New chapter! Probably the last for a long time, as school (ugh) is starting next week and soon after I have some mock exams which will be fun, but anyway my point is that what with the homework and the revision, it will be loads harder to post these chapters frequently. Maybe one every two weeks or so. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is, and I'm not giving up on this fanfic! So all you have to do is be patient. Sorry again. Remember to review this chapter. Now, happy reading! (Oh and because I forgot to do it in my last chapter, here's a disclaimer: I own nothing. Yep, I was in a hurry when I wrote this.)

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The interviews

Eragon couldn't say that he was surprised at the eleven he pulled off in training. He didn't know what Katniss had done until she told everyone at dinner that she'd shot an arrow at the Gamemakers – which he kind of wished he'd done himself – and so he assumed she'd get a 2 or a 3, perhaps a 4 at most, but she got an eleven too. Effie was practically skipping with joy, he remembered with some amusement, as he pulled the covers over his head and closed his eyes. It had been a long and frankly quite emotional day, and all the stress, excitement and adrenaline that had been pumping through him for hours had now vanished, leaving him feeling wrung-out and bone-weary. He fell asleep at once, into a deep, dreamless slumber.

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The day started for Eragon as it always did: with Effie banging on his door, yelling cheerfully about how big, big, big this day was going to be. Then a shower, which had become a traumatic experience since he'd somehow locked the settings onto a frothy orange-smelling foam that forced him to shower for only as long as he could hold his breath, and breakfast. Tomorrow were the interviews and so today was the practice, as Haymitch explained over the rim of his glass of whisky.

"You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content," he said, slurping his beverage. Eragon wrinkled his nose; did the man never stop drinking? "You start with Effie, Katniss." Eragon shot her a sympathetic glance as she followed Effie out of the dining room. He couldn't imagine anything worse than spending four actual hours with the crazed woman. Well, he shrugged to himself as Haymitch led him to the sitting room, spending four hours with him wasn't going to be much fun, either.

For a while, Haymitch just sat and stared at Eragon, who grew more and more uncomfortable beneath his unwavering gaze. Finally he said, "Er… What are you doing?"

"I'm working out how to present you," replied Haymitch. "I already know we're not going to go for the kind or humble type. Sure, you volunteered as tribute, but that doesn't mean you did it out of pity. Maybye you wanted to steal the other guy's fame."

"Gale," Eragon automatically corrected him. "That's his name. And no, I didn't volunteer for fame or for glory, but to save his life."

"Who gives a damn about that?" growled Haymitch, banging his fist onto the coffee table. "It's all fake. You might be nice and gentle and bunny-loving in real life, but not here, because you've got the face and the attitude of a fighter. Do you honestly think the people who saw you on the chariot that first night thought, 'Gee, he looks really friendly and caring'? No, they thought, 'Well I sure as hell wouldn't like to end up in the arena with him because he looks bloody lethal'."

"Stop it, I'll blush," Eragon snapped back at him.

"So," continued Haymitch, ignoring Eragon's remark, "we're probably going to go for something along the lines of arrogant or aggressive. Maybye cocky. I don't know yet. So I'll be the interviewer and you answer my questions, trying to stick to one of those profiles, and we'll see how we end up."

He asked Eragon a lot of questions about his family, his feelings about being a tribute in the Hunger Games, why he volunteered, etcetera. The family questions were hardest for Eragon because he had to make something up that didn't betray the fact that he was from another world, but he managed fairly well, and when it was time for lunch Haymitch was in a good mood and decided they'd go for: "Arrogant, slightly cocky, no aggression. Act like you're above them all, and you don't understand why there is even the slightest doubt that you might not win."

Eragon was just cutting into a potato when Katniss stormed into the dining room, her dress hiked up almost around her waist, looking like a human-shaped thunderstorm, complete with lightning and strong winds. He hesitantly said, unsure whether he was unknowingly committing suicide, "Umm… I take it the lesson didn't go too well."

"Not well at all," snarled Katniss, sitting down violently and grabbing a hunk of bread from a bowl. "Effie expects me to act like a Capitol lady – " she said this word as sarcastically as she could "– born and bred, when the most feminine thing I've done in my whole life is gut a wild boar. Oh yes, it went marvellously, really." She ripped into the bread angrily, leaving Eragon to finish his meal discreetly and leave with Effie half an hour later, dreading the next four hours.

As it turned out, it didn't go to badly. Effie lectured him on the best ways to sit and smile and stand, having him say hundreds of trivial sentences – "Thank you very much", "Yes please", "Of course", "How delightful", which Eragon really didn't see how he was going to manage with the profile Haymitch had chosen for him, but went along with. Effie's conclusion was that he was "really very charming when you want to be, and naturally confident and self-possessed." Eragon didn't see how he was going to fit the "charming" part in either, but made no comment. Besides, it was too late now.

That evening, Katniss didn't eat dinner with the rest of them. Instead, Eragon heard her screaming and smashing plates around her room, and was just going to see what the matter was – he already had a clue in that Haymitch had been as sour as an old lemon during the meal – when the man himself grabbed Eragon by the arm as he was leaving the dining room.

"Eragon," he said, somewhat urgently. "We need to talk."

"Oh, do you think?" Eragon replied sardonically, shrugging off his hand. "I actually think so too, because it sounds like Katniss is ripping up her bedroom as we speak." As if on cue, there was an enormous smash down the corridor. "Something to do with you, perhaps?"

"Yes," snapped Haymitch. "Exactly right. You seem to like her, Eragon, so you won't be pleased to hear that she's going to die out there in the arena, not from the other tributes, but most likely from her lack of sponsors. I couldn't find any profile for her. She comes across sullen, hostile, angry, bitter, unfriendly–"

"All right, all right, I get the picture," Eragon interrupted. "So what does all this have to do with me?"

"Well, said Haymitch. "You do have a profile. People are going to like you, you'll get sponsors because you'll seem completely sure of your victory. So, I thought that what Katniss needs is a bit of your success, and then at least she'll have a chance. Everybody knows that people of the Capitol love romance, love stories, all that stupid guff. So–"

"I don't like where this is going," warned Eragon.

"You're going to have to like it, son, whether you want to or not. What you are going to do, tomorrow night, during your interview, is say that you've been in love with Katniss all along. Not directly. Just drop hints until it becomes clear. Trust me, people are crazy about that stuff. The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve."

Eragon thought about it but his answer was already clear in his mind. If he was completely honest with himself, he did love Katniss. But he didn't want to fake it. He didn't want every person in the Capitol to know. So even though he knew it was deeply selfish of him to do so, he shook his head and said firmly, "I'm sorry, but no."

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The next day, Eragon awoke to see the three grinning faces of his prep team hanging over him, which almost caused him to have a heart attack. He yelled and leaped backwards, banging the back of his skull on the headboard.

"What are you doing here?" he asked indignantly, rubbing the sore patch on his scalp. "Weren't you supposed to come later? It's seven in the bloody morning."

"No no, dear, we want to maximize our time with you," said Aphrodite in a soothing voice, grabbing his arm and sending him sprawling onto the floor. "You and Katniss really stood out in the opening ceremonies. It'd be a shame to waste all that time and effort, wouldn't it?"

Eragon closed his eyes, sighed, and prepared himself for the hours to come.

First, the prep team shaved him again, then stencilled shimmering gold flame designs up his neck and across his cheeks. They didn't go OTT with the powdering of his face this time, just applied the minimum for him to stand out on screen. Then they recreated the hairstyle he'd had during the opening ceremonies, but this time left a thick lock of hair hanging over one eye. Finally, they added finishing touches: darkening his eyebrows, applying shadowy makeup around his eyes so as to make them appear more exotic, dabbing smudges of substance here and there on his face for whatever reason only they knew.

At the end of the afternoon, when Eragon was feeling sore and tired and bored out of his mind from standing upright for hours on end, they stepped back and admired their work.

"It's wonderful!" cried Aphrodite, clapping her hands together.

"A work of art," added Kirine, a woman whose eyes had been altered to ressemble a cat's and whose hair was pure white and floated down to her thighs.

"Well done, team!" exclaimed Terril. "Group hug!" They embraced, leaving Eragon standing in the middle of the room, feeling awkward and wanting nothing more than to be rid of these people.

Then Portia entered, holding a suit slung over one arm.

"This is your outfit, Eragon," she said, holding it up. "Do you like it?"

The suit was simple compared to the one Eragon had worn during the opening ceremonies. It was a matt, velvety black with curls of glittering flames twisting up the arms, up the legs, and blooming up the back. It was simple, yes, but beautiful, and Eragon thought that as suits went, he could have got worse.

"Yes, it's very nice," he replied. "Shall I put it on?"

This brought the wrath of the prep team down on his head.

"No, no, NO!" shrieked Kirine, holding her hands up in the air in shock. "You'd make a mess of it, my dear! Imagine letting you do that!" The other members of the team seemed just as horrified, flapping their hands around and gasping with outrage and distress. Eragon rolled his eyes, finding that his patience with these three was wearing thin.

"I can get dressed by myself, you know," he snapped. "Very well, put it on me then, but by all the gods, hurry up with it."

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About a half-hour later, Eragon was standing in the elevator with Effie, Haymitch, Katniss – who looked stunning in a dress encrusted with flickering flame-coloured gems – and her prep team, Cinna – Katniss's stylist – his own prep team and Portia. As if in a blur, Eragon felt the elevator rise, the doors open, saw himself walk over to his seat. He wasn't stressed or panicked, but the whole scene was so unrealistic he felt like he was in a dream. Was he really about to be interviewed by the inhabitant of another world? It felt absurd. Surreal. He was almost tempted to laugh. He would have done if he hadn't been broadcast to the entire nation.

The man who would be interviewing the tributes looked frightening with his painted pure-white face and dark blue hair, eyelids and lips. Eragon really didn't understand these peoples's taste in fashion: it was almost as if they actually wanted to look as freakish as possible. He shook his head quietly to himself, wondering for the umpteenth time what he'd fallen into. Hell, it seemed.

After a few jokes, the man – Eragon found out from a discreet exchange with Katniss that his name was Caesar Flickerman, a name that was strange but suited him quite well – sat down and the first tribute was called up to the stage, the girl from District One, small and unremarkable compared to her male counterpart. She seemed shy, but Caesar put her at ease and soon the interview was finished and the next tribute was walking up to the podium.

Blaze looked absolutely terrifying in a tattered outfit of leather, fur, and pieces of rusted metal studded with enormous spikes. The whole thing must have weighed fifteen kilos but you wouldn't guess it from his arrogant swagger as he mounted the steps and sat down facing Caesar, cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck, his dragon tattoo gleaming almost lifelike in the light of the burning projectors. Eragon was reminded of the tattoo belonging to the two elves in the Agaeti Blödhren that had come alive and granted him his elven skills and appearance.

As it turned out, Blaze was less arrogance than aggression, snarling out answers at Caesar, flexing his fists as if he could barely refrain from ripping his throat out, almost hanging off the edge of his seat to get closer to him. Caesar didn't once flinch, which impressed Eragon. Maybe there was more steel in these Capitol people than he'd guessed.

The tributes rolled by, some witty, some mysterious, some cocky… Eragon learned that the blond boy from Four, who was dressed in a skintight outfit etched with silvery-green scales with a transluscent crest running down his back, was named Sharker. The tiny albino girl from Eight who wore a simple white dress of cotton woven with silver strands that made her look ethereal was called Fay, a name that really suited her, Eragon thought. All in all, he only spotted four that would be potentially dangerous. Blaze, of course, and Sharker, who despite the jokes he'd cracked up on stage and the jovial smile plastered onto his sharp face, exuded an impression of pure menace that was perhaps more subtle than Blaze but just as potent. Then there was Gaia, of District Seven, a tall, slim girl who seemed quiet and withdrawn but whose answers to Caesar's questions were fired out quickly and without hesitation, letting Eragon believe that there was more to her than met the eye. And finally there was Zuleika, of District Ten, a muscular girl, about fourteen years old, with deeply tanned skin and a thick scar on her left cheek.

Then it was Katniss's turn. Eragon watched as she walked up to the podium, beautiful in her bejewelled dress, and sat down, answering Caesar's questions hesitantly at first, then more confidently. She completely charmed the crowd, spinning in her shimmering dress, appearing to be engulfed in flame. She got a huge cheer from the audience, and as she regained her seat Eragon whispered, "Nicely done." At least he tried to. His mouth was so dry it came out as a panic-filled squeak.

He got to his feet, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He'd always hated speeches. He remembered speaking at Roran and Katrina's wedding and actually felt dizzy with nerves. But this isn't a speech, Eragon, he told himself as he walked up the steps to the stage. It's an interview. Not the same thing. All I have to do is answer Caesar's questions. And, ideally, remember to breathe. He sat down at the seat, shook Caesar's hand, and then folded his own in his lap to appear calm and in control.

"So, Eragon," said Caesar in a confident voice. "Tribute from District Twelve. Not only tribute, volunteer. Tell us, why did you put up your hand to take the other boy's place on that reaping day?"

"I um…" Eragon scrabbled for an answer before remembering Haymitch's instructions: "Act like you're above them all, and you don't understand why there is even the slightest doubt that you might not win." He smirked, and said in what he hoped was an arrogant, assured voice, "Well, I really didn't want him to steal my glory. I mean, it's not like I'll lose, is it? It's a certainty I'll be the last tribute standing in the arena. So, the real question is: Why should I have not put up my hand?" Caesar laughed along with most of the audience, and Eragon felt relieved. This was going to be easier than he'd originally thought.

"Fair enough," Caesar replied. "But what about that miracle score, eleven, that you pulled in training? Surely you can tell us more about that."

"Of course," said Eragon smugly. "It was simple. I just was myself, and I guess that the Gamemakers thought that was good enough. Didn't have to do anything fancy." This time everybody laughed, and Caesar rolled out his next question.

"You really were magnificent in that chariot," he said, smiling. "Did you like the suit? What did you think about it?"

"A man's clothes are the reflection of his mind is all I can say," replied Eragon, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms behind his head. "Let's hope you all understand what I mean by that." More laughter from the crowd. Caesar shook his head jovially, as if to say, who can believe this guy's arrogance? It was precisely the response that Eragon had been looking for.

"After this night's interview, you'll have sponsors lining up in their hundreds to sponsor you," he laughed. "How ever did you gain such a confidence, being from District Twelve? Not that I have anything against it. It's just more removed from the Capitol than say, One or Two." This also caused general mirth and Eragon felt a flash of irritation.

"Oh, I think your opinions will change after seeing me in the arena," he sneered. "Just because I'm from Twelve doesn't mean that I don't know how to rip people's guts out." A few titters of nervous laughter was all he got this time. People didn't like being reminded of the brutality in the arena – seeing it on a screen was fine, but when it was an actual, material person who spoke of it, it all got too real.

The buzzer sounded as Caesar proclaimed, "Best of luck, Eragon Bromsson, tribute from District Twelve!"

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And that's that! For those of you who are wondering why it's Eragon Bromsson and not Eragon Shadeslayer, Eragon picked the name Bromsson for Madge to enter him in the population list of District Twelve because it sounds less exotic than Shadeslayer. I wonder why.

Anyway, happy New Year!