District 1 Female: Ruby Grace Faberson

He wouldn't even speak to me. I hate it when he does that. Shouting at me, hitting me, lecturing me- I can deal with any of it. But silence stings worse than a belt, and disappointment has more impact than bruises.

He hasn't been this angry with me since I was eleven years old. We were working on a gymnastics unit, which is always tricky. One needs to be flexible enough to move easily in a fight, but strength also needs to be maintained. Without strength, one will be thrown around. One's strikes become sloppy and ineffective.

The instructor was attempting to help me with my back handspring. Several of the older girls could already do it, but I just couldn't get it. I guess I was afraid of falling. I kept twisting to the side. I ended up landing on my ankle. It crumpled underneath me, and I felt a distinct pop. Pain shot up my leg in jolts; I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

My father insisted I was fine, even when the instructor suggested I sit out. I could barely limp. Each step felt like a shard of glass stabbing into my joints. Tears welled up in my eyes as I took my place beside my classmates. I wanted to speak up, to tell him I was not in fact fine. But my voice failed me.

Sparring practice began. I was shoved into the ring with an older girl. She looked hesitant to hit me. Any fool could see that I was hurt. Not hesitant enough, apparently, as her fist connected with my jaw before I could even react. I threw a punch back, but when I stepped forward, my ankle buckled and I hit the floor. My father was there to tell me to stand back up. He told me this was a good experience. What would I do if I was injured in the games?

I was knocked off my feet again.

And again.

And again.

And then, when I finally cracked, when I finally began to cry from the pain, he humiliated me. He threw me out of the training center, amidst the eyes of the other students. Then, he told me not to come back until I was tough enough to actually compete. He told me that I clearly wasn't old enough to learn, that my weakness was hindering the others. My classmates smirked at me. A few giggled, and I was made fun of for months afterwards. No one ever stepped forward to defend me.

The experience was painful, for years, my blood boiled at the thought of it. But, it was useful. I learned that I could never show weakness. I learned that I couldn't depend on anyone to help me when I was down. I learned to count on myself, because I sure couldn't count on anyone else. I became my own hero and my own best friend.

That doesn't make it easy to ignore his presence as I watch my stylist in the mirror. She flits around gracefully; her soft brushes tickled against my cheeks and eyes as I struggled to stay still. She is silent in the presence of Quartz Faberson's steely gaze.

"Remember Ruby Grace. You need to be ruthless." He finally speaks, his voice is solid, but there is an edge to it. It cuts into me, even if the blood it draws is invisible.

I didn't know that there was an option to be anything but ruthless. Sexy, mysterious, playful... They're all interesting angles, but they don't show your ability to win. As my stylist finishes, I study my appearance. I realized for the first time just how hard it will be to convince the audience of my harshness.

My dress is made of gold threads, and it falls about my body provocatively. It is sheer, with rose patterns threaded into it. Though it falls to the floor, it doesn't adequately cover my breasts and seems to cling to my hips and legs. My hair is curled and my eyelids are covered in gold, the same shade as my dress. My lips have been painted dark red, the stylist's attempt to pay homage to my name.

I look beautiful, but not menacing.

I am taken through the bare hallways that run behind the stage. I attempt to squash the nerves mounting in my chest. I can't afford to react badly. Some of the other tributes are already lined up, and I spot the pair from four. I consider going to speak to them, but decide against it. I don't want to give them an impression of friendship.

They both did well in training. The boy is tall and attractive, but personally, I think him rather stupid. I haven't talked to him, but he is always flapping his lips when I see him. In my experience, people who cannot stop talking are almost always lacking in the intelligence department. Even then, he was saying something. to the girl, who was struggling to appear interested. She doesn't appeal to me much. There isn't anything wrong with her. She doesn't act threatening. She isn't tall or confident or even particularly strong. But there seems to be something there, lurking just beneath the surface. She's stronger than she seems.

It has been only minutes when the interviews begin, and a peacekeeper comes to get me. He gestures for me to follow him. I force my legs to stop shaking. I roll my shoulders back and lift my head, though I'm certain the man is taking me to the wrong place. We follow the winding hallways away from the stage, and I can't think of anywhere else I would need to go. My father never mentioned anything between being styled and being interviewed. We halt at a set of doors.

They are tall, stretched to touch the ceiling and look to be too heavy for a human to open. Golden cords climb up, weaving themselves into images that make no sense to me. I watch as the peacekeeper places his hand around the delicately shaped handles. I immediately prepare my face for an audience. I don't know what lays beyond the door, but I do know I will be watched. He must have pushed on it, because the door swings open on oiled hinges. I'm met with another library.

It is like the first in some ways. Bookshelves once again are stuffed with books, and they stretch so high I can't see the top shelves. However, this library contains a window. It has been polished to complete translucency and displays a rose garden so expansive you could fit District One Victor's Village inside and still have room for a thousand rose bushes. The roses themselves are beautiful in a way rose bushes were never meant to be. They are trimmed too neatly; the petals are too white.

I am alone in the room, though I knew that millions of people were watching me as I stood there. I drifted to the wall and ran my finger along the rough spine of a book. I could feel the small indentations in it, each indicating its age. I could feel all the hands that had held it. I could feel all the hearts it had touched. I could feel the story inside its pages.

I almost shouted with surprise as the novel leaped off the shelf at me. It was a flurry of rustling pages. Flitting about the air about the air for a few seconds, the book then finally stopped moving, and lay flat on the floor.

I didn't know what to do, but I didn't want to appear nervous or indecisive. I leaned down and picked up the novel. As I held it gingerly in my hands, the paper began to move again, rapidly spinning until it stopped on a single page. I attempted to read the words there, but the letters were incomprehensible to me. I was about to put the book back on the shelf, when I saw that there were some words I could read.

I went down the page, piecing them together aloud. "Hello... Are... you... ready... for... the... games...?"

I don't know where to look to answer this question, so I direct my gaze out the window. "I have been ready for a long time. I feel confident in my ability to survive." I stated clearly, allowing myself the barest hint of a smile.

Another book soars at me from across the room. I caught it, and this time made no attempt to stop the pages from moving. "We're all... familiar... with your father... Do you feel... that... he... gives you...an edge?" I had to turn the page here. "What... is your...relationship...like?"

I felt unsure of how to answer, and conflict warred inside my head. What would happen if I told the truth? It would be reputation ruining for my father, he would hate me forever. But, after tomorrow he couldn't hurt me. Still, would it help me at all? What if the citizens didn't believe me? It would turn his fans against me. What if it caused sponsors to believe I was weak? What if he came down harder on my little sisters at home? What if he was so angry that he hurt me tonight? The Capitol wouldn't care if I was injured.

There were too many questions, too many possible results. It was a high-risk option. So, I did what I always do when asked about my father and lied through my teeth. "I do feel that having known him and having heard his story my whole life gives me an advantage. He's taught me a lot about weaponry and survival skills. As for our relationship, we are much closer than the average father and daughter. We spend an incredible amount of time together, and I'm so grateful to be his daughter. It's a pity I can't take him into the arena with me." I use a full smile this time, partly to indicate that I'm joking, that I don't actually need him in the arena, partly to hide the lie staining my lips.

Another book drifts off the shelf from higher up, and I allow the one I'm holding to slip from my fingertips. The new one feels heavier than the old one. It's wider, and bound in purple. It seems to move faster than the first one.

"You had a... training...score...of 7.5. How... do you feel about that? What... did... you... do to... earn... it?" I can read the question quicker now.

I struggle to keep my emotions off my face at this point. My training score is the reason my father isn't speaking to me. Eight tributes scored higher than me. I failed. I was put to the test, and I didn't measure up.

"Um, I definitely feel like I could have done better." I had to make that clear. "You know, the time of the private sessions was moved, and I wasn't in the right mindset, especially going first. I just had very little warning, so I was caught off guard." I paused before continuing. "I would love to elaborate on my time in the session, but discussion is not allowed." I said with an apologetic smile.

A new book, one with a crimson cover and gold lettering falls into my hands. I can tell this is the last one. it's pages turn much slower than the others, and when it finally stops, I can read it with ease. "What are your plans for the games? Do you think you can win?"

My plans? Well that's impossible to answer in a way that will please everyone. Every sponsor is looking for a different type of game plan; each of them have a different preference for what they find entertaining. Some of them want a hunter. Other's want one who will trap other tributes. Some like manipulators. There's always the odd one that likes a hider, too. I remember what my father told me.

Be ruthless.

Last time that I went against what he told me to do it didn't work out for me. "I want to get in and out of the arena as quickly as possible." I finally answer. "That means I'm going to kill any tribute I come across, as well as any I can hunt down." I took a deep breath. Be confident. "I don't think I can win. I know I can."

As I say that, I hear a lock click. The door is now open. "Thank you." I say to the empty room as I exit into the hallway. Flame is waiting just outside with a peacekeeper. I refuse to look him in the eye. I begin to walk back to my room to watch the rest of the interviews. I'm halfway there before I realize I still have the last book. It's too late to go back now.

Tomorrow the games begin. Tomorrow, they begin for real

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District 2 Female: Slate Welby

The grim peacekeeper motioned me forward, his eyes staring at the grey colored ceiling like I was too insipid to be looked at. As I sat up from the bench I nervously grabbed my silver necklace, that had suddenly became my token that everyone was aware of.

I remember when I found the simple chain. It was one of the few times I was alone. The wind was blowing the dirt around, having it dance right into my eyes. Carefully scouting the street I took hasty steps until I reached cover. I had sat there for hours, hungry and alone. But I had seen the twinkle that flashed in the dirt- the chain. Since then the chain now hold my name a present that I didn't want. I was fine with the plain, simple and shiny chain that I had found on my own.

I am pushed through the room into the long hallway. My heels make my presence known to anyone in the rooms off the hallway. The peacekeeper strides faster, motioning me to pick up the pace. I nervously bite my lip, I simply can't walk any faster. Only supported by a tall and skinny heel, my ankles are about to snap at any moment's notice. Though the bag is light, carrying nothing. The capital's dress that I posses will tear if I turn the wrong way. This is not me. I am the girl who is strong, who deals with her father, who volunteers for the Hunger Games. I am not the girl who lets stylists treat her like a doll and feels like a five year old wearing a sparkly dress. I am the girl who hears the echo of the figure that would never save her.

You have to win your life.

I don't want to have someone pry the most personal parts of my life out to the open but I had nochoice. I needed sponsors, otherwise I might as well just walk into the area dead. I will be guarded. There is somethings I would die before one person opens the dirt that became me.

The hallways keep extending, the walls fading from white to a soft Caramel then a dark shade of scarlet. Blood. This was the color of blood. A color that I would have to endure a lot in the next few days, assuming I would be then. Dark scarlet. The color that could seep out of my body, an entertainment to everyone watching, a sad end to an action movie to me, and a piece of victory for my opposer. Even as the walls changed we kept walking. "Why would the Game Makers put us so far away from the interviews?" I questioned the Capital once again. Right about when I was going to open my mouth and say something I would regret later the Peacekeeper stops, making me halt. The door in front of me is amazing. Golden vines stretch across the doors, which looks like it is made purely of gold. Grasping both handles the Peacekeeper ushers me in. Taking small steps until crossing the threshold, I am blinded by the light coming from every corner of the room. A garden. A Library. Again.

"Why-," I stop, turning around seeing I am alone. This is a test, a good one. I panicked, I pace around the room, unsure of where I am and what I have to do to get out. The door has to be locked. They would have it open if it wasn't. Nothing is ever easy here. But how can I fail? How can I win? "Help me!" I scream in desperation, but thinking it was a lost cause. No one is here. I am alone. What if I am all alone, just like all those nights at home? But that's when I hear it-the whispers.

They whisper questions. The books are talking, questioning me.

"Was it your idea to volunteer," one asked.

No I am no sane. I am hearing all the questions that I was scared of answering. That people would hate me or I would hate myself. But once again I could not turn of my brain as it rumbled again.

You have to earn your life.

Maybe my father was not right but I needed to do something. Taking off my heels I threw them aside running towards one book. I was crazy. The couldn't be talking to me. This is for what I have done. I quickly grabbed the book and punched it. My hand was red but I kept going,and it preceded as well.

"Come on," it complained, "was it or was it not your idea to volunteer?"

"You want to know," I screamed at the top of my lungs. Running I all directions not able to control the anger, panic and anxiety that boiled inside of me. "My dad had the idea first, Okay!" Books landed on ten floor, my hand sending all of them into a storm. "But I didn't want to. This is not me. No one know me." A dent know lies on one of the dark wood shelfs, my foot still throbbing to from the impact. "I volunteer we not because of him. I have ha denounced of him. I volunteered because I must win. I must be better that my sister.

"We see," the books all chanted. How did they know that this was a bad question? What will be the next one? I thought as I sat down and massaged my throbbing foot.

"Do you want sponsors?" They all chanted as they asked me another question.

Again. Another question that makes me seem unlikeable. But again I answered truly.

"Well I need them. I need the to survive. But I don't want them. If I could do this all on my own, don't you think I would?" I was no longer sitting but standing propelled by a sudden need to yell even longer. "This. Is Not. Fair. " I shrieked.

"Nothing is fair Slate," the books answered in a monotone voice. How were the speaking how was a hearing them?

I was living my life the way my father wanted me to. Why? Why did I just let people win, get through me, and crash me? Was I week? But was this strong? I had been thought that this was the noble way. The way I needed to go. "Once you win, then you're on break," they would say. Knowing me my family would make me feel guilty. It worked. I was guilty for my sister's death. My father's greed and violence rate. My family's shame. But this could change. I could be the great one. Responsible for protection and mending. But first I would have to survive in the area for days with evil tributes trying to murder me every second. I can't do this. I can't answer these questions. Yet I have to, like everything else in my life.

The chanting of all the books brought me out of my daze. "Why is that your token?"

No. I have no answer. Yet I have so many reasons. I love the chain because I found it on my own. Ineed to wear because my family wants me to. I admire the way it sparkled in the rain. But why is it my token? I sat down. Everyone would think I was crazy if I explained, but once again I did. I had a feeling they would never let me go if until I ushered the truth.

"Because I found it on my own." I paused not sure if I have to go on. The books did not say anything so I plowed on, "my family wanted me to wear it. I loved how it sparkled in the rain when I found it. I admire how simple it is, just a silver chain with a name that could mean so much to me. Yet I hate it, hate what j have become with it. I despise the fact that everyone knows about it, about about this." A single tear slips from my eye, to my cheek, bring a thousand more tears with it.

Unable to hear much with me bawling, I see a gold-plated book drop to the floor. It's beautiful. I pick it up, no able to keep my hands away. I need it. I don't know if I can take it though, so I slip it into my bag, that I will take out later. Suddenly, the door that had locked me in swung open. I wiped my tears, unsure if anyone is outside and collect my things.

No one. No one is here. Why am I alone? Why is there no Peacekeeper? Am I not important? Or too important? Is this still part of the test? I walk swiftly, seeing if anyone was there for me, the halls were silent, I was alone. I crossed the scarlet, then Carmel while heading to my room, not bothering to go back.

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District 3 Female: Rosella Van Carter

Gorgeous.

It was the first word that came into Rosella's mind as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her prep team and stylist having just finished putting the final touches on her interview appearance. Her dark brown hair, normally tied up in a ponytail, cascaded down her back in a shower of gentle ringlets. Sitting on the top of her head was a simple headband decked with sparkling clear crystals, vibrant rainbows refracted from their clear-cut facets showering the walls around her. A light shade of rose coloured her lips and cheeks, her eyelids painted with dark to light variations of peacock blue. A simple diamond pendant shaped as a rose blossom in full bloom hung from her neck. And her dress...it was unlike anything Rosella had ever imagined. A beautiful strapless midnight blue ballroom dress lined with small blue sapphires on the bodice was donned over her figure, a thick ribbon of the same colour tied around her slim waist, the skirt flaring out just slightly around her as it trailed towards the floor. Curiosity got to her as she glanced down at her feet; peeking out from the lace trimmed hem of her skirt were the tips of what looked a bit like Cinderella's glass slippers.

Was the girl in the mirror really the same person who had lived her entire life reading stories every day, who helped her parents once in a while in the technology factories back in District 3? Was she really the same person who had been reaped to represent the aforementioned district in this year's Hunger Games?

Rosella knew she had to be. An image in the mirror could only show her so much. Despite the stunning exterior, inside she still felt like the girl whose freedom was snatched away as quickly as the paper slip bearing her name was snatched from the reaping ball by her escort. As she waied with the other tributes in the small designated pre-interview room a few moments later, seated on a bench beside the boy from 2 and her district partner Conn, she knew that looks couldn't hide her true emotions. After all, this was the night that she was least looking forward to, besides the training—this was her final chance to make a good impression on the nation. Her training score had already hindered her so much, but she couldn't let that rule over her entire performance. Tonight was the night when everything counted, and one slip would result in a higher possibility of dying at the brink of the Games.

"You'll be okay," she whispered softly to herself, hugging herself tightly as if trying to hold herself together. She knew she had to, for the sake of her district, for the sake of her family...for the sake of whatever remained of her innocent life.

Too soon, the interviews commenced. The Peacekeepers began to file in and pick up the tributes, one by one, starting with the female and then the male from every district, from District 1 to the Capitol. That being said, the first one to leave was Ruby Grace, who held her head high as she walked off with a Peacekeeper, the clack of her heels slowly fading away until there was nothing but silence.

With every tribute that left, the anxiety level in the atmosphere continued to rise, affecting her train of thought. What match would she be, she wondered, to 27 other contenders who also wanted to return home from the Games alive? Everyone obviously had different strengths, strengths that in one way or another would be beneficial for their survival, but what would it take them to become memorable tributes, if not a victor? She knew none of them looked trustworthy. She never even bothered growing too attached to Conn, either. If there was only one thing she could be sure of, it was that she had already been the target of most of the tributes here, the way some of them were scowling at her as if she had ruined their chances of making their district proud. But she couldn't fall prey to that.

She refused to play into their hands.

"Rosella Van Carter?"

The sound of her name instantly cut through her thoughts like a knife through a wire, and she knew she had to go. With a final glance at the remaining tributes, some of them still glaring at her like they would a despicable creature, she rose from her place on the bench and followed the tall Peacekeeper without another word.

The floor beneath her slowly turned from polished white tiles to dark brown wooden planks—even she could feel the difference without looking down as the timbre of her heels clacking on the floor changed significantly. And the walls around her began to shift in colour, from a pristine white to a soft light caramel to a deep crimson, as if the walls were covered with blood. Rosella shivered, but did not stop walking. She tried her best to maintain a neutral façade, though she couldn't help but wonder where they were really going. The stage couldn't be that far away, could it?

"We're here," the Peacekeeper barked at her a few moments later, stopping at a pair of dark brown polished oak doors nestled by a corner in the corridor. Rosella's eyes widened at the beautiful glittering vines of gold surrounding the door frame in curly-ques. She could have taken the chance to get a closer look at the décor; after all, they seemed to be made of gold itself; but before she could move, the Peacekeeper forcefully pulled the doors open.

A blinding white light instantly seared into her eyes, and Rosella shielded them instinctively before the glare toned itself down, eventually realizing as she blinked and removed her arms from her eyes that the room in front of her resembled that of a sophisticated library. Books of many different sizes and colours decked the tall mahogany shelves that she had seen only once before in the Capitol, during her training session. To her right there stood a rather large circular window, and beyond the glass she could barely make out a peaceful garden with flowers blooming in brilliant hues, most of the flowers being pure white roses. And there was even a charming little brook by the garden, the water bubbling happily as it made its way into a small pond.

The jaw-dropping sight in front of her instantly drew her deep into the chamber, her steps barely audible. But despite the beauty she found herself walking into, she couldn't help but feel baffled. Was this really where her interview was going to take place?

"This isn't right," she murmured. "Are you sure we're—"

She didn't even get to finish her question. As she turned around to address her companion, she noticed that he disappeared. The doors swung shut with a bang, and she could hear the telltale click of the key turning in the lock trapping her in the chamber.

"No." In a panic, she ran towards the door, yanking on the handles in sheer desperation, pleas of escape escaping her lips. "No! This can't be it! You can't just lock me in here! Let me out! Please!"

"Rosella Van Carter, isn't it? Why, we barely started and here you are acting like a savage animal! Is that really how you greet your interviewers?"

At the sound of a girl's childish voice playfully taunting her, Rosella froze, turning back towards the shelf of books. She could swear that was where it came from, but...that couldn't be right. Wasn't she the only one present in this room?

"I'm so sorry," Rosella blurted out instantly, unable to hide her shock. "How could you--am I--?"

"Books have souls too, Rosella. I thought you would know that. You've been reading through all of our pages all your life—now it's time that we read through yours."

Despite the questions that arose in her mind, rendering her uneasy, Rosella swallowed and nodded, allowing her fingers to slide off the door handle as she slowly made her way to the bookshelves.

"Ah, what a wonderful gown you're wearing tonight. You look absolutely gorgeous!" the girly voice giggled once she stopped right in front of a set of books. "What exactly was your stylist thinking as she went about preparing this for you?"

This, Rosella thought, was getting a little nerve-wracking. It seemed practically impossible to be talking to the interviewers in this fashion, but this was exactly what was happening. In the history of all of the Hunger Games interviews, talking with the tributes in this fashion would score as the weirdest approach to weeding out answers from them; however, she knew that the entire nation was watching her, and so she tried to mask all surprise as best as she could.

"Well, um..." Rosella took a deep breath, her hands clutching tightly onto her skirt to stop them from trembling. "She knew I love reading fantasy, so I think she would give me this kind of appearance to reflect how much I love the genre. And I thought this was a genius move on her part. Even if it would only be for a while, it really made me feel like a princess."

"And do you think this would give you the edge you needed?" the voice continued to press.

"I don't want to enter the arena knowing that everyone would forget me," Rosella instantly responded. "I mean, I'm sure everyone would come onstage looking undeniably stunning, or flawlessly handsome, but one must remember that this is the last image we can project to the nation. I don't want anyone to think that I only look like this for the sake of giving everyone a nicer image of me. Everyone has a backstory, a synopsis one would glimpse at to determine how good a story would be, and mines mirrors a person hard at work, trying so hard to make her dreams come true, just like any princess I have read about ever would. Not all princesses started from the top, but at the end of their story, when they achieved their 'happily ever after', they would have so much more to look forward to."

"So you're really firm on reaching for that 'happily ever after', aren't you?"

Rosella nodded. "I am."

In her mind she could hear the crowd go "aww", either in mockery or in actual genuine support. She hoped it would be the latter. Her training score had already been so low; she couldn't afford going to the arena with everyone thinking that she didn't have what it took.

"Good. Very good," a man's deep voice spoke up, and Rosella almost jumped at this new addition to the conversation. "Well, now that we're on the topic of the Games, would you be willing to tell us what you would you do to survive?"

Rosella wouldn't deny that the longer she talked to the books sitting innocently on the mahogany shelves, the dizzier she felt, making it harder for her to think. Were they asking her for her strategy of survival? After all, the only thing on her mind was her training score, absolutely abysmal in pale comparison to practically everyone else's. Strategy was unfortunately the last thing on her mind. But even if it wasn't, she wouldn't tell anyone how she planned on winning. That would not only give the others an advantage over her, but it would give the audience a promise that she would probably never keep. And the last thing she wanted to do was disappoint.

So she cleared her throat and stated, "All I'm going to say is, you would have to tune in and read my actions carefully. After all, the only way a good book could truly be enjoyed is if it is read from beginning to end. You're going to have to stay tuned for the plot twists that are yet to come."

"Hmm. We see where you're going with this," the male voice chuckled. "But we're not really interested in your strategy. We're intrigued, more or less, on how you came to feel so confident about yourself when you have come out of the training with a score that got everyone wondering about your odds of surviving."

"So what exactly do you wish to ask?" The sudden urge to vomit began to rise in her throat, and she swallowed in an effort to bottle her fear.

"What makes you think you can win the Games?" the man asked in a hushed whisper.

Instantly, Rosella felt the temperature in the room plummet to a freeze. She had never experienced a more sound silence in her entire life, nor had she been asked such a tough question. With the audience in her mind's eye now on their toes, eager to hear what she had to say...the pressure had risen to the point where she could just break. What made her think she could win the Games? What chances would she give herself that she would be so willing to share with everyone tuning in to tonight's program without spilling too much of herself?

She had already put the pieces of the puzzle together. These Games would revolve around the books one would have already read. Everything she was all came down to the stories she had to tell within the stories they give her to read.

Stories, stories, stories. That was all anyone wanted.

But if it was a story they wanted, then that would be what they would get.

"Books had been my saviour since I was a little girl," she began in hushed tones. "As an only child, the characters in fairy tales, from Red Riding Hood to Cinderella to Jack in his beanstalk story, were my only friends growing up. As I grew up, I began to read lengthier classics like 'A Tale of Two Cities' by Charles Dickens, or 'Les Misérables' by Victor Hugo...and I have always been fascinated by the words that jump from the pages, the way they're so cleverly used to create a story that thrills everyone over and over whenever they read it."

As she spoke, her voice began to grow with confidence, and soon she found her grip slacken from her skirt. "I've immersed myself in books for practically my entire life, and they've influenced me to fight my own battles, create my own story which I know someone would one day tell. My knowledge would help me, my skills would help me, my tongue would help me in more ways than one; and I wouldn't doubt my abilities now that we are on the brink of the greatest form of entertainment in Panem. I would use what I have to fight, and that would undoubtedly bring me far."

For a moment after, the entire room had resumed its sound silence, Rosella's heart hammering hard against her chest in resounding booms within her as the interviewers contemplated her answer. Then they both laughed, their voices echoing in the empty space.

"Well, we can't wait for what is yet to come, my dear," they chorused, the encouragement coaxing a small smile out of the girl.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed from above a book tipping over the edge of the shelf, falling to the floor on its own accord with a slam. With shaking knees, Rosella stooped down to pick it up—a thick hard cover volume painted in forest green, golden lettering embossed on the bold dark cover. Taking a deep breath, she straightened up and turned around, about to head out of the room when the girl's voice stopped her.

"Wait."

Rosella turned back just briefly, surprised at the sudden change in tone. "Yes?"

"You'll need this book tomorrow. Don't forget it."

Rosella waited for more, but there was nothing more to be said. With a final nod at the bookshelf, she clutched the book against her chest, and turned her back on the library as she exited it with the aid of the Peacekeeper on the other side, closing the door with a soft click.

One could only hope, then, that she would abide to all she said that night. Would she?

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District 4 Female: Katelyn "Kate" Dodger

Katelyn Dodger was in a library.

Ever since her previous experience with the creature made out of paper pages, she had vowed never to set foot into a place where books rested ever again. She remembered clearly how her heart had pounded, how her head had spun and breathing hitched. She recalled the way that she had to force the answers out of her mouth, and how each word burned her throat and set fire to her skin. However, most of all, Kate remembered the sudden longing for her mother's touch, and the sudden fear that manifested in her heart when the girl realized that Catherine Dodger could not help her daughter any longer. Yet, now, as she heard the mahogany door lock with a click behind her, trapping her inside the endless maze of books and words, Kate could do nothing but smooth down her lemon-colored dress and sigh. No doubt the entire Games would be centered around literature this year – why else would the Gamemakers place the tributes in a library twice? It was could not be a coincidence or gimmick to attract more viewers. It had to be some kind of test, some kind of simulation to ready the tributes for the actual Games.

With caution, she took a step forward, only to stop short when she lifted her eyes to scan her surroundings. When the girl had first entered the room, her mind had been so preoccupied by memories of her mother and the Games that she had not paid much attention to the vast room she was in. Now, her senses began to pick up the littlest things that made the biggest impact on her heart – the scent of burning rosewood and scented jasmine was heavy in the air, the smell so strong that it was almost drug-like to Kate's nostrils. Unlike the previous library she had been placed in, there was no chandelier – instead, bright florescent light bulbs hung naked above her head. A few meters before her, a magnificent arched window revealed a flourishing garden, a mass of blooming white roses serving as a carpet for the grass.

For a few seconds, Katelyn contemplated on whether or not she should attempt to break out of the library – after all, windows were made of glass, and the glass of this particular window looked easy to shatter. Ignoring the books for the time being, she wobbled towards the panel, tender feet unaccustomed to being strapped in such high heels. In Four, she had no use for fashion or glamor – what good would stilettos do when fishing, or running along the sandy shores of the sea collecting oysters and clams? Chewing her lower lip anxiously, she placed one slender hand on the glass, admiring the way the panes fogged up underneath the heat of her touch. Suddenly, she recalled her childhood, and how she used to breathe onto the windows and draw stick figures on the glass.

A small smile etched itself onto her crimson lips, smothered with stylish lipstick, as she did the same, quickly breathing hard on the glass and randomly scrawling shapes and letters before the mist disappeared. If her mentor was with her, he would've shaken his head in disappointment and gone to focus his attention on Kanai Lathan, her district partner. The boy was nice enough, in Kate's opinion, which was what led her to ask for a temporary truce. Alliances were saved for a girl by the name of Aspen Summers, whose fiery nature made her a dangerous opponent in the arena. She had considered a few other females before gathering up her courage and asking Aspen – there had been Ruby Grace, the girl from One, but she was deemed to quiet and odd for Kate's taste. There had been Rii, the dark-haired one from Eight, but even from a distance one could see that she was attached to her district partner, leading Kate to hypothesize they were either siblings, lovers, or friends. At first, a spark of jealously had grown in her heart at the sight of them, for they were going to brave through the Games together. No matter what happened, one would always have the other to lean on. That was, until the girl realized that only one, if any of them, would be coming out of the arena alive. Yet, the fact remained that they were friends, and Kate had none. She had an ally, but that was all Aspen was – an ally. She was not a friend, not family – she was a shield that Kate would cower against when the time came for blood to be shed. A coward's action, perhaps, but a smart one – after all, so many tributes in the past had perished trying to be heroes. So many had met their fate fighting with honor, trying to best the records set by previous tributes.

Katelyn Dodger was not a genius.

Katelyn Dodger was not a warrior.

Katelyn Dodger was just a girl.

She stepped back from the glass, running a hand through her immaculately-combed hair, confused as to what it was she had to do. However, all confusion was quickly wiped from her mind when she heard someone whisper her name, "Katelyn Dodger."

Her own name had never struck her so powerfully before.

She whipped her head around, searching for the source of the voice, only for her eyes to connect with the forms of various books that shimmered with an odd golden glow on the shelves. Some were old, obviously worn by the dereliction of time. Their pages were yellowed and torn at the edges, so fragile-looking that Kate feared that they would fall apart if she so much as brushed the paper. Others were nondescript and drab, their cover pages an unappealing shade of brown or muddy yellow, their titles printed out neatly with black ink. Finally, there were those which were modernized, with their bright neon covers, crisp paper, and abstract design. It did not matter whether they were old or new or in-between – they all shimmered, and as they shimmered, they spoke in a voice that was neither feminine of masculine, neither loud nor soft, as one, "Let us begin your interview, Miss Dodger."

It was a eureka moment – a moment where she finally understood what was happening, and what she had to do. When the Peacekeeper had brought her here, she had automatically assumed that dressing up for the interview was all a lie, a cover, to lessen her suspicions. Yet, in a sense, her stylists had not been lying as they tugged at her hair and scoured for suitable shoes. She indeed was going to be interviewed. She was just not going to be interviewed in the typical way, for her host was not some Capital citizen with extravagant hair and attire but books on bookshelves. Another event centered around literature. Another indication that the Games were going to be based on books.

"Yes," she said, drawing up her shoulders and lifting her head. "I'm ready. Let's begin."

The first question of the "interview" was spoken by an ancient-looking book, its interior bound by straps of rotting leather, cover faded to the point where the title was unreadable. Perhaps it was because of the book's obvious age, but upon seeing it glow and quiver, Kate wondered if she were about to be hit with a trick question, or a philosophical one. One that would require wits and intelligence to reply correctly. Yet, she couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed yet also relieved when the enquiry turned out to be rather generic, leading the girl to believe that the books were just muttations, machines programmed by the Capitol. "Katelyn Dodger, what comes to mind when you first think of your home, District Four?"

Honesty was the best policy, or so Catherine Dodger had taught her. Not wishing to throw those values away now, Kate inhaled deeply and replied, "I think of my mother, and the house where I live." It was short, curt and to-the-point, but Kate felt that rambling on and on about the flowers in her backyard or the sound of the ocean echoing in her ears was bound to bore the audience undoubtedly watching through hidden cameras. What was that saying again? Less is more?She fidgeted uncomfortably with the diamond necklace one of her stylists had fitted upon her neck before leaving. Let's hope my short answer is acceptable in the Capitol.

In reality, she just wanted the entire interview to be over, to get away from this enchanted room of talking books and prodding questions. Readying herself for the next common enquiry – one that she guessed was either going to be "What are your strengths?" "What are your weaknesses?" or "Why do you think you can win?" However, her heart skipped a beat when another book began to flicker and shine, one with a mauve covering and inked title. As it was located in the highest of the shelves, Kate was not able to catch a glimpse of the name, only heard the deep, masculine voice forcefully rumble, like thunder on a stormy day, "And what do you think of your mother, Katelyn Dodger? Has your mother influenced your life in any way? Has she influenced you about the Games?" The last sentence was stated with some type of mechanical malice, a type of sternness that was neither human nor machine, yet still managed to contain a kind of unique quality that made it all the more disturbing.

"I-I," words tumbled out of her mouth in a jumbled mess, vowels and consonants tangling together to form nothing but an incoherent stammer. Forcing her hands to stop their shaking, she instead dug her hands into her palm and attempted to form a complete sentence. "My mother has influenced me in many ways. She's taught me a lot."

"Such as?" Short and sweet answers did not seem to be doing the trick for the audience, for the voice of the book with the mauve-grey cover seemed to crescendo into an almost threatening shout, something that haunted her from the chasm of her nightmares. "What has your mother taught you, Katelyn Dodger?"

"She taught me to kind," the words formed themselves on her tongue, a reaction of instinct. Once again, they were brief, but her voice now held a kind of power that had not existed before. "She taught me to be brave. She taught me to be everything that I am today."

"And what are you today, Katelyn Dodger?" For the last time, the book that asked her the question was one with a neon-blue cover with the title scrawled in bright, bursting colors across the front. "Who are you?"

Katelyn Dodger was not a genius.

Katelyn Dodger was not a warrior.

Katelyn Dodger was just a girl.

"Who am I?" She repeated, and as the glow from the books began to fade and the lock of the door flicked open, Katelyn Dodger lifted her head and whispered, "I am me."

Katelyn Dodger was herself.

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District 5 Female: Esther Tehnos

Esther was a fairy, one of the creatures from her earlier childhood

    When she had twirled around delicately to face the mirror, her dress had billowed outwards in the most natural, beautiful way. It shimmered from a frosty blue to a blooming spring green, the colour changing with every flutter of the eye or the slightest movement by Esther. One strap crossed over her left shoulder, the only strap holding the dress up. The ornate hem reached to just under her knees, and made of a silky material, cool and soothing to the touch.

    Her hair was a smooth sheet of orange, but still with its tinge of brown; the colour of leaves in autumn. It was neatly tucked behind her right ear, free of any fancy clips or barrettes that her stylist had suggested. Her skin was polished and purged of any blemishes to a soft, pale tone. Make-up adorned her face, rosy blush and a considerable amount of natural shades painted around her eyes, in order to "really have them pop."

    She was an otherworldly creature; a little girl much too innocent for the Games. Esther smiled shyly, watching her reflection do the same. Her stylist had even managed to create a twinkle in her blue eyes, so that they sparkled with something like youth.

Esther turned around, a pleased expression filling her face as she nodded at her stylist, Iris. Silently, stylist and tribute walked out of the room, and crossed the gleaming hallways of the Training Building to one of the many doors. There, Iris gave Esther a light peck on her forehead and a squeeze to the hand, then left.

Most of the tributes had already arrived, rested awkwardly on smooth wooden benches that aligned the softly lit room. The little enclosure—it was a proper word; the tributes were essentially trapped—seemed to be constructed out of wood, the idea of it comforting—that even amidst all the fakeness of the Capitol, there could be such a place, like it belonged in nature. Another door stood on the opposite wall of where Esther had entered, the colour a bronze shade differing from the duller browns surrounding it.

All eyes were on Esther, the atmosphere was so thick with anxiousness and tension, she could imagine sawing through it. She breathed in stuffy air, tentatively taking her place behind Conn Sephra, the boy from Four, as the tributes seemed to have been in order anyway.

Why is it so quiet? Is it me? Am I supposed to say something?

    Esther said nothing.

    Eventually, the missing tributes trickled in; Esther studied each and every one of the tributes—the ones who were weak, the ones who were strong; which to take down, and which to avoid in the arena. Yet somehow, her eyes could appear to be looking at the silver flowers attached to each of her sandals, or glancing around nervously, but inconspicuously. Her mouth slightly twitched as her hands fiddled with each other, or tucked strands of fallen hair once again behind her ear.

    She was the unassuming little girl from Five, dressed in shimmering cloth.

    It was when Conn was called by a Peacekeeper, did Esther truly begin to feel antsy and nervous. She waited a metaphoric eternity—her hands did not sweat a terrible amount, thank goodness—that was cut short when her name was voiced by the Peacekeeper, a female with a certain tone to her voice that Esther couldn't quite make sense of.

    Esther stood slowly, softly brushing off the wrinkles and particles of dust that cared to make themselves present at the important times. The anxiousness lining her expression wasn't all faked, she knew.

    The Peacekeeper allowed Esther through the door—and into a grandly lit hallway, that stretched farther than she could see—before the door rudely was shut. They walked in almost complete silence, only the soft pit-pats of Esther and slapping thuds of boots sounding. A clean, pure white had coloured the walls as they first entered the hallway, yet shifted to a gentle, assuring shade of caramel brown, then to a frightening scarlett as they continued down; the colour of fresh blood. The floor turned from swirled marble tiles, aligned in perfect geometrical shapes to wood planks that started and ended at random.

    It did not occur to Esther, until the walls were the blood red, that the walk had been droning on for seemingly even longer than she had waited. There was no reason that they should have placed the stage at such a distance, nor did Esther believe that the tributes had ever taken such a long walk. Her eyes turned towards the Peacekeeper, asking silent questions. The face of the Peacekeeper was thoroughly covered, but the body language and even the initial tone of voice in the small room—which she had now, finally, comprehended—told Esther enough; the Peacekeeper was amused. Why?

    A magenta shade of red had begun to take over the walls, as they reached two double doors. They were gold, reflecting the light of the hallway so that they glowed and sparkled, but to an extent that they weren't absolutely blinding. There were roaming designs delicately carved onto them, carved in ways to tell unimaginable stories through the precious art. The Peacekeeper grasped the twin handles placed onto the doors, opening them with ease.

    Bright, artificial light immediately flooded Esther's eyes, as if she were staring straight into the depth of the sun. She was utterly blinded, if only for a brief moment. I'm seeing black spots now, yuck. Go away. Esther shook her head, glancing at her escort, who gave her a forward motion. Esther stumbled forward, a small gasp slipping through her lips as she tripped over a gleaming golden ledge.

Her mind had become befuddled with confused questions, what lay before her clashing and mismatching with what her brain had prepared for.

Shelves were lined one after another, coloured a deep, rich mahogany. Books were placed precisely onto them, an endless supply of written tales and imagination, only waiting to be read. Plush vanilla carpet extended throughout, and beyond windows polished to crystal was a garden. The shrubs were neatly trimmed, the flowers—roses, Esther recognized— whiter than pure snow, flourishing in the most beautiful way.

It was, again, a library.

Esther looked behind her in sudden unease, seeking the presence of even the serene Peacekeeper. She only found the doors, closed tightly and firmly—as she found out—; they had been shut without a sound, and without the slightest movement of wind—or perhaps Esther had simply missed it. The Peacekeeper was gone, or maybe watching Esther, somehow.

The thought enraged her in a way, yet before she could think or act anything more, a rustling sound reached her ears.

Then, a voice.

"Ah...how are you faring on this wonderful day, Esther Tehnos? You look fabulous, by the way."

It was a voice that seemed age-old in wisdom but ever so melodic and soothing. Words seemed to be whispered in the back of its voice in a serene way—unintelligible but just perceptible. Yet when it spoke, it only reminded Esther of the sound of gentle turning of pages, and the soft rustling of paper. Is a book talking to me?

The sudden realization left the girl frozen in her place; left to contemplate the question. Very well, a book could talk, she supposed—after all, paper had swirled into a human during her training session; she supposed this was no different.

Esther did not ask who—or what—was speaking; only a fool would. Instead she fixated on a point in the bookshelves, answering with carefully pronounced words. "I'm doing swell, thank you." Her tone was cold, and the twinkle once in her eyes long forgotten, for there was a sort of anger that bubbled up within her; why had they dressed her up so, when all she would do was speak to a book?

"This will not do," the voice seemed to decide. "I want to know about you, Esther."

She wanted to spit out her anger; for what reason should you know me?

"Tell me about your family, Esther. Tell me about your parents." A smirk lined the voice of the book, the tone seemingly feigning an innocent play. The soft hush of words that was murmured uncomprehendingly seemed to grow, mocking Esther and her silence.

"My parents? My mom is sick, and my father gone. What else would you want to ask?" She cared not for the cameras that lurked behind every hidden crevice in the Hunger Games; she cared not for her little-girl facade; she cared not to reopen the memories, for she had shut them away already. The book did not seem taken aback by her bluntness, nor did the underlying tone of amusement leave its voice.

There was something like the sound of the turn of a page, before the book spoke again. "Why, Esther, is your father gone? Did he, perhaps, perish?"

She hushed for a second, perplexed by the question, before letting out a cry of her own amusement. The Capitol did not know of her father; they were playing on the assumption her dad had died. Yet, Esther still bit her lip, for sure the pale pink plastered onto it staining her whitened teeth.

"If he did, I don't care, I couldn't care, I wouldn't care." Esther paused, but only for a moment, if only for dramatics. "He was a monster, did you know that? My brother's back is lined with scars because of him. My brother and I will have permanent scars within us, because of my father who left us for nothing! He was a man who drank and blamed others, who never could think straight nor feel emotion. He was a fake person who claimed to have loved my mother, before using her name to take a high place in work and draining our money! And, now, she is sick and dying, and my brother can only work his hardest to maintain her life."

She inhaled deeply. Tears had begun to push themselves to the brink of her eyes, but she held them back and refused to let them spill. Her body—her heart—wracked the littlest bit, small spasms of stinging pain bouncing within. But she could not lose this little game the book was playing with her. "Did he die? I don't know. I don't care, nor will I ever."

    "You're dressed as a fairy; you've performed as a little princess but your training session showed differently. Esther, is this because of your father? Did you learn from all the facades he put on?"

    Esther's fists clenched by their own will. The once soothingness of the library now seemed taunting, frustrating, and stupid. She felt anger rise from where it once was buried deep, where she had learned to let it sit and remain untouched.

Yeah, right.

    "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Who knows? I don't, nor do I care, you stupid book!"

    Suddenly, the library turned dead silent, and Esther inhaled sharply as she took in a deep breath. The book was no longer talking; it had finally shut up. Her eyes flickered around her as she tried to figure out what was going on, her mind torn between acting out her confidence or becoming the little girl she was to the public. Was the public watching her, or were the Gamemakers?

A large thump, muted by the cloud-like carpet, sounded. Esther stepped forward, her eyes on the book which had fallen to the floor. She slowly bent down, her fingers sliding around the binding of the book as she picked it up. Her eyes gazed over the cover, but her eyes simply glazed over it, the words not making their way to her brain, for even though the book had brought up memories, she had only one thought lingering in her mind.

What if I am becoming Father?

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District 6 Female: Ashlyn Roxen

People always said being dressed like a princess will let you feel like one. I want to punch those people.

I've never been much of a girly girl, but this dress was too much for me. It was a strapless light peach cream colored dress. Ripples cascaded down my skirt, forming a waterfall but made of ribbons and silk. My dark brown hair was straightened and was let loose in the back. And on the side of my head was a light peach flower.

"Ashlyn Roxen, district 6 female, please get ready for your interview." A peacekeeper called from across the room. Eyes of the other tributes followed me as I slowly got up and ambled towards him.

"Follow me." He said gruffly. As we walked down the silent hallway all that was heard was the sound of my heels clicking along the tiles. At first the walls around us were pristine white. Then they became soft caramel, soon followed by scarlet of blood. The floor was the same. It was tiles at first, gradually becoming hardwood planks. My tongue couldn't take it anymore. I had to say something.

"Why are we so far from the stage?" I asked coldly. Without a reply the peacekeeper walks on. If we were cartoons I swear you would've seen smoke coming out of my ears like a steaming teapot. My head maybe would've exploded a few times too.

Finally we reached two giant double doors. The kind you saw in Disney princess castles. Golden vines, intricate designs, all made from precious metal only the Capitol could afford, covered the doors, marking the wealthiness of the Capitol. The peacekeeper who still hasn't said a word pushed the doors open. Bright, white light shielded my eyes as I held my hands up to cover them.

"What the-" I turned around and around, studying my surroundings. My eyes drank it all in. Magnificent shelves climbed high up the walls but not high enough to seem threatening. There was a little space, where a little carpet of white roses sat. At the center of the garden sat a little stream which flowed into a pond.

"Wow," I breathed. Even after minutes of staring at this beautiful place my eyes still could not get enough of the beauty in front of me. I turned back and realized the door was closed. As fast as I could with heels I dashed to the double doors, pulling on the handles.

"Lemme out! Lemme out!" I pounded on the door. Nothing. From behind me, there was a whoosh sound. I slowly turned around, expecting a fairy godmother of some sort. After all, that's how they appear right?

Instead in my imaginary godmother's place was a book in midair.

"Ahhh!" I screamed. Then I remembered this was the Hunger Games. I mentally slapped myself for being so stupid and got my act together. The pages of the book rustled and the sound of a woman came out.

"Hello Ashlyn." The woman's voice said.

"Hi?" I croaked. Gosh, I'm going crazy. What the heck?

"I have a few questions for you." The book's rustled pages seemed to flit around as a small gust of wind blew by.

"Ok...sure..." I frowned. My minds swirled around my brain. Maybe this WAS the interview. Maybe there were cameras recording this right now. Maybe this was all on live. But on the other side of my head, my thoughts said it was my messed up mind, producing hallucinations. Sighing, I didn't take my chances and straightened myself out.

"Sure." I said more confidently this time. I was going to die anyway in the Games. Better make the most out of what I could before my death.

"District 6 contributes much to Panem, building and making new transportation. Yet it's not a major district within our society. That's why some people claim that tributes from there do not possess much skill. What would you say to prove them wrong?" The book said.

Breathe. If every question had a meaning, what would this one mean? I took a deep breath. Simple, my loyalty to my district.

"Yes. You are right. My district is a district of not much importance. But from there, that's where they are wrong. By being surrounded by transportation like cars, trains, and other things, valuable skills can be picked up as well. Such as feeling for the trains. Which way they're coming from, how fast they're going, you are able to learn to feel the vibrations and what they mean. Or carrying luggage. Years of carrying luggage can build essential muscle for the Games." I explained.

"Hmm, yes dear. Here's another one. If you were right before your death, right now, what would you say?"

They are testing your wits Ashlyn. Don't panic. I smiled, acting like everything was fine. Acting like I don't really give a thing about dying right now. Acting like I wasn't already dying inside.

"Well, I would say a mental goodbye to my friends and family, praying for good lives ahead of them. And as for who killed me, well, I give them a wave and say I'd see them in Hell." I smirked. Confidence blossomed inside of me.

"One last question. How are you coping with your mother's death?" At this question I froze completely. My mother was always a touchy subject. My heart hardened. The confidence I once had shriveled and died away.

"Um... Well..." I was at a loss for words. Omg Ashlyn. How stupid can you be? They're testing your mental. How well your mental is. They know you're physically strong. They just need to know if you're mentally too.

"If you must know, then I'm doing fine. I used to be a sad, pathetic little girl who cried at the new of her mother. But now, well, I realize that's stupid. I should be honoring her. Not crying over her dead body. Her soul is in Heaven. And if dying bravely in the Hunger Games is the way, then so be it." I grit my teeth at first, but then newfound courage filled inside of me, filling me with hope, honor, and.... Confidence. A piece of me I've been missing for so long.

"Thank you." The book fluttered back onto the shelf. From another shelf, another book falls out, revealing a key within the pages. I gently pick the book up with the key.

"Really hope this works." I murmur. I stick the key into the lock hole and turn. The clicking sound indicated that I had succeeded. I strode out, lifting my head high. For I felt like for once I could face anything.

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District 7 Female: Aspen Kinsley

Words were such fragile things; very much so like the delicate petals of a rose. They could change in tone and meaning like the many shades of all the stunning colors a rose could be. But as much as they represented a gorgeous blossom, it seemed to be that they were more like the shards of a shattered mirror. They could be placed together in a number of distinct ways- some of them seeming to be more wrong than others. Yet, most were delicately crafted to create exquisite works of art. Some creations were as bright as the light cast down on the world by the morning sun, while others were as dark as the night itself. But they all held one thing in common- they were all beautiful. No matter the tone of the sentences crafted, they all held beauty even if it was dark type and not the glowing bright kind which seemed to always come to mind.

    Aspen Kinsley was just learning how to play with words. The knowledge of how to hold a mask to her face and hide all of her emotions beneath its fake beauty was precious. It was like the kind of gold which shimmered by the slight touch of light, and shone as pure as the color white- so valuable. The way she weaved concealed lies within her voice, and how she twisted the truth to fit her necessities was a type of art itself- the art of manipulation.

    The walk to Aspen's interview location was rather long, and she found herself being led through a series of different hallways by a Peacekeeper. They followed a number of paths, all of them twisting and turning to create small corners and what seemed to be a maze of corridors. Like vines growing up the bark of a tree, every path seemed to be unique, colliding with yet another pathway for the pair to follow.

The light fabric of her dress fluttered behind Aspen with every step she took. It soared like a young bird, high in the skies with such beautiful delicacy; like that of a butterfly's wings. The color of the fabric matched her orange eyes, as they were as bright as the color of the autumn forests. The cloth was as smooth as butter at her skirt, but it gushed into soft ruffles at the rim. It was as if the waters of a serene sea, flowing into waves that brushed at the sandy beaches nearby. The only difference was that it was a sea of a promising orange, like the hopeful color of the morning sky that a new day brought.

Aspen.

It was a gentle voice that spoke, one that Aspen heard everyday in her dreams and nightmares both. Love seemed to be knitted within it, soft and light like a feather. It seemed to be full of joy, the kind that shone as bright as the rising sun. Yet even though it seemed to be only of positivity, it brought so much pain to Aspen's heart. It started at the edges, barely brushing the muscles before diving deeper into the core where it exploded in bombs of pure agony. It was her sister's voice, the one that still haunted her every night. Aspen blamed herself for her sister's death, and still wishes that she had volunteered. It was better her than the one she lived most.

Little Bird.

Aspen's sister had loved her little sister more than anything; more than her twin brother. She had spent all of her time with the blossoming girl, showing her the beauty of youth. It was a shame she never got to explore her's farther. Perhaps the best of all of Aspen's memories were with her sister, but she knew the one which pained her so much so well. It revisited her every night, and she heard her sister's voice again and again, calling her by the nickname only she was allowed to call her.

Little Bird.

Lost in thought, Aspen almost did not see the Peacekeeper halt in front of her, but she caught her feet at just the right moment. She glanced to the set of double doors in front of her, devouring its appearance with her eyes. Intricate designs decorated the doors, which appeared to be glimmering in the soft glow of the light from above. Stretching like roots made of pure gold, each swirl seemed to be a work of stunning art. The Peacekeeper stepped forward, his fingers engulfing the sleek silver of the smooth twin handles, as he pushed the doors forward.

Blinded by bright light for a moment in time, Aspen could only see the colors of the magnificent glow of a rising sun pour into her eyes before her vision cleared. Her eyes wandered as they absorbed the sight in front of them, taking in the rows of shelves. Made of mahogany, they towered high like the tallest of trees in a lush forest, and were stocked with a lavished collection of written works. They were too many to count, more than the number of abundant trees which filled the verdant forests back home in Seven.

Splitting the library's space, was a monumental window, granting a view over a peculiar, but unique garden. The greens were trimmed to perfection, and an enormous number of roses dotted the luscious color. The roses were white in color, almost too perfectly purified. Their petals were as soft as snow, gracefully drooping ever so slightly like the wings of a swan of the very same color. A small stream which sparkled with serenity flowed in a delicate loops through the garden before dripping into a tiny pond in the soul of the lively existence of the blooming life. The garden itself was a work of flawless art.

Caught in the awe of the garden's beauty, Aspen had completely forgotten about her interview. She swirled back towards the doors, her dress flowing as it did a dance of its own like the ripples of water in a lake. Opening her mouth to speak, Aspen's parted lips froze as she realized that she was alone in the brightly lit hall. The Peacekeeper was nowhere in sight, and the doors from which she had come were closed. She did not take a step forward, for somewhere deep inside, she knew the doors were locked.

If Aspen had still been the naïve girl she had been back home before the Games, she would have been attached by panic and it's schemes. But she was not the little girl she had been, and that's why when Aspen realized what was going on, she stayed completely calm. It was serenity that seemed to capture her, finding peace in her eyes which seemed to grow softer despite their usual fiery orange. Her lips were not frozen in shock anymore, but were rather touching by the slightest, like two gusts of wind in a moor.

"Aspen Kinsley of District Seven, correct?" While solitude could not drive her to the edge, the voice that soon spoke could. It was docile and soft, almost papery in a way. Rustles of some type of material could be heard, and it seemed as if the words seemed to be coming from the pages of the books themselves. Aspen could only stand in shock as silence overwhelmed her.

"Yes," Aspen responded after a couple of moments, her voice coming out like the binding of an old book- slightly weak. The thought of books which spoke was absolutely ridiculous, and for a brief moment in time, Aspen wondered if she was going crazy. She glanced at her arms, and she found the thin lines of crimson red which still marked her pale wrists. She remembered the cold metal against her skin, and the feeling of power which had rushed through her. It gave her some type of comfort, and something to help her take her mind off of it all. That was what scared her most- the fact that she wanted more of it.

First, she had found joy in dragging a blade across her skin, and now she was hearing the pages of a book speak. Aspen was sure that she was not sane. What had the Gamemakers done to her mind? Had they infected it with hallucinations? Had they tried to take away the joy of sanity? Aspen was not sure at all, and she could not distinguish the fakes from reality. There was only one thing Aspen knew- she couldn't trust herself anymore.

"Are you even real? Is this a trick is some sort?" Aspen's words came out harsher than she had anticipated, and she found some sort of solace in the ice of her voice. It was cold and slightly demanding, and Aspen liked the way it sounded. It made her seem more intimidating, and that was what she wanted.

"Of course I'm real." There was a pause, and Aspen could imagine the book letting out a cold chuckle. "As for what this is, I would expect a smart girl like you to have that all figured out. This is your interview, Aspen. It's most likely the first and last one of your little life." Those words cut at Aspen's insides like a cold blade, and this time it didn't feel as good. It hurt, and it was enough pain for Aspen to grimace. Was she not good enough to emerge a Victor?

"Are you saying that that I'm too weak to win? Well, I know that I have what it takes." Aspen was proud at the bold tone she managed to pull off, even though it sounded slightly cocky. She could almost see her sister shaking her head and looking at her in disgust.

What have you become, Little Bird?

"I don't know..." Aspen's whisper was so soft, contradicting the voice she had used only moments before. She didn't realize that she was speaking aloud until the words had already escaped her lips. She looked up alarmed, and in hopes that the books hadn't heard her. Fortunately, they hadn't.

"Let's begin with the easier questions. What's your plan for these Games?" The book was speaking again, and Aspen was surprised by the slightest at the simple question.

"I'll fight when I need to, and I've got a very faithful ally by my side. We're a team that will make it far together," Aspen responded. Her voice sounded confident, and not very cocky. It was a perfect balance, and Aspen hoped that it would stay that way for the rest of the interview.

"Is that so? Who's the tribute?" The book asked in an inquisitive voice with a hint of boredom added with a flourish.

"Kate, District Four." After the words had left her mouth, Aspen wished that she had made her reply longer. It didn't seem satisfying enough. But it would have to do, and Aspen wished that she didn't fret over such little things; it was a useless quality in her opinion.

"A good choice, I'll say. Let's go deeper, shall we? I'd like to talk about the topic so many of the citizens in Panem have been itching to hear about. All of us have heard about your brother, with him being a victor and all. I want to hear more about your sister, the sweet girl who never did accomplish her goal." The book had finally said the words Aspen was dreading. She could hear her sister's voice inside of her, and it hurt so much. It was as if the blade she had dragged across her wrist had went deeper, and had dug into her bone, her soul, and her very core.

Does it hurt, Little Bird?

It's okay, Little Bird. I'll come back for you.

I'll always have your shoulder, Little Bird.

There had been so many different memories they had made together, and Aspen wished for it all to be banished from her mind. All she wanted was for them to be gone. Even though they had once brought joy; they brought only pain to her now. They hurt her, more than she thought possible. How could someone she loved cause her so much agony?

"Aspen? I've been asking about your sister. Tell me about her. What do you feel for her?" The book was going too far, digging deeper in places it shouldn't have been. Aspen looked down at her shoes, closing her eyes.

Little Bird, do you really think killing to win will bring me back?

"I love her, I do. I will win for her," Aspen replied. Didn't her sister understand? She was doing it for her. It wouldn't bring her back, but it would avenge her death.

The book didn't respond, but only drop from the shelf where it once was. Aspen picked it up, her fingers sliding across the golden cover, but she didn't let her eyes gaze over it to examine it further. Instead, she ran towards the double doors, leaving the room in a hurry. How could the book have broken her with one question? Why did her sister have to be her weakness? Aspen didn't let the tears escape her eyes. She would remain strong because the weak ones never won the Games, and Aspen needed to emerge victorious. It was the only way.

Little Bird, what have you done?

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District 8 Female: Rii

Death is a song

One that we all

Must hear

It plays

Inside my mind

Reminding

Me of what is

To come

Death is a song

Fear is the lyrics

The words dance

On the page

Adding meaning

To the song

Of death

Death is a song

Fear is the lyrics

Anger is the drum

Lulling, thumping

In the background

Softly, quietly

Giving the song

A beating heart

Death is a song

Fear is the lyrics

Anger is the drum

Pain is the music

Flowing like a river

Adding breath and life

Death

Song

Fear

Lyrics

Anger

Drum

Pain

Music

As Rii stepped into the interview room, her high-heels clacking on the white marble floor, she replayed the poem she'd written that morning in her mind. Death was a song, one that she sang well.

Poetry was an activity that kept her calm. Reading was as well, but poetry helped her sit down and think, especially since she was someone who usually never thought anything through. Being someone who knew about life on the streets, death really was a song, one that she often heard and sang herself.

Once again, she walked into a room expecting something similar to past Games, only to step into a library. Like last time, her body itched to read every single book in the room, but she also remembered what happened last time. It's just like before, she thought. They want me to feel safe, so I have to stay on high alert.

And she was. Her senses were all gazing around the room, picking up the sweet scent of fresh paper, seeing all the high shelves filled with books, tasting the dust in the air, feeling the coolness of the air conditioner brush against her skin.

The papers in the books fluttered, like a light breeze whispering across the room. Goosebumps rose on the back of Rii's neck and she cautiously swept her eyes across the room, peeling for danger.

"This is your interview," voices whispered. It sounded neither male nor female, but like an entire group speaking all at once. Rii stepped closer to the left wall, where she thought the voices were coming from.

"What? Who... What is this?"

"Answer all three of our questions, and you can leave."

Rii swallowed, grabbing a book off the shelf at random and held it up like a shield. In the back of her mind she realized how stupid it was, but she couldn't help but want to feel safe. "Oh...Okay, fine. I'll go along with... whatever this is. What questions?"

Rii immediately thought back to the creature made from paper that asked her scenario questions. I passed that test... eventually. Surely I can pass this one too, she thought.

"Before we ask you the questions, we must warn you. We will only accept answers with spoken poetry."

Rii creased her eyebrows, wondering how the... shelves...knew about her favorite hobby. With a shrug, she sat down at a table in the middle of the room. "Alright, I think I can do that. What's the first question?"

"Are you ready for the Games?"

Closing her eyes, Rii envisioned words inside her mind. Choosing the words of a poem was the only time in her life when she would take time to think. It was what helped her to think through the first question.

Game of life

Game of death

Game of strength

Game of weakness

So many strengths

The others have

Yet I have the training

From an old man

And a small dagger

In my hand

Will it be enough?

Not in this

Game

One we all must play

Game of hunting

Game of surviving

Game of everything

Game of nothing

So little weaknesses

The others have

Yet I have small size

Which is easily

Overpowered

Impulsive, reckless, mistrust

Bold, outspoken, offensive

Will it be too much?

Yes, in this

Game

One we all must play

Game of deception

Game of power

Game of conviction

Game for life

Rii finished reciting the words and opened her eyes, staring at the bookshelves. At first, there was no whispering, but after patiently waiting a few seconds, at last they spoke up.

"What do you hate most about yourself?"

Once again, Rii closed her eyes. This time, she inhaled deeply, thinking about every little thing that she disliked about herself.

There is a list

Inside my mind

That plays

Over and over again

One

My slanted eyes

Two

My small frame

Three

My blunt words

Four

My nervous habit

Five

My jealous nature

Six

My mistrustful heart

Seven

My negative outlook

Eight

My doubtful mind

Nine

My reckless attitude

But the thing that I

Hate most about myself

Is neither one through nine

What I hate most is

That I hate

Anything about myself

At all

Instead of opening her eyes when she was finished speaking, Rii kept them closed, listening to the quiet whispers of the bookshelves as they asked their final question.

"Why do you think you've made it this far?"

Rii smiled, knowing the answer was very simple.

Love is a song

One that not all

Are blessed to hear

It plays

Inside my heart

Reminding

Me of what is

Most important

Love is a song

His voice is the lyrics

The words dance

In my mind

Adding meaning

To the song

Of love

Love is a song

His voice is the lyrics

His soul is the strings

Luring, connecting

Both of us together

Always and forever

Giving the song

Beauty and life

Love is a song

His voice is the lyrics

His soul is the strings

His presence is the music

Flowing like a river

Adding warmth and protection

Love

Song

Voice

Lyrics

Soul

Strings

Presence

Music

Love

When she was finished, a book fell off the shelf to her left. Cautiously, she rose from her seat and picked up the black leather book. Clutching it inside her right hand, she looked back at the shelves.

"You may leave," the voices stated.

As she left the interview room, one name was etched into her mind, playing the song of love inside her heart and soul, connecting Rii to him in more ways than she could possibly describe.

Syne.

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District 9 Female: Eliza Clarkie

I kept a smile on my face the whole time as I waited for my name to be called for my interview. I didn't want others to see my discomfort at the clothes I was wearing. I, never, being one to have a lot in my life wasn't used to this new extravagant clothes. I felt like a literal clown with all the makeup on my face.

The gown I was wearing felt heavy and I didn't like that it showed a lot of skin, something I never would have done before. It wasn't something in my nature to do. I could only hope Elena and Leo weren't too horrified by what I was wearing.

I looked over at the other tributes also sitting looking around in wonder or simply looking as uncomfortable as I felt.

I was sitting a pensive look was on my face as I thought of what the interviewer could ask me. Probably something that would get under my skin. Maybe something that would hit close to home. I was shaken out of my thoughts when I heard my name being called.

"Eliza Clarkie!" A peacekeeper yelled again and I quickly go up walking towards the guard who had a stern glare as I walked up to him. I shot him an innocent and toothy smile and I could see his features soften a little before he stood up straight again and directed me towards the room.

We kept walking, I couldn't help but wonder why we were so far away from the stage. I don't think it had ever been like this before. I wanted to ask the peacekeeper but the more I looked at the man the more grim he looked and I prefered to stay silent.

Finally after the long march we got a double door that had beautiful design outside. The guard pushed the door open and leaded me into the room. My eyes watered at the blinding light that shined down on me for a second.

The peacekeeper made a signal for me to move inwards more than I already was. Walking further into the room I could see the tall ceiling. A huge window where I could see the beautiful white roses. A pond could also be seen. Looking back at the room I see it is a huge library again. I knew it wasn't the same one as before, this one seemed to be on the more elegant side. I looked back at the guard a little confused at what I was supposed to do. Yet he wasn't there and the door was now shut.

I looked around seeing a chair in the right middle. I sighed and walked in the heels I was forced to where and sat down. I made sure my dress was all around me making a circle around the bottom of the chair.

When a whisper was heard from throughout the room. I twisted around trying to see but saw no one. Then a green book from the bookshelf rustled its pages and it got louder as it spoke.

"Eliza Clarkie, the District nine female, tell me my dear can you kill an allie?" The book asked.

I could only gape in shock at what I was hearing. I blinked and rubbed my eyes as I spoke out loud, "I must be going bonkers a book is speaking to me,"

The book gave what sounded like a snort but kept quiet. I didn't move to attack the book, I mean what good would that do me? There were a million more to just come by and torture me. I sighed but my brain remembered the figure from before at the private training. If something like that could exist why couldn't a book talking exist?

"I would kill an ally, I have to get back to my sister. She means the most to me right now," I spoke with a confidence I didn't know I had.

"A baton seems like a weird weapon, why do you chose that?" the book asked after I finished answering.

I tilted my head a little wondering how to answer the question,"Well my family never really had much but my mother did buy me a baton from a young age. She was the one who taught me I didn't need a knife or sword to kill someone," I took a deep breath as i spoke of my mother.

I missed her and dad. I missed the hugs they would both give me to make me feel better. I hated the book for making me this weak as i spoke but I pulled myself together. A small smile graced my face as I looked at the book again.

"Can your sister learn to love a killer?"

I gasped as the book spoke the question. I couldn't help it the words hit me strong. Would my sister ever look at me the same if I killed someone? If I killed someone like someone had to our parents. How would Leo feel.

"I would like to think she'd understand that to win and come back home I-i need to somethings," I cursed in my head as I stuttered in my response. Yet something in my heart pounded. This was good in a way. The other tributes would continue to underestimate me I could use that to my advantage. I hid the smirk that was wanted to come onto my face.

The book suddenly dropped to the floor and I heard the door unlock. I got up walking towards the book interested to find out more about it. I picked it up in wonder and walked out with it. As I was walking out I wondered how my sister and best friend would feel.

I couldn't help but wonder if they could love a monster.

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District 10 Female: Arura Bay Akpofure

I hear my name and stand slowly, so as not to accidently lift my already too short dress. Modesty

was definitely not one of the considerations in making my outfit. Verity, my stylist decided to

dress me in what is definitely the skimpiest outfit I've ever worn in my life.

The bust of my dress seems as if it was weaved from wheat, grain, flowers and grass and it

probably was. It's strapless and more poofed out then flat, it also has a thin piece of silk under it

so that I can't actually feel the strange top. The skirt of the dress is high waisted, pleated and

definitely made from genuine light brown leather.

'They had too skin a cow to make this useless clothing'. I cringe at the thought of it. Despite the

dress I'm thankful for the pair of boots she gave me, even if they are shiny gold. They have a

small, fat heel that makes them a bit uncomfortable, but they're functional.

As I walk down the hall behind the silent peacekeeper, I finger the extravagantly layered gold

choker that lies on my neck, sporting a short vertical gold bar across the necklace. I didn't even

get to see my reflection, so I have no idea what my hair or makeup look like, but I'm sure it's

something equally lavish

'What on god's green earth could possibly possess people into putting so much into their

clothing. Looking good is one thing, but these people are on a whole 'nother level'. Suddenly she

stops in front of a huge, ornate gold door and I look around and notice we're nowhere near the

stage.

'Dammit I got caught in my thoughts again. This chick could be taking me to a damn dungeon

and I wouldn't have even noticed.'

I (not so) lightly tap on the peacekeepers back with the intention of only asking where we are,

until she turns to face me. Her lips are pulled back in a snarl and I swear she growled at me. I

quickly shut my mouth, while she turns back around and slowly pushes open the large door,

letting out a bright light.

'What the hell is with the sun burning my eye sockets?' The light quickly dissipates and I go to

wipe my eyes before stopping myself, remembering that Verity made it very clear not to smudge

my makeup. The peacekeeper motions me to go inside and before I can even decide if that's a

good idea, she pushes me inside and immediately shuts the door behind me. I attempt to open

the door and, of course, it's locked.

'Huh, I probably should have seen that coming.' I turn around and notice I'm standing in a

library (once again) with mahogany shelves stacked to the ceiling. In between the shelves lies an

enormous window leading to what appears to be a white rose garden. I stride toward the window

and stare out at the beautiful garden.

"We have been waiting for you Arura." ​I hear a voice call, but tampering my curiosity I

continue to face the window and prepare myself for the definite invasion of privacy I came here

for.

"Call me Rue." I reply confidently before turning around and noticing there's no one there. 'Or

at least no one I can see.' I begin to move towards the shelves, my eyes searching for someone

or maybe something that doesn't belong.

"So, what? Are you hiding amongst the shelves? Maybe you're not even here. Maybe you're using

an intercom like thing to try and scare me." I wait and get no response. Laughing I call out,

"Well, cat got your tongue? I thought you were here to question me." Still getting no response, I

pick up one of the books off the shelves and open it. "That is exactly why we're here​." The

voice speaks again... from the book I'm holding in my hands. Screaming, I drop the book on the

floor and gape at it.

'There is no way that just happened. There is no way that just happened. There is no fucking

way that just happened!'

The book's pages ruffle and I step back. It lifts itself off the floor and replaces itself on the shelf.

"Why?" ​I stare at the book.

"I'm sorry what? Are you asking me why I screamed when a book I was attempting to read

decided to speak to me because that is a rather stupid question. The book seemed to snort at my

response. "No, earlier you said to call you Rue, why?"

The book boomed back. I smirked, "Well, you see there's these things called nicknames that

people give each other and that's mine. Books sometimes have them too." The book did not seem

amused. Then I heard another booming voice, except this one was slightly higher.

"Do not play with us girl. You are well aware of what he was asking, why is your

nickname Rue." ​The voice had come from another book, this one being female I guess, on the

shelf above the first book. 'So books have genders now, hmm odd.'

I square my shoulders and turn toward 'her', "My brother gave me that nickname", I grin

thinking of him, "He used to joke that he was to lazy to say my whole name so he had to make it

shorter and I always thought Rue sounded nice."

They seem to think about that for a moment, in which time I hear two more voices. 'Two more

books I assume.' They sit on the bookcase behind me, the first one grabbing my attention

because of it's detailed pitch black and blood red spine. The mix and swirl of it's colors nearly

had me in a trance. "Yes, your poor brother. You miss him so much don't you?"​Her

voice is smooth and melodic. Shaking myself out of the mini trance, I answer.

"Yes I do. I cried for him every night until I no longer knew how to shed a tear." I start to tear up

like I haven't done in years all because of this book in her voice. It's like all the the hurt feelings I

buried were bubbling to the surface and I don't know why I just know I have to keep listening to

her voice. I think of my loving older brother's kind face.

"He was just always there when you needed him, so helpful and full of care. He was my light in

the darkness, ready to lay down his life for those h­he loved." My voice breaks and I have to stop

myself before I start bawling 'What the hell is going on? I haven't broke like this in forever.

"Is that not what he did? Die for those he loves? After all he is dead over thievery,

thievery he commited for you, one he loves." ​This voice is gruff, low and shows no

remorse for the words he says. I feel my face get hot and my pulse increase ten fold. I wanna

break something, hurt someone. I want to scream until my voice goes raw, so I do.

"HE WAS MURDERED! HE DID NOT DIE, HE WAS MURDERED YOU USELESS

COLLECTION OF PAGES!!" I yell so loud I hear it echo throughout the library. I take heavy

breaths trying to catch my breath, while giving a death glare to a freaking book.

"Well it seems you've upset her", ​The melodic voice speaks soothing me once again, "I'm

sorry for him honey. He doesn't really play well with others. We're just here to

ask you some questions and I'm hoping you'll answer honestly." ​I calm my

breathing and think about what little miss 'Book of the year' has to say. 'What could they

possibly ask that's worse than what they've asked already.'

"Fine, what would the capitol and it's freaky books like to know?" "Thank you. Gearhardt,

you may ask." ​'Gearhardt, well that's... dif erent.' The book with the booming voice, then

clears it's throat, "So, Miss Akpofure, how do you like your attire? I love your name

'Akpofure'. What is that African?" ​he seemed to speak with a childlike curiosity, not so

judgmental like his higher voiced twin or "Mr. Gruff."

I scratched at my itchy updo, "Yes it is actually, Nigerian and I'm not really sure. The clothing

looks ridiculous, but I haven't really seen it all on me." I stare down at my boots and pick at my

ornate necklace. All the books gasp

"Well that is travesty, what dolt of a stylist decided that was a smart idea. If you

don't see the clothing then how are you to know how much better our capitol

styles make you look?"​The booming voice's twin exclaims. She then ruffles her pages,

"Turn around girl."​I turn to see a large, golden framed, floor­length mirror. 'Wow, what is

up with these people and gold' I stare at my reflection and audibly gasp.

"I look... different!" along with my outfit I had on gold lipstick and eyeliner styled to perfection.

Around my eye she had used darker brown eye shadow to make a similar look to a cow spot, and

my hair. My hair was flat ironed and then put into two large, loose twists that wrap around my

head to make an incredible updo.

"I have never worn anything like this in my life and I probably never will again, but I kinda love

it." The books all ruffle in affirmation. "Well, don't you look pretty. It's too bad a little

beauty like you will be dead before the end of the week",​Mr. Gruff comments. I smile

big and twirl in the mirror, admiring my strange, but extraordinary new look. 'It's so odd to

wear anything other than pants.'

"If you're trying to goad me , it's not going to work. Yes, it's very likely I'll die and yes I am very

angry, but you are not going to get the better of me again, and excuse me if I'm wrong, but did I

just get hit on by a book." Mr. Gruff doesn't reply. "Nicely played dear. You've quieted

Alec, no one ever does that."​'Book of the year' chimes.

'Hmm her name's a bit long, I should probably shorten it. Ooh Melody. Yep that works.' "Well

thank you, anything else you want to ask me?" I questioned, eager to get out of there. "Yes

dear, just one last question. Who?"​I waited for Melody to continue, but she did not. I

sighed impatiently.

"What is with you guys and your vague questions! Who what? Who stole the cookie from the

cookie jar, Come on!" Melody and giggled, "No silly, Who are you fighting for? Who are

you going in that arena to die for, because I'm sorry my dear, but your chances

are very slim." ​I thought about that for a moment, until took a deep breath and turned to face

her.

'Yes the book'

"I'm FIGHTING for every child that goes hungry at night, every teenager thanking god for

another year, every parent working back breaking hours for their family and every citizen under

the thumb of this government, even the clueless, shielded capitol."

"Well isn't that noble."​sneered the high pitched voice twin.

"Oh shut up you bitter bitch. What's your story about, the murder of innocent children?" I

turned and stomped toward her, then ripped her book off the shelf, but I got no reply. "Hello?"

Just then one of the books fell off the shelf. I put Bitter Bitch back and went to pick it up and

when I did a door opened. I took one last look around, clutched the book to my chest and walked

out of the silent library.

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District 11 Female: Regan Twiyl

Today was the interviews. It was the time you can reveal your personality in words. Your words are the lure, fishing in the capitols trust. I stood on hard floors tapping my foot. I was wearing high heels. I knew because of the sound, the continuous clacking.

"District 10 male, please come" A peacekeeper called sharply- I knew it was a peacekeeper because he was tapping his foot like a maniac-. From what I heard was the district 10 male walking out with the double, louder steps of the peacekeeper. This is what confused me, why were they called peacekeepers when they only kill- not very peaceful if you ask me-. A few minutes later I heard footsteps coming over to me. They were quieter, much like a pixie.

"Regan?" It wasn't a voice of a peacekeeper, more like a girl- a little girl-.

"Yes?" I replied, my voice croaky from not talking.

"Are you really blind?" she asked, well I hope the voice was a she, it could have been a very high pitched boy.

"Yes... well... yes?" I replied, I sound like such an idiot.

Then I phased out.

Tap, tap, tap.

What?

Tap, tap, tap.

"Regan? Regan!? It was that little boy/girl again.

"Y-yeah?"

"The peacekeeper is calling you" she replied and then I felt her presence gone.

I was pushed slightly by the peacekeeper, then we started walking. And walking, and walking, and walking.

I swear this guy got us lost.

"Peacekeeper?" I asked.

No reply.

Well how rude!

I was shoved into a room. It smelt like a?

A library?

In District 11 we only had 1 small library with only about 20 books. But I have had read them all.

I turned and glanced left and right.

Then I heard whispers.

Am I mad?

Fear trickled down my back- oh no, that was sweat-.

Why am I sweating?

"Regan, How did you become blind?" a voice asked.

"Who are you?" I called.

"How did you become blind?" The voice asked again.

"Where are you?" I screamed this time- I'm really over-dramatic-.

Should I answer them? I was always good with words. Lets start this story.

"Well... it started like this. The night I became blind was a dark night. The day had been cold and the wind whipped at your legs. It was the last day of autumn. I was only 5, Childish with a taste for play fighting. I had been playing with my brother Alex. I can still remember his face that day, bright and cheerful. He was about... 10. We were playing capital and districts, I was a district rebel and my brother was Seneca Crane. We were circling each other, step by step my fear shrank. Now, that is what scared me the most. We had started the launch at each other, gripping at the others hair.

Bang!

A pain rippled behind my eyes. The doctors said he had ruptured my optic nerve that connected my eye to my brain, so now I see like everything is a black and white movie with fog" I said, my back slumped a few tears trailing down my face.

"What was it like after you lost your sight?" The whispers asked.

"W-well, it was hard. Every day was fear. Fear that I would be plunged into the void of my empty eyes. My brother blamed himself, so he cared for me like a mother but 3 times better. That is what ripped me up the most- I really wanted to say that it wasn't his fault, but it actually was his fault and he can't change that" I whispered. I was kneeling on the ground.

"Did you blame your brother?"

"NO! NO MORE! PLEASE NO MORE!" I screamed. I had cracked. I have lost my brother. My tears burned my faulty eyes. "DAM YOU EYES! DAM YOU! ITS ALL YOUR FAUT!" I screamed hitting my eyes furiously. Footsteps barged into the room, grabbing me. I thrashed, kicking them and biting at what I hoped was hands. My hand slipped around a book, I yanked it and held it to my chest.

"Rock a –by baby, on the tree top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock. When the bow the bow breaks the baby will fall. Down will come baby, cradle and all" I sang quietly.

My eyes flicked open, this was the capitals fault. And they shall pay.

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District 13 Female: Xavi Uriendah Liason

The golden dress pooled around my feet in shimmering puddles. The fabric was tight against my skin, but I felt absolutely radiant. My seven inch heels gave me a boost of confidence, and my confidence cut through the anxiety like a knife.My hair was styled up in a style many teens from the capital wore on an average day. Jewls hung around my neck, and a crown was upon my head. I felt victorious, even though I hadn't accomplished a single thing.I took notice of high ceilings, and benches. It seemed more like a locker room, than of a room for any form of the games.The room buzzed with feeling of discontent and fear. One by one names were listed, and mine was finally yelled. Again, incorrectly.I stood up, my face draining of color and my confidence washed away. I followed a burly man into a hallway. The hallway was a sterile, passage that lacked color. Just as that thought flickered through my mind, the walls warmed slightly, and became a glittering golden caramel, seeming much more welcoming. Finally the walls bore a crimson shade reminding me of the life within me.The floor was a hardwood, colored that of my hair. My heels clicked, and clacked across the polished oak. The journey had lasted a good few minutes already, and my curiosity turned to suspicion as the hallway was seemingly never ending.I began to mentally prepare myself for a physical battle. Why else would we be so far away? Who would want to hear the battles of their peers. I panic slightly, my flood pressure rising and my adrenaline pumping through my veins.All the while doing this, I neglect to notice the man haunting and knock into him, sub-sequentially making me fall back onto the ground. The man grunts, as he looks over the shoulder at me. As he looks at me, I get a glimpse of a large, ornately decorated set of doors. The detailing matches the color of my dress, and it leaves me awestruck.I finally scramble to my feet as I'm nudged harshly by one of the guards.I clamber to my feet, and watch curiously as he opens a door. The light is bright, and reminds me of one that is described as heaven. I'm ushered in, and the door shuts softly behind me. I squint a bit, trying to get accustomed to the lighting.The first thing I take notice of, are the tall ceilings. They seem to run for miles. Secondly, is a window overlooking a garden blooming with life. There are impeccable roses in lines, surrounding a quaint little pond.I find it ironically beautiful. A perfect tragedy. There is so much life, where death is monitored and encouraged. I walk forward to touch the glass, and lay my hand on the cool surface. I sigh, and step back.I look around to the many shelves surrounding the room, and notice a monstrous amount of works reside within this very room. I turn around to see if the peacekeeper had followed to be answered: no.Out of pure curiosity, and in hopes to soothe my panic, I walk up to the doors and tug. I'm let down, and panic rises.I walk back to the center of the eerily quiet room, only the clacking of my heels to be heard. I stumble a bit, and fall to my knees. My ankle burns like fire. I surely had twisted it.Frustrated I yell out, sit down, and harshly pull off the damned things."Hasty are we?"I snap my head up, my eyes growing wide."Who are you to say such things?" I say, my voice lacking strength I was hoping it would have.I look around wildly and see nothing, and hear no reply. I write it off as my head writing a colorful story for future contestants to tell: girl from thirteen went crazy and was killed before the games.At that I giggle nervously. I pick myself up, without the anchor of wretched shoes holding me back."I assure you, you're not going mad my dear. I'm only here to ask you about yourself." I hear, a rustle of pages as background noise.I simply nod."What is running through your head when you think about being in the games." The ominous voice asks from above.I think silently, and carefully choose my words. "My future, no more, no less. I will not let the games tear MY future from myself, and the ones I love.""Quite a nice sentiment, but we'll see sweetheart." The voice said with a chuckle"However, who do you love? That seems quite the topic in my opinion."I swallow hard, not knowing whether the truth was the best option. Seeing as homosexuality was legal, but frowned upon, I could go either way. I thought about Willow, and the small chance that she may see what I have to say. I took the risk."My grandmother, and my future wife, Willow. Willow, if I make it out, I promise I'll be on one knee for you. I promise..." I say, emotion catching in my throat a tad."How very touching Xavi. Care to go into depth about Willow?" The voice prods"She's sweet, and smart... Absolutely beautiful. She's anything any human being could ever want. I mean it.." I say, praying to every God in existence that she heard."Say, Xavi. What do you think will set you forward in the games?" I hearI have to think hard, but it's obvious to me. Forming the words is a different story. I contemplate ways to say it, but I decide on blunt."I'm smarter than every single person here, and I'll be damned if I let a single one of them take me from my wife. That's why I'm going to win." I say.I hear the flutter of pages speed up, and finally a plop from behind me. I turn around and see a blank, green, leather bound book lying there.I cautiously walk forward to retrieve it. Once in my hand, the book is warm and comforting in a way.Doors open on the opposite side of the room that I entered. I hold my head up as I stalk out of the room, determined to win.

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Capital Female: Nadia

Smoothing her dress down Nadia moved along the corridor with a bowed head and scared footsteps. What she had been dreading the most aside from the Bloodbath was the interview and it was about to happened.

The interview.

The interview in front of heaps of people and cameras

The interview in front of heaps of people and cameras who were all judging her.

This will not go well. She thought to herself as they stopped outside a gigantic rather beautiful door and the soldiers nodded for her to open it.

Taking one last deep breath and a look down at her dress to see if it were alright Nadia pushed open the double doors with a shaking hand.

Her eyes were pinched shut for a moment, waiting for the glare of lights and the screams of people watching, but instead, there was silence.

A beautiful deathly silence with only cool lights and certainly no bubbly host to catch her and make her trip up with her soft spoken words. Nadia's eyes cracked open and then a gasp flew up her throat and those eyes opened wide again.

Another library, this one just as large as the first and Nadia wanted to cry because she couldn't stay in here for long, just as in the training.

"What is here for me this time?" She softly spoke and the flutter of pages was her only answer, but then the door slammed shut behind her and with a startled gasp Nadia reached back to touch the handle.

It wouldn't turn and the girl realized she was trapped. Instantly thoughts about the monster in the training came to her and her hands began to shake.

"Who is in here with me? This is an interview is it not?" Her voice sounded tiny in the large place and she took a step into the room and towards the books straining her eyes to see if the titles were still there.

They were and Nadia relaxed when she realized that there would be no monsters today.

"Naida?" The soft voice made a squeak come out of the girl's throat and she wrapped her arms around her dainty waist shyly. For a moment she wondered about how this would look. She looks pretty, Nadia knew that much. The stylists called her "Cute" and a boy winked at her.

Someone had winked at her and Nadia did not have a clue as to what to do. She just blushed and hid her face with her curls which now framed her face and tumbled down her back.

Glancing down at her shoes, the soft sparkling of her dress caught her attention and a tiny smile crossed her face. Nadia was never one for pretty things and gushing over shopping. But she had to admit that this dress looked beautiful.

It was a white, the fabric had a silky feel and just reached over her knees. The people doing her makeup said that it gave her a more innocent look and Nadia had wondered if innocence really would get her through the Games. She doubted it would but she kept quiet.

It had a sash of royal blue which helped make up the one sleeve the dress had and the sash was trimmed with golden lace.

"Nadia?" Someone spoke her name and the girl jumped again, looking around with wide eyes, trying to see who spoke to her.

"Nadia?" It spoke again and the girl named opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out, she swallowed a few times then tried again.

"Yes?" Her voice was soft, so quiet even she could hardly hear it. But whoever spoke her name heard it clearly because the books rustled.

The books rustled. Nadia spun around as she walked through the aisles. Why did they rustle?

"Could you win the Games Capital girl?" The voice asked again and at every word Nadia looked around, trying to see who spoke it.

"I-I don't know," She softly said as another book rustled and something dawned upon her. "You're the ones speaking!" Nadia cried as she watched a book rustle. It was clear now because when the next question was spoken it came from that book and the voice matched the title.

"What about your brother? Could he win?" It asked and Nadia bit her lip as she thought for a moment before nodding her head.

"Yes, yes he could if he tried hard enough because he so desperately wants to win." Her voice was growing stronger now she knew who was talking and that they couldn't hurt her.

"Would he let you win Nadia?" they asked as Nadia made her way towards a door she could see. It approached and she stood in front of it as she thought through her answer.

"I wish I could answer that question, but you see. I don't know." And Nadia hated not knowing but she couldn't see her brother helping her but she couldn't see him hurting her.

"I just don't know," she said, her eyes growing misty and her arms still hugged around her body.

A single thump behind her made her jump up and look around to see a book lying on the ground, then the door in front of her swung open. Nadia slowly bent down to pick up the book and hold it close to her chest not pausing to read the title as she escaped that room.

I don't know, but then who knows anything for certain.