Chapter Twenty-Five.

Interviews.

Roarke Lumally, 18 years old;
District Two Male.

"And you're going to do what?"

Roarke looked sullenly up at Neviya's mentor, Tilda. His own hadn't arrived this morning leaving Tilda to prepare both of them, and with it now nearing the evening of the interviews, Roarke and Neviya had no choice but to be together as Tilda stood before them.

"I'm going to smile," Roarke said, frowning.

Tilda nodded her head. "No more of this moping around, Roarke." Her eyes fell on Neviya and they narrowed. "You too. Look – it was fun while it lasted, I'm sure. But boo hoo you fell out because of some baby-killer from One and the idiot from Four. Roarke, you've made your decision and heaven-knows-why you made the wrong one, but it is what it is."

Roarke looked at Neviya. She looked back.

"Tomorrow the Games start," Roarke said to her, watching her shoulders lift up as she exhaled harshly. "Tilda is right. It was great getting to know you, Neviya."

For the first time in what felt a long time, Neviya actually smiled in his direction. It wasn't the bright smile he'd come to know Neviya for, but Roarke wasn't exactly jumping off walls either. The reality of what tomorrow was had finally begun to sink in.

It was every man and woman for themselves.

"Good luck tonight," Neviya said. "Make sure you smile, Roarke. You have a lovely smile."

Tilda seemed content with the sudden change between the two of them and as they recapped exactly what to expect for tonight, there was a bell that rang, signalling that it was time to leave. Roarke felt his stomach flip nervously but did his best to repress that and smother himself in the confidence that he knew he had.

The 8 from last night was sour in his mouth. The lowest of all the Careers. It only cemented his own self-doubt about his actual ability in what mattered most as a Career. He could be all fun and games but when push came to shove, a weapon was what counted. An 8 was better than nearly every other tribute – but they weren't Careers.

The two of them gave Tilda a polite wave as they entered the elevator and it whisked them downwards to the lobby. There, they were escorted by Peacekeepers that flanked Roarke and Neviya, intimidating in their uniform with visors pulled down to cover their faces. Roarke and Neviya had nothing to say to each other. Both were nervous. Roarke wanted to be sick.

It took five minutes for him to finally be shoved into a small room, away from Neviya. He didn't have a chance to say goodbye but judging by the determined look in her eye, she had definitely switched on game-mode. Roarke had to do the same. He sat down in the chair and looked at the mirror in front of him. Whilst he knew that he looked good, he'd never really put much stock in his appearance. There were better things to concern himself with in life.

"Roarke-y, you look a treat."

The voice belonged to his effervescent Head Stylist: Beverly. She kissed both his cheeks and clapped her hands together, pulling a bit of his hair upwards and letting it fall. "We're going to cut this just a little. A snip here, a snip there and voila!"

"Whatever you can do to make me look great out there," Roarke said, smiling at the woman. She meant well and Roarke didn't have it in him to be rude to her shallow dramatics. "It's all about that final impression. Especially given my score. I need something that's going to make me pop."

It was true. With the lowest score of the Careers, this interview could secure wavering sponsors, or send them to someone else. The pageantry of it all had surprisingly not been something Roarke had actually enjoyed. The Chariots had been entertaining but at the same time it had been Neviya that had made it so much fun.

He didn't have her anymore. It was him and him alone fighting his corner. He couldn't depend on a single other person. Unless Beverly counted, and to be fair, the outfit she put him in could make all the difference.

"Now hear me out baby," Beverly said, pausing dramatically. "I'm thinking … glitter."

His stomach sunk.

"Glitter?"

She squealed. "Everyone loves glitter!"

Do they? Roarke half-smiled and felt in the pit of his stomach the reality of tomorrow edging its way once again through his body. He wondered what Chancellor and Destan thought of his score from yesterday. Knowing Chancellor, he'd never thought him strong anyway, so it probably didn't make much difference. But Destan was really the catalyst in all of this. It was too late to back out now – but he was definitely the weakest link.

"Whatever you think is best," Roarke said. "You're the expert."

"That I am, honey."

What was probably only ten or so minutes seemed to drag on for an hour. Roarke wasn't kidding himself – he really did not care about his appearance. Now it seemed to be the only thing that mattered in this weird bubble universe he was about to enter for the next few hours. He was finding it uncomfortable as his hair was cut, adjustments were made to the clothes she draped him with, make-up was applied, and of course … glitter.

He coughed and a bit of sparkle fell from his lips.

"See!" Beverly squawked. "Beautiful on the inside too."

Roarke didn't feel like it. A week ago, he did. He felt better than he had done his whole life. There was the overbearing nature of what he had wanted to do – volunteering for the Games to prove something to himself and to everyone else – but that had always felt second nature to his true self. His smiles here now felt fake. His loyalty to Neviya shattered completely because the fear over Chancellor, Destan and the idea of dying left him shaken and nervous.

The stage might have once been his element, but as Beverly clapped her hands and declared him finished, the nausea in his stomach nearly overwhelmed him entirely.

The door opened, Roarke was rushed out, and as a tribute from Two, he knew he didn't have long to wait.

The world was about to see him. In Beverly's eyes, a new and improved Roarke Lumally.

In Roarke's own eyes: a disappointing version of himself.

Britta Somerset, 18 years old;
District Four Female.

Britta groaned uncomfortably and pulled at her costume.

"It's literally tucked right up there," Britta complained. "Everyone will be able to see it."

Destan couldn't help but laugh. "And what a sight it'll be."

"No one asked you," Britta said over her shoulder, flipping her hair and enjoying the splutter as it went right into Destan's face.

The interviews had been, and still were, one of the Britta's most favourite parts about the whole Games. It had been one hell of a journey getting to this point and Britta couldn't believe she'd only been in the Capitol for a few days. It felt like a lifetime since she'd last seen District Four.

But for all that had happened, Britta was enjoying herself. She'd found two good friends, made a couple of enemies, and impressed herself with the 9 she'd received. It wasn't as high as Neviya or Chancellor, but it was still something.

Britta edged her way up the line, shouldering the large boy from Three out of the way and stood behind Neviya. He growled at her but Britta just laughed and ignored it. She was doing her best to try and stay as focused as her allies were, and Britta knew that tomorrow everything was about to change, but Britta couldn't really see past the fact that she was still in the Capitol.

There was still so much to take in.

"Psst," Britta whispered in Neviya's ear, making her jump. Her ginger hair slapped Britta in the face and she just giggled. "Nice outfit."

Neviya's nose wrinkled. "It's like the Capitol just wants us to feel as uncomfortable as possible. It's unbelievably tight."

"Tell me about it," Britta said, rolling her eyes.

She wasn't above using what she had to get attention, but there was much more to Britta than just that. She was lucky that the top half of her outfit was still attached. On the giant television screen that covered the wall opposite the queue of tributes, Linnea wasn't so lucky. She looked dreadfully uncomfortable. For someone that didn't know Linnea, her act was calm, composed and chirpy. Britta could see past that well enough. She was hating every second.

Britta liked Linnea a lot. She needed to let loose a little, though.

"Hi, Britta."

She looked at Roarke to the side of Neviya. For a moment, Britta wasn't sure what to say, really. She had nothing against him but he'd made his mind up and sadly he'd chosen wrong. Still, Britta didn't feel hostile towards him and she gave him a small grin, to which Neviya seemed to appreciate.

"You look just as uncomfortable as us," Britta remarked.

"I feel it," Roarke said with a timid laugh.

"Well, I'll leave you guys to it. Best get back to Destan," Britta made sure her eye roll was as dramatic as she could possibly make it. "Kill me now."

When she returned, Destan glared at her. "I heard that," he whispered.

"Good."

Britta had nothing left to say as the minutes trickled on by and names were called forwards. She felt nerves eating away at her but they were good nerves – butterflies that tickled her stomach.

Chancellor seemed to be torn between trying to come across charming and a cold-hearted killer. It didn't do anything to impress Britta. She wasn't scared of him. Not like the others seemed to be. Neviya was bright and determined. Roarke a little less so but with enough smiles to charm enough people in the crowd. The two from Three were unmemorable – Britta didn't really pay much attention to them.

She'd tried to spur the crowd against Chancellor, but she'd done that because it seemed right. Shifting the target away from her and onto him might make things interesting tomorrow. She didn't actually care about the other Districts. They were just there at the end of the day.

Britta felt an elbow in her ribs and rounded on Destan, but when he pointed over her shoulder, she gulped nervously and saw a Peacekeeper marching towards her.

"Me?" she pointed to her chest. The Peacekeeper stopped and nodded. "How very gentlemanly of you."

She swished past the man and stood to the side of the stage. Okay, Britta. Deep breathes. Smile. And wow the crowd. You look flawless. Britta, for a moment, hated her stylist at the uncomfortable material digging around in her nether regions. But when her name was announced, she smothered that down and walked onto the stage, waving brightly for the crowd and cameras.

Fuck my life that's bright, Britta thought, ignoring the light that attacked her from every angle. She took Anastasia's hand and shook it eagerly. A camera was close by and she again waved at it. She knew her friends and family were watching her. The sponsors in the crowd vying to see the personality behind the name and training score.

Britta sat down on the comfortable looking armchair and swished her hair over her shoulder. "It's lovely to meet you all," she said, beaming to the crowd. "You've made feel very welcome."

The hoots and hollers died down as Anastasia's voice ricocheted off every corner. Her microphone caught it perfectly. Britta felt her own somewhere hidden in the tangle of fabric round her chest, taped to her skin. The whole experience was surreal.

"Britta, Britta, Britta," Anastasia said, shaking her head with a huge smile plastered on her face. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"And why is that may I ask?"

She gestured to the entirety of Britta and the two women laughed. "Look at you! You're radiant."

"I do my very best," Britta said. "But credit is due rightfully to my amazing stylist. Where are you Serenity? Don't be shy!" Britta pretended to try and find her in the crowd, but truthfully she couldn't see fuck all past the lights. A spotlight did her job for her and Serenity bowed proudly from her position in the audience, then stretched her arms out to put the attention back on Britta.

They'd talked about doing that about twenty minutes ago. Everything Britta was saying and doing, to every swish of her hair and bright laugh, had been rehearsed tenfold.

The conversation was typical, but Britta engaged with every question and tried to put as much of a joyous spin on it as she possibly could. Her life in Four had been momentously fun. But her new life here in the Capitol, as the dazzling superstar she'd always wanted to be, had made her truly believe she had what it took to make it to the end.

When the topic of Linnea and Neviya arose, a small tug of sadness threatened to shake her confident resolve, but Britta ignored it.

They were, and Britta never thought she'd say it, her friends. But they were also her enemies at the end of the day. Neviya and Linnea could act like they were the only ones who took this seriously, but Britta did too.

She wanted to win.

The crown would sit nicely on her head.

Armina Rione, 15 years old;
District Eight Female.

As the line gradually became shorter, Armina's stomach was beginning to piss her off.

She wasn't naturally the nervous type, but this game was something entirely different. She gnawed on her thumb nail and tapped her foot impatiently, playing with the hem of her dress as the girl from Seven – Sinta Montero – flounced onto stage all sunshine and kittens spewing from her mouth.

Armina had nothing against the girl, but she was just another tribute that was in the way of her alliance making it through these Games. She had no idea when her thoughts had taken this turn but maybe it was the way Shual and Albie seemed to always be trying to steer the conversation towards strategy.

She'd never really done that with Albie. It had suddenly come out of nowhere and left Armina feeling a little bit stuck in the middle of the two of them.

"Alright?"

She saw Castor's head slowly move over her shoulder and into her line of vision and she stepped forwards. Armina couldn't help herself but laugh, though. Maybe a few days ago she'd felt jealous that he had found an alliance before her, but now that the two of them had cemented themselves into two valuable looking groups, she was mainly just happy for him.

If she didn't make it through this, she sincerely hoped Castor did.

"Look at them," Armina said, motioning to the screen, not completely ignoring Castor's question. "They're loving her."

"Since when did you become so jealous?" Castor replied, winking.

Armina's nose wrinkled and she shook her head, meeting his eye. "I am not jealous, thank you very much. I just want them to like me." She saw a Peacekeeper march past her, baton swinging by their hip, and felt disgusted that she'd just said that. "Although it seems totally stupid wanting the people who are going to clap for my death to like me."

"Preach," Castor said. "But it is what it is. Cause a stir if you want, though. I need a good laugh."

Armina almost wished she could walk on stage and do something to flip the script. Maybe flash for the cameras. But she knew she didn't have that kind of mindset. If it were any other place, any other time, then maybe she would. Today, though, as much as she disliked herself for admitting it, she simply wanted to be liked.

She had to be seen as someone worthy of rooting for.

Armina looked over Castor's shoulder to where his ally, Carys Lavell, was whispering to Shual about something. She was louder than him though, whispering not really being her forte. District Eight and District Ten. Who knew the connection was there?

"She seems upset," Armina said.

Castor followed Armina's line of sight and shrugged his shoulders, turning back around to face the front. "She's always got something going on. Keeps me on my toes."

"Well good luck to you," Armina said, laughing.

Finally, Sinta left the stage and was replaced by a nervous looking Bryce. He tripped up the step and as he walked onto the stage even his make-up couldn't hide the blush in his cheeks. Armina laughed but not because she was happy he'd embarrassed himself. She just needed something to lighten the mood.

"See you later, princess," Castor whispered in her ear.

Armina again felt the nerves eating away at her stomach but she wasn't about to vomit for the whole country. The Peacekeeper gestured her forwards and the second Anastasia introduced her, Armina lathered the happy-go-lucky smile on her face, and strode onto the stage with waves and kisses being blown into the audience in every direction.

"Now, now," Anastasia said, using her hands to settle the audience. "It's lovely to meet you, Armina."

"The pleasure's all mine," Armina replied.

She noticed a tiny strand of brown hair poking under the cotton-candy pink that she clearly thought no one noticed and repressed a giggle. Someone's getting fired, she thought.

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Anastasia said. "Tell us about you Riones. What's it like back in Eight?"

Armina had practiced looking in the mirror and asking herself the question that she knew Anastasia would ask not just her, but everyone. At first, it had been difficult talking to her reflection about her family, thinking about Eight and the people that she missed and had surrounded her. Armina had always needed that social contact but had never actually understood exactly how to be a significant presence amongst them all.

She had started to find that with Castor, and with Albie, and even with Shual. For all the serious talking her two allies were taking part in, she still enjoyed them very much. They were fast becoming people she could trust and call friends.

Uh-oh. The F-word. My mentor banned me from using it.

She placed her hands delicately on her lap and smiled for the whole audience to see. "I've got a little brother called Casso. He's quite the devil." Armina looked into the camera lens and could picture the youngest Rione child staring into the screen, maybe even touching Armina's pixelated face. It made her immensely sad. "One time he caught me and my friends all dressed up. We'd done our make-up because the school was having a little celebration. He felt left out so he covered his face in foundation and ran right out into the street as I was leaving. He always just wanted to be seen with me."

Again, her stomach flipped, but this time it wasn't because of nerves. This time it was because she wanted to cry from the memory. Casso had always annoyed her, truthfully. Now she'd give anything to see that toothy smile again.

"Do you miss District Eight?"

Armina nodded immediately. She blinked a couple of times to rid the beginnings of tears and smiled once more. If her smile could somehow remind her brain the image she had to convey here, then maybe she'd be alright. "It's the best place in Panem." Anastasia placed a hand on Armina's knee. "After the Capitol of course. I've loved every second I've spent in this glorious city."

Anastasia's hand gave her knee a little tap and she removed it, beaming for the cameras and swishing her hair over her shoulder. The little string of brown hair now became two and Armina found a twisted sort of satisfaction in watching them poking out.

She hated every second she had spent in this city but if there was one thing it had given her, it was newfound love for where she came from and the people that were at home waiting for her.

Maybe she'd begun to take them for granted and forgotten how much they meant, but now she'd give anything, do anything, become anything if it meant returning to Eight.

Let the Games begin, she thought, as Anastasia asked another question.

She was ready.

Altia Wright, 17 years old;
District Twelve Female.

Damon looked so nervous that he was practically dripping.

"Do I mention my dad?" he said, mainly to himself, tapping his foot against the ground. "What if people don't like that? Or do you think they'd like the idea that I'm the son of – what about friends? I don't have many friends. What if she asks for names? Do I make one up?"

Altia was doing everything she could to ignore Damon at this point. Not to be mean or spiteful; in fact the past few days had done wonders in helping her move on from the guilt she felt walking away from Damon, but this had to be about her now.

Altia felt her own sense of nervousness, anyway. The line was almost fully dissipated and she'd spent enough time waiting to know the sorts of questions Anastasia would ask her. First – she'd welcome her giddily on stage and say how she'd been looking forward to meeting her. Fake. She probably had to read her name off a prompter.

But what would come next would be the questions about family and friends. Damon wasn't the only one with a sore spot in that subject area. If anything, Altia wished she could run away, back up to her apartment floor and simply sink into her bedsheets and vanish for the evening.

Fear ran rampant with her nerves, the two hand-in-hand as they slowly started to eat away at the steely determination she was so desperately trying to cling to. She had an alliance – the largest alliance in the Games – that made her equally as nervous as it did hopeful that such nice people actually existed in the world. She had to be the fighter that they needed but also the fighter that she had to be to make it far.

The one thing she was scared of more than anything was dying. And tomorrow, it could actually happen.

As if reading her mind, Damon's rambling suddenly went to the realisation that this was their last evening in the Capitol and he gasped. "Altia! It's tomorrow – literally tomorrow. I think I'm going to pass out. That wasn't part of my strategy going into this interview."

"You'll be fine," she found her voice saying, quietly, teeth gritted together. "Honestly – play the whole Peacekeeper's son angle. They'll eat it up."

"I'm not vicious like he is. Would they buy it?"

"If not, who cares?" Altia shrugged her shoulders. "As you say, the Games start tomorrow. There's more important things to worry about."

Damon didn't say anything in response to that. Altia was grateful for the split-second of silence.

"And that ladies and gentleman of Panem, is Ponche Garland. Give it up for District Eleven!"

The huge round of applause snapped Altia back into focus and she realised with a growing void in her stomach that she was next. Fuck.

"Eat up that stage," Damon said with a smile. "You'll do great!"

A few days ago, she knew Damon would have probably placed a gentle hand on her back, or done something to make her know that he cared for her. He'd learnt not to do that and part of Altia actually … missed the gesture. He was a sweet boy. Being with Sinta, Bryce and Teak especially in her alliance, Damon would have fitted in so well with their light spirits.

"We've got a treat for you everyone." Anastasia's voice sounded harsh in Altia's ears as she stepped up to the side of the stage, waiting for her cue. "All the way from District Twelve, give it up for Altia Wright!"

Applause. Cheers. And on she went.

She replayed Damon's encouragement in her ears and tried to latch onto that as she sunk into the depths of the comfortable cushions. Altia managed a small smile in the general direction of the camera and turned her attention back to Anastasia.

She had a grin on her face that looked almost predatory. Altia despised this lavish, sugar-coated approach to the Games. She hated the idea of having to fight other kids, but this spectacle left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Nice to be here," she managed to squeeze out from her lips. "It's very bright."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure it's very different to what you're accustomed to in Twelve," Anastasia said. "Do you work in one of the mines?"

She knows fuck all, doesn't she? If Anastasia had done her background research, she would have known that Altia was too young to work in the mines. But Altia also knew that if she were to say no to her question, then she might ask what she actually did. And I refuse to answer that.

"Yes," Altia said with an eagerly insincere nod of the head. "It's very dirty down there and quite dangerous. If anything, though, it's given me the ability to adapt to some of the harsher environments we have here in Panem."

"Well there's something you can use in tomorrow's Games, can't you dear?"

Altia bit her lip and nodded. She hadn't actually thought of it like that, and even though the mines were a lie, it wasn't completely untrue that Altia had had to go through some shit to get to where she was right this second. Maybe those experiences, however dark, could mean something beneficial as the Hunger Games began tomorrow.

Altia would just have to wait and see.

"Now, let's talk home, is that alright Altia?"

She forced herself to nod. Anything but this.

"Who have you got cheering for you back in Twelve? Anyone special?"

Altia pictured the two of them sat in front of a television screen. There was only one person that acted as a source of light in her life and that person was, aside from Altia herself, the reason why she had to fight tomorrow and fight the hardest she'd ever had to before.

"Marigold. And my Father. It's just us three."

"Any friends?" Anastasia asked.

Altia shook her head. "I work very hard – down in the mines – to help support them. It's not much but it's better than nothing."

She could tell she was boring but Altia didn't really care. The quicker she was off the stage, the better in her mind. Those bedsheets certainly sounded tempting right about now. She wasn't impatient to get to the Games, but she was ready to strip all this stupid falseness that the Capitol had thrown at her for the very reason why she was here in the first place. At least she could let her fighting do the talking.

"Ever met your District partner before?"

Altia paled and felt her throat constrict. "No," she managed to say. "Not until we were both reaped."

Anastasia's wink told Altia that she did not believe her and for a second prepared herself for the next question. But it didn't come.

"Alrighty then," Anastasia said instead. "Let's talk about your strategy…"

Altia felt the rest of the interview whizz past her and when it was her time to leave the stage, she felt grateful that she was now free to return to her bed and drift off.

This was her last sleep. Her very last sleep before the Games.

I can't believe it's finally here.

The Games were well and truly about to begin.

Can you tell I hate interviews? Meh. Hope this chapter was okay.

Well done to the Sunshine Alliance (the label I have seen in the reviews so may as well call them that!) Teak, Celestin, Sinta, Bryce, Sheridan and Altia – you might not win the Hunger Games, but you won the poll!

Can't believe there's only one more chapter left before the Games. It's been hella fun!