♥ willow rex : {district one}

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( appearance )

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When Willow Rex first appears outside my office, all sunshine yellow wellingtons and electric blue lipstick, I know she was a walking contradiction. It isn't so much the way she looks - the trademark blonde curls and blue eyes are no far cry from the rest of the candidates. She bares reasonable resemblance to those who waited impatiently outside my office all morning, checking their faces in hand mirrors and practising smug smiles. Something about her, however, is different. The violent magenta streak that contrasts the curls barely makes an impact. It is the way she holds herself that is almost blinding. Her legs crossed loosely over each other, smirking as though she is already accepted and sitting with a confidence that suggested she couldn't care less if she is not. I call her name, recognising her family. All good careers, as far as reputation goes. In District One, everybody knows that reputation is the way to stay on top.

"Willow Rex, please," I call when she does not stand. Usually, they are on their feet the moment the handle turns, and yet she casually raises and eyebrow and smiles at the sound of her name. Ushering her inside, I gesture for her to take a seat. Standard protocol overrides the burning questions forming in my mind. She glances around the office, taking in the shining furniture and equipment in silence. Usually, either a look of awe or condescending indifference helps me to pick the time wasters from the competition. Aside from the extra moment she spends with her eyes hovering over the physical testing area of the sizeable studio, she gives nothing away. We sit in silence for a moment as I ready the form, adding her name and date of birth. Everything, as usual, has been sent through prior to our appointment.

She waits patiently as I make notes on her appearance. Despite the somewhat trivial nature of the practise, it is essential. The appearance of tributes plays an undoubtable factor in their success and we strive to make sure each and every accepted student has the highest possible chance of being remembered. Sharp features, I note, paying close attention to the contrast the soft turn of her nose gives to her jarring cheekbones and jawline. Full lips and large front teeth give her a constantly challenging expression. Large eyes, long lashes[/i]. My eyes follow the pale skin of her legs. It could be the way she is sitting - feet drawn up and cross-legged on the uncomfortable plush chair - but they appear long and lanky. I gesture to the scales, and she stands with a peculiar ease that I rarely attribute to young girls in my change. Careless. I watch the numbers tick upwards before marking my paper and moving over her with a tape measure in hand. Very long limbs and the slightly defined muscles of a trained career. Nothing unusual, but certainly nothing I can't work with.

Next, I ask her to lift basic weights. Obviously not her strong point, and yet she just about manages to get them off the floor. I note: did not give up until weights were lifted, determined.[/i] We move quickly and easily to target practise - the full assessment of skill comes later, but we must be sure adequate ability is there. After applying another layer of sticky red lipstick, I watch her fling knife after knife toward the target, shoot the entire sheath of ten arrows and finish with a round of spears. Not bad. Well trained, reasonable natural ability. And yet somehow I get the feeling that with work she could do an awful lot better. Shrugging, we sit back down. It's their job to be presentable and driven, and ours to provide the training and elite reputation.

As I look over my notes, adding more words here and there, I get the feeling she is bursting to speak. Her hands no longer lay still - thoughts bubble on her lips. Perhaps she wishes to apologise for the targets she missed, or promise that she is usually in better shape - that is the usual way of things. I smile at her, and she reamins silent. It feels as though I am in the same room as a hurricane - a storm that, once provoked, will never quite blow over my life.

( personality )

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The second part of our half-hour meeting is the interview. Candidates present themselves as they wish, and we decide if they our worthy of becoming our charges. I cannot help but feel as though in this situation it is the other way around. Today, I must pitch myself to Willow Rex. Somehow, I am caught in a race against the clock and the smiling girl in front of me as I scrawl down the following minutes.

"So, Willow. What makes you different from every other girl that walks into my office looking for the same thing?"[/i]

"Simple. I'm not looking for the same thing."

"What, then, are you looking for?"[/i]

"Change, equality. A better life, you know. In a world that isn't quite so fucked up. I want to help make it happen."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"I'll figure it out as I go along."

"Who would you name as your role models?"[/i]

"Topaz Ross. Sapphire, even. Stark Harper. Kiera Dempsey."

"Why's that?"

"They chose who they were, didn't let society tell them. They were all strong and rather beautiful."

"Aside from the physical, what kind of attitude do you think gives someone the power to survive?"[/i]

"Not so much ruthlessness, really. It's more about knowing what you deserve and making choices. Winning the Games is luck. Being remembered, well, that's power."

"List five words others have used to describe you."

"Opinionated. Snarky. Free-willed. Controversial.Rebel."

"And do you agree with these descriptions?"[/i]

"I'm opinionated, yes. Snarky, definitely. I have my own mind. I'll stand up for what I believe in. But I don't think I'm a rebel. I don't break the rules for the sake of it. I break them to have fun.

"You mention the word controversial. What kind of opinions do you hold that others view in this way?"[/i]

"I'm all for equality. A feminist, I suppose. In the end, I'm an idealist. Whatever it is, whoever it is, I want the best. On a political level, I care about everyone. On a personal level, everybody needs to get a hold of themselves and fight their own battles. I'll say what I think. Sarcastic bitch are words I'm used to hearing."

"You surely wouldn't voice any anti-Capitol views, though, would you?"

"Like I said, I'll say what needs saying."

"The academy are fighting to regain their high reputation. I'm sure you understand we lost it some time ago?"[/i]

"How careless of you."

"Quite. The point is that we've built our name up quite nicely in the last few years and we can't afford to endanger that. You're certainly attractive enough to be accepted-"[/i]

"Attractive? Attractive? I thought this was about training and skill and success? About becoming someone who mattered?"

"It is. But this is District One, and we live by the simple standards that the attractiveness of a person is a key part of their life. Beautiful girls make it far."

"And you support this blasphemy?"

"We do. And we'll thank you to conform."

"I think that perhaps it should be me that's thanking you. I'm done."

"Nobody just walks out of my office. People beg for places here."

"Not me. This is a fucking pantomime."

( history )

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Pantomime or not, I have a business to run. A glance to the clock reveals ten minutes before my next appointment. Instead of retreating to the bathroom or staring into space, I find myself flicking through Willow's file. The Rex family certain has a reputation we could use. Although no tributes have so far emerged from it’s depths, it’s reasonably wealthy and the children all seem to be strong careers. A slip of paper falls into my lap, and I recognize it quickly as a report card. All top marks. This surprises me, as Willow’s snarky, don’t-care attitude[/i] usually lends itself to those less academically inclined. My mind rests for a moment on the possibility of cheating, and yet she is so blatantly forthright and honest I can’t truly believe it. More paper spills over my knees and onto the floor from the bulging file. Behavioral warnings.[/i] The occasional detention slip.

A family tree catches my eye, the kind kids make in fourth grade when they’re just beginning to learn about career training and family pride[/i]. The mother and father are at the head, squat little drawings with prominently brown hair and mismatched eyes. Below the pictures, the titles ‘Mr. Rex’ and ‘Mrs. Rex’ are marked in reasonably neat lettering. Underneath, comes the childish declaration[/i] of ‘old’. Tiger and Leo follow, clearly boys with little other detail included. 'Eight' and 'seven' are noted beneath, with the help-ful additions of 'nice' and 'smart' by the side of each scrawled image.

'Tarqwin' and a questionable-looking 'Tyrannus' are set beside a shining, blonde adaptation of herself standing over a sister apparently named 'Vertigo'. I smirk to myself for a moment, taking in the Capitol-esque feel of the family. 'Eddie', 'Tigris', 'Russet' and 'Baby' take their places at the lower end of the page, slightly squished. It seems that the child grew bored of labelling her relatives quite quickly. I begin to leaf through the remaining documents, aware of the time.

I rise, tucking the papers back into the file and setting it back on the shelf. Still, Willow Rex's face stays resolutely in my mind. It is as if the girl is daring me to forget about the one who turned us down. When I twist my head around the door and survey my waiting room - my next candidate pacing the room and biting her lip - my eyes settle upon something I never expected to be there. Waiting for me, like a message, lies a bright yellow pair of wellington boots, almost knee length and undoubtably belonging to Willow. Moving quickly to the window, I survey the street. She's gone, of course, likely never to return to the quiet confines of my life. Barefoot, wandering down the street. Her words echo between my eyes - "I'll figure it out as I go along.". In this moment, I like Willow Rex no more than I like icy mornings and bloodless deaths in arenas with little appeal. And yet, unlike the countless tributes that fall without a fight and the days that merge into each other, painting the dreary fabrics of our life - she wont be forgotten. I lean down, pick up the startling pair of shoes from outside the door, and bring them inside.






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