I wake up in the morning with a pounding headache, which really should be no surprise to me considering I'd had the terrible concoctions with Haymitch, followed by an excess of champagne with Finnick just hours before. Speaking of him, I look over to find him fast asleep next to me. Even in his dishevelled state, he unfairly still looks perfectly attractive. I try to get up and out of the bed, but I quickly realize that Finnick has somehow looped his arm around mine as we slept.
I slowly and carefully pull my arm out so as not to wake him, and tip-toe towards the tiny kitchen in the room to make some coffee.
I barely get to take a sip before I hear a knock on the door, and Finnick shoots up in the bed like an Academy student on inspection day, and immediately points to me. "You, bathroom, hide, now."
The imposing nature of his voice is unlike anything I've heard come from his mouth before. No hint of sarcasm, charm, or sweetness can be detected. Instead, he sounds like a commander barking orders, and I don't dare not oblige.
The rapping on the door gets louder and more insistent. My legs carry me into the bathroom but as soon as I close the door behind me, I press my ear to listen. "...that's fine Mr. Odair, please step aside." It takes me a moment but I recognize the voice as the man who's been managing my appearances in the Capitol, Plutarch Hevansbee. However, I hear several heavy footsteps enter the room, letting me know it's not just him who's entered. There are more than likely several peacekeepers with him as well. "...I'll just wait here for Ms. Jones to be done. She's in the bathroom doing her morning routine I assume?"
Knowing that there's not really an escape, I decide to at least pretend like I wasn't hiding. I open the tap ever so slightly so I get some water out without making noise and wash the residue from the eye makeup off my face, and dampen my hair so I can at least pretend to have showered.
I emerge a few moments later, and pretend to be shocked at the sight of Plutarch Hevansbee sipping coffee on the couch of our hotel room, and two peacekeepers standing by the door. "Ah, Ms. Jones. Good morning."
I make sure my smile doesn't meet my eyes to give the illusion of trying to hide my shock. "Mr. Hevansbee, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Well, as the outgoing victor, you and I have a small last-minute speaking engagement for you."
I narrow my eyes. "And that warrants an early morning visit why?"
Plutarch chuckles and pulls out his pocket watch for me to observe. "It's in two hours, and I would hardly call it early, it's nearly 9."
"I thought Johanna hardly had any injuries? Isn't her replay interview supposed to start at noon?"
"It was but they're encountering some...problems since she's woken up. It happens from time to time. Anyway, we've had to push it back a few hours, and who better to fill the broadcasting gap than last year's victor?"
I narrow my eyes and give a fake smile. "Lucky me."
"Yes indeed, lucky you."
"We need to get you to your prep team ASAP. They'll have a lot of work to do." I scowl, but he's already on to the next person, barking his orders. "Polonius, could you please stay here and wait for a clean-up crew? I don't want the hotel staff seeing the mess made in here." He then turns his attention onto Finnick, as if he somehow forgot he was even here, and snaps his fingers, "Oh, and you, please escort Mr. Odair through the service elevator and back to the Tribute Tower. It's imperative that he's not seen."
One of the Peacekeepers nods. "Right away, sir."
Finnick looks to me like a deer caught in the headlights as the Peacekeepers approach him, I can see it on his face that he wants to say something, wants to protest. But I shake my head. It's only another interview after all, it's not worth Finnick saying something that could potentially get him or one of his cousins back home punished. There's a time and a place to fight back, and now is not it.
I'm escorted out by Plutarch first, since we're the ones in a rush apparently, and enter the main elevator, the one that took Finnick and I up the night before. I exchange one last look of reassurance with Finnick before I disappear from his view.
It's silent for a moment in the elevator aside from the mechanical whirring, but of course, no Capitolian will ever let me have my peace. "I heard you met my nephew last night."
"Who?"
"Theseus, the chip tender."
I purse my lips. I suppose it was too much to think that he wasn't spying on us as well. I certainly was too much to ask; there are eyes and ears everywhere in the Capitol, and I would do best to learn that fact. Fast. I mentally scold myself for the naivety and vow to not make that sort of mistake again.
I apparently spend too long in my thoughts, because Plutarch takes my silence as confirmation and continues. "If anyone asks, you did not stay in the penthouse suite with Mr. Odair last night, you did not see him past 1 a.m., instead you retired to your room next door." He flashes a picture of a receipt for a room with my name on it, date stamped from the night before and everything, sitting right there on his tablet.
"Nothing happened," I feel the need to say.
"Frankly, I couldn't care less. But the gossip tabloids don't know that, and frankly they never care if anything is true or not. So unless you want to be mauled by his rabid fans, I suggest you follow my advice."
I feel the rage bubble up. How could he be so blasé towards the situation Finnick is in? Whether or not he does it to instigate me or he is that untroubled by the whole situation, I take the bait. "Why will it affect his sales?"
Plutarch gives me a look that's a mixture of impressed and utterly baffled. "Don't be silly. That would only entice them. What's more exclusive than a man who's off the market?" Now it's my turn to be utterly baffled. I'm stunned into speechlessness as Plutarch continues. "You may not have been in the Capitol long Ms. Jones, but I've lived here my whole life. We're thieves by trade. By blood. We steal from the districts and sell their labour for exorbitantly more than it was purchased for."
I raise my eyebrow, surprised by—honestly surprised by everything that's coming out of his mouth. My mind then goes straight to the worst-case scenario; maybe he's trying to set me up? Trying to goad me into saying something so he has reason to get rid of me—before I become an even bigger problem. But in my bafflement, he looks at me, clearly waiting for me to say something. I try to make my statement as neutral as possible so as not to upset him not upset him either way. "What, do you want me to clap?"
He seems to read my thoughts because he tells me, "Don't worry. I had them turn off any sort of cameras or audio monitoring. That's the privilege of being in my position. I'm allowed to go 'dark'. Encouraged actually. It provides plausible deniability for myself—and the state—but it also affords me a different privilege."
I swallow hard. Definitely a trap. "Oh? And what's that?"
"The opportunity to speak my mind from time to time—depending on the audience of course."
"And you think I'm the right audience...sir?"
He adjusts his cufflinks as he speaks, "Honestly not at first. I thought you were going to be another stuck-up and prissy conformist." I frown and nod my head, not sure if it's meant to be an insult, but I also completely understand where he's coming from. "But, I've been studying you, your behaviours. First you quit the Academy, which is unprecedented for a victor under the age of 50. But I thought maybe that was a fluke. You truly were just staying home to take care of your ailing grandmother. But then I get a report last night that you got Finnick's 'date' arrested? And then proceed to use her pre-paid room as a playground to trash."
I clear my throat, wanting to correct him. That I in fact did not know that the woman was Finnick's 'date,' but rather it was a happy set of accidental events. But I don't dare to. "I mean, comparatively trashing a hotel room is far from the worst thing I've done."
I seem to have said the right thing because he smirks as the elevator starts to slow. "Listen, I don't mind if you talk that way with me, but when others are around, and especially when you meet him, try to keep it under control."
I nod. I have no intention of becoming a significant problem for the Capitol. A nuisance, yes, but a problem, no. But also, help them? Never.
The door to the elevator opens to the floor-to-ceiling marble lobby, buzzing with people. Plutarch pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and hands them to me. I take them without a word and put them on to prepare for the abrasive light once we get outside. To my surprise, we don't get mobbed by anyone until we step foot outside of the hotel. And then it's game on. I'm not sure if they were waiting for me particularity, but they're interested nonetheless. Flashes go off everywhere as I hear my name being shouted from every which direction.
I can see now why it would have been a problem if Finnick and I were to leave the place together. Although we would have taken the tunnel that runs from the casino to the tribute tower we very easily could have been spotted. And as much as I don't want to think that Plutarch could be right, I don't think he was lying when he said that Finnick being off the market would make him more popular. The Capitol is nothing if not greedy.
It takes longer than it should for the car to take us from the casino to the tribute tower, but celebrations from people in the street block our way. Again, I'm not sure why Plutarch didn't just let us take the tunnel and insisted that we go in the car, but I suppose he wanted me to be seen for some reason. He wanted me to be seen leaving alone.
I am, however, grateful that he's given me the pair of sunglasses because, even with them on, the light from the sun is still way too bright for my apparently delicate eyes.
There's another crowd that gathers at the front doors of the tribute tower, blocking off any access from the roundabout door but the peacekeepers clear the way as soon as they see our car pulling up. He doesn't let me go back to my apartment and instead takes me right up to a hair and makeup suite on the broadcasting level. There, my prep team and my stylists are waiting for me with pounds and pounds of makeup on the dresser waiting to be slathered all over my face to remove any signs that I had any sort of fun the night before.
"I'll leave you to it," says Plutarch. "If you need me at all, I'll be speaking to the producers. I have a few routine notes to go over with them about some of their work." I nod, not really wanting to get involved in his business any more than I have to.
As soon as he leaves, however, the stylist team isn't afraid to let loose with their opinion. "Wow, who just got out of the arena?" Says one of the assistant stylists sarcastically. I never bothered to learn his name. "You or Johanna?"
I narrow my eyes at him. I certainly don't know him well enough to tolerate any sort of sarcasm, especially when I have a pounding headache. I look over his all-red and glittery outfit with contempt. "And you look like someone ate glitter and threw it up all over you."
My snarky comment earns me some much-needed silence as they work away. At some point, I feel a sharp needle go into my arm and look up to see that they've connected me to some sort of IV bag. Gloriana, the head stylist, swears by them, telling me that they get rid of her hangover instantly.
"Oh, and Fallon told me to let you know that she'll swing around to pick you up after the interview is over," she says.
She's at least nice enough to put in an effort to make small talk and try to make me feel at ease; I've certainly witnessed my fair share of callous stylists, both this year and last. And after a few minutes go by and the headache starts to subside I'm suddenly thankful that she's part of my styling crew. She's at least good for something. In the districts with a lot of winners, the stylist will sometimes stay on as a victor's personal stylist, especially when they're popular enough to have frequent engagements in the Capitol. So, I do get some relief in the fact that I have Gloriana instead of another bumbling, idiotic stylist.
As much as I like to harp on the rest of them, the team is good at their jobs and they finish Styling my hair and makeup with 30 minutes to go. They've chosen for me a stunning red oxide pantsuit, District 2's official colour, complete with a deep V-neckline to show off the new hardware they'd put in nearly a year ago no doubt.
I stand in the wings of his recording studio which is a much smaller setup than the giant stage used for the Hunger Games with no audience to speak of, and in its place cameras, recording equipment, and many, many people bustling around. It's the first time I've ever seen his usual studio in person, the place where he records when he's not doing specially sanctioned events like the pre-Games interviews.
An assistant rushes up behind me, preparing to usher me when Caesar gives the cue. I bounce a bit on the balls of my heels to try and get rid of the shaky nervous feeling that threatens to creep up on me.
Caesar cuts to a break and the assistant pushes me onto the stage and into a seat beside him. He gives me a small reassuring smile as we're both attacked by more assistants, touching up our makeup from all sides. A person I can't even see is fluffing and adjusting my hair from behind me.
Someone behind the camera counts down, and all the hands start to scramble away, leaving me and Caesar alone under the hot studio lights.
"Welcome back to Post Games Prattle with me, Caesar Flickerman. I am sure that you're all excited for later today when I take to the Hunger Games stage for the last time this season where we get to talk to our brand-new victor, but, in the meantime, we're going to take a very short trip down memory lane to last year, please welcome a Capitol favourite, Octavia Jones."
I can only assume that the camera has now got me in its view and I'm officially on air. "Thanks for having me on, Caesar."
He turns to me with his hands folded. "So, Miss Jones, it's been some time since we've spoken, hasn't it?"
"Just over six months, but who's counting?"
Caesar laughs. "Certainly not you. Now, as we wait for Joanna to recover this afternoon, you've been watching just like us, but you have a very new, very unique perspective. So tell us, what did you think of our newest victor's performance?"
The question isn't hard to answer, it's fairly open-ended, which is certainly a good place to start for me to be able to ease into things and get more comfortable in front of just the cameras. "Well, she's certainly innovative. To be able to keep up the weak act for so long is really a talent. It's not just her reputation with the other tributes that she sacrificed, you know? She also would have given up training time, which, as we know, is vital to a tribute's success."
He nods in confirmation. "Ah, very true. It's often the first time the tributes get to hold anything close to a weapon. Learning to use it, getting a feel for it, well it's time not to be wasted."
"Exactly, and I clearly that enormous sacrifice that paid off for her. Being from 7, it's easy to see where she picked up her affinity for axes. The only adjustment for her would've been getting a feel for the different make and model like you mentioned."
"Speaking of axes, she used an axe to kill your female tribute. Does that spark any...hm...animosity in you?"
I shake my head. "Not at all. As a victor, you have an understanding. You do what you have to win. We all did. So it would be unfair to judge someone for doing the same. Taking out someone from 2 is no small task. Trust me, I would know. So, Joanna will have nothing less than my full respect when I get to meet her at her party tonight."
"Very exclusive party might I add, and I will see you there." He laughs. "Now let's take a short look back to our tribute who placed eight, Perseus Cantilever. He was a friend of yours from school, was he not?"
I swallow hard, not having expected him to go there. I'd only just been able to forget about Percy with the copious amounts of alcohol and the substantial number of distractions I was able to partake in the night before. But no, here it is being thrown in my face on live TV. Percy is dead. He's gone. Yet, a giant version of his official tribute photo looms behind us on the screen. His presence demanding to be felt.
I suddenly find the lack of an audience hugely daunting. Usually, they would start to murmur and whisper if I were taking too long to answer—a form of live feedback—but here in the studio, I can't help but feel like I'm lost.
But Caesar is a professional, and he leans over to pat me on the knee. "I'm not sure if you know, but many, many people in the Capitol were absolutely devastated about what happened to your friend. As much as anything goes in the Hunger Games, there would've been a huge backlash if she'd won by killing her district partner in the middle of the night."
It's nice to know—in a weird and depraved way that only they are capable of—that some of the Capitol apparently at least has some sort of justice, no matter how messed up and twisted they are. "It certainly isn't something that will gain you any sponsors. No matter what district you're from, I think we can all agree that taking out your district partner brutally and during a time of alliance is a huge faux pas."
He points his pen toward me. "Actually, let's talk about that because it's interesting that now two years in a row there's been significant in-fighting in the Career Pack. If it happens once, it's a fluke. If it happens twice, it's the beginning of a pattern. So I guess what I'm trying to ask here is if you think that this is the end of the modern Career Pack as we know it?"
"I don't think so. It's a tried-and-true method. Since the 50th Games something like 95% of the Career Pack makes it to the final eight." But statistics aren't going to stop me from taking my shot at the Career Pack. Even with Plutarch watching somewhere behind the scenes, I know that the Capitol couldn't care less about politics within the Career Pack as long as I'm careful about it. But the people at home in 2 or 1, or even 4, the children at home, that's who I need to get through to. "Which is a shame if you think about it. Loyalty only gets you so far in The Hunger Games. Finishing third or fourth, or even in the top eight sounds good on paper, but it doesn't really matter, does it? Whether you were twenty-fourth or second, you're dead."
I try not to let a smirk crawl across my face out of satisfaction that somewhere Brutus might be watching. Or maybe some little child at home is watching, and maybe, just, maybe, having an epiphany.
"Very true Octavia, it's all or nothing with these Games, isn't it? For the folks at home, that is what it takes to win. These victors put their everything into getting the crown. And that is why we love having you."
We ramble on for another hour, talking about everything from some of the campaigns I've done in the Capitol—including some upcoming ones that I had no idea about—to even analyzing Johanna's technique in some sort of brutal play-by-play. But all in all, I settle into the idea of having no audience, instead judging my performance on how many laughs or serious 'ahs' I can get out of Caesar.
A buzzer goes off, signaling we're finally off the air, and the commotion stirs back up with people rushing in every direction. Caesar is quickly whisked off stage presumably to bring him to the mainstage and get him ready for his interview with Johanna.
I'm lucky enough that I'm also not swarmed, and instead, only Fallon waits for me in the wings. "You were positively dazzling. Everyone in the Capitol was watching how captivating you were, my darling. One of the best special guests he's had in ages."
I give her a small smile, the realization now setting in that I'm not entirely thrilled that I've contributed to talk about the Games at all, but the fact that I was able to slip subtleties in here and there about the Careers does make me feel a bit better.
Fallon ushers me through the twisting hallways, going on about my performance and how she's so happy to have a victor that will seemingly maintain their popularity once their year as reigning champion is up, until we're in a part of the Tribute Tower that I recognize and enter the main elevator to take us up to the apartments. She pokes me in the back as the doors close, excitedly whispering in my ear, "You're moving up in the world, young lady."
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Ta-da! A longer chapter, about an extra 1500 words if I've counted correct, to make up for the lack of upload last week! I was considering including Johanna's victor party as well in this chapter but it would've been too much going on to have three separate and very significant location changes. I wanted to use this chapter to start to sew in Plutarch as a rebel and to show how we get to the point of him and Octavia being so friendly in Act II. Additionally, showing how she became a popular person for Ceasar to interview in the first place, we don't really get to see it in the OG Act I and it was instead only implied to happen between Act I and II. But yes, next episode we'll be meeting Johanna. There were some...I'm going to go with "iconic" because I look back and think, "damn, how and why did I come up with that?" that I'm hoping to include here and there almost as easter eggs haha.
As always, suggestions are welcome, or if I have any spelling errors (just as a note I use Canadian English which is closer to British English spelling than American, so don't come for me for my extra "u"s!!!) or awkward phrasing, please let me know!
Anyway, the first year of Octavia's reign as a victor is almost complete! I'm very excited for the upcoming plot points as I think you all will be really happy with some of the alterations and improvements!
Anyway, anyways, here is the reason that I can never show anyone my camera roll, the chapterly memes: