hard not to cry.

"I love you, Sissa. Be brave for me."


Ruben Bolt (18), District 10 Tribute

If there is one place Ruben doesn't want to be, it is here. He'd much rather be running a fighting ring back in Ten, or stuck in a launch tube ready to go - hell, he'd rather be in the arena - rather than this. Most of all, I'd much rather be kissing Gray. Mr. Valentine's questions about all these relationships has begun to make his heart jealous. Ruben is already irrationally mad at the likes of Siren for being accepted into the Pack despite a score lower than his own; no one ever came to him with an offer. But highlighting that there are blossoming romances within the Careers doesn't help. As if that group needed any more reasons to be favored by the whole damn Capitol.

And then there was the matter of the pair from District Five. He didn't care enough to listen - considering both look like bloodbath material to him - but however their relationship came into fruition, Ruben is jealous of them because he has been forced to leave his love behind him in District Ten, and they have theirs here.

It's the chain bracelet around his wrist that helps ground him, to give him something to fight for. He still remembers when Gray gave it to him, linking the twisted industrial fence to form a clasp. Coming from the small urban sector of the district that dealt with meat packaging, there was plenty of fence to go around and not enough Peacekeepers to care.

Plenty of crime, too. He can't imagine living in Eleven, where the Peacekeepers congregate and crack down hard upon its denizens. Despite how much he hates it, District Ten is home, and with it is love and security.

He tries to burn thoughts of his boyfriend, Gray, out of his head by thinking ahead. About what I'll need to do to get back to him so we can finally get married like we have been planning. Ruben knows what needs to be done tomorrow morning, when the tubes lift them into whatever the arena holds. I know I have to kill. How different can it be?

"Well, Mr. Padderson, you look like you've seen a ghost. Aren't you enjoying the Capitol experience thus far?" asks Mr. Valentine, flashing his pearly whites.

Both the Nine boy and Evie are dressed in purple, but that's where the similarity of their outfits stops. Padds has on a purplish-gray blazer over a black sweater, with a white shirt collar sticking out from underneath. He has on charcoal slacks with lighter gray pinstripes that are reminiscent of about half of the patrons to the underground ring he and his boss run, coupled with sky blue socks, tan desert boots, and a golden-yellow and white-patterned fringed scarf with one end being dip-dyed sky blue. At first, the color scheme seems off to Ruben, who is itching to make a jest about it to Evie. However, the longer he looks, the better he realizes how well it suits Padds' tanned skin, and so he keeps the barb to himself.

"Oh, uh, sorry. No, just... just reminded of the Reaping, that's all." Padds says, fiddling with the scarf. He must be burning up in that thing, Ruben thinks. His own outfit is nice and simple, as the stylists chose to spend more time on Evie, which was more than fine by him. A black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and red tie make him one of the most simply-dressed tributes. But Ruben has no doubt that the chain bracelet and a well-placed scowl on his face will work wonders with the crowd, especially having as high of a training score as he earned. Funny how they dress us all up so nice right beforehand… like the stockyard before they send us to the slaughterhouse.

The Master of Ceremonies has said something to the other boy, but Ruben only catches his response. "All of the faces out there, waiting for me to trip up or something, you know?"

"Well, Mr. Padderson, you never struck me as shy before. I will say, we aren't like that here, I promise you. So kick back and enjoy yourself, like Miss Harva did. One last night before the Games tomorrow, so it'd be best to have fun with it, don't you think?"

The scowl creeps onto Ruben's face. "You just watch us all die, instead. That's so much nicer," he mutters to himself, not quite realizing he was speaking aloud.

"What was that, Ruben?" Evie asks him with a sweetness that seems feigned. She has her back against the wall now, with the stage light illuminating one half of her face and casting an Evie-shaped shadow across the floor.

"Nothing, Evie," he tells her with a scoff, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The stylists trimmed it up so that it wouldn't bother him, but he has no doubt it'll grow just long enough in the arena to irritate him. "You gonna go off the handle this time?" Ruben taunts her, the bathroom incident still fresh in the back of his mind.

"No," she shrugs, picking at one of the lacy sleeves on her dress. "Unless you want me to," Evie says calmly, her lips pressed together for a long moment. Neither of them speak until she decides to break the silence. "You think he needs a good punch in the face?"

"No, but I'll hit him for you if you want," Ruben snorts. "For old times sake." She flashes a grin in his direction, shaking in a silent laughter that would make her look unhinged if she were mad. Ruben bites the inside of his lip, glad he didn't choose to ally with her despite any similarities they may share. Don't wanna piss her off and get a knife in my back from some psychotic episode or something.

The conversation has gotten easier on the stage, with the Nine boy back to his normal, extroverted self. The whole thing only proves to Ruben how stupid this is. All this anticipation, trying to make a good impression on a bunch of useless pricks. He sighs. It'd be so much easier to show them what I know I'm capable of, he thinks darkly.

"I'm definitely hitting him," Evie groans, shaking her head so that her white hair falls in messy curls in front of her face. She sighs and uses her fingers to groom it back into place. Tonight, she looks like anyone might expect a fifteen-year-old girl to look. Less fucking feral, Ruben grins. Despite the unspoken agreement to go their own separate ways, the pair have been more than cordial in their time in the Capitol.

"Just look at his smirk. And everyone looks so uncomfortable to be on that stage with him."

"You're gonna be wasting your energy," Ruben remarks. "They don't deserve any of us. Any of this."

"Says the criminal." Evie says snidely, puckering her lips in his general direction.

His grin is predatory as he looks back at her, a dangerous look in his eye. Don't fuck with me. "Says the girl who broke a sink," he retorts.

"Touché, Ruben, touché," she says, stepping off from the wall to face the crowd.

"Speak of the devil," Ruben growls, his voice gravelly as the buzzer goes off, sounding like some demented alarm clock. Evie groans, making an animalistic noise at the back of her throat.

She stands alert at the exit from the dark hall that the tributes are being kept in. Ruben walks up further against the wall to fill her absence, resting his shoulder against the gray brick. "Everyone please welcome Evanna Lynn of District Ten!" Mr. Valentine shouts.

He watches her walk to greet the interviewer. Her floor length dress is the same shade of purple that matches her eyes, with a sweetheart neckline and long floral rose-patterned sleeves. The roses are a lighter purple, matching her platform wedges. How does anyone even walk in stuff like that around here? Ruben wonders, silently agreeing with the Nine girl that heels would be too annoying to wear.

"Your eyes are a magnificent color," Mr. Valentine compliments her, as if he heard their conversation from behind the curtains. As if he's trying to make amends.

"You- you really think so?" Evie asks him sweetly. She puts up such a front, and here she's gonna melt like butter… I won't be that easy for Valentine to interview, Ruben tells himself. He closes his eyes and listens to the interview, trying to block out the lights and the hundreds of faces filling the stadium. Much more people than we had to fill in the Reaping square.

"I have to say, Miss Lynn-"

"Evie. I go by Evie," she interjects rather rudely, bringing any calming feelings to a halt. Ruben smirks in delight, imagining the look that must be on the interviewer's face.

"Alright, Evie. There was some talk that you had an incident in the training center a few days ago. Do you care to tell us about it?" Mr. Valentine asks.

Ruben can hear his district partner sigh. "I had an accident. Nothing more," she lies. But I know the truth. Good of her to not give Valentine what he wants.

But of course, he's persistent. After all, this is all one big drama show, isn't it? "We were told it involved blood and someone being stitched up," he inquires.

"I slipped into the sink in the bathroom," Evie continues to fabricate the story. "A trainer came in and got cut on the broken shards." Ruben is grinning now, and opens his eyes to see the dismayed reaction of Mr. Valentine's face. She's learning how to play the game.

Too bad it won't save her from death.


Tangaria Roolch (17), District 11 Tribute

He's violent and evil, Tangaria thinks to herself as she watches Ruben stroll out onto the stage to applause of the same degree that the Careers received. Well, he did get an eight, she muses. Much more impressive than we got. Both she and Reynolds had gotten a training score of four, and Mari somehow pulled off a five. It makes Tangaria sick to remember the glee on Asher's face when he earned a seven, nor how impressed their mentor was with him.

But Tangaria hasn't - and won't - give up. I have a whole family to return to, and we sure as hell could use a nicer house. Ten people crammed into a small, decrepit house on the outskirts of Eleven isn't a life Tangaria wants to live anymore, now that she's seen the extraordinary wonders of the Capitol and all of its richness and affluence. It's not a life I want my sisters to live either. Or little Gravnu. Most of her brothers are older than her seventeen years, but Gravnu is the youngest of her brothers. Would he remember me if I don't come back? She shakes her head clear of the morbid thoughts, touching the silky dark sage green fabric of her sister Talitha's scarf. The stylists wrapped it around her head, with most of her coarse dark hair flowing free of its customary braid.

"You okay, Tangaria?" Mariela half-whispers from behind Asher in line, face peering around his shoulder.

Tangaria steps awkwardly off the wall to see Mariela better. Having Asher with the rest of us is a bit strange, she admits, having grown used to him being away with the rest of the Careers. Whatever they're off doing, she'll never know, but she sincerely hopes that the Wolfchild leaves her alone in the arena. I don't want to deal with him, she thinks. Somehow, an enemy you know is worse than an enemy you don't.

"Doesn't he give you the creeps?" Tangaria asks her allies, nodding her head in Ruben's general direction.

"He gives me the creeps…" Reynolds says softly from the very back of the line, who looks like he's one with the shadows, his dark brown hair and charcoal suit blending into the back end of the adjoining hall.

"Hey, give me some damn space, guys," Asher grimaces, sidestepping Tangaria to move to the front of the line. Asher's black combat boots echo in the small waiting hall, momentarily drowning out the noise emanating from outside.

"So, Ruben," she hears Mr. Valentine continue once Asher has settled with his back against the wall so he can keep an eye on the three of them. "You scored decently well, wouldn't you say?"

"I could've scored higher, let's just say that." Ruben replies, his voice taking on an equally dark and boisterous tone.

"Ugh, what an idiot." Mariela scoffs, folding her arms across the front of her dress.

"I could take him..." Asher says quietly from the wall, his usual cocky demeanor radiating off of him. Tangaria ignores him. Just another pissed-off boy. He needs to get in line, there's at least three of them in front of him. Tangaria adjusts the strap of her dress, as the golden clasp that keeps it on her shoulder feels a bit loose. It's a one-shoulder dusky pink tunic dress with gold and silver filigree flowers sewn between each tiered layer. She wears gold gladiator sandals on her feet, as well as a simple gold necklace, earrings, bracelets, and an emerald ring that compliments her dark green scarf.

"I hint a bit of anger in your voice, Ruben. Why's that?" Mr. Valentine asks him with a small shrugging gesture.

"I scored just as good as Siren did, and she's part of the fucking Career pack. Crescentia got a one, yet she's still one of them." He pauses, shaking his head as if the idea is one of pure lunacy. "'Where's my damn invite offer?" Ruben asks loudly, as if in hopes the Careers will come out and kiss his feet. She opens her mouth and closes it in disbelief, the russet red lipstick sticking her lips together.

For once, she and Asher are in agreement. "No goddamn way," her district partner remarks, shaking his head. The four of them are quiet, listening to the remainder of his interview. It's a weird sort of silence, as despite initially feeling uncomfortable having the Wolfchild in their midst, she now feels rather comfortable. Like we're united against a common enemy, at least for a moment. But Tangaria is smart enough to know that Asher wouldn't be part of the Careers if he weren't lethal enough.

"With that attitude, Ruben, no one will want to be in an alliance with you," the Master of Ceremonies snaps. He's losing his patience again, she notes. "Do you have any allies, Ruben?" he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, I won't need them," Ruben snarls. "In an arena full of prey, I'm going to be the apex predator." Asher whistles in disbelief as the buzzer rings out, signalling the end of his interview. Ruben stands up again, taller than Mr. Valentine by several inches, and refuses to shake his hand a second time. There is some lackluster clapping from the audience, but the majority of them appear to be in shock. The interviews have quickly gone downhill, and Tangaria almost does not want to leave the safety behind the curtain.

Mr. Valentine straightens his sugar pink lapels and looks in Tangaria's direction. "Alright everyone, we've got a few more spectacular tributes to introduce, give a round of applause for the lovely Tangaria Roolch of District Eleven!" he shouts, beckoning her forward. She walks as fast as she can, hoping that none of the Capitolites take notice of her slight limp.

He shakes her hand firmly, and takes a seat. "I can tell just by looking at you that you have such a sweet soul, Miss Roolch. Would you agree with that statement?" He queries, a winning smile back on his face. It would seem that these moody boys are taking his confidence away, she thinks, ruefully wondering how the interviewer will hold up with Asher Foster on stage.

"I- thank you," Tangaria replies, still caught a little off-guard. "It wouldn't be too cocky of me to agree?"

"No it wouldn't, young lady. It's a good strength to know where your assets lie. You strike me as kind-hearted and determined to get home to that sweet little sister you volunteered for."

"I do get that a lot… Habal likes to joke that I'm as sweet as a tangerine," Tangaria grins. "My older brother," she clarifies. "My sister… it was her very first Reaping, and I couldn't bear to see her be put through all of this. I figured I might have a better shot than she would, and maybe I could come home for my family," Tangaria says wistfully, doggedly forcing herself not to cry so that her black eyeliner doesn't streak. "I couldn't let her die, Mr. Valentine."

This earns a collective noise of sympathy from the crowd, and a few cheers too. Hopefully sponsors can look past my limp and realize that I can do this.

"I know you couldn't, darling," Mr. Valentine says gently, as if she is some twelve-year-old that needs consolation from an adult. "But what I've been meaning to ask… has your heart and kindness granted you any allies, Miss Roolch?" He sits straight up in his chair, crossing his legs to recline in a more comfortable position. If I thought standing through the other twenty interviews was taxing, he's been sitting in the same position, and these chairs aren't very comfortable.

"Yes," Tangaria says. "District Twelve. Reynolds and Mariela," she tells him preemptively before he can open his mouth.

"Not your own district partner?" he asks, looking a little surprised despite some of the other Careers alluding to Asher being a part of their alliance.

She shakes her head, her dark green scarf keeping her hair from whipping about her face. "No. Asher ditched me ever since the train rides, Mr. Valentine. He's found other allies, and so have I."

The interviewer nods wisely. "I understand. But apart from any melodrama you've had, I trust you've had an enjoyable stay in the Capitol?"

Tangaria replies after a brief moment of consideration. "Yes, all things considered it's a much nicer change than the poverty we experience in District Eleven." She gives him a wan smile. "Having seven other siblings under the same roof doesn't quite equate to wearing amazing dresses like this one every day," Tangaria admits. If I could stay in those apartments forever, I would. The sheer amount of luxury that she and her fellow tributes have encountered since their arrival in the Capitol has been nothing short of both overwhelming and enjoyable.

Mr. Valentine nods. "Well, that's quite a delight to hear. So tell me, Miss Roolch, are you nervous for tomorrow? In less than twenty-four hours, you will be in the arena. How does that make you feel?"

Nervous. Scared. On edge. Worried. Tense. The words come unbidden to her mind, and she fights them away like they are the ghosts of negative rainclouds putting a damper on the afternoon sun. "I'm ready, Mr. Valentine," she says simply.

Tangaria is not ready to deal with the macabre series of death that is resting on the brink of the horizon. But she is ready to survive, to tough it out and make sure that she can weather whatever storms the Games are going to throw her way.

The buzzer goes off, and she stands, feeling numb. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. The words seem to ring in her ears as she shakes his hand and curtsies politely for the crowd, a move that their wizened escort had drilled into her head the afternoon spent preparing. I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready.

And so her mantra begins, and with it, a sense of self assurance that she had not felt before tonight.

But Tangaria Roolch knows that any sense of hope is a false one. Not everything is going to be okay.


Reynolds Pelliarch (16), District 12 Tribute

"You don't like you're very happy to be here." Mr. Valentine remarks, surveying not Reynolds Pelliarch, but the boy who is sitting across from him on stage. Asher does look pissed-off, with a glowering expression on his face. "Would you mind explaining to me why that is?"

"Take a wild guess," Asher replies scathingly.

Asher's outfit is quite admirable, Reynolds thinks. The latter districts usually get the short end of the stick when it comes to stylists and sponsors, but he has no doubt that the reason the stylists dressed Asher in such a fitting outfit was because of both his inclusion into the Career Pack, as well as the seven he scored during the private demonstrations. Much more impressive than my allies or I could pull off, Reynolds thinks glumly as the interview moves along.

Asher is wearing an unbuttoned brown jacket with a standing collar and slitted sleeves, showing off a tight black V-neck shirt - that helps to show off the lean muscles he has - and a light brown leather cummerbund around his waist. His pants match the jacket, with woven earth-toned accents of dark brown, black, gray, burnt umber, lichen green, and bone white that look jagged and wispy at some angles, as if he has been a lone survivalist in the wilderness beyond Panem for years. The loud combat boots on his feet are made of black leather, with thick straps; however, the most impressive detail the stylists included was the wolf fur accents. On Asher's hands are fingerless gloves with tan leather backing at the palm areas and cropped wolf fur on the top of the hand, and he wears a thick wolf fur pelisse with flaxen straps over his left shoulder.

Though the only wolf that Reynolds ever saw back in District Twelve was already dead, the one in front of him looks very much alive and ready to tear his head off. It had a gray pelt, whereas the fur pelisse Asher wears is a mixture of grays, browns, and burnt oranges that give it an underlying red hue that matches Asher's wild and unruly hair very nicely. Maybe they have different kinds of creatures roaming the wilderness in Eleven, Reynolds muses.

"And how did you acquire such a name like that?" Mr. Valentine asks of the Wolfchild.

"It's a name I have back home. I know when to not have my buttons pushed, and those white dogs almost did it." Asher growls, examining his fingernails as if the interview is boring him to death.

"White dogs?" Mariela questions, the two words hanging empty and unanswered in the air. But Reynolds agrees with him. White dogs is an appropriate name… it was dogs and not men who killed everyone I knew and loved.

"White dogs, Asher?" Mr. Valentine mirrors the question, arching an eyebrow in discontent with what the boy is saying.

"Yeah, Peacekeepers. The ones who don't keep the 'peace,'" Asher replies mockingly.

The Master of Ceremonies sighs exasperatedly. "Well, Mr. Foster, I think that-" he begins before getting rudely cut off.

"Tarquinius, please." Asher says, holding up a hand to silence the interviewer. Reynolds raises his eyebrows at the blatant disrespect, wondering if Asher is truly that arrogant or if it's all some grand facade he has been presenting. "I know my time is ending, so let me leave you with this. You all keep telling me that I'm a tribute, which I think is funny." He cackles to illustrate the point, a high laugh that sends chills down Reynolds' spine. "I volunteered for this," Asher continues. "You didn't reap me! But now it's the Wolfchild's turn to reap. You all best watch out."

Asher glares at the interviewer before standing up and adjusting the flaxen straps of his military-style pelisse. His dangerous gaze sweeps across the Capitol patrons that fill in the darkened stadium, as if to warn them from some cruel fate he has planned. Asher then stalks off the stage before the buzzer has sounded.

"Alright," Mr. Valentine says, clapping his hands together. You can tell he's trying to be positive, Reynolds thinks. A bit hard to do when everything seems like a disaster. It's a feeling he has grown accustomed to, and Reynolds can feel that sorrow gnaw at the walls of his stomach as if demanding he find something, anything, to numb the pain.

Somewhere from in front of the curtain, he can hear as Mr. Valentine calls out Mariela's name, and he feels her presence shift away from him; her olive Seam skin highlighted with a pearly sheen. "Bye, Reynolds…" He can feel himself shut the world away as his body goes on lockdown, his eyes glazing over so that the lights seem less bright and harsh. This isn't it. You're fine, he tells himself through a haze of darkness, the lights seeming to slip away as he takes a backwards step further down the hallway.

Tangaria's voice seems to speak to him then, a quick and quiet murmuring in his ear that rings through his skull like the clangor of some great brass gong, and she has a single word for him to hear.

Breathe.

Instead he hits his fist against the plain gray bricks. Lightly at first, then running his bony fingers through the mop of dark brown hair at the top of his head. Fucking useless, Reynolds! He grits his teeth and slams his fist against the wall harder, feeling his skin break against the rough surface. Can't leave you alone for two damn seconds, Reynolds thinks, blinking back angry tears. He pulls his fist back, feeling his skin throb. Reynolds leans his back against the wall before sliding down it so that he is sitting hunched on the floor behind the curtain.

Breathe.

Reynolds opens his eyes and blinks, watching Mari speak animatedly to the interviewer. She's wearing a gorgeous white sleeveless tulle gown with black studs and thin metal beads - that look almost like specks of coal - embellishing the illusion neckline and bodice, and then dispersing all over the skirt's moth-eaten layers. Her hair is left loose but the curly strands are adorned with white and silver lace rose hair pins with pearls at the centers. And he can hear Mari having her interview on stage, the perfect lady even with her Seam background. Mr. Valentine seems smitten with how poised and mature Mari and her damn plum lipstick appear to be despite her age. How she looks prim and proper and amazing, Reynolds thinks sullenly.

"The dress you wore for your reaping was gorgeous, too. How did you get something that nice?" the Master of Ceremonies asks her. "I mean, apologies, but normally the clothes we see from District Twelve aren't as... bright and clean. I almost thought you were one of the mayor's children."

"Oh!" Mari laughs, covering her mouth with a manicured hand as she does so. "Mayor Iparis' children are rather close to us… his eldest son and my sister are engaged!" She announces with a smile, making the crowd swoon.

Somehow, after several days of talking about her close relationships, the fact that her pregnant sister, June, was married to one of the mayor's sons never came up. Mayor Iparis… The name is as foul in Reynolds' mind as the thoughts of the Peacekeepers who lined his family up and executed them. One by one by one. And he didn't fucking do anything to try and help them. Anger stirs in his chest, and he struggles to contain it, like putting a lid on top of a boiling pot of water.

Breathe.

"I've learned to get back up, over and over again." Mari says. "Life is hard; it should be. But I'll keep getting up, bruises and all." Her voice grows louder, and when Reynolds opens his eyes again, she has shifted in her seat to look directly at him.

But her tone isn't accusatory. It's invigorating. 'Get up,' she seems to say to him. And so he does.

Breathe, Tangaria whispers in his ear.

This time, Reynolds follows along. A steady inhale. A steady exhale. Reynolds begins to ground himself again, and he gets back up, steadying himself against the rough brick wall. One of his scars has split open again from the exertion, but he ignores it. I don't need this pain anymore.

One buzzer ends, and another begins. Reynolds is the very last tribute to leave the hallway behind, and with the desertion of his post, he leaves behind the thorns of negativity that have been plucked from his sides. He drops the charcoal blazer and kicks it into the corner where the Nine girl, Arley, left her red heels. It's baggage. And I want them to see me. He walks stiffly onto the stage to a mild round of applause, dressed in a gray undershirt and crisply ironed charcoal slacks. The black shoes on his feet make no noise as he pads silently toward his chair, and Reynolds can feel the weight of his tie - a bone white color - swinging as he takes a seat.

"I know this must be a hot question for you, Reynolds," Mr. Valentine begins, folding his hands on his lap, "but why did you volunteer? I can't say that District Twelve has ever really seen a volunteer, at least to my existing knowledge."

Reynolds stares at the man's hands for a moment, fixated on the glinting rubies that are set into one of his rings, the other two being simple silver bands. It takes a moment to formulate what he's going to say, but he gets there, managing to get his words out. "I felt it was worth it, to save someone's life, y'know?"

Mr. Valentine's brow furrows in confusion. "But why, Reynolds?" he asks, voice laced with concern.

"I wanted to give up... it's why I volunteered. I was ready to die," Reynolds answers bluntly, leaving a shocked expression on Mr. Valentine's face.

"Yeah, I was," he says, as if challenging the audience to disprove him. "I tried jumping off the roof of the training center," Reynolds admits, blinking back a tear. I told myself I'm leaving this behind. Better to get it all out now while I can.

"You tried, or you did? Two vastly different things there, Reynolds," Mr. Valentine says gently.

"I tried. I wanted it so badly. But Mariela and Tangaria stopped me." Reynolds lifts his chin in defiance, the lights blazing bright in his eyes. "I couldn't lie to them, they knew what I was doing." It feels almost empowering to admit it, as if the ghosts of his past can be released. Reynolds has finally begun to expunge his demons in favor of a clean slate.

Mr. Valentine looks at a loss for words again, but behind his eyes Reynolds can tell that this is upsetting him. "It wouldn't have worked, had you fallen all the way. There's a force field to stop people from doing it."

"Tangaria told me the same thing." Reynolds says. "I found someone to live for. I found something to live for, a thing to finally breathe life back into my veins. I was going to give up… I was going to jump off the pedestal tomorrow morning and put an end to the madness… but now?" He asks without answer, the entire stadium silent for one last time.

"Now I'm all in, and I'm not messing around."

Mr. Valentine stands, and instead of shaking his hand, he takes Reynolds into an embrace, wrapping the boy within his arms.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Mr. Valentine tells him with a melancholy whisper. But now, Reynolds is ready to turn those eight words into a reality.

The buzzer goes off for the last time, and it has a cold finality to it. But Reynolds, too, is on top of the world, for he has finally begun to heal.


Author's Note: *another long internal scream*

There you have the remainder of the interviews! Only took me another whole month to finish, just about. Ugh. Major thanks to Paradigm for his help with some of the dialogue and ShunKazamis-Girl for the interview outfits and edits. Anyway, we have three tributes left to cover for the final moments - Padds, Asher and Halley - as well as a check-in with some of the supporting cast before we get to the arena!

Sponsoring will be open until I post the Final Moments chapter, which I am aiming to do within the week. Getting close now, guys! There are three things that you can do for some extra last minute sponsoring for your tributes.

1) Worth 25 pts: In your review of the chapter, which of the twenty-four interview outfits that were showcased over the last two chapters was your favorite?

2) Worth 25 pts: In the same review, if you could pick one interview outfit that YOU would choose to wear, which would it be? Better descriptions are on the DitR blog, the link for which is still on my profile!

3) A poll for Final 8 Predictions has also been posted on my profile. Participation can be confirmed through review or an existing PM thread (or even through Discord), I'm flexible. Participating in the poll will earn your tributes a knife, which is important for both defense and survival purposes. Make sure to read the sponsoring information on my profile for clarity.

As always, have a great day/night guys!