Sparkle Aire

District 12 Female, 18
Training begins

I wake up to the lovely chirping of birds.

A beautiful ray of sunshine penetrates the room, leaving a golden trail along my bed all the way to the opposite wall. I can almost feel the cozy warmth radiating from that single tendril of light which tints the room in a comfortable golden hue.

I sigh, because it's all so nice, peaceful and it's been a while since I've slept in a big bed like this. The sheets are all fluffy too, complete with intricate pink patterns.

I'm an adult, but I can't help but bring my arms and legs around me as though I'm five years old, feeling just how much space and soft goodness surrounds my body.

It's just the way I've always dreamed of waking up, as I went on about my daily tasks. When I was a little girl, I thought that these kinds of mornings filled with softness, gold and sounds of nature were fit for princesses. I always enjoyed the small things in life, because happiness only comes in rare and unexpected packages, where I am from.

I smile brightly while still keeping my eyes closed, just as the chirping noises fade away. A jading and synthetic voice replaces them. I can't see myself in a mirror, but I imagine I look beautiful, too.

"System updated."

I frown. Now, that's one way to ruin my mood.

"System updated. Training begins at 12:00PM. It is… 11:15AM. Training begins at 12:00-"

"Fucking cunt," I swear at the alarm, and hit it with my fist for emphasis. Sue a girl for wanting a nice peaceful fucking morning, when she's on her way to train for a murder fest she didn't sign up for!

Even though I'm brought back to the thick of the reality I'm about to face, it feels nice waking up in this huge bed alone. Being alone is not a luxury I can often afford and it feels like a blessing.

It's amazing, without some sweaty disgusting asshole constantly rolling over into me.

It's great not to have anyone's abhorrent morning breath clogging my nostrils and rhythmically reaching my shoulder until I am a hair-width away from choking them, the only thing stopping me short of murder being the sweet promise of money.

It's even better not having their obnoxious snoring rupturing my eardrums or their drool accumulating near my cheek because they have me pinned against their disgusting body, as I try to squeeze in a few hours of much-needed sleep before collecting my dues and moving on to my next assignment.

I've always dreamt of a lavish existence like the one I woke up to this morning, even when stuck in dingy basements or dancing with some sweaty client until the early hours of the morning.

Not if it meant dying, of course.

Not if it meant these Games.

But it's not like I have a choice in the matter, and this is as close as I'll get to the riches I've yearned to get back, ever since my rightful life was stolen away from me. So, I figure I'd make the best of it.

I yawn, stretch my limbs and make my way to the bathroom.

I shake my straight hair out, frowning a little at the traces of makeup I spot underneath my eyes when I look into the mirror.

I consider taking a shower, and then, looking at the time, reason that a bath is more appropriate. These Capitol dicks can wait all they want, they can't punish me until the Games start.

Sure, I might be dead within the week, but I clearly see now that my life was never meant to be long or happy, and they already solidly fucked me over by reaping me. They can wait an extra half an hour for me to make my appearance to the stupid pre-training lunch.

And if they can't, I dare them to drag me out of here, dripping wet and naked.

They can suck my asshole.

I turn on the knobs in the golden bathtub, and sit at the border, dipping my toes into the scalding water. This brings back so many old and distant memories that I'm not even sure are real, anymore. When I was three, my mother would sit with me near our similarly beautiful bathtub, surrounded by exotic seashells and pearls on display in our enormous bath house. She would comb my luscious blond hair and then hers, telling me stories of mermaids and mythical water creatures and I distinctly remember my laughter, high-pitched and clear. It's a far cry from the throaty seductive laughter that I've learned gets the men going.

I think those are the only happy memories I have of us. My mother was a stern and authoritative woman, but she loved her stories, and I loved her. My memory of her is cloudy now and I can't seem to remember much, only snippets.

But those snippets of long-gone wholesomeness drive the person I am today.

I realize I'm smiling again, like a complete child.

A splash of lavender-scented bubble bath soap, and I am surrounded by beautiful pink bubbles. I lean back, close my eyes and smile contently once again.

Once the bath threatens to overflow, I drag the television set to the bathroom, and turn on the recording of the tributes.

One last look at the competition before we all meet face to face can't hurt, after all.

I jump into the bath, admiring myself all the while in the humongous mirror on the wall. No wonder the crowd went wild for me at the Chariots yesterday.

Water splashes out, bubbles flying, but I couldn't care less, as I settle in the water that envelops me, giving me a giant tender hug.

Once a few minutes pass and I grow accustomed to the pleasant tingling sensation of the bubbles against my skin, I fumble for the TV remote.

When I turn on the sound, speedy updates on the tributes' families hit me like a wave, and I zone out most of them. They're all inconsequential. They don't tell me who these people are and what they're capable of. I mean, if they looked at my background, they wouldn't think I'm very impressive and yet, I am hoping to prove them wrong.

The girl from District 1, Cira, appears on screen and I'm immediately overtaken by undignified and unbridled resentment. I don't even know why, but some primal part of me absolutely revolts, at the sight of her.

I hate her.

I hated her from the moment I laid eyes on her privileged demeanor, her holier-than-thou aura as well as her doe-eyed and innocent look. She is everything I was supposed to be, and yet I grovel in the scummiest district of them all while she is put on a pedestal in District 1. She has everything she could possibly dream of, probably a loving family and an expensive house, and yet she volunteers for this shit when the rest of us get taken away forcefully from the few tiny possessions we fought tooth and nail for. More than anything, I hope she dies.

I hate her so much because in another fairer world, I would have still been living in District 1, she could have taken my place and paid for her stupidity with her life and I would have been none-the-wiser to it.

As a lot of people learn pretty fast, I hate a lot of things, and the things I hate, I hate deeply. I also despise District 12, down to my very core.

I hate its disgusting dirty streets, I hate the stupid down-on-their-luck people, I hate the stench of death, and I hate the horrible black dust that gets everywhere even when you try your best to wash it out. I hate it even more because I was sent there, labelled a rebel traitor and orphaned.

I lost my parents, my older brother and my friends. I lost my dignity and I had to grovel and survive like some slimy disgusting worm, as I fell from grace and landed in the most desolate of places. I lost the home I had known in District 1 since my birth, and all that was left of the real me when I was dropped off at the dirty station in District 12 was my name.

All I harbored was the intense hatred of the system that did this to me. And, by proxy, I hate Cira who has everything that I don't.

I stare accusingly at the girl as her picture zooms out, with a video of her reaping replaying to the detailed commentary of the show host. As though staring at her might set her stupid hair on fire.

A part of me wants to run to this girl, ask her whether she has seen my home. She probably knows the house, since we lived in one of the largest citizen-owned buildings in the District. I want to ask her a million questions, so I can confirm which memories I have are real, and which are romanticized versions of the things I left behind. I want to demand answers from her, and maybe forge some sort of camaraderie, since we are built from the same cloth after all. In another world, we might have become coworkers or even friends.

An overwhelming part of me wants to slit her throat, for embodying everything I could have been. I want to knock out her perfect teeth, and hit her until her ribs collapse.

I flick off the television, and see my own angry face in the dark screen, staring back at me. I frown harder, tapping the remote on my temple, and thinking of the different ways I can maim Cira as pink bubbles float in the air around me, giving the room an ethereal look.

I can be a savage bitch with a vendetta, but that's what got me through life so far. That's the only way a freelancer like me can get ahead, in the slums of District 12. I'm a jack of all trades, of sorts.

I had to be, in order to survive.

No one likes upper districts, especially in District 12, and looking the way I do was both a blessing and a curse. In my field of work, I could pass for exotic, but I was also alienated for it and no one would ever let me forget it. In retrospect, I couldn't really have become anything else than your average street walker. I ain't ashamed of it, and I'm good at what I do. And I mean, versatility is key on that job, and I learned that very early-on.

People think that I'm just a pretty blond puppet that can dance and smile and twirl her hips, and I say that's where they stand corrected.

For example, let's take your average Joe or Frank from the Mayor's house. They get a decent salary, they work their asses off, and they're lonely. They're into some really weird shit privately, and I'm there to take the edge off in an otherwise unlivable district. I ain't saying I'm a saint, but I am convinced my line of work is singlehandedly what prevents our society from succumbing to chaos and anarchy.

It wasn't peachy, but I toughed up quick, and got to pick up a few useful skills along the way. So, if someone is, without naming any names, turned on by a slim gal fixing their broken-down truck in the rich part of the district while the wife is out busting her ass in some shady community school on the other side of town, I'm your girl.

It's surprising too, how weirdly specific some people get.

I've fixed heaters, car engines, the occasional dishwasher machine… the works. What baffled me in the beginning is the fact that these lonely assholes would pay the exorbitant prices for an escort in high heels when they could get the same menial job done by a professional mechanic or some shit.

I guess a hairy forlorn middle-aged man doesn't strike the same image, but still.

I smirk, picturing Cira from District 1 trying to survive a day in my shoes. The pretty girl would probably keel over, in less than an hour. She reeks of innocence and misplaced naiveté that gets you flushed out pretty quick, where I'm from. The fact still stands that I've been up in this business for a long time and in terms of resilience alone, I am far superior to Cira.

I have no doubt about it. That thought makes me feel a little less aggravated.

I've been in the industry for 4 years myself, but some of the other girls have been going at it since the war.

The Cherries... that's what we call ourselves. We are all freelancers, but we need to stick together. It's not like we're unionized or some shit. The pimps and drug dealers of District 12 all want a piece of us because we fuck around with their monopoly on the business. Sometimes quite literally.

And it ain't pretty sometimes.

When it gets really bad, it's bad. Lola, one of our youngest girls who only joined last year, got her face all cut up. She came back bleeding, missing a few teeth and her left ear and she ain't on the job anymore. We get cases like that every once and a while, but that's the risk associated with the job.

It's dangerous, of course, but I've always thought it was worth it. And in my mind, if you're tough enough to get over the psychological shit, the physical doesn't phase you.

Although still unreasonably annoyed by Cira's face, I try to relax and soak some more, but as the water turns lukewarm, I force my eyes open. I know I'm just delaying the inevitable.

When I look over at the time, it's almost noon, so I slowly exit the bathtub and let the water drain as I dry my hair to get ready. I'm getting ready and for what?

To please the Gamemakers?

To appeal to their inflated egos in order to survive?

I mean, how different would it be from my daily existence anyways?

Suddenly, as though possessed, I want to scream at them to make them understand that I am meant for more in this world. I've done all this work, when I was fit for a much better life, but I never complained. I don't deserve to be cut down when I just started taking control of my life. I feel so helpless as I aggressively comb through my wet hair, because no matter how much I can pretend that I'm rebelling against their scheduled stupid lunch, I am still dancing to their tune by showing up in the first place.

Anger is a much better feeling. I know how to deal with it.

I don't want to feel sad right now, because I don't want anyone to see me like that. I don't need my enemies seeing me weak.

And if there's one thing that I like to take comfort in when I'm feeling sad, it's ambient noise to flush that shit of my brain.

The room is too quiet, too suffocating, so I look for the music device I found yesterday. My wet hair leaves small drips on the plush cream-colored carpet.

"It is 12:00. Training starts at 12:00," the alarm croaks out, clearly damaged by the rough manhandling it survived earlier this morning. The electrical tin drops to a low growl and indistinct beeps follow the unhelpful announcement.

I roll my eyes at the stupid object.

"Yeah yeah, I fucking know," I answer begrudgingly, as the alarm sputters and seemingly dies.

I struggle a little bit with the music box, but it has one button, and after a few forceful clicks, it comes to life.

"What would you like to listen to?" the box asks, and I smile involuntarily. Now that's one thing I never got to play around with, even back in District 1.

When I don't reply, it starts an auto-selected playlist, and after a few song changes, I find what I'm looking for.

In District 12, we either get boring sad fiddle folk songs or low-quality electronic bullshit that plays in the bars I dance in, whenever I am allowed inside without the exorbitant fee. The tempo is harsh and hollow… it's like an aphrodisiac for the people who go soliciting my services. I don't want any of that shit right now, because that just risks bringing back the sadness all over again.

I need something better, more empowering, and I think I've got it.

The beautiful melody that comes out of the box makes me smile immediately.

A synthetic piano-sounding instrument picks up and I instinctively sway to the rhythm. The sound is so distinct that I'd recognize it anywhere. A beat starts, so clear and smooth, and I start dancing around the room, putting the volume on high just as the guitar strings out the first few iconic notes.

"I want to break free, I want to break free," Freddy Mercury starts, just as I lip-sync as I reach the bathroom to get my makeup.

The cabinet is full of the best brands of makeup I could only dream of in District 12. I guess I was cursed with knowing how good it could be, and that's part of the anger that plagued me for so long. But now, I don't focus on that at all. I focus on the rhythm and the sounds from centuries past that have transcended war and devastation.

"I've fallen in love… I've fallen in love for the first time," he keeps singing, as I start by carefully applying my deep red lipstick.

"This time I know it's for real, I've fallen in love

God knows, God knows I've fallen in love

It's strange but it's true, yeahhh
I can't get over the way you love me like you do,"

I smack my full lips together, and smile, making sure I don't have any residue on my teeth. Satisfied, I even wink at myself and dance away, just as the guitar acoustic begins.

"Oh, how I want to be free, baby," I sing, and I almost air-guitar in the air, when I remember that cameras might be watching me right now. I decide I don't care, and self-indulge, dancing around the room and using my hairbrush as a microphone.

As the instrumental part of the song kicks in, I get my heels, put them on slowly, genuinely grinning. As the melody continues, I find myself reminiscing the times when my father would dance with me to this song. I'd always end up tripping over his feet, so he'd hoist me up in his arms and we'd dance like that. This was always my favorite part.

"But life still goes on
I can't get used to living without, living without
Living without you… by my side
I don't want to live alone, hey!
God knows, got to make it on my own"

"So, baby can't you see," Freddy and I duet, as I put on my mascara and some bold eyeliner to finish up the look I'm going for.

Just as the song ends, I turn dramatically to the mirror, and I see one hot babe staring back at me.

"Now I'm ready," I say to no one in particular.

I throw my damp hair across my shoulder, and search for something to wear. I instantly regret not putting on my shirt before putting so much effort into my makeup, so I struggle for a few minutes to put on a tight black tank top over my face.

I look back into the mirror, and satisfied at the sight of my makeup still looking flawless, I put on black training pants. They're tight, and it takes me another while to get them over my high heels, but I'm already late, so a few more minutes can't hurt.

When I'm finally ready, I survey the room, humming the happy melody.

As I leave, I spot Yuli passed out on the couch. I've never met such a neglectful person in my entire life, but I don't particularly care. I've been having the greatest time making him feel uncomfortable, and I'm hoping I can keep up this charade until I leave.

If I'm going to die, I am determined to piss off as many of these people off as possible. And if I come back… well, again, we'll burn that bridge when we get there.

I slam the door extra hard and hear a string of profanities, which, I can only imagine, are the result of a hardcore hangover, unexpected loud noises from slamming doors and the realization that I hadn't gone to training on time as he previously expected.

He'll definitely get written up on that account. I smirk at the thought.

It's all muscle memory as I walk to the elevator, press the button and wait for the lift to come pick me up. I cross my arms against my chest, and cock my hip to the side, tapping my left heel against my right.

My suspicions that everyone is already at the Training Center are confirmed, when the elevator opens with incredible speed.

That's exactly how I wanted things to go.

As I am brought to the Training floor, the doors open with a distinct ding.

Less than ten meters away from me, I see the faces of a little over two dozen people, all waiting expectantly for me. A few turn their heads at me, annoyed, while others look nothing short of terrified, in their own little bubble of misery.

I clear my throat to get everyone's attention, and a few more people turn my way. I spot the trainer and a few avoxes, who are nervously balancing trays, unsure of what to do with them.

The clock reads exactly 12:30PM.

I put my hands on my hips, and smile deviously at them. It's show time.

"Hi lovelies, sorry I'm late, I simply couldn't wait to get to meet you all," I drawl sarcastically, and twirl my hair around my finger instinctively, just as everyone turns their head in my direction.

Cira's jaw seems to hit the floor.

I'm pretty sure I've made quite the impression.

So, without further ado, I let the training officially begin.

Notes: And so, our roster of tributes is complete! I hope you enjoyed Sparkle representing District 12, she was so so so much fun to write! On another note, with a little over 100k, we are completely done with the introductions. This means we are diving head-first into the meat of the story.

Now that all the characters have had a chance to tell their stories, I would love to hear your thoughts on what alliances you think will be springing up in the upcoming chapters. Who do you think will make it in the Bloodbath? I absolutely love predictions, as crazy and as improbable as they are! And who knows… the Games are not yet written, so you just might give me a great idea I'd love to explore. Or, alternatively, you'll give me something to regret, as I do the complete opposite.

Next up, training begins, for realzies!

Peace and love.