"Mags, why do you let her dress me like this?" Finnick forces every bit of piteous pleading he can muster into his eyes.
"Hush, you look dashing," she replies. She reaches up and smooths down errant waves of hair trying to escape the perfectly tousled coiffure Calliope has molded.
"I look like a Capitolite chump," Finnick grumbles, tugging at the sash at his waist.
"Trust me, if Calliope had a little more time and a couple more surgeons on hand, you would really look Capitol." Mags smacks at his worrying hands. "Now quit fussing before you mess it up."
"Can we at least get rid of the boots?"
Mags raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer we go back to the parade costume instead?"
This shuts Finnick up, if only for a moment. He stares at himself in the full-length mirror and desperately tries to tell himself he looks good, or at least as Mags put it, "dashing." Calliope has forgone the traditional suit and opted to solidify Finnick's status as this year's total clown instead. The white shirt with billowing sleeves he can stomach, but the high-waisted pants and leather boots are a bit much. The blue-green sash tied around his waist is just tacky. Finnick almost bolted when Calliope suggested piercing his eras, but thankfully Mags vetoed the idea before any serious damage could be done.
A few paces away, Caspia and Abalone stand like Two brooding pillars of doom, sucking all the joy out of anyone who careless enough to drift within close proximity. She is sensational a deep blue suit accented with stud earrings and a ribbon tied around her neck, but she might as well be wearing a funeral shroud for how gloomy she looks. Finnick has only ever seen such a degree of foreboding emanate from the tributes from Two, who stand in front of the pair from Three. What Miles lacks in menace Bellona more than makes up for in an embroidered black jacket, skin-tight pants, and spiky leather boots.
To Finnick's astonishment and eternal pleasure, Mags gives him a pat on the cheek and smiles up at him with something like fondness warming her eyes. At the same time, she slips something cold and pointed into Finnick's pocket. "I have to go sit down. Put on the homewrecker smile I know you've got in you and go stand with the others." She goes over and taps on Abalone, who mutters something in Caspia's ear, squeezes her shoulder, and follows Mags out the door.
Finnick gives his hair—the only part of him Calliope has chosen to leave somewhat intact—a final fluff and joins the group of tributes huddled backstage. Caesar Flickerman has commenced his opening spiel—cracking jokes, telling stories, reminiscing about past Games—to loosen up the audience in preparation for the interviews. This year he is dyed a violent shade of green-blue, and even seeing him in person Finnick cannot begin to guess how old he might be. Anticipation, both from the crowd and his fellow tributes, hangs thick in the air, heady and electrifying.
"Wait!" It's Calliope, her commotion earning a few hushes from interview personnel as she barrels toward Finnick, brandishing a black pen in one hand and a powder brush in the other. "I've got to apply your eyeliner."
She proceeds to commit what Finnick can only describe as heinous Capitol torture to his person, chasing him down with surprising agility and trying to stab her pen into each of his eyes.
"Oh, stop it!" Calliope hisses when he resists. She gives him a firm shake, wrinkling his meticulously ironed shirt. "You're acting like a child!"
Maybe because I am one. The retort flies to his lips, scathing and bitter, but he bites it back. The other tributes can see him trying to evade Calliope's ministrations, and he sure his actions don't match those of the preening, self-obsessed character he's spent so much time manufacturing. So he grits his teeth, counts backward from ten, and allows Calliope to finish whatever she's doing to his abused eyelids. Mercifully, Calliope is practiced and swift. She caps her pen and dabs his face with her brush one last time before stepping back to admire her work.
"Magnificent," she sighs. She kisses her own fingertips and pats Finnick's cheek with them. "Be good, dear! I'll be in the audience watching the whole time."
Somehow the knowledge doesn't lend Finnick a whole lot of confidence, but he nods and smiles anyway. Then she dashes away, and the tributes are called out to the stage.
The last thing Finnick wants to do the evening before he's dumped into an arena to fight for his life is listen to a bunch of children snivel and blandish their way into the hearts of Capitol citizens, where he should already firmly and irrevocably reside. But Mags has taught him better: the angle presented at the interviews will be the angle played in the Games. To know another tribute's strategy is to know how to beat it.
Ruby starts the ball rolling with a seductive, entrancing approach, clad in a bloodred evening gown and lipstick to match. Finnick can practically see saliva dripping from the mouths of every man in the audience, and he has no doubt Ruby can see it too.
"My, my, Miss Ruby," Caesar says. "You have to be the most ravishing girl in the Capitol right now."
Ruby chuckles and tosses her head. The multitude of gems adhered to her face, glittering under the radiant stage lights, make her look more luxurious—more Capitol—than anyone else in the room. "Please, Caesar, you flatter me."
"Perhaps, but is it not warranted?" Caesar asks. "Not only do you have looks that could put a model to shame, but if my sources are accurate, you are also the top student in all of your classes back home. You've got both the beauty and the brains, as some would say. And your training score! A ten. Highly impressive if you ask me."
Her face magnified and broadcasted on the television screens, Finnick can pinpoint the exact moment Ruby decides she loathes Caesar Flickerman just as much as she loathes her training score. But it's fleeting, almost imperceptible. Her expression never wavers, her smile never falters. "There's always room for improvement," she replies. The brightness of her tone is as artificial as her jewelry.
"Improvement?" Caesar echoes. "How can you improve something already perfect?"
Ruby gives a sort of breathy laugh Finnick has heard come from Mags when she's trying to amuse the mayor after he says something particularly unintelligent. "I received a ten out of twelve, not a twelve out of twelve."
Caesar dips his head. "You are right, of course. What, may I ask, drives this ambition to achieve such a high degree of flawlessness?"
"What reason does a tribute need to strive for perfection other than a desire to make her fans happy? I love you guys." Ruby simpers and bats her lashes at the camera. The audience croons.
Whether it's the truth or not, her interview sure explains a lot about Ruby's character. If Finnick had been raised implicitly for the purpose of faithful servitude, would he not also strive to make himself pristine for his masters, to mold and polish himself into something above human, something to be adored and championed without question? For sly, beautiful Ruby Riveta, it's an apt strategy. She and Caesar blather on some more about her life back home, highlighting her achievements and her family's illustrious jewelry business, the latter of which Finnick supposes is a reason in and of itself for rich Capitolites to sponsor her. Save my child from a painful death and get all of your jewelry free for the rest of your natural life!
Next comes Alabaster, and he demonstrates the predictable District 1 arrogance, all suave grins and snide remarks. Finnick doesn't understand how this sort of egotism could possibly be appealing in any way, but District 1 is not stupid. He doubts they would employ this approach year after year if it didn't attract sponsors—which, judging by the boisterous response Alabaster is eliciting from the audience, it seems to be doing the job quite well.
"Well, Alabaster, from what I can tell, you seem quite sure of your victory," Caesar remarks, leaning back in his plush, ornate chair. "What makes you so certain you'll win?"
"I don't just have confidence in myself," Alabaster replies with a subtle shake of his head. "I have faith in my sponsors, because I know they'll look out for me in the Games." His gaze softens, and for a moment he looks more vulnerable than Finnick has ever seen him. "And I have confidence because of my ma, who's always been there for me, always looked out for me. I love you, ma."
This milks pathos from the audience like nothing else. Alabaster could be making things up, but every Finnick knows as well as any Career that a lie is most effective when injected with the barest hint of truth. Finnick remembers seeing Alabaster's mother in the reaping replays. The cameras had lingered on their parting embrace, the commentators making remarks about Alabaster's nobility, his bravery for making such a huge sacrifice for the sake of his family and his district. A soundtrack of soulful violins playing in the background top off the whole exhibition. Finnick tries ineffectively to block the image from his mind.
After Alabaster comes Bellona, and if Finnick needed any proof that all of District 2's hopes of winning this year were riding on her, this interview was it.
"Ms. Leon," Caesar starts. "I think, perhaps, we should begin by taking everyone back a couple of years to the 62nd Hunger Games." A few spectators, catching onto Caesar's design, whoop and clap delightedly. "We're going to test the audience's memory, here. Hopefully it's a bit better than mine." This earns a collective guffaw from the viewers, though Bellona doesn't even crack a smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, help me out, here: Who was the victor of the 62nd Hunger Games?"
The reply comes in a single, thunderous voice that rattles Finnick's bones: "Enobaria Pike!"
The roar of approval proceeding Enobaria Pike's name is ample evidence of their love for Bellona's mentor. From her place amidst the other mentors in the audience, Enobaria bares her infamous teeth and raises an exultant fist at the camera, looking as fierce and indomitable as she did three years ago when she graced the stage herself. Finnick remembers her as well as he remembers Cashmere Columba. It'd be hard to forget the person who won her Games by tearing out her rival's jugular with her teeth. The crowd goes wild, stamping their feet and hollering at the top of their lungs. By the time they quiet down, Finnick's ears are ringing. Based on their reaction to Enobaria alone, even Miles will have no trouble accruing sponsors.
Once the audience quiets down, Caesar redirects their attention back to Bellona. "As you can tell, Enobaria has made quite an impact on us here at the Capitol," He flashes the audience a mischievous grin. "What do you think, Bellona? "Do you think you can live up to your mentor's expectations? Do you think this Games could be yours?"
"Games?" she scoffs. "Caesar, these are not Games. To us in District 2, the Hunger Games are our life. Panem is our lifeblood, the Capitol is our beating heart, and it is our duty to serve this great nation with everything we have."
This provokes another round of cheering, this time flavored with a healthy dose of nationalism, which Finnick supposes was the statement's whole intent.
"If serving Panem is your goal, you're off to a wonderful start," Caesar says, once the ruckus has faded. "You must've impressed the Gamemakers, seeing how you got that lovely ten in training."
Bellona lifts her chin, staring down her nose at Caesar like he's something she scraped off the bottom of her giant boot. "Training scores mean nothing," she says. "It's out in the field where a tribute really proves herself, which I intend to do the second the gong rings."
Finnick hears one of the Callows muffle their squeak with a small cough.
"Enobaria must be very proud," Caesar says.
Bellona dips her head. "Enobaria has taught me well."
Even Caesar doesn't try to shake her hand when the buzzer sounds. She rises from the seat and returns to her place next to her district partner, sitting ramrod straight, back pulled away from her chair, peering down at the audience with smoke-lined eyes.
As Miles switches places with her, easing down on the seat across from Caesar, Finnick can't help but wonder what angle he will try. Too shy to be assertive, too anxious to be compelling—what advice will his mentor have given him?
Finnick needn't have wasted any concern. There's a reason Caesar Flickerman has been interview host for over thirty years. Finnick has no doubt he could make a sardine look appealing if it had been reaped.
"Looking a little green, there, Miles," Caesar jokes. "Your district partner got you nervous?"
Miles laughs, running a hand subconsciously over his shaved head. "Is it that obvious?"
"Not at all," Caesar assures him. "In fact, you could just be reflecting the color of my hair." He throws back his head and chortles. The audience follows suit. "Tell me, Miles. What can I do to make you more comfortable?"
Miles shrugs. "I don't think there's much you can do, Caesar. This chair is pretty comfortable as-is."
This gets another small laugh from the crowd. "I wouldn't know, dear boy," Caesar replies. "I've always sat in this one!" He pats the plush cushion of his own seat.
"The chairs aren't nearly this nice back in District 2," Miles comments, some of the tension draining from his stiff posture. "All those quarries, you know: we get used to sitting on literal rocks."
Caesar makes a face of exaggerated discomfort. "This old tush certainly couldn't bear it." He leans forward, deliberately shedding his flippant attitude and donning a more serious mien. "Now that we're on the subject of home: Your father is a stonemason, is he not?"
Miles' expression freezes. "Yes." Tell us more, Finnick wants to say. The more secrets you tell, the more control I gain. His constant apprehension is putting Finnick on edge, and he needs to be calm and cool for his own interview.
"And what of your mother?" Caesar asks, trying a different tack.
"She's not around anymore." Miles' throat bobs as he struggles to force out more words. "I...I never knew her."
The crowd sighs, hands clasped to their chests in sympathy.
"How tragic," Caesar murmurs. "I'd imagine it's been hard on you and your family, not having a mother around."
For the briefest moment, Finnick is sure he sees a flash of something incendiary in Miles's eyes—anger, or maybe even defiance. But as quickly as it sparked it vanishes, hidden under his bashful civility. "We make do without her."
"I'm sure you do," Caesar says, tone dripping with honeyed pity. "If your mother were here now, what would you say to her?"
Finnick studies Miles's face, blown up on the big screens behind the audience, as he struggles to come up with a suitable reply. "I would tell her, wherever she is...we—me, Dad, and Juno—we're all right. I've always tried to be the best citizen of Panem I can be. I won't fail her now."
"I love your patriotism, Miles. It sounds like you want to make both of your parents proud."
Caesar's intention finally dawning on him, Miles nods vehemently and leans forward in his chair, hands clutching the armrests. "I do. I won't fail them, and I won't fail my district."
"The rest of the competition had better look out: the tributes from District 2 are fierce this year!" The buzzer sounds; Miles and Caesar shake hands. The girl from Three stands up to join Caesar downstage, but she's a scrawny, twitchy thing, and Finnick barely listens to her stumble her way through her interview.
Just because Miles isn't the standard flavor of Career like Bellona doesn't mean he won't be viable competition, Finnick reminds himself. He wasn't completely unfamiliar with the training weapons, and if his weightlifting abilities are any indication, he's as strong as an ox. If the fate of Miles' father truly depends on Miles' ability to put on a good show, then he's going to try twice as hard to win. And Finnick thought he was under a lot of pressure.
As the male from District 3 begins his interview, Finnick glances over at Miles. He seems to be adapting to Bellona's constant glower well by assuming one of his own. Finnick understood the importance of learning each of his rival's angles for the sake of strategy, but knowing more about the other tributes is a double-edged sword. Miles is just trying to prove himself to his absent mother. Ruby is trying to give the Capitol the entertainment it craves. Aren't they all just doing what they must to survive?
It doesn't matter, though. Finnick deliberately seizes the weed of uncertainty sprouting in his gut and pulls it up by the roots. He can't start feeling guilty before the Games have even begun, not if District 4 wants a winner. Taking a deep breath, he fixes his eyes forward and does not look at his fellow tributes again.