A/N: Hey guys! Here's the next chapter. I hope you guys like it! As you will see, I decided to make Clove's hair down instead of up (like it is in the movie) for the Tribute Parade. So, as usual, tell me if I made any mistakes that can be fixed, it's all greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: Oh, like you don't already know.
The water prickles my skin in an unfamiliar way. I don't like it much, because it feels almost as if I am under attack and will be engulfed. The droplets are thousands of tiny knives that have been thrown back at me like boomerangs, causing pain just enough not to kill.
But they're not. It's just water from the showerheads in the Remake Center. I haven't been out in the rain much, and I've certainly never taken a real shower, so I don't know this.
My prep team continues to hose me down a bit, but it soon ceases. I feel the excess water running away from me, off the sides of my back and onto the table I'm laid out on. Apparently, it doesn't like me either.
"Up, up!" one of them chirps. I slide myself off of the table and go to stand naked before a mirror. I examine my reflection without much interest. No one in District 2 really cares what they look like. That is, as long as they look lethal.
My body is waxed, my skin is clear, my teeth are white. A woman on my prep team looks very excited as she comes behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. I have to exercise control to refrain from tossing her off. "You're ready!" she exclaims, smiling widely. In a giant flurry, my prep team is gone, and I am alone again.
In comes my stylist. He has short cropped hair which is a dark red color. A black tattoo reaches across the left side of his face in straight lines, with thin semicircles intersecting them. His eyes glow lavender, clearly enhanced.
"I am Pascha," he tells me. Pascha is tall, but lanky. "Congratulations on your participation in the Hunger Games. My partner and I have excellent costumes prepared for you and Cato. Tonight's Tribute Parade is sure to leave all eyes on you." His voice is a bit soft, but always level. Not bouncing around like most of the Capitol people, like Aoife.
After examining me, Pascha puts me in a thin robe. Then he gets right to work on my face. There are powders and gels and pencils and creams everywhere, and all the while I don't know what he's making me into.
"What will the costumes be like?" I inquire warily.
"Trust me," he responds, "they will be…heavenly." I assume he doesn't want to give away too much, but his reply frustrates me. Heavenly? I don't want to go out there looking like some stupid angel. Perhaps he has misjudged me due to my size? I tell myself to forget it. None of this will matter in a few days anyway, when I eventually face my death. Probably I will be murdered by another Career, because we'll be the only ones left by that point.
Pascha sees the disdain in my eyes. He laughs quietly and then corrects himself. "I mean to say, it will be godly."
Godly. Powerful. I can work with that.
Soon, I get a glimpse in a mirror. I see a glorified version of myself. There are thin black lines surrounding my eyes. The freckles that spread across my nose and cheeks have vanished. They are replaced instead with a shimmery golden powder that stands out against my pale skin. My eyelashes are much longer and blacker. Are those even real? My lips have been left alone, but when I rub them together they feel soft.
I turn back to Pascha. "I look nice," I say.
He bites his lower lip and says to me, "Look, I know that it's not your…style." No, it's not. Mostly because I don't have a style other than wearing my hair on top of my head. Now, it hangs loosely down. "But the sponsors will love it. I promise." I believe him. He seems to be efficient.
"I know," I answer. "But I won't look weak…right?"
Pascha assures me, "By no means, Clove. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"Good," I exhale.
"There's a problem, though," Pascha murmurs. His lavender eyes flit to my hair, falling over my shoulders.
I grasp a section of the dark strands. "Do you want it up?" I ask hopefully.
"No, that won't work." It was worth a try. "It just can't shine like that." I look down at the hair in my hand. My prep team has made it glossy and soft and silky and lustrous. Pascha crosses to a table and plucks a spray bottle from a mass of products. He comes back. "Close your eyes."
He spritzes the hair product over my head, and then just stands there. I open my eyes. "Does it look different?" I ask him.
"It needs to set," he replies.
"Oh," I nod lamely. We wait for a few more seconds, in which I notice that the dirt beneath my fingernails has disappeared.
"Perfect," Pascha smiles. "It's matte now. More like it normally is."
"You mean tangled?" I question skeptically.
"No, it just has texture now." I decide he means that it has knots again now. But I reach up to touch it, and there aren't really knots. It just feels rough.
Then it's time to get dressed. I finally get my first look at my costume for the Tribute Parade. Pascha is right, it is godly. There's a gold helmet with wings. Everything is golden. I have an outfit that resembles romanticized armor: a breastplate with metal crafted to look like feathers, a golden skirt and sandals. I will look like a god.
"Thank you," I whisper to Pascha. He's right. It's fabulous.
I get dressed. Pascha runs a final check to make sure everything is in place. Then, we go to meet Aoife, Ire, Creon, Cato, and his stylist where we will emerge for the Parade. They're all there by the chariot.
I face Cato, and he smirks at me. "Pretty costume," are his first words to me since that night on the train. The comment is teasing, but I can use it against him.
"Same to you," I counter, "seeing as you're wearing the exact same thing." I raise an eyebrow and expect his smirk to drop off his face, but it doesn't. He just chuckles with a low voice.
We get into the chariot and I examine the other tributes. There's District 10, looking pathetic in cowboy getups. District 5 is just plain frightening. Almost everyone looks ridiculous, except for us, District 4, and even District 7, who look okay. Representing lumber, the District 7 stylists decided to go with paper outfits, which they managed to not mess up too badly. Not flashy enough for the sponsors, though. The outfits for District 12 are just confusing. They're just black. Are they supposed to be lumps of coal?
And then I get a look at District 1, and can't help but snicker a little bit.
The girl has on the silliest costume I've ever seen. She has a pink feather headdress that sticks up in all directions and encases practically her whole head. Her dress is hot pink and sparkly, and it falls all the way to her feet. Her shoulders are drowned in a feathery substance that looks plain stupid. Who thought that was a good idea? The male tribute looks just as ridiculous in a pink feather cape.
I nudge Cato, to see if he finds this as ludicrous as I do. He turns and looks at me, blue eyes blank. But as soon as I subtly point out District 1 to him, they fill with humor. I smile slightly to myself, satisfied. Then I drop it. This isn't the place.
Our stylists and mentors give us a final wish of luck, and suddenly our chariot is moving forward. I can see District 1 ahead of us, waving at the crowd that has begun to make noise at the sight of tributes. But then we pull out into sight, and the noise for District 1 is nothing compared to the reaction Cato and I get from the Capitol people. They scream and cheer, pointing at us all the while.
I am encouraged by the crowd, and hold my fist up in triumph. All the while my face is soft as stone. Cato raises his hand and reaches out across the air in front of him, palm downward.
And then there is something wrong. Pascha is correct, everyone's looking at me, loving me and cheering me on, yelling for me. But I can see their eyes and I don't feel powerful, strong, or proud like I should. I certainly don't feel inclined to flaunt myself. For a second this is not an honor. I am a slab of meat to be cooked and eaten. I am a dog thrown through a chain-link fence to bite others like me while people bet on my death. I'm a time bomb ticking, exploding for the entertainment of these people. I am a stone being stepped on by fancy Capitol shoes. Wearing away to rubble.
Just as my mouth peels open, my breath grows ragged and rushed, and I begin to let my fist drop, there's a distraction. It's something behind me. No one looks at me or Cato anymore. I don't even need to whip my head around to see for myself what it is. It's already being projected onto every screen in sight.
There they are, the tributes of District 12, all ablaze and glowing. They are lit on fire. I wonder briefly if they're going to die, but they haven't yet, so I assume that the flame is fake. It must be the part of their costumes that seemed to be missing when I watched them before the Parade.
Cato's jaw sets. I can see that he's bothered. His thunder has been stolen.
President Snow's speech goes by in a blur, and the chariots pull back into enclosed space. I hop out and barely have time to straighten my helmet before Aoife is upon us. "You were fabulous," she says. "Wonderful. They loved you!"
Ire and Creon arrive too. "That was excellent," Ire commends us.
"Nice job." Creon pauses before adding gruffly, "don't be afraid of District 12 just because their stylists had one good idea."
Cato scoffs and Creon smirks. "But," Ire cautions, "don't write anyone off." Her warning is piercing in her muddy green eyes. As if inspired by this, Cato finds District 12 and is quickest to catch the girl's eye. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He stares like that for awhile. I look too, but I don't think the 12 girl notices me. She is bewildered by Cato's stare. Her escort ushers her away, and she's gone.
It's just then that Pascha and his partner reach us. "You both looked incredible, definitely made an impression," he compliments.
"It's time to go, you two," Aoife ushers us away from our stylists as quickly as they had arrived. She pushes us into the Training Center huffily, as always. I look back over my shoulder at Pascha and mouth my thanks to him. He has done me a favor.
Aoife corrals us into the elevator and presses the button for our floor. We ascend in silence.
I hurry to my bedroom to change. Looking through the extremely large closet, the most normal thing I can find is a lacy blue shirt, which is unbearable. But I put it on anyway, and find a gray jacket to cover it. I slip into black pants as well. I don't bother to wash my face before dinner.
When I emerge, the mentors and Aoife are already seated at the table. There's an extravagant feast prepared for us. But I suppose that every meal is a feast in the Capitol. I sit down next to Ire.
Then Cato appears, and takes his seat across from me. Everyone begins to eat.
I look at Cato, who's changed out of his costume too. Undoubtedly, he is strong and deadly and dangerous. But I watch him stare at the wall behind me, blue eyes fixed on an empty canvas perfect for his focused thoughts, the planes of his face set in their ways. And despite everything else, I can only think beautiful beautiful beautiful. Which makes me very upset, and I feel wrong. I try not to look at him anymore after that.
Eventually I withdraw into my bedroom. Cato is interrupting my perception. And it's something that I just can't afford.
A/N: So, that's it for that chapter. Did you like it? Hate it? Let me know in a very special and awesome REVIEW! Thanks so much for reading, you guys. It really means a lot. The next chapter's going to be interesting, and definitely a bit different. I'm so excited for you guys to read it! Anyway, thanks again.
