Lectic (D3)
With only one person to fawn on, the stylists are going crazy. Veni has removed what little hair had grown since the last time I shaved my head, and doing so while chattering happily.
"-and you would not believe the way they're doing it! They moved Catilina, she's the other stylist, and they bumped her up to One! Just because they have an extra! Well, you're lucky they didn't take Pictor, he's better anyway," he prattles, rubbing some foul-smelling stuff on my scalp to keep my hair from growing back.
I don't mind too much. My mind is elsewhere, specifically, on the roof of the training center. I want to take a good look at the force fields first chance I get. I've only seen the truly dangerous ones before, and I'm looking forward to testing the relatively benevolent ones.
Besides, when my hair grows, it only gets in the way. You can't have long hair in District Three. The few people with naturally straight hair are in danger of catching it in machines. People like me with hair that has a mind of its own have the same problem, unless we braid it back like Screne does. I guess I would rather just go without the bother of hair for the last few days of my life.
Veni's nails are cold and metallic on my head, but I barely feel them.
It seems strange, how easily I am considering my death. But what's the point of not thinking about it? Short of a miracle, I'm not making it out of the arena alive.
But, I remind myself, never discount the odds. I mean, looking at this as a statistic, I have about an average chance of making it alive out of the bloodbath. I mean, I'm average height, and I'm half-starved, not all-starved like some of the kids in this thing.
Then again, I'm more likely to jump out of a car than to kill someone. And it's unlikely I'll ever see a car again. At the moment, a chariot seems more likely.
"Ow!" I cry, interrupted from my thoughts by a sharp, ripping pain on my lower legs.
"Sorry!" chirps Vici, holding a strip of cloth covered in hair. "Your costume won't work if you're all hairy!"
I resist the urge to groan, and I try not to cry out as Vici, pale blue curls bobbing around her face, begins to apply another strip.
Twenty minutes later, they're done with my hair. All of it. I wish I could be anywhere else- but I remind myself that, if not me, this would be Screne.
"There!" Vidi, whose skin is tattooed with a strange, camouflage pattern, says cheerfully. "You look civilized, now!"
I want to ask if they always speak in exclamation points, but instead, I grin, trying to keep my expression away from a grimace. One of my favorite things about myself is my complexion, and my skin is flushed and raw. At least I'm not wearing any makeup.
"Pictor will be in to do your makeup in a bit!" Vici says, patting my arm. "You're going to look so great, no one will be able to tell you're from the districts!"
Perhaps they think I honestly care?
I work up the sincerity to thank them, and they hurry out the door. I sit in the room alone for a minute, stark naked and still trying to think about force fields, when a thin man with more metal in his face than most televisions walks in.
He is holding a canister of silver body paint, and a rope of neon lights.
"I'm Pictor," he says, grinning and looking me up and down. "How do you like the color silver?"
Forcefieldsforcefieldsforce... I give up.
-x-
Diele (D1)
This costume is awfully itchy. I can see why- the thousands of tiny, blue (fake?) jewels that have been adhesively attached to my skin. Pretty, but… deeply, deeply annoying. Lycra and Chalice have been herded off into other rooms, and I'm thankful for that.
I need some time to come to terms with what is going on in the mirror. It's not just the costume, which, though sheer and wispy over my itchy-jewel-body, inexplicably gives me a shape I don't have. Just… my face. She doesn't look like me. Her cheek bones have been restructured by careful makeup application, her eyes are a brilliant green, and her skin has been made up to hide any flaws.
Hard to say, but I think I miss my spider-bite. It gave me character.
The prep crew, of whom I can only remember the name of the redheaded Claudia, scurries in. They are harried and probably overworked, having three tributes this year, but they are in their element.
I force a smile.
"Beautiful," I emote, and they gush for the rest of my touch-ups and spare me the difficulty of talking.
"Canina will be right back," one of the nameless ones chirps, her brilliant chartreuse hair bouncing with happiness. "She'll be so pleased you like it!"
My face frozen in an adequate smile, I nod happily. Canina is much quieter than the prep team, which can be a bit scary. But at this point, my ears desperately need a break.
They retreat the way they came, beaming and cooing complements to themselves, ("I did a lovely job with you!") finally leaving me alone again. I wonder how poor Chalice is holding up. She was… fragile, on the train. Lycra deserves a good portion of the credit for that.
More heels click outside the door, and Canina glides in, six feet tall naturally, seven feet in the heels she's wearing. I'm not quite six feet myself, and I've always been considered tall. She dwarfs me, or she would, if I wasn't standing on a platform.
"You look good," she mutters, the most words she's strung together since my arrival.
I scrunch my mouth into a grin again.
"Thanks," I say cheerfully, still not sure what she wants to hear.
She gestures at my smile. "Don't."
With a sigh of relief, I assume my normal expression, somewhere between indifference and annoyance.
"Be yourself," she insists.
"How am I supposed to do that?" I snap, whirling on the platform to face away from the mirror. "I've got glass in my eyes, crud all over my skin, and about half a pound of makeup on. This isn't me!"
"You want to live," she states, giving me a hard look. "This is what you do to live."
It's hard to argue with that, but I'm sore all over, and flaming mad at humanity in general. Besides, she's talking. And not in the creepy, chipper tone, either. The way she speaks is too fluid to be natural, but it's more comforting than the harsh Capitol accent.
"Okay, sorry. And thanks," I mutter. She pats me on the shoulder, and leaves.
-x-
Perl (D8)
"Touch ups!" calls Licinia, clapping her pale hands as my prep team scurries in. They look up and down at my roughly woven wool dress, which can't help but like. It's modest, as chariot outfits go, all the way down to my ankles, with sleeves that envelope my arms, comfortable, and colorful.
I haven't cried since Licinia thrust it over my head. But I can feel the knot in my throat that means I'm going to start again, soon.
"Add some water-resistant makeup to her eyes. You've seen her cry," Licinia orders, and I bite my lip. I need to stop crying. I know I need to keep from crying on the chariot.
But if I don't cry, who will?
Holland has been so nice to me, but he isn't a comfort, because I know that neither of us have any kind of chance. If there is to be a winner, I want it to be him. I want him to go home with food, and hug his sister, and have a life. It's only fair.
But I want that, too. I feel awful saying it, but I want everyone else to drop dead and let me go home. I've never felt so strongly about something before… not passionate enough to act on it, of course. But to fantasize, to imagine going home to Moire and Chino and a comfortable house and a pension… is it really so wrong?
"Licinia, she's crying again," says a member of my prep team, a touch of panic in his voice. "What do I do?"
Licinia sighs, and I realize that I am crying. My eyes are wet and cold.
"Change of plans. Get me some clear gel."
Several people around me scatter in various directions, grabbing something, and hurrying back. I keep my eyes closed, trying to make myself stop. Suddenly, I feel something slimy all over my face, hardening almost instantly.
With a gasp, I open my eyes, to see, in the mirror, that I have tear marks all down my face. The prep team continues as if nothing has happened.
"What… what did you do?" I falter.
"I've given you an image," Licinia says blithely, smiling at her own intelligence. "You're the grieving mother! Torn away from her family!"
Yes, I am. But… that's not how I want my husband to remember me. That's not how I want my daughter to see me, some day, in a recap of the quell. I want to be Perl… I want to be brave, and strong, for them.
"Oh, don't worry," she reassures me. "The sponsors will love it!"
…I don't care about the sponsors…
…I just want to go home…
-x-
Dylan (D4)
This happens every year. This systematic gluing-together of legs, application of scales, fins, I don't know what else.
Maybe Rippel can pull it off, but Gull and I, at least, were never meant to be mermen. He looks as embarrassed as I certainly do. We are fish from the neck down. But fish don't look nearly this stupid. They look like fish. We look like unfortunate escapees from a madhouse.
Rippel is still being touched up by her prep team, so Gull and I get some quality time to avoid looking at mirrors. Honestly, how does District Four get sponsors? Scilla is laughing her head off at home, I'm sure of it.
A door opens, and Rippel shuffles out, her legs bound together in the same manner as ours.
They've taken her glasses, and added extensions and seaweed to her hair. The contacts don't seem to be working out for her, and she narrowly misses the doorframe.
When she reaches our little wheeled platform, she sighs in relief.
"I'm going to need some help getting up."
Gull and I nod, trying to help her. Because of our incapacitating costumes, we will be wheeled to the chariot boarding area. Needing help to move is going to make a great impression.
We all huddle together, trying to stay upright. I'm the tallest, and thus, the obvious anchor for the other two.
"Okay!" chirps Glycius, our head stylist. "I have a team of Peacekeepers coming to help you to the boarding zone. Good luck! You look fabulous!"
Without waiting for a comment from us, he skips away, leaving us alone on the rolling platform in the corridor.
"So," says Gull. "Have we met any of our allies yet?"
Gull is a pretty decent guy, even if I wouldn't totally classify him as a Career. He's the odd one out of our trio, but I still want him in the pack. District loyalty is a great motivator, and Rippel and I can use an ally we won't have to watch our backs around.
"Uh, yeah," Rippel replies after a second of thought. "I ran into the Lycra girl from one on the way down. She's definitely a Career, if a bit… petty."
I nod. I saw one of her partners, Diele, at the recreation center last night.
"I met one of the other One girls. She seemed trustworthy enough," I add.
"How about the little one? Chalice? Do we want her?" Rippel asks.
"The more the merrier. Might as well keep as many people close as possible," I say.
No one adds that the Twos are decidedly the most intimidating this year. From the huge guy, to the ratfaced boy, to the slightly unhinged girl. They're the ones we need to worry about recruiting.
"Do we invite Auroch?" Gull asks, breaking the silence.
"I don't think so," replies Rippel. "He seems like a guy with his own agenda."
I nod agreement, but three Peacekeepers walk up, no doubt snickering silently at our costumes, and begin to pull our platform.
It's all I can do to stand up straight, and it's even more difficult considering that I've got Rippel pulling me off balance on one side, and Gull on the other.
"It's okay, you guys. This is going to work out, even if we get laughed at. I mean, there's got to be someone dressed worse than us."
-x
Demetra (D2)
I look utterly amazing. That's not to say my costume is comfortable- I'm in a tight jumpsuit, covered from head to toe with white dust, grey patterns, and a few flecks of actual marble glued here and there on my skin.
Seriously, I am a freaking statue. It's awesome.
Lucian and Martial seem to already dislike each other, which is fine by me. I'm not getting in between the two, though. When our chariot is ready to load, I make certain the Lucian gets the middle spot.
I think Lucian hates me, too. And I can't blame the little rat. I certainly don't like him, not that he can tell. One of my little pleasures is snarking, and neither of them are receptive. At all.
"Nice makeup, Lucy," I jibe, poking him in the ribs with my elbow.
"Don't call me that," he says, not looking up.
With a sigh, I let up, something I'm not fond of doing. I just can't make him angry.
The chariot two back from us is still empty, and a few people seem concerned. I'm certainly not. However, I find myself nearly doubling over when they roll in- literally, roll in. In mermaid suits.
Again.
"Shut up!" one of the girls from One whines, making a face at me. It's the seventeen, Lycra.
"Make me, Blondie," I retort.
The One girls are all in similar outfits, which provide very little coverage, but a whole lot of glitter. Diele, who I have labeled 'the decent one' mutters something to Blondie, then dodges a slap.
I think I like her.
I look around, to see the Three boy decked out like a holiday tree, painted silver and strung with lights. At least he obviously has clothes on beneath all the paint.
He smiles tentatively, like he's not sure what else to do. I roll my eyes, looking further back.
The Fours are mermaids, as I've already noticed.
The Five girl is in a short, structured dress with patches like a calculator. I'm dying to make a crack about pushing her buttons, but I there's no one around to appreciate it.
The Six girl, whose self-satisfied smirk I already hate, is in a green, color-changing dress. I don't know how that represents medicine and science or whatever, but, then again, how do mermaids represent fishing?
The pair from Seven are trees. Not even pretty trees. They look like a pre-grade's toys.
The two from Eight are in huge, roughly woven things. I say things because I really don't know how to qualify their clothing. The girl has what is definitely a dress… maybe that's a poncho that the boy is wearing?
The Nine boy is in animal skins. Simple as that. If you rung out his stylist, I'm betting you'd get a lot of blood, but no creativity whatsoever.
The Tens are cows. Or, more accurately, a glowing orange bull and an equally colorful calf. That Auroch guy is enormous, and the little girl is absolutely tiny. It makes for interesting scale in the costumes.
I don't know hope it happened, but the Elevens are fruit trees. Their costumes are different from the Sevens, and yet, strikingly similar. Their leafy headdresses are hung with fruit, and their clothing, though bark-colored, is much more figure hugging.
They look like cheap rip-offs of the Sevens, and that's saying a lot, considering that the Sevens are cheap rip-offs of trees.
With a long sigh, I face forward again. I like my costume the best. No surprise there.
A Peacekeeper begins, to wave the One chariot ahead, and I assume a superior expression, which isn't difficult to do. Then, our chariot is called, and we finally start to move.
I am so ready for this.
-x
Pasque (D11)
I am not ready for this.
District Eleven is last in line. Not only that, but we look like District Seven knockoffs… now with fruit!
Sorrel is the only one in this chariot with any confidence left. She and Husk get along relatively well, and you get the sense that he's already singled her out as his favorite. That annoys Skiff to no end, and I can't say that isn't the case for me.
Seriously, we haven't even started training yet, but he's already talking her through the hours after the bloodbath, what to do with her supplies, which supplies are worth it… Skiff and I are lucky to get a few seconds of advice on the bloodbath.
"Run. Fast. Don't look back."
She makes herself impossible to hate by apologizing to us constantly and throwing in compliments to the two of us whenever they talk.
"I was talking to Pasque," she'll say, "and guess what? He's a really good climber, and fast, too."
"You should get some advice from him, then," Husk inevitably replies. "it'll give you an edge."
I want so badly to hate her. But you can't hate someone so… nice, is it?
Skiff and I don't much get along, either. We've tried. But I don't think any sort of alliance is going to work out. I'm going into the games alone, barring a miracle. It seems, however, that what little luck I had ran out a year ago.
Our chariot finally rolls out, dead last. It doesn't seem like anyone pays attention to us. We're the last district- the fervor surrounding the first few has died down. Even the glowing, color-changing cows before us are getting noticed more.
Someone throws a flower, which hits Sorrel dead in the face. She makes a little noise, and Skiff immediately goes to help her. I just sigh, pick up the flower, and toss it right back. I may really want to hate Sorrel, but when you're stuck in last place, you've got to stick together.
"Thanks," she whispers to both of us as we begin to circle the President's mansion.
The camera that shows shots of all the tributes' faces spends almost no time on us, preferring the District One's, whose jewel-encrusted skin has begun to glow blue in the dark.
I just keep my eyes open, paying no attention to what is being said, concentrating only on what has gone wrong, and what will continue to.
Everyone in this chariot will be dead within a month. That much I am sure of.
We begin to roll again, and I am jolted back into the moment. Sorrel has a pink blotch on her forehead where the flower hit her, and I know Husk will have called for first aid by the time we get back to the center. If it was Skiff or me, we would be told to shake it off, because, of course, worse things are going to happen to us very, very soon.
Ugh.
We step out of the chariot, our legs all a bit wobbly. A medic is standing right by us, and Sorrel is immediately removed from the chariot, protesting that she is completely fine.
The District Four mermaids have ripped off their tails, and are congregating with the Ones and Twos. Everyone else, though, simply mills around without knowing what to do. Slowly, as our escorts join us, tributes begin to file out.
Seraph prattles about how great we looked, happily believing the lie herself. She fawns over Sorrel and her 'wound', insisting that she lie down when we reach our rooms.
Skiff and I will have free run of the place, or, at least, what little of the place we are allowed into. I foresee an evening spent showering, eating, and crying, thinking of the games, missing my family, and wishing, beyond anything else in the world, to be back home.
-x
Sorry for all the POVs. I wanted to get as wide a spectrum of tributes as possible. :)
This update's question: Has this chapter changed your point of view about any of the tributes?