Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Yep, I'm still alive. Hopefully, the length of the chapter will make up for the fact that it is, once again, late. Also, now I should (really) be able to get back into the swing of things. Partly because homecoming and all of that is out of the way, (we won 55-0!) but also because the interviews are finally over!

Also, since the interviews are now over, if you haven't voted yet in my sponsor poll, please do so soon, as a new poll will be posted with the next chapter (which will hopefully be coming much more quickly than this one). Just one more chapter (after this one) before the Games!

I'm so excited!

Interviews
Understand

Joachim Vinson, 27
Friend of Thane Hayer

He would never understand it.

Joachim drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting. Part of him hadn't wanted to watch the interviews at all. What was the point? What was the point of any of it – the parades, the costumes, the lights? Why dress the tributes up like kings and queens now when they would be thrown into the arena to kill each other less than twenty-four hours later?

Especially this year. Especially with so many tributes. Did they really expect the audience to remember more than a few? And would those few – the ones who happened to do well in the interviews – really be the ones who deserved the sponsors' attention in the Games? One had nothing to do with the other – not really. How often did the tribute who made the biggest splash in the interviews really win the Games?

Not that he had ever paid much attention to the interviews before. Not really. He'd never had a reason to. He'd known one or two people who had been in the Games – but, even then, only distantly. A boy a few grades older than him in school. A girl who occasionally worked the same field as him. No one he had been close to.

Until now.

Thane probably wouldn't have said they were close, Joachim knew. But Thane didn't really get close to anyone. Still, they talked. They were friendly. They were more than acquaintances, certainly. He was probably the closest thing Thane had to a friend – at least one who was still alive.

Which probably meant he was obligated to at least watch the interviews. Hope that his friend would make a good impression. Joachim smiled a little at the thought. Unless Thane's mentor had been able to work some sort of miracle, the best he could hope for was not offending the audience. Charming them was out of the question. Which made the whole thing rather pointless.

And yet here he was, watching as the first girl from Nine took the stage, wearing an elegant white dress that draped down to her feet. She had beige sandals to match, and her hair was tied up in a bun, a few strands dangling down around her face. She glanced around at the crowd as she took a seat next to Constance, her expression blank. Whether she was going for a tough angle or was simply trying not to look too frightened, Joachim wasn't sure.

At least, not until she started speaking. "So, Sariya," Constance began, "we've seen quite a few tributes so far tonight. What are your thoughts on the extra tributes and how that might affect the odds this year?"

Sariya shrugged. "Sure, there are almost double the number of tributes. But District Nine has double the number of tributes we usually do. So I'd say our chances are about the same. Better than some, even – some districts didn't get to send any extra tributes."

"Didn't get to send them," Constance repeated. "So you see this as an opportunity."

"For some people, sure," Sariya agreed. "Doesn't make much difference for me; I'd be here, anyway."

"But for your district partners?"

"I'd say it's an opportunity, yes. It's a chance at something better. A chance to do something that really matters, something we'll be remembered for. How many people have a chance like that?"

About twenty-four each year. Joachim leaned back in his chair, wondering if anyone in the Capitol actually believed all that 'opportunity' nonsense the tributes kept spewing. Was there anyone in the Capitol who actually bought the notion that the tributes wanted to be there? Were they really that stupid?

Maybe they were. Maybe they were all as dumb as the tributes seemed to think they were. After all, they kept watching, year after year, listening to more of the same drivel and flattery and lies. Maybe they really couldn't tell the difference.

Joachim shook his head, hoping he never had the chance to find out for himself. Well past reaping age himself, he didn't have to worry about meeting the sort of people responsible for these festivities. He didn't have to worry about impressing some bird-brained sponsor with a well-turned phrase or a painfully fake smile.

He wished Thane didn't have to, either.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and Thane took her place, wearing a dark blue suit, black tie, and shiny black shoes. A small smirk played on his face as he took a seat next to Constance

Constance didn't waste any time. "So, Thane, care to share your opinion on the extra tributes this year and what that might mean for District Nine's odds?"

Thane leaned forward a little. "You do learn math here in the Capitol, right?"

Constance looked flustered for a moment, but then nodded. "Yes, of course we learn math."

Thane shrugged. "Then it's pretty obvious what it means for the odds. Double the tributes, and each tribute's chances are cut in half. It's that simple."

"So the fact that District Nine has two extra tributes—"

"Means absolutely nothing. I don't care about District Nine's chances. I care about my chances. And my chances aren't helped at all by the fact that I've got two extra district partners. I don't see how that's an advantage – or an opportunity."

Damn it. Joachim shook his head as the interview continued, and Thane dug himself in deeper. The problem was, of course, that he was right. If anything, two extra district partners hurt his own chances. Divided his mentor's attention. Spread the sponsors even more thinly. But that wasn't what the audience wanted to hear. They wanted to see confidence. They wanted to see optimism.

They didn't want the truth.

Kalen Lanhart, 17
Brother of Myrah Lanhart

He wished he didn't understand it.

Kalen scooted closer to his parents on the couch as the boy from Nine kept going. Refusing to play along. Refusing to play the optimistic, cheerful tribute for the sake of the cameras. For the sake of the audience.

But it wasn't just about the Capitol audience. That was what most people didn't understand. Sure, the Capitol wanted to see confident, upbeat tributes … but, on some level, so did the districts. They wanted to believe that their sons, their daughters, their brothers and sisters had a chance. But they couldn't believe it unless the tributes themselves at least pretended to believe it. Just for a few moments.

Because that was all it took. A few moments were enough to give people hope. To make them believe that maybe – just maybe – their loved one would be the one to make it home. And that hope was enough to keep their anger in check. That hope was enough to shift the blame away from those who were truly responsible. If the tributes all pretended that they had what it took to make it home, then, when twenty-three of them inevitably died, it wasn't really the Capitol's fault. The tribute in question simply hadn't tried hard enough. Been strong enough or lucky enough.

It was sick. It was twisted. But it was necessary in order to keep the Games going. He hated that he understood it, but it made sense. Too much sense.

Kalen clenched his fists. Maybe they were fooling everyone else. But not him. If Myrah didn't make it home, he wouldn't blame her. He would never blame her. It wasn't her fault. None of this was her fault.

It was theirs. The Capitol's. The Gamemakers'. The president's. It was their fault. And theirs alone.

Kalen shook the thought from his head. It was dangerous even to think like that. After last year, the Capitol would be on full alert. The Peacekeepers would be watching them – the tributes' families. Watching for any hint of rebellion.

He wouldn't give them any. Not with his sister's life at stake. Not when he knew it wouldn't do any good. And what good would it do to blame the Capitol? Everyone knew they were really to blame. They were simply too afraid to say it out loud.

He was just as afraid, of course. After the executions last year, everyone was. No one would say what they were all thinking – that this was all unfair. Cruel. Wrong.

Because anyone who said it would be dead.

Finally, the boy's time was up, and Myrah took the stage, wearing a dark green floor-length dress and dark grey flats. A matching dark green veil was drawn up over the top of her head. She was smiling confidently as she took her place next to Constance.

"So, Myrah," Constance beamed. "Your district partners are certainly … interesting."

She'd opened the door, Kalen realized. All Myrah had to do was walk through. Insult her district partner for his pessimism and the other for her indifference. It would be so easy.

But she didn't. She simply smiled. "They certainly are. I can't say we really hit it off, but one of the good things about the number of tributes this year is your choices aren't as … limited as they would be in a normal year. More tributes means more options."

Constance leaned forward a little. "I see. And what do you think of the options you've been given?"

"I think I've made the right choice," Myrah answered vaguely. "I think my allies and I are a good match – both for them and for me. It's not all about allies, certainly, but I would say they're pretty important."

"I would certainly agree," Constance nodded. "But you're right; it's not all about allies. What would you say is the most important thing?"

Myrah thought for a moment. "Not to give up. There are so many of us this year, it would be easy to dismiss some of us. Easy to give up on us." She smiled, turning towards the cameras. "But I'm not giving up, so you shouldn't give up on me, either."

Kalen swallowed hard. That last bit had been meant for him, he knew. His sister knew him better than he realized sometimes. She knew that he would see her chances for what they really were. And she was trying to give him hope.

He almost wished it would work.

Too soon, Myrah's time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a light pink knee-length dress, white stockings, and light pink high heels. A wide-brimmed, cheery white hat sat on her head, and she smiled warmly as she took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled back. "So, Melody, we've heard quite a few varying opinions this evening. What would you say is the most important thing once you're in the Games?"

Melody adjusted her hat a little. "I would say the Games are the most important thing in the Games."

Constance cocked an eyebrow. "Could you tell us a little more about what you mean by that?"

Melody shrugged. "Sure. Once you're in the arena, I imagine – and I'm only guessing, because obviously I haven't been in the arena yet – it's easy to lose track of what's really going on. To get so focused on survival, on keeping yourself alive, that you forget it's a game. And that all you really have to do is play it well enough, and you'll get through it."

"And you think you have what it takes to 'play it well enough'?"

"I hope so, Constance," Melody nodded. "I don't think any of us really know right now – not even the Careers – how good we're going to be at playing the Games. But tomorrow we'll all find out. I just hope I'm up to the task."

Kalen shook his head. She made it sound so simple. Play the Game well enough, and you'll get out alive. But even tributes who played the Game well didn't always make it out. Because only one tribute could. Just one.

One out of forty-six. Kalen wrung his hands together as the interviews continued. Forty-six tributes. Only one of them could come home. Was it really going to be Myrah?

All he could do now was hope.

Asher Harlow, 16
Boyfriend of Beckett Furlan

Why didn't they understand?

Asher ran his fingers nervously along the arm of the chair. His mother and father sat beside him, completely calm. Relaxed. They knew how much Beckett meant to him, but, still, they couldn't help being grateful. Grateful it wasn't their son going into the arena.

Asher almost wished it was.

Almost. But not enough. Not enough to volunteer when he'd had the chance. Not when Beckett had a better chance of coming home than he ever would. Beckett had worked on the ranch most of his life. He was stronger. Harder. More prepared than Asher would have been. Volunteering for him would have been suicide. At least Beckett had a chance.

But only a chance. Only one tribute would make it out of the arena alive. One out of forty-six. Beckett had a better chance than he would have, but there was no guarantee. No certainty.

And nothing he could do one way or the other.

That was the worst part – the helplessness. Beck would be in the arena tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could do to help him. Nothing he could say – nothing anyone could say – that would make it better.

But other people didn't understand that. He hadn't understood it – not until this year. Everyone was always worried at the reaping that the name called might be theirs. Relieved the moment they didn't hear their own name. Asher had never imagined that anything could be worse than hearing his own name called.

He still wasn't sure whether this was better or worse.

Finally, it was District Ten's turn, and the first girl took the stage, wearing a dark blue-grey dress, grey stockings, and black high heels. She smiled sweetly as she took her seat next to Constance, then turned towards the audience and gave a small wave.

Constance grinned back. "So, Calantha, what's been the most exciting part of your time in the Capital so far?"

"The people, definitely," Calantha answered without hesitation. "Everyone I've met is so supportive. It's as if everyone's already rooting for me. I just hope I can give them what they want to see."

Constance nodded. "And what's that? What do you feel audiences most want to see?"

"Someone who's not afraid. Someone who's willing to do what has to be done in order to win. Someone who's ready for whatever the Gamemakers have planned for us – or, if not ready, then able to adapt to it."

"And you believe you're that sort of tribute."

Calantha smiled. "I know I am. And, come tomorrow, the rest of Panem will know it, too."

Asher shook his head. 'What has to be done.' The girl didn't seem to want to say it – what they all knew the words meant. A tribute who was willing to kill. Willing to murder as many other teenagers as it took in order to come home.

But if she wasn't up to it – if she didn't even want to say it onstage – then maybe that was a good thing. She was going to die, after all – she had to, if Beckett was going to make it home. The less prepared his opponents were – even his district partners – the better.

Asher swallowed hard. The thought made him sick. But the thought of Beckett never coming home, the thought of him dying in the arena – that was even worse. And if Beckett did make it back, then none of the rest would matter. The fighting. The killing. The danger. It would all be in the past.

At least, he hoped it would. But, then again, District Ten didn't exactly have the best track record of Victors who had dealt well with their Games. Presely was rarely seen in the district, but everyone knew she had refused a house in Victors' Village, that she spent most of her time in the fields with her sheep. Tess had gone into a coma from the shock of her Games and hadn't recovered for almost twenty years.

And Glenn – his Games were so long ago. Back when a tribute had a legitimate chance of winning simply by hiding and avoiding the other tributes until they all killed each other. Did that even count? Maybe, but it certainly wasn't going to help Beckett much.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and Beckett took the stage, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a sleek black suit vest, and a bright red tie. He was grinning broadly as he took a seat next to Constance.

"So, Beckett," Constance began. "Your district partner seems to have a pretty firm idea of what the audience wants to see in a tribute. Do you agree with her?"

Beckett shrugged. "Yes and no. She's not wrong. The audience wants to see tributes who are willing to kill, tributes who can adapt to the arena … but, by the second or third day, that describes pretty much all the tributes who are left. So, once it gets to that point, what separates a tribute from a Victor?"

"What, indeed," Constance nodded. "I take it you have some ideas."

"That I do. A Victor has to be someone who's willing to take the initiative. Most tributes will be willing to kill if they're driven together, if they're given no other choice. It's one thing to fight and kill when you're being forced to. It's quite another to put yourself in that position. And that's what I intend to do."

"I see. And that doesn't bother you?"

Beckett smiled a little. "Why should it? We see it on our screens every year. Now that it's me up here, instead … no, it doesn't bother me. It's just the way the Games are."

Asher fought back the lump in his throat. The thought bothered him. But if Beckett was disturbed, he was doing a good job of hiding it. He kept smiling along with Constance until his interview was over. Asher had no doubt he was as nervous as anyone else. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he kept up the act. That the audience believed it.

All that mattered was that Beckett came home.

Rissa Valleso, 46
Mother of Indira Serren

Everyone said they understood.

Rissa held her husband Corinn and her son Auron close. It was the first time, it seemed, that they'd been alone since the reaping. The first time she hadn't been surrounded by sympathetic looks, promises that everything would be all right from those who wanted to say something kind, or tense silence from those who simply didn't know what to say. Most of them meant well – trying to encourage her, to assure her that Indira had a good chance of coming home. Trying to be supportive. Trying to understand.

But none of them understood – not really. How could they? Until she'd heard Indira's name at the reaping, she hadn't understood herself. She had never known anyone in the Games – not well, at least. She'd made it through her own reapings untouched, as had her brothers and sisters. Auron had made it through his. It was Indira's last year. She was supposed to be safe.

She could have been safe, if not for what had happened the year before. If not for the extra tributes.

And Indira was supposed to be grateful. To smile and laugh and tell the Capitol audience how much she loved them. Because that was the only way she might make it home. Rissa had no doubt that Indira would try her best to give a good impression. She would have done the same thing. Would have said anything. Would have done anything.

But she wasn't the one onstage. She wasn't the one who would be in the Games tomorrow. Indira was.

Rissa swallowed hard as the boy from Ten finished his interview. Only one more tribute, and then it would be Indira's turn. She wasn't ready. She would never be ready. But, at the same time, she wished it would be done sooner. With every tribute, the Capitol audience was surely getting more restless. They were so near the end now. Would they even be paying attention?

Corinn wrapped an arm around Rissa's shoulders as the younger girl from Ten took the stage, wearing an elegant yellow dress streaked with red and coral, almost like a sunset. On her feet were pale yellow slippers, and a matching floppy yellow hat hid her shaven head. The girl managed a smile as she took a seat beside Constance.

Constance smiled. "So, Elizabet, it seems your district partners have some differing opinions, so maybe we should hear yours: What do you think the audience is looking for in a Victor?"

Elizabet thought for a moment, then answered quietly. "I don't think they're looking for just one thing. I don't think the Games produce just one kind of Victor. Just look at the diversity we've got even in our three Victors in District Ten. None of them won the same way. Why should we expect this year to be the same as any of the others?"

"So are you saying that the Victors from District Ten have nothing in common?"

Elizabet shook her head. "Not necessarily. Just that they aren't identical. There are some things, I think, that kept them all alive during the Games. A few common threads."

Constance nodded along. "Anything in particular?"

Elizabet hesitated. "Knowing when to fight … and when not to fight. Understanding that there's no shame in backing down and fleeing or even hiding from a stronger opponent. They all knew themselves well enough to know what they could handle, and they acted accordingly." She smiled a little. "I hope to prove I'm capable of the same."

Rissa squeezed Corinn's hand a little tighter. They both knew that would be a struggle for Indira – not charging into things head first, not stepping into a fight she had no chance of winning. She had never been one to back down or take the easy way out. Certainly she had never been one to hide.

And they had no reason to think she would start now.

Soon, Elizabet's time was up, and Indira took her place, wearing a floor-length, dark red dress with ruffles from the waist down. She walked slowly – trying not to fall, Rissa was sure, in the dark red high-heel shoes she was wearing. A bright red cap sat atop her head, and she was grinning at Constance as she took a seat.

"So, Indira," Constance began with a smile. "What do you think it takes to be a Victor in the Games?"

Indira shrugged. "I think Elizabet was on the right track. There's not one simple thing that sets a Victor apart. And everyone is looking for … something different."

"And what would you be looking for?"

Indira leaned forward a little. "I remember six years ago, watching the Games. The year Presley won – I was rooting for her from the start, and not just because she was from my district. I saw something – something in the way she chose Tess as her mentor, the way she befriended those two mutts. She was playing by the rules, of course, but she was doing it in her own way. And I think, in the end, that's one thing that makes a tribute a Victor – being willing to break the mold and do something … unique. Memorable."

"And do you have something unique and memorable planned?" Constance asked.

Indira smiled teasingly. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

Rissa allowed herself a small smile. Whether Indira really had something planned, or whether she was just trying to make it seem like she did, Rissa wasn't sure. But she wouldn't be surprised if her daughter already had a plan. An ambitious – and possibly dangerous – plan.

She would just have to wait and see.

Shiloh Ingram, 17
Brother of Elani Ingram

No one seemed to understand.

Shiloh blinked back the tears in his eyes as the last girl from Ten finished her interview. Elani would be next. And he wasn't ready. He could never be ready. How could anyone be ready for this?

Everyone was trying to be encouraging. His friends at work, everyone who saw him in the market or in the square. They all wanted to help. They all wanted to be supportive. But none of them understood – not really.

They didn't know his sister.

His sister, who had taken time at the reaping to comfort her two younger district partners, even though she had been terrified herself. His sister, who had almost certainly formed an alliance with them by now. His sister, who never turned her back on someone once she'd made a commitment.

His sister, whose loyalty would get her killed.

Shiloh glanced at his parents. They were trying not to think it. Trying not to see it. Not that he blamed them. He wished he didn't see it. Wished he could blindly believe – if even for a little while – that his sister was coming home. But he knew her too well. Understood her too well.

Because he would have done the same thing.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, Shiloh knew. If his name had been called, he would have been the one comforting those two little boys. Promising to protect them. Trying to keep them safe.

He wouldn't survive the Games, either.

But he wasn't the one in the Games. Not this year, at least. One more year. One more year, and he would be safe from them forever.

But Elani would never be safe again. This night – this night that was almost over – was the last one where she would be safe. And, even now, she wasn't truly safe. What she did now – what she said – could have an effect on the Games. These next few minutes could help her. But they could also condemn her.

Shiloh just hoped she wouldn't do anything reckless.

His fears seemed confirmed as Elani took the stage. Her outfit seemed normal enough – a light blue dress with a lacy white collar, white stockings, and black buckled shoes. But the first thing that caught his eye was her hair – or, more accurately, that it wasn't there. Her head had been shaven – quite clumsily, it seemed – just like one of the extra tributes. What had she done to warrant that?

Constance seemed just as curious. "So, Elani, what can you tell us about this?" she asked, motioning in a circle around her own head.

Elani smiled warmly. "It was Philus' idea, really. The three of us – Philus, Pan, and me – are allies. So we thought we ought to look like it. Like equals."

Shiloh hid a smile. There was more to it than that, he was sure. More than simply wanting to appear as equals before the camera. More likely, she and Philus hadn't wanted their third ally to feel different. To be alone. They were simply being kind.

And while kind wasn't the most useful thing to be in the Games, it was better than what he had feared when he first saw her shaven head. Better than the idea that she had done something – something rebellious – and those in charge had decided to retaliate by making her seem like one of the extras. One of the replacements. At least this way, it had been her choice.

A choice that, hopefully, wouldn't paint her as a rebel.

"Equals," Constance repeated. "So you believe you are, then – believe the three of you are equal? Believe you all have an equal chance of winning?"

Elani bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable. "I … I'm not sure about an equal chance of winning. Obviously, there are some tributes who are better prepared than others. Some tributes who would seem to have a better chance. But I would hope that – once we're in the Games, at least – we'll all have a … more equal playing field."

"More equal than…" Constance prompted.

Elani hesitated for a moment. "All right. More equal than we've had. Now, I probably shouldn't complain, because I'm one of the lucky ones. One of the tributes the Gamemakers have been trying to favor. Better chariot outfits. Better training clothes. But the Games are supposed to be the one thing that makes us all equal. That brings us together as a nation. Older or younger, weaker or stronger, the Games are a constant. We can all die. But we all have a chance to live. And I just hope … I hope that's clear tomorrow in a way it hasn't been so far."

For a moment, Shiloh stared at the screen. Finally, though, he broke into a grin. She'd managed – for a moment – to twist his perception of the Games into something good. Something noble. Something that made people equal. They weren't, of course, but it might be enough to convince the Capitol audience that, yes, the replacement tributes did deserve the same chance as the others.

Shiloh shook his head. None of that would help Elani's chances, of course. She wasn't one of the replacements, after all. She could have kept her mouth shut, kept her hair long, and continued to take advantage of the Capitol's favor. But that, in her mind, simply wasn't fair.

He just hoped she wouldn't regret it later.

Soon, Elani's time was up, and the first boy took the stage, wearing a crisp navy blue shirt under a cream-colored suit. An ivory-colored cluster of feathers embedded with sapphires sprouted from the breast pocket. Black wingtip shoes finished the outfit, but Shiloh's attention was on his head, which was shaved like Elani's. The boy carried a small notepad and pen, smiling shyly at Constance as he took a seat.

Constance smiled agreeably, giving the end of her own hair a twirl as she eyed Philus' head. "I see you share your district partner's sentiments about the Games being an equalizer."

Philus nodded, scribbling on his notepad for a moment. As he wrote, the words appeared on the screen. Yes, I agree. The Games are good for the districts. Where else could a boy like me have a chance at a life of plenty?

Shiloh nodded a little. The boy knew as well as anyone else, of course, that his chances were slim. But maybe he had a point. Maybe he had a better chance at a real life in the Games than he would have had in District Eleven.

Maybe. And maybe that would be enough to convince the audience. Because any help he received, of course, would also help his allies. Maybe someone in the audience would take pity on him.

Constance took the bait freely. "I take it your family isn't exactly wealthy back in District Eleven?"

Philus shook his head, scribbling a little more. We're very poor, but at least we have each other. And if I make it home, we'll never have to worry about having enough ever again.

Constance nodded along. "That's the best thing about the Games, I think. Someone wins. One tribute is strong enough or clever enough or brave enough or lucky enough to walk away. Can you tell the audience why you think that tribute will be you?"

Philus blinked, confused. Constance had started her question before he'd fully looked up from his notepad. Philus hesitated a moment, then waved his hand in a small circle. Constance repeated the question. "Why do you think you'll be the one to win?"

Philus nodded his understanding, then smiled and jotted his answer down quickly. I'm lucky, obviously. Would I be here if I wasn't?

Shiloh smirked. Cheeky. Some of the audience was smiling and chuckling to themselves. Maybe that would be enough to help him.

Shiloh shook the thought from his head. The audience wasn't supposed to like him. They weren't supposed to feel sorry for him. They were supposed to like Elani. Any help Philus got, of course, would help his allies … but only for so long. Eventually, the little boy would have to die if his sister was going to come home.

But not yet. For a little while, at least, he could feel sorry for all of them. He could hope for their whole little alliance to do well – for a while. The longer they stayed together, the better their chances. But, deep down, he knew what they all knew.

It couldn't last forever.

Asher Avenheim, 15
Brother of Shale Avenheim

He hadn't really understood until now.

Asher huddled closer to his brothers as the six of them kept their eyes fixed on the screen. Beside him, his twin brother Raver held their youngest brother, Bale, tightly. Asher had his arms around Vren, while Rhodes sat tucked between the two twins. Only Karinth sat off to the side, silent, waiting. He was as helpless as the rest of them, of course. Maybe that was why he had closed himself off. How could he comfort his brothers when he had no comfort for himself?

Asher squeezed Vren even tighter. What right did he have to sit here, trying to comfort the others? This whole thing was partly his fault, after all. If his name hadn't been called…

Asher felt a hand on his shoulder. Raver. Silently telling him it wasn't his fault. He hadn't meant for his name to be called, after all. And he would never have dreamed of asking his older brother to volunteer in his place. Shale had done that on his own.

And the worst part was, he felt relieved. As bad as this was – as bad as the waiting, the hoping, the worrying was – he wasn't going to die. He wasn't the one going into the arena tomorrow. He was safe.

No matter what happened tomorrow, he would be safe.

He would owe Shale for that forever, he knew. No matter what happened now, he owed his life to his brother. But Shale had asked for only one thing when they had come to say goodbye. Look after your brothers, he had said. That was the only thing he had wanted: for them to stay together. To protect each other. To keep each other alive.

So they would. He would. No matter what happened, they were still a family. All of them. Even if Shale didn't come back…

Asher blinked back his tears. He couldn't start thinking like that. Even if he knew – even if they all knew – that it was a possibility, they couldn't say it aloud. Not around their little brothers. They had already lost their parents. The idea that they might lose Shale, too … they couldn't bear it. Not yet.

Of course, the Games wouldn't wait until they were able to bear thinking about them. Even now, the minutes were ticking away.

Soon, the first boy's time was up, and the second younger boy took his place, wearing a simple tan suit, a plain white tie, and black shoes. A simple black cap covered his head, but, as he took a seat next to Constance, he removed the cap and set it in his lap.

Constance smiled knowingly. "Another gesture of equality there, Pan?"

The boy shrugged. "That, and my head was getting warm. These lights are bright!"

The crowd got a good chuckle out of that one, and Constance let them laugh it out before returning to the matter at hand. "Well, since Elani's already let it slip that the three of you are working together, perhaps you can tell us a little about the dynamic in your alliance."

Pan smiled a little. "Well, I don't think it was exactly a surprise that we're working together. The three of us really connected at the reaping. I would say we simply realized our chances were better together and decided to act accordingly."

Our chances. Asher fought back a twinge of guilt. It was so easy to feel sorry for the other three tributes. To want them to do well. They didn't deserve any of what was about to happen to them. But all three of them would have to die in order for Shale to come back home.

Which was the worst part of the Games, in the end. With the exception of the Careers, none of the tributes wanted to be there. None of them deserved to be there. None of them deserved to be brutally killed, and none of them deserved to be turned into killers. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

But Constance seemed oblivious to that fact, and Pan, at least for the moment, was successfully ignoring it. "And what do you think of your chances together?" Constance asked.

Pan shrugged a little. "Well, the way I see it, each of us got a four in training. Put those three fours together … and you get a twelve, which is the highest score you can get. I'd call that pretty good odds."

Asher smiled a little. Maybe they had each gotten a four, but Shale had gotten an eight all on his own. He could probably beat at least two of his younger district partners in a fight – maybe all three together.

Asher swallowed hard. He didn't want to think about that – about the fact that his brother might have to kill the kids who had been onstage before him, or the two who would come after. It would have to happen, he knew, if Shale was going to come home. But that didn't make it any easier to think about.

Soon, Pan's time was up, and Shale took the stage, wearing a simple black suit: black shoes, black socks, black pants, black shirt. Only a dark grey tie broke the pattern. A simple black bandanna circled his head, and he made no move to remove it as he took a seat next to Constance.

Constance smiled back. "So, Shale, we've heard a lot about equality from your district partners – having a level playing field, everyone having a chance. Do you buy it?"

Shale shook his head. "It's a lovely sentiment, Constance. And I can see why some tributes would want to believe it. But if I want to go home – and I do, more than anything – then I can't go into the Games believing that everyone's got an equal chance. That I only have a one-in-forty-six chance of coming out alive. I have to think about doing everything I can to make sure I have a better chance than the other tributes … even my district partners."

Constance nodded a little. "I think we can all understand that, Shale. So what are some things that you think give you a better chance?"

Shale leaned forward a little. "My allies, for one. I don't want to give too much away, of course, but I can assure you my allies and I didn't end up together because of how well we connected at the reaping."

Constance smiled. "So what did bring you together?"

"Mutual benefit. We have a better chance together – for a while, at least. Maybe it's not a popular thing to say during interviews, but we all know alliances don't last forever in the Games. As long as we can help each other, we will. And when the time comes … we'll do what has to be done."

Asher shifted uncomfortably. So Shale was already thinking about having to kill his allies. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would make it easier when the time came. But the thought of his brother killing an ally – killing anyone, really – still made Asher uneasy. He had always looked up to Shale. Now…

Asher shook his head. It wasn't as if Shale was a bloodthirsty monster. Not as if he had wanted this. He was only doing what he had to do to survive. If he came home – no, when he came home – he wouldn't be a monster. He would still be Shale.

And they would still be brothers.

Kellen Nash, 14
Friend of Barry Zephir

He still didn't understand.

Kellen leaned forward a little on the couch he shared with his parents, two uncles, an aunt, and three older cousins. They were all huddled together, all grateful this year's reaping had left their family untouched. He hadn't been picked. His cousins hadn't been picked. This was his cousin Tray's last year. And he hadn't been picked.

Barry had.

It still didn't make sense. Kellen was a year younger, but his name had been in the reaping bowl nine times. Some of his cousins had their names in fifteen or even twenty times. There were other kids – older Seam kids with larger families – whose names were in thirty times. Even forty.

Barry's name had been in the bowl four times. The minimum for his age. Barry's family never had to take tesserae. And certainly the mayor's daughter only had her name in the bowl the required five times. Kellen's name was in as much as the two of them put together.

But it hadn't mattered.

He was safe, and they were in the Games. It didn't make sense. Maybe it wasn't fair. But there was a part of him that was … no, not glad. But grateful. Relieved. He wasn't going into the Games. It wasn't him.

But it was his friend. A boy he had known since they were little. Maybe it wasn't as bad. Maybe it could always be worse. But that didn't stop it from hurting. Didn't stop him from wishing that the escort had picked someone else. Someone he didn't know.

Someone he wouldn't miss.

Kellen fought back the sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn't want to lose Barry. But did his friend really have a chance? In forty-one years, District Twelve had one Victor. One. Did he really have any reason to think that Barry would be the second? That this would be the year District Twelve broke their pattern?

Maybe. Maybe because of last year. While every other non-Career District – and even one Career district – had rebelled, Twelve had remained loyal. More out of fear of punishment than out of true loyalty, but, apparently, that was enough. They hadn't been required to send extra tributes. Maybe that loyalty would earn them a bit of favor in the Games, as well.

Maybe.

Finally, it was District Twelve's turn, and the girl took the stage, wearing a light red dress with yellow undertones and flecks of glitter. Ruby red shoes matched the headband that swept her hair back from her face. She smiled calmly – almost confidently – as she took a seat beside Constance.

Constance smiled right back. "So, Eleanor, it seems this year is a special one for District Twelve. I understand your father is the mayor. He must be very proud."

Furious, more likely, Kellen knew. The whole district had seen the way he'd reacted at the reaping, once the cameras were gone and he was no longer worried about saving face in front of the Capitol. They'd seen how he'd practically threatened Brennan. Kellen hadn't heard exactly what he'd said, but the message was clear: he wanted his daughter back alive.

But that was something that no one could guarantee.

"Oh, yes, he's very proud," Eleanor lied. "And I couldn't be happier. The opportunity to represent District Twelve in the Games is … unique, to say the least."

Constance nodded. "And it's an honor bestowed on only two of you this year. Would you like to say a few words about that?"

Eleanor smiled a little. "You mean about why we weren't required to send 'replacement' tributes. I should think it's fairly obvious. Our tributes last year didn't need replacing. They did their duty, and they did it fearlessly. I intend to do the same – with one important difference. I intend to come home alive. But if I can't … then you can be sure I'll go down fighting. Just like they did. Just like any loyal tribute would."

Constance smiled. "So you maintain that District Twelve is loyal?"

Eleanor shrugged. "I don't need to maintain anything. The tributes' actions last year proved it. Barry and I will prove it again this year. I don't need to sit here and assure you of our loyalty. I simply need to let our actions speak for us."

Kellen nodded. She was right. On the surface, District Twelve was as loyal as any other district. Whether that loyalty was born of devotion or fear … maybe that didn't matter in the end.

It certainly didn't seem to matter to Constance, who was still smiling as Eleanor's time ran out. Soon, Barry took her place, wearing an orange button-down shirt and a black tuxedo, well-shined black shoes, and a dark orange rose in one of his breast pockets.

Barry was grinning as he took a seat next to Constance. "I guess they decided to save the best for last."

Constance smiled back. "So you don't have any problems with being the last tribute onstage tonight, Barry?"

Barry shook his head. "Not a bit, Constance. I should probably get used to it, I suppose, since I mean to be the last tribute in the Games, too."

Constance nodded. "And why is that, Barry? What makes you so confident you'll emerge as this year's Victor?"

Barry shrugged a little. "History. District Twelve has a history of buckling down and doing what needs to be done. Like Eleanor said, last year's tributes did what was expected of them even when half the tributes decided not to fight. It's that sort of determination that's going to help me this year. This year isn't going to go to the flashiest or the strongest tribute. It'll go to someone who's in it for the long haul – someone like me."

Kellen smiled a little. Barry certainly sounded confident. And Kellen hoped he was right. Hoped that last year's events would work in District Twelve's advantage. Hoped that, along with Barry's determination, that would be enough.

But that was a lot to hope for.

Brennan Aldaine, 32
Victor of the 25th Hunger Games

Not bad at all.

Brennan smiled as Barry stepped off the stage. Both he and Eleanor had done quite well. They wouldn't be winning any sponsors based on their interviews alone, but it was a step in the right direction. Neither of them had completely wowed the audience – and neither of them could quite make up for the fact that forty-four tributes had come before the two of them and, by now, the audience was tired – but they hadn't done anything detrimental, either.

Brennan hadn't exactly stood out during his own interview, either, seventeen years ago. He had gone through the motions. Said what he needed to say. It wasn't until the Games that people had started to notice him.

And here he was. Alive. While the thirty-five others who had entered the arena with him were gone. Interviews were necessary, of course – and it was important not to say anything stupid or rebellious – but a tribute rarely won based on crowd appeal alone.

Brennan was about to stand up, ready to head back to the elevator, when another man suddenly walked onstage. Silas. His old mentor. The man who had helped him make it through his own Games alive.

The President of Panem.

It was immediately clear, of course, that his mentor was there as the latter. His face was deadly serious as he shared a few quite words with Constance, who immediately hustled offstage. Finally, President Grisom turned to address the crowd.

"Citizens of Panem, I am sorry – truly sorry – to cut the festivities short. But in the midst of our celebration, I received word of a tragic and senseless act of violence. Those of you in District Four already know the circumstances of this incident. Those of you who are unaware, I would ask you to turn your attention to the screen behind me."

Immediately, the back wall of the stage lit up with an image. Fire, tall and blazing, consuming a large building. Silas let the video play for a moment, then continued. "Who is responsible for this destruction, you might ask. I am sorry to tell you that the training center in District Four was set ablaze by none other than the district's own Victor, Misha Brimmer."

Murmurs spread through the crowd. Brennan glanced over at District Four's mentors. Naomi and Kalypso were whispering to each other, red-faced, while Mags and Bierce simply stared, shocked.

"It is with regret that I must announce that Misha was killed in the fire, along with a Peacekeeper who rushed into the blaze in an attempt to save Misha from his own handiwork. Panem will mourn their passing, and I have no doubt that the people of District Four will recover from this loss … but, in the meantime, measures must be taken. District Four has proven increasingly unstable, and, for their own safety, they must be protected from those among them who would wish them harm."

Immediately, the images on the screen changed. What little remained of the training center was being demolished. Peacekeepers collected piles of weapons – swords, bows, axes, tridents. All confiscated.

Silas didn't say another word. He simply turned and left the stage as the video kept playing. Soon, the training center was a pile of rubble. Peacekeepers confiscated weapon after weapon, mostly from teenagers who were probably students at the training academy. President Grisom never made an official declaration, but he didn't have to. The message was clear.

District Four's days as a Career district were over.

President Silas Grisom

They wanted more.

Silas glanced around the table at the members of his cabinet. Some looked angry; others were simply perplexed. These men and women, most of whom had served under President Snow, simply couldn't understand why he had simply confiscated District Four's weapons. Why he hadn't had Misha's family – cousins, distant relatives, whoever he had left – publicly executed. Why, for that matter, he hadn't had anyone executed. Snow would have killed at least a dozen people by now.

But what he had done ran deeper. The actions he had taken would have more lasting ramifications than a hundred executions. Most of them didn't seem to understand that. But Silas could see one man, at a small table in the corner, silently nodding along.

Silas shook his head. He hadn't come here for their approval. Soon enough, the Games would quench whatever bloodlust or thirst for revenge was driving them now. Soon, everything would be back to normal. With a few words, he dismissed the cabinet, with the exception of the man at the end of the table. "Eldred. Stay a moment, please."

Eldred Brand, a stocky, steely-eyed man in his mid-forties, turned. "What can I do for you, Mr. President?"

"Can you tell me why I didn't kill anyone?"

Eldred cocked an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"District Four. I could have executed Misha's family – whatever's left of it. I could have executed a few of the training academy's personnel for not keeping a closer watch on it. I could have executed whatever idiot let Misha near that much oil. Hell, I could have executed all four of the other Victors from Four just to prove a point." He sat down, his arms tucked behind his head. "So why didn't I?"

Eldred took a seat across from him, unintimidated. "Is this a test?"

"Yes."

"I have a family, Mr. President."

"So you believe I spared them out of compassion?"

Eldred shook his head. "No, Sir; that's not what I meant. I meant that my family is the reason I understand. My youngest daughter, Rylee, is seven years old. My son, Milton, is six years older. Rylee wants to do everything he does. Now, sometimes, my wife and I say no. Not because we don't want her to have fun, not because we don't trust her, but because we don't want her to hurt herself. She's not old enough to understand that there are things a thirteen-year-old can do that she can't.

"Well, last week, my little girl was out climbing with her brother and his friends. We've told her not to, of course, but she was convinced we were just being mean – until she fell and broke her arm." He shook his head. "Now, do you think I punished her for not doing as she was told?"

Silas shook his head. "I'd say the broken arm was punishment enough."

Eldred nodded. "Exactly. The consequences of her actions were bad enough. Anything else would have been redundant. Same situation in District Four. Confiscating their weapons and demolishing the training center was a natural consequence of their misuse. Anything else would have simply painted us as the enemy. Instead, Misha's the one in the wrong – the one who destroyed their district's status, the one who caused all the trouble. He's the misbehaving child; we're simply the parents trying to keep the districts out of trouble. We in the Capitol should see the districts as our children – to be led, nurtured, and, occasionally, disciplined – but never abused."

Silas smiled a little. "Did you ever share this insight with President Snow?"

"Do you think I'd be alive if I did?"

"I imagine not," Silas admitted. "President Snow didn't understand the difference between respect and fear. But I imagine you do."

"I'd like to think so, Sir."

Silas smiled. "Remind me, Eldred, what's your official title?"

"Sir?"

"Your position."

"I'm just the secretary, Sir. I keep recordings of the meetings. I file them. I listen. I watch." He shook his head. "Why?"

Silas grinned. "How would you like a new job?"

"What I am is trapped. And I've been trapped for so long that I don't even remember what it feels like to be free. Maybe you can understand that."