The Assemblage
I cringe at the sound of my hair being ripped off before the pain flows into my nerves. They may have to strap me down like they do for prisoners undergoing torture if they continue treating me this way. I grit my teeth, not letting a sound, other than a soft gasp, escape my lips. Venia, the woman tattooed with gold and hair, from her head to her eyebrows, a soft variant of aquamarine, also cringes, almost as though she were the one in pain. I've noticed that she's oddly sensitive, considering that she'll soon be watching twenty-four children beaten, maimed, bludgeoned, mutilated, and, ultimately, killed. "Sorry," she twitters in her odd Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!"
Why do they use such high pitched voices? Why do they constantly sound like they're about to break into song? Why do they inflect they're sentences like they're inquiring something? And what do they mean so hairy?Their vowels are elongated, their words are clipped, their versions of the letter s hisses like a snake, and they sound like Italian Americans poorly mimicking a British, French, and Australian accents all at once. I had thought that maybe only Effie spoke that way— Caesar sounded vaguely Californian— but I suppose that people on the radio and TV never talked like people in real life. They always sounded official.
"Good news though," Venia warbles. "This is the last one? R-r-ready?"
I grip the edges of the table, noting that they also trill their r's. I still wince as she waxes off the last of my leg hair.
I've been in the Remake Center for must be hours, while the trio of stylists, scrub my skin down with a gritty foam that I assume uses sea-salt, reforming my nails, and ridding my body of hair. I'm sore and raw in some areas from where they pulled up more than hair.
"Don't worry, Bella, you're doing very well. And we're almost done," says Flavius, the only male of the group. He shakes his candy-orange curls and applies another layer of violet lipstick to his mouth. I asked him about it earlier. He said that clashing colors were all the rage in the Capitol and were totally underrated. I suppose he's right, to some odd degree. It makes his eyes pop. Or maybe that's his contacts. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner... grease her down!" Flavius shouts.
He's not technically their leader, but he speaks with authority in his voice. Venia and Octavia, a pea-green woman with a body the shape of a plump chicken, rub a lotion on me that at burns for a few seconds before soothing my skin. I sigh involuntarily. They pluck me from the table and throw off the thin robe I've been wearing on and off, then lay me back down on the table. At this I'm again tempted to complain, but I know that I had best not break my deal with Haymitch. Any infraction would send him back to his spirits.
The trio, armed with tweezers, circles me to remove any last bits of unwanted hair. They seem pleased with their work. It takes every bit of self-control I have not to cross my arms over my chest as they inspect me like a piece of meat. Venia looks at me sympathetically as Flavius smiles.
"Excellent!" he cheers. "You almost look like a human being now!" They laugh, and I'm sure it's from an inside joke. I force myself to smile to show my appreciation. I think they're supposed to leave now. They don't.
"Thank you," I encourage, trying to usher them forwards. They look anxious, and I think they want me to say more. I don't. Flavius breaks the awkward silence. I wonder if it was awkward to him. Maybe they are people after all.
"Let's call Cinna," he suggests. They nod excitedly. They dart out of the room. I stand and shake my head at them. I resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. Trying to distract myself from the cold white walls and floor, my fingers find my hair. Alice had so carefully done the braids. Alice. Esme. Home. I feel empty all over again.
Cinna steps through the doors. I flinch. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Everyone else here has been dyed and otherwise surgically altered until it's repulsive. The only alteration to this man is a few flecks of golden eyeshadow.
"Hello, Isabella. Or do you prefer Bella?" He pauses. I nod. "I'm Cinna, your stylist."
"Hello," I manage.
"Just give me a moment. Okay?"
As uncomfortable, nervous, and infuriated as I am, I allow him to circle me, inspecting every inch of me, resisting every impulse to hide behind something. Finally, he gestures to the robe on the floor.
"Who did your hair?" he asks.
"Al—" I cut myself off. "My sister." And she is my sister, really.
He nods. "It's beautiful, really. Your sister has gifted fingers."
"Yes, she does..." I almost choke. Cinna notices my discomfort.
"Come with me," he says.
Cinna leads me through a door and into a sitting room, a lounge, with three white walls blank and a window for the fourth. I stare at it for a moment. Cinna beckons me to sit. I do. He sits on the sofa opposing mine across a low glass table. Everything about this room is symmetrical, and my sofa is made of cubic cushions.
We sit in silence, rather awkwardly, as my thoughts wander to Edward. Surely his stylists would have realized that something's wrong by now. His skin is far too cold to belong to a human being, and I don't think the massage would have worked on him. I try to relax. He promised me that it would work out. Somehow...
Would they use one of their experimental vampirism "treatments" on him? I've heard that, if used improperly, it can be deadly. It involves days if not weeks of intense medical care to recover, not to mention the initial transformation. The thirst for blood never really fades, although the scent is dulled to a point where it's near nonexistent. The operation itself has a seventy percent fatality rate. I'm not sure they'd want to risk it with a Tribute, but I'm certain they couldn't let him into the arena in his present
"condition." Like it's a disease that needs to be cured.
Cinna orders a special dish that I've never heard of. When they serve it, I find chicken and orange chunks in some sort of sauce, a salad, and a pudding. It's odd, how hot and steamy it is without any work from anyone here. I almost laugh as I remember the political speeches about the rich becoming wealthy off the backs of the poor. In Panem, the system is designed so that the poor stay poor and the rich only become richer. What do these people do all day? They certainly don't work. They have all the time in the world, although I'm sure they find some way to make their leisure time as minimal as possible. Most of it must involve waiting. Waiting for the next Reapings, waiting for the next Tribute trains, waiting for the Games to begin.
"How despicable we must seem to you," says Cinna.
I nearly gasp aloud at his words, as he has read my mind so perfectly. I've been called an open book before, but...
"No matter," he says. "So, Bella, about what you're wearing to the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for Edward. Our current plan is to dress you in..." he searches for the right word. "Complementary, costumes. As you know, it's customary to reflect the trade of your District."
District 12. Coal. Great.
"So... a coal miner outfit?" I ask.
"Mm, no. I was going to go with the coal itself. Tributes from 7 don't dress in lumbermen's clothing. They dress as trees. District 12 has coal. That's why I asked for what do we do with coal?"
Lovely. Oil.
"We burn it," he says, grinning. The man has a spark of something gleaming behind his eyes. I believe it to be madness.
A few hours later, I'm dressed in a coal black suit that covers my entire body, save my hands and face. It's larger, with batwing-like flaps, on the shoulders, and it zips all the way off. On my torso, where the unitard is immodestly tight, the leather is polished, while on my chest and arms it seems like the skin of a black snake. My hair, braided on top of my head, is wrapped with strands of gold. Although it isn't simple by my standards, it's rather plain by the Capitol's. But it isn't the costume itself that will make me sparkle; it's the cloak of scarlet, azure, and golden flames that will set me aflame against the darkling sky.
"Isi," Cinna says suddenly as he lightly brushes makeup onto my face. Rather than hiding my shadows, he seems to be accenting them, as though I've been exposed to smoke.
"Isi?" I ask.
"Isi, the girl on fire. It sounds better than Bella, the girl on fire."
I want to protest, but he's right. I nod.
"I've been toying with your name. Belle, Bella, Isa, Isi."
"It's unusual," I remark, trying to hide my disappointment. He pauses.
"You know that Panem has a history of using Latin, don't you?"
I think for a moment. "It means bread, right? Panem?"
He nods. "Bella is Latin, too. It means war."
I almost gasp. Somehow, I feel like I should have known that. I'm not exactly insulted or surprised. It feels right, considering my bad luck. I change the subject again. To my public name. "Bella, the girl who was aflame?"
He stops again, then grins. "The burning Swan." A disturbing image, but appropriate.
Alice, the girl on fire, I muse. If she had come, he could have used the name he had in mind. But I'm here, and now he has to work with my name. I've always hated it.
"Bella, girl on fire," suggests Cinna.
I shake my head.
He continues adding the minimal makeup — foundation here, mascara and eyeliner here, lipstick here, blush here. The alien in the mirror is beautiful. I smile at her and she smiles at me. I hardly recognize myself. Cinna has transformed me with a light hand. He is truly an artist with what he does, and he makes people beautiful. My attributes are accented and my flaws, like mistaken brushstrokes on a canvas, have been made wonderful.
People in the Capitol, with the seemingly lone exception of Cinna, use so much makeup it becomes grotesque. I'm a bit confused as to why he has done so little; the philosophy here seems to be that more is better. At my unspoken question, Cinna replies,
"I want people to recognize you in the arena. Isabelle, girl on fire," he states dreamily. The twinkling spark in his eyes is there again as he smiles. I smile back at him, though only because I'm afraid to disappoint him. I like him, despite my loathing towards the Capitol.
Cinna attaches the back part of my costume, the piece meant to burn, to my back. A shudder runs through me as I begin to doubt for the first time. I frown.
"It's not real flame, of course," he says, "It's just a little synthetic fire that Portia and I came up with. It's perfectly safe." Great. He may as well have said "what could possibly go wrong."
Edward steps through the doors moments later. My eyes dart to him. He's pale and vampiric as ever. I suppose the Capitol may let it slide for a few more hours. They wouldn't want to disrupt their schedule. Portia, a young woman with aqua tresses that flow down her back and shoulders steps into the room. Her face is relatively clear of makeup, save the lipstick that matches her locks and her eyes. She smiles at me. When she looks at Cinna, she's positively glowing. Her team, just as odd as mine, accompanies her.
"Hello Bella, Cinna," she greets us, a glimmer in her eyes as she says the latter.
"Portia." He shakes her hand, his fingers lingering on hers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Portia takes something from her purse.
"I brought this. It's a last minute glitter I came up with for their faces. They'll literally sparkle in the firelight." I can't restrain the snort. Portia shakes her head at me.
Cinna takes the dusk in his hands. He dips the brush in his hand and dabs it on my face and hands. I stretch my fingers towards the sun streaming in from the windows. It glimmers. So Edward did tell Portia. She's just covering for him with last minute makeup. Edward steps into the light next to me. He shimmers, too, and I wonder if it's natural or from the Capitol's beautification. As if he needs it, I think, glad I'm an exception to his gift.
"Is it too much? I could lighten it..." suggests Portia. She could?
"No, no. It'll be in the firelight. It'll look wonderful. They'll be radiant." I see Edward mouth a thank you at Portia, and Cinna just nods. He understands, too. But we don't speak of it and we never will.
We're whisked downstairs and into the chariots in a blur. The ceremonies are about to start and you can tell. Horses are everywhere. Ours are as black as midnight, the color of coal and the color of my outfit. The animals are incredibly well trained. Despite the length of the journey, no one will even guide their reigns. It won't be necessary. Edward steps into the chariot first. He pulls me into it. I'm shaking right now, a full blown panic attack on the way.
"I'll hold your hand," he says, doing just that. I squeeze tighter.
"Just don't let me fall down."
"I think you'll be the one standing upright at the end of this, Bella."
Cinna pulls out the torch he intends to light us with. Edward flinches. Vampires are fairly indestructible, but fire burns them like wax.
"What do you think about the fire?" I whisper to him.
"I think it'll work. Portia's confident. Cinna's... almost confident."
"Are you worried about... that?" Even if it doesn't hurt me, he could still be vulnerable.
"Yes," he answers honestly. "Look, I know we promised Haymitch we'd do anything he said to, but..."
"Yeah, where is he anyway?"
"With all that alcohol, it would be unwise to expose him to an open flame."
I almost laugh. I can't laugh though, not with impending doom leaning over me from two angles. The opening music begins, thundering loudly through whatever speakers there are. It's odd music, the exact opposite of outdated. It seems to be hit songs from this year, whatever that is. Immense gates slide open and the first chariot, District 1, parades into the streets. Their horses are a pale white with glittering manes, and the tributes wear what looks like ancient Greek attire— glittering white capes that flow from behind. Then I catch a glimpse of this part of the city and the crowds. It reminds me of the Pantheon, or maybe the Campo de Fiori, only with swarms of people thicker than New York.
We're the last chariot, as usual. Only two are left when Cinna brings the torch to us. Edward hides a grimace. The sky has already darkened, and I know why Cinna chose this. We'll dazzle in the twilight, the eventide.
"Here we go, then," he says. We're on fire before I can flinch away. I wait for pain, burning, agony. It doesn't come. The feeling is faint, though it isn't even warm. I reach behind me, letting the flames lick my fingers. It's slightly cool to the touch.
"It works," Cinna sighs. "Remember. Heads high, smiles. They're going to love you!" he says, jumping off the chariot. We then begin to move into the streets.
For the first time, I glance at Edward. He's radiant with the flames, almost engulfed in them. It's stunning, more amazing than I had imagined. I glance at my hand. The flames play on our faces, which are slightly luminous with whatever is on our faces. Edward doesn't seem to be in any pain at all, he's only looking straight ahead, squeezing my hand a little tighter than I'm comfortable with. For once, he's the one in danger of tripping over himself.
The crowd's shock at our appearance morphs into cheers, shouting our names, our first names. They call me Isabelle rather than Bella, but I suppose I'll work with it. Cinna put that as my name in the program, I guess. Heads turn our way, people jump up and down at us, and I'm absolutely amazed. It worked. It actually worked! I then see a television, screening the parade live. I'm in shock at my face. I am glowing ever so slightly, an occasional flame jumping close to me and the glitter shining off of it. But even more shocking than that is the trail of flames itself. I'm paralyzed. Stunned. I don't think I've ever looked more beautiful. I smile, and it seems to have an effect on the crowd.
Someone tosses me a rose. I wave in their general direction. More shouts. Edward tries doing the same, rather than the stiffness he had been, and the crowd, now a mob trying to be the ones closest to us, is ignited with fire of their own. They chant our names. We've stolen the show. The people of the Capitol shower us with flowers. It's an advantage, an amazing advantage. They'll remember me in the arena. My look, my name. Isabelle, the girl on fire. I beam at the thought. Perhaps I'll survive longer than I'd hoped.
We soon move towards a region known as the City Circle, at the foot of the Tribute Tower, our home/prison until we're tossed into the arena. Edward has completely cut off my circulation. I adjust my fingers uncomfortably, and he drops my hand entirely.
"No," I beg. "I'll fall if you don't." He takes my hand again, this time, as we pass through the enormous gates of the Circle itself, he locks his hand in mine and pushes it up, in victory, to the air. The crowd goes nuts. They've lost it. I know that here are the richest of the rich, the people who will sponsor— or not sponsor— the Tributes this year. The national anthem of Panem, with only a few people in the crowd murmuring it, plays loudly over the scene. I feel... triumphant.
Edward keeps my hand in their air, effortlessly, until we finally stop.
President Snow speaks briefly. Is this my chance to kill him? I half-wonder. Jane said I would be given a gift. The fire? The ability to survive with only a little luck? She said it would be worth far more than survival.
Great. Am I trusting her? I feel like an idiot.
During the oration, I see one of the Tributes wince in momentary pain. I glance in the general direction that he does. Edward is focused on the President. Jane must be lost amidst the background noise. I find her looking at me with a somewhat apologetic look. She sits alone, ignoring what must be a mouthwatering scent of these thousands of people. She has changed, at least in her ability to act human.
But it's so wrong. She looks kind, genuine. Her black robe has been replaced by a crimson and gold dress, feathery and blending in well with the rest of the Capitol. And this version of Jane is more frightening than the sadistic child I once knew. I scan her area and find a group of other vampires, clumped together, their scent lost among the hundreds of thousands of people.
Our chariots begin to move again, this time into the Tribute Tower, also known as the Training Center. Our cloaks flicker off the moment the doors shut, and the parade has ended.
Thank you for taking the time to read my writing. I'm not going to beg for anything, but I do ask that, even if you hated it, please review. I need the feedback.
~Sun