132 NINTH CLOUD

She might as well have asked him to hold his breath for an hour underwater. What can he possibly tell her that won't incriminate him at a later date? His whole life revolves around the Games. They loom over him and the whole of Panem, as constant and inescapable as air. Were the Hunger Games birthed for him because of the iniquities of his ancestors, or was he birthed for the Hunger Games, an offering held up to merciless gods so they might withhold their wrath from his people? This train of thought gives him an idea.

"Mags, why do you let her dress me like this?" Finnick forces every bit of piteous pleading he can muster into his eyes.

"Hush, you look dashing," she replies. She reaches up and smooths down errant waves of hair trying to escape the perfectly tousled coiffure Calliope has molded.

"I look like a Capitolite chump," Finnick grumbles, tugging at the sash at his waist.