I don't look like I'm from District 10 anymore.
Marius, my stylist, insisted that they cut off all my hair, so off it went. Not just the hair on my head, but the hair on my arms, my legs, my eyebrows. I look like an unwrapped mummy. My flesh is pale in the mirror because it's never been exposed so thoroughly. I shiver because my hair provided a good deal of insulation from the ambient air. I've taken it for granted all these years, and now I miss it.
"Time to get you into that snazzy outfit," simpers the woman with the heart tattoo. "Marius should be coming back with it right about ..."
The stylist enters the room, bearing a full-body suit and faceplate. It's brown and the nostalgic smell of beef assails my nostrils as he proffers it toward me. "Take a nice long sniff of that," he brags, "new tech! They had it on sale a few months ago and I knew it would be a fantastic addition to the district 10 costumes this year. Sadly I was forced to scrap the cowboy suit designs to make this all work out. I mean who wants to actually smell a cowboy? They stink worse than toilets after victory tour parties. So I was thinking, what do they do to cows? Well they slaughter them and make beef! They'll definitely promote me to a career district next year! I mean if I can make the district 4 tributes smell like shrimp, well, they'd be irresistible."
The prep team oos and ahs at their exceedingly modest idol as if he's figured out a way to make people immortal or something. I'm not overly concerned with the reaction the Capitol citizens will have, but the tributes are probably going to target us in the arena simply because they remember that we looked like literal fresh meat. I keep my mouth shut to hide my disgust, then reluctantly put the suit and faceplate on. The inside smells just as strongly of beef as the outside and I breathe through my mouth for several minutes before I become accustomed to it. It's not that I hate the smell of beef, but smelling it on my clothing, and-even worse-knowing that it is there intentionally, messes up everything. With the costume on me, I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I am going to die.
It's about 12:30 PM when Jill, our stylists and I finish a substantial lunch of shrimp, buttermilk, crescent-shaped rolls and eclairs. We take a sleek, fast elevator down to the ground floor of the training center, which doubles as a lot for the chariots and a stable for the horses. The other tributes have just arrived in their costumes as well, and we all quickly moved to our chariots, each of which has a district number on it. They look about the same, except for the district 6 chariot, which has side doors and a fake steering wheel and real glass windows, like a car. It makes sense, since district 6 is the transportation district. Stylists and prep teams mill around, giving advice or asking about the newest weird fashion trends or wishing "Happy Hunger Games" to each other or something. Horses whinny and paw the ground and snort restlessly, rearing to run. The career tributes stand in a loose gaggle, loudly joking around and probably predicting how they're going to take each of us out. Most of the other tributes mutter to their district partners or glance around at everyone else before shutting up. I try to shut out the cacophony of all this noise and only partially succeed, so I distract myself by looking at the other tributes instead.
The career tributes-both from 1 and 2 and the girl from 4-have well-toned muscles that ripple impressively from under their costumes as they move. The district 1 tributes are dressed in skimpy, jeweled outfits; the seductively smiling girl has a thin, thigh-length see-through suit so her hips are clearly visible to all, while her partner wears a fancy suit patterned with sparkling golden beads. They wear matching tiaras at eyebrow-height, adding to their luster. Cato's hands are wrapped in vicious, clawed gauntlets, his face is set in a snarl, and he is wearing a ceremonial breastplate emblazoned with a huge leopard with bared teeth. His district partner wears a green and grey cloak but has the same feral snarl as Cato. I see her pat him on the back in approval and admiration; it's clear they're playing the ruthless warrior and the deadly, silent assassin; they seem like a formidable duo. The girl from 4 wears an octopus costume with six extra sleeves that flap limply, while one of the sleeves that has an arm in it waves energetically holding a rubber trident. Next to her, the boy from 4 tries to hide behind her, but keeps flinching as he gets hit by the whirling trident. He's managed to obscure his costume behind the girl though, probably because she is so domineering. I hide a smirk as I wait for the gate to open so we can get this hell over with.
Without a creek, the gate suddenly bursts open and the District 1 chariot rolls out onto the street. Cheers and screams from the crowd drown out all other nearby noises for a second as the procession takes off. District 2, 3 and 4's horses are right on the heels of district 1's and I settle myself in preparation for ours to move. Jill is there too, but I try to ignore her so that I can play the crowd. Behind me, I see the district 12 tributes clasp hands. As I watch, flames suddenly begin to lick up and down their outfits and headdresses. After a few seconds of shock I realize they are completely unharmed, and. As I take off, I see Katniss behind me, actually smiling, as she firmly grasps her partner's hand.
The crowd has settled a bit now that the careers, and therefore the cooler costumes, are gone. I ride past a man who yells, "What's cookin' today!" before he throws a tomato at me. I dodge to the side and it lands on Jill's shoulder, squirting out and covering her left side in juice. Well, that's generally what you put on a sandwich, I think, as she covers her face with one hand while trying to wipe off the mess with the other. It must be humiliating.
As she's wiping off the last of the juice onto the chariot floor, I suddenly hear the crowd go wild behind me and I look back to see that Katniss's chariot has arrived. It completely blows everyone else out of the water with its beauty. I don't see two tributes on the chariot; I see powerful creatures of flame, and the crowd does too. A woman throws a rose toward Katniss, who deftly catches it out of the air. She blows a kiss in the general direction of the thrower and several dozen people hold out their hands as if trying to catch it. The boy grins at the crowd, as if he's excited to get killed soon, and a few girls near him squeal and pelt him with flowers as he passes them by. I can see the balcony with President Snow, observing proceedings, atop it. The TV cameras are focused on the girl and boy who are on fire, barely minding the other eleven chariots. Katniss's face takes up nearly a quarter of the screen alone, while the nearby crowds and her partner take up the rest. The camera crews apparently realize that the District 12 chariot is dazzling them and quickly pan their cameras to catch the rest of the chariots at least for a second or two, but we're almost to the training center anyway so it's mostly too late. And the crowd doesn't want to see the other tributes. Members in the back push forward to catch a last glimpse of the girl and boy on fire before they are swallowed by the training center.
Our next four days and five nights will be spent in the training center, and then we are in the arena until we are dead or victorious, whichever comes first. For twenty-three of us, that's dead. Here the tributes have a the opportunity to learn some new skills to prepare them for the dangers of the arena, and the stylists and mentors get a chance to talk battle strategies, analyze the others' strengths and weaknesses, and enjoy lavish food. I notice Katniss and her partner just entering the double doors behind me and I turn to glare at them, along with just about everyone else. I wonder who their stylists were. What I would give to have them instead!
A pair of elevators deposits the tribute pairs on separate floors numbered by district. Only the district 11 tributes are left as the elevator stops on our floor. Thresh and Rue stare after me as I follow Jill out of the confines of the elevator and into the vast unknown that is our residential floor, but I take one last look and catch Thresh's eye before the doors close to whisk them away. In the hallway leading to a room where I can hear the clatter of cutlery, I contemptuously rip off my fresh beef costume and fling it at the wall where it makes a muted splatting noise before dropping to the ground with a soft thwop. Gingerly, Jill also removes hers, with an audible sigh of mixed relief and revulsion. I take several deep sniffs of the clear air, but the cloying scent of beef still lingers on us, as well as from the spot where the costumes lie in a rumpled pile. "I'm so glad to get that horrible thing off," Jill says. I nod in mute agreement and head toward the food.
Bessie, Tyson, Marius and a similarly-dressed woman who must be Jill's stylist are sitting around a dinner table laden with edible delicacies. They are talking about the chariot rides and sounding annoyed. Marius is particularly bad-tempered as he moodily spears a large potato with his fork. "I spent a small fortune on those new scent products and skipped the Bieberius Justinius concert redesigning those beef costumes. And now that complete newbie Cinna comes and ruins everything! I've gotta ask Crane if he can arrange for Cinna to have a little accident, or at least be fired from the games." He's stopped eating now, the mad gleam of a plot in his eyes. "Or we could sue him for something. Anything. I bet he's dirt poor and just lucked out with that fire stuff."
Bessie and Tyson robotically eat their food, pointedly staring at the table as if they can fool us into thinking they're not hanging on to every word Marius says. It's probably the most interesting thing they've seen so far concerning the games this year; I know I'm riveted. The other stylist tries to mollify him by saying, "Ah well, just remember that flames are good for next year. And remember that that's a quell year. Combine flames with the scent technology, and maybe one more unexpected twist, and you'll have exceptional-looking tributes. You're one of the richest stylists in the Capitol. So you can get hold of the experimental stuff before most of the others. I'll even chip in some, though I have to make sure that I have enough to keep my emergency cellar fully stocked all the time."
"Just shut up, Memnia," Marius barks, the light of madness in his eyes a sign of his rising anger. "Cinna cannot be allowed to get away with this scot-free. He... ROBBED me with that stunt, do you hear?" Marius is on his feet, yelling now. "All that money. He probably knew that I'd bought it up and was trying to outdo me. I wonder who told him about it. It must have been Hadrius. Oh man he's going to pay too!" He storms out of the room, leaving a plate of half-eaten food in his wake, which a servant quickly removes.
After the tension of dinner, I head to my room. My stylist is a megalomaniac. Now I'm dreading my interview costume even more. I manage to fall into a fitful sleep.
Marius is handing me a suit, shouting at me to put it on right now. He holds a large rusty knife and points it at me before breaking into evil laughter and throwing it across the room, where it sticks in a seam between two of the wall panels. I hurriedly put it on before he threatens to do something worse, and suddenly feel my body break out into oozing sores. Blood squirts out of the wholes as the suit of razor-sharp blades cuts through my fragile tissues, and the last thing I hear Marius saying is, "Oh dear, that must have been a little accident. I'm sorry." His last word echoes horribly as if it's coming to me from afar.