The costume is ridiculous. But, as per Brutus' instructions, I don't complain. Antonia's got me in some sort of winged golden helmet. There's also what looks like the breast plate of a suit of armor, that's also golden, and long plain brown pants. I think I look absurd, but this is the kind of thing the Capitol, and sponsors, will love. So, I will bear it. But I don't have to be happy about it. I mean, the entire country is going to see me dressed like this.
"What do you think?" Antonia asks, clearly impressed by her own work.
I just roll my eyes and walk over to the rest of the preps for "final touches" and they try to put make-up on me. When I protest, I find out the hard way why I was supposed to keep my mouth shut. I end up with a ten minute lecture about the importance of looking my best and by the end they all seem emotionally worked up. I finally just give up and let them smear as much stuff on my face as they want, while I remember all the ways I could kill them with my bare hands.
Eventually, I am deemed fir to be viewed by the public. Fantastic. I'm taken to the first level of the Remake Center, and I realize it's a giant stable.
"Your chariot is right over there," Antonia instructs. I look in the direction she is pointing and see we will be pulled by a pair of stony grey horses. I move to go stand beside them while I wait for the ceremonies to begin.
While waiting, I took a look at the other tributes. My outfit didn't seem so bad compared to some of the others. There's dumb, and then there's downright terrible. I catch sight of twelve near the back. Yes, there's the girl who volunteered to die. Both tributes are dressed in black jumpsuits that nobody will remember by tomorrow. Their stylists must be the worst! Then again, twelve always gets the worst.
Brutus appears by my side. I didn't even see him walk up.
"How you doing?" he asks.
"Fine," I answer absently. Then I remember about my angle. "How do you think I should play this thing?"
"That depends. How do you want these people to perceive you?"
That makes sense. If I want people to see me as a real competitor, I need to look like one from the beginning. It needs to be clear that I'm a threat. That I'm a victor. I turn to Brutus to respond, but he's already moving towards the district one chariot.
Just then, I spot Clove walking towards me. She looks . . . good. She's essentially wearing the same costume as me, but with a mid-thigh length leather skirt. But I could tell whoever styled her hair and make-up knew what they were doing. For a moment, I'm at a loss for words. Then I remember the voices of Brutus, Darron, and my father. I can't afford distractions. Clove is my competition, an obstacle I must pass to become victor.
As she nears the chariot, I notice her whole body is lightly shimmering in gold dust. She sees me watching her and breaks into a smile. Focus, Cato. It's all part of the game.
"So," I say casually as she approaches. "Was it as bad as you thought it was going to be?" I'm just making conversation, but a tiny part of me is genuinely curious. A very small part.
"No, it was worse," she growls through gritted teeth. "I think they managed to yank out every single solitary hair." I can't help but laugh, even though she seems less than amused. "I'm glad you think this is so funny! It took every ounce of self-restraint I posses not to punch them. I did, however, call them every name in the book, and then some."
"I'm sure Enobaria will be very pleased when she hears," I tease. I find her very amusing.
"I don't even care. How will being nice to some silly Capitol beauticians help me win the Games?"
"Who knows? They might have rich friends." My response only seems to aggravate her even more. Good. People don't like angry tributes.
Antonia and another man, presumably Clove's stylist, appear out of nowhere.
"Time to go!" Antonia squeals, no doubt excited to show off her work. "Don't worry about the horses, they know where to go. All you need to do is look fabulous!"
I turn to Clove and smirk. "That shouldn't be a problem for me." She shoots me a death glare before stepping up onto the chariot. I laugh, then follow her up.
"Ready?" The voice is new, and I see it belongs to Clove's stylist. "And . . . Go!"
The chariot lurches forward, and I nearly lose my balance. I quickly regain my footing and look up to see hundreds of people cheering. As we parade through the streets, I do my best to look menacing. I need to show that I am a formidable opponent.
Some of the other careers are trying similar techniques, although there are some exceptions. The girl from one, for example, is clearly trying to act flirty. It is a clever angle for her, with her green eyes and long, blonde hair. The Capitol is a very shallow place.
Out of nowhere, I hear a deafening thunder of applause coming from behind. Looking behind me, I notice the cause of this sudden uproar. The district twelve tributes are on fire. Wait, on fire? I can't believe my eyes! How is this even possible? Beside me, Clove has noticed as well, and she does not look too pleased. She must have come to the same realization as me: there is no way to compete with that, no matter how menacing, or flirty, or mysterious we try to be. All anyone seems to be able to look at is twelve.
Upon looking closer, something else even more disturbing is made evident. They are holding hands. It makes me absolutely sick.What do they thing this is? Kindergarten? This is the Games, for goodness' sakes.
Throughout the rest of the parade and all through Snow's speech, the camera's spend all their time on the flickering tributes from twelve. I can feel the anger boiling up inside of me. All the citizens, all the sponsors, are cheering for them. All because of a stupid costume.
Back at the stable area, Clove and I are shooting daggers at them. For a brief moment, I catch the eye of the girl, the volunteer. And in that brief moment, I convey all of my anger and hate towards her. A shiver visibly runs through her, and she turns away to go back to her floor at the Training Center. She really is nothing more than a pathetic coward, and I'm looking forward to proving it.
That night, after another massive dinner, I'm feeling stuffed. We gather around the tv to watch a recap of the opening ceremonies. Everyone, from mentors to stylists, seems annoyed at district twelve for essentially monopolizing the entire program. My only comfort is that in the arena, a fiery costume won't be able to save either of them. They are still from twelve, and I'm still from two. I outrank them in every way, and that won't be overlooked, even by the Capitol.
"Go to bed," Brutus orders when the show ends. "Tomorrow is training."
Finally, something to look forward to. No stylist and damper my abilities when it comes the training. Plus, in training, Fire Girl won't have any fancy outfits to hide behind or rooms to run away to. Tomorrow, both of them will be exposed for what they are: underfed, incompetent children to be picked off.
Just you wait, Fire Girl. Wait for the real fun to start.