𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐨𝐧𝐞. ( trust )

 "The auction is happening tonight, just after the victory dinner. We'll know by midnight who's won."

Cashmere sits at the foot of my bed, legs out in front of her, perfectly straight until they cross at the ankles. My own legs are drawn into my chest, gripped by trembling hands.

"Will it happen tonight?" I ask, barely louder than a whisper.

"No, it'll happen tomorrow. In the evening most likely."

I can't fight the whimper that escapes my lips, but my fingers move to clutch my mouth shut.

"You need to pull it together." Her words are cold and harsh, they serve to ground me.

She's right. She's spent the better part of the morning preparing me for what I'll face in the Capitol, but no amount of knowledge will be useful if I can't control my fear. Many of my clients will want to use my fear to their advantage, she says. Clients . Cashmere talks about them in such a manner of disregard. They're simply buyers and I'm their product. Supply and demand. Just as easy and concise as my description to Piper.

My prep team will be on-call at all hours of the night, as will I. Once a booking is made, I'll be alerted by the interfaces in the tower. It will be sporadic and frequent at first, but Cashmere assures me that it'll slow down slightly after time. I'm going to be expensive, once people have had their first share they'll have to think hard about whether they'll be coming back for more.

She says it's the same for all of the women. There's considerably less of us in circulation than the men. My arrival brings the total options to five, whereas the choices for men currently rests at ten. Capitol citizens are more accepting of aging in them than they are with us, apparently. Brutus is still desired at 45, but Cecilia is nearly "out of fashion" at 30. Our shelf life is shorter, so we're more costly.

The price also means that they need to be getting what they're buying. Cashmere says this is most often sex, but not always. It's best to let the client lead. Unless they very plainly want to be led. There's many contradictions in what she says and I feel almost more confused now than I had before.

"The one lucky thing about your image is that they're likely to be more forgiving for any lack of knowledge or fear. Don't count on it, but be thankful when it presents itself. Best to learn quickly from any transgressions," she says.

I nod in response. It's almost as if I'm back in school, trying to cram knowledge from a particularly dense lesson into my head. I can practically feel my brain ache from working overtime. There's so much I didn't know that I didn't know. This is a realm much deeper than I ever could have imagined. Now I stand on the precipice, terrified to peer over the edge.

"I'll be out late tonight. Don't hesitate to call me if you're up late too." Her hand reaches out and squeezes my bicep.

Then she's gone. I'm left with only a few moments of contemplative silence before my prep team stumbles in, buzzing with excitement over the details of tonight's party. The makeup they apply is much thicker and darker than their typical daily look for me as of recently. The eyeliner and mascara is thick and black, carving stark features into my skin. Oddly, it seems appropriate. The dress I'm put into doesn't follow the theme of blacks, instead matching the shade of ice blue painted onto my nails.

When they leave, I sit in silence for a few minutes. Nothing feels quite real. Everything I wear is gorgeous, full of glamor and thoughtful detail. What lies inside is rotten, festering outwards. I fear that I'll soil the dress with the turmoil that threatens to leak from my very pores.