I'm in a large room, filled with mirrors. The lights are nearly blinding, they shine so bright, and my ears are sore from all the hustle and bustle I can hear around me. There is a chemical smell in the room, and I quickly recognize it as hairspray - it's flying all around my head and the can gives that little whoosh of air as it releases more of the sticky gas onto my neatly styled hair. They're making me pretty, dressing me up in preparation to show me off tonight at the parade. I'm already dressed in this odd costume of sorts; it's something like out of an ancient history book, and my stylist says I'm a 'gladiator'. Come to think of it, the term sounds familiar to me - must be a sign of power, if District 2 will be wearing these gold-and-leather outfits.

There's no one in the room with me except for my stylist. I don't catch her name, but she'd be strikingly attractive if it weren't for her ridiculously long eyelashes that are obviously false and painted rainbow colors. Her hair is long and dyed a bright pink, and her lips and nails are made up to match down to the exact shade. If you ask me, it's a bit too coordinated and I'm not sure if I trust her to be my stylist at first - but as soon as she turns the chair around so I can see myself in the mirror, my mind is changed instantly.

I look stunning. My curling locks of hair, which are the color of a dark chocolate delicacy that you would only find in the finer Districts like my own, have been pulled backwards into a loose bun on the top of my head, little curls falling out here and there. A golden crown of sorts sits atop it, which matches the rest of the costume they've stuck me in to the inch. It's interesting how good I look in something that would be absolutely ridiculous on anyone else – they have somehow managed to make my baby-doll face look a little bit more grown up and more intimidating; it's a little harder to underestimate me while I'm wearing something as aggressive as this.

I still can't believe it's my own reflection staring back at me beneath the reflective surface of the mirror. My lips have been stained such a bright red that the rest of my skin looks pale in comparison. My eyes have been lined with a black liquid that makes my eyelashes look much longer. My light freckles have been seemingly brushed away, covered in a powdery material that coats my 'birthmarks' as my stylists calls them, making them disappear. I don't look like a child anymore - I will not be the innocent one in this competition and that has been made very clear by my appearance.

Clearly, Cato thinks the exact same as I when they bring him in to my styling room to see me and make sure our costumes are coordinated correctly. His eyes scan over me quickly, taking me in in my entirety; his eyes flicker back to my face before either of us really notice that we're staring at each other, amazed by the pure transformation both of us have undergone. Not that Cato truly looks that changed - but every feature of his is exaggerated more than I thought was possible. He was attractive, scary, and it was known that the two of us were not a force to be messed with. We could win this thing before anyone even noticed.

"You two look ah-mazing!" Midori is behind us, the biggest, cutest (a little too cute) grin you could possibly think of on that sickening little face of hers. She's trying to stand between us, resting her palms on both of our shoulders, but she's barely taller than me and Cato towers over both of us, so she struggles for a moment before deciding to just give up with a slightly disappointed smile spreading across onto her chubby cheeks. She makes sure to over-pronounce every single syllable in her over-enthusiastic words - actually, she's just a little bit too over. She's over-the-top on absolutely everything and it's starting to drive me insane at this point; if she were in the Games with me, quite honestly, I'd target her first.

Cato is the first to acknowledge her, nodding twice and muttering something under his breath that sounds like a "Thank you," but I'm not quite sure of that. I'm not quite sure of my words or hearing at all, actually. I just know we are beautiful, we look amazing and fierce and everything that a tribute should look like. I know that we will be likable and get sponsors.

We are District 2, and we are proud of it.

Later that evening, we're in a chariot next to each other. We're still in the gold costumes and the fancy makeup and hairstyles and different things, as we have been for the past hour and a half - my nerves are starting to get to me now and I'm more nervous and scared than I should be. I shouldn't be scared at all. Cato is trying to reassure me, but I never say anything; it's not worth words, and I don't speak that easily anyway. I'm actually surprised that he'd said something to me at all.

I reach up and try to adjust the golden crown-like thing that is on top of my curled locks, but my stylist, who is standing next to me, smacks my hand away with a disapproving look on her face. I scoff and adjust it anyway before she can say anything, and it makes her look really mad. Hehe, oops.

Before I even realize it, the parade is starting. I hold my head up high, my chin up to the sky, and I feel prouder than I have ever felt in my entire life. I know what I am here for now. I'm enjoying myself more than I should; there's almost a smile on my face as we show ourselves off to the awaiting audience. I'm waving and happy and all the nervousness I had before is gone as instantly as it had arrived.

At one point, Cato and I glance at each other. It's only for a moment, and our gazes barely meet, but I can feel my heartbeat speed up the tiniest amount when he gives me this heartbreaking, stomach-fluttering smile that's just absolutely gorgeous. I know then that he's more than just my district partner to me.

He's been more than that to me for years now; there's a reason I recognized him at the Reaping. I knew him before, and he actually saved my life – he kept me from dying at a training session, a day when my trainer was incredibly harsh on me and threatened to hurt me more and more. Cato intervened even if he was told not to. I don't think he remembers me, however. I only wish he did – maybe this pounding in my chest would finally quit and I could focus on the task in front of me. Killing people.

I remind myself again not to get attached.

I think I'm attached.