60th HGOCT: District 6's Tribute Parade

Hinge’s eyes were still a painful red when a pair of Peacekeepers marched him out of the room, the girl tribute joining them on the way with her own set of Peacekeepers accompanying her. Down to the train station they went, passing through a gaggle of reporters and cameras on the way. Hinge couldn’t bring himself to feel bad that he’d had a good cry earlier, though. He was entitled to one, and those Capitol creeps that thought differently could go dive in the nearest smelting pit, as far as he was concerned.

When they reached the train, the Peacekeepers shoved them through the door, turned, and walked away without so much as a word. As the doors closed, Hinge glared after them and stuck out his tongue rebelliously when their backs were turned. Inconsiderate glitch-heads, the lot of them.

“Ah, welcome!” The peppy, high-pitched voice made him cringe as he looked to see District 6’s escort, Anetta Nost, briskly striding toward them on her high heels, grinning broadly. “I’m here to see you to your room, dears. Come, come!” She beckoned them forward and Hinge was suddenly struck by the insane urge to snatch her ridiculous, beaded hat, toss it to the ground, and jump up and down on it vengefully. It would serve her right for acting so cheerful about twenty-three kids going to their imminent deaths, but Hinge somehow managed to restrain himself.

The woman first led the girl - who he figured out was named Riven when the escort said her name - then him to their respective rooms, with the addendum that she would fetch them in a couple hours for dinner, and they could do whatever they liked in the meantime. Hinge gaped at the luscious room as Anetta closed the door behind him. It was probably as big as the house he and the others shared back home, maybe bigger, but he didn’t have any way to tell.

After making a cursory inspection of the bedroom, the changing room – which contained more clothes in it than his entire family had probably collectively had in their whole lives – and the bathroom, Hinge decided that he’d really like to see how this “shower” thing worked. The buttons were tricky, but he eventually figured them out, and then nearly jumped clear out of his skin when blistering hot water cascaded down on him from above. He might have screamed like a little girl, too, but since no one banged down the door to retrieve his scalded cadaver, he supposed it wasn’t that loud and he wasn’t dead yet.

After getting over the initial pain and shock and the water cooled down to a manageable level, Hinge quite enjoyed himself. It was like being in a hot, soothing rain, which was a brand new experience for him. Promising himself that he’d check out what the other buttons did later, he got out and took his time dressing in a casual long-sleeved shirt and knit pants, pulling his trusty, worn leather boots back on over them. He spent the rest of the time between then and dinner making a thorough examination of the room this time, shimmying under the bed, dumping all the clothes out of the drawers and closet, eyeballing the small space under the bathtub/stall and deciding that no, he wouldn’t be able to fit even if he tried, and then seeing if he could jump to all the pieces of furniture in the rooms without touching the floor. Now that was fun. Kept his mind off his current circumstances, too, which was definitely a good thing.

-0-0-0-

“Alright, Hinge, dearie, din-“

A strangled sound cutting off the rest of the escort’s sentence made Hinge look up from the midst of stringing a bunch of ties, stockings, and feather boas together to make a crude swing to hang from the bed canopy. Anetta stared goggle-eyed at the mess, and a twitch had formed around one heavily painted eye. Hey, Capitolites did that too! Who knew?

“Time to eat, then?” he queried, tossing the brightly colored clothing rope aside and bouncing to his feet. Taking her continued silence for an affirmative, he bustled past her and into the dining car, where the table was beautifully set for five places with steaming dishes and platters set at intervals, giving off heavenly smells. A brunette woman was sitting at one end of the table, a scruffy, dazed looking man next to her, lazily drawing pictures in the air with one of his fingers. The woman looked up as he entered from a cup of something hot and smiled tiredly at him.

“Hello, Hinge,” she said in a quiet voice as the man continued doodling with his finger. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but under the circumstances, well…” she trailed off, giving him a heartbreakingly apologetic look.

“You’re our mentors this year?” Hinge replied in surprise. Perhaps not the most intelligent thing he’d ever said, but Flywheel Philips was the only remaining District 6 victor that wasn’t a drug addict, and she was also their most recent, having won eleven years before. He remembered this well, as the food packages and just more food in general the district had received from the Capitol that year had kept him from starving to death more than once. He’d been just another parentless six-year-old street urchin without a friend in the world then, before Alexandra had come along and made Hinge, Terry, Juniper, and herself into a family and they were able to survive by working together without the boost of the extra food. Still, he’d never forgotten how Flywheel had, indirectly, saved his life.

Axle Binford, on the other hand, was just another morphling addict, though he had been able to bring back Flywheel from her own Games, so perhaps he might manage to make himself useful after all. His eyes lazily turned toward Hinge’s, and he read so much, too much in those brief couple seconds.

Mommy, where’s Daddy?

Please Mommy, I’m hungry…

Look at me! I’m standing right here! Look at me, Mommy! Why won’t you look?

Mommy…? Mommy! Get up! Please get up! Please, Mommy! Don’t go like Daddy! Stop ignoring me, GET UP!

Hinge shook his head and looked away from that vacant, all-too-familiar stare, turning his attention back to Flywheel. Bad memories, just bad memories, put them out of your mind, Hinge. Stop it. Focus on the present. Always the present.

“Yes,” Flywheel was responding, inclining her head. “Please, sit.”

“Well, anyway, it’s really cool to meet you!” he continued, complying and trying not to salivate too much at so much food being set out all at once. “Even if the time and place does leave something to be desired. Can… um…” He stared at the food, stomach rumbling, trying not to fidget too much.

“Go ahead,” Flywheel smiled. “I know you must be hungry.” Hinge needed no more prompting. He attacked the food with vigor, stuffing his face as fast as he could. Best to try to put on as many pounds as he could between now and the arena, though with his metabolism, who could tell?

All the food was absolutely exquisite, but when the servers brought out a platter with small brown objects molded into different shapes (Flywheel helpfully called the stuff “chocolate”) and he bit into one, it was like the world slowed down and sped up all at once. Tears filled his eyes involuntarily, and he immediately piled as many onto his plate as it would hold, even though he was already feeling quite full. A small chuckle from across the table made him look up, and he saw Riven sitting across from him with a bowl of soup in front of her, chuckling. Actually chuckling! He hadn’t been sure she had it in her.

Once she caught him looking, however, the girl ducked her head and went back to her meal. Anetta was staring at him in open revulsion, however, though he could tell she was trying valiantly to hide it. He realized that he had food smeared all over his face and hands, and hurriedly wiped them as best he could with his napkin.

“So,” he spoke up, both to get everyone’s attention off his table manners (or lack thereof) and because he felt he needed to take a brief break from the magnificent food lest he rupture his stomach or something equally gross and painful, “Um… aren’t we gonna talk about mentoring or strategy or something?”

“I normally like to give my tributes one evening to themselves before we start talking about the Games proper,” Flywheel replied, setting her fork down. “But, if you have any initial plans or strategies that you feel comfortable bringing up in front of each other, you can do so.”

“Well, at the moment, my only real plan reads along the lines of ‘try not to die.’ I’ll get back to you on that,” Hinge said, sounding more casual than he actually felt.

“You an’ everyone else, kid,” Axle slurred, speaking for the first time. So the man wasn’t totally wasted after all. Give the man a cookie for actually doing his job. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

Hinge opened his mouth to retort, but Riven beat him to it. “My uncle thought we could try to make alliances with a few kids from non-career districts. Make our own pack. Everyone has different skills to contribute. Why not get them on our side?” Her eyes darted from one face to another, obviously not comfortable with being the center of attention, but wanting to know what they thought.

Hinge thoughtfully considered the notion. That didn’t sound like a bad idea, actually.

“HA! Good one, kid!” Axle laughed drunkenly, as if this was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Hinge was confused, and Riven’s eyes narrowed until they were barely more than slits. Clearly, she didn’t like being laughed at.

“You think you’re th’ first person to ever come up with that idea?” the man went on once Flywheel whacked him on the shoulder to get him to compose himself. “Oh sure, it sounds good at first, but let’s say you actually do it. You ganged up on all the Careers and killed ‘em all. Hooray. Good for you. Now what do you do? Do you all murder each other in your sleep? Sit around until you die from dehydration or hunger? Wait until the Gamemakers wipe you all out and give the crown to a kid who was smart enough to stay out of the way?” Both tributes were silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Axle continued, going back to doodling in the air with his finger. “See, the problem with the whole ‘make a pack of your own’ thing is that the Careers go into it knowin’ that they’re gonna kill each other at the end of it. It’s just what they do, an’ it’s expected of them. But normal kids, like you two? You spend that much time with each other, chances are you’re gonna get attached. They’ll become your friends. You won’t be able to kill ‘em, an’ even if you did, you’d never be able to get over it. It’s hard enough doin’ it when they aren’t your friends…” His eyes took on a distant, haunted look, and silence fell over the table.

“That’s why most alliances break when the playing field goes down to the final five, six, seven players,” Flywheel continued softly, giving both teenagers an infinitely sorrowful look. “Because people get attached, and they know only one person can win. Unless they’re selfless enough to die so the other person can go home, it’s the most sensible thing to do. And I hate to say it, but Axle’s right. People have tried to make packs of their own to take out the Careers a couple times, but it always, always ends badly. Either the pack turns on each other eventually, or the Gamemakers kill them because they won’t do it themselves. I’m not saying you can’t have allies. In fact, I encourage it, if you feel that’s the way you want to go, but making a pack? I’d definitely advise against it.”

Riven’s face was utterly inscrutable, but Hinge could imagine she was feeling rather miffed that her idea had gotten shot down just like that. He couldn’t deny that the mentors had a point, though, however depressing it might be. While the idea of a pack had sounded attractive, he’d much rather take his chances by himself or with one or two other people then form attachments to a bunch of people only for them to die later.

Hinge scowled and reached for another piece of chocolate. He was quickly coming to learn that chocolate made everything better, and he needed something to get his mind off that happy thought.

-0-0-0-

After the meal – the rest of which was spent in uncomfortable silence - Axle immediately meandered from the room, presumably planning to find a bed (or a couch or a clothes hamper; Hinge supposed he wouldn’t be picky). Flywheel looked momentarily annoyed, but rallied herself and suggested they adjourn to the adjoining compartment to watch the recaps of the reapings on television so they could size up their competition for this year.  Hinge was reluctant to tear himself away from the table, but as he literally could not eat another bite without feeling like everything he’d just eaten was going to come right back up, he contented himself with the glorious thought that there would be more of the same tomorrow.

Vaulting over the back of a plush velvet couch in front of the large screen, he sprawled out on the soft cushions with a contented sigh. He blithely ignored Anetta’s disapproving look she sent his way as she settled primly on an elegant chair, her beads and bangles jingling with the motion. Riven, inscrutable and expressionless as ever, sat herself on the cushion on the other end of the couch, sitting stiffly. Hinge idly wondered if that was her default expression when Flywheel flipped the TV on and the recaps began.

District 1 kicked things off with a bang; when the escort called for volunteers for the female tribute, two girls raised their hands simultaneously and stepped out from different spots in the crowd. Hinge’s jaw dropped as the cameras zoomed in on their faces. One was a fierce-looking, muscular girl, but the other… the other was drop-dead gorgeous. For a moment, he thought he was seeing Ampere as she would look if she was slightly older and born as a princess instead of as the electronic store owner’s daughter. Then he noticed the slight differences in hair and eye color, reminding him that no, this exquisite vision of loveliness was not his longtime crush, and he shut his mouth before anyone could see him gawping.

The two girls embraced, seeming to wish each other luck, but then the brunette collapsed to the ground.  Hinge’s eyes narrowed. The beautiful blonde looked frantic, yelling for someone to help the other girl, but Hinge found the whole thing suspicious. And something about the steely glint in her violet-grey eyes as she spoke with the escort unnerved him immensely. One didn’t volunteer as tribute in the Career districts unless they had the skills to back their words up. He made a mental note to keep an eye on this girl during the coming week. Getting too far on her bad side would probably be very bad for his health in the long run.

A fight was breaking out among the male volunteers, and a large, tough-looking boy was about to step forward at the front, when a tall, lithe boy with a stripe of white dyed into his jet black hair stepped up and tapped the other boy on the shoulder, leaning close to his ear. They appeared to converse for a few moments, then the larger boy nodded, turned, and melted back into the crowd. As the victorious boy vaulted up onto stage and proceeded to charm the giggling escort, Hinge rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Honestly, did no one check these Career kids for weapons before they threw them all in the fray together? That big guy had just given his other opponent a black eye trying to be the male tribute for this year, and then he suddenly steps down without a word just because some other kid asked nicely? Ha. They were fooling no one except maybe the Capitol and their own district with these kinds of antics. But, on second thought, maybe no one would care even if they did know. The Career districts were weird that way.

The District 1 tributes would be a pair to watch, that was for sure. The commentators seemed to agree with him, with their enthusiastic comments about the duo, and then it was on to District 2.  A sixteen-year-old brunette caused quite a commotion by volunteering two years ahead of her assigned time. Hinge had no idea what she said to keep the rest of the prospective volunteers around her from ripping her apart, but it must have been convincing, because no one challenged her.  The boy – an older looking fellow with wild grey hair – volunteered next, and no one opposed him either. The extremely threatening glare he was giving the male half of the crowd might have had something to do with that.

Well, they hadn’t made as much of a stir as the D1 tributes, but they were still Careers. Hinge wouldn’t underestimate them. District 3 was up next, and a stunned-looking girl with her bangs dyed a curious red took the stage when her name was called. A boy with glasses and light grey hair then volunteered for the original tribute, an odd little smirk quirking his mouth as he leisurely made his way up to the stage. Something in the boy’s eyes and smile sent a small shiver down Hinge’s back, especially when he noticed the boy’s neck, where the words “Death or Glory” were tattooed in black letters. Though seriously, another kid with old people hair? How many could there be in this nation? Well, regardless of the color of his hair, either that kid was suicidal, or he actually thought he had a chance of winning this thing. Hinge was personally leaning toward the latter option at the moment, which meant that kid was most likely a considerable threat. Hinge wasn’t sure about the girl yet, though.

District 4 saw two more Careers be chosen, though they didn’t make much of an impression on Hinge, except for the fact that the girl looked ecstatic to be reaped one year shy of eighteen, and no one - surprisingly - volunteered for her. They were just another pair of Careers, though you never knew, they might turn out to be surprising, like that Abner kid from last year. He seemed to be the most decent of the Career lot, and his friendship with the District 7 boy had actually been kind of, dare he say it, heartwarming. Hinge had even been rather pissed when Charm had managed to kill him.

A tiny, terrified, twelve-year-old girl was called up from District 5, and Hinge bit his lip hard at the unfairness of it all. God, she was just so little… The boy seemed shell-shocked, but rather forgettable, though. Even so, the boy from D5 had won last year when Hinge had been pretty sure he wouldn’t make it past the first fifteen minutes, so, again, you never knew.

District 6 was on next, and after Riven took the stage for the second time that day, Hinge found it very surreal to see himself on the screen volunteering in place of Nick. No one could miss the desperation in his voice as it rang loud and clear over the silent crowd, but he thought he handled himself all right afterward, all things considered.

The last five districts all passed by in a bit of a blur, though a few tributes stood out in his mind. Both the blonde kids from District 8 fainted dead away when their names were called, and had had to be dragged up to the stage by Peacekeepers. Hinge squashed the sudden, inane urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Well, that was a great first impression from District 8 this year. They’d be hard pressed to recover from that one.

There was one more volunteer this year, the boy from District 10, who volunteered even before the name on the slip of paper was read. Hinge blinked in confusion at the blonde, androgynous boy’s wide grin at everyone’s shocked stares as he made his way to the stage. What in the world was this kid playing at? Hinge gave up on trying to figure him out as District 11’s reaping appeared on screen.

The boy was drawn first, oddly enough, and it turned out to be a freakishly tall, skinny kid who easily towered head and shoulders above everyone else in the crowd. Then the girl was picked, and Hinge’s heart sank when he saw it was another little twelve-year-old. Instead of crying or looking terrified, however, like the District 5 girl, the kid actually skipped - yes, skipped – up to the stage, her pretty red dress billowing behind her with each step she took. Watching her, one could almost imagine she was going to a party, not to her imminent death. Once she reached the stage, fearlessly took the much taller boy’s hand in hers, grinning broadly first at him, then at the crowd. Hinge was flabbergasted at the girl’s audacity. Either she was that out of touch with reality, or she was really that good at faking happiness. Either way, Hinge had to admire her spunk.

The Capitol anthem played and the reapings ended, leaving the commentators to chat enthusiastically about this year’s group of tributes.

Flywheel sighed and switched off the TV. “It’s getting late,” she said in her quiet voice. “I think it would be best if everyone tried to get as much sleep as you can. We can talk strategy in the morning.” Part of Hinge felt like they should be talking about their course of action now, but then again, it wouldn’t hurt to think about it himself during the night, and maybe have something to bring to the table on the morrow.

Riven had already retreated to her room when Hinge hauled himself off the couch and trudged down the train car to his own room. He changed into an oversized shirt and pair of shorts made of a wonderfully soft material, and climbed into the huge bed dominating one full quarter of the room.

Sleep was difficult to find, however. His mind raced at insane speeds as he processed the day’s events. It seemed almost unreal that just this morning he was waking up to have breakfast with his family, and now he was headed off in a train (!!!) to the Capitol where he would most likely be dead in a week. Lovely thought. He remembered the six Careers in the roster this year and shuddered involuntarily. And who knew what the other kids would be capable of once push came to shove? Some, like the District 10, District 11, and District 5 girls, didn’t look like they would be capable of hurting a fly, let alone killing a person, but then again, look what Draken had managed to do last year to the District 9 boy and District 8 girl, and he hadn’t looked any more threatening than they.

Gah, what in the world was he supposed to do? Winging it and hoping for the best just wasn’t a good enough strategy in this case. He knew he worked well under pressure, but he needed a contingency plan (or ten) if he hoped to have a chance of getting out of this alive. Of course, there was always the depressing possibility that he wouldn’t come back. In that case, who would be his second choice to win, if he couldn’t make it home himself?

Well, that was an easy question. Riven, of course. She seemed to be a humorless stick-in-the-mud, true, but she was his districtmate, and looked like a good kid. Plus, food and other gifts would be showered upon their district if either of them won, regardless, which he knew from experience eleven years ago could certainly help his family out even in the event that he himself didn’t make it back. So, basically, helping to insure the girl’s survival meant helping to ensure his family’s survival.

Hinge sat bolt upright in his bed. Hadn’t that been exactly what the District 5 tributes last year had done, albeit not for the same reasons? They’d stuck by each other through thick and thin, and it was only because they were looking out for each other that they’d gotten as far as they did and a thirteen-year-old boy had ended up carrying home the crown, benefiting his entire district in the process.

The boy vaulted out of bed and padded over to his door, slipping out into the silent train car and out into the hall. He crept as fast as he could over to Riven’s room and let himself in, since there were no locks on the doors (probably so they wouldn’t have to break them down every time a new batch of frightened tributes barricaded themselves in their rooms). Standing in the dark, silent room, Hinge cut across to the foot of the girl’s bed and awkwardly stood there, wondering how he was going to go about getting her attention.

"Who's there?"

Hinge nearly jumped a foot. Well, she was a lighter sleeper than he’d given her credit for. In hindsight, he supposed he should have been prepared for this, but ah well, live and learn. “Uh, it’s me. Hinge. Can… we talk for a minute?”

Her voice was less groggy now and her eyes glittered suspiciously in the dim light. "…Fine."

“Great!” He jumped up on the bed and sat cross-legged, facing his districtmate. “So, I just got an idea. Remember when Flywheel won eleven years ago? Actually, hm…” He took a peered closer at her and then shook his head. “No, you probably wouldn’t. You’re what, twelve?”

She drew her legs up to her chest, sitting upright but still under the covers. "Fourteen. Fifteen in October."

Hinge blinked. “Ah. Funny, you looked younger.” Riven rolled her eyes. He hurried on before he could say or do anything else that would cause her to tune him out before he’d had his say. “Anyway, as I was saying, Flywheel won the Games eleven years ago. I was seven at the time, and… well, I’d just ended up on the streets. Those food packets and extra food in general the district got that year literally saved my life on multiple occasions.”

He normally would be very uncomfortable divulging this much of his personal information to a complete stranger, but he kind of had no choice right now if he was to get her on board with his plan. “Look, I’ll give it to you straight: if I don’t come back from the Games, my family is going to be hurting bad for food and clothing and other items you need if you want to get through the winter with all your limbs and your sanity when you’re as poor as we are and one of the principal breadwinners has suddenly croaked. But, if you win, they’ll still at least get the extra food and all that. So, I’ll make you a proposition. You ally with me, and we do our best to help each other survive until, say, the final six or around that, where we split up, because frankly, I’d rather not be put into a position where I have to face the prospect of killing you, you know?

“In return, if I win, I’ll send your family part of my winnings every month so they’re taken care of, and if you win, you do the same for my family. I know this is really sudden and all, but I think we’ve got a better chance of making it if we stick together than if we try to do this on our own. So, what do you say?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

Riven weighed his words and her options for what seemed liked hours before she finally said, "Sounds fine. I wouldn't want to kill you, either. So what's your shtick?"

Hinge was rather flabbergasted. She was on board just like that? Well, he certainly hadn’t expected for it to be so easy, but he wasn’t complaining. “Great!” He favored her with a blinding grin. “Let’s see… well, I’m fast, for one thing. Really fast. No one’s been able to outrun me yet, and I can even beat the trains to the turntable, though not beyond, because they go too fast, but still… er , moving on," he added hastily, not wanting to annoy her too much with his talking.

“I can fight. Hand to hand, mostly, since I can’t aim to save my life. It’s not polished, but it gets the job done, I can promise you that. I know how to use chains as weapons, either as whips or like knuckle dusters.” He held up a fist to demonstrate.

“However, I could probably use brass knuckles or a knife or something in a pinch. I’ll have to look into that in training. Anyway, um, I’m really good at handling and fixing vehicles, though I’m sure that probably won’t come up in the arena at all, but you never know. I can take pain, and I know how to be hungry, so you probably won’t have to worry about me moaning about my physical condition unless it’s really bad. Um… oh, and I can identify some edible plants and stuff, and I have some experience with fishing, but I’m not great at that, so that’s another thing to work on. That’s about it. So, what can you do?”

"I'm pretty good with slingshots,” she began slowly, cautiously. “Not the rubber-band kind. I'm talking the kind you make out of string and a pouch. No one's supposed to know this. My uncle taught me and a few of my friends how to make and use them in case we were ever Reaped. He didn't want us to be unprepared like most kids. I can also climb just about anything. That's something I've always been good at. I know a little bit about making basic shelters, too. I don't know much about wilderness survival. But I think I can pick up enough knowledge about that from the training center."

Hinge nodded, pleased that his districtmate was tougher than she looked. “Sounds good. Though…” he trailed off, not liking what he had to say next. But she had a right to know, and keeping it from her could get them killed if she wasn’t prepared for it. “If we’re gonna be allies, I guess you should probably know that I might occasionally get… flashbacks… in the arena.” He didn’t specify what kind, hopefully she didn’t ask. “You know, so you don’t freak out just in case I go off my head for awhile. Hopefully it doesn’t happen at all, but better safe than sorry and all that. Do you have any health issues I should be aware of?”

Riven blinked, but after a moment of deliberation, decided not to pry, for which Hinge was very grateful. "Well...I don't run very fast. I get tired quick. And I get sick more than I probably should...though usually just colds and stuff."

“Okay,” Hinge replied, thinking. “We can work with that. I suppose we’ll have to talk strategy and contingency plans too, probably with Flywheel and Axle. To be honest, I’m not that great at planning ahead for things, but I’m thinking that we should probably have a backup plan or five once we get dumped into the arena so we have a lot of options, not to mention training, interviews, and all the rest.”

Urg, this was going to be a lot of work, wasn’t it? He already had a headache. “But it’s late, and I guess we can talk about it more later.” He hopped off the bed and swung around the bedpost before trotting to the door. “G’night!”

“Hm.”

-0-0-0-

Hinge brought up their new strategy to Flywheel and Axle at breakfast the next morning. Flywheel seemed relieved that they’d come to a consensus so easily and promised to help in whatever way she could, and even Axle, while partially out of it with morphling, perked up a little, though he was still morbidly pessimistic about the whole thing.

“Eh, you might have a chance if you both make it away from the Cornucopia,” he mused, clumsily slathering a biscuit with strawberry jam. “As long as you realize only one of you can win.” He eyed them both critically, and even through the haze of drugs glazing his eyes, Hinge could see the spark of keen intelligence residing there.

“We’d… rather cross that bridge when we come to it,” Hinge replied, shifting uneasily in his chair. “We’re planning to split up if we both reach the final six, anyway.”

“If you even make it that far,” Axle snorted, taking a big bite of his biscuit.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hinge muttered, rolling his eyes and shoving a forkful of eggs in his mouth.

“I’m not getting my hopes up unless you manage to impress me, kid,” the man said bluntly, pointing at Hinge with his knife. “And frankly, you’re not doing a very good job of it so far. And what,” he sniffed at the air suspiciously, “in the world is that smell? It’s like a fruit basket got doused in cinnamon an’ the whole thing was chucked in a wisteria bush.”

Silence fell around the table while Hinge tried his best to turn invisible. He kept noticing the females’ eyes keep flicking toward him, though, and he finally exploded, “Alright! I pushed one too many buttons in that slagging shower, okay? I couldn’t figure out how to stop it, either, so I had to get doused in five different soaps before it’d let me out.” Riven started to chuckle, followed by Axle, who forwent Riven’s soft sniggering and just laughed openly at him. Hinge glared. Sure, he probably would have laughed in this situation, too, but he was just a tad irritated at the moment. Going to your imminent death and being told in essence that you’re basically Career bait would do that to you, he supposed.

“It’s alright, your prep team will cover it up, I’m sure,” Flywheel assured him, though the twinkle in her tired eyes betrayed her. “And you know,” she added, a slight hint of mischief in her tone, “Axle, I seem to recall that you took a shower once and came out smelling strongly of cloves, coconut, and coffee right before an important party in the Capitol.” Axle sputtered indignantly while Riven giggled louder. Hinge felt a grin start to appear on his face. Well, what the heck, might as well have some fun before the end, right?

“Oh really?” he asked mischievously, popping a grape in his mouth and leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Tell me more.”

“Now wait a minute-!” Axle protested, before being shushed by Flywheel.

“We’re going to be pulling into the station in fifteen minutes; surely a grown man like you can stand being poked fun at a little for a quarter of an hour.”

Axle glowered. “Only if I get to mention the time you accidentally dyed your hair green,” he said finally, making Flywheel flush to the tips of her ears. He turned to the two incredulous tributes. “It’s true! Caused quite a sensation at the Capitol.”

The next few minutes were filled with a flurry of tales of various mishaps the two adults had gotten into over the years, along with some of the other victors. Hinge found himself quite enjoying it, and decided at the end of it that Flywheel was quite awesome, and even Axle was alright, when he wasn’t  wholly incoherent with morpling and once you got past his brusqueness, sarcasm, and all-around disagreeable nature. Guy really could tell a good story, though.

-0-0-0-

Hinge barely had time to gawk at the huge, colorful, Capitol buildings as the train pulled into its station before he and Riven were whisked into a car and driven to the Remake Center. After being dropped in the District 6 boy’s station, he was suddenly assaulted by three very odd, loud people who looked like a paint hose had broken and sprayed color all over them.

“Hello, sweetheart! I’m Alcyone, and oh darling, I just love your eyes!” a tall woman with pale purple hair and cat green eyes exclaimed, taking his face in her hands and leaning almost nose to nose with him.

“Um… thanks?” he managed before a guy with straight, silky white hair that fell to his waist even pulled up in a ponytail and violet swirls tattooed into his shoulders - he introduced himself as Chiron - ordered him to strip, and the next few hours passed in a whirlwind of activity. Alcyone cheerfully scrubbed him raw four times in four different scented baths, chattering a mile a minute about anything and everything that popped into her head. Chiron painstakingly filed and trimmed his nails, waxed his face (an experience that Hinge could have gone his whole life without and never wanted to repeat), and rubbed some sort of stinging oil into it that he informed the tribute would keep facial hair from growing for four weeks. The last member of his prep team - a navy blue-skinned man with a cloud of neon yellow curls floating around his head by the hilarious (in Hinge’s opinion) name of Crispus - took one look at his disheveled mop of dark, choppy hair and nearly had a stroke right on the spot. Hinge instinctively shied away from the sight of the big blue man wielding scissors and a straightening iron bearing down on him, and told him in no uncertain terms that he did not want anyone touching his hair, please and thank you and kindly get the sharp, pointy, hot objects away from his head. This almost reduced the guy to tears, but Chiron intervened and eventually talked Hinge into a quick trim in exchange for allowing Crispus to do whatever else he wanted with his hair.

Thus, forty minutes later, Hinge stood in the center of the room with nothing but air covering his body, tired, sore, annoyed, and washed, waxed, and primped within an inch of his life. The prep team surveyed their work - Chiron with a look of calm satisfaction, Alcyone and Crispus with childish delight – before taking their leave (but not before Alcyone enveloped him a back-breaking hug) to fetch his stylist, Erin. Hinge was very, very tempted to grab the green silk robe hung on a hangar beside the door to cover himself up and hide under the couch, but he gritted his teeth and stared at a rack of towels in front of him, determined to see this through like a man.

Finally, the door opened, and a woman with green hair and ears surgically altered to form a point at the tips walked in. Despite her odd hair and ears, she didn’t look so bad, Hinge supposed. Weird, certainly, but not unpleasant, unlike some of the other stylists he’d seen on TV over the years. She also seemed to have an aquatic theme going with her outfit he noticed as she walked briskly around him and he fought down the urge to cover himself up as her eyes took in every inch of him.

Finally, she stopped and nodded approvingly. “Yes, I think you’ll do,” she announced, rubbing her chin in thought.

“Gee, thanks,” Hinge replied sarcastically before he could stop himself. “Nice to meet you, too. Erin, I think it was?”

“Indeed, Hinge.” A small, amused smile appeared on her lips. She crooked a long-nailed finger at him and turned. “Get your robe. We need to talk.” For once that day, Hinge complied gladly. When he followed her into the adjoining room, she was already lounging in a plush chair, sipping a class of something clear and bubbly.

“Sit.” She gestured him to the chair with her glass. “Help yourself.” Hinge’s face brightened at the sight of the eclectic assortment of fruits and sweets on a platter in between the chairs.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he answered, plopping himself down in the chair and stuffing a chocolate truffle in his mouth. “So, you new this year? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

Erin nodded. “Yes, this is my and my partner’s first year as stylists.”

“So, what’s the plan, then?” Might as well bite the bullet and get this over with. The tributes for 6 last year had looked, frankly, horrible, especially compared to, say, the outfits for 1, 3, or 8, just to name a few. Hopefully, the stylists this year had better sense than to send him and Riven out in chrome bikinis or something equally stupid. Of course, it could always be something even worse (they could be naked, for instance). Hinge shuddered slightly.

“Tell me, Hinge,” Erin smiled mysteriously. “What are your thoughts on racecars?”

-0-0-0-

Hinge took a look at himself in the mirror and grinned. In all honesty, he didn’t look half bad. In fact, he thought he looked pretty slaggin’ good. He had to admit, Erin had had a pretty good idea here, portraying him and Riven as racecars vying for the same prize, highlighting what she said was the fundamental thing District 6 provided for Panem: speed. The fact that he got to wear sweet-looking armor and be almost totally covered by a bodysuit was also a great big plus. Yeah, he could totally pull this off.

On impulse, he struck a triumphant pose and grinned cheekily at the mirror. Alcyone and Crispus, who had just finished putting the finishing touches on his makeup, shrieked and clapped in delight, and Erin favored him with an indulgent smile. “Ready for your big debut?” she asked, gesturing him along into the elevator that would take them down to the chariot holding area.

“Slag yeah,” he grinned, hurrying after her and relishing the feeling of his cape of black and white streamers billowing behind him.

Once the elevator doors opened, she led him among the chariots to District 6’s. Hinge caught sight of some of the other tributes getting into position, but most were preoccupied with their own chariots to notice him.

“This one’s yours,” Erin said, stepping up beside one chariot and scratching one of the horses behind the ears. “Step on up. Your districtmate and Prima should be here any moment.” Hinge obliged, bounding up easily and leaning on the side to survey the tributes arriving and what he could see of their costumes. He only barely had enough time to catch a glimpse of a few, however (wow, where did they get all the amazing stylists this year, seriously?), before a cry of “Erin!” made him look around to see a glittering woman trotting toward them, beaming happily and dragging Riven behind her by the hand. The younger girl was dressed similarly to Hinge, though her armor was a pinkish-red color instead of blue, like his. She also looked to be at the very end of her tether.

“So you must be Hinge!” the other stylist gushed, squeezing Riven’s hand and looking like she was actually going to start jumping up and down in excitement. “You look very handsome, darling! I’m Prima.”

“Why thank you. Pleased to meet you,” he replied, gracing her with a playful wink, which made her squeal like a schoolgirl and reflexively crush Riven to her ample chest in a huge hug. Riven’s eyes bugged out of her head, and she shot Hinge a look that clearly screamed, ‘For the love of God, help me before I suffocate, you blithering idiot.’

Hinge took pity on her. “Here, Riv, lemme give you a hand.” He bent down and offered his hand to his districtmate, who took it as soon as she was able, and pulled her up onto the chariot with him.

“Good luck, you two,” Erin told them, looping an arm around her friend’s shoulders and steering her away from the chariot as the Capitol anthem began to play outside.

“And remember, Riven!” Prima called over her shoulder. “Look mysterious. Leave the smiling to the boy, okay, sweetheart?” Riven huffed, giving a slight roll of her eyes, which was the most she’d probably come to tearing at her styled hair in frustration.

“What’d she mean by that?” Hinge asked curiously once the two were out of earshot, leaning his hip against the edge of the chariot and crossing his armored arms. In response, Riven turned and gave him one of the most terrifying smiles he’d ever seen. The next instant, her face was its usual impassive self and she turned back to staring straight ahead.

“Yeesh, sorry I asked,” he muttered, shuddering a little. “Um… could you not do that again? Like, ever?”

“Gladly,” she answered, seeming annoyed with this whole situation in general.  After another moment, she sighed, almost imperceptibly. “This is so stupid…”

“Tell me about it,” Hinge replied, straightening up as District 1’s chariot began to roll out the door to the roar of the crowd. “But hey, look on the shiny side: we’re not in bikinis or naked, our stylists are actually competent this year, and I’ll smile enough for the both of us! Like so.” He gave her his most winning grin, pointing to it theatrically. “How can all the sponsors not be lining up after they see this face?”  

“You’ll be lucky if they don’t head for the hills instead,” she retorted, though there was an amused glint in her dark, beady eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Hey, it’s a darn sight better than that ghastly thing you did that can only be called a ‘smile’ in the loosest sense of the word,” he retorted as their chariot lurched forward, following District 5’s. As the glow from the doors and the roar of the crowd grew louder, he felt anticipatory butterflies start to flitter in his stomach. “Alright, Eisenberg, show ‘em what you got,” he breathed, planting both fists on his hips to give himself an extra boost of confidence.

“Hey,” Riven spoke up suddenly, and Hinge glanced over to see her seeming to struggle with herself before saying a simple, “Break a leg.” He was taken aback a bit, but recovered quickly.

“Yeah, you too, kid,” he replied, and then the light and roar of the crowd enveloped them.

It’s show time.