Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Lambs To The Slaughter - Tribute Parade

As usual, District One look stunning.  It’s the district all the stylists vie for all year, bribing, plotting and planning for their chance to dress the District of Luxury.  Unfortunately for the ones who won this year, one of their tributes hasn’t quite been as cooperative as the other. 

Ruby sits slouched in the chariot, flexing her hand.  It hurts, just a little, from when she punched that stupid smile off her stylist's painted face.  It had been immensely satisfying though, and it looked like she’d knocked a tooth loose.  Beside her, Austen looks relaxed, smiling calmly as he watches the gate rise up in front of them.  This year, the stylists have gone for a simpler look, but that doesn’t mean it’s not stunning.  Even Ruby’s scowl can’t ruin the effect, or the fact that her hair is still short and mousy, she’s ‘persuaded’ her stylists that fake hair wasn’t the way to go. 

Their costumes are made of white fabric, and are skin tight – Austen’s a white bodysuit, Ruby’s a strapless dress that ends at her knees.  She knows they’ve padded out the bust a ridiculous amount, but logic tells her that if it gets her more sponsors, it will be all worth it.  The fabric is covered in jewels, scattered thickly across the material, and they glitter and sparkle whenever light falls on them.  Even Austen had to admit they looked pretty good, although he wasn’t sure about the jewels the stylists had glued to his cheeks, a twisting trail of reds and blues. The blues look a little too much like tears for his liking. His hair is gelled into a polished looking coif; he’d drawn the line at the ridiculous looking net of jewels they’d tried to crown him with.  Ruby lost that argument, and so her head glitters just like her body. 

Austin smiles and waves at the roaring crowd while, under instruction from their giddy mentor, Ruby tries to look a little less hostile.  They’ve been told to stand up when District Six is announced, with the stylist actually threatening Ruby with bodily harm if she doesn’t. Austen wonders why for a moment, but the noise of the crowd is so overwhelmingly in favour of these two that it's hard to think of anything else.

Unbelievably, the roaring of the crowd intensifies as the District Two chariot rolls out onto the roadway, the twins sitting straight and tall inside.  Their stylist - being twins, they only got one - has been digging around the select remaining history books and they’re dressed like someone called the Romans. They look stunning and appropriately warlike; it matches those dangerous sounding speeches they’d both made at their reaping. Basilius feels slightly uncomfortable in the constricting silver armour that encases his torso, and the helmet is hot and tight, but he looks amazing, so it’s worth it.  He just wishes those Romans hadn’t worn skirts, he feels painfully exposed as the wind breezes about. And they're hideously impractical, on top of that. Vasilissa stares straight ahead, her eyes narrowed dangerously, although the golden helmet she’s wearing stops that from being immediately apparent.  She wishes the crest on the armour was that of District Two, rather than the Capitol eagle, but that wasn’t important.  The crowd love her, with her form fitting armour, glittering with jewels and silver buckles. 

District Three is announced and there’s a collective gasp from the crowd.  More than a few of the ladies scream.  There’s a stunned pause, then the crowd erupts in a storm of whoops and screams of appreciation.  Connor and Abigail don’t really notice.  They’re dressed in plain, reassuringly familiar workers overalls, their faces powdered white, with huge dark eyes that seem to start from their sockets, thanks to the clever use of black mascara and eyeliner.  Their hair has been teased and sprayed until it stands up on their heads, giving the impression that the two tributes have just been zapped with a colossal electric current.  But it’s not the costumes the crowd are cheering for – it’s the huge blinding arcs of electricity that jump and spark high into the air, crackling from the chariot to the tributes in a twisting display of light.  Connor grips the edge of the seat, not daring to move.  Beside him, Abigail is also petrified; the stylists assured them it’s not real, and it can’t hurt them, but it looks and feels horribly like it could.  She glances at him, and gives him a little smile, her face lit up garishly in the light of the sparks that arc around her. This shouldn't bother her. She's from the district of electricity. But they only deal with it in the wires, and to be surrounded by the crackling power is disorientating and frightening.