Chapter 6: Training and Interviews

I can't explain it, but somehow the lead-up proceedings to the Games seem to go faster with each passing year. Dean and Bridget are sent to their stylists to be pampered and preened. They emerge as fiery emblems. At least it's better than lumps of coal.

As I load my tributes into the chariots, I can see that Dean has already become stoic, his face a hard, determined stare. It almost reminds me of Haymitch...

And this furthers my resolve that I have to place my hopes in Dean to win.

Sitting in the stands with the other mentors, I can tell that the commentators and many Capitolites have taken an interest in Dean. A few comments are thrown out about Bridget, but they never go beyond that she's cute. And cute in a little kid way - an assessment that does me no good. As soon as the chariots come to a halt after President Snow's space, I whisk my tributes into the Training Center.

Their grooming as killers begins the next day. Over the course of the next three days, Dean and Bridget report back to me what they have been learning. Both follow my advice down to a T. And it must pay off, for when the Training Scores are announced, Bridget pulls a respectable 8. Dean nets a 9, putting him right in with the Careers.

That fourth night is the night of the Tribute interviews. Caesar is as dynamic a host as ever, putting the more reticent tributes and especially Bridget at ease. When Dean takes the stage, his cocky, almost indifferent performance that we practiced reminds me eerily of Haymitch. I wonder if the old geezer has been reincarnated in this boy, somehow.


I rise early that final morning to see them both off. I hug Bridget a little extra tightly; though I say no words, chances are I will never see her again alive. I hug Dean just as long, to keep up appearances of equality, but do not resist from whispering in his ear: "Concentrate. You can do this." I dare not convey anything more, but I don't have to. Dean reads me like a book, and he nods once. I see him steal an almost pitying glance at Bridget, before both stride out onto the Center's roof and board the hovercraft.

After waiting until the plane is nothing more than a speck in the sky, I leave the roof. Meeting Effie on our floor, she escorts me down to the Mentors' Bar.

The place is noisy and raucous, as usual. I silently take a seat at the bar, accepting a bottle of scotch on the rocks. I make no conversational overtures to anyone, and none are returned. My fellow Victors are well aware of my lack of social skills, and as such, considerately leave me be, for the most part. The fact that I am District 12's only surviving champion lends a certain mysticism to my solitude as well. Only one person addresses me with a hello. I blandly say hi back.

The clock strikes 10:00 AM, and the TV screens lining the wall above the bar come alive. An almighty cheer goes up from some of the more bloodthirsty Victors. I sip my drink, a nervous habit as I watch the tributes rise into the arena. Having something like a glass to distract myself helps me not to obsess over when my tributes fall. The cameras capture Dean, staring down the smattering of backpacks with determination. I cannot see Bridget, but only pray she is not having a panic attack.

The gong sounds, and the tributes move as one, sprinting for the Cornucopia set in the middle of what looks to be an abandoned lumberyard. Dean grabs one of the furthest backpacks out, but then shocks me as he braves going in deeper.

"No... no... you idiot, get out of there!" I feel the terror rising within me.

Fortunately, I needn't have worried. Once Dean gets his hands on a - my God! - meat cleaver, he holds his own. He manages to slice down the boy from 5, then sidestepping an attack from the boy from 3. Dean does not even bother to strike this latter opponent, opting instead to high-tail it out of there, disappearing amidst the piles of dirt, logs and even trash.

Bridget is not so lucky. As she told me on the train, she's fast, and manages to reach a backpack. Trouble is, she's not fast enough to run out of the rapidly congesting bodies. Caught in the traffic, a flash of silver runs across her stomach and she coughs up blood before keeling over. I hear the cannon, the fourth so far.

Ignoring the cheers from other Victors over my tribute's demise, I stare into my drink. I knew Bridget wasn't going to make it. She was too young. And frankly, too scared.

The Bloodbath has begun in earnest now. Interestingly, most have stayed to fight; Dean and maybe only one other have made it both in and out. The cameras cut to my male tribute briefly - he's still moving at a jog. But the real action is still at the horn, where there is kill after kill, death after death. The cannons sound like a chorus, or at least the steady beat of a drum. When the movement stops, I see all six Careers alive and covered in gore, standing back-to-back in a kind of posse ring. They took down most of the competition in one stroke. Christ... how many died?

"We're at the Final Eight!" someone calls out, reporting from the live feed on her datapad.

"Already?!" Terra Kinnimoth, a seventy-something Victor from District 1 gawks.

"Oh, poo! This Games isn't gonna be any fun!" grouses Gideon, a twenty-something from District 9; he won only a few years back.

I go through the tally in my head. "All six Careers... and Dean... who else is left?"

"Mine," Logan Backwoodsman of District 7 points to his male tribute. He looks to be about 15, scaling the structure of an old railroad bridge. "I guess this means the interviews will be happening a little early this year. For the Final Eight."

And indeed they will, for a pair of Peacekeepers suddenly enter the Bar. "Miss Everdeen," they approach me. "Would you please come with us? Your presence has been requested."

"Sponsors already?" I hope the hoops I have to jump through won't be too awful.

"No, for an interview," one Peacekeeper informs me.

This new information is even more surprising than the thought of sponsors lining up for Dean. Why would they need me for a Final Eight interview? They're supposed to be for family and friends only.

I am guided down a series of hallways until I reach a small room with cameras and a green screen. In one chair sits Caesar Flickerman.

"Katniss, my dear! Always a pleasure to see you," he shakes my hand.

"You as well, Caesar," I smile. "Although... I'm curious as to why I'm here."

"To talk about Dean Cronin, of course! Impressive the way he got out of there, and with that meat cleaver! My, my, my! Only you can speak for him, as he has no family."

I gape, taken aback. "Dean's an orphan?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"No." All orphans in District 12 go into the Community Home. I always feared that place especially when my mother was ill after my father's death. There were rumors that orphans stood a greater chance of being Reaped. Perhaps that explains Dean's forced enlistment in this death match? How could I not have known? Dean never shared his past with me, but surely I would have noticed he was in the Community Home? I guess I never did.

This knowledge gives me the resolve to deliver an enthusiastic message on Dean's behalf. After a few questions, Caesar thanks me and I take my leave. I don't bother going back to the Mentors' Bar, instead returning to my quarters on the twelfth floor of the Training Center. Unless something really bizarre happens, the chances of another death during the night are pretty small. There's been plenty of bloodshed, and the pool is so culled already.

I fall asleep feeling less insomnia than I normally do during Games season.