CHAPTER ELEVEN;
the evening star

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"So, I take it this morning went well?" Irma asks, cautiously peering at the mentee over her cup of tea as she takes a delicate sip.

Vesper doesn't answer — simply blinks at her, stony-faced. She hopes it'll speak with enough volume that Irma will receive the message, accept it and move swiftly on. But as always, the kind-eyed young woman won't take a simple "No" for an answer, and then implores her as to why it didn't go well.

     Why?

     With Dale recuperating in hospital, his sudden ripping from the District Six team had gone down like a rug being yanked out from underneath their feet, leaving even the composed Hermia wobbly and grappling for answers as to where to turn next. In the end, after much bickering at the breakfast table, the remaining team had come to a decision for the finale of this week that Vesper had been dreading the most — the interviews. They agreed to split up the mentoring sessions, Hermia taking the role of teaching interview etiquette, and Irma discussing what angle to take in terms of sponsors. Much to Vesper's dismay, she had pulled the short straw and been paired up with Hermia for the first half of the morning.

     It had been doomed from the start. "Oh for goodness's sake Vesper," Hermia had sneered, rolling her eyes at Vesper the minute she sat down. "will you close your legs when you are sitting? I don't care what you may think, but no frock or even any other outfit for that matter will look appealing when you're slumped in your chair like a man!" And so the first few minutes of their session are filled with passive-aggressive tutorials on how to cross her legs like a lady. She personally couldn't understand the appeal of sitting cross-legged — both of her legs were already falling asleep as a sacrifice for her femininity, and what was the point of even trying to sit up straight when the whimsical design of these Capitol armchairs were made for a spine shaped like a crescent moon?

Then followed learning to smile, wave, greet Caesar — all things Vesper thought she could do sufficiently, but apparently not. The whole objective appears to be: Appear natural, but not so natural you look real. From what she has gathered, the Capitol simply wish for a tribute to transcend reality. They want extraterrestrial, ethereal, ever beautiful.

What utter bullshit, she'd thought to herself, right as Hermia introduced a stack of books to balance on her head — "For posture when walking," she had justified. This had caused Vesper to scoff, causing a petty argument between the two to escalate like domino-upon-domino...

But how to sum it all up to an expectant Irma sitting opposite her?

"I guess..." Vesper squirms in her chair, her brain already hardwired to self-criticise over not crossing her legs. "I just don't understand this. Any of it. Fighting, I can get — it's simple. You pick up a weapon, you use it. But I don't know how to... put on a show." The silence that seeps from Irma suggests she is still waiting to hear more; it's as if she has some kind of gauge inside her, which tells her You aren't done yet. Tell me more, and I will listen.

"I can't just do this make-believe stuff like you can. If it's not somehow real, I can't feel it. But I also don't want to tell anyone my private secrets, that's for me to know and me to die with... it just pisses me off!"

Oh God. She hadn't expected this to turn into morning therapy. But Irma doesn't seem fazed. She simply nods, as if she has heard enough, and places her tea down on the coffee table intersecting the space between their feet. Vesper rubs her knees with a small sigh of relief.

"I completely understand," Irma finally says. "And that's why I'm here. You haven't been able to control a lot of things this past week, but if there is anything you can control whilst you have the chance, you must seize it. Now..."

A sudden arousal of chants echo from outside the training centre, the roar of excitable crowds mingling before the building in preparation for tonight's event. Irma stands up, her wispy blouse trailing behind her in reminiscence of her chariot dress as she glides over to the window, pulling the handle towards her and shutting it. It doesn't entirely block out the noise, but it helps.

"Vesper, do you know what a Desirable is?" Irma asks, a sudden solemn sadness pooling in her eyes.

"... Sort of. They're the attractive ones —" she uses air quotes with a vague boredom of the subject, "— that the Capitol go nuts for, right? Like Finnick, Augustus... you. Can't say I see the appeal myself, but each to their own, right?"

"That's only the tip of the iceberg." Glancing around her, checking the coast is clear, she leans in closer to Vesper. "People like us, we... we do favours for people. Intimate favours. From the moment the Capitol can lay their hands on you if you make it out of the arena, they'll try to make you into one."

Vesper raises an eyebrow, still not quite understanding. Irma purses her lips, a crease streaking her forehead as she strains herself through her next words.

"Desirables are prostitutes, Vesper. They sell their bodies."

"What?!" she almost exclaims, leaning back in her chair. "But... but– they're so young. Can't you just opt out or something?"

"We don't have a choice," Irma whispers back warily, "It's that or... your loved ones..."

She doesn't need to elaborate any further. Vesper stares off through the window, her skin suddenly rushing with cold sweat and her pulse thrumming disconcertingly. Imagining herself as a Desirable was one thing — at first something she thought of as a sick joke, envisioning herself as a Capitol sex symbol like Augustus Braun last year — but she had no idea it went that far. Her mind simply cannot put two and two together. Selling her body like that to a total stranger, especially some Capitol-bred monster... it's enough to make her feel sickly with nausea. She won't end up like that, will she? It seems such a violating concept. That kind of intimacy has never been some dream of hers, but it's something she could only imagine sharing with someone who knew her by heart, and she could trust; someone who it wouldn't be a transaction for, who wouldn't leave with their cash afterwards.

"But that's the clever thing about public perception," says Irma, a weak smile crossing her face. "A little bit of tweaking and suddenly you're holding the puppet strings without realising."

Vesper manages a chuckle, wiping some sweat from the nape of her neck with her fingertips. And then suddenly she finds her heart lurching for Irma, who has sunken into her seat ever so slightly as she stares at the bottom of her teacup. She thinks back to her interviews, how otherworldly she had appeared to Panem in her beauty — that had become her brand. But before that, at her Reaping... she can just about remember it, and more distinctly, how remarkably childlike she looked. Just a painfully shy, teary eyed girl hiding behind her long, fairly straight hair on the stage; somehow, with a little bit of magic, she underwent a grand metamorphosis to become District Six's most desirable figure.

     She had never understood the obsession of worshipping the victors based on their sex appeal — but now Vesper was starting to see in Irma that it was in fact a tragic metamorphosis, one far too early for that seventeen year-old trying to pull her sleeves back up over her exposed shoulders in her interview.

     Vesper would rather not think about this any longer. But another thought occurs to her, and she feels compelled to raise it before they move on with her angle. "Why are you telling me this now?" she asks quietly. "I mean, if I'm probably gonna die in that arena anyway, is there any point in knowing this?"

     Irma doesn't say a word. And this time, she truly can't decipher what she is trying to say or not say.

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     After lunch, it is time for Benedict to whisk Vesper away and transform her once more — this time, Icarus is separated from her to be styled by the Whitlock twin, Lysander.

Already she detests the pinches and pulls of hair rollers and other contraptions being woven into her hair, providing a rather frightening reflection that she only sees intermittent glimpses of between make-up brushes being dabbed all over her face. Her dress has been hidden from her upon Benedict's request, since he has claimed he always likes the grand reveal to be a surprise.

"Now, Vesper! Vesper, Vesper, Vesper..." he says, so many times that 'Vesper' no longer sounds like a word. "My favourite time of the week has come, in which you can be the star of the show. My brother and I prefer to go more separate routes with this, since the interviews provide more room for individuality than the tribute parades. This is your night, after all. Would you like a sneak peek of tonight's look? A little teaser, if you will?"

"Benedict, I would be over the moon," Vesper deadpans.

Unable to detect her sarcasm, he claps his hands together with a guffaw. "Oh, splendid! Well, I won't show you the dress yet — all for the grand reveal, of course — but I'll shed some light on where I drew my inspirations. First of all, I did something rather clever... do you happen to know what your name means?"

"No? Why would I?"

"It's a Latin name, meaning evening star."

"Ooh!" Esperanza squeals, batting her neon pink lashes at her. "Isn't that pretty, Vesper? It suits you. Very elegant."

Vesper snorts. "Thanks, Esperanza, but elegant is not a word I'd use to describe myself."

"It most certainly is not," Gideon scoffs as he pops the lid off of a mascara bottle. She pretends she didn't hear that part, eyes watering as she resists the urge to pull away from the inky black liquid lathering her eyelashes.

     "But alas, that is what we shall make you, Vesper..." Benedict claps. "An evening star!"

During the process of make-up being applied to her face, she does take note of how it feels less caked on than last time. She feels as though she can still move her facial features without fear of being scolded for shifting her perfectly crafted mask.

When Benedict retrieves her outfit from the hanger, still concealed in a white hanger bag, he commands that Vesper shut her eyes. So she does — putting a surprising amount of trust into these strange Capitol aliens she barely knows. She feels an artificially scaly hand grab both of her hands as she is instructed to step into something. Her bare feet brush against something soft, the fabric hugging her skin surprisingly comfortably with a faint clanging sound as her arms are pushed through the sleeves. Someone, who she thinks is Cordelia, guides her feet into some low-heeled (thank God) shoes, which pinch slightly at her ankles but she's sure it won't prove too much of an issue...

"And... open."

She does. And, for a moment, she forgets to breathe.

It's really quite simple at the outset. Vesper's face is much more simply decorated than on the chariot night, to her surprise, her eyes complimented with the metallic eyeshadow once more, but otherwise the make-up has been used sparingly and only to enhance her existing features. Her hair is less tightly curled than in the parade too, falling in soft waves more similar to its natural consistency. As she tilts her head, she also notices the light catching a few subtle sprinkles of silver glitter that twinkle in her hair, like evening stars against the night sky. The dress feels just as it looks — translucent, lightweight fabric covers her body like the consistency of mist, sleeves reaching to her elbows and the neckline rising up just above her collar bone. Then, fading in like gradient, a light dusting of silver glitter gives backdrop to carefully sculpted fragments of metal that have somehow been stitched onto the skirt of her dress, smaller shards creating the torso. She's taken aback by how lightweight she feels, considering she seems to be carrying pieces of scrap metal.

But it's not her reflection that's doing this to her. It's this feeling, starting down in her gut and fanning out to the rest of her body like butterflies flapping their wings furiously. Her skin tingles with the sensation and her lips part in speechlessness. It's remarkably... her. Not some gladiator, not a possible Desirable. She isn't stunning... simply rather pretty. And that's enough. It feels like Vesper Alfaro is staring back at her in the mirror. Somehow, that's more disturbing than anything.

"Do you like it?" asks Benedict. He gestures to her skirt proudly. "See these? I managed to get one of my trusty colleagues — thank you, Gideon — to pull some strings and have some scrap metal pieces separated up for your dress. They're actually from a door of one of the older Panem trains, no longer in use. Thought it was a nice touch, if I do say so myself!"

Vesper blinks back at her reflection. She rests her hand first on her chest, and then smooths it down over the bodice of her dress, feeling the intricate details running past her fingertips.

"Oh God, she hates it!" Esperanza cries, letting her head fall into her hands.

"No, no, it's not that," she murmurs back, shaking her head indefinitely at herself. "It's just... I..."

Fumbling for the words, she stares down at the floor to avoid the expectant stares of her prep team and Benedict. She didn't think she even cared about this sort of thing — she still doesn't, really. But for some reason, when Vesper looks at herself in the mirror, all she can hear is Hermia's comments from that morning: "slumped in your chair like a man!" and she shifts uncomfortably on her spot. Why is it bothering her so much? It's not that she cares what Hermia thinks, or what anyone else does for that matter. She begins to think back to her job back in Six, how few girls she was surrounded by, and the looks or comments they got just for getting their hands dirty. Or how her other friends were so easily welcomed into their jobs in comparison to Vesper, her having to work almost twice as hard just to get her week's wages. With the world against her, there was simply no time to experiment or enjoy these nice things.

It's that now she thinks about it, she's never had the chance to feel like this. To be a girl, standing in a beautiful dress. And oh, how she wishes she could just enjoy this moment, like countless other tributes might be right now, spinning in front of the mirror... but she's out of her own league. There is no way she can pull this off.

"It's... nice," Vesper finally shrugs, giving the skirt of her dress a self-aware pat. She won't waste her breath trying to explain something she doesn't even understand.

"Nice? More like simply marvellous!" Benedict grins like a giddy schoolboy and stands back, hooking his thumbs underneath his braces as he admires his work. He turns around with a flourish, tossing his hands up in the air. "Ah, Irma... we've just finished bedazzling Vesper for tonight." In a lower voice, he adds, "Was this what you were looking for?"

     What she was looking for? What was that supposed to mean? Vesper stands awkwardly on the spot, feeling Irma's gaze look her up and down, taking in every inch of her. She circles her as if she were a statue in an art gallery, ancient and poised. Finally, after a few moments, Irma gives a gentle nod of her head. "It is," says Irma. "You look lovely, Vesper."

     "Uh, thanks..."

Before being led on her way out to line up with the other tributes, Vesper manages to catch Esperanza. "Hey," she asks, catching the perky apprentice off guard, "did you know what that was all about? With Irma?"

Esperanza purses her lips, tinted with bright lilac, and sighs. "It was the strangest thing. I don't know if she usually asks this, but Irma had given us and Benedict strict orders on how to dress you. Certain things we could do or could not do, and absolutely minimal make-up," at this, Esperanza heaves her chest with a disappointed sigh, making her furry pink tank top flutter. "How peculiar... you still look fabulous though, don't worry! I'm sure you'll be picking up sponsors all over the block."

Vesper still isn't quite sure of what Irma's intentions were, ordering Benedict's styling like that, until she reaches the backstage area to line up with the others. The first person she catches a glimpse of is Emerald at the front: shoulders oiled up and shimmering, although nowhere near as glamorous as her gown completely studded with, quite suitably, pure green emeralds. Her make-up has received a similar flamboyant treatment, her lips burning red and her eyeshadow heavy with olive green glitter, and her blonde hair obscures the shockingly exposed back of her dress in immaculate waves.

She's pretty sure it is a grown, matured woman heading the front of the queue, not that Emerald on the brink of tears who rushed out of the gym yesterday.

It seems to be a mix of this with everyone else — either they are absolutely stunning, or have been given a similar treatment to their chariot nights, sometimes proving unfortunate. In both circumstances, Vesper finds herself relieved at the self-preservation Benedict and her prep team seem to have given her.

Icarus is standing in the queue when Vesper joins him behind, and he turns to grin at her. He's dressed in a ivory suit tailored to his size, complete with silver accents on his lapel and, as she sees before he turns to face her, also on the back of his jacket too. When she looks closer, she realises the silver stitching topped with glitter creates the intricate silhouette of angel wings.

     "This thing's pretty neat," says Icarus, tugging smartly at his jacket. His eyes widen as he takes her in, and he holds his hand up for a high five. "Hey, you look great!"

     "Thanks..." Vesper slaps her hand on his, gently and below where anyone can see, because the sheer volume of his rambling has already caught the attention of a few other tributes. Coral looks around, a tiara of shells balanced in her head of tight curls, and so does Levin. At first he simply glances her way, but then looks again; he raises his eyebrows at her, lips parting slightly as he fails to tear his eyes away. Unsure of what he's staring at, Vesper opts for a small nod of acknowledgement back.

     After a frenetic assistant wearing a microphone headset re-shuffles the queue for the running order, the muffled roar of the crowd behind the curtains makes Vesper's blood run cold. Suddenly everything Hermia or Irma had told her this morning escapes her — how to sit, walk, breathe. Why did her life have to depend so much on this stupid etiquette?

     A light above the doorway turns red, and the flat screen underneath switches from the Capitol emblem to the live broadcast of tonight's show. A strange dissonance of Caesar Flickerman's actual voice and the slightly more muted one on the television muddles with her brain; his acid-green hair can't be missed, along with his suit of deep indigo that sparkles with rhinestones.

     Caesar engages in some 'light' back-and-forth with the audience, before introducing the first tribute. Emerald struts onto the stage, offering her hand out to Caesar and giggling manically when he kisses the top of her hand. Once seated, Vesper now sees a deliberate slit in her dress to reveal her bare leg, exposing much of her skin ascending to halfway up her thigh. The interview consists of fairly shallow and trivial questions — such as her time in the Capitol, and the incessant references to how stunning she looks.

     All of a sudden, Vesper thinks she might understand what Irma was trying to do. It makes total sense now, looking around at the tributes surrounding her, and seeing how conservatively she is dressed in comparison.

     She is protecting her.

     The question that draws Emerald's interview to a close is an awkward one, whereupon Caesar inquires her about her training score. Her face clearly falls at the mention of it, and not even her floaty laugh can cover it up. "Perhaps the nerves had gotten to me!" she exclaims, blinking slightly uneasily at the crowds with no wish to comment further. The poor girl retreats from the stage the minute Caesar lets her go as if she's about to throw up.

     Hermes follows with a typically egotistical interview, as does Hero with her body muscle bulking out her dress sleeves. Next onstage is inevitably Boaz, and Vesper has to physically restrain a groan from escaping her lips the moment he walks out, eyes narrow and brooding as he firmly shakes Caesar's hand.

     She tunes out for most of his interview, ignoring his showcasing of his muscle or boasting about training. It's Caesar's last question, however, that piques her interest.

     "So I understand you have some family connections to the Hunger Games, correct?" Caesar asks as he adjusts his notecards in his lap.

     "Correct," Boaz nods, his face setting like lead. Caesar leans forward with intrigue, as does the audience. "You see, when I was a very small child, my Uncle was a constant in my life. He was younger than most of my relatives and a great believer in these Games. He trained for years and years to get to the stage he did. A great man."

     "What happened then?"

     "He died, Caesar. He volunteered for the Fifty-Ninth Hunger Games."

     At this, Boaz pauses and looks into the camera. Vesper stops too for a moment and thinks, trying to see if she can recall his alleged uncle in these Games at all. A Career tribute, surely a strong one for that year. And then it hits her — Titus. She sees one of those horrible pixelated images, the one that sent all of Panem into complete shock as a seemingly innocent boy turned to the absolute last resort, hunched over his victim and starting to cut open his chest...

     "So that's why I'm here," Boaz finally continues, his voice dripping with both conceit and contempt. Perhaps he knows what he's doing, letting Vesper put the pieces together backstage. "I'm here to keep his legacy alive, to honour him. And I won't rest until I draw blood from those who took him from me."

     In other words, he's out to get her.

     As the crowd applauds him upon his departure from the stage, she shares an uncertain glance with Icarus. He had been intimidating before, but suddenly it all made sense — where that untamed rage came from, and more importantly why he is painting a target on their backs, of all people. Whichever tributes from District Six he could get his hands on. If she had known that beforehand, maybe Vesper wouldn't have pushed his buttons so much. That kind of rage is dangerous... she should know.

Thankfully, next to take to the stage is Telle. She bounds up onto the stage with a nervous energy, her merengue-like turquoise tea dress bobbing with its frills above her knees. It makes her eyes even more striking on camera. There is a positive buzz about the crowds, as Caesar instantly brings up her incredible training score.

"So, Telle... tell me more..." Caesar pauses to laugh with the audience at his play on words, "I have to point out your training score, sweetheart. An eleven?! An eleven, ladies and gentlemen! Ha-ha!" In response the crowd roars, leaving Telle giggling anxiously as her hands fiddle in her lap. Her grin is so wide, it almost rips through her entire face. "That puts you at the top of the leaderboard. I think you know what I'm going to ask next... how on earth did you do it?"

"I really dunno, Caesar," Telle shrugs. Her completely clueless response, followed by a snort of laughter evokes a warm response from the audience, applauding her again. She definitely seems to be popular with the crowd.

Telle keeps Caesar on his toes the entire interview, proving herself to be wittier and smarter than him in every way. Vesper can't help but feel slightly proud; neither can Icarus, who gazes at the screen entranced. The girl leaves the stage with an overwhelming standing ovation bidding her goodbye. She seems to have earned a legendary status in the Capitol.

This undoubtedly undermines Huxley's interview that follows, plagued by teenage awkwardness as he keeps short Yes or No answers to Caesar's questions, appearing to bore the crowd to death. The mood lifts significantly when it moves onto District Four, Coral stepping on stage so her full outfit is visible — a short dress seeming to be fashioned as if she were wearing a coral reef. She appears fairly bubbly, stealing sidewards glances at the crowd a lot, trying to judge their reactions to her every word.

And then it's Levin. Instantly you can tell the angle he's playing, the dorky and lovable guy. Only after last night, Vesper knows it isn't acting — he doesn't need to inhabit any role because it is purely him on full throttle. At least she thinks so, anyway. She instantaneously perks up to listen intently to his interview, soaking up any detail she can if they're going to maybe be allies.

Just maybe...

"Let's start with something simple. What do you do back in District Four, Levin?" Caesar asks,

"Well, back home it's just my mother and I," he answers, "we live right by the coast, by this lighthouse." Levin's eyes glaze over for a moment, as if he's remembering home. His yearning to go back is impossible to miss. "We're lookouts."

"Oh really? And what does that job entail?"

"Basically, if you're stranded out at sea or it's a really foggy day, that's what we're here for. Sometimes in a storm, I've seen boats almost go down and have had to swim or row out to help them."

"How fascinating!" Caesar whispers, clutching his notecards to his chest. "So you're quite the little hero back home, hm?"

Levin chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the nape of his neck and then running the same hand through his hair. "Wow, I don't know about that, but..." He laughs breathily again, and the crowd laughs with him, even getting some 'Aww's from the handful of spectators falling for his tenderness.

"He's so modest, I love it!"

     "He seems nice," Icarus mumbles, looking up at Vesper.

     "Yeah," she replies, watching Caesar encourage the audience's applause for him, "I guess he does." But 'nice' doesn't make you a faithful ally. What is she even talking about, anyway? Levin seems preoccupied with having Merona as an ally. She should simply focus on Icarus. That was the plan all along. The interview continues, including some kind of joke told by Levin about an incident with the Capitol showers which leaves the audience rolling (and him smelling strongly of roses, apparently).

     Before long, both tributes from District Five have taken their turn, and suddenly she is at the front of the queue; Vesper's heart begins to hammer, her palms sweating. She's never experienced such nauseating nerves like this. Training she could handle rather easily, but this is a whole new realm of discomfort she still hasn't adapted to. She has to sell herself, but also be herself. How? How does she do that?

     A deep breath. She tries to imagine the others back home. Perhaps they'll be gathering in her home, the Brunel's home, or elsewhere. She sees Cheyenne, biting her nails down in front of the screen and nudging her brother to sit still. She chuckles at the sight of Kirk knowing how to wind up Bolt at the worst times. She longs to hope that Axel is there, perhaps with an arm around Blythe — comforting her like he has done since the moment that pale-eyed girl arrived in their neighbourhood.

     This is her family at home. They'll be watching, and she can't fake her way through anything in front of family. The thought of them watching her would usually scare her, hoping they don't see her death, but right now it turns out to be her biggest comfort.

     Up on the flat screen, Edison exits the stage after a somewhat lacklustre interview. "And now folks, that brings us up to our halfway point of the evening." Right on cue, the audience expresses their disappointment in a collective sigh. "Can you believe it? So many lovely faces we have already seen this evening, and you're in luck, because we have many more ahead! Ha-ha! How time flies when you are having fun..."

     For some, Vesper thinks with a roll of her eyes. But there is something unexplainably magnetic about Caesar, despite him being Capitol.

     "Which brings us swiftly onto District Six. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Vesper Alfaro!"

     Vesper meanders out of the doorway and out onto the stage, seeing only Caesar's silhouette against the blinding stage lights that seems so small from here. She shields her eyes for a moment, trying not to let her knees buckle in as the crowd roar with applause; it's much more deafening up here. Once she reaches Caesar, she ends up going for a handshake — perhaps not as gracious as her mother had done, but still herself. She smiles at Caesar, who pats her forearm and says something to her with a laugh, but she can't hear over the applause so she decides a laugh in return is her best option.

As they take their seats, Vesper notices that the sheer brightness of the stage lights mean they obscure the faces of the Capitol people; it leaves only strangely-shaped silhouettes of heads. Thank God, she thinks. Maybe it'll be easier if she doesn't have to look at them.

"Now first of all, can I just point out this? What is this?" Caesar gestures curiously to the fragments of metal sewn onto her dress. She stands up upon his unspoken request, smoothing out the skirt of it.

     "Funny story, actually. You might wanna check one of those metal lampshades we have in our rooms, because I might've hijacked it..." Vesper deadpans at first, then trying to soften her expression which the audience catch onto and burst into laughter for. Caesar also guffaws opposite her, and she adjusts herself in the uncomfortable armchair.

     "No, uh... according to my stylist, this is actually scrap metal from one of the old Panem trains." As she says it, audible 'Oooh's break out and she adds, "Obviously polished and everything, but... yeah."

     "What attention to detail your stylist has!" Caesar exclaims, leaning back in his seat with a twinkle in his eye.

     "Well, let's just say I think someone needs to give him a pay rise." Then more laughs... hopefully not at her.

     "This is quite similar to the metal plates on your chariot outfit in that respect, which was rather striking if I do say so myself. You and your partner, Icarus, you seem to wear your district's name with pride don't you?"

     "Yeah, I suppose so."

     "And you're mechanics, am I right in saying that?"

"Mhm," Vesper tries to say convincingly. And now the bluffing begins...

"Ooh, we've got little tinkers on our hands! Do tell us more."

"Well," she says, sitting up straight again, "it's not exactly glamorous, but it's just something to fill our pockets." For a moment she pauses, a flashback of her scouring the black market for her father's medication in the most desperate of times. Vesper shakes her head, shaking off the memory with haste. Not now. "And it definitely doesn't prepare you for the arena... unless the Gamemakers are planning to leave some spanners in the Cornucopia."

"True, true!" Caesar laughs, as does the audience. "But you also come from one of her roughest districts in Panem, so you never know!" Thanks for the reminder, she thinks. Vesper is just about to settle into the flow of the interview, thinking maybe it isn't so bad after all, when his face suddenly turns solemn. "Now, there's something else I have to bring up, Vesper. I understand this is probably quite a touchy subject for you, but we've heard some rumours..."

     Vesper feels her shoulders tense, her mouth go dry. But why? She knew this was coming.

     "... Is it really true your mother was in the Hunger Games?"

     There it is. She inhales deeply through her nose, swallowing thickly afterwards as she manages a nod. Caesar doesn't say anything back, almost making the moment even more fragile. The silence could almost be shattered like glass by the lightest whisper. Is she going to have to start this herself?

     Of course. They want to hear her story.

     "Yeah, she was quite young. Eighteen. Um..." Vesper trails off. What do they even want her to say? They've seen her interview and how she died, she doesn't need to relay it to them. "Her name was Reagan."

     "Reagan Dunnage, yes," says Caesar finally. "I remember her. And I think everyone else does, too. You definitely have her features... why don't we pull up a photo, let's see what I mean?"

     As the tall screen behind her switches from the standard glittering backdrop to a still photograph of Reagan, sat in this very chair in her interview as the camera captures her smile, the audience begin to clap and cheer out of sympathy. Vesper simply nods with a small smile, unsure of what other reaction this moment warrants. This is exactly what Dale had warned her would happen... she's almost thankful she saw that tape in preparation, however tormenting it was.

     "Yes, I see you in her... especially the nose! How funny. Thank you, guys." The picture disappears and the applause dies down again. "But this must be an unbelievably poignant moment for you, to be following in your mother's footsteps like this."

     "'Poignant' isn't the word I would use, but... it sucks," Vesper says. For what she says next, she tries to pick someone from home she'd talk to. Someone she would trust to listen and understand. "But I think being here has brought me closer to her. I mean, I never even knew her. I just... hope I can maybe..."

    "Do her proud?" Caesar suggests. Someone in the audience suddenly blubbers rather loudly, startling her slightly.

     "Yeah. Sure." Vesper agrees half-heartedly. What is there to do her mother proud for? The simple fact is she had the worst luck, and now she will suffer the same fate as her.

     "Alright, we're short for time, but is there any last message you would like to say? Perhaps to your folks back home?"

     Before Vesper can answer, Caesar is already directing her to look into a camera. The audience appear to be holding their breath in anticipation of her answer. She can understand how her mother must have felt now, all eyes on her as she watched her face projected onto large screens either side of her, catching every muscle moving in her body.

     Her first instinct is to talk about her father — however she stops herself, not only because she finds it unfair to waste this moment on someone not around anymore, but she intends to keep his legacy untouched by the Capitol. Her mother's final days she can just about handle, distancing herself somewhat from the grim reality. But her father... she knew him, loved him with her whole body and soul. He was all he had in her life for years, and still her closest companion even now. Vesper won't let anyone touch the light her father left — they can leave their filthy Capitol hands off of him.

     Then who does that leave? Her friends of course; she could say a million things about Kirk, Axel, Bolt, Cheyenne, any of them. But they all know that, deep in their hearts. They don't need reminding. So that leaves one person. Vesper tries to see her sitting at home... or even hopes she's sitting at home. Is she working? Is she still alive and well? It doesn't bear thinking about.

     She takes a deep breath.

     "To my... my sister, Blythe. If you're watching this... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't leave you on better terms. I wish I could tell you more right now, but this doesn't feel like the right place or the right time. So I'll just, uh... I wanted to let you know that everything I never said to you, everything you wanted to hear so desperately from me... I feel it. I feel all of it."

     The buzzer sounds from offstage, signalling that her time is up. The crowd roars, Caesar giving her a send-off with a grand flourish as the crowd's applause and cheers deafen her, rattling her skull and the ground beneath her feet.

     But the only audience member she cares about right now is Blythe.

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A/N;

AHHH I LOVE WRITING INTERVIEWS SO MUCH! there will still be more tribute interviews to come, so keep your eyes peeled for that next chapter (and also we're closer to the arena than ever... i'm scared haha). what did you think about some of the things we found out about tributes?

there are also two things from this chapter i'd like to expand on/address, mainly that cropped up from the whole desirables perspective... firstly, i thought i would mention here that vesper is demisexual! or at least i'm trying to write her that way. it's not explicitly mentioned, but i wanted to imply it. love interests aren't a big part of her story anyway, but i thought this chapter brought up themes of sexuality in one way or another, so what better time to bring it up? let me know if there is anything i'm getting wrong or if you have any tips for writing demisexuals, because i really want to represent them correctly!

the second thing is about femininity, and also the way the media/society can hyper-sexualise things. the first part i thought might be interesting to touch on, because in district six i imagined there to be quite a fair bit of misogyny embedded in the careers, since they are mostly typical "masculine" jobs. so whilst most of vesper's friends of course still struggle at work but have no problem being socially accepted, she has those hardships plus stigma to handle, which is especially hard because she really couldn't give a hoot about whether the job is "meant for a man or woman". then i thought it was an interesting contrast to see how she handled being beautified and being the pretty girl in a dress, because she's so used to dressing androgynously to fit in with her peers and workplace that she didn't get to "do what girls do" and she genuinely doesn't know how to react. (note my use of quotation marks, i'm not trying to sound prejudiced, that's meant to represent perceptions people have)

in case you hadn't gathered, irma is/was a desirable herself, and has perhaps sensed whilst doing sponsors that people might try to jump on that train with vesper. so whilst she still can, she is doing everything in her power to shift public perception enough so that if she wins, she won't be classified as a desirable and prostituted like she, finnick and many others were. that's also why she specifically requested to benedict to make vesper's dress a bit more conservative (to avoid having a situation like emerald where she gets shoved into the desirability spotlight). it's a shame it has to be this way, how little or much skin is shown or how you act and present yourself (for example) but it's one of many flaws in society that i thought would be interesting to explore.

speaking of vesper's dress, this was my main inspiration for it:

thank you for reading! i realised whilst writing this chapter that we've almost hit 6K reads, which is INSANE! thank you for sticking around and reading this wee little book, it makes me so happy to see the response it has received.

that was such a long author's note, i'm so sorry 😭 i really need to stop waffling in these!

[ published: 24th may, 2021 ]

— Imogen