When Luck Runs Out

The Capital's Dress Up Dolls

    The rest of the train ride was long and boring. John and I just sat in my room, throwing a stress ball back and forth over the bed and trying to talk while also avoiding getting hit in the face. So finally, when Mrs. Hudson announced that the train had stopped, it was a dream come true. We stuffed all of our stuff into our bags and walked out into the train, where the two of them were already packed a ready. I took a good look around, at the couches, the old hot chocolate mugs still on the table, the dining room table, everything that could be drawn back to a memory. This was going to be the last time I was in this car, the last time I would see these things and remember the moments when my life was actually happy. The doors opened and we could hear the screams of the fans, but I didn't look at them or even make any notice they were there. I clutched John's free hand and we walked into the station, which led us right into the Tribute Center. I could feel john's hand trembling as we walked through the cold concrete walls, surrounded by screaming fans, throwing papers at us or trying to jump the barrier like rabid animals. I looked back and the last thing I saw of the train was the couches, which were quickly shielded from my view from the doors closing. And then it started moving, and soon the train was gone completely. Even though I hated that thing, I could feel my eyes growing hot; I guess I was just a really sentimental person.
"Sherlock, are you coming?" John asked. I realized I was just standing there, John pulling on my arm like an annoyed dog owner when the puppy decides to sniff everything.
"Yes, sorry, just wondering if I'll ever see it again." I admitted as I let John pull me into the revolving glass doors.
"You will Sherlock." John assured. I just sighed, pushing open the door and leading John into the lobby. It was a lot more pleasant than the station, with white walls, white floors and carpets, couches, glass end tables, and chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. As Mrs. Hudson went to check us in I examined the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Molly had went over to talk to some of her giggly friends, who were all stealing glances at me or John and giggling even harder. Other than them I saw no one, the lobby wasn't too full since all the other Districts were probably here already, we had the longest journey.
"Alright lovelies, top floor we go!" Mrs. Hudson called happily. "Molly, come when you can!" she called over. Molly quickly excused herself and ran over to us as we were making our way to the elevator.
"Can't miss this." She assured.
"This is not a show." I snapped.
"I know, it's just a bit emotional." She insisted.
"So you don't want to miss is?" John asked.
"Just ignore me." Molly decided, waving her hand to show that she could care less and walked into the elevator once the doors opened. It was made of complete glass, overlooking the Capital below. It was glamor and style (if you could call it style) beyond anything any District could pull off. There were people wandering around with all sorts of funky hairstyles, tattoos, dresses, marble buildings on every corner, polished pink poodles, and diamond studded leather purses.
"This is what I call Hell." I decided as John and I overlooked the wandering crowds.
"But all the demons support gay rights." John pointed out as a pack of women walked past with their hair all died different colors. I wondered if they knew they formed a perfect rainbow. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. The smell was so familiar; I knew that we were in the penthouse without even turning around. When I did turn around, however, I felt the urge to find the nearest trash can and throw up whatever I had managed to choke down for breakfast.
"Home sweet home." Molly muttered, leading the way into the flat. I took a deep breath, taking in all of the familiar couches, carpets, abstract plants and statues in the corners. Everything was so familiar, yet so foreign. It hadn't sunken in that this was all for me, I was no longer a mentor, I would be in that parade, I was going to go to training, I was going to evaluated, interviewed, and then thrown into that arena with all the other God forsaken Victors who thought they were finally safe.
"So many memories here." John muttered, tugging his large duffle bag into the room.
"There was the place I kicked you in the face." I agreed, pointing to the floor behind the counter.
"I licked that window." John laughed, nodding to the large picture window overlooking the streets. Long story, we were playing truth or dare... you know what; it wasn't that long of a story.
"Memories." I sighed, plastering a smile on my face and walking to my usual room. Everything was exactly the same as I remembered it, bed spreads, paintings, carpets; it was the same for when I was a tribute, for when I was a mentor, and now when I'm a tribute once more. I guess the Capital isn't really in the mood for interior decorating. I dumped my stuff on my bed, trying my best not to look around too much. I was just waiting for the weight to drop onto me, this rare moment of ignorance was just enough to keep me sane. But it would dissolve, this small barrier protecting me from the truth that loomed over me, and when that happens I will be crushed. There truly were too many memories, from last year and the year before. But so much has changed in me, not so much the place. I had cried myself to sleep in that bed every night before my games, alone and scared, sitting in the dark without a clue what was coming or what I was going to do. I wrote my own will in this room, on a little piece of notebook paper, because I had been so sure I was going to die. I told no one about that, and the first thing I did was scrap it when I came back, in case Mycroft ever found out I had left my saving for him. Now I think I'd let him have some of my rattier clothes, possibly the spoiled food from my fridge, which I didn't bother cleaning out. That's their problem now. I had first declared my love for John in this room, even though he had been asleep before he could actually hear. That had been a particularly low point in my life, I had been so confused, I had never had a crush, and that was the night before he went into his games. I had been sure he was going to die as well. Let's just say this room radiates, it creates despair, whenever I sleep here death wasn't far behind, and even though we've been terribly lucky these last two games, everything is going to change.
"Sherlock?" Molly asked, knocking on the doorframe as if she was expecting me to be in some sort of stance or something. I hummed to show I was listening, but didn't turn to face her.
"We're going down to the stylists now." She pointed out. I nodded, turning and leaving my bags behind. John and Mrs. Hudson were standing by the door, John looking a little bit queasy and Mrs. Hudson still looking as if she were going to start to cry at any moment. We all loaded into the elevator and made our way down, the buttons lighting up as we passed through the floors. I wonder if they were at their stylists as well, or possibly out to lunch, or just laying around in their rooms until instructed to do otherwise. I wondered if the other tributes were scared, or excited to get back in the arena. I knew I sure wasn't. A train took us from the Tribute Center to the Stylist Center, a large heavily perfumed room that probably had hair spray scented candles. It was possibly my least favorite building in existence, right up there with Snow's stupid mansion. But at least there you could breathe properly. The glass lobby was filled to the brim with people/animal hybrids or something, they all looked like large tropical birds, squawking and flocking over anyone with a hairstyle worth their attention. Thank god our stylists and escorts were fairly normal in District Twelve, Mrs. Hudson was as plain as District Eleven and I don't think either Sara or Anthea had any tattoos at all. Mrs. Hudson checked us in a led us down the hall, but by now I knew my way by myself, through the white hallways with the occasional mirror, past multiple doors where the whir of hairdryers and cans of hair spray could be heard. I knew the Hunger Games time was a big time for the stylists, all the new tributes, all with new hair for them to play with and new outfits to model. But the hallways were practically swimming with people both Molly and Mrs. Hudson seemed to recognize, all waving and hugging and saying hi, I'd say it took about ten minutes to get a good thirty seconds walk down the hallways. Finally, when Molly said her last goodbye, she led us into the room, going on about how that was her friend who had to be a mentor for her own husband. Apparently we weren't the only two victor tribute relationship. Everything was coming crashing down, wasn't it? The one time us Victors had thought everything was okay, life was just starting to pick up, everything just broke. When we walked in our stylists nearly tackled John and I, with large smiles but also tears in their eyes.
"Oh my gosh I simply can't believe they would make you two go in!" Sara exclaimed, nearly strangling John.
"But you were so brave, volunteering for John like that." Anthea admitted, petting my hair as if I were a dog. She wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief and trying to pull herself together.
"You uh, you died your eyebrows." I noticed. So much for normal.
"Oh, thank you for noticing!" Anthea said happily, rubbing her two eyebrows as if they were somehow sticking up or something. It was really hard to not notice, considering they were a bright ugly shade of neon purple.
"Well, never the less, we've got the perfect outfits for you two. We did a lot of thinking, and we've got three options, but one we're sure will be satisfactory." Sara decided, stopping the whole sob fest and leading us all to the table, where there were blueprints and crude drawings.
"Why am I so short?" John asked, looking at the diagrams where he only came up to about my neck.
"Because you are." Sara shrugged.
"Why is my nose so big?" I commented.
"They're rough sketches, would you just chill? Look at the outfits, not yourselves." Anthea insisted.
"I am not being a pick axe." John decided, looking at the very last one on the bottom. They were absolutely dreadful, wooden body suits with some sort of metal helmet to look like a pickaxe.
"That wasn't our idea; I think it's dreadful to be honest." Sara muttered, tearing down the outfits so that only the staples remained in the walls.
"Then we have these, the lights." Anthea shrugged, not sounding too enthusiastic. They were giant light suits, not too different from John's last year, but pretty ugly as well.
"Na." I muttered.
"Nope." John agreed. Sara tore those down as well.
"And here, we have our favorites, the broken kings." Anthea said proudly, gesturing to the last blueprint on the wall. It showed John and I, wearing elegant suits with long, red capes, golden lapels, and tall crowns. But it was all beat up, hole in the suit, tears in the capes, and dents and cracks in the crowns. I guess it was to show that we were on top of the world once, but now we're the lowest of the low.
"The crowns start off kind of beat up, but as the carriage ride goes on they collapse in on themselves until they're just a tiny scrap of metal." Sara pointed out.
"Perfect." John decided.
"I like the idea, I do, a lot actually, but how does it represent our District in anyway?" I asked.
"Well, we were thinking, when we think District Twelve, what do we think?" Anthea asked.
"Coal." Molly pointed out.
"Not anymore. We thought of coal when we didn't have such an extravagant team of mentors, and this exquisite love connection, and we're sure we speak for the Capital when we say you all don't just represent District Twelve, you are District Twelve. As long as you're there, we can dress you us as whatever we want." Sara insisted, clapping her hands in excitement.
"Yay..." I muttered, imagining John and I wearing some stupid outfit like the Wiggles or something.
"Now, we already have everyone's measurements and everything, did you happen to grow since the Reaping?" Sara asked. WE all just glared at her, and she rolled her eyes.
"It's a mandatory question, don't get all annoyed." She snapped.
"Alright, let's get started!" Anthea said excitedly. If I thought John's stylist visit was long and boring, it was even worse having to stand on the pedestal for a good two hours, stomach about to cave in on itself, and just getting dressed and redressed by stupid people all bickering over your outfit. I must have tried on ten different shirts, all the same except for the color patterns, where they all bickered about which one matched my eyes better. Then the cape, which Mrs. Hudson argued should touch the ground, but then it would get stepped on and pick up dust and dirt and all that, so the stylists forbade it. Then it was the matter of the crown, which just wouldn't fit my head right. There were two sizes, one wouldn't even reach my forehead while the other covered my eyes, so they had to measure my head and make an emergency crown for me. Then shoes, pants, socks, ties, and jackets, all the same amount of boredom. John, who was on the other pedestal, was evidently having trouble with the jacket, which, Molly claimed, didn't show off his figure well enough, as if John was really worried about people noticing his 'figure'. Finally, when all was planned and done, I was allowed off the pedestal while John had to stay and get jacket measurements. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were busy badgering the stylists about it, and I seemed to not have anything good to do with my life.
"I'm going to the cafeteria." I announced.
"Alright dear, just be, I told you that hugs his neck too much!" Mrs. Hudson hissed, obviously very much preoccupied. I just rolled my eyes, knowing that there was nothing they could do to help me anyway, so I went out the door and tried to navigate my way through the halls.