Chapter 18: Preparations and Stylists

Lucretia Aurum, 18, District 1 female

She was flawless. A terry towel kept her body warm in places that were not cleaned by her preparation team. Small hairs were plucked from her hair and her eyebrows were cut accurately. Lucretia was surprised that no one had offered her cosmetic surgery. Their preparation team consisted only of operated persons. Lucius had already had at least two interventions on his face, from which now whiskers protruded, which made him appear like a disguised cat. Mavi, who just honed Lucretia's nails and talked to Leopardine about the latest trendy foods in her neighborhood, had dark blue hair that looked like they had been pulled from the depths of the sea. Leopardine had toned skin with Botox, which she would immediately prepare with Lucretia if she were to follow her. Hopefully, her stylist was better than these fouls. They ripped the towel from her body and inspected the perfected work.

"Get up, we have to check everything again before you're allowed to go to Tigris," Mavi chirped, plucking the last hairs on Lucretia's body with tweezers. Lucretia looked into the mirror that hung on the partition. Behind the partition would have to be Wayne, who had already thrown provocative glances at her all the train ride. Lucretia pretended she didn't notice, but she thought if he wanted to play with her, he should just dare. It would already put him in his place. Just because his brother had already won the games, it wasn't said that Wayne would. His ego was far too big and in the course of his death that probably wouldn't change. She already whipped Roger around her finger. It wouldn't be long before he would fully focus on her.

Carefully Lucius raised her hand and Lucretia already thought he wanted to kiss her when he painted her nails with a golden nail polish. This year, District 1 was decorated in metallic tones. Leopardine straightened her hair and it fell over her shoulders in soft creamy waves. The person in the mirror was truly immaculate, almost perfect and would take home the victory. "We're done with you. Tigris will come to you right away," Lucius said, and the team disappeared. Lucretia knew that there was no point in wrapping the towel around her because she would be immediately ripped off her body to see what she looked like. The cool air of the room caused Lucretia to freeze, but she looked at the provisionally assembled space that distinguished her from the other tributes. Today, Lucretia would see the other 23 tributes and make the acquaintance of the other careers. She had to get an idea of her competitors, assess her physical abilities in such a way that she could build on it at training tomorrow. She had already caught an eye of two or three outsiders who could be potential dangers. It was necessary to kill them as soon as possible.

The curtain to the hallway opened rustling and a woman came in with a black bag of clothes. She looked like a tiger with a black face, whiskers and orange skin. Lucretia recalled that this must have been her stylist Tigris, who dressed her in the coming days. Hopefully, the woman had a good taste, otherwise her strategy would be to use the provocations of her body, completely pointless.

"I am Tigris, your stylist. I'll dress you up in the next few days," she said, and Lucretia thought she might have heard a quiet whisper.

"Hello. I'm Lucretia Aurum," she said. Tigris smiled at her and pointed to the leather couch.

"Sit down. Here, take the morning coat and cover yourself. Not that you're going to catch a cold," Tigris demanded, pulling a small piece of silk from her huge jacket pocket. Lucretia gratefully accepted the morning coat. She did notice that Tigris watched every move she made.

"The team prepared you well. I'll do your make-up and then we'll put your outfit on. I think you'll like it," Tigris said, walking to the closet in the corner. Through the thin partitions, Lucretia heard more voices talking quietly to each other. Tigris opened a hairdressing chair and pointed to it. "Come on, we don't have all day," she said with a smile as she conjured cosmetic products from the individual drawers. Lucretia went to her with quick steps and sat down. The chair was actually made for people who work on TELEVISION, but she could see from an elevated position in the make-up mirror. Tigris threw a black cloth over it. Lucretia wanted to protest loudly, but her stylists waved at her only conspiratorially. "Trust me, it's one of the best moments when the tributes see the change."

Then Tigris set to work with nimble fingers. She tied Lucretia's hair backwards and began covering her face layer by layer with makeup. Lucretia enjoyed the tickling movements of the brush on her skin. She had long lost sight of time, but after some time her butt began to fall asleep. Tigris' brush movements had stopped and Lucretia knew she was being scrutinized. "I'm done with the make-up. If you feel something heavy on your head, please don't be scared," Tigris muttered as she unwrapped something out of paper. Lucretia shrugged slightly as she felt a weight on her head. "That's an important part of your costume, so please keep a straight posture during the parade," Tigris explained, and suddenly Lucretia felt an unpleasant heat in the area of her neck. She turned her head slightly crooked to escape the heat. Lucretia heard a quiet laugh behind her. "Don't worry, I'm not burning your neck with a curling iron." Facilitated Lucretia exhaled. Gradually, her blonde hair fell over her shoulders in curls. Tigris put some brackets out of the table. She took some sporadically and put them in the high-cut hairstyle. Although Lucretia couldn't see herself in the mirror, she felt much better, low key precious.

The voices in the hallway grew louder. "An hour until the parade!" someone shouted, and Tigris rushed to the garment bag. "Get up, we don't have time anymore," she said between frantic breaths. Lucretia got up and took off her morning coat. Her stylist threw a nude-colored briefs at her, which Lucretia immediately put on. Then Tigris pulled out arguably the most beautiful dress Lucretia had ever seen in her entire life. Golden fabric sheets devoured in a pattern that was supposed to represent the top. After that, they fell far down into a skirt. It was an outfit where she would show a lot of skin and yet Lucretia never wanted to do this as urgently as now. "It's beautiful," she said. "Turn around," Tigris demanded.

Lucretia pulled the cool light fabric over her body. Tigris closed the zipper and put the thing on her head. She put gold strappy sandals on the floor. Lucretia slipped in without prompting.

"I think we're done. Until you're ready to see yourself in the mirror?" asked Tigris, quickly pulling away the black cloth. Lucretia was left with her breath when she looked in the mirror. She wasn't pretty or beautiful. She was stunning. The part on her head was a crown with pointed spikes protruding into the air. Lucretia was not just any queen, no, she was the golden goddess of victory of the Hunger Games.

Paul Barrows, 18, District 7 male

There was a reason, why Paul avoided people. They were loud and annoying. His stylist, he couldn't remember her name, kept asking what his life had been like in District 7. Afterwards she admired his muscles, which came from the many wood chippings for Sorrel.

The preparation team had squirted him off, created it and rather painfully depilated it. After the fourth time in the tub, Paul had finally refused to go back in there. Although a sense of cleanliness was supposed to overwhelm him, Paul felt only vulnerable and no longer like himself. They had ignored the intimacy of his body and shaped it according to the ideas of the Capitol. Paul didn't like that he had already told his stylist, who skillfully ignored him. She just ran back and forth between clothes racks, hoping to pick out the right costume for the parade. Paul already knew that he was being dragged through half the Capitol dressed as a tree or lumberjack. Blight, who served as a mentor to him and Ivy, revealed that the sponsors jumped District 7 at the parade because they didn't see any news. The parade was definitely not the place where he could fish for the biggest sponsors. He had been assured that there were interested parties who would like to sponsor him but they were waiting for the results of the individual training. Paul had to focus on the three training days in order to acquire some important new insights of the games. "Here, I found it!" the stylist enthusiastically proclaimed. "How do you like it?"

Normally Paul was a very honest person, but he didn't want to ruin his relationship with the stylist, as she would also dress him up for the interview. But he just needed to admit that the tree costume was one of the ugliest he had ever seen. Apparently only the size of the costume had been changed because It seemed very well known to Paul. Blight had worn the same thing last year. Did the stylist think that an identical outfit increased the chances of a double win for District 7? Paul didn't know if she really thought so and just smiled at her.

"I knew you liked it! Come on, stand up, we have to put it on you!" she demanded, almost ripping his bathrobe with the long claws that were fingernails a long time ago into two. Paul got up and immediately got a pair of underpants pressed into his hand, which he was relieved for and not being naked under the costume. 'I'm not sure it's fit on the arms. You're more muscular than the other boys of recent years," she said skeptically.

In fact, Paul's costume was too tight. Downwards it fit quite well and he was still able to move to some extent, but Paul couldn't pull it all the way up. "What am I doing now? Marcus, please come over, we have a problem here," she shouted over the thin partition. Marcus was apparently Ivy's stylist being treated next door. He had heard her screaming quietly. A man pushed the thin curtain to one side. If the preparation team looked like it was operating, it was nothing compared to the man. His entire face had been changed. Paul was terrified when Marcus looked at him.

"More muscles than Blight? Cut off the top and let the audience see the muscles, they love something like that," Marcus said as he looked down on Paul again. Paul ran an ice-cold shiver over his back. He had promised Blight that he would pass the procedure without resistance, but there had never been any talk of presenting his bare torso to the whole country. His stylist approached with scissors, which she put just below his chest to cut off the top. A wrong movement and the scissors are piercing my heart, Paul thought. But at least I wouldn't have to ridicule myself in front of the whole nation.

"Just an hour until the start of the parade!" someone shouted. His stylist now completely ripped off the top. "I'm afraid I'll have to sew a new costume this year," she said, shaking her head in disappointment. Shouldn't she do that every year?

Half an hour later, it turned out that she really should have done it. Paul felt the cool air of the hall on his bare torso. He knew it was going to get colder outside, but his nervousness made it impossible for him to waste any more thought on the temperature. Blight was already standing by her car and chatting to the frothing Ivy, whose torso was fortunately covered. Her dark brown hair was laid out in an elegant high-cut hairstyle that accentuated her fine facial features. If he hadn't known she hated wearing makeup or clothes, he would never have thought she could look like that. As he walked to the two, he felt the eyes of the other tributes on his body. They didn't see if he was a competitor, no, they stared at him as if they were trying to rip his soul out of his body with their eyes.

"Do you feel uncomfortable, Paul?" a trembling Ivy asked him as he finally stood next to Blight. Her body was littered with fine goosebumps.

"Let's put it this way: I've had nicer things on. Are you that cold?" Blight frowned anxiously. "I want a doctor to examine you tonight, Ivy. We have to make sure you don't catch a cold right before the arena. Your immune system isn't as strong as other tributes anyway, and a disease wouldn't exactly support training," he said, watching the district's escort, who was chatting to the mentor of the Tribute s. 2. Ivy squeezed her arms in front of her torso and bit her lips. "Are you sure I need to see a doctor? I'm fine, I just think it's too cool in this costume," she said skeptically. Paul raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. "I promise you, nobody would hurt you. Besides, you've been shaking all the time since the reaping and I don't think it's because of the fear," Paul said as Blight interrupted him.

"Look at me, okay? You are currently being checked through by the tributes from two. I think he talked to Brutus about a possible alliance. This could bring you a significant advantage, remember. I know that you," he looked at Paul earnestly, "prefer to work alone, but an alliance brings some security for the first few days in the arena. Ivy, I want you to look for potential allies tomorrow. When the careers come up to you, find out if you could imagine an alliance with them."

'I'm not sure it's a good idea. I mean, it's at least a little bit of food security for me, but they're going to kill me if I don't benefit them," she said. Blight looked at her in silence. His lips were just a pale line on his face. "Get on the wagon. The parade will start soon. Afterwards we go upstairs to the apartment and you let yourself be examined, no excuses!" he said monotonously, before disappearing to the elevators. "What was that?", Paul asked.

Ivy shrugged and climbed onto the car as best she could with the tight dress. "Some people don't tolerate the truth quite as well as others. Come on, I think the stylists wanted to tell us how amazing we look." Paul had to smile at the sarcasm. "After all, we're not cows like District 10."

Misty Boulevard, 18, District 12 female

Misty couldn't stand still. She was cold, her outfit showed too much skin and she felt the boy from District 2 looking at her breasts. She wasn't even supposed to notice that, but now that she's only dressed in a wafer-thin layer of coal dust and a nude-colored brief, she feels more vulnerable than ever. Misty still didn't understand why the stylists wanted them to do this covered only with coal dust. When Haymitch saw Conan and her in that elevator, he wanted to complain about their outfits to Rutherford. Conan was just able to stop him. Now her mentor stood leaning against the concrete wall with her arms crossed and looked at the other tributes. His dirty blonde hair shimmered in the dimmed light and Misty really had to admit that he didn't even look so bad. She knew that Haymitch thought she was crazy because she had voluntarily chosen to live in hell. When Misty tried to explain her motives, he had only looked at her angrily with his steel-grey eyes and drank his whiskey. Although Misty found she could read quite well in people, her mentor was just an unsolved puzzle for her. He got angry when there was no reason to do so and laughed at things that weren't funny.

Her observation was interrupted by Conan, who apparently felt even more uncomfortable than herself. He covered his intimate area with his hands, his face completely blush with shame. The jacket they had been given before waiting had disappeared from his shoulders. Although she was only a year older than her district partner, it felt like she was his big sister. Misty didn't want him to feel uncomfortable. During the long train journey, Conan had confided to her that he had already been bullied. Shaking her head, she had assured him that no one could do anything to him while she was with him. It sounded sentimental, but Misty always wanted the best for her fellow human beings. No one deserved to be bullied or insulted because they were different. "Come on, Conan. You can already put yourself in the chariot, then nobody will look at you," she said in a calm voice. Thankfully, her district partner jumped on the wagon. For District 12, it had been decorated with white flowers and painted black. Conan leaned down to her.

"Do you think someone will sponsor us? Well, in this costumes, I somehow doubt it," Conan said quietly, so her stylists, who were talking to District 11 stylists five feet away, couldn't hear him. Misty could understand Conan's fears, but now she wasn't allowed to show how vulnerable and vulnerable she felt. It was the only thing that separated Conan from a panic attack. Be strong for him, her inner voice said.

"I'm sure somebody will, Conan. We now have to prepare ourselves to go outside right away. Remember what we were told: smile, wave and kiss!" she replied, showing him with a hand gesture that she also wanted to get on the chariots. The boy took a big step to the side. Misty stood beside him and took his right hand into hers. "Hey, we're already doing it. A bit more confidence," she said. She knew that neither had that self-assurance, but she had to encourage him. From the eye-winkle, she noticed Haymitch approaching the two. Haymitch carefully placed his hands on the flower decoration.

"Listen to me, this is important," he tells them, pointing the finger at the two tributes. 'You may not be dressed in the most expensive silk or shiny metal, but that's not that you can't make an equally big impression on the audience. If you guys smile and wave at it, then everything will be fine. I'm going to go upstairs to one of the stands and look for sponsors. You're going to be amazing, I'm sure," he said, high-fiving with Conan. With a shy smile, Conan struck. When Haymitch held her hand, Misty didn't understand what he wanted from her.

She struck quickly before looking forward. Focus. This is important. Haymitch can't get sponsors without your help. Before her, the tributes from District 11 were ready. The girl was about her age, the boy was no more than fifteen. After a decade, District 11 had a good chance of bringing home a winner with the girl. Despite her sack costume, she looked elegant, almost reminding Misty of a queen, but she lacked a crown. Her eyes were dark as night, inconspicuous and fearful. Tomorrow at the training, Misty should keep an eye on her to see if she was really a threat. Her small district partner, whose name began with Q, was wiry. He had probably worked on one of the many orchards. Making an alliance with him would be a good idea. The tributes from District 11 often knew what was edible and where to find food, something that could make them invaluable allies.

Misty easily stunned Conan, who was lost in his mind. His carelessness was worrying, but she knew that his intelligence would make it up.

"What do you think of the boy from 11? I think he would be a good ally," she said softly, continuing to look at the car in front of her. Conan looked forward, analyzing the boy before nodding approvingly. "The boy could be quite practical. In combat, maybe not, he's too weak for that, but isn't the real fight is to be measured by our survival skills?" he said. Conan was right; In combat, he wouldn't be able to help them, but in the arena they needed food. "I will propose it to Haymitch after the parade. He seems to be working quite well with the mentors," Misty whispered back as the loudspeakers on the high concrete walls prompted him to stand on the chariots and finish every preparation.

Most tributes received instructions on how to rotate to make the most of the light of the headlights. Their stylists only checked whether there was coal dust everywhere. Misty felt dirty with the dust all over her body, not like a volunteer from District 12. Would she be punished with this outfit because she didn't want to let her pregnant girlfriend die? Misty didn't know. But she didn't care because the voice of the Supreme Gamemaker thundered through the hall.

"The gates will open in two minutes. Stylists, please go to the viewing platform 4a. Tributes, I wish you good luck and success. May the 54th Hunger Games begin!"

Artemesia Rutherford, 26, Head Gamemaker

Nervously, Artemesia looked back and forth between her watch and the hustle and bustle under her. In less than twenty minutes, the tributes would be officially presented to the Capitol for the first time. She was supposed to sit back and enjoy a cool drink, but Artemesia couldn't find the serenity for it. She suppressed the urge to take down the spiral staircase and put her hand on herself. Due to the elevated position and the balcony, Artemesia could hear every movement of her tributes. Some plucked dissatisfied at their costumes, like the girl from District 10, whose cow costume was pitifully.

Stylists hustled between their studios on the lower floors and the hall to their tributes, to re-establish a strand or to explain the appropriate direction of the dress. Like little ants they were, insignificant and yet they thought of themselves that they were the most important. A quiet laugh eluded Artemesia as she reached for the glass jug to grab a warm cup of tea. Today was the last day when attention was not entirely focused on their activities. If something went wrong today, it was easy to blame the stylists. The warm steam of the tea rose into the air and filled the surrounding area with peppermint smell. Artemesia sipped on the hot cup and looked through the other window towards the luminous grandstands that had been placed on the sides of the route. Next year, she had agreed with Snow, stairs out of concrete would be poured instead of the grandstands. She was supposed to be down there, on the other side of the action, but it didn't feel right. Artemesia wanted to be with her dolls and play games while others watched her. She wanted to see the reaction of the Capitol as the tributes were pulled through the streets in their costumes. She wanted to see how the tributes reacted and behaved. Artemesia needed an overview of the different personalities; Ultimately, their job was to select the person whose character and appearance the Capitol liked most. For the next few days, she wouldn't let her puppets out of sight, haunting them at every turn. She had already been told that some tributes were better suited than others. Now all she had to do was make sure that one of the more suitable tributes won.

As the tea got cold, the countdown to the 54th Hunger Games parade began. Artemesia covered her dark-faced lips with an expectant smile before turning to Claudius Templeshire. The already older moderator of the Hunger Games had thrown himself into his most colorful jacket and was just waiting for her sign to give the order to open the gates. "The world will watch them. I want them to record everything, Claudius," she ordered, without moving away from the round windowpane. With eagle eyes, she saw each district positioned itself on their chariot. She was so far away from their reality and nervousness, but still she could feel every emotion. The tension was almost palpable when she finally gave the order to present his tributes to the Capitol.