"Dalton West of District Seven has earned himself a training score of...7!"
This earns Dalton a warm round of applause. Anything less and people would probably have been disappointed in him; he might not be bulky but the most feel that he carries himself with enough confidence that he must be good at something. He reckons this was probably the Gamemakers' thinking too, remembering how they'd seemed bored by him in the assessment.
He may as well carry on that way, and makes sure to grip the Capitol youth's hand too tightly for comfort, sneering slightly at him. He's heard the other tributes say that Lancelot - Lance, to some of them - is a nice guy, but this close up he's sweating and is obviously a bit fidgety and nervous, despite Tile fluttering around him. And he's not even the one preparing to go and fight to the death.
"So, ah...Dalton!" Lancelot begins, "How are you feeling?"
"Not half as nervous as you, by the look of it!" Dalton retorts gleefully. For a moment he thinks he's got Lancelot cornered, but Tile leans across to gain his attention with that slightly vacant smile to ask if he thinks his family are nervous for him. "Nari won't be," is his reply, "Nari is too young. She won't even...she won't even remember."
He won't let himself cry. He can't. He remembers that feeling he'd had up on the stage in the fog; that he would volunteer himself for this as many times as it took to keep her safe. He'll be strong for her, for his little cousin. He doesn't have a choice.
He imagines her watching this, older, her hair long and glossy but her face still the face of a baby, looking at his face on the Tree and remembering the vaguely bear-like impression of the big cousin she never really knew. And he knows he can't let that happen to her. For the rest of the interview, he sits straighter, looking the cameras dead in the eye, and talking to Nari. Whether it does him any good, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
In the crowd, a few people start paying attention to him.
"Jolie De'Luwa - I did pronounce that right, didn't I? Good! - of District Seven, tribute score...6!"
Jolie bounds up to the seat, the bangs that her stylist gave up on flopping around her forehead. Thankfully she's not in heels; she feels shaky enough as it is. There are so many people, and all of them looking at her, analysing her every move. She clasps her hands in front of her to hide the trembling as she flops into the seat. Her palms feel cold.
To her surprise, Tile starts off. "I love your hair!" she chirps, and Jolie can tell she's being genuine and can't help a smile flitting across her face. Tile doesn't wait for an answer and continues, "I wish I had short hair! Do you think I should cut it all off?" Although this is addressed to Jolie, the crowd all call up different suggestions, irritated at being ignored for about five minutes. Jolie blinks; she wasn't expecting to be asked for hairdressing tips. What is she supposed to say? What if she gets it wrong? But she can't be quiet for too long, so she hazards a guess at, "What does Lancelot think?" This prompts whistles from the crowd, and only Jolie can see Lancelot's heavily powdered cheeks flush slightly.
"I think you look perfect!" he exclaims. As the crowd coos, Jolie nods her head in agreement, earning herself a pat on the hand from Tile. She knows this interview is supposed to be about her but she can’t help but feel relieved that Tile and Lancelot are taking the limelight. With any luck, the Careers who Dalton seems so keen on won’t notice her this way.
“I think I’ve embarrassed him, don’t you?” Tile giggles, and for the rest of the interview, Jolie is relieved to find that all she has to do is nod and agree as the effervescent blonde chatters about hair stylists in the Capitol. She can’t help but think that Tile will be in trouble - the interviews are meant to be about the tributes, after all - but she doesn’t care.
As soon as she is out of view and Sokka is striding out onto the stage in yet another flouncy shirt, she runs a hand through her hair to make it ruffled. Now she feels comfortable.
"Sokka Sith, District Eight, with an impressive score of...10!”
Sokka swallows and the saliva goes down the wrong way, leaving him coughing violently as he makes his way to the seat by Lancelot. After a what seems like a long bout of hacking, Sokka manages to get things more in hand, and looks up at Lancelot and Tile with red and watering eyes.
“Better now?” chirps Tile. Sokka nods, clearing his throat against the tickle that threatens to set him coughing again. He can’t even begin to think about the 10 that he earned in that training session he can barely remember.
“So, Sokka, tell us about this girl back home!” Lancelot gives him a thrilled look, although inside he’s feeling rather depressed. Why do they always have to do this, the engagements, the torn relationships, the weeping lover left at home? Why couldn’t they just wait until they were outside the reaping age?
On the other hand, at least it gives him something to talk about.
Sokka’s face lights up for a minute, and the camera zooms in on the plain silver band he's twisting around and around on his finger.
“Amberle?” he says, and there is a wistful note to his voice. Tile immediately chokes up, along with half of the audience. Lancelot is taken aback - usually tributes with a score that high aren’t the emotional type.
“Yes, Amberle. That’s a pretty name! Tell us about her! How did you two meet?”
Sokka clears his throat; the tickle is back. When he speaks, his voice is unsteady, although that is more from the cough he’s suppressing.
“Well, we work in the same building, at the same loom. One day she tripped as she was going past with a basket of thread, and I stopped to help her pick them up. The thread was the exact same blue as her eyes...” he trails off, and Lancelot gives a little ‘oh’ as he mops at the tears in his eyes. The sound of noses being blown can be heard distinctly from the crowd.
He looks down the camera and hopes that Amberle has collected the courage to watch. She will, he knows. So he ignores Tile’s attempts to comfort him and whispers straight down the lens; “I’m coming back, Amber. I promised. I won’t let you down.”
“And next we have Cassidy Fairchild from District Eight, and with a tribute score of...5”
Cassidy is dressed to match Sokka, in a floaty dress similar to the one she wore for the parade. She touches the fabric with a sigh, thinking that this was at home, once, and how many people suffered cuts and bruises just to make her a shroud. Because that is what it is, essentially. But at least they’re safe at home, where she would give anything to be right now. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is.
Tears threaten in the corner of her eyes as all the lights turn to her. She’s one of the youngest; she’s only just realised it in the split-second that she sees herself on one of the screens. Her skin, which is usually flawless anyway - she’s never had to stress over spots, not that anybody in Eight has time or leisure to - looks closer to radiant, and with her hair tamed and straightened and as silky as her dress, her eyes look massive. She could be closer to ten, if it wasn’t for her slightly awkward ‘just grown’ height. Her mentor had said to play up her age, since people here like people who look cute, so if she looks it, why not?
She forces her mind away from tomorrow so that she can focus on this. She hunches her shoulders a little, tilting her head so that she’s looking up at them, immediately looking back to the floor again. Her shoes are top-quality satin. Is that convincing enough? She tucks her feet under as she sits down, trying to make it look like she’s too small to reach the floor. It certainly seems to work on Tile.
“Oh, aren’t you adorable?” the slightly giddy host chirps, cheered up quickly after Sokka’s interview, “What a lovely dress, isn’t it?”
Cassidy grits her teeth and forces herself to nod briefly, not looking up even though she wants to stare at the ground. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers. Despite the crowd, it’s surprisingly hard to keep her voice low, “You all wear such beautiful clothes!”
“You make them for us!” Tile exclaims. She means it well, but Cassidy frowns inwardly, seeing it as a chilling reminder of the purpose of her life back home. To create for these people. But that’s life. It’s not hers anymore, though she won’t give up hope. It could be. She could slip under the radar...
She considers putting on a lisp but decides against it. She doesn’t want the last memory some people have of her to be a degrading one.
With this in mind, as soon as the buzzer finally goes, she drops the pathetic little girl act, her heart heavy as she sweeps off the stage, her dress ruffling behind her, a memory of home.
“Thom Baker, District Nine, tribute score...6!”
Thom blinks and stumbles out onto the stage, wincing in the bright lights. Six. Not bad. Not good, but not bad. It won’t make him stand out, but it’s good enough that some people might think him worth sponsoring.
This is his life he’s talking about here. His hand automatically flickers to the scars on his wrist that were pointed out at his reaping; he goes chillingly cold at the thought that he might be asked about them.
Lancelot tips his head to one side, his glasses sliding on his face slightly. Thom puzzles him. He’s so...average. Lancelot has absolutely no idea where to start, and for some reason the only thing that he can think of to say is commenting on his hair. Dark ginger is very popular in the Capitol this year, although not lank and hanging shapelessly around the face like Thom’s does.
Something else flashes into his mind, and he quickly gabbles, “We haven’t really seen or heard much from you, Thom. Why is that?”
Thom glances up quickly, a brief flash from behind his hair, and consciously clasps his hand in his lap. Despite the residual cold feeling, sweat is making his shirt stick to his back. Don’t look at the crowd. Don’t look at the interviewers. Just answer the question.
He takes a deep breath, and begins, listening to his own voice echoing around the square; “I...I like to keep myself to myself, mostly. You know?” Lancelot nods. This is a reply he can work with, and Tile can does what she does best, namely sitting back and looking pretty.
“You seem rather nervous...” he prods gently. Thom looks up quickly again, and he can make out a glint of something beyond the fear. “I am,” he answers bluntly, “But...the Games themselves are the hard part. I’d take this over the arena anyday.”
The arena. Tomorrow is the arena. He can’t speak anymore, not proper sentences, anyway. He barely even hears the questions, he could be agreeing to anything, but he doesn’t care. He’d rather the interview went on forever than tomorrow ever arriving. But it doesn’t, and too quickly, he’s shuffling off the stage, glad to be out of the lights but weighed down by the fact that there is nothing to do now but wait.
“Ellie Flaxseed of District Nine, tribute score of...5!”
Ellie trips lightly up to the chair, her dress drifting along behind her like a trail. She looks younger than twelve, dressed in a delicate coral pink that clashes with her hair and adds even more innocence to her light brown eyes. Immediately, people start muttering and pointing; clutched in her hand is a stuffed, grubby...thing.
“Erm...Ellie, hi, nice to meet you,” Lancelot starts, getting straight to the point, “What is that?”
Ellie blinks down at the thing as if she’s only just realised it’s there and chuckles, holding it out for Lancelot. He reaches out for it tentatively, prompted by Tile, but just as he’s about to reach it, she snatches it away and laughs even harder, tears starting to creep joyfully out of her eyes. Her laughter is so light and cheerful that it’s relaxing, and a few people in the crowd find themselves laughing along. Lancelot and Tile are just stumped. She’s totally and utterly bizarre.
“My token. It’s a Glimpty,” she suddenly explains, her face snapping into a serious expression. Her mentor had told her to be funny but there’s too many people for her to make them all laugh, so she’s just going to be serious for a moment.
“Glimpty,” Tile repeats, stunned.
Ellie nods earnestly, looking quickly at the audience to see if they’re following this. “It’s a Glimpty because Glimpty is the best word in the world, don’t you think?”
Lancelot gets the eerie feeling that it might not be a good idea to disagree with her, and mutters, “Yes, yes of course. But...what is it meant to be?”
“It’s a dog,” she retorts slowly, as if explaining to a small child rather than somebody nearly twice her age, “Look, it has ears!”
Even before the buzzer goes, Ellie is prancing off the stage, sure that she might not be the strongest tribute, but she is at least the happiest.
“Byron Cault, District Ten, tribute score...5!”
Byron is muttering to himself, singing under his breath as he approaches the chair. The familiar rhythm helps him take his mind off this whole twisted business, the crowd out there watching who will be watching on the screens tomorrow, the people back home, everybody anybody cares about...
“Can you clear something up for us, please?” Lancelot asks, as he grips his hand, “Miss Reserning and I were having a little discussion about this; how do you pronounce your name? Is it By-ron or By-rone?”
“I...erm...” Byron stutters. The lights are very bright, almost washing out the crowd. Almost. The stage feels very empty. He wipes his palms on his knees; it doesn’t help at all. They remain slick with sweat. He settles for clasping them in his lap, telling himself not to fidget. His whole body is shaking slightly, and he hopes the cameras can’t pick it up. He clenches his hands together even tighter, trying to brush off the feeling that he is about to fall apart in front of the entire nation. Lancelot pats him on the shoulder in a gesture that is intended to be friendly but instead comes across as condescending.
“Okay, so I guess it’s the first one, right?” he guesses; Byron’s tense nod is his answer and he realises that this interview is going to be more difficult than he was expecting. Tile bounces to the rescue, again. “So, Byron!” she cheeps, making sure to put plenty of emphasis on the pronunciation, “Tell us a little bit about home! What are you going to miss most about District Ten? What are you wanting to go back to?”
Byron closes his eyes, just for a second, and the answer arrives instantly; “Laughter. Fun, that sort of thing.”
This answer is so unexpected that Tile stops herself from bounding onto the next question to listen.
“That feeling,” Byron continues, “That feeling in those happy moments with the people you love, when you feel like your heart is full, right to the top.” He opens his eyes, feeling stupid. Who says things like that anyway?
Tile is blinking at him. Lancelot’s glasses are comically askew. Behind them, he can see some of the other tributes in the wings, expressions carefully blank.
Well. Maybe he hasn’t messed it up completely. Not that it will make that much of a difference, anyway.
“Dawn Janus, District Ten, tribute score...6!”
There’s a slight pause. Dawn isn’t appearing. A few people in the crowd begin to titter; Lancelot casts a glance at the clock and coughs.
“Alright, alright! I’m going!” snaps a voice from in the wings, and a figure slouches onto the stage, hands shoved in the pockets of her simple but thankfully modest cowgirl outfit. The hat falls in front of her eyes. Tile gives her a brief hug, and she’s so startled that despite her bad mood at being forced to be humiliated, she doesn’t even think to push her away. But she’s got her senses back by the time Lancelot approaches to usher her into her chair, still looking at the clock.
“Yeah, lovely to meet you too,” she snaps. The only response is a slight frown from Tile; she’s surprised that she dares to frown, after all, it might give her wrinkles. “Erm...if you could just slow down a bit,” Lancelot recommends, “I know you’re nervous...”
“It’s no surprise, is it? Does it feel weird to you, knowing that in a few weeks only one of us will be alive?” She’s not sure quite what has given her the strength to say that when she can’t even begin to contemplate it, but she’s glad she did. It’s worth it just for the look on Lancelot’s face, and for the theatrical gasp of the crowd. Then again, they might not have understood her. It must be a Capitol thing; she’s not slowing her voice down for them. She watches as one of the multi coloured women in the front row fans herself dramatically, her mouth opening and shutting like a dying fish. She can’t resist. After all, she’s gone this far now, why not send them right over the edge?
“In fact” - here she fixes Lancelot with a glare - “some of us will be dead this time tomorrow. Maybe even me. Who knows? But you won’t really care, will you, as long as we remember our lesson.”
The crowd is in an uproar, Tile is looking panicked, and a voice is hissing in Lancelot’s ear to ‘get her off there’, and the buzzer sounds insistently, far too early. Dawn is practically pushed off the chair by both Lancelot and Tile. She slouches off the stage, feeling more than a little pleased with herself.
That’ll show them.
“Cruz Ledger, District Eleven, score of...8!”
Cruz rubs a rueful hand over his cropped brown hair as he takes his seat, shaking Lancelot’s with a firm grip. Not enough to make the interviewer wince, just enough to say don’t underestimate me. He’s not disappointed in his score, but he wishes it could have been a little better. The tributes from One and Two are looking at him a little scornfully, even though the girl from Two got the same score as him. Typical cocky arrogant Careers, the lot of them. Well, he’ll show them.
“So, Cruz, tell us a little about yourself! You’ve been keeping out of sight!” Lance gives him a look that is probably meant to be congratulatory. Cruz imagines the satisfying feeling of punching him straight in the face. One way of making sure everyone notices you is to be told that you’ve been keeping out of sight. He grits his teeth and gives Lance a bright smile.
“Erm...there’s not a lot to say, really. I’m just hoping to do my best. I mean, that’s all I can do , right?”
The girl from One gives him a look, her lip curling . For a moment, Cruz imagines hearing her scream as he takes her down, the sneer replaced by a look of terror in her last few moments. The thought makes him smirk, just for a second.
Tile chips in, feeling left out. After all, it’s been half an interview and she hasn’t had a turn in the spotlight.
“Anyone special back home, Cruz?”
Lancelot has to stop himself facepalming dramatically. That question has been used far too many times today, but it’s too late now. Cruz gives Tile a condescending smile.
"Oh no. You see, I find that sort of thing does nothing but make life awkward. Emotional attachments get in the way of things.” He pushes away the memory of his mother’s face. Now is not the place for that. “It’s easier to not feel anything. Because if you can’t feel, you can’t hurt..”
There’s a silence. Even the Careers look a little surprised. Philosophy isn’t something often found in District Eleven. Cruz looks unblinkingly around, staring each of them in the eyes for the briefest moment so that they can see.
Nothing will stop him. He is going home alive.
"Eden Aster, District Eleven...with a score of...6!”
Eden looks more than a little surprised as she crosses the stage, placing each foot carefully. The dress she’s in is too long and is threatening each step she takes. Now is probably not a good time to be hugging the ground. She has made it to the chair where Lancelot has stood to greet her, and is just reaching to take his hand when she feels the lace hem snag her toes. For a second her arms windmill, nearly bashing Lancelot in the face, then she staggers forward, her face squashing into his shoulder. She can feel her face flaming red with embarrassment as Lance props her back upright, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“A hug!” he exclaims. “It’s been a long while since I had one of those - thank you , Eden!”
She gives him a grateful look and plops down in the chair, trying to look confident. The audience are getting restless, and they probably weren’t convinced by Lancelot’s hug cover-up.
“Eden!” chirps Tile, who by this point in time just wants to go home. It’s been a long day and it’s still not over. “What can you tell us?”
“Yes, go on, surprise us!” adds Lancelot, giving her arm a playful poke. Eden moves her hand out of reach and thinks for a moment.
“I’ve got a cat, back home, her name is Bubbles and she likes to eat grass.” She pauses as the audience laughs. Lancelot gives her an encouraging nod. Eden ignores the quizzical expression from the girl from District Four and carries on.
“Well, grass makes cats sick, right?”
Tile interrupts; “I didn’t know that! I thought they ate it all the time!”
Eden gives her a somewhat pitying look.
“No, they eat it when they are ill to make themselves sick, so they feel better. But Bubbles does it all the time. So I always have to be careful when I hold him, otherwise things can get messy!”
Another laugh from the crowd, warmer this time. Eden gives them a shy smile, not really taking it in. She’s thinking of home, and Bubbles, and her parents, and everything else has just faded into the background.
“Nash Derrah, District Twelve, score of...3!”
When Nash hears his name called, he strides confidently out onto the stage, standing tall enough to look older than twelve and shooting a brave glare at the Careers. The twins give him identical and well-practiced evil looks, which he shakes off admirably. Their arrogance will get them into trouble, he’s sure of it. And they only hate him because they don’t know him, because they’re scared of him.
He shakes Lancelot’s hand firmly, grinning when he sees that the interviewer wasn’t expecting it. He was probably expecting him to do exactly what all the other twelve year olds do, which is to cry pathetically, or do what Ellie did and attempt to be cute in the hopes of getting people to sponsor them when they don’t have any real talent. Tile bounces to her feet, looking like she’s about to pat him on the head, so when he shakes her hand, he reaches up onto his tiptoes to give her a peck on the lips.
Shocked, Tile slaps him.
Nash blinks back tears; she’s stronger than she looks! And he can hear chuckles and even cheers from the crowd below him. And his cheek stings. This is stupid. What’s the point in parading them anyway, when it’s all about what happens in the arena? He’ll show them all then. They’ll regret thinking he’s weak.
Lancelot shoots him a look and he realises that despite the powder and the wig and the accent, the interviewer would be quite happy to make his life hell from now on. He sits down obediently. Then he scowls; why should he obey them? They hate him anyway.
“Don’t underestimate me!” he squeaks, before either of the now very disgruntled interviewers can get a word in edgeways. Tile looks like she won’t anyway. She’s regarding the red mark on Nash’s cheek with a kind of grin that hints at her District Two origins. “Oh, we wouldn’t dare, sweetie,” she drawls. Nash tries to stare her down evenly. After all, he might look twelve but he feels a lot older. The effect is slightly ruined by the hint of tears wobbling at the corners of his eyes, but luckily for him, the cameras don’t catch it.
Unluckily for him, the Careers do.
“Random lol!” Lancelot shouts into the silence. This is his catchphrase; several of his biggest fans in the crowd go wild. Tile pretends to slap him on the wrist with a sweet smile. But Nash only glares at him. How pathetic, if this is how he gets attention. He hates people who go digging for attention, and there are plenty of them in District Twelve.
“Excuse me?” he asks in his best mock-polite voice, “But I thought this was supposed to be about us, not you.”
After all, almost all of them won’t be here next year.
“And finally, Oswin Moledy, also of District Twelve, has herself a tribute score of 3!”
Oswin scowls as she takes the chair, folding her arms with her book obviously clutched in her hand. Lancelot seizes on this instantly; he can sense that even after an entertaining evening of interviews, most of the audience tuned out during Nash’s sulking..
“Tell us about the book. We hardly ever see you without it! What is so special about a dusty old story?”
Oswin takes a moment to allow a shaking breath to shiver into the silent anticipation. They’re expecting her to flounder and say it has sentimental value or some of that other crap that they soak up here. She sifts through the furious jumble of thoughts rattling through her mind.
“Some people arm themselves with weapons. Take the Careers for example. They have been nurturing their taste for blood since before they could even toddle. Some people don’t arm themselves at all. They just pray for a glimmer of hope.”
She pauses a little, revelling gleefully in the horrified and shocked glances. Lancelot’s glasses are dangling from the end of his nose; finally stunned into absolute silence. Borne onwards by a sudden tide of rage, she can’t stop herself from saying, “By reading I open my eyes to all that this world is. I can see what you’ve done and I can see what you’re doing. I may not know exactly how it will end. But somewhere in this miserable existence there is an escape. It will not last forever. It cannot last forever. I can grasp onto that hope. I may even be able to spark a change into movement. Reading frees the mind of the oppressed. A career will walk away from this even more empty and alone and scarred than they were going in. What sort of a life is that? That is no victory. So if you think about it… it really is quite funny. A career with a bloodied weapon is superficially scary. But watching that immediate flame of fear ignite in the eyes of those who notice the book in my hand…”
Perhaps in the wings somebody cheers. Everything else is silence. She can barely hear anything above her own exalted breath. Something else made her say that, something thrilling and terrifying and proud all at the same time.
“Perhaps...” Tile stutters, “Perhaps we’d better end there.”
Oswin finds herself ushered off-stage by a disgruntled Peacekeeper.
And that is that.
Hours later. Training is done. The interviews are done. This has all been a prologue, a warm up.
And the main act, the Hunger Games, is about to get underway.
Not a single tribute sleeps soundly that night, knowing that it could be their last night alive.
May the odds be ever in your favour.