Rising Tide

SIX

Fortunately, I do not see Finnick again. Once the train pulls into the station Cerabelle appears like magic, taking my hand in hers and ushering me to the door. I almost drop the sweater in my hands but manage to grab it again before it falls from my fingertips. As we get closer to exiting the train, a roar, similar to the waves in District Four, grows in volume.

"Are you ready," Cerabelle questions me from beside the shiny steel door, a knowing smile draped lazily across her face. I have barley enough time to wonder what she means when she pushes it it open, showcasing hundreds upon thousands of Capitol citizens.

Well, more like Capitol creatures. Looking intensely at a handful of them I notice that many have opted to paint their skin in hues of colour, much like Cerabelle has. They all seem to be decked in clothes worth more than my house, covering themselves in furs, leathers and, really, anything else that costs a fortune to own but little to nothing to make. It makes me depressed in a way, when I think about it; one of their coats could pay for an entire life in District Four and then some.

The crowd chants my name in what can only be described as a tribal way. They are cheering for my death as if it is a sacrifice. As if I had wanted to give them myself. Their thoughtlessness kindles a flame inside me. One that has me wanting to kill. But I do not mean kill the other teenagers subjected to these games. No, instead it has me aching to kill all of them. All of the people wearing the efforts of twelve districts on their bodies yet still carelessly begging for our deaths.

But I do not kill anyone. Rather, I let Cerabelle drag my numb body into the stylists headquarters; a slender building made from mirrored glass that has me running for the hills at how much work I just know they are going to have to do. I swallow my fear, however, and raise my head as I stride through the doors.

"Jae, Haddoc, Arie," My escorts voice searches through the already busy foyer, "come see your next masterpiece!" A chandelier hangs precariously from the high ceiling, sparkling in the light from outside. Modern black marble benches line the walls, housing person after ruefully dressed person. They all seem to be waiting for something, perhaps a stylist to fix the predicament they have placed themselves willingly into. Or maybe a stylist to worsen the job.

I will not lie, Cerabelle's compliment, if that is what it was, sets a blush to my cheeks even after my out of character, and by that I mean judgemental, glance around the interior.

A cheer whoops through the air and my eyes snap to three artfully put together figures running towards us; a still life brought to motion with a few simple words. Upon further inspection I notice that they are all males.

Lovely.

"Oh she is gorgeous!" One of them, the one with golden ink markings etched into his skin, exclaims in a voice that sounds too high to belong to his body. Higher than I had ever heard my mother's reach in all honesty.

In anyway, I smile politely at his words.

"Don't be silly Haddoc," this male's voice is deeper but his hair is dyed an electric tone of blue in contrast to his glowing orange skin, "she is stunning!"

His eyes roam my body, drinking me in the way one would water on a particularly hot day. Except, while water is refreshing, this only serves to set my mood into one of high alert. Something is off. An atmospheric shift that has my being tense in fear.

All of these courtesies are starting to make my head spin. I clutch Finnick's jumper tighter in my hands, trying to absorb any confidence that may have seeped from his golden skin and into it. I force myself to keep the cheshire grin on my face, knowing that is what he would do.