¹ THRONE ─ the hunger games

[ 012 ] your faith has you immured

THREE MINUTES. That's how much time Iko had to sell herself to the audience during the interview, re-programme herself to seem more likeable, more of the charismatic tribute the viewers could get behind. At least, that's what Aeneas wouldn't let her forget. Unfortunately, transforming her icy personality into the world's most simpatico interviewee to rake in the sponsors wasn't just going to miraculously happen at eight in the morning. Even though her mind was sharp because she was, by nature and demand of routine back home in District 2, an early riser, eight in the morning usually meant school or, during the summer, training. Neither of those required her to be in any shape or form of cordial or charming to captivate an audience. It became apparent after almost an hour of Aeneas playing the role of Caesar, the interviewer, trying to get her to talk about training, about her life back home, about her chances at the Games, that she had a lot of ground to cover.

Especially since she'd been forced into a horrific scrap of a silk blue dress and a pair of what could possibly be the world's most uncomfortable high-heeled shoes. Aside from Reaping day, Iko didn't waste her time in dresses or impractical shoes. They were pretty, but inconvenient, and Iko didn't like how exposed to scrutiny they made her feel. At least in her training attire, she didn't have to care about her appearance. What mattered most was what she could do with the weapon in her hand, or the time she clocked on the mile run. In her dress and heels, she was practically deadweight. Before starting on the interview content, Aeneas had her walking laps around the room just to master her balance on her shoes. Each time Iko cursed viciously or looked like she was about to kick off her shoes in a fit of frustration, Aeneas swiped at her hands with the folder in his hands.

It was in this pair of soul-killing high heels that Iko realised with a flare of irritation in her gut that she furiously missed training. Missed being able to feel the weight of a weapon in her hand, stand in the environment she was most familiar with. Missed moving blind and hitting true, the catharsis of destruction surging through her veins in tandem with the steadying beat of her heart. It felt good to destroy, and perhaps that was all Iko was good at. She tried not to feel bothered by that. Then she tried not to feel bothered that she didn't feel even the slightest a lick of disgust or remorse at herself, at the knowledge that she had ultimately been created to destroy.

Right now, in her room, seated opposite Aeneas in a mock-interview setting, fighting to hold onto some semblance of a smile, Iko couldn't be more out of her element.

"And what's your main strategy going to be?" Aeneas asked, a pained smile on his face. They'd been at this for too long to keep the bright and sunny facade up.

Iko cut him a flinty stare. "It's standard procedure, mostly. You look at the playbook written by the previous victors. There's a certain formula to it—survive the bloodbath, take out as many tributes as possible. Once the initial culling is over, you hunt. You set traps. You weed out the weak. And then you dispose of your allies and you go home. Simple as that."

"No, no, no," Aeneas said, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Look, you are a lethal girl, alright? And you want the audience to know this. They've seen your score, but you need to give them more. All you're doing right now is giving me answers that just... they're so mechanical. You're force-feeding me a rehearsed answer that... you know what? I'll just say it. You're too unemotional. You sound like a robot spitting out the same lines over and over again, and we both know this interview isn't going anywhere. Where is the charm? Don't forget you're working an angle, and emotionless robot does. Not. Sell."

"If I'm not truthful, what am I?" Frustration clawed at the back of her mind. What was the point of the tribute interviews, anyway? It wasn't like the Capitol actually cared about them. Perhaps the weaker districts had hope that they could have a fighting chance if they collected sponsors by being charming or whatever illusion of likeable. Words didn't change anything. Action was what counted.