Sorry, sorry, sorry we haven't been posting. Anyways, just get reading. XD Anyways... disclaimer!

We don't own the Hunger Games, but if we did... let's just say it wouldn't be very good for some of the characters.

Worse Than Death
Dusk's POV

Everything had passed so quickly. The Justice Building, the train ride, the huge, overwhelming dinners with my idiotic fellow tribute and my mentors. It wasn't that bad. Up until now.

"In a few moments, you'll look absolutely stunning!" Firoma squealed as she dabbed powder for the twenty-fifth time on my face.

"Don't I already?" I grumbled sarcastically. Avathis rolled his eyes as he brushed back his spiky eye-watering yellow hair.

"Of course not!" he shrieked. "You barely look human!"

"Whaddaya mean, I don't look human?" I muttered so that he couldn't hear me. "What do I need to look human? Dye myself pink and purple with dog ears?"

"Yes," Aho said vaguely, his purple eye-lined eyes contrasting oddly with his orange colored face . "That's just what you need. And perhaps a jabberjay beak, too..." Oh, great. My prep team wants me to look like some hybrid bird canine mutt. And then set me on a bunch of terrified tributes. Terrific.

"Now... the hair! Tsk tsk, the hair!" Firoma wailed as she held up a lock of my hair, her bright green head shaking as she choked back tears. "It's so... so... so...unshiny!"

Aho and Avathis nodded wholeheartedly. I think I broke a rib from trying not to laugh.

"Okay,"Aho declared as he held up a bottle of gooey shampoo,"Let's get started!"

Yes, let's start torturing Dusk to death. They should really have been there during the dark days. These idiots of a prep team could've tortured anything out of anyone. Boy, how I wish I was wrong. Unfortunately, I was right.

Not only did they have to shampoo my hair over and over until it was shiny enough for their liking (and until my head felt sore), but they decided to re-powder my whole body. And wash me and re-powder, claiming that they missed a spot here and there. Of course, no tribute could ever look truly beautiful without jewels on their finger nails... so they spent another hour placing little itty bitty emeralds and sapphires on my fingernails. I counted the seconds in my head. 17974 seconds later, my stylist, Maddie, came in. If he wanted to give whoever was looking at him a heart attack, he'd succeed.

I felt my stomach qualm as I studied the man who would be my stylist. He was very, very tall, with waist-length golden hair that seemed to glow. His eyes put the sun to shame. All in all, my eyes hurt. A lot. It would've been better if he wasn't wearing such a bright yellow.

"Thank you, Aho, Avathis, Firoma," he said in the highest pitched voice I'd ever heard. "Wait here. I'll need your help in a moment."

My idiotic prep team squawked like that chicken my dad bought once. They just kept on making those shrill noises, and made me wish I could kill them with the comb in Firoma's hand.

Maddie stepped forward, circling around me. I felt a strange urge to kick him in the shin. Then run out of the room and put on the first thing that was actually wearable. But I stood there anyway. No insulting your stylist, Cashmere had told me, unless you want him to ridicule you in front of the entire Capitol. I really wished she hadn't told me something logical as that.

"Now tilt your head up for me," he lilted, putting his fingers under my chin to lift it up. I wanted to bite his fingers off. I really wish I could. He began circling, studying me like I was a doll. I hated it.

"If you dare touch me again, I'll kick you in the crotch," I warned him snappishly. I couldn't take it anymore. Who cared what Cashmere said. I was in for hell anyway. He smiled in such a false way it was difficult for me to restrain my foot.

"I know you like the way you look right now, but we must make you more beautiful if you wish to survive!"

I grimaced darkly. This guy had serious issues with survival skills. "What, you think the mutts will decide I'm too pretty to be eaten, mutilated, or sent to death in whatever painful way they desire?"

"Precisely, darling!" He smiled happily. "I'm so glad to finally have someone clever enough to know how important looks are!"

I stared blankly. Then wondered whether I'd lost all my sanity. Not that I had much in the first place, but this was something not even MY messed up mind could think of.

"... And can we get Torture Hour over with already?" I demanded. "Or do you like prolonging the moment in order to inflict traumatization on my relatively young brain?"

Maddie grinned in a way that made me think that he might be worse than all the Capitol Mutts put together. "Oh, we'll be done soon darling. Very soon."

Yeah, right.

"Don't forget, smile, wave, and look beeeeeeeaaaaaaaautiful!" he squealed. I immediately thought of a mouse. A blond mouse wearing yellow who was holding a gigantic comb and hair curler. Thank goodness that he didn't use it on me.

"Okay," I agreed listlessly.

"Don't grip your dress!"

"Okay."

"Don't trip."

"Okay." I refrained from pointing out that I wouldn't be walking, thus I would not trip.

"Win over the crowd!"

"Whatever."

"Don't give me that attitude!" It seemed that Maddie noticed the change in my answers.

"Okay."

"And... look beautiful! Stunning! Gorgeous! Radiant! ... and, uh, pretty. Goodbyyyyyyyye darling!"

"Okay." I turned heel and scrambled into the chariot, forgetting for a moment that Paris Troy was there. Of course, once I realized that, I stumbled right back out. Then I spent a few seconds deciding which was worse: my psychotic stylist or that idiot blondie. I decided the stylist was worse. The worse Paris Troy could do was kill me. Maddie could lock me up in a room and use me as an oversized cosmetics doll. When I looked at it like that, the answer was quite obvious.

"Say a word to me, and I'll rip your head off," I snapped at blondie as I unwillingly stood next to him. Paris grinned as he swished his hair back.

"Had a bad day, sweetheart?"

My fingers twitched. I seriously started to wonder whether I should just kill him with the diamond clip in my hair, but I resisted.

"Use that head of yours," I advised him,"Or I'll rip it off for you."

He winked. "What's that supposed to mean, sweetheart?"

I exhaled sharply. "That means," I explained with all the patience of a kindergarten teacher,"that if you know what's good for you, you'll shut up."

"What if I don't know what's good for me?" he asked in a flirtatious tone, winking. I grinned.

"We already know, don't we?" I said cheerfully. "If you don't know, that means your head won't be where it is right now for long!"

He took the hint and turned away. Good. But then he turned right back around.

"Oh, come on, Dusk, do we have to hate each other? I mean, what if w-" He stopped short. Probably because I elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hmmmm..." I 'thought' for a moment. "I know this is going to be hard for your pea-sized brain to understand, but... yes, we do. Your brother killed my sister, I'll kill you, and everyone's happy!"

He grumbled and turned around again. If he kept on doing that, his loose bag-head would end up falling off. Maybe then I would be able to find out whether his head was really the hollow shell I thought it was.

The chariot jolted forward, and I almost fell off onto my face. Luckily for me, I grabbed the edge first, so I wasn't run over by the horses. I saw the beautiful-but-creepy girl from District 2 giving me a strange look that was a cross between that-girl-is-so-stupid and let's-see-how-shall-I-kill-her?

I quickly turned around before she could make up her mind. Paris was also looking at me funny. Huh. What am I, a freak show?

Yeah, I am. Why else would I be here, paraded in front of a bunch of live dolls whose only interest is who dies the most dramatically and who kills the most? But since I wanted to live, I began waving and trying to win over the crowd. People were cheering, hooting, and trying to bury us in an avalanche of roses.

It was worse than I thought. I glowered at the audience, while Paris was winking, blowing kisses, and waving at them. Idiot.

Okay, let me get this straight. Nice people equals good. Stuck up blondie flirt equals bad. You get me?

Good.

So you'd understand why I got off the chariot, turned around, and slapped Paris as hard in the face as I could.

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