A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Makeover - Apollo

"I was only joking," huffs the one called Bree.

"You knew she was upset."

I wonder if I could sneak out while they're arguing. It's my usual way of dealing with fans who are somehow not willing to be distracted by Merc and Palla and who keep trying to talk to me. Perhaps I could get all the way out of the building before they noticed. Other people's families are so not my scene. Things are much easier when there's only one of you and you don't have to try and get along with people.

Besides, that's what drummers are for.

Ba-dum tish.

A large, firm hand grabs my shoulder and I find myself being spun around to face the older woman. Up close it's obvious that she has at least ten years on the other three - the lines around the throat and eyes are key - and her eyes are a natural green-grey, only slightly enhanced by her makeup. Unsurprisingly, her color scheme is the most subdued; brown and green. She's too old to be a 'Scene fan. What will the band do without me? Will they find another bass man?

"Sneaking off, Apollo?"

I shrug her hand away and look at the floor, waiting for her to leave me alone. Instead she propels me through to another room where my feet give off metallic echoes. Curious, I raise my eyes and look around.

I would have expected the tribute styling room to be like some cushy salon, or at worst a dressing room. One of those ones like they have at the Venue, since the Tribute Tower gets nothing but the best, one of those ones with your own en suite and carpets so thick that your feet sink into them and with the walls that can be set to make it seem as though you're in the center of the crowd and yet all on your own, which is bliss. Just the music and the atmosphere, none of the people.

I was certainly not expecting this. My first thought is that it looks - and smells - like a laboratory. Most of it is empty space. It is illuminated in pure white light originating from concentric circles set into the ceiling and bouncing from metallic walls. In the middle of it is a square of spotless white shelving piled with all sorts of colorful little bottles. This box within a room is arranged around what looks like a dentist's chair.

I'm Capitol and I find this bizarre. Tributes from the districts must have been terrified.

Actually, I should be terrified. I'm going into the arena. This is just the opening riff, setting the base for what happens in the rest of the song, and so far it isn't pleasant. Contrapuntal notes jarring against each other, not quite painful and yet deeply unsettling. This is a situation that I never predicted and I don't know how to react. And I've only got three days to decide how.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, the girls direct me to the chair in the box. I can't say I'm enthusiastic to go but I don't resist. What good will that do? As I settle onto the disorientatingly comfortable chair and lie back, steeling myself for my careful artfully scruffy bass-player look to be destroyed, something occurs to me.

"You're Capitol."

Morgana/Ganna leans over me and giggles, her lilac curls tickling my neck. "Of course we are! You don't think they'd let the districts handle this part of things, would you?"

She has an amethyst - fake? - set into her upper incisor. I try not to stare at it but in my imagination it winks as she talks. Normally the insane fans don't get this close and I cast around for her auntie to drag her off or something, but it isn't necessary. She dabs something on my cheeks and backs away, letting the red-and-mauve one take over. This one pulls at my hair, pulls a face and immediately starts tugging a comb through it. I grit my teeth. I spent ages over my look. Okay, not quite ages - the music was more important - but long enough that this feels like some twisted form of torture cooked up by the districts; it feels like they're taking me apart before they force me to entertain them.