AN: To all my reviewers, really. You all are making my day. Thank you so much. :)
This was probably one of the hardest chapters yet for me because I really wanted to make this as unique and original as possible. Hope you like it!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games nor any canon characters. I love Suzanne Collins for what she has given me and would never in my life steal from her.
"What?" I stare at Charlton in horror. We're prepping together so that our stylists can explain what they want from us and we can see how… unique our entrance will be, and Char is just about naked if it weren't for the black nylon serving as a cover for his groin and bottom. Every other inch of his skin is bathed in coal dust – which has been done before, but to both tributes – and yet somehow Calpurnia, Char's stylist, still managed to add makeup to his face, highlighting his features: his piercing grey eyes and chiseled cheekbones. She wants the crowd to see how built he is, how strong, and Jameson wants him carrying me on his shoulder, which is why I'm so terror-struck right now.
Jameson calmly lifts my chin up so that the book doesn't fall off my head – he's been having me work on my balance and posture all afternoon – and then continues lining my eyes with black and blood red. "District Twelve," he says, "has developed this subtle reputation of being the district to set standards. Try new things. Two tributes wearing two different costumes and not standing side by side is definitely something new. The crowd will love it."
"Afraid your boyfriend will be jealous?" Char sneers while Calpurnia powders more shiny black coal dust onto his stomach, then uses a lighter color to highlight the crevices of his sculpted abdominal…
"Boyfriend?" Jameson raises an eyebrow at me, accusingly.
I glare at Char. "He's not my boyfriend."
"Who's he?" Jameson asks.
"No one important."
"District Thirteen," Char answers.
Jameson nods slowly. "Interesting. Might be able to work with that later. Part your lips, darling." He applies the same shade of red to my lips, making them look plump and thirsty for blood, then removes my book and pulls my straightened hair back into an extremely tight and high ponytail so that it swings freely. There will be no more Everdeen Braid for me (that's what it's called now).
As for my outfit, Jameson has managed to duplicate Cinna's mockingjay/wedding dress for my mother in her Quarter Quell interview, the interview that was never aired but those who were there tell the story all the time. How the fire burned away her dress to reveal a mockingjay. How Papa told the world about my older brother. Or sister. Didn't matter because he or she was made up. The dress I wear now has some alterations, however.
It's short, for one, hitting mid thigh, and it's tight. Form-fittingly tight. My body never felt so suffocated in my life, and I half expect myself to be soaked in my own sweat, but the fabric is cool. Airy. I'm as light as the feather patterns that fall down my long, sheer sleeves. They're the only pieces of fabric not clinging desperately to my skin, but fall from my wrist and touch the floor, like red wings. Yes, that was another change. It isn't a wedding gown, after all. The color of my dress is a bright, fiery red with swirls of gold, burnt orange, and pale yellow, making intricate designs to resembles those of a phoenix's plume. That's Jameson and Calpurnia's ultimate idea. Our costumes aren't going to resemble our district so much, but rather are based off our names. That's why Char appears charred and I'm a powerful fire-bird born from the ashes that cover Char.
"But," I ask, still worried, "last time tributes were covered in nothing but coal dust, no one liked it."
"Those tributes weren't holding a phoenix on their shoulders," Jameson winks.
"But won't it be unfair for Char?" I protest still. "He's so hidden and I'm so… out there. I don't want to steal all the attention. He'll be stuck in my shadow. He literally looks like my shadow."
"Oh, come off it, Phoenix," Char rolls his eyes. "At least pretend you're prepared to kill me. It's easier to accept than listen to you try to touch people's hearts with your so-called 'purity.'"
I shoot him a glare. "Excuse me, then, for trying to add some justice to a world that is seriously lacking it."
"That's not what you're doing," he bites back. "You think that because you're Katniss and Peeta's daughter, you've got it made. You're trying to make it look like you're giving me a chance, evening things out for me, but I don't need your help. There's more to winning the Games than looking sexy in a dress and being born with fame."
Calpurnia steps in before I do anything that might damage our appearances. "Char is going for the strong and silent demeanor," she explains. "A quiet threat. Mysterious. An enigma, which is often more frightening than someone who is very open about his or her strengths."
"There," Jameson interrupts, leading me away from them and to another full-body mirror. I must say, I cannot help but to admire myself. The red silk leaves none of my curves to the imagination and, for the first time, I see what Jameson had been talking about. Beneath my "innocent, school girl dresses" hid an hourglass figure, a woman's body, and, at seventeen, I am practically a woman.
The makeup he used certainly makes me look much older. Red highlights the black that lines my eyes and wings upward, shadows under my cheekbones for definition, and every inch of skin showing has been powdered to an even pale white. He's highlighted my hair with streaks of red and gold and, swinging with the hair in my ponytail are subtle red feathers. My fingernails are painted a soft yellow with flecks of gold. My legs and feet are kept bare. Simple. Smooth.
"Final touch," Jameson smiles and places a small, golden tiara bejeweled with rubies on top of my head. "You own these Games, firebird," he says quietly so that only I can hear. "Get out there and show the world that there's room for only one queen and she isn't Coin."
I decide I like Jameson well enough. Since I'm too afraid to hug him and ruin his hard work, I give his hand a squeeze. "Thank you," I whisper.
He holds up a finger, "Don't thank me yet. Spread your wings for me." I do. "Now close your eyes, hold your breath." As soon as I obey, something odorless is sprayed all over me, my face, my hair, my clothes. Everything until I'm under a thick coat of something sticky and then the stickiness subsides and it's as if nothing had happened at all.
"What was that?"
"Repellent. We don't want coal dust on your dress, now do we?"
Which would make sense, except now Calpurnia sprays it on Char, too. I frown. "Well, why spray that on Char, then? He's got no dress; he's got no clothes to worry about."
"Well," Jameson smirks, "we also don't want the fire to burn your skin."
"I thought you didn't want to do the tributes-on-fire thing."
"I'm not doing tributes-on-fire, just tribute. Just you. Can't have a firebird without fire, can you?"
My dramatized eyes widen, "You're using real fire?" thinking of the tributes who'd lost almost all their hair.
Jameson massages my neck and shoulders again, something that's become a bit of a weakness for me. "You can trust me. It's perfectly safe, and the flames will be contained to your sleeves. Just spread your wings, firebird."
"And flaunt," I add with a sly smile. This has become my strategy. Look confident. Flirt and flaunt my way into getting what I need. Have the people love me but fear me, and then go solo in the actual arena. I can survival well enough on my own as long as I don't run into any tributes looking for blood. I just need the favor of the sponsors to help with any survival needs. And, luckily, Jameson and I discovered I have my father's charisma.
"Good girl," Jameson lightly touches his lips to my forehead, then looks over at Calpurnia and Char. "About ready?"
Calpurnia nods. "We'll meet you out there."
Jameson walks me out to the chariots where some tributes are gather and waiting patiently. I see District 4 all set up in their normal, fishing-themed outfits. This year, they're clothed in wraps of seaweed, it looks like. Their stylists even went as far as temporarily dyeing their skin a light, ocean blue and sprinkling salt crystals into their hair. They look at me, terrified. I give them the same sly smile I gave Jameson not five minutes ago. The tributes quickly look away and go back to talking with their stylists. This pretending to be fearless thing is fun.
Two by two, more tributes enter our holding area. The black haired, twelve-year-old girl from District 1 wears a dress made of a hundred little mirrors, reflecting everything and blinding people as she walks past. The male tribute wears a suit with the same effect. They hold their heads up high, but I catch their eyes flickering to me once.
Finally, Char and Calpurnia join us and the whispers between other districts intensify. "They look completely different," I hear the boy from District 8 say. "Are they allowed to do that?" says the girl from District 10. Char and I look at each other and, for perhaps our first time ever, laugh together.
The trained horses line themselves up with their chariots and everyone slowly migrates towards them. Char and I head to the second to last one, but don't get on yet since Jameson and Calpurnia don't want anyone to see what we're doing until the very last moment possible. All the other tributes, however, step onto their chariot and wait for the ceremony to begin, which is strange because I feel like it should have begun by now. I turn around and see the cause of the delay. District 13 is late.
Their stylists come rushing out of their prep room, followed closely by the poised, girl tribute, Isabella. Her ginger hair twisted and tied in elegant knots all over her head, wearing a skintight, electric yellow suit, meant to represent hazmat suit because District 13 is nuclear. It glows, too. The suit and her makeup. It's as if she, herself, is radioactive. If Jameson isn't careful, 13 could outshine 12 easily with their ideas. Not to mention how much a stylist could do with a nuclear district.
Behind Isabella, and I have to hold my breath for this moment because I don't want to risk anyone catching me gasp or something, comes Rye. I have to dart my eyes away from him immediately, but I did get a long enough glance. He's so much taller now, and stronger. Older. If it weren't for those same dark brown bangs falling into his eyes, I couldn't possibly think of him as the boy who kissed me on my twelfth birthday. He wears the same skintight, glowing hazmat suit and makeup, but the glowing works better for him than it does for Isabella. She blends in to the glow, but it makes Rye's brown eyes, hair, and olive skin pop in an overall highly attractive way.
"Phoenix!" Char shouts impatiently. I snap back to attention and, with the help of Jameson, Char lifts me off the ground as if I bear no weight at all. I'm set onto his right, stocky shoulder, crossing one leg over the other, pointing my toes, working with what little room I have until I feel like I'm properly balanced. Char wraps his coal dusted arm around my legs securely and holds onto the chariot with his left hand for support. A few more adjustments to my wings and my dress and Jameson feels I'm ready for the fire. Spread your wings, firebird.
I hold my arms out, glance over my shoulder for a quick peek at Rye. He's staring right back at me with an unreadable look. I turn back to the front just as a tingling sensation pricks through my sleeves. A heatless, painless fire dances from my shoulder down to my wrists and down the wings. Char, though clearly exposed to the flame, doesn't seem to burn, nor do my hands or neck or hair, so the repellent must be working.
The great doors open and District 1 moves out. Then we all start moving. The crowd cheers enthusiastically for everyone, whether they approve of the Games nowadays or not. They still want to honor our sacrifice and they still sponsor, which is the important part.
Jameson gives me one last wink and I'm out the door, head held high wearing the brightest of smiles. Capitol citizens stand up at mine and Char's entrance. They are enthralled by our performance. I flap my wings, partially for them, partially for the fun of it. Up on Char's shoulder, moving fast with our team of horses, I truly feel as if I'm flying. I see us now in the giant screens. The fire continues to shine down my wings. It even looks as if I have fire in the palms of my hands, making me feel even more powerful. Even the point of my tiara is topped with a single flame. I control the fire. I own these Games. We are as spectacular as the riches in the Capitol itself. He is the ashes and I am my phoenix and the crowd looks at the two of us with the same amount of awe. Char keeps his face stoic, playing strong and silent to its fullest capability, while I wave and smile and giggle in my newly taught posture, not even thinking about how tired my arms are getting. Then the screen switches to District 13 and my smile is wiped away.
Rye and Isabella have their arms around each other's waist. They, too, wave at the crowd and then she kisses his ear flirtatiously and smiles a literally glowing smile. Rye nods to her and smirks, then looks straight ahead with that unreadable look again. The camera is focused back on Char and me again and I have to switch from burning with jealousy to controlling the fire again before anyone, especially Rye, can interpret my expression on the screen. I smile and blow a gracious kiss to a young boy who threw me a flower. This seems to have made his day.
Finally, we curve into the loop of the City Circle and all the tributes' eyes are on us. It seems 12 outshone 13 after all with our signature style: daringness. In fact, I dare to lower one of my wings far enough to squeeze the arm Char's holding me with reassuringly, to tell him We did it. He subtly squeezes my leg back to say I know. I don't dare to look for Rye's reaction to this. I simply raise my arm up into the air again and watch President Alma Coin bore her haunting grey eyes into me from her balcony.
She gains the crowd's attention by raising her own arms, mocking my current stance, then lowers them and speaks in her icy voice. "Welcome, tributes, to the Eighty-Second Annual Hunger Games. I believe this year will be our most eventful yet." She stares directly at me when she says this. "There are sure to be… many surprises to come. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor." She looks through me, now. Intimidated by my crown, my control, my power, whatever. Her body language to me is quite clear. She is telling me Except you, Phoenix. May the odds be entirely out of your favor. Only I can own these games. There is only room for one queen and she isn't you.
AN: Done and just in time for the DVD/Blu-ray release! (I went at midnight and got myself some free cake and trading cards. Interesting experience. But I've already watched the movie three times. xD) Anyway, please let me know what you think! I hope it's written to everybody's satisfaction.
[Edit: So, for some reason (exhaustion), last night I had the twelve-year-old girl with the mirror dress from District 12. Lols. She's from District 1. Anyway, I fixed that.]