The Revealing

Tiberia isn't dead, but she isn't far from it, either. The exertion took its toll, and my Stylist sits sleeping, paws folded over the head of her cane. But even now she doesn't sleep lightly. The moment my softer footfalls join Klerkov's stomping boots and Tasha's ticking heels her slit-like, blind eyes open and find me.

"You have returned," she states.

"Yes," Klerkov claps his thick hands. "I have brought your champion, babushka."

She rises without the aid of her cane, strong strides carrying her on firm footfalls. The cane isn't for her legs, then, merely her eyes."You, girl," she orders. "Let me see."

I kneel. The rough pads of her hands, the tickling fur and the harsh prick of her claws slide down my now-silken skin, shredding the robe effortlessly. "They will try to disguise you," her wrinkled, split lips whisper, "hide you. Already you have shed your skin. But you must never forget what you are." As she speaks her hand falls between my breasts, resting heavily over my racing heart.

"I won't forget," I promise.

"So many say," she finishes sadly. "So few return. Now, boy, dress her."

Xavier Malcovitch lets out a shrill, excited cry at the sight of me, but is restrained from running. "He hasn't dried yet," Tasha explains, ruffling his curls gently. "In a few more minutes he'll be ready."

"I mixed his paint myself," Cinna Raelius boasts. "It's an experimental thermo-reflective compound. It automatically regulates body temperatures regardless of environment, so it won't run when exposed to generated or ambient heat. When I become a Stylist, I'm going to patent it."

Whatever the fuck that might mean. "Right. You realize who you sound like, don't you?" I retort, walking to Cry-baby to take a closer look. Malcovitch's pale, sickly skin is now white as snow, but shining with the healthy glow one sees on Capitol advertisements, where starvation is thing unheard of. His dark curls have been ironed and pressed into perfect ringlets, pinned with countless, flashing white gems and real flowers: white lilies. I feel my stomach drop. They've added more eyelashes, and lightened the shadows of his starving face to be plumper, rounder, even more child-like and innocent somehow.

Cinna Raelius, you clever son of a bitch. No Tribute could look him in the face with the intention to do him harm. Not without feeling a surge of guilt and vomit.

…Damn you, Cinna Raelius. I am Petra Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. Sheep and rabbits can, and do. Xavier Malcovitch—and twenty-two others—will be no exception. I'm not a hero, not a martyr, I'm Petra Angelovna, District 6 Female, and I want to live.

And I will. Regardless of cost.

I can't look into those expectant dark eyes. I glance down at my own skin, and find under the heavy lights, even the sauna's softness seems nothing more than a dull sheen. "Your turn," Cinna grins, flashing the spray nozzle nonchalantly. "You know the routine."

I clamor onto the slowly turning pedestal, shedding the remains of my robe and kicking off my slippers against the protestations of my feet. "I'm getting sick of the routine."

"Think how I feel," he returns sympathetically. "I'm the one who has to look at it."

"If it bothers you, shut your eyes," I snap.

"I'd recommend the same for you. This stuff stings," he warns. "But not too tight, or you'll get lines."

I close my eyes gently, and a cool mist spreads from my face to feet in wide, sweeping arcs. Fans blow against my skin, and the process is repeated a dozen times. Next a smaller brush, in small, neat strokes coats my eyelids, my lips, and cheeks. I'm torn between indignant and mortified when cool spurts fall on my chest. Your idea of a woman's costume involves mainly glitter and hairspray, Tasha Pushkina said to Klerkov. I can only hope my Stylist doesn't share his taste.

"Well?" Cinna asks. "What do you think?"

I open my eyes and am disappointed. He bleached me as pallid as Avitus, with eyes and cheeks a rotting grey-green like week old bruises. My lips are a dull, metallic silver. Klerkov said I'd look beautiful, but I find myself hideous instead. "I look like death," I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

But Cinna Raelius is far from concerned. He winks. "That's the idea."

I'm still drying, and can't sit or be clothed. Thankfully the fan's air has turned heated instead of cool, and the many, blinding lights waft warmth down over me. Tasha Pushkina stays with me as Cinna dollops what looks to be black, tarry grease into my hair, kneading my scalp and hair like those Avox women until it takes the same poisonous hue. He piles it on top my head, fanning it ever up and out, fingers applying new product expertly as my lungs are assaulted with harsh chemicals—the Capitol's tax for beauty. Neither Tasha Pushkina or Cinna seem to be bothered, but it takes everything I have not to erupt into a fit of coughing. I roll my eyes to look at the vaulted ceiling and let the fans whisk away the irritated tears.

The nails are next, pools of liquid metal in glass casings that are glued then painted against my hands. They're long, sharp, and deadly-looking, thick as the claws of a bear. Cinna's face is a mask of painstaking concentration as he applies each one, for once without a witty comment or snide remark.

Cinna and Tasha bundle me into a changing stall, but I can't help but get a glimpse of my counterpart, lapping cream yet again, dressed only in a robe and slippers identical to the ones I just lost. "We're running out of time," I tell Tasha. "Who's going to dress Malcovitch?"

"He is dressed," Tiberia states.

"But who?" I press.

"He is dressed," she repeats solemnly, as if it settled the matter. She's said it before, yes; but like Marcus Raelius' cryptic warning and Klerkov's cautions, I still have no idea what it means.