Disclaimer: I wonder who the idiot is that claimed to be the author of the book he was fanfictioning for.

The 125th Hunger Games
District Nine Chariot Ride

Kaaya Zeyher POV

The Capitol is even grander in person. Overwhelming buildings that shoot up into the stratosphere, Capitol citizens dressed up like every day is Halloween, and then of course there's the Hunger Games building itself—wide, tall, and when the doors swoosh open and Steve and I are ushered inside, most definitely intimidating.

"Eeps," I squeak involuntarily, unable to stop the terrified noise from slipping out as we pass life-sized posters of past Victors. Lianna stops us to point out her own poster. Her tangled hair is blown straight, her skin flawless, the angle of her hips sharp enough to cut bone; but it doesn't look anything like the wrinkled women besides us.

"That's me," she boasts proudly. "Back when I was your age. Damn, I miss the days when I use to walk up looking like that."

"You were pretty," I venture.

She turns to me, eyes blazing. "Were? I still am, you little cow!"

"That's what I meant! Honest!"

Lianna huffs and flips her hair over her shoulder. I can tell it's been dyed because the roots on the crown of her head are speckled with gray, but I say nothing. Despite the fact she probably weighs less then I do, Lianna scares me a bit. This is the seventh time in two days she's bitten my head off over an intended-to-be-nice comment.

After a few more minutes of awkwardly staring at her poster, Lianna rushes us along. "What are you two waiting for? Your stylists are going to flay you alive for being late, tut tut. And Kaaya, they're going to need all the time they can get trying to make you look decent, so I'd hurry up if I were you."

My face burns red, but I don't have time to reply, not that I would have anyways. Lianna shoves me into a room marked District 9 Girl and I find myself surrounded by three Capitol ladies, armed with face paint and tweezers. I've never seen a more dangerous trio.

"You're late!" Purple-hair snarls.

"Sorry! Lianna stopped us, and—"

"The time for talking is over," she interrupts. "We have to make you beautiful."

—

Three hours later, my skin is rubbed raw and I have to look upwards to blink back tears. I've messed up my makeup twice now, and I seriously think Fiona—the purple haired stylist—would shoot me if I smudged it again.

Although I haven't seen myself in a mirror yet, I feel different. I know I look different. They covered me with body spray to tan my skin, painted my face so heavily I feel like I'm wearing a mask, and plucked every single hair off my body, including my bellybutton. Why would they pluck the hair off my naval area, anyways? No one's going to see it!

Well. I hope, anyways.

The door opens, and who I assume to be my stylist enters the room. Only, he's a guy. And he's telling me to take off the robe. Under normal circumstances, I would be mortified. As it is I still blush from the end of my nose to the tips of my toes when he gives me a quick once over.

"Hm. I was hoping your legs would be longer." He unzips the bag folded over his shoulder and showcases a pair of short shorts and an off-the-shoulder top made entirely out of rubber. And that's not even the worst part. My shoes are a pair of seven inch, flaming red, high heels.

I gape.

"Yeah," he sighs. "District Nine is hard to style for. I mean, a Distract founded on the production of shoes? Bor-ing. I'm just hoping I get promoted."

I gape some more.

"Well go on then, try it on," he urges, and I wiggle into the outfit. It's not exactly see-through—more foggy then anything—but I feel like a floozy. Coupled with the shoes, I'm sure I look like a floozy too.

He steps back. "You know, it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

"Really?"

"No." He chuckles. "It's even worse."

—

I leave an extra twenty minutes before we're supposed to meet up with Lianna because it takes me so long to walk in these shoes. I toddle through the hallway and tug down my shorts. Even though I've only been dressed for maybe ten minutes, the pants have glued themselves to my skin, and I physically can't slouch.

I'm hurting. I look stupid. And I'm going to have to wear this get up for the next two hours. I blink back tears of horror—I really can't afford a makeup malfunction on top of everything else—and slowly make my way to the elevator. I try not to think about what everyone back home will think of me. What Jacob will think of me. Mom, if she's lucid enough to watch my Games, will be horrified. "That's not my daughter," she'd hurry to assure my people. "We just have the same last name."

I lean against the elevator wall for support. Lianna wouldn't be so mean as to laugh at my misfortune—would she?

The doors spread open with a bing, and my heel almost gets stuck in the crack between metal and plush carpet. I pretend I can't hear Lianna laughing hysterically; hear Steve stifling his own laughter.

"Oh my God," Lianna cackles. "You look just awful!" She sounds delighted.

I start sniffling, and Steve mutters, "You don't look that bad," but he can't stop his lips from twitching.

"Could we please just get this over with?" I beg. These shorts are giving me a massive wedgie.

"Your funeral," Lianna chuckles, wiping a pretend tear from her eye.

I want to bawl.

—

Steve has to help me up onto the chariot since I can't do anything besides stand stick straight in these clothes. Dressed in a clean-cut black suit with a glowing shoe-patterned tie, he looks presentable; normal. I burn with envy.

Smiling to the entire Nation would be difficult in the best of circumstances; I'm in the worst. I can hear the other tributes laughing at me behind my back.

"Just ignore them," Steve mutters monotonously. "People will remember you."

"Yeah," I howl. "As the girl who looks like the bottom of a shoe!"

"No press is bad press," he encourages, which is, in a way, true. It makes me feel a bit better. But only a bit.

The Capitol employees give the signal, and our horses take off out the doors separating us from all of Panem. I paste a watery smile on my face and wave to the crowd, even though my hands are sweating, the bright lights are blinding me, and the roar of the crowd is turning my stomach into a professional gymnast.

Through the glare of the lights I can make out a crowd of oddly dressed people, cheering and jeering and pointing and laughing. I smile at faceless blurs until my cheeks hurt, but at least it distracts from the heels digging into my—well, heels, and the fact I'm pretty sure I've started to cry again.

I sigh, but it's lost in the thrill of the night.

Steve Ranbar POV

"Look at the size of his eyebrows!" A stylist gasps in shock the minute I step into the room.

"You mean eyebrow," A different stylist corrects. "It looks like he has a uni-brow."

The third and final stylist bounds forward to stare at my eyebrows. "It's like they're alive!"

All three share a collective shudder.

I don't know whether to feel insulted or not. Considering all three talk in the Capitol accent—high pitched, like they've just sucked in helium—and probably surgically enhanced their fingernails, I choose not.

"He's built like a twig," Stylist #3 complains as she swoops in to pluck another hair. "Absolutely no muscle at all."

"That's better then last years tribute," Stylist #2 mutters. "He was a big as—well, you."

Stylist #3 gasps in shock. "How dare you!" She plucks a hair with a vindictiveness I don't think is aimed at me, and I wince.

"Watch what you're doing," Stylist #2 says mildly. "You're going to make him bleed."

Thank you, Stylist #2.

"Wish I could make you bleed," Stylist #3 mutters, but the tweezers don't attack my face this time.

—

After three hours of listening to the stylists alternate between insulting each other and insulting other people, I'm relieved when they leave. Relived I can finally slip the silk robe on. Relieved, because my legs are still tingling from where they waxed all the hair off.

Ow.

"I'm Freda," my designer introduces the moment she flounces in the door. "And this is your chariot outfit."

She unzips a plain black suit with a shoe-pattern tie that lights up when she presses a button. "Nice, huh?"

"Sure," I say. I don't want to hurt her feelings. She's glowing more then the tie is.

The suit feels nice against my skin, if a little strange, and the guy looking back in the mirror at me looks distinguished. Professional. And, with my newly plucked eyebrows, I'm willing to bet maybe even handsome.

—

Standing next to Kaaya, I feel overwhelming gratitude towards Freda. My suit may look boring and drab, but, next to her disaster of an outfit, I look like a breath of fresh, completely normal, air.

I can hear a few people cheering my name when our chariot shows up on the big screen. I can hear even more people laughing. I don't smile though; I don't wave. I'm not a particularly smiley guy by nature, and the nice approach will only get you so far.

Like a statue, I keep my face carefully blank majority of the night. It's only when the cameras are panning over our chariot for the final time that I curve one corner of my mouth upward—my version of a smile.

I've been told the few smiles I do give are particularly nice. Maybe, if sponsors like it enough, they'll want to keep me smiling. Keep me happy. Keep me alive.

Maya—angry
Scene—arrogant
Katalina—independent
Drampton—ruthless
Seraphina—dreamer
Weston—energetic
Maren—upbeat
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)
Jenna—sweet
Ezra—mature
Katara—observant
Toris—shy
Ava—brash
Triston—player
Liesl—intelligent
Crayne—mysterious
Kaaya—scared
Steve—wall-flower

Thanks!
- Alactricity