Interview Prep

Naaman Rhus, 17, District Eleven

The escort whacks my back with her ugly pink, glittery wand. "Back straight! How many times must I remind you that proper posture is of the utmost importance?"

I yelp—what's in that wand? Pure lead? Let's see how much you care about posture when you're about to die. I grunt and straighten my back, if only to get her off of me.

"See? You don't look half bad when you actually sit up straight! Now let's work on that ugly scowl."

I sigh, causing her face to twist in horror.

"No, no, no! Absolutely not that! Who's going to want you with that face? Try a more… desirable smile."

If a "desirable smile" is what you have on right now, then I don't want to be wearing anything like it. I press my lips into a firm line and curl up a corner.

"Well…" she says, hand on her tilted chin as she observes, "That's not what I had in mind, but it'll work."

Of course it does. I've had plenty of acting experience, mind you.

"So let's try the entire routine again! Start at the door, walk in, and then sit down, just like you will on Interview Night!" She waves her wand at the door. "Hurry on!"

I'll go at my own pace, thank you. Apparently, "my own pace" is any speed just fast enough to avoid another blow from her because I don't hesitate to obey, stepping out of the doorway.

"Now…" she says, as if she were the Master of Ceremonies, "From District Eleven… The! Naaman! Rhus!"

As she gestures to the door, I saunter in, giving a slight smile to the wall that functions as our imaginary audience and sitting down on the chair. I lean back, rest my left leg on my right, and tilt my head, smirking. It's not any of what we rehearsed, but I'm going to do this my way, not the prissy Capitol way.

"Oh!" she says, clapping her hands unenthusiastically. "This is… so very interesting! It's… not what I expected, but it'll do!" She tries to turn her confusion into a fake excited smile, but it doesn't convince me.

I frown, though just a bit as to not attract her wrath. Does she realize how obviously fake she is? Probably not—"obviously fake" seems to describe Capitol culture well. They'd be eaten alive in Eleven. We're good at detecting your bull, and we'll call you out. I won't do it here for the sake of my life, but I'm pretty sure Anetha would.

Hypocritical, self-righteous Anetha…

It's common knowledge that we don't get along; every tribute knows it at this point. I'm also sure she's already got a plan to knock me out—and I'd be willing to bet that her plan doesn't involve waiting until the final eight like we agreed to. Dirty girl…

Perhaps we could take advantage of that.

"Would you look at the time!" the escort says, pointing at the clock with her pink lead wand of death. "It's time for a break! Hurry along! You'll meet with Ms. Runcina afterwards."

Seeder. I'm still a little salty about the arrangement she forced us in, but I'll take a District Eleven Mama over a Capitol marionette any day of the week.

When I step out, Anetha's sitting in the dining room, grabbing from a bowl of pistachios. She looks up warily when I enter. "Can't I get a day without dealin' with you?"

I grimace. "I get it. You hate me. I hate you too. But we need a strategy."

"Don't we already have one?" she says, "We go for the Cornucopia, watchin' that sly dog, and the moment he disappears, we ditch too."

"But since we're fightin' at the Cornucopia, we won't be grabbin' supplies—and there's no way we'll be able to get anything while trying to escape the Star Alliance."

She pauses. "You know, you're dirty—but that's good right 'bout now."

It's meant to be a jab, but it doesn't hurt. I never said that I wasn't a bad person. I smile. "So I got a plan. It'll take a bit of finesse, but if we can pull it off, we'll be set."

She leans forward, raising her eyebrows in interest. "Let's hear it."

Cedric McKowen, 18, District Seven

The moment Yvonne lets me go, I hurry out onto the large, spacious balcony, which has gorgeous marble flooring and railing and large raised beds with small trees, surrounded by flowers. The best part? They have birds in here! Most of them look genetically modified—I doubt the neon blue bird with a rainbow headdress actually exists in the wild—but there are a few natural ones too, including my beloved black-capped chickadees. It doesn't matter that we're nowhere near District Seven; they remain consistent, and their adorable chirps bring my right back to my backyard.

I settle down on a plushy bench and close my eyes, allowing the bird sounds to soothe the chaos inside. After a morning of dealing with the loud and obnoxious escort and well-meaning but overbearing Yvonne, it feels simply amazing to be alone. I could've sat in the living room, where Rina is—she's not going to say much, anyway—but it's probably best that we give each other some space. I know I won't be able to resist giving her advice, and then she might get mad at me again, like she did on the train.

Gotta watch your mouth.

Birds are lucky. They can chirp all they want and no one will get on them for it.

The door slides open, and Rina steps onto the porch, holding a bag in her hands. She's wearing a neutral expression, but the twitching muscles tell me that she's nervous about something.

I sigh. And I thought I was finally going to get some peace and quiet. I can't help but raise an eyebrow, though. Rina? Coming to find me? That's a first.

"Hey," she says, barely louder than a whisper.

"Hey. What a surprise, eh? What brings you here?"

She ignores the question and instead looks around, closing her eyes for a moment and listening to the bird songs. A sigh escapes her slightly parted lips. "Is it… always so nice out here?"

I shrug. "Maybe. It's not like I spend all my free time out here."

"It's even nicer if you don't look," she says, keeping her eyes closed, "If I don't see the Capitol bird mutts, I can almost convince myself I'm at home."

"Birds are awesome."

She nods. "I wish I listened to them more back home…"

"So what brings you here?"

"Well…" She takes a deep breath and holds out the paper bag. "I brought you some birdseed."

Birdseed! I grab the bag and look inside. Sure 'nuff, it's filled with seeds of various shapes and sizes. "Thanks!" I scatter some on the marble floor, and it isn't long before the songbirds in the trees swoop down to feed.

There's a moment of silence while we watch the birds, and then Rina speaks. "I… I'll go back inside now."

"Is that it? You just came out here to give me birdseed?"

"Well… yeah."

"That can't be it."

She takes another deep breath. "This… isn't easy for me, okay?"

"What?"

"Well… Thank you," she says, "For coming over when I fell."

"Really?" I laugh. "That's nothing. Any decent person would've done that."

She shifts uncomfortably. "Sure… If you say so. We're even now, right?"

I furrow my brow. "Even?"

"The birdseed is due payment. You don't expect anything from me, right?"

"Rina—I'm serious. I never expected anything."

She sighs. "So we're even."

"If it makes you feel better—yes, we're even. We've always been even."

She doesn't reply. I have nothing to say. Gah… if she had just left me alone with the birds, everything would've been okay. Then again, she brought the birdseed. I guess it's still okay.

"So…" I say, trying to find something to say, "We're two days away from the Games. How do you feel going in?"

She pauses to think about it for a moment. "I'm a little nervous, of course… but isn't everyone nervous? I think I'll be okay."

There she goes again, trying to convince me that she's strong. "You don't—" I catch myself about to call her out. Maybe I shouldn't ruin this happy moment. "Never mind. What about the coalition?"

"All we have to do is work together at the Cornucopia, right? We're splitting up after that."

"That's what Hass said—why?"

"Well… I've been meaning to talk to you about this. You know when Hass first invited us and he was taking us to meet the Elevens? I thought I heard the girl say something about cutting us down first."

Cutting us down first? "I don't remember that…"

"You were talking with Hass; you weren't listening."

"Did she mean during the bloodbath or after the bloodbath?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask." She smirks—that's good; she's easing up a bit.

That throws another wrench into this wrench-ridden mess. I'd like to think that the girl only meant that we will be the main competitors after the Star Alliance is gone, but I can't rule out the possibility that she's planning to backstab us early on. I rub my neck. "That's… a problem. What do you think?"

"As far as I can analyze the situation, we have two options," she says immediately, clearly having thought it through. "Either we ditch them at the Bloodbath and run for it, or we work with them at the Bloodbath and take them out immediately after."

"They don't sound good… are you sure that's it?"

"Any other option increases risk of dying. If we try to fight them at the Cornucopia, we'll be facing them and the Star Alliance."

"If we run…"

"Then the Star Alliance will win the Cornucopia without a hitch and we'll have to face them later."

"If we stay…"

"We risk the Elevens killing us then." She cocks her head. "That's probably a lower risk, though. I'm assuming that they're also trying to live, so I doubt they'll try to make us their enemies while we're fighting the Star Alliance."

I rub my neck; she's spitting it out before I have time to process. "Dang—you got everything figured out."

She sighs. "I don't have a choice. I want to live."

Hass Kirchoff, 16, District Five

It's just me and Marleigh at the table for lunch. Bright natural light floods the room from the huge windows that cover the wall—the escort said that we could change the view to anything we wanted, but both of us prefer seeing what's actually out there. Besides, it's calming, as if we weren't destined for a deathmatch, as if everything were normal, as if this were all a wild dream.

The escort and our mentors abandoned us today. Photine says that she's told a couple of secretive rich people about my plan, and they're discussing a sponsorship as we speak. But that means I'm left with Marleigh. Sweet, quiet Marleigh. We've been here for a few minutes, and she hasn't said anything yet. If anything, she looks like she's in her own world.

That won't go well for her in the Games; being unwary is asking for death. I've accepted since the train rides that getting to know her will only invite pain, but now that it's just me and her, eating lunch, it feels weird to not talk to her.

Thanks, Photine.

There's a slight twinge of guilt inside for ignoring her. It's the rational thing to do, to avoid talking to people that are nearly guaranteed to die. Her training score was a two. A two. Even the frightened girl from Six scored a three, likely because that girl actually tried to learn to use a knife while Marleigh didn't touch a single weapon in all three days of training, mostly learning first aid or edible plants or even hiding away at the top of the rock wall.

But that doesn't mean you have to ignore her.

I sigh. Better late than never. Maybe it'll get my conscience to shut up.

"Hey, Marleigh—you like fruit?"

Marleigh glances up stiffly from her bowl of fruit salad at the mention of her name, much like a deer frozen in headlights. "What? Oh… Yes. Especially the pineapples."

"Pineapples?" I spear one with my fork and taste it, but the unpleasant acidic juice leaves a weird tingling in my nose. I frown. "I don't think pineapples are my thing."

"I love pineapples," she hums. Her mouth widens into a huge smile as she closes her eyes and pauses in thought. When they slowly open, it's almost as if she's lost in another world, dreamy and enraptured. "They remind me of Jagan."

"Jagan?" I don't remember her ever mentioning a Jagan, but that might be because I haven't paid any attention to her until now.

"Oh! He's the love of my life!"

Don't get involved. She can't matter to you. But it'd be rude to not respond. I raise an eyebrow. "Wow."

"He's strong… and kind… and brave… and perfect. He even meets me after work even though he isn't supposed to," she says, eyes shining with a brightness I haven't ever seen from her. "We would've gotten married after the Reapings, but… things didn't go our way…" Her voice trails off as the somberness returns.

I'm a little shocked—this is Marleigh? I've barely heard a sentence from her since she mostly just does her own thing and listens to us talk, but the moment she talks about Jagan, she… gushes?

Maybe that's what love does to you. I've had my eyes on a couple girls back home, but I've never actually dared speak up about it. Now I regret it. Even though Marleigh has returned to her silent eating, she still glances up into nowhere every so often with a dreamy look, and I wish I could sympathize. Maybe that's why I never quite succeeded in writing romance. I've never had one. Now it's too late…

She doesn't seem to mind the silence as she happily chows down on another piece of pineapple, leaving me in quiet discomfort, with an itch in my throat to say something, to fill this gap that demands to be filled.

"How are you?"

Her head snaps back up. "You're talking to me now?" If it were anyone else, I'd be hurt, but it doesn't sound malicious at all. She just sounds genuinely confused. Poor girl. I hold in a snort—she's older than me, and I'm thinking about her as if she were a little girl. Now I'm just wondering how she's made it so far. Panem isn't friendly to the naive. And you're getting too friendly now—every inch closer is another measure of pain once she goes.

"Well… yeah," I say sheepishly. "I'm sorry for being cold. I just have a lot on my mind."

She nods sympathetically. "It's fine. I think everyone does."

"So… are you going in alone?"

Her eyes brighten again. "Oh no, someone came to me!"

Someone… wanted her? "Who?"

"Dove!" she says, "The girl from Twelve, if you haven't been paying attention to the names."

I cringe slightly—is she implying that I'm being cold for not wanting to know their names? She isn't wrong; I'd forgotten the Twelve girl's name. How does she manage to say something so shady in the least shady way possible? "Oh, really?"

"She's really nice, though. Her ally ditched her for your coalition, so she found me."

"Oh, wow." I bite my lip, trying to figure out what she's implying. That I shouldn't have recruited the Three girl? That the Twelve girl didn't deserve to be treated like this? That she's a better person than I am?

She probably is.

And that's how I know she isn't implying any of those things. She's just genuinely nice.

"That's… great," I say.

"She didn't even seem mad when I told her about your coalition and everything."

"You… told her?"

She gives me a confused look. "Yeah, why?"

"Oh… nothing." My stomach churns. Hopefully, the Twelve girl doesn't have it out for me.

"There's nothing to worry about," she says. "She was all smiles and just really sweet."

I nod cautiously. Hopefully, Marleigh's right. I had intended for recruiting Integra to not be a big deal—the Elevens are fierce, and I doubt the Twelve girl would go after them—but if she goes after me… I hate to admit it, but I'm not much stronger than she is. That's a potential hole in my plot. I'll have to watch my back a bit more carefully.

Marleigh… Marleigh… Marleigh… Just why?

Baize Liliwin, 17, District Eight

Woof, my mentor, paces back and forth, pausing every so often to give me a frustrated look. I glare back. He's been trying to get me to talk nice about the Capitol for an hour now, and I don't think he realizes that this is non-negotiable for me. Why would he understand? He basically lives off the Capitol's generous provision now.

"Baize. I don't care how angry you are," he says, "It's not cool, it's not endearing, and it's definitely not going to get you any sponsors."

I snort, leaning back in the plushy chair, my arms tightly crossed over my chest. "Then I won't have any sponsors."

He sighs. "That's not how this works. This isn't just a death match; it's a reality show."

"And the reality is that I hate their f— — guts."

He sits back down in his seat across from me and looks me in the eye. "I'm trying to help you out here. There's a lot going on now; could you please cooperate for my sake?"

"I didn't ask you to do this."

"I'm not going to let you kill yourself."

"What do you expect me to do?" I say. "I'm not gonna strut around like a f— — peacock for their f— — entertainment."

"If you won't strut for their entertainment, you'll die for their entertainment."

I shudder. "Then why try? I'm dying either way."

"That's not the point," he says. "Look—I know you're angry. I'm angry about all this too—"

"And you're going along with it!" I spit, "You live in your pretty little Victor's Village and eat your Capitol food. I don't see you doin' nothing about it."

"What do you know?" he says, voice stern and sharp as he rises to his feet, staring down at me with fiery intensity. "You think you know what my life is like, but I'm sorry—you don't. If you used half your brain, perhaps you'd realize that even if I were doing something, I wouldn't broadcast it to the world."

Crap. He's right. I hate it when they're right. All I can do is try to meet his imposing stare.

"So are you going to cooperate or not?" he says. "I don't live to serve you. If you don't want my help, you can navigate the arena by yourself."

I narrow my eyes, fighting the urge to break eye contact. I can't find anything to say, but I'm not going to give in, as small as this may be.

Suddenly, something buzzes in his pocket. Thank goodness. He checks the number on the phone. "I'm sorry—It's an important call."

"Good," I grunt.

He shoots me a disapproving look, but he opens the door to the balcony and steps out. Today, the noise of Capitol commerce is joined by the strong wind, whistling as it blows past the doorway. Hopefully, this occupies him long enough that we don't have to deal with this again.

But what could be so urgent that he has to take the call right now? The President? A Gamemaker? Some filthy Capitolite he's having an affair with? I glance out the open door; though he's right outside, I can't hear him in the wind. I softly get to my feet and peek outside. He's leaning over the balcony, holding his phone right up to his mouth so that the wind muffles his voice to anyone nearby.

I creep up slowly behind him. He doesn't seem to notice—that same wind also overwhelms the sound of my footsteps.

"So there's no way to get from the outside?"

Get in? What's he trying to break into? He's a Victor; he doesn't need money or really anything.

"I see… We'll need a man on the inside… No! I'm not risking my tribute. Yes, he's an a— —, but I'm not giving up on him."

"My tribute"—that's me. That kinda hurts, hearing that spoken behind your back. I ignore the sting; what's going on here? How could I be of any use for a break-in unless…

It suddenly clicks. They're trying to break into the Interview stage. But why… unless they wanted to disrupt it?

"I'm sure—I can't risk his life for this… Yes, I remember how the gadget works. I don't need you to remind me… I said I wasn't going to ask him, and that's final. You go find someone else… Yeah, yeah. My tribute's waiting for me… Goodbye."

"I'll do it." I say, even before he has had a chance to turn around.

He jumps. "F—! Baize!"

"I'll do it!"

"You don't even know what they want—"

"I don't care," I say, nearly shouting in his face. "I want in!"

"Shush!" he hisses, "Keep it down! Seriously, you have no idea what you're getting into."

"It's clearly something to disrupt the Games, and that's all I need to know." I give him a smile, the first one I've shown all day. "Please?"

He sighs. "I really shouldn't…"

"So it's a yes?"

"If you get caught, there's no way you're getting out of that arena."

"My odds are already tiny. This won't make a huge difference. I don't plan on getting caught, though."

He ponders it for another moment, but he eventually nods and pulls a small gadget from inside his coat pocket, keeping it hidden in the shade of his jacket, rippling in the wind. "Fine. It's this."

I squint at it—it just looks like a small metallic half-cylinder with four wheels attached and a small brown button. "What is it?"

"The less you know, the better. All you have to do is place it on the ground while you're waiting in line to be interviewed, and they'll take care of the rest."

There's that mysterious "they" again. "Who's 'they'?"

"I can't tell you."

"Is there a secret rebel group?"

"I can't tell you."

"You're no fun."

"I'm trying to keep you alive."

I sigh. "So I just put it on the ground?"

"Discreetly, of course. Maybe bend over to tie your shoe or something."

"I can handle that—it'll be easy."

He sighs. "I hope so." He glances at his watch. "We'd better get back in."

"Come on…"

"You'd better cooperate with me now."

"Okay…" I suppose he has a point—he lets me help out with this secret plan, and I cooperate in the interview prep. "But I'd still rather die than gush."

He smiles. "Deal."

A/N Welp, this chapter ended up a lot shorter than I expected, but hey—it should all be okay because we covered the ground we needed to and there won't be anyone disappointed since the missing words are for a character whose submitter isn't reading along.

Now for the exciting part…

Announcing the Premonition Meme Competition! It's exactly what it sounds like! Based on the characters in Premonition, create and submit a meme! Guidelines, rewards, and examples (created by yours truly) are up on my profile, and the deadline is the day the Bloodbath is posted, which should be in about a week and a half? I'm excited to see what y'all come up with!

There's a lot of scheming going on!

Thoughts?