Rafe McClellan, 18, D2M:
In just a few hours, I'm going to be the leader of the Career Pack. There is no doubt in my mind that I'll be the best one there, the one everybody will want to follow, the one outlier tributes will learn to fear the name of. I'm certain each one of the other Careers will bow down to me and beg for my guidance and wise council as I preside over them all.
With the possible exception of Eliza. Something unnerves me about her that I just can't place, there's some personality trait or dark secret or hidden motive that she's hiding. It might not worry me normally, but as much as I hate it, I'm already a little enthralled by her. Fine, long, strawberry-blonde hair hangs around her face in curtains, her sharp nose scrunches up just a little at the tip when she smiles, and her voice is so throaty and husky and full of smoke.
I hate being alone for too long, and in the train car, she confessed that she can't stand spending time in crowds, but she still handled the people outside so much better than I did. Now I anxiously bounce my knee, sitting half-wrapped in a robe on a crystal bench in the center of my prep room, trying desperately not to picture Eliza in hers. Hazel, and all of the girls I'd dated before her, they've always been feisty. The girls that usually end up in my bed are quieter, more demure, but Eliza seems to be somewhere in the middle. Not a romance, although it might be nice, but maybe, hopefully, eventually, a friend.
I already know she'll be my best ally in the arena. We talked a lot on the train, and we ended up on the topic of things we like and dislike. She said she hates alcohol and cigarettes. So do I. My parents, my father especially, always loved drinking themselves into a stupor and smoking at the bar, and when they came home, they'd start to beat on me. I gingerly run my fingers over my sides and back, a mixture of fresh bruises and old, long-healed cigarette burn scars, and I remember that it was only this morning that I killed and buried my parents.
It's certainly been an eventful day, hasn't it? My prep team assumed that the bruises and welts were just from training for the Hunger Games, but they were more concerned about the burns. "What burns?" I had asked. "Oh, those burns? Huh, never noticed them before. That's funny. Nope, no idea how they got them. Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Oh, no, they don't hurt at all. But thanks anyway!" I think they bought my story, but I'm not so sure that my stylist will, who is due to arrive at any minute.
I like my mentor, Kael, a lot. He mainly instructed me to focus on my sword skills for now, picking up a spear as a secondary weapon to practice. He advised that I not train with the other weapons I know how to use. "It's something you can pull out of your hat later," he explained. "Your advantage lies in what people don't know about you." He also told me to try to become the leader of the Careers, but I was already planning on doing that.
Eliza might also be a candidate for leader, but I think I'll win out. I wonder if she'll support me in front of the others. Probably, she was awfully nice to me earlier, but if the secret she's hiding is that she's a master manipulator, she might actually spread lies about me so she can be the boss. I really hope she's not, though. It's the Hunger Games, and I know very well that only one person survives, but I find myself liking her a lot.
A door clicks open from across the room and a tall woman wearing a sunset orange dress that reminds me so much of Eliza's Reaping outfit trots in, bearing a clipboard and a small black remote. The three members of my prep team trail behind her.
"Hey," she says, holding out a gloved hand for me to shake. "I'm Cerimona. You must be Rafe." She's middle-aged, with graying chestnut hair and a hooked nose. As soon as she pulls her hand away from mine, she taps a button on the remote and a section of wall rises into the ceiling, unveiling a closet full of fabrics and spools of thread and various embellishments.
"I hear the prep team has already taken your measurements?"
"Yes."
"That's excellent. Now, as you may know, the Tribute Parade costumes always relate to the tributes' districts of origin. Today, I will be dressing you in a green chiton tunic, along with some gold decorations. Depending on how it suits you, I might also add a cape. How do you feel about that?"
"Fine."
"That's good. Alright people, let's begin!" she says, snapping her fingers. The man who waxed my legs earlier (my least favorite part of the preparation process) pulls bolts of cloth from the racks, and Cerimona sets up shop by a sewing machine. Slowly, a tunic begins to take shape, as she methodically bunches and positions the teal material. She directs the prep team to fetch shoes for me too, durable leather sandals that are laced up tight to my ankles. Wealthy though I may be, I would never turn my nose up at a good pair of sandals, especially not ones that fit me so perfectly.
My prep team makes me take off my robe, and they give me a pair of simple black underwear to change into, along with a strappy cream-colored affair that I have to untangle in the little changing booth. It looks like a girl's camisole, with a tight, low-cut sateen bodice and thin straps. I've never worn anything like it, but I put it on anyway, and it's just the right size. I'm guessing that it's been given to me so my costume will show off plenty of my chest and arm muscles without exposing my scars.
When I step out of the changing booth and into the open again, my prep team has another garment ready for me. Cerimona is sewing at a maddening pace, and the bottom part of my tunic is complete. The people on my prep team hold it up to me, and, deciding it'll do, begin to pick out fastenings for it. One of them grabs a needle and thread, and begins sewing up some of the seams and hemming the bottom. Soon, the sleeveless top portion of it is done too, to show off my biceps, and Cerimona has finished a cape in a slightly darker shade of teal. Metallic decorations are sewn on too, shiny additions to the neckline and single strap. The other side is off-the shoulder, and gold trim lines the softly draped fabric.
As gold buckles are glued to my sandals by the woman on my prep team and the first of the men spikes up my hair with gel, the second one pats light makeup onto my face, making my nose look straighter and narrower, like it did before my father broke it and it healed crooked, and accentuating the sharpness of my jawline and prominence of my chin. When they're finished with their work and Cerimona gives them the go-ahead, they hold up a mirror in front of me, and I can see the final product.
I look magnificent. Tall, chiseled, and coiffed to perfection, I've never been more handsome. The tunic, the one they keep calling a chiton, makes me look regal and determined, and the flashes of gold at my waist, shoulders, neck, and shoes add elegance and class.
I'm ready, I realize. I'm ready to get out there in the waiting area and meet the other tributes. I'm ready to take control of the Career Pack, get some sponsors, and make the outer district kids cower.
Maybe I'm even ready to make friends with Eliza.
Ellie "Elle" Callas, 15, D8F:
I don't like much about the Capitol, but the fabrics here are beautiful. As awful as the Hunger Games are, I can't help but admire the style choices of the Capitolites, and I idly wonder what sort of costume I'll be put in. I run through the list of expensive fabrics in my head that I know from back home. Damask, chiffon, silk, cashmere, satin, organza, velvet, crepe, georgette, lace, modal, viscose–the list goes on and on. It seems like a great treat to style for the district where the chief industry is textiles. The clothing has to simply resemble, well, clothing. Naturally, this means it should be easiest to design for, but District Eight's tributes usually end up in horrid monstrosities of yarn and poofy balls made out of felt.
I have always spun, wove, sewn, knitted, or otherwise constructed and tailored my own clothes, and I was so excited to get my measurements taken earlier. I've always been the person on the other end of the measuring tape, deftly tucking it around the waists, torsos, and limbs of the clients who came to the dress shop. When the members of my prep team asked me to move my arms out of the way so they could measure my underderbust, they almost squealed with joy as I raised my hands to the ideal forty-degree-perpendicular-to-the-ground angle that every seamstress knows so well. I told them about my background, and they absolutely adored hearing about it.
The government leaders in the Capitol are cruel, but their people are my people. We're the ones who know all there is to know about sewing techniques and color balance and texture variation. I'd love to get my hands on some of the materials here, maybe even become a stylist if I survive the Hunger Games, because imagine for one second that you're given a Capitol budget and access to all the best cloth, and all you manage to come up with is another jumpsuit that looks like someone who's having Tracker Jacker hallucinations while high on morphling just vomited up a bag of confetti. I mean, come on now.
Thankfully, when my stylist walks in, he's nothing like I expected. Instead of being clad in clashing colors and bizarre jewelry, he wears a gray polo shirt with the sleeves rolled up and sports a light brown quiff. His elbow has a bug bite on it, and his face has some visible mild acne. I think there might be some highlights in his hair, but aside from those, his double nose rings, and his black-painted nails, he looks refreshingly normal. Under his arm is tucked a large rolled-up piece of paper. In his hand he carries a small black remote and presses a button on it, and a chunk of the wall disappears, exposing a huge, brightly-lit room full of every sort of fabric I can imagine.
I audibly gasp, and not being able to stop myself, run directly towards it, jumping up and batting at a suspended reel of shiny, thin fabric. It exposes the end, and I tug at it, getting a good fistful of it, and pause to run the pads of my fingers along it. I wince when a hangnail catches it, making the quietest of ripping sounds. This is real, alright. This is genuine organza, perfect to use for crafting fluttery skirt shapes for formal summertime dresses. I've only ever read about it in books at school and heard stories of it from my parents and teachers, but now I'm touching it, feeling the fiber of the fabric. Plain weave, not twilled, as I suspected.
Turning around, I bump into a rolling rack. Pins! Lots of them! Brand-new shiny sewing pins, all pointing the same direction, stacked by the hundreds in their little plastic boxes. Back home, we couldn't always afford new pins. The ones we had were usually so worn and used that they had long been bent from thrusting through thick canvas and layers of cotton, the colored beads on the ends of them snapped off in months or years past.
Behind me, my stylist laughs lightly. "I'm told you're a dressmaker."
"Yes sir, I am!" This man is intended to help me, not the other way around, but I'm not a different tribute, who just thinks they're looking at a supply closet and a freakish Capitol stylist. No, I'm me, and my knowledge of textiles makes itself known in almost every conversation I'm a part of. I'm seeing this man for what he truly is–a master tailor.
"I have the pattern for your dress right here." He sits down at the workbench, next to a state-of-the-art sewing machine, and unrolls the paper under his arm. I'm staring at the puffiest, widest, and certainly pinkest dress sketch that I've ever seen. "I'm sorry about the color," he says apologetically. "I wanted a more magenta color, and your district partner's stylist wanted neon orange, so we had to compromise." Although a magenta dress would invariably look much better, the construction, even when just outlined on a two-dimensional piece of paper, is breathtakingly intricate. The darts facing inward on the sleeves give it a neat crease on the side, and the silhouette is delightfully old-fashioned, layers and layers of lace heaped atop a stout crinoline.
"I love it," I breathe.
"Would you like to help me make it?"
"What?" I'm not sure I heard him right. This expert stylist, whose name I don't even know, is asking me to help him work?
"I'm serious. Only if you want to, of course, I don't want it to feel like a chore. But if you're up for it, then yeah, I could really use your skills." He says it so casually, as though this is the sort of thing that happens every day, and I realize that it very well might be.
"Um, yes, I'd love to!" My stylist hands me a sheaf of heavy damask silk to drape the underskirt, and a lighter viscose silk for the outermost layer. He makes room for me at the sewing bench as the members of my prep team return, pushing a heavy dress form and bearing bizarrely shaped tools that I'm pretty sure are to be used on my hair. They pull it back in rollers, and run what looks like a heated pair of tongs over the rolls, presumably to help it stay in place better, as I begin to bunch together the silk, using the new pins to drape it on the mannequin's waist.
After less than an hour, the dress is finished and on me, rosy silk swishing around my freshly-waxed legs, bangs in sausage curls to frame my face as the rest of my hair is tied up in a loose bun under an adorable tiny hat.
"You can design your interview dress," my stylist offers. His name, I have learned, is Evio, and he's turned out to be a useful teacher when it comes to sewing techniques. "Come to the mirror, now, and check out the makeup they gave you!" I do, and I look absolutely beautiful. A little unconventional, true, but not out of place at all among the flamboyant people of the Capitol, and it's easy to tell that I'm truly in my element.
"Now get out there and win them all over!" One of the women on my prep team says encouragingly.
"I will."
Quinten Aramdale, 17, D6M:
The people on my prep team are surprisingly kind. I hate the Capitol, but I like the fashion and the architecture, and although I was hoping for a decent enough stylist, I lucked out with my prep team too. There are three women, two in their twenties and one in her thirties, and they've been nothing but sweet to me all this time.
I'm very uncomfortable with nudity, especially when the person who's naked is me. I learned long ago that Julian and his gang of friends are willing to exploit every vulnerability they can, and that to them, any sliver of exposed skin practically begs for a beating. I took to wearing a couple sets of clothing layered on top of one another to be extra careful, but I still get hurt plenty. This morning, I was wearing my Reaping outfit, which was too small to properly tuck in, and just look at what happened to me.
My prep team had a very mixed reaction to the bruises on the upper half of my body, which, looking at them then, were much more expansive and severe than I originally thought, as well as my busted lip and the red ridge mark of a boot that's cut into my neck. The one thing that all three of them agreed on was that they couldn't just cover them up and pretend that I was fine. The most senior, Kaveyah, decided that they should medicate them first, and she went off and fetched a Capitol salve to heal them faster.
It was heavenly. The pain disappeared almost immediately, and I could literally see the marks shrinking in size. It had been awful when Kaveyah examined my ribs to make sure none of them were broken, because she kept pressing her fingers in the exact spots that hurt the most, but then she had patted my hand and told me that she was sorry if it was painful, but the good news was that there was no breakage, and that she was going to put some medicine on them and if it didn't help I needed to tell her so she'd know to take me to the medical wing.
I very nearly broke down crying. District Six is a cruel place, and I'm not accustomed to having many nice people in my life, so it was special for Kaveyah to say that she was sorry if it had hurt. She didn't need to do that, and I told her so, and that it was my own fault, and I probably deserved it anyway for not defending myself better.
"It's not your fault, sweetie, of course it's not your fault they beat you up. Who told you that? It's a filthy lie. Don't you go blaming yourself for this, you couldn't have helped it. You told me yourself that you fought back as best you could, and even if you hadn't, it still wouldn't be your fault. It's the fault of the people who were horrible enough to treat you badly for fun." She had been outraged, then saddened that I believed such a thing, and I actually had broken down crying, desperately scrubbing at my tears with my fists and sobbing apologies into her neck. I was sorry that I had wasted her time, sorry that I needed medicine, sorry that I was ugly and they had to use so much of their makeup to fix me, sorry that I had made them worry about my bruises.
The other two women on the prep team shot me concerned looks as they went to get the stylist, but Kaveyah stayed, pulling me into a hug and wrapping her arms around my back. "Quinten, honey, there's no need to say that. Stop telling me how sorry you are, I promise, you have nothing to apologize for. Alright? Really, you can take as much time as you need, I'm in no rush. The whole reason we keep medicine here is so we can make people who are injured feel better. And guess what? You were injured, so we gave you some medicine. You shouldn't have to feel guilty about being taken care of when you're hurt. And you're not ugly. Every tribute gets made up, it's just part of the process, and we're not doing it to fix you, because you're not broken. And honestly, we should be worried if our tribute is hurt. It's our job to make sure you're safe when you're here, and it's cause for concern if you're in pain. Truly, there's no reason to be sorry. Try to relax a little, Quinten. I know it's hard, but it's bad for you to be so on edge about all of these mistakes you think you're making."
"I'm sorry for apologizing so much. Please, I'm sorry about everything. I'm sorry I need so much help, I'm sorry I can't relax, I'm sorry I got hurt, just please don't hit me!"
"Hit you?" Kaveyah looked at me curiously. "Why would we hit you? And I already told you there's nothing you need to apologize for." I saw the flash of realization in her eyes as I cringed, shielding my face with my hands, hoping that she had put down the brush she was using for my hair. I've taken Mrs. Wallstone's hairbrush across the face more than once, and it leaves cherry red marks that don't go away for weeks. Plus, last time it knocked some of my teeth out, and I could barely talk, and I need to talk if I want to make an impression at the interviews in a few days.
"Quinten? Quinten, can you look at me?" A cool hand brushed my face, petting my forehead. Surprisingly, Kaveyah didn't seem angry. "It's not a trap. Is that what you were thinking? That I was being nice to you so it would be worse when I hit you?" I nod numbly, petrified, still too scared to meet her gaze. "Earlier you were telling me about a boy called Julian Wallstone and how he was the one who beat you up but he wasn't as bad as his parents, who you worked for. Was it one of them who used to set a trap like that?"
"Yeah," I whispered, letting the word hang in the air. "Yeah, it was Mrs. Wallstone."
"What did she do?"
"Oh, the usual gimmick was when she'd tell me I was doing a good job. 'Good job, folding the laundry, Quinten. Wow, this is great! It won't even need to be ironed! You're such a hard worker.' And then she'd go fishing for a compliment, leading me on, all 'What do we say when somebody gives us a compliment?' and then when I finally told her thank you, she'd laugh in my face and ask me how stupid I must be to think she was being serious. And then she'd hit me." My face crumpled, tears welling up in my eyes again, and I mopped them away with the sleeve of the too-plush robe I had been given.
Kaveyah was good to me, gentle and kind and comforting all the way up until the rest of the prep team finally comes back with the stylist, a fourth young woman. She holds up a black suit with traffic cones attached to it behind overextended shoulder pads. "Horrid," she declares, "But Ran pulled rank. Thank goodness he retires next year, I don't ever want to humiliate my tributes with one of his God-awful creations ever again." The stylist makes me change into a new set of underwear, and then throws the suit on me quickly.
"It's supposed to be oversized," she informs me, "Which is idiotic, but unfortunatlely I had no say in it. Here's your hat, by the way." She hands me a black porkpie, but a third traffic cone is glued to the top of it. "Have fun looking like a carrot out there tonight. Let's hope I can redeem you in the interviews." She storms out with no further comment, leaving me alone with my prep team again.
"Right-o," says Kaveyah, motioning at a chair while she wets a flannel under the hot tap. "Let's get those tears off your face, and you'll be good as new." She gives me a blinding smile as she starts to wipe away the streakiness from my cheeks, and I realize that I like how safe I feel with her.
People are really this patient?
Ryan Ritz, 14, D5M:
My stylist must be insane. He's put me in a fluorescent navy jumpsuit and is gluing what look like plastic, glittery, blue icicles all over me to resemble in his words, "a zap of electricity!" Color me stoked. At least my mentor is decent.
Her name is Tanya, and she's a woman from District Two who's pushing fifty. I was scared of having a brutal Career as a mentor, but Tanya's turning out to be alright. She's so different from me, having been trained, but Five and Two border each other, so her soft regional accent is familiar and comforting in comparison to the Capitol's brittle, grating tones. I stuck out my hand to shake hers but she caught me in a hug right away, and just being around a caring, responsible adult made me feel calmer.
I hadn't been properly hugged by an adult in years. Anthony, of course, hugged me now and again, and the littler kids, but the grownups in the Capitol just all seem so nice. The escort, Marichella, always made sure my plate and glass were full on the train, and Tanya hugged me, and the people on my prep team scoured the dirt off of my skin and untangled the snarls in my hair so carefully, and made sure that soap didn't get in my eyes. Even my stylist, as moronic as his costume ideas are, has instructed me that if the clothing is too tight, or if it's uncomfortable or itchy or is causing me pain, I have to tell him so he can fix it.
It almost makes me forget the cruelty of the Capitol, and the way they exploit the districts. Still, I'm glad the people here are kind. Tanya especially was helpful, and she told me all about the things I should do in the Training Center tomorrow, and also the people I need to make friends with tonight.
She decided that I should ally with some tributes my age, and has told me to form an alliance with my district partner Thys, a girl called Amiee from District Six, and maybe Damon, the boy from District Seven, unless he prefers to stay with his district partner Jenna for protection. In that case, I'm supposed to talk to the pair of tributes from District Three, and go from there.
Tanya's less concerned about having me learn a weapon and has told me to focus on the survival stations. She told me I was physically fit enough to put up a good fight, and that my priority is making sure I don't starve in the arena. "It's a Quarter Quell," she said. "The Gamemakers aren't going to make it easy for you. It's important that you know how to find water and food, and to heal yourself if you're injured. I'd say that you and your allies should bounce around most of the stations, just trying out different techniques and practicing different skills."
"What stations do I begin at?" I had asked.
"Hmm, let me think." In the end, Tanya decided that I would be starting out with knot tying, trap making, and fire building, some of the areas she predicts will be less popular.
"But what about self-defense?" I protested. "Surely there will be time for me to at least try out a weapon or two!" She gazed thoughtfully at me for a few moments, gaze sweeping up and down, and shook her head.
"That'll be no use if you die before encountering a conflict. It is called the Hunger Games, you know. It's easy to overlook the survival stations, but they're vital to your success, as the name survival might imply." Her mouth quirked upwards near the corners, hinting at a smile, and I smiled back. Witticisms are something I've grown to appreciate, and a little bit of her dry humor is beginning to rub off on me.
Back home with the Kitters–if a rundown hovel of an abusive orphanage could even be called a home–I had to tone down my natural sass to avoid sending Mrs. Kitter into a rage. It's good to hear some sarcasm again, particularly from someone as adult and mature as Tanya. I promise myself that I'll be like her when I'm older, someone cheerful and protective and dependable, who can deadpan with the best of them, and who would always do his best for the kids in his care.
I want to believe that I'll never be like the Kitters, never lash out at someone weaker than me, never leach off of someone else's labor, never take someone's help for granted or abuse their trust or hurt them in any way. That's one reason some of my allies will probably be younger than me, I'm used to helping that group of people. I wonder for a minute or two how Anthony is holding up back in District Five. I send a silent message of good luck to him, praying that he's faring alright.
He was the one who talked us out of trouble, but I was the one who muscled us out of trouble. Whenever his silver tongue failed us, I was right by his side to protect him, shelter him, even take a beating for him if it came to that. We were brothers of sorts, and best friends, so we stuck up for one another, and for the children we had to keep safe.
It occurs to me that I've been thinking of him in the past tense, as though I've given up all hope of returning home someday to reunite. Then again, even if I do somehow manage to survive the Hunger Games, he's still on his own for a month or so, and that's long enough to fall victim to any manner of the things that befall people in District Five.
Starvation, maybe, or a bout of bad weather after getting locked outside by Mrs. Kitter as a punishment for some miniscule transgression. Becoming lunch for one of the woodland animals that occasionally venture into the urbanized heart of the district, keeping cool from the summer heat in houses and flats only to become vicious when disturbed by the occupants returning. Pissing off the wrong person outside a bar. Really, it could be anything. Please let him be alright.
I turn my attention back to my stylist, who's almost finished with glueing the pointy spikes to my bodysuit. The members of my prep team flit about quietly, speaking softly to one another as brushes and tubes of creamy paste and tiny cases of powder emerge from their toolkits onto their workbenches. As my stylist puts the final touches on what I'll generously refer to as an outfit, the prep people give me orders.
"Close your eyes, Ryan dear?" An older woman who's recently gotten a facelift to make herself appear younger (these people constantly overshare about their cosmetic surgeries) dabs a fluffy brush in a tin of purple in a square palette, raising it to my face and distributing it evenly across my eyelids.
"Would you mind tilting to the left so I can reach you better? Another woman, this one with a bright pink bun pulling her hair back, brings a gentle hand to my cheek to hold me still (the first hand to go there since Mrs. Kitter last slapped me, which wasn't gentle in the slightest), cupping it firmly as she applies a pale wax to the underside of it, rubbing it in with her fingers. How does none get stuck under her clawlike acrylic nails?
"Could you please raise your chin just a bit?" The man on my prep team looks at my face head-on, using a plastic straightedge to determine its symmetry before using a little green sponge to dust on some fine white glitter. My skin feels hot and clammy. Whether due to the heavy makeup or the brilliant strobe lights, I don't know, but I can't wait to get into the holding area and get the Tribute Parade over with, no matter how horrible I look.
Out of the corner of my eye, Tanya appears in a fresh sports coat, and after coating my lips in a translucent gloss and giving me a pair of spiked slipper-shoes to wear, they help me out of my seat, walk me out into the hallway, and haul me into an elevator, where Thys and her team are already waiting. Her muscles bulge out from the too-small sleeves of her bodysuit, and she looks miserable with the spiked high heels and shimmery pink lipstick they've put her in.
"Don't laugh," she warns me, as Tanya presses a button. All of a sudden, the elevator car rockets into the sky, and I'm off on my way to the backstage area of the Grand Procession Hall in the Capitol's central atrium.
Somebody save me.
Hey y'all! This was a fun chapter to write, some seriously heavy stuff for Quinten's bit, but I tried to balance it out with a little hopeful fluff for him. People said in the Reaping chapters that he and Ryan deserved some hugs, so I decided that the people had spoken, and they should have a little bit of a reprieve before getting tossed into the arena. See you next chapter!
~LC :)
