A deafening roar rises from the humungous crowd, which seems to go to on into the horizon, as the chariots roll into the streets of the capitol. I take Julius's advice and wave extravagantly with my left hand (my right is being strangled by a shaking Alex).
"Come on, wave!" I hiss at Alex.
"B, b, but I'll fall off," he trembles.
"Look, I've got you. This is your chance for sponsors, so wave or die!"
Abruptly Alex's hand copies mine. I put on a huge grin, so that after a few minutes my jaw and face are aching. In a moment of complete giddiness, I throw my right hand, still being clutched by Alex, high into the air. The repercussions of this are a wave of screams and a shower of roses. People call our names – no they chant them. That is, until, they see the tributes behind us. Because district twelve's costumes are so mesmerizingly beautiful that the crowd are almost struck into a trance just by looking at them.
I remember a few years ago, one of the first games I can remember watching, where the tributes from district twelve were on fire. All the other tributes were annoyed at them, but at the time I couldn't understand why. But now I know. It is because even though my beautiful dress and dazzling headdress, my waving and holding hands with Alex, I will never be talked about as much as they are. This is because they have not just stolen the lime-light; they have stolen all the light. Literally. Because all of the light from the streetlamps, from the crowd and from my headdress, is all being sucked into their midnight black cloaks. This means that the only thing the crowd can see is the flickering candlelight of their headdresses, which seems to form the number 12.
The chants of "Alex" and "Volta" turn into "Mathew, Lily – DISTRICT 12!".
Over and over people scream it, and with every chant the bubbling pot of rage inside me comes close to boiling over. I can feel the lid of my temper slowly rising, moving, but never completely exploding.
"Volta?" Whispers Alex nervously.
"What!" I almost shriek at him.
"Could you loosen your grip a little?"
I look down to see my nails digging into his purple hand.
"Sorry," I mutter, releasing my grip and stretching my fist. We're almost at the city circle anyway.
When we finally arrive, President Snow silences he crowd as the light is restored from the district twelve's costumes.
"Welcome, welcome." She booms over a microphone. Since her father's death a couple of years ago, she has only hosted one game. Last year's game was one of the bloodiest, with the victor losing both his legs in the final mutt battle. There was a week after the games where he was fighting for his life, and the medics only just managed to keep him alive. I hate to think what the final battle this year will be like. If I'm still alive by then.
"Welcome, tributes, to the capitol! I hope you enjoy your stay in this amazing city. Happy 81st Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"
Our chariots roll through to a plain room. I'm not the only one giving the district twelve tributes the evils. Maybe their costumes will have gotten them sponsors, but with this many enemies its unlikely they'll make it past the bloodbath.
"Darlings that was amazing!" chimes Diamondus.
Pytha glares at the pair from district twelve and their stylist "Yes, well done. I need to check something with Crane. I'm sure that there was some cheating going on."
I don't see the point as I'm sure that those kids will be dead in a few days, but I stay silent.
"Come on you two; let me show you where you'll get to live for the next few days." Diamondus sighs, leading us towards a lift.