Capitol
I get through the trip to the Capitol without any major conversations with anyone from the team. Especially Tic avoids me and I can understand why. Before lunch, I briefly consider encouraging him and telling him about the winners of the old Hunger Games, whose chances were not good either. But to give him a glimpse of hope would mean my inevitable death and that is not to be thought of. And when I see Tic sitting in front of the television, I finally reject the thought.
The boy has sunken into himself watching the replay of the Reapings from other districts. Right now, the TV anchors are discussing the volunteer tributes from the career districts, and Tic probably couldn't have watched anything scarier in front of that TV. On view are a hulking-looking boy from 4, already missing an incisor, and a girl with a shaved head from District 2, who gives the camera such a pugnacious look that I can almost feel it on the train myself. I also memorize the other faces, after all, they will be facing me in a few days and want my blood. It is clear that they will not be well-disposed toward me.
Tic, however, immediately turns off the TV when he notices me. For a while we just look at each other, my face motionless, his with tear tracks. I want to further suppress the pity that overcomes me at the sight of him, when he says, "Are you going to kill me?"
Again, the boy has caught me so off guard with his words that for a moment I don't know what to say. I just stand there looking at him, eyeing his chubby cheeks and the wet stains on his thin sweater. Tic is a kid. Nothing more. A child who will be dead in a few days if I want to live. He's someone's son, maybe someone's brother – I wonder what it's like to have a brother. Thirteen years old he is, and yet the words he just spoke to me sound so calm, so calculating. As if he had already said goodbye to life, despite the tears. I don't think it's fair. The words I said to Porter and Spud just before suddenly seem cruel. "No," I reply quietly.
"Can you kill?"
"I never have," I say, walking over to an armchair facing Tics. "But it'll come in the arena." He doesn't need to know that I am well prepared to kill.
"You knew, right?" he continues in a hollow voice. "That your name would be drawn. You knew it."
"I ... I had a hunch."
"My parents said that. They also told me to watch out for you."
I shake my head before I can give it much thought. "When we get to the Cornucopia, run in a different direction than I do."
"You won't hurt me?"
"We're not going to run into each other, understand?"
"What if we're the last ones?"
"Unlikely." My voice fades in the room and I know that we are both ruling out the possible meaning of my sentence that I could not be one of the last two tributes. If there's two tributes left, I will be one of them, but he won't be the other one. It's so quiet that I can almost hear my heart bursting in my chest now.
Fortunately, at this moment the food is brought in and I can just throw Tic a grim smile. Our mentors are standing in the room just as punctually as the servants of the Capitol, with our escort scurrying among them. He's wearing a glitter sequined suit that is orange at his shoulders but turns blue toward his feet. Hopefully I won't be in an outfit like that anytime soon. Glitter is okay, but I'm not going to let iridescent sequins get the better of me.
Porter notices the silence between me and Tic and gives us both equally pitying looks. To her, Tic isn't dead yet, and I haven't won yet. Had my thinking not been overshadowed by my grandmother's mantra and my mother's death in the arena, I would have given her credit for fighting spirit and fairness. As it is, however, she almost catches herself a pitying look for her naiveté.
The mood remains cool until we pull into the Capitol. The view from the large train windows is what finally makes my mask fall. At the same time as Tic, I jump up and press my face against the window as the tall buildings with their glass facades and huge screens slowly come into view. And it's not just the buildings that are impressive: I have the feeling I've never seen such green trees, never seen such gaudy flowers, never seen such a shimmering water surface as that of the lake we cross before the train stops at the station.
It's a little warmer in the Capitol than in District 5, but I don't have time to roll up my sleeves. Only seconds after my feet have touched the floor of the platform I am grabbed by the arm by Porter. She walks with long steps past isolated spectators and I try to keep up with her as best I can. After a few feet of confused facial expressions and stumbling, I remember why I'm here. The Games. All of this is already part of it. So I cast firm glances around, nod to a group my age, and even bring out the most arrogant smile possible. That's the strategy my grandmother so desired: as confident as possible, as winning as possible. Hopefully I'll get to keep this image, which I've internalized so much by now that I'm not even sure where it ends and my actual personality begins, if Porter and Spud have their way.
Porter leads me directly into the arms of three excitedly whispering figures. When we stop abruptly, they raise their heads and fall silent with guilty faces. I casually raise my hand in greeting and that's when they begin to smile and introduce themselves in fluting tones.
"Arminius, my dear, Arminius!" a tall fellow with dark skin and light blue braids says to me. His arms are so thin that I can't help but imagine them breaking off as I shake his hand. But he just laughs heartily and passes me directly to the man next to him, who looks so much like him that I have to look twice. No, they are actually two different people. The second man is similarly slim and wears the same hairstyle as Arminius, whom I think is his twin. However, he has done something to his eyes; instead of being a dark brown not unlike my eyes, his irises shine gold.
"Flavius," he says less effusively.
The third in the group is a stocky woman. Next to the two men, she seems unusually shapeless, though her physique strikes me as healthier than the twins'. Her skin is tinted pale purple, and before I can make a joke about it in my mind, she says herself, "I'm Violetta."
I giggle as I take her hand. She doesn't seem to take offense; on the contrary, she lowers her head as if to bow.
"You were very fearless in your Reaping. I'm glad I get to work with District 5, hopefully it's not a career-breaker like 11 or 12."
"Thank me in two weeks," I say, and she gives a fake laugh.
"Back off a little," Porter hisses from beside me. I realize she's only now letting go of my arm. I shrug, because she disappears in the next moment anyway, leaving me alone with the three canaries.
What follows is probably the only part of the Games that is not televised: The beauty program. Together, Arminius, Flavius and Violetta pull out all the hair, only my head is spared for the time being. I am washed, coiffed, generally pushed around like a doll. When they are done after two hours, I am exhausted. But the mood of the preparation team is unclouded.
"You have such beautiful skin!" says Arminius, gushing. "I've rarely seen that outside the Capitol."
"Well, you've never been outside the Capitol," Flavius says, and they both laugh.
"I never had to work," I explain myself, realizing in the same moment how privileged that sounds even to me. The three Capitol people, however, look at me uncomprehendingly – as if my statement is a normal given and all the other tributes are an annual abnormality.
"The girl from last year had burns even before she entered the arena," Violetta recalls. I decide to just nod silently and not tell them anything else about life in my district. I'm not sure if I would even be allowed to, but much more their reaction holds me back to my last statement. I have only been in the Capitol a few hours, but the train and the beauty equipment here have already shown me that life is different here. All we know in District 5 is the flashy clothes, the accent, and that they like to watch our kids die. We also know their hovercrafts, host their Peacekeepers, and have heard about their medicine, but that must be only a fraction of what it's really like in the Capitol. And while I care, I know that only one thing matters to me right now: my public impression.
I want sponsors. As many as possible.
The Hunger Games are a television show and the public goes for stories and images to follow, characters to suffer with or rejoice with or just root for. We are nothing else than tributes to them, characters in their annual show. And I'll play along, drawing them to my side with a mix of tragic life story and overconfidence. If I'm sure I can win, then they can be too.
"Ready," Arminius says lovingly, pulling me into a sitting position by my left arm. I get up from my recliner and step in front of the mirror. To my delight, I realize that I have barely changed in most places. On my face, however, my skin is radiant. In addition, they have put makeup on me. The eyelids shimmer pearly and the thick eyeliner shines as if drawn with pure gold. My lips are matched to it. What seems most strange to me, however, is that my hair is tied back in a very tight, very high braid. This is not my style – I usually wear my hair down.
Still, I wring my most convincing TV smile, "Beautiful! Thank you."
The three of them almost squeal with delight and only stop when the door opens behind us and in walks a woman with flowing green hair that falls to her waist. In her hand she holds a large garment bag and a white piece of chalk, which is why I recognize her as a stylist. She herself is dressed in black and gold, with a tight outfit that emphasizes one thing: her baby bump. I wince. I wonder if assigning me a pregnant stylist is a coincidence. I feel it start to bubble in my chest.
"Hello, Alys," she says in a surprisingly cool voice, skipping over her own name and unceremoniously opening the garment bag. "Tonight you'll be properly introduced to the public. Of course, they all already know who you are. That's a strength I wanted to emphasize. At the same time, I've added a touch of myself to the outfit."
She strokes her hand robotically over her body and I get hot and cold by turns. Before any of the others in the room know what's happening, I leap toward the stylist.
"If you put anything on me that even remotely resembles my mother or a baby, I'll stab you!" I say angrily. My raised finger nearly jabs her fearfully raised chin. Then she stamps her foot angrily and chucks the garment bag into the corner.
"No," she says irritably. "None of that is my plan."
She takes a step backward and holds out the outfit for me to wear to the Opening Ceremony.