Hera Dalenka. District 2 Female.

It's not nice; being touched. She's never liked it— never in the Academy (a fist to her face, legs swept from under, her skin, so cold, sweat-coated—)

Hera squirms. It's not—she's never liked the feeling. Her mom's always been the one to powder and puff her cheeks and her lips; dousing her in blobs of cream, smearing her in wafts of bliss, scattering red-blue-orange-green on her skin—all the colours combined, churning, so pretty, she'll touch it and it'd foam, explode—

But once it's done—once she's waded through the parade and watched their eyes be amazed and afraid and once she unclasps her braids and leaves her masquerade, once she stares at herself in the mirror and sees what they've made—

Hera is not reflected. She is a thing— artificial, dolled-up, created. That is all she has seen, before: and that is all she sees, now.

(Too many times. Concealer and foundation and mascara up her face; blush and bronzer and highlighter down her cheeks; that is the same self she makes in front of the mirror.)

And now Hera has her hands squeezed between her legs; she has her shoulders, shrunken-in. She has her eyes, cast-down at the ground; and on her skin's the buzz of shears, the chatter of the Capitolians, so alien, roaming hands, smearing her in froth and butter, roaming touches, so warm, so unwanted, out of her control, she can't, they're roaming, she's helpless, it's—

They ask her things; but their voices are an Avox's chatter, incoherent, inviolable, and she's inconsolable.

Hera's in the stylist's chair, and she's voiceless. Echoes of madness devour her, and she's a husk. She's a husk, tethering upon her seat; not quite there at all.

(Was she ever there at all?)

And she's there, she's half-smiling, and then there's bitterness on her lips, as much as a chuckle's there, and bitterness, bitterness, oh—

Her high's gone.

It's lost its hold.

Hera lets a breathless laugh out. Because the bliss's lost, and she's unfolding, she's unfolding, she's falling, and oh, she's so cold.

Chrys Gerhart. District 1 Male.

They lather him in liquid diamonds and quartz, and he hasn't felt so powerful before.

Warmth, hot and dousing, slathers his skin; but it's a beautiful feeling, one that pulses his skin in rubies and peaches. It's not so much painful than it is grand, and it is the grandeur that sinks into his bones. He's being remade: fortified, enforced, enhanced.

Enhanced, and he'll come out of it: stronger, with ardour: like a conqueror.

He doesn't question what they'll do, but the stylists tell him anyway. "It'll become armour," they tell him. "It'll solidify, and don't ask questions—you'll see, soon! It's the latest in Capitol fashion! I'm sure you'll love it."

So he doesn't ask. Instead, he relishes in it; it's invigorating, it's comforting, it's liberating. He's getting a massage, special treatment: that type he'd always only heard of in the Academy, from the rich kids that can afford the world and more.

He has it now. And he knows it's a dress-up game; it's made to impress; it's preparation for the deaths. But Chrys can't help but relax.

And it's the same, the way he feels throughout the entire ceremony; and when he's standing in front of the expanse of the Capitol, the chariots burring by the side, the roars of the crowd rousing the atmosphere, the glare of the silver screen poised upon him, Chrys is more than ready.

He tilts his head up at the rest of the world. And he lets a slight smile play upon his face.

He is more than ready.

And he'll show that to them all.

Dior Marini. District 1 Female.

Dior pushes her shoulders back and lifts her eyes towards the centre of the Capitol. It's a glare upon her face; it's a silver glint, one that stings. She simply looks forward.

It's armour that she wears. Beautiful alabaster flows down her skin and presses like knives into her skin. It's luxurious; it's unlike any armour that they've seen in tribute parades before.

(But not uncommon. Armour is often the accessory for Careers; that weapon which the Capitol fortifies them in. It's what dazzles and stuns; it's usually the armoured Careers who receive the most fanfare and love. Dior's always found it so painfully ironic; for it was often that those Careers that boasted golden chestplates and lion's heads that ended up with their breaths wrenched or with cavities made of their chests. So destroyed they would be: crusaders made cadavers.)

And now that she is in armour—it's hard not to think about them. Those dead. Their faces: their appearance so pitiful, their potential wasted, their cheeks so gaunt, their mouths so putrid in their ruby-wretched scent, their masks so emptied.

(Mattie. Her face is what stays on Dior's mind. Mattie's silver armour that she wore in the parade; not that beautiful a colour, but it was silver that had sparkled like the night's sky. It was so pretty. She remembers how her heart swelled with pride; that was Mattie, her younger sister, blazing in the tribute's parade. A tribute—and an eventual Victor. It was what she'd forced herself to believe in, then.)

Her mouth constricts, now. The Careers around her wear the same; the Twos have chitons on, wings holstered upon their backs, and they look like angels—so sacrificial, merely waiting for a knife's descent. The Fours have swathes of blue swarming their skin, like blue beetles and they themselves birds; uncaged, unbroken, free. She gazes upon the Capitolians; mouths frothing in cheers.

And finally, Dior looks upon the road that the horses clop against: those that span up to the palace that makes the Capitol. And Dior sees what Mattie had seen; two years ago, a tribute environed in the frenzy of the people.

(Did Mattie know that she was going to die? Did she stare into the world underneath her, and imagine herself bolstered upon the Victor's stage? Or was it too much - the noise, the rabid screams, the explosions of parade streams, the magnitude of the silver screens? What did Mattie think - was she just a tribute, or was she Victor?)

Dior doesn't know which would be more painful.

She lets out a breath. The Capitol's the same, she realises: no different from how it's been two years ago. A gleam of armour on her chest; twenty-three tributes, lined up for their deaths, where only one of the best can survive. But only now: she's in Mattie's stead, but she's not dead.

(Not dead yet.)

Dior stares at the rest of the Capitol in her armour, and promises herself: she won't be another Career girl that ends up an ironic caricature in other's memories.

She'll win. For Mattie's sake.

(She has to. What else is she here to do— other than that?)

A/N: Short chapter, but I wanted to pay my bail! Kidding; love you Joseph. xD

Thank you for reading! I hope you guys liked it; sorry this was a little shorter than my usual length, but that was all I really had for Chariots—some character establishing moments, and now we're going to be heading straight into the plot a little bit! But you know what this means—the next update should be soon!

Next Update: Training. 17th-19th Aug!

I hope you're all well, and let me know what you thought!