The Fire Games

One hundred years ago, there was a time known as the Dark Days, a war that began the Hunger Games. Twenty five years ago, a change happened. The Games turned around. Capitol children are Reaped now. There is now a new name for the Games. The Fire Games.

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4. The Interview

     Its been a week since I was Reaped. Life as I knew it had ended. I was in my room waiting to be called for my interview. They had been desperate ever since Katniss and Peeta's Games. The tributes, as a result, know nothing about their opponents.

    "Tribute 10. Its time go," shouts the rough voice of the guard keeping me in my room. I'm the only one with a guard. Maybe escape wasn't a smart idea, after all. Three days after my placement in this room, I ordered a steak from the electronic menu and used the knife to hold a guard hostage and tried to leave. Little did I know that the guard was not needed. They shot him, grabbed me, and keep me in chains. 

     The guard unlocks my shackles, warns me to not do anything stupid, and tells me to follow him. He takes me into the Interview Room, where 20 or more cameras immediately point at me. I look around, to find Salla Flickerman, the grand-daughter of the late Caesar Flickerman. She is sitting on a plush, satin chair, with one that was identical across from her. She wears a bright, red dress, that matched her hair.

     "Welcoming Ragi Myst, age ten," she says to the camera. She has a light voice, one that would be amazing for singing. I slowly step out, and sit on the chair. 

     I smile shyly. What type of questions would she ask? This is Salla's first year as an interviewer.

     "How are you?"

     I reply with, "Fine."

     "Let's start with an easy question. What did you feel when you were called up as a Tribute?"

     "I - I felt as if Panem was frozen. Like time stood still. I could hear only one thing, the sound of Aunt Farrow weeping for me."

     "Yes, your aunt. Your legal guardian. Tell us, what happened to your parents?"

     "When I was five, I was given my first make-up kit, like all other little girls. Mom taught me old make-up techniques. One day, I showed up at school like that, with a little eyeliner and pale pink lip gloss. I was made fun of for it. People would spit in my face. I was just... too bland. 

     "Aunt Farrow found out. She talked to Mom and Dad about keeping me for awhile, to make sure I would learn the 'proper way to use make-up.' Then, when I turned ten I would go back. My parents agreed, not because of the make-up business, but because they were between jobs. I stayed with my aunt for two years.

     "Then Dad got a job making weapons. It didn't pay much, but he decided to ask my aunt to give me back. She refused.

     "Mom found out. She wasn't happy. She had grown to like the quiet life, without me around. She went to the Armory, where Dad worked, and stole a gun. She killed 51 of Dad's co-workers, raced home, and shot Dad in the head." I pause. Tears are welling up. "Mom ran away after that. She might still be alive."

     Salla has a fat tear on her cheek. She looks at me with sympathy, then speaks.

     "That is so sad!"

     "Yeah. After Dad's death, Aunt Farrow quit the make-up lessons."

     "How did your aunt feel about her brother's death?"

     "Horrible. But she says that she is glad she didn't give me up, or I might have been in danger, too. She thinks I might have been killed. Now, it doesn't matter. I'm going to die anyway."

     "What makes you think that you'll die?"

     "I'm ten. The youngest always die first."

     "Don't talk like that!" Salla scolds.

     This rubs me the wrong way. 

     "What do you mean, 'Don't talk like that!' We all know it's the truth! The young kids are just like appetizers! Gone first!" My rage builds up. I stand up, flip over my chair, and storm off. The guard tries to grab me, but I push him away. 

     I run in my room, and slam the door. I flop on the bed. 

     Today, I cry. Tomorrow, I die.

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