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She remembered her Reaping vividly. The day she was sentenced to death as she walked up to the podium, her bottom lip quivering and her stomach filled with nerves. She had been so young then, so fragile. Practically skin and bone, her soft pink dress had swallowed her whole. She was much shorter than the rest of the competition. They immediately wrote her off as a weakling, one of the tributes that would get picked off within the first week.
Plume danced the line between bloodlust and cherubic-placation very efficiently. When the situation was right, she could muster up a few award-worthy tears. But, every once in a while, she could channel anger so animalistic in nature that even Capitol people had to turn away from their screens. That's how she won. She feigned innocence at the right moments and then flipped the switch as soon as her opponents turned their backs. At the age of fifteen, she had mastered the art of playing a role.
Now, seven years later, she wasn't sure if she still had it in her. Her days of pink dresses and rosy cheeks were over. She was a woman now, and her gig was up. Crying wouldn't win her sponsors. If anything, she would lose sponsors. Victors are supposed to be cutthroat and emotionless. Plume can't be soft when she has to kill other experienced murderers.
Apratis, Plume's personal stylist, appeared to latch onto this concept with his manicured talons. This year's theme would be scarlet, reminiscent of the blood she would soon have to spill. He had rimmed her eyes with deep red eyeshadow and stitched crimson ribbons into her blonde hair. Her dress was modest but showed enough of her muscle to evoke an aura of authority. He had airbrushed her skin for that seamless bronze look. She looked ready to assassinate someone.
How perfect, considering I want to kill President Snow.
The air still clung to a bitter chill as Plume stepped outside of her house. It seemed colder this year. District 10 was closer to the equator, and most of the terrain was flat—perfect for ranching cattle. Typically, the weather was boiling hot and fairly humid, but today it was frigid; as if some divine force was in hibernation as Plume walked to her certain demise. She resisted the urge to huddle in on herself for warmth. Instead, she tilted her jaw upwards, her eyes narrowing as she tore down the stairs.
From the house adjacent to her own, Socket Alistair was busy lamenting about the state of her outfit. Her stylist had decorated her wheelchair with magnificent flowers and streamers. Socket's graying hair was braided into a flowing wave. She looked nice, but she complained about how cold it was. Her dress was cut off at the knee, leaving her legs to be exposed to the frosty air. After some fuss, her stylist draped a wool blanket over her, muttering something under his breath.
Plume approached proudly, causing both Socket and her stylist to look up. The blonde smiled and brandished her hand outward. "I can take you to the Reaping if you'd like."
