I'm running through a forest, the green swirling around me in a confusing spiral of colors. My breath comes in short gasps as I crash through the wilderness, sure that something is chasing me, but not sure of what it is. I stumble and fall, my hands splitting open and bleeding as they meet the twig-covered ground. I whimper as I stand, once more continuing my panic-stricken flight through the woods.
I suddenly break through the trees, coming into a sun-lit clearing. I gasp as I take in the scene. People, most of which I don't recognize, are lying on the ground, covered in blood, arrows sticking out of some, and spears sprouting from others. And the odd thing is that they are all wearing the same outfit. I count twenty-two bodies in all, every single pair of dead, clouded eye staring right at me. But that's not what starts me crying. Right at my feet, in a black suit with red stripes down the sides, is Germany. He is face-up, blood dripping from his mouth and a knife-wound across his throat. His blue eyes now stare lifelessly at me, and that mouth no longer smirks. I sob, dropping to my knees and cradling his head in my hands. Tears spill by the hundreds as I cry over my only friend.
I stop suddenly, feeling an odd feeling in my chest. I look down, finding a sword sticking from it. I turn around, finding a girl with a flat chest and gray hair standing over me, sneering at me. My mouth hangs open as I stare at her blood-covered body, and I realize that she's the one who killed Germany. I fall to the ground beside my only friend, the world going black. The last thing I see is the girl's face leering on front of mine. But, just before I black out, her face starts to change, her gray locks turning golden, and the smirk transforming into a grin of pleasure…
I slowly open my eyes, letting out a scream of surprise. France's face looms above me, his mouth open in a wide smile. I can smell the perfume and wine rolling off of him. His face is still that flour-like whiteness, but this time he's added swirls and designs of green that loop around his eyes, coming to a stop at the corners of his mouth. It looks like he's eating some type of synthetic vine. His face reminds me too much of the dream. I clench the seat I'm in, my eyes wide with fear, my mind still half in the dream. France backs off a little, staring at me in confusion.
Before he can open his mouth, Germany leaps up, putting his body between the man and me. Germany looks to be in a half-sleep state still, and he rubs his eyes groggily. He looks around him, a confused look on his face. "What's going on?" he asks.
France is on the floor, the surprise of Germany sending him sprawling backwards. "W-we're almost to the Capitol," he stutters, backing up towards the door. I almost giggle; he reminds me of a terrified frog. He rushes out the door, yelling to behind him, "I'll send the stylists in shortly!" and "Don't even think about touching my face, you brute!"
I giggle again, which brings Germany's attention to me. He looks a little sleep-deprived, but better than he did this morning. His tunic and pants are mussed up a bit, but they were built to by sturdy. An afternoon of emotional turmoil and horror has no effect on them. I sigh softly, my arms relaxing and my body kind of melting into the plush chair cushion. "What was that about?" Germany asks me, flopping into the chair beside me.
I'm not sure if he realizes, but ever since we started living with each other, every single time I had a bad dream, Germany shot up immediately, trying to protect me from unseen terrors. Afterwards, I'd convince him that it was just a dream, coax him back into sleep, and he'd wake up the next morning with no memory of what happened.
"It's nothing, Germany. Just a bad dream. I accidentally screamed as France tried to wake me up, and I startled him. You did more, though," I joke. I smooth down the skirt of my dress, which has risen a little too high for my taste. The blur fabric has gotten a little dirty over the past few, hectic hours, and I'm worried that someone will notice what I'm trying to hide.
He smiles a bit, and I can't decide if he's smiling at me or what I said, but I can see something in his face. Something's wrong. I'm about to ask what it is, but before I can open my mouth, the door nearly crashes inwards, and three people come filing in. I have to choke down laughter, and even then, a small noise escapes.
The first one to come in is relatively normal-looking at a first glance. He is a man that stands at least a head taller than I do. He's about level with Germany. I can see small, defined muscles beneath his loose, white shirt that hangs limply from his square shoulders. His head is covered in brown locks that flow down to his ear, and his eyes are half-closed, so he looks like he's walking around half-asleep. But that's where he stops looking human. In his head are cat ears that twitch at every sound, as if they work. I don't doubt that they do. An orange tail swishes about his legs, nearly reaching the floor as it curls up at the very bottom. He looks like a regal tiger, with the way that cat whiskers protrude from his high cheeks and he has to look down at everyone to see them.
The one to her left is a smaller man, who is a little plump, but no less dressed-up. It looks like his whole body has been doused in gold paint, and his skin is dyed a ridiculous, deep purple color. Gold tattoos line his facial features, looking like some ancient, luxurious tapestry you might find in pictures of Ancient Egypt. His clothes don't fall short of weird, either. They are a vibrant lime green, looking like his entire body save his skin is doused in some sort of black light.
Another face pops out from behind the tall cat-man. It's a small girl, with a ribbon tied in her short, yellow hair, Big, green eyes stare up at me and Germany in fascination, probably fixated by our lack of decoration. Her slim body is covered in a magenta dress that brushes her knees, and her white socks climb up to the bottom hem of her robe.
"Good afternoon," the cat-man greets us, holding out a furry paw. I reach for it hesitantly, and then smile. It feels like my hand is clutching a soft, down pillow. Germany is more reluctant, and he's a little freaked out by the mutation our stylist has put himself through. "My name is Greece. And you are…" He trails off, either dozing while he stands, or searching for our names. His eyes snap open suddenly, and I notice that the pupils in his eyes aren't circular. They're slitted, like a cat's. "Ah, now I remember. Italy and Germany, huh? Nice to meet you." He gives us a friendly smile which looks like a sleepy one.
"Nice to meet you, too," I say, grinning at the strange man.
The silence stretches out for a moment, but is broken by the small girl. "Um, Mr. Greece? The Tributes have the Parade here in about two hours. They need to start getting ready." The girl blushes as she speaks, frighteningly timid, but I sense some hidden strength lying beneath her gentle face and golden locks.
"You're right, Lichtenstein. Well, let's get cracking. Germania, you take Germany. Lili and I will take Italy." Without another word, both Germany and I are pushed in separate directions out of the train car, and led into different sections of the train. It's probably because they want to keep the males and females apart, but I still get skittish without Germany around. I find my breathing quickening, and my eyes dart around for an escape route. But I don't have to worry. Greece's paws are like a comforting blanket around my shoulders, and Lichtenstein has such a tight grip on my hand that, even if someone did want to take me away for being a boy, they'd have a hard time.
The door clicks shut behind us, and I find myself almost gagging on all the scents and perfumes, but I still stare around me in wonder. As long as I've been alive, I've never seen anything like this. The train car looks about twice as small as it probably is, but that's because of all the equipment. Against the right wall, there is nothing but a giant barrier of glass. A dark blue curtain hands from a rod, ready to be closed for privacy. On the opposite wall sits a huge make-up station, complete with power brushes, various and ridiculous shades of lipstick, and mascara rods that are large enough so that they look like they could be used as weapons in the Games. A suffocating aroma fills the air, and I have to shield my eyes. The light from the make-up booth glints harshly against the pink of lined up dress-bags. I dread to think that anything concealed in those hanging sheets are any shade of cherry or gold.
Greece hurries me to the make-up stand, where he sits me down and starts immediately on my face. He layers on some creamy stuff on my face, his body blocking the mirror so I can't see my reflection. I close my eyes, imagining I am back home, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, listening to Germany talk about his life in District 10.
He was raised around livestock and animals, so it's easy to see why he's not comfortable around anyone. The thing he likes most is to be outside. He's told me before that he hasn't felt anything like the breeze in his face, the sun on his arms, bare from the sleeveless shirt he always wears. I've even seen a deer get close to him while he sat motionless in a field full of flowers. Unfortunately, when food comes our way, we take it. The poor thing didn't stand a chance against Germany. Still, it was kind of fascinating to watch the animal interact with a man who scowls in public and only smiles for me, his friend.
As Lichtenstein pulls at my hair with a brush and Greece powders my face with a ridiculous amount of make-up, I think and relive every good time I've ever had. Soon, the pain and discomfort disappear as I'm lost in memories of times long-forgotten, times I can never go back to, now that I'm in the Games. In District 12, I recall playing with my brother. Even though we looked nothing alike, we were each others' closest friend. His favorite thing to do was go out into the fields behind our home and play in the sparse grass. I always warned him what the Peace Keepers would do if they caught him, that ever since Darius had been removed the punishments had gotten worse, but there was no way that I could deny him happiness. We would sneak out of the house, shimmy under the barbed wire of the "electrified" fence, and bask in the sun. I still remember how his adorable hat, the blue and white one he wore every single day, would fly off his head when he ran into the wind that occasionally swept through the meadow.
I cringe as I recall how he pleaded with me to take him away, to escape with him. I promised that I would come back for him, but the first trip was too dangerous, and that if he got caught, the Capitol would kill him, or kill me and make him watch, and then dispose of him. I start to tear up as I remember his smiling face that waited for me every day after school…my little S— "Wake up!" Greece calls, snapping me out of my memory reel. I sit rigid in confusion, my eyes wide as I see a strange girl sitting across from me.
Her face is light, but not so pale as to be from the Capitol. Her shoulder-length red hair flows to her shoulders and her brown eyes look wide and beautiful, standing out from her face. Make-up adorns her eyelids, a blue hue decorating them so it looks like her eyes are even wider. Her high cheek bones are brushed with a light blush. She's so pretty. But when Greece comes up behind me and puts his hand on her shoulder…I realize that it's me. I'm the girl in the mirror.
"You like it?" he asks me, a lazy smile on his face. I just nod, wondering how on earth he pulled it off. He's transformed me from a feminine boy to a beautiful girl in under an hour. I stare at him, wondering where he learned to do this.
Greece suddenly puts his hands on Lichtenstein's shoulders, pushing her out of the train car. The last I see of her is a maroon dress flapping in the wind of the train that disappears as the door shuts behind her. Greece turns toward me, his orange cat tail twitching in anticipation of showing me the designs he made. I think. Without a word to me, he rushes over to the rack of hanging dress-bags, unzipping one and coming out with something that leaves me speechless.
The dress in his hands looks like something out of a fairytale to me. Most people wouldn't think so, but I've never seen anything quite like it. It's quite a simple dress; no sleeves or straps, and it looks like it would reach down to about just above my ankles. The expanse of the fabric looks like its woven out of wheat; the intricate criss-cross pattern races up and down the length of the dress in frantic zigzags. The top of the dress, where the fabric ends, is laced with the frilly tops of wheat stalks, giving the impression that the wearer would look like she's coming out of a wheat field herself; some form of primeval and kind goddess.
I stop staring, closing my mouth instantly. Greece quietly laughs as he comes forward, pushing the gown toward me with his paws. I suddenly become worried. 'What if he finds out? Is he going to try and dress me himself? I know that all the other Tributes had stylists that did that…what will I do!' I thrust my hands out forward, as if to stop Greece's approach. It's a pretty weak attempt; I'm not physically built, and I'm too afraid to fight much. But I still have to do anything possible to keep anyone who might discover me at bay. It seems to work. Greece just stares at me quizzically, his cat ears twitching in confusion.
"Can I…put the dress on myself?" I ask, blushing a bit.
He gives me a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, little one, but I'm afraid not. I didn't have your measurements before I made the dress, so I need to check and make any adjustments needed." I protest some more, but Greece just takes it as a sign of me being a bashful teenage girl, desperate to keep her private parts away from any prying eyes.
In a few moments, he'll know I'm a bashful teenage boy, desperate to keep his secret away from any blabbering mouths.
What am I going to do!