A/N - Spacing is literally a mess on these. I've done my best.  

_________________________________________________________________________ 

District One Female - Ke'Oshi Blu

Ke'Oshi ran her fingers through her coarse black hair. She could feel herself about to throw up. This was a defining moment between life and death and it all rested in her ability to be as fake as possible. Standing behind her was her stylist, Celia, putting the finishing touches on her utterly appalling piggy tails. She let out a groan and then gestured for Celia to leave.

"I'm not quite finished-"

"No, you're done, goodbye."

Ke'Oshi gestured a second time and Celia rolled her eyes and let go of her hair.

"For someone your age you're very annoying." Celia said in frustration. Ke'Oshi ignored the obvious dull witted comment and dusted off her dress. She looked back into the mirror that stood against one of the many walls in the dressing rooms.

"You can do this. You are smarter, cuter, and sassier than any of the competition out there." She said snapping her fingers.

Her dress was made of pure silk that was stretched down to her knees. It was pleated at the waist and the lace around it made it look even worse than it already was. There was nothing appealing about it besides the color and even that didn't make it look good. Ke'Oshi was so nervous about this interview. Everything was depending on this two minute talk, everything. Her stylist entered once more signaling for the start of the interview or in Ke'Oshi's words, the start of hell. Ke'Oshi was barely wearing anything artificial and the only thing that seemed to pop was her bubblegum she was chewing.

"You really shouldn't be chewing that right now." Celia explained. Ke'Oshi blew another bubble and popped it just to annoy her. She let out a smirk and Celia came over and attempted to put the finishing touches on, again. "You really do look stunning." The stylist said. Ke'Oshi tilted her head to the left confused.

"Thank you." Ke'Oshi said. Celia checked her golden watch. The seconds were spinning around the clock.

"They're ready for you Ke'Oshi."

Celia offered a hand out. Ke'Oshi took her gum out with one finger and placed it into Celia's outstretched hand.

"Thanks again." Ke'Oshi said smirking. The doors opened wide almost blinding her. Cameras were flashing everywhere and Ke'Oshi was getting a massive hear-ache just from the wild applause. Two chairs, leather, were placed sitting in the center of the stage. One was already occupied. Layla stood there beautiful as ever, her sequined dress spiraled down to her ankles and was practically painted with glitter. The crowd was going wild, cheering and applauding at anything to a wink or a smile. Ke'Oshi conjured up her fake smile and curtsied at Layla trying to remain as proper as possible. They smiled towards each other and then took a seat. Layla crossed her legs. Ke'Oshi noticed and did the same after, she laid her hands on her legs afterwards.

"Hello Ke'Oshi is it?"

"Yes ma'am." She said keeping her obnoxiously fake smile.

"How is the Capitol treating you?"

"It is treating me very well! The people are so nice and I absolutely love the food!" Ke'Oshi said cheerfully. The crowd led out another wild applause and Ke'Oshi smiled beating her eyes frantically. 

"So, a little girl from district one? How do you think you're going to beat out this competition?" Layla asked curiously.

"Kill them right?"

"Yes," Layla let out a giggle as well as the audience, "but how do you suppose you will do this?" "Uh, well I do have a slingshot." Ke'Oshi said. She began to shutter and start to nervously sweat. Layla, however, let out a scoff and rolled her eyes. They were covered in purple eye shadow and it was one of the more elaborate looks that Ke'Oshi had seen in an entry. Layla was eating Ke'Oshi alive and Ke'Oshi was letting her.

"I'm also pretty smart, I can find my way out of a lot of difficult situations!" She said.

"Really?" Layla seemed intrigued. Ke'Oshi looked back at the timer. It read 30 seconds.

"Yeah, I grew up pretty poorly so I had to be smart to survive." She was trying to win the sympathy vote now.

"Wow. Considering you're from district one why do you think you grew up so poor?"

The obvious answer was sort of, controversial. She decided to play it safe and go with a more subtle approach. "My parents work very hard, they just didn't have the best of jobs."

Layla nodded and the buzzer screeched piercing Ke'Oshi's ears. "What a shame. I guess that's all the time we have for you Miss Blu." The crowd applauded a final time and then Layla gestured for Ke'Oshi to come to her. Layla bent over and whispered in her ear.

"Don't feel free just yet. You haven't even begun to impress me."

Ke'Oshi looked up and waved to the audience laughing at the adorable little girl on stage. All Ke'Oshi could think about was how she was going to win the Hunger Games and how she was going to make Layla pay.

_________________________________________________________________________

District Two Male - Leviathan Chrome

Leviathan.

His mother would always tell him what it meant. She'd use it to criticize and torment him, almost as though she always knew what a repulsive monster he'd become. She'd even say that naming him such was simply 'labeling her curse', and that people should call him for what he is.

A Leviathan.

The forbidden outskirts of District 8 are a lot colder than I expected, but my blankets and the moss keep me warm enough. The silence is daunting at the worst of times, and only by the occasional cry of a bird can it seem to break. It's hard to keep sane out here. I find it's a lot easier to keep, let's say, the date.

And I know exactly what today is.

At this moment, the silence erodes, but this time a bird has not called to the air or taken wing. Instead, a small tablet in front of me lights up, boasting brass sounds and exhibiting the great Capitol Seal. The dull fading light around me becomes a distant shade. Today is the interviews for the Hunger Games.

The seal fades away, and in its place is the Mistress of Ceremonies. She introduces herself as Layla Cameron in a way that would make you guilty for not knowing. I presume you would know her if you hadn't been living under a rock.

I rest my back against the fallen log with its bark coated with a layer of moss. Before long, the interviews are underway. I have to sit through two grotesque tributes from District 1. I'm left unable to tell which one I despise more until I finally see what I want. The shark out of his waters, teased by the promise of bloodshed. The big, tall and beastly beast himself.

The Leviathan.

"... From District 2!" Layla calls out with a fresh face of excitement, almost as though she hadn't spent the last ten minutes interviewing the 1 tributes. She throws her hand gracefully to the side and the camera follows. Levithan appears in a tightly fitted tuxedo, one made of a strange metal like material. Almost as though it in itself could pass for being a suit of armor.

My insides fall heavy at a single glance of his face. Of course, he isn't quite how I remembered from all those years ago. But even I can tell he's frightened, alert and more alone than he could ever be. I still remember the small boy that played happily in the yard at the age of seven, holding a sword as though it were but an extension of his arm. Now he is a flame reduced to ash, a fierce warrior outnumbered by a thousand foes.

Layla ushers him to his seat, briskly brushing at the cushion before he sits. As she herself goes to take a seat, Leviathan pulls his watch from the immense audience and looks down at the floor.

"My! A very interesting name if I do say so myself!" Layla beams with energy, as though she's carrying enough for the two of them. I scoff under my breath; It's always a requirement to be a master of ceremonies. To bare enthusiasm like an inescapable plague. "Could you tell me more about it?" She asks, finally settling into her seat but keeping her back upright.

Levithan looks up at her, but with restless eyes, he can't quite keep his stare.

"My Mother. She wanted to call me it." He says, and it hurts to see him so uncomfortable.

"Ahh, your parents." Layla nods with a hint of sarcasm. She wanted to know more than he gave her of course. Who else names you if not your parents? But Levi was never the brightest side of the sword. The audience laugh and Leviathan looks up at them with wide, lost and youthful eyes. "I'm sure they are very proud of you right now!" Layla finishes.

Her statement is matched with stillness, at least until the audience dims their chuckle. Finally, Leviathan stutters to start, turning his head back to his interviewer.

"My parents died when I was little." He says with a sharp bite and, although unseen, the weight of the audience becomes immediately clear. When thousands of people are silent at once, it can be louder than anything. In truth, I remember that day when the deaths were discovered. How the District was more silent than it had ever been before.

Layla's enthusiasm plummets, but she still grasps onto a desirable demeanor. She delicately places one hand on her chest and leaves just the right amount of silence before speaking again. "Want to talk about it?" She says quietly but more casually than I could ever have expected from someone of her career.

I wait for Levi to respond, and somehow the forest seems louder than it ever has before.

"Raise volume," I say quickly, watching my warm breaths take to the air in elegant curls. The tablet in my hand beeps once, and the sound is now much louder. Just in time for Levi to speak.

He breaths in once, and exhales as he starts to speak. "I like to think... they'd be with me. When I fight." He nods and his mouth twitches a little. A few moans of sorrow spurt from the audience, but the cameras remain on the stage.

"I understand that. That's very sweet of you Levi." Layla says quietly.

"No..." Levi says quickly, and Layla immediately frowns. "No, you don't understand at all." He says and grips to the caps of knees. The screen zooms closer to him and I can almost feel the misery burning from the darks of his eyes.

"And why not?" Layla pouts, but something about her remains genuine. Either way, I know that if Levi is even a shadow of what I knew him as, he won't like her intrusive intentions.

"You just couldn't." He says each word and looks down at the floor again, pressing his fingers into his knees.

"Levi..." Layla edges closer, her voice laden with intimacy he'll know to be false. "Help me to understand."

"No."

"I'm sure we'd all like to know!" She turns to her audience, but I keep a watch on Levi as he rocks to the edge of his chair.

"No!"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She asks, her voice a lot louder now, as though her volume could crack the beast.

And it does. But in ways that she Layla could never anticipate.

The boy lunges forward and to an abrupt stand, smacking the sides of his head. Layla throws herself back in her chair, but the distance cannot defend her. The tribute slams aside his chair and it crashes across the stage. I grip the edges of the tablet in my hand, but the havoc is short lived. Before any damage is done, a green dart spits into the side of Leviathan's neck and he dazes under the glorifying lights.

Suddenly, the stage is encased in darkness, but a spotlight remains on Layla. She smiles and sighs.

"Well, we certainly have a feisty bunch with us this year!" She laughs to the audience who escalate their gossips and sudden bursts of panic to laughter and applause. The mistress of ceremonies wastes no time and begins to introduce the next act. The lights flare up the stage and an untouched chair is in its rightful place; Levi is nowhere to be seen. They clean up well, I'll give them that.

Just as the District 2 girl enters, waving and smiling as she must, I turn the tablet off, and the screen slaps to a dark void. I'll never get used to being able to do that without the fear of Peacekeepers flogging me where I stand. Being a fugitive has its perks I guess.

I put the tablet in my rucksack and stamp out what little of the fire remains. A bird sets off into the sky up ahead and I curl up beside the log. I distract myself from the cold and allow my thoughts to think about Leviathan, this beast from District Two.

The rows and rows of people's shocked but excited faces roll in my head on a vicious loop. That audience didn't understand him. He's not angry, he's only scared.

The forest settles for the night and I replay the short-lived interview in my head. His words about his parents tug at my nerves, every time I repeat them in the lost echo of my mind.

'I like to think they'd be with me. When I fight.'

It's no use of course, and I know he can't hear me. But I'd like him to know that I am here, and that I will be watching every step of the way.

_________________________________________________________________________  

District Four Female - Christina Brooks

Layla Cameron lounges in an armchair in the corner of the candlelit room, beckoning to me as I push the door open and peer inside. Her hair is down but inconspicuous by Capitol standards, a darker blonde that, if it has been dyed, has been done so well as to look natural. It hangs in gentle waves a little past her shoulders. Lining the wall behind her is a long bookcase, filled with leather-bound classics of fiction and fact. It all comes together to produce a very intimate feeling, a far cry from the cries of Capitol crowds that usually greet interviewed tributes. Of course, the cameras embedded in the walls beam everything nationwide, but here, in person, the two of us can chat alone - a paradox of secrecy: when you think there is no one listening, you give away the most.

I won't be falling for that. My plan is to reveal as much about my personal life as Layla wants, while keeping everything related to the games hidden. No hints for my opponents, no weaknesses made public, just a pleasant chat to bring the sponsors onboard. Which means playing to the common denominator. The paying public have to be able to see themselves in me, beginning from the outside: together with my stylists I have hit the perfect balance: pretty but not too pretty, sexy but not too sexy, friendly but not TOO friendly... My hair is similar in style to Layla's, with a few flamboyant strands curling demurely over my left cheek, and a couple of gems just far enough below the surface to catch the light but not dazzle. I've made myself up a little - some foundation and mascara, a little eye shadow, red lipstick (probably the boldest move tonight) - and wear a cute little pink dress, plaited hemline just above the knees and with the tiniest bit of cleavage. Push up bra, naturally. The girls back home will be jealous. Call me plain now, Amanda, when this dress costs more than your house.

Beneath the surface, I can't rely on any stylists to make myself pretty. That's my job alone, starting from the instant I sit opposite Layla, lifting my dress up and smoothing it out as I do so. Fortunately, I've been trying to please people more important than myself my whole adolescence. I know just the (whitened) smile to flash when Layla greets me, and just the (sweetened) hello to send back.

"May I say," Layla adds, "how beautiful you look tonight! That dress! I feel rather plain in comparison, actually..."

I allow myself to blush, protesting, "No, no, you look amazing!" Of course she does. Anyone would, with the time and money that must have been spent. My compliment, however, is dismissed as it must be as "too kind". Idle chit-chat, female pleasantries, that I am fully versed in but more than a little bored by. Every woman knows that we only act so sweet to cover up the bitterness beneath. I envy plain men. They are what they seem. For the same reason, despite or perhaps because I am not used to it, I am glad when we begin to discuss something important.

"So," begins Layla, her smile slowly vanishing, "to why we are here. The games. You volunteered, so you must be quite confident?"

"Yeah, I guess so." I laugh. Some confidence is good, but no one likes too much of it. "Everyone else will think the same, though. It will be tough."

"It will indeed. I've already spoken to a few tough tributes just as determined to win as you are. How do you think you'll beat them?"

I give her and the cameras - the whole of Panem but mainly my competition - a nonchalant shrug. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Of course I have plans. The secret to winning, however, is just that: a secret. We move on, discuss home life, school, boys, and I oblige with a smile and some juicy gossip - all while keeping my cards to my chest. This is only just beginning.

_________________________________________________________________________ 

District Five Male - Icarus Brenner

"Please welcome, little Icarus Brenner of District 5!" Layla exclaims cheerfully to the audience. The audience cheered and clapped loudly, it almost deafened Icarus. He was trembling heavily as he walked to the stage. Layla smiled at him as little Icarus sat down in his seat. "Welcome, Icarus, the Capitol just adores you!" she told him. Icarus became a bit more confident. "Why thank you, all of you!" squeaked his little voice. Many applauded. "So, one of your fans had asked you a question. 'What did you like about the Capitol the most, coming from poverty?'" Icarus thought for a moment about what he was going to say. "Well," squeaked Icarus' tiny voice,"I liked the food." A bunch of people laughed. "It's true! It's just delicious and wonderful, I couldn't afford these myself. I liked the duck best. Most in 5 wouldn't be able to afford it. It's just too expensive." he finished. Layla and most of the audience slightly nodded their heads. "Very well," Layla commented," Next question. Another fan asked,' 

_________________________________________________________________________  

District Five Female - Jessica Grace

"Come on Jessica." If pleading was a paint, it would be dripping through the stylist's words. "If I put enough makeup, it'll cover up your scars."

I don't want to cover up my scars, Jessica thought. Instead of voicing that thought, she only lifted her shoulders and let them drop.

"But don't you want to look your best for the interview?" The tips of the stylist's made up lips moved up at the corners, as if she thought this would entice Jessica.

That notion was wrong. Jessica fidgeted with her long dress, but her discomfort sourced from the idea of covering up her scars, rather than displaying them to the world. She knew it wouldn't make sense to this Capitol woman, but hiding her scars would be like hiding a part of herself. It would be a lie.

She looked to the door. Her mentor stepped through. From the sympathetic look that lit her gaze, Jessica knew reinforcements had come to this battle.

"Leave it, Calpurnia." Her mentor eyed up Jessica and nodded. "That's good enough."

"But-"

"They saw it at the parade," she said firmly. "Now everyone will want to know more details." The older victor stroked Jessica's cheek, and abruptly brought her hand away. "The scars help her stand out. Don't take that away."

"Fine."

Jessica could have giggled. The stylist sounded like a pompous little girl. There were songs about girls like that. If only they would leave her alone, she could sing some of those songs to relive her nerves.

But instead of leaving her to sing, her mentor put a hand on her shoulder and guided her out to the stage. The old woman paused in front of Jessica's seat and patted her on the shoulder.

"Good luck Jessica. Try not to be too quiet out there, okay?"

Her mentor didn't give Jessica a chance to respond. The kindly victor disappeared into the crowd of people in the time it took Jessica to blink. With nowhere else to go and no one to talk to, Jessica sank into her seat and waited for the interviews to begin.

The other tributes came and went on the stage in a frightening blur. The girls and boys from One, Two, Three and Four zipped on and off the stage so fast Jessica could hardly believe they'd been there at all. The buzzer for the Four boy went off, and it took her a minute to realize that it was her that the Gamemaker was waiting for.

She rose to her feet and glided to the stage. Was she in a dream? It sure felt like it. Jessica lowered herself into the chair opposite the interviewers. Had the audience heard the sound her buttocks had made as it hit the cushion? She chose to pretend they hadn't.

"And a big welcome for District Five's Jessica Grace!" The interviewer squealed. Jessica swallowed and wondered if the perky woman's voice had always been so high pitched. "Hello Jessica. How have you been?"

Jessica shrugged. She didn't have anything to say to such a basic question.

The interviewer pouted and made a playful shove at Jessica's arm. "Aw, give us more than that! How has the Capitol been?"

Jessica could sum up her feelings on the subject in one word. "Different."

A smattering of reaction greeted her words. She allowed herself a tentative smile at the cameras, but the action felt too manipulative.

"I'd bet! What's the most different thing about the Capitol?" The woman crossed her legs and rested her chin in her hand.

Jessica's eyes met her mentor's. She remembered all those hours of her mentor trying to drill into Jessica's head that at an interview, she must talk. She hadn't been doing very well at that lesson yet.

"Well back home," Jessica said slowly, "all the children around me aren't going to die within the next month."

If the laughter before had been smattering, now it was deafening. Jessica looked at her lap and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Well said, Jessica, well said." Jessica lifted her eyes to the Capitol woman. "What do you think of the children all around you?"

Humor was good. Humor and sarcasm were well received in this audience. Jessica wracked her brain for an intellectual but humorous response.

She settled on, "I prefer not to think of them at all, actually."

"What about the folks back home?" She pressed. "Are any of them on your mind?"

Jessica met her mentor's eyes again. The old woman nodded encouragingly. Mystery, Jessica remembered. The Capitol audience liked someone mysterious.

"Not really." Jessica kept her face blank.

"Not even your parents?" The interviewer leaned forward.

Without a change in her expression, Jessica explained, "My parents died the same time I received this." Her finger lightly brushed her own scars.

"Oh, that's too bad." The interviewer's voice sang false notes of sympathy. "When did it happen?"

"I was five years old." Jessica folded her hands on her lap.

"That's so young!"

Not that young, Jessica thought, considering that children do worse to each other only a few years older. But she doubted the Capitol would appreciate a witty remark along those lines.

Instead she said, "I know."

"Do you remember anything before it happened?"

"Not really, but I..." Jessica trailed off.

"Yes?"

"I remember my mother and my father," Jessica closed her eyes, "of feeling safe and happy." She opened them. "That's why you shouldn't count me out of the Games. I'll do whatever it takes to feel safe and happy again."

_________________________________________________________________________ 

District Eight Female - Toya Bobbinet

I'm tracing a circle on the floor when Kiefer's name is called. The crowd applauds and cheers. I can hear them from here. But I won't let them disturb me. Without access to mint and lavender, this is the best that I can do to ward off nerves. Circle drawn, I imagine it rising up out of the floor and forming a bubble around me, a protective bubble so that nothing anybody says or does can get to me. Nothing that happens outside the bubble matters. My shoulders untense. My breathing slows.

And then Kit comes along and pops it, of course.

"It's all pointless, you know."

"What?"

"All your weird little rituals. Signs in the air and muttering and all that stuff. Pointless. We're going to die anyway."

I might take him seriously if it weren't for his outfit. Maybe they had it designed before Kit volunteered, or maybe our stylists just have a sense of humor. Either way, red is not a good color for my depressing district partner. "Oh, go away, Kit."

"Nobody likes me," he declares to the rest of the wings. "I volunteered because I want to die."

You see what I mean about the depressing thing?

I've got my eyes fixed on the ground, trying to resurrect my invisible anti-nerves circle, so I can't see which of the boys it is who laughs and says, "I'll see what I can do."

In the blast of laughter that follows this, the first genuine laughter I've heard since arriving in the weird and glittering Capitol, Kit storms off. I focus on bringing my bubble back up. If only my Pa was here. He's always been better at this sort of thing. He can bring up an anti-nerves bubble with just a few words.

And then someone taps me on the shoulder and Kiefer's interview is done and it's my turn, and I'm not ready at all. A pair of hands shoves me right next to the stage. If I force myself to look, I can even see some of the crowd. Layla is standing and addressing the audience with a casual confidence that I could copy, if I knew how. She's talking about me.

"I'll bet she's very nervous, though, so I want to hear a nice big round of applause from you all. Okay? Good! Ladies and gentlemen, it's Miss Toya Bobbinet!"

I'd thought it was loud backstage. Walking out into the spotlight, though, it's an overwhelming roar of thunder that shakes up my bones and my nerves. And it's all for me. Me! Some girl in rags from District Eight, not that I'm wearing rags now. Now I look beautiful and they're cheering for me. For me! I can hardly feel the floor beneath my feet. Even Layla's welcoming handshake doesn't manage to tether me to the ground. She's beautiful. I wish that I could look like her. Everybody here is beautiful. I wish that I could look like them all.

"Toya, honey! How wonderful...you look fantastic. Doesn't she look fantastic, folks? No, no, don't sit down just yet! Stay standing so we can get a good look at you. Hey, you, Mr Cameraman. Are you zooming in on this? No? Well do it!"

The crowd laughs, so I laugh too, right into the lens of the cameraman Layla is shouting at. He gives me a wink and some of the people in the front row whistle. I think I'm flying.

"Aha! Maybe she's not so nervous after all! Here, honey, sit down..." Layla pats the chair opposite her and I float into it. "That's a Kharis you're wearing, isn't it? We're good friends, I'd know his style anywhere. So tell me, Toya. You've seen all the Capitol has to offer. What would be the first thing you did, if you won?"

Still floating several feet above my head, I'm answering before I've realized it. "I'd buy lots of gorgeous clothes!"

"Honey, you wouldn't have to buy them," Layla tells me. "Victors get given absolutely anything they want – within reason, of course! And I bet that designers all over the Capitol would be queuing up to have you wear their designs. It'd be a definite improvement on that thing you were wearing for your reaping, for sure!"

And I hit the chair again with a bump. Suddenly, I'm aware that my palms are sweaty and my dress is too clingy and is sticking to my back and that Layla's face is too tight and shiny and I don't have my bubble up and that they're laughing at me for a dress that wasn't my fault and that was the nicest thing I've ever worn, ever, until I came here.

I have to fight back.

"That was my mother's reaping dress, and my big sister's. It's a family...erm...it's been passed down through the family." Sudden panic strikes me. "You will send it back to them, won't you?"

"Of course we will!" Layla trills. "That is, if Kharis hasn't burned it yet!"

This triggers a blast of laughter from the crowd and my face and neck burns up. I spot Kharis' face in among them, and when he sees me looking he shakes his head but it doesn't make me feel any better. What am I doing here? I'd give anything not to be here. It's like someone has hollowed out my stomach and filled it with rocks.

"Oh, honey, I was joking. Kharis would never do that. And I thought you looked divine in it, all things considered. It was your big sister's?"

"Yes," I say. Layla waves a hand in a gesture that says I'm supposed to continue, but for a moment I can't think of anything to say with all these eyes fixed on me. I can't tell them about the time Tasha broke into the storerooms and stole half a tesserae ration. I can't tell them about all the times she's covered my ears when Mom has had one of her visitors round, and how she taught me to do that for the others. I can't tell them anything about Tasha and I without getting us into trouble.

"Toya? We're on a time limit here, honey."

"I have two big sisters and a big brother. Tasha, Baylee and Nathaniel. They've always done their best to look after me." They have. And there's nothing they can do to help me now, and I can imagine exactly how that would feel to me if it was any of the little ones up here, and a big fat tear rolls down my cheek. "And they'll be watching at home and they'll be worrying and...and..."

I spend the rest of the interview in tears, the eyes of the Careers boring into my sweat-soaked neck and my protective bubble in tatters at my feet.

_________________________________________________________________________ 

District Nine Female - Abigail Hadaway

"Would you look at yourself! Miss Hadaway's outfit definitely deserves another round of applause!" Layla's beam spans the entirety of her face, from the laughing creases by her eyes to the wide smile on her lips. She reaches a gloved hand out towards me and grasps my own bare one, giving it a firm shake before inviting me to take a seat. The golden satin and chiffon layers sparkle and swirl around my legs as I settle down in the red velvet chair.

Layla Cameron's eyes shine a little brighter as she addresses me. "Welcome to the Capitol, Abigail. We're very fortunate to have you here. Aren't we, guys?" she chirps, turning towards the Capitol crowd to cue some applause. I just grin, trying to look grateful, honoured and bashful at the same time, all while doing a mental eye roll at the flattery. I always knew that Layla is naturally high spirited, though I doubt she truly sees the Capitol as fortunate to have me around. Her statement was preceded by a "How lucky we are! It's Kit Stitch!" for the boy from Eight and a bubbly "It's such an honour for us to host a Games with such a lovely tribute!" for Toya Bobbinet.

But of course, I don't express my annoyance, for the fear of being fried to death by Game-made fireballs in the wee hours of day one.

Nonetheless, I have to appreciate her effort. Toning down on her usual bright colours of clothing, Layla's dressed in fabrics on more of the pastel side today—a good way to offset the tributes.

"Tell me what you like about this place," demands Layla, anticipating my answer.

"Well..." Unsure of what to say, I trail off as my brain begins its usual screaming.

Zero sarcasm, please. No, your sass does not work. I don't want you getting stuck in the middle of a sentence trying to find an answer. Are you sure being defensive is going to help you keep your head on? Stop being so skeptical. Keep your cool. Be honest about your negative feelings and they're going to hate you. Your annoyance level—you'd better keep that under wraps. What are you doing? Aren't you supposed to keep your cool? Why can't you speak? Are you that much of a loser?

"My bed is very nice." I try for a grin and my eyes nervously flicker towards the crowd as they let out soft chuckles. When Berri decided that being myself would be a disaster and that toning my flaws down slightly wasn't going to work, my interview angle ended up being cheery and bubbly. "I also like the couch. And the elevator." Once again, I go silent as laughter bubbles up from the crowd. My head spins like a carousel as I desperately try to find something to say.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Berri in the front row and turn to look at him with pleading, searching eyes. He narrows his eyes at me in an accusing manner, burning a hole in me through which my last shreds confidence slip out. One minute in and this is not going well.

But Layla likes to offer help, and she does this time too. "How about you talk about the training, then? How has it been for you?"

"Well..." I can't say the wrong thing, can I? If I make myself sound too confident, the careers will definitely be after me. If not, I'll sound too boastful. What if I humble myself too much and drive sponsors away? "I..."

Many possible answers surface, but none seem right. The more I consider them, the worse they start to sound. Anything that slips out of my mouth could hold the key to certain death.

The jarring sound of the buzzer comes as both a slap to the face and a wave of relief. I make a shaky trip back to my seat. Standing up for his turn, Kodiak pats me on the back as he passes. Leaning down slightly, he whispers, "You tried too hard."

District Ten Female - Bella Summers (I apologise for the spacing)

Bella hated dresses, and she hated make up, and she hated spotlights, and she hated talking, so, naturally, she wasn't looking forward to the interviews. But there was no way of getting out of them, and besides, if she could pull this off maybe she would score a sponsor or two. Maybe they would keep her from dying.

Except, she probably wouldn't pull this off, because she had no social skills, and everyone else, even the most awkward and the most obnoxious and the most unpleasant all had more social skills than her, because surely ever single one of them had spoken to more people than she had, even if only for a moment. Her mentor told her to use this to her advantage, to make the people in the Capitol sorry for her, the poor little sick girl who had never had a chance to really live, and that maybe if they pitied Bell, they would help her win. If they didn't help her live, then at the very least maybe they would make her death less painful.

It was almost her turn to go up on stage, she was pretty sure it was the boy from nine who was up at the moment, and she was feeling more and more anxious by the second. She began to chew on her lip, a nervous habit of hers, and her thoughts were moving too fast for her to comprehend. What if she messes up, or more likely how bad will she mess up, and what if she accidentally insults them and ruins everything, or she trips on stage and falls on her face in front of everyone, and why can't she just be done with this, and why is it expected of her to wear this stupid dress when she doesn't look any nicer than she does wearing pants and those are far more comfortable, and oh gosh, what is she going to wreck this time? Her thoughts were moving too fast and they began to run together, until she was so busy trying to work out what she was thinking, and not turn into a nervous wreck, that she didn't hear her name being called, and it wasn't until someone behind her pushed her forward and hissed in her ear quite rudely to "hurry the hell up" that she realized it was her turn to go on stage. She quickly scrambled on to the stage and walked to the seat across from the interviewer, Layla, she though her name was. Layla applauded as Bell walked across the stage and the crowd followed suit.