Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Just a friendly reminder to vote in the sponsor poll on my profile if you haven't already.

Also, I finally managed to work out how I'm doing interviews. Like train rides, they're split into three chapters – four districts per chapter. Each district's section is written from the point of view of a family member or friend of one of the tributes. Like train rides, I picked the characters whose point of view I felt would work best for this particular section. Please don't be offended or fear for your tribute's life (yet) if I happened to pick the other one.

Interviews Part One
The White Cloth

Lisa Calls
Mother of Abstract Calls

Lisa had thought she was ready for this.

Ready to see her daughter onstage in front of all of Panem, wearing a beautiful black, sequined dress, her curls threaded with a tinsel-like material. She was beautiful. Confident. Strong. Abstract had been preparing for this for years. She was ready. She wanted this.

And yet, seeing her now, Lisa couldn't help but think of what could have been. Unlike Mosaic, Abstract had a choice. She could have chosen to be safe. All she had to do was stay quiet, to not shout those two deadly words: "I volunteer."

Right now, no doubt, the girl whose name had been called was sitting huddled with her family, grateful that Abstract had taken her place. But Lisa couldn't help but wish, in this moment, that their places were exchanged, that Abstract was safe, and the other girl was about to be thrown into a fight to the death.

Lisa shook the thought from her head guiltily. Abstract was safe. As safe as she could be, at least. She was prepared. She was strong. Every answer she gave to Cornelius' questions came quickly and confidently – at least, until the host asked about Mosaic. "So, tell me, Abstract," he said with a note of sympathy in his voice. "How does it feel to be sitting where your brother sat six years ago?"

"It feels right," Abstract said after a moment. "This is all I've wanted for years. Now that I'm here … It feels good. I'm ready. And I hope he'd be proud."

Cornelius nodded encouragingly. "I'm sure he would be. Are there any tributes in particular who should keep an eye on you during the Games?"

Lisa knew what he was fishing for, and Abstract clearly did, too. The girl from District Seven – Hazel – had been the only thing standing between Mosaic and a victory. But in six years, Lisa had never heard her daughter blame the girl. She'd only been trying to survive. It wasn't her fault, and it certainly wasn't the fault of this year's tributes from Seven. It was the Capitol's fault.

But Abstract knew better than to say that onstage in front of the entire Capitol, so she simply shrugged. "They all should, Cornelius. They're all going to die. Whether I'm the one to do it – that's not all that important to me."

Soon, her time was up, and her district partner took the stage, wearing a black shirt, white pinstripe pants, and a matching fedora. After Abstract, he looked so young, and Lisa couldn't help thinking of what her daughter had said – that, in order for her to win, all of the other tributes had to die, whether by her own hand or someone else's. How many of these children would she kill herself? Would this boy be one of them?

Surprisingly, the boy himself was grinning, eager, almost endearing. As if he didn't realize that, by this time tomorrow, he could be dead.

"And what do you think will help you most in the arena, Angus?" Cornelius asked.

The boy smiled, and answered without a second thought. "My friend, Prius. We're going to team up and help each other. One of us will win for sure!"

Lisa cringed. The boy didn't understand. You didn't have "friends" in the arena. You had "allies." And, even then, you stayed wary. You didn't gush about them in front of all of Panem. Because they might just be the one to kill you.

Lisa shook her head sadly. He was too young. To young to die. But he would have to, in order for her daughter to live.

Automne Kunzite
Mother of Equinox Kunzite

The interviews were the only good thing about the Games.

Lying on the couch, Automne waited for one more chance to see him. To hear his voice. Even if she couldn't touch him, it was better than nothing.

She was drunk. She'd been drunk ever since the day of the reaping. Anything else was too painful. She couldn't even leave the house. Couldn't let anyone see her like this. Not until it was over.

District One passed by on the television, and then the girl from Two took the stage. She was pretty, Automne thought with a smile. A simple white dress and tiara. White. Automne smiled. She had always liked white. Like the children onstage. Pure. Clean. Tears came to her eyes.

The girl was quiet. Shy, almost. Automne wondered why – pretty girl like her. Surely she had lots of friends. But every time Cornelius brought up her life back home, the girl went quiet and had trouble answering.

"And your parents – what do they do for a living, Kiona?" Cornelius asked, clearly thinking that would be an easy question to answer.

Kiona shrugged. "Nothing special. Our family's pretty average – pretty normal. Except for the fact that I'm here, I suppose. That's not really normal."

Cornelius shook his head. "No, indeed – it's very special. Are they proud?"

Kiona nodded. "Oh, yes. Very proud."

Automne snorted. Proud, indeed. No one was proud to have a child in the Hunger Games. Oh, they might act like it. Might pretend to be certain their son or daughter would win. But proud? Glad that their child would have to kill in order to survive? Proud of the murderers their children would become if they wanted to come home? No. That was unthinkable.

The buzzer sounded, and the girl returned to her seat. Then she saw him. Her Equinox, dressed in a red-and-gold suit. He looked just like his father. Except his father had always been smiling, and Equinox only glared.

Cornelius wasn't deterred, and, after a moment, turned the topic to home. "So, Equinox, is there anyone special back home? Anyone you'd want to say hello to tonight?"

Equinox's face went dark. "I don't have anyone back home. I've been practically raising myself since my father died. I doubt my mother even knows I'm gone."

Tears came to Automne's eyes. She knew. Oh, she knew. But he was right, this sweet young boy of hers – he'd raised himself. She'd failed. She'd failed him, and now she'd never even get the chance to apologize. She raised a bottle to her lips and took another drink. He was on his own. But maybe it was better that way. She certainly hadn't done him any good.

She just wished he would smile.

Yadon Leto, 11
Brother of Lina Leto

It still didn't quite seem real.

Yadon huddled close to his parents and older brothers, wishing someone would tell him to wake up. That this was all a dream. That he had imagined everything since the reaping. That someone else – anyone else – had been chosen.

Seeing her onstage didn't make it sink in, either, because the girl onstage didn't look like his Lina. His Lina should be sitting next to him now, holding him close and ruffling his hair, not sitting onstage in a yellow, lacy dress. "That's a very pretty dress, Rosalina," Cornelius said with a smile.

"Just Lina, if you please," Lina smiled politely at the host. No one ever called her Rosalina.

"Well, then, Lina, how does it feel to be so close to the Games?"

Lina actually smiled a little. But it wasn't her smile. It seemed darker, somehow, almost scary. "It's different than I thought. A few days ago, I would have told you I was terrified. But I've learned a lot in three days."

Cornelius beamed. "Have you, now? Care to give an example?"

Lina shook her head a little. "Sorry, Cornelius, but I think I'd like to save that for the arena."

Yadon scooted closer to Kraden, who put an arm around his little brother. That didn't sound like Lina at all. The girl on the screen sounded like she was almost enjoying herself.

Kraden shook his head, as if he could tell what Yadon was thinking. "It's just for show, Yadon. She's telling the audience what they want to hear."

Yadon nodded, but he wished he was as sure.

If it was all for the audience, then she was doing a better job of it than the boy who came after her, who seemed distracted and almost bored, fiddling with the cuffs of his black tuxedo and glancing around at the audience the whole time, as if looking for someone. More than once, Cornelius had to repeat a question. "So, Tracer, do you feel ready for the Games?" he asked a third time.

Tracer shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. I mean, it seems to me like there's a point where you've prepared as much as you can, and you just have to rely on instinct from there."

Cornelius nodded. "Well, I hope your instincts serve you well, Tracer."

Tracer shrugged again. "I bet you say that to everyone."

Cornelius giggled uncomfortably. He had said something similar to everyone. Yadon smiled a little. Tracer had a point. Cornelius couldn't be rooting for everyone. Just like Yadon couldn't root for everyone, even if he felt sorry for every one of the tributes on the stage. Because only one of them would come home.

And he needed it to be Lina.

Derk Servitt
Father of Mars Servitt

Four years.

It had been four years, and he still remembered it perfectly. Four years since Heaven had been the one sitting onstage, talking to Cornelius, scared out of her wits but trying to be brave. Trying to be brave for them.

And she had been brave. Right up to the end. His brave little girl.

Derk wiped the tears from his eyes, watching as the districts went by. One. Two. Three. Then the girl from Four, wearing a beautiful gold dress that matched her hair. Derk shook his head sadly. The Games were no place for beauty. Beauty didn't last long in the arena, where anything good and decent was stamped out of the world, never to be seen again. Gone, lost forever, like his little girl.

"So, Ella," Cornelius said with a grin. "Is there anything in particular you've enjoyed most about being in the Capitol?"

Ella shrugged. "Not really. I've been a bit busy trying to learn how not to die in the arena."

It hadn't been meant as a joke, but Cornelius laughed, anyway. "Ah, yes, learning how to survive is good. Have you learned anything useful?"

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow," Ella pointed out.

Derk smiled a little. The girl had a point. All the guessing and speculation of tonight was utterly useless one the Games began. A tribute with a two might escape the bloodbath, while a tribute with a ten might be killed if they charged in fighting. It was all so random, in the end. Just chance. Just luck.

Mostly bad luck.

Mars took the stage next in a silver suit, and Derk choked back tears, wondering if he should have tried to stop him. If there was anything he could have said. If he really wanted to.

No. No, Mars was eighteen. Practically a man now. This had been his choice. A choice Derk might have made, too, had he been able to volunteer for the Games himself. In a way, he envied his son, envied the fact that the boy could channel his anger into something that might benefit them all, if he won.

If he won.

It actually seemed like a possibility, watching him. "What do you think of your twenty-three opponents, Mars?" Cornelius asked.

Mars actually smiled a little, rolling his eyes. "I don't have twenty-three opponents. I have—" He pretended to count on his fingers. "Maybe two or three." He paused for a moment. "No. Two."

Cornelius giggled. "Oh, do tell, which ones have you deemed worthy of your interest?"

Derk looked away from the television. He knew which two. He'd already seen them – the district responsible for Heaven's death. He knew Mars must be thinking the same. Mars would see to it that the two of them died slowly. Painfully. That Heaven would be avenged.

Derk wasn't sure whether he should be proud or ashamed.

"White. It serves as a beginning. The white cloth can be dyed."