CHAPTER 6

A/N: Hello? Is anyone there? It's been over a year since I've posted to this story. So much has happened. I got pregnant, then very sick. To save my baby, I spent 7 months doing NOTHING. He still came 7 weeks early, and it's been a long road, but he's a happy, healthy 6-month-old. I'm just now starting to feel like myself again, and that means back to writing! Thank you to those who PM'd me to see if I was ok. Your messages brought light to a dark time. Even if no one is still reading, I'm hoping to have this story finished by summer.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games characters, dialogue, and situations are not mine.

We arrive at a train station underground, gleaming white tile reflecting the bright lights from the high ceiling above. Effie admonishes us, "Now, please conduct yourselves in a polite and restrained manner. We want to put our best foot forward. There is no second chance at a first impression!"

Stepping daintily, Effie strides into the moving crowd and there's nothing to do but follow her. I stay close behind Katniss, worried about getting separated at first. But as soon as we start walking, the crowds part for us. The once noisy crowd begins to quiet as whispers surround us, obviously discussing the last two tributes. These people have seen all twenty-four of us trickle in over the course of the day. I wonder how we compare to the others, if anyone here thinks we have a chance.

Effie leads us under one of the archways into a long hallway ending in three metal doors. They look like the doors to the elevator in the Justice Building in District 12, but much cleaner. The sounds of the whispers from the station fade as we approach the elevators, to be replaced by a soft whirring noise when Effie pushes a small button in the wall beside the middle door.

A ding sounds, the far-right door opens and we pile in. Effie pushes another button, this time on the control panel in the elevator, the doors close, and we move smoothly upwards. This isn't anything like the elevator back home, that lurches and groans as it takes you up. This is more of a glide, I can hardly feel we're moving.

It's a short ride, two, maybe three floors up, we come to a stop and the doors open to another white tiled corridor. There are doors down each wall, I quickly count twenty-four in all. We've arrived at the Remake Center and of course, our rooms are all the way at the end of the hall. Effie's shoes click click click on the hard floor, sounding almost like a clock counting the final seconds of our freedom.

"Ladies on the right, gentlemen on the left," Effie says, pointing to each as if we don't know directions. "Behave yourselves and don't put up a fuss."

Under her breath, I hear Katniss say, "It wouldn't do us any good, anyway." I smile. It's the first thing she's said since turning away from me on the train earlier. Before Effie or I can say anything else, Katniss grabs the handle on the door to the right, and steps inside, closing it behind her.

I look at Effie, a little lost. This is it. I don't know why this feels more real to me than anything else that's happened since she called my name, but it finally hits home. The Games are about to begin.

"Thank you, for all your help," I say. I know in her own way, that's all she's been trying to do.

She smiles at me, "Oh, you are welcome, Peeta! But don't worry, I'm not done with you yet! I'll be helping you all the way into the arena!" Like that is supposed to make me feel better.

I nod to her, and she goes click-click-clicking back towards the elevators. I take a deep breath, and go into my own room.

Someone in the Capitol must really love white, I think, as I take in the white tiled walls and floor. A counter runs the length of one wall, covered in metal devices and jars of liquid I can't identify. A huge black chair is in the center of the room, with more strange metal contraptions coming out of both sides. Along the other wall, two white cotton robes hang on either side of a long mirror. And directly across from me, another door.

Not sure what I should be doing, I walk over to the counter to get a closer look at its contents. They don't make any more sense upon further inspection. There are long, thin, sharp implements, pads of rough paper, small scissors, hooks and files. Frankly, it appears I'm about to be tortured. I pick up a particularly gruesome looking apparatus, with handles like scissors on one end and metal bars on the other that pinch together when I close the handles. What is all this?

"Oh, look at you! More handsome even than you look on screen!"

The shrill voice startles me, and I drop the pincher to the counter with a clatter. I spin around quickly and see three people are standing in the other door way.

One of them steps forward, and in the same shrill voice says, "Don't be frightened! We're your prep team! We're going to take that pretty face and make it fabulous!"

She is short, very short and skinny. As skinny as some of the poorest in the Seam. Her hair flows around her down her back in a shocking pink wave, and I'm mesmerized by the color. I don't think there are any dyes in the bakery I could use to even come close to it. Her eyes are the same color pink, and her eyebrows and her eyelashes.

"I'm Rosea, and this is Nox and that's Anguis," the other two step into the room, equally strange looking.

Nox is just as thin as Rosea, but as tall as I am. Everything about her is pure black, skin, hair, nails, except for bright silver swirls that cover her arms and legs and her bright green eyes. The effect is stunning, so much so that I almost don't notice the third member of my prep team.

He is almost normal looking. Skin tone like mine, mahogany brown hair, until I see his eyes. They are frightening, deep orange and the pupils are the wrong shape. Not round but dark vertical slits. When he smiles at me, I notice his canine teeth have been sharpened to extreme points, and when he talks, it is with an even more pronounced lisp than other Capitol citizens, because his tongue is forked like a snake's.

"Come over here, Peeta, let's look at you," Anguis hisses in a friendly way, patting the chair beside him.

I cautiously step forward. I knew people in the Capitol were strange, but I've never been this close to any of them but Effie, and these three make her seem sane. I sit facing them on the chair.

"That won't do," Nox's voice is soft and quiet, and I must strain a bit to hear her, "We'll need a full view before we get started."

I stare at them, confused. A full view? What else do they want to see?

Rosea realizes I'm stumped, "Your clothes, dear! Strip down so we can see what we've got to work with!"

Oh! I'm immediately embarrassed. No girl has seen me naked, except I guess, my mother, but that doesn't count. I don't think I can do this.

"Quiet thing, aren't you? Come on, up and out of them, we haven't got much time to get you ready!" Anguis pokes me in the shoulder, making to push me off the chair.

Behave and don't fuss. I hear Effie's voice in my head. It wouldn't do us any good if we did. And Katniss. They're both right. I'm going to be dead in about a week anyway. What does it matter if these three see me naked.

So I stand and take off my clothes. I'm a little cold, goosebumps rising on my arms. They start to scrutinize me, looking over every inch. Nox tuts over the burns on my arms. Anguis pokes at my abdomen and thighs. Rosea grabs my chin and turns my face this way and that. After a few minutes, they all step away at the same time, retreating to a corner of the room, starting a whispered conversation. Every so often, one will glance over at me and either squint or nod.

Not sure how long this is going to take, I sit back down on the chair. The slick black surface sticks to my skin. I lay back and stare at the ceiling, wondering what my prep team is going to do to me. Will they make me look more like them? Some tributes enter the arena almost unrecognizable from the person they were when they were Reaped. I hope that's not the case for me.

Silence calls my attention back to Rosea, Nox and Anguis. They've stopped whispering and have moved over to the counter, each selecting assorted items and placing them on large trays they've pulled from out of nowhere. Weapons chosen, they make their way over to me and the chair, Rosea by my head, Nox by my torso and Anguis down by my feet. Each of the trays clips onto one of the long arms extending from the chair.

"Ok, now we've got instructions from Portia, that's your stylist, we're not to do anything drastic, we're just to clean you up a bit, a quick once over on some of the rougher areas and call it a day," Rosea talks quickly. The Capitol accent, all clipped vowels and long esses, rolls out of her mouth to the point where I almost can't keep up.

"A shame, really," says Anguis, disappointed.

"He would beautiful in a light blue, to match his eyes," Nox runs a dark finger down my left arm.

"Yes, yes, but you heard Portia. Buff and shine! Let's get to work!" Rosea proclaims.

The team works on me for what feels like hours. They start with my skin, the rough paper from the counter scraping off callouses on my hands and feet. Then a runny yellow liquid is poured over my arms. It really stings, but as I watch, the burn scars fade. You can still see them, but they aren't as ugly. A thick white paste comes next, all over, and they use small, bristled brush to rub it in, then wipe it off with soft cotton towels.

I close my eyes and lose track of what they are doing, blocking out their chatter as they move around me, giving me what Rosea keeps referring to as a "buff and shine." I'm grateful at least I'll still look like me when all this is over. I can't imagine what they'd be doing if my stylist wanted me to be significantly altered.

Rosea said my stylist's name is Portia. I don't recall that name from any of the previous Hunger Games, so she must be new. It makes sense, since all the new stylists are stuck with District 12. Only the best get to move up to the better, more successful districts.

Portia will be responsible for my overall look from this point forward. Stylists, like mentors, can make or break a tribute's chance in the Games. The people of the Capitol care about how a tribute looks as much as they care about how good they are in a fight. My clothes, my makeup, my hair, everything will be carefully controlled by my stylist. Or not so carefully, if she's a bad one.

Well her first challenge is coming up. The opening ceremonies are tonight, and the costumes for the chariot parade will be the best indicator of how good a stylist Portia will be. Each District's tributes are dressed to show off their main industry: District 1, luxury items, District 4, fishing, District 11, agriculture and so on. As the coal mining District, the stylists for our tributes don't have a lot to work with. I remember the year ours came out in their chariot stark naked and covered in coal dust. I shudder at the thought.

The prep team has moved away from me, busy putting up the trays and discarding the dirtied towels from my transformation. I open my eyes and look down at myself. The slight sheen left on my skin is odd, but other than that, I'm not too different. I'm very clean, and my skin almost glows in the bright lights. My nails are uniform shapes, my hair is shorter, but still falls forward over my eyebrows when I run my fingers through it. Relief courses through me. My prep team wasn't lying, I am still me.

I gently touch my eye, the one Haymitch punched. It's still tender, but not as painful as before. It seems they've left the bruise, like they've left traces of the scars on my arms.

Rosea turns back to me, smiling, "We've got to go now, Peeta. Portia will be here soon. Oooh I can't wait to see you in the parade!" She bounces out of the room, followed by Nox who waves, and Anguis who blows me a kiss.

The door closes behind them, and I'm on my own. Looking around again, I catch a glimpse of my face in the tall mirror. I do still look like me, but a better me. I can't tell exactly what they've done, but I look sharper, not so soft around the face. I'm still looking at myself when the door opens again.

A tall woman walks in. Her skin is a beautiful color, like the hot chocolate we drank on the train. Her hair is curly and crazy, a light color, like mine. She really does look almost normal, no surprises for me like Anguis. This must be my stylist.

"Hello, Peeta. My name is Portia. My partner Cinna and I are the stylists assigned to District 12, and I requested that I be allowed to work with you," Her voice is smooth, calming, sweet, reminding me again of the hot chocolate from the train, "Would you please stand up for me?"

I get out of the chair, for the moment forgetting to be self-conscious. Portia doesn't scrutinize me the same way the prep team did. She looks me over quickly, smiles, and hands me one of the robes hanging beside the mirror.

"Come with me," she says. I follow her through the far door into a small sitting room. There is a dark wooden table and two chairs next to a window that looks out onto a busy street. The walls aren't white, but a warm brick color like the ovens in the bakery. The carpet is a deep blue, thick and soft on my bare feet.

Portia walks over to the table, points me to a chair and asks, "Are you hungry? Should I order us some lunch?"

"Yes," I say, my voice rough. I realize I haven't spoken since my last words to Effie in the hallway. I have no idea how long ago that was, but since Portia mentioned food, my stomach comes to life, letting me know that as far as it's concerned, it's been way too long since breakfast.

She walks over to a panel set in the wall next to a small metal door, presses a button and asks that lunch be delivered to our room. Seconds later, there's a ding, and she opens the door to reveal a tray laden with food. Portia carries it over to the table and sits across from me.

The tray holds two portions of chicken and orange chunks floating in a creamy sauce. There are two bowls of a white grain I don't recognize, and a honey-colored pudding. But what catches my attention are the rolls. They are shaped like roses, the tip of each petal delicately browned, the surface glossy. They are unlike anything I've ever seen, better than the fanciest rolls we make for the mayor during rare visitors from Capitol officials.

"Eat, Peeta, then we'll talk," Portia pulls one portion of food towards herself and pushes the rest on the tray to me. All of this, just for lunch? My stomach gurgles, urging me to dig in. Everything is delicious, especially the beautiful rolls. I try not to eat too quickly, but it's just a few minutes before I've cleared my plates. I wipe my face and hands with the napkin, and look up at Portia. It doesn't look like she's touched her food. Maybe she's not hungry.

She opens her mouth to speak, but sighs, closing it. Her eyes trace over my face, as if looking for something. I don't know what she wants from me. I feel like I'm letting her down.

In her velvety smooth voice, she starts again, "Peeta, I've wanted to be a Tribute stylist since I was your age. I'm here to help you. I want you to have the best possible chance in these Games."

I don't know what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn't that. Without thinking, I say, "It must be nice, to choose what you want to do."

She looks puzzled, and asks, "What would you do, if you could?"

There is something about Portia that makes me blurt out the first thing on my mind.

"I'd save Katniss."

I can't meet her eyes. I look down at the carpet, digging my toes into the dense fibers, trying to hide them, to hide me. I feel more naked than when the prep team had me stripped to the skin. Now, two people know my secret.

"Peeta," her quiet voice penetrates the silence, "Look at me, please."

Reluctantly, I raise up my head to see a soft smile on Portia's face, and eyes full of understanding.

"There is no shame in being in love, Peeta. But would you give up on yourself so easily? If I tell you I think you have a real chance to win, could I change your mind?"

"No," I whisper. Never, I think.

She sighs, "There is nothing more noble than wanting to sacrifice yourself to save another. If anyone understands that, it's Katniss. Does she know?"

"Please, please don't tell her. She can't know, not now. Not after all this time and now we're here. Please, Portia, please-" My words catch on a sob, and now I'm afraid I'll break down in front of Portia like I did with my father.

I feel soft hands curl around my shoulders, a floral smell slips through the air, and Portia's calming voice says, "No, I won't."

Portia's eyes are much closer now. I can see very faint lines that curve upwards from the edges. They are kind eyes.

"Peeta, I'm very sorry you've found yourself here. I told you I'm here to help. I will do whatever I can, if saving Katniss is what you truly wish."

"It is," I nod. Is it possible she'll really help me? Won't her chances of being promoted be hurt if I lose? Why would she do this?

She looks pensive, and stares across the room for several moments, absentmindedly twirling one of her curls around her fingers.

"I don't think," she starts hesitantly, "we can pull this off on our own. Now that we have a goal, we'll need all the help we can get. Cinna, my partner, your mentor and escort, can I tell them, as long as I promise Katniss won't find out?"

Others? I'm not even sure Portia will really help me, much less this other stylist I've never met. And definitely not Haymitch. We made a deal that we'd do what he says and try to win. How is he going to feel about me backing out of that now?

"I don't know," I'm honest with her.

"Ok, Peeta. Let's just get through the Opening Ceremonies and we'll go from there." She hops up from the couch, and walks over to a slit in the wall that runs from the ceiling to the floor. At the press of another button, part of the wall slides away and a rack glides out, on which is hung a full black suit, shiny leather boots and strips of yellow, orange and red fabric.

_O_O_O_

The colorful strips of fabric turned out the be a cape, which streams behind me as we walk down the hall towards the elevator. Portia and I have been joined by my prep team, who gasp in delight at my costume.

Waiting by the elevator are Katniss and her team. She takes my breath away in an outfit that looks like mine, her hair is sleek and glossy, her skin glows, and I'm pleased to see she hasn't been covered up in too much makeup. They've left her alone, just a "buff and shine." Not that she needed any changes to stand out from even this preening crowd from the Capitol.

I don't get a chance to even say hello. We're pushed to opposite sides of the elevator as the prep teams congratulate the stylists on how amazing we look, and what a splash we're going to make. It's hard for me to understand them when they speak so quickly, but I catch the words fire and capes several times. My eyes meet Katniss's and they must be as round as mine. What about our capes, and fire?

A man from the other prep team, maybe her stylist Cinna, must notice Katniss's look, because he says, "It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe."

I wonder why Portia didn't tell me. Maybe she thought I'd run away, screaming. Not that I'd get very far, but after our conversation and my revelation, I did think we were on the same side. I guess it's possible since I'm a baker's son with the scars to prove it, it didn't occur to her I might fear open flame near my body.

We reach the bottom floor of the Remake Center, and the elevator doors open to a gigantic stable full of chariots, horses, tributes and prep teams. Sounds and smells assault me as we make our way over to our chariot all the way at the end of the line. District 12, always last.

Cinna and Portia load us up into the chariot and fuss about us. They pose us, carefully drape our capes, and Cinna plays with the angle of Katniss's headpiece. Once we are satisfactorily placed, the move away a few feet, bending their heads together and whispering to each other.

I strain to hear what they're saying, when a light fluttering blows in my ear.

"What do you think? About the fire?" Katniss whispers to me.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed by her nearness, and must restrain myself from reaching out to her. I try to make a joke, so she won't notice.

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine."

"Deal," she says, deadly serious. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

I guess there are a lot of things Haymitch never considered, especially what I told Portia.

"Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I ask her. If I keep our conversation lighthearted, maybe she won't notice how I'm leaning toward her like a flower to the sun.

She surprises me by saying, "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."

We both start laughing. I'm so grateful for the relief of tension I almost miss the opening music. Light floods the stable as huge sliding doors part to show streets teeming with Capitol citizens eager for the start of the Games. We'll process past them on our way to the City Circle, where we'll be welcomed and escorted to the Training Center, the last stop before the Games begin. The front chariots start to move, each one waiting a few minutes before the next breaks into the open. It's not long before we're up behind District 11 at the gates.

The chariot rocks back slightly as Cinna appears, bearing a lit torch. "Here we go then," he says as he sets our capes on fire. There's no heat as the flames rush towards my shoulders, only a light tickling sensation. "It works," he sighs with relief.

He looks directly at Katniss, and touches her face, "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

As he lands, our chariot starts to pull away. He shouts and gestures to us, clasping his hands together. I can't him over the roar of the crowd and the music.

Katniss leans over to me, "What's he saying?" Looking at her, lit by the flames, I'm stunned. She is beauty, and I wish I could capture this moment forever.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say. Who knows if this is what Cinna wanted? I don't really care. I want to touch her, so I grab her hand, and she looks to Cinna as we pick up speed. I can only assume I'm right, since she doesn't jerk her hand out of mine as we pull out in to the city.

I don't take my eyes of Katniss, even when the gasps of the crowd turn to cheers of "District Twelve!" Our carriage sways slightly and Katniss clutches my hand, hard. Flowers rain down on our chariot and people start screaming our names, more hers than mine. She's mesmerizing.

When we pull to a stop in the City Circle, Katniss loosens her grip on my hand. I grasp at her. "No, don't let go of me," I say, Ever, I think. "I might fall out of this thing."

"Okay," she says.

When the music stops, all eyes, including mine, turn to the president, who welcomes up to the Capitol. As daylight fades to night, the flickering of our capes becomes distracting and I can still hear the crowds whispering our names. The anthem plays, and our chariots all file into the Training Center.

As the cheers of the crowd are cut off by the doors, our prep teams surround us. My three are ecstatic, Rosea and Nox almost in tears and Anguis hissing away. Cinna and Portia come into view to help us out of the chariot. Portia spun us around and sprayed our capes with some kind of mist that extinguished the fake flames.

I feel Katniss pull away from my hand, and with no excuse to hold on, I let her go. I bring my hand up to my chest, hoping to hold onto the feeling of her fingers clasped in mine.

She's looking down at her hands, rubbing them together. We're awkward now, in a way we weren't in the chariot.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," I say. I tend to be self-deprecating when I don't know what else to say.

"It didn't show," she says, "I'm sure no one noticed."

Buoyed by the compliment, I'm eager to return in kind, "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you, " I didn't, "You should wear flames more often. They suit you." I smile at her.

She smiles back, and surprises me again by reaching up on tiptoe and kissing my cheek.