The Third Strike: The Interviews

Capitol

From the Gamemaker balcony, Adrastus peered at the empty wooden stage, waiting for the show to begin. He sighed as his eyes wandered over the sound booth, the light fixtures, the cameras, the excessive decorations… It was too much. The Hunger Games were no longer a punishment for the districts. They were a show for the Capitol, and the opulent displays of fashion and fortune sickened him. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see the explosions and hear the screams.

The dead deserve more respect than this.

Although he appeared perfectly composed in his navy blue suit, reclined in the fanciest and most comfortable chair of them all, his heart pounded harder than a jackhammer, as if it were trying to break free of his ribcage. Usually, the Interviews were relaxing, a time to let the stress of the year go. Alas, this year, that was not the case.

He waved an Avox over. "Green tea chiller with valerian spikes and extract of honeydew," he ordered, "Don't forget the lemon."

The Avox frowned—it was well-known that even the usually sober Head Gamemaker enjoyed an intoxicating beverage annually during the interviews—but he left without hesitation, like a good Avox should. Adrastus would've liked something to drown his worries, but he couldn't afford to do that. Everyone knew that the drunk tributes usually didn't make it past the Cornucopia, and the same went for him. If he let his guard down, he wouldn't live to see another Hunger Games.

A voice made him jump. "Sir?"

He swiveled to see who was trying to get his attention. It was Callista Otherson, the new Story Department Head, a sharp young lady whose twinkling eyes hinted at a feisty core beneath her calm demeanor. An overfilled manila folder rested in her arm, full of neatly stacked papers with multicolored, star-shaped sticky notes poking out from the otherwise orderly folder.

"Oh, Gamemaker Otherson," he said, taking a calming breath, "How do you do tonight?"

"Very well, thank you," she said, her forehead furrowing in worry below her makeup, "And you, sir?"

"Don't worry about me." He nodded and smiled. "You young people enjoy your night. Don't concern yourself with an old man like me."

"Well…" Her voice faltered for a moment, but she seemed to quickly shake off whatever it was. "If you say so, I will put it out of mind."

He gave her an appreciative smile. She had clearly been brought up well, taught to respect her elders. He couldn't say the same for most of the other young Gamemakers, who were enthusiastic but brash and often unintentionally rude. Even now, her tone suggested that she wasn't always this formal yet wanted to show respect.

"May we talk about this year's story?" she said, "I've looked at all our potential victors and figured out what their stories could be."

"Go for it." He nodded. It would get his mind off of things, at least. "Oh—how did you determine the potential victors?"

She smiled. "I remember you telling us that we shouldn't judge anyone too soon, so I just eliminated a few of them based on what you told me before the Reapings—no one that will cause a ruckus in the Capitol."

"And who might those few be?"

She opened the folder, adeptly balancing the slippery pages, and thumbed through the stack until she hit a purple sticky note. "In District order… The first one is Tommy Chassis of District, for obvious reasons."

He nodded. The security footage was clear—the kid had helped tear down the ropes course, which had been a nightmare for the Gamemakers, who didn't have the time or energy to deal with a mess-making daredevil. The kid didn't show any rebellious tendencies, but his love for chaos was enough. "Unfortunately so," Adrastus commented, "He would've been an interesting Victor. Alas, the political climate won't allow for a Victor like him."

She nodded. "Next… we have Baize Liliwin, from District Eight. The reasons should be obvious enough."

He nodded, thinking back to the boy's expletive-filled Reaping. That wouldn't do, either.

"Elena Vogel, of District Ten," she said. "The one you've been targeting. What was it with her, again?"

Ah, right. Elena Vogel. He had forgotten the entire debacle amidst the turmoil. "Her Reaping was rigged," he said, "Because her family was storing up illegal weaponry. It's nearly certain, though we've been unable to prove it. The President hopes that this will send District Ten a message."

Callista slipped a pen out of her pocket and made a small note on Elena's page. "There we go. The rest are fair game, though some would be better Victors than others."

Before he had a chance to reply, a loud boom rang out from the speakers as a lively drum introduced the theme song for the Flickerman show, sending unsettling shudders of sound through his body with every boom of the kick drum. A red robe appeared in his peripheral vision. Adrastus took his eyes off the opening curtains below just long enough to pick up his drink from the Avox. He shut his eyes and took a sip. Ahh… Capitol-enhanced Valerian extract always worked wonders for his nerves.

"Shall we finish discussing the plans later?" Callista half-shouted, trying to make her voice heard above the drums without alerting everyone's attention—a sign of a refined Capitolite.

"Let's go through the plans while they're on stage," he said, "Maybe we can try to incorporate their angles."

"Ladies and gentlemen… of the Capitol and all over Panem… Please welcome… Caesar Flickerman!"

Caesar Flickerman, the son of Lucretius Flickerman, who had been the first ever Hunger Games announcer. Adrastus had known the older man, who had retired from the public sphere years ago and was now enjoying his retirement in his lavish apartment with his wife and parrot.

Retirement. He sighed. After these Games, he'd be there too, able to escape the danger that came with public attention. The green-haired master of Ceremonies stepped on stage to thunderous applause. Somehow, the entire scene made Adrastus nauseous. Perhaps he was sick, or he was just getting old.

Or perhaps the stress of survival was too much for his weakening frame. He shut his eyes for a moment, sipped on his tea, and steeled his nerves. He was the Head Gamemaker, and he was going to get through this.

Is this how the tributes feel? Every joke churned his stomach. The crowd's roar was sickening. He just wanted to be done with the entire thing. It wasn't too long—thankfully—until the actual interview began, with Caesar calling, "The lovely Jasmine Softwing from District One!"

The girl floated out onto the stage in a sparkling white dress with a flower in her hair, waving and blowing kisses to the roaring crowd. District One was always a crowd favorite for its gorgeous and fierce tributes, perfectly polished in social graces yet bloodthirsty in the Arena. This girl seemed slightly more modest than the average District One Female tribute; she radiated refinement and glory rather than allure.

"My, my, my! Jasmine! You're lovelier than your namesake flower!"

He rolled his eyes at Caesar's overdramatic compliments. Years of Hunger Games had deadened him to the extravagant flattery, and the tributes were all beginning to blur together.

"She's a shoo-in for Victor," Callista said, "Gorgeous, confident, and positive."

He nodded. "If she wins, making a story should be easy."

Down on the stage below, the girl was still chatting amiably with Caesar when the buzzer rang, announcing the end of her three minutes.

"There you have it— Jasmine Softwing of District One!"

If the girl had been a princess on a cloud, floating in to grace the Capitol with her presence, then the boy was a laidback prince on a day out in town, flashing a goofy grin as he ambled on stage in his white suit laced with gold. He played the part too—it wasn't too long into the interview when he pulled a coin out from behind Caesar's ear, swallowed it, and promptly made it appear again in Caesar's hand, all while cracking jokes and telling stories.

"Dang—he's fun!" Callista said, trying to catch her breath from his last joke. "No one can be genuinely angry if he wins."

Fun. That's exactly the type of Victor Adrastus needed, someone that could lighten the mood and take the pressure off. "And what plotline were you thinking for him?"

"Hmm… After watching this, I think a 'friendship' theme could work really well, especially considering the training footage."

The buzzer rang. On to the next candidate.

The crowd's screams reached new heights when the girl from Two stepped forth, dressed in red and black, taking fast, confident strides towards Caesar. The Bernold girl, the brightest star out of this year's batch, having sponsors lined up from the moment she volunteered. He wondered if she appreciated or even realized how many long hours Andreas had worked to maximize her odds of Victory.

"Alia! I feel like I already know you! The Bernold name carries the promise of greatness, does it not?"

"Oh no, Caesar. You have no idea what you're getting this year. I can only say that it won't be anything you've ever seen before."

"She's quite different from her sister, isn't she?" he commented.

"Yes—Andreas wore pink and gushed about the skin care routine," she said. "To be fair, half of the audience is jealous of the skin care that the tributes get for free." She made another note. "Family drama always makes for a good story."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"To be perfectly honest…" She laughed nervously. "I told them to say 'Andreas' instead of 'Alia' right before her Private Session."

"Hmm."

"I always hated it when people got me mixed up with my sister. I figured it would give her a little fire and make for a better story." She hesitated. "Do you think I went too far?"

"Your job requires you to view them as characters and nothing more." He sighed. "Perhaps it was a little far, but you're doing your job well."

She nodded, though she didn't seem fully convinced. He wished he could just speak his mind—that the Hunger Games should be quick and over, that all this glamour was unnecessary, that this was supposed to be a punishment for the atrocities of the Dark Days, not a fancy television show—but he just shook his head and refocused on the stage below. This was his final job, and he wasn't about to jeopardize it over something this small. Snow's ears were everywhere.

"Let's give a warm welcome to… Zeus Strikon, from District Two!"

Alia's mountain of a district partner immediately silenced the crowd with his intimidating glare, further accented by his steely suit.

" I'm sure we're all dying to hear about that training score of yours!"

A grunt. "So?"

" 'So'? Eleven is an amazing score! How'd you do it?"

A shrug. "Hard work."

"Well… Why don't you tell us about your training routine? Our bodybuilders in the crowd would love to know!"

A glare. "Good luck."

Callista scribbled something down. "He really isn't giving Caesar a break…"

"A stoic Victor would be nice," Adrastus thought aloud. "Calming… Stability… The new regime needs that."

She pouted. "The story will be boring… but I suppose it works." For a moment, she glanced back at the notes she had made thus far. "These are all solid picks, more or less," she said, tapping her forehead with her pen, "And we haven't even reached District Four!"

"Someone says that every year." He smiled at her fresh excitement; most young Gamemakers were like that. As for him, he'd been around since the beginning, back when things were grim and ugly. He never had a chance to be excited like that, not with images of the war that seemed to surface at random times.

"Well— I guess? Maybe I've just never had to look at the tributes like this before." She glanced down at her notes and nodded reassuringly. "I don't think you have to worry this year. What could go wrong with a cast this solid?"

Nothing better go wrong.

Tommy "Chaos" Chassis, 16, District Three

I tap my foot as I wait in line, making a noticeable tap, tap, tap since I'm wearing fancy black shoes instead of my comfortable running sneakers. I've got one chance at this. Sure, it's scary, but at the same time, it gets my blood pumping and I love it.

Calm yourself, Chaos. You've got a job to do. I can't just enjoy the moment; I have to be careful to make my request clear. I was looking at all the responses to my forum post when something about a pressure washer caught my eye. It sounds fun, but I'll need the cooperation of the Gamemakers—and what better place is there to ask? I peek at the screens. Integra's up there right now, and she doesn't look like she's doing too well.

"Well? How've you been? You look absolutely charming tonight!"

"I… well…" A nervous giggle. "This is— Wow! The lights, people, I… I…"

She sputters to a stop. Poor Integra; she wasn't made for the stage. Caesar attempts to coax more out of her, but all he manages to get out of her is something about mashed potatoes.

I lean forward and peer down the line of the other tributes. Right after me are the Fours, strong, tall, and threatening… Well, they would be if the boy weren't fidgeting and the girl weren't trying to get him to act poised. When his wandering eyes meet mine for that split second, he mimes pouring a bucket and laughs. I wink back. He seems like he'd be great fun as an ally if he weren't committed to the Star Alliance.

The Fives… Sixes… Sevens… Eights. I wave at the boy, but if he sees me, he doesn't acknowledge my presence. I hope he isn't mad at me; it was all in good fun. It wasn't my fault he didn't think through the entire thing. Besides, he's not wounded now anyway, so all's well that ends well. He bends down to tie his already-tied shoe—

Already-tied shoe? Something's up here, and I want in. I make a move to step out of line, but a Peacekeeper yells at me. Fine, I'll listen for now and just watch from here.

The Eight boy looks up and glances around—I avert my gaze for a moment as to not arouse his suspicions—and he slips something out of his inner coat pocket, softly resting it in the shadows between him and the wall.

My legs are shaking restlessly; I'm missing out! The Peacekeeper is watching the stage. It could be possible for me to make it to the boy and back if we're careful. My fingers tingle and itch for something exciting to do and—

"Now… Tommy Chassis of District Three!"

I've barely registered the words when a Peacekeeper taps my shoulder. "Your turn."

"I'm going! I'm going!" I mutter as I hurry out. The moment my foot steps out of the shadows and I enter the stage, the bright lights blind me. "Ack!"

The crowd roars.

The crowd roars? That's right—I'm on stage! I catch a glance of myself on the large screens, shielding my eyes. Caesar's up ahead, lips parted and ready to laugh on cue.

"My bad!" I say, rushing up to shake his hand, "I forgot where I was for a second."

Laughter. Again. Caesar chuckles a bit himself. "You're on national television!"

This is actually kind of cool! I wave at the cameras. "Hi!"

"You're looking sharp! How do you feel, Tommy?"

"First—" I say, holding up a hand, "No one really calls me Tommy. I go by Chaos."

"That's hilarious—" He laughs, but he stops when he realizes I'm not joking. "Chaos?"

"Of course! C— H— A— O— S. 'Complete disorder and confusion' in the dictionary."

"Chaos! I like it!" Caesar says, clapping his hands. "Usually, I'd ask you something about training, but a curious forum post appeared online a couple days ago…"

The crowd goes wild—my plan worked! "Forum post?" I say with a devilish grin. "I don't know what you're talking about." Someone boos from below, and I clench my teeth in fake indecision. "I don't know if I should be talking about this…"

Tell us! Tell us! Tell us!

"Fine!" I throw my hands up. "So I'm known for being… a bit of a prankster back home." I pause for dramatic effect, savoring the wonderful enraptured silence. "Nothing too much, you know? Just some parkour, stink bombs here and there, messing with Pea—" I catch myself; I doubt these people would take my side over the Peacekeepers. "…people."

"Tell us more—we're dying to know!"

Hopefully, this works. I take a deep breath. "So I actually have a bit of a request. I was looking through the responses when I saw something about a pressure washer?"

More laughter. "A pressure washer?"

"Yeah! I've never actually used one, and I think it could be fun."

Caesar turns to the crowd. "What do we think? Do we want a pressure washer in the Arena?"

The crowd cheers. We want pressure washers! We want pressure washers!

Holding his hands up to silence the crowd, he looks to the Gamemaker booth. "You hear that? We want a pressure washer in that Arena!"

Once again, a wave of applause rolls across the audience. Head Gamemaker Beaufleur looks pleased; perhaps he'll allow it? It'd satisfy the popular demand. I smile; everything should work out—

Boom!

An ear-splitting thud explodes from the speakers, and a few startled screams erupt from the crowd. Caesar immediately leaps to his feet. "No worries! We're just having some technical issues, and we'll be back with Chaos in just a moment!"

The audience calms slightly, but then something crackles and half the lights flicker out, instantly disrupting the peace. A burst of sparks erupts from one of the generators.

Fun!

Was this the Eight boy? Now I wish I stayed in touch—I could've been involved! But then there's an ominous crack, and the stage tilts.

Uh oh…

The stage gives way and everything is falling… falling… Thud! It knocks the wind out of my lungs, and I'm gasping for air when a banner lands on me, covering me with the Panemiam seal.

Blood pumping… Lungs heaving… Adrenaline rushing…

I'm alive. Fully alive.

I claw my way out from under the curtain, only to have two Peacekeepers grab my arms immediately, dragging me to a secured car. The air is filled with sirens and screaming, people rushing away from the scene and reporters running in. They shove me in a car and slam the door shut, and we're off, weaving through the crowded streets of the Capitol. I crane my head to look back—the entire stage has collapsed, dragging down with it the curtains, banners, light fixtures, and much more. The spot where we had lined up is now empty; everyone else must've been evacuated before they got to me.

Everything's so exciting this year! Is it always like this? First the chariot rides and now the interviews. What'll happen next?

…The Arena. The Games begin tomorrow. A knot forms in my stomach; my life could be gone in the next week. I breathe deeply, reassuring myself that all will be fine. I've evaded and tormented Peacekeepers for years, even with their armor and guns; the other tributes should be easier to deal with. It's really just the same ol' pranks… except that these will be deadly.

I'll be okay… I hope.

I keep telling myself that it'll be the same, but I don't know if I fully believe it.

Cleodora Mulroy, 18, District Four

The elevator ride up is silent. I glance over at Devrell, who's leaning against the wall in the corner, his arms crossed in stunned silence. Even he is quiet; it's weird not to have him joke about something to fill the lull. The Sixes are across from me, and the boy has a comforting arm around his district partner, patting her on the shoulder. Right before we reach our floor, I nod at him respectfully. He smiles weakly. The doors slide open, and the two of us step into our tribute quarters, which seems deserted.

Devrell plops down on the sofa and closes his eyes. "Ah… What a mess."

"Are you okay?" I say, settling down on a chair nearby, careful to keep my dress from excessive wrinkling. My stylist will be out for blood if I'm not careful; it's better if I keep him happy. "I don't think you've ever been so quiet."

He grins. "I don't think I've ever been so quiet."

"So what's going on in your head?"

"I… I think…" His smile falters, and he bows his head. "I think I just realized how close death is."

Only now? "Hmm…"

"Like if a light stand had fallen on us… Maybe both of us would be on life support in the hospital… or dead."

"And the Games are tomorrow."

He sighs and repeats it slowly. "And the Games are tomorrow… And we're being dolled up. If we go down tomorrow, this is a horrible final night."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I want to go out just having fun, you know? Not prancing around trying to jump through their hoops." He runs his hand down his blue tie. "And this tie is way too tight."

I run his words over again in my head. Not prancing around… My gut tells me that there's something rebellious in there and that I want to stay as far away from that as possible—rebellion rocks the boat, and I like my boats steady, thank you very much.

But I wish…

"Wait," I say, "I don't know if I'd take it off just yet. What if they want to make up the interviews?"

He smirks. "Then they can interview me without my tie."

I really hope they don't make up the interviews. I've got one last night of peaceful rest, and I'd like to maintain it for as long as I can. Not to mention the millions of thoughts running through my head, most of which I don't ever dare to express for fear of disrupting the peace.

As if on cue, the elevator doors open and our escort comes running in, frantically trying to type out a message on his phone. His jaw drops when he sees Devrell, holding his undone tie in his hand. "What are you doing! Put that back on! Now!"

Devrell glares at the man and flings the tie away. "It'll be fine."

"But! But!" the escort huffs, "Caesar's on the third floor finishing his interview with the District Threes, and then he'll be here!"

My heart sinks. "Here?"

"Yes! And the interviews are still live; they're calling it an 'impromptu tour of the tributes in their living quarters'! Isn't it brilliant? Now Cleo—adjust that dress and sit properly on the sofa."

I want to protest, to refuse, to march into my room and slam the door, but I can't bring myself to. So I comply. After a deep breath, I smile. "Okay. I'm ready."

"At least one of you is a reasonable person." The escort sighs in relief, giving us a beautiful moment of peace, where everything feels like it's in balance.

But then there's a ding, and a camera crew dressed in black piles out of the elevator, outfitted in camera equipment like exoskeletons and wielding microphones like antennae. They swarm us in an orderly dance, each one taking their position around the room. Finally, Caesar enters, flanked by Peacekeepers for safety. Just watching them enter is enough to drain my energy, but I wear my "everything is fine" smile and wait, holding my peace and keeping my opinions to myself.

He waves at me. "Cleodora! You're up next!"

I force a friendly curl of my lips. He's a nice guy; I don't need to make the night harder for him. "I suppose I am."

"I know this is all a terrible shock, but I promise—it'll all be fine!" He sits down on a chair that one of the attendants slides over. "Pretend the camera isn't there and just talk to me, okay?"

I nod. I suppose the disaster at the stage was a blessing for me. It's definitely calmer here than it was out there. I also don't have to wait for all the other tributes to go, though I'm sure the mentors will force us to, citing that "knowledge is power." And of course, I'll go along to avoid trouble, like I always have.

But at what point does going along get me into more trouble than resisting?

A/N We have one more pre-Games chapter left, and we'll hear from Jasmine, Rina, Barrett, and Evelyn! And then my kiddos will start dropping… and my tears will start falling…

Also! Meme competition! Y'all have less than a week to get them in, since the next chapter will be out Friday-ish and the Bloodbath will be posted maybe Sunday? Details on my profile! I've loved the ones I've received so far!

(Fun but Optional) Question of the Week

(FbO)QotW: If you could go out with one character on a date (if age weren't an issue), who would it be? Definitely not be?

I'd probably go out with… Orysa? It just seems like you'll always have a good time with her. I'd avoid Dove like the plague…

Thoughts?