Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Final Note on Moira Holiday

FINAL NOTE ON MOIRA HOLIDAY

AN ENDING BEFOREHAND"AND SHE WILL SHINE"

A woman emerges on-stage for the ten year anniversary of her survival, of her victory, of the start of her life, truly. An audience erupts in applause, standing on their feet, and Capitolites of every shape and size fling themselves from their cushioned couches at home and towards their television screens. They are astonished by her beauty, by the woman she's become - but, of course, the woman herself knows that this is the woman she's always been. 

Moira Holiday steps out for the world to see, her figure wrapped up in a silky, glittering blue, a slit in the dress travelling up her side, and the back trailing, trailing in much the same way as the golden cape pinned daintily to her shoulders. It flies back, and she opens her arms wide, breaking into a smile in similar fashion. She is confident and the cheers only egg her on; she knows that she's been much improved in a simple span of ten years. Her hips are wide, legs long, chin small and cheekbones prominent. Of course, make-up helps, contour gliding down her face and lips a perky red - something that's come to be associated with her games. 

It was a lot of pain and work to get to this point. A lot, a lot, a lot of pain. A lot of crying. "I'll never get to that point, mom," she'd cry, tearing the skin of her cheeks in despair. "I'll always look like a man. A man in a dress. They'll all always associate me with the gender I was reaped as, mom!" And she'd cry more, until the pain ebbed away, and hope took its place in the form of hormones in a needle, anesthesia over her mouth, re-sculpting of her face, father calling her "daughter." 

It got better. It is better, and she feels that way, genuinely, as she places herself down in her chair for the interview and crosses her legs. She doesn't even think to uncross them. The time for that is long passed. She flashes another smile instead, and lets long blonde waves fall over her shoulders, her chest. Moira knows that when she does so, no one looks at her and thinks: "Man." She's not a man; she's never been a man. Anyone who's been paying attention knows that, clear as day. 

And while many look at her and fetishize - disgusting wretches, but she'll try to ignore them - even more look at her and think: I like her personality. She's got an amazing laugh. A bit of a bitch to the authorities, but we'll let it pass, because she's a victor, and for now, that won't put her in danger. For now. The Capitol even loves her - she's a shining beacon of what they want, of the glories of playing their game. Well, she can't say she loves them, but for now, she'll listen and obey. For now. 

The interviewer has asked many a question now, and he leads into next year's games, the 62nd, which are already being plotted and schemed out despite the last one just having ended - a boy named Gloss had won, but then again, Moira hadn't been paying much attention. She didn't like thinking of the games, really. It brought up DioriaMelloryLinwoodMaurFintan- stop. "Tell us, which district d'you bet'll win next year? Just on your gut feeling, yeah?"

Moira puckers her lips and shrugs her small shoulders, shaking her head. The crowd is chuckling lightly already. "Who's to say? Twenty-three kids will die, all the same. Ask me who I think'll win ten or twenty years from now, and that one thing always sticks." Her voice is light and feathery and she likes it. 

The man presses an offended hand to his chest. "Is that bitterness I hear in your tone, Miss Holiday? Towards our Capitol, who's given you everything?"

"Please," Moira says, readjusting her golden cape, "they only let me live and gave me money. I'm the one who did the real shining."

And she will shine. She's herself, and she will shine.