"Octavia Voss. Better known as The Siren...Capitol's 'It Girl,' the 'Party Girl.' The people there would kill just for a chance to spend an evening with her."
"So she's the Capitol's whore?"
"Easy, Tavia's more than just a face for Capitol entertain...
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The Capitol had overwhelmed Octavia from the moment they arrived, and she hadn't expected to be thrown into the chaos so quickly. The towering buildings, gleaming streets, and endless displays of wealth were enough to make anyone feel small. And now, in the sterile, opulent preparation room, she felt smaller than ever.
"Move faster, we don't have all day!" the red-headed stylist snapped, her sharp voice echoing in the otherwise silent room. She tapped her foot impatiently, her expression twisted with annoyance.
Octavia's fingers fumbled with the buttons of the dress that Lotti had picked out for her to wear on the train, her hands shaking as she pulled the yellow fabric away from her body. She felt a rush of cold air hit her skin as she stood there, completely exposed under the harsh lights. Vulnerable.
Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, that each beat pounded in her ears. The stylist huffed, circling around her like a predator inspecting its prey, muttering something under her breath.
Octavia clenched her jaw, trying to hold onto the remnants of her composure. She was nothing more than a canvas to them now, another body to be dressed up, painted, and paraded for their entertainment. The Capitol wanted her to be perfect.
They started with scrubbing her skin until it felt raw. Then the short red-headed woman dragged her to a metal table and demanded that she lay down. Her body shuddered against the cold surface, covered in goosebumps like an icy mountain range.
They poked and prodded at every inch of her, plucking hairs and scraping away any imperfections. But nothing prepared her for the searing pain of hot wax being ripped from her skin, leaving behind raw, bleeding patches.
She couldn't understand why they were doing this to her, she could only watch in numb horror as they transformed her into a blank slate, ready to be molded into whatever they desired.
Octavia was led to a room that had floor to ceiling mirrors and an ornate pedestal stood in the center.
Boen, her stylist, greeted her with a polite smile and introduced himself. The man was about the same height as her, with bronzed skin and bleached blonde hair. "Welcome, Octavia. I'm Boen Zo. I'll be your stylist for the remainder of the games."
His eyes meet her and she can barely make out a slight sadness in them. "Your natural beauty is quite striking," he remarked, his eyes brightening with genuine interest.
A smirk tugs at her lips as she quips, "Thank you, Boen. Though, I feel more like a plucked chicken than anything else."
Boen's polite smile breaks into a laugh, "Oh, absolutely. Daisy doesn't mess around when it comes to primping."
Boen steps back from the wardrobe, admiring his handiwork. "There," he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You're ready."
She glances at herself in the mirror and bites back a grimace. The dress is a shimmering blue, flowing like liquid silk, but it's much shorter than she'd like, poofing at the ends and stopping well above her knees. A golden net-like fabric covers the rest of the exposed skin of her chest.
