The Black Widow | A Hunger Games Fanfiction

The Tribute Parade

Cashmere had told me I wouldn't like what the prep team did to me but it wasn't really that bad.
"I am amazed," one of them exclaimed, "How is it that you have no hair anywhere but where it's supposed to be?"
"And you hair and makeup has just stayed perfect and resisted any of our products?"
"And your nails won't file down?" the third despaired, "They're stuck as these talons!"
"It's genetic modification," I replied, "I had it done a few months ago." Right when I had been chosen to participate in the games to be exact, "I don't grow body hair, my hair stays styled and dyed, my foundations, contour, highlighter, blush and mascara are permanently attached to my face and my nails are unbreakable." My prep team seemed in awe- they seemed to have started to see me as slightly human because I had been genetically modified just like them. It was strange that all they needed to see that was me being stripped of some of my humanity.

Knowing that there was nothing else they could do to prepare me before my stylist arrived, my prep team shuffled out of the room. Soon, they were replaced by a middle aged woman draped in what looked like the curtains in someone's kitchen.
"Hello dear," she said, in a very strong Capitol accent,
"Hello?" I said cautiously, slightly covering myself, embarassed by my nudity in the presence of someone who, despite her odd attire, seemed quite human,
"So the prep team informs me that they are having trouble altering your appearance due to some genetic modification, is that right?" I didn't even have a chance to answer before she continued, "That is alright with me as long as I am still able to apply makeup on top of the existing stuff." Again, she cut off my answer. "Your dress will be here in a minute, we're just waiting for my assistant to bring it from my workshop."
After about five minutes, a young man came in with a metal rail with only a single bag hanging on it. He too seemed normal, as if he hadn't yet been infected by the 'fashions' of the Capitol. He winced as he handed the bag to the stylist,
"I really think this is a mistake Victoria," he said, "we have such an opportunity here and you want to use this costume. It makes her look stupid."
"Quiet Cinna," she replied shortly, yanking me forward, "do you see this girl? Nothing could make this face ugly. That is the angle we are going for here: beauty, elegance, sex appeal. That is how she will get sponsors. That is how she will win." I looked away. My strategy had always been flirtatious masks, but I had never heard it said in this way: it felt degrading, embarassing.
And when I saw myself in the costume, I knew Cinna had been right.

I wasn't technically naked, but that technicality was really all that stopped me for being arrested for gross indecency. I had nothing on save for the bands of gold that twisted over my privates. The rest of my skin was covered in adhesive diamonds and my hair was piled onto my head so that I didn't even have the cover of it on my back.
As I emerged from the dressing room, I fought the urge to cover myself and instead forced a smile onto my face as I swaggered over to my chariot in my massive gold heels.
When I got there, Jupiter was already talking with the tributes from two and four, who he introduced as Mason, Hildegarde, Morgan and Oceane.
"The outlying districts don't look too strong this year," Hildegarde said as soon as I was there,
"Yeah," I agreed, "Hilda's right. These games will probably be pretty quick. Let's just hope the arena's small, I don't like walking."
"It's Hildegarde," she corrected impatiently, "and are you saying you're too weak to walk around a whole arena?"
"No," I told her, "I'm just worried that it will make my face go red. I wouldn't want to look ugly in that arena. Would I boys?" I asked, turning to Mason and Morgan, who had been ogling my near naked body for most of that conversation,
"Nope," Mason said quickly,
"You could never look ugly," Morgan said dreamily, still not meeting my eyes.
"My eyes are up here," I said, lifting his face to meet my eyes. His skin prickled at my touch. It snapped him out of his stupour and  he flushed red with embarassment. Jupiter laughed,
"Might want to keep her nails away from your vital organs there Morgan. They draw blood."
"Only to people who deserve it," I teased, dropping my hands to my sides- I didn't need the others to know just how lethal my nails could be until it was too late.

The mentors began to beckon their tributes over to their chariots, giving them some last minute advice before the parade. Jupiter and I wandered over to our chariot, climbing on and holding on tight. We had rehearsed this before. We knew how this was going to go. Until I didn't,
"What are you wearing?" Cashmere asked as she approached, her eyes widening with fear and suspicion,
"The costume my stylist gave me."
"Go change."
"What?"
"You heard me," she seethed, "go change."
"I can't. The chariots are about to leave."
"GO CHANGE!" All the tributes and their mentors turned towards us. I tried not to cry: this was hard enough already, why was she making it worse?
"I. Can't," I spat. Gloss came over right then, putting his arm protectively around his sister. She broke down into tears against his chest. Through her tears, I heard her say only a few words,
"It's happening again." And I had no idea what that meant.

I tried not to tremble as the chariot moved out of the stable and began its route. Immediately, I thrust the thoughts of what had just happened and what I was wearing from my head and adopted my Capitol persona. I waved, smiled, blew kisses. I was who I was trained to be. And nothing more.

By the time we reached the end of the route, I really needed a shower. I could feel the eyes of all the Capitol citizens all over me and I needed them gone.
When the chariot pulled to a stop, I grabbed the front in order to prevent myself from falling off. We were the first, of course, so we kind of just stood there as all of the other tributes stopped as well. By that time, President Snow had walked out onto the stage above us and looking out at us. He skimmed over all of us barely lending a second glance to the children who could be dead in a week. But then he stopped. Right on me.
Something like confusion marred his sour expression, which was quickly replaced with surprise and then anger. He couldn't be angry with me, I hadn't done anything, could he?