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THE ELEVATOR
The way Ana's eyes lit up with inspiration over dinner last night, when Emma mentioned the District Seven girl's joke about Jack's name, was pretty unsettling...but the final effect isn't half bad, all things considered.
As it turns out, prep gets easier the second time around. Jack supposes they did most of the hard stuff the first time, the buffing and plucking and bleaching and all that. Sitting perfectly still for an hour while Ana's "girls" painstakingly stenciled frost patterns on his skin was a cakewalk in comparison. His suit isn't terrible, either, as far as Capitol fashion goes. Personally, he wouldn't have picked shimmery blue fabric for a formal jacket, and the pants seem uncomfortably tight, but what does he know about clothes?
"Jack, look!"
There's real delight in Emma's voice. Jack turns and takes one look at her, and stops breathing. Ana has turned his sister into a glimmering winter fairy, all soft blue ribbons and silver snowflakes caught in her hair. Emma is glowing with happiness, twirling around to show off the way the floating fabric of her skirt catches the light.
She looks so delicate that a puff of air could shatter her into a thousand pieces.
Jack's stomach turns over. They already agreed on this strategy; no one is going to bet on Emma being a serious physical threat, but if they play their cards right, the bleeding-heart sponsors of the Capitol will fight to empty their wallets for the brave, charming boy and his tragic little sister. It's their best shot, but it still chills him to the core to see her looking so...fragile.
Emma's spinning feet slow, then stop. "You...you don't like it?" she says, and her disappointment jolts him back to life.
"Are you kidding?" Jack says, grinning. "You look amazing! They're gonna love you. Do the spinny thing again!"
The happy light rekindles in her eyes, and she holds out a hand for him to turn her; on an impulse, Jack picks her up as if she was still five years old and whirls her around like a turbine propeller, an old childhood game, until Emma shrieks with laughter and he's so dizzy he can hardly stay standing.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. Still laughing, they stagger inside, slightly off-balance.
There are only three other tributes in this car, two boys and a girl, but Emma lets out a gasp of amazement when she sees the girl's hair. It cascades in a golden waterfall all the way to the hem of her tightly-laced pink silk gown, and her prep team has braided it full of a garden's worth of flowers.
"Wow," Emma whispers. The girl blushes.
"It's mostly extensions," she whispers back, with a rueful little smile. "I'm terrified I'm going to catch it on something and rip the whole thing out. Yours is much prettier."
Emma beams. Jack sizes the girl up, suspiciously; she doesn't look much bigger than Emma, but she's carrying the weight of all that hair without too much trouble, even on heels. It's not unheard of for smaller tributes to play it weak and gentle until they're in the arena, then reveal a frightening amount of strength when the countdown hits zero.
"You're awfully humble," he observes, with a skeptical smirk. "What, is that your angle? You're going to have a tough time selling it with that fancy hair."
She shakes her head, and a flower petal flutters to the floor. "I don't have an angle," she says. "Well, I mean, we talked about one, but..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm tired of lying. Just this once, I want to tell somebody the truth."
Before Jack can ask what that's supposed to mean, the elevator doors hiss open, and the light and bustle of the soundstage spills inside. The girl hikes her cascade of hair up over one arm and walks out the door with the slightly unsteady gait of a newcomer to heels. "Good luck," she calls over her shoulder. Jack straightens his collar, and tries for a smile.
It's showtime.