Victor's Crown: A Hunger Games Story

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 [𝟵]

By the time the interviews roll around to Caspia, Finnick has to concentrate very hard on not squirming in his seat. Instead, he focuses his attention on his district partner, who walks stiffly to her chair and sits down on it like it might bite her.

Caesar clasps his hands in his lap, sucking in a breath. Finnick finds this is a common occurrence preceding attempts to talk to Caspia. "Well, Miss Deltan, I have to admit: You come off as a bit of a mystery to me. I'm not sure if I know where to begin."

Caspia cocks her head. "Are you trying to say I'm strange and off-putting?"

Caesar's responding chuckle carries the slightest note of panic. "Of course not, my dear!"

Caspia snorts. "Too bad. That was the angle I was going for."

The tension in Caesar's hands eases a bit. "Really?"

Caspia nods. "Oh, yes. The stranger the better."

"But Miss Deltan," Caesar protests. "You might want to be stranger, but we certainly don't want you to be one to us. Why don't we start at the beginning? Tell us a bit about yourself. If my sources are correct, and they always are, you grew up inland, yes?"

"Yes."

Caesar hums, his tone laced with a sympathy that makes Finnick cringe internally. "And what is it your parents do?"

"They work in a fish factory," Caspia replies, chin lifted. Even on the screens, her eyes are bold, defiant, daring someone to make a comment.

"Is that so?" Caesar says. "Forgive me, but I shudder at the thought. Seafood doesn't sit well with me, sadly. Can't stomach the smell." He wrinkles his nose and the crowd snickers. "I'd imagine your folks came home smelling fishy more often than not, eh?" He and the Capitol audience share a good laugh, louder this time.

Caspia's eyes are hard and cold as stone. "Well, when you're breaking your back in a processing plant twelve hours a day, you learn not to care about your smell too much."

Finnick chokes back a cry of dismay. There's no way the audience won't recognize the insinuation behind Caspia's reply. And even if the remark flew over the audience's head, the Gamemakers will have caught it and crushed it between their gritted teeth. Caspia will pay for every iota of defiance in blood and tears. Finnick thinks about Firth Pierson, one of District 4's victors from many years back, who made some sort of snide remark about Capitol people and their hypocritical behavior—how they claimed to love the very children they sent off to die. When Pierson returned from his Games a victor, he was greeted with the news that his girlfriend had died—perished in a tragic boating accident out at sea. Pierson's own death, self-inflicted, soon followed.

What does Caspia think she'll gain by being spiteful? Is this her idea of payback, her roundabout way of exacting revenge on the people she hates so much? Though the idea of it is tempting, Finnick knows better. Mags taught him too well for him to be so caught up in the little things, the petty grievances and bitterness that ultimately do more harm than good. Nothing that comes out of Finnick's mouth during these Games will be cause for the Capitol to hurt anyone he loves.

Instead of addressing Caspia's response directly, Caesar tries another tack. "I'd imagine it was difficult growing up without parents to provide for you," he says, brows knit in sympathy. "You yourself must have had to work hard to get where you are now."

"Volunteering has always been my dream," Caspia says mechanically, like she's reading from cards Abalone is holding up from his seat. "Winning the Games would change my whole life." Finnick wonders how much coaxing it took to get her to recite those two simple lines. He supposes her backstory, if presented with enough flair, is enough drama-fodder to evoke at least a hint of Capitolite sympathy. But considering that sympathy would be contingent upon Caspia playing the role of the poor, defenseless orphan child, Finnick suspects it will be slow in coming.