Cirrus’s Interview - From Frigid to Fervid

Instructions

The hum of the helicopter’s blades was almost enough to drown out Cirrus’s rambling thoughts. Almost. Pressing his paws against the window, Cirrus’s jaw went agape in wonder as he stared at the snow outside. Rays of sunlight bounced against the crisp white surface– //actual sunlight!// he cheered internally– and he beamed. Back in the training center, the closest he got to ‘real sunlight’ was being near the dingy pool lights in the swimming room. Well, that and the victor’s garden, but he’d steadfastly avoided that place ever since a few /questionable/ events. (Namely, stepping on and effectively murdering at least five small flowers. Thinking of the makeshift funeral still brought tears to his eyes.) “ARE WE ALMOST THERE??” he shouted. Briefly, the helicopter pilot squinted at him in the mirror. (Or did she? Cirrus couldn’t tell since she had those super-cool sunglasses with blue reflective lenses. He’d have to ask where he could get one for himself. Briefly, he pictured dropping a sick burn in the arena before letting the sunglasses slide down his forehead.) When he was met with silence, Cirrus simply brushed it off and peered outside. The helicopter had barely touched the ground before he unbuckled and threw himself out the hatch. //Safety first,// his one logical braincell whispered— but it was one he’d chosen to ignore for a long, long time. The second Cirrus splashed his way into the water, he snapped up in surprise. “Hot, hot, hot!” he cried, hopping his way back to the shore. Whipping his head around, he noticed the cameraman was still adjusting the lens. //Please tell me they didn’t catch that on national TV.// The cameraman finally offered a thumbs-up, and Cirrus thumbs’ed-up back. An awkward cringe from the cameraman told him that may not have been necessary. //Oh well.// “I’m Cirrus Phyto from District 7,” he offered anyway, the friendly gesture still hovering in the air. Somewhere to his left, a bubble of air was rapidly expanding. Before it could fully swell up, however, Cirrus’s childish urges pressed him to pop the bubble himself. A hazy line of letters formed on the surface of the water– but since he’d popped it early, the text was too small and hadn’t expanded yet. “Ruh roh,” he whispered quietly. Squinting, he breathed, “Who chose this font anyway?” It was one of those fancy-pants cursives with swirly y’s and loopy g’s, which supplied Cirrus with traumatic memories of ‘cursive class’ back in third grade. //As if my regular handwriting wasn’t bad enough….// Sounding out the letters, Cirrus finally pronounced the sentence. “What’s your strategy to win the Games?” It only took him a second to fathom a reply. “Oh, that’s easy! I make friends with everyone in the arena, ‘cause no one would ever hurt their friends.” He smiled at the camera again. //Please like me, Capitol.// A muffled /pop/ near his paws caught his attention. Cirrus narrated, “What’s your motivation to fight to the end?” Hesitating, he replied, “I want to live? So I’ll do whatever it takes! …Well, I don’t know about /fighting/. That’s more of a last resort.” The thought crossed his mind that //this interview is for /sponsors/, Cirrus, you can’t just tell the Capitol you have no will to fight//– so he deftly added, “Yeah, but if push comes to shove, I can land a few punches. I’ll have you know I’m a white belt in karate /and/ taekwondo.” //Never mind that the white belt is the default belt in both sports.// Cirrus spotted the final bubble near the corner of his eye. It took about 90% of his willpower to stop himself from popping it again. “What’s your opinion of the other tributes?” Cirrus pondered for a moment. “Like, as a blanket statement? I dunno, I think everyone’s really cool! I’ve already made a couple allies, like Flintlock and Darksilver! Pretty sponsor-able, uh, social skills, right?” He plastered a grin on his face. “But the most awesome sauce tribute is Specter,” he added matter-of-factly. “‘Cause he’s super smart, super funny, and super cool. And he’s really think-first-y, which probably saved me a couple limbs over the years.” A genuine smile crossed his face. “I can’t imagine doing this without him.” Of course, his smile faltered when he remembered that only one of them could live. //What would I do if it was him or me?// The answer formed vaguely in his mind, but it was something he couldn’t say in front of a bloodthirsty audience. //Well, that’s a problem for future-Cirrus.// About thirty seconds passed before Cirrus tipped his chin at the camera. “Where’s the third question?” The cameraman was already packing up their equipment. They pressed their eyebrows together in concern. “That /was/ three questions. Can you not count? What, did you not pass kindergarten?” Cirrus’s mind went blank. “Uhhhh… technically… no?” Before the cameraman could respond, Cirrus raced back to the helicopter and launched himself into the pilot seat. (He crashed into a pine tree approximately ten seconds later.)