Chariot Prep
Coloratura
Coloratura: Elaborate ornamentation of a vocal melody, especially in operatic singing by a soprano.
Nirel Jackson, 17
District Eleven
"Look, kid, you can't stay in the shower forever." Nirel heard the words, but he didn't want to listen. He did want to stay here forever. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good. Oh, the food and beds on the train had been nice, but that didn't even come close to the feeling of being clean – really and truly clean. The best he could usually hope for at home was a good scrubbing. On special occasions, maybe a bath. But being one of the middle children, by the time the water got to him, it was usually … well, not exactly clean.
Not that it was really clean – or hot – to start off with. In District Eleven, you took what you could get. But here, in the Capitol, they had water coming out of the shower head. Just like that. And it could be as hot as he wanted. Hot enough to wash away seventeen years of dirt and grime and sweat. Almost hot away to wash away the memory of why he was here in the first place.
Almost. But not quite. Reluctantly, Nirel took a step away from the stream of water and turned a knob. Just like that, the water shut off. He took a step out of the shower, and someone handed him a towel. He wasn't exactly concerned with decency – living in close quarters with eight brothers and sisters would knock that out of anyone pretty quickly – but the towel was so soft. Just like everything here – soft and warm and comfortable.
Comfort. That was what it was really about. Everything here was designed to make people comfortable. Which made it pretty much the opposite of everything in Eleven. He'd always known people in the Capitol lived better lives – lives that people like him got glimpses of during the Games ceremonies every year – but until now, he hadn't realized just how much better everything was here. Damn, people here were lucky.
And maybe he was, too. Most people in District Eleven would never get to experience any of this. They would live their lives from birth to death never knowing this kind of luxury. Whatever happened from this point on, at least he got to experience this for a few days. At least he got a taste of this kind of life.
But now that he'd tasted it, he wanted more.
He wanted to live.
It was a strange sensation, really. There had been nothing particularly remarkable about his life back in Eleven. A family. A few friends. School until he'd grown old enough to work, and then a job in the fields. Nothing that was really worth fighting for. Oh, he'd been prepared to fight, sure enough, because it was better than dying, but even on the train, there had been that little voice in the back of his head, asking whether maybe dying was actually an improvement on life in Eleven.
But it wasn't an improvement on this.
And if he won, he could have this every day. He would never have to wait his turn for a scrub again. He would never have to split a meager meal eleven ways again. He would never have to work long after his shift had ended because the harvest had to be brought in tonight. All of that would be a distant memory. His life could be like this instead. And that … that was worth fighting for.
Percy Allen, 12
District Six
Twenty. There were still twenty beads. Percy's hands trembled as he fiddled with the necklace. He'd been tempted to take one of the pills on the train. Not because he needed to be fast, but because he wanted to be happy. What his district partner had said about someone finding out about the drugs … that had made him so nervous, so upset. The pills could fix that. It would be so easy.
But he couldn't do that. He needed them for the Games. Assuming he would be allowed to use them in the Games.
Percy clutched the necklace tightly. They hadn't taken it yet. Maybe that meant they weren't going to. If they were going to take it, they would have done it by now, right?
Right?
Percy nearly jumped as the door opened and the stylists fluttered in. They'd been in and out for what felt like hours – cleaning him up, fussing over him, telling him how fantastic he was going to look. And it did feel good to be clean, but he couldn't even enjoy that, because every time someone came in, he was afraid they would take his pills.
And without the pills, he didn't have a chance.
The stylists, however, showed no interest in taking his necklace. Instead, they helped him into an outfit that looked like some sort of uniform. The pants and jacket were black, with a bright blue stripe running up each arm and leg. Black boots and a black cap completed the outfit. Percy slid the necklace on under the jacket as one of the stylists held out a pair of black gloves. "So … what's it supposed to be?" he asked.
"A train driver!" one of the stylists announced, as if it should have been obvious. "You're from Six. You ought to know what they look like."
Percy shrugged. Sure, he'd seen train drivers every now and then, but he'd never seen one who looked like this. For the most part, they just looked like … well, like everyone else. Still, all things considered, this was probably better than dressing him like what train drivers actually looked like, so he forced a smile. "Oh yeah, I can see it now."
"And you'll need this." Another one handed him a small, train-shaped whistle.
Percy gave it a blow; it was loud and shrill, almost like the sound of a train whistle. "Nice." And it was nice. Strange as it was, it was nice to hear a little bit of home. Maybe District Six wasn't all that great a place to live. In fact, it was downright terrible sometimes. But it was the only place he'd ever had to call home.
And now he might never see it again.
Percy shook the thought from his head. He would see it again. Everything would be all right. He would be able to use the pills. They would make him fast enough to win. He would go home. It was all going to work out.
And if it didn't … well, it wasn't as if he would have had much of a life to go back to. No family. Few friends at the orphanage. He was exactly the sort of person Mr. Marinko had been looking for. He'd needed people who wouldn't be missed. People with nothing to lose.
People he could manipulate.
Percy clenched his fists. He'd made a choice. He'd decided to take Mr. Marinko's offer, no matter what Vicarys said. I'm sure you think you did. Well, he had. He'd chosen to volunteer. He wanted to be here. He wanted a better life, and this was the only way to get it. Still, part of him was beginning to wish Mr. Marinko had asked him to do something a bit less dangerous.
Ebony Timberough, 18
District Seven
Ebony rolled her eyes as she finally got a good look at herself in the mirror. It was the sort of outfit her grandmother would love – brown tights, a billowy green skirt, and tight-fitting long-sleeved green shirt. The whole thing was covered in tinsel and garland and little blinking lights. A pointy hat with a star on top sat atop the dark green foulard her grandmother had given her for a district token. All in all, the outfit was rather silly, but at least it wasn't particularly revealing, and she'd definitely seen worse outfits in previous years.
"Oh, you look simply stunning," one of the stylists gushed. "Now for the face."
Ebony stifled a groan as one of the stylists approached with some glitter and a brush. Didn't they know that glitter would get everywhere? Still, she closed her eyes and managed to hold her tongue as they brushed the sparkly stuff all over her face, her neck, her hands – any bit of skin that was still showing. Apparently, the outfit itself was already sparkling enough and didn't need any more shine.
"You can open your eyes now, dear," one of them giggled. Ebony did, risking a glance in the mirror. It didn't look quite as bad as she'd imagined, but still…
"Oh, it'll catch the light better once you're out in the open," one of the stylists assured her. "Now give a twirl, and let's see that skirt."
Ebony gave a quick twirl, and the skirt billowed out even more, wide and fluffy and looking almost like tree branches waving in the wind, if you had a very good imagination and could ignore the fact that they were sparkling. Well, maybe the sparkling was supposed to be snow. But snow was white, and this was all colored. Even the glitter on her face was shining in different colors – bright reds and blues and golds.
Ebony gave another twirl. It wasn't something she would have picked, certainly, but at least she would only have to wear it for an hour or two. And if the stylists were any indication, the audience would probably love it. That was what the parade was for, really. It wasn't for the tributes; it was for the sponsors. They loved tributes who put on a good show, who were ready to smile and wave for the cameras.
She could do that. She might not like it, but she could do it. Maybe that was an advantage of being from a district like Seven. People in the outer districts were already well-accustomed to doing things they didn't like in order to survive. Working from a young age. Taking tesserae. Taking part in the reaping every year. Those were simply things that had to be done; this was another. It was just another job.
Suddenly, the door opened, and another stylist burst in. "He bit me! I was trying to put glitter on his face, and the little brat bit me!"
One of the other stylists turned. "Don't look at us. He's your tribute. We can't help it if we got the easy one."
"Yeah, and how do you think Seven's going to look if only one of the tributes is properly costumed? We'll be a laughing stock if they don't match."
"All right, all right. I'll see if Marius can give us a hand." She turned to Ebony. "Don't go anywhere – or bite anyone," she added with a laugh.
Ebony snorted, trying to ignore the guilty feeling from laughing at her district partner. Elemeno was just a kid; he didn't deserve to be here. It just didn't seem fair.
Ebony shook the thought from her head. It didn't matter if it was fair. It was the way things were. And if she wanted to go home, that meant he would have to die. All of the others would have to die – whether they were twelve or eighteen. She couldn't afford to feel sorry for them if she wanted to survive. As terrible as it felt, she had to look out for herself first.
Lucinda Tweed, 15
District Eight
Lucinda shifted a little as the stylist's fingers ran through her hair. "Did you do this yourself?" the stylist asked.
Lucinda nodded. "I found some leftover dye in one of the factory's dump sites on my way home one day, and I thought … well, why not? I know it doesn't look as professional as what you do around here, but—"
"Oh, but it's gorgeous, my dear. It's unique. The fact that it's a look you wouldn't get around here is the whole point. People in the Capitol will do anything to stand out, to be different, but the trouble is, they all use the same methods, the same fabrics, the same dyes. Take this, for example." She gestured to the dress she had brought for Lucinda to wear.
Lucinda ran her hand along the dark red sleeves. "What about it?" She'd never felt anything so soft. She wanted to curl up in a blanket full of it, all warm and snug, and just stay there for hours. "It's beautiful."
"It's called velvet," the stylist explained, retrieving something from the corner. "Do you know where you usually see velvet?"
"Besides the Capitol?" She stroked the fabric again. "Maybe District One? They're the luxury district."
Her stylist nodded. "Exactly. District One always dresses like royalty. It's expected. Even in the tribute parade, it's usually something royal, something elegant." She draped something around Lucinda's shoulders. "But my partner and I figured that tributes from District Eight are just as valuable."
Lucinda stared at her reflection in the mirror. She almost did look like royalty. The cloak was velvet, as well, lined with some sort of white fur. The dress was long and flowing, with enough padding to help her fill it out. Her stylist slid something onto her head. A tiara. Then she handed her a scepter, with a deer's head on top.
Lucinda blinked. "Okay. Velvet is a kind of fabric; that makes sense. A crown and a scepter to go with the cloak … but what's with the deer?"
"Do you know what else the word 'velvet' is used for?"
"Can't say I do."
"When a deer's antlers are still growing, they're covered in a soft, downy skin. That's velvet. And that's District Eight all over. You're not done growing yet, but when you've finished … you'll be as elegant as that deer."
"You actually believe that…?" She hesitated, unsure how to finish the sentence. The stylist had never given her name. "What is your name, by the way?"
"Cheri."
"Really?"
"Something wrong?"
"No, it's just…" She hesitated. She hadn't told many people; she'd been afraid they would think it was silly. But it wasn't as if it would matter if her stylist thought she was silly. "When I chose the name Lucinda, I got it out of a book. One of the characters was choosing a new name for herself, and was thinking about Lucinda because she'd always liked the sound of it. She ended up picking something else, but I liked the name. But the name she did pick … it was Cheri." She hesitated. "Did I say something funny?"
Cheri was laughing. But not the sort of laugh she'd been expecting. Not the short she'd been dreading. It was a warm, fond laugh. "Who would have thought?"
"Who would have thought what?"
Cheri smiled and laid a hand on Lucinda's shoulder. "That someone from District Eight and I would have the same taste in books."
Baoba Pitblossom, 17
District One
"Oh, I just love your hair," one of the fussy little stylists crooned, turning a few locks over in his hands. "I have to tell you, it's such a pleasure to meet someone from the districts who actually has a sense of style. Oh, at least most folks in One know how to take care of themselves, mind you, but you have to understand, the ones we usually get are Careers. They're here to take care of business. They understand that they have to look good, but most of them couldn't do it themselves if you gave them weeks."
Baoba said nothing. They were probably just trying to butter him up. Chances were, they'd watched the reapings and realized that he didn't want to be there, and now they were trying to make him feel … what? Comfortable? Appreciated? Make him feel like the next few days' elaborate ceremonies and fancy outfits would actually mean something? Like that would actually give him a better chance in the Games?
It wouldn't. He didn't know the first thing about fighting. He'd never even really watched the students at the academy. He'd simply never found the Games that interesting. Certainly he'd never expected to find himself in them.
But here he was, in the Capitol, surrounded by people whose only purpose here was to make him look good. Whatever the hell that meant. So far, it had meant a long shower, followed by this group of … people … studying him intently. As he watched, one of them brought out something colorful. Pink, actually – the exact same shade as his hair, with silver accents along the cuffs and the neckline.
"What do you think?" one of them bubbled.
"Try it on, try it on," giggled another.
Baoba eyed it for a moment before sliding it on. Pink trousers, a well-fitted pink shirt, and a pink robe over the top. He had to admit, it was comfortable. He wasn't sure what the material was, but it was soft and light. It barely felt like he was wearing anything at all. But it looked … well, 'silly' was putting it mildly. It was the sort of thing that might have been beautiful on an acrobat or gymnast or some sort of circus performer. On him…
Baoba ran a hand along the fabric. Whatever. He'd watched enough of these parades to know that it didn't actually matter what anyone was wearing. What mattered was how they acted. If they acted embarrassed by the silly costumes, that was all anyone would see. But if they acted confident despite them – or even got into the act – the crowd always loved it.
Not that it mattered what the crowd loved.
Not that any of this really mattered.
Baoba looked from one expectant face to another. They were waiting – waiting to see what he would say, what he would do. He could either spend the next few hours complaining about what a horrifying outfit this was … or he could pretend.
Maybe pretending was better.
Wordlessly, Baoba reached for his district token, which he'd left on the seat beside him while the stylists did their work. Yes, a pink yoga headband just about completed the ensemble. He slid it on, and the stylists applauded. Actually applauded. And if they thought he was getting into the act, then maybe he could fool the crowd, too. He just had to pretend to have fun. How hard could that really be?
Lark Lucas, 18
District Twelve
Lark gave Aloe a smile as the pair of them headed for the chariots. At least they weren't coal miners this year. They were each wearing a slim black suit that let off little puffs of coal dust whenever they moved. In a few places, the black gave way to a glimmer that the stylist had said was supposed to look like diamonds. A light coat of black powder covered their hair, and Aloe's face was practically obscured by a large pair of diamond earrings. All in all, though, it could have been a lot worse.
Besides, it wasn't the costumes he was really interested in. Or anyone else was interested in, for that matter. By the time the parade got to District Twelve, most people were ready for it to be over already. And that was just fine with Lark, because once it was over, he might just get the chance to talk to them.
Them. The pair of tributes from Eleven, whose chariot was right in front of theirs, getting ready to start the parade. He'd told himself that it was silly, that the chances of them knowing anything about his family were slim at best. Eleven was a big district. Neither of them really looked much like him. He didn't have anything to go on except the fact that his parents had left Eleven thirteen years ago. The girl wouldn't even have been born then. But maybe the boy…
"Whatcha staring at?" Aloe asked, fidgeting with the earrings but only managing to smear the black powder from her hair across her cheeks.
"I'm not staring." Had he been staring? Shit. Had either of the two noticed? Probably not, but Aloe had.
Aloe shrugged. "Suit yourself. What's that?"
"What's what?"
"That ring you've got."
Lark looked down. He hadn't even realized he'd been fiddling with it. He'd put it on a piece of string so it could hang around his neck, and sure enough, his fingers had found it. "It's my mother's engagement ring."
Aloe whistled. "She gave you that for a token? Nice."
"Not that mother."
Aloe cocked her head. "Huh?"
"My biological mother – my biological parents – came from Eleven. This is all I have left of theirs. I was hoping…"
"Hoping someone might recognize it?" Aloe finished.
"Yeah."
"So that's why you're staring at the pair from Eleven?"
"I wasn't … yeah. I thought maybe I could talk to them after the parade, see if they know anything, or know anyone who might know anything." He shook his head. "I'm sure that's the last thing they'd be interested in right now – helping someone figure out what happened to their family while we're getting ready to be fighting for our lives."
Aloe shrugged. "Probably as good a time as any. They might actually want something else to think about – you know, besides our impending doom."
Lark blinked. "What?"
"It was a joke. Look, I'm just saying that you're not exactly going to get a better chance. Unless you win, I guess – then you'll be going to Eleven during the victory tour, and you'll get to talk to the other Victors and whatnot. But if you die … well, this is your last chance to find out … whatever it is you're trying to find out."
Lark nodded. He wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to find out. There was so much that he didn't know, he wasn't even sure where to start. But Aloe was right; this was probably his last chance. "After the parade, then," he agreed. He'd been waiting for thirteen years; he could wait until after the parade. Then he could talk to them.
Hi, folks. Just dropping a quick note on alliances. Obviously, alliances are subject to change and grow and shift and blow up once the Games actually start, but that hasn't stopped a few alliances from starting to form because ... well, mostly because it's a thing that happens spontaneously when you're writing pre-Games stuff. I tried not writing alliances last time, and I think that lasted maybe one or two POVs before I decided it was a lost cause, and alliances are one of those things that just happen.
So with that in mind, if you see any particular alliance that you think would suit your tribute well or an interaction you'd like to see at some point during training, drop me a line in either the reviews or a PM, and I'll try to work something in.
Anyway, in the interest of keeping track, I'll be keeping a running tally of what's going on with alliances at the end of chapters, and I'll update them on the website periodically. So here's how things stand at the moment. (Mostly district pairs at the moment because that's who's had a chance to interact, but I'm sure that'll change/grow as things continue.)
Of Course We're Careers: Opal, Octavia, Quint, Corin, Sebastian
(Representing) District Nine: Squirrel, Malachi
Let's See What Happens: Arti, Whisper
