An: HEYYYYYYYY! Thank you for the review UtopiaForAll! HUNGERLOCK! Thanks for all alerts and favourites! I know what happens so. I have thought this out and it fits along with the story of the hunger games. Well enjoy the first chapter. The characters may seem a little ooc, but if you thin bout it they have been raised in different situations and etc etc et blah. No flames please this is my first proper fanfic with chapters and stuff. ENJOY!
Chapter 3 – First Impressions
John POV
Blinding Light, floods the compartment. We step of the train into the capitol sunlight. Airmet waves to the crowd while I stare around us. Massive. A thousand district 12s could probably fit quite comfily in this platform, well not this platform but in this part of the city. Airmet's eyes are red. She never stops shaking poor girl. She cries herself to sleep every night. I heard her. It's quite hard not to. I know how she feels, alone in this sea of fake colours, people and politics, our sorry excuse for a ruling city.
Oddly dressed people with painted faces and hair which are so obviously wigs, point and cheer with excited voices. It makes me sick, like we are celebrities. Far from it, But I still smile and wave. As Haymitch says one may be rich.
Lying on what seems to be a torture table; supposedly my prep team pluck and pull at me. Like a plucked turkey. Lying naked on a table waiting to be cooked. They soon dart out of the room without a word. I assume they are fetching the stylist. I look at myself in the mirror, under all that grime and coal dust that never seems to shift. I am glad to see me. The boy who had a loving family is still there on the outside anyway. He's gone otherwise.
The Stylist waltzes in the height of capitol fashion. Massive brightly coloured wig. In this case it is bright orange. It seems so heavy I am surprised her neck hasn't broken. Diamantine. What a name. Sounds like a cheap diamond.
"I have a lot planned for this opening ceremony but I think we should stray from the traditional route. Look at the tools used instead of the by-product"
My eyes widen
"You're going to be a Pickaxe!"
Sherlock POV
"I am NOT wearing that!" I shouted throwing the outfit to the floor. It was a luxury material suit covered in diamonds. In pink. Pink. Not a Chance.
I suppose the version for Amelie isn't that bad. A floor length ballroom gown studded in pink diamonds.
"I will wear what I want! Not what you tell me to wear." I lift my coat and my scarf off the floor pulling my collar up towards the non-existent wind. I move towards the door. When my stylist Carmel grabs me in tears but I can see it an idea flashing in her eyes.
"Then let's see what we can you with your outfit."
Bad idea but it's better than defying the capitol. Actually executions looking a lot better than starving to death in an arena. She pulls me back into the room. Too late.
John POV.
The opening music begins. Blasted all over the capitol, all over the country through the television screens. The massive doors slide open. Crowds line the streets like every year. The tributes from district 1 ride out in the chariot. They are always the favourites, every year beautiful costumes that shine and shimmer in the artificial light. This is something completely different what so ever.
The girl's hair is fanned back in the non-existent wind. Her navy blue dress lights up. She smiles and waves beautiful almost.
The boy…
Wearing a Navy blue coat that floats up behind him like a cape studded with reflective shards like glass that shimmer and shine like a thousand diamonds. His collar turned up, like he is cold. He is cold, as in his personality every tribute that walks through these gates there is fear in their eyes volunteer or not. Always fear not him just some unknown force behind his glass like eyes. A computer, no soul. Then it hits me, he is the most dangerous person in this tournament. He is the one that will come out alive. Not me, not the boy from 2, Him.
Me and Airmet standing here in our ridiculous costumes. Pickaxes. Honestly. We are almost as bad as the people from 7, trees. Almost as bad.
Our horses pull our chariots right up to President Snow's mansion. The president gives us a pre-recorded welcome. When the national anthem ends. They do a flick around all the tributes faces but in the dying light the cameras find it hard to take there eyes of the still glowing pair from 1.
Once our chariots have finished the final lap of the city circle we enter the training centre. The doors close. Our home for the next week or so. More like a prison.
