This has to be one of my favorite chapters. Not totally sure why. Hope you guys like it too!

I can't decide if I want to post twice as often or quit posting at all. I think I'm putting too much pressure on myself, hoping people will like this. Realistically, it doesn't matter if anyone likes it or reads it: the story is what it is.

…but I still really hope you like it…

Haymitch is pleased we've come around to his plan. We tell him at breakfast. I still think it's a terrible idea, but I know we'll never make it on our own, so we have to at least try to get in with the Careers. Try. That's what I promised Peeta.

Effie clears her throat sharply as an Avox pours her tea. "Anyway, if you're done with your babbling…"

"Strategizing to save our lives," Peeta corrects.

Effie ignores him. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in her head. Easier, probably. "We have a very big day ahead of us! Any guesses, Katniss?"

I hate the way she singles me out, and I let her know with a big sigh. "The tribute parade?"

"Yes!" She is way too happy to have received a correct answer. "But first you will be meeting with your stylists and prep teams! Exciting, isn't it?"

"Unpleasant" is the word I would use, but I actually just say, "Sure."

"They'll coach you on everything, exactly what to do," she reassures me, as if that's truly what I'm worried about. "You remember, don't you, Gale?"

"Yes," Gale says flatly. It's the first word he's said all morning, most of which has been spent staring angrily into a cup of coffee.

Effie starts babbling on about last year's parade, how fantastic Gale (and Madge) had looked. I remember the costumes looking more sock-like than stylish, but I'm just glad she's not asking me dumb questions anymore. Haymitch glares at me, though, when he notices me spacing out. "Everdeen, pay attention! You need all the help you can get to make a good first impression."

"What did your parade costume look like, Haymitch?" Peeta asks. He sounds innocent, but I can tell he's being irritating on purpose, and I can tell it's working because Haymitch adds another splash of liquor to his coffee and doesn't say anything in reply.

After breakfast- which I drag out as long possible, now that I finally have an appetite- we go to the Remake Center. I'm dreading this. Haymitch instructs us to "do whatever the stylists tell us to" and stays back in our suite, leaving Gale and Effie to guide me and Peeta to what sounds more like a torture chamber than anything else.

The elevator ride is painfully awkward. Effie talks and talks, blissfully unaware of how uncomfortable the rest of us are. The tension between Gale and I is palpable. He hasn't spoken to me once, instead sticking to the occasional irritated glance. I can't really blame him, though. I don't have anything to say to him either.

I know why he's upset with me. It's the hour I spent on the rooftop with Peeta last night. I should have known that would piss him off, but truth be told, Gale's opinion wasn't my top priority at the time. You would think he'd understand, but his stony silence makes it pretty clear he doesn't.

It's a relief, almost, when we split up, several floors below the ground. I guess every tribute has their own "remake room". I'm sat down in a leather chair and almost immediately assaulted by what I can only describe as freaks. There are three of them, brightly colored in every possible way: hair, skin tone, clothing, and jewelry. It almost hurts my eyes to look at them. They introduce themselves and Flavius, Octavia, and Venia, but I have little hope for telling them apart.

I actually think I look alright today, but they seem genuinely disturbed by my appearance. One of the women- I think it's Venia- picks up my braid and wrinkles her nose. "Oh my. How do you live like this?"

I just shrug, not sure if there's any point explaining to her what extreme poverty looks like and how few baths that included. Also, I don't know what "conditioner" is.

"And all this hair!" adds the other one, rolling up one pant leg. "That's it. Into the bathtub with you!"

I'm a little uncomfortable at being given a bath by three weird adults, but Haymitch's advice (no, it was an order) sticks in my head. Into the bathtub, it is, and I simply will have to endure. They scrub me with all these different soaps and products until I feel like I'm rubbed completely pink and raw.

The real painful part, though, is removal of the hair. Legs, arms, underarms- all places it is, as far as I know, perfectly natural to have hair. The prep team seems to have some personal problem with it, because they tear all of it off with strips of wax. It hurts so much I begin to think I would rather stare down the arena than another second of hot wax in sensitive places. Seriously. It's inhumane. I have to make an effort not to howl in pain.

They're even more horrified by my fingernails. I don't really know why. It's something I've never paid much attention to myself, but Flavius actually has to leave the room because he's so distressed. I try not to be offended.

Venia and Octavia are also put off, but they don't make as much of a fuss. They file and buff my nails for what feels like hours, chit-chatting all the while. I respond only when I have to. I have very little to say to them.

"Alright," says Octavia, when my cuticles finally look appropriate, whatever that means. "Let's get you some lunch!"

"Are we done?" I ask hopefully.

"Well…" she trails off. "It's more like you're "ready to get started"."

I groan and flop back in my chair, but Venia just pushes me out of it and towards a small black dining table. I am served a meal of dainty finger sandwiches and fancy cheese and crackers, things I couldn't possibly make a mess of myself with. I'm grateful they let me eat alone. It's a nice break from the chattering of my prep team. They're like songbirds that never shut the fuck up.

The meal ends far too quickly, and Flavius ushers me back to the same chair I was subjected to so much torture/beauty in. "Cinna will be here in just a minute," he tells me. "We'll leave you two alone!"

The prep team scurries out of the room. I swallow hard. Cinna. That must be my stylist. I wonder if he'll be as freakish as my prep team, or worse. Can it even get worse? I mull that over and decide that yes, it could. If I've learned anything in the past week, it's that things can always get worse.

I am pleasantly surprised by Cinna, though. He could never pass for being from District Twelve, but as far as Capitol citizens go, he is shockingly close to normal. There's nothing artificial about his mahogany skin or close-cropped black hair. Actually, the only sign of modification is the rim of gold liner around his eyes, which could actually be described as tasteful.

I assume I'll have to undress for him, since I did for the prep team. My fingers fumble with the string of my robe, but the man- Cinna- holds up a hand. "No need. I'm not concerned with that. I just want to talk to you."

I look at him warily. I'm not sure if I can trust him or not- it takes a lot more than one sort of decent gesture to win me over. "Okay."

"First of all, I'm sorry that all of this has happened to you," Cinna says with a nod, as if he is acknowledging my pain. "I know they can be…a bit much."

I just nod back. I almost feel the need to defend my prep team, since I really feel like they don't know any better.

"Not to mention, the lifestyle adjustment from your home. I'm sure you're confused and under a lot of pressure."

I am, but I'm not going to admit that to him, so I just nod again.

"So if there's anything I can do to make this easier on you, I want you to tell me," Cinna says, clasping his hands together with a sense of finality. Against my nature, I believe he means it. "Now, let's talk about your costume."

I gulp. The tribute parade often treats District Twelve as the butt of a joke. Grimy miner outfits, coal dust in lieu of clothing, that sort of thing. I flash back to Gale's costume last year. We had all laughed at it back then, but he at least had the privilege of being decently covered. I don't know if that same privilege will be granted to me.

Cinna goes on. "I'm something of a…revolutionary in the fashion world, I guess. This is my first year styling for District Twelve, and I want to bring some new and fresh ideas to how we interpret it."

I get a bad feeling in my stomach. I knew I shouldn't trust this guy.

"Everyone before me has focused on the production of the coal, or maybe, if we're lucky, the coal itself," Cinna muses. "You follow me, Katniss?"

Unsure of what else I can possibly do, I nod along with him.

"I think we need to think bigger than that," he declares, with the confidence of a madman or someone who is truly passionate about fashion. I'm not sure which is worse. "Last year's stylist, she had a good idea, dressing the tributes up as pieces of coal- but what do you do with coal once it's harvested?"

My throat runs dry, but I swallow hard and give him an answer. "You set it on fire."

"Exactly!" says Cinna. He gives me a big, encouraging smile that makes me like him even though I'm scared right now, but he quickly turns serious again. "I've already discussed this with my co-stylist, Portia, and she's discussing it with your district partner, but I want you to weigh in too. It would be perfectly safe, all synthetic. What do you think, Katniss- are you afraid of fire?"

I swallow hard. The obvious answer would be "yes", but I remember what I promised Haymitch. And why I promised it. "No, of course not. Let's do it."

§

I regret my decision more and more as the day goes on. Apparently Peeta has also agreed to be set on fire, because Cinna's "new and fresh" idea for our costumes is going through. For the rest of the afternoon, he flits in and out of the remake room, taking measurements and making suggestions to my prep team, who are working on my hair and makeup.

At least I did get my wish of being decently covered. My whole body is covered, actually, except my head and my hands. I'm dressed in a tight black jumpsuit with heeled boots that almost blend into the stiff, shiny material. It is not at all comfortable.

Peeta is dressed much the same. We meet in a pavilion near where the parade will start, accompanied by our stylists, mentors, and escort. Haymitch is somehow still on his feet; I can smell the alcohol on him from half a mile away.

"Oh, Katniss you look…lovely," Effie says hesitantly, as if it's hard to find something nice to say about patent leather.

"Don't worry, Effie, this is just the beginning," Cinna assures her. He gives Peeta and me each a small remote control. "This will start the flames. Again, completely synthetic! I don't want to do it right away- I want the crowd to see them moment you light up."

I turn the remote over in my hand. There's only one button. "Does it work to turn it off, as well?"

"Well…no. You'll have to be extinguished manually," Cinna tells us. "But we'll be ready to do it as soon as the parade ends!"

I automatically look to Peeta, and we both wince. That is not a comforting sentence.

Gale grunts, which seems to be his preferred method of communication these days. "You don't look half as dumb as I did last year."

"Hey, don't insult a fellow stylist's work!" Portia, the other stylist, jokes. "Your costumes were a key part in inspiring us to do this!"

Gale alternates looking Peeta and I dead in the eye. "You're welcome."

I heave a great sigh. I should have known he'd still be in a mood. I hate when we fight, but there's really no time to argue. Cinna and Portia shuffle us towards our chariot, which already has a pair of black horses attached to it. There is no driver. The horses are so well-trained they don't need one.

"I know you're both scared, but I want you to act as if all of this is no big deal," Portia instructs. I don't want to like her, but she's just as warm and friendly as Cinna. While also being insane, apparently. "Really do your best to keep your cool out there, okay? And remember, you're a team!"

I guess the idea of being on a team is alright. At least I won't die alone.

"We'll meet you at the end of the route!" Cinna promises, and they both rush off.

I hope we'll at least have Haymitch or Gale for company, but no- the mentors scurry off too. Looks like Peeta and I are dealing with the agonizing anticipation alone.

I turn the tiny remote over in my hand. Peeta just grips the edge of the chariot. "You know, I was kind of hoping you'd shoot the idea down," he confesses.

"I was thinking the same thing about you."

"Well, if we survive this…lesson learned."

I roll my eyes, but I am genuinely comforted by Peeta's presence. He does have a way of lightening the mood.

In addition to being degrading and possibly hazardous to our health, the parade is our first chance to get a look at our fellow tributes. Well, I guess I could have looked earlier, if I had watched the Reaping for any other district, but I didn't.

District One comes out first, their horses prancing and champing at the bit. The costumes are ridiculous- I notice that before I notice anything about the tributes. They're dressed as birds, brightly colored, tropical, birds. They're covered from head to toe in bright yellow, pink, and teal feathers, and I mean literally head to toe- both tributes wear large headdresses, complete with fake beaks and dead eyes.

"I wonder how many birds had to die for those costumes," Peeta deadpans.

"Or if there's just a flock of completely plucked poultry somewhere in the Capitol," I reply.

The boy, who is buff and even taller than Gale, stares straight ahead, but the girl is full of energy and seems intent on making friends, waving to everyone around her before they're even visible to the audience. I think she notices me staring, more at the costume than anything else, because she gives an extra big wave and shouts, "CAW CAW!" as she passes.

Peeta waves back and elbows me until I do the same. "Haymitch said to team up with the Careers," he reasons. "They could be our allies someday."

"Two dressed in feathers, two dressed in leather," I quip.

"You think that's real leather?"

District Two comes by next. As usual, they're dressed all in metal, but these costumes look less like armor than they do most years. This year's stylist has gone for more of a "fancy dress" look, with tunics of clinking gold scales and pants that cannot be comfortable. They have headdresses too, comparatively simple circlets that don't prevent me from getting a look at what we're dealing with. They look like they could be siblings. Both are tall and leanly muscled, with black hair and freckles. Their eyes are different, though, and when I get a good look at the boy, my stomach drops as I realize I've seen him before. The feeling disappears as quickly as it arrived and I assume I just imagined it.

"They look intimidating," I observe. I think it makes me feel a little better to say it out loud.

"Hopefully they'll be our allies before they're our enemies," says Peeta, a cold reminder that in less than a week, we'll be fighting to our deaths against these people.

After checking out the Careers, I let the parade blur in front of me, although I do chuckle a little at District Four's costume- fishing nets with strategically placed buoys- and District Seven's work of papier-mâché that I think is supposed to look like birch trees. All too soon, it's our turn, and the horses trot off without any visible cues. I guess our lives are in their hands now.

And Cinna's, I muse, running my thumb over the single button on the remote. I know Peeta is doing the same thing, because he asks, "What if we just don't press it? What if we just pretend this is our costume?"

I look down at our black jumpsuits. They could definitely be interpreted as pieces of coal, but I remember Haymitch's order. "Unfortunately, I think we have to."

I'm even more convinced by the crowd's reaction to us. There's a small burst of excitement when they catch their first glimpse of us, but they go silent immediately after. Our district is boring; our costumes are boring. This is why Cinna wants to light us up.

Peeta grabs my hand and squeezes. I want to flinch away, but I remember what Portia said: you're a team, remember? So I guess holding hands, it is.

"On count of three?" Peeta suggests in a low voice. I nod back almost imperceptibly.

"One…two…three."

I slam my thumb down on the button, and brace myself for a fiery death.

Death doesn't come. Instead, there's this tickling sensation that runs down my arms and my back as the synthetic flames crackle to life. I figure it would be unprofessional to gawk at my own costume- we're supposed to keep our cool, after all- but I watch Peeta's out of the corner of my eye, awestruck. First of all, they do look completely real. Second of all, he looks incredible, not just like a piece of coal on fire- like a god.

I must look incredible too. The crowd quite literally goes wild, shrieking and pointing at us. I can hear Caesar Flickerman booming over the loudspeaker, but none of his words reach me. None of them need to.

I hate crowds, normally. But there's something about this that I'll allow, maybe just because I'm glad we didn't have to go naked. To keep my dignity and make such a positive impression- that was more than I ever could have hoped for.

I sneak a quick look at Peeta. He's grinning, barely containing himself. I imagine he carried the same expectations that I did: that the parade would be a disaster. We have outshone every tribute District Twelve has ever produced; we have outshone every tribute at the parade tonight. I can see on the big screens, spaced out around the parade route to show close-ups, that Peeta and I are getting far more than our share of coverage.

Good, I think. We've earned it.

Overcome with joy- or something similar- I take our clasped hands and raise them over our heads, drawing another cheer from the already-ecstatic audience. "They love us," says Peeta; I'm sure I'm the only one who hears. He sounds just as surprised as I feel, but when I actually look at him, take in the dazzling work of art that Cinna and Portia have created, I can absolutely see why.

The parade in the same place it started. The pavilion is crowded, with twelve chariots and twelve sets of tributes, mentors, escorts, and stylists, and I try to ignore how many of them give Peeta and I dirty looks. Jealous, I presume, as they should be.

My legs are shaking when I step off the chariot. Probably from nerves, with the added stressor of standing there braced for a whole hour. Effie just about shrieks when she sees us, in a positive way, I think. "You did wonderful!" she trills, talking with her hands in the way all Capitol citizens do. "I would hug you, but…"

"Allow me," says Cinna, holding up a fire extinguisher. It doesn't spray foam, but some chemical that counteracts whatever ignited the artificial flame. The tickling sensation goes away, and I am back to being a girl in a jumpsuit instead of a human campfire. Effie wastes no time in squeezing both Peeta and I into a hug.

"You did good, kid," says Haymitch, and he so rarely has anything nice to say that I am truly warmed by his praise. "What did I tell you, huh?"

"Don't talk to me until I've had a beer?" Peeta quotes. Haymitch claps him on the back as if he's said something very positive, indicating that he has consumed several.

"You were fantastic out there," says Gale. Our performance has even pulled him out of his sour mood, although he seems to grow sour again when Haymitch shoves him, citing that we "shouldn't stand so close".

Gale's opinion means substantially more to me than Haymitch's, but for some reason it feels wrong to take the compliment. "The credit should really go to our stylists," I say. "All Peeta and I had to do was stand there."

"There's much more to modeling than just standing there- I would know!" Effie scolds both of us. "You both have fantastic runway presence- Peeta, you especially! You're truly a natural in fashion."

"If only that would help me in the arena," Peeta says drily.

"Sponsors will help you, and I'm sure you just gained some," Cinna puts in. "Thank you again, for consenting to our idea."

It's so odd to be thanked when I had gone into this assuming we had no choice. We had, and it seemed that we made the right one, because I'm still buzzing from the thrill of the crowd- finally, a TV appearance I didn't botch- and I can still hear Caesar Flickerman's voice echoing across the arena. I don't catch much; I don't need to. All I really care about is his last few words, shouted as if the whole world needs to hear them:

"…Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire!"

§

After changing out of my not-very-comfortable jumpsuit and a very quick dinner, I make a break for the roof. This time, I'm not trying to escape from anything- I just want to get a glimpse of the fireworks show over the coliseum. It's something I've always been curious about, having seen fireworks on television, but never in person before. I don't imagine a screen does them justice.

The show is still going on, luckily. That's the Capitol for you: go big or go home, and in this case, they have definitely gone big. Something new explodes every few seconds, bright and crackling and taking up the whole night sky. I hadn't thought I would ever trade stars for anything, but this…this is actually a contender.

This time, it doesn't surprise me when the door opens and Peeta joins me on the roof. I had figured he would follow me eventually, either motivated by curiosity about my whereabouts or the light show next door. I truly don't know which, and I don't ask. We have grown back together and remembered how to be friends, despite the odds and terrible circumstances, but it's still a somewhat fragile thing. There are some things we're simply not ready to talk about, namely, Gale, the price on my head, or anything that happened during the last Hunger Games.

"I think that went pretty well, don't you?" asks Peeta, when the show finally seems to be dying down.

"The fireworks?" I ask. "Or the parade?"

"Um…both."

"I don't think it could have gone much better," I say honestly. "We didn't get burned alive…people clapped for us…what more could we want?"

"Do you think some of them will sponsor us?"

Do you think it will matter? I bite back. No need to bring up the game being rigged, specifically against me- I'm starting to sound like Haymitch. I choose the safer answer and say, "Cinna thinks they will."

"I guess if I've learned one thing, it's to trust him."

I, personally, feel like I've learned nothing, because so far I have continued to fuck up in the same ways as usual and only managed to pull off the tribute parade because Cinna and Peeta's combined efforts made me look good. I'm the same girl I was at the train station last year, just with higher stakes.

I just nod along. "I'm glad we let him set us on fire."

"Fake fire," Peeta reminds me. "We did get lucky, though. With our stylists."

"And with our district partners."

I stand by what I said to Prim earlier: I wish anyone but Peeta had been reaped; I wish he was safe at home and far away from all of this. But at the same time, I don't know if I could get through this without him.

He smiles at me, completely unguarded in a way I could never be. The two of us are so different, that way.

I assumed the light show was over, but I am proved wrong by a series of orange bursts, going off one after the other and forming a giant wheel. I nudge Peeta gently. "Hey. Your favorite color."

He squints, as if judging every individual spark very harshly. "Hmm…not quite. You're close, though."

"I'm sorry; I forgot you prefer the apricot hue over the traditional orange," I say sarcastically.

Peeta is unfazed by my sarcasm. "Hey. I just prefer the type of orange that belongs in a sunset. There's nothing wrong with that."

He nudges me a few moments later, when a green firework explodes over the city. "That's your favorite. Fireworks for the girl on fire, eh?"

I nudge him back, threatening to turn into a full shoving competition like we used to have when we were kids. "Don't call me that. You were on fire too."

"Yeah, but everyone was staring at you."

"We were standing next to each other. You can't really tell which one of us they were staring at. It was probably both of us."

Peeta shakes his head stubbornly, then reaches over and tugs the end of my braid, just like he's always done when we're messing around. I lean over and fluff his golden locks, as the reply has always been. I'm surprised by how natural it feels, to touch and laugh with each other like we didn't miss a whole year's worth of friendship.

It's just as natural as it is wrong, to laugh at all under these circumstances, but there are few opportunities left for joy in our lives: we have to take what we can get.

Next chapter: training starts!