Snip Snip Snip
Tufts of gold fur fall away at every snip of the scissors. A small pile gradually grows on the waxed, black marble floor.
"You have such a marvelous mane. So big, so natural. It's like a miniature sun." Venia comments, her aqua blue hair and gold tattoos gleam in the fluorescent lights.
After our entry in the Capitol, we were shoved into the Remake Center. I was introduced to my prep team and they set to work immediately. Stripping me from any garments of clothing, the trio washed and cleaned pretty much anything and every little thing on my body. Some of the treatments were painful, too, one including a gritty solution that was lathered over my chest and stomach that, I'm pretty sure, grinded away half of my body mass. And I don't have a lot of that on me. At least my fur now shines like polished bronze, and I feel brand new.
At the moment, they're styling my mane by "getting rid of those pesky little split ends." Venia's words, not mine.
"And the shape is so thorough. Your mane is definitely the healthiest one I've ever seen." Octavia, a plump woman with skin the color of pea soup, says happily.
"If only we could dye it. We could experiment with so many different colors." Flavius pouts loudly, his orange corkscrew curls bouncing to his every step.
"Now now." Octavia says as she taps his shoulder in what's supposed to be a reassuring manner. "We have to obey Big M's orders."
They nod in agreement, flashing in a rainbow of skin and hair.
"Who's Big M?" I ask out of sheer curiosity.
"That's just his nickname. His real name is Megamind." Flavius says matter of factly.
"He's your stylist." Venia answers for me and snaps the scissors one last time.
What kind of name is Megamind? I don't ask this out loud because I'm supposed to be nice to my prep team, although I'd rather kiss a toilet seat if I could. My prep team have to be the silliest, most idiotic people anyone could ever meet. They can talk about literally anything and make it sound like such a big deal in their pathetic lives. I listened to them chat about what style of shoe they should wear in the afternoon for a whole hour and fifteen minutes.
Yes, I kept track of the time. But the only thing I got out of it was just how insignificant they were. And that four-inch pump heels are in style this season.
But they're trying to be polite (failing miserably at it, too) so I might as well put in some effort.
Octavia snatches the grey sheet of fabric away from my neck and they all step back to admire their work, huddling together under the lightbulbs hanging from string above their wildly styled hairdos, looking like human incarnations of the rainbow coming off of a glass prism.
"Excellent! You look like an overgrown, fluffy kitten." Flavius says and they all giggle like a bunch of school girls.
I force the corners of my mouth up into what has to be either a smile or a grimace.
"Thank you." I say through gritted canine teeth, unsure whether I want to ruffle my mane back to it's knotted, messy glory or sink my claws into the plush leather arms of my chair.
Whether they notice it, which is highly doubtful considering how completely oblivious they are (*cough*cough* stupid *cough*) or not, they all smile in acknowledgement, their faces stretching the heavily applied makeup across their features freakishly.
They usher each other out of the room and I'm left alone. On a nearby chair, my robe lays waiting for me to snag it up and clothe myself with it, but I don't move to put it back on. I've spent my whole life without any clothes to hide under and I'm not about to feel embarrassed about it now.
In a few short minutes, a man enters the room. And upon sight, my jaw gives way and I stare at him in spite of my manners. His skin is blue, and not just any normal shade of blue; a glowing, hazardous hue that threatens to give me a headache on my left eyebrow, like some strange chemical in a science lab. His thin body is covered in shining black leather: leather cape, leather boots, leather everything; studded with metal spikes. Wide, intelligent green eyes dance with excitement in his sockets. But the most bizarre quality about him is his giant cranium sitting on top of his neck. Not a single hair sprouts from the wide scalp aside from the small goatee perfectly shaved on his narrow chin and the straight eyebrows on his massive forehead. He smiles at me.
"Hello, Alex. I'm Megamind, your stylist." He thrusts out a gloved hand without hesitation, boldly giving a greeting to a lion who could easily bite off his fingers in a blink of an eye.
I cautiously take his outstretched limb, instead.
"Hello." I venture.
"Pleasure to finally meet you." He says after I let go, clasping his hands together. "I'll need a minute, is that alright with you?" And without my consent, he begins to circle me before. His shoes give the slightest of squeaks with each step he takes, placing a single finger on his chin. He takes in every single inch of my naked body.
I watch him like a hawk uneasily.
Something's off with him. Despite his bold, unique features, he lacks the air of flamboyance most people appear to have in the Capitol. Literally, nearly every single soul in this place is a stuck up, snobby, spoiled brat. Yet instead, Megamind (regardless of the valor in his name) is much more tame; calm.
"Are you new or something?" I ask suddenly.
Megamind meets my gaze unquestioningly, pausing midstep.
Gobber had given me direct instructions to not resist whatever my stylists did to me, no matter how horrific they were. Yet the loophole there is that the part where I'm scrubbed and waxed is over. The whole, "Sit Still Look Pretty" while listening to a bunch of blubbering idiots talk about nonsense is done and over with. To hell with it! Gobber said nothing about how to act around my stylist. I can ask him whatever I want.
"Why do you ask?" Megamind requests distantly, his attention fully locked onto the tall mass of hair on my head known as my mane.
Why is everyone so captivated by my mane?!
"Because you look young to be a professional stylist. Plus, I've never seen you before." I answer.
Most stylists are constant returnees in the ever changing pool of tributes. I've heard of some who've been around for decades. And as for us poor, unfortunate souls who are forced to watch the Games, it's also mandatory for us to remember the stylists, too.
"You're correct. I am, in fact, new. This is my very first Hunger Games." He says as he finishes his round of inspection.
"Got stuck with the scraps platter?" I say, a hint of bitterness on my tongue.
Newcomers in the Capitol's tribute designs have the so-called privilege of receiving the caboose of the long train of districts to work with. The least desirable district of all Panem, little District 12, has been handed down to our little Man in Blue.
"Actually, I chose District 12." He says without any explanation.
Before I can react, he continues.
"Why don't you put on your robe and we can eat? I bet you're starving after being plucked and washed all this time." He turns with a long
Putting aside my pride, I do as he asks and follow him out into a wide sitting room where two luxurious red couches face off. A low, white metal slab of a table rests in between. Three walls of the spacious room are black and blank, but the last one is entirely made up of glass. From here, a full 100 something stories up, I can see the entire Capitol. The pointed tops of the buildings reaching towards the sky like bedazzled outstretched limbs.
Megamind takes a seat on one couch and I sit on the opposite side. He presses a button on the leg of the table and the middle splits open to reveal a steaming tray of food. A large bowl filled with pale noodles is placed next to another full of savory red sauce, hunks of meat float in the lake of red tomato. Slices of toasted bread smeared in garlic and cheese waft under the scent of pasta.
I blink once. Twice. Never before had a meal like this appeared before me at such speed. Well, not exactly the first. The first in a couple of years, yes. But back then, it wasn't nearly as marvelous and quick.
Everyday, I would wake up and a plate of steak would lay in front of me, cold and meaty with fat around the edges, just how I like it. Same with lunch, and dinner. I knew it was the zookeepers who had brought it to me, but I never questioned how they did it so fast. I guess I was too occupied with my supposed grand "performance" to the citizens of New York.
Looking at the large proportions of Italian food, I realize just how easy I had it back in New York and the people of the Capitol have it now. To have anything you want pop up right in front of you at the push of a button. No need to worry about the next meal because you know for certain that it'll be there. And to think that I used to spend my days prancing around and roaring in front of a crowd for publicity, never once thinking about what would happen if all of that changed. I was no better than these people I now despise.
Wait?! Dancing? When was the last time danced? Three years ago?
I'm not saying that I don't like dancing anymore. I still do. It's just that now I have no time for it. Hunting and gathering in the woods, then trading it at the Hob takes up too much time for me to even think about dancing. Besides, what would I dance to? There's never any celebrations or festivals in District 12, and if there were I doubt anyone would put on their best clothes and get out there and start swinging.
As I start to think about this, my mind trails to another subject: what do these people do for a living? The Capitol's residents don't have to slave their lives away working for the upper class like the rest of us do. And aside from watching the Hunger Games, what do they do for entertainment? Talk about shoes and play dress up?
The fur on the back of my neck stands on end, as if I'm being watched. I glance up to find Megamind's radiant eyes trained on me.
"How despicable we must look to you." He says as he pours tomato sauce over his stringy noodles.
What makes him say that? The fact that their leader forces the poor people of the districts to work tooth and nail to provide for the petty lot of the Capitol?! Serving ourselves up like pigs for slaughter and experiencing unspeakable torture for all the world to watch on their television screens?!
Where's the badge, Big M? Because you must be a detective.
My paws clench into fists on my knees and my jaw tightens at his statement. He didn't say it as if trying to look at peace with the idea that I hate his guts and everyone else's in this glimmery, glamorous cesspool. Yet he also didn't sound all that sympathetic, either.
"No matter," says Megamind.
Oh, great. That makes me feel loads better. NOT!
"So, Alex, for your outfit in this year's opening ceremony, my partner, Minion, and I have put together something a little different. As you know, it's customary to reflect your district's role in Panem."
Reluctantly releasing the built up temptation to shove the still steaming bowl of sauce on his giant head, I decide to listen to him. So, being the coal district, we have a limited amount of materials for our get ups in the opening ceremony. Stiff work jumpsuits with rusty helmets are usually worn. Or even worse, our tributes are in nothing but coal dust. The memory of one particular year of two teenagers riding in a carriage butt naked and dusted with soot makes me cringe.
"So we've been thinking that the coal miner thing is a way overused and bland. No one will remember you or your partner in those suits. So this year, I want you to be unforgettable."
I'll be shaved for sure.
It's also commonly known that some tributes (preferably animals) are pulled into the Remake Center and come out looking completely different. Some are dyed like Easter eggs, tattooed, or better yet, shaved. And trust me when I say that a lion bare of any fur isn't a pretty sight. I know that for a fact.
"So instead of focusing on coal mining, we're going to focus on coal itself."
I'm going to be shaved like a naked mole rat and powered with coal dust.
"And what do we do with coal?" He says, pausing for a dramatic effect. "We burn it!"
Blue Man says what now?
"You're not afraid of fire, are you?" He asks mischievously when he sees my expression.
A few hours later, I'm relieved to say that I still have my coat of fur still attached to my body (thank god). Yet, I'm dressed in what has to be the greatest costume in all of the Games combined, or the most deadly.
I wear a simple unitard the color of ink, reaching from my neck to the joints of my ankles. I've never worn makeup in my entire life. At the moment, gold powder is intricately spread across the bridge of my nose and the hollow of my cheeks. My eyes are lined with something black that makes my azure orbs pop out. My mane is coated in a temporary chalk. Near my face, a deep maroon fades to a fire engine red, to blood orange, to buttercup yellow. A large, billowing cape trails behind me, streaming with orange, red, and yellow glitter. Megamind is going to light it on fire.
"It's not real fire. Just some synthetic fire Minion and I created. It's perfectly safe." Megamind says.
Minion, I learned, is a talking fish with a huge robot body that vaguely reminds me of a gorilla's. For a strange little creature, he's incredibly smart and humble. But I'm not one who's easily convinced by their words. Especially with the possibility of being barbecued being highly probable.
"I want the audience to remember you in the arena. Alex, the Lion of Fire." Minion says dreamily.
Now I'm pretty sure that my stylist and his partner are crazy.
I've heard of the story of the Lion of Fire, or more commonly known as the Lion of Judah. It's mentioned in a few books in the Bible, both New and Old Testament. I'm not very religious, but a number of people are in the Seam. Now I wish I'd paid a little more attention to them.
When Gia shows up, I actually feel a little relieved to see her, despite my little contract in my head to not trust her. She's dressed in the same outfit I'm in. Her numerous spots are expertly caked to a pitch black, her features sharper and her eyes aglow. Something about her looks different, and it's not the clothes or makeup that make her more noticeable. It's her posture; her back is straighter and her head is tilted up. She looks confident.
Being the daughter of a baker, the jaguar must know quite a bit about fire. So I should be safe.
All of the members of the prep team and stylists are all giddy with excitement over what a huge hit we'll be. That is, except for Megamind. He seems a little annoyed with their enthusiasm.
Honestly, who wouldn't be? They all sound like a bunch squawking birds.
We're whisked away to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is actually a horse stable. Pairs of tributes are already present, sitting in their carts with two horses to pull them along. Ours are the color of lumps of coal. They wait for us in all their darkness and might. The animals are so well trained that there's no need for anyone to steer the reins. We're escorted to our chariot and Minion and Megamind stay to fix our positions, fiddle with our capes, making sure everything is absolutely perfect.
"What do you think about the fire?" Gia whispers to me, her Italian accent as strong as ever.
"I'm not exactly planning on dying just yet, so I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine and we'll run the hell out of here." I say out of the corner of my mouth.
"Deal," she says after what has to be a small giggle.
I can't help but chuckle. My nerves are going completely haywire, causing my paws to shake as I grip the edge of the chariot. My heart's beating so hard I'm persuaded that it'll burst out of my chest. Believe me when I tell you that you'd be just as nervous as I am if you were about to be roasted like an overgrown turkey.
Loud trumpets suddenly sound off and a pair of tall gates slide open, opening the way to the ceremony. The ride will last about twenty minutes as we go through the crowded streets of the Capitol, each one lined with colorful people cheering on their favorites. The District 1 chariot, gold with pure white stallions, rolls out of the stable and the chorus of clapping begins. Then District 2, 3, 4, and so on.
Megamind comes by once again and taps our chins up.
"Remember: heads high, smile. They're going to love you!" He says.
He hops down and Minion hands him a lightened torch that blazes red and yellow. And before we can act, he lays the torch on our backs. I gasp, waiting for the searing heat of the fire, a sign that the flames are actually real. With gritted teeth and eyes clamped shut, I tense in angst for the hot white pain to burn me alive But nothing comes. Just a strange tingling sensation, like the feeling one gets when their foot falls asleep. My eyes slowly open to see that I'm not catching on fire.
"It works!" Megamind says after a sigh of relief.
"Was it not supposed to?" I call over my shoulder sarcastically, but he doesn't catch it as another round of applause erupts from the crowd outside.
Minion's scaly mouth is moving, but no sound registers.
"What did he say?" I shout to Gia.
"I think he said to hold paws." She yells back.
I realize that ablaze with this fake fire, she's dazzling. I must be, too.
We do as we're told, rather awkwardly, and the two give us each a thumbs up. The horses trot forward and we pass through the massive gates. The crowd goes wild. Clapping, screaming, cheering; a giant blur of mix matched neons. They create a rainbow ocean, glittering like hundreds of jewels bathing in the sun's light. Every head turns our way, drawing away from the chariots ahead of us.
At first, I'm as frozen as an icicle in Antarctica, afraid that if I move the flames will seize my exposed fur and cook me. But then I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A large television screen suspended on a jumbotron square podium shows Gia and me riding our chariot and I'm floored by just how breathtaking we are. In the mystic darkness of twilight, the firelight illuminates our figures like fiery angel wings, leaving a thick trail of orange and yellow that flows off our billowing capes.
Megamind was right about the excessive amount of makeup, because we look like living, breathing creatures of fire straight from the depths of Hell. Our body's silhouetted in midnight black, my mane dances like tendrils of real flames in the wind.
Speaking of which, Megamind's words ring in my ears. "Remember: heads high, smile. They're going to love you!" And so, I puff out my chest, put on my biggest smile, and wave a paw to the thousands of people.
I'll admit, I sure am glad now that I have Gia to clutch onto. She's surprisingly steady. As I start to feel a little braver, I begin to blow kisses to the crowd. Men and women alike reach out and grab them as if they're real tangible things, pressing them to their hearts. They shower us with flowers, shouting our names. Our first names, which they miraculously somehow remember.
Or did they just look it up? Ah, whatever.
With the pounding music, the cheers, and the admiration, a sudden feeling of pride swells up inside me. Somehow it's contagious because my smile widens and I catch a red rose from the crowd and smell it. This emotion is so strong and so overwhelming, yet is familiar. An old sensation that I haven't felt in years. I know it, but I can't quite place a finger on it, so I dismiss it immediately.
No one will forget me. Not my species, not my name. Alex, the Lion of Fire.
For the first time in the past couple of days, I feel hope rising up in me. And not the false hope you give to a soldier who knows he's going to die on the battlefield. But real hope, the kind that gives you the will to live. I mean, come on! There has to be at least one sponsor willing to take me on, especially with a crowd like this reacting the way they are. And with a little extra help, some food, and maybe even the right weapon, why should I sit on the sidelines in the Games?
"Alex! Alex!" I can hear my name being called from every corner of the city. Everyone wants my kisses.
It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize that I can't feel my paw. I look down to see Gia clenching my palm with a death grip, threatening to break my knuckles. I think she stopped the circulation. She notices and tries to loosen her grip, but I regain my grasp on her.
"You don't have to let go of me," I say.
The firelight of our outfits flickers off of her caramel eyes. "Are you sure?" She asks.
"Yeah, I might fall out of this thing."
"Okay," She says with a thanking smile. So she keeps holding on, looking forward at the adoring crowd.
I can't help feeling a little weird about the way Megamind has linked us together. It's not really fair to show us off as a team and then shove us into the arena to kill each other. Odd, don't ya think?
The twelve chariots stream down the lanes of the Capitol and fill the loop of the City Circle, coming to a stop. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every single window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of all of Panem, waving down at us. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Black's mansion which stands before us like a giant on a throne. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a tall, skinny man with mysterious black hair and smoky grey skin, gives the official welcome from a balcony a solid 100 stories above us. I don't listen to him. I've heard him enough on tv to know exactly what he has to say.
It's required to get a few shots of the faces of each tribute during his speech by the hired camera crew, but I can tell that we're getting way more than our fair share of airtime. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the camera crews watching Gia and me from the curbs, their gazes wide and their cameras aimed at the two of us. They can't help it. The darker it gets, the harder it is to take your eyes away from our glimmering selves. When the national anthem plays when the president is done speaking, they do, in fact, take quick cuts around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds onto District 12 as we parade around the Circle one last time and disappear into the Training Center.
The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by our prep teams, who babble unintelligently with praise. As I glance around, I notice that a lot of the other tributes are shooting dirty looks from their posts on their carriages, which confirms that we showed them all off. One in particular, the beast of man from District 1, gives me the stink eye, his lip curling in disgust. Feeling cockier than ever, I can't help flipping him off, sticking out my tongue snidely (Tooth Fairy swats my arm at this). He literally growls though his clenched pearls for teeth, but remains where he is, unmoving. Smart choice. I'm sure he wouldn't want to pick a fight with me. At least not here and now, and in such a ridiculous outfit. I swear, he looks more like the bride atop a wedding cake rather than the groom.
Megamind and Minion come to us, pulling us down from the chariot and carefully removing our flaming capes with delicate hands. Minion pops out a metal can and extinguishes them until they return to their normal selves then folds them neatly. I realize I'm still glued to Gia and force my stiff fingers to open and take a step sideways. We both massage our paws to assuage the soreness.
And I thought she was the one who needed it.
As our prep team swarms around us like a flock of colorful, bright birds, Gia whispers into my ear, "Thanks for letting me hold your paw. I was getting a little shaky there." Her words roll off her tongue in that exotic accent.
"It was nothing." I reply shyly.
Suddenly, it gets super hot and I rub at the back of my neck nervously.
Nervous? Why am I nervous?
"Alex, no! She is your enemy. Plotting in some diabolical way to kill you!" A voice in my head taunts.
Right! Right. I have to keep my distance. Gia is my enemy!
The jaguar flashes a smile and, out of nowhere, reaches up and kisses my cheek. My face heats up instantaneously.
… But just because she's probably planning my doom doesn't mean I have to be rude. Right?