Sorry this has taken me a while, my muse has been pretty low. Anyway, here's another chapter. :3
Also, please consider this hasn't been beta'd yet, as I wanted to get this up ASAP. So please excuse any silly mistakes.
I hope you enjoy.
CHAPTER FIVE -
Seconds turn to minutes, minuets turn to hours and we are still gazing outside. Granted, we've gotten washed, changed and eaten something, but there hasn't been a point where both of us have left the window. I'm picking over bread and butter up the dining table, eyes still glued to the glass pane, when Conall walks in. I do not look away from the window as he begins to speak. "Right, so we'll be arriving in the Capitol in about an hour. I expect the two of you to remember your career-like ways and act as ruthless as ever."
"Who's acting?" I sneer, popping another piece of bread in to my mouth.
"You know what I mean," He states, his temper gradually wearing shorter. "Oh, and remember, these Games may be different, but the same rules apply; don't go ripping each other to pieces before the games even start." ...Ripping each other to pieces... don't give me any ideas. He abruptly sits opposite me, blocking my view of the window, leaning in to the back of the chair as if he's forcing himself to act casual. He calls Cato over to sit with us, and reluctantly, he does. "Ok, now I'm sure you've realised I'm your mentor for the Games." He states, like it's one hundred percent obvious, when in fact I barley knew if the show was being aired or not until last night. "So we're not being mentored by Enobaria, Brutus, Faith, and the others... it's just you?" Cato asks. And something triggers inside of Conall. I have no idea what it is, but I can see it in his eyes. Only for a moment. Like a flash of a frown hidden behind a sinister mask. "No." He says. Wow, I was at least expecting some wise-ass comment. Very unusual for him. What's happened to those Victors? "Conall." I have to say to snap him back to reality. He looks up at me, and continues speaking once more. Like those past few seconds never even happened. It seems he's not himself today. I wonder why.
Time moves fairly quickly, and before I know it we're a few miles out from crossing Capitol borders. It's now almost half eleven at night; well, it was last time I checked. It's taken a lot longer to reach the Capitol than last time. They must have kept us locked up pretty far away. Cato and I stand perfectly upright, side by side as Capitol assistants fuss over our outfits and appearance, although not much is done. I assume we'll be prepared more after we arrive. After all, I haven't had a haircut since the last Games. I've got more split ends than I thought was even possible.
"All right, remember what I told you?" Conall asks as he exhales a deep sigh walking from the far right side of the room to stand before us. "Be fierce, be confident, be violet, be aggressive... be... you." He says with a dull tone pinned to his voice. I would have thought he would have bee a little more enthusiastic. His District's going to win another Games, he should be proud and patriotic, but no. The train suddenly cuts around a harsh bend and we are sent in to a tunnel that blocks all light that has found it's way from the outside in to the cabin and now all that remains are the occasional flickers of light from the lamps at each corner of the carriage; there must be an interference with the electricity in here. At least the first tunnel was lit with a substantial light source.
My eyes are transfixed on the window once more, expecting the Capitol skyscraper lights to shine bright in the dull cobalt night sky. And I am not disappointed. Dazzling rays of bright colours dance across the moonlit air. "We're here." Cato states, almost timidly. I guess it can be rather daunting to some, yet I can't wait to get started. "It's incredible." I remark. It seems even more amazing than before. The bright lights only add to how flawless the design of the Capitol really is. Crowds of people are already rallied up from District One's arrival, so that makes our job a little harder to impress them, but District Two have always been a favourite of the Capitol, and something like this should be no problem. I exhale a small sigh, my hands fumbling at the blood crimson, knee-high cotton gown they had dressed me in as I brush myself off. It's a common sign of insecurity to do such a thing, and I am hoping Cato notices. I'm not the only one who can play pretend. It may make killing him all the more easier if he thinks I am starting to weaken.
The train begins to slow as we are pulled through another pitch black tunnel. I can't wait to get off this train, it feels like I've been trapped here forever, but I suppose that's anticipation for you. Before I have time to ponder my thoughts any more, the train halts suddenly. It's show time.
We are hustled through two carriages before we reach where we are going to exit off the train. We stand in silence, eyes locked on the door before us. There is no light in this carriage, as there are no windows. The only thing apparently obvious to my senses is the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. I can't help but glance over towards Cato is standing, and even though I can barley make out his face in the dim light, I know he's nervous. And, actually, I can't blame him. We're both certain we are going to win, but it's always daunting, the first exposure to the fame of being a tribute. We've done this before, but it's still just as, if not more so intimidating than last time. We died in the last Games, we have to show them that we are worth something.
I stand perfectly upright, my body rigid and dominant, and my head held high. It does not matter if I am not feeling the most confident, I must show it, no matter what. I am a career tribute, I am a killer, I am a victor.
Conall pushes us forward slightly, the prep team step out of the way, the clock strikes twelve and the doors open.
What seems like thousands of people scream and cheer as we step off the carriage, and I can't help but smirk at the fact they were so much louder for us than they were for District One. After a few moments of allowing the Capitol to gawk at us, we are quickly ushered along the clearly marked path to the building about a hundred feet away, the prep-centre. It feels so good to breathe the fresh air again, well, as fresh as the air cab be in a bustling capital city.
The screams eventually die down to quieter cheers as we grow further away from the station. We are practically pushed through the large front door in to the prep-centre. At first, the bright white light of the room is blinding and it takes a minute or so for my eyes to adjust to the blinding rays. Somewhere in between the bustling station and the temporarily blindness I realise I have been ushered away from Cato and Conall and I'm now walking down a practically dead hallway, with one of my stylists.
Without warning I am pretty much pushed through a door, in to a reasonably small room. The door closes sharply behind me, causing my head to whip round quickly, to watch as the door is locked. It's standard precaution, I suppose. It's obvious I do not wish to escape. I turn back, the walls are lined with a soft navy paint, and the floor is a dark oak wood. There is a chair towards the back of the room, along with a large mirror and a table that appears to be lined with various different products. I assume my stylist should be here soon. The dead silence of the room only now makes me realise there is a faint ringing in my ears, all the noise has seemed to have left a short-term effect. It's not a problem, more an annoyance than anything else. I inhale slowly, and exhale in a deep sigh as I make my way to the bench on the other side of the room.
As soon as I take a seat, the door flies open. A woman enters the room. At first, I am startled by her appearance. Her face is hued a almost shockingly pale white, and her eyes are of a crimson scarlet tint, which match her lips to the perfect tone. Long obsidian hair swamps her face and falls down to just below her elbows, which frames her face to make for a very shocking first glance. Her face had been altered so much I feel as if it would be impossible to guess her age. Never the less, she is here to do a job; not to win a beauty contest.
"Clove, is it?" She asks as she shuts the door slowly. Her voice is surprisingly soft, and not at all as I thought it would be.
"It is." I state, and suddenly divert my gaze, realising it is apparent I am staring.
"Like the spice? Or like the plant?" She inquires, suddenly. I can't say that I was expecting that. I figured she'd just get on with it, instead of making pointless conversation. For some reason, most people didn't realise chit-chat wasn't necessary. Quite frankly, it was annoying. But why not humour her?
"Neither." I pause for a moment, finding the right way to phrase my next sentence. "It comes from the verb to cleave." I stop, wondering if she can trace a definition, but from her blank facial expression I can tell, she cannot. "To cleave: to split or divide by, or as if by, a cutting blow. Especially on a natural line of weakness." I can't help but force a smirk, as I explain the sinister meaning behind something as so simple as my name. Everything about me is vicious.
"Well then." She remarks, a smile forming on her unusual face. "I suppose you're as violent as your name." She's trying her best to hide it, but I can tell by the way her pace is a little off when she walks towards me, and how there seems to be a nervous stutter as she began her sentence, that she is a little daunted at the fact I've killed, and I will kill. But here's the strange thing about the Capitol, they love it. She wasn't faking her smile, she was generally excited to see such a visibly insane murderer entertaining them, even if it was natural instinct for her to be nervous being around a person like me. And I can't help but find that entertaining.
"Indeed I am." I say, coldly as I stand up, and look directly at her. I find it funny how I can look at someone like her, and have her cowering without a word. Even if her job calls for her to act professional as she can, there's only so much she can do. She is hiding it best as she can, but when you've been trained for ten years to seek out weakness in someone, fear is easily deduced.
"Well then..." She says again, her eyes locked on mine, as if she is trying to see through me as easily as I can see through her.
Good luck with that.
"...I suppose, we best get started."