The Outfit

AN: So who made it through 2 months of winter time pediatrics without getting sick? This girl! (...and who started out surgery block getting sent home from the hospital so not to bring germs into the OR? This girl!) All you readers are wonderful for sticking with this and I'm going to try my best to update for you. Give a sick girl a break and drop a review!


…Fuck.

Shit.

Damn.

Is that really…me? But that terrifying woman in the mirror moves when I move, breathes when I breathe, blinks when I blink. I am her. She is me. And right now, I scare me a full minute, Cinna Raelius watches me gape, speechless, adoring the costume—and myself—from every angle. "So," he interrupts with a grin, "what do you think?"

I tear my eyes from the mirrors and wipe my face of emotion. I shrug. "Not bad."

"You lying bitch, you think it's perfect," he growls playfully.

"It is," I agree breathlessly. "Well, it isn't. I don't know." Eyeing myself again, I begin to have doubts.

"But you like it?"

I don't respond. I don't have to. It's the first time I've been able to face myself in a mirror without shame. I fucking love it. I've known several kids who've experimented with morphling, Vladmir—the Mayor's son—being the most obvious example. It's an endemic problem in 6, leading to disfigurement, disability, and even death. I've always questioned what the allure could possibly be for those my age, watching our parents' generation die slowly of the same poison. Now I know. It's an addiction…and this costume must be what it feels like.

It's not a just something you can see, but feel and hear as well. Smooth, supple leathers gird my legs, waist, and chest; cold links of tinkling bronze steel sway from my waist with the tiniest of movements; hot, sweltering fur and pelt cascade from my shoulders, dragging lifeless on the floor behind me, the weight tugging on leather straps and bronze studs; plates of intricate armor catch the light, iridescent; and a plain black brooch, cold and hard as granite, lies over my left breast. Lies over my heart.

My Petra. My Stone-heart, some of my father's last words. It hurts to know his pet-name for me will soon be spoken among the masses.

"Do you get it?"

"What?" Cinna. I forgot he was here.

"The symbolism," He insists. "Do you understand the symbolism?"

"I look…terrifying," I think aloud slowly. "But it's just ridiculous, isn't it? This whole outfit is impractical-this armor doesn't cover my entrails or my heart, it wouldn't protect me in a fight, the cape would only get in the way, and Cinna, there's no way anyone could actually move in these shoes."

His grin grows wider. "But do you get it?"

I cross my arms. "Apparently not."

"You recognize it as impractical, but the Capitol citizens won't. That's the irony. To them, you'll just look like Death incarnate…and for tonight, that's who you'll be."

It's genius. Tiberia's genius. It's also pointless. "What's the point if no one gets it?"

He nods, impressed. "The intelligensia will. And they're the ones with the money for Sponsorship. Trust me, Petra Angelovna, they'll be eyeing you very, very closely." Whether he means for wagering or hoping one of my breasts will accidently spill out during the Chariot ride, he doesn't say. Cinna Raelius—Tiberia—made me look dangerous. This outfit will fool the Capitol into seeing me for what I already am: a killer. Klerkov's words from this morning come back to me, and I appraise my reflection anew.

damn.

Something's still wrong, though. "I thought the Outfits were supposed to reflect our District." I frown.

Cinna shrugs. "It's become a tradition, yes, glorifying the Capitol's use for the Districts instead of representing the Districts themselves. Tiberia started it, if you can believe that!" He laughs aloud, eyes as absent as a schoolboy with his first infatuated crush. "But I've checked, and it's nowhere in the official rules. And if you want to be picky (which, being you, you will be), I'd say that costume does pay homage to your District's most valuable export to the Capitol."

I glare. And in this costume and make-up, even Tasha Pushkina's eyebrow couldn't be more frightening. "Which is?"

His face grows serious. "Victor Ivan Klerkov. Winner of the forty-seventh Hunger Games."


I exit the dressing stall. The waiting entourage seems quite impressed.

…everyone but Cry-baby, that is. He squirms away from the Avox and tugs my skirts to be hoisted. I comply. With difficulty. Between the cape and the boots it's everything I can do to stand. But with his boyish embrace the power of Tiberia's chariot outfit shatters: it can't even scare Xavier Malcovitch. I'm fucking doomed.

"Well," Tasha Pushkina rises with a strained smile, "you can't fool him, can you?"

I shrug as Cry-baby nestles he cheek against my chin. "Apparently not." Her face is still sad. Sadder than she has right to be. You misjudged me, I tell her. I'm not afraid to be beautiful.

My Mentor catches my eye. "The outfit is…satisfactory?" He asks.

"Yeah. But I'm still pissed at you."

Klerkov merely shrugs his bearish shoulders. "This is reasonable."

I chew my tongue. "I don't understand."

"What?"

"This outfit," I explain. "You've made me look like a…a-"

"-cold-blooded dominatrix?" Cinna Raelius snorts. I've not encountered the word before, but I'm old enough to recognize whore when I hear it.

Klerkov curls his great beard. "Well, yes, that is the plan. You are far from beautiful, Petra Angelovna, but in that gear you look like Hell in high heels. You must trust Victor Ivan Klerkov when he tells you all the men watching will give you a 'standing' ovation."

"It's your area of expertise, afterall," Tasha Pushkina returns coldly. "Of course she'll trust you."

I'm hesitant. "Isn't that exactly what they'll expect?"

"The crowd is fickle, impatient, and simple, moya Pet'enka," Klerkov utters gravely, eyes growing cold. "You must meet their expectations or fail. You are the Tribute, they are your Sponsors. You must please them or die."

Cinna Raelius has a different answer. "Perhaps you should do something unexpected."

"Besides going back for another Tribute, attacking her attacker, escaping from the Resistance and firing her Stylist?" Tasha Pushkina reminds him coolly. Last night she said my single act of seeming weakness left Panem scared shitless. "She's Petra Angelovna, Raelius. Something unexpected is exactly what they'll expect."

"So do nothing," I snort bitterly. "They won't expect that."

"No," Tasha corrects, "you've got to do something so unexpected they won't expect it, not even from you. It's not enough to fulfill their expectations anymore, Petra," she continues kindly, "or they'll become bored. Now you must exceed them."

You're fucked, Petra Angelovna, I clutch Cry-baby tighter. Completely, utterly, totally fucked.