Hello again, lovely readers!
I wrote this whole thing listening to the HG soundtrack (guess which songs! XD ).
Enjoy!
~Peeta POV~
My prep team is like a trio of exotic birds- colorful, loud, eccentric and clueless. They chatter constantly in their noisy Capitol accent about parties they're going to and what color is "in". Peppitra is the one talking at the moment. She's a pixy-like woman with short, metallic silver-and-gold hair, a delicate trail of bronze butterfly tattoos running from wrist to neck and flowing, black, silver-accented clothes. Everything about her is some shade of gold, silver, bronze or black, and her whole body has a lustrous quality, like she took a bath in ground-up pearls and moonlight. Her skin, icy pale and dotted with flecks of gold, gives off a very faint shine, and her eyes are rings of hard bronze. The result is a startlingly intense gaze, coming from such a dainty wisp of a person.
"And, I swear, there was confetti everywhere," she pipes, gesturing with one hand as she rubs a coarsely bristled brush over my arm with the other. It takes a layer of skin with it and leaves behind a dull stinging. "Simply everywhere! Of course, it got ground into the carpet by everyone's shoes- it took weeks to get it out- had to use a paper disintegrator- hand me the lotion, Xanden- it was so expensive!"
Xanden obediently gives her the palm-sized tube of shimmering, pink goop. I get the feeling that Xanden is really more of an assistant, or a student. He mostly watches what the other two do, standing quietly until someone asks him to do something. However, that doesn't make up for the explosion that is his outfit. He wears yellow- and that's it. Ranging from mustard to off-white, his clothing looks as if someone attacked it with buckets of yellow paint of all shades and the resulting stains never washed out. Even his hair is sunflower yellow. In fact, it's arranged very much like a sunflower, too, forming a kind of half-halo around his head, behind his ears.
I turn away from Xanden, since his outfit is starting to hurt my eyes, and my gaze lands on the last member of my prep team. Glitterspell. She's a distant cousin of one of the other tributes this year, apparently, and is thrilled to let everyone know. She talks nonstop about it- as if she's related to a celebrity. Which, in a way, I suppose she is.
Her name describes her pretty well. She's a tall, curvy, glittery brunette- or, at least, I'm guessing she's a brunette, based on the roots of her hair. The rest of it is plastered down with a thick layer of something bright green and sparkly. Her arms and legs have what look like tiny jewels running up them in swirl patterns, so when the light hits her just right, she transforms into a human kaleidoscope, her skin and clothes giving off sparks of multi-colored neon light. The overall effect is excessively flashy, almost ugly.
She seems to think just the opposite. Every time her arms glitter in the beam of the overhead lamp, which casts us in a harsh circle of white light, she preens, flicking her wrists and tossing her gleaming hair over her shoulder. Of the three, she's the most pretentious. She's the one I would rather not have touching me with her glitter-crusted talons.
But I stay quiet. I don't even flinch when Glitterspell takes a heaping handful of slimy soap and starts rubbing it vigorously into my scalp. I do exactly as Haymitch said: I don't resist.
I wonder, as Peppitra starts sawing off my nails with a small stick of sandpaper, how Katniss is dealing with her own prep team. Is she as irritated as me? Probably more so, knowing her. I imagine Katniss glaring distrustfully at every dyed, stenciled, jeweled hand extended to her, and the image sends mild waves of both amusement and worry through me. Will she be able to follow Haymitch's directions? Or will she snap and give them trouble for every brush stroke?
When my prep team is finally done with me, they drape me in a robe made of a cool, slippery material and flutter, giggling, from the room. I don't have long to wait before the door opens again and my stylist sashays in. My first impression of her is that she isn't anything like the other Capitol citizens I've seen. She wears a black tube dress and low, black heels. Two twisted bracelets jangle on one of her wrists, and her eyes are lined in silver. The black and silver make her look like a taller, much-toned-down version of Peppitra.
She introduces herself as Portia.
"So, Peeta," she says over a plate of something slightly squishy, which she calls 'health food', "I heard a nice piece of gossip from Effie, but I want to confirm it before I believe it."
Her eyes shine almost mischievously as she looks up at me, her bracelets clinking like the ice in her cup.
I finish chewing my bite of food-flavored mush- I thought Capitol food was supposed to be rich! – before answering. "What piece of gossip?" I have a pretty good idea what piece of gossip, but I don't want to say it, just in case it turns out to be something else entirely. Who knows? She could be talking about the chef and waitress I glimpsed holding hands on the train. Or that Effie's hair is a wig. Wait- no, it was Effie who told her. Maybe something about Haymitch?
"Well." She leans back. Her mouth scrunches up, like she's trying to conceal a smile. "I heard that you and Miss Everdeen were not only friends, but together." She emphasizes together by separating each syllable.
"You heard correctly," I confirm casually, popping another forkful in my mouth.
Her contained smile abruptly turns down in a frown. Her brows pinch together. "I'm sorry."
My fork wavers halfway to my plate. That wasn't the response I was expecting.
As I inspect Portia's silver-framed eyes, it occurs to me that this is the first time anyone from the Capitol has reacted to me with sympathy. Any kind of sympathy. Effie even exclaimed that it was romantic that Katniss and I were going into the Games together. Romantic! But Portia seems genuinely saddened. Her eyes, a nondescript, muddy green brightened by her light makeup, gaze back at me without straying.
"Thank you," I murmur.
She nods tightly, then clears her throat and straightens. "Well," she says again. "Well. Cinna and I have been discussing your costumes."
"Cinna?"
"Katniss's stylist."
I nod, pretending not to notice that Miss Everdeen is suddenly Katniss. "And?"
"And we've decided to try something new."
My newfound respect for Portia doesn't do a thing to ease the twist of dread in my gut. Something new? For the tribute parade? That can't possibly be good. I flip through my memories of past District Twelve costumes and shudder inwardly. What could be worse than being dressed in a skimpy miner's suit and dusted in black powder?
"We've decided to dress you both in complimentary costumes," she goes on, her words falling into the structured pattern of something practiced. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."
Coal miner's suit.
"We thought that, rather than focus on the mining, we'd focus on the coal itself."
Black powder, then.
"Specifically, the burning of coal."
That gets my attention.
Portia laughs aloud at my sudden interest. "No, you won't be dressed in a miner's outfit, like past years. Or in just underwear," she adds without humor. "Cinna and I have decided to light you both on fire."
It takes me approximately four seconds to process this, and six more to find a way to respond. At last I joke weakly, "Isn't the point to kill the tributes in the Games, not the parade?"
"No, no," she reassures, "It'll be perfectly safe. It's not even real flame, it's synthetic fire. And the suits are designed to light without lighting you." She stands, brushing crumbs off her skirt. "Want to see?"
I'm still not convinced, even when I'm dressed in the costume and Portia points out all the safety features to me. "The collar is shaped like this so the synthetic flames don't touch your neck- not that they'd do any harm if they did. And the fabric is designed to ignite easily from the source. And, if worst comes to worst, you can always unclip the cape from here."
Even when we're being herded through endless white hallways by the assistant, accompanied by my prep team, I'm still wary. My outfit is a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. The fabric- or, is it leather? – has an almost scaly quality about it, like the skin of a reptile, but it molds easily to my body. I feel a bit like a reptile, myself, dressed in the tight-fitting, protective skin. Chunky black boots lace up snugly halfway up my calves, my hair is slicked back and a lightweight cape is pinned to my shoulders. My reflection startles me every time we pass a glass window. Even in the vague, transparent reflection, I look… Different. Fierce. Not like me.
We reach a wide intersection of four hallways, where five more people already wait: a simply-dressed man with a trace of gold eyeliner- that must be Cinna, Portia's partner- three more Capitol people, each as ridiculous-looking as my own prep team, and Katniss. Her dark braid swings behind her as she speaks with the man I guess to be Cinna. She appears to be dressed in an outfit almost identical to mine, except for her crown-like headpiece, which sits near the back of her skull, and her boots, which reach her knees and have about an inch of heel to them.
And then she turns around.
Her eyes are framed in inky black lashes. Her cheekbones are highlighted, and her lips have the faintest hint of red coloring to them. It isn't really a lot of makeup, but that little bit goes a long way. She looks beautiful.
And it's wrong.
It's not her. Katniss's lashes are endearingly short, although nearly black. Her lips and cheeks are often flushed, from the cold or from exertion, but not the unnatural red they are now. She's beautiful naturally. I've always thought so. Now, not only is she beautiful, she's Capitol beautiful. It's wrong.
Even so, I have to admit that the outfit compliments her. I tell her this upon bumping my wrist against hers- I'm not sure if hand-holding is permitted within sight of her stylist and our prep teams- and she rolls her eyes.
"Have you heard? We're being barbecued." She nudges me.
"I've heard," I reply shortly.
One of the members of her prep team bounces over to us, his orange corkscrew curls bouncing with him. He fiddles happily with Katniss's sleeve, speaking in a stream of exclamations and sighs of admiration. I can't tell exactly what he's saying, but it seems likely he's talking about our outfits. Everyone is. Everyone except Cinna, that is, who accepts compliments with nods of his head and looks over our suits again and again, checking every seam and fold.
At last an attendant signals us and we make our way down a long flight of stairs, where we emerge into a yawning, cavernous space. It's filled to the brim with tributes, prep teams, mentors, escorts, horses and chariots. The wall opposite us is dominated by a door as large as the entire front of the bakery. I know from watching past Games that this door will open to allow the chariots onto the carpeted street outside, where tens of thousands of spectators will be packed tightly into elevated, terraced rows of seats. I can easily imagine the insect-like cameras swooping in, hovering, tracking us with nearly silent gears guiding their movements.
We pass every other district on the way to our chariot, since we're last in line. No one pays any attention, except for a few cursory glances from other stylists. Some look confused, which is easy to understand. Our costumes don't make much sense without the final touch. One stylist, from Four, I think, laughs openly.
"Trying to cover as much of them as possible, Cinna?" he calls as we pass by. "Trying to hide how pitiful they are?"
Cinna places a firm hand on both of our shoulders, as if in preparation to stop us from turning around.
The stylist from Four continues to shout after us, turning heads from all over the large, boxy hall. "It's not working very well! You probably should have just used sheets!"
Cinna marches us to our chariot. Our horses, black as obsidian, stand patiently, giving each other gentle whuffs. They turn their big, liquid brown eyes on us as he directs us onto the chariot. Katniss's jaw is set- whether from the taunts of the other stylist or from our imminent combustion, I can't tell. Together, Cinna and Portia arrange our clothes, adjusting Katniss's headpiece and draping my cape halfway over one shoulder. It seems rather pointless to me - won't our capes just blow backwards once we start moving? – but I hold still, using the time to scan the room for Haymitch and Effie. I would have expected at least one of them to be here.
With one last flick of the wrist, sending the thin fabric of the cape fluttering into place, Portia steps back. "There," she says with a sigh. "That'll do. Just hold still and we'll be right back."
They move away, leaving us standing in our chariot, staring ahead at the twenty-two other tributes preparing for the parade. From here, I can see some of their costumes. Directly in front of us, the two tributes from Eleven are dressed in blue silk shirts under crisp overalls, crowns of silver wheat heads resting on their brows. Their chariot looks almost as if it's about to tip over from the weight of the six-foot boy standing next to the tiny, large-eyed little girl. A prick of sadness goes through me at the sight of her, and I look to the other tributes. District Ten is dressed in exaggerated, gold-edged cowboy clothes, complete with the wide-brimmed hats. The tributes from Eight look like rag dolls, pieced together from uneven pink and blue patches of cloth and stuffed into oversized, frilly hats. They look ridiculous, and absolutely miserable. District One is in pink feathers, and Two is in gold and bronze. Of all the costumes, ours is probably the simplest, rivaled only by Eleven. For now. It'll be a whole other story when we're set aflame.
As if reading my mind, Katniss whispers, "What do you think? About the fire?"
I reply stiffly, thinking of the years' worth of burn scars that litter my hands and arms. "I'll rip off your cape if you rip off mine."
"Deal." She looks around in irritation, lips pressed into a thin line. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."
"Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I realize how silly that sounds the moment the words are out of my mouth. Haymitch? Protect us? Not with the way he's been acting.
Katniss chuckles suddenly. It sounds more like a nervous hiccup than actual laughter. "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."
Then I'm laughing, too, and the movement shakes some of the anxiety out of my stomach.
The opening music swells suddenly from the multiple hidden speakers. The giant door splits in the middle and rolls open silently, giving us all a peek at the spectators waiting beyond. District One's snow-white horses lift their heads, happy to be moving, and trot forward. About a minute passes, and then Two follows them, their plated bronze tunics reflecting dully in the fading evening light. Three follows them, and then Four, and before long, the slightly-leaning chariot just in front of us is on its way down the road. At that moment, Cinna materializes at Katniss's shoulder with a torch.
"Here we go, then." He touches the torch to her cape and she gasps. I tense, readying myself to tear it off, but the flames don't touch her. They follow the line of her cape- almost as if there isn't a cape at all, just a shroud of glowing, shifting tongues of fire, running over her shoulders and down her back. Cinna lights her headpiece, then loops around to do the same for me. He looks at us apprehensively, then sighs in relief. "It works."
Katniss gives him a small, tense smile and he catches her chin in one hand. His next words are directed at both of us. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"
He hops off the chariot, then pauses and shouts something. The throbbing pulse of the music drowns him out, leaving us to lean forward, watching his lips and trying to guess what he's telling us. He motions to us and shouts again. I catch something about hands.
"What's he saying?" Katniss half-yells over the music.
"I think he said for us to hold hands."
Our fingers twine together, and the flames follow the line of our now-touching capes, linking us. Cinna nods and gives us a thumbs-up just as our chariot jolts into motion. Our horses pick up speed, matching the high-spirited trot of the teams before them. We pass through the doors, leaving behind the Remake Center and entering the city.
It only takes a second or two for the crowd to notice us. They squawk in alarm, pointing, no doubt thinking we're being burned to District-Twelve-crisps. And then, as the seconds pass and we remain whole and unharmed, their attitude changes to that of awe. Heads turn away from the chariots in front of us to gaze at ours. And, when we pass a set of elevated, high-definition screens, I see why. The capes don't even seem to exist- just the brilliant flames that trail from them, snapping in the wind and curling over our shoulders. Our faces are illuminated in the glow, and our bodies, hugged by the scaly material, are wreathed in fluttering sparks and gossamer smoke.
I turn to Katniss to make a comment, and am struck silent. Seeing her beauty on the screen is one thing, but here, up close - so close I can make out each individual shadow her lengthened eyelashes leave on her cheeks – is quite another. The liquid flames of her headdress spill over, giving her a crown of fire that dares not engulf her. She is as powerful and beautiful as a queen. In the deepening shadows, her flames casts a protective halo of warmth and light around us.
From the corner of my eye, I see that the screens near us have cut to a close-up of our upper bodies. The crowd gives a collective sigh of admiration. Katniss is waving, even smiling, as if gracing her subjects with her presence. The crowds are eating it up. They call out our names, jump up from their seats, toss flowers and coins to the road. A blood-red rose comes sailing in my direction, and I lean out to catch it. I present it to Katniss and she takes it delicately, bringing the petals to her nose. She then blows a kiss in the general direction of the thrower. The whole stand reaches up to catch it.
Grinning, drunk off the music, the cheering crowds and the sharp scent of the fake flames, I tug Katniss closer. "Do I not get a kiss?"
She glances at the thousands of spectators to either side of us, then rises on her tiptoes and places a kiss, light as a butterfly's wing, on my cheek. Before turning her face away, she whispers, "Not yet."
Right. Because, as of yet, the only ones who know we're together are our stylists and the people on the train.
I join Katniss in waving and our horses toss their heads proudly. No doubt, they're loving the attention as much as we are, if for different reasons. For the horses, the cheers mean a job well done pulling the chariot and probably some special treat once they get back to their stable. Four us, the cheers mean sponsors. They mean a chance in the Games. They mean hope.
We finally reach the City Circle, where the chariots stop in the loop just in front of the president's mansion. President Snow himself, dressed sharply in a black suit and wearing a single, white rose on his coat, steps forward to give his yearly speech. The evening is quickly slipping into night as he speaks, and with each passing moment, the darkness grows and our fiery costumes become beacons. The screens cut between each tribute's face, of course, but I notice that they return to us far more often than is traditional. The cameras even hold on us as we trot around the Circle one more time before being swallowed by the doors of the Training Center.
We pry our hands apart, working the blood back into our palms and fingers, as Portia and Cinna gingerly lift off our flames. "Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say. "I was getting a little shaky there."
It's true. My fingers twitch, my nerves on overload from all the sensory information they've been getting for the past half hour.
"It didn't show. I'm sure no one noticed."
I snake an arm around her waist. There aren't any cameras in here, that I know of. And, anyway, they never show any footage from inside the Training Center except for scores and interviews of the various mentors and trainers. "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often. They suit you."
She scoffs and tries to wriggle away, but I keep her pinned to my side and nuzzle her temple, taking in the scent of pine that still, impossibly, lingers in her hair before letting her go.
Behind us, the closed doors of the Training Center rumble with the rotating of large, polished gears. Heavy metal beams slide across the concrete slabs and lock into place with a deep booming that I can feel in my bones. The Capitol is making it no secret how very trapped we are.