AN: I hope I did all right with writing for Cinna, making in him IC and what-not. Feel more than free to tell me so if you don't think I succeeded in this. This fanfic is my first time writing anything related to the Hunger Games fandom, after all.

"It all must go," she said, shaking her head, lifting up a thick spiral-shaped lock of my hair. "So much...too much... Most of it must go."

Standing shivering and completely naked (except for the silver ring on my thumb that would be my token in the arena) in a room somewhere in the Remake Center, I bit down on my lower lip as hard as I possibly could without breaking the skin.

It's only hair, I told myself; but it was no use.

It didn't matter how many times I repeated in my mind that it would grow back, that it wasn't something alive, utterly unimportant.

In the Hunger Games I would be lucky not to lose half my face, or a limb, never-mind my hair.

And yet I couldn't stop feeling the urge to cry.

I remembered my mother (who had pin-straight hair) struggling to comb it out every morning, quite at a loss for what to do about keeping curls neat. Father (it was more or less his hair I had) could offer only a little help, since his hair had never been long, always cropped very short, almost so much that his curls made little impression.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to just hack off all my hair when I was five or six, but my mother wouldn't, or couldn't. She loved it too much. It was too pretty for scissors, she used to say, picking out my tangles; even matted and unruly as it was when I first got out of bed, even the time Adela Pennyfather stuck a wad of sticky chewing gum in it, she never considered cutting it.

We, mother and I, considered it a victory when we'd figured out all the best ways to manage my hair, and without any of the professional help people from the wealthier districts, or the Capitol, had.

Edith Jackle, one of Adela's little hang-on, tale-bearing friends, used to say I was a show-off, the way I always tossed my head back so that my curls slapped my waist; and maybe I was, a little bit, but only because I was proud I'd never had to cut it, not because I wanted to make anybody jealous.

What would my mother think when she saw all our hard work gone at the opening ceremonies early this evening? I wondered brokenly.

To keep myself from crying, I tried to remember that one moment when I'd been just the tiniest bit truly excited to be there in the Capitol. When the train had pulled in. Even Edmund, looking out the window, had held his breath.

From a distance, the shimmering buildings, all mansions and sky-scrapers, looked splendid.

For a second I had honestly forgotten what I was there for. And I'd been happy. I'd been wholly apprehensive and dazzled.

But now the dazzle was gone, though a very different, more resentful, kind of apprehension remained.

The room was cold, all multicoloured tile and twisted looking-glasses, and I wanted to be home by the fireplace with my parents, warm, fully clothed, long-haired, and safe.

"Ouch!" I cried out as Venia, a woman with her hair dyed a vivid shade of aquamarine, pulled back whatever the hot sticky thing she'd stuck to my legs a second ago was, while Octavia (whose skin had this queer, greenish hue to it), the one who'd been plotting to chop off my curls, suddenly grabbed my hand as if she was trying to comfort me.

"Oh poor ducky!" she said in what I guess was supposed to be a comforting tone. "When was the last time you waxed or shaved your legs, Poppet?"

"I'm thirteen," I snorted indignantly. I knew that wasn't really an excuse; Edith Jackle had been shaving since she was eleven. But in my defense, I was poor, had more important things on my mind than what age I should start scrapping the hair off my legs with a sharp object, and my hair, head and body, was a much lighter shade than Edith's.

They exchanged a glance, as if pitying me.

Suddenly I wondered if they were rich; whether or not it was against the rules for them to sponsor me because they worked for my stylist (who hadn't made an appearance yet, letting his funny-coloured helpers smooth out some of the rough spots first). I couldn't remember anything in the rules against that. If they liked me, maybe they could help me in the arena.

So, even though it made me feel a bit pathetic, I changed my tune. I acted like the poor little girl who didn't know how to do her make-up or get excess hair off of her body and was utterly amazed by all they had to say about it.

Of course, part of it wasn't acting. I really didn't know much about make-up or waxing. Still, most of my delight in their tips was put-on. After all, why would I even want to look like them? Green skin and blue hair? The thought made my nose wrinkle involuntarily.

What really did interest me, was the clothes. The tributes often wore beautiful clothes, even full-out striking costumes, during their interviews. Of course, sometimes a stylist would obviously have too little imagination or else far too much and come up with some hideous design (Johanna Mason, for example, had had to wear a really creepy-looking tree costume for her Hunger Games opening ceremonies), and I hoped against hope that my outfit, whatever it ended up being, would at least feel nice to wear.

But I hadn't seen any clothes yet. They'd taken away all of mine. And given me nothing but a dressing-gown which they refused to let me cover myself with while they were 'fixing me'.

Rip! I cried out again. Was having hairless legs really worth this?

Finally, after what seemed like for ever, Venia announced she was done waxing and started slathering on some gooey cream all over my calves.

Octavia told me to stand still and snapped open a pair of scissors.

I gritted my teeth, watching sadly as the tiles by my feet filled with light brown curls. One particularly large curl landed softly on my bare right foot, tickling it lightly.

By the time she finished, my hair was up to my shoulder-blades, still curling thickly but only at the tips, and I had wavy bangs which could be pinned to the side or else brushed neatly out into the front.

Tired of being plucked and pulled at, I forced myself to put my head on one side in this horridly idiotic fashion (it was embarrassing, and I hated thinking about it afterward) that I had seen grown-ups in District 7 melt at when it was done by small, particularly cute, school-aged children. Because I was petite and didn't really look my age, I was sure I could manage it.

"Can't I meet my stylist yet?" I understood that they wouldn't like me much if I whined, complaining that I was sick of being practically skinned alive and was more than ready to just get on, as I felt like doing, so I made it sound like my curiosity was becoming too much for me to handle.

They fell for it. The two of them instantly became extra sweet in their voices, saying how adorable I was, and how they were so glad to have such a good-hearted, even-tempered girl tribute placed in their care for once.

I wondered how they could call me 'good-hearted' when all I'd done was make big eyes at them and cock my head a lot. Any child, particularly a small female one, could have done it. Adela Pennyfather, or any of her friends, with a little effort, could have pulled it off just as smoothly.

They might have even done it better than me. I had seen the way they acted whenever teachers caught them doing something they weren't supposed to. I knew how they became grown-up's pets.

It sickened me to think I was being like Them, but I didn't see what else I could do. I didn't like taking advantage of two stupid Capitol-bred women, but I didn't want to go into the arena without even the slightest chance of someone who mattered in this place caring about whether or not I lived or died.

And they were so easy; more overtly childlike than I was, or pretended to be.

They really did want to make me pretty. They honestly thought they were doing me a favor.

Only, what would being pretty matter when I was covered in blood, fighting for my life?

They'll have to catch me first, I reminded myself for what felt like the thousandth time. If the other tributes couldn't catch me, they couldn't kill me.

If there were a lot of trees, maybe I could zip in and out of them, into places the others couldn't reach. Edmund, from my district, was bulkier than me. And, from what I'd seen on television, excepting the twelve-year-olds from 4 and 12 and the puny boy and the blue-eyed girl from 1, so were most of the other tributes. I hoped the puny boy, since he was so small, wasn't a fast runner. If he was, that, teamed with the fact that he was a Career tribute, wouldn't bode well for me in the arena.

But I knew I was being a terrible hypocrite as well as a manipulator. I could inwardly scoff at Venia and Octavia for thinking I wasn't 'pretty' enough, how shallow they were, and yet I still found my thoughts drifting to what I would be wearing.

I could be about to die very, very soon, and, all the same, I was worried about getting an ugly outfit for the opening ceremonies.

How different was I from them, really? I thought, guiltily. If I had been born in the Capitol, would I have been just like that? Would I have liked the Hunger Games? Would I want to dye my hair the colour of reflective water?

"Here he is, Poppet!" They clapped their hands together excitedly as the door opened and the stylist walked in, knowing I'd been so 'eager' to meet him.

Their misplaced happiness for me made my stomach ache. "How do you do?" I mumbled, starting down at my feet. My toes were turning a little blue, I noticed.

I let my eyes drift upwards and was mortified.

Octavia and Venia looked so bizarre, very different from anyone else I'd ever known, and also they were female, so it didn't bother me too much, them seeing me naked. It annoyed me, of course, but it didn't make my cheeks go all hot and whatever hair was left on my body stand up on edge.

My stylist, however, was a man and, especially for a Capitol-bred person, he looked so normal.

His skin was roughly the colour of burnt cinnamon and his eyes were green. Both looked natural, not surgically enhanced. Of course, the gold around his eyes wasn't natural; but it was eyeliner, lightly applied, not tattoos. He was dressed in a black shirt and black trousers.

If I had been able to look at him directly, I might have recognized him from a television interview in the past.

"I'm Cinna," he said softly, seeming to notice how uncomfortable I was. "You must be Jill Pole."

The way he said my name, like I was a real person before I was a Hunger Games' tribute from District 7, made me feel surprisingly warm in the cold room. Almost as if I'd found a real friend in that mad, lonely place.

"What if you put on your dressing-gown, and we have a talk?"

I nodded, accepting this offer at once.

Momentarily forgetting my 'sweet little girl' act, I all but snatched the dressing-gown out of Venia's instantly out-stretched hand, throwing my arms through and tying it securely around myself.

Cinna pushed on the side of a mirror and it gave way, turning into a door. Beyond it, was a warm sitting room with sofas and pillows and thick shaggy crimson rugs that felt good under my frigid toes as I tread down on them.

All he had to do was press a button and a table appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with an orange chicken and crab-mash meal elegantly arranged on it.

My stomach growled. "It looks delicious."

"The chicken here is very good," he assured me, sitting down.

I sat down across from him. "My hair was long when I came in here," I found myself blurting out.

"I wish they hadn't cut it," he said kindly. "I'm sure it was lovely just the way it was. I had a tribute come in with all these braids once. Beautiful braids. Her mother did them. Venia and Octavia wanted to take them apart, but they hadn't done so before I came in and I told them not to."

If only he'd turned up sooner. "Well, it's their job, I suppose." I picked up my fork and slid the silver-plated points down into the orange-sauce covered skin of the chicken. "And yours. That's why you're here." A sigh escaped me. "To make me look Capitol-pretty, right?"

Cinna shook his head. "No, you've got it quite wrong. I'm here to help you make an impression."

"Is this your first year with a tribute from District 7?" I asked, bringing a piece of chicken to my mouth and savoring the flavor. Swallowing, I added. "They saddled you with me?"

"No, I asked for 7." He frowned just the slightest bit. "Just like I asked for 12 my first couple of years here. This year, I decided I wanted 7."

"Because of all the trees?"

"I like trees," he said firmly, grinning. "In recent years there's been so much wasted artistic potential for 7 and its trees."

I wondered if he was thinking about Johanna Mason's unfortunate tree costume.

Then I focused in on what I was eating. The chicken was delicious, but the crab was heavenly. I wondered why we couldn't have fine foods like this in 7. I wondered if perhaps the richer families, the ones I never saw, aside from their children occasionally at school, did. My next thought was that maybe tributes from District 4 ate lots of crab. They were mostly fishermen, after all. Then again, I didn't trip over piles of wood and paper in my house, my district's specialty.

Talking to Cinna remained easy. Somehow he made sure of it. He asked me about home, and I asked him about the Capitol to be polite. I couldn't help wanting to be polite to him. Even though he was rich, I didn't even consider trying to make a sponsor out of him. I knew he'd see right through it and I didn't want him to despise me.

Mostly, though, we talked about clothes. Naturally. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when I realized he'd designed the beautiful fake-fire cape I'd seen a girl from 12 wearing the year before last, during the 75th Hunger Games. The man was a genius! The fire had looked so real. In fact, if the girl hadn't been free from burns, showing no signs of being roasted under that gorgeous cape, I wouldn't have believed it wasn't.

That was also when it hit me that the girl victor from 12 with the long braid, the one who'd been televised fainting at the reaping, was in fact Panem's 'girl on fire', courtesy of Cinna's brilliant design.

How I hadn't figured out who she was sooner I couldn't fathom. My best guess was that I'd been so preoccupied with that Primrose tribute she'd fainted for, thinking about how similar their overt pain was to that of the blue-eyed past victor and girl tribute from 1.

Some hours later, I was standing, naked again, with Venia and Octavia fusing over getting some strange frilly undergarments on me.

They weren't uncomfortable, just odd. I had never even worn a slip under any of my school dresses before, and none of my underwear from home went down to my knees. There were even a couple of hooks that Venia had to fasten and six rows of stringy white lace, sort of like a boot lace but nicer and with a smoother texture, that Octavia had to tie into all these little looped bows.

When Cinna came back in with my dress, I was told to shut my eyes.

"Just for a minute, Ducky," Venia had chirruped.

I peeked through my eyelashes, but the way Cinna was holding the garment, half-tucked under one arm, impeded my sneaking a proper glimpse of it.

Besides, it was quickly tossed over my head and I felt Venia and Octavia's hands smoothing it out for me and pulling down the fabric where it had bunched up.

"Now look, Poppet!"

I was taken over to an ordinary looking-glass, one without twisted reflections, so I could see what I really looked like.

The dress-more of a gown, really-was truly beyond words. Cinna had out-done himself. The fire-cape was a brilliant start, yes, but he had, impossibly, surpassed it. And with a much simpler design, no less!

Rows of over-laid rust-red brocade matched with earth-brown velvet ended just below my ankles.

Giggling, I twirled once just to see the skirt of the gown sway.

An involuntarily gasp escaped me as I caught the reflection. What I had taken for an ordinary, albeit extremely fancy, raised brocade design, vaguely resembling curved tree roots, was actually a holographic thread pattern that turned from trees to perfect little embroidered models of the broken old lamppost landmark from 7 as I moved.

"Oh!" I ran my fingers along the embroidery as if I expected to be cut by broken glass or a pine-needle.

"So you like it?" The corners of Cinna's lips turned up.

"Like it?" I cried. "I've never seen anything so..." I couldn't find the words. It wasn't really light, the colours were all dark, but because of its shimmery quality I almost wanted to call it that. "I should have known there would be something extra. I mean, you're the man who lit a cape on fire." Then, twirling one more time, "It's like magic."

"Your shoes, Ducky!" Venia pulled them out from behind her back. "Cinna made these to match."

Brown satin slippers with silver ribbon that somehow added to the holographic qualities of my gown.

If I didn't think about the fact that I was dressing up and parading around in preparation to go on television and fight for my life, I almost could have been giddy with joy.

All those fancy things, alone, and in their place, they were wonderful.

I'll let myself enjoy the gown and slippers, I said in my head. Then I'll go back to being properly afraid and hiding it. Just one minute of happiness. Of not thinking about what this all really means.

My feet slid into the slippers almost effortlessly and it felt as though I was walking on air or water.

No, definitely water. The inside of the shoes felt like they were waving up and down soothingly. I half-expected the soles of my feet to feel wet at any given moment, continually amazed when they never did.

"It's like I'm weightless," I told Cinna. "I could walk for miles in these."

"Or run," he suggested.

"Yes," I agreed, sighing. "Running is better." If I'm fast enough, the other tributes might never catch me.

"Come," he said, offering his hand. "I think your chariot will be ready any minute now."

I put my hand in his, wondering if he was this friendly with all the contestants he styled and how he could bear it when they died.

Then again, both the boy and girl from District 12 he'd designed clothing for in the 74th and 75th Hunger Games had, respectively, been victors, so many he didn't actually have as much experience with death as most of the other Capitol-bred stylists did.

Outside in the hallway, Edmund was already waiting, his stylist and Johanna standing beside him. He looked sullen and cross. But it wasn't so bad as it might have been; he wasn't wearing a bad tree costume, and they hadn't chopped off his hair, though it was combed and parted differently from the way it had been on the train and it looked like it had been freshly trimmed.

His opening ceremony clothing was made up of a tree-bark-brown tunic and matching earth-coloured tights. His shoes were roughly evergreen with white-gold buckles.

There was a small pocket on the left side of his chest. Embroidered into the circular crest on this pocket was Cinna's holographic tree-lamppost.

I looked over at Cinna. Had Edmund's stylist stolen his design?

As if reading my mind, he said, "No, I loaned his stylist that design."

"That's stupid," said Johanna, glaring at him and the other stylist. "Making them match. They aren't a team, you know. None of the other tributes have matching symbols on their clothes."

"Exactly," said Cinna knowingly. "They'll stand out."

I remembered what he'd said to me, about helping me make an impression. And he was right. Both of us having the tree-lamppost hologram would definitely make more of a startling impression on the viewers and, more importantly, sponsors than just one of us having it. Yes, either way, whoever had the design would have gotten plenty of oohs and ahhs, but the fact that both District 7 tributes had it would be unusual enough to get people's attention and hold it.

"Well thanks awfully for making us stand here for ever waiting for you," snapped Johanna, unable to think of a good rebuttal, even though she clearly disagreed with Cinna's subtle hint of togetherness between two tributes who barely knew each other.

It wasn't hard to see both sides of the argument. I wanted to side with Cinna, because I was liking him far more than Johanna at the moment, but I could see her point too. Hint that Edmund and I were united in some way, however small, then let all of Panem watch us try to kill each other? Where was the sense in that? But it was that or get lost in a sea of tributes bigger and better, a great deal richer and flashier, than we could ever hope to be.

"No need to bicker," said Edmund's stylist in a painfully cheerful, yet slightly less annoying than typical, Capitol accent. "Let's go down to the bottom level of the Remake Center. The other districts' tributes will be there by now."

"I hope you like horses," said Cinna, looking at me. "It's little more than a gigantic stable."

My cheeks flushed and I knew my eyes had to of lit up when he said that. I had always been fond of horses.

In fact, my silver thumb-ring had a raised design of tiny horses running all the way around it.

That was why I had asked my parents not to sell it for so many years, even though the silver would have brought a little more money into our home, and why, recently, I'd asked their permission to take it to the Capitol with me and wear it in the arena.

I turned the ring round twice very quickly on my thumb as we walked down a seemingly endlessly flight of stairs, imagining that it made the carved horses run.

It was too bad I couldn't run with them. That I couldn't run away from what was to come.

AN: Please review!