~Twisted Anew
He's awake before Herne knocks on his door early next morning. He has already opened the door before Herne can knock again. Looking slightly surprised, Herne quickly regains his posture and beams at Chaise with bright, golden eyes. "Good morning!" he chirps in that strange clipped accent.
Chaise doesn't answer and Herne doesn't wait for it. Instead, he pivots on his heels and marches down the corridors, leaving Chaise to follow him. Chaise doesn't see any point in not following him and walks in Herne's path.
Led into the dining room, Chaise takes a seat beside Bathilda and across from a sleepy-eyed Azalea. He's careful to make sure that his eyes are on his plate and that they never stray over to her face. Yesterday night, he was testing her. He wanted to see what kind of enemy she would be. If she was weak, she would be needy for a taste of love even if it were false love and would have bloodshot eyes from crying. She would glance at Chaise every few seconds with longing in those eyes and Chaise would know that he had gained someone who would do anything for him—just because of a kiss. It would be a huge advantage once the game started if she lived through the bloodbath.
But that's not the case.
"Chaise," she says suddenly with no preamble. There's no trepidation in her voice—nothing. Chaise thinks he's probably misheard something and looks up. Her eyes are not bloodshot and she does not appear to have been crying at all. "Can you pass me the rolls?"
Chaise, still feeling surprised, pushes the plate of rolls towards Azalea. She's hiding everything she feels for him. He knows it. Now he watches her from the corner of his eyes and she never glances at him once.
He's incredulous. She should have fallen for him. But maybe one trial wasn't enough. He's underestimated her. She needs more than a simple kiss to make her fall in love. If anything, she must dislike him right now. If she doesn't feel like her heart's been torn out, then she must dislike him for toying with her. That's the other path a girl may take as the aftermath of his actions.
It makes things harder, but he enjoys the chase. Except for the fact that he doesn't have the time he needs for it. Chaise knows he needs to make it quick but his next moves need to be efficient for him to gain the upper hand.
Herne begins to talk about what they should expect when the reach the Capitol. He can tell that Azalea is listening to every word but Chaise's mind is wandering to the different tactics that he can use to make Azalea his willing servant.
"What's your advice?" Herne asks Bathilda cheerfully.
Her back is rigid when she says, "I don't have advice for any of you."
Chaise is startled out of his reverie by her words. Bathilda smiles sweetly at them and Chaise feels a twinge of dislike for her. He's never liked her very much and people who have met her have all said terrible things about her. Chaise can tell why. There's not much to like about such a cruel woman like her.
He sneaks a quick look at Azalea to see her frozen in surprise. Then he turns his attention back to Bathilda. "We don't expect any," he says, giving Azalea another look. Maybe standing up to Bathilda will make her like him more. He looks at Bathilda and a sneer makes its way on his lips, "Not from you, anyway."
Instead of getting angry, Bathilda just surveys them coolly and then continues to sip from a mug of coffee. He hates how she can act so nonchalant after he just insulted her. He wants her to lash out so that he has another reason to leave another scar.
The rest of the ride is silent and Chaise is angry at Bathilda for imposing that silence. He hates feeling weaker. He hates it. He glares stonily out the window as the images fly past and then almost jumps out of his seat from the sudden darkness the train is plunged into.
Azalea lets out a startled cry and then quiets. Chaise remembers that there's a barrier from the eastern districts to the Capitol—they have to pass through mountains to reach the Capitol. When the darkness finally lifts, the train slows and light reaches them again. Azalea lets out a small gasp and stares at out the window, taking in the grandeur of the Capitol.
Sun shimmers off the glass of the buildings, glistening with shades that Chaise hadn't even known had existed. Shiny cars drive down the perfectly paved streets. Chaise squints at the cars, wondering why a sudden feeling of déjà vu had overcome him but then the cars are blocked from view and he's greeted with the strange, painted faces of the Capitol residents. Colours that are too bright burn into his eyes and memories and Chaise looks away. A bitter feeling resides in him. Why are the Capitol residents so selfish?
Azalea, on the other hand, lets out a gasp of awe. Chaise rolls his eyes inwardly. Why is she so enamoured by all these petty colours and fashions? To Chaise, it just reminds him of how much he abhors the Capitol.
And he's about to entertain them by killing other tributes. The thought of it disgusts Chaise so much that for a second he would rather die. But then he remembers the fact that he doesn't want to die. He'd do anything to survive and hatred of the Capitol isn't going to stop him from trying. He pushes the Capitol out of his mind. Survival is about life, not his hatred for the Capitol. They don't matter and they won't deter him from his goal.
The train finally slows to a stop and the view of the Capitol is blocked out.
Herne is so excited that he nearly jumps from his seat. "Wonderful!" he says cheerfully. "Now off we go. You two are going to get the best hygiene treatment of your life!" Chaise wishes that he would stop treating them like they're stray animals the Capitol picked off the street to pamper and love. He would rather have the Capitol torture him and the rest of the tributes instead of indulging them in treats before their deaths like pigs for slaughter.
Chaise opts for sullen silence, but Azalea nods and smiles at Herne's words. "How exciting," she says, her voice exuberant but falling flat at the end. He nearly scoffs at her attempt. She hasn't quite mastered the art of pretending, but Herne doesn't notice. Bathilda's lips tug upwards at one side at Azalea's false enthusiasm before she examines her nails and continues ignoring them.
He turns his head away from them and watches the view from the window pass by. People point at the train, mouths moving to say something but the train moved too quickly for Chaise to even guess a single word that left their lips. He watches quietly until the train is plunged into the underground darkness again.
~[*]~
With a final sharp ri-i-ip!, Chaise is hairless. He clenches his hands into fists, wondering why the simple act of tearing hair from his skin hurts so much. He looks down at his clean-shaven legs and expects to find blood breaking free from the holes the hairs left behind once they were removed. There's no blood, but his skin is sensitive and red. Another member from his prep team immediately goes to work with the tweezers at removing any leftover hair. Chaise admits the tweezers are mostly more painful than the waxing.
"All done!" the woman who had been waxing his legs declares, her clipped Capitol accent exhibiting delight when she observes her work. "Now you are good as new! Fresh like a little baby." She pinches his cheek, causing him to scowl.
"That's great. Where's the exit?" he asks, trying to keep his temper under control. It would be no good to snap at one of the women on his prep team. He had been in the Remake Centre for at least three hours now. The process of scrubbing down his filth and removing him of his body hair made him feel vulnerable and bare. He had also never been naked in front of anyone before, and his prep team had left no reserves for any embarrassment he felt about showing his body.
"You're not leaving yet," the other woman coos. "Your stylist will be arriving in a few minutes. We're going to check over to make sure you're ready." The man on his prep team quickly accesses his body, plucking at nonexistent body hairs before he pronounces that Chaise is ready. They leave the way they came – in a flock.
Chaise stares after them until he's sure they're gone. He grabs the white robe and drapes it over himself again, glad to have a piece of manufactured material over his body again. Before he can explore the room to search for any sort of item that might help him later on, a woman walks into room.
She's dressed in flamboyant neon colours that contrast and yet compliment so well with the stark and sterile white of the room. Her green hair is a massive up-do – done in such a way that must be difficult to walk around and hold the structure. Her skin is tinged blossom pink and her lips are permanently rounded into a pout – through surgery no doubt. Her eyes are huge, taking up a large proportion of her facial structure. She wears layered bright blue dress with mixtures of golden and silver laces that are sewn strategically to hold the dress in place. The skirt below the corset curves around her in a perfect circle to barely skim across the ground. The cuffs of the sleeve on her elbow flare out in ruffled white fabric.
Her appearance draws Chaise's attention immediately, though he horrified by the extreme ostentation of her features and her attire. The woman mistakenly identifies his horror for awe.
"Ah yes," she says, looking down admiringly at her clothes. Her speech is unusually lilted, and her altered lips make it hard for her pout to pronounce vowels. Chaise can just barely understand her. "Eighteenth Century fashion in a place faraway that went by the name of France." He doesn't bother to ask which district it is now.
"Never heard of it," Chaise says, pulling his robe tighter around himself.
His stylist puts a hand over her mouth. "Of course not, my dear." She composes herself again and walks closer to Chaise easefully despite her apparel. "I'm Bernadine and you must be our darling Chaise Hart. Robe off," she demands and Chaise reluctantly let the robe fall onto the floor to let his stylist scrutinize him. She hums in approval while she circles him and examines every inch of his skin. He fights the urge to cover himself.
"You are quite nicely toned," she remarks. Her tone contains a hint of knowing, but she quickly continues by saying, "I did request District One, but they gave me District Twelve. You seem hopeful though, and I hope my partner Balbus can do something with that Azalea girl's hopeless hair. Put on your robe and we can talk." She begins to head to another room and Chaise quickly dresses in the robe and follows her through the door to the sitting room.
"You're a new stylist, then," Chaise says once they sit across each other in the luscious red couches with a low table between them. New stylists always get the least desirable district, and Chaise isn't surprised that after the fiery games a hundred years ago, the sensation surrounding District 12 has died down. Then again, no one ever mentions those Games. It's almost sacrilege to the point where Peacekeepers are allowed to execute punishment among those who whisper stories of the Seventh-Fourth and Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games.
Bernadine makes a clicking sound with her tongue. "Yes, of course I am. That is why you have not seen something you will be in awe of during their Opening Ceremonies yet. I can assure you I am highly trained in fashion sense while other designers simply… how would you put it? Throw on miscellaneous items and hope for a match. They have no sense of creativity," she scoffs before pressing a button on the side of the table. The top of the table parts to reveal a second table that holds their lunch. He's hungry from the smell already, and Bernadine gestures with as much of a smile as her pouty lips can make to the food.
Chaise isn't sure how to feel about this woman. On one hand, he can think of at least a few snappy remarks to her comments, and yet he finds her attitude oddly droll. "So what are we going to be this year?" he asks, holding a piece of warm bread and dipping it in the soup before eating. It tastes heavenly – fresh, warm, and contrast of flavours.
Bernadine claps her hands together, and Chaise notices the golden painted long nails on each hand. "You will see!" she exclaims.
A few hours later, Chaise finds himself wearing something made of black plated material around his chest. His shoulders are wrapped with large sheets that emphasize his bare collarbones, and his sleeves cut off at his elbow with the same bulky black material. He's barefooted and wears form-fitting black shorts. Dust coats his feet up to his knees in a gradient fade. Fake large coal decorate his bare legs, seeming to have sprung from his skin. When Chaise looks in the mirror, grey-black shimmering shading rounds his eyes, letting the green of his irises pop out even more than usual. He resists the urge to wipe away at his eyes. The makeup makes his skin itchy.
"Don't touch!" Bernadine says for the umpteenth time when Chaise reaches a hand to his face. Chaise grumbles but drops his hand to his side. He has to admit, the costume isn't half bad. He had expected to be dressed in something extremely bizarre or revert back to their typical coal miner's outfit. "Now I normally don't care much for my subject's thoughts since they are not the ones with a degree in fashion, but what do you think?" she asks him.
Chaise hesitates. "It's interesting," he admits. "Creative. Not… fiery enough to catapult us into the attention of other tributes." Bernadine doesn't respond outwardly to his allusion, though he had expected a frown at the very least. If it's sacrilege to speak about those Games in the districts, he can only imagine how taboo it is to speak of in the Capitol. "I like it." He looks completely different from the person he's used to seeing in the mirror. It makes him feel stronger, like this costume shows just one of his many mysterious facades.
"Wonderful," Bernadine says, patting the top of his head a few times much to his annoyance. "Now let us meet up with your fellow tribute. I'm sure Balbus has transformed her mousey appearance into something wonderful."
With that, Chaise follows Bernadine out of the room and takes another step closer to the Games.
It's been 595 days since I last touched this document in my files. Even longer since I've updated. I revisited this story because I absolutely adore it and how it spiraled from a simple hunger games fic from a pre-teen girl into something that expands the canonical universe (we haven't gotten there in the story yet), and I don't even mind if no one likes it/no one reads it. I'm basically writing it for myself at this point (though knowing that someone is reading it via reviews would be very nice!). I'm also changing the name of this story from Sparks Fly to Caged Birds, because this ain't no Taylor Swift song.
Upon revisiting, I noticed that it was all so heteronormative and non-diverse! I've changed it up now, so some characters are sporting different identities. I'm adding the new edits to each chapter now. The most noticeable of all of that Ash is now female! At least, Ash is listed under female by Capitol regulations...we don't really know if Ash is female. (Well, I do but...)
Notes specifically on this chapter: I cross the line with Bernadine here. She lacks an Ancient Roman name like all the others and mentions somewhere out of Panem. Will that be important? (Pssh... Of course it will)
Chaise is self-conscious. Boys are allowed to be self-conscious about being naked in front of strangers. (Meaning I would rather much not have him smirk and flex like numerous [bad]boys in teen fiction)
Next Chapter: ~Remade