"I'll give you one night only

For your eyes only

If entertainment's what's you want

Then, honey, I'm the best..."

~One Night Only (The Struts)

o0o

Elwood Liang (14) District 7 Tribute

Thirteen heads turn as Lancia strides back across the stage and past the screens that shield the rest of us from view. Her eyes narrow. "What do you think you're looking at?" Woah. Pissy much? Most of the others look away, but I continue to study her. I didn't think she had it in her. Not after what I saw during her Reaping recap. I guess that first impressions aren't everything after all. "Got a problem, Elwood?" Lancia's nostrils are flared, now. A clear signal of her irritation.

"None at all," I say, and run a new eye across her. She's no longer the scared, ready-to-run girl I had seen when we first got here. Now, she's grown into her own skin. Something inside of her has changed, some deep integral part, even over the course of five or so days. "You've got spirit, Lancia. I respect that."

She takes a step back, eyebrows high. Fumbling for words for a moment, she finally settles on, "O-oh. Thanks, El."

"We're allies," I grin. "We're supposed to recognize each other and our respective strengths, yeah?"

Lancia flounders for a moment, words gone, but Scythe saves her, metaphorical hands stretching out, offering a lifeline. "You're with us now, remember? We stick together, no matter what."

The other girl looks down, cheeks flaming almost as red as the Wolfchild's hair. "Thanks, guys," she whispers. "I'm- I'm sorry for being so confrontational, earlier, Elwood."

"Don't worry about it," I laugh it off, waving a hand as Danielle Oakwood is called to the stage. "Ride together, die together, right? I mean, that's way too literal for this situation, but a little standoff isn't gonna alienate you to us or anything, okay?"

Lancia's shoulders droop slightly, but whether it's from relief or exhaustion, I can't tell. "Alright. Good luck, you guys."

"See you in the Arena, Lancia," Scythe answers, and with a shock, I realize that yes, the next time I'll see any of my allies after tonight, is in the Arena.

Right. These are the Hunger Games. Get it together, Elwood. These are the Hunger Games, and the people you're about to put on a show for are the people who would like nothing more than see me dead.

"Elwood Liang!"

I don't know when Danielle's interview finished. But that doesn't matter now. Now, it's showtime.

The stage is hard beneath my feet, solid and reassuring as I stride over to where Tiberius is standing beside two chairs.

"Elwood Liang, everyone! He turns to me, the biggest, broadest, fakest smile on his face. It's not a good look on him. Makes his face too wrinkly. "So, Elwood. How are you liking the Capitol? Are you enjoying your stay?"

Ignoring his offered hand, I slump down into the chair. The anger I've been stomping down on these last few days is easy to call up now. Am I enjoying my stay? What a ridiculous question. Almost as ridiculous as the people here. I snort, injecting as much venom into my voice as possible, recalling something the beautiful girl from 1 had said in the elevator on our way down. "Oh, I don't know, Tiberius. This is a place where people live stream teenagers murdering each other for sport, what am I supposed to think about it?"

Shocked whispers work their way around the room. Tiberius himself even looks taken aback at my brashness, before bursting into a loud, booming laugh. Good God. Does anything ever faze these people? Well, I do suppose that our Escort was more than caught off-guard when I snatched her wig right before dinner or dyed it brown by pouring that hot chocolate all over it when no one was looking.

"Cheeky!" Tiberius exclaims to the crowd, but there's a vein standing out on the side of his neck. Good. "We've seen bravery, boldness, and even tears on occasion from other Tributes, but there are no tears in Elwood's eyes." He sits down, crossing one leg over the other. "Elwood, you are angry. Why is that?"

"Well, Tiberius, it's not that hard to figure out. I had my whole life ahead to me in District 7." Well, I would have probably ended up in jail one way or the other, but no one needs to know that. "And now I'm here, and I'm going to die in less than 24 hours. It's pretty great, if you really think about it, yeah? 24 hours, in comparison to 24 years. Gee, I wonder which one I'd like better? Of course, I'm angry, Tiberius. What do you expect?"

"So you're not dreading your…imminent end, then?" Tiberius sounds strained now.

"What do you think?" I demand. "What would be going through your head if you were in my place? What would you be feeling? Anger isn't the only feeling one can experience, you know."

He's visibly taken aback for a moment, lips parting, eyes going wide, and a fierce rush of pride goes through me at the expression. Yes. Look what you've done. See how we all feel, deep, deep down.

"Well, I-" he starts, but obviously thinks better of whatever he was going to say beforehand. "I'm glad that you're so… passionate about this, Elwood."

"Passionate?" I snap. "Passionate doesn't even begin to cover it, Tiberius. I don't want to die, do you understand me? I'm fucking terrified, and I'm furious." Some of the members in the audience flinch back at my careless use of profanity, but I barrel onwards. "And this is the Capitol, huh? Where the most luxurious of foods arrive at the push of the button, and if you don't have this diamond mantlepiece or that silk curtain, you're not good enough?" I let out a breathless laugh, devoid of humor or amusement. Shake my head. "I don't even know what to say to you guys."

But I do know. I want to be like Lancia, bold enough to come right out with it, to call them monsters right to their faces and see how they like it. To tell them exactly what they're doing to us and what we think about it. But I am not brave like her. I'm not brave, or selfless, or smart enough to do any of those things.

Instead, I just fix a look of utter repulsion on my face, let lip curl in a snarl as I glare out at the audience.

Tiberius opens his mouth again, asks something about the Games, and I scoff.

"I'm obviously not walking out of that Arena alive," I keep my voice scornful, condescending, even as my stomach churns at the prospect of dying tomorrow. "What do I look like to you, a Career? I'm not even going to make it past the Bloodbath, much less make it to the finale. I'm a 14-year-old kid who's gonna die tomorrow, and there are people out there who are gonna laugh and cheer as I die. Yeah, that sounds like a bucket-load of fun, I'm looking forward to it."

I had learned something, from those three days in the lunchroom and in training with my allies. With the people I have come to call my friends. Honesty, with your allies, in a situation like this, is key. The truth could make the difference between life or death. Honesty with the audience, here, on the stage and burning under the spotlight, pouring out your whole story so the Capitol knows what they're doing, so the Gamemakers know what they're doing.

And most important, honesty with yourself. I came to terms with my date a long time ago. Back when my name was called for the Reapings. I'm not going to survive this, no. But I'm going to take as many people as I can down with me. I'm not going down without a fight.

o0o

Sash Radcliffe (16) District 8 Tribute

Everyone is still in shock after Elwood storms off the stage and is greeted with soft whoops and pats on the back when he returns. I don't blame anyone who leans over to congratulate him. What he did out there was brave. Stupid and reckless, yes, but brave. And as a follow-up to the point that Lancia Careera drove home, that makes a powerful bomb that maybe I can add onto. Or maybe even ignite.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the one I think we've all been waiting for, the bassist of one of Panem's most popular bands, The Mortal Instruments, give it up for Sash Radcliffe!"

No different. This is no different than going on stage for a gig or sitting down for an interview, or anything else. You are playing the crowd and giving them what they want, and that is all that matters. Stop being selfish. It's only three minutes of your life. Three minutes. Three minutes, of what could possibly be one of my last days of life.

"Sash!" Tiberius exclaims as I walk onstage, waving to the crowd and tilting my head in the trademark gesture they've come to associate with me. "What a sight you are!"

Truly. It seems that my Stylist wants me to make every teenage girl- and quite possibly more than a few boys- burst into flames at the sight of me. Fishnet, leather, glinting metal chains. Yes, what I sight I am indeed.

"I think your Stylist has outdone themselves this time! And I'm sure," he adds, with a wiggle of his thick eyebrows, "That there are many, many people out there who are enjoying the view."

I try not to let my nostrils flare. He speaks as if I am some animal, some caged exhibit to be exclaimed and admired and gawked at.

"As is your boyfriend, I'm sure." he continues. Puts emphasis on boyfriend. Looks at me, eyebrows still raised. Expectant. Awaiting an answer.

"Well, we all know who and what I have waiting for me back home, and that's romance enough for most of you out there." I force words out past the bile in my throat, past the lump of brick that's settled there. "But here…" I trail off. My words feel unnatural, stilted, but I need them to stop talking about me. Even if this burning spotlight is on me, I am here to turn their attention towards the other Tributes. I am a sniper, in the Arena. I stay unnoticed, camouflaged among shadows and light until the time comes to strike.

"Here?" Tiberius prompts. It's working. "Do we have any fledgling romances ready to take flight?"

I let my eyes sweep the room. Slowly. Drawing out the tension. Also, wasting a good few seconds. It's a trick at least one of my bandmates or I use- used- in an interview had any sort of time restraint whatsoever. Even a few seconds could make a crucial difference, in case of a slip-up or unconscious mistake.

Finally, I relent, turn back to Tiberius. "There's enough tension here as it is, with all of us being in the same room for the majority of five days, cooped up like wild animals before being released into the wild to go kill each other. So I'm asking all of you back there,"

I wave a hand towards where the other Tributes are, "to please not add the sexual kind to that tension, I can barely sleep well enough as it is. So, for the love of all that is good and holy, just accept your circumstances, the people around you, and maybe even do something bizarre like holding hands." The audience chuckles at that. I lean back in the chair, and raise a shoulder in what I hope is an insolent shrug. "Or just eat each other's faces off, I really couldn't care less, just don't do it where I can see you."

Laughter. Good. My mental clock ticks down. Two minutes. Keep them laughing, keep them occupied. Don't let him ask about your alliance. I never thought I would be part of the Career Pack, the group of hunters that takes pride and joy in killing. Rollag and I swore that we would never be that cold-hearted. Never. And yet here I am and have grown to almost call Thames Venturi a friend. Here I am, having laughed with Halliday Frost and Athena Shier of Districts 1 and 2 over lunch about an utterly stupid, filthy joke that Aegis Harlow made about ginger root and its many uses. What am I becoming?

Tiberius is saying something else. Or, at least, I think he is. His lips are moving, but it's like I'm underwater and his words aren't registering in my mind. But the audience is still laughing, although there are thoughtful mutters going around, and I vaguely make out the words Arena and plan.

Smile. I have to force another smile. Probably showing too many teeth, but so what? I am under duress. For all the pressure I've been put under with the media and the fans and everything in my insane, glittering, short life, I've never been trained for anything like this. I wasn't taught how to smile as if the weight of the death isn't resting on my shoulders, digging talons into my skin, and threatening to shred bone. I don't know how to laugh as if nothing's bothering me, when my stomach is twisting into knots at the thought of putting an arrow through someone else's throat or heart or, really, anything.

"So?" Tiberius leans forward, microphone extended towards me. "What do you have planned for the Arena?"

Shit. The topic isn't going to be moving off me anytime soon. Once Tiberius gets started, there's no stopping him. I grit my teeth. I'm a media-trained professional. How would Rollag handle this? I'm about to respond, my mind already having found a twisted, complicated way around the question, before pausing. These could very well be the last time Rollag sees me before I'm killed. Tomorrow. In the Arena. He wouldn't want to see the media side of me. Not now. Not with the possibility that we might not see each other again looming dark and menacing over our shoulders. Honesty. I need to be honest.

"I have a strong group of allies behind me who I trust, for now." I swallow. Heavily. I'm sorry, Rollag. I'm so, so sorry. "And by the time I'm finished with them, I'm going to have a weapon in my hand and a strategy to win."

My time is almost up. One more question. He'll have one more question, and then I can go.

"It sounds like everyone should be looking out for you, Sash Radcliffe," he smiles. "Although you'll certainly be one to watch, if only because of who you are to the rest of Panem." A wink thrown in the direction of the cameras, the watching Capitol people.

I shrug. Nonchalance. Ease. My rockstar status has been brought up hundreds of times. This one is be no different. Except it is. Aegis had stopped on his way back towards the elevator bank. Put his hand on my arm, whispered, 'Make them remember,' into my ear. Make them remember. Remember me. Remember us, remember what they're doing to everyone here, that we're not so different, us and them. I take a deep breath. Air in. Air out.

"Well, actually," I start, and Tiberius cocks his head to the side. Attention caught. Holding.

"Although my problems might look a hell of a lot different, they're actually, fundamentally, the same." I take another breath. Meet someone's eyes in the audience. "Loss feels the same. Heartbreak feels the same.

"The fundamental, hurtful things for a human are all the same. I feel like I have to stress that a lot, nowadays, because there are so many fanatical people out there who find it hard to believe that I'm actually a person. I'm not so different from anyone else here, actually. I've got feelings, emotions, and I don't always feel like I'm on top of the world. Honestly… it's not that hard to understand. I'm a person too."

I glance up, straight towards a camera that's been tracking me throughout the interview. "I'm just like you."

o0o

Jordan Wheaton (16) District 9 Tribute

The tension in the massive room is almost palpable as I settle into the chair across from Tiberius. The three minute timer has started, and I can almost hear the tick, tick, tick as it counts down the seconds. There's a bomb, here, and after Lancia's shocking outburst in her interview, each and every Tribute has been packing it full of explosives, and Scythe has done her part.

Scythe had been ruthless- her words, although she spoke few of them, harsh- tearing into the Capitol with the sort of malicious glee that only one who has been holding a grudge for the past seventeen years of life can accomplish. I can't blame her- I don't know the entire story of what happened between her and her mother, Valkyrie Summers, previously known as Skyra Tonium, no one does- but from the bitterness of her voice, it was nothing good. Now it's my turn.

I know that I can diffuse the tension in the room- at least for this small span of time I've been granted. It would be easy to offer the soothing words, bandage wounds, close cuts instead of shredding in deeper. And it would be easier still to reach in and plant an infection. Plant an infection, and watch it fester.

It's what they deserve, some dark, twisted corner of my mind whispers. They are corrupted, and there is no way you can save them now.

But that wouldn't be right. While the lines are so often blurred, this one, drawn between good and evil, is clear. I know what I have to do.

Each question I answer, with each word that comes out of my mouth, the strained feeling in the room begins to dissolve. Shoulders relaxing, postures slumping. I make sure to keep my voice soft, and answer questions as they come, giving a solid, honest answer, but not providing anymore than I absolutely have too.

What do you think of the Capitol? It's quite colorful. The hot chocolate is wonderful.

Are you prepared for the Arena? No, I'm not, but I don't think anyone is.

Is there anyone special waiting for you back home?

I pause. An affirmation, her name, is on the tip of my tongue. Aaliyah. Her face, streaked with dirt and eyes shining with accomplishment, flashes before me. She kissed me, in the visiting rooms. She kissed me, and I kissed her back, and it was transcendent.

I think back to everyone who came before me. Sash, with his brilliant, talented, rockstar of a boyfriend waiting for him back in 8, tour postponed for the time being. Elwood, with a girl named Maya who I've heard him talking about from time to time in the lunchroom. Lancia, and the friend she had talked about with such a fervid tone, with urgency lacing her every word. There are so many people who are playing this card. Do I really want to throw myself in with everyone else?

It's a show. That's all it is. Even if I tell them about Aaliyah, I'll just be one more Tribute with someone I love to fight for. There's nothing special about me, not that I can show off to the Capitol besides my strength, and that's not impressive, not in comparison to what some of those Careers can do.

Sash had briefly touched on something in his interview. Something that sparks an idea, switches on a light in the back of my head.

It's a risk. And it's a betrayal- a betrayal of the promises I've made, another commandment broken. Neither shall thou bear false witness against thy neighbor.

Oh, Aaliyah. I hope you'll be able to forgive me for this. I hope you understand.

Tiberius is looking at me expectantly. I shift in my seat. Swallow. So, Jordan. Is there anyone in particular who you're fighting particularly hard to go home too? The words feel unnatural- both the ones in my throat and the ones that have just come out of the Master of Ceremonies's mouth. My Adam's apple bobs.

"No," I force out. The word tears at my throat like shards of glass as it comes out, and I grit my teeth around the phantom pain. "Not at home, no."

"Not at home?" Tiberius raises an eyebrow. "You make it sound like there is someone though, right?"

"Right." Something cracks in my chest. It might be my heart, but I can't think over the blood rushing in my ears. Liar. Liar, liar, liar. "She's not in 9. And she won't be waiting for me when I go back home."

Tiberius takes a deep breath. Asks the question that will surely be my damnation, the one that alienates me to the one girl who I have wanted my entire life. "Then where is she, Jordan? If she's not in 9…" he lets his voice die. A gasp goes up from the people before us.

"Then she's here in the Capitol," I finish for him, and the thing in my chest finally finishes breaking. "She's here, and I don't think she really even knows I exist."

Not anymore. Not after what I've just said. I can almost hear Aaliyah's sobs, even with the miles between us, see the tears streaming down her round, beautiful face. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Except sorry doesn't even begin to cover it. You say sorry when you run into someone in the cafeteria lunch line, or when you accidentally bump into them on the sidewalk. You can't mend a broken heart with the words, I'm sorry. I can't mend hers. Just like I can't mend mine.

"Oh." Tiberius sounds as if someone's just stabbed him through the chest with a spear made of ice. I think I know how he feels. "Oh."

"Yeah," is all I can think to say. And then proceed to stare at my booted feet like the coward I am, refusing to look up until the buzzer goes off a few seconds later. I feel like I want to find the deepest, darkest hole in all of Panem. I want to find that hole, curl up in it, and die. I don't want to be here. Nobody in their right mind does. But especially not me.

The words- the single word- plays in my mind as I step offstage. No. No, I do not have anyone back home. No, that kiss I gave the girl of my dreams less than a week ago didn't mean anything. No.

Aaliyah.

I'm sorry.

o0o

Sierra Encantada (14) District 10 Tribute

Three minutes. That's all I have. Three minutes until I'm onstage. Until I'm being displayed before the Capitol like some prize breed, for them to ooh and ahh at before I'm put down like all the others.

We used to take a few of our horses to the District fair, which occurs every other year, and we'd often bring home a ribbon and a large sack of oats for the lucky steed. More often than not, it would be Tempest who won us first place.

My heart pangs at the reminder of my beloved horse: a magnificent spotted silver stallion with a black mane and tail highlighted with white. He has two matching white anklets on his back legs, along with a white socks on his front left, which always made me laugh as a child.

Jordan Wheaton's clock counts down. I bite my lip, and tap my toes against the floor. It's a bit of an effort, given the high-heeled boots they've put me in, but I manage. The deerskin of my jacket is supple and soft against the bare skin of my shoulders and arms.

"Nervous?" Brandon murmurs from behind me, and I give a shake my head, fast. My braid swishes with the movement. "Just remember what Lenlas told us, and you'll be fine."

"You have to make yourself stand out. Both of you are already cool under pressure, and Sierra, you can use your wit to your advantage. Just like Brandon will use his charisma. But you're going to have to make a name for yourself.

"Even if you have to lie, find something that will make you different than the rest. A vendetta, a promise you made to someone back home… they'll eat up things like that. If you have an ulterior motive- something's that not just your desire to live. The more tragic it is, the better."

Kit. I'll have to tell them about Kit. He's been my deepest, most treasured secret for the majority of my life. He knows what he means to me- but no one else does. And I don't want to break the news on camera, before all of Panem. I'm going to die anyway, and this secret, these feelings, could ruin Kit and Julia. I can't do that to them, can I? I'm not that selfish… right? Julia's face when she sees him walking down the dirt roads towards our small ranch... her smile as he sweeps her up into his arms and kisses her breathless… I can't take that away from her, can I? She and Kit had been happy together, once. Perhaps, with me gone, they can find that happiness again.

But there's no way that can happen if I open my mouth in three minutes and let every secret I've ever kept come spilling out.

Do I have any choice? I could lie, but I hate doing such. Something about actively deceiving someone with no other intention but your own gain seems wrong to me. I can't bring myself to look Tiberius- look the Capitol, hell, all of Panem- in the eye and tell him that I have an 8-year-old sister back home who's dying of some terminal disease. Because everyone back home knows the truth- knows my family, and if I lie here, it will reflect poorly on both my family and myself. More my family, though. I'll be dead, so I won't be around to see the aftermath of my destructive words. That's not necessarily a good thing.

It won't be enough to explain why I Volunteered. I know that it won't be. If I were watching, I know I certainly wouldn't remember something like that. It might make my heart hurt for a span of a few hours, maybe a day, but when I woke up the following morning, I'd forget all about the girl from 10.

But if I can't lie, the only other option there is to tell the truth. Kit… Julia… but what if I do win? What if, by some miraculous twist of fate, I make it through all of this? Kit used to say that nothing was impossible- only improbable. At the time, I had laughed at the thought- the idea of Tempest growing wings and a horn, like the mythical creatures in one of my childhood storybooks was almost too much to handle. Now, though...

Nothing is impossible. Only improbable.

These are the Hunger Games. The odds are in no one's favor.

Jordan's buzzer goes off. The crowd stays silent- whatever bomb he dropped, while I was too lost in my own thoughts to pay much attention to his interviews, must have come down hard.

Not too much longer now...

"From District 10, the lovely Sierra Encantada!"

Now is my chance. I exhale sharply, closing my eyes for a brief moment. Kit's face flashes behind my eyelids- only for a heartbeat. It's the final weight that tips the scales of my decision. If I want there to be any chance of a future where Kit and I live together in the Victors' Village of 10, I have to tell him how I feel. Not the hurried, frantic words we had exchanged in the visiting rooms. He deserves far more than that. He deserves ballads and poetry and confessions of undying love.

I've had two, three years to think about what I'd say if I ever got the chance. To compose a melody, and let my heart carry the beat. Words are already on the tip of my tongue- fluttering on my lips like butterflies. Eager to take flight. To announce themselves to the world.

I am ready. And I know what I have to do.

o0o

Natalia 'Nat' Oakly (17) District 11 Tribute

The boy from 10, Brandon Scorn, has exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds left in his interview. I know because I've been counting down the ticks of an invisible clock ever since his name was called. If it weren't for the way his fingers are relentlessly drumming on the arm of his chair, I might say that he's a natural under the spotlight. Charismatic, a light sense of humor and a grand story to tell- no doubt wholly exaggerated to win the favor of the Capitol.

I watch as he laughs with the crowd and cracks jokes of his own. As he tells an anecdote about when, before the Reapings, he and his best friend- girlfriend?- Stephanie got into a fight in the stables and wound up throwing pitchfork sized loads of horse shit at each other. ("I don't think I'll ever wash that stench off, tell me you can't smell anything,") And thus started a whole run where he and Tiberius took turns smelling each other and fretting about the perils of manure stains.

Onstage, Brandon pats down his clothes, smoothing out his blazer and looking worriedly at the white silk shirt beneath. "That's not a speck of brown I see, is it?" He points at a seemingly random spot on the cloth, but Tiberius leans over and agrees, wide-eyed. Hoots of laughter ring out from the area beyond the stage, and my stomach churns.

No matter how nice these people seem now, they're going to be whooping and hollering just as loudly when one of us gets skewered on a spearhead. I can't trust anyone. Not here. I can't trust my alliance, my surroundings… sometimes I don't even know if I can trust myself.

Guilt, razor-edged and scraping, tugs at something beneath my breastbone. I should have been there when Lauren almost broke down before her private session. I should have been the one to comfort her, not Ambrose. Not the District partner of the most unstable Tribute out of us all.

But I was halfway across the room, talking with the boy onstage, and didn't even notice the problem until too late. And then Ambrose was there- act firmly in place, because it had to be one. No one in their right mind would step out of their way to help another Tribute who wasn't their ally. You just don't do it. The rules of the game are kill or be killed. There is no room for sentiment.

But Ambrose had helped. She had shown compassion, without batting an eyelash. Flawless, perfect, beautiful imposter.

Well. If she can act, so can I.

I smooth my hands down the fabric of tonight's outfit. The ombre dress is beautiful, and my designer's eye can't help but be pleased at its cut and hemlines. It's tight in all the right places and loose in all others, fades from lavender into light pink and blue. It's impossibly soft- the silk smooth against my skin, unlike anything I've ever felt before. Flowers are woven into my hair, and the glittering lip gloss isn't a bad touch either.

While I may be dressed as a goddess of death, I have no intention of becoming one. Persephone, or at least, that's what the ancient myths call her.

"Natalia Oakly!" Tiberius smiles too wide, showing off far too many white, white teeth. " Welcome to the Capitol! How are you enjoying your stay here?"

"I'm enjoying it quite a lot, actually, thank you for asking!" I beam at him. "I never knew that there were so many colors, and the food…" I let my eyelids flutter, trailing off.

"Yes, our food is quite delectable," Tiberius allows, and there is no small amount of pride in his voice. "What has your favorite dish been, so far?"

"Definitely the watermelon." I punctuate this statement with a decisive nod. "Or the kiwi. Even though it's green."

Tiberius chuckles at this. "Yes, I do suppose that eating something green would take some getting used to, especially since you're from 11, right?"

Indignation flares up in my chest, and it's a struggle to bite back the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. How dare you insult my District. How dare you speak of our poverty so flippantly. He knows that we're not allowed to eat any of the food we harvest. He has too.

"That's right, Tiberius!" I smile- aiming for bright and maybe a little flirtatious. I'm sure it comes out as more of a grimace. "District 11! It's quite nice there, as well, but nothing can compare to what it's like here."

Liar. I'm a coward and a liar for saying such things, and I'm sure that I will have to do it all again before this is all over. District 11 is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and nothing in this place can ever compare. The trees are too perfect, the plants too green to be real. Everything about the Capitol seems artificial, and the nature here is no different.

I probably won't ever see District 11 again. Ever. I won't see my mother or Peter or… anyone.

I'm knocking on Death's door, and it's only a matter of time before it opens and Death invites me in. Invites me in, and will never let me leave. Focus, Natalia. I'm not dead yet, and I'm going to do everything in my power to stay that way. I'm dressed as Persephone, the goddess of the underworld, but she only stays with Hades for six months of the year. And then she comes back to the surface, to her mother, and that's when the sun is shining and crops begin to grow.

Six months. I must survive the Arena, my underworld, and come out victorious so I can return home.

o0o

Aveline Wren (16) District 12 Tribute

The spotlight is hot on my skin, making me squirm at the sweat dripping down the small of my back. I can't help but reach up to rub at the tip of my ear, a habit that I've not been able to break, hard as I try. My ears are no longer sunburnt- my prep team had put some kind of salve on them the first day I arrived, and now the skin is smooth and as tan as the rest of me.

High-waisted pants, cream-coloured and billowing, are almost long enough to cover my feet, which are in mid-heel casual sandals. The lower half of what might have been a modest shirt, the neckline skimming just below my collar bones, has been shorn away, revealing a strip of skin at my navel. In all honesty… I kind of like it. It makes me feel more feminine- showing off skin. Around my waist is tied a golden sash of silk, and it's so very tempting to play with its loose, hanging end.

For once in my life, I do not feel plain. I feel vibrant, and lively, and full of bursting color. It's intoxicating, and it's almost like I'm drugged on the feeling.

But even with this strange, wonderful feeling humming in my blood, my stomach's still twisted in knots. No euphoria in all of Panem could make me forget about what awaits me tomorrow. The Hunger Games.

"And that chariot ride," Tiberius is saying. I must have missed his segway. "That was quite the outfit, Aveline! You were, quite literally, on fire! How did you feel?"

I wet my lips, mulling over my possible answers. I could be honest and witty: say that I was terrified that I was going to be burned to a crisp in a matter of seconds. Or, I could be confident: tell him that I had no fear whatsoever. I settle on the second choice.

"In all honesty Tiberius, I felt powerful." His mouth curves up at the corners. Genuine, or playing his part? "I knew the fire wasn't going to harm me- because I'm a Tribute, and nothing will kill me before the Arena." The words 'kill me before the Arena' stuck in my throat. Yes, I'm going to die in the next few days. I have to deal with that. "So I just let it happen. Damn cool effect too, wouldn't you agree?" I turn to the crowd, and they roar their agreement.

At least they'll remember me for something when I'm gone. Even if I wasn't as spectacular as District 1, I've made my mark.

"Besides," I add, acting on a split second idea. "That fire might have given me a few ideas for my stay in the Arena."

Ooooh, goes the crowd.

"Fire, you say?" Tiberius prompts. "What plans might you have, Aveline? Are you nervous?"

"Hell yeah, I'm nervous." Who wouldn't be? I was near hysteria on the way here- and this interview is doing nothing to help that. Amber told me that there are two major reactions to trauma- laughter or tears, and thank god it's not the latter. The girl from 8, Santeena, almost ran off the stage when she was finished. There were no tears in front of the Capitol, luckily, but when she returned to where some of the others who had finished their interviews were waiting for the rest of us to be done, there were mascara tracks down her face.

I will not break down. I am stronger than that. Lauren and Danielle and Natalia were stronger than I was. If they were strong, I will be strong, because we must be one working unit.

But Natalia had not been there during Lauren's breakdown before her private session. Instead, it had been Ambrose- the girl from 5, who almost never interacted with others. Are we splitting apart so early? Betraying each other so soon?

The buzzing is gone and it's replaced by a heavy, sinking feeling. All this- the planning, the nights spent talking about anything but the Games, the groundwork we've laid down for this alliance… will the safety net hold? There's nothing I can do about it now, though. All I can do is wait, helpless, and there's nothing I hate more than being incapable of doing anything to alter the inevitable.

The rest of the interview drags by. I try to keep my answers light, upbeat, and it seems like I succeed in my endeavours. Mostly.

The buzzer goes off. Tiberius stands with me, raises my hand in the air like he did with every other girl. "Aveline Wren, everybody!"

Behind the safety of the screens, I stop walking. Take a calming breath, filling my lungs with oxygen.

"Hey," a voice says from behind me, and I jump. It's Thorne. Dressed in black, with a cloak of embroidered stars and moons, a deck of cards in hand. "Good job out there."

His eyes- wintery pools of blue, stare earnestly into mine, and my heart begins to pound.

"Y-yeah," I stutter out. "You- you too. Good luck, I mean. Because you haven't gone yet."

Gentle amusement fills that aquamarine gaze. "Thanks, Aveline."

Then he's gone, whisked away by a summons from a king to his entertainer.

You too? Because you haven't gone yet? What's wrong with me?

His interview goes by in what seems like a blink of an eye. Too fast. Those three minutes, which seemed so long when I was the one up there, entertaining the crowd, go by too fast. The buzzer goes off, and a sense of finality washes over all of us.

Ever the mysterious performer, Thorne sweeps his cloak around himself, silver flashing bright as his smile under the spotlight, and as he stands back up, his eyes meet mine from center stage. The interviews are over. Tomorrow, whether we are ready for it or not, we will be sent to the Arena where we will fight for our lives. Welcome to the real world, Aveline, I remind myself. There will be no more stolen moments on the rooftop of the Training Center, no more magic tricks and secretive smiles. Ladies and gentlemen, let the 26th Hunger Games begin.

o0o

A/N: Welcome back to the second half of the interviews, everybody! That does it for the Capitol stages, and next week the bloodshed will commence! We do seem to have a fairly large Bloodbath if I do say so myself, so get ready for it! (All the eulogies I have to write, goodness…) Apologies for the late update, but I was taking a short break from Locked and Loaded, just for the sake of my mental health. I needed to have some breathing room without having to write at least 1k (soon to be 2-3k) a day to continue with a consistent update schedule, which you guys more than deserve. But I'm back now, and relatively sane! Yay! The chapter title is from Could Have Been Me, which is also by The Struts.

Over and out, see you in the Arena, and may the odds be ever in your favor,

-SetFires (Vixen)