Hunger Games 1. Chapter 1

**The Mockingjays Will Still Sing**

**Chapter 1:**

She hadn't known her cousin's family very well; neither had she expected to become better acquainted with them any time soon, but three years after Rue's death at the 74th Hunger Games, Thistle Lark found herself standing on the doorstep to her mother's elder sister's home. The 17 year old felt awkward and out of place as she waited for her Aunt to finish her discussion with one of the Peacemakers. Even though she realized that she would probably never truly belong in this household and would always be looked upon as an unwelcome burden, it was better than the other two options she was presented with: either get sent to a Community Home, or get killed. The latter pair was not very appealing to the young teen, and so, shifting from foot to foot in the cold, Thistle desperately hoped that her relatives would agree to the first of the three choices.

A small shape inched closer to her along the wall, little by little, until Thistle found herself staring down at a pair of the brightest, brown eyes she'd ever seen. They belonged to an emaciated girl-child, dressed in a filthy dress that looked more like a dirty washrag than any article of clothing a human would wear. She was barefoot, her long auburn hair hanging in tangled, lank strands down her back; in one hand she held a pathetic bundle of sticks that Thistle assumed could only be a poor attempt at a doll. Seeing as no one else was paying any attention to them, Thistle slowly crouched down until she was at face-level with the kid and said, "Hello."

The younger girl blinked her large, doe eyes and sang back in a truly bird-like voice, "Hi, I'm Prune." A smile stretched across her thin face, exposing two tiny dimples, and Thistle was struck with how much this child resembled Rue.

Rue; her favorite of all her cousins; only two years behind her in age and just turned 12 when she was unfairly snatched away to become District 11's female tribute. Out of the thousands, millions, of pieces of paper in that bowl, Rue's was the one that was drawn. Even though she was among the youngest and barely eligible for the Reaping, somehow, Fate had decided that she would become the lamb for the slaughter. Thistle had been practically glued to the TV screen during the entire duration of the Games, watching Rue's every step and praying that the smallest one of all the Tributes would make it back home safely. Her hopes were soon dashed though, when they broadcasted Rue's death by the hand of the boy from District 1, and her body was sent back in a plain, wooden box. At first, Thistle couldn't decide whether or not to hate the girl Rue had partnered up with, Katniss Everdeen, for not being quick enough and finding her cousin in time, but after further contemplation, she decided that the one from District 12 had done her best. Failed yes, but still done the best she possibly could've to save Rue. In the end, the District in its entirety decided that the girl was worth thanking, and had scraped up enough to send her a small token of gratitude, something that Thistle had yet to witness occur in any other Games.

As she watched Prune, a smaller, more fragile version of the one person she'd been powerless to protect three years ago, Thistle vowed that, if she were to be allowed a home with her Aunt, she would do everything in her power to keep that same fate from befalling Prune as well. After all, if the girl called Katniss could willingly take her sister's place in the Reaping, then why couldn't she do the same for her cousin? That decided, her mind was put to ease for the time being, and she managed a small grin back at Prune.

"Nice to meet you Prune, I'm Thistle."

--

Another year came and went; Thistle had been accepted into her Aunt's household and had turned 18 in the summer – the final year in which she would have to participate in the Reaping – just as Prune turned 12. The two had grown closer in the time lapse, and Thistle found that Prune was similar to Rue in more than just their physical appearance. For one thing, Prune was the one who sang the quitting tune that told the field workers the day was done, a job previously occupied by her older sister; for another, she too, was extremely good at picking out different types of vegetation, both for eating and for medical purposes. The mockingjays in the surrounding woods would always take up any tune Prune sang, and who could blame them, for the girl had a beautiful voice that could've rivaled an angel's in musicality. And as the day of the Reaping drew closer, Thistle found herself more and more worried for her cousin's life.

Suppose Prune wasn't drawn this year, but the next? Or the year after that? What then? Thistle was already at the final age that one could be and still participate in the Games; past this one year, and she would be completely unable to prevent disaster from striking Prune. The teen went about her daily day with only half her mind in the present world. In fact, she'd been so preoccupied, that more than once, she'd come close to slicing down, not only the tall stalks of grain which District 11 grew, but the people around her as well. Already, she'd cut her own fingers several times as she swung her scythe around without care, nearly severing her hands as well as the bobbing wheat heads that were her targets. Yet she barely paid her bleeding appendages any mind – there were always more pressing matters to be dealt with. So, Thistle carried on in this manner for the remainder of the month, endangering both her own wellbeing and those of her fellow workers…

…until finally, the day of the Reaping dawned upon them all.

--

The morning started off as any other would have; everyone woke up, got dressed, and went about their business as usual. Only that day, there was an air of expectancy hanging above their heads like an executioner's ax, waiting to fall. Thistle slipped out into the early morning chill, picking her way through the rough hedges that sprang up behind her Aunt's house, as she searched for any wild onion roots that she could dig up. Like everyone else in her District, she was deathly afraid of the woods and the dangers that hid in the inky depths of the trees. She stuck close to the village, unless she needed to go forage for greens and berries, and avoided the edge of the fence whenever possible. Besides, the Peacemakers and Mayor saw no reason for anyone to venture past the District boundaries and into the forest, since they grew everything themselves. _Yeah, except no one gets to keep their fair share of crops since you greedy pigs take it all for yourselves, or sell it to the Capitol._ Thistle thought, ferociously yanking up a couple rhubarb stalks. It was an ironic situation really; District 11 was responsible for Agriculture, so most would think that they'd be amongst the better fed Districts of Panem since they grew so much food. But instead, District 11 was amongst the most underfed of all 12 because of how the Peacemakers handled the distribution of rations.

By the time she headed back inside, arms laden with an assortment of edible plants for her Aunt to cook up that evening, Thistle found most of her cousins already decked out for the Reaping. All the girls were wearing a colorful dress – hand-me-downs of course – and had combed their hair back under a tiny bow. Her Aunt looked up from where she was busy pinning a slightly too large dress into shape for her youngest daughter and smiled at her niece.

"Just put them on the table for now, I'll wash them in a moment," she instructed, gesturing with her head towards the kitchen. "Then go change. Your dress is on your bed."

Thistle nodded and went to dump her load onto the countertop before going in search for her designated garment. The dress lay, spread-eagle, on the coverlet of the cot she shared with Prune; its warm green glow looking out of place against the drab, gray background. She marveled at the clothing; it was made from a soft fabric that she'd never seen or felt before and really did seem to be emitting a faint aura of its own. It was a dark olive, tinted with emerald along the neckline and hems, with long slimming sleeves, and a waist that extended into a pleated skirt. She couldn't remember if she'd ever seen it around the house before; perhaps it had belonged to her Aunt in her younger days and she had simply never dug it out before?

"It was your mother's."

Thistle whirled around at her guardian's quiet voice. She hadn't been aware of being watched. Her Aunt came over to where she stood and placed her hands on Thistle's shoulders, so that they were both gazing down on the dress. "Your father bought it for her when she turned 18. He was a Peacemaker's son, you'll remember, and so he was still quite wealthy at the time, despite being disowned for marrying a lowly worker girl. It was to celebrate her last year in the Reaping." Here, the older woman paused and gently picked up the velvet gown, turning to her niece with the precious bit of cloth draped across her arms. "So it stands to reason, that her only daughter should wear it as well on the day that will be her final one in danger from the Games."

To this, Thistle had no reply, and it didn't seem that the other had expected one either. The next few minutes, in which she donned her mother's old Reaping dress and allowed her Aunt to tie her hair into a bun, were passed in a compatible silence neither broke. And all too soon, the time for the Reaping to begin, came.

--

The village square was much more crowded than usual, with the entire population squeezed into one tiny space. A roped off area in the center of the mass showed where the children eligible to be chosen were to stand. Thistle wound her way through the gathering, and took her place in the back with the other 18 year olds, her hands unconsciously smoothing over her mother's dress over and over again. She watched her cousins take up separated positions in front of her, watching them all carefully, but one in particular. Prune was situated in the very front, with several girls her age, her back turned to Thistle. Just before the Mayor took the stage though, the little brown head bobbed around until the deer eyes were staring at Thistle again, much like they did the first day they met. In that brief moment, Prune grinned at her relative and gave a cheery little wave, before facing forward again. She was so optimistic, not letting anything to get her down, not even something as dire as the Reaping. Thistle wondered how long that attitude of hers would be able to last over the years.

As the Mayor made his annual speech about the Games, Thistle began to tune out and let her thoughts wander elsewhere. Honestly, they needed to come up with something new once in a while for these drab hearings; she's heard this one so many times now she nearly had it memorized, by heart! And judging by the blank expressions on the faces around her, most too were zoning out on the dull drone that was their leader's voice. When he finally did end his speech, and allowed the Capitol representatives to begin the drawing, Thistle immediately snapped back to reality, aware that now was the crucial moment she'd been dreading for two whole years. The bejeweled hand reached deep into the glass bowl that held the girls' names, rummaged around in the sea of white, snatched up a piece of paper, and withdrew.

"Ahem, and the lucky Tribute girl for District 11 is," the orange-skinned, neon haired woman from the Capitol read out. "Miss Holly Moor." At the unfamiliar name, Thistle breathed a sigh of relief.

There was a pause as everyone waited for the girl who had been called to approach the platform, but no one showed. The orange woman cleared her throat and tried again, slightly irritated that her dramatic announcement had fallen flat because the subject had not appeared. "I said, the Tribute girl for District 11 is, Miss Holly Moor."

Again, there was that awkward silence as people looked around, murmuring as no girl appeared. Finally, the Capitol representative lost her patience and simply snapped, "Where is the girl?" After a second or two of further emptiness, someone from the crowd called out, "She's home sick; caught some sort of bug while she was working the other day and can't get out of bed anymore. Doctor said she wouldn't be able to attend the Reaping."

And Thistle realized that she had relaxed too soon. If the chosen Tribute was unable to attend the Reaping, that meant that she was close to death's door, and therefore, would be useless in the Games anyway. This also meant that another name would have to be drawn in her place. The young woman was back on tenterhooks, impatiently waiting for the next name to be given. The Capitol woman was now clearly miffed about how things had turned out and was much rasher in her next grab, simply taking the paper on top and not bothering to search as she had before.

"Alright then, instead, the Tribute girl for District 11 shall be…" she continued on to say. "Miss Thistle Lark!"


	2. Chapter 2

**The Mockingjays Will Still Sing**

**Chapter 2:**

Her first reaction was relief that it wasn't Prune's name she'd heard; the second was panic that instead, it was **her** name which had been called out. Suddenly unable to swallow or breathe, Thistle stiffly wound her way through the throng and somehow managed to reach the steps that led up to the platform without collapsing. Just as she was about to place her foot on the first of the stairs, a high, clear voice suddenly screamed in the quiet of the moment and grabbed everyone's attention.

"NO! Thistle!"

Thistle turned in time to prevent herself from being toppled by the small bundle of blue that crashed into her legs. She stared down, surprised, at Prune's antics. There had been a sort of desperation in the little girl's voice when she'd cried out earlier, and now, her small arms were wound around Thistle's waist like a vice, preventing the older girl from moving anything below her midriff. Her cousin's face was scrunched up like a monkey's, and she was certainly causing a ruckus like one of the mammals; only in her case, there were tears leaking fast and furiously out of that pair of bright hazel eyes and she was screaming out human words.

"No! You can't take Thistle, I won't let you!" Prune was yelling at the top of her lungs, clinging even tighter. "I'll go inste-"

No one got to hear the rest of that last sentence since Thistle quickly slapped her hand across Prune's mouth, effectively muffling her. She couldn't believe her ears. Was this really the same girl who had, only seconds ago, waved so cheerfully back at her in the lines? And did she hear correctly? Had Prune begun to volunteer as Tribute in her place before Thistle had silenced her? The very thing that she had been trying to prevent was the very thing that Prune had, almost, willingly stepped into.

"Prune, you will stay here with your mother and sisters," Thistle hissed in as loud as she dared. "I _will_ be District 11's Tribute, and you are not to make such silly sacrifices for me do you hear? I'm not worth that."

Her cousin was still furiously shaking her head and yelling around the hand covering her mouth, or trying to at least. Thankfully, her Aunt came forward at this point and managed to extricate Thistle from Prune's death grip, though that in itself was quite a task, since the latter did not go quietly. Prune was still kicking and struggling and crying when they were finally pulled apart, and Thistle was left standing, alone, in front of an astonished crowd of onlookers. She groaned inwardly as she continued to mount the steps, one by one; no doubt all of the cameras had just captured that moment and were broadcasting the tantrum live all throughout Panem. What it would do for her image, Thistle had no clue, but she could only hope that the other Tributes did not get any ideas from it.

_Especially since it so resembled that scene Katniss and her sister created 4 years ago…_ she couldn't help but think. But it was true; she had been watching the Reaping for District 12 that year – not that any of them had a choice about whether they viewed these broadcasts or not – and had seen how Katniss had thrown herself in front of her little sister, quickly volunteering as Tribute in Primrose's place. _Well, if anyone was going to sacrifice themselves for another, it would've had to have been me stepping in for Prune, never the other way around._ By now, she had reached the platform and was standing, next to the Capitol escort woman, gazing blankly down at the audience, barely aware that they were now choosing the male Tribute.

"…Poppy White!"

The name registered in her mind, and along with it, was the fuzzy image of a young boy she'd briefly seen some years back. He'd been one of Rue's friends, a small, wiry lad who had been extremely undersized, even for his age, and who had suffered from constant taunts from the other kids. He'd put up no fight, just let them poke fun at him without a complaint; in fact, if she thought about it, Rue had always been the one who chased the bullies away and comforted him afterwards. _Wonder how he's gonna survive through the Games if he's that small? _ Her question was answered soon enough as footsteps advanced towards the stage. She turned as a familiar gold and auburn head bobbed into sight on the staircase opposite the one she'd taken. Right beneath it came the suntanned face of a 16 year old teenage boy – complete with olive eyes, high cheekbones, a square chin – and a body that definitely did not match the one Thistle had diagrammed in her brain.

As soon as he too was situated on the platform, the Mayor ordered the two of them to shake hands with one another. When she turned to do as she was told, Thistle found herself staring straight at a broad, white clad chest and further discovered that in order to see his face, she had to take a step back and tilt her head back a good deal. Was he always this big? No, better yet, **when** had be gotten this big? She didn't remember. All she could think at the moment was: _…He's grown…a lot…_

On top of Poppy's sudden, increase in height, the rest of him seemed to have also enlarged drastically. His hand engulfed hers entirely when they connected, and for a second, Thistle was half afraid that he would crush her fingers like twigs if he wasn't careful. But as it turned out, he was still as gentle as before. Sure there was an unmistakable feel of immense power behind his grip, and one could hardly deny the existence of the bulging muscles that wringed his wrist, but when he'd pressed down on her palm, it was with so light a pressure she'd barely felt it. After they'd separated and were being shipped off to the Justice Building, Thistle kept on replaying that momentary contact between them and staring at her hand in fascination. To think, the shy boy she'd once known, who needed, time and again, the protection of a girl even smaller than he was, would someday grow into the gentle giant she'd witnessed moments ago…it was truly brain-boggling.

"Well…" she murmured, closing her fingers on her now empty palm. "Well, this is going to be a whole new problem."

--

The Justice Building was decorated and furnished to be a comfortable environment, but was far from any definition of that word. At least, in Thistle's mind it was. The plush couch with its squishy cushions was certainly an inviting seat for anyone, and the well carpeted floor was soft enough that her feet sank straight through the layer of fur, but physical ease was the last thing she was worried about. While her body was relaxed, her brain, and stomach for that matter, was tied in double knots that refused to be unwound. By the time they started letting in visitors, Thistle was as jumpy and on edge as a rabbit caught in a den of sleeping wolves. Seeing her Aunt and cousins did little to set her at peace.

Before the door even swung shut behind them, Prune threw herself at Thistle in another tackle that sent them both flying across the length of the couch. She was crying again, quietly, but definitely crying nonetheless; at least she wasn't going on about replacing Thistle as Tribute. Wordlessly, Thistle wrapped her arms around the younger one's shaking shoulders and rocked her gently, allowing a few stray tears of her own to run down her face and disappear into Prune's hair. Her Aunt joined them not long after, hugging both girls to her tightly, as though that alone would somehow save her niece from her impending doom. The rest of the cousins clustered closer as well, perching where they could on the overcrowded furniture, all dead silent.

Too soon, the guards came in, announcing that their designated time period was up and that her relatives had to leave. Prune took some coaxing again, hanging on to Thistle until the last possible second, then allowed herself to be towed away in her Aunt's arms, a sad, resigned bundle. She watched them leave; waited for them to be gone before breaking down completely, but her opportunity to cry never came. After her Aunt left, the guards opened the door to admit another person, someone she was unfamiliar with. Surprised, Thistle blinked away the moisture in her eyes and scooted aside on the couch, allowing her new 'guest' to sit as well. Sit they did, and from a closer vantage point, she saw the resemblances: the same dark green eyes, the same broad cheeks. So it seemed that this woman was Poppy's mother. And as the other began to speak, she discovered she'd guessed correctly.

"You've never met me before I'm sure, but I remember seeing you with my son a few times when you were young; I'm Mrs. White, Poppy's mom. I know this must seem very strange to you, getting a visit from someone who is not part of your family, or even a friend, and I realize that what I am about to ask of you will seem very…selfish and unfair to you, and to the people you know and love…" here, she stopped and for a few brief seconds, all Thistle saw her do was clench and unclench her skirt in her hands.

Just when Thistle thought Poppy's mother was going to simply leave without making her request, the older woman suddenly looked up at her and grabbed Thistle's hands in her own, pleading in a tearful voice, "But still, ask it I must! Please, please, will you help Poppy? Help him through the Games, and keep him alive until the end?"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Mockingjays Will Still Sing**

**Chapter 3:**

"I-I beg your pardon, what?" Thistle asked, stunned. "I'm not sure I heard correctly."

The older woman across from her released her hands and went back to worrying her skirt to pieces, openly crying now. "Please, I…I just don't want to lose my son as well. My husband died early this year, I don't want to see Poppy die as well."

"So basically, you're asking me to go get myself killed, so that your son can survive, is that it?" she demanded quietly, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're right, that is an incredibly selfish request to make."

Poppy's mother lifted her head to look at Thistle, quickly saying as she did, "No, I don't mean for you to get killed as well. I just…" Here, the other interjected in a slightly aggravated tone that was rising in volume as she spoke, "No, that **is** what you're asking me to do. Because you know full well that there cannot be two victors in the Games; the Capitol will not make the same mistake again. So if you want Poppy to live, that means **I** shall have to give up the ghost and forfeit **my** life for his, either at the end when there's only us two left, or earlier in the game against one of the other Tributes."

Her rant finished – and her audience thoroughly subdued – Thistle leaned back against the couch and covered her face with her hands; this day just kept getting worse and worse. First, she spent all morning worried about Prune being chosen as Tribute, then she discovered that it was instead she who was destined to go play in the Games, later Prune tried to volunteer in her place, and now, her rival's mother was coming to her with the outrageous plea that she sacrifice herself so the other's son could live. _Better and better…_ she grumbled silently, letting her hands fall back into her lap. But the funny thing was, part of her mind was actually considering what the woman had asked of her.

Maybe because she knew what it was like to lose one of the most precious beings in your life, then have the second one follow not soon after; maybe she was feeling a bit sympathetic to the boy who had once relied on Rue's protection; or maybe the whole situation was just rotting her brain little by little and she was going insane. For whatever reason it might've been, Thistle found her mouth opening and, against the will of the other half of her mind that was still sane, say: "Alright, I'll do it."

She barely had time to register the thankful smile that spread across Mrs. White's haggard and work-worn face when the guard was opening the door and escorting her visitor out. There might have been a word of gratitude before she was shut off in silence again, but she hadn't heard anything. In fact, the only thing she could hear at that point was her own breathing, a steady inhale and exhale rhythm.

What exactly had she gotten herself into?

--

The train ride to the Capitol passed rather uneventfully, with the only exciting thing to happen was their escort explaining who she was. Thistle had noticed earlier that the orange skin and green hair had not belonged to the same woman from last year, but she had made no further inquiries about it, both because of lack of time and lack of interest. What was more important to her was the fact that they didn't have a mentor. District 11 had no past victors to fill that job, seeing as all of the ones in the last four years had died, and any survivors from older Games had long since passed away. However, it seemed that the Capitol representative was determined to force her presence upon the two Tributes, no matter how unwilling they were to acknowledge she existed.

"Ahem, well then, as you've probably noticed, your old escort, Jewel Candice, was not in attendance this year. This is because she has been transferred to a different District – actually, I hear she's been sent to replace Effie Trinket of District 12 who, as you should know, has been promoted to one of the higher Districts," the woman started to babble enthusiastically, not seeming to note the lack of response from, at least one, of the audience. "So, instead, I, Julia Royal, am here to be your escort. Isn't that exciting? I'm sure we're going to have loads of fun together."

_Yes, I'm sure; never mind the fact that the two of us are likely to end up dead in the next few days…_Thistle turned her gaze heavenward and scowled, impeaching the gods for burdening her with such a person. And here she'd thought Jewel Candice had been bad; that girl was an absolute kitten in terms of quietness compared to this devil. However, when she glanced over at her fellow Tribute, she found that Poppy didn't seem to mind the mindless chatter so much. In fact, he was smiling slightly, as though he found something about this overly animated and artificial Capitol personnel to be amusing. Well, Thistle failed to see anything humorous about this wholly unconventional person they'd been saddled with.

Finally, her patience – which normally wasn't all that bad – snapped and Thistle cut in during one of Julia's sentences, demanding in the most scathing tone she could manage, "That's all very lovely and grand, but right now, I think there are more important measures that need to be dealt with. For example, what are we going to do about a mentor? District 11 hasn't got one, not a living one at least, so how the hell are Poppy and I supposed to go about preparing for the Games if we don't have someone to help us?"

Much to Thistle's surprise, their new escort, who had been bubbly and spouting nonsense a second ago, took on a much more serious composure as she looked disdainfully down at the younger girl, and began to explain, "Hm, yes, that is the biggest problem we've had to deal with so far. I haven't been informed for sure yet, but when I left the Capitol, the Gamemasters were discussing the option of having someone they appoint be your temporary mentor. I suppose we'll find out once we arrive in the Capitol."

"Ah yes, and when did you plan on telling us this bit of very important information?" Thistle went on to demand, offering her escort a cool stare. "Perhaps after you'd finished blithering about the useless crap you have been rambling on about for the past, what, ten minutes? Or is our welfare not so important on your list of things to take care of?"

This was answered by an obviously fake smile and an equally icy look. "Well, if all the Tributes I had to put up with were like you my dear, then perhaps your welfare really isn't high on my list of priorities. After all, a sharp tongue is not appreciated in the Capitol, or any part of Panem, so I suggest you settle back and enjoy the ride while you can, Miss Lark. Take a page out of your friend's book; you don't see him lashing out impatiently now do you?"

A silent glaring contest ensued, in which both parties were doing fairly well in and showed no signs of giving in any time soon. Poppy, meanwhile, looked from Thistle, to Julia, from one female, to the other, and wondered how he was going to fit into this little troop. On the one hand, you had Thistle: a worker girl who had known hardship and despair for most of her short life, and who was a contemplative thinker that had a rather unpredictable nature; on the other hand, you had Julia: a woman from the Capitol city who had led a life of riches and plenty and had known no sorrows, and who was a rash, loud person that seemed to be in the possession of a dual personality.

Women, he decided right then and there as he continued to glance between the pair opposite him, were very odd creatures he would never understand. Why were they all so complicated? Poppy sighed and closed his eyes; now he was beginning to understand a bit why his father had always thrown up his hands and given in to his mother when there'd been argument. Getting mixed up in all of that complexity was not something that appealed to his brain and probably wasn't even worth the effort. The rest of the train ride was passed in a mutinous silence; they were already off to a bad start.

--

By the time the train pulled into the station at the Capitol, Thistle was in a thoroughly bad mood. On top of having to deal with Julia Royal everywhere she turned, she'd been forced to scrub down and change into an atrocious outfit which she could only guess was Julia's way of getting back at her for cheek. Grumbling and muttering threats, Thistle yanked on the tight yellow dress and tried to walk across the hall; even in just her bare feet, the task proved to take up a tremendous amount of balance and willpower. She could hardly imagine what it would be like to have to trip across the platform outside, while wearing the high heels that Julia had dumped by her door.

"We want you to look good for your first shot in the Capitol now don't we?" the orange-skinned woman had said, smiling as sweetly as ever, but with a noticeable hint of sadism in her altered silver eyes.

"Look good my ass; if you wanted us to look good, why didn't you shove Poppy into an equally mortifying outfit," she swore, fingers just itching to rip apart the ridiculously constricting garment. "Yeah, let's see how good we look after I go sprawling across the floor because of this damn dress. And those shoes! Bitch is trying to murder me, I know she is!"

Through all the cursing and hopping around she'd been doing, Thistle hadn't heard or noticed the approach of another until that person's presence was practically looming over her. Startled by the large shadow that had suddenly materialized behind her, she whirled around to confront this intruder…or at least, she tried to. She was halfway through a spin when she remembered her legs were still tightly bound of the fabric of her dress, and thus could not turn fully. So instead of spinning around in one graceful circle, Thistle stumbled out a curious sort of dance, in which she weaved drunkenly while trying to find her balance. She would've fallen flat on her face had it not been for the pair of strong hands that clasped her about the shoulders, stabilizing her.

"Thanks Poppy," she muttered, embarrassed at the performance she'd just put on. "Was there, something you needed?"

He stepped back after making sure she wouldn't topple over sideways, and shrugged, scratching at the back of his head. He wouldn't look at her, just kept staring at the same spot on the wall above her head, saying as he did, "Nah, just wanted to see how you were doing was all. Julia seemed to be pretty annoyed at you earlier, and she had a weird glint in her eyes when she went to deliver your dress, so I figured I'd better check to see nothing funny happened is all…"

Quietly, he trailed off, realizing how silly his concern sounded now that he voiced it out loud. Sure enough, Thistle started to laugh, which only caused his face to burn bright red. But it didn't sound like she was mocking him. In fact, she seemed pleased for some reason. Puzzled, Poppy watched as the Tribute girl leaned forward, stood on tip-toes, and patted him on the shoulder: the highest part of him she could reach. There was still laughter in her violet eyes, and her mouth was curved up in a wan smile.

"Thanks for that Poppy, heaven knows I'm gonna need some cheering to get through all this," she said, planting both feet firmly on the floor once more. And she was considerably brightened; even humming a bit as she bent to pick up the shoes Julia had designated she wear. Waving one of the strappy heels, Thistle headed back to her room, calling back, "And don't worry your head too much about me. I'll be fine; I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself." She threw one last grin over her shoulder before disappearing into her compartment.

Right outside, still in the hall, Poppy was left to stare after her in bemusement. He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to clear his thoughts, and slowly started back towards his own room. He was right to think women were strange, especially these two that he had been stuck with for the Games.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Mockingjays Will Still Sing**

((Sorry about the huge delay – life's been a hassle lately – and thanks to everyone who replied! Okay then, now that I have the results, the story shall proceed! Oh, and by the way, I'm not sure if anyone in Panem is religious or not, or if the Greek gods and goddesses were still referred to, but for the purposes of this fic, I'm going to assume that both are true Other than that, enjoy! ^^))****

Chapter 4:

After hours of being scrubbed down by her prep team, then plucked of all her body hair – minus her eyebrows and scalp – Thistle sat, wrapped in a giant bathrobe, alone at last. She stared at her bare leg, marveling at how…strange…it looked, all hairless and glowing softly from the grease she'd been slathered with. And speaking of strange, the young Tribute let her mind wander back over her trio of beauticians. The girl Muse hadn't seemed that bad. Or at least she'd looked like your typical Capitol female; the usual outrageous body alterations to maximize her figure, her hair dyed a violent shade of pink, her eyes tinted with an unearthly gold color. All in all, very typical; it was the other two that had Thistle worried and more than a little disturbed. One had been a short, plump man – in his late twenties early thirties by his face – with deathly pale skin and unnerving purple eyes that seemed to stare right through her. He spoke with a strange accent, not any accent that she'd ever heard used in Panem. He lacked the lilting, questioning tone used by the Capitol, and he certainly didn't have any coloration to his voice that sounded even remotely close to the ones she generally heard around home. No, he was a foreigner, one of those who got shipped over to this country when their own land booted them out. Weird, but he was nothing compared to the third party member.

Thistle shuddered as she recalled the last one, the one she couldn't tell the gender of. On the one hand, she had dressed like a she and was physically woman-like. And by that, she had all the right curves in all the right places. However, she had also had a bit of a 'he's deep tone, and her face was too square and protruding to be a female's. Talk about creepy…Thistle had heard of those people who tried to be a sex that they were not born with, but she had not seen any until now. If her prep team had been like that, she was seriously dreading meeting her Stylist. _'I wonder how Poppy's doing…'_

There was a short, sharp knock at the door, the only warning before it swung forward and allowed a tall, dark man to enter. He was dressed in a smart, simple two-piece suit, complete with a maroon necktie and polished black dress shoes. He looked normal enough, with slicked back wavy hair that was dyed a relatively believable shade of gold and bright blue eyes. She would've guessed that he was one of the few men in the city who kept themselves unchanged had she not seen him in the screen of the TV ever since she was 4 years old of age. And back then, he had looked to be in his early twenties, an age value that he still looked, yet could not possibly still possess. _'So in reality, the guy is about 34. That's not so bad, why can't you people just look your damned age? Honestly, you would think the world was coming to an end if they didn't all resemble attractive, young adults…'_ she scowled mentally, but was careful to keep her face smooth and mask-like.

"So, you're the young lady I'm to work with this time eh?" he spoke up, flashing a wide, beaming smile. "Well I dare say you're a far cry prettier than the last lass. It's a pleasure to meet you I'm sure miss…" Here he paused and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Thistle realized that she was suppose to give her name and hurriedly filled the blank, "Thistle, Thistle Lark." This earned her another blinding smile which she managed to return in what she hoped wasn't a grimacing fashion. "And I am Cirrus. Alright then Miss Lark, kindly stand up and follow me. We have much to discuss in terms of your Opening ceremony costume."

She wordlessly obeyed and got to her feet, keeping the robe wrapped tightly around her as she silently trailed after Cirrus. They passed out of the doorway, down a short corridor, and entered another room. This one was semi-circular in structure, with glass walls that allowed a clear view of everything up to the distant horizon. The entire Capitol sprawled out below their feet like an entirely different mini-universe; the once god-sized skyscrapers had diminished to nothing more than toy stacks of metal and colorful lights, the long stretches of roads expanded until they were winding endlessly through the buildings, the carriages and people that milled about on the streets now no more than miniscule insects crawling about in extravagant outfits. All this under a beautiful red and orange sunset and the sight was magical indeed. Thistle, captivated by the marvelous spectacle, paid little attention to what Cirrus was directing her to do and only came back to reality when he tapped her shoulder gently from behind.

A guilty blush crept up her cheeks as she quickly sat as he'd directed, keeping her eyes trained on her hands. He was chuckling at her reaction, "There's no need to be embarrassed Thistle; this room has had the same effect on quite a few Tributes in the past and who can blame you? Even I'm amazed at the scene, and I've been using these quarters for a good while longer than you have." Thistle nodded, but still didn't lift her head. What a way to make a fool of herself, acting like an air-headed little District girl who had never seen anything grand before. True that was what she was, but she certainly hadn't meant to show herself up like that, especially not in front of Cirrus.

* * *

The Stylist, seeing that he wouldn't get anything out of his charge by continuing down this particular path of conversation, changed the subject to something more neutral. First however, he pressed one of the many buttons lining the side of the coffee table and instantly, two tall flutes of pale, amber liquid rose out of invisible slots in the crystal surface. Refreshments were a must no matter the circumstances. He watched as the young girl reached out and picked up her glass by the stem, peering curiously at the contents. A small, amused smile crossed his unnaturally youthful face; no doubt she'd never seen this stuff before, let alone tasted it.

"It's just apple cider, m'dear, won't hurt you," he said, taking a sip of his own drink. Thistle raised her head to give watch him, then shrugged and took up her own beverage. "There, see? Perfectly harmless and rather good if I do say so myself. Now then, onto more important matters; what am I going to do with you for the Opening Ceremony?" It was a rhetoric question and he hadn't expected an answer, neither did his charge give one. Either she was one of the shyer ones, or she simply chose not to speak to him. Well he was perfectly happy to go on carrying a one-sided conversation if he had to, something he demonstrate by proceeding to answer his own inquiry. "My partner Hecca and I thought that this year, we could dress our Tributes as the gods from ancient times."

This statement finally rewarded him with an exclamation from the young woman opposite him. The large violet eyes blinked at him for a second over the rim of the glass still in her hands, surprise coloring them to light lavender. "But what would gods have anything to do with my District? We're not exactly a pious group you know. No one goes to church – not that there really is one anyway – and nobody prays. Everyone's just too busy with either the fields or the orchards. And plus, I've never heard of any ancient gods. Isn't there only one God?" she blurted out in a rush. Cirrus, delighted by this response, leaned backing his seat and laughed. Ah yes, this year's female Tribute would be an interesting one.

* * *

She was aware that she'd let her mouth run off on her again and quickly bit down on her tongue to keep it from flapping further. There she went, making herself seem more foolish than ever. Sure enough, Cirrus was laughing at her. Thistle fully expected to feel insulted and more than a little irritated, but strangely enough, she got the distinct feeling that her Stylist was not deriding her in any way, just having a good chortle. True it was at her dispense, but she could appreciate others making fun of her if it was in good nature. A small, hesitant smile crept onto her face unbidden and she found herself joining in with her own quiet giggles. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. But seriously, what had Cirrus meant by 'ancient gods'? She got her answer soon enough.

"To take these one at a time," he finally stopped laughing long enough to say. "The gods have a great deal to do with your District, or at least certain ones. You see, centuries ago – and I mean thousands upon hundreds of years back – people believed in multiple deities, each controlling one aspect of nature and human life. There were several gods and goddesses for agriculture, which is exactly what your District deals in. As for being religious; well, I can't fault your community for that can I?" The man formed a peak with his fingers and rested his elbows on his knees, tilting forward slightly with the motion. "I'm really not the best to ask that last question though. Is there one God? Who knows; philosophers and other powerful men have been debating such a notion for countless years. I'm not in any sort of position o give a creditable answer to such a question. Anyways, back to the matter of your costume."

Thistle settled back in her seat, her arms folded under the robe, quite content to have Cirrus ramble about is planned getup for her. From what she understood, she was to appear as the Greek goddess of the harvest, Demeter, while Poppy was to wear the outfit of some god called Dionysus. The names meant nothing to her, but the details that Cirrus described intrigued her. So people had really believed in the existence of these beings in the past? How strange it all seemed now, after modern science and everything had taken over…But, even if she didn't accept the stories as truths, she still liked the tales, and the characters sounded lovely. If this was what Cirrus had planned, she'd go along with it. It's not like she had any better ideas to offer as input.

"So come along Thistle" he was saying, getting to his feet. "The Ceremony will be starting soon and we still need to get you fitted into your costume." Without any objection, she rose and followed him out of the room, wondering just what she would look like after Cirrus and the prep team had had their way with her for the next few hours.

* * *

By the time the strange trio had finished polishing, painting, dusting, and perfecting her physical features, Thistle barely recognized herself in the mirror. The astonished face of an unearthly beauty with pale golden skin and elegantly curled hair stared back at her. Silver and gold dust glittered on her shoulders and all the way down her arms, cheeks, eyelids, forehead, and neck. Her unruly tresses had been tamed into a cascade of soft hazel waves that fell about her slight frame, the wisps of yellow and nutmeg and mahogany emphasized under the glare of the light. Part of the locks had been caught and twisted into a complicated braid that went from the front of hairline, encircled her head, and ended at the back of her cranium; a natural crown. The team had somehow managed to pronounce her already big eyes even more with a thin coating of black liner, the slender strands elongating further past the outer edge of her lids into elaborate little swirls. They'd touched up her lips with some pale pink solution that cast a faint glow as she moved her mouth, making her lips seem fuller than they actually were. All in all, glamorous and entirely godlike; at least, in her opinion, it was. And that was without the dress Cirrus had promised her.

The garment itself wasn't anything startling or eye-catching – a simple white sheet, gathered in the appropriate places to lend curves, with gold rimming – and for a moment, Thistle wondered at how this was supposed to harmonize with her makeup. The moment it was thrown over her head and adjusted however, she knew why the design of the garb had been so plain. This way, the contrast between her outfit and the prep team's painting efforts was stressed in a way that was irresistibly compelling to the gaze. Muse actually gave a delighted little sigh as she looked over the finished work, her neon-colored hair bobbing about as she nodded her head in satisfaction. The finishing touches were added and before Thistle knew it, a pair of narrow-soled sandals had been strapped to her feet and she was hustled out the door by Cirrus.

In the hall, she finally got to see Poppy again. They hadn't had the chance to exchange so much as a greeting since the train ride and she was eager to see how her fellow Tribute had turned out under the hands of Hecca. She had no problem identifying his large frame as she hurried down the corridor, followed closely by her Stylist. He too was doused from head to toe in gold glitter, and Hecca had somehow managed to him wrestle into a toga-like clothing without splitting the seams of the alabaster fabric. He too wore sandals and had a wreath of what looked to be laurel leaves sitting snugly on top his curly hair. The only different was the decoration on his costume; while hers had been lined with simple yellow lines, Poppy's was entangled with diagonal stripes of green vine shaped images.

Hearing her footsteps, he turned around and gave her a partly embarrassed smile, like he was a bit abashed that she had caught him wearing such a getup. Grinning back, Thistle listened with half a mind to what Cirrus and Hecca were instructing them to do once in the carriage. She took Poppy's hand in her own as they boarded their chariot, her palm starting to turn damp and sweaty as the District 1 Tributes began their round. Whether or not that was something the Stylists had told them to do, she didn't care. Right now, she needed an anchor, as the Hunger Games finally began.

(( It's crappy, I know. But I kind of hurried to finish the last half. Sorry! ))


End file.
