Hi guys! So, before we get into the chapter itself, I would like to just explain the Tribute Banquet a bit. After the Interviews end at 8:00, the tributes attend a formal banquet that ends at 11:00 where Capitolites will be given the opportunity to talk to them in person, and tributes will likewise be given the opportunity to gain a larger following. I hope you enjoy this idea and what it brings to the table!

Nerissa Doppler, 18, District Three Female

Slipping away from the alliance once the limo stops and we make our way onto the scene is easy—I would say surprisingly easy, but then I would be forgetting who I am talking about.

At first, when I lead them down the fluorescent runway, accented with velvet and hands grasping out for a pat on the back, high-five, or something more devious, they hesitate, nervous, but I would never take a second to look back at them, not when this is my moment. Flashing cameras alight the night air, but my eyes are immune that after all of those years spent developing photograph and pictures. My outfit could not have been better if I had designed it myself: alluring and seductive, while still going back to the theme of my interview outfit and showing the moving lens of film from the black and white era with a shawl over my dress and that shifts its pattern of blurred figures. I can forget that I even have to associate with my "allies" now, stretching the distance farther and farther away.

This is my time to shine. I know that these people will understand me, will understand my loves and my dreams, like no one else ever has before. I belong here, making a stunning entrance at a film festival, at my brainchild's premiere, with people who know who I truly am.

But nobody here knows who I truly am. Not yet, at least. I know that I may ruffle some feathers along the way, but I will do whatever it takes to escape from the smog-tinted monotony of District Three, and I am going to make a name for myself. My film, my baby, my masterpiece, will be completed in a matter of weeks, and it will blow them out of the water. It will shake them to their cores.

"Nerissa, wait up!" Bolt calls after me as I reach the entrance into the true Banquet, now in a midnight black tuxedo with accents of neons of yellow and green.

He and our company jog their way up the grand staircase to meet me, Tabitha nearly causing a disaster as she traipses on the back of Sierra's dress from being so close in shadow. Just like that, my moment is over, but not for long.

"Oh, sorry, guys, I thought that you were right behind me!" I say, laughing sympathetically.

"We are now," Sierra pipes up, laying a heavy hand on Tabitha and practically hoisting her over to her side. "Come on, don't you want to show off your gorgeous dress?"

Tabitha giggles and says something inaudible over the buzz on all sides of us that looks like a yes.

Bolt similarly pulls Raihan out from behind Sierra, since he would not have much to work with if he tried to disappear behind my district partner.

They are both pathetic, and the older two as well for extending pity onto them. Their cute, scared baby shtick has worked its limits on me, and I am just dealing with the whole quartet at this point. It will not be for much longer, and then the true magic will begin. It has been strenuous dragging them along, but it will soon be worth it.

"Out of the way!" somebody yells, and an usher begins to shoo us off of the central spotlight as the girl from One and her legion prepare to (reluctantly, in some cases) walk the runway.

The hallway to the ball/dining room is crowded with transients, but Sierra finds a colossal pillar to withstand the flow of people. She seems to be giving everyone else a pep-talk.

The domed expanse only yards away is so tantalizing. I want to be one of these people so badly, to live in excess of food and luxury and my own talents. No one can be my "friend", and no one can comprehend my genius, but just ahead of me, there may be some who can at least do the latter. They are just waiting for me.

I am going there now. I am going to find them, and meet them, and charm them, and stun them, so they will be sure to sponsor me, so they will be sure to root for me in the arena. My feet dance to the entrance like a moth to a light.

"Where do you think that you're going?" Sierra's baritone startles me out of my concentration. "We are doing this as a team, not as individuals. We have to support each other."

I do not need support. I do not need any of them. Right now, at least. But who am I going to base my masterpiece off of if I can't find any talent to kill? This is just a game of kissing up and feigning friendship, like I have been doing my whole life.

"Sorry," I repeat, chuckling again. "I just got a bit swept up in all of the glamour."

"I know you don't have any problem with this, but would you mind helping those of us who do?" Raihan pleads, voice quivering.

"Not at all, my little amigo." I elbow him.

"Now," Sierra starts, "we are doing this together. Let's show them that we are one unit. And then, once we find a table, some of us can go our separate ways."

Sierra does not look me in the eyes, obviously affronted that I would have better things to do than waste the night being herded around and only talking to the kiddy sponsors.

"I have an angle that I think would help us, but it would kind of ruin it if it was not just me," I justify. She accepts the half-truth.

I catch Bolt looking at me furtively, anxiously trying to catch my eye.

"You okay?" he mouths.

I refrain from a confident nod, instead a shaky one as I beam at him and shift closer, pressing myself up against him to whisper into his ear.

"We can do this, me and you," I mutter. "Are you with me?"

He also nods.

"Now, go have fun once we're all ready. And, Tabitha and Raihan, you two stick with me." Sierra proudly commands all of our attentions and leads the group to the precipice of the stairwell right above the entrance to the gala below. "I love all of you guys, now let's show them not to underestimate us!"

I feel the eyes of spectators on our backs as we descend into the Tribute Banquet. Unlike Sierra, who is dabbing her eyes like Mother the day that I gradually while she puffs her chest out to compensate for the fearful presences behind her. Hopefully this will paint me as a hero of the story, a confidant in the weaklings—I have never understood why people root for the weaklings—but it sure is painstaking. It will all be worth it, though.

The room is, itself, breathtaking, a gravity and expectation-defying display of extravagance. The walls are decorated with meticulously painted murals and supported by imposing bronze pillars, as is the ceiling, complete with an enormous crystal chandelier, a pleasing departure from the futurized, gaudy Capitol that I know. But I am not a material girl. This is my destiny, but this is not what I crave. The crimson velvet carpet spanning the room reminds me of that acrid quality of blood, of that vision of my mind of blood spilt, blood running, spreading, along the ground as if in slow motion. The paintings cast upon the walls depict the supremacy of the Capitol, here the president of the Dark Days sitting upon his throne, there a rebel being whipped by a Peacekeeper. Oh, what it must be like to be behind the lens… to be behind the whip.

Sierra guides us all to a vacant table in a comparatively undisturbed corner of the room, but now that we have made it past all of the paparazzi, goings on are much more civilized.

"I'm starving," she says, patting her toned stomach. "Let's head over to the buffet to get some food before the toast. Nerissa, are you coming, or do you want to go ahead and work your angle?"

The question is perfectly harmless, and for all that I know, she meant it to be, but there is the smallest, faintest hint of suspicion. I will squash that. I cannot have another District Seven situation. But now is not the time for being buddy-buddy. Now is the time for flattering and charming and coaxing money out of pockets.

"I'm not too famished, so I think that I will… um, venture out into the unknown!" I titter, putting just the right balance of care, enthusiasm, and apprehension into the laugh.

"I think I'll hang around here to save our seats," Bolt says sheepishly.

We see them off, but I stay. I know that Bolt wants to talk to me alone, and that is only for the better.

"Nerissa, are you sure you're alright by yourself, alone?" Bolt asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I know that you said that you were suspicious of the rest of them for turning on us soon, but even if you were right, I think that we should stick together."

"Bolt, thanks, sweetie, but I think I need to do this, for myself." I give him a reassuring, winning smile to lure him in and push him away at the same time.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, Bolt. Are you going to be okay by yourself, or do you need me to protect you?"

"I'm going to be fine. But… Nerissa?" he asks, shifting as he grips his chair.

I sit down, and he follows suit, cupping his hands over mine resting out on the table. That is a good sign.

"Yes?" I bat my eyelashes.

"Nerissa, I'm scared for the both of us. I really need to make it back home. I need to see my sister again. I can't just leave her. But I don't know if I would be able to live with myself if I let you die."

I am seizing this opportunity. I could not care less whether or not Bolt has a family back home. I have a film to make. I have desires, dreams to be fulfilled. But I cannot create the best documentary ever without a storyline, and a pawn wrapped even tighter around my finger would be oh so nice.

"Bolt… Bolt, I'm scared. I'm scared of dying. I don't want to go." I bring tears to my eyes, private tears for only him to see, a damsel in distress waiting for her hero to come to the rescue and fall on his sword.

"Don't be scared, Nerissa. Nerissa, I've had this feeling and the deepest level of my conscience for you ever since we met. I've never felt this way about anybody before, and I only truly realized tonight when I saw you onstage. I—I…" he chokes on his own words, eyes coated in wetness and trained right onto me in pathetic love lust. "I am going to save you."

"Save me?" I gasp girlishly, the perfect doll, and embrace him, not holding back where I feel and how close I press myself to him. "Thank you," I whisper into his ear.

He sits there, dumbstruck. Starstruck.

I see Sierra's silky black curls bouncing over the heads of the masses. I don't want them to see me or they will ask questions. And I really do need to be socializing. I give Bolt one last peck on the cheek, mumble something vague above needing to go talk up potential sponsors, and hurry away before they see me.

This is the new ace up my sleeve. This is how I will win. but winning is not the true prize. I have Bolt under my thumb, and I will squish him like a bug just when the time is right. But what drama would not be lacking without some romance? And this will be so much more than a drama.

A man approaches me, a putrid emerald suit draped across his shoulder with colored green eyes to boot and purple boots, gloves, and a hat in an indistinct reptilian skin. His eyes are reptilian, too, almost snake-like, but they pull me in, the whole outfit does with its gaudiness, its diversion from the norm even in a place like the Capitol.

"Greeting, Miss Doppler," the man greets, voice high but coarse and scraping against the roof of his mouth. "I thought that I recognized you. I was wondering, myself, if I cold interest you in a proposition?"

"Of-course, of-course, anything for a man like you," I compliment.

He likes it.

"I am the head of a production company: Upstart Studios, you might have heard of it? The name is quite ironic, actually."

"I know who you are!" I exclaim.

It is true, I do. This man is one of the biggest figures in modern film and television, one of the biggest pioneers of the modern genre! And to be in his presence is… underwhelming? Underwhelming. Maybe because I know that I can be better than him. That I can be better than all of them, and that I do not need whatever offer he is preparing to extend to me if it relates to production. I do not care about all of the names come the credit sequence, or about the actors or the special effects. I have the real thing, and none of what this man does is real, only a masquerade put on for the purpose of delight and entertainment, however humorous or macabre it may be. I will take macabre to a whole new level. I will show them all what a real film is.

I could use his money, however.

"Dmitri Crane!" I shout out, extending a dainty hand to shake his. He kisses it satirically, and I feign a blush, turning away.

"In fact, someone showed to me the short film you entered into a festival that won. What a beauty it was to watch!"

"Why, thank you!"

Death of a Rose. It is beautiful, my preliminary prize, my template. There is something so poignant and fascinating about death itself that just makes for such wonderful television, something about the rose's descent from a rising bud to an upright flower to withering down into a decaying piece of matter rotting on the ground, a transformation of beauty. My fist finds the roll of film in one of my cleverly concealed pockets and squeezes it delicately but tightly. The bird was so pretty in life, but it was even prettier in death, and I captured all of it!

"I, myself, have also always been a fan of the darker material, the tragedies and the disasters and those gruesome horror flicks," he says, casting a conceited hand out to the side as his other hold a martini glass to his lizard lips, as if I am hanging on every detail that he issues out about himself.

I am—or, at least, he thinks that I am. There is no better way to earn someone's favor than to flatter them.

"Oh, me as well. I've always found it so much easier to capture something meaningful, and honest, and unexplored that to try and make people laugh or feel warm inside. Movies are not about that, are they?"

"No, no, no!" Dmitri concurs. "I have found someone who agrees with me!"

Dmitri Crane cannot comprehend the true meaning of gruesome, of horror, of gore. I will show him. Because that is what true artistry is, right?

"Oh, I must introduce you to some of my friends over there, they would be delighted to meet you as well. I have a feeling that tonight will not be the last time you grace us with your company."

"I have that same feeling," I say, to which he chuckles and throws a slimy hand around my shoulder.

These people I am about to meet will never forget me, and never forget my work. Even if my feeling does not result in me holding the crown, I will be the true Victor, and whoever's name it is who wins will come second to mine in the long run.

A flash of bright color catches my eye, and I see Bolt off in the distance, arms waving to reach over the heads of the Capitolites. In between two women passing, his face is visible for a moment, and he holds up a thumb, faced concerned and questioning. Sierra is behind me, black curls still visible, and I see that the two kiddies have relaxed some. I smile warmly and return the thumbs up surreptitiously to reassure them.

My pawns. Everyone in here is my pawn. I can see myself on the camera, in the spotlight, standing over some nameless corpse, one of my feigned friends, cutting into them, tearing into them, watching as the blood seeps and squirts and my victim, my actor, screams and gargles. Because this is all a movie, something to shock the world with, something to go down in history with. I can see it now, the perfect vision in my head: Me, standing over countless, nameless bodies. Me, crying in grief, killing in anguish, laughing in pleasure. Me, being lauded at film festival after film festival, awards show after awards show, President Nero himself placing the Victor's crown on my head. Me, driving the knife in again and again, finally finding out what it feels like to have the hot and fresh blood of another human coat my hands, finally seeing in person what they look like on the inside.

The art of cinema is just so untouchably magical. All that I am doing is enlightening others to its true potential, wowing them with the depths that it can reach. I am making the perfect movie. And I will do whatever it takes to do so.

I will suck up to this snake of a man and his surely ghastly friends, suck up to my allies and pretend to be supportive, and suck up to Bolt and play the role of a lover, if only for a little bit. And I will add the drama, and add the morbidity, and plunge the knife in, again and again and again and again, until there is nothing left but a bloody mass of carrion and bones.

There really is such beauty in pain and suffering. I will just be the one to truly expose it.

Turquesa Miracelest, 17, District One Female

From the second that we exit the limo, Mystic and Aquatico go into what can only be described as a "party mode", best exemplified by Aquatico tangoing up the runway and flirting with the paparazzi ("Ay, chica, show me them moves!") and Mystic going straight for the alcoholic beverages ("Don't look so aghast, Chiffon wouldn't let me try it, and I at east need to have one sip in my lifetime!"). I don't like parties, or banquets, for that matter, of which my parents took me to many, flaunted me as their gorgeous little murderer and then kept mercilessly in tow as their problem child and forced to sit with my despicable peers as a "good example". Good example of what? Cattiness? Idiocy? Sociopathy? Probably all three, in their eyes. The only thing that separates this Tribute Banquet from any of the others is that, at this, I am supposed to be trying to charm a few more sponsor deals out of the loose-handed and "ever-loving" elites.

There has to be some sort of ulterior motive for this, more than just an added spectacle for the Capitolites or an act of mercy for the districts. Maybe the intention is just to bring in more revenue from betting and sponsoring for betting centers, and, thus, the government, but that seems to simplistic for them. Then again, the cruelest evils in the world are also the simplest, see power drunkenness and psychotic urges for blood. Nobody ever does anything just out of generosity—at least, nobody here, I think as I come out of my angry pensive and feel one of Aquatico's hand wrapped around my back, the other holding my hand in a straight line just above his shoulder.

"Are you kidding me?" I stutter out, laughing as Aquatico leans backwards, a rose plucked from a nearby bush in his mouth.

"Lean into it, mi amor," he says, making an exaggerated purring noise that sounds more like an alien than a cat.

It takes all of my self-control not to laugh at that. I give in and let him dip me down low. I keep my eyes trained on his face, not wanting to give the cameras any attention of mine that they do not deserve. Aquatico above he looks up at them, winks boyishly, and lifts me up in a flourish and twirl.

I finally capitulate and burst into cackling. I hate my laugh. A girl at my school once told me that it sounded like a mother bird regurgitating food for her young. I cannot see vulnerable to these people. But there is something about the way that Aquatico is so carefree that makes me gravitate to him, that makes me want to not give a damn about who is watching.

"Ha!" he exclaims, pointing at my chuckling proudly. "I got her!"

"Shut up."

In singsong defiance, Aquatico belts out a deep musical note as he lifts me up and twirls me. My dress, a tight-fitting obsidian piece with a slip running up my leg encrusted with turquoise to match the accents on my black eye shadow, is not fit for spinning, but for a moment, it does not bother me. Where has that part of me gone? I remember all of my escapades from the manor with Valor, going off to explore some abandoned mining cave or a decrepit, unoccupied house. It is my parents' fault. Everything is their fault, them, and the Capitol, too, and the Academy, and—urgh!

"Au revoir," Aquatico says to the press and photographers, waving a hand nonchalantly.

"That's not even the same language!" I say over the madness.

"Like they would know," he whispers to me under his breath as we take the brilliant glass stairs up to the ballroom.

"That was fun," he says once we are out of their earshot. "Thanks for participating."

"No problem. It was fun. You really know how to get the people looking."

"What does that mean?" he asks, raising one eyebrow.

"It was a compliment, but don't let it go to your head," I say, chastising him.

The people all recognize us. I can see it on their faces of shock and fascination, their outstretched, pointing gloved hands, can hear it in the chatter that suddenly morphs into murmurs. I have spent my whole life being recognized, but it still annoys me. It reminds me of the girls in school, purposefully failing to conceal snickers at the girl who failed the written exam of all things, who got herself expelled only for her parents to hand in a little cash under the table for her to be reinstituted, of our fellow aristocrats who scorn my parents for having the "problem child" of her year.

Do not make waves. Do not cause problems. All a load of hot, steaming bullshit coming from two revolting hypocrites. The best kinds of people are the ones who make waves and cause problems. But if that is true, then why do I feel so ill at ease right now?

Aquatico is relishing it. He makes eye contact with all of the most lavishly dressed women, and even a few men, winking and batting his eyelashes.

"I hope you know that you look ridiculous," I tell him once we reach a quieter spot in the grandiose great hall.

"What, you mean you don't want a piece of all this?" Aquatico asks, flexing wiry muscle that pokes through his aquamarine dress shirt, pulled open under his ascot to reveal his tan chest.

"Nope."

"In all seriousness, I hope you know that I am sending some serious bucks our way. I'm glad to see that you've actually started trying to garner some attention instead of just being emo and sulking in the background."

"Hey!" I playfully punch him on the shoulder. "I never did that! And, for your information, I'm not succumbing to them and playing their game the way that you are. I was just having a little fun."

"Well, are you going to 'play their game'? You won't be able to survive forever on only being pretty and having a rivalry with the kiss-ass." Aquatico halts and pulls on my arm, grounding me in place before we reach the heavy crowd at the stairwell, creeping behind the wall in front of a door to a ladies' makeup room.

"I'll 'survive' for as long as I goddamn want to, Aquatico," I counter.

I am not sucking up to them, and in the process selling my soul and my sense of self. I am stronger and tougher than they think, smarter than anyone has ever given me credit for. I do not need their petty money and presents. I can live on my own. Aquatico understands that, but there is a constant hint of him trying to swindle something out of any Capitolite I have ever seen him interact with. I am here to win. He is here to play a game. He did volunteer, after all, but maybe not for the reason that I previously thought.

"If the Hunger Games are about flattery, manipulation, and self-degradation, then I will not win them. I am going to winning if they're about fighting and survival."

"Turquesa, I thought that we already had this talk," Aquatico huffs, hands on his hips. "Don't you ever look at the world around you? Don't you ever pay attention to who the winners always are? You and I both know that no rebel is leaving here alive, at least none that they can be certain will raise hell. Are you still dead set on dying just to be a symbol and a martyr if you can't have your way?"

Yes, we did already have this talk, and I can sense that he is on the verge on bringing up his point on taking food from the cornucopia being the same thing essentially again, so I shush him by putting a finger to his lips as he opens his mouth again. Aquatico's questions is rhetorical. He knows that I am not ready to die. But I cannot lose all of my dignity to be the Victor, and Aquatico knows that as well. And maybe I can give them a piece of my mind once I am out of the arena and safe, beloved by their lapdogs until the next Victor comes around, but then who will truly listen in a district like One? I want to win, I want to live, as… as much as the next person, but, simultaneously, I don't. I am at a crossroads, and every path that I can take will make a statement for me. And what do I want my statement to be? That I am weak-willed and weak-minded, a brainless fighting tool good at nothing better than killing my opponents, or as a symbol, as someone who never let go of her aspirations and goals, someone who stuck with them even if it meant her death?

I see Valor in my mind, alone without me, pleading to whatever God exists up above if there even is one to let me live. I see Aquatico, right in front of me, somebody else who cares about me. And I see all of this repugnant excess around me, so much left to fight against. I know the answer.

"Do you think I don't, Aquatico?!" I whisper. "Yes. I want to live. And I'll take their gifts, I just won't ask for them."

He looks relieved:

"Good enough. I can do the socializing for the both of—the three of us."

"You forgot someone," I respond as I escort him out from behind the wall and back into the thick of things.

"Where did she go off to?" Aquatico asks.

"Tasting the wine. I assume she's planning on bringing some back for us."

"I hope so, my dads would never let me try it."

They give it out at some of the fanciest of galas in District One, an exclusive confection for only the best, or, more accurately, the richest students of the Academy as incentive. It never worked on me, but they gave it to me anyways, out of some sort of defiance. It tasted quite nice, and I'm sure that this stuff would taste even better if I planned on drinking it.

Aquatico and I make our belated entrance to the banquet as the orchestra's music crescendos, so hardly anybody notices us as everyone prepares to take their seat and what must be the coordinator rises to make a toast. As if on cue, Mystic hurries over to us, stunning in a silky tea-length with purple flames billowing up the sides. In her arms, she balances three wine glasses, each filled to the brim with the crimson substance, one for each of us.

"Guys! Guys!" she calls out to us, laughing a bit too long as everyone quiets down and Aquatico rushes her to her seat. She lets him but does not seem to have any care who hears her.

"You're already going to be hungover tomorrow, aren't you?" I ask her.

"No, I've only had a glass," she assures, nodding fervently to reassure the both of us when we look skeptical. "I got into a bit of an… altercation."

"Dare I ask with whom?" Aquatico queries.

"The bitch from Nine and some Capitol of her new lapdogs being led around on a leash."

Mystic is not making it out of this arena alive, and she must have come to terms with it right now to be acting so brazenly. She wants to be a martyr, I know it from looking at her, someone who volunteered just to die here for a cause. Because she had nobody left to love her. But I still have people left, and I am not done fighting, whether that be dying in the arena or bringing down this whole tyrannical regime.

"Damnit, Mystic, I thought you had decided to change. What happened to your interview performance?" Aquatico questions, frustrated.

"I do what I want, Aquatico. Nobody tells me what to do anymore. Come on, take a drink! It may be your last time."

Mystic passes him a drink, and when I decline, they drink in sync. She laughs, a melodic, enticing laugh, one that even makes me grin. These two know how to have fun, I decide as Aquatico downs the extra.

"Aquatico," I ask, "what happened to using our time wisely? I thought that you wanted to use tonight to our advantage?"

"We will, Turquesa, just give me a minute. Live a little, why don't you?" Aquatico tries to pass me a mysterious pink tonic from the other end of our table.

"No thanks," I decline, passing it back to him.

Aquatico is schemer, so he knows what he is doing. He is smart, cunning, charming, but… maybe he has met his weakness: alcohol and partying. I have always prided myself on not following the rules, not following the crowd, and not being able to be refined and put into place by… well, this type of thing. But this is not what I wanted, not partying and not wasting the night away alone, with nothing to listen to but a series of mind-numbing speeches from despicable officials. I could be using this time for something better. I can still see, far in the distance, socialites gathered around the stairwell, afraid to disrupt the flow of speeches. And if I don't want to give in and take a sip of this excess, I might as well try and further my own chances and my allies'.

No.

I cannot do that to myself. I won't lie to myself any longer and claim that I will be able to live on without their packages.

Aquatico catches my eye as I rise slightly and drop back down and looks away guiltily. He leans into me as he edges closer to the table to try a salmon colored soup.

"Just let me have this. One more time," he whispers to me. "I don't care if you go or not."

He is fully aware that he is eating his words, as am I my own. This feels wrong. I should be desperate to get in as much pleasure as I can before the end of the night. But I have always despised any sort of public gathering, and this hall is giving me déjà vu of balls that I would rather forget. I am not a talker or a charmer or a schemer.

"I don't care either, but I am just planning on having myself a good time," Mystic intervenes. "You guys think you're subtle, but you're not. I'm fighting to stay alive, too, but I'm not going to spend what probably is the last free night of my life kissing ass."

She grins over at us, eyes filled with tremendous fight yet rueful. She thinks that she will not leave here, I can tell, and so can Aquatico, and, in this moment, I have tremendous respect for her for it. Mystic does whatever she wants to do. Mystic is done letting anyone but herself be in control of her destiny. And I truly don't know if it is courageous of her to volunteer to be here, to die here, and to use only her wits and her brawn, or stupid and utterly cowardly for her to accept her inevitable death.

I don't want to die, I want to spite them, all of them who wronged me and so many others. And dying wouldn't be the worst outcome in the world if I do that in the end. And yet, I rise out of my chair, give Aquatico and Mystic each a nod, and make my way to the crowd of potential moneylenders, clinging to the wall.

As I near them, I can make out the boy from Two also making his way to the crowd, away from the pack for the first time that I have seen since the Chariot Parade. I don't trust him, just another product of corrupt, heartless career culture, a bestial patriot of few words, just another competitor, and this is just another game to beat them in. We eventually cross paths, both sneaking quietly up the red, carpeted lane up to the towering stairway, neither of us speaking or acknowledging the other until in feel a tug on my dress. A sharp, splitting noise punctures the air, and I swivel on a point to see a jagged tear in my dress rivaling the fine line running up my leg, a studded sole on the boy's boot still implanted in it.

"Shit," the boy curses under his breath. "Fuck-fuck-fuck!"

He kneels down futilely. He can do nothing but pluck out the tiny metal cone. A small corresponding hole on his black leather boot matches it, hundreds of tiny spikes lining his shoes, his pants, his belt, and his tailcoat. As he glances up in supplication, our eyes meet. For a moment it brings me pleasure to see him like this. I don't care about the rip—it is insignificant—but this is nice, having a career boy bow down to me.

I glare at him for a second, and it morphs into more of an aggressive snarl, but softens quickly. His cheeks are red, flushed, straw-colored hair clinging to his forehead with perspiration, somber green eyes wet with tears of panic. I have no real reason now to despise him the way that I do Imperia Crimson. I pity him, and he seems to pity himself.

"I am so sorry," he says.

I don't have the heart to be hostile with him, and the rip does not phase me. I have never been materialistic or flashy. The dress suited me, so I liked it, but now it suits me more.

"It's fine," I say, laughing casually. "You're forgiven."

He quiets, shuffling on in tow of me but never quite reaching my speed, until I feel him approach me again at the base of the stairs. Nobody notices us, not the aristocrats absorbed in their own conversation above us or the ones hanging on the speaker's every word below.

"You trying to get more sponsors, too?" he asks.

"I have nothing better to do."

"You think we could work together?" he asks, chuckling nervously, forcedly.

I sit on it for pause. I would rather not associate with the District Two Male, but why not do it for an extra buck? Because then I would be doing the opposite of sticking it to the powers above me.

He can sense that I am about to decline.

"It's alright, you can have them. I'd be happier if you got the money, anyway."

That takes me by surprise.

"They'll choose your three over my group, anyway. I'd rather one of you win, myself."

"What kind of a career are you?" I ask, only halfway joking.

"I'm not a career, I'm only allied to them. And the first chance I get, I'm splitting. And so, I was thinking we could make a deal: Whenever your gang attacks mine, let me and Scylla, my partner, go, and we won't come after you in the bloodbath."

This boy looks like a wreck, deep down. Every word comes out halfhearted. Every time I meet his gaze, it is like a fog trying to pull me down with him into misery. He is formidable, yet sympathetic at the same time. Maybe not all careers are bad.

This is a good deal, and one that I should not decline, but the idea of working with him and his partner is… disheartening. It is not my only option. I could scorn the pair of them and walk away, fight my own fight, and probably die in time, at the hands of some mutt or—well, a career. I should take him up on this. After all, I am not working with a career, I am working against the careers. I will still spite them in the end.

"You got it. And why not work together for this, too, and make these idiots feel like we're letting them in on something secret?"

He smiles back, relieved, and pats his head.

"Thanks. I'm Arlo, by the way. And you're Turquesa."

"And this better work."

I grin at him again, and we start up the stairs.

Tessa Oakhart, 12, District Seven Female

Lindsay told us before the Interviews to actively sniff out people to win over and make big scenes, which, she said, would not be difficult for Rowan. But the Banquet has been alive for half an hour by now, and it feels like the only thing that we could come back to here with evidence of us doing is stuffing our faces with all of the exotic foods. I know that she would be mad at us. I know that Remy would be mad at me. Minnie would probably understand. I trust my partner, though, and Rowan seems to be unafraid of the outcome of the night.

The night has come to a lull at our table, one Rowan chose for us in the corner of the room farthest from the orchestra and dance floor. At first, old women tugged their husbands over in frilly dresses six feet in diameter, and one solitary man who Rowan seemed eager to have leave. He probably thought he was a pervert. But now, nobody spots us, all preoccupied with dancing or socializing or scouting the strongest tributes out.

"Rowan?" I ask, cutting across the sounds of violin music and our synchronized eating. "Do you think we could try and entertain some more sponsors before the night is over?"

"Why not?" he answers, looking up from his plate goofily with sweet yellow sauce smeared on each cheek. "Anything that you want to do, we'll do. Even if you decide to ditch this place, which I am by no means against, actually quite the opposite—"

"We aren't leaving, Rowan," I huff. "I'm worried that we're fading into the background."

"Nonsense! People know us! They won't forget us soon."

His last words hang in the air despite the pounding bass chords resounding from the symphony, thumbing together like a beating heart as the music picks up. People will forget at least one of us eventually, and I don't want it to be me. I don't want it to be Rowan, either, but… he seems to be coming to terms with it. I hope he is not planning on letting himself die for me, and yet, at the same time… I want him to be. It is only human. That is would Ann would tell me. 'It's a dog eat dog world out there, so you better be sharpening your teeth.' It was her favorite saying, one that she would quote to all of the children whenever they got cold feet. For five years, I have been stealing other people's good fortune to make my own. I thought that I truly knew the world, that with my cuteness and my charm and my cunning I could make it by. But I don't think that that will get me through the Hunger Games.

It's a dog eat dog world out there, so you better have a big bodyguard. TJ, Ann, Remy, and now Rowan. When have I ever truly fended for myself?

Rowan scoots his chair out and rises, beckoning for me to do the same. When I do, he takes my hand.

"This is so we don't lose each other," he explains.

I don't want him to die for me. He can't die for me; he can't die at all! Rowan is one of the kindest, funniest, bravest people I have ever met. And I need him. My mind flashes back to when I tried to hold a weapon on the final day of training and ended the morning in a puddle of tears, only for Rowan to pull me into his side and let me cry onto his shoulder. What would I do without him? He is like my older brother, the older brother that I never had… the older brother that I used to have. He is a comforting blanket. He is a shield, a shield from all of the bullies and a shield from… from death.

Rowan pulls me into the foray of dancers, women fluttering elegant fans and men guiding them around with flashy and elaborate and gestures. None of them seem to pay any sort of notice to us, tall and graceful heads passing over us like we are… well, children. They have no compassion like the adults back in District Seven, who, when they saw a tiny little scrap of a girl, would give her a bite to eat. But maybe they are smarter for it, because most of them ended up getting any sort of money that they carried stolen off of them anyway. It is frightening, being tugged in between teetering figures who would probably display no remorse at trampling me. But I have Rowan to fend them off, and he seems to know where he is going.

"Almost to the kiddie section, so make sure to bring out the dimples, and I'll give the ladies what they want," Rowan jokes passively, flexing his bicep. He turns to look at me for a second, but he whips his head back around in an instant. "What's wrong?" he asks, still pulling along for fear of being run over on the dance floor.

"It's just… a bit nerve wracking, being so… so small."

Rowan gently corrals us over to a walkway in between two busy tables.

"That isn't all of it," he says. "Come on. Are you afraid that the sponsors won't like you? If so, you are not as smart as I thought you were."

No. I am not afraid that sponsors will not like me. I make—made—my living off of people liking me, by them thinking I was cute, or pitying me, or just being charmed by me. Why should these people be any different? Sitting pretty and acting cute has always worked in the past, so why should it not work now?

It will work now, but not for much longer. And maybe that is what Rowan is picking up on. That is what is truly scaring me. I cannot coast on the wings of my appearance anymore, and the consequence is death. Rowan seems to think that I can, and that only serves to make me all the more worried that he is planning something. Rowan, my best friend, the kindest person who has ever been in my life, is going to die, and I am going to be all alone, left with nothing but my ability to be cute.

"Yes, Rowan, I'm afraid!" I cry out, sending Rowan back in shock. "I'm scared…" I take in a strangled gulp of air, tears welling up under my eyes, "that they won't care about me, and that they'll think that I'm weak. I mean, look at me! This is so barbaric, why do we have to—?"

Rowan cuts me off, pulling into a smothering squeeze and practically carrying us to an unoccupied section of the wall shielded by a curtain.

"Rowan," I protest, "you're ruining my dress!"

"Sorry, sorry!" he says. "Tessa, I thought you knew when to speak and when to keep your mouth shut."

I do know how. It is one of the tools that helped me survive. And I know that I need to make my voice heard right now. This is wretched, vile, brutal, savage!

"Do you want me to stay silent about this, Rowan?" I ask. "All of my life, I've done the kissing up and the flattering and let others do the talking. Maybe it was because I thought there was some sort of inherent righteousness in everyone. But this is the total opposite of righteous! This is worse than just a Peacekeeper whipping someone, or a market thief, or having to take tesserae. And I can't believe that I just let it all fly over my head for all of these years, and I… and I…"

I collapse into his arms, a bundle of tears. I feel myself being lifted inches above the ground, but don't take my head out of Rowan's lime green shoulder pad until I hear a door swing open and shut. Suddenly, he comes to a halt and drops me amidst a horrible, putrid smell of waste and a cacophony of noises that sound like… puking? I look up from the wrinkled, damp spot on Rowan tuxedo coat to find myself in a bathroom stall, one not pristine and secluded like any I have ever been in before, but eerie and grimy, like the repugnant shacks outside of the lumberjacks' barracks.

"What is this place?" I ask Rowan out of mingled calm, distress, and revulsion.

"Lindsay told me about it," he answers, just below normal volume. "They call it the vomitorium. It's where the people who've eaten their share go to drink a tonic and puke it all up so that they can have more."

He grimaces as an old man's unrestrained barfing echoes across the walls, an unreflective and dull gray metal, along with a sickening splat. I feel my own bile lurch up my throat and swallow strongly.

"Why did you take me in here?" I ask.

"It was the only private place I could find. Are you better now?"

"I am," I assure him honestly. "There is something about nausea that seems to cool down your emotions."

It gets a laugh out of him.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I still don't really know why I had that meltdown. I guess I was just… you know, I was nervous, and… I think that everything really hit me for the first time."

I know, at the deepest level of my conscience, why I just made a fool out of myself, and why I lost control of my emotions and of my body and began weeping. It is because I am powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop twenty-three children from dying and people in the districts from being heinously, sometimes meaninglessly lynched and flogged and killed. Powerless to stop Rowan from dying, and powerless to fight for myself if he does and I am left alone.

Rowan nods. I can sense perception, that he knows that I am not giving him the entire truth, but he does not prod me with anymore of his questions, and for that I am more grateful to him than I ever have been.

Rowan puts his hands on my shoulders and says, "Tessa, you know that I agree with you. The Hunger Games are horrible. This all is horrible." He throws his arm as wide as he can in our cramped stall to the vomitorium that we are hiding in. "But there is a time and a place. You know me, Tessa. Do you really think that I would voice my opinions without a reason?"

"No." I have a suspicion as to what his reason is.

"Maybe I would, if I had nothing to lose, all of my family dead in the dirt and only two real friends who would make it along fine on their own, but I have you. I want to protect you, Tessa. And you should protect yourself. Be clever about who you complain and conspire with. None of these people here. The Victor doesn't win by being the deadliest or the strongest or the fastest. They win by knowing what to say at the right moment and using their noggin."

He pokes me in the head with his signature air of lightening the mood and disregard for any tension. His words only reaffirm my prediction that he is planning on dying for me. But I can worry about that later, and the clock is ticking for earning last minute sponsors. It is time to be strong. How could I say that and then immediately revert back to my old self, a precious little child who only sees the light in every situation?

As if Rowan knows what is running through my head, he tells me, "If strength and maturity is what you're afraid of never getting, then that is an irrational fear. You are the smartest, cleverest, funniest, and sweetest twelve-year-old girl that I have ever met, not to mention the bravest."

His eyes stare into mine, and I feel the tears coming back again—they never seem to leave for very long now—but for a much more favorable reason this time. This moment is intimate, in the way that Remy letting me ride piggy-back or TJ holding my hand as we crossed a busy road was intimate. I cannot ever let this second go. Why is it that every time I find someone to look up to and to be a brother to me, they can never stay?

"Thank you, Rowan. You're the best district partner I could have ever asked for."

"No, best ever," he corrects.

We hug one last time, but this time, I initiate it, standing up from the toilet that I rest on and wrapping my arms around his neck. We stay paused in that moment for just a minute longer. I can see in Rowan's eye as he pulls away that the gesture speaks volumes for him. He told me that he was an only child. I can be his little sister for as much time as we have left together.

"Don't think that just because you don't raise your voice in protest, you aren't brave. It's a dog eat dog world out there, Tessa, and the dogs who survive are the ones who eat dogfood. I know that sounds dumb, but you get the point."

It is a dog eat dog world out there, so you better play it smart. It lacks the ring to it that Ann's version has, but I prefer it. And who is to say that you can never garner some allies—some friends—along the way?

"Thank you, Rowan."

"That'll be five dollars," he jokes.

"Seriously. Thank you." I give him a meaningful look, and for the first time since I met him, I see a bittersweet glimmer in his eye, a droplet on his cheek so small, I almost missed it.

"Don't mention it."

Whether he is referring to my thanks or his crying, I have no clue.

"Forgive me for soaking your shoulder through," I implore.

"No biggie."

"I wish that the Hunger Games just ended now, and we could all go home, so the last thing that we could think about was just our pretty dresses and tuxes," I lament.

But it is obvious now, that if I ever do see District Seven again, things will never be the same. The Hunger Games are not a beauty pageant, they are a pageant to the death. Just like the Capitol, made to appear dazzling and exclusive from the outside looking in, but with a truly morbid, nauseating core. Rowan lets that devastating truth go unsaid:

"Me too. But why not let everyone see our outfits. It'll be our little fashion show."

"No. I don't want to pretend. I want to go out there and show them why they need to bet on us. There is no point in lying to ourselves anymore."

I am not going to come out victorious just by sitting pretty and convincing myself that all of this is just my pleasant little fairytale. I am not going to come out victorious by blasting anti-Capitol sentiment from the rooftops, like some of my competitors, either. I am going to come out victorious by choosing what to say and when to say it and playing my cards correctly.

"Let's go, then."

Rowan takes my hand and peeks out of our stall, then rushes us through the door on his tiptoes, taking care to squirt a vial of the thing that they call sanitizer on his hands and mine. Before I can wholly process what is happening, an old woman with outlandishly pouty lips and large breasts, a frilly lavender purse and dress bobbing in the air behind her, and a gaggle of women all her age and all just as surgically altered and lavishly dressed.

"Oh, how cute! It's the Sevens, ladies! We have been looking for you two in particular all night long, you must really be raking in the money," she laughs in that eased, condescending way that rich people all seem to have perfected.

"We could always use a little more," Rowan jests.

"We loved your interview," the lady's right-hand vulture pipes up.

"Thank you!" I say, taking the initiative to start flattering these perturbing women. "It was my favorite part of my trip so far, just being able to have the whole world looking at me and be wearing my wonderful dress! I love your dresses!"

I am lying through my teeth, but they do not seem to notice or care. Perhaps they just like being complimented. After a collective coo of "thank you", I continue.

"You all must live like that day in and day out. I'm so jealous! Do you like my dress?" I do a twirl for them, showing off the dark green masterpiece my stylist dressed me in, complete my pink jewels that look like flowers from a distance.

The ladies all nod enthusiastically, and it is easy money from then on. I compliment the crones and Rowan throws in the occasional flirtatious remark or confident taunt.

As they are preparing to leave, the lead crone, who introduces herself as Deirdre, asks for our names.

"Tessa and Hunter," Rowan answers for us.

"But, didn't I hear her call you Rowan?" she asks, sly and proud of herself, jabbing a finger at Rowan.

"Only my closest friends call me by my first name, but I'll give the privilege to you all."

The ladies go wild for him, clopping off in a procession of cheek pinching and incoherent babbling.

The Tribute Banquet drags on similarly. Rowan assures me that we have made a sizable leap up. All that it took was selling our souls. Finally, the conductor announces that the tributes are required to leave in ten minutes. In an instant, droves flock to the nearest tribute or exit, and Rowan hides us from view in the same crevice we were in two hours ago. Across from us, also hiding from the horde of eager sponsors, is the boy from One. We lock eyes, and I remember a remarkable coincidence.

I can see in his eyes that he realizes it, too, but I doubt Rowan does. He quickly and disdainfully looks away, but I take the plunge. This is a game of strategy. I doubt that I can win him over with my "adorableness", but possibly with a shared hardship. Behind the curtain, I sneak over to meet him before Rowan can react and pull me backwards.

"Tessa Oakhart," I introduce, extending a hand that he leaves hanging in the air. "I noticed that we both lost our brothers five years ago. Mine was the District Seven Male. Maybe you remember him? Anyways, losing a sibling is so devastating, so I just wanted to reach out and say… I understand."

He scowls at me and slides out of the curtain, maybe preferring to subject himself to the masses than entertain me.

"Tessa, what were you thinking?" Rowan asks, stunned.

"I was just planting a seed, playing smart, not hard. What if he remembers this in ten days when we meet again? I could see that I got through to him."

That is another lie, like I have been telling all night long. But maybe there is still some good in people, even lecherous child killers like him. He never looked at me, out of shame or grief or remorse, so maybe he will have a change of heart. That is how I will win. Not by my charm, and not by being an unfeeling, uncaring strategist, but by playing with my head while keeping my… myself, my essence, my innocence, what makes me… above them. And I definitely won't win by letting Rowan fall on his sword for me.

"If you say so."

We stay quiet, the only sounds the sounds of our hot breath meeting the thick curtain and the muffled chatter and clicking of boots and heels. And I get one last childish impulse. Acting like nothing is wrong for just one more night wouldn't hurt. I may not ever get the chance to do this again.

"Rowan, do you want to dance with me?"

"It would be my pleasure. Come with me, madame." He kisses my hand and leads us out of the curtain.

The orchestra is playing a grandiose, breathtaking finale. In the bustle of other dancers and late sponsors, nobody seems to notice us. Neither of us know how to dance, but it is wonderful, being able to feel like a princess for just one more night.

(Trigger Warning for flirtation with an underage girl)

Keeley Axel, 13, District Six Female

I never thought that sucking up to these snobs would be so difficult. Then again, this is not exactly what I have been practicing for the last five years, more so pickpocketing, lockpicking, and other methods of swindling goods. That, and how to be stealthy. I have always liked to be stealthy, fading into the background and picking up things that I am not supposed to hear, touching things and taking things that I am not supposed to feel or steal. But now, I am competing with twenty-three others to be in the center of the spotlight, the complete opposite. I can be charming, though. I have had years of practice out on the streets, batting my eyelashes during bargaining in the Black Rose or when caught by a Peacekeeper out on the streets after curfew, which happened rarely.

"Oh, sweetheart, you say that your plan is sliding under the radar, but how are you intending to do that with such an eye-catching dress?" Laurentia asks, giggling coyly at what she must consider a joke.

I hate her laugh. I hate giggling. I hate her. She reminds me of Victoria, my stepmother, always presenting herself as a lavish and refined by comparing herself with anyone else in the room at the expense of my father, already teaching my little wretch of a half-sister to be as wicked as her. I especially despise her dress, all frilly and pink, like she thinks that she is some sort of princess. She reeks of pretentious exuberance.

"When they see me, all that they will see is a pretty face, a little girl. But I am not just a pretty face, and I am definitely not a little girl anymore," I respond, looking into Franz's wild, yellow eyes as I finish as I send him an indiscreet wink.

My real answer is seduction, which I still do not regret, and which will fly over the heads of many of the tributes. This is the only way for me to at least have some sort of following. I am not menacing, nor am I particularly charismatic or funny, and most definitely not patriotic. But now, I have left myself wondering if I even want a following. I can only take this for so long: being surrounded with lecherous men and their frilly pushovers of wives.

"Oh, definitely not," Franz assents, eyes widening and eyebrows raising.

I always used to feel more disgust than pity for those pathetic girls and women who flung themselves and their bodies out onto the street, desperately whoring themselves out for any money that they could get. I always thought that I would never end up like them, that I would use my brain and my fingers and my mouth to get by, and not only get by, but rise up. And yet, here I am. These people should not see me vulnerable, and yet, that is what they are witnessing, however hard I try to pretend that I am being confident, and silent, and seductive. These people do not deserve to see me like this, to have me at their mercy.

I wish Carroll was here. I never should have told him to let me go off on my own, but he said that he had his own ideas, too. It only occurs to me now that he may have been lying and hurt inside, content to pretend to have other plans so that I would lessen my own chances by sticking with him, which, on second thought, I would not do. It sounds exactly like something that he would do.

"I positively adore how that indigo fabric flows on you, darling!" Laurentia comments.

"You simply must give us the name of your stylist," says Franz, ghastly, creeping in on me.

I have no idea what my stylist's name is, and I could not care less. I want to get out of here. I have had enough. I have been doing this for an hour already, probably more. These two gorgons are beginning to catch on to the fact that I am uneasy, and while Laurentia is losing interest, Franz is latching on like a leech. He grasps my shoulder with a thin, bony hand, frigid to the touch, but his breath is hot. He gets off on this, unnerving "little girls" and taking control of them. His wife does not seem to mind. But I am not a little girl.

"Sorry, I can't think of her name at the moment," I explain politely.

"Oh, what a shame!" Franz laments, simpering. He still has not let go of me.

I stumble on my dress, high heels catching the thinning trails of dark blue silk falling to the floor and take a glimpse behind me to make eye contact with Carroll. Has he never left the entire time I have been talking up this couple? I can feel him nearing me, bringing along his irate, gray cloud of anger at Franz. Who does he think that he is, a superhero? Why does he feel the need to defend me from two old freaks? One look back confirms it. He is storming his way over to meet us.

"Listen, it was wonderful meeting you both, and I hope you'll sponsor me, but I think I'm being summoned—"

"But your partner is right over there," Laurentia says, pointing a gloved finger at Carroll.

Franz relinquishes me subconsciously, which I only realize as I cross the floor towards Carroll and feign escorting him over to my pair of potential donors. I send him a look, vexed and embarrassed but reassuring, which he counters with a 'what-am-I-supposed-to-do?' expression. We will table this for later.

"Franz, Laurentia, this is Carroll Heinback, my partner," I introduce, holding him an inch behind me.

"Good evening," Franz greets, shaking his hand.

"How are you this lovely night? We have heard that you are quite the entertainer," Laurentia comments, laughing again at what she must believe is her own ingenuity.

"Wonderful," Carroll intones briskly, without his usual warmth. He is wary of these people.

His ridiculous getup is gone now in place of a more tasteful tuxedo of orange and other various colors, creamy shades instead of neon ones. Now he is much more easily taken seriously, I just wish that he would do the same with me. But no, he feels the need to defend me now. I can defend myself! I have no need for the protection of some spineless boy who did nothing but bawl when he was Reaped.

What am I saying? I need him more than he needs me. As much as I would like to say otherwise, he is the only one who can calm me down now. I should not cry, or get overwhelmed, and need him, however much I like him, even if he is the best person that I have ever met. And I know that he needs me too, to give him some sort of backbone and keep him tethered down to the morbid reality that we are stuck in now. But how much does he really need me if he is (misguidedly) trying to prove himself by standing up for me?

"Is it time already?" I ask him, impromptu, giving him a spiteful elbow in the ribs behind my back. "I hoped Honda would give us a few minutes."

I have always been quick on my feet, and I wanted to get away from these people anyway, but I am not going to let Carroll snatch away a sponsorship deal from me and throw it down the gutter. As I ask it, I maintain my composure, brusque and beguiling. I do not want these people to see the side of me that Carroll seems so hell-bent on protecting, not laughter or sadness or fear, and definitely not anger. But why should I feel the need to protect that side of myself in the first place? When has it reared its ugly head other than the past week?

"But first," I drag on, "you should meet Franz and Laurentia, they're both so nice."

"It's a pleasure," Carroll says, waving with a bit more cheer.

"Such a pleasure!" Laurentia repeats, while Franz claps and nods his head in agreement.

"I am so sorry to cut this short, but I really must go," I say. I soften my voice on my last few words, looking at Franz.

Just because I despise them does not mean that I want them to despise me. I know that I left an impression on them. They like me now. They will help me now. And what else do I have to give them but my confident, sly, sneaky outer shell? Who would want to pay money to help a temperamental barely-teenager?

"Don't forget me."

I give one final wave and I am off with Carroll. He grabs my hand immediately, tugging me along, but I break free.

"I don't need you to walk me around like I'm a little girl," I whisper in protest.

"You sure aren't acting like one," he barks back, pivoting back to face me for a second.

I have never seen him so… livid. Come to think of it, I have never even seen him angry, only sad, afraid, happy, or comforting. But as he faces me, it morphs into betrayal and concern. Hurt.

"Keeley," he says, pulling me away again, this time with me not putting up a fight, "you are thirteen years old. What are you doing?"

I prepare to make some bold retort, but it falls flat in my mouth, stuttering and stumbling on my tongue when I cannot muster the guts, or perhaps muster enough strength to lie to myself, when facing Carroll. Instead, I just try for a snarky one. That is what I have always been most comfortable with.

"Nothing, now that you pulled me away. Keep moving, or those two creeps I was talking to will see us and wonder why we aren't on our way to find our mentor."

"You know what I mean. This is so wrong, and I don't know how you even managed to convince me to let it happen. Are you seriously going to sink yourself down to this level?"

"What am I supposed to show them, my sparkling personality?"

He is right. This is ridiculous, and I have had enough of it. I don't want to do this anymore. I have ended up like those girls that I once despised by now, throwing everything I have into the mercy of perverted, devious, evil-minded men. I feel lonely right now, wasted and vagabond and degraded. I am crying inside, dying inside, suffocating in my own toxicity. Why can't I just open the door and release it out into the air for good?

"Yes!" Carroll screams, taking hold of me again.

I hate myself for doing this. I hate everyone. I hate fucking everyone, and there is so much rage boiling up inside of me that I think I might explode! Why would Carroll ever want to be let in to see that?

I need to let him in, because I am dying here, suffocating. I am not a little girl. I am not a whore. I am not tumultuous ball of emotion. But I am not the cool, calm, and collected girl that I have always thought that I was—that I always reassured myself that I was. And so, I need to suck in my pride and let him in.

I fall into Carroll's arms, and he holds me there for a moment of utter silence. I take a heavy breath, but not a tearful one. I cannot let that out here.

"Keeley, I only met you a week ago, and if these people knew you like I knew you, then they would adore you," Carroll says. "It's okay not to be all stoic and macho and stuff. I mean, look at me, I'm cool, right?"

He laughs, taking one arm off of me to gesture to his most definitely uncool creamy orange suitcoat. I laugh, too, and he loops his other arm around me and escorts me towards some unknown destination.

"People will like you if you shown them friendliness, or… bubbliness, or your… well, sassiness. Don't be afraid to make friends. Now come on, I have a plan."

I am not afraid to make friends. I know how to make friends. I just have no desire to, and Carroll is the example to that rule, which is why a sense of dread is creeping over me as I ponder what this "plan" is.

"Dare I ask what plan? No, I don't, I'm afraid."

"You'll know in a second."

I loathe the feeling that passes through you when someone blatantly keeps something from you—Victoria did it all of the time as a power move to put me and Dad and everyone else at her mercy—but I cannot get mad at Carroll. I cannot get mad here. But it is so difficult when this whirlwind of emotions buried so deep inside of me that I have lost touch of them is rising to the top not to flock to the only extreme that feels remotely familiar: fury.

I do know in a second, as Carroll said, and this newfound knowledge is not pleasing. He points over to one of only three tables marked "tribute seating" beyond a flimsy boundary of tape. There, the girl from Two sits awkwardly at a table, lithe figure looking hulking hunched over in her chair, muscles trapped against charcoal lace in a flowing dress to her legs. With her, surprisingly, in the boy from Eleven, also out of place in a gray, shoulder-padded, plaid suit obviously meant to enlarge his appearance.

"Why are you taking us here?" I ask, giving voice to my complete confusion.

Why are we going over to evidently have a conversation with two of our competition? Two complete strangers? And why are they even near each other, a career who hears voices and a timid little boy with some other mental disorder? They have nothing in common… wait. Yes, they do.

"I told you I had a plan, Keeley," Carroll says, still out of earshot of the table, though they see us, and there is no turning now, for him, at least. "I've finally found something that I can do! This is a way that I can help!" he gushes.

Yes. It all makes sense now. I contemplate turning around and walking off, but reconsider. I have had my limit of these bullshit Capitolites. And so, I follow behind Carroll, who puffs his chest out with a sudden confidence.

"Sorry for the wait, my friends," he says ushering me in front of him and into a seat beside him. "This is Keeley. Keeley, meet Scylla and Aleyn."

I give a noncommittal wave, which both of them shyly mirror. Scylla shifts her eyes away from me, arms folded over her chest. I am not afraid of her, but she does not particularly seem to be trying to be. Her partner and all other allies are nowhere in sight, but I am worried that they will see me here and get the wrong idea: that I am in any way attached to her. Aleyn shrinks into his seat further, but his eyes still look into mine for a nervous moment before flitting to Carroll's pleadingly and expectantly.

"So," he begins once has sat down, hands folded and elbows on the table, "I have an idea. Scylla, Aleyn, you were both so brave at the Interviews, it really took my breath away, and I just got this sense that this is what I am meant to be doing. We can help each other, all four of us!" he announces, gesturing round the table, from me at his side to Aleyn and Scylla, as far away from us as they can be without being rude. "Imagine this: four people who the viewers think would never interact, all bound together, totally unexpectedly! A secret alliance to be revealed bit by bit."

Carroll is giddy with excitement, but his mood softens, and he puts a hand on my arm that I fight the urge to jerk away out of instinct.

"I understand what both of you have gone through, or, at least, try my best to, and I have enormous respect for everyone at this table. I'm a clown at a hospital, so I see all sorts of patients of every age and background, and the ones who recover the best aren't the ones with the most money, they're the ones with the strongest spirits. They allow other people to build them up," he adds, nudging me. "And I know that this sounds so extreme and you two probably don't want to be allies, but we don't all have to camp together, we can just support each other."

Carroll surveys all of us beamingly. He is not making much sense anymore, and what sense he does make is not gratifying. I can tell that he is very passionate about this, but… no. I want him and him only. I can play this game by myself, otherwise. Carroll is my friend, my support blanket, my new confidant. These two are total strangers. I refrain from making any sort of snarky quip out of respect for him, but this is not going to work. One look at the other two tells me that.

"Thank you," Scylla pipes up, face somewhere between a grimace and a smile, "but I think I should stick with the careers for now. I'll make sure to watch your backs, though. Maybe sometime in the future we'll cross paths again." She rises. "I've got to go find Arlo, now, the night is about to be over and our mentors said they wanted us back early. Thank you, Carroll, and especially you, Aleyn."

"Keep on thinking on it," Carroll says, patting her on the back before he realizes that he is intruding and shifts backwards. "There are only good people here."

She walks off, and Aleyn follows suit:

"I don't think it'd be safe for anybody to be near me for too long out there, but thanks for the effort. Maybe we'll cross paths again."

The boy from Eleven grins tremulously and also exits, leaving me sitting and Carroll standing. He comes back down to my level.

"I knew it wouldn't work," he says ruefully. "Deep down, I knew, but I really got my hopes up there for a second. Thanks for not raining on the parade."

"Don't get too down on it. We can kick ass by ourselves. We don't need them."

This is a profound level of intimacy for me, especially here, not to go to sarcasm and the trusty 'I-told-you-so' stance. It is something just for Carroll, and maybe Dad. He just poured his heart out in front of two people who did not reciprocate, making himself much more vulnerable than I would ever dare. For the first time, I truly comprehend just how much he wants, needs to give instead of take. But that will never happen for him there. And now my heart breaks for him. For Carroll, the sweetest, kindest, funniest, best person I have ever met. I don't get him, but I need him, I can come to terms with that now.

"No, Keeley, this is not some dumb idea to get more allies. I really thought that I could actually make some sort of positive impact on the world around me for one last time, make some sort of difference. I can't play this stupid, evil game anymore!"

Carroll's eyes wet for the first time since the day we met, and his body begins to shake, convulsing as quiet tears stain the white cloth beneath him. I feel such love for Carroll, and such sympathy for him, and all of a sudden nothing matters anymore but Carroll, in all his virtue and sorrow. This is horrible!

"Carroll, you've got to learn when to love and when to let die. I know the saying is live and let die, but that's not important. You have me, Carroll." I cup his face and rotate it to me. "Don't give up on me now."

Carroll shakes his head again, not ruefully or in agony, but with a still-tearful resolve.

"Okay," he says quietly. "We can do this. I can do this for you, and I am going to do this my way."

He smiles feebly, and I do something that I have not done with him nor anyone else in years. I give him a hug.

Well, that took a long time! Thank you to everybody who reviewed last chapter and waited on this one, I am so apologetic that it took me so long. I had a blast of a Spring Break, but my vacation was less relaxation that actual exploring, because I'm not a fall-asleep-on-the-beach kind of person, and Florida was awesome. I am so incredibly proud of each and every POV this chapter, and a few hours ago it really just hit me that I am about to have to start saying goodbye to some of these wonderful characters. TWO CHAPTERS UNTIL THE BLOODBATH. That is insane! It is crazy to think that it took me like almost two years to get this far, but that makes those of you who have stuck with me and seen my writing improve along the way all the more special to me. Next chapter will hopefully be out before I am sent to the big house again, but I won't stay for long, I promise. I have play rehearsals, school, tennis matches, family time, housecleaning, and a whole bunch of other chose, but I will always make time for this, it is one of my biggest passions.

So, let's get to the chapter! Bolt made a confession to Nerissa, Turquesa surrendered her pride, Tessa and Rowan hid in the vomitorium and had a touching moment, and Keeley bore witness to an unsuccessful bid for friends by Carroll. This is the proudest I have ever been of a chapter, so please give all of your thoughts. Some parts are a bit rough because I was trying to churn the out as my friend blasted music out of the car, and my headphones are only so thick, but the quality is overall very impressive to me. A solid ninety percent of this chapter flowed like music off of my fingertips and the time passed really quickly writing it, which is a feeling I am still a bit new to, so I am just over the moon. And now, for the questions:

What did you guys think of the Tribute Banquet? Original or bland? Cool or boring? I really like the idea of a much fancier side of the Games to bring out the Capitol's sophisticated side, but I'd love to hear your thoughts.

What is the name of Nerissa's first sponsor?

I will see you all next time, and please remember to drop a review and vote on the poll up on my profile if you have not already. I love you all!

-Mills