Assigning value to absurd things is one of those things Victory does, like coo over nails and pretend to faint anytime there's a couch with a reasonably soft headrest on it. As such, she's out shopping as well, although her cart (pushed by an Avox, of course - Victory's nervous condition doesn't permit her to lift anything heavier than a pound) is filled with items that mark her as a sort of seamstress. She has reams of fabric and rolls of ribbon, packs of expensive feathers and sequins, and more colors of thread than can be found in some small nations.

She's chattering at the Avox as if the poor man can respond to her, although given that she doesn't seem to stop prattling long enough to breathe, much less have him interject, that doesn't bother her. She talks to him about the weather, about how tired her job makes her, about how her Tributes don't even say thank you when she puts all this work into their outfits.

Her voice is a breathy drawl, partially affected and partially genuinely husky, probably due to her habit of chainsmoking anywhere it's allowed. Her electronic cigarette is pinning her hair back right now, and she's already bemoaning the fact that she isn't allowed to use it indoors as she totters past Natasha on impossibly high heels ("it's not even like it smells like tobacco!").

"I love your hair," Victory says, and with no respect for Natasha's personal space she reaches over to touch it. "Did your Stylist dye it?"