Gritting her teeth and gripping the cold, metal table beneath her, Natasha braces herself as the final wax strip is yanked from her leg.
"And, done!" Discarding the strip, Fandral beams at her. Fandral is a tall man with perfectly styled blond hair, perfectly trimmed facial hair, and perfectly tight, shiny silver pants.
Natasha can't help staring at the pants, and every time she tries to looks away the pants reflect brilliantly, drawing her eyes back. She's been staring at Fandral's shins for three hours, ever since she stepped inside the Remake Center. She has yet to meet her stylist. He apparently couldn't stand to see her before she was plucked like a turkey and smelled like a flower shop. Losing three layers of skin and most of her body hair hasn't concerned Natasha too much, thanks to a high pain tolerance and those damn, mesmerizing pants. Those pants may be the only thing keeping her from punching Fandral in an unfortunate place.
"You're doing very well," a woman named Sif says, walking over to their table, stacked high with beauty products. She whips her long black hair over her shoulder, gives Natasha a small smile, and turns back to the products. Neither look like the silly Capitol people she's seen yet. Sif's short, dark red dress and matching pumps aren't even outrageous compared to the rest of the city, though the huge silver necklace is a bit gaudy.
"So much better than last year's," Fandral comments, inspecting Natasha's nail. "I hate a screamer."
"Fandral," Sif says, looking at him through a mirror, "I live in the flat next to yours. I know for a fact that's not true." She winks at Natasha, who looks at Fandral with a smirk.
"Uh, yes, well..." The man clears his throat loudly. "I believe she's ready," he mumbles, quick to drop her hand and stand over by Sif.
"Yes, I suppose she look decent enough," Sif says, eyeing Natasha while applying another coat of dark red lipstick.
Natasha rolls her eyes, saying, "Thank you. There's not much reason to look decent while mining coal." The sarcasm is practically tangible.
"Oi, cut the shit," Sif says, the Capitol accent sharp with her tongue. Her glare is just as deadly toward Fandral as he elbows her.
"Of course, you don't darling," he says. "That's why we're giving you to that madma- I mean, Loki." He grins. "He's, uh, perfect for Twelve. You'll actually compare to District 1."
"Perhaps. Let's call Loki. Now." Sif grabs the man's elbow and together the walk out, both giving her a nod.
Natasha sighs. They are trying to help her. And they're not idiots, contrary to what she expected. She crosses her arms, but leaves her robe on the chair across the room. Her stylist - Loki - will make her take it off again anyway. Her lack of clothing reminds her of those she left of the train, Melinda's old clothes. The girl sighs again, hugging herself and swallowing the lump of homesickness in her throat.
The door opens again, and Natasha looks up at the young man that enters the room. He must be the madman - Loki. He looks normal, even more so than her prep team.
His hair is long, nearly down to his shoulder, but slicked back. His green button-up and black pants are even mundane, but the gold belt and cuffs show just a bit of the typical Capitol flair. The most noticeable aspect of him, however, is the mischievous smirk that quick clearly says 'I know something you don't.' Even with the urge to smack the smirk off of his face, how attractive he is hits her just as hard.
"Hello, Natasha. I'm your stylist, Loki," he says softly, the Capitol accent sounding elegant in his voice.
"Hello," she replies cautiously.
"Give me a moment," he says, walking around her and observing her. Natasha she clenches her fist, resisting the urge to cover herself. "Is your hair naturally like that?"
Natasha doesn't know if he means the color or the curls, but either way she nods.
"It's nice."
"Thanks..." Loki is not the completely flamboyant, old man desperate to be young again that she expected. And he's not looking at her like some lamb to be thrown to slaughter, or a steak to be cooked. He's looking at her like a person that just needs to look nice.
"You're new," Natasha says. It wasn't a question, and Loki raises an eyebrow. "I haven't seen you before. Stylists are consistent, and, quite frankly, old."
A wides smile spreads across the man's face. "This is my first year in the games, yes."
"So you got stuck with District Twelve." Natasha wrinkles her nose. It the least desirable district, the laughing stock of the country.
"I wouldn't say stuck. I asked for this district," he says with a shrug. "Now, why don't you put on your robe, and we can talk."
Natasha complied before Loki led her into a nicely furnished sitting room, with the furthest wall made completely out of glass. Her stylists gestures for her to sit on a plump, red couch before sitting on another one across from her. A low table stands between them, and Loki presses a button on it.
A second table-top rises from the first, and on it rests fine food. It reminds her again of how out of place she is. A flash of anger causes her to clench her fists in her robe. How can these people have so plenty, while hers have so little? How can they sleep at night, watching children slaughter each other, finding merriment in it, and ignore the children starving to death in the poorer districts.
"We must seem like monsters to you." Natasha looks up at Loki to find him gazing intently at her. She feels a bit embarrassed at showing her discontent so openly. Her lands loosens its grip on her robe, and reaches for a roll. She takes a bite, studying the man before her.
He raises an eyebrow, though he doesn't look particularly bothered. He begins eating. "No matter," he says. "I know we are. Now, Natasha, let's get down to business: your costume for the opening ceremony. My partner, Barton's stylist, is Darcy. And we thought it might be in your favor to dress you two in complementary costumes."
Natasha nods. "So, another coal miner costume?" she asks, praying for a no.
"Oh, no," Loki says, putting a hand to his chest as if that was the most ghastly idea he'd ever heard. The girl relaxes a bit, grabbing her cup of orange juice, before he continues: "I was thinking stark naked and covered in black powder."
Natasha chokes and spits her juice back into her cup. "Oh, shi-it," she coughs out. After a few more minutes she recovers, but as she wipes her mouth she locks eyes with Loki, who has the most devilish grin on his face. "You bastard!"
He merely laughs. "Darcy and I think the whole coal miner thing is overdone, and quite frankly, so is the coal. No one will remember you is we're stuck in the past."
"So, I'm not going to be naked?" Natasha asks.
"oh, I didn't say that." Natasha glares at him, causing Loki to put his hands up in mock surrenders. "Fine, fine. Now, my dearest Natasha, what do we do with coal?" he asks, striking a dramatic pose.
"I though coal was overdone," she states.
Narrowing his eyes, the stylist remarks, "Sif was right; you are a bit difficult." He grins as she huffs and repeats his question.
"Uh... mine it?" she guesses justed to annoy him further - oh. Maybe Sif was right.
Loki sighs dramatically. "Burn it. We burn it."
Natasha 'ahhh's to appease him. Loki leans forward, practically inches from her face. "You're not afraid of fire are you?" The girl's eyes slowly widen as she realize that this madman might actually light her on fire. He laughs gleefully, which does nothing to sooth her nerves.
A couple hours later, and Loki is stepping away from Natasha and admiring his work. He dressed her in a simple black unitard and leather boots. I have to admit, Natasha thinks as she gets a quick last glance in the mirror, I look good.
He explains that they'll light they came just before her and Clint make their grand entrance. As the walk to the chariots. "Of course, it's not real flame. Just a little something that Darcy and I came up with. You'll be perfectly fine," he adds. "Probably."
Natasha rolls her eyes and elbows him in his ribs. "Save the fighting for the Arena, Miss Romanoff," an amused voice echoed across the room the the pair. The girl turned to find Clint standing next to a smug looking brunette with one hand on her hip.
"Darcy," Loki greeted, before conversing with Clint's stylist. Natasha ignored the adults, look at Clint. The matching costume looked incredible on him, though his was sleeveless.
"Nice arms," she says, standing next to him and eyeing the chariot.
"Oh, what, these?" Clint says in mock surprise while flexing. Natasha laughs and shoves him, and he retaliates by pushing her back. In escalates from joking to borderline-murderous in the span of five seconds, only to be cut short by Darcy clapping her hands together.
"All right, children, onto the chariot!" They step together on the chariot, and the stylists immediately begin fussing and adjusting the capes.
"So, what do you think? About the fire?" Natasha whispers.
"I'll rip yours off you'll rip off mine," the other tribute responds with a shrug. She responds with a quick nod, noticing the anxiety building in her stomach.
The opening music begins, blasting from all around the Capitol. Huge doors slide open and reveal the immense crowds on either side of the streets. The tributes from District 1 ride out in their chariot, their pale grey horses matching their silver painted skin.
The crowd roars, and Natasha suddenly feels as though she been thrown into reality headfirst. This is happening. More chariots are rolling out, and soon it's their turn. She barely registers the hiss of the capes being lit.
"Holy - holy shit!" Clint laughs, looking back at his cape, then quickly turning to Natasha. He frowns as he sees her anxious expression.
A gentle hand takes Natasha's, and immediately her tension starts to fade. It's okay. Clint's here. You have him. Her grip on his hands tightens as the chariot begins moving forward towards the doors. As they emerge into the streets, she can't hear the collective gasp of the crowds. Then comes even louder cheering and irritating screaming. Natasha scowls, wishing she could just cover her ears for the next twenty minutes.
"Smile for the cameras," Clint whisper in her ear. A quick glance at the massive screens above the crowds confirms that she looks just as unfriendly as she thought. She tries to smile, but it comes out more like a smirk. The boy next to her chuckles at her attempt, and a genuine smile forms on her lips as he rubs his thumb across the back of her hand, telling her it will be okay.
Now that she's not focused on her anti-friendliness, Natasha realizes how truly amazing they look. The seem to be leaving a trail of fire from their flowing capes. Loki was a genius to decide not to put any make-up on her. She looks stunning and totally recognizable.
Clint is such a charmer, Natasha thinks, looking at him. He waves and blows kisses, a true crowd pleaser. She does the same, surprised at the immediate positive reactions. If she concentrations, she can hear a low chanting of "Natasha!" working it's way through the crowd. She feels giddy. A rose is thrown, and without thinking her hand snaps out and she catches it. She gives the crowd a coy smile as she smells it. It reeks of fake, flowery perfume.
Mercifully, the chariots make there way into the City Circle. She gives Clint's hand a squeeze and he responds in kind. The chariots fill the loop of the circle, and the music that had been a constant backdrop to the cheering cuts of with flourish.
The president gives the official welcome from the balcony of his mansion at the front of the City Circle. The screens on the building around the circle cut away to each of the tributes, but Natasha notes that she and Clint are getting much more screen time than the other tributes.
The anthem begins again, and with one final loop, the twelve chariots disappear behind the doors of the training center. As they close, Natasha swears she can still hear the people of the Captiol chanting her name.
Loki and Darcy appear, helping their tributes off of the chariot.
"Wow, you guys were on fire out there!" Darcy exclaims. "Eh? Ehhh?" She pokes Loki, who rolls his eyes with a fond smile.
"Yeah. You should wear flames more often, 'Tasha," Clint says, nudging her. It's then that the two realize that they are still holding hands, and both let go. Clint rubs his hands, and Natasha doesn't blame him. Her hand feels sore from holding on so tight.
Natasha rolls her shoulders, almost feeling eyes burning into the back of her skull. She takes a wary glance around the room. Warning bells ring loud and clear as she finds the other tributes glaring at her and Clint. Everyone is watching, some sneaking glances, and other staring. She cannot show weakness now.
Clint's a bit taller than her, but standing on tiptoe her lips brush across his cheek. She leans closer to him as they listen to Darcy babble on about what an impression they made. She and Clint were a team. Just because they were from District 12 didn't mean they wouldn't go down without a fight.
A/N: Hey. Look. I'm alive. Heh. This chapter is very late, and as such, not entirely perfect with editing or grammar, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Now, I'm not going to make a prediction on when this will be updated again, but I'm hoping within a month (but also probably earlier since I've picked this up again.) Please, no torches or pitch forks, and remember to buy gold!