Chapter 10

I clench my hands down hard on the side of the bench as icy cold water blasts at me, washing off a vile concoction of ginger, horseradish and something that has the same tangy smell as pineapple. The jet stops, leaving me gasping for oxygen, while goose bumps erupt all over my body. "All done now," squeaks a small man, named Frivolous, who has vivid green stripes tattooed vertically across his face. He blinks his wide, violet coloured eyes (colour changing-pigment implant, I suppose) and opens his mouth again to reveal a wide, vibrant purple tongue. "All that's left is the waxing!"

He hands me my thin robe that I've been enabled to wear between stations, and ushers me to another bench. Here waits a tall, willowy woman. She would be quite beautiful if she didn't have those crimson talons and that afro of magenta hair. "All right," she sighs, her eyes sweeping over my arms and legs. "I can see this is going to be quite a challenge." Says her with her stupid ideas of what's "hot and what's not!" And look at her! She's got fingernails the half the size of her body! I open my mouth to complain, but remember Brutus's warning just in time. They are experts, after all, no matter how freakish they look. Eyeing this strange woman who introduces herself as Priam, I slide slowly onto the cold bench, shivering as my skin touches the smooth surface. Immediately, she gets to work, and within minutes, my left leg has been completely ridded of hair.

I've only been at the Remake Centre for the short space of an hour, and already my prep team has wasted no time in getting me to look "at least half decent," as Frivolous so blandly put it. And I have yet to meet my stylist. Apparently, he or she has no interest in dealing with me until some of the more obvious problems have been dealt with. So far, that has included of being scrubbed down in numerous concoctions, some so thick they had to be scraped off with a bristled brush, leaving me scratched and sore, rounding my nails into perfect uniform shapes and now, ridding my entire body of hair.

The last of my bodily hair has just been painfully ripped out when the third member of my prep team appears. "You're doing very well," he announces, angling his head so that his pale yellow hair falls in his face. He smacks his lips, and I notice the top lip is coated in yellow lipstick like his hair, but the bottom is orange. He applies a coat of something clear from a tube, which I think is meant to stop the colours merging.

There's a roaring trade for those tubes at the moment, according to Priam.

The two-toned lipstick man walks over and introduces himself as Caracalla. "Yes, very well indeed," he continues, seemingly oblivious to my nakedness. I should be embarrassed, I know, but these people are so unlike human beings that I'm not fazed in the slightest. "The pair last year screamed so much. It nearly deafened me! Isn't that right?" Priam and Frivolous nod in agreement. "Grease her down!"

As Frivolous and Priam rub me down with an oily lotion, I am filled with a surge of disgust. The pair last year were barely 12. Needless to say, they were killed in the bloodbath. I'm made of stronger stuff, having been to training as far back as I can remember, just about, but even I find the waxing painful. Plus the scary looking people touching you and pushing you around- no wonder they were screaming! But looking at the people now inspecting me for any stray hairs, it seems inadequate to hate them. No. It's Snow I hate, for doing this to us.

For giving twelve-year olds a reason to scream.

I am jolted back to the present by Caracalla clapping his hands. "You're so beautiful! Time to let Floruerunt in!"

A man or a woman? What sort of a name is Floruerunt anyway? But in the Capitol, absurd names aren't the weirdest things. My prep team runs out of the room. As much as I know that these people are prettying me up so I can fight until the death, I can't help but pity them, in a way. It's hard to imagine that they know the full extent of the games, just like so many others. Do they know the impact the Games have on us all? I have no idea.

The door opens, and a young woman walks in. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest: this Floruerunt will surely make me move, anyway.

As she inspects me, I take in her appearance. A shock of purple hair with streaks of aqua in it frames her face. I wonder briefly if it's a wig, but banish the thought almost straight away. It looks so natural on her, it's hard to imagine that it could be a fake. She's wearing a deep purple sleeveless top, and a pair of red pants. Despite the odd colours, the outfit just… works. I can see now why she's a stylist.

She straightens up, and I find her to be a least a head taller than I originally thought. I look down, expecting to see towering heels, but she's only wearing boots with a tiny heel. This height is natural.

She hands me my robe, and I shrug it on. "Hello, Clove. My name is Floruerunt. I am your stylist."

I don't say anything as she leads me back to a sort of sitting room. There are two red couches that face each other, a table in between them. A coffee table, I think it's called. Three out of four walls are blank, a stark white, but the fourth is entirely glass, allowing the setting sun to filter through. I sit so I can watch the beautiful city. Floruerunt sits across from me and is silent for a moment. I can sense her watching me. Slowly, I tear my eyes away from the sight that lies just outside the window, and rest them upon her face. Her eyes look to be their natural shade of brown, and look kind. "Hello," I say quietly.

"Now. The costumes in the parade are designed to reflect the flavour from each district."

"Yeah, so in 2 it's-"

"Masonry."

"Exactly. So Teman, your fellow tribute's stylist, and I, have decided to dress you in beautiful costumes of… intricate gold metal."

I let out a deep breath. Being dressed in metal is pretty standard but at least we're not naked like a pair from District 12 one year. Ha! District 12! That should be a laugh! Wonder if they'll be naked and covered in coal dust, or in baggy miner's outfits? I lean back slightly in my chair as Floruerunt carries on.

"But that's not all. As you will be Career tributes, your golden costumes will be that of an ancient being called a Roman Gladiator. They were expert fighters and used to fight in an arena for a competition, too."

This will be good, I think. Roman Gladiators. That's exactly what Cato and I are. But Floruerunt was wrong about one thing. This isn't just a competition.

It is much, much more than that.

A few hours later, I am being suited up in a simple but glamorous costume that consists of a golden breastplate, a tunic made of gold-painted leather, and a headpiece, also gold, with wings on either side. I wish they would actually work, so I could fly up, up and away from this whole nightmare.

My face is relatively clear of make-up, just some gold lipstick and eyeliner outlining my features. For, as Floruerunt explained, I need to be completely recognisable to the audience.

Just then, Cato approaches me. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Cato will make everything better, Cato can calm me down…

"Hey," I mutter as he sidles up to me. "Ready to make your grand debut?"

His eyes train on my face, and he doesn't answer right away. He looks nervous, but underneath all that is a kind of hunger, that squeezes my heart painfully and makes it hard to breathe. "Yeah," he murmurs, eyes still locked on mine. It's like we're in a staring match, neither one of us able to look away. His eyes seem to hypnotise me, their clear, cool blue colour turning my blood to ice and making me shiver. Then, ever so slowly, without really thinking, only wanting to comfort, I reach out and take his hand. I hear his intake of breath and feel his hand jerk a little in response to his surprise, but I don't, I can't, let go until Floruerunt spots us and comes over, her mouth beaming but her eyes looking sour. We jump apart, but she seems so preoccupied, she barely even notices. I can't help thinking that that little "talk" with Cato has done anything but calm me down.

"Just been to talk to the other stylists," she says, muttering feverishly. "And you're a clear winner except for… DARN it! Drat that Cinna and his fancy ideas-"

"Excuse me?" Cato questions, looking at her bemusedly. My heart however, is beginning to pound. What does she mean that we're a clear winner "except for"?

But she's ignored him. "Just try to win the crowd over. Smile- no, wait, don't smile, no- look menacing, you're careers, but make sure to still look favourably upon the crowd, yes, yes…"

I have no idea what she means- look menacing, but win the crowd over by looking upon them favourably? And one glance at Cato's face tells me he's just as lost as I am. But there's no time to dawdle- we are already being ushered towards the stables where our chariot awaits. But I'm beginning to have a bad feeling about this… If our stylist is so confused, how are we supposed to know what to do?

Our chariot is waiting. There is only time enough to clamber onto the chariot, look back to see Floruerunt wringing her hands and Teman patting her shoulder, and then look forward to see District 1 already halfway down the walkway, dressed in dazzling bejewelled costumes, before our steely grey horses are pulling us along. They are so well trained they know when to go without being told. As soon as our chariot leaves the shelter of the stables, the roar of the crowd fills my ears. I raise my head and look stonily ahead, before remembering, and smiling and waving. I am a wreck of stony and cheerful and am sure that somewhere Floruerunt must be burying her head in her hands, until Cato nudges me subtly and stares leeringly at the crowd while waving his hand like the President might. Good enough. I have just begun to copy him when an uproarious cheering comes from the stands. I must be good, I think, surprised. But then, I realise the crowd is chanting one word, over and over. When I hear what they're saying, I almost fall out of the chariot. The one word vibrates around in my skull, bouncing around like a ping pong ball. Katniss, Katniss, Katniss! Hardly daring to look, I slowly turn around. I let out a gasp, mingled with shock and horror.

All I can see is fire.

You have got to be kidding me! This must have been what Floruerunt meant when she said we were clear winners except for… except for District 12, it seems!

This completely ruins our current approach! Compare to 12's stunning flames, we are nothing! Completely forgettable! We'll be lucky to get at least one sponsor now! Grinding my teeth in frustration, clenching my hands at my side, I turn to Cato, to find he looks livid. Not just angry- terrifyingly mad. His face is deathly pale but his eyes betray his real emotions. Hate, mistrust and deepest loathing. I turn back to face thee front of the chariot. No matter. So District 12 have outshone us. Literally. But I have a feeling that they won't last long in the arena at all.

Not if District 2 has anything to do with it.

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