After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

The Tribute Parade

The people of the Capitol buzz excitedly, cramming themselves onto the sidewalks in one big colourful mess. Advertising space during the Parade is highly prized, and on the big screens that will later be showing tributes, several different companies vie for attention. One screen blares out the merits of a new anti-aging cream, while another shouts loudly that the costumes worn by the tributes will be auctioned off next week, at Victory Hall, as if there wasn't enough money being thrown around already. Everybody wears their best, and this year there is no dominant fashion. Impressively realistic zombies wander the crowd, trying to respark a craze for the undead. Many people are dressed in colourful togas with elaborate golden jewellery. A few people decked out entirely in false animal furs, with their faces surgically shaped beyond recognition, sway from side to side. Everybody is making some kind of noise in fervent anticipation.

On the bottom floor of the tribute building, there is also a lot of noise being made. But this is mostly the stylists, and generally of the 'try not to rip it, honey, we're selling it off later', 'could you maybe try and smile just a little bit', 'now you may be a little warm but don't worry about it, sweetheart, because you look fabulous' kind of noise. It's enough to give even Jax, who is used to this accent from many trips into the Capitol, a headache. He snaps at his stylist, who is busy putting the finishing touches to his body paint, glowers at Savannah and generally makes it known that he's not happy with everybody else being louder than he is.

"Actions speak louder than words, boy!" shrieks Savannah's stylist, a man with so many coloured chips in his teeth that it looks like he's in the process of eating somebody's jewellery. Jax grits his teeth and hurls himself back into the carriage with so much force that the whole thing trembles. Savannah doesn't react at all, merely sits there, stony faced.

"It's nearly showtime, people!"

Like a flock of birds, the stylists flutter away from their carriages, several shooting jealous or competative looks at the others. Later the Capitol will run a poll on the best outfit; there's no physical reward but something like that could seriously boost an already sky-high reputation, and every stylist wants to win.

The tributes are more concerned with not exposing too much of themselves, not suddenly bursting into tears, remembering everything they've been told and trying to forget why they're here.

"Showtime in T-minus 5...4...3...2...1..."

The door to the outside world slides open noiselessly, and the tributes are blasted with noise and flashing lights.

District One emerge into the sea of admiration, smiling and waving. Their chariot is painted in a luxurious, glittering gold, and sparkles with gemstones set into the surface. Even the handsome white mares guiding the cart have rubies woven into their hair and sapphires dotted into the reins. District One is the district of luxuries, but like every year the stylists have preferred to focus on the jewels. Jewel's dress is strapless, and from the bust down is so covered in gemstones - some of them real, she notes with pride - that it is impossible to see the material. They form an artistic swirling pattern in gleaming blues and greens, with the occasional fleck of red, and appear to shift and shimmer as she moves. She smiles - keeping her mouth tightly closed - and occasionally waves, but makes no attempt to stand out. Trey lounges back in the carriage, his arms spread over the back, chatting to her and not being put off when she doesn't answer. Sometimes he blows a kiss to the crowd aimlessly, provoking laughs when he accidentally aims one at a hunched old man with steadily greying hair and a sour expression. Inwardly mortified, he tries to laugh it off. He looks good and he knows it. Mercifully, his stylists have decided to be suggestive rather than outrageous and he wears a pair of simple, well fitting black trousers and a shirt made out of some kind of sheer black material that reminds him of a fine net and clings to his muscles, sparkling with the odd diamond or emerald. Despite a few half-hearted protests, he's wearing makeup; charcoal eyeliner to bring out his eyes and a hint of blusher over his cheekbones, but he knows it's subtle and probably unnoticable. Hopefully.