OPHELIA'S PARADE - D11 the ebony feline crouched on her seat, her muscles tense as sweat beaded on her face. wide eyes surveyed the room, fear glistening in those olive-colored depths. they itched to move from their spot, but the stylists chose otherwise, their absurd costumes flitting across the room like paper moths. a dab here, a smear there. before she could even object, a mask was secured on her face, tightened by a single thread. ophelia knew she had no choice -- so calmly she sat, a picture of elegance behind the layers of flora. by the time the stylists stepped away, the whistle of a train echoed through the station with a hiss. just a few moments later, a steam engine halted to a stop in front of them. a group of tributes were ushered to their train cars; she was one of the last to board. she'd tried to stay back, but a hefty guard shoved her ahead, not bothering to check on her slightly damaged costume. there was simply no time. and before she knew it, she was in front of a crowd. not any ordinary crowd -- the capitol. . . . the roar of the capitol threatened to deafen their ears, but ophelia remained composed -- or at least as composed as they could. the insect-like mask obscured much of her face, leaving the rest to imagination. a chorus of oohs and ahs resounded from the sides, and she couldn't help but shrink back, iridescent wings catching the light as she did so. at this angle, the sunlight perfectly struck the mechanical wings to create a myriad of colors. she was unsure how the stylists managed this effect, but it was eye-catching nonetheless. at the same time, their paws gripped tightly onto a basket of fruits. was she to throw them? maybe not. "happy hunger games!" ophelia shouted, making sure to lift her bountiful harvest. she dipped her head into a graceful curtsy. "may your harvest be as fruitful as your adoration." she had not spoken her defiance outright, but it lingered behind her every word. in the end, it was /always/ the capitol. she was just another fruit in their endless orchard, waiting for the day she would be plucked.
