Well, this is unnerving. When I thought about what I might have to go through in my time as a Tribute, this wasn't on my list. But here I am, stood, stark naked, feeling incredibly uncomfortable as my stylist, Marcellus Finabbot, circles me looking for flaws. I want desperately to cover myself, but when I tried earlier, it earned me a sharp smack with Marcellus' folding fan. It didn't hurt too bad, but it's not something I want done again, so now I just stand here, my arms stiff at my sides, waiting for him to be done.
Marcellus is an older man, his hair died a sickly shade of green, that I'm guessing is considered stylish in the Capitol. His expressions look strange because of the stiffness in his cheeks and forehead, probably due to some beauty treatment. I'm not sure what he's done exactly, but whatever it is, it's made him look like plastic. I guess it was supposed to make him look younger, but I can't help but think that it hasn't worked and only serves to make him look scary.
Stood a few feet away, a group of three Capitol citizens, who must be my Prep Team, whisper to one another and appear to be commenting on me. I wish I knew what they were saying, because it's making me feel incredibly insecure.
"Okay. I've seen enough. You'll do nicely." Marcellus says, seeming satisfied. His approval gives me great relief and I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. He then turns to my Prep Team and begins giving out orders.
"I want her waxed everywhere and given a good hose down. Once that's done we'll start remaking her." He tells the three multicoloured people who nod excitedly. Then, Marcellus is disappearing, while the other three approach me with quick steps. The look in their eyes scares me. They look at me as if I'm a hunk of meat they can't wait to prepare.
The next thing I know, I'm being sprayed with water. I squeal in shock as I'm drenched in seconds. I've never been sprayed with water before. Back at my home in District 5, we don't have showers. We use a tub of water and a rag to clean ourselves, so this experience is new and unnerving. After the hosing down, they lay me on a metal table. I watch anxiously as the woman of the trio, Aphrodisia, starts stirring a pot of something thick.
What is that?
The other two, Fabius and Zenon start to scrub at my arms with harsh bristled sponges that seem to scrape away three layers of skin along with any dirt. They continue this with my entire body until I feel sensitive to the air.
That's when Aphrodisia, a sickly thin woman with long talon like nails that are painted a bright red, further adding to the imagery that she's just slaughtered something, approaches with a spatula coated in whatever she's been mixing. She twists the thick substance as it slowly tries to drip, before swiping it across my calf leaving a trail of the warm stuff. She creates a wide strip with it that I feel dry against my skin. She then gives a little testing tug at the hardened strip and I realise a millisecond before she tears it off along with any leg hair below, what this substances purpose is.
"Ow!" I can't help but cry out in shock and pain. I involuntarily lift my leg up away from her so she doesn't do it again, but then I remember what Ivette told us on the train.
Try not to bitch about what they do. It's their job, so just put up with it.
With that thought, I lower my leg against the table again and make a conscious effort not to react like that any more. I grit my teeth as Aphrodisia and Fabius work on my leg hair. As they do, Zenon comes to my face and works on my brows. I have never worried about any of my body hair before, but this trio seem absolutely repulsed by the amount of it.
Zenon scolds me as I scrunch my face up in pain at having one strip ripped off followed immediately by another.
"If you keep that up, you'll end up with no eyebrows." He warns in a deeper voice than I was expecting.
As he leans over, close to my face, I notice his stunning amber eyes, that I have to question the authenticity of. The ends of his eyelids are adorned with three inch, yellow eyelashes that curl to brush against his brows. Every time he blinks, I almost expect a fan of air to be wafted my way. He wears a matching shade of yellow on his lips, and his high cheek bones are highlighted dramatically with gold. His dark skin is clear of any imperfections; a perfect canvas for his bold makeup. His look screams Capitol citizen, and though I don't find the Capitol fashion attractive, Zenon's look isn't the worst.
You would never see such bright colours back home. I don't even know how you'd get your hands on anything with such a vibrant colour back in my district; And even if you could, it wouldn't stay that way for long, not with having to wash it in dirty water and expose it to the constant soot in the air. But in the Capitol, they don't have that problem. I don't suspect the Capitol faces the water shortages some of the other districts, including mine, face. Clean water must come with zero restraints here, if the long hosing down I received is anything to go off.
I hiss as Zenon plucks an especially sensitive eyebrow hair, and my eyes begin to water lightly. Zenon's endless plucking, along with the relentless waxing that's now moved up to my thighs, have me feeling even more tender than the scrub did. This carries on for what feels like hours, Zenon eventually finishing with my eyebrows, though I'm sure I don't have any left at this point. It's then that I'm flipped over onto my front, so they can reach the backs of my legs and other regions I'd rather not speak of.
Finally, after my prep team have hosed me down one last time, and have circled me wielding tweezers, they call Marcellus back into the room. The green themed man circles me himself with his own pair of scrutinising eyes, when he deems me satisfactory.
"I must say, now that the teams cleaned you up, your not that ugly at all. In fact, you're fairly adorable." Marcellus coos. That seems like a backhanded compliment, but it's the best I'm going to get, so I guess I'll take it.
Marcellus dramatically waves his hands, looking dreamily up into the corner of the room before bursting out in a theatrical fashion.
"Yes! I can see it now! Clementine Atwood; The Nations Little Sister! Oh wow... The crowd is going to eat! You! Up!" Marcellus enthuses. Without giving me another glance, he turns swiftly on his feet and claps his hands twice, before strutting away from the prep area. I'm confused by his actions, when I feel two sets of hands ushering me forward in the wake of Marcellus.
I walk with my bare feet slapping against the cold, concrete floor, down a long scarcely lit corridor. To my left and right, are prep areas similar to the one I've spent hours in, sectioned off by blue, clinical-looking curtains. I peak into one of the sections, hoping to see my brother, not having seen him since we were separated minutes after reaching the remake centre, but instead see a girl from one of the other districts, crying as her prep team holds her down to wax her calves. I can see why I've finished before her. I didn't put up much of a fuss after the first couple strips of wax.
We pass by quickly, my prep team trying to keep up with Marcellus who practically skips down the corridor. I don't manage to see inside any of the other sections before we enter a large, open room, the door shutting behind us. The far wall is covered in mirrors facing a small circular platform, that acts as a staging area. The room is decorated extravagantly, reminding me of the Justice Building room I said my goodbyes in. There's one large beige couch facing the elevated area, with two side tables on each end. On the right one, I notice a panel with a multitude of buttons, and wonder what pressing them would trigger.
I shift my focus to take in the rest of the room, and spot a mannequin torso dressed in a fabulous costume. Marcellus must notice my interest in the ensemble as a stiff smirk breaks out across his face before he comments on my clear fascination.
"What do you think of your Tribute Parade costume then?"
It's beautiful.
*****
Started: 7/5/22
Edited: 3/7/22
Published: 3/7/22
Wordcount: 1499
YOU ARE READING
The 72nd Hunger Games
Fanfiction"I'm going to get you through this, Clem. I swear I will." ------ Every year, one male and female between the ages of twelve to eighteen are chosen from each of the twelve Districts to participate in a game where they must fight to the death. Design...
