CHAPTER SIX;
gladiators

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"Oh my, that is a surprise!" Gideon, just one of the alien-looking members of Vesper's prep team, chirps as he brushes his fingertips along her bicep. It takes everything in her not to jerk it away, as it has the entire time she's been undergoing her unwanted transformation.

Standing stark naked before the Capitol-altered trio, she's endured at least an hour of being poked, prodded, shaven, waxed and hosed down in just about every nook and cranny of her body. The patches of bare skin under her arms, once covered shamelessly with hair, sting and itch with fragrance-laced products that catch at the back of her throat. It gives her a whole new meaning of the word nude — not too far off being plucked like a featherless chicken.

     "What?" Vesper huffs as Gideon begins to giggle, "What is it?" Hoping to guard what little privacy she has left, she crosses her arms over her chest self-consciously.

     As she'd expected, her prep team looks a far cry from anything human; even still, it was difficult for her to try imagining what they could possibly look like. She couldn't have possibly foretold that Gideon would have the eyes of a serpent, pupils shrunken to slits but somehow not as venomous or cunning, complete with sheens of green scales tattooed from his neck downwards — like the new skin he's shedding. As much as she hates these otherworldly strangers, it's equally as difficult not to look away from them, whether it's through fascination or disgust.

     He licks his lips and holds back a smile, rendering Vesper rigid with shock when she notices his forked tongue is yet another snake-themed modification. "Oh, it's not you, sweetheart —" Gideon goes to massage her bicep again and guffaws. "I just wasn't expecting that."

     "Expecting what?"

     "You know... the muscle! You're more toned than you look, little lady."

     Another Capitolesque voice chips in, complete with the obscure sing-song rhythm of all its citizens as she remarks, "Oh Gideon, she's a mechanic, remember? Weren't you listening to me in the elevator?" It belongs to Cordelia — a woman with dark, stern eyes that have flecks of bronze shining radiantly when she turns her head. Fragments also seem to be embedded in her warm brown skin, ingrained in her knuckles, sticking out of her shoulders, almost like she is an ore. The thought of what the procedure must have entailed nauseates Vesper a little bit. But there's a seriousness surrounding the woman, despite her Capitol indoctrination, which commands control over her two unrulier colleagues.

"Ah, yes yes, I remember now. Now, back off!"

"Honestly," Cordelia tuts, smoothing her hand over a waxing strip on Vesper's leg. "You're worse than Benedict."

"Who's Be—" Vesper winces as pain lashes across her leg, biting her lip. "Benedict?" As she stares sorrowfully at the removed hair now trapped on the waxing strip, she wonders what they're doing to Icarus next door in the Remake Centre. Is the poor boy enduring as much as she is? There's a crueller part of her that almost wishes he is, for it would make this master plan of hers at least a little more worth it.

"You don't know?" a third voice chirps, light-headed and ditzy. She emerges into Vesper's line of sight, her bright neon attire making her eyes ache. "Why, he's your stylist, silly! Don't you remember him from previous years?"

"I... don't really notice those things."

Gideon snorts. "I can see that, honey."

The girl, Esperanza, can't be much older than Vesper is — and seems as clueless about the beautifying process as she. At least five times now she's watched her fumble with foreign looking contraptions, handling them with a nervousness that suggests she's new to all of this. When she's wielding a device to pluck her eyebrows in trembling hands, it certainly isn't comforting for Vesper to see. It isn't until she drops a tray of nail clippers that she receives a firm scolding.

     "Esperanza!" Cordelia hisses. The girl cowers instantly, hands hovering over her face in shame as Cordelia stoops to pick it up. Vesper watches, puzzled as she spots what she thinks are... tears, welling up in Esperanza's eyes. These Capitol are people are stranger than she'd thought.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" the girl cries. "I— I didn't mean to—"

"Hey..." Vesper awkwardly alternates between averting and making eye contact with Esperanza, who's bottom lip trembles as if her whole world is crashing down. What the hell do I say? "Just... relax. It's really not a big deal."

     "I'm so sorry about her," Gideon whispers, as if Esperanza has been sinful. "She's an apprentice, you see. I'm surprised they even let her into a prep team this early. Hmph!"

     She looks back to the girl as Cordelia begins brushing her hair, perplexed as she furrows her eyebrows. Esperanza dabs daintily at her eyes with her wrist, careful not to misplace her loud and proud eye makeup, before she begins clipping Vesper's nails in silence. She can practically feel the girl's nerves dancing onto her own skin, erupting like firecrackers, and she can't understand why — it's not like pampering random boys and girls from across Panem should put her in any jeopardy... right?

     Or maybe it could? As Vesper studies Esperanza taking a deep breath to calm her shaking hands, she wonders if maybe they aren't so different after all. They're both working as an alternative to a death sentence, or worse. Vesper grimaces at the thought of them sharing any common ground — it's absurd.

     But, just for good measure, Vesper leans in closer to Esperanza without feeling too self-conscious about her nudity, managing a weak smirk through thinned lips. "You know," she murmurs, "I'm an apprentice too. In mechanics."

     Esperanza's eyes glow slightly at the mention through the glaze of tears. "Oh..." she wipes her eye with her furry pink sleeve. "That's nice."

     "Uh, yeah."

     After little response in return, she decides to stay silent, gritting her teeth through the rest of the beautification. When at last it's over, she is given something resembling a hospital gown, and ushered into a small room with no windows and metallic walls surrounding her. There's a small bench where she assumes she's meant to lay down, completing the eerily clinical feeling of the claustrophobic space. She opts for sitting on it, feeling the cold metal beneath her thighs as her toes just graze the floor.

     As her prep team leave her wordlessly, Vesper sighs deeply through her nose. The air smells faintly of roses — but not real ones, more artificial with an undertone of chemicals. She wishes she could fling open a window and inhale a lungful for fresh air, but she can't. Her chest tightens slightly.

     She wonders what her mother made of all this. Did she enjoy it? No, that's silly, no one in their right mind could ever enjoy this, surely. Vesper finds herself hoping that, whoever her stylist was, that he or she was good to her...

     And there she goes again. Side-tracking about her mother.

     It's becoming rather an annoying habit.

     After a few minutes of blissful solitude, Vesper is about to start contemplating if she's supposed to call her stylist and has forgotten, when the door flies open — in the doorway stands a wide-eyed man, gaze locking so swiftly onto hers that it's jarring. She notices at first that he's rather tall, his longer limbs accentuated through his tight-fitting coral pink trousers and burgundy collared shirt, complete with braces attached to his waist. He snaps his fingers enthusiastically and points at Vesper.

     "Aha!" he says. The man meanders over to her, taking Vesper's hand and starting to shake it vigorously. "You must be Vesper. Pleasure, simply a pleasure..." he begins to ramble. "Just you wait until you hear about all the things I've got planned for you! I've been thinking them over, designed some things which I hope you'll like – but just trust me, I'll make you look simply exquisite!"

     At this point, Vesper's begins to fret over whether she'll have a hand to fight with in the arena if he keeps shaking it. Sensing her alarm, the man drops her hand onto her lap and takes a self-aware step back.

     "... Oh, pardon me." he runs a hand through his mousy brown hair and ruffles it, drawing her attention to the streaks of dusty vermillion. "I don't believe I ever introduced myself, did I?"

     All of a sudden he laughs out loud, the change in volume shaking Vesper — she's starting to think maybe it's better this room didn't have windows, because otherwise she would be making a run for them whilst she still had the chance. He appears to ignore her startled looks and carries on.

     "Well, the name's Benedict Whitlock."

     Benedict Whitlock. Suddenly his name falls into place, and she remembers exactly who he is. At least if he's a lunatic, which Vesper is convinced that he is, then he can only be one of the Capitol bunch. And in her case, he's going to become one of the most important.

     "I'm guessing you're my stylist?" she queries rhetorically.

     "HA!" Benedict chortles hyperactively, even louder this time. "We've got a funny one this year! I mean, yes, that's me. I am your stylist; your stylist is I. Oh my, can you imagine how absurd it would've been if any old fool had just waltzed in here? Hilarious!"

     Vesper blinks; quite frankly, frozen in something close to fear.

     Lowering his voice, Benedict shakes his head at her with a playful smile. "No need to look so terrified! I'm not going to bite, you know." Vesper isn't so sure. He clears his throat, a sign of a switch of subject. "Anyway, right on with our task... making you the star of the show tonight, of course! My brother, Lysander, and I like to make the chariot outfits pair together nicely — after all, the chariot parade is rather... well, patriotic, isn't it? Now, if you don't mind standing up for me, I'll just have a quick look at you."

She does as instructed, trying to relax as much as possible even when he's circling her like a vulture. But at least she's not naked this time.

From the most recent years in the Games, Vesper knows she must be in good hands. She can just about remember the cringeworthy outfits Six's tributes had donned in years past — for instance, the only glimpse of Dale's Games that she's seen is a brief shot of him and his district partner looking miserable with rubber tyres fashioned on every part of their body like spacesuits. But everything changed for the better when Benedict came in a few years ago. Vesper never paid much attention to the Capitol fashions, but it's safe to the way he transformed his tributes in his first year took even her breath away.

     That was the year Irma won the Games.

     She can still see it crystal clear. Her district partner was styled beautifully too, but everyone would admit that their eyes were on Irma, and Irma only. The otherworldly creature that rode into shot on that chariot still lives vividly in Vesper's mind — her face fresh and youthful like a dewdrop, framed by her golden hair cascading down her back in waves that caught in the wind. She doesn't know how Benedict did it, but her floaty, pristine white dress garnished religiously with soft wisps appeared to float wherever she walked, hanging in slow motion in the air behind her. Almost like she was underwater.

That night, Irma floated through the crowds like a dove's feather — silent, pure, and coming in peace.

Vesper doubts she could ever carry off something like that. She's not like Irma; she's rougher around the edges. Frankly, she's happy with anything, as long as she doesn't have to walk around in a suit of rubber tyres.

After some time of his eyes darting around her body curiously, soaking every part in, Benedict finally speaks up. She meets his eyes, surrounded by purple eye shadow that looks more like a black eye than a fashion statement.

"You're taller than I thought you'd be."

"I am?"

"Mmm. Perhaps the television squashed the image a bit."

     "Oh. Does that mean I looked fatter on TV?"

     He chuckles lightheartedly; a genuine reaction, which cracks her frown into a small smile. "How tall are you? No, don't tell me... you must be, what? 5'7"-ish?" Benedict guesses. After a clueless shrug from Vesper, who can't remember the last time she measured herself, he taps his fingers on his chin and studies her further. "Hmm... yes. Yes! This is going to work beautifully!"

"Oh yeah," Vesper deadpans. "Rubber tires, here we come."

Benedict snorts — a hybrid of disbelief and disgust. "What?! No! Eugh, who do you think I am?" he cries, offended. "I have taste unlike my predecessors, may they rest in peace."

"Okay, then what're you going to do to me?"

The question wipes the contempt clean from his face, as his lips slowly curl upwards from a frown to a mischievous grin. Half of her feels a pang of dread, wondering if maybe he's going to make she and Icarus the clown act of the night — but then she remembers Irma. You're in good hands, Vesper.

"Tell me, Vesper... would you consider yourself a warrior?"

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It's a suit of armour.

     Vesper is sure of it. The metallic, geometrically shaped plates feel surprisingly lightweight as they slip cleanly over her head and rest on her body. Getting a glimpse of it in the mirror, the plates — triangular, pentagonal, hexagonal — connect to create a slim chest plate that goes down to just below her waist, but still revealing peeks of the tight-fitting black shirt and leggings underneath. There's something etched into the plates, stretching out like fine-lined streams and rivers filled with silver.

There's a skirt of sorts below her chest plate, charcoal grey rectangles with bolts fastened in at the bottom. Sandals of silver wind upwards to her knees, encaging her lower legs. Vesper's hair has been puffed, curled in a way that accentuates her usually untouched head of deep brown waves, so much so that when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, it looks like a lion's mane of hair. Her lips have been filled in with rosewood red, bolder than she's ever looked before. Around her eyes, a sheen of metallic dust has been brushed on the bone like a crescent moon, giving the impression of a freshly painted car when she tilts her head.

That's not Vesper standing with slumped shoulders in the mirror — it's the Capitol's Vesper. Whatever that means...

"So, is this what you had in mind when you said warrior?" Vesper asks, leaning away from Gideon as he attempts to apply more make-up to her face.

Benedict claps his hands together enthusiastically and nods. "Yes! Or more specifically, you are gladiators. Many centuries ago, way before Panem existed, there was a great Roman Empire," he explains. "Gladiators were armed combatants that would enter a great amphitheater, the Colosseum, and fight each other to the death for entertainment!"

Sounds familiar, Vesper ponders uncomfortably.

"So, I wanted to include a little influence from them..." after a dramatic pause, he narrows his eyes. "How much do you know about the Romans?"

     "Uh, a little..."

     "Do you know who the statue in the centre of Permetior is of?"

     "Yeah," she shrugs, "Mercury, right?"

     "Precisely. Or in Greek, Hermes," he elaborates with a wonderstruck passion. "Messenger of the Gods."

     Wanting to move on, she knocks a balled fist on her armoured chest, evoking a small yelp from Cordelia — "Careful, it's fragile!" — and looks to Benedict. "I mean, I don't know about that..." she grumbles, tracing her fingers in the etched lines. "But I just wanna know what these engravings mean."

     "Well," says Benedict mischievously, "Let me show you. Esperanza? Lights, please."

     Nodding obediently, Esperanza scurries over to a holographic switch near the wall and taps the screen. The room is instantly swallowed by darkness, and Vesper feels herself exclaim in awe with everyone else before she processes what she sees.

     The etched lines are illuminated; glowing in the dark with a white glow, and now she can see the engravings so much clearer — they are roads, town names, illustrations of hovercrafts, trains, cargo ships, cars... and then it occurs to her what this actually is. Stroking one plate in particular, lettered with the words 'Vagary' in the corner, she whispers it:

     "It's a map..."

     "Go on?"

     "Of... of District Six."

     Through the darkness, Vesper can make out Benedict nodding frantically. "Mhm!" he hums in satisfaction. "Glow in the dark. Quite something, eh? It won't be as radiant with the lights outside in the parade, but the subtlety of it is the key — they'll have no choice but to focus on you and Icarus! You'll see that each plate is one of the separate provinces in Six. Have you found yours yet?"

     "Yeah," she breathes, running her hand along the plate etched with 'Vagary' in the corner.

Right on her heart.

     "Oh!" Gideon whispers in sentimental awe. He clasps a hand to his mouth as he recognises the significance of the placement. Vesper even hears Esperanza sniff back even more tears — she didn't think the girl could be any more fragile after her breakdown hours before.

"That was purely coincidental, I swear." Benedict chortles excitedly, as if everything is coming together.

     Vesper glances sheepishly at herself in the mirror again. There is something fierce about the armour that makes her feel protected, somehow. Maybe the psychological trickery of thinking she's invincible will stop her from keeling over with stage fright in the chariot.

     A strange silence has settled over the room now, like an incoming mist — she swivels around, expecting the clunk of her armour moving with her. But there is nothing. Just the air passing between the gaps, paper thin. Benedict raises his eyebrows, make-up creased between the folds in his forehead.

     "Are you ready?"

     Her heart begins to hammer in her chest, taking herself aback. "Yeah... yeah, I'm ready."

     Is she really?

     After pumping a triumphant fist in the air, her esteemed stylist begins to guide her through a labyrinth of corridors, each twist and turn tightening the knot in the pit of her stomach. Benedict's pace is a power walk on full throttle, Vesper barely keeping up behind him even with her reasonable speed. In a few moments, the faces she's seen on the TV recaps of the Reapings — separated by the anonymity of the screen — will be standing before her. In the flesh, knowing full well who both she and Icarus are, and most likely plotting to get them out of the way

     Here, Vesper realises, is where the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games begin.

     When they emerge from the corridors and out into the open, the vast openness of the space puts her at momentary ease. Exquisitely decorated chariots are lined up in order of their districts — One at the front, going all the way back to the anti-climactic Twelve — each with a different horse standing ready to pull them. With District Six in the middle of the procession, their chariot comes into view immediately in front of the entrance. Unfolding from either ends is only what Vesper can call organised chaos. Familiar faces from the Reapings, almost unrecognisable in their outfits, wandering around like headless chickens; an abundance of different stylists zipping around and shrieking to contend to their tributes; the horses whinnying in discomfort as they're herded in front of their chariots. Right off the bat, Vesper notices the boy from District Eight visibly sweating in what looks like a giant ball of yarn.

     Icarus is there, all aglow as he pats his hand fondly on Six's horse, which is a deep grey with dapples of white across its body. The young boy dons an almost identical outfit to Vesper's, the plates only fashioned in slightly different angles across his chest, shoulders and back. The same crescent moons of silver decorate the skin next to his eyes, even more striking on him against his deep brown complexion. As he sees her, Icarus lowers his hand from the horse and smiles diffidently at her.

"Hi," Vesper greets him, "Did they treat you well?"

"Who, my prep team?"

"Yeah."

Icarus rubs the back of his neck. "They're alright. They didn't have to do too much to me but... I dunno, they're kind of crazy." His gaze drifts over her shoulder, and she follows it to find it falling on a man who she mistakes for Benedict — only he's dressed in completely different colours of royal blue and purple. Their mannerisms identical, their voices carrying the same hyperactive rhythm... it's a wonder she's able to tell them apart. Then she makes the connection that it must his brother, Lysander — twin brother. No, more like clones. The only twins on her mind, both different in personality and yet so alike, are Cheyenne and Bolt. She can picture them right now — huddled with their parents around the television in their modest little room, pushing and shoving in their pettiness whilst their mother shushes them as the programme starts.

Only this time, they'll be watching their own friends on the screen.

To her surprise, it's an unaccompanied Dale who sways into sight, with no sign of Irma. In a brief moment of eye contact, she catches his shockingly enlarged pupils and doesn't even have to try guessing what he's been doing.

"Oh!" his voice shoots a couple of octaves higher than normal, as he gestures vaguely to them. "Don't you two look... the part?"

Vesper shrugs dismissively, but tries to smile — she wouldn't usually care this much if it weren't for the expectant Benedict and Lysander observing their works of art in the corner. "Hey, where's Irma?" she asks, still searching for their only sober mentor.

     "She's elsewhere," says Dale. "Sorting the sponsors and whatnot, because apparently I can't be trusted." He used air quotations on the last words with a defiant tilt of his head. It doesn't do any favours in putting Vesper or Icarus at ease. "Don't worry. If you miss her that much, we'll see each other again after the parade."

     "Yes! And you know exactly why you can't be trusted." Hermia squawks, appearing next to Dale within a flash. It seems wherever he goes, his nagging partner can't be far behind. "Don't worry, you two," she coos with an incredibly forced smile. "Everything's under control and it shall stay that way."

     Icarus nods uncertainly. A very enthusiastic Benedict bounds over to Vesper, standing at her side as he scans the cast array of tributes hovering by their chariots. "Oh, I think I've done well with you this year..." he remarks. "But of course, I'm biased!"

     Vesper has to agree she's thankful that he didn't turn them into someone as unfortunate as Dale and his district partner. There are certainly some unlucky cases surrounding them, just like District Eight — the tributes from Seven are unsurprisingly dressed as trees, and now that she takes a moment to observe, and in District Twelve they stand smeared with coal dust and wearing baggy overalls, looking miserable as ever.

     But equally, there are some more appealing pairs to be seen. District Ten, perhaps most surprisingly, showcases the stoic redhead she remembers from the Reapings unforgettably — he wears a cape of bear skin and some dark brown trousers, his eyes thick with jet black eyeliner and his hair more fiercely red than ever. A necklace with a shark's tooth lies on his bare chest with rippling muscles, being showcased to the entire of Panem. Vesper can guess exactly what angle his mentors and stylists are pushing him towards, but she can't say she sees the appeal herself.

     Districts One and Two, unsurprisingly, stand out in their grandeur. The luxurious tributes from One bedazzle spectators as they step onto their chariot in diamond-encrusted leotards with feathery headpieces, whilst Two's male and female dominate in tight-fitting suits that create the illusion of obsidian reflecting light.

     The two tributes from District Nine pass, as nervous and jittery as the other, and they catch Vesper's eye. They wear skin-coloured body suits with a fine beige net draped over each of them. But it's the decorations on the net that grab her attention — golden sheafs of wheat, shimmering. They are walking-talking tapestries.

     "I see you've got your eye on the tributes from Nine."

     She points to them and queries curiously, "What are those patterns on their dresses?"

     Fondly, Benedict interlocks his fingers into fists and rests his chin on his knuckles. "Those are odes to Greek mythology," he answers. "District Nine is quite religious, you see. Their faith is the reason you hardly see any of their tributes come home — they can't find it in them to kill, nor do they have the strength."

     A little taken aback by his well-informed honesty, Vesper blinks.

"I almost picked them, actually. When I was recruited for this job."

"So why did you pick District Six?"

Vesper can't possibly imagine why the two are even comparable. She imagines District Nine with rolling fields of grain, glowing golden in the sunlight. Harvesting in the great outdoors. Being at peace. And then she thinks of Six — overpopulated, overworked but underpaid. It's grimy, it's clogged with poorly executed industrialisation. She's certainly keen to hear his answer.

"The people." Benedict finally answers.

That's all she gets from him, before Hermia begins ushering them both onto the chariots even with their minutes to spare, since she insists that "Time flies twice as fast in the Capitol!" — and maybe she's right, because the Reaping already feels like a lifetime ago to Vesper. As she gets into her position on the chariot, feeling rather strange and with unstable ground under her feet, Icarus taps her shoulder.

"Yeah?"

Swallowing thickly, the boy stares down at the floor in what seems like shame. "I-I'm sorry about earlier."

"Earlier?" Vesper says, confused.

"You know... the whole thing with your mom."

Right. She had almost forgotten about it entirely. Not her mother, of course — every now and then it dawned on her again that this was one large journey of deja vu and it drove her crazy. But grudge-bearing had never been Vesper's forte. And with time moving twice as fast in the Capitol, she doesn't want to waste her numbered days on petty grievances.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Vesper reassures him. "Really." There's an undertone of pain in her words that she hadn't intended, and she pauses in the hopes to gloss it over. "We... we do what we have to do in this place. That's our best shot, right?"

Icarus suddenly seems ten times lighter, his shoulders dropping and his smile returning. It fades away moments afterwards, however, as he appears to catch a glimpse of something or someone behind her. His eyes grow wider like saucers as he draws a finger to point in that direction.

"I think..." he whispers, star struck. "I think that's Porter Millicent Tripp."

At the mere mention of the name Vesper turns, and surely enough she finds the aforementioned woman. Porter Millicent Tripp — undoubtedly the most widely renowned victor from their neighbour, District Five. She's instantly recognisable a mile off from the neck brace supporting her head and spine, a disabling back injury sustained in her Games that she somehow managed to own as an iconic image that Panem remembers her for. Vesper isn't one to idolise the victors like celebrities, but even for her there is something incredibly poignant about seeing Porter in person that touches her deep within.

And only a stone's throw away is an even more familiar face, that of Finnick Odair. She'd know him from a mile off — the sun-kissed skin, the dazzling grin, his sea-green eyes aglow even from this far away. All of the things that almost every girl in Panem goes weak at the knees for, including Cheyenne, but she just struggles to see it. He's talking to someone now, smile weakening slowly as he glares quizzically at the chariot. And that's when Vesper notices what he's staring at.

"Something's wrong with the chariot." she thinks aloud, catching Icarus's attention. She watches on as the escort for Four prances around in a panic, pinching the bridge of their nose as the tributes look down confusedly at the wheel. The wheel. In single file with the right wheels of the other chariots, it's clear with the naked eye that it's loose. Vesper can't think how anyone wouldn't notice.

"The wheel's loose, right?" asks Icarus after taking a peek himself.

Nodding in agreement, she drums her fingers in on the sides of the chariot with brewing frustration. If they would see the clear error, the wheel practically slumping — a shock to Vesper, if this really is the city where time flies twice as fast — then the fuss would be over. The more she stares at it, the more it really starts to tick her off.

And then with one prod of her finger, one of the stylists dislodges it further, causing their escort to throw a fit. It triggers a thread of calls for a mechanics team with little time for them to arrive before the parade starts.

"Oh, come on!" she groans animatedly. "You don't have to do that. It's— it's literally so— just... alright."

Enough is enough. Vesper hops down from her chariot, her ears muffling Hermia's demands for her to return with imaginary cotton. She does the same to ignore all the confused looks thrown her way as she jogs over, her armour alarmingly light on her body no matter how much she gets used to it.

There's a brief limbo between one moment the next, the team from District Four all exchanging equally puzzled glances over their visitor. "Are you lost, or something?" Finnick finally asks, genuinely curious but somehow still managing to ooze allure. Again, it takes a moment for Vesper to remember they're the same age, give or take a year.

She doesn't respond. Wordlessly, she executes exactly what she came here to do — first an attempt at tightening the wheel, fairly difficult without any tools to use. She stoops lower to inspect further and chuckles; like this is below any remotely difficult task she's ever had. With a swift kick of her leg, Vesper shoves the wheel back into place.

When no one says anything, too stunned to reply, she starts first. "The wheel," she gestures to her simplistic handiwork. "It was just a little loose. Nothing major."

Then there's a laugh from above — fruitful, hearty, and feminine — and she looks up to the girl who it came from. She remembers her name to be Coral from the Reapings, with her head of curly golden hair and full lips like rose petals. Coral and her partner wear tunics of fish scales, the light reflecting off them like a salmon diving through a stream.

"Thanks!" she smiles widely, cheeks rosy with appreciation. Vesper is taken slightly off guard by the warmth but manages a more cautious one back, as the boy next to her pokes his head round and also makes eye contact with her — for maybe a little too much longer than she would have liked... what was his name again? Levin?

Chorus suddenly fills the room; rich with choir ambience and drumrolls, the national anthem blares from outside the heavy doors, which are beginning to crack open with light as they are drawn apart.

"VESPERRR!"

Her feet move before she hears Hermia's wailing outcry, lost in the sheer volume of the anthem. There's no time to look her in the eye and face her wrath before she's herded into the chariot like cattle, skin-to-skin with Icarus. Ahead, District One have already started trotting out into the square. Instantly she's super-charged, like a loose wire exposed — spitting, unprotected. Three and Four are now leaving too. Her knuckles whiten with her iron grip onto the sides of the chariot, but even that isn't stable enough. Vesper helplessly looks over her shoulder past the District Seven tributes at Benedict, locking onto his eyes with a plea for help as the chariot starts trembling, the ground moving underneath their feet against her will. The only thing he offers her is a cheesy grin accompanied by an 'encouraging' thumbs up. Oh, great. But she refuses to tear her eyes away from Benedict, nor Dale or even Hermia, who watch on in varying degrees of anticipation. She doesn't stop until the darkness ebbs their faces away, and is replaced by the sudden burst of light that illuminates the stricken faces of the girl and boy from Seven behind. 

And then they're outside.

     The roar of the crowds is immense; the sight of them when she turns to face them is worse. Thousands upon thousands of faces packed onto either side in the stands, whooping and throwing handkerchiefs in the air with a manic enthusiasm. A flood of confetti, coins, even roses are tossed their way. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Their names carried somewhere in the chanting that freeze her to the spot with nerves, all wanting to get a good look at this year's fine tributes.

     Every second of it is the most terrifying experience she's ever had.

     They're on the screen now — blown up and shown live, a mirror image that she didn't ask for. The geometric plates on their armour illuminate as Benedict had promised, more understated than in the dressing rooms, but that's the beauty of it — it'll be enough to get people talking. Vesper sees her own face, clammy and hardened with distress. She's just thankful they can't see how hard she's shaking. And then there's Icarus; he's looking up at her, she notices.

     She manages to face him without falling off the chariot, the tiniest moving making her tremble with unsteadiness. Icarus meets her eyes. The boy seems surprisingly calm — if he's feeling wild with anxiety, then he's certainly not showing it, but nor is he waving ceremoniously to the crowds like the more confident tributes. He blinks, before smiling at her — it's small but incredibly reassuring. Vesper can't help but feel like she should be the one reassuring him, but in the heat of the moment finds herself accepting the gesture. Her tense muscles loosen, relaxing her lips into a mirrored expression, to which the crowd seems to scream louder for.

     Remember why you're doing this, she thinks to herself. For him.

     The rest of the ride she pulls herself up into better posture, hoping she appears strong enough on screen. She tries to focus on something else, anything else, eventually settling on a fixed point in the distance — the polished marble balcony where President Snow stands. He seems taller in person than she's seen on television before. He's a long way away, but even from here there's something snake-like about his squinted eyes, and that understated, slightly disconcerting smile under his trimmed white beard, pristine like the snow from which he takes his name.

During the entirety of his speech, Vesper can't fathom listening to it. As she looks around her, at the other teenagers varying in age who are decorated like ornaments for this twisted pageant, she gets the feeling of being trapped in a box. There's the outside — her life up until the point where her name was picked, her loved ones watching at home. And then there's the twenty-four youngsters that surround her.

It's us and them.

     Concluding the parade with a dramatic fanfare of the anthem once more, the chariots return to the stables where there's an undeniable buzz — both good and bad — emanating from every tribute. Vesper is the first to hop off their chariot the second the wheels stop moving, closely followed by Icarus. Her relief over planting her two feet in solid ground is soon replaced by a dread of confrontation, as she spots a flustered Hermia charging towards her.

"What were you thinking?!" she exclaims incredulously, slapping a hand to her own forehead.

"What d'you mean?"

"Running off like that!"

Vesper shakes her head, her patience with Hermia dwindling with every minute. "Oh c'mon," she grumbles, "I'm here now, aren't I?"

     "Do you know how disgraceful we could've looked if you hadn't showed up in time? Do you?"

     "Give it a rest, Hermia," Dale says from behind, his tone sounding bored. "You heard the kid. She's here now, and she did great."

"I did?" she asks.

"Yeah, you did. But I can only compare it to my own experience..."

      Pinching the bridge of her nose, Hermia drags out a long sigh which Vesper's pretty sure is intended only for dramatic effect. It still seems to relieve some of her rigidity for the time being, though. "You're right, Dale. Just... go and grab some refreshments, you two, or something. They're on the table over there."

     Vesper does so with pleasure. Icarus follows her closely behind like a dog with his owner, looking up doe-eyed at the other tributes who tower over him — not always in height, but always in strength and age. They reach a small, plastic table set up in the corner, the clusters of people parting to reveal baskets of crackers and transparent cups of water.

She lunges for a cracker, almost knocking the snivelling boy from District Five onto his feet. The salt on her tongue puts her at ease, her fingers still tingling from adrenaline, everything tingling. But for the first time, she's not so sure she likes this kind of adrenaline. It's different from the thrilling feeling she gets when she's running along the train tracks, racing with her friends.

Icarus grabs a cracker for himself and nibbles the side of it. "Mmm," he says. "I needed this."

"Me too, I'm starving."

"But you're always hungry!" he retorts.

"See, that's my master tactic." says Vesper, tapping her temple mockingly. "I'm gonna stuff myself so full of food that it's literally impossible for me to starve in the arena."

Icarus chuckles again, this time a little more weakly. Perhaps because he's slowly realising the reality he's in, Vesper imagines. Suddenly she notices a familiar face popping up behind his shoulder — a pair of intensely blue eyes like she's never seen before, framed by a pale complexion with flecks of freckles and a head of short ginger curls. The eyes are even more striking in person, even more difficult to look away from. They're almost hypnotic. The girl rocks back and forth on her heels, hands behind her back as she grins a Cheshire Cat smile behind him.

Vesper swallows her mouthful, managing a little smirk herself. "Hey," she nods to her, "I think you have a visitor."

He hesitates for a moment, his chewing slowing down. Then he turns around to see the girl, who instantly gives them both a good-natured wave. It occurs to Vesper that she's the girl from District Three — entirely unforgettable. They seem to have fashioned Three's tributes as walking televisions this year, as she wears a large box over her torso, painted mint green with a thick layer of pink glitter on the front to represent the screen. To top it off, there's a headpiece with pom-poms attached to springs. It looks absolutely ridiculous, and Vesper knows they'll be the laughing stock of tonight — still, this girl still manages to pull it off and even own it.

     "I just wanted to say y'guys looked great tonight." she says, skipping through her words as though she's skim-reading them.

     "Uh, thanks..." Icarus responds, scratching the back of his head. He licks his lips as his eyes flicker up to the dancing pom-poms above her head. "I... like your little pom-poms?"

     The girl gives her head a little shake to make them bounce even more vigorously. "I like 'em too. And I don't mind looking a lil' funny, to be honest. I wouldn't want all the press that poor guy's gonna get after this."

She turns around to look over at Talon from District Ten, standing alone whilst drinking a cup of water. He glances over at the girl from One, Emerald, who's giggling and batting her eyelashes at him like it's a sport — this only causes him to shuffle away further, darting his gaze downwards into the bottom of his cup as he takes an awkward sip. Far behind him, wandering around aimlessly, Vesper notices the boy who must be Telle's district partner. He's wearing the same laughable outfit as she is, only he appears far more depressed and mortified by his predicament. She's about to ask his name when she beats her to it.

"That's my district partner, Huxley." she says. "And I'm Telle. Like the word but with E."

"We know," says Vesper.

"Well hi, Telle with an E." Icarus replies warmly, ignoring her comment.

Telle laughs once more before swivelling around to face Huxley. He gives her a look with pained eyes that screams, 'Get over here before I embarrass myself!'. "Alright, I'd better go. Think Huxley's lookin' a little lonely. See y'guys later!"

"See ya..."

Vesper waits until the girl is far from hearing distance, when they're walking back to Hermia and Dale to leave, before she nudges Icarus jokingly in the rib. He flinches and furrows his eyebrows at her. "Hey!" he cries. "That hurt."

"What was that?"

"What do you mean?"

She clears her throat and mimics his lingering smile. "'Hi, Telle with an E...'"

"Stop! I— I didn't mean it... like that." Icarus mumbles sheepishly.

"I didn't think you did. I just thought you looked like an idiot, that's all."

He blinks at her, narrowing his eyes. "Gee, thanks Vesper. I'll go to you next time I need a pick-me-up."

"You're starting to sound like Bolt."

"Am not!"

"Moan, moan, moan..."

"No, I'm not, because at least I have a reason to— oof!"

A hard shoulder shoves Icarus roughly to the side, the figure passing on without any acknowledgement. Icarus staggers a few step backwards and into the side of the girl from Four, who yelps and jumps back. Vesper knows from the chorus of sniggering wafting her way from the culprit, that this was entirely deliberate.

Jaw clenched, she reaches forward and taps the boy's shoulder whilst he's still in arm's reach — she realises now that it's the District Two male, the sour face instantly recognisable as he stares daggers at her. "Hey!" she growls. "Watch where you're going."

"How about you watch it?" he hisses back.

Ripping his shoulder from her light grip, Boaz turns, seething with rage after what was only a small encounter. Something about his entitled aura and his unjustified anger towards anything is contagious, for it spreads like hot flushes through Vesper's body too, blood boiling. She makes a mental note to kill him first when she gets the chance.

Then Vesper stops dead in her tracks.

It's the moment she feels the real shift from human to tribute. When she looks around, she can't see new faces to acquaint herself with like Icarus can — only the faces of people who are her threats. Trust no one, for they will only hurt them both. But what scares her most is how easy it was to resort to such a mindset. It's almost reflexive, the simplicity of wishing she could slit Boaz's throat open the first chance she got. But most of all, it's the concept that an irrational spurt of hatred in passing could easily come true. Because if she tries hard enough, she could do it. Vesper could kill him.

And she doesn't even know if she would feel a thing.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

A/N;

so... it's been a hot minute, but i'm back!! (kinda?) a lot was happening in this chapter, many important characters introduced and many significant events too. i hope it was worth the wait! if you're wondering who i'd cast as vesper's prep team, here it is (also let me know who you'd imagined, i'm curious to hear!):

updates will probably be slower from now on, although i'm going to try my best to figure out some sort of routine. i started college at the beginning of september, and the settling in process has been WILD – the increased workload plus the stress over covid-19 safety has left me feeling really tired, as well as being occupied with my work. however i'm slowly but surely adjusting, and my inspiration to write is still very much in tact, so here's hoping! but yeah, just a pre-warning, don't expect really frequent updates. they'll be very sporadic from now on.

also, one more thing: the description of district nine and their religious background is only brief in this chapter, but to give some credit it is 100% inspired by Iydiamartin and her hunger games fic named 'fragments' — it's PHENOMENAL, she's so talented and you have to read it when you get the chance! she really brings district nine to life in it.

please leave a comment if you can — votes are great, but feedback from my readers in any shape or form (as long as it's polite) is 10x more valuable because i love to hear what you guys think!

[ published: 16th september, 2020 ]

— Imogen