So here is the next chapter. Not much else to say on this one. Other than the fact that I guessed what District Seven did and got it right. Enjoy.

I'm awakened by a rhythmic thumping on my door.

"Go away," I mutter "It's too early. Wake me up later"

Then I open my eyes and realize that it's light outside. Feeling sheepish, I walk to the window and fling the curtains open. The sun is high in the sky.

"Get up," yells Ando's voice from the other side of the door.

I get dressed and meet a beaming Ando in the dinning room. None of the females are to be seen. When I ask Ando about their whereabouts, he mentions something about Morgan preparing Kyra for tomorrow's interviews. Just like for the rest of training, Morgan is dealing exclusively with Kyra and Ando with me. Theodora is still off scrounging sponsors.

"Today is the best day of the games," Ando states, digging into his breakfast.

I pause and drop my cutlery. "Why?"

"Why not?" Ando tilts his chair back. "It's practically a day off." He sees me open my mouth and raises a hand. "No, don't say anything. Sure, I'm supposed to prepare you for your interview. But it won't take me a whole day, especially since I don't need to teach the cripple" – he uses finger quotes – "correct walking posture. Sitting yes, but that's a piece of cake.

"I don't know about you," he continues "But I'd quite like my day off to start early. So let's get cracking."

For the next several hours Ando prepares me for the interviews. He has a unique style of mentoring – at least according to him. I'm not sure what a reliable judge he is, of course.

I sit in a chair, and Ando sits opposite me, throwing as many questions as possible at me. Every so often he changes my posture or my approach. By the time lunch arrives, we've already gone through several different characters for me. It's pretty obvious that I'll be playing 'poor little cripple', but Ando still wants to make sure there are no other approaches we could take.

There are more takes on the cripple card than you'd think as first glance. Do I want to be quiet, or a loud, confident cripple who wants to show the world that he's as good as the rest of them? Do I want to act the imbecile or super-intelligent? Hopeful or given up? There is a multitude of choices ahead of me. I pity the others, who don't even have a defining attribute which narrows down their choices.

By the time Morgan strides into the room, Kyra trailing behind her, we've narrowed down my options. The plan is to go over them after lunch and refine them, then select the final option. Ando still wants to work on my posture, too.

"Why are you so cheerful?" Morgan asks Ando wearily. I get the feeling they've had this conversation many times before.

"Why not? It's basically a free day off."

"No it isn't," chides Morgan. "This is a very important day. The interviews have a very important effect on prospective sponsors."

"Yeah, yeah," Ando waves her off. "Very important. I know. But come on! This is way better than watching the games, or sucking up to the Capitol to try and get sponsors."

The two mentors argue for a bit longer. Neither of them win. After lunch my day continues as Ando and I try to find my perfect angle. Theodora pops in at around two and spends half an hour adjusting my posture. Like Ando, she's given up on adjusting the way I walk – although for a completely different reason.

After Ando and I settle on the angle – quiet but intelligent, which is more or less me anyway - I take a much needed break. As has become my ritual over the past few days I head up to the roof, praying that no one else will be there. An encounter with District Four's male tribute has left me scarred for life.

I step out of the lift and cross over to the fence line, admiring the view. I never get tired of gazing out over the glimmering buildings of the Capitol, so different from home.

"Hello, stone-boy." I hear a voice from behind me.

I whirl around, and find myself looking into the black-haired face of District Seven's boy.

"Hello, wood-boy," I return

He laughs. "Nice comeback."

There is silence for a few minutes, then District Seven speaks again.

"Nice view up here."

I look at him "Really?"

'No, not really." He says. "It's the Capitol: how can it be nice?"

"True."

Silence again. I break it this time.

"So, District Seven. Tell me. Why are you up here?"

"Why not?" he asks, and in that moment, he reminds me of my mentor. Absurd, really, as the two of them look nothing alike. But there is still some strange resemblance.

"You didn't answer my question," I tell him.

District Seven shrugs. "I dunno. Just wanted to see the view, I guess."

"You're a terrible liar," I inform him. "Tell me the truth."

"Damn," mutters District Seven jokingly. "And I thought I was getting better."

"You're not that bad, really. I'm just a walking lie detector."

It's true, too. Like can sense like. When you're as good an actor as I am you can tell when people are acting. I can tell that District Twelve aren't really as friendly as they'd like us to think, I can tell that there's something going on between the two from Two. I can tell that the girl from Four is nicer than she'd have people think, and that District One is actually scared stiff at the prospect of the arena. And I can tell that District Seven's lying – not that it's particularly hard. The guy's an open book.

Funny how that works. Acting. What would I be without it? I have no illusions about my skills; know that the four I received wasn't too far off the mark in terms of my abilities. But I also know people. How to read them and how to fool them. And that is what wins battles. Not fighting ability, not smarts. Sure they help – but on their own, they're useless. Without knowing people, without knowing which buttons to push to make them do what you want – not even knowing how they'd react when they're desperate – no one would have a chance.

I realise that I've become trapped in my own world and grin sheepishly at District Seven. I don't know what it is about him, but I've barely known him for five minutes and I already like him. He radiates some kind of aura of frank honesty and complete friendliness.

He's not going to survive a second in the arena.

"Oh, so that's your skill," he says thoughtfully. "No wonder."

Before he can patronise me – I've gotten very good at telling when people are about to bring up my bad leg – I change the subject.

"You never did tell me what your doing up here," I remind him. "So. Tell me. What are you doing?"

District Seven shrugs. "Who said I need a reason?"

I stare at him.

He relents. "Fine. I want to make friends."

I gape at him. Friends? We're trying to freaking kill each other here! I mean, I don't entirely agree with Kyra and her methods, but this guy is insane!

"I know it sounds stupid," says Seven, "But it's my only chance. There's no way I'd beat any of the Careers or even District Twelve or Thresh in a fight, not with their training scores."

Now I'm beginning to see his logic. By befriending everyone else, no one will want to kill him. It should be harder to kill someone you know and have talked to than someone you can explain away as a hurdle towards getting home, which is why Kyra seems to be trying to make herself hate me. So he's making sure everyone knows him and thus won't want to be rid of him. Maybe he will last a bit.

"I get it," I tell him. "But why are you telling me this?"

"I'm not," he points out. "You figured it out by yourself. You're smarter than you look, Stonemason."

"The name's Lucas, lumberjack," I say.

"Lucas Lumberjack? No – don't answer that. I know it's just Lucas. I'm the lumberjack here, not you. I'm Vincent, by the way."

I hold my hand out. "Nice to meet you, Vincent. What do you say to a deal? I won't kill you if you don't kill me."

He grins. "Not quite the way I'd have put it, but yeah. It's a deal."

"How many people do you have deals like this with?" I ask Vincent as we shake on it.

He shrugs. "I dunno. Both from Three, Seven, and Nine. Teagan - she's the girl from my district. The boy from Eight and the boy from Five. Rue-"

"The twelve year old from Eleven. Yeah, I know," I scowl.

"You don't seem very happy," observes Vincent. "What's up with that?"

"I don't like it. She's way to young to be in a thing like this. And-" I pause. "She's stealing my sponsors."

"I get it!" realises Vince. "The only way you're going to get sponsors with that leg – no offence" -added once he sees the look on my face- "is if they feel sorry for you. Add in a twelve year old to that equation and bam! No more sponsors."

"Got it in one. Now can we please talk about something less depressing?"

"Fine."

So for the next few hours, I end up becoming friends with someone from another District. It's actually very interesting to see how things differ from District to District. For example – Vincent makes a comment about 'Lucky number seven'. So I respond with "I thought it was thirteen."

It's a District Ten inside joke, which I then have to explain. See, we have two squares back home. There's the one used for the Reaping, which is simply known as The Square. It's where you go for the Reaping and if the Peacekeepers or the Mayor want to see you. Then there's the other, more used square, which holds the market – the District Thirteen Memorial Square. Of course, none of us locals call it that. The square has a number of different names. The two ones relevant to my comment are Glad We're Not Them Square and District Thirteen, Those Lucky Buggers Square, used interchangeably depending on the current monetary status of the user and how close it is to the Hunger Games.

I enjoy my time on the roof. It's the most relaxed I've been ever since the Reaping. Eventually though, the sun goes down and Vincent and I both have to return to our own floors. We have a long day ahead of us, after all.

On the day when I have nothing else to do, standing still while three humans who resemble a bunch of annoying insects buzz around me is my first choice of things to do. Note the sarcasm.

The prep team is okay, I suppose. I seem to have gotten used to them. It's Vesta that's the problem. She arrived this morning furious at someone named Hestia, and seems to be taking her anger out squarely on me. And the rest of the prep team, too. But mostly me. Luckily she calms down after a few hours and the rest of the day passes relatively quietly.

After what seems an age I finally get given my clothing for the interview. Vesta's staying relatively conservative, so I get a dark blue suit with swirls of lighter blues and greys that echo the patterns on rocks. There's also a bit of glitter on as well and a matching crutch. When I meet up with Kyra she's dressed similarly, in a body-hugging black dress with swirls of silver.

Not long afterwards it's time for the interviews. I have to say, I'm actually sort of looking forward to mine. Not to mention everyone else's. Sure, some people may be putting on a façade. But most tributes choose to be similar to who they really are. As they say, knowledge is the key.

Sitting in my seat in the arc of tributes, I feel distinctly less confident. Luckily, I know stage fright; I get it every time Ren and I try something new back home. I also know how to deal with it. I take a few calming breaths and by the time blue-haired Caesar Flickerman calls up the District One girl, Glimmer, my butterflies have all gone.

It's not hard to tell what angle Glimmer is playing up – her golden dress is almost entirely translucent. Her partner is arrogant, something that doesn't seem particularly hard for him to do. Likewise, the two from Two play the brutal killers with ease. I know from experience that the closer a character is to your personality type (with a few exceptions – too close and you forget to stay in character) the easier it is to slip into their role. I have a feeling that none of the first four tributes are pretending to be something they're not.

The next four tributes are nowhere near as good. District Four tries to copy Two with the brutal act, but watching them I can tell that they – the girl especially – are nicer than they'd want us to think. If a Career's going to win this year, it won't be one of them. There is one thing that catches my attention, though. Both tributes from Four (Varia and Arturo) mention that they are from "The District of Kai and Rhea". What does that mean? I make a mental note to ask Ando about it later.

The next good act is put on by Lysandra, the girl from Five. She acts sly and elusive, with her fox-like features giving added reality to her performance. Unfortunately, her partner (Alex? Alecto?) is nowhere near as good.

District Six and half of seven fly past. They're average, not as good as Two or the girl from Five but much better than Three. Then it's Vincent's turn. True to form, he's the Vince I've gotten to know – happy-go lucky, honest and cheerful. The next noteworthy performance is of the girl from Nine, who looks like a natural performer with the way she keeps the audience spellbound.

All too soon, it's Kyra's turn. She gives an okay performance, although I have to admit I'm not entirely sure what her angle is. Then it's my turn.

I think I've managed to gauge the patterns of the questions, somewhere around the boy from Three's turn. There'll be something about the Capitol and first impressions. Something about training and strengths and weaknesses in the Arena. Another question about what I felt at the Reaping. Something about my designer, and another, personalised question.

"Hello, Hello," Caesar beams as I make my way slowly onto the stage. "Have a seat, Lucas. No, I don't mind. Take your time."

So I do. It helps to keep the act going, after all. Once I'm seated, the interview begins.

"So, Lucas, the Capitol must be very different from District Ten?" It sounds like a question, but I'm not sure if it is. I nod, just to play it safe.

Caesar continues. "What's been your favourite thing so far?"

Luckily, I have an answer prepared. "The lifts," I say quietly.

"The lifts?" Caesar raises an eyebrow, waiting for more.

"I'm on the tenth floor of the building. Do you know how hard it is to get up stairs with this leg?" I gesture to my right foot. "Does anyone know who invented elevators? Because seriously – you should give them a medal."

There is some laughter from the audience. Flickerman waits until it dies down before addressing me again.

"So that's what you've been enjoying the most. I would have named your stylist; you looked brilliant on opening night, and you still do now."

Up in the stands, Vesta beams.

"But that's only my opinion," he continues. "What do you think about your outfits so far?"

I shrug "What can I say? Vesta's been good. I loved the symbolism with those chess pieces."

Luckily the Capitol seems immune to sarcasm, as nobody takes my remark the wrong way. I see a few tributes – mostly those who have already gone – grinning to themselves.

Caesar obviously doesn't want to press the issue and he continues –surprise, surprise – onto training. "You got a pretty low training score. A four, wasn't it? How do you feel about that?"

"How should I feel?" I ask him. "I'm just happy I wasn't the worst off. What with my leg and all, I guess I should be pleased I didn't get a one."

"True, true. How do you think you'll do in the Arena with such a low training score?"

"I don't know. I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

Caesar gives me an exaggerated pout. "Please? Not one tiny little titbit?"

I give in. "My right leg might not be able to work, but my left leg's become stronger to compensate. So watch out – I have a wicked left kick."

It's partially true. My left leg has become stronger than the average person's to compensate for my weakened right one, but I have no intention of using it to kick people. That would mean I have to put all of my weight on my weaker leg, and after a few days with no rest that will hurt.

Caesar beams at me, makes a few comments and then moves onto his next question, which turns out to be the tribute-specific one.

"While we're on the topic of your… disability, do you mind if I ask you a more personal question?"

I know what's coming next, and true to form Caesar asks me how I became a cripple. Honestly, I should have known this from the start.

I don't particularly want to talk about. But you can't keep the audience waiting, so I give an abbreviated version. I explain how I went down to the Quarry one day to give my Dad his lunch. How there was a sudden rockslide that buried my father and crushed my legs. How the other workers pulled me out but didn't reach my father in time. How they didn't think I'd be able to walk. Lastly, I add a little extra detail that isn't true – that they thought they'd have to amputate my leg. It'll be good for gaining sympathy, after all.

The rest of my interview passes in a similar fashion, and I return to my chair, satisfied with my performance.