Author's Note: A belated Happy Birthday to Katniss Everdeen! Actually her birthday was the middle of last week, on May 8th. (It's a brief mention in the first book, in her flashback scene where she's thinking about signing up for the tessera rations when she turns twelve. And I didn't catch it myself, it's something I saw someone mention online.) But I still want to celebrate! And I think Katniss would like this chapter, even though Cinna is still in a lot of trouble right now. You'll see! :)

After the lunch rush is over, things start slowing down a little bit. And I start thinking.

I think I need to disguise myself a little better. This Avox outfit will keep casual observers from paying too much attention to me - but if anyone comes looking for me specifically, they're going to recognize me. I still look like Cinna, dressed as an Avox.

It's time to change that.

Fortunately... I'm a stylist. Changing anyone's appearance, even if it's my own, is exactly what I'm an expert at.

All right, I think. I'm quickly starting to plan out my design. Just something simple, basic, to take care of the most obvious things. No one's going to be paying any more attention to an Avox than that.

No one outside of this kitchen will be looking at me any closer than that. If they even really look at me at all. So all I need to do is to make sure I don't obviously look like myself.

So, there are only a few things I need to change. Starting with the most obvious. The one thing that anyone looking closely at me would be pretty sure to recognize, especially if they were looking for me in the first place.

The one thing, in fact, that I make a point of showing off in my usual, everyday style.

For a second, I imagine myself as I usually look. Warm brown skin. Black clothes. Short, soft brown hair...

And bright green eyes with extremely noticeable bits of gold all through them.

My eyes are the most distinctive part of my appearance. And that means I need to do something about them right away.

Even though I'm not wearing my gold eyeliner, haven't worn it in a long time, my eyes are still likely to get me noticed in a second. So they're the most important thing I need to do something about.

Fortunately, I have an idea for that.

Well, I'm in the right place for it. There's a lot you can do with the things you can find in a kitchen, if you know how.

And I definitely know how.

At least, when it comes to style.

I'm already crossing over to the little area against one wall where they keep the teas and spices. I noticed it earlier, when I was running back and forth to grab brooms and mops and things. And it's a good thing I did, because it's exactly what I need now.

You can do a lot more than cooking with these dried seasonings and herbs and powdered leaves and things. Katniss' mother knows that, for one thing. She uses a lot of these same plants in her healing practice in District Twelve.

But you can do other things besides healing with these kinds of herbs, too.

Or with some of them, anyway. At least, you can if you're a stylist.

A few of the little spice containers are almost empty. I dump out one of the tiniest ones, rinse it out with a little hot water, then add a bit more water to the empty container. I'm already scanning the shelves with my eyes, looking for the things I need.

Perfect, I think, as I spot the last of the spices I'm looking for.

They have everything I need.

Of course, if they hadn't, I would just have had to improvise. Just like any tribute, if they can't find the things they need in the arena.

Only I do have the things I need. Maybe I wasn't too far off earlier, when I thought of this place as being like the Cornucopia in the Games.

And apparently, if this kitchen is a Cornucopia, it's at least a well-stocked one.

Thanks, Head Gamemaker, I find myself thinking, a little wryly. It's good to know you're on our side.

But of course, Plutarch didn't really stock this kitchen. And it doesn't matter anyway. All that matters is that I have the supplies I need... and that I'm going to stay focused enough to use them.

That's the most important thing, I remind myself grimly. No matter what else happens, good or bad, I have to stay focused.

That's still my only real chance to survive. Just like any tribute.

I quickly mix up something in the tiny bottle to shift my eye color toward brown. Plain black tea leaves, a few other herbs... it really isn't that complicated. But it also isn't the kind of thing that a lot of people would really think about. Other than stylists, and I don't think a lot of them are going to be looking for me.

And I don't think my colleagues would give me away, anyway, if they saw me.

There is such a thing as professional loyalty.

All right. I need to stay focused. The bottle of deep brown liquid goes into my pocket. Time to move on to the next thing.

I need to change my hair.

It's not that my hair is that unusual, in itself. But I know that one of the quickest, surest ways to make anyone look different is to change their hairstyle.

So... I think for a few seconds. I'm not going to cut my hair. It isn't long enough for that to make much of a difference, for one thing. And I'd have to find a scissors, and it would take too long to do the haircut itself.

And it would leave little bits of hair clippings all over the place, that I'd have to clean up and try to hide somewhere. I don't care how good a stylist you are, hair cutting is automatically a bit of a disastrous mess. No matter how carefully you handle it.

Even Flavius, who's as expert a hairdresser as anyone I know, wouldn't be able to cut my hair without leaving clippings all over the place.

I feel a warm rush of affection at the thought of my team - my friends - but at the same time it just reminds me of how much I miss them. How long it's been since I've seen anyone I really know personally.

Ever since I've been here. Ever since I was arrested -

Stop!

I cannot focus on this. I'm a tribute in the arena, I remind myself. Of course I miss my friends. And I do not have time to think about it.

Not about that, and not about -

Stop it!

All right. What am I going to do about my hair? I can't cut it. There's no point in trying to color it, and I wouldn't have time for that either -

Of course.

I'll just style it a little bit with some oil.

And... I think I might just know where to find some.

This is a kitchen, after all.

Moments later, I'm standing at the tall set of shelves where they keep the bulkier kitchen supplies. Some of the larger spare dishes. Boxes of extra napkins and things. Big containers of staple cooking ingredients...

Including several very large bottles of bright yellow cooking oil.

The yellow color won't be a problem, not once I put it into my brown hair. And besides, a little bit of it won't look as yellow as a whole bottle does.

Okay, I think. I only need a little of this oil.

And I need a way to carry it.

Maybe I should have gotten an extra little bottle from the spice shelves. But it's a bit late to go back across the kitchen for it now. I can't afford to let anyone start to wonder what I'm doing.

Then I notice the boxes of plastic gloves that are stacked at one end of these shelves. There are several boxes of each size, backup supplies for the ones that so many of the Avoxes are using as they do their cooking and serving and everything.

All at once, I'm thinking of the clear, thin plastic gloves that I and my fellow stylists always use when we work with hairstyling products. Shampoos, coloring solutions, curling or straightening treatments, sprays...

And oils.

Perfect!

Quickly, I open a box of gloves in my size. I pull out a pair from the tightly packed mass of gloves inside the box...

And I find myself just standing here, staring at them.

I've seen the Avoxes using these gloves all over this kitchen since I got here, of course. But this is the first time I've gotten a chance to look at a pair this closely. And they're suddenly looking very familiar.

The tiny pattern of raised dots for the texture. The thin, rounded seam around the edges of the gloves, where the front and back pieces have been heat-pressed together. The whole flat shape of the gloves themselves... Yes, they look very familiar. These are not just going to work for the same purpose as my familiar hairdressing gloves. They aren't just reminding me of them.

They're the same gloves.

Well, how many factories can there be in Panem where they make plastic gloves?

Probably only one, actually. And I'm suddenly thinking about the starving, oppressed district people they must have working there -

But as angry as I suddenly am at the idea of that one more sickening piece of injustice, I don't have time to think about that either.

All right. I need to get some oil. I open one of the bottles, carefully tilt it, and pour a little of the oil right into one of the plastic gloves. Then I twist it closed, wrap the other glove around it, and stuff them both into my pocket with my tiny spice bottle. A second later, the bottle of oil is closed and sitting on the shelf again and I'm on my way.

But where am I on my way to? I can't just stand here and disguise myself in the middle of this kitchen, that's clear. I have to find someplace reasonably private. Someplace where an Avox would have an excuse to go, and where I won't be suspected of doing anything unusual.

Then I have a sudden idea. And in spite of my dire situation, I can't help feeling a little amused.

Where do people ever do their makeup?

I'll just go into a bathroom to finish disguising myself.

After concealing expressions of pain for so long, it feels strange to be hiding a smile.

And it even has a mirror.

Once I get out of the kitchen and into a nearby public bathroom, I put the herb mixture into my eyes right away. It stings a little, but I'm hardly concerned. Compared to what I've been through, this is nothing.

Blinking a little to drive away the last of the stinging from my eyes, I quickly turn to face the mirror.

Wait a minute! I think in startlement. Is that me?

It isn't just the change in my eye color. I expected that. Just as I planned, the mixture has turned them a dim, tawny brown. The gold specks are almost completely hidden. I don't think anyone will notice them.

No... that part isn't what's surprising me. It isn't my eyes... it's the way I look overall.

Which has been very drastically changed since the last time I saw my own face.

I haven't looked at myself in a mirror for quite some time. Ever since -

No.

It's quite a startling difference, though. The soft, rich brown of my skin has taken on a distinct ashy undertone. My eyes look wide and frightened, even now when I'm starting to calm down a little, and my face looks much too tense.

I'm definitely not looking too good.

And my hair is a terrible mess. It hasn't been washed or combed for weeks...

Stop it!

My hair is a mess. I'm surprised no one noticed me just for that.

Well, I don't have time to think about it now. Not about that, and not about -

I said stop it, Cinna!

I deliberately straighten my shoulders and hold my head up. Reaching into my pocket, I get out the tightly twisted pair of gloves holding the precious oil I just took from the kitchen. I untwist them and carefully put them on, cupping the oil in the palm of my left hand. Then I look decisively, critically, at my somewhat wild-looking reflection in the mirror.

I look like a total mess, and I look far too much like myself. And it's time to do something about both of those things.

It's time to design my style.

It doesn't take me long to put the oil into my hair and start smoothing it down. I am a stylist, after all.

I've done this a lot of times. Just not with cooking oil.

Right away, I can see the changes starting. My hair is smoothing out quickly. I'm flattening it down against my head and creating a completely different look. The brown looks darker where the oil is soaking into it. Even without a comb, I'm easily able to settle the short, ridiculous little tangles into something a lot more practical-looking.

It actually looks like I've been taking care of my hair now! I find myself thinking.

Well, for the past fifteen seconds, I have been.

I've got a smooth part now, running down the center of my head. There's never usually a part in my hair, but it's pretty easy to create one with the oil. You can actually do quite a few things with oil... it's a surprisingly versatile hair-styling tool.

Right now, though, all I need is something very simple.

I look critically at my reflection. Yes, my hair looks quite severe and controlled now. Quite boring, and not at all free.

And completely different from the soft, loose way I usually wear it.

Now this is a good Avox look.

At the same time, I notice that my expression is not as wild as before. I'm looking a lot calmer now. My eyes are thoughtful and interested, not panicky. It's amazing how much this chance to just be a stylist, even for less than two minutes, has done for me...

And the purpose of being a stylist, I remind myself, is to create a style. Now let's see. Is this one ready?

Yes. I look completely different from the way I did a moment ago.

A distinct change. Of course.

And I'm ready.

I'm a little worried all of a sudden, as I come out of the bathroom. It's occured to me just now to wonder if anyone will notice my different appearance. WIll people realize I've changed my look, and start to wonder why I did it?

But my fears are set to rest a few seconds later. Plenty of people are going by, but no one is paying me the least bit of attention.

Of course they aren't, I think suddenly. Why in the world would they bother?

It just isn't important to them.

Oh, not that style isn't important to the people in the Capitol. I know very well that it is. It's just that 'style' and 'Avox' aren't concepts that usually seem to go together in a lot of people's minds.

Because you know what? I think in frustration. 'Avox' and 'person' do not seem to be concepts that go together for a lot of people, either. At least, for non-Avox people.

And no one is looking at me that way now. No one is thinking about my style, and no one is thinking about me as a person.

So as infuriating as this is, it seems I really had nothing to fear. Not here in the Capitol, where the Avoxes are so invisible.

No one will ever, ever look twice at an Avox who comes out of a bathroom looking slightly different than when he went in.

A moment later, I'm back in the kitchen. I'm starting to go about my work again, which is a lot easier now that the lunch rush is over. A few of the Avoxes do seem to notice my changed look, but none of them says anything.

Or rather, they all very slowly, casually, and carefully look away. They don't do anything to draw the least bit of attention to my hair or my eyes being different now.

There are a million ways, it seems, that these brave people keep on protecting me.

And what is it going to cost them? I find myself thinking. But I let that thought go. It isn't going to cost them anything. I won't let it. I just have to get through this day, and find a way to get out of here... and somehow, I have to find a way to help them too.

Because I can't leave them in slavery like this. Not any more than I could leave the tributes to die year after year in the arena.

Not any more than I could leave anyone in Panem to be hurt.

I feel my fists clenching into tight knots of anger at my sides. I won't leave these people to be hurt either.

And just while I'm thinking that, I feel something damp on my shoulder. Something warm.

What is going on?

I feel it again. Then I feel a tiny, warm, spreading patch of wetness on my other shoulder. I look up in puzzlement, to see if the ceiling is leaking. But there's nothing.

And then, all at once, I realize what is happening.

I've done this a lot of times, I remember thinking less than five minutes ago.

Just not with cooking oil.

Well, apparently that difference is important.

I've just found out something frustrating. There's a price to pay, it seems, when I don't work with my own tried-and-true materials.

Cooking.

Oil.

Drips.

It drips. It's dripping all over my shoulders. This is so frustrating.

I grab a rag and quickly wipe it off, pretending to be wiping away sweat. Fortunately, at least for me right now, Avoxes sweat a lot in the kitchen. No one seems to notice.

When I get another chance to go pretend to use the bathroom, I'll have to get rid of a lot more of this oil.

Unexpectedly, I find myself fighting not to laugh. This is so random. I shake my head and let myself smile just a little.

I need this. It's just so utterly bizarre and pointless and different from everything else I've been feeling for weeks.

It's funny.

I needed so badly for something to be funny in my life again.

All at once I'm feeling so much better.

Who knew? From kitchen oil.