We fly into the open air of the Capitol and I gaze upon our crowd of adoring fans. For a moment, I'm caught off guard. I've never seen so many colors together this way; blues, purples, reds and yellows. It's a far cry from the muted grays and stoneware of District 2.
I quickly banish the thought, kicking myself for thinking something so absentminded. Who am I, some outer District fool? I come to stand beside Cato, who flashes his dashing grin and waves. I'm sure all the Capitol girls are swooning over him right now. In comparison, I must seem like a mouse beside him. Surely none of the fancy boys in the Capitol will be lusting over me; Not when there are people like Cato and...Glimmer.
But I still hear them screaming my name. It comes as a bit of a shock. I suppose they liked watching me beat Zetta at the reaping.
We eventually pull into a station in the breadth of the main entrance to the main avenue of the Capitol. Me and Cato are unloaded from the train, corralled into separate rooms, and laid on sterile beds.
Capitol attendants bustle around me, stripping me of my reaping dress and slathering some kind of weird shit all over me. I don't retaliate, but I hiss at one of the attendants as she accidentally pinches me. She fusses and squeals away. I take some satisfaction out of toying with the strange Capitol people, actually. Maybe it's just my way of dealing with the discomfort of the whole situation. They rip the hair from my body, pluck my eyebrows, put gallons of odd fluids on me, scrub the soles of my feet and cut my nails.
One of the attendants (I don't bother to learn their names) holds my left hand up to the strobe light and tuts lightly. "My, that is just ghastly. all that soot under your nails. and, oh, those callouses." she shakes her head as if it's something unheard of.
I rip my hand away from her. "from training," I mutter.
"I'm not done!" she shouts indignantly, her powdery blue features coming into what I could only describe as a glare. Really, I don't know what it is. her face is so altered that the muscles don't move the way they should.
she then grabs my wrist. "and what is THIS?" she shrieks, and then I realize sharply what she's looking at. I try to jerk away from her, but she clamps onto me with an iron grip. "These are certainly not from training."
"Say one more thing and I'll rip your face off with my bare hands," I snarl, and the attendant finally lets me go with a sharp sound of fear.
She scuttles off. I rub my wrist, and the. I look down, observing row after row of cuts. Part of me wants to scream some more and throw a bunch of stuff, but I hold it in. I have to keep my composure here.
Eventually, I allow one of the Capitol people to rub an ointment into my skin which immediately fades the cuts to scars. I watch them, staring with veiled amazement as the skin seems to heal right before my eyes.
Once I've been battered up enough by the attendants, they leave the room.
The person who takes their place is a stocky, well-fed woman whose skin has been dyed a shade of deep navy blue. her eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair are all start white in comparison. She looks freakish, but something about the look fascinates me. She reminds me of the Mountain Creature, a kids tale back in 2.
"Hello. I'm Zora," she says in a deep husky voice. "I must say, you're smaller than the ones District 2 usually churns out."
I bite my lip. Why does everyone have to insult my appearance somehow?
She squeezes my arms, examines my collarbones, runs a hand through my hair.
"You look strong, however." she nods. "I planned this costume ahead of time. I think we can still make it work."
I dip my head, not saying anything. Honestly, I could be more nervous about the chariot costume. District 2 has been allowed the grace of not looking completely ridiculous in whatever costume we're given. I wonder if Zora's been the stylist for the past games too. I recall one year where our tributes were wrapped in white tunics and splattered with blood. It had stunned the crowd and people had gone wild for it.
She goes into a small storage closet and pulls out something gold. Gold. Gold is good.
The first order of business involves Zora fitting a bra to my chest and tossing me some underwear, which I'm very grateful for. not that there's much to cover. whatever.
I stand still as she fits the costume over me, tailoring bits of it so that it clutches more accuracy to my frame. it's obvious the costume was meant for someone a little larger, but it ends up fitting quite well in the end. Zora collects my hair into an elaborate piece that bunches at my neck and crowns my head. Finally, a headpiece that settles heavily over my hair.
"Ready to look?" Zora asks. I nod. She takes me over to a mirror. I look at myself and almost gasp.
I'm in a golden breastplate that comes up to my mid-neck. From there down, hundreds of hammered shiny feathers spill over my shoulders and chest. The second piece is a plated skirt, made of the same heavy stuff. My legs are left bare, my feet fitted into some elegant boots, and a curtain of golden tulle flows like a cape behind me.
But the headpiece is what really makes it special. A golden helmet, with two pairs of wings sprouting from either side, framing my face and giving the illusion that a feathery halo hangs over my head. It's powerful, it's eye-catching, it's threatening. Just what 2 needs.
"I know, it's one of my favorite models to date," Zora says, as though reading my mind. "You look like a true gladiator."
A Gladiator. from old history, disgraced warriors fighting for a chance at glory and fame in a ring. Yes. That's what I am. A Gladiator.
YOU ARE READING
Gladiators -- Clato
Fanfiction"you can try to take us, but we're the gladiators," Clove, the girl who never misses. Cato, the pinnacle of Career power. Trained since childhood to be ruthless, cold-blooded killers. At least, that's what the Capitol wants them to be. What happens...
