The First Redemption Games (1-5) & The Writer Games | 6 - 7

Interview: Becka

This can't be real. I pinch myself on the arm, just to make sure, prompting a glare from the stylist that is ten times more vicious than anything I faced in the arena. This is why I hate this place. You guys should thank your lucky stars that you don't have to live here. So far the only thing that has made my miraculous – and downright spooky – return anywhere near bearable is Ellie, my adopted little sister from District 9. But these warped people have even wrecked that for me; Ellie will be going back into the arena too. I'm here to fight for the right to compete alongside her. Well, it's motivation at least.

However they pumped life back into my veins, I have no idea. I don't even know how I died. You'd think I'd remember something that important. I'm sure that's deliberate; they've made me forget the pain and stuff so maybe I won't be so afraid this time around. Fat chance.

Who else is here from my Games? A shock of blonde hair is familiar; I killed her a few times. But I can't remember which district she's from. The boy from 4. I know nothing about him either. The kid from 6. The boy from 10, Dimitri. I only remember him because on the one occasion I saw Roslyn, backstage and in a hurry, she was asking about him. The weird one from 13. Well, they were both weird. I should know; one of them was my ally until I chopped her head off. How that guy survived this long, I'll never know. Drako, my district partner. We're the only two Capitol people here, I think. He looks like the extra few days of life we've had so far haven't been kind to him. Like me, he's got a surprise little sibling waiting for him in the Decade, Sprink, that kiddie from 8.

Someone calls my name.

Great. I have to go through this again. Only this time, the outfit is worse. My stylist – and I hated him last time around, as well – thinks that the main idea behind any outfit is that less is more. The stupid piece of cloth barely covers the essentials and it's so tight I swear its restricting my breathing. And I don't care if it represents the lava of my arena; orange is not my colour. Mercifully, my arms are covered with a kind of slate coloured jacket, but I'm still freezing cold even in the spotlight.

Brielle grins warmly at me. It must be odd for her, interviewing ghosts. But I can't be sympathetic. She wanted this job.

A little point inside my brain reminds me that I chose to go into the arena the first time.

"Rebekah!" she exclaims, like she's happy to see me. I'm fairly certain that nobody here is; the only time they'll be happy to see me is when I'm a corpse. Me being brought back to life probably annoyed them as much as it confused me. I just nod; I can't be bothered with pleasantries.

Sensing that this won't be one of her easier interviews, she decides to skip them too and goes straight on to the questions.

"So, Rebekah, we all remember that little scene with you and Ellie; how does it feel for both of you to be back in the arena?"

What kind of ridiculous question is that? It deserves a snappish answer. "It feels great," I drawl, the irony dripping off my tongue, "I'm sure we'll have the time of our lives."

She winces and the crowd mutter to themselves uneasily. So they should be. Brielle hastily moves on, sneaking a glance at the timer on her little table. We didn't get along very well the last time I was here either; I think she's pathetic and, like the rest here, she thinks I'm some kind of traitor. I was outdone though. The weird guy from 13 who is somehow here as well punched her in the face. Smart kid. "I'm guessing that's your motivation, then, getting to the Decade so you can help her."

Great. I have to go through this again. Only this time, the outfit is worse. My stylist – and I hated him last time around, as well – thinks that the main idea behind any outfit is that less is more. The stupid piece of cloth barely covers the essentials and it's so tight I swear its restricting my breathing. And I don't care if it represents the lava of my arena; orange is not my colour. Mercifully, my arms are covered with a kind of slate coloured jacket, but I'm still freezing cold even in the spotlight.

Brielle grins warmly at me. It must be odd for her, interviewing ghosts. But I can't be sympathetic. She wanted this job.

A little point inside my brain reminds me that I chose to go into the arena the first time.

"Rebekah!" she exclaims, like she's happy to see me. I'm fairly certain that nobody here is; the only time they'll be happy to see me is when I'm a corpse. Me being brought back to life probably annoyed them as much as it confused me. I just nod; I can't be bothered with pleasantries.

Sensing that this won't be one of her easier interviews, she decides to skip them too and goes straight on to the questions.

"So, Rebekah, we all remember that little scene with you and Ellie; how does it feel for both of you to be back in the arena?"

What kind of ridiculous question is that? It deserves a snappish answer. "It feels great," I drawl, the irony dripping off my tongue, "I'm sure we'll have the time of our lives."

She winces and the crowd mutter to themselves uneasily. So they should be. Brielle hastily moves on, sneaking a glance at the timer on her little table. We didn't get along very well the last time I was here either; I think she's pathetic and, like the rest here, she thinks I'm some kind of traitor. I was outdone though. The weird guy from 13 who is somehow here as well punched her in the face. Smart kid. "I'm guessing that's your motivation, then, getting to the Decade so you can help her."