A/N: Warning - I wouldn't read this if you haven't come across Tigris in Mockingjay yet otherwise you probably won't understand it and it might give something away. Anyway, I was re-reading "Mockingjay" andI ran across Tigris. Now, no matter how much I didn't notice her the first time I read it, it more than made up for it when I read it then. I can say that she more than intrigued me, and I was surprised to see there were no fanfics about her. Then again, she's only a minor character technically. But still, I felt that I had to write somethign about her. This is going to work in a style different to that which I've done before. Hey - I'm experimenting! So every chapter is going to be a flashback into different sections in her life. Her personality will severely jump, as will her appearance, age, job, and most importantly - name. She's a Capitol citizen, so she's going to be seriosuly sltering her life. For all of you who can't remember's benefit - Tigris is the owner of the furry underwear store in Mockingjay who hides Katniss, Peeta and a few other rebels for a short amount of time in her basement. She also looks like a mutated cat. But that's going to all come up at the end, since I'm starting when she's around ten. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy it and review.
They Called Me a Stylist
This is the tale of me. I've been through more than enough names in my lifetime, but I guess it ended as Tigris. Tigris, the owner of a ridiculous furry underwear store in a cracking Capitol. Hiding the Mockingjay with only a bitter taste riding on my tongue, driving me into rebellion. A failure. A freak. A mutation. And all because they called me a stylist. They called me a stylist...
I suppose it started when I was about ten, I don't know how many years ago, giggling gleefully at a joke which has faded out of my memory through the years, I bet it wasn't even particularly funny. I suppose that was the time I looked the prettiest in my life, with a natural shine about me and a certain glint in my eye. Of course things could never last. I remember holding up a china doll with the trademark 'district one' hidden underneath layers of a lilac dress I had made myself. It was my treasure. The dress extended with hundreds and hundreds of layers with lace, silk, pearls and dainty cream ribbons, the extravagance overwhelming beauty and pummelling it into submission.
I remember hurriedly shoving it into my mother's hands, hoping for some sort of praise but instead getting the hands whipped out from under it and the doll itself tumbling to the ground, shattering into shards. A startled cry left my mouth, but as I hurriedly bent down to scrape up the fragments of the doll my mother's foot crunched down on that doll, removing the remnants of my love. All I remember about my mother is that foot, the rest is fuzzy. But I remember the electric blue sandals raised like a platform and then the foot itself, twisted and lemon coloured with orange stripes curling around it. Mutated. Well, like I'm one to talk with the state I'm currently in.
This is one of my most prominent memories. Maybe it's because I am technically unsure of myself, and this was what started it – my mother breaking my favourite doll. It's a scene that's not that rare in the Capitol, we can break whatever we want and usually we don't have anything with true sentimental value, but back then I did.
I remember clutching the tattered dress I had hurriedly whipped away from the remains of the doll and sobbing under a twisted candy-coloured lollipop tree, so artificial it just made my eyes sting to look at it. My body racked with sobs and my throat felt like sandpaper, it was so sore. Overall I felt absolutely terrible, no exaggeration.
But, to my complete and utter surprise, when I was scrunched in the fetal position, desperately trying to grasp onto myself, a thud hit the ground on the grassy patch beside me. Curious, I looked up from my sobs and found myself looking up into the face of my next door neighbour's only son. The shock of seeing him here by me sent my mind reeling, but I curiously poked him anyway, as f to make sure he was real.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, my brow furrowing with interest. "Not that I don't want you here, it's wonderful, but..."
"What do you think, moron?" he said so briskly I felt something choke in my mouth. At the look on my face a smile grew up over his freckled face, overpowering his tawny brown hair. "Nah, don't worry. I just wanted to see if you're okay, that's all."
"You wanted to see... if I was okay?" I choked, the shock of such concern overpowering me.
"Well, yeah. I suppose... you're awfully odd, aren't you?" he said. I remember my face flushing bright red at that remark, it seemed embarrassing at the time.
"You are too," I mumbled. "Not that it's bad or anything, I hate normal people. Not saying you're not normal of course, but..." my voice eventually faded away.
"Hey, what's your name?" I remember him ask me as he stuck out his hand, as if expecting me to shake it. "I'm Orlando Sydney Justice Horatio Frederick Michaelmas. You can call me Orly though, my friends call me that. Well, they would. If I had any. But now I do, don't I? You can be my friend, can't you? Well, come on then, are you an Avox or something or aren't you going to talk?"
"Oh I, I'm... well," I muttered, my face flushing.
"What do you want to be called?" Orly asked me and the thought struck me in rather an odd way. What did I want to be called? I searched around for a name that I could place and looked down at the shredded doll's dress clasped in my hands.
"Lilac," I smiled, "you can call me Lilac."
"Okay then Lilac," Orly chirped and then tugged the dress from my soon empty hands as I longingly gaped at them, wishing for it to return to me. Oblivious of my desperate clawing for the dress, Orly beamed at it and then turned it over as if for inspection.
"Not half bad, you know? I think it's rather nice actually; you do have a talent for designing you know. Maybe if it was sown together better it wouldn't have been so ripped..."
"That was a... an accident," I murmur quietly and Orly grins at me again.
"Well you need to take better care of it. Tell you what; I'll stitch it up for you. I have thread in this exact colour, you know. It would be perfect for the job."
"You can- you can sew?" I ask in amazement. Now it's Orly's turn to flush bright red.
"Yeah, everyone thinks it's pretty girly and stupid."
"No, no. It's really nice," I said after a slight pause and Orly's face brightened considerably.
"Really?" he asked me.
"Of course," I said, "I only wish I could sew well..."
"I can do that for you if you like!" Orly perked, his face beaming a toothy grin at me.
"I could always design some stuff for you to sow up... If you wanted," I murmured.
"Yeah! That'd be great, wouldn't it? You know what? With me on your team you're a proper stylist."
"A stylist?" I parroted.
"Yep, a stylist. And I could be, like, a member of your prep team. Only we're more like partners - obviously."
"Obviously," I echoed.
"Maybe with me being slightly more important," he added.
I'm pretty sure I nodded or something then, but the memory of what happened goes pretty hazy at this point. All I remember is that they first time I was ever called a stylist, and no matter how stupid it was, I nodded. Why I nodded, I don't even know. Why I was happy, I don't even know. Stylist. The word burns on my tongue like acid and I feel my stomach churning at the mere whisper of the word. They called me a stylist, and he was the first one.