Chapter Four
As Selene promised, a little over two hours after I saw her in the corridor of the train, I find myself in the Capitol, staring up at the strangest building I have ever seen. The Remake Centre, with its extraordinary white frame that appears to be supporting a building made entirely of glass, is like everything and everyone I've seen since I stepped off the train to face the hoards of reporters for the second time: over-sized, over-dramatic and totally unfamiliar. I've seen the building on the television, of course, but that could never have prepared me for the scene that's before me now.
I can see a large number of people running around frantically inside the building and a camera crew leaning precariously over one of the balconies to capture every second of our arrival, but they are not what holds my attention. Gathered outside the front of the Remake Centre are well over a hundred people, all pushing and shoving one another in an attempt to get closer to the front so they have a better view. At first I think they are yet more reporters, but as I look closer I notice that they don't look or sound the same as either the people firing questions at me as we left District 2 or those who were waiting for us when the train pulled up to the platform.
Everyone in the Capitol has more money and a greater amount of material possessions than the people from the districts, but there are varying degrees of wealth here just like there are everywhere else. Judging from the appearance of those who I have seen today anyway, I can say with confidence that the standard Capitol reporter doesn't fall into the category of being rich and privileged, but the mob of people who are jostling for position only a few metres from where I stand most definitely do. I can see the extravagant jewellery they're all wearing sparkling in the sun, each and every one of them groomed and dressed to perfection. These are the scions of the Capitol's wealthiest families, the ones who take a special interest in the Games, the young men and women who will be providing a lot of the sponsorship money. Despite my low opinion of them, we will need their support before the end I'm sure, so I turn to face them and hope that Cato does the same.
As I face them I listen to what they are saying for the first time, hearing many shouts of my name. That surprises me, as I hadn't thought they would have bothered to look up such trivial information in the programmes that virtually all of them are carrying, programmes which, incidentally, probably cost the same amount of money as would be needed to feed the entire population of the District 2 Training Centre for a week. I struggle to hide my shock at some of the things the young men shout to me, which make me torn between the conflicting reactions of blushing like a pathetic little girl and walking over to them and making sure they'd never be able to act on any of their suggestions ever again. What makes them think that they have the right to talk to me like that? Nobody in District 2 would dare to and I want nothing more than to teach these spoiled little brats exactly why they wouldn't. 'Think of the sponsorship money, Clove', I say to myself over and over again, trying desperately to keep the temper I am rapidly losing.
The crowd surges forwards, pushing Cato closer to me, and I can tell the exact moment that he stops to listen to the crowd because his whole body tenses in exactly the same way I've seen hundreds of times before - just before he steps into the ring to fight in the gymnasium at home. When I turn to look at him, the expression of total fury on his face is what makes me regain my self-control and begin to smile. He must sense my gaze because he looks down at me immediately and speaks in a low voice that I hope won't register on the cameras.
"I'm going to kill them all. Right now. As slowly and painfully as I possibly can."
"Knives, sword or mace?" I ask with a smile, secretly pleased by his response at the same time as not being entirely convinced that he isn't defending his territory as much as he is my honour.
"Who said anything about needing weapons?"
I laugh as I answer him, turning away in an attempt to convince the audience I'm laughing at the crowd rather than at the comment of the man who stands beside me.
"You can't really, Cato. I hardly think the Capitol would approve, and besides, we need their sponsorship money," I reply airily, when inside I would love to kill them myself.
Suddenly Vikus appears in the doorway of the Remake Centre, gesturing for us to follow him inside. I obey with a final very fake smile in the direction of the crowd, looking behind me for long enough to see Cato glare at them before he follows.
"This way," instructs Vikus, looking in Cato's direction rather than mine. "All of this performance will be over soon and the real Games will begin."
I can't see anybody else who looks familiar or even seems to notice my presence, so I follow behind Vikus and Cato as they set off down a long and clinical looking white-walled corridor. I've decided already that I don't like the Capitol. Back home in District 2, when I walk into a room, everybody notices. Some of them stare at me in silence, a lot of them back away and look at the floor, and only a tiny number of them dare to approach me, but everybody always notices. Here in the Capitol I could be invisible and I can't stand it. As I walk, I watch the stylists and prep teams dashing frantically around making sure that everything is in place, not a single one of them acknowledging my presence. That will change soon. One way or another, the Capitol will never forget this year's tributes from District 2.
That thought comforts me enough so that the next time I look up I'm looking for a specific person. Claudius has dressed the female tribute from my district for at least as long as I have watched the Hunger Games, and while he hasn't got it exactly right every year, I've only witnessed one total disaster.
Despite that though, when I think about whatever it may be that he's got planned for me, the emotion I feel is so unfamiliar that I have to think for a second what it means. When it hits me that what I feel is nervousness, I start to get annoyed with myself. What's the point of being nervous? He's here to do what he's been trained for just like I am. Claudius must know the way things are by now even if, like all of the Capitol people I've seen so far, he refuses to admit it even to himself. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice, would he? If he does…no, but he wouldn't, not after what happened last time.
I remember the girl's face very clearly even though I had only been eight or nine years old when she had been sent to the Capitol. I remember her long golden blonde hair, which was much like that of this year's District 1 girl, and her perfect figure, her skin flawless despite years of hard training. She'd been a fighter just like I am, a proper Career Tribute, but Claudius had dressed her up in a pink fluffy dress like a princess from some ancient fairy tale. Her previously fearsome reputation forgotten by most people back home, she swiftly became the laughing stock of District 2 and just as quickly found in the arena that the other tributes had no fear of her, seeing her as a weak and pitiable young girl even without the frilly dresses. She'd been unable to come back from that and had been the first District 2 tribute to die at the Cornucopia on day one of the Games for many years. I may have next to no power here but I'm determined to do everything I can to make sure I don't suffer the same fate.
Suddenly Vikus stops in front of a plain white door, turning to face Cato and me as he pushes it open.
"Go inside and wait." I step forward but he lifts his arm to block my path. "Not you, Clove. Augustus should have been there to escort you down the other corridor but he did his usual disappearing act so I'll have to take you there myself."
"I'm sure I can find my own way," I reply. This place is getting boring now. All I've done is stand around dreading the day to come since the train pulled into the station first thing this morning, and I'm starting to miss the distraction of training.
"Can I trust you to walk back down the corridor and wait for Augustus by the entrance?"
"What do you mean by that? I'm not five years old. I think I can make it a few metres down a corridor on my own."
"Without involving yourself in some sort of confrontation?" he says sternly. "You might be the pride of our district in the Arena but I've been dreading bringing the pair of you to the Capitol since you almost destroyed the Training Centre as children. Children, you were, and I can still remember the devastation now."
Vikus has many great strengths and many great weaknesses, and very often, people don't agree which category certain aspects of his personality fall into. It is widely whispered that he is incapable of love, but I have never agreed. One thing that can never be denied is that he loves our Training Centre and all it stands for more than anything else in the world. Which is why he has never forgotten the damage that Cato and I had caused when we were attempting to settle our differences on the day we first met.
My eyes meet Cato's for a second and I can tell that he's remembering that day just as I am. I don't really want to leave, finally shamefully admitting to myself that I want nothing more than to hide behind my lover until the whole Remake Centre nightmare is over, but I reply to Vikus anyway, knowing that the sooner I see the prep team the sooner I will be able to stop seeing them.
"I promise I won't attack anybody," I say solemnly, before changing the tone of my voice entirely to continue, "Do you really think I'm that stupid, Vikus? I know better than to argue with the Capitol."
"My request that you save all…altercations…for the arena extends to your other mentor too. Make sure you don't forget."
"But he won't be in the arena. That means I may find I have to take the opportunity to do Panem a great service and get rid of Augustus while I have the chance."
"Clove," is the only answer that I get, his voice so full of warning that he doesn't think he needs to say any more.
At this stage of the Games I agree with him, though I think we both know my compliance won't last for long. I spin on my heel and set off back down the corridor without looking back.
Nobody I pass in the short time it takes me to get back to the main doors has time to pay me any attention at all, no doubt all preoccupied by the imminent arrival of their tributes. I only slow my stride once, to stare after a man who seems to have dyed his skin a pale gold colour that shimmers in the artificial lighting of the corridor. Maybe he wouldn't have looked quite so ridiculous if he hadn't decided that the look needed a long and flowing pink robe to finish it off. There is a saying in District 2 that not even vast amounts of money can buy sense and good taste, and the truth of it has been confirmed to me in a matter of hours.
As I take the final couple of steps into the vast entrance hall, I notice that the so-called competition has started to arrive. A pair of tributes who can only be described as lost and frightened children are being shepherded across the room by their mentors, but they quickly become separated, unable to fight their way through the steady stream of stylists, assistants and other assorted Capitol people. They must be District 3.
If I'd still been at home then I would have considered them to be beneath my notice, but here it's different. Here I have the chance to defeat two of the tributes before I even get in the arena and I mustn't waste such an opportunity. I slide effortlessly through the crowd to where they stand, pressed up against the far wall, clearly too intimidated by the mass of people to even attempt to rejoin their mentors. To start with I don't speak but merely look at them, my expression deliberately hard and emotionless. The girl can't meet my eyes for even a second, and while the boy does a little better, very soon he is staring down at his feet too.
"Did you say goodbye to your families when you left home?" I ask, using the same falsely gentle voice that confused Lucius so much the last time I saw him in the square at the reaping. The girl raises her eyes to meet mine for a split second before returning her focus to the floor once more.
"Of course I did," she mumbles, her voice so quiet I can barely hear her.
"Good," I reply. "It must be difficult for you to know you'll never see them again."
"Who are you?" asks the boy, obviously attempting to sound a lot braver than he feels. Considering that he still can't look at me, has his hands in his pockets and is nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another, I don't think his acting skills are really up to much.
"The last person you will ever see."
At that moment the mentors reappear and reclaim their charges immediately, pushing them back through the crowd, glancing uneasily at me as they go. Disappointed that my source of entertainment has been so unceremoniously taken away, I look around for Augustus. There's no sign of him so I have no choice but to stand and wait.
After a few minutes I start to get bored again and walk back across the hall so I can at least look out of the windows to see what's happening outside. I'm surprised to see Augustus standing by the doors, talking casually to a couple of reporters, female of course, as if he has all the time in the world. Having said that, I don't think I should be so much surprised at his actions but more that the Capitol women are willing to give him the time of day. Yes, according to many he is reasonably attractive, and like most of my district's previous victors, his many years of training have done him no harm at all, but surely it only takes a few seconds in his company for people to work out that the drawbacks of his obnoxious personality greatly exceed any of the supposed visual benefits?
However the reporters are seemingly even less intelligent than I thought, because it takes over half an hour for them to leave and for District 2's second mentor to make his way to where I stand, leaning against the wall and trying to look impatient. It doesn't take much effort.
"I don't think the Capitol girls would lower themselves to your level, Augustus," I say as he approaches me, looking me up and down in an all too familiar way that makes my skin crawl every time.
"Does that mean I'll have to make do with you, Clove?" he asks, undressing me with his eyes in that way that makes Cato want to kill him and me want to fight him for the privilege.
He can never resist, he just cannot seem to stop himself from provoking me. I suppose it's worse because I have been forced to associate with him for so many years. It's given him more than enough opportunity to learn exactly what aggravates me most.
"It'll be the last thing you ever do if you try," I hiss, keeping my voice low so none of the people who are still streaming past us can hear.
"Come on, Clove. You're powerless here and you know it. What could you do about it if I did? If you tried then I would simply say it was an unprovoked attack by a tribute driven insane by the prospect of the arena and the Capitol would either do nothing or execute you."
"Doesn't it tell you something that I would prefer execution to letting you touch me. And anyway, the Capitol refuse to acknowledge the existence of Career Tributes. Are you really going to stand up and announce to the world that you were attacked by a feeble little girl like me? It wouldn't do your reputation much good, would it? Do you think those pretty reporters would talk to you then?"
The look on his face on hearing my last question tells me all I need to know. Victory for Clove, in round one at least. He looks about ready to explode as he turns sharply on his heel and storms off down the corridor.
"It's this way," he growls, refusing to look at me.
I walk as far behind my hated mentor as I can without losing sight of him and getting lost. I'm relieved when it doesn't take long to reach what appears to be my final destination, a small room that contains nothing but a small black table and a cubicle. On closer inspection, the latter proves to have all four sides covered in mirrored glass on the inside. This doesn't look good, therefore, as I dread to think what unspeakable tortures the prep team will have envisaged for me, I spend the short time that I remain alone in the room trying not to think at all.
My solitude doesn't last for long though, and seconds later I find myself surrounded by a small group of alarmingly coloured Capitol people who start to swarm around me like insects. The comparison continues to me feeling the same urge to swat at them to make them leave me alone. My panic level only grows as they move closer, pushing and pulling me like I'm an object rather than a person. I can feel the anger rising up inside me in response to being degraded in such a way, and I know I'll lash out without thinking if I don't calm down.
The only person who truly understands how much I'm dreading this part of the Games, how much I detest even the thought of the prep team touching me, is Cato, and I try to focus on what he told me. He said to imagine that I'm in the ring back home, that I should block them from my mind just as I would anything else that could distract me from my opponent.
Curiously, when I stare at the plain white wall ahead of me, drawing a picture of an imaginary enemy in my mind, it's the boy from District 1 I see. Imagining myself using my knife to erase the arrogant smile from his face makes me feel considerably better. That is until a tall and incredibly thin man who has hair as pink as Selene's reaping day outfit pulls the belt from around my waist and lifts the red fabric of my tunic up as if to remove it.
I jump back, sending the woman who was standing behind me flying across the room. She makes a high pitched squeal as she crashes against the wall but I ignore her, spinning around to face the man who dared to think he had the right to touch me. Nobody has the right to touch me and only one person has my consent.
'But he does have the right to touch you, Clove' says the quiet voice of reason in my head, 'you've always known what was going to happen here'. 'Yes,' I answer myself, 'but it was far easier to accept when I could imagine myself going back home victorious with Cato by my side'. Great, I've only been in here for about half an hour and I'm losing it already. Not only am I talking to myself, I'm having an argument as well.
The pink haired man meets my gaze steadily, and I notice for the first time that there seems to be more going on behind those strange golden eyes than I would expect from one of his kind. Even as I stand there, my arms slightly outstretched at my sides with my fists firmly clenched, I realise how futile it is to protest. I can't help the way I react but I have to be sensible. This is the Capitol, I have no choice but to do this, or should I say 'to let this happen to me'. As long as I look like a District 2 tribute should look by the end of it then that is all that matters.
I turn to face the unfortunate woman who has just picked herself up off the floor and is frantically trying to rearrange her now very dishevelled snow white hair. I still have my pride and refuse to apologise but I shrug my shoulders slightly, speaking in as calm a voice as I can manage.
"If it is absolutely essential then I am quite capable of undressing myself," I say, lifting my tunic over my head and attempting to do something that has never normally been necessary, which is to totally hide my emotions. They will not see how hard this is for me, not even for a second.
"Go and stand in there," says the woman who I didn't nearly knock out, pointing to the mirrored cubicle.
It's a hard thing to do but I make myself obey her, crossing the short distance to stand in the centre of the mirrors so I can see my reflection from all angles. I instinctively cross my arms across my chest and I immediately get the impression that none of the prep team are brave enough at this stage to make me lower them. I have no idea why until I see my face in the mirror. If looks could kill then they would all be dead already.
As the prep team run around the outside of the tiny cubicle, screeching to each other in a jumble of words that is so unintelligible it sounds like they're speaking a foreign language, I stare at my reflection. The way the mirrors are angled gives the impression that there are thousands of me standing in this tiny space if I look in some directions and only one of me if I look another way. The whole thing is more than a bit disconcerting really.
I am as critical of myself as ever when I study the person staring back at me. It's many years of training that have shaped my body more than anything else, making my muscles toned and my skin criss-crossed with scars. I don't especially like what I see, I never have, but it somehow seems wrong to be over-critical of a body that has done everything I've ever asked of it and hasn't ever let me down.
A few minutes later I suddenly realise that the previously incessant screeching and whining of my prep team has stopped and that they are now standing staring at each other rather than at me. The man, who appears to be well and truly in charge of the other two, is the first one to speak.
"Well, she's a bit small. Last year's look would never have worked," he adds with a laugh. "I don't think she'd have been a very convincing gladiatrix from the tales of old, do you?"
The others join in his laughter and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from saying or doing something I would probably be forced to regret later. I might be small for a Career but strength isn't everything. If he knew how many would-be-tributes had spent weeks in the hospital room because of me, if he knew that it was me who Vikus made the others fight if he thought they were getting overconfident, if he knew that I haven't been defeated in single combat in years by anyone other than my own undefeated mentor and Cato, who doesn't really count anyway since I soon got him back the next time, then he wouldn't be so quick to judge. He'll change his attitude when I come back from the arena. When he sees the fate of the other tributes he will soon see things differently.
"And she has so many scars," says the one with the white hair. "it's the same every year. I've said so many times that they should give us enough time to get them removed."
"No! You can't! I won't let you!"
It takes me a second to realise I was the one who shouted those words, and I'm actually almost as shocked by the force of emotion behind my protest as the prep team, all of whom have taken at least three steps away from my mirrored cage. You could cut the atmosphere in the room with a knife until I take a deep breath and truly take in the expressions on their faces. Then I smile, in response to how anxious they look rather than because I feel any calmer, and they visibly relax, stepping forward to the mirrors once more.
Have these people not been dressing District 2 for years? Surely they know who and what I am and therefore know not to expect a trembling and petrified child? And yet here they are, the two women at least blatantly showing their fear in response to my slightest reaction. All this when I'm not even in a position to make the effort to be intimidating because I'm too much of an emotional wreck to have the energy.
It will be if they try to get my scars removed that they'll see intimidating. My scars are part of me, they tell the story of what made an undersized and recently orphaned twelve-year-old daughter of a past Hunger Games victor into the formidable fighter I am today, and for some reason I can't begin to explain, I don't want to go into the arena without them.
I still don't know the names of the people who make up my prep team, and to be honest I don't really care. In my head I already refer to them by their hair colour and I decide, as they all begin to circle me once more, that I may as well stick to that. To do anything else would involve engaging them in conversation and I just can't bear the thought of it.
The most outrageous looking of the two women, 'White Hair', comes to a standstill behind me and I can sense her staring at my back, which is blanketed with very different and much less random scars, left as a permanent reminder of my many punishments for past indiscretions at the Training Centre. I wonder what the prep team would say if they knew why I have them? I'm sure they would see it as yet another indication of the barbaric culture of the districts, but in my opinion they could have been a whole lot worse. If Vikus knew about half of mine and Cato's exploits in the outside world of District 2 and the number of times that we scaled the outer wall of the Training Centre then I can say with absolute certainty that it wouldn't just be my back that bears the scars. I would have been flayed to within an inch of my life on more than one occasion.
"If you win the Games then you'll have to let us remove them. You couldn't possibly be sent to your Victor's Interview looking like a District 12 street urchin," says White Hair finally. I can see the exact moment that inspiration hits her and she continues with an expression of triumph on her deathly pale face. "I would have thought you'd want us to have them taken away. You'll never get a man looking like that."
Her face suddenly goes blank then, before triumph is quickly replaced by confusion when she sees that my only response is to laugh.
The torment that continues for the next few hours is harder for me to endure than I ever imagined it would be. In fact I had, only minutes before, arrived at the conclusion that I would rather fight every single would-be-tribute in District 2 all at the same time than suffer the attentions of the prep team for a moment longer when my salvation arrives in the form of a mirror. It's held up for me by a very smug looking Pink Hair, who announces that I'm finally ready to be seen by the stylist.
"You might be too small for a District 2 tribute but you are so much prettier than last year's girl," he says.
I am at once insulted and worried at the same time. I can't see how a person with pink hair and almost orange skin calling me pretty could ever be a good thing, and from what little I remember about the ill-fated girl from last year, I think this year's boy from District 1 would probably win more beauty contests so his words are really no great compliment. I reach out for the mirror with my eyes firmly shut, not wanting to see what they've done to me. I wonder if this is how many of the tributes will feel in the arena? Knowing their fate is unavoidable but remaining too afraid to look. Probably, and it's the thought that I could be in any way similar to them that makes me open my eyes to see exactly who is staring back at me through the mirror.
What I see shocks me every bit as much as I predicted, but not in the way I imagined. Looking into my seemingly enlarged silver-grey eyes, I realise that this is the closest I will ever get to having a 'Capitol makeover' without them resorting to surgery. I know exactly how much makeup I have on because I've sat and endured its application for well over three hours, but to look at me now I could just be wearing dark eye liner, mascara and some bright red lipstick, which stands out so vividly against my pale and now totally flawless skin. Obviously black eyes are not as difficult to remove as Selene would have had me believe. I look like me but with all of the imperfections imperceptibly removed, and I feel my mood lift for the first time since I left Cato's room this morning.
A few minutes later I draw my attention away from the mirror when I notice that, for the first time ever, the prep team are completely silent. They're all staring at each other as if none of them wants to be the first to move.
"What's the problem? I can't go through the Opening Parade in a robe," I ask boldly, my bravado returning in full force now I'm able to wear the aforementioned robe and I know they haven't made me look totally ridiculous.
The man, who is still known to me only as 'Pink Hair', narrows his eyes at me from behind his curtain of hair. "Remember to whom you are talking and where you are, girl. You're not in the districts now."
I inwardly groan with exasperation. Why can these stupid people never answer a simple question with a straight answer? I glare at him but resist the temptation to ask again. Someone will speak eventually. I can just tell they're bursting to start gossiping and I'm sure that they won't let a minor insignificant detail like my presence stop them for long.
"Go and fetch him then," says Pink Hair to the least offensive of my tormentors, a green-haired woman who seems a lot younger than the other two. Maybe she's new to the job and that's why he thinks he can boss her around.
Instead of instantly obeying, which from the expression on Pink Hair's face was clearly the response that was both expected and desired, she leans across to whisper into my ear far too loudly for what she says to be confidential. I resist the urge to back away as her hand touches my bare shoulder.
"Ambrosius is new to this job," she says, her voice full of derision for the person who it seems will control whether I'm remembered by my potential sponsors for positive or negative reasons. "He has always dressed tributes from very inferior districts in the past, but that is before Claudius fell out of favour."
"I was half expecting Claudius," I whisper back mildly, warming to her slightly at her inference that my district is what she would call superior. "He's dressed District 2 for years."
"Until he served the first course at his dinner party before President Snow arrived," she says, lowering her voice even more before continuing, her words coming out in a frantic rush. "How was Claudius to know that the President was planning to attend? He had no warning. Highly offended, the President was. Took it as a personal insult. So much so that he had Claudius demoted. Demoted to District 5, would you believe?"
She makes her opinion of the laboratory district perfectly obvious by her tone of voice. Definitely not one of the superior ones then.
I try to look interested as she speaks, nodding in what I hope are the right places when I'm really wishing, for what seems like the millionth time in a few short days, that they would just hurry up and get on with it.
Eventually the green-haired gossiper seems to arrive at a decision and, now accepting of her fate, she rises to her feet and heads for the door.
"Very well, I will fetch him," she says, "Although what he's going to make of her is anyone's guess."
Ambrosius appears shortly afterwards, and I'm surprised to see that while still outrageous in appearance by my usual standards, he looks almost normal compared to most of the other people I have seen since entering the Remake Centre. In fact, Ambrosius is not what I expected at all. I suppose that because I'd expected Claudius, I'd expected a stereotypical Capitol stylist, someone so self- absorbed that they pay me very little attention and treat me with the casual indifference many Capitol citizens apply to those from the districts.
What I have is very different. I quickly notice that what eccentricity my stylist lacks in his appearance is more than made up for in his manner, as he seems to not only be talking to himself but actually having a conversation. It takes him several minutes to focus on me and when he does I definitely see more than a hint of apprehension in his eyes that could even be described as fear.
The prep team begin to swarm around me again but this time I'm prepared for them. I push them away quickly and walk resolutely over to the mirrored cubicle, taking a deep breath and closing my eyes before shrugging off the robe so it pools on the floor at my feet in a mass of fine purple silk.
Ambrosius stares at me for what feels like all eternity, sometimes standing still and other times walking in small circles around what I have come to think of as my cage. I get the impression that he sees a half finished painting that needs to be completed rather than a person, which is something of a relief after hours of forcing myself to resist killing my prep team simply to put an end to their derogatory comments and critical remarks. Eventually he pulls back one of the mirrors and stands directly in front of me. He looks down at me and his large pale blue eyes meet mine for a few seconds, his gaze remaining as distant as ever until he loses his composure and looks away.
He begins to turn away in the direction of my waiting tormentors but then abruptly returns to face me again, and I'm temporarily too stunned to move when he reaches out his hand to trace the line of the thick scar that runs all the way across my stomach. However my shock doesn't last for long, and a split second later I take a rapid step backwards, putting as much distance between us as possible in the confines of the tiny cubicle.
His touch was as cold and impersonal as his stare, and I quickly realise he wasn't the only reason why I reacted like that. I reacted the way I did partly because of the memory his action brought back. I suddenly pictured Cato making same gesture, as he has so many times before, and I pictured him as clearly as if he were standing right next to me. I can say with absolute certainty that if I'm going to get through the Opening Ceremony without disgracing District 2 then he's the last person I should be thinking about.
"I'm sorry," says Ambrosius quietly, snapping me out of my reverie immediately. "I've never seen a scar like that. I'm surprised the wound didn't kill you."
Why is a Capitol person apologising to me? Maybe there is finally someone who acknowledges reality? There's a first time for everything I suppose, but it still doesn't sound right.
I'm tempted to tell him the truth behind how I got that wound, how Vikus had decided to teach my vastly overconfident fifteen-year-old self that she was not invincible by taking me into the Arena himself. I learned my lesson quickly enough and to this day the first thing I remember after stepping onto the sand next to my mentor is waking up in the hospital room and seeing Cato in the adjacent bed.
I later found out that my soon-to-be lover had objected to my previously unheard of treatment by challenging Vikus himself, and despite the fact that he ended up sharing my fate shortly after, it is something I've never forgotten. The outcome of both battles would be very different now and I think my mentor knows that as well as I do.
"We can't simply have our scars removed like you can here," I reply. "It looks worse now than the actual wound did." Another lie. One of many I have told today.
He nods and walks across the room, taking a bundle of shimmering silver material from the arms of a patiently waiting Avox. So this is the dress. I can't see it properly yet but at least it's not pink and fluffy. It's a good start.
Ambrosius shakes the bundle with a dramatic flourish and it unfolds into a long dress which has a problem that stands out to me immediately. That problem is that it only looks half finished, with a split all the way down one side. He doesn't expect me to leave the room like that, does he? I had assumed and, if I am honest, been hoping that they would be saving blatant sexuality for District 1 this year.
However my reprieve comes seconds later when Ambrosius crosses the room and puts the dress over my head.
"I can't finish it until you're wearing it," he says. "The fabric doesn't stretch enough so I will have to sew the side now."
So that is how I pass the next hour, standing on a table in the middle of the room while my stylist slowly stitches me into the metallic silver dress. Every time I slouch even slightly, one of the prep team runs frantically forwards and tries to poke me to make me stand up straight. I'm ashamed to say that after only a very short time I take to slouching in a very exaggerated fashion before stepping swiftly out of their reach as soon as they get close enough to touch me. Years and years of training has given me reflexes that are at least a hundred times better than theirs and I carry on tormenting them until Ambrosius 'accidentally' drives his needle into my side and glares at me.
"If you don't keep still then your dress will never be finished in time and don't think for a second that I won't put you on the chariot without it."
What a fantastic time to acquire some confidence. That's just typical. He is convincing enough to make me keep still and perfectly upright until he announces that he's finished. His minions approach me and lift me from the table, placing me in front of the mirrors again so I can see the final completed transformation for the first time.
In a way the person I see in the mirror looks like me and in a way she doesn't. The metallic grey dress shines in the artificial light of the tiny room and it clings to my body with not an inch of fabric to spare from my neck down to my ankles. My first thought is that it's too tight, and I feel vaguely uncomfortable as I remember the suggestive comments shouted to me by the young men of the Capitol when I arrived at the gates of the Remake Centre this morning. That was when I was wearing my own simple tunic, so it's bound to be much worse if they're going to parade me through the streets looking like this.
I narrow my eyes as I continue to scrutinise my reflection, finding that the small part of me that isn't preoccupied with feeling intense rage at being degraded in such a blatant manner feels pleased with what I see for probably the first time ever. I grudgingly admit that it's mostly due to Ambrosius' styling that I feel that way. I don't think I've ever looked in proportion before but I do now. Still, whatever I look like, I can say with absolute certainty that it wasn't worth what I have been through. I shiver at the memory of the past few hours and stare straight ahead of me, determined to remain emotionless, on the outside at least.
Then Ambrosius appears in the mirror behind me.
"It's time. The Capitol is waiting."