stuck in your head; d1f interview
Sept 29, 2021 22:00:53 GMT -5
Post by charade on Sept 29, 2021 22:00:53 GMT -5
It’s magical.
The Capitol I mean. I can’t wait to live here and spend literally the rest of my life partying. I’m chewing a stick of gum that’s flavored like a mint julep and why—
Why don’t we have these things in district one? We’re supposed to be the luxury district for gawd’s sake. Just the tip of the iceberg. It’s been a whirlwind thus far and I’m about to be interviewed by Risky Pope of all people. The first interview of the night. First out of all twenty-four. Up to me to set the tone for the rest of the tributes.
I glance down the line for a moment, scoping out the competition. The real competition. My fellow careers, cause one of us is going to be wearing the crown at the end of this month. It’s disgusting really, that the last two victors were from six and nine.
I shoot my district partner a playful wink and then look past him. Basty’s got the swagger, but he lacks intelligence. Great bod though, like the hotness from two, and no, I don’t mean mister quiet. Elizabeth is one I’m going to have to keep my eye on, like the guy from four. Anarchy. Rumor has it he did hard time.
Which—
Is hot.
He’s hot. Guitars and permanent bedhead?
Hawt.
Less hot is knowing that he might already have a body count. Shouldn’t he get like, a handicap or something? Tie one of his hands behind his back in the bloodbath, he’ll be fine. That leaves Nixie and I don’t know, she doesn’t really scream career to me, you know? After her I kind of tune out the rest of the lineup. They’ve got names, and sure I might even be able to remember a few but—
They don’t matter except as numbers to pad my stats with.
Anyways, on with the show! The Capitol won’t know what hit them. Thank you for the outfit, Sampson dear. White and gold with a splash of purple? I’m royalty bitch. I hear them call for me and I begin the walk. My walk, lazily spinning a tassel in one hand with my shoulders down, neck long, and a look on my face halfway between flirty and murderous.
Can’t forget the hip sway. They love that.
They love me.
Any decent career knows they need to have presence and charisma in front of the camera. The best careers know that the key word is presentation. As I take my seat, I blow a perfect bubble with the gum and let the loud pop of me biting it echo across the stage with a loud pop.
“Good evening Panem! Tonight, I, your host, the one, the only, Nylon Gingham will be interviewing Risky Pope and getting her thoughts on the upcoming games!" I cross my legs one knee over the other and lean back in the chair, smiling at the cameras. Own it. That’s something Damask made quite clear to me growing up. Own yourself, own the stage and then live rent-free in their heads.
“Oh, did someone get our cue cards wrong?” I say with mock concern, holding a hand up to my mouth and pressing my fingertips to my lips like I’m embarrassed of a sudden faux pas.
I’m not, of course, this is all a part of the show.
Image is everything.
“They must know I’m going to have my own show after I win.”
Wink at the crowd, blow some rando a kiss and watch them eat it up, be bold, be better, and for the love of gawd, be the sexiest thing in the room. There’s nothing worse than boring people, boring to listen to, boring to look at, boring in general.
Smile wide and wave.
I don’t know how these poor bastards in the audience coped before I came along.