Chapter Five: Private Sessions and Interviews

A/N: Hello again! If you're reading this, thanks for sticking with this story. This update took longer than the last ones, but I hope it's worth the wait!

WARNING! Made up science ahead! Physics nerds please don't be mad!

If I thought Clink being rude to me was just a training tactic to impress other tributes, I was wrong. Whatever Wiress filled his head with he must have taken to heart. He doesn't even look my way at breakfast the next morning, only talking to me when Aeliana basically forces him to.

"Clink, did you tell Widget about your matching training outfits?" the escort squeals excitedly. My District partner takes a long sip of his orange juice before answering stiffly.

"No."

"You should tell her! You can even show her after breakfast. It's not really fair that you got to see them before her, but, well..." She looks at me apologeotically. "You were asleep already, dear, and Beetee didn't think I should wake you for an outfit."

I want to laugh; Aeliana apologizes about not showing me an outfit sooner as if she's murdered my puppy. In her mind this must be a huge offense.

"It's fine, Aeliana. I'll check them out after I eat."

"Yes! That's great. And Clink will show you, right, Clink?"

The boy glances at me before replying. "Whatever."

Clink does show me the outfits, in the end. After breakfast he walks me over to a room several doors down from mine where two sets of matching gray jumpsuits are laid out on a table. He takes his, nods awkwardly, and leaves me alone in the room.

I roll my eyes at his behavior. One would think that Clink of all people wouldn't try to make enemies. Beggars can't be choosers, after all. Maybe he thinks I'll die before ever being significant to him.

Back in my room, I don the jumpsuit without even looking in the mirror. I know I won't like what I see.

Beetee debriefs me before I head to training.

"How did the plan go yesterday?"

"Fine. I learned a lot about fires. And snares."

"Good, that's good. You're a smart girl, Widget. I trust you to train the way you think is best for you. Focus on survival and stay away from the weapons."

"Got it." I smile at Beetee before ducking away and sprinting to catch up to Clink, who's already at the elevator.

Beetee wants me to train how I think is best for me, and that's exactly what I plan to do. I have a vague semblance of a plan in my head that I'm going to follow today, and just knowing I'm going in prepared makes me feel a million times better.

Brainstorming is always the first step to finding the solution to any given problem. That's what I did late last night: hardcore brainstorming. For an hour I made a huge list; I wrote down every possible way that I could think of that someone can die.

Making the list was hard at first; every time I listed a death scenario, I kept imagining my fellow tributes dying at my hands. I wrote down the word 'electrocution', and I immediately envisioned the girl from Seven writhing in agony on the floor. When I wrote down 'poison', I saw Mukta choking on nightlock.

The way I got past this unpleasantness was by treating the list as a homework assignment. I told myself it was just another assessment task, and that my teacher would have my head if I didn't hand it in the next day.

The list was quite extensive. After it was finished, I started analyzing all of the possibilities. My lab-rat brain began sorting the methods into categories. Contact, non-contact, materials required, danger level... it was just like any other experiment. In the end I managed to narrow it down quite a lot.

It's this narrowed down list I carry with me into training. I keep it in the back of my head as I go about the gymnasium, revisiting stations from yesterday. I am very pleased to note that my fires start much quicker this morning, and my snares aren't half-bad.

"Hey."

I look up to see Mukta hovering over me, decked out in a pastel yellow one-piece tracksuit. Her stylists must have felt inspired this morning.

"Hey," I reply a bit distractedly, finishing the last knot on one of my snares. "Hold on a sec," I tell the girl from Eight.

"Excuse me? Could you step in my snare?" I ask the trainer standing to the right. Since we're not allowed to harm ourselves or other tributes, the trainers are obligated to assist us in testing out traps. Provided they aren't lethal, of course.

"Very well," the man replies, stepping forward. The second his foot touches the rope, the snare activates. He lets out an "oof" as the rope wraps around his ankle, yanking him into the air.

The snare is almost perfect. The place where the base knot is secured around the synthetic tree branch isn't tied well enough, and after about three seconds the whole thing unravels, sending the trainer tumbling to the mat below. He picks himself up and gives me a nod.

"Not bad," the man says, appreciatively. "A little tighter at the base next time."

When I turn back to Mukta I find the girl gaping at me. "When did you learn that?" Her surprise pleases me.

"I learned it yesterday. What's up?"

The girl twists her braid somewhat nervously. "Well," she begins, "I was just curious if maybe you wanted to go try out the climbing station with me. I figured it would be better than going alone, so..."

When I don't immediately respond, she backpedals.

"I mean, of course you have your own training schedule and stuff. I can totally do it by myself, and-"

"Course I'll go. C'mon."

Her face breaks out into a grin, and I laugh lightly. Together we make our way to the climbing station, where a few other tributes are already leaping above our heads.

Climbing goes well. I'm not that bad at jumping, and I'm surprisingly okay at shimmying up a rope. Mukta loses her footing several times, but doesn't fall until the boy from One begins to shake the rope she holds for balance.

"Whoa! Stop it!" she yells. This only encourages the boy, who doesn't cease the shaking.

"What's wrong, Muck? Can't handle a little shake?" he taunts.

The girl's hands eventually slip, and she lands five feet below on a mat. Her gaze turns to me, pleading for me to say something, but I know I can't. Mukta's got a target on her back now, and that isn't something I want to share.

"Screw you!" the girl from Eight huffs, standing up and stomping away. After two seconds I follow her.

"It's alright, Widget. Just let me train by myself for a bit," she says over her shoulder.

Not knowing what to do next, I wander around the gym until I'm in front of the weapons again. Once again I find myself staring at the bows. The girl from Ten is at the station now, and she's a decent shot. I watch her pull the glaetium wire all the way back before releasing the arrow at the target. Everything about it is so elegant.

Glaetium wire is excellent for electromagnets. Glaetium solenoids, if they're thick enough, are some of the best conductors out there. But these bow strings are thin, and if I did want to make an electromagnet, I would have to loop them possibly a hundred times to make up for this fact.

What would I use for the core of the magnet? My eyes wander to the ceplumite shields. Most of them aren't the ideal shape for a ferromagnetic core, but the smallest one could possibly be used. Even so, I'd need a lot more bowstring.

No, the ceplumite shields wouldn't do. Are there other objects in this room made from ceplumite? My eyes scan my surroundings, eventually landing on the helmets on the other side of the room in the sparring area. Those are smaller. Still not the ideal size, but they could work.

A current, however... where would I get one of those?

I ask myself this same question all the way until lunch.

—

Lunch passes quickly. This time around, I don't sit alone; Mukta joins me after about five minutes.

"Widget... we've got to stick together. People like us...we don't exactly look like great allies. We gotta be there for each other. You know?"

That pretty much describes every one of our interactions. If either one of us were stronger, we'd both leave each other in the dust. But we're both weaklings, so we don't have the luxury of choice.

The food is fabulous, but all I can focus on are the girls from Seven and Eleven. Apart from the Careers and my table, they're the only ones sitting together.

I don't like it. I haven't seen much of the girl from Eleven, but she can't be worthless if Maya's sitting with her. Just what I need, I think to myself, another power couple.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. I stick to survival, improving the skills I learned yesterday and learning new ones. When I finally return to the Third floor, I am exhausted.

Beetee notices the tired way I move my feet. "Work hard?" he asks.

"Yep. Sticking to the plan."

"Good," he replies. "Now go take a shower."

I go to bed early and don't even have the energy to dream.

—

I wake up and immediately know I slept too late. Sunlight is already streaming through the window, and I can't hear the usual noise of the catering team preparing breakfast. Panicked, I quickly throw on an outfit laid out on an armchair and burst into the dining room.

I find my mentor seated calmly at the table, casually reading a thick book.

"Why didn't anyone wake me?" I gasp.

"Thought you could use the extra sleep."

This is Hunger Games training. I don't have the luxury of sleep.

"Relax," Beetee says after seeing my panicked expression. "You only missed breakfast. Clink and Wiress are talking in the next room. And Aeliana insisted the chefs put together a plate for you. It's over there," he nods at a table in the corner, where a plate of what looks like eggs and some sort of meat sits waiting. I pick the plate up and set it down across from my mentor.

"Um... Beetee?" I ask after about a minute of playing with my breakfast.

"Yes?"

"Well," I begin, "I was looking at the equipment yesterday, and the materials and stuff, and, well..."

My mentor puts down the book and gazes at me intently. "What is it?"

"I...well, this might sound kind of stupid, but when I saw the glaetium bowstrings and ceplumite shields, I couldn't help but wonder..."

I tell Beetee about the things I noticed the day before: about the memories of experiments back at Tech Training, about the coils and shields, about the vague plans I'd formed in that gymnasium. His expression changes throughout the discussion, from skepticism, to confusion, to understanding, to uncertainty.

"It could work," he says after I finish. "The main issue I see is the current."

"I know," I say frustratedly.

"But if you can make it work somehow in your session today, it could help you a lot in the long run. Even if you don't end up doing that in the Arena."

It's nice to have my mentor's approval, but I was hoping for some solutions. Shouldn't Beetee be more involved in my strategies?

"Shouldn't we be talking more about tactics? How I'm gonna off everyone else?" I ask him.

In response, he sighs. "We would be if I thought that was your priority. I've had tributes like you before, Widget."

"And?"

"I talked strategy with them, years ago." He looks out the window, and I can tell his mind is slipping somewhere far away. For some reason this annoys me more than it probably should.

That was then! They're all on the other side now, Beetee, and if you don't help me, I'll definitely be joining them!

I snap my fingers to get his attention. "And? The strategies didn't work? It's okay! We can come up with something better together!"

"What use is a killing strategy when you're not alive to use it?"

Beetee's voice is almost angry, but I know he's not mad at me.

"Trust me, Widget," he says softly, "Your only chance lies with the survival stations. I've watched my last fifteen kids either get speared in the stomach or starve to death. You need to focus on survival today."

I sit back and stare at the table, defeated.

"Plus," Beetee adds, "Do you really need me to help you come up with strategies? Because it seems to me that you've already done your homework in that department."

The conversation plays through my head as I enter the gymnasium for the last time. For once, I don't even look at the weapons, and instead make a beeline for the fire starting station.

—

The hallway where the tributes sit awaiting their private sessions is long and dimly lit. I sit next to Clink on one of the benches, but he doesn't say a word to me.

Many of the other tributes are talking amongst themselves quietly. I spy Maya from Seven chatting up the girl from Eleven again. A little further away Mukta seems to be making small talk with the slight girl from Four.

"Her name is Floundra," Mukta said to me earlier at the climbing station. "She isn't good at much, to be honest, but she sure can fish. And her knots are something else. You should see the snares she was doing earlier..."

I tuned most of it out - I don't really feel like trusting too many people, and opening up to someone this late in training isn't something I'm prepared to risk. It takes me more than one afternoon to figure out who isn't going to stab me in the back the first chance they get.

Everyone goes quiet as Zandria exits the room triumphantly.

"Nailed it! You should have seen their faces when I used the double-pound kick!" She tells her District partner.

"You think you got an eleven?" he grins, "or are you gonna lose that bet after all?"

"Those numbskulls better give me an eleven. Good luck, dipshit."

The boy laughs and heads in for his session.

I'm next.

Sooner than I would have liked, the door opens and the boy from Two exits. He looks angry, and I wonder what could have happened.

"Widget Irving, District Three," a voice calls from inside.

I take a deep breath and step through the the door.

The gamemakers are all gathered at a table in the back. Most of them look impressed, and I inwardly groan. With most of the Careers having gone before me, I'm going to be the first weakling of the day. My score is sure to take a hit from that.

Yet another disadvantage of being from Three.

"You may begin," instructs a man who I know to be Seneca Crane, the head gamemaker this year.

I realize my hands are shaking, and I take a deep breath and will them to be steady. This is it. Time for another experiment.

I imagine once again that this room is just another laboratory back home, and that this is a practical lab assessment. Nothing new whatsoever. Immediately I become more focused, and my body gravitates towards the bows.

When I begin to dismantle the weapons, I hear the gamemakers whisper behind me. For a moment I think they might stop me, order me to leave the weapons intact. But the whispering eventually quiets, and by then I have three separate glaetium wires laid out next to me.

Next I make for the ceplumite helmets. I take the smallest one I see and begin to wrap the glaetium around it in coils. This takes me about a minute, and once I have the framework assembled I waste no time in making my way over to the final destination: the swing machine. It's a machine designed for moving target practice; several targets swing in multiple directions from rotating robotic arms above my head. But it's not the targets I want - it's the source of their power.

When I open the machine's power compartment, I hear one of the gamemakers protest. "She's ruining everything! Seneca, we can't let her just destroy the facility!"

"I said wait, Cornelius!"

I switch off the Fradian battery before removing it. The power source is deceiving - the battery itself is quite small, yet it stores a tremendous amount of energy. I hurriedly carry the thing over to the glaetium-ceplumite contraption on the other side of the room and calmly connect the cables.

Once it's finished I stand up and stare straight at the gamemakers. Most of them look confused, one or two annoyed.

"Would one of you please hold a sword for me? It's a part of this demonstration."

This pushes one of the gamemakers over the edge. "Now listen here, girl," he snarles, "You come in here, waste our time, destroy the equipment, and just expect us to-"

"Cornelius! Silence!" The head gamemaker commands. The furious man sits down, but continues to glare at me.

"Your request is unusual," Seneca informs me, and for a second I'm positive he's going to refuse.

He doesn't. "Very well. Give it here."

Before I can bring him the sword a woman dressed in red appears carrying one from the shadows. She places it in front of the men, then darts back into the corner.

"Most people find it much harder to attack weaponless," I say after I see Seneca grip the sword's handle.

What happens next surprises everyone, including me.

I hold the electromagnet as far away from my body as I can. I've rehearsed this scenario dozens of times on my head: I'll flip the switch and the sword will travel the short distance from the gamemaker's hand to my magnet. They will be impressed, and I will look smart. I expect that the sword will come handle first due to the heavier concentration of cobalt in the handle, but I realize my mistake a second too late.

The sword the woman in red gave the game makers is different to the one I was planning to give them: this one has a wooden grip. This means the most magnetic point on the sword is the steel blade.

Unfortunately I don't realize this until my finger has already switched the battery on.

The only thing I have time to do before the sword's edge slices my arm is throw the magnet to my right. A wave of relief washes over me as I see the blade change course at the last millisecond, following the electromagnet that is now a little ways to the right of me, on the floor behind a sparring dummy.

The sword slices through the dummy's chest, resting there embedded almost casually. The magnetic pull from the Fradian battery isn't strong enough to overcome the cloth barrier of the dummy's skin, so the sword simply stays put.

Without turning back to the gamemakers I pick up the electromagnet once more, this time increasing the output of the battery to max power. The magnet hums dangerously in response. I know this will overwhelm the system, but that's exactly what I need.

Without pause I fling my contraption to my left, aiming for a collection of dummies meant for the spears. Upon contact the object explodes, blasting one of them to bits.

I don't realize how much my heart is pounding until I turn to look at the gamemakers once more. Cornelius still looks mad, but the rest eye me, considering.

"Thank you, Miss Irving. You are dismissed."

Only when I exit that room do my actions catch up with me, and I collapse to the floor in disbelief.

—

"Come on, Widget. It couldn't have been that bad."

Ever since I've returned to the Third floor Beetee has been trying to cheer me up. I haven't even told him why I'm so upset, but I don't think I need to. Knowing the tributes our District offers up every year my mentor is probably used to low training scores and post-assessment depression.

"Hey," he tells me, "The girl I mentored four years ago got a two. You couldn't have been the worst one today."

All I can do is shake my head and stare blankly at the TV screen. An advertisement of some sort is playing, but I don't really understand the product. My mind keeps coming back to my training session, and that stupid explosion.

How did I ever think that was a good idea? That blowing up their equipment would somehow impress the gamemakers? I've angered them, I'm sure of it. They'll probably give me a horrible score, like a one or a two. No one in their right mind will ever dream of sponsoring me. Or worse, Cornelius is probably planning some horrific, painful death for me as punishment.

I just hope the Careers kill me before he does.

Clink doesn't look happy as he takes a seat on the opposite couch. "Has it started yet?" he asks Beetee wearily.

"Not yet. But they won't keep us waiting long."

Not one second after the words leave my mentor's mouth, Caesar Flickerman's wide grin appears onscreen. His hair color this year is horrible; the host has dyed his hair a bright red, and it almost looks like he's bleeding.

"Hello, Panem!" he cries excitedly. "We have a very special show for you tonight! The 73rd Hunger Games are almost upon us, and our tributes have been hard at work over the past few days, preparing all sorts of surprises to show us in the arena!"

The audience cheers. I groan.

"But before we see them in action, we get to see a sneak peak of their potential through their training scores!"

I close my eyes and bury my head in my hands. Beetee just pats me on the back.

Seneca Crane appears on TV at one point to talk about the meaning of the scores, but I zone out during most of his interview. Out of the corner of my eye I see Clink tap his foot impatiently.

"Just get to the damn numbers already!" he whines.

"Clink! That's not the right attitude, dear. Just sit back and enjoy the show! There's no rush," Aeliana chides.

"Really, lady?" My District partner replies, "You want me to enjoy the freaking show?"

It takes a few gentle words from Wiress to calm him down.

Finally, the wait is over. A picture of the District One boy, Flash, appears onscreen, accompanied by "oohs" and "ahhs" from the Capitol audience. A few seconds later and his score is announced. A ten.

Clink sighs and shuts his eyes. Aeliana hums appreciatively, while Beetee just shrugs.

"He's been training for this for a long time. It would be a wonder if he didn't get a ten," my mentor states, matter-of-factly.

Flash's district partner receives a nine. The boy from two pulls a ten. When it gets to Zandria, I brace myself. She seemed so confident walking out of her session, so sure that she'd get an almost impossible score of eleven. What will her number be?

It's a ten. Someone just lost a bet.

Pretty soon it's Clink's face up onscreen. It's odd - he looks so much more certain in his tribute photo. I don't know how the photographers did it, but his face stares into camera like he knows what he's doing. Almost like he's got tricks up his sleeve.

Of course, this impression vanishes completely when his score is announced.

"The score for Clink Jeremy of District Three is three!" Claudius Templesmith, the announcer, declares in a booming voice.

"A three from Three! How fitting!" Caesar jokes with the audience. The Capitolians laugh, but Clink's face is almost immediately forgotten after it's taken offscreen.

I chance a look at my District partner, and instantly feel sorry for him. There's no other way to put it - he looks crushed. There are silent tears running down his cheeks, and his face is screwed up in a cross between anger and despair. He almost reminds me of Coyle after our mother tells him he has to go to bed early.

Clink is just a kid. A kid who's been stuck with a score so bad it's basically a death sentence.

He stays resolutely put as my own face appears on TV. I almost don't recognize myself, the photo is so done up. My hair is done up on top of my head in a way that makes my face look fiercer. The Capitol photographers are magicians.

"The score for Widget Irving of District Three-"

Please don't be a two, please don't be a two...

"-is eight!"

All heads in the room turn to stare at me, but all I can do is gape at the TV.

An eight? It can't be! What about the explosion? What about Cornelius' anger?

Eight. I pulled an eight.

For the first time in two days Clink turns to me. "What the hell, Irving!" he screams. "What the hell did you do?"

"Clink!" Wiress gasps.

"I thought you were weak! You were supposed to be a weakling, like me!"

He's scaring me now. The expression on my District partner's face is murderous, but underneath the rage there's a layer of betrayal.

Because I wasn't supposed to be a threat to anyone. Neither of us was supposed to amount to anything, but I had to go and get an eight and leave him in the dust.

"Clink! Calm down. Right now!" Beetee demands. Clink goes silent, but his eyes never leave mine.

"Dash was right about you. You really don't care about leaving people behind."

With that, Clink storms off, leaving me frozen on the couch.

Dash? He knows Dash? When did Dash ever talk about me?

It's too much. I decide I can't sit anymore, and move to leave. A tug on my shirt stops me.

"Stay, Widget. Watch the rest. You'll regret it if you don't." Beetee's eyes are understanding behind his glasses, and I can't refuse. So I stay, and Aeliana rewinds a bit so we can see the scores of the tributes from Four.

The boy gets a nine. The girl Mukta was talking to earlier pulls a five.

The rest of the scores aren't that noteworthy, and I stop trying to remember them after the tributes from Six. I only pay attention again when Barker's face appears onscreen. He pulls an eight, like me.

I shake my head. How on earth did someone like me manage to get the same score as a tree-climbing, axe-wielding boy from Seven?

Maya's score is a ten, proving once again that she will be a powerful force in the arena. I wonder if she'll ditch the girl from Eleven for the Careers. I'm certain they'll want her as a part of the pack, now that she's got a ten under her belt.

Sweet Mukta gets a four, the same as her District partner. I bet she's wondering how the heck I got an eight. Maybe she thinks I snared my way to the top.

I snort at the image of me in the private session, hoisting dummies into the air by their feet. I can only imagine the score that would have gotten me.

Then those blue eyes are onscreen, and it's all I can do not to look away. It's just his picture, right? It's not like he can actually see me or anything.

"The score for Amaranth Bernal of District Nine is eleven!"

The crowd goes wild. I just feel sick to my stomach.

"Who is he?" Wiress whispers. An eleven is practically unheard of. Impossible. Capitolians must be placing their bets as she speaks.

I only pay attention to the girl from Ten because I think her hair is pretty in the tribute photo. She gets a six, and so does the girl from Eleven. They announce her name as Mihica. Why did Maya choose to her as an ally, again?

The show finishes with the girl from Twelve, Kim, who scores a five.

When Caesar bids us all a goodnight, I am relieved. All I want right now is sleep. No more thinking, no more scores. Just sleep.

I have a nightmare that night. Mukta and I are drowning in a pool of something bright red, and the liquid burns my skin. Just when I manage to claw my way to the surface and gasp for air, a pair of icy blue eyes swallows me whole.

—

"No."

My stylist glares in response to my refusal.

"Honey, this is fashion. And you don't have a choice."

"I am not wearing those shoes."

"Yes you are, and the sooner you suck it up and put them on, the sooner we can move on."

I stare disgustedly at the horrible gray death traps they want me to put on my feet. I have never ever worn heels before, and I definitely don't want to try them out now.

"Just hear me out," I try again.

"No buts. Put them on. Now!"

This is a battle I am not prepared to lose. "Do you want me to break an ankle the night before the Games?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I think you're the one being ridiculous. I'm fifteen. Trying to market me as sexy is kind of messed up."

"They're not even that tall."

"Are you kidding me?" I can't believe the craziness of the Capitol. Heels? On a baby-faced fifteen year old lab-rat?!

After a minute of tense glaring, my stylist throws her hands up in the air. "You know what? Fine. Have it your way. We'll get you a pair of hideous flats and see how many sponsors you get."

The flats are still horrible, but a million times better than the alternative.

Everyone's stressed out today, and Beetee did warn me everything would be a little more hectic with the preparations. Apparently they're always like this on interview day.

After several hours of grueling makeover I am temporarily released from the clutches of my prep team. Beetee chuckles as I collapse into an armchair across from him.

"Did they beautify you enough?"

"I think they over-beautified me. And I still have to put on the dress later tonight."

"Well," he leans forward, assessing me. "It's time for step two."

Step two, I learn, is the actual interview prep. Tonight is the night when we, the tributes, make our big impressions. We only have three minutes to do it, so winging it is not an option. Before I even leave is room I have to have an angle prepared and already plan the answers to any potential interview questions.

Over the course of three hours, Beetee asks me all kinds of questions about home, my family, my strategy, my time in the Capitol. It takes me several tries to get the answers for each somewhat right.

"Well, you're not sexy."

"Duh."

"I would say to go for the standard 'I'm smarter than all of these idiots so just you wait' approach, but that's pretty overused for District Three tributes."

"So what then? No angle?"

"What? Of course not. You need an angle," my mentor stresses, "it's just that we haven't found it yet."

Several questions later, Beetee snaps his fingers.

"I know! Go for mysterious."

"Huh?"

"You, Widget Irving, have a secret master plan that'll blow the audience away. You just can't tell anyone what it is."

"I do?"

"Even if you don't have one yet, pretend you do. Capitolians love mystery."

So we try the new angle, and surprisingly it works. After a couple more rounds of questions Beetee shoots me a thumbs up.

"You're good to go," he says, "and it's time to get that dress on. You only have ninety minutes until show time."

I don't protest as my stylist roughly pulls me into another gray ensemble. The dress actually isn't that horrible.

I just hope tonight turns out okay.

—

I try to be confident when I step up onstage. Caesar Flickerman's just introduced the tributes, and we're all being escorted into lines of elegant chairs off to the side of the main interview platform.

My eyes take several minutes to fully adjust to the bright lights, and I am stunned when I can finally take in the crowd. It's as if the entire Capitol has assembled to watch our interviews - the audience is huge!

Relax. Don't be nervous. Just sit back and wait your turn.

The girl from One starts the night off, and immediately takes everyone's breaths away. Her gown is stunning, accenting her figure wonderfully. I can tell what her angle is as soon as she starts talking: she's a princess. She speaks as if she's above everyone else, laughing like the thought of her ever losing is ridiculous. The Capitol eats it up.

After her three minutes are up, Flash takes the stage. His style is arrogant. He answers confidently, flashing the audience several winks before his time runs out.

Before long both of the tributes from Two have given their interviews. Zandria was bloodthirsty, angry that she didn't get a higher training score. The boy was the strong silent type, answering questions like a minimalist, but effectively.

Now it's my turn. Caesar introduces me, kissing the back of my hand. It takes a lot of willpower to not wipe it on my dress, but I resist the urge.

"So, Widget," the host says conspiratorially, "Are you aware that your training score is the highest from your district in fourteen years?"

"Oh, well," my mind searches for something to say, "I do try, Caesar." I flash the audience a smile I hope comes across as knowing.

"She tries! Ha! Isn't she something, ladies and gentlemen? So modest. But really," he lowers his voice in something akin to a stage-whisper, "How did you get that eight? We're all wondering."

I play along, lowering my voice as well. "I would love to tell you all my secrets," I say, "But aren't surprises more fun as surprises?"

Caesar laughs like I've told the funniest joke he's ever heard. "Full of tricks, this one! But yes, we understand. And I'm sure we're all looking forward to seeing your tricks in action. Aren't we, ladies and gentlemen?"

The crowd roars, and for a moment I feel genuinely happy.

"Now tell me a little bit about home, Widget. Who's going to welcome you back when these Games are over?"

Caesar asks this as if it's a given that I'll go home. As if there's no question that I'll see my family again. I guess he's right; the only question is if I'll still be breathing when I get there.

"Home is wonderful. Honestly, I miss it a lot. I have two brothers watching me right now, one older and one younger. The little one's only three."

The audience lets out a collective aww. "And how much do they mean to you?" Caesar asks seriously.

"The world. I'd do anything for them. Including winning this thing."

Clink's words flash through my mind. Dash was right about you. You really don't care about leaving people behind.

I do care, Dash. I don't want to leave anyone behind.

"Touching words. Is there anything else you'd like to say to Panem before our time is over?"

I put on a smile and look into the faces of the crowd. "If there's anything I've learned in the laboratories back in Three, it's that dynamite comes in small packages. Keep that in mind, Panem, when you watch me compete tomorrow. You don't know the half of what I've got planned."

The crowd roars again and the buzzer goes off, signaling that my time is up. On my way back to my seat I catch Ranther's eye. He gazes at me intensely, but for once I don't flinch away. I nod in his direction before taking my seat and watching Clink stumble his way through the interview questions.

When the last tribute is done speaking the lights dim, and I am finally allowed to leave my chair. Before I can make my way back over to Beetee and my prep team, however, there's a tap on my shoulder.

It's Mukta. She looks at me determinedly and doesn't wait for an acknowledgement.

"Tomorrow," she begins, "When we're on those pedestals, you find me. We'll have sixty seconds to figure it out. I'll point somewhere, and we'll both meet up."

I nod. I'd almost forgotten to coordinate something with her, but I'm glad she found me. We won't see each other again until we're inside the Arena.

"See you around, Widget."

With that my little ally is off, quickly disappearing into the crowds backstage.

I thought sleep would be difficult tonight, but it's surprisingly easy to come by. I guess my body somehow knows this could be the last night I ever see, and it's making the most of the opportunity.

My last conscious thought is let the Games begin.

—

A/N: If anyone was wondering, I got the elements ceplumite, glaetium and Fradian from this random metal name generator I found online. Most of this science is made up, and I have no idea whether Widget's stunt would work in real life. But that's the beauty of fiction, right? ;)