My stylist's name is Vintius, but I cannot tell for sure whether a man or a woman is scrutinizing my face. Since the name is masculine, I mentally classify Vintius as a "he." His expression doesn't change, but I sense that he is not happy with what he sees. "How did you get that?" he asks, angling his nose toward the upper part of my face and raising a gold-rimmed monocle. His eye looks comically large, magnified within a halo of puffy pink eyelashes, as he examines the skin above my right eyebrow.
I raise my hand to my face and remember that I have a rough, reddish scar there that's about the size of a thumbprint. It's a fact of life in District 1 that some Academy students are perfectly willing to kill off their competition, in hopes of being selected themselves to volunteer for the Hunger Games. Some caustic solution had been rigged to splash when I opened my weapon cleaning kit, and a droplet hit me right there and stuck before I could get it off. Of course, I knew who had done it, and I squashed her Hunger Games ambitions right away. "It's a burn scar," I reply, not wanting to reveal too much about how it got there.
Vintius gives me a disdainful look, as if to say "Of course it's a burn scar," but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he stands thinking, tapping his chin with his monocle. He is silent for so long that I almost blurt out something rude about how much deep thought could possibly be required about makeup? But I am still. Finally, Vintius says, "I think some injectable filler will do the trick for that. I suppose we are lucky it isn't raised, or it would just have to be ground down and recolored and that would really push the schedule. No, I don't think that's too bad after all. I'll take care of it myself, after my team brings you up to the basic level of cosmetic appeal." I stiffen at that, but once again, it won't do any good to say anything. I doubt Vintius even realizes he's insulted me. He smiles, and his two front teeth have been filled with pink insets that match his eyelashes. "You'll look amazing for the opening ceremonies, Dazzle, I promise. You'll look dazzling!"
I pretend that is the first time I have heard that joke.
Vintius' prep team twitters and flutters like birds, cooing apologies every time something they do stings or burns. Kariolus is surprised and gratified that I have taken off my own body hair before I arrived at the Remake Center. "Just like a Capitol girl!" he says happily. "And you've done such a good job! All we have to do is throw on some inhibitor, peel the rough spots, retint some of those discolored patches, moisturize, buff you up, apply some glow, and you'll be stunning, positively stunning!"
Dio is painting my nails with some smelly plastic filler. "Her cuticles, ugh," he says, raising his eyebrows to Kariolus in dismay. "They look like she's been biting them. They are all raggedy and uneven."
"At least her hair is nice." Mimea has wrapped some of my light brown hair in long spirals and is applying some colored sticky foam that smells even worse than the nail filler. "She's got great texture, but some of the absolute best shampoos and volumizers are made in District 1. Did Vintius say he wanted her ultras to be Doe #7 or Golden Fawn?"
"I'm sure he said Golden Fawn for the ultras and Doe #7 for the mids," says Dio. His own hair is the brightest crimson red I have ever seen, braided tightly and standing straight up from the crown of his head, like the crest of an exotic bird. "The prep ticket said Vintius wanted to keep the overall honey undertone tone her hair has, though. I said I thought that amber was more of the "uptrend" color, but you know you can't tell stylists anything…"
They continue to chatter in their hissy Capital accents while they work. Most of the time, I have no idea what they are talking about. I stop listening after a while. I am buffed, filed, injected, oiled and varnished like a piece of refinished furniture. When the team's process is complete, it's time to put on my costume for the opening ceremonies. My entire body is covered with a layer of adhesive gold dust, painstakingly contoured with countless shades of darker gold. My hair is given a sprinkle of gold powder, to enhance the color that Mimea has so carefully applied. A sparkling gold cloth is tied around my hips and another carefully draped and knotted around my chest. Finally, tiny golden lights are pressed along the outside lines of my arms and legs, following my collarbones, my neck, and the arches of my eyebrows. Bolgee Boh claps his hands in delight when he sees me. "Oh, she looks like a goddess!" he squeals. "Vintius, you have outdone yourself this year!"
I don't see where my costume is any more original or imaginative than what I've seen on District 1 tributes in past broadcasts of the opening cermonies, but then what do I know about high fashion? Vintius bows gracefully, obviously pleased with the compliments. "She's almost too muscular to make it work, almost! But enough contouring makes angles curves and curves outstanding, I always say. I thought about making her eyes gold too, but they don't overpower the look, even if they are blue. One doesn't want to overdo…edit, edit, edit!"
"Oh, gold eyes might have been too much, I agree," says Boh. "There's something to be said for the natural look, isn't there? Oh, she's just lovely!"
Just then, I catch sight of Chrome. If I am a golden goddess, he is a silver god, almost sculpted from a single block of the purest metal. The silver cloth around his hips accentuates the width of his upper body, and the rows of white lights emphasize his shoulders and strong legs. He hardly looks like a real flesh-and-blood person. I am speechless for a moment, before I see that Chrome is just as struck with my appearance. We gawk at each other until I recover myself and whisper, "It's me. The girl who split your lip with a hammer."
Chrome laughs out loud, startling Vintius and Bolgee Boh. Boh titters nervously and glances down at his shoe to check his timepiece. "Oh, my, it's time to get into position! The chariot! The chariot, everyone!"
Our prep teams continue to touch up imaginary defects in our makeup as Chrome and I step onto our chariot. Something happens outside, at the end of the tunnel, because the massive crowd suddenly roars. I hear an announcer's voice carrying over the tumult, but it's too indistinct down here at the bottom of the Remake Center to make out what is being said. I feel the horses move, and the chariot lurches sharply before the gilded wheels begin to roll, but I easily maintain my balance. One of the other tributes, the girl from District 3, I think, looks like she is going to faint. She is gripping her chariot rail so tightly that the yellow skin on her knuckles turns white, and her head lolls backward. Her prep team fans her frantically with their towels, trying to revive her without disturbing the rows of colorful wire loops that embellish her costume. The girl from District 5 is posing with enthusiasm, tossing her hair and blowing kisses at the cameras. She's very buxom and pretty, and I bet that her mentor has told her to play up her attractiveness for the media since that's about all she's got to work with. Most of them are locked onto her, and her chariot hasn't even left the tunnel yet.
As our chariot passes into the packed avenue, the crowd roars again, and people surge against the barriers, waving flags with the District 1 seal and colors. I don't care what Chrome is doing, and I am not looking at him. Vintius told me not to wave or smile, but to look regal and strong, like a golden queen. Plush told me to scan the crowd, and meet as many individual eyes as I can. I am trying to do that, but there are so many people. I pick out one of the rooftop cameras panning over the procession, and I pin my gaze directly onto that lens, concentrating as if I want to burn it with my thoughts. The camera stops and I can see it lingering on me. I am District 1, and I will win the 68th Hunger Games, I say with my eyes and my stance. Any other consideration is wasted, and I want everyone watching to know it.