Chapter Text
Lunch the next day is a dull affair, again with a simple meal. The only change is that Brutus has dragged Matilda out of her room and to the table to sit next to Cato. They listen to Silas rehash the schedule for the day. Aside from the parade, the main item on the list is a building tour.
The tour is nothing special, but the Capitol has deemed it necessary. It is a time filler because the outer districts don't arrive until a day after the inner ones. So, while the career tributes tour the facility, the fresh tributes are sent to the Remake Hall, where they are scrubbed, bathed, and made human. Cato thought he might use the time to lay the groundwork of the alliance and feel out his fellow tributes, but the Districts are being kept away from each other, only catching glimpses of the others in the hallways. It's more than a little frustrating, and Cato is beginning to feel like a rat in a maze. The tour is also minimal. While here, they only have access to the Remake Hall, the Training Center, and their floor. However, the arenas in the Training Center are prohibited from being accessed before the allotted three days of training. Somehow, Silas makes the tour last over an hour.
By the time they finish, all the tributes have arrived in the Capitol, and the Remake Hall is crawling with people. Cato and Matilda are led back there for fittings. Silas deposits them into the same rooms as yesterday before they can look too closely at the other mentors and tributes. Rosalind is already waiting for him in the second room, door ajar.
"Cato!" She calls, "Please come in and we'll get started."
He crosses the clinical room quickly and steps into the red one. Rosalind has her back to him. She is fiddling with a set of gold armor on a headless cloth mannequin. This must be his costume.
She's pinning something in place when he gets to her, and she motions over her shoulder at him, "Clothes off, please. You'll need to try on the suit so I can make last-minute adjustments to it."
His stylist is far more comfortable with nudity amongst strangers than he is. She even hurries him along as he takes the time to unlace his shoes. Once he's down to his boxers, she pulls the garment off the mannequin with some effort. Cato lowers his head and shifts his arms as she places the armor over him. He's surprised by the weight; it's real metal.
As if reading his mind, she explains, "It's a hardened steel alloy that's been painted gold for its appearance. But it is almost as functional as a real chest plate."
The metal is cold against his chest, and he's shifting it around, rapping his knuckles against it when Rosalind turns back around with more pieces. She passes over a pair of golden shorts made of a very stretchy material for him to slide on. Then she fashions a thick sash around the bottom of the chest plate. She's attached a pleated skirt to the sash so that they hang neatly.
"You'll have to take your boxers off for the actual parade. I can see the wrinkles beneath the spandex." Rosalind has already turned around to grab more pieces of the costume.
Cato can't hide his frown before she faces him again. Spandex?
"You will be fine. It'll only be a short ride around the city circle."
She next adds a sheer cape and a feathery collar piece. The collar is also made of metal; it clinks lightly as he walks toward a mirror that's been set up near the mannequin. He wouldn't admit it to Rosalind, but the costume isn't as ridiculous as he thought it might be based on the drawings. Cato might even go as far as to say he looks kind of cool.
He's pulling at the hem of the shorts when Rosalind places the headpiece on him from behind. The wings are stupidly large, and he is immediately glad he didn't voice his prior opinion. The headpiece makes him look like a character on a capitol show, which he supposes he is.
"Ah," Rosalind exclaims as she claps her hands excitedly, "you look so good! Put on your shoes; I need you next to Matilda to ensure cohesion. Then we'll make alterations."
Cato wobbles as he bends to pick up the boots. The plate is difficult to move in and is obviously only made with standing in mind. Luckily, the shoes were made to slip on, and Rosalind kneels to help guide his feet in. It's a demeaning feeling, and Cato quickly decides he does not like this experience. No one has helped him dress since he lived at home in his early childhood.
When Cato meets Matilda's eye in the hallway, he can see she's trying not to laugh at him. His eyes narrow, and his mouth tightens to suppress his laughter; he hopes she knows she looks just as ridiculous as him. She's wearing a nearly identical outfit. Her headpiece is a full helmet instead of a band, her belt is slightly less flashy, and her legs are entirely covered in the same stretchy fabric as his shorts. The real kicker is her shoes. She stands almost taller than him in a pair of bejeweled heeled boots.
"Can you even walk in those?"
Her eyes follow his down to the shoes, "I made it out here, didn't I?"
They lock eyes again, and it is even more of a struggle not to laugh. Lorens and Rosalind stand a little ways off, muttering to each other before stepping closer and beginning to poke and tug at their costumes. The two are like colorful hallucinations, uttering gibberish at each other. They do this for another few minutes before they usher each tribute back into their respective rooms. It's evident to Cato that Rosalind has slipped into a different universe as she carefully removes each item and places them back on the mannequin. He redresses, and rather than sit and wait for her to dismiss him, Cato heads for the door.
"Remember, no underwear!" She calls out absentmindedly to him as the door starts to close.
He's pressing the button for the elevators when Matilda steps up beside him.
"Was your stylist griping about underwear, too," Matilda asks. She looks over at him, and he can see the mix of humor and irritation on her face.
Cato nods, his brow furrowed, "Apparently, my underwear is too wrinkly. Whatever that means."
Silas seems particularly smug about getting Matilda to the table for dinner. However, Cato isn't sure Brutus didn't drag her in by the ear.
He can hear Brutus in his head and feel his tight grip on his jaw: "You're seventeen, not seven. Now start acting like it."
It's almost funny to imagine when he knows it's not happening to him.
Dinner for him and Matilda is the same as lunch. It's just enough for them to maintain their muscle mass and feel full. This time, it is a struggle to keep his eyes down and not look at the plates of the adults at the table. The avoxes are serving what seems like a first course. Cato's mouth starts to water when he smells something spicy. He lets himself take a peek. Brutus, Enobaria, and Silas eat what looks like chicken in a thick red sauce over a bed of yellow rice. The portion is small but fragrant. Cato lets himself imagine that his carefully measured portion of boiled chicken is slathered in that spiced red sauce.
He's more than halfway done when the avoxes clear the plates and bring another dish for those not eating specially calculated macros. Cato forces himself to slow down, or he'll be stuck watching them eat until they are ready to discuss the plans for tomorrow. Their silverware clinks and scrapes against the dishes, and a quiet slurping, probably from Brutus, tells Cato they are probably eating some kind of soup. He thinks about the delicately labeled cards on the train for broccoli cheddar and cold cucumber soup and briefly wonders if they are eating either. He's not going to check, though. He does allow his eyes to wander to Matilda's plate. She has chosen the same strategy as him, eat slowly and don't look. Neither of them is lucky, however. Their plates are emptied and taken as the avoxes clear and prep the table for another course.
Brutus leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his abdomen, clearly feeling fat and happy. He clears his throat quietly, "Time for a bit of business. Training starts tomorrow."
"We saw the outside of the facility during the tour today," cuts in Matilda.
"You should know that it is not nearly as specialized as the gyms back in Two. It's larger but more general," Enobaria says.
"You won't have much need for the survivalist stations; it's unlikely you will have to put those skills to use." Brutus picks up again, "Just focus on staying loose and familiar with your weapons. Spend some time with One and Four. It shouldn't be difficult to assert yourselves with this group."
Cato's mentor certainly wasn't wrong there. Not only would they likely retain control over the cornucopia and, therefore, the food and supplies, but it would be easy to assert and retain control over the other two career districts. Four might as well be half a district, with one of their tributes only 16 years old. One, while certainly well-fed and dangerous, appeared particularly performative this year.
"You know the rules, no blood or bruises," Enobaria says, "don't get disqualified."
The last course is laid out on the table in front of the three adults. Three pale-colored scoops sit in delicate glass bowls with thin, long-handled spoons. Brutus takes a few bites before pushing it aside. Cato hears him mumble something about too much sugar in his growing age. Enobaria doesn't touch hers at all, and it's all Cato can do to stop himself from drooling over the light fruity scent coming off the bowl. It's nearly all melted by the time Silas finishes his. He had been particularly slow to eat, taking the time to discuss proper parade etiquette between bites.
"And make sure to stand tall. You are strong, and you should continue to appear, even if the people in the city already know," Silas says, his spoon ringing the glass as he sets it down for the final time.
Brutus slaps his thighs, standing, and says, "Alright, kiddies, let's go. You have appearances to make."
The Remake Hall is abuzz for the second time today; brightly colored stylists flit about in their bird-like manner, their arms full of garments, their mouths moving hurriedly while they whisper to each other. Enobaria deposits Cato at Rosalind's door basically by the scruff, and a blue hand shoots out and yanks him inside. The door slams shut behind them, and the prep team descends upon him in a flurry.
"Oh, aren't you so excited?" The yellow one (Apple? Or Floral?) exclaims as she shoves the white robe in his face. The instruction is clear at this point.
He slips his shoes off this time, wanting to avoid any chastising from taking the time to properly undo them, and removes the simple denim pants and cotton shirt he's been wearing all day. While Cato would still prefer the prep team to turn around when he takes off his boxers, he knows they are unphased and makes quick work of them. He snatches the robe out of Yellow's hand.
In the second room, they plop him down in a chair and pull back one of the deep red drapes to reveal a big mirror.
Nadia fusses with his hair, frowning, "It's a shame it's so short; we can't do much with it."
She tilts and turns his head, examining his hair and face with a focus he didn't realize she could possess. Her eyes are still glued to his hair when she snaps her fingers, "Apple, pomade, please, the stiffer one."
So the yellow one is Apple, and the red one is Floral. Cato tucks that away.
A pungent, synthetic scent wafts over him as she rubs her hands above his head. The feeling of her hands in his hair is wildly unpleasant. She drags her fingers through his hair, spiking it up. His head feels like it's drenched in wax. She slicks down the sides where the headpiece will sit. Apple, who has been filing and buffing his nails into uniform shapes, holds his hand up to the light to examine it.
"Nadia, how much more time do you need?" Rosalind pokes her head through another red curtain. There must be another door behind them.
"Maybe 10? The hair was easy. Flora is just gonna touch up the skin."
The prep team continues muttering about city gossip as they poke, brush at his face, and sculpt his nails. Pretty soon, Rosalind comes back to the room; she's pushing a rack of clothing. Apple places her hands on his shoulders and gives him a feral grin in the mirror.
"Let's get you into this costume," Rosalind says.
The prep team steps out of the room. Cato stands, and Rosalind's pink-and-purple-striped hand passes him the gold shorts. He slips them on underneath the robe. Once they're on, he removes the robe; somehow, he's already got a massive wedgie.
Rosalind turns to him, holding the chest plate in her hands. "Alright, this next, arms up."
The metal sends goosebumps across his body, and a shiver races through him. She places the sash and pleat piece around his waist, successfully hiding the edge of both the chest plate and the waistband of the shorts. She clips the sheer cape onto Cato's shoulders, and the feathery metal collar goes on afterward. Cato steps into the boots, and Rosalind lets out a little hum of excitement.
"Okay, okay, to the mirror you go!"
Cato shuffles the little distance to the mirror and looks himself over. The items are more finished and well-tailored than when he wore them earlier. Somehow, the gold is more lustrous as well. The chest plate makes him look strong and fearsome, and the pleated sash and shorts–despite their ridiculousness–make his muscular legs look bold and powerful. Maybe it's the lights casting shadows across his face, too, but he looks like a glowing warrior. His stylist approaches him and places the winged headpiece over his brow.
Well, there goes the intimidation factor, he thinks. The giant wings on either side of his face look out of place.
Rosalind has other ideas if her gasp and clapping are anything to go by.
"Oh," she sighs, "you look just perfect! Exactly the vision Lorens and I had in mind. Come, come, come, let's get you and Matilda to the stables."
Cato is ushered out into the hallway. Matilda exits her dressing room at the same time. The second she sees him, the battle to not laugh begins again. He's sure to lose when he sees her wobbling forward in the massive heels Lorens has put her in.
"You look like a wobbly water bird," Cato says as she passes him.
Matilda jerks her elbow back to hit him in the gut, but her elbow slams into the metal of his chest plate. He suppresses a full laugh with a cough as she sucks in a breath and grabs her elbow with the other hand. She knows better than to make any other expression of pain.
"Shut up, you ass," she grunts through her teeth.
Cato lets himself smile a little at her predictability. Her sharp wit and fiery personality are a welcome familiarity.
The walk doesn't take very long. The stables aren't far, just a series of winding hallways leading to the other side of the building. Screams from the Capitolites reverberate through the open gate, enhanced by the tall ceilings and largeness of the area.
A line of 12 chariots weaves through the open space. Two dark bay, nearly black horses are harnessed at the front of each one. Enobaria, Brutus, and Silas lead them through the crowd of other tributes and their teams to the front of the line. The horses have already been harnessed to the equipment and shift around idly.
The stable hand pulls a couple of carrots out of his pocket, "Would you like to feed them?"
Cato's never been this close to a horse before. He takes one of the carrots that were offered and moves to the front of the chariot.
"Hold the carrot like this so your fingers aren't in the way. And don't let him take too big of a bite, or he'll choke." The stable hand shows Cato with the other carrot, his hand two-thirds up the carrot, thumb tucked away.
The horse easily bites through the carrot, tossing his large head up and down. Before he's even finished chewing, his lips search for another bite. Cato chuckles and offers him another. He looks over to Matilda, who is watching. Their mentors have moved off to speak with the mentors from District 1.
"You should give it a go. They are pretty cool."
Matilda shrugs, making a face, and turns away to look at the rest of the tributes. He feeds the last of the carrot to the horse, patting his nose before stepping away. Joining Matilda, he eyes the rest of the tributes. The tributes from 1 approach the second they see that Cato and Matilda have joined the crowd. Both are 18, tall and strong-looking. The male has cropped brown hair, slicked back with something glittery. The female's long red hair is woven through with jewels. The two appear to have been dripped in diamonds and other gemstones from head to toe. Their skin shimmers under the lights and the gems on their bodysuits reflect different colors as they move.
"I'm Opuleo," the boy said, thrusting out a pearly, glitter-slick hand. He grins with two rows of oddly white teeth.
"Cato," he replied, gripping it firmly enough to make Opuleo's grin falter.
"And Lustra," the girl added, turning from Matilda.
Her smile is a little too wide, and her voice is a little too sweet. Cato decides immediately she's creepy, too much like a doll to be a real teenage girl. The tributes from District 1 are almost always like that, too beautiful. He repeats his name for her and removes his hand from her grip as quickly as possible. He'd almost like to wipe it off. Both Opuleo and Lustra have left a shiny residue on his palm.
"So it looks like we will work together for the next few weeks. What are your thoughts on Four? Worth it or not?" Opuleo asks.
"We'll have to evaluate tomorrow. The girl is likely a yes, and the boy could be a liability we must cut early," Cato says. The four of them eye the District 4 partners from within their little cluster. The girl is 18. She's pretty short but is entirely made of torso and muscle.
"I'd bet she's got a great arm and is a good swimmer; look at her back," Lustra points out. She's not wrong. Her back is shaped from years of pulling herself through the water and hurling points at fish.
"The boy doesn't look half bad, 16 isn't a terrible age." Opuleo raises an eyebrow appraisingly.
"Maybe he'll be a mini Finnick," Matilda says.
Before Cato can comment on the other tributes, an announcer's voice calls for the parade's start.
"Long-range first tomorrow," he says as they disperse to mount their chariots.
Brutus, Enobaria, and Silas appear beside them. Lorens and Rosalind fiddle with their costumes, straightening them out and ensuring they are perfect. Rosalind fastens a gold band around one of his biceps and pats him on the arm, "Just a finishing touch."
"Keep your eyes forward. This is an important impression for your sponsors. Let them see you know what you're doing." Brutus claps them both on the shoulder.
A heavy drum beat begins to echo through the stables. The horses fidget more purposefully, stamping their hooves into the ground excitedly. Cato and Matilda meet eyes. This is everything they've been working toward since they met as children. The chariot lurches forward, Cato bends his knees ever so slightly to catch himself, and the chariot approaches the golden light of dusk. Crossing through the threshold of the building and onto the Avenue of Tributes, Cato is enveloped by sound. The deep thrums of the drums come at him from both sides, vibrating in his chest. The shouting hits him next, making his ears ring. The voices are indecipherable, a cacophony of names and screaming. The sunset light shines off of Opuleo and Lustra, nearly blinding him.
They are a perfect fit for the city, shiny little birds. Cato thinks as he tries to resist squinting.
The volume of the crowd increases the second they lay eyes on the first chariot. Things begin to fall onto the road; spectators throw roses, teddy bears, and all sorts of gifts that tributes will never touch. When their chariot enters the view of the stands, he begins to hear his name coming like a chant from the crowd. He catches a quick view of himself on one of the large projectors, and he must admit that Rosalind and Lorens did a good job styling them. Matilda and himself appear like glowing torches being pulled by beasts. The golden light reflects doubly off the gold of their armor, shining them as statues of warriors come to life. The chanting of his name fills him with pride, and he allows his face to twist into a bit of a smirk. The sponsors will appreciate someone with confidence. He can only imagine what Flickerman and Templesmith are saying about him to people watching back home.
Cato revels in this moment; the sun warms his skin, and the adrenaline charges him like an electric shock. He's gonna win this whole damn thing.
The horses begin to slow as they round the large Panem seal patterned into the brick of the road. The cheers crescendo as the President rises from his chair and stands at the gold balcony's railing. President Snow raises a single hand and the crowd quiets to hear him speak.
"Welcome, Tributes, to the 73rd Hunger Games." The President's voice echoes down the Avenue. "We hold these games to honor the lives of all those lost to the horrors of the Dark Days. This occasion is one of remembrance, and you, our tributes, stand here as a symbol."
President Snow's icy gaze sweeps across the line of chariots, no doubt assessing them. Cato feels himself straighten even more under the weight of perception.
"You symbolize the contract forged between the Capitol and the Districts. A contract forged out of a necessity for peace and order for all the citizens of Panem. We recognize and thank you for your sacrifice. The coming days and weeks will test your strength, your will, and your spirit. Carry yourself with honor. May the odds be ever in your favor," a smile carves across his face as the Capitol crowd cheers. More roses and gifts spill from the stands into the road.
Cato lets the words sink in. Sacrifice. Strength. Honor. Those were weapons he was trained to wield, burnt to the ground, and rebuilt as a victorious machine. He'd already given up his whole life for it. The President's eyes remain on the chariots as they roll forward again. Cato could swear that Snow's approving gaze stopped on him for a moment longer than the others and that his head moved in the slightest nod as if to pick a winner right then and there.
Their mentors are waiting for them back in the stables. Matilda nudges her shoulder into Cato's as they step down.
"Better watch out Blondie," she smirks at him, using a nickname he hasn't heard from her since they were picked to go in over a year ago. "I could swear Snow looked at me at the end there."
"In your dreams, Matty," he uses her nickname in return. It's sticky in his mouth for a reason he can't quite place.
Before she can reply, Opuleo comes from behind, getting in between them and throwing his arms over their shoulders. Lustra is quick to appear next to them as well.
"Good first impressions from us, I think," she says, picking gems out of her hair, "did any of you get a look at Four?"
"They didn't look too bad, actually," Matilda says. I thought the boy would be small, but he looks alright."
Opuleo lets the two of them go and turns to face them, "We'll just have to test him tomorrow to know for su–"
He stops short, having run right into his mentor, Gloss. Gloss' hands go right to his tribute's shoulders as he lets out a little "oof."
"Oh–sorry, boss," Opuleo chuckles sheepishly.
"Just get into the elevator. You can talk strategy tomorrow," Gloss says, sounding quite tired. He spins Opuleo around to meet Cashmere by the door and gives Lustra a firm look. She calls a goodnight over her shoulder as she follows after her partner and mentor.
"Brutus and Eno will take you two up in the next one." Gloss turns from them and joins his team in the elevator.
“Eno?” mutters Matilda.
Cato shrugs, "Everyone's got a nickname, I guess."
Matilda's shoulders shake a little, "Think Brutus has one? What do you think would happen if I called him Bru?"
Cato thinks it over. He recalls the Brutus he's known forever. Hardened into steel, cold and inflexible. He's lived up to his name over and over again. Many of his scars were from Brutus' hands.
"Mmm, maybe he's an exception." After a moment's pause, "I don't think he'd mind if you gave him a long one. More like a title, maybe Brutus the Barbarian."
"Bit obvious, don't you think?"
"Eh, he doesn't do much thinking anyway. Best to make it easy for him."
This gets a full laugh out of Matilda.
"What are you two laughing about?" questions Enobaria as they near the second elevator.
"Nothing." Matilda's face straightens out quickly.
Enobaria eyes them over and then herds them into the elevator. Brutus is already inside.
"That was pretty good, kids. Silas is out answering sponsor phone calls already," Brutus says, "Enobaria and I will drop you off and join him. Go to bed. Training starts early."
Cato and Matilda both give him a nod, and the elevator dings to signal their arrival. Brutus is wrapped up in something on his tablet, and Enobaria leans forward, her head between her tributes'.
"I think Barbarian is a good choice," she whispers as she shoves them off the elevator.
The doors close quickly behind them, but they still glimpse her slight smirk.
Cato leaves his golden costume haphazardly on the ground outside the bathroom. Removing the chest plate by himself had proven difficult and left him frustrated. The frustration had grown exponentially when he'd stubbed his toe on the metal as he tugged the tight spandex down his legs and tripped on the pleated skirt. Now, sitting under the flow of hot water in the shower and letting it run over his face, he calms down. This has quickly become his favorite part of this whole experience. Sure, winning will outweigh it, but for the seven days he's here, the shower will sit firmly at the top spot. There seems to be an endless supply of hot water, so Cato decides to enjoy it as much as he wants. That is what Silas insisted upon.
"This is all for you, so enjoy it while you can!"
The white tiles in the bathroom are so pristine, perfectly cut, and laid in a straight pattern. He'd never dream of sitting in the showers at the Academy. Not only because they're allotted seven minutes per trainee but because the water is ice cold, and the tiles, which were likely once as white as these, are now grimy and mottled with grey and green. No amount of regimented scrubbing could remove that deep layer of filth.
Cato can feel his muscles relaxing the longer he sits there. He reaches up to the panel on the wall and presses one of the buttons. The shower fills with floral steam. Cato leans against the cool walls and closes his eyes, breathing in the calming steam. He sits like that until the heat becomes more stifling than soothing and then slowly makes his way to his feet. The rest of the shower is quick as he takes care of the necessities.
Luckily, when he exits the bathroom in a cloud of billowing steam, the parade costume has been cleaned up by an avox. His previous battle with the closet has left him with the knowledge he needs to quickly retrieve a pair of boxers, and he gets into bed with less hassle than yesterday. Cato rolls over to face the large window. The lights from the high rises gleam into his bedroom, casting neon ripples across the floor and onto his white sheets. This is a view he could get used to. As he lies there, staring out the window, he tries to find patterns in the lights and wonders about the people he can see milling about in the streets. It's so quiet in his room compared to how loud he now knows the city can be. He falls asleep, the lights casting shadows across his face, and dreams about walking in those crowded streets.