The ring of the mockingjay pin bit into my palm. The blue of Kya's ribbon peaked from beneath my fingers.
I hadn't trusted my prep team to give them back if I had let them out of my grasp.
Skin stinging from having my hair yanked out, cold despite the room's moderate temperature and plush robe, I waited for my stylist. The person who was going to dress me in some farce of a costume for the opening ceremonies this evening.
Last year, our Tributes had been dressed as lanterns. Lanterns. With stupid lights affixed to their brows and sparkly, glittery fabric that probably cost a year's wages but looked cheaper than shit.
I hated the Parade of Tributes almost as much as I hated the Arena.
When I hunted, I killed quick and clean.
The Capitol played with its prey before it ate it.
I wasn't going to make it easy for them. I'd already reduced my prep team to silence with remarks about being undertaker's assistants.
The door opened.
"Miss Beifong?"
I'd expected a flouncing peacock. Twelve had been subjected to a series of them as no one wanted to dress the District with the longest losing streak.
Cinna was an elegant crane, in dark chocolate with flecks of gold by his eyes. He wore a simple shirt of deep plum and black pants.
He threw me.
"I'm Cinna, your stylist," he said, extending a hand. "It's an honor to meet you."
The funny thing was, I believed he meant it. I shook his hand.
"I'm sorry if the prep team made you uncomfortable," he offered. "They mean well, but they can be -"
"Idiotic?" I supplied, finding my defiance again. They'd been more concerned with my never-shaved legs than with how short my life now was.
He didn't argue.
"So what are you going to shove me into? Overalls? A shovel? How ridiculous am I going to look?"
"No," Cinna said firmly, looking me in the eye. None of my prep team had been able to do that. "I promise you, Miss Beifong, you will not look ridiculous."
He paused for a moment, taking a breath, before continuing. "Did you know I asked for this assignment?"
"What? Why?"
"Because of you." His voice was solemn and earnest. "Because you deserve better than to be made a mockery of. You deserve respect - and you deserve to be remembered."
"There's a fire in you, Miss Beifong. I saw it when you volunteered for your sister and I can see it in you now. I know what you said to your prep team, and to your previous escort, and to me. I think you want to be remembered - as a full human being, as yourself, rather than yet another faceless Tribute."
I couldn't speak.
He was right. He was right, and had somehow articulated what I hadn't been able to consciously understand.
A folio had been tucked underneath his arm. He opened it and held it out to me.
"Let me help you make them remember you."
Black as coal, a simple jumpsuit stood on the page. Simple, except for a flowing cape with peaked collar, also done in black. I touched the scrap of fabric attached to the page; it reflected the light as coal did in flashes instead of sparkles.
"This isn't me," I muttered. "You must've - for someone else - you couldn't have -"
"I drew this last night. I asked to be your stylist this morning." Cinna laid his hand over mine where it still rested on the fabric. "Between you and me, we'll make you unforgettable. Will you allow me to do this for you?"
"Don't have much choice," I responded on automatic. Then, I nodded and said, "I will."
"Thank you." He stepped back, laying the folio on a nearby table. "We already had your measurements and the suit is ready."
He pointed to a screened area at the rear of the room. "Would you prefer if I left the room? Or had a member of the prep team come back? You should be able to get into it by yourself but you might have trouble reaching a few of the fastenings -"
"No. You can stay. I don't want - them."
Strange as it sounds, I felt better about Cinna being there while I changed and potentially touching me than any of the all female prep team.
I slipped behind the screen. Cinna faced the opposite direction, even though the screen was completely opaque.
Already wearing the proper undergarments, I removed the jumpsuit from its hanger. From its appearance, I almost expected the harshness of coal, but instead it whispered against my skin.
I donned it without looking in the mirror. It fit and had a pleasant weight, heavy enough to reassure me it wasn't flimsy or delicate. The boots I liked, solid and black and laced to my knees.
The zipper running along my side I managed fine, but I couldn't quite manage to hook the cape on right.
I stepped out from behind the screen, carrying the cloak in one hand with my pin and ribbon in the other.
Cinna gave me a little sad yet proud smile. More real than any smile I'd seen since coming to the Capitol.
"Unforgettable." He came towards me. "May I?"
I turned and he fastened the cape.
"Makeup now?" he asked, gesturing to a table populated with a plethora of makeup.
I shrugged and sat on the bed, brushing the cloak to one side.
"You'll look like you," Cinna vowed. He selected a very few items from the table, laying them beside me. "We want them to be able to recognize you, now and in the Arena."
He was very gentle as he applied the liquids and powders and goo to my face.
When he finished, he asked, "Can you do your braid?"
"My braid? The same one?"
"Please." Cinna handed me a tie. I did as he requested, fingers flying in a long-memorized pattern. To do it, I had to drop the pin and ribbon into my lap.
Cinna took them.
Dropping the undone braid, I lunged at him. I shouted, "No, you -"
Catching me, he pushed the pin into my jumpsuit, just below my left collarbone, and secured it. I could breathe again.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. The ribbon he quickly tied around my right wrist, pulling the sleeve down to cover it. "I didn't intend - I am truly sorry."
To my embarrassment, tears sprang to my eyes.
Cinna offered me a handkerchief, and made a show of flipping through his sketchbook while I blotted the tears. He fixed my makeup without the slightest hint that he knew why it needed to be fixed. Then he finished my braid, tied it, wrapped it round my head like a crown, and pinned it. Last, he sprayed a fine mist over my hair.
"Would you like to see yourself?" he asked.
"No." I didn't want to see a stranger in the mirror.
"There's one more thing, about the cape." He picked up a small square from the table. "I attached these all over it."
He pressed along one side - and flames flared from it.
"They're barely hot," said Cinna, passing his hand through the flames. "Your dress is fireproof and the spray will protect your hair, just in case."
First quickly, then slowly I felt the flames for myself. They warmed, not burned.
"The controller is below the zipper."
I found it, a button hidden on the ridge of my right hip.
Cinna smiled. "Count to three after you enter and press it."
"Got it."
The loudspeaker cracked, "Tributes, report to the staging area immediately."
"Are you ready?" Cinna asked.
I gave him a look.
"Silly question," he admitted.
"Yeah." I squared my shoulders.
Cinna offered me the crook of his arm, like I was a fine lady.
I took it.
As we exited the room, he said quietly, "Let them see your fire, Miss Beifong. Let them see how bright you burn."
They claimed it was "pride in our District." "A show of unity."
It wasn't.
In that first parade of human sacrifices - because that's what it was - we held hands because Tenzin's a gentleman and because we were terrified.
Tenzin mounted first the chariot first.
Then he offered me a hand. Wary of tripping over my cape, I accepted the help.
But I couldn't make myself let his hand go.
Neither could he. He gripped hard enough to hurt. I did too.
The chariot lurched into motion.
My bones ground in his hold, his ground in mine.
We counted to three.
Flames ignited from our shoulders.
They were cheering.
"Smile, please," Tenzin whispered out of the corner of his mouth. He remembered Mai's instructions. I turned a little towards him.
His smile sickened me. A puppet painted with a grinning slash of red.
A puppet whose eyes told the truth.
Puppets both of us, destined for the fire.
I faced forwards.
And I smiled.
And we held onto each other.
He was the one who lifted our joined hands. Not me.
They cheered louder.
Our faces flickered on the banners. Wide angle on the chariot, then zoom in on the joined hands, on each face, zoom out again.
They loved it.
"It's really quite wonderful to see such pride, they're saying we may be from District 12 but we're proud of it. We're here - together - and we will not be ignored!" boomed the announcer.
Such pretty lies. Such pretty people.
Cheering those who came to die.
Katara always said the dying should never be left without a hand to hold.
Dying, we held hands.