Water. Air. Light. The fabric of my dress cannot possibly be made by human hands. It is not the multicolored abomination District 8 has come to expect for their chariot ride outfits - instead, it is monochromatic, a beautiful blue that flatters my coloring. The slim bodice and off-the-shoulder neckline flatter my shape, while remaining elegant. Despite the hours I spent at my prep team's utter mercy, I do not detect a bit of makeup on my skin, yet somehow I am flawless. My hair is pulled back in an elegant braided bun, on the back of my head. A silver belt clasps my waist, my only jewelry is an ornate gold necklace with pearls and lavender diamonds. Everything about me speaks quiet beauty.
"You're a genius," I whisper to my stylist, and he beams.
"I just worked with the beauty that was already there," he replied. He's wonderful, really, always managing to turn everything I say to him into a compliment for me. He also has better taste than the rest of the stylists, despite his lavender skin and vibrant purple hair, lips and eyes.
My prep team hovers around me. "You're radiant, darling!" trills Alada, but Farnorth doesn't seem to agree, eyeing me sullenly.
"She's too pale," he mutters darkly. "And that dress is too much." He eyes my dress darkly and I suppress a shudder, wishing it were withing my power to dismiss him altogether and just let Alada do my hair and makeup. However, it is not in my power to do so, and I make a mental note to ask my stylist if he can do something about it when I return from the chariot ride.
My escort bounces in. "Come on, co- Alaric, isn't that a bit against tradition?" He eyes me closely, perturbed by my monochromatic dress.
"Yes," my stylist replies serenely, and pats me on the shoulder. "Charlene is against tradition. I aimed to show that in her dress. And doesn't she look lovely? Spin for us, honey," he directs at me, and I obey, twirling once, slowly, then a second time more quickly to make my dress billow.
"I suppose," the escort accedes reluctantly. "But she won't match Timothy."
"Matching outfits are overrated," Alaric says smoothly. "Come, now, we don't want to be late for the Chariots."
Kataro gives in, clearly reluctant to surrender but unable to carry on the argument at this point. We trail out, meeting Timothy in the hall. He eyes me as darkly as Farnorth and Kataro did, only resentment tinges his gaze. I cannot blame him, his own outfit is a color wheel made fabric - purples at the top, slowly merging into the other colors as you went down, the darkest shades on his back, turning lighter as you moved towards his front. Imaginative, and on some it may be flattering, but the way he wore it, he plainly wished to be wearing anything else. Possibly even nothing. His pants were opposite his shirt, blues at the top and purples at the bottom, his clothes mirror-imaging each other.
In the elevator, we pick up another couple of tributes, but I keep my head down, not looking at them. I don't want to see them, to see what they think of my dress, to judge their outfits. If they are stronger than I, I do not want to be afraid. If they are weaker, I do not want to feel pity. Plenty of time for both those emotions in the Arena. I need to keep my distance. I cannot make friends. I do not want to see the face of my killer. I do not want to see the face of one I might kill.
I use these phrases to suppress my curiosity all the way down. I wait until they are out of the elevator to leave it myself, following Timothy and the escort to the chariot. It is covered in gauzy bunting, depicting textiles. Alaric helps me up into it, Timothy disdaining his stylist's help and swinging in on his own. I turn, start to speak to him, but he deliberately turns his head away and ignores me. Miffed, I look away, watching the activity around us.
Trumpets blare, it is starting, the chariots are moving into position. Stylists and escorts back away to the edges of the room to keep from being injured, calling last-minute advice and encouragement to their tributes. District 1 is just about to go out, when Timothy springs into action beside me. I and our team, as well as possibly the teams of other tributes and other tributes themselves, watch in shocked horror as he strips, peeling off his shirt and tossing aside, before unbuttoning his pants and yanking down. I yelp in horror, closing my eyes and clapping a hand over them. I hear the tributes around us laughing uproariously, as I clutch the side of the chariot weakly with my free hand. Timothy nudges me with his elbow and I peek hesitantly between my fingers. He had another pair of pants on beneath the color wheel ones. The pair he is currently wearing is much more tasteful, loose and long, also every color of the rainbow, in exactly the same order. But instead of blocks of color, it is almost watercolor, each shade of each color melding seamlessly with the next.
I glance over at our team, his stylist is livid, one of his prep team wearing a smug grin. The man throws Timothy a double thumbs-up, which Timothy returns. The chariot lurches as we head towards the doorway, and Timothy turns to give me a broad, wicked wink. And so we go out, Timothy wearing nothing but pants and a smug grin, I leaning against the side of the chariot, laughing helplessly.
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