Ingram Gaultier, 51

District 1, He/Him

June 17th, 97 ADD

12:47 PM

tw: misgendering

His interview had gone well.

His son hadn't made that easy, given the ridiculous behavior in the arena, but Ingram was savvy enough to maintain reputation. That was what mattered.

(He wasn't sure what angle Invincible was playing at. Ingram had been very displeased to watch the loss of the Cornucopia, and dismayed with how long Invincible went without kills. The mentions of a "romance" with some outer-district whore were troubling, as was the strange dynamic in his alliance.

It was only recently- with the combination of a won Cornucopia, the current fan favorite friendship with Four, and the apparent feud with the outer-district Volunteer- that Ingram had stopped wondering if he'd trained the boy for nothing. If Invincible would squander all those years of Ingram's hard work.)

(It remained to be seen, he supposed. But it seemed slightly less likely now.)

"Thank you," Ingram told the interviewer. "I hope you have the footage you need."

The Capitolite woman gave him a shining smile. Literally- her teeth had been studded with pearls. "My pleasure," she answered. "We only have two others, and I'm sure the three of you will be plenty!"

"Invincible's friends, I assume," Ingram replied. His son had plenty at the Academy. Ingram had met them all, and was sure to inform Invincible's trainers which he should be spending more time with. It was important to surround oneself with the right sort.

"Yes. And her," the interviewer said, gesturing to the door. Ingram turned, following her gaze.

He should've known.

A woman stood there. Ingram noted with satisfaction that she was far from the beauty she'd once been: the lines in her brow were much deeper, and more than a few gray strands peppered her coiled black hair. She wore a concert black, floor-length dress, and couldn't quite maintain her ramrod posture. She held a violin case in her right hand, and Ingram forced himself not to wrinkle his nose at the thing.

He spoke first. He felt more in control that way. "Cicely," he greeted her.

Her lips thinned. "Ingram."

"Surprised you would come to this," he said, gesturing at the cameras. From the corner of his eye, he caught a blinking red light- they'd never been turned off.

His ex-wife regarded him with a tilt of her head. He'd always despised that head tilt. So knowing, so… mocking. As though she knew something he didn't, but wouldn't tell him what it was. She'd always loved holding her superiority above Ingram's head.

"For Invincible," she said, "anything."

Ingram raised his brows. "You never wanted this for him. Them. You've never cared about District One like we have."

It was true. Cicely had never supported Invincible's training like Ingram had- or, really, at all. It had always been Ingram who remembered the importance of reputation, Ingram who paid attention to District One's standing. It was Ingram who sought to do something about it, through making Invincible a Victor.

The best part of divorce, he'd found, was that he no longer had to argue the case with Cicely every damn day. He could simply do what was best. He could guide Invincible as he needed to be guided.

Cicely exhaled. "Your passion is difficult to match," she said carefully.

"Not with any effort," he replied.

She blinked a few times. "I- I only wanted Invincible to choose for hi- for themself. If this is what they chose, I'm here to support them."

"It's much easier to make choices without distractions," Ingram observed. He'd made sure of that.

"I'm sure you're right about that," Cicely answered. She looked over to the interview, whose pearl teeth were on full display. "I'm sorry if we've delayed you."

"Not at all," she answered.

Ingram nodded, satisfied. "I'll be on my way," he promised the interviewer. "I hope the rest of your stay in District One is lovely."

As soon as she responded, he walked past Cicely and left.

(Their son was his. He liked seeing Cicely know it.)

Sparta Marcellus, 28

District 2, She/Her

1:22 PM

"Are you and Bastet close?"

"I know them well," Sparta replied, knowing full well she was not answering the question.

(Bastet had always hated Sparta. Sparta hated Bastet now more than ever.

But the Capitol had few others to interview on Bastet's behalf, and Sparta couldn't resist accepting the request for an interview. It was the closest she'd ever come to participating in the Games after failing her own selection tournament against Diana Van Zandt ten years ago.)

(Bitch.)

"In our records, it says that the two of you are sisters," the interviewer pressed.

Sparta tried not to grimace. "Bastet and I were adopted by the same person," she conceded. Though she'd never exactly thought of it as adoption. "We grew up together. But it was never exactly… sisterhood."

"And now your adoptive mother has died," the interviewer continued. "Right before the Games! How tragic!"

"An unforeseeable tragedy," Sparta lied.

(Sparta knew what had happened to Nyx. Bastet hadn't been good at hiding what they'd done to their trainer. They'd barely hidden it at all- there was still a faint bloodstain on the floor, and the rectangular plot of fresh earth behind the facility wasn't exactly subtle. Still, part of her was surprised Bastet had done it. The other part was surprised that Bastet hadn't done it sooner.

In a way, it was a favor. Nyx hadn't been kind to anyone, and that included Sparta. Though Sparta sincerely doubted Bastet had done it for anyone beside themself.)

The interviewer nodded sympathetically. "I'm sure she would have loved to see Bastet's success."

Sparta nearly choked, but forced herself to stay relaxed.

No, Nyx would've hated this. She would've blamed Bastet for Aveline's second death, just as she blamed Bastet for Aveline's first one (something Sparta was still trying to wrap her head around). Sparta would've had to face the brunt of Nyx's anger, alone, day after day, as the trainee who was never good enough to make it into the arena in the first place. "If you can't do, teach," Nyx had often mocked her.

So Sparta taught. She'd kept showing up to training, despite her own failure, and she made sure Aveline was perfect. Sparta hated Aveline- she hated Aveline's perfection, her dumb blonde hair, the stars in her eyes and the ease of her smile- but she did it anyway. She even let Aveline cry on her fucking shoulder, which was ridiculous, because half the time Aveline was crying about something Bastet-related instead of training-related. And Sparta made sure Bastet was a decent challenger, to keep Aveline working hard. No better push to greatness than competition. Sparta did it all. Everything that Nyx asked of her.

(Short of failing to take the Volunteer spot for herself.)

(And now she was alone. No Aveline. No Nyx.

And no Bastet.)

(She was glad Nyx hadn't lived to see this outcome, where Bastet was somehow the best of all of them. The woman was probably rolling in her shallow grave as it was.)

Sparta realized she'd hesitated too long, lost in her memories. "Yes," she agreed. "She always challenged Bastet to work hard. She would've been glad to see those lessons pay off." Sort of true.

"Bastet hasn't talked about your mother's death at all," the interviewer noted.

Sparta tried not to grimace. "I think they're just staying focused, is all," she answered. "And if I could say anything to her right now, I'd tell them to keep staying focused. They have to."

"What a heartfelt message!" the interviewer said. Sparta supposed it was their turn to lie now.

(Sparta did know Bastet well, though. She knew what Bastet was focused on- what Bastet had always been focused on. How could Bastet think about anything but Aveline, when that was what they'd been told to do their entire life?

Sparta didn't have any good answers for that one.)

Alecto Fotis, 15

District Four, She/Her

11:19 AM

"So, girls," the interviewer asked- an ugly guy with really long earlobes- "your sister is in the final eight! How does that feel?"

Ally bristled. First, because he'd referred to them as "girls," as if it wasn't already bad enough that he was making her and Meg do this interview together. They were different people. Second, because Ally didn't feel happy about Tisiphone in the Games. At all.

(She'd left. She fucking left them. Tisiphone knew how bad that hurt and she did it anyway.)

"I wish I was in the Games," Meg said. Ally rolled her eyes- Meg had said this several times since Tisiphone left. Off-camera, Elpis played with a toy boat. He seemed content, which was a relief. Taking care of him with just Meg for the last few weeks had not been easy.

The ugly man smiled. "You want to follow in your sister's footsteps someday?"

"I want to be on TV," Meg corrected him.

"We're on TV right now," Ally pointed out.

"This is different," Meg argued. "I want to go to the Capitol too."

"Do you like the clothes?" the man asked. "Your sister's dresses were so pretty, weren't they?"

Meg frowned. "Yeah."

Ally was not interested in hearing Meg whine again about wanting a pretty dress. She'd already gotten an earful about it during the Tribute Parade, and again during the interviews. "Sure got someone's attention," Ally said instead.

"You're talking about the Two tribute?" he asked.

"Duh. We all saw them kissing," Ally said savagely. An image she'd been trying to scrub from her eyes for days.

"She kissed someone on TV!" Meg said, indignant.

"Pretty sure it was her first time," Ally added.

"How romantic!" the man said.

"Not really," Ally said. "She already got dumped. She better not kiss that other one now."

Meg shuddered. "Ew. She better not."

"The One tribute? Invincible?" the man asked.

"Yeah, that one," Ally said. "That would be so gross. Like, what kind of name is Invincible?"

"I don't mind the name," Meg said. "I just think they're weird. I always feel like they can see me through the screen."

The interviewer changed the subject back to Tisiphone. "Are you worried about your sister's injuries?" the ugly guy asked.

Ally frowned. "Are you seriously-"

Her twin interrupted. "If she gets to die dramatically on TV and I don't, I'll be so upset," Meg declared.

Ally scowled. "Meg!"

"What!"

"You know what?" Ally turned back to the interviewer. "No. I don't care. She already picked what she wants to do. She can die from her injuries. Whatever."

It was Meg's turn to gape. "Ally!"

"She left!" Ally reminded her. "She's gone!"

"She could come back," Meg said.

"Oh yeah? You really think so?" Ally said. "No one ever comes back!"

(Not their dad. Not their mom. No fucking way Pissy Tissy would be the first.

No, Ally knew how this song and dance went. It was her, Meg, and Elpis now. They were on their own.)

"No," Meg said bitterly. "She'll come back a gorgeous popular Victor and shove it in our faces."

Ally couldn't help but scoff. "Yeah, right-"

"What does your mom think of all this?" the ugly guy interrupted.

Both Ally and Meg froze.

(Ally had no idea what their mom would've thought. Their mom had never been… hands on, exactly, and especially when it came to Ally and Meg. Their mom told Tisiphone what to do and how to do it, then vanished. It was a repeating cycle. One that always made Ally angry. She never understood why it didn't make Tisiphone angry, too.)

"Mom's not here," Ally eventually said.

"Visiting our brother's dad," Meg added, gesturing at Elpis on the floor.

"Ah," the man said. "Got it."

(She should've been relieved. Instead, Ally was angry again. She was so angry and tired of this stupid lie Tisiphone made them tell. What was the point? Tisiphone wasn't coming back. There was no lighthouse left to save.)

(But Tisiphone had always cared about that stupid lighthouse more than them.)

Spark Le Rat, 16

District Five, He/Him

3:38 PM

"I'm getting paid for this, right?" he asked.

The interviewer- a man whose skin seemed to have an eerie blue tint to it- gave Spark a look. "No. You're not."

Spark sighed. "I could be persuaded to say more," he offered. "For an… exchange."

The man scowled. "You'll be on TV," he said. "That should be exciting enough."

"Not for what I'm about to say," Spark replied. "I could get in trouble for some of these things. And if I'm gonna get in trouble, I'd rather you make it worth my while… ya feel?"

(Spark was not going to get in trouble. The Peacekeepers already knew everything he could possibly say, and Chase herself knew most of it too. Spark had managed to get all possible charges dropped last year when he gave the gang up. He'd be fine.)

The man rolled his eyes, but snapped his fingers at the camerawoman. "Odeliah," he said, "give the kid some cash."

The camerawoman begrudgingly pulled a few bills from her pocket and passed them to Spark. He'd been ready to push for more, but he'd already received more than expected. Maybe he could try the push later.

"Alright," the interviewer said. "You have your money. Tell us about Chase Holloway."

(Chase Holloway. There might be no one in the world who hated him more than Chase Holloway. His nose ached at the thought of her, the bridge still uneven from where Chase had broken it last fall. He'd probably deserved it, though that didn't mean he forgave her for doing it.

The truth was that he didn't hate Chase back. He knew she'd probably be surprised by that, but that was how he felt. Chase was just… naive. She thought the way through the world was friendship and teamwork, while Spark knew that it was everyone for themself.

Yeah, he was sorry Tye got hurt. He was sorry none of them could be friends with him anymore. But Spark saved his own ass first, then everyone else's.)

(He refused to feel guilty for making sure he survived.)

"Chase is mostly known around here as a criminal," he said truthfully. "She steals from anyone with something to steal from."

The interviewer's eyes widened. "Would you call her dangerous?"

"Yeah." His nose throbbed.

"Is she deserving of the crown, then?"

Spark exhaled. "She'll prove it herself, I think," he said. "The Chase I know is willing to do lots of dumb shit to get it. But she might get herself killed for other people. Hard to tell."

"What kinds of dumb things?" the man asked.

Spark shrugged. "I've seen her screw with security systems way out of her league," he recalled. "I've seen her go back for people she should've left to the Peacekeepers. I've seen her beat the shit out of people. And she's fond of shooting things out of cannons and catapults."

"We did hear something about-" the man shuffled through his notes- "an egg launcher she made during the training period?"

Spark snorted. "Yeah, I'd believe it."

"Quite ingenious."

"Or dangerous and stupid," Spark replied. "Look, I know she's got fans. Chase can be great. A lot of her crazy gadgets can be fun, and she was cool to hang out with sometimes. But I've seen the other side of her."

"Which is dangerous and stupid?"

"She can get mad," Spark said. "Really, really mad. And she can get violent, too. She broke my nose once."

"Oh no!" the man said, aghast. "What happened?"

Spark shook his head. "A small misunderstanding," he said. "She blew up at me. We haven't been close ever since, because she refused to pay my medical bills. Isn't that harsh?"

The interviewer nodded sympathetically. "So the Chase you know is not the one we've seen," he summarized. "Instead, she's a violent criminal."

Spark nodded. "She should be in jail," he said. "Trust me, I've tried. District Five would be safer with her and her gang off the streets. She refuses to see that, though, and they have yet to be caught."

"Let's hope the Games can reform her, then," the man said. "Perhaps she can get all her violence out in the arena, as several Victors have done before her."

"Maybe," Spark said dubiously. "We'll have to see."

(And Spark would be watching. He wasn't surprised to see Chase make it this far, even with odds stacked against her; he wouldn't be surprised if she won, either.

He knew Chase Holloway, even if he still didn't like her. That girl had enough anger burning in her to keep taking swings at whoever she had to. If she ever saw his interview, she'd probably break his nose again just for the hell of it.

But for that to happen, she'd have to survive long enough to watch it.)

Teurian Metellus, Age

District Six, He/Him

4:15 PM

"Is there any chance we could film Tomo's dogs?" the interviewer asked. "The ones he mentioned in his interview? The Capitol has been dying to see them."

"They're not with me," Teurian answered coolly. "A boy came by to pick them up. They've been with him for the last several weeks."

"What boy?" the interviewer asked.

Teurian didn't know. Teurian didn't particularly care. "One of Tomo's friends."

"Ah, I see," the interviewer replied. "Very kind of them."

"Yes," Teurian agreed. He couldn't be bothered with the damn things.

"So," the interviewer continued, "your son, Tomo, has had quite a thrill in the arena so far!"

(Teurian supposed that was a word for it.)

"The Games are always a thrill, of course," they added, "but Tomo and his friends have been very active, wouldn't you say?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"There was one moment from last week that we've been absolutely buzzing about," the interviewer said. "I have a quote for you, from a conversation Tomo had with a group of tributes. You may remember it."

Teurian did.

They cleared their throat. "Your dad's a murdering copper, and you can't even think you might be wrong about him. I know the truth, Metellus. And I'm not giving up on it just because you want to pretend otherwise."

Yes. He'd been expecting this.

"The tribute in question, Mercury Vidovic, made it clear that he believed you had something to do with the death of his father," the interviewer said. "What do you make of this allegation?"

Teurian smiled. "Ridiculous," he answered. "It's absolutely ridiculous. I did no such thing. The boy must have confused me with someone else. It is true that my career has been with the Peacekeeping forces, but I would not describe my experience as at all violent. Rather, it has been my pleasure to ensure the safest possible conditions in my district."

"Is it true you spent time in District Two?"

"Yes," Teurian answered, "but many years ago. Due to the needs of the Peacekeepers, I was reassigned to District Six. It has been a much better fit."

The interviewer nodded. "So these claims are false."

"Exactly," Teurian replied. "The boy was confused, unfortunately. May he and his father rest in peace."

(Draconis Vidovic could rot in hell for all he cared.)

(Teurian remembered it all. He was not the forgetting type.

It was chaos in Two back then, the district only held together by Teurian's sheer will. Brainwashed citizens of a haphazard religion waged war on the Peacekeepers. It had to be stopped, and Teurian Metellus was the only one willing to get dirty enough to do it. His plan was genius- pitting the religious fanatics against the gangs that had riddled Two for decades. They'd clear each other out, and Two would be pristine again.

One of those gangs was Draconis Vidovic's. So Teurian introduced himself. Made the connection. Draconis fell for it just like the others.

And his plan worked. The chaos canceled out. Bodies piled up just as Teurian had intended. But the Peacekeepers couldn't be associated, and Teurian had to leave town.

So he cleaned up his loose ends on the way out. Framed the gunshot on another dead man, then left. Went to Six and started over. Rose through the ranks once again. Made sure his son- his final loose end- didn't know, would never be able to say a word.

Messy that it was all coming up again now. He hadn't expected that.

But then again, he hadn't expected Tomo to be Reaped, let alone make it so far.)

"You must be proud of Tomo for how he defended you," the interviewer said.

"Of course," Teurian answered. "I have long hoped he would follow in my footsteps. Though I'm very honored that he has this opportunity to bring pride to our district now, as a tribute in the Games."

"Is there any advice you would give him right now, if you could?" they asked.

Teurian exhaled. "None I haven't given him before," he replied. "Make me proud, Tomo. Make Panem proud."

The interviewer smiled. "Thank you, Head Peacekeeper Metellus," they said. They waved a hand at the camera, and the blinking red light vanished. "I think that'll be all we need-"

Teurian stood. "Very well."

"If there's anyone else you would recommend we meet with-"

Teurian gave a brisk smile. "I trust you to have done thorough research," he said. "I'm afraid I must be on my way. Duty calls."

"Very well, Mr. Metel-"

Teurian turned and walked away, his thoughts already returning to work. He had far more important things to do today.

Florence Gammon, 11

District 7, She/Her

6:29 PM

She was sitting in the hallway, waiting for her turn to be interviewed, when a man walked in and sat beside her.

Florence recognized him. He was large and stocky, with a bristle beard and thick eyebrows. She'd wondered if he would be here.

He gave her a nod. "Miss Gammon."

She returned it. "Mr. Henry."

(She'd only met him once or twice. More often, she'd seen him from where she stood in the crowd, wearing an apron and cooking. Even more often, she'd heard Valentina complain about him- his bossiness, his mind games, his tough-guy exterior.

Valentina hated it all, which meant Florence was supposed to hate him too.)

"Shame about your sister," he said.

Florence jutted out her chin. "She's not dead," she challenged him.

"No. Of course not," he said. "I… I just meant… that this happened to her. At all."

Florence scanned the man's face, trying to figure out his intentions. Valentina always said they were bad intentions. That Mr. Henry was an evil man who delighted in a teenage girl's downfall.

Valentina wasn't here, though.

"She can do it," Florence said, some of her stubbornness waning. "She'll be fine."

Mr. Henry exhaled. "I think so too," he said. "She always was a tough one."

"Yeah," Florence agreed. "She's really tough."

Mr. Henry inclined his head. Florence kept watching him. Always keep an eye on Mr. Henry, Valentina used to say. Or else he would come out on top.

Mr. Henry met her eye. "You okay, kid?"

Florence squared her shoulders. "Don't say bad stuff about my sister on TV," she demanded.

She'd expected him to laugh at her. But he didn't. "Of course not," he said, his voice grave.

"...You won't?"

"Valentina's a good kid," he answered. "And I won't talk bad about a kid, okay?"

Florence stared at him. "But…"

"What?"

"You…" she trailed. "You're Mr. Henry. You and… my sister… you're sworn enemies."

She caught Mr. Henry trying to hide a smile. "Are we, now?"

"Yeah. That's what she told me."

"Ah." Mr. Henry leaned back in his seat, considering this. "I've tried to help her where I could. With her cooking. She never seemed… interested, but she's a teenager, so…"

"She doesn't need the help," Florence informed him. "She's the best."

He nodded. "Mighty impressive that she places so well," he agreed. "Especially with adults."

"She should be first," Florence said.

Mr. Henry didn't respond to that. Instead, he said, "I can tell she's real important to you."

Florence stuck out her chin again. "Yeah. So?"

He gave her a steady look. "Are you doing okay? Eating enough?"

Florence struggled. "I'm fine," she said. "She'll be fine. She'll come back."

"I think so too," he said again.

"My parents don't cook as good as her," she said. "But she'll come back soon."

"Well," Mr. Henry said, "maybe I'll bring something by, then."

Florence opened her mouth to reply. Before she could, Mr. Henry said, "I know it's not as good as Valentina's. But maybe it'll come close."

Florence's eyes inexplicably filled with tears.

Mr. Henry put a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Some things are bigger than barbeque," he murmured. "At least she's not, y'know… doing things with that forest boy anymore."

(She could agree with him on that. For a few days, Florence had been scared her sister had discovered some kind of religious obsession. And the boy she was with was terrifying; every night she went to sleep, she wondered if her sister wouldn't be dead at his hands by morning.)

"She knows what she's doing," Florence said, her voice thick.

"She does," Mr. Henry said.

He didn't say anything for the rest of the time they waited together. Florence didn't either.

(It was confusing. Mr. Henry was supposed to be the enemy. He was the bad guy who always stole her sister's well-deserved victories. He was the uppity man who gave Valentina advice she didn't need.

But here he was with his hand on Florence's shoulder, and the offer of food, and Florence found she didn't mind. Not at all.

Maybe some things were bigger than barbeque after all.)

Sparrow Sanchez, 16

District 9, She/Her

6:07 PM

Not long after her arrest in April, Sparrow was transferred from the District Nine Penitentiary to the District Nine Refuge for Wayward Minors, simply known as the Refuge. More than one newsie had escaped the Refuge in their day, despite the bars on the windows and the deadbolts on the doors. But Sparrow, with her hurt leg and without her cane, was in no shape to escape right now.

So when her idiot best friend Volunteered for the Games, she watched from the Refuge.

Every day, she sat in vigil next to the Refuge's blocky television, listening closely for any mention of Jem. The commentators loved talking about him, which Sparrow supposed was a good thing. She hung onto every word of his interview, memorizing the names and districts of who he allied with.

She wasn't the only one who watched. Plenty of kids, gleeful to have escaped another year, ate up the entertainment. It was only after the Games started that one of the girls finally noticed Sparrow's blindness and started narrating to her.

"You like the Games too, huh? I love 'em," the girl said. "So our girl, Shazia, she's got these long braids, and our guy, Jem, he's got this real curly hair and he's tall as a fuckin' streetlight."

Sparrow never told her she knew Jem. She liked hearing her- Ketsia, she'd later find out- describe him. She didn't want her to stop. And Ketsia, who watched every moment alongside her, never did.

"Oh, fuck, Jem got stabbed by the Seven freak-"

"Shit, shit, Shazia's fucked, a Career got her- God, that's so nasty, be glad you can't see this-"

"Alright, Jem's back with all his allies. Shit, there's a fuck-ton of them, the hell is his game here?"

"Fuck, he got stabbed again-"

"The hell is he talking about right now?"

"Oh, no-"

"Shit shit shit shit shit- he's running, he's gotta run faster-"

"He's pissed, he looks so mad right now-"

"Uh… he's cryin'… I never know what to do when they cry…"

She listened to it all.

Until, ten days in, someone interrupted her vigil.

She heard the door open. Next to her, Ketsia said, "Who're you? Why're you dressed like that?"

A smooth voice answered her. "We're looking for Ms. Sparrow Sanchez. Is she here?"

Sparrow, who had never been referred to as Ms. in her life, clutched the armrests of her chair. "Yes," she answered, making sure her voice was clear. "Who's asking?"

The smooth voice again. "A representative of the Gamemaker team," they answered. "We're here to interview you on behalf of Jem Piper."

"You know him?" Ketsia interrupted. "What the fuck? You never said!"

Sparrow nodded in the direction of the stranger. "Okay."

"Dude," Ketsia said, "I never would've called him a beanpole if you told me that…"

"We'd like to do the interview now," the stranger said. "If that is acceptable."

"Shit, Spare, you're gonna be on TV!" Ketsia crowed. "Shit, lemme fix your hair."

Rough fingers combed through Sparrow's fine hair. She winced, but let Ketsia do it. It was probably needed.

"That's enough," the stranger said. "We'd like to speak to Ms. Sanchez alone, thank you."

"I'd be happy to do an interview too," Ketsia offered. "In case you need-"

"We'll let you know," was the response.

Ketsia stood up. "Bye. Good luck," she told Sparrow.

"Thank you," Sparrow murmured.

The door opened and closed again, and it was just Sparrow and the Capitolite. There was some shuffling as the Capitolite- and it sounded like there was at least one other person with them- made themselves comfortable.

Or, they tried to. The Refuge wasn't a comfortable kind of place.

"Camera in three, two, one…" the interviewer said. "Perfect! I'm here with Sparrow Sanchez, an associate of the one and only Jem Piper! Sparrow, how do you know Jem?"

"Um," Sparrow said, trying not to get overwhelmed. "We met at work. Started with mill work, but then we both got into newspapers."

"Very interesting!" the interviewer exclaimed. Sparrow didn't believe them. "And how long have you known each other?"

"I… I don't remember a time when we didn't," Sparrow answered. "Jem's always been there with me. He's like a brother."

"That's adorable," the interviewer replied. "Did you know he would Volunteer, then?"

"No." She felt tears pricking at her eyes. She blinked, trying to clear them.

"So this was a surprise to you," the interviewer said. "Has his behavior in the arena been a surprise, too?"

Sparrow frowned. "What?"

"Jem Piper has a history of rebelliousness, does he not?" the interviewer said. "He was responsible for a recent strike in District Nine, and now he's rallying against the most patriotic tributes in the arena with declarations of 'making things fair.'"

Sparrow understood. "No," she said. "He just- he tries to help. He's not a rebel. He wants to help people, he's not- he isn't trying to start anything."

"I see," the interviewer said.

A lump formed in Sparrow's throat as she realized, once again, that she didn't believe them.

Marus Navar, 37

District 12, He/Him

10:39 AM

After six months without a body, they finally let him go. There was no proof a crime had occurred, and Twelve's justice system wasn't designed for long detainments- it was made for a short stay, followed by public atonement.

"Here's your clothes," the Peacekeeper said, throwing him a plastic bag. She threw his shoes in after him, along with another bag containing his identification card, watch, and wallet.

Marus didn't say a word. The Peacekeeper was wholly unphased by this, as he rarely uttered more than a sentence a day.

(Silence was comfort. Silence was control.

Silence, because he didn't owe them anything.)

The walk home was long. They'd released him in the morning, and that meant Twelve was moderately busy; the miners had already descended into the earth, but the streets were full of people going about their business.

Marus saw their heads turn toward him, then quickly away. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, refusing to acknowledge them. He knew what they'd said of him- of his family- the last six months. He knew what they'd say of him once he had passed, escaping their earshot. They weren't worth his attention. Not a single one.

Finally, he made it home.

The door was unlocked. Inside, it smelled of dust and darkness. Someone had clearly been here while the house stood empty; chairs had been overturned, and kitchen cabinets- empty- had been left ajar. Teenagers' beer bottles were scattered on the kitchen table, and dirty prints from shoes he didn't recognize stamped the floor.

Just Marus, now.

No wife. No daughter.

Silence.

He locked the door. He put the chairs back where they belonged. He closed the kitchen cabinets and threw away the beer bottles. He swept the floor. He put everything back to where it should have always been.

He ventured into his bedroom. Unlike the kitchen, it was nearly untouched, save the huddle of blankets in the center of the bed. Someone had slept here in his absence.

His daughter?

He closed his eyes.

(She'd been here for months, alone. He had no family she could've lived with, and neither did his wife. But she was safer that way. Out of sight, out of mind, out of harm's way. Silent. Safe.

Until now.)

Pounding fists on the front door made Marus jump. "Mr. Navar!" someone shouted.

His breath hitched in his throat. They'd just let him go, they couldn't be back for him- not again, not so soon- there was no body-

"Mr. Navar!" the voice shouted again. "A request from the Capitol, if you please!"

He forced himself to breathe. Not Peacekeepers.

He left his bedroom, following the sound of the knocking. He cleared his throat so that he could be heard without opening the door. "Request?"

"For an interview!" the voice repeated. "On behalf of Mendi Navar!"

He was suddenly angry. "No."

"No?"

"Leave my daughter alone," he demanded.

The voice- the Capitolite- on the other side of the door didn't understand. "She's in the Hunger Games, Mr. Navar," they said. "Giving an interview can help get her more attention! And sponsors!"

"She doesn't need attention!" he responded, his heart thumping in his chest. "Leave my family alone, do you understand me?"

"We know it's been a difficult several months for your family," the Capitolite said through the door. The sympathy in their voice didn't convince Marus one bit. "Mendi is so brave and capable! We're trying to give her the best chance-"

"I'm not talking about my daughter."

"Then perhaps you could talk about something else!" the Capitolite suggested. "Maybe you could clear up the mystery for us- Mendi has frequently told the audience that no one believes her, and your support could be invaluable. Is she right? Should we believe her?"

"...'Believes her?'"

"About the death of her mother, of course?"

Marus slammed his fist into the door before he could stop himself. He heard a shriek on the other side of the door and stalked away before he said anything he would regret.

(No. He wouldn't answer their questions. He'd been interrogated relentlessly by anyone and everyone about his wife, and it was none of their business. They didn't deserve to know. They had earned the right to nothing but his silence.)

(He didn't care what they accused him of. Their intrusions would never be successful. They would never find the answers they were looking for. Not from him, not from his wife, and not from his daughter. Never.)

(All the world would ever get from Marus Navar was silence.)

heyyy here's our interlude! thanks for your patience on this i really appreciate it. next update will be... when it happens! you guys know how it is.

anyway. will see u next time with day eleven (!) and more arena fun times! love u miss u bye

rb