Chapter 11 : Interview Prep
Haymitch circled us like a wolf evaluating prey.
"Three minutes," he said. "That's all you get. Three minutes to make every person in Panem care whether you live or die. The sponsors who call tomorrow will decide based on what they see tonight."
Morning had come too fast. The interview broadcast would begin in eight hours, and neither of us was ready.
"Nolan, you're the easy one." Haymitch stopped in front of me. "You've got charm, quick wit, that self-deprecating humor thing that plays well. The volunteer who chose his death—romantics will love it. Make them laugh, make them cry, make them remember you."
"And if they don't remember?"
"Then you die in the arena with no parachutes. Simple math."
I could work with that. Performance was easier than sincerity—I'd spent my first life perfecting the art of being what people expected.
Haymitch turned to Katniss. "You're the problem."
Her jaw tightened. "Thanks."
"Can't do sexy—don't have the personality. Can't do bubbly—you'll just look angry. Can't do mysterious—they'll think you're plotting their deaths." He threw his hands up. "What can you do?"
"Hunt. Shoot. Survive."
"None of which plays in a three-minute interview." He paced, frustrated. "We need an angle. Something real, something they can connect to."
They ran through options for the next hour. Katniss attempted sweet—it came out wooden. Tried confident—too aggressive. Tried vulnerable—her discomfort was visible from across the room.
I watched her struggle, remembering the score reveal. Eleven, because she'd shot at the Gamemakers rather than let them ignore her. That was the real Katniss—not performing, just reacting. Raw and honest and impossible to fake.
"She's the girl who volunteered for her sister."
Both of them looked at me.
"That's the story," I continued. "That's all she needs to be. The protective sister who stepped into death rather than watch someone she loved go instead. Real emotion, real stakes, no performance required."
Haymitch's pacing stopped. "The devoted sister."
"When Caesar asks about Prim, she won't have to fake anything. The emotion is already there."
Katniss's expression shifted—not quite gratitude, but acknowledgment. "I can talk about Prim."
"Then talk about Prim. Let them see what made you volunteer. That's worth more than any angle we could manufacture."
Haymitch considered, then nodded slowly. "It could work. Raw, genuine, emotional. The Capitol loves a good family story."
"I hate the Capitol."
"I know. Channel that into protecting your sister, and they'll eat it up."
Mock interviews filled the afternoon.
I went first, settling into the role like a familiar coat. Caesar's questions were predictable, and my answers came easily. Why volunteer? "Because careful was killing me faster than the arena ever could." What made District 12 special? "The people who survive there learn to survive anywhere. We're harder than we look." Any strategy for the Games? "Stay alive. Everything else is details."
Haymitch stopped me twice—once for being too glib, once for not smiling enough—but overall seemed satisfied. The charming underdog would sell.
Katniss struggled more. Her answers were technically correct but delivered like she was reading from a script carved in stone. When Haymitch pretended to be Caesar and asked about hobbies, she stared at him for fifteen seconds before saying "Hunting" in a tone that suggested she might demonstrate.
"This is painful to watch," Haymitch said.
"Then stop watching."
"I can't. I'm your mentor. It's literally my job."
The breakthrough came when Haymitch asked about Prim.
Katniss's entire demeanor changed. Her shoulders relaxed, her voice softened, and for the first time all day, she looked like a real person instead of a tribute playing a part.
"She's the best of us," Katniss said. "Kind, gentle, always trying to help. When they called her name, I just... I couldn't let her go. I couldn't watch my sister die when I could stop it."
"There," Haymitch said quietly. "That. Whatever that was, do that."
"I was just talking about Prim."
"Exactly. When Caesar asks about her, just talk. Don't perform, don't strategize. Just let them see what you're fighting for."
Cinna and Portia arrived with the evening's outfits.
My suit was elegant but understated—dark fabric with flames embroidered at the cuffs, catching light when I moved. The kind of subtle craftsmanship that whispered instead of shouted.
"You're the mystery," Portia explained. "The six who volunteered. Let the costume hint at fire without proclaiming it."
Katniss's dress was something else entirely.
Layers of fabric in orange and red, designed to move like flames when she walked. But that wasn't the surprise—Cinna showed us a tiny trigger hidden in the sleeve.
"When you twirl," he said, "the dress ignites. Synthetic flame, same as the parade, but more dramatic. You'll transform on stage, and they'll never forget it."
Katniss looked terrified. "I have to twirl and not catch fire."
"The fire catches you. You just spin." Cinna smiled gently. "Trust me. I've been planning this since the parade."
I remembered the tribute chariot, the flames dancing around us, the crowd's roar when we raised our joined hands. Cinna had seen something that night—a vision of what District 12 could become. He was building that vision piece by piece.
"You'll be the only thing they see," I told Katniss.
"That's what scares me."
"Good. Use it."
The hours before the interview dragged and flew simultaneously.
I found Katniss in the kitchen, stress-eating Capitol bread while staring at nothing. The rich grain was probably worth more than most meals in District 12, but she tore into it like it was tesserae rations.
I sat beside her and did the same.
Neither of us spoke. The silence had become comfortable somewhere between training scores and rooftop conversations—the kind of quiet that didn't need filling.
My healing factor appreciated the calories. Katniss appreciated the company.
Effie appeared in the doorway. "It's time to dress. Thirty minutes until we need to leave."
I stood, brushing crumbs from my hands. "Ready?"
"No." Katniss stood anyway. "But that's never stopped me before."
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