Apollo
The women crowded in front of me look nervous and I don't blame them. Cadence allowed herself to be led away easily enough but I'm not a soft touch and judging by the way they hang back before approaching me, they know that.
As usual, there's four of them. The designer and the three stylists. In this case they look like a family; they all have the same wide mouths and high foreheads. Apart from that there are no similarities between them whatsoever. Each seems to have settled on their own color scheme that stands out more than the actual clothes that they're wearing and which, even for Platinum, where they must be from, is a bit much. You wouldn't find such tackiness in Amethyst.
Scratch that. You would, just not anywhere around me. Give me my favorite black skinnies and black satin any day.
After a hushed pause in which I stare at them and they stare at me, the smallest inches forwards. She's dressed in a sickening combination of sky blue and baby pink and her eyes are wide and shimmer unnaturally. "Apollo?"
I nod.
"Apollo...Lyric?"
"If I'm not then they've got the wrong guy."
The yellow-and-purple one and the red-and-mauve one titter behind their hands as if I've said something hilariously funny. These two look my age or at the very least hardly any older. They must have been in the reaping bowl yesterday - what would have happened if they'd been reaped? Does this family supply a constant stream of eye-watering stylists? Do they all have to wear sunglasses inside?
"It is you!" She reaches out for my cuff and then snatches her hand away. "I always thought...okay, we always thought," she amends, when the yellow-and-purple one coughs, "well, we love Not My Scene, okay? Like, really love them. We've got all your chips! Like, Ganna there - she's Morgana only don't call her that -"
"He can call me anything he likes."
Yikes. She even flutters her eyelashes with it. I consider telling her that she's not my type but I've met girls like this before; it doesn't make a difference. So I stay quiet while the younger one keeps on chattering. The more they chatter, the less input I'll have to make and the less time they'll spend fussing with my hair.
"Like I was saying, like, Ganna collects every picture of you from the holos, right? She's got them all plastered up around her walls and...anyway. And Brianne has been to every single one of your gigs, like, but I wasn't allowed to go to the last one because...oh! How thoughtless of me. I'm scatty."
I nod, almost remarking that that is self-evident. She chuckles but can't meet my eyes. "No, I mean...it's my name, like. My name is Scatty."
"Scatty," I repeat, slowly, wondering what kind of monsters her parents are. She flushes. Not that it's easy to tell under the porcelain foundation, but it's definitely there, a shadow blooming on her cheeks.
"Ye-es. Scatty. You can laugh if you want, like, I won't mind."
"Only because it's him!"
She turns on the red-and-mauve one and for a second it doesn't matter that she's a head shorter than them because she practically explodes with fury. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, Bree! Just because Mother hadn't run out of imagination when she gave birth to you and just because you've got a thing for that what's-his-face with the pig nose doesn't mean you can embarrass me like this, alright?"
The older two giggle to themselves again and Scatty bursts into tears and sweeps from the room, trailing curses. The remaining woman sighs.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, Apollo," she says. Her voice is soft and gentle and patient and she's just watched the whole scene without blinking. "My nieces can be cruel to each other."
"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.
"I'm Bree," she says. Her voice is deeper than the other two. "Brianne. Not, like Ganna will try and tell you, Brian."
"Never crossed my mind," I say, putting a stop to my search for any stubble on her chin. She frowns at my hair.
"It's hair," I offer. "All mine. And that's its natural color, before you ask."
"So that'll be why Merc and Palla do all the public stuff. Your charm will need some serious work before the interviews. Ganna, pass me the creme."
"Which one?"
She tugs at one of my curls enough for it to hurt. "Better make that De-tangle Delux with Extra Smoothing. And heat up the curlers." She turns back to me. "Sorry about Scatty. Ganna and Victorina and I were all Games stylists before, you know. We worked for Three, it wasn't exactly glamorous. But Scatty is new and she's not up to it yet; she's your biggest fan, in case you hadn't noticed. Ganna didn't think that that would cause problems."
"Ganna thought it might be nice for her to meet her hero while she still has the chance," the girl in question retorts.
While she still has the chance. Wonderful.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
"Girls, if you can't behave you can leave. This isn't a district-job and I'm sure I can do it on my own if you two are just going to scare him."
When did I close my eyes? The light pierces through my eyelids and to ignore the feeling of them fussing over my body and to distract myself from the endless darkness starting to loom on the horizon I listen to what they're saying. It's a lyricist thing. Some of your best lyrics can come from the smallest things. Not that any of my lyrics will be any good now, unless...
I could do it. It's not that I can't sing - Pella is always telling me I can sing - but I don't want to. All those people staring at you, part of them looking out for you messing up...the idea makes my palms clammy. But when there's nothing to lose but your life and that's dubious anyway, then why not?
I just need to think of something to sing.
***
Horses stink. Even these ones, which seem to have been dipped in pomade and which shine under the lights. The effect is nauseating; underneath the myriad of perfumes and scents and gels and bodywashes runs an earthy, unpleasant smell that has to be horse shit. It's the same with the sound. Below the shrieking and the shouting and the chatter runs the deep throb of fear. The passage is undecorated - they haven't even got rid of the bullet holes in the walls - and the chariots are surrounded by stylists and tributes, dressed in the most amazing outfits. You wouldn't think we were on short rations, looking at this. As Victorina and her nieces frogmarch me alongside Cadence and her team I spot a boy in a smart red suit with a judge's wig perched rakishly on his head, a tiny dark-skinned girl hidden away behind a twisted concoction that looks like someone dropped a piece of contemporary architecture on her head, a girl - at least, I hope it's a girl - in a Peacekeeper outfit with a low neck and a floor-length skirt slashed up the side and a boy partially covered in what appear to be pecunia notes. I've seen all these people on screen but they look so different dolled up like this that I wouldn't be able to recognise them if I'd known them my whole life.
This is good. It makes me feel like less of a prat.
Up ahead, a cameraman is following the Silver girl around. She totters uncertainly in her dress, which is silver and looped with movie reels and has been pinched in around the waist and ankles, and her hair is falling out of its crisp curled coif. No sooner has one of the rolls tumbled down than she's surrounded by a flock of feathery stylists chirping to themselves. She rolls her eyes skywards and assumes and expression of eternal patience. The cameraman says something to her and rocks with laughter. She snaps something. He shrugs and turns away and spots us watching.
I duck behind Victorina only to find that she's moved and is petting one of the horses. There's no escape. The cameraman waves and bounds up to me.
As he gets closer his face gets younger, his cheekbones melting into puppy fat and his grin widening. He looks about fourteen, too young to be a cameraman, and so he must be one of my fellow tributes. Silver. My memory throws up a guy on the stage grinning as if his life depended on it. The stats recap today said he was sixteen, older than he looks. His makeup team did a good job. From a distance he almost looks grown up. Up close, he's sweating slightly but his smile doesn't falter. He grabs my hand and shakes it enthusiastically, the camera balancing on his shoulder.
"Hallo!" he booms. "Dustrio Hybrid here, but you can call me Dusty if you prefer." Oh, one of those. Brilliant. Obviously he doesn't see the look on my face because he continues. "And you are Apollo Lyric, the guitar man for that band, correct?"
"Bass. I play bass," I snap. Why does everybody go straight for the guitar? "It's like the guitar only nobody gives a shit what you're playing." It's my best 'go and leave me alone' voice but it just bounces off his cheery demeanor. I have to wonder if he knows where he is and why.
"This is quite a set-up here, isn't it?" He hoists the camera around as if he's actually filming it all. "I'd love to get the chance to edit this, it'd be amazing. A nice shot of those bullet holes, cut direct to an eye - dark for preference so the contrast is nice and striking - and then zoom out and dolly along..."
I nod, thinking that maybe if I act as if I'm listening but not interested then he'll get the hint. It doesn't work. He gives me an overly-friendly punch in the arm and grins, blue eyes sparkling. Now that the camera is no longer pointed at me I can pay attention to what he's wearing, but it's nothing special. Clearly the camera is the focal point of that outfit - typical Silver. Dustrio seems perfectly happy with the situation. When he's talking his gaze roves around and his thoughts seem to follow it. It's as if there's no filter between his brain and his mouth.
"You look fab, by the way," he says. "Everybody looks brilliant! The insider's story; wouldn't that be great? We see the Games so much but we never really see the tributes' story from in here, do we? Thalia would be keen, she's my sector partner and she's in re-enactments, did you ever see any of those? No? Me neither, could never afford to go. I hear it's fun, though. She's in a bit of a bad mood right now, she doesn't like being dressed up...doesn't she look like a babe, though? I was just saying to her..."
"Excuse me?"
I would never have imagined being happy to see Ganna. But for a tiny second she looks like the most beautiful girl in the world, because she appears between Dustrio and I, firmly and politely pushing him back towards his people. He tips his shiny silver hat to her, revealing shaven sides and a small mop of dusky brown curls, and she nods in reply.
"There are a few minutes left. Please stay with your own sector. Apollo doesn't like his fans fussing over him."
I could have sworn that she winks at me.
While he's otherwise occupied and she's busy dealing with him, I take the opportunity to get out of reach of any people and climb up into the chariot. Cadence is already up there, a serene smile fixed into place. I ignore her and she ignores me. Ganna, having seen off Dustrio, spins around looking for me and I mouth thanks to her. She gives me a thumbs-up and a cloying smile.
Let's get this show on the road, then.