#soac82pp

The one comfortable thing about the parade outfit that had been glued onto me was that I didn’t have to wear shoes. In Seven, I’d loved running around the forest, feeling the cool dirt beneath my feet and in between my toes. It was calming to me, grounding. Here, the floor is cold and unyielding, made of the ‘finest granite District Two has to offer’, according to Ivy, anyway.

It’s not until I finally step off of the chariot that I really appreciate how nice the solid ground is, even if it is covered with granite. Pike is there a moment later a whisks John away, screeching about some party or another that is happening ‘right this minute and trust me there is going to be some hot ass that you don’t want to miss’ and I roll my eyes.

Ivy hasn’t come for me, so I decided to brush the mane of one of the horses. We don’t have all that many animals in Seven, barring stray cats and mangy mutts, so the sheer size of the creatures caught me off guard at first. Sugar is as sweet as her name implies, though, and seems to be enjoying my attentions well enough as I murmur a string of nonsense to her.

Despite how unfamiliar I was with horses, I did like animals. They tended to be good judges of character, and pleasant enough company. And anyway, I’d rather talk to the horses than the people. I was still in my weird costume and no that I was out of the public eye, I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable.

“You did absolutely wonderful out there. See, I knew my faith was not ill placed.”

I smiled in spite of myself at the praise. It had been a long time since anyone but Harrison, Twiggy, or Oak had ever really been proud of me. That smile was wiped from my face a moment later, when she informed me about the party I was to attend, as well as the fact that I would NOT be permitted to change out of my costume, unlike most of the other Tributes.

“You look beautiful and we want them to recognize you, to be reminded of who you are and that you’re a real contender.”

I rolled my eyes, raising a brow.

“Well, who you are here, as a character in their television program, at least.”

That I could level with, at least. After all, this wasn’t who I really was, and- in comparison to many of the Tributes- I wasn’t a contender. However, Ivy left no room for argument as she began walking, chatting about all of the people who would be at the party and how everyone had ‘just loved you’ and ‘were going to be so thrilled to meet you’.

The ballroom was already packed to the brim when we arrived, and three people were actually forced to leave so that we could enter- one for each of us, and an extra person to accommodate the wings of my costume. I knew it was fake, that the people were just looking for a show, completely unaware- or uncaring- that there were real, human lives that were being ruined, which basically, took all of the potential fun out of the interactions. At least the food was good.

As empty as the people were, though, I realized their enthusiasm was genuine, after looking past my disgust at their indifference towards their way of life. Their smiles were somehow both empty and full. Part of me envied their obliviousness, their carefree nature. They had no idea about the troubles of the world, of the Districts, of the people. I was almost envious.

Finally, Ivy pulled me away from another man with bright periwinkle hair and diamonds embedded into his skin to take me back to the suite. It was getting late and I had an early start the next day. I had to enlist her help to get all of the added vines and make up off- how did they do this all of the time?- before I could jump into the shower, but soon I was scrubbed clean, donned in a t-shirt and shorts for sleeping in.

“Rest up, Rowan. You’re going to need it for tomorrow. Sleep well!”

Three drunks throwing up onto the linoleum floor, two spilled wine glasses, and one sponsor hunt later, I finally retreat back to my room. It’s nearly one in the morning, to my horror. I’m usually showered, showered again, and in bed by ten, at the absolute latest.

Though I suppose that living a little more rugged won’t hurt me. In a few short days, I’ll be in an arena with little to no sleep, and no access to a shower. I might as well get used to the thought now. People must think, “how is the neat-freak going to survive the Games? And a Career, at that?”

And I have to admit, it’s a valid question. I know that in the arena, nothing can be helped. There won’t be an option to clear my hands after a kill. There won’t be a shower to wash my hair if I get sludge in it. There won’t be silk sheets, or face masks, or bandaids.

And I’m okay with that.

If it means surviving, I can take bugs and dust. I can take dirt and spit. Even blood, though I’d much rather not. Just because I hate if I get a spec of dirt under a nail, it doesn’t mean that in the Games I’ll freeze up in the heat of battle once things start getting gory. I’ve trained for this. That picky-part of my brain will shut down, and I’ll just fight like any other of the Tributes will.

And then, you know, I’ll try and wash my hands. It’s only natural.

I tear off the heels that have been glued to my feet for hours, and just climb into bed. I tell myself I’ll shower in the morning, and that it’ll be okay if I don’t bathe before bed tonight. I try to sleep, I really do.

The parade is over... and now I can breath again. I can’t even begin to put into words how glad I am for that. The whole thing was over the top, overwhelming, and I think that I may have forgotten to breath throughout the entire thing. 

The moment we’re back in the stables, I want to take the sword that my stylists had made me and gouge Vodka’s eyes out. He looks so happy with himself for feeling me up during the parade, and even making it seem like we get along. Some people probably expect us to alliance.

Only if it means getting to stab him in the back.

Which it won’t, of course. I’ve been trained, and unfortunately, so has he. We are top of our class, and fought to even be here as Tributes. Unlike miss My-Whole-Family-Is-A-Victor and Random-Frigid-Peacekeeper from District Two, we have been waiting for this since we were old enough to hold a knife.

And then there’s District Four, but I think they gave up the minute they were reaped. It’s sad, really. They could have been great. Greater than wretched, repulsive Vodka.

Lord, it would be wonderful if he placed 24th.

Scrambling away from the rodent-faced freak, I steer myself away from chatting Tributes. Some are trying to figure out how to take off their annoying costumes, some are asking where the bathroom is, and some look simply confused.

I get a few long looks from other Tributes as I turn to leave the stables. I’m not sure if they’re looking at me, my costume, or the huge crystal sword in my hand. It’s likely fake, or has some kind of protection built into it. Or the Game Makers simply trust us not to impale another Tribute before the Games even begin. That would be no fun.

Unless it was Vodka. Then, all the fun.

It’s easy enough to find my dressing room, and just like the creepy little shadows they are, my prep team is waiting for me. They turn when I enter, eyeing me. They take awhile to speak, but eventually break the heavy silence.

“You liked it.” The woman in the middle says, stating it as fact and not a question. She’s right. The outfit was definitely spectacular - it wasn’t too over the top, or revealing, or cliche. It was a nice balance, and it would have been a nice experience too, if it weren’t for my cheeks being assaulted.

“I’m supposed to attend an event.” I start, not quite sure if they have something planned. Unlike a few Tributes I’ve noticed, I don’t have a keen fashion sense. The glitz of the Capitol was never my goal or interest, though I can appreciate beauty.

“Of course. Something more simple.” The woman nods, as if she was just waiting for me to bring it up. They’re odd, for a prep team, that’s for sure. They’re not in a hurry, or preening over me, or in a fuss. They’re calm, billowy-women who look like something out of a picture book.

One of them brings forward a hanger, with a white garment draped over. She hands it to me, and I carefully take it from her, trying to make out the design. It’s mostly white, but has royal blue spirals etched into the middle. It’s more simple than the parade outfit I have on, that’s for sure.

“Still floating with the fine china theme, I see.” I comment, but they say nothing back. It’s a comfortable silence, and I appreciate their reserved attitude.

The moment I step off the chariot, my prep team attacks.

I stifle laughter at their frenzy, which includes a constant string of compliments and excitement about getting me into a party dress. Saliem in particular is near-screaming about how pretty I looked in the parade, literally shaking with excitement.The twins’, of course, are a little more reserved, giving me quick, congratulatory kisses on the cheek. They told me pre-parade that, while they’re all fabulous stylists, it’s only their first year doing official game work. Orion specifically warned me about their potential reactions; they were excited to see how their dress would fair while “in action.”

“You did good out there, too! You should have seen yourself blowing kisses and smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world. Fox, you’ve got that charm, I swear you do!”

Saliem continues to babble in my ear as they start stripping me. I don’t mind, since we’re behind a curtain, and I converse with them all the while. Saliem is a ball of pure energy as she explains how the garment they’re shoving over my head now is designed to be more comfortable than the previous.

“You’ll be wearing it longer,” she elaborates, then takes a rare moment to pause and think, “but not too long. Remember what I said about sleep!”

This time, I laugh out loud, and they giggle along with me. From what I’ve heard, from what I’ve seen, there are some prep-teams that are absolute nightmares to work with. I’ve heard they’ll tell you nothing about what you’ll wear, make snide comments about your appearance, even slack off if they get bored with their subject. So I thank all that’s good in life for my fortune.

Once we’re done chattering and I’m finished changing, they run me over to a hall outside the stables, Prosper waiting to escort. Apparently, Genesis had went on ahead. I don’t bother asking about it, because I’ve yet to say anything to him, haven’t gotten to know him. Besides, I suppose I’ll be competing with the boy for a sponsorship shortly. I doubt he’ll like the competition.

I’m about to say goodbye to my prep, when I catch sight of myself in a mirror. I have to pause to take it in, I’m so pleased. A a simple, knotted dress clings to my frame, painted in the same color as the silk scarves Genesis and I wore for the parade. It shows a little skin, a tasteful amount, but maintains a long and flowing nature. I beam. I actually like this much better than the parade outfit, though I don’t say that aloud.

Instead I hug all three of the capitol’s stylists before heading off with Prosper, earnest in my thanks.

-

When we enter the ballroom, I’m smiling. It’s a soft, content smile; one that feels out of place among some of the stiffer tributes. I don’t linger on that, though. Rather, I distract myself by mingling with some capitolites first, and then taking on the task of interacting with the people I’ll be fighting against in just a few days time. Flesh and blood people, who so far I bear no ill-will towards.

Uhg. It hits me every time.

So once again, I separate the brutality and the beauty, and hold myself upright. I take an imaginary thread and string it onto my back, tying the other end to the ceiling. I keep on the soft smile, I smother down the hostile, terrified feeling stuck in my throat.

As I’m wandering around the party, I spot someone who looks familiar. Obviously not a tribute, doesn’t look like a Mentor either. Game Maker, my brain helpfully informs me. Now is as good a time as any to introduce myself.

Since I didn’t really want to be skinned alive by my favorite tribute, I jumped off the chariot before it came to a stop. The look of annoyance in Dina’s eyes was more than enough to tickle my fancy as I blew her a kiss before walking away, whistling a nice little tune as I went.

As I walked, I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander around the room. Based on what I’ve seen so far, our outfits were definitely the best of the bunch. Actually, I quite like what I’m wearing. The skin tight blue suit, the pattern, the diamonds, and most importantly, the giant diamond coated halberd. I know it’s fake and probably wouldn’t do much damage if I used it against someone, but it would be nice to just wander around the area, killing everybody right now and saving me the trouble. Besides, my beautiful little halberd would probably look a lot better with some blood on it, so there’s that.

After a few minutes of walking around, I spot someone that had caught my attention the moment I saw her: the girl from Ten. Oh god, what’s her name? Constance? Cleopatra? Whatever, it’s not like it really matters, her name that is. She’s hot and has a good body, those are the most important things. Walking behind her, I tap her shoulder to get her attention and as she turns to see who has touched her, I position myself in front of her so that she can see my glorious mug when she turns around. When she does, I’m right there waiting for her with a pretty little smile on my face.

Obviously the parade went fabulously, for me at least. I could see myself in the reflection of the glossy black chariot, and I was simply stunning. It’s kind of fucked up, how good I looked. But that’s not really anything new for me, so it’s not as shocking as it once might have been. Compared to some of the other tributes, I looked like God himself. Wait, I look like God himself even when I’m being compared to God himself. Maybe that isn’t the best analogy. But whatever. I’m hot as fuck and everyone else looks like a raccoon bisected by a train in my midst. That’s really all that matters.