Samantha Marie Hoffman, 17, District 5
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a bit excited to see everyone else in their fancy outfits. There's never any occasion to dress up in 5, but now there's a whole lineup of suits and dresses for me to admire. Sure, most of the tributes are underfed and scarred from the war, but the Capitol stylists have actually done a decent job of making each kid shine.
My district partner is no exception. I always figured there was a sort of cold handsomeness to Del—you know, once you got beyond the scar and the scowl—and I'm proven right when he turns towards me as I slip into the line beside him. His stylist went through a lot of effort to emphasise his strong jawline and high cheekbones, and is that a hint of makeup around his eyes? Certainly makes him look more brooding and mysterious. As does the dark dress shirt he wears, though it's offset by the suit vest made entirely of copper wire, which does a nice job of bringing out the flecks of colour in his grey eyes.
Yes, Del is remarkably attractive, but the icing on the cake is his expression. He's so terribly uncomfortable, like a little kid stuck wearing his father's clothes. It's quite piteous, really.
Shall I tease him? Yes, yes I shall.
"Look at you, all fancied up. Never thought I'd see the day." I grin. "Honestly though, I'm surprised Callula didn't send you out shirtless."
Right now Del's fiddling around with the top buttons of his shirt, but he does grit his teeth at the mention of his, admittedly pervy, stylist. "She tried."
"And?"
"I refused."
"She didn't force you?"
"I was very insistent."
"So the undone buttons were a compromise then?"
"Yes."
"The buttons you're now doing up?"
"Well, she's not exactly here now, is she?"
He's trying to be nonchalant, but I don't miss how desperate he is to do up his shirt and conceal any inch of exposed flesh. It piques my interest.
"You seem pretty anxious. Got something to hide down there?" I smirk, nodding to his chest just as he finishes with the buttons.
Immediately, he goes on the defensive—for a guy who's so smart, he makes it all too clear when I've touched a nerve. "No. Why, do you?"
He's trying to turn the conversation on me, make me feel just as uncomfortable as him, but little does he know I'm a master of banter. And he really shouldn't have set me up like that.
"Nope. It's all out here on display," I reply, smirking and gesturing to the plummeting neckline of my bouffant gown. "See anything you like?"
It's awfully fun to watch his face flush bright red. "I don't think—No, I, I don't believe—"
"You know, for a supposed all-around baddie who's responsible for killing a whole whack-load of people, you're remarkably easy to get to," I say, chuckling and throwing an arm around his shoulder.
He tenses and immediately shrugs out of my grasp. "That's enough, Samantha."
"Ouch. Harsh words, bro." Never mind the fact that I'm inwardly celebrating the fact that he didn't just call me "girl"—so much for reducing me to a nameless corpse. "You know, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to compliment a lady."
"I have absolutely no interest in judging how aesthetically pleasing you appear to be."
Aw, he's still all hot and bothered—I've come to realise being extra robotic and scientific is Del's defense mechanism whenever he's feeling emotionally vulnerable.
"Come on, don't be like that. At the very least, you have to admit this dress is awesome. Check it out."
I rustle the poufy tulle of my plain, grey skirt, grinning when small sparks erupt throughout the material. Something about a product that enhances static electricity or some such thing, according to my stylist. Of course, my hair had to be lathered in gels and sprays in order to stay put, and the shocks are a bit painful, but still, it's epic. I look like I'm riding a lightning storm.
Del, unfortunately, does not share my awe. "Would you stop that?"
"Not amazed in the least. How dreadfully boring it must be in that serious brain of yours."
He glares at me out of the corner of his eye. "I'm simply trying to listen to the man up front. Are you done with the distractions?"
"Not quite."
I poke him in the side while he's not paying attention, causing him to jump about a foot in the air. Huh, wasn't expecting so drastic a reaction from Mr. Sullen and Stoic, but I have no time to pry further; there really is a man at the front of the line, waving his arms and calling out directions to all the tributes who can hear him, which is hardly anyone. I didn't realise it until now, but a dull roar has been steadily filling the air around us, growing louder and louder with each passing second and drowning out all other sound.
That would be the audience, I suppose. My hands are getting clammy just thinking about it. Sure, I can be loud and talkative with Del because he's so, well, not, but normally, I tend to be the quiet one. Going out on stage in front of thousands of Capitolites, my image being broadcast to all of Panem, and having to speak? Yeah, not exactly my thing.
Then again, none of these Hunger Games events have exactly been my "thing", and hey, I got through them, didn't I? I'm Samantha Marie Hoffman, goddammit, and if the next challenge is public speaking, then so be it, I will shine.
With that thought in mind, I straighten my back and hold my head high just as the man up front does a big, wave-y gesture with his arm. I have no idea what he means, but the tributes close to him must, because a second later, the line is moving forward, taking Del and I with it.
The change from behind the scenes to onstage is not unlike walking out of a library and into a firefight. My once calm surroundings explode in a mess of lights, colours, and sounds, so overwhelming I can't hope to focus. My senses are drowning in a sea of chaos, though there is one thing I manage to discern from pandemonium: the audience is cheering. Well, not cheering, per se, but definitely not booing like they were during the chariots. It's more . . . civil. Huh. Perhaps they're actually starting to like us.
Or they're just really excited for our rapidly approaching deaths. One or the other.
Somehow through all the craziness, I manage to stay on my feet and stay in line, following the other tributes to the semicircle of chairs set out for us. Thank God we get to sit for most this; my stylist wasn't exactly thinking "practical" when he gave me four-inch heels.
I take my seat between Del and Arc from 4, trying to remember everything my escort taught me about proper posture and pleasant expressions. After all, I see no reason to alienate members of the Capitol audience, especially if they can help me down the road. Contrary to what Volt Tron would like to believe, I have little interest in being another one of his rebels. I just don't want to burn my bridges and turn his alliance against me.
"Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen!"
My eyes are drawn to the centre of the stage, where a bouncing, beaming man has appeared, rising up from beneath a trap door. He's dressed completely in red, from his suit to his shoes, and atop his head rests a toupee of crimson curls. I wonder if it's intended to remind us all of the blood that will likely be spilt tomorrow.
The man bobs excitedly from corner to corner of the stage, racing around and dropping into a bow at seemingly random intervals. "Fair citizens of the Capitol, welcome! Famed stylists, welcome! Honoured Gamemakers, welcome! And, of course, to the most just and fair of presidents, welcome!"
He spends so long bent double, I start to believe he's broken down and can't get back up, but just as I debate drawing the attention of a paramedic, he pops back up and grins at the nearest camera crew. "Not to mention all our viewers back home, welcome! Welcome to both Capitol and district citizens alike!"
Huh—well, he's the first Capitolite I've met who could stand to say the word "district" without sneering. Maybe this won't be quite the train wreck I was picturing.
"And we can't forget our tributes, after all. Welcome to you too, lads and lasses!"
He turns to beam at us with such a smile so genuine, I nearly fall for his attitude. Nearly. Looking deep into his eyes, I can tell he's as on edge around us as the average Capitolite, but his job is to pretend all is well. After all, what was it the president said way back when the Hunger Games were announced? This is supposed to be a celebration of the war's end, not just a punishment.
Celebration. Right.
Too bad I left my party hat at home.
"Now, for those of you who don't know me, my name is Domitius Afer," the man continues, bobbing back around and settling down on one of the two chairs placed by him. "And I have the privilege—no, no, the honour—of interviewing these sweet children. After all, they are celebrities! Here to participate in the first ever Hunger Games, an event that shall cement the foundation of Panem's peace, they shall be competing in the ultimate test of worth. Tomorrow, twenty-four enter an arena, but in the end, only one shall leave! Don't you all want to know who?"
The crowd roars in response, a surprisingly positive reaction. He's good, this Domitius—his tone's so enthusiastic, it's almost easy to forget the horrifying meaning behind his words and get caught up in the excitement.
"Well, you can't pick a winner until you meet all the contenders! You've seen them from afar, watched them shine from their chariots and gasped in awe at their training scores. Now, let's get to know the kids behind it all!"
More cheers from the crowd. Even some of the tributes are falling for the whole sports-commentator routine: both tributes from 4 are smiling shyly at the crowd, and the boy from 12 is openly waving at the nearest spectators. It's like they're all forgetting what's to come tomorrow, which, I suppose, is Domitius's goal. After all, a stage full of sobbing kids would be bad press for the Capitol.
"Starting things off is the black-haired beauty all the way from District One. She was a queen during the chariot rides, and she ruled with her training score—now, please join me in welcoming Tesla Sinclair!"
The girl in question rises gracefully from her seat, practically gliding towards the empty chair beside Domitius. I narrow my eyes. Someone's clearly taught Tesla well, that much is obvious.
Taught her very well, I decide as her interview begins. She's the spitting image of courtesy, bantering easily with Domitius all while maintaining a regal air of elegance. Every move is carefully chosen, every move deliberately planned, and she drifts with ease from subject to subject, allowing Domitius to direct the conversation but subtly steering it herself as soon as he tries to mention something touchy.
I don't like it. Tesla's been giving me bad vibes ever since I first laid eyes on her, but after she mentions she originally came from 3, my suspicions are confirmed. Nothing but rotten apples from that district. Unfortunately, they're rotten apples who do a very good job of masquerading as tantalising fruit. They sure fooled all the other districts into thinking 3 and 13 were Panem's saviours. Now 13's gone, and because of 3, we're all fucked.
I have a feeling its citizens aren't done screwing us over though, not yet. Tesla is up to something twisted, something concerning her district partner, and it's going to spell trouble for all of us.
Unless I get her first.
Unfortunately, try as hard as I might, I can't detect any possible weaknesses in her throughout her interview. She's cordial, calm, and controlled with every word she speaks. Too little is revealed of her history to yield any sort of tragic past, and nothing is ever mentioned that triggers a break in her cool expression.
Until the very end of her interview. Domitius asks her to stand so the audience might ooh and ahh at her one-of-a-kind golden gown.
"My dear, you look absolutely ravishing!" Domitius says, beaming.
I scowl and rustle my skirt, watching the miniscule bolts of lightning zip through the fabric—mine's cooler anyhow.
"I can't take any of the credit, of course," Tesla says smoothly. "This is all the work of my incredible stylist."
"Don't be so modest, my dear! The beauty of a dress can only go so far—only a lovely lady can truly pull it off!" Domitius grins as, surprisingly enough, a few wolf whistles arise from the crowd. "Why, I do believe you've caught someone's eye."
And, for the briefest second, Tesla cracks. Her smile remains fixed as she looks over the crowd, but her right hand involuntarily jumps to her left arm, fingers splaying out to cover the skin. She catches herself almost instantly and places her hands firmly behind her back, but it was enough. More than enough.
She's self-conscious about her left arm. Odd thing for a teenage girl to be wary of, wouldn't you say? Especially one with slender limbs like Tesla. There's something else at work here.
I spot it just as she's dismissed from the stage. Her skin is covered in a subtle layer of glittery gold, matching well with her dress, but the makeup is heavier on her left arm. Tesla smudged it just a bit when she touched the skin, and underneath, I can just see part of a harsh scar. Not a line, but an ugly, red patch. Weapons don't cause that—burns, however, do.
Weakness acquired. You best watch yourself, Tesla Sinclair.
"You Fives are ridiculous."
Oops—was my glare too obvious?
"Really?" I cross my arms and glance over at Del, who's watching me from the corner of his eye. "How do you figure?"
"Your inborn hatred of anyone from Three is baseless and absurd."
"It's not without reason." When he rolls his eyes, I persist, "Oh, come on. Look at her and tell me she's not bad news."
"So? Most say I'm bad news."
"Yeah, well most are stupid enough to fall for the asshole routine you put on in an attempt to convince yourself you're a villain rather than a coward."
"E-Excuse me?"
Del's jaw locks, his stoic expression barely holding back the barrage of emotions swirling in his eyes. I wave my hand impatiently—now is not the time to deal with how much I know and have guessed about his angst-riddled past. We're talking about me and my problems right now, dammit.
"Samantha, I—"
"Look, if she's not enough proof that she's evil, then he definitely is," I say, firmly switching back to the more important subject and gesturing towards the boy hesitantly shuffling towards centre stage.
Unlike Del, Vesper Prospero looks uncomfortable with everything about the interviews except the fancy clothes. He wears a full suit like he was born for it, and the silver colour of the outfit does an excellent job of bringing out his wide grey eyes. Silver and gold for the Ones, I notice. That had to be on purpose, and it's a more symbolic choice than I think their stylists realised. After all, we all know who the boss is of their pair, and who plans to come out on top.
Del's trying to talk to me—probably some indignant response to my earlier words—but I shush him swiftly and jab my finger in Vesper's direction. If he doesn't believe me about Tesla now, he will after her district partner's interview; even an idiot could tell she's up to something concerning Vesper.
A fact made only more apparent when Vesper nervously pulls a set of cue cards from his pocket as he settles down beside Domitius. I wonder who wrote those for him.
Domitius takes it in stride, chuckling good-naturedly and reassuring Vesper he has nothing to worry about. There is no wrong answer. Nothing he says is bad.
How wrong that is.
First, Vesper is asked about what he did during the war, to which he says he helped neither the rebels or the Capitol. Now, there are ways to spin neutrality in a positive light. You can say all you want is peace, you can say war makes you sad, you can burst into tears and ask why must we all fight—whatever makes you look like a pacifistic goody-two-shoes. What you shouldn't say, however, is that you helped no one. That doesn't exactly gain you any friends, as evidenced by all the muttering going on amongst both the Capitol audience and the tributes.
Domitius senses this and hurriedly changes the subject to Vesper's family. That earns a flinch from the boy; for a moment, he looks almost like he might cry. But he pulls himself together enough to go back to his cue cards and talk about first his uncle, who supported the rebels, then the rest of his family, who supported the Capitol. All that winds up doing is angering both Capitolites and tributes alike. It's almost like whoever wrote Vesper's replies knew exactly what to have him say in order to make the most enemies possible.
The clincher, though, is when Domitius asks Vesper why he volunteered for the Games. Everyone leans forward in their seats, eager to find out what would motivate a perfectly normal, healthy teenage boy to throw his life away.
"O-Oh, well, my family, they—I mean, w-we want more m-money. We want the p-prize."
Well, if the other kids didn't hate him before, they certainly do now. All I see up and down the line of tributes are looks of disgust aimed at the boy willing to kill for greed. If that really is his motive, which I highly doubt.
"See what I'm saying?" I mutter to Del as Vesper leaves the stage. "There's something going on with the Ones, and Tesla's the cause of it."
"Perhaps," is all he replies, though I can see in his eyes he knows I'm right.
Next up for interviews is Andromeda from 2, who I have little interest in besides her obsession with my district partner.
"Gonna tell me why she keeps bugging you?" I ask Del as Andromeda coolly refuses to shake Domitius's hand.
"I don't believe it's any of your business."
"You're no fun."
It's not hard to guess for myself though. At first, it's tough to determine Andromeda's allegiance; she just seems like she hates everyone. But when Domitius asks her about her family, and she replies stiffly that most of them were killed by rebels, the hate flashing in her eyes tips me off. We've got ourselves a Capitol supporter here. Ah, and she's assuming Del's one because of the info he gave up on 11's rebel base. I suppose she's been trying to get him on her side.
I'm pretty sure they cut Andromeda's interview short, simply because she's so cold and rude. Next up is her district partner, who's cute in a deer-in-headlights sort of way, stammering out responses while staring with wide eyes at the audience. Following him is the girl from 3, who, shockingly, does not spend the entire time swearing and yelling. She must have been issued some serious threats beforehand, because she's actually civil, if sullen. The 3 boy is much livelier, joking and laughing with Domitius, even giving a short whistling performance at one point. I roll my eyes; even if they're not dangerous like Tesla, they're still idiots. I can't believe 3 has the gall to call itself the smart district.
The kids from 4 are of little consequence to me, especially the girl. She embodies the angelic role so perfectly, I want to hurl; clearly no threat hiding in that one. Arc is a bit more interesting, if only because I've seen Andromeda chatting him up as well, which makes him another likely Capitol supporter, or at least one by association. The way he frantically changes the subject whenever Domitius mentions the war or his parents only confirms my assumption.
Finally, Domitius sends the boy back to his seat, and calls my name.
Show time.
My lips curve up in the biggest smile I can muster just as the spotlight falls on me. I giggle, wave, and practically skip out of my seat and over to wear Domitius sits. It's a miracle I manage to keep my balance in these stupid heels.
"And here's the beautiful girl now! Hello, Samantha."
"Please, Dom, call me Sam. Or Sammy. Or Samalana-banana." I collapse casually into the seat next to Domitius and give the cameras a good-natured eye roll. "My sister thought she was hilarious with that one."
It's the exact same thing I said to Del when I first met him, but why change what works? I've instantly presented Domitius with an opportunity to get me talking about my sister, then the whole rest of my family. I do so eagerly, sharing every little detail about my soft-spoken mother, my protective father, and my crazy little sister. With a series of jokes and a cute "Hi, Mom!" at the cameras, I have the audience chuckling in their seats. When they've had enough laughs, I turn the mood around, discussing my tearful goodbyes and even shedding a few tears on the spot. It's brilliant, if I do say so myself.
And it's all 100% genuine. Nothing forced, nothing faked, and nothing left out. So many of these kids are trying to hide their true selves in the hopes of making themselves seem less vulnerable, but I cry, and I'm not afraid to let them see. It shows I'm human. It connects me to the audience and the other tributes. It allows them to sympathise with me.
And if they do that, then how can they possibly kill me?