QUELL – Hunger Games
Chapter 1: Special
You see the wooden club seconds before it bashes your skull in.
You're just barely able to twist out of the way, narrowly avoiding what would be a very painful and probably life-ending blow to your head as your opponent lets out a scream of rage. You leap back, out of his reach, and regain your footing, readying yourself to dodge another attack- an attack you know is coming.
The male tribute from District 7- you have no idea what his name is, but he looks like he's made of plastic- lunges at you, bringing his makeshift club- which is really just a heavy piece of wood- up to take another swing for your head.
As you swiftly dodge another blow, you size up the situation. Plastic's District of origin explains his choice of weapon, and why he was waiting to ambush you in the trees, but he's slow, and-
"Stop moving!" He cries desperately. He swings again and you study his stance- he's off-balance, especially on his left side. His center of gravity is too high. His club is just a bit too heavy for him to comfortably swing, giving him less control over it than he should have. He turns and swats wildly at you with it, his breaths coming fast and heavy through his gritted teeth. Sweat trickles down his forehead.
He's scared.
And he's getting sloppy, you realize, as he misses you by an even wider margin. His club clips the edge of a tree trunk and bounces off, leaving him wildly off-center. You would pity him, except you hear your father in your head.
They deserve this, Clarkey. They suffer for a reason.
Your gaze hardens, and as Plastic raises the club high over his head to hit you with it- to kill you with it- you make your move. You lunge into his personal space, so that you're pressed up against him- he can't really hit you there- and without any preamble, reach up to snap his neck.
He staggers back, of course. He struggles to get away. But you stay with him. He drops his weapon. And that's when you know it's over.
You trip him. He hits the ground on his back and begins to crawl backward, to get as far away from you as possible. His back hits a tree; there's nowhere else for him to go. His eyes widen with fear. Tears have begun to drip from his eyes. He's whimpering, holding his hands up, begging-
It's pathetic.
You pick up his discarded weapon. It is heavy, but you raise it carefully.
"Please," Plastic begs, whimpers, sobs. You shake your head, silent. He started this. He attacked you. He would have killed you if he could have, but he couldn't. He can't.
But you can kill him.
You will kill him.
You raise the club higher, and without any more delay, bring it down quickly on his head.
He would have killed you.
He screams, writhes.
Again.
They suffer for a reason.
He stops screaming.
Then again. You hear his skull crack. The cannon sounds.
Then you stop. You drop the club like it's a snake. No need to hold onto it. No need- you have a knife. You could have used that to finish him, but you have an unspoken rule. Your opponents deserve to die exactly how-
Something hard hits you in the side, tackles you to the ground. You hit the forest floor, feeling twigs poke into your back, leaves crunching beneath your weight. A fist connects with your head once, twice, and you block the blows quickly, twisting beneath a body that's smaller than your own. You look up, your vision still a little blurry from the hits to your head, and struggle to determine who it is, who's-
You gasp.
It's Lexa.
She brings her fist back to hit you again, but the angle is wrong. You know she's not a fighter, not like you. When she punches you again, you grab her wrist with your opposite hand and pull hard, yanking her off balance and sending her hurtling to the ground beside you. She scrambles, kicks you. She gets you hard in the stomach, and you punch her, splitting her lip. Blood gushes down her chin. You can hear her breathing; it's not heavy, not like Plastic's was. She's not whimpering as she struggles against you. Lexa seems a lot calmer, a lot more resigned to her fate.
Her fate that she's now forced on you.
You tried so hard to avoid her in the arena. You don't want to kill her. But now she's sought you out. She's forced your hand.
It's you or her.
You finally gain the advantage- you're bigger and stronger, after all- and straddle her, drawing your knife from its sheath at your side.
You could open her up right here. You could cut her throat, watch her bleed out-
No.
You'll end it quickly. You don't want her to suffer.
You press the knife to her throat.
And you think back to how you got here in the first place.
This year is different.
You've known for a while that it would be; for the past few years, there's been talk of change coming, an ominous energy creeping, buzzing into the everyday routines, rumors shared in hushed whispers slinking to every corner of Panem. The Districts didn't communicate with each other normally, of course, but when the Capitol wants to spread word- spread fear- it doesn't whisper it.
This year marks the 25th annual Hunger Games.
The Hunger Games occur every year like clockwork, so the fact that it's happening again this year doesn't surprise you. Maybe it was a little premature to be discussing the next Games so soon; it seemed like the victor of the 24th had just finished his Victory Tour when the news dropped and President Nia made the announcement that this year would be different. You remember the President, dressed in a blood red suit and equally horrifying matching make-up, smiling that cold, heartless smile as she took the podium and spoke into the microphone, into your home television, into your very soul, it seemed. She has a creepiness to her, an emptiness, like her insides consist of a black hole that swallows all shreds of warmth, of light. It made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end as you watched her present the news, present what set the 25th Hunger Games apart from the other twenty-four.
A new year, she said. A new year, and a new Games. She called it the Quarter Quell, and she claimed it had been instigated, drafted, legislated, whatever, before- when the Games were first created, when the charter was first written- to keep the reminder of the Districts' rebellion- betrayal- fresh… as if the yearly slaughtering of 23 children in an arena wasn't a fresh enough reminder.
The Quarter Quell, she explained, would happen every 25 years, and would not be bound by the rules of the normal Games, so that it could teach a "special" lesson. You felt your stomach sink at the label; this is supposed to be your year. You don't need any more "special" lessons. You thought this was going to be just like any other year, but now there might be additional rules or challenges. You had no idea what the Quarter Quell did or what it meant, much like the rest of Panem. There had never been a special Hunger Games before.
That announcement had been months ago; the Capitol had milked the suspense and speculation and fear for all it could, and now the day has finally arrived- the day when President Nia will announce just what the "special lesson" she'd mentioned previously will be. So as you sit in front of your TV with your father and mother, watching the broadcast which will indicate how the tributes will be chosen for this special Hunger Games, you have to admit you're a little nervous. Whatever President Nia says will affect you directly. This is your year. You're ready.
As the President opens her speech with the usual stuff she says every year- boring talk about the Capitol, the betrayal, blah, blah, blah, you can't help but roll your eyes a little. You've heard it all before. Twenty-five years ago, the thirteen Districts rebelled against the Capitol, there was a War, and now the Games- and only twelve districts- remain. You're only eighteen- not old enough to even know what life was like before the War, and you're not sure how you feel about any of it.
Your father, a retired Peacekeeper, talks about the Capitol as if it's the greatest thing to ever exist. He'd been around before the War- lived through it and fought in it, even- and, after serving as a Peacekeeper for the required twenty years, settled down to raise a family. You'd been born a year after he'd met your mother- the 7th year of the Hunger Games, it's the only way you know to tell time- and he'd taught you since before you could speak about how great the Capitol is.
"They're lucky, Clarkey," he'd tell you nearly every day. "The Capitol is generous and forgiving. It could've wiped them all out, just like it did with District 13. The Hunger Games are an easy punishment."
"I thought you said District 2 remained loyal to the Capitol during the War," you'd said once when you were too young to know better. "Why do we have to participate in the Games if we didn't do anything wrong?"
"Most of our District remained loyal, but not all. The Capitol rewards those loyal to it." He waved his hand to indicate your house, your possessions. "It's been good to us. Just remember, Clarke- it's an honor to win those Games. If District 2 wasn't included, the winner would be someone from a lesser District, and where's the sense in that? Just like Peacekeepers, someone has to take up the duty of keeping the others in line. That's why we volunteer to be Peacekeepers, and why our children volunteer in the Hunger Games. Those lesser Districts? Their kids? They deserve this. They suffer for a reason, Clarke. Remember that."
And you have.
When you turned fifteen, you were enrolled in the newly-opened Training Academy, built to train children to volunteer for- and win- the Hunger Games. Not everyone who entered made it into the Games, since there were always more volunteers than spots. The old Academy had closed for the 17th year and been newly reopened the next year, and since it had, District 2 had won five out of the last seven Hunger Games, which proved that it worked.
The Academy wasn't technically legal, but as your father had told you, the Capitol rewards those loyal, and true to his word, the Capitol had pretended the Academy was just like any other school, essentially turning a blind-eye to the blatant disregard to the rules of the Games.
With the Academy open, and no shortage of volunteers, there was no fear in District 2- not like the other Districts. People didn't have to worry about their twelve or thirteen-year-olds being reaped; all of the volunteers were eighteen, making them older and stronger than most of the other tributes. It was the sacrifice of a few that made life less fearful for everyone. And with the odds in their favor, they oftentimes won, which meant that one of them would come home alive and there was no huge, apparent sacrifice. You wondered how any other District could not want the system your District had; but your father's words of loyalty to the Capitol came back to you, and you stopped wondering.
You spent three years of your childhood training in every type of weapon that would be available in the arena, and you'd done well. You were ranked at the top of every weapons category, and even your Training Mentor, Shelby, had agreed you were ready.
This is your year.
"Ladies and Gents, this is the twenty-fifth year of the Hunger Games," President Nia says, her cold, creepy smile in place and her eyes empty and soulless. You chew your lip, waiting. "It was written in the charter of the Games that every 25 years there would be a Quarter Quell, to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died and the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance."
You hold your breath.
"To remind ourselves that we must remain loyal to the Capitol, even in the face of opposition from our neighbors, from our friends, from our very families- and that we have a duty, a sacred duty, to the Capitol, and ourselves, to snuff out rebellion wherever it forms and report it; in honor of the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, and our nation's very first Quarter Quell, this year, the victors will be reaped- chosen, really- by the people of their respective districts."
You quickly spare a nervous glance to your father, who's sitting beside you on the couch, nodding in approval. Your eyes find his, which are a deep blue like your own, and you search his expression for a trace of disappointment, for any sign that President Nia's news is bad for your chances. You've known your fate since you were six; ever since your father placed a heavy hand on your shoulder and told you what the Hunger Games were, you knew somehow that you were expected to volunteer for them.
"Because we have a sacred duty, Clarkey," he'd told you. And you'd believed him. You've spent every moment training and preparing yourself for this, but this twist is unexpected, and you don't want it to screw up your plan.
When your father smiles at you in response, your nervousness melts away.
(Not once did it occur to you that you might lose.)
You take a deep, calming breath and stare at your reflection in the mirror. It's Reaping Day, and you've made all the necessary preparations. You find your cat, Lord Tubbington, and stroke your hand down his back a few times, bending to kiss his head.
"Bye, Tubbs," you say. "I'll be back soon."
He just blinks at you, so you offer him a smile and head out to the living room. Your father is dressed in his best suit, with his Retired Peacekeeper badge gleaming proudly on his chest. Your sister, Ashley, who's only eight, is wearing a lime green dress, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a beautiful pleat adorned with flowers. Your mother is dressed elegantly in a gown she bought especially for this occasion, and you smile. This is a proud day; your whole family is dressed up to see your name called, to see you become a tribute.
"I'm proud of you, Clarkey," your father tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder, and you bow your head a little in respect. He bends to kiss your forehead, and your mother fusses over your dress, which looks like shimmering blue granite.
"You look beautiful, honey," she says, brushing your blonde hair back from your eyes, and you tWells her. She gives you a hug, and Ashley hugs your waist, and you steel yourself. You feel a little nervous- like what if you trip on the stage when your name is called or something?- but then you remind yourself that this is your year, that you have an image to project, and that it's time.
You follow your parents out to the center of town. District 2 is mostly composed of small little villages around the main city near a huge mountain. The villages are the poorer parts of District 2, but because of your father's status as a Retired Peacekeeper, you live in the city. Your mother, who's one tough lady, commutes to work, since she's a mason. As you walk, you vaguely wonder where you'll live once you win the Hunger Games.
The Reaping this year is occurring a little differently, since the people of District 2 are supposed to be "voting" for the tribute they want to represent them in the arena, but it's mostly a bunch of smoke and mirrors. The Processors all know that someone's already volunteered, so they go about their routines as if they all have somewhere else to be. The Peacekeepers stand in small clusters, laughing and sipping coffee. They're not worried about discontent. There is none. Again, your father's words echo in your mind.
The Capitol rewards those loyal to it.
You give your parents and sister one last hug good-bye, and make your way to the front, keeping your chin up proudly. Around you, some of the younger girls whisper and look at you in awe, and it makes your chest swell a little. They admire you; they want to be you. That's awesome. You're awesome.
When the Capitol Escort takes the stage, everyone claps. Her name is Raven, and she's dressed to look like a cheetah, complete with a tail sewn into her pants and little cat ears on her head. She's fairly new- she's only been the Escort for the last two years, but her tributes have won both times, so she must feel pretty confident. You can't help but smile when she pumps her fist in the air a few times as she reaches the microphone and lifts it from the stand.
"Hell-o, District Two!" She yells, and the crowd cheers even louder. You smile wider. "Now, I've got to show you this video that you've seen every year, but it's literally the best, so let's watch!" She offers everyone a huge, cheesy smile and presses a button on a remote she's holding; the huge screen next to the stage flickers to life, showing the obligatory pro-Capitol video you know you've seen eighteen times, though you can only actually remember seeing it fourteen times.
When the video finishes, Raven dances back to the middle of the stage and throws her hands up. "Capitol, holla!" Everyone cheers again, and she picks up an envelope from a table beside her. "Now, I now ya'll are just dying for me to draw the names, but let's be honest here- those aren't going to be your tributes, right?"
The crowd chants back, no! and Raven nods, satisfied. You feel your stomach flutter with nerves. This is it. "Exactly. So let's just skip right to the good part!" At the crowd's approval, she tears open the first envelope and you feel your chest constricting with anticipation.
"Your female volunteer for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games and first ever Quarter Quell- Clarke Griffin!"
You release a breath of relief and make your way up to the stage. Around you, everyone's clapping, including your parents. Raven pats your shoulder excitedly, smiling kindly and brightly at you. Up close, you notice she has black cheetah tear-track markings on her face, and whiskers. It's weird, but actually kind of cool. You wonder if maybe she'd get along with Lord Tubbington-
"And your male volunteer," Raven says with a flair of drama, holding the envelope up to her face mysteriously. It piques your interest, because you don't know who the male volunteer is- you don't know who will be your opponent. She tears it open and says, "for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, blah, blah, blah… Finn Collings!"
You swallow and look at him as he swaggers forward proudly to take his place beside you on the stage. You've never met him, but you know he went to the same Academy you did, and you've seen his name ranked high on the lists with yours. He's not going to be an easy opponent, but maybe you'll get lucky and someone else will kill him for you.
"District Two, we have our tributes!" Raven yells enthusiastically, throwing her fist up in the air.
You smile.
As soon as you leave the stage to the sound of thundering applause and head inside the Capitol building, you're greeted by two Peacekeepers who pat you on the back and congratulate you. You recognize them as friends of your father- your father is friends with all the Peacekeepers, actually- and their enthusiasm only serves to hype you up even more. You're beyond ecstatic that your name was called, and even though you were expecting it, you're still in such shocked disbelief that you're kind of floating through reality at the moment. You're floored that your District actually voted for you to be the female tribute. You feel honored to be chosen for such an important job, and you're determined not to let them down- you're determined to win.
As the two Peacekeepers lead you down the hallway and into a lobby to wait for your family to appear so you can say your farewells, you flash them a winning smile, letting them know you're grateful for their support. When you reach the small lobby, carpeted with a plush, round blood-red rug emblazoned with the seal of the Capitol, District 2's Head Peacekeeper, Couter, greets you with a dumb grin, shooting you a double thumbs-up from his spot near the window. You send him a small wave back, and then your father comes around the corner and meets you, crushing you to him in a hug that steals the air from your lungs.
"I'm so proud of you," he mutters, and you feel your heart pounding at his words. You're still flying.
You smile against his shoulder and hug his waist tightly, glad for his approval. You're over the moon, dancing on air, pleased with yourself and excited all at once. You've made it. You've been training for years to reach this day, and now it's here. You don't think about what's coming, or the fact that you'll have to outlast twenty-three other kids- one of them Finn- you only think about how thrilled you are to be among those selected to compete in the most important Games in existence. You only think about your family's honor, your District's reputation, and how grateful you are to be serving the Capitol.
You will come home as a Victor. There's no other option- not when you've worked so hard to get here. Not when your father's got that glowing look in his eye. Not when all the Peacekeepers are still giving you obvious supportive gestures.
After your father releases you from your hug, he stands back, digging into his pocket for a moment. He reaches for your hand, and you blink at him as he places the object he'd pulled from his pocket in your palm.
"I want you to have this," he says, his voice low and hoarse with emotion. "Wear it as your token."
You nod absently, studying the set of metal tags, attached to a thin chain, your father's just given you. They look like military ID tags, and they're engraved with a string of eight numbers and your last name- Griffin- on one side. On the other side is an engraving of what looks like a jabberjay, and at your questioning look, your father chuckles.
"During the Rebellion, my job was in espionage," he explains with a half-hearted shrug. You swallow thickly. You knew he'd been part of the group that worked with the jabberjays, but you'd never even seen any of his old Peacekeeper stuff before, and the fact that he's entrusting you with his old ID tags means more than you ever thought possible.
"TWells you," you whisper, still shocked to the core that you're holding something so precious.
Your father smiles. "You've earned it, Clarkey," he tells you, taking the necklace from your hand and carefully guiding it over your head. The tags settle against your breastbone, and the cool metal quickly warms against your skin as your heart pounds with a myriad of different emotions. You struggle for what to say when your mother and sister come in, all smiles, and each take a turn hugging you.
"Don't lose," Ashley comments nonchalantly, offering you a shrug, and you shake your head, grinning triumphantly at her.
"She won't," your mother interjects before you have a chance to answer. She cups your face and strokes a thumb over your cheek, gazing kindly into your eyes. You soften your smile for her. "I know she won't." She taps the tags hanging around your neck, letting you know that she sees them, and she offers you a knowing, proud look; you nod.
"Make me proud, Clarkey," your father adds, and you straighten up as he places his familiar hand on your shoulder. It both comforts and intimidates you normally, but today, combined with the tags resting against your chest, you draw strength from it. "Make our District proud."
"I will," you promise, and then Couter waves his hand, gaining your attention from over your father's shoulder. When your eyes meet his, he nods, and you swallow your nervous excitement.
It's time.
"I've gotta go," you mutter, stepping back from your family. Your family who all watch you without a shred of sadness or regret or worry. They're all confident in your abilities, in your win. Which means you are, too.
"That's my girl. Knock 'em dead!" your father calls as you turn away.
You pause, processing the truth of his words, and throw over your shoulder,
"I will."
Couter guides you to Raven, who enthusiastically leads you onto the silver train that will take you to the Capitol. You've never been there, but your father has, and he's told you stories all your life. You're eager to see what it's like in person, and when you win the Hunger Games, you're sure you'll visit it regularly. You can't wait.
On the train you meet Harper, the Victor of a previous Games and assigned to be your Mentor this year. There's other Victors, of course- the winner from last year, Wells, who's assigned to Finn, and the other three, who are just along for the ride- and to offer advice.
All of them are drunk when you arrive.
You've seen Harper before, but you've never actually interacted with her- you've never had reason to. You know she was on the stage when your name was called, but you were far too busy being distracted with nerves, excitement, and the proud look on your father's face to notice. She's usually always drunk, but at least she's the happy kind.
You cast Wells, who's sitting in the corner staring off into space, a fleeting glance. His face is blank, and he's swaying a little even sitting down, which clues you in to how plastered he is. You know he's just finished his Victory Tour, and that he had a particularly rough time in the Games. The female tribute from last year, a girl named Harmony, had been a close friend of his in training, but you know he should've known better than to get attached. You'd hooked up with a few people in the Academy, but you knew it was just to take the edge off of training, that it was just for fun. There wasn't anything beyond relieving your own tension and satisfying your own needs. You weren't there to meet people.
You were there to learn how to eliminate them.
You look at Finn sitting in a chair across from Harper; you definitely won't make the mistake of befriending him.
As you approach Harper, the first thing she does is offer you a glass of wine from a box. You politely decline, instead wondering if you should discuss your strategy with her, if she could offer you some tips. If anyone could offer you some tips; not that you need them, but it can't hurt. You look around the room at the other Mentors, all in similarly incapacitated states, and decide you're probably not going to get much help from any of them, which is fine with you. You're completely prepared. You volunteered for this, after all. You settle down into a chair at the table and grab yourself a sweet tart.
It's not a very long ride to the Capitol, considering your District borders it, but it's long enough to allow for a conversation. You decide it can't hurt to see if Harper can offer you some advice, or give you some inside perspective. You ask her if she has any of either, and she downs her glass of wine in response.
"Pssh," she scoffs loudly, bending to pour herself another glass. You wonder how many she's had. "You don't need me. One of you is definitely gonna win- and my money's on blondie over here." She waves her hand at you, and you sit, stunned, at her words. Is she talking to you and Finn, or just you? Harper cackles and takes a sip of her new glass of wine, and you glance over at Finn, who has his eyes narrowed from Harper's words as he scrutinizes you, sizing you up. Making you a target. You'll have to take him out quickly, you decide. He could be dangerous.
"I'm glad you brought that up," Raven says, bored, from across the table. You almost forgot she was there, she'd been so unusually quiet. She repositions herself in the chair she's lounging in, reaching to grab a small pastry off a plate piled high with them. She pops the sweet into her mouth and shrugs as if she's talking about the weather. "Obviously, one of you is going to win, so I'm really not too worried about it."
Harper nods, the gesture much bigger than it should be because of her inebriated state. "It's gonna be Betty," she slurs.
"Clarke," you correct with a lopsided smile. You hope you're as carefree as she is when you're a Mentor. Somehow, you feel like you'll take your job a lot more seriously, however. You look over at Wells to see if he will refute Harper's statement, but he sits in the same position staring at the wall. The other Mentors present don't even look like they're listening or paying attention, and why should they? In their mind, either you or Finn is going to win, regardless of whatever they do. You've both trained hard and spent years preparing. It's out of their hands now, but still… Finn looks furious at Harper's declaration, and at Wells's incapability to deny it.
You guess you'd be pretty upset if someone told you you were going to lose despite everything, too.
"Whatever," Harper says with a smile that makes it impossible for anyone to be angry with her. Not that you were to begin with, but Finn seems pretty angry, and- "she's gonna be the Victor."
"You don't know that," Finn snaps.
Harper shrugs, sipping her wine, and Raven leans forward.
"Finn, why don't you share your strategy with us," Raven offers. Finn hesitates for a moment before he squares his shoulders and his eyes turn colder than they were. (You didn't know that was possible.)
"Slaughter everyone," he says with total seriousness, and you almost laugh.
Harper nods. "A classic approach," she encourages. "Obvious, dull, and lacking in creativity, of course, but classic. I like it!"
Raven shrugs, noncommittal. "Meh; it's good, but it's nothing I haven't heard before," she starts slowly, sounding disappointed. "What about you, Clarke?"
You startle slightly at the nickname; you're not used to anyone but your father calling you something endearing, but you decide not to correct her. You don't mind. Instead, you smile and say in a deadpan, "Wait for Finn to slaughter everyone."
Harper and Raven laugh like you told a joke. Finn glares at you calculatingly; he doesn't buy you, not for a second, and you know it. He sees past the carefree, bubbly façade you present, and that only cements your earlier decision to make him a priority. You keep your emotions in check and smile politely, but Finn doesn't return it. His eyes are like steel as he challenges you with his gaze, and you refuse to back down, wondering instead how he'll try to kill you and wishing you'd paid more attention to his stats in Academy.
"Well, now," Raven interrupts, and the sound of her snatching up the remote for the television breaks the heavy tension in the air; you refocus your attention to the TV as it comes on, studying the faces that greet you.
The Reaping happens at different times in each District so that the other Districts can watch, usually with the Districts farthest from the Capitol going early in the day, since their tributes have to travel the farthest. You watch the names for the current Reaping in District 3 get called, and the tributes react in typical fashion for those who don't live in a District operated with a volunteer system like your own- they cry, and blubber, and you can't help but roll your eyes. Both of the tributes wear glasses, and you shake your head a little at what a disadvantage that is.
"These are your opponents," Raven says, gesturing to the tear-stained faces on the television. You're definitely not impressed.
"They don't stand a chance," Finn sneers, saying what you're all thinking, but you know he's not just talking about the other tributes- not with the way his gaze is still burning holes into you. He's talking about you, too, and you ignore his attempt to intimidate you, staying quiet as the Reaping highlights cut to the next district, District 9.
The boy is a few years younger than you, you can tell by the shape of his face. His skin is tan, probably from working out in the fields. District 9 produces grain, so you know they have a lot of farmlands for-
Your thoughts pause mid-sentence as the camera cuts to the girl tribute. You feel like maybe the air has left your lungs. The girl who takes the stage is probably the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. Her expression is blank and cold, but something in the brown of her eyes tells you that she's devastated, and the tightness of her jaw conveys that she's also furious. Without realizing it, admiration creeps into you; admiration that this girl can keep her composure even when faced with certain death, because honestly, you know that neither of them stands a chance against Finn, let alone you.
The camera doesn't linger long, and within moments, the familiar voice of the Capitol's most famous announcer is recounting the Reaping in District 6. You don't spare another troubling thought for the beautiful girl from District 9, instead reaching up to touch the tags around your neck subconsciously, hearing your father's voice.
They deserve this.
You reach for another sweet tart.
You arrive to the screams and cheers of thousands of Capitol citizens who'd come to see your train. You wave to them, smiling winningly, and Finn plays his part right beside you, looking handsome and charismatic, and if you didn't already know what a lethal scumbag he is, you might be fooled yourself by his boyish charms.
Raven escorts you- waving, herself- into the Remake Center, to a room where you're greeted by two rotund women, one dark-skinned, and one pale. "This is your prep team," Raven explains. "Your stylist will be along shortly. Be good!" She leads Finn away to meet his own team, leaving you in the care of the two women.
"Hi," you say, and the two grin at each other silently, exchanging a glance that makes you slightly uncomfortable, if only because you feel left out. After a long moment watching them communicate with each other with just a look, the dark-skinned woman looks at you.
"I'm Octavia," she offers. You look her over; she's dressed in a bright, lime green dress, with matching-colored eyelids, lips, and long, curled eyelashes.
"I'm Clarke," you say in return.
"We know," the pale woman chuckles. You're not sure how to respond, when Octavia rolls her eyes.
"This is Lauren," she says, and you look over the large, paled-skinned woman. She's wearing a yellow dress with patches of white fur at her shoulders; you think she looks like a lemon meringue pie. A delicious lemon meringue pie. Your stomach growls, and you wish you'd eaten more on the train. You wonder if there will be any pie at dinner later.
"Nice to meet you," Lauren says cheerfully, drawing your attention back. You nod in response, and Octavia smiles enthusiastically.
"Let's get started," she says, clapping her hands. "Monty will be here shortly."
You nod again and move to lay down on the stainless steel table Octavia guides you to. You wonder if Monty is your stylist, and you hope he's the same one who did Harmony's outfit last year. Her dress was phenomenal.
You let your thoughts wander as Octavia and Lauren get to work. You're not in bad shape- at least, you don't think you are based on the comments Octavia and Lauren make as they wax, tweeze and rip at your body hair, then set to rubbing some awesome-smelling lotion over your tingling skin.
"To soften it," Octavia tells you, then adds, "though your skin is very soft already."
"District Two's always are," Lauren comments as she brushes out your long, blonde hair.
"What does that mean?" you wonder.
Octavia and Lauren exchange another look, but don't answer. After some unknown amount of time, they step back, nodding in approval. Lauren offers Octavia a low five, and you feel your skin prickling all over, but not in a bad way. You feel clean and a little rejuvenated. Also, completely naked. But you don't really care. You're not shy, and you feel pretty confident about your body. Besides, Octavia and Lauren don't seem the slightest bit interested in anything but their job. They make one last sweep over your body, then, satisfied, they exit, leaving you standing in the center of the room. Waiting.
When the door reopens, a young man, maybe a few years older than you, enters. He has brown hair which is longer on top and swept over in a sort of wave, highlighted with gold. He wears a velvet vest which is such a dark shade of purple it almost looks black; beneath is an off-white dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the pale skin of his forearms which are adorned with swirling black-and-gold tattoos. Around his neck, he wears a handsomely-striped scarf. He looks- well, crazy.
But you recognize him as the stylist from the past few years, and you let out a small sigh of relief.
"Clarke," he greets, clapping his hands together in front of his chest. His eyes scan your body, and you do your best to smile at him. After he makes one circle around you, he moves closer, reaching up to cup your face. He tilts your head to the side, examining you.
"I saw your Reaping," he tells you enthusiastically. "Your dress was divine- it really brought out your eyes." He catches your gaze and smiles. "Your eyes are beautiful, the perfect shade of blue. And that's what we'll focus on."
You don't argue, instead following his instructions as he begins to dress you in a variant of a Peacekeeper uniform. "Because your father's a Peacekeeper," he says as he works, fitting pristine white tactical plates to your shoulders. You feel awkward wearing a uniform you don't think you deserve, but again, you're not one to argue. You trust Monty.
After an hour or so, you're standing dressed in a very scant version of a Peacekeeper outfit, with a tight white top that cuts off just below your breasts, skintight white pants with a black stripe down the side, and black boots that rise almost to your knees. Across your chest is a white ammunition belt, with a second one hanging loosely around your hips. Your blonde hair is in a ponytail, keeping it off your face, and the make-up Monty has chosen is glittery around your eyes, accenting them, as planned.
"The Peacekeepers are what won the War for the Capitol," Monty tells you as he fixes your collar. "They are very well-loved and admired here. The Districts, however… well, let's just remember that we're not here to win the Districts over. My job is to get the Capitol to favor you, and in this outfit, they will."
He steps back to give you one more look, then reaches into his bag.
"One more thing," he says, pulling out a white, automatic weapon. He hands it to you, and you take it hesitantly, unsure if you should be handling something you're definitely not allowed to even have. "It's not real," he assures you. "It's just for show."
You nod, feeling a lot better as you sling the strap of the shiny white gun over your shoulder, and Monty looks at his wrist, where there's no watch attached. You wonder if his tattoos are a watch, but you have no idea how that would even work.
"You're ready," he says with a grin, and you take a deep breath.
When you climb into the chariot that will lead you to the City Circle, you find Finn in a matching Peacekeeper outfit, though he is completely shirtless, with just the shoulder plates and ammo belt across his broad, muscled chest. You have to admit, he looks good, and when he flashes a charming smile to the crowd as your horses move, you definitely can see his appeal.
You smile, yourself, and wave, hearing your name chanted by the crowd. You catch sight of yourself on the larger-than-life television screen broadcasting the parade as you pass it, and you're impressed with how blue your eyes look. It's the only color on you, and they definitely stand out.
Monty's kind of a genius.
When the Parade ends at the City Circle, and President Nia makes her appearance from the balcony of her mansion, you feel your stomach tense. The woman is even scarier in person, but you make sure not to let your unease show on your face, keeping your dazzling smile in place.
Then, your chariot leads you into the Training Center building, slowing to a stop. You dismount, and your prep team greets you, cheering at how splendid you were. You can't help but smile and tWells them, and then Monty finds you. He takes your fake weapon- don't want anyone getting confused, he says- and tells you to wait for Raven to find you.
You stand near the chariot, petting one of the dark horses who'd pulled it, and look around. You can see the other tributes, dressed in various costumes. None of them look as cool as yours, though. The tributes of District 5 look like light bulbs or something, and as your eyes slide over to the right, they land on the girl from District 9.
You swallow, tracing your eyes over her. She's even more beautiful in person, and you're startled by the way your mouth goes dry at the sight of her, at the way your heart gives a slight leap. She's dressed in overalls, and if it was anyone else wearing them, they'd look silly, but on her, they look charming and endearing. You can't help your smile, and some of the admiration you'd felt earlier as you watched her Reaping returns.
That is, until you notice her expression.
She's glaring at you, looking disgustedly horrified, and you wonder if maybe she thinks you're an actual Peacekeeper, and not a tribute. You look down at yourself, and at the way your entire midsection is bare and exposed, and realize that no one could really mistake you for an actual Peacekeeper. She has to know you're a tribute. Didn't she watch the Parade?
When you look back up, she's shaking her head, and you wave at her, almost automatically. You know you shouldn't interact with her, but something in you is drawing you to her, and you forget to think about the consequences. She looks shocked for a moment as you mouth hi to her. She shakes her head more firmly before turning away. You stand, stunned for a moment, wondering why her reaction was so strong and so negative, but then you snap back to reality, and remind yourself not to care. She's probably just intimidated by how awesome you are. She knows better than to let her guard down. That must be it.
Your eyes automatically slide down to her ass as she meets up with her Escort, a tall, blonde woman wearing a hideous black dress, and you can't help but think that she really is beautiful. It's kind of a shame she's been chosen, that she'll have to die. You wonder how that happened- because District 9 doesn't have a slew of volunteers. Their tributes were actually voted for by their Districts, and you know that the Games are not held in the same esteem as they are in your District.
What did she do to earn her place here?
You shrug your concern and curiosity away, reminding yourself again that it doesn't matter. You reach to touch your token, which is still around your neck. It reassures you as you watch the girl from District 9 walk away with her Escort.
They deserve this.