Korinthia, the Capitol woman assigned who 'fixed' Anona's nails (whatever that means), pulls some padding over her forearms. She's careful not to indent the foam with her long, pink acrylics as she presses it down onto Anona's skin. Anona stifles a yawn, making a sound like an impatient groan. Korinthia pats her on the hip.
"We must respect the stylists' vision, darling. Me and the ladies will make sure you look stunning. I mean, look at what Panagiota did with your hair."
Anona hasn't seen a mirror in four hours, so if her hair is now a crazy color, she's none the wiser. All she knows is that it's shorter, and there's some sort of fringe there now. Korinthia chooses this moment to tuck some of her lavender curls behind her ear, and Anona silently prays that the liquids put in her hair were only shampoo and not some sort of dye.
She looks down at the large, beige skirt circling her knees. There's some sort of ring in the hem, similar to the hula hoops she used to play with as a child.
"And the vision is?"
"Bread!"
Korinthia thinks it's brilliant. Anona clenches her jaw and blinks away the tears pooling in her eyes. She's going to parade through the Capitol dressed like a loaf of bread. It may not affect her chances with sponsors, but she's still parading through the city dressed like an idiot.
She feels vulnerable. The day's been spent sitting or standing while three Capitolites buzz around her like field flies, spending hours scrubbing her down. They washed and trimmed her hair, exfoliated her skin, clipped her nails, and did something called a 'detox' to her face. Hours and hours of pampering and ridding her body of grime makes her feel like four layers of skin are gone.
Her stylist is a tall and angular woman named Clotho. She looks down her angular nose at Anona whenever she's in the same room. Which she barely is. Considering she's the team's leader, there should probably be more 'leading' for the prep team. They're essentially doing all of her work, and now Anona can't help but dote on the strange women a little. They remind her of mice.
Panagiota, the hair lady, runs over with a spray bottle and sprays some glittery mist onto Anona's hair before sauntering off to the shelves against the back wall of the black, cool room. She watches her wobble back and forth between the dozens of colorful bottles lining the walls. Panagiota hops between bottles with her fingers, deciding on two and taking them to a table to mix.
Korinthia continues to scamper around Anona like a field mouse, tinkering with the beige outfit. She keeps referring back to a sheet of paper, making minor changes every time she looks over it. It looks like a whole bunch of scribble to Anona.
The prep team seems terrified of Clotho. Venere, the lady who pampered Anona's nails pulls Korinthia into a huddle with Panagiota. The three women babble hushedly about the paper and Korinthia gets increasingly irritated. Anona catches Clotho's name referenced alongside phrases like "not good enough" and "won't like her own instructions."
Anona decides she doesn't like Clotho. She's been in this room maybe three times today, but the iron fist she must rule the preps with is a big enough presence. What right does she have to call herself the leader of their team? She hasn't done any of the work. Anona may consider saying something, some words of encouragement or gratitude, but she barely knows the colourful women. Could saying something get them in trouble?
An hour later, she's gorgeous, glittery, and ready to be paraded like a prize pig. Clotho glides into the room and looks Anona up and down. She gives a curt nod. The preps deflate with relief and begin ridding the benches of makeup and lotions.
Panagiota drops a tube of lipstick and flinches, quickly looking up at Clotho. The stern woman doesn't acknowledge it. She doesn't acknowledge Anona either. Anona feels this woman sees her as dirt on the bottom of her high heels. The scary woman turns sharply, sweeping her long, purple dress along the floor, and shoves a handheld mirror into Anona's face.
She flushes with relief that her hair is still its natural brown. She's pleasantly surprised at how they've cut her hair into a stylish, neck-length bob. Her fringe isn't one of those square ones on the television but instead, dark wavy curtains over her eyebrows. Her hair looks healthier than she thought possible.
Her dark skin has been powdered lightly with white stuff, which she assumes is supposed to imitate flour. Clotho's beige outfit is bulky and rectangular yet somewhat stylish with the skirt. The shoulder pads bulk out the outfit, and Anona realizes the bread motif is conceptual rather than literal. It's still far too blocky for her liking, but she supposes it has to be simple enough for the Capitol people to get it.
"It's time to leave, child." Clotho almost groans. "I must escort you to the stables."
She strides out of the room. Anona barely chirps a goodbye to her preps as she rushes out behind her stylist. They walk in silence through several long hallways, and after a few minutes, the door opens into a massive warehouse teeming with tributes, stylists, and mentors. A row of horses hooked to carriages runs through the middle. Each pair is a different color from the others.
"There's no tricks to the outfit, so all you have to do is not fall out of the chariot." Clotho hisses. The woman looks scornfully at the pair from District 12. "Don't fiddle with any part of the clothing."
With that, she glides away, and Anona is left to figure out on her own where to go. She follows the line of chariots with her eyes until she lands on the District 9 carriage, light-brown wood pulled by beige stallions. Aslan is sitting on the back, timidly looking at the ground.
"What a day, huh?" She sits next to him. "I feel like my skin got scrubbed off."
He nods his head but doesn't speak. He looks miserable. She's about to tell him it'll be okay, but blatantly lying to this poor kid is a disservice to him. He's not stupid.
The boy from District 8 makes eye contact with her from the chariot in front, and she can see in his face that he knows his role in this. They all do. He puts a hand on the shoulder of his young district partner, who's looking around in awe. They're here to die before the real fun begins. Here in the Capitol they'll cheer as the Careers hunt them like hogs until only the 'real' contenders remain.
Anona looks around the stables at the dozen kids awkwardly standing around, waiting for the parade to start. They'll all be dead by the end of the fortnight. She makes eye contact with another tribute, the tall girl from District 11, who raises an eyebrow. She's dressed in a tunic, flowers adorning her head and shoulders. Standing amongst the weak, timid outer district tributes makes her look like a deity of some kind. Religion is taboo, but some older people in District 9 will casually mention the 'old faith.'
She breaks from the girl's gaze and looks down at Aslan. "You can do this, okay?"
It's all she can offer him.
A voice booms from speakers somewhere, telling the tributes to mount their chariots and prepare for the parade. While she waits, Anona admires the patterns adorning the wood, decorating the sides with imagery of grain fields. Her heart thrums at the painful reminder of home and all the people she's leaving behind.
Ahead of them, the pair from District 1 glide out into the city, draped in silver and gold, glittering in the moonlight. The roar of the Capitolites fills the stables the moment they barrel out of the tunnel, forever the fan-favorites. Anona swallows hard. There's a ball of anxiety forming in her chest, threatening to spill out of her throat. She digs her fingers into the wood.
One by one, the chariots pull out into the city. The noise from the crowd drops somewhat when the District 5 tributes roll into the city. District 6 doesn't earn much fanfare either, though the pair from Seven are given a fair amount of enthusiasm. They're usually the underdogs.
The trembling kids from District 8 shudder forward, and Anona takes a shaky breath. She can feel Aslan quivering beside her, and she ignores the urge to reach out and take his hand. The chariot moves forward.
"Hold onto the side!" Anona yells over the crowd. "You don't want to fall out."
The horses suddenly start moving, and they pick up speed into the city. She's instantly overwhelmed by the wave of sound. The chariot violently shakes as it barrels through the street. Anona uses all her strength to hold onto the chariot and tries to keep an eye on Aslan, but she can barely focus on herself. The pair from Eight are having the same issue. The male tribute has a death grip on the side of the chariot and his small district partner.
The screams get louder suddenly, and Anona glances at the huge screens situated throughout the city as she passes. The kids from District 12 are glowing like coal, not unlike Katniss Everdeen's fiery entrance last year. The only difference is the pair from Twelve exhibit none of her presence. Their faces are illuminated, casting light on their glares at the droves of Capitolites.
The chariots circle the city for twenty minutes, showing them off to the screaming crowds winding through the city. It's hard not to feel like a lamb to the slaughter, but Anona plays her part, waving to the crowds as her other hand holds the side of the chariot with a vice grip.
Somehow her preps were dull compared to the people screaming from streets and balconies, waving their dyed bodies around in delight. To put it simply, they look stupid. The glee on their faces looks grotesque, stretched around jewel implants and harsh makeup. Do they paint their faces for someone on the other side of the street? Anona swallows her contempt and continues playing nice; it's an open secret that the gamemakers make the lives of problem tributes harder in the arena.
The parade concludes in the city circle, below the Presidential balcony. The chariots slow to a stop and form two horizontal lines, with the first six districts in the front and the last six in the back. Somehow the crowd is louder here, and they're actually throwing things down toward the tributes, like roses and chocolate. This all stops when President Snow steps forward, though. He commands respect the moment he stands on the front of the balcony, hands clasped together. After a lifetime of seeing him on television, it's a little jarring to realize how small he is.
His amplified voice welcomes the twenty-four tributes to the Capitol and thanks them for their bravery and sacrifice. He says a few words about the Quarter Quell, reiterating the rules of no sponsors. Nothing he says is particularly interesting.
Anona takes the opportunity to get her first good look at the other tributes. The back row is a dozen malnourished kids, save for the boy from Ten and the girl from Eleven. Their wirey builds are nothing compared to the six Career tributes, however. All six of the lapdogs tower over everyone else, besides the boy from District 7, who's easily the tallest tribute this year. He's got to be at least six foot. Even so, they all come close, even the girls.
The red-haired boy from District 4 fidgets with his netted skirt. It's made of a golden material and twinkles with the glitter on his dark skin. He seems to be aware of how exposed to the air he is. He looks very uncomfortable. He whispers to his district partner and shifts the net a bit.
She pats him on the arm discreetly and whispers something back to him. They go back to listening. It strikes Anona how uncomfortable they both seem to be. One would think they'd be confident, as they're guaranteed supplies and protection within the confines of the Cornucopia. But the looks on their faces when they turned to each other were impactful. They looked just as nervous as the rest of them. It almost humanizes them.
President Snow concludes his big speech, there's applause, and the chariots circle back around. Zephyrus is waiting for them under the training center with Clotho and Aslan's stylist, but neither seems overtly thrilled to be there. Neither does Zephyrus, but he at least greets them.
"Tonight," He says as they step onto an elevator, "You'll discuss your strategy for training with the mentors."
Anona suppresses a groan. She can only handle one of the four mentors, Whittaker. They're sullen, self-interested, and completely unhelpful. Nine has four living victors, but only two of them actually tried to help on the train. Aslan got Whittaker, and Anona got a sullen woman named Demetria, Nine's only female victor. Having Demetria as a mentor is frustrating. Her mood changes at the drop of a hat, and there's never a good time to engage with her. Anona started turning to Whittaker for help by the time the journey to the Capitol was almost finished.
Zephyrus irritably mashes one of the buttons on the board and crosses his arms. Anona notices a ring glittering on one of his fingers, mirroring the lights from the elevator roof.
"You're married?" She asks, hoping to soften him a little. He openly despises their mentors, and they only have Whittaker as capable support. Having Zephyrus on their side wouldn't hurt.
"Pardon?"
"Are you married? That's a nice ring."
He looks down at his finger. "Oh," He says. "No, it's just an accessory."
The Capitol and their weird ways. Why wear rings if you're not married? What's the point otherwise? Zephyrus' face has changed from irritation to confusion, which is considerably better. Unfortunately, he reverts when they step into the apartment, and he's greeted by Amir, the least helpful victor of the bunch.
"You didn't attend the meeting with Tisiphone Harrington." He says. "Do you understand how difficult it was to set that up? Those funds could've been a massive help for your tributes next year."
Amir swills his glass of wine and shrugs.
"What business has she got sponsoring District 9?" He runs a hand through his dark hair, "Most of her money was going towards the Fours and Sevens anyway, and Demetria agreed with me not to take the scraps. We're worth more than that."
Zephyrus clenches his jaw. He turns to Anona and Aslan.
"Why don't you both clean up in your rooms? They're just down that hallway. I need to have a talk with your mentor."
He strides past Amir, clenching his hand around his bicep and dragging him into another room.
"Will you be alright?" She asks Aslan.
He looks like he's about to cry. He looks absolutely miserable. He shrugs and walks off down the hallway Zephyrus pointed them towards. She wants to follow him.
It takes Anona half an hour to scrub the powder off her body and out of her hair. It's absolutely everywhere. She'll probably be seeing it on her body for weeks. There's a panel of buttons on the wall, and she presses one tentatively. The shower head spurts out sweet-smelling foam into her hair. She giggles involuntarily and clamps her hand over her mouth, feeling like a child. She spends the rest of the shower testing out all the different buttons. Several soaps, foams, and sprays douse her. It feels like an attack on her nose, which has only ever smelt factory smog and sunbaked wheat.
She's late to dinner, not that she really cares. The servants glide around the table wordlessly, setting plates of food down and filling glass cups. Wedged between two of the mentors, Aslan awkwardly nibbles at the steak on his plate.
"Look who showed up," Amir chides.
Teff, a man in his seventies, hits him on the forearm. Teff doesn't come to the school to talk about the games, but they've played his tape. He won the twenty-first games, well before the days of careers and complex arenas. There's a scar running from his left ear to his mouth on the same side. Amir looks at him as if to ask 'what?'. He doesn't have the decency to look ashamed.
"Ignore him," Demetria says.
Anona approaches the table and sits beside Whittaker Fields, who won the forty-sixth games. He's District 9's most recent victor, which doesn't give Anona a lot of confidence. A thirty-year lose streak puts a real damper on your odds.
A servant places some sort of pinkish soup with noodles and chunks of lamb. There's a hint of spice to it, but there's no bite to it; somehow, it draws the flavors of the broth and meat together. Her tongue is assailed by what can only be described as magic. She thought the food on the train was good, but here in the city it's a step up. What it must be like to eat like this every day?
"Tomorrow is the first day of training," Demetria says. She takes a sip of wine. "It's going to be daunting down there, but I want you both to hit every station you can in the next two and a half days. No matter how insignificant something may seem, it could save your life."
"It saved mine," Whittaker offers. "Without the knowledge in the back of my mind, I wouldn't have been able to treat a deadly spider bite only two days in."
"Avoid the Career pack. They're not going to try and recruit you, so it's best to avoid them altogether. Look for allies elsewhere, particularly with Seven, Ten, or Eleven. Seven and Ten will be easy enough to befriend, but you'll have to try harder with Eleven. That's just how they are."
The mentors share a look, though Anona doesn't understand that statement's significance. The kids from Eleven are lone wolves almost every year; it's nothing out of the ordinary. It's probably some inside joke between the adults. Their shared look reminds her of how they spend their days locked away in the Victors' Village, too good to engage with the rest of the district except for when they're forced to speak at school once a year.
The gems around Demetria's neck twinkle under the lights, and as she swirls her glass chalice, Anona feels a sort of hatred ground itself in her gut. These people have turned into Capitol dogs and don't care what happens to her or Aslan. Amir is inhaling food, and Demetria isn't even looking at them, instead staring at the bottom of her glass. This is all just a job to them. They're probably banking on the two of them dying on the first day so they can get the soonest train back to Nine.
Anona remains quiet for the rest of dinner. Demetria keeps trying to give them advice, but as she continues to imbibe in her chalice, her speech slurs more. Whittaker shoots quips of advice into the dead air. He eventually gives up.
Anona is quick to leave once the meal is finished. She heads straight for her room and crawls under the bedsheets. Sleep evades her, and she spends what must be hours staring into the darkness. It all gets too much, and she eventually gets out of bed and enters the hallway.
The apartment is pitch black. A low rumble comes from the living room, and Anona manages to feel her way around the walls with the faint light coming from the television area near the bedrooms. Zephyrus went home to his apartment in the city after dinner, so it can't be him. Maybe the mentors haven't gone off to bed yet?
She leans out of the hallway to see Aslan, knees bunched up to his chest, sitting on the couch. His dark eyes are engrossed in whatever's on the television, so she clears her throat slightly and 'accidentally' knocks her knuckles on the wall lightly as she walks out. He jumps a bit and starts to get up, but when he sees it's her, he sits back down.
"I thought you were Amir."
Why are you awake?" She asks him. Whatever he's watching changes scenes, and the defeated sag on his face lights up under the screen light.
"Couldn't sleep."
She can't argue with that.
She crosses the room and sinks onto the couch next to him. He's watching a Capitol television show is playing on low volume. The program has Capitolites running across an obstacle course to win money.
"Is it good?" She asks.
Aslan shrugs. "It's the only thing on."
They sit in silence, watching the program. One woman, by the name of Haritomeni, crosses a balancing beam successfully, only to be bashed in the face by a foam fist. Anona can't help but chuckle as they replay the moment in slow motion. Aslan shakes next to her, and she thinks it's good that he can still find little flashes of enjoyment. Until she realizes he's sobbing.
"I'm going to die."
Anona puts her arm around his shoulders. Back in District 9 their problems were so simple. She could help him calm down and find solutions. But here, their fates are inevitable.
She wants to tell him he has a chance, but every time she opens her mouth to say it, her brain won't allow her to lie.
She holds him, letting her own tears fall.