Blight:

Staring out my window, I get a stunning view of the Capitol laid out before me. The massive towers glint in the morning sun, as brightly as the snow on the mountains that surround us. I've never seen mountains before, and to see the city with buildings several times taller than the trees at home nestled in the natural valley is enough to take my breath away. Gold and silver domes are cradled between the towers. The streets are wide and crowded with the masses of people who seemingly have nothing better to do than shop and gossip and gawk at the passing tributes as they did when Charlie and I were driven to the Remake Center. It's a truly spectacular sight. Not to mention intimidating. Even more so because I am naked.

We arrived at the Capitol Central Train Station early this morning and were immediately whisked away in a fancy black car. After telling us that they would see us that evening, our mentors reminded us not to object to anything our stylists were about to make us do. They then left us in the questionable hands of Tutti Marble and went to attend business elsewhere. Vera is obviously off to try to drum up sponsors for Charlie, but since Eamon has no such intentions, I can't think what else could occupy his time. Somehow I suspect it involves women and alcohol.

I could tell Charlie had been crying again, but I didn't want to say anything with Tutti there. No doubt it would just lead to another row. Besides, what good is comfort anyway? In less than a week, it's likely that one or both of us will be dead. I find myself hoping for her sake that Charlie dies in the initial bloodbath. Quick and relatively painless for both her and her family.

These dark thoughts continue as we find ourselves inside the Remake Center, where our personal stylists will dress us up in some sort of ridiculous costume for the Opening Ceremonies tonight. Charlie and I are separated at the seventh floor and I am left in an open room with stark white walls and plush blue carpet. I have barely sat down on one of the soft leather chairs provided when a burst of noise and color and movement send me flying to my feet.

I'm pretty sure that I compared Tutti to a vegetable sprout and a swine in one breath. But compared to these three, she looks almost normal. Almost. Except for the bazumkas, which are still large enough to serve drinks on.

The first figure sees me and throws her hands out in greeting. "There you ah' baby! Honey we ah' make you so FINE!"

She resembles some sort of gilded golden statue, right down to the altered irises of her eyes. She's followed by two identical young men with jolly, good natured faces. One is completely done up in red and purple, the other in blue and purple. They all rush up to me, kiss my cheeks, pinch my ears, shake my hands and tell my how happy, no, how honored they are to be working with me. It takes a few moments for me to figure out that these three are my prep team, and a few moments longer to realize that they are all completely mad.

Poppaea, the girl, gives me a running commentary on the Games this year, the styles, the parties and all the excitement among the Capitol people as she strips my clothes off before I can offer any objection. The twins, Romulus and Remus, seem to exist to agree with everything that Poppaea says and also to start rubbing oils in incredibly intrusive places. It's not until Remus begins applying strips of wax to my chest that I finally find my voice.

"Hey! Hey! Blueberry! What in the gods' names are those for?"

Remus gives me a patronizing look. "Well, no one is going to want to sponsor you with all that unsightly hair! It's entirely off putting!"

My chest hair just started growing in a couple of years ago. I still don't have very much, but each strand is carefully counted and maintained, a precious jewel and testament to my manliness. And now they want to-"

RIP! GAH!

Poppaea taps my cheek - hard. "Doncha worry baby! We ah' make you so FINE!"

I don't feel fine. I feel degraded. These Capitol freaks have stripped me of my hair and my dignity.

Romulus must notice the look on my face because he puts a hand on my shoulder. "You have to trust us," he says. "We've been doing this for a while, and you can't be expected to know the current mood of the Capitol when it comes to fashion and appearance. It may seem ridiculous but it's going to help you."

"Honey, when we all done with you, you gonna be so-"

"Fine, yes I get it." I grit my teeth. "Just get on with it."

And so they do, for the entire morning and into the afternoon. Not only my chest, but my arms, armpits and the back of my neck is stripped painfully of hair. My beard is only the barest layer of stubble but Remus shaves that off too, using an incredibly sharp razor in his surprisingly gentle hands. Poppaea works on my nails on hands and feet, blathering away about how this or that person tried to copy her style when gold was particularly her look this season. About noon my stomach starts rumbling and Romulus disappears and returns with a tray filled with small colorful delicacies I have never seen before. Since I can't feed myself while the other two are rubbing more oils into my skin, he feeds one to me once in a while when his hands are free. They are strange and tart and utterly foreign. Romulus calls them sushi.

"I hear your costume this year is going to be just spectacular," says Remus. "Redwood! Aren't you excited!"

For the past twenty years, an irritable looking woman with feathers tattooed onto her skin has been the stylist for District 7, and every year the tributes are dressed up as some sort of tree. This has mixed results. They year that they resembled cherry trees with delicate blossoms trailing in their wakes was truly stunning. The year that the tributes wore togas of pine needles that made them look like half-dressed savages...not so much.

I'm suddenly irritated by the fact that these three are treating me like their own personal dress-up doll. I decide to break the mood a little. "So," I ask in a casual tone. "When was the last time you three worked on a tribute who didn't end up gutted through the heart?"

The temperature in the room drops considerably, or so it seems. My prep team looks aghast. Are they ashamed of the fact that they're primping kids up for slaughter?

"We...we never have had a winning tribute," confesses Remus. "And we're running out of time. Prep teams who don't have a winner after a certain amount of years get regulated to less desirable positions."

"So honey you ah' make sure you win this baby doll, okay!"

Yes Poppaea, I will put forth an effort to survive in an arena filled with twenty-three kids trying to kill me solely for your benefit.

Romulus checks the clock on the wall. "Almost three! Messalina should be here any minute now!"

As if on cue, the door bursts open and a large figure bustles through.

"Messa! About time! We thought you had...that you...you..." Romulus's voice trails off into nothingness. He's staring at the new arrival with something thing bordering fear and reverence. I feel Poppaea and Remus suddenly step away from me, and their heads are bowed, their chatter replaced by silence. I have no idea what brought this sudden mood and they won't meet my eyes, so I focus on the large woman who is now gliding across the rooms towards us.

She is just as bizarrely colored as my prep team, with flowing silver robes and hair and jeweled birds inlaid across her collar bone. She holds an overlarge silver fan that she twitches in her direction occasionally. But she carries herself different, like a person who is used to being noticed and obeyed by all merely by her presence. It's sure shut up my prep team, which after only knowing them for a few hours still says a lot. She stops before me and takes in every inch of my oiled, exposed body with her regal gaze. I have the sudden desire to frolic merrily into the arena rather than stand here facing this unknown woman's judgment.

"Madame Lucia!" Romulus finds his voice at last. "This is an honor, I mean, a real privilege, but what, what are you-"

"Madame Lucia has come to prepare her tribute!" the woman declares. "Madame Lucia sincerely hopes that her prep team has done an adequate job, although judging by what they're wearing themselves, she finds that to be dreadfully unlikely."

"Your...your tribute?" Romulus chokes out. "But Madame Lucia, you...you never..."

I recognize this woman now. Lucia, one of the oldest and most established stylists of the Games. She has been working with tributes for years and her subjects never fail to impress by the Capitol's twisted standards. Her list of victorious tributes is impressive. Brutus. Cora. Lyme. Nolan. Jade. As a result, she only ever works for one of the Career districts. Ever. What she is doing standing in front of me as I lose my last shreds of dignity is beyond me.

"Madame Lucia has decided that she will be styling the male tribute from District 7 this year. And as Madame Lucia gets what she desires, Messalina has been reassigned to District 10, or 3, or somesuch backwater. Now shoo! All three of you! Madame clearly has her work cut out for her thanks to your incompetence!"

My prep team ducks their heads and scamper. I catch Romulus giving me one pitying look before he too is gone. I look back to find Madame Lucia uncomfortably close. I want to take a step back but I get the feeling that this will just irritate her and that I do not want to be on this woman's ugly side.

"Too short," she says. "But well built. Nothing like those District 2 monstrosities of course but reasonably well put together. Look up for me, child. Classical features. Sharp cheeks and chin. Almost carved. Ridiculous haircut. Lovely eyes. Awful eyebrows. Romulus will be talked to about that. Smile for Madame Lucia, child."

I try to give her a grin that I'm sure is more like a grimace. She sighs. "Your face softens when you smile. Make sure you never let it drop on the chariot. You'll attract sponsors. You'll do, Lucia thinks. Yes, you'll do nicely."

"Does mean I'm not going to be a tree?" I ask.

She snaps her fan shut. "Quiet, child! Tributes should not speak when they are being worked upon. Not until their interviews at least."

Well, that's one notion I'm going to have to dissuade her of quickly. "You've been talking with Tutti, haven't you?"

"Tutti Marble? That little tramp?" I suppress a grin as she raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Madame Lucia went to Styling University with her mother. Woman never could keep her mouth shut around her betters."

"Tutti learned from the best then."

"I see," she says. A subtle shift occurs, and it seems like my stylist no longer views me with dispassion. "Well, Mr. Gavin, to answer your question, no, you will not be dressed as a tree this year. Madame Lucia was inspired when she saw the clip of your reaping. Many fantastic and novel designs instantly formed in her brilliant mind and she knew that she simply had to be your stylist this year. The stylist for your district partner was persuaded to change his concept to match Madame Lucia's. I trust you realize how fitting your costume is going to be, my child?"

"I'm sorry," I say, "But Blight Gavin really has no idea what Madame Lucia is talking about."

Madame Lucia claps her hands twice and a pale man in white hurries in, carrying several large packages wrapped in soft cloth. Madame Lucia reaches for the smallest one and unfolds it.

"You, Mr. Gavin, will be the living incarnation of those chants of support you received at the Reaping. She holds up two fleshy, pointed ears. "You are going to become a tree-elf."

I hate this place.

"""""""""

In what seems to be no time at all, I'm dressed in my costume for the Opening Ceremonies. The boots are soft black leather that come up past my ankles. The tight grey pants are tucked into the boots and belted with a long cord. I'm shirtless, and Lucia has fitted the prosthetic ears over my own and fixed them on with some sort of adhesive. At least I can still hear. I view the ensemble in the mirror. It's not horrible. Definitely better than being dressed up like a fir tree. But I have to admit, it's rather plain for the Opening Ceremonies, and for a woman of Madame Lucia's reputation it seems downright anti-climactic.

I've barely gotten a good look at myself, however, when Lucia claps her hands. Romulus, Remus and Poppaea hurry in, all carrying pots and brushes. They make little bows and curtsies when they reach us. I want to tell them that they really don't need to insist on such formalities for little old me, but Lucia speaks first.

"Well! You've seen the designs! To work, you three!"

My prep team immediately begins painting my body with some sort of foul substance that smells of chemicals. I have to remain perfectly still, and can't tell what on earth they are doing to my chest, my back, even my neck and face. After an hour or so of this I'm tired and sore and at the end of my patience when all three step back and let Lucia inspect their work, which she does for a long time.

"Well enough," she announces and I can hear the others sigh with relief. "Take a look at yourself, Mr. Gavin."

I face the mirror and see that the prep team has painted my upper body with a series of arcane symbols that twist and weave around my chest and arms, up my neck, curving around my cheeks and over my eyes. They are the same dull shade of grey that my trousers are.

"The lights, please, Romulus," says Lucia.

The room goes dark, but the symbols do not. Instead, they begin to glow and shimmer with light. First it's blue, then green, then purples, and the weaving mixes of colors seem to imitate the dancing sunlight on a forest floor as the stunning symbols blaze against my skin. I realize that the fabric of my pants is doing the same, as bright leaves and branches appear and fade, appear and fade. As I stare at myself in the mirror, Remus and Romulus fix heavy silver armbands to my upper arms and wrists, and Poppaea places a delicate crown of silver leaves upon my head. I look like some sort of forest god, filled with laughter and power and rage. I realize now why Madame Lucia is so renowned even in the districts.

"What...what is it?" I ask.

"The paint contains millions of microscopic light-reflecting beads, invented in District 3" says Lucia. "When it's woven into cloth it's called 'shimmersilk.' Only politicians and the very wealthy can afford to wear it. As well as promising tributes."

I don't know why but a strange feeling wells in me. That Madame Lucia wouldn't go through all this trouble and effort if she didn't believe that I had a chance. She has made me look more than handsome. I look exceptional. I realize suddenly that Jason will be watching the Ceremonies tonight, and I wonder what he'll think. The thought of Jason is suddenly immensely painful and Poppaea mercifully takes my mind off him when she slaps me on the behind.

"You ah' have sponsors lining up! You be showing off those assets, baby boy!"

Madame Lucia turns to the prep team member who would dare touch her tribute and her costume for any other reason than officially sanctioned prep and Poppaea dashes from the room.

""""""""""

Lucia escorts me down to the lowest level of the Remake Center where the chariots are waiting for us. I make my way to the District 7 chariot, trying to ignore the glances of the other tributes who are huddled nervously at their stations. To my relief, Charlie is waiting for me by the horses. She looks incredible. Her shimmering dress is of the same design as my pants and the same glowing symbols decorate her bare arms and face. She wears pointed ears and gold jewelry in contrast to my silver. In addition, large gossamer wings like those of a dragonfly are fixed to her back, giving her the appearance of a beautiful wood sprite.

"Hey you," she says as I approach. "You look mighty handsome tonight."

I take her hand and kiss it gallantly. "Thank my stylist. Or rather, thank Connell and Abel. They gave her the idea."

She looks politely confused, and over her shoulder I see another tribute eying her with distaste. I think it's the girl from 1, judging by her blonde hair and the sapphires gleaming from her long dress. The District 1 girls are always beautiful, the Careers are selected for looks as well as weapons skills. But where her beauty is crafted and artificial, Charlie's is natural and genuine. I hope Vera has a good strategy for my district partner because she's already making enemies.

A soft whinny distracts me and I turn to the nearest of the four horses leading our chariot. "Oh, you beauty," I whisper as I glide my hand over his back. "You pretty thing." The stallion nuzzles me and I blow into his nostrils so he gets my scent. Suddenly a trumpet sounds and the massive doors open.

"Blight, c'mon!" Charlie calls. "It's starting!" I reluctantly tear myself away from the horses and leap over the side of the chariot, landing beside her. She looks startled, and then laughs as the horses move of their own accord without any command, leading us out into the city.

We are greeted by screaming crowds on all sides. Remembering what Lucia said, I fix a smile on my face and wave greetings to the adoring throng. Shouts and cries come our way, our names are shouted and flowers litter the street before us. Looking at the massive screens lining the avenue, I can see that Charlie and I are an enormous hit with our glowing skin and clothes. The symbols are even more dramatic in the open night of the parade. I see flashes of some of the other tributes: gems from 1, merman and mermaid from 4, bright cloth from the textile district 8, an abundance of fruit and berries for 11. Some are well done, other's less so, but Charlie and I are the talk of the evening, easily gaining the loudest cheers and most screen time. The only way Lucia could have gotten us more attention would have been if she had set us on fire. Which of course would be ridiculous.

I see a large group of screaming girls around my age all pressing forward, hands outreached to me. I give them a wave and a wink and they collapse in spasms of delight. The boys with them look at me with annoyance, and one of them reaches into his coat. I have hardly even registered what he is doing before he has tossed a firecracker in front of our chariot that explodes with a large bang.

The crowd gasps as the horses shriek and rear. The one nearest to me breaks from the harness and starts cantering madly around. The parade stops, the crowd is shouting, and a Peacekeeper runs into the avenue, gun armed and aiming. I don't know what goes through my head, only that with so many of us bound to die, I couldn't watch the end of this beautiful animal. When the stallion trots by the side of the chariot, I have leaped onto the edge, hurled myself into the air, and landed on its back.

The crowd dies away, the parade likewise. It's just me and the horse, like back home. He rears at the sudden weight, but I stay on easily, whispering and stroking his neck. The horse recognizes my voice, my scent. I feel him trembling, and he runs. I let him, knowing that he needs to get the fear and agitation out, but also knowing that I can guide him. Sure enough, the slightest pressure of my knees directs the horse down the avenue, past the chariots from 10 and 11. We turn around and I see that the big male tribute from 10 is watching me with an intrigued look. But then I am back at the chariot, trotting next to Charlie. She looks at me with awestruck eyes.

The volume is turned up again and I realize that the crowd is screaming my name. I never intended to put on a show for them, but I have done just that. Well, there's no way to take it back, and I have no way to re-harness my mount to the chariot, so I continue to ride along until we reach the City Circle.

Once the last chariot arrives, we face the City Center and President Snow arrives with his entourage. He steps up and begins the immensely long, terribly repetitive speech that he gives every year. Between insuring that my mount is under control and scanning the crowds that face us, I don't hear a word of it.

The people behind Snow are a study in the Capitol's finest excesses. Prominent are favored wives and concubines in the President's harem. Many are beautiful, but others are so altered that it's grotesque. A cat-woman here, a colored bird there. A woman with white skin and hair in flaming orange robes. Another with purple skin and shaved head sporting tiny horns. Another in jeweled red and saffron, standing near the back watching the tributes with intense interest. It almost seems like she's staring at me. Desperately. Hungrily.

I know that face, even from that distance. I know those eyes, even after many years. The lips that sang me to sleep are the same, even if the clothes are rich. The hands that now grip the side of the balcony are white and bloodless but as strong as when they would rock me to sleep.

No one hears the word that drops from my lips. It's meant for only me and the woman I can't tear my eyes from.

"Mom."