I'm such a tease.
They see each other. Does that count? :P
I'm sorry guys. Slow build and all. But I'll see what I can do in the next chapter when we get into the actual training. I also don't want to focus on all that too long. You know, hit the highlights with some Cato thrown in there where he shouldn't go, and bam, move along to the Games.
Man I'm tired.
But I'm posting this because I feel bad for my delay on the last one. And also the delay on answering all those reviews. But here we go.
Thanks for reading!
I imagine that if I hadn't promised Haymitch my compliance, I would have allowed my irritation to bubble forth and at the very least complained about what they were doing to me.
It had started with a scrubbing rinse that removed any dirt and grime, and probably some skin as well, from my body. After that, they'd gotten out small tools to fix my nails into perfect little crescents, longer than I was used to but not ridiculously so. Now they are ripping at the hair on my legs, tearing it off onto chunks of paper and grimacing at the amount of small, dark down before throwing it into a swiftly filling bin. Somehow, I feel their disgust for the hair seeping into me as well, and soon enough I start to wonder how I'd left it there for so long.
Hours pass this way, where I stand, bare but not uncomfortable, and the team plucks and primps me. Although I physically don't feel shame for my body, I still feel unease at the preparations they are making. As if I'm a chicken, being plucked and cleaned only to be eaten alive. I gulp and stand straighter, wincing as another rip brings my mind back to their ministrations.
"Sorry," Venia says yet again, her Capitol accent making it hard to distinguish each syllable as they roll together in strange ways, "I'm really sorry! You're just…you're just so hairy!"
I sigh. "So I've gathered."
"Alright, good news," she crows, spreading more wax on another section and pressing the paper to it. "Last one! Ready?"
I nod, wincing as she rips it quickly. "There we are!" she chirps happily.
Flavius and Octavia, the other members of my team, had been doing something—what, I really wasn't sure—behind me. Now, they come around and give me praise for doing so well as they slather lotion onto my bare skin. At first, it begins to sting and tingle like I'm numb, but then it starts to soothe the irritated skin and make it return to the tan color it used to be, instead of the angry red all my plucking had transformed it into.
Now it was over, though, and my helpers squealed and ventured off to find my stylist. I was a little bit worried about what was in store—stylists worked closely with the tributes for hours on end. If I'd already endured so much meticulous horror without him here, what would happen when the elusive Cinna was finally giving the orders? A shudder runs up my spine and the door opens.
In steps a young man with closely cut hair and light eyes. He stops for a moment to appraise me, and my breathing stops in turn to appraise him and his…normality. The only odd, Capitol influence I can pick out on him is a dash of silvery gold atop his eyelids, matching the shine in his eyes. But his clothes are average, his skin a normal color for a human, and all of his features are not out of the ordinary. Instantly, my nerves ebb as I feel hope rising in me—if he looks so normal now, maybe I won't look so freakish later?
We greet each other, and he asks for a moment as he swoops around me once again. I feel uncomfortable at first, but by now the feeling of eyes on my bare skin has little effect on me and it's easy to recede into the thoughts that had been nagging at me since that night in the train. However, it isn't long before Cinna pulls me away for conversation, and I feel grateful for that.
He asks about my hair. After a moment of staring at him dumbly, I remember my mother's pretty braid is still wrapped on the back of my head, and I tell him that she'd done it. He babbles about its beauty and I try—I really try, but I fail, to listen.
"You're new," I state at last, as he passes by my front. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, and I feel doubt roll in my chest. I'd never paid attention to the Games I'd despised, so maybe I had missed him? "Aren't you?" I continue dubiously, my voice weaker. "I…I don't think I've seen you before."
"Yes," he confirms easily, his voice smooth. "This is my first year in the Games."
There's a mocking lilt to my voice—not for him, just for the bias of the Capitol, "So they gave you district twelve."
His expression does not change, and his voice is still the soft, but strong, tone it had been. "I asked for district twelve." He doesn't offer any further explanation or insight as he instructs me to put on the robe. I hesitate, moving mechanically, as I wonder at his revelation. No one asks for district twelve…we are the failures.
He leads me to a room that I don't focus on for very long. It's nice, but everything is nice here. He presses a button and hands me the instant meal that follows. It's delicious smelling chicken with some sort of fruit tang, and I know it is only the best that one could get. This is the Capitol, after all.
I imagine trying to make it at home, where our delicacies are weak katniss soup and rough, grainy bread. Maybe I can tenderize the meat to make it bearable. Maybe we can spare some herbs for flavor instead of medicine. But in the end, food was never a pleasure in district twelve, just a necessity. It kept me going to find even more of it for the next day. Energy. Not leisure.
Cinna's eyes find mine as I look up. "How despicable we must seem to you." I wonder if he can read my mind, but I don't say anything. It's not like he's wrong—they were disgusting creatures. If they weren't, I wouldn't be sitting here now, dolled up for my inevitable death. The only thing keeping me from loathing Cinna was his humble sense and his average looks. "No matter," he continues casually, but there's something in his eyes like pain. He knows just how deep my hatred runs for these people. Can they even be called that?
As we talk idly about past ventures with clothing, I wonder which overdone monstrosity I'll be placed in for the parade. It had ranged from trendy coal miners to naked, shivering kids covered in black coal dust. Each time, the crowd responded with half-hearted cheer, more for courtesy than anything. And I know that mine won't be much better.
Cinna describes them briefly before saying that he wants to take a different angle this year. He wants us to be remembered, so he went with coal. Wonderful. Naked and covered in black dust. That'll get them going for sure.
"And what do we do with coal? We burn it," he says, his voice rising with an anticipation that his previously serene exterior can't hide. His eyes light up. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?" his tone is light with some mocking undertones, and his grin seems predatory as he sees my face.
Hours later, I stand dubiously with Peeta as we make a small, short agreement to pull each other's capes off the moment we feel the burn of fire. Cinna and Portia have reassured us many times that the fire is synthetic and safe, but the hesitant glances my fellow tribute sent me told me that he was about as convinced as I was. Cinna lit our costumes, jumped down, and yelled for us to hold hands. The cool tingling, but lack of burn, has me giddy with relief and I smile at the boy next to me. As the chariots began rolling, our hands found one another. Again, the relief pools in my stomach, and I feel dizzy from my sudden swing of emotions. I give Peeta a gentle squeeze, worried that I'm swaying too much. He squeezes back and grounds me there.
Our reception is amazing.
I float through the waves, the screams, the cheers and claps and roses and wonder. I'm flying, soaring high, feeling truly elated as we make our way through the furiously agitated crowd. The Capitol people are throwing themselves to and fro in their seats, my name on their lips, practically fainting as their faces turn red with excitement.
The feeling is indescribable.
When we roll to a stop, part of me is still high in the sky, looking around at my adoring fans, my growing sponsors, and I squeeze the life out of Peeta's hand happily. The other part works to calm me down and to try to remember what's supposed to happen next. My mind is made of cotton.
Then there's the other part. The part that had repeatedly glanced at the screens surrounding the audience, the screens showing all the other tributes. The part that waited and watched for that one face, hoping that it would show up but knowing that if it did, I couldn't bear to see it. That part scans the city's center looking for him. My heart stutters and jumps, my stomach dropping into my shoes, and I can't breathe correctly. I strangle Peeta's hand.
It's been years since I've seen him in the flesh.
He isn't close to me, probably a hundred feet or so away, but I catch his eye immediately, and I realize a little late that he had already been looking at me. I glance, for a brief moment, at his district partner—she's also looking at me, her mouth snarled, her eyebrows drawn. Before I can analyze this, I'm drawn back to Cato.
His face isn't as hard as it looked before, on the television during the reapings. It's not warm, or kind, or young; as I vaguely remember it being. It's still cold and detached, like any other Career, but there's shock there, too. I can't tell if it's because of my entrance, or because of me. I'm torn, wondering which is better.
I fight the urge to call his name. It was against so many unwritten rules. Effie would faint. Haymitch would grip my shoulder and ask me what the hell I was thinking, alcohol stale on his breath. Besides, what would I say after that? I'm not allowed to know who he is…it could get us killed. I think of anything to warn myself away from the idea, although it's oddly, maddeningly, tempting.
President Snow walks onto his balcony and does the introductions. It's a weak distraction, but it gives me something to look at in place of him. I tear my eyes away and echo the introduction in my head. I continue thinking of it as we loop around the circle once more before heading into the training center again. My enthusiasm is gone. My sweaty hand holds like a vice onto Peeta more from trepidation now, rather than excitement. I feel tired all of the sudden.
Our prep teams swarm us like bees. The sound of the training center is reduced to just that, a buzzing in the haze of my mind. I look over and find his blue eyes again—I feel pain as I think of killing him. You saved me, I think, hoping he can somehow hear it. You saved my sister. And I promised her I would kill you.
I feel the urge to go to him. To walk over, stand ten feet away, and raise a non-threatening bow to him. To grin and tell him he's a terrible shot, even though he's better than I am. To spend silent hours in the woods, hunting together, like a team. I want to go back and tell him that I'm sorry that one day I'll have to kill him to survive.
I want to be able to do just that…kill him. But even now, as his face hardens into a glare to rival his small district partner's, I'm not sure if I can.