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How the world works, lesson one: The Capitol doesn't give a shit about you until they want something from you. Money, sex, drugs, luxury. That was all that mattered to these people. Take any Capitol citizen above the age of eighteen and scan their brain. All you'll find in that hollow skull of theirs are meaningless brainwashing techniques and inconsequential self-indulgence. If you aren't supplying them with entertainment, wealth, sexual favors, or their fix, they ignore you, leave you to starve in the streets like a stray dog. If you refuse to indulge in their fantasies, you're tossed out as well. You are no longer considered a valuable asset. You're cut off like split ends.
Some victors try desperately to cling onto their last strand of relevance. They hold onto the spotlight, for fear that if they are forgotten, they will be expendable. The Capitol doesn't like dead weight. Help them, or die. In some sort of fucked-up way, Plume wondered why they hadn't killed her yet. She was an infected limb on the otherwise healthy body of the Capitol. It was better to amputate her. But, here she was.
Plume knew what they wanted from her. Entertainment. She was playing a murderer's game, tip-toeing on the line between comedy and tragedy. She would either die in the next week, or survive with enough trauma to last her three lifetimes. All because of reality television.
However, there are some victors that Plume can't help but pity in a sick sense. Those who are too immature to realize how little they mean to the Capitol. Those who have grown up weaned on venom and corruption, and therefore see it as benevolence. Mercy comes in many forms. The Capitol knows none.
As Plume tilted her shoulders back, her chin held high to catch the lights of the Tribute Parade arena, she spotted a familiar face in the crowd of other victors. Cashmere Harlem. Pleasant surprise. As per usual, she's accompanied by her older brother, Gloss. Both of them are decorated like show ponies, their bodies covered in what appeared to be pure gold. How fitting. District 1, the luxury district that provided the Capitol with diamonds and rubies galore, dressed in only the most expensive brands. Plume's green eyes clashed with Cashmere's blue ones. There was a moment of sizzling silence between them. Plume recalled how Cashmere and Gloss volunteered for these Games. They willingly entered the Quarter Quell for entertainment, not for mercy. Those were the people that Plume wanted to kill. The ones that strived to be in the spotlight.
Plume raised an eyebrow towards the woman, her eyes raking over Cashmere's outfit. How stupid was it, that she was dressed like a disco ball not even a week before she could potentially meet her end. They should be in mourning, not in celebration. Plume flashed Cashmere a serpentine grin before turning back to where she was walking.
The District 1 and 2 tributes were foolish in thinking they weren't less than silly pawns in the Capitol's game. It made Plume want to snap a finger to get them out of their daze. They don't have to be warriors to be in the spotlight. Their lives don't have to be entertainment.
