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waltzofthewifi · 5 months ago

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Twelve

AO3

The student stopped at the door and took a deep breath.

He did not want to be there. Not even slightly.

It was supposed to be an honor, to study under Tigris. Many people considered her the original stylist for the games, she had been doing this for so long.

But he did not want to be there. He did not want to study under her, and he definitely did not want the career he would get afterwards.

But he didn’t have much choice at this point. If he had been smarter, if he realized where things were headed, he could have avoided this. All he had needed to do was not be best in class.

Except he had been best in class, winning him this internship under Tigris. And now he was here.

He did not want to be there.

He took a deep breath, and knocked on the office door.

“Come in,” a voice called from inside.

The door slid open smoothly. These were the nicest offices in the Capital, everything smooth and clean and tidy. Even the carpets were impeccable.

Tigris was alone at her desk. She had to be old by this point, but she had done enough surgery to still look young. Surgery that included tiger stripes across her face and whiskers.

She smiled at him. “You must be the intern. Cinna Goldwood, correct?”

Cinna nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He didn’t look at her when he spoke, attention drawn to everything around him.

The office was huge. There were several other desks, full of papers but empty of workers. Mannequins were interspersed throughout rows of clothes. One wall was nothing but shelves of clothes, another had television screens from ceiling to floor. An old fashioned filing cabinet set next to Tigris’s desk, with a dusty sewing machine on top.

“Take your time to look around,” Tigris said. “I need a moment to finish this up.”

Cinna nodded and drifted over to the closest mannequin.

It was wearing a half-finished dress shirt. Cinna could see what Tigris was working on, playing around with a new fabric that was being manufactured in District 8. It was a different type of weave, impacting the way the fabric stretched, allowing for more creative usage.

Many of the mannequins were dressed in new clothes, using different fabrics or different cuts or different colors. Some had labels with names of other stylists - perhaps the occupants of the other desks.

The clothing on the racks, on the other hand, were mostly finished. There was one rack that looked like it was made for Tigris specifically. Another was for the District 2 escort. Some were tagged for other people, none of them named Cinna recognized.

The television screens were on screensaver mode, each with a little icon of a tiger that bumped around on the screen. There was a fancy analogue clock hidden on one of the walls, that was a full ten minutes behind. On the side of the filing cabinet was a collection of photos of past tributes - not all victors - that were wearing Tigris’s designs. Some of the photos dated back as early as the first quarter quell.

Cinna looked back over at Tigris to find her watching him, an amused look on her face.

“You’ve been doing this for a long time,” Cinna commented.

Tigris nodded. “I was part of the first team of stylists.”

“Have you been designing for District 2 the whole time?” Cinna asked.

Tigris stared at him for a moment, like he had asked her to complete a hard math problem.

“The reapings will be tomorrow,” Tigris said, turning back to the papers on her desk. “I won’t be able to mentor you much once things start moving, but I do have some homework for you. And we can meet every afternoon to go over your work.”

“Sounds good,” Cinna said.

“Good,” Tigris said. She handed Cinna a sketchbook. “You’re first assignment is to brainstorm an idea for the chariots for each district.”

Cinna frowned.

“Something wrong?” Tigris said.

“Oh,” Cinna said, forcing his facial expression back under his control. “No, I just - I’m not familiar with the chariots.”

Tigris raised an eyebrow.

“I spend most of my time designing,” Cinna explained. “Or studying.”

“I guess that explains how you got top of your class,” Tigris said. “The chariot designs are based off of each district.”

Cinna nodded. He was aware of what the chariot rides were, he just disliked them.

“I have a folder in that sketchbook with a description of each district,” Tigris continued. “Use that for inspiration. I don’t have a due date for you, as long as I can see you’re taking this assignment seriously. You can sit at one of the open desks if you want to start here, or you can do it at home and I’ll see you tomorrow after the reapings.”

Cinna nodded. “I’ll take one of the desks, thank you.”

He picked one on the same as Tigris, where he could still see her but where they weren’t directly across from each other.

The sketchbook was nice paper, the kind that never faded. Inside were two folders. One had charcoal paper and some photo cutouts of people in different poses. The other had twelve papers, one for each district.

Cinna grabbed the first one and started to read.

District 1 was known for manufacturing luxuries, including everything from gemstones to makeup to perfumes.

The escort for District 2, Cardea, wore a gold wig with matching gold and black makeup, all made in District 1. Her high heels clicked against the stone stage in District 2, in front of an impressive town hall with green columns made from marble. When she reached into the bowl holding the names of potential tributes, her shimmering gold nail polish was visible on camera.

It was a luxury to be able to watch the reapings from his apartment. A bigger luxury than any gems or fingernail polish or wigs. When Cinna had turned twelve, he spent the night after the reaping awake in bed, wondering what it must have felt like to be in the districts, eligible for the reapings.

His mom had scolded him for wondering, saying there was no point. The people in the district were too different from him and his experience - they were, essentially, unknowable.

Cinna used the charcoal paper to trace around the silhouette of a teenager before starting to sketch an idea.

District 1 was also responsible for the ingredients to most medicine. The antibiotics his dad had taken when Cinna was ten were originally from District 1. Those hadn’t felt like luxuries, but necessities.

Cinna designed a dress that looked like it was made of soap bubbles.

“You finished this today?” Tigris asked, looking over the design.

Cinna shrugged. It had been a needed distraction.

The two tributes in District 2 were Feronia, an eighteen-year-old volunteer, and Fides, a seventeen-year-old who shoved a different teenager out of the way to volunteer.

Tigris had their sizes by midnight, and while Cinna worked on his one District 2 designs she touched up on the actual outfits for the chariot parade.

“How come the District 2 tributes are always dressed for masonry?” Cinna asked. “Aren’t most peacekeepers from two?”

“Yes, but most of the districts don’t know that,” Tigris said. “To the other districts, they are the masonry district.”

Tigris’s chariot outfits were similar to past designs. Large and blocky, like warriors made of stone.

“District 2 doesn’t like a lot of variation,” the other District 2 stylist, Acis, said. He was relaxing at a desk that wasn’t his own, partially collaborating with Tigris and partially working on a tablet.

Tigris nodded. “They like how things are, now. Too much variation in their chariot outfits makes them nervous.”

Cinna nodded.

His own designs were attempts to break out from the usual. Tigris and Acis probably had similar doodles - designs that would impress the Capital audience and make their names famous forever.

“It’s important to focus on what the tributes need,” Tigris continued. “We are their last chance at having someone on their side.”

“What about mentors?” Cinna asked.

Tigris shrugged. “They’re focused on mentoring. It can make them come across as rough, or rude. And the District 2 victors are always scary.”

District 3 made technology.

The screens that displayed the chariot rides were made in District 3. The tablets and comcuffs the stylists worked with were made in District 3. The cameras hidden throughout the arena were made in District 3.

Cinna wondered how it would feel, working in a factory that made the same technology that made the games possible. It was illegal to refuse to work for the games - it was why Cinna was here, despite him not wanting to be.

District 3 was also one of two districts to make glass. While District 1 made glassware and windowpanes, District 3 made the glass for screens and lightbulbs.

Cinna designed a pair of costumes based on lightbulbs, with a swirly inner design and vague idea about glowing.

“District 3 provides the light for the Capital,” Cinna explained to Tigris, the night after the parades.

“Very true,” Tigris said, “although I prefer the heating units in the winter. Old joints don’t do cold.”

Tigris had her assistant, a young woman named Hermia, show Cinna how the training outfits were designed.

Hermia showed Cinna the athletic side of clothing - where clothing needed to stretch, what types of cloth and weave worked for what activities, that type of thing.

Fides was primarily a swordfighter. He needed full range with his arms and shoes that wouldn’t restrict his movement.

Cinna didn’t know much about sword fighting. He did a little bit of PE in school and hadn’t done any exercising since.

District 4 fished. Chariot outfits in the past put a huge emphasis on the act of fishing - nets, tridents, sailor outfits. One year their stylists gave them outfits that looked to be made of seashells.

It made sense. Fishing was impressive, and it gave tributes strong muscles and suntanned skins to show off.

But Cinna was more interested in the fish. He found pictures of a variety of fish, comparing their colors and designs.

Salmon stood out to him. They were pink when served for food, but their scales were silvery and shiny. It made good inspiration.

Just under 40% of electricity was used for factories, mines, and other industrial areas. About 10% was used for security and transit. The districts barely used a whole percent of electricity outside of their industries - most of which went to the yearly airing of the games.

The other half of electricity usage came from the Capital, one city in the vast land in Panem.

District 5 made all the electricity - dams, coal plants, some wind energy, and then a copper mine for the wires.

It was the first time Cinna had really paid attention to the electricity around him. The bright lights that lit up the street at night. The televisions that weren’t constantly on, lining many public spaces.

The interviews started with much fanfare, at the base of the tribute center. Bright lights illuminated the tributes, Ceasar, and the audience.

Cinna watched the interviews from Tigris’s office, high above the lights. He stayed near a window, sketchbook on his lap, and used the colors below to lead his sketches.

At the break of dawn, Tigris met Fides in the launchpad beneath the arena.

Tigris had explained the process to Cinna. Both would be taking a hovercraft to the arena, Tigris earlier than Fides. There Tigris would help Fides into his outfit, and make sure his tribute token made it back to him safe.

Cinna had fallen asleep in her office the night before, and only woke once Tigris and her office mates returned.

District 6 manufactured all the transport in Panem. They made the trains and train tracks, the hovercrafts, the cars. Everything from the engines to the rubber tires to frames. There was a lot of inspiration to pull from, and most of it wasn’t pretty.

Cinna had slept through the bloodbath, but Fides had survived without injury. He and his allies had control of the cornucopia and most of the supplies, including a nice longsword Fides had claimed as his own.

Cinna wondered what district the weapons were made in.

The arena was hilly, with dead trees and grasses and a bog alive with creatures. It was large, and the remaining fourteen tributes spread out among it.

The District 6 tributes were already dead.

Cinna’s sketchbook page for District 6 had doodles of maps, of a connected continent thanks to the hard work of factory workers who were sent to die in the arena.

District 7 did lumber, but more importantly they made paper.

Every artist had their own methods, but most used a mixture of paper and tablet programs. Cinna only ever did his final version on his tablet, meaning he went through a lot of sketchbooks, and a lot of paper. Tigris seemed to have a similar process.

Tigris spent a lot of time sketching now. Most of her work as a stylist wad finished, and she needed something to occupy her time. She was worried about Fides, although she flinched when any tribute was hurt.

She cared. It surprised Cinna.

District 7 traditionally were trees for the chariot rides, and there were a million ways to design a tree dress or suit. There were no trees in the Capital, so Cinna found the photo references alluring.

“I don’t think the District 7 tributes enjoy being trees,” Tigris commented when she saw his design. “But I like the color scheme you chose.”

“What do you think is the first sign of civilization?” Hermia asked randomly, the next day.

It was her, Acis, Tigris, and Cinna in the office that day. Tigris and Acis had spent the morning helping the District 2 mentors dress, but now there was nothing to do as the games powered on.

Cinna was working on his District 8 design. District 8 did textiles, something he was personally interested in.

“What brought that up?” Tigris asked.

“Something my sister had come up in a class in her fancy academy,” Hermia replied. “It’s some history class she’s taking. She wants to be a politician I guess. And she said that politics were the first sign of civilization, but I disagree. I think it’s textiles.”

“I’m sure you’re not biased,” Acis commented. “I’ve always thought it was art. Things made to look beautiful, not just be functional.”

“I think it’s medicine,” Cinna added. “Taking the time to heal injuries, to take care of the sick.”

“That’s a good one too,” Acis said.

“Tigris? What do you think?” Hermia asked.

Tigris frowned, chewing on the end of a pencil. “I think it’s taking care of the dead.”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Hermia said.

Behind her was the stream for the games. Fides was on screen, cutting through a younger tribute with his sword.

He left her body there, a cannon went off, and the camera cut away as a hovercraft came to remove the body.

District 9 grew grains exclusively.

Cinna noticed grains everywhere. In his oatmeal, in Hermia’s cereal, in the breads that were eaten at every meal.

He noticed all the lightbulbs in every room he was in. The plates and silverware that were made in District 1. The wood of the chairs he sat in and the cars on the street.

Almost nothing was made in the Capital itself, just designed and used.

Cinna had spent a week working on the District 8 outfit, eventually coming up with a dress made of fabric samples that Tigris and Acis both loved. Fides and Feronia had survived that week, but their allies had not.

The day Cinna turned in his District 8 design, a feast was announced.

At the cornucopia, at dawn the next day. Tigris called for the styling team to be in earlier than that, to get the mentors ready to be out gathering sponsors as the feast happened.

Fides and Feronia had lost control of the cornucopia, so they had to circle back for the feast.

Cinna was at home when it started, working on his next design. He looked up as the feast was presented - food pouring out of a cornucopia.

It was supposed to be a gift from the generous Capital for the tributes, but the food didn’t come from the Capital. Some of it might have been picked by the tributes themselves.

Cinna turned back to his sketches, starting to sketch out a cornucopia.

Feronia died in the feast.

Fides died the next day, an angry tribute avenging their friend’s death.

The death was quick but bloody, and Cinna had to excuse himself from the room when he saw it.

He had never even met Fides, but he was still rattled.

At the end of the day he found Tigris alone in her office, drawing on her sketchbook.

“Are you okay?” Cinna asked.

“Not really,” Tigris replied, not looking up. “But it happens. I’ve learned to channel it through my work.”

Cinna glanced over at her sketchbook. She was sketching designs for someone Cinna didn’t recognize - a different tribute she had worked with, perhaps.

Tigris noticed his gaze and flipped back to the front of her notebook. “I keep a list, just so I don’t forget them. There’s been so many.”

That night, Cinna grabbed a different sketchbook to work in, drawing designs based off slaughtered livestock. It wasn’t something he wanted anybody else to see.

“What do you think was the purpose of this assignment?” Tigris asked one night, when it was just her and Cinna left in the office.

“It was to learn about the districts,” Cinna said. “Where everything was made.”

“Partially,” Tigris said. “But I also wanted you to learn how you can help the tributes. Some people are in this for the fame, or to flex their fashion muscles.”

“But you do it for the tributes,” Cinna said.

Tigris nodded. “We’re their last chance for a friend. Someone who cares about them, can make them more comfortable in those last couple days before the games. And we can help remind the audience that they’re people, and they deserve a chance.”

District 11 grew non-grain food. Everything from tomatoes to coconuts to peanuts to apples. There was so much to base a design off of, Cinna felt overwhelmed.

“Why do the districts let this happen?” Cinna asked. “They control the food, the electricity, the medicine.”

“But we control the weapons,” Tigris replied, “and we have the army.”

Cinna could have had any district he wanted. He asked for District 12.

The most ignored tributes, the ones who needed the most support. It was what Tigris had wanted to do, before she was pulled up and up until she reached District 2. And it was what Cinna was going to do.

Cinna and his new coworker, Portia. Her eyes lit up when he described his plans for the chariot rides.

“The Capital is going to love us,” she said.

“That’s not the point,” Cinna replied.

“No,” Portia agreed. “I guess it’s not.”

#the hunger games #fanfiction #the hunger games fanfiction #thg fanfiction #thg cinna

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vasilissadragomir · 1 year ago

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one of the most heart-wrenching things about thg universe is that you feel the loss of who each character would be outside the circumstances of their birth almost as acutely as you feel the loss of the characters themselves.

sure, we know what lucy gray and her family would be doing in a different world; she’d be dancing and singing and making music which defines a cultural identity. but what about the others? would haymitch have been a hilarious, loving father with a family had he not been forced to survive 47 other children’s brutal deaths? would finnick have been a charismatic and beloved actor, bringing joy to immeasurable people on his own terms? would beetee and wiress have worked together to develop technology to make it easier to connect loved ones far and wide? what would reaper and annie have given to the world, or thresh, or rue, or even coral or cato or glimmer or clove?

if katniss wasn’t half-starving and forced to spend each day hunting to feed her family, would archery be her true passion? or if she’d been a well-sustained little girl with access to art supplies, would she have spent her time sketching captivating dresses? she picks up ropes and making fish hooks quickly—could her dexterity have lent itself to knitting, sewing, or crocheting with vibrant yarns and fabrics? there’s so much evidence that katniss finds clothing inspiring and empowering, even when she dismisses it as frivolous. she likes being pretty, she just hates the circumstances under which she’s made to look pretty. cinna shows her that beauty has its own power, and there are several moments in her interactions with cinna and his designs that make me wonder who she’d be if she had space for art and creativity in her life.

conversely, peeta has had art in his life since he was a small child, but for him, art has always been entangled with his trauma. he could bake and decorate well because he learned from his mother, a mother who beat him his whole life. but his talent grows, not only as a survival tool in the first games, but when he paints rue on the floor of the training center before the second games. his art becomes not only a symbol of his trauma, but a means of resistance and solidarity. in a world where peeta’s intrinsic kindness and loving heart had been nurtured and welcomed rather than abused, could he have been a painter, helping people find collective meaning in the simple realities of life?

could katniss and peeta have still found each other in another world, a world without the horrors they were raised with, and bonded over their love of art? could they have been each other’s muses?

maybe they find their way to share art, after the events of mockingjay, as part of their process of healing and falling in love with each other. when they’re finally safe and have been for a long time, maybe katniss fashions peeta an easel for him to paint in their living room. after months of watching him gaze out the window and paint the changing leaves, katniss takes to knitting on a rocking chair in the other corner of the living room to steady her restless hands. they work silently as the days go by, quietly exchanging the things they’ve made to give each other the reassurance and love neither could ever fully convey with words.

and maybe one day, when they learn there’s a baby on the way due in midwinter, katniss takes a page from peeta’s sketchpad and starts to plan a series of sweaters and hats and socks she can knit for the baby. and peeta goes to the little nursery upstairs and starts working on a mural, so the baby will have something beautiful to look at every day. they work together to design the perfect baby blanket for their child, to ensure they will always be wrapped in a layer of protection and love by their parents.

but even if they find creativity and beauty in their lives after the end of mockingjay, the art they make will simply never be what that art could have been had they not faced what they faced. art comes from suffering, yes, but the human condition has so much suffering as is, and we’d never know what kind of art they’d make if they hadn’t experienced trauma of a distinctly sadistic and inhuman nature. but maybe their children, raised in a better world with love and protection and safety and joy and creativity and expression, will be the ones to create the art peeta and katniss never could.

#thg #the hunger games #hunger games #katniss #peeta #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #haymitch abernathy #cinna #lucy gray #lucy gray baird #thg analysis #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #finnick odair #annie cresta #catching fire #mockingjay

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