Alan Brooke, 59, British Isles Mentor

I sat in shackles, waiting for the blasted Nazis to just get it over with and shoot me. I had already been found guilty of high treason against the Third Reich three weeks ago. It felt as if the Nazis were prolonging the matter.

A stubby servant walked to my door, carrying a tray of food. "For you, Field Marshal."

She handed me a plate of steaming biscuits and jam, slathered with butter. I nodded at her, impressed. Rations had been hard pressed during the war. I was surprised that they had found enough butter to cover one biscuit, let alone all of them. "Thank you, Miss. Long live King George IV."

"Long live King George IV!" the woman replied, smiling at me kindly and walking off. The bloody Nazis hadn't bothered to see if they employed patriots or not, and my high standing in the British Royal Army helped to uncover more than a few in this prison.

I reached for the plate of biscuits, taking care that the chains I was in didn't scratch the fine china. The cook would make sure that there would be hell to pay, even if this was possibly my last meal.

Someone walked up to the door just as I took a bite of one of the biscuits, opening the door with the large keys that they had for the prison cells. I stood up but refused to salute, standing at attention for the person. They demanded attention, but they would not receive my respect. The Nazis would not see me salute them or their leader.

I watched the man walk in, the swastika emblazoned on an armband he wore. I stared daggers at the foul object, wishing that I could spit at it. Only good manners forbade me to do so. I would not spit on a man even if he was my captive. I was better than that.

The man smiled at me, starting to speak in broken English. "Alan, hello. I am Friedrich von Deisner, the appointed recruiter for the new... wettbewerb involving your country. I am here to offer you job."

I stared at the man, trying to figure out if he was serious. Was he offering myself, one of the most powerful men in Britain, a job in this blasted competition the servants had been crying about?

Friedrich kept on speaking, grinning madly through his beard. "You will mentor the tributes chosen for Britain and help them to win the wettbewerb. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly. If I could help my country, it would be worth working for the Nazis. I could bring a soldier of Britain back home. "If you'll pardon my french, I'll do it, you gormless bastards. Sound about right?"

Friedrich grinned, nodding his head happily. "I do not understand the language of France, if you please. Are you able to teach me?"

Peggy Taylor, 22, French Mentor

"Je suis une patriote!" I yelled into the cell, letting the words ring through the prison. A rat skittered through my cell, looked at me curiously, and left. My words had no effect on him. "Non, that sounds way too bland for this. My last words have to be something more interesting. Hmm, how about… You can break my body, but not my spirit! Mon Dieu, I'm so cheesy this hurts. How about… "

I looked up disinterestedly as yet another one of the Nazi leaders entered my cell, carrying with him a stack of papers. At least they hadn't resorted to the whip again. My back was still stinging from the last 'session'.

The man looked at me sternly as he walked in, setting down a clean towel onto my grungy bed before he sat down gingerly. I laughed. "If you think it's so bad, why don't you replace it?"

The man shook his head, wrinkling his nose as a foul odor came into the room. I smiled. "Enjoy the smell of the lavatories? Just next door!"

The man scowled, opening up the folder of papers and starting to read. "Peggy Taylor, 22 years of age. When World War II started, she posed as a prostitute, luring loyal German soldiers into giving her valuable information. At the age of 21, she shot a German officer dead in a dinner date. She escaped instantly, hiding in the town for weeks until found out by loyal townspeople." Actually, that was incorrect. After England had fallen, I had attempted to escape to Spain, but had been caught by a simple farmer who couldn't bear to see a 'poor damsel' walking along the road by herself. The Nazi Army, walking past the farmer, noticed me instantly, and placed me in this dump of a prison.

"So you're going to recount to me my life's history? That's not going to make me feel any better, imbecile." I smiled insolently at the man and sat back in the bed, leaning comfortably against the wall. The German officer wrinkled his nose once more and turned to the next page. "The honourable Fuhrer Schnee bids you to become a mentor for your region of France in his new competition. You will mentor two children chosen from this country and help them attempt to win the competition. Do you accept, Mademoiselle?"

I laughed. It actually didn't sound too bad, but I wasn't going to let this idiot know that. Not until I was convinced. "And how are you going to make me do this, Jerry? What if I don't accept?"

The German officer flipped to the next page. "The previous two choices for the France mentor were shot dead when they refused. Do you accept, Mademoiselle?"

Carmelo Borg Pisani, 27, Italian Mentor

I calmly sipped my cioccolata calda, smiling at the painting that I had finished. It was a picture of the landscape around my mansion, showing the hills as the sun peered over them. It was beautiful, and it was mine. The mansion was mine because I had spied for the Italian forces on Malta at the end of the war, finding out necessary information to help the Italian forces take back the soul of Italy. Now, I was able to live in my home again, enjoying art. It was peaceful.

One of the butlers walked into the living room, holding a ringing telephone. "For you, Mr. Pisani."

I nodded and took it from him, putting down my cioccolata calda. The hot chocolate trembled slightly as it was put down on the table, and I picked up the telephone. "Ciao?"

"Ciao, Carmelo!" Benito Mussolini answered. I smiled and listened, knowing that something important must be happening. Il Duce wouldn't phone me personally unless he had something important to say to me. "Listen, Carmelo, I have a piccolo favour to ask you. Fuhrer Schnee would like you to mentor the two tributes for the concorrenza he is making for the Reich. Do you accept?"

I paused, weighing the pros and cons. If I did, I would instantly receive more social status. If I didn't however, I would be able to stay and paint the landscape, happy by myself.

Screw painting. I'd probably be arrested anyway for treason against Fuhrer Schnee if I didn't accept. Best to enjoy the most of myself while watching adolescenti kill each other.

Antonina Zabinski, 34, Polish Mentor

I watched the birds fly throughout the garden, landing on one of the trees. I smiled softly as it sang without a care in the world, completely free. Nothing could harm it.

Bang!

I jumped in my cell as one of the birds fell to the ground, a red pool of blood surrounding its black wings. A Nazi soldier walked over to it, smiling as he crushed the delicate little body into the ground. I breathed deeply, resisting the effort to scream at the man. That was the last straw for my husband. The Nazi soldier had beaten him savagely when he had dared to protest about their inhumane treatment of the birds.

And then they killed my mąż, my only love…

I sat back down and continued to hum, waiting for whatever would happen to me next. I hadn't learned much German, but the soldiers guarding me had made it pretty clear that I would be dealt with soon. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of tears. I would be strong, just like the beautiful animals I had taken care of. They had let the political refugees into the adjacent cages where we had hidden them in the war without a whimper. I would be like them. But if the Germans came to ask me something, I wasn't sure what I would do. But I would live. I would live for Jan. He deserved that. He wouldn't want me to grieve. And I didn't either.

Aristides de Sousa Mendes, 57, Iberian Mentor

"Aristides de Sousa Mendes. You have betrayed the region of Iberia beyond belief, helping political refugees escape to America, away from their rightful imprisonment in the Third Reich. Even worse, you spread propaganda about the Third Reich, claiming that it was, in your own word, "a misguided, opportunistic, savage reign of terror. Is this not correct, Senhor Mendes?"

I nodded to the judge, squirming my hands in the uncomfortable shackles in which they were entrapped. "Sim, eu fiz isso. Would you not do the same, your honour, if you knew that our God of the most high bade you to so? Would you look at these refugiados, whom you slander so horribly in court, if you knew that in your heart of hearts that they were human, just the same as yourself, your honour? Would you turn them away from your home, your honour? Could you live with yourself if you did so, your honour?"

The judge banged his gavel onto the bench, letting the sound ring out throughout the courtroom. "Let the defendant be seated. I have reached a decision, helped by the honourable Fuhrer Schnee. Instead of receiving the worst punishment our legal system allows, a life sentence in prison, you will serve your time as a mentor for the two Iberian tributes in the competition Fuhrer Schnee has organized, helping them to survive for the good of the Iberian people. Guards, escort Senhor Mendes to his train. He must catch it if he will reach Berlin in time for the inauguration."

I frowned slightly, trying to decipher my chosen fate. I was going to mentor two children, trying to help them gain victory over 22 others. Was it right? Was it just? Was it fair?

Perhaps not, but it was God's plan. He had chosen me to help these two children, and I would do the best I could. I would help them to survive.

Bernard Montgomery, 55, Afrikaan Mentor

I stood at attention with my troops, waiting calmly for Rommel to walk up and execute us all. We, the army of Britain, had been defeated on the sands of Africa. The war was now over. Everything that we had lived for, everything that we had worked for, was over. The sun had finally set on the British Empire.

But we would not accept defeat, even in death. I had urged my men to face their execution with honour. We would not let those Nazi bellends see us go off with tears in our eyes. We would die soldiers of the king. We would die proudly.

I nodded proudly at the trembling men, saluting them all. "You did well. I'm proud of you all."

The men saluted back, smiling through the worry that they had. I nodded grimly and turned back to the executioners. I looked at the corpses of my dogs lying close to the soldiers, flies already starting to buzz around the wounds. Rommel and Schnee had no chance against the wrath of the Nazis. They had died in minutes.

Field Marshal Rommel walked up to the executioners, nodding at them to start. I nodded back. I had utter respect for Rommel. Even though he had defeated my army, he had done so without the use of bombs, His cunning had won him the day, and I couldn't deny that. Rommel had won the day. He looked one last time at my men and gave the order. "Feuer!"

The guns started to go off, and I watched the men collapse to the side of me. One by one, they all fell down, crumpling onto the ground like puppets who had their strings cut off. I took a deep breath, waiting for the bullets to hit me. Maybe mother was right. Maybe there was a life after death. And if so, I would see my Betty again. And we would be happy.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" I turned around, puzzled by the stopping of gunfire. A little black boy had run up to Rommel and passed him a note, causing Rommel to stop the firing. The remainder of my army relaxed. They had a few more minutes before their deaths.

"Bernard Montgomery!" I looked up, watching Rommel. What on Earth would he want? "You have been chosen to be a mentor for the region of Africa. You will report to Berlin within the week, preparing to mentor your two tributes to victory."

I gasped, looking in disbelief at Rommel. Was I mentoring savages? I was mentoring these… African savages who barely knew how to live in civilization? Why?

I was moved quickly out of the way by several German soldiers, placing me next to Rommel. I frowned, and the soldiers started to fire once more. My men fell down onto the ground, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. Strangely, I wished to be one of them. Better to be an honourable corpse than alive and cowardly.

William Stephenson, 45, Canadian Mentor

I nodded along with the calming elevator music, waiting for the elevator to reach the fourth floor. I didn't know why I was being summoned to Parliament. I was about to find out.

I stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened, walking into the room. A man looked up at me, smiling through his glasses. "Ah, William! It's good to have you here."

I nodded, looking at the men seated in the room. They fidgeted nervously, waiting for me to say something. "What is it, gentlemen? What's my job?"

The man in the yellow suit nodded, taking a folder from his suit and laying it down on the table. "Prime Minister King has agreed, along with the United States, to both send one female and male 'tribute' to compete in the competition that Fuhrer Schnee is holding, in a display of goodwill and peace. We have elected you, Mr. Stephenson, to be our country's mentor."

"Me? Why me? I'm likely wanted for espionage around Europe!" I sputtered. It was one of the stupidest things that the government could do. No one in Europe would trust me if I claimed to be a mentor.

"That's why you are not going as a mentor. Bill Stephens, a respected politician in our government, has been elected as Canada's mentor. William Stephenson will be remaining in Canada."

I nodded, grinning slightly. I understood them perfectly. "Should I dye my hair? I don't want to be wearing a wig the whole time I'm there."

Hello! This chapter is so much fun. I'm learning a lot, especially that Portugal was the first ever country to abolish the death penalty. Cool, huh? Well, the first thing I'm going to say is that I don't support all of the views in this chapter. I'm writing from the perspective of these historical characters, and some of them do have biases that they have expressed publicly when they were alive. So, don't hate on me for Bernard being racist and anything else my mentors do. That being said, this was actually a fun chapter for me! I'll have another mentors chapter coming after this, and then we can probably go into the reapings!

Next, yes, I have put the United States of America and Canada into the competition. You'll see more of why in the story, but now we have four more spots! More people can have fun with us all! Now, let's address some of the things I need.

First of all, it'd be nice to get some younger tributes. I've got a couple, but I do need a lot more. They're not all 16, folks! A big thanks to those who have submitted younger tributes, and remember, age DOESN'T matter in this story! I'm not bound by canon, so a twelve-year-old can win the competition! (Within reason, of course XD)

Next, it'd be nice to have some tributes who have associated with the war. Underage enlistees do happen, and there was a TON of underground rebellion in Europe during WWII. Expand on that! Make spies, saboteurs, anything! Go wild!

I do not accept tributes submitted in reviews. Sorry guests! If you still want a spot, feel free to make an account and PM me with your babies!

Finally, keep submitting! I've had a ton of slots filled already, and that's so great, but keep subbing! Remember my guidelines, two tributes per person, and have fun! I can't wait to see the rest of the kids I'll have to kill ;) Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ