Shimmer Calvisi-18 (District 1 Male)
"Good morning, Shimmer," says my mentor, Dahlia. Her tone light and playful even as she glares angry daggers at me from across the table while my partner Alfonso does his level best to ignore me entirely as I slide into the chair next to him. "Did you sleep well?"
"I did, Dahlia. Thank you for asking," I reply, reaching over Alfonso's plate with my fork and sliding the perfectly sharpened points into the soft, forgiving flesh of a plump, juicy breakfast sausage. "As a matter of fact, that was the best night's sleep I've had in a long time. I slept like a baby.
"What about you, Alfonso?" I ask, taking a healthy bite out of my sausage, the hot spicy juices seeping out and running down my chin. "How did you sleep?"
"Well enough," he says, turning his head ever so slightly and showing off the beautiful, throbbing, purple-green bruise on his left eye as he takes a small bite of his bacon before dropping his silverware onto his plate and pushing away from the table.
"Where are you going?" asks Dahlia.
"To take a shower and get dressed," he replies, clenching his right hand ever so slightly in anger as he does everything in his power to control himself — His burning desire to punch me in the face hanging thick in the air.
"But you haven't finished eating, Alfonso."
"I'm full," he growls. His stomach picking that precise moment to groan angrily at him as he casually slips out of the room — Leaving Dahlia and me alone in the suddenly very quiet and tension-filled dining car.
"What's his problem?" I ask, suppressing the urge to chuckle as I tear another chunk out of my sausage and chew it greedily — Drawing a reproachful glare from Dahlia as I wipe my lips clean with a napkin.
"You know full well what his issue is, Shimmer," she says, an exacerbated groan slipping past her lips as she rubs her temples gingerly before returning her attention to me.
"Look, I'm not sure what the deal is between the two of you, and I don't care. But it ends here."
"There's no deal," I say, a smile on my face as I reach across the table to snag myself a piece of toast.
"Then why did you punch him?"
"He wouldn't shut up," I say, dropping my piece of toast onto my plate and picking up my knife. "I gave him every opportunity to do so. And more than one warning that there would be consequences if he refused to do so. But he just kept talking. So, I shut him up myself."
"That's your reason?" she asks in shocked disbelief. "You punched Alfonso in the eye because he wouldn't stop talking?"
"Do I need a better one?"
"Yes!"
"Ok then. How's this?
"I punched him because I could," I say — Spreading a thick helping of jam onto my toast and taking a bite out of it as she continues to stare at me.
"And for the record, I was trying to punch him in the nose. I only got him in the eye because he moved." I say, looking down at my bruised knuckles and flexing them softly as a delicious jolt of pain shoots through my hand and into my soul — Bringing a soft smile to my lips.
"What the — what the hell is wrong with you, Shimmer?"
"What do you mean, Dahlia," I say. My voice low and menacing as I push myself away from the table and start towards her. A wild, angry look in my eyes as I close on her while she backs away slowly until she bumps into the wall with an adorable little squeak.
"Is there something wrong with me?"
"N-No," she stammers, a look of pure terror burning in her big, brown eyes as she tries to back up through the wall of the train.
Her fear is delicious, but I force myself to stop all the same.
After all, she is my mentor. And it would be — inappropriate — for me to continue acting this way towards her. Not as inappropriate as punching my district partner is his smug face, but it would be close. And I can't afford to have three of those kinds of incidents hanging over me before I ever set foot in the arena. I don't want to draw too much attention to myself before the Games start.
"I didn't think so," I say, a small smile on my lips as I spin around and start towards the door. "I'll be in my compartment if you need me. Oh, and please, thank the chef for me. Breakfast was amazing."
Dana Shouwei-15 (District 6 Female)
If Leandra isn't careful, she's going to faceplant right into her breakfast. She's doing her best not to, she really is, but she's fighting a losing battle, and we both know it. So, it's my job to help her even the odds.
And, as luck would have it, I have the perfect plan to do just that. And I swear, the fact that it's also going to piss off our escort Antonia is only like half the reason I picked it. I promise.
"Excuse me, Maximus," I say, my voice low, respectful, and dripping with fake sweetness. "Could you pass me the oatmeal, please?"
"Sure," he says, picking up the bowl and handing it to me without so much as a glance in my direction.
"Thank you," I say, fighting back the urge to giggle as I pick up my spoon and carefully shovel a heaping scoop of goopy, lukewarm oatmeal onto it before turning towards a still half-asleep Leandra.
"Leandra!" I coo, a huge, shit-eating grin on my face as I pull the top of my spoon back and angle it at her head. "Think fast!" I shout, slipping my finger off the spoon and sending the massive glob of oatmeal sailing through the air and right into her nose.
"Oops."
"Dana?! What the hell?" she giggles, her face covered in semi-runny goop as she tries and fails to hide a weak, playful little smile.
"You ummm, you weren't supposed to turn that fast," I giggle, staring down at my plate in embarrassment. "Sorry."
"What the hell are you doing, Dana?!" screams Antonia. The vein in her forehead throbbing with every word as she glares daggers at me from across the table, while Leandra continues to giggle softly as the oatmeal slowly drips down her face and into her lap.
"And just what may I ask is so funny, Leandra?!"
"This," she says, scooping the goop off her face and tossing it at my head with a playful huff. Missing it by maybe an inch as I duck to the side, causing the poor, unsuspecting avox behind me who was just trying to refill Maximus's coffee to take the shot right in the side of his head.
And that's when all hell breaks loose.
I grab a handful of eggs and toss them at Leandra. She dives under the table with a plate of french toast and starts lobbing the balled-up slices in my general direction. While Antonia stands there in the middle of everything with a stupid look on her face and smoke pouring out her ears.
Even Maximus gets in on the fun. If you count picking up his coffee and paper and retreating to the far side of the compartment so he can drink and read in peace as getting involved, that is.
Either way, it's an absolute blast. And, even though it's not the same as having a dough fight in the bakery — which is what I was going for — it's close. More importantly, it's enough to snap Leandra out of her funk.
And that's what matters.
So, that's how we spend the next five minutes. The two of us lobbing food at each other, Leandra trying her best not to hit Antonia and me going out of my way to do us, until Maximus finally steps in and brings an end to our fun.
"Ok, girls, that's enough," he says, his voice soft but commanding as he wades into the middle of the fray with his hands raised in surrender and a stern but amused look on his face.
"I hate to spoil your fun," he says, earning a weak giggle from me and a disapproving huff from Antonia. "But playtime is over. The two of you need to get cleaned up. We'll do the same and meet you in the lounge car in ten minutes."
"Why so soon?" I ask, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.
"Because we'll be at the train station in fifteen minutes," he says, his tone flat and matter of fact as I freeze in place until Leandra grabs me by the hand and all but drags me out of the car seconds before Antonia finally blows her top and starts screaming at Maximus.
From there, everything sort of passes by in a terrifying blur, as all of the fear and angst that kept me up all night comes rushing back like a tidal wave.
I sort of remember Leandra dragging me into her room and helping me peel myself out of my wet, food-covered clothes. And I vividly remember her tossing me in the shower. But that's it.
By the time I finally come to, the four of us are standing in the middle of the train station surrounded by a small army of peacekeepers. Leandra and I in the middle of everyone with her hand squeezing mine. A very calm and collected Maximus on our left. A still visibly pissed-off Antonia on our right. And thousands of screaming Capitolites chanting our names and fighting to get a better look at us as we slowly make our way through the crowd and into the belly of the beast.
I think I'm gonna be sick.
Shirley Gutters-16 (District 5 Male)
"And just who the hell are you supposed to be?" I ask, my voice low and angry as I stare across the room at the plump, bald, little mouse of a man who just walked into the room with a stupid-looking smile on his fat face.
"I'm your stylist, Mr. Gutters," he squeaks, his voice high pitched and annoying as fuck as he waddles over to my bed and offers me his hand.
"You're my what?" I ask, my eyes drifting down to the cuffs on my wrists that have me secured to the cold metal table I've been sitting on naked for the last half an hour.
"Your stylist," he says, pulling his hand back and running it nervously over his smooth and impossibly shiny head before waddling over to the far side of the room to fetch himself a chair.
"And just what in the hell is a stylist?"
"That depends on who you ask," he says, dragging his chair into the middle of the room and plopping his massive ass down on the small, padded seat with an exhausted groan before leaning forward and continuing to babble on about his job.
"For some, I'm a fashion expert. For others, a public relations aficionado. But for you, I imagine that I'll need to be a bit of both, considering your recent history."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I growl, my annoyance evident as I pull against the chains that connect my cuffs to the table below me.
"Nothing bad, I assure you."
"Don't lie to me," I scream, sliding off the table and lunging towards him with all my might, only to be stopped a few feet short of my head connecting with his nose by the chains. "I don't like being lied to."
"I'm not lying to you, Mr. Gutters."
"Yes, you are. And I don't appreciate it," I growl. "Say what you mean or keep your fat mouth shut."
"Is that really what you want me to do, Mr. Gutters?"
"It is."
"Ok then. Your physical appearance and sense of style are atrocious. You're an unmitigated trainwreck in those departments.
"You've made a shocking number of disastrous social faux pas over the last day and a half. Including just a little while ago when you tried to bite one of the members of my staff."
"The bitch had it coming. I told her to leave my beard alone, but she didn't listen. I spent six months working on it, and she took it off my face in less than thirty seconds."
"She was doing her job, Mr. Gutters. A task you went out of your way to make much more difficult than it had to be by behaving like a common thug. Hence the restraints," he says, nodding to the chains and cuffs that keep me bound to that stupid table like an animal.
"So, you're afraid of me," I say, a feeling of accomplishment washing over me as I glare down at him triumphantly. My towel and robe slipping off my body as I stand up straight.
"Not in the slightest," he says, his voice just as calm, even, and annoyingly high pitched as it's been this whole time. "I don't have time to be afraid of people like you in my line of work, Mr. Gutters. I have an important job to do and a limited amount of time to do it. So the only thing I care about is getting it done.
"The only question is, are you going to help me, help you not make an ass of yourself tonight? Or do I have to have you sedated? Because I don't care either way."
"I think we both know that answer to that. You sad, pathetic excuse for a man," I say, an angry sneer that shows off every one of my broken teeth on full display as he shakes his head in disappointment.
"On this, we agree, Mr. Gutters. GUARD!"
Bellatrix Harvey-18 (District 2 Female)
I love the way I look in my parade outfit. I know that sounds incredibly vain and more than a little narcissistic, but it's true. Everything about it, from the way the breastplate fits my body like a glove to the way the rich, blood-red inlays and leather make me look like the warrior goddess I am, is absolutely perfect.
And more importantly, it makes me look as perfect as I feel. Though, it's not like I expected anything less. I always look good, even when I'm not supposed to. I roll out of bed looking better than most people could ever dream of looking.
And when you combine my natural beauty with an outfit as stunning and well-designed as mine is. Well, the results speak for themselves. Such is the burden a goddess like me must bear.
"Can I assume the smile on your face means you approve of your outfit?" asks my stylist — a tall, statuesque woman with soft, snow-white skin; short, ear length copper-red hair; stunning dark-brown eyes; and a sharp, angular face whose name I'm sure I've been told at least once but can't seem to remember right now.
Not that her name really matters at this point. Or, like, at all. I mean, I'm going to have to learn it at some point, if only to avoid making things awkward with her, but that's a problem for tomorrow.
Because right now, the only things I want to worry about are enjoying the moment, appreciating just how stunning this outfit truly is, and how breathtaking it makes me look and feel. Nothing else matters — Not even the name of the woman who is partially responsible for creating the moment in the first place.
"Is everything ok, Bellatrix?"
"Everything is perfect," I say, forcing myself to look away from the mirror and back at my stylist, who can't seem to take her eyes off me and the spectacular results of all of her hard work. "I was just thinking."
"What about?"
"Oh, lots of things. How much I've been looking forward to this day. How important it is to me. How you did a phenomenal job on my outfit. Things like that."
"Thank you, but I fear you give me too much credit. All I did was come up with the idea. My partner is the one who designed the outfit. And our teams are the ones who brought it to life.
"And, of course, you're the one who makes it look absolutely divine."
"I most certainly do," I whisper, turning back around to give myself a final once over in the mirror before bidding it and the stunning view it provides a silent farewell and falling in step behind my stylist as she leads me over to the door.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she squeaks, racing back over to the table on the far side of the room and returning with a pair of gorgeous midnight-black feather wings that she carefully attaches to the back of my armor before draping the tips over my shoulders. "There. Now, you really do look perfect."
"Thank you. But, what's with the wings?"
"They're part of the outfit, silly. I mean, you'd make a pretty lousy Valkyrie without them."
"I suppose you're right."
"Of course, I am.
"Now, big smile. It's time for you to meet your adoring fans."
No, it's time for me to meet my destiny. And, as always, I'll be doing it in style.
Bennett "Benny" Ramirez-18 (District 7 Male)
"What were our stylists thinking?" asks Asuka, a confused look on his face as he stares at me and my outfit in shocked disbelief. "Did they honestly think these outfits were a good idea?"
"What's wrong with our outfits? I think they look pretty good."
"Have you had the chance to look in a mirror since you put on your outfit, Benny?"
"Well, not exactly."
"Then how can you say they look good?"
"Because I've seen you in yours, and you look amazing," I say, the words spilling out of my mouth so fast I don't have the chance to stop them.
"You ... you think I look good in this?"
"To be honest, I think you would look good in anything," I say, again, the words slipping out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop them. "But yes, I do think you look amazing in your parade outfit. The way the whiteness of the paper contrasts with your skin is really — handsome?"
"Well, um, thank you, Benny," he says, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks as he looks down at his feet for a few seconds before looking back up at me with a smile on his face. "I'm not sure that I believe you, but I do appreciate you saying that."
"Why don't you believe me?"
"Because I refuse to believe that anyone looks good when they're dressed up like an origami swan. It's just not humanly possible."
"Then you must not be human, Asuka. Because you're wearing an origami swan parade outfit, and you don't just look good, you look damn good." I say, my face turning a dark and embarrassing shade of red as my brain catches up with my mouth, and I realize just how cringy what I said actually sounds when you say it out loud.
Ugh. Why do I keep saying that part out loud?! Seriously, why?!
Is my brain trying to embarrass me? Or is it just not fast enough to keep up with my mouth when I'm around Asuka? And, more importantly, does it really even matter at this point?
Well, does it? Hello, brain, I'm waiting here.
"Attention, tributes. Attention. This is your five-minute warning. I repeat, the Tribute Parade will begin in five minutes. At this time, all tributes are directed to find their chariots and mount up.
"Good luck. And may the odds be ever in your favor."
Oh, you lucky, lucky brain. You've wiggled your way out of trouble yet again. I think, kicking myself silently for letting it get away with this as I fall in step beside Asuka as he expertly weaves his way through the mess of people in search of our chariot.
"You ready for this, Benny?" he asks, the color in his face slowly draining away like water out of a bathtub as he finds our chariot and hops up into the back of it before turning around and offering me his hand. "Or are you as nervous as I am?"
"To be honest, I'm terrified," I admit, my heart going a mile a minute as I take one last look around the room before grabbing his hand and hoisting myself up into the back of the chariot with a groan.
"But at least I'm not naked," I say, nodding my head in the direction of the two small, terrified-looking little girls struggling to hide their shame as they climb into the back of the District Twelve chariot.
Ashlynn 'Ash' Haskell-15 (District 12 Female)
"Ash, why did our stylists do this to us?" asks Maira, a small, steady stream of tears streaking down her soft, chubby, coal dust-covered cheeks — washing away part of her outfit — as she stands next to me in the back of our chariot with her tiny little arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"I don't know, Maira," I say, doing my best not to lose my cool as I stare down at my trembling, coal-dust-covered district partner while also trying to hide my shame from everyone else in the bay.
"Maybe ... they ran out of time and had to go with whatever they had done?"
"Do you really think so," she asks, a fresh batch of tears dripping out of the corners of her big blue eyes as she stands there and fidgets nervously.
"Not really, no," I admit, fighting back the urge to cry, scream, and punch something all at the same time as I try to find a way to come to terms with the fact that I'm about to be naked on national t.v. and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
I mean, I'm not going to find one, and I know that. But I can't let that stop me from trying since trying is the only thing that's keeping me from — wait a second.
"Maira, where are your glasses?"
"With my stylists.
"She told me I couldn't wear them during the parade because they would detract from the quality of her work. Also, statues don't wear glasses."
Well then, so much for keeping my cool.
"They're not normally made out of coal either," I growl, my blood boiling, as I glare over at the gaggle of stylists filing out of the launch bay and into the stands above. "But that didn't stop them from designing these ... incredible outfits for us. Did it?"
"I guess not.
"But to be honest. I'm actually sort of glad that I can't see anything right now. It makes it a little easier not to be as embarrassed as I would be if I could see. You know what I mean?"
Boy, do I. The worst part about all of this — outside of being naked and covered in coal dust or knowing that Suvi and my nanna are going to see me naked and covered in coal dust — is that I have to put up with the looks of pity that everyone keeps giving us.
Case in point, the two boys from Seven. They keep looking back at us and shaking their heads. And even though I'm pretty sure that they mean well, that doesn't make it any better.
Then again, this was always going to be a nightmare. The tribute parade has always been hell for the tributes from District Twelve, and this year was never going to be any different.
Our stylists have always lacked imagination and creativity. That's why they normally dress us up as coal miners. So, the fact that they tried to come up with something new and still failed this hard doesn't come as that big of a surprise. At least not to me.
They were always going to fail, the parade was always going to be a trainwreck, and all Maira and I were ever going to be able to do is grin and bear it. Well, that and hope that our stylists' lack of creativity and basic common sense doesn't destroy our already slim chances of making it out of this mess alive.
That we have to do all of that naked is just one more obstacle for us to overcome.
And we will overcome it — because we don't have any other choice. Not if we want to win. And winning is the only thing in the world that I want to do.
So, here goes everything. ...