In Calypso's mind, the Capitol was half her home. While she hadn't visited since her parents brought her as a baby, she knew her mother had once called it home. In a way, she felt closer to the lost woman here than she ever did in Five after she disappeared. It had been so sudden, and her father had never much spoken of it again. At least here, she could learn more about how she might've lived, who she might've been.
Her first taste of it came in the form of three funny characters: her prep team. With each tear of a wax strip on her skin, or violent tug of a brush through her hair, she grew more and more irritated with it all. It wasn't even like she was in bad shape. She was convinced a single eyebrow hair out of place would have been enough to push them over the edge.
It was only when another person entered that the three excused themselves. Calypso was left in the prep room, dressed in a short grey robe while the new man's eyes bore into her. His robes were bright with reds, oranges and deep blues, all lined with gold trim and complemented with silver body paint. One hand on his hip and the other lazily caressing the air, he raised an eyebrow and regarded the girl with a hum.
"Creep," was the only thing she thought to say. It was a scrutinising gaze, and she hated being exposed. Just having one person look at her so intently made her realise how sheltered she'd been her whole life, so much that she was already growing tired of it all.
"Actually, if you look at my papers, the official job title is 'stylist'," he countered, a little giggle decorating the end of his sentence. While it didn't make her feel that much better, at least it gave the man an excuse.
"Sorry," she replied sheepishly. "Everything I've seen and heard about stylists, they're usually... younger."
"Oh, honey, screech loud enough and they'll be too overwhelmed to notice your age," he joked. Or at least, Calypso thought he joked. He had a certain tone of voice that was both monotone and expressive, both humorous and serious. He was an enigma for certain, and she found herself growing to like him quickly. With his index fingers, Vega pushed the sides of his eyes upwards. "Besides, I'm enough of a pioneer that wrinkles will be in fashion soon enough. Mark my words, young beauty! They don't call me Vega the Visionary for nothing."
"Oh," she replied. "Is that your name?"
"Legally and irrevocably," Vega replied, choosing not to elaborate further. Instead, he circled Calypso as if assessing her form. "I'm a visionary, and you're the vision. I'm thinking lights! Flashes! Sparks! Everything that screams power, power, power! Flash! Bang! Pow!"
"Can you elaborate?" she asked, thoroughly confused. Calypso's social skills were bad enough as it was, isolated from most in District Five all her life, and the flamboyance of the Capitol folk wasn't making it any easier on her.
"Absolutely not."
Two hours, it took, to complete the vision. Vega insisted he do everything himself, every stroke of makeup and every tiny alteration to the fabric of her dress down to how it folded over itself. It was a stunning gown, mostly white with black and silver detailing done in wire that matched a headpiece threading in and out of her braided blonde hair. Somehow, the entire garment glowed, with brighter streaks of light flowing throughout.
"Well, I fear I've made you look like a bioluminescent jellyfish," he commented, though his raised eyebrows pointed wholly towards pride. "Go forth and sting them with your good looks, my sweet sea creature."
With that, Vega shooed Calypso out the door, towards the outdoors where chariots awaited her and her fellow tributes. For the first time, she was able to see them in the flesh. It was a year where most were on the older side of the spectrum, making the competition more steep. There was the odd exception: a twelve year old girl from Eight and two thirteen year olds from Twelve that wouldn't last long at all.
Then, of course, there was fourteen year old Maisie Odair. She herself was a vision in her blue dress made of tulle, replicating waves that were topped with a seafoam inspired cape. She was innocence and extravagance wrapped up in one. Calypso couldn't help herself.
"Hello," she greeted gently, capturing the young girl's attention. Her stare was curious and expectant, but not in the least bit afraid. Clearly her older brother had already been mentoring her well, because she carried herself with an air of authority far beyond necessary for a fourteen year old. Then again, it suited the situation perfectly. "I'm-"
"Calypso Silva," Maisie finished the sentence. Almost immediately, her expression softened, as if she'd mentally assessed Calypso and not deemed her a threat. "You're like me, a little bit. I was sad when I saw you were picked. Finnick told me about you and you seem nice. You don't deserve this."
"He did?" the older girl questioned with a raise of her eyebrow. "And what does he know about me?"
"Well, he goes to the Capitol a lot," she replied openly. "I don't know why, but he has a lot of friends there. He knows a lot of things. They must talk about you there, since your daughter the of a victor and former aristocrat. Priya Feather, right?"
"Aristocrat. That's a big word coming from you, Mais," a smooth yet reverberating voice joined the conversation. As if from thin air, Finnick Odair glided to his sister's side, standing over a foot taller than her, and probably Calypso too. "I'm Finnick. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Silva."
Ever the charmer, Finnick took Calypso's hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing just above the rings on her fingers. All the while, he kept his eyes on hers. A power move, she discerned, designed to make her swoon while he tried to suss her out. She almost did.
"I know who you are, considering the impression you've left since your games," she said, carefully retracting her hand. "Anyways, I should get going."
"Leaving as soon as I show up? Ouch."
"Don't take it personally," Calypso sighed. Finnick Odair was dangerous, she could already tell. Even out of the arena, it was certain he was going to exert every influence to ensure his sister made it out alive. That meant she was just a roadblock in his way. "We all have to be ready soon. But I'm sure our paths will cross again. It was good meeting you."
"Calypso, wait," Maisie blurted out, her slender fingers gripping the older girl's forearm before she could wander off. "I really like your dress."
"Thanks," she replied, lips twitching upwards into a tiny smile. It didn't escape her notice that the same happened not to Maisie but to Finnick. "I really love yours."
By the time Calypso made it to her and Payton's chariot, the boy and their two mentors were already waiting. He was dressed in similar garb to her, a long glowing robe atop a more muted suit. It was Monica who gave the girl a wide smile as she approached, regarding the dress with nothing less than pure fascination.
"Oh, how beautiful!" Monica squealed, hands running softly over the fabric of the dress as though she were touching the most precious thing on earth. "Vega the Visionary truly does live up to his name. You are both stunning specimens."
"Lovely," Porter remarked simply, though that enthusiasm didn't quite reach her eyes. For all the glow they had, each pair of eyes glancing between each other was dark, none more so than Roman's. "Roman? She's lovely."
"She is," he replied, clearing his throat as he spoke. Yes, she was beautiful. A Capitol prize waiting to bleed. An angel waiting to fall. He wanted to cry, but he would never. "You look amazing, honey. But let's talk image. The two of you should smile, wave, blow kisses. Be approachable and charming. However afraid or angry you feel, don't show it. Now is the time for you to be performers, not fighters."
Payton's gaze turned to Calypso, observing the way her lips turned down almost imperceptibly. She was good at hiding her feelings, but he was good at reading girls. He was good enough that he knew how to break or heal a heart within a second. Whether or not Calypso would be one of his targets, he wasn't quite sure. What with her father being his mentor, the odds were severely stacked against him. He didn't want to die.
"Perhaps we should present a united front," he suggested, clasping his hands behind his back politely. At least if they were working together, the scales would be a bit more evenly balanced. "Maybe we could hold hands as we go."
And who was Roman Silva to deny the boy he was mentoring? Who were any of them to deny a boy from their own district? Victors were better off in life in some ways, and not in others, but even tainted by the Capitol they were not the same kind of monsters.
"I don't know," Calypso replied. "We don't know if we're allies or not."
"Let them think we are," he countered, taking the girl's hand and pulling her up onto the chariot. Porter's hand went to Calypso's back, supporting her weight. "Maybe we could be."
"A discussion for later," the older woman cut in. Her voice was steady, comforting, but as firm as a mother to her arguing children. "It's time for you to go. Look ahead. Look proud. Look powerful."
The advice felt important, yet so incredibly vague. Calypso didn't know how to appear powerful. Daughter of a victor or not, she was not strong like her father or brave like her aunt Millie. As the chariot rolled out from the tunnel, light flooded her vision, blinding and painful. Payton grinned as though he were powered by it, one hand extending to the air while the other reached out for hers. She did not pull away, but could not bring herself to smile and wave.
There'd been a time a few years ago when Porter had lived with the Silvas after the loss of Priya. She'd never much talked about her own trauma, but Calypso had witnessed it on the first night when she'd been awoken by a cry so loud she'd thought someone was dying. She ran to the dark room, seeing the trembling figure of a worn woman, whispering and begging for death to come. What little light was there bounced off the metal construct of her false spine melting into skin and bone. Broken, was the only way she could've been described, yet holding herself together in all and any ways possible. Such was the way of any victor.
The crowds screamed for the tributes now, and suddenly it was like she was back there, hearing those screams that rattled the entire house, that gave Calypso her first taste of the horror wrought by the games. Unintentionally, her grip on Payton's hands tightened until her nails dug into his skin. She did not smile. She grit her teeth and locked eyes with the far off President Snow, a blotch of stark white against the infinite grey that lay ahead. Closer and closer they moved, until they came to a stop below like loyal subjects beholding their king.
The crowd quietened, and a moment of silence rang through the air.
"Welcome," the old man greeted his people with equal authority and warmth. He was too far away for any of them to truly notice, but Calypso was convinced he was smiling down upon his tributes satisfactorily. "Welcome, tributes. We welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice."
Sacrifice. In an instant, she longed to gouge his eyes out with her new, flashy heels, to hear them squelch and the blood squirt, and then salute his sacrifice. The thought made her sick almost as fast as it made her smile. The ruinous feeling had come from nowhere, and yet she could not quash it like she could with her fear.
"And we wish you happy Hunger Games," Snow continued. His eyes shifted to those two girls whose names and faces he knew all too well, girls he'd been watching from the very moment their families joined the ranks of his troubled and troubling victors. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."
Odds be damned. Calypso was going to win.