The lights shine far too brightly and the buildings stand far too tall and proud in the Capitol. We're on the outskirts, and people have stopped to point and stare at us, shouting that another tribute train had arrived. The Capitol is quite a daunting place, for the way the residents appear and act and move and speak intimidates me to no extent. In the nightfall the streets are still crawling with people, whereas at home it's deserted after sunset. Well, unless you want to be publicly punished.
Upon arrival at the remake centre, Jayson and I are ushered into compartments to be, well, made over. Petalla offers me a silk robe and tells me to get undressed. My fingers numbly take the robe from her and she's gone in a dazzle of blue curls and tiny iridescent birds before I even get the chance to ask if she's kidding me. Oh.
I notice a mirror and don't want to look at myself but am drawn in. My own face stares blankly at me complete with dark under-eye circles, hollow cheeks, even paler skin and a wild mess of red hair. It's hard to believe I was in District Five just yesterday morning. So why do I look like I have spent my entire life roughing it? Angrily, I look away from the monster in the reflection.
There's a door in the other wall, but when I turn the handle it's locked. Damn. Before too long, three Capitolites burst into the room and smile warmly at me, immediately rushing over to sit me down and make me over.
I make acquaintance with my preparation team. They respectively introduce themselves as Ophelia, Stellar and Apollo. The robe is removed from my body, followed by every piece of hair below my head. There's hardly any time to feel embarrassed because I'm being whipped into a weird green bath that soothes my raw skin. Before I can get used to the solution, I'm once again whipped out and slathered head to toe in a shimmering lotion. My fingernails are filed into ovals and meticulously coated in a clear glossy polish.
Ophelia and Stellar marvel over my hair together for a few minutes, before grabbing out a black bottle with a red strip around the centre. Ophelia pastes the dark reddish mixture that smells of wet paint into my hair, wrapping foil around several pieces. Only when they're washing my hair in a sink and I freak out because red is seeping out of my scalp –Blood being the first assumption– that I realise that they've dyed my hair a much more obvious shade of red.
I can't help but sneak continuous glances into the mirror as I slowly transform into somebody I am not; my dishevelled hair now silken and vibrant, my skin smooth and raw. I don't have any defining flaws. I was property of the Capitol to make pretty and throw out afterwards.
"Cyren wants us to fix you before he sees you." Apollo says quietly.
I wasn't anything less than startled when Apollo spoke. Everybody in the Capitol is so loud, so brash. Something was different in the way he spoke that comforts me, even though his words were harsh and spat. Fix me, I think. Am I some kind of monster dragged out of the sewers?
The trio exit the room a few moments before my stylist enters. He stares at me only for a brief moment before getting out a set of keys and unlocking the door I noticed before.
"Sit now, and put that robe back on." He says, distracted by something that isn't me.
One wall in the room is completely made of glass. There are two couches directly across from one another, a low glass table between them. He sits on one of the couches and I follow, sitting in the other one. The highly-polished table separating us splits and a meal appears. We eat the lunch, my stylist prattling on about our chariot costumes for tonight.
"As your district is power, Avia and I have discussed your costumes for tonight. We're thinking silver headdresses and body suits. Your costumes will represent solar panels, reflecting light when you move! Isn't that a marvellous idea? You'll capture the entire show." He has a far off look in his eyes, as if he hasn't done the same thing every year. He has.
I nod slightly with forced interest. I did not want to be a solar panel, but I knew I had to listen to him.
.
The entire bottom floor of the Training Centre is like a giant stable, filled with our chariot horses. As we arrive, only a few people are here including Jayson, his stylist (Avia, was it?), Petalla, Vincent and another woman.
Jayson smiles at me and I almost smile back, not because of the friendly gesture, but because of how ridiculous he looks in his costume. I realise I probably look just as comical. We're covered head to toe in sparkly silver shifts, huge silver headdresses on our heads. When Cyren had produced the outfits, I had thought of how Petalla loves sparkly things.
"Look at you!" Petalla gasps, as if on cue. "Hopefully I'll be signing up all your sponsors tonight!"
She's only been escorting District Five for about three years. Her hopes are still far too high.
Vincent steps forward, a terse expression melded onto his face. His hopes, of course, are low, low, low.
"Finch, this is Helena." He says, nodding his head at the woman beside him. She nods appropriately. "She's also mentoring you."
Her hair is cut to her shoulders, black and flowing. She's older, but all the usual sagging parts are suspended and filled out. It is only obvious she's from the Dispatchment, too. Her collar bones stick out in sharp angles but everything else about her seems soft, her eyes for the most part; amber, like mine. She seems nice enough.
The stables fill quickly. The other tributes glance at each other, looking around as to recognise who is intimidated and who is not. The District Eleven girl looks smaller than ever against her larger, stronger opponents. We are promptly seated in chariots and the horses are set in motion. Suddenly, everything becomes awfully real.
They trod out into the city centre. I almost gasp at the sheer amount of Capitolites present. There must be around one hundred thousand people watching us with their eager eyes. I reach out my thin arm and wave hesitantly towards the many people gathered. The crowd roars loudly and I wonder what has spurred the outbreak until I glance behind me and see the District Twelve tributes on fire. Well that is a break from the coal mining jumpsuits. Or the time they were stark naked.
The horses continue forward rhythmically, coming to a halt in a wide arc after a twenty minute cycle around the city. Then I see him; President Snow. Even from a distance, he looks vicious. His voice booms awfully dominantly through the microphone for such a small man.
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour." He says, all too cheerfully.
He looks down at us, and he knows the odds are never in our favour.
I'm sorry if anything is inaccurate. Regards.
