Ping. Ping. Ping. I snap out of my daze to the feeling of the cold white wall beside me, and that sound. Ping. My eyes flick over to a spot on the wall in front of me. Ping. What in the world? Ping. A movement catches my eye, directing me to the possible source. Ping. I peer over the head of the boy from Six at his district partner up ahead. She doesn't seem to notice or mind that I'm staring at her. Ping. Pale fingers, nails painted a girlish pink, reach up and touch her earlobe. Ping. Absently flicking the diamond teardrops dangling there.

I shudder involuntarily, straightening my posture and taking myself out of my wall slouch. I rub my arm, but then touch more gently. I don't know how deep the cosmetics and glitter they put in my skin go, but I know I couldn't hold up an interview trying to hide where my cosmetics might literally be peeling off my skin. Heck, I don't know if I could even pull talking off. At least not for more than a few minutes. . .

"Welcome to the 55th annual Hunger Games!" shouts the interviewer Caesar Flickerman to a roaring Capitol crowd. All the faces in the hallway glance up at the screen. After a couple of seconds most of us go back to chewing our nails or fidgeting, or glance up at the giant television on the wall once in a while. Some of the tributes actually watch the television, however- as if they don't know or remotely care that he's joking with the audience on the other side of the wall. Or even that their fate lies on that same side.

The first tribute onstage for their interview, of course, is Amethyst, the female wonder of District One. Her dark brown hair is elaborately piled on her head, covered in droplets of crystal. So is the entire surface of her shimmering blue gown. The crowd seems awestruck- if not by her dress, it's by her charm. During the entire interview with Caesar, she jokes, giggles, and flirts- yes, flirts- with Caesar and the entire crowd. By the time the buzzer goes off, I feel an enormous wave of relief that the torture has stopped. No more high-pitched squealing to deal with. But the worst part had to be the fact that everyone in that crowd seemed fooled by her interview. Amethyst reminds me too much of some of the wealthier, more spoiled girls in our district- absolutely "sweet" and "dear" with the adults, but waiting to pounce on you when no one's looking.

Then Cornelius follows close behind. He's made to look powerful, and I know even before he speaks what angle his mentors picked for him, and who wouldn't pick fierce for him? It was obviously pre-claimed already. I feel a wave of gladness at my mentors' preparedness in making me practice with several angles.

Once again, most of the sponsors seem swayed. It's all I can do to pray that there will still be some left to take in Eli and I.

More and more time passes up onstage. More and more sponsors taken. I watch each tribute as they display an angle and then are released. Some are even so noteworthy, that they have been given stage names by Caesar. Lydia- The Spider Girl. Rio, the girl from Four- The River Dart. Taurus, the boy from Five- The Boy Who Wrestles Death. On and so on.

When the boy from Six comes back from his interview, I hear my name called. As I approach the huge black door to the stage, I try to push away the one stage name ringing in my ears- Cornelius, The Sledgehammer. I wipe the sweat out of my palms, and try not to think about how slick they feel against the silver doorknob. Then the door clicks open, and limelight fills my eyes. I only just manage to make it to my seat, and try not to look too blinded.

Caesar shakes my hand as he sits down in his own chair, and when the audience applauds, I realize that I may actually still have some chance of impressing at least one sponsor. I think of my parents and Ivy. They'd want me to fight for a chance. So that's what I'll do.

The interview passes the first few minutes without any problems. Caesar asks the questions and I answer back the best I can, the advice my mentors and Gem had given me just able to come to mind. Everything goes rather well up until the point where Caesar asks the dreaded question.

"So, Cassia. I think we're all dying to know something in particular." He gives me a wink and then turns to the crowd with a sudden intensity. "It's rare enough to get a score of twelve. And we currently have two amazing tributes who have impressed the Gamemakers enough to get that rare score." He lets that hang in the air, and the audience grasps onto the thought excitedly. He turns to me and says, "How did you get that score, my dear?"

My throat closes up. If I could only get around the sawdust there to breathe. I take the microphone from him and finger it nervously as I say, "I would tell you, but you'd have to ask the Gamemakers themselves. I don't want to sugarcoat anything."

The audience laughs in agreement, and suddenly the limelight is on the Gamemakers in the balcony. The Head Gamemaker addresses Caesar in reply, "I'm not going to say what she did, but no one has ever done what she did for us." The others nod in agreement, and some must be remembering, because their faces seem to almost light up at the mention of my score.

"Ah," says Caesar with a smile. "Cassia," he says, addressing me again,"I think we're all amazed." The crowd murmurs its agreement, and I feel a little bit relieved. But then Caesar throws another doozy.

"Cassia, you seem keen on claiming the victory of this Hunger Games. Who or what is going to drive you to win this year?"

I suddenly feel as if I'm going to choke. I shakily take the microphone again and hold it in my hands, taking advantage of the silence to try to gather my thoughts. I don't even know if I can do this, but I picture my mother's tears, my father's encouragement, Ivy's willingness for me to win. If only they didn't have to choose between me and Eli. Suddenly I know my answer.

My voice, already deep for a girl's, drops farther until it reaches an intensity that seems to draw the crowd to my answer. "I would win for my family." The silence begs to be dragged, but I can sense the timer ticking down. I press on. "I have my parents, and my younger sister." More silence. I can feel Eli encouraging me. "I have a brother that has been my best friend for years. If worst comes to worst-" I almost choke then, because reality rushes in. This is the first time I have actually addressed what would happen if I survived. 

"I would win for him. And I think he would for me."

I finish just as the buzzer goes off, and Caesar pats me on the back. The crowd cheers, and he nods. "I most certainly wish you luck, my dear." Then he raises my arm and shouts to the crowd. "Here's for Cassia, The Panther Girl!"

He gave me a stage name, I think, in a momentary daze as I walk off the stage. There's a shift in the air for a few more seconds, and then I know that for now, I will not have to put on a show. I can tell from the change in the audience's conversation that Caesar's moved on to Eli's interview.

I make my way back through that smooth black door; back down the hallway with cold white walls, cold white walls lined with polished, made-up tributes in silk suits and dresses. Tributes still waiting to be interviewed. I walk past the line, trying to avoid the eyes of the watchers, trying not to think about the thoughts of those who don't. I see Maggie out of the corner of my eye, fiddling with her wispy blond hair, her green eyes absent. To someone who is about to head into a bloodbath, they are already dead.

I slip into the room at the end, finding a silver bench to sit on somewhere near the back. The other tributes were already waiting. A couple acknowledge me with stares, while most of the others keep their eyes glued to the giant television in the front of the room, watching Eli chat with Caesar. Amethyst fixes me with a garish grin. Both of us know that my only response is to ignore her, though. No matter how much golden wrapping there may be on a package disguised as a gift, it doesn't account for the possibility for there to be a snake inside.

"So, Elijah- may I call you Eli?" Caesar inquires. Eli gives a nod of his head, and Caesar continues. "Eli, I think that a lot of people out there in the audience want to know a little bit about you back home, if that's all right."

Eli gives a tentative smile, but accepts the microphone with steady, sure hands. From there, Caesar asks him questions, and he answers them very thoughtfully, with a grace I realize I probably did not possess during my own interview.

He starts with a description of our home. District Seven, the land of logging and rugged woodworkers, but with a little more beauty than the Capitol citizens may have expected coming from one of our district's own. Eli paints a landscape of humble wooden shacks and cabins, surrounded by towering redwoods. He talks about the people, our habits, our jobs. Even our district wide custom of seizing the day at the crack of dawn. The audience listens intently to his speech, hanging onto every word. They probably didn't expect someone from Seven to sound so- educated. Thoughtful. Descriptive. So much so that I begin to see what angle Eli chose long before he begins to talk about anything else.

Then he moves onto his life. He talks of his parents back home. About Ivy. Me. Gymnastics. School. Everything seems perfect as Eli himself. After that, he starts really explaining things.

There is nothing really perfect about our district. Eli doesn't actually mention our family history, but it plays out in my head nonetheless. Starting with the war 55 years ago, there was a large group of Capitol citizens who protested against the inequality of living conditions in the Capitol compared with the districts. Our family was part of that huge bunch. Eventually, they were all captured. Tortured. Killed. Shipped off to different districts to live. It was often to the poorest districts. District Ten. Eleven. Twelve. The rebel citizens in our family had the fortune of being sent to a wealthier district. District Seven. But the leaders of the district were paid huge sums of money to put all of the former Capitol citizens in shabby homes, stripped of their money and dignity.

To this day, it is as it's always been. The wealthier families shun us. The city leaders look down on us.

And then there are the problems at school.

Eli dips lightly into this bullying problem that we always have at home. Normally, any kid who has a quality that is well-liked is popular. Eli for certain has one. When I look into the crowd, I observe the look about many of the females in the audience. They love him. A good many do. And for certain, Eli is what people consider to be good-looking. I am very used to it by now, and sometimes, it does get annoying when different girls in our year only talk to me if they're interested in getting my brother's attention. My parents, in different circumstances, would be very proud of their son.

But that's when the family history kicks in.

There are many boys from rich families around the districts who get very angry when the girl of their dreams is interested in a different person. Unfortunately, multiple times, that different person would be Eli. And with the attitudes of many of those families whispering to their children that our family is scorned, there is no one who could care less if one of the children from that family were to be harmed, in revenge or else.

I have lost the amount of times I have found Eli staggering home, bruised and bleeding, as boys from our district laugh and chase him home. Sometimes, I would interfere, and get knocked around quite a bit myself. One of those times was particularly bad. We were eleven, and I'd jumped in front of Eli and let loose on of one of them. We drove them off together, but I came home with a shiner and split lip and a broken tooth in my hand, and a brother who could barely walk.

I can sense Caesar patting Eli's shoulder sympathetically, and the audible sound of collected female sighs emitted from the audience. I suddenly feel a surge of anger well up in my chest. I know that though they've heard, it doesn't mean they would actually understand. I glance over, and see the boy from Four out of the corner of my eye, chewing his lip. He's nodding unconsciously in the direction of the screen, and there's a real, authentic look in his eyes of empathy. Truly, we and maybe a few other tributes are the only people who would really know what this kind of life is like. It's almost as if we've lived longer lives than those of our audience.

The buzzer goes off, and Caesar shakes Eli's hand, thanks him for his time. I sigh. At least that was authentic. 

I cringe at the sudden wave of squeals that flies his way. That too, apparently.

Eli finds me as he enters the room, and instantly loses his formal, poetic air. As soon as he sees me, he gallops over to me and plonks himself down on the bench, giving me a devilish grin. At least nothing has changed since that strange ordeal onstage.

We watch the last interviews, and we know from the audience that the crowd is getting bored. As the tributes go along, there is less and less true interest. Sure, the audience perks up a little at the huge boy from Eight and the tall frame of the girl from Eleven, brimming with tangible power- but they look like squirrels next to Cornelius. And the girl from Eight is very beautiful, but I think she realizes that Eli had already stolen much of the attention in that area.

Maggie hops up in a smoky gray dress that flows around her tiny, hummingbird-like frame. She is pretty, but as soon as she sits down, the sponsors' minds are elsewhere. I watch the tears brimming in her eyelids as she sits, exposed, in the limelight. She knows that with her training score of one, she has nothing. As she stares at her tight-shoed feet, hanging high above the stage from her chair, she lets the tears fall. She has no chance anymore. I hate to see it, but Maggie has already broken.

By the time Shale comes up, there is nothing to see. Though Caesar tries to engage him in a unique conversation, he says nothing. The audience has moved on long minutes ago, and Shale knows that he's lost his chance to do anything that will catch anyone's attention. I can see in his eyes that he has already died. As soon as he came onstage, he had emptied of everything.

After the interviews, we all head down to a station full of waiting chauffeurs. As the tributes climb into cars to be driven to their quarters, I see Maggie hobble behind a column of white stone, her face a wet, angry pink. Shale gives me a sullen smile, but I catch the curve of bitterness in it, too, before he slides behind a wall on the corner.

As I climb into a taxi with Eli, the last thing I hear is the wrenching sound of Shale retching onto the pavement, doubled over with the weight of District Twelve on his shoulders.

. . .

Back home, I found things to do very easily. Hunting for food. Schoolwork. Usually episodes of boredom would be resolved with time with Eli or Ivy. I've also been known to just sit there thinking about absolutely nothing. Old habits can often be very hard to break, as I find now. I've been staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint patterns of granite in the dark. Normally, by now, I would be satisfied with the strange feeling of euphoria or anticipation that comes with this familiar activity, but none comes. And it's now been hours since the interviews. Somehow I know trying to sleep will only force me to lay in silence until morning.

Finally, I can't stand it anymore.

I sigh and slink out of my chair. It's time to look for Eli.

I make my way down the hall to his quarters, but as soon as I touch the doorknob, I know something's off. I twist the doorknob, and the door swings free. Eli?

I poke my head into his room. There's no one I can see. I walk through his kitchenette, his bathroom. Nothing.

I get a very bad feeling, until I remember my thought from earlier. Eli knows at least ten places where they'll never find him. And almost without thinking, I head through the halls, towards the elevator.

Though my mind has no clue where he could have gone, it seems my body knows what to do already. As soon as the door closes, my finger presses a button on the control pad. I lift the finger, and see the letter R in the word Roof poking out from under it. The elevator sweeps up like a hawk swirling straight for the sky. Unfortunately, my stomach is still not used to this and stays behind on the seventh floor.

As soon as the elevator makes its signature sound of a bell when I arrive, the door slides open, and I throw myself through the opening. Across the carpet of the circular glass room at the roof. Through the glass doors of this room to the top of the building.

As soon as I'm outside, I'm basted with a gentle breeze, smelling of the Capitol itself, but also of a strange, pleasant sweetness. Flowers, I think, surprised. I make my way along until I realize what a place I'm in.

Here, it's as if two worlds have melded to make a wild, untamed place in the middle of a city. Yes, there is city air, and a sky so dusty black I know that the stars have been blotted out by the light pollution. But the sky is framed at the corners by the rich green leaves of trees- countless kinds, covered in vines, decorated with unusual, perfect blossoms. They grow in giant pots of colorful tile and stained marble. I brush a smidgen of soil with the side of my toe, and watch it spread across the clean white surface of the roof.

"Pretty cool, isn't it?"

I jump back in surprise. Unfortunately, I'm not ready for the sudden movement and somehow end up on my elbows. I look up and find Eli, standing a few feet from me. He's smirking at me from behind a young pine, reminding me of that morning of Reaping Day, when we were hunting. But unlike that particular moment, he looks like he's trying hard not to laugh.

Before I can tell him that it isn't really all that funny, he says, "Wait until you see the view." I have no choice but to follow him.

We weave through the trees to the concrete ledge, the darkness giving the impression that the world ends where the building does. The wind billows around my nightclothes, and I almost reach out to touch it. If I hadn't known about the invisible electric field in front of me, I would have.

Into the night, there are buildings, whose lights reach out for a handhold on somewhere in the great unknown. With a chill, I realize that those buildings might as well be us tomorrow. Grappling for a hold on life while someone chases us into the wilderness of the arena. Twenty-four in, only one out. Only one. . .

I don't realize I'm shaking until I feel Eli's hand on my shoulder. "Hey," he says, turning me towards him. "You're gonna be fine."

"Am I?" The words come out before I can stop them, and it's probably worse that they sound cold and condescending. I notice Eli's expression of surprise at the words, and then the moment breaks. The air feels colder now than it did before, and I suddenly feel the first crack form in the wall I'd built so carefully around myself to keep myself from exploding. Eli turns a little bit, and for the second after he closes his eyes, I think that he's going to have a breakdown himself.

Before I can speak, he says, "You remember that song Mom used to sing to us when we were nine, ten years old?"

"Which one?" Our mother used to sing a lot of songs for us when we were younger. But when she began to fear we'd start singing some of them back, she had stopped.

"That one about remembering better times or something?"

A pause. "Yeah. I actually do."

More silence. Then, "I liked that song a lot. Didn't you?"

Suddenly, I get the urge to do something, anything to silence the part of me telling me that it would be hopeless to think of family; that we'll never see them again. So instead of answering, I start singing that song. My voice deepens slightly to match Mom's rich tenor when she sings it, and for a second, I actually think I feel her will for us to live is with us.

"As I'm sittin'. . . in the firelight. . .Turning back the years. . .I can hear my mother singing. . .In the morning." My voice drags the word "morning" for a second, and then Eli joins in, his voice filling in the alto of Dad's voice.

"As she scrubbed our. . . shining faces. . . And then packed us off to school. . . All too soon those days were over. . .Without warning."

Then our voices meld together, and the song continues.

"Sing me the songs

Of our gold and silver days

Days filled with innocence and light

Not a penny to our names

We were happy just the same

In our gold and silver days. . ."

Eli takes over the next verse. "In the parlor. . . On a Friday night. . . My father took the floor. . . I can hear us join together. . . In the chorus."

My turn. "Singing just a song at twilight. . . Of the moon behind the hills. . . Now those voices all are silent, gone before us."

Then our voices together again.

"Sing me the songs

Of our gold and silver days

Days filled with innocence and light

Not a penny to our name

We were happy just the same

In our gold and silver days. . ."

Eli sings his part, the slightly depressing one, with a hint of wistfulness: "As we gathered, at the daisy field. . . On Sunday, after Mass. I can hear the songs, the stories. . . and the laughter."

I sing my part too, suddenly feeling the weight of the words as they fly into the night. "Through the years, we all were scattered. . . But the friends we made back then. . . Were the friends we could rely on. . . Ever after."

In unison, our voices depart into the night- a train of our worries, sorrow, and memories.

"So sing me the songs

Of our gold and silver days

Days filled with innocence and light

Not a penny to our name

We were happy just the same

In those go_ld and si_lver days

In those go_ld and si_lver days. . ."

Our song echoes, the last fragment of our lives before this. In a way, we are letting go, of what we can't have anymore. All is about to change.

Mom tells me this song is very old, and that it's a miracle it didn't fade out after the war. I can tell it was once highly prized- it is the very kind people sing to keep their troubles away. Even now- even if I don't know what exactly a penny was, or what occurrence Mass even is- this song holds a power that is great enough to keep it alive all these years. A power the Capitol clearly did not want the districts to be aware of.

I see Eli out of the corner of my eye, his face relaxed, hands resting lightly on the ledge. "Thank you," he says, not opening his eyes. His mouth turns upward at the corners in a smile- the kind after a long-held pain is released.

"It was beautiful," I say, because that's the truth. I close my eyes too, reveling in the sound of the night air. Paired with the sound of our breathing, it is the very reminder that we are still alive.

I only wish I could say the same for tomorrow.

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

Disclaimer: I do not own the song in this chapter. If you would like to check the song out, it is "Gold and Silver Days" by Celtic Thunder. I got this song from their version, because in my opinion, it is a very beautiful song, and Celtic Thunder did an amazing job of recording it.

Also, once again- please leave comments and votes AND feedback- it would mean a lot :3.

Finally- have a wonderful day!