𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱. ( politics )

  If my prep team knows what they're preparing me for on this occasion, they make no indication of it. It's simply business as usual for them, meticulous work and gossip occur in tandem. The latest in "prep news", as I've found myself calling it, is that the current District 12 stylist will be stepping down after the next hunger games. The ladies are particularly excited by that, noting that this means any one of them could be eligible for the promotion. I gasp and nod at all the appropriate times, encouraging their excitement though I can't conjure the same jubilance that they do.

The apathy I'd mastered earlier in the day about my client list has shattered entirely. My nerves are on fire once again. Six men in the span of one day. Each with such brief allotments of down-time between. The magnitude of the situation is difficult to comprehend. I try to picture six Seneca Crane's in a row, but it doesn't seem possible. Will any piece of me remain at the end of the day?

When the ladies are finished with me, they direct me to my room. Giovani has evidently left my clothes for the night inside, lying perfectly across the plush blue bedding. When I enter, I quickly realize I'm not alone. Cashmere sits in the desk chair once again, poring over one of the tablets that appear everywhere here. She looks up when the door clicks closed behind me.

"Fara, come sit," she instructs, motioning towards my bed.

At once it feels like this is her room, not mine. She certainly holds command over it right now. Every piece of dark wooden furniture, every boxy doorway, every white marble counter is hers. Cashmere's presence is as powerful as ever, I wouldn't think to disobey her.

"I spoke with Garnette earlier about your schedule. She said that her hands were tied. Your plans for the evening stand, just as you read them this morning."

She pauses to give me a careful glance, as if trying to predict how I will react. When I give no response or movement, she sees fit to continue.

"You'll have a few spare moments between. You'll be taken directly to the hospital wing before you're sent back out each time, I was at least able to arrange that. It'll give you just enough time to get cleaned up and seek help if you need it."

"Okay."

"Look," she says, pausing again.

Her eyes fall and she takes a deep breath before coming to sit beside me, close enough to wrap her arm around my shoulder. But she doesn't, instead she sits on her hands. It's as if she's at a loss for what to do with them. In the moments of silence before she speaks, I see her bicep flex and unflex twice.

"Vey Weir won't hurt you. He's gross and old, but he's not someone you need to worry about. There's other names on that list, though, that I do not know. I've never been with them before. I can't tell you what to expect for each and every one of them. You'll need to use that quick mind of yours and those nerves of steel to deal with them."

It's the closest Cashmere's ever come to giving me genuine praise. It's almost more terrifying than the implications of her statement.

"I'll try," I respond.

There's no promise of how I'll fare in my words. I'll try. That's all. The wit and nerves of steel she refers to feel foreign to me. Where had she gotten the notion that I handle myself like that? Certainly not from our time spent together over the past few days. I've been nothing but a shaking, vomiting mess for half of our conversations. The woman to whom she refers seems like a distant promise. Perhaps she's projecting.

Once she's gone, I do try to keep my composure. When I don the uniform I was forced to survive the arena in, I try my absolute hardest. It takes every fiber of my being not to give up when I see myself in the mirrored surface of the windows. The white shirt, tan pants, climbing boots, each piece is a perfect replica. The only reason I know it's not the original is because there's no tears, no blood, no sweat that coated that first version. Nothing that speaks of the actual price of the 72nd Hunger Games. Just brand new fabric for some sick fetish.