I am a complete idiot.

There is no way I could possibly be falling for Clove. She's only my ally, practically my enemy!

I reach my room and punch the nearest wall, which automatically seals back up. Frustrated even more, I punch the wall again. The door opens, and an Avox appears with a large punching bag.

"Get out of here!" I snap. He nods and leaves the bag at the door.

A table suddenly pops out of the floor, holding little packets containing items I recognize immediately. Disinfectant wipes, ointment, and an assortment of bandages, and its only then I realize my knuckles are profusely bleeding.

I have to control my temper.

I blink.

And my mouth.

The room suddenly feels like a prison more than anything, but then I remind myself that I volunteered for the Games; I came into this to win. But that was before Clove…

No! Don't think like that Cato! Don't let a pair of pretty eyes take you out of the game. You are here to kill, to win! You're supposed to learn the girl's weaknesses not her life story!

I curse—multiple times, and kick off my pants, rip off my shirt, and crawl into bed which I know is useless, because I'm not the least bit tired. The pitch black room makes me feel blind. It's ironic, since my eyesight is great, but somehow I have failed to see all the consequences of volunteering for the Games. How can I possibly think I wouldn't get to know at least one tribute, much less my fellow district tribute?

The morning comes slowly and we apparently have reached the Capitol. Today is the day we meet our stylists and the team. Clove emerges from her room, at first looking well rested until I see she is still in her nightgown and appears to be half-dead with circles under her eyes, and serious bed head. Somehow, she looks younger when her hair doesn't fall into the interesting style that I have only seen a few girls wear. What do they call them? Layers? Apparently it was a huge thing back when Panem was called North America.

"Sleep well?" I say sarcastically, but then I feel bad because I am probably the cause of her lack of sleep.

"Drop for—the dead—in," she mumbles, and then I know she really did not rest at all. I make a bold move and place my hand on her back and guide her to the breakfast room. She must be really tired because she doesn't seem to notice.

"I trust you both slept well," says Orvo in his annoying accent, with a hint of a lisp. "Meet your styling team."

There is a small lady with dark skin—no dark sounds too light because her skin is dyed literally black, which makes her silver, spiky hair stand out even more. There is also a tall man with purple hair, skin, lips, and eyes, though it doesn't look attractive at all. The only one with purple eyes that can pull it off is Clove and— shut up Cato, you're doing it again.

Our main stylist is medium sized with long aqua hair and peach colored skin. She appears to be styling some sort of sea creature as a jacket. I suspect a former District 4 stylist.

"Now this is smashing," she says, approaching us. "I do believe this district has given me something to work with."

She lifts up my arm and feels my muscles, which is indeed flattering, but also equally creepy.

"I'm going to have fun with you." She smiles, her teeth freakishly white.

Cato looks a bit freaked out by our stylist's instant curiosity. Unfortunately, I get the other two.

"Your skin is so fair," says the silver haired woman, who stands at about four feet. The purple—everything man however, towers over me by at least two feet.

"My my, look at your eyes," he says. He then sticks his finger in his eye and pulls out an eye contact. I've seen them before in my district; they are usually prescribed for those with seeing problems, but I've never seen them colored, because when he takes his off, it reveals a very grey eye.

"Show me yours," he says "I want to compare them."

"I don't…" How do I respond to that? "I don't have any contacts. This is my natural eye color."

He suddenly grows despondent and frowns.

"Well, aren't we special," he snaps, and walks over to the food table. The woman leans in and pats my shoulder as she says, "Carnel is always jealous. Don't take it personally. I'm Flaga, and mermaid-girl over there is Ursula. She used to be Finnick Odair's stylist and she's been that way ever since. She takes pride in her work, that's for sure. Anyway, Ursula will be Cato's stylist and Carnel and I will work together on you."

I raise an eyebrow and ask why I get two.

"Carnel and I work as a team," she says. "I design the outfits, and Carnel brings it to life. We are the only duo in the entire Games because the Game makers were so impressed with Our previous tributes, even if they did not win." Her voice dropped for a moment.

I am so weirded out right now. These—beings look so strange, they hardly seem human. And Carnel; he just seems like he has too much—what was it? We learned it in school…

Estrogen! That's it. Carnel seems like he has an extra dose of estrogen. Same goes for Orvo while I'm at it.

"Alrighty then!" says Ursula. "This year we're going to kick it up a bit and go a bit outside of the limits."

I pray so hard that we don't end up naked like one of those years where that was the fate of the poor District 12 pair. Completely bare with coal dust layered on every inch of their body. The only other thing they had on was miner hats.

"Since we're dealing with the medical field, why don't we focus on what medicine can bring."

"Health?" says Cato. Ursula shakes her head and I say, "Life."

"Correct, but in some circumstances," she continues, "What else does it bring?"

This keeps me guessing. What else could medicine bring?"

"Death." I turn to se Cato's face stone cold expression.

"C-correct," she stammers. "Life, and sometimes death. So, one of you is going to represent life, and the other death."

"How?" asks Cato.

"Well we've already got 'death' decided," says Carnel in between bites of his food. "Either of you heard of the Grim Reaper?"

We both nod.

"That's you." He points his fork at Cato. "We have yet to figure yours, Clove."

As if death isn't represented enough in these Games. I glare at Purple who continues to stuff himself. Clove seems confused.

"Why do you not have me yet?" she demands. "I thought you were supposed to know this beforehand!"

Flaga steps forward and says, "Life is hard to determine, Clove. We've tried many ideas but none of them feel right, or meet the qualifications of the Games. We're going to look into some ancient illustrations of life."

Clove nods, finally looking aware and goes over to the food table proceeded by me and the other two stylists.

"So your uncle is your male mentor? That could get you some sponsors," says Ursula. She reminds me of a model for some Capitol hair-dye

Later, we are taken into the design room, and I try on my outfit while Flaga and Clove look for her costume inspiration.

"Stand up straight," says one of Ursula's assistants, Goral. I straighten my back so she and Ursula can strap the ripped up bat-like wings to my shoulder blades. They hand me my reaper which looks more like a medical instrument, which makes sense. The sleeves are cut off at my shoulders and they oiled my arms to show off my muscles and the pants are very baggy and collect tightly at my ankles.

"Very sexy," says Orvo, entering the room. "I just felt a chill looking at you."

I must be blushing through my makeup because Clove is trying very hard not to laugh and then suddenly lets out a loud snort which gets the whole room cracking up.

I hate my laugh. I sound like a pig from District 10.

"Don't laugh," I say quietly. They apologize, still smiling, and Flaga and I return to our research. I suddenly remember something we could use.

"An angel!" I cry out, probably a bit too loudly. Carnel is the only one who seems to know what I mean.

"What?" Ursula cocks her head a bit. "What is an angel?"

"Flaga, do we have a Bible anywhere?"

The tiny woman fishes through all of our books, throwing the Koran, the book of Morman, and a monkey book by some guy named Darwin. Finally, she pulls out a huge leather bound King James Version, conveniently complete with pictures. I flip through the large pages and recite a verse regarding an angel known as the seraphim.

"Three sets of wings?" says Carnel, obviously rusty on the Biblical scripture. I don't blame him though. Barely anyone has a copy anymore. I am one of the few who do back home. It has to be my favorite book.

"Why three?" asks Flaga, peering over my shoulder looking for something in the pages.

"One pair that covers their face, a pair that cover their legs and feet, and the last pair for flying," I explain, beaming because this is the first time I can share my knowledge of this book and not receive looks of confusion or distaste. Everyone begins to understand. Flaga exclaims, "Oh!" and lunges for her sketch book. She begins to draw, keeping the paper facing only her, so no one can see it.

"She gets like this," Ursula says, rolling her eyes, "when she gets a 'brilliant idea'."

Flaga mumbles a few things to herself; her eyes scan the paper wildly as she continues to draw. It is awkwardly quite as we all watch her in her "zone". About ten minutes pass by and she swipes her signature on the drawing and then flips it over to show us. Cato and I gasp in awe, but obviously everyone else has seen this kind of stuff before.

The wings are long and feathery, but slender and feminine, the ones that look like they are meant for flying at least. The set of "wings" that should cover my legs are actually part of a long feathery skirt to a dress. At the top of my head is suspended a nurse hat that is redesigned to look like a halo. The third pair of wings, which should cover my face, appears to be unfolding, revealing in the model's arms, a baby.

"I have to say, Flaga," says Carnel. "You have outdone yourself this time. Babies? A sure sign of life. And where are babies born? Well—mostly hospitals. Medical? It's perfect!"

Flaga blushes. I guess she is always shy about her work. She looks down and says, "I think we should have a real baby to add to the effect of life. As long as it doesn't cry so much."

Orvo goes, "Hmmm," for a moment, and then escapes the room, mumbling something about a quick call. Cato glances at me and I look to the ground. I don't really want to talk to him right now.

I'm not quite ready after last night.

Author's Note: I am very proud of my idea with "thinking outside the limits" like Ursula said. Hey I can make it work! Please please please review and tell me what you think!

PS! I now have a drawing of what Clove's costume will look like. Go here to see it: .com/art/Clove-s-Costume-Life-161038595