weapon of choice > prep > os
When I walk into the prep room, I immediately want to turn around and leave.
Before me are three tall women, all with horrible posture. They look like a group of vultures, huddled around each other and murmuring things amongst each other. They all wear silver, from their earrings to their shoes.
They kind of look like aluminum foil.
“Hello Dina,” Is all the woman in the middle of the group says. Her voice carries through the room like a ribbon, so softly that you question if you even heard it. She smiles with the corners of her mouth, eyes resting upon me. It’s unnerving, how calm she and the others are. I turn away.
The room is dark, the light dimmed down so low. The three women stay where they are, still murmuring amongst themselves while examining me. I let them, instead taking in the room. There’s a small couch and television, and many cabinets and dressers. It’s standard for a dressing room, I suppose.
I can feel their eyes on me as I wander. They’re quiet, which is nice. The District 1 stylists change every year, for sake of them constantly moving on in their career past the Games. They’re usually so flamboyant and brash, but these girls are like clouds, waiting for me to approach them instead of the other way around.
There’s an array of fruits in a wide dish near the television, so I move over to it. Instead of grabbing a berry, I slide my finger under the rim of the bowl. Lifting my hand, I find small particles of fluffy dust, and quickly brush my hands off. Maybe this room isn’t as elaborate as I thought.
Might as well get out of here as fast as possible.
Turning around to face the shadows of stylists, I fold my hands across my chest. I should be relieved, that my stylists seem to be on the calmer sides of things, but they’re unnerving. They just watch me, as if trying to dissect my fiber of being.
“What are your names?” I start, since they obviously know mine. They seem to wake up a bit at the question, all in unison - even in their blinking. I’m not even sure that they’re human, at this point.
“I am Venus. This is Mars. This is Pluto.” The woman in the middle speaks again with a voice like spun silk. She gestures with bony, spider-like fingers to her fellow teammates in turn. I furrow my brows, nodding. Not unusual names, especially as far as Capitol stylists go.
“We received your file this morning. You do like… swords, yes?” She paused in her words, as if she forgot what she was saying partly way through. She doesn’t seem to be alright in the head, though I’m not going to question the woman who’s in a room full of scissors and razors.
“I do.” I say, not elaborating. If she read my file, she knows that swords are my specialty. They’re quick and precise, unlike the way an axe is. They’re strong and fatal, unlike the way a knife is. They’re balanced, and I appreciate that in a weapon.
“Please don’t tell me that you’re dressing me as a sword. They’re my weapon of choice, not-” I start, bitterness forming in my mouth. If they try to make me as silver as them, they will most likely be my first victims.
“You will not be a sword.” She counters, with an amused tinkle in her words. I calm, but still don’t fully trust them. I have no reason to. Last year, the District 1 pair was sent onto the chariot wearing nothing but sparkles. Are they going to cover me in glitter?
“Then…” I mumble, not sure what else they can do for my District. Sure, I do come from pure luxury, one of the finer of the Districts. But when it comes to parade outfits, in the last 81 Games it’s been the same things over and over. Fur, glitter, and a bucket-load of jewels.
“You will see. We even designed the chariot. You will like it. We promise.” The woman enunciated her words so perfectly, so clearly that I couldn’t help but feel like maybe, maybe I would be okay. Maybe I wouldn’t be half naked, with the cameras trying to catch a nip-slip.
Honestly, the only thing I can do is pray.
