V

The Remake center. Even that name speaks to what the Capitol does to us: strips us of everything that makes up who we are, and replaces it with a version of ourselves that we don't even recognize in the mirror. As soon as I step into my chamber, I'm surrounded by the team that will try their hardest to make me look like one of them, that is to say erase the distinctly deprived appearance I have. They tsk at the sight of the purple bruise along my jaw, and the heavy bags under my eyes. One of the men, who introduces himself as Amias, pinches a bit of my shirt and makes a face, his – I think they're supposed to be whiskers – twitching in displeasure.
"Maybe the beaten pauper look will come into style," I joke. "I'd be the height of fashion!"
"Oh my dear," says the orange woman – Esme – standing off to the side. "I'm afraid not even a handsome young lad like you could bring that into style." She's mixing something that has a decidedly noxious smell about it. My nose wrinkles, and I'm a goodly distance from her. Maybe the years of working with such substances has destroyed of her sense of smell. I glance at her purple hair which is in stark contrast to her carrot-orange body. Maybe her eyesight, too.
"Well," I say with a sigh and a smile. "I guess you've got your work cut out for you, to make me presentable."
"Don't you worry, dear. Portia, your stylist, and Cinna, the other stylist for your District, have been hard at work for months designing your costumes! You're going to be sensational!"
"They're both new to the games," says Casel, the final prep team member. His expression is weary, as if he's heard it all before. "Eager to make a lasting impression."
Probably in hopes to move up to a better District. The unspoken words hang between us. Over the years of being the poorest and least favored, District 12 has become somewhat the laughingstock of the Games.
Tonight as part of the Opening Ceremony we will be paraded through select parts of the Capitol in horse-drawn chariots. It's the first time that the Tributes will be seen all together, in an exhibition for potential sponsors and viewers alike. The importance of that first impression can't be understated.
It's customary for the Tributes to symbolize the District they are representing, so for Katniss and me that is everything coal and mining related. It's hard to make any impression other than "dirty" in a miner's getup. I think back to all of the Opening Ceremonies that I've watched, and only one year really sticks out in my mind, and for all the wrong reasons – the Tributes were stark naked, covered head to toe in coal dust. I can still recall the whoops of laughter from the announcers as they watched the Tributes try to recover any shred of dignity they had left. The strategically placed lumps of coal did nothing to help their cause.
As if reading my mind, the team informs me that I'm to strip down so they can get to work on me.
"Try to not be too impressed," I tell them as I unbutton my shirt. I'm pretty sure I see Esme roll her eyes.
Hours later I've been scrubbed and polished and buffed until my skin feels raw. My team has even tweezed my leg hair of all things, muttering something about it being too thick. As hair after hair is plucked, it's all I can do to not yell out that nobody cares about my leg hair.
Casel brings over the bowl that Esme was mixing earlier, and smooths it over the lower half of my face and my throat. He looks at my bruise and apologizes that it's going to hurt a little bit more, but he can't very well leave a patch of hair able to grow on me. I'm gagging on the smell and my face from my nose down feels like it's on fire. The bruised skin feels like it's melting right off. My hands are clenched into fists and a sheen of sweat breaks out along my forehead. He explains that this mixture it's to keep hair from growing, and I believe him – I doubt that any hair will ever grow on what's left of my face again.
Mercifully they wash it off and put some sort of lotion on that soothes the burning. I tentatively look in the mirror, expecting to see a mass of angry redness, but my skin is smooth and soft.
Portia comes in to examine the team's handiwork. She deems it to be "good enough" and they are dismissed. She and I stand and look each over for a moment. She's attractive, as far as Capitol women go. Her skin seems to glow a soft golden colour, and there are jewels inlaid in her skin along her arms in intricate designs. With only my underwear on, I am suddenly very aware how naked I am. Her eyes take in the bruise on my jaw, and linger on the ugly scar high on my left shoulder.
It happened a few years ago when Raff, being only 10, was starting out in the kitchens. I was working close by tending to my own chores. It all happened so fast that I don't quite know what exactly caused the flare-up, but I can still remember the heat of the flames as they exploded from the hearth closest to Raff. I can remember myself screaming his name and seeing him frozen in place, flames licking at his heels. Father, Blyne and a few customers had heard the commotion from up front came rushing into the kitchen. Running on pure adrenaline, I pulled Raff from the inferno, handed him to Father, and started beating the fire back with the special fire-retardant blankets that we kept on hand. It wasn't until the fire was under control that I noticed my arm, smelled the burning flesh. It was a bad burn, but I was fortunate that it was contained to such a small area. Considering how much closer he had been, Raff got off lucky as well, though he now sports a map of scars along his back.
"Peeta," she says, extending her hand for me to shake. Her voice is huskier than I was expecting. "My name is Portia. You must be hungry. Come, come, lunch is waiting."
I throw a robe on and follow her into another room where another extravagant meal is laid out for us. I don't even recognize most of the foods in the dishes.
"This is quite different from my usual lunch back home," I say. "Up until now my diet has consisted of mostly stale bread."
Portia looks surprised. "We don't get to learn much about life in the Districts," she says. I catch the slight inflection of her voice and know that this isn't a topic that we should broach.
"The food truly is delicious," I venture. "It's not like I'm going to eat this well while I'm in the arena. I'm going to savor it while I can. I can watch my diet like Effie when I become a Victor."
Portia grins at me, helping herself to a heaping plate as well.
"Am I allowed to ask what you and Cinna have planned for us?"
Her eyes glint at me, and her lips twitch into a smile. "Are you afraid of fire?"
I blanch, and my hand automatically goes to my scar before I can help it. "I'm not a huge fan," I admit. Seeing Portia's face fall, I take a deep breath as if the next thing is going to be really hard to say. "But I suppose I can man up and be brave." I breathe out and smile at Portia. "Really, it was a long time ago. But you do have me a little curious now." I pause, looking thoughtful. "And a little worried."
"I was going to leave it as a surprise, but you're looking at me like I'm about to cook you like a turkey. Cinna and I have been working on your costumes for some time now. We are tired of seeing District 12 be the butt of the Capitol jokes. We want everyone to know just what they're dealing with – strong, vibrant young people that are ready to fight for the crown. Powerful. Of course we have to work within the constraints of what makes up your district, which is where the fire comes into play. Don't worry, it's just a synthetic flame that Cinna and I cooked up."
I can't help it, I laugh. "Cooked up? Portia, that's not helping your cause!"
She laughs too, and promises that she's not about to roast me alive. We chat through lunch, though we stick to topics that are mostly superficial. In no time at all, we're called to back to the prep area to get ready.
The team meets us back in the room and they get to work, putting makeup on my face and any skin that will be exposed from the suit. I steal glances here and there and notice that they've erased my tired look and have even managed to cover up my bruise decently well. I tug at the collar of my costume, which is a simple black outfit that covers me from its too-tight neck all the way down to my black lace-up boots. The colours on the cape and headpiece that Portia dons me with remind me of the colours of the sunsets I used to watch from the roof of our simple home.
In the distance I can hear Effie, who sounds perfectly frantic that we haven't left the prep room yet. She squeals something at Casel as she brushes past him – I don't understand how she moves so fast on those shoes, I'd be liable to turn an ankle – and herds us out the door. Once she sees that we're on our way, she's off like a shot to attend to something else.
I see Katniss before she sees me, and notice she's dressed almost identically. I lean over to Portia and whisper, "she looks much better in this get-up than I do!"
She giggles in reply. "Shush, you! I worked very hard on your 'get up!'"
"Hey, I never said it was the clothes that were the problem," I reply with a wry smile. She laughs and elbows me in the side.
We reach the rest of the District 12 group as I flourish my cape much to the delight of my entourage. I can hear the stylists chatting behind me, ecstatic for tonight's ceremonies. Katniss turns around and am I wrong, or does she actually look happy to see me? I don't have time to think about it now.
We head down a few levels to the area that they gather the Tributes to send out on their chariots. I eye the magnificent creatures that are hitched up as I walk by, astounded at their sheer size. Portia is saying something about how they're trained so well that nobody needs to actually drive the chariot, I throw her a skeptical look.
We step up and the stylists arrange our elaborate capes just so, then step away to prepare the synthetic flame.
"What do you think about the flame?" Katniss asks me.
I'll admit that I'm a bit panicked about the whole thing, so I grit my teeth and say, "I'll rip your cape off if you'll rip off mine."
"Deal. I know we promised Haymitch, but I don't think he considered this angle."
"Where is Haymitch anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I say, though it seems like protecting us is the furthest thing from his mind.
"With all the alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," Katniss says. We both burst out laughing. It's nice to see Katniss loosen up for even just a moment, even if her laughter has an edge of terror to it. I'm sure mine does too.
The music starts up blaring through the speakers just outside the doors, which are opening to let the Tributes from District 1 take the lead. They're always crowd favorites. District 1 makes luxury goods for the Capitol and even though the Capitol claims that it treats the districts fairly, the truth is far from that. The districts closest to the Capitol – 1, 2 and 4 – provide the Capitol with their most treasured goods, while the rest of us supply the lifeblood to the country. How quickly the essentials are forgotten when they're so readily available.
The teams of horses make their way out the doors one by one, and I catch myself wondering how they train these animals so precisely. An odd notion, given the circumstances – I have much more pressing things to worry about.
Cinna appears carrying a lighted torch. I look at him wearily, wanting to shy away from the blue flame.
"Here we go then," he says, and before either of us can react, he's touched the flame to our capes.
I hear Katniss gasp beside me, and I'm frozen in place, not wanting to disturb the flames that are making their way up my back. Who knows how stable this safe flame really is? There's a light tickling feeling as the flame makes its way up my back, and Cinna hops up to light my headpiece. I'm still half-expecting to smell burning hair, but it never comes. I let out the breath I've been holding as Cinna finishes lighting Katniss. I catch my breath. She is spectacular. The flames slowly lick their way over her cape and headpiece, she looks like a master of the flames. Just as I catch myself cautiously captivated by the flames in the fires in our home, I'm spellbound by her. The rest of Panem will be as well.
"It works," Cinna breathes, relieved. He turns off the flame, and reaches out to Katniss, lifting her chin so her eyes meet his. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!" He dismounts and we're in motion towards the doors. He shouts something and gestures, but I can't make out what he's said until he shouts again, "hold hands!"
"What's he saying?" Katniss asks. She does an almost imperceptible double-take of me. I've almost forgotten that I'm on fire as well.
"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say. I grab her hand in mine, and we both look at Cinna for confirmation. He nods and flashes us a thumbs-up.
The crowd is going wild at the sight of us, first bewildered at the sight of flames, then entranced by them. They're featuring our chariot on the screens, and we are an impressive and foreboding pair. We are riveting, with the flames cascading from our bodies.
Katniss has my hand in a vice grip, and I clutch her hand tight in mine. My heart is soaring even though I'm trying to talk myself down from this momentary high. Why not enjoy this moment? I may as well allow myself to bask in as much joy as I can as long as I'm alive.
The ride through the city streets lasts about twenty minutes. Seeing the crowds on television and seeing them in person are two different things. I'm amazed at how many people are gathered to watch the Tributes – to watch us – for the ceremonies. I wave at the crowds, smiling and hoping that there's someone in the crowd willing to take a chance on us now. I don't quite know what I was expecting Katniss to do, perhaps stand stock still like a deer that knows it's been caught, too afraid to run. But she's waving at the crowd as well, and they're going wild.
They're screaming our names, chanting and calling out to us. I'm laughing and smiling, and can feel her doing the same beside me. She's throwing kisses to the crowd, which I'm shocked at; it is in such contrast to the woman on the train not long ago. I'm thrilled that she's trying to win favour with the throng of spectators and potential sponsors; it might be her lifeline in the arena.
We draw up to the President's mansion in the City Circle. Katniss glances down and loosens her grip a bit.
"No, don't let go of me please," I hear myself say. I don't want this moment to come to an end just yet. "I might fall out of this thing." She looks a little confused, but says okay anyways.
We're stopped in front of the mansion, where President Snow will deliver his usual speech to welcome the Tributes to the Games. It's laced with propaganda, of course, and I mostly tune it out. I take a brief moment to look over the other Tributes while the cameras are on the President.
I watch as some tributes stare stoically ahead, while others' eyes flit around as if looking for escape. The tributes from District 1 are striking. They're of nearly equal height, both very powerful and trained to kill. I recognize Cato of course from the replay of the Reaping from District 2. He towers over his female partner, whose name escapes me. They're both wearing some sort of armour that wouldn't protect much in battle. His entire demeanour oozes self-confidence.
There's a tree of a man standing in the chariot for District 11 right next to us, and I almost miss the small creature of a girl standing next to him. I blink – she can't really be old enough to be in the Games, can she? She almost has to stand on her toes to see over the railing of the chariot. I feel sick, bile rising in the back of my throat, and I have to remind myself who I'm here to protect.
I fix my eyes forward once more, feeling the heat of shame behind my ears. The cameras are starting to flit back to the Tributes, so I force a smile. I notice that we're getting more coverage than the others, and my smile comes more naturally. The flames on our costumes are casting a glow around us, and as night falls we are becoming even more brilliant.
The music starts up again signalling that the speech is done, and the chariots make one final round of the City Circle before disappearing into the nearby Training Center. I grasp Katniss' hand even harder as our horses start forward again, and we wave and beam at the crowd one last time. The cheering becomes a deafening roar as we pass by. Finally we are swallowed up by the Training Center doors, and I let my arm fall to my side.
We're surrounded by our prep teams, who are gushing with praise for us and themselves. It's hard to not get caught up in their excitement. They help us down, which I am thankful for having stood on locked knees for the better part of an hour. They carefully take off our capes and headpieces, dousing them in a spray from a canister.
I vaguely realize that Katniss and I are still holding hands; she looks embarrassed as she forces her stiff fingers to open, releasing my hand. I massage feeling back into it as the joints protest the movement.
"Thanks for keeping hold of me," I tell her earnestly. "I was getting a little shaky there."
"It didn't show," she replies. Her grey eyes find mine, jolting my heart. "I'm sure no one noticed."
"I'm sure they didn't notice anyone but you. You should wear flames more often, they suit you." I say, smiling. It's true, she looked positively radiant.
A look crosses her face – I can't place it – then she stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek, right on my bruise and I'm certain that's no accident.