Hey hello, before we begin with parade awesomeness, I must announce that there's a poll up on my profile, which I forgot to mention at the end of intros, where you can vote for your two favorite Tributes! The winner will receive a reward, so do cast your votes ASAP! Enjoy the chapter. :)
"Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter
Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade."
Chalet O'Shea, 31, Tribute Stylist
They tell Chalet that he will be more involved this year. Because apparently he was not involved the last fifteen times. Apparently his getting attached to each Tribute, making sure that they looked perfect from head to toe before they went into the Games, was just a warm-up. This year, they tell him, the Games will be more public. More festive. And more difficult for him.
(Obviously it's more difficult for the Tributes as well, who've been ripped from their families to never be seen again... but then, wasn't that also what happened to him?)
Now he paces in an empty room, awaiting the flood. Apparently, his job is to make each Tribute look presentable and clean—nothing new there—and dress them all in outfits that will be remembered, preferably with the pairs in each District matching. They don't necessarily have to be District-specific, they clarify, as long as the outfits represent the Tribute's personality, and there's some kind of theme going on for each District. Loose parameters, they say. He's lucky they're going easy on him.
How they expect him to create twenty-four outfits in just a few days, he doesn't know, but ever since the message reached his ears, he's been toiling away with every material imaginable, creating custom outfits for people he hasn't even seen. Well, not in person at least.
And really, it's not twenty-four outfits but forty-eight, at least, because he can't be sure that the materials will fit their skin tone, that the costumes will compliment their bearings and personalities. But would he dream of telling that to Avarette or Pericles or anyone else? Absolutely not; he's following orders, because something might unravel if he starts tugging at the loose threads of their reasoning.
The door swings open to reveal the Tributes, who wander in like lost children, which he supposes they are. The uncertain-looking teens are trailed by his assistants, rosy-cheeked youths sporting make-up kits and nail polish and tweezers, every item you could need for removing blemishes and adding finishing touches. Chalet smiles at the Tributes, and his soft voice seems softer in the silence.
"Hello, and welcome to the sixteenth annual Hunger Games. My name is Chalet, and I'm to prepare you for the parade which will be starting in just a few hours. My assistants will be attending to your needs and cleaning you up somewhat, while I'll be calling you all over at some point to fit your costumes and prepare you for the parade."
"The parade for what, and for whom?" someone calls out, and Chalet cannot make out the voice among the sea of Tributes.
"Ah, my apologies." Chalet is still new to this whole idea of fanfare and publicity, so he doesn't really know all the details himself. "You will all be riding chariots, dressed in costumes, and the entirety of the Capitol will see you. The parade will also be televised throughout all of Panem. This will all be explained at the dinner afterward, but just know that it's important to make a good impression, and I'll be able to help you with that."
He's greeted with silence, and he isn't really sure how to end his stream of words, because a 'thank you' would certainly not be appropriate. Neither would an 'I'm sorry.' So he just smiles hesitantly.
"With that out of the way, let's begin with getting you all ready to meet the nation."
The assistants immediately flock to the Tributes, pulling them all behind privacy screens. He spots two Tributes who cling to each other's hands, looking no more than fifteen, and he recognizes them as the pair from Nine.
He calls them over first and fits them with their costumes. They're even more perfect than he hoped, matching outfits that resemble a night sky. They both wear the velvety black color to represent night, but Asa is the stars and Luz is the moon. The outfits complement each other perfectly. Asa's sparkling pinpricks of light contrast Luz's soft, mellow glow, and they both seem thrilled with the fine fabrics and iridescent dust on their cheeks. A promising start. Nothing has gone wrong yet.
He calls Tremor over next. The boy from District Two has an ethereal cast to him, with soft features and a charismatic smile. Some kind of alarm bell rings in Chalet's head, a nagging feeling that perhaps this boy is more than he seems. He stands still as Chalet holds up several different options before deciding on one.
Alessio Spades from Twelve just glares at him the whole time, barely speaking. Chalet reaches out to adjust his hair and the boy fixes him with a murderous stare. Chalet supposes that will come in handy come the Bloodbath, but it will do the boy no favors with the Sponsors. Chalet eventually convinces him to let him work. Chalet feels sympathetic for the boy. A fleeting thought crosses his mind; the Tributes shouldn't have to do anything they don't want to.
What a silly moment of nobility. The entire Games are a an involuntary violation. And Chalet is part of that. He's the problem.
Slightly grandiose of him, to even think that, because he knows that there are other replacements for him, that he is easily swapped out for someone better, someone more malleable. And he can't lose this job. Where would he go? What would he do?
He's running short on time, but luckily most of the Tributes seem fairly agreeable. A few Tributes make requests; Felicia Simmons begs for something pink, which he easily arranges, and Naya Illumina calmly requests a dead coral reef of all things, which takes a bit more effort to arrange, but he pulls it off nonetheless. The least he can do is grant the Tributes their small requests before they die. Marquis Kennedy seems ecstatic at the extravagant outfits, almost worshipful. Dria is cold, detached; Jacqueline seems jittery but doesn't throw a fit. Everything runs as smoothly as one could expect, for something that's never been done before.
He's heard whispers of a rebellion, an uprising, just a stirring of unease, and all revolving around this day. Try as he might to avoid the gossip, he still heard Rima Raevsky murmuring quietly with Linnet Llamora.
"Pericles hired some kind of bodyguard to watch Mirabelle. We'll have to call off the strike for now and reevaluate."
He doesn't want to get involved in that, wants to hold everything at arms' length. The last thing he needs is to get in trouble.
But there's something tragic, something unnerving, about the few Tributes that resist, that seem scared and uncomfortable and yet resigned to their fate. It makes him a little nauseated, to be a part of their discomfort. As if the wrongness will propel him to change something, speak up, stand tall and say what''s right.
But Chalet knows himself very well, especially after years of confinement and manipulation. He cannot fight back. He can't do a thing. Because deep inside, he's the same scared child who left his home without knowing he'd never come back.
He just hopes that these Tributes have a little warning, a chance. He hopes that he can do something, even if it's small, to tell them they're not alone.
In a perfect world, he'd tell them not to take any interaction for granted, to always look back at the places and people they leave in their wake. He'd tell them they have only one shot, and sometimes the smooth-run course of life turns a corner and simply drops away beneath them.
But he can't. Because he, too, is caught in the fast-moving current of the Capitol, and he's just barely staying above the surface.
How can he hold up anyone else?
...
Caldwell Kingsen, 17, District Four Male
He wasn't always like this.
Not that it matters anymore, really, because now he's here and he's happy. He feels grand, and special, dressed in the beautiful wave costume hand-crafted just for him. But before, before... Caldwell Kingsen wasn't born a god.
He'd been shy, once; insecure, unsure, always hanging back, trying not to make waves in the already tumultuous lives of his parents. They'd been in a tight spot, once, before Caldwell's earnings brought his family back to the surface. His father in shock, his mother exhausted from her overwork.
And Caldwell had wandered to the sand, to the beach, as if some deep inspiration was guiding him even then. A sandcastle competition. The youngest competitor and the winner by a longshot. That's where it all started.
And where is he now? Standing in the Remake Center, the Games fast approaching. Really, he wouldn't fathom entering the Games before today, for such trivial things had never crossed his mind. He's always had far more important things demanding his attention, an important job to complete, and the Games had been but a distant speck on the horizon of his artistic victories. And yet here he is.
How did he get here? Why is he getting makeup dabbed across his face, sand washed from his hair, and a beautiful outfit crafted from the most lustrous fabric?
The answer is simple. Naya Illumina.
The girl in question stands across the room, her posture lofty as ever, as if she knows everything, as if she has the power to manipulate him like a puppet on a string. But Caldwell Kingsen is not a puppet. He is a god. And he doesn't make mistakes.
So Volunteering was not a mistake; it was a divine stroke of genius, almost a vision. Caldwell saw Naya Volunteering, and he connected the dots quickly, everything clicking into place as he realized that she'd been a Career all along. An impulsive idea, perhaps, but not a stupid one. Never was Caldwell Kingsen stupid, or wrong. And now that he's on this course, he'll just have to execute it all with perception, as he always does.
And there are certainly benefits to this arrangement. Firstly, he can now continue to foil all of Naya Illumina's big dreams of glory, steal her thunder, ruin every attempt that she makes to stand out. Secondly, on the off chance that he wins—and Caldwell certainly wouldn't put it past him to accomplish such a feat—he will finally have enough money for his parents to be happy. And maybe then they'll stop asking for more. And maybe then Caldwell will stop having to give more.
(And maybe it will be a nice change of scenery, here in the Capitol where he doesn't have to drain his admittedly substantial creative reserves. It might be nice, peaceful almost, to not be living in fear all the time, desperate to avoid whatever criticism his parents will give him. If Caldwell's being honest, he wanted a way out; an escape.)
The thing is, Caldwell considers himself an all-around nice person. He's never wanted to cause anyone pain, has tried to be a help rather than a hindrance, and never felt any specific hatred or vengeance toward anyone in particular.
But Naya... Naya is a different story. Caldwell would risk it all just to see her suffer. He wants her to get what she deserves, because Naya Illumina has made Caldwell doubt. Because of her, he sometimes lies awake, questioning his true calling, wondering if he has any talent at all.
But what a silly thought. He buries it beneath the swirling sands of his mind, focusing instead on his outfit. It's a rising tide, which then morphs into a cresting wave topped in white, before breaking back into the clear blue-green of the ocean. He's mesmerized by the colors, the texture, the way that he's almost fooled by the cleverly constructed thing. He almost feels like he's wrapped in saltwater, borne upon an ocean wave. He can almost feel the sand skimming beneath his toes, the soft hiss as the water recedes.
But then one of the assistants is guiding him gently toward Naya herself, and she's glaring daggers at him, her glass-smooth composure shattering upon seeing him. He revels in her spiral, takes comfort in her discomfort.
"What are you doing? I don't want to be anywhere near him!" says Naya.
The assistant smiles in a patronizing way. Caldwell is just as upset, but he isn't going to show it. "It's protocol that District partners ride together for the Parade, Miss Illumina. You will have your own decorated chariot, and your matching outfits are meant to be together. Please come with me."
Caldwell doesn't want to be near Naya either, hates the way she makes his skin crawl, but he can restrain himself this one time. He simply sees this as another opportunity to knock Naya down a peg or two.
Naya and Caldwell mount the chariot, Naya adorned in a strange outfit, colored an almost ghostly pale, with the paint chipped in places. "It's a dead coral reef," Naya grits. "Not that you'd know anything about the environment's perils, because you're too absorbed in your little sandcastles."
Caldwell exhales slowly. He doesn't care what she thinks, he doesn't care, he doesn't care...
"Good luck, you too," their Mentor whispers, sending them a smile before they're rolling off and out into the Capitol.
"Would you do me the honor of holding my hand, darling?" he taunts, offering his hand and smiling most saccharine.
Naya visibly recoils, pulling her hands to her chest, while Caldwell simply smiles politely and drops his hands to his sides. It's Naya that looks cold and rude in this situation, and he's seen as the kind and friendly ally. It's all he can do to contain a haughty grin, as satisfaction overwhelms him. For it's been Naya all along, who condemned him to his parent's scorn, who destroyed his most treasured creations, who made him feel anything less than what he was. Maybe after he sees her fall, gives her a taste of the pain he's felt, maybe then he'll finally be completely peaceful.
He cannot falter or crumble, because the one time he did that... Well, he doesn't think about that. Caldwell Kingsen is a dedicated person at his core, relentless in his art, his life's purpose. And if Naya thinks she can get under his skin... well, she's dead wrong.
Because Caldwell has to be right. He is always right.
...
Wren Camphor, 15, District Seven Female
Wren Camphor has learned well from her mother, listened to every story, saturated with grief, about the Capitol's tyranny. Her mother warned her about the Reaping, how the Games were a sickening ordeal that stripped good people of their innocence. She'd once told Wren that the Capitol tried to smother people who thought for themselves, and to the Camphor family, that was the greatest sin. That last time she saw Ismene Camphor in the Justice Building, her arms wrapped fiercely around Wren, it looked as if her mother was already bidding her adieu. Goodbye, forever.
Wren never thought it would happen to her. The Games are always something that touches the lives of everyone else, an event that was far beneath Wren's notice, for she was too busy living to worry about things like that. But when the Escort called her name and her friends stared sadly after her, Wren was already planning. She's been preparing, every second on the train, to confront these Games head-on, keeping up a steady stream of questions for her Mentor who, arguably, is more ghost than human. She's learned to fear and hate the Capitol.
Yet, despite herself, Wren loves it.
She stares around the Remake Center, transfixed by the glamorous outfits, the assistants with their pink hair strung with jewels, their luminous eyes that boast varying degrees of ridiculous colors. And it's all beautiful to Wren. She melds quickly with her assistant, who were arrogant and smiley and who talked like a princess. The woman's eyelashes were multi-colored, each fine lash a different hue, and they fan out like wings taking flight. Her smile is radiant, her accent airy, her laugh boisterous and her movements exaggerated. Wren hangs on her every word as she speaks of the latest Capitol outfits, interrupting every few seconds with questions. She wants to know everything about this beautiful place, her curious mind already longing to wander the luxurious halls, taste every delicate dessert, see the concerts and the plays and the parades.
Which reminds her. She's going to be in one.
Wren bounces on her toes, unable to keep still, but the assistant stylist, whose name is Theodessa, doesn't seem to mind. She follows Wren's rambling tangents easily, almost keeps up with her lightning-fast words and her confident swagger. A tendril of sadness weaves itself in among Wren's delight, and she wants, with a sudden intensity, to cry.
But she doesn't cry. Because Chalet O'Shea, who must be an absolute legend to the Capitolites, takes her aside and fits her in a costume, and he smiles at her, and it makes her feel better. She is a firework, a colorful burst of fabric, a clap of light that no one could miss. "Stunning," Chalet calls her, and Wren twirls, reveling in the swish of fabric, the burst of lurid brightness. It's not light, really, just the material, with its texture and color, but Wren doesn't care. In this moment, she's a star.
Her District partner is quiet, withdrawn, as they board their chariot. When she speaks to him, he simply stares at her, like she's a child. She almost says something nasty to him, but the chariots are rolling toward the crowd, and Wren is spellbound once again.
They call her name. She blows them kisses and grins at them and even does a little dance, and they laugh and cheer and lean forward, giving her their full attention. It feels magical. It feels irresistible.
Of course, Wren has always been confident in herself. Life's simply too short to falter and flounder and shrink beneath someone else's scorn. Ever since she can remember, she's felt this all-consuming desire to soar, to fill up every room she enters, to reach up and touch the sky. District Seven is a place of borders, of limits, and Wren wants to be free, unfettered. She wants to see the world. The stars and the treetops have always tugged at Wren, things like learning and responsibility becoming mundane beside the possibility of there being something beyond Seven. And even if she loves her mother, even if they are cut from the same cloth, Wren feels like she's finally found somewhere that feels endless, and limitless, and begging to be taken on and conquered.
Wren is a star. She is light, unrestrained. And she feels something, a surety deep in her bones, as the crowd drinks in her energy and deflects it back to her. The Games could try to box her in, but Wren has always felt confident, taking a situation and turning it into something she can manage. And this is no different. It's just not in her nature to let some pesky thing like the Games make her doubt herself. She's come this far. She's made friends and is fully intending on making more. Winning will be easy, perfectly attainable for someone like Wren.
And if anyone thinks otherwise, they're dead wrong. Wren Camphor will do whatever it takes to bring her family here, her spitfire mother and her kind father and her bright-eyed brother, see them partake in this wonderful experience as well. She wants to see Wylan and Aspen again, laugh with them as though the days would never end and death would never cross their threshold. And she'll do anything—anything—to make that happen.
...
Columbia "Colby" Novella, 17, District Five Female
The crowd is cheering, and it's just for her.
Columbia Novella, dressed like a streak of lightning in electric colors, hair standing up in the most fashionable way, rides like a queen upon her chariot and waves energetically to the crowd. She smiles, bats her lashes, and blushes most humbly.
It's all a story, a fiction, but even Colby is sucked in, absorbed by the fantasy she and the Capitol have created in tandem.
Her plan had originally been to attend a big business school, salvage the remains of their parents' failed business. That's her purpose after all, her mission. She is the family's savior.
Of course she wasn't happy to be in the Games, and angrier still when Callisto went and Volunteered. But her parents were happy; they saw it all as a path to fame and fortune. Colby wants that, too. She's already adapted to this new plan, put on her new facade as easily as one might don a coat. She does not like Cal's closeness, how he just keeps looking at her, as though she might have all the answers. Or worse, as though she might break.
As if she would need his protection, his pity. As if he hasn't been the failure his whole life. Her parents always told her to keep her distance from this disgrace of a twin, this disaster. But now she has no choice but to stand beside him and act like she loves him, which admittedly is not a very difficult task. Not because she loves him, and even if she did, it would be irrelevant—it's because Colby is a showman, a storyteller, a star.
She has been trained and conditioned since childhood to be a manipulator. She can wrap anyone around her little finger. She has a knack for scoping out people's insecurities, their soft spots, and exploiting them, hitting just the right point to draw them in, make them love her.
And maybe in another life, she could be an actor, a writer. But right now she is a cunning businessman, and also a girl fighting for her life.
On the train ride over, their mentor said they'd need to be liked by the sponsors, who'd be the difference between life and death in the Games. Easy enough, for Colby to take this pitiful excuse for a brother and turn him into something she can use. Everyone loves a good sob story.
Cal himself is clinging tight to one of the poles, looking scared and out of his element. It's ruining their image, honestly, and Colby feels a spike of annoyance. She reminds herself that Cal has not been exposed and trained as she has, that they are opposite sides of a coin; her vicious and outgoing, him gentle and introspective. Her parents drilled any feelings of compassion out of her, for they were useless in the world of economy, and would only get in her way on her journey to repossess their company.
Colby had asked her parents the obvious question. What had happened to their business? They, of course, being Cruella and Corleone, answered in a complicated series of riddles that would've meant next to nothing to anyone else. But Colby understood (and that's what made her so special to her parents.) Essentially, their successful and lucrative energy business had been funded by... less than honest means.
Colby has been raised on a throne of lies. And while Cal cringed away from the crime and the corruption, Colby thrived and succeeded. Cal cringes away now from the lights and the luxury, and Colby thrives. She succeeds.
Cal's been clinging to her like a leech ever since he Volunteered, and while it is annoying and aggravating, Colby knows how to turn a liability into an advantage. And even if it is strange, to suddenly pull her twin close, whom she's separated herself from all her life, Colby understands it's the only way to win.
The Capitolites give one last roaring cheer of farewell as they roll to a stop, out of sight and in the quiet once more. Cal exhales, an almost silent sound, and it's all Colby can do to keep from scoffing.
"Dear brother," she says softly, "if that was hard for you, you simply are not ready for what's to come."
"And you are?" Cal's voice is soft.
Well, she wasn't a few hours ago. But now... now...
"Oh darling. I have always been ready."
Assistants come to guide them into a new building, where they're escorted to quarters. They are in the same apartment, in close proximity. "We must dress for the orientation dinner, miss," says one of the assistants, guiding her hair down from its outlandish style.
"Orientation dinner?" Colby hears the sound of her own voice, like bells, like a hypnotic song. "Whatever is that?"
"We already know what that is," says Cal softly, looking troubled and confused.
Of course Colby knows what that is. But she can't look too smart; she doesn't want to be seen as too much of a threat before the Games even begin. But Cal just has to correct her. She glares at him and he looks down, embarrassed, before they separate to change.
It's not ideal, the situation she's in. She'd much rather work alone, distance herself from any human connection; because Panem knows love or connection hasn't worked well for her before. But she knows Cal, even if she doesn't like it. He's smart. At least he'll be helpful, if a bit pesky. She just has to teach him the lessons he somehow hasn't learned yet.
In order to get ahead in this world, manipulation is a must. Anything else only causes pain.
When will he learn? And even more importantly, why does she still dream of love, and fame, and fortune?
...
Here we are, the first Pregames chapter of this fic and also my first Pregames chapter ever. Woo! In this chapter we visited Chalet O'Shea, our stylist; Caldwell Kingsen, our D4M; Wren Camphor, our D7F; and Columbia Novella, our D5F. I had to choose "Don't Rain on My Parade" from Funny Girl for the lyrics, it's a little on the nose but I simply couldn't resist. Of course, thoughts and opinions and predictions and chaos is always welcome and appreciated! I'll see you next Monday with the orientation dinner, where our kids will start to learn somewhat what the heck is going on with these Games.
See you all soon, and thanks for reading!
Much love,
Miri