Welcome to the pre-parade chapter, beginning our Capitol phase.
The stylist Woodrow Template is an OC belonging to Treble-Notes.
Enjoy!
~ Meghan
The Preparation.
...
"If a man does not know to what port he is sailing, no wind is favorable."
- Seneca the Younger, 4 BC - 65 AD, Rome
Marlen Beckett - 18 y.o. - D4
...
- Remake Center -
Marlen winced as yet another one of his eyebrow hairs was plucked.
"Sah-ree! I'm almost done!"
He resisted the urge to reach a hand up to his burning face. Marlen knew better. He'd laid on the metal table for the past two hours as the trio that made up his prep team scrutinized his appearance. He'd already had several layers of skin stripped off with some gritty wash, his nails shaped, hair washed and styled, and now his eyebrows being adjusted to whatever the Capitol liked.
He'd known this was coming, but he couldn't help the sensation of feeling like a fish being scaled.
"You're lucky you have gorgeous, sun-kissed skin," Basileia - a round-cheeked woman with indigo curls - said as she opened a jar of some ointment. "Usually the tributes from the factory districts are so pale and sickly-looking; it's truly unfortunate."
Marlen breathed a sigh of relief as Ravenna - a tall woman with holographic lipstick - put down the tweezers and spared the rest of his eyebrows.
"We'll just grease you down, and then we can get Woodrow," Rhomaion - a broad-shouldered man with tinkling earrings - said, vanishing from Marlen's view.
The ointment spread a cooling sensation across his stinging, raw skin. Even Marlen had to admit his gorgeous, sun-kissed skin looked even better than it already had - he was glowing like he'd just been swimming. Only the callouses on his hands, worn into his palms from nine years of fishing and weapons training, had been spared the remake.
"Time for Woodrow to see you!" Ravenna said. She waved for Marlen to sit up on the table before she beamed. "It's his first year as an official stylist, so you're the Guinea pig!"
Marlen bit back a grimace. "Um. Great."
His prep team bustled out of the room, leaving him sitting alone in silence. He stood and padded across the cold floor, grabbing his robe from the hook where he'd been made to leave it. Laying on the table naked had felt oddly like being some science experiment to be dissected, and even though the robe was thin, Marlen couldn't deny the comfort he immediately felt.
Turning around the room slowly, he hummed. The Remake Center had always seemed so important when he'd watched the Capitol reporters each year on television discuss the tributes' new looks. It had almost sounded glamorous. Marlen had expected the process to be a bit more... more. But the white-tiled room was simple with a metal table, cabinets full of beauty products, drains in the floor, and a shower hose. There wasn't even a window to see the Capitol.
Goosebumps rose on Marlen's - freshly scrubbed - arms. The Capitol. He was in the Capitol, about to go into the arena. In just a few days, he would face everything his life had led up to so far.
All the years of training would finally be worth it.
The door opened.
Marlen turned as a young man walked into the room, dressed in a shimmering orange jumpsuit. Even though the prep team had their own body modifications, none of them looked as strange as this guy. Marlen took a long moment to stare at the man's sunflower-yellow, wavy locks, corkscrewing above shrewd green eyes.
He might've been annoyed at how the the man - Woodrow, it must've been - regarded Marlen as if he was bycatch, but he was too shocked. Woodrow's skin was dyed red. Bright red. He looked like he'd just been out on the beach in 4 and baked for a few hours in the sun. Marlen nearly laughed, but suddenly panic set in and sent his heart beating. If his stylist looked like this... what had he designed for the parade?
It's his first year as an official stylist, so you're the Guinea pig!
Marlen swallowed. Shit.
"You're Marlen Beckett, I presume?" the man said in his sharp Capitol accent.
"I must be, or I'm lost," Marlen said.
Woodrow just stared.
"I'm kidding," Marlen said, offering his most charming smile.
Woodrow gave a chuckle. "Oh, that district humor. Never grows old, I love hearing it."
Marlen offered a impressively convincing laugh back.
The man smirked derisively, a corner of his bright-red mouth quirking up. "And that was sarcasm."
Marlen immediately decided he hated this idiot. How could this man laugh at him? Marlen wasn't the one here who was so red they could be mistaken for a lobster.
Woodrow began to circle him without another word. The stylist lifted his chin but his expression didn't give away any thoughts. Hopefully this guy wasn't considering giving Marlen's skin a new scarlet pigment too. Years of academy training had made Marlen strong, toughened by countless bruises, scrapes, and sprains. He knew he was a shining example of a tribute. He half expected Woodrow to compliment him, but the stylist didn't.
Woodrow just sighed tiredly and waved his hand. "Alright, follow me."
Marlen frowned at the back of his stylist's curly head as he walked out of the room. Was Marina's stylist this weird too? Being in District 4 was supposed to guarantee them some experienced, competent, non-burnt-looking stylists. Marlen bit back a huff as he followed Woodrow.
They went into a small lounge furnished by two small settees set around a coffee table, laden with a full meal.
Marlen's mouth started watering at the smell of the savory food. Breakfast on the train that morning already felt so long ago.
"Go ahead," Woodrow said. He motioned to the banquet as he sat, crossing one glitzy leg over the other and lounging back casually. But his voice was stoked with anger. "They brought some of the bread from District Four at my request. Those little fish-shaped loaves with the seaweed right there. Charming, aren't they? Thought you might like something that reminded you of home."
Marlen sat down on the free settee, trying to mask his confusion. He forced a smirk, picking up one of the still-warm loaves. "I have to admit I've never heard someone sound so angry over bread before, Mister...?"
"Template. But Woodrow is fine." The stylist sighed again, tilting his head as he gazed at Marlen. "I paid attention when you stepped up to volunteer for your district. I was looking forward to knowing who I'd be designing for. To be honest, you looked like any other district boy out there in the ranks. But when I saw your clothing I knew you would be someone interesting. Your shirt was a textile from seaweed too, if I'm not mistaken? The kind made from Knotted Wrack."
Marlen arched an eyebrow as he finished the rich seaweed bread. That was surprising. Maybe Woodrow wasn't as useless as he seemed so far. "Yes. It had been a gift to my father when he opened his fishing business."
Woodrow nodded approvingly but his frown remained. "Such a subtle piece but once you've seen it, you never forget it. And just the right shade of light blue to match your eyes, how precious. I knew right away when I saw it that you chose it very particularly."
"I wanted to honor my father," Marlen said smoothly.
"Don't lie," Woodrow snapped. He narrowed his eyes. "I might not be as experienced as some of the other stylists, but I'm not stupid. You were practically screaming for us to look at you as the illustrious District Four volunteer by wearing something so unusual. And then you peacocked your way up to the stage as if you'd already won the Victor's crown."
Marlen stared at the stylist, hunger forgotten, lost for words for the first time in a while. He forced himself to relax back into the settee, shoulders tense from years of training that always kept him ready to respond to a threat at a moment's notice. "You seem to know so much about me," Marlen said, not bothering to smile this time. Whatever game this guy was playing, Marlen was better. And if there was one thing he knew about about the Capitolites, it was that they couldn't resist talking about themselves. "I barely know anything about you."
Woodrow shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose it's the same as so many of the others in my position. I apprenticed for years under some of the senior stylists. I've always known this was my place."
"Not many designers immediately get District Four."
"You think highly of your district."
Marlen lifted his chin. "I'm from the best."
The man laughed once and grinned, finally a genuine smile. "You know, I might have misjudged you. I've spent so many Games watching the sniveling tributes from the outer tributes sob their makeup off, staining the clothes someone put blood and sweat into making. This tournament is an honor. It's just so depressing when the tributes can't seem to respect that." He picked a glass with a bright blue liquid off the table and took a pensive sip. "Your district has so much potential for gorgeous costumes. I mean, your jobs are rather disgusting, if I'm being honest. I hate fish. The stench is appalling. No offense."
Marlen beamed and imagined what he could do to this pompous ass if he had a trident in his hand. "None taken."
"I have a respect for districts like yours," Woodrow continued, "because your stock actually stands a chance. And I respect the effort."
"You must be an excellent stylist to have been given our district, then."
Woodrow's lips curled against the rim of his glass. "Connections can do wonders. But, I'm sure that's something you're familiar with."
"What do you mean?" Marlen feigned.
"Oh, please, don't act like you got to where you are by just being a prodigy. We all have to do things we'd rather not admit to get to where we are."
Marlen clenched his jaw. A vision of a screaming student in the training gym floated through his memory. He'd never seen exposed bone before then, and at first he'd felt so sick to his stomach, as if he'd been out sailing in a torrential downpour, tossed by the waves. But when his vision stopped blurring, he'd been surprised by how numb he felt. The other boy had clutched at his ankle as it poured blood, staring up at Marlen in terror.
"Don't get in my way again," Marlen had whispered before walking away from the bloody matt. He could still hear the echo of the boy's anguish behind him.
But the numbness had stayed, too.
"Please, go ahead and eat," Woodrow said, waving to the food on the table. "No use letting it cool off. You'll be famished by the end of the parade."
Marlen did as the man said, even though he wasn't feeling particularly hungry anymore. Though he had trained all his life for this week and the arena that would follow, he couldn't help the knot of excitement and nervousness tangling in his stomach - especially after Woodrow's interrogation. As much as Marlen looked forward to the adoring crowd, it was an important moment for first impressions to the sponsors and he didn't want to screw it up.
He ate small bites of a sweet fruit he'd never seen before, but it tasted safe enough.
"We still have a few minutes while my prep team is seeing to something." Woodrow propped his chin on his hand. "Tell me about yourself, Marlen. Any siblings back home?"
"Two. A sister and a brother."
"Anything like you?"
Marlen knew the question hidden behind those words. Do they train too? The training back in Four might've been an illegal operation, but it was an open secret. Everyone in Panem knew. "No. Just me. My sister's a fighter in a way, but she was always more focused on earning a living and moving in with her girlfriend. My brother studies oceanology."
He hadn't been trying to think of his siblings much on the train. He'd known how they would react when the doors opened in the Justice Hall. Most of the volunteers had send-offs with a small celebration, chanting their name. His group of friends - too many to even keep their names straight - had been crowding into the hallway, ready to party one last time before he became a victor.
For them, he had been the logical choice to volunteer this year. Of course it was him. It was never going to be anyone else. Marlen made sure of that.
And Marlen had made sure that it would be a shock to his siblings.
Cecelia had practically attacked him when the Peacekeepers let her in. Rhys, always the more quiet one, had simply watched their older sister scream with her face twisted in anger. But Cecelia had always been the mouthy one, and Rhys had always been a coward using school as an excuse to get away. Marlen was half-surprised his brother hadn't found some excuse to not confront him in the Justice Building.
Marlen hadn't been sorry to get on the train (with Marina Fischer, no less, who was also a surprise.) It was a final fuck you to his siblings.
For a moment, he wondered what his parents would've thought if they were still alive, if they hadn't drowned in the ocean a year ago. But he knew better. They'd always cared more about their socialite events and fishing business than their three children. And he'd outgrown them.
"You sound like the prize son for your parents," Woodrow said, as if hearing his thoughts.
Marlen smiled, taking a sip of a cold, minty drink. He was too good for his parents and he was too good for any Capitol stylist - much less one who had laughed at him. This person in front of Marlen was going to be wrapped around his finger - just like everyone else. "Like I said: I'm the best. I'll make this year a good one for you, Woodrow."
"Music to my ears," the stylist replied. He finished his glass and set it down with a final clink. "I think it's time we get you ready. Tell me, Marlen, what do you think of sharks?"
Hanna Techroe - 14 y.o. - D3
...
- Remake Center -
Hanna stared at the fluorescent lights buzzing above her.
How long had she been waiting in the room for her stylist to return? Three minutes? Maybe four? Hanna knew it could only be a bit, but it feel like an eternity. The woman had vanished after their conversation over lunch, leaving Hanna to sit on the metal table in her robe, alone. The smell of soap and floral lotions still lingered in the room, the remnants from hours of her prep team fussing and adjusting every inch of her appearance. Her hair still stung at the roots from all the pulling and combing.
"I'm sorry if they were rough," her stylist had said kindly as they sat in the lounge overlooking the Capitol. Hanna could hardly focus on the metropolis below them, though; in front of her, a feast sat on a glass coffee table. "Sometimes my assistants can get too absorbed in their work. Would you care for a cookie? Some cake?"
Hanna had silently eaten the desserts as her stylist talked on about the parade and assured her to not be afraid.
"I'm not," Hanna had replied simply.
But sitting in the remake room without anyone watching, her fingers tightened around the cold edge of the metal table. She was terrified. Her eyes drifted down to the paintbrush beside her. The prep team had tried to take it from her, saying that tokens were for the arena and not the parade, but Hanna's stylist had let her keep it. The old thing had a worn wooden handle and uneven bristles with bald patches, but it was her favorite. She couldn't leave it at home.
Her stomach tightened.
Home.
She'd never really loved District 3. So much of it was bland and concrete, nothing like the colorful images she loved to paint. It was like the entire district was covered in a gray cloud. Her own tall apartment building was nothing like a home either, not when her parents worked long hours, leaving her alone to entertain herself until the sun set - on the days Hanna wasn't working herself, at least. She'd watched from the heights of her bedroom countless evenings as the dying sun struggled to poke its rays through the chromium-colored smog permeating 3.
What she would give now to go back to that creaky bed below the windows, alone in her room. What did her parents think coming home to no one?
"It doesn't feel like it's tomorrow," Techna had said to her.
They were sat in Techna's small house the day before the reaping, when all the factories had shut down early in preparation for the coming day. Hanna's own parents had too much of an important role to be allowed the break, but she had left the electronics plant early. The shifts were never very long, only for a few hours after school, and it was just a simple sorting position but it earned money. That was what mattered. But she hadn't expected to make her two best friends there.
"You say that every year," Engyn said, flicking an old sock at Techna from the floor. His brown eyes crinkled as he laughed when she tossed the sock over her shoulder.
Hanna laughed as well, despite the eve of the reaping making her more withdrawn than usual. Techna's house was a good distraction. The place was gray stone, stuffed between two taller homes, and not quite as furnished as Hanna's own apartment. But it was full of joy. The girl's family had five kids besides Techna, each one practically a carbon copy of her, all short and pale with dirty blond hair. There were always patters of feet and games to play, and the sound of Techna's grandparents singing.
It was the kind of life Hanna was jealous of.
"I wish I had this much space to myself," Techna had once told her as they sat in Hanna's apartment. It was fall, and they on the couch, piled under blankets as the heat turned on and filled the place with the smell of burnt dust. With her parents at work, Hanna was happy to have someone to talk to. "You're so lucky, Han."
Looking at the few pictures of her family together on the windowsill, Hanna sighed. "I wish I had a family like yours, though. That would be perfect. I'd never feel lonely."
"You'd never hear yourself think either," Techna said, giving Hanna a rueful smile.
Hanna grinned. "I think that's what I want."
Sitting in the communal bedroom all the children shared at Techna's house, Hanna suddenly wasn't sure which was better: Techna's parents having so many children to worry about getting chosen for the Games, or her own parents at risk of losing their only child at the reaping.
She'd shuddered out of reflex, and Engyn noticed.
"The probability of getting picked is so low," he said softly. He didn't have to ask what she was thinking - not today. Engyn looked at the worn rug bewteen them. "Especially since you don't take tesserae."
"Speak for yourself," Techna muttered. Her usually-cheerful face clouded. "Gauge is entering the reaping this year."
Silence settled over the trio. From the other room, the sound of dinner being prepared played through banging pots and chatter. All over the district - all over Panem, Hanna supposed - families would be having their most solemn dinners together. For twenty-three families, it was their last dinner with their child. Tomorrow, the tributes were being chosen, their names dropped into a glass ball for a Capitol escort to pluck out with a smile.
Hanna already had her reaping outfit laid out. It was a new one, a white crisp white shirt and long brown skirt the color of her eyes. The cardigan was one she wore every year, though, just a black one cool enough to wear in the summer. And, as usual, she had her token chosen. She'd always laid her paintbrush on her blue bed quilt on reaping night, ever since she turned twelve.
Just in case, she always thought, but the probability really is so low...
"Try not to worry today," Techna had said, forcing a smile on her face. "Now who wants to play a board game?"
Hanna had spent that evening in the familiar room that smelled like old fabric with her best friends, dealing cards out and rolling chipped dice. She'd walked home after and stared up at the dark clouds overhead, hiding the moon, as if someone had painted over it. The buildings and powerlines of District 3 were quiet, seeming to watch the girl drifting along. Maybe they knew what was going to happen the next day.
She'd held her paintbrush on the train as it flew toward the Capitol, bristles tickling her cheek. She could see the moon from her window that night - it shone bright, nearly full, and suddenly she wished she'd painted more with that shade of white tinted by blue.
There was more color in the Capitol, but it didn't feel as beautiful as the moon that night. She'd been frozen into shock as they pulled into the Capitol station with all its glimmering buildings and colorful people. They screamed for District 3. But even surrounded by a cheering crowd, she felt more lonely than ever.
Hanna was in a foreign world now - a world made of sparkling megaliths, daily banquets of food, and people wearing clothing that costed more than her own yearly salary. She was completely alone.
Well. Hanna picked at her perfectly-polished fingernails. She wasn't completely alone.
But it wasn't like she and Kyrie Dirge were friends. They hadn't known each other before the reaping, and standing up on the stage with him - was it only yesterday? - was the worst moment of her life. Even worse than the fire years ago. It had been surreal there on stage, staring out at her district and the horrified faces of her parents, knowing it might be the last time she'd ever see it all.
Her gaze had drifted to Techna crying in the crowd.
They'd been standing together when her name was called.
Hanna Techroe!
And all she wanted was to be back in that cramped room with Techna and Engyn, laughing over cards, and throwing socks.
"And here we go!" Tigris walked into the room, a clothing bag hanging from her hands.
At least her stylist wasn't as crazy as some of the others in the Capitol. But she was still Capitol. Hanna had been fully prepared to hate her stylist, dressing her up like some doll to send into the arena. But Tigris was different so far. She was... kind. She'd been quiet as they had their lunch, and hadn't forced Hanna to speak, instead just allowing her to eat as much as she wanted.
The woman suited her name, all tall and with tawny eyes. Her arms were tattooed with black and gold stripes, like a tiger. Hanna wasn't sure if the woman had been born as Tigris or changed her name to suit her aesthetic, but it seemed like something people would do here.
Still. She couldn't help but like Tigris.
"This is only my second time designing District Three," the stylist had said when they first met. "But I want to do everything I can to help you."
3 wasn't as bad as districts like 10 or 12 to design for, but Hanna knew they weren't exactly known for catching interest at the parade. As nice as Tigris was, Hanna still wasn't about to bet her money that a person who tattooed themselves like an animal was going to do a good job.
"You can step into this and zip it up," Tigris said, excitement bubbling over in her voice. She opened the bag with a flourish.
Hanna saw a flash of silver and then she was exchanging her robe to step into a soft outfit that covered her from the nape of her neck down to her ankles, where soft socks were tugged up. Tigris moved to the zipper and Hanna stretched her legs, surprised at how perfectly the costume fit and how soft the fabric was.
"Want to take a look?" Tigris asked. The corners of her lips curved into a cattish smile. She nodded gently at the large mirror in the corner of the room Hanna had been avoiding.
The prep team had put things in her hair and decorated her face with silvery makeup and, secretly, she'd been afraid to look at what they'd done.
Curling her hands into fists, Hanna turned to face the girl in the mirror. No, no, "girl" wasn't the right word - she was made of silver from the neck down, shining and glinting underneath the lights overhead, as if the threads were communicating. Woven into her light-blonde light-blonde curls were brightly-colored wires like thick strands.
For a moment, Hanna forgot how to speak.
"Do you like it?"
She swallowed and moved her arm up to touch the wires in her hair. The silver material covering her arm gleamed in response. It was like the liquid mercury used in older tech, from before Panem, the kind of material that was deadly with constant exposure. And now Hanna looked as if she'd risen from a pool of the poisonous metal. She stared at her reflection, feeling a surge of power.
Beautiful, but so, so deadly, just like mercury.
"It's nice," she finally got out. Hanna moved back to face Tigris and her grin. She offered the smallest of smiles back, but with the thought of standing on a chariot, her smile vanished. "Can I put on my shoes now?"
Tigris' smile tightened, but Hanna could tell it wasn't in an angry way. It was the same half-pitying expression that Tigris had worn as they sat together in the lounge over a table of luxurious food. The bread here was soft and warm, nothing like the gritty and bland stuff at home, and there were more drinks than she'd ever thought could exist. Some had bubbles that danced in her mouth and others that were made of melted chocolate.
She was wearing Capitol clothes, looking more incredible than she ever had - but she was still district. No matter how impressive the clothing that her stylist made was, this outfit just identified Hanna as what the Capitol saw: a tribute.
She held her paintbrush and counted prime numbers in her head as Tigris laced up her silver boots and did a final touch-up of glittery makeup. By the time Hanna had reached 239, it was time to leave. She wasn't sorry to walk out of the Remake Center, but her heart speeding up with every step didn't exactly help.
In the hallway by an elevator, Kyrie and his own stylist, a tall man with a blue tunic and close-cropped brown hair, waited.
Kyrie looked tired as usual as he blinked his teal eyes, but he gave her a polite nod. Hanna ignored it and examined his costume - identical to her own, even down to the silver makeup on his face. His hair was much shorter than her own, but the colorful wires were crisscrossed artfully over it in a lattice, as if his skull was a computer's motherboard.
Hanna looked away, folding her arms and watching the elevator tick to their floor as Tigris and the other stylist spoke to each other about the possibility of rain during the parade (although, they assured each other, the costumes were waterproof.)
"You look nice."
"Thanks," Hanna said flatly, not bothering to turn to her district partner.
She still wasn't exactly sure what to make of Kyrie. He wasn't particular talkative and seemed relaxed at dinner on the train. He definitely didn't seemed opposed to talking with her. Hanna knew she wasn't usually the most social person in the room - Techna and Engyn were the ones who made her come of her shell - but Kyrie just seemed... naturally open.
But he was a tribute just like her, and she couldn't exactly make friends here.
It just made her want to put her guard up even more.
"Nervous?" he tried again.
"It's irrelevant," Hanna said. She forced her voice not to shake. "We have to do it. It doesn't matter how we feel."
"I... um... yeah..." Kyrie trailed off as their elevator appeared.
Hanna snuck a look at him as he stepped away, his silver jumpsuit reflecting against the bronze metal inside the elevator. For a moment, she almost regretted not saying of course I'm nervous, Kyrie, I don't know if I've ever been more nervous in my life, but at least there's someone else here who remembers home. She shoved the words down and pulled her shoulders back.
"Wait," Tigris said, laying a warm hand on her shoulder.
Hanna turned, furrowing her brow. Some silver glitter fell. "What?"
"I'll have to hold onto that." Tigris nodded at the paintbrush clutched in Hanna's fist.
Turning a bit pink, Hanna slowly offered the paintbrush up. She'd forgotten she was even holding it, some semblance of normalcy and her own self while drenched in silver like a Capitol citizen. Without it, she suddenly felt too vulnerable.
Tigris gently tucked the brush into a pocket of her amber jumpsuit. "I'll take very good care of it."
Hanna nodded once, curt and final, and closed her empty fist before stepping into the elevator.
Darien Dragomir - 18 y.o. - D12
...
- Remake Center Stables -
Darien listened to the whir of the elevator.
His yellow hard-hat slipped the slightest bit, but he didn't bother to reach up and fix it. Not with his stylist so close, at least. His gaze drifted towards the woman standing a few feet from him. Darien wasn't really sure what he had been expecting from the stylist for District 12, but it wasn't exactly her.
Miranda Gem, decked out in a glittering dress the same purple shade as her hair, was as far from Darien and Raven as she could get in the enclosed space.
She was, he'd learned very quickly, not a fan of styling 12.
The elevator finally settled so smoothly, Darien couldn't help a jolt of surprise when the doors glided open. The rickety elevator he usually descended in the mining shaft might as well have been on a crash course compared to this Capitol one. But instead of the musty smell of the mines and the clank of metal buckets, the smell of hay wafted in, accompanied by the sounds of voices and footsteps.
Stables stretched out in front of him as the elevator doors opened fully. All around it, Capitol staff bustled about, carrying apples or brushes, faces so pinched in concentration they hadn't even noticed the District 12 tributes arriving. Then again, Darien thought ruefully, maybe they're just like Miranda - they just don't care about the mining district.
Roman Styx, the man who styled Raven, led the way out of the elevator with Miranda hurrying after. His black cape fluttered behind him like a shadow and Miranda's heels struck the ground like a pickax. Neither of the stylists bothered to check that their tributes were keeping up.
Darien glanced into one of the stalls as they walked past, watching another district team gathered around dappled gray horses. He squinted, trying to make out the tributes from between their stylists' shoulders. When one of them moved, Darien met the eyes of a boy dressed as a cow, complete with a hood and little felt ears with golden cattle tags. District 10, then. Somehow, their costumes seemed even more embarrassing this his own.
As if the boy from 10 could read Darien's thoughts, he scowled and looked away.
"Just here."
Darien looked back as Roman stopped walking and motioned to a stall holding two horses. Of course, they were black as coal.
"We'll wait here until the signal comes for the parade to begin," Miranda snapped in her clipped Capitol accent. She didn't bother to say what that signal was, turning her back to Darien and Raven, and speaking to Roman instead in a hushed voice.
Biting his lip, Darien looked at the horses instead. They blinked their massive eyes back at him, unconcerned, flicking dark tails. Neither one had the usual reigns that the rare horses in District 12 wore to haul coal. But after years of watching the parade of tributes on television, and hearing the commentary from Capitol folks, Darien knew that the horses were so well trained they didn't even need reigns.
He reached out a ginger hand, letting one of the horses smell it. Air whooshed gently from the animal's nose, and Darien's brushed his fingers over the horse's sleek black coat.
"They're sweet," Raven said softly beside him.
Darien glanced over at her. She'd been as quiet as a mouse that day, even at breakfast on the train, to the point that he almost forgot she was there. His district partner was dressed up like a miner too, like all the tributes from 12 had been all his life (minus that horrible year where the tributes were ridiculous, giant chunks of coal.)
Raven wore a matching orange vest, fingerless utility gloves, and the same black eye-makeup as him. But the stylists had gone in a different direction after that. His jumpsuit sleeves were missing, exposing his arms, but her pale legs were mostly bare since Raven had been given shorts made of the same olive fabric as his pants.
Suddenly Darien realized why his own sleeves were missing, and might've laughed at how stupid it was if it didn't irritate him more. They were about to get into a chariot and ride out to parade their coming deaths, and the Capitol was trying to make them look like sexy mining models?
But his thoughts were interrupted as he noticed what had changed the most about Raven: they had covered her scar.
The long, thin, pink line that normally trailed along Raven's face and neck was gone. For a moment, he thought maybe the Capitol had somehow erased her scar completely, but as Raven moved to face him, he noticed some of the powder that blended it with the rest of her pale skin.
Darien looked away quickly and focused back on the horse.
"Have..." Raven adjusted her mining vest nervously, trailing off before taking a deep breath. "Have you ever pet a horse before?"
He shook his head. "Not really, no. The animals I usually run into are the rats or bats hiding in the mines we wake up. Maybe the occasional mouse at home."
For a moment, he regretted admitting it. Judging by her straight black hair, Raven clearly had Seam background somewhere, but she was still a merchant girl, and while she wasn't one of the rich ones from what little Darien knew about her from school, she still probably didn't have to sleep with mice very often. That was just life in the Seam. But it didn't faze her at all. She just nodded serenely, and Darien felt like he had when she had eaten the bread on the train with her hands - she was someone he might be able to trust.
It was obvious she was just as shy as he was. It was a bit of commonality that went beyond just being from District 12. He had realized pretty fast on the train how much less isolated it made him feel. Raven was the only one that knew about home, and she was the only one here - the one other person in the entire Capitol - who actually knew a bit of who he was outside of being a tribute.
"I like your necklace," she said quietly.
He reached a hand up to the wooden star that hung around his throat. "I nearly had to fist-fight Miranda to be able to wear it."
A quick smile crossed Raven's lips and she patted the pocket on her orange vest. "I talked Roman into letting me keep mine with me, even if I couldn't wear it."
He nearly asked what her token was. But if she wanted him to know, she'd tell him, and he didn't want to scare away his district partner before training even began. "Our costumes aren't exactly... the best."
Raven cast a look at their stylists, oblivious and still chattering away. She gave him an amused look. "I think they manage to somehow get worse every year. At least we don't have those plastic shovels from a few years ago."
Darien motioned to his helmet and jumpsuit. "I know, right? In the mines we wear coveralls and headlamps but it all gets covered in coal dust anyway. They got the leather shoes right, I'll give them that. But I think if I had shown up wearing something like this to a work shift, my foreman would've laughed my ass out of the mining station."
Raven sighed. "My sister has told me plenty of the stories from her shifts at record-keeping. I thought the shop owners near me were gossips, but they can't hold a candle to the foremen."
A smile crossed Darien's face. How long had it been since he'd truly smiled? "Don't even get me started."
Another pair of stylists crossed in front of their stall, giving passing nods to Roman and Miranda. Behind them, two shorter tributes walked, the boy faster than the girl. Both of them were dressed in shimmering, colorful swirls of clothes, but the resemblance stopped there. The boy looked completely bored, pulling at the collar of his costume, while the girl looked irritated as her eyes swept the stables. Even from here, with the two tributes' faces painted up, Darien easily recognized them as the pair from District 8.
The girl - Pazley, was it? - turned and peered at Darien and Raven. She gave them a once-over and a dismissive final look before turning away, slinking after her stylists.
"Tough crowd," Raven whispered, stepping a bit closer to the horses like she could hide. The yellow helmet didn't really help.
Darien wasn't sure how to respond. With a start, he realized this was his first time seeing the other tributes in person. These other kids were the ones he was going to be in the arena with. They weren't separated by a television screen anymore, and none of them were wearing their reaping clothes. Tomorrow they would all start training and learn how to kill one another.
A wave of homesickness washed over him, and he closed his eyes as the stables began to spin. His younger brother would be watching tonight. Drew would be sat in front of the screen waiting to see his older brother.
"I can't lose you too, Darien. Not like mom and dad."
"I'm sorry about your parents."
Darien's blinked his eyes open in shock. Had he been talking out loud?
Raven peered at the straw-covered floor nervously. "You mentioned them on the train. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
A lump formed in Darien's throat but he swallowed it down. "You too. I didn't know your parents had passed."
"Thanks," she said, and then it was like once she started speaking she couldn't stop. "It was sudden when it happened... First my momma and then my dad a year later. It was back during those couple years we had really bad winters. Just too much flu going around during the first one, and then fever the second... There just wasn't enough food. The tesserae grain was running out... Dad always fed us before himself. But having my siblings helped."
Darien tilted his head, trying to hide his surprise. There just wasn't enough food. That year had been brutal. The bitter winter had frozen all the pipes throughout the district, and even the mayor's family was having issues with heating. Darien had huddled with his brother for warmth every night, gritting his teeth through the cold and waking up every so often to stoke their wood stove.
It was only because of the extra game he managed to catch that they were able to survive. He'd been going through the fence surrounding District 12 for years, into the forest, just like his grandparents used to do before the fence existed. It was supposed to be electrified, so the Peacekeepers said, but it wasn't. He never went very far, but stayed nearby and caught the smaller animals with simple string snares an older hunter had taught him once.
Eventually Drew started helping.
When Darien finally turned eighteen and could work at the mines, setting up the snares was basically a habit. But it meant extra food or winter blankets for Drew and that's what mattered. There were some other hunters who worked together and checked his snares when he couldn't, and he did the same for them. As long as the Peacekeepers got some of the choicest meat and fur, they never arrested anyone.
Darien had never really expected that a girl from the merchant quarter might have taken tesserae, much less starved for some winters too. He had watched his own mother slip into a void after his father passed, so deep that her heart seemed to break, and she died whispering his father's name. But Darien couldn't imagine what it was like to watch your own parents give up their food so that you could live.
In that moment, Raven wasn't just the shy girl that had always sat alone at school. Her quietness wasn't weak, it was strong, and he respected her for it.
A bell rang throughout the stable, chiming loud over the din of conversation.
"It's time," Roman said gravely. He turned to them with a swirl of his cape, sweeping his hands up like one of those performers that Darien sometimes saw outside the Justice Building. "Make sure to smile. This is how you prove the audience should remember you in the arena. Don't let go."
Darien shared a glance with Raven. He knew they were both thinking the same thing: who was planning on letting go?
He stepped into the chariot, gripping the side tight enough to make his knuckles hurt.
Raven stood up next to him and took a shaky breath. "No one... I mean, no one's ever fallen off one of these... right?"
"I hope not," Darien muttered.
The chariot jolted as the horses moved from the stall. Throughout the stables, the other horses pulled their chariots of tributes into a line before massive doors at the end. The two black horses for District 12 tossed their manes, pausing behind the District 11 chariot just as the Panem anthem began blaring through hidden speakers.
Darien could hardly hear the music. Blood pumped in his ears so loud he almost expected to hear his heartbeat. He moved his focus to the costumes of the tributes from 11 instead, focusing on the floral train of the girl's skirt, so long it nearly brushed the ground. He was not about to faint off this damn chariot.
The fanfare hit a crescendo and the doors creaked open.
Cheering spilled into the stables, loud enough to make Darien's heart beat even faster.
The chariot at the front rolled, carrying the District 1 tributes far ahead and out into the open, towards the wild cries of the audience.
"I wonder how it feels," Drew had said several summers ago.
They sat on their worn couch, watching the parade. Darien only really remembered because that year was one of the rare ones when two merchant kids had been chosen. It was back before his dad died, before Darien watched his mom fall into a void she never got out of.
"Think they're afraid?" Drew had said.
The chariots paraded down City Circle. Some of the tributes waved or blew kisses as flowers and gemstones rained on them from the endless sea of Capitolites watching. The tributes had looked so different then, from behind a screen, dressed up in costumes and makeup like the crowd.
"Probably," Darien said, distracted by thoughts of catching one of the wild turkeys he'd seen earlier, "but the arena is probably more terrifying than dressing up and standing in a chariot for a while."
"Isn't this just part of the arena too?" Drew had said.
Darien couldn't remember what he'd responded.
What would Drew think now?
As the chariot for - who was that, District 6? Maybe 7? - moved, Darien sucked in a deep breath.
"I won't let you fall if you promise to catch me too."
Darien couldn't help but laugh a bit at Raven's words. He looked over at her as she shrugged and offered the tiniest of smiles. "Yeah? Sounds like a deal, Raven. I'd shake on it but I might end needing you to catch me already."
She laughed once, high and clear.
He thought he heard Miranda saying something behind him about bad posture but he couldn't care less now. He composed his face into a smile, but it wasn't for the audience like Roman had instructed. It was for Drew, who would be watching, and for Raven, who held her head higher and stared out straight ahead.
When the chariot started rolling, Darien knew he wouldn't fall.
Hi, everyone!
I'm sorry this chapter took so long to get out. Since August, yikes. I haven't given up on this story! This chapter just really had me stumped for a while.
I like writing interactions between the stylists and the tributes. I think this is one of the most interesting parts of the Capitol phase. Please let me know what you liked, want to see improved, or any predictions/opinions!
Also, happy holidays! I have you had a Happy Hanukkah / are having a good Los Posadas / have a Merry Christmas! I may post before New Year's, but it'll probably a bit after.
Question 1.) Who was your favorite POV from this chapter, and why?
Question 2.) Which tributes (besides your own) are you most looking forward to hearing about in the next chapter?
Also, thank you for reviewing the last chapter: SakuraDragomir, Annabeth777, ellalovesmusicaltheatre, CharmedMilliE- Karry Master, and wiifan2002. I really appreciate it a lot!
See you guys soon!
~ Meghan