𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝- Finnick Odair

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

"So, Beatrice, we saw your injuries after your allies turned on you. We know you had an extended hospital stay. How have you been feeling after that?"

"Well, Caesar, I can't say I didn't miss you. I tried to tell them weeks ago that I was fit for an interview, but they insisted I stay in treatment."

Beatrice sat in a heavily cushioned chair, facing across from Ceasar. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her dark hair was hanging in loose waves around her shoulders. The pale blue gossamer fabric of her dress looked near white under the stage lights.

Caesar smiled as he looked at her. "And how is your leg?" he asked her, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. "We all could see how badly you were limping during that fight at the Cornucopia. It's a wonder you could even stand at all!"

"I have to applaud the Capitol hospitals!" Beatrice answered, looking out toward the crowd. Smile, Sarrel had told her over his glass of whiskey that morning. Smile at the crowd. You want them to love you. "There was some worry that they might have had to take the leg, but they worked as hard as they could, and now I'm here, both legs intact!"

The audience broke into applause as Caesar let out a small laugh. "Oh, that's just wonderful," he said. "You are quite an interesting girl, Beatrice Nightlove, and I am oh so happy we'll be seeing more of you."

"Thank you for having me, Caesar," she answered, smiling so wide she felt as though her face was going to split apart. "This is the part I've been most excited for." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, leaning to tell Caesar, "I fought so I could sit on this stage again, you know."

You're only alive because they want you to be. Make the audience remember why they loved you. 

Caesar looked out to the people of the Capitol, calling out, "Did you hear her? She's won the Hunger Games and she's just happy to see me! Aren't you just a dear?"

Beatrice tapped her fingers against her thigh as the interview continued on. The lights were starting to make her eyes well with tears. They were too bright, just like the rest of the Capitol. Just like she was now. Bright and shiny, repackaged from the little girl who stepped onto the stage at the reaping into a killer who had survived a terrible experience.

She blinked a few times as she shifted in her seat, answering Caesar's questions with practiced poise. Sarrel's instructions were all she could think about.

You don't want to be like me. You have to stay in their favor.

What did Sarrel mean? Be like him? He was still famous in the Capitol for his win, he still attended Capitol events and let himself be televised for the world to see. Sure, he drank too much, but he was just trying to cope. At least he wasn't half as bad as Haymitch Abernathy, who had one the Games the year after him.

Before Beatrice knew it, the interview was over, and she was waving at Caesar and smiling as she walked off the stage, tulle skirt bouncing with her every step.

As she stepped off the stage and into the darkness, Pista hurried forward, dabbing sweat from her head with an embroidered kerchief. "I told them to lower the lights," she said, tsking quietly. "They are lucky that your makeup didn't run, sweetheart, else they'd have me to deal with."

Behind her, Taselle and Sarrel were deep in conversation. They hardly seemed to notice that Beatrice was there as Sarrel stated, "She's fifteen. She'll be tired after tomorrow, she'll have been dragged all over the mansion. The next day, maybe, before we go back to One, but I don't think- -"

"Sarrel, dear, I don't control it," Taselle answered, her voice strangely higher than usual, as though she were trying to pretend that everything was normal. "President Snow says that the bidding is already very high, and he's arranged- -"

"The bidding for what?" Beatrice spoke up.

Pista halted in fussing over her makeup. She looked back at the elder pair, her voice firm. "I warned you two that she'd have questions. We ought to have discussed it back in the suite."

"Who's bidding?" Beatrice asked. She looked quizzically at her team. "What did President Snow say?"

Taselle took a breath, moving in front of Sarrel, who's expression was filled with anger. "You have obligations, now, as a victor," Taselle said. "Many people like you, very much, darling."

Sarrel let out a sound not dissimilar to a hiss. "They can wait," he said. "She shouldn't- -"

"Sarrel!" Taselle stated. "I don't disagree, but we can do nothing to stop it."

"Is something wrong?" Beatrice asked, green eyes filled with confusion.

"Yes," Sarrel said.

At the same time, Taselle answered, "No."

Pista rolled her eyes, taking Beatrice's arm. "These two will never agree," she said. "And I have to admit, it's not something grand, but it's an obligation you have now."

"But what is it?" Beatrice pressed. "Will it make the people like me more? If it will, then I'm willing!"

Sarrel buried his face in his hands. "I need a drink. You two... you can deal with this. I'm going back to the suite." He turned on his heel, leaving the trio.

Pista took in a breath as she reached to squeeze Beatrice's hand. "There's been bidding on who will receive the absolute honor of your presence tomorrow after the party."

"All right," Beatrice said, eyebrows furrowing. 

"What is Sarrel so angry about, then?"

To that, Pista and Taselle had no answer.