Chapter Six.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Drachma Veitch
District One, 18 Years Old
"It's starting!" Cleo squealed, her voice quivering with excitement.
Music blared out of the screen, the sound of percussion and brass instruments ringing in Drachma's ears, and the words 'Welcome to Behind the Seams' appeared on the screen. The two exuberant hosts from the Capitol that Panem grew to love appeared on the screen, sitting at a high-top table, lights shining on them, a large screen behind them and two smaller screens to their sides.
"Do you ever wonder: What was the inspiration for that costume?" Decima asked, turning her head to look at her co-host, Cyrus. "Or, why did the stylist choose that color? What type of material is that?"
"Welcome to Behind the Seams!" Cyrus exclaimed, and in unison, they both looked directly into the camera and smiled. "Where we take you behind the scenes of the Chariot Rides to answer all of your burning questions!"
Drachma groaned. He was overwhelmed by the thought of all of Panem watching them, pointing and laughing at the costumes they wore for the Chariot Rides. He carefully monitored how he was perceived by others over the years, and Drachma felt his image was tainted by dressing up as a walking, talking diamond. It was a false representation of who Drachma was, of why he was in the Hunger Games.
Drachma didn't volunteer to be ridiculed on national television. To him, the segment served no purpose. He shifted in his seat as he listened to the hosts introduce themselves, talking about how the Chariot Rides and Behind the Seams were the highlights of their year.
If that were really the case, Drachma pitied them. What a sad life.
The Capitol piloted Behind the Seams a few years back as a way to increase screen-time for the tributes and to keep viewers engaged throughout the Hunger Games. The Capitol captivated Panem by simply recapping the Chariot Rides, showcasing the design process for the costumes, and making some jokes here and there. It was simple, but simple often worked for the Capitol.
For the socialites in the Capitol, it was pure entertainment, as they gathered around their television screens, drinking cocktails, snorting from hearty laughter as the Capitol hosts scrutinized the tributes. For potential sponsors, it was a way to assess the tributes, to form opinions on who they think might come out on top. For the friends and family of the tributes, it was a way to see their loved ones, to feel as if they were still connected to them, even if that was through a television screen.
The emblem of District One flashed on the screen, and Drachma and Cleo's team of stylists appeared on the screen, running around with fabric in their hands, tape measures hanging out of their pockets and pencils resting behind their ears. It skipped to the finished product, and Drachma watched himself and Cleo stand there as their stylists cleaned up any stray hairs and dabbed their make-up with a napkin.
"I looked beautiful," Cleo whispered to herself, taking a sip of her bubbly drink. "You too, Drachma, but I stole the show."
"You're such a narcissist," Drachma replied, half-joking, half-serious. Drachma and Cleo had a playful relationship, but Drachma knew what his threshold was for personalities like Cleo's. She was overbearing, and if the honor of representing District One and the legacy of the Careers didn't mean so much to him, he'd consider imploding his relationship with her.
Cleo reminded Drachma a lot of the old him, of how he used to act. He used to parade around District One, speaking with a condescending tone, looking at everyone as if they were below him. As he committed more and more time to training and the Hunger Games, his personality shifted, realizing that in life, Drachma couldn't simply act like he was better than anyone; he had to prove that he was better. Unlike him, Cleo was a downright vapid, delusional brat.
"As expected, District One did not disappoint," Decima said. "The stylists were inspired by diamonds this year."
"If you look closely," Cyrus continued, and the video zoomed into the costumes, showcasing the final details of the crown Drachma and Cleo wore during the Chariot Rides. "You can see their crowns were outlined in diamonds."
"And before you ask," Decima interjected, smirking. "They were real!"
"The Capitol spared no expense for Drachma and Cleo," Cyrus replied. "The stylists wanted to showcase how unique District One is this year."
Unique. Drachma chuckled to himself. Cleo must love that.
"Simply breathtaking!" Decima exclaimed, placing her hand on her chest, tilting her head back. "We adore them here in the Capitol!"
"I hope you've caught your breath, because next up is District Two!" Cyrus interjected, and on all of the screens around them, Renour and Georgia appeared, sitting in salon chairs as their team of stylists frantically ran around them, trimming their hair and applying make-up.
"I'm calling it a night," Cleo said, tossing back the rest of her drink, instantly losing interest in the segment as soon as her face vanished off the screen. "Care to join me, Cashmere?"
"I already served my time as one of the Capitol's call girls," Cashmere retorted, letting out a hearty laugh, eying Cleo as she leaned in her room's doorway, twirling her hair. "But, if, and emphasis on if, you somehow miraculously win, you have that to look forward to."
"Excuse me?" Cleo snapped, flustered. She was typically unfazed by Cashmere's insults, but not when they were directed at Cleo's future or reputation in District One. Drachma suffered through Cleo droning on and on about what she would do after she became victor, and becoming one of the Capitol's prostitutes was certainly not on her radar.
"Are you that dense?" Cashmere quipped back. "You're fodder for the Capitol's elite. Their grimy hands will be all over you."
Cleo slammed the door shut, and Cashmere shrugged, waving her hand in the air. Thane looked at her and then at Drachma, shook his head, and sauntered towards his room. He shut the door, leaving Drachma and Cashmere alone, and they sat there, listening to Cyrus and Decima fawn over the seashells covering the District Four's breasts.
"If you get the chance," Cashmere said, her back turned to him as she walked over towards her room. "Dispose of her. She's the last thing District One needs."
Drachma presumed Cashmere was being facetious, that she didn't really mean to betray his District partner and ally like that, but for a moment, he considered it. The idea was premature, as he didn't know what she was entirely capable of yet, but she was his competition, after all. If she continued to act as disdainful as she was with him and their mentors, he suspected she would also become a problem.
Drachma pushed the possibility to the back of his mind.
He would revisit it – betrayal – at a later date.
Hardy Ellidan
District Six, 18 Years Old
Hardy watched in awe.
The tributes from District Four rode down the boulevard, standing firmly on the chariot, captivating the crowd with their charming smiles. The cheers intensified as the two waved to the crowd, as if they were making eye-contact with each-and-every Capitol citizen there. He revered the Careers not only as tributes, but all that they stood for and all that they represented. To Hardy, the Career Districts were orderly, they were powerful. Career tributes exuded the confidence that he tried to mimic.
"How tacky," Arella said, pointing at the female tribute from District Four. She had seashells covering her breasts, while the majority of her body was exposed through the fish net draped over her. "Sometimes I wonder if Careers are actually bloodthirsty killers or they just know how to put on a show."
If that were the case, then Hardy related to them. He was putting on a show, pretending to be someone he wasn't. It gave him a glimmer of self-assurance to know that he was somewhat like a Career.
"Isn't that exactly what you did?" Hardy's mentor, Otto, retorted. Arella – who did in fact ally with the Careers during her Games – nodded. "And it worked for you, correct?"
"It's different. That was before the rebellion," Arella replied. "I would've never done it after that."
"Seems hypocritical," Otto said, shrugging his shoulders. He turned to Caris and Hardy who were sitting on the couch watching the stylists for District Five take measurements of their tributes. "Do what you need to do to increase your chances of survival. Just don't deny it."
Hardy felt a twinge of embarrassment, of shame, at Otto's comment. In District Six, and even thus far in the Capitol, he was doing what he needed to do to survive, but he was also denying it. The person he was pretending to be, the facade he carefully crafted, was who had a chance of winning the Hunger Games, not the boy who was bullied and belittled in District Six. He was in self-denial that, somewhere deep down, that boy still existed.
Cyrus and Decima made their final remarks on District Five's outfits – that dressing them up as transmission towers lacked any depth, any nuance – and Hardy and Caris appeared on the screen. Their stylists were rushing around their dressing room, tossing different fabrics and accessories to one another, holding them up to Hardy and Caris to see what complemented their features best.
"No offense," Otto said, cracking a smile and chuckling. "But train conductors are… an interesting choice."
Caris, along with their mentors, laughed at how silly they looked dressed up as train conductors, with a bright red cap, overalls made of high-end fabrics that neither of the tributes were familiar with, and a bandana covered in glitter wrapped around their necks. It was an obvious choice for the transportation District, and even though their stylists tried to spruce it up, they did not draw as much as attention and cheering from the crowd. While they all laughed, Hardy was not as entertained.
Hardy hated his costume, the bright colors and shimmering glitter on the fabrics were too flamboyant for him. The make-up smeared on his face, his slicked back hair, the glitter his stylists painted down his arms and legs. He detested what the Capitol was doing to him – they made him look like someone he was not. Not anymore, at least.
Hardy clenched his fists and gritted his teeth as they rode down the boulevard, thinking about what he looked like to District Six, to the Capitol. He looked weak.
"I don't want to watch this anymore."
"I want to," Caris replied, smiling as she watched her stylist curl her hair. Otto and Arella were also invested in the segment, watching it with smiles plastered on their faces. "It's funny."
It isn't funny to me. None of this is.
"Turn it off," Hardy shouted, and Caris flinched at the sound of his voice. She looked at him, fear in her eyes, and scrambled for the remote. "Turn it off!"
Caris turned off the television and the room went silent. Arella and Otto looked at him, their mouths agape, and Hardy took a deep breath. He wanted to apologize, to say that he wasn't angry at any of them. That he wasn't angry at Decima or Cyrus. That he was angry at himself.
Hardy stormed off, running into his room and slamming the door shut behind him. He fell backwards into his bed and stared at the ceiling. He heard muffled voices and the television in the main room turn back on. He brought his knees up to the chest and closed his eyes, his entire body trembling with frustration.
Hardy missed the old him.
The old him who would've enjoyed dressing up and being paraded down the boulevard as Capitol citizens gawked at him. The old him who used to embrace his feelings and emotions, who wasn't afraid to smile or cry. He missed being able to express what he truly wanted to. He was stifled, pushing down the real Hardy deep down inside of him. He repressed himself, and his true emotions, so no one saw them. That Hardy was not accepted in District Six, where he was surrounded by people that didn't like him for who he was, who ridiculed him for his interests, hopes, and dreams.
People like that – hopeful, optimistic – didn't survive in Panem. It was a dreary, cruel place that chewed those types of people up and spit them out.
In District Six, he had to be strong. Brave. Fearless.
He had to be someone he wasn't.
Aedan Vidar
District Nine, 18 Years Old
"Aedan, look! It's us!"
Avena clasped her hands together, standing only a few inches away from the television, smiling ear-to-ear. On screen, District Nine's stylist teams were standing around Aedan and Avena, patting down the bundle of grain stalks covering their torsos and fixing the grain stalk braided into Avena's hair.
"You look so handsome!" Avena said, and their two mentors, Garth and Freya, glared at him, and he shrugged his shoulders. She was quite flirtatious with Aedan, and although Aedan didn't acknowledge any of her comments, she would always manage to slip one or two compliments into any conversation.
Aedan watched, unamused. He winced at the idea of his face, and his bare skin that was mostly exposed through the grain stalks, plastered on television screens across Panem. He watched all of the other tributes get scrutinized and nitpicked by Cyrus and Decima. He didn't appreciate that the segment on the Chariot Rides made light of the situation at hand, of the fact that in a few days, most of the teenagers on that screen would be dead.
"A classic approach to District Nine," Cyrus commented, nodding his head, turning to Decima. She was visibly unimpressed, tapping her nails on the table-top. "What's wrong, Decima?"
"B-o-r-i-n-g," she said, spelling out the word, and Cyrus chuckled. "It's been done before and, after one-hundred-and-nineteen years of costumes, we want something groundbreaking. Not a shirt made out of grain."
Avena was visibly upset by Decima's take on their outfits, turning towards Aedan and their mentors, pushing out her bottom lip. She sulked as she walked towards the couch, collapsing into it. Avena spent all day raving about her costume, saying that it was the most beautiful, most unique, piece of clothing she ever wore, and was disappointed to hear such a cruel reaction from the Capitol.
None if it sat right with him, unlike Avena, who relished in dressing-up, in the blinding lights as they rode down the boulevard, bombarded by the sound of clapping and screaming. Aedan was fixated on the horses guiding their chariot, focusing on the animals as a way to distract himself. He hated the suffocating feeling of like he was under a microscope, a specimen for the Capitol to dissect.
Who cares what they think?
"Don't listen to them, Avena," Freya said, echoing Aedan's internal sentiment. "They don't know what they're saying. You looked stunning!"
Avena dug her face into the couch cushion, mumbling to herself, and Freya pointed at Aedan, gesturing for him to say something to her. Aedan shook his head, and Freya thrusted her finger forward, furrowing her brow.
"You looked nice," Aedan said, and Freya rolled her eyes, his half-hearted compliment not up to her standards. "Your hair. Your hair looked nice."
"Really?" Avena said, lifting up her head, tears no longer forming in her eyes. "You liked my hair?"
Aedan nodded, and Avena perked up, crossing her legs and sitting back on the couch. She continued to watch the screen, and Aedan was perplexed that, only a few seconds ago, she was devastated that the Capitol critiqued her outfit, and that all it took for Avena to turn her mood around was one compliment from him.
Aedan struggled with keeping Avena at-bay, only seeing her as his District partner, or if he would pursue an alliance with her as his mentors suggested. Alliances were valuable in the Games, but Aedan didn't want to make the rash decision of limiting himself by allying with a fourteen-year-old simply because they were both from District Nine. Besides, they were essentially polar opposites – Avena was playful, always laughing or smiling – while Aedan kept to himself. He only spoke when spoken to or if he felt inclined to share his thoughts, which was a rare occurrence.
Yet, something drew him to Avena; perhaps it was a moral obligation, because Aedan knew that girls like Avena didn't survive long in the Games. Girls like his youngest sister, Lianna, who Avena reminded him of. The incessant, mindless chatter, the high-pitched giggling, the inappropriate comments directed at him about his physical appearance. Avena didn't respect personal space or boundaries, and neither did Lianna, but slowly over the years, Aedan began to appreciate Lianna's presence in his new home.
Lianna taught him that there's more to life than working in the fields of District Nine, that sometimes in life, it was okay to not volunteer to pick up an extra shift and to stay in with his family. Lianna helped him transition into his new life in a foster home, with parents that expected too much from him, a resentful brother, and a distant sister that paid him no mind. Lianna made life bearable in District Nine, whether Aedan wanted to admit it or not.
He thought that maybe – just maybe, because Aedan wouldn't want to admit it either – Avena would somehow make his time in a place that was so alien to him, where he felt so out of place, more bearable. He saw Avena in a sibling-way, like he saw Lianna, and he felt like he could be a big-brother figure in the Capitol. Aedan knew that allying with Avena was a risk, that she could ultimately jeopardize his own survival in the arena, but Aedan considered it nonetheless.
"Want a snack?" Aedan said, and Avena's eyes widened, her and their mentors caught off-guard that Aedan actually addressed her directly. "The cookies look delicious."
Avena jumped off the couch, running over to the kitchen and rummaging through the cabinets. She pulled out several canisters of cookies, ripping the lid off of them, and dumped them all on a plate. Aedan sat down across from her at the table, nibbling on a cookie and listening to her talk about her favorite costumes from the Chariot Rides. Their mentors joined them, and they joked about Cyrus' bright-colored hair and Decima's long fingernails.
Aedan was uncomfortable with it all – being forced out of his comfort zone with the conversation, his time in the Capitol altogether, the impending arena – but Aedan sat back and accepted it. The Hunger Games were already changing Aedan, and, for once, he just let it happen.
There was nothing he could do to stop it.
Author's Note:
Idk. Honestly idk. I despise Chariot Rides, so this is what you get. Hope you enjoyed LOL HAHA
On a more serious note: What did you think of these three tributes?
Next up is training. There will be three training days; at first, I planned on having 6 POVs in each chapter, but then I decided that is too much for y'all to read and too much for me to write for one chapter, so I am going to break each training day into two parts, so there will be six training chapters with 3 POVs in each.
See you later alligator :)