The Capitol Games

5

OCTAVIA

I shifted on my feet, chewing on the inside of my mouth, which would make Desdemona gasp if she ever saw. I had just come from her little room, where I was again scrubbed down, albeit not as roughly or to the same extent, and dressed up like a toy doll.

I had to give Desdemona her credit nonetheless—I looked regal yet sensual in the flowing black dress—which was apparently the color that had chosen for me, that fell around my feet, hiding golden sandals that matched the makeup around my eyes.

I clenched the arm of my chair tightly, digging my manicured nails in. Yet another thing that is probably making Desdemona hiss through her teeth. My nails were chipped from training and that alone almost made my stylists faint from shock.

Helena was being grilled by the middle-aged woman, who sat in a curt pencil skirt with none of the flair or comfort of the late interviewer Caesar Flickerman—yet another of the Capitol's loyal victims. She spoke with a sly undertone that implied each answer had a darker meaning as if she was trying to trick the tributes out of their wits into spilling secrets they didn't have.

Helena was almost reduced to tears before her three minutes were up. Leer was called up next. I would be next.

The others tributes sat in plush chairs in a semi-circle around a stage, where another couch and chair sat holding the rebel woman and tribute. In the past Games, tributes would pick a ploy to play to help them get sponsors. They each had three minutes to answer some questions and try and make the people hate them a little bit less. They could be witty or sexy or bloodthirsty, anything really. Alas, this was not a regular type of Game, nor was the audience mindless Capitol adults who saw them nothing more as pets on television.

Johanna, as usual, had made no effort to prep me for my interview—even when I practically got down on my knees and begged her. I knew where my strengths lay, and it wasn't through charming white smiles and banter. She only said, "Make sure they don't hate you."

Despite my practicing in the mirror, trying to seem fun and happy only to for my smile to look creepy, trying out jokes that made me cringe, and pretending to be a scary, brutish presence only made me appear awkward.

Desdemona had tried her best to help me, but I didn't even try the sexy appeal she tried to push on me. She agreed that that probably wasn't the best.

"You could always be yourself!" she suggested. She noticed my blank facade and backtracked, "Or not—which is probably best. No offense, sweetie, but your personality is pretty dry."

That was no way to boost my confidence. I had begun to accept that I would completely fail my interview and become a laughing stock of the nation. Then I'd probably die without sponsors because if my minimal time training taught me anything was that I was awful with snares. I had the cuts on my fingertips to prove it. At that point, I planned not to speak during my interview and maybe people would be interested in an air of mystery—but I was doubtful.

Desdemona did give me some helpful advice while styling my hair, having it fall in curls around my shoulders. "With that awful look on your face, you'll never make any friends. You will scare the audience away."

And that was it—I had my personna—I'd be intimidating and maybe my bravado will impress the rebels. That seemed to be my only chance.

Far too quickly Leer's interview went by, where he managed to keep himself composed, but struggled to answer most of the woman's questions. She gave him no help, interrogating him as a Peacekeeper would. My name was introduced, and with as much energy as I could, I got to my feet and walked into the stage.