Author's Note: Please review and thanks for taking time to read this fanfiction, when there are probably better ones out there, so consider this a shout-out to you!
Chapter 2: The City Circle (2 POVs)
EDGAR POV (DISTRICT 3 MALE)
My prep team has me wear a black mask filled with green cream that they say will prevent me from growing facial hair. Then they wax off my chest hair, which is fast because I don't have much. Afterwards they bathe me in 3 different liquids. Only the last one is water. I feel raw, clean, wet, and vulnerable when they are finished.
My stylist, Essette, has all black hair dripping in front of her pale face and has black nails. She dyed her skin paper-white and her clothes are all black and cut up, probably on purpose. She evidently wants me to look the same way, because I end up in an all black suit, wrapped in white wire. A clear piece of glass is in front of me like a TV screen. My hair is swept back under a black hood from the suit because it is red-brown. It looks hideous.
The next step is for me to go into the chariot with my District partner, Samantha, who is dressed in the same way except her naturally black, glossy hair hangs down her back in sheets. I catch myself staring at her and have to stop. She is going to be my rival soon and I need to act as if the Games have already started.
I may be from District 3, but that doesn't mean I should count myself out of the whole thing. Soon I will be slitting her throat, if I had to guess, so I won't be doing either of us any favors by ogling her.
In the chariot I face away from her and towards the crowds. They are too busy staring at all of the other costumes to do little more than glance my way. I don't blame them. District 4 has the same fate as us, dripping in saltwater and dressed as fishermen. So maybe we don't have the worst costumes. But not the best ones, not by far. District 8 is wearing all different kinds of cool fabrics. Some are glittery, others are bumpy, and they have scarves of rainbows. The Capitol citizens go wild, so I assume they are all of the different fashions that are popular right now. As we enter the City Circle, it takes all of my restraint not to cover my ears from all of the noise.
EVE'S PERSPECTIVE (DISTRICT 5 FEMALE)
I am immediately cornered by my preps. What follows is a painful waxing, a bath in something vile, then in water, and then my preps finally leave the room to summon my stylist, Gretcha.
Gretcha has a hoarse voice and green hair with little butterfly clips. Her eyelashes have been dyed a deep blue. Her lipstick is a lighter version of the same color. She dresses me in all white, including a white facemask with eye holes cut in it to see. My hair is underneath a hood that then attaches to the facemask with white thread. I then get to be wrapped in wires and have yellow streaks of paint painted all down and up me— yay! I always wanted to be nearly strangled by someone prettying me up to impress the very people who watch excitedly as I am murdered, cheering for my death. (That was sarcasm.)
Gretcha claps me on the back and grins. "I've done as well as I can for you, girlie. So impress 'em if you can, and if you can't… Well, don't make 'em boo!"
I am left thinking about this as I am forced onto the chariot. Was that a Capitol woman's expression of kindness? She definitely needs some pointers, but who am I to judge? I will be trying to kill people in a few days. So I wasn't going to be able to give her any tips. I stand stiffly in the chariot; angry at my District partner over something that happened before my name, a slip among thousands, was drawn.
Alf, who has like 2 years on me, was in the hallway at school when I bumped into him accidentally. His books spilled out of my hands. And there, in front of all of my friends, he smiled evilly at me and announced that I had just purposely sabotaged him and that I wanted to destroy my diary that he held because it held incriminating evidence that I was planning to cheat on my test. A passing teacher walked by and took me to the office. They didn't bother to ask why he had it, which he didn't. The teachers believed him over me because at the time I was 12 and he was 14. Now, 4 years later, I still haven't forgiven him for ruining my perfect record and my hopes of graduating into a good job, because any mark on your record would obscure that possibility.
As we weave towards the City Circle, I study the Capitol citizens. One has candy-pink hair and turquoise skin; another has bright yellow gems inlaid on her face, hands, and neck. A man with a red face and green cat whiskers and yellow eyes stares at me with a look that clearly states he will be cheering as the life leaves my eyes. "No," I scold myself. "Don't think that way, you will win."
I want to look ahead, but the chariot in front of me, District 4, obscures my view. We reach the City Circle and the president gives a boring, drone-on-ish sort if speech about the tributes and the rebels and how we are lucky for a chance to earn our district money and food, and how this year's Games will be the best ever, thanks to all of the Gamemakers (whom he lists by name) and Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith.