//Clymn//

I twirled my hair softly in one finger, completely bored by this whole thing. Okay, fine, I wasn't actually bored. I was mortally terrified. But I was just putting on a show, an act, so nobody would go after me. Because I heard that the winner gets their name taken out of the voting afterwards, and, well, I need that. So I continued on, putting on an expression that said, "I've been through worse, now what's next." I shuffled over to Ven and stood next to her, listening to the instructor drone on with instructions. "How're you doing?" she muttered to me under her breath. I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Honestly, great," I replied, then moved off to the side to survey  the lot. There were a few good kids, some looking pretty strong, and mostly scared. If they didn't have too many tattoos and piercings then there would've been some resemblence to their parents, but at the moment, nothing. I seemed to be about the oldest, spare a few kids who looked pretty burly. So, pretty much, I have absolutely, positively, no chance at survival.

Are we in the Training Centre already? I thought we're doing a parade...

Oops... *facepalm*

Hm.. we'll just do it afterwards they train, and since this is basically a shove in the face for all the Capitol people and it's supposed to be that way, and the whole interview thing, maybe with Johana or Enobaria hosting.

Also... doesn't the training come before? The way I remember it, Katniss trains, gets her score of eleven, she's on the stage in her jeweled dress and Caesar Flickerman asks her about that eleven that she got, and she looks at where the Gamemakers are sitting and asks innocently if she's allowed to say, and the guy that fell in the punch bowl is like ABSOLUTELY NOT!

Next week, I can't post because I'm on a ski trip. Please don't forget Kyla! 

Kyla-

The seats smell like something dead has been lying on them. I avoid wondering what. The rebels have taken over the Capitol but they still can’t afford good transportation. Funny.

I watch large houses pass by. Soon we’re near the middle of the Capitol. I’m dragged out of the automobile and into a building. Both of the rebels are wearing tattered clothing, their bodies smell unclean and dirty.

“GET OFF ME!” I yell and kick the one man in the shin. He slaps me back; a burning pain spreads throughout my face.

“You just slapped me.”

The man scowls. “I know; now move.”

“I’m not going to move if you talk to me in such a tone.”

“I can slap you again if you want.” I take that as a warning and force my mouth shut.

The room I’m led to is painted dark pink. The rest of the room looks like the absolute opposite. Furniture has been piled up the walls to make space for a “Beauty Studio”.

What they call a makeover room, looks more like a garage in District 8. A few stylists are nervously wringing their hands. They’ve had nothing done; no tattoos, earrings, fake pupils or skin color. The “stylists” are rebels.

“I’m not gonna be dressed by a bunch of untalented people from the Districts.”

“This isn’t a choice.” I’m hearing this sentence for the second time today. It seems like very few things can be controlled by one’s self.

I am seated in a chair, facing the stylists. All of them are looking at their feet. Are they scared of me?

“Wh-what do you want done?” A woman with blond hair speaks up.

“Ah, a choice. You’re the stylist, what do you think I should do?”

“She has large eyes.”

“You would look good in blue, you know.”

“I really don’t care. Just as long as I can get out of this place soon.”

They take off all of my make-up and reapply it. They wash my face and hair, brush and pull until the roots ache.

Aftert he full body check, they slip something over me. It’s cool and soft like water.

A stylist fumbles with the buttons and then leads me to a mirror.

My hair is gleaming with some sort of hair spray, it’s been straightened to frame my face. My eyes are surrounded by blue. When I blink, I can see the little bits of blue powder fluttering off my eyelids. My eyelashes are long, making my eyes look like blue sapphires.

The dress. Sleeveless and tight. Towards my knees it begins to extend out, and falls to the ground in soft waves. It’s sapphire blue, matching my eyes. A blue choker is the crown of the outfit. It squeezes my neck so tightly that I can hardly breathe.

“You like it?”

“It’s fine.” I want to evade giving them any reason to feel happy.

*

The float is a horse-drawn carriage, adorned in blue. One little pedestal rises up four feet, and it can be entered by going up a few stairs. When I ride out into the streets, a curtain will fall, revealing yours truly. 

Have fun skiing, Elizabeth!

Admin

I have nothing else to do with my life at the moment, so here is another unnecessarily long post. And by unnecessarily long, I mean really unnecessarily long. Voila.

Amaryllis-

"Now, I'm sure you already know that you'll be seeing a stylist to design your appearance in the parade." The woman escorting me to the beauty studio is very tall, with short black hair and a sharp face. Her voice is as smooth as oil in a pan.
"Duh. My dad's Corvus Tentson. Of course I know that." She looks annoyed at my response.
"I'd strongly suggest you behave yourself, Amaryllis," said the woman, glaring at me. "It could very well affect your... performance in the arena."
"I don't need District rebels to help me," I snap, glaring back. "I can fight by myself." She looks at me coldly but says no more. Soon, we arrive at a flourescent pink door that can only be the beauty studio, and she knocks briskly before striding off down the corridor, heels clacking on the hard floor.
The pink door is opened by a young man, probably in his late twenties, who gives me a wide smile before moving aside to let me in. The room is small, with a shower stall, a sink, a chair, and an array of beauty supplies that looks smaller than mine back home. A few people are standing around, looking nervous.
"So," says the man who let me in. "I'm Delus. I hear your father's a stylist, eh?" I roll my eyes.
"As a matter of fact, he is. You don't happen to know any stylists yourself, do you?" Delus looks confused.
"Um, I don't quite know what you mean," he says. "I am the stylist."
"Oh really?" I ask, feigning innocence. "I couldn't tell. I thought the job of a stylist was to make people look good. I just figured they'd make a little effort on themselves, too." It takes a minute for the insult to register, I can tell. His confused expression is replaced by a frown, but he quickly plasters a fake smile across his face again.
"Ah. I see. Anyway, let's begin with the prep. All of you, over here!" The others in the room wander over uncertainly.
"Um, thorough body wash for her, would you?" he says. "Make sure to get all the makeup off. And do something about her hair. It's awfully..." he searches for a word.
"Green?" I supply. "Having trouble with colors, are you?" His smile becomes a little more strained.
"I was going to say bright," he says, "but green works too. All right, everyone, time to get to work!"
I'm brought over to the shower stall, where they begin the washing, brushing, waxing, and hair dye removal process. By the end of it all, my skin is red, my eyes sting from the attempts at removing my eyeliner, and my hair is its original dull shade of brown. I'm sitting in the hard chair, wearing nothing but a thin white robe, when Delus comes back in.
"So," he says. "Do you have any ideas for your costume in the parade?"
"I want to stand out," I say immediately. "I want everyone to be looking at me."
"Hmmm." He thinks for a moment, then seems to have an idea. "Cayenne!" he calls. A nervous-looking girl, barely older than me, comes over.
"What time is the parade going to be?" he asks her.
"Sometime in the evening," responds Cayenne. "Around 5:00, I think, so people will be home from work by then." Delus smiles.
"Pretty dark by five, eh?" he says. Cayenne looks confused.
"Um, I guess?" she hazards. "Kind of."
"All right. I've got an idea for her costume. Now, here's what the makeup's going to look like."
Delus, Cayenne, and about three other "stylists" huddle together for a minute or so. When they're done, Delus and another man leave the room while Cayenne and the others head over the the beauty supplies. They sit me down in the chair and start applying sticky, thick makeup to my face, while I resist the urge to wipe it off. It's definitely not any type of makeup I have at home. When they're done, they put something into my hair, and instruct me to close my eyes as Delus brings in my outfit. Someone helps me put it on. It's very tight. After sliding earrings into my pierced ears, I'm guided over to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. I open my eyes, prepared to gasp in amazement, when I see...
I'm wearing a black dress and black tights. My face looks pale and it's covered with white-ish, translucent makeup. The earrings I'm wearing are white disks. My hair is light brown. All in all, it looks totally unremarkable. I open my mouth to protest, but Delus shushes me.
"Just wait," he says. "You'll see." He walks over to the light switch and turns out the lights, and that's when I gasp. My entire body is glowing.
My dress, my face, my earrings, even my hair--I'm all glowing in different colors in the dim light. I turn around, and the colors change, going from citrus orange to neon green to flourescent yellow to bright, bright purple.
"It's amazing," I breath. This is definitely going to stand out. "Thank you so much." Delus smiles.
"That's what I'm here for," he says. "I'm not so bad of a stylist after all, eh?"

This is awful writing but I'm still getting back into author mode. :)

Kyla-

I’m placed somewhere in the middle of the other carriages. I begin to absentmindedly turn the third earring in my left ear.

“Nervous?” A girl with light brown hair is standing next to my carriage. Her dress is plain; black and dull. I wonder if the stylists had even given any effort.

The girl notices my gaze and smirks. “You’ll see. This is nothing compared to your…” She clears her throat. “Garment.”

“If you’re trying to scare me or something, it’s not working  ‘cause you’re pretty lame.”

“What?”

“I really don’t care if you think you’re better than me. It’s obvious that I’m more dignified.”

“My dad’s a famous stylist; you shouldn’t cross the line. I have connections.”

I snort. “Camden Heavensbee is my father. Heard of him? Maybe not. Does Plutarch Heavensbee ring a bell?”

“He supports the rebellion.”

“Dad doesn’t. I’m actually not supposed to speak about Uncle.”

“You just did.”

“I’m not scared to break the rules.” A smile flits across her pale lips. “Neither do I.”

She looks at her feet. “I’m Amaryllis.”

“Kyla.”

“See you in the Games, Kyla.” She turns and walks towards the back.

*

The horses whinny nervously and skid to a halt. I hear the crack of a whip subsequently followed by the sharp sound of horses' hooves on pavement. The cheers, screams and yells of the crowd is deafening. The blue curtain around me falls and I flinch as a rock flies over my head.

Smile, Kyla, smile.

I grin stupidly and search the crowd for someone I may know. But the effort is hopeless; the audience is covered in a black veil of darkness so that it’s impossible to see them.

“TRAITOR!” I hear a scream rise above the other yells of the people. I decide not to look back. Whoever yelled that, it can’t be meant for me. The yell was further back.

Something hits my head sharply and I black out.

TOP, THREAD!! Go to the top! "Please note that we have added a consequence for failure. Any [not going to the top] will result in an unsatisfactory mark on your
official testing record, followed by death."

Wait, what's going on right now?

Right now we're having the parade with all the special outfits for the tributes. You don't have to do a stylist scene if you don't want to, but it would be nice to know what everyone's costume is. I'm not sure what just happened to Kyla, though, so you'll have to ask Eliizabeth M. about that...

Poppy-

When I'd been pushed into the stylists room I'd had to dig my nails into my hand to keep myself from laughing. My prep team was the most idioticly dressed people in the world. One's skin was completely neon orange. Annother's hair had so much gold paint and fake daimonds in it if they'd been real it would have challenged the money President Snow had had. Annother was dressed in the most hideous neon pink over-all's I'd ever seen. My stylist was relatively normal. The red hair was probubly fake, and he wore gold eye-liner and had a gold painted mocking bird on his wrist. I was seriously afraid they were going to make me look like a complete idiot. They didn't. They'd decided on making me wear something that would match the electric blue streaks in my hair. It was a short strapless dress that fell to my knees. It was completely electric blue. The sash was midnight blue and increasted with diamonds. My hair was pulled up in a fancy bunish type thing and there were daimonds every where the stylist had placed a bobby pin (There were a lot of daimonds). Two strads of my blue hair that were in the front had been cut shorter than the rest of my hair was so they went down to my shoulders. After I was done I'd hugged my stylist and thaked him for not making me look like a complete fool.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now I'm sitting in a baby blue carriage that's shimmering with saphires waiting for the parade to start. My stylist had assured me that when the parade started two giant lights would shine from in the carriage up at me. The carriage lurches and my stomach does summer saluts. The lights cut on and I am illuminated in a clear white light that shows off my costume. I keep looking around at the other competators. One girl is dressed completely in black. I don't understand that at all. Surely her stylist hadn't been that stupid? Nope he hadn't. Suddenly her costume cut on and her entire body glowed with neon lights. That was unexspected.

Kyla-

Cold water is suddenly doused over me and I open my eyes.

“Wh-Wha-Where-“ I splutter, feeling the freezing liquid seep into my clothes.

A man is staring down at me, a bucket in his hands. “What was that for?” I demand, regaining full consciousness and getting up. Blood pounds through the side of my head, causing a piercing pain to hit my skin like a hammer.

“You had slept long enough,” the man says simply.

“I wasn’t sleeping!”

“No, you weren’t…” I am getting the impression that he really doesn’t care what I think.

“What happened?” I inquired.

“Some district rebel threw a stone at you. Possibly because of your father.”

“It’s obvious that it’s because of my father.”

The man ignores me and continues. “Then you fell from the float; some colleagues and I 'saved you' and brought you to the training center. They wanted to leave you on the street to get trampled, yet I thought you might miss getting a chance to win the Games.”

“Why would you even care?” I study his soiled camo pants and jacket, his used shoes, his grimy face and his uncombed blond hair. “You’re a rebel.”

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. “You deserve this punishment. And leaving you to die is like letting you go home.”

His words give me mixed feelings. Is he like the rest or does he have some sense in his noggin? Is he telling the truth?

I look into his brown eyes, scrutinizing me and see how young he is. I also see the truth and seriousness. He doesn’t lie.

“What’s your name?”

“Names are not important here.”

“Something I can call you.”

“Ciaran.” He smiles a little. “You’re Kyla. I’m your trainer.”

This man is my trainer? He reminds me of Devontae.

Ciaran spots my uncertainty and asks, “You don’t want to train?”

“Obviously! I was just thinking…”

“Well then, come with me.”

“What about the dress?” I can hardly walk in the outfit, let alone learn to fight in it.

“We’ve got no time to lose… Come!”

“I refuse to fight in this thing.” Ciaran turns around, stomps towards me and grabs my arm with such great force that I let out a small cry. “Come,” he says through clenched teeth.

*

The Training Room is a large, high-ceilinged hall with hard marble floors and walls.

Ciaran leads me to a corner where a large box filled with all types of weapons is standing. He grabs a knife out of the pile.

“What’s this?” he interrogates.

“A knife?”

“A dagger. Not something you use in kitchens. When you’re in the arena, this is the first thing you want… And a bow, but we’ll get to that later.

“Now, a dagger can be used for many things. You throw it.” He aims at a little bull’s-eye set up for practice. Then hits it perfectly in the middle. “Now you.”

We go through this exercise for a while then he takes a long stick in his hand. “What’s this?”

“A stick.”

“A tree branch.”

“That’s the same thing,” I mutter annoyed.

“Not necessarily. Now watch. You take the stick; mount it on your legs so that it doesn’t move. You place the dagger here,” he indicates a place on the branch. “You move the tool away from you, skinning the bark off and creating a tip. This is a spear. If you feel like you don’t have enough time, just get the dagger, find a stick and make your own spear. Now, we’ll practice making these.” I create a few spears, and then begin throwing them.

We analyze different types of ways to use a dagger, and then move on to the bow.

*

“Good night, Kyla. You’re all sharing a room.”

“Twenty-four tributes?” Ciaran nods.

“Well, good night then.”

I enter the room and walk over to a free cot near the end of the room. “Hey you!”

It’s too dark to see but I recognize the voice. “Amarylis?”

“Mhm. You’re alive?”

“Yep.” I proceed to lie down on my cot. “We have to sleep in these too?”

“Or you change into your training outfit.” I do so and feel much better after.

“What about the others?”

“Quite a few were thrown at. Not everyone was hit…”

“But-“

“No one died.” I sigh in relief.