Chapter Four: The Tribute Parade

By the time Psyche's done with me, I barely recognize myself. By "dying my hair," she apparently meant striping the color completely out of it, leaving the tips transparent and the rest pure white. Only my roots are still their natural brown, bled over it like frost-covered leaves, "So they'll still know it's you once it starts growing out in the Arena."

And then there's the clothes! I've never worn anything quite like it. Psyche wasn't kidding when she said they used my village for inspiration. All the pieces – the linen shirt with its flowing sleeves, the long cloak and matching blue vest, even the soft leather boots – could have come from home, only no one in 23 could ever hope dress this rich. The shirt's a pale blue, much paler than berry juice could dye, and both the vest and cloak are embroidered with a nearly transparent white-silver thread that's only visible under certain lights.

Psyche's absolutely delighted with the results. She declares to everyone who will listen that I look exactly like a prince. Standing in our chariot before the Parade, surrounded by tributes and stylists and my own reflection from a dozen angles, I understand what she's talking about for the first time.

"You're not going to preen like that the entire time we're up here, are you?"

Solstice's voice brings me back down to earth. I drag my eyes from the nearest mirror and try to laugh it off, scratching the back of my neck where it still itches from the bleach. "Sorry. I won't. It's just weird, you know? I don't look like myself."

She scowls, though her glittering green lipstick somewhat diminishes the desired effect. "Just be happy we didn't get Seven's stylist. Or Twelve's. Two words: body paint. They're practically naked."

"Seriously?"

I crane up on my toes to catch a glimpse. Three chariots ahead, District Seven is indeed showing a lot of skin, with the girl nothing but a skirt and bra while the boy gets only pants. There's a few bunches of green leaves here and there, but most of the focus lies squarely on their limbs and torsos, where tanned skin shines under long strokes of color. The patterns they weave are primal and bold. From a distance, they look almost like leaves. At least, the girl's do.

"Huh," I say, settling back onto my heels. "Wonder why they went with blue."

Solstice's scowl deepens, twisting her green lips even more. "What?"

"The guy from Seven. All of his paint's in blue and gray. The green I get, goes with the lumber and trees thing, but why the blue?"

"Who knows. Who cares?" Solstice rolls her eyes. "This place is full of idiots. They probably think blue trees are where blueberries come from. Or maybe blue leaves are the big new fad in horticulture."

Unless she turned into a complete chatterbox with her team, I'm pretty sure this is the most that Solstice has said since she got Reaped and I can see why she was holding back. Condescension drips like acid from her every word, telegraphing unmitigated hatred for the Capitol and all its citizens. It's not just that she blames them for what's happened to us. She despises every individual resident with a deep and personal fury.

This doesn't seem like a healthy mindset when we're about to ride into the Capitol streets and try to win the hearts of its populace with nothing but charm and some fancy clothes. Luckily, Psyche turns up at that moment to change the subject, arm-in-arm with Cupid, her husband and business partner. As usual they're a matching set this year, she in pink and he in blue, his with only the left sleeve while hers has only the right. The tattoos on their bare arms match up perfectly. It's so frivolously lovey-dovey that it makes me ill.

"Finishing touches!" Cupid announces with an excited trill, thrusting what appears to be a live chicken into Solstice's arms. Its feathers are the same shade of bronze as all her accessories and it's wearing a tiny green collar to match everything else in her dress and shawl.

For me, Psyche's brought a shepherd's crook covered completely in beaten silver. It's cold, but no heavier than the one I carried at home while tending the herd.

The stylists squeal in one voice and immediately start to congratulate each other on a job well done. My gaze slides from the staff to the animal in Solstice's hands. "…Is that a real chicken?"

"Of course not," she snaps like I've asked the stupidest question in the world. With a huff, she jerks away. The chicken squawks in surprise and her face softens. She sighs and scratches the thing on the head. "It's a muttation. They're designed to be quiet, housebroken, and predisposed to being held. There are twits up here who think they make good pets."

I have to admit, I'm a little impressed that she can tell that just by holding it. I've never even seen a chicken, so I wouldn't know the first thing about them. But then again, her home town of 10-4 is the largest of the poultry farms. She's probably been handling birds like that since she was a kid.

I turn the staff in my hand, feeling the uneven metal against my palm. "Guess I should be glad they didn't get me a goat then."

Solstice actually smiles. It's softer and prettier than I expected from her. "No," she says, her voice gentle to match. "They made the right choice, for you You've got a unique look – very striking. The crowd will remember you for sure."

Remember me, she says. Not her. Not us. Just me.

Before I can ask what she means, the opening music swells, broadcasted all around the Capitol. The pair from District One – powerful Careers wrapped in layers of luxurious fur – roll up to and through the doors, out into the streets. Psyche and Cupid hurry to pose us on our chariot, shoulder to shoulder with heads held high. Then, in what seems like an instant, we're through the doors and out onto the streets of the Capitol.

Between the cheers and the music, the crowd is deafening. We drown in colors and sound, darting through night streets lit as bright as day, our cloaks fluttering behind us in a wave of blue and green. I catch a glimpse on one of the overhead screens. The shock of what I see winds me like a blow to the gut.

Psyche was right about the hair. It shimmers in the bright lights of the city streets, striking and bold. The spotlights also catch the clear thread of my vest and cape, sparkling cool and bright like frost on the frozen river. It's a perfect match for the silver on the staff, which in turn matches Da's clasp against my neck. Beside me, the bronze stitching in Solstice's corset and cloak have the same effect, shining bright and warm. Even her chicken seems to shine, its feather-tips glistening with bronze.

We are summer and winter. Warmth and frost. Moonlight and sunshine. The one who carries the animals and the one who guides them.

I turn my eyes to the crowd and happen to catch the gaze of a young woman, clustered on the sidelines with her friends. She lets out a shriek of delight and actually faints, her entourage descending to catch her with a chorus of excited squeals. My head starts spinning. All this excitement, over me?

By the time we get to the City Circle I'm out of breath, thankful for the staff if only because it keeps me upright. I've never seen so many real live people clustered in one place. To think that they're all here to see me, judge me, cheer me on or tear me down, and more, that any one of them could one day chose to save my life or let me die…It's too much.

One by one our chariots circle around and come to a stop in front of the President's mansion. A small man with paper-white hair – the President himself, the actual President of Panem! – steps out on a balcony to address the crowd, but for all I can understand him I might as well be under water. My vision swims. I have to look at something else or I'm liable to pass out right here in front of everybody.

My eyes lock the screens overhead, watching them flicker through each of the Tribute pairs. At first it goes in District order counting down from one, but then it starts to shift around, giving more time to the costumes that earned the most buzz on Capitol feeds.

There's District Seven, with their body paint, and District Eight, buried in coats of quilt. District Twelve – are they completely naked? And covered in coal dust, yuck – is probably getting laughed at, along with District Five, who've been spray-painted gold. Their crowns are probably meant to give off electric sparks, but all they do is make their hair stand on end. Still, their little round Boy is smiling broadly and even waves at the camera, which might help for all I know.

To my relief, District Ten gets a fair amount of coverage, with some particularly complementary focus on the chicken and my hair. But by the time the national anthem starts to play, it's clear who the real winner is.

District Two.

Two is the masonry district, officially. That explains the color choice of black and gray, their skin ashen and their eyes rimmed with gold. But the design is pure homage to what everyone knows to be their true export: Peacekeepers. The dark colors make the already striking suits even more intimidating. On most kids it would look ridiculous, but on the District Two Careers – especially their tall, broad-shouldered male – it's scary.

I get a good glimpse of him once we've all been herded into the Training Center, where our prep teams and escorts are waiting. The boy from District 2 isn't built like a normal Career. Instead of bulging muscles, he's lean. But there's power there, wrapped up in restraint and control, like a snake curled in the grass and ready to strike.

His escort calls him 'Pitch.' The name rings a bell, dislodging a memory of the Reaping recap from last night. Pitch Black, from District 2. A name that ominous fits him like a glove.

Then Psyche appears with Cupid in tow, both chattering with excitement as they pull Solstice and I down from our chariot. They sweep us to the doors of crystal elevators, which are already crowded with Tributes and their teams waiting for the ride up to our luxurious holding cells high in the tower. All of the Capitol residents and Mentors talk and laugh and congratulate themselves for a job well done, but most of the Tributes are silent, nervous, and pointedly avoiding each other's eye.

I try to follow suit and get lost in the crowd, but before I can someone crashes into us from behind and the crowd pushes back in response, knocking me off-balance. I stumble, trying to right myself with the staff, and bounce off someone's escort. Then someone else shoves me, and the next thing I know my shoulder's been seized by broad hand, hauling me back off my feet like a sack of potatoes.

By the time I've got my footing again, the doors to the crystal elevator have already closed. A second later we're rising into the air, leaving the rest of the Tributes and my prep team behind.

A deep voice laughs from the space right behind me. "Ah, there you are Jack Frost," it says, sounding almost friendly.

The male Tribute from District One turns me around to face him. I know he must be eighteen – Careers always are – but the lucky bastard must have matured early to boot, as his smile is framed by a trimmed moustache and matching goatee. To reflect his District's production of luxury goods he's clothed from head to toe in rich red cloth lined with black fur, making him look more like a bear than a boy.

He peers at me with bright eyes, a friendly grin still firmly in place. "That is your name, isn't it? Jack Frost?"

"Uh. Yeah." I back off, pulling the staff across me instinctively for defense. We're alone in the elevator, just the two of us. There's no sign of his prep team, escort, or District partner. He clearly wanted to get to me on my own. But why? If he kills me before the Games even start they'll have him shot in the streets.

"Excellent. Wonderful to make your acquaintance. Please, feel free to call me North, most everyone does." He eyes the row of buttons along the wall behind me, only one of which – two from the top, baring the number ten – is lit. We're already well past his floor. What is he waiting for?

North nods thoughtfully, finding whatever answers he wanted in the rising lights. "We do not have much time to talk like this," he says, "so you will excuse me if I get down to tacks of brass.

Tomorrow we begin our training. I should like you to join me once the initial lessons are complete."

I'm so hung up on the bit about 'tacks of brass' – seriously, is that some weird saying from One? – that the implications of his statement fly right over my head, only to double back and hit me straight in the gut. An alliance. He's scouting me for an alliance. Before I can stop myself, I bark out a laugh.

North raises a dark eyebrow, his lip curling up in amusement. "You find this funny?"

Funny? No. More like completely ridiculous. This has got to be some sort of trick. I'm no Career, he's never seen me run or fight or even move across a room. The most I've done since getting here is let a hyperactive hairstylist bleach my hair. There is no way I should have caught the eye of a Career.

But I also don't want to piss off said Career, since he's bound to be one of the most dangerous combatants in the Arena. So I cover up the laugh with a cough and sputter the first thing that comes to mind.

"Uh, yeah? Wasn't exactly expecting this before a good night's sleep is all. Aren't you supposed to send mentors to arrange stuff like this?"

It's not like District One's short on them, either. They've had a dozen Victors over the years and most are still alive.

North scoffs, waving a broad hand. "Mentors, bah. That is no way to begin an alliance. These are matters of life and death, our life and death, Jack. Much better to do it in person and away from prying eyes."

Again, his bright blue eyes slide away from me, peering down through the crystal at the crowd we left behind. They're barely visible now, a dozen stories below. But I get the feeling, from the way he sets his jaw, that they're not the prying eyes North is worried over.

The elevator slides to a smooth stop at my floor, sounding our arrival with the ring of a bell. The doors open and North clasps me again on the shoulder. "You must think about it. I understand. We will see you in the morning, Jack. You can give us your answer then."

We. Us. Who is he talking about? The other Careers? Pitch Black, the girls from both Districts, the pair from Four, have they already talked this over? When did they have the time?

I stumble out onto my floor, catching my balance with the staff before I face-plant into the marble. The doors close behind me and I get one last glimpse of North, waving and grinning at me through the crystal before he drops out of sight and disappears again.

What's left of my lunch threatens to rise back up through my throat. That actually just happened. I actually got offered to make an alliance with the Careers. The Careers! Blood-thirsty killers raised to indulge the Capitol's every whim, instructed to make each successive Games deadlier and bloodier, trained to slaughter children without regret and curry favor for themselves and their Districts. If I joined them, it might save my life, but District Ten would never forgive me.

The rest of my team appears a moment later, with Psyche baffled but delighted that I made it up on my own. Solstice glares like she can see right into my soul and knows what I've been offered. Taking them up on it would mean abandoning her, too. I don't know her and I shouldn't care, but for goodness sake, at least she's from something like home.

I avoid Solstice's eye and slip away the first chance I get to change into more normal clothes. North, if that's really his name, was wrong about one thing. I don't need to think. I already know what my answer will be.

If I'm given a choice between dying and joining the Careers, I'll take death every time.