Voices of the Dead: A Hunger Games FanFiction ©

2. Bruno

The train ride to the Capitol was nothing if not average. Having lived in District one, I was used to the lavish furnishings that adorned our train. If anything, they were of average quality. During the actual day I spent confined to the train, I mostly kept to myself, only occasionally speaking to answer yes or no questions: Did I want more food? Yes. Was I nervous for the games? No. Had my sleep been alright? Yes. Did I want to watch the Reapings on television? No.

My last answer had completely thrown our mentors and escort for a loop. They’d insisted then that I should, for my own well-being, watch the event. They claimed that it would be a good way to get to know who my competition was before the games. I’d scoffed and returned to my room.

I didn’t watch the Reaping reruns either; not because I wasn’t curious, but because I didn’t believe I’d be able to tell much from only a couple minutes of footage. My actual plan had been to watch them in person; whether it was during the chariot rides, or the actual training days. I wanted proof that I would see with my own two eyes.

Our ride into the figurative heart of Panem was short lived; District one was almost directly attached to the Appalachian Mountains that surrounded the Capitol, so it took half the amount of travel-time it would take other farther-lying districts.

Crowds of adoring Capitol citizens awaited our train eagerly and I suppressed a grin. This was all I ever wanted and deserved; respect, adoration, and a general worship from those lower than myself. Though I’d never say this aloud; I didn’t care that the screaming masses awaiting me were Capitol citizens, in my eyes they were nothing compared to me or my district.

I wanted to laugh at the airheaded people outside the train, not because of what they wore, but because of their empty thoughts; one single look was all it took for me to understand what little mentality they had. To them, the games didn’t hold the same honor-bound importance it did to my people. No, to these simpleminded idiots all the Games were was a source of crude entertainment.

No matter what I thought of them, of all their stupidity and sheep-like behavior, I raised a hand and waved, sending uproars of joy through the crowd. I knew, though I disliked their child-like behavior, that I had to win the crowd over. I needed sponsors. Sponsors meant gifts, gifts meant an upper hand, and an upper hand could be the difference between life and death.

Once we arrived at the Remake Center, I was separated from my district partner and told to follow a pair of avoxes to another room. In that room I met my stylist, Rubio; a skeletal, wispy looking man that had an air of arrogance about him. He wore a strange one-piece styled cat-suit that shimmered bronze in every light, and had highlighted certain aspects of his face with matching bronze makeup. He was a quiet man of few words who, like myself, refrained from answering but yes or no questions.

“Should we go with the gold theme again this year Rubio?” an assistant would ask.

He’d glance my way, then nod, “Yes.”

“Shall we make any surgical enhancements with this one?” another would pitch.

“No,” he’d answer without looking away from his notes.

“What about style; Roman gladiator or Greek soldier? I would suggest the gladiator to show off his assets, but it’s your choice.” another eager helper would ask.

Rubio gave an exasperated sigh, and rubbed his temples; as if the fact that he was being forced to speak an actual sentence were the most taxing thing he’d ever done. “Gladiator of course,” he finally said in a tone that sent his assistants scurrying in a panic.

The rest of the remake process continued along those lines; I’d stand there without complaint as they determined and then applied all their silly fashion decisions to my body. All in all, the whole procedure was not entirely horrible. With Rubio being as tight-lipped as he was, I found myself relaxing; happy to not have to come up with mind-boring chit chat to fill the empty spaces. His silent demeanor allowed me to continue my thoughts on what really mattered; the competition.