This was humiliating.

I stood fully nude in front of these three alien beings. Also known as my prep team. Salencia, a woman with neon yellow hair, who let her matching nails grow to 4 inches long. I was afraid she was going to rip me apart like a bear. Chamberlain, a spray-tanned man with odd orange tattoos that spread across his face. And Viola, a woman who had dyed her hair, painted her nails, and bleached her skin. All red. Apparently it was "stylish", but to me she just looked like she was an overgrown lobster. Or she had a bad case of sunburn. These thoughts were the only thing keeping me from screaming out.

Needless to say, I wanted out of there.

They ran around me, inspecting every square inch. (At one point Chamberlain even looked down my throat, as if it mattered.) They took miniscule tweezers and plucked my hairs out one by one. I hated the pain, but there was nothing I could do. Without my hair, I felt more naked than I already was. I honestly couldn't understand how I felt self-conscious around these people. They were barley human.

They made comments like, "How filthy!", "I thought District 3 was cleaner than this," or "Quit grinding your teeth, the audience will think we're an awful prep team."

Finally, they were done.

I eagerly grabbed my sage green robe and put it on as the stylists swarmed around me. Salencia grabbed my wrist. "You're nails are acceptable."

Suddenly Chamberlain lifted my leg up. "And we've done all we can for your feet."

And Viola rubbed her fingers through my jet black hair. "And I believe your hair is a lost cause."

My eye twitched with annoyance.

As I swatted her hands away, I heard something. In the corner of the room, a woman walked out of the shadows. She clapped her hands graciously as she exited the shadow. I suppose she wasn't grotesque like most Capitolites. I daresay she was even pretty. On a some-what normal way. She had pitch black hair (most likely dyed.), cut off roughly at her shoulders. She wore black eyeliner, and dark clothing. Despite her gothic appearance, her soft, untouched brown eyes hinted at being a nicer person.

"You may leave now," she said politely to the stylists.

"But-" Salencia started, but the woman gave her a firm, yet gentle look that shut her up. My prep team collectedly left the room.

I tried to figure out what to say. "Um," I started. "Are you?-"

"Yes," she smiled. "I'm your stylist. Darby Sarden."

"May I-"

"You may keep your robe on."

I silently said a thank-you prayer.

She took my hand and led me to a couch on the other side of the room. As I plopped down on the sofa, she stood looking at me.

"You're a good-looking boy," she said. Creepy. She looked me over once more when she turned to the mirror. I slowly got up and joined her. She brushed her fingers through my shaggy hair. It was black, like most of District 3, but a bit longer. It was roughly cut just past my ears, and swept to the left. I couldn't afford hair cuts at home, so I did it myself. Not always such a good idea.

"Your hair is..." she bit the side of her lip as she tried to think of the word. "We don't need to do much. Just a little..." She gave me a sheepish smile and led me to the chair in front of the mirror. I touched my lips as I waited for Darby to do something.

A moment later, she took a tarp apron and placed it over me. As my head went through, I looked at the shelf beneath the mirror. It was covered in tools and trinkets that scared me witless. Who would need to use a power drill in a Remake Center?

Darby must have sensed my nervousness because she laughed. She picked up the drill and revved it twice. "This won't hurt a bit," she said with a smirk.

My eyes were the size of plates. Darby laughed and set the tool down. Instead she picked up a pair of shears. "I would leave your hair alone," she said as she stepped behind me. "But I need to clean it up."

She slowly raked a comb through the mess at the back of my head. As she snipped it off, I winced. "Don't worry," she consoled. "I'm not going to hurt you." She snipped again.

"Do you have a strategy?" she asked curiously. I glanced up at her questioningly. "For the Games."

Oh. "Well..." I started. "I suppose. I use to watch a lot of them. I'd always study the repeats of past Games. So I guess I'll do what the Victors did. They won for a reason."

"You're smart," she said. Snip. "We may just have a new Victor." Snip.

That was like a punch in the gut. "That's just it," I whispered. "I don't want to win."

Snip. "Well why on Earth not?"

"I-" I almost stopped myself. Why should I spill my heart to some dire Capitolite? But there had be someone in this whole blasted country that's worth shooting, right? So I gave it a shot.

"I'm here for my sister."

She stopped and studied my face for a moment, then resumed cutting. Snip. "That's right," she said. "You two are siblings."

"You didn't see the Reaping?" I scrunched my face up in confusion. Why would a stylist, whose job relies on it, not watch a Reaping? An enigma that got me desperate for an answer.

"No," my stylist replied simply. "Those abominations are revolting. How could they tear apart families like that?"

"Of course, the Reapings are awful," I whispered sarcastically. It was more to myself then her. I was appalled. The Reapings were only the beginning to the pain and suffering we were about to face. "It's not like the Games are all that bad."

She gave me a sufferable look. "I don't appreciate that," she scolded. "I don't happen to enjoy these monstrosities by the guise of 'Games'. Not all of us Capitolites are beasts. Only, 70, 75% tops." Snip.

I laughed. Darby wasn't all that bad. The best Capitol resident that I know of, at least. She had good intensions and she seemed normal (Being a Capitolite, that's saying a lot).

"But doesn't your job rely on the Games?" I asked. "How can you hate them if they put food on your table?"

"Do you love your job?"

Personally, I was offended. I think being an assembly line worker was much more different than dressing pigs for slaughter. Snip.

"How is my sister?" I suddenly asked. She seemed to be done with my hair, as she set down the shears.

"Bruno is taking care of her," she replied without looking at me. She walked over, her boots causing an echo to sound throughout the big room. "He's a bit eccentric, but…" She shrugged as she took off the tarp.

The boy in the mirror was a surprise. He was the same person, only cleaner, more brisk. His hair wasn't as shaggy, but it was medium length, just covering his ears. It was straight, yet circling his head in a sweep. He was actually handsome. But he scolded himself once he realized he was thinking in 3rd person again.

The boy in the mirror was a serendipity. He was the same person, only cleaner, more brisk. His hair was straight, circling his head in a sweep. He was handsome. But he scolded himself once he realized he was thinking in 3rd person again.

Darby patted me on the back. "I believe you're ready," she said. She led me back to the futon, and we sat down. "Bruno and I have been working on your costumes."

Oh yeah. Costumes. District 3 normally received things to do with technology. I heard somewhere that Bruno took charge of the designs. He was the Alpha stylist. But from my experience (Experience, as in the past 10 minutes) Darby seemed more mature. Bruno's costumes were extreme hazards. 3 makes cars, so he once thought he could turn the Tributes into giant engines. They went into the Arena with major burns. That was nothing.

"Have you heard of Cinna?" she asked suddenly. Cinna? I might have heard his name once on the TV. I think he was a stylist for District 12.

"I believe so."

"Well," she said. "He was only a stylist for the last Games, but he was one of the best stylists there were." She looked through me, as if remembering him. She said it was two years ago, but she acts like it's been forever. "Well him and I were... closely acquainted. He and I exchanged ideas. We came up with the prosthetic fire. Do you remember?" I nodded. Who could forget?

"Stylists are not supposed to socialize with each other, so the idea was credited to him and his partner Portia." By the way she said her name; I didn't think she liked her very much. "But he helped me with an idea for District 3 also."

Darby stood and opened the chest between the sofas. She held up a long, clear tube with a kind of liquid inside. It emanated a deep green glow, like glass neon bulbs (I've seen people in factories in District 3 that made them). But this rubber should denigrate if that was real neon. Darby must have read my mind, yet again.

"That's just it," she winked. "It's a special rubber. We muttated a rubber tree to have a stronger sap. The compound we made is extremely flexible and can contain toxic gasses." She got up, excitedly, then turned serious as she looked at me.

"But it's a work in progress," she said. "Don't move too much. If it snaps, you might die."

Wonderful.

(Sorry for the long wait, computer virus. I'll get on when I can.)