Bravery

I swear I'm going to slap this toad faced stylist in a moment – she actually seems to enjoy the pain that she's inflicting upon me. She gives another tug and rips away more of my leg hair. I clamp my teeth down onto my lips to stop myself snapping at her, and wish that I was blonde haired because then I would not be having this problem. Mai would be fine if she was in my position. I glare up at the toad-woman and the other member of my prep team.

According to them I have a bad attitude. Well, they can go to hell as far as I'm concerned. I have no desire to impress them, and I much prefer it now that they've stopped trying to include me in their inane chatter. I don't particularly care which plastic faced idiot won the latest "talent" contest or who cheated on whom at some party last night.

Perhaps I can ask them to cut off my ears when they start on my hair.

"Perfect!" The toad suddenly announces with relish, and the other one claps her hands together as they both look at me. I feel pretty fucking exposed – though I supposed it isn't quite as bad as when they made me strip as soon as I walked into the room. Seriously, who do these people think they are that they would have that power over me? Though I suppose they've taken everything else from, so they might as well take my dignity as well.

"Stand up," the other one, with bright orange hair and a lime green star tattooed onto one of her eyelids, instructs me. "Is the bath ready, Hequet?" She asks, pushing me in the direction of the bathroom.

"Of course, Tifara," she chimes back – I've noticed that she has a strangely high voice for someone who's wide forehead and sunken eyes give her the resemblance of a reptile.

The pair of them practically shove me into the bath – Tifara grabs my shoulder brutally while Hequet loosens my robe. I balk at this, and try to pull away from them. "I'll do it myself," I snap impatiently. Cordula had advised me to be respectful towards my stylist and prep team, because it might influence how good a job they are prepared to do on me. But that flew out of the window the moment that these two introduced themselves, and it's too late to start being polite to them now. Besides, I've never been very good at concealing my anger, especially not now while I am so on edge.

I undo the cord, and sink down into the water – it's boiling hot, and I start and try to stand back up again. Tifara simply presses down on my shoulders and holds me there, "this will sooth your skin after the waxing, "she tells me impatiently and it's clear from her tone, and the firm way she grasps me, that I'm not going to be allowed to get back out until they deem that I'm allowed.

"We'll have to cut her hair next," Hequet says and I clench my jaw under the scrutiny of her gaze, "those split ends of hers are absolutely atrocious. I haven't seen a District 4 tribute in as bad a condition as this for years." I despise the fact that they're referring to me in third person – it's as though I don't even qualify as a real human being in their eyes. Maybe if I was in better condition, then they might have deigned to talk to me. Or possibly even ask how I feel about them hacking my hair off. Not that I particularly have an opinion either way.

"Yes," Tifara murmurs," I think it would look so much better if it was shorter – it would frame her face nicely."

I have absolutely no clue how your hair can frame your face – my hair is just an inconvenience; something that frizzes uncontrollably and gets tied back roughly to keep the flyaway hairs out of my eyes. It's not something to frame my face, or improve my appearance in anyway.

"What about the sunburn though?" Hequet demands, and I have to stifle a groan as the conversation goes on and on – neither of them looking at me, or consulting me about the decisions that they are making – but discussing how to make me into a better version of myself. Or, more ideally in their eyes, someone completely different, unrecognisable from who I am now.

I barely even recognise myself when they hold up the mirror, and show me what they've done to my hair. My dark hair – that once fell in tangles to below my shoulders is now cut to my jaw line. It's glossy and bounces slightly as I move my head to examine it more closely. But even though this new look intrigues me, I don't allow myself to like the way that it makes me look, because I promised myself that I would never like anything that came from the Capitol. In my mind – all the Capitol can provide is death, and suffering. And a swishy new haircut doesn't change that fact, so I simply clamp my lips shut and try to hide the emotions from my face.

I'm gratified to see that Tifara and Hequet look dismayed by my lack of response and I fold my arms tightly across my chest and try to look disappointed by what they've done to my hair.

Tifara clears her throat, and I twist my head to glance at her, "it's time for you to meet your stylist," she says – her previous excitement returned to her face and she claps her hands together in clear glee. I suppress another sigh – forcing myself to remain optimistic about the state of my stylist. At least I'm in one of the richer districts, because they tend to get the more skilled stylists, seeing as they all clamour for the districts that have the highest chance, percentage-wise, of becoming victors and then they will go down in history forever as the ones who styled a victor. I would feel bad for the lower districts, but if they get the crackpot stylists, then it will make me look better. And try as I might, I just don't have enough compassion in me to feel bad for wanting to win, even if it means wanting others to die.

I want to shut my eyes as the door slides open and I bite my lip as I take in the sight of my stylist. He's very tall, and extremely skinny with legs like a chicken and pointy elbows that seem as though they could inflict some serious damage. His hair has been dyed dark green and falls in glossy waves down to his shoulders and he has vines tattooed up the sides of both arms, and one side of his neck. The end of this tattoo curls around his cheekbone, ending up just underneath his eye. But this, in comparison to this clothes, is halfway normal.

I look him up and down – he's wearing a robe made out of bark. Or at least, synthetic bark, from the way that it's sparkling slightly, and leaves made of a strange metallic material adorn his waist. I've never seen a Capitol citizen who looks like this before – usually it's plastic clothes and extreme colours. I know the stylists are renowned for their extreme fashion sense, even by the standards of the Capitol citizens, but this is something else entirely.

"My name is Zen," he informs me in an airy tone, spreading his arms wide as he does so. I glance at him blankly, but Hequet and Tifara seem to understand what he wants and they each take one of his hands. Then they look pointedly towards me, and hold their hands out towards me. My jaws drops as I watch Zen close his eyes and begin to hum under his breath.

You have got to be kidding me – this is my stylist? This is my stylist?

"What are you doing?" I demand, rising to my feet but not moving towards them. I don't want to join in with whatever it is they think that they're doing.

"I need to feel your energy," Zen answers without opening his eyes, and he resumes his tuneless humming as though there had never been any interruption.

I take a step backwards, "Yeah, I'd prefer it if you'd leave my energy alone, actually," I tell him impatiently.

Zen drops the hands of Tifara and Hequet, and crosses the room towards me so quickly that I don't have time to back away from him. "You seem like a very angry person, child," he breathes sadly, watching me with wide eyes. He holds out his hands once more, and tries to take mine.

I jerk backwards, "I wonder why I'm angry..." I mutter under my breath and narrow my eyes at him, using the look I would always put on in the Community Home to get one of the younger kids to shut up and leave me alone. It's a look that Stelson has seen often in his life.

"Why don't we try some meditation? It might calm you down," he murmurs softly, in a sing-song tone of voice.

I look at him incredulously, "Meditation?" I demand – I'm starting to wonder if this guy has actually lost his mind. Talking about my energy and using words like meditation.

"Meditation is an internal state of relaxed awareness."

"An internal state of fucking what?" I ask furiously, struggling to keep my voice level as I try to process what he just said to me. Is someone having a laugh by assigning him to be my stylist? I can't think of a person that I would find more annoying, and that's saying something, because I tend to find people in general pretty damn annoying. I think Mai is about the only person I can have a conversation with without wanting to stick my fingers in my brain.

"It's not a fucking anything," he informs me loftily, "it's about breathing and concentrating on reaching enlightenment."

"Well, I don't really have much interest in reaching enlightenment right now," I snap impatiently, "maybe you could just hand me the clothes and then I can get out of here." Because I honestly think I might start screaming if I'm forced to stay in a room with this peculiar little man for even a moment longer. I can't bear to hear the drivel that is spilling from his mouth – and I can't help but wonder if he can actually hear what he's saying. The Capitol accent makes it a damn sight worse.

Then old toady pipes up from the corner, "you know, you could be a little more grateful."

I wonder what she thinks I actually have in my life that I might possibly feel grateful about, because I'm struggling to find the silver lining in this dark cloud that's pretty much stretched over my entire life. Of course, in her eyes I am in a position to be envied – I am going into the Hunger Games to battle for glory, and honour. Well, she can feel free to take my position if she wants; I'm just very selfless like that.

"Sorry," I mutter between gritted teeth as I imagine what Cordula will say when I tell her about how I have spoken to these people. I only do it because I know it might help my cause – I have no real interest in appeasing these people in order to make them feel better.

"You must be feeling very excited," Tifara says, stepping forward with a broad smile on her face, clearly convinced that my meagre apology means that I plan to change my attitude, "I would be acting the same way if it was me headed into the Games. Of course you're to make a good impression during the chariot rides. I bet you can hardly concentrate on anything else."

Spot on, I'm just so excited to be heading into this bloodbath – best moment of my life. I have to work hard to suppress an eye-roll as she pats me on the head and flashes me a patronising smile. Yeah, forget suppressing an eye-roll, I try to fight down the urge to snap her fingers to stop her from doing that ever again. I hate the way these people think that they can just touch me so casually like that – I prefer to reserve contact for the people who I actually care about, which doesn't amount to a very long list.

I sigh as Zen produces my outfit from a railing and I prepare for a further loss of my dignity as they tug my robe undone once more.

Finally, once I have been dressed in a floaty blue dress created from different shades and textures of material, supposedly to resemble waves, my arms have been inked with pictures of colourful little fish and they have smeared blue glitter over any part of my skin that the dress doesn't cover, they lead me down to the Chariot. While they worked on me, it was easy to forget about the huge crowd that will wait for me down there – but now, the terror comes flooding back into my limbs, and I know that I'll have to make an effort in order to make a good impression. Because things like that don't come naturally to me.

But then I have to worry about Stelson as well – because I don't want him to go into this thing without a chance in hell, but then again – we're supposed to be opponents now and I need to make sure he's aware that he can't rely on me in the arena. Still, I feel cold even thinking about that; try as I might, I never had the heart to push him completely away from me.

I spot our chariot – decorated with streaming blue silk and glittery pictures of various fish, none of which I recognise, which leads me to believe that they were probably created out of someone's imagination, rather than that someone actually bothered to make the effort to find out some information about the actual species of fish who swim in the waters around our district.

Zen pushes me towards it and winds his way effortlessly through the crowds of other tributes and their stylists. I notice that most of the tributes are standing quietly, almost as though they're trying to blend into the background, or pretend that this isn't really happening to them, and all of the noise is being created by the various stylists, most of whom are having loud, highly opinionated conversations about things that, in my mind at least, don't really seem to matter. It's all body paint this, and hair products that, and once again I ask myself how they can talk about such trivial things in front of people who have effectively just been sentenced to death.

We reach the chariot, and just as I'm scanning around looking out for Stelson I start slightly as a hand prods against my back. I spin around and find myself staring at Miss-Perfect from District One. She's wearing a glittery silver dress that hugs her figure and accentuates, well, everything. She watches me with a pair of piercing blue eyes for a moment and then she smiles widely – I glance at her for a moment, convinced that she must be faking it, but I can see no trace of a lie within her eyes.

"I just needed a break from him for a moment," she says, by way of explanation, gesturing back at the boy from her district, who is already sitting in their chariot, his arms folded tightly over his chest and his brow lowered in a surly fashion.

"Yeah, he looks like a bundle of laughter," I mutter, unable to tear my eyes away from his heavily muscled arms and imagining how easily he could strangle me.

"I'm Emelda," she says, holding out a hand confidently towards me. That's the second time since I was reaped that I've had to shake someone's hand – something that I've never really had to do ever before in my life.

"Nerine," I reply, "but you might as well call me Neri, everyone else does." I'm not quite sure why I added that last part, but there's something about this girl that makes me think that, in any other situation, I might have let myself become friends with her. Because she isn't pretending to be anyone other than who she is – well, from what I can tell about her in these few moments. But then again, I saw her volunteer at her reaping, and I'm fully aware that she's just as dangerous as her male counterpart, even if she might not seem like it at first glance, and I remind myself not to get lulled into a false sense of security by her seemingly easy-going attitude.

"Well, hello then Neri," she says, "I'm assuming that you're going to join the alliance?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I reply, slightly distractedly because Stelson has just arrived at our chariot, wearing a pale blue suit, a face covered in glitter just like mine and an expression of fear plastered onto his features. I don't miss the look that Emelda gives him – as though she thinks he's going to be easy prey for her – and I almost want to wrap my arms around his shoulders. The relaxed atmosphere between us from just a moment ago evaporates instantly, as I see a true example of her personality and I turn away from her, looking at Stelson instead, annoyed at myself for so easily wanting to trust her. This girl who I know absolutely nothing about.

"How're you feeling?" I ask him slightly awkwardly, seeing as we haven't really spoken except to argue ever since we got on the train yesterday.

For a moment I think he's going to ignore me completely, but then he shrugs and mutters, "it's a pretty big crowd."

I sigh in annoyance – I wish he wouldn't say things like that in front of Emelda, because it's only going to confirm her initial view that he'll be an easy kill. I don't want him to seem weak in front of her, but then I realise that I probably shouldn't let myself care, not now I should be fighting against him for my own life, and I turn back to Emelda who still stands behind me., trying to ignore the feeling of guilt that washes over me as I do so.

"Have you spoken to District 2?" I ask her, unable to see them anywhere near us.

"I spoke to the boy," there's a faint hint of nervousness in her features as she tells me this, and I can't help the fact that my heart sinks slightly. District 2 are traditionally the most ferocious competitors – it's common knowledge throughout District 4 that they take their training a lot more seriously than we do. "He seemed pretty arrogant, but I had a fairly decent conversation with him." Oh fantastic, so this means I've got a strong, and probably intelligent tribute from District 2 to deal with. Not to mention Emelda, who clearly won't go down without a fight, and then two others, who I've yet to encounter, but will probably be in the same league.

I brush these thoughts off determinedly, "so, who do you reckon is the prime candidate for the leader?" I ask, wanting to keep the conversation with her going rather than actually having to face my own thoughts.

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replies with an uninterested shrug, "I'm sure there'll be plenty of competition for it in training tomorrow." The gong goes off, and my chest tightens as I realise that this is the symbol for the chariot rides to begin. Emelda disappears, flashing me a jaunty little wave as she goes and I clamber onto the chariot, feeling desperately ungainly in my heels as I do so. I hope that the Capitol citizens didn't see me stumbling around, because for them, a pair of high heels is probably like their second feet.

"Neri?" Stelson's voice comes from my side and I turn to see him watching me, eyes wide with terror and his hands visibly shaking. I'm no good with this – I don't know how to comfort a scared little boy who shouldn't even be here. How am I supposed to fight for my death, when it would mean someone as innocent as Stelson having to die?

I reach out a hand and squeeze his shoulder, looking him firmly the eyes, "You have to act brave, Stels," I tell him urgently, knowing that he can't act scared in front of this audience, or especially the other careers who have clearly already singled him out as a target.

"I can't," he whispers, chewing on his lips, "I'm not like you Neri."

What he says is almost laughable, "you think I'm brave, Stelson? I'm the biggest wimp there is. So, if I can do it, then you can certainly do it. Just... just wave when I wave, ok? And don't think about the people watching." I watch him as he nods determinedly, and his back straightens up to show me that he plans to do exactly as I say.

As the chariot starts trundling forwards and I raise my hand almost mechanically towards the shrieking mass of the audience, I can't help think of what Stelson had said to me – about me being brave. Because I'm not – I think of how I push people away because I'm not brave enough to let them close to me and risk getting hurt. Because it's just so much damn easier to hide myself away.

If you're reading, then I'd love to know what you think so far; reviews are always appreciated :D