Chapter Text
The morning of a Reaping day was always depressing in the districts- even for the so called "Careers". Scott left the comfort of his bed, groggily walking towards the sound of his mother calling for him. His house-boat bobbed against the gentle morning waves, not that it helped much with the wave of nausea he had ever since he woke up
His mother seemed to have left for fishing early in the morning. That was one good thing the games brought him- a day free of work- although the mere thought of, well, a reaping, brought down his mood considerably. His mother, much to her credit, left him breakfast: a loaf of green-blue bread, shaped similar to a common trout they fished.
Savoring the salty bread, he left the house, planning to look for Shelby, his neighbor and friend of 5 years, so the godforsaken panic could hopefully die down and let him think. Due to the nature of the reaping day, the streets, usually empty in this time of day, were full of people- all the way from children, no older than 10, to his classmates, familiar faces, to parents and Peacekeepers.
Panem's Number One Peacekeeper! A white banner above him read, a picture of President Snow printed onto it- handiwork of District Eight, he noted at the back of his mind. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the blatant propaganda that plagued the streets. People should be able to think of the president's morals for themselves, not fed positive remarks from a silver spoon- Shelby would hate to hear him say that. She worried about him- too much sometimes- said his way of thinking was dangerous.
Speaking of Shelby, he noticed her curly red-brown hair in the next block over. He fastened his pace, walking over the where she sat. The forest, if it even could be called that, of old willow trees were her favorite place to read. He recalled Shelby telling him that the whispers that echoed with the winds reminded her of her older brother. He envied her passion and positive look on life- visiting what essentially was her brother's grave with happy memories instead of grief.
"Shelby? Shelby!" He called waving his wand in front of her face to grab the girl's attention. she looked up from her book, the sun hitting her eyes in a way that made it look more like melted gold than light warm brown. The 'glasses' that the two of them made for her was half falling apart from frequent use. "Shelby, I thought I told you to stop using that old pair," He chided as he produced a bottle of handmade glue- which was him fancily saying bottle of sap- and attempted to fix the cracks on one of the legs.
"I can still see from it, it's fine," She laughed, although she gave up her glasses for inspection. The lenses seemed surprisingly clear, although his agonizing hour- ok, maybe ten minutes- of fixing the bridge had basically come undone. He squinted, trying to coax the glue into the crevices- although more glue than he would like to admit was nowhere near his target.
"How you can read that well with your eyesight will always be a mystery to me," He sighed, leaning against the truck as he gave up on making the glasses look good. They could deal with that after the stress of the reaping making his hands shake, thank you very much.
They moved, hand in hand to the main square of the district, Shelby's warmth stilling his hand for the few minutes they walked. They were stationed around the middle point, seeing as they were 16- although Shelby was only a week shy from 17- and were told to stay still, like they could even try to escape without being shot. He scoffed, to which Shelby responded via rolling her eyes.
In a few more minutes, which seemed to go by like hours, the mayor of District Four stepped up to the pedestal. The mayor was an old men, whose name Scott did not bother learn, although he looked like a general leading his troops to bloodshed on these Reaping days.
The mayor recited past winners, all they way from Mags from the 11th game, to the most recent victor, Finnick Odair from the game that ensued three years ago. Scott hadn't talked to Finnick before he was chosen, and especially not after, but the guy seemed to be good-natured, as far as he could tell- which meant absolutely nothing at the face of death, but the process of sorting through his thoughts distracted him from the rest of the mayor's speech, and helped his mind still.
"Scott, I know you're worried, but could you free my hand?" Shelby joked quietly, soft enough that only he could hear. The sound of her voice dragged him back to the present, in which he was clinging to her hand like a ship does her anchor. Rather sheepishly, he let go.
"Sorry- just nervous." He whispered back, just before the capitol's escort started pulling names for the female tribute. at the sight of the escort's hand reaching into the glass box, his heart hammered against his chest. Please not Shelby, anyone but Shelby.. He chanted in his mind, wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. He could hear himself breath, tried to still and calm his mind again- but then the escort pulled out a slip of paper, and anxiety tightened his chest once again.
"The female tribute for the 68th annual Hunger Games is," The escort pilled the paper with slow, precise movements. "Shelby Grace!" No no no- he could barely hear Shelby stepping forward against his own heartbeat.
"And our male tribute will be.." Come on, Majora! He chided himself. He was the sharpest kid in his class- he will calm himself down, goddammit! "Mumbo Parisi!" Even before his mind could register who it was, his hand shot up to the sky, and the words he was always told to never say tumbled out his mouth.
"I volunteer to be tribute." His voice, somewhat steady against all odds, rang across the square in front of the justice building. It was the exact phrase Skizz, Shelby's brother, had used to protect a barely 12 year old Scott from the games. Recognition flashed in the girl's eyes.
"Oh? What's your name, boy?" The escort herded the attention, and Scott, taking in a deep breath, calming himself in preparation of the gasps that would inevitably follow, answered, steadily as he could possibly force his voice to be.
"Scott Majora." His family had a reason for living in the outskirts. Gold Majora, his great great grandfather was one of the leaders of the rebellion during the Dark Days, and countless relatives of his were imprisoned for the crime of rebellion during the following years- his family were quite literally the black sheep of District Four. So, now that a Majora kid had willingly volunteered himself as tribute? Even he could hear the gossip.
"Scott Majora." He could hear the exact moment the escort connected the dots. "Very well then- our male tribute will be Scott Majora!" The escort's voice rang, like the chime of death that were 'aught to follow during the very week.
To be quite honest, his memories after that are a little fuzzy, and panic worn- but he recalled walking to the platform, expression a careful blank, Shelby stabbing him in the back with her elbow, asking him What the fuck was that, Scott?
He vaguely remembered apologizing before the two of them were led into the train to the Capitol. The Graces gathered around Shelby for one last goodbye, Shelby's mother sobbing on the shoulder of her only daughter, as Shelby promised she'd win it, and come back alive. The sight of them made his heart warmer, although his own mother didn't seem to meet his eyes, simply telling him to protect Shelby.
He really shouldn't have expected more from her, anyways. As they made their way to the train, the Capitol escort introduced himself as Mythic. Mythic was a rather bubbly man, more excited about "All the drama this was going to get!" rather than the show itself.
Scott tuned out somewhere between "This is going to make a fantastic show!" and "Oh, the fame it would bring him if one of them won,"
"Earth to Scott Majora?" Shelby waved a hand around his eyes. Right, yes, the train. He tried to focus during the lecture Shelby gave him as the sped across the country to the Capitol, but his mind was only half there. "What were you thinking, volunteering yourself?" She sighed.
"Hey, at least we'll be together," He tried to fake a grin- although from the glare he got, he knew Shelby knew very well he was acting. It was his only string of sanity, the hope that they won't be separated too badly. He'd rather die protecting Shelby than live and watch her die, anyways. Shelby huffed a sigh, but by the way her mouth was tilted, he hoped Shelby would forgive him soon.
The rest of the train ride went rather quietly for the two of them, exchanging small conversation before the stress and the loud buzz of the train would end it before due- just like them, actually. Killed off before they could make a difference.
"Hey Shelby?" He asked, trying to fight the anxiety that threatened to swallow him up every passing second of the silence. She looked at him, raising an eyebrow- telling him to go on. "D'ya think one of us will.. come back?"
"To District Four? Well, everyone comes back," Her voice trailed off- and she always told him his sense of humor was dark. "But, if we're being serious-" She sighed. "Probably not." Shelby Grace was always honest, even at the face of death. It was always something Scott admired about her.
He hummed as he thought of a good reply, mind wandering into different scenarios. He already knew he wasn't going to win, almost like a doomed prophet. In all the books he and Shelby read together, the guy who questioned the reality of things got silenced, never heard. Not Cassandra of Troy, definitely not him.
"If it means anything, Shelby, if it's down to the two of us by some miracle, I would gladly let you win." He settled. Shelby rolled her eyes, probably about to give him yet another talk about trying, or something, before her eyes widened, and a devious smile lit up her face.
"Scott, you always talk about rebellion and all that, right?" Now, this was a topic he didn't expect. "What do you think about.. looking around a little? Surely a little snoop around won't hurt," He knew her too well to play dumb.
"What, you seriously trying to cause chaos on the train ride to literal hell?" He couldn't help the laughter that tickled out his voice, and she gave him a look of triumph. Small victories, he sighed fondly. At least that would distract him from everything else.
Shelby stood up from her sit, trying her luck at the door handle, though it only rattled. She sighed with annoyance.
"Shelby, did you seriously think the door would be unlocked? Here, let me," He pulled out the star pendent his father gave him a few years back, the very one he stole from the mayor. It was thin and long enough for their use.
He pushed the pin in the lock, twisting in the movements his father taught him, moving it around until the lock gave in with a faint plink. The birch door opened with ease, like it was never locked in the first place.
"After you?"
Shelby gave him a mock bow, and sneaked out to the rest of the train. He followed through, closing the door, in hopes of leaving no evidence. The train was much larger than he thought it was going to be- with endless cabins which all seemed to be decorated in fine fabric and precious metal. Just one cabin could feed all twenty of his classmates.
"Look at this place- it looks like it popped right out of a book!" Shelby gasped in wonder, running her fingers through the decorations that lined the window. The delicately carved vines were coated in a fine layer of dust.
She moved her attention to a bookshelf, the books of varying age, never one written after the Games existed. The old wooden shelf croaked in answer to her touch, as if inviting her to read right in.
Huh. Most of the things in that cabin looked untouched, like it stayed frozen in time, unlike the others. Out of curiosity, he moved a box, which almost looked like someone left it there on purpose.
Just like he suspected, it opened up to a small underground room- like someone used to hide in it- perhaps it was the works of a past tribute.
Whoever made it, he was definitely going to use it. He waved Shelby over with an excited look in his eyes. Shelby walked over with a small green book , peering down at the tunnel. Both of them shared a devious look, and Scott could tell Shelby knew exactly what he meant.
Surely a little bit of hiding won't deter the mighty Capitol.
Scott crawled in first, checking if it was stable enough for the both of them. The wooden floor croaked in complaint, but it seemed good enough for the both of them. After he nodded, Shelby climbed in, closing their hiding place as she came in.
The space was surprisingly big, even with the two of them laying down. Shelby opened up a bit of the cover, letting light shine through, placing her back against the wall and opening her book.
Scott moved next to her, peering over her shoulder. The book looked old, delicate with yellowed papers, and the printing was much smaller than the ones they had back in District Four. He couldn't even read it in the dim light, but Shelby flipped through the pages with ease.
"What's it about?" He asked, giving up on reading the tiny letters.
"It's a collection of poems: all the way from way back then." She paused, flipping another page. "Like, even before the Dark Days." So, at least a hundred years ago, he thought. "Look- this one is from, like, a millennia ago." She pointed at a section, and she seemed so excited- like she found lost treasure, which, this book must have been to her. "Unc Est Bibendum? It's apparently a poem about some queen called Cleopatra,"
Even though he loved listening to her, his mind settled between her words, half listening and half planning. The each rattle of the wheels turning gave him a moment of newfound determination.
Even if he couldn't survive this, he wanted to help Shelby live a moment longer. She had this positivity to her- this need to learn more, read more- and she deserved to do exactly that, much more than he did.
His death will not be in vain. He will not die as entertainment, but as help, as a sacrifice- he decided that right then and there as the groans of the train wheels slowly lulled them to sleep, like a mother's lullaby.
He woke up as rosy fingered dawn rose up once again- habit, mostly- his job as a diver required him to wake up quite early. Shelby seemed to be still asleep, hugging the book, as if to protect it, and he couldn't help but wonder if she spent the better half of the night reading away.
He zoned out, their breaths the only source of human sound, other than the engine, of which he's already gotten used to ignoring. He spent those peaceful moments wondering away, trying to come up with a plan- and failing.
Did it matter? Those kids in District One and Two were basically bound to win, anyways. He wasn't strong enough, wasn't fast enough. The only thing he had was his wit- and surely that could not be enough.
He could, however- his mind hovered at the insane idea he had come up with- make the ending his. Not just his death, but the Games in whole. The Hunger Games, at it's core, was entertainment, and if he framed him and Shelby in the right way, they could be popular- too popular, for the Capitol to kill.
It was insane. It wouldn't work- but if he took out Shelby from the equation, he could make the story twisted enough for the Capitol to hate. If they wanted to paint propaganda with his blood, he shall choose the design. He just hoped Shelby would be safe if he were to do it- which, much to his annoyance- had slipped away while he was fantasizing.
If he were to do this, she needed to be safe. That had to be his main goal, not some manic dream about revenge- revenge that was unlikely to even happen, anyways.
A wrong kind of silence stilled the air, like the earth itself was trying to warn him- like a predator was nearby, and the birds had stopped singing in alarm.
Thump, thump, thump- he could hear the footsteps of someone approaching- and quick, too. He stilled his breath. The person, whoever they were, were most likely looking for them. He needed to wake up Shelby, and as quietly as possible. His heart beat so hard he was almost amazed they weren't caught.
"Shelby, wake up- please," He whispered, shaking the girl by her shoulders, praying she was a soft sleeper,and that she woke up quietly, cause if she waked up screaming, it would surely give their spot away.
"Hm? G'mornin', Scott-" She blinked, as if a part of her was still in the dream where everything went better. "Oh my god, is that footsteps?" She whispered under her breath. He nodded, as Shelby slowly processed reality.
They held their breath, the fragile silence brittle beside them, like it was a moment away from shattering into pieces. Someone approached the cover they had hastily moved back in to the right position.
Whoever they were, they tapped the cover. Tap. Scott got ready to talk, try to explain, maybe joke- he wrote down a small script in his head. Tap. Next to him, Shelby instinctively rolled up her sleeves and clenched up her fists, readying for a fight. Tap. They held their breath, staring- perhaps even glaring, daring the cover to open.
Tap. The cover was slowly dragged open, and as soon as Shelby stood up, and he opened his mouth, ready to talk, The stranger- a young boy- not much older than them, sighed in exasperation and called,
"They're here, Mags-" Oh- the dots had finally connected in his head. Scott stood up, dusting himself off, and tried to convey safety with a glance at Shelby. She gave him a questioning look in return.
"I think that's our mentor," He whispered. She sighed- in relief? He couldn't tell. Yes- he could vaguely remember Finnick Odair to look like that, last he met him- which, to be fair, was a couple years ago, but surely their own mentors won't be dangerous to be around.
They were simply there to guide them to their immediate death, is all.
"Oh, geez, had me sweating there," Shelby laughed quietly, straightening her blouse to look a bit more proper- but knowing her, it was more likely a nervous habit rather than caring for what she was perceived as. Another thing Scott admired about his best friend.
An older woman- Mags, the boy had called her- walked over to them. Kindness almost radiated around her, which was… well, strange, seeing as she was quite literally the only survivor of a death game- but he'd rather a kindly mentor than an insane one.
"You are..?" She prompted, asking for their names- of course. Scott debated just lying about his last name outright- he'd rather be seen as weak, a follower rather than a leader, a lamb being lead to slaughter, rather than a rebel, not to these people. For a reason he did not try to know, it irked him.
"Shelby Grace," Shelby answered, fixing a small smile om her face, and seeing as there's no plausible way he could talk his way out of saying his own name, damnable it although is, he decided an alive rebel is better than a dead lamb
"Scott. Scott Majora." He waited with baited breath, to clarify, yes, that Majora, but found that the judgment never came- just a pair of bright, curious eyes, staring at him- one gentle, one ready, planning, mind working away at something he didn't know. For the first time in a long while, he felt a strange.. pride in his ancestry.
"The Poems of Days Past- I've read that before, way back as a child," Mags answered, no doubt trying to ease their-well, Shelby's- minds. As if they weren't heading to immediate death, a concept he still wanted ignore, pretend like it didn't exist. He should, a voice in head suggests. Dying for friends is great and all, but how will he exactly help with that? Who will he make a friend, charm into allyship?
Shelby and Mags fell into rhythmic conversation, as Shelby brightened up, talking about the different ways death has been romanticized over and over again by authors- or perhaps that was him, thinking in his head rather than talking. He still had trouble engaging in proper conversation, rather always listening in. He always worried he'd ruin something important by existing.
He instead stared outside the stained glass panes, running his fingers along the elaborate details. So beautiful, for something that may as well be his coffin. There were less forests and more buildings outside- no, the word buildings wasn't grand enough for them. Castles, lone towers, like the ones he read about when he was younger and thought that dragons and saviors were real. That was his first clue they were getting closer to the Capitol.
The second clue was the lack of birds anywhere. Back home, he often observed birds, memorized their names and songs, felt a sense of commodity with them, as if they were chained her, trapped here just like him. Now? It seems like there never had been a creature father away from him. A tale from childhood, not unlike unicorns.
He drummed his fingers on the glass, half aware of the world around him, less so about the conversation but in the pauses of the wheels rattling, the ever so slight change in topic, how the horizon moved, what the citizens seemed to be wearing- green, yellow, red, like a meadow of poppies and sunflowers- but never the details. His mother always scolded him about zoning off like that. He finds that he doesn't really care.
The train slows as the buildings near- the dazzling rainbow city makes him both wish he had some kind of sketchbook to draw in and want to puke. As it stops, he can vaguely tell apart the crowd, cheering and waving- for them, he realized. Shelby squeezed his hand, a small comfort in all the chaos.
"Let's make a mark," She grins, all excited, and he couldn't help but return the sentiment with a smile of his own. Out the corner of his eye, he notices Finnick staring them down with an odd look in his eyes- something Scott is quite used to, from back home. The stare they give you if you dare speak against the Capitol. However, he doesn't spend too long pondering on that, instead letting Shelby drag him towards the exit, waving at the crowd, who roar in answer.
They are stars. Shooting stars- popular, bright, short life spans- they fit the title perfectly. Something that burns itself up to be seen and loved, but never heard. Stars, the very things he loved, the things he studied- to die it, how ironic.
That was way too poetic for him to dwell on any longer. Scott changed his focus to the people guiding them instead- stylists, he notes- woman and man with brightly colored hair and skin, more animal than human, those Capitol citizens, cheering them up before leading them into slaughter. Wonderful.
~🌒︎~🌓︎~🌕︎~🌗︎~🌘︎~
The water is way too cold. Freezing, even. He tried to get out as quick as possible, drying himself off with a towel that is much softer than the scratchy fabric he used back home. He is alone in that moment, utterly so, and the silence is weirdly calming. He wrings water out his ginger hair- which looks almost dark brown with the water clinging onto it.
The silence didn't last long as the people- he swears he knows who they are- rush into the room, gawking at him, like he was some animal they needed to tend to, a sculpture that needed fixing. He resisted the urge to use the towel to cover himself up- remembering what one of his mentors said earlier in the train- perhaps Finnick? Don't resist.
They felt less than human, anyways- and the realization hits him then- prep team. That's the word. People whose main goal was to pretty him up for the Games. Somehow that made him feel a little bad for seeing them the way he did. They were the very few people who were reliably on his side. He was their project, their test.
He couldn't tell if he felt better or worse by that. They huddled around him, varying products in their hands- he didn't try to figure out what they were, mostly out of fear of what it could be- that they worked with. They talked amongst themselves in a quiet manner and he decided he didn't care enough to listen in at the last moments he could.
Something about his hair is all he caught- their accents were so strange, hissed letters and high pitched tunes that he struggled to even decipher their words- well, not that much, but still, quite strange to hear. They give him a change of clothes- a white shirt and pants- which he's grateful for.
The fabric is stretchy and most surprisingly- new. They must get different clothes each year. The thought disgusted him; back home, he and his mother would have to work at least a month to afford a change of clothes, and still, none new. The Capitol, however, seems keen on handing them out like one does water.
A woman- no older than twenty, he guessed- walked in, her heels making a soft click with each footstep. She had her brown hair tied in a ponytail behind her head- the color mildly surprising him. The Capitol seemed to favor bright colors, but all she donned that seemed off, nonhuman was a single blank eye, and bright orange eye-makeup that seemed to make her eye look like it was surrounded by flames. Her first words were not anything close to a hello.
"They were right- your hair needs serious work." Rude, much? His hair was perfectly fine. "Clashes with your eyes." She answered, as if she could read his mind. Perhaps the look he was giving her worked. "Right- my name is Cherri, and I'll be your stylist for the Games."
"Hi." His tone sounds much more dry than he wanted it to be- but this girl's just like the rest of the Capitol, and so he resists the urge to apologize. If she could see him, weighing the pros and cons of saying sorry to a girl who was supposed to make him seem more Capitol than human, Shelby would tell him he had nothing to apologize for- and when has Shelby ever been wrong?
"Right, Scott, follow me this way- we have a job to do." Well, to his eyes, she had a job to do. He just needed to die in some interesting fashion. She led him to a room with two couches, each a bloody red, and sat down, like she had done this a thousand times before- and she must have. He tentatively sat in the couch facing her.
She stared at his hair with a judgemental gaze, and stood up abruptly, grabbing something from the bucket next to her. A paste, of some kind- perhaps blue in colour? He could hardly tell with the way she held it. She dabbed a bit of it in his hair , and he felt a jolt run down his spine at the cold.
"What are you doing?" He yelped. Was everything in the Capitol that cold- first the water, than this.. thing? His scalp tingled as she scooped more onto his hair, brushing in it with a comb, to even it out. Her hands were quick and steady, making sure none of the goop got on his face.
"Fixing your hair." She answered. His hair is fine, thank you very much! He resisted the urge to talk back to the stylist- better not pick a fight with the person with the power to cut his whole head off. God- why was his hair that itchy? What does fixing his hair make it hurt so much?
"What does fixing my hair mean, though?" He answered, although he dreaded the answer. This was OK to ask, right? He really, really wanted to scrape off the paste- if felt wrong to even have on. Like it disobeyed the very laws of nature- and it tingled his scalp.
"I'm making it look better along with your eyes." How does one change something as genetic with hair color? He was not going to ask. However, he was going to ask about what color she was going to change it into.
"Into what color though?" He really hoped he wasn't going to spend the rest of the day asking questions like some oblivious child. It began to start grating down on him- he hated to be treated as such, but the Capitol ways were too strange for him to figure out.
"Blue, hopefully," She answered- which was not at all reassuring. "Just hold still for like, 10 minutes, will you?" He could do that. He nodded, and let his mind slowly wonder as time passed. He assumed Cherri- was that her name?- was preparing him up for the Chariot Rides, where he'll be first presented to the citizens of the Capitol.
"As you know, we'll be dressing you according to your District's specialty- District 4, right? Fishing and all?" She seemed to take the moment to explain- which he couldn't help but feel grateful for. He couldn't quite remember the last Games, and he hadn't payed too much attention to it after Skizz. It hurt to cheer for the death of someone he knew. "We wanted to make it look memorable." She adds after a moment.
He wondered if they'll make him- them, he guessed, with Shelby, look as hideous as possible. Sure seems like it, with the mystery hair goop and all. It would draw attention at the very least. He tried to find small positives of being a fish. There weren't many.
"But- fishing is so overdone, especially after Finnick Odair." Oh, so they won't be fully naked. That was good to hear, a silver lining in the clouds. He didn't remember the 65th Games perfectly, but he could recall his mother saying something about immodesty- something about how stupid the Capitol were for even thinking to do that with a child. He didn't voice that sending kids to die every year was probably worse than that, mostly out of convenience of not getting yelled at.
"We were thinking more like, the fears in the sea, you know? Like sea monsters," Oh, he's definitely being in some kind of squid suit- actually, Shelby would love this- he wished he could have seen her reaction. He braced for her answer.
"Like, uhm, sirens and harpies," She told him with this dreamy look in her eyes- the same look Shelby had whenever she talked about stories or poems or- fairytales. Like the one someone gets when they talk about their passion. It humanized her a little, even to his eyes.
They continued- well, Cherri continued to tell him little tidbits about the Capitol as he attempted to figure out what was going to happen during the Chariot ride- better safe than sorry, right? He spent most of the conversation in a more-less grim state, worrying about the future- well, feeling sorry for himself. He sighed, calming his mind. He cannot escape this. He's better off accepting his fate- just make it his.
About ten or so minutes pass when Cherri washes the goop off with water- this time not as cold as before. He moved his hands to wring out the water, but she laughed and directed him to the machine next to him. He gingerly moved in to said machine- a box with a few buttons lit up in green and red, and a glass cap underneath. He fit his head around the cap.
"Oh god-" he instinctively jolted forward when the air started to blast, drying his hair and untangling it instantly- a feat he would have never accomplished without help at home. "I thought my head was being blown up," He admitted once it seemed to be over, much to Cherri's apparent amusement.
"We would do that- not before the Games!" She laughed- but he wondered if he actually heard that hint of bitterness in her voice in his mind, or if he had imagined it. Maybe she lost someone to the Games? No, that was impossible- she's Capitol- what could she lose?
She disappeared into another room, and emerged carrying a blue suit. He quickly put in on- much more of a hassle than he expected- a white blouse with cobalt blue details, then tight pants that started as bright blue and faded into iridescent fish scales. The material of the pants was one he'd never seen before- stiff and hard to stretch- not to mention the scales being individually stitched on.
"It's beautiful," He commented as she clipped on a cape onto his hips, and tied a loose net around his waist- something that had much too wide gaps to function like it should, but beautiful nonetheless.
"Thank you!" She smiled, tightening a red vest around his waist- a crimson shade that seemed almost like blood. By the time she tied it off, he could barely breath. As final touches, she gave him a string of pearls to tie around his neck, and adorned his ears with stunning blue-red cuffs that mimicked fish fins.
He took a shaky breath in, steadying himself to be presentable for the Chariot ride- and trying to remember what tributes past did on theirs- same for the victors- although his memory was very eager to let him suffer.
"Smile and wave." Cherri told him, as if she could read his mind. "They'll love you- so put on a show for them, fish boy." Before he could even say something about her comment, she grabbed his arm and drags him out, down to the bottom of the Remake Center.
Shelby met him there with her stylist to her side, looking absolutely wonderful in her dress of feathers, the brown wings of.. falcons, maybe? He tried to ignore the lack of ethics in how they got all those wings decorating her, and instead focused on her in the dress that seemed to mimic the shore.
"Scott! You're blue!" She said as a way of greeting. Because Shelby.
"You too..?" He attempted a reply, which he struggled in mostly 'cause he didn't understand what 'you're blue' could genuinely mean- his clothes? he sure hoped they were still blue- feelings? Uh, sure, but that's an weird thing to say.
"No- I mean your hair- it's blue," She answered with awkward giggles, which he soon enough joined in on. They were both nervous as nervous can be, and it seemed like acting sensibly has crossed a river they can't reach. He looked at a strand of hair to find it a bright teal.
"Oh- so that's what that goop was," He said, mostly to himself, at the revelation. Cherri gave him a look and a smile he deciphered as one of 'How have you not known this'. He fought back the urge to defend himself from the imaginary comment.
After a few minutes of talking with each other- mostly in awe of the costumes- and Shelby saying something about how sirens are actually birds- they boarded their chariot, a wooden one with shells as decoration, lead by brown and black horses. He guessed the neutral tones were to make them seem brighter.
The opening music began to play, the loud music echoing his heartbeats, as tributes began to ride out. As always, District 1 was first, clad in jeweled armor and shining gold- like living treasures. Then came District 2- the girl looked stunning, sure, in her chain mail armor, but the boy took his breath away. His golden hair framed his face, almost like a halo, like he was the god of the battleground- like he was a saint, sent from the heavens to protect them. He knew they were all supposed to be his enemies in the Games, but he found that he wouldn't hate for him to be the last thing Scott saw before he died.
"Psst? Earth to Scott Majora?" Shelby elbowed him, sending him way back to reality with a crash. She gave him a worried look that soon turned into mischief- the same one she would have whenever they gossiped back in District 4.
Speaking of District 4 , they were up next. He gave a quick smile of 'I'm OK' to his teammate and clutched the lanes like his life depended on it- which, maybe it did- he didn't know how trained the horses were. They seemed tame, but animals were always difficult to understand.
The crowd began to chant as they entered. The two of them waved, tried their best- well, he had to, he didn't know about how Shelby felt- to keep a smile on their face. Cherri's words echoed in his head. Smile and wave- make this a show, one he could enjoy.
He found that he didn't hate the attention, the roar of the crowd, the acting. He found comfort in the fact that no one- tribute wise- wanted to be here, either. They were all stuck in the same boat- the only thing they were fighting for is rowing it- and the crowd's attention was a weapon he and Shelby could use quite well.
They finished their ride, waiting in the middle of City Circle. The other tributes from the later districts all following through, until there was only one district left- District 12. As always, they wore something related to coal mining- district specialty, he noted- coal miner's outfits and canary feathers.
Well, canary more so for the boy- the girl looked like a queen, even with the bland outfit, their fiery hair a stark contrast against the beige clothing- almost like it was made from fire itself. The girl- ugh, he 'aught to learn people's names later- looked defiant, not waving nor smiling- like her existence itself was an act of rebellion. He had a feeling they could've been friends if the circumstance weren't.. this.
With all the districts in City Circle, the president began a small speech- something he didn't bother listening- probably about some rebellion and Dark Days stuff anyways, and he'd heard plenty enough, being a Majora. A simple glance told him everyone- every tribute- shared his sentiment. Absolutely nobody was paying attention. The thought that no one really wanted to be here cheered him up for some reason.
Once the speech was over, they were to move to the Training Center, which would be their prison until the Games officially began. A pristine building that seemed to have open arms, a building that reeked of death. Shelby grabbed his hand, her sweaty palms a small comfort- up until now, it didn't feel quite real they were picked for the Games- but now? It felt cemented, more than ever.
For him, this was an opportunity. Learn people- befriend them- if he has allies who can back him and Shelby up, they'll last longer. His brain, finally, started to work, a plan being made in his head, the adrenaline- the thrill, grounding him. Let the games begin.