FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

1.3 visionary

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.