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We're getting chapter titles now! This will be the parade.
First official Pre-Games chapter hype! This got a bit longer than I originally wanted. Almost 11k words total. Will they all be this long in the future? Maybe not, but also maybe. It'll go as I feel probably but I wanted to start off with some good content, so I hope this can deliver for you. Let's get into our fright fest!
Ariadne Damaris, District 8.
They were finally here!
After such a dreadfully boring ride on the train - the surly, temperamental mentor, flying off the handle like filth tended to do. The help had been utterly useless. The steak they'd prepared had been overdone. What did they take her for, a plebeian? She might as well have eaten the leather off of the couch! And they had been just so dreadfully boring, too. So what if they couldn't talk? They could listen. Wasn't following orders part of the whole shebang? When Ariadne says 'dance,' they're supposed to dance, damnit! That was her right as a true citizen of the Capitol!
Ah, but she could leave all of them behind now. There was probably a reason they were confined to the trains, shepherding dirty little District children to their deaths. Perhaps luxury just wasn't for everyone.
Like her pathetic mess of a partner, for instance!
He was a man, wasn't he? The beard seemed to give it away - though he could do well to buy a razor and shape it up a bit. Weren't men supposed to be tough and strong? They'd dragged him up to the stage, for God's sake! He hadn't offered to protect her or give his life for her or anything. What an utter failure of a male - but what else could you expect from the lowborn?
But he, too, could be left behind! After the parade, she wouldn't be tethered to his side anymore. Once it was all said and done with, she'd have her chat with the hack in charge of the Reapings and convince them that she had no business in the arena!
Oh, the parade. Ariadne just couldn't wait. Even just walking from the train to her limousine - how wonderful that was - she'd been greeted by throngs of fans, cheering and shouting and whistling and whooping. All for her! Surely they weren't cheering for Maloni or whatever his name had been.
The arrival at the building is even sweeter. They're welcomed in by the mute servants of the Capitol. Oh, that one was cute. Dark hair and deep blue eyes. Yeah, he'd be serving her when she got everything sorted out. That could be her apology gift, actually! Perhaps he'd serve as a good model for her line. Privately, of course, because a professional would never display her work to the public on the body of a servant.
The mute man holds the door open for her, as a gentleman should, and immediately her eyes are alight. Plush red carpeting lines the floor and crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling and oh my god were the couches cashmere? A blouse made of that stuff was worth half a year of fake-dad's salary. She can't imagine how much went into stitching those together.
It's a veritable wonderland for Ariadne, her head on a swivel, eager to drink in every detail of the lobby. She attempts to wander off, having spotted a particularly eye-catching woman with blue-green feathers sown into her dress. Before she can make it three steps, though, an arm blocks her path.
"To the rooms, and nowhere else."
The voice is gruff and tired and entirely classless. Ariadne lets out a huff, rolling her eyes. So far, her mentor was 0-2 in his attempts to win her over as a tribute. He was an asshole, really. Why would she listen to anything he had to say? It's not like it would matter in the slightest - but still! He should feel blessed to even have her around.
She tries to duck past, and makes it another couple of steps before the back of her lavender turtleneck is clutched in a vice grip, one rough hand enough to stop her entirely in her tracks.
"Unhand me, you prick! Loser! Kiddie-killer!" Ariadne shrieks, attempting to twist and beat the hand that had her locked down. Just who did this guy think he was, laying his nasty District hands on her? She flails her arms about, long nails raking across skin as she's dragged towards the awaiting elevator. A raw, indignant fury fills her heart. This was her home. She wasn't supposed to feel powerless in her home. Every step of the way she fights, twisting and clawing and unleashing every scathing epithet she can muster before she's unceremoniously dumped into the elevator. She's about to lunge back out when she finally notices the armed guards on either side of the door. Their eyes were masked by visor, but she could clearly tell that they were looking at her.
Perhaps she would head to her room! It was best to start readying herself early, after all!
No more words are exchanged on the way up. Merlotto(?) has been beaten down enough to know that his input is neither appreciated nor desired. Her mentor - Oliver, he'd called himself, stood off to the side, arms crossed and that same mean look plastered across his face. God, she hated that stupid fucking face, always twisted like he was unhappy being in the Capitol. What, would he rather be back in Eight? Why would anyone want to be back in Eight?! He had this blessing and couldn't even recognize it, and for that (along with many other things), Ariadne hated him. Detested him from the bottom of her heart, even more than Molasses (that had to be his name).
You'll be free of them soon, Ariadne. She has to keep reminding herself to avoid launching into a tirade about how their treatment of her is unacceptable. Laugh at their misfortune! You'll be the powerful one soon enough.
At least the hotel is still nice. The elevator had sped up to District Eight's floor, and Ariadne was delighted to see that it had been specifically themed. If there was one redeeming quality to the polluted waste she'd called home for the past 17 years, it was their District color. A beautiful light lavender. Her favorite color! Even the people of Eight couldn't ruin that color for her, no matter how hard they seemed to try whenever she had the misfortune of mingling with them.
"Prep starts the moment you step foot in that room. You want an easy time, don't give your stylist shit about anything. Capitol bastards are stubborn with their fashion. No offense." Oliver speaks up, tone dripping with sarcasm as he shoots a nasty look to the armed escorts. They don't respond.
"Understand?" He prompts, stopping just before a large door.
"...Yes." Milano whispers to her side, as pathetic as ever.
"Question." Ariadne pipes up, earning an exasperated look from her mentor.
"Ye-"
"What if the outfits are ugly? I've watched some of the parades over the years, and Eight is always hit-or-miss. And I'm not going to be a 'miss.'" Ariadne interrupts. "And I don't want some nasty old man touching me, either, so what do I wear if I don't want my stylist near me?"
"Are you for real?"
"Do you think I would joke about something as serious as this? I. Won't. Be. Treated. Like. A. Joke."
Ariadne enunciates each word. That should get her point across. A tense silence hangs in the air.
"I won't be repeating myself." Is the answer Oliver decides on, and he bangs on the door twice, the wooden frame shuddering with the impact.
She'd figure it out on her own, then. Shouldn't have expected someone like him to have any worthwhile advice, anyways.
"Ah, canvases!" A feminine voice sounds from the back of the room as the door opens, the speaker tucked away in a corner somewhere that Ariadne can't quite see. "You've arrived."
A bark of laughter erupts from Oliver, eyes alight with an amused, almost sinister look. As if he recognizes the voice.
"Good luck." He waves a hand, turning his back towards his tributes. "I leave you in capable hands." That biting sarcasm is back in his voice, and worry begins to worm its way into Ariadne's heart. What did that mean? Obviously it implied that this designer was not capable.
No, that was nonsense! She was Capitol, after all. It was more likely that her mentor just wouldn't have known good fashion if it had come up to him in the 59th and bludgeoned him with a mace. With how he dressed, that had to be it. Those torn up shoes and the raggedy-ass jacket did him no favors. 22's a bit old to be playing the grungy bad-boy angle, asshole!
"What does he mean by that..?" Her partner echoes her innermost doubts, and that pisses her off, even more, because even if just for a second they'd shared the same thought. Now she'd have to, like, scrub out her brain to purify it again. Yuck.
"We are indeed!" Ariadne speaks over Merlino, striding forward with a practiced confidence. "Your models, ready to shine the brightest at the Parade!"
"Oh, perfect, darling! We've got a bit of a theme this year, but with that ferocious courage you'll eat it right up."
"Themes? The step-stones for amateurs. But I suppose a bunch of suits don't know much about style, do they?" Ariadne giggles. Theme or not, she would look good.
"You two get to watch movies back in Eight?"
"No.." Maraschino mutters, and Ariadne scoffs. Couldn't he at least try to be excited? They were going to clean him - probably for the first time in his life - and make him look good! Maybe his pathetic angle would even draw over a few bleeding hearts from the crowd.
"Not many. I was in fashion school! Most of the TVs played parade reruns and behind-the-scenes."
"Awh, well, we're combining fashion with movies this year. Scary ones, to be specific?"
Worry digs just a little bit deeper in the heart.
"Scary..?" Ariadne wavers for the first time.
"Scary! But don't worry, we picked just the one for you. Fedora hats and cozy sweaters with a terrifying twist! They're red in the movie, but we've made them purple for you."
Ariadne stops listening at 'fedora,' because what the fuck? A fedora? Her? Please. The only losers she'd ever seen rocking a fedora looked like they hadn't been embraced by the sun's warmth - or another person - in decades. So maybe it would fit Marlboro fine, but she was not putting a fedora on.
She's utterly speechless as what can only be described as a crime against fashion itself is wheeled out on a mannequin.
From the ground up - leather shoes, a shit-colored brown that deserves to be wiped entirely from the spectrum of color. The top and the bottoms match. They match too well. It's almost like a jumpsuit with how uniform the color scheme is, but it's very clearly two pieces. The separation between pants and shirt makes it worse. Thick, horizontal stripes start from the very bottom of the pant legs and end right at the collars of the shirts, alternating between Eight's lavender purple and black.
And on the head is that cursed, no-good, horrible fedora. Ariadne shudders.
And then her eyes are drawn to the hands.
Attached in between each finger is what looks an awful lot like the steak knives that she'd cut her meal with on the train. Dulled for the costume, it appeared as if they would be taped in between their fingers. How the hell was she supposed to move her hands like that? How was she supposed to look good when it looked like one of the factories back home had fucking puked on her? No Capitolite wore a fucking FEDORA, either.
Ariadne can only let loose one word, shrill and deafening to those in the room. Her head tilts upwards and her foot stamps down, and she begins to yell.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Mira Andrelo, District 6.
Someone wasn't happy.
The infrastructure did little to put a damper on the ear-piercing screech from above. With how high the ceilings were, Mira had assumed they wouldn't be hearing much in the way of their upstairs neighbors. A lot of rock or concrete or whatever they made buildings out of here had to have been in between her and whoever made that scream. It just spoke to the set of pipes on that girl, because it's enough to make even Mira wince slightly.
She couldn't entirely blame her, though. Working under assumptions here, she'd hazard a guess that some unfortunate soul had, like her, been introduced to her parade outfit and was less than pleased. And Mira had thought they'd had it bad down here. What the hell would elicit that reaction out of a rational person? It was either exceedingly ugly, or... well, it was always possible that the screamer was just overreacting.
But if Six's outfits were anything to go off of... it was entirely justified.
"Why is it... green?" Sterling speaks plainly, uncertainty sneaking into his voice. Glancing over towards her partner, she could immediately get on-board with the look of pure apprehension on his face.
"Excellent question." She echoes his sentiments, eyes turning back towards a now offended stylist.
"Have you no culture?" The pitchy voice fits perfectly the small, weedy man who'd dubbed himself Hector. The indignant look in his eyes reminding Mira keenly of one of the oversized rodents back home right before they would pounce. "No class? No knowledge of the fine arts? It's a reference to Weetlemoose! The classics, you philistines!"
"Sterling, what the fuck is a 'Weetlemoose?'" Mira can barely contain her laughter, and a sense of satisfaction blooms in her chest as she draws a smile from her partner. His first of the trip.
"I...I don't know. Sounds like some kind of fancy food."
"No, no, imbeciles - the film! The wish-granting demon who always collects his dues."
"Some demon. I bet all the other ones laugh at his stupid green hair."
"And his striped suit." Sterling tacks on, and Mira grins. What progress! She'd get him to open up to her eventually.
"It's on theme! Now put on the suits. My team will apply the wigs, and then we'll do the face-paint!"
"Face paint?" Mira blanches "You're not serious."
"I don't expect you to understand the vision, girl - but yes, face paint. You can't capture the essence of Weetlemoose without the makeup! Now change."
Preparation itself is a slow process. For one, they're expected to change right here, which is absolutely awful. But the operation is halted when Sterling, after much hesitance, removes his shirt and the scars on his body come into full view. Hector lets out a screech, startling his assistants and stopping everything in its tracks.
"My canvas is tainted. Looking closer... you two are filthy. You'll be cleaned, buffed and shined at once."
Sterling and Mira exchange uneasy glances. What were they, cars? Back when the assembly plants had offered seasonal shifts, Mira had spent many a night making sure the front bumper of some fancy limousine was extra shiny before it was sent off to be attached to the rest of the vehicle. The process Hector was describing sounded eerily similar to what they'd done back home.
"I don't think that's going to remove the scars." Sterling points out lamely, and is immediately silence by the point of Hector's finger.
"An artiste requires a blank canvas! Do not interrupt my vision with your trifling, vapid words."
"Y'think he's got a dictionary tucked into his pants?" Mira's wisecrack earns another shriek of indignance from Hector, and the two are promptly wheeled towards their respective bathrooms, two assistants with each of them. At least this time they get to be alone. Changing in front of her partner would not have been fun. Thank God for Sterling's bodily harm. That didn't sound quite right.
The slow process resumes. Every inch of Mira's body is scrubbed and lathered and rinse and, as Hector had put it, buffed. She could swear that when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the way out, her face was actually shiny, reflecting the bathroom light that hung high above.
Sterling looks like he's really been put through the ringer. Mira hadn't seen Hector once during that entire hour long process, which probably meant that he'd spent most of his time ensuring Sterling's scars were 'erased.' Of course, they couldn't be 'erased,' but they sure looked like they weren't there anymore.
"Did he actually get your scars off?" Mira asks incredulously as the two reconvene in the main room. She doubted it, but hey - Capitol tech was crazy. Maybe they had some miracle serum that would just... fix the skin.
"They painted my arms." A defeated Sterling stares down at the floor, and Mira bursts out laughing.
"What is so funny, girl?" Hector emerges from Sterling's room, brushing at his coat. Flecks of paint matching Sterling's skin tone dot his own much paler arms, but he doesn't seem to give that much worry for the time being.
"Nothing, nothing. Can we change now, or do you want us waxed, too?" Mira rolls her eyes, simply ready to get the entire thing.
Hector pauses for a second, seemingly pondering something.
No...
"Actually..."
God damnit.
Mira had never really been one to swear, but when Hector rips a strip of waxing paper from her arms she unleashes every nasty epithet that Ol' Spades had taught her. 'Needle-dick' was a particular favorite, and it earns a scandalized look from her stylist.
"What sort of language do they teach you savages?" He sniffs. "No matter. Hold her down again - we're getting the other arm."
After another agonizing thirty minutes, they're finally ready to... get dressed. Weren't they supposed to be in a rush? Didn't they need to practice an angle, get used to their costumes, do anything but be beautified when they'd be covered up in long sleeves and face paint anyways? She suspected her stylist was just enjoying it, at this point, eager to project his 'beauty' onto his prisoners.
Ironically, after all they've gone through, Mira doesn't even care about the hideous black-and-white striped suit or wild green wigs anymore. Even the face paint, startlingly cool against her skin, doesn't bother her - she just wants to get it over with.
She and Sterling are not granted any individuality. The only thing to differentiate the two is their height.
"What a hack." Mira mumbles to Sterling as they stand side-by-side in the mirror, Hector barking orders to his assistants as they fix any minor errors that had cropped up during the process.
"He's insane." Sterling agrees. "At least it's not just us. If we go off that shriek from earlier... there are worse things in the world than green hair."
"Not many, though." Mira sighs, and Sterling gives a hearty laugh. "Well, it's only for the night. Nobody pays attention to Six anyways, really, so at the very least we probably won't turn into laughing stocks."
"I hope not." Sterling sighs. "It's hard enough for us to draw money as it is."
"Alright, my Tributes - you are ready for your grand debut!" Hector interrupts the conversation, both tributes from Six sharing an disdainful look amongst themselves. "You are expected down in fifteen minutes. There was much work to be done. Only an artiste such as myself could have perfected the both of you in this short a timeframe. Consider yourselves blessed. And do remember who brought you to fame if you should win."
Mira has to bite her tongue - actually bite her tongue - to avoid a snippy response. He was out of their hair for now. That's what mattered.
"We'd better get going, then." No thank-yous are spared. Not even a glance in Hector's direction is given as Mira tugs on Sterling's arm, near dragging him from the room. "Don't want to miss check ins!"
Or spend another minute with Hector.
"Well, let's get it over with. Look on the bright side. We're... eye-catching."
"One way to put it." Sterling snorts.
"So it'll be easy to start conversation! Talk with some of the others."
"We should be careful about who we pick, though."
"Hey - long as they aren't setting off any major flags, I'd say we keep our options open. No Careers, obviously - but other than that? We'll just have to see!"
Sterling's lips purse, and then turn into a frown for a brief moment. He tries to hide it, as if there's something he wants to say in rebuttal, but ultimately seems to settle for poorly masking his emotion with a nod of the head. Maybe another girl wouldn't have noticed - but Mira did. It could mean any number of things, but it would make it easier to figure out what made her partner tick.
She'd file that, too, away for later.
Youssef Vyrax, District 2.
Youssef meant business.
Things were not going 'as planned' this year. It looked like it would fall to Two to hold shit down this year. But what else was new? One was usually flighty and Four usually came in dreadfully average. 'Two is the glue', as had been drilled into their heads at the Academy.
Of course, he'd have plenty of time to talk shop with the other Careers. He and Lethe had agreed to scope the others out first, declaring it a sound strategy to know just who they were up against. Scoping out threats was no major task for a man trained under a man like Commander Pavlov. The subtle twitch of the hand. The defiant stare or the ill-masked sneer that appeared on the face. Little signs that most people missed - but Youssef Vyrax was not 'most people.' He stood a cut above the rest, even among those back home at the Academy. He waited, bided his time and hid his intent so well that his target almost passed over him entirely. And then, just when their guard was finally dropped, he bared his poisonous fangs and struck. Quick, efficient, and merciless.
The hallmark of the Serpent.
It appeared his namesake had even made the rounds among the lower echelons of the Capitol. His stylist had filled him in, with pain-staking detail, about the original costumes she'd had prepared for the Twos this year - and how she'd thrown it all out the window when she'd heard of his motif back home.
A Serpent, she'd exclaimed. How wonderful. Terrifying and poisonous and beautiful all the same. A burst of inspiration. She'd had just the thing for the two of them.
And, honestly, she'd been spot on.
Youssef and Lethe's arms, legs, and neck were painted. Lined with false scales that resembled a forest-green reptile. Emerald flakes were affixed perfectly in between, giving the illusion that the pair were covered in shining scales. Youssef's own serpent tattoo, though, was left alone. It was too symbolic to cover up, they'd said, so it had been worked into the art itself. Patches had been applied to their faces, as well, the under-eye area having been given the same treatment. Completing the look was a brilliant gold centurion's outfit. Gold plating covered the torso and wrapped around the shoulders, leaving the scaled arms for all to see. The centurion's skirt hung just above the knees, allowing the artwork painted onto the legs to show, as well. The final touch? Fangs - pronounced enough for most to see, yet not a hindrance to their speech.
Looking towards some of the others, it could have been much worse, indeed.
"I've seen some poor costumes during mandatory viewing." Youssef pauses. "But whoever styled Twelve should consider a new career path."
"They... are not appealing." Lethe agrees, standing by his side as the two work to survey the outlying districts.
The tributes in question appear to have just had coal dust dumped on them. That was all. They were at least allowed to preserve their dignity with some black clothing - but the dust covered that up, too. Only their faces and hair were left untouched, a contrast from the pitch-dark dust that covered the rest of their bodies.
"Unlucky for the kid." Youssef comments, and he finds himself at least somewhat meaning it. There was no room for sympathy in these Games - but it was hard to look a quivering child in the face and feel nothing. He'd do him the service of making it quick and painless if he came across the poor squirt at Bloodbath.
"Quite. His partner is one to watch, though."
Youssef cocks an eyebrow at his partner's words. "Oh? Enlighten me, please."
"She was too calm." Lethe shrugs, her tone flat and her words simple. "I didn't like it. I think someone able to treat the kid like that on stage is someone capable of doing much worse when all the chips are down."
Youssef considers the words for a second. She had a point. Twelve's girl wouldn't be his first choice, but if Lethe wanted to take her out - hey, who was he to doubt the intuition? Until she proved him wrong, she had his faith as a fellow Cadet.
"Speaking of threats and stuff... think it's about time to meet the squad?" Youssef isn't really asking. He's telling. As the last words leave his mouth, he's already pivoting on his heel, ready to head back up and towards the front of the loading bay, where he could spot the rest of the Careers gathered up.
"About time you two showed up." Grunted a deep, gravely voice. It's speaker looked like he'd just crawled out from the sea. Scales, too, were painted on his face, a mild cyan blue. Seaweed was draped around his body and gills were painted onto his neck. Gulf Corpus, he remembered.
"Is it a crime to scout the competition out?" Youssef shrugs simply, unwilling to give rise to the provocation. He'd been trained better than the raise to a simple taunt.
"I'm with Two here." A girl with blonde hair speaks up, stepping forward. She's covered in (fake) blood and dressed in a formal evening gown, though it's been torn in tactful places to expose some skin. Typical, of both One and the Capitol. "Some of these guys look like they could give us some real trouble if we let them live for too long."
This earns a guffaw of laughter from the Four male.
"Right." He rolls his eyes. "If you catch me losing to some inbred outlier you can just let me die then and there."
"We might." The blonde girl's partner speaks up, and Gulf's head immediately whips in his direction, his eyes hardening.
"I know you're not talking about leaving anyone behind, One. You're not supposed to be standing here right now."
"Enough."
Youssef's voice takes on an authoritative tone, booming loud over the bickering of his companions, and he's pleased to see heads turn in his direction. Even those of nearby outliers, who had likely been attempting to stealthily eavesdrop.
"Before we start squabbling, let's at least introduce ourselves. Name, preferred weapon - the like. Helps to know your squad early when you're taking on dangerous missions."
"I think that's an excellent point." Gulf's partner speaks up for the first time, and steps forward herself. Perhaps a little too eagerly.
"Kiana Lakhani! Spears are my forte. Throwing or close-up."
Her partner looks as if he wishes to add something on, but (with great effort) seems to keep his mouth closed.
Interesting.
"Gulf Corpus." He grits out. "Spear. Net. Shortsword. Good with all three."
"Perfect." Youssef nods. "Gulf. Kiana. Welcome to the Pack. We'll go next, and then One can wrap it up."
"Youssef Vyrax." Youssef introduces himself, following the protocol he'd set. "Throwing knives."
Kiana appears unable to hide the shock on her face. "Really? Wouldn't have been my guess."
"Most people don't figure it out. But I can't hide these sorts of things from my Pack."
"Your pack." Gulf repeats, his sea-green eyes meeting with Youssef's dark brown. There's an almost palpable spark of tension between the two, a battle of willpower that neither are keen to back down from until the blonde girl from One steps in, placing a hand on both of their chests and breaking the tension, earning odd glances from both of the two.
"Speaking out of order here - hope that's okay, Captain - " She gives a playful wink, and then continues. " - but now's not the time for a testosterone battle. I'm Avalon, by the way, of the Imperio family. Finest wines in all the State. I use a mace, believe it or not!"
"You and big Two should swap." Kiana cracks, and Avalon lets out a sparkling laugh.
"Oh, but where's the fun in convention? He can have his pretty little knives, and I can have my big smashy mace."
"I'm inclined to agree with Avalon." Youssef gives a nod and even cracks a smile. Perhaps Gulf could be managed if the rest of the group seemed keen enough to get along, as Avalon and Kiana did. "Though, you get minus points for speaking out of turn." Youssef returns with a joke of his own. That's what leading was all about. Your subordinates had to have high expectations - but when they meet them, it's cause for celebration. The carrot and the stick was the metaphor - and so far, there had been no need to put his foot down with Avalon or Kiana.
"My, my. It won't happen again." Avalon gives another playful chuckle, before stepping back next to her partner.
Ah, yes. Hyperion. Youssef would get to him. Right after...
"Lethe Maiorianus. Daggers."
Her introduction lacks the pop that most of the others had. Kiana had seemed eager. Gulf tense, but obviously passionate about his role as a Career - even if he was a little too big for his britches. Avalon had the classic Charm. Lethe... simply seemed to exist, the same flat-and-dull tone as always. That wouldn't do, if Two was to appear as the pillar of this year's pack.
"She's a monster with those daggers, too. Tagged my squad-mate good during her selection tournament and took home the volunteer spot. Don't get on her bad side."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Avalon gives a coy smile.
And now it was time.
"Now. Elephant in the room. You-" Youssef points towards Hyperion, choosing not to mince his words. "As Gulf said, are not supposed to be here. But you're still from One. I'm willing to give you a chance."
"What?" Gulf bursts out. "Bull-shit! What chance does he deserve? He's a stain on the system! He's probably not even fucking trained!"
"I'm trained enough. You can find out tomorrow, if you're able to pull your head out of your ass by that time." Hyperion's tone is cool, collected - and that only serves to infuriate Gulf further.
"That's rich. We can find out right now, if you'd like."
This time, it's Youssef who has to step in. Grace and good nature would not work here. An iron fist would be needed.
"A single blow from either of you and you're on your own." Youssef commands, and the others listen yet again. The tension is so thick it could be sliced through by one of the knives Youssef so favored. Gulf's jaw is set and his eyes shine with a radiant defiance, as if fire itself has taken up residence inside. Hyperion's demeanor is cool - no, cold. His eyes shine with the certainty that if it came down to it, he would leave over Gulf's beaten body.
Like fire and ice. Incompatible.
He takes pride in himself as the girls - it seemed they would be the pack's backbone this year - murmur in agreement, sharing silent nods and hushed words among themselves. This rouses the other boys from their little sword measuring contest, and both of them break eye contact, with Gulf's sneer deepening.
From his deductions, neither Avalon nor Kiana were completely attached to their partners. Youssef was beginning to understand why. But, unity was important. If the problem could be managed first with words rather than action, that would be the course he would take.
"Resume your introduction, One." Youssef doesn't miss the defiant flash in Hyperion's eye, but it seems he has enough sense to not voice it.
"Hyperion Leclair." His tone remains brittle and ice cold - flat, but not in the same way that Lethe's was. "I prefer the rapier."
"Perfect! That's introductions done. It's good to meet you all. Here's to a job well done." Youssef puts on his best welcoming grin. Kiana and Avalon smile back. Hyperion forces a strained smile. Lethe's face remains neutral. Gulf continues to sneer.
"Meet back up after the parade to plan?" Youssef suggests - no, orders.
"Sounds like a deal." Kiana nods in agreement, and Avalon gives a thumbs up.
"Alright. Officially, now, we're the 63rd's Career Pack. The Games begin for us right now. Let's get it done."
The pack begins to separate, each heading their own ways back to their chariots as the announcement sounds overhead.
There were a few kinks to iron out, for sure. Gulf Corpus had presented himself as an immediate problem child - someone vying for leadership and power without the knowledge or the forethought to back it up. But, if he could be controlled... he would be a ferocious asset indeed. It was all about risk versus reward. He was an issue, sure.
But Youssef had handled far worse before.
Gulf Corpus, District 4.
"Who the hell does he think he is? Claiming leadership like that - and letting the runt of the litter in with no issue? We're supposed to let this guy run us around the arena? He's going to get us killed!"
Gulf rants, on and on and on to a Kiana that is growing increasingly uninterested in his ramblings. But he didn't care if she really wanted to listen or not - there wasn't really a choice. They were on the same chariot, after all, just waiting for the word to be given to start the parade. A captive audience to air his grievances.
"I think we could do much worse as a leader." Kiana offers, and Gulf is quick to catch the jab tied in with her words.
"Please. You just like him because he's making things easy for you."
"I'm fine with him because he has sense. If you could take a page or two or a dozen out of his playbook, maybe you wouldn't have been written off so quick."
Gulf was finding it increasingly hard to argue with Kiana. Not only did a lot of her points make sense, but there was very little to hang over her head anymore. His own initial threat had worked against him - and with a softie like Youssef running the show, he'd probably shrug off Kiana's specific circumstances anyways because she'd agreed with him a couple of times.
And, as much as he loathed to admit it - she had been right. He was a volunteer, but a rogue one still. When it came to people who weren't supposed to be here, Hyperion ranked first. But in second place...? Well, it was him.
But that didn't mean he didn't deserve it. That's where they were different. Gulf had been preparing his whole life for this. He'd thrashed the unqualified loser who'd grabbed the spot this year - Hyperion had just been plucked from the crowd. And he had the audacity to challenge Gulf to a fight?
Gulf was many things. He was arrogant. Callous. Violent.
But he was getting the sneaking feeling that people were also beginning to think he was stupid.
Gulf Corpus was not stupid.
He had a Career's brain, after all. Tactics and strategy had been drilled into him from a young age, aided by his father after he'd retired from the Peacekeeper Corps.
All that to say Gulf knew his shit, and he knew not to push things too far. At least, when he could reign in that nasty temper of his.
"Whatever. As long as he's not in my way, I can deal with him. But if he tries to sideline me. Or us, as much as I hate to say it like that..."
Kiana raises an eyebrow, but it appears that she, too, is not stupid.
"He won't." She agrees. "And if he does... then..." She appears hesitant to say it - because she hates it too, and he knows that. But both of them also know that tributes from Four often end up as the black sheep of the Pack. One and Two get close, and Four only has each other. If one of them dies somewhere along the way, the other is almost entirely ostracized, relegated to a menial role until the knife hits their back.
They were different - and yet, in this moment, they thought the same.
I won't let it happen to me.
"Don't say it. We'll see how things go. Stay out of each other's way, but watch each other's backs if someone else starts plotting. Deal?"
"...Deal."
They don't shake on it - and Gulf is fine with that.
"Tributes, please remain stationary. Carriages will begin to pull out of the loading bay in T-minus 30 seconds. Stand by and prepare. Happy Hunger Games."
The tension eases a bit as the announcement sounds overhead. Despite their many differences and the rather hair-raising first meeting with their allies, the parade is their first chance to be seen. Not through a screen or at a distance, but right in the center of all the attention, where a true Career belongs.
Was Dad watching back home? Probably. Hell, maybe he'd even pulled some strings within the Corps and gotten himself back to the Capitol for a while to see his son perform. It was entirely possible - so Gulf had to turn the energy all the way up.
Four's chariot lurches forward, but both tributes remain strong. Balance had always been stressed at the Academy. If you can keep your balance, you can keep your head - in more ways than one.
There's a bright light at the end of the tunnel. The drumming hoofbeats of the horses that pull their chariot approach the end slowly and methodically, until the light becomes blinding and Gulf has to squint to avoid being blinded.
When he re-opens his eyes, his heart nearly catches in his chest. He'd been prepared for a crowd. Had been drilled in keeping his composure when so many eyes were on him. But his expectations had paled in comparison to what was in front of him.
Bleachers, stacked so high into the sky he swore they were a gentle sea breeze away from collapse, packed to the absolute brim with people. At the floor level, crowds were so thick that the people within could barely move. And yet still they clamored and yelled and cheered as each carriage emerged. And eruption of whoops and wails.
All for him. Glory.
It's exhilarating. For the first time since he's actually stepped up onto the stage, Gulf feels like it had all been worth it. His frustrations about the Pack and his partner all melt away for glorious minutes, because here none of that matters. This is what he'd signed up for. The thrill of being a Tribute. The chance to make himself into a Victor. The roars of the crowds, chanting and screaming for him to come back. To share a drink, to have a friendly sparring session - to be one of them. Better than the rest.
Gulf lets out a whoop, raising his hands into the air. This was where he would shine - Youssef and the rest be damned. He didn't need all of their support if he had the people behind him. They couldn't afford to live without him if he was the Capitol darling.
His gesture is returned with cheers, flowers and seashells and shark plushies falling down all around him. Tokens of appreciation. Symbols of home. Gulf's eyes scan the crowd. Countless fans are dressed in Four's signature seafoam green. Gulf points to them, letting out a ferocious war-cry. They return it in kind, an entire sub-section of the massive crowd cheering only for him in that moment.
He finds a child, near the front of the crowd, hair dyed seafoam green. His father behind him is draped in pearls - evidently very wealthy.
Gulf makes sure to lock eyes with the kid, raising an arm to flex his bicep while flashing his most charming smile. He cheers out as the child's eyes light up and he returns the gesture, flexing his own arm. His eyes raise to those of the father, and he drops a wink. The man grins wide and nods. Gulf can read his lips.
'Thank you. We love you.'
Dozens of minutes fly bye. Perhaps for others, the parade becomes a drag. The roaring crowds and cheers for the betters of the group would certainly scare the Outliers. But Gulf lived for it. There was no shortage of support for Four, and even after his chariot had stopped he continued to find individuals in the crowd and play specifically to them. Pull them to his side.
Guarantee himself more money than the rest of his group combined.
They had underestimated him - considered him stupid. But really, he was just ready to start playing the Game.
And now, he had - and he was going to prove that there wasn't a better damned player in the whole State.
Raiden McIntyre, District 11.
Raiden hated this god damn parade.
And the crowds. The people around him. The mutts - Careers - that had met up early, stalking around like they'd owned the damn place. He'd noticed them staring. What else had he expected? He wouldn't be granted the mercy of laying low. Not when he towered above the competition, one of the only ones standing taller being the soldier-boy from Two.
Raiden could tell the second he'd laid eyes on him. He walked the same as Drusus did, each step part of an unshakeable rhythm. It filled him with unspeakable emotion - rage, sure, but much more than just that. Longing. Sadness. Regret. Inspiration. A bona-fide cocktail of feelings, swirling together to form this burning feeling in his stomach that just wouldn't retreat. He hated that it could be drawn out of him - hated that he was unable to just shut himself off to the world and wallow in his ill fortune.
Because the world was never quite done with Raiden McIntyre, was it?
He hated most of all the man above the crowd.
President Snow stood poised upon his balcony, looking down upon the people of his 'prosperous nation.' What a crock of horseshit. Had he never been to the fields of Eleven? Seen his 'beloved subjects' toil and struggle and crumble and break under the pressure he placed upon them?
Perhaps that was a stupid question.
Of course he hadn't.
He hadn't left his office in the Capitol, as long as Raiden McIntyre had been walking on the earth beneath him. And yet he still had the audacity to ramble on and on and fucking on about how the gracious Capitol was owed a debt. A yearly offering for the sin of being free.
Raiden could almost recite the damned thing word for word. It was replayed often in Eleven, because they were supposedly 'problematic.' Because they should just lie down and take it, and not doing that made them troublesome. It made them undesirables to the endless toil of the nation. What a joke. Raiden finds himself wishing he had one of those rifles that Drusus had carried around. He could put an end to that whole 'endless toil' in a couple of seconds.
'The strength of the nation is built on its sacrifice.'
Raiden imagines the bullet leaving the weapon, blowing a scarlet hole clean through the aged President's head.
'The Districts must be kept in line, reminded of the benevolent yet strong arm that reigns above.'
Or perhaps his sickle would be better, cutting a bloody smile across the old fucker's throat and watching the life drain from his eyes.
'The Hunger Games is a retribution - a punishment, but a justified one.'
Tie him to the pole in the square of Eleven and lash him until he's lost too much blood to go on. Dye his white hair a sickening crimson and lift a weight off of the shoulders off of Eleven. Off of Panem.
"Happy Hunger Games." The President's speech finishes, and Raiden is snapped back to reality, pleasant dreams giving way once more to the harsh lights and thrumming crowds around him.
The ride back to the loading bay is much less ceremonious. The crowds had now seen their fill of the Tributes. Their desire for excitement had been sated. Now, beating traffic was the concern at the forefront of their minds. Or whatever drug-addled mess was left up in those heads. Something as mundane as that - of course. The Tributes were just a hot commodity. A new batch came around every year, after all.
Raiden feels hot, violent, uninhibited rage welling in his chest. Every hour it grew closer to spilling over, each bout more intense than the last. How long would it be before he cracked?
The chariot grinds to a halt behind its two leading stallions, jerking Raiden from his thoughts. He'd been pointedly ignoring Melora this entire time, having felt her side-eye gaze on him at various moments throughout the parade. It had been easier then. She couldn't speak while the President was talking, and any effort at conversation had been drowned out by the screeching hoards beyond the barricades.
Now, he was not so fortunate.
"Raiden." She begins, seemingly ready to launch into another speech about just how valiant and just her mission was and how it was for a better Panem and some shit like that.
When had that kind of horseshit rhetoric ever paid off? The Dark Days? Right. They'd tried full-scale rebellion once and it had ended with the both of them days away from fighting 22 other children to the death. They'd probably had guys on the inside too - influential figures who'd worked their way up to give the rebellion top secret information. Hadn't worked for them, so it sure as shit wouldn't work for that chuckle-fuck Odin Hellstorm's band of dumbasses.
"I told you." He grunts, already stepping down. "No more words. Show m-"
"Whoa, big guy! Watch where you're stepping! Can you not see me from up there?" An almost... merry voice calls out, and Raiden stumbles slightly, his foot brushing against someone's arm before he half leaps half falls to the floor, landing on his feet but having to steady himself against the cool metal.
"Watch where I'm stepping?" Raiden couldn't quite determine what District he was from based on the outfit. One of the earlier ones, since he hadn't seen the guy anywhere near him. A white lab-coat framed the body, though it was marked by burns and bleached with stains of unnatural color. A frizzy white wig sat atop the head, wild and unkempt. Atop the wig sat goggles, lenses thick and protruding with glass the same thickness as the bottles of fizzy beverages they'd stocked on the train. His lips twist downward into a frown, and he shoves his hand towards the chest of this mystery boy, eager to shove him off to the side and be on his way.
He's even further displeased as his hand is caught and, almost before he can react, is taken into an eager handshake.
"Hey, nice grip. Nobody back in Five has this kinda strength. Good t'meetcha, by the way. Kairos Fomalhaut! Call me Kai. What's your name?"
"None of your business." Raiden grunts, jerking his hand back and earning a surprised yet almost amused laugh from the smaller boy.
"Scary, scary... quaking in my lab shoes, really. Speaking of clothes - nice outfits. Digging the fangs and capes. Vampires? Nosferatu, yeah?"
"What the fuck is a Nosferatu?"
"Don't worry about it. It's a Five thing." Kairos waves the question away and before Raiden can even begin to determine whether he's telling any amount of truth, he's already rambling on again.
"Wish I could have had a costume like that, though. This wig is itchy. Wanna feel? Think they made it out of wool or somethin-"
"You're the Volunteer." Melora's voice speaks from behind him and, for once, Raiden is interested in what she might have to say.
He'd put off watching the Reaping recaps. A waste of time, he said, when he'd be able to see all of them in person soon enough and gauge his competition there. What would be the difference? This way, there were no pre-conceived notions. His first impression was real, and that was much more valuable than knowing whatever little tidbits the announcers crooned over as the Tributes were selected.
And, of course, the big question - what kind of lunatic would Volunteer? Was he some brainwashed dog like the Careers? Probably not, or he wouldn't have come to strike up such a friendly conversation with Eleven of all Districts. Or was this some tactic of his? Soften them up so he could bare his fangs later?
Raiden had grown adept at reading people back in Eleven. When they were going to snap. When their demeanor changed. When their bodies would tense. It had been a long time since he'd been unable to get a feel for a person.
But Kairos Fomalhaut was leaving him utterly perplexed.
"Bingo!" Kairos makes finger guns, pointing them in Melora's direction. "Had a bit of a rap sheet back home. If I wasn't here right now, I'd be dead in a cell somewhere! Imagine that." Kairos speaks in a tone much too jovial for the grim information he'd just conveyed.
"So you Volunteered to be here. What, to save yourself? You'd have been better off just dying back in Five. Now they'll just make a spectacle of it all."
"Uh, yeah. That's a part of the reason I'm here."
Raiden blinks, once again at a loss for words.
"What?"
"Blaze of glory, right? I'm a dead man walking, McIntyre. Why not end it all with a colorful, sparkling, bang! Like a firework."
Raiden is about to respond, but something catches in his mind.
"You knew my name."
"Huh? Yeah."
"Then why the hell did you ask me earlier what it was?" Raiden grits his teeth in irritation, the smirk of Kairos Fomalhaut only serving accentuate it.
"Oh, formality. I know everyone's names, actually. Memorized 'em. Girl behind you is Melora - real strong arms, by the way. You two certainly stand out."
"Thank... you?" Melora narrows her eyes.
"Take it as a compliment - that's about the only good it'll do you." Kairos nods. "Can you be discrete?"
Raiden and Melora nod.
"Look to my left." Raiden's head begins to turn, and Kairos speaks again. "Slowly!"
Raiden gives him the meanest side-eye he can muster, and then moves - slower.
"Big Two's been eyeing you down for... say, three minutes, now? Keeps pointing and running his mouth off to his little troupe. You've been noticed."
"Expected to be from the start." Raiden fires back. His eyes harden as the tall man from Two - the only one to stand taller than Raiden himself - looks back up, and their eyes meet. Two smiles - actually fucking smiles at him, like this is some sort of game between the two of them. Raiden's lip curls and if looks could kill then the man from Two would have melted into a puddle on the floor.
"And what are you gonna do about it?" Kairos prompts.
"What I have to."
"And that is?"
Raiden can't muster up an answer, which it seemed Kairos had prepared for.
"Well, I've got a proposal. You know, every year, those guys take over. They run the Bloodbath their way and the rest of the time is spent hunting down the stragglers. They've never had any real competition, you know? Not in the 18 or so years of my life, anyways. So I'm taking it upon myself to do some scouting. Bringing a group together that might just be able to fight back."
"You want an alliance." Raiden deadpans, arms crossed. Lord above how he wished people would just fucking stop asking him for alliances.
"I want to hang out with you tomorrow at training. From there, we'll see."
"Forget it. There are others. Ask her-" Raiden jerks his thumb behind him in Melora's direction. "I'm going alone." Raiden scoffs, brushing past Kairos. He was going to his room, where nobody would bother asking him for anything for the rest of the night.
His partner doesn't show up for another half hour, the creaking of her door telling him all that he needed to know.
Esther Clarice Morrow, District 12.
So much for 'Mom and Dad's' modesty speech.
Here she was, being paraded about like some sort of ghoulish specter, entirely coated in coal dust and glue except for the face, which had been lightened a few shades to contrast the darkness of the body. Could she ever escape coal? This was supposed to be the Capitol. The center for luxury and excess and indulgence. Her outfit all together was probably worth less than a loaf of bread from a fancy Capitol bakery.
Hell, it looked like she was naked to anybody not standing within 10 feet. Past that point, it was impossible to tell where skin ended and black compression clothing started.
It brings her solace to imagine the gasping, scandalized faces of those back home - but not enough to make the entire ordeal worth it. That stylist should start to get his affairs in order. Or, at the very least, keep far away from Twelve's penthouse in the near future.
Of those around her, Esther could confidently say that Twelve had taken the worst of the stylist's wrath. Some of the outfits were unappealing - but they each had effort. At least they had bothered to try. But that was what it meant to be Twelve. To be Esther. Forgotten. Brushed to the side. Easily replaced.
They would all know her name. Soon enough, they all would.
The runt had already run off somewhere, finally taking the hint that he was not wanted. What a loathsome burden he would be - but it would not be hers to bear. Not her problem to face and not her flame to extinguish. Esther spots him chatting to a pair of hooded figures holding fake scythes in their hands. Reapers. The pair from Nine. Low effort, yes, but at the very least clever.
That would have to be enough of her competition for the day. None of them particularly caught her eye - and that was fine. She'd been planning to go at it alone. Watch her own back. Just like it had always been back home. There wasn't a better lookout for Esther than Esther herself. Nobody else would be able to protect her with the same efficiency. And why would they want to? Only one came home, after all, and Esther figured that a far kinder person than her would still put a knife to her back if it meant getting ahead in the Games.
A simple pivot on the heel and a couple of steps bring her towards the single Tribute exit - a direct path back into the Tribute tower. But she's displeased to find the hallway blocked, a group of costumed girls standing right in front of the doorway.
"...And then she called her little inbred PEACEKEEPERS to put hands on me! To hold ME down while she fixed these fucking knives to my hands! She's lucky I didn't use them to stick her like the cow she is."
A shrill voice huffs, and it's then that Esther notices the bladed gloves of the speaker, each long steel protrusion centered between the fingers. Where could she have been from?
"At least they left your face alone." Another girl sighs, knocking at a metal mask placed over the right half of her face. "How am I supposed to get sponsors when they can't see me? I fear they might have just pulled a couple starving artists off of the street and called it a day."
"Tell me about it." A bloody butcher-girl chimes in. Esther doesn't have to guess which District this one's from. "I mean, fake blood? How... tacky. And who's ever used a cleaver to kill? Horrible as a weapon."
"Don't need much to put down a squealing animal." Esther chimes in, her voice dragging and catching with all of the disdain she can muster. It's about as direct as she can be without telling the girls to move out of the way. An announcement of her presence and a way to start off on the right foot. Get them scared of her.
To her mild surprise, none of them seem to react.
"I mean, yeah." The butcher shrugs. "But you could do that with your hands, too. Probably easier than this stupid knife."
"Speaking of animals." The claw-girl pipes up, moving to place a hand over her mouth and nearly stabbing herself in the process. She continues as if it never happened. "Who dressed you? It couldn't have been a person. Did they just give up on Twelve entirely this year?"
"No different from any other year." Robo-girl speaks this time, her tone much cooler and more reserved than the other two. "But I guess none of us are any different. We saw where the real effort went this year."
"Ugh, don't remind me. Any of us - me, mostly - but any of us would have served better looks in those golden snake outfits than that pasty freak from Two." Claw-girl speaks again. "I didn't even see her waving! She just stood there like some mannequin dummy. Waste of a good outfit."
"Eleven wasn't bad either." The butcher states matter of factly. "Simple, but not bad. With the amount of misses this year, it was enough to look good in comparison to the rest of us."
"See, that's what I was going to say, too. Them and Seven. That little evil-forest-spirit thing was cute." Claw-girl grins, and Robo-girl nods in agreement. "I'm glad there are SOME people with some sense around here - even if they're District."
This earns her quizzical glances from the three other girls, but claw-girl quickly brushes over it.
"I'm Ariadne! District Eight."
"Rhea Clement. You can guess." The butcher speaks simply.
"Vivienne Cross. District Three - at your service." The robo-girl gives a small curtsy - as best she can manage in her metallic suit.
Esther had already learned so much more about the three of them than she'd planned - too much for her liking.
The girl from Three was obviously the most well-spoken of them all. Whatever this show of high-society fashion knowledge was, she was obviously the most sure of herself. From money, most likely - which is weird. Esther didn't think they had much of that outside of the Career districts, but then again, people like Jeron in Twelve flaunted around more money than Esther would ever see in her lifetime. It was all relative.
Rhea from Ten is sure of herself in a different way. Knowledgeable yet much more casual. As if she's testing the waters of those around her. Putting up a mask. Esther was an expert with masks, and she was near certain that there was much more to Rhea than she was letting on to the other two. From the cursory glances that Vivienne would cast her way from time to time, Esther figured the Three girl had noticed, too.
And finally...
"Hello? Are you slow or something, or did they spritz some of that foul dust into your eyes, too? Maybe the brain? Wake up." Clapping hands snap her from her thoughts, and Esther realizes they're all looking at her. Why? She hadn't been a real part of the conversation - but they'd passed over her veiled threat and kept going anyways.
"...Esther." She manages. "Twelve."
"Well, we could have figured that out." Ariadne snorts, earning small chuckles from the other two. Calculated and purposeful ones, Esther was sure, because Ariadne was not funny in the slightest. "Nobody else is going to walk around happily looking like shit. They missed a spot, there, by the way, on your cheek."
Finally, Ariadne. She reminded Esther so much of Millicent. Always something to pick at. Something to point out. Something to make her feel bad about, just because she had felt like it. That fake, unfeeling smile - the same shrill, high pitched laughter that was laced with a rare sort of cruelty. Mean. Nasty. Rotten, through and through. She thought she was better than everyone else. Thought she was better than Esther.
"Mhm." Esther manages finally, resigning herself to imagining Ariadne's throat caved in by her fist so that she would no longer be able to rattle off her hateful nonsense. The fire inside grew hotter with every second she stood near Ariadne. She reminded her so much of everything she'd hated from home. Everything she'd wanted to escape. "I'll be excusing myself now."
The other two didn't seem so bad. Smarter than Ariadne, anyways - but Esther was smart enough to recognize the potential beginnings of an alliance. That was fine. Good people, bad people, or anything in between - their fate had been sealed the moment their names had been called. For the first time since stepping on the train, Esther had stumbled upon another goal. Another piece of kindling to set ablaze with her flames.
If the others chose to ally with Ariadne, so be it.
They could burn with her.
There it is! First official Pre-Games done. That's the parade! I hope you enjoyed the interactions. I've got all of the pre-bloodbath alliances cemented so now it's just a matter of writing my way into it. Feel free to guess as to who'll be together and who won't, though there's definitely a lot of stuff missing now haha.
This was definitely a bit of a sillier chapter (especially the Ariadne/Mira POVS), but I hope I was able to keep that balance of silly and serious at least somewhat well.
Bonus content! I had a really rough draft list of all the costumes for the parade (and there is definitely a theme haha). Almost all were seen/mentioned once (minus d7 which i realize now is a crime bc they were some of my favs.) Here's the list, complete w my offhand comments too!
1: Think Carrie! Both dressed in formal, bloody and ripped attire - but tastefully! Faces painted with fake blood and their suits are ripped purposefully to show some skin.
2: MAKE THEM SNAKE PEOPLE i fw this one. for you youssef! Painted scales intermixed with flakes of emerald, fangs, etc. and golden centurion armor. Hybrid horror snake warrior people almost. Probably the best-dressed in universe.
3: Fake alloyed suits to make them look like malfunctioning robots - complete with a mechanism fixed over the right sides of their heads that look as if metal has been fused to their head and a glowing red robo-eye, rogue terminator style.
4: Fish-people. Unfortunately a bit of a miss for d4. Draped in bedraggled seaweed, underwear, fake fins and fake gills, they look like fish people who've come up to claim the land as their own! Not the most charming look, like their career partners.
5: Mad scientists, complete with the scorched labcoats, frizzy hair, goggles and all!
6: BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! Black and white pinstriped suits. Face paint. Temp-dyed green hair. Hell yeah
7: Little evil forest spirits. Grass and leaf skirts/kilts, faux bone deer antlers affixed to the heads and faces smeared with fake blood and stuff. It's cool.
8: purple freddy krueger. Same striped motif (though top/bottoms are completely matching). Fedora. Claw hands. Ariadne hates this shit.
9: Black cloaks and fake scythes. Get it…? They're the Grain Reapers!
10: Kind of an easy call-in - they're butchers gone bad. Dressed in smart clothes with a butcher's apron, stained in fake blood with rubber cleaver knives in hand.
11: Vampires! Fruit bats! Combination! Given a typically vampire-esque costume - fangs, cloaks, etc.
12: A shade you'd see in the mines - covered completely in coal dust up to chin level, their faces left painted pale. From far up in the stands, they almost look like floating heads.
That's all! What's your favorite costume from the list? Let me know!
Until next time,
logangster out.
