District Three – Female – 16th Hunger Games
"What are these?"
Marcella sniffs. "They're called gloves."
Circel rolls her eyes. Her stylist has been snooty ever since discovering that her female tribute was an underweight fourteen-year-old with scars on her hands and only seven fingers. The evening gown she designed—a sleeveless cupcake explosion of pink chiffon—puts all Circel's "deformities" on grotesque display.
According to Marcella, this is Circel's fault. As though she wants to work in a power plant with inadequate safety gear. As though she refuses skin grafts when there isn't a surgeon in the hospital to manage the operation. As though she enjoys having people in the Capitol stare at her hands with that nauseating mixture of pity and disgust.
Yeah. It's all her fault.
"All right," Marcella gives a final tug to the lacing on the bodice and examines what little cleavage Circel has to offer, "I suppose that's the best I should expect. Put the gloves on."
The white satin catches and pulls on the pebbled skin of her fingers. "No," she says, and tosses them aside.
"We haven't any time," Marcella tries to wheedle but only manages to sound fretful as teakettle steam, "Put them on, there's a good girl. Don't you want to look pretty for the cameras?" She takes up the gloves and tries to wiggle them over Circel's clenched fists.
"No," she puts her hands behind her back, shielding her butchered hand. "Everyone's seen them already. You wanted them to. No one's gonna be fooled now because you've padded the fingers."
"Young lady," she sighs, "This is strategy. We have already gotten as much sympathy as we are likely to get from your...deformity. People don't want to be reminded of misery all the time. They want to know that you're worth their sponsorship. And that means looking beautiful, elegant—"
"And whole," she finishes bitterly. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes and two handlers rush forward to dab them away.
In the chaos, Marcella rolls the gloves up her arms and adjusts them deftly. The heavy fabric itches. Circel scratches and the stylist slaps her hands away.
"Leave it," she says, stepping back. "I wish we could have gotten dispensation for prosthesis, but these will do. Just keep still, and if you need to gesture, use your other hand. Are you ready?"
She nods; jaw tense, wired shut.
"Good. Now remember, tonight is all about showing your best side. Smile," Marcella demonstrates with a full mouth of teeth bright as pearls, "be gracious. Be grateful."
Circel holds back a snort. Nerves make her clench her fists; the padded fingers slide free. She jerks them back into place. After three years of learning to look at her hands without disgust, she can't bear to see the lie.
But there is no time. Already she can hear the female tribute from District Two. In less than five minutes, she's walking onstage.
Crassus—dressed in a blazing white tuxedo and violently green wig—meets her with a handshake and a kiss, his touch careful. There's a flash in his eyes that tells her he knows about Marcella's deception and won't expose it. Somehow that isn't a comfort.
"My, my," he takes her by the left hand and spins her around, billowing chiffon whipping against his legs, "but you look spectacular tonight! Just like a fairy princess, right folks?"
The audience cheers, a few wolf-whistles shrilling above the roar. The noise and the lights are overwhelming, oppressive; she loses her balance. Dizzy and disoriented, Circel plops into her seat with a thump. Adrenaline surges. Her fingers itch like crazy and only at the last second does she remember not to scratch.
Defying Marcella was easy. Defying an audience of ten thousand seems impossible.
She swallows.
"So, Circel. Quite a change from District Three, isn't it?"
"Yeah," she stammers, "Yes. Um...the Capitol is lovely," be gracious. Smile.
She smiles but can't think of a thing to say.
Crassus helps her. "You must be familiar with it by reputation. I hear you work at the biggest power plant in all of District Three, supplying power right to the Capitol!"
The audience applauds on cue, but Circel can see that she's losing them. There's nothing special about her, nothing to draw their fleeting attention. Nothing separates her from the other tributes.
Except...
She pulls off the gloves, sighing as her sweating arms cool in the frigid air. "Yes," she says, ignoring the panicked roll of Crassus' eyes, "I do. Ever since I was ten."
"That must be fascinating work," he rushes on, "And I have to ask—"
"I was eleven when I lost my fingers," she rolls over him. Her words reach through the restless mumble of the audience and there is quiet in the auditorium. Circel spreads her hand on the satin, smoothing gently over the the brutal knobs of thumb, index, and middle finger.
"I was sent to repair a transformer and forgot to shut off the current. I only touched it for a second, but that was more than enough.
"My hand swelled up so fast I thought it was going to explode, and I don't remember what happened after, but the plant doctor saved my life. And I'm grateful. Small price to pay, isn't it?" she throws up her hand, raises it high; there are gasps and muffled sobs at the sight.
"I'm alive," she smiles. "Not for very much longer, though. Isn't it funny?"
For the first time, she looks at the crowd. Her hand doesn't waver or drop.
The female tribute from District Three died on the first day of the Games.
She was killed by the male tribute from District Two.
The male tribute from District One was crowned victor after eight days of combat.