#where. interviews

It had been a couple of days since the... incident at the TRIBUTE BALL. Although it had been replaying on a loop in Prue's mind ever since ( the sound of blade piercing soft skin, the gurgle of a dying man's throat, blood pooling quick and fast and sticky and wet ), so far, she hadn't been arrested – which she took as a good sign. She imagined if the Capitol knew about her and Danya's involvement in the little stunt, they'd both already have been made to disappear – executed or worse. She knew she should feel relieved about the fact that she was still healthy and breathing, but there was a lingering tension about her – baited breath as she waited for the other shoe to drop, if it ever did.

Instead of dwelling ( okay, she'd multitasked ), she had thrown herself into preparations for the interviews. Though her tributes weren't exactly particularly grateful for the work she'd put in, Prue thought she'd done a fairly decent job – especially considering she was a novice, and one whose entire role as a stylist was a lie, at that. Although her job is as good as over at this point, she still lingers backstage – peeking around the curtain to watch Theon's interview. She couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for the poor kid as she watched him onstage – she couldn't claim to know Caius particularly well, but she doubted he would be sticking his neck out to save his nephew when push came to shove.

Hermes had always hated the tribute interviews. No, actually, this isn't true. They'd enjoyed their own interview – when they were entirely in control of the narrative, where they could pander to the audience and secure their own popularity ( and, by extension, success ) in the arena. In the years since, Hermes had come to hate the tradition. Their tributes generally didn't present well ( save for a select handful ), and they couldn't help but feel completely useless, standing on the sidelines and watching them flounder. Tonight was a little easier – Volt and Nilani were pros, but Hita and Elianna were not – and so we find Hermes nervously pacing up and down behind the stage, chewing on their nails.

NILANI had just exited the stage – polished and perfect, as always, she could be counted on to give the crowd a show. "Mm," Hermes hums, continuing his pacing, unaware of any other eyes that might be on him. "Good, good. I can work with that. Might tell her to ramp up the sun and moon shit, that'll play well..." He continues talking to himself – something he'd done since childhood, but that had only become more pronounced in adulthood. It was easy to forget that other people could actually hear when he did this, when the two most important people in his life did not.

Livinia would give her makeup artist credit where credit was due – the burn marks on her collarbone were indistinguishable from the unmarred skin around them. And, the woman had known better than to ask any questions, Livinia's piercing stare enough to keep her silent. Admittedly, Livinia hadn't been looking forward to the evening at all. Her gown had been selected weeks ago – and she had spent the last couple of days worrying that it would only serve to highlight her injuries. But, getting out of her family's biggest broadcasting night of the year was a non-negotiable, even after their matriarch had been unceremoniously murdered. This was the Crane way: the show must go on.

As one of the final few tributes ascended the stage, Livinia excuses herself for the bathroom. Despite being a relatively anonymous face in the crowd, she cannot help but feel as though eyes were on her – whether it was out of pity for the girl who had just lost her mother, or out of suspicion for the one who had been interrogated, she wasn't sure. Nor was she sure which was worse. Instead of the bathroom, she finds herself backstage. Although her father had never deigned to invite Livinia into his employ, she still knew the CTN studios like the back of her hand.

She manages to find a quiet corner to quiet her ( now unnaturally rapid ) breathing. Closing her eyes, she leans back against a wall and counts to ten, listening to her breathing – something her awful therapist had taught her to do. She's only reached five when she hears the sound of an argument nearby – something she would ordinarily ignore, were it not for the familiarity of one of the voices. "Fuck's sake." She mutters, pushing herself off the wall and rounding a corner to find MAXIM engaged in a scuffle with what appeared to be a stage hand – one that looks only seconds away from becoming physical.

"If it isn't my star tribute," After her conversation with Finch, Soleil had sought out Ampere immediately. Star tribute, was, unfortunately, not much of an exaggeration. Despite Amp's comments, Finch's interview had been exponentially worse. Maybe it was a little selfish of Soleil to expect that Ampere would have the presence of mind that both she and Finch clearly lacked – the ability to perform damage control for their district, rather than add fuel to the proverbial fire. But they couldn't find it in themself to be angry at them – were the roles reversed, Soleil probably would have decked Caesar. Now that would have made good television.