Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics or the tributes.
~The Chariot Rides~
District 8: Drizzle Plont
I'm a girl who wishes on scars
You must know that love can fade
~Hannah Fury, Never Look Back~
The Capitol itself isn't so bad.
Don't get me wrong, every single person here is absolutely stupid, talking only of parties and buying things too expensive for me to even consider looking at, let alone owning. But the way they dress... it's kind of cool, like the pictures I look at every night.
My tape... I'll have to look at it tonight... I wonder if there will be a TV in my room. I wouldn't know, since the first thing we did since arriving here was meet our stylists.
Well, Skylark met his, and I was introduced to my prep team.
A group of three people, dyed in varying shades of green. Their names are Nelly, Mo, and Dristan. I like Nelly best because she talks the least and has the most interesting looking tattoos, they are swirling lines crossing over each other in the most elegant pattern. It's as if she's a tightrope walker or something, because the one on my videotape has face-paint that looks almost exactly like that. Mo and Dristan resemble pea-green clowns and won't shut up.
"She's so hairy," Dristan comments in his high-pitched voice.
Mo nods his head. "So so hairy, it's gross."
"What's gross is your lack of clothing," I say to Dristan, who is wearing some strange piece of fabric over his waist. "And your snaggle tooth." I tell Mo, who immediately stops laughing at his co-worker.
Before they can respond, a woman with pink hair and matching facial tattoos comes through the door.
"This one has a mouth on her, Palma." Mo warns her.
"I hate those!" The woman—Palma—exclaims, shaking her head.
She walks over to where I sit and inspects me. Palma holds up my left arm, and turns it over in her hand several times. "Nice skin, but she is terribly hairy. We must fix that." The fatso then proceeds to bring me over to another chair.
This one is a lot more comfortable and covered in various buttons of all shapes and sizes.
Before I know what's up, Palma is sticking pieces of paper on me. Only, they're sticky and way more annoying than I could have imagined. Dristan, after five minutes, is told to peel them off—which he does with as little care as humanly possible.
"Oh shit!" I grip the arms of my chair, tears stream down my face before I can stop them.
"See?" Nelly says, "she has no regard for us."
Mo just surpassed her on my cool scale.
Palma says nothing, taking a pair of scissors from the vanity table, and starts snipping away at my hair.
"Hold up!" I shout, propelling forward in my seat. There's no way in hell that she's going to cut my hair, nobody has ever touched it and it's going to stay that way.
"Darn!" My stylist shrieks in her weird Capitol-tone. "Now look what you've made me do!"
She turns the chair around so that I'm facing a huge ceiling-to-floor mirror. I examine my reflection carefully. Nothing is wrong with my face, but I soon realize that a huge chunk of dark hair is missing from the right side of my head. My... my... hair. It's gone! I throw a horrified look at the floor, where the offending lock is scattered.
I point to the mess, glaring at Palma with as much hatred as I can manage. "Fix this!"
The fat-ass puts her hands on her hips. She tries to look at me with a straight face, but she soon breaks down and starts crying.
"I will!" she says through hiccups. "I promise!"
I realize that Palma reminds me of a younger version of Ms. Twill, the old lady who lives down the street from me. I wonder if my she would be just as scared of me, too...
"You'd better... I put a curse on the last person who ruined my hair."
"A curse?" Dristan asks, half scared and half curious.
I don't answer him, a creepy smile is all it takes to shut his mouth.
I settle back into the chair, despite the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think about why I'm trusting this lady with the rest of my hair. You know, since she already ruined most of it, and it takes me every fiber of my being not to yell at her when she tries to even out the split ends she caused. I remember what my mentor, Cecilia, said on the train.
Do what your stylist tells you to, it helps in the long run.
Bullshit. They've already made me bald and I haven't even been here an hour. Nelly, Mo, Dristan, and Palma have done nothing nothing to make me trust them. At all. What was Cecilia talking about? Is she on some sort of drug? Morphling? Why should I even trust her? District 8 hasn't even had a victor since her Hunger Games... has she even been trying to get her tributes home? Ms. Twill has always said positive things about her, but I bet none of it's really true... that woman has lost most of her marbles.
Palma puts something strange on my eyebrows and repeats the process she used for my legs. Dristan puts something else that smells like a bunch of toxic chemicals on my head. Nelly is the one to rinse it out an hour or so later.
"There!" Palma sounds proud of herself—that can't be good.
Mo turns my chair around again, so now I'm facing another mirror that magnifies every single flaw on my face.
I can't help the scream that echoes throughout the room.
I knew I shouldn't have trusted them!
District 8: Skylark Plont
Then Their Lives Went Down The Drain
Drove Them Insane
My Birth Was A Curse
~Creature Features, Such Horrible Things~
My stylist, prep team, and I are not the first ones to arrive at the waiting area. District 2 and 1 are already here, speaking to their own prep teams. They all look like Careers—mean, trained, killing-machines. Born and bred to be part of these Games, here because they want to be, not because their twin sister was reaped.
Nora, my stylist, tells me to wait in an empty chair until Drizzle gets here. I don't argue with her, I am willing to put off having a long conversation with her as long as I can.
"How about I shove this sword up your ass?" a dark-haired girl asks a person who I have to assume is her stylist.
"Mercy!" her district partner exclaims. "That's bad karma and our karma is connected since we're from the same district!"
The girl rolls her eyes. "Does it look like I care?"
"No."
"I thought so." she storms over to the only other unoccupied chair—next to me.
Great. It's obvious that this girl is a major asshole and I don't want to be anywhere near her, especially because she's armed. Her stylist dressed her as a Peacekeeper, I guess that means she's from District 2, which is known for their stellar law enforcement. Her outfit is ten times cooler, though, as it has several compartments used for storing knives.
I can't help myself, if there's one weapon I know a lot about, it's a knife. "Is that real?"
"Wanna find out?"
"No," I say, "not particularly, but thanks so much for the offer."
She doesn't know how to react to that, so when her district partner calls her over to the chariots, she goes.
"Bye." I wave to her, and she flinches at my smug tone, or maybe it's that District 2 boy's insistence that she wear his lucky rabbit's foot around her neck. Either way, I still get flipped off.
Not long after Mercy leaves, Drizzle comes over to me—except she doesn't look like Drizzle, she looks like an alien playing host in Drizzle's body. Because the real Drizzle would never, in a million years, cut her hair that short. I can't believe how close it's cropped to her head, or that there are pink streaks in her bangs, or that she's not throwing a tantrum over her lost hair, though she is frowning.
What did those idiots do to her?
"Hey Drizzle," I say tentatively, hiding a smirk. She won't like it if I laugh at her, but she looks ridiculous.
"Shut up." she replies halfheartedly.
I give her a one-armed hug. "Are you okay, sis?"
"I will be." she says, and I let the subject drop.
We watch a District 1's chariot rolls into the stadium. The tributes are dressed in gold, the girl in a dress and the boy in a tuxedo, their accessories are made from multi-colored jewels, all of which looked real. The boy appears stoic, unwilling to take his district partner's hand, though she keeps trying to grab his wrist. I honestly can't blame him, she spent the last fifteen minutes complaining that she'd better get more face time than him.
The audience loves them both, but Angelina seems to get more attention. For every cheer they get, I hear the name Angelina Devon twice as much as I hear Scout Penumbra.
District 2's chariot follows almost immediately after District 1's. Mercy still got stuck wearing the rabbit's foot, which I have to laugh at. The guy, who I've since learned is named Adrian, seems to be the favorite of the two.
"What's so funny?"
I look at my sister, who looks like she thinks I'm just as crazy as I believe her to be.
"Nothing."
The next set of chariots enter the stadium, and Drizzle shuts up, mainly because the cheers make it hard to hear—the screen we are watching everything from make everything louder than it probably is in the City Circle. District 3 is an absolute laugh, even Drizzle cracks a smile at them. The girl, Sukara is dressed as a TV, while the boy, Clint, makes a funny-looking remote. It's obvious—like everything in the Capitol—that it's pissing the girl off.
I wonder how we're going to follow them, I think the Capitol idiots are going to be too amused by them to notice how awesome we are.
I'm still thinking about it when District 4's chariots appear on the screen.
District 9: Fern Gresham
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase
~Evanescence, My Immortal~
My district partner keeps trying to talk to me, but I can't bring myself to even say hi to him, so the only thing Kale Anson knows about me is my name. And really, he only knows that because of the reaping.
I try to keep my head down, so I can write in my journal. That's what I did the entire time my stylist and prep team gave me a makeover. They tried to take it from me, but I wouldn't let them, so I guess that's why my hair looks lopsided. But it doesn't matter... I don't really care, I was able to spend those five hours I was in the Re-make Center writing letters to my mom.
She'll never get them... but it makes me feel better just the same.
"District 4 is done." Kale says casually.
I lift my head to see the end of Fawn Nolan's mermaid tail dance out of my sight. I guess the boy was dressed in the same way, because the stylists' have a habit of turning District 4 tributes into sex symbols—just like Finnick.
At first, District 5's costumes make no sense, what do black leotards have to do with power? But the stadium lights go out and Autumn and Ransom's identical outfits turn into lightening rods and the whole crowd is awed, but again, I don't really care. Not even when Ransom makes a lewd hand gesture that turns shock into laughter.
District 6 gets very little response, they are supposed to be train conductors, but the hat falls over the little girl's eyes and the boy doesn't do much to attract any positive attention to himself, he's kind of creepy, actually.
Bored, I start writing a letter to Mick, maybe he'll get to read it after I die.
Hopefully.
Dear Micky,
I'm sorry that I never really... I mean, you tried to be a... don't read that part.
I bite my lip, crossing the entire page out.
I finally tear the page out of my journal and start again.
Dear Mick,
You were a great brother. Sorry I shut you out. I know—knew—you loved her, too.
With love,
Fern.
P.S. Don't fight with Dad, he tries—sometimes.
"Trees." Kale says, again in that same boring tone. "They were trees. Again."
I still say nothing. Maybe he'll get the picture and shut up.
He doesn't. Instead, he talks even louder.
Kale's voice rises several decibels, and he only says, "Look Fern!"
My head snaps up, and at first I see nothing special, just identical siblings standing side by side in matching patchwork suits. District 8. But then, the girl climbs atop the edge of the chariot and leaps over it so she's on the horses back. She then proceeds to stand on her head, and then with only one hand. The crowd loves them, and they continue to cheer the girl's name—Drizzle.
My stylist, Gregor, pulls me to my feet and beckons Kale to follow him. He puts us in the chariot, while taking my notebook.
I try to make him give it back, but I can't even talk with a volume loud enough for him to hear me.
And just as I say, "Please," the horses move forward with a jolt and we are propelled into the mob.
District 10: Rowena Wilder
They try to kick it, their feet fall asleep
Get no harm done no
None of them want to fight me
~Metric, Combat Baby~
"Don't tell me what to do."
"But I'm—"
I hold my hand up, and whatever excuse Maximum Bane is coming up with becomes a moot point. "I don't care. Don't tell me what to do, you're not my dad."
"Isn't your—"
"Shut up!"
The chariot lurches forward before he can even think of not responding. Our horses—fat animals with muddy brown manes—trot through a set of huge double doors. They follow the path District 9's horses made for them. The girl hardly ever looks up, and I don't blame her. They are dressed as oats. Literally. The screaming and calling is even louder out here than it is in the waiting room, and it's hard to keep from falling off the chariot. I almost lose my balance twice, and both times Max catches me before I hit the pavement.
I refuse to look at him, even to say thanks.
Instead, I focus my attention on the rainbow of Capitol citizens lining the streets. Many of them are waving their programs in the air, chanting my name every once in awhile.
"Rowena!" I almost feel bad that I don't hear Max's name—almost. But for a seventeen year-old he has no tact, so it doesn't bother me for too long.
Sometimes, they even throw scraps of confetti in my face. And I wonder if our sheep costumes have anything to do with it. We don't look remarkable and I don't see why the audience isn't yawning, but it's useless to think about.
Nothing is ever black-and-white in the Capitol.
Our horses eventually skid to a stop in front of President Snow's mansion, as he will read an overview of the Hunger Games from the balcony.
I watch the rest of my competition carefully, the Careers look bored, but I see the District 1 boy looking around, too. I don't worry about them though, most years, the Careers off themselves.
Trust can only go so far in the arena.
The little girl from six takes her over-size conductor's cap off and stares at the unopened doors of Snow's home. I remember her from the reaping recap Max and I saw on the train. I think her name is Wendy. I instantly like her for no other reason than the fact that she reminds me of Fluer, who cried at my reaping the way Wendy cried at hers.
The rest of my thoughts are cut off by Snow's raspy voice as he clears his throat into the microphone.
Time to hear more about how we are supposed to kill each other, I guess.
District 11: Lily Flores
After President Snow recites his speech we are herded back to our rooms.
Bengal and I have to wait until I get the chance to press the eleven button on the elevator to get to our rooms.
It's interesting because I haven't ever been on an elevator before, well, except for that one time in the Justice Building, but Bengal had clung to my leg the entire time, scared because of the flickering lights. This time, I make sure to keep my stylist in between the both of us and Chaff, because he's weird, what with his one arm and terrible drinking habits.
I keep my eyes trained on the floor, watching as the people turn into dots as we rise higher and higher in the air.
When I can't see the people anymore, my thoughts immediately go to strategy. The single most important facet of the Hunger Games. The first thing I plan is to not kill Bengal, mainly because he's so young and I don't want to have to explain the concept of survival of the fittest to Andre, who hates eating the occasional Groosling we find because he just doesn't want to kill an animal. I also decide to find as many informative books as I can when we reach our rooms, because I can't possibly learn everything in three days.
When the doors open, I leave Bengal, Loretta, and Chaff behind and walk to my room alone, knowing that no one would be able to help me.
The first thing I do when I get to my room is wash off the yellow and green make-up Loretta and her prep team painted on my face.
They dressed us as cornstalks—can you believe it?
I doubt anyone remembers us... District 11 rarely gets sponsors and most of our tributes bleed to death in that very first fight.
Stepping out of my costume and putting on some pajamas, I head over to the large bookshelf on the other side of the room. It towers over my head and spans across the entire wall. I spend at least an hour searching for books on nature or weapons or even something related to the Capitol's history, but I don't find anything.
Nothing useful, at least. Though I do decide to read a book called: Candy's Search For The Glittering Puppy.
I can't even get past the first chapter.
The pages are filled with nonsense, and it mentions how great the Capitol is every other sentence and how awful the districts are between every comma.
Is Panem's epicenter really that oppressive?
The answer is yes, of course, and I'm forced to remember when my mother got whipped for taking just one more berry.
I put the book down, my eyes feel way too heavy to read anymore...
I dream of whips and puppies and death.
District 12: Brandon Carl Kindle
When I walk in the spot, this is what I see
Everybody stops and they staring at me
~LMFAO, Sexy And I Know It~
I wash the thick black make-up off my face, but it seems to be permanent, at least on my scar.
I can't remember where I got it, and my prep team hated having to work around it. They spent hours and hours trying to make it completely invisible, and even Portia, who seems pretty sane as far as stylists' go, was frustrated with it.
After twenty minutes, I give up and settle for scrubbing the "coal dust" off my body.
The chariot rides were a complete bust, nobody will remember us even though our outfits weren't the worst ones out there, that prize went to District 3. The award for worst hair definitely goes to the District 8 girl, Drizzle, though I did think it was cool how she did a hand stand during the lull in cheering, that was smart.
I actually ran into her on the elevator and our exchange went a little like this:
"That was cool. You know, what you did during the chariots."
She ignored me, pressing the "eight" button with more force than necessary. I pretended that it didn't bother me, but after a few awkward moments of silence I decided to repeat myself.
"Your trick was pretty cool!" I said loudly.
"I wish I could say the same thing about you." Drizzle answered dryly. "Oh... wait! No I don't."
I glared at her. "You know what?"
"No, but I'm not going to wait around for you to tell me."
She practically ran out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, leaving me puzzled and alone.
Sorry if some POV's seem short, I wanted to get this chapter out tonight like I said I would. I didn't write a POV for the bloodbath tributes, because I decided that would be pointless. Also, MinervaLilyPotter, I couldn't find a theme song that fit Lily, so I left it blank. I hope that's okay.
Read & review, please!