AN: And now all of our tributes meet. Bum bum bum! Thanks for all the super nice reviews. Also: Glee back on Tuesday, hurray!

The Capitol rises out, a black phoenix from beneath the shelter of the mountains. Kurt has to draw in a quick breath, it's so beautiful. It is, in fact, exactly how he's always imagined the city. Of course, he'd never imagined arriving here as a tribute. His dreams had always included designing fashion, and sending back patterns to his District where all of the knuckleheaded Neanderthals would promptly have to bend themselves over backwards to meet his demands. Or maybe he'd come as a stylist, rising quickly through the ranks to style the tributes from District One.

One of whom, of course, would be devastatingly handsome and conveniently gay.

This, however. . .this is not as enjoyable of an experience. He doesn't even want to think about participating in the Games. He knows that he's fabulous, of course, but he'd also been present at the Reaping. He'd seen the District One tribute, all bulk and strength. Most of the guys, for that matter, had been bigger and stronger than him. He'd have to rely on his quickness and his brains to get him through.

Not so terribly different from life back home.

At least Mercedes is here with him. As that thought crosses his mind, he reaches back and grabs his best friend's hand. When both of their names had been called at the Reaping, he hadn't known whether to be elated or horrified. At least he wouldn't have to go through this alone. At least there would be one friendly face in the Capitol.

But only one of them would leave the Games.

He tries to shove all of that to the back of his head. One step at a time, and step one is to enjoy all that the Capitol has to offer. He watches with rapt attention out the window of the train as they pull in. People walk around with bizarre hairstyles, with their skin tinted strange colors, with metallic make-up and piercings all over their bodies. It's exhilarating and disorienting.

But the fashion – oh Gaga the fashion. Kurt's spent his entire life, it seems, following the rule of "Look but don't touch." The factories and tailors in District Six deal with fabric all day, every hour. There's fine silk and delicately wrought lacework, soft cashmere and smooth velvet and none of it, none of it was to be worn by the people of his District. He's gotten to see it, though, and has always thought that the sweetest torture of all.

Today, though. . .today he's going to meet a Stylist. He's going to have his skin properly moisturized, not jus the cheap stuff his dad can afford back home, but the finest organic brands that money can buy. He's going to have his hair cut by a professional, and washed. And then they're going to dress him in something fabulous and one of a kind. Tonight are the Opening Ceremonies, and for one glorious hour the eyes of the nation will be trained on him.

It's a dream come true. Except for the Games which must inevitably follow.

Sharp, bony fingers dig into his shoulders, and he almost jumps. "Shh," Emma, the mentor and prior victor from District Six, soothes. "Just remember, Kurt. You let them do whatever they want."

"Of course," Kurt says, smiling tightly without showing his teeth. "They're the experts."

"They just better not try to tame my inner diva," Mercedes says, flipping her hair. "That right, boo?"

"Abso-freaking-lutely," Kurt says, and shakes his best friends hand. Emma's eyes – already slightly too big for her face – widen even further. Kurt can feel her nails, now, her fingers are pressing so tightly into his shoulders. He hopes that it doesn't bruise.

"Smile tonight," she says. "You need them to love you. No attitude, no pride, no arrogance. Just smile and be happy."

"Ms. Pillsbury, I will be dressed in the finest de moda," Kurt points out. "I will be incredibly happy."

They're torn apart, then, a pink-skinned lady grabbing Mercedes and a tall redheaded man taking Kurt by the arm. He gives a jaunty salute to Ms. Pillsbury before stumbling along behind the man.

"I can walk on my own, thank you very much," he says, trying to pull his arm away from the other man's tight clutches. He can't, though, the hand is vice-like in its strength, and he continues to struggle to keep up.

He's put in a small white room, with too-bright lighting and too many mirrors. He waits for what seems like hours before three women walk in, all without eyebrows, pale skinned and platinum haired. They ignore his words, and simply gather around him, efficiently stripping him of his clothes. One immediately begins working on his feet, another his hair, and the third his hands.

"Well, it certainly feels nice to be pampered," Kurt says, trying to initiate some kind of conversation. The three women just hum and continue on with their work.

Mostly it's nice – exactly as Kurt had imagined it, actually, with fine-smelling oils and creamy moisturizers. But there's the wax on his legs which he had not anticipated, and they tweeze his eyebrows (which he maintains perfectly well on his own, thank you very much!) and they tear the cuticles from his nails and buff at the calluses he's earned in hours of sewing the very clothing they're wearing now. One plucks a hair from the crown of his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Grey" and Kurt has to keep himself from having his hands fly up to cover his face.

And through it all he's naked.

He's not ashamed of his body, but he's not exactly comfortable with three women just walking around him. At least he's gay – there's no way he'll have an awkward erection in front of three odd, but admittedly beautiful, women. It's just as he's praising his good fortune that he hears a familiar scream from the hallway, and the dull thwapping noise of bare feet hitting the cold linoleum.

"Why do you keep hurting me?" the voice cries, almost pitifully. Kurt knows that he recognizes that voice. . .

"Finn Hudson, you get back here and let us finish waxing your backhair!"

Ah, the boy from the train, then. Kurt shivers delicately. Back hair is utterly disgusting. Finn, though a bit dim-witted, had been charming and not bad on the eyes. He's glad to know that he's avoided a potentially disastrous amorous encounter, however. Back hair is absolutely a deal breaker.

He's just congratulating himself on his good luck when the three women abruptly pull him to his feet and begin hauling him down the hallway. Kurt is getting very tired of being treated like a sack of potatoes, just pulled and yanked every which way.

And then he hears a voice. A voice as familiar as his own, a voice he's been hearing out of the radio by his bedside since he can remember. He just can't believe it's her.

Sure enough, though, he turns around, and there she is. Lady Gaga. In all of her glorious, pop culture-bending, music-belting, fashion-spawning fabulousness. She quirks one eye at him, and he almost swoons.

"I thought you only work with District One?" He finally manages to say. The best stylists always work with the best districts, and to his memory, Lady Gaga has only ever styled District One's tributes, and even then it's a rare honor. She just grins at him toothily.

"I had a wonderful idea," she says. "That would only work for your district."

Xxx

Five hours later, Kurt has changed his mind. Not about how fabulous Lady Gaga is. . .in fact, now he's even more certain that she's a complete genius. Unfortunately, he's not so certain that he's a good model for her genre-bending designs. He peers at himself again in the mirror, and shudders a little.

They're teased his hair up so that it stands half a foot tall on his head, whirled into strange little whorls at the end. Kohl has been applied all around his eyes so that his blue irises glitter strangely in the midst of darkness. And the outfit. . .

Lady Gaga has created a magnificent cloak, all blending, shifting shades of bluegreengrey. Lying on the ground it looks like a bizarre patchwork quilt, with different textures and colors. But when he puts it around his shoulders the folds settle in and the velvet melds into silk into satin into cotton and leather: all of the fabrics of his district melding and complementing one another in a color that only draws the blue of his eyes out more startlingly against the pitch black of the kohl.

That's wonderful, too. It's what he's wearing under the cloak that gives him pause.

One of the white women holds out a piece of black string with one triangle of material. Kurt reaches out to grab it, his fingers pinching around the tiny, tiny bit of cotton. He clutches the cloak more tightly around his naked body.

"This is it?" he asks, his voice trembling a little. "Where are the rest of my clothes?"

The women don't say anything, they just walk out. Kurt pulls in a deep breath, remembering Emma's words. Do anything the stylist's tell you to. He pulls on the G-string, pulls the cloak as snugly around his thin frame as possible, and walks out the door.

Almost instantly he crashes into Mercedes. She's dressed in a similar manner, though her cloak is a shifting red/orange/yellow flame, and her eyes are ringed in purple instead of fierce. She grins at him, her white teeth flashing against the dark of her skin. "Boy, you look fierce."

Kurt grins, lips tightly pressed together and teeth hidden.

"I just hope it isn't windy," he says fervently. Mercedes laughs and nods to him.

"Yeah," Mercedes agrees. "I mean, I know that I'm hot stuff, but I'm not sure that the Capitol is ready for all this jelly."

They walk companionably toward the chariot that will pull them out into the stadium. Kurt notices that most of the tributes don't walk together. . .most of them keep a distance between tributes from the same district. Kurt reflexively moves closer to Mercedes and crooks his arm. She slides hers through.

The chariots go out in order, so they have to wait in the wings while the other tributes take their turn in front of the crowd. Kurt can hear the shouts and chatter of the crowd as all the chariots line up. Butterflies erupt in his stomach. This is it, he realizes. The Games start tonight. Tonight the audiences see them, the sponsors see them. Today they let the other tributes know their strategy – he has to decide if he'll be strong and distant, pure and innocent, aggressive, silent, mysterious, fragile. . .His knees lock a little. Just ahead of them, the tunnel opens and the first chariot rolls out.

It's hard to forget the two tributes from District One. The girl, Quinn, is clothed in a form-fitting silver outfit, sequined all over and fill with glittering crystal, silver thread, and diamonds. Her hair is pulled off her face in a high ponytail. In the lights of the arena the jewels glitter and shine. She smiles as they leave, her hand held high. Beside her, the other tribute – Kurt can't remember this one's name – is in complementing gold and deep, blood red garnet. He flexes an arm and snarls at the crowds as they leave.

But District One is always breathtaking. They provide luxury items for the Capitol, and every year are the belles of the ball. Kurt takes in a shaking breath, and raises on hand to brush a tendril of hair out of his face. He probably needs more hairspray. What is he going to do when he goes out there? Should be play it friendly like Quinn, or strong like the other District One tribute?

He's jerked out of his reverie by a warm hand on his arm. He looks down to see the curly-haired tribute from District Two. Dressed in the snug, form-fitting bodyarmor that District Two manufactures, the boy looks. . .good. Brown highlights gleam in his hair, and his eyes are a warm honey-hazel.

"You might want to keep a tighter grip on your cloak," the boy says. Kurt thinks idly that the light brush of gold eyeshadow above his eyes brings out the flecks of green and amber in his eyes. He glances down at the hand, and realizes that his cloak is flapping open, exposing his bare chest and upper thigh to the world. He gasps, and graps at the flapping garment, pulling it tighter to his body. The other boy chuckles a little and winks – winks!

"It's not a bad view," the boy says. "But the audience usually likes a little something left to their imagination."

The boy has to hurry off, then, to jump on his own carriage just as it is rolling out into the arena. He leans in to the other tribute from his district – Rachel, Kurt thinks her name is – just as the chariot rolls out. He puts an arm gently around her waist, tugging her to his side, and presses a chaste kiss to the top of her forehead. Even from the tunnel below the stands, Kurt can hear the response from the audience. They go absolutely wild at the display of affection. The boy pulls back a little and waves at the audience, while the girl grins brightly and begins blowing kisses. Kurt has to cover his ears, the noise is so loud.

"Well," Mercedes grouses from beside him, "guess we all know who the fan favorites are."

It seems to take forever to get to District Eight, which is probably for the best. Standing in the wings so long, Kurt's lost a good degree of his anxiety. Besides, after District Two, there's not much to be intimidated by. There's the kid in the wheelchair, and a pair of pre-teens from District Four, a skinny emaciated kid and a ginger, and then the Asian dating pair. The guy looks strong enough, but the girl can't stop crying, just clinging to his arm as their chariot heads out beneath the scrutiny of the audiene.

And then finally, finally, their chariot is moving. Mercedes gives him a quick peck on the cheek (before they arrive in the arena, unfortunately) and then they're under the lights.

Kurt's first reflex is to squint. The lights are blindingly bright, and for a good minute he can't see anything. Mercedes hand tightens on his forearm, and he presses closer in to her familiar warmth.

The noise is deafening. He can hear chants still of "Quinn" and "Blaine" and even a strange chant of "Tike." He does not, however, hear anyone shouting his name, which is when he realizes that despite the terror striking in his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach, it is absolutely imperative that he open his eyes. So he throws his shoulders back, his chest out and his chin up before opening his eyes.

He's back, for a moment, in the sewing room of District Eight. Back sitting and chatting with his girls, until Neanderthals walk in and make snide remarks. He's back eating dinner with his dad when a glass bottle shatters and a shout of "fag" rings in through the window. He's back running his hands over the finest silk he's ever seen spun, when a blocky shoulder hits his own, sending him tumbling into a rack with such force that it's sure to leave bruises.

He'd made it through all of that with his head held high, and he puts himself back there.

But even as he's standing there, eyes blazing, nobody shouts at him. Everybody is still so focused on the other tributes that they don't even notice him and Mercedes. The girl beside him whimpers a little.

Kurt doesn't like being ignored.

He wishes that Gaga had given them more clothing to wear beneath the cloaks. He knows that they would make a better spectacle if they let the fabric flow, let the colors merge and fly around them, but it would be so inappropriate. He can't. . .

I don't mind the view.

But maybe – maybe that's exactly what Gaga had intended. After all, she's always been a provocateur. It's not like her to create an outfit that's so sealed in, so. . .

He can hear the crowd beginning to shout Finn and Brittany's names. That is absolutely unacceptable. Number one, because they're from District Ten, which means they are so below him on the totem pole. Number two, their stylist is an absolute nincompoop who dressed Britt in a cow outfit complete with udders, and forced a brassy cowbell around Finn's neck. They look like somebody's sloppy seconds, and yet they are currently outshining him. Unacceptable.

So, Kurt takes a deep breath, and makes himself vulnerable. He lifts one hand slowly to the top of his cloak. Mercedes notices the slight motion and turns to him.

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

"Getting noticed," Kurt says, before throwing the cloak over one shoulder.

There's a momentary hush in the stadium as the cloak streams out behind him. Kurt knows how it must look, the light glancing off shifting sea colors. He knows that his cheeks must be bright red, and his eyes are shiny with tears, waiting for the jeers to begin, waiting for somebody to throw a tomato. But this is his life on the line, and it's better to get a few sympathy votes than for nobody to know who he is. He feels motion beside him, and notices that Mercedes has flung her cloak out behind her, too.

The lead chariot has stopped, Quinn and the other District One chariot glaring at them in open-mouthed surprise. Quinn recovers quickly, returning to her beaming smile and waves to the audience, but the boy just glares at Kurt, murder in his eyes. Rachel is hopping up and down clapping, having spotted them almost immediately. She puts a hand on the curly-haired boys' shoulder, and points toward the streaming cloaks. Kurt has to duck his head away before he reads the expression in warm, hazel eyes. After all, that had been the boy who had told him to cover up, and here Kurt was, going against what he'd been told.

Somewhere, somehow, the audience has caught up, and he hears a sudden thumping as people pound the bleachers. At first he thinks that they're yelling "hurt" and he doesn't understand why.

"oh my God," Mercedes breathes. "Kurt you're a genius!"

That's when he realizes that they're screaming his name. And he should probably turn and wave, blow kisses like Mercedes is, or at least wave. But he can't. He just can't. He doesn't hear emotion in those words, doesn't know if they're filled with admiration or hate. He stands with his spine locked, his knees unmoving. He's survived this long by not caring what other people think of him – he can't change that now.

The applause continues through District Eleven, but dies off a little when the tributes from District Twelve arrive. Kurt and Mercedes have turned the corner by now, so he can spot the new tributes as they arrive. He's almost forgotten who they are – the two volunteers, though, he remembers almost immediately. They're clothed in sparkling coal dust that snakes its way up their throats, but somehow leaves their faces startling clean. They're not wearing any make-up and there's something ethereal and terryfing about their expression. The boy is flexing his muscles and leering out at the audience, flicking them off and smirking. The girl looks fierce and angry. She's controlling the reins to the horses, and is spurring them faster than anyone else's. They look like a pair of angry devils, and Kurt shudders a little, pulling his cloak closer around his body not in embarrassment but to ward off the sudden chill.

It hasn't lasted long, their trek throughout the stadium. Usually the Opening Ceremonies only last half an hour or so – there will be a party afterwards, for all of the spectators, while in the individual districts people will just begin getting ready for bed. Kurt lets out a breath of relief when they pull back in to the tunnel, the noise of the crowd drowned out by the surrounding ground, the lights muted and then gone.

He lets out a long breath, and turns to smile at his best friend.

"Well," he says chipperly. "That wasn't so bad, right?"

Mercedes doesn't even have a chance to answer before the prep team descends on them. Kurt notices that same thing happening to all of the tributes. The District Twelve tributes stand stoically while they're rinsed off by giant hoses, bit by bit pale skin shining forth beneath the coal dust. Quinn is having her hair brushed by her prep team until it shines as golden as the other tribute's outfit. District Two is having their body-armor torn apart by little lasers and then pried off their bodies, coming off in thick, scabby pieces. Kurt notices Rachel winces as one of the lasers bites into her skin.

He and Mercedes have their cloaks ripped off them and stand for a moment, completely exposed, before warm, fluffy robes are pressed around their shoulders. Emma pops up in front of them, her eyes huge in her pale face. She's smiing, though, and she claps a little when she sees them.

"Oh, that was wonderful!" she gasps. "You both looked so beautiful. Wonderful job, children, really, wonderful."

"Yeah," the big tribute from District One says, as he and Quinn walk by toward the elevators. "Hot stuff." He then turns to Quinn and, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone "I hear every year there's a pair of whores who sell their bodies for a sponsorship."

Kurt sucks in a deep breath, too bone-weary to retort. He doesn't have to, however, when Finn steps forward, thankfully stripped of the cowbell.

"Watch it, Karofsky," he hisses. "Save it for the Games."

Kurt glances over at his trainmate thankfully, but Finn just shrugs it off. He's thankful for the help. He doesn't need anyone standing up for him, but he's thankful anyway.

Still, as he steps into the elevator with Mercedes, ready to go to his new home for the next week, he can't help but shudder at the memory of intense hatred radiating from District One's body. He knows he's at the top of the other boys' hit list.

AN: I have nothing to say. It's really hard to come up with outfits to wear during that ceremony. Hmmm. . . .

COMING SOON: Puck needs to get a little air and has an interesting. . .conversation. . .on the rooftops as the tributes get ready for their first day of training.