A/N: Color of Foxface's eyes taken from the movies. (It's amber in the book)
"What're you smiling at?" A chirpy voice rouses me from my thoughts.
A flamboyantly-dressed woman appears from behind me but she doesn't look in my eyes, continuing to meticulously inspect the work her prep-team has done on me. It feels odd; standing stark naked and propped up on a pedestal while she is so close I can feel her breath cascade over my skin. But the air in the room is just the right shade of warmth, so I keep my hands to my side and continue allowing her to survey me.
"Home," I reply. I don't mean to be discourteous. But after listening to the prep team's unintelligible prattle, I'm unsure of her ability to comprehend anything more than a short answer.
She ceases her inspection and I gaze upon her eyes for the first time – deep blue and unwaveringly intense. Almost at once I'm transported back a million miles to this morning where I was sitting on the rooftop and gazing into the infinite depth of Gase's eyes. The sensation of being uncovered in front of someone almost familiar causes me to feel naked and ashamed; and I start to blush. She senses my shame and drapes a robe over me.
"Well, just do your best and you just might make it home, alright?"
It's obvious she's lying – I can tell from the way she breaks her eye-contact with me, the flick of her neon-purple hair and the sudden softness of her voice. It's not a deliberate lie; for sure, but more of a whitewashed one meant to elicit my compliance. Doesn't take a genius to know that District 5 loses every single year.
"You didn't really mean that, did you?" I reply. She looks into my eyes in surprise. This must be the first time a Tribute has ever challenged her.
"Look, I'm just trying to do my job. You have to look presentable for the…"
"For the Games? So I can die a pretty corpse?" My voice begins to quiver at the thought of my body lying on-screen: flawless skin, impeccable hair, made-up lips slightly ajar in a cold stare of death.
"Well, you have a Tribute parade…and an interview…and…" she starts stammering.
"And then a date with a wooden box?"
She chuckles, which I should find offensive at this point, but the realization dawns on me: Every person who has stood before her in this room ended up dead. She doesn't need to know about the inevitability of my impending death any more than I do.
"You have beautiful hair," she comments, running her hands through my now-soft and silky hair.
"Most girls at school just tease me about it."
"Well, you're the first red-haired girl I've worked with and I think red's my new favorite color already."
I smile, knowing deep down inside, she just wants to help. Even if it's just for a short while, even if I'm going to die anyway. Like the touch of Gase's lips to mine, there'll always be something to smile at before taking the long walk down Death's corridor.
"How many Tributes do you work on?" I ask.
"Just you,"
"What, Crys gets his own stylists?"
"Yes, every Tribute gets their own prep-team and stylists."
My mind begins to churn. 24 Tributes. That's nearly a hundred prep-people and stylists. Judging from the meticulous care with which they took to beautify every bit of my body – it would be safe to venture a guess that these people are professionals; probably only training and preparing to do this job all year. The amount of manpower and money thrown into such a trivial task is mind-boggling. Back home all the prep work I get involves tying my hair so it doesn't get caught in machinery.
"That's 96 fully-paid Stylists. It seems like a pretty extravagant expense just to make us look good."
"Well, it's the biggest television show in the Capitol. Wait till you see what else they spend money on. Caesar Flickerman gets more than twenty stylists all on his own," she chuckles.
"Do you have to study for very long to be a Stylist?"
"It's like a life-long competition with different categories: hair, makeup, beauty and wardrobe. Only the very best get to work for the Games,"
"So I'm looking at one of Panem's finest stylists right now?"
She giggles, but her shrill voice makes it sound more like the tweeting of a bird.
"You're a bit of a clever girl aren't you?" She says. "I've never had a Tribute who asked such deep questions"
"Well, I'm sorry. It's just that, since I'm going to die so soon, figured it wouldn't hurt to make a few friends on my way out."
She holds onto my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. Something I said must've tugged at her heart.
"You've some pretty mesmerizing eyes as well. What are they, Cerulean?"
"Turqoise," I say, repeating the name my mother taught me.
"Breath-taking," she replies, looking deep into me with her own deep blue eyes. A sudden warmth begins to envelop my face. I look away, not wanting her to know that her comments are making me blush. The comforting touch of her hands bring me back. As I gaze back into her captivating eyes, I can't help noticing behind the purple hair and shrill voice - just how much she reminds me of Gase.
"We'll see if we can get you some sponsors from that alone,"
Judging from the monstrosity of a Tribute Parade Costume sitting by the door,
I doubt it.