Chapter 11- Terra Coppersmith
Apparently, orange is Postumius' color for this year, because he has not taken it off since the reapings. While I'm up in the chariot behind these pretty gold horses, he's prancing around with a drink in his hand by our mentors. The victor who chose me is Shuttle Caries, who won maybe four, five years ago? Somewhere in there. She's still strong looking and capable, which is good. I'll need that to get through the next weeks.
Fletcher next to me looks over and shoots me a nervous grin. "Ready for this?" We're dressed in the same blue tunic with a flowing purple cape flying out behind us. In my hair my stylist, Damius, has put an old-fashioned weaving shuttle. District 8 textiles, you know.
I nod my head briefly. I've got to make a good impression, for Iry. And Deecey; both of them are going to be watching tonight, watching me. I can't let them down for a second.
Fletcher's mentor, Woven, clinks a glass of something together with Shuttle. Postumius is still raving about something, and the others are visibly tolerating him. Fletcher snorts.
"What an idiot," he says.
"I always said he was the best thing about the reapings," I say.
I look back and see the tributes from District 9 right behind us. The little girl looks terrified, dressed in a thin gold shift with a crown of grain on her head. Her partner is dressed very similar.
"What's her name?" I mutter to Fletcher, jerking my head back a little.
"Catalina, isn't it? I think that's what the screen said."
I nod, thinking to myself. Poor little kid; she's the smallest of all the tributes, I think. She's not going to last long in the arena.
"Right, this is it," Fletcher says, and we start to move forward in the chariot, moving closer to the doors and out to the citadel. I keep my eyes on the District 7 chariot, especially on the girl with the wild red hair.
Then we're out, and we're on the largest screens I've ever seen, plastered all over the city. The Capitol people cheer and scream our names, which they've actually bothered to remember.
I smile and wave to them, moving so quickly past the crowd that I can't focus on single people. That's fine with me; when we were pulling into the station this morning, I saw a man with oversize eyes and glittering teeth. Since seeing him I have no urge to look at the Capitol citizens too closely.
Someone is throwing flowers from the audience and one falls by my feet in the chariot. A daisy. I reach down, wobbling slightly in the moving chariot, and pick it up. Just keep smiling for the cameras, I think, and I do. Beside me, Fletcher waves at the crowd on his side.
The red headed tribute ahead of us is waving too, and she's caught a flower in her hand. Her hair is certainly striking; it might get her some sponsors. I'll just have to come up with my own angle for these Games.
The chariot moves fast, the horses keeping at a single speed the whole way around. The people cheer on either side, and the whole thing strikes me as bizarre; most of us are going to be dead in a week and they're all cheering for our silly outfits.
Finally, we come to the end of the parade, right at the president's mansion in the City Circle. Our horses arrange themselves automatically, and we wait to hear what the president has to say.
He comes out, radiating power. I've never seen him before, except on the screens at home. He adjusts his microphone and says, "Welcome, brave tributes to the 36th Hunger Games! We applaud your bravery and daring, and I personally hope you make yourselves at home here in the Capitol, however temporary it may be. And tributes: may the odds be ever in your favor."
He smiles, gives a wave, and the crowd erupts into applause. As if on cue, the horses start up again, keeping in the same numbered order as we came in. We pull into another stabled area, and the doors shut behind us. Damius and Fletcher's stylist, Emmie, are waiting for us and help us get down off of the chariot. All around us the other tributes are doing the same.
"Oh, well done!" Postumius cries, running towards us but tripping over his own feet. I can tell by looking at him that he's quite drunk, but that doesn't temper his enthusiasm.
"Beautiful! Lovely tributes!" he says, then falls over sideways. Shuttle rolls her eyes.
"Who hired him as an escort, I don't know. Woven, help me get him. And you two, follow us," she says, grabbing one of Postumius' arms. His head lolls backwards as Woven picks up his other arm and the two mentors start to half carry, half drag him along. Fletcher and I exchange a quick look, then follow after them. What I wouldn't give to tell Iry and Deecey about this; they would howl.
"Where are we going?" I ask, ignoring the other tributes who are staring at us as we trot along behind our unconscious escort.
"Training Center," Damius says.
We get to a set of elevators which slide open in front of us automatically. "Press the number of your district; that's your floor. Easy enough," Shuttle says, leaning Postumius against the wall. My stomach drops as we launch upwards; the elevator is much, much faster than the train. Once I get my stomach back, I'm thrilled at the ride. It stops gradually, then the doors slide open.
"Welcome home," Woven says, picking up half of Postumius, and together she and Shuttle drag him into the apartment and dump him unceremoniously on a couch.
"Wow," I say, stepping out of the elevator myself. The whole place is beautiful; stone walls and thick carpets, covered in tapestries and paintings alike. One wall is opaque glass, and running over it is a waterfall, bordered by bushy ferns. Being from District 8, I've never seen most plants, let alone ferns myself, but I've seen them in previous Games.
Alright, I can do this. I can eat well and live comfortably for a week. I look over to see Fletcher staring at the room with the same amount of awe that I'm feeling.
"Come on, let's watch the recap of the parade," Woven says, sitting down on another couch across from our drunk escort. I eye him carefully as I settle myself down on a plush grey chair.
We all watch the parade in relative silence. Some costumes are better than others, such as the gold dusted tributes from District 11 versus the District 10 tributes dressed as cows, complete with bells around their necks. The girl from 10 isn't pretty already, but her moronic costume makes it even worse.
Fletcher and I look half decent on camera, thankfully. I wonder what everyone at home is thinking about it. I hope Iry isn't too upset about me being gone. I hope Mrs. Underfall is taking good care of her. I know she is, but still.
Once the president has stopped talking, Shuttle turns off the television. "Tomorrow you'll start training downstairs. Go to all the stations, especially the edible foods one. I've seen too many tributes die because they ate something they thought was alright, but turned out to be poison. So, do that."
"Any other instructions, madam?" Fletcher asks, putting his arm over the back of the chair he's sitting in and stretching.
"Don't be cheeky," Shuttle says, but she's smiling. "See if you can get some allies or, if you prefer to go it alone, don't. Get some sleep now; training starts at 10 tomorrow."
A man all in red comes and quietly escorts me to another room down the hall. "Thank you," I say, and he nods and scurries off. Odd.
The door slides open at my touch and closes once I've stepped into my room. My room alone is bigger than my whole house in District 8. I can't help running around looking at everything. Against one wall is the biggest bed I've ever seen; as big as two or three of the beds at home put together. I jump onto it and turn a somersault, landing on a soft fur coverlet.
Sitting up and pushing my hair off my face, my attention next turns to a machine standing close by the bed, a few feet away from the nightstand on my left. Rolling across the rest of the bed, I jump off and walk over to this mystery machine.
Odd, there's a microphone indicator on it. What do I do with it? As a joke I lean in and say, "Pink bread," like Iry has always talked about wanting. A few seconds later, a small pink loaf of bread appears on a tray from the machine. My jaw drops open. The possibilities that this machine suggests are endless. I ask for an orange, which I've always wanted to try, and I peel it while walking around the room.
The wardrobe has a screen where I can program it to give me clothes that I would actually want to wear. Postumius' wardrobe must have a breakdown every morning, what with the orange suits and all.
When I tap on the windows in different places, they zoom in and out on the city; I amuse myself for several minutes while I finish my orange by following a particularly twitchy woman with pink ringlets while she walks down the street.
In the bathroom there's a shower that has a panel full of buttons; I don't dare try it now while I'm tired. Back out in the bedroom area there's a television, which I have no interest in turning on because of the Capitol propaganda that's always playing; several couches that are more bouncy than comfortable, and a large pink fluffy ottoman that I decide I'm very fond of.
I program the wardrobe to give me pajamas, which come out fleecy and warm. I clamber into the high, soft bed, into the sheets that are just as soft and fluffy as the coverlet. I pass my hand over a sensor on the wall and the light goes off. The day has been so long and the bed is so comfortable that I sink into sleep almost immediately.