Probably since only a several days have passed since I was last worked-on, this session is blissfully straightforward. Some cleaning here, some hair work there, and of course a bit more work around my eyes; I doubt they will ever be able to remove the shadows. But otherwise, it's short and sweet.

Despite still being fairly nervous living in Thirteen, the prep team is currently in better spirits than they were during the last session I had with them. While Gale has unsurprisingly been unsympathetic to their plight, the rest of the Hawthornes have been very accommodating. Posy has gone so far as to offer compliments and allow them to do her hair every morning.

As they work on me, they talk about how good of a subject I've been, even though they still miss Katniss a lot. At the very least, I'm apparently being an easier person to work with than the "other guy".

Other guy?

Before I can ask who they're talking about, they declare the job finished. After all three wish me luck, they head out of the room and leave me with my clothes. It's just like seen in the sketches. Black pants, black combat boots, and a white t-shirt. When put together, it actually looks like I'm wearing a pair of dress pants and shoes, but at the same time the pants feel very durable and the boots lightweight. It's clear that Portia designed these to take a lot of abuse, yet still keep me comfortable and looking good for the audience. The shirt just seems like something to wear under the coat... which is actually not present.

My question as to its location is answered when I exit the room to see Beetee waiting for me with a long box. And an exceedingly wide grin on his face.

"You look really excited."

"Well, who knew that working on an article of clothing, of all things, would give me such a sense of accomplishment? Your stylist is such a genius."

He opens the box so I can see for myself. The first thing I notice is that the coat isn't solid black as I imagined from seeing the sketches. Instead, it consists of various shades of black and charcoal arranged in an assortment of patterns that would be indistinct from a distance past a couple feet but, on closer inspection, are elaborate and flame-like. Just as indistinct are a series of lines which crisscross the fabric. The only sign of color on the whole thing is a small golden mockingjay insignia on the collar. It's indeed a beautiful piece.

I finally pick the coat up to examine it better. On the back, I see that the lines are especially concentrated along my spine and shoulders, and the patterning takes the form of a pair of wings. "Thing's a lot heavier than I expected."

"That's because of this." Beetee peels back the soft interior lining to reveal a hexagonal mesh. There's something really familiar about it…

"It's body armor, isn't it?" Just like what Cato wore.

"Yes, and there's a reason, besides aesthetics, that your coat goes past the knees. It should protect you against most conventional arms fire as well as indirect blade attacks and, most importantly, flying shrapnel. There is some stopping power against high-caliber projectiles, though the trauma you would receive likely negate most of the benefits. And even small-arms fire will probably hurt like hell and cause serious bruising, so don't go around trying to get shot. I general, this is made more for comfort and mobility than for protection, though it should be more than sufficient for what you'll be doing. And if you so wish, there's enough room to fit a protective vest inside."

He puts the lining back in place. "The interior lining should also provide a significant amount of additional protection as it is made from spider silk—oh, don't look at me like that," Beetee snaps in response to my likely chagrined expression. "I suppose I shouldn't tell you what regular silk consists off. Or what a lot of things that you probably like have in them."

"Well," I say, trying not to think of all the times I've ran face-first into spider webs, "it is very comfortable."

"See? That's the spirit. Anyways," he flips the coat over so we can see the exterior, "the external fabric itself is made to withstand abrasion and bladed instruments. It's also both water-repellant and fire-resistant. Your pants are of a similar material, though they won't afford the same degree of physical protection. And of course this all won't protect you against convection or smoke inhalation, though there's a mask for the latter." He takes a moment to sigh, "It's a pity we don't have time, otherwise we could probably have done a live-fire demonstration to test out its capabilities."

No doubt while I'm wearing it.

I show him a pained smile. "Maybe when I get back." Not.

As I look over the coat again, suddenly the fact that it's August becomes a very uncomfortable fact. "It's still summer. Is it really a good idea to wear something this dark and heavy?"

"Already taken into account," Beetee chirps. "Take a look at the lining again."

When I do, I can see that there are another series of lines, mostly concentrated around my back and the nape of my neck.

He goes on to explain: "Those lines, whenever the temperature is above your comfort zone, will cool down to maintain the interior temp. In a cold setting, they do the opposite for the same effect."

"Damn… that's pretty sophisticated." By now, even I'm in awe.

"I know, right!" Beetee's positively elated explaining this. "When this is over — assuming we survive of course — I seriously have to meet your stylist."

"I'll be sure to tell her she has another fan out there," I say as I finally put the coat on — its heaviness isn't noticeable when being worn — and secure the belt that's around it.

Beetee uses that period of time to bring out another box. "Since you aren't exactly going to have a lot of pockets, the belt's there to hold your stuff."

He hands me various survival essentials: among other things, a canteen, several pouches to carry essentials, gas mask, and combat knife. "I know that you're supposed to look as personable and nonthreatening as possible, so all of those were designed to keep an exceedingly low profile. Also, there's a spot to secure your cane if need be; just break it in half to fit it into these loops.

"Aand that should be it!" He looks at me expectantly as if I were a student about to ask another question.

All I do is try to give him a hug, which he deftly avoids, and say, "Seriously, Beetee, thanks." Despite all his quirks, the guy does good work, and I don't think people give him enough credit.

"Aw, don't get gooey on me. Besides, it's your stylist who provided the plans and materials; I just oversaw the adaptation and implementation." He suddenly loses his cheery demeanor. "But seriously kid, stay safe out there. I've seen far too many young ones like you die in both the arenas and Three. It may not affect me as personally as some of the others, but that doesn't mean I don't give a damn."

I nod. "I understand, and don't worry; I have no intention of dying this time."

He gives a small smile. "I thought as much. Alright, we've dallied long enough. Any longer and Command will have my hide."

I gather my things and walk out of the Remake Center to see Commander Boggs patiently waiting for me. He nods approvingly at my costume before beckoning for me to follow him.

When our elevator finally arrives at the hangar, I see rows upon rows of aircraft and give him a very pointed look.

"I know what you're thinking, Mellark. That Everdeen may have a point about not trusting us. Well I'm telling you that we didn't have a choice." While we are in a very open space, he still keeps his voice down.

He goes on to explain that there was no opportunity for counterattack. That they were busy trying to survive. That continuing would have resulted in mutually-assured-destruction. It all sounds rehearsed.

"Just answer me this, Commander: were you around for the Dark Days?"

He shakes his head, then adds, "By the way, just call me Boggs."

"Alright, then just call me Peeta. In any case, you don't think it remotely suspicious that there's little history on Thirteen?"

When he doesn't say anything, I continue: "Because what little information I could find tended to be indirect mentioning. But I've got enough information to make this conclusion: even into much of the Dark Days, Thirteen had extremely favorable relations with the Capitol. Considering how quickly they withdrew when terms were offered, I doubt that altruism was a factor for rebelling."

Boggs doesn't say anything but from the expression on his face, I can tell he already harbors doubts. But considering I don't have enough info yet, I decide not to push the issue.

When we reach the hovercraft, I see that everybody else is already there and waiting for me. Other then several soldiers and work crew, I spot Haymitch, who's still looking at me pretty sourly, Chaff, the film crew, Plutarch, and Fulvia

If it wasn't possible before for a person to simultaneously hold an expression of both approval and distaste on their face, Fulvia achieved that now. I think she's still pretty steamed about me partly dictating the terms of my appearance during the interview and makeovers. That, by now, my weary complexion has become a constant doesn't help things one bit.

She sighs. "At the very least, the outfit is really sharp and compliments you well. And I don't doubt your oratorical skills. Still…" She reaches inside a huddle of people to yank somebody out to display to me. "Doesn't he look marvelous?"

So that's the "other guy" whom the prep team was talking about: Gale.

I don't know whether to laugh at his current sheepishness or to be uncomfortable at the way Fulvia's question was phrased. So I instead just pour all my focus on what he's wearing, which isn't the usual set of Thirteen fatigues.

Instead it's some kind of form-fitting body armor, and it's clear that, unlike my coat, the primary purpose Gale's outfit is for protection in combat, judging from the rigid plates covering his body. A bracer is on his left arm, and a sheath is attached to his back. The last thing I take note of is the stylized nature of the armor plates, as well as the general color scheme: black with patches of white around the sleeves.

He's supposed to be a mockingjay.

"The costume was originally designed by Cinna for Katniss," Plutarch says when he notices the subject of my attention. "But, in her absence, it made perfect sense for Hawthorne wear it. It wasn't too hard to adapt to both his gender and physique; though in the process we removed the majority of the stylistic elements and made it much more utilitarian in design."

He appraises the hunter, who's looking more uncomfortable by the minute. "I have yet to coin something for him. Originally, he was to be the 'Mockingjay's Cousin', but alas…"

At that point, Gale stops looking uncomfortable and starts looking pissed, which is a good sign as any to board the hovercraft.

After a couple minutes, the rest of the group boards and it's not long after we all strap in that the hovercraft begins taking its path out of the Hanger.

As we begin our ascent, a random question come to the forefront of my mind.

"So, Plutarch…"

"Hmm?"

"What does 'Vox' mean?"

"I'm kind of surprised you haven't asked me that earlier."

"Never found the time."

"Well, in any case, it's a Latin word which translates to 'voice'."

Ah, so Avox means "lack of voice". Never thought of it that way. "So what made you choose that word?"

"You seriously haven't figured that out yet? Your gift has always been that of speech. During the Quarter Quell interview, you gave voice to the concerns of the victors and many in the districts. Now you're giving voice to the Rebellion and the districts as a whole. Officially, my title for you is 'Voc Libertas', or the 'Voice of Freedom', but Vox is much simpler in practice."

"Seems to be a lot to put on a seventeen-year-old."

"Well, the path to greatness is not always something that is voluntary. You'll do fine."

I'm just hoping this doesn't blow up in my face.

And that's the primary thought that sticks in my mind as the hovercraft gets closer to its destination and whatever fate awaits me there.