AN: Check it out, another chapter in less than 24 hours! Aren't you proud of me? :)

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games nor any canon characters. I love Suzanne Collins for what she has given me and would never in my life steal from her.

Enok, one of my stylist's two crew members with electric yellow hair, is tearing away at all the hair on my body, while Latvia plucks my eyebrows. No one taught me these things back in District 12. My mother certainly didn't know how to shave or apply makeup, nor did she care. Her stylist crew had always done it for her. Papa taught me how to shave once. I'd shave my underarms for the clothes that called for it, but that was all, and it probably wasn't a good job.

After all hair is removed and the tingling subsides, Latvia scans me with her enhanced orange eyes. She looks to Enok, who also looks my naked body up and down. "Wow," he says breathlessly.

"My thoughts, exactly," Latvia replies. I fold my arms over my breasts. "Wait 'til Jameson sees." This was the most I've heard them say in our whole time in the Remake Center.

Enok and Latvia leave and I wait anxiously. I feel exposed. Actually, no. I am exposed and I don't like it. My robe sits next to me. Should I? What did Haymitch tell me before we were separated? Don't resist? Ha. I cover myself up in my robe just as my stylist, a tall, fit man with pink eyes and jet black hair with tints of blue, walks in.

"Take it off," he says the minute he sees me. I do as he says but only because I'm terrified. "I'm Jameson. Stand and spin for me." I do. When he motions for me to stop spinning, I study his expression but can't quite make it out. Then he smiles at me. "Excuse my being frank, but have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror? Without clothes on, I mean?"

"Yes…" I frown. "Yes, of course I have."

Jameson's skeptical. "Ever really look at yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"What's your weapon, Phoenix?"

"I'm good with a knife."

"But not great?"

"No."

He winces. "Well that won't help you much. Can't shoot a bow?"

"I'm not my mother," I say, getting really tired of being reminded of that.

Jameson smirks. "No, you really aren't." He takes my hand and makes me stand in front of a full-body mirror. "Take a good, long look. Describe what you see."

"Uh," I take a deep breath. It's the first time ever seeing myself this clean and shaven. "Pale skin. Blue eyes. Wavy black hair."

"Stop." Jameson holds his hand up. "You know what I see? I see the perfect hourglass figure. I see alluring breasts. I see so much sex appeal, so much potential. Full lips. Striking blue eyes. Heart-shaped face. Long, silky dark hair. You see what your parents gave you. I see you, and you, my dear, have been reaped into these Games at seventeen, well-developed, and with one of the greatest weapons you could have."

I raise a plucked eyebrow at him. "What is that?"

"Your body," he helps me put my robe back on, "if, of course, you can learn how to use that to your advantage. Starting by flaunting it." Jameson lifts the lavender dress I was wearing earlier by the tips of his thumb and pointer finger as if it were a disgusting rag. "No more innocent, school girl dresses." He pulls off my pin and then tosses the dress down a chute. "You're not innocent, you're dangerous. Look confident and you will feel confident." I open my mouth to speak but he stops me. "Yes, I've been talking to your mentor."

I don't know what to make of Jameson yet. I don't dislike him, but I don't quite like him either. At least he isn't annoying, just forceful, but maybe that's what I need.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he asks me quietly.

"Sure."

"Don't take this offensively, but I always hoped you would be reaped one day."

I frown, folding my arms over my chest which he corrects by readjusting my posture so that my hands are on my hips and my shoulders and back are straight. "Stop hiding yourself," he instructs. "You look weak when you hide. Make yourself believe you are powerful and they will believe it, too." I glare up at him. "Perfect," he chuckles. "Now pout that fluffy lower lip."

"Why did you want me in these Games?" I ask, ignoring his quip.

"So I could meet you," he says simply while sitting me down in a chair and finger-combing through my hair. I cannot deny how wonderful it feels. He continues, "So I could truly show off my talent as a stylist. Try something more than the coals-on-fire routine."

He was talking about my parents' memorable entrances in the 74th and 75th Hunger Games. Prior to Cinna and Portia, their stylists, District 12 always had some sort of coal miner outfit. After them, stylists always had the tributes "on fire" in some way. One year, it went all bad. The stylists made a mistake and their tributes were almost roasted alive. Lost most of their hair, though.

"Please, don't take it the wrong way," Jameson massages my neck and shoulders. I feel myself loosen up considerably. "I admire you greatly. And if we're to start another rebellion, who better to stir the hearts of Panem than you?"

"Because I'm the daughter of the mockingjay?"

"Well yes, but you're also the daughter of the girl on fire."

"And?"

"And what bird is born from the ashes of a fire?"

For the first time, I manage a smile. "A phoenix."

Jameson smiles, too. "Which leads me to your opening ceremony outfit…"

AN: Ta-da! I'm in a fantastic mood today, let me tell you. And I'm really excited for the next chapter, but you'll just have to wait.